The Color of Consequence

There are a few distinct differences in life that one should be fully aware.  The difference between hot and cold.  The difference between on and off.  Obvious differences.  You learn early on by scalding yourself or pulverizing your toes upon walking into a dark room.  Then there are the differences between raising boys and girls.  These differences are discovered entirely by trial-and-error and are completely independent experiences of one-another.  For me as a father, it’s a comedy of errors that leads to a lot of hand-to-forehead welts and extended reflections of basic psychology. 

Our son was our first born.  He possesses that happy-go-lucky attitude and is always looking for a new thrill.  For the most part, things just seem to roll off of his back.  One minute, he’s enduring a red-faced tirade from yours truly.  The next, all is forgotten and he’s back to his adventure-seeking agenda at hand.  He has his moments, but even the major issues are eventually pushed aside in most cases.

Case in point, the knife debacle.

Back in the Fall, he discovered a “knife” that he wanted to buy for himself at Busch Gardens.  My wife had some uneasiness with the idea, but I simply smiled and agreed to take a look at it.  I figured that it was going to be some cheap souvenir.  A blunt piece of tin with a handle, or something as equally benign.  Something like the dull “butterfly” knives that I used to buy and play with as a kid.  This was an amusement park after all.  They wouldn’t sell anything inherently dangerous.  Walking into the shop, however, what I found was a 12-inch dagger.  A razor-sharp, double-edged dagger.

A quote from the 1980s movie Crocodile Dundee instantly popped into my subconscious.  “That’s not a knife.  THAT’S a knife.”  And yes, my subconscious does have an Australian accent.

To say that he was destroyed by my unsettled laugh and the words “absolutely not” would be an understatement.  As the reflection of his red, teary eyes bounced off of the polished steel blade, I concluded that this was not a souvenir.  This was a weapon.  My paternal instincts wanted to believe that he was mature enough not to be stupid with such a dangerous object.  That he would have enough respect of its potential to not swing it around like a possessed samurai.  However, there was just no shaking the mental images of him accidentally shanking himself, as William Wallace charged the Scottish hills of Falkirk with his trusty sword in hand.

“FREEDOM!”

Still, the boy inside me understood his fascination and the devastation that had followed my only responsible reply.  Deep down, I felt horrible for providing him with that encouraging smile and enchanting, stainless steel glimmer of false hope.  So, a compromise was struck…or maybe it was more guilt-ridden cop-out.  Regardless…  A pocket knife.  The traditional rite of passage and symbolic gesture of maturity between a father and his son.  A young man’s tool of the trade throughout the richest histories of Americana.  Not a 12-inch dagger, the convicted felon’s tool of the trade throughout the violent throes of a maximum-security prison riot.

There was a lengthy man-to-man discussion on maturity, responsibility, and rules of use before presentation of said hallowed blade.  It was made crystal clear that any indiscretions of my ground rules would warrant immediate seizure until his next birthday.  The next symbolic stage of his supposed maturation. 

The very next morning, however, I found him happily swinging his open knife around his room with his sisters playing nearby. 

Well, that didn’t take long…

Although I expected a severe backlash, and much to my surprise, he hasn’t said a word about it since it was taken away.  As is seemingly customary with the boy, it simply rolled right off of his back.  So, in summary, good call on the dagger, bad call on the pocketknife.  I guess we’ll try again in another six months for that nostalgic “Father-Son” Norman Rockwell illustration…

Although our son can manage to shake these types of things off, our oldest daughter is considerably more sensitive.  Although just as happy in her day-to-day, her father’s amplified diatribes and fanatical hand-waving seem to cut a little deeper with her.  I typically realize this about ten seconds too late.  Well after my antics of lunacy have been set in motion.  Well after her waterworks and the dramatic “flopping to the floor” have fully commenced. 

While I’m painfully aware that I need to speed up my situational assessment of her feelings and tourniquet my blood let of unabashed sarcasm that seems to flow ever so freely, I just haven’t properly honed my sense of timing and awareness yet.

Of course, finding that happy medium can also prove difficult as well, as this sensitivity is not strictly limited to my role as paternal judge, jury, and executioner.  Words of advice or encouragement must also be navigated with carefully chosen words in order to avoid being mistaken for a lecture. 

And finally, there are those moments in everyday life that make you laugh at something that your kids do or say.  Those unintended instances of comedy that also serve as grounds for embarrassment.  Those moments that we, as parents, truly live for.  They do, however, come with a price.

Case in point, the flute debacle.

Although we’re still unsure of the premise behind the desire, my daughter recently asked for a flute for Christmas.  Now, I haven’t been playing any Jethro Tull songs around the house and I certainly don’t recall seeing any Zamfir – Master of the Pan Flute commercials in the last twenty years or so.  But OK, Santa brought a flute. 

Unfortunately though, it didn’t take her long to get frustrated by not being able to pick it up and play songs at will.  Although I have the ability to play a few instruments with some semblance of musical ability, I certainly couldn’t help her with a flute.  I am not a Master of the Plastic Starter Flute.

In expressing her frustrations to my parents, wife, and I in the kitchen one morning, we decided to offer her a bit of carefully-worded advice.  A suggestion for her to ask her music teacher at school for a quick lesson and some practice pointers.  My mom continued on, “I would say to him ‘I got a flute for Christmas and I want to learn how to play it’.”

Obviously digesting only the latter half of this guidance, her eyes suddenly lit up.  “You got a flute for Christmas too?”

What we really need is a drummer in the family, because we could have used a rim-shot right about then.

Although we all knew the end result, it was impossible to hold it back.  The room erupted with laughter.  I nearly fell out of my chair.  However, that amazing look of curiosity that had happily lit up our daughter’s face had suddenly changed to the deep red hue of embarrassment.  Her eyes narrowed and lips pursed as the storm clouds gathered.  Take cover.

Although we attempted to soften the mood and explain further, things deteriorated quickly.  She furiously stomped out of the room.  It was decided best to proceed cautiously, only after the floodwaters of humiliation had receded.  Wisely, I started to make the joke about the eggshells from our breakfast casserole not being the only eggshells in the kitchen that morning, but thought better of it.  Why pour napalm on that fire?  In my defense though, it was one of the few times that I have been successful in muffling my cynical impulses.

Hey!  Maybe my situational awareness was improving after all!

Eventually, things returned to normal and, on occasion, I still hear her persistent attempts of flute mastery…followed by the frustrated grunt or seven.  However, I haven’t spoken of the flute since that day.  Honestly, I’m still kind of afraid to make eye contact with it.

While it appears as though my personality management skills more closely resemble the successful navigation of a certain early 20^th century passenger ship in the north Atlantic, I have learned a few things.  First, Busch Gardens is an arms dealer.  Someone needs to check their connections to the Mexican drug cartels.  Second, Santa would be wise to throw in some complimentary lessons for those musical instruments that dad can’t play.  Lastly, and most important… never, ever let them see you smile or laugh at their expense.  In fact, do like I do.  Cover your face with your hands and run in the opposite direction like a drunken zombie.   

Short of that last pointer, you’re simply left playing roulette with your kids’ personalities.  To be on the safe side though, I’m betting the house on “red” from here-on-out.  Solely because that’s the consequential shade of embarrassment and teary-eyed disappointment.

From Europe...With Love

With corporate budgets steadily decreasing over the past several years, business travel seems to have become more of a personal opportunity, in some senses, than an actual business requirement.  So, when the opportunity arose for me to travel to Europe on business, I seized it.  It was a quick trip to three different countries, but I was positive that I could hack the brutal toll of the compressed travel schedule.  I was to fly to the UK, then on to the Netherlands, Germany, and finally home over the course of six days. 

Like I said, “compressed”.

Having never travelled internationally before, let alone overseas by myself, I was a bit skeptical at first.  In speaking with my co-workers abroad though, I was assured that everything would be taken care of prior to my arrival.  I would have a driver meet me at the airport and an early check-in at my hotel immediately upon arrival.  Theoretically, the first leg of my trip to the UK would be as easy as Shepherd’s pie.

I will admit that deep down, getting off of the plane at 6 am that morning, I felt a sense of empowerment.  Yes, I would finally get to be one of “those guys”.  One of those executive-types that gets off of the plane and has their own personal driver standing by, holding a sign with their name on it.  I imagined strolling through Border Security and having a sharply dressed driver greet me, take my bags, and carelessly whisk me off to my hotel just outside of London. 

But alas, there would be no driver waiting there for me as I walked through “Arrivals”.  My thunder consequently stolen, I sulked in a corner and waited patiently for my ride to arrive.  After nearly 45 minutes of waiting not-so-patiently, as well as several aggravated phone calls placed to our local office which had not yet opened at that hour, I made the executive decision to hail a black cab.

Greeted by what locals described as “traditional British weather”, I stood in the cold rain for another 45 minutes trying to find a cab that would actually take me out to my hotel.  Problem was, however, that my hotel was on the other side of London.  From what I was made to understand, in no uncertain terms, was that the fare was “a solid hour one-way in the morning rush” and that “no one in their right mind would take me all the way out there”.  One cabbie even suggested that I take a cab downtown and try and catch another from there in order to get to where I needed to be. 

This begged a few questions.  First, what stop would I request in downtown London?  Not being that internationally-renowned world traveler, my basic knowledge of the greater London metropolitan area was essentially confined to punch lines that I had memorized from National Lampoon’s “European Vacation”.

“Look kids.  Big Ben, Parliament.”

Second, with exhaustion kicking down my front door, I couldn’t really envision any enticing motivations for standing on some random street corner in the rain, with all of my luggage in tow, and trying to hail yet another cab. 

After some begging, pleading, and the promise of a fat tip, I finally convinced someone not obviously in their right frame of mind to cart my tired American carcass all the way to my hotel.  So much for that “whisking me off to my hotel” garbage… 

Yes indeed, this trip was off to a glorious start!  However, relieved to have that fiasco behind me, I remained positive that things couldn’t possibly get any worse.  Right?

As my cab swerved vicariously through the narrow streets London at break-neck speeds, I tirelessly fired off a barrage of pointed emails to my European counterparts on my Blackberry.  I had been awake close to 24 hours at that point and was thoroughly spent, but my mind was sharp with the fury and frustration of mismanaged priorities. 

Finally, after a truly hour-long ride, we arrived at my hotel.  Taking a second from my email carpet-bombing campaign, I paid the cabbie a king’s ransom and started towards my hotel for some much needed rest.  Stumbling groggily towards the lobby, I reached for my Blackberry one last time to check for any apologetic responses from our local office.  My Blackberry, the only device in my possession that had any kind of international service back to the US, was not there. 

In a moment of sheer terror, my mind swirled back to life.  Bloody hell!  I must have left it sitting next to me on the seat after I had paid the fare!

I ran back out to the road to where the cab had dropped me off, but it too was gone.  Vanished back into the murky fog of that traditionally British Tuesday morning.  And with it, my Blackberry.  My only connection to home.  Gone.  Cheerio, old boy!

I had been overseas for a mere three hours and my trip had already gone the way of the Titanic.  And yet the band played on…

As the panic, frustration, and exhaustion trifecta came to a bubbling head, I subsequently snapped.  It was later reported via the BBC that the British Geological Survey detected a large tremor somewhere near Kingston upon Thames.  That tremor was my head exploding.  I won’t go into detail about the snarling grunts and growls that I performed into the echoing nothingness of the fog that morning, but it could have easily been mistaken for a remake of John Landis’ “An American Werewolf in London”.

After desperately imploring the hotel concierge to assist this stupid American in his futile search for his Blackberry, I was essentially told that airport black cabs were virtually untraceable.  Hundreds of cab companies make up the airport’s black cab network.  In short, it was forever lost in the Heathrow Matrix.  

“I didn’t say it would be easy, Neo.  I just said that it would be the truth.”

After several incoherent, and rather expensive, phone calls were placed from my hotel room in an attempt to explain my misfortune, I managed to lie down in order to attempt some semblance of sleep.  I was about an hour into my tortured slumber when I was on the receiving end of one final insult-to-injury moment.  The fire alarm went off and we had to evacuate the building. 

Luckily, it was only a drill and the hotel staff light-heartedly apologized.  However, it was at that point that I found myself fresh out of emotion and understanding for the day.  Standing stone-faced and speechless in the rain-soaked parking lot, I imagined that I would have made an excellent sentry for the Queen’s Palace Guard. 

The gods finally took pity on me though, and things eventually made a turn for the better.  Again, if it wasn’t for “dumb luck”, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.  The cabbie happened to spot my phone several hours later, remembered me, and was nice enough to return it to me at my hotel.  After handing over yet another king’s ransom as reward for his timely discovery, I was re-connected with the world.  Though working on only one hour of sleep and several Honey Dew ales by that point, I was back in business.

In all honesty though, the rest of the trip went brilliantly.  I remained unscathed through the Netherlands and had only a few “stupid American” moments in Germany.  Fortunately, they were nowhere near the epic calamities that I had experienced in the UK though. 

There was that one episode, when I realized three quarters of the way through my lunch that all Germans eat their pizza with forks and knives instead of with their filthy, savage hands.  There was also that continuous humiliation of being ridiculed everywhere that I went for having the surname Kraft and not speaking a word of German.  At least no words that I could repeat in public…and certainly not to any German Border Security officers.

Although the beginning of this trip strangely resembled the start of the Mayan apocalypse, this stupid American wound up thoroughly enjoying the sights and cultures of Europe, even if it was only for six days.  I’m left wondering the over/under odds on the number of international incidents that I could achieve on a return trip.  Next time though, I’m bringing my own bloody driver.

Say What?

I never really had to do it that often.  I will admit that I am becoming increasingly alarmed at the frequency of which I am having to perform it though.  It’s gotten to the point where it feels a lot like conditioning-through-repetition.  Developing that ability to think three minutes ahead of a conversation in order to foresee and prepare for that disastrous and inevitable result.

Sometimes, when my kids start to speak, my inner censor immediately starts to pucker up simply out of conditioned reflex.   Their occasional, unconscious spewing of whatever erupts from the tops of their pretty little heads.  In short, speaking as if they were born without a social filter.

Of course, both the guilty party and I know that they are merely trying to be outgoing, witty, or funny.  However, not all spectators to these conversations immediately gravitate towards this simple fact.  This often leads to colorful, almost pleading alibis in our defense as parents.  Stammering explanations aimed to either defuse, counter-balance, or merely keep social services from breaking down our front door.

Take, for example, our recent camping trip…

Sitting around the campground’s fire pit one evening, the adults enjoyed some relaxation while the kids ran around spreading their own backwoods brand of rustic hooliganism.  With the decibel levels of a small military offensive encompassing our campsite, no one was particularly worried about any wilderness predators that evening.  Likely, they had all scattered to find the quieter comforts of a local jet way or mine blasting operation.

As is routine on these types of camping trips, the adults were partaking in some fermented beverages while enjoying the warmth of a nice campfire.  Concoctions poured into those notorious, red Solo cups and stuffed conveniently into the drink holders of our folding chairs.  Those same cups, coupled with ping-pong balls, made infamous by nearly every college party over the last 25 years. 

As I walked over to change stations on my nearby satellite radio, our galloping two year old staggered back towards the circle of adults.  Tired and thirsty, she reached for the first drink that she saw.  My red cup filled with a particularly high octane brand of ale. 

Once I realized what she was drinking from, I immediately reached down to swipe the cup from her grasp.  Like clockwork, whenever she gets caught doing something that she knows she is not supposed to do, she immediately released her clutch and turned to run.  Unfortunately for her, in her scampering attempts of liberation back into the dark confines of our campsite, she tripped over one of the tent strings and went spread eagle into the dirt.  Not once, but twice.

She was fine.  In fact, it was one of the few times that one of our gravity-challenged children did not actually require professional medical attention.  However, it’s what took place a couple days later that brought on said pucker factor.  Coming home from school, our son informed us that when his teacher asked about his weekend, he proudly stated that he went camping…and that his two year old sister drank beer and was falling all over the place afterwards.

Best that I can remember, I believe that I commenced a very audible facepalm followed by what may have been some offensive mumblings in inaudible, ancient tongues.  A call was promptly placed to his teacher before social services was able to mobilize a SEAL Team Six extraction mission for our beer-swilling children.  A lengthy lecture followed thereafter.

Thankfully though, we actually do get lucky on occasion.  Those times when, under intense cross-examination, we are able to help stave off a particular diatribe before he is able to go public with it.

While watching the pre-election news one evening, our son spoke up and said that the kids in his class were saying that Mitt Romney was trying to take all of women’s rights away.  Not looking to get into the specifics of Roe vs. Wade discussion with my fourth grader, I simply took the middle ground in order to highlight that he has a mind of his own and the capacities to distinguish fact from schoolyard hearsay.

“Some people will say that about Romney and some people will say that Obama is taking money from people and giving it to his friends.  That’s what people do.  They just want you to think like they do.  You can’t believe everything that you hear or the wild stories that people tell you.  You have to find out the facts for yourself and weigh them against your own beliefs.  That’s how you are supposed to vote.  Not because someone said ‘this’ or ‘that’ about the other guy.  But because of the facts that you know are true and what you believe is best for your country.”

He nodded and seemed to get it.  We always try to instill in him that he had a mind of his own and had the right to his own opinion.  I was actually kind of proud of myself for giving him the opportunity to think of himself in that manner.  The next morning, however, he informed my wife over breakfast that I said “Obama was a thief”.

And just like the feats of “Fearless” Felix Baumgartner, my self-congratulatory pat-on-the-back screamed back to Earth from the stratosphere.  Houston, we have a comprehension problem.

“That whole lecture last night and that’s all you got from it?  Did you go to the Secret Service with that one already, Jabber Jaws?”

That life-long look of confusion again.  I guess references to 30 year old cartoon characters don’t do much to help him navigate through that perennial social fog either.

Although lucky at times, there are also those instances when I am not quick enough to preempt the inevitable.  Again, in conditioning-through-repetition, you can see it coming.  However, you find that you’re just not fast enough to stop that speeding freight train before it sails over the cliff.

One evening, while my wife was out, the kids were carrying out their usual acts of stampeding through the house while I was cleaning up in the kitchen.  As expected in these types of scenarios, there was a very loud thump from the other room followed by an ear-piercing scream.  Arriving onto the scene, I found our youngest in a crumpled pile on the floor with my older two standing over her with their arms in the air.

“I didn’t touch her!”

The best that I could piece together, using the three to four different stories that I received from each of my temporarily-exonerated darlings, was that our youngest had decided to Kerri Strug herself off of the couch.  Always on my watch…

No doubt a truly historic Olympic vault in her own right, she had managed only to twist her ankle this time.  It seemed genuinely sore, but lucky for her (and me), it was not broken.  As I consoled her, the phone rang.  I instructed my son to answer it, and then bring it to me. 

 “Dad, it’s mommy on the phone.” 

My eyes widened as I foresaw that freight train barreling towards the cliff.  However, before I was able to reinforce the male protocols of household secrecy and enact the “Vegas Mandate”, he immediately turned back to the phone.  As the train launched over the cliff, our resident pioneer physician then provided my wife with his expert diagnosis on our wounded gymnast.  “She broke her leg.”

Springing across the room with spider-like reflexes, I’m not entirely sure which hurt worse at that point.  My daughter’s twisted ankle or my son’s hand, from me smacking the phone out of it.  I was quick…but unfortunately not Spidey-sense quick.

All-in-all, it hasn’t been a complete loss though.  At least my unconscious pucker factor has adequately developed through conditioned reflex.   I can now predict traffic accidents seconds in advance through these developed nervous tics.  For my children though, the only developments that they appear to have made to this point are the social filters on their ears instead of their mouths.

At some point, perhaps I will have mastered that ability to think three minutes ahead.  Shortly before Social Services kicks down the front door.

The Politics of Dancing

“When the chairman introduced the guest speaker as a former illegal alien, I got up from my chair and yelled, ‘What's the matter, no jobs on Mars?’ When no one laughed, I was embarrassed. I don't think people should make you feel that way.” – SNL’s “Deep Thoughts” by Jack Handey

I’ve begun noticing a few things coming into perspective as my son creeps ever-closer to the age of adolescence.  His personality has really started coming into its own.  From his choice of mass media right down to his choice of clothes.  I have also noticed that he has started voicing and cementing his personal opinions and preferences with greater frequency.  Same could be said, I guess, for how he wishes to be portrayed in public.

I can remember going through the same with my parents, particularly in the area of my parents’ version of their son’s image versus my own.  They wanted to see me as the neighborhood’s clean-cut boy next door…while I wanted to see myself as the bass player from the hard rock band Motley Crue.  Pressed khakis versus ripped jeans.  Collared dress shirts versus concert tees.  Polar opposite identities with a side order of hormonal adolescent friction.  Yes indeed…clothes shopping was always a riot with my mom.

It all started out small at first, much like the course that my son is currently navigating, but continued to grow and assert itself throughout my teens.  Later discussions with my parents typically revolved around the length of my hair and whether or not leather jackets and high-top sneakers were acceptable church attire.  We got through it though and I now find myself repeating many of those mom and dadisms to my own children, much to my parent’s amusement.

Insult-to-injury, I’m now bald and wear khakis and collared dress shirts to work regularly.  Proof positive once again that life’s tragic irony continues to ridicule me on a daily basis.

My daughter has already started exhibiting some of those same signs of rebellion, oftentimes butting heads with her mother over the clothes that she expects to wear.  Verifying the validity of that “just wait until you have kids” curse, we expect our daughter to wear cute bows and dresses while she expects to dress like Hannah Montana.  Yes, I’m already pricing titanium security bars for her windows.

Unlike our daughter's hard-headed demands though, our son’s personality and life perceptions have suddenly surfaced in an unexpected and rather humorous scenario.  One I expect to take full advantage of for many, many years to come…

Coming home from an evening of miniature golf with my two oldest, a song came on the XM radio.  It was the bouncing tune “Luv Me Luv Me” by everyone’s favorite garbled Jamaican lyricist of the 1990s, Shaggy.  My daughter asked me to turn it up because she liked the beat.  As I did, I started bouncing up and down in my seat and moving my arms to the rhythm.  She immediately laughed and followed suit.

However, in a separate, desperate plea coming from the backseat, my son immediately piped up “Dad, stop it! You’re embarrassing me! Oh my gosh!”

Embarrassing? We were on a dark country road in the middle of nowhere, just the three of us in the car.  Besides his sister, who is happily giggling and bouncing right along with me, who exactly is there to be embarrassed around?  I guess his implied public perception of his dad’s expected geriatric behavior has started to rear its ugly, liver-spotted head.

So, I’m embarrassing you say?  Game on, junior…

There are two types of embarrassment in our house.  There are those choice flashes of brilliance where you feel compelled to take a bow after a devastatingly awkward episode and state proudly “thank you, we will now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.”  Then, there are those instances where you actually embarrass yourself in order to achieve a desired result.  Much to our son’s dismay, the latter has become standard operating procedure for the wife and I these days.

We have found that our embarrassing behavior can actually be used to sway an advantage in disciplining our darling children.  Private setting?  Public?  No matter.  It seems that the boy is extremely motivated to caving on his preferences and demands, once he sees his mom or dad start dancing.  Those times where he starts to pout over not getting his way?  He gets my extremely liberal version of Kid n’ Play’s Funky Charleston. Don’t want to do your homework?  An over-exaggerated Rump Shaker from us.  Complaints over the television shows that we are watching?  Well, now we're just having to make stuff up…

Realistically, I know it can't be a pretty sight.  At my age, it probably resembles more violent seizure or convulsion than actual dance move.  However, it has proven extremely effective in helping to steer our son’s behavior in a desired direction.  In fact, we've used this method so frequently these days that I wouldn’t be shocked to see Don Cornelius himself come strolling through the front door at any given moment.

“Love, peace, and soul…”

Thinking back, I don’t remember too many instances where my parents purposefully went out of their way to embarrass me.  Then again, maybe it was just my mind’s way of hiding severe trauma.  Although, I do recall that one season in my early teens where we had three of our moms coaching our soccer team.  Taking the field, we would always hear “play nice and don’t get dirty” shouted from the sidelines.  Unfortunately, that battle cry seemed to lead to the exact opposite result.

On the flip side though, I can remember a friend of mine who always insisted that his parents drop us off at the back of the parking lot so that no one would see them.  Movies.  School dances.  The mall.  In retrospect, I guess there was also that “coolness” factor attached to arriving onto the scene from the darkness of the parking lot without a chauffeuring mom or dad in sight. Emerging mysteriously like the two guys from those “Twilight” movies…just without the ripped abs.

OK, so maybe your standard zombie flick would have been a more realistic comparison.  Pipe down already.

So this is the type of thing that I get to look forward to in my future?  Driving a quarter mile out of my way so that my son’s friends don’t see the wily, old geezer carting him around in the family minivan?  Come on.  I couldn't possibly be that embarrassing.  But then, of course, there’s always that off-chance that an old song from my youth would come on the XM radio while his friends are within earshot…

“Oh yeah!  Rob Base!  This was my jam!”

OK.  So perhaps he might have a measureable point in that regard…

Obviously, I’m going to save the real doozies for when he’s older though.  That evening when he brings his prom date back to the house for pictures and he finds his dad sitting on the couch, watching old club footage of his days playing in a deafening, over-amplified rock band.  While he’s looking for that hole to crawl into, I will rewind the part over-and-over again where I slide across the stage on my knees while our bass player attempts to jump on my shoulders.

On second thought, any existing evidence of that video would be exponentially more embarrassing to me than it could ever be to him.

“We will now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.”

Mullets optional.

Speechless in Virginia

I have often said that my wife is the social butterfly of the family.  Always the energetic and charismatic force in the room, she’s overwhelmingly friendly and always gives those that she meets the benefit of the doubt.  After being in the room for five minutes with her, everyone knows exactly who she is and what she is about.

Myself, on the other hand…I’m the smart-mouthed introvert standing intently nearby.  The guy quietly observing the mannerisms and dialogue of those around him, so that he can figure out their agenda or self-serving angle.   Quick with the sarcasm, no one gets a free pass from me until they are a proven commodity in my world. 

The irresistible socialite and the irreverent skeptic.  We make a great team.

Unfortunately, sometimes those opposing talents in the social graces can present some unforeseen problems.  For me, talking more than I should used to result in some guy attempting a roundhouse at my face.  For my wife, however, it appears to be more a physical reaction than third party response.  It has resulted in a voice that has gotten steadily more hoarse and weaker by the day. 

After going several weeks with this deteriorating condition, she finally decided to see a doctor.  Diagnosis?  Vocal fold hemorrhage.  That’s basically “badly bruised” vocal cords for those of us that got laughed at by our guidance counselors for articulating medical school aspirations.  The treatment?  No talking for ten days.  No murmuring, no whispering, no nothing.  In short, complete silence. 

“No talking unless you’re getting paid to do it.”

Yikes.  Time to hide the wallet…

The doctor went on further by threatening that if her voice didn’t improve within that ten day timeframe, she was going to send her to a voice pathologist to learn how to talk differently. 

Time to consult our medical deductible as well…

Looking at the plus side of this warning, however, we explained the doctor’s threat in detail to our darling brood.  This, in an effort to help minimize the multiple direction-giving sessions that we are seemingly required to provide to them on an hourly basis.  Following that conversation though, a noticeable confusion appeared across my son’s face. 

“You mean she’s going to talk in a different accent?”

Never one to let such an easy opportunity go to waste, I immediately leapt into character with a terribly over-the-top English accent.  “Blimey…she’ll have to like this from here on out, matey!”

Thinking back, I’m not even entirely sure he realized that I was joking.  Better to tuck that little gem away for future use…

Along those same disconnected lines, I called my parents that evening to alert them of her diagnosis.  My mom asked if she was hoarse from yelling at the meet.  She was obviously referring to us cheering loudly for our children at their swim meets every Wednesday night.  Overhearing this one-way conversation in the background, however, my father instantly drew a fairly warped, far left-field mental picture instead.  Given my wife’s propensity for watching the Food Network and cooking deliciously exotic meals, he later confessed that he had literally pictured her screaming at food.  Yes…yelling at the meat. 

“Stupid bacon…cook faster!  And you’re next, idiot rump roast!”

Shall we just top this macabre vision off with a bloody butcher’s apron and an industrial-sized tenderizing hammer?  Seems fitting.

Yes, while some may be able to trace their family’s ancestry back hundreds of years, I can actually trace my family’s lunacy gene down from one generation to the next.  It’s a lot like the ABC celebrity reality show “Who Do You Think You Are”…just sprinkled with a healthy dose of the SyFy Network’s “Insane or Inspired” for good measure.

Unfortunately though, even with all of the awful Monty Python imitations and grisly PETA night-terrors tucked gently away, it was time to put the doctor’s orders into action.  Ten days without talking.  Ten days for this extremely dedicated, outgoing wife and mother of three?

“You’ve gotta ask yourself one question.  ‘Do I feel lucky?’  Well, do you ya punk?”

Making every attempt to meet doctor’s orders, and with all of the best intentions, what has ensued since could best be described as “charades for the clinically insane”.  Hand signals and body language very much open to interpretation, of which I immediately pounce on and exploit to the sickest extent of my twisted capacities.

One evening, my better half told me to go down to the basement with a shovel and search for Jimmy Hoffa.  “Whoa there…take it easy, Mrs. Corleone.”  Using a variety of exceedingly more colorful hand gestures thereafter though, I was made to understand that she was kindly asking me to get the ice cream out of the freezer downstairs and scoop some out for the kids.

Yet another day, she asked me to make some sandwiches for the kids.  In retrospect, she was actually very creative in miming exactly how to make a sandwich.  Right down to splitting up the bread and spreading the mayo.  For a brief moment there, I actually waited for an encore performance where she would be trapped inside an invisible box.  However, my interpretation ultimately led me to openly quote the 1990s Bell Biv DeVoe song “Poison”.  “Smack it up, flip it, rub it down?  Oh no?“

While I will admit that some of my analyses may wander astray on occasion, I was of the firm belief that we were making some real, measureable progress!

Over the course of time though, our little game of charades had digressed into a puzzling flurry of rudimentary gang signs.  Recently, she asked me several times to get the pretzels out of the pantry by using some new hand gestures that were unfamiliar to me.  Confused, the only reply that came to mind was to reciprocate using my own contorted assembly of hand signals while shouting “Vatos Locos forever!  Blood in, blood out, ese!”

Upon witnessing this bizarre exchange, our two daughters had now officially joined our son in the family’s resident state of confusion.

Let’s be realistic.  Try as she may, it’s virtually impossible to raise three kids and one man-child without using your voice.   Making matters worse is the fact that our kids have been essentially trained from birth to ask mom for anything first-and-foremost.  This due to the fact that mom is practically with them 24 hours a day and the fact that dad typically defers to what mom would “probably” say anyhow.  In essence, I’m really just the used car salesman of the family.  Why would they bother with the middle man when they can just go straight to the source?

I will admit that, being the observational introvert, the role reversal has not been an easy transition for our household.  Recent efforts to quell disputes have led me to resort to widely exaggerated threats of Armageddon, in stances where I would normally remain quiet and let my wife’s matriarchal voice of sanity prevail.  Be it for my own personal amusement or just due to outright confusion, a lot also gets lost in translation.  Follow-up discussions of specific connotation and basic civility with our children have become the norm these days.

To give myself some credit though, I have begun to post some real gains in my long-term memory retention regarding certain hand gestures.  “I’m going to choke the life out of you” is fairly well engrained.  The “knock it off” throat-slash is yet another dandy.  For all intents-and-purposes though, the “you’re not funny” gesture is one that is already pretty widely known.

The Sound of Old

They are moments that are few and far between.  Those rare occasions where I can actually listen to my music in the car with my family.  To be honest, my taste in music isn’t exactly categorized as, shall we say, family-friendly in nature.  However, my son has started to develop a taste for some of the cleaner versions of his dad’s rock music, much to his father’s delight.  He says that he loves the sound of the crunching guitars and pounding drums.  The apprenticed apple apparently doesn’t fall very far from the tree…

Coming home from my son’s karate practice one evening, I started flipping through some stations on my satellite radio.  I came across a song that flooded me with an abundance of great memories.  An essential CD from my days back in college.  My son immediately took note of my reaction to it and sat forward.

“Dad, what song is this?”

“A great song.  It’s called ‘Plush’ by the group Stone Temple Pilots.  My band back in college used to play this song.  I loved playing it.”

“It sounds like old people music.  Can you put some good rock music on?”

I nearly lost control of the car…

“Old people music”?  When did such an influential song from my early twenties gimp along to that geriatric point?  When did a very relevant band from the 1990s suddenly become elevator music to an eight year old?  I must have missed the obituary and their iconic performance on the “Lawrence Welk Show”. 

Now granted, the song was released roughly twenty years ago, but I can still vividly remember rehearsing that song in our dorm room…much to the dismay of our Resident Advisor.  I can also still mentally picture the music video on MTV in my head.

My shoulders slumped as clarity began to rapidly fill the car.  CDs?  Actual music videos on MTV?  In the name of Stevie Ray Vaughn, it is old people music!

Thinking back to high school, I remember listening to certain songs on the radio that were classified as classic rock, merely because they were played on the local classic rock station.  Groups like Led Zeppelin, Kiss, Aerosmith, Queen.  Music that was considered classic rock by the mid-1980s, even though they weren’t more than 10 or 15 years from their original release date.  There was no debating that the sound was a little more antiquated, but I always attributed this more to the technological advances in instrument amplification and digital recording, rather than the songs just being flat-out “old”. 

So where does this leave me with the expiration date of relevance as related to the cherished music of my youth?  The question bothered me throughout the evening, even as I continued to privately sneer spitefully in my son’s direction.  Just when exactly does a rock song get reclassified as classic rock? 

In order to attain any semblance of sleep that night, I did what any respectable academic scholar would have done in a similar moment of encyclopedic crisis.  I searched for the answer online.

Most results pointed to around the 20 year benchmark from original release for any relevant song or album to attain that “classic” status.  If you were to use the definition of a classic car as an example, most insurance companies reference anything 15 years or older.  Most classic car clubs use the 20 year benchmark as well.  The more I read, the more it became painfully evident.  Much like the classic rock being played on the radio to a teenaged version of myself some 20+ years earlier, the era of my college music was now officially shelved under “J”…for Jurassic.

Perhaps, if I had paid more attention to my surroundings, I would have seen this milestone coming a lot earlier.  Probably the most obvious indicator would have been from a TV commercial that has been getting a lot of airplay recently.  A commercial for a family-sized vehicle in which the 40ish parents and a carload of school-age kids are driving downing the road and singing Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train”.  The epic anthem of heavy metal’s original madman, a man once censored by Tipper Gore’s Parental Music Resource Center (PMRC), now the subject of a family car commercial.  How did I not trip over that enormous headstone while wandering through my playlists on iTunes?

Unfortunately, the “old people music” insanity doesn’t just stop at the newly-labeled classic rock that is near-and-dear to the ole PaceMaker.  It seems to be popping up in different areas fairly regularly in my everyday life now as well.

While reading a Berenstain Bears book to my daughter recently, the story referenced the characters listening to a jukebox.  A puzzled look immediately flashed across her face.  Knowing exactly what the next question would be, I tried to put it into a 21^st century perspective for her.

“It plays songs.  It’s like a giant iPod.”

I’m not sure which hurt worse.  The fact that I had compared an archaic, 800-pound piece of acoustic furniture from my youth to an electronic device the size of a binder clip…or the fact that I distinctly remember going to Pizza Hut as a kid and dropping four or five dollars worth of quarters into one so that I could hear my favorite songs played on vinyl 45s.

Vinyl 45s.  Yes, I believe that this is where the old phrase “beating a dead horse” comes into play.  You may now drag my petrified carcass to the glue factory.

Since the vast majority of my beloved music base has obviously ridden the path of the setting sun, I guess it also entitles me to make musical references that only my older colleagues would get.  For me personally, I love the puzzled looks that I receive from my son as I plug in my guitar and explain to him that I’m going to crank my amplifier up to “eleven” in an English accent.  Simply because it’s “one louder than ten”.

It’s the punch-line that keeps giving.  Thank you, Nigel…

I do find myself sometimes holding on to that occasional waning ray of melodic hope though.  Those times where I get to witness my daughter bouncing from room-to-room while humming the tune to the seemingly timeless and multi-generationally acceptable song “Low Rider” by War.  With pride, I get to happily bounce right along beside her and sing “take a little trip, take a little trip, take a little trip with me”.

Unfortunately, it appears as though that “little trip” will now include driving a twenty-foot Cadillac to dinner at 3 o’clock in the afternoon to grab the “Early Bird Special”...all while playing early 90s grunge rock on the cassette deck.

California Dreamin'

Being a born and raised an EastCoaster, there are some things that just become geographically instinctual over the course of time.  Things that you just stop thinking about because you’re always used to seeing them a certain way.  It’s only after you find yourself on the west coast that these instincts get tossed curbside and you wind up having to completely reset your bearings.  Literally…

My family is from New York.  Generations-upon-generations of native New Yorkers.  Even though a good portion of the family has since moved from the Empire state, they all stayed on the east coast.  Like most New York transplants, inevitably winding up in south Florida.  As for myself, I was raised in Virginia.  When my family travelled in my youth, it was always to see family.  Mainly New York, Florida years later.  This travel was always exclusive to the east coast though.  It’s all I’ve ever known.

I have been to the west coast a couple of times in my life, but only recently on business.  No matter how many times that I head out there though, it’s still the slightest differences that continue push me a little off-kilter as soon as I step off of the plane.

For example, as an EastCoaster, if the ocean is on your right side, it essentially means that you’re travelling north.  Travelling from Virginia to Long Island fairly regularly as a kid, that’s what I have been mentally programmed to decipher as common geographical fact.  On the west coast, however, the ocean on your right means that you are travelling south.  It only took this MENSA candidate about 15 minutes and 5 miles in the wrong direction to figure out that notable detail. 

With the complete inability to effectively deprogram myself of this “fact” with any measureable success, my inner compass was completely hosed up for the better part of the week.  To alleviate any possibility of confusion for myself, I literally spent the majority of my wanderings with my map flipped upside-down.  Ocean on the right. 

There.  Now I can navigate.

It really was a pathetic overcompensation of my mental GPS.  For some reason though, a “recalculating, recalculating…you moron” banter kept replaying over and over again in the back of my head.  Better yet, nothing quite says “tourist” better than some idiot sitting at a stoplight in downtown Los Angeles reading his map upside-down.  I probably would have attracted less attention to myself if I had just held my keys and wallet out of the window in my open recruitment of potential carjackers.

With my inverted map and reverse-pole navigation in check, I headed down to the beach one evening to take in some local California culture and to stick my feet in the Pacific for the first time.  Yes, that “tourist” thing again...  As I walked down the main beach road, there was a well-dressed guy standing in the street holding out a sign towards oncoming traffic.  It simply stated “You’re Beautiful”.  Being that quintessential EastCoaster, I studied him for several minutes trying to figure out his angle.  Money?  Publicity stunt?  Political agenda?  Con?

Much to my skeptical surprise, it became clear to me that this guy really had no agenda.  He was simply trying to communicate “positive vibes” during the evening rush.  A foreign concept to an EastCoaster like me, who was notorious for unconsciously bulldozing people over in my attempts at catching the Metro train pulling into the station.

Even more foreign to me was the fact that people were smiling, high-fiving him as they drove past, and yelling back “no man, you’re beautiful”.   I was traumatized.  Why was no one throwing bricks at this guy for impeding traffic?  Why was no one trying to mow him down in their expensive, European sedans for standing in the middle of the road?  Why was no one screaming at him to get out of the way, while calling both he and his mother unspeakable names?

I‘m a stranger in a strange land.

For me, however, the pinnacle of these trips is always the cheap entertainment that I get out of people-watching at LAX prior to my departure.  A vast plethora of gratuitous sights and sounds to help get me through the early morning doldrums of business travel. 

The most recent involved a well-dressed, well-groomed mother and her two young children.  A boy and girl whose outfits likely cost more than the entire contents of my suitcase…as well as the two guys next to me.  They were like a walking advertisement for Louis Vuitton.  Moments later, an older boy walks up next to them wearing black skinny jeans and T-shirt, black flat-bill hat cocked sideways, massive ear gauges, and enough metal in his lips to make me openly question the competency of the TSA screeners that morning.  I recall thinking to myself that this woman looked entirely too young to have a son in his early twenties.  

After a brief kiss between the two, it suddenly dawned on me.  “Wait.  That’s DAD?” 

To quote the late Chris Farley…  ”Awesome”. 

It was like Rodeo Drive meets Blink-182.  I couldn’t just leave it simply at gawking though.  I found myself honestly wondering which of their two kids would finally snap, break out of mom’s Abercrombie & Fitch mold, and take over as lead singer of the next great southern California punk band.  With a smirk on my face and the iconic punk anthem “California Uber Alles” screaming in my head, my view was suddenly obstructed by an extremely elderly bleached blonde in a halter top shrieking into her Bluetooth.

That was my sign.  Time to go…immediately.

Time to get back to the familiar surroundings and those things near-and-dear to my EastCoaster heart.  Being able to read my maps with some directional sanity and enjoying that ever-warming symphony of threats and insults directed to those that impede traffic in any way whatsoever.  Really, nothing says “home” quite like a fellow EastCoaster threatening horrific carnage upon your entire family for taking too long in the crosswalk.  I salute you, fine citizen!

At least I wasn’t totally unprepared for my latest adventure out west.  Dictated by recent events, this wandering stranger now knows exactly what to do in the event of an earthquake.

Immediately call everyone you know to see if they felt it.