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.
Monday, May 28, 2007
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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