Christmas Letter 2007 - Erratum

My sister noticed a reference to a wonderful 2006 and best wishes for 2007 in my Christmas Letter, and I apologize - I had no idea it was 2007, I must have blacked out for a while. No, seriously, unintentional mistakes in my Christmas Letters are like a "Where's Waldo" - there's always at least one, you just have to look for it.

Christmas Letter 2007

So I was doing a bit of online Christmas shopping the other day and I had to fill out my billing/shipping information, and after ‘name’ there was a space for ‘Alias’ (true story). And sure, I probably shouldn’t have been shopping for that sawed-off shotgun on-line, but hey, I’m a busy guy! Seriously, Alias? I think we have finally reached the point at which on-line retailers are asking for a bit too much information. But, who am I to question the retail industry? So, greetings from Paul, a.k.a. Pauly, Paul Sean, Daddy, Rod, Boon, Spider, Curtin, Curty, Benny the Nose, Nicky the Scar, Sweetie, Lovey, Tennessee Slim, Ace, Drapes, The Boston Strangler, the Fonz, and Mordicai “Three Fingers” Brown. Welcome to the Curtin Compound – Official Home of the Curtin Christmas Letter 2007!

Actually, now that our Julia (now 6) is taking an art class, welcome to the four square feet of our house not currently occupied by her art projects. Wow. And we thought she churned out a lot of art projects on her own (for further discussion of said topic, please see Christmas Letter 2006 on my blog at http://pscurtin.blogspot.com/ and, for the uninitiated, for every Curtin Christmas Letter since they began ‘lo these many years ago - as well as other inane musings from a frustrated writer). Kat swears to me that this art class is only once per week, but a six year old girl cannot possibly churn out this much shi…stuff while working for an hour, one day per week. I think she is secretly running a sweatshop of four and five year old art students, and she slaps a “Julia” label on their work and brings it home (hey, it works for Nike). And she doesn’t bring these projects home piecemeal (or, ‘one-at-a-time’ for the idiots reading this Letter), instead, once every month, she comes home with a garbage bag (Irony Alert!) full of that month’s work. And we have to sit in the den while she “reveals” her projects. Meanwhile, I am knee-deep in glitter, paper, wood, Styrofoam, and tissue paper. You wanna do something about global warming, go after the art teachers – there can’t be a tree left on this planet because they have all been turned into paper and wood projects that now reside in my house. I’m thinking of starting a rainforest in my basement. OK, that being said, she is sooo proud of herself during these art shows that we can’t even stand it. She is a sweet, happy, sensitive, precocious (again, ‘bright’ or ‘inventive’ for the idiots) little girl, and a joy to be around. She still loves her Irish Step Dancing, skiing, soccer, and yes, art class, and has proven to be a wonderful first grade student.

Her sister Emma meanwhile, is now 8 and streaking toward double digits and (GASP!) pre-teenage years at light speed. Over my strenuous objections (which gives you a little window into how effective my objections are in my house, strenuous or otherwise) Kat took Emma to her first concert this year – the American Idol Tour. She had such a good time that she quit school, moved out, bought a VW bus, painted it rainbow, and follows the Idol Tour, supporting herself by selling organic grilled cheeses to the other “Idolheads”. OK, actually, that didn’t really happen, but it was one of the irrational thoughts that went through my head when I found out my baby girl was going to her first concert. Emma continues to amaze us with her maturity, intelligence, and grace. She is an honor student in third grade and she loves her Irish Step Dancing, skiing, soccer, lacrosse, and Theatre group (the Fall performance found her as a woodland mobster – youse got a problem wit that? - in a modern adaptation of The Tortoise and the Hare called, “Put Your Money on the Bunny”. Meanwhile, I lost a cool five grand because I thought the freaking rabbit was winning this time).

As for our youngest daughter, well, let’s just say that Tropical Storm Annie has increased in strength over the Atlantic Ocean, and is now Hurricane Annie – and she’s bearing down on the coast of Connecticut. Shutter the windows and hide the valuables for the love of God! Annie is three and a half and, quite frankly, I can’t do her justice in print. But, since that is the only medium currently available to me, here goes: Trouble. Also, dangerous. And while we’re here: strong-willed, stubborn, train wreck, cute as they come, dress-wearing (always), necklace wearing (always), glitter shoes wearing (always), tiara-wearing (as often as we let her get away with), smart as a whip, hug-loving, cuddle-loving, piercing blue eyes, behind which only the bravest dare tread. If you think of the most frustrating thing you can think of, she is there. If you think of the most wonderful thing you can imagine, she is there too. I need her to grow up tomorrow, and I need her to stay three forever. She’s incredible. She’s Annie – and God help the guys that will one day (faaaaaar off in the distance) try to court her. Oh, and she started Irish Step dancing this year – and the third kid is free!! (With four you get an egg roll, but we’re all done).

Kat turned 40 this year. I have no additional story, I just like writing that.

OK, actually, in honor of her 40th, I bankrupted our family…I mean I threw her an amazing party under a big tent in the yard of our dear friends the Elys. It was an incredible night and she looked gorgeous (Redundant Alert!). In fact, it went so well that we will be holding each of the girls wedding receptions under tents in the Ely front yard – thanks Gina and Alex! Kat continues to be the best thing that ever happened to me and she shows no signs of regretting our 11 years of marriage (but the nightly sobbing into her pillow arouses a bit of suspicion). We had another wonderful year watching the girls grow, and going on great vacations thanks to the generosity of our relatives and friends. Two(!) family reunions (McMahon and Curtin – no drinking going on there!); skiing in Vermont with our Hayes cousins (lousy snow, great company!); Sea Island in the spring (thanks John and Kate!); Marthas Vineyard in the summer (thanks Matt and Kathy! and Pat and Bob!); our annual pilgrimage to the Saratoga racetrack (thanks Vineyards! – Andy tried to run into a police horse, but they made up over a couple of $300 bottles of wine – long story, but funny!). And I had to save a spot once again in the Letter to thank our dear friends the Fords for another amazing vacation, this time to Costa Rica (and a special Curtin Letter shout out to our new amigos the Graves, Cox’, Bowlins, Rocchios, Kleins, Lacys – what an amazing trip!) Costa Rica is unlike anywhere we have ever been – pretty much all rain forest with little villages carved out. It is lush and beautiful, and we spent a lot of time hiking and taking zip line canopy tours, and taking an incredible ATV tour of the rain forest. One word of caution, we went during rainy season and Costa Rica takes its rainy season quite seriously apparently – picture seven straight days of wading through chest-deep water while someone constantly sprays you with a fire hose, and you’ll have a pretty good idea of how we spent our time outdoors in Costa Rica. But the company, the food, the drinks, and the location were spectacular so we had the time of our lives – and we dried off eventually.

As for me, well, what do I have to complain about? I have my health, the best family (all of you), world-class friends (all of you), a nice house in the world’s best town, the game-winning goal that won my men’s-league hockey team the league Championship (go Lobsters!), and a birdie on my first hole on Pinehurst #2 in September – I continue to have it all.

We hope that 2007 was great for you and that 2008 will be even better. We hope that Santa finds your house. We hope you made it all the way through this letter.

Was Grampa Joe a druggie?

As I have mentioned previously in this space, I am a movie lover (actually, I just mentioned it in the column below, penned only yesterday, but I kind of like how this sentence starts; I'm intrigued to find out what I write next). I happened to run across Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory the other day - not the most recent one starring Johnny Depp (who is a tremendous actor, loved him in The Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy, but he seems like he's trying a bit too hard as his version of Willy), but the classic version starring the immortal Gene Wilder (quick true story - I was hitting golf balls at a local public course this Fall and who should walk over and set up right next to me...yes, Gene Wilder! Apparently he lives close by, but, I mean, come on! Blazing Saddles!!!!, Young Frankenstein!!!!, Stir Crazy!!!!, The Producers!!!!!, Willy Wonka!!! standing right next to me hitting golf balls! I was speechless. He must be pushing 70 by now, and he was a little thin, but he hit the ball pretty straight, and he was nice enough to offer me the rest of his basket of balls when he was done hitting. Which, of course I accepted if only to have the chance to speak to him for a few minutes and thank him for all of the laughter he brought me for my entire life. Very nice guy.)

Anyhoo, I have few rules in life, but one of them is that if Gene Wilder is in a movie I have just run across - especially if that movie appears on the short list above - I am watching it. So, a few nights ago when Willy Wonka came on, I was in. And maybe it was because I was overtired, or maybe I just finally saw things as they really are, but I'm pretty sure Grandpa Joe was a drug addict who manipulated Charlie into taking him to the Chocolate factory to satisfy his drug jones. Think about it, the man exhibits all of the classic signs of a drug abuser - let's take them in order:

1. He was rail thin and pasty white - the fashion industry doesn't call this look "heroin-chic" for nothing.

2. He had no job, no money, and he was a freeloader who lied in bed all day, every day. How selfish is that? When the movie starts Charlie comes home from school, and his Mother comes home from her 14-hour day doing other peoples' laundry, while these four deadbeats are lying in the only bed in the house which sits right in the middle of the biggest room. Tell me that's not exactly what a crack den looks like. Grandpa Joe freely admits that he hasn't been out of bed in twenty years, so that means that Mom is emptying bedpans as well, which must be a great job when all they eat every day is cabbage soup. And how ripe does that crew smell? I hope Mom hits them with a hose every few weeks or the smell would be unbearable!

3. he has a willing enabler in his daughter (Charlie's Mom). I used to feel sorry for Charlie's Mom because she busts her ass all day, everyday, and when whiny Charlie hits the freaking candy lotto, he goes right for Grandpa Joe to share the prize! I'd have gone bullsh_t on him if he tried that! (And while we're on the subject, people talk about Veruka Salt's sense of entitlement, but what about Charlie's? The entire first half of the movie he's whining at whoever will listen that he deserves one of the five golden tickets because it would mean more to him. Well, la-di-freaking-da, don't we have a high opinion of our self!? Four billion people in the world, but he thinks he is top 5 most deserving! Jees, Veruka got a bad wrap, in my opinion). But back to Mom, I used to feel bad for her, but she's just an enabler at this point - another clear sign of Grandpa Joe's drug abuse. I mean, what person working 14-hour days, doing all of the cooking and housework, and eating nothing but cabbage soup while trying to raise a teenager wouldn't lose it on the four grandparents after a couple of weeks, never mind twenty years! Get off your asses and go get jobs as WalMart greeters you deadbeats!

4. Grandpa exhibited clear signs of hoarding. When everyone else was asleep (and went to sleep starving, by the way), Grandpa Joe pulls another Wonka Bar out from behind his pillow for he and Charlie. Way to plot with the kid while the rest of the family starves Grandpa Joe. Classic drug-seeking behavior.

5. Grandpa Joe always had a little money stashed for "tobacco" (he tells Charlie that he used his tobacco money to get Charlie the first chocolate bar). Yeah, pull this one Joe, it plays jingle bells. A little "medicinal marijuana" is more like it.

6. When Grandpa does finally get to his feet, it is to score some quick and easy cash and prizes. Yeah, you're too sick to get out of bed for twenty years, but as soon as the kid is throwing freebies in your face, you miraculously get better?! (another example of Mom's enabling by the way).

7. As soon as he stands up, Grandpa is staggering around like he is drunk.

8. When they get into Wonka's factory, he encourages Charlie to sign his life away, just so he (Grandpa) can get into the factory: "sign away Charlie, we've got nothing to lose." Yeah, maybe you don't Grandpa, you drug addled old coot, but Charlie has his whole life in front of him.

9. As soon as the coast is clear, he convinces Charlie to steal some Fizzy Lifting Drink so Grandpa Joe could get "high". Two signs of drug seeking here: encouraging others to commit crimes on your behalf, and using the stolen substance for your own pleasure. Man, they can write drug abuser textbooks on this guy.

10. Encourages Charlie to take the everlasting gobstopper to Slugworth - or, in drug parlance - switching dealers and double-crossing your first dealer when you think he has screwed you.

And you know what? Grandpa Joe played everyone perfectly because he scored the biggest prize in the end - the factory and all its contents. I wonder how long it took for him to sell the Oompa Loompas into slavery and bankrupt the company to support his drug habit? If they did a Willy Wonka 2, Grandpa Joe would have have looked like Al Pacino at the end of Scarface.

Do you go to the movies?

I am a movie lover. With three kids, we hardly ever actually go to the movies anymore but with 1800 channels on our cable system now, plus pay-per-view, Netflicks, and a DVR (digital video recorder for the uninformed - kind of a built in TiVo. And if you don't know what TiVo is, well, I don't know what to tell you), we can have our choice of movies right at home. In fact, I'm pretty sure going to the movies will soon go the way of the drive-in. I still manage to see every movie I want to, and I don't have to take out a home equity loan for two tickets, a medium popcorn and two bottles of water. (But, I really need to buy a fake movie theatre butter machine, because that is the only reason to go to the movies in a theatre anymore. A few pumps of that stuff and you have enough processed fat and chemicals to kill a horse and, of course, you need the equivalent of two Bounty rolls of napkins to get the grease off of your hands, and most of it sticks to the first few handfuls of popcorn on the top, so eating those couple of handfuls is like cramming a butter-soaked sponge into your mouth, while the rest of the bag tastes like chalk and sand balls because its been sitting in the popcorn-display-window-thingy since the first Jaws movie came out, but I defy you to find me something quite so delicious. But I digress.) Nor do I have to listen to five cell phone conversations as I try to watch the movie. Or stand up nine times because the idiot in the middle of the row feels the need to leave the theatre every five seconds. Or miss a key part of the movie because idiot #2 can't remember where he was sitting and stands in the aisle (right in my line of sight) for twenty minutes while he looks around. Or, the newborn the idiot couple (we'll call them #3 and #4 and give the kid a pass) brought asleep in a car seat baby bucket decides to wake up and scream (and idiots 3 and 4 are somehow shocked by this). Or if (read: when) my lovely wife (if you think for one second I'm calling her an idiot, you haven't been paying attention) has a question about the plot, I can pause the movie so we can chat while not missing any of the action. Yes, watching at home is a much more enjoyable experience. And I used to lament not seeing the next big blockbuster right away, so as not to be behind the times or out of the loop on the next great movie discussion, but I have found that pretty much all of our friends have young kids and they are in the same boat as we are. In fact, just last weekend we were talking about "Knocked Up" (very, very funny by the way), and all of us were talking about it as if the movie had just come out. But, it had been in the movie theatre six months before - we were only talking about it now because it was finally on cable, so we all finally saw it. So, if you can deal with the six month lag (and the aforementioned lack of movie popcorn butter, watching movies at home is quite a pleasant experience. The only downside to at home is finding the time to watch.

Fortunately for me, I don't sleep much. Actually, that is rather problematic because I love sleep, or, at least I used to love sleep when I got it. In college - once we were Juniors and had some schedule flexibility - my roommate Mark and I would schedule all of our classes in the afternoon just so we could go out late, and sleep in, and still make all (and by all, I mean, of course most. and by most, of course I mean many. and by many, of course I mean some.) of our classes. The other guys in our apartment started calling our room the Bat Cave because we were rarely seen before noon. And it was great, but I wish I could have seen myself 20 years later (I can't believe I was in college 20 years ago, but that is a whole other column) because I would have soaked it up and enjoyed that sleep so much more. Because once you have a job and kids, the very first thing to go is sleep and, near as I can tell, you never get it back.

I am very jealous of a person who can pop right up in the morning, wide awake, ready to tackle the day. I am not that person. If it were up to me, the day would start at, oh, 11:30ish. This lack of sleep is made worse (compounded, if you will) by the fact that I have always been a night owl. I have no problem at all staying up until 1 or 2 in the morning, even if I have to drag myself out of bed at 7:30 the next morning. And its not like I have a choice - I cannot for the life of me fall asleep until 11:30-midnight even if I turned off the light and went into complete shutdown mode. I used to do this and it would compound (exacerbate, if you will) the problem because I would toss and turn and watch the time tick by wondering when I would fall asleep. So, finally, I gave up and just went with the fact that I am a night owl; that's just how I'm wired.

But, one of the advantages to being a night owl is the chance to watch a good movie - and trust me, there is always a good, cheesy, or bad but so bad its good movie somewhere on tv (I think its a law). Last night, for example, I saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid which happens to be one of the top 10 greatest movies of all time (along with the two Godfather movies - yes, there are only two, despite what you may have seen or heard, Caddyshack, Animal House, The Quiet Man, the Indiana Jones trilogy, The Sting, any James Bond film and the Star Wars movies. OK, some of the 10 have more than one film in the series, but you get the idea.) And what's great is I can't go five days without one of these movies being shown somewhere, especially Star Wars lately.

I have been on a Star Wars roll the last six months and I'm such a junkie, I can't turn them off no matter how often I've seen them. Maybe it has something to do with the Force as a concept that fascinates me. These guys are using a mystical power to move objects, knock people/things down, speak to the dead (or at least the no-longer-with-us-but-glowing-apparition-guys). Do you remember that scene in the first (well, third, well, original) Star Wars movie when Obi Wan is speaking to Luke from beyond the grave or wherever he is? (actually, you are probably not a geek, so you likely do not remember it) Anyway, Obi Wan is telling Luke to "trust his feelings" and "use the Force". Meanwhile, he's been "dead" for days, so this is a pretty neat trick - and Obi Wan showed remarkable restraint waiting so long to speak to Luke. If I had the powers of the Force, I'd be waaay to tempted to constantly interrupt people's lives. [At the deli counter just before ordering] "Luke, have the ham and cheese, the roast beef isn't good today." [On the highway] "Luke, take the Merritt Parkway, there's an accident on 95." [On the golf course] "Luke, there's a little wind up here, I'd hit the five iron." Do you think there is an on/off switch for this sort of conversation, because it would probably get pretty annoying after a while to have some old dead guy giving you advice from the great beyond: "Paul, its 1:30 in the morning, go to sleep already."

Organic Guilt

From the home office in Tallulah, Georgia, I present the Top Ten Reasons I haven't blogged in a month:

1. I was attempting to honor the Hollywood writers' strike.

2. I forgot my log in ID and password.

3. After almost a year posting, I'm fresh out of original ideas.

4. I was caught up in the passion of Hillary's ideas and I've been on the campaign trail for a month.

5. Lost the will to write after witnessing another Red Sox World Series victory.

6. The guy I'm plagiarizing my stuff from hasn't posted in a while.

7. Recovering from breast-reduction surgery.

8. Mistakenly believed the story that the Internet was passe and everyone went back to communicating face-to-face.

9. Trying to catch up on my Oprah's Book Club list.

10. I have been traveling almost constantly for the past month and this is the first time I have found time to post since my journeys began. My apologies to the four people who read this blog.



But, since I'm here, I might as well write.



Hi. How have you been? I've been well, thank you - a bit haggard after my traveling schedule, but no worse for the wear. I don't really mind travel too much - I mean, being away from my wife and kids sucks, and the work piles up on my desk, but the actual travel never really bugged me...until now. And that is because the Green Guilt Police are making it so less fun to travel. And I know, it is very un-PC to say anything against the environmental movement these days, what with Al Gore quickly becoming more influential than the Pope, but the Green Guilt Police are starting to annoy me. And don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to doing my share to help save the planet from whatever ails her - after all, I now only bathe in rainwater I collect from my gutters - sure there is all manner of sticks, mud, dirt, dead flies, and disease-carrying muck, but I am all about doing my part. But what gets me is the all-consuming, I'm-going-to-influence-every-second-of-your-life theme to this latest environmental movement that has me annoyed.

For example, I was in the San Francisco airport the other day and I was washing my hands in the men's room, and when I went to get a paper towel, the towel dispenser had the following sign on it: "Take only as many paper towels as you need - do your part to help the environment." And I read this and I was thinking a couple of things: first, what if I have really big hands, or I got them extra wet and sudsy? Are people monitoring paper towel usage to gauge the effectiveness of the sign? But mostly, I was thinking, "Damn it!!!! How did they figure us out??? What kind of geniuses are these environmentalists??? For years, I have been recruiting a counter-environmental movement with only one purpose: to slowly kill the planet by using two to three (depending on size and thickness) extra paper towels that we didn't really need. It was the perfect plan - for years I had painstakingly convinced 1/2 to 3/4 of the six billion people on the planet (hard numbers are difficult to come by, what with the birth and death rates being so varied) that the earth was becoming uninhabitable, and that paradise awaited us beyond the grave. Well, that took a lot of convincing, I don't mind telling you - the language barrier alone was positively maddening at times. Just getting the first billion took like six months. And then there were the doubting Thomases of the bunch who kept asking me if I was committed to the movement, that they had seen me using the automatic hand-dry thing on several occasions (you know, to try to throw the environmentalists off my trail), and did I really have what it took to get this done. And trying to recruit three billion people to join my fiendish plot without word leaking out? Well, let's just say that I spent more than a few nervous nights scouring the Internet for word. And then there was the training - how to surreptitiously take two to three extra paper towels (depending on ...well, you know) without being scene; when to abort a mission; how to lose a suspected tail; what to do in upscale restaurants and hotels that had linen towels (three words: toilet paper rolls). But, in the end, it was all worth it. I had successfully recruited the (approximate) number needed to destroy the world using only extra (two to three, depending on size and thickness) paper towels. Our training was impeccable. Our mission clear. In only a matter of hundreds of thousands of years (well, possibly millions, but hey, I'm an optimist) we would use two to three (again, depending on size and thickness) extra paper towels each time we used a public rest room, and I WOULD DESTROY THE WORLD, HA HA HA HA (fiendish laughter)!!!! But, damn those environmentalists, damn them to hell. How could they have learned of my plan? How could they know? Well, they may have won the battle, but we'll win the war! (in fact - and don't tell anyone you've read this - what the environmentalists don't know is that I have a back-up plan to destroy the world in only several million years: taking an extra Kleenex and throwing it away without using it - they'll never suspect it - HA, HA, HA!!!!!! Take that Al Gore!!!

In Memorium

Were Marcel Marceau's funeral and eulogy pantomimed?

Flying Bazaar

I recently took a plane trip - not an unusual occurrence in my current occupation - and I have to comment on the state of our airlines. Now, I realize I am not blazing new trails by ranting about airlines, I mean, how many "tiny bags of peanuts" jokes have you heard from comedians over the years? I have no proof, but I am quite sure that right after the Wright Brothers invented the airplane, stand up comedians stampeded to Kitty Hawk, NC to be the first one to complain about airline food. By the way, Mr. and Mrs. Wright, where were you going with naming your sons Orville and Wilbur? I don't want to offend all of you Orvilles and Wilburs reading this blog - of which there must be hundreds - but, seriously Orville and Wilbur? What was the thought process in the hospital when they were born? Mrs. Wright: "Oh honey, its a boy - what a beautiful, wonderful boy!" Mr. Wright: "He sure is a perfect, handsome boy - let's name him Wilbur!" Mrs. Wright: "OK, but promise me our next son will be Orville - we have to grab that name before someone else in the family does!" I like to think the parents were conspiring for a lifetime of inside jokes. They would just sit in the audience at school plays and recitals and science fairs and crack up when their kids' names were read out loud: "I cannot believe we named them Orville and Wilbur" (wiping tears of laughter from their eyes) "man, that never gets old!" Even today some of the names parents come up with sound like they lost some sort of bet and the punishment was naming their kid after a J Crew color or an organic vegetable: "Fennel, Shallot, come down for supper - and make sure your brother Loden washes his hands!" But I digress.

I am not one who generally complains to the customer-facing airline representatives - the counter people, the flight attendants. First of all, they have little to nothing to do with whatever my complaint happens to be - weather delays, mechanical problems, annoying person cutting his nails in the seat next to me. Second, they are not paid well enough to deal with all of the whining and complaining they already get (if I were in their shoes, I would be punching people left and right every time they tried to fit a full-sized suitcase into the overhead bin and then yelling at me when it won't fit, or asking to switch seats with fourteen people so they can sit next to their spouse, or having one last inane cell phone conversation ten minutes after they were politely asked to turn it off so we can take off). Third, I feel sorry for them because they are the face of a corporation and take all of the abuse, while the decision-makers get off Scot-free (and by the way, how did that expression start? Who is Scott and why was he freed, and why was his freedom so noteworthy that a saying was coined to memorialize said freedom?) So, unless a customer-facing person is directly responsible for my complaint, I prefer to remain silent and then write a scathing letter to the powers-that-be, who then throw my scathing letter in the circular file and have their secretary send me a form letter. But at least I have you to complain to.

Food. I understand that every airline on the planet is either in bankruptcy, fighting to avoid bankruptcy, or just emerging from bankruptcy protection, so they are all cutting corners where they can. Food service seems like the #1 choice to cut, and I am quite ok with that. If I want microwaved chicken-like glob, overcooked vegetables and a stale roll I'll stay home and eat my wife's cooking (cue the rim shot - ba-ching!) Just kidding honey - you are a wonderful cook! (she really is an incredibly good cook, but that joke was just begging to be written. Man, now I'm in trouble; I'll be eating microwave popcorn for dinner for a month! The sacrifices I make for my art...) But, now that the airlines have announced that they are no longer serving food, it has somehow given carte blanche to every idiot traveler to bring any food they want onto the plane. And a turkey sub is apparently well down of the list of these folks' culinary choices, because now, at best, the inside of the airline smells like the foodcourt at a mall and at worst it smells like the open air bazaar of some third world city. Really sir, a turkey sandwich and bag of chips wasn't going to tide you over for a few hours? You really had to get the muchu pork, fried rice, baked stuffed goat head and cabbage stew? I have to go straight to a meeting when I get off the plane and I smell like I just did a double shift on the fry-o-lator at Arby's. And everyone who brings this picnic basket-sized feast is somehow shocked - shocked - when they spill curry mustard sauce all over themselves and their carry on! Yeah buddy, the picnic table that was available to you on the last flight has somehow, inexplicably been replaced with a pulldown tray table the size of a cereal box, go figure.

Seats: Now, I'm 6' 4" (hi Meg!), so I don't have a lot of room on planes to begin with, but we are seriously at the point of airplane seats the size of my kids' car seats. I have no idea how fat people fly, because I can barely squeeze into the seat as it is and my knees are so wedged into the seat in front of me that the muchu pork guy is using my thighs to hold his drink and dessert. And the person in front of me (who is a little 5' 2" weasel and has room to stick his feet straight out in front of him and still not touch the seatback) invariably thinks there is something wrong with his recliner button, so he jams backward four hundred times giving me a total knee replacement sans anaesthetic. But that seatback had better be in the full upright position on takeoff and landing! Cause you know, if the plane is going down or up that 2 inches of angle difference really matters to your safety and well-being.

Bathrooms: I think they should be smaller. It is a tad too roomy in there, what with the 4' height and 2' width - they are a little too comfortable. I mean, I can still get in there if I bend over while leaning back and slightly to the side, while resting one foot gently upon the sink and an arm on the mirror. Which easily frees one hand at a 90 degree angle, pinned to my side to unzip, aim, control the flow and re-zip. No complaints there.

Yes, what a privilege it is to be alive in this golden age of air travel.

I'm a Wimp

There, I said it. Hi, I'm Paul and I am have Wimpy Tendencies (WT). (You respond, "Hi, Paul"). I have had WTs for as long as I can remember, but I think they first manifest themselves when I got braces and as they began to work, I was in debilitating, eat nothing but pudding and milkshakes for a week pain. Phew, what a relief to finally be able to say it. (Of course, for those who know me, this is akin to announcing the sky is blue). And I'm not a total wimp mind you - I mean, I played all of the hit and get hit sports as a youth - ice hockey, football, baseball, rugby (and I still play ice hockey, so there). And I have become quite the do-it-yourselfer around the house I don't mind telling you, so I know my way around a tool chest and a tool shed. So, I am quite comfortable with my masculinity, thank you very much. But, I do have wimp tendencies, of that let there be no doubt. For example, I usually cry when my daughters make me a card. And I have been known to well up while watching poignant commercials, or the end of a chick flick I have been dragged to, or after one of those Olympic retrospectives (those always get me). And ok, I may have sort of cried when my wife and I were watching the finale of the Biggest Loser, when all of the fatties revealed how much weight they lost and how it had changed their lives. Well, it was touching all right, shoot me! So, honestly, I have no problem with that side of me (and my wife thinks its cute). But the problem is that, as a husband, father and even as a 30-something male, I exist in a world where I'm not allowed to show that side of me. Our society looks down upon the sensitive male in most circumstances.

For example, I got my haircut today. And I'm terrified of scissors. Ok, that's not really true. But I go to a barber who has a woman (not unattractive) who does the pre-haircut hair washing. And my barber is pretty old school - that's part of the reason I like going there (another reason is that I like the way he cuts my hair). And part of that old school haircut experience I like is that he uses a straight razor to cut the hair on the back of my neck and my sideburn area - very cool. Also, he has the hair-washing person do the hot-towel-on-face-while-my-hair-is-being-washed-thing - and herein lies the problem. While I really like the feeling of the hot towel thing (eventually), sometimes that towel comes out of the steamer thing quite hot. Really, really hot. Like 'a layer of skin was just stripped from my face' hot. And the attractive hair wash woman always asks "Does that feel ok?" Now, for a guy like me with wimpy tendencies, I ask you what kind of impossible position does that question put me in? I will submit that this is a must lie situation. I mean, what I really want to tell the woman is to take that thing off my face immediately because my face is melting. But, how would I look to this woman, and to the other guys that are in their for their haircuts? That towel could literally be on fire when it is applied to my face and I don't think I could say anything.

And what about at the doctor's office? I am terrified of needles. But what am I supposed to tell the nurse (99 times out of 100, a woman) when she asks for an arm to jab? That I need another nurse in the room who's hand I can hold? Because that's what I'm thinking. But no, I have to hold my arm out there like the masculine dude I am even though I'm crying like a baby on the inside - again, a must lie situation.

And what about when my daughters are screaming because there is a big spider in their bedroom? Do I tell them that I'd rather be diving under the covers with them than killing this gigantic, hairy, freaky, leggy thing? Or do I tell them in a calm, fatherly voice that I'll handle it (and then pray the thing doesn't move while I shut my eyes and whack at it with a shoe, because if it moves and I miss it, I am running for the hills). Lie. Lie. Lie.

I think that's why I hate horror movies so much - getting the shi..stuff scared out of my is not my idea of a good time - and exposes my wimpy tendency to scream like a five year old every time something scares me.

So, I guess I'm trapped until society recognizes the error of its ways. Maybe I can start a support group for other guys with WT (wimpy tendencies). Maybe we can one day walk through the world without this Scarlett WT on our chests. But until that day comes...kill your own spiders cause they freak me out.

Vacation

You may or may not have noticed that I haven't posted in a while. We've had several trips in the last month (including two family reunions - hi relatives!) and with summer in full swing, my time to blog has been limited. But, we're back and better than ever! And speaking of back, I was driving back from upstate NY the other day (and just to clear up a popular misconception, I was north of Albany so I really was in upstate NY. I hate to get regional on you the blog viewer, but as an upstate New York native (Syracuse by birth, lived in Vorheesville, Lake Placid and Albany), one of my pet peeves is people in the New York City area who consider anything above the Bronx as "upstate". For example, I had a conversation at a party this summer with a woman who told me she was from upstate NY. And I got all excited because I love playing the name game and trying to find out if we've ever lived near one another. So I asked her where she was from and she said, 'Katonah'. After I finished laughing and fought off the urge to pour my beer on her, I regained my composure and politely informed her that unless there is a Kotonah that is a suburb of Rochester, Katonah is nowhere near upstate NY. Now, for those of you not from around here, let me put this in perspective: Katonah is in Westchester County. Roughly 25 miles northeast of New York City. From Katonah, you could drive to Connecticut in about 10 minutes. A commuter line to New York City runs through Katonah. Katonah is where Martha Stewart lives and she would last five minutes in upstate NY. There is nary a gun rack, domestic canned beer, snowblower, snowmobile, or pick up truck (with a crack in the windshield) within 120 miles of Katonah. So this woman is placing herself in the same 'upstate NY' category as say, a woman who lives in Messina, NY where it is so close to Canada you can spit across the boarder, or a person in Buffalo, NY who has to shovel 300 feet of snow off of their driveway - and then winter comes. So, for the record, let me establish that if you live close enough to New York City that you can say "the City" and people know you are talking about New York City, you do not live "upstate". My minimum upstate NY claimant: Albany, NY - and I will not argue about this, it is simply fact.)

Anyhoo, I was driving back from upstate NY and I pulled behind a minivan that had two Jesus fish on it. Even if you are not Christian, you can probably recognize a Jesus fish, basically an oval and triangle stick figure drawing of a fish. And because its been a while since you were in school, a little history lesson: during the time of Roman persecution, early Christians used the symbol to indicate that a Mass was being held at a particular location (the neon signs that they first favored often led them to a date with a lion or two in the Colosseum). But, even if I didn't recognize this particular symbol, the name of Jesus was written inside each of the ovals. And all of this is fine - if you are an avid reader of my blog you know my feelings about bumper stickers, but whatever, to each their own. But why two? I would think that one Jesus fish, especially if it included the name Jesus within it, would be enough to convey the message you are trying to convey. So does the first one establish your gravitas and the second one drives the point home? So you see the first one and think, "OK, this guy is a fan of Jesus, that's cool." And then you see the second one and I suppose you're meant to think, "Wow, now here is a driver of a 1988 Toyota Sierra that really, really, really, loves Jesus, because any idiot can have one Jesus fish, but when you have two, well, forget it, the guy is a walking saint. But where does it end? What if a guy in his neighborhood sees the two Jesus fish, but thinks that he is more devout that the owner of the Dos Jesus Minivan, so he runs out and puts a third Jesus fish. So now, Dos sees Tres and all of a sudden he can't see out his back window because he has a school of Jesus fish on it. Where does it end? (Actually, come to think of it, I bet that's how the Cold War started, but with missiles instead of Jesus fish). Can we just agree that one Jesus fish establishes your bona fides as a Christian? Can I get a ruling on this?

And speaking of unnecessary build-ups, I watched a lot of local weather lately due to the fact that I was hoping for good weather for our various trips (and by the way, isn't it a little redundant to call yourself the eyewitness news? We all know what newspeople do, so we don't have to spell it out do we? I don't hear anyone clamoring for a local, hearsay newscast. "Good evening, I'm Paul Curtin and here is what I heard a bunch of other news stations reporting..." Yes, I get it, you have cute news bunnies in Channel 5 windbreakers on the scene. Eyewitness - I understand).
Can we also settle on a Doppler number that all weathermen can agree on? I was watching more than one station and we got a Doppler 5000, a Doppler 7000, and something called an Accu-Weather Doppler (I think it was turbo charged with the premium leather heated seats, but I'm not sure). But despite what I am sure are huge Doppler Differences, they all seemed to come up with the same forecast, and remarkably, they were all almost right! I'm pretty sure the Doppler-makers are the same guys who manufacture razor blades because I keep getting bigger numbers of those too. It seems like only yesterday I was shaving with a single blade. Now, I have so many freaking blades on my razor that it looks like I'm shaving with a house shutter. I mean, how close a shave do you really need? ("Well, sure, I can get a pretty close shave with seven blades, but what if I want to take two or three layers of skin too?") Any more blades and I'll need to register it as a weapon! And thankfully it is usually a smooth shave, but have you ever cut yourself with one of those five blade puppies? It looks like a suicide attempt! There have to be overtired, or hungover, or jittery guys all over the world who are being hauled off to the psych ward by their fearful wives because they have to use a roll of toilet paper to staunch the bleeding from a razor nick! Enough! We need legislation! I'm thinking three blades have to give you a sufficiently close shave, any thing after that, I'm calling the police - or better yet, the local eyewitness news.

Bath Time

Among my many duties as a husband and father is bath time for our kids. Now, I don't mind bath time (well, usually), because the kids have a great time in the bath and it always puts me in a good mood when they laugh and act silly. Plus, as most of you know, I'm a bit of a sap, and I can already see the time coming when my oldest announces that she is too old to have a bath with the other two and wants to take a shower. Now, I know that is part of growing up and all, but man, I am just not ready for a lot of the "growing up" milestones that we encounter as parents. Actually, the silly thing is that I am ready for them, but then when they happen, I immediately want to turn back the clock and pretend they didn't happen. Take, crib sleeping for example. When one or more of our kids were sleeping in cribs, it meant getting up in the middle of the night, usually several times a night to comfort a crying child. This involves dragging yourself out of bed, inevitably cracking a toe, shin or other more sensitive body part on some darkness-hidden hazard to come to the aid of my child. At this point, I am secretly praying for the day that they have their own bed and can come and go as they please. Then that day comes and I regret it instantly. First, good luck keeping a rambunctious three year old in bed at bedtime. Second, when they have a bed they don't stop crying in the middle of the night, they just bring the crying right to you - sort of like a crying delivery service. I should actually have them publish a menu, so I know what I am getting when they come in. They will come in wailing and before I ask them what's wrong they hand me a crying menu and I can pick the reason: nightmare, fell out of bed, sore throat, rolled over on doll and snapped off head of said doll, just threw up, just wizzed the bed, just crapped the bed, sister hit me while sleepwalking. (This way, my two o'clock in the morning wake up can go something like this: "Yes Julia, I will take an order of sore throat with a side of have-to-go-potty, hold the just-wizzed-the-bed. Thanks.")

But, as usual, I digress. The topic at hand is bath time. And (probably since it is summer and they are outside playing all day) I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing more disgusting then having a bath. OK, that's actually not true, there are probably dozens of things more disgusting, but there is nothing that claims to be a cleaning ritual as disgusting as having a bath. And I think that is why there are billion dollar consumer product corporations that produce all manner of bath gels, bath salts, bath lotions, bubble bath liquid - because without that cornucopia of perfumed bubble stuff, we'd quickly realize that we are spending twenty minutes wallowing in our own filth. Who has kids out there? Have you seen the water after your child(ren) takes a bath? On a good day it looks like puddle water after a rain storm (and I don't even want to talk about the bad day scenario) with dirt, pebbles, hair, glitter, grime, sand, various unidentified sticky substances. And they sit in this stuff for twenty minutes and allegedly come out "clean" at the end of the bath. How does this work exactly? You get into warm, clean, bubbled, bath salted water, filthy it up for twenty minutes and then emerge clean? At least in a shower, you are constantly being hit by clean, warm jets of water. In a bath you are soaking in a bacteria farm. And don't get me started on hottubs - when I want to soak in a bubbling cauldron of urine and bacteria soup I'll let you know. I suppose I'd make an exception if I knew the person to whom the hottub belonged - and were comfortable with their cleanliness and personal grooming habits. But, the idea of going to a hotel or lodge and climbing into that hottub - dear God, just save me the time and douse me in human pee and hair follicles and let me go shower.

I'm Too Dumb For Classical Music

Recently (and by recently, I mean April - I really have to get these things out on a more timely basis), my wife, Mother-in-law and I went to see the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center. For you Neanderthals and uncouth readers out there, that means we went to see some classical music. More to the point, we saw some people who have more talent in their little pinkies than I have in my entire body. It boarders on the ridiculous. This last time, several of the musicians couldn't have been more than twenty one. When I was twenty one I could barely play the juke box, never mind a cello in a Chamber Orchestra. And their biographies are already six pages long: "When Gunther was sixteen he had graduated from Julliard and composed his first opera. When he turned twenty, he began conducting the New York Philharmonic." My most satisfying achievement at twenty was having a fake ID that looked enough like me that I didn't get hassled trying to go into bars (but it wasn't just the fake ID, it was the back up. Man, if you had a library card or a blood donor card with the same name as your fake, how golden were you!? You walked up to a bouncer with the confident gate of an Oscar winner on the way to the stage. And if your back up also had a picture on it that looked like you - better than hitting lotto. And if you didn't have back up, or if your ID was less than stellar, you had to have your A Game with you at all times - you needed plausible excuses as to why this was the only thing you possessed with your name on it, you needed to know everything about the person on your ID - name, address, birthdate, astrological sign, favorite color, shoe size. But, not only that, you had to be the wing man for your friends. So you had to know their fake names, addresses, birthdays, astrological signs, and three stories about how they just lost their wallet last week with everything else in it except the piece of ID in their hand. And you had to rehearse it all right before you approached the bouncer. Getting in to a particularly difficult bar under these conditions is the twenty-year-old version of a jewel heist. Once everyone got in, you all were so ecstatic that the first half hour on the bar was spent high fiving and recounting the harrowing adventure that had just transpired. And looking back on it, those were some of the greatest nights of my drinking life because of the adventure surrounding the whole thing. It wasn't just going out drinking, it was the jewel-thief caper that preceded it. Anyhoo, to sum up, these are talented people we were watching. And they all play instruments from 1625 or so - how can it be that an instrument from that long ago is better than something that is made today? Technologically speaking, isn't every single thing better now (or at least made better now) than it was in the 1600s? Think about it, medicine, transportation, heating and cooling mechanisms, watches, clocks, footwear, clothes, roads, bridges, architecture - all better now than in the 1600s. How is it that musical instrument manufacturing peaked in the 1600s? Can you imagine going to a physician's office and asking to be treated with methods and medicines used before 1700? "Yes, Doctor, I have a cut on my leg, but I don't want anesthetic and a few stitches, I'd appreciate it if you'd cut my leg off with a bone saw while I bite on this piece of leather." That, in my opinion, is one of the fascinating things about classical music - how technology peaked 350 years ago. But I digress.

I am not ashamed to admit that I really enjoy classical music. I was first introduced to it without my even knowing it - pieces like Beethoven's "Ode To Joy" and Handel's "Messiah" are hymns that have been played at church forever. Then, a great high school music teacher really broadened my appreciation for it. It is soothing and relaxing, and to watch the musicians play their instruments is pretty phenomenal (our seats are in the fourth or fifth row). But, one look at the program that they give you when you sit down reminds me that I am too dumb for classical music. Because the authors of these programs will not let me sit there and enjoy the beautiful sounds emanating from the instruments. No, they scoff in a very haughty way (one that shows contempt for my feeble mind) at my attempt to listen to music. I have to understand the music in order to properly appreciate it. For example, here is an actual quote from the program about one of the pieces we listened to: "The formal unfolding of the Phantasy Quartet follows an ingenious transformation of the traditional sonata structure through which is carefully woven a set of unifying motivic cells, most pervasively the small interval that the cello draws from the silence at the beginning of the work" Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Whoops, sorry, I think I dozed off while writing that. What does that sentence even mean? That's the type of sentence that should be written in Latin, so the four people in the audience who speak Latin can appreciate it, while the rest of us can just listen to the music. Here is how I would analyze the same piece: "I liked it, it was pleasant to listen to."

The people who wrote this program are probably the same people who publish Wine Spectator magazine - you know cork dorks - people who can't simply open a bottle of wine and enjoy a glass or two. No, it is a process. First, you open the bottle eight and a half hours before you are going to drink it to let it "breathe" (I always picture that scene from "Raiders of the Lost Arc" where the nazis open the Arc of the Covenant and bad ass God-protecting spirits melt the bastard nazi faces. But maybe that's just me). Then you pour it into a decanter to release the enzymes it the wine. (By the way fun fact: there is apparently more releasing and breathing in opening a bottle of wine than in childbirth. And where is all of this stuff going when it is released? I don't want to be cleaning wine enzymes off my walls for the next month.) Wait another two hours for enzyme release. Next, pour into an aerodynamic red wine glass and swirl it around until your hand falls asleep. (This is the toilet bowl effect. Oh, come on, you never noticed that toilet water tastes better when it is swirling? Uncultured boors, all of you.) Then stick your nose deep into the glass to capture the aromas that haven't escaped while you let it breathe for eight hours. No drinking until you can identify at least four distinct smells (and "smells like wine" doesn't count as one). Next, take a small sip and swish it around in your mouth for an hour and forty five minutes so that the full oaky, nutty, oily, apple, cucumber, fallafel tastes rest on your palate in order of importance (or alphabetically, it really doesn't matter, but decide before you sip to avoid inter-mouth confusion for the enzymes). By the way, don't even think about swallowing that sip - that sip must be spit out to allow your mouth to calibrate the flavors, something your throat could never hope to accomplish. Now, once you have completed these short steps...you may finally, after all of that hard work, finally...have a three hour discussion with the others at the table to see if they picked out the same flavors and aromas as you.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and open a bottle of wine and listen to a little Mozart.

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

I had to go to New York City on business a while back, so I took the MetroNorth commuter train to and 'fro. Now, as these things go, MetroNorth is not an entirely unpleasant way to travel to NYC - the vast majority of morning commuters are quietly doing work or reading the paper and drinking coffee and, thanks to iPods, you don't even have to be annoyed by the occasional snorer or loud cellphone talker that used to drive me crazy when I commuted daily to NYC. Oh sure, there are still the constant annoyances that never go away, such as the person who finds the hour-long commute on a train to be the perfect time to cut his nails with his nail clippers. I wish I were making that up. I mean, who in their right mind thinks its a good idea to even trim one's nails in public, much less an enclosed train car?? Why don't you whip off your socks and cut your toenails while you're at it Chief? Any bellybutton lint you need to take care of? What other personal grooming can we do in such an enclosed space? Can I shave your back for ya? Or do you take care of that in the cab ride downtown? People never cease to amaze me. The other constant annoyance on MetroNorth is the bathroom. Now, granted I have never been to the slums of Calcutta or the bottom of a sewage treatment plant, but I can't imagine a more filth-ridden location on earth than the bathroom of a MetroNorth train. And, I suppose some degree of latitude is necessary here because, it is a moving, bouncing, rocking train, so no one's aim is going to be spot on, but in the first place, I was probably in utero the last time one of these bathrooms were cleaned, and my Mom was probably in utero the last time they were cleaned with soap and/or detergent. And secondly, some train riders (I'd wager they are guys, but I have no scientific proof) seem to take great pleasure in "going" on anything in the bathroom except the toilet. It is quite the little adventure to try to go to the bathroom on a moving train without touching anything.

And speaking of bathrooms, when I was waiting for my train to leave the city, I actually used the bathroom in Grand Central Station so I wouldn't have to use the one on the train. Now, for you non-New Yorkers, this little Hobson's Choice is like deciding between a colonoscopy or a kick to the groin, because, after all, public + bathroom + New York City = big yuckies. But I had to laugh when I went into the bathroom because there is a big sign that says (and I quote): "No loitering" (thanks goodness that sentence is part of the sign, otherwise I may linger in the Grand Central men's room for hours - the smell of b.o. and stale urine being my most favorite of all aromas); "No panhandling" ("Uh, sorry I can't get to my change right now sir but my hands are kind of otherwise occupado right now"); "No bathing" (which, you know, thank God that was there because after a day in the City I was feeling like I needed to strip down and rinse off before getting on the train). And obviously I know why the sign is there - for the poor homeless souls who might not have somewhere else to go, but is the sign really necessary? Because, if you're not homeless, chances are you aren't going to be doing any of those things, but if you are homeless, I'm pretty sure a sign isn't much of a deterrent. But, what do I know, because not a week later I am in a men's room at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike and there is a man washing his feet in the sink. I really wish I were making that up because I now have to go get hypnotized to try to burn that little image from my brain. So, maybe the NJ Turnpike people need to find out who made Grand Central that sign.

Where has the time gone?

Has it been three weeks since my last post?? Wow, time flies. My time was quite occupied by planning and executing a 40th birthday bash for my wife. So, if you've been checking in and have been disappointed (or relieved) to find no new post - my apologies, won't happen again until the next time it happens. Anyhoo, so I was driving to work this morning (I'm drafting this during lunch - no rest for the weary) I saw a dead raccoon by the side of the road, which is no big deal because this is a fairly common site round these parts. But then, about twenty feet later I saw a second one. So, naturally I'm thinking murder-suicide. One raccoon probably found out about the other raccoon's illicit affair with a squirrel and just lost it. In fact, it was probably quite the intricate plan by one of the raccoons. Because raccoons are very smart - the ones in my neighborhood manage to pull latches off of garbage cans, hoist each other up onto the cans and start a conga line/assembly line of food back to the woods. I mean, think about it - he (or she, I've never been that close to a raccoon to look for the obvious difference, but I'm assuming the murderer was a male. If the female raccoon caught the male raccoon cheating, she'd have probably just scratched his eyes out and taken his favorite garbage-eating spot) would have had to think up this elaborate rouse to get her to cross an extremely busy highway - probably told her there were dumpsters full of rotting food to forage through, and then convince her that they were waiting for this last car to go by before they made a run for it, then....BAM! a vicious shove right under the front wheel of a late model Ford Explorer XLT (you know, with the big off-road tires and extra suspension). And then, despondent about what he had done, he probably crawled out to the middle of the road to await his fate. Or maybe, it was a raccoon tragedy, sort of a raccoon Romeo-Juliet, unrequited love deal. Maybe one raccoon (let's go with the female this time in the interest of fairness) had arranged to meet the male raccoon at that spot, but the male raccoon had been picked off by a tractor trailer two minutes before she got there. Then, despondent, she offs herself. Is that how it played out? Or maybe they were the rat equivalent of Darwin Award winners (you know those people who die in the dumbest, most ridiculous ways possible). Maybe they got drunk on the residue of some whisky bottle in a trash bin and started daring each other do dodge cars. Oh well, they are just rats with better P.R. anyway; plenty more where they cam from. Like the ones who visit us every night and break into my garbage cans and throw trash all over my yard. Freaking parasites! Death is too good for them!!

Hey, speaking of my yard, why can't "ability to grow incredible amounts of weeds" be the envy of gardeners everywhere? Then I would be considered the best gardener alive. And I could give clinics and write books on 10 easy steps to grow tremendous weeds. And weed-growing companies would pay me gobs of money to be their spokesperson. I need to live in a world where weed-growing equates with success. Its my only hope.

Entertainment Part Deux

I went to the Mall this weekend with my two younger daughters - I don't usually frequent malls, but I heard they had opened a new Chess King and I had to check out the latest fashion trends (actually, we were shopping for a birthday present and it was pouring rain, so I didn't want to get me and the kids soaked, so we opted for the covered-parking-garage Mall, rather than the 5000 square foot outdoor Toys-R-Us parking lot where the closest spot we would get on a Saturday is two spots to the left of my own driveway four miles away). Malls are an under-rated idea, don't you think? Take every cheesey store, throw them next to one another with 16 year old kids with attitudes working at each one, spice it up with ultra-fattening kiosks of glorified dog food, and voila! the most depressing place alive! (by the way, 'voila' may be spelled incorrectly - I looked it up but couldn't find it. For rant about said escapade, see two posts ago, I'm too tired to get into all that again.) But I will tell you what Malls are very useful for: entertaining two girls ages 6 and 3. How you might ask? (well, you might ask, but I kinda doubt it, but I'll tell you anyway). One word: escalators. Yes, these moving monuments to our lazy, entitled, overweight society can keep two little kids entertained for hours - and I do mean hours. I had to drag them out of the Mall after an hour and a half only after we rode each escalator in the place - ten or so, in all - about six times each. It was truly hilarious to watch them get so exited to ride up, down, one after another, running to the next one to ride again. (I mean, why did we spend all that money going to Disney World and for ski lessons - clearly Mall escalators are the true thrill-seekers' paradise). My three year old would stand at the base of one and summon up courage like she was about to bungee jump, while the six year old was practicing her jump off timing maneuver. It was ridiculously entertaining for me to watch them so entertained by something so simple (well, I suppose 'simple' is a bit of a stretch. I mean, its actually a pretty amazing invention and I have no freaking clue how they work, but everyone at the Mall must agree with me that they are pretty neat things because they get on them and just stand there, which is reason enough for me to live a quiet, weapon free existence. Because if I were armed, I may go postal on someone who gets on an escalator and just stands there instead of using them to increase the speed at which they travel. Escalator. Its in the freaking name!!! Its an escalator!!! Escalate! Cause to go faster! If you get on one of these fancy contraptions and continue to take steps, you go up faster! Moron!! But no, to most people, this is apparently not an escalator, but a personal lift valet where they can use modern technology to float them unassisted to their chosen destination. And don't get me started on those flat, escalator-like thingys in airports and such. How many times have you been at an airport comfortable ahead of your flight? Never, right? Its human nature to be rushed when flying. Whether its a late start or traffic or security lines, even if you were on-time, something made you rushed. But, when you need these flat escalators to help you make up a few precious minutes, you invariably run into a fellow traveler (the one with everything they own stuffed into one "small" carry on bag and one "small" purse) who has decided that the flat escalator is actually their personal magic carpet which they will ride leisurely to their gate. And its not like these are short trips; most of these people movers - ha! that's the phrase I was looking for, people movers - are quite lengthy. And do you know why that is? IT IS SO THAT YOU CAN COVER A LOT OF GROUND IN A SHORTER TIME FATASS!! OK, sorry about the fatass comment on this family blog, but, well, it had to be said. But, now I know why these people insist on ticking me off. they are not lazy, entitled morons; they are really just 6 and 3 year olds, who never really grew up.

Entertainment

This may be a sign I am getting older, but I don't understand some of the things that pass for entertainment anymore. And before this post (and, indeed, this blog) becomes a "crotchety old man rant about the world today" sort of thing, let me begin by saying that I have bungee jumped (and loved it). Wait, I just re-read that and I should back up: let me initially, first say that I am not crotchety - I am, of course fairly hip, with it, down with the kids, and super cool. Wait, I just re-read that and I should re-back up: let me primarily, initially, first say that I am most definitely not old (but that whole "super cool" thing may cause a few loyal readers to respectfully disagree). Anyhoo, I have bungee jumped, which was awesome, I love roller coasters, I golf, so you know, I'm not afraid to get my heart racing and all. Heck, if I didn't have kids I'd probably try sky-diving if I were drunk enough. But there are certain activities that just boggle my mind. Base jumping springs to mind: people who climb buildings, mountains, big bridges for the sole purpose of hurtling themselves off of them and trying to land safely. Now I know what you're asking yourself: "what the heck am I doing reading this inane blog; I have a million things I could be doing and yet here I am reading this drivel." (Well, just think of the self-loathing I have writing it!) No, you're likely saying to yourself, "wait Pablo (you know, because you're hip. After all, you're cool enough to be reading this blog, so you're probably thinking 'Pablo'), didn't you just say you'd try sky-diving? What's the difference?" Well, I'm glad you thought that because I would proffer - dictionary time people!! By the way, I just looked up 'proffer' because I originally had only one 'f' in it and it didn't look right, and this was the entire definition: verb; To offer. That's it??? If proffer means to offer, then why have an entirely different word than offer - you just added two letters to it!!! I thought I was going to find an elaborate definition, multiple uses, Latin origins - anything. Nope: to offer. I may be sick. No wonder every other non-English speaking citizen of the world hates to learn English! First they have to deal with things like their vs. there vs. they're. And raze (which means to knock down) vs. raise (which means to lift up). And ewe (sheep) vs. you (you). Things like that are bad enough. But then you have little Francois or Hans on Ming sitting in English class somewhere in the world and learning the word 'offer' and its definition. And somewhere down the line they'll learn the word 'proffer' and the teacher will say, "oh, it means the same as offer, but you have to add two letters to the beginning of it." Would they not be justified in beating the teacher over the head with the dictionary? Who invented this? I think I'll start my own language based on that premise: Pablovian. Its like English but different. Instead of saying "is" for example, to speak Pablovian, one would say "pris"; the word "and" would be "prand", and "or" would be "pror". "Proffer" would remain the same, of course and will hold a special place in my dictionary because it is the first official word of Pablovian. Wait right here, I have to update my resume to indicate that I am now bilingual...

OK, I'm back. Where was I? Oh yes, well, the difference between base jumping and skydiving is clearly the chance for survival. Sky diving takes you up several thousand feet (from what I understand) and when you jump, there usually aren't large buildings you have to, you know, avoid on the way down. And since you are several thousand feet in the air, you have a chance to check out the scenery, scream with exhilaration, calmly open your parachute and float blissfully toward a soft landing (unless the chute fails to open, in which case you would probably continue the whole "scream with exhilaration" thing for at least another little bit). But base jumpers are much closer to the ground when they jump, they have to open up their chutes immediately and hope they slow down in time to avoid becoming sidewalk art. No thank you.

Because scaring myself sh...witless (family blog) was never my idea of a good time. I still don't get horror movies or the people who go see them. Even the tv ads scare me. I just saw one for Saw 2 or something and I had nightmares for three days. How is wetting myself entertaining? I mean, sure it was funny when I was a kid and my parents had to change me, but what about after I was twelve? Then it became a bit less funny and a bit more prtragic and prsad prright?

And before I go, I have to add depressing books to this list. My wife reads these books all the time (I'm sure they're all on Oprah's Book Club or whatever) and I'll ask her what they are about and her answer is invariably: a homeless, abused, orphaned, peg legged, mute teenager struggles to find her voice and keep her sanity during the bubonic plague in Calcutta during India's war of independence from Britain. Ooooo, pass that one over to me when you're finished will you? Jeez, no wonder she and her girlfriends drink so much wine at book club; if I read books like that I'd need therapy. She gave me a book like that - "The Road" - for my birthday and I made the mistake of reading it on a recent business trip. Its about a father and young son who appeared to have survived a nuclear holocaust and their journey down a road to "the coast" (by the way, the mother survived too, but we discover she killed herself because she couldn't take living in this destroyed world - I wish I were making that up). Well, there was not enough alcohol on that Delta flight for me as I read this. I mean, it could end with them discovering a fully-operational naked Disney World on "the coast" and it couldn't bring me out of my funk. Who purposely reads this stuff? I remember taking a Dostoevsky course in college and he is a fantastic author, but if I read about one more starving orphan or banishment to Siberia, I'm going to lose it.

Maybe base jumpers are avid readers of Oprah Book Club books...

Tot For Sale

For Sale: One three year old. Female. Eyes: blue. Hair: blonde. Fingers and Mouth: sticky (causes of which vary, but include, juice, syrup, any lotion or lotion-like substance she finds in a purse, cabinet, dresser, or counter top, bubbles, cookies, cake, brownie, cupcake, paint, glitter, paste, watermelon, dirt, popsicles, dirt covered popsicles, ice cream, sand, sand encrusted ice cream, motor oil - don't ask, peanut butter, jelly, apple, orange, grape, pasta sauce, butter). Very cute, except when she doesn't want to be. Potty trained, except when she doesn't want to be. Opinionated. Always. Frustrating to the point of madness. Rarely responds to commands. In fact, any command seems to enter her ear and pass through a device that translates the command into "suggestion to momentarily consider before I ignore it and do what I want." Energetic (seriously, you have no idea). Smart - scary smart. Knows the alphabet (including the little used "L omelo P"). Can count to twenty, and even invented her own number, "eleventeen", which comes after fifteen and before eighteen (she has chosen to ignore sixteen and seventeen as they are clearly unimportant and passe'). Silly. Funny. Smile that could knock you over. Loves bubble baths and bedtime stories. Exceptional cuddler. Makes up songs and then insists you sing them. Loudly, and usually in public. Dances a mean boogie. The biggest heart you have ever seen. Will be four (and five, six, seven and eight) way too soon.

Come to think of it, I think I'll keep her.

But I want to know who the "genius" is that coined the phrase, Terrible Twos, because, quite frankly, that person knows squat about children. A two-year old is a walk in the park on a sunny afternoon compared to a three-year old. Sure, you have to potty train a two year old and that can be an adventure, and I'll concede that a two-year old is developing his/her own personality and thus the ability to say "no", and I'll even grant you that a two-year old has learned to whine. But a three year old is a whine connoisseur (oh, what a turn of phrase!! Admit it, you like that one, don't you? I'm pretty proud of that one myself. But, true confession, I had to look up the spelling of 'connoisseur' in the dictionary, but it was worth it, don't you think? By the way, it took me quite a long time to look it up too. That's the problem with dictionaries, if you don't know how to spell a word, what good are they? Sure, at my advanced age and education I can pretty much ballpark the spelling of a word so as to page to the general area in the dictionary where the word can be found. But I spent a valuable few minutes trying to properly spell connoisseur because first I was going with one 'n' and then I was going for double 'n' then 'i' instead of 'o'. I'll never have that time back, and for what? OK, well, it was for a really good turn-of-phrase that I'm quite proud of, but that's beside the point. What if I was an idiot (debatable) and I wanted to correctly spell "hors d'oeuvre", which I also just had to look up by the way, but at least I knew to start in the 'h' section of the dictionary. If I were a real idiot (debatable), I could spend hours leafing through the 'o' section until I drove my self insane (or just give up and go with "finger sandwiches", but then where does that leave such tasty hors d'oeuvres as lamb chops, crab cakes and beef satay spears which are not sandwiches at all - finger or otherwise? And where does that leave the mother of all hors d'oeurves, pigs in a blanket? (seriously, I defy you to find a more perfect finger food - wait - there's my answer; you'd go with finger foods instead of finger sandwiches. OK, I feel a little better for the idiots. But, since we're on the subject, pretend I didn't just figure that out and read on, dear reader, read on) Now, you may argue that the "blanket", that light, flaky, buttery, just-crispy-enough crust may rise to the level of "sandwich" since it envelops the mouth-watering delicacy of combined, salted leftover meat parts, but is that really a sandwich? We don't call a hotdog on a bun a sandwich, so why would be do so if we chopped the hot dog on a bun into thirds rolled it in pastry crust and baked it at 350 for 10-12 minutes, or until the crust is a flaky , golden brown? A sandwich, one of life's most precious creations, has to be protected better than that, right? Otherwise, people will start calling anything a sandwich, which, as we all know would lead to anarchy and the destruction of civilization as we know it. What? No, that is not a stretch, it is an active theory called the Sandwich Paradigm but I don't have time to explain every life-altering theory to you people, now do I? After all, you probably wouldn't understand it anyway - you're probably the idiots who would look up hors d'oeurve in the O's.

Food That Should be Outlawed

OK, I've held my tongue long enough (oh man, a blog about food and I lead off with that witty turn of phrase! I can't wait to see how good this is going to get.), there are certain foods that have to go. Nothing personal, but I simply can't stomach (told you this would be good!) them any longer. Someone has to take a stand and since I don't see any of you willing to put your necks out, it looks like I'll have to do the dirty work again (which I'm happy to do, but this is getting a little tiresome. Am I the only one who thinks of these things?). Mushrooms, I'm sorry, your time is up. You did an exceptional job fooling people for a long time - I mean, growing up in the woods, near trees and moss and bark and undergrowth, and then convincing people that you are some kind of delicacy instead of, well, a piece of dirt, moss and/or bark, brilliant stuff. My hat is off to you. But, you're out. First of all, you taste like the bottom of a shoe after it has taken a spin or two around a subway platform. Second, I'm sorry but you look really, really creepy. Which again is reason enough to applaud your efforts to make yourself into a delicacy, but, let's face it, if any shopper took a good look at you, from your pale grey, black, spongy exterior to your freakish shape, well, let's just say that eggplant looks good by comparison. Speaking of eggplant, sorry, you're out too, but you were probably expecting it. I mean, come on, even your name makes no sense. Eggplant?? Sorry, pack your bags and head back to wherever you grow (is there an eggplant plant? Is that redundant? Is there an eggplant tree or bush?) You can't continue to be a food if no one (well, me) knows where you come from. Yogurt? Is yogurt here? Oh yes, I see you hiding behind tuna fish - well yogurt, you're out too. Again, nice meteoric rise to the top - I mean who does your P.R. because they are downright impressive; (Actual transcript from Yogurt P.R. Meeting:) P.R. guy: "OK, what do we have to work with?" Yogurt: "Well, I am a dairy product, but I have gone rancid and I clearly taste like feet - can we work with that?" P.R. guy: "Ok, Ok, I'm thinking niche audience - probably the French, cause they'll eat anything, but let's walk through this. What can we partner you with that may broaden your appeal?" Yogurt: "Tuna fish?" P.R. guy: No, people are stupid, but they aren't that stupid." Yogurt: "Olives?, Peppers?" Tomato sauce?" P.R. guy: "Were you just in Italy or something? Can we get away from Italian food for a second? No, I'm thinking something sweet." Yogurt: "rancid, spoiling fruit?" P.R. guy: "BRILLIANT!! We will mix in rancid, rotting fruit and a slightly watery, gelatinous texture and we'll call you health food!! It can't miss!" Yogurt: "And if we throw in food coloring and a bunch of sugar, we can market it to kids!" P.R. guy: "Marge, get Jim Dannon on the phone, he's going to love this!"

Well, yogurt, it was a good run, but adios amigo, don't let the door hit you where the good Lord split you.

Tuna fish...where to begin. You are by far, the worst food on the planet. From your smell, to your packaging in cat food tins and rancid oil, to your preparation in a gallon of mayonnaise and, good God save me, HEATED in casseroles (I just threw up in my mouth just thinking of that last one), I can't imagine a worse situation. Not only should you be banned, but I will personally track down the sick individual who dared conjure your existence, and we will banish him too. If you stick to meow mix and other cat foods you may remain on the planet, but don't let me catch you in any human food situations again.

What else? Oh, beets...out. Liver, tongue, any entrails masquerading as food - hit the road. Tomato, you can stay because of your good work with salsa, but if you get stewed again, you're gone.

Apache

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTKL8MNH95Q

This is funnier than anything I could write.

Its Time to Arrest the Man in the Yellow Hat

So I was reading a Curious George book to my 3 year old the other night and it finally made perfect sense. No, not the inane book (side note: I loathe Curious George books, and I have never known why until now. Part of me felt guilty everytime I read them to my kids - who love the books - because I wouldn't "bring it", really sell the story with proper voicing, emphasis, dramatic pauses, you know, really sell the story), but the answer to why I have always hated reading Curious George books: The Man With the Yellow Hat is the biggest criminal on the planet and should be arrested. There I said it. OK, maybe I'm being a tad hyperbolic (ooo, nice SAT word, don't you think? I'm feeling very erudite right now! And we'll be back with Paul Finds a Thesaurus right after these commercial messages) when I say that he's the biggest criminal on the planet. I mean, that's obviously a tie between Rosie O'Donnell, Madonna and whoever invented Webkinz. But, TMWTYH (I can't type The Man With the Yellow Hat anymore. Well, after this one, I mean) is pretty high up the list. I mean, if Curious George books were written today, the author would have the ASPCA, child development experts, and social commentators ripping him (or her, I can't really remember who authored the books right now, but I suppose I could easily Google it and get right back to my point, but that seems like alot of effort for one lousy name that really has little bearing on this story right now right? Of course, in the time that it took me to type that explanation I could have Googled it and have been back to my original point instead of right here, making this very tangential [Thesaurus!!]comment. But I digress.) a new one. Now granted, most of those people are whiny reactionaries, but in this case, they would have a point. Take the story I recently read for example: "Curious George Gets a Bike". Seems like a heart warming tale, right? George gets a new bike for his birthday from TMWTYH, George is happy, all is well. But, no, because as soon as George unwraps the bike and is so excited he can hardly speak (well, he's a monkey and can't speak, but you catch my drift), that cruel bastard TMWTYH announces that he's leaving and tells George not to ride the bike until he gets back. OK, I have a huge problem with this on a million (hyperbolic) levels, but let me mention a few. First, what kind of sadist gives someone an awesome new present like a bike and then tells him he can't use it? How cruel is that?? Second, this is not the first Curious George book in the series, so TMWTYH has to know George is going to take off on the bike, endangering his life and the lives of those around him in the process. Not to get all legal on you or anything, but we lawyers call that mens rea from the Latin meaning "guilty mind". In other words, TMWTYH knew George had a predilection (oh man, I'm on a roll!!) for disobeying him, and yet he gives George a bike - a freaking mode of transportation for goodness sake!! - and tells George to stay put until he comes back. Why not give him a loaded gun or a syringe full of heroin, you heartless bastard? I'm sure Curious George and the Strung Out Bender would be a huge seller. And then, to cover his sorry ass, every time he find George has screwed up again, he acts all dumbfounded that this could possibly have occurred - "Gee, I didn't think that George would take his new bike and drive immediately into oncoming traffic. Who could have predicted that?" Well, I'm on to you, TMWTYH, and I will see you put behind bars if its the last thing I do.

The End of Arguments

I was watching a soccer match on tv the other day and it occurred to me that all of life's little arguments and disagreements can be avoided if we adapt the yellow card, red card penalties to real life situations. Everyone (and by 'everyone' I mean, of course, me and anyone that I choose to also be included) should be allowed to carry yellow cards and red cards to use in everyday situations. If someone is acting like a jerk, bang, you show them a yellow card and they are on notice that if they receive one more, they have to sit out of society for a day. If a person is commiting a flagrant no-no, the red card comes out immediately and the person is sent home. If I had these in college, how many unpleasant hook-ups could have been avoided - one of your drunk friends is about to hook up with an ugo, show them a yellow card and snap them back to reality. If you're on the beach, at the mall, in a bar (or let's face it, anywhere in public) and a morbidly obese woman is wearing a belly shirt, bikini, or short shorts, bang, red card - go home immediately. Or, if a really hairy, overweight guy shows up in a tank top, jean shorts or, God help us, speedo - bang red card and he's gone. How many of life's little unpleasantries would be wiped away? I really have to look into this...

Things That are Currently Bothering Me

Or is it, bothering me currently? Oh well, you know what I mean (and by "you" I mean "me" because I'm not really sure how many people are even reading this. Which reminds me, if anyone out there is reading this, well Hi, but let me apologize for not posting more frequently. I've decided that the hardest part about having a blog is finding the time to blog. Some of the blogs that I read just amaze me in that the authors seems to be able to fire out postings at an astonishing rate! But I'm going to continue to try to get better.) Anyhoo, on to the current topic at hand, which is things that are bothering me currently (eh, either way, I guess). Now I don't get mad very often - well certainly not drive-900-miles-in-a-diaper-and-try-to-kidnap-my-lover's-girlfriend kind of mad, but there are things that annoy me. Webkinz are currently at the top of my list - and if you don't have young kids, or if you've managed to avoid Webkinz if you do, consider yourself extremely lucky. These are little $10 stuffed animals which seems harmless enough since my kids have enough stuffed animals to start a Stuffed Invasion of a neighboring house (which would inevitably lead to a full-scale Stuffed War and cost hundreds of downy casualties, so its a good thing my kids, and their stuffed army are for household protection only - sort of like a stuffed state militia). But the Webkinz stuffed animals come with an id tag and a website that, once a child logs on, provides a whole world of Webkinz - virtual outfits, accessories, houses, games, money - it is like a cult! And every parent of a child in the 5-11 range is experiencing this rather unpleasant phenomenon where all our children want to do is go on the computer and play Webkinz. Whoever had this bright idea for a Webkinz world should be taken out and shot (or, if not shot, then at least strapped to a chair in front of a computer screen for a week straight while kids play Webkinz - that's actually worse than being shot; they'd be begging for someone to shoot them after a few hours).

You know what else bothers me - and this has actually bothered me for sometime now - bumperstickers. Yes, the pseudo-philosophy of the great unwashed; the pop-psychology of the brain dead masses. To any and all bumperstickerers out there, I'm only going to say this once, so pay attention: no one cares if you 'heart' your cat, dog, hampster, pet rock, tv remote, cookies, grandson, granddaughter, polka music, Irish music, or state. You are not tough because your car is protected by smith & wesson, or because you threaten to beat me up if I tailgate you. I don't care if your kid is an honor student, loves soccer, hates mean people or won a state championship. I never asked you - so please stop broadcasting that: you love Jesus, you love Mother Earth, you are against abortion, you are for abortion, you are a vegan, you love meat. I didn't ask you - and don't care to know - what your "other car" is. And your pithy little slogans that seem extremely deep to you, only serve to prove to me and everone who has the misfortune of driving behind you, that you are a certifiable moron who shouldn't be allowed to hold a drivers' license in the first place. Maybe I'll throw that on a bumper sticker and drive around for a while...