It’s unfortunate really, because I had been feeling so good about work. So lucky. So content. So, well, happy just to have a job. But it was more than that. I was feeling fulfilled. Part of that is I get to work with college students — as a student newspaper adviser and now also as a teacher thanks to my opinion writing class. There are few things better than being able to help mold and meld partially-solidified minds. It’s rewarding. And it doesn’t hurt that you can occasionally call them names like “meatball” and “mullet head.” (When I’m really on my game I’ll string them together like: “You mullet-headed meatball!” So I had been pretty happy on the work front. That is, until I read that Wall Street Journal article. Why am I always looking to newspapers for personal enrichment? It was a front-page piece that — tragically — forced me to look at my job in a whole new light. Frankly, work will never be the same again. I thought I had it good, but turns out it was just a mirage. I’m being duped. What was the story about, you ask? The headline read: “Drinking on the job comes to a head at Carlsberg.”
The Running of the Eggs
Knee-deep in children — trudging through a virtual tsunami of half-pints — is when it occurred to me: Group Easter egg hunts are an awful lot like the running of the bulls. Sure, there are some obvious differences. Bulls don’t wear Crocs. They sport horns and are all-too-eager to tickle your kidneys with them. They snort, stomp and charge down narrow streets while guys dressed in white scream, “Why didn’t I give up drinking like my wife asked!?!” Yet, as I stood with my daughter among the hordes of little ones, all waiting to rush the baseball fields at Palencia, I couldn’t help but think of all the similarities.
80s Music Isn’t Retro Anymore?!?
I guess it was bound to happen. For eons now, the music of my youth — 80s music — has been considered retro. Ultra hip. Totally cool. Able to transcend generations and stay relevant even though it was more than 20 years old. (Or that it sounded like a Casio keyboard having a seizure.) But I got a shock to the system the other day. I was in the car listening to National Public Radio when someone said that 80s music is no longer retro. The “new retro,” they said, is now 90s music. Nineties! I was floored. Flabbergasted. I nearly crashed into a telephone pole. How could 80s music be out of fashion? It was always ABOUT fashion (bad fashion, but fashion all the same.) How could this be? Was there a vote? Had anyone consulted with us, the children of MTV.
Secrets of a springtime ladybug escapade
Rule of Spring #124: Release unto your garden a swarm of gentle, fun-loving, insect-eating ladybugs. Come this time of year, it’s a tradition at my house. Survey the desolate, winter-scorched wasteland of our once glorious (and green) yard and give it some color (even if it’s just thousands of shiny-red hunchbacked beetles no larger than a pencil eraser.) Our butterfly bushes may have died a shivering death, but now the yard comes alive in a bloom of crawling red dots. The ladybugs are back. Every year about this time, we get a package of the winged critters. It’s great fun when you have a kid, not to mention good for your yard. The littler fellers … correction, little ladies (say, how do they reproduce if they’re all gals?) are good for gardens. I’m told they’re voracious predators of aphids, mites, and for all I know, other ladybugs.
New Commentary on WJCT
Hear my latest commentary on WJCT about ye olde Chase dog.[podcast]/wp-content/uploads/podcasts/olddog.mp3[/podcast]
Our Intrepid Traveler …
When last we heard from our intrepid traveler, he had concocted an unbelievable plan to run a 15 kilometer race at 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday and then make a 12:50 flight for a conference in New York. Too little potassium as a child left him with no understanding of time. To him, it sounded “doable.” He figured he could accomplish this through several time-saving techniques, like only putting on one sock before the race. He also figured that cursing ferociously during the drive to the airport could rip a hole in the space-time continuum letting him leap into the future. (He watches too many movies.) Surprisingly, all went according to plan for the young lad. His bags packed themselves. Traffic parted as he approached. Not even the stench of a port-o-let threw him off his game. He ran his race, and ran it fast. It was a great race — more than a minute faster than his last 15K. And there was even time for a visit to the beer tent after the race. Don’t hold that against our young protagonist.
Pack … Rush … Race … Drive … Fly …
On Saturday morning I will run a very big race in Jacksonville — the River Run. It’s a 9.3-mile jaunt that attracts thousands of runners. I’ve been doing it for years, but last year I missed it for a conference. This year I wasn’t about to let the same thing happen — even though the race and the conference fall on the same weekend. So — since I lack any realistic grasp of time — I’ll run the race then fly out for the conference. Only four hours separate the two. It will take surgical precision and military-like agility to pull this off. I’m not entirely confident I can do it, but if I do, this is how it will go down: 5 a.m. – I am referring to this as zero hour because the likelihood that I will actually wake up at 5 a.m. is zero. When the alarm clock goes off, I’ll curse it before hitting the snooze button. Zero hour will be delayed. 5:15 a.m. – The new zero hour.
A New Parent No More
I knew my daughter was growing up — I see the evidence of it everyday. No doubt about it, she’s a big kid. But not until I started typing that e-mail did it occur to me that I was also the PARENT of a big kid. No longer a “new” parent, I’m now someone with experience and wisdom in this thing called parenthood. I’ve served some time, got some gray hair and racked up enough credits to graduate from newbie father to junior dad. I think I get a patch and a discount down at the club store. For me this was about as cool a revelation as I’ve ever experienced. What prompted it was an e-mail from a co-worker asking whether her newborn should go on the family dental insurance. First off, I was stunned (and a little moved) that someone was asking ME parental advice. What beer goes with trout? OK. How do you properly embarrass yourself in front of a crowd of people? I gotcha’ covered.
An Old Dog In Need of One More Trick
“That’s it,” I barked. “I don’t care how old you are, you’re going back on the Gentle Leader until you learn how to walk like a lady.” “Oh no, really?” my wife said. “Oh yeah,” I answered. “It’s time she finally starts acting like a civilized mongrel.” Harumph! The lady, of course, is a dog — my dog. A wonderful dog, by most accounts, but one who often treats a walk as an opportunity to see if she can pop my arm out of socket. Not every walk. Many are nice, quiet strolls where she leisurely sniffs and befouls the neighborhood like a good animal.
In the Eyes of College Students, Not So Young Anymore
“What was it like living through the 80s, Brian?” read the writing on the whiteboard. Grrrrr! Those darn college kids. Little whipper-snappers. Children of the — gasp! — 90s. Nineties?!? Can that be right? Did they — gulp! — did they really grow up in the 90s? The dry-erase board with the cutesy, sarcastic little question written on it snickered at me. So did the students gathered around the office of the student newspaper that I advise. “Har, har,” I grumbled at them as they gazed at this “dinosaur” — me — squinting his tired eyes to read the board. “Yes, I have worn parachute pants and they’re actually quite comfortable.” Little buggers, asking me what it was like living through the 80s?!?