killing me stupidly

Jul 212013
 

It started few nights ago …

My wife asked me if I had noticed the fruit flies buzzing around the house. Noticed? Are you kidding me?!

I am vehemently anti-bug. No wait, that doesn’t seem strong enough: I really, really, really, really hate bugs.

It’s true, though. I strive to ensure that my home is a pest-free domain. We never leave fresh fruit out. We have screen doors at every opening (aside from the garage), and I am constantly patrolling to see that every screen is tightly closed as well as perfect—no tears or rips. When I bring in groceries, even though it would be easier to leave the door ajar, I shut it all the way in between trips to the car. I constantly clean out the sink so that there’s no potential food sources in the drain. I am always dusting crumbs off the counters and tables. As soon as I see a fly in the house I will pathologically hunt it down and make sure to Kill. It. Dead.

Heck, I even welcome spiders because they hunt and kill other more annoying insects, and this despite once getting bit by a spider and having my eye swell shut and not even getting anything remotely resembling super powers….

But back to the fruit flies. I attempted to kill all the ones that I saw the first night, and then tried not to think about it again, hoping it was just an aberration due to a door that may have been inadvertently left open a microsecond too long.

A day or so later—after my wife had *conveniently* left for a trip—I notice that they are back, and in larger numbers.

Grrrrr …

I quickly realize that they seem concentrated on the wall near a corner kitchen cabinet that’s above the  counter. It’s a cabinet in which we store some sealed food, a.k.a. a possible perfect habitat for pests.

I instantly think of my old buddy Bobby the train conductor, who once told me about how after trains that he was on had hit someone, he had been sent out to find the dead bodies. He described how he hated looking because he really didn’t want to find anything that would give him nightmares …

As much as I don’t want to do it, I grit my teeth and open the cabinet. More fruit flies!

Double grrrrrr…….

The cabinet in question has three shelves, so I start with the bottom one, slowly taking out all the expired cold medicines and sunblock that we keep there. I empty the shelf. A few fruit flies but not quite “an infestation.”

I move up to second shelf where we keep things like peanut butter, canned olives and other packaged dry goods. More fruit flies than the first shelf, which is not instilling me with happiness about what I might find on the top shelf—full of ingredients that my wife uses for baking.

Hating every second of it, I get a chair and climb up so I can get a good look at top shelf …

Winner winner, fruit fly dinner!!!!

A broken bag of corn meal and a spilled bottle of Caro syrup, making for what it turns out is the perfect Petri dish to grow fruit flies.

So with my son calling from the next room how is supporting me from waaay over there and bugs flying around, I start to clean the shelf.

I throw out the broken bag of corn meal (and fruit flies) and then clean up the syrup—and the dozens of fly corpses stuck to the shelf. I dispose of essentially everything that had been on the shelf because I sorta freak out about the thought of insects touching anything I might eat, which I know is a case of willful ignorance because bugs pretty much touch everything everywhere.

Anyway, once I get the shelf clean, it’s time for sterilization. I break out the bleach and start spraying heavily, except after few seconds realize that the bleach, while cleaning everything, is not exactly killing everything—there are still fruit flies wriggling around, not quite dead enough for my liking.

I run to the cabinet where we keep various death-to-vermin-in-a-cans and decide that Raid’s Ant & Roach spray is probably best suited for the job.

That lightning bolt means *REALLY* lethal, right?

I go back to the infected shelf, and after a quick shake, start a-spraying! And, of course, to make sure that I’m killing all the bugs in the all the corners, I’ve got my face right in the cabinet ….

You can see where this is going. In my blood zeal to eradicate the tiny pests, I didn’t.

About a minute after spraying I am a little light-headed. A few seconds after that, I feel a knot burning in my throat, which is quickly followed by a wave of nausea sweeping over me.

Awww CRAP! Are you *NOT* supposed to mix bleach and bug spray?!

The answer to that, as I discover quickly is a resounding “YES!”

I immediately start retching violently and have to run for the bathroom, where the dry heaving starts …

Okay, I’ll spare you all the graphic details but trust me when I say that I am very sick, very quickly.

In between the retching, I open all the windows (did I mention it’s about 105 degrees out?), turn on a fan and send the kids downstairs to their video game room, out of harm’s way.

As I’m flushing out my sinuses with cold water and still retching, I recall a recent episode of “Good Luck Charlie” where the father, who is an exterminator, accidentally gets hit with a bug bomb. As he’s covered in white powder, he says, ” Well, a little poison never hurt anyone …. Oh, wait—IT HAS!” As my chest continues to burn, I picture how so many pesticides are designed to melt the inner organs of insects.

Cue, The Fly: “Heeellllp meeeeee!”

I am also furiously angry at myself for possibly killing myself in such an incredibly stupid manner. I have visions of myself turning up in the weird news section of Damned Connecticut: “Local Jerk Fumigates Self.”

Hello, Irony—sorry I may not live long enough to appreciate you.

A half hour later and I’m still not feeling very good. In fact, I am feeling worse and continuing to retch. In between, my wife calls and is careful not to ask whether she would be able to collect on my life insurance in a case of dramatic idiocy. She suggests that I call Poison Control.

At first I say no because I’m still in denial that I may have done something so stupid. But after another round of retching—enough so that even my kids make comments to the fact that I’m not right—I find the number and call Poison Control.

“Hello, poison control. How can I help you?” says the calm male voice on the other end.

“Hi I’m an absolute idiot and I think I accidentally poisoned myself.” (And this is what I say, almost verbatim—I need to amuse myself at crisis moments, you know, because there’s not enough going on.)

“Really?” replies the voice. “My name is Dana. Who am I speaking to?”

On some level, I’m glad that the poison control center is so friendly, but I need to not die at the moment. I hastily introduce myself to Dana. “Tell me what happened,” he says.

I explain my stupidity to Dana, who is quiet for a few moments—probably to stifle his laughter. He then says, “The good news is that what you did isn’t fatal …” A wave of relief washes over me. “… however, you will feel sick for a while.”

And I did. But knowing that I wasn’t going to curl up with my legs in the air like the bug on the front of the Raid can, I was okay with it.

Eventually, I do go to sleep, and I have one of the most vivid dreams I can recall in a while. It involves Will Ferrell as President George W. Bush, and we’re together on the space shuttle, where he suddenly is having raucous sex in a sleeping bag while hanging upside down …

I swear, that’s really the dream I have that night. You can’t make that up, right? Except I did, apparently. And even though it seems messed up, there were no fruit flies or poison in it.

As far as I’m concerned, it means everything is normal again.

Oh, and the fruit flies are gone.

distracted writing

Jul 142013
 

I can get very distracted, very easily. Join the club, right?

It’s a huge challenge for me to write sometimes—especially online, like here—because every time I get near the intrawebz, I instantly find myself looking at a hundred different things other than what I’m supposed to be doing at the moment. I wish I had a dollar for every time that I needed to look up a name or a word, open up my browser and then see there’s a message in my email … then I’ll see see a headline … which may lead me to Twitter or Facebook … which leads to how many subsequent sites … and then I realized that I’ve wasted a lot of time and it’s time for me to get back to what I was originally writing, so I go to close my browser and—

D’OH! I *never* got to the original thing I was looking for.

A few months ago I got to interview David Pogue, technology blogger for the New York Times, and one of the things he talked about was that he thought the Next Big Tech Thing is going to be whoever creates a decent digital-curation system, i.e., a way to sort the mountains and mountains of electronic information coming at you from the intrawebz, news sources, social media, smartphones, etc. As he put it, right now trying to process information can be a bit like trying to drink from a fire hose. I certainly feel like that some, if not most, days.

Sometimes I look back at my writing from years ago and I think it was dramatically better and generally more entertaining. That was back before YouTube, Fark, College Humor, Awkward Family Photos, Funny or Die, Cracked, Reddit, The Jets Blog or any of the other ten bajillion sites out there that suck me into their web and away from doing anything that actually might be useful ….

Then again, you’re here reading this … oh, the irony.

Anyway, it doesn’t help that I’m a very slow writer start with. I know what the most of how I express myself looks fairly effortless and somewhat conversational but it actually it takes a lot of work to make it like that. I don’t write as much as I write and rewrite and rewrite, going back over each sentence over and over again. I’m jealous of writers who can generate first drafts that are coherent and brilliant, and then only need to tweak from there.

Let’s put it this way: My process is that I sort of throw up a jumbled lump of clay, and then work it over and over and over until I get something that seems kinda passable, and then with a bit of polishing (sprinkle in those shiny adjectives and metaphors), and eventually it resembles something that can be called “writing.”

I think that it’s because my approach is so labor intensive that I always refer to myself as “a guy who writes” as opposed to “a writer.” Even simple emails take me a long time to bang out because I go back over each word and sentence trying to hone then something that seems intelligible, interesting and, most importantly, comprehensible. A typical blog post, like this one, that you can read in five minutes, if not less, usually takes me about five hours to write. No joke.

Actually, there’s an old joke among writers: “I would have written less except I didn’t have enough time.” I soooo appreciate this! I don’t seem to have enough time in my life to start with, and then to struggle to to get a message across as concisely as possible (which takes even more time), all while trying to avoid the ever-growing minefield of distractions … it can get a little dizzying at times.

Well for this post that you’re reading I decided to try a new approach: voice recognition software.

Yes, I guess you can say I cheated. Although, if I didn’t tell you that I used voice recorder to create the majority of this post you wouldn’t have noticed it. Of course, I still had to go back and edit it quite heavily—for example, earlier I mentioned “ten bajillion” websites, but it was recorded as “Tenba Jillian,” which sounds to me like a reggae band. And for most of the process, I have felt akin to Stephen Hawking, trying to communicate in an odd, stilted way as the app I downloaded for my iPhone only can record/transcribe in short, sentence-or-two bursts. But I was able to get the majority of this post out in a quarter of the time I have in the past, so that’s a good thing.

Too good a thing, though?

Okay, it does seem like I’m sort of cheating here, but is it really any different than using dictation? Milton, Dostoevsky and Henry James all dictated works that have become classics of literature, so I guess that puts me in good company. Well, at least in terms of process, if not actual results. Hopefully, one leads to the other, right? Work smarter, not harder, as my friend Patti likes to say.

But in the world where there’s lots of distractions, sitting in a room by myself without a computer—or more importantly, without the internet staring me in the fact—seems like a good way to write faster, and ultimately, better—without actually having to write anything.

So to speak.

I appreciate your patience as I test this process. I hope that going forward being able to do incorporate this time-saver will actually give me an opportunity to share more than I would normally. Lucky you!

 

fight club

Jul 072013
 

So in a continuing effort to bond with my sons and share some of their interests, I sometimes will “challenge” them to video game contests—and by “challenge” I mean that we play some sort of video game where they repeatedly pummel me as I have no clue what the heck I’m doing. In the process, we have a few laughs together over my ineptitude and I like to think it brings us closer together.

If I haven’t mentioned it before, I am not much of a video gamer for the simple reason that it’s waaaay too easy for me to get sucked in, never to be seen again. When I was first dating my wife in the early 1990s (back before I had a computer), I’d find myself over her house spending countless hours playing Wolfenstein and SimCity on her dad’s computer—it’s a wonder she didn’t dump me.

Nonetheless, it became obvious to me that I really can become addicted to it in the blink of an eye. And as one who appreciates the brevity of Life, I’ve decided that I have better things to do than spend my precious time whiling away the hours working a joystick or furiously tapping away at a keyboard. As such, I just avoid them as much as I can, so I’ve never played many of the newer classics, from Angry Birds and Bejeweled Blitz to Draw Something and Candy Crush. Actually, I never played many of the older classics, either—no Mario, no Zelda, no Donkey Kong, no Sonic the Hedgehog … heck, I never even died of dysentery on the Oregon Trail.

Just sad, really.

Anyway, as mentioned, I thought I was overdue for some father-son bonding time, and since it’s about 116 degrees in the shade, an activity that could be done in the comfort of air conditioning seemed like the way to go.

My older son recently got Injustice: Gods Among Us for Xbox from one of his buddies, and I saw him playing it the other day, and it looked like … well, cool. It’s basically a fighting game, stocked with the heroes and villains from the DC universe—Batman, Superman, Flash, Green Lantern, Joker, Catwoman, etc. The visuals are terrific and the game play seems fairly straightforward and centuries beyond any Pong experience that I can recall from the halcyon days of my youth.

In particular, this sequence caught my eye—it’s Aquaman’s “super move.”

Totally cool, right?!!! Anything that can make Aquaman (long derided as being the lamest of super friends) look like a bad ass—and involves feeding opponents to sharks—I’d like to try at least once.

So we started playing and like I knew might happen, I found myself getting sucked in pretty quickly. I’ve rationalized it by saying that I’m spending time with my sons, but really, I’m also really just losing myself in the mindless fun of it.

But as you might expect, my mind never really rests, even when it’s supposed to be playing.

So I thought what this game needs is some special characters—but rather than take them from the DC universe, I thought they could come from the current real universe. Since Injustice sort of has each hero and their arch-nemesis, I thought I’d follow that pattern, too.

As such, here are some characters that could be added.

Barack Obama – Everyone wants to be President of the United States, right? So here’s your chance. Fighting moves include “The POTUS Punch,” “(Medieval) Flail From the Chief” and “The Violent Veto.”
• Super Move: “ObamaFlair,” where the President strolls up to his opponent and just nods casually at them—a detachment of Secret Service agents appear and beat down the opponent, leaving them bleeding in the middle of the screen. An unmanned aerial drone then comes screaming in and unleashes a firestorm of missiles, completely vaporizing the opponent.

Donald Trump – The nemesis of Obama, and the working poor, too. Fighting moves include “The Birth Certificate Shakedown,” “The Trump Thump” and “The Uptown Lowdown.”
• Super Move: “The Toupée Flambé,” where The Donald’s limo first runs repeatedly over the opponent, and after they are beaten down, Trump jumps out of the back seat, yanks off his bad hair and shoves it into his opponent’s throat until they are choking. He then lights a $100 bill, holds it dramatically, then touches it to the toupée, which bursts in a white-hot flame that torches his opponent. He then stands over them, laughs and says, “You’re fired!”

Charles Ramsey – Sure, his 15 minutes of fame for helping to rescue three women being held hostage in Cleveland might be up, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be immortalized in a video game. Fighting moves include “Kick It Down,” “The 15-Minute Firestorm” and “Cleveland Rocks.”
• Super Move: “The Big Mac Attack,” where Ramsey stuns an opponent with a door, then stuffs burgers down his opponent’s throat until they bloat up and explode, resulting in pickles, lettuce, tomatoes and ground beef (human and cow) to rain down.

Rush Limbaugh – The nemesis of Ramsey and non-whites everywhere. Fighting moves include “The Mega Ditto Mash,” “The Racist Ramble” and “The Bully Pulpit.”
• Super Move: “The Pill Popper,” where Limbaugh first sits on the head of his opponent, causing them to become weak, and as they stumble around, Limbaugh reaches inside his jacket, takes out a giant vial of pills, pops them into his mouth and then spits them out like machine gun bullets, tearing his opponent to shreds.

Chris Kluwe – The well-spoken punter of the Oakland Raiders, a huge World of Warcraft aficionado who grabbed headlines by sending a scathing open letter defending gay marriage to ignorant Maryland state delegate Emmett C. Burns Jr. Fighting moves include “Dropkick to Homophobic Balls,” “Necessary Roughness” and “Hero Spell.”
• Super Move: “The Death Punt,” where Kluwe whips out his WoW sword and severs his opponent’s skull, which he then grabs and kicks across the Injustice world—leaving a gay pride rainbow in its wake—and through a fiery goal post at the other end. After it explodes, Kluwe just nods his head while Andres Cantor’s screams “Gooooooooool!!!!”

Fred Phelps – As the leader of the infamous Westboro Baptist Church, he is the scourge of intelligence and decency everywhere, and a natural nemesis of Kluwe. Fighting moves include “Haterade Parade,” “Attention Whore Galore” and “Prince of Lies.”
• Super Move: “The Picket Line,” where Phelps points at his opponent and screams “Heathen!” which summons forth his inbred followers to do his dirty work that includes beating his opponent senseless with their handheld signs. When woozy, he then calls in his pack of lawyers, who feast on the opponent and tear away his flesh like a hungry jackals while Phelps basks in the glow of heavenly light.

Matt Harvey – The Connecticut-born ace of the New York Mets pitching staff, a.k.a “The Dark Knight of Gotham.” Fighting moves include “The Mystic Warrior,” “Flamethrower” and ”
• Super Move: “Strike Three!” where Harvey scorches three flaming baseballs by his opponent simultaneously, which set the opponent on fire. The opponent instantaneously burns to a crisp and crumbles into a pile of ashes, which are casually swept up by an umpire.

Alex Rodriguez – “A*ROID,” admitted steroid abuser and MLB cheater, is the antithesis of Harvey and all the players who compete by the rules. Fighting moves include “The Grand Slam,” “Phony Baloney” and “The Big Choker.”
• Super Move: “Roid Rage,” where Rodriguez grabs a giant hypodermic needle and sticks it in his opponent’s butt—his opponent immediately sprouts zits on their back, his testicles shrink and he starts to swell up with muscles (like Violet in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory). Rodriguez then grabs a bat and hits them, causing them to explode.

Melissa McCarthy – The full-figured, humble and hugely talented star of TV and movies. Fighting moves include “The Badonkadonk Beatdown,” “Box Office Boffo” and “The Laugh Factory.”
• Super Move: “The Gut Buster,” where McCarthy makes her opponent watch her clips, getting them to laugh harder and harder … at first they pee themselves, then they get hiccups, and finally, they just split a gut—literally—and bleed out, expiring with a smile on their face.

Justin Bieber – A scrawny teenaged heartthrob who may have had aspirations of being a genuine entertainer but is quickly becoming just another Hollywood douchebag. Fighting moves include “The Pin Up,” “The Twitter Splitter” and “Beauty and a Beating.”
• Super Move: “Bieber Fever,” where Bieber stops the fight, pulls out a cell phone and Tweets something. Suddenly, a hook drops from the ceiling and the doors of the fight arena open simultaneously; Bieber grabs on to the hook and ascends while thousands of screaming teenaged girls flood in through the doors and, deprived of a chance to be with Justin, attack the hapless opponent just standing there, literally tearing him from limb to limb.

 

knowing when to quit

Jun 302013
 

So like many of you, I sort of shrugged and sighed I saw the headline that they are rebooting The Terminator franchise, with or without Arnold Schwarzenegger—although really does it matter? The bottom line is that it’s another franchise that Hollywood is raiding/resurrecting because it’s easier and most cost effective to beat a known quantity to death and beyond rather than try to establish a new one.

And that’s really it—the trend in Hollywood to regurgitate old crap is all about making obscene amounts of cash and has nothing to do with entertainment. Movies are huge business, and there’s no room for artistic vision or creativity when there are hundreds of millions of dollars on the line, even for the most modest releases. Studios want brands that consumers already recognize. The only time you see something that is completely new to the screen is if it’s a property (say like a best-selling book) that’s got a chance to become a franchise.

In other words, $equel$ are where it’s at.

Any movie that’s been a hit in recent years, I guarantee that if there hasn’t been a sequel for it already, there’s one in the works. This past weekend saw the release of The Heat with Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy; it’s already a success, so that means a sequel, right? And actually, plans for a sequel were announced … two months ago! Seriously.

Again, this has nothing to do with making fans happy to see beloved characters return and everything to do with making film studio executives happy to see bigger piles of money. And the evidence is there—look at this week’s Top 10 highest-grossing movies: 5 of 10 are either reboots or sequels. In fact, this year will see 29 sequels released on the big screen alone. That’s a lot of the same.

Well, there have been a number of classic films that never needed sequels, that seemed to have tied up all loose ends and were absolutely perfect … well, until now—

10 Hollywood Sequels That Were Never Made That Now *Clearly* Need to Be Made

1. Citizen Kane 2: Rosebud’s Revenge –

Here’s one sure to “sleigh” you—Kane is still dead, but the new residents of Xanadu are haunted by the ghost of Rosebud, who was accidentally cursed by Kane to be bound to the estate until “the crack of doom.” Rosebud helps the new owners untangle the mystery, which finally releases the eternal soul of the sled to join its master in the happy hereafter. Two top choices for Rosebud’s voice are Morgan Freeman or Gilbert Gottfried, because they are practically interchangeable.

2. The Princess Bride 2: The Adventures of the Dread Pirate Roberts –

Talk about your missed opportunities—I mean, this is essentially hinted at in the film’s closing moments! Inigo Montoya was clearly the most compelling character of the story, so to put him at center stage and throw in adventure around him = box office gold. Mandy Patinkin might be a bit older, but if Harrison Ford can play Indiana Jones again, then Patinkin can take up the sword again. The biggest challenge—literally—would be replacing Andre the Giant, who is more than mostly dead. Maybe time for Shaq to return to the silver screen?.

3. Casablanca 2: Rick and Louie Take Manhattan –

If there was ever a more beautiful setup for a friendship comedy, then I don’t know what it is. Following a successful stint fighting the Nazis in North Africa during the war, the pair travels to New York City where the hard-boiled Rick becomes embroiled again in the shadiness that drove him to Africa in the first place. Meanwhile, Capt. Renault quickly falls for the charms that the big city offers, which only complicates life for Rick. Obviously, this is going to have to be re-cast; I’m thinking Bruce Campbell as Rick (no seriously, think about it) and as Capt. Renault, Alan Rickman because he’s freaking awesome.

4. It’s an Even More Wonderful Life –

Really, the only way to pick this one up is from Zuzu’s perspective and re-tell the story from there—she grows up and as a woman seeking liberation in the chaotic 1960s, comes to think she’s having a bad life and looks to escape it. She tries to commit suicide when she’s visited by another angel trying to earn its wings, and well, you know how it goes from there. Obviously this can be completely re-cast, although the actress who played Zuzu is still alive and in her 70s, which would make for some sort of fun cameo. Just throwing a name out there for Zuzu: Anna Kendrick? And I’m thinking Colin Mochrie as the angel because when I’m casting movies in my head, I’m always thinking Colin Mochrie.

5. E.T. Returns –

Again, this one writes itself. Everyone’s favorite extraterrestrial returns to find his buddy Elliott all growed up and struggling with the pressures of adulthood, including juggling a career and marriage, as well as finding ways to bond with his own children. E.T. spreads his intergalactic magic as helps all, including Gertie, who has become an adult film actress and Michael, who’s living in a van down by the river. As Henry Thomas and Drew Barrymore are both still acting, this isn’t hard to cast, and given that animatronic puppets don’t age, I think E.T. himself should be good to go.

6. Schindler’s List 2: The Reckoning –

Only diverging *slightly* from history, Oskar Schindler continues his crusade against the Third Reich—but this time as a badass Nazi hunter. Steven Spielberg doesn’t seem to be opposed to making action films, with his success in the Taken franchise, we know this type of pulse-pounding action thriller is right in Liam Neeson’s wheelhouse. And really, we all love seeing Nazis get their comeuppance over and over again, so this is a win all around!

7. Titanic 2: Tsunami Terror –

“Looks like we’re going to need a bigger boat” may be a line from Jaws (which has had all too many sequels), but I see this one as a throwback to those glorious 1970s disaster films like Airport, The Towering Inferno and of course, The Poseidon Adventure. Some smarmy, greedy billionaire (Kevin Spacey seems about right) decides to rebuild the Titanic to capitalize on the ill-fated ocean liner’s enduring popularity and offer ultra-expensive cruises across the Pacific Ocean. Of course, on the maiden voyage, an earthquake strikes, causing a huge tsunami that ultimately flips the boat. (And yes, I know tsunami waves don’t quite work like that—don’t let actual science ruin a story!) Then you populate the boat with a bunch of stock characters—handsome hero (Chris Evans), plucky love interest (Summer Glau), grizzled deck hand (Danny Trejo), bitch that everyone wants to see die (Tea Leoni), older comic relief couple (Eugene Levy & Katherine O’Hara), virgin who survives (Justin Long) … and obviously, the billionaire dies the worst death at the end.

8. Some Like It Hotter –

With all the main actors associated with this film dead, it might make sense of using the original as a jumping-off point, say like having the progeny of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon’s characters—who in this case, would be actual actors Jamie Lee Curtis and Chris Lemmon—getting together for some sort of wacky role reversal, where each has to play the opposite sex in order to get save their children’s wedding. Sort of like The Birdcage meets The Father of the Bride meets Freaky Friday but with less Lindsay Lohan and more Agador Spartacus.

9. The Sound of Music 2: Rolfe’s Song –

Sure, the easy thing would be to follow the von Trapps and their journey to freedom—and truthfully, that might make the most sense as you could tell the story in flashback and actually have Capt. von Trapp and Maria, a.k.a. Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer, looking back. But I’d try to follow what happens to Rolfe after he fails to win the affections of Liesl, and is forced to fight on behalf of Germany—maybe after witnessing the horrors of the Holocaust he realizes that he made a terrible life choice and eventually sacrifices himself to help liberate those who were destined to death at the hands of the Nazis, gaining redemption in the end. Okay, this wouldn’t be as uplifting as “Springtime for Hitler,” but it doesn’t mean it can’t work.

10. Bigger –

Set 25 years after the original Big, Josh realizes that giving up a great high-paying dream job and a woman who loved him to just be a kid again was a poor decision, especially after he failed out of school (because he decided that he only had a grade-school education and had been a success, so why study?) and subsequently made a string of bad choices. Sad, alone and desperate, he tracks down the Zoltan machine, puts in a coin, makes a wish and—hello another Tom Hanks romcom! Bigger Josh tracks down Susan (Elizabeth Perkins), explains he made a huge mistake and that he wants her back, and spends the rest of the movie trying to unlock that magic they had to woo her back, and charming the audience like Tom Hanks always does.

I’ll be waiting by the phone waiting for Hollywood to call!

 

helicopter failing

Jun 232013
 

A little housekeeping first: On July 16, I will be at the Old State House in Hartford speaking ill of the dead and Connecticut jerks, which also includes a special Connecticut Jerks panel discussion moderated by Diane Smith of the Connecticut Network and featuring two awesome Connecticut writers whose works I plagiar—er, *used as sources* to write my book: Charley Monagan and M. William Phelps. Hope to see you there!

* * * * *

So as I attended my son’s graduation the other day, it got me to thinking that although I’m proud of his successes and accomplishments, I still can’t help but feel as though I’m failing him and his brother on some levels. Time flies by so quickly, and we don’t get to teach them all the things we want. Not only that, but we also spend an inordinate amount of effort on subjects that aren’t particularly useful in the long run. And then you read all these stories about how American kids are falling farther and farther behind the counterparts around the world …

“U-S-A NUMBER ONE!”—amiright?

Well, just because Evel Knievel put it on the side of his helmet doesn’t make it true. (Although that really should be enough.)

Of course, I can’t go back and undo some of the things I’ve done as a parent, but at least I can throw some thoughts out there that may help other parents and the next generation to not set up their kids to fail.

A few thoughts …

The cow goes “moo” – Like many parents, I spent many hours of my sons’ formative years reading to them, but the majority of those early years included *lots* of books dedicated to correctly identifying barnyard animals and the noises that make because … we live on a farm? We may be suddenly overrun by a herd of pigs? There’s a chance that toddlers might find themselves trapped by a gang of psychotic roosters in a hen house and may need to cluck their way to freedom?

If you want to teach them useful information about animals, how about things like, “‘Hsss’ goes the rabid racoon you see in the backyard during the middle of the day!” or “‘Squeak’ goes the squirrel trying to nest in your attic so it can chew through your power lines!” or even “‘____’ goes the spider that is never more than six feet away from you at any given moment and is probably thinking RIGHT NOW about laying eggs in your ear canal while you sleep.”

Talking animals – In the same vein, our kids spend the majority of their childhoods constantly exposed to the possibility that animals can secretly converse to each other in the Queen’s English. Seriously, flip around the kids channels some time and just start counting the number of shows where the animals can speak—it’s almost every single one!

It’s so pervasive that there’s no way that children aren’t wasting significant portions of their mental reserves to constantly remind themselves that, oh yeah, despite the barks, meows and clicking noises that dolphins make, animals can’t make human conversation, and even if they could, it wouldn’t be much beyond what Up‘s Dug offered.

Rather than wait around for the family cat to give that TED talk, why not teach our kids another language, especially given current birthrates and population statistics, English will not be enough to get by with this in the global marketplace.

Animated backpacks, sentient racing cars and creepy trains with faces – Sticking with the theme, our kids are exposed to lots of animate inanimate objects, which until SKYNET rises up, shouldn’t be much of a concern.

Now look, I don’t want to hear about stifling creativity and imagination—have you talked to a 5-year-old? They have plenty of that stuff to spare, trust me. And you don’t have to forgo it—how about just swapping in shows that challenge the imagination and creativity with subjects like science, technology and math rather than figuring out how to use a talking map that tells you exactly where to go.

I’d like to teach the world to sing – Music can be a powerful learning tool, but in regard to kids, we use to keep abreast of things like the status of tiny arachnids and their adventures navigating outdoor plumbing or the perils of keeping babies in ill-advised treetop cribs.

See, even by vaguely alluding to those childhood songs, you just recalled them immediately!

Personally, there are two pieces of learning that I recall vividly from decades ago because they were set to music:

1. In 8th grade, our math teacher Mr. Betzig taught us that “Perimeter equals two times a side plus two times a side—woo!”

2. “Cheers” taught me everything I know about Albania.

Everyone gets a trophy – As I’ve said before, I think it’s more than okay to lose on occasion; heck, if no one ever has to swallow the bitter taste of defeat, then they will never hunger for success. And rewarding people for simple “participation” seems to set up false expectations down the line.

Let’s put it this way: How many trophies have you gotten at work for just showing up every day? Exactly.

If I could brag a bit, I’ve seen this work first hand, with both my sons.

First: My younger son Kade has been taking karate classes for the past five years, which includes a big end-of-the-year tournament. He has gone every year and has never won a trophy or medal, only given to the top four in each group; he did receive a trophy one year, but that was because there were only three kids in his section and he finished third. He was actually angry and embarrassed about it.

Over the past year, he has worked his butt off, and by “worked his butt off,” I mean he has kicked my butt practicing sparring. This year, he finished fourth in a larger group and took home a medal—you would’ve thought the thing was made of actual gold, he was so psyched by it.

Second: My other son recently received an award at school for “Most Respectful” student. When I went to congratulate him, he said everyone in the class who didn’t win an academic achievement award literally got one of these awards instead. And he wasn’t too thrilled about it, as you can see below:

“Baby on Board” car window signs – I’m thinking that everyone might be better served if the baby was in a car seat rather than on a board. I mean, what about splinters? Just seems like a bad plan ….

Okay, maybe that last one isn’t exactly a waste of parenting efforts, just saw it in a car window the other day and it struck me funny. Clearly, I need to be struck more often.

Anyway, I’ll keep working on a new curriculum. We’ll get our kids and the U.S.A. back to the top!

 

speed demons

Jun 172013
 

Here, let me set this out here to start … feel free to hit play while reading …

Okay, I completely and openly acknowledge that being somewhat enamored of Coca-Cola—and the sweet, sweet caffeine therein—comes nowhere near the true addiction that cripples those enslaved to drugs, alcohol or licking cats (and that’s *not* an euphemism). I also realize that the size of my monkey is relatively modest: I would say that it’s more of a pesky, poop-flinging capuchin rather than an orangutan that when angered can literally tear my arms off and eat my face. So there’s that.

Still, I do have a problem in that over 157 years I have trained my body to rely on receiving caffeine every single day, and even though that they say the first step in getting help is admitting you have a problem, it’s not helping any.

Let me try to explain it: Something happens in my very blood every day around 2 p.m. when I decide to open that icy can of high fructose corn syrup that masquerades as a beverage—and it’s got to be a 12-once can; for some reason, the mix in bottles never seems to taste (or burn my eyes and back of my throat) the same as what comes out of the can. I only assume that it tastes better because of the tiny pieces of aluminum that I’m also ingesting, you know, which has also been thought to cause Alzheimer’s Disease, although no indisputable evidence has been produced to prove that hey did I tell you about the time I saw Sally Jessie Raphael picking her nose while sitting in her red BMW at an intersection in New Haven? Yeah, good times …

Anyway, when I hear that boisterous c-r-a-c-k as I pop that can open …. it’s a rush. I can feel my physiology changing even before the liquid touches my lips or the equivalent of 10 teaspoons of sugar reaches my heart, a psychosomatic reaction to be sure, but nonetheless real. And then as it does get into my system and that weariness washes away, I feel like I’m finally coming to life …

It’s not a habit, it’s cool, I feel alive …

I used to also drink a Coke every morning at 9 a.m. as a wake-me-up, but at a certain point I realized that I was going to be awake and stay awake no matter how tired I was, so I was able to cut that one out of my diet. But cutting down isn’t cutting out, right?

Recently, I’ve been thinking about those spoonfuls of sugar as well as all the other facts that prove it’s really, really bad to drink even one can of soda a day. (Don’t click link unless you want to crush any fantasy that you have sort of healthy lifestyle that allows even one can a day.)

Despite all the health risks, I find that I do need—and desperately want, or absolutely crave—that jolt of energy every day. I don’t drink coffee (yes, I have issues), so to get that caffeine, I have decided to try an alternative.

When we were at Pax East back in March, we got a few samples of 5-Hour Energy, and I spent the last few months trying to convince myself to try one. I mean, it promises “long lasting energy with no sugar and zero net carbs.” Sounds perfect, right? Plus it’s got like vitamins, amino acids and tiger blood or something. (I may not have read the entire label, or any of it, really.) What could possibly go wrong?

So about a week or two ago, I put one in my lunch in place of my beloved Coke, and at 2 p.m., pulled it out. I eyed the small bottle dubiously—how could a 2-ounce shot pack as much kick as a 12-ounce can? I opened the top; it was “berry” flavor, which smelled vaguely sweet and looked something like Garotade.

I shrugged and then …

I held my nose, I closed my eyes … I took a drink …

Okay, I still knew that it was day and not night, and I hardly started kissing everything in sight, but at first I didn’t notice anything really all that different. I was thrown off that it went down so quick—I usually enjoy lingering over my Coke. And at first, nothing seemed all that out-of-the-ordinary, so I went back to work.

But then I felt it slowly kicking in. As I posted on my Facebook that afternoon: “I think it’s working—my pulse is racing and I’m having an aneurysm. That’s supposed to happen, right?”

Okay, it wasn’t quite that extreme, but I was definitely feeling more … *energetic*! And by “energetic,” I do mean that my pulse was a bit elevated and my hands were shaking. A little.

Actually, I started freaking out that I maybe somehow had overdosed—and then I quickly reminded myself that there’s been no actual stories of anyone ODing on an energy drink. Well, okay they’ve been linked to heart disease, but that’s slow death, right? You know, up to the point where your heart suddenly stops altogether.

Anyway, I figured that maybe I needed to work off some of my new-found energy, so when I got home, I decided that I needed to do my usual 3.5-mile run. I chose to run at the track I normally run at, mainly because if my heart or brain did in fact explode, there’d be lots of kids playing soccer and their parents to notice, so they’d be available to get me medical attention, if necessary. That or they’d have stories to tell, so it wouldn’t all be in vain.

The good news is that neither my heart or my brain exploded, nor did any of my delicate vital organs, and truth be told, I actually sort of tore around the track at a clip that I’d have to classify as “more sprightly than usual.”

I also didn’t fall asleep until closer to midnight that night (my normal bedtime is closer to 10), but hey, at least I wasn’t dead! Well, not yet.

Anyway, since then I’ve had another 5-Hour Energy or two, and seem to be surviving, even if I do go running. But by the same token, I also haven’t been able to give up my Coke yet … . I’ve been sort going between the two because that’s how you ween yourself, right?

Or is that how you just substitute one addiction for another?

It’s not a habit, it’s cool, I feel alive
If you don’t have it you’re on the other side
I’m not an addict (maybe that’s a lie)…

 

what every parent needs

Jun 122013
 

So the other night we got together with my Damned Connecticut partners Kate and Steve, and as we were trying to keep their toddler away from things like the TV, phone and that rusty barbed wire sculpture we keep precariously perched atop the python cage, we started brainstorming some ideas for child-care inventions that could help all of humanity.

Here are a few that came from the altruistic parts of our grey matter:

Kiddie hamster ball – Steve came up with this one, and it’s as simple as it sounds: a hamster ball big enough for a toddler to fit inside so they can go all over the place but without actually getting their hands on important items like TV remotes or computers. Plus, they are protected from sharp edges or other things they might bump themselves on.

Giant water bottle – Again, using the hamster model, this would be a giant bottle of water that you’d set up in the corner of the room, and like a hamster, a kid would be able to go up to it any time they wanted to get a drink. Obviously, other fluids—milk, juice, benadryl—could be substituted, but it would help foster independence and self-reliance, not to mention cut back on the amount of juice boxes that end up in landfills.

Re-loadable diapers – Okay, this is probably only practical for wet diapers—but we’re talking about a sectioned diaper system where the fronts of the diapers are removable (they can be held in with velcro). When a kid urinates, rather than struggle to change the entire diaper, the absorbent front section is simply ripped off and a fresh dry front section is slapped into place. Think about it—most times you end up throwing away a half-used diaper, so to save the planet, you only disposing of fully used diapers!

“Kiddy” litter – Another one of Steve’s ideas, and again, it’s pretty straightforward. If you don’t like the re-loadable diaper and would like to avoid all that work of toilet training, just let the little ones just go as they play! Turn that sandbox into a litter box! Simply scoop away any clumps, re-rake and they’re set to go (so to speak).

The “You Are Not” Playset – Action figures based on my nearly-viral children’s book that helps kids realize that they they are not special and that they will never be President, a millionaire or a professional athlete, but that’s all okay.

Really, there’s not much to this playset outside of the action figure, so if you’re thinking that you’re getting an amazing super cool toy, well … you are not.

Chlorofriends – I’ve written about this before. Basically you’d have stuffed animals with names like Sleepy Sting Ray or Dr. Snoozikins to help young children fall asleep. When each Chlorofriend is given a loving squeeze, it emits a playful cloud of chloroform, sure to send even the most stubborn rug rat to dreamland. (Also available in pillowcases.)

Magnetic pants – This is for ADD-challenged kids who have a hard time sitting in their seats for extended durations, say like during a whole meal—you know, like a civilized human being. These metal-lined pants work in conjunction with a powerful electromagnetic chair: When an overactive urchin starts getting up, just hit the switch and *ZAP* they are pulled back into the proper seated position. Can be modified for use in restaurants, houses of worship, movie theaters, trains, libraries, strip clubs or anywhere else kids tend to run around too much.

family amusement

Jun 092013
 

So this may come as no surprise, but my kids are just a lot funnier than I am.

“So are bookcases, Crohn’s disesase and the ending of Life is Beautiful—tell us something we don’t know, Captain Obvious …”

Seriously though, my boys constantly amuse me, mainly because they genuinely get how to be funny—they both have pretty good timing, and eagerly embrace everything from physical humor and slapstick to one-liners and sarcasm. Oh, the sarcasm.

I should’ve been writing down all the amusing quips that they’ve uncorked over the years, but I realized I have been recording it in a way—via Facebook and Twitter. So to share some of what I’m talking about, I went back through my Facebook posts over the past two years or so to find a few gems, starting with this one from the other day:

But there’s been more. For example—

I love this one on so many levels.

They also have a great sense of comic timing …

… and a great sense of the absurd.

Observational humor …

Hard to argue with this one …

Of course, the truth hurts, so it’s funny . ..

… again …

… and again …

… and yet again.

So there’s that. But at least there’s this …

I only wish I knew where they get it all from …

 

falling out of the family tree

Jun 022013
 

So here’s a picture of me with mutton chop sideburns, circa 1900.

Wait, what?!

That’s right—I sat for this portrait sometime around the turn of the 20th century, which makes sense since my loving son likes to remind me that I’m so old that I was there when my old pal Thag chipped out the first wheel …

Okay, look again. That’s not actually me (the ears and the tie should be a giveaway)—it’s my great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side, John (or most likely Giovanni) Michael Cacchione, who lived 1856-1926. I don’t have a date on the photo (which my mother got from her genealogy-loving cousin), but I’m guessing he’s actually pretty close to my current age when it was taken.

I hate posting pictures of myself anywhere, but this is special—here are the two of us side by side. (I’m the one on the right, in case you’re not sure.)

"Cousins, identical cous .... er, descendants?"

Kind of eerie, right? That or there’s just not so many branches on that family tree. (More of a pole?) I know we’re related, but come on: Same profile, same nose, eyes, brows, chin, lips and receding hairline. Oh, and if I was patient, I could grow those sweet ‘chops in about two weeks, probably with the same amount of gray. Uncanny.

Let’s put it this way: I don’t even have that much resemblance to *my own father* or *my own sons*—and we’re all a lot closer in terms of genetic material than me and g2-granddad. (Or so I always thought … hmmm.) I don’t even look that much like my grandfather (g2-granddad’s grandson), the middle link in this line. What the hey?!

But yeah, clearly a pair of handsome devils, separated by about a century or so. Despite my son’s beliefs, I never met g2-granddad, and neither did my mother. If my math is on, my grandfather Clem (ol’ Giovanni was his maternal grandfather) only would’ve been about 14 when he died, so I don’t know what kind of relationship they had. They all lived in the same Brooklyn, N.Y., neighborhood, although g2-granddad immigrated from Italy when he was middle-aged and most likely spoke very limited English. Clem was born here and only spoke English, as best I know.

Still, the whole thing is remarkable to me—that I could still look so similar to a relative born over 160 years ago, and one who’s back four generations up the family pole … er, tree. Again, I know I shouldn’t be so shocked, but I can’t help it.

Of course, my next question is how much are/were we alike in other matters? I’m having flashes of Jan Brady’s Aunt Jenny here. My grandfather is long gone so I can’t ask him about his grandfather, and what my mother knows is all from what tidbits and stories her father shared. Recording devices were only just coming into the picture, so I have no sense of what he sounded like or how he moved or how he comported himself on a daily basis.

Obviously, great-great-granddad John didn’t surf the internet looking for celebrity flesh, but did he maybe have a special picture of Nellie Bly showing a bit more ankle than was socially accepted? Not to besmirch his legacy or anything—I suppose I do that just fine without dragging him directly into it.

Yet, I have to wonder:

• If people who drove buggies slow in the passing lane made him buggy.

• If he was any good at the broad jump, or excelled in any sort of athletic pursuit—given his heritage, maybe he was also good at the bocce.

• If he was rather shy and that seeing his picture posted for the public to see in a forum like this would’ve freaked him out. (Scour the intrawebz and I guaran-damn-tee you that the picture above is the only picture of me that I’ve ever posted of myself *anywhere*.)

• If he enjoyed writing—although given the dearth of written materials associated with him (read: none), that’s evidently a “no.” Maybe he enjoyed telling stories, which is sort of the same thing, although he probably never discussed his gastrointestinal issues in public. Chances are he didn’t make a lot of silly Top 10 lists.

• If he was innately curious and often thought about the questions of the universe, such what life was on other planets, how life would evolve or if his great-grand-grandson would end up being an utter dork.

• If at any family picnic, he was really content to sit in the shade and enjoy the breeze.

• If he was meticulous in his personal grooming. Those ‘chops have nice tight lines, and he’s keeping it close and neat up top, too—I know that his son (my great grandfather) was a barber, and he may have been one, too. My mother used to cut my hair using my great grandfather’s scissors; I now do it (with an electric razor) as well as my son’s.

• If he had a sweet tooth that demanded chocolate (or whatever sugary confections he enjoyed) on an hourly basis.

• If he would’ve rather spent the day hanging out with his kids more than pretty much anything else life had to offer.

• If he could find the humor in anything and pretty much took nothing seriously—other than posing for photos.

• If he had such a twisted sense of humor that he would think this Garfunkel & Oates tune (VERY NSFW … or the general public, now that I think of it) is as brilliant as I do.

• If he was as open-minded so even if he was horribly offended by that video, he would sort of shrug and be like, “Well, if you want to go to hell with those harlots, that’s up to you.”

• If in coming to the U.S. after the Civil War, he did so because he also believed in and loved freedom and all the opportunities that this great country provides.

The good news is that, based on history, I feel fairly comfortable saying that my grand-great-grandson will be a good-lookin’ dude. So, at least he’ll have that going for him. The rest … well, I guess we’ll have to wait to find out ….

 

these dreams

May 272013
 

So I had a dream the other night—my hands were splitting open and cake was coming out of them. Yellow cake, as a matter of fact, and I don’t mean that it was uranium yellow cake and I was turning into a really cool super hero with the mutant ability to melt brains, but actual yellow cake.

Out of my hands. I don’t think there was frosting, unfortunately.

Obviously, this is the first thing that went through my mind. Followed by the affirmation that I do, indeed, dream in color.

But I’ve known for years that I dream in color—I always remember one dream that I had when I was a teenager. I was sitting on a porch with my family and a bunch of other people, and all of a sudden, these bright purple and red balls starting falling from the sky, and as they hit someone, the person would disintegrate. I turned and started to run when a ball landed on on my left wrist, and I felt a tingling sensation spread out from it as everything started to get fuzzy. I even recall that as it was all happening, I started thinking, “Wow, I’m dying—I wonder what’s going to happen next.”

As it turns out what happened next is that I woke up … to find my left wrist was wedged between my knees and had “fallen asleep,” which explains the tingling. Fun, right?

But yeah, my dreams have always been a little off, although maybe not much more than anyone else’s, I guess. I also tend to have a lot of nightmares where I wake up screaming (and scaring the crap out of my wife) … but we’ll save that for another post, I think. Or not.

Anyway, I don’t know if I’m lucky or not that I tend to remember the majority of my dreams … I can think of a few that I’d rather forget, especially those involving the deaths of family members. Recently, I had an exceptionally vivid dream that my sister the whore had died, and it was so freakishly real that when I got out of bed in the morning, I texted her … you know, to just make sure she was okay. I didn’t hear from her for a few hours, so I texted my other sister (because I’m paranoid like that), who finally was able to make contact, and I finally heard from the whore after freaking out for about 12 hours or so. Whore.

I guess I have a tough time because more than a few times, my dreams have been on the prescient side. I’m not saying I’m psychic or anything; more like my brain never really stops working and when I’m unconscious and it’s not occupied with the immediate tasks of being awake and running my life, it’s able to do some sort of comatose logic puzzles and arrive at interesting—and often—accurate conclusions before I’ve even thought of them consciously.

I remember one dream when I was like 13—my mother had lost an earring, and she gave me the other one and asked me to “dream” about where the lost one might be. I thought she was crazy, but that night I dreamed that it had fallen off the back of her dresser and was underneath it in the blue pile carpet. When I woke up, I checked but didn’t see it; my mother said after I told her she went and checked—and found it.

Again, it wasn’t really anything in the Nostradamus neighborhood—looking under the dresser seems like it should’ve been her first guess—but it was still odd to be right like that.

Of course, I’ve had plenty of dreams where I was absolutely wrong. For years, I dreamed I was going to have a daughter—

As I was writing this, I pulled out an old “dream” notebook that I kept in 1993 (back before I was married). Here’s one entry, verbatim: “A dream projection—three kids! First, a daughter, eventually a tall girl with long, straight brown hair. A round face, small brown eyes, light skin. Then two sons, one with very short brown hair, the other definitely a boy, but looks unclear.”

Well, as Meatloaf says, “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

I’ve been flipping through that notebook, where I was writing down lots of dreams, which had everything from aliens and President Clinton to riding inside of a blue whale and scoring the winning goal for the New York Rangers (I can’t even skate!). Lots of odd stuff, although what’s even odder is how little I’ve dreamed about sex. I mean, considering the unbridled freedom that is my subconscious, you’d think I’d have a few Salma Hayek-fueled ramblings from time to time—maybe even the occasional Debbie Gibson “Only In My Dreams” fantasy—but really, if I’ve had more than 50 sex dreams in my entire life, I’d be shocked. And absolutely none that I could ever recall involving celebrities. Weird.

Okay, for brain bleach, here are two dreams from my notebook that I had somewhat close together involving my two grandfathers, who died less than two years apart. Both dreams are from after they died.

Dream One, about my mother’s father “Clem.”

I am on 62nd Street in Brooklyn, being taunted by a gang of thugs. I climb the steps of the [family] home when the front door opens. Out steps Clem, in a Superman outfit, to scare off the thugs.

We go back into the house, upstairs, to discuss religion. “You can’t be an angel,” I tell him. “I don’t believe in God.”

He smiles—”I can’t say that I agree with you.”

My sister and grandmother are there in the kitchen with us, but only I can see him, and continue to talk to him. I know they can’t see him, but I can, clearly, and try to make him visible.

They can feel him, and he starts to fade from the chair that he’s sitting in. I tell him I love him as I wake up in tears.

Dream Two, about my father’s father “Johnny Boy.”

I’m standing next to a fountain, talking to someone, when I feel a tap on my shoulder—it’s him. I tell the person I’m with that I have to talk to him (because I know, even in the dream, that this is my chance to say goodbye to him).

He doesn’t say a word to me—like when he had on the oxygen mask, post-stroke—but he doesn’t have to. He’s wearing his yellow sweater and light brown pants, just like in the picture in Grandma’s collage.

He gives me a nod—”Yeah, all right, Raymond”—and then a hug. I tell him that I love him and wish him luck. He turns to go as I wake up.

As for tonight’s dream—I hope instead of yellow cake, they involve chocolate pudding …

 

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