I love elevators.
They are petri dishes of humanity whereby people tend to forget where they are and talk at the top of the lungs. Subways are a close second* yet do not have as many opportunties to have a random person completely forget he or she is on an elevator and say (a) something hysterically inappropriate or (b) provide a bite sizes morsel into why humanity may actually collapse upon itself.
Today it was B.
"I need to get a new pair of glasses since I can't see anymore."
The speaker was a frumpy, middle-age woman and I'm not using that description so you will immediately dislike her. I'm using that description since she was a frumpy, middle-age woman who's skin managed to somehow disolve straight into her suit, giving her a near translucent aspect.
"People thought I was rude because they'd wave to me across the parking lot and I wouldn't say anything. I didn't even see them." She was telling her equally dressed in blue translucent friend - her outfit was blending her into the background of the elevator wall - who is only being mentioned since Translucent Blue was on the receiving end of the Frumpy Translucent's confession.
At that point the elevator reached the bottom floor. Since I am a polite person - or at least pretend to be - I gestured for both women to exit first. Translucent Blue nodded her thanks and Frumpy Translucent...she walked straight out of the elevator.
Fair enough. She didn't owe me anything.
However the building we were at required us to get a second set of elevators. I moved past the Translucent Twins and reached the next set of elevators, pressing the button as one is wont to do.
It should be no surprise that the Translucent Twins caught up to me. After all it wouldn't be much of a story. It should also come as no surprise that Frumpy Translucent stepped right past me when the elevator opened.
"I just have trouble seeing," she was opining as she brushed past.
As the elevator reached our final destination, I tripped her. Just kidding. Though I thought about it. Instead I left them go first and listened as she complained, "I just hate when people are rude. People should just be polite."
Yes, I thought in agreement.
The moral of the story, yeah, I probably do something similar. Most times that some action annoys you is because you do it yourself. Still, I really wanted to give her a kick in the rear.
Wayne
Wayne
* Once upon a time I would have had subways first except Danielle has lived in New York her entire life and has (a) taught me proper subway etiquette and (b) subway talking has taken on a level of performance art whereby you can't really get a GREAT natural conversation like an elevator. A ruined it for me much more than B.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Sienna turns 10 months
The wisdom of crowds rarely is in complete agreement when it comes to child raising. Ask opinions, or any subject or raising the tyke you will get 100 different opinions if you ask 100 different people.
Except that it goes by fast. The parental wisdom of crowds is in agreement on only this particular subject - not an outlier to be found - so naturally I wondered if I would agree with them on this. After all, I usual find statements including the words "everyone thinks so," "common wisdom," and "always done this way," to need more examination.
After 10 months I agree. It goes by fast.
Holy crap does it go by fast. The little girl with the stomach the size of a marble is sitting in her high chair refusing food, smiling at the cat, scooting around like a wild woman, all while maintaining a, "What's the problem? I've got this," expression.
I was shocked yesterday when Danielle pointed out that Sienna is ten months old. One would think I was on top of such information all the time. Nope. I'm on top of what to feed her, how she reacts to the universe, and generally trying to figure out how she go so big*.
Yes, time is blazing past already. I now understand why parents get names confused, years confused, and generally compress a decade of time into some form of "that was yesterday, right?" even when it wasn't.
I can't wait for more.
Wayne
--
* Mind you, Sienna is in the 4-5% size percentile and people think she is a six month old. How tiny was she when she started daycare? Other children thought she was a doll.
Except that it goes by fast. The parental wisdom of crowds is in agreement on only this particular subject - not an outlier to be found - so naturally I wondered if I would agree with them on this. After all, I usual find statements including the words "everyone thinks so," "common wisdom," and "always done this way," to need more examination.
After 10 months I agree. It goes by fast.
Holy crap does it go by fast. The little girl with the stomach the size of a marble is sitting in her high chair refusing food, smiling at the cat, scooting around like a wild woman, all while maintaining a, "What's the problem? I've got this," expression.
I was shocked yesterday when Danielle pointed out that Sienna is ten months old. One would think I was on top of such information all the time. Nope. I'm on top of what to feed her, how she reacts to the universe, and generally trying to figure out how she go so big*.
Yes, time is blazing past already. I now understand why parents get names confused, years confused, and generally compress a decade of time into some form of "that was yesterday, right?" even when it wasn't.
I can't wait for more.
Wayne
--
* Mind you, Sienna is in the 4-5% size percentile and people think she is a six month old. How tiny was she when she started daycare? Other children thought she was a doll.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
The Good Sense to Finally Die
"Do you have any milk for this?"
My Uncle Bill gave me a bemused look as I gestured toward U.S.M.C. mug that he had placed in front of me second before. The steam rising from the cup guarded Maxwell House's finest blend, the final defense against its ultimate destination in my stomach.
"It's black. That's how you drink coffee." His 60 plus year old eyes gave me a glint of warning that the conversation was already over, except at age 20 I didn't recognize it.
"I take mine with milk."
Uncle Bill gave me one more look over, a small red vein appearing just over his right eye, providing an odd connection between his steely eyes and his tight cropped white hair.
"Wayne, in life, you can't count on having milk. You can't count on having sugar. You can't even count on it being hot. You can count on black coffee though. You are going to have it black. You're now going to learn how to drink it black."
The vein disappeared as he extolled his wisdom, replaced by a warmness. I drank the coffee. Black.
Uncle Bill was like that. He drank his coffee like that. Nearly twenty years later I remember the conversation and it's how I drink my coffee, Like a man.
Uncle Bill was a man's man. Like most men of a certain generation he had served in the military. He wasn't an Uncle by blood, the Parillo brood had linked up with his Meade blood when he married my father's sister Anne some 60+ years ago.
He was, outside of his own sisters, the person my father knew the longest. Sometimes serving as a father figure, a mentor, a compatriot, and a sounding board he was that guy for my father. I am positive that there were times my Uncle Bill didn't think much of me.
But that isn't why I said he had the good sense to finally die.
He was probably right. To him I was a little too glib for my own good, a little too smug, and a most likely deserving of a good swift kick in the ass. He would occasionally slap me down with a well timed remark, throw in a little common sense wisdom and wonder what was going to come of his country with people like me around.
It was his country, by the way. He lived at the end of a cul de sac - so close to the people across the street that you could hit the house by throwing a baseball. It was almost as though construction workers had built the road, put down his house, then quit because there was no point going anymore since the toughest guy always lives at the end of the block and there was no one tougher than Uncle Bill. My Uncle Bill was the embodiment of the American Dream. He served his country, he bought a home, raised his four kids and loved traveling around with his wife in their motor home type trailer. He paid his taxes on time and if I ever mentioned to Uncle Bill I was a democrat then I probably would have gotten a kick in the ass.
Uncle Bill had problems with his lungs - the prize of a lifetime of hard work. Over the years his lungs slowed him down. Slowed him down enough that he couldn't travel around in his motor home trailer anymore. It sat there at the end of his driveway, a memory of a time past when he was a mobile man.
It wasn't completely surprising when my father called me last year to tell me Uncle Bill was in the hospital. What did surprise me was that the man had fallen down some stairs and broken his neck.
But that isn't why he had the good sense to finally die.
That happens, 83 year old men fall. The next time my father mentioned Uncle Bill it was to say he was in the hospital again. I asked if it was his neck again. No, this time it was his lungs. Massachusetts had been hit by several snow storms and his street hadn't been plowed.
Uncle Bill couldn't breath and the ambulance showed up. Only it couldn't get up the street. They had to call a plow to plow the street and then they got him into the ambulance. Because Uncle Bill appears to have been a piece of jerky residing in a human body - he survived.
Numerous times during the year Uncle Bill made ambulance trips to the hospital. My Aunt is 77 and she couldn't get him to the car. The ambulance would show up, take him to the hospital and then days later my father would find himself driving Uncle Bill back home since Anne needed the help getting her husband inside.
My Aunt is not a selfish woman. Except in one vein - she didn't want her husband of 60+ years to die. Then a few days ago my father let me know my Uncle Bill had finally died.
He had paid off the mortgage - this wasn't Willie Loman finally paying off the house - where we feel bad as he didn't realize some sort of dream. His daughter is a lawyer and she was there. His two sons from the west coast were around. His other daughter was on the way to be by his side. He has numerous grandchildren and his life was fully lived in every sense of the word.
That isn't why I say he had the good sense to finally die. No, it was the medical bills.
Uncle Bill was a veteran so the veteran association paid for some of his bills. Some. Not all.
Uncle Bill owned his house.
He owned his trailer that sat at the end of his driveway.
You have to have nothing for the V.A. to pay all your bills. The bill collectors started in on my Aunt. They started in on my Uncle. They left them wondering why they had bothered to pay their taxes, buy a house, play by the rules, and be responsible human beings. Where is their bailout? Where is their help? Where is their tax break/write off/of a general thank you for living within their means and not being a burden to anyone.
Is that what really happens in the end if you live long enough - someone tries to come and take everything away since he had the good sense to build a family and a life, but the bad sense to keep living.
Wayne
My Uncle Bill gave me a bemused look as I gestured toward U.S.M.C. mug that he had placed in front of me second before. The steam rising from the cup guarded Maxwell House's finest blend, the final defense against its ultimate destination in my stomach.
"It's black. That's how you drink coffee." His 60 plus year old eyes gave me a glint of warning that the conversation was already over, except at age 20 I didn't recognize it.
"I take mine with milk."
Uncle Bill gave me one more look over, a small red vein appearing just over his right eye, providing an odd connection between his steely eyes and his tight cropped white hair.
"Wayne, in life, you can't count on having milk. You can't count on having sugar. You can't even count on it being hot. You can count on black coffee though. You are going to have it black. You're now going to learn how to drink it black."
The vein disappeared as he extolled his wisdom, replaced by a warmness. I drank the coffee. Black.
Uncle Bill was like that. He drank his coffee like that. Nearly twenty years later I remember the conversation and it's how I drink my coffee, Like a man.
Uncle Bill was a man's man. Like most men of a certain generation he had served in the military. He wasn't an Uncle by blood, the Parillo brood had linked up with his Meade blood when he married my father's sister Anne some 60+ years ago.
He was, outside of his own sisters, the person my father knew the longest. Sometimes serving as a father figure, a mentor, a compatriot, and a sounding board he was that guy for my father. I am positive that there were times my Uncle Bill didn't think much of me.
But that isn't why I said he had the good sense to finally die.
He was probably right. To him I was a little too glib for my own good, a little too smug, and a most likely deserving of a good swift kick in the ass. He would occasionally slap me down with a well timed remark, throw in a little common sense wisdom and wonder what was going to come of his country with people like me around.
It was his country, by the way. He lived at the end of a cul de sac - so close to the people across the street that you could hit the house by throwing a baseball. It was almost as though construction workers had built the road, put down his house, then quit because there was no point going anymore since the toughest guy always lives at the end of the block and there was no one tougher than Uncle Bill. My Uncle Bill was the embodiment of the American Dream. He served his country, he bought a home, raised his four kids and loved traveling around with his wife in their motor home type trailer. He paid his taxes on time and if I ever mentioned to Uncle Bill I was a democrat then I probably would have gotten a kick in the ass.
Uncle Bill had problems with his lungs - the prize of a lifetime of hard work. Over the years his lungs slowed him down. Slowed him down enough that he couldn't travel around in his motor home trailer anymore. It sat there at the end of his driveway, a memory of a time past when he was a mobile man.
It wasn't completely surprising when my father called me last year to tell me Uncle Bill was in the hospital. What did surprise me was that the man had fallen down some stairs and broken his neck.
But that isn't why he had the good sense to finally die.
That happens, 83 year old men fall. The next time my father mentioned Uncle Bill it was to say he was in the hospital again. I asked if it was his neck again. No, this time it was his lungs. Massachusetts had been hit by several snow storms and his street hadn't been plowed.
Uncle Bill couldn't breath and the ambulance showed up. Only it couldn't get up the street. They had to call a plow to plow the street and then they got him into the ambulance. Because Uncle Bill appears to have been a piece of jerky residing in a human body - he survived.
Numerous times during the year Uncle Bill made ambulance trips to the hospital. My Aunt is 77 and she couldn't get him to the car. The ambulance would show up, take him to the hospital and then days later my father would find himself driving Uncle Bill back home since Anne needed the help getting her husband inside.
My Aunt is not a selfish woman. Except in one vein - she didn't want her husband of 60+ years to die. Then a few days ago my father let me know my Uncle Bill had finally died.
He had paid off the mortgage - this wasn't Willie Loman finally paying off the house - where we feel bad as he didn't realize some sort of dream. His daughter is a lawyer and she was there. His two sons from the west coast were around. His other daughter was on the way to be by his side. He has numerous grandchildren and his life was fully lived in every sense of the word.
That isn't why I say he had the good sense to finally die. No, it was the medical bills.
Uncle Bill was a veteran so the veteran association paid for some of his bills. Some. Not all.
Uncle Bill owned his house.
He owned his trailer that sat at the end of his driveway.
You have to have nothing for the V.A. to pay all your bills. The bill collectors started in on my Aunt. They started in on my Uncle. They left them wondering why they had bothered to pay their taxes, buy a house, play by the rules, and be responsible human beings. Where is their bailout? Where is their help? Where is their tax break/write off/of a general thank you for living within their means and not being a burden to anyone.
Is that what really happens in the end if you live long enough - someone tries to come and take everything away since he had the good sense to build a family and a life, but the bad sense to keep living.
Wayne
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Six Times Daddy Got Hurt, Maimed and Nearly Killed
"Daddy you have brain damage!" Sienna is going to utter those words, or some variant there within. She will probably tell me I don't recall being a teenager, never had any fun, and never did anything dangerous.
I pre-present my daughter with a list of Six Times Daddy Got Hurt, Maimed and Nearly Killed. Some were much closer than others, some I was okay by dumb luck and some were keeping a cool head.
Remarkably enough these are the times I remember off the top of my head and the list used to be ten. Only I can't remember four of them right now.
Guatemala
A case of mistaken identity led to a member of the Guatemalan military pointing his handgun at me. Judging by the adornment of his uniform I am pretty positive that he would have gotten off for shooting me. I am also glad I was carrying a copy of my U.S. passport with me at the time.
Sliding Down a Volcano
I tore my labrum, an injury so severe I later required surgery. Naturally I did not want surgery and as Danielle and I headed to Chile for an adventure vacation I received a cortisone shot so I could have a normal time. Part of the trip was climbing a snow and ice covered volcano. The only way down the volcano was to slide down an ice slide and use an ice-pick to stop yourself. This type of climb is dangerous enough that you are required to wear a helmet.
On the way down my shoulder gave out and I spun out of control since I couldn't stop by myself. What we had been told was to throw the ice pick if you slide out of control as you are likely to impale yourself. I threw the ice pick to the side and flipped over as I continued to slide. I then flipped again and found myself going head first and face first down the icy volcano. The cracking noise of ice meeting helmet echoed in my ears and my neck was being compressed on each hit.
I kept my head enough to flip back around and get my feet in front of me. I actually gained enough control that I stabilized. Still out of control I opened my legs enough to let snow in - hopefully creating friction to slow myself.
I distinctly remember that thought. The snow between my legs caused me to shoot off the ice slide and onto a more icy snowy area. I really have no idea how I was going to stopped right until my feet met some frozen volcanic ash.
My legs folded as the momentum was absorbed and for a moment my momentum caused me to stand up. For only a second and then I fell onto my back. I lay on my back, eyes tightly shut, unmoving as I tested various joins to see everything was still intact.
Amazingly enough everything was perfectly fine. Except I opened my eyes and couldn't see a damn thing. During my face plant my snow goggles had filled with snow. I sat up, took off the goggles and gave them a shake - they were cracked. I found myself in a field of frozen volcanic ash and took off my helmet.
Remarkably enough the helmet was scratched up, missing some point, yet perfectly in place. I looked down at my feet resenting again a large piece of ash. Really a small boulder. It was the perfect size for me to hit with my feet and stop me.
Now why doesn't Mommy ever tell this story. She has her own ski accident story that caused her to have shellshock and not being able to go up the volcano. Which is good since she might have had a heart attack watching me tumble and she was needed to take care of me later that night when my body temperature shot off the charts.
Hello, Mr. Tree
On a wet road in Framingham my car hydroplaned off a back road. I braced myself against the steering wheel, hit with enough impact that I broke the wheel, and out of the corner of my eye watched my friend Rob's head meet the windshield and create a wonderful spiderweb pattern as blood flowed. When the Police showed up they casually mentioned I couldn't have been speeding because it I was we'd both be dead.
Rafting
When I was nineteen years old I went whitewater rafting with Tio Brian and some of his college friends. Our raft flipped as we went over a small waterfalls. I actually got caught in the backwash of the small waterfall. I wasn't caught for more than a few seconds except I'm not Aquaman so I found the lack of breathing rather unpleasant.
The life jacket had enough floatation strength that it pulled me out of the backwash as I cycled through. Which is good since I'm not sure I could have executed the How-To-Escape-a-Waterfall-Backwash move (wait until the cycle pulls you to the bottom, plant your foot and push with all your might; in case you ever need it).
A Boat Trailer Falls On Me
As a six year old I loved hanging out near Nono while he worked. He was painting his 22 foot sailboat called The Wench while it was on its trailer. The trailer was balancing against a cinder block.
He must have pushed where he should have pulled because the boat pitched forward and OFF the cinder block. A piece of jagged metal drove into my leg...mostly since I was sitting under part of the trailer.
I remember Nono and Grandma arguing about whose turn it was to take me to the emergency room. This conversation took place as I watched a white towel wrapped around my cut slowly turn red. It only took six stitches to close the wound - one for each year.
That is Going to Leave a Scar
I was helping Tio Brian and Tia Sole move. It was a hot day and as I packed the moving truck I was standing on top of some packed boxes that turned out to be a really bad place to stand. I became dizzy, feel off, and a piece of metal sticking up from a desk sliced into my leg.
I grabbed my leg with my gloved hand, immediately flexed my toes to see if I had sliced a tendon (always test body parts before moving) and thankfully my toes reacted, I then limped to the back of the truck as I refused to look at the leg (never look at the cut as you could pass out).
"Dad!" I yelled. I will take a moment to say that whenever you are injured ALWAYS yell for the person with the most experience. This is usually the oldest person. Chances are they have seen something just as bad and will not panic.
Somehow Nono appeared, quite alarmed at the sound of my voice. "I cut myself," I said as I limped to the edge of the moving truck.
The story is actually funny as if you ask Tia Sole about the story she'll tell you about Tio Brian running around in circles on the lawn when he saw what happened and how two of her best towels were ruined.
The rest of the story explains a lot of how Nono raised his boys. Or explains something about Nono in general and where your sense of humor has its genesis.
Nono, Brian and I piled into the front of the Voyager van with Brian driving, me in passenger seat and Nono sitting almost on top of me while he helped apply pressure. Tio Brian started us toward the hospital and we seemed to hit every single bump. When we would hit a bump Nono would apply more pressure, thereby causing me the only actual pain at that time.
"Ow!" I said at about the fifth bump.
"It's going to hurt Wayne, that is a good sign." Nono's comment is actually true - it is when you're hurt and everything goes numb that you worry.
"Dad, I can take the pain of the cut it's your friggin weight that's killing me. You need to lose a few pounds," I said.
Nono burst out laughing and Tio Brian smiled.
We got to the hospital, I was checked in at the same time that someone who had severed his finger tip came in. When the hospital workers' saw I wasn't going to bleed to death they propped me up - bare ass except for the hospital gown - over a bedpan type device while they went to sew the guys finger on.
Since I wasn't in actual pain I figured the cut wasn't that bad. Not a good idea. I could easily see the muscle of my leg - it looked exactly like a filleted fish and THAT was the point where my face became ashen. Which Nono noticed.
"Don't look, you moron," he said. I then noticed my blood all over his hands, which he also looked down at, "I'm never going to be able to go the butcher again," he added.
Tio Brian joined us and saw that I'd live Nono looked at him and said, "Well, Wayne isn't going anywhere. I guess we should go back and finish packing you up."
Then yes, Nono and Tio Brian left me alone in the hospital bare ass naked with my rear in the air.
In Conclusion
So when I give you advice of carry a copy of your passport, don't speed on wet rules, don't play under boat trailers, don't help family members move, be careful sliding down volcanoes and white water rafting you know why. I promise I won't leave you in the hospital though - even if I am helping someone move.
Wayne
I pre-present my daughter with a list of Six Times Daddy Got Hurt, Maimed and Nearly Killed. Some were much closer than others, some I was okay by dumb luck and some were keeping a cool head.
Remarkably enough these are the times I remember off the top of my head and the list used to be ten. Only I can't remember four of them right now.
Guatemala
A case of mistaken identity led to a member of the Guatemalan military pointing his handgun at me. Judging by the adornment of his uniform I am pretty positive that he would have gotten off for shooting me. I am also glad I was carrying a copy of my U.S. passport with me at the time.
Sliding Down a Volcano
I tore my labrum, an injury so severe I later required surgery. Naturally I did not want surgery and as Danielle and I headed to Chile for an adventure vacation I received a cortisone shot so I could have a normal time. Part of the trip was climbing a snow and ice covered volcano. The only way down the volcano was to slide down an ice slide and use an ice-pick to stop yourself. This type of climb is dangerous enough that you are required to wear a helmet.
On the way down my shoulder gave out and I spun out of control since I couldn't stop by myself. What we had been told was to throw the ice pick if you slide out of control as you are likely to impale yourself. I threw the ice pick to the side and flipped over as I continued to slide. I then flipped again and found myself going head first and face first down the icy volcano. The cracking noise of ice meeting helmet echoed in my ears and my neck was being compressed on each hit.
I kept my head enough to flip back around and get my feet in front of me. I actually gained enough control that I stabilized. Still out of control I opened my legs enough to let snow in - hopefully creating friction to slow myself.
I distinctly remember that thought. The snow between my legs caused me to shoot off the ice slide and onto a more icy snowy area. I really have no idea how I was going to stopped right until my feet met some frozen volcanic ash.
My legs folded as the momentum was absorbed and for a moment my momentum caused me to stand up. For only a second and then I fell onto my back. I lay on my back, eyes tightly shut, unmoving as I tested various joins to see everything was still intact.
Amazingly enough everything was perfectly fine. Except I opened my eyes and couldn't see a damn thing. During my face plant my snow goggles had filled with snow. I sat up, took off the goggles and gave them a shake - they were cracked. I found myself in a field of frozen volcanic ash and took off my helmet.
Remarkably enough the helmet was scratched up, missing some point, yet perfectly in place. I looked down at my feet resenting again a large piece of ash. Really a small boulder. It was the perfect size for me to hit with my feet and stop me.
Now why doesn't Mommy ever tell this story. She has her own ski accident story that caused her to have shellshock and not being able to go up the volcano. Which is good since she might have had a heart attack watching me tumble and she was needed to take care of me later that night when my body temperature shot off the charts.
Hello, Mr. Tree
On a wet road in Framingham my car hydroplaned off a back road. I braced myself against the steering wheel, hit with enough impact that I broke the wheel, and out of the corner of my eye watched my friend Rob's head meet the windshield and create a wonderful spiderweb pattern as blood flowed. When the Police showed up they casually mentioned I couldn't have been speeding because it I was we'd both be dead.
Rafting
When I was nineteen years old I went whitewater rafting with Tio Brian and some of his college friends. Our raft flipped as we went over a small waterfalls. I actually got caught in the backwash of the small waterfall. I wasn't caught for more than a few seconds except I'm not Aquaman so I found the lack of breathing rather unpleasant.
The life jacket had enough floatation strength that it pulled me out of the backwash as I cycled through. Which is good since I'm not sure I could have executed the How-To-Escape-a-Waterfall-Backwash move (wait until the cycle pulls you to the bottom, plant your foot and push with all your might; in case you ever need it).
A Boat Trailer Falls On Me
As a six year old I loved hanging out near Nono while he worked. He was painting his 22 foot sailboat called The Wench while it was on its trailer. The trailer was balancing against a cinder block.
He must have pushed where he should have pulled because the boat pitched forward and OFF the cinder block. A piece of jagged metal drove into my leg...mostly since I was sitting under part of the trailer.
I remember Nono and Grandma arguing about whose turn it was to take me to the emergency room. This conversation took place as I watched a white towel wrapped around my cut slowly turn red. It only took six stitches to close the wound - one for each year.
That is Going to Leave a Scar
I was helping Tio Brian and Tia Sole move. It was a hot day and as I packed the moving truck I was standing on top of some packed boxes that turned out to be a really bad place to stand. I became dizzy, feel off, and a piece of metal sticking up from a desk sliced into my leg.
I grabbed my leg with my gloved hand, immediately flexed my toes to see if I had sliced a tendon (always test body parts before moving) and thankfully my toes reacted, I then limped to the back of the truck as I refused to look at the leg (never look at the cut as you could pass out).
"Dad!" I yelled. I will take a moment to say that whenever you are injured ALWAYS yell for the person with the most experience. This is usually the oldest person. Chances are they have seen something just as bad and will not panic.
Somehow Nono appeared, quite alarmed at the sound of my voice. "I cut myself," I said as I limped to the edge of the moving truck.
The story is actually funny as if you ask Tia Sole about the story she'll tell you about Tio Brian running around in circles on the lawn when he saw what happened and how two of her best towels were ruined.
The rest of the story explains a lot of how Nono raised his boys. Or explains something about Nono in general and where your sense of humor has its genesis.
Nono, Brian and I piled into the front of the Voyager van with Brian driving, me in passenger seat and Nono sitting almost on top of me while he helped apply pressure. Tio Brian started us toward the hospital and we seemed to hit every single bump. When we would hit a bump Nono would apply more pressure, thereby causing me the only actual pain at that time.
"Ow!" I said at about the fifth bump.
"It's going to hurt Wayne, that is a good sign." Nono's comment is actually true - it is when you're hurt and everything goes numb that you worry.
"Dad, I can take the pain of the cut it's your friggin weight that's killing me. You need to lose a few pounds," I said.
Nono burst out laughing and Tio Brian smiled.
We got to the hospital, I was checked in at the same time that someone who had severed his finger tip came in. When the hospital workers' saw I wasn't going to bleed to death they propped me up - bare ass except for the hospital gown - over a bedpan type device while they went to sew the guys finger on.
Since I wasn't in actual pain I figured the cut wasn't that bad. Not a good idea. I could easily see the muscle of my leg - it looked exactly like a filleted fish and THAT was the point where my face became ashen. Which Nono noticed.
"Don't look, you moron," he said. I then noticed my blood all over his hands, which he also looked down at, "I'm never going to be able to go the butcher again," he added.
Tio Brian joined us and saw that I'd live Nono looked at him and said, "Well, Wayne isn't going anywhere. I guess we should go back and finish packing you up."
Then yes, Nono and Tio Brian left me alone in the hospital bare ass naked with my rear in the air.
In Conclusion
So when I give you advice of carry a copy of your passport, don't speed on wet rules, don't play under boat trailers, don't help family members move, be careful sliding down volcanoes and white water rafting you know why. I promise I won't leave you in the hospital though - even if I am helping someone move.
Wayne
Monday, November 14, 2011
Bottle drama at 4:56 AM
The clock read a very bleary 4:56 AM. Bleary since my eyes can barely focus on anything when I wake up, never mind at 4:56 AM in the morning.
Sienna had been crying for a good half an hour.*
Somewhere along the line Sienna started refusing to drink from the bottle. Refusing may be too strong a word - after all she only cries, refuses to hold the bottle, and general creates what day care refers to as "drama." Actually refusing is exactly the right word. She isn't drinking as milk as before. Day care is worried a tiny bit and so are we.
Danielle and I are trying to do our part by giving me the 5:30 AM feeding via the bottle. Sienna can't tell time though and believes that 4:56 AM is an appropriate time.
Two minutes of warming up the water. Putting her bottle in it. Then getting Sienna from her crib.
She is in crawl position and heads right toward the sound of the door opening when I enter the room. She lifts her head up and lets out a wail. Even in the semi-darkness I can see the reflection off her tear soaked face.
I pick her up and after a few steps she stops crying - though she looks dazed. Crying off and on forty five minutes will do that to you. I am doing my best not to trip as I walk down the hallway. Every imperfection of the wood suddenly seems like a tripping hazard as I make my way to the kitchen.
Sienna does NOT like being loaded and seatbelted into her boppy this morning and starts crying again. She is used to Mommy's breast when we are in the house and she knows Mommy is SOMEWHERE around here. She can sense her.
Baby Spider-sense.
I get the bottle, kneel down next to her, and the two tiny hands immediate the progress to her mouth. She adds to her Baby Drama by attempting to do a neck bridge while screaming. I am positive that someday this will flip the boppy - instead the seatbelt does its job.
I try to reason with her.
Hah.
Right.
She stops long enough to take the bottle in her mouth, gives the nipple a chew, and then spits it out. Never mind me having no time to reinforce the concept of holding the bottle.
This dance continues for the next five minutes - only stopping long enough to remove a hanging toy that Sienna has decided it is time to play with - with the bottle in, bottle out, more crying; I intellectualize the entire situation.
I have to. Sienna is hungry and her pattern is being changed. A pattern Daddy and Mommy helped created.
Still though all I want is for her to drink from the bottle.
The Baby Drama has drawn Scudder in from the bedroom. He comes by, sniffs the situation out, then sits down in the kitchen. I snap at Scudder when he lets out a plaintive meow.
I'm not about to snap at my child. She now has the bottle in her mouth. She takes down a full ounce this time. She gets one hand up. She has stopped crying now.
This is usually the part during the breastfeeding where she stops eating for a second, gives a smile and the continues. She stops eating, gives me a frown and lets out a wail.
I THINK for a moment that I hear Danielle yell for me. I hope not as I tell Sienna that Mommy isn't an option and that she has to eat the food. That we will be here all morning if necessary.
It is a blur really. Fatigue. Hope. Everything as disconnected now as it was in the moment. Sienna drinks some more - spits out the bottle and then turns bright red.
Her faces seems to morph slightly into a square that takes on the hue of a fire hydrant and her eyes water up once again. This is her universal sign she is going the bathroom.
I offer her some encouragement while she finishes her baby business. At least I know there will be a present waiting for me in the diaper. She eats some more.
More.
A little more.
She has an ounce left.
One ounce.
She quits on me.
One ounce short.
The undeniable I'm Done! A parent can tell these things. A tired parent may even been convincing himself.
5:18 when I take her back to her crib. She lets out a HUGE wail - the loudest one yet when she knows that pre-breakfast is now done. One dirty diaper change later she is back in bed.
I figure it will take me two weeks of morning baby drama before she is holding her own bottle. She has done it in the past. Today was about breaking the concept that if I refuse Mommy is around to feed me.
I feel strict. That I was forceful with what is going on. I held to me guns.
Yeah, I'm a parent. Nine months and one day into Sienna's life and I am definitely a parent. I look at the baby monitor: she is already asleep, less than a minute after I left her.
Wayne
--
* To any non-parent this mostly likely sounds similar to child abuse. Please. You pick up a crying child quickly and you know what you get? A child who knows she will be picked up if she cried. Kids are smart, Sienna instantly knows what mommy and daddy are really feeling. If I had her people reading skills I'd be in charge of the universe. A child can also cry soothe herself back to sleep after a few minutes.
Sienna had been crying for a good half an hour.*
Somewhere along the line Sienna started refusing to drink from the bottle. Refusing may be too strong a word - after all she only cries, refuses to hold the bottle, and general creates what day care refers to as "drama." Actually refusing is exactly the right word. She isn't drinking as milk as before. Day care is worried a tiny bit and so are we.
Danielle and I are trying to do our part by giving me the 5:30 AM feeding via the bottle. Sienna can't tell time though and believes that 4:56 AM is an appropriate time.
Two minutes of warming up the water. Putting her bottle in it. Then getting Sienna from her crib.
She is in crawl position and heads right toward the sound of the door opening when I enter the room. She lifts her head up and lets out a wail. Even in the semi-darkness I can see the reflection off her tear soaked face.
I pick her up and after a few steps she stops crying - though she looks dazed. Crying off and on forty five minutes will do that to you. I am doing my best not to trip as I walk down the hallway. Every imperfection of the wood suddenly seems like a tripping hazard as I make my way to the kitchen.
Sienna does NOT like being loaded and seatbelted into her boppy this morning and starts crying again. She is used to Mommy's breast when we are in the house and she knows Mommy is SOMEWHERE around here. She can sense her.
Baby Spider-sense.
I get the bottle, kneel down next to her, and the two tiny hands immediate the progress to her mouth. She adds to her Baby Drama by attempting to do a neck bridge while screaming. I am positive that someday this will flip the boppy - instead the seatbelt does its job.
I try to reason with her.
Hah.
Right.
She stops long enough to take the bottle in her mouth, gives the nipple a chew, and then spits it out. Never mind me having no time to reinforce the concept of holding the bottle.
This dance continues for the next five minutes - only stopping long enough to remove a hanging toy that Sienna has decided it is time to play with - with the bottle in, bottle out, more crying; I intellectualize the entire situation.
I have to. Sienna is hungry and her pattern is being changed. A pattern Daddy and Mommy helped created.
Still though all I want is for her to drink from the bottle.
The Baby Drama has drawn Scudder in from the bedroom. He comes by, sniffs the situation out, then sits down in the kitchen. I snap at Scudder when he lets out a plaintive meow.
I'm not about to snap at my child. She now has the bottle in her mouth. She takes down a full ounce this time. She gets one hand up. She has stopped crying now.
This is usually the part during the breastfeeding where she stops eating for a second, gives a smile and the continues. She stops eating, gives me a frown and lets out a wail.
I THINK for a moment that I hear Danielle yell for me. I hope not as I tell Sienna that Mommy isn't an option and that she has to eat the food. That we will be here all morning if necessary.
It is a blur really. Fatigue. Hope. Everything as disconnected now as it was in the moment. Sienna drinks some more - spits out the bottle and then turns bright red.
Her faces seems to morph slightly into a square that takes on the hue of a fire hydrant and her eyes water up once again. This is her universal sign she is going the bathroom.
I offer her some encouragement while she finishes her baby business. At least I know there will be a present waiting for me in the diaper. She eats some more.
More.
A little more.
She has an ounce left.
One ounce.
She quits on me.
One ounce short.
The undeniable I'm Done! A parent can tell these things. A tired parent may even been convincing himself.
5:18 when I take her back to her crib. She lets out a HUGE wail - the loudest one yet when she knows that pre-breakfast is now done. One dirty diaper change later she is back in bed.
I figure it will take me two weeks of morning baby drama before she is holding her own bottle. She has done it in the past. Today was about breaking the concept that if I refuse Mommy is around to feed me.
I feel strict. That I was forceful with what is going on. I held to me guns.
Yeah, I'm a parent. Nine months and one day into Sienna's life and I am definitely a parent. I look at the baby monitor: she is already asleep, less than a minute after I left her.
Wayne
--
* To any non-parent this mostly likely sounds similar to child abuse. Please. You pick up a crying child quickly and you know what you get? A child who knows she will be picked up if she cried. Kids are smart, Sienna instantly knows what mommy and daddy are really feeling. If I had her people reading skills I'd be in charge of the universe. A child can also cry soothe herself back to sleep after a few minutes.
Random Run ins with People in My New York Apartments
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.
It sounds like someone was trying to break into our apartment by knocking on our door approximately 3,000 times in a ten second span. I was in our living room on our couch doing my impression of a fat, tired man laying on a couch - performing the part well actually - having just gotten a very cranky Sienna off to sleep. Danielle looked up our kitchen table where she was enjoying her Sunday ritual of "squeezing in the reading of the New York Times when I get a chance."
"Stop that!" I yelled it as I moved from the couch toward the living room door. It wasn't a particularly deranged knocking of the door - if you have ever seen Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory knock on his neighbors door you'll get the idea - and I was mostly concerned that the fool pounded would wake up my child.
However I'm not an idiot either. I looked through the peep hole.
There was a young 20-something in a tuxedo standing at my doorway. In the grand scheme of life looked like someone had tied four twigs together, glued four cotton balls to his head and called it a human being. I shall call him Stick Boy at this point.
I whipped open the door and he was rather surprised to see, well, ME. "What the hell are you doing?"
Stick Boy took a step backward and immediately raised his hands into a mea-culpa. "I'msosorry. I thoughtthiswasmyfriendsapartment.YoumustthinkI'manidiot. I'msorry."
I looked down onto the street and I was a few of Stick Boy's friends by an SUV. One guy, two women, and all of them dressed for some sort of social event.
"What are you doing?" Stick Boy's male friend yelled up. Concerned over what his buddy had seemingly gotten himself into.
"I thought this was your apartment!" Stick Boy yelled back. "I'manidiot," Stick Boy repeated. Backing further away.
"Yes, you are," I said.
Stick Boy stepped through our open outside door - we have two sets of doors, I still have no idea how he got through the first set.
"My daughter is asleep, if you woke her up..." I left it trail off as Stick Boy made his way through the door. I shut it behind him, locked it, and listened as his friend dressed him down for being a moron.
Once inside Danielle and I got to talking about random New York run ins with apartments. Stick Boy isn't even the top five. Living in New York you just run into weird stuff living in apartments, or involved with apartments.
Here are the rest.
The Avatar People
Danielle and I agreed on the price for our Butler Street apartment as had one last meeting left: meet the landlords. Really, a perfunctory moment designed to make sure everyone isn't crazy. As we sat in the real estate office on Smith Street across from our landlords and the real estate agent (who was licking his lips at the check HE was about to receive) about to put pen onto paper...two people on stilts dressed as the blue creatures from avatar appeared.
They pressed their hands and faces to the window of the real estate office and bellowed, "Don't sign the lease! Don't sign."
We still signed. No alien creatures were keeping us from a good piece of real estate.
The Kiddie Pool
I lived in on the sixth floor of a six floor in the East Village during the late 90s. It was a two bedroom apartment and legendary among my friends for its lack of cleanliness.
One fine miserably hot summer evening I was awoken at 2 AM by some loud crashed above my living room. As plaster fell around me I was concerned that there was (a) a possible murder taking place and (b) I was going to get no sleep.
I threw on some shorts, a t-shirt, grabbed my cellphone, headed to the roof, whipped open the metal doorway going to the roof. I would like to pause the story here to point out that this is the type of behavior you do in your 20s - walking to a roof where a crime might be taking place - yeah, I would rethink that (literally) when I reached my 30s.
Story onward.
I whipped open the metal doorway and saw two young men in their early 20s dressed only in tightie whitey underwear jumping up-and-down in a kiddie pool.
"Hey!" I have no idea why I yelled. Probably the lesser known of the fight-flight-scream in shock reaction.
"Hey man!" one of them yelled.
"You guys are caving in my living room!" Like alcohol being consumed, pure shock leads to the truth.
"Sorry about that," the second guy said, "it's hot and we needed to unwind." He took a cigarette out of -- I don't even know where that cigarette came from -- and lit it.
"It's all good. Just stop jumping."
"Thanks. Hey, you want to join us?" The question came from guy number one.
There are many things I will attest to having tried in my life. Frollicking around on an East Village roof in a kiddie pool with two men in their tightie whities is not one of them.
The Dog
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Once again I was concerned about my East Village roof caving in as something was taking place. Once again I went to investigate.
As I opened the metal door I was nearly run over by a dog. Forty pounds of muscle, sinew, and hanging tongue coming straight for me. The dog got to within inches from me and with the grace of gazelle performed a hairpin turn while scooping up a tennis ball - that I certainly had not seen - with its sharp-I-can-eat-you teeth.
Across the roof was my neighbor Jason.
"Sorry about that," Jason said as the dog sprinted back to him, dropped the ball, and headed back out for another pass. "He is a stray and we took him home. We don't have a leash though and he needed some exercise. Did his running disturb you?"
Just a bit Jason. Just a bit.
(Quick add on. Scudder had a habit of walking out of the apartment when I would get home. Jason and his wife's apartment were adjacent to mine. One day as Scudder stepped out Jason's door open, Scudder stepped toward Jason's apartment and found himself nose-to-nose with the dog. Scudder never tried to sneak out again).
Say Nothing
When I lived in Cheever Placer in Brooklyn, once again a legendary apartment due to its tilt. Not a slight tilt either, I could sit in a corner of my living room, roll a ball at an angle and it would come back to me in seconds.
A married couple lived in a building - he an ex-con and she a rather violent probably heading for jail at some point in her life. They were very nice people though, except for when they fought. Terrible. Loud. Violent fights. The police were called several times by the ex-con's mother (who also lived in the building.)
One night I was coming home and heard them screaming at the top of their lungs. They were on the 2nd floor and I was on the 4th floor of the walkup and as I headed up the stairs I came to the unfortunate conclusion that their door was open.
The two of them were in the doorway, in plain sight, slapping away at each and that is when they saw me. Everyone stopped and stared at each other. The fight-flight-scream in shock instinct gained another new level of "say nothing."
The ex-con turned to his girlfriend and said, "Well now EVERYONE in the apartment knows how stupid you are!" He then slammed the door.
I continued on to my apartment. Really, what would you have done?
Yeah, living in New York - and anywhere really, I once opened the front door to the house in Framingham naked because religious people were bothering me - always has an adventure or two. Random run ins with apartments.
I am sure Sienna will come up with her own stories and adventures.
Wayne
It sounds like someone was trying to break into our apartment by knocking on our door approximately 3,000 times in a ten second span. I was in our living room on our couch doing my impression of a fat, tired man laying on a couch - performing the part well actually - having just gotten a very cranky Sienna off to sleep. Danielle looked up our kitchen table where she was enjoying her Sunday ritual of "squeezing in the reading of the New York Times when I get a chance."
"Stop that!" I yelled it as I moved from the couch toward the living room door. It wasn't a particularly deranged knocking of the door - if you have ever seen Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory knock on his neighbors door you'll get the idea - and I was mostly concerned that the fool pounded would wake up my child.
However I'm not an idiot either. I looked through the peep hole.
There was a young 20-something in a tuxedo standing at my doorway. In the grand scheme of life looked like someone had tied four twigs together, glued four cotton balls to his head and called it a human being. I shall call him Stick Boy at this point.
I whipped open the door and he was rather surprised to see, well, ME. "What the hell are you doing?"
Stick Boy took a step backward and immediately raised his hands into a mea-culpa. "I'msosorry. I thoughtthiswasmyfriendsapartment.YoumustthinkI'manidiot. I'msorry."
I looked down onto the street and I was a few of Stick Boy's friends by an SUV. One guy, two women, and all of them dressed for some sort of social event.
"What are you doing?" Stick Boy's male friend yelled up. Concerned over what his buddy had seemingly gotten himself into.
"I thought this was your apartment!" Stick Boy yelled back. "I'manidiot," Stick Boy repeated. Backing further away.
"Yes, you are," I said.
Stick Boy stepped through our open outside door - we have two sets of doors, I still have no idea how he got through the first set.
"My daughter is asleep, if you woke her up..." I left it trail off as Stick Boy made his way through the door. I shut it behind him, locked it, and listened as his friend dressed him down for being a moron.
Once inside Danielle and I got to talking about random New York run ins with apartments. Stick Boy isn't even the top five. Living in New York you just run into weird stuff living in apartments, or involved with apartments.
Here are the rest.
The Avatar People
Danielle and I agreed on the price for our Butler Street apartment as had one last meeting left: meet the landlords. Really, a perfunctory moment designed to make sure everyone isn't crazy. As we sat in the real estate office on Smith Street across from our landlords and the real estate agent (who was licking his lips at the check HE was about to receive) about to put pen onto paper...two people on stilts dressed as the blue creatures from avatar appeared.
They pressed their hands and faces to the window of the real estate office and bellowed, "Don't sign the lease! Don't sign."
We still signed. No alien creatures were keeping us from a good piece of real estate.
The Kiddie Pool
I lived in on the sixth floor of a six floor in the East Village during the late 90s. It was a two bedroom apartment and legendary among my friends for its lack of cleanliness.
One fine miserably hot summer evening I was awoken at 2 AM by some loud crashed above my living room. As plaster fell around me I was concerned that there was (a) a possible murder taking place and (b) I was going to get no sleep.
I threw on some shorts, a t-shirt, grabbed my cellphone, headed to the roof, whipped open the metal doorway going to the roof. I would like to pause the story here to point out that this is the type of behavior you do in your 20s - walking to a roof where a crime might be taking place - yeah, I would rethink that (literally) when I reached my 30s.
Story onward.
I whipped open the metal doorway and saw two young men in their early 20s dressed only in tightie whitey underwear jumping up-and-down in a kiddie pool.
"Hey!" I have no idea why I yelled. Probably the lesser known of the fight-flight-scream in shock reaction.
"Hey man!" one of them yelled.
"You guys are caving in my living room!" Like alcohol being consumed, pure shock leads to the truth.
"Sorry about that," the second guy said, "it's hot and we needed to unwind." He took a cigarette out of -- I don't even know where that cigarette came from -- and lit it.
"It's all good. Just stop jumping."
"Thanks. Hey, you want to join us?" The question came from guy number one.
There are many things I will attest to having tried in my life. Frollicking around on an East Village roof in a kiddie pool with two men in their tightie whities is not one of them.
The Dog
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Once again I was concerned about my East Village roof caving in as something was taking place. Once again I went to investigate.
As I opened the metal door I was nearly run over by a dog. Forty pounds of muscle, sinew, and hanging tongue coming straight for me. The dog got to within inches from me and with the grace of gazelle performed a hairpin turn while scooping up a tennis ball - that I certainly had not seen - with its sharp-I-can-eat-you teeth.
Across the roof was my neighbor Jason.
"Sorry about that," Jason said as the dog sprinted back to him, dropped the ball, and headed back out for another pass. "He is a stray and we took him home. We don't have a leash though and he needed some exercise. Did his running disturb you?"
Just a bit Jason. Just a bit.
(Quick add on. Scudder had a habit of walking out of the apartment when I would get home. Jason and his wife's apartment were adjacent to mine. One day as Scudder stepped out Jason's door open, Scudder stepped toward Jason's apartment and found himself nose-to-nose with the dog. Scudder never tried to sneak out again).
Say Nothing
When I lived in Cheever Placer in Brooklyn, once again a legendary apartment due to its tilt. Not a slight tilt either, I could sit in a corner of my living room, roll a ball at an angle and it would come back to me in seconds.
A married couple lived in a building - he an ex-con and she a rather violent probably heading for jail at some point in her life. They were very nice people though, except for when they fought. Terrible. Loud. Violent fights. The police were called several times by the ex-con's mother (who also lived in the building.)
One night I was coming home and heard them screaming at the top of their lungs. They were on the 2nd floor and I was on the 4th floor of the walkup and as I headed up the stairs I came to the unfortunate conclusion that their door was open.
The two of them were in the doorway, in plain sight, slapping away at each and that is when they saw me. Everyone stopped and stared at each other. The fight-flight-scream in shock instinct gained another new level of "say nothing."
The ex-con turned to his girlfriend and said, "Well now EVERYONE in the apartment knows how stupid you are!" He then slammed the door.
I continued on to my apartment. Really, what would you have done?
Yeah, living in New York - and anywhere really, I once opened the front door to the house in Framingham naked because religious people were bothering me - always has an adventure or two. Random run ins with apartments.
I am sure Sienna will come up with her own stories and adventures.
Wayne
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
When Sienna is Sick
I was having a not-so-good day at work. I can't even qualify it as a bad day at work as there was a minimal amount of additional stress on my normal workload, though I had just received some work news that put me in a rather foul mood. Bad day is when something bad it happening - like a family member having a problem.
When the phone rang I recognized Danielle's number.
"Cranky husband," I said as I pressed the headset button on my phone and sent the Ma Bell signal through my headphone-esque looking crown.
"Day care called," Danielle said, foregoing greetings and salutations.
My mind immediately jumped into exactly why daycare would call. Either Sienna did or something or something happened to Sienna. Daycare isn't the type of place that will arbitrarily call. Or to put it another way, if someone bit Sienna they would mention it to us when we picked her up, not with a midday phone call. Conversely if someone bit Sienna and it broke skin then we'd get a phone call.
"She is running a fever. I'm going to go pick her up. A lot kids are sick today. There is a bug going around."
That was rather good of Danielle given that I was covering a co-workers project at work and I wasn't in a spot to work from home easily.
After I turned off my headset I thought to what was going on. The day still had its stresses at work though nothing compared to the sudden shift in priorities. How sick was Sienna? Was it a cold again? A cough? A something else?
That is part of parenting. Wondering exactly what is wrong with your child without letting your mind get away from you. Or at least too far away from you. It sucks really. The this is only the beginning and in the grand scheme of things - I can't quality it as a bad day since Danielle will take care of Sienna and we'll all be well in the end.
Wayne
When the phone rang I recognized Danielle's number.
"Cranky husband," I said as I pressed the headset button on my phone and sent the Ma Bell signal through my headphone-esque looking crown.
"Day care called," Danielle said, foregoing greetings and salutations.
My mind immediately jumped into exactly why daycare would call. Either Sienna did or something or something happened to Sienna. Daycare isn't the type of place that will arbitrarily call. Or to put it another way, if someone bit Sienna they would mention it to us when we picked her up, not with a midday phone call. Conversely if someone bit Sienna and it broke skin then we'd get a phone call.
"She is running a fever. I'm going to go pick her up. A lot kids are sick today. There is a bug going around."
That was rather good of Danielle given that I was covering a co-workers project at work and I wasn't in a spot to work from home easily.
After I turned off my headset I thought to what was going on. The day still had its stresses at work though nothing compared to the sudden shift in priorities. How sick was Sienna? Was it a cold again? A cough? A something else?
That is part of parenting. Wondering exactly what is wrong with your child without letting your mind get away from you. Or at least too far away from you. It sucks really. The this is only the beginning and in the grand scheme of things - I can't quality it as a bad day since Danielle will take care of Sienna and we'll all be well in the end.
Wayne
Monday, November 7, 2011
About My Nonny...
Someday Sienna is going to ask about her grandparents - or if she is anything like me her greatgrandparents. In honor of Magic Johnson announcing he was HIV positive 20 years ago and a coincidence I give the Nonny post.
I ended up thinking about Nonny*, my paternal grandmother a couple of times in the last two days. Yesterday it was when Danielle and I were discussing Grandparents naming - my father goes by Nono, my stepmother goes by Nona, and my mother-in-law will go by, according to her, "whatever Sienna wants to call her." This morning my co-worker John and I got onto the subjects of old school toughness and grandmother's**. Ergo, you get the Nonny entry.
My Nonny was an Italian woman disguised as a block of flesh measuring 4 foot 6 high by 4 foot 6 round. I never recall seeing her in anything except a black dress, white shirt, thick glasses, and unmoving black curly hair - though pictures show her with a occasional bit of color. She had made a living as a seamstress, which accounted for her incredibly strong fingers and hands. If she grabbed you she GRABBED you and there was no way she was letting go until she wanted to. She was old school in how she dispensed love, justice, and wisdom.
By the time my brother and I were old enough for her to have a noticeable impact on our life, she had been tempered by numerous other grandchildren - or at least that is what we are TOLD. It is a frightening concept to image her at the height of her kickassness powers. She spent about a third of a year living with us - spreading her love between ourselves and various other family members the other two thirds of the year. After my Mother died she ended up getting an apartment about half a mile away from us.
Food is Love...
Like all Italian grandmothers my earliest memories of Nonny involve food. Not in one of those cooking all day events, or homemade sauces, or any family recipe secrets - my memories involve pizza. Specifically pepperoni pizza from Centre Pizza in Framingham. If Nonny was coming over we got pizza. This was a HUGE deal as Papa Gino's was actually closer and cheaper, though Nonny knew we liked the more expensive Centre pizza and the tiny pieces of pepperoni dotting the salty cheese which sat on a field of spicy goodness.
We've Heard So Much About You...
As I already mentioned my brother and I had heard seemingly thousands of Nonny stories. Her old school ways came from being a street smart Bostonian with a love that melded with pride in the form of my two Aunts - Linda and Anne, and her baby boy my father Joey. By the time my father was six Grandpa** was no longer in the picture, which effectively left Nonny as a single parent during the 40s & 50s.
A single parent resulting in a thousand stories. Here are my favorite all-time "Don't Mess With My Nonny Stories."
A Plate of Spaghetti
Nonny was watching my cousin Ricky and asked him what he wanted for dinner. She made him a plate of spaghetti and put it in front of him. "I don't want THIS" Ricky said. Wordlessly she dumped the plate of spaghetti over Ricky's head.
The Tree v Nonny
Nonny was driving her car and slid off the road straight into a telephone pole. The pole fell onto her car roof, crushed it inward, leaving her bloodied and unable to move. She looked ratched unconscious when the paramedics showed up. One of them said, "We have a big one in here." Without opening her eyes she replied, "When you get those pole off me I'm kicking your ass."
Nonny & Boyfriend's
My Aunt Linda's boyfriend Phil was over and in the forbidden upstairs room. Specifically the bedroom. Which is when my Nonny arrived and saw him on her bed. She ran across the room and JUMPED onto him, landing a perfect form body splash. She looked like a fullback hitting the hole and reportedly got good air on the jump. She then chased Phil out of the room, bouncing him down the hallway for being where he was not supposed to be.
No Sympathy for Your Dumb Actions
Nonny was babysitting my brother and I when I was about ten years old. I loved black olives. It was my favorite food in the world and we always had 24 ounce cans of olives in the house. I asked my Nonny if I could have some, she said yes - except not too many - and left me to my own devices. I then ate the ENTIRE can.
Then I drank the remaining olive juice.
Soon after I threw up olive and olive juice all over my bedroom floor - I can still picture the tiny chunks of olives sitting on the wood floor our cat Smokey walking over the remains, giving one good sniff and then sprinting out the room. In tears I ran to Nonny and asked her to make me feel better AND clean it up. "You Son of a Bitch, clean up the mess. I told you not to do it." She then handed me paper towels.
Now, by now stretch of the imagination was Nonny mean. She was quite loving. When my mother died she gave me some practical words of wisdom, "Your mother is dead. It's done. I'm old. You have to help take care of your father."
Practical. To the point.
She had just come up from a different place and really was of a generation where she wanted and needed her children to do a bit better than she did.
Her Practicality on Education...
My mother's family disowned her for a while since she was Jewish and married a Catholic. Very Romeo & Juliet - though without all the death. I once asked my father how Nonny had reacted - seeing as how she was a hardcore Catholic. My father told me that she actually didn't care as long as it didn't interfere with his graduate school education. All she cared was that he did well in school. When my brother was born and my Nana and Grandpa (the Jewish side of the grandparents) heard he would be raised Jewish all was forgiven. Knowing my Nonny, she probably figured she already had enough Catholic grand children anyway.
She was Street Smart & Protective...
Having heard about the street smart and protective stories I actually got to see it in action one particular time. I was goofing around in my driveway with my friend John and I had a fold up knife in my front pocket. All of a sudden from a window overlooking the driveway came a booming voice, "Wayne, get up here!" "What? No. We're going out." "Up here now!" "I said--" "Up.Now.John, go home."
Ticked off I went into the house. She greeted me with, "Is someone bothering you? Why do you have that knife?"
She had seen the outline of the knife in my pocket. She threatened bodily harm to whoever was bothering me. No cops. No questions. Just a name. "No one, is bugging me, Nonny." She looked through me to see if I was lying and when she saw I wasn't, her hand shot out and w
ithin half a second she had me off the ground and was shaking me like a rag doll. "Don't be stupid. You carry a knife and you'll find trouble!"
She took the knife from me and tossed me out of the room. I STILL don't know how she was the outline.
She Respected Courage...
My friends were terrified of Nonny. She could intimidate without trying. One day John wanted to play with me and couldn't find me at home. He then rode his bike to my Nonny's apartment to see if I was there. I wasn't. I thought she would be mad that he went there. Instead of she loved it, thinking he was respectful enough to go there. John is the only friend she would actively ask about and I think it made her doubly happy when she found out his parents were first generation from Scotland. She would always ask, "Is that, Son of a Bitch John coming over?"
Ah Yes, Son of a Bitch...
That was a way of saying she liked someone. You were a "son of a bitch" and somehow it made the person smile. In the days before political correctness she had a mouth on her that wasn't even offensive since every adult I knew about her talked the exact same way. I can't even repeat the words in this blog.
I do know that she gave it was well as she took it.
She was always "Ma" though...
Parents have a way of reducing you to a six-year-old child and my father was no exception as he always said, "Ma" in a thick Bostonian accent that was a badge of honor from growing up in the city. Oddly enough other than his sisters I NEVER heard anyone refers to parents as "Ma" - always Mom or Mommy. Coincidentally no one calls my father Joey - only Nonny and her own part-Boston accent and part-old country accent managing to chew up the word and spit it out as seven syllables.
Yes, Nonny was a tough old bag.
Tough enough that she was declared dead. Twice.
Last Rites the First Time
During an operation to remove a brain tumor she received last rites. She survived. The Doctor declared that she had worn him out and that the tumor was SOFTBALL sized. Which admitted he would not have tried to remove if he had known it was so large.
Last Rites the Second Time
As my Nonny grew old she (reluctantly) was put in a Nursing-type hold in Fitchburg and as she grew weaker a hospital. Looking way too skinny and her skin seemingly translucent and looking like a wrinkling overcoat her heart stopped. As they worked to revive her she received last rites. She survived. Again. When told about it, she muttered the question, "Again?"
Coincidentally my Aunt Anne was in the room BOTH times she was received last rites.
A Final Goodbye...
After the second last rites Nonny was so sick that he little baby Joey was called back from the Peace Corp. She ticked HERSELF off by living and becoming healthily enough that she finally told my father to go away. Among the final words were, ""Don't have a funeral for me. I've inconvenienced you enough and you have a life to live."
She died several months later. There was no funeral. Only the memories of a Nonny who loved her family and lived life to the fullest. She also made me smile.
My favorite all time Nonny comments...
I ended up thinking about Nonny*, my paternal grandmother a couple of times in the last two days. Yesterday it was when Danielle and I were discussing Grandparents naming - my father goes by Nono, my stepmother goes by Nona, and my mother-in-law will go by, according to her, "whatever Sienna wants to call her." This morning my co-worker John and I got onto the subjects of old school toughness and grandmother's**. Ergo, you get the Nonny entry.
My Nonny was an Italian woman disguised as a block of flesh measuring 4 foot 6 high by 4 foot 6 round. I never recall seeing her in anything except a black dress, white shirt, thick glasses, and unmoving black curly hair - though pictures show her with a occasional bit of color. She had made a living as a seamstress, which accounted for her incredibly strong fingers and hands. If she grabbed you she GRABBED you and there was no way she was letting go until she wanted to. She was old school in how she dispensed love, justice, and wisdom.
By the time my brother and I were old enough for her to have a noticeable impact on our life, she had been tempered by numerous other grandchildren - or at least that is what we are TOLD. It is a frightening concept to image her at the height of her kickassness powers. She spent about a third of a year living with us - spreading her love between ourselves and various other family members the other two thirds of the year. After my Mother died she ended up getting an apartment about half a mile away from us.
Food is Love...
Like all Italian grandmothers my earliest memories of Nonny involve food. Not in one of those cooking all day events, or homemade sauces, or any family recipe secrets - my memories involve pizza. Specifically pepperoni pizza from Centre Pizza in Framingham. If Nonny was coming over we got pizza. This was a HUGE deal as Papa Gino's was actually closer and cheaper, though Nonny knew we liked the more expensive Centre pizza and the tiny pieces of pepperoni dotting the salty cheese which sat on a field of spicy goodness.
We've Heard So Much About You...
As I already mentioned my brother and I had heard seemingly thousands of Nonny stories. Her old school ways came from being a street smart Bostonian with a love that melded with pride in the form of my two Aunts - Linda and Anne, and her baby boy my father Joey. By the time my father was six Grandpa** was no longer in the picture, which effectively left Nonny as a single parent during the 40s & 50s.
A single parent resulting in a thousand stories. Here are my favorite all-time "Don't Mess With My Nonny Stories."
A Plate of Spaghetti
Nonny was watching my cousin Ricky and asked him what he wanted for dinner. She made him a plate of spaghetti and put it in front of him. "I don't want THIS" Ricky said. Wordlessly she dumped the plate of spaghetti over Ricky's head.
The Tree v Nonny
Nonny was driving her car and slid off the road straight into a telephone pole. The pole fell onto her car roof, crushed it inward, leaving her bloodied and unable to move. She looked ratched unconscious when the paramedics showed up. One of them said, "We have a big one in here." Without opening her eyes she replied, "When you get those pole off me I'm kicking your ass."
Nonny & Boyfriend's
My Aunt Linda's boyfriend Phil was over and in the forbidden upstairs room. Specifically the bedroom. Which is when my Nonny arrived and saw him on her bed. She ran across the room and JUMPED onto him, landing a perfect form body splash. She looked like a fullback hitting the hole and reportedly got good air on the jump. She then chased Phil out of the room, bouncing him down the hallway for being where he was not supposed to be.
No Sympathy for Your Dumb Actions
Nonny was babysitting my brother and I when I was about ten years old. I loved black olives. It was my favorite food in the world and we always had 24 ounce cans of olives in the house. I asked my Nonny if I could have some, she said yes - except not too many - and left me to my own devices. I then ate the ENTIRE can.
Then I drank the remaining olive juice.
Soon after I threw up olive and olive juice all over my bedroom floor - I can still picture the tiny chunks of olives sitting on the wood floor our cat Smokey walking over the remains, giving one good sniff and then sprinting out the room. In tears I ran to Nonny and asked her to make me feel better AND clean it up. "You Son of a Bitch, clean up the mess. I told you not to do it." She then handed me paper towels.
Now, by now stretch of the imagination was Nonny mean. She was quite loving. When my mother died she gave me some practical words of wisdom, "Your mother is dead. It's done. I'm old. You have to help take care of your father."
Practical. To the point.
She had just come up from a different place and really was of a generation where she wanted and needed her children to do a bit better than she did.
Her Practicality on Education...
My mother's family disowned her for a while since she was Jewish and married a Catholic. Very Romeo & Juliet - though without all the death. I once asked my father how Nonny had reacted - seeing as how she was a hardcore Catholic. My father told me that she actually didn't care as long as it didn't interfere with his graduate school education. All she cared was that he did well in school. When my brother was born and my Nana and Grandpa (the Jewish side of the grandparents) heard he would be raised Jewish all was forgiven. Knowing my Nonny, she probably figured she already had enough Catholic grand children anyway.
She was Street Smart & Protective...
Having heard about the street smart and protective stories I actually got to see it in action one particular time. I was goofing around in my driveway with my friend John and I had a fold up knife in my front pocket. All of a sudden from a window overlooking the driveway came a booming voice, "Wayne, get up here!" "What? No. We're going out." "Up here now!" "I said--" "Up.Now.John, go home."
Ticked off I went into the house. She greeted me with, "Is someone bothering you? Why do you have that knife?"
She had seen the outline of the knife in my pocket. She threatened bodily harm to whoever was bothering me. No cops. No questions. Just a name. "No one, is bugging me, Nonny." She looked through me to see if I was lying and when she saw I wasn't, her hand shot out and w
ithin half a second she had me off the ground and was shaking me like a rag doll. "Don't be stupid. You carry a knife and you'll find trouble!"
She took the knife from me and tossed me out of the room. I STILL don't know how she was the outline.
She Respected Courage...
My friends were terrified of Nonny. She could intimidate without trying. One day John wanted to play with me and couldn't find me at home. He then rode his bike to my Nonny's apartment to see if I was there. I wasn't. I thought she would be mad that he went there. Instead of she loved it, thinking he was respectful enough to go there. John is the only friend she would actively ask about and I think it made her doubly happy when she found out his parents were first generation from Scotland. She would always ask, "Is that, Son of a Bitch John coming over?"
Ah Yes, Son of a Bitch...
That was a way of saying she liked someone. You were a "son of a bitch" and somehow it made the person smile. In the days before political correctness she had a mouth on her that wasn't even offensive since every adult I knew about her talked the exact same way. I can't even repeat the words in this blog.
I do know that she gave it was well as she took it.
She was always "Ma" though...
Parents have a way of reducing you to a six-year-old child and my father was no exception as he always said, "Ma" in a thick Bostonian accent that was a badge of honor from growing up in the city. Oddly enough other than his sisters I NEVER heard anyone refers to parents as "Ma" - always Mom or Mommy. Coincidentally no one calls my father Joey - only Nonny and her own part-Boston accent and part-old country accent managing to chew up the word and spit it out as seven syllables.
Yes, Nonny was a tough old bag.
Tough enough that she was declared dead. Twice.
Last Rites the First Time
During an operation to remove a brain tumor she received last rites. She survived. The Doctor declared that she had worn him out and that the tumor was SOFTBALL sized. Which admitted he would not have tried to remove if he had known it was so large.
Last Rites the Second Time
As my Nonny grew old she (reluctantly) was put in a Nursing-type hold in Fitchburg and as she grew weaker a hospital. Looking way too skinny and her skin seemingly translucent and looking like a wrinkling overcoat her heart stopped. As they worked to revive her she received last rites. She survived. Again. When told about it, she muttered the question, "Again?"
Coincidentally my Aunt Anne was in the room BOTH times she was received last rites.
A Final Goodbye...
After the second last rites Nonny was so sick that he little baby Joey was called back from the Peace Corp. She ticked HERSELF off by living and becoming healthily enough that she finally told my father to go away. Among the final words were, ""Don't have a funeral for me. I've inconvenienced you enough and you have a life to live."
She died several months later. There was no funeral. Only the memories of a Nonny who loved her family and lived life to the fullest. She also made me smile.
My favorite all time Nonny comments...
- "Hitting a child is fine. Hitting a kid a lot is not-so-fine. You gotta know the difference."
- "I want you to be happy. If you marry a Jew that is okay. (Long pause) Though if you marry a Christian that'd be better."
- "Jesus died for your sins. If you went to Church you'd understand that. Though the bagels are good at temple."
- "I hope you get all your mother's looks. Not her driving though. She was a terrible driver."
- "Joey, you're my baby and I'll always love you. You're getting fat though."
- On my father's girlfriend Robin moving in with us, "An Italian? These kids are Jewish - she better raise 'em that way."
- On my friend Neal, "Every parent thinks his kid is special. His are wrong."
- On me helping my brother with his paper route at age nine, "Go to school or this will be your job forever."
- Upon meeting Robert Parish in a line a supermarket, "You're tall. You're black. You must be a Celtic. They don't allow other blacks in Boston."
What Does Magic Johnson have to do with all of this?
1991. The world was changing and Magic Johnson just quit playing basketball due to HIV. Nonny comes up to me, "Hey, Wayne, about sex." Me, "uhhhhhhhh." Really, how do you react when your sixty plus your old Nonny comes up to discuss sex. "You know Magic - right? Well, he got the AIDS. If he can get the AIDS you can get it. Wear a condom." 20 years later I STILL don't know how to reply to that.
Sienna. That is your greatgrandmother. The legendary Nonny.
Wayne--
* Interestingly enough Nonny is spelled Nonni and means "grandparents" or "grandfather" in Italian. I have no idea why we called her Nonny. We just did.
** John's family is from China and as a fourteen year old girl John's grandmother used to sneak food into the Japanese prison camps.
*** Depending on the story Grandpa either died of consumption when my father was six or Nonny threw him out of the house for being an alcoholic and he was considered "dead."
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
OWS - Lessons in Building a Society
I love Civilization Revolution. Managing resources, having an objective, building your civilization, and - if all goes well - a form of world domination. That is in the nice computerized version of society - it doesn't take into account free loaders, shadow markets, illegal markets and when-people-just-don't-get-along.
Occupy Wall Street is learning some of these lessons.
Recently there has been a spate of people -both homeless and apparently just a little bit off- showing up at Occupy Wall Street, getting a free meal, some clothes and other OWS resources and then, low and behold, not contributing anything. Simultaneously there have been several assaults on occupiers by...other occupiers. One that started as an attempted drug sale, morphed into an assault on three people and days later ended up with a group of thugs threatening to kill the woman who reported the initial assault. There continues to be not enough bathrooms and not enough garbage pickup - both problems that have doomed city growth - though admittedly only when one tries to grow crops instead of receiving donations.
OWS itself had an issue where too much drumming was upsetting the locals an agreement was reached where they would STOP drumming and the people in the drum circle saying they should DRUM more. And they WOULD drum more. Disagreement isn't bad. It is part of life.
These are the growing pains of any society. Usually one of the first dwellings a society builds is a jail. Mostly so the morphing into general anarchy - and there are a few who would love anarchy - thereby necessitating actual rules and consequences.
OWS is handling it about as well as one could expect. They aren't claiming to be some sort of utopia. They aren't even claiming to try and be a city actually. Though in a strange way there are indicative of social media and the new society. Arrive, sit, and THEN figure out what to do.
Really though. You usually don't get to see a small city pop up in a major city and OWS will continue to learn its lessons.
Wayne
Occupy Wall Street is learning some of these lessons.
Recently there has been a spate of people -both homeless and apparently just a little bit off- showing up at Occupy Wall Street, getting a free meal, some clothes and other OWS resources and then, low and behold, not contributing anything. Simultaneously there have been several assaults on occupiers by...other occupiers. One that started as an attempted drug sale, morphed into an assault on three people and days later ended up with a group of thugs threatening to kill the woman who reported the initial assault. There continues to be not enough bathrooms and not enough garbage pickup - both problems that have doomed city growth - though admittedly only when one tries to grow crops instead of receiving donations.
OWS itself had an issue where too much drumming was upsetting the locals an agreement was reached where they would STOP drumming and the people in the drum circle saying they should DRUM more. And they WOULD drum more. Disagreement isn't bad. It is part of life.
These are the growing pains of any society. Usually one of the first dwellings a society builds is a jail. Mostly so the morphing into general anarchy - and there are a few who would love anarchy - thereby necessitating actual rules and consequences.
OWS is handling it about as well as one could expect. They aren't claiming to be some sort of utopia. They aren't even claiming to try and be a city actually. Though in a strange way there are indicative of social media and the new society. Arrive, sit, and THEN figure out what to do.
Really though. You usually don't get to see a small city pop up in a major city and OWS will continue to learn its lessons.
Wayne
Monday, October 10, 2011
When a Protest Meets Politics
I have watched with amusement as Occupy Wall Street has gotten enough attention (it only took 20+ days) for Democrats and Republicans to finally look across the aisle at each other and...
...take completely opposite stances!
More than anything else the Occupy Wall Street leaders - if they existed, which like Santa Claus they do not - would take this as having reached main street consciousness. Yes, there are Occupy Wall Street support protests in many other states; however the press has been remarkably quiet on the entire issue until the last few days.
Seriously. Other than being told there are protests and nobody knows why Occupy Wall Street exists - the simple common sense answer being people want jobs seems too bleeding obvious for most people to comprehend - had anyone really been reporting on anything other sensationalized reports of a topless dancer, no list of demands, and pepper spray.
This all ends as Democrats and Republicans have figured out which side of the position each side is on and more importantly, how to position themselves properly for each base. I'll give the elevator pitch version: for Democrats Occupy Wall Street is the left wing Tea Party and for the Republicans Occupy Wall Street is a bunch of anti-American anarchists.
Glad that is out of the way. Oh, and Al Sharpton is heading down to Wall Street today. Maybe THAT makes everything mainstream official now.
Either way look for protests to continue and much like religions fail to point out we're all children of Abraham, look for all sides to fail to point out everyone just wants a job.
Wayne
...take completely opposite stances!
More than anything else the Occupy Wall Street leaders - if they existed, which like Santa Claus they do not - would take this as having reached main street consciousness. Yes, there are Occupy Wall Street support protests in many other states; however the press has been remarkably quiet on the entire issue until the last few days.
Seriously. Other than being told there are protests and nobody knows why Occupy Wall Street exists - the simple common sense answer being people want jobs seems too bleeding obvious for most people to comprehend - had anyone really been reporting on anything other sensationalized reports of a topless dancer, no list of demands, and pepper spray.
This all ends as Democrats and Republicans have figured out which side of the position each side is on and more importantly, how to position themselves properly for each base. I'll give the elevator pitch version: for Democrats Occupy Wall Street is the left wing Tea Party and for the Republicans Occupy Wall Street is a bunch of anti-American anarchists.
Glad that is out of the way. Oh, and Al Sharpton is heading down to Wall Street today. Maybe THAT makes everything mainstream official now.
Either way look for protests to continue and much like religions fail to point out we're all children of Abraham, look for all sides to fail to point out everyone just wants a job.
Wayne
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Lessons of Dangers at a Softball Field & What to Teach My Daughter
"This is our fucking field!"
A high school kid in a football uniform was glaring at me beneath the not-so-very-bright lights of Col Jacobs Field in Harlem, as I stood out in left-center field of our softball game, and was nearly plowed over by a sweep.
The kid, backed up by oh about 40 High School players to his immediate right and to his immediate left was another 40 pint-sized mini players of the elementary school size, had the tell tale smirk of enjoying the fact that the practice was taking place IN our softball game.
Hey, at that age I would have smirked too. Permits be damned or not. I also would have been smacked by my coach at that point.
I pictured the headline for the news story: Softball player shot over field dispute in Harlem. I pictured my own reaction if I read such a headline: Idiots.
Yes, I walked away - and bit my tongue because man, I had some verbal gold that I wanted to unleash. I have actually seen this situation before at a softball game. A young kid ran onto a field and the outfielder yelled at him - the kid then came back with a bunch of uncles and friends ("Yo, these are my Uncles!") and it took a fast talking Umpire to cool the situation down. The Umpire calmly said after, "Which is good because they were all packing."
I'm not saying everyone in Harlem packs a gun. I'm just saying that nothing good could have possibly come out of the situation.
What was interesting - I won't even say astounding, or surprising, or even that it did anything more than annoyed me - was that the coaches supervising the practices seemed to be encouraging the behavior.
Okay, I can't even saying encouraging, the female umpire in out game went to talk with the Coaches at one point and in the words of our left fielder, "They basically told her to fuck herself."
This isn't a big social post here. In downtown New York people are being arrested over similar fundamental issues. People just ain't sharing the wealth, or the field, or the piece of candy in a pocket.
I'm not advocating a socialist society - the field really was a microcosm - they had more people, were better protected, and had the field. Yep football coaches on the field - teach the kids they don't have to listen to anyone and to just keep practicing.
Still. Hopefully I'll be able to teach Sienna to share a softball field. Or at least move far enough away if the other people have a permit. Mostly though, I'll probably teach her that sometimes the actual argument with the people ain't worth it and it's more fun to blog about it later.
Wayne
A high school kid in a football uniform was glaring at me beneath the not-so-very-bright lights of Col Jacobs Field in Harlem, as I stood out in left-center field of our softball game, and was nearly plowed over by a sweep.
The kid, backed up by oh about 40 High School players to his immediate right and to his immediate left was another 40 pint-sized mini players of the elementary school size, had the tell tale smirk of enjoying the fact that the practice was taking place IN our softball game.
Hey, at that age I would have smirked too. Permits be damned or not. I also would have been smacked by my coach at that point.
I pictured the headline for the news story: Softball player shot over field dispute in Harlem. I pictured my own reaction if I read such a headline: Idiots.
Yes, I walked away - and bit my tongue because man, I had some verbal gold that I wanted to unleash. I have actually seen this situation before at a softball game. A young kid ran onto a field and the outfielder yelled at him - the kid then came back with a bunch of uncles and friends ("Yo, these are my Uncles!") and it took a fast talking Umpire to cool the situation down. The Umpire calmly said after, "Which is good because they were all packing."
I'm not saying everyone in Harlem packs a gun. I'm just saying that nothing good could have possibly come out of the situation.
What was interesting - I won't even say astounding, or surprising, or even that it did anything more than annoyed me - was that the coaches supervising the practices seemed to be encouraging the behavior.
Okay, I can't even saying encouraging, the female umpire in out game went to talk with the Coaches at one point and in the words of our left fielder, "They basically told her to fuck herself."
This isn't a big social post here. In downtown New York people are being arrested over similar fundamental issues. People just ain't sharing the wealth, or the field, or the piece of candy in a pocket.
I'm not advocating a socialist society - the field really was a microcosm - they had more people, were better protected, and had the field. Yep football coaches on the field - teach the kids they don't have to listen to anyone and to just keep practicing.
Still. Hopefully I'll be able to teach Sienna to share a softball field. Or at least move far enough away if the other people have a permit. Mostly though, I'll probably teach her that sometimes the actual argument with the people ain't worth it and it's more fun to blog about it later.
Wayne
Monday, September 26, 2011
Breaking down TV: Was the Jersey Shore Too Exploitive Recently?
Reading that subject line aloud I understand that may be the most oxymoronic question ever in this blog.
Quick review of the episode in question. J-Wow and Snooki's boyfriends were scheduled to visit them in Italy. J-Wow's boyfriend had to cancel; while Snooki's boyfriend visited and by the end of the episode had broken up with Snooki and left her at about level 50 on a 1 to 10 scale of "losing her shit."
Danielle and I - who watch the show together - were left feeling rather uncomfortable from the episode and as Danielle put it, "They just exploited them [meaning Snooki]." Interestingly enough I know several people who refuse to watch the show after this episode.
Normally I would give a rat's behind about it...except...well...except I have Sienna now and she might have a level 50 meltdown (or worse, ask about this show). Therefore, I'll break down this mess and see where it leaves us (or at least me).
The discomfort of the episode is a genuine reaction to genuine feelings that are shown on the screen. What are we looking at on the screen?
Drunk and Stupid (Funny)
All members of the show fall into this. If you show people being drunk and stupid - well, we laugh at them, as long as nothing REALLY bad happens to them. Snooki running headfirst into a shrug because she is so drunk? That is funny. Actually it was hysterical. As long as the person only hurts him/herself then we're okay.
Drunk and Stupid (Unfunny)
Ronnie owns this category. He turns into a raging sociopath and has several times destroyed rooms in a drunken rage. He once knocked someone out with "one punch, bro!" as the other person was so hammered that no defense could be offered.
Relationships (Humor)
If you show people in a bad relationship then there actually is a certain amount of humor. Usually since one person is so over-the-top you are stunned. Though only women can be shown stalking men - as otherwise it is creepy. The greatest humor for Jersey Shore has been whenever one of the guys "really" likes a girl and tries to woo her.
Relationship (Annoying)
Ron and Sam took fighting/irritation to such a level that I refuse to waste another breath on them. Ever. Any time The Situation brags about how great he is picking up women turned from funny to annoying.
Now that we have those categories set up, I can analyze what happened in the episode, as I'll have to explain this to Sienna at some point. By the way, Danielle and I had a long discussion about this episode.
This episode managed to take all four of those categories - tie them into one - and leave Snooki a screaming mess. How did they do it? (Drunk and funny) Snooki was dancing with her boyfriend, pulled up her dress (drunk and unfunny) wouldn't stop. Snooki (relationship - annoying) kept claiming she loves her beau and (relationship - humor) ran to greet him at the door like a little kid.
That is skills.
It was Exploitative
By definition it is a reality show and can't be exploitative. Still, the emotions were raw and real - and nobody wants that in his or her box of humor. I wouldn't call it exploitative as much as superior MTV editing. Here is how they pulled it off.
J-Wow is actually sympathetic. She is the mother figure and despite her intro of "bite a guys head off after having sex" she has been in two long term relationships during the course of the show. One appears to have been abusive - and the breakup was catalogued last season. While J-Wow is prone to exaggeration (after The Situation head butted the wall and got a concussion she said, "I don't want the kid to die") her relationship with her boyfriend Roger seems legit. We like J-Wow and have forgiven her for cheating with Paulie D in an early episode. The reason Roger couldn't make it to Italy was also realistic - he couldn't get the time off from work. J-Wow also had a plausible reaction: she was upset, yet didn't take it out on Roger.
Meanwhile there is Snooki. While being a hysterical prop-like device since episode 1 there have been attempts to show that Snooki merely wants love/boyfriend. Fair enough. Life is filled with characters who look for love, screw it up, and eventually find love. Sex and the City was an entire series of could-be-flawed women looking for love and eventually finding it.
However Snooki doesn't have writers - she has herself and editors. Snooki's relationship seems to be based on her boyfriend wanting her to "not be herself" and her wanting to still party. The entire season we've been privy to the phone calls between the two of them that actually...well...the castmates even think the relationship is a bad idea. Credit were credit is due - when EVERYONE in the house thinks it is a bad idea you should reconsider (just like when everyone in the house thinks it is a good idea.) Snooki also had a three hour makeout session with a housemate that is not cheating, since she was so drunk she didn't remember ANY of it.
Needless to say. Snooki is a party animal and her boyfriend was okay with her making out with other women. She is definitely NOT sympathetic though. It is like when they tried to make The Situation sympathetic for injuring himself after headbutting a wall. Snooki loves attention, hates work, and is comes off across as hypocritical. I want love! I love my guy! Ohhh...makeout time!
With that setup the editors showed us J-Wow's beau not being available, transferring that sadness over to the joy Snooki felt at HER guy showing up.
Yes, the show was manipulative. Smart as hell too. It took one characters sympathy, transferred it to another way LESS sympathetic character, and made us all feel uncomfortable. What happened though is that after the episode viewers realized, I just felt bad for Snooki who is a hypocritcal maniac. What the fuck? I can't think about this anymore.
Then they quit watching.
Don't manipulate people. It isn't nice.
Which brings me back to Sienna. Someday she is going to come to myself - or more likely Danielle - on a class 50 rager. Rather than try to logic it out to her I'm just going to show her this episode. I'm going to ask her whether she was acting more like J-Wow or Snooki.
At that point, if she wails too loud it is Snooki and I'll know I haven't raised her right. If it's J-Wow...well that really isn't much better, just less hypocritical.
Wayne
Quick review of the episode in question. J-Wow and Snooki's boyfriends were scheduled to visit them in Italy. J-Wow's boyfriend had to cancel; while Snooki's boyfriend visited and by the end of the episode had broken up with Snooki and left her at about level 50 on a 1 to 10 scale of "losing her shit."
Danielle and I - who watch the show together - were left feeling rather uncomfortable from the episode and as Danielle put it, "They just exploited them [meaning Snooki]." Interestingly enough I know several people who refuse to watch the show after this episode.
Normally I would give a rat's behind about it...except...well...except I have Sienna now and she might have a level 50 meltdown (or worse, ask about this show). Therefore, I'll break down this mess and see where it leaves us (or at least me).
The discomfort of the episode is a genuine reaction to genuine feelings that are shown on the screen. What are we looking at on the screen?
Drunk and Stupid (Funny)
All members of the show fall into this. If you show people being drunk and stupid - well, we laugh at them, as long as nothing REALLY bad happens to them. Snooki running headfirst into a shrug because she is so drunk? That is funny. Actually it was hysterical. As long as the person only hurts him/herself then we're okay.
Drunk and Stupid (Unfunny)
Ronnie owns this category. He turns into a raging sociopath and has several times destroyed rooms in a drunken rage. He once knocked someone out with "one punch, bro!" as the other person was so hammered that no defense could be offered.
Relationships (Humor)
If you show people in a bad relationship then there actually is a certain amount of humor. Usually since one person is so over-the-top you are stunned. Though only women can be shown stalking men - as otherwise it is creepy. The greatest humor for Jersey Shore has been whenever one of the guys "really" likes a girl and tries to woo her.
Relationship (Annoying)
Ron and Sam took fighting/irritation to such a level that I refuse to waste another breath on them. Ever. Any time The Situation brags about how great he is picking up women turned from funny to annoying.
Now that we have those categories set up, I can analyze what happened in the episode, as I'll have to explain this to Sienna at some point. By the way, Danielle and I had a long discussion about this episode.
This episode managed to take all four of those categories - tie them into one - and leave Snooki a screaming mess. How did they do it? (Drunk and funny) Snooki was dancing with her boyfriend, pulled up her dress (drunk and unfunny) wouldn't stop. Snooki (relationship - annoying) kept claiming she loves her beau and (relationship - humor) ran to greet him at the door like a little kid.
That is skills.
It was Exploitative
By definition it is a reality show and can't be exploitative. Still, the emotions were raw and real - and nobody wants that in his or her box of humor. I wouldn't call it exploitative as much as superior MTV editing. Here is how they pulled it off.
J-Wow is actually sympathetic. She is the mother figure and despite her intro of "bite a guys head off after having sex" she has been in two long term relationships during the course of the show. One appears to have been abusive - and the breakup was catalogued last season. While J-Wow is prone to exaggeration (after The Situation head butted the wall and got a concussion she said, "I don't want the kid to die") her relationship with her boyfriend Roger seems legit. We like J-Wow and have forgiven her for cheating with Paulie D in an early episode. The reason Roger couldn't make it to Italy was also realistic - he couldn't get the time off from work. J-Wow also had a plausible reaction: she was upset, yet didn't take it out on Roger.
Meanwhile there is Snooki. While being a hysterical prop-like device since episode 1 there have been attempts to show that Snooki merely wants love/boyfriend. Fair enough. Life is filled with characters who look for love, screw it up, and eventually find love. Sex and the City was an entire series of could-be-flawed women looking for love and eventually finding it.
However Snooki doesn't have writers - she has herself and editors. Snooki's relationship seems to be based on her boyfriend wanting her to "not be herself" and her wanting to still party. The entire season we've been privy to the phone calls between the two of them that actually...well...the castmates even think the relationship is a bad idea. Credit were credit is due - when EVERYONE in the house thinks it is a bad idea you should reconsider (just like when everyone in the house thinks it is a good idea.) Snooki also had a three hour makeout session with a housemate that is not cheating, since she was so drunk she didn't remember ANY of it.
Needless to say. Snooki is a party animal and her boyfriend was okay with her making out with other women. She is definitely NOT sympathetic though. It is like when they tried to make The Situation sympathetic for injuring himself after headbutting a wall. Snooki loves attention, hates work, and is comes off across as hypocritical. I want love! I love my guy! Ohhh...makeout time!
With that setup the editors showed us J-Wow's beau not being available, transferring that sadness over to the joy Snooki felt at HER guy showing up.
Yes, the show was manipulative. Smart as hell too. It took one characters sympathy, transferred it to another way LESS sympathetic character, and made us all feel uncomfortable. What happened though is that after the episode viewers realized, I just felt bad for Snooki who is a hypocritcal maniac. What the fuck? I can't think about this anymore.
Then they quit watching.
Don't manipulate people. It isn't nice.
Which brings me back to Sienna. Someday she is going to come to myself - or more likely Danielle - on a class 50 rager. Rather than try to logic it out to her I'm just going to show her this episode. I'm going to ask her whether she was acting more like J-Wow or Snooki.
At that point, if she wails too loud it is Snooki and I'll know I haven't raised her right. If it's J-Wow...well that really isn't much better, just less hypocritical.
Wayne
Where Have I Been for Two Months?
Before I post the next posting - where I analyze The Jersey Shore - I am sure it will be wondered why there hasn't been a posting since August 3rd.
Besides being known as "a long time" it is also known "as summer" - though that isn't the reason I've been missing. I was off doing Digital Media for the company and work for, ultimately wearing me out from posting.
Yes, there are only so many posts one has in his/her day.
There you go. My lame excuse. I'll give a quick personal update: child is fat, happy, and doing well.
Wayne
Besides being known as "a long time" it is also known "as summer" - though that isn't the reason I've been missing. I was off doing Digital Media for the company and work for, ultimately wearing me out from posting.
Yes, there are only so many posts one has in his/her day.
There you go. My lame excuse. I'll give a quick personal update: child is fat, happy, and doing well.
Wayne
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Sometimes it IS who you know
Once upon a time I interviewed with Bloomberg. I had been sent in by a recruiter and was in the middle of being transferred from one interview room to another when low and behold I ran into a former colleague.
She was so excited to see me she ran up and gave me a hug (professionalism rules!) before a rather stunned HR person and the HR person's shadow-for-the-day. "What you are doing here?" my former colleague asked. "Interviewing," I said, completely unable to keep the grin from my face.
Come on. How can you keep a straight face when someone comes up and hugs you during an interview.
My former colleague turned to the HR person and exclaimed, "You've GOT to hire, Wayne. He's great!" It is one of the topmost, unexpected recommendations I have ever gotten.
Fast forward to nine years later. Nine years. That is a long time. Excuse me while I wrap my brain around that. Okay, brain wrapped around that.
I was coming up the escalator when I saw two familiar faces. My former physical therapists Rob and Rick (not their real names). Having a former physical therapist is GREAT, since they are not exactly people you really want to spend too much time with.
"What the heck are you doing here?" I couldn't help but smile at seeing two. Rob and Rick had put me through a tremendous amount of pain rehabbing me after my labrum surgery and has also rehabbed Danielle through a nasty ankle sprain.
That is correct. I like them so much I referred my wife to them.
"Trying to become a preferred specialist to you guys," Rob said. The company I work for offers a tremendous amount of preferred specialists - which is a fancy way of saying, People that have been vetted and recommended.
We caught up quickly. Rob had his third kid. He congratulated myself on the arrival of Sienna. As quickly as we talked the HR person receiving Rob and Rick arrived, so I took my leave.
Not before I jotted off a quick email to her (it can be awkward sometimes to do it in person as some HR reps can be prickly) that I give Rob and Rick my highest recommendations and that if I had know ahead of time I would have given her a heads up about them.
One never really knows if these comments or emails ever REALLY matter. Though the HR person thanked me for taking the time to email her, and later I emailed Rick and Rob to let them know. Rick got back to me and apparently it DID make a difference.
There is no reward in it for me. Rick and Rob are good guys - they were recommended to me and I passed the recommendation along. They do their job well. Though it certainly didn't hurt that I spoke up, err emailed them.
It might have been awesome if I hugged them good bye though. A least as far as a conversation piece went.
Wayne
She was so excited to see me she ran up and gave me a hug (professionalism rules!) before a rather stunned HR person and the HR person's shadow-for-the-day. "What you are doing here?" my former colleague asked. "Interviewing," I said, completely unable to keep the grin from my face.
Come on. How can you keep a straight face when someone comes up and hugs you during an interview.
My former colleague turned to the HR person and exclaimed, "You've GOT to hire, Wayne. He's great!" It is one of the topmost, unexpected recommendations I have ever gotten.
Fast forward to nine years later. Nine years. That is a long time. Excuse me while I wrap my brain around that. Okay, brain wrapped around that.
I was coming up the escalator when I saw two familiar faces. My former physical therapists Rob and Rick (not their real names). Having a former physical therapist is GREAT, since they are not exactly people you really want to spend too much time with.
"What the heck are you doing here?" I couldn't help but smile at seeing two. Rob and Rick had put me through a tremendous amount of pain rehabbing me after my labrum surgery and has also rehabbed Danielle through a nasty ankle sprain.
That is correct. I like them so much I referred my wife to them.
"Trying to become a preferred specialist to you guys," Rob said. The company I work for offers a tremendous amount of preferred specialists - which is a fancy way of saying, People that have been vetted and recommended.
We caught up quickly. Rob had his third kid. He congratulated myself on the arrival of Sienna. As quickly as we talked the HR person receiving Rob and Rick arrived, so I took my leave.
Not before I jotted off a quick email to her (it can be awkward sometimes to do it in person as some HR reps can be prickly) that I give Rob and Rick my highest recommendations and that if I had know ahead of time I would have given her a heads up about them.
One never really knows if these comments or emails ever REALLY matter. Though the HR person thanked me for taking the time to email her, and later I emailed Rick and Rob to let them know. Rick got back to me and apparently it DID make a difference.
There is no reward in it for me. Rick and Rob are good guys - they were recommended to me and I passed the recommendation along. They do their job well. Though it certainly didn't hurt that I spoke up, err emailed them.
It might have been awesome if I hugged them good bye though. A least as far as a conversation piece went.
Wayne
The Pitch...Approved
"That's a great idea. If you have the sponsorship, we can do this."
I waited for the but. There is always a but. Always.
There was no but.
It is a simple of mathematics. My co-producer has arranged sponsorship money and if the show pays for itself we get to be on television. The TV minor-GATEKEEPER (there is GATEKEEPER up higher) was straight forward.
For those immediately crying, "Pay for play!" please contain yourselves. Sponsorship and advertising pay for television - that is the reality of life. There are t's to be crossed and i's to be dotted - however at the end of the day the show is one more step to reality.
One more step closer than yesterday. It is a good day people. A very good day.
Someday I'll be able to talk about the exact details - like WHAT THE DANG SHOW IS! For now though it is a victory.
Wayne
I waited for the but. There is always a but. Always.
There was no but.
It is a simple of mathematics. My co-producer has arranged sponsorship money and if the show pays for itself we get to be on television. The TV minor-GATEKEEPER (there is GATEKEEPER up higher) was straight forward.
For those immediately crying, "Pay for play!" please contain yourselves. Sponsorship and advertising pay for television - that is the reality of life. There are t's to be crossed and i's to be dotted - however at the end of the day the show is one more step to reality.
One more step closer than yesterday. It is a good day people. A very good day.
Someday I'll be able to talk about the exact details - like WHAT THE DANG SHOW IS! For now though it is a victory.
Wayne
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Pitching When Your Project Has Already Been Approved (Sort of)
"We love the project. We want to do it. You can do it! You just have one more person to meet with!"
We've all been there - taking a few deep breaths before you go into meet with the person I semi-jokingly call THE GATEKEEPER. I use all caps since THE GATEKEEPER is really the final decision maker and despite the 49 people or so you've already made it past this is really the person that has the final say.
Usually this person controls the purse strings. Or is the marketing director. Or it might be an Executive Assistant who gives everything one final look (yes, I have seen it.)
I wish I had some brilliant words of wisdom that includes a sure fire method of getting approval every time - though that would be a blatant lie. Instead I'll just go with what has worked in the past.
You're already past the hardest part. You're in the room. Face-to-face. Fuck yeah. Let us take it from there.
We're all in this to be successful People often forget about this part. The other person wants this to go well. I've been on both sides of pitches and really, most of the time you just want it to end. You WANT the silver bullet that solves all the problems of the universe, makes the money, and launches a spectacle that everyone talks about forever.
Elevator Pitch. Practice. Practice. Practice. If this is an in person pitch you have more than two lines to get your point across. You have three. At the most. If it takes more than 15 seconds then you're dead. You still need it in this situation. Sometimes the person sitting across from you doesn't really know what the project is about - it isn't a smack in the face or anything - people are busy.
Paint the Best Picture Possible I am talking about getting the imagination flowing from the person on the other side of the table. Sometimes a little hand holding is in order.
Stop Talking. If you feel like you're monologuing and the other person isn't reacting to what you're saying - stop. talking. right. now. As much as this is about your project it really about the person on the other side of the table. Give them a chance to ask questions, or engage them with the simple, "Any questions so far?"
If you hear "We're going with it" Stop Talking. The second the person gives any sort of confirmation that the project is going to happen stop. right. now. Really the ONLY appropriate comment at this point is, "Great. Who should I speak with regarding next steps?"
These are the reminders for when your project has already gotten SOME backing. Meaning that there are two, three people in the room who actually like where you're going and what you're saying.
Next up. I start discussing about getting a project off the ground for a corporation when there is no money, no distribution, and how to (try) to keep everyone happy.
Wayne
We've all been there - taking a few deep breaths before you go into meet with the person I semi-jokingly call THE GATEKEEPER. I use all caps since THE GATEKEEPER is really the final decision maker and despite the 49 people or so you've already made it past this is really the person that has the final say.
Usually this person controls the purse strings. Or is the marketing director. Or it might be an Executive Assistant who gives everything one final look (yes, I have seen it.)
I wish I had some brilliant words of wisdom that includes a sure fire method of getting approval every time - though that would be a blatant lie. Instead I'll just go with what has worked in the past.
You're already past the hardest part. You're in the room. Face-to-face. Fuck yeah. Let us take it from there.
We're all in this to be successful People often forget about this part. The other person wants this to go well. I've been on both sides of pitches and really, most of the time you just want it to end. You WANT the silver bullet that solves all the problems of the universe, makes the money, and launches a spectacle that everyone talks about forever.
Elevator Pitch. Practice. Practice. Practice. If this is an in person pitch you have more than two lines to get your point across. You have three. At the most. If it takes more than 15 seconds then you're dead. You still need it in this situation. Sometimes the person sitting across from you doesn't really know what the project is about - it isn't a smack in the face or anything - people are busy.
Paint the Best Picture Possible I am talking about getting the imagination flowing from the person on the other side of the table. Sometimes a little hand holding is in order.
Stop Talking. If you feel like you're monologuing and the other person isn't reacting to what you're saying - stop. talking. right. now. As much as this is about your project it really about the person on the other side of the table. Give them a chance to ask questions, or engage them with the simple, "Any questions so far?"
If you hear "We're going with it" Stop Talking. The second the person gives any sort of confirmation that the project is going to happen stop. right. now. Really the ONLY appropriate comment at this point is, "Great. Who should I speak with regarding next steps?"
These are the reminders for when your project has already gotten SOME backing. Meaning that there are two, three people in the room who actually like where you're going and what you're saying.
Next up. I start discussing about getting a project off the ground for a corporation when there is no money, no distribution, and how to (try) to keep everyone happy.
Wayne
Friday, July 29, 2011
Accidental Carolina Style
Leave to Sienna to help get my pulled pork recipe correct.
I've been experimenting with various Pulled Pork recipes in my crockpot for oh, the last two years and FINALLY I managed to experiment my way into a little tasty bit. It ends up wet, tasty, and more toward a tangy Carolina style.
What happened was I had pork butt in the fridge that I was going to cook overnight. Probably. Sienna had to visit the Doctor, so I worked from home. I ended up dropping her off at day care around noon and upon coming home I figured I'd throw the pork into the crockpot.
I wasn't paying attention to the time or I would have notice that five hours from putting the food into the pot would put me right into the middle of picking up Sienna from day care. After five hours in the pot I had to do a SUPER FAST shread, adding of BBQ and rushing off to pick her up.
Naturally it worked out perfectly. Happy accidents. Here is the recipe.
Very excited.
Now she knows where the recipe came from.
Wayne
I've been experimenting with various Pulled Pork recipes in my crockpot for oh, the last two years and FINALLY I managed to experiment my way into a little tasty bit. It ends up wet, tasty, and more toward a tangy Carolina style.
What happened was I had pork butt in the fridge that I was going to cook overnight. Probably. Sienna had to visit the Doctor, so I worked from home. I ended up dropping her off at day care around noon and upon coming home I figured I'd throw the pork into the crockpot.
I wasn't paying attention to the time or I would have notice that five hours from putting the food into the pot would put me right into the middle of picking up Sienna from day care. After five hours in the pot I had to do a SUPER FAST shread, adding of BBQ and rushing off to pick her up.
Naturally it worked out perfectly. Happy accidents. Here is the recipe.
- 5 pounds of pork butt (I prefer the fattiness of a pork butt to the tenderness of the pork shoulder)
- 4 cups of apple cider vinegar
- 2 cups of red wine vinegar
- 1 white onion sliced (in retrospect I'd go with 2
- 16 ounces bottle of bbq sauce - I used mesquite, though you can go with whatever you flavor preference happens to be
- Throw it all the crock pot, 5 hours on low
- Drain 99.5% of the liquid and LEAVE the onions in
- Shred, removing most of the fat as you go along
- Add sauce and stir it up
- One hour on high
Tasty.
Very excited.
Now she knows where the recipe came from.
Wayne
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
AAA Ratings: Government v Banks
Interesting question in the offering - at least to me. If the Debt Ceiling limit is reached without a new agreement , the U.S. defaults on its loans and Moody's downgrades the U.S Government rating to less than AAA.
Fair enough ask the Greeks what happen when a nation defaults. The real question I have is how banks were never downgraded after the MBS mess. Could private banks suddenly have better ratings than the U.S. Government?
Scary though.
Wayne
Fair enough ask the Greeks what happen when a nation defaults. The real question I have is how banks were never downgraded after the MBS mess. Could private banks suddenly have better ratings than the U.S. Government?
Scary though.
Wayne
Monday, July 25, 2011
Movie Review: The Smurfs
Let me get straight to the point: you can see this movie with kids, with family, and on a regular 2-D screen. It is a perfect escape for a blistering summer day or even a mildly warm summer day where the kids wants to see the movie. It covers enough nostalgia and Smurfs canon for people like myself and gives the adults chuckle at the jokes thrown in for our sake. Some violence - think Home Alone - throughout the film. No need to see it in 3-D though.
Feel free to skip the rest of the review.
Danielle and I made a way to the World Premiere* on Sunday; since the tickets were free I'm sure this disqualifies my opinion in most people's minds. That is fair. You have to consider the source in my case. One bit that we were both wondering was: do today's kids know who the Smurfs are?
The Smurfs have not been on Saturday mornings (though they can be found on assorted cartoon channels) since the 80s I was curious on whether kids in the theater had any idea who they were. Luckily there were two children - ages approximately 4 to 7 next to us and Danielle asked the mother. "From the iPad game," the mother said. Well all right then, question answered.
Story wise, the Smurfs manages to pull off actually having a point. It is about family. Hokey, yes; though this is the Smurfs and it was actually well executed (and what did you expect?). For comparisons sake it's up there with the animated movie Cars for actually having a plot and point.
Neil Patrick Harris balances the line of husband who wants to keep his career going and becoming a parent with Jayma Mays (best known for her work on Glee) who holds up her end of the bargain by actually being a three dimensional wife in the middle of a movie with little blue creatures running around. It is also going to be remembered as the movie where Hank Azaria steals the show at Gargamel. It is rather difficult to comment on the Smurfs acting - after all they pretty much play their namesakes through out the movie.
The most you can ask for from this type of movie is that you believe in the reality that Smurfs would be running around New York City being chased by Gargamel. Which you do. Your small children will also not be screaming and fleeing the theater (I think) though Danielle remarked there was some dark scenes.
Remember Smurfs canon? The movie shows some great self referential humor by actually showing Peyo's cartoons, joking about 99 guys and 1 girl, Smurfette's lack of wardrobe, Gargamel blowing up his own castle, and even how Smurfette was originally created by Gargamel.
What can I say? I grew up watching the Smurfs and remember this. It's more the a nostalgia trip, it is actually a really well done movie, and yes, you will be singing the Smurf's song at the end. Which is a good thing.
Wayne
* Free chicken McNuggets, popcorn, celebrity sightings including Katy Perry, Brooke Shields, someone from N' Sync and Tim Gunn.
Feel free to skip the rest of the review.
Danielle and I made a way to the World Premiere* on Sunday; since the tickets were free I'm sure this disqualifies my opinion in most people's minds. That is fair. You have to consider the source in my case. One bit that we were both wondering was: do today's kids know who the Smurfs are?
The Smurfs have not been on Saturday mornings (though they can be found on assorted cartoon channels) since the 80s I was curious on whether kids in the theater had any idea who they were. Luckily there were two children - ages approximately 4 to 7 next to us and Danielle asked the mother. "From the iPad game," the mother said. Well all right then, question answered.
Story wise, the Smurfs manages to pull off actually having a point. It is about family. Hokey, yes; though this is the Smurfs and it was actually well executed (and what did you expect?). For comparisons sake it's up there with the animated movie Cars for actually having a plot and point.
Neil Patrick Harris balances the line of husband who wants to keep his career going and becoming a parent with Jayma Mays (best known for her work on Glee) who holds up her end of the bargain by actually being a three dimensional wife in the middle of a movie with little blue creatures running around. It is also going to be remembered as the movie where Hank Azaria steals the show at Gargamel. It is rather difficult to comment on the Smurfs acting - after all they pretty much play their namesakes through out the movie.
The most you can ask for from this type of movie is that you believe in the reality that Smurfs would be running around New York City being chased by Gargamel. Which you do. Your small children will also not be screaming and fleeing the theater (I think) though Danielle remarked there was some dark scenes.
Remember Smurfs canon? The movie shows some great self referential humor by actually showing Peyo's cartoons, joking about 99 guys and 1 girl, Smurfette's lack of wardrobe, Gargamel blowing up his own castle, and even how Smurfette was originally created by Gargamel.
What can I say? I grew up watching the Smurfs and remember this. It's more the a nostalgia trip, it is actually a really well done movie, and yes, you will be singing the Smurf's song at the end. Which is a good thing.
Wayne
* Free chicken McNuggets, popcorn, celebrity sightings including Katy Perry, Brooke Shields, someone from N' Sync and Tim Gunn.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Sienna turns (turned?) five today
Really. Holy shit. I mean seriously. Wow.
How did this happen? Biologically, of course, I know EXACTLY how it happened. The kid eats like a horse - okay, she is a little small so it is more like a pony.
Still. Five months.
People weren't kidding when they said kids grow up fast. Well...all I can say. I haven't dropped her yet.
Wayne
How did this happen? Biologically, of course, I know EXACTLY how it happened. The kid eats like a horse - okay, she is a little small so it is more like a pony.
Still. Five months.
People weren't kidding when they said kids grow up fast. Well...all I can say. I haven't dropped her yet.
Wayne
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Talking with People: Real-Life Caricatures
"I bet you that is the prosecutor." Those were my first words when the man in the cheap tan suit with the bright yellow tie walked into the room. If a John Grisham character were to leap off the page and walk into an actual court room this was the man. His white hair added to his real life ensemble, providing a striking resemblance to the fictional mayor from Spin City.
It was just about hour three into my not-sure-how-long sojourn into jury duty at the Brooklyn County Court. Danielle had warned me that there is nothing quite like jury duty in Brooklyn and that a pen and pad of paper was not so much a suggestion as a commandment from her.
Smart wife I have.
There twenty of us stuffed into a small windowless room with egg shell white walls. Incredibly enough the chairs were attached together in pairs of two - if you planned on moving then your neighbor could either stop you or receive an unexpected free ride in whatever direction you were going. A would-be oscillating fan was in the front of the room, mockingly located 3/4 of the way up your wall. I say would-be since nobody had bothered to turn it on. The only other adornments were a wooden table and three cushion chairs behind it.
The Tan Caricature immediately lived up to my expectations by opening his arms as wide as possible and stating, "Welcome everyone!"
Joining him in the front of the room was a short, bald white man who would have drawn much more of my attention as a resemblance to a Soprano extra. His suit was much sharper and his entire demeanor screamed, "This is ridiculous."
As the Tan Caricature continued to stand Soprano-lite sat down and looked around the room. That is, I think he looked around the room - he had a wandering eye. I immediately put some of my brain power to trying to decipher whether this would be an advantage or a disadvantage in the jury selection.
I'm still not sure.
The third gentleman in the room was mostly arms and legs - his lanky frame seemingly half a step ahead of his torso. He wore a cheap brown suit. The reason I know it is a cheap brown suit is because I could see the edge of the pant legs were frayed and I could see the color difference in the collar. I guess I should say it was a cheap brown suit with a slightly lighter brown collar.
Somehow he sat down in his chair. I can't say I actually saw him sit down, more that he was standing one second and then the next second he was in the seat with his legs crossed. I took a closer look, trying to figure the odds of him being cross-eyed. Nope. Though he either had drank some chocolate milk that morning, was really an eight grader trying to grow a mustache for the first time, or should consider investing in a razor since there was something growing on his upper lip.
These would be the people involved with the case.
Tan Caricature kept his arms spread wise as though he was trying to embrace the room. What happened next was an off-off-off-Broadway theater audition gone completely wrong. He over enunciated every word and with every word there was an over exaggerated gesture.
It was impressive. Doubly-impressive was he spoke for no less than 18 minutes. I did not know that was legal in jury selection. He explained the case - several times using almost the same words - and I felt he was trying the case. What surprised me was that neither Soprano-lite nor Milk-stache was stopping him.
Then it occurred to me, They've seen this performance and they're going to give him enough rope to hang himself. Almost on cue Tan Caricature said, "We've been together two days and seen each others performances."
That is really what the jury selection was to me. Performance art by three lawyers - it was such good performance art I laughed out loud several times* at different words that spilled from their mouths.
Soprano-lite was a partner in a law firm that represented a management company. His greatest performances were his slight shakes while Tan Caricature spoke and asked questions of potential jurors. It was a great, subtle performance - except after shaking his head he would look around and see if anyone noticed.
Milk-tasche gave the unintentional double impressive highlight of the day. He asked a question so complex to the potential jurors that I can't even repeat the gist of it since I still had no idea what he asked. It didn't matter as Tan Caricature and Soprano-lite turned pale, Tan Caricature actually said, "I object!" and they then went to Judge's quarters for 45 minutes to clear up whether the question could even be asked.
It was singularly impressive as it was the second thing he had said all day. The first being his name.
What was more impressive was upon returning Milk-tasche asked an equally confusing question. Blank looks all around. He then asked if we understood, myself and another person said, "Um, no." He then repeat the question only...more...slowly. The only reason he still isn't trying to explain himself is that Soprano-lite stepped in and cleared up the proceedings.
It was definitely an interesting event. Mostly since I got to see some humorous performance art, called it my civic duty, and am slightly bummed out since I wanted to see Soprano-lite destroy the other two lawyers in the court room as that is what is going to happen.
The mafia guy always kills off the southern and inexperienced new guy. That is just how life works.
Wayne
* I'm pretty sure this is why I was not selected. Tan Caricature, when it came time to interview me even mentioned, "You seemed to be having a good time in the back laughing along." I answered Yes.
It was just about hour three into my not-sure-how-long sojourn into jury duty at the Brooklyn County Court. Danielle had warned me that there is nothing quite like jury duty in Brooklyn and that a pen and pad of paper was not so much a suggestion as a commandment from her.
Smart wife I have.
There twenty of us stuffed into a small windowless room with egg shell white walls. Incredibly enough the chairs were attached together in pairs of two - if you planned on moving then your neighbor could either stop you or receive an unexpected free ride in whatever direction you were going. A would-be oscillating fan was in the front of the room, mockingly located 3/4 of the way up your wall. I say would-be since nobody had bothered to turn it on. The only other adornments were a wooden table and three cushion chairs behind it.
The Tan Caricature immediately lived up to my expectations by opening his arms as wide as possible and stating, "Welcome everyone!"
Joining him in the front of the room was a short, bald white man who would have drawn much more of my attention as a resemblance to a Soprano extra. His suit was much sharper and his entire demeanor screamed, "This is ridiculous."
As the Tan Caricature continued to stand Soprano-lite sat down and looked around the room. That is, I think he looked around the room - he had a wandering eye. I immediately put some of my brain power to trying to decipher whether this would be an advantage or a disadvantage in the jury selection.
I'm still not sure.
The third gentleman in the room was mostly arms and legs - his lanky frame seemingly half a step ahead of his torso. He wore a cheap brown suit. The reason I know it is a cheap brown suit is because I could see the edge of the pant legs were frayed and I could see the color difference in the collar. I guess I should say it was a cheap brown suit with a slightly lighter brown collar.
Somehow he sat down in his chair. I can't say I actually saw him sit down, more that he was standing one second and then the next second he was in the seat with his legs crossed. I took a closer look, trying to figure the odds of him being cross-eyed. Nope. Though he either had drank some chocolate milk that morning, was really an eight grader trying to grow a mustache for the first time, or should consider investing in a razor since there was something growing on his upper lip.
These would be the people involved with the case.
Tan Caricature kept his arms spread wise as though he was trying to embrace the room. What happened next was an off-off-off-Broadway theater audition gone completely wrong. He over enunciated every word and with every word there was an over exaggerated gesture.
It was impressive. Doubly-impressive was he spoke for no less than 18 minutes. I did not know that was legal in jury selection. He explained the case - several times using almost the same words - and I felt he was trying the case. What surprised me was that neither Soprano-lite nor Milk-stache was stopping him.
Then it occurred to me, They've seen this performance and they're going to give him enough rope to hang himself. Almost on cue Tan Caricature said, "We've been together two days and seen each others performances."
That is really what the jury selection was to me. Performance art by three lawyers - it was such good performance art I laughed out loud several times* at different words that spilled from their mouths.
Soprano-lite was a partner in a law firm that represented a management company. His greatest performances were his slight shakes while Tan Caricature spoke and asked questions of potential jurors. It was a great, subtle performance - except after shaking his head he would look around and see if anyone noticed.
Milk-tasche gave the unintentional double impressive highlight of the day. He asked a question so complex to the potential jurors that I can't even repeat the gist of it since I still had no idea what he asked. It didn't matter as Tan Caricature and Soprano-lite turned pale, Tan Caricature actually said, "I object!" and they then went to Judge's quarters for 45 minutes to clear up whether the question could even be asked.
It was singularly impressive as it was the second thing he had said all day. The first being his name.
What was more impressive was upon returning Milk-tasche asked an equally confusing question. Blank looks all around. He then asked if we understood, myself and another person said, "Um, no." He then repeat the question only...more...slowly. The only reason he still isn't trying to explain himself is that Soprano-lite stepped in and cleared up the proceedings.
It was definitely an interesting event. Mostly since I got to see some humorous performance art, called it my civic duty, and am slightly bummed out since I wanted to see Soprano-lite destroy the other two lawyers in the court room as that is what is going to happen.
The mafia guy always kills off the southern and inexperienced new guy. That is just how life works.
Wayne
* I'm pretty sure this is why I was not selected. Tan Caricature, when it came time to interview me even mentioned, "You seemed to be having a good time in the back laughing along." I answered Yes.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Colonel George Young (Softball Field)
New York City and its softball fields have gotten a major face life in the (gulp) nine years that I've been playing. Fields have been torn up and re-sod, turf that was laid seemingly directly onto cement has been re-layered to provide your knees with a fighting chance to survive a game and Central Park's Great Lawn fields would be the crown jewels of the number of fields you'd love to play on.
Colonel George Young Field is not one of these crown fields.
Colonel Young Field is a throw back to a different era of baseball. When players like Mickey Mantle roamed cow pastures located next to mining operations - carefully avoiding cow chips, seeing large swathes of grass eaten away by hungry bovines and a giant mud puddle situated in what would be center field. The infield resembles something that looks like it was dug out by two spare miners in their part time and they've thrown around the base paths combines with the dirt to form a substance that has the consistency of the part of the beach where the tide has just gone out and you end up with over-saturated sand that gives way to each of your steps.
Other than cows eating and leaving cow chips I feel as though I've given a pretty good representation of the field. Since there are multiple fields at the location there is the unique New York experience of outfielders from separate games standing back-to-back. Coincidentally that is the least of the problems of New York softball fields - there is a code of brother (and sister) hood where you learn to warn each other of flying objects. Usually it involves someone screaming "DUCK!" or "COMING THROUGH!"
Colonel Young Field is located in the heart of East Harlem and over the years that has led to some pretty unique visual experiences. Today a crackhead fell to the ground and started banging the back of his head against the cement. One of my teammates was polite enough to ask him for help - everyone else shrugged and kept walking.
Sometimes you just need to keep walking. After one particular game I watched two Spanish guys in their mid-twenties try to pick up my teammate Silvia. "I play ball in the minors," one of them boasted. "Oh, I work for baseball," Silvia said, "where do play?" The guy stammered something unintelligible and walked away, caught in a pretty poor lie. Though, hey, it must have worked on someone.
That isn't even the weirdest visual I've ever seen at Colonel Young Field. The universe will be hard pressed to top the guy standing between two parked cars - one hand on the front bumper, one hand on the back bumper, pants around his ankles grunting loudly as he took a crap on the street. I did not disagree with the Police Car that pulled up, flashed its lights, fired up the siren and drove off without bothering to arrest or ticket the guy.
I am not asking the universe to take it as a challenge.
The people hanging out around the field are pretty nice though. They're always asking me if I need a smoke. Mostly though it is a set of baseball fields and even on a blazing hot day like today - when the air doesn't move and inch and somehow the sun sets in a way to blind you where you're at bat - there are people always around who just love ball.
There are some serious players who hang out there and you can see some pretty good action. one fine day my team was involved in a 5 pm softball game up there, the game finished and it was still nice and bright out and there was a really good game between two Spanish teams. Some enterprising people were selling pork sandwiches and beer in cups - and yeah, we bought a bunch and watched the game. It was fantastic, and I'm pretty sure we ended up getting a contact high.
New York City softball fields - definitely unique. Especially Colonel George Young's field.
Wayne
Colonel George Young Field is not one of these crown fields.
Colonel Young Field is a throw back to a different era of baseball. When players like Mickey Mantle roamed cow pastures located next to mining operations - carefully avoiding cow chips, seeing large swathes of grass eaten away by hungry bovines and a giant mud puddle situated in what would be center field. The infield resembles something that looks like it was dug out by two spare miners in their part time and they've thrown around the base paths combines with the dirt to form a substance that has the consistency of the part of the beach where the tide has just gone out and you end up with over-saturated sand that gives way to each of your steps.
Other than cows eating and leaving cow chips I feel as though I've given a pretty good representation of the field. Since there are multiple fields at the location there is the unique New York experience of outfielders from separate games standing back-to-back. Coincidentally that is the least of the problems of New York softball fields - there is a code of brother (and sister) hood where you learn to warn each other of flying objects. Usually it involves someone screaming "DUCK!" or "COMING THROUGH!"
Colonel Young Field is located in the heart of East Harlem and over the years that has led to some pretty unique visual experiences. Today a crackhead fell to the ground and started banging the back of his head against the cement. One of my teammates was polite enough to ask him for help - everyone else shrugged and kept walking.
Sometimes you just need to keep walking. After one particular game I watched two Spanish guys in their mid-twenties try to pick up my teammate Silvia. "I play ball in the minors," one of them boasted. "Oh, I work for baseball," Silvia said, "where do play?" The guy stammered something unintelligible and walked away, caught in a pretty poor lie. Though, hey, it must have worked on someone.
That isn't even the weirdest visual I've ever seen at Colonel Young Field. The universe will be hard pressed to top the guy standing between two parked cars - one hand on the front bumper, one hand on the back bumper, pants around his ankles grunting loudly as he took a crap on the street. I did not disagree with the Police Car that pulled up, flashed its lights, fired up the siren and drove off without bothering to arrest or ticket the guy.
I am not asking the universe to take it as a challenge.
The people hanging out around the field are pretty nice though. They're always asking me if I need a smoke. Mostly though it is a set of baseball fields and even on a blazing hot day like today - when the air doesn't move and inch and somehow the sun sets in a way to blind you where you're at bat - there are people always around who just love ball.
There are some serious players who hang out there and you can see some pretty good action. one fine day my team was involved in a 5 pm softball game up there, the game finished and it was still nice and bright out and there was a really good game between two Spanish teams. Some enterprising people were selling pork sandwiches and beer in cups - and yeah, we bought a bunch and watched the game. It was fantastic, and I'm pretty sure we ended up getting a contact high.
New York City softball fields - definitely unique. Especially Colonel George Young's field.
Wayne
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The Battle of Brooklyn
Danielle, Sienna and I paid a visit to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens on the Fourth of July. It had an unintended consequence of actually celebrating Independence Day (exact date of the Declaration of Independence may vary) in an almost suitable fashion.
The Botanical Gardens sits adjacent to one of the Revolutionary War's pivotal battle sites Prospect Park - this is a hidden facet of Brooklyn and the Hudson Valley Region that I actually enjoy, there are a lot of revolutionary war hot spots. The battle has a couple of different names: the Battle of Long Island - another hidden fact of Brooklyn is that Brooklynites hate being reminded they are part of Long Island - or the Battle of Brooklyn Heights.
From a historical aspect it's a pretty important battle. It was the first major battle fought after America's heave hoe to United Kingdom ownership.*
Important moment in U.S. History. Imagine you are some farmer - clothes barely clinging to your body as you travel up from someplace like Pennsylvania, armed only with a musket that has equal chance of blowing up in your hand as it does firing at your enemy. A regularly meal if more of a dream than a fact, yet you aren't going to give up until the English have left the area.
You hunker down with the Continental Army, next to the arrogant Bostonians and the equally dour boys from Maryland. There isn't enough food and it is so dark you can't see your own hand. It is okay that you don't get along since everyone is fighting for freedom together and the New Yorkers, despite being English sympathizers are on your side, having torn down a statue of King George III.
It is so dark and you start hearing whispers and rumors. Whispers of a giant enemy army and rumors that it is near.
What's that on the horizon? The mast of an English ship. And another. And another. And...are those Hessian mercenaries? Hold on, there is a humor that Washington doesn't have nearly as many men as we should only if we hold New York we'll certainly...what's that? We're going to retreat.
We're going to retreat?
Retreat.
That's right. America the strong. America the bold. America the beautiful. America-don't-back-down-and-take-any-crap...we lost our first major battle in out history.
Yes. That is what I was thinking about while I was resting on a bench in the botanical gardens. Some poor guy from Pennsylvania came up to join a cause and his first experience was being routed. Life is like that sometimes. You take a chance and lose - then you learn and you lose less - then suddenly you don't lose anymore and you have a lot of victories.
That poor guy who got routed - if he showed up today I'm sure it would be a combination of satisfaction and horror at what he helped create. Maybe that's why we're interesting sometimes - beauty of gardens covering up the horror of where blood was shed. Or maybe we're just covering up a loss with some pretty roses.
Wayne
* Some historians say the Siege of Boston qualifies as the first battle. You can always count on historians to disagree on these major points.
The Botanical Gardens sits adjacent to one of the Revolutionary War's pivotal battle sites Prospect Park - this is a hidden facet of Brooklyn and the Hudson Valley Region that I actually enjoy, there are a lot of revolutionary war hot spots. The battle has a couple of different names: the Battle of Long Island - another hidden fact of Brooklyn is that Brooklynites hate being reminded they are part of Long Island - or the Battle of Brooklyn Heights.
From a historical aspect it's a pretty important battle. It was the first major battle fought after America's heave hoe to United Kingdom ownership.*
Important moment in U.S. History. Imagine you are some farmer - clothes barely clinging to your body as you travel up from someplace like Pennsylvania, armed only with a musket that has equal chance of blowing up in your hand as it does firing at your enemy. A regularly meal if more of a dream than a fact, yet you aren't going to give up until the English have left the area.
You hunker down with the Continental Army, next to the arrogant Bostonians and the equally dour boys from Maryland. There isn't enough food and it is so dark you can't see your own hand. It is okay that you don't get along since everyone is fighting for freedom together and the New Yorkers, despite being English sympathizers are on your side, having torn down a statue of King George III.
It is so dark and you start hearing whispers and rumors. Whispers of a giant enemy army and rumors that it is near.
What's that on the horizon? The mast of an English ship. And another. And another. And...are those Hessian mercenaries? Hold on, there is a humor that Washington doesn't have nearly as many men as we should only if we hold New York we'll certainly...what's that? We're going to retreat.
We're going to retreat?
Retreat.
That's right. America the strong. America the bold. America the beautiful. America-don't-back-down-and-take-any-crap...we lost our first major battle in out history.
Yes. That is what I was thinking about while I was resting on a bench in the botanical gardens. Some poor guy from Pennsylvania came up to join a cause and his first experience was being routed. Life is like that sometimes. You take a chance and lose - then you learn and you lose less - then suddenly you don't lose anymore and you have a lot of victories.
That poor guy who got routed - if he showed up today I'm sure it would be a combination of satisfaction and horror at what he helped create. Maybe that's why we're interesting sometimes - beauty of gardens covering up the horror of where blood was shed. Or maybe we're just covering up a loss with some pretty roses.
Wayne
* Some historians say the Siege of Boston qualifies as the first battle. You can always count on historians to disagree on these major points.
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