the reluctant grownup

Reflections on Sunday Sauce

2012-01-01T15:57:00.014-05:00

The traditional collards, black eyed peas and swine are taking a culinary back seat today. Since this new year kicks off on a Sunday, that means one thing around here: Sunday Sauce. Even with a miserable cold, I can breathe and get high on the lovely aroma that permeates our home as I peck away at the keyboard here. My Sicilian grandmother introduced me to this wonderful tradition when I was very young, then disappeared from the landscape of my life with her son, my estranged father. When my talented wife channeled her cooking skills into reviving the tradition last year, it sparked emotions that are coming into clear focus today as I consider the year ahead.

Sunday Sauce (at least my wife's) is richness born of simplicity. It doesn't try to be more than what it is because it doesn't need to. It's a cluster of very basic ingredients that, when pulled together, give you pause, leave you marveling over how something so spartan could punch you in the mouth and make you forget about the fact that you have to dive into another work week tomorrow. In a fast-lane lifestyle in a rat-race town, its slow and low composition is something to emulate. I know, considering spaghetti sauce a role model is as backwards as a soup sandwich, but stranger metaphors have been bought and sold. When I consider that Sunday Sauce is a virtual tractor beam that brings together my wonderful family and friends, I smile and look forward to the next round.

Most parents tend to scale back their social lives when kids enter the picture. Oddly enough, ours went pedal to metal in the wake of having kids. It has literally reached a point where we blush and put our heads in our hands upon viewing the Mint pie chart of our monthly expenditures, specifically the food/dining and entertainment categories. Fortunately we're hard working parents who can afford to pull this off, but the principal of this gluttony has been gnawing at me lately. Don't get me wrong - it has been a grand fucking run, as we've owned many nights for many years in this town, but when I watch my 4 year old son with a tomato goatee on his beaming face as he submerges another slice of crusty bread in sauce, I consider that none of my adventures (or misadventures) come close to trumping the spirit of this very basic and rustic moment. To put it another way, despite the title of this often neglected blog, it just might be time to grow up or at least act my age. Yes, it's time to go slow and low.

How exactly do I do that? Well, dinner is served, so I'll chew on it, wash it down with a red worthy of New Year's Day and wait for the second half of this epiphany to clobber me. Happy 2012 in the meantime!

@rcaggiano's Sunday Sauce:

Peel the cloves of an entire head of garlic. Slowly sautee garlic in cup of olive oil until golden brown (approx 15 mins). Add healthy pinch red pepper flakes and healthy pinch salt. Add 4 large cans whole peeled tomatoes (hand crush tomatoes as adding them). Simmer for at least 3 hours, preferably 5 hours. Meatballs, braciole, short ribs, et al an entirely separate topic.

appendix lost, perspective gained

2011-07-18T09:28:00.012-05:00

It's not just any Friday; it's my last Friday in this sweaty District rat race for a couple of weeks. Next Wednesday I'm packing my wife and two boys into the roadster and heading south to the Low Country beaches for a solid stretch of disappearance. I've already mentally checked out - mostly going through the motions at the office and drinking too much with clients and friends at night, the latter of which I often categorize as 'work' to make myself feel productive during these spells. I believe armed forces types call the general apathy for what's in your face due to a preoccupation with what lies ahead as FIGMO - fuck it, got my orders. So, doing my best to ignore the annoying pain in my stomach, I look forward long term to vacation and short term to hosting two wonderful friends for dinner tonight. My wife and I have already agreed to cut our days short to meet at Whole Foods near my office to shop together for the feast, so the finish line is in plain view the minute I roll in to work fashionably late.

Bunched into a fetal position on my bathroom floor, late afternoon, a detour driven by the pain in my stomach that has become something of a force, I stubbornly tell myself it's probably just a bug while I feed my paranoia with a Google search of 'appendicitis' on my iPhone. Lately I am so concerned about my health that in the past 2 weeks I've done what typical males would not - paid attention to cues from my body and feasted on the opinions of many doctors, a few of them at Sibley Memorial's ER during a heart attack scare that turned out to be an embarrassing nothing. No way I'm going back to Sibley, I mutter to myself between short breaths. When my newly appointed primary doctor asks a few questions and decides I'm on the verge of a medical emergency, I decide to climb into the back seat and go along for the ride. I am no longer in control and, frankly, rather terrified. On the way to Sibley, now on the floorboards because I can hardly sit up, I attempt to distract myself from the twisting knife in my abdomen by projecting anger and cursing, through clinched teeth, the DC Department of Transportation for its shoddy job of road maintenance, as each bump blurs my vision with absurd pain.

Despite the numbing effects of morphine, then later dilaudid, my brain races around a story I read the day before about a father falling to his death from the stands of a ballpark as he tried to catch a baseball while his 6 year old son watched. I can't stop thinking about that kid and how my nanny told me 2 weeks ago that my own 6 year old confided terror of losing me when I went to the ER for the heart attack false alarm. Jack has still not vocalized his concerns to me - he's feigning taking things in stride, like a man, even though I don't recall suggesting that or setting such an example. He’s developing his own perspective on life, becoming a reflective, sensitive guy, and I’m suddenly clawing for way to stick around and watch where it takes him. Tears burn my eyes as I rock back and forth in this ER bed wrestling with pain and my own clear and present mortality. Then a hand grips my shoulder, and I see Rachel next to me, her expression solid, confident. How did a ball of perpetual anxiety like me land such a grounding force like her?

Love and prayers are floating in, she smiles. Hope you don’t mind that I posted news of this out there.

I tell her I don’t mind, though the concept of social media in this moment of crisis hits me with equal parts ridiculous and gracious. Ridiculous because, maybe as an aging father who participates in social media though often gets dizzy, I fail to completely embrace the medium as genuine. Let’s say I am an old school, meandering work in progress on that front. Gracious because, in spite of the above, I am touched that people I know well and hardly know at all are pausing to send well wishes. Later, between one of many dilaudid naps, I look up to see my dear friend Owen hovering over my bed next to Rachel, and I bite hard on my lip to contain my emotions. He’s been around hospitals too much the past few years, and I beat myself up for a moment over dragging him back to the dreadful sterile hallways of another. I struggle with being the cause for so much hand wringing.

Thanks to inguinal hernia surgery three years ago, I’m relatively up to speed on the nuances of general anesthesia, so I brush off the consultations and interrogations of so many doctors, nurses and technicians with one-word answers and painful grunts. How many times can a guy on serious narcotic pain meds answer the same questions over and over with any level of fluidity? At a certain point, when another nurse enters with another clipboard, I look to Rachel, and she knows to take the wheel on fielding these inquiries. A montage of corridor and elevator ceilings later, I’m wheeled into the OR where I reunite with the anesthesiologist’s forced smile. I’m finished with conversation at this point, so I lazily nod at her recap of what’s about to go down. While she wraps it up and tends to her mise en place, I close my eyes to meditate, to reflect on my life, to find and cling to some sense of peace with everything. I don’t care what they say about modern medicine; going under always comes with the risk of not coming back. This moment at the threshold of truth needs to be real, spiked with clarity and acceptance, but there’s this chatter, more like bickering, coming from every corner of the room like so much radio static – nurses, assistants, techs bitching at each other about one thing or another – and it’s dragging a rusty rake through my bonsai garden. I prop myself up on elbows to take in these jackals who, thanks to the goofballs in my head, look like Ralph Steadman renditions of scuffed-up cafeteria workers, nothing like the polished medical professionals I expect. This grates on me, makes me sweat profusely, and my thoughts become shouts before I know it.

How about some fucking harmony in this room, people?!

Heads turn in unison, and mouths gape beneath surgical masks.

I’m trying to find some peace over here, and your negative, petty shit is killing it, so kindly shut up!

The outburst drains me, and I fall from my elbows to the table where the anesthesiologist covers my face with an oxygen mask, either to contain me or regulate my breathing. I’m suddenly filled with regret over my words, but as the gloaming sets in and my grip on consciousness slips, I detect a hushed din of laughter around me and think maybe I lightened the mood and did everyone, including myself, a favor.

Less than 24 hours after I stumbled in, I’m wheeled out with a pain in my stomach that won’t allow me to stand straight for at least 48 hours and a prescription for narcotics that will leave me in a drowsy dream world straight from a slate of Raymond Carver stories. I know the sight of me in this wheelchair will rattle Jack and likely stay with him for a long time, but the nurse with her talk of hospital policy stonewalls my argument. When I pour myself into the car, as expected, he is a mixed bag – assessing me with quizzical looks, making little-to-no eye contact, turning his gaze out the window for long pauses. Our 3 year old, grasping very basic pieces of the situation, lends levity with cutesy questions related to boo-boos and band-aids. I’m thankful for his blissful ignorance and wallow in it the whole ride home where I crash hard in my bed and, between long spells of sleep, run my hand across the sutures on my stomach to remind myself that this really happened.

Later I wake to see Jack smiling next to my bed, clutching a summer bouquet of flowers on its very last leg. He'd strolled down to Broad Branch Market with barely enough money to score a Slush Puppy and negotiated these into his purchase. Since we're regulars and he's practically the market mascot, it doesn't require a stretch of imagination to buy his story. It's clear that this bouquet was tagged for the dumpster, and to any one else would be hard on the eyes, but to me the flowers are everything. Though I'm not supposed to strain myself, I can't resist drawing him close and breathing him in. He giggles, and I muster laughter despite the pain below.

You okay, dad?

I am now, buddy.

birthday morning

2010-08-08T10:22:00.005-05:00

This morning you wake up a year older and take in your surroundings through a blurred sheen of tears. You are on vacation in the Outer Banks, NC, so your wonderful wife lets you sleep in while she manages the family circus that your mornings inevitably become. You are utterly incapable of sleeping in, birthday or not. You're also prone to occasional bouts of reflective weeping on on every milestone day. So your 37th year begins at 7:30am with a steady trickle of salty tears and a series of deep breaths.

It's not that you're sad or even sweating growing old. You imagine it's more common than not for grownups to have wistful moments after running the gamut of another year. You've stated the obvious fact many times that there is one way into this world and infinite ways out. That said, when you make it through another 365, for some reason you don't feel like you should have. The odds are stacked so high against surviving that it's emotionally draining to consider how you ever did. Then there's the prospect of another marathon staring you down in your bed before your feet are even on the ground, before you even stretched.

The wave passes when your firstborn son, now 5, strolls into the room in search of your iPad. He wears a sheepish, half smirk, which you translate to mean he's embarrassed to broach the topic of your birthday. That makes two of you. He finds the iPad on your bedside table, but before he makes off with it, you pull him into bed, hold him close, and kiss his warm brown temples. He giggles and feigns a struggle to escape before breaking the news it's your birthday and asking what you want.

His rhetorical question goes straight to your head like so many champagne bubbles and inspires a smile. This moment is what you want and are so very blessed to have. Soak it up, old man, and live for it.

fear and loathing under a blanket of snow

2010-02-08T20:53:00.025-05:00

For three days Washington, DC area residents have literally been under the weather. Close to 30 inches of snow buried the region over the weekend and, in the process, launched the populace into a considerable span of stir craziness. The National Weather Service is predicting another 10-20 inches tomorrow and Wednesday, a concept that makes me want to drink Drano. In any case, aside from sledding, foraging, and shoveling snow, most of us have been relegated to the confines of our homes (well, those of us fortunate enough to have shelter), where eventually our lives have begun to resemble the plot of existentialist Jean-Paul Sartre's fantastic and dark play, No Exit.

In No Exit, in case you are not familiar, three characters are confined to a hotel room and, after driving each other up its walls, come to realize, in fact, that they are in Hell and will spend the rest of eternity together. The famous line, Sartre's epiphany, is dispensed at the end by the male resident: Hell is other people.

Unfortunately some of us, myself included, are occasionally known to carry that mentality around like a bag of bricks on our back, bristling when forced to interact with other citizens. This is especially true when we're all living in the midst of our own private Siberia, which brings me to today's misadventure.

As I've mentioned, we live in Washington, DC's Chevy Chase neighborhood - a part of town sometimes and hysterically referred to as Upper Caucasia. We've been in these parts for three years and, barring any dramatic shifts, will be for a long time. It's a kid friendly prairie, laden with cute families led by young parents who, for the most part, are happy to meander and figure it out as they go, eschewing text book guidance in favor of real experience. In other words, every mom and dad seems comfortable enough in his or her own skin, and if they fuck up somewhere along the line, they acknowledge it and move forward. At the far end of the spectrum is a faction of crusty neighborhood veterans - the goats who might be five days older than dirt and generally affect a suspicious scowl when I offer a smile and a hello. I know, that sounds ageist in flavor, but I will point out that there are some incredibly pleasant and wonderful elderly neighbors around me. Unfortunately, my awkward encounters with the aforementioned crusty neighbors cast a wider shadow. As they say though, it takes a village.

My office is in the Chevy Chase Pavilion, a mixed use center in the fold of several retail, dining, and hospitality venues on Wisconsin Avenue, five minutes from home. When the cabin fever vibe in the house reaches a boiling point and the boys are poised to off each other, I decide that my 4 year old Jack and I will roll over to my office for a change of scenery. Even though it's closed because of the weather, I need to bang out a few emails and scope out the work week, assuming there will even be one. Always the eager co-pilot, Jack is glad to join me, especially since I throw a Borders run into the package. He digs the kids section in the back, which makes me smile.

After an hour in the office and 27 times being asked if it's time to go to yet, I pack it in. As we stroll down the block hand-in-hand, my mind replays a montage from the night before of Saint's quarterback Drew Brees holding his son in the wake of the Super Bowl victory, kissing his little hands, soaking him in, tears of joy lining his eyes. That will go down as one of the most touching images I've ever witnessed, by the way, because as a father, I can relate to sharing real moments with my children. Walking down the street to a big box book store, allowing yourself to really feel your son's small hand in yours can be everything, and it is.

As expected, Borders provides a serene shelter from the elements, a peaceful change of venue. A friendly worker and I exchange opinions on David Benioff's City of Thieves, which I read a week ago. We both marvel at how the bitter winter and scramble for food taking place in town right now bares some resemblance, though not nearly as dire, to the plight of the novel's co-protagonists. Eventually he turns me on to The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon (which has already reeled me in). All the while, my smiling Jack patiently endures our banter, in spite of the ants in his pants that want to hit the kids' section in the back. Finally I follow him back there and don't even mind that he's running in the aisles since the place is virtually empty.

In the end, Jack opts for a Spider Man Lego helicopter instead of a book. To my slight chagrin, half of the kids' section has become a toy store. Whatever, I decide, Spider Man it is. After all, he's killing me with cuteness. On our way to the front, I grab a new piece of foodie nonfiction for my wife -- Jonathan Safron Foer's Eating Animals - and we're ready to roll.

The Borders checkout protocol, which I assume to be universal for the entire chain, requires that a line form at a far end where customers wait to be called by the next available cashier. As Jack and I approach, an older couple, mid-50s, hovers about 5 feet from the waiting point. The wife, arms full of what appear to be coffee table books, wears an uncertain frown and snipes at her husband over their selection. To me it sounds like a case of pre-purchase cognitive dissonance in action -- debates to the effect of will so-and-so like this one, or should we look around more, etc. Either way, I don't sense they're committed to checking out yet, and since ample space exists between them and the queue, Jack and I stroll up and wait.

Immediately Jack spots a shelf of toys (yes, more toys up front) and candy opposite the row of cash registers and dashes over to check it out. Such product placement schemes can be the bane of parenthood, as they often ignite emotional and embarrassing debates between parent and child, which often end with the parent wasting $5 on some worthless piece of plastic just to quell the storm and exit with some shred of grace. I'm about to call for Jack when I feel her sweaty breath on my neck. "Are you aware that I was in this line?"

Willing to concede that I might have misconstrued her noncommittal vibe a moment earlier, I sidestep and turn around with the intention of letting her pass. "Sorry, I wasn't sure...I uh--"

"Yeah, right. Are you blind or just a jerk?"

Now I just want to get away from this woman, so I immediately move forward when the cashier calls, "Next in line."

From 20 feet away, she apparently decides this mole hill will make a perfect mountain and raises her voice: "That's what I thought! You're a jerk and a terrible father!"

Like I said, it's not a packed house, but the few heads bobbing around the area begin to turn toward the scene that's unfolding, Jack's included. He's holding some piece of junk -- was it silly putty? -- and "confused" is written all over his face. This sparks a hot flare in my stomach and gives birth to a slight ringing in my ears. I want so badly for this cashier to expedite and get us out of there, but she's handcuffed by inane policies that slow the process. "Do you have a Border's rewards card?"

"You heard me - pathetic excuse for a man!"

"Ummmm, I don't know, it's okay." I reply, imploring her with a desperate shot of eyes to drop it and let me go.

She doesn't catch my hint, nor does she seem rattled by the nasty comments polluting the air around us. Like me, perhaps she's used to the elderly, entitled bands of snobs that litter the neighborhood. "What's your email address? I can look it up for you."

"Next in line please," calls the cashier to her right. I recognize his voice and look up to see the clerk I chatted with earlier.

From the corner of my eye I catch her approach and turn. She's tall, broad across the shoulders, hair crisp from too many blowouts and bad dye jobs over the years, and she lurches toward me like some Frankenstein drag queen. Only she doesn't stop to confront me; rather, she lunges toward Jack. Suddenly all bets are off.

Let it be known that I make a regular practice of chivalry. I'm old school in this regard and take a certain degree of pride in the fact that I still hold doors, pull out chairs, listen intently, rub feet, write letters, et al. I have incredible respect for women. Add to it that my wife is a rock star executive who commands respect and looks damn good while at it, and you could say I'm something of a worshiper. It goes without saying that I view laying violent hands on women as reprehensible.

Here's the catch: if you threaten or intentionally harm my child, to me you are no longer man or woman; you are a monster. At the risk of coming off like some lame action hero spewing hyperbole, I think (hope) I speak for all parents when I say that without hesitation, I would kill or die for my child if the moment called for either.

Jack's face wrinkles with fear and I can see his eyes watering when she grabs his shoulder and screams, "Don't you grow up and be like your horrible father!"

Instantly I grab a handful of her black leather jacket and spin her around to face me. As she turns, she stumbles and leans against a candy shelf to collect herself. Her eyes are darting everywhere, but they freeze when she catches my cold stare. "Don't. Touch. My son."

Jack edges past her and hides behind me. I can feel him shaking, which incenses me even more, but I'm trying to maintain a grip, trying to salvage a shred of a good example out of this.

"He assaulted me! You witnessed it!" She shrieks to the clerk, but he has no sympathy for this devil. He's my ally; he has my back.

"I witnessed you attack his child, miss."

"Noooooo!" She tries to convince herself that she didn't just project her anger on an innocent child, but her tone suggests to me that she can't spin this one.

"What the hell's going on here?" I'd forgotten about her husband since he disappeared after she hen-pecked him earlier. Now he's coming to her defense with an unmistakable limp in his gait, and I'm thinking, I hope this doesn't escalate physically, but if it does, this motherfucker's going to be an easy out.

I stand tall, and when he draws near, I put my grill right in his and explain in my best Dirty Harry tone, "Your wife went after my child because she thinks we cut in line. It's ugly enough already, so you should just walk away."

Thankfully it works. He limps away, and I suspect he wanted nothing to do with having her back in the first place. Part of me feels for him because, if his wife attacks strangers so viciously over perceived line cuts, she probably castrated this poor guy long ago.

"Don't be like your father!"

"Do not talk to him. Go home and take your meds." I jabbed.

"Miss, you need to pay or leave now." The clerk has had enough of her. We all have.

Outside, I zip Jack's coat then hold him close to me as I gulp the cold air. It cools the fire in my throat, but my head still pounds. We hold hands as we walk to the garage. His grip is intense, palms sweaty. I look down to see that he's studying my face, so I flash the silly buck-toothed grin that always induces a giggle or two.

"Did you protect me in there?"

"Yeah. Did you feel safe with me?"

"I always do."

RIP Dad

2010-01-13T11:47:00.005-05:00

Through stinging tears I have stared at this image of my father (first row, second from right, embracing a cigarette), surrounded by his platoon mates in Viet Nam, and choked repeatedly on the sad irony that unfolded this week when he died in a hospice room surrounded by not a soul. I also find myself marveling at our uncanny resemblance and cursing the fact that I've lived my entire life to this point unaware that I am his virtual clone. As I blogged before - really the last time I blogged about anything significant - he was estranged to me for nearly 20 years until we recently and awkwardly crossed paths again in a hospital room last March. Now it's clear that what might have been will never be, that so many unanswered questions will be interred with him, that I will still mourn though I expected to be okay when this day arrived. I am not okay...

Open Arms

2009-11-21T00:38:00.002-05:00

Welcome Old Man Winter. We've been waiting for you.

back to the future

2009-03-16T11:49:00.003-05:00

A week has passed since I said goodbye to my father and left him behind in the hospital. I wrapped the surreal family reunion with a hand-off of my business card and a closing to the effect of "it's in your court, so call and let me know how you're doing." To date I have received no such call. The whole situation still sits in my stomach like some Five Guys burger - I needed the sustenance but regret what I ate. I know, strange analogy. I'm logging this on my lunch break with no fuel in the tank, so food's on the brain. If you've ever devoured one, you know what I mean, but I digress.

When I returned to DC, I intended to reflect and blog and reflect and blog some more. It turns out I'm still digesting the whole experience, addressing my emotions, searching for the words, and coming up with little more than fragments. In any case, deciphering the content on a monitor through the blur of your own water works is next to impossible, so I'm saving the rain check and hoping to get it out sooner than later.

On a concrete level, I can report that police found his car along with the woman who stole it from the hospital parking lot. Apparently she was living in the car at a rest stop 150 miles outside of St. Louis. Justice will be served in that forum, but I couldn't care less about that superficial piece of business. Sure, the old man received closure on that front, so good for him. The emotional can of worms that crime opened is another story completely.

Happy Birthday Blog!

2009-03-07T15:50:00.003-05:00

It just occurred to me that my blog entered the terrible twos today. I've been so consumed with dysfunctional family business here in St. Louis that it almost slipped my mind. A belated birthday greeting would simply be lame. I don't have the gear to record a new "Happy Birthday" clip with me but will get around to it when I return to the District. For now here's Jack's jam from last year.

lost and found

2009-03-04T11:41:00.011-05:00

When some despicable grifter of a woman in St. Louis decided to target despondent family members in the waiting area of St. Anthony's Medical Center, she couldn't have possibly known how it would ultimately rattle the cage of yours truly 900 miles away in Washington, DC. My guess is she has never heard of the butterfly effect, but the series of events her flapping criminal wings set in motion left me tossing and turning and crying in bed (later on the couch) last night as I came to grips with the fact that March would not be coming in like a lion but like an entire pride of famished lions this year.

The phone call from home that I'd been expecting and dreading my entire adult life kicked it off. I make it a general practice to pick up any time my mother calls. Being so far from home has instilled in me a degree of morbid paranoia: I'm almost certain that I'll miss the chance to say goodbye to a loved one some day. So on a carefree day off work, thanks to 6 inches of snow burying the District, I noted my mother's name on the caller ID and even suggested to my friends, all with snow day beers in hand, that I always take her calls since "you never know." Here's how she opened: "Will, I don't know how to tell you this, and there's never a good time for bad news..."

Naturally a preface like that removed the feeling from my legs, so I planted myself on the couch to let the rest wash over me. Unfortunately I'm pressed for time, what with a plate full of work to knock out before catching a flight to St. Louis tomorrow, so my dramatic and sensational proclivities need to be kept at bay for now. Besides, the AP already penned the gist of it like this:

Man's car stolen after heart surgery at hospital

The Associated Press Wednesday, February 25, 2009; 4:28 PM

ST. LOUIS -- A St. Louis man is recovering after a heart attack and surgery, and after having his car stolen from the hospital parking lot. William Caggiano had the heart attack on Thursday and had heart bypass surgery. His daughter rushed back to St. Louis County from Arizona to be with him.

At St. Anthony's Hospital, she met a woman in the intensive care waiting room. Now, Amanda Caggiano believes that so-called friend stole her father's car.

The crime happened early Friday. Amanda Caggiano said she was sleeping. When she woke up several items from her purse were gone, including the keys to her father's PT Cruiser.

Police say the description of the suspect sounds like a woman who committed a similar crime at the hospital a month ago.

The heart attack patient whose wounds were salted by car theft is my estranged father and namesake. Amanda is my half sister who I last saw when she was 2 years old. I've seen and spoken to my father once in the last 25 years, and that was 15 years ago. This weekend I'll reunite with both of them in a hospital room - a setting which has always turned my stomach.

To ice the cake my mother went on to share that my grandmother, Michalena Caggiano, who always lived with my father, died two years ago. By proxy she was also estranged to me. Straight from Sicily, her sauce was the best in the league, and I have every intention of returning to the District with her recipe.

How's this for an understatement: I'm a mixed bag of emotions.

There’s certainly more to come on this story. Tomorrow I’m flying with my wife and two sons to St. Louis to let this all play out. Apparently he’s not nearly out of the woods yet, as there have been complications in the wake of surgery, so a certain degree of urgency comes with this situation.

In a strange sense, I suppose I should thank the degenerate woman who brought us together by stealing his car. If it wasn’t for her crime, my mother wouldn’t know about his health condition or whereabouts, and the lonely old man might die without laying eyes on his only son. Regardless of how I might feel about him for bailing so long ago, there’s no fucking way I’m letting that happen.

smokers mount rushmore

2009-01-31T17:01:00.003-05:00

For so many years, my favorite author, Paul Auster, has perched atop my list of great minds I'd like to chat with over a pack of cigarettes. Recently I became the last person on earth to learn that President Obama has a cigarette habit. Sorry, Paul - I have to bump you to second chair. Come to think of it, these two comprise my Mount Rushmore of smokers. I need to add a couple more to round it out and am open to suggestions. Who are the coolest smokers out there?

for the birds

2009-01-29T14:41:00.006-05:00

News that a flock of birds thrashed the engines of US Airways Flight 1549 continues to resonate with me. When I saw this video via Mashable's Twitter feed I must have played it 20 times. Since Jack thinks every one's business is his business, he peered over my shoulder once and was hooked.

It was sort of awkward explaining that the culprit of the engine exploding and subsequently failing is a bird carcass, but I managed. I'm finding that he's too damn smart these days to accept any glossed over explanations of just about anything in any case. He seems to have mastered the art of interrogation already. To avoid a session of 20 questions, I just came right out and shared that birds have been known to take out airplanes now and then.

Something I failed to consider is that he tells his mother everything, so when she walked in the door from a literal planes-trains-automobiles day trip to and from NYC, he promptly grabbed a big toy airplane and demonstrated such a plane crash for her.

Look, mom...the plane is flying high in the sky...here comes a bird...right into the engine...oh nooooooo...it's on fire...CRASH!!!!

If I had to describe the look she shot me, I would not say it conveyed pride. No, not a single ounce. So much for candor. Worse yet, when he sees one of us on the Macbook, he demands to see this video again.

Yeah...I might need to take a class or read a book.

miles of smiles

2009-01-28T14:05:00.007-05:00

Weakness of attitude becomes weakness of character. - Albert Einstein

I can't get a certain smiley-faced squirrel working the pharmacy counter at my neighborhood CVS out of my head so figured I'd spill my thoughts onto this canvass and sort through them. Over the long holiday break my youngest child, Cole, acquired what seemed like his 27th cold of the season. The math behind this is rather simple and common - his older brother, the Jackal, started preschool in the fall and began bringing home more than just a daily art project. Since Jack's been around the block already, his immune system is stronger while Cole's is still learning to navigate this germ-ridden world. If you're a parent, I don't need to tell you how drastically a sick infant can completely sideswipe your groove. A dull headache becomes a way of life; REM sleep is kicked to the curb; and general angst guides you through the day. Needless to say, when I approached the counter I wasn't exactly wearing joy on my sleeve. On the contrary, I was more like an active member of a pride of so many hungry lions waiting to chew on anyone in my path with bad news, which is exactly what this guy dispensed.

Sir, that particular antibiotic needs to be mixed, so it's going to be another 20 minutes.

When I dropped off the scrip, they told me to give 30 minutes. I gave them an hour before returning only to hear they'd need another 20 minutes. It's t-minus 2 days until Christmas and I've hardly crossed anyone off my shopping list. I have not slept for shit in over a week. My sweet child is at home with fever, laden with green mucous. So why am I not losing it?

A simple, sort of goofy, smile – one that seems to be permanently burned onto my hard drive, one that quite possibly rescued me for the holidays and beyond. Here’s this kid (he seemed early-to-mid-20s, and yes, it scares me that I’m at the stage where someone that age is a kid) who may as well be standing blindfolded before a firing line, post last cigarette, and he’s delivering every word with this warm, encouraging smile. Really, he could have dropped on me that my home just burned to the ground as my entire 401k went to hell in a hand basket (wait, that did happen) and I’d have walked away feeling like I just hit the lottery. In a sense, I think I did.

Clearly there’s no shortage of anxiety or plight in the world today. It seems like everyone’s toting a bag of bricks on their back in these trying times. I have so much respect and admiration for those individuals who carry those bags around and still find it in themselves to laugh and smile. At the risk of sounding cliché or like I just saw Dead Poets Society for the first time, I have come to realize, and make it a point to remind myself, that I own this moment right now and how I spend it is completely up to me. In the same vein, I get to make the call on my attitude and how I project. It’s a very simple yet liberating concept.

I know there is a time and place for despondence and that happy-go-lucky is just not feasible all the time. Thanks to the pharmacist at CVS, I’m going to take a breath in challenging moments and check myself. Talk about a spoonful of sugar to go with that medicine.

donuts with daddy

2009-01-27T15:45:00.011-05:00

Today the weather service actually nailed a prediction and it finally snowed on Washington, DC. I honestly don't recall snow blanketing the ground once last winter. Thankfully DC Public Schools rarely close due to bad weather and held true to form today, which meant the Jackal's preschool would also open its doors. Normally any kid would hope for a snow day under such circumstances, but today was Donuts with Daddy - an event he's been anticipating for over a month.

When I went to his room this morning, I found him gazing at the snow falling outside his window. "Dad, are we still having donuts at school?" he asked.

After donuts, this art project, and mingling with other dads, Jack led me by the hand to the window to take in the snow again. "Do you want to play in the snow with me today?" he asked, not knowing how rhetorical that question would turn out to be.

I was a flash in the pan at the office, knocking out an abbreviated list before bolting out the door to the hardware store to buy salt, shovels and sleds. When I showed up at home, Jack flashed a gigantic smile and shot up the steps to grab his snow pants. On our first run down the hill, I lost my wedding ring by using my hands as brakes. In all the excitement I forgot to put on my gloves. I agonized over it for a few minutes and tried in vain to retrace our path, but it was pointless and in the end a small price to pay for a chance to embrace a day like this with Jack.

As we meandered home in the SUV, occasionally doing nasty donuts at intersections of side streets that road crews had neglected, Jack giggled and iced the cake with this: "Dad, I love you. Thanks for the adventure today."

Naturally this melted my heart, and little did he know, edged me closer to a major life/career decision I've been weighing for a while. There is certainly more to come on that topic in a future post. Hell, most of it's drafted already. For now I'll savor this day and leave it at that.

meet joe pug

2009-01-18T11:12:00.004-05:00

My friend Don in Chicago is batting .1000 when it comes to dropping new music on me. We check in with each other every few months, but I stalk his ass on Facebook enough to keep general tabs on him. The cat wears many hats - Chicago Innerview Magazine editor, music blogger, diamond broker, and indie artist manager. One of his artists, Joe Pug, is stirring the pot.

Here's what Jason Killingsworth, Deputy Editor of Paste Magazine, has to say:

"While most singer/songwriters are content to warble out a few semi-clever turns of phrase, Pug's scorching poetry and soulful, 'every phrase could be my last' voice will stop you cold. If you want to read the actual endorsement, touch the braille stretching up my arms. Twenty years from now, lazy journalists will compare every halfway decent songwriter to Joe Pug. Mark my words."

For what it's worth, this is my contribution to the movement. Check it out:

back on the grift

2008-12-22T14:36:00.009-05:00

lately, like many out there, i find time to worry and wring my hands over the dark clouds in life. the times are tough as nails, so who wouldn't sweat it really? at the same time, there's this side of me, something i'm still getting to know, that seems to enjoy the unknown, the giant gray area lurking around the corner. i realize that anyone in his right mind wants to control or have a finger on the pulse of things. of course the counterpoint is that philosophy sucks the unpredictability and chance of adventure from life and lends a contrived vibe to the whole thing. regardless of how i romanticize it in what's becoming a lame opening, we have clearly lost control and better get in rhythm with chaos.

sometimes this all takes me back to part of my life where i managed similar circumstances, and suddenly i know i'm going to be just fine. that part of my life was college.

each class of every semester began the same way - the teacher, matter-of-fact tone, calling me and few other deadbeats out for having a star next to our names in the class roster. in grammar school a star next to your name meant something swell, worthy of praise. suddenly a star means the bursar wants to see your ass about the unpaid tab and figures humiliating you before your classmates with this implication will get your attention. my parents had shit for money then, so i plunged deep, up to my neck, in loans and grants and had to come up with a few grand per semester to cover what financial aid didn't - no small feat for a college kid. to come up with that kind of coin i suppose i could have taken a job on campus, worked and saved obsessively over the summers, or both. instead i became something of a grifter.

i don't say that boastfully or necessarily with a swell of pride. it's not like i wanted to spend my college years with a pit in my stomach pertaining to tuition and rent on top of grades. naturally my preference would have been for my parents to cover me, which seemed to be the standard around me, so i could focus on school. alas, the dealer dealt me a different hand, so i learned to play the game with a chip on my shoulder and a series of bluffs to boot.

since i'm out on a virtual limb here and need to protect my name professionally and parentally, i can't go into tremendous detail about how i pulled off college life on the grift. maybe in 20 years when i retire, when the coast is clear, i will dispense the duplicitous tales. to do so now would be career suicide. not to mention, it would draw some real dirty looks from friends and family at imminent holiday parties.

i guess can share a few maneuvers. for example, to eliminate the classroom shame factor, i wised up by checking in with my professors before the bell to report that i was "working it out" with the bursar. this generally satisfied them and kept my name from being orally disgraced. and it was true - i was working out a plan with the bursar. looking back i wonder if that bursar considered it strange when each month i'd stand in line and make tuition payments with cash money. i certainly felt shady doing so.

in the end, i managed to pay for college, graduate, and grow up. i do feel compelled to acknowledge that i burned some bridges and made some enemies along the way. i am not proud of that either. still, as i've said so many times in my adult life, to change that path is to change who i am right now, so i can't say with any shred of honesty that i wish it all transpired differently.

back to the present and what looks to be modernized version of month-to-month existence - this time with kids, careers, and other such heavy commitments at stake. i think i still have it in me to make it through. this time around the grift will be rated PG-13 and result in zero burned bridges, i hope. and to the probable chagrin of my shrink, i'll fish that old chip from a junk drawer and re-apply it to my shoulder.

don't get me wrong - i'm not mad at the world or rocking a vendetta attitude, but i think some grit and raw energy will be in order if i'm going to make it through the rough sledding ahead. like i said, i've done it before on another stage, so i have no reason to think i can't do it again. hell, i didn't think i had half of what it takes to be a father, but somehow when a challenging occasion emerges on that front, i dig deep and rise to it. so i guess this is all by way of saying, i'm not afraid of what's coming. wow - typing that made me feel light.

to whom it may concern

2008-10-17T11:15:00.003-05:00

A typed letter found stuffed in my mail slot last night said this:

To whom it may concern:

This is Danny. I am the kid from Friday night. I would like to start off by thanking you for not involving the police and apologizing for what I did. I had been drinking pretty heavily and only remember bits and pieces of what happened. My dad says I took a few things but I cannot even remember what was in my pockets aside from the iPod. I always do stupid things, however usually to smaller scale, when I drink and then have to clean up my mess in the morning. For what it is worth I do believe that when I woke up the next morning I would have seen your things and tried to return them to your car discreetly as possible, but there is no excuse for what I did. I have a habit of doing things without thinking them through all the way just for an adrenaline rush and that night was one of those times. I consider it a good thing that you caught me because I may have wound up making the same mistake on another night of drinking to another person who is less forgiving. I cannot begin to tell you how bad I feel for being so belligerent that night. I wrote this letter because I was not sure if you wanted to hear this from me face to face or not. If you would like to meet with me or if there is anything else I can do to make up for what I did, my number is xxx-xxx-xxxx. Please call me anytime. Again, I cannot tell you how stupid and terrible I feel and I appreciate the way you handled it.

Danny

Now, somehow, I feel for this kid, despite the fact that he was trying to rip me off. I think I will call and invite him over for a chat to let him know I certainly made and make my share of mistakes on the road of life and that there are no real hard feelings. I might even burn him the Arcade Fire collection to come off as an even cooler cat. Then I just might float the idea of him raking the leaves that are already starting to take over my yard. After all, my back is killing me (yes, I'm decrepit), so why not? It would beat the hell out of chain gang work. Will post later on how it goes.

play dating other people

2008-10-16T13:06:00.007-05:00

It has begun, and my social anxiety disorder can't stop it. Our 3 year old, Jack, with his sass, charm, and wit is building bridges in the neighborhood that we will cross, for better or worse. As it's my nature, I am being dramatic. I don't have social anxiety disorder, at least not a clinical case, and I recognize the bright horizons of getting to know other families in the neighborhood. Still, I can't deny, and hope I'm not the only one, that it stirs butterflies in my stomach now and then. Worlds colliding and all that...

The emails and calls began to trickle in a few weeks ago, once Jack had entrenched himself in the preschool scene and began spending alternate days at a DC Parks day program for kids - mothers suggesting play dates with Jack. It's terribly cute on one hand, sure. On the other, it means meshing and placating to a certain degree. Not to mention, now that we're bound to be crossing paths with other parent/friends, I need to pay a lot more attention to how I carry myself around the neighborhood. After all, there are eyes everywhere now.

Just the other day some guy rolled through a stop sign at an intersection blocks away from us and nearly side swiped me. Of course, I raised my arms to say WTF and moved on. Now suppose I bump into that guy at the preschool pot luck dinner in a few weeks. It's completely possible. So, do you see what I mean?

This reminds me of something that has been nagging me - the concept that everyone has multiple personality disorder. I mean, when you are in your car alone, aren't there certain behaviors you execute that you would likely never do in front of anyone? Once my wife received a voice message at work from a client who failed to end the call from her car after she finished her message. Here's how it went without her knowing she had an audience:

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

MOVE!

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

MOVE YOU FAT BLACK BASTARD!

So that's a racist side of someone, but it's likely her friends and family don't know her to be a racist at all. It makes me wonder, is our true self what we act on when we are alone? I really don't know. But I completely digress.

Like I said, worlds are colliding. I am ready for the unsolicited parenting advice, the pot luck, and, even better, the terrific bonds I will develop with other parents in the same trenches. It's no cake walk, despite the shiny fulfillment, so there has to be strength in numbers. Here's to hoping so.

See you at the tunnel slide.

i went out into the night

2008-10-15T12:15:00.008-05:00

There was no question as to the presence of ants in my pants last Friday as I watched the clock tick away the minutes of the afternoon. Guys night does not exactly come every week, or every month for that matter. Usually when it does, it's on a Thursday, which requires a certain degree of clenching the reigns to have some semblance of game for work the next day. In this case, we owned the night. The District would be our oyster.

As it happened, for better or worse, our oyster turned out to be the upper Northwest quadrant of the District and consisted of three stops, in descending order of quality: Buck's Fishing & Camping, Chevy Chase Lounge, and my basement.

I know, off the chain, right? Allow me to explain - when you're happily married with kids, the concept of grazing sceney clubs, bothering with velvet ropes, and scouting ass is not a paramount objective. "It's not like I'm trying to get laid," was a direct line I dispensed to Rebecca, my friend and amazing bartender at Buck's who was rightfully giving me shit when I told her the next venue would be Chevy Chase Lounge. So after strong drinks and warm conversation at Buck's we headed further uptown to the aforementioned Lounge.

Locals might know that the scene at Chevy Chase Lounge is extremely inconsistent with any coolness the name might imply. The typical patron brings to mind that dusty, old, hide-a-bed sofa relegated to a forgotten spare bedroom in your grandparents' home. You've never seen so many sets of crows feet in your life. In fact, the sole reason for going was that one of the guys wanted to see game one of the ALCS. The Lounge was a stone's throw away and has televisions, so it worked out.

After the game, for some reason my friend Ethan and I decided it would be a good idea to roll over to my place, mere blocks away from the Lounge, to continue with the drinking and smoking. Extending the night always sounds like a great call in the vacuum. The next morning, of course, regret finds you.

However, in this instance, our irresponsible behavior paid off. At 2AM, after a couple of vodkas, we decided to call it a night. I told Ethan I would walk him over to Connecticut Avenue where he could catch a cab. The walk, I figured, would do me some good. When we tiptoed out the front door so as not to alert my wife of our stupidity, I immediately noticed that the driver side door of my car was wide open. A few eye squints confirmed that some large person was in the car rifling through the console. Ethan said something like, "Does that guy think he-"

In a blurr, I was at the car door with a grip on this guy's collar, very impolitely asking, "WTF?" As you might imagine, he was completely shocked, and for that I don't blame him. I mean, in my neighborhood, hilariously referred to recently by the Washington City Paper as Upper Caucasia, what grown-up homeowner would be on the street at 2AM? Well, this one apparently. Naturally he flailed his arms in an attempt to break loose, which prompted me to do what I have done less than a handful of times in my life - I fed him a knuckle sandwich. This caused him to stumble out of the car, at which point I realized he dwarfed me in stature. It didn't matter, according to my fueled brain, so I literally high-jumped to get my arms around his neck and we both hit the street hard. Fortunately I ended up in a better position and managed to head-lock him on the ground where he hollered and begged to be released.

Immediately, based on his voice, I deduced he was a teenager, which quelled concerns that this could get uglier. No longer was I inclined to do damage. Why bother when a verbal assault would suffice. The dialogue from there was of this flavor:

Ethan: Wrong. Car. Mother. Fucker.

Me: Empty your pockets now.

Thief: I'm so sorry, please, please, please!

Ethan: Let's call the cops.

Thief: Please don't!

Me: Empty your fucking pockets!

From his pockets came my iPod, blackberry, iPod adapter, and at least $10 in quarters along with his phone and wallet. I scooped it all up with one hand while I held his neck in the cradle of my other arm. Soon I realized he was going nowhere, so I plucked the driver's license and tossed the wallet onto the ground next to him.

Thief: Please let me explain.

Me: It's pretty clear.

Thief: I just wanted your Arcade Fire!

Ethan: You can get lost or we can call the cops. Or...we can beat you down.

Eventually he got the picture and receded into the shadows, still muttering about Arcade Fire. I suppose a normal person would have called the cops. And by normal I mean not drunk on the Chevy Chase streets in the early hours of the morning. The last thing I wanted was to interface with police, and I suspect the last thing this kid's parents wanted was a cop on their front porch at that hour.

Instead they got me on their porch at 9AM after I'd slept and showered. The Jackal was coming with me on errands, so we dropped by the house, only half a block away from mine. As I conveyed to the dad that his 19 year-old son was caught with a pocket full of my electronic devices at 2AM, I experienced very mixed emotions. I couldn't really make eye contact with the guy, as if I was guilty of something.

Looking back, I think it was internal wrestling match with hypocrisy on my part. My wife and I often laugh about what it will be like to punish our kids for the same dirty deeds that litter our very own records. I guess this was my first confrontation with that sort of thing. I mean, I've done worse than what this kid tried and did not get caught, so naturally it felt strange ratting him out to his dad. When on occasion I did get caught, I faced the music. These days I guess the music they want to face is Arcade Fire, which reminds me of a rather appropriate lyric from "Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)":

I went out into the night.
I went out to pick a fight with anyone.
Light a candle for the kids,
Jesus Christ don't keep it hid!

dear blog

2008-09-27T08:22:00.019-05:00

dear blog,

it's been almost two months since my last confession. since then i have committed too many sins to count or catalog, but i've peppered a few good deeds here and there just to balance the seasoning. it's not that i don't enjoy our time together, because i really consider it a luxury, but i have to admit - i have been cheating on you with other social media mistresses, namely twitter and facebook.

truth be told, these forays have left me feeling hollow, empty, even cynical. sure, i have picked up "friends" and "followers" on this path of darkness, but i'm beginning to see that i need more than 140 words or the occasional wall scribble to peel this onion.

it all seems so fly-by-night, a progression of cheap thrills. it's the social media movement, where it's at, but getting on board sometimes leaves an odd taste in my mouth. suddenly i'm back in the 7th grade rocking parachute pants though i secretly can't stand the "swish" when i walk or the incredibly awkward fit. not to mention, they just don't pair well with my wide-tongued adidas sambas.

maybe i need to knock the chip off my shoulder and get over the internal dilemma as to whether it's perfectly acceptable for someone to glamorize the fact that for breakfast they ate an egg sandwich with havarti cheese purchased from the farmers market. i mean, perhaps it's truly earth shattering when some cat muses into the twittersphere about the wheels of his airplane being up or down. and when some gal is out on the town with tangible friends and manages 10 or more tweets throughout the night, i suppose it's fine that she's carving out time to broadcast each step to her followers instead of really soaking up the experience with her physical cohorts.

let's face it, one premise of social media is that the general public gives a fuck about your web 2.0 reality show. and i know, i know - i am a pig rolling around in the same muck, covered with the same shit, so i am calling myself out here too. i also broadcast slices of my life and portray myself as a modern fonzie the same way everyone else does.

the thing is, i can't see myself bailing on these avenues. it's almost like a car accident - much as i want to look ahead and drive past, i can't resist that urge to rubberneck. so i guess what i'm saying is, can we give polygamy a shot? i can't quit you, so please don't quit me.

love and rockets

will

joyeux anniversaire!

2008-08-08T06:44:00.005-05:00

another year under my belt - the 35th to be exact. to celebrate, i'm going against the snake plissken grain and escaping to new york to kick it with some of my best friends in the world and to see radiohead at liberty state park at the all points west festival. tomorrow night i'll be scaling their wall of sound, man crushing on thom yorke. it won't be the first time, or the last.

i had all of these reflections stirring in my head last night, big plans for my 35th birthday blog post. alas, my friend rebecca, the world's coolest bartender who runs the scene at buck's fishing and camping, set us up very generously last night. in other words, my head is full of clouds. not to mention, i need to pack and hit the road toute de suite.

here's to another year. each time i hit this benchmark i'm pleased and sort of surprised. nyc, here i come...

we can't all be friends?

2008-07-29T20:14:00.003-05:00

my friend adam in brooklyn, who i really hope is there when i'm in nyc for radiohead soon, impresses the hell out of me with the video treats he exhumes every day. on my first watch, i just laughed at the surface of this one. when i watched again, it made me think of the term "friend" as it's used in the social network context. which is less meaningful - friends online or friends made on a reality television show?

personality disorder

2008-07-24T18:56:00.006-05:00

so lately i'm getting lost in the shuffle of my own life. you could call it living. that's how i prefer to look at it. i know one scary day, devices might be fused with our bodies so that reflections, streams of consciousness, fleeting lapses of genius, and general thoughts will be poured into files and edited to become content. instantaneous blogging, twittering, facebooking, and whoring ourselves out! the good thing about now is you can get lost in life and actually consider it a good thing.

bullshit, man. i'm trying to justify ignoring this blog again, covering up for my general apathy and a case of writer's block. whatever...

as you might know, my wife is in the web 2.0/social media space. we have terrific conversations, usually over a bottle (maybe 2) of wine and a few sneaky cigarettes after the kids are in bed, about this new frontier and its population, growing at a rate that you might as well strike the "new" label there. i am fascinated by the sociological aspects of all this. what really grabs me at the moment is how it enables split personality disorders across the globe.

alert: generalizations dead ahead.

when you read a blog (or other media), do you assume the person behind the curtain is consistent with what you glean from the content or the brand? when i got into this, i assumed as much. then i began to know or know about other bloggers, and it occurred to me that so many out there are really nailing it with the smoke and mirrors, promoting their brands that don't seem to match up with the real mccoy. for instance, there's this social media god at my wife's firm who has his virtual feet kissed 24/7 in the world of web 2.0 these days. to everyone out there buying in, he's fantastic, wonderful. in real life he's a prick. then there's a woman who i really like in person when i see her on occasion, but i borderline loathe her social media persona. i can cite several other examples of inconsistency, but you get the point.

much of it's in the name of self promotion, which sometimes frightens me. i am so curious about people who devote so much time and energy to putting themselves out there, endlessly in search of new friends or networks. "star fuckers" is what my wife calls them. to me it's exhausting and makes me wonder about whether the real world of flesh and blood has become that much of a drag. can our true selves be so boring that we need virtual alter egos to feel alive? it's possible, really.

i have to acknowledge a bit of jealousy on my part. it's like when i drive down rock creek parkway and see joggers or bikers everywhere within eye sight, i sort of assume they are all young, maybe single, getting their workout on before a night on the town, and i have a fleeting "grass is greener" moment. so when i see how active and dialed in star fuckers are in the new media world, you could say i wish i had that much time on my hands to flex my mind and soul.

maybe i'm just in the midst of an online identity crisis. or is the crisis in my real life? i guess i should send out an SOS via twitter and see if my "friends" can throw me a lifeline. those venues do seem to be where the answers are coming from lately, yes?

facebooked

2008-07-08T15:26:00.004-05:00

so i finally stepped to the plate and set up a facebook account. i have struggled with the concept for as long as i can remember for a number of reasons. the paramount reason is that there are certain people in this world i wish to hide from. as you see, this blog is anonymous. some of you know who i am; others never will.

almost immediately, a close friend in nyc sent the first message to my facebook inbox that gave me a serious case of cognitive dissonance:

part of me was really hoping that you would never join FB so that i could forever duck the shame one of my true friends seeing that i have more than one self serving profile picture, over 300 FB friends and other shameful social networking acts. welcome to FB sucker...be prepared for the zombies and ghosts of past that lurk in the shadows waiting to poke, comment on your wall and generally disgust you with who they've become.

meet me in st. louis

2008-07-02T16:18:00.008-05:00

We're headed to my hometown, St. Louis, tomorrow where everyone asks everyone where they went to school, and they don't mean college; they mean high school. I decided somewhere along the line that the reason behind this is that most St. Lunatics do not live outside the shadow of the Arch. If you are roaming the streets or sitting on a bar stool, the assumption is that you must be from here, which means I can make a snap judgment about you based on where you attended high school.

Forget that you might have graduated 15 years ago and could have extended yourself outside the particular stereotype married to your high school, which did not necessarily apply to you in the first place. I don't care; I'm still assuming things about you regardless.

Private same-sex high schools abound in this town. I happened to attend an all guys Jesuit school. In that deep private school pool the guys' schools tend to intermingle more with the girls' schools. This tends to perpetuate stereotypes and rumors, especially about the girls.

So back to that bar stool.

Oh, you went to Ursuline? (Whore.)
...Visitation? (High brow whore)
...Cor Jesu? (catholic white t)
...St. Elizabeth (inner city t)
...St. Joe (alright, fine)

Of course I no longer subscribe to any of the above, but those are a few samples that floated around in the early 90s. I have no clue what applies these days. Mental note to do some research this weekend.

In any case, here are a few hometown favorites - usual suspects - I will be crossing off the mental checklist over the next 5 days:

Cardinals vs. Cubs, July 4th

Lion's Choice :2 sammies, fries, large Dr. Pepper

toasted ravioli : early and often

Ted Drewes : hot fudge concrete

Imo's Pizza : large pizza, house salad

Niche : date night...picked one of Food & Wine's top new chefs from the grab bag of amazing restaurants in town

unfortunately not overheard this morning

2008-06-20T16:24:00.005-05:00

at 6:30 this morning i went through a hateful ritual of putting on a suit and driving to tysons corner for a networking breakfast. long story short, our firm is a member of a business development community called the breakfast club (read: pyramid scheme) that hosts events to draw together professionals (read: whores) to build networks and business. the breakfast is once a month. i have managed to weasel my way out of representing the firm at these glad hand shows for a solid span of 8 months. my arsenal of excuses is exhausted, so there i idled along chain bridge road soaking up some jose gonzalez and practicing my canned responses and intimations of placation.

instead of mixing it up in the crowd, i tend to shuffle my feet in one place in the corner hoping i can make it through the coffee and chitchat hour in the banquet room without having to press my card into a single hand. this is clearly impossible, but i am proud to say i managed to walk out of there with only one card in my pocket. it turned out to be a woman, a guest, who seemed to hate these things as much as i do. in a way we were the greasers at the party of socs, maybe kindred spirits. in any case, i usually survive and should admit that occasionally i have a good conversation.

in these situations, voices in my head, possibly from a darker comedy side of myself, mutter things that i'd dare not literally speak in a social situation. there have been times when i've had to put forth a concerted effort to suppress the urge to blurt one out. these impulses, banal and childish as they may be, put a smile on my face, so i thought i'd share a few with you.

scene 1:

ron: hello, i'm ron pella. good to meet you. (extends limp fish handshake)

me: hi, ron. say, how's your wife doing?

ron:

see, that wouldn't work out so well. raises lots of questions, gets someone hot under the collar pretty quickly. it assumes so much. still, wouldn't you love to say it just once? no?

scene 2:

subtle grunts followed by explosive shit sounds come from the single stall in the country club men's room. snickers come from men in suits pissing at the urinals or picking their noses in front of the mirrors. i'm waiting to enter said stall due to case of stage fright and inability to piss at these particular types of urinals lacking any edge or partition. eventually i give up and decide i'm bailing early on this thing anyway and can make it. before i go, i rap my knuckles on the stall door a couple of times.

poor bastard: what, it's occupied!

me: i know...i just wanted to see if i could get your business card when you're done.

poor bastard: what?!?

me: it's okay, i'll wait out here for you. i'm just going to slide mine under the door now.

scene 3:

a guest speaker, the cliche chest thumper, rants on and on over his slide show presentation. he's so into it. it reminds me of tom cruise's character, frank mackey, in magnolia - the self help sex book author and motivational speaker who coaches guys on getting laid. in a zone out moment i almost expect today's speaker to start chanting "respect the cock!" like frank mackey. when he wraps up his diatribe, he asks if there are any questions.

at this point, i wonder how the crowd, a mixed bag of generations, perceives the breakfast club film reference in the title of this quasi club. each and every time i've been to one of these, the speaker offers to take questions, and the obvious question, which judd nelson framed perfectly, just had to be asked.

yeah, i got a question. does barry manilow know that you raid his wardrobe?

alas i survived and made my exit during the follow-up speakers bit, telling a colleague i was headed to the restroom. he knew i was ghost and whispered me out as i passed with a "keyser soze."

leave it to cleavage

2008-06-13T12:11:00.006-05:00

earlier this week human resources informed my wife, through one of her female colleagues, that she is showcasing too much cleavage at the office. apparently some guy went to HR and said he was unable to concentrate in a meeting because he could not stop staring at my wife's breasts. this prompted the HR woman to enlist one of my wife's peers ,who is not her supervisor, to deliver the news.

the ripples of this have not completely settled yet, as my wife is naturally flustered and annoyed for a number of reasons, and i don't blame her. there are a few things about this matter that are not sitting well.

her chest happens to be pronounced these days due to the fact that she's breast feeding. (i enjoy this aspect, of course, but that's another story for my erotica blog.) still, she has not changed her style - classy and elegant - one bit since she joined the firm over a year ago and is suddenly being asked to do so because some guy can't keep his eyes off her breasts and goes so far as to dispense what can be construed as a lewd comment about her. by the way, they were gigantic during her pregnancy, but no one had concentration issues then. does my wife work in a bible camp or a religious setting? ummm, no.

the fact that the HR woman sent one of my wife's colleagues to deliver the news strikes me as inappropriate. this might add up if the HR director was a man. i am not knowledgeable in the ream of HR laws and policies, but i think any HR issue, especially one like this, should be handled with sensitivity and confidence. she should have approached my wife directly instead of threading someone else into this.

the whole thing seems circuitous and messy. some guy - the poor victim - makes a comment, so HR sends another woman to deliver the news and handle it. to me it's almost a watered down version of those terrible rape stories you hear about or see depicted in court dramas on television: well, she shouldn't have worn that sexy outfit. how could i restrain myself from tossing that roofie into her drink? i'm a man after all.

it's hard enough for her being a working mother in a global pr firm where the reward for hard work is more hard work, so, as you might imagine, to be billing in the neighborhood of 60 hours per week, getting thrown under the bus by people covering their own asses (life in a pr firm), catching this kind of hell from HR has found her near the end of her rope.

the situation will obviously not boil down to this, but one of our close friends is a partner in a big law firm's employment law practice. he makes a living raking large corporations over the coals for gigantic settlements. in jest, to lighten the mood of all this, i suggested that she contact him so we can score an early retirement in the name of her boobs. we could buy a place in the BVI, get a yacht, and name it "cleavage." how fantastic would that be?

yes, far fetched, but that won't stop me from rolling down the street to barneys to buy a few low cut items for her on my way home tonight.

melbourne beach memoirs

2008-05-22T18:25:00.013-05:00

we are relatively fresh from five days in melbourne, florida, my wife's hometown. the following is a random snapshot of some standout memories...

"dad, look at that bald guy!"

for those of you who don't know me, i am bald. there was a time when i obsessed about it, but eventually i realized that i pull it off nicely. for those of you who are balding, i pity you, but trust me on this one - the destination is generally better than the journey. balding sucks, but once you get here, and assuming you don't have an oddly shaped head, its fine. still, i have a real appreciation for hair, so it's only half a joke when i tell people i intend to live vicariously through my sons' hairstyles. enough back story.

recently i explained the whole concept to the jackal, and he embraced it so much that on the flight to and from orlando, he pointed at several bald or balding men and exclaimed "dad, look at that bald guy!" or "he's bald!" for a fleeting moment i empathized with these guys since it can't feel good to be called out by some 3 year old with a lush head of cascading hair, especially if you are self-conscious about it in the first place (most guys are). then i snapped out of the empathy and laughed my ass off. sorry fellas, sort of.

fear of flying cured

to me, flying is a necessary evil. generally i'm a basket case on a plane and can only be pacified with pills and booze. when traveling with kids, a completely different fear trumps that of mechanical failure and plane crashes. i'm talking about the horrifying prospect of your kids melting down and causing an unnerving scene. i think i have mentioned this before, but i used to be that guy scowling at such scenes on planes. since washing down a xanex with a jack & coke won't fly (no pun intended) with the parental responsibilities, you have little choice but to face the music and hope for the best. somehow we managed both flights without incident, save a couple of milk projectiles on my shirt, but i was always on high alert, ready to make a complete fool of myself to turn a frown upside down. when it all boiled down, i didn't have capacity for panic and sweaty palms for a change.

recently run into the ground

inevitably on any trip some object or phrase becomes a theme that you and friends/family run into the ground. this time a mcchicken sandwich filled that role.

looks tasty, yes? it all started at the mcdonald's drive-thru where after too much sun my eyes were bigger than my stomach and i practically ordered the entire dollar menu. the original purpose was to score a happy meal for the jackal, but i went overboard. when my brother-in-law clint returned from the beach sunburned, he was in search of lotion. i recommended that he rub the leftover mcchicken sandwich in the refrigerator on his skin in lieu of aloe based moisturizer, and the lame immature joke was on. not only did the mcchicken sit out on the counter the rest of the trip like a demented sculpture- clint and i would act completely offended if one of our wives attempted to throw it away when cleaning up - it made its way back to dc in one of my backpack's obscure pockets, courtesy of cint. oddly enough, with no one watching to appreciate the gesture except myself, i double bagged the sandwich and stashed it in the bottom of the freezer. i guess you could say the joke is in a cryogenic state right now and will resurface when the time is right. by the way, i'm months away from 35. what the hell is wrong with me?

scenes from disney world

yes, we rolled the dice and took a shot at the magic kingdom. it was a good way to break the monotony, not that hitting the beach and kicking it poolside was a real drag. still, a month or so ago we promised the jackal we'd take him and he sort of held us to it. no regrets, no apologies, but definitely some lessons learned. for example...

- judging from their behavior, for kids in the 3ish age group, there may as well be a gas chamber, dentist, or barber at the end of the line, not some fun ride with their favorite disney characters. the good thing for parents is your kid is definitely not the only one melting down in line. instead of being irritated by the frightening redhead kid shrieking in my ear, i actually took solace, knowing that mine was not the only one with a short fuse that day. literally, at the ticket counter, they should hand parents some sort of chill pill. hell, the tickets cost enough, so why not?

- asians and white trash love them some disney world. in fact, i think i found evidence of crossbreeding: asian americans walking around gnawing on turkey legs. asian american trash? sure, why not?

- mickey mouse is a high class whore these days. i'm no cheapskate by any stretch, but the $230 cover charge for wifey, the jackal and i to enter seemed sort of extreme. on our exit route down main street usa we hit the souvenir shops, which are completely obnoxious. the jackal was too overwhelmed by the selection and maybe a bit distracted by the lady screaming at her daughter to get really into it, because he didn't seem to be feeling it. thankfully he had zero interest in the cliche' mouse ear hat. when he spotted a matchbox mickey mouse tour bus, he was sold. my wife's clever line on the way out the door resonates: "don't lose that bus, it's worth about $250."

lasting memory

on our last day i woke up early and took baby cole with me on a coffee run to give wifey an extra hour of sleep. as usual we'd put off packing until the morning of our flight, so i had some angst in my stomach. wifey commented several times when we passed the blueberry muffin diner that they have, what else, the best blueberry muffins, so i stopped with cole to grab some on the fly. at the counter sat a couple of red necks who looked like they made it through the night on piss, vinegar, and maybe a little crystal meth. while waiting for the half dozen blueberry muffins i ordered, i couldn't help but overhear their conversation: man, my old lady asked me to go out with her the other night - i said no and went out with the guys - when i got home round 2am she was real wasted - i could tell because it took her a while to throw the rubber to me - but i took care of business and she puked after.

i'll close this diatribe with a quick fuck-off to the washington examiner. before we left town i remembered to put a stop on the washington post delivery while we were away, thinking that would eliminate the dead giveaway that we were out of town. when we pulled up to the house, what else littered my yard but 5 or 6 rain-soaked examiners. i never asked for this half-assed paper and want nothing to do with it. so like i said, fuck off. you are wasting paper and never asked if i wanted to be part of it.

okay, back to real life. bring it...

good morning sunshine

2008-05-12T11:36:00.003-05:00

this is the visage i see around 6:00 each morning, tucked between me and wifey, immersed in the remnants of dawn's receding shadows. the total package comes with greedy grunts signifying hunger and a general desire to have solo time with mommy and daddy. sometimes i roll over and take a crack at burrowing back into slumber, but more often than not i accept that the day has begun and wallow in the moment. really, how bad can any day be if it starts with this cat smiling and cooing at me as though his life depends on it? talk about launching a day with a healthy and wonderful dose of perspective.

facebook, really

2008-05-09T10:36:00.001-05:00

RIP Caesar

2008-05-09T09:56:00.002-05:00

Our dear friends' boxer Caesar left this world yesterday. To me he was the epitome of hilarity and always had me giggling. He was also a good friend to my chocolate lab Baci. Many recognized that he was sort of misunderstood. Aren't we all? In any case, while some might say it's just a dog, I would say dogs are members of families and play a part in the day-to-day and can be part of the bigger picture. That being said, it's with tremendous sadness for my friends and their sweet daughter that I pay tribute here to the Great Caesar. His giant paw print will always remain.

"Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me."
--MarcAntony

email of the day

2008-05-01T14:20:00.004-05:00

My boss just shared with me this email from his wife about their black sheep son's latest misadventure at their second home in West Palm. She's a high end DC woman and very proper, which makes this sort of funny to me:

Max had 2 beers, 4 mojitos, white sangria...threw up at the restaurant...I had to go into the men's room to get him while another guy was taking a pee in a urinal...he almost toppled the table...well he did...threw up out the front window of my car...which I have washed...he is lying down on the sofa in the loggia...threw up black beans on the patio...Ellie started eating his throw up...and Caroline and Mary Walsh are attending to him...because he said it was the food and he has a high tolerance to alcohol...so fuck me. xoxo mom

is there a dentist in the house?

2008-04-30T14:48:00.007-05:00

this pittsburgh groom, a dentist by trade, literally kick-started his marriage when he delivered a kungfu kick to his new bride en route to their holiday inn room. what ensued would make amy winehouse and the late ike turner proud as hell. smacks of class, doesn't it?

ever felt like this?

2008-04-29T13:18:00.001-05:00

back to basics

2008-04-25T09:16:00.005-05:00

this weekend we're sans kids, staying at a hotel downtown and celebrating 7 years of marriage while my mother and sisters are in town to watch the kids. we tried this last year in chicago and it did not end up as we expected. wifey was ill the entire weekend - symptoms we attributed to pregnancy upon returning and doing a pregnancy test.

so, we're trying this again and staying local this time. she has already shared this information, in case you tune into her blog, and i like how she framed it so will leave you with that. this time i'm making no predictions since that all sort of fell through in chicago. the only call i will make is that we won't come out of the weekend with another bun in the oven.

after school special

2008-04-23T08:36:00.007-05:00

generally i have a small threshold for annoyance at the gym most mornings. in fact it would be fair to say i am completely cynical as i make my rounds there. it's not that i'm mad at the world or generally unhappy. simply put, i'm tired and don't particularly like working out. i mean, who does? to me it's a necessary evil.

i'm probably not the only one who feels put out when people invade my personal space or, god forbid, ask if they can work their cycle into mine on a particular machine. i find that i'm especially chafed when someone asks this and i look around to see barely a soul in the entire place.

when you get back into a gym routine faces of people become familiar, as do their quirks. this means there are plenty of targets for projection and dirty looks...enough so that the guy whose body odor smells like spoiled milk can be the bane of your existence one morning and the lady with a bad perm and camel toe can play scapegoat the next. basically it's a crap shoot every morning, as you walk in not knowing exactly who will grate on your nerves, only knowing that someone will.

lately i've noticed a guy - normal, well groomed, generally inoffensive - marching around with a rather urgent gait and a seemingly genuine smile on his face. this would all be rather unremarkable except that his atmosphere merges with mine more than i would prefer. the worst is when he power walks to the pull-up bar, which faces the butterfly machine where i am stationed, and executes a set of gyrating pull-ups. since the brim of my cap is typically pulled low, i'm able to avert my eyes and find a happy place. still, it's odd and grounds for irritation, right?

last night i'm rocking cole in my arms on the front porch and watching the jackal wrestle baci on the lawn (thank god that kid gives the dog attention because i'm borderline dead beat dog owner lately). out of nowhere a voice says hello. i look up to see a priest - clerical collar and all - standing on the sidewalk clutching a rosary. i return the greeting and look closer, realizing that standing before us is none other than the gyrating pull-up guy from the gym...and he's a priest!

some pleasant conversation landed me with knowledge that he's a priest at the catholic church a couple blocks away. nice guy. he even weathered the spanish inquisition the jackal tends to lay on complete strangers these days with a smile.

as he walked away i devoured the plate of humble pie i deserved for misjudging the guy at the gym in the first place. i even brought leftovers for lunch today. yummy...

gushing about kate nash

2008-04-18T00:44:00.005-05:00

my friend adam is a whiz with integrating music content into his site. we have traded emails and plan to connect so he can tutor me on the back end magic that requires.

in the meantime, i thought i'd recommend an artist in an apparently primitive way - word of mouth.

one of the hottest things about my wife is that she digs music and tends to keep up with new bands the same way i do. if i could only see her in one of her power suits rocking spoon or maybe neutral milk hotel. another of my weaknesses is a hot woman, which my wife happens to be, in business gear.

anyway, she recently picked up kate nash. driving her car the other day, since it's more economical and i had to drive to tysons corner, i played the cd. let me say that it kicked me in the balls. it's like the first time you heard the sugar cubes.

check it out when you can. the song, "foundations" will rock you.

famous last words or just too much information?

2008-04-17T14:05:00.012-05:00

driving home last night, my own fragility came to mind when an oncoming car on rock creek parkway swerved slightly into my lane and stirred the butterflies inside. i consider myself to be a good driver and at the wheel generally feel in control and safe. this minor non-incident last night reminded me that my own driving abilities don't really matter and that someone else could show me the exit from this world by being a shitty driver.

as i peered into the rear view mirror and exhaled, of all things this blog came to mind, which i found odd because, while i enjoy it, this is not a major facet or priority in my life. but it must be on some level, right? otherwise it would not creep into my head seconds after i almost wrecked. in any case, the context of my consideration of the blog was this: what will my last post say about me?

with that in mind, i have an experience to share that falls into the "way too much information" category. i have shared this story with a few friends and questioned whether or not to blog about it. unanimously i was told that i should, so here goes...

the other day i was doing some manscaping on my netherworld with my trustee hair clippers (#1 guard setting). this happens about every two weeks. the obvious question one might ask upon hearing this is, why the hell do you do that? to which i'd reply, why the hell wouldn't i do that? it would hypocritical for me to ignore that bit of grooming since most men sort of expect that of women, yes? the funny thing about it is that as an adolescent i couldn't wait to have pubes, and as an adult i want none or very little.

at any rate (typing this is almost making me blush), i had to sort of straddle the toilet while i went to town downstairs, lest the clippings fall all over the bathroom floor. about halfway through the job, so about 20 seconds in, the clippers slipped from my hand and plunged into the water. like a fool i did not think, i just reacted by grabbing the cord, which sent a minor jolt of electricity up my arm. it all happened so fast, but i vaguely remember yelling "what the fuck!" before yanking the cord out of the wall.

looking back on it now, i wonder what the nanny downstairs must have thought about the racket i made. i also wonder what it would be like to cry and laugh hysterically and simultaneously at my funeral, knowing that i was found naked on the floor with half my pubes shaved and hair clippers in the toilet. the scene, which thankfully did not play out that way, reminds me of the death scenes six feet under used to open with - ordinary people dying in their homes in rather extraordinary ways.

you'll be glad to know the clippers actually survived. after i dried them off they were good to go, so i finished the job.

so if this is my last post, it's sort of embarrassing. let's hope i make it through tonight.

gay for a day

2008-04-14T14:46:00.011-05:00

Last week I promised my wife that Friday night would be my swan song. This is a tongue-in-cheek commitment to 86 all vices and clean up my act. She reminded me that I've been singing swan songs the past 7 years and have enough material to put out a greatest hits record and launch a world reunion tour. It's true, I have battered the swan song concept to death, which is why it's sort of an inside joke now. In fact, I can hardly utter the words to her these days without giggling like an obnoxious child.

Not one night last week did I drift naturally, peacefully to sleep. Instead I passed out after too much of this or that. When the going gets tough, sometimes the tough self-medicate. At least that's what yours truly did every night last week starting with Sunday. I know, as a father of two I should be ashamed, maybe even fitted for concrete shoes and tossed into the Potomac for such behavior. Well, all of us adults (hopefully all of us) figured out once we crossed a certain age threshold in our lives that our parents are fallible and generally don't have all of their shit together. In other words, they are human, not necessarily the super heroes we used to place on pedestals. Now don't get me wrong - I am not lobbying for parents' rights to do damage to themselves and shirk parental responsibilities by any stretch. I would not even say I did that since I did not imbibe last week until the kids were down for the night. Regardless, I was in a bit of a funk and skidded on the slippery slope last week. It happens to the best and worst of us, I guess.

Not lost in that haze was the awareness that I should pull over to the shoulder and get it together, which brings me back to the latest swan song remix on Friday night.

My friend Joe had tickets to the Nationals game. They were hosting the Braves, but I couldn't have cared less since I was mostly interested in checking out the new ballpark and eating unhealthy food. I'm a baseball fan - the Cardinals come first - but this early in the season it's more about the experience than the game itself, at least for me. The best part about it, probably the earmark memory for me, is that I got to be gay for a day.

Joe is gay. That label would be otherwise completely irrelevant in my book - I don't really say my "gay" friend Joe or my "white" friend Sam - except for that fact that it's sort of relevant in this instance. As a side note to that, Joe might be the biggest sports fan I know, which seems to be unique for a gay cat. In any case, we met at Joe's house late afternoon to get the drinking and smoking started. He went out to the car, and I lagged behind. When I rolled out the door, he was sitting in his VW Cabrio with the top down. I hopped in and said something like, "We are so gay together today."

On the ride there, which took a mere 5 minutes, the glances thrown at us proved that passers-by considered us a gay couple. When Joe turned on and cranked the discotheque mix at a stoplight next to a car full of meat head marines near the barracks on 8th Street I looked to the sky and cackled. The dirty looks of judgment we caught from these dudes were priceless. I can honestly say that for a second there I experienced a faux moment of gay pride, despite the fact that I am clearly not gay. Well, my wife says that I am just gay enough. So maybe there is a slight percentage of gay in me. So be it.

The rest of the night was a mess. We didn't last past the 3rd inning, and I have foggy memories of Joe spilling onto the floor at Five Guys near the ballpark. Whatever. None of it really stacks up the ride there.

What a swan song...except that I got drunk as nuts the night after at a dinner party. Such is life these days.

escalator rage

2008-04-04T09:10:00.017-05:00

you ever have one of those mornings when you want to time warp back to college, draw the shades, rip bong hits all morning, and let indifference wash over you? i had one of those today. a wave of chaos built up around monday, crested on wednesday, and crashed our shore this morning. it's nothing new really. i mean, working parents with two kids and a meathead chocolate lab - that scene automatically lends itself to a dust storm now and then. so i get and accept it. that does not mean i am always cool and collected, which brings me to an incident this morning.

en route to the gym, i rolled out of the house, leaving the symphony of a whining 3-year-old and screaming 3-month-old behind me. i was close to jumping out of my skin. the icing on the cake was potting soil and flowers strewn about the front porch and yard. apparently a gaggle of squirrels went medieval on the asses of the flowers my wife and the jackal planted last week. needless to say, this added more edge to the morning. basically i was a time bomb, and the only thing that would diffuse me was some arcade fire on the ipod and a steady dose of cardio.

i work out at the washington sports club in the bowels of the chevy chase pavilion. the creature of habit that i am, i park in the same spot in the garage, next to the hotel elevator, and shuffle down the same escalator to get to the lower level. today was no different, except for the crusty, crotchety, curmudgeon of a woman wearing crocs and high-water, pleated khakis who decided to walk right on my heels to the escalator and down it. now, i don't walk at a snail's pace by any means. i've lived in the city 10 years, so i maintain an urban gait wherever i go. apparently that was not enough for her. neither were the two or three quick glances i threw over my shoulder to signal enough with the fucking tailgating. basically she left me no choice but to stop on the moving escalator and call her out.

do you mind?

huff. i'm in a rush to get to work. sorry. (in a very put-out tone)

i can feel your breath on my neck.

huff.

looks like you left your social skills at home in your rush out the door. now how about some personal space?

sorry, lady whoever you are. you became my scapegoat today. wrong place at the wrong time, i guess. but you know, you kind of earned it. and that outfit is likely to draw the ire of others who cross your path today. so, good luck with that.

every whisper, every waking hour

2008-04-01T19:08:00.007-05:00

rem's new record, accelerate dropped today, so with a blend of anticipation and dread, i rolled to the borders near my office and picked up the cd/dvd combo. (not that i expect to watch the dvd much, but it was like $4 more so what the hell...) i know itunes and other such mediums are more efficient and the wave of the future, which seems to be now, but for certain bands i still buy the hard copy material. somehow i feel like i'm remaining true to my fan hood, not to mention i like to check out the art work on the inserts.

to date myself, rem has been an obsession of sorts for me since 1986. i remember the days of michael stipe flying around the stage, his arms and ass-length braid cutting the air like an old switch your baptist grandmother might have torched you with when you were a child, of course after you cut said switch from the crabapple tree in the back yard. i digress, but it's not a terrible analogy since back in the early days, there was much angst to do with southern baptist guilt and defining one's self in light of that in their songs. after all, they originated and headquartered themselves in athens, ga for so many years, so how could the bible belt not flail into the collective stream of consciousness on occasion?

i must admit that i ripped off many of stipe's on stage dance antics when i fronted a band for four years in college. hell, i even incorporated a megaphone into the act, which he did a lot in the late 80s and early 90s. belting out lyrics into a microphone via megaphone is something i would recommend to anyone. it's a rare opportunity that fucking screams "rock star," even if it's in the framework of a college band getting by on covers and a few tragic originals.

well somewhere along the line, the band lost its mojo or plainly stopped giving a fuck. the last 3 or 4 records were unremarkable at best and forgettable at worst. it seemed like suddenly michael stipe transcended music to become just a personality, a diva maybe. don't get me wrong - i think anything the cat does is interesting, creative, and intelligent, and it would not be terribly far fetched to say that he falls onto a short list of man crushes. but his thing stopped being music, and music is what brought him to the dance, yes? it almost pains me to say these things since i have such an allegiance to this band and the ripples they have created in the artistic world. that said, i am thrilled about the reviews i've picked up so far and can't wait to check it out, tomorrow morning at the gym.

yes - it would be fantastic to soak it up tonight, but it's bath time, then there's where the wild things are, down by the bay, goodnight moon, and the very hungry caterpillar to read.

how cool would it be to read the bedtime stories through a megaphone?

hmmmmm, yeah, not really cool at all, right...

happy birthday jack!

2008-03-29T20:25:00.017-05:00

overheard, over-analyzed, and overindulged at the jackal's 3rd birthday party this morning:

endangered squeaky voices

the party this year was almost a carbon copy of last year's brunch affair with a few remarkable exceptions. and as i mentioned last year, throwing these events in the morning flows with a certain logic my friends get. now understanding it and pulling it off after you and your wife killed over half a bottle of scotch along with a couple cigarettes the night before are two different things. somehow i pushed through, only puking in my mouth 2.5 times, and tackled the morning errands, which landed me at that depressing friendship flower shop on wisconsin, next to cafe deluxe, the same place i scored the balloons for the 2 year affair. when i walked in i thought i'd browse the flowers and maybe bring more home to compliment some decorating my wife had already done at home. it wasn't a long shot for this guy to know my name since i rolled in 10 minutes after they opened. he told me the balloons were ready (27 of them - 9 red, 9, yellow, 9 white - to go with a fireman theme the jackal decided on) and quoted the price of $60. that cued an immediate U-turn away from the flowers. sticker shocked, i was.

in any case, a couple of father friends of mine were asking me about the party favors, taking mental notes. see, since we're all generally improvising this parenting bit, we tend to ask the right questions and absorb pertinent information that will make life easier. in other words, short cut hints on how to keep the kids happy and maybe even occupied for a few more minutes per day, while we maybe catch a breath of fresh air and maybe a smoke, are always welcome, and encouraged. so i relate the helium story, and one tells me there is a helium shortage in our world these days.

probably old news, but new news to me. since i don't have much need for balloons or a high pitched voice, i couldn't really care less. still, i had to laugh at the fact that this otherwise irrelevant crisis pinched me a little today.

moon bounce

we are now the not-too-trashy-but-apparently-trashy-enough owners of a moon bounce. i pulled the trigger online last week and amazingly did not experience as much cognitive dissonance as i expected, at least not until my friend dave reminded me that "the economy is taking a shit and you're buying moon bounces." my retort was that someone has to try to keep things moving, so i'm doing my part.

the kids naturally loved it and got their wrestlemania on. i recall only one report of heads colliding, which is not so bad. oh, and someone told me i could advertise the thing on craigslist and rent it out. probably won't happen, but can i really say i am above it now that i went so far as to purchase one of these gorgeous monstrosities in the first place?

presence or presents?

so like any kid, the jackal loves gifts. before i get to that, i should address my perspective on gifts and birthday parties. my wife and i sort of debated this topic after she launched the evite initially. see, our friends are terribly polite and considerate and wonderful. i think the same of their kids. now that kids have entered the scene, we're all figuring out how to integrate them properly. the thing is, most of us are integrating them into a world much different from the one we came up in, especially in fiscal terms.

my first 8 years, believe it or not, we're headquartered in a trailer park. my single mother and i lived in arnold, missouri until she remarried and relocated us to st. louis. jack is growing up in one of the most high profile cities in the world, in a pretty solid neighborhood, equipped considerably compared to this guy 30-ish years ago. the circumstances of our growing up could not be more different, which tells me i am doing something right.

my point is that sometimes we can be all thumbs about incorporating our kids, given that the circumstances are new, and still get the job done right. to that point, often you wonder when and where to say "no gifts please" when announcing a birthday party. we've said it before, and our friends still show bearing gifts. likewise, friends say "no gifts" and we ignore them.

here's why: it's a birthday party. kids absolutely love gifts (we did back then). and none of us are in bad financial shape.

i completely get the whole concept of suggesting "no gifts" and respect the politeness of the gesture. i also catch that it can spoil them, et al. still, the kids are great and they get this once a year.

well, in the end we decided not to edit the evite, and he got way too much stuff, leading us to hide half of it, fearing him being overwhelmed and scatterbrained.

that is to say, we can completely see both sides of the matter.

[hands thrown into air]

cute, not subtle

speaking of way too many gifts, a pile of them in the corner of the dining room had a tractor beam like the death star because i noticed the jackal drifting toward it on many of my passes through the room. we'd told him to wait until everyone left since we thought it might spark a lord the flies re-enactment. that didn't stop him from asking (nagging) me or his mother about it.

jackal: mommy, i want to open one.
mom: no, remember...when everyone leaves.
jackal: (turns to woman mommy is hanging with) can you go home now?

dog farts

really thrilled that my friend joe brought that raunchy bone filled with processed meat for our dog baci. at the time it was funny the way he wrapped it in birthday gift wrap and tricked the jackal with it. not so funny is the way baci farts like a senile old man since he devoured it. not only do they echo, they gag you. the gift keeps on giving. thanks!

(happy belated birthday, meathead!)

throw-away line of the day

2008-03-28T20:54:00.006-05:00

hideki matsui, a japanese, new york yankee, outfielder also known as "godzilla," married in a secret ceremony in nyc recently. creepily, he announced it and shared only a pencil sketch of his new wife as evidence of her existence, evidently in an attempt to protect her privacy.

the best part of all this is the throwaway line the new york post used in the story, as if it's some passing comment that should give no one pause for any reason:

Matsui, also known back home for his large collection of porn films, said he and his wife have been planning their wedding for a year. He began dating her during the 2006-07 off-season. He said the nuptials took place in New York City at an undisclosed chapel.

fantastic..

in absentia

2008-03-26T19:50:00.010-05:00

My abs have gone straight to hell. At least that's my speculation. To be honest, I don't know where exactly they went. All I know is that they are no longer here and that I miss them terribly.

Without so much as a "Dear John Basedow" note, text, or Facebook message, my abs bailed on me. I half expect to see them on a milk carton some day soon.

Spring is here, and soon I will be at the beach. Vanity has not escaped me, despite my age, so I'm on a mission to find them. They are Harrison Ford and I'm Tommy Lee Jones. To take the lame Fugitive analogy a step further, they are truly innocent. The hernia is the culprit. Being ordered to lay off any core workouts 5 months prior to hernia repair surgery and 6 weeks after did me no favors.

So it's back to the gym and avoiding eye contact in the locker room. Just how I love to start the mornings. I guess it beats the hell out of getting on that Basedow train. Fitness Made Simple, and Creepy. I mean, look at that guy. The scary thing is, he probably gets laid all the time.

It must be the abs, damn it.

writing the b-sides

2008-03-24T20:16:00.007-05:00

more often than not many post ideas that hit me ultimately become farts in the wind. by the time i get around to weaving them into something intelligible, they have lost their potency, their ability to offend, so i chalk it up to another day with nothing said. my wife sometimes asks why i have not posted recently and reminds me that it doesn't have to be war and peace every time i sit down.

great blogger = shitty parent? good parent = shitty blogger? these are questions i live and breathe. so be it.

as i mentioned last year, i am haunted and best represented by the junk drawer. to be fair, i should express that in the plural sense due to the fact that i am the shameful owner of about 6 junk drawers, if you include my desk at work. since i have so many in the literal world, it probably makes sense to to have at least one in the figurative dimension. so,now and then i think i'll throw a random mess of stories, anecdotes, bad jokes, and whatever else hits my radar screen. here goes nothing...

i had you at "fuck"

recently i took a new client out for drinks after work and in the course of the night experienced an epiphany of sorts. something i believe i always knew in the back at my head occured to me in fluid words, and one of those words happens to fall onto my list of favorites - fuck.

we decided to catch beers at lia's, the only nonchain restaurant that's worth a damn in chevy chase where i work. i have a dilemma with the place since it's owner, chef geof, and his wife, nora o'donnell, both sort of irritate me, but i can't knock the setting or food, especially for chevy chase. now normally i'm straight after the liquor when i sit at a bar. really, i can't stand beer and typically do wine only with dinner. otherwise it's a splash of club soda on whatever color liquor i've chosen. but at happy hour with a complete stranger - fully suited while you chose dark jeans with a blazer that day - you can't hit the hard stuff.

in any case, about 30 minutes and 3 beers into chatting with this guy, who turns out to be a solid cat by the way, he suddenly hatches a sentence with "what the fuck..." i can't believe the rest of what he said totally escapes me, but it didn't matter after all. after all, can you blame me?

i had this cat at "fuck." once a stranger becomes your buddy and drops that f-bomb, he's down. you two are tight just like that. enough said.

it reminds me of a great eels lyric in "dirty girl":

i like a girl with a dirty mouth, someone that i can believe...

that reminds me of a plug- eels are playing this sat (3/29) at a venue i've not checked out but plan to downtown called the sixth & eye historic synagogue. i've caught them at 9:30 twice and have to say they put on an ethereal show. it's fierce.

so, as i was saying, when my suited friend threw down the "fuck," what did i do? i turned to the bartender and ordered a scotch. what else?

happy birthday dear blog

2008-03-07T10:01:00.002-05:00

home alone, really

2008-02-28T18:27:00.005-05:00

welcome to a slice of rare life. hold on while i pinch myself to see if this is indeed a moment in real time and space.

set the scene? sure...

radiohead's in rainbows blares from the bose ipod dock in a dark corner of the room. thom yorke's ethereal wails deliver an ironic sense of hope to the place. a faint trail of smoke lingers. RG sits at the table in the dimly lit dining room, the glow of the laptop - meiwah's sushi page on the screen - causes him to squint slightly, taddling on the modest beginnings of crow's feet in the corners of his eyes, and he's contemplating a cigarette. earlier he spotted an old pack of smokes on a shelf in the basement. god knows how old they are?

scattered about the stainless steel tabletop are the following, in no particular order:

work files on some media company ceo RG's meeting tomorrow AM
phones - cell and land line
amex card
half glass of red wine - debating whether 1/2 empty or 1/2 full
diet coke can given a makeover, now a makeshift device
3 lighters, 2 of which are dead
nalgene bottle of water, full
netflix dvds - halloween (rob zombie remake), live free or die hard, 30 days of night
paste magazine

missing from this picture are wifey and kids, all swayze on this particular night. mommy and cole are in FLA, and the jackal is doing a PJ party at the nanny's.

terrible, ruby-red welt on his right arm, a hell of a pinch. he looks around the room to verify.

yes - it's true. he's home alone (and apparently referring to himself in the 3rd person tonight). the netflix selection might have given away the fact that he premeditated this.

of course he misses them terribly. still, how many times in his lifetime (at least the next 20 years) will he have the entire house alone with zero responsibility?

delivery guy at the door, time to get after it. probably the toughest question he might face tonight is over which flick to watch first. life's hard.

the healing power of laughter

2008-02-26T18:50:00.005-05:00

as i mentioned yesterday, i've basically been residing under a rock with a man cold. probably everyone has already seen these videos, but i'm posting them anyway. i can attest to the healing power of laughter after watching these. i'll take any remedy i can get.

first - sarah silverman's confession to jimmy kimmel that she's fucking matt damon:

then - kimmel's revenge. turns out he's fucking ben affleck. ben's best acting job in years...

sick and tired of being sick and tired

2008-02-25T20:31:00.005-05:00

for the past two weeks i've felt like a cast member in one of george romero's zombie flicks. not one of those bullshit fast zombies you find in more recent stabs at the genre. (i still can't believe the remake of romero's dawn of the dead pushed fast zombies on us.) no, whatever the hell knocked me out left me listless and worthless. i was a tried and true slow-ass zombie who more than once wished some hero would deliver me a fatal head shot and cue the closing credits.

in the beginning of what i often felt was my end, my wife and i sort of laughed it off. she even posted a video clip to poke some fun. incidentally (for those of you who don't enjoy zombie flicks and never find yourself, i don't know, daydreaming about being perched in your attic window with a high powered rifle, eating tuna straight from a can, and staving off a charge of walking dead with bullets to the brain), the british actor in that clip, ed frost, plays the hysterical sidekick in shaun of the dead -- a fantastic zombie spoof that happens to remain true to the slow zombie theme.

as time passed and one week of illness gave way to a second, it became a real drag. suddenly i was half-assing every aspect of my life -- work, parenting, being a husband. to say i half-assed blogging would be an understatement. i straight up bailed on this. not a critical component of my life though, so no regrets. i started thinking about a post from last year in which i debated my ability to care for my sick spouse, and wondered if the same thoughts might be going through wifey's head. she's extremely nurturing and grounded, so i doubt it. if she did though, i would not blame her.

it appears that i am on the mend now, though i shiver superstitiously just typing such a bold statement. a week ago i thought i was better then found myself on the floor with muscle aches and confusion over the whereabouts of the truck that ran me over. at least i am on antibiotics now with a round of steroids waiting in the wings in case i need the reinforcements. the doctor told me last week i might have a case of walking pneumonia. good times..

i have a big guys' weekend coming up, so i'm determined to be healthy. mommy and cole are headed to FLA for a long weekend with family and to attend a wedding for one of her old friends. that means the jackal and i are going to be on the loose, infecting the nation's capital with our good old smarmy ways. fast zombies won't have shit on us.

so, got any plans after the match?

2008-02-12T19:45:00.001-05:00

not the highest quality video, to be sure, but the amy winehouse celebration conveys well...

jocking brady, again

2008-01-29T20:08:00.000-05:00

i think my criticism of tom brady came off as too bitter yesterday so i figured i'd waste more virtual space with some sort of follow-up piece. i caught an article by jemele hill that brought me back to this topic. it was an interesting take on what i broached yesterday and intriguing to hear a woman's perspective. the fact that she's a sports journalist in a field dominated by men with yellow armpits, beef jerky breath, and fantasies of channeling hunter s. thompson is not lost on me.

so, brady...clearly i don't know the cat, so i can't give any real account as to the kind of guy he is. for all i know, he could be a contagious person who you can't get enough of. as a sports fan, i am tired of him for the same reason people tired of aikman and the dallas cowboys in the 90s -- they win so much that it becomes a bore to watch, but i know that's sort of shallow. as a father, i'm just not so impressed by him due to the fact that he gets a pass for having no relationship with his kid just because he can read a defense or loft air balls to randy moss. sure, on some levels i envy the level of success and accomplishment the guy has attained. who wouldn't? but when i soak up my kids and drizzle occasional tears of joy over the fact that they are in my life, i feel like maybe the guy is short-changing himself.

my father evaporated from my life when i was around 10 years old. he hasn't a clue as to where i am or what's happening with me. it's part of my fabric, and at this stage i would not alter that back story even slightly. to do so would be to redefine who i am, to alter the hue and fit of my own skin. no thanks...the skin fits just fine and i can't afford an exorbitant shrink bill now that i have college funds to build up. still, now that i have kids, i can't even begin to fathom some point in my life where i would not know a single thing about either of my kids. it's incomprehensible, yet it happens.

the good thing is that we're all humans and with that comes hope. sometimes we get the chance to alter the course of time and space to make things right. i suspect tom brady will do that somewhere down the line.

in the meantime, let's gooooooooooo giaaaaants!!!!

confessions of a convalescent mind

2008-01-27T12:40:00.000-05:00

greetings from mount percocet. that's where i've spent the last 4 days, shirking responsibility for my words and actions. hernia surgery turned out to be a bigger bitch than i expected, but i think i'm almost out of the woods in terms of recovery. in terms of fogged mind, however, one foot remains in the woods, which is not so bad.

compared to how i usually spend this very same weekend, or for at least the past five years, the situation could not have been more different. usually this weekend i'm up to my waist in fresh utah powder, an ear-to-ear grin on my wind-burned face, as i bomb snowbird's mineral basin. the closest i've gotten to that passion is watching the winter x games on espn. i'm hitting mount snow in vermont with some friends in 6 weeks just to get some turns in and to validate my toleration of yet another winter. it should be a good test for my bionic groin.

in the meantime, here are a few blurred snippets of what i can remember from the experience...

violation - i woke up from surgery to discover that my pubes had been shaved. i guess i should have figured this would happen since i knew they'd be operating in my downtown area, but it still threw me off when i first noticed it. then i got to thinking - that has to fall on the list of world's worst jobs, right? think about if you punched a clock each day (maybe you even got great 401k benefits for it) and spent your day shaving pubes. someone's gotta do it...

threat of violation (unrealized, thank god) - my mother-in-law came to town this weekend to see the baby and to assist with managing the house while was out of commission. potential gross-out alert...the nurses told me that percocet and other pain killing narcotics can cause constipation. as someone who carries around a gigantic bag of bathroom issues on his back, this is the last thing i needed to hear. that first night, high as hell, i remember sharing this with wifey and her mom. it was probably at some inappropriate time. in fact, i am sure it was during dinner. well, my mother-in-law is a nurse, so she already knew this and suggested to my wife, right in front of me, that we might want to give him an enema tomorrow. this did not happen in the end...whew!

life imitating what? - wifey equipped me with a couple of trashy magazines, people and us, which i eventually consumed in small doses. what deep words of wisdom did a glean? let's see. oh, trista lost 30 pounds in 5 months after giving birth and feels sexy again. thank jesus because i was losing so much fucking sleep over this. i guess the mags are running out of new ways to rephrase the same concept of brittney being fucked up, so now they're enticing us with exclusives on irrelevant reality television stars losing pregnancy weight. could there be any more delicious news than this?

bunch of brady - i totally bought into the superbowl hype machine. i'm embarrassed to admit how much of this recycled and sensationalized content i have absorbed via the internet and several sports channels the past few days. the following is going to sound self-righteous, but i don't care. this hit me when i was putting the jackal to bed...brushing errant strands of hair from his forehead, planting kisses on him, and telling him i love him so much. i am sick of tom brady and how the media jocks him and the patriots. aside from the fact that they have won enough and that their bit is tired, i suppose i have a bit of an issue with that guy and perhaps an even deeper issue with the machine that promotes him as this golden boy. for me it boils down to his relationship, or lack thereof, with his son. (in case you live under a rock, brady left bridget moynihan to be with gisele bundchen. moynihan had a baby boy, brady's, not too long after, and she's raising the kid on her own...) at the end of the day, no matter how many super bowl rings he rocks, no matter how many quarterback records he holds, and no matter how often he makes sweet country love to gisele, he still has nada with his estranged baby boy. for someone with what would seem like an overflowing cup, it looks kind of empty to me. but don't expect that side of his story to get much ink. the other day, watching a press conference with him, i wondered if any reporter in the room would get the balls to broach the topic. i think i dozed off at some point, but i doubt anyone did.

house call - i think it was sometime saturday morning that my cell phone rang, and the number did not register in my phone book. since i felt like a feather, i rolled the dice and answered. surprisingly i heard my psychologist on the other end of the line. (back story: he and i had played some phone tag over the previous few weeks of the new year in an attempt to arrange a sit-down. basically i want a mental/emotional check-up before committing to certain paths this year and had yet to nail down a date.) here's how it went:

hello?

RG, it's doctor lincoln.

hey there.

how are you?

i'm high on percocet. you?

oh, why is that? (voice smacks of real concern)

i had surgery the other day. nothing to worry about.

good, because i've heard some stories.

i bet. (giggle...almost lose control)

yeah, so be careful with that.

no problem. i don't really like it. (lying...almost giggle again)

that's good. (seeing through the lie) so when can we get together?

hernia of the brain

2008-01-23T16:15:00.001-05:00

tomorrow i have hernia repair surgery. today i am being administered a medical exam by whatever lab company the life insurance company uses. whenever this lady shows up (the window of time leads me to believe she was a cable guy in her former life), i will dispense urine and blood and answer lots of questions related to my health. all of this adds up to a couple of things:

1 - due to drinking water like it's my job, i have pissed 12 times today and wonder if my urine, completely transparent, will register anything when it reaches the lab.

2 - an enormous hunger headache. two 12 hour periods of fasting within the span of two consecutive days has me listless, moody, and with throbbing head.

i think i'm also edging into delirium, if my noon meeting today is any indication. we were retained by a education noprofit to fill an executive director position. they signed the contract last week, and we planned the launch meeting for today. based on shreds of our conversation and the sound of her voice, i completely assumed the current executive director to be unattractive and decrepit. well when my colleague and i rolled into her office, she instantly became the object of another fleeting crush. she was a cougar, to be sure, but not hard on the eyes for a second. in any case, i had a hard time comprehending the first 5-10 minutes of our conversation and was almost tempted to say, "time out...can we just pause for a few minutes so i can get over the fact that you're hot?"

so basically dinner tonight will be the only meal i consume in a span of 36 hours. i hope i can get through the mealtime conversation without losing my mind.

blue duck tavern

2008-01-21T17:12:00.001-05:00

It's probably fair to preface my first crack at a restaurant review by admitting that I went into the experience completely biased and giddy. As I have mentioned, the night in question, Saturday, was the first non-pregnant date night for me and my wife, so I don't believe anything could have spoiled it. We could have been gang fucked by flyblown wildebeests and still called the date a success. That said, I will try my best to be objective on the topic of Blue Duck Tavern.

My wife, whose blog will surely surpass mine in terms of substance and matter into which one might sink teeth, suggested that we do "he said, she said" reviews on the restaurant. Since I'm grazing these days for new material to compliment the banal diatribes on my so called life, I snapped up her proposal.

The usual suspects -- atmosphere, bar, food, service, and bathrooms -- will stand trial in this case.

Atmosphere

Sexy and rustic. Hard to imagine those two words used together to describe a venue, yes? Well somehow Blue Duck pulls it off, and nicely. The bar is sexy and modern while the dining room is warm and cozy. I know it sounds like opposite ends of the spectrum, but when you stroll from the bar to the dining room, the transition is seamless.

The only aesthetic that's sort of hard on the eyes is the uniform worn by servers and bartenders: over sized black suit with a dark t-shirt underneath. The Miami Vice vibe didn't fit, but I won't hold it against them.

Bar

I really dig hideout bars and lounges in hotels around town, and this is definitely one I plan to hit again and again. As the hostess led us the bar, I kicked myself for taking this long to try the place out, and this was before I even sipped a drink or tasted a bite. The bartender greeted us with a warm smile and made one of the most balanced martinis I've had in a long time. She also recommended some great cheeses, the names of which completely escape me, and paired a nice Steele Chardonnay Cuvee to compliment them.

Typically my wife and I like to have dinner at the bar of a great restaurant. Wonderful service is a fleeting glance away since the bartender is right there, and you never have the feeling that you're being hurried. You also can order food at random and not in the standard starter, entree, dessert format. Not to mention, if you go enough times or make good conversation with a bartender, you're more than likely to catch a free drink. It never hurts to know a handful of bartenders around town. In this case, however, we decided to try the dining room so we could get the full experience. But make no mistake, we'll be back at that bar sooner than later.

Food

By the time we were seated at a table, I was buzzed and hungry. In my experience, too much sauce before dinner can spoil the whole affair and leave you stuffing your face without even tasting the $30 entree you ordered. I was not that guy that evening. A quick perusal of the menu stirred butterflies in my stomach and sort of sobered me up anyway. It didn't take us too long to order:

Wifey order the New York Strip, which you could probably cut with a plastic spoon. Everything about it had me dancing in my chair. Still, I think I ordered better by going with the braised barbecue beef "long rib." Honestly, I find myself thinking about it a few days later. The tender meat fell off the bone, and the barbecue sauce marinade found me chewing each bit slowly and deliberately. My wife tells me to slow down all the time, but it took the "long rib" to get me on board with that concept. So damn good.

We ordered finger sized steak fries and creamed spinach as well, but they were completely overshadowed by the red meat gems. Don't get me wrong -- the sides work and I recommend giving them their day in the sun. I will say that I could not suppress my immature perspective of the sexual nuances in the menu: beef "long rib" and finger sized fries? I know, grow up, right?

I can't address the dessert menu since we had no room for it. Maybe next time...

Service

Blue Duck also does breakfast. I learned this when the manager told me I was a no-show at 7:45 that morning. Apparently I didn't pay enough attention when dialing us in on Opentable. She told me not to worry and scored us a table at 8pm and was very graceful about everything.

As I mentioned, the bartender was friendly and owns her domain at the bar.

Our server was just okay. When my wife was kicking around a bottle in the $50 range, he made some comment, which was clearly audible to the other tables in our row, to the effect of "if you're thinking of a cheap bottle, I suggest..." On top of it, he looked to be in his mid-20s and swimming in his dad's cheap black suit. In other words, he was hard to take seriously, so we pretty much blew him off most of the night. Like I said, wildebeests...

Over all, the service didn't blow me away, but it won't keep me away either.

Bathrooms

Some people, myself included, look at bathrooms as multi-dimensional. In other words, they can be so much more than a place to relieve yourself and wash your hands. The graffiti on the wall in this bathroom reads: illicit activity encouraged. Enough said.

On our way home we decided to stop at Buck's Fishing & Camping, a few blocks from our house, for a Macallan 12 year. I so missed drinking Scotch with my wife. As we sipped our drinks and basked in the glow of a truly amazing food and wine buzz, we decided that Blue Duck has entered our top 10 and absolutely falls onto our short list of places to visit again.

good job

2008-01-17T21:44:00.000-05:00

as of today i'm worth $1 million, sort of. that is to say, i upgraded my life insurance policy to that amount, so my wife gets $1 million when i vacate this world. that's assuming i die before her, which is bound to happen since women tend to outlive men when it boils down to natural causes. the one thing us men have going is that we age more gracefully than women, so at least when we reach the point where one foot is in the grave, we can still look good.

my sense of humor is often pitch black. i laugh at scenes in horror films that are meant to terrify and induce nightmares. when people die in action films, i laugh my ass off as i rewind the scene to watch it again. not lost on me is the fact that this is rather fucked up. at the same time, it is what it is and does not tend to manifest itself in macabre ways, so whatever.

today as we finalized the terms on our new life insurance policies with our financial planner in my conference room, i tried out a concept i recently developed about how to cash in. the essence of it, as i described, is if times get really tough and the family needs a windfall, my wife and i flip a coin or play rock/paper/scissors (2 out of 3, of course) to decide who goes out to run errands, loses control of the vehicle, and plunges off a bridge into the potomac river. needless to say, the scenario didn't elicit a chuckle or a smile. tough audience today.

in other news, i did a good job of drinking my coffee this morning. i also did a good job of taking a shower. oh, and let's not forget the good job i did at feeding the dog, putting on shoes, and retrieving the paper from the front yard. the jackal has developed a tendency of endorsing and encouraging the very basic things i do lately, parroting the words of encouragement i dispense for him on a daily basis in reaction to his following directions. essentially, no one can do wrong in the house these days, which feels kind of good. i could probably throw a brick through the neighbor's window then tell him to fuck his mother, and the jackal would say, "good job, dad!"

all of the above is true, but this post is really just an excuse to mention that my wife has finally crossed the threshold and launched a blog.

blogger ID

2008-01-15T20:10:00.000-05:00

it's really nice having my wife back. i bitched and vented probably way too much about not having my partner in crime during her pregnancy, as if i was the one dealing with real physical, emotional and mental hardship along the way. (sorry about that, r) and while there is certainly a transition period to deal with, what with the new baby routine and all, it's just a pleasure to be able to catch a wine buzz and chill with her.

the potential issue with that -- the novelty of getting wine drunk seems to be taking the shape a bottle-or-more-per-night habit, which finds me feeling like a beef jerky lizard most mornings. "dry" hardly begins to convey how these red wine hangovers feel. (the fact that radiators rock the heat in out house certainly lends to that.) for example, at the risk of disclosing too much information, today i pounded water and green tea all morning at the office and did not hit the men's room for business of the #1 variety until 1pm. dehydrated much?

so, tonight and the rest of this week i am taking a break and saving myself for our first date night this saturday. my parents are coming in, the first wave of new baby visits, and we are taking advantage of the built-in baby sitting feature by hitting blue duck tavern for drinks and dinner.

i'm thinking of putting on a food critic hat and trying my hand at a review. i've been getting into local food blogs lately. i am half tempted to stalk, not really, and semi-crush on metrocurean these days. but seriously, i feel i'm at a crossroads about this blog and where i want to take it. so far it's been a nice outlet for recording odd slices of my life, but i feel the need to lend some new ingredients to the pot.

shit, the lump of cole is waling upstairs so i guess i better peel off. story of my life lately -- i can hardly carve out time for an identity crisis. definitely more on this soon...

fear and loathing at the playground

2008-01-08T21:27:00.000-05:00

i am half ashamed to admit that just a few years ago i was that guy on the airplane casting dirty looks in the direction of the guy trying to sooth a screaming baby. now, it's kind of funny that i cast dirty looks at cats who seem uncomfortable or annoyed at the scene my own kid tends to make in a public setting. i can't say that i abhor those without kids because everyone has their own path in this world, but i can say that i have crossed over and i relate less to what i used to be.

the other day i dabbled in the usual gray period that comes with every saturday morning. the question is always this: do i run errands all day or do i enjoy the day off and have a life? for the jackal, who has become my primary assignment while mommy tends to the newborn, the answer to this question comes easy. whichever entails adventure for him, so it matters not. still, when i spend a saturday carting him around to the dry cleaner, grocery store, hardware store, and liquor store then tell him it's nap time, i feel like i am ripping him off. and truthfully i feel like maybe i am also ripping myself off.

on this particular saturday morning, i decided lafayette park would be our destination. since it was unseasonably warm, mommy and cole came with, making it a family affair. there are three playground areas at the park, two for older kids (5ish and up) and one for younger kids or toddlers. i warmly reference the latter as the "graveyard" because it seems to be a dumping ground for dilapidated and forgotten toys. it's amazing, really. i counted 5 busted and useless toy kitchen sets, 3 broken down tool benches, 2 cars missing wheels, and a doll house that literally looked like the end result of a doll smoking in bed. it's a pretty ghastly site.

okay, off my high horse. the truth is that, as i took inventory of this scene, the thought of ditching a few of the jackal's waste-of-space toys under the cover of darkness crossed my mind, but that's neither here nor there.

the jackal opted for the "graveyard" first, which suited me fine since it's fenced in. plus, it happened to be empty of kids and parents, which appealed tremendously to my social anxiety disorder. of course that did not last, as a couple of kids and parents eventually shuffled or rolled in high end strollers to join in. the root of my aforementioned anxiety is the unpredictability of the jackal around other kids and vice versa. without fail, some kid is going to approach another and yank a toy from his/her hand, which will induce screaming and rioting and the eventual involvement of the parents, which can be completely uncomfortable, especially when i'm trying to decide if i had enough coffee to launch my day. besides, the concept of sharing twists my mind really. i mean, we tell these kids to share, yet if a stranger walked up and took my phone from me, i'd certainly not be down with it. in the end, it turned out that the kids were perfectly chill. it was a parent barking into her cell phone that rubbed me like raw denim. i couldn't quite get the gist of her conversation, but the tone and increasing volume made me so anxious that, after 5 minutes of it, i decided we had to roll. "this lady makes me want to slit my wrists, let's move on," i announced to my wife at a decibel other parents, including her, could make out clearly. one guy looked my way and nodded in agreement. my wife, she turned a shade of pink.

the next stop was the big kid playground and, as it would happen, more angst. mommy and cole chilled on a park bench while the jackal and i made like monkeys on the jungle gym. once i went down the tunnel slide backwards and on my back, the jackal treated me like a doll with a pull-string on my spine and commanded that i do it again and again and again. of course i obliged, mostly because his giggle is something i wish so badly that i could bottle and would do anything to hear again and again and again. we did this song and dance for a good 20 minutes, until i climbed the ladder and noticed a familiar face coming toward the playground with his two kids in tow. it was a former client, the creative director of an interactive agency in town. long story short -- my firm placed an art director on his team, and the guy quit a few months later, which meant we owed them a replacement, which didn't happen quickly enough for them, which led to awkward blood and a disintegration of the relationship. there's more to the story, but the gist is that there was never real closure. i should mention that i have seen this cat a few other times in the neighborhood -- at the toy store, pizza place, and liquor store -- and have successfully avoided him. while he was very cool most of the time when we worked together, he also had some hot headed moments. that said, i was not about to interface with him on a saturday morning and get that closure on the playground, so i threw a couple of armed forces style signals to my wife telling her to saddle up and we made our exit without incident.

mental note for my next playground visit: always keep the head on a swivel and come armed with a coffee traveler. morning dose of xanax probably wouldn't hurt either.

what the chuck?

2008-01-04T19:58:00.000-05:00

Chuck E. Cheese scared the shit out of me when I was a kid. His partner in crime -- Showbiz Pizza's redneck bear, Billy Bob -- didn't really phase me. Same went for birthday party clowns. Sure, those cats were sad and depressing, but I think they made me feel better about myself. Not Chuck E. Cheese. He was a rodent, and rodents make my skin crawl. The affiliation of a rat with food and children just never registered as cute and fun to me.

Today I still think little of Chuck E. Cheese, but that probably has more to do with me being a cynic and a germ freak. (That reminds me -- where's my Purell?) I mean, how infested must that place be, especially during cold and flu season? Just seeing footage on PBS commercials of kids writhing in those ball pits or freaking out over a round of Whack-a-mole makes me want to take a shower.

Well, I'm afraid that rat has returned to my life. This morning as I pulled my various props together for work, the Jackal approached. He was so visibly charged up that I thought he might jump out of his skin.

What's up, man?

I'm going to Chuck E. Cheese today!

Okay, I can't deny that seeing the Jackal so excited completely thrilled me, even if the source of that gives me a shiver. So what did I do? I handed him a twenty and kissed his cheeks.

On the way to work, it occurred to me that times have certainly changed when you are giving your two year old twenty bones for an outing. Remember when we were kids and a dollar did the trick?

finding cholo

2008-01-01T21:29:00.001-05:00

i know that i have not posted since nam, or at least it feels that way. for that matter, many aspects of "life and how to live it" (one of the best rem songs in their catalog) have fallen by the wayside the past couple of months. i probably should not even touch on this topic because chances are i won't find myself pecking at the keyboard on this blogger interface for another few months, but what the hell...

happy 2008 to one and all. it may be a new year, but i have no plans to cram anything new whatsoever into this one. we did enough of that last year -- new job for wifey, new home, and new baby. that's right -- cole william was born 5 days ago, which makes the sum of our parts 4. so far, so good, other than the fact that i double-take every time i lay eyes on this little guy. i mean, how the hell did i suddenly become the father of two boys? it's simultaneously electrifying and terrifying. so, as i mentioned, enough new shit. this year, it's out with the new, in with the old, or something like that.

it's safe to say that i rang in the new year in the most tepid manner possible. we went to a kid friendly party and ended up home around 10:30ish. after putting the jackal to bed with his truck, helicopter, and fire engine -- xmas gifts that have taken the place of teddy bears and puppy dogs -- i planted myself on the couch while my wife tended to the rituals of settling a newborn down for the count. after some channel surfing i zoned out to an old episode of entourage. when it ended, i dialed up the directv menu screen and noticed that it was 11:58pm, at which point i flipped to dick clark -- a decrepit mannequin of his former self -- and watched the count down. when the clock struck 12, i gulped down my bottle of water and shuffled up to the nursery where my wife breast fed cole. "happy new year," i whispered and kissed her, hoping the stale scotch taste in my mouth did not convey. after that i went to kiss the jackal on the forehead while he slept and woke up in his bed two hours later. like i said, it was rather boring and dry, but at the same time it was completely heart-warming and real, so maybe the best ever.

i am sad to report that we had a death in the family today. a few hours ago i went kevorkian on the jackal's beta fish, cholo. i like to think that he is making his way through the WASA sewer system right now to the potomac river, maybe making some new friends en route. at least that's what i told myself as i fought back tears before flushing his catatonic ass down the toilet. he lasted a year, which shocked and often frustrated me, before he stopped eating and resorted to making like pathetic chunk of concrete at the bottom of the bowl.

so long, cholo. it's been real. try to keep it that way.

learning not to cry over spilled legos

2007-11-16T09:58:00.000-05:00

is it strange for a 2.5 year old to be your role model? it's safe to say that i have a lot to learn from the jackal and sometimes find myself actually wishing i could be him. i have touched on this before, i am sure, but this is not a fleeting feeling, and it begs more dissection from me lately.

the other day i built a lego firehouse for him, so he could park his new tonka firetruck next to it while the crew of ladder company "dos-ey tres-ey" -- a fireman action figure and my orginal boba fett star wars figure -- rested and sat on the potty. construction took about 15 minutes. it might have taken less time, but the little architect submitted several change-orders along the way, such as "no, dad - the potty goes here" or "make boba fett's bed blue." it was exciting stuff, and i could not wait for the grand opening. i even planned to enact a little ribbon cutting ceremony using a piece of leftover spaghetti from the fridge.

alas, when i unveiled the new structure, the jackal transformed into a cuter version of godzilla and reduced it to smithereens in a matter of seconds.

my initial reaction was to frown on the inside. but in the presence of the jackal, regardless of what's going on, a frown is impossible to maintain since he's so damn funny and lovable, so my frown gave way to laughter, and soon i was thrashing the remnants of the firehouse.

me: these are renegade firemen. they don't need a house!

jackal: yeah, renegades!

when we finished the demolition, i noticed that the living room looked "like a cyclone hit it," to borrow a phrase my mother used every day when i was a kid and one that still seems to echo in the archives of my mind to this day. and herein lies today's lesson...

god damn, is it hard to not become our parents or what? i have to say that one of the biggest adjustments i have to work on every day (and admittedly sometimes fail) as a father is accepting chaos. i have anal proclivities, especially when it comes to feng shui around the house. clearly this does not fit into the kid picture. it's like that corner lego piece that the jackal keeps trying to jam into another angled piece -- it just doesn't come together. i know the root of this is my mother, who was, and probably still is to some extent, perpetually fretting over any level of disorder in the house. i would have friends over randomly and her immediate comment would be that "the house is a mess." (recently, in the wake of her blood clot, they hired a house keeper, which is great...)

i am sure this stems from a control issue. perhaps that sounds like me calling my mother out, but make no mistake -- we all have certain control issues whether we want to admit this or not. it does not take a deep psychoanalytical foray to decipher that keeping one's castle in order can lend to the illusion that the rest of one's shit it together. the thing is -- it's impossible to have all of your shit together. while your finances and career might be in great shape, your love life or mental state of affairs could be a completely different story. so what?

still, we all have a tendency to focus on keeping one aspect of our lives together and we keep our eyes on it. we practically cling to that one thing like a life jacket in a fucking tempest.

so...my goal as a father is to be more like my son. i know that his innocence will eventually fade and he will start picking up on the realities of the world. i am not so naive to think that someone can apply the paradigms of a 2.5 year old to the complexities of life and get by. at the same time, i roll out of bed every morning and try to do just that. the alternative tends to scare the hell out of me. at the very least, i don't want him to become me.

back to the future

2007-11-09T23:24:00.000-05:00

all is quiet in the northwestern front, unless the occasional displaced rat from next door's construction counts as stirring. it seems like i have not blogged since nam. perhaps that's a good analogy since the theme of this blog does not seem to fit into the paradigm shift that seems to be taking place in my life these days. i feel like i'm living on the set of jacob's ladder, where hallucinations are the norm and visions of what could have been and what should be wrestle in front of me like punch drunk boxers waiting for the other guy to give up and fall to the floor.

don't get me wrong. life is good, and i'm nothing but blessed to be breathing in air everyday and soaking up every drop of the jackal's new found jump start theater of life. the thing is this -- i am not so sure it's accurate to say that i am reluctant to grow up. after all, it's reached the point where i don't think i have a fucking choice.

in the past couple of months i have found myself executing some truly grownup behaviors -- invited a financial planner into my life, joined a church, started work on my will, met with my life insurance agent -- and oddly enough, these things have not caused as much angst as you might expect a reluctant grownup to experience. sure, these are unchartered steps in my life, so there exists a rattle of the cage, but it does not feel unnatural. to be honest, it sort of makes sense.

you see, with a second kid imminent, i feel this instinctual need to pull my shit together, to confront all of the things that have lingered in the back of my head and to act on them. with one kid you feel like you can freelance or half-ass it, like you can still feel young and not have it all figured out. with two kids, i feel like i should have certain platforms in place so i can get on with my life and feel sort of "put together." no longer can i pretend that i am responsible for me and only me. it's almost crazy to admit that now i have to think about others. i mean, what am i going to do? i can't wring my hands and act clever or witty about it. i have to step up and put it in another gear.

okay, so let's do it. i hope i am able to get to this medium more often moving forward. i would be lying if i said i didn't miss it. the truth is that i have had a lot to say, but these internal dilemmas have been road blocking me.

all by way of saying, i'm opening the captain's log again. if there are people out there who choose to stay on board, wonderful. i am absolutely grateful for that. i get the fact that blogs are smaller versions of reality television. that said, let's find another sunset and dissect the shit out of it...

(this post is sponsored by a bottle of gigondas and 3 highballs of trustee old macallan 12 year.)

barry manilow's wardrobe

2007-08-28T10:39:00.000-05:00

One of my clients (named after a certain Brat Pack movie about a princess, an athlete, a brain, a criminal, and a basketcase in detention) retained us a few months ago to find someone to launch their operation in Baltimore. This organization is essentially "a live version of LinkedIn." An "exclusive chamber of commerce" would be another way to describe it. At least, those are the weak-ass catch phrases we have used to convey the concept to candidates for the job. Basically, this job will build the membership base or network in Baltimore and manage monthly networking events. It's sort of interesting but nothing I would ever want to do. For one, I hate sales, and I think I have documented how much I loathe networking events. Ick!

In any case, they recently decided that they only want to interview male candidates. This is not the first time a client has used us as a vehicle for thinly-veiled discrimination. It happens all the time when companies use recruiting firms to do their dirty work. I should point out that I've also had a number of clients specify, not in writing, that they want to hire a woman. For that matter, our diversity practice specializes in hiring, well, diverse candidates. All by way of saying, this shift in scope did not come as a shock, but it did irritate me because it means we have wasted time (which equals money) interviewing and processing female candidates.

In terms of principal, I completely disagree with them on this matter because I know many executive women, my wife included, who can walk into a room and command respect, attention, and power, regardless of the old school, conservative proclivities of the men with whom they will interface. I am unfortunately bound by the "client is always right" rule, so I have to roll with this change in direction.

Interestingly, there is a woman from the last block of interviews, prior to this shift, who somehow made it to the final round. She will be meeting the client tomorrow and, perhaps due woman's intuition, senses that they might prefer a "tall and athletic man" for this job. On a call during which I prepared her for this interview, she posed a wardrobe question to me. (How could she possibly sense that I am an man of style with a specific interest in business suits on women?) Basically she wanted my opinion on whether she should rock a pants suit or traditional skirt suit. As a rubber-necking guy, I always dig the skirt suits, but her question pertained to the message either might send. In other words, she wanted to know how the president might perceive a pants suit (too modern?) versus a skirt suit (too traditional?).

Immediately I thought of my friend and emailed her for her style advice. She is a high powered attorney at a top firm here in DC -- one of the top 50 female partners in the country in her specialty -- who interfaces regularly with conservative, old boy network types. Here's her reply:

yikes that is a toughie. I think most people, particularly in the South, consider the skirt suit to be the most formal (with pantyhose though - I think the skirt suit with bare legs is considered less formal although I never wear pantyhose b/c I think they're ridiculous). but - it's sort of tricky b/c the skirt suit can also be more sexy. this is a dinner meeting, so there is already going to be a looser atmosphere (probably will have wine, chat about life, etc.). if it were me, I would choose the one I felt most comfortable in and the one that made me look best so I felt confident and not worry too much about the formality of skirt versus pants. If I had two that were equal and both nice, both looked good, etc. I would probably go skirt. but not because it's more traditional, because I think they look most put together and the most 'powerful' if that makes sense. I hope she gets it!

I relayed this to the candidate and added a new bullet to my resume: fashion consultant. I really hope she gets the job too. When it all boils down, it will have little to do with her suit, but it provided a good splash of color on an otherwise bland day in the salt mines.

small pictures of the big picture

2007-08-24T07:13:00.000-05:00

Ultrasound images have always reminded me of blurred weather maps. On occasions when I witness this "look under the hood", I take the doctor or technician's word for whatever the hell they point out and accept it as medical fact. It's not like I see or even think about ultrasounds on any sort of regular basis, but the topic is really on the brain lately since this procedure intersected my life three times this week, on three separate but consecutive days.

They say things, good or bad, come in threes, and I suppose I can roll with that cute but worthless explanation. What has me grinding my teeth in my sleep this week is how these three things paint the big picture of my life.

Ultrasound 1: Tuesday

For the past year or so, I've experienced an irritating pain downstairs in my groin area. Being a hand-wringing fatalist, especially when it comes to my health, I assumed it was testicular cancer. It has been a good 17 years since I touched myself down there as much as I did the past year. I even cleared the "typical guy" hurdle of denial and paid a visit to my general practitioner so he could lay his hands on my junk. No lumps or signs of cancer. No apparent signs of hernia either.

Doctor: You have an infection. I'm prescribing Cippro. Take it for 10 days; it should clear up.

A quick Google search told me Cippro is commonly prescribed to treat VD. Wonderful, I thought. This guy thinks I'm an adulterer. He probably knows I lied about how much I drink and that I occasionally smoke too.

The Cippro didn't seem to cure it, but then again, I did drink and smoke during the regimen, so I didn't exactly adhere to the plan. The pain did ebb, though, to the point where I could ignore it for a few months. After those few months passed, I was back in a gown getting my netherworld checked out again. This time he sent me to the lab for blood work and urinalysis. A week later the lab work came back clean. No cancer! Still, this annoying pain downstairs. WTF?

My doc deduced that it has to be a hernia and finally referred me to a general surgeon, which finally brings me to Tuesday. After walking me through the concept of hernias and surgical procedures to treat them, he ushered me to the exam room.

Surgeon: Take off your shoes and pants, leave your underwear on, I'll be back in a minute.

Me: Um, yeah...I'm not wearing underwear.

Clearly I forgot the cardinal rule about always wearing underwear when visiting a doctor, so this was sort of awkward. I wanted to explain my reasoning -- that I don't wear underwear with this particular pair of jeans because underwear tend to crowd my junk -- but that would only add to the awkwardness of the moment, so I just stared at the floor while he pulled a napkin the size of bath towel out of some drawer and handed it to me to use as a cover-up.

After poking and prodding me to the point where I almost puked and passed out with a ringing in my ears, he told me to lay back so he could do an ultrasound. The precursory application of that cold jelly on my stomach shocked and left me empathizing with all pregnant women who go through this regularly.

The ultrasound itself was nothing special -- same old fuzzy imagery. For a split second I think I saw the tear in my abdominal muscle that he pointed out, which confirmed the hernia.

So the long and short of it -- I need surgery sometime in the next 6 to 12 months and my situation is not so critical after all. Well, any kind of surgery is no fun, but I can stop fretting for now about death, or at least my own.

Ultrasound 2: Wednesday

I am ashamed to admit that my siblings and I don't stay in touch regularly. Certain factors can be cited for this: geography, age gaps, different priorities, etc. That's not to say I consider them valid excuses, but they certainly create buffers. I sometimes shiver with dread at the notion of some family tragedy becoming the magnetic force that bonds us together. It's very common.

I remember the death of my grandparents five years ago and how it created this magnetic force within the confines of the family. There were aunts and uncles I had not seen in many years crying on shoulders, going on about how family is the most important thing, especially during such times of sorrow and loss. These things magnify the big picture and lead people to take inventory of what matters and what's petty. Strange as it sounds, tragedy can often cleanse the soul. (Unfortunately, as we all witnessed eventually in the aftermath of 9/11, those big picture vibes tend to fizzle with time, and we can find ourselves scowling at some guy in traffic because he had the nerve to cut us off, but that's not the point here really...)

Wednesday my cell phone rings out and I see it's my youngest sister (12 years younger), E, calling. I won't deny that the call stirred some butterflies in my stomach. Like I said, we don't keep in touch so much, so a call in the middle of the work day isn't exactly commonplace. My fears were confirmed when I answered and immediately heard sobs.

E: Have you heard from mom?

Me: No, what's going on?

E: She's in the hospital...with a blood clot in her lung!

Me: Jesus! Where's dad? I need to call him...I'll call you back.

A lump lodges itself firmly in my throat by the time I reach my parents on my dad's cell phone at the hospital, and I regret forgetting to close my office door before calling them, as tears already stream down my face. I turn to face the window and catch the news from my mother, who seems completely calm and collected. Here's the funny thing about my mother -- she can let the most inane things get under her skin in day-to-day life, but when there's a crisis, she has ice in her veins and keeps it together.

The gist of it is that she happened to be at a doctor's appointment, after feeling crummy for a week, and some test revealed this blood clot in her lungs. Apparently it originated in her leg,took the scenic route through her body, including her heart, and parked itself in her lung. It's practically a miracle that she did not have a stroke.

That afternoon she had an ultrasound examination to determine where the clot was born and whether it had any siblings anywhere else in her blood stream. Obviously I have not seen any of the images, but I can imagine that they were hazy and impressionistic to the naked and untrained eye. When it was all said and done, the ultrasound provided positive news -- no other clots.

My mother remains in the hospital for observation and further tests, and I remain at the ready, in case I need to board a plane. The latest news is that she is going to be completely fine, so I am breathing a little easier at the moment.

Ultrasound 3: Thursday

This one was scheduled and something we've been anticipating for many weeks. My wife recently passed the 20 week point in her pregnancy, meaning the time had come for calling out this unborn child on its sexuality.

Thursday morning my jaws, ear drums, and head ached terribly due to me grinding the hell out of my teeth in my sleep the night before. Clearly I experienced plenty of tension the previous day and night, given the situation with my mother, so it's a relief to report that no dramatic back story comes with this ultrasound experience, which is a good thing because my bigger picture could use some light-hearted hues.

So, I'm elated to announce that the Jackal has a brother on the way!!!

The ultrasound images of this little guy, oddly enough, were crystal clear to me. Maybe I'm beginning to see the forest for the trees? Possibly, but I can say for sure that all the less-than-mediocre sentiments I expressed last week about this pregnancy being a drag were washed away as I soaked up this experience. He's beautiful and I can't wait to meet him.

The big picture is getting bigger, so naturally it makes sense that my insurance agent called me this morning (how the hell did he know???) to discuss expanding my life insurance policy. I'm meeting him next week, then I might have to do something shallow and petty just to balance these scales a bit. I mean, a little symmetry is not such a bad thing, right?

a love for white vans

2007-08-17T08:48:00.000-05:00

Last weekend I introduced the Jackal to water balloons. I honestly can't believe it took me so long to turn him on to this staple of my childhood summers. Well I guess the obvious reason is that we don't have balloons just laying around the house. For my birthday our wonderful nanny decorated the house with balloons and some of the Jackal's finger-painted masterpieces to surprise me when I returned from work. On a day when it was dog-breath hot outside and he was kicking it in his trailer-trash baby pool in the back yard, I stumbled upon a bag of unused balloons, and the table was set.

I dropped the first one from the deck above, and it exploded on the patio next to the Jackal's feet. Of course this elicited a symphony of giggles followed by a request for more. I obliged him with a couple of targeted tosses at Baci, our chocolate lab, who seemed to have mixed emotions about this activity. While he didn't like the concept of objects being hurled at him, he did not seem to mind the cooling splash of water that came with it.

Not that I needed more encouragement, but the Jackal egged me on, and I was suddenly at the faucet creating a nice arsenal, which lasted about a minute once we got busy throwing them all over the patio. Then, to my wife's chagrin but not to her surprise, I took it a step too far and asked the Jackal if I should throw one at the garage at the back of the yard. It was a rhetorical question, but he still replied with a charged "Yeah!!!"

I was aiming for the roof but evidently didn't put enough mustard on it, so when it hit the window pane on the door, water was not the only thing that splashed everywhere. It's all fun and games until daddy breaks a window, or at least that was the case on this particular day.

If I had a handy bone in my body, this would probably not be a big deal. Since I don't, it would not be a stretch to say that window could remain broken for a couple of years. Okay, that won't happen because I am resourceful enough to dial up someone I can pay to repair it. Still, it's just another task on the seemingly endless list of jobs that keep getting put off because I don't posses the skills or interest in dusting off the toolbox to tackle them. Hell, we have lived in this new house for 8 months and our walls remain naked because I have not drummed up the drive to hang a single piece of art work, so add that to the list as well.

Literally, the prospect of handyman work gives me angst. On the rare occasion that I decide to take on a dreadful chore, it turns into what my wife and I have come to call a "sideshow," marked by no shortage of curse words, plenty of huffing & puffing, and sometimes the birth of some petty argument between us, started by me. It's a hoot, let me tell you.

All that being said, when I look into my crystal ball, I see a white van parked outside our house and that quells the angst, at least until the the Jackal or I break something else, which is absolutely bound to happen.

intimations on a second pregnancy

2007-08-09T11:38:00.000-05:00

I want my wife back. For that matter, I believe my wife wants herself back. Pregnancy this time around is more of a job, less of an adventure. That's not to say we take for granted that we are fortunate enough to have a kid. One unexpected lesson I have learned as I edge deeper into adulthood is that attaining pregnancy can be a major challenge. I have several friends who have jumped through hoops with fertility specialists in their quest to have kids. Some have succeeded; some have not. Remember how you approached your sex life in college (assuming you had one) with the abominable fear of knocking someone up (or getting knocked up)? Then when you actually want to have a kid, you realize it can be a hell of a lot easier said than done.

Candidly, we're tired of it. Bring on the next kid and let's complete this family unit. No more kids for this brood. Don't get me wrong -- I love the Jackal and kids in general. It's just that I love my wife, my best friend, and am pining for some solid time with her. I've said this before -- women are much stronger than men. I can't imagine having to put my life on hold or making major adjustments for 9 to 12 months the way pregnant women do. I recognize how sad it sounds to imply that adjusting to life without alcohol is all gloom and doom. Still, can you imagine? I just can't. Pathetic...

Last night after dinner I sat on the back patio with a Scotch and smoke while she tended to the Jackal's bed time ritual, and I planned in my head every little detail of our first big night out together in, say, February. Then I thought, If we're lucky, and her body bounces back, I'll get to see her carving the eff out of some mountain on her snowboard as soon as March. I'm also thinking of taking her back to Napa for a long weekend. The cheap thrills right now come from planning ahead for all the lost time.

Other than that, the highlight of this 40 week trial is coming in about a week -- an ultrasound to tell us whether the next baby will stand up or sit down to pee.

Birthday Blog

2007-08-08T08:39:00.000-05:00

Today is my 34th birthday. I don't want to force too much symbolism less than 12 hours into my 34th year, but I can't help wondering whether there's some meaning in the fact that I woke up in the Jackal's big boy bed this morning. Maybe this is the year I step up and act like a man. Or maybe this year I stop labeling events attended by people 5 years and older than me as "grownup" parties and accept the fact that I am supposed to be a "grownup." Maybe...

Regardless, I think I woke up on the wrong side of the big boy bed this morning. Since the Jackal moved into said bed over a week ago, the nights have been touch and go. It's not completely unusual for me to stumble into his room to comfort him when he cries out only to wake up later confused and slightly out of sorts. It's a bittersweet dynamic really. On one hand, the transition to big boy bed has taken us back in time to the first 3 months of his life when bed time was way more hands-on. On the other, it's wonderful and heart warming to lay there and watch him go through the stages of drifting into peaceful slumber. And when he looks at me in the darkness and says, "I love you," I absolutely melt.

All that being said, I went to bed last night with this romantic idea of sleeping in on my birthday. By sleeping in, I was thinking 7:30 or 8ish. Around 5am I woke up to find him whimpering in our doorway, so I took him to his room and crashed in his bed. Anyone who drinks Scotch now and then knows that no matter how much you brush and gargle, the taste can show up later in the night. Laying there next to him while he tossed and turned and kicked me in the groin, I sensed the taste and flashed forward to the Jackal being on some couch telling some shrink how his old man used to pass out in his big boy bed reeking of Scotch.

By 6:30 or so, I gave up on sleeping and succumbed to the reality that a dull headache will be part of my day. My mood has lightened by now though. The office crew just filed into my office and serenaded me with "Happy Birthday" and cookies. I'm also getting some fun birthday wishes via email. One of my favorites came from my friend Joe, suggesting that I tell everyone "it's going to be the hottest day of the year for the hottest guy." I heard the heat index is going to hit 107 in DC today, so that tag line works for me.

At the end of the day, I'm actually impressed and thrilled to have made it this far. There's one way into this world and infinite ways out. Every day I make it home to my wife and the Jackal, it's an accomplishment. And every night, as I read Goodnight Moon for the millionth time to him in the big boy bed, I truly feel alive and well. Here's to another day, maybe another year, and whatever's around the corner.

howlee nugget

2007-07-19T17:41:00.000-05:00

A friend who put in about 10 years as an expatriate once shared with me that 3 "M"s can be used to describe the personalities of those who choose that lifestyle. He spelled them out -

Missionary: you do it because your heart's in the cause, because you truly believe in it.

Mercenary: the money's great, so you make a killing plus stipend in some foreign place.

Misfit: you are an outcast at home anyway, so a remote spot is just as good.

Another friend who I have mentioned before, JT, recently took a job in Hilo, Hawaii. "Howlee" bombs will be thrown at the new CEO of the local mental facility in Hilo. Apparently that's a racial slur thrown at Caucasians from the continental states there. It doesn't phase him.

He 's leaving Mansfield, OH -- a town where you might stop to get gas on a road trip, and never look back as you jump back onto the I-70 entrance ramp. His flight is tomorrow morning. On the eve of his departure I find myself wondering which of these "m"s applies to him. Maybe he's 33.3% of each.

Bon voyage, my howlee friend! Please stay in touch early and often so that we can talk shit on people.

pushing (toilet)paper

2007-07-13T12:03:00.000-05:00

The coffee was not cutting it today, so I just gave myself a nice jolt of adrenaline to jump start. I can't really understand why I am worth less than a warm cup of piss since I only had two glasses of wine last night. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for some unknown sap, I found an impulse to act upon, and as a result, I am born again. It's a good thing too because this Friday reeks of a Monday, as clients are coming at me from all angles with various blunt objects.

Here's how it all went down...

When I shuffled into the men's room, a funk kicked me in the nuts and singed my throat. I seriously had to fight passing out, like some late night trucker nodding off on the road to nowhere. Under normal circumstances, had I not bloated myself with coffee to the point where my bladder pressed against my eyeballs, I would have u-turned immediately and waited for the air to clear. Instead I pulled my shirt over my nose, a completely futile approach, and took care of business at the urinal. The impulse hit me as I washed my hands, and since it made my heart race, I went with it.

I must have unreeled half a roll of toilet paper. It barely fit into the sink, but it melded together very nicely once I soaked it with water. Over my shoulder I heard the crinkle of newspaper pages, as I shaped the mess into a soggy orb. Then, with silent 1-2-3 count, I threw a strike that splattered with a tremendous echo on the tile above the stall and bolted out of there. In my wake I heard the guy yell something like, "Mike - you prick! I'm gonna get you."

I have no clue who Mike is, but that's his problem, whoever he is. All I know is I that little incident gave me mad game, and I will finish this day (and this week) with some electricity in my veins, even if it's on an immature note.

Now back to the salt mines.

here we go again

2007-07-03T13:01:00.000-05:00

My wife has experienced a number of ailments the past 3 months, none of which are necessarily rooted in the fact that she's carrying our second bambino. She happens to be a little over 3 months pregnant, but the ailments are sort of coincidental. Bronchitis hit her for the first month of pregnancy. A pinched nerve is the latest plague on her existence. Needless to say, she has had a rough go at it this time around, though we are both thankful that morning sickness didn't make an appearance.

Our suspicions of a bun in the oven were born on a trip to Chicago. She was about a week late but wrote it off to the onset of what turned out to be bronchitis, saying illness has induced tardiness before. She knows her cycles, so I was not about to question it. On our last day there, we checked out of the hotel and killed some time meandering around downtown. On a quick Jewel/Osco fly-by for a bottle of water, we found ourselves in the pregnancy test aisle and decided to set the table for the moment of truth. Back on the streets, near a construction site I noticed a row of portable restrooms and urged her to administer the test in one of them. Sure it was a tongue-in-cheek request, but it would have made a good story. Naturally she brushed me off and administered the test when we returned home.

The announcement was not akin to any major event. I was chasing the Jackal around the house and almost ran her over when I turned the corner into the kitchen. The Jackal giggled and tore out of there, leaving the two of us alone.

"You okay?"

"Yeah and pregnant."

Naturally we hugged, kissed, smiled -- all the motions you go through when some wonderful news hits. Truth be told, the news was a shock, and we were not prepared for it. Still, hugging it out felt right, regardless of our initial feelings.

The aforementioned bronchitis made that first month a real challenge for her and left me wondering about my ability to be a long term caregiver. Whether we want to admit this or not (and it's not like I focus on it), as husbands and wives, a time is likely to come when one of us will have to play the residential nurse role for our spouse. It's one of those vows you make, one of those things you say in your wedding ceremony that you really don't grasp at the time. During her bout with bronchitis, my wife was a full scale symphony of coughs and gasps. I'm embarrassed to admit that after a couple weeks of this, there were times, at the onset of a coughing fit, when I would look the other way and bite my lip, cringe, or roll my eyes. Or for example, if she needed me to fetch a bottle of water from downstairs, I wouldn't always tackle the task with a jump in my step, a sparkle in my eye.

What does that say about me? I struggled with this question constantly that month. On one hand it says I'm an ass. On the other, maybe it says I'm human? I mean, I don't recall the vows instructing how to carry myself when confronted with the "sickness/health" deal. Don't get me wrong -- it's not like I loathed taking care of her by any stretch or that I was enslaved by the cause. I am really just saying that after a long stretch it was a drag. The fact that she didn't ask for this illness was not lost on me either. I think much frustration is born out of wanting your wife to get better so you can feel like a normal couple again.

Here's the thing -- this was just a case of bronchitis. If it were a longer haul, I wring my hands over how I would handle it.

Sadly, I have known a handful of people who have some first hand experience with this. In one particular case, the wife, for all intents and purposes, bailed on the husband when he got his eviction notice, and he didn't have her hand to hold as he skidded out of this world. Naturally all family and friends viewed this as completely objectionable, and it was. In another instance, a husband stuck with his perpetually ill wife for close to 15 years and became an alcoholic prick in the process. This is speculation, but I think he stewed and grew resentful over the sacrifices he made until he alienated other family and friends with his hateful actions and words.

Which of these is worse? One spouse bailed; the other became a monster. From the cheap seats it's easy to judge and cast sometimes self-righteous opinions. When you're living it, paying with your grit and tears, it's a different story.

At the end of the day, we can define ourselves or let others define us. The list of adjectives that we use to describe each other can be endless. Generally speaking I guess they all add up to one inescapable description: human. Being human is both objectionable and forgivable. What a raw deal! Sometimes it makes me wish I was a dog.

In closing, I can't help noting that this might be the most morbid vessel for announcing a new baby in the cards for us. Truthfully, I am excited and so in love with my glowing wife. It's true what they say about that glow. After watching her go through 15 hours of labor, without the aid of pain medication, to bring Jack into our lives, she became my hero. It absoultely squashed any questions I might have ever had about how much sense it would make for a woman to be POTUS. Face it, guys, women are way more advanced, and we're just arm candy.

acting my shoe size

2007-07-03T11:01:00.001-05:00

Friday night I experienced an epiphany of sorts and it's been nagging me ever since.

It was around dusk when we returned from dinner in Chevy Chase at Indique Heights -- the less hip sibling of Cleveland Park's Indique. As I pulled up to the house I saw two kids, probably 14 years old, in our front yard looking guilty as hell. When I parked they had darted across the street, up a ridiculously steep hill, into Lafayette Park. Impulsively I gave immediate chase and surprisingly scaled the hill with ease. By the time I reached the field, however, they were at least 50 yards away, and at that point I should have bailed on my pursuit. I didn't.

Instead I sprinted, in dress shoes and jeans, until the Indian food in my gut turned to fire works and my leg muscles cramped up. What was I thinking? There was no way I would ever catch them. Even if I did catch them, then what? It's not like I'm going to lay hands on them.

The truth is I admired these kids and wished I could be on their side of this chase, where I had spent so many years of my life in the wake of trouble. It occurred to me as I leaned over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air, that when I dashed into that park I crossed a threshold. I was an old man chasing his youth and failing to reel it in.

Collecting myself, I took one last look at them -- two atomic specs on the horizon, arms and legs flinging wildly -- and nodded in acceptance.

dog days of summer

2007-06-28T11:19:00.000-05:00

I had the pleasure of dropping about $200 on my chocolate lab Baci's annual checkup at the Capitol Hill Vet yesterday. As a result of that expense, my life does not feel much different or improved today. Sure, I have some peace of mind relative to my dog's health, but it's like paying for new tires -- your wallet is lighter, but the car basically drives the same. These expenses give me humorous pause. Having a blog provides an excuse to reflect on such inane matters, so here goes nothing.

Being a bit of an opportunist, I scheduled the appointment last minute when a friend asked if I'd be down with a drink after work at Belga. Baci was about a month overdue for the annual, so it was not too hard to sell my wife on the idea of me"grabbing a quick beer" after the vet. Leave it to me to weave a social event around a vet appointment. I can't exactly apologize though because, as a working dad, these windows of opportunity can be few and far between. When you stumble upon one you have to hold on with both hands and grip the shit out of it.

As I walked my meat head animal to the doc, the bag of his shit that they requested in hand, I mentally prepared myself for whatever sales pitch the lady would throw at me this time. I've been to the vet enough times to know it's not a matter of whether they will sell you on some obscure treatment; it's a matter of how they will position it. Add to the equation that I would be breaking up with them to hook up with the vet in my new part of town and you know they're going to milk me.

In the exam room, the vet went through all the motions and filled me in on the vaccination updates he would need on this visit -- the standard song and dance. Then she seemed to cast this 100 yard stare for a few seconds before telling me about some new bacteria they have heard about and how there have been a few animals (not dogs) that have been hit with it. She went on to tell me animals that drink from streams or ponds are most likely to be candidates for this mysterious bacteria. Here's how the rest of this went...

Me: Well, he doesn't really drink from streams. In fact, I don't know of any streams around.

Vet: Oh, but it might make sense just to be safe and protect him.

Me: Yeah, I don't know if it applies in this case.

Vet: We could add a strand of it to the shot he is getting today.

Me: Okay?

Vet: Then you would just need to come back in 3 weeks for a booster of it to complete it.

Me: Oh, okay. Then definitely not.

Vet: No?

Me: No.

Vet: Okay then. I just want you to be aware of the risks.

Me: Yeah...I'm just not convinced. But thanks.

In the waiting area, I patted myself on the back for shooting down that guilt trip of a sales pitch and shrugged off the vet's blatant view of me as a deadbeat dog owner. While I waited for the receptionist to swipe my card, I marveled at one of the more off putting displays of entitlement I have seen in a while: some crunchy Hill lady filling up her Big Gulp-sized Nalgene bottle at the water cooler. Then I noticed her pathetic cat in the small crate next to her and felt much, much, much better about myself.

Later at Belga we actually toasted my small victory. As we clicked our highball glasses together, my friend said what was lingering in the back of my head: "Murphy's Law -- Baci catches that mysterious shit before summer's out."

barking up the wrong twee?

2007-06-28T10:43:00.000-05:00

A couple of Wednesdays ago I managed to defy my old age and decrepitude by making it through a show at the Black Cat. This was a personal accomplishment for me because, as I have mentioned, weeknight shows have this pesky tendency to be the bane of my social existence. True to its antagonistic form, Black Cat slated two opening acts ahead of the headliner,Voxtrot, which automatically translates as two things: "long-ass night" and "torn up tomorrow." Both of those materialized. Go figure.

A close friend in Chicago turned me on to Voxtrot a month or so ago, a couple of weeks before their new album was released. He hooked me up with a few of their EPs, which I devoured. My friend Angie, who I saw the show with, told me that Voxtrot falls into a category of music labeled Twee Pop. Angie is in her early 20s and therefore doesn't flinch at the thought of a late concert. I am jealous of her youthful energy and drive, obviously. She is also more hip, hence her dropping the Twee bomb.

In any case, I'd say that label fits Voxtrot. Their sound evokes images of Morrissey and his mod disciples pedaling bicycles on cobblestone streets without a care in the world. When I listen I pick up hints of the Smiths, the Cure, some New Order and Luna. These are all good ingredients, and I dig it.

Here's the problem -- in this digital world, where you can absorb a bounty of information and gain immediate access to just about everything, it's too damn easy to tire of a band and move on to the next indie sensation without batting an eye. Not to mention, I think in my old age I am starting to become disillusioned about the pedestals on which I have placed these artists (writers too). I sometimes long for the days when I knew next to nothing about a band other than the mystique it projected. Now I feel like I know way too much and find myself turned off by some of this knowledge.

Since that show, which I enjoyed, I have not played a single Voxtrot track. My iPod is too jammed with new music for me to stay in one place. Basically, being a new music fan is akin to speed dating. I feel kind of whore-ish these days. Oh well...

My friend Sean in Chicago wrote a solid article that speaks to this dynamic much better than this meandering excuse for a post does. Check it out.

the little role model

2007-06-11T14:52:00.000-05:00

When I'm carting the Jackal around in his stroller, usually killing time after work by meandering up and down Connecticut Avenue, some passerby inevitably comments on the luxury of being wheeled around town every day. There are many different variations on the shape and delivery of this commentary -- "Must be nice" or "Man, what I would give to be in his shoes today" -- and I suspect I've heard every last one of them. My typical response entails a grunt of sympathy laughter combined with a subtle nod of the head, nothing more and nothing less, but the other day I actually engaged someone with a fleeting piece of dialogue along the following lines...

Someone: Don't you wish you could get pushed around like that?

Me: Not really, no.

Someone: Well why not?

Me: Because I'm a grown man, so that would mean I require a wheelchair, which would be awful.

I don't believe he responded, but I really didn't linger long enough to find out. Obviously this guy hung a meatball over the plate and I swung for the fences on it. I'm aware that he didn't mean any harm with his question and that its context didn't apply directly to me as a grown man. For whatever reason, at that particular moment I couldn't resist. My wife was not with me, so she was spared any embarrassment. As for the Jackal, he laughs at just about anything, which I certainly appreciate.

That same evening we got a call from Mom saying she would be running a bit later, so we scored some play dough at the local toy store and grabbed an outside table at La Lomita Dos. While he rolled the play dough into snakes and guided these creations toward my jugular, I dabbled in chips and salsa and found myself completely absorbed in the idea of being him. The pure joy he displays at the simplest of pleasures erases the truly insignificant abrasions from my work days and makes me feel weightless. Here's an example of how we cover just half of one city block: "Hi, bird! Hi, bus! Hi, cars! No Cars Go! Hey! Oh, hi doggie! Look - one, two, three bus! Hi, bus! Wow - fire engine! Hi, fire engine! Oh my gosh! Look, daddy! Flowers! Hi, flowers! Hi, butterfly! Hi, bird!"

Hanging out with this kid is absolutely refreshing. It's scary how much I have to learn from him and how much I sometimes feel the need to hide from him. It's no mystery to us that with experience comes wisdom, and part of wisdom is reaching a point where you notice those dark circles under the world's eyes. Right now I don't discourage him from chattering with the occasional street person or pan handler. Much of that has to do with the fact that I want him to be extremely open to people. In that regard, I think the exposure to all walks of life that DC offers is a wonderful asset for a kid. At the same time, I can't deny that one day those same street hustlers will be off limits or that I won't institute certain detours on our excursions. There's a fine line somewhere between psycho, protective parent and open-minded, urbane dad. Here's to hoping I find it and walk it.

For now I can't help but sum it up with a snippet of my favorite Eels lyric:

Every moment is built to last, when you're living without a past....

Smacks of optimism, yes?

would you?

2007-05-31T07:58:00.000-05:00

I'll spare the reader - assuming the reader has not already written me off as dead - all the standard window dressing and excuses for giving this blog the red-haired, step-child treatment in recent weeks. I can say that the absence has made my heart fonder and that in said absence I have chicken scratched and stashed many post ideas onto various scraps of paper. Once I get around to collecting those scraps and, assuming the hand writing is legible, I'll whip them up with some special sauce and pour them out. What follows could be considered preheating the oven...

Last weekend, Memorial Day Weekend, the family unit kept a pretty low profile and stayed in town. (Actually, the Jackal and I went to the beach Sunday and Monday, but that's another post for another day.) Saturday morning we quelled a minor temper tantrum - the terrible twos are certainly upon us - by suggesting a bus ride to the National Zoo. Talk about doubling the pleasure - taking his favorite mode of transportation to see the "rillas" (gorillas, obviously) sealed the deal, and he was miles of smiles.

By mid-morning, around 10ish, it was already Africa hot outside. Two blocks into the walk to the bus stop on Connecticut Avenue, I regretted the hell out of my decision to wear jeans. On top of that, the pits of my gray t-shirt were dark with sweat. In other words, I felt really sexy. Oh well - at least the Jackal's mother looked really good, not that any of that matters...unless you have vanity issues. In any case, we eventually reached Connecticut and grabbed the L2 to Woodley Park. As expected, the Jackal's face was a perma-grin the whole ride down. The only objectionable part of the trip was some street hustler sitting behind us for a few blocks, farting up the most foul of storms. Maggots gagged, I swear.

When we hit the mouth of the Zoo it was a virtual stroller derby. At least 30 strollers rolled into the place with us, which initially gave me a mild case of angst since I have a tendency to buy into the whole Jean-Paul Sartre concept that "Hell is other people." I don't discriminate, so in this case, toddlers fall into the category of "other people." Maybe it was just the heat and humidity gnawing at me though. Either way, I got over it and pushed through the crowd into the urban jungle where we clocked all the usual suspects: elephants, donkeys, pandas, birds, zebras, and of course the gorillas.

My favorite spots on that particular day were the buildings that house smaller creatures, such as the Small Mammal House. Strollers are not allowed in these buildings and the A/C is absolutely cranked. It's a nice respite from the sweaty rat race on the main avenue...

A little back story should be shared here before I get on with the rest. I know, in terms of literary style I could probably provide a more subtle or effective vehicle, but my editor is in the BVI getting drunk on Dark & Stormies, so I'm left to my own inept devices today. Okay, my friends and I share many inside jokes. You could almost say we have our own language. Rhetorical questions seem to comprise most of it. Perhaps the most common question, in case you haven't deciphered from the title, is Would you? The root of this question falls into a rather inappropriate concept - a very attractive woman strolls by, so you turn to your friend and mutter Would you? The implied question, to which the answer is obvious, making the question rhetorical, is Would you sleep with her?

I hate to call out the male population on this one, but it's a common practice. Even if men don't vocalize it, they tend to think it. Well, in the name of immature humor, my friends and I have played out this question and extended it to just about anything - animate or inanimate. Now that I think about it, perhaps we are satirizing ourselves for using the question in the first place. Nah, that's giving us too much credit. We are just applying it more liberally for the sake of being able to say it over and over, much to the chagrin of our wives, who don't hesitate to roll their eyes.

Jesus - this back story is turning into a post of it's own. Enough said, I think you get the concept. Back to the Small Mammal House...

The inhabitants of this particular house included howler monkeys, black-tailed prairie dogs, naked mole rats, sloths, tree shrews, bats, etc. The mammal that gave us the longest pause, however, was none other than the golden lion tamarin. Clocking this thing was like rubber-necking at the site of a car accident. I was simultaneously disturbed and intrigued, unable to avert my eyes as one inserted his long skinny digit into a tree stump in search of some insect or another. They looked like little drag queen refugees from the Land of Oz.

When I managed to pull my eyes away for a second I soaked up the adorable look of enchantment on the Jackal's face. Then, with the most matter-of-fact tone and straight face, he turns to me and asks, "Would you?"

28 years later

2007-05-15T21:36:00.000-05:00

28 years ago, when I was 5, my old man took me to see my first horror flick at a movie theater – Halloween. Naturally I was terrified and spent much of the experience hiding under my seat, asking now and then if the victim was dead yet. As might be expected, this was the genesis of some real fear issues in my childhood. Hell, I still occasionally scamper up the stairs after turning off the lights and calling it a night because I think Michael Meyers could be on my tail with an 8” Wustoff. And don’t even get me started on the soundtrack they played over and over when the boogeyman was stalking his prey. Jesus, it gives me chills just thinking about it.

This begs an obvious question that might be even more terrifying and disturbing: why the hell would a father take a 5 year old to see a horror film?

If he and I cross paths again, it’s on the list of questions I suspect I’ll ask him. Needless to say, he wasn’t exactly a stand-up dad. Who knows – people change, so maybe he has evolved. I’ll leave some room for the benefit of that doubt. That’s neither here nor there and not the point of this post.

Oddly enough, I developed a real taste for horror flicks in my adult life. You might expect that a guy who, as a kid, carried a steak knife in his back pocket when his parents left him home alone would want nothing to do with scary movies. For some reason, that’s not the case, as I generally make it a point to catch as much of that genre that I can.

I paid a visit to my shrink about 6 weeks ago to take an inventory of myself. Too much mental and emotional debris had begun to clutter my cellar and weigh me down, so a psychoanalytical spring-cleaning was needed. It absolutely helped, but some of my follow-through on his suggestions could be occasionally called into question. His primary recommendation was that I have the nanny stay late two nights each week so I can have a couple of hours here and there to round myself out with activities other than work and parenthood, the only catch being that I don’t spend these “off” nights drinking and smoking. My wife tends to work long hours, which lands me in the Mister Mom role 5 nights a week. While I absolutely love the Jackal, that song and dance on the heels of every crazy work day was wearing me thin. Okay, enough said…

Today after work I decided to catch the post-apocalyptic horror flick, 28 Weeks Later, at Mazza Gallery, which is right across the street from my office. I walked away satisfied, not demanding those two hours of my life back. The first installment, 28 Days Later, was more artistic – what I’d call a “film,” if you can buy that. The sequel was more of an adventure in sensationalism and gore, which I expected and accepted. As I took in various scenes showing infected psychos bashing skulls, gouging eyes, or munching flesh, I caught myself wondering if this was the kind of therapeutic use of my time the doctor had in mind. It is kind of odd that today’s refuge from the world happened to take the shape of some ultra violent, bloody, horror flick. Here’s the thing – I never said I was not odd.

An email from a close friend I told about my plans hit my blackberry during the flick: How scared are you right now? More scared than mature?

28 years later, I can’t come up with a straight-faced answer to a question like that, so I just laugh my ass off and continue to not take myself too seriously. Maybe the minute I start taking myself seriously is when I develop an aversion to flicks like 28 Weeks Later.

Now that, my friends, is a thought that scares me.

on the lam again

2007-05-13T11:40:00.000-05:00

A sinkhole swallowed me last week. Fortunately I didn't sit well in the catacombs of its stomach, so it retched and retched until it managed to spit me out. Back above ground, most things seem the same as I left them. Some things have changed......

The world is jaundiced. An even blanket of yellow dust covers everything around me and gives me a miserable sinus headache. Every time I get behind the wheel of my black SUV, I curse the ever present pollen that paints the hood and plasters the windshield. Spraying the washer fluid and jamming the wipers into gear only makes it worse - a sludge that resembles some one's urine after a heavy night of drinking and failing, yet again, to properly hydrate. It's nauseating, so I usually squint through it from point A to point B.

What else? Oh, the bee population appears to be in decline. Perhaps admitting this will not make me any new friends, but I have contributed to this factor. You see, I'm anti-insect. Ironically, I also loathe spiders. You'd think I would like or at least tolerate spiders since they rid the world of most insects, but no. The whole lot of them can go to hell for all I care. If I spot a bee (or a spider for that matter) at my house, I drop everything and make it my sole purpose to destroy it. Every once in a while I pose this question to myself - what if there were giants roaming the earth who decided at random to snuff out little humans like myself? And for a second, I empathize with these pests, but the empathy is fleeting, and next thing you know I'm wielding a tennis racket, shoe, or rolled-up newspaper. There's this crew of bumblebees loitering in my back yard. They hover in certain corners of the yard, occasionally coming over to the patio to buzz me or the Jackal. I mean, these pricks are coming into my yard trying to intimidate me with absolutely no clue about my vicious backhand. Two or three of them learned the hard way when I slammed winners and sent them to the afterlife. As for the rest of them - their days are numbered. Naturally my wife chalks this up as yet another demonstration of my insanity. But seriously, I'm amazed by the whole bee issue. Fast forward about 10 years and Whole Foods will be stocking its shelves with free range honey and activists will be raising hell over bee farm and other mass methods of honey production. Maybe not, but stranger things have happened.

Suddenly so many people are shocked about this Alec Baldwin voicemail message to his 11 year old daughter. Did I miss the memo about celebrities having their shit together in the personal life category? I don't see how this makes people shudder. If anything, it brings them down to earth with the rest of us where yelling at kids or veering off the path of perfect parenthood happens every day. Now this cat feels the need to apologize to the world and says he wants to give up acting so he can pursue more philanthropic goals in the world of parental estrangement? Alec, most of us never really pegged you for dad of the millennium or a saint. Your absolutely stunning and beautiful performance in Glengarry Glen Ross, when you ripped apart a gang of two-bit real estate salesman, demonstrated your ability to dig deep and bring the anger. It was too good, too real, so we knew you had it in you. Look - I am not saying it's cool to say that kind of stuff to your kids, but it happens now and then when you are human.

Speaking of being human, I have a story. Friday I managed to leave my work baggage at the door and got home with the idea of taking the Jackal out on a bus adventure. Mom would be getting off late, so what a way to kill some time! Naturally he was thrilled about this plan. The trip would require two legs, which was no problem. One of the bus lines goes right by our house, so we grabbed that bus and smoothly rode to Connecticut Avenue where we got off and waited for our transfer - the L2. At the bus stop, the Jackal pointed out birds, cars, people, coffee shops, strollers, bicycles and every other obvious thing that surrounded us. It was so cute, and I soaked up every bit of it. Then my cell phone interrupted - a work call. So much for edging into the weekend unscathed.

About 5 minutes into the call, the L2 bus pulled up, so I gathered the Jackal in one arm, collapsed stroller in the other, and wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear as I approached. Somehow, I have no idea how, the driver didn't see me behind the three other passengers who boarded and essentially closed the door in my face, eliciting an "Oh no!" from the Jackal. Since I had no hands free, I kicked the bottom of the door, and cracked the window. Well, this didn't seem to get the driver's attention because he edged the bus along to the intersection. Naturally I was pissed but couldn't react because of the work call in my ear, so the Jackal and I planted ourselves back at the bus stop. That's when I noticed the bus I just inadvertently vandalized with my child in my arms had stopped and passengers with scowls on their faces were pouring out the door. As it happened, the driver decided his vessel was "out of service" due to the broken window and ordered the passengers off. I learned this from one crusty old man who ignored the fact that I was on the phone and howled, "You broke that window, so he kicked us off." Then the driver approached me and pointed out what happened in what sounded like the form of a question: "You broke a window?"

At this point I decided it would be a good idea to scram lest I find myself talking to cops, so I shrugged my shoulders and slowly sauntered away from the scene. In my wake the disgruntled commuters probably cursed me. I have to admit I giggled as I pushed Jack in the stroller through nearby alley ways en route to another bus stop further down the line. Always the bus system loyalist, the Jackal was naturally pissed and confused and asked several times about the bus and its whereabouts. "Forget that bus." I explained, though he could not possibly understand. "We're on the lam, my friend."

where's win

2007-05-02T19:49:00.000-05:00

I'm in between days, about to jump out of my skin. Despite how much I try to ignore it and no matter how spread thin I feel, this blog keeps calling and I eventually answer, for better or worse. I am underwater busy at work, which is a good thing at the end of the day, but also a bad thing when I mostly find myself dying for the Jackal's bedtime to show up. I can't be the only parent who occasionally just wants his kid to go to bed, right? At least I'm not spiking his juice with Benadryl, yet.

Okay, enough pissing and moaning. Life is a box of chocolates, at least this week. The Arcade Fire show at DAR Constitution Hall is looming large on the event horizon. The anticipation has been sizzling through my entire being for months. I've played the shit out of the new Neon Bible and the breakthrough Funeral the past month. The Jackal has not complained for a second; he just absorbs the whole wall of sound and giggles. To sweeten the pot, my best friend JT, CEO of a mental health facility in Middle-of-Nowhere, Ohio, is rolling in for the weekend. The sum of all these parts is one beautiful disaster. JT expects to get so old school, it might be decrepit school. I am so down with that.

As the variables line up and the weekend approaches, I find myself engaging in the familiar debate over which is better -- the anticipation and build-up to a major event or the experience of the actual event itself? At the peak of Friday night, I'll hit the pause button, soak everything in, and let it all wash over me like some spiritual tidal wave. When I press "play" again I still won't have resolved that debate, but that's not the point. The debate itself seems to mean I am alive and electric.

Last night I read a great review of Neon Bible in Paste. One quote from Win Butler, possibly my latest non-sexual man crush, on the topic of fear really grabbed me:

"There are two kinds of fear: The Bible talks a lot about fear of God -- fear in the face of something awesome. That kind of fear is the type of fear that makes someone want to change. But a fear of other people makes you want to stay the same, to protect what you have. It's a stagnant fear; and it's paralyzing."

I am still wrapping my mind around this idea, but I think I can identify with the concept of vacillating between two poles of angst or fear or whatever you want to call it. Or, maybe I am just romanticizing anything this cat might say because I'm excited about the show.

Possibly a review on the show to come next week, assuming there are sufficient words to convey and assuming the moral, physical, and emotional hangover doesn't spill over into Wednesday, which it just may.

glad handing in the windy city

2007-04-25T12:04:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow morning my wife and I are flying to Chicago. My company is headquartered there and will hold its annual conference tomorrow and Friday. We have opted to stay in Chicago for the weekend to kick it with friends and celebrate our 6 year anniversary. My mother is flying into DC today to stay with the Jackal while we're away.

This all adds up to several things, in no particular order:

For three days I will sleep past 6:30am.
I will fail miserably at glad handing and networking with colleagues from other offices.
Accepting said failure, I will saturate myself at the closest bar.
My mother will spoil the Jackal (it's a grandmother's job).
A minor exorcism will be performed Sunday night to un-spoil him.
My wife and I will remember and embrace our husband/wife roles.
I will expend sympathy laughter on 39 bad jokes told by colleagues.
Suited for two days, I will be pining every second for my Citizens of Humanity jeans.
No restaurant on the weekend slate will frown upon said jeans.
Shoe shopping with my wife will completely turn me on.
Weather that Chicago tries to pass off as "spring" will be constantly cursed.
I will miss the Jackal and buy him some piece(s) of designer clothing.

neighborhood watch

2007-04-25T09:27:00.001-05:00

Chalk up another rite of passage for me -- I bought a lawn mower yesterday. I had no choice really. The back yard verged on the brink of becoming a safe harbor for disenchanted and delinquent rats. The Jackal is a big fan of animals, but I don't think he's quite ready to share his yard with filthy rodents. For that matter, he's not really into sharing anything these days. In fact, his whole concept of sharing is not sharing. "No share!" has become a mantra of sorts, which is irritating when you hear it the 87th time in a given day. Come to think of it, maybe I will let the rats make a nest out of the back yard. The pure hilarity of Jack screaming "No share!" to a parade of rats might be too good to pass up. Regardless of what goes down in the back yard -- rats or no rats -- it's just so great to be outside again.

We moved to the new hood in January when all inhabitants were basically hibernating. Now that Mother Nature is back on her meds and cooperating, the neighbors are starting to air themselves out. This has produced some decent fodder for me. For one, we have come to realize that not one neighbor in our general vicinity is what you might call "eye candy." Okay, that's completely vain to say, but I'm not here to offer smoke and mirrors. I do enough of that at work. This is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. I should add that my wife couldn't care less about whether any of the neighbors are nice on the eyes. I guess I'm more into such aesthetics. At any rate, the neighbors have revealed themselves, for better or worse.

For the sake of accuracy, we've only met two sets of neighbors so far -- one on each side of our house. It has not taken long for me to ascertain that these neighbors don't care for each other. I find it remarkable when people give negative preconceived notions about others before an objective party (me, in this case) has the chance to draw his own conclusions. For example, one day I was in the back yard checking out work being done on a new privacy fence and John, a sort of family guy neighbor, stopped by. One piece of the conversation that stands out went like this:

John: So have you met Allen?

Me: No. Who is Allen?

John: He's the creep that lives on the other side of you.

Me: Great, can't wait to meet him.

John: Yeah, he's a piece of work.

I met Allen last weekend when we were grilling on the back deck. Again, the warm weather brought him out to make shit dance on his own grill. Obviously you don't get the full picture during a first conversation, but I wasn't picking up any "creep" or "piece of work" vibes. I will say that John is a very nice guy and that I have more in common with him - working wife, kids, etc. Allen is an architectural photographer who seems to travel 80% of the time. I have little in common with that.

At the end of the day though, these neighbor dynamics don't concern me too much. It's too early to draw lines in the sand or go out of my way to be friends. During both interfaces, the idea of gathering for drinks was broached, so I expect to gather more information on each party in the next month or so. And now that Old Man Winter has taken a hike, we'll run into them here and there. In the meantime, as long as they report shady character sightings in the neighborhood and ignore the fact that we still have not purchased shades for our bedroom windows, they are alright by me.

adventures in basement sitting

2007-04-19T11:11:00.000-05:00

When we moved from our Capitol Hill row house into larger Chevy Chase digs, we were nothing but thrilled to finally have a basement. It's not what you might call a "finished" basement (yet), but it's more than a concrete storage hangar. It's your grandparents' basement -- the asbestos tiled play land where, as kids, you, your siblings and cousins kicked it, secretly said curse words like "shit" or "damn," and exchanged common colds and other bacteria during family gatherings while the grownups did boring grownup stuff upstairs. You always felt safe and secure down there and believed that even a nuclear war, like the one in The Day After that made you piss your pants and gave you night terrors, couldn't touch the place.

You never wanted to leave that basement, but there were certain reasons for ascending the stairs and mixing with the parents:

1 - hydration, usually in the form of kool-aid
2 - tattle tale
3 - defend yourself as the victim of a tattle tale

As all good things come to an end, the symphony of childhood laughter, bouncing balls, squeaky shoes, and belching contests would eventually wind down, and you'd find yourself in deep REM sleep in the back seat of the car on the way home. How much do you miss the simplicity of those days?

I think the Jackal has designs on sabotaging our basement, if two recent incidents are any indication.

Sunday morning before church I walked into the basement's back laundry area in search of clean socks and found a sea of standing water greeting me. It had rained the entire previous night, so we were experiencing our first flood. I'm so not handy, so my mind was reeling over this. I mean, hanging a picture on a wall is a major event and often, as my wife calls out, turns into a side show. Still, I had to pretend to be a man about this, so I went outside to take a look. That's when I saw the Jackal's Tonka dump truck parked next to a disconnected gutter drainage tube. The result was hell and high water. Since we were headed to church anyway, I went ahead and unleashed a tirade of expletives, figuring I'd cleanse my soul in half an hour.

Monday night the flood was a memory, yesterday's news, so the Jackal and I hit the basement to kill some time while mommy worked late. Remembering what my mother drilled into my young head about never passing up a life maintenance opportunity on the fly (often phrased, "make yourself useful"), I took a minute to to throw a load of laundry into the washing machine. Well, I should have remembered a more immediate lesson -- a minute is waaaay more than enough time for a 2 year old to find trouble. The fact that no crying followed that initial burst of breaking glass gave me a shred of solace.

Behind the bar the the Jackal wielded a fluorescent light tube back and forth like a light saber over a puddle of port wine littered with broken bottle shards. I approached gingerly, not wanting to alarm him.

"Hey, buddy, can Daddy have that?"

"No."

"Please."

"Sorry."

By then I was right next to him, so I got a front row seat on how the rest played out. In slow motion, the tube slipped from his hand and fell to the floor, creating an explosion of glass that enveloped us in a cloud of shrapnel. Immediately I grabbed him and ran ran upstairs as he buried his face in my shoulder and shrieked.

While he soaked in the tub, I Googled the shit out of key words like fluorescent, light, break, health risk, child, mercury, poisoning and learned that our basement had become a temporary toxic waste zone. Silly me for expecting a run-of-the-mill Monday night.

When mommy got home, daddy spent an hour in "throw-away" clothes with a t-shirt tied around his face cleaning up the mess. Needless to say, we had some wine later that night to decompress.

Also needless to say, while he survived without a scratch, the Jackal is indefinitely grounded from the basement.

Just last night he parked the Tonka truck near the basement door and said, "No basement."

To which I replied, "That's right. And next time you try to take yourself out, maybe try not to take daddy with you, okay?"

"Okay, daddy."

raymond carver's junk drawer

2007-04-14T12:08:00.000-05:00

The dust never settles. You find yourself saying you'll get around to the seemingly endless list of things you want or need to do "when the dust settles." You might not use the exact phrase. Maybe you say "when things slow down" or even "this weekend." Let's face it -- most of us live in a virtual dust storm. We work our asses off Monday through Friday then try to fit errands, social life, and down time into Saturday and Sunday. It's nearly impossible to accomplish the trifecta in a single weekend, so things inevitably get pushed to the next weekend, and by then the list has snowballed to the point where you might decide to bag the whole lot of it. Usually when that happens, I find myself drinking and smoking to forget about it, which leads to a guilty hangover during which I shuffle downstairs and remember that I still have not gotten around to organizing that kitchen junk drawer.

The bane of my existence, that junk drawer, in all of its cluttered glory, is laughing at me this very moment. It has transcended the basic essence of clutter to become a symbol of so much chaos and madness in my life. Also this very moment, the Jackal is upstairs napping while mommy is out shopping. (If he wakes up, I will lose my train of thought, and this post will become another incomplete fragment in my so called life.) So this is the perfect opportunity for me to tackle that mess, to give it the boot and move on to the next thing. Instead I sit here blogging about it.

Raymond Carver was a brilliant writer. Pick up a copy of Where I'm Calling From if you want evidence. You won't be disappointed. He was also good at alcoholism. Shocker, huh? A profound author drinks too much. It's almost cliche', isn't it? Aware and accepting of his parameters, consisting of kids and the regular responsibilities of adult life, he stuck with short stories -- he did not have much time for novels or lengthy works -- and painted some of the most accessible slices of life I've ever read. I think about that aspect of Carver constantly, and today I find myself wondering if junk drawers ever haunted him. Maybe that's part of the reason he hit the bottle so hard -- life maintenance getting in the way of living life. Okay, probably not, but you have to assume day-to-day matters fell into the landscape of his existence. I mean, writers do not live Hollywood celebrity lifestyles by any stretch. The craft doesn't tend to pay much, so it's not like they have butlers buying their groceries or wiping their asses.

Let me make one thing clear -- I am not comparing myself to Carver. His literary accomplishments dwarf anything I could hope for, and his vices mixed with the likes of John Cheever. I have not published anything worth a warm cup of piss or hit the bottle with any literary icons. Still, I can relate to his need to employ brevity due to life circumstances.

My hot list for the weekend looks something like this:

-back up all music and picture files
-unpack 20 boxes and finish moving into new house
-hang pictures so the new house looks "lived in"
-construct Jack's toy box
-buy groceries
-measure windows for blinds
-clean Cholo's fish bowl (Jack named him that,fyi)
-pay bills
-pick up dry cleaning
-exercise

Okay, I won't bore you further with that or pretend it's interesting. The truth is that making the list might be the most productive thing I do this weekend. I fully expect life to get in the way of most of it. Actually, I don't want to tackle any of it, so I hope for a detour or seven.

Speaking of which, I hear the Jackal calling out to me now. Sorry, junk drawer, it's not going to happen today. I feel a Muppet Movie viewing coming on...

working on networking

2007-04-13T07:47:00.000-05:00

After work yesterday I found myself at a networking event at the Georgetown Club surrounded by many filthy-rich cats. Most of them were really tall, which seemed fitting to me. My boss is the president of the club, and he's also made of money (though not tall), but it doesn't go to his head. In fact, he has referred to himself as a fuck-up a number of times. If a fuck-up is defined as someone whose job requires more personality than specific skill and pays in the $2-3 million range annually, then I am pining to be one. Obviously that self-deprecating comment is his way of recognizing that he fell into the right situation at the right time and appreciates the hell out of it. He's down to earth, human, and real, but I didn't get the impression those surrounding him have a clue. Watching him work the room, telling jokes to the president of PNC Bank or offering advice to a Carlyle Group managing director, I took some good mental notes.

I had a few vodkas there, so those mental notes looked more like mental chicken scratch when I went back to them later on my couch in front of my blog. The next thing I remember is my wife waking me up and helping me upstairs to bed. So much for drunk blogging.

This morning some of it is coming back to me, so I'll try to pour it out here. Thankfully a close friend and co-worker was with me at this thing, so we served as mutual wing-men throughout the night, bailing each other out of some bland conversations. As you can imagine, as is usually the case at these things, most interactions were forced. My supply of sympathy laughter dried up almost immediately, and no matter how much vodka I threw down it, my throat was a desert. Don't get me wrong -- I felt honored to be invited and there were some memorable chats marked by sincere laughter and electricity.

For example, a psychiatrist rocking a white suit and the worst panty line I have ever seen gobbled us up for at least half an hour. I saw no ring on her finger, and it didn't really take long to understand why one would be absent. Honestly, I can't get over that panty line. The. Worst. Ever. Our conversation became so slippery and liberal that I almost mentioned it. At one point she claimed to be 45 but didn't really keep a straight face after dropping that information. She was clearly 10 years older than that, but who can blame a woman for lying about her age? It's not the first or last time.

Despite all of her quirks, she was a welcome distraction (even bummed a cigarette from the bartender for us) from the rest of the exchanges there, most of which seemed to go like this:

Big Wig: (firm handshake, squinting to read my name tag) Hi, RG, I'm BW.

Me: Hi, BW, nice to meet you.

Big Wig: What do you do?

Me: Executive search. And you?

Big Wig: President and co-founder of XYZ Corporation.

Me: Great, where's the bathroom?

Okay, that's rather exaggerated, but the point is most of these cats were out of my league, and the truth is that I suck at networking. Maybe one day I'll be better at it, but that's not exactly near the top of my to-do list. Besides, I am suspicious of people who love to network and attend networking events. I can't pinpoint why exactly, but I am.

That said, it probably comes as no surprise that I bypassed goodbyes by slipping out a back door and disappearing into the side streets of G-town, not a single business card weighing me down.

a chip off the old mud ball?

2007-04-10T12:31:00.000-05:00

My brother emailed me yesterday in reaction to my previous post about the Jackal's Easter adventure and pulled a gem from the archives of our childhood:

You're doing fine with your boy, and his rash won't be the last thing that brings you that lump in your throat. Remember how we all barely made it through childhood, and Jack is clearly at least slightly smarter that we were.

After the blog about Jack's b-day party, I'm glad the next one wasn't the same story of hitting on your friends' wives and drinking at 10 a.m. with "Easter" substituted for "birthday" and ending with having to explain to your son why it's better to throw eggs at buses because they can't stop and turn around.

I can always count on him to remind me of some of the ridiculous shit we pulled as kids. That last piece refers to how we killed time one summer (okay, three, maybe four) throwing various blunt objects at commuter buses. Why, you might ask, would you do that? The obvious answer, which he provides, is that they couldn't really do shit about it while automobiles and their passengers could easily give chase. Oh, you meant why would you engage in that kind of activity? Boredom, need for adventure, idle hands -- the basic reason most juveniles would offer in any vacuum.

Eventually we gathered the balls to target cars. I still remember the first time. Three of us were crouched behind a bush at the corner of 39th Street and Flora Avenue. My best friend Bryon, a hearing-impaired mulatto who ironically loathed African-Americans, had the best aim and arm. My role was to shape the mud balls and hand them off to him. Wamser played the part of fretting and trying to talk us out of the whole mission. The cover of darkness gave us the perfect vantage point on the busy 39th Street. Packing a rock into the center of that first mud ball was no mistake, though later I would insist it was an accident. A beat-up station wagon approached, and Bryon nodded to me, loaded mud ball in hand. Wamser shook his head and asked, "What if we break a window?" Literally seconds after I assured him, "Don't worry, we never break a window," the glass splashed from the passenger window all over the street. Catching our breath between cackles, we sprinted to Wamser's house half a block away, ignored his mother's questions on our way in the front door, and stashed ourselves in his basement where we panted and looked at each other and giggled.

Looking back on that and poring over the mental list of other objectionable things I did growing up, the obvious question comes to mind: how will I react when the Jackal is escorted home for vandalism? Okay, I know that I will deny that I ever broke any rules and punish him. I guess a better question is: how will I keep a straight face as I sentence him?

I know that sounds sort of despicable since a respectable adult should find nothing funny about the trouble his kid gets into. Maybe I am despicable. Or maybe I just can't help but laugh at human nature, which sensibly makes little sense and is therefore mostly comedy. Looking back, can I honestly say I would not have packed a rock into the core of that mud ball? No way. That was a piece of childhood that shaped me, so if you take that away, maybe I don't take risks and I walk the line more than not. Boring.

To close, I should offer some follow-up on the last post. I'm glad to report that Jack's rash appears to retreating. He'll be back in the game soon and maybe one day hiding in a bush, waiting for a bus.

my easter bunny

2007-04-08T19:14:00.000-05:00

I had designs on my next post touting Thursday to be the new Saturday for those of us on the "growing up" fence. Instead I spent Friday licking Thursday night's wounds, considering that it might be time to bring myself back to earth. Easter Sunday morning found me in the ER realizing that the grounding had already begun, regardless of my conscious and hollow promise to tone it down.

For the sake of consistency, I wondered if this post should flow with the same satirical and self-effacing undertones as all posts up to this point. Given the subject matter and my general mood right now, there's no fucking way I can make light of this.

Friday night we noticed a few random red bumps on the back of Jack's neck and didn't make too much of it, given the fact that he's a boy and gets into everything under the sun. By late Saturday morning, we realized those bumps were just the scout team, for hundreds of the little welts had arrived and set up camp on his torso and legs. Naturally we called the pediatrician, who suggested that some kids exhibit hives on the back end of a viral infection, which Jack seemed to experience earlier in the week. We were instructed to keep an eye on it, as if I was not hawking him nonstop already, and to call her if the condition worsened. Saturday night, my wife went out and I stayed home with Jack. When he went to bed I watched a horror flick called High Tension. Under normal circumstances, a gore-infested thriller like this would make me lock the doors and blow on my sweaty palms until it finished, but that rash consumed my thoughts to the point where a rather creative decapitation hardly phased me.

This morning I clutched the doorknob and muttered a quick "please, God" before going in to retrieve him for the day. When I drew back the curtains and light poured in, I lost my breath. It was no longer a campsite but a complete enemy invasion. His face was one enormous red splotch, yet he obliviously smiled at me and delivered the sweetest "Hiiiiiiiii, Daddy!" This, of course, made me wince and smile at the same time. Thankfully he is too young to distinguish the variations in tone of voice because my reply of "Hey there, monster trucker" smacked of worry. Immediately I took him to our bed and woke up mommy, informing her that "we're so ER bound today, it's not even funny" before she even had a chance to know what day it was.

A quick call to the pediatrician to confirm my prediction, and we were on the road. By 8:30am Jack was rocking a tiny gown, watching Madagascar on a 13-inch television in an exam room. When the doctor rolled in, I immediately accepted the fact that I am old, since he looked to be about my age. Of course I paid him the highest level of respect with my questions and tone, but it was weird not feeling intimidated by him, as I have with all the older doctors up to that point in my life. In any case, he asked us to remove Jack's gown so he could have a look. It's hard to find words to do justice in conveying the contrast between the color of Jack's skin and the white sheet beneath him. As odd as this sounds, the pink and white, when perceived through the blur of tears in my eyes made me think of the Easter Bunny. After all, I guess those are common color combinations this time of year, so why not?

A couple of hours later, we learned that Jack has landed a case of erythema multiforme, some enigmatic rash of "bulls-eye-like red patches on the skin" caused by "an allergic reaction, an infection, a bite or sting, pregnancy, or other medical conditions." I pulled that from the medical report they gave us before we left. It sounds sort of like a fancy way of saying, your kid has this horrific rash that could be caused by anything and everything. On top of that, "it usually lasts about 1-3 weeks with gradual recovery..." Finally, it's a condition for which there is no treatment. In other words, we get front row seats to watch him deal with what looks like leprosy for a few weeks.

Some perspective: it could be much, much, much worse. I fully recognize this and have complete sympathy for those parents out there whose lives detour to the ER where they learn that their precious kid has some deadly disease.

I guess some of my sadness and worry stems from how close I felt to getting that kind of news. Much of it also comes from seeing Jack stroll around the house throwing paper airplanes and laughing while he wears this suit of sores. The juxtaposition of his pure joy and cheer against the sight of his condition breaks my heart. Later in the day I retreated to basement to "do laundry" so I could tend to the lump in my throat and unleash the tears. It felt good, and I suspect it's not the last time I'll do it.

Tomorrow we're headed to the pediatrician to continue this adventure. Right now he's out cold, wrapped up in his "banky," blissfully ignorant of the hand wringing his dad is doing.

grande skim angst

2007-04-04T08:43:00.000-05:00

Someone please spike my latte with Drano, or at the very least a strong single malt. It's come down to this - I'm sitting in a cafe on the Hill on a rainy Wednesday morning, pecking away at the Macbook keyboard, casting dirty looks at the somber and unattractive patrons surrounding me. I might have experienced a Kafka metamorphosis in my sleep and woke up a tragically hip, wanna-be. Is that my skin crawling or are those actual bugs? One thing is for certain - I'm a zombie today. In fact I'm half tempted to ask this crusty guy reading the Post obits on the couch next to me if I can have a bite of his brain. After all, he doesn't look like he uses it much and I haven't had any protein today. That's mostly because I need to save room for beer and hot dogs at the Nationals game this afternoon, assuming the weather clears up. If it doesn't, I don't really care. At least I'm not at the office today. After the Jackal's tummy problems last night, I would have zero game for office dynamics.

Around 1am the gagging cough followed by the most pathetic moans down the hall, jolted me from the bed. I knew this was not Baci, our chocolate lab, because his retching comes with heavy bass tones. This noise was all treble, so my heart sank into the acidic sea of my stomach. To borrow a line from one of my favorite Richard Prior stand-up pieces, I "opened the door, man, and the funk rushed out the room, knocked me to my goddamn knees." Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but there was a funk, and my knees did shake for a second. Then instinct took over and everything flowed rather smoothly, the only exception being Jack's angst over his "banky" being tossed down the steps with the rest of the puke-saturated refuse. I dabbed his hot body with a washcloth as he rested his weary head on my shoulder, and his mom brushed his hair with her fingers. I have to say, part of me enjoys it when he's under the weather because it's the only time his fierce independence takes a break and he actually cuddles with us. After a couple hours of him cat napping, tossing, turning in our bed, he decided he wanted to go it alone again, so we dispatched him back to his room and tried to salvage some sleep for ourselves.  

Before I passed out, I reflected for a few moments on the minor event and how it was handled and made a connection to something that has been nagging me about the recent sprouting of "alternadad" memoirs in books, mags, and blogs. While I really dig all of that stuff and admittedly find myself reading it on a fairly consistent basis, I can't help but wonder if it's merely a bunch of dads (some moms too - dooce, etc.) patting themselves too much on the backs for exercising their basic paternal instincts. I mean, the Jackal puked in his bed and I reacted to it with not much window dressing. Yes, I am sitting here blogging about it, and in some ways I am putting myself on trial with this debate. Is it pure enjoyment and journaling the parental experience or is it so much over-glorification (I'm too tired to check if that is a word)? More to come on this topic, but it's a seed worth planting here. At the end of the day, whether I'm a fan or not, this movement affects me. It's akin to a movie you walk away from with strong feelings of hatred - you might not have liked it, but it affected you in that it elicited a heavy emotional response, making it a successful piece of art.

Okay, back to life and my growling stomach. I wonder if any bars around here are open this early...

in like a lion, out like a jackal

2007-04-01T19:15:00.000-05:00

True to my word, here I am planted on the couch, one eye on the television, the other on the Jackal. Right now he is smashing two cell phones together like a pair of those inflatable thunder sticks you get at games, screaming "Yaaaaay!" In the wake of this display, Wifey asked me to put him to bed. But he needs to see the first inning. (Okay, he could care less, but that's the lame excuse I offered so I can put off getting up.) Beltran just hit into a close call of a ground out. Before the play, the announcer reminded viewers of how Beltran watched strike 3 blow by him to end 2006 for the Mets. For a second I swore I heard him say something under his breath to the effect of "while your degenerate ass wallowed on the cold bathroom floor..."

Obviously this game means nothing in the big picture of the season. There are too many games in the season for game one to matter. Not to mention, no one is giving the Cards much of a chance this year. As for my own expectations, I see them playing with heart and pride and making something of the season. But at the end of the day, I can go five or so years without the Cards doing much since they took it all last year. After all, if I went around barking about this season's win-loss record, I'd be no different from the entitled East Coast sports fans I like to shit on.

I shit on bloggers then became one. I refuse to do the same when it comes to East Coast sports views. My hypocrisy only goes so far.

Earlier my wife mentioned wanting to catch the Jose Andres vs. Bobby Flay match up on Iron Chef America. These days we have only one television hooked up to the cable, which happens to be free. One of these days I will pay someone to route the free cable to other rooms in the house. It's not at the top of the "new house project" list at the moment. Since the Cards are suddenly in a 5-0 hole, we're flipping between ESPN2 and the Food Network.

While Chef Andres sweats profusely over his skillet, I'll take a minute to rehash the weekend.

Just as March was going out like a lamb, the Jackal was roaring into year 2 of his life. To mark the occasion, we threw a birthday party. Things kicked off at 10am. For obvious reasons the invite list only included friends with kids. By 10am most parents are 3-4 hours into their day, so it made sense.

We love hosting parties and try to do it as often as we can. My wife takes no prisoners when it comes to cooking and entertaining. As for my part, well, I can glad hand with the best of them and have a certain knack for setting the mood. The only real drawback to hosting is the general inability to stick with one conversation for more than 5 minutes. Entertaining tends to keep you on your toes. In the case of this party, which entailed a dozen sugar-fueled rug rats buzzing about, I was lucky to engage in grownup chit chat for 60 seconds at a time.

Here are a few noteworthy interfaces I absorbed amidst chores like managing the camcorder, scolding Jack for throwing rocks at kids, bagging dog shit, dispensing juice boxes, taking out trash, etc.

Spiking the hell out of our bloodies at the bar (aka the kitchen), my friend Charles and I discussed, as we often do, the nuances of balancing a healthy (or gluttonous) social life with healthy parenting. We decided it makes the most sense to party on weeknights since a Thursday hangover at work is much more manageable than a Saturday hangover with kids in your face.
During one peaceful moment, when the kids swarmed around the sand box, I spotted two hot moms on the lawn and decided I would saunter into their conversation. The topic of said conversation was breasts, which initially elevated my eyebrows until I picked up the angle on this topic -- what happens to them when a woman stops breast feeding. One commented, "The party parts are the first to go." As I not-so-subtly shuffled away, I heard some comparison to "tube socks."
Since this was a morning party, the menu consisted of the usual suspects: bagels, lox, cream cheese, fruit. A one year old sat on a booster chair at the table as her parents (one Christian, the other Jewish, neither hard core about it) stood nearby. I pointed at the smoked salmon on her plate and commented on her adventurous palate. The mother explained, "she's getting in touch with her inner Jew."

When nap time rolled around, the house was still and my head was spinning, in a good way. On the back deck my wife and I had a smoke and shared party stories. I caught a bit of hell for saying "shit" while filming the cupcake decorating piece of the party, but I think she also liked it. After all, she has come to expect that kind of behavior from me, and eventually she will come to expect it from our son. You know, the sins of the father and all of that...

Happy Birthday, Jack! Here's to another year of keeping it real.

The Strikeout

2007-03-28T08:22:00.000-05:00

The other night I got over the sinking feeling that comes when I near the end of a book and finished a good read -- Neal Pollack's Alternadad. To melt my brain before heading to bed I threw on ESPN. During a Sports Center commercial break, ESPN's Sunday Night Baseball kickoff match up was announced:

Cardinals vs. Mets @ 8pm

If you follow baseball, you know this is a rematch of the 2006 NLCS, which turned out to be the most dramatic series of the postseason, making the World Series look like exhibition. In case you don't follow baseball, I'll share (rub in?) that the Cards won everything. East Coast biased reporters kicked and screamed about the Cards not deserving it since they had the worst record of any team in the playoffs and limped into the postseason but that's merely jealous hot air.

Speaking of these talking heads in the sports media, when my wife catches me indulging occasionally in the guilty pleasure of watching them scream at each other over small picture sports topics, she can't help but question two things: 1 - How small is their junk downstairs? 2 - Could any of these losers possibly have wives?

In any case, the announcement immediately burned itself onto my Sunday night slate. I'm all over it like a duck on a june bug, as my rabid Cardinal fan grandfather used to say. It also brought me back to Game 7 of that NLCS --one of the best games I never saw.

Wilco was playing at 930 Club that October night, and my friend Jay hooked me up last minute with a ticket. It's worth noting that Jay and I go back as far as college where the simple gesture of breathing usually spelled t-r-o-u-b-l-e. That said, I set my expectations appropriately. Little did I know I would surpass them beyond my wildest night terrors.

As I recall there were two openers. Two openers for a weeknight show would usually irritate an old man like me, but in this rare case I relished it because it provided a chance to catch the first few innings of Game 7 at a dive bar. A combination of nerves over the game and the desire to have a good buzz for the show, which we planned to hit around 10ish, led to me consuming a healthy dose of bourbon. And by healthy, I mean way too much. By the time we were in a cab headed for the show, a warm current of electricity coursed through my veins. The latest global news travesty being dissected on some talk radio show didn't stand a chance of busting my groove. It was show time, and I had mad game.

Despite our late arrival, we vultured great spots at 930's upstairs bar. From our envied perch, a slight crane of the neck and a nod of the head was all it took to cue another round of Chimay. "Picture perfect" hardly does justice in describing the scene. Soaking up the clean and true sounds of Wilco, drinking beer brewed by monks -- good karma for all my friends!

About an hour into the show, we decided a shot of tequila would make complete sense. The bartender liked the sound of that, so he poured 3 doubles (one for himself) of some top shelf brand, "on the house." Before we knocked our glasses together, I leaned over to Jay and joked, "I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight."

Down the hatch and my fate was sealed.

The post-shot cigarette did not help. On the contrary, it was like throwing a match into a roadside fireworks stand.

Suddenly my world felt like a cement mixer -- churning, spinning, heavy. I looked at Jay and told him I needed to roll. He urged me to stay and drink some water. I nodded in agreement and decided to hit the bathroom to pull myself together. No luck whatsoever, so I spilled from the bathroom door and assessed my options: fight the crowd to get back to the bar or get home immediately.

From the cab I texted a litany of drunken apologies to Jay then tried to look out the windows to maintain some shred of equilibrium. As the city light blurred by, I tried to talk myself back from the edge. My phone buzzed, so I assumed it was Jay texting back to give me shit, but I was wrong. It was another friend, Sam, updating me on the game, which had slipped my slippery mind by then:

Top 9. Molina went yard. 3-1 Cards.

"Pull over," I muttered to the driver. He obliged, and I leaned out the door and lost it all over the curb, right in front of a bus stop, which I remember being rather crowded for 11:something on a Thursday night.

As you can imagine, the driver was not thrilled. Three more pit stops of the same flavor led to his suggestion that I get out.

"No, no...I'm 33." Dry heave. "I have a kid" Spit. "Get me home, man. I'll pay double."

After begging him I started pleading with myself to get a grip. Beyond needing a sliver consciousness to tune in to the remains of Game 7, I knew I would be arriving home ahead of my wife, which meant facing and paying the Jack-sitter.

I dropped a $20 tip on the cabbie, then stumbled into the house. Let me tell you, the words oh my god, look at you are never encouraging, but that's what the sitter came with when she saw me. Fortunately she recognized that I had no game for chitchat. I stuffed a wad of cash into her hand and she was out.

My mind drove me toward the television in the kitchen, but my wrecked body took the wheel and detoured me to the cold bathroom floor where the rest of the night would play out in a series of text messages.

Jay: Where are you

Me: My bathroom floor. So sorry man

Sam: Bottom 9. 2 out, 2 on

The last thing I needed, a swarm of butterflies went to town in my weak stomach at this news. Shit, Cardinals, don't blow this.

Jay: Asshole. No worries

Me: Really sorry really

Sam: Bases loaded. Beltran up

A bit of relevant baseball knowledge: Carlos Beltran is absolute murder on the Cardinals. I can recall countless times he has stepped up in the clutch for an opposing team and broken my heart. Add to the drama that the Cardinals have a rookie closer on the mound and it looks like a major letdown in the works. It was too much. I had to see this at-bat. Alas, my arms didn't see it that way, so they refused to push off the floor. My legs were with my arms and couldn't care less about some at-bat. So I was relegated to waiting.

Sam: Strikeout. Cards win!

With a sigh of relief, I pulled a hand towel from the rack, tucked it under my tired head, and called it a night. An hour or so later, I woke up to my proud wife standing over me asking what the hell happened.

Here's what I told her: "The Cardinals are going to the World Series."

I've grown up so much since last October, really. This Sunday night will be my proving ground. When Beltran steps to the plate, I'll be planted soberly on the couch sipping green tea.

another day

2007-03-27T19:46:00.000-05:00

The pit in Ben’s stomach churns at about 5:01 am and reminds him that his life has become a zoo of rattling cages. It’s the same pit as yesterday and the day before, etc. Nerves come next, dry mouth too. He gingerly cranes his neck to glance at her sleeping next to him. No movement, so he guesses her demons are sleeping in this morning. Baby curls up like a shrimp next to her, waiting for the next round of mother’s milk. Gently he kisses the baby’s soft brow and rolls out of bed. He grabs some clothes as he tip-toes out of the room, the dog heavy on his heels.

He stares blankly at the coffee maker while getting dressed in the kitchen. The dog casts the same glazed stare at him. Neither of them knows quite what to do. Coffee sounds like the last thing he needs. A walk, somehow, is the last thing the dog wants so early in the morning. He trailed Ben downstairs out of conditioned loyalty and now wishes he was sprawled on his dog bed upstairs in the cold darkness again. Ben dumps the remnants of yesterday’s coffee and spills the muddy grounds of the cone into the sink before muttering, “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

Pennsylvania Avenue is empty; no surprise there. Panhandlers are fast asleep on park benches and makeshift cots. In the creepy stillness, Ben imagines himself to be on the set of a zombie flick and for a moment swears he sees one of the undead stumbling toward him half a block ahead. The dog sees it too but doesn’t feign much interest. As the zombie draws closer, Ben makes him out to be just another crack head walking off the comedown. He wonders if he would be better off trading places with this outcast. He considers if a broken soul is worse than a broken mind. When he smells the funk on the guy as he passes, he decides he would rather contend with the former today. At least he won’t make himself retch.

On the Capitol steps he sits and takes in the blurred view of the Mall. The first edition of mist lingers on the scene, casting dusty shadows and bending the morning light in a way that stings his eyes. As he pulls the brim of his ball cap lower, the burn in his eyes yields to a sudden stream to sweaty tears. A quick glance around proves he is still alone, so he doesn’t bother to wipe the wet trails from his cheeks. Recently he has become comfortable with the sadness, almost relying on it for some sense of purpose. It allows him to feel like he walks and moves in slow motion, like some tortured soul trailing off into the horizon at the end of a bad music video—his gait broken but determined to keep walking in spite of everything. He stammers and snorts as he breathes. This concerns the dog, who is still trying to decide how to respond to these new human emotions. He applies his wet nose to Ben’s neck and wags his tail, but his face is buried in his hands, hiding any potential glance of approval.

Anger shows up wearing a tattered black cape and 3 days worth of stubble. It backhands sadness in its quivering jaw, calls it a pussy, and sends it along. Ben shudders and gazes ahead, deciding, for the 23rd time, he will kill that son of a bitch.

“Matter of when, not if…”