Blog of Wood

I Really AM Color Blind!

2012-02-21T13:26:00.002-05:00

About three years ago, I discovered “The Office” (much in the same way Christopher Columbus “discovered” America, meaning after it was already in syndication.) But even though I was late to the party, thanks to constant reruns and DVR marathons, I managed to get through the first six seasons in time to "attend" Jim and Pam’s wedding along with the rest of the world.

And during those many viewing hours, I came to know each character like a real friend, while developing crushes on both of Jim's love interests on the show, Pam and Karen. And, let's face it, maybe even a little mancrush on Jim himself!

But, getting back to the ladies...from the show's intro, it was clear that Jenna Fischer played Pam Beesley, but since Karen didn't show up until the third season, she was only pictured, not named in the opening credits, so I didn't know the actress who played her. I did spot the name Rashida Jones in the credits, but never associated her with Karen, although I was curious as to who she was as well, since for years I had been reading about how funny and talented this Rashida Jones was. But I never saw her in anything. Or so I’d thought.

I remember watching “I Love You, Man” – a decent movie featuring the guy who plays Marshall on “How I Met Your Mother” (another show I didn’t discover until recently) and coincidentally, the girl who played Karen from “The Office” as the main character’s fiancé. Thinking what a cool (and cute) chick she was, I carefully watched the credits in hopes of finally learning her name, but I couldn’t find it. But I DID see Rashida Jone’s name go scrolling by. WTF? I thought. How did I miss her again? Who did she play? Who WAS this person? It was driving me crazy!

So crazy I even checked out a few episode of the god-awful “Parks and Recreation” to try and find her after reading that she was in it, but again, no luck. Though, once again, there was Karen from “The Office” this time playing a cool (and cute) nurse.

By now, you all have probably put two and two together enough times to fill an ark, but it took me a little longer to figure it out. In fact, it wasn’t until a few months ago, when I saw “The Social Network” and spotted Karen from “The Office” as a cool (and cute) lawyer, that I finally put it all together. I waited for the credits, and lo and behold, there was Rashida Jones, and since there was not a single black person in the entire movie, I realized my mistake.

You see, I was assuming an actress named Rashida Jones would be black, which she is, sort of (more on that in a minute) so I was looking for someone that looked more like Wanda Sykes than a classier version of Leah Remini from “King of Queens,” so I never made the connection. Turns out, Karen, from “The Office” – and all the other movies mentioned here, was Rashida Jones. She was hiding in plain sight!

Duh, right? Well, the funny thing is, Rashida’s dad IS black. And famous. He’s the incomparable producer, Quincy Jones, who “produced” Rashida, and an equally hot sister, with actress Peggy Lipton, from “The Mod Squad” (insert your own Link joke here) So I was right. Though this may be the first time in history where two rights make a wrong.

Which makes me wonder what other well-known things I’ve yet to “discover.” Based on this, and the fact that I was 30 when I first learned that “The Outsiders” author, S.E. Hinton, was a girl, I’m guessing quite a few!

I Never "Got" VD

2012-02-13T21:00:00.006-05:00

Today is Valentine’s Day. Or, as I like to call it, Tuesday. And no, I'm not making some lame pun about it being "Two's Day." I just mean I tend to treat it like any other day. So if you came here looking for a romantic blog post to celebrate the "holiday," you might want to try somewhere else. You see, I'm the guy who once gave his girlfriend a loaf of bread as a Valentine’s gift. Yes, I said a loaf of bread. And I’m not talking about homemade bread baked with love or some expensive artisanal bread brought back from Brooklyn. I’m talking store-bought, shrink-wrapped Pepperidge Farm French Toast Swirl that you can get for $3.29 (with coupon) at any Stop and Shop.

On the surface, I may not appear be the best source regarding matters of the heart, since, as any of my friends will surely tell you, I am the least romantic person they know. Just ask and they’ll be more than happy to cite numerous examples of my supposed cheap and insensitive behaviors, like how I have never bought a girl flowers, perfume, or even a single piece of jewelry (unless they count the engagement ring - which they will, but only so they can then tell you how small it was and how I ridiculousy presented it to my wife-to-be in that most romantic of settings…a nursing home parking lot!)

But ask my wife (the recipient of said bread and ring) and you’ll get an entirely different story. For her, that parking lot was the perfect place to pop the question, as it forever connected us to her beloved grandmother, who passed away a month before our wedding. And she thought that bread was a very romantic gesture – seriously, she loved it! And the thing is, I knew she would, and that’s what makes me a romantic.

I may not be your “traditional” romantic, but I know enough about love to know that it’s the little things that count. If your significant other needs expensive things to make them feel loved and appreciated, it’s only because they aren’t getting enough of your actual love and appreciation. My wife may not be adorned with jewels, but not a day goes by that she isn’t adored by me! And I don’t wait until February 14^th to show and share how much I care, I greet her with a heart on every day!

Sure, every so often I’ll succumb to the pressure and do something “special” on the day. One inspired year, I cut out about 100 paper hearts and wrote little love messages on them. Valentine’s morning, I secretly placed them on the blades of the ceiling fan above our bed while my wife was in the shower. I turned the fan “on” but only after making sure the light switch that controlled it was off, and then went to work. Later, when my wife came into the room and switched the light on, she was showered with dozens of little hearts. Cute, right? And the best part is, it cost me less than a buck!

The point is, The Beatles were right all along. Money can’t buy you love. But on the other hand, if you’re lucky enough to have love, you can’t afford not to show it. 360 days a year (hey, everyone’s entitled to an off-day every now and then.) As for how you do that, it’s entirely up to you. So long as you don’t wait just for the holidays.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with the Grand Gesture (and in all honesty, if I had a couple extra grand, I’d be all about hiring airplanes and elephants to carry my messages of love.) But at the moment, I’m broke, so Honey, if you’re reading this, I Love You! And Happy Tuesday!

About face

2012-02-06T22:02:00.001-05:00

Last year I was surprised at how much resistance and outright resentment I received for my annual “Facebook Free in February” campaign. Traditionally, these little stunts of mine had been were met with some good-natured ribbing and questions of doubt from my friends and family. But last year, some people seemed actually mad.

I couldn’t figure it out at first. I thought they’d be happy to be free of my constant self-promotions and sarcastic comments for a month. And they probably were. But there was also an almost angry undercurrent to some of their responses. I wasn’t sure what to make of it and wound up (wrongly) deciding that they must have been feeling defensive, as if I were claiming to be somehow superior to them for not “needing” facebook.

But once March rolled around, and I had a chance to “talk” to several of them again, I realized that my silly posts and comments were serving as sort of a hub for others. I don’t know how so say this without sounding like an arrogant jerk, but apparently some people had come to rely on me to act as their ice-breaker. It seems my ridiculous status updates (commonly jokes at my own expense) and snarky comments were just enough to get the party started, and then others would pick up and take it from there. I’m not saying there was anything so amazing or amusing about what I was saying, only that for whatever reason, it got the ball rolling, much in the same way a yawn is contagious.

And while we're only one week in, so far, this year has been a little different. For one thing, I’m no longer the only jester in the king’s court, so my absence is not leaving as much of a void. Plus, I’ve not been as active on facebook this year as in years past, so most people probably don’t even notice I’m gone. Then there’s the whole “Timeline” thing, which has apparently pushed some people right over the edge. But whatever the reason, I’m not picking up as much flak as last year. Except for the accusations of cheating!

This year, an unprecedented number of people have been calling me and confronting me about catching me on facebook, using this very blog as their “proof.” You see, whenever I post a new topic, I hit the share to facebook button, and a box pops up allowing me to type a message and post the link on my wall. Which I do. But I do so without ever going on facebook! Go ahead, try it for yourself if you don’t believe me. Scroll down and click on the little “f” (though you might want to pick a more interesting entry than this one!) and see what happens.

See? You never left the page, right? So stop harassing me and just accept the fact that I am NOT on facebook. But if I were, here's what I would have posted the past few days:

1. It's 50 degrees on February 2nd, does the groundhog even need to bother?

2. Is it wrong that I'm more entertained by the men on "New Girl" rather than my one-time crush, Zoey Deschanel?

3. Isn't it sadly ironic that people died during a protest over the people that died during the soccer riot in Egypt?

4. I drive a Ford F-150, but that Chevy commercial was hilarious. Between the Barry Manilow song, the dog in the backseat, and the Twinkie reference, it was spot on and deserves a Clio

5. Deja Blue! Congrats to the Giants! All's Welker that ends Welker!

See you in March. Or, you know, here!

Proud to be UnPatriotic

2012-01-31T07:43:00.006-05:00

I’m not a reporter (nor do I play one on TV) but in an effort to write a fair and balanced column about the upcoming Super Bowl for my local paper, I conducted a somewhat scientific survey to determine which of the two teams, the New York Giants or New England Patriots, had the most fans among my fellow Sheltonites. I hypothesized that since our town is situated somewhat in the middle between New York and Boston, the supporters would be equally divided as well. Boy, was I wrong! But before revealing the results, let’s take a look at how the data was gathered.

Being a bit on the shy side, I began by polling my closest friends…until a quick analysis of their responses made me realize the flaw in this plan. By limiting it to just my friends, I was skewing the data unfairly towards one team, since a big part of what bonded us as buddies (and Americans) was our shared love for the mighty New York Football Giants. So to maintain my poll’s integrity, I expanded the search to my facebook “friends” by posting the same question on both my wall and on several pages dedicated to Shelton. But again, the responses came back heavily in favor of Big Blue.

Now, I know that Shelton, like Giants Stadium*, is full of smart, hard-working, good looking people, but I felt there had to be some Patriots fans out there. But where were they? And why weren’t they responding to my survey?

Concerned, I dusted off my old psychology books and reread the chapters on conducting proper studies and surveys. When I got to the part about confounding variables, which, as Giants fans know, are any extraneous variables whose presence affects the variables being studied so that the results you get do not reflect the actual relationship between the variables under investigation (or, for you Patriot fans, they’re the thingies that make the other thingies seem to be one thing, but are actually something else.)

This helped me recognize that a major problem with my poll was that it was only conducted as a written survey. Because of this, I could not trust the validity of my results, which seemed to show that Shelton was full of Giants fans, because in reality, it could be equally populated with Patriot fans, but the nature of the survey made it so that only Giants fans were responding. Why? Because the average Patriot fan can’t read!

With that in mind, I set out to personally interview people in order to rule out the illiteracy theory. I decided to start at Downtown Danny O’s because, well, they have beer there. And as it turned out, some Patriots fans as well Granted, it was 2:00 pm on a Tuesday, when most people should be working, but still. I was just glad I could finally put a couple tally marks in the Pats’ column.

In fact, I was so happy, I offered to buy them a round of drinks, which they eagerly accepted. Our beers were delivered by a very pretty waitress, whose appearance inspired a lively conversation about Tom Brady’s hair. “I betcha he’s a VO-5 man,” said one. “No way!” said the other. “Brady’s all man. None of that expensive salon stuff for him! He prob’ly just rubs a bar of Ivory on his head in the shower.” “Whatever he does, it’s working,” the first one sighed wistfully. “You got that right,” his friend agreed, raising his glass. “To Brady!” they toasted. “QB of the Century! Just imagine if he had played for the Red Raiders!”

“Wait, you guys are from Derby?” I interrupted. They both nodded. Well that explains things, I thought as I mentally erased their tally marks from my list and set off in search of a Shelton Patriot fan.

It shouldn’t be this difficult, I whined as I wandered through Walmart, where every other customer appeared to be wearing a Manning #10 jersey. After all, Shelton IS in New England. There should be some people supportive of the “home” team. But where could I find them? I know it’s an oxymoron, but I had to think like a Patriots fan. So I sat in the parking lot and asked myself, “If I were a Pats Backer, where would I hang out?”

A few moments later, inspiration struck, and I raced off to my destinations. But the dog pound, sewage treatment plant, and city dump didn’t turn up anything either, save for a few Jets fans. Maybe Shelton really was a Giants town. Could it be that Pat Carey only sells homes to fellow Giants fans? Might having hometown hero, Dan Orlovsky, taking over for Eli Manning’s brother have something to do with it? Or is it just that thanks to our quality education system, strong local leadership, and supportive parents, we were all simply raised right?

Whatever the reason, Shelton is clearly Giants Territory. At least in the eyes of this unbiased columnist. But if you want the facts to back it up, here are the actual numbers: Of the 53 people who responded to my poll, 32 are rooting for the Giants, 16 are pulling for the Patriots, and 5 claimed to not care. Toss out the last group and the data indisputably shows Shelton favoring the Giants by a 2:1 ratio. Or, as the Pats fans will surely call it, a Twenty One Radio.

But all kidding aside, whatever team you favor, I hope you have a safe and entertaining Super Bowl. And Go Big Blue!!!

* I know the new stadium is called MetLife,

but until someone pays ME for the naming rights,

it will always be Giants Stadium

Anything to Get a Head

2012-01-23T21:04:00.000-05:00

This is author Megan Bostic, celebrating the release of her
wonderful novel, "Never Eighteen" with a few "friends" who
couldn't make the trip to Tacoma.

Last week marked the two year anniversary of the (self) publication of my book, Alchemy, which to date has sold about 10,000 copies (mostly on Kindle.) And while that number seems surreal to me, I know it’s nothing to get excited about, as my two year total amounts to a (bad) day at the office for someone like Stephen King, Suzanne Collins, or even Jeff Kinney. The good thing is, this does not bother me. I’m not naïve, or delusional, enough to measure my worth by how my sales compare with bestselling authors. I know we are on MUCH different levels.

But there are many authors out there who are closer to my level* - and thanks to facebook, I’ve had the opportunity to connect with some of them- and it’s their success that bothers me! Which really bothers me, since as their friend, I should be genuinely happy for their success. I should be enthusiastically applauding their achievements. I should be congratulating them for their contracts and awards and reviews. And I do. I really do. But not with my whole heart.

You see, while I appear to be a staunch supporter of my author friends, be it buying their books, talking them up on facebook, or attending their signings, there’s something sinister going on just below the surface. Don’t get me wrong. Inside, I really do feel genuine excitement for them. There’s a real appreciation for their accomplishments and a sincere fondness for them as people. Not to mention, I like feeling like a cool kid when I tell people that I know them. But at the same time, I can’t deny that I’m jealous as hell!

So while I’m quick to offer comfort from caustic critics, there’s a petty part of me that’s silently rejoicing over their scathing reviews. And each time I empathize with their difficulties in finding an audience for their book, the sadistic side of me is enjoying watching their sales’ ranks plummet. Oh, and speaking of audiences, when I go to their readings and signings, my snarky side is secretly smiling at all the empty seats surrounding me. And if they happen to be full, I’m scrutinizing the faces for family relations. Perhaps worst of all is the douche bag in me that subtly high-fives the little devil on my shoulder at the reports of their latest rejections. Like somehow their failures will make mine seem better. But they do. They so do!

And even though I've just admitted to having more sides than an octagon, I still can’t bring myself to stop. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s selfish. And petty. And pathethic. But I do it anyway. All while calling myself friend. But what sort of “friend” does that?

Before answering my own question, let me take some solace in the knowledge that this unsavory side of me only appears in my writing world. I don’t begrudge a fellow teacher’s success or revel in their failings. I don’t enjoy seeing my friends falter (unless it’s on a mountain bike), and I don’t covet their accomplishments…or hot wives. At least not to the extent that I do with my writer friends.

I guess there’s a difference between “friendly competition” and competition among friends. And the way the publishing world is set up, it practically pits us against each other. Writer “friends” can spend months workshopping each other’s stories, offering constructive criticism and providing praise and encouragement. But should one of them be lucky, or talented, enough, to sign with an agent, some of that support starts to shrivel once it’s recognized that their success means one less chance for everyone else. We all know there’s only so many publishing contracts to go around, and each one that’s signed means one less for the rest of us. No matter who signs it. Sure, I’d prefer it be a friend than a foe, but I’d much rather it be me!

Writers tend to be a brave, but bitter, bunch. And unsigned writers are even worse. When they’re not wasting time wishing for what someone else has, they’re looking for proof for why they don’t deserve it. Trust me, I know. When it comes to professional jealousy, I’m an expert. First Team, All Pro. But as an author, and friend, it’s clear I’m still an amateur.

* By "level" I don't mean talent, drive, or abilty; areas in which ALL my author friends greatly surpass me. I just mean they are a little closer to my level of sales than, say, a Nicholas Sparks.

Off the Cuff

2012-01-16T21:55:00.003-05:00

For the past 6 weeks, I’ve been having trouble with my left shoulder. It probably stems from one of my many bike crashes, and chances are, it’s a partially torn rotator cuff. I know I should have seen a doctor sooner, but since I was right handed, it didn’t seem like HUGE problem, so I decided to take a wait and see approach. And during that time, it didn’t get better, or worse. It stayed the same, which basically amounted to me not being able to lift anything higher than my chest – and I do mean anything. For example, since our refrigerator opens to the right, I reach in with my left hand, and if I have to get a half-gallon of milk, I can’t lift it. Unless it’s half-full.

So rather than see a doctor, I resigned myself to purchasing milk in quarts. Sure, it cost a little more, and we ran out more often, but better that than meeting with a medical professional, right? And so what if I couldn’t raise my arms to properly put on a sweater – it’s been a mild winter anyway. Not to mention that there are people out there with no arms who manage to get by. Surely I could manage with one and a half.

But then came dinner at the Outback. They were on an hour wait, so we (me, my wife, and two-year old son) were hanging out in the crowded waiting area. I went over to the bar to get us some drinks while she entertained Eli, and came back to find them seated at a skinny counter-type table in the middle of the room. I handed Sarah her wine and took a sip off my 22-ounce beer before resting it on a narrow shelf in order to help Eli color a picture.

Time flew as the people waiting for a table made a fuss over Eli, who is rather charming, and before we knew it, our buzzer was going off to be seated. I scooped up Eli in my right arm and reached with my left to grab my beer…and couldn’t do it! I could not lift my arm high enough to reach the mug.

Now you can mess with my milk. And you can screw with my outfits. But you can not come between me and my beer! Which is why 24 hours later, I had an appointment with an orthopedist.

It’s not that I’m afraid of doctors. In fact, unlike most of the guys I know, I’m up to date on all my physicals and have no problem making appointments when I’m sick for prolonged periods of time. But when it comes to certain things, like pain and discomfort, doctors can be sort of useless.

I’ll never forget going to a urologist. It took all my nerve to make that call and explain that I was having trouble peeing. One of the most basic of human functions, and I was having issues. But I swallowed my pride and went to see a specialist.

I nervously told him how I was an avid bike rider, and that after long bike rides, I was having difficulty “starting” to pee. Fearing some sort of tumor or worse, I was more than annoyed with his expert advice, which was, and I quote, “To wait awhile after your ride before peeing.”

Seriously. His solution to my embarrassing problem was to wait an hour after riding before peeing. 8 years of medical school and that was the best he could do? I’m pretty sure I could have come up with that treatment plan on my own. Which is why I half expected the orthopedist to tell me that if it hurt when I raised my left arm, not to do it.

But, I’m happy to report, that was not the case. I went in expecting to hear I needed surgery, and was relieved to learn that he was not overly concerned. He took some x-rays, gave me a prescription for some sort of anti-inflammatory gel, and had a trainer show me some exercises. If things don’t get better in a few weeks, then it’ll be MRI time.

Granted, other than the prescription, he didn’t really do anything that me and WebMD couldn’t have handled, but it was still a relief to get an expert opinion. I know many people put off going to the doctor because they are afraid of getting bad news, but it’s better to get bad news now than terrible news later, so if you’re concerned about your health, make an appointment. The longer you wait, the worse it’ll get. Unless you’re having issues peeing, in which case, waiting apparently is the solution!

I'm a Giant Fan, but not a GIANT Fan

2012-01-09T22:15:00.001-05:00

I root for the Giants, but don’t consider myself a diehard fan, which to me would entail calling in to sports radio shows, owning (and wearing) an officially licensed NFL jersey, and having the ability to spout off stats about third string receivers…all from the comfort of Mom’s basement! But I am enough of a fan that I have an animated light-up Giants figure in my front yard, my son’s name is Eli, and I recently shelled out over $100 for a ticket to see their first ever play-off game in their new stadium, a 24-2 beat down of the Atlanta Falcons!

But lest you think I’m a closet diehard, let me clarify that the yard ornament was a gift, which I display ironically, and not fanatically. My wife was the one who came up with the name Eli, and in all seriousness (and obliviousness) also suggested Peyton as a potential girl’s name. And as for buying those tickets, sure, I was excited to go, but had to be forced into wearing my one and only item of Giants’ clothing, a sweatshirt, after my wife criticized the pair of jeans and chamois work shirt I had on.

The point is, I don’t live and die by Giant victories or losses. Was I excited when they beat the “undefeated” Patriots in Super Bowl XLII? Hell yeah! But was I distraught when that jackhole, Desean Jackson, returned a kick for touchdown to complete Michael Dick and the Eagles miraculous comeback that sent the Giants spiraling into oblivion last year? Hell no. And I’m not still bitter about it either!

I also don’t make it a point, or priority, to watch EVERY game. I might check in every now and then, or sit and watch the second half. But if something else is going on, like a wedding, or funeral, I’ll do the right thing and go. When all is said and done, it’s only a game. Real life should always take precedence over sporting events. Besides, that’s what God invented smart phones for.

Speaking of which, back in the pre-internet days when the Giants won their first Super Bowl against the Broncos in 1987, I was on a school trip to Florida. We were at a place called Medieval Times, which for those unfamiliar with it, is a large themed restaurant set to resemble a castle, complete with a King’s Court and jousting knights. Needless to say, there was not a television to be found. My friend and I kept leaving our table to seek out a radio, but to no avail…until we walked past the curtain behind the king’s throne and heard the unmistakable sounds of a play-by-play announcer. We peeked in and there was the “King” in full regalia, listening to the game between his appearances on the throne. He made us go back to our group, but not before we convinced him to update us on the games progress. Which he did! He cleverly peppered his prepared speeches about fair maidens and brave knights with subtle mentions of the “Northern Giants” and their battle with the “Western Horsemen.” It was great, and to this day remains the most memorable Super Bowl I’ve never seen.

By the time the Giants returned to the big game, I had graduated high school. My friends and I rented a hotel room and watched every second of it – but in all honesty, for much of the broadcast, we were more engaged with Bud Bowl II, the state-of the art (at the time) series of commercials featuring beer bottles playing football, than the actual game. But, as corny as it sounds, I clearly remember many of us holding hands as Scott Norwood lined up for his potential game-winning field goal attempt. It went “wide right” and we went right wild, jumping up and down in the bed, spraying each other with beer, screaming and cheering like WE had just won the game.

Fast-forward ten years to Super Bowl XXXV, where the Giants got trounced by the Ravens. All I remember was that it was played on my dad’s birthday - he who introduced me to the Giants (figuratively and literally, as he once brought me to a charity basketball game where I got to meet Lawrence Taylor, Larry Flowers, and Joe Morris) and they gave him the worst gift ever. I was sick with the flu that night, but even sicker by what I saw on the field. It was the first Super Bowl I actually stopped watching at halftime.

But the 2007 Giants more than made up for that loss when they beat the previously undefeated Patriots in the most exciting of fashions. We hosted a Super Bowl party at our house, which was mostly attended by our hippie friends who had little to no interest in the game. But that fourth quarter had us all on our feet, exhorting the team on to victory. Even my wife was excited. And not just for me. She was truly engrossed in the game.

And now after several years of setbacks, we’re back. But as a self-professed non-die hard fan, I’m not naïve enough to predict another Super Bowl victory. Sure, they came close to beating the Packers a few weeks back, but that was in the friendly confines of Giants Stadium (money well spent, MetLife. It’ll always be Giants Stadium!) But Lambeau, and a fully rested Green Bay team, will present a much bigger challenge.

But stranger things have happened. Just look at the Broncos. But unlike Tebow, we don’t need God on our side. We’ve got Eli, JPP, and Victor Cruz! Not to mention, we’re GIANTS! Meaning, as the underdog, we’re both David and Goliath. And they’re just a bunch of Packers. Which means what, by the way? That they put stuff in boxes? How intimidating! But come Sunday, it’ll be the Giants packing their bags for a trip to the Conference Finals while Green Bay and their quarterback with a girl’s name cry themselves to sleep on their foam cheese hats.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go pick my jersey up at the dry cleaners and place a call from “Mike in Midtown.” Oh, and Coach Coughlin, if you’re reading this, you should really consider activating Brandon Bing for this week’s game. I watched him play cornerback for Rutgers, and that boy has some talent!

Go Elf Your Shelf!

2011-12-20T10:15:00.000-05:00

Hey, Elf on the Shelf, c’mere, I want to tell you something. Now I know your “boss” forbids you from talking to me, but it’s been made very clear that you can listen, so you better listen and listen good, you backstabbing bastard. Where I come from, snitches get stitches, so if you think I’m just gonna let you sit there all smug on your shelf knowing that as soon as I go to bed you’re gonna race off and rat me out to Santa, you’re even dumber than you look. And that’s saying something.

Just who the hell do you think you are, anyway? People are nice enough to invite you into their homes, and you repay them by what? Informing on them? How do you sleep at night? Oh, wait, that’s right. You don’t. You’re too busy spilling your guts to the big guy, you two-faced sack of shit! But that’s all about to change. You see, I’m not the only one sick of your shenanigans. Word on the street is if you don’t change your ways, you’re gonna wind up the Elf on the Slab, you pointy eared prick.

So if you don’t want to be “accidentally” run down by a runaway Hess truck, you better start minding your elfin business! Capisce? Now, no one’s asking you to lie to Santa, they’re just “suggesting” you to stop the snitching. That shouldn’t be too hard, right? I’m sure you must have better things to do with your time. Wouldn’t you rather be painting stripes on candy canes or making toys with the rest of your little buddies? What do you get out of spying for Santa, anyway? Free lederhosen?

You know, you’re starting to look a little nervous. What’s wrong? Does Santa have something on you? Did one of your elvin friends rat you out? Or is Santa blackmailing you for some indiscretion at the office Christmas party? C’mon, you can tell me…

Fine, just sit there. See if I care. But so help me, if I wake up tomorrow and you’re not still sitting there, we’re gonna have problems. What I do during the day is MY business. If Santa is so concerned about my behavior, he can get off his fat ass and check on me himself. But as far as he knows, I’m Nice. And I plan to keep it that way. Even if that means I have to keep you here. Do we have an understanding?

I can’t tell from your blank expression, but I trust this little talk has been enlightening. Regardless of what you may have seen, I’m really not such a bad guy, and I actually get along rather well with the rest of your ilk. Me and the Keebler elves are pretty tight, I’ve spent a lot of time traveling with my gnome, and the Tooth Fairy has always been respectfully treated. The difference is, none of them were snitches. So learn from your brethren and be the better man. No one likes a rat.

Hopefully this will be the last we speak of this matter, but if you need further proof that I mean business, just take a look at that angel over there. She couldn’t keep her big mouth shut and got a tree shoved up her ass. So unless you want a shelf suppository, remember: What happens in my house stays in my house!

That Feeling of Christmas

2011-12-13T08:33:00.000-05:00

Every year there comes a moment where I remember why it is I like Christmas so much. I never know when it’s going to happen – it might show up a few weeks before the big day, or maybe even a couple of days after. Sometimes it’s obvious and hard to miss. Others, silent and subtle. But it always manages to find me. It’s usually not in attic, even though I tend to spend an inordinate amount of time in there around the holidays. And it’s definitely not in the mall, where I spend an incredible amount of money.

Sometimes it’s in church – either during the Christmas Pageant, when all the kids reenact the whole birth of Christ thing, complete with kids dressed as donkeys - or when the Children’s Choir sings “Silent Night” in the darkened hall, holding flickering candles in their trembling hands. Both are very nice moments and can usually be counted upon for a goose bump or two.

Other times it’s gotten me at work – wrapping packages for needy families and accepting hand-made gifts, such as the ever-popular “paperweight” (aka chalk coated rock), from kids you know can’t afford anything else are both surefire ways to get the spirit of Christmas flowing.

And speaking of flowing spirits, I can always count on family (and the wine that comes with them) to fill me with cheer. With so many “sides” to see, things get a bit hectic, but each stop usually provides a moment or two that make it worth the effort. The food is always good (especially my mom’s walnut chicken). The presents are always appreciated (even Renee’s). And the music, whether it was Vera’s accordion-led sing a longs (RIP), Cousin Christina’s piano solos, or my own holiday Christmix playing in the background, is also a big part of the day.

But it’s typically during the quiet moments that Christmas finds me. Curled up on the couch, squinting at the lights of the tree. Finishing the last glass of wine after most of the guests have gone home. Watching It’s a Wonderful Life for the hundredth time…

As I get older, the hustle and bustle of the holidays seems to get more stressful, and I wind up wishing I could just conjure the feeling for why we do it. With all the pressure and work that goes into “making” Christmas, I feel myself starting to get a little too anxious for it. I feel the need to go looking for it, but I know I can’t. So I just go through the motions: buy the gifts, cut the tree, string the lights, wrap the gifts, decorate the tree, play the carols, clean the house, open the gifts, and a thousand other things in hope that the feeling will eventually arrive.

And while I don’t have faith in much, but I do have faith that it’ll come.

Out of Tune?

2011-12-06T05:42:00.000-05:00

Whatever happened to carolers? Back in the day, my friends and I would gather and go door-to-door singing holiday songs for our neighbors. Most of them seemed happy to see us, and some even tossed coins or treats our way to reward us for our efforts. It was like a mini-Halloween, only with singing instead of costumes (though I’m sure my voice must have been pretty scary.)

But now, unless they’re some “professional” outfit wandering the malls, or a church group hitting the nursing homes, you never come across carolers. Or at least I don’t. So what happened? Are today’s kids too lazy? Or are their parents too afraid? Was there some anti-caroling campaign I missed? Did Nintendo come out with wii Carol? I figure something had to happen, because with the popularity of Glee, and flash mobs, it would seem like more kids would be into this aspect of the holiday spirit. But they’re not.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you, as frankly, it’s pretty awkward to be standing in the door, letting all the heat out, while some out of tune urchins screech about Santa in his underwear. But as a kid, it was fun. We’d steal the songbooks from church so we could practice, and then argue over our set lists. We’d giggle over words like “virgin” and “balls” and try to outlast each other with the longest peeeeee-eeeeeeace at the end of “Silent Night.” We demanded figgy pudding, implored people to come let us adore him, and exposed Santa kissing mothers. And while very few of us could actually sing, what we lacked in talent, we more than made up for in volume.

And it seemed like we always had the perfect night, where the light of the moon would sparkle the lightly falling snow. We’d trudge up unshoveled walks, mash the doorbell with mittened hands, and start singing before the door was opened. Sometimes it never opened, but we always finished the song anyway. Then we’d go off to the next house.

We didn’t worry about lawsuits, or pedophiles, or interrupting an episode of “The Dukes of Hazzard.” Our biggest concern was trying to remember if it was Nine Lords a Leaping or Nine Ladies Dancing. And maybe our neighbors were irritated by our intrusions, but they never let it show. Instead, they’d call for their husbands, ask if we took requests, and offer us some cocoa. And while we always tried to honor their requests, we never took them up on the cocoa. There was no such thing as to-go cups back then, and we had many other houses to hit and many more songs to sing before the night was through. The cocoa could wait until we got home.

Looking back, I suppose our caroling was pretty lame and corny, even by 70’s standards, so I can’t blame today’s kids for their lack of enthusiasm. But if there are any out there willing to give it a shot, my door is always (partially) open. I can’t promise caroling will make you the coolest kid on the block, but you will be the coldest!

Things I Like About My New Cat

2011-11-29T06:49:00.000-05:00

Above is a picture of my new cat, Steve. And below are all the things I like about her:

Have a nice day

Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T08:14:00.000-05:00

NOTE: This originally ran in the Connecticut Post in November of 2008. My intent was to capture what it was like growing up in my family, so I did not even attempt to account for my wife's family (and their Jell-O addiction) but I would like to dedicate this to the memory of Kathy Cribbins and all the members of our family who are no longer with us at the table, but will always be in our hearts.

As much as I love over-eating and being with family, Thanksgiving was never that big of a deal for me. It felt more like a day off than an actual holiday – probably due to the lack of presents. It started when I was a kid, when a holiday wasn’t a holiday unless there were gifts involved. And I’m talking about real gifts…from a store. Not those so-called “gifts” of good health, loving family, and fresh food on the table – I wanted something in a box, or a basket, that I could put batteries in and play with. But year after year Thanksgiving guests would arrive bearing nothing more than smiles and pies, leaving me with nothing to open (unless you count all the walnuts I had to crack for my arthritic aunt.)

It’s not that I disliked the day, it’s just that everything Thanksgiving had to offer, some other holiday did better. Take decorating for example. My family needed the entire month leading up to Halloween, Christmas, and Easter to properly decorate the house for the big day. But Thanksgiving? With maybe an hour to go before the company started arriving, my brother and I would “decorate” by setting out a few pilgrim and Indian candles, filling the cornucopia (but only after we took turns wearing it as a hat), and creating place cards for our guests. For some reason we fought over who got to fill the relish tray with the assortment of sweet pickles and olives, so that became my dad’s job (which he didn’t seem to mind since it gave him the opportunity to steal a couple of olives for his martini before sneaking off to watch football until it was time to carve the turkey.)

My mom’s job was to cook the turkey – a task she approached with the delicate precision of a bomb squad, since she considered the turkey to be a time bomb that would kill us all if not cooked long enough - though she didn’t seem quite so concerned for our health the year she accidentally cooked the turkey with the plastic bag of giblets still stuffed inside – “It’ll be fine” she declared, peeling off the melted pieces of probably toxic plastic. "Just don't eat the middle."

Normally a late riser, she’d set her alarm for 6:00 a.m. Thanksgiving morning in order to put the turkey in the oven so it could cook long enough (a time determined by a complicated formula derived by scientists at NASA, but later made obsolete by Butterball’s pop-up timer.) She would then spend the rest of the day sticking to a strict basting schedule.

When we were really little, every time she opened the oven to check the turkey (which was quite often) she’d start shrieking and screaming, claiming that it was trying to escape My brother Joe and I would come running into the kitchen just as she was closing the oven door, wiping her brow with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Not quite done yet,” she’d say before shooing us back into the living room to continue watching the Macy’s Umpteenth Annual Thanksgiving Day Parade – a six hour snooze fest that she somehow always convinced us to watch.

Which is another area that Thanksgiving was clearly lacking – good TV specials. Christmas had Frosty and Rudolph. Halloween had Charlie Brown. Thanksgiving had…balloons. An endless parade of big boring balloons, their tedious passing narrated by the likes of Lorne Greene, or some other washed-up celebrity, who would share “facts” about them as they floated by. We didn’t care that six people could swim in Snoopy’s supper dish or that Bullwinkle’s nose was so big you could park a Volkswagen in it. All we cared about was seeing Santa, who traditionally brought up the rear of the parade, ushering in the start of the real holiday season.

But the star of Thanksgiving was dinner, which somehow always managed to coincide with half-time. Now most normal families start their feast with a prayer – seeing as how the whole reason for gathering was to give thanks for the food and so forth, but not us. When my mom would ask, “Who wants to say grace?” We’d all yell “Hulford!” - the last name of our neighbor, and the only Grace we knew.

But what we lacked in prayer, we made up for in toasting. We toasted everyone. Those who were at the table with us, and those who were no longer with us. We toasted the turkey, the stuffing, and even the bread, quite literally one year when my cousin, trying to clink a glass across the table, accidentally tipped a lit candle into the napkin-lined basket of rolls, setting them on fire. After the flames were extinguished, someone (I like to think it was me) held up a burnt roll and said, “Well, you did say you wanted to make a toast!”

Yes, we had the traditional “kiddy table” but it was purely for logistical purposes. We never felt left out or unwanted, we knew that there was simply not enough room for everyone at the main table. And it didn’t really matter how old you were, if you were someone’s kid, you sat at the kiddy table. Therefore, graduating to the adult table didn’t have that rite of passage feel for us – if a seat opened up, it was only because someone had died (or even worse, was spending Thanksgiving with a girlfriend’s family!)

And while we could fill the seat of a departed loved one, we could never take their place. They brought something to the table that couldn’t be replaced. But we kept them alive by sharing stories and making toasts in their honor so that the new additions to the kiddy table will know what it was like to eat with Grampa, and George, Gramma Rose, Auntie, Uncle Paul, Bobby…

Now that I'm older, I've come to appreciate what a special holiday Thanksgiving really is. Looking back, as much as I liked getting them, I can’t recall a single Christmas gift any of my deceased relatives gave to me. But I do have countless memories of conversations and moments with them from Thanksgivings past – and I know now that it wasn't their gifts I was missing, it was their presence.

P(raising) the Bar

2011-11-21T22:41:00.000-05:00

Porky's, circa ? - see if you can find me, Where's Waldo style!

NOTE: Call it lazy, but I plan on rerunning my holiday "Greatest Hits"pieces year after year. This would be one of them!

Tomorrow night, aka Thanksgiving Eve, has quietly grown to become one of the busiest bar nights of the year. Whether it's college kids home on break or prodigal sons returning home a bit too early, everyone seems to feel the need to head to their neighborhood bar before spending the big day with their families.

Here in Shelton, we call it "Valley New Year" and for some reason, many of the bars we flock to are the same places we desperately avoided growing up. They were dives, places to be steered clear of since that's where our friend’s fathers (and father’s friends) hung out. But somehow, without changing (or cleaning) a single thing, they get transformed, for one night at least, into friendly, lively, homey places where everyone knows your name…or at least your face.

Which is how most of the night is spent: naming names and figuring out faces of all the “friends” and acquaintances bellying up to the bar. They'll look vaguely familiar, but receding hairlines, expanding waist lines, and fake tan lines will make it hard to be sure. The sad part is that it wasn’t that long ago that you were good buddies, signing yearbooks and claiming to “Never forget the good times...” and now you don’t even remember their names.

On the other hand, people you once passed by in the halls without so much as a nod will be recognizing and hugging you like long lost friends. And who knows, maybe they are! So just to be safe, give them a hearty “Hey, how’s it going? Good? Good!” greeting and maybe raise a glass in a toasting motion. And then hope to God they continue on their way, for you will have absolutely nothing else to talk about.

But they won't go away, and will usually linger for a couple rounds of “Name That Dude,” where the two of you, lacking any real connection, will start naming all of the people you once commonly knew. So, you still hang out with Greg? Seen Jerry around? How about Gina? Once you run out of names, a few moments of uncomfortable silence will follow as the two of you nod and smile insincerely at each other with an, “Isn’t this great, the whole gang’s together!” attitude, until one of you sees someone (anyone) else to go talk to.

And if you're lucky, that someone else might actually be a person you not only recognize, but are truly happy to see. Unfortunately it will be too loud and crowded to carry on any type of real conversation, so you’ll settle for the quick catch-up, covering the past five years in all of five seconds before reverting back to the old nod and smile. It'll go something like this:

You: “Hey, how have you been? It’s been years since I saw you last! What’s new?”

Them: “Not much. How about you?”

You: “Ah, you know, the usual…”

Them: “Yeah, me too.”

Commence nodding and smiling. Never mind that during the last five years, one or both of you could have been married, divorced, hired, fired, jailed, bailed, promoted, demoted, and so forth - all of your highs, lows, and in-betweens will be summed up with a simple “not much” and “the usual.”

And maybe that is what’s so appealing about Thanksgiving Eve: that no matter what has passed over the past year (or years), all your hardships and dramas and tragedies suddenly become “not much” and “the usual.” And that truly is something to be thankful for.

So whatever your Thanksgiving plans are, try to spend a few hours the night before down at your local bar. Time with the family is great, but it’s also nice to hang out with a roomful of “friends” who don’t really care who you’ve become or what you’ve been doing. Most are just happy to know your name - and maybe buy a round of drinks that you can raise together in recognition of just how truly great it is that the whole gang is together.

Getting My Bell Rung

2011-11-14T21:52:00.000-05:00

The doorbell rang the other day (an unusual occurrence around here - unless my two-year old is pushing the button) and I opened it expecting to find a UPS man or something. Instead I was greeted by a stranger looking to get me to switch cable providers.

Now, before I go any further, you should know that I can not stand telemarketers. I despise them. Hate them. Rue the day they were born. When they call, I either: A. hang up immediately B. pass the phone off to the aforementioned two-year old and let him "talk" to them, or C. offer to go get "Mr. or Mrs. Wood" and then leave them waiting until they hang up.

Basically, I don't like attempts at selling me things in my own home. I don't care if you're a Girl Scout, Jehovah's Witness, or political candidate - if I want what you have to offer, or am looking for information, I am more than capable of contacting you or finding it for myself.

But here was this guy offering me a money saving opportunity that I was actually considering just a few days before, so I gave him a few moments of my time. He was nice enough, a little nervous, but seemingly on the up and up, so I gave him my phone number asked him to call me back on Monday after I had some time to look things over, compare offers, squeeze my current cable provider for a discount, etc. We agreed on a time, shook hands, and went on our merry ways.

Then, two days later, at dinnertime, the doorbell rings again, and it's him. And while I may come across here as a take no prisoners, call it as I see it sort of guy, in person, I'm rather timid. I never send food back in a restaurant. I don't confront neighbors about obnoxious fireworks. I accept less than stellar service with a smile. But for some reason, I let this poor guy have it. Before he even had a chance to open his mouth, I laid into him about how unacceptable it was to show up at my house, that we were in the middle of dinner, yada yada yada.

He got all flustered and started fumbling through his binder, and assuming he was looking to leave me with more information about his cable company, I cut him off and said I didn't need any more pamphlets and I was not interested in any of his offers. And that's when the poor guy hands me the paper he was looking for, which turned out to be a printout of a writing website his sister had created (It had come up in our first conversation that I was a teacher) that he thought I might be interested in.

I felt horrible, but already committed to being a dick, I took the paper without comment and sent him on his way. I closed the door, feeling none of the manly pride one might expect after going to battle with the enemy. In fact, I felt like a real jerk. So much so that I sent the following letter to his sister's website in hopes that he might get it.

"Dear Mike, I want to apologize for the way I treated you. I know you were just doing your job, and sales are hard to come by these days, but I was REALLY put off by your second visit to my home. To tell you the truth, I was put off by your FIRST visit as well, but since I don't even like when friends or family stop by unannounced, I let it slide. But regardless, you still didn't deserve to be treated like that. Had you been some pushy jerk or intimidating individual, I wouldn't have thought twice about brushing you off, but you seem like a genuinely sweet and sincere man, and should have been treated accordingly. Point is, I feel terrible about being such a jerk to you (not bad enough to sign up for Comcast, mind you, but still pretty bad!) and I wish you success in your endeavors.

Speaking of, not to dismiss the job you have, but I also hope you find something better suited to your skills and personality that WON'T put you in the line of fire from jerks like me. You have such a warm presence about you that it seems a shame that it's being "wasted" on pimping cable! But I know we all got to eat, and jobs are scarce, and sometimes we just have to make the best of it - and I'm truly sorry that your job led to you seeing me at MY worst.

I hope you know that my reaction to you at my doorstep had nothing to do with YOU as a person, as I think you would make a great neighbor, it's just I really don't like intrusions, or even surprises for that matter! I hope this message finds its way to you, and if it does, that you will accept my apology. Sincerely, Mike Wood"

This is not to say I'm going to hug the next a-hole who tries to spray me with cologne in the mall, but I am going to try to remember that he's just doing his job and politely decline. As for the telemarketers, they can continue to talk with Eli.

11/11/11

2011-11-11T12:26:00.007-05:00

1st Lt Dan Rector and his sons before he deployed to Iraq

My nemesis, Renee, just asked why I didn’t have a blog post about Veterans Day. My initial response to her was that I knew my limitations and didn’t feel capable of capturing such a BIG story with my silly sensibilities. I was afraid my sarcastic tone and self-effacing style would come across as disrespectful and that my take on the topic would be inconsequential. So I decided to do the right thing and keep my mouth shut.

But as I was gearing up for a rare mid-morning bike ride, courtesy of a day off in honor of the holiday, I started to feel guilty. How could I enjoy the day knowing so many have sacrificed their lives and livelihoods in order for me to do so, without at least acknowledging their service?

So here I sit, struggling to come up with the words to convey what their bravery has meant to me - feeling foolish even using the word “struggle” - like it’s a real freakin’ hardship for me to be sitting safely in my warm(ish) kitchen typing on my expensive laptop while sipping some hot tea, and just now taking a break to talk to my mother on the phone. Our servicemen and women would love for the opportunity to do such simple, everyday things, and here I am whining about how "hard" it is for me to thank them? How messed up is that?

I try to convince myself that living the good life and enjoying every day is the best way to show my appreciation for the sacrifices of others. But deep down, I know it’s the lazy way. Reflecting on their courage while blithely going about my business doesn’t do much but make me feel better. But what about them? Even at my most sincere, my selfish inclination would be to talk about how much their actions have meant to me. But what about them? Is it even possible to show such gratitude? Can anyone really pay them back for what they’ve given up?

It’s such a daunting task, I can’t even begin to think about it. Throwing money at the problem seems like the easy way out – but even if I had the money, how much would make up for a lost leg, damaged mind, or missing time with a loved one? A million dollars? Two? And even then, no amount is ever going to bring any of it back.

So what can I do? I like to think I do what I can by flying flags in their honor, participating in moments of silence, nodding gratefully at them in airports, clapping for them at parades, crying at the sad news, getting angry and the bad, and cheering for the good, but I know it’s not nearly enough. I can tie a yellow ribbon around every oak tree I see and it would still only be a token gesture. A pitiful way to make me feel better about not being one of the brave ones.

But for what it’s worth, I offer my simple and heart-felt thank you. Thank you for doing the things I don’t even like to read about. Thank you for enduring things I don’t want to hear about. And thank you for giving up the things I never want to go without.

And Renee, screw you for making me do this!!!

Don't Let Life Path You By!

2011-11-07T09:10:00.000-05:00

Since moving into our new home, I’ve been pretty much riding the same trails damn near daily for the past year or so. My “problem” is that even though there are dozens of great trails within a half an hour’s drive, I really don’t see the point in getting in my car to ride my bike, so I tend to stick to the ones close to home. But after 300 trips down the same path, things were starting to get a little boring.

So the other morning I decided to mix things up a bit and ride my route backwards. Wait, before you get the wrong idea, let me clarify: I wasn’t facing backwards on my bike, which would be sort of cool, I just went in reverse order, so that my usual starting point was my new ending point.

And not to get all Zenny on you and stuff, but that simple change of perspective turned my well-worn routine into an unexpected and exciting journey. Everything was the same, yet completely different. Gear grinding “ups” transformed into freewheeling downs. Rocks became ramps. Boulders become rollers. It was a brand new experience. So much so that I even managed to get lost…twice, which was strange considering I was in completely familiar territory.

I returned home invigorated and looking forward to my next ride. All from a simple change in my routine. Which got me thinking about all my other habits and tendencies. Could they also be switched up in order to get a similar charge?

Turns out doing my ironing in the morning, instead of at night, didn’t make for a more exciting start to the day. It just made me late for work. And my plan for entering the house through the seldom used front door, instead of the usual kitchen door, just made me realize I hadn’t gotten around to fixing the wobbly front step.

But before I go burying my real point in my typical foolishness, let me break from that routine as well and get right to it….

The reason life seems to pass so much faster after thirty has nothing to do with getting older. It’s just that so much of our lives have become routine by that point, we don’t take the time to experience it.

Think about it. Our first 20 years had milestones every ten feet. EVERYTHING was a new experience. First words, first steps, first grade, first kiss, first beer, first car, first time… Every day seemed to bring something new and unfamiliar, forcing us to pay attention and notice every moment. But once you hit thirty, not much new happens. Our routines and roles are established and familiar. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, since there’s comfort in predictability and reliability. But too much comfort breeds complacency, so every once in a while, we need to step out of our comfort zones and try something new.

Much in the same way we wind up on autopilot when driving the same way, every day, to work, life is passing us by without our being aware of it. One day blends into the next, and before you know it, a year has passed. Then three. Then five. Now, I’m not advocating simply stopping to smell the roses. In fact, I’m against it. For one thing, we have to deal with enough pricks as it is. And another, it’s really not about stopping at all. It’s about starting something.

So find a way to add more "Firsts" to your day. And I don’t mean finding your first gray hair or feeling the first signs of menopause. I’m talking about taking those first steps towards doing something new. Or even revisiting something old. As my reverse bike ride proved, it doesn’t require a huge undertaking to put off the inevitable visit from the undertaker. It just takes a willingness to break from the old routines and try something different.

They say time flies when you’re having fun, but what they don’t tell you is that it flies even more when you’re having none. We may not be able to turn back our clocks like we did this past Sunday, but we can still turn back. I know life is supposed to be about moving forward, but that doesn’t mean it’s a race to the end. So skip the shortcuts, move into the slow lane, and enjoy the ride. From both directions!

The First Snow "Fall"

2011-11-01T17:23:00.002-04:00

I try not to tackle too many timely topics on this blog, as I don’t want future readers scratching their heads over references that were mere flashes in the pan. I’d rather discuss the things that are cast in iron. Eternal things. Universal things. Things like Jell-O Wars, or Icy Hotting my privates, or where to buy my book: Alchemy. You know, important stuff. But the recent snow storm on the East Coast was so destructive and disruptive, I felt obligated to cover it. I figured since so many were covered in it, and many are still trying to recover from it, it was the right thing to do.

And when it comes to dealing with inclement weather and the power outages it brings, I typically do all the right things. I have 6 propane tanks, 5 gallon water jugs, 4 cans of gas, 3 days of food, 2 emergency exits, and 1 generator. NONE OF WHICH WERE READY FOR THIS STORM! Sure, I heard the reports, but did not take them seriously. I saw the forecast, but did not believe it. In fact, I blithely drove past several gas stations, in the snow, knowing I had less than a quarter tank of gas, yet never even considered stopping to fill up. Had it been December, I would have made sure that, and everything else, was taken care of. But it was October. I still had my lawn furniture and fire pits out, hoping to have another outdoor party or two before winter came. It was 60 degrees the day before. I rode my bike to work. It wasn’t going to snow. And even if it did, it wasn’t going to last.

But winter came like Forrest Gump on Jennie’s roommates robe, only I was the one caught with my pants down. So when the snow piled up and the power went out, I was without my generator, which was loaned out during the hurricane. Not that it mattered, as the fuel cans needed to fill it were sitting empty in my garage. Next to the empty water jugs that we could have used for flushing toilets, along with the broken snow shovel I had planned to replace this season. Inside the house, things weren’t much better. My cell phone was uncharged, Kindle battery depleted, and snack cabinet nearly empty. Even our gas fireplace, which we typically used for ambiance, but could have used for heat, was not working.

We did have plenty of wine, thank god, and we made good use of it to flush our toilets. Just kidding. That’s what the Miller Lite was for! But the wine did help bring a flush to our chilly cheeks. I also managed to find some flashlights and get the fireplace functioning without any major gas leaks or explosions and we settled in for a long winter’s night in the middle of fall.

Speaking of fall, a loud noise from the deck announced that the gazebo I had neglected to winter proof had collapsed under the weight of the snow, and had come crashing down on the outdoor firetable I had also neglected to stow away, while smashing the outdoor chandelier that I had failed to bring in. Are we starting to see a pattern here?

With nothing else to do, I went to bed and awoke the next morning in a 47 degree house. My two-year old and I had fun snuggling on the couch pretending to be dragons with our frosty breath, but the novelty quickly wore off. Reports that the power might be out “for a while” had my wife and I emptying the fridge and packing the perishables in snow. With four toilets in the house, we were all able to claim one as our own and use them without too much discomfort - my brilliant plan of filling Gatorade coolers with snow and using the melting water to flush the toilets had failed, since, well, it turns out coolers are made to keep things cool. But my son had fun making snowballs with it in the living room.

And while our frontier forefathers would be ashamed, after only 24 hours of no lights, heat, water, or internet, we gave up and headed to my wife’s father’s, who still had power, for showers, coffee, and Giant’s football. On the way, we were shocked at the amount of damage we saw. The roads were completely clear of the snow that had started all of this, but were literally covered with downed trees and power lines. It was both awesome and awful to see.

An hour later, from the warm comforts of my father in law’s living room and a belly full of hot soup, I sat and read through the day’s paper and watched the local news reports on the storm, and I have to admit, there was some comfort in knowing that I was not the only one unprepared for it. Even the trees were not ready, as I learned that bare branches and frozen sap helps them withstand the harsh weather. But since there was no time for this to happen naturally, many were destroyed. Compared to them, I was lucky.

But I can’t count on luck to save me again. Which is why the first thing I did when the power came back on, after flushing the toilets, was to fill those water jugs. That way, the next time shit happens, I’ll be ready! And Robert, if you’re reading this, I’ll be coming to get my generator.

Busing Them Off

2011-10-18T21:47:00.004-04:00

Dear School Bus Drivers,

I’m a teacher and a parent, but at the risk upsetting my constituents, I'm asking you to consider the following suggestion: The next time you’re waiting at a stop for a late student and the kid comes (meat) loafing down the sidewalk like he has all the time in the world, drive off and leave his lazy butt behind!

I'm sure you must have to bite your toungue as you bide your time waiting on these kids, because I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to sit in my car watching some punk slowly walking down the road while the rest of the world waits behind your flashing red lights. And it honestly has nothing to do with making me late for work. A few lost minutes isn’t going to make a difference in my day, I just can’t stand the smug, screw you looks on their faces as they saunter down the street like they’re the only ones that matter.

Don’t get me wrong, I think it is commendable that you are willing to patiently and politely wait for these pokey passengers, but in the long run, you’re really not doing them, or us, any favors. For one thing, the real world is not going sit idly by while they leisurely go about their business, and the sooner they realize this, the better. Plus, if they’re showing such little respect and consideration for you, the kids on the bus, and the people behind it now, can you imagine what they’ll be like as adults?

I know nobody’s perfect, and we all oversleep from time to time. But when we’re running late, we literally run. Yet these kids just shuffle along like they’re doing you a favor by boarding your bus. They expect you to be on time, don’t they? And they’re the first to complain when you’re ten seconds late, right? So if I were you, the next time I spotted some slug strolling down the street, I’d shut the door and hit the gas. Then maybe next time they’ll put a little zip in their doo dah.

Of course I know you value your jobs way too much to actually heed my words, but if you are crazy enough to try it out (and some of you are!) please make sure your first victim isn’t some kid on crutches, or a chubby kid making an effort to hurry it up. And if he or she happens to be handicapped, or the only minority kid on your route, you should probably wait for them as well. But anyone else is fair game.

They need to realize that “No Child Left Behind” only applies in the classroom, and in order to get there, they need to move their behinds a little quicker to get to the bus on time.

Tired of seeing red,

Mike Wood

Seeing Red

2011-10-10T21:19:00.000-04:00

Is the phrase Indian Summer as racially insensitive as Indian Giver? I hope not, as I have no other way to describe the unseasonably warm weather we’ve had over the past few days – coincidentally over Columbus Day weekend. And since we all know how he treated the Indians, I want to ensure that I am being sensitive and politically correct in my wording. If our children are now being told to sit criss cross apple sauce, instead of Indian style, then maybe I should mind my manners as well.

It’s a good thing I’m not an Atlanta Braves fan, who routinely mine, or mock, the Native American culture with their “Tomahawk Chop” and Chief Noc-A-Homa mascot. Or a Cleveland Indians fan, with their racially insensitive Chief Wahoo logo. As for the Washington Redskins, while their logo seems respectful enough, their name leaves a lot to be desired. Redskins? Really? They claim it honors the Native American cultures, but I’m not convinced. They also point out that very few Native Americans have complained, which I’m sure is true, seeing as how the majority of them have been wiped out! And the rest are too busy running their casinos to worry about it.

Oops, did I just make a joke? Was it insensitive to portray the surviving members of our once proud Indian tribes as casino operators? Probably. Was it funny? Not really. Is it true? Sort of.

And therein lies the problem with political correctness. In order to avoid upsetting anyone with “insensitive” comments, one has to sidestep the truth and skip over the obvious, and to me, that’s more demeaning than just being honest. Is it really better to ignore all the bad things that have happened in the past and pretend like all is forgotten? And if so, then what happens to the good things?

From what I’ve seen in museums, many Indians did sit on the ground with their legs crossed. So why can’t our kids sit Indian style? And apparently scalping was a common practice, so if I want to complain about a bad haircut, is it really hurting an Indian’s feelings? Or the hairdressers?

As for the color thing, I can sort of understand and respect the argument that for, say, the black community, phrases like “black list” and “black ball” and “black sheep” seem to imply that black equals bad. And most of the “red” phrases aren’t much better. Getting caught red handed is bad. Being in the red is bad. Red tape? Bad. Red flag? Bad. The problem is, this same argument could be used with any color: a white elephant is something that has no value, white bread is considered plain and boring, and a white flag is used to quit or surrender. While on the flip side, getting invited to a black tie affair and receiving the red carpet treatment are good things.

At the end of the day, we just need to respect each other as individuals. Color and culture shouldn’t define who we are or decide whom we associate with. If we can feel comfortable with each other, we can laugh at, and with, each other. Admit it, Chief Noc-a-homa is a funny name. And if we all started looking for the humor in things, we might be less likely to find hate.

Have We Met?

2011-10-04T22:06:00.004-04:00

My son, Eli, after over two years, decides that TODAY he is going to attach himself to a stuffed animal. Or in his case, a stuffed Mr. Met. As the picture above clearly shows, at 6 months of age, he LOVED Mr. Met. For about 3 minutes. Long enough to take some cute pictures. But since then, he has shown no affinity for blankies, bears, woobies, or lovies. Then came this morning.

It was "Bring Your Favorite Stuffed Animal to School" day, and not wanting him to be left out, I coaxed him into choosing one to bring to school - after digging out the box of teddy bears from his closet, where they have been for over a year since we moved. He rejected the Jerry Bear I offered. Dismissed the manatee I held up. Shook his head at the fluffy lamb. But agreed to take Mr. Met.

Eight hours later, he was still clinging to him. They played together, Napped together. Went to the potty together. I took him shopping with me after work, and Mr. Met came with us. And until ten minutes ago, he was in the crib with him.

I'm not sure if this makes me a bad dad or not, but I just now snuck in and quietly removed Mr. Met from beside my sleeping son and stuffed him back in the closet. This pains me as a Met fan, but I really don't want my kid lugging around a stuffed animal. Or mascot. I figure if he's made it this far, why mess with success? But I leave it up to you. Did I do the right thing?

**************************************************************************

CODA:Most of you will be happy to know that at 6:15 this morning, when I went upstairs to wake Eli for school, he popped right up and immedietely started looking around his crib. He lifted his pillow. He checked under his blanket. "Where's Met?" he asked. I instantly caved and said, "Maybe he went back in the closet." I made a show of being surprised that he was in there and handed him over to my happy boy. What the hell, I figured. Chances are this will be the only pleasure he ever gets from the Mets, so might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

Reunited and it feels so good!

My Dictates the Best!

2011-09-26T20:35:00.001-04:00

With the exception of this paragraph, every word in this post was "written" using a dictation program. But just in case the explanation for this experiment does not come across clearly below, I wanted you to know that I am intentionally publishing it as is, with no editing or correcting, to test out the program. So if I seem even more incoherent than usual, it's not my fault! NOTE: After finishing, I went back and added parenthetical "translations" for things I clearly remember saying that the program got wrong)

It's been well documented that I don't like to write. As much as I enjoy the attention, the accolades, and the little extra money, actually sitting down to write is not something I make time to do. I know good part of it is they really feel selfish. To me there a lot of other more important things I should be doing rather than sitting in the basement typing away. Then there's the act of typing itself. With hands mangled from a variety of accidents and incidents, I'm basically a mobster (human lobster). So when I heard about a dictation program that would type for me as I spoke, I jumped at the chance.

Look before you leap is all I have to say. The 1st problem I countered with $150 program was that when (it wouldn't) run with the current operating system I have for my Mac. So rather than try to figure out how to upgrade from Buffalo to Leopard to lie in (Lion!) I decided to bite the bullet and buy a MacBook Air (holy shit, not only did it recognize the name, it formatted it properly!). Two days and 1000 votes (bucks) later I have a Macbook. Problem two came when I realize that in their book (Airbook) does not have a distress drive (disc drive), so to me good 4 hours figure how to sync it with my other computer.

Problem 3K Massie (came as I) try to sit down and use it. In addition to the errors such as you're seeing here, sitting in a room talking to yourself is not conducive to writing. It might be great for fire off a couple e-mails, but I found the creative process is definitely halted when one must actually put his thoughts to spoken words. This terrible type or I am, I am much better at keeping up with my thoughts than this program. For this program to work effectively, you really have to speak in slow measured bursts. For example, this sentence was read at a rate that would make Ben Stein seem exciting. But when I read the same sentence at normal speed it looks like this: for example the sentences read a rate that would make them sign some exciting. See the difference?

Lastly, there's the fact that I refuse to refer to myself as an author, since I'm self published, which makes me wonder if I could I even call myself a writer if I don't actually write?

Again I'm not badmouthing the program – ha ha - get it? bad mouth? dictation software? It is just not working the way I was hoping - or better yet, I'm not working the way I was hoping. So looks like I'm going back to the old-fashioned way: my 2 finger tap dance across the keyboard. Meaning if you're looking for my next book, check back in 10 years. Or, as my dictation program might say, tobacco deniers!

Bad Things Aren't Supposed to Happen to Us

2011-09-06T19:18:00.004-04:00

The picture above is of me, my brother, and two of our oldest (and still closest) friends, Chrissy Feltovic and Mary Callahan. I'm not sure what Mary is doing, she's either laughing or frightened by something behind Chrissy's back. But either way, it's typical Mary: always in the picture, but never one to seek the spotlight. Unlike the rest of us, who, along with Chrissy's sister Nicole, were constantly fighting to be the center of attention while spending nearly every moment of our childhood together. But that was the only real fighting we did - for no matter how heated our games of Kick the Can, Hide and Seek, and Spud got, the five of us always stuck together. Quite literally at times, as our “bases” had what we called Electricity.

For the uninitiated, a "base" is the designated safe spot in a game (a front porch, a large rock, or even a lamp post) where if you were standing or touching it, you couldn't get tagged, out, caught, etc. And Electricity allowed us to work together to rescue a slow-running teammate who couldn’t reach the safety of base by creating a human chain. As long as one person kept so much as a toe on base, anyone holding their hand (or the hand of the person holding their hand!) received the full benefits of base.

Once, one of us (probably me) got tired of being “It” and tried to disrupt the flow of Electricity by busting through the line and breaking the chain, but a rule was quickly created that made such moves illegal. The logic being that anyone doing so in real life would be electrocuted, so therefore it couldn’t be allowed in the game.

We were great at making rules, but all honesty we didn't have a whole lot of them to follow. We were lucky in that our parents gave us every opportunity to explore and grow on our own. They made sure we were safe(ish), but not sheltered. As long as we were home by the time the streetlights came on, we were free to do whatever our young hearts desired. Of course as we got older, some of our hearts started desiring each other, but even that was done in a playful sort of way.

And now we’re all grown up with kids of our own. But sadly, society has made it difficult to raise our kids the way we were raised. The world no longer feels as safe. Neighbors no longer seem so kindly. And streetlights no longer come on at a preset time, if at all. But my friend Mary is one of the brave ones. She and her husband are throwing over-caution to the wind and letting their two young boys skateboard down the sidewalk, build igloos in the snow, and melt crayons on light bulbs the way we once did. To do so, they had to overextend themselves to buy a nice house in a safe neighborhood with great schools so their kids could have the best. They committed to working long and hard during the week so they're kids could play just as hard on the weekends.

But life has thrown Mary and her husband, Jimmy Kelleher, a curveball. Jimmy was recently diagnosed with MSA, and after only a year, his symptoms have made it impossible for him to continue working, driving, and playing with his kids with the same energy that he once did. To tell you the truth, I'm too afraid to look up MSA to see what the exact prognosis is, but I know it's not good. What I do know is MSA means multiple system atrophy, and it’s a disease similar to Parkinson's but much less treatable. In fact there is no cure.

It's often said that for parent, the death of a child is the absolute worst thing to deal with. But knowing you may not be around to watch your children grow up has to come a close second. Jimmy is a great dad, a loving husband, and a loyal friend, and not being able to provide for all the people in his life has to be the most difficult part of all of this for him.

And to that end, the old neighborhood gang is teaming up with Mary's family to host a benefit to help raise some much-needed money. You should know right up front that the money will not go to help find a cure for MSA. It will not be used for research or scholarships. The money will go to help pay the mortgage and settle some bills, with hopefully enough left over for some Christmas presents. Our goal is a relatively small one, but we hope that the money raised will not only help alleviate some of the financial burden, but also the emotional one Jimmy has been carrying over no longer being able to provide for his family’s needs. We hope that Jimmy recognizes that this is not charity. It is payback for all the wonderful things he has done for people in need. The money we raise will truly have been earned by Jimmy the same as if he were punching the clock.

But even so, Mary and Jimmy were reluctant to go the benefit route when we first brought it up to them. As I mentioned, Mary is not one to seek attention, and both are very private people when it comes to personal matters, so the fact that they would even consider letting us do a fundraiser made it clear to me how desperate things had become.

When I said we grew up playing games, I meant it literally. Those games taught us how to deal with life as adults. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. It's not always fair. But even so, some things just weren't supposed to happen to us. Bad things were not supposed to happen to us. Bad things happen to the people you read about in the papers, or watch on the news. Bad things happen to cousins of coworkers. Bad things happen to strangers, and leave you thinking, “Oh how terrible…” before resuming your own life.

But a bad thing has happened to one of our own, and as much as we want to, we can't change the rules. We can't demand a do over, or holler, “Ollie Ollie Oxen Free!” We can't take our ball and go home. Life for Jimmy is no longer a game, but we are hoping that the powers of Electricity are still as strong today as they were back then. And we need you all to join the chain, to come together and reach out to help our friend enjoy the safety of base.

**************************************************************************

Here is the link to the facebook page: Benefit for Jimmy Kelleher and the info from the page: FRIENDS AND FAMILY OF JIM & MARY (CALLAHAN) KELLEHER
HOPE YOU WILL COME ON OUT AND SHOW YOUR SUPPORT!

TICKETS: $25 per person - Price includes Beer, Wine & Food

--- Great Raffle Prizes ---
--- Good Food ---
--- Music & Open Mic ---
--- Silent Auction ---

Jimmy Kelleher has been diagnosed with multiple system atrophy (MSA)
A progressive neurodegenerative disorder that has taken away his
independence and the family’s financial security.
To learn more about MSA go to: www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/msa

If you are unable to attend, please consider sending a donation, no amount is too small. Donations are being accepted via CASH, Check - payable to Mary Kelleher or PayPal to: jimkfund@yahoo.com

For tickets contact Tim Callahan@203-996-4511 or Robby Reed@203-605-6183

The Eyes Have it!

2011-08-30T10:25:00.000-04:00

In a weird way, a hurricane is sort of like Christmas. The days leading up to it are spent frantically preparing and ensuring that you have everything you need. The night before its arrival is spent lying awake in bed anxiously wondering what the morning will bring. You wake up early the next day to see what you got, then spend the rest of the day comparing with your friends and checking in on family. Oh, and eating. Lots and lots of eating. Then, 24 hours later, it's all over - save for the mess to clean up and bills to pay.

And just like the holidays, there are people who are grateful for the littlest things and those who complain that it's not enough. I can sort of understand the later attitude when it comes the presents, but storm damage? Really? It doesn't make sense to me that one could be disappointed with a lack of destruction. Yet there were countless people complaining that the severity of the storm did not live up to the hype. They were bemoaning all the extra batteries they bought, and griping about the gallons of milk in their still working fridges.

Granted, I'm as greedy as the next guy, but when it comes the storms, less is always more. I spent the sunny days leading up to the hurricane preparing the house, hoping that all my work would be for nothing. And I'm grateful to say, it was. Other than a small leak that managed to find its way into the bathroom I was remodeling, we suffered zero damage. The storm left us with our power still on, trees still standing, and basement dry.

And I was happy. But as I surveyed our yard looking for something to do, I couldn't deny there was some sort of strange feeling of... anti-climax. Like when you feel a sneeze coming on and it suddenly disappears - part of you is grateful that you don't need a tissue, but there’s a small part of you that feels unsatisfied. A good sneeze relieves all that built-up pressure, but a stifled one just leaves you wondering, what do I do now?

And that's how I felt, as I skimmed our pool of leaves with the sound of generators humming and chainsaws buzzing all around me. I was grateful that that was all I had to do, but felt guilty that that was all I had to do. And to be completely honest, more than a little wimpy. There I was, circling the pool with a glorified butterfly net while my neighbors were wielding power tools. I suppose some people would have saw such good luck as an opportunity to relax and read or sit inside and watch TV all day, but after all the dire predictions, I needed to get my hands dirty. So I put the skimmer down and walked over to the neighbors to lend a helping hand.

We spent the afternoon chainsawing the tree that nearly took out his house, dragging the branches into the woods and rolling the logs behind the shed. After a celebratory Budweiser, we set our sights on another neighbor’s tree that was blocking the road. Once that was cleared away, we patted ourselves on our aching backs and went to our respective homes for well-deserved dinners.

Later that night, my nephew showed up looking to borrow my generator. Like 50% of our town, he had no power, and with 4 young kids and a Koi pond full of gasping fish, he could really use the energy. So we loaded it into my truck, along with 10 of the 20 gallons of gas I had purchased, and brought it back to his house.

I should have slept well that night, knowing I had assisted a neighbor in need, helped clear our road, and even saved the lives of some ridiculously expensive fish - but I couldn’t help feeling guilty about those less fortunate than I. Granted, like the grasshopper in the fable, my hard work on a sunny day may have had something to do with how little damage we received during the storm, but that didn't make it right to ignore the plight of the ants.

When it comes right down to it, aren't we all just little ants? We scurry about, building our little towers of sand, trying to pretend like we know what we’re doing, ignoring the fact that Mother Nature can squash us with even the slightest of steps. And whether her acts are willfull or accidental, it doesn’t matter, because it’s our actions afterwards that really count. No matter how much we prepare, we must be ready to repair. And more importantly, help others to do the same.

There's a "Place" for Us...and You!

2011-08-23T07:36:00.000-04:00

An atypically empty picture of The Place

NOTE: I know Tuesdays are supposed to be NEW post days, but today is my wedding anniversary, so I'm taking it off! Taking it all off baby! But I won't leave you completely hanging. Since we made our annual pilgrimage to The Place last night, I thought it would be a good time to rerun my review of it that originally appeared in the Connecticut Post several years ago.

“This is going to be the best summer ever!” was the prediction/promise I heard every June from the time I was 8 up until I turned 22. Okay, maybe 27, but only because some of my friends matured slower than savings bonds! And every year they had a different reason why that particular summer was going to rock: First it was because someone got a pool. Then it was that we were finally sixth graders (still not sure what privileges that entailed, but we sure were excited at the time.) Later it was that we had our driver’s licenses (or an older cousin’s driver’s license, which we could use to buy beer, so long as one of us could grow a foot…and a beard.) Our 18^th summer was going to be “the best one ever” because we could rent (and trash) a cottage on the beach.

Looking back, I can’t remember which summer truly was the best (probably because our last few were spent following the Grateful Dead) but even if I could recall, I probably couldn’t come up with an answer. For one thing, I still have summers left to live. Plus, unlike my friends, I don’t like putting such labels on my experiences because I don’t go into them with such high expectations. In fact, I’ve found that the “best” times happen when I’ve least expected them.

It seems like the bigger, more elaborate, or highly anticipated the event, the less likely I am to have a good time. Invite me to a luau that you spent a year planning (and paying) for, complete with pig roast and hula girls, and I’m the dud leaving before getting lei’d. But throw an impromptu picnic and I’m the life of the party. I’ve had more fun tubing down the Housatonic than cruising the Caribbean. It’s like the more pressure I feel to have a good time, the less capable I am of doing so. And no, I don’t have social anxiety, so don’t send me any Paxil. Nor do I want any Viagra-like pills designed to help get my expectations up – I like them just where they are…low.

Like the old Wall Street wisdom of buying low and selling high, having low expectations has helped enrich my life. It sounds silly, but by not expecting much, I almost always get what I want. Plus, I’m rarely disappointed, and am often pleasantly surprised. Who could ask for more? Note: this isn’t some sort of slacker mentality - I still do a lot of hard work…I just don’t expect it to pay off!

So, when my low expectations and I (along with my wife and a few friends from work) went for dinner at The Place in Guilford, I wasn’t counting on being overly impressed. From what I had already heard about The Place, I was picturing something along the lines of glorified tailgating, minus the tickets to the game. Not much to write home (or a column) about. But, as usual, I got what I expected, and then some.

The first thing you’ll notice about The Place is that it really isn’t an actual place so much as a space, with very little differentiating the parking lot from the eating area, save for the tree stumps, which will be the second thing you’ll notice. The eating area is stocked with tree stumps of various shapes and sizes which serve as seats, as well as foundations for the plywood table tops, so find a stump that suits your rump and have a seat. You might want to bring your own cushion, or even a chair, to make things more comfortable.

Speaking of bringing things, The Place has a BYOB policy – actually more of a BYO A-Z policy, since you can bring in basically anything within reason to supplement your dining experience, from alcoholic beverages to side dishes to zabaglione (or any other obscure Italian dessert.) Some people even bring table cloths, candelabras, etc. to dress up their table, but The Place really isn’t a place for pretensions, or dressing up, as you will get messy. Which brings us to the food.

While sitting on a stump in a parking lot across from a Wal-Mart does have its charms, it is the food that brings the people in, and keeps them coming back. Clams get top-billing on The Place’s billboard of a menu, and seem to be the biggest draw. Rated “best non-fried clams on earth” by U.C.L.A. (United Clam Lovers of America) they are served hot off the rack with a splash of secret sauce, and they are delicious. Even my wife, who has never had a clam in her life, was tempted to try one. She didn’t like it, but she loved the corn, served fire roasted and still in the husk. Other offerings include fresh lobsters, fish, chicken, and steak, all cooked over open flame and served with minimal flare.

We left The Place happy, full, and slightly grimy – and truly impressed with how they managed to do so much with so little. The Place turned out to be my kind of place. I didn’t expect much, but that’s exactly what I got!

The Place

891 Boston Post Road

Guilford, Connecticut

203-453-9276.

Destress Signals

2011-08-15T21:48:00.000-04:00

This was supposed to be a sweet little story about a life lesson learned in a grocery store parking lot – but it somehow turned a little darker and deeper. And never one to shy away from exposing myself and my faults, I decided to just stick with it and see where it took me. But if you want to bail out now, I understand. In fact, if you read on, you’ll see that I would actually recommend not reading stuff like this. Talk about a Catch-22!

Anyway, for those still here, let me start by saying that I’m a pretty laid-back sort of guy. But as strange as it sounds, it takes a lot of work to be as easy-going as I am. The secret to a stress-less existence (meaning less stress, not no stress) is to be proactive. You have to take steps to avoid putting yourself into stressful situations.

For an example, let’s look at the aforementioned parking lot story. I have a two-year old son, and ever since he was a few weeks old, we’ve been taking him grocery shopping. And he has always sat in front “seat” of the cart, buckled in with his little legs dangling below the handle. As he got older, he became aware of the cute little car-shaped carts that they have, complete with steering wheel and horn. But knowing that the store we frequent only had two of those cars, I decided it best to never let him go in one, knowing then he would always want to go in one, and on the off chance that there wasn’t one available, I didn’t want to deal with the tears and disappointment. It seemed like a logical way to prevent potential tantrums - plus he was happy enough in the regular carriage, so why mess with success?

Well, I messed with success a few weeks ago at Home Depot, when I let him go in one of their really cool truck carts, figuring we didn’t go there nearly as often as the supermarket, so what was the big deal? Plus, he had so much fun “steering” it, it made my shopping easier and more enjoyable.

Of course, since then, he only wants the car carts, no matter where we go, and I’ve decided to just let him. This sucks for my wife, who has a hard time pushing the much larger carriage, but I realized it was foolish to avoid something fun simply because that fun opportunity might not be available in the future. That’s what they mean by carpe diem, right? Roughly translated as ‘seize the cart!’

Anyway, this is about the point in the story where I would have stopped and wrapped things up with a silly little sentiment about not putting the shopping cart before the horse, or something like that. But my first draft started with what follows, where I began by discussing my decision making process and attitude in general. And while I didn't like how selfish and shallow I sounded, it made me realize that those are the very traits that help me handle pressure so well and avoid unnecessary stress. Pressure is good. It makes things happen. Put enough of it on some carbon, and you get diamonds. But if you stress the stuff, you're lucky to get pencil lead. I thrive under pressure and wilt under stress. Which is why I take so many steps to avoid it. Marathons worth.

Some of those steps are literal, as in stepping away from any argument or discussion that does not directly involve me. Which is pretty much every argument, as I have no tolerance for complainers. Most people like to argue about what’s right, and more commonly, what’s wrong, but few are willing to actually do anything about it. And I don’t see the point in getting all riled up if it’s not going to change anything, so I step away.

Along those lines, I also step back from watching TV news and reading the more sordid articles in the paper. Hearing about all the terrible things going on in the world just freaks me out and makes me feel awful, unsafe, and uncomfortable – and since I don’t have a cape, or millions of dollars at my disposal, what can I REALLY do about it? Yes, it is absolutely horrible what is happening in Somalia, and Afghanistan, and right down my very street. But what can I do in response to these events? Other than stress about them and send a couple bucks to make me feel better about it? So I step back.

But lest you think I’m a complete slacker, I do step up when the need arises. I just don’t get personally involved. I choose to keep my blinders on when it comes to problems like starving children and tsunami victims, but I take my wallet out to support charities like the Red Cross and United Way, and trust that they will take care of them for me.

As for caring for myself, I try to step forward whenever there is something with potential to cause me stress and deal with it before it becomes a problem. Sure, leaf-filled gutters aren’t a problem unless it rains, but they’re a lot easier to clean when the sun is shining. And if it’s something that is currently causing me stress, I fix it as soon as possible, rather than let it persist and hope it goes away on its own. Trust me, it won’t. It might feel like it does, but that’s really just you getting used to it, and personally, that’s the worst sort of stress, as you don’t even recognize it as the cause of whatever anxiety or discomfort you are (not) feeling. It’s like a Novocaine injection to your entire system - you may not immediately feel the effects, but the damage is being done.

And lastly, I’m always willing to step down. I have no problem volunteering or taking on a leadership role in order to get things done, and often do – but once things are running smoothly, or someone else is willing to step in and do it for me, I have no problem relinquishing control. I’ll make the hard decisions if I have to, but if someone else wants to? More power to them!

Stress can’t be avoided, but it can be minimized. What you have to recognize is it’s not the actual cause that’s the problem, it’s the effect. Think of cows, they seem pretty mellow, right? But when a wolf approaches, they all form a circle, with the weaker ones “safely” in the middle. But who is more stressed out? The cows in the middle, nervously waiting for the unseen attacker, feeling helpless and useless? Or the ones on the outside who are dealing with the problem head on? And is the wolf the cause of their stress, or is it their reaction to him? To put it in human terms, what’s more stressful? Having the biopsy, or awaiting the results?

Or a more minor example: Say you’re on your way to work and find yourself in a traffic jam. You look at the clock and see that it’s 8:30, and at the rate you’re going, will make you at least half an hour late. Most people would start fussing and fuming at that point, and spend the entire time stressing about how the delay is going to impact their day. But in my mind, I’m not late until 9:01, so why worry about it until then? And even then, what’s worrying about it going to do? Or honking the horn, swearing at the driver in front of you, or driving dangerously through the breakdown lane? It just adds stress to the equation and makes it more difficult to solve.

So as you can see, I’m a very mellow guy. I don’t get all Zen or mystical. I don’t need yoga or tai chi (or chai tea for that matter) – I just need my immediate needs to be met. And by keeping those needs simple, they usually are. Of course, everything comes at a cost, and the price for my peace of mind is that I have to miss out on experiencing certain interactions and emotions. It takes a selfish person to live a stressless life, as most stress comes from worrying about others. And the reason more people don’t opt for such a carefree lifestyle is that most people do care – too much, in my opinion, but there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s the caring people out there who make it possible for people like me to care less. It’s a lot easier for me to advocate “taking care of your own” knowing there are many who will disregard such advice and worry about the world around them. Which is fine with me, since that way I can concern myself with real problems, like not having a car-shaped shopping cart when I need one!

There's Water Over You (Dedicated to Joe Gorman)

2011-08-07T21:04:00.006-04:00

First, I’d like to try a little experiment (of sorts) – it doesn’t require much, other than the ability to follow two simple instructions and the courage to post your honest reaction. Sounds easy enough, right?

So…

Step 1: listen to the Youtube clip below, while reading the lyrics to the song, "There's Water Over You" by the remarkable Colin Hay

Step 2: scroll down and go straight to the comments. DO NOT READ THE EXPLANATION (or other’s posts!) until you have posted your own response to the song. Nothing formal or elaborate, just a few sentences sharing your interpretation of the title and the meaning of the song. Only then, after clicking submit, can you go back and read the explanation that gives the “real” story behind the artist's inspiration for the song. Make sense? Good, then let's do it!

Be yourself, be brave, and be honest!

I can feel your love come shining

Over and across the sea

There never was a light more blinding

Ever watching over me

I walk into the swirling wind

It carries me away

Back to where my life begins

Can you hear me say?

I can see you where you're hiding

And there's water over you

I know that you are pretending

And there's water over you

I walk beside you on the wall

Oh, so far away

You will catch me if I fall

Can you hear me say?

Love and all security

These are things you give to me

I can touch you when I'm dreaming

Long into the lonely night

You hold me when I wake up screaming

Everything will be alright

And if I had to choose

between meeting God or you

I would wake my king and queen

There's water over you

Love for all eternity

This and more you give to me

Now, skip the explanation and post your reaction/interpretation in the comments BEFORE reading on!

EXPLANATION: (Note, this is not a verbatim quote, just my recollection of the story Colin told prior to performing the song)

As a kid, Colin was a big fan of cowboy movies, especially ones with John Wayne, which he would watch repeatedly with his dad. They both found it amusing how when someone was knocked out by a punch, or passed out drunk, they could be instantly revived by a bucket of water getting dumped on them.

The act of throwing water became an inside joke between father and son. Often they would play hide and seek, and the dad would seek out hiding spots that would allow him to catch a quick nap while his son looked for him. When found, the dad would continue to pretend to be asleep, and Colin would be like, “Wake up Da’, c’mon. There’s water over you…” at which point the dad would pop up like one of the drenched cowboys in the movies.

As Colin got older, his dad would use the phrase to get his sleepy teenager out of bed. “Get up, Son, let’s go – there’s water over you.”

Of course, the dad gets older too, and Colin ends his story with a sad account of being at his dad’s wake, looking wistfully at the coffin and tearfully thinking, “C’mon Da’, it’s time to wake up. There’s water over you…”

****

I should close this by explaining that I just returned from a wake for the father of a good friend, and as such things go, you start to think about your own parents, etc. And on the way home, this song started playing on the CD player, and having seen him perform it live, and hearing the backstory above, I found it to be a wonderfully apt and poignant song to be playing at that moment – but it got me wondering what others would think of the song who were not privy to the artist’s explanation.

And that’s my experiment. I told you it would be easy. The hard part comes next...

Go back and relisten to the song, knowing what you know now, and try not to get choked up.

Finally, for Casey and his family, and anyone who has lost their dad (and those still fortunate enough to have theirs around), remember that the world, and every human in it, is made up of 70% water - meaning there's ALWAYS water over you too. So if you're hanging on to resentment, let it be water under the bridge. If you're missing him, let it be tears. If you're angry, let it cool your heels. And if you love him, let it pour right out. I know Casey and I are fortunate to have had great relationships with our dads, so this may be easy for me to say, but if water can ease the effects of John Wayne's best punch, then it can be a wake-up call for you too.

Putting a Lid on It

2011-08-01T18:05:00.002-04:00

It is with much regret that I must announce the end of an error. I know some of you have been following this saga on facebook for some months now, but for the rest of you, here’s what preceded yesterday’s events:

We bought a new house last year, and even though everything about it was bigger (and in most regards, better) than the last, one downside was the lack of a place to hide the garbage cans. I prefer storing them in the backyard, somewhere out of sight of the general public and out of reach of the critters, but close enough to the back door so as not to turn the simple chore of emptying the kitchen can into a trial. Plus, they have to be somewhat near the front curb in order to avoid turning weekly trash trips into Hefty treks.

But our new home offered no convenient space to keep them. The back deck ran the length of the house, but was too low to store them under it, and the rest of the yard was so nicely landscaped, it seemed a shame to ruin it with rubbish. The side yards were out, with one already cluttered with pool pumps and filters and the other impassable due to trees and bushes, leaving only the front yard as a viable option. (Note: We do have a semi-attached garage, but for some reason, I can’t stomach the thought of storing garbage in there.)

Resigned to the front of the house, the only logical place for them was a space to the right of the kitchen entry steps. They would be close to the door for (twice) daily household removal and a straight shot to the curb for weekly pick-up - but - they would also be in plain sight of the neighbors and the first thing people saw when pulling into our driveway. With that in mind, I decided to retire my battle-worn Rubbermaids and class things up a bit with something nice, so I went to the local Sears hardware to check out my options. An hour and $90 later, I returned with a pair of shiny aluminum Oscar the Grouch style cans, figuring their hefty weight and price tag would be offset by their cool retro styling. And I must admit, they did look pretty sweet sitting out there in front of the house – for about 12 hours.

THE VERY NEXT DAY all was ruined. It was Garbage Day and after transferring the trash from the old cans into the new ones and lugging them to the curb – one at a time, mind you, as their old school wire handles, and impossible to secure lids made it too difficult to take them two at a time like my old ones (plus, being metal I couldn’t drag them down the driveway without scarring the pavement and scaring the baby), I came home from work to find my shiny new cans all dented and dirty from being tossed aside by the garbagemen, and one lid flattened into a tinfoil pancake after getting run over at least several times by passing cars.

My crushed lid :(

Disheartened, I carried the cans back to their spots (again, one at a time, as they no longer stacked neatly inside each other due to all the dents) and lamented what could have been.

Over the next few months, I stubbornly continued to use them. The one with the serviceable lid was always my first option, but come Monday, that would be full, leaving me no choice but to use the other. By Thursday (trash pick-up day) that can would also be full, its flattened lid uselessly balanced on top like a jaunty beret. It got so I started to dread Wednesday evenings, when I’d have to carry them to the curb, hugging the heavy cans close to my chest while pressing my chin down on the lids to keep them from falling off. I was practically humping my garbage – and to think this all started because I thought having them in my garage was gross!

But I refuse to admit to defeat, so I carried on in this fashion for nearly 6 more months. And then summer came, bringing with it weekly picnics, hot humid temperatures, and lots and lots of trash. I soon found that leaving steaming bags of half-eaten hamburgers and left over potato salad in unsealed metal cans for a week in 90-degree heat does not lead to pleasant things. Besides the suppurating smell and buzzing of flies that seemingly flew straight in from Amityville, there were millions of maggots to deal with.

And that’s when I threw in the towel – from a safe distance of course.

So yesterday, an hour and $65 later, I returned from Home Depot with a pair of Rubbermaid 45-gallon cans…with wheels and attached lids. Problem solved, right? Well sort of. Now I just have to figure out what to do with my old garbage cans. Do I just leave them at the curb, empty, and hope the garbagemen realize I’m not senile and just want them thrown away? Or do I fill them and leave a sign that says, “Toss the whole thing.” Or should I crush them up and try to shove them into one of the new cans? Actually, come to think of it, since they’re aluminum, they probably should be recycled. Sheesh! What a pain in the trash. No wonder Oscar was such a grouch!

PS - Want a signed 8x10 of me in the trash? Just send me an email (mikewood_3@yahoo.com) listing all the garbage related puns you can find above - "winner" will be determined by who finds the most!

Summer-Size Me

2011-07-26T07:27:00.001-04:00

NOTE: The picture above is proof that exercise and dieting are a "waist" of time, so I've decided to throw in the towel and just enjoy myself. What's that? You'd rather I cover myself with the towel instead? Fair enough - come to think of it, it might come in handy to mop up all that barbecue sauce I plan on devouring. Thanks for the tip. Now on to the main course...

It’s a weird world we live in when we routinely devote eight months of every year to dieting and exercise in order to get our bodies back in shape for the summer - only to spend the much anticipated season eating all the foods that got us so fat in the first place. Except for watermelon and corn on the cob (minus the butter), I can’t think of another summer food that isn’t fattening or unhealthy. Ice cream? Fried clams? Burgers? Hot dogs? Ribs? Macaroni salad? All so good…yet oh so bad. But can we enjoy summer without them? Or, as Hamlet might say: To eat, or not to eat, --that is the question: -- Whether ‘tis nobler to diet and suffer for the slings and thongs of outrageous swimsuits. Or to take arms against a sea of potato salads, and by consuming, enjoy them.

Only it’s not just a question of will power – I’m sure many of us could deprive ourselves of the good foods mentioned above, but who’d want to? What’s a picnic, parade, beach or ballpark without them? The truth is, much of what we love about summer comes from what (and where) we eat. And thanks to the warm weather and long days, we have plenty of time to do just that. Which explains why I usually only have about a week or two in early May when I can walk around without my shirt on with any degree of confidence - because by the end of Memorial Day weekend, it’s all over. I’m back to jiggling like a Jell-O mold. And after two months of hitting every picnic like Yogi Bear coming out of hibernation, I’ve packed back on all the weight I lost (and then some) so that come the aptly named Labor Day, I look like I’m about to give birth.

But who cares? We have a whole year (minus those months between Halloween and Christmas) to work it back off. Sure, it’s a vicious (but delicious) cycle, but that’s why they invented t-shirts and tankinis, so I say celebrate now and slim down later. Are you with me? Then step right up (and off that scale) and say, “Summer-size me!”

Eat those ribs until you can no longer see your own. Dig in to those fried clams - and go for the whole bellies, strips are for skinny people. Double up your paper plate and be the first in line at the next picnic, bypassing anything that's served with a fork. The stuff that must be spooned is bound to be better. And wash it all down with a couple of salty margaritas or frosty beers - keeping in mind that calories that aren't chewed don't count.

The point is, summer is short, so enjoy yourself. And remember, it’s better to eat good than to look good. Plus, the more you eat, the better I’ll look in comparison.

Aiming for Center Mass

2011-07-18T19:07:00.000-04:00

When you spend a lot of time alone, be it biking, hiking, or sitting on the toilet, you tend to think about stuff. What you would do if you suddenly lost your job. Or how you would respond to a terrorist attack. Or why did you have that second bowl of chili?

And most times, I imagine, we imagine ourselves doing all the right things in the face of these dangers and difficulties, calmly stopping, dropping, and rolling our way through the countless catastrophes we conjure up.

But what would we do if something really happened?

I had the chance to see for myself a few years ago, when I walked out of the woods to find someone aiming a gun right at my head.

Did I duck and cover? Turn tail and sprint a zig zag pattern through the trees? Dive behind a boulder and pull out my own weapon?

That would be No to the third power.

No, what I did, when suddenly faced with the very real danger of a loaded pistol pointing at my face, was to casually tap my friend on the shoulder and say, “Dude, I think that guy is pointing a gun at us.”

There was no adrenaline rush. My life did not flash before my eyes. I did not feel scared, worried, angry, or anxious. Mostly I was curious. Like why was this guy pointing a gun at me?

So I waved and gave a loud, “Hello?”

Now, as a society, we like to make fun of the characters in horror movies who investigate the strange sounds coming from the basement and end up getting chain sawed in the chest – but I’m no longer so sure they’re behaving all that bizarrely.

Curiosity does more than kill cats and make life challenging for the Man in the Yellow Hat – it encourages us to open doors that may lead to great opportunities…or homicidal maniacs in hockey masks!

But that’s not my point. My real purpose is to discuss how non-aroused I was by the whole situation. And not that kind of arousal, you pervs, I mean the 'fight or flight' arousal that supposedly helps all living things survive. Either I’m an evolutionary marvel, or I’m missing something, because I really don’t get riled up or excited. About anything.

I could give a bunch of examples - none as dramatic as the gun pointed at my head - but all would share a common trait: basically, I have no pulse. Don’t get me wrong. I do get sad. I have a tough time seeing others in pain. And there are times when I feel stressed. But I just don’t get excited. I don't have high highs or low lows. I have…mediums?

I’m sure I’m missing out on some wonderful feelings, but frankly, I think the trade off is worth it. Think of me as an emotional Goldilocks. Not too hot, not too cold. Everything is just right (so long as you ignore the broken furniture and wasted porridge I leave in my wake!) You might disagree, claiming that breaking even is not a win and a tie is not a victory, and you would be right. But when you think about how much more time is spent practicing than playing the game, then I come out ahead, because on average, I will have more average days than you have good or bad ones.

But back to the day in question. What happened was my friend and I had come out of the woods and into a clearing, where there were several picnic tables, so we sat down for a rest. While we were talking, I noticed a white pick-up coming down the access road, and watched as a uniformed man got out and started pointing his pistol at me.

And while the daydream version of me would have flipped the table over and taken cover behind it, the real me simply waved and hollered “Hello?”

Even from 100 yards away, I could see the look of panic on his face as he quickly holstered his gun upon hearing me call out. We hopped off the table and walked over to him to see what was going on.

It turned out to be (name omitted to protect the not so innocent), a man we were quite familiar with, as he was the only full-time park ranger in the town of (name omitted to protect the not so innocent) for the past 20 years and he often “checked in” on us during our many teenage camping excursions (meaning many of you have by now figured out who he is, but fuck him, he almost shot me!) Anyway, Ranger Doe nervously explained that he was due for his weapon qualification, and that he was simply testing his sights. “I wasn’t really gonna shoot,” he stammered. “I was just aiming…” he trailed off, knowing that the only way to test one’s aim was to pull the trigger and see what you hit.

“And you decided to aim at me?” I asked incredulously.

“No, no! God no! I was pointing at that sign,” he said, indicating a small plaque on a post that identified Campsite 3, “I didn’t even see you there. Where did you come from anyway,” he asked, changing his tone to more of a challenge, looking for a way to blame us for the near tragedy.

“The woods,” I explained helpfully, happy to have the (picnic) tables turned after so many years. “And there are quite a few other hikers out there, you really should be more careful,” I added, more out of revenge for all the beer he took from us, the garbage he made us pick up, and the fires he made us put out, than for the fact that he nearly shot me in the head!

“And you really want to wear bright clothes when hiking, especially during hunting season,” he advised, trying to save face while distancing himself from the thought that he nearly put a bullet through mine.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” I said, shaking his still shaking hand. “And good luck with your qualifications. Try not to shoot the instructor!”

He nodded his head in defeat and got back into his truck, giving a friendly beep as he drove off.

As we walked through the settling dust from his hasty retreat, I found myself hoping he really did pass his test. I knew that being a ranger was his life, and even though he nearly took mine, I wasn’t one to hold a grudge. Plus, like most things in my life, it was nothing to get excited about!

Turning the Other Cheek (a guest blog by Amy)

2011-07-14T07:50:00.000-04:00

Hello friends and followers of Mike Wood,

After a few character crushing replies to this blog and sharing some message board mayhem, Mike had suggested to me that I may be blogworthy. As this is the only blog I frequent, he gave me a general idea of word count but beyond that was left to my own research. As a frantic femme I googled "How do you write a good blog" for instant gratification education. Over 286 million search replies resulted and since I don't have the time to study them all by my 48 hour deadline, I scanned for key phrases: Be yourself, be intimate, be personal, have a good foundation.

Behold, a foray into my intimate personal foundations.

Not actually into them per say but rather to share a few anecdotes on this subject that is so close to us all. It's a universal topic, unless of course you are a nudist, a lifestyle I often fantasize about while I am enduring my weekend laundrythons. Since I live in the wildly undulating and extreme climates of New England, and since I do not have a personal Hollywood special effects team, my brood will continue clothed even through sweltering summer.

As I write, I am unpeeling my legs off my pleather couch, a purchase which seemed like such a good deal from Bob's Discount Damage Room midwinter. A few years back in such summer heat I recall doing the same to my desk chair as worked through the night. Hair piled on my head, fans in the windows, I was agonizingly uncomfortable and frantic to finish. By the time I finished my project I was disconnected from reality and wanted to reward myself for a job well done. So off I went to the all night gas station to meet up with my friends Ben & Jerry.

There I enter the beautiful oasis of corporate funded central air and gravitate knowingly to the corner fridge to study the selection. My eyes move across the colorful array of B & J with all their fun names and combinations. The choice I make, hmm Half Baked. Brownies and cookie dough and ice cream…what could be more indulgent and delicious. And I did deserve it. I had worked so hard.

In my dreamlike state I take my careful selection to the counter and the apathetic attendant assists me. The bells on the door sound as a teenage guy enters the shop. I study him in the reflection of the window behind the counter. I applaud him for giving me personal space, further convincing myself he stands 4 ft behind me in awe of my radiant femininity. I collect my change, give my thanks, and ring the bell as I exit. I encounter a night much cooler than the one I left, motion in the previously still air. I plunk myself down into my seat with a swoosh, and skin touches upholstery. In a place unlike before. I grimace, then grope, and fully note, I am exposed. At some point in the day between my carefully selected white shorts and VPL (visible panty line) evading thong, my pants had ceased to be covering my assets.

So the kind young man behind my behind, I will never know, I hope, but must apologize for whatever he witnessed. And it was at this moment in my life I embraced a truth. "They" were right, be aware of what you wear down there, as you never know when you'll be in an accident, even if that accident is your inexpensive shorts giving in on you. Into the bin went that pants that I was in, and never again did I return to buy my outer or undergarments in a retail store bearing the title words "Bug" or "Barn" or any establishment located in a strip mall or under the same roof as you might also purchase motor oil or macaroni.

As only Marilyn can only tell which way the wind will blow, you must be ready at any moment for your close up. I realize as most you should never shop at Wal-Mart, but I made exception to my clothes purchasing rule as there I have found some silly frillies there that make me smile. In my day to day I dress for desk, and recently wore a somewhat chic shift to work. I felt sophisticated until I realized my floral and peace sign patterned panties were no secret to anyone who might catch me in fluorescent light. Yesterday when I was reflecting on this topic (in a judgment compromising 105 humid day) I wore my "Have a nice day" rainbow bottoms under a knee length skirt. The power of intention won, and there was no updraft up my skirt. While I'm amenable to sharing a smile, I am happy to say I made it across Center Street & Main without any loft.

In my unfailing preparedness for the next occasion my pants split open. I have replaced late night excursions for ice cream for visits to the gym. I first stop in the ladies room to make sure that my clothing has not spontaneously gone threadbare before I employ any challenge that puts my derriere in the air. Last week, as I was holding 15 pound dumbbells and doing single leg dead lifts, I realized I wasn't wearing "gym friendly" underwear till too late. I was fighting some creep as some creep was spying on me. He was employing a lackadaisical effort at his leg presses as he continued to glance in my direction. Taking the opportunity to be enlightened, I told myself that the better for him physically if he found some motivation to work out, and the better for me to remain otherwise focused on my task or I would be tempted to go over and correct him on his form.

At the gym, this objectification by men is not the norm, and further my most cherished accessories while I am attaining my fitness bliss are my iPod and my pink weight lifting gloves, from which I extend pinky out guzzling water between reps. While an annoyance, your panty lines may not be a secret while exercising, and on a similar note I must applaud Victoria for providing us with some structural support. My wardrobe chagrin wins again when I accidentally wear one of their emphatic push up bras under an ace bandage type athletic one, a phenomenon I have coined "Victoria's Xanax", as the girls must contend with such anxiety and confusion.

I'm working on my mindfulness and have to acknowledge that late night mishap for being a healthy moment in my healthy life. A misfortunate wardrobe malfunction can be a source for joy, and as the Buddha would say, "Your body is precious. It is our vehicle for awakening. Treat it with care."

ON the Beaten Path!

2011-07-11T23:03:00.001-04:00

Now that summer is here, being a teacher, you’d think I’d have lots of free time, but in reality, I have no time. Without a schedule to stick to, hours (and days) just seem to disappear. So it came as quite a shock when someone pointed out that I was two weeks behind on my blog. Of course the most shocking part was that someone would actually notice my absence, but it was also rather concerning that I could lose track of so much time.

Not that I haven’t been busy. I run a movie making camp, which takes up a lot of my time. And with my son no longer in day care, keeping up with him keeps me quite occupied. But there is still no excuse for not finding half an hour to come up with a blog post. Perhaps the biggest problem is nothing really exciting has happened recently. Sure, my book made a run at the Top 100 last week, and both the Michael Franti concert and Pickin’ & Fiddlin’ Festival were fun, but nothing blog worthy. You know, like Jell-O or the blemish on my big toe!

My big story so far, as far as you people go (since you seem to revel in my misfortune) would be the trouble I had blazing a bike trail. You see, my town is in the process of building a beautiful recreation path, which just so happens to connect several of my favorite off-road mountain bike trails. Except in one spot. And I thought it would be cool to make my own.

Well, we all know what happened to Thought* and so far, I’ve done major bodily harm THREE times in the exact same spot (well, spot on the trail, not my body!) The first, and most painful, came when I was building an “up and over” that would let me ride over a very large tree that had fallen. The tree had taken out several others in the area, so there were plenty of logs lying around to make ramps on both sides, and in less then fifteen minutes, I was done with the first side. But when I tried to test it out, I was nearly decapitated by a large dead branch that was hanging above the log. Since it was four feet over my head, it wasn’t noticeable from the ground. But standing and peddling to get over the log brought me face to face with it. So I dismounted and rather than let my hard work go to waste, decided I would climb the tree, walk out onto the dead branch and bounce on it until it broke.

Now, I’m not a complete idiot – there was another, more solid branch about waist high above the dead one, so I placed most of my weight on that branch and figured I could hold on to it when the one below me broke. Three bounces later, I heard a loud snap, and suddenly I was falling.

I slammed onto the branch pretty much on my armpits, and frantically flailed my logs trying to wrap them around the tree koala-style, so as to not fall the ten feet into poison ivy and prickers. Somehow I managed to hang on and shimmy down the tree, and with my underarms scraped and burning, continued on my ride.

I got home to find HUGE bruises on the underside of both arms, and lots of scrapes that made deodorant application rather painful for the next few days.And I couldn’t really turn my neck to the right all that well. But other than that, I was fine, and two days later I was ready to go back and finish the job.

Back at the tree, I needed to build the off ramp, and saw some nice dead logs on the other side (including the one I had “liberated”) which I put to immediate use. I did my best to stay clear of the plentiful poison ivy, and quickly had my ramp built. This time when I tested it out, I nearly went over the handle bars, as the down ramp ended too abruptly. I needed one more log to lengthen the angle. So I got off the bike and tried to lift a log that I had earlier deemed too heavy.

It was fairly rotted, but wet, so when I went to pick it up, it broke about a quarter of the way down – which was perfect, since it was the exact length I needed. Problem is, some bees had already claimed the log as their own, and I was soon swarmed by the angry hive I have disturbed. Five painful stings later, I was back on my bike, continuing my ride while nursing my wounds and cursing my luck. And bees in general.

The next day, I went back, hit the log at full speed, went up and over perfectly, pedaled past the still swarming bees, splashed across a river, and was back on the main trail. Huzzah. Success. I had did it. I patted myself on the back for my perseverance and pedaled on. I returned home sweaty and happy. And itchy. Apparently I was not careful enough around the poison ivy and ended up with it all over my arms and legs.

So, in summation, one stiff neck, two bruised and battered arms, three days of working, four itchy limbs and five bee stings later, I had my trail – and the start of my own Christmas carol. Was it worth it? Probably not. But I have plenty of summer days left to heal and enjoy the fruits of my labor. Plus I’ll never have to wonder about the path not taken.

Speaking of new paths, my friend Amy is looking to branch out a bit, so I offered her a Guest Blogger slot for Thursday, so be sure to check her out. Hopefully she will have better luck than me!

* "Thought though he had to fart, but he shit his pants instead!" - my mom

An Open Letter to Our Youth

2011-06-20T20:22:00.000-04:00

June 21, 2011

To all soon to be middle- and high schoolers (or more likely your parents, who will hopefully encourage you to read this!),

Please pardon the interruption of your summer vacation. I know many of you recently “graduated” from elementary or middle school and were not expecting to do any reading for the next few months, but this will only take a few minutes.

As I’m sure you know, your life is about to change. And since life is about change, that’s a good thing - but I want to encourage you let those changes happen naturally. You need to stop being in such a rush to grow up. Right now many of you can’t wait to be 16 so you can drive. But the 16-year olds out there want to be 18 so they can buy lottery tickets and maybe vote. And the 18 year olds are impatiently waiting to be 21 so they can legally drink. After that, the next age to look forward to is retirement, and by that point, you’ll be wishing you were young again. So, while you’re still young, why not be young?

I know it’s no longer cool to be a kid – and practically impossible to dress like one - but there is a way to do it without ruining your rep. You see, the way I figure, it’s society putting all the pressure on you to mature early - to look and act grown up so you’ll watch their shows and buy their products – but, as a teenager, it’s your job, your duty, your sole purpose in life to reject and rebel against everything society has to offer, so be a rebel and refuse to grow up before your time! Don’t play society’s game, just play. Be a kid. Have fun. Ride your bike, roll down hills, run the bases. Don’t be afraid to act your age.

The problem is, many of you have no idea what acting your age means anymore. 12-year old rappers and singers are making music and videos about things I didn’t do until I was 18. When I was 12, I think I was still playing “House” (and I’m not ashamed to admit it.) I was probably 15 when I first kissed a girl for longer than 2 seconds. But that was normal. I was a kid. And kids then didn’t care much about clothes, hair, fashion, or each other. Make-up and making out were not options. We didn’t have (or want) magazines like CosmoGirl or Teen People telling us how we should look, act, or feel. We looked twelve. We acted silly. And we felt great.

Nowadays, most of you look 19, act like your on Spring Break, and feel miserable…and for what? So you can get a head start on forming reputations, addictions, and ulcers? Michael Jackson claims he missed his childhood, and look what happened to him. Do you want to end up like…

Sorry, I’m starting to lecture, which was not my intent. I just think it’s important for you to take it slow. You all want to bite right through that Tootsie Pop (they still have those, right?) and get straight to the candy center. Don’t. Take it easy. Enjoy what you have now and stop going just for the “good stuff” because in all honesty, the “good stuff” isn’t all that good until you’re ready for it. And what you’re skipping and speeding through might be even better. So slow down, stay young as long as you can and realize that not only do good things come to those who wait, but that the waiting itself can be pretty good too.

Think of it as baking cookies – there are some people who are so impatient they eat the dough raw (which, by the way, was not allowed when I was a kid – now they put it in ice cream.) Others shove the cookies into their mouths as soon as they come out of the oven…and get burned. But the smart ones wait. They enjoy the anticipation, the aroma, the act itself. They let the cookies cool down (but not too much) before taking a bite. And that’s when they taste their best. (And for all you giggling right now, this is not just about sex. I’m talking about any time you feel pressured or stressed into doing something before you’re ready.) As for knowing when you are ready, here’s a simple test: If you have to lie to your parents about where you are going or what you are doing, then you’re not ready. It’s that simple.

Unfortunately, not much else in life is that simple. Like those previously mentioned cookies and lollipops, life can sometimes be crummy and sucky - but usually it’s pretty sweet and good. So live for the good times and deal with the others. And while you’re at it, be careful. Be smart. Be true to yourself. Don’t do anything you don’t want to do - but if you do, that doesn’t mean you have to do it again! Experimenting is part of life, but it doesn’t have to be your entire life. Nor should it cost you your life. You may want to be the popular kid featured in the yearbook, but you don’t want to be the kid they dedicate it to.

MAJOR POINT ALERT: Keep in mind, reputations are easy to get but hard to get rid of. One mistake or bad decision can affect the rest of your life, but it doesn’t have to. A lot of kids will mess up once or twice and wrongly take the attitude that, “Well, since everyone already thinks I’m a (fill in the blank) slut, druggie, etc. I guess I might as well be one.” Don’t fall into that trap. Mistakes will happen. You are going to screw up. You will get in trouble. But what you do is not as important as what you do afterward. You need to accept responsibility, deal with the consequences, and move on. I’ve known too many kids who’ve felt so trapped and helpless after getting in trouble that they just kept digging themselves deeper and deeper into holes that wound up being their graves. Nothing is ever that bad - I don’t care if you accidentally burn your parent’s house down with your sweet granny inside – no matter how horrible you feel, someday, somewhere down the road, you will feel better, so stick it out.

And if you stuck with me this far, thank you. I will let you get back to your summer break. I wish you all the best for the future, just be sure to take your time getting there. Don’t miss out on some of life’s greatest gifts by ignoring the present.

Best of luck,

Mike Wood

PS – For a more in-depth look at growing up and coming of age, check out my book, Alchemy, available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and fine bookstores everywhere!

Coming Clean

2011-06-14T15:18:00.001-04:00

Back when we were trying (and failing) to get pregnant - well, technically, my wife did most of the trying, I just went along for the ride – I secretly started to worry that maybe twenty years of nearly daily bike rides had taken their toll on my testes. I had heard stories of avid cyclists who were basically sterilized by years of balancing (and bouncing) their boys on bicycle seats - and was concerned that that might be our problem.

To be completely honest, I was more concerned with the possibility that I was the problem. You see, since my wife already had a daughter from a previous marriage, I was fairly certain she was fully fertile. As for me…let’s just say I was an amateur in the world of procreation. And the idea that perhaps I was to blame really freaked me out. It wasn’t so much the thought of not having a kid of my own that bothered me – I was perfectly happy and content with having a step-daughter to love and treat like my own – it was more that I was denying my wife something she really wanted for the both of us.

Being a typical guy, I was none too fond of doctors – and certainly not the ones who might call into question my manhood and virility – but I manned up and made an appointment with a urologist. Well, sort of manned up, as I didn’t tell my wife about it. She had her own list of reasons for why she wasn’t getting pregnant, and as far as I knew, I wasn’t one of them – and I wanted to keep it that way. So I went on my own, hoping to hear it wasn’t me, while privately plotting what I would do if it turned out I was the problem.

I’ll save the sample gathering story for another day, but let me just say that I have never felt so relieved as I did watching my active little swimmers under that microscope. The doctor assured me that my sperm count was high (“Higher than average?” I pushed, almost giddy with relief) and that I should have no problem holding up my end of the bargain.

I left the office with a zip in my step, happy to know our lack of conception wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized that if it wasn’t me, there was only one other person to “blame” and my thoughts immediately turned to my wife.

Now what? I wondered, as I made my way home. Since she didn’t even know I went, I could just keep the info to myself and wait and see what happened. I knew she wanted another kid for “us” - and would feel like she let me down if she were incapable of getting pregnant. But I also knew she wanted another kid much more than I did. And even though we had already both agreed that if a baby didn’t come “in the natural way,” then it just wasn’t meant to be, and we would accept that, I also knew my wife would want to renege on that deal. And if I held her to it, she would eventually grow to resent me for it.

I had a decision to make. Several actually. But they all hinged on this initial one. My future lay before me more clearly than the route I was driving on. Projecting down the road, I saw that our seemingly solid marriage would ultimately crumble, or at least shake itself into an empty shell, over this issue. I clearly saw the two ways for how it would all play out, and neither was a happy ending: I could try keeping it to myself, but knew it wouldn't be long before guilt set in. Or I could tell her, which I knew would start the snowball rolling down the slippery slope toward in vitro fertilization.

I had strong reservations about artificial insemination/IVF – nothing religious, mind you, as I had long ago stopped fearing the power God - but - I have always had a healthy respect for the power of Nature. Even as an 8-year old, hearing about the Titanic for the first time, I recognized that claiming the ship unsinkable was more to blame for the tragedy than the lack of lifeboats. You just don’t mess with Nature. Nature always finds a way to win. And if Nature was making it impossible for us to have a baby, than so be it. I was fully convinced that any attempts by us to rectify our situation would end as tragically as the Titanic.

But if we didn’t try, our marriage would sink just as quickly. I knew every time we saw a baby, be it on TV or real life, there would be a pang of loss, regret, and, deep, deep, down, some bitter blame. If I held Sarah to our agreement, she would grow to resent me for it. Not that I thought she would be conscious of it, but I could foresee neverending arguments over trivial matters that were really about her wanting a baby and me not letting her.

I saw no other options. It was either accept Nature and be miserable, or use Science and be miserable, as I did not for a minute think IVF would work out - I was certain we would go through six failed attempts and end up back where we started, or have a baby with birth defects, or worse (Nature's way of saying, I told you so.) I never considered the third possibility that we could have a happy, healthy baby.

Resigned, I pulled into the driveway and told wife about my trip to the doctor and the "good" results I received. She was touched that I went and did such a thing, but other than that, things got very quiet for a couple weeks. She took to keeping a journal, while I just kept things to myself. I did not share my fears with her, as I didn't want to scare her into agreeing with me (even though I DID want her to agree with me) as I felt our only hope was if we both came to the same conclusion without any debating or discussion.

Over the next month or so, we nervously joked about the elephant in the room, but never really talked about it. Then one day Sarah handed me her journal, and while what was inside did not change my mind, it did change my heart. It made me realize that my fears about in vitro were really my own fears about being a father. The idea terrified me, and I was using my worries about IVF as an excuse not to take that scary journey. The thought of giving up my freedom, and free time, and nights sleep, as well as my money, my spare room, and my wife's undivided attention and affection were all causing me to question if having kids was really worth it. But reading Sarah's words made me realize that it might be.

So on Mother's Day, she came home to find a wooden statue of an elephant (pictured above) prominently displayed on our coffee table. We never talked about it, but she knew right away what it meant - and less than a year later, with only one try (and one egg - no way was I risking twins!) we had our boy. And now I know it was worth it.

I won't lie and say I don't miss certain aspects of my old, carefree life, but at the same time, having this little life to care for is far more rewarding than being free. So this Father's Day, I am grateful for my wife, who knew better than I. I'm thankful for the doctors who helped bring Eli into our lives. And I'm hopeful that I can become half the father that my own father is to me. There are many downsides to being a dad, and even with my world (and living room) now turned upside down, there is nowhere else I'd rather be. And nothing else I'd rather be doing.

Well, most of the time!

Hot Fun in the Summertime

2011-06-06T20:37:00.001-04:00

“End of the spring and here she comes back. Hi, hi, hi, hi there!

Them summer days, those summer days…

That's when I had most of my fun, back, high high, high, high there

Them summer days, those summer days…”

I'm glad blogs come with a “play” button, that way you can listen to the rest of “Hot Fun in the Summertime” by Sly and the Family Stone while you read this, and really get a feel for what I’m going to say in a way that the printed word alone can not convey. There is just something about summer…and no matter how I try, I know can’t quite explain what it is. Maybe it’s the warm weather, or the long days, or the excitement of a sudden thunderstorm. Or else it’s the smell of toasted marshmallows, or the feel of sand or grass between your toes, or the sound of a lawnmower. But whatever it is, it can be found in that song – and while you press “play” I’ll hit “rewind” and bring you back to them summer days, those summer days…

For me, summer will always be what it used to be: a kid’s paradise. Long empty days waiting to be filled with imagination and ice cream. Days spent stealing the wheels off my father’s lawnmower to build a go-cart. Nights spent playing Kick the Can and catching fireflies in a jar. And hours (and dollars) spent chasing after the ice cream man. Now that I’m older, most of my summer is spent using the lawnmower for its intended purpose, the only cans I kick are the empties that fall out of the recycling bin, and my son is the one chasing those fireflies. But I’m still the first one out to meet the ice cream man! I guess summer-things never change.

And summers really are a time for change. As kids we’d leave school in June and return in September entirely different people. Somehow during those few months we became taller, wiser, more experienced. During the rest of the year, changes were gradual and harder to detect, but come summer, things would just pop! like buds on a tree. And like the rings of a tree, each summer surrounded us, showing others how we had grown. And at the center of each ring was probably a picnic.

Picnics are summer’s equivalent of the growth chart. Each one brought new experiences and opportunities that let us know we were growing up. Our first few years were spent splashing around in the kiddie pool, surrounded by the old folks dipping their toes, while our swim-soaked diapers sagged down past our knees until someone finally decided to just take it off, leaving us giddily naked. The next couple summers were spent whining and crying about how the big kids wouldn’t let us play with them…until, finally, we were the big kids, putting on skits and shows for the adults, while dutifully ignoring the little kids who wanted to play with us. Several summers later, and we were behind the shed sharing sips off a stolen Schlitz or Schaefer (some uncle or other could always be counted on to show up with a six-pack of something cheap that no one would ever miss.) A year or two after that, and it’s back to being naked in the pool again, only now it’s called skinny-dipping. The next picnic, we’re handed a beer, and we coolly try to play it off as no big deal, but it is, it is. And the adults who used to shoo us away from the horseshoe pits so we wouldn’t get hurt are now picking us to be their partners. A few more summers, and we began picking our partners, and bringing them to meet the family. And now people are coming to our picnics, and our parents are the old folks with their feet in the pool, stripping the soggy diapers off our kids. And many picnics down the road, we’ll be there too, toes in the water, enjoying and remembering those summer days.

But let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. Those summer days are stretched out before us once again, and while it’s too late for Memorial Day, here are a few tips for throwing the perfect picnic.

First of all, invite everybody! And encourage them to bring stuff: friends, food, folding chairs. For your part, all you really need are a couple pasta/potato salads and the requisite hamburgers and hotdogs. And lots of beer of course. Don’t bother splurging on steaks or seafood, for if all your guests can rave about is the food, then they are not having a good time. Picnics are about simplicity, so basic burgers and dogs are fine, so long as the hot dogs are Hummel’s, in their natural casings – accept no substitutes!

As far as beverages, it’s best to just stick to beer and wine. Blender drinks are fun, but a lot of work, and mixed drinks tend to get people “mixed up” way too quickly. Since beer and wine are more filling, it’s easier for your guests to pace themselves. And if you’re worried about underage kids drinking, get a keg instead of cans or bottles, as it is much harder to sneak beers off a keg unnoticed than it is to run off with a couple cans. (Sorry kids, but I’m playing for the other team now!)

And speaking of playing, you will need some activities. The women can take care of themselves (and the kids) but the men need something to do, and that means horseshoes and bocce. Horseshoes and bocce make great picnic “sports” for many reasons, with the number one reason being you can play them one handed, so you’ll always have a free hand for your beer. Also, since the object of both games is to just “come close” almost anyone, at any age, can play…and succeed, so Grandpa can still put a beating on his grandson. Plus, the games are slow paced, almost sedentary, giving the guys a chance to bond and talk – and yes, guys do talk. Sure most of it involves boasting and taunting, but every so often someone will share a story or memory about the family that a newer member of the group will be hearing for the first time, and years later they will share it with the next generation. And that’s how you truly “come close” in horseshoes.

So pick a date, pick up the phone, and plan a picnic. Make it a yearly event, that way you’ll have something to talk about years from now when you’re dipping your feet in the kiddie pool, reminiscing about all your hot fun in the summertime.

Owning a Pool is Draining

2011-05-23T21:50:00.000-04:00

In what is starting to become a regular feature of this blog, here is the latest installment of “Dumb Things I’ve Done”

This being my first summer as a pool owner, I decided to call in the experts to help me open it, namely Cousin Tony and my nephew Robert, who kindly gave up what could have been their last hours on Earth (what with the supposed Rapture and all) to assist me.

And I use the term assist very loosely, as they did all the work while I fetched things and kept them in Diet Cokes and beer. I did help pull off the cover, but I was the only one cringing at both the swampy look of the pool and the hundreds of crickets that came swarming out of it. The real men just took it all in stride and got to work: Tony focused on the pool stuff, while Robert took care of the filter. Seeing them both so busy, and feeling a bit emasculated by my cowering at the crickets, I decided I would take on the job of draining out the excess water left behind from all the snow and rain we got. Armed only with a hose and a nicely sloping yard, I was able to get a siphon going in no time. Feeling proud of myself, I went over to see what else I could help with.

Robert told me to start brushing off the algae covered sides, but Cousin Tony interrupted and raced off to his car, returning with a present: a cool robot vacuum thingy that looked a bit like Wall-E from the Pixar movie. So Robert showed me how to work the robot instead. He explained how the cloth bag that came with it would quickly clog due to all the gunk in the pool, and recommended I buy some disposable bags for the initial clean-up, that way I could just toss them out instead of hosing off the cloth one, which he said could get pretty gross. But after hearing they were fifteen bucks each, I decided washing the reusable one wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, how gross could it be?

So we dumped Wall-E in the pool and watched in admiration as he quickly set out cleaning the bottom, leaving a clean white track behind as he scoured the pool floor. “You’ll probably have to clean the bag in like an hour,” Robert said, noting how grimy the walls and floor were. “It won’t work if it’s all clogged up and full.”

I nodded and thanked them for their help, offering Robert another beer and promising Cousin Tony that I’d send him a check for the robot. Then I went in the house to wash up and check on Eli.

An hour later I dutifully went to clean the robot’s bag – and that’s when I learned just how gross it could be! No one warned me about the worms! Hundreds of them, wriggling in the fetid slime. I plugged my nose and nearly lost my lunch as I hosed it off, wincing each time the water splashed back at me. Suddenly those $15 bags didn’t sound so bad, as there was no way in hell I was dealing with this again. So I went inside to fetch Eli and headed off to the pool supply store.

An hour, and $45 later, we returned. And that’s when I noticed that the wonderful siphon I had created was still running! I had forgotten to pull out the hose, and after three hours of draining, the pool level was now well below the skimmers, the back yard was flooded, and the filter was close to burning out.

And to make matters worse, we have a well, so I couldn’t just turn the hose on and start refilling without risking running it dry. So I spent the next 8 hours carefully monitoring the water level, hoping to get the pool back to where it was supposed to be (“Two inches above the lowest skimmer” according to Robert) without emptying my well.

It was pretty dark the last time I went to check, so I had to lie on my belly and reach into the pool to feel with my hands to see how far the water had come up – and that’s when it happened.

Something leaped out of the water and tried to attack me!

I screamed like a girl as I scrambled to my feet, jumping back a safe distance from whatever “it” was. Alligator? Beaver? Giant Worm?

No.

It was just Wall-E. No one told me the thing could climb walls! And if they did, I forgot about it during the whole emptying of the pool fiasco. Regardless, that little robot scared the hell out of me as it appeared from the murky water mere inches from my face.

Trying to save face, I slowly walked back to the house while rapidly considering what possible explanation I could give for my screaming, but luckily my wife was busy giving the baby a bath (most likely in the last of our well water) and didn’t hear anything.

Grateful for small mercies, I flopped on the couch and turned on the TV to make sure no one actually got raptured. But aside from a volcano erupting in Iceland, and the Mets getting killed by the Yankees, it appeared all was well in the world. No earthquakes. No fire in the sky. No plague of locusts…well, come to think of it, there were those crickets. And I did flood the backyard. And let’s not forget that horrible scream. Maybe that Harold Camping guy wasn’t crazy after all. He had most of the facts right, his scale was just a little off.

A Prom Miss I Should Have Kept

2011-05-16T20:43:00.000-04:00

For nearly two years I have been communicating with a group of writers through facebook, email, blogs, and on-line message boards, and this weekend I was finally going to have a chance to meet many of them in person at a book release party for Gae Polisner (check her out here) on Long Island. She had been promoting this event for months, and I was really looking forward to meeting her and the many people I had formed virtual friendships with over the past year. So much so that I was willing to make the two-hour drive, through the busiest parts of I-95, alone, just to be there.

I was about an hour into the trip, when my cell phone rang. I hate cell phones, and only have one for emergencies, so when it went off, I knew something was wrong. It was my wife, telling me that my dad was experiencing some sort of memory problem, and was being brought to the emergency room. She assured me that other than the memory loss, he seemed fine, and that they were just going to bring him in as a precaution.

“I’m not sure what you should do,” my wife said. “But I thought you would want to know.”

I knew what I should do –in fact I had already exited the highway as we were talking - but it wasn’t what I wanted to do. What I wanted was to be in Long Island, sipping wine and shaking hands with my sparkly new friends, but I knew I had to forgo the book signing and head to the hospital.

I’m happy to say my dad is fine. By the time I got there (actually, I beat them to the hospital) he was only a little confused, and slightly concerned, but other than that, he was his normal old self: teasing my mom, flirting with the nurses, insisting that I shouldn’t have come…

But I knew I had to. And I’m glad I did – yet– I can’t deny that I was very disappointed at missing all the fun back on Long Island. I know I made the right decision, but I also know that it cost me a good time. The thing is, though, I've learned from experience that fun is fleeting, while regret lasts forever. And in my opinion, the source of all regret are the decisions we make, or don't make.

I won’t even attempt to venture a guess as to how many decisions one makes in a typical week, never mind a lifetime, but it’s got to be in the thousands. Everything, from choosing between paper or plastic, chicken or beef, or even chemo or surgery, requires a decision. And not to get too philosophical, but EVERY decision has the potential to become a major decision. The clothes we wear, the route we take to work, and the radio station we listen to, can all have a huge impact on the rest of our day, or even our lives. Of course we can’t live our lives worrying about the implications of every decision, and frankly, I don’t even get too bent out of shape over the bad ones. But there is one, out of the hundreds of thousands of decisions I have made, that I truly regret.

That’s not to say I’ve never made a poor decision, I do that on a daily basis. And I’ve even made some that have had lasting consequences, like the night I decided to hang up on my brother after he called me at 3:00 a.m. from New Orleans looking for a funny joke to tell the loud group I could hear partying behind him. I told him he was a joke, and promptly hung up.

Bad decision, as those were the last words I would ever say to him, since he died the next day. But I don’t regret it. For one thing, it was sort of funny. And another, it was real. Had I known it was the last time we would talk, who knows what sort of mushy stuff might have come out of my mouth.

Another seemingly safe decision over pizza toppings resulted in a horrific car accident that nearly killed my young nephew. Had I not wanted white clam pizza, we would have ordered from the place that delivered, instead of sending my nephew and his son to pick it up from another place, where they wound up getting hit head-on by a drunk driver. But again, I don’t blame myself. Logically I know that the tragic chain of events that put everyone in the exact spot at that exact time were way beyond my immediete influence.

But I did have full control over the actions that led to my lasting regret. It happened over twenty years ago. I was a senior in high school, and had just come home from getting fitted for my tux for the prom when I got the horrible news that my godfather, and everyone’s favorite person, George, had suddenly passed away. It was very tragic and unexpected and horrible on every level – but my response to it was even more horrible. I’d like to think my initial reaction was one of remorse or shock or sadness. But I can’t be sure, because all I clearly remember are my next thoughts, which were selfishly about how this was going to affect the prom.

And of course, the wake was scheduled for the same night, with the funeral the following day – traditionally the Prom Picnic as Sherwood Island. Again, let me repeat that George was one of my favorite people. The life of the party, the heart of the family, the zip in our doodah. My decision should have been a no-brainer. Honoring the legacy of a well-loved relative certainly takes precedence over the overwrought urgency of a stupid prom. But I was conflicted. Okay, 40-year old me is claiming I was conflicted, but 17-year old me was probably much more concerned with missing out on the prom than making the wake. Which is why “he” jumped at my mom’s suggestion to skip the wake and go to the prom, so long as I made the funeral the next day. Which I did. Barely.

Basically I made an appearance. I left my friends back at the hotel we had booked, sat anxiously through the church service, hugged and kissed everyone I could find, and then rushed off for the beach. I skipped the graveside service, the burial, and the repast to go party with my pals. And the thing is, I can’t recall a single moment from that day, or the prom the night before – I’m sure all the Haffenreffer 40 ouncers didn’t help, but mostly it’s because one high school event or party is just like the next. They all blend together. But I only have one family, and one Cousin George, and I should have been together with them.

And I’ve regretted it ever since. Twenty years of guilt over something I didn't do. So when that call came the other night, I knew what I had to do. I had to pass up a good time with my friends to be with my family during a tough one. And even though I had a feeling it was a false alarm, and that my presence wasn’t really needed, I still needed to be there. Decisions are easy to make – like the Seinfeld episode on reservations, any monkey can take one, it’s holding them that matters, and it’s how you handle the consequences of your decisions that counts. And personally, I would much rather deal with a short-lived disappointment than live with long-term regret.

Spearheading a Movement (and you WILL move!)

2011-05-09T22:16:00.001-04:00

I know I’m a blatant self-promoter when it comes to my book (Kindle version only .99 cents – click here: Alchemy) but other than that, you’ll rarely hear me tooting my own horn (well, there was that one time at Band Camp…) But anyway, one thing I am proud of is my ability to stick to a decision or plan. Once I make up my mind to do something, it usually gets done – and generally, when I say I’m NOT going to do something, I don’t. Some things are harder to stick to than others, but for the most part, I follow through on my threats and keep my promises.

Which is why I’m so excited about Memorial Day. You see, about four years ago, I “discovered” Michael Franti and Spearhead – I know, for “real” fans of the band, I was about ten years late – but I did buy the album months before “Say Hey (I Love You)” became a hit, if that helps boost my cred. All I know is, I spent the end of the summer of 2008 listening to “All Rebel Rockers’ pretty much non-stop. It was the perfect summer soundtrack – ideal for both riding to the beach and relaxing on the sand – a little rock, little reggae, some rap, R&B, it was all there.

Of course, with anything that good, you want more, and my first instinct was to buy up their entire back catalogue – but – here’s where that persistence paid off. Rather than let myself overload on Spearhead music, I limited myself to one CD a summer. So every Memorial Day, for the past three years, I’ve been going to iTunes and downloading my seasonal fix.

I spent 2009 grooving to “Yell Fire,” which is currently my favorite album. 2010 brought a FestivaLink live album – but only because the new album at the time, “Sound of Sunshine” was not scheduled for release until July, and I just couldn’t wait that long. But in a few weeks, I can finally listen to it. I’ve been so good, I haven’t even sampled any of the songs, so even though it’s over a year old, it’ll be all new to me.

I’m sure there’s lots of lessons to be learned from this: good things come to those who wait, everything in moderation, sometimes you should put off until tomorrow what you can do today…But the real thing to take from this is this: get thee to iTunes and buy you some Franti.

Ode to Me Mother!

2011-05-08T09:55:00.003-04:00

Me, with the rake, as "The Country Boy"

NOTE: The following originally appeared as an insert in the program for a play I was in, called "The Country Boy" and I rerun it now in honor of my mama! Happy Mother's Day

This play was originally going to be presented around Mother’s Day, and I thought placing an ad in the playbill proclaiming my love for me mother would make a cute (and inexpensive) gift - but then a better date opened up in June and put an end to that plan (leaving my poor mother with another Kohl’s gift certificate!)

But I’ve been thinking about her throughout this entire production. The mother character you’ll soon see on stage is such a kind, caring, and considerate woman, always putting others before herself – rarely showing the world anything but a smile, regardless of what is going on – that I never really had to act, because she is exactly like my mother in real life. And probably yours too.

We all owe so much to our mothers. The simple fact of me being on this stage is because of my mother. She has supported and defended my every decision, no matter how crazy. Whether it was me intentionally repeating junior year in high school, or heading off to boot camp a few years later (or foolishly deciding to be in this play!) she has always had my back. But it wasn’t until I started playing “Curly” that I realized that many of the things my four brothers and I put her through must not have been as easy for her as she let on. In fact, some of the things were outright heart breaking, and would have destroyed a lesser woman – but my mother is the strongest person I know.

Sure, the fathers get all the credit for their physical strength, but it’s the mothers who have the real burden of carrying the emotional loads for their families. Watch the mother on stage closely, listen intently, you’ll rarely hear her complain. Her sons are leaving her, her husband keeps his distance, the neighbors rely on her for everything - yet she just keeps on giving. And forgiving. No one seems to notice her pain. No one considers her feelings. Not because they don’t love her – they just take it for granted that she’ll understand.

My mother has guided our family through so many tough times, and through them all, we’ve relied on her to be the steady one. The Rock. I’ll speak for myself, but everyone in my family should feel guilty for just expecting my mother to be there, ready to soothe us and save us and solve our problems – or sit through the same play two nights in a row! But that’s my mother, and nobody does it better.

Thoughts on the News

2011-05-02T22:48:00.000-04:00

Officials reacting as Bin Laden mission is carried out

I am not a political person, but even if I was, this is not the place to discuss politics - which is why I’m going to talk about my feelings instead. Problem is, presently my feelings are struggling with how to deal with the demise of Osama Bin Laden, and by sharing said feelings, I’m inevitably opening the door to a political discussion. But be forewarned, I live with a 16-year old, and I know how to slam doors – so any knee-jerk, or just plain jerk, reactions (other than my own!) will be met with a not so subtle SLAM! Got it? Good.

Let me start by saying I am glad Bin Laden is dead. I’m happy he was shot in the head rather than captured alive to face a trial and execution. I’m hoping Hell is worse than they say it is. I’ll say it again, I’m glad he’s dead. But I’m not ecstatically wrapping myself in the flag and cheering over it. And seeing others doing so, taking to the streets to sing “God Bless America” and “Na Na Na Na, Hey Hey Hey, Goodbye” doesn’t fill me with pride. It actually disgusts me a little bit.

Now, I’m the first to well up and get a lump in my throat at any mention of 9/11, and I support our troops 100% - but I just don’t see how this...

Crowd celebrating the death of Osama Bin Laden

is all that different than this...

Anti-American crowd chanting "Death to George Bush"

I’d like to believe we are better than that. I NEED to believe that the enemies we are fighting ARE lower than us, inhumane scum who deserve nothing less than a painful death. But, when I see Americans behaving in similar ways, it makes me wonder.

I have never attended an execution, but I’d be shocked to see anything other than tears and anger coming from the victim’s families at the moment of the convict’s death. They may derive some relief and satisfaction that the bastard got what he deserved – but they’re not celebrating. They know they're not getting anything, or anyone back. To them, it’s still a loss.

And killing Bin Laden was not a win for the American people. Don’t get me wrong, it was a HUGE win for the military, and I have absolutely no problem if our soldiers are hooting and hollering over it for months to come. They have seen and done things we have not, and have earned a special right to celebrate. But not the rest of us. This isn’t the Giants winning the Superbowl. It’s not Neal Armstrong walking on the moon. This isn’t the American spirit overcoming insurmountable odds. It was the entire U.S. military against one horrible asshole. And after ten years, thousands of people are dead and one son of a bitch is at the bottom of the sea. And I’m sorry, I just don’t see that as a victory.

Again, that’s not to diminish the actions and sacrifices of our soldiers. For them, it IS a victory, and deservedly so. But to all the singers in the street, and the talking heads on TV, and the horn-honking, flag-waving, chest-bumping citizens out there, this is not a cause for such celebration. In my heart, I know that this is just your way of showing support for our troops, and that you are cheering their efforts and accomplishments – but - much like the football coach who advises a showboating player to stop dancing in the end zone and act like he’s been there before, I suggest you do the same. The only difference being, we don’t want to go there again.

We should be showing the world a face of grim satisfaction. One that deters others from trying to hurt us again, rather than provoking them to action. Our soldiers have a very dirty job to do, and I am grateful for the brave men and woman who voluntarily carry it out, so let’s not make their job any harder by giving our enemies more reason to hate us. It might feel good to stand up and shout, “In your face, terrorists!” but YOU don’t have to face them. They do.

The Dirty Dozen

2011-04-23T21:35:00.000-04:00

It all started with a phone call…

“Michael, it’s Mommy – I just wanted to let you know I’m going to be a little late. They need me to stay at work until…”

“But…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll still be home in time to color the eggs. I just thought you might want to get started without me. Where’s Bobby?”

“In the driveway, working on his car.”

“Okay. Well, when he comes in, tell him I said to help you and Joe get set up. I already boiled the eggs – they’re in the refrigerator – so he just has to take out all the eggs and mix up the dye for you guys. Tell him the Paas kit is in the hall closet, and the vinegar is on the shelf going downstairs. Oh, and make sure he spreads out newspaper, that stuff stains! Daddy might get home before me, and you know how he feels about messes!”

“Alright. When will you be home?”

“As soon as I can, Honey! Make sure you save me a few!”

I hung up the phone and went to tell my oldest brother, Bobby, the news.

He was none to happy to be dragged out from under his prized Shelby, but realizing the quickest way to get back to working on it was to do as Mom said, followed me back into the house.

“Mom said she boiled all the eggs in the refrigerator, so you just need to take them out and make the dye,” I told him. “I’ll go get the kit and find Joe.”

I fetched the kit from the closet, making sure to pop out all the circles before finding my younger brother, since he always got to do it, and went back to the kitchen.

“Does it say to use hot water or cold water,” Bobby asked, taking the box from my hand. “What the…? You poked out all the holes already? How am I supposed to read the directions?”

“I’m ‘sposed to poke out the holes!” Joe complained. “That’s my job!”

“Well, you can make the ring holders,” I conceded, offering something I could never do without ripping anyway.

“Those are stupid! They never stand up…”

“Just shut up, the both of ya!” Bobby ordered. “Spread out some newspaper and get the mugs. Where’s the vinegar,” he asked, pronouncing it like my aunt, who had a way of making it sound like a racial slur.

“Going downstairs,” I replied, pushing a chair over to the cabinet to fetch the soup mugs we (only) used for coloring eggs, while Joe counted out the tablespoons and covered the table with the morning paper.

After much measuring, stirring, spilling, and sniffling from the acrid spell of the vinegar, we were finally ready to color.

“Man, that’s a lot of eggs,” Bobby observed, noting the six dozen sitting on the table. “Don’t we normally only do five?”

He was right. We traditionally did a dozen each, my mother’s way to ensure that there was no arguing amongst her five boys over who got to color more eggs. As we (they) got older, and it became more of a job for just Joe and me, we, for some reason, still stuck with the five dozen rule.

“I don’t know,” I said, stalling as I replayed the phone conversation in my head for clues. “She said she boiled all the eggs in the refrigerator…”

“Whatever,” Bobby said, using the waxy white crayon to write his annual, “Eat Me!” message on an egg and dropping it in the dye. “I’ll be in the driveway if you need me.”

The second he left, Joe and I lunged across the table to gather up our three dozen eggs, both fighting for the full ones.

“Not fair,” Joe whined, after winding up with the carton missing the egg Bobby did. “Gimme one!”

“No, then you’d have more than me! Plus, Mommy said to save her some, so we can’t do them all anyway.”

“Well then I get the Dunker,” he proclaimed, grabbing the wire egg dipper and bending it into shape.

Take it, I thought to myself, the eggs never stay on that stupid thing anyway.

We managed to color the majority of eggs without incident. As our other brothers, Richard and Johnny, passed through, either coming home from work or heading out for the evening, they’d stop and color a few eggs, so that by the time our mom got home, there were only about a half a dozen left.

“Wow!” she exclaimed over our efforts. “These look beautiful. Looks like you didn’t need me after all!”

But of course we did, as she was the only one who could draw the bunnies and chicks on the eggs – which she proceeded to do without our encouragement.

As she placed the last of the eggs into the carton to dry, a strange look appeared on her face. I watched her head nod as she counted the cartons to herself.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Six?

SIX!

“What did you do?” she asked, racing the refrigerator, where as she suspected, ALL the eggs were missing.

“You colored ALL the eggs? We always do five! I bought an extra dozen for breakfast. I only boiled the five – the other was still raw!”

“Bobby did it!” I automatically exclaimed, once again replaying the phone conversation in my head. She did say all the eggs, right?

But poor Bobby got blamed anyway, since, as my mom said, he should have known better than to listen to a six-year old.

“Plus,” she added. “We always do FIVE dozen! You better figure out a way to fix this before your father gets home. If he finds out, he’ll throw them all out.”

With grease still on his hands, Bobby set about the task of separating the raw from the cooked. Using a complex system of spinning, shaking, floating them in water, and something he called “candling,” he soon had a dozen eggs divided from the pack. And just in time, as the garage door opening signaled my father’s arrival home from work.

“Oh, you did them all without me?” he asked, with feigned sadness, kissing my mother hello while accepting the martini she held out.

“Oh, we did them all, alright” I chirped, drawing a warning look from my mother.

“They look good,” he noted. “Did you remember to do the Dollar Eggs?”

“We did a did three Dollar Eggs…and a FIVE Dollar Egg!” Joe responded, prematurely announcing our plans to weasel more money from the Easter Bunny.

“A five dollar egg?” our dad repeated, with an arched eyebrow. “The Easter Bunny better hide that one real good!”

We all laughed, and eventually went to bed, secure in the knowledge that the Easter Bunny would come and hide the eggs we had colored - which thanks to Bobby, were all hard-boiled. Or so we thought. But give the poor guy credit: his unorthodox methods did manage to identify nine of the twelve raw eggs.

We awoke the next morning and instantly set about the task of finding the eggs, blissfully unaware of the three messy landmines hiding among them. Fueled by jellybeans and hopped up on chocolate, we searched the house as our parents slept, and by 9:00, all but the Five Dollar egg were found. Had we thought to check the trash, we might have found the discarded shell of a late-night snack my dad enjoyed that just so happened to be the former five-dollar egg.

But that was the last egg he got to enjoy that year, for as (bad) luck would have it, he managed to “find” all three raw ones!

The First Egg was found just before church. Dressed in his Sunday best, and taking advantage of a quiet few minutes as my brothers and I got ready, he got out the salt shaker, selected an egg from the basket, and proceeded to crack it.

As for what happened next, let’s just say church was not the first place we heard “JESUS CHRIST!” that morning. In fact, I’m pretty sure our neighbors heard it too.

“What the hell?” he muttered, pawing at the yellow egg running down the front of his white shirt. “How the…? Who the…? Sonofabitch!”

He left to change, and confront my mother, who deftly explained that it must not have cooked all the way through.

“All the way through?” my dad challenged. “Look at my shirt – it was completely raw!”

“It must have been on top. The ones on the bottom cook faster…”

“On top? What difference should that make? They were all IN the water, weren’t they?”

Never one to lie, my mom simply nodded, as technically they all were in the water with the dye – she just left out the part that some never made it into the boiling water.

Egg Number Two was found the next morning, this time while my dad was driving to work. Running late, he grabbed the salt shaker and a few eggs from the fridge as he headed out the door. A few minutes later, he hungrily cracked one on his knee at a red light.

I wasn’t there to hear it, but I’m sure “SONOFABITCH!” was uttered. Loudly.

He was still mad when he got home that night, and didn’t seem all too accepting of my mother’s explanation that, in his rush, he must have taken a raw egg on mistake.

“A raw one? It was BLUE!” he hollered, stomping off to change out of his egg-encrusted pants. “Bright blue with yellow chicken stickers on it!”

The Third Egg didn’t turn up until two weeks later, when after deciding that the eggs had sat in the refrigerator long enough, it was time to throw them away. He unceremoniously dumped the half-full basket into the trash, when he saw one break open, spilling its guts.

As did my mom, who when confronted a third time, only now with indisputable evidence, finally fessed up and said, “Bobby did it!”

Dedicated to the memory of my brother, Robert L. Wood, who, when all was said and done, turned out to be a pretty good egg!

The Rebirth of a Dyeing Tradition

2011-04-21T16:01:00.000-04:00

Eli, coloring eggs (Note the cup of dye that JUST spilled!)

We all know that families are defined by their customs and traditions, so for me, one of the biggest challenges of being a step-dad was stepping into a situation where it was expected that we continue the ones that had been previously established before my arrival while somehow managing to create new rituals of our own.

The “problem” is, my wife and I both come from close families, yet we rarely come close to agreeing on how holidays should be celebrated. Nothing major or upsetting, mind you, just simple things, like when (and how) Christmas presents get opened. Christmas Eve on her side looks like a ticker tape parade down Broadway, while Christmas morning on mine resembles a quiet kindergarten Show & Tell. Or how to decorate for Halloween. My side goes for the elaborate haunted house look, while her side says, “You decorate for Halloween?” Thanksgiving dinner at my house coincided with halftime of the football game, while her family prefers the TV off in order to talk and visit. My family stops celebrating birthdays with parties between the ages of 15 and 40 - her’s never stop!

But I’m a go with the flow kind of guy. I’m more than happy to make their traditions my own. And if no one wants to join me as I race around the house beating a pot with a spoon at midnight on New Year’s, so be it. But there is one tradition I will not allow to "dye"

My first WTF moment in marriage didn’t come until eight months after we were married. It was the night before Easter, 7-year old Julianna had just gone to bed, and I was getting out the eggs for the “Easter Bunny” to hide.

“You’re doing what now?” my wife asked, eyeing the basket of eggs warily.

“Um, hiding the eggs?” I said, confused.

“In the house?”

“Of course in the house!”

“Real eggs?”

“Uh, yeah! Why do you think we colored them all?”

“To put in the basket…”

“Right! You put them in the basket as you find them!”

“Wrong! The Easter Bunny puts them in the basket along with the candy!”

“He does not! He puts them in your shoes. And behind the curtain. And under the couch. He even unscrews the ceiling light and drops one inside. Then he hides the basket!”

“Real eggs? The kind that need to be refrigerated else you get salmonella? The kind that stink and smell like sulphur? That’s what your Easter Bunny does?”

“No, that’s what THE Easter Bunny does.”

And so it went. Eventually we settled on a compromise and hid some plastic eggs around the house. And while Julianna seemed to enjoy the novelty of it, I could tell she was more aligned with her mom on this one, so that was the last time we hid the eggs. But that’s all about to change! Thanks to an egg that I fertilized, I now have a new kid that I get to raise from the ground up. And this year I’m putting my furry foot down and being the Bunny!

Of course, with Eli only being two,” hiding” the eggs will consist of leaving them out in plain sight for him to collect. But after a year or two of practice, he’ll be ready for the big time. Now if I can just find a place to hide the remote on Thanksgiving so that no one can turn the game off, I’ll be all set!

Squeezing Weenis with Don on the Double Dong

2011-04-18T21:24:00.004-04:00

This is probably one of those stories that ends abruptly with an unfulfilling “I guess you had to be there” disclaimer, but I’m going to give it a shot anyway – and while I’m at it, three or four shots might help you get in the right (altered) state of mind required to appreciate the following.

It was my friend Don’s 40^th birthday, and a group of us got together at a local dive to celebrate. Many of us had not seen each other in years, and after all the wives were met, photos of the kids passed around, and careers updated, we got down to the real purpose of the evening…drinking.

Now as followers of this blog know, I gave up drinking for Lent – but as this event was on my calendar for months, I had saved one of my “outs” for the evening, and let’s just say I took full-advantage.

So there I was, blitzed and buzzing with good friends and cheap booze, listening to the handsome half of Hubinger St. playing an acoustic set. when Don is called to the dance floor to be presented with a special gift. The crowd gathers as he opens the bag, and pulls out this…

Now, from my POV (pint of vodka?) it appeared as if Don was just given some sort of sex toy as a gag gift. Not that I have ever seen such an item, but the phrase “double dong” popped to mind when I saw him hold it up. Even the name, Vibra-Slap, sounded like it came from some adult store.

So I’m giggling like a schoolgirl, watching straight-laced Don deal with the double dong, when he decides to take it up to the stage. The band starts playing again, and I’m thinking, “Good for you Don! Pretend to play that vibrator and put the joke right back in the giver.” Only he really starts playing the thing. And it sounds good!

Now I’m cackling like a jackass at the quality of sound Don is getting from the thing, when someone asks me what’s so funny. I look at them like, are you serious? Don’s playing a dildo up there. I start to explain, but am quickly corrected that it is indeed a musical instrument, and not any sort of sexual device. Sure it is, I say, thinking they’re still trying to get their money’s worth out of the joke gift, but then they show me the box, and I realize the joke’s on me.

Feeling foolish, I wander over to the bar, and immediately get my weenis grabbed. No, it wasn’t that kind of a bar. And a weenis isn’t what you think it is, unless, unlike me, you already know what a weenis is. Turns out, the weenis is the name given to the puckered pouch of skin that covers your elbow. See...

And for some reason, this part of the body is totally devoid of pain receptors. Seriously. Reach out your arm, pinch that little patch of skin, and squeeze the shit out of it. You feel nothing, right?

At the time, I thought it was just an effect of the alcohol, as people were pulling, tugging, twisting, and even biting each others’ weenises, without inflicting a single shot of pain, but when I pinched my weenis the next morning, still nothing. It’s sort of amazing actually. I’m thinking maybe superheroes and X-Gamers must be made completely out of weenis skin, which is how they can absorb so much pain.

If only my liver and brain cells were made out of weenis, this story might have a happier ending. But, alas, there’s a price to pay for being forty and partying like a kid half your age. It’s called a hangover, and it is nowhere near as funny as the movie of the same name. Hopefully I’ll recover by the time Don hits 50, because I’ve already got an idea for the perfect gift: the Viagra-Slap!

I had planned to end this by coming back full circle to the "you had to be there" idea by posting an video from the actual evening - but - to protect the innocent, while still satisfying anyone's curiosity of what a Vibra-Slap sounds like, I've decided to post this YouTube clip instead:

Karm(hic) Justice

2011-04-12T05:56:00.000-04:00

Regular followers of this blog may recall my recent announcement that I was giving up alcohol for Lent (click here for reminder). A sacrifice made all the more impressive when you realize I’m not a big church goer, or even a believer in a God who has nothing better to do with his time than to spy on us to make sure we’re not eating meat on Fridays. In fact, I’m pretty sure the people at Pizza Hut were the ones who made up that rule. But, regardless of my beliefs, I did have faith that I could go 40 days without drinking. And I can…just not all in a row.

I made it to Day 28 before breaking down, when my friends’ band played a show for the first time in forever, making it more of a reunion than a typical night out. And what goes better with old friends than cold beer? So I thought to myself, What Would Jesus Do? And when I couldn’t come up with an answer, I decided to ask him. I put a crumpled up piece of paper in one hand, held them both out, and told my nemesis Renee to pick one, after saying, “Jesus, if you don’t want me to drink tonight, make Renee pick the hand without the paper and I will obey.”

She picked the hand with the paper, and I raised my hand to signal the waitress. That first beer was sooo good, and so was the second. But soon, I found myself hiccupping uncontrollably. And not the cute little “hic” ones either, they were the big, chest caving, throat clenching kind. I’m not going to say they ruined my night, but they definitely hindered it.

Twenty-four hours later, I was still hiccupping away. And that’s when it occurred to me that maybe someone “up there” was angry at me for breaking my Lenten promise and was smiting me with hiccups. Stranger things have happened. In fact, it reminded me of another time, long ago, when I found myself the “victim” of karmic justice.

Back in my Deadhead days, I would often buy tickets to sold-out out of state shows from this broker (aka scalper) for ridiculously marked up prices. It sucked, but I thought it was better to pay more to have a guaranteed ticket rather than drive 12 hours and risk not being able to score one at the show. So this one time, I ordered a pair for my friend Matt and I for a Friday show in Albany. The tickets showed up one day under my doormat – I wasn’t home, so the delivery guy just left them there, even though I was supposed to sign for them.

Seeing an opportunity to screw the scalper, and score an extra pair of tickets to the show, I called the broker a few days later and complained that the tickets I ordered never showed up. He put a trace on the package, learned that the delivery company had no proof that the package was delivered, and was forced to overnight an extra pair of tickets to my house. Huzzah!

Before leaving, Matt and I decided it would be really cool to use the extra tickets to “miracle” someone (Deadspeak for a free ticket that is bestowed upon a stranger in need) – but – on the way up, the plan changed to where we would trade the extra pair for the Saturday show and see both.

We were barely off the highway before we saw a guy selling tickets. We explained to him that we were just looking to trade, and he accepted willingly. He even offered to “upgrade” our Friday tickets to floor seats. We thanked him, gave him our four Friday tickets and drove away with two new pair for both shows feeling like we were pulling a fast one.

Turns out the tickets we traded for were counterfeit. We ended up having to buy another pair, for even more than the originals, and missed most of the first set. And while I can't say our entire weekend was ruined, it was definitely hindered.

Twenty years later, after a day spent hiccupping and regretting my decision to drink, I realized that maybe the Lord does work in mysterious ways. I went into this feeling pretty secure that there was no one up there paying attention to what I did, yet there’s no denying someone is messing with me! And for once I know it’s not Renee (for she was smited too, and spent the next day in bed with a raging hangover!)

So, if there is someone up there, please know I’m sorry for listening to Jesus and breaking my promise. It'll never happen again.

Oh, and that ticket thing was all Matt’s idea!

Dumb Things I've Done

2011-04-05T08:56:00.010-04:00

I came home yesterday to a clogged toilet. Nothing too terrible, or overflowing, just slow to no flush action. Repeated plunging did nothing to help matters, nor did the old coat hanger down the chute trick. So I went out and bought an auger.

Nine dollars, and twenty disgusting minutes later, we had a functioning toilet once again. Granted, the inside of the bowl was now all scratched to hell, and my "new" auger resembled a…well, let’s just say it was gross - but the toilet flushed. And I was flushed with pride, for I’m not exactly the Mr. Fix-It type. I’m more of a Mr. Fux-It Up.

But not always. For some strange reason, I’m not too bad with BIG jobs. I’ve designed and built a house-length front porch, put in a sub-floor and tiled the kitchen. Built one of those giant timber playscapes. Put in bathroom where there wasn’t a bathroom before (albeit with lots of help from a plumber and my nephew Robert, but still, I did it.) And all without major incident or injury – and - with a modicum of success.

But the small jobs?

- Replacing a ceiling fan sent me to the ER for stitches when I foolishly used the giant glass bulb as support while unscrewing the mount. I held my hand under the bulb, using my free hand to remove the last screw that was bearing the weight of the entire fan –when CRASH! And slash. Blood and glass everywhere.

- Putting a cap on chimney to keep squirrels and leaves out of it nearly asphyxiated my entire family, when, while up there I noticed a lot of heat escaping from the chimney and thought, hey, I should stuff it with some insulation and cardboard to keep all the heat (and carbon monoxide) from exiting the house. Thank god, and Geof, for listening to my prideful boasting eight hours later, and questioning why I would seal off the only vent for my furnace.

- Most recently, I managed to (literally) cut my family off from the free world though the simple act of installing a book shelf, which somehow resulted in me cutting the wire that provided all our phone, internet, and television service. I should further admit, lest you assume that the wire was buried behind the wall and I accidentally cut it while driving a screw or something – the wire was in PLAIN SIGHT! Mounted to the wall in a plastic phone jack type box – but - I wanted the shelf to sit flush against the wall, so thinking the wires were from an outdated phone line, grabbed some kitchen shears and cut it! Thank FIL Dave for being there (and being an electrician) as my wife and kids were all pretty ticked at me for making them go even twenty minutes without facebook and Yo Gabba Gabba.

So, all things considered, I was pretty proud of myself for my toilet repair (even with the unsightly scratches) as I knew things could have gone much worse. But I’m not going to start patting myself on the back just yet, as so far it’s only had to handle a few test flushes and a single pee. So if there's anyone out there willing to come give it a real test drive, there’s a free, “gently” used auger in it for you!

Growing up "Italian"

2011-03-31T06:09:00.000-04:00

NOTE: Thursday "topics" are really just reruns of pieces that have already been published - the majority in the Connecticut Post when I was writing their "Get Out" column. This is one of them. It ran like five years ago, so don't try going to the places named without calling first to make sure they're still open!

“Mike Wood” is not exactly a name that screams Italian (even with all the vowels) but if you could have seen my great-grandmother, there’d be no doubt as to my heritage. We called her “Little Grandma,” as she stood no more than four feet tall. We’d visit her every year out in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and never once did I see her in anything but her black mourning dress, which she started wearing after her son Dominic was killed in World War II.

We loved visiting her - even if we couldn’t understand a word she said through her thick accent– because she managed to convey her joy, and earn our love, through her animated gestures and twinkling eyes. Our other “older” relatives had to ply us with presents and candy to get our attention/affection, but all Little Grandma had to do was clap her brittle, but soft, hands and we’d go running to her side, where she’d sing and tell us stories. And as old (and short) as she was, she would stand for hours over the stove stirring the Sunday sauce (oops, I mean gravy) and making pastas with names I still can’t pronounce.

Away from Scranton, things were decidedly less Italian. True, my mom did play her Mario Lanza records, and there was a lavabo in our living room (but thankfully no plastic covers on the couch) but her pasta always came out of a box, and sometimes the sauce was from a jar…and at home we always called it sauce. Even my “straight off the boat” grandfather seemed a little less Italian. Back in Scranton, he was Lorenzo Falduto from Calabria…here he was Grandpa Jimmy from Bridgeport. I was in my twenties before I learned that my Uncle Jake’s real name was Ovideo and that Uncle Carm was short for Carmen. It’s not that we weren’t proud of our Italian heritage, it’s just that we were also made up of equal parts Irish and English. Or, more simply put, we were Americans, and our home reflected our varied backgrounds.

But my Italian relatives would have felt right at home at il Angolo (The Corner), the latest addition to Bridgeport’s Little Italy section. From the white stuccoed arches to the gold felted chairs, to the generous portions of pasta, an evening at il Angolo is like a trip back in time to Little Grandma’s house.

My wife and I went for dinner last Saturday night and found the dining room full and lively with conversation. The staff, from the owner on down, was very friendly and eager to please, and never once appeared rushed or “too busy” to chat or discuss the specials, even with a full house. We opted for the specials, but the menu had many tempting choices, with a wide variety of veal, chicken, beef, seafood, and of course, pasta. I rarely order pasta in Italian restaurants because I can never pronounce them properly – to me, cavitelli looks like it should rhyme with “belly.” And while I have learned to ignore the “g’s” in gnocchi and lasagna, I will never get the hang of adding them to manicotti or ricotta- and we won’t even talk about my pasta fagiola incident.

But when it comes to dessert, my inhibitions go out the window – I don’t know (or care) how it’s pronounced, I’m ordering the tartufo; basically a giant chocolate covered cherry, only filled with ice cream and served surrounded by whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Our original plan, which was a good one, was to stop by nearby Micalizzi’s afterward for an Italian ice…until we saw tartufo on the menu.

Also on the menu was an unexpectedly lengthy line-up of top name entertainment that il Angolo has to offer. Tonight, for example, comedian Pat Cooper will harangue the audience with his trademark “comedic anger” honed over his forty years of performing with the likes of Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, and Tom Jones. Pat recently starred in the Analyze This…and That movies with Billy Crystal and Robert DeNiro and is a popular guest on many talk shows, including David Letterman and Howard Stern. His “I’m not yelling, I’m Italian” shtick should play to this crowd.

Other upcoming shows of note are the world famous doo-wop group, the Del Vikings who will bring their many hits, including Come Go with Me and Whispering Bells, to the restaurant on June 23 and The Bernadettes on the 30^th. The Del Viking were a little before my time, but I have seen the Bernadettes perform, and I think il Angolo should be a great setting for lead singer Elden Lowery’s crowd engaging antics. Show times and admissions vary, so contact the restaurant for information.

il Angolo is located in what used to be Testo’s, a very popular restaurant for many years, so they have some big shoes to fill, but if our experience was any indication, they are well on their way to meeting the challenge. As for my Little Grandma, she’s gone, and no one will ever replace her. Her shoes were not so big, but they left some really large footprints.

Even Memory Needs a Helping Hand

2011-03-29T06:08:00.002-04:00

Looking for any edge I could find in filling out my brackets, I started reading this story about a Kansas University basketball player who lost both his mom and grandparents in the same month. It detailed how he was at school, hundreds of miles from home, when he got the news, and that his teammates just gathered around him for a big group hug . A sad story no doubt, but I was more disturbed by the memory it brought back.

Actually, what really disturbed me was the fact that I had forgotten the recalled incident in the first place. It was over twenty years ago - I was completing Basic Training in Ft. Benning, GA (a long story for another day) when one of the guys in my platoon got a message that his mom had died. We were mostly 18-20 at the time, from all walks of life, a bunch of boys trying to prove ourselves men, but seeing poor Private Tate trying to control his emotions got all of our emotions flowing, and we just quietly circled around him in a show of sympathy and support.

You would think that one would never forget a moment like that. But I totally did. It’s not like I blocked it out or suppressed it, I just completely forgot it. Well, not forgot exactly, as the newspaper article brought it right back, but you get the point.

Anyway, this got me thinking about another situation – one that I clearly remember, yet many of my friends don’t. It’s regarding where we were when the space shuttle, Challenger, exploded – but- before I get into that, I need to bring up one more thing.

September 11, 2001

You see that date and instantly remember that day, right? Where you were. Who you were with. What you were doing when you first heard about the attacks on the World Trade Center. You remember it like it was only yesterday, right? Truth is, most of us don’t. Turns out, our memories of even major events like 9/11 are unreliable, sketchy, or just plain wrong.

I see you shaking your head, disagreeing with me. I know, because I didn’t believe it either. Until it was proven to me in an unquestionable manner: I was still at Southern back in 2001, finishing my Masters in Psychology, and two days after 9/11, a professor came into our class and asked us to write down everything we remembered about that horrible day. The majority of the class voluntarily wrote out their stories, many in vivid detail, almost grateful for the chance to record their recollections. He then collected them, made a big show of sealing them in a large orange envelope and said goodbye. We didn’t see him for another four months, when he came back for the last class of the semester.

“Remember me?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as we all nodded. “Last time we met,” he continued, “I asked you to write down exactly what you remember from September 11^th. The who, what, why, when, and where. And tonight, I’d like you to do the same thing. Just write down exactly what you remember from that day. Who you were with. Where you were. What you were doing when you first heard about the attacks.”

Confused, but curious, we did as asked. And then were shocked when given the opportunity to compare them to the originals he triumphantly removed from the envelope. The majority of us were way off. Someone who had written that they first heard about it on their car radio, later recalled learning about it while at a Dunkin’ Donuts. Another originally wrote that he was alone his dorm room, but four months later, he was suddenly in the Student Center. And it wasn’t just minor details. The people, places, and things described in such vivid detail in the originals were in many cases completely different from the people, places, and things (also vividly described) in the new versions. And that was after only four months!

It really freaked me out, seeing my own writing describing an event so different than the one I “remembered” – which is why I missed much of his follow-up discussion on the unreliability of eyewitness testimony, the validity of repressed memories, and so on. But the main idea stuck with me: we literally make our own memories.

This was so mind-blowing to me, I had to test it out for myself. I decided to base my informal study on the event that preceded 9/11 as the “Where were you when…?" moment for my generation: the Challenger explosion.

I knew where I was: it was a snow day, so there was no school, and my friends and I were exploring the woods when several of us fell through some thin ice and had to be “rescued” by a neighborhood mom. She served us cocoa as we dried off, and switched on the news to show us what happened to the space shuttle.

All this I knew for a fact (confirmed by both the National Weather Service and Shelton School System) but I started asking around, seeing what my friends remembered from that day. I even widened my search and asked other schoolmates, people who weren’t with us that day, but I knew were not in school.

It was incredible how many of them swore they were either in school, watching it with their class as it happened, or home sick on the couch watching it on TV. Those who remember being in school described their teachers crying, kids screaming, parents coming to pick them up early. The "sick" ones recalled parents calling from work to check on them, or in some cases actually coming home. Only one out of about 25 I talked to mentioned a snow day. For the rest, there was not a doubt in their minds that what they remembered wasn’t true. Then I pulled the rug out from under them.

But even with my proof (a photocopy of the weather report for that day and a newspaper article mentioning the school closings) they STILL didn’t believe me. It was crazy. And sort of scary. It makes you wonder how many of our cherished childhood memories are wrong. Did they really happen? And if not, what did happen?

I guess in the end, it really doesn’t matter. Perception is reality, right? But then again, if our recollection of our perception is wrong, then how can we ever know what reality is? Whoa, this is starting to get trippy – I think I have a better chance at picking the Final Four than figuring this out, but I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Or what you think your thoughts are!

Failure to Communicate: How I Pissed off Paul Newman

2011-03-21T21:46:00.004-04:00

I love Paul Newman – a man, who by all accounts (some first hand) was as kind and generous as he was talented and handsome. Everything about him, from his penetrating blue eyes to his iconic movie roles to his wicked sense of humor, was the stuff of legend. And he was quite the local hero as well: whether it was racing cars at Lime Rock, selling spaghetti sauce at Stew Leonard’s, or fund-raising for the Westport County Playhouse, he always drew a crowd. But unless it was to raise awareness for one of his many causes, he never seemed to actively seek the attention - people just wanted to be around him. And when they approached him, he was always appreciative of their compliments and considerate with his time.

I’m sure he had his faults, we just didn’t know about them. But even if the tabloids did have something bad to report, I doubt they would. And even if they did, no one would buy them, for he was that loved. In fact, next to Mother Theresa and Elmo, I can’t think of another modern day person more adored and revered.

AND I PISSED HIM OFF!

It happened over 15 years ago, but I’m still ashamed. And mortified. I’ve met many celebrities in my life. I’ve shaken hands with Michael Keaton. Passed Dave Mathews a Diet Coke. Convinced an idiot guard to let Mike Myers and his friends into the SNL studios. I shared an elevator with Penny Marshall and Tom Hanks (and cringed when my friend turned to her and said, “Voh-dee-oh-doh, Laverne!”) But no one could compare to Paul Newman. And I went and pissed him off.

Here’s what happened: A few weeks before my run-in, I saw him on an episode of “Inside the Actors’ Studio” where he was promoting his latest movie, Nobody’s Fool (based on a great book, by one of my all-time favorite authors, Richard Russo.) They were discussing a memorable scene about a stolen snow blower, and James Lipton made a comment about how funny and improvised it seemed. Paul Newman agreed, but gave all the credit to the movie’s director, Robert Benton. Problem is, that scene was lifted verbatim from the book - as was most of the movie, which retained a huge portion of the book’s dialogue and story.

Now, as an aspiring author myself, it bothered me that the real author, Richard Russo (a Pulitzer Prize winner), wasn’t being given credit for his work. Plus, even though we’ve never met, Mr. Russo was the “Author in Residence” at my college, so I felt personally affronted for him, and vowed that if I ever saw Paul Newman, I would confront him about it.

Of course, I never thought I’d have such an opportunity (but we all know what happened to thought*) and then one day it presented itself.

At the time, my sister-in-law had a beauty shop in Southport, and for whatever reason (I think her landlord was Paul Newman’s former limo driver or something like that) Mr. Newman started coming in to her shop for his haircuts. Afterwards, he would go across the street to The Horseshoe Bar for lunch. So one day I was there dropping off my brother, or maybe picking him up, and was told I had just missed Paul Newman. The girl who had actually cut his hair saw my disappointment and said I could probably still catch him at the Horseshoe, so I ran right over. And there he was, casually sitting at the bar, enjoying a cheeseburger.

Now, by that time I had gotten over my “anger” with his failure to acknowledge Richard Russo’s contribution to his movie, but thought it might make for a funny ice breaker. You see, as much as I enjoy meeting famous people, I have never stopped one on the street or asked for an autograph - but if a natural opportunity arises, I try to take it. And here was my opportunity to meet my all-time favorite, could be a saint, star of stage and screen, Paul Newman.

So I walked right up to him and said…

“Mr. Newman, I have a bone to pick with you!”

“Excuse me,” he said, slowly putting down his beer and turning to stare at me with those blue eyes. ”Do I know you?”

“No, but I saw you on the Actors’ Studio last month, and you owe Richard Russo an apology! You went on and on about Robbie Benson (in my nervousness, I accidentally substituted the name of the 80’s pretty boy for the 80-year old director) and never once mentioned Richard Russo…”

“Did Russo put you up to this,” he asked, pronouncing Russo with a “soft u” instead of the oo sound I used.

“What? No. I never met him. I just thought…”

“Hold on,” he said, holding up his hands. “You don’t know me. You never met him. Yet you felt compelled to interrupt my conversation with Gordon here (he nods toward the man behind the bar) to demand an apology?”

“Well…I…uh…”

“Do you make it a habit of defending the honor of strangers,” he asked, winking at Gordon. “Or am I your first?”

“No Sir, I just…uh…”

“Well then buzz off!” he said, raising his voice loud enough to get Gordon laughing.

Then he turned his back on me.

Had it just ended with “buzz off” it might have been a funny story. But seeing him turn his back practically broke my heart. I felt like such a jerk. There were so many other ways I could have played this scene out. I could have complimented him on his haircut. Dared him to eat 50 eggs. Or simple taken one of the empty stools on either side of him and just quietly shared a beer with one of my heroes. Instead, I insulted him.

Looking back on what I just wrote, and the fifteen years of guilt that followed, it occurs to me that I really shouldn’t have been so hard on myself. I realize now that I’m not to blame - it’s that damned Richard Russo’s fault! And if I ever get the chance to meet him, I’m going to demand an apology!

Little something for the ladies!

* "Thought thought he had to fart, but he shit his pants instead." - the wisdom of my mother, Kathleen Wood

To Everything...Turn, Turn, Turn

2011-03-15T06:17:00.000-04:00

Last week I abandoned my usual snarkiness to write seriously about what, at the time, seemed like a tragic flood in my town – lots of property damage, washed out roads, and just a general overall mess. And while I’m sure its impact is still a major concern for those directly affected, I can’t help but compare it to what happened in Japan, and think, what was the big deal? Sure, some photo albums were destroyed, new sump pumps had to be bought, and maybe some mold mitigation is going to be required – but - our town is still here! No one died, or was even injured, to the best of my knowledge. And even though the Housatonic River might not be the cleanest water around, its pollutants are nothing compared to the threat of a nuclear meltdown.

I’m not making light of the situation in Shelton, or New Jersey, or anywhere else on the planet for that matter, but at this moment, nothing is as bad as what’s happening in Japan right now. Be it Libyan’s fighting for their freedom, Wisconsin employees worrying about their jobs, or even football players arguing about their contracts, they all have it better off than the citizens of Japan.

Perspective is a wonderful, yet terrible thing, as it provides many people with a reprieve from their troubles by showing them how much worse others have it. Perspective makes our problems seem petty, and therefore, not as overwhelming or upsetting, which allows us to then deal with them better. Sure, I still have to worry about how I’m going to pay for another $450 delivery of oil, but at least I still have a home to heat.

The problem with perspective is how quick we are to forget. After Hurricane Katrina, I clearly remember how disturbingly easy if was to go about our normal lives, shopping in fully stocked stores, putting things away in fully-functional refrigerators, all while people less than a 6 hour flight away were fighting and begging for the most basic of human needs. Televised images of looting and parents pleading for medicine for their babies did make the rest of us stop and think, for a moment, but then we went right back to arguing with the woman going through the “8 Items or Less…” line with 15 items.

In a way, I suppose it’s a good thing that the human spirit is so strong that we can continue to fight over such mundane things while others are fighting for their very lives – but if the tables were turned, you have to wonder: When does self-preservation end and self-respect begin?

I've seen the movie Titanic probably 20 times, and paid to see it three of those times. But while I appreciated the epic spectacle, the timeless romance, and Kate Winslet's boobies, what struck me most about the movie was how it forced me to question what I would do if I were ever in such a situation. Would I bravely step aside when they called "Woman and children first" or would I be donning a wig and jumping in the lifeboat?

I'd like to think I'd do the right thing (whatever that may be) but when I think about how many times I've driven by broken down cars on the side of the road, or looked the other way as elderly people struggled with their groceries, without offering assistance, it doesn't bode well for my courage. I mean, if I can't be bothered to help a stranger change a flat tire, what are the odds that I'd be willing to risk my life for one?

I can only hope that I never have to find out. In the mean time, I'll donate my $20 to some Tsunami Relief Fund, keep myself listed as a marrow donor, wear my pink ribbon, sponsor walk-a-thoners, buy poppies from veterans, send checks to St. Jude's, and try to keep things in perspective. I do these things because it's the right thing to do - but in all honestly, I do them because it's the easier thing to do. Handing a homeless guy ten bucks helps me sleep better at night, but at the end of the day, he's still sleeping outside...while I have a spare room.

I don't know if that makes me part of the solution, or part of the problem. Or both. But if there ever is some sort of Judgement Day, I hope they let me plead the 5th, because I know I could have done better.

A Few Too Many Drops to Drink

2011-03-08T05:56:00.001-05:00

Note: I did not take the following pictures, but I did "take" them from the Valley Independent Sentinel, a local new source that provided great coverage of yesterday's flooding. Check them out!

House in The Maples section of Shelton

When we bought our first house in 2003, aside from the initial excitement and fear of being a new homeowner, the thing that stuck with me most was something the inspector said. He had invited me to follow him as he checked everything from the basement furnace to the attic insulation, pointing out the hundreds of things that needed to be fixed or addressed in the near future. I mentioned how strange it seemed that so many of the issues were water related – whether it was the condition of the roof, the grading of the yard, the tile in the bathroom, or the age if the pipes, it seemed that roughly 75% of the problems involved keeping water in, or out, of the house - which I suppose makes sense considering 7/10^ths of the earth’s surface is covered in water and the human body is basically ¾’s water.

But at the time, I was so overwhelmed with all the problems and issues he was pointing out, all I could do was make a lame joke, something like, “Wow, if water is that much of a problem, I can’t imagine what it would be like to buy a houseboat!” He just looked at me and said, “It’ll be a constant battle, but just so you know, Water Always Wins.”

At the time, it didn’t seem all that profound. But he said it in such a way that was so matter-of-fact and undeniable, I tucked it away in my memory bank, knowing that once the mortgage was approved, papers were signed, and boxes unpacked, it would be something to ponder. And in the years that followed, images of the Grand Canyon being carved by the Colorado River, the Titanic being sunk by an iceberg, or the failure of the New Orleans’ levees all served as constant reminders to how right he was. Water Always Wins.

It’s a bit unsettling – that something so simple and basic can be so destructive. I’m intentionally ignoring the power of the atom, as we can see water, which somehow makes it more real. Plus, it doesn’t take a madman and a red button to unleash its awesome power.

Many of us spent this past winter dealing with what seemed like unprecedented amounts of snow. Missed days of work. Sore backs. Heart attacks. And countless car accidents – all from fluffy drops of frozen water. Then yesterday, at least in my area, a couple inches of rain, coupled with all that snowfall, led to some very serious flooding. Houses destroyed. Photos and memories washed away. Roads made unpassable. All from water.

another house along the Housatonic River

But at the same time, we need water. My students are always shocked to hear that one can go weeks without food, but only days without water. We tend to take it for granted. From the ice cubes that cool our sodas to the steam that cleans our clothes, it’s everywhere. We appreciate it when it’s where it’s supposed to be, be it a pool or sink or glass – yet get upset when it shows up in places like our basement. We use it to clean, yet it also makes a mess.

The Stevenson Dam, with floodgates open...and a rainbow

The Housy, and the Red, White, and Blue

I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learned in all of this, but since there was wine in my glass all night, rather than water, the moral escapes me. But there’s no escaping water. Water Always Wins.

That's not to say we should give up the fight - for even though it seems silly to think we can defeat evil things like cancer and terrorism when we can't even beat water, if you look closely at these last two pictures, you'll see that the human spirit still somehow manages to rise above the flood. We may not be able to beat water, but we can still float.

More Miserables!

2011-03-03T06:08:00.003-05:00

NOTE: It's not often that I crack myself up (or others, for that matter) but for some reason, the idea of a comic sequel to Les Miserables just struck me as funny. I started this about 5 years ago, spent 20 inspired minutes writing it, then never continued. If you haven't read the book, or at least seen the play, don't bother reading any further, as I didn't even attempt to make it stand alone.

"At last, Cosette, you're Marius has returned.

Sorry I'm late,I hope dinner hasn't burned"

"Enough with the singing already!" complains Cosette. "Why can't we ever just talk, like normal people?

"And what do these normal people talk about?" Marius inquires.

"Oh, I don't know," says Cosette, placing her finger on her chin in an overtly dramatic pose of concerned thought. "People talk about taxes, the news, weather...or where you've been all night!" she exclaims. "It's well past seven!"

"Oh, you know," explains Marius, "I met some friends down at Thernardier's and we had a few brandies..."

"Don't give me that!" says Cosette, harshly throwing a basket of bread down on the table. "We both know all your friends were killed in the Revolution...remember? All that 'empty chairs at empty tables' business you whined about for months? Ring a bell?"

"I should ring a bell for each of their souls, the way you disparage them! How can you accuse me of forgetting? I think about them every day. Poor Enjolras. Little Gavroche. Sometimes I wish I were among them."

"So do I!" says Cosette, before realizing the gravity of her statement.

"What was that, Dear?" asks Marius. "Do you wish me dead? Do you long to see me carted off on the funeral wagon? Do you like to imagine what a gloriously beautiful widow you would make? Would you like me..."

"I would just like you home once and a while!" she blurts out, breaking into tears. "I don't really want you dead. It's just that...just that...sometimes, it's like...the Marius I knew and loved is dead..." she breaks off, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.

"And as for me?" asks Marius. "The man who stands before you now, your husband? Are you saying you do not love me?"

"It's like I don't even know you. You never tell me where you’re going, or where you've been..."

"Well excusez moi if I can't live up to the saintly virtues of Jean Valjean!"

"Who said anything about..." interrupts Cosette.

"You don't have to say it. He is always here! Watching me like the gargoyles of Notre Dame. Pulling on me like the tides of Mont St. Michel. Choking me like a stale eclair..."

"Enough!" yells Cosette. "I will not hear anymore of this. He saved my life. He saved your life! And this is the thanks he gets? He told me that our wedding day was the happiest day of his life..."

"Big deal!" interrupts Marius. "The guy spent twenty years in jail for stealing a loaf of bread! He spent another twenty running from the law! He lived his life in fear. He was alone. He had no friends. Nothing. His life was one trial after another. And our wedding day was the happiest day of his life! Of course it was! It was probably the only day he wasn't beaten or robbed or cheated or chased or swindled or ridi..."

"I said enough!" Cosette roars, her face twisted with rage. "One more word about..."

A knock at the door interrupts her. "Come. Who is it?" calls Marius, looking rather relieved at the interruption.

"Police!" responds a voice in a terribly obvious, yet failing, attempt to sound commanding. A poodles bark had more bite.

"Well come now, what is it?" asks Marius as he opens the door. "My wife and I were having a simple discussion, that hardly constitutes as a row, don't you have anything better to do with your time than to..."

            "Excuse me sir, " says the policeman, "I am Officer Javert. I need to speak to your wife about her possible involvment in the murder of my father."
             "Murder?" Cosette challenged. "Your father committed suicide. Everyone knows that!"
             "Well we have new evidence that seems to suggest other wise," the officer retorted, drawing himself up to his full height. "And a witness who is willing to testify that YOU were at the scene!"

Dun, dun, dun...

If I Ruled the World

2011-03-01T06:09:00.000-05:00

If I ruled the world:
Grocery stores would stock rice cakes with the rice and bread crumbs with the bread

If I ruled the world:
All gas tanks would be on the driver's side and all pump nozzles would have the 'hands free' feature

If I ruled the world:
Easter would be the same day every year and St. Patrick's Day would always be on a Saturday

If I ruled the world:
Fries would ALWAYS come with that

If I ruled the world:
Petting zoos would have real animals instead of lame-ass livestock

If I ruled the world:
You could buy beer after the 7th inning (and for less that $8)

If I ruled the world:
We would still be playing Jarts at picnics

If I ruled the world:
Kids would listen to their parents, and parents would listen to their kids

If I ruled the world:
Paying $10 for a movie ticket would guarantee a happy ending (and yes, I mean that kind of happy ending)

If I ruled the world:
English muffins would split evenly into two equal halves rather than one good side and one little deformed side

If I ruled the world:
Slot machines would still have handles that required pulling

If I ruled the world:

Stick butter would always be soft, spreadable, and fat free

If I ruled the world:

Pluto would still be a planet

If I ruled the world:

There would be no income tax - but - there would be a hefty outcome tax

If I ruled the world:

There would be no such thing as unseasonable weather. Spring would be warm, Summer hot, Fall cool, and Winter cold (oh yeah, and the names of seasons would be capitalized!)

If I ruled the world:

People who enjoy my blog would realize that my book is just as entertaining and go out and buy it

That's what I would do - now how about you?

PS - I know I'll never actually rule the world, but I DO rule this blog, so I have removed the annoying "captcha" requirement, which means you are all free to post comments at will!

The "Boogie" Monster

2011-02-24T06:29:00.000-05:00

NOTE: Not sure if this ever ran in the paper, but it was written back when I was doing a bunch of dating advice pieces (and yes, I'm aware of the irony of taking said advice from me!)

We can dance if we want to

We can leave your friends behind

'Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance

Well they're no friends of mine

For those of you too young to remember, the above song is the “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats – which, cheesy as it is, is still far better than anything performed by any of today’s Girls Without Talent. Plus it’s true…you can dance if you want to! The problem is, not all of us want to – but, as the song implies, not dancing can lead to social rejection and isolation. So what’s a non-dancer to do? I say if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em (even if you can’t feel the beat) because this disco-rimination has gone on long enough. It’s time to get over your fears and on to the dance floor. And don’t worry if you can’t dance, for I have learned it is far better to be a dancing weed than a pretty wallflower.

Growing up, I never wanted to dance – even today it still takes a little “encouragement” from my friends Sam Adams and Bud Weiser – but back then that wasn’t an option. And unfortunately for me, I came from a family of dancers, meaning I spent many a wedding alone at my table watching everyone else having a good time on the dance floor. Part of me wanted to join them, but the parts I needed (feet, hips, and rhythm) just weren’t interested. And to be honest, I thought they looked rather foolish flailing about out there. So I’d just sit around bored and embarrassed, praying no one would pressure me into dancing with them. Which of course they would, forcing me to feign an illness or injury as an excuse for why I wasn’t dancing. I became so good at this ruse that I would actually end up feeling sick by the end of the evening. It got to the point that I dreaded weddings and parties where I knew there’d be music and dancing.

It wasn’t until the advent of the video camera that I realized it was I who looked foolish, which is hard to believe when you consider what some regard as “dancing.” Take my brother for instance. He doesn’t dance so much as act out the songs being played. It’s as if he’s signing the lyrics for the deaf. But when we watched the video of my cousin’s wedding, no one commented on his moves, or those of anyone else gyrating on the dance floor. They were too busy pointing and laughing at me, often visible in the background pleading and protesting and pulling away from anyone pressuring me to dance. It was then that I realized it was better feeling like a fool while dancing than looking like a fool for not.

So I started dancing. Actually, my first attempts should be called stancing, because I mostly just stood on the dance floor while others danced around me – but at least I was out there. After a while I learned to shake with more than just nerves. Twenty years later and I’m still not a good dancer, but at least I have a good time. And so can you.

Chances are you’re dating a girl who likes to dance. They all do. It’s a gender thing. Girls tend to be much more enthusiastic and uninhibited when it comes to dancing. Guys, on other hand (and the two left feet), are probably a little more reserved and hesitant about it. Girls just don’t have the same hang-ups that we do about looking silly or awkward in public. This doesn’t make them good dancers…it just gives them the confidence not to care.

I’m guessing the only reason most guys go dancing is because that’s where their women are. And if they don’t do it, somebody else will. If you watch closely, you’ll see most men aren’t really even dancing, they’re actually acting as human shields, rotating around their dates to repel any unwelcome advances.

But I’m here to help you Dance, so here are a few tips to get you started. First, get over yourself. All eyes will not be on you. As far as your eyes, they should maintain contact with your partner’s as much as possible. The reason being, if her eyes are locked on yours she won’t notice any of the clumsy movements going on down below.

And with regard to said movements, keep them simple. In fact, many of your everyday motions can easily be modified into dance moves. Do lots of landscaping? Then imagine working with an invisible shovel or rake in your hand, add a few head bobs, alternate your “digging” from left to right, and you’re dancing! Data Entry? Work the hands and “type” to the beat. Policeman? Pretend you’re directing traffic at a four-way intersection. Basically anything from plunging toilets to changing light bulbs can look like dancing with the right attitude.

Finally, do not try to replicate or match her moves with your own – technically you are leading, and even if your “lead” consists of nothing more than standing stiffly and bobbing side to side like a drunken boxer, she will be able to work with it and make both of you look good.

And you’ll feel good. Once you get over the initial fear, dancing can be quite enjoyable, so have fun with it. Just be sure to stay clear of my brother if they’re playing “Kung Fu Fighting.”

I Just Lent My Liver

2011-02-22T06:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve been nervously toying with the idea of giving up alcohol for Lent – not that I’m religious, mind you, I just like the self-denial aspect of it – but a peek at the calendar showed a lot of family events scheduled during those 40 days, and let’s just say…on second thought, I better not say anything. Let's just say giving up booze at this particular time would be a HUGE sacrifice for someone not expecting to get into Heaven.

But a recent hangover has me giving it some serious consideration. After spending all of Sunday on the couch, I’ve come to the realization that alcohol is bad for you! Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but absinthe makes the liver grow feet, which it uses to kick you in the nuts repeatedly. No wonder Hemingway offed himself.

So I've decided I’m going to bite the bullet and do it. This won’t be my first foray into sobriety. A few years ago, when my wife got pregnant, I voluntarily gave up drinking as a sign of solidarity. Back then I didn’t consider the calendar, which was a good thing, as I would have noticed that nine months starting in the middle of the summer would take me from the height of picnic season to Oktoberfest, and straight (literally) through the holiday season. But since I loved my wife, and don’t drink alone, it didn’t really seem like that big of a deal. And it wasn’t.

To be honest, I didn't make it through the entire nine months…but neither did she! I made it all the way to Thanksgiving, where I was enviously watching my brother open his second bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau (a holiday tradition) when my wife picked up his glass and took a sip.

“What was that?” I asked, in disbelief.

“What? It was just a sip…”

“I know, but you’re drinking…”

“No. I took a sip.”

“Yes, but technically, you’re drinking. And I said I wouldn’t drink unless you could.”

“So?”

“So? So you’re drinking! That means I can too! Pass that bottle over here!”

Had this loophole not been discovered, I would have dutifully carried out my commitment through April. But once you open Pandora's Box, or bottle. it's hard to put a lid on it. Thus began a several months of me forcing my wife to sip off of things I wanted to drink. Sometimes I’d just dip my finger in a glass and touch it to her lips. So long as she imbibed first, I was in the clear.

But Lent doesn’t leave room for such loopholes. Sure, there are those who claim Sunday is a “free” day where you can take a break and partake in whatever you’re abstaining from, but who wants to drink on a Sunday? Unless…

When I was Australia, I was half a day ahead of everyone back home. So maybe if there was a way I could observe Australian Lent, then my Saturday night would be their Sunday afternoon. Hmmm…this could work. I could stock up on Yellowtail and Foster’s, dig out my “Men at Work” CDs, and make reservations at the local “Outback” – that way I can make it to Good Friday and still have a G’day!

A Trivial Matter

2011-02-17T06:07:00.001-05:00

NOTE: The following originally appeared in the Connecticut Post a few years back when I was still writing their "Get Out" column. Every week, the editors would remind me that they just wanted me to review restaurants and hit spots, but as you'll notice, I rarely mention them!

As a child of the 70’s, and an avid viewer of VH-1’s addictive “I Love the 70’s” and “…80’s” series, I can say with some authority that the 70’s were much more fun, and much less competitive, than the 80’s. At least as far as games went.

Back in the 70’s, when my friends and I wanted to play, we could simply Sit and Spin or bounce around on our Hoppity Hops – fun pastimes with no real challenges (other than the ability to suppress ones urge to vomit.) They didn’t even come with instructions - their names told you all you needed to know. And when these store-bought toys inevitably broke, we managed to produce the same dizzying effect by rolling down hills.

Then along came the 80’s, and suddenly all the good hills had houses on them - and the fun toys had “WARNINGS” on them - and we were left either breaking our knuckles with Kerbangers or busting our brains over Rubik’s Cube. Toys were no longer being made for fun, they had to have an educational purpose or an inherent challenge. And they were stressful! Just mention the game Perfection to someone my age and you’ll get an immediate visceral response. Others sounded more like admonishments than games: Don’t Spill the Beans, Don’t Wake Daddy, Don’t Break the Ice. And to think I used to find Chutes and Ladders too preachy.

In the 70’s I could spend a couple dollars and hours in an arcade mindlessly blasting away at Space Invaders or Asteroids, but once the 80’s brought Q-Bert and Zaxxon, their “lives” and my quarters disappeared faster than the Susan B. Anthony dollar. Talk about frustrating. I couldn’t even get my Zaxxon pilot through the first wall, never mind the first level – and cute little Q-Bert, under my control, had a suicidal tendency to leap off the pyramid. This was supposed to be fun? All I can say is Pong never left me feeling like a murderer.

But, one thing I did like about the 80’s was Trivial Pursuit. My family would spend hours playing the game (and I do mean hours, since we only knew the answer to maybe 1 out of every 10 questions.) We’d pick teams, fight over whether the playing pieces should be called “pie” or “cheese,” and feast on imitation crab legs (we ate our weight in that stuff back then – yuck!)

The best part about the game was that no one expected you to get the questions right, but when you did…instant hero status. Twenty years later and I’m still reaping the rewards for knowing that “Mickey Mouse” was the codename for Operation Overlord - although I still have no clue what Operation Overlord is - but that’s the beauty of trivia; you don’t have to be smart to sound smart, you just have to have a good memory for obscure facts.

And that memory was put to the test recently at Anna Liffey’s in New Haven, where for the past several years, the popular Irish bar has been hosting a Tuesday night trivia contest. My friends said to get there early, and they were right, as the cozy bar was filled to capacity by quiz time. But we made the most of our early arrival by having dinner and a couple properly poured pints.

The menu offered both traditional Irish favorites (Shepherd’s Pie, Fish and Chips, Bangers and Mash) and typical pub grub (burgers, wraps, and salads.) For the calorie un-conscious, they also serve fries with cheese and gravy, deep fried sausage(!), and onion rings with French fries.

The quiz started promptly at 9:00, with teams picking their names (apparently, the raunchier the better, as most were not fit for print) and paying their ten dollar entry fee. Answer booklets and pencils were passed out, rules were read, and the game began.

I never knew the true meaning of “serious fun” until that night –we had a good time, but the people there take their trivia very seriously. You could hear a pin drop (or, a rookie like me making poorly received jokes) during the nine rounds of questions. Unlike Trivial Pursuit, where answers can be called out with reckless abandon, the Pub Quiz requires quiet, as the answers must be discussed and written down within earshot of the other teams, who are more than willing to steal a right answer or shush a stupid comment (trust me, I know.)

The questions ranged from the incredibly easy (“What kind of animal is the Trix cereal mascot?) to the extremely difficult (“What book was President Bush reading when he first learned of the 9/11 attack?) to the should be easy but aren’t (“How many eyes does a bat have?”)

Standings were given every third round, with the top three winners sharing the prize money at the end of the night. Unfortunately, we were not among them, but the five of us did pretty well, considering it was our first time – plus, we had the best name (“Sir Kumsizion and the Four Skins”) and we knew the answers to all three of the above questions: rabbit, My Pet Goat (thanks to Ed), and two.

So if you are in pursuit of some trivia, head on over to Anna Liffey’s…just leave your imitation crab (and loud voices) at home.

Heating Things Up in the Bedroom

2011-02-15T06:36:00.005-05:00

No, this is not a post-Valentine's recap, or misguided Cosmo advice, it's a sad, but true (meaning funny for you) story about me.

Thursday evening: The sudden onset of a brutal stomach bug has me puking all night - so much so, that I not only throw up the entire contents of my stomach (and possibly a lung) but manage to throw out my back in the process.

Friday afternoon: Feeling better intestinally, but my back is so sore I can't move without much difficulty, and pain. Pop a couple Aleve and hope it goes away.

Friday night: It doesn't.

Saturday morning: Head to the store to find something stronger for my back. Come home with some ThermaCare disposable heating pads and Icy/Hot, a product I've heard about, but never used. Think Ben Gay, but with a much cooler name.

Saturday afternoon: Slap on a heating pad, which is actually pretty soothing. And its wraparound design has the added benefit of serving as a girdle, which coupled with the five pounds I "lost" puking/not eating for two days, has me looking marvelous!

Saturday evening: Get ready for bed by applying a liberal coating of Icy/Hot to my entire lower back. Let me tell you, that stuff is aptly named. Felt like ice cubes going on, then slowly warmed to a not-quite pleasant burning sensation. But it took my mind off the back pain...for about ten minutes. Lying in bed, I couldn't get comfortable. I started on my back, which I usually do, but thought, maybe since my back was sore, I should give it a rest and try sleeping on my stomach. BAD IDEA! You see, by rolling over, I inadvertently placed my most private of parts into the the Icy/Hot oil slick that transferred off of my back and onto the sheet (Yes, I sleep naked. Got a problem with that?) Anyway, the stuff must be pretty potent, for it proceeded to burn my poor penis for the next two hours. And not in a good way.

Sunday morning: Wake up feeling tired, but my back does feel much better. I refuse to attribute it to Icy/Hot, which I throw away to "teach it a lesson" for messing with my boys. But just in case, I slap on my heated man girdle and head to church.

Sunday afternoon: Wake up refreshed. Okay, so it wasn't really church I went to, but "couch" is pretty close if you squint your eyes. And while you're squinting, check out my slim sihouette! I loves my new man girdle!