“No talking. At all. The whole day. Are you crazy?” This is my reaction as I read my invitation to the White Mountain Sangha, “a day of silence and inquiry,” so that I might discover my “deepest nature” and “share in beautiful silence.” Considering silence and deep thought fit me about as well as a two-piece bathing suit, I’m skeptical. I tell my son Sam about the idea, and after informing me that a story like this will be “the most boring story in the world,” he declares, “You can’t stop yourself from talking.” I’m not listening because I’m too busy telling him about my favorite kinds of apples and how Saving Private Ryan is such a good movie and that Kevin Garnett sure will make the Celtics better this season and that I had a crush on Linda Ronstadt as a kid and that Buzz Aldrin would have been a really cool uncle and some other stuff I’ve been meaning to tell him.
Despite Sam’s misgivings, I head to the Universalist-Unitarian church on a recent Saturday, armed with a bag lunch and a willingness to try out this silence thing at the Sangha, or “spiritual community.” I take my seat and mentally declare that my lone goal for today is to utter not a single word. Margaret Fletcher, my host and today’s organizer, begins with a set of shared rules. Among them, “We agree not to make non-spoken speech so we don’t interrupt the silence that someone’s cultivated today.” I guess my plan to use my self-taught mime techniques is out the window. Margaret continues, telling us about the afternoon’s planned “free-form walking meditation,” which sounds a lot like the Grateful Dead’s third set at Hartford ’87 (“’Space” into “Drums” into “Franklin’s Tower” with a brief free-form walking meditation as an encore”), but I’ve agreed not to be judgmental so I keep my lip buttoned and settle in.
Norman Scrimshaw, the Sangha’s leader, enters the room, filled with twenty-five of us, some on the floor and others in chairs. Norman is a barrel-chested man with remnants of a sturdy head of white hair, and as he takes his seat on a platform in front, he has a look of pure calm on his face. For the next twenty minutes, Norman reels off Zen-like quote after quote, pausing ever so slightly while saying things like, “The mind loves attention,” “To be nobody is extraordinarily peaceful,” “While meditating, let go of the ambition,” and “The heart dwells in silence where there is no judgment.” This is like two full semesters of eastern religion in less than a half-hour, my mind swelling as I try to make sense of what he’s telling me without looking like the charade I am.
A gong sounds as a woman gently strikes a large bowl, and the first meditation begins. She now makes circles around the bowl with her mallet, and the sound grows louder and louder, like no noise I’ve heard before. The tone now blankets the entire room and massages my brain, and I watch the others start their meditation. I try to spend the next forty-five minutes as motionless as possible, but having no idea how to meditate, I close my eyes and try to give into the silence. Between Journey’s “Open Arms” playing inside my head, the image of the pile of leaves that needs raking on my lawn and the age-old question of why Dee from What’s Happening was so darn sassy, the first session flies by and I’m exhausted, leaving me to wonder why people think this is relaxing.
Next up is the satsang, or “gathering in truth.” Norman poses ideas to the group such as, “Awakening is opposite from denial and judgment,” and “Practice radical acceptance – accept the way things are about the world and about yourself.” A few participants ask Norman questions, but I’m far too intimidated to speak; besides, I’m not breaking my vow of silence. The audience is riveted. Some, like me, take notes while others wait on every word from Norman’s mouth, and I understand why. His delivery is so smooth and simple, and his message –focus on yourself, accept yourself and don’t judge – is a pretty good approach for people like me, a 40-year old guy with an expanding waist, a shrinking hairline and a legitimate concern that I’m actually getting shorter.
After another meditation session, it’s time for lunch. I’d put some thought into what to bring. An iceberg lettuce, carrot and radish salad followed by a big bag of Pringles seems wrong for a silent lunch so I opt for a turkey wrap and a handful of Fig Newtons, the quiet cookie of choice for meditation enthusiasts and cat burglars across America! We eat in silence, staring at our meals, careful not to make eye contact. To the casual observer, we must look like the misanthrope section of the high school cafeteria, each of us silently plotting our revenge for all those wedgies we’ve endured, but we’re the exact opposite, each of us choosing to be our own best friends for this lunch break.
The gong sounds, and we head back to the room. I can’t wait for the next meditation. The one just before lunch was not as cluttered as the first, and I’m hoping to think a little less and just be for a spell. Okay, so maybe I doze off for a bit, but when the gonging bowl calls us back to satsang, I’m relaxed and engaged.
After another chat with Norman, my judgmental ways creep back in. We’re into our fourth meditation session, and I’m distracted by a man sitting on the floor. He’s the only one moving, methodically swaying back and forth, like a slow-motion bob and weave. He’s also asked a few questions during the satsangs, and frankly, some of his “questions” sounded more like statements, as if to say, “I’m super excellent at meditating, and I want you to know this.” Well, if Norman says we should leave ambition at the door and Mr. Bob and Weave doesn’t oblige, then I’ll judge him, silently, of course.
The final meditation begins, and I notice that Mr. Bob and Weave is taking huge breaths; he’s starting to sound like a mating humpback whale. I try to shut that idea out and focus on my silence, but seriously, he’s really making a lot of noise with that breathing. I start to get angry and consider breaking this silence with a “Dude, put a yoga sock in it. We’re trying to be in the here and now, but that noise is keeping me in the there and then!” But I remain silent and refocus my mind on nothing. I close my eyes and let his whale song opera wash over me. Pretty soon I’m in my own world. No more ‘80’s arena rock lyrics, no more bills to pay, no more emails to answer and no more cetacean love songs. Nothing but silence.
As the church bells announce that it’s four o’clock, many in the group take a moment to ask one last question or to say a few words of thanks. I’ve met my goal and been silent the whole day, but it’s quittin’ time and I’ve got something to say. I take the microphone, thank the group for inviting me and then make a quick joke about how writing a story about an experience where there are no stories will be a tough task. This is apparently a clever joke for those in the meditation know, and it gets a nice laugh, but as I get ready to toss out a few more Zen-filled zingers and establish myself as the Don Rickles of the meditation set, Mr. Bob and Weave takes the microphone and makes one more statement about his tremendous meditation acumen, and I’m pretty sure I even see Norman’s eyes roll a bit at that one.Driving home, I think through Norman’s comments about “being present” – about having a “calm abiding” that allows you to be completely aware of the moment you’re in now. It gets me thinking. Am I ever really present? Do I put my energy towards what I’m doing now rather than recalling things I’ve done or need to do tomorrow? Do I let go of the mistakes I’ve made or things I’ve failed to do? Nope, not a chance – not by a long shot. But it’s good to know there’s a path to get there, but I first need to get this Journey song out of my head.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
SF Man Part Two - I Am Not Dougie!
Part Two – I Can Hear You Getting Fatter
When your only mode of exercise is a brisk walk, the pounds quickly pile on. I will say I’ve learned a few things on those early morning walks, like how a deliberate walking style and a heft-filled frame will get you mistaken for someone else. I’d noticed a younger man walking in my neighborhood for the past year – he must have lost at least 75 pounds with perhaps another 150 to go. I’d see him every few weeks, walking the same route. He looks great for a very overweight guy, and he’s changing his life with every thigh-chafing step. The inspirational pieces of this story were ruined for me about a month ago when I found myself walking the same route just after dinner time, the evening light fading into darkness. I was walking past a neighbor’s house, and the neighbor looked up, focused on me and yelled in a celebratory way, “Dougie!” I gave a pathetic wave until he realized, “Uhh, you’re not Dougie,” and he ran into the open front door of his house. Now I can’t prove if our neighborhood’s biggest loser’s name is Dougie, Douglas or Doug, but I’ll bet you a super clam roll and some steak fries it is. I followed the same path at the same time of day, and to this neighbor, I fit the profile. The two of them probably share a bag of fat-free devil’s food cookies on his porch every Thursday night while Dougie talks about using last year’s sweatshirt as a tarp for this wood pile as the neighbor commends him on how less fat he is. Well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain, and I now walk a different route to avoid any similar comparisons.
I’ve also learned that a neighbor of mine likes to walk his dog at around 5:47 AM while smoking the reefer. In the past few weeks, we’ve advanced to the “How’s it goin’” stage of our relationship, but I need to be careful. It’s a slippery slope. First we’re exchanging pleasantries, the only two people awake in the entire South End in the dawn hours; next thing we’re sharing bowls of Lucky Charms and bong hits in his basement, only to be followed by mornings filled with F Troop and ChiPs reruns while I try to email Erik Estrada for hair care tips as my neighbor scrapes the resin from his kid’s one-hitter he got for Father’s Day 25 years ago. A slippery slope indeed.
To reconstruct an ACL, you and your surgeon are presented with four options. The first two involve slicing into healthy tissue and using it to replace what you’ve torn, either from your knee cap (the “patellar” ligament as we say in these parts) or your hamstring. The third option is to leave it alone, an excellent choice for anyone embracing a sedentary lifestyle or life without health insurance. I chose the fourth option – the allograph, taking a dead man’s ACL and inserting it into my left knee. I requested the ACL from an attractive younger man with wavy jet-black hair, a great second serve and an ability to drive a car with a stick shift, but as far as I can tell, the request was ignored. The surgery was fine, if you ignore my post-op crying fit. I’ve since discovered that anesthesia can do crazy things so my tears should be forgiven. I’ve also discovered that pain killers, a nice late summer breeze and ready access to cable TV programming can make someone never want to get out of bed nor return to work.
It’s been almost three months since the surgery and close to six months since I started this journey that’s definitely not included going to Italy. Thirty physical therapy sessions, dozens of Percocets, countless bags of ice and about ten pounds of pure belly-placed blubber - all of it adds up to a mediocre 40th birthday, obscene medical bills, tighter pants, a halting re-entry into real exercise and an appreciation for the simple act of bending my knee, something I still can’t do too well. So the next time you have the chance to prove your mettle in a game of tennis, opt for the couch instead. It will save you in so many ways.
When your only mode of exercise is a brisk walk, the pounds quickly pile on. I will say I’ve learned a few things on those early morning walks, like how a deliberate walking style and a heft-filled frame will get you mistaken for someone else. I’d noticed a younger man walking in my neighborhood for the past year – he must have lost at least 75 pounds with perhaps another 150 to go. I’d see him every few weeks, walking the same route. He looks great for a very overweight guy, and he’s changing his life with every thigh-chafing step. The inspirational pieces of this story were ruined for me about a month ago when I found myself walking the same route just after dinner time, the evening light fading into darkness. I was walking past a neighbor’s house, and the neighbor looked up, focused on me and yelled in a celebratory way, “Dougie!” I gave a pathetic wave until he realized, “Uhh, you’re not Dougie,” and he ran into the open front door of his house. Now I can’t prove if our neighborhood’s biggest loser’s name is Dougie, Douglas or Doug, but I’ll bet you a super clam roll and some steak fries it is. I followed the same path at the same time of day, and to this neighbor, I fit the profile. The two of them probably share a bag of fat-free devil’s food cookies on his porch every Thursday night while Dougie talks about using last year’s sweatshirt as a tarp for this wood pile as the neighbor commends him on how less fat he is. Well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain, and I now walk a different route to avoid any similar comparisons.
I’ve also learned that a neighbor of mine likes to walk his dog at around 5:47 AM while smoking the reefer. In the past few weeks, we’ve advanced to the “How’s it goin’” stage of our relationship, but I need to be careful. It’s a slippery slope. First we’re exchanging pleasantries, the only two people awake in the entire South End in the dawn hours; next thing we’re sharing bowls of Lucky Charms and bong hits in his basement, only to be followed by mornings filled with F Troop and ChiPs reruns while I try to email Erik Estrada for hair care tips as my neighbor scrapes the resin from his kid’s one-hitter he got for Father’s Day 25 years ago. A slippery slope indeed.
To reconstruct an ACL, you and your surgeon are presented with four options. The first two involve slicing into healthy tissue and using it to replace what you’ve torn, either from your knee cap (the “patellar” ligament as we say in these parts) or your hamstring. The third option is to leave it alone, an excellent choice for anyone embracing a sedentary lifestyle or life without health insurance. I chose the fourth option – the allograph, taking a dead man’s ACL and inserting it into my left knee. I requested the ACL from an attractive younger man with wavy jet-black hair, a great second serve and an ability to drive a car with a stick shift, but as far as I can tell, the request was ignored. The surgery was fine, if you ignore my post-op crying fit. I’ve since discovered that anesthesia can do crazy things so my tears should be forgiven. I’ve also discovered that pain killers, a nice late summer breeze and ready access to cable TV programming can make someone never want to get out of bed nor return to work.
It’s been almost three months since the surgery and close to six months since I started this journey that’s definitely not included going to Italy. Thirty physical therapy sessions, dozens of Percocets, countless bags of ice and about ten pounds of pure belly-placed blubber - all of it adds up to a mediocre 40th birthday, obscene medical bills, tighter pants, a halting re-entry into real exercise and an appreciation for the simple act of bending my knee, something I still can’t do too well. So the next time you have the chance to prove your mettle in a game of tennis, opt for the couch instead. It will save you in so many ways.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Short Fat Man Tears ACL, Gets Shorter and Fatter
Part One – Mental Toughness, Physical Weakness
The anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, is a small, sturdy stretch of connective tissue joining the femur to the tibia. It’s one of the four major ligaments that surround the knee joint, and the ACL’s primary job is to minimize stress to the knee by preventing too much rotation and excessive forward movement. All of this meant absolutely nothing to me on the morning of June 23, 2007 as I cracked a serve into my opponent’s court and rushed the net. I was playing singles in a tennis tournament- the city of Concord’s B-level tournament – doing my best to redeem my dramatic fizzle in the 2006 tournament where I had my opponent on the ropes only to fall apart as my son watched in semi-detached horror, losing badly. Then, in the consolation round, I lost to a guy who I think used an oven mitt for a tennis racket. Winning nary a set in a B-level tennis tournament is reason enough to focus on jigsaw puzzles, but I couldn’t let it go, and I had to play again this year.
When that late June morning arrived, I was prepared – physically and mentally. I’d been working out with a personal trainer for months, not necessarily just for this tournament, but I was using this day as a way to gauge my success – to see if a noodle-armed, sloth-footed small man could progress deep into the draw even though I hadn’t picked up a tennis racket in months. Also, a hypnotherapist friend gave me a few strategies to help me conquer what had been my downfall in competitive tennis as a kid – the dreaded “You stink! You are a fat loser! You’ll never amount to anything!” affliction, things I’d yell at the top of my lungs about myself as some sort of negative motivational tool, often screamed just after I hit another volley into the bottom of the net. But things would be different this time. Now I was armed with a set of mental incantations to help me visualize the positive and focus on winning rather than not losing. Words like, “strength,” “extend,” and “forward” were coursing through my mind as we warmed up as I ignored that twelve-year old version of myself who knew I’d blow it again.
My opponent was just what I’d expected – about 53 years old, no discernable athletic prowess but someone who never missed a shot, always hit his serves in and who could run just enough to cover the court. In other words, someone I hoped to be. We started off, and things were tilting to the negative. He broke my serve and then won his and I was down 2-0. Quickly, I was down 3 games to 1 and needed to hold my serve. I wasn’t thinking about my ACL or much else, focused more on the ball that my opponent just hit over my head. In fact, the only thing that concerned me was not looking as pathetic as I’d looked in the previous four games. With my wife and two children looking on, I needed to maintain my composure, look athletic and for God’s sake, return that ball and win the damn point!
Twenty seconds later, as I lay flat on the red-clay court, a painful sensation of heated pain shooting up and down my left leg and my opponent offering lame suggestions like, “Maybe some water will help,” one word ran through my mind – Italy. We’d planned this trip for six months – a ten-day 40th birthday trip for me and my wife to Florence, where, without our kids, we’d live in a rented apartment, take day trips to the countryside, visit all the museums and take photos of me standing in front of that big naked statue of David, buzzed on wine we’d had at breakfast. This was now in jeopardy as I stood up, tried to play the game out and collapsed in a pathetic heap the instant I tried to run, my left knee providing about as much support as my wife was about to be when she realized international travel with crutches and a leg-long brace was not happening this summer.
Three days later the diagnosis was in – torn ACL, surgery scheduled for late summer, physical therapy sessions booked weeks in advance and a trip to Europe shelved. Thus initiated a summer filled with such phrases as, “No exercise for me today!” “Might as well have a fifth beer – Concord seems just like Florence if you’re drunk enough,” and, regrettably, “Can I have extra sour cream on my pork-filled burrito?” Yes, as any man under five foot six with a tendency to bulk up at a photo of cheese fries can tell you, sullen vacation memories, a sore leg, no exercise and ready access to beer, burgers and ice cream mean one thing – Timmy’s getting fatter.
The anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, is a small, sturdy stretch of connective tissue joining the femur to the tibia. It’s one of the four major ligaments that surround the knee joint, and the ACL’s primary job is to minimize stress to the knee by preventing too much rotation and excessive forward movement. All of this meant absolutely nothing to me on the morning of June 23, 2007 as I cracked a serve into my opponent’s court and rushed the net. I was playing singles in a tennis tournament- the city of Concord’s B-level tournament – doing my best to redeem my dramatic fizzle in the 2006 tournament where I had my opponent on the ropes only to fall apart as my son watched in semi-detached horror, losing badly. Then, in the consolation round, I lost to a guy who I think used an oven mitt for a tennis racket. Winning nary a set in a B-level tennis tournament is reason enough to focus on jigsaw puzzles, but I couldn’t let it go, and I had to play again this year.
When that late June morning arrived, I was prepared – physically and mentally. I’d been working out with a personal trainer for months, not necessarily just for this tournament, but I was using this day as a way to gauge my success – to see if a noodle-armed, sloth-footed small man could progress deep into the draw even though I hadn’t picked up a tennis racket in months. Also, a hypnotherapist friend gave me a few strategies to help me conquer what had been my downfall in competitive tennis as a kid – the dreaded “You stink! You are a fat loser! You’ll never amount to anything!” affliction, things I’d yell at the top of my lungs about myself as some sort of negative motivational tool, often screamed just after I hit another volley into the bottom of the net. But things would be different this time. Now I was armed with a set of mental incantations to help me visualize the positive and focus on winning rather than not losing. Words like, “strength,” “extend,” and “forward” were coursing through my mind as we warmed up as I ignored that twelve-year old version of myself who knew I’d blow it again.
My opponent was just what I’d expected – about 53 years old, no discernable athletic prowess but someone who never missed a shot, always hit his serves in and who could run just enough to cover the court. In other words, someone I hoped to be. We started off, and things were tilting to the negative. He broke my serve and then won his and I was down 2-0. Quickly, I was down 3 games to 1 and needed to hold my serve. I wasn’t thinking about my ACL or much else, focused more on the ball that my opponent just hit over my head. In fact, the only thing that concerned me was not looking as pathetic as I’d looked in the previous four games. With my wife and two children looking on, I needed to maintain my composure, look athletic and for God’s sake, return that ball and win the damn point!
Twenty seconds later, as I lay flat on the red-clay court, a painful sensation of heated pain shooting up and down my left leg and my opponent offering lame suggestions like, “Maybe some water will help,” one word ran through my mind – Italy. We’d planned this trip for six months – a ten-day 40th birthday trip for me and my wife to Florence, where, without our kids, we’d live in a rented apartment, take day trips to the countryside, visit all the museums and take photos of me standing in front of that big naked statue of David, buzzed on wine we’d had at breakfast. This was now in jeopardy as I stood up, tried to play the game out and collapsed in a pathetic heap the instant I tried to run, my left knee providing about as much support as my wife was about to be when she realized international travel with crutches and a leg-long brace was not happening this summer.
Three days later the diagnosis was in – torn ACL, surgery scheduled for late summer, physical therapy sessions booked weeks in advance and a trip to Europe shelved. Thus initiated a summer filled with such phrases as, “No exercise for me today!” “Might as well have a fifth beer – Concord seems just like Florence if you’re drunk enough,” and, regrettably, “Can I have extra sour cream on my pork-filled burrito?” Yes, as any man under five foot six with a tendency to bulk up at a photo of cheese fries can tell you, sullen vacation memories, a sore leg, no exercise and ready access to beer, burgers and ice cream mean one thing – Timmy’s getting fatter.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid
I’ve come to Hopkinton to find Frank. Standing in Blaser’s Fireside Tavern in the early evening of a warm late summer night, I’m talking with my contact, Jay Bowe. Jay’s invited me to join her and the team from ECTO, the East Coast Transcommunication Organization, for a night of paranormal investigation, or what laymen might call “ghost bustin’.” Jay introduces me to Nancy Blaser. She and her husband Terry have owned Blaser’s since 1999, and Nancy assures me the place is haunted, recounting story after story of spectral encounters. This is when I learn about Frank.
Frank Mills is Blaser’s resident ghost, and he’s been haunting this place since he shot himself dead in 1926, distraught over the death of his young bride the year before. Nancy must serve quite a pepper steak for anyone, dead or alive, to stick around the same place for seventy years, but before I can order from the pub menu, I head upstairs to meet the team. The ECTO members are easy to spot – they’re the ones dressed in black with the expensive AV equipment. One guy sets up the video cameras, microphones and VRCs; another unpacks his temperature gauges; a woman plays with a pendulum while another boots up a laptop. Between the dark clothes, facial hair and high-tech equipment, I feel like I’m backstage at an Allman Brothers concert, but then Tim Derr, the ECTO member specializing in EMF (electromagnetic frequency detection), introduces himself and shows me his tool of choice, the copper dowsing rod. I’d always thought dowsing rods were for mildly nutty people looking for water as the PBS cameras roll, but Tim is normal, chatty and definitely not nutty. Tim explains that dowsing rods can be used to detect changes in electromagnetic frequency, “a good sign that there’s spectral energy close by.”
This prompts another member, Ron Pinkham, with a gift for “spectral videography” to tell me, “It’s all about energy. These ghosts have energy that always exists, so we use these tools to find the energy.” Just then, Tim’s twin rods start spinning around as he approaches the stairwell, prompting Ron to use a hand-held EMF meter, but instead of stumbling upon our first ghost of the night, Ron and Tim agree that there must be power cables running behind the wall, Ron remarks, “That’s not paranormal, that’s just dangerous.” He continues, “Most of what we do is prove each other wrong. We want to make sure what we find is legit. We tell each other all the mistakes we’re making so we can prove the good stuff.” I can’t help but think these guys would make great house inspectors.
I need to be straight with you – I’m a believer. Granted, I might not sleep in cemeteries on Halloween and know my sisters rigged the Ouija board, but I’ve no doubt that some departed souls just never got the memo about the big sleep. And I admit it doesn’t take much to scare me – one scene in The Sixth Sense made me yelp aloud in a packed movie theater like a pre-teen girl with a wooly spider in her popcorn, and I often run faster than Edwin Moses getting up my basement stairs, just in case someone or something is following me, which I’m pretty sure is true most of the time.
It’s getting dark outside, and the team continues to set up. ECTO’s two leaders, Karen Mossey and Mike Sullivan, give me a quick overview of the world of paranormal investigation. Karen’s specialty is EVP - electronic voice phenomena - and she shows me her digital voice recorder, explaining that spirits, “manipulate the energy in the recording devices,” sometimes leaving behind their voices. Mike then gives me a primer in EVP, playing a series of creepy recordings, where I hear voices say things like, “We’re the hunters,” in a chilling, old-fashioned accent, and another that says, “I love you,” but not in the way you’d really want whispered in your ear. I listen and nod, but all I can think of is that I’ll never invite Karen to my house – with my luck, she’ll wander around with her voice recorder discovering the one ghost who loves to mock my personal hygiene. “Nose picker,” it would say or something just as revealing.
Mike, who’s been doing this kind of work for thirty-plus years, tells me that images of ghosts most often appear as reflections in mirrors or glass objects, which explains why he’s arranged a dozen or so old bottles and small mirrors throughout the third floor and why he takes photo after photo like an over-medicated tourist with film to burn. Mike shows me a photo from his collection, a tiny one of a man wearing a morning coat and bowler, and I get queasy because I’m pretty sure I’m staring at a picture of a man who’s been dead for fifty years. I bet if I fake left and run right, I can make it downstairs and to my car in twenty seconds, but it’s dark in the parking lot and who knows what’s out there waiting for me, so I thank Mike for the lesson and gird myself for what’s next.
The team gathers, and Karen begins in the near-pitch black on the third floor. I ask no one in particular if I should have some sort of safe word if Frank gets me in his ghostly clutches, like “binkie” or “mommy,” but the team is in no mood for jokes. Karen asks for quiet, calling out to Frank, urging him to join us. We’re greeted with silence, save for the soft snapping of digital photos. ECTO then moves into overdrive, using every tool at its disposal, exploring all parts of the tavern’s second and third floors. Karen hands me a thermalined monocular, a night-vision scope, and I walk around in the dark, praying that I see only people I recognize through the green-tinted lens.
The more the team explores every corner, I wonder if they’re frightening the ghosts away. If I were a ghost, these black-clad leaders of the AV Alumni Society calling out my name might make me hide in the floorboards for the night. I ask Audra Pinkham, Ronnie’s sister, if ghosts can be scared off, and she tells me, “If ghosts aren’t ready to go to the light, they are not ready and they are not leaving.” I prep my best Jo Beth Williams imitation, (“Carol Ann, stay away from the light!”) but think better of it and get back to my night vision duties.
Somehow, I find myself alone on the third floor in absolute darkness. I knew this was a bad idea. I’m in the one area in New Hampshire where ghosts book their appearances months in advance, and we’ve baited Frank into showing his ghostly face right in this room! But before I can hyperventilate into unconsciousness, I hear something downstairs. I hustle off to find the group huddled together, excited about a discovery, the first of the night. Karen presses play on her recorder, and we hear her voice call out, “Is there anybody here? Speak if you are here. Who is here?” And then we hear one word, spoken in a low, peculiar voice. The voice says, “Frank.” The team is ecstatic – real EVP proof that Frank has arrived! They may be thrilled, but my stomach feels like my pancreas is holding onto my duodenum for dear life, the three of them scared out of their wits, just like me.
As we listen again and again to Frank’s voice, I’m struck by the fact that these people are like the paparazzi – they sit around with expensive cameras and gear, waiting for a glimpse of someone special to show his face and then they pounce.The group heads back upstairs, but my night’s over. Tim’s dowsing rods may have found something else, and Karen’s planned a full séance to continue the chitchat with Frank, but I’ve heard enough to know there really are things that go bump in the night. Besides, it’s getting late and this crowd looks like it could go all night. I need to get home to go to sleep. With the lights on.
Frank Mills is Blaser’s resident ghost, and he’s been haunting this place since he shot himself dead in 1926, distraught over the death of his young bride the year before. Nancy must serve quite a pepper steak for anyone, dead or alive, to stick around the same place for seventy years, but before I can order from the pub menu, I head upstairs to meet the team. The ECTO members are easy to spot – they’re the ones dressed in black with the expensive AV equipment. One guy sets up the video cameras, microphones and VRCs; another unpacks his temperature gauges; a woman plays with a pendulum while another boots up a laptop. Between the dark clothes, facial hair and high-tech equipment, I feel like I’m backstage at an Allman Brothers concert, but then Tim Derr, the ECTO member specializing in EMF (electromagnetic frequency detection), introduces himself and shows me his tool of choice, the copper dowsing rod. I’d always thought dowsing rods were for mildly nutty people looking for water as the PBS cameras roll, but Tim is normal, chatty and definitely not nutty. Tim explains that dowsing rods can be used to detect changes in electromagnetic frequency, “a good sign that there’s spectral energy close by.”
This prompts another member, Ron Pinkham, with a gift for “spectral videography” to tell me, “It’s all about energy. These ghosts have energy that always exists, so we use these tools to find the energy.” Just then, Tim’s twin rods start spinning around as he approaches the stairwell, prompting Ron to use a hand-held EMF meter, but instead of stumbling upon our first ghost of the night, Ron and Tim agree that there must be power cables running behind the wall, Ron remarks, “That’s not paranormal, that’s just dangerous.” He continues, “Most of what we do is prove each other wrong. We want to make sure what we find is legit. We tell each other all the mistakes we’re making so we can prove the good stuff.” I can’t help but think these guys would make great house inspectors.
I need to be straight with you – I’m a believer. Granted, I might not sleep in cemeteries on Halloween and know my sisters rigged the Ouija board, but I’ve no doubt that some departed souls just never got the memo about the big sleep. And I admit it doesn’t take much to scare me – one scene in The Sixth Sense made me yelp aloud in a packed movie theater like a pre-teen girl with a wooly spider in her popcorn, and I often run faster than Edwin Moses getting up my basement stairs, just in case someone or something is following me, which I’m pretty sure is true most of the time.
It’s getting dark outside, and the team continues to set up. ECTO’s two leaders, Karen Mossey and Mike Sullivan, give me a quick overview of the world of paranormal investigation. Karen’s specialty is EVP - electronic voice phenomena - and she shows me her digital voice recorder, explaining that spirits, “manipulate the energy in the recording devices,” sometimes leaving behind their voices. Mike then gives me a primer in EVP, playing a series of creepy recordings, where I hear voices say things like, “We’re the hunters,” in a chilling, old-fashioned accent, and another that says, “I love you,” but not in the way you’d really want whispered in your ear. I listen and nod, but all I can think of is that I’ll never invite Karen to my house – with my luck, she’ll wander around with her voice recorder discovering the one ghost who loves to mock my personal hygiene. “Nose picker,” it would say or something just as revealing.
Mike, who’s been doing this kind of work for thirty-plus years, tells me that images of ghosts most often appear as reflections in mirrors or glass objects, which explains why he’s arranged a dozen or so old bottles and small mirrors throughout the third floor and why he takes photo after photo like an over-medicated tourist with film to burn. Mike shows me a photo from his collection, a tiny one of a man wearing a morning coat and bowler, and I get queasy because I’m pretty sure I’m staring at a picture of a man who’s been dead for fifty years. I bet if I fake left and run right, I can make it downstairs and to my car in twenty seconds, but it’s dark in the parking lot and who knows what’s out there waiting for me, so I thank Mike for the lesson and gird myself for what’s next.
The team gathers, and Karen begins in the near-pitch black on the third floor. I ask no one in particular if I should have some sort of safe word if Frank gets me in his ghostly clutches, like “binkie” or “mommy,” but the team is in no mood for jokes. Karen asks for quiet, calling out to Frank, urging him to join us. We’re greeted with silence, save for the soft snapping of digital photos. ECTO then moves into overdrive, using every tool at its disposal, exploring all parts of the tavern’s second and third floors. Karen hands me a thermalined monocular, a night-vision scope, and I walk around in the dark, praying that I see only people I recognize through the green-tinted lens.
The more the team explores every corner, I wonder if they’re frightening the ghosts away. If I were a ghost, these black-clad leaders of the AV Alumni Society calling out my name might make me hide in the floorboards for the night. I ask Audra Pinkham, Ronnie’s sister, if ghosts can be scared off, and she tells me, “If ghosts aren’t ready to go to the light, they are not ready and they are not leaving.” I prep my best Jo Beth Williams imitation, (“Carol Ann, stay away from the light!”) but think better of it and get back to my night vision duties.
Somehow, I find myself alone on the third floor in absolute darkness. I knew this was a bad idea. I’m in the one area in New Hampshire where ghosts book their appearances months in advance, and we’ve baited Frank into showing his ghostly face right in this room! But before I can hyperventilate into unconsciousness, I hear something downstairs. I hustle off to find the group huddled together, excited about a discovery, the first of the night. Karen presses play on her recorder, and we hear her voice call out, “Is there anybody here? Speak if you are here. Who is here?” And then we hear one word, spoken in a low, peculiar voice. The voice says, “Frank.” The team is ecstatic – real EVP proof that Frank has arrived! They may be thrilled, but my stomach feels like my pancreas is holding onto my duodenum for dear life, the three of them scared out of their wits, just like me.
As we listen again and again to Frank’s voice, I’m struck by the fact that these people are like the paparazzi – they sit around with expensive cameras and gear, waiting for a glimpse of someone special to show his face and then they pounce.The group heads back upstairs, but my night’s over. Tim’s dowsing rods may have found something else, and Karen’s planned a full séance to continue the chitchat with Frank, but I’ve heard enough to know there really are things that go bump in the night. Besides, it’s getting late and this crowd looks like it could go all night. I need to get home to go to sleep. With the lights on.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
A Day No Pumpkins Shall Die
Ah yes, New England in fall. Leaf-covered lawns, brisk mornings, shorter days, crisp apples and firewood to stack. But then you had to show up with an armful of pumpkins and ruin everything. Explain to me your fascination with the Cucurbita maxima. Everywhere I look I see them, grotesque, oblong, inert blobs of orange lassitude, rotting ever so slowly since that creepy kid who works at the farm stand sliced their connection to life, kick-starting their decline towards rot. And I’ve seen you, laughing and cavorting in those roadside pumpkin fields, searching for just the right one to leave on your doorstep while its carcass begins its decline. You act like that pumpkin patch is heaven and those vegetables were fluffy orange clouds of mirth and joy.
Well, one family’s heaven is another man’s gourd-filled hell, and I ain’t having any of it. When I see a pumpkin, I think of getting my ass kicked as a twelve-year old on Halloween. And I’m reminded of my family as a kid – we were that family that always bought a few mega-pumpkins the size of bulldozer tires. We’d display our burnt sienna bounty on the front porch or by the back door, announcing to the world that we too could read a calendar and suspected winter was on its way. Sometimes we’d make jack o’lanterns, each of us trying to make the perfect scalene triangle eyes and gap-toothed smile. We also were too damn lazy, waiting until Flag Day to remove these rotted vessels of pagan misery, needing hazmat suits, a wet-vac and snow shovels to clean up the congealed pools of fetid pumpkin flesh that cascaded down our steps.
And let’s not forget the pumpkin bisque served at a friend’s wedding in 1993. Nothing ruins a belly full of free beer and good music like a steaming hot bowl of pumpkin gruel. The band’s drummer should have banged out a slave galleon beat while we force-fed ourselves the nutmeg-tinged slop. Considering the happy couple is now divorced, I’m convinced if we’d had a nice clam chowder or perhaps skipped the soup and had a simple salad with leafy greens and a soy dressing, those two would still be together.
Combine that edible pumpkin memory with the earnest Starbucks barista trying to foist a few squirts of pumpkin-flavored corn syrup in my $4 cup of steamed milk last week, and I pray for a day when no pumpkins shall die.
Every Halloween, Keene, New Hampshire crows about displaying the largest collection of carved pumpkins on the planet. Let’s remind the proud, misguided and clearly not-busy-enough-at work citizens of Keene that this is because no other country in the world considers it a worthy thing to grow something for five months, drive it to a church parking lot, dragoon a cub scout into marking up the price and extorting you into buying one so you can rip the top open, thrown out all the edible parts, carve a cretinous visage on the front and then cram an open flame in its disemboweled stomach. Most humans on this planet go through that trouble to stop their children’s stomachs from distending any further. But seriously, don’t mind me. Thanks for the pumpkins. It wouldn’t be fall without them.
Well, one family’s heaven is another man’s gourd-filled hell, and I ain’t having any of it. When I see a pumpkin, I think of getting my ass kicked as a twelve-year old on Halloween. And I’m reminded of my family as a kid – we were that family that always bought a few mega-pumpkins the size of bulldozer tires. We’d display our burnt sienna bounty on the front porch or by the back door, announcing to the world that we too could read a calendar and suspected winter was on its way. Sometimes we’d make jack o’lanterns, each of us trying to make the perfect scalene triangle eyes and gap-toothed smile. We also were too damn lazy, waiting until Flag Day to remove these rotted vessels of pagan misery, needing hazmat suits, a wet-vac and snow shovels to clean up the congealed pools of fetid pumpkin flesh that cascaded down our steps.
And let’s not forget the pumpkin bisque served at a friend’s wedding in 1993. Nothing ruins a belly full of free beer and good music like a steaming hot bowl of pumpkin gruel. The band’s drummer should have banged out a slave galleon beat while we force-fed ourselves the nutmeg-tinged slop. Considering the happy couple is now divorced, I’m convinced if we’d had a nice clam chowder or perhaps skipped the soup and had a simple salad with leafy greens and a soy dressing, those two would still be together.
Combine that edible pumpkin memory with the earnest Starbucks barista trying to foist a few squirts of pumpkin-flavored corn syrup in my $4 cup of steamed milk last week, and I pray for a day when no pumpkins shall die.
Every Halloween, Keene, New Hampshire crows about displaying the largest collection of carved pumpkins on the planet. Let’s remind the proud, misguided and clearly not-busy-enough-at work citizens of Keene that this is because no other country in the world considers it a worthy thing to grow something for five months, drive it to a church parking lot, dragoon a cub scout into marking up the price and extorting you into buying one so you can rip the top open, thrown out all the edible parts, carve a cretinous visage on the front and then cram an open flame in its disemboweled stomach. Most humans on this planet go through that trouble to stop their children’s stomachs from distending any further. But seriously, don’t mind me. Thanks for the pumpkins. It wouldn’t be fall without them.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Bingo!
Just as peanut butter has jelly, and Jerry Lewis had Dean Martin, bingo will forever have smoking. A few weeks back I spent a night playing bingo and smoking at the Concord Bingo Center, learning a few key lessons. First, poor math skills as a child do not make bingo any easier; second, bingo demands a high degree of mental dexterity; and third, nicotine and French fries are no match for Lady Luck’s capricious whims.
I visited the Bingo Center to experience a night of carefree games of chance with a lit smoke in my hand, relishing what I bet will be the final days of one of the last true freedoms we have in the Granite State. Truthfully, I’m not a smoker, although I’ve had my share of furtive, late-night puffs outside parties to look cool and impress my neighbors. Earlier that day I’d heard of the State House’s plan to ban smoking in most public places, not sure if bingo parlors made the cut, remembering that social, fraternal and religious organizations are exempted from the ban, “only if smoking areas can be segregated effectively."
The first thing I notice in the Center is that the best chance you have of segregating the non-smokers is to find them a cozy bingo room of their own, somewhere outside Tuftonboro perhaps, because the smoke is so thick I’m sure I can walk across it. It hangs in the motionless air like dense fog on a crisp spring morning, but nobody, non-smokers and smokers alike, could care less. There’s bingo to play!
I walk to the front, the room already filled with almost 200 players, each of them carving out a spot at one of the long rows of plastic tables, like early morning beach goers before the start of a muggy day. They sit in pairs and small clusters, the tables spotted with charms of all kinds – pink-haired troll dolls, wide-eyed gremlins, ceramic cows and lucky ash trays. I reach the head of the line, fork over $25 and act like I’ve been here before. Collecting my game sheets and my new bingo marker, I’m handed a large paper grocery bag. Just as I start wondering if the bag’s for all the money I’m planning on winning, a wily veteran sitting near the front tells me with no prompting, “It’s for your garbage.”
Now knowing it’s clear I have no idea what I’m doing, I hope someone will pity me when I find my seat in the smoking section. I sit down and light up my first smoke of the night. Someone approaches, and he too is smoking. I assume he’s on his way over to chat about how Parliament Lights and Menthol Kools are alike in so many ways, but as he introduces himself, I realize either my bewildered gaze or my constant gumming of my cigarette make it clear I am a fish out of these cloudy waters. Don Gelinas is tonight’s caller, and he walks me through the rules and then stops, sees the stack of sheets in front of me and says, “Are you sure you can handle all these games?” with genuine concern. I take a drag, try not to cough in his face and assure him I got it covered.
Across from me sits Rose Lord, an experienced player with a Philadelphia accent that cuts throw the smoke between us. She shakes my hand, offering a simpler explanation. “Just watch the board – you’ll see the pattern up there. You can sneak a peek at the TV in the corner – that will give you a head start on the next number called. I’ll make sure you don’t get too confused,” she says with a smile. I notice the close-circuit TVs that ring the room as well as the basketball hoops against the wall. The TVs and the smoke remind me of a jai alai fronton in Ft. Pierce, and the basketball hoops seem completely out of place. Of all the scenarios likely to break out here tonight, a spontaneous three-on-three shirts vs. skins hoops game is not one of them.
Don is up front, microphone in hand, and the bingo balls start percolating in the wind-driven drum next to him. He calls the first number in a buttery voice, and we begin. For full immersion, I’ve decided to smoke a cigarette per game. After three quick games, my head is swirling, my hands are shaking, and I’m pretty sure I won that Block of Nine with the Wild Card, but the surge of nicotine in my bloodstream would have distorted my voice. Yelling “Bangoo” in a crowded room is not my idea of blending in, so I keep my head down, ask Rose for advice and try not to embarrass myself.
I lose game after game – the Arrow, the Six Pack, the Picture Frame and the Layer Cake - never even close to bingo. I start to wonder when the beer guy will come around, but Rose explains that there is no liquor at bingo. A shame, I think, but then again, booze leads to chatter, and chatter leads to distraction, and that’s a combination for losing, so no booze at bingo.
As my unlucky streak continues, I notice the employees circling the room, selling pull tab lottery tickets for $10 a pack. Irene Garceau, sitting next to me, explains that these tickets are a huge seller. She tells me lots of people spend over $100 a night on these, hoping to win far more than that, noting that a woman won over $5,500 a few weeks back. The employees carry the packs in little plastic trays, like workers at a blood drive, collecting money and dishing out packs of lottery tickets like gauze pads and “Be Nice. I Donated!” stickers.
Finally, as I creep into the second half of my pack of cigarettes, I wonder if I can use my paper bag for the vomit that’s surely to come, but instead I order some fries, light another smoke and prepare to conquer the Martini glass game that’s up next. “Don’t forget the olive!” cracks Norma Jean Smith, a veteran caller who sits down at my table to dispense wisdom. I try a joke of my own, hearing Don call, “B-12.” I add, “That’s the closest anyone’s getting to a vitamin tonight!” but it’s met with silence.
By the time the Carryover Coverall approaches, I’ve had enough fried food and cigarettes to contemplate looking for a portable defibrillator, but Rose interrupts me to tell me how much she enjoys bingo. “I haven’t won in a while,” she tells me. When I ask her about the ban that may mean she can’t smoke in here, she looks at the big board, taps an ash into the ashtray and says, “Smoking is my only pleasure.”
Just before the night ends, Rose wins a few hundred bucks on a Regular Bingo game. “Come back,” she tells me, “you brought me luck.” And as the night ends, Linda Lampon, Irene’s daughter, also wins, yelling “Bingo!” like she sat on a tack. Then Don bids goodnight, reminding us all to take care on the roads. Irene turns to me and says, “There are nice people at Bingo.” And I agree. Nice people who love their routine, love their game and love their smoking. And it would seem a shame to change any of it.
I visited the Bingo Center to experience a night of carefree games of chance with a lit smoke in my hand, relishing what I bet will be the final days of one of the last true freedoms we have in the Granite State. Truthfully, I’m not a smoker, although I’ve had my share of furtive, late-night puffs outside parties to look cool and impress my neighbors. Earlier that day I’d heard of the State House’s plan to ban smoking in most public places, not sure if bingo parlors made the cut, remembering that social, fraternal and religious organizations are exempted from the ban, “only if smoking areas can be segregated effectively."
The first thing I notice in the Center is that the best chance you have of segregating the non-smokers is to find them a cozy bingo room of their own, somewhere outside Tuftonboro perhaps, because the smoke is so thick I’m sure I can walk across it. It hangs in the motionless air like dense fog on a crisp spring morning, but nobody, non-smokers and smokers alike, could care less. There’s bingo to play!
I walk to the front, the room already filled with almost 200 players, each of them carving out a spot at one of the long rows of plastic tables, like early morning beach goers before the start of a muggy day. They sit in pairs and small clusters, the tables spotted with charms of all kinds – pink-haired troll dolls, wide-eyed gremlins, ceramic cows and lucky ash trays. I reach the head of the line, fork over $25 and act like I’ve been here before. Collecting my game sheets and my new bingo marker, I’m handed a large paper grocery bag. Just as I start wondering if the bag’s for all the money I’m planning on winning, a wily veteran sitting near the front tells me with no prompting, “It’s for your garbage.”
Now knowing it’s clear I have no idea what I’m doing, I hope someone will pity me when I find my seat in the smoking section. I sit down and light up my first smoke of the night. Someone approaches, and he too is smoking. I assume he’s on his way over to chat about how Parliament Lights and Menthol Kools are alike in so many ways, but as he introduces himself, I realize either my bewildered gaze or my constant gumming of my cigarette make it clear I am a fish out of these cloudy waters. Don Gelinas is tonight’s caller, and he walks me through the rules and then stops, sees the stack of sheets in front of me and says, “Are you sure you can handle all these games?” with genuine concern. I take a drag, try not to cough in his face and assure him I got it covered.
Across from me sits Rose Lord, an experienced player with a Philadelphia accent that cuts throw the smoke between us. She shakes my hand, offering a simpler explanation. “Just watch the board – you’ll see the pattern up there. You can sneak a peek at the TV in the corner – that will give you a head start on the next number called. I’ll make sure you don’t get too confused,” she says with a smile. I notice the close-circuit TVs that ring the room as well as the basketball hoops against the wall. The TVs and the smoke remind me of a jai alai fronton in Ft. Pierce, and the basketball hoops seem completely out of place. Of all the scenarios likely to break out here tonight, a spontaneous three-on-three shirts vs. skins hoops game is not one of them.
Don is up front, microphone in hand, and the bingo balls start percolating in the wind-driven drum next to him. He calls the first number in a buttery voice, and we begin. For full immersion, I’ve decided to smoke a cigarette per game. After three quick games, my head is swirling, my hands are shaking, and I’m pretty sure I won that Block of Nine with the Wild Card, but the surge of nicotine in my bloodstream would have distorted my voice. Yelling “Bangoo” in a crowded room is not my idea of blending in, so I keep my head down, ask Rose for advice and try not to embarrass myself.
I lose game after game – the Arrow, the Six Pack, the Picture Frame and the Layer Cake - never even close to bingo. I start to wonder when the beer guy will come around, but Rose explains that there is no liquor at bingo. A shame, I think, but then again, booze leads to chatter, and chatter leads to distraction, and that’s a combination for losing, so no booze at bingo.
As my unlucky streak continues, I notice the employees circling the room, selling pull tab lottery tickets for $10 a pack. Irene Garceau, sitting next to me, explains that these tickets are a huge seller. She tells me lots of people spend over $100 a night on these, hoping to win far more than that, noting that a woman won over $5,500 a few weeks back. The employees carry the packs in little plastic trays, like workers at a blood drive, collecting money and dishing out packs of lottery tickets like gauze pads and “Be Nice. I Donated!” stickers.
Finally, as I creep into the second half of my pack of cigarettes, I wonder if I can use my paper bag for the vomit that’s surely to come, but instead I order some fries, light another smoke and prepare to conquer the Martini glass game that’s up next. “Don’t forget the olive!” cracks Norma Jean Smith, a veteran caller who sits down at my table to dispense wisdom. I try a joke of my own, hearing Don call, “B-12.” I add, “That’s the closest anyone’s getting to a vitamin tonight!” but it’s met with silence.
By the time the Carryover Coverall approaches, I’ve had enough fried food and cigarettes to contemplate looking for a portable defibrillator, but Rose interrupts me to tell me how much she enjoys bingo. “I haven’t won in a while,” she tells me. When I ask her about the ban that may mean she can’t smoke in here, she looks at the big board, taps an ash into the ashtray and says, “Smoking is my only pleasure.”
Just before the night ends, Rose wins a few hundred bucks on a Regular Bingo game. “Come back,” she tells me, “you brought me luck.” And as the night ends, Linda Lampon, Irene’s daughter, also wins, yelling “Bingo!” like she sat on a tack. Then Don bids goodnight, reminding us all to take care on the roads. Irene turns to me and says, “There are nice people at Bingo.” And I agree. Nice people who love their routine, love their game and love their smoking. And it would seem a shame to change any of it.
Monday, May 28, 2007
One Day We Shall Look Back on This, and I Shall Blame You
The season of shame is over. With summer’s advent we say goodbye to that most dreaded of events - those two hours when every sane parent prays for an asbestos scare or a teamster strike – that one scheduled activity that may haunt us and our progeny forever – summer is when we say goodbye to the Dance Recital.
The Dance Recital is as close as most of us will ever get to structured child abuse, and we should all be ashamed. Every late spring we find ourselves, ninety minutes early, clutching a bouquet of cheap flowers in noisy cellophane, depositing the grandparents in seats just close enough to see movement and color but far enough away not to notice the kiddie burlesque abomination about to unfold in front of them, while we wrestle with a video camera from 1993 with the detachable sound cone and boom mike. Meanwhile, your wife is trying to wrestle your daughter into some sort of taffeta sequined ball gown chopped at the knees and staple a plastic bowler on the bewildered kid’s sweaty head. You stay safely away, knowing your child’s muffled cries from beneath the non-breathable fabric will only fill you with more guilt.
Then, the lights go down, the music comes up and you glance at the program to see what this year’s theme is. But it won’t really matter because there are only so many ways you can tie together Thursday’s Hip Hop III Advanced with Monday’s Pre-K Fish Hop and Tumbleriffic class. Oddly, both work perfectly in such annual themes as “Dance Around the World,” “Dancin’ USA,” and “All Growed Up! Look at Me!”
The dancers’ names and outfits may change year after year, but every dance recital has the same cast – the fish-eyed kid who’s got to be hiding gills underneath that spangly top and jazzy skirt; or the tarted-up 8th grader who does a pre-dance pole routine while all the dads immediately distract themselves by the expiration date on their camera’s batteries. Nothing like staring at the ceiling while AC/DC’s “You Shook Me” blares over the auditorium’s speakers – you know just one glance at the stage and you’ll either turn to salt or take one huge step closer to becoming just like your pervy uncle Clint, who’s probably in the balcony right now filming the routine for posterity. Or the three-year old with the thousand-yard stare who has no business being in public much less in a poodle skirt and bobbie socks in front of hundreds of strangers. She’s been there since dawn, with the other polka dot chain gang, and she’s consumed twice her weight in Sour Patch Kids and mini Krackle bars. Just as the music starts for her first number, Our Little Pumpkin gets shoved onstage, stares offstage while every adult points and yells at her, and then, mercifully, Pumpkin is yanked off by the dance instructor’s assistant, who patrols the stage like a Stalag 17guard.
Or the chubby kid who is, by far, the best dancer in the building but those peanut cluster bars taste sooo good after practice that you really can’t blame her. Or the poor jug-headed child with ears the size of manhole covers – sadly, no neon sunbonnet or tribal headdress will hide those appendages, and the crowd gasps whenever the child leaps, fearing she’ll take flight, those enormous wings on her head lifting her to the rafters. No dance recital would be complete without the little girl who just doesn’t have the beat, stumbling around like she’s had a few shots backstage, only the stiff tautness of the gold-lacquered bodice stretched across her belly keeping her from hitting the floor and staying there until “Natural Woman” ends and the guards drag her offstage.
Each dance is relentless in it persistent howl of bizarre mediocrity, and I find myself praying for Albanian separatists to burst through the doors, ready to take us all hostage – but they’d see the lack of rhythm, the ill-fitting costumes and the torturous interpretation of Hall and Oates’ “Maneater” and they’d hightail it out of there, their grenades and dignity still firmly intact.
There are some in the audience who seem to really be enjoying themselves – the same parents who never miss the new Kidz Bops CD and who think nothing of car windows slathered in stickers. There’s no doubt that if you’re cruising down the highway, cranking “Banana Phone” your lateral vision obscured by the many moods of My Pretty Pony, you can’t wait for Dance Recital season.
Another truth of these events is how often the dance instructors find themselves onstage as well. OK, we get it! You Love Dance! That’s why we drag our kids to your studio next to the GNC store at the mall near Osco Drug – because you love it so much. But do you need to find yourself in the middle of every other routine? Maybe you should stop shouting from the wings – you’re no better than the little league coach who tells every kid what to do on every pitch and batted ball. “Step two and shake your bum,” “Throw it to second base. SECOND BASE!” “Hop step two and sashay. Sashay! Come ON!” "Listen! Why won't you LISTEN?"
“Hey Mickey” followed by “Sea Cruise” followed by “Let’s Get This Party Started” followed by the theme song from The Aristocats . . . I’m sure this recital is being simulcast in Purgatory, and as the adults come out for the final dance – usually an awkward tap dance with our brave dance instructor and academy owner/operator leading the charge front and center – it strikes me. The only reason we’re doing this is because there are seven or eight grown women who won’t let go. They loved dance so much as children that they’ve created an entire universe in support of their habit – a universe filled with weekly lessons, absurdly priced outfits, cheap flowers, video cameras and gaudy lipstick, not to mention shoes, sequins, hairspray, leotards and a DVD to relive this horror any time we want. No one ever told them they really didn’t have any rhythm and that unless you’re on Broadway, sweetie, them tap shoes ain’t good for nothin’ but killing bugs. Just like the psycho soccer dads, loony hockey moms and third base coaches from hell, these people are doing this for themselves. The kids are just a means to an end. And if that entails you forking over hundreds of dollars and dragging your kid to lessons twice a week for 47 weeks a year while Pumpkin covers every last free space on that backseat window with a Strawberry Shortcake sticker, then so be it – that’s really your problem to handle – just don’t be tardy picking Pumpkin up or it’s a $15 late charge.
Well, I think my daughter’s done with dance. Sure, she’ll miss it a bit next fall, but by the time spring rolls around and she’s outside with mud in her toes and sun on her face, she’ll barely remember the forced labor two-step jamboree we made her endure last year. But, if in twenty years, as we find ourselves in a shouting match over Thanksgiving dinner, our little girl blaming the dance recital and our ignorance for her shortcomings as she shouts about how her Beachside Tabouli Shack business model would work if we’d only never let her dance in a recital, at least we’ll have the DVD.
The Dance Recital is as close as most of us will ever get to structured child abuse, and we should all be ashamed. Every late spring we find ourselves, ninety minutes early, clutching a bouquet of cheap flowers in noisy cellophane, depositing the grandparents in seats just close enough to see movement and color but far enough away not to notice the kiddie burlesque abomination about to unfold in front of them, while we wrestle with a video camera from 1993 with the detachable sound cone and boom mike. Meanwhile, your wife is trying to wrestle your daughter into some sort of taffeta sequined ball gown chopped at the knees and staple a plastic bowler on the bewildered kid’s sweaty head. You stay safely away, knowing your child’s muffled cries from beneath the non-breathable fabric will only fill you with more guilt.
Then, the lights go down, the music comes up and you glance at the program to see what this year’s theme is. But it won’t really matter because there are only so many ways you can tie together Thursday’s Hip Hop III Advanced with Monday’s Pre-K Fish Hop and Tumbleriffic class. Oddly, both work perfectly in such annual themes as “Dance Around the World,” “Dancin’ USA,” and “All Growed Up! Look at Me!”
The dancers’ names and outfits may change year after year, but every dance recital has the same cast – the fish-eyed kid who’s got to be hiding gills underneath that spangly top and jazzy skirt; or the tarted-up 8th grader who does a pre-dance pole routine while all the dads immediately distract themselves by the expiration date on their camera’s batteries. Nothing like staring at the ceiling while AC/DC’s “You Shook Me” blares over the auditorium’s speakers – you know just one glance at the stage and you’ll either turn to salt or take one huge step closer to becoming just like your pervy uncle Clint, who’s probably in the balcony right now filming the routine for posterity. Or the three-year old with the thousand-yard stare who has no business being in public much less in a poodle skirt and bobbie socks in front of hundreds of strangers. She’s been there since dawn, with the other polka dot chain gang, and she’s consumed twice her weight in Sour Patch Kids and mini Krackle bars. Just as the music starts for her first number, Our Little Pumpkin gets shoved onstage, stares offstage while every adult points and yells at her, and then, mercifully, Pumpkin is yanked off by the dance instructor’s assistant, who patrols the stage like a Stalag 17guard.
Or the chubby kid who is, by far, the best dancer in the building but those peanut cluster bars taste sooo good after practice that you really can’t blame her. Or the poor jug-headed child with ears the size of manhole covers – sadly, no neon sunbonnet or tribal headdress will hide those appendages, and the crowd gasps whenever the child leaps, fearing she’ll take flight, those enormous wings on her head lifting her to the rafters. No dance recital would be complete without the little girl who just doesn’t have the beat, stumbling around like she’s had a few shots backstage, only the stiff tautness of the gold-lacquered bodice stretched across her belly keeping her from hitting the floor and staying there until “Natural Woman” ends and the guards drag her offstage.
Each dance is relentless in it persistent howl of bizarre mediocrity, and I find myself praying for Albanian separatists to burst through the doors, ready to take us all hostage – but they’d see the lack of rhythm, the ill-fitting costumes and the torturous interpretation of Hall and Oates’ “Maneater” and they’d hightail it out of there, their grenades and dignity still firmly intact.
There are some in the audience who seem to really be enjoying themselves – the same parents who never miss the new Kidz Bops CD and who think nothing of car windows slathered in stickers. There’s no doubt that if you’re cruising down the highway, cranking “Banana Phone” your lateral vision obscured by the many moods of My Pretty Pony, you can’t wait for Dance Recital season.
Another truth of these events is how often the dance instructors find themselves onstage as well. OK, we get it! You Love Dance! That’s why we drag our kids to your studio next to the GNC store at the mall near Osco Drug – because you love it so much. But do you need to find yourself in the middle of every other routine? Maybe you should stop shouting from the wings – you’re no better than the little league coach who tells every kid what to do on every pitch and batted ball. “Step two and shake your bum,” “Throw it to second base. SECOND BASE!” “Hop step two and sashay. Sashay! Come ON!” "Listen! Why won't you LISTEN?"
“Hey Mickey” followed by “Sea Cruise” followed by “Let’s Get This Party Started” followed by the theme song from The Aristocats . . . I’m sure this recital is being simulcast in Purgatory, and as the adults come out for the final dance – usually an awkward tap dance with our brave dance instructor and academy owner/operator leading the charge front and center – it strikes me. The only reason we’re doing this is because there are seven or eight grown women who won’t let go. They loved dance so much as children that they’ve created an entire universe in support of their habit – a universe filled with weekly lessons, absurdly priced outfits, cheap flowers, video cameras and gaudy lipstick, not to mention shoes, sequins, hairspray, leotards and a DVD to relive this horror any time we want. No one ever told them they really didn’t have any rhythm and that unless you’re on Broadway, sweetie, them tap shoes ain’t good for nothin’ but killing bugs. Just like the psycho soccer dads, loony hockey moms and third base coaches from hell, these people are doing this for themselves. The kids are just a means to an end. And if that entails you forking over hundreds of dollars and dragging your kid to lessons twice a week for 47 weeks a year while Pumpkin covers every last free space on that backseat window with a Strawberry Shortcake sticker, then so be it – that’s really your problem to handle – just don’t be tardy picking Pumpkin up or it’s a $15 late charge.
Well, I think my daughter’s done with dance. Sure, she’ll miss it a bit next fall, but by the time spring rolls around and she’s outside with mud in her toes and sun on her face, she’ll barely remember the forced labor two-step jamboree we made her endure last year. But, if in twenty years, as we find ourselves in a shouting match over Thanksgiving dinner, our little girl blaming the dance recital and our ignorance for her shortcomings as she shouts about how her Beachside Tabouli Shack business model would work if we’d only never let her dance in a recital, at least we’ll have the DVD.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Poppa Smurf and the Ten Amendments
There comes a point in every parent’s life when it dawns on you that your kids may need a little extra help after school. Mine came in a double dose this past week from my son, now a 12-year old sixth grader. The subject of the film, Raiders of the Lost Ark came up. We’d rented it and planned on watching the movie together. Sam asked for a quick plot summary, and I obliged, explaining that Han Solo is essentially trying to save the Ark of the Covenant from the Nazis just before World War II. Sam then asked, “What’s the Ark of the Covenant?” Wince number one.
I explained that the Ark was the sacred vault for the Ten Commandments. Sam paused, looked at me, and shook his head, smiling. “Dad, you mean the Ten Amendments. They’re called amendments.” Wince number two. In that one moment I thought back to a fall afternoon in 1992 on Long Island. I was coaching middle school football with a fellow teacher – Lou. Lou and I knew nothing about football, and as Lou was fresh off the campus of Holy Cross College, we spent lots of time talking about religion. On that afternoon, I told Lou that if I ever had kids, I wasn’t sure I’d make them go to Catholic school like I’d endured. Lou concurred but then warned me – “But what about all the stuff we learned? What about all the cultural references that everyone knows because of a religious education? Your kids will miss all of that.” I didn’t give it much thought until almost fifteen years later when my son dismissed my plot summary as the ramblings of an historically confused man. I guess it was better than saying that the Ark held the “Ten Condiments,” (Thou shalt mix horseradish and sour cream for a tangy, satisfying dip for baby carrots”), but still, it made me wonder if I’ve been setting the kid up for failure later in life.
My concerns only got worse just yesterday when I sat down for dinner and noticed a picture on the kitchen counter. It was of Poppa Smurf, and I wondered aloud who’d printed it up, sure that my kids have never seen an episode of The Smurfs, which is good, because other than The Power Rangers, never was the bar for American TV programming set so low. Sam admitted it was his, so I had to ask why he’d printed it up. “Poppa Smurf is a famous historical figure, and I thought it was cool, and I want to hang it up in my room.” Third and final wince.
I’ve got some work to do. I think I’ll start by explaining that Poppa Smurf was the one responsible for giving Han Solo the Ten Amendments for safe-keeping from the Blue Power Ranger, just after he parted the Peppermint Stick forest in Candy Land. Every journey starts with a first step, and mine starts here.
I explained that the Ark was the sacred vault for the Ten Commandments. Sam paused, looked at me, and shook his head, smiling. “Dad, you mean the Ten Amendments. They’re called amendments.” Wince number two. In that one moment I thought back to a fall afternoon in 1992 on Long Island. I was coaching middle school football with a fellow teacher – Lou. Lou and I knew nothing about football, and as Lou was fresh off the campus of Holy Cross College, we spent lots of time talking about religion. On that afternoon, I told Lou that if I ever had kids, I wasn’t sure I’d make them go to Catholic school like I’d endured. Lou concurred but then warned me – “But what about all the stuff we learned? What about all the cultural references that everyone knows because of a religious education? Your kids will miss all of that.” I didn’t give it much thought until almost fifteen years later when my son dismissed my plot summary as the ramblings of an historically confused man. I guess it was better than saying that the Ark held the “Ten Condiments,” (Thou shalt mix horseradish and sour cream for a tangy, satisfying dip for baby carrots”), but still, it made me wonder if I’ve been setting the kid up for failure later in life.
My concerns only got worse just yesterday when I sat down for dinner and noticed a picture on the kitchen counter. It was of Poppa Smurf, and I wondered aloud who’d printed it up, sure that my kids have never seen an episode of The Smurfs, which is good, because other than The Power Rangers, never was the bar for American TV programming set so low. Sam admitted it was his, so I had to ask why he’d printed it up. “Poppa Smurf is a famous historical figure, and I thought it was cool, and I want to hang it up in my room.” Third and final wince.
I’ve got some work to do. I think I’ll start by explaining that Poppa Smurf was the one responsible for giving Han Solo the Ten Amendments for safe-keeping from the Blue Power Ranger, just after he parted the Peppermint Stick forest in Candy Land. Every journey starts with a first step, and mine starts here.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Sounds Good, Big Guy!
It’s time to put an end to the bullshit. It’s gone on far too long, and I’ve had enough. I realize I may not be the most memorable person, not one to make a lasting impression, devoid of major disfigurements or a unique stench to help you recall my name (“Hmmm, club foot – shrunken ear – smells like burnt hair and marmalade – this must be Tim. 'Hi Tim!'”), but did you really need to call me “Big Guy”? Let's dispense with this charade and admit you can’t remember my name although we’ve met twice, I had dinner at your house, and I’m pretty sure you were lying when you told me your favorite baseball team was the Kansas City Seahawks.
Let’s recount, shall we? I was leaving the supermarket on a Sunday morning, and yes, you clearly were on your way home from church. I could see the smug self-satisfaction on your face along with a smidge of communion wine on your chin, and as I waved hello, you looked at me, hesitated and said, “There’s the big guy!” and kept right on walking into the store. I might've been OK with “Hey guy!” or “What’s up, buddy?,” the two standard dammit-I-should-know-your-name-you-short-bastard salutations, but you had to add insult to ignorance by calling me “Big Guy.” I guess if I were a big guy, such a comment would be mildly reassuring, but I’m as tall as Danny Devito and buy my clothes in the Husky Boys section of Lord and Taylor, so you should've said something along the lines of, "Hello little person - I recognize your face and small yet stout physique, as if Billy Barty's been dabbling with Human Growth Hormone, but I can't remember your name, my wee friend." But no, you had to go for “Big Guy.”
I bet you’re the kind of person who likes to say, “God love ya!” too. I’m sure you're always prefacing nasty, pointed references with that greeting. Things like, “Pal, God love ya, but you’re as dumb as a box of hammers.” Let’s stop pretending your semi-religious disclaimer in front of phrases like, “But I wouldn’t hire you to baby-sit my hamster,” or “But I could make a cable-knit sweater from your back hair,” really makes a difference. Telling me God does love me just before explaining how my bad breath could cause renal failure does me nor you any good.
You just can’t wait to say things like, “Don’t get me wrong,” can you? “Don’t get me wrong –I love crystal meth and porn just as much as the next guy, but I’ve got to get back to choir practice,” may sound rational, but please, stop this insanity and get some help.
And your emails? I wouldn’t be surprised if your co-workers get dozens of responses from you with just two words – “Sounds good!” Sounds good? What sounds good about the four-page email I just spent an hour writing to you about why my career is falling apart and how I think I’ve stolen enough Post-Its and staplers to open my own office supply kiosk at the flea market? You didn't even read it, did you? Were you so busy playing with your pencil fort that you figured “Sounds Good” would be enough to let me continue my downward spiral into career-ending turpitude while you whistled your day away? Be a man and send a response that cuts to the chase. Give me a simpler two-word response - “Up Yours.” “Up Yours” accomplishes the same sentiment, letting everyone know exactly where we stand with you, guy.
So, to summarize, next time we see each other, look me dead in the eye, take a deep, cleansing breath, and say, “Hey Tubby! I should remember who you are but don’t, so Up Yours!” Give me a huge, genuine smile and never break stride. After that, I think we could be friends.
Let’s recount, shall we? I was leaving the supermarket on a Sunday morning, and yes, you clearly were on your way home from church. I could see the smug self-satisfaction on your face along with a smidge of communion wine on your chin, and as I waved hello, you looked at me, hesitated and said, “There’s the big guy!” and kept right on walking into the store. I might've been OK with “Hey guy!” or “What’s up, buddy?,” the two standard dammit-I-should-know-your-name-you-short-bastard salutations, but you had to add insult to ignorance by calling me “Big Guy.” I guess if I were a big guy, such a comment would be mildly reassuring, but I’m as tall as Danny Devito and buy my clothes in the Husky Boys section of Lord and Taylor, so you should've said something along the lines of, "Hello little person - I recognize your face and small yet stout physique, as if Billy Barty's been dabbling with Human Growth Hormone, but I can't remember your name, my wee friend." But no, you had to go for “Big Guy.”
I bet you’re the kind of person who likes to say, “God love ya!” too. I’m sure you're always prefacing nasty, pointed references with that greeting. Things like, “Pal, God love ya, but you’re as dumb as a box of hammers.” Let’s stop pretending your semi-religious disclaimer in front of phrases like, “But I wouldn’t hire you to baby-sit my hamster,” or “But I could make a cable-knit sweater from your back hair,” really makes a difference. Telling me God does love me just before explaining how my bad breath could cause renal failure does me nor you any good.
You just can’t wait to say things like, “Don’t get me wrong,” can you? “Don’t get me wrong –I love crystal meth and porn just as much as the next guy, but I’ve got to get back to choir practice,” may sound rational, but please, stop this insanity and get some help.
And your emails? I wouldn’t be surprised if your co-workers get dozens of responses from you with just two words – “Sounds good!” Sounds good? What sounds good about the four-page email I just spent an hour writing to you about why my career is falling apart and how I think I’ve stolen enough Post-Its and staplers to open my own office supply kiosk at the flea market? You didn't even read it, did you? Were you so busy playing with your pencil fort that you figured “Sounds Good” would be enough to let me continue my downward spiral into career-ending turpitude while you whistled your day away? Be a man and send a response that cuts to the chase. Give me a simpler two-word response - “Up Yours.” “Up Yours” accomplishes the same sentiment, letting everyone know exactly where we stand with you, guy.
So, to summarize, next time we see each other, look me dead in the eye, take a deep, cleansing breath, and say, “Hey Tubby! I should remember who you are but don’t, so Up Yours!” Give me a huge, genuine smile and never break stride. After that, I think we could be friends.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Britney, Fame Like Ours is Toxic
Dear Britney -
This fame thing’s a bitch, huh? I know how you feel. It can tear a person apart, that’s for sure. One minute you’re writing a few hundred words for the local newspaper about fanny packs, and the next minute your well-shorn hoo-haw is out and about for the whole world to see. Let’s be real, Britney. We both love the attention, the fame, the celebrity, but it comes at a price. Selling 417 books out of the trunk of my 2003 Honda is full of glamour, but there's a dark side to it. That hollow feeling – whether you’re dropping off three copies for consignment sales at The Book Nook, or you’re getting slapped with a restraining order from your ex with the cookie duster mustache, leaving you alone and angry, smashing his car windshield with an umbrella – we both live it every day. I mean it's freaky how similar our lives have become.
It’s the emptiness that stings. You don’t miss those nights on arena stages, staring into thousands of adoring faces, their eyes looking right through you. Just like that night I had at the Toadstool, when I arrived to read a few essays and sign books. Looking out at the empty chairs they’d set up for me, watching people avoid eye contact for fear of acknowledging me, alone and dejected next to a stack of unsold books, I felt the same way you did. People just don’t know us like we know ourselves.
And even though blowing off steam at exclusive clubs without any underwear can be fun, the next day we're back to the juggernaut of fame, trying our best not to get crushed. I guess I'm lucky, in a way. When I shaved my head, I begged someone to take my picture so I could prove I'd done it. It's been a wee bit different for you- but basically the same. I looked like a naked mole rat, just like you. I looked kinda sad after it was over, just like you. We're connected on so many levels it's crazy, even toxic.
And the addictions? It's the worst part, isn't it? If I eat one more caramel bullseye or another packet of Suzy Q's, I swear I'll be dead. Granted, it's not expensive booze or high-quality weed that the father of my children left in the other baby bag from before all this went down, but it's basically the same. We need what's bad for us because we're searching for what's good for us.
And everyone hassled us for having a few cocktails a few days after our kid was born, didn't they! They all wanted to know why you weren't busy being a parent. Ditto for me, sister. Ten days after my son was born, I went to a wedding, and wouldn't you know it, some lady got all in my face on the flight home just because I needed her barf bag too. I didn’t appreciate her smirk as she handed it over, asking me, "I wonder who's getting up with the baby tonight." Babies having babies – ain’t that the truth.
And the back and forth from rehab? Been there - done that. True, it wasn't really rehab. It was more like 6th grade swim team practice, but I never even put on my suit, hiding in the phone booth, crying on the phone with my mom until she agreed to stop laughing and pick me up. You were totally afraid to bare your soul to the other addicts just like I was afraid to bare my belly as my Grimace rolls cascaded over my Speedo. It's no picnic letting others see us for who we are, I know, I know.
And the breasts? Everyone talks and talks about them, don't they? A few years ago, I left my house to go for a jog when this paparazzi - well, actually, he was a nine-year old kid just getting off the school bus, but he practically pounced on me and said, in a real obnoxious way, "Hey, you got big boobies - where'd you get them boobies? You got boobies like a girl!" The he started pointing at me, screaming, "Girl! Girl! You're a girl!" So when millions of people wonder if your boobies are real and how they defied gravity that time on the MTV Video Awards when you gyrated around in green leather and spandex with an enormous boa constrictor coiled around your sweaty neck, I could totally identify. At least deep down, we each know God gave us our boobies and wants us to be proud of them.
So do what I do. The next time people ask you when your next book is coming out or your next CD is ready for release, just put on your sunglasses, stroke your hairless head and remember that these troubles are temporary, but fame is forever. So call me when you get out of rehab. We’ve got lots to share.
This fame thing’s a bitch, huh? I know how you feel. It can tear a person apart, that’s for sure. One minute you’re writing a few hundred words for the local newspaper about fanny packs, and the next minute your well-shorn hoo-haw is out and about for the whole world to see. Let’s be real, Britney. We both love the attention, the fame, the celebrity, but it comes at a price. Selling 417 books out of the trunk of my 2003 Honda is full of glamour, but there's a dark side to it. That hollow feeling – whether you’re dropping off three copies for consignment sales at The Book Nook, or you’re getting slapped with a restraining order from your ex with the cookie duster mustache, leaving you alone and angry, smashing his car windshield with an umbrella – we both live it every day. I mean it's freaky how similar our lives have become.
It’s the emptiness that stings. You don’t miss those nights on arena stages, staring into thousands of adoring faces, their eyes looking right through you. Just like that night I had at the Toadstool, when I arrived to read a few essays and sign books. Looking out at the empty chairs they’d set up for me, watching people avoid eye contact for fear of acknowledging me, alone and dejected next to a stack of unsold books, I felt the same way you did. People just don’t know us like we know ourselves.
And even though blowing off steam at exclusive clubs without any underwear can be fun, the next day we're back to the juggernaut of fame, trying our best not to get crushed. I guess I'm lucky, in a way. When I shaved my head, I begged someone to take my picture so I could prove I'd done it. It's been a wee bit different for you- but basically the same. I looked like a naked mole rat, just like you. I looked kinda sad after it was over, just like you. We're connected on so many levels it's crazy, even toxic.
And the addictions? It's the worst part, isn't it? If I eat one more caramel bullseye or another packet of Suzy Q's, I swear I'll be dead. Granted, it's not expensive booze or high-quality weed that the father of my children left in the other baby bag from before all this went down, but it's basically the same. We need what's bad for us because we're searching for what's good for us.
And everyone hassled us for having a few cocktails a few days after our kid was born, didn't they! They all wanted to know why you weren't busy being a parent. Ditto for me, sister. Ten days after my son was born, I went to a wedding, and wouldn't you know it, some lady got all in my face on the flight home just because I needed her barf bag too. I didn’t appreciate her smirk as she handed it over, asking me, "I wonder who's getting up with the baby tonight." Babies having babies – ain’t that the truth.
And the back and forth from rehab? Been there - done that. True, it wasn't really rehab. It was more like 6th grade swim team practice, but I never even put on my suit, hiding in the phone booth, crying on the phone with my mom until she agreed to stop laughing and pick me up. You were totally afraid to bare your soul to the other addicts just like I was afraid to bare my belly as my Grimace rolls cascaded over my Speedo. It's no picnic letting others see us for who we are, I know, I know.
And the breasts? Everyone talks and talks about them, don't they? A few years ago, I left my house to go for a jog when this paparazzi - well, actually, he was a nine-year old kid just getting off the school bus, but he practically pounced on me and said, in a real obnoxious way, "Hey, you got big boobies - where'd you get them boobies? You got boobies like a girl!" The he started pointing at me, screaming, "Girl! Girl! You're a girl!" So when millions of people wonder if your boobies are real and how they defied gravity that time on the MTV Video Awards when you gyrated around in green leather and spandex with an enormous boa constrictor coiled around your sweaty neck, I could totally identify. At least deep down, we each know God gave us our boobies and wants us to be proud of them.
So do what I do. The next time people ask you when your next book is coming out or your next CD is ready for release, just put on your sunglasses, stroke your hairless head and remember that these troubles are temporary, but fame is forever. So call me when you get out of rehab. We’ve got lots to share.
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