I was recently watching a MasterClass with Salman Rushdie and he was talking about being intimidated by a blank page, and that resonated with me . . . . because of the opposite!
I LOVE a blank page! It’s irresistible, inspiring, tantalizing. I can’t wait to put a pen to a paper one, or start tapping at keys on a digital one, to mark it up with my inane prattle. I see empty lines or a unsullied notebook, and I’m compelled to sully it—
At the weekly “Shut Up and Write” meetup (one uninterrupted hour of creativity that has resulted in what you’re currently reading), I often go old school and write with a pen and notebook. In approaching it like that, I’ve learned that writer’s cramp (remember that?) feels so satisfying. “My hand hurts so I must’ve done something, right?”
Hmm . . . .
Doing something worthwhile, however, is always the challenge, right? I don’t take for granted how as soon as I start scribbling or typing, my pulse quickens, my chest becomes flush with adrenaline, and ray’s brain kicks into an ecstatic state that simultaneously seems like genius and idiocy. [*Insert ‘Why not both?’ meme*]
I’ve read that artificial intelligence (AI) programs are being developed to mimic creative writing, but churning out words and sentences and ideas without passion seems to be a soulless endeavor. Why say something if you’re not really saying something?
I am, therefore, I write.
At the beginning of the day, I guess it really is about letting my ego run amok. When it’s just us here—me, ray’s brain, a pen/keyboard, a blank page—that party can kind of go anyway it wants.
To wit:
He sits at the desk in his bedroom, just after sunset. The dying light of the day still has an ember or two of magic. The edges of the bed, the dresser, the pile of dirty laundry piled on the chair in the corner, all blur a little. Or soften (he’s got his reading glasses on, after all).
It’s one of those quiet, unremarkable moments that stack up and fill a life when he’s not particularly watching. He’ll probably never fully register this slice of time since there’s nothing noteworthy happening to mark it. But as his fingers continue across the keyboard, spilling thoughts into a digital document and moving around the pixels, the nothing becomes a little bit of a something. It’s granted a weird immortality of sorts, a recorded memory from his sliver of existence . . . .
If a bedroom sits empty at sunset, does it get dark?
“Look at me, I’m a philosophizer . . . .”
Maybe I’d still struggle with writing more if my brain wasn’t this never-ending tilt-a-whirl of stupid. Like, it’s easy to fill up a page if your inner monologue doesn’t ever stop to take a breath or have anything resembling a boundary. Quantity over more quantity, I’d say, is my biggest sin.
I’m glad that I’m on a first-name basis with words. Not that it helps me string any together in a cohesive or particularly useful manner. Kind of like that monkey hammering away at a mental typewriter in the hopes of stumbling upon a worthwhile thought or two after a century or so.
I suppose that any received instant I hold a romantic notion that I’m capable of crafting something beyond gibberish. “Crafting” is the emphasis here as it suggests a modicum of skill and intent that there may be significant evidence doesn’t exist in my efforts. “Honing my craft” is another ego-stroking cliche I could toss out here.
I talk about eliminating my expectations as a key to trying to be happy. That should be applied to writing as well. Expecting to create something worthwhile beyond polluting a clean page or blank screen may be a bar set too high. Sometimes, maybe the treasure is just the writing we do along the way.
Okay, hour’s up. Now I have to go shake the satisfying cramps out of my hand.
So a few months ago, I had gone out with a friend who I hadn’t seen in a while. At one point during the night, he said to me, “So, you work full-time at the magazine, you have the Damned Connecticut blog, the rayality thing, you’re married and have two kids who do all sorts of activities, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds about right.”
“So …” he continued. “When did you find time to write a book?”
I’ve actually been asked this question (or variations of it) at a few of my book signings, and I’d like to say, looking back, I have absolutely no idea how I did it. I mean, I know that the publishing company gave me a year to do it, and it got done and is now in print—and still available at Amazon.com, thank you very much—but it was definitely a challenge to say the least.
Okay, I do have *a clue* how I did it. About two or three months into the process, I woke up one night in a full-on panic attack. At that point, all I had done was about half of the first chapter, which is about Benedict Arnold, and I suddenly realized that at the pace I was writing, there was absolutely no way I was going to get it done by my deadline. I was totally overwhelmed, a feeling that only seemed more desperate at 3:17 a.m., as most things do at that hour. I was pacing around the bedroom, freaking out. I genuinely considered contacting the publisher and offering to send back my advance in order to be allowed to quit the project.
Obviously, it never came to that because despite my meltdown, the math prevailed.
And not the arithmetic involved with figuring out the money I would be paid (although that was a factor). No, I sat down with a calculator and figured out how I could write a book.
Essentially, I needed to have a completed manuscript of 70,000 words. Working backward, I wanted to be done with the original draft about a month ahead of the deadline so I could re-write it once or twice. From the moment I was freaking out to that target day, it was “only” 200 days away, thus, I needed to write 350 words a day to get it done on time.
Again, that doesn’t sound like a big deal—just a few paragraphs a day, right? But those had to be *researched* paragraphs since the book is a collection of historical biographies and just making stuff up is apparently frowned upon. (Note: Next book will be full of stuff I make up!) And that 350 words/day rate would be writing every single day with no time off.
Ultimately, that’s what I did. If I missed a day, or knew I was going to be busy and couldn’t write, I doubledowned and wrote 700 or, occasionally 1,050 words, if necessary. I know it’s maybe not the most romantic story, but hey, it worked. I was able to relax, stuck to the schedule, had no more freak outs and finished right on time. Sweet, right?
That being all said, this weekend, what with losing an hour to daylight savings time and other activities (like going to roller derby and The Connecticut Bride Expo; don’t ask!), is one where I would’ve been scrambling to make up missing words.
So rather than knocking out a long-winded and witty post, here are two things I’ve recently written for Damned Connecticut that you might enjoy:
The Dark Day – In Connecticut, we’ve been getting used to freaky storms and weird events over over the past few years lately—hurricanes, blizzards, Frankenstorms, tornadoes, even an earthquake—but none were unusual as the darkness that descended on May 19, 1780.
The Headless Horseman of Canton – New York isn’t the only state who has a legend about a headless equestrian phantom who terrorizes wayward travelers on lonely and dark back roads.
Sorry, I’ve been a bit distracted this week, so I thought I’d just share a few random things …
1. Mark your calendars: I have two speaking engagements lined up so that all my fans can come witness the joy of Connecticut Jerks live! First, I return to my old hometown Milford, on April 15 at the Milford Public Library—I expect all my Milford homies to turn out for this one, you know, despite the fact that I’m not particularly cool enough to refer to anyone as “my homie.” Next, on July 16, I will be discussing jerks at the Old State House in Hartford, so my Hartford-area posse should be in effect, again despite the fact that I’m not particularly cool enough to have a posse, either.
Still, come out and say hi, and I promise I’ll try to be more entertaining than a flood in the Alka-Seltzer factory.
2. The Golf Boys are back!!!
I didn’t think these four professionals golfers could top their first video, but color me wrong. “We’re goin’ insane, we’re goin’ Ben Crane … ka-kaw ka-kaw …” I mean, how does it get better than that? Oh yeah, all the proceeds for this video go to charity, too! Watch early, watch often.
Speaking of watching stuff …
3. Edgar Has His Own Show!
The delightfully eccentric Edgar Oliver is the host of the new series “Odd Folks Home” from Science channel, and really, there is no one more perfect for the job. (Love this story of his from “The Moth.”) And yes, between Edgar’s campy dramatic flair and the freaks they’ve chosen to profile, the show is as wonderfully weird as you might hope it could be.
And on the subject of the odd and weird …
4. This has been a terrifically weird week here in Connecticut – As many of you already know, I scour Connecticut news sites every day looking for odd news for Damned Connecticut—there is no magic aggregator of such links, so it’s a task I undertake on my own. What’s interesting to me is that I can go weeks between unusual things happening, then all of a sudden, bang! You get two or three weird stories in a row.
Well, the past five days have been an outright bizarre bonanza! Among other things ….
Six days in and March is shaping up to be the freakiest of months—and the full moon isn’t even for another three weeks! I have a feeling that this month may be quite the ride before it’s over … sit back and enjoy, my friends.
I’ve never understood the hype around the Super Bowl halftime show.
I suppose people think it matters because there are about a billion or so eyeballs on the screen—careers can be made or broken with a great or bad performance. Everyone hails Prince’s terrific performance from a few years ago, and we’re all still scratching our heads over exactly what it was that the Black-Eyed Peas did two years ago. And of course, Janet Jackson’s legendary wardrobe malfunction cannot be erased from the national consciousness (despite our earnest efforts).
Last year’s performance by Madonna was generally entertaining, although the best part was Richard Simmons lookalike Andy Lewis’ amazing work on the slackline—
How many times do you think he inadvertently groined or strangled himself learning that set of skills? Yowch!
Regardless, the Super Bowl halftime show really is playing a few songs in the middle of the NFL championship game when most people are either attacking the buffet or in the bathroom purging for the second half. Putting a big famous musical act in the middle of it all just seems to be adding more noise to the biggest commercial of the year. Aside from the actual game (for me), it all just sort of blends together.
My suggestion for a performance that no one will forget?
South Africa’s Die Antwoord—
I warn you: This video is NOT SAFE FOR WORK! It also may be considered OFFENSIVE, CRUDE, LEWD AND RUDE in many parts, but … the song is catchy and the video is … well … the most entertaining thing you will see today.
Now that’s entertainment!
And can you imagine the moment after the performance is over. “Now back to our announcers Jim Nantz and Phil Simms ….”
Jim and Phil [in booth, mouths dropped open]: ….. *
A few words about Die Antwoord—think of them like Marilyn Manson, an act specifically created to shock and offend. The two singers, Ninja and Yolandi, have talked about being in character (think David Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust phase). By the way, they are a couple and have a child together.
According to Wikipedia:
When asked if he was playing a character, Ninja said, “Ninja is, how can I say, like Superman is to Clark Kent. The only difference is, I don’t take off this fokken Superman suit.” They have described their work as “documentary fiction” and “exaggerated experience” designed for shock value.
If you wondering about the hate for Lady Gaga, apparently she asked them to open for her during her South African tour, and this video was their response. (“Uh … so I guess that’s a NO, then …”)
Check out the making of “Fatty Boom Boom,” which will allay some of your feelings about what you just saw. Bottom line: It’s all an act … and a rather entertaining one!
So this morning I was awakened at 5:30 a.m.—like I have been for the last 6 or 7 days in a row—by the shrill chirping of a bird outside my window.
Now I know you might be thinking, “Wow, what a light sleeper!” but this particular feathered “friend” (possibly straight from a perch next in Satan’s aviary) and its “song” are so loud that it also woke up my wife, who can sleep through the godless racket that is my snoring. That should give you an indication of the volume. This thing puts the Harpies to shame.
As I lay there *not* sleeping, I considered what might be the most satisfying way to bring about the demise of this creature—you know, because interrupting my precious beauty slumber is a crime worthy of death.
A few ideas came to mind:
Getting a pet owl to hunt it down, catch it and rip it apart with its razor-like talons—they are killing machines, for what it’s worth. Of course, then I might have to deal with the owl hooting all night.
Using a flame thrower to incinerate it—it’s got to taste like chicken.
Snapping its avian neck with my bare hands, you know, because there’s nothing sweeter than crushing the life out of another creature with your bare hands … er, or so I hear.
Even though we have a pet parakeet of which I’m pretty fond (it was that or a hairless cat—uck!), overall, I’m not a big fan of birds, unless they’ve been deep fried or covered with bacon, stuffed and roasted for hours. When I used to work at Frank’s Nursery & Crafts back in the day, I could never understand why people would regularly spend hundreds of dollars on bird seed. As direct descendants of dinosaurs, these winged pests have been for millions of years—they hardly need our help to survive. Trust me when I tell you that if you were starving to death, they wouldn’t help you. As a matter of fact, buzzards would hover above while you expire, then they and all sorts of other carrion would feast on your corpse.
In short, I agree with Buddha*—birds can go flock themselves.
[*It was in the 3rd chapter of his autobiography, I believe, after the part about “Lead, follow or get the heck out of the way!” Or was that Ted Turner? I get all of Jane Fonda’s exes mixed up.]
Anyhoo, my mother likes to feed the birds, and for years, has tried to lure hummingbirds to her feeder, but without much success. Last summer, when we were in Colorado and staying at the infamous Murder Cabin, there were a few hummingbirds around, which allowed to get me to get this kind of photo.
I’d post more, but I think that’s rubbing it in my mother’s face enough.
Speaking of my family and song birds, that is something we are definitely not: musically gifted. Actually, I’d say we are musically bankrupt, although my older son seems to be able to carry a tune and can play the piano by ear. (Freak!) For a long time, I questioned whether my younger son was of my direct lineage—his hair was on the blonde side, which doesn’t even remotely match me or my wife—until I heard him really “sing.” Although enthusiastic, the experience erased *all* doubt that he was descended from my tone-deaf bloodline.
Obviously, I have no illusions about how bad my singing is—and trust me, it’s truly putrid. When it comes to having to sing “Happy Birthday,” I can guarantee you that I’m pretty much lip-synching and letting others carry the tune. Or maybe I’m whisper-singing, which masks some of the awful. Overall, I’ve been fairly successful in hiding my horrific warbling, except for one fateful night …
[*cue rayality flashback waviness … or just flicker your eyelids a bit, thanks*]
A few of you may have heard this story already—I know my friend Milo is already giggling since he was there when this fateful event unfolded. Some of the basic details are fuzzy, possibly obscured by the mists of time or, more likely, blocked by a brain trying to forget away a traumatic moment.
Anyway, Milo and I were at this live show in a local hall—I want to say his now-wife Ivette was there also, but again, I’ve desperately tried to forget the details. (Sorry Ivette, either way!) It was a variety show of sorts, with local singers entertaining the crowd.
At some point in the evening, one of the women got up and started channeling her inner Diana Ross, breaking out into “Reach Out and Touch”
For the proper effect, please play this while you continue to read.
If you’re not familiar with the song, it’s popular sing-along, which, if I had known at the time, would’ve sent me scrambling to the men’s room to hide. But I was completely oblivious, so I was caught up in and enjoying the moment as the singer rolled through the chorus:
“Reach out and touch somebody’s hand, and make this world a better place, if you can …”
After singing it a few times, she began to work the crowd like the supreme diva, walking around, throwing in some comments to pump everyone up and extolling others to sing along with her. Before I really could process what was happening, she was standing in front of me.
Smiling at me, she sang the lead up to the chorus and then—
[Oh. my. god.NO!]
—she took the microphone and put it right in my face.
And I mean right in my face, about a millimeter from my lips.
I froze. Nowhere to run, no time to react, no chance of dematerializing into a puddle of carbon atoms and water on the spot. Then she nodded as the musical cue came around.
I didn’t know what else to do … I took a deep breath and—
“REEEEEEEEEEAAAAACCCCCCHHHHH OUT AND TOUCH
SOMEBODY’S hand …
make this world … a better place …
if you …
… can …”
Mere words on a blog can’t convey how awful the noise that came from my throat was. It was like nails on a chalkboard + a moose being crushed in a trash compactor + Fran Drescher after gargling glass x 1 billion to the billionth power. Or worse.
Needless to say, Milo was hysterical (and even now, decades later, he still laughs—hard—about it, as well he should). The singer was a real pro, almost able to mask the shock on her face with a smile that’d make Chuck Woolery jealous. She nodded encouragement, but her eyes were pleading, “Child, for the love of Jesus H. Christ, please please please never sing another note as long as any of us live.”
The only good part for all of us is that it was only a one-time event. That freakin’ bird will be back there tomorrow … maybe I should try serenading it. Maybe that will change its tune!
So as many of you know, I absolutely hate my birthday—I don’t need to be reminded that I’m more than halfway to Betty White’s age, thanks! In addition, I already know that if I’m absolutely lucky and manage to survive all sorts of disease and misfortune, the best I can hope for is another 170 years or so before the odometer runs out and I drop dead, which isn’t nearly enough time to get everything I need done.
Of course, when I was younger, I was like most kids and enjoyed my fair share of birthday parties. The one that jumps out at me—literally—was the surprise party my parents threw for me when I was 13.
I truly had no idea it was coming, and was completely oblivious that Friday night my father and grandfather took me out shopping for a weight-lifting bench. I should’ve known something was up—it was the only time ever that the two of them had taken me to a store that didn’t sell building supplies or hardware. They were both straight arrows, and both were acting pretty goofy; at one point, they grabbed a football and were throwing it around the store, which in retrospect, I realize was to stall. At the time, it was just fun.
Anyway, when we got home, I noticed our dog Smokey was in his crate in the dining room, which was odd, but before I could think about it too much, my parents told me to take the carton with my new weight bench into the basement. I went down the short but dark stairs—the switch was at the bottom—and flipped on the lights and stepped into the room.
I should mention at this point, like many kids, I always had a slight fear of going into the dark basement.
As the lights came on, there was an eruption of what *probably* was celebratory screams. I’ll remember to my dying day—which I thought had come at that moment—one of my friends at the time leapt off the couch and directly at me. Of course, I recognized him immediately, but the incongruity of him suddenly appearing out of the dark of what I thought was an empty basement and then hurtling like a banshee through the air at me was a bit … well, SURPRISING! I literally fell over backward in shock.
Apparently, my “loving” mother had told them that she was going for “heart attack.” Mission accomplished! If that happened to me today, I’d drop dead of a coronary.
But lucky for you all, I haven’t. Yet.
My other particularly memorable birthday was 19 years ago, when I turned … uh, well the number isn’t important. Suffice to say it was more than 13. This time, I was the one planning the surprise.
This was back in the day when my wife Sue and I were still dating. It was 1993, and after two-and-a-half years of exclusivity, we both knew we were the “one” for each other. We’d had open discussions about getting married, and knowing that some day we’d get engaged, my wife made me promise two things: 1.) That I don’t tell anyone first and it be a surprise for her and everyone (because my sister’s husband had told us all before proposing to my sister, which sort of took some of the fun out of finding out), and 2.) That I not ask her father’s permission first because she was not “some piece of property, like a cow, to be bartered for.” (I should’ve *known* right at that point, right?)
So in January of 1993, while my then-girlfriend Sue and I were driving around, I came up with a plan. “You know what I want for my birthday this year?” I said at some point after having conveniently steered the discussion in that direction. “Rather than any gifts, I just want you to take me out for a nice dinner somewhere.” She agreed, and the pieces started falling in place.
Right after Valentine’s Day, I went and bought the ring (they’re cheaper then, by the way), and spent the next three months checking on it every day, like some sort of Señor Wiences routine. (“You still in box? Sí. S’all right? S’right.”) As my birthday got closer, I finalized the details for my special dinner—we were going to The Rusty Scupper by the water in New Haven on Sunday afternoon. As pure luck would have it, since it was my birthday, my grandparents decided to invite all my family and Sue’s family to their apartment for later that night to celebrate me getting older; they had no idea that they had played right into my hands.
Cut to me, twiddling my fingers á la Mr. Burns: “Exxxcellent.”
I also helped sell the surprise. A few days before the question was to be popped, I was talking on the phone with Sue, and mentioned how someone I knew had gotten engaged. I said I was jealous and wished that I had saved up enough money to get a ring, and that she shouldn’t worry, I’m sure it would happen some time “closer to the end of the year.” She said that was okay …
Hook successfully baited!
The big day finally comes. It’s a bright, sunny and warm afternoon, which I realize suddenly presents me with a problem: If it’s too warm to wear a jacket, where am I going to hide the ring box? If I put it in my pocket, someone might accidentally notice the big square lump and inadvertently ruin the surprise.
I think for a few seconds about how to conceal it, and come up with a plan: If police could conceal guns in ankle holsters, then why can’t I hide an engagement ring in my sock?
I tuck the ring into my left sock just below my calf, and to make sure that it doesn’t fall or move around, I use masking tape to hold it in place. My loose-fitting Dockers provide enough space to hide any bulges. It’s perfect!
So I go to Sue’s house to pick her up, and not surprisingly, no one notices that I’m sweating more than normal or the unusual bulge in my pants leg. (Hmm … that doesn’t sound right, does it?) As we’re going to the restaurant, I suggest we stop along the way at Savin Rock in West Haven since it’s a gorgeous weather—we often go for walks down there and watch the old guys play bocce. She agrees, so I drive there.
We stroll along the boardwalk for a while (as I surreptitiously check my sock every 30 seconds) and I finally spot a vacant bench near the point by Savin Rock. We sit down, and I start saying nice things to her—this being back before we were married, it didn’t raise as much as suspicion as it would now. If I was this complimentary to her now, she’d instantly be on her iPhone with the insurance company asking out how much she’d be cashing in for as she’d figure I was dying.
Eventually, I get around to how I want to spend the rest of my life with her. “I know we’ve talked about it a bunch of times,” I say, feeling my pulse beginning to rise, “but if I were to ask you to marry me, you’d say ‘Yes,’ right?”
“Of course,” she says. I can see she has absolutely no idea what’s about to happen.
“Hmmm … good,” I say, nodding my head and reaching down to hike up my pants leg. “So if I were to reach into my sock … like THIS”—I tear the tape off of my leg—”and pull out a ring … like THIS”—I produce the box and snap it open—”… you’d still say ‘Yes,” right?!!!”
“OH MY GOD!”
She is stunned and fumbling for me to put the ring on her. We kiss.
“So that’s means ‘Yes,’ right?” I ask.
“Of course!”
And then she takes me out and for my birthday dinner. You know, because I’m a genius like that.
Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you know that later this week Marvel’s long-anticipated The Avengers finally hits movie screens across the nation. Featuring comic book heroes Iron Man, Captain America, Thor and the Hulk (as well as Hawkeye, Nick Fury and the Black Widow), it promises to be an action-packed big-screen event.
If the movie is decent—and the early reviews indicate that it is—then this should be an absolute blockbuster, making a bajillion dollars and, of course, spawning a sequel (or two).
Since Marvel and Disney *apparently* have all the rights locked up on this franchise and its characters, I thought in order to cash in, I am working on a variation of the theme that might make for “corporate synergy” (if I can throw a term out that I would never use in real life but big studio suits seem to eat up like Kobayashi visiting Nathan’s on the 4th of July). Plus, it also uses established well-known names—which studios love because name recognition = easier marketing = more $$$ in their pockets to spend on cocaine, Porsches and cat jugglers—and makes for easier cross-branding.
So, taking Marvel’s Avengers franchise and mixing it with Disney’s Hall of Presidents, I am proposing to create a new super hero team—and lucrative film franchise!—called:
THECOMMANDERS!
(You know, like “The Commanders-In-Chief” … fer crying out loud, do I have to explain everything here?)
Okay, so to ease the transition, I thought I’d move existing presidents into roles that already exist in The Avengers, both the movie and the comics. So, starting at the start for both groups:
Capt. America, First Avenger meet George Washington, First Commander!
Yeah, this one’s a gimme. Both are true American icons, both are military men, both are unquestioned leaders, and I’m pretty sure Captain America’s shield and Washington’s dentures were made of the same material. Or they will be in the movie—when Washington gets in trouble, he’ll pull out his teeth and fling them like ninja stars at enemies! Maybe groom that wig into little wings like Cap has … come on, this stuff writes itself!
Next …
Teddy Roosevelt is Iron Man!
At first, it seems that the old Bull Moose and Rough Rider might make a better Hulk, but Teddy Roosevelt is Iron man because like Tony Stark, he carried unwanted metal in his chest: Before a campaign speech in 1912, he took a bullet to the chest during an assassination attempt, and not only proceeded to give his entire speech before going to the hospital, but wound up leaving the bullet in rather than having it removed. Also like Tony Stark, Roosevelt was a charismatic maverick. Bully!
Okay, speaking of bullies …
William Howard Taft as The Incredible Bulk ... er, Hulk!
Sorry, but when you are known as “the fattest president ever,” (335 pounds!) that makes you the prime candidate to take on the role of The Hulk. And really, who wouldn’t want to see this former commander-in-chief turn green with rage, rip his shirt off and shout, “TAFT SMASH!!!”
Going (slightly) more sophisticated …
Abraham Lincoln: God of Thunder!
Yes, the beard is an important part of this, and although U.S. Grant had an equally impressive set of whiskers, the ol’ Rail Splitter gets the nod because he could handle an ax like Thor wields the mighty Mjölnir. In addition to towering over rivals, Honest Abe was also a bit of a badass, and allegedly had freakish strength from all those years chopping logs. Also like Thor, Lincoln had an affinity for distinctive headgear—can wings be added to a stovepipe hat?
Next up …
Andrew Jackson takes dead aim at the bad guys!
These two are a perfect pair in that both are usually overshadowed by more flamboyant members of the group, but to overlook either would be a mistake. Both lost their parents at fairly young ages and used those events to become something better than normal men. Jackson was a legitimate tough guy with a chip on his shoulder, fighting in the American Revolution as a 14-year-old and subsequent other scraps (including leading ragtag American forces to victory in the decisive Battle of New Orleans), earning the nickname Old Hickory in the process. He also may or may not have shot an apple off a goat’s head at 300 paces, except no one outside of my own imagination can seem to verify it.
Okay, reaching outside of the movies—
Thomas Jefferson understands the genius that is Ant Man
One of my issues with the new Avengers movies is that that have discarded a few of the characters that have traditionally been part of the team in the comics and the animated TV show (which I watch with my kids). First is Ant Man/Giant Man, a.k.a. Dr. Hank Pym, who is a sometimes aloof scientific genius that can shrink and grow to various sizes in order to fight crime. Jefferson is known as genius for his vast intellect and wide-ranging abilities—of all of the presidents, it seems as though Jefferson would be most likely to tinker in a lab and accidentally discover a formula that could shrink or grow him as necessary. Both characters also had issues with women; Dr. Pym was often busy slaving away in the lab and was abusive to his wife while Jefferson often got busy with the slaves rather than his wife.
Speaking of infidelity—
Bill Clinton takes to action as the Black Panther
It only makes sense: the nation’s first “black” president dons the cowl as the Black Panther, one of the first mainstream black superheroes. Similar to T’Challa (the Black Panther’s alter ego), Clinton’s father died when he was very young; also like T’Challa, who is the king of the fictional African nation of Wakanda, Clinton seemed predestined to rule. In terms of super hero skills, Clinton has unusually strong powers of persuasion, although I haven’t quite figured out how getting trailer park mamas to disrobe in the back of an El Camino for a quickie can be used to fight evil. I’m sure it probably doesn’t hurt, although there are some who might disagree.
Speaking of (again)—
Hillary Clinton as The Black Widow
After everything he put her through, there’s no doubt that the wife of the “first black president” wishes she really was a Black Widow. [*insert rimshot*] Okay, Hillary is nowhere as sleek, sexy or mysterious as the comic or movie version of the Black Widow, nor is she a former Soviet spy (or so she claims) but let’s be honest: Is there anyone who has been in the White House in the past half century who you would fear more in an actual street fight than our current Secretary of State? Seriously, she scares me—I can picture her tearing my beating heart out of my chest and taking a bite of it, then standing there laughing while I expire. And does anyone else out there think she really hasn’t killed a mate or two after she was done with them?
Finally—
Barack Obama: Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.
I can make all sorts of comparisons between Nick Fury (the hardcore leader of the comic-book team and Avengers support unit, S.H.I.E.L.D.) and the current President of the United States, but let’s be honest: Obama is the coolest president we’ve had since Teddy Roosevelt, and if you’re going to step into a role being personified by Samuel L. Jackson, you better bring a little swagger with you. Plus, they both look good in black.
All right … time to start working on that script. COMMANDERS, ASSEMBLE!
So one of my all-time favorite events occurs this week: The NFL Draft!
I’ve been watching it live every year for decades (with the exception of last year, when I boycotted it in protest of the NFL lockout). I’m such a draftnik that I even went to New York City to see it in person back in 2008, when the New York Jets had the sixth pick overall and took pass-rushing linebacker Vernon Gholston out of the Ohio State University … who turned out to be an absolute bust. A workout warrior and not much of an actual football player, he is now already out of the NFL—you know, after getting paid $17 MILLION in three years because of his high draft position.
Nice almost-work if you can get it, right?
Okay, I know some—if not all—of you may be saying, “What’s so great about watching the grown-up version of picking teams in gym class?” I have no real answer for you. In addition to marking halfway from last season to this upcoming season, I guess part of the allure is sort of like Christmas in that you know your favorite team is going to get new presents/players, but you don’t know what/who they’re getting until the moment the name is called out over the public address system in Radio City Music Hall.
For me, the draft is also appealing because there are no real losers because every team will walk away with new players full of potential and hope. Like in the old Super Bowl commercial, the old season is over, it’s a new season again and very team is undefeated! Even the J-E-T-S JETS! JETS! JETS!
The NFL Draft is also a lot like fantasy football, you know, except real humans are involved, and then they actually play football after they make teams. But the picking is the same. Sort of …
Anyway, I thought it might be nice to have my own draft, you know, to build my own fantasy blog team. Of course, there is no actual competition or opposing teams or even real logic behind this, now that I think about it …
Okay, let’s go with this: Since the NFL Draft has 7 rounds, here are 7 people from the intrawebz that I’d like to have here as part of team rayality,
1. Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) – In all sincerity, The Bloggess may be the most entertaining person on the world wide web (after me, of course), and now that her first book is finally out and already in Amazon.com’s top 25 (and rising), she’s about to break through to the mainstream. Got to get her before she blows up, as the kids say. (Well, not *my* kids, but someone’s kids, somewhere. You know, cool kids.) She’s also my idol by turning her blogging into full-time independent success, and even managed to get random celebrities to take pictures of themselves hold twine, spatulas and more along the way. Now that’s true power.
2. Mark Zuckerberg (Facebook) – Every great enterprise needs seed money to start, so who better to fund my virtual empire than the guy who launched the billion-dollar social network that currently rules the cyber world? Even without the Winklevoss twins, “Zuck” (that’s what his non-Facebook friends call him, I imagine) should bring something to the table.
And yes, I know you’re thinking that given his habit of possibly pilfering great ideas for his own, I think he might have a hard time trying to convince a jury that he randomly came up with something called “rayality.”
One a side note: I’m not sure if it’s come up, but I can’t claim credit for coming up with the term “rayality.” Back a century ago when I was working in financial aid, I was working with a woman named Denise. One morning after I went off on one of my patented “imaginative” tangents—I can’t recall what it was about, other than it must’ve been a doozy of some sort—she looked at me, shook her and loudly announced, “Dude, you’re brain is not right. It’s like you’re off in your own RAYality.”
It was literally like this in my head—
You know, without the god part.
3. Jeff Bezos (Amazon.com) – As you may have noticed, my “brand” isn’t very strong at the moment, and my “retail,” is, well, non-existent. With my CT Jerks book coming out in September, who better to have on my team to help promote it than the guy who runs the biggest bookstore in the world?
4. Josh Fruhlinger (The Comics Curmudgeon) – I like the funny, and like The Bloggess, Josh provides classic snark in heaping doses, although he brings it on a daily basis, which is no easy feat. Inspiration + Funny + Stamina = Exxxcellent.
5. Bent (The Jets Blog) – In addition to being one of the best and brightest football analysts anywhere, let alone in his native England, he’s also incredibly snarky and well-versed in subjects I often reference, including Mets beisbol and pro wrestling. And like The Bloggess, he’s also released his first book, although to slightly less fanfare (so far).
To let you know how much appeal and power Bent has: He has 144 Twitter followers despite never having tweeted. (Yes, that sound you heard is me grinding my teeth in jealousy.)
The additional irony of including him here in my first draft is that on The Jets Blog, there’s an annual contest where everyone is invited to try and guess who the Jets will draft. Every year, I put together a list of people that in the past has included the likes of The Honky Tonk Man (smacking people over the head with a guitar always has a place in the NFL), Jose Reyes (every team needs a speedster, even if it’s from another pro sport), Justin Timberlake (always a playah) and Lindsay Lohan (a wide receiver, from what we’ve seen). For some reason, I’ve never won—hard to believe, right?—but more importantly, Bent has sworn that he will never let me beat him. It only seems right that I have him here in my draft!
6. K8 & Steve (Damned Connecticut) – Gotta *officially* have my web master and my mentor on my team, right? K8’s also a great photographer and Steve sings like … well, like no one else I’ve ever heard. If you’re not following the twoof them on Twitter, you’re missing out. If this writing thing doesn’t work out, I am getting a video camera and just recording them all day—they are that amusing.
This also makes it easier for me to “ghostwrite” for Steve … and by “ghostwrite” I mean that I come up with all the ideas and do all the work, but only because he lets me. That’s why he’s such a great inspiration and partner!
7. Senior Smoke(rayality) – It wouldn’t be rayality without my biggest critic to keep me honest, right? I’m sure he’s already pissed that he wasn’t #1. Maybe next time!
All right, not exactly The Avengers, but quite a team I’ve assembled … now if I only had some actual competition.
This past week, my son was off from school, so I took a personal day to stay home with him. As we hung out, played video games and watched TV, I found myself drifting to the days when he and his brother were much younger and every Wednesday was Daddy Day ….
Yeah, wanting to be a good parent and not quite understanding what I was getting myself into, I decided after the birth of my first son that I would change my work schedule so that I could be home with him one day a week. In theory, it covered a few bases: I could be part of his (and eventually, his brother’s) life, we could save some $$$ on daycare and I had a four-day work week—sure, they were 10-hour work days, but there was still only four of them, which meant I had 52 more whole days off than I had the year prior! Win all around, right?
Of course, once I actually started staying home with the kids, I learned what generations of stay-at-home parents already knew: That actually working at a desk on any given day is about 100 times easier than being home with two young kids!
I used to joke with my wife that her father’s mother died young because she’d birthed 10 kids and her uterus fell out. I realize now she probably keeled over from pure exhaustion.
Now don’t get me wrong—it has nothing to do with how much I love my kids; it has everything to do with the physical demand of keeping up with them. If you’re thinking I’m whining because I only had to do it one day a week on my own (my wife and I were both home on weekends), well … you’d be absolutely right. But this is my blog and I get to whine here!
So although I would now never trade that time I got to spend with my two sons, there were days where I was so tired all I wanted was for Mary Poppins to magically appear to take charge so that I could lay down and sleep. Even though they were—and still are—terrific kids (shhh!), being solely in charge of them for nine straight hours came close to breaking me once or twice.
In order to get through, I found myself dividing the day up into shorter segments and telling myself, “If can just get through *this* segment …”
Here’s how my day generally went—
8 a.m. – 9 a.m. The first hour of the day was usually play time, and as my wife liked to tease me, I invented dozens of games and activities that I could do while sitting on my butt … you know, to conserve energy.
One of our (my) favorite games was “Bury Daddy!” (In retrospect, the kids shouldn’t have been so excited about this concept; I think my wife liked the idea of it, too. Hmm …) In this activity, I would lay on the floor and they would get all the blankets, pillows and sheets they could find and pile them on top of me. I would rest under the pile, somewhat cushioned, and they would have fun hopping on pop until I rose up out of the “grave,” made some monster noises and let them bury me again. Simple zombie fun, right?
This game finally had to end when one time I was under the pile, nearly napping, and I was jolted by an impact akin to a sledgehammer crashing into my back. When I was done coughing up blood and got my head out from under the pile, I realized that one of my sons had gone Superfly Snuka on me, launching himself from the top of the couch and directly into my kidneys.
After that, I went to board games, books and other activities where the risk of being maimed was reduced.
9 a.m. -10:30 a.m. This was usually the time I let the TV take over for a little while—we didn’t (and still don’t) have it on all the time, in the dream of fostering imagination and other creative play. (I guess that worked to some extent.) When it was TV time, however, I did watch with the kids, and often tried to steer them toward more intelligent programs that I could stand like “Between the Lions,” “Zoboomafoo” and of course, “Hi-5.”
Yes, let’s get this party started! I remember Hi-5 came to the Connecticut Post Mall in Milford and my buddy Bob and I brought our kids to see them. I don’t know who was more excited, the kids or me and Bob—we both sort of had a creepy-old-man crush on Jenn, who was even more attractive in person. … (Hint: It was me and Bob.)
Anyway, as the kids got older, their tastes in TV (as molded by me) got better. I still say that “Teen Titans” was the Best. Animated show. Ever.
10:30 a.m. – noon Outside time! Although I tried to teach them games like baseball and soccer, I also was not afraid to delve into the “sit in one place” playbook, which included old favorites such as “Red Light, Green Light” and “Hey, why don’t you take this shovel and dig up the backyard for a while.”
In the winter and snow, we’d all bundle ourselves and go sledding. The hill on the side of our house may not be impressive to most, but for young kids and their dad who didn’t want to repeatedly trudge up a large incline, it made for a good sledding experience.
Of all my Daddy Day time with the kids, getting out in the snow and on the sled probably brought me back to my own childhood most because once I started lurching down the hill, it was the same exact experience—I didn’t care how many of us were on the sled, I just wanted to go down the hill faster and farther than the run before. If we could hit the fence at the back of the yard with some serious impact, then it was a good ride! And then there were the visceral elements—snow eventually getting under your clothes, your nose running like a frozen faucet and the numbness setting in your extremities when we stayed out too long. Ah, the simple joy (and pain) of frostbite!
This was also the period of the day when they got older where we would venture out into the world for adventure. At first, I’d take them to the mall—free, air-conditioned, plenty of bathrooms—and then when they were more mobile, we hit places like museums or the beach. I tried a few hikes and walks, except they involved hiking and walking. I never got around to teaching the proper way to make a sweet, sweet fire and properly burn things, although this would’ve been the ideal time.
Noon – 12:30 Peanut butter jelly time!
12:30 p.m. – 2 p.m. This stretch was “No Man’s Land” when they were young, as it seemed like it should be closer to the end of the day, but it was only barely halfway through. Every minute during this stretch could seem like an eternity.
It really made this segment the toughest part of the day sometimes. We did all sorts of activities during this time but they were all fraught with the danger of extreme meltdown because crankiness—and the all the joy that comes with that state of being—was in play so close to nap time.
When the kids outgrew their naps, this time became the computer and video game zone—half an hour each, or one total hour of what should’ve been a semi-break for me but often was spent either helping in the conquering of electronic challenges or calming frustrated nerves from the inability to conquer electronic challenges.
More than once video game time was ended early. I blame that whore Princess Peach—if she didn’t tart it up so much, she wouldn’t be kidnapped all the time. Oh, speaking of kidnapping …
2 p.m. – 3 p.m. Nap time, glorious nap time!
For a year or two, both kids would sleep at the same time, so wanting to … uh, set a good example, I would snuggle down for a quick power nap myself.
I remember when my older son grew out of his nap, I’d occasionally give him “secret bonus TV time”—i.e., sit him in front of the better babysitter with a sippy cup while I’d continue to try and set a good example for my younger son. I’m a giver like that.
[On a side note: The Spanish have it right—there’s nothing more rejuvenating that a 20-minute siesta. Why doesn’t every “civilized” nation do this? I think it’s time to start a movement—I’m going to set up a cot in my new cubicle … warning to co-workers: I snore. Loudly.]
Anyway, to this day, in honor of this tradition, I pop open a can of Coke at 2 p.m.—or “a nap in a can” as my wife calls it.
3 p.m – 4 p.m. TV time redux. On the plus side, I kept it to only an hour in the afternoon (not counting secret bonus TV time—again, shhh!), and often I’d multitask—my younger son wasn’t as content to just sit in front of the boob tube, so I’d have to actually interact with him. Go figure.
4 p.m. – 5 p.m. The final period of free play. We’d head outside when possible, and knowing that the finish line was in sight, I’d have that final burst and kick to get through, so this was usually a spirited segment.
Again, as much as I love my kids, sometimes nothing was as sweet as seeing my wife’s car coming up the street at the end of the day. Not that I ever dumped the kids on her and ran off when she came through the door—seriously, I never did—it was just good to see a face that wasn’t covered with snot or drool and to have someone else in the house who was (mostly) potty trained.
The good news is that those days are gone, but my kids are still here. And it’s sooo much easier to hang out with them when they don’t have to bury me to pass the time.
