When I was little, my father, brother and I used to trek off to the Rockies for long, extended vacations during the summer. We spent most of our time camping, hiking, eating questionable stuff out of tin cans, listening to questionable comedians on cassette tapes, chasing chipmunks and generally being awed by the monstrous beauty of a range of mountains that had erupted from the earth. As Florida boys — where elevation was measured by how high your front porch was — it was a dizzying sight to behold. Behemoths topping out at 13,000 feet, or more. In Durango, we two little kids and our bearded father would board the narrow-gauge Durango & Silverton Railroad with nothing but hiking packs and a couple of hiking sticks. We would sit amongst the sightseers as smoke-stack ashes rained down on us and the train crept deeper and deeper into the mountains. At some point it would come to an abrupt stop in the middle of a lonely gorge. Off we would hop, grabbing our packs and sticks from the freight car as puzzled tourists hung out the windows watching us, saying things to each other like, “Look Martha, that strange man is leading his two children off to be eaten by bears. We’re going to read about this in the newspaper!” Then we would disappear up the pass as the sounds of the huffing train echoed through mountains and slowly chugged away. We would camp near a beaver den and spend the next few […]
Ballad of a spring break sad dad
“Dad, I’ve got to show you this video,” said the child to her poor, worn-out father who had just returned from work. He collapsed in a heap upon the couch and was pounced upon immediately by the 10-year-old. She shoved an iPhone in his face and hit play. “Another spring break video?” he questioned. “Don’t you realize I’m a working stiff and the sight of so much unbridled fun could cause your poor father’s heart to squeeze itself to death?” “I’ll chance it,” she said, “because you’ve got to see THIS!” “This” involved two kids twirling each other in a chair while a classic song from the 80s played in the background. Oh, and there was a pillow with a smiley face. (It had something to do with the plot.) “Child,” this father said, “this is nothing more than two kids twirling each other in a chair.”
Eighteen years of marriage, and still going
Eighteen years! How did I pull that one off? There are profound questions we often ask the universe: Why are pickle jars so hard to open? How come the pollen falls the worst right after you wash your cars? Why would a relatively normal looking cat run into the street like it was going to attack me? Pro-FOUND questions. Earth-shaking questions. Like this one: How did I convince such a wonderful woman to marry me? And how did I get her to stick around for 18 years? (Maybe it’s my smile! I brush at least twice a day.) My wife and I celebrated our 18th anniversary this past weekend. We went out to dinner. We had cocktails on the bayfront. We ate a decadent piece of flour-less chocolate torte. (Torte stands for “so damn good you can keep your flour!”) We stayed out well past our bedtime. It was a fantastic night, and a microcosm of our time together — incredibly enjoyable and something you hope will never end.
Lessons you learn while traveling
I have just returned from New York City, fresh from a College Media Convention. I helped administer an awards contest for college journalists. I slept in a room not much larger than a concrete block. I drank enough coffee to reclassify my genetic makeup. I ate enough black and white cookies to reclassify my genetic makeup. And along the way, I learned several practical, personal and spiritual lessons about traveling — the kind that only a city like The Big Apple can teach you. • When you’re in a hotel, and you’ve waited A LONG TIME for an elevator, don’t just assume when the doors open you’re on the right floor. Take the time to look at the number BEFORE you hop off screaming, “FINALLY!” Because it may only be the 20th floor … and you’re on the 43rd! Also, remember that when you’re embarrassed, hot and now really frustrated, you’re likely to repeat it all over again when it stops on the 35th floor. And at that rate, you’ll never get back to your room. • If you repeat the former lesson more than three times, go back to bed! • If a friend tells you it will only take 20 minutes and an easy subway transfer to get from Midtown to Brooklyn for dinner, know that your friend is a liar and immediately report him to authorities. He’s also probably running an illegal gambling racket. “Oh yeah, it will take no time,” he said. Only the E train wasn’t running, and I […]
How to break up with politics
Ah, election season. Every time it comes around I tell myself, “Don’t get too involved. Don’t get pulled in. Take it slow this time. Only fools rush in.” But I’m fascinated by election seasons, and in particular this one. All the twists and turns. The complete absence of issues or anything that could actually make American lives better. The insults. The strategies. The lack of strategies. How the things coming out of politicians’ mouths sound like textbook cases of oxygen deprivation. And how, thanks to the Internet, you can spend your entire life reading story after story that tells you nothing new, even though it says, “Breaking news.” “Breaking News: Trump declares chicken really did come before the egg. Will voters agree? Take the latest poll.” Oh, I’m clicking on that story! And that’s when you know you have an election problem. If you’ve ever found yourself sneaking peaks at returns from Iowa while at the dinner table or tip-toeing off in the middle of the night to see who won delegates in American Samoa (What IS American Samoa? I thought that was a kind of cookie!), you might be suffering from an election addiction. So this week I thought I would dispense a little advice: How to “break-up” with politics. Or at least slow it down.
Return of the pollen mobile
I couldn’t believe it when I walked out of work and into the parking lot. Sitting next to my car was this stunning black vehicle, freshly waxed and glistening in the sun. It had the shimmer of unrefined oil — spotless, smooth, nearly perfect. It was like staring into a cosmos devoid of stars. “WOW!” I remarked, and then turned to my car. Pollen and dirt and filth (even dog hair!) emanated from it like Pigpen in “Peanuts.” A little pollen tornado raced up the windshield. And there on the hood, it seemed a drunken gang of birds figured it would be hysterical to “let loose” on my sad vehicle. Maybe they were trying to spell: “Hey buddy, wash your car!” What a disgrace. (I thought about sprinkling a pinch of dirt on the other car’s side view mirror, but couldn’t bring myself to destroy perfection.) “How?!?” I wondered to myself. I don’t care if that car sleeps in the garage. I don’t care if its owner just washed and waxed it that morning. I don’t care if it was sprayed with some top secret, military-grade repellant that is used for warding off missiles. It’s March in Florida and a car can’t sit for 5 minutes without being covered in a 2-inch thick crust of pollen. That’s the rule!
Spring, and the house project misfires
Oops. Minor slip-up. Minor scheduling delay. Misread the calendar. Or the month. Or the year. Could be I stepped into some kind of time warp. Launched me forward into the future. That would explain it. Nothing else will. How it’s suddenly March and the task list from December (which is really from September) is still sitting on my desk. Ooops. March!?! Wait a minute, say that again. That’s virtually spring. The pollen is already out. And for that matter, it’s practically summer, when the heat kicks in. And if I’m not careful, it’s fall. It’s practically fall, people!
What happens when you get older?
A co-worker was complaining that he had injured his foot after landing funny. He figured it happened after jumping off a short wall. A very short wall. “Man, this is what happens when we get old, right?” he said. He is in his late 20s. I thought about bludgeoning him, but the only thing in reach was a box of tissues. “No, bean sprout,” I told him. “It’s not ‘what happens when we get old.’ Just when we have the coordination of flopping fish.” Maybe it hit me hard because I’m turning 43 next week. And like most of us, I don’t like this idea of growing older. That certain things are out of our control. My philosophy on age has always been that it’s all in your head. The more you get consumed by the notion that you’re getting older, the more you start to feel it. And the more you feel it, the more you fall off of walls. That’s my theory, at least. So I go around looking at the world the way an 8-year-old might: I see butterflies and rocket ships everywhere. I eat a lot of ice cream. I never take the garbage out until I’ve been asked 22,000 times.
Fearing the appliance apocalypse
A few years back, I had a bit of appliance bad luck. We’re talking BAD. Like the appliance apocalypse. Loosely defined, that’s when you start to believe your house was built over the grave of an appliance god’s temple, or that aliens are planning an invasion and your appliance failures are early warning signs. (I have a lot of time to dream up very elaborate things to worry about.) I think it all started with a washing machine dying, and soon after, pretty much anything with a chord or a battery seemed to bite the bullet. Ever had an expensive string of luck like that? You wonder when it will ever end. Why it’s happening to you. How you will ever pay it off. And if aliens are attacking, why they don’t just get it over with before the toaster dies, too. So when I walked into the kitchen the other morning and found the dishwasher had conked out — soap ran down the inside of the door like it had screamed, “Forget this!” mid-cycle — I had flashbacks. I panicked. I glanced nervously around my kitchen while grumbling, “Yeah! Well, who’s next, traitors?” It was not my proudest 6 a.m. moment. Truth is, I didn’t want to believe my dishwasher could be having a problem. First off, it’s not that old, it’s a very good brand and it seemed downright rude to die. I figured there had to a simple explanation. Isn’t there always a simple explanation? You just need to […]
The great bike search
There are millions of color combinations in the world. Maybe billions. But if you want to buy a 24-inch beach cruiser girls bike, it seems there are only three choices: pink, pale blue, and light green. Somebody explain this to me. I know this because I’ve been in the bike shopping business for a couple of months now. My daughter, as she is rudely known to do, keeps growing. The last time she went to ride her bike, she resembled a gorilla on a toy. Her knees jutted out so far that they looked like wings. “Child,” I said, “this bike is done!” But 24 inches is an odd size with major color limitations. Obviously those three colors sell best — I can’t argue with that — but my daughter isn’t in to any of them, and the search is driving me nuts. As a kid, I don’t remember having an awful lot of color choices. For little boys, color didn’t really matter than much anyway. It would quickly be covered in a crust of mud, grease and probably my own blood. More important, at least for a boy like me, was that it looked “mean” — a dirt bike with attitude. The tires would have treads like angry teeth. The handle bars needed to be sturdy and cocked forward. The seat had to be tar black. And there couldn’t be any safety devices anywhere — no nighttime reflectors or foam pads keeping you from knocking your teeth out. (Knocking your teeth out was […]