Holiday Card Insanity

As soon as the turkey scraps are cleared and we return to the office it begins….Holiday talk.  You know the drill, discussion of vacation, leads to discussion of plans with family, leading still further to discussion of holiday preparation.  As the day draws nearer you can see the ragged faces and rumpled clothes on people as they try to cram holiday preparation on top of year end business practices.  By this time the talk is more focused, “Where did you find the Tickle Me Elmo?” “What exactly is a Bay Blade?’ “Do you think the TSA will let me board with this carry on? “ More time passes and people are prioritizing, the anti guilt discussions start. “This year I’m only making 24 dozen cookies, think that’s ok?’ I’m frazzeled, gonna cheat and use store bought eggnog!” “We used store bought garland this year.”

Invariably you encounter that one person who is done, they beam with pride and boast that the holiday shopping was done in August, wrapping complete by September, Menu planned and cookies cooked and frozen in October and Holiday cards out the week after Thanksgiving…..hearing this I’m never sure if I should congratulate them, hate them for their insanity, or feel sorry for them missing out on Fall. 

Since I refuse to play along with Holiday stuff until after Thanksgiving, I’m destine to never be done ahead of time….each year I look for things to trim, it’s the Project Manager in me. Since cutting back on cookies is unacceptable, I look for other ways to save the headaches. Last year we didn’t send Holiday cards, just ran out of time…..Huge mistake.

Everyone likes the idea of holiday cards, anything in your mailbox (Digital or Snail) that isn’t a bill; work related or from a congressmen is exciting.  On top of that the cards are pretty, often include pictures of the family and have a strange way of making you crave Bing Crosby.

However the cards take work….You all know this, nothing new here right?  At one time my wife made each by hand, from scratch, very pre jail Martha Stewart, then we had kids.  The kids have social calendars and no license to drive so now we just go to Sams upload a pic and buy in bulk.  We write something on the inside, address it, return address it, run to the post office with a large check wait in line to buy stamps, stick on the stamps and send ….figure 5 minutes per card, 75 cards per family…..6.25 hours and 70 bucks soup to nuts…..Upon receipt, the card is opened, a quick head nod accompanied by a “that’s nice sigh” and the card get posted on the doorway, poof it’s over.

I like receiving cards as much as the next guy, (which is more than the kids, but slightly less than the wife, the sigh and head nod just isn’t in my genetics), but also recognize the toll cards take on humanity….the cramped hands from the writing, strained eyes from Photoshop, and the dreaded tongue paper cut from envelope licking. (When was the last time you deliberately put your hands on something that was licked by someone outside your family? Envelopes can be gross.) The struggle required to get both sons into similar but not matching clothing (boys don’t wear outfits), and then hold still for the picture shortens lifespan, and strains marriages, just think of the healthcare costs! Every year it’s a struggle.

Without even getting into paper/energy/ environmental tree hugger stuff this is a pain.  Problem is people expect it.  Families expect it.  Hallmark is loving this.  I could send an E-Card out in a fraction of the time, and allow those of you who want to print it, save the trees and help speed the demise of the USPS…..but in my family electronic anything is insulting, cards come in the mail, and gifts come in person…..don’t bother mailing the gift or handing them a card, you will not receive credit. 

So often acquaintances see me and say, “Hi, got your card….still working on mine”, with the eye roll letting me know they are swamped.  I get it, no need to apologize, I’m not keeping score…I have been there.  I’m boggled that in today’s society where we have a plethora of communication tools bundled in a gizmo strapped to our bodies, we still hold onto the Holiday card.  The time when the yearly update of your family is gone, Facebook, Shutterfly, and the like make it easy to share instantly and painlessly with those connected to us by even the longest and thinnest thread.

So last year we got the hairy eyeball from family members who assumed we sent out cards, just not to them. “Didn’t get your card this year, I guess the mailman skipped me!”  Distant acquaintances may have thought twice about sending a card to us this year “They didn’t send one to us! They are off the list!” We learned the lesson, our cards have been sent. Nothing special, just the Boys acting up with a camera and a remote shutter.  Not sure I will ever know the true impacts of the 2010 holiday card debacle, the butterfly effect on this one could be huge.  ….but like I said I’m not keeping score, and I would hope you’re not either.

I would like to wish each of you the best in these heady times; and regardless of which deity you choose to follow, good luck and happy Solstice.

For those of you still writing, good luck, relax, and please consider self adhesive envelopes.

Who Are You?

Poor Alice, falls asleep at the brook and wakes to find herself in a world where metaphors literally walk around. Escape only possible when she unlearns all she thinks she knows, and accepts the alternate perspective of the new world. Although Jonny Depp made an outstanding Mad Hatter, my favorite theatrical version of this story is Disney. The themes are a bit watered down, but I love the Hookah smoking caterpillar, the Disney movie nails it.  The caterpillar confronts with a simple question “who are you?” Which of course is a crazy hard question to answer…( follow this link http://sabian.org/alice_in_wonderland5.php for the conversation, this Blog does not endorse Sabian Society. Even after reading their webpage, I don’t know what it is)

A year ago, I started this Blog, http://jim-afisheyeview.Blog’spot.com/2010/12/underwater-and-loving-iti-think.html, I had no idea where I wanted it to take me, it was an experiment.  Since you need a destination to start a journey, I haven’t really gotten anywhere. No news there. Perspective is about all I have gained. What started out as a labor of love and a lashing of frustration has morphed into something I look forward to. I just recently reread all of the entries looking for something deep enough to warrant  the BLOG’S effort. No luck, I feel like a character in a Monty Pythons “The Meaning of Life’ wading through an hour of silly just to find what I’m looking for in the exploded remains of gluttony.

Now back to Alice.  “Who are you?”  I like to think I know who I am, but like Alice, lacing it together in a cohesive thought in something shorter than a James Joyce novel is near impossible. (It is impossible for me to write this without singing “Don’t Come Around Here No More” due to the outstanding video.) Frustrating I know, and to spare you hours of panging insecurity and sleepless nights I will tell you, who you are.  Magic, Clairvoyance, Heresy?  No, just the Google Blogger stats page!

As the owner of the Blog, Google gives me access to a few superficial statistics on my readers, calm down we are not talking Facebook privacy invasion levels here, just some interesting aggregation.

Google gives me a breakdown of hits per, day, week, and month and I can see this info by country of origin, browser used, and by Blog entry.  So, I have no idea exactly who is reading what, but I can tell you that 2 people from Russia viewed “Martini Induced Thought” http://jim-afisheyeview.Blog’spot.com/2011/11/martini-induced-thought.html today using Windows Explorer.

This is who you are:

Most of you are surfing from the United States with Canada, Russia, Germany, Denmark, and Guam (yes Guam) making up the next five in terms of hits.  There are other countries with readers spread throughout Europe and Asia.  I’m missing South America and Africa….would be cool to collect all six inhabited continents.

48% of page views are derived from Internet Explorer, followed by 20% for Firefox, 11% for Safari, 9% mobile browsers, and Chrome filling out the top 5 with 7%.  By OS 72% are windows users and 11% iPhone….interestingly I have had 2 hits using Palm OS, way to make the technology pay whoever you are! At the time of writing this (12/04/2011) I have had 1,162 hits total, this is the number on the top left of the page, for 31 entries.  Now that you know this you too can track the Blog’s readership!

Most people continue to come to the Blog via Facebook, but that is slowly changing.  Google Plus and a few other Blog’s and random sites have linked in.

You like to read the Blog midweek just after lunch.  It is interesting to see how people react to a new Blog post.  I have found it is best (quickest number of hits) to release just before lunch, mid week.  My theory is that by mid week all of the Facebook posts regarding weekend activities are read, work emails are addressed and the football scores are digested, so ok we can click the Blog. 

You like a good title, and as a whole you my dedicated readers like a few themes. The first is music, http://jim-afisheyeview.Blog’spot.com/2011/01/is-there-anybody-out-there-just-nod-if.html I used the lyrics from my beloved Pink Floyd has the highest hits, and continues to get hits.  Disney, http://jim-afisheyeview.Blog’spot.com/2011/04/duty-free-my-advise-to-future-disney.html came in fast as well and the two are neck and neck.  A few posts have garnered almost no hits initially and then have slowly accumulated attention, a few clicks each week.  http://jim-afisheyeview.Blog’spot.com/2011/02/ham-and-swiss-nirvana.html “Ham and Swiss Nirvana” and http://jim-afisheyeview.Blog’spot.com/2011/02/vhs-paisley-and-shattered-memories.html “VHS, Paisley and Shattered Memories” both have steadily climbed from the bottom to number 3 and 4 on the popularity charts.

My three favorite posts have not cracked the top ten list which I guess is a good thing, if more of you thought like me, the world would be more twisted than it is.  But in case you missed them, http://jim-afisheyeview.Blog’spot.com/2011/03/caffeinated-pleasure-fluid-last-great.html is an ode to Coffee, and was responsible for my first and only Middle Eastern reader (Iranian). http://jim-afisheyeview.Blog’spot.com/2011/06/my-life-as-yeti-2-true-stories-and-then.html this is a bit of a rant but I post a very credible theory why Big Foot is so hard to find. And http://jim-afisheyeview.Blog’spot.com/2011/06/building-character-one-sip-and-one.html which is my favorite because I sat down to write about the bourbon, and when finished found I had experienced something far beyond the warming sips of Basil Hayden.

As a whole I think I have about 37 readers who make up the majority of the hits, I don’t know who you are, but judging by the above stats, you knew me before the BLOG and now maybe now your thinking you know too much.  Thanks for your support, I have received few comments, but more and more of you have brought it up in conversation, or as an aside email.  I hope you find it entertaining and continue to read.  I’m not making any money at this, not selling your info to marketing folks, I’m not advertizing on the side.  The purpose here was an experiment, a vent, and I hope to continue to follow this through.  I doubt I have touched anyone enough for profound thoughts, I’m not that smart, but I hope you had a laugh, and I hope you continue to follow me on this journey, thank you! 

P.S. Please do not attempt to read all of the entries in one sitting, I tried to do this and became numb.  Too much Jimmish in a short period of time is damaging. 

Martini Induced Thought

Last evening I held in my hand the last vestige of summer, and with the assistance of a few olives and a waft of the ceremonial bottle of vermouth, enjoyed the last of my Sapphire Gin. Martini style, shaken with three cubes not stirred; three olives, no vodka!  Sapphire Gin is not particularly rare or expensive, but it will be the last of this liquor genre for me until the greening buds signal spring’s return. Drinking has seasonal temperaments and Gin is a distinctly warm weather drink. 

The last of the Gin has been a bit of a private tradition for me.  No fuss, no fanfare, just a simple classic cocktail, a nod to the gods and a wave to the departed season.  You know the drill, One for me, one for my hommies. I had 9 olives for company and we said goodbye slowly with all due reverence to the Juniper laced beauty .

Do the math.

Traditions come and go, eclipsing my little private gin ceremony, some are profound, while others boarder on insanity.

Now is the time of the year for tradition.  We are steeped in it, roiled over and over again with the Martha or Jimmy Stewart-esk (not sure which is worse?) ideas of holiday grandeur. Pummeled with holiday songs we can’t relate too but sing along with; really who wants 12 maids a milking anyway? The Norman Rockwell, Bing Crosby moments we all crave, snow painted on a Christmas card hung around the doorway….. really even in  Florida.  We are faced with questions at once mundane but potentially life altering: Mom always made the turkey with the stuffing inside, will she give me the look of death if I make it my way this year? Will she hex my family?

I’m not trying to humbug here, I like these traditions, they just get me thinking. I want to know if it is possible to deliberately start a tradition, can you force a tradition? (Can something be at the same time first and annual as in “the 1^st annual reptile awareness telethon”?)  Google the definition and think with me.  If a tradition is a set of cultural beliefs and customs handed down, or a customary pattern of thought and action as described by www.merriam-webster.com, can you start one knowingly?  In my opinion trying to deliberately start a tradition is more of a like making a mandate than a custom.  Let’s face it, to get a tradition rolling you need a good bit of guilt slinging and cajoling, prodding your will onto others until it sticks in their head like gum to hair. There is a time element here, one occurrence of the activity does not define the tradition, it takes years and a general level of acceptance for an item to become a tradition. 

Traditions are fun, it connects us with our past and this connection provides comfort to the masses.  We don’t need to wonder how to do some things, or even why we do some things. We just know it has to be done, like migrating wildebeest, we follow those before us.  What strikes me is that unlike the migratory herds our survival is typically not dependent on tradition.  On the contrary, a few of humanities traditions are truly barbaric, think:  4^th grade Christmas pageant, or 6^th grade swimming class.

Barbarity aside, we all face the dilemma of breaking tradition.  It’s almost an inevitable part of life with a spouse.  Something has to give and you make comprises; you weigh which traditions to hold, which to break and who to disappoint.  It’s never easy, folks tend to expand the tradition ahead of time, count on its holding fast regardless of the circumstances.  So a tradition your parents have established with you is expected to be passed to your kids, as if it’s attached to the genetic code.  “My father did it this way, and so do I! What do you mean you are tying the left shoe first! You are dooming that child! Men in this family always tie the right shoe first! Ah 65 years of tradition ruined!” cue Gasp and a dramatic fall to the floor.

I have broken a few traditions along the path.  And strangely nothing bad has happened, a chasm hasn’t swallowed me, locusts have not infested my hair.  Usually, there is a slow build up to the event, and then……nothing, relief almost, a whimper really, maybe a guilt hand grenade from Great Aunt Sally, poof and it’s over.  Eventually you are going to break a tradition, and since there is no fair in family you are not going to be in control of which you break. To this I will offer the following consolation prize.  Since traditions tie us to the past, breaking the tradition is a step forward, and a step forward is progress , typically  a good thing. Failing that, just look to Mr. Clark W. Griswold and see for yourself what a good dose of Rockwellian nostalgia steeped in tradition can do, be afraid.

The Road to Snozzcumber

Have you ever found yourself doing things the hard way just to see how you would stand up to the challenge? People do it right? Like the people who sled solo across Antarctica, or the nuts who climb Everest from the north face rather than the oh-so-simple southern approach.  We watch dramatic TV shows where the hero, imaginary or real, rises to the occasion with fortitude and pluck.  We all would like to think we have the nerve to be the hero, to do the outstanding in a time of crisis.  I think this is good, after all its “human beans” ability to put others needs ahead of their own that make us stand out among primates.  But does it count if you put yourself in the situation?  Is the guy who rows across the Atlantic as much of a hero as the guy who rescues a comrade on the battlefield?  I don’t know, and I’m not here to judge others. (don’t worry it’s a temporary condition)

Back to doing things the hard way:  So as a kid I would try and get across the creek by jumping from one stone to the next.  Becoming easy so the game changed to jumping across and not using certain stones,  eventually this became easy, so to add fear into the equation (the stream was super shallow) you had to jump across the stream, while skipping certain stones, in your Sunday Church clothes….Fear of mom’s wrath.

Or perhaps, more timely: Black Friday Shopping.  You know the stores will be packed, you know it will be frustrating. Seizing the challenge you plunge headlong into the parking lot of the KOP mall, grab a Starbucks and shop, contending with the masses along the way. The whole time thinking, “Ha I laugh in your general direction, pig noses.” Ok well maybe not, but you get my point.

In College I took American Lit 1.  The Prof was a rotund egomaniac who liked to quote Melville.  In fact he challenged us to try and write a sentence in Melville’s style better than he could…yeah that’s fair, PhD in American Lit vs. hung over freshman checking out the girl in the front row. For some reason this stuck with me, and erupted into action the last time I was book shopping. Rather than pick up the 200 page “Moby Dick” edition for 7 bucks, I got the Herman Melville anthology, 5 novels and 1800 pages of tiny font for the bargain of $8.50.  My plan was to heroically read the novels in order, culminating in the crown jewel “Moby Dick” and somehow distil a fine appreciation of Melville narration by watching it refine itself through the novels.

Last night I finished the last novel prior to “Moby Dick” I can at least now see the finish line. Already I can say that this accomplishment ranks exactly as the 1256^th best thing I have ever done, (1255th is tying the maraschino cherry stem into a knot with my tongue and 1257^th is learning how to reload a mechanical pencil without taking off the eraser.) So you can see how transcendental the experience has been thus far.  The potential for reward here is low and I know it.

Maybe “Moby Dick” holds the key, like the golem held the ring….maybe the gates of wisdom will open “Call me Ishmael.” !Wham! A bolt hits me and the previous 1486 pages will be worth it. I will be able to call up the professor and speak in rambling overly didactic sentences, riffing between sailing phrases and expositions on the mundane yet relevant lives of sailors. Brilliantly I will enter into ruminating conversation questioning the moral code of 1850’s Americana by juxtaposing it to the tranquil bliss of primal South Pacific islands.

Yeah I doubt it too…looks like Snozzcumbers and Frobscottle’s for me.

Take A Walk on the Wild Side

Why do we sleep on big decisions?  If the decision is that big, that ponderous, no way am I sleeping without the aid of Mr. Basil Hayden or maybe Mr. Don Pablo, which is of course counterproductive. I can’t believe a decision made after a night of self pollution to be at all better than that made previous to the discussion with the distinguished gentlemen. Supposing I am able to sleep without chemical enhancement, who thinks while sleeping?  We dream and maybe if you are lucky it includes an attractive partner, but we can’t control those dreams. The R.E.M. helps the ego, but it can’t be focused.

I have a theory that whoever coined the phrase “sleep on it” choose it as a matter of course because the alternatives were not great. Sit, Stand, Jump, Promenade, Waltz, Ruminate, Ponder, don’t quit have the same weight.  For me I like to walk off heavy thinking…..we will get to that in a bit.

October 9 2011, quite possibly the most perfect day I have ever experienced.  I have been married, watched my sons come into the world have relished great moments of personal victory. Those were amazing days ….but none had the raw natural atmospheric beauty of last Sunday.  Living in the Pennsylvania mediocrity mountains you have to make ready to grab perfect days, you get maybe four a year. (2 between bug and rain seasons, and 2 between slush and humidity seasons) For those days to be on a day when you’re free of the mundane daily domestic grind is truly a rare event. 

We went for a Hike:

Old friends completed our company, their children and ours sallied forth.  Three clouds in the sky sitting right over the lake, framed by the low musty mountains that early October brings to this part of the world. On the lake; 2 islands, big for a lake of this size but too small for the trees crowding over the shore, guarded the boat launch and gave a home to the heron looking for dinner.

Turning our back to the lake, the trail wound through the forest, marked in places with tree blazes and the occasional smudge of flour used to lay out a trail race.  Setting the four kids free at the trail head we settled into the parental rolls of snack mules, traffic control cops and the occasional medicine man.  Peter Pan and the lost boys had nothing on the crew we unleashed.  They devoured the forest, rocks were tilted for hapless salamanders, sassafras and birch trees plundered for the taste of their bark, daddy long leggers had to run for cover.

The youngest bounced down the trail, not quite ever touching the ground, always a hair away from falling.  The oldest child, my son, at times walked quietly lost in thought, then remembering his age would lumber across streams, working his clumsy frame across the rocks without skill or finesse but sheer determination.

Indifferent to their parents or siblings, the middle children mostly seemed to enjoy each other’s company.  Almost the same age they collected acorns, leaves and whatever else in zip lock bags.  They engaged in small talk befitting their 5 years in the midst of showing off with feats of physical prowess capable of melting parents knees.

More or less left to relax, and enjoy a great walk I didn’t really think about anything.  The day could have been plucked from my childhood and I relished it, climbing trees, jumping through streams, showing the kids how fun mud could be….the very definition of rejuvenation.  I enjoyed the “now” and left the trail relaxed and somehow more focused.  The “later” wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as I ate Advil as if the candy coating tasted good.

There are of course days less perfect, days where it rains and you’re happy for it. Days when you need to explode while feeling your chest shrink, bile mounting in your throat.  Days when you wish you could just for a few moments escape reality, or more drastically escape the law.  These are the days when you have to remember the perfect October 9 of 2011.  Look back and see the perfect reflection on the lake, remember the sound of the kids laughing, the subtle pride in catching the garter snake for the kids to touch.  Walk with those memories, forget why you’re walking, walk until you can breathe again.  

Not great to look at, but tasty.

Fall is here, I know because I can taste it.  You can taste it too, find a little glen in the woods and take a deep breath, you can taste the slightly sweet rot in the air. See the beginnings of fall drift down through the maple and hemlock foliage, feel the damp thick bed of ferns.

You can do those things sure, or like me you can eat a fresh apple.  It was a honey crisp picked by the kids at the local orchard, an apple this fresh reminds you how bad store bought apples are…..especially the puny red delicious imported from south American in March. The apple was perfect, crisp sweet and sour, the size of a soft ball, with a funky pattern on the outside.  It wasn't perfect to look at, you would never see this apple at Giant, but it was perfect, and the smell alone brought a whaft of memories too long to list.  

Now that apples are here I’m on a quest to eat them constantly. So far I have had them in salad, on grilled cheese, with peanut butter, roasted in a fire, with cheese, with Nutella, in tomatoes soup, and most luxuriously; plain carved by the pocket knife, sitting at Wolf Rocks on the Appalachian Trail.

What is fall for you?  Pumpkin spice ale, Marching bands and high school football, your favorite sweater, back to school, hunting season, Bloomsburg fair, end of the federal fiscal year….. time to fire up the soccer mom van?

Fall is a reclaiming of the out doors.  The dank oppressive humidity of late summer slips into cool evenings and pleasant days.  The water is warm and the air fresh, the fish are biting and the bugs are not.  Fall is change.

I like fall.  Fall is the promise of cool mornings, sunny days, cool enough to fire up the oven.  Fall is soup made with fresh ingredients;  good for the body and the soul.  Fall is the calm before the chaos of the holiday season.

Grab you boots and get outside. Get up on the mountain, out on the water, muck around the city. 

Enjoy it while you can, enjoy it with an apple.

Father of Mine, My daddy lent me his name.

My parents were married, and 9 months to the day later I was born.  Somewhere in there they gave me a name, or rather, more correctly they lent me my father’s name.  Yes I said it, lent, although lease to own might be more appropriate.  See, I have the same name as dad, who has the same first name as his father. Since we are kinda Italian and there are only so many Saints, the same name as about 15 other people within the family.  (Woman in the family learn a special way of saying “Jim” that garners them instant attention from the 15 of us who share the name….it’s like its hard wired in to our genetics.)

Not to be out done, when my son was born I sub leased my father’s name to him.  So dad owns it, and my son stands to inherit it.  So here I am among the masses of folks who don’t own their name. 

Dad is a good guy but what about personal identity? What about all of the responsibility I have to not  soil a name as long standing as mine, with the added knowledge I have already passed it on to the next generation?  I guess I should have thought about all of that.

I’m not complaining, those who know me, and know my family, are just as likely to say that the name is apt, or comment “you’re just like your dad.”  I am a “Jim.”

As far as identity some of that has been determined for me.  Mom had to call me something other than James as a kid.  She had a small list of alternates.  I imagine she had a list and crossed them off, or at least I hope so to justify what I ended up with.

1.       James, Christened name our starting point.

2.       Jim, This is what she called dad, so that’s out.

3.       Jimmy, We are not in the sausage business.

4.       Jimmer, My grandmother (faced with a similar dilemma) used this on my father.

5.       Jamie,  This is what I ended up with, Joy.

Saddled now with Jamie I was sent forth into the world.  Kids at school called me Jim, but that proved to be the last time I have gotten to choose my nickname.  The family called me Jamie until some strange day in high school where mom determined I was too grown up for it, and called me James, out of the blue, it freaked me out….no one ever calls me James.

Once you get used to being nicknamed they seem to gather about you.  You don’t get to pick them, so, on some level you need a good sense of humor and an appreciation of them, like code names. 

Faced with the option of calling me Jamie, or picking another name for me, friends of my parents chose Butchy, the antithesis of Jamie, as my secondary childhood moniker.  It was just the beginning.  Since then my collection has grown: Butch, Big Jim, Big Daddy, Jimbo, Yeti, Mellon, Sasquatch.  Seeing the trend? This doesn’t include the long and morphing list compiled from my father, each a two word combination, with one involving a body part (rock head, ring eye, etc). 

The responsibility portion of the name is a bit more challenging.  At a certain basic level we owe it to our parents to make good the life they gave us, and by extension the name.  I think the days of doing the same thing as dad, or inheriting the family business are slowly ending. But other than that do we owe our parents anything?  After all we didn’t choose to be born, we didn’t choose the name….it happened too us all.  Parents choose to have kids for their reasons, by definition selfish reasons, in the least to spread their genetic material. You can’t be altruistic to something that doesn’t yet exist. So although they loved you after you were born, they didn’t before you were conceived. 

I choose to have kids for my own reasons, and to whit, I don’t want my kids to feel in the least indebted to me for making that decision.  I want their respect, there love, and the prospect of grandchildren.  But I do not want them to unduly alter their lives for a perceived dept they had no chance at avoiding.  I want my kids to look and move forward, hopefully avoiding the mistakes I have made, and living a happy life.  If they choose not to look back, I will miss them, but not hold it against them.

Parents are the outfitters for the journey of life.  We prepare them, educate them, and provide them with resources. We then have to let them take their journey, hoping they return, knowing the bill will never get paid.

Jelly Dougnuts and a Nuance of Sharing

In today’s world “Family” is a loose and dynamic term.  Gone are the days when the Cunningham’s and Archie Bunker exemplify the stereotypical American family…I say good riddance.  Lots of people try to define “family” so I thought I would add my highly opinionated 2 cents.  Before I get to my definition, lets list places where you should not seek the definition, if for no other reason than to highlight my stellar ideal.

Crappy Sources of Information:

TV, especially the  Fox network, Religious anything, Government Anything, Insurance companies, Institutions of Learning, Healthcare Providers, The Internet (excepting this Blog), Your parents, Books, Coworkers, Airlines, Car Manufactures, Real Estate Agents, Pet salesmen, anyone who comes to your door, Pamphlets in General.

So without Archie out of the equation how do you define family? No worries, you define it yourself. I suggest something based on sharing.  Family’s share, they share all sorts of things, some share chromosomes, others a home, still more a meal, or Love…..but no two family’s are alike and no two share alike. So why would we turn to anyone else to define it? 

Simple right?  I think so.  Sharing however can get complicated, real complicated.  Here are few examples gleaned from my last family gathering.  

Over Sharing: Aunt Sally’s goiter, grandma’s bunions, things better left in the bathroom, the bedroom habits of your parents….enough said, these thoughts can burn your retinas.

Retro Active Guilt Sharing: There it is, the last Jelly doughnut, the good granular sugar kind that drips raspberry jelly, left over from breakfast, just stale enough to eat casually. You take the first bite, the jelly squishes out, oozes around in your mouth, perfect.  Looking up you see a shocked countenance, and hear “I was hoping to have some of that for breakfast tomorrow” You pause and realize that “some of that” means it isn’t too late, the countenance excepts the remains of the doughnut, your mouth is to full to suck out the rest of the jelly. Defeated you hand it over somehow feeling selfish that you thought the doughnut was a single serving type item.

Pro-Active Sharing: When one party imposes the sharing unilaterally.   Often used with desert where one party wants a certain desert but doesn’t want all of it. “I want the triple chocolate death sunday, you can share it with me”

Negative sharing: This is the polar opposite of Pro Active.  Also a desert or snack situation. “Honey can I have some chips please?” “No” “ If I get them out or if I see you with them, Im gonna want some too, so….no chips for you!”

Defensive Line Sharing: Your hungry and looking at the serving plate, you see the last Pork chop, just before you reach for it someone offers “I’m not that hungry, so does anyone one want the other half of this Pork chop? The horror! Pork chop Blocked! You wanted the whole thing now you have to either ask for all of it, share it or walk away.  Options none too savory.

Ice Cream Truck regret Sharing:  The item you chose is less glorious upon receipt than imagined when compared to that of your peer.  “Want to trade bites?” It’s really just a way of camouflaging this question “can I have a bite.” My sons do this all the time.

Food is a cornerstone of my family, obviously. 

Your parents shared a 40, a kiss and the backseat of the Buick.  But it was your birth.  You shared French fries, a dance and the last 50 years of your life, but it’s your death.  Kids share toys, germs, but the flue is their own. You can share a moment, but the memory is yours.  Families share stuff, but how you define family is up to you alone. If anyone tells you otherwise, tell them to get their own Jelly Doughnut cuzz you're not sharing.

Building Character, One Sip and One Blunder at a Time

Recently I visited Louisville KY.  It was my second visit.  On my fist I learned from the Louisville Airport PA system that Louisville claims to be the 13^th largest metropolitan area in the USA…..Really who is proud of that?  I also learned there are like 6 correct ways of pronouncing Louisville….Yep 6,  it is on tee shirts, billboards and shot glasses.  Oddly, in only one of the 6 pronunciations does the “s” get fair shrift. Lastly, I learned that the quickest way to freak out in an airport is to pay some random woman 10 bucks to inject you with the flu shot (read Ebola virus)..she was at a collapsible table and only took cash.  5 seconds after I walked away, I was so sure I was dead, I needed a shot of liquor.

Which brings me comfortably to my second visit.  This time around, convinced of my impending disappointment I was informed by a dear colleague that the Kentucky Bourbon trail has several stops in Louisville.  Furthermore, since my colleague was about to embark on a very personal campaign to seriously kick some cancer ass, it was my duty to sample lots of bourbon, at lots of bars, in her support.  Dutifully I complied.  So on my second visit I learned that good Kentucky straight bourbon is a beautiful thing.  Disappointment abated.  Good bourbon is a great thing, smooth, rich, and usually pushing 100 plus in the proofage department.  Bourbon, real bourbon, is like the company of the friends I enjoyed it with; Complex, Natural and there when I need it. 

Ok. Louisville has the slugger, the liquor, a horse race, the funky name thing….And a huge art scene, who knew?  Downtown had some local theater, art galleries, and what has to be the oddest men’s room in the world.  Just past the video installation of a woman stuffing her bra with meat, on the right; complete with one way mirror urinal (it’s like your peeing on the people in the hallway, on the other side of the mirror).  It’s also a college town, complete with Hip Hop, shake it where it counts, drink in a plastic cup, bars. 

The shock of leaving a table serviced  leather chair surrounded by rich mahogany for a hip hop dance club where the Basil Haydens was on a shelf so high the bartender needed a ladder, was intense. However, it was a necessity since ridiculously any bar with a bourbon list closed at 11PM. With Basil languishing in the plastic cup I found an empty space just under the bass cannon I sat down and began feel the music.  Before you freak out with scary visuals of my Yeti like self getting my freak on, rest assured there was no shakin of this booty, Basil was stressed enough, I didn’t want to do that to him. 

However, the 65 year old silver hair professor type guy had no Basil, and had no trouble trying to keep up with the 18 to twenty something chickies on the dance floor.  They raised the roof, he did his best not to push up daisys.  The music jumped smoothly from one pulse bender to another, it was loud enough to scald the skin, my heart matched the beat, oddly I wanted a “bar drink.” “Must stay with Basil” “bourbon is your friend” became my mantra. A bar drink would have brought booty shakin and I didn’t want to wreck the professors groove.

I don’t know anything more about the professor, but I knew what he was doing.  The chicks were digging his moves, it was evident, he was in.  It was a pleasure to watch.  He was a pro. 

Writing this I remember being a teenager, terrified of what the gaggle of girls in the mall was thinking, worried that I might say the wrong thing.  What I didn’t know then, I kinda know now, and the professor mastered, was women.  Older guys know girls are just as messed up, insecure (more so) and freaked out by the dating thing as guys are.  Experience gives this silver haired guy all he needs to crowd out his younger competition.  He knows how to use his strength and the woman’s weaknesses to break out of  the confines of awkward eye contact, into contact at a whole new level. 

If for some reason, my wife tires of me and I find myself single, I would like to think I might be able to pull off the professor look and game  (for those of you who have seen me dance, you know its unlikely).   However, I honestly don’t think I will have the wherewithal to get back out there, and use my experience to prowl the night clubs…honestly it’s just too much work.   So for me it is not so much a question of using whatever knowledge of the female species I have acquired, but how and if I give it to my sons. 

Experience builds character, and character builds men, or at least is a key ingredient.  My dad taught by example, and since he remains hopelessly committed to my mother, I learned how to be committed.  The rest I fumbled through…..blundered even. (be nice please, readers who I’ve blundered) But it turned out well, I learned my lessons.  I can tell my sons what I know, and they might believe me, or I can let them learn the lessons on their own, and surely remember them.  I guess time will tell.  Till then, If you ever get to Louisville, drink the bourbon, drink lots of bourbon, Top Shelf, neat please, small sips, enjoy it and let the world slow down….this too builds character.

My Life as a Yeti, 2 True Stories, and Then Some.....

I’m getting ready to do my fatherly duty and visit my sons school as an addendum to their “rocks and soil” chapter.  I’m no stranger to the podium and PowerPoint, and I like talking to a room full of people, but 8 year olds are not really people, they are Monsters, miniature monsters who attack in packs.  What a typical 8 year old lacks in attention span he makes up for in enthusiasm and a dire need to somehow relate what they are seeing back to themselves, especially things they perceive as novel.  This is good stuff since the rocks I’m gonna show them run the gamut from Dinosaur digestive (gastrolith) through semi precious gemstones, and if the kids would be focused on it, there is a solid win.  However, judging from my encounters with my sons friends, and my experiences last time I did this talk, the kids will be focused on me.  Not what I’m saying or what I’m showing them, me, or rather my stature….

It starts with a wide eyed kid saying “wow your tall.”  Then “do you play basketball?”  By the time I get the word “no” out of my mouth it’s all over, I’m getting 25 kids trying to ask me, tell me, show me, something about being tall.

Associative: My dad’s tall too, do you know him?

Dis-associative: Your not the tallest guy in the world, you know, Shak is taller than you!

Demonstrative: Look when I stand on this desk I’m as tall as you are.

Dismissive: Your not that tall

Assertive: Wow, I know you play ball, you have to sign my notebook

As people grow up and mature they learn to repress the urge to ask the same questions….but I know they are still wondering, waiting for the right moment.  How do I know? Because the moment happens often, usually at a bar after the third round of drinks. “Damn Jim, you’re like the size of Sasquatch!” A simple statement,  some nervous laughter and after they realize I’m not pissed they feel better, and the rest of the folks around feel better.  You can feel the mood relax a little as if they are all thinking “Wow it’s out there thank god someone said something!”  I get a kick out of it all because it’s not like I’m trying to hide my size, I don’t walk around stooped low, or seek out shoes with the thinnest sole.  Sometimes in the bar it goes the other way, some smallish drunk guy walks up to me and says “you know, you’re not the tallest guy in the world!”  Damn and I was so hoping for the title with my active campaign and letter to Guinness  and all….It doesn’t work that way.  Short guys try to be taller, tall guys don’t want to be taller.

I guess there is a certain curiosity in what it is like to be in someone else’s shoes.  We all wonder what it would be like to be rich or famous or have a certain skill…..for those of you wondering what it is like to be tall read on, for those of you who are tall maybe you can add the ones I missed below as comments, and for those of you who think your normal, guess again.

True Story: Airplane

Walking down the aisle, dunking my head, I can read the fear in fellow passengers face, “please don’t sit near me.” As I approach my seat, a smallish old lady taps me on the arm and says “can you be a dear and put this in the overhead for me? I just can’t reach.” I put the bag in the bin and sit down behind her.  Once we reach cruising altitude she tries to recline her seat and runs into my knees.  In a huff she turns around “could you move your knees out of my back!?” My reply, “No, I can’t”.  She then tries to ram me out of the way.  “Miss, I am physically unable to move my knees” She tried ramming again, this time I nailed the back of her seat with hand…..she got the point.

People love having a big guy around to help move things or for the security, but forget the cost.  There was a time that might made right. Not anymore, people know I have to behave in a generally civilized manor, so many of the advantages of might have dwindled. As much as I want too, and indeed as much as I could, society demands that I refrain from “Hulking Out” on the  diminutive masses.  Which of course is a shame.

Second True Story: Get Back!

Like most people I like to sit near the front of Theaters, class rooms, concerts, and the like.  The view is better, you can hear more, and generally you are closer to the door.  Teachers would take one look at me and ask that I move to the back so others can see.  I have been asked at theaters to move seats and I was accosted by an old British fart for blocking his view at Disney. 

Why should I impede my view by moving back, allowing someone else a better view by moving forward?  It’s not like my eyes and ears are any better than anyone else.  What’s in it for me? Where is the Quid Pro Quo, can I say “hey your shorter than me, pick up the pencil.”  I could but you might stab me with it.

And Then Some……..

Not to take anything away from ADA compliance, or to minimize handicapped folks in the least, but where are my special considerations in the public spaces?  I’m not asking for a parking space, but I think sidewalks should have overhanging vegetation cleared to 7 feet, and street signs as well.  Yes I have hit my head while crossing the street and landed on my ass in the cross walk. Would be better for everyone if a few larger sport stadium seats were reserved for the 2 percent of the planet over 6’5”. 

“Hi bring me everything you have in a 54 Tall, 37 inch arm and a 14 shoe.  No, not the velour zipper front jump suit, and the pink alligator shoes can go.  Thanks I’ll look someplace else.”  Really there are entire malls that have nothing in them for me to wear.  Too bad I can’t get away with wearing Cabalas Real Tree Camo to an office meeting….that’s one store which can dress folks of stature. (This fact alone might explain why Yeti’s are so hard to find……)

Get out of the way, just because you can only see the head in front of you doesn’t give you license to walk like a drunk sailor meandering about.  Let’s move people, I can see where I want to go and to me your all just walking speed bumps.  Oh yeah, and you, the balding guy with the weave….I can see it, you’re not fooling me, in fact the glare hurts.

For me the trouble isn’t getting noticed, I know people see me. The trouble is getting noticed for the right things, at the right time.    Being tall does have its advantages….my prom date could wear the highest heals, I have never felt nervous walking alone, and frankly there is a certain bit of pleasure watching people jump a bit when I say “excuse me” from behind them.  But there are downsides.  I don’t shop for clothing, I don’t fit in a standard office chair or under a standard desk, and I will continue to have to kneel to rinse my hair in hotel showers.

It is good to be tall, chicks dig it, but not as good as you think.  I wouldn’t trade it for the world some days and others I would gladly chop off a few inches if possible.  It’s likely my sons will top off at about 6’2” which is tall enough to stand out, but still fit in coach, or buy a mid sized car.  Maybe by the time they are grown things will be a bit bigger in general, the world is getting taller.  Until then I have to wonder, if it’s the big guys responsibility to look out for the little guy, how come the little guys doesn’t have to make way for the big guy? And no, for the 1 millionth time, I do not play Basketball; do you play miniature golf? (thanks Minn)

The Importance of Being Dirty

The importance of being dirty

This past weekend the family and I boldly braved the holiday traffic and drove to Amelia Virginia.  I say boldly because traveling through Philly, Baltimore, DC, and Richmond on the Friday of a holiday weekend is by no means something to be taken lightly.  We survived and so did those around us.  However to those divers who insist on doing the speed limit in the passing lane, you are lucky I wasn’t driving my truck, because you never know when those machine guns are gonna get installed (see previous post).  Amelia Virginia is barely on the map, type it into goggle earth (Amelia Court House) and when the map zooms in, it zooms to an area that there is no street view and the resolution is fuzzy.  There is no beach in Amelia, no Marriott Select.

What we found in Amelia, or rather what others found and we just collected, is rocks. If ya can’t pick it or shoot it, ya gotta mine it, rocks. While I’m not a miner, one day long ago I graduated with a BS in Geology and although I have long since given up the rock hammer and hand lens for the keyboard and spreadsheet every once and awhile I’m able to regress into my primal sate and spend a day getting dirty.

What Amelia has is the Morefield Mine, it is a pegmatite and has Amethyst, garnet, topaz, and amazonite to name a few….they are all pretty rocks.  What makes it significant is the mine has been in operation since the early 1900’s and it is featured in the Smithsonian.  What makes it special is for a small fee you can shovel the mine tailings in a bucket, haul the bucket to a slues, and sift the material for cool rocks.  What makes it fun, is the dirt.  This isn’t any old dirt, it is mica rich clay.  It is red and sparkles in the sun, is slick and sticky when wet and gets into everything.  Its glorious dirt.

When we arrived my sons bailed out of the van, bent down and began collecting rocks in the parking lot.  After the brief safety speech we grabbed our gear and headed down to the pit, handing each kid a bucket and a shovel I told them to dig.  “Where?” the oldest asked.  “Anywhere you feel lucky” and I explained that the tailings were everywhere and it came down to a bit of luck. “Daddy, then what do we do?” So I showed them the sluice and how to work the shifters.  Puzzled, shovel in hand, my oldest looked at me and said” Daddy, we are going to get really dirty doing this.”  “Yep, that’s the point.”

It took my younger son a bit to get over the idea of getting so wet and muddy with full permission.  I think for him It’s better to do it when he is in his Sunday best, but soon he too caught on and spent the day walking into the clay filled mud puddles, and pawing though the dirt. 

Today we got home, made a picnic and quickly hit the pool.  As I was slathering the sunscreen on my kids it hit me how foreign it is for boys to smear anything that smells good on their bodies.  In the mine by sons where rubbing the red clay deep into their arms, they will paint themselves with rocks, they will roll on a pile of dirt (actually saw this happen) but getting sunscreened is horrible.  I’m right there with them; I refer to sunscreen as grease and would rather go three days without a shower than wear it. (My wife has seen this and my sons view a shower is punishment and a bath is how you play with your pool toys in the winter.)

Looking around at the pool it is common to see a mom grab her son by the arm and grease him up, the kid squirms and writhes like and eel.  Daughters stand still and enjoy the rub.  I think this is a basic difference between men and woman.  Men clean themselves in the shower after working outside.  Woman, shampoo, condition, exfoliate, deep clean, rise, repeat, moisturize after gardening.  Don’t get me wrong; men as a species appreciate the female efforts. Lotion? What is lotion? Dry skin, Ha I laugh in your general direction, better to dry out then to moisturize….anything to avoid the smell, the slimy feeling. I can go all day with fish guts on my clothing, but can’t go 10 minutes with the smell of lotion on my hands.

Through the anthropological lens:

Women go to great lengths to appear youthful and to smell good.  Since these acts are do not fulfill the basic needs for food and safety, we can assume it is to help with that other basic need….. the most basic instinct, procreation. Men typically do not go to such great lengths to improve their appearance and olfactory disposition.   So does that mean women tolerate, or maybe even prefer a slightly riper mate?  Or to rephrase would the Marlboro man be quite so enticing to woman if he shaved and took a manicure?  My guess is no, at a certain level woman need men to be a bit more harsh then themselves.  Which is good, and which is why men can prepare for an evening out and watch a football game in the time it takes his date to prepare, which is also good.  And again we appreciate the effort; it contrasts to the dirt so nicely.

My theory is that I’m not alone in the need to get dirty.  Mike Row made a career out of it, my sons made getting dirty an art form, and frankly it just feels good.  

Where's Jimbo: Obtuse Observations

I was bombarded by the din of the machines, and then the smell. The combined effect was dazzling.  Sensory overload was only compounded by what I began to see as my eyes adjusted to the perpetual twilight after stepping through the door.  Outside the air was fresh, and the sun worked its magic on the surf….inside was stale cigarettes, the funk of the unwashed, and not a trace of the mid day sun. The windows on the front are just a facade.

Row upon row of machines, each adding to the noise as if contributing to a mass street demonstration, each with its own light show competed for my attention. The carpet had a fantastic pattern, and everything was either red, shiny or both.  The low ceilings and mirrored walls gave the appearance of a endless cave of noise and light.

People work these machines, and have in turn, service people to keep them working.  I was shocked to see that in many cases workers were chained to machines, sometimes more than one, and in almost every instance that chained worker was elderly.  Not every machine had a worker, some machines were obviously more in demand than others.  Walking around I garnered nervous looks from the workers, and some glares.  Maybe I looked as if I wanted the workers job or maybe they thought I was management. None the less workers sat there nervously tapping buttons, pulling levers, and watching the lights.  Sometimes a bell would ring and the service staff would appear, chain themselves to the machine and talk with the worker.

As I wandered, eventually the sea of machine ended and with it the noise and flashing lights, I was deep within the center of the building.  Workers here are free to move about and are typically younger than those in the front section of the factory.  These workers look to be in generally better condition, and I notice that they receive more attention from the Service staff.  Instead of pushing buttons, these workers arrange disks and colored paper in color coded areas on tables.  It requires good dexterity to manipulate the disks,  so it makes sense that this trained work force is taken care of a bit better.

The service staff, with color coordinated uniforms, appear to be the only workers who know  the labyrinthine structure of the passage ways and machines.   Some are quite adept a quickly shooting across rows of machines and servicing the workers.  Some bring drinks, other watch over the disk tables.  These folks obviously keep everything running, and keep the workers happy.

Scattered throughout the factory are small machines that provide raw materials to the workers.  Materials are obviously counted and tracked as each employee had to swipe a card through the machine to receive an allotment of materials.  Watching this, I noted that some employees received more raw materials than others, and those that received the most, generally looked to be in a better condition than those who didn’t .  Interestingly, raw materials were also provided at some locations by service staff.  When that occurred the workers would take the raw materials and leave the factory.  Overall it appears that the raw materials are also used to reward employees.

Now almost through the building I enter an area devoid of machines.  Here exotic goods and services are to be had.  It is unclear the function of this area as the items on display seem to be beyond the reach of the workers, particularly those who work the machines first encountered. I speculate that the idea of the treasure may motivate the workers to be more productive.  This is all highlighted by the design of the factory to allow no daylight in, also clocks are not provided.  So workers have no idea how long they have been working, they simply work until they have expended their raw material allotment. All in all the factory seems to be designed from the ground up to keep the workers productive. 

I was not able to tour the finished product line. Large ominous security guards stopped me.  So while I saw countless workers, all frantically pushing buttons, obtaining materials, or arranging disks, I didn’t see what all of the activity produced.  Judging by the stature of the factory and that several similar factories are clustered together, some connected together for efficient worker transport, we can assume the factories are productive, but to what extent is secret. 

Thoughts Primavera

Today I realized I need spring.  In fact I’m willing to go on record here, I need this spring to be here, I need it now.  I’m comfortable saying I need this spring more than I have needed any other spring I have thus far encountered. Its palpable.  Recognizing a need is usually the first step in fulfilling the requirement.  However, I’m sure all of you are aware that Spring will come regardless of my needs, when it damn well pleases itself to arrive.  This year, of all years, when the need is the greatest, Spring has lollygagged.  Spring has not marched in (sorry for the pun), it hasn’t even moseyed, we are well outside the limits of even a saunter.  Insidious creep might begin to describe the seasonal transition this year.  Yeah I said it, creep. Since I can’t accelerate springs arrival, despite my best attempts at improving the global warming rate by driving an old truck too fast, I have to wait for it just like you.

Left to my own devises while waiting, I get caught up in thought.  Thought that tends to wrap itself up in tight little balls, which for better or worst often end up spit out into this Blog.  I’m not sure why I need this particular spring so much, and I’m sure none of you know.  However checking off this list of potential reasons makes for good memory fodder…..so strap in and join me.

A FisheyedViews Top 10 reasons to Love Spring (presented in no particular order)


 Easter Candy: There are two camps in the Easter candy world.  Those who love Peeps and those who hate them.  I am solidly a member of the Peep love camp, my wife is not.  We buy enough of them for two people, but I get to eat hers.  This way we avoid gluttony, and I avoid the guilt of Peep waste! 

2.       Graduation (High School): Looking back it was about this time of year that you realized, “I’m about to graduate! And there isn’t much this damn high school history teacher can do to me anymore!” It was great walking the halls, knowing everything was about to change in a few weeks…the excitement of being done with it all was great.  The actual graduation was a show, anticlimactic after turning in the last term paper. I remember wearing shorts under the gown and playing cards while whoever was the keynote speaker yammered on.

(College: Thesis delivered, Bite me Prof I’m done! Were is the Bacardi 151?)

3.       Sandals: One day you would be walking through campus and it would be a sea of blue jeans, the next you were awash in eye candy and your head hurt from swiveling so often to follow the moving scenery. It was as if the gods all whispered to the female population “Its warm enough for sandals, so wear something to show off your legs!” Or maybe, “Ok winters over, its breading season, you better up your game to keep up with the other girls” Either way, it is if a switch is thrown and all of a sudden more skin is exposed.  On behalf of most of the male population, thank you whispering gods!

4.       Green: Walking in the woods or driving down 95 green is great in the spring.  With everything budding and blooming, spring brings green in every shade imaginable.  Its not the standard leaf green of late summer, stale and uniform, where the grass matches the maples.  This is 4 million shades, nicely contrasting to the still brown underbrush and the stems and branches. Fresh, and with a climate that allows you to get outside and enjoy it.

5.      
           Trout Season: Wake up early, don four layers culminating in Gore-Tex and rubber boots.  Arrive at the stream 2 hours prior to the official start time (8AM), wait.  While waiting and guarding your spot, note how as the adrenaline and caffeine wear off you get cold, and have to pee.  Peeing is no small feat in chest waders!  At 10 till 8, an idiot with his new waders and fishing rod still with the store tags on it, walks up through the middle of the stream and stands on the fish, and proceeds to make loud small talk with those plotting his doom.  You fish for an hour, catch two fish that swallowed the hook and died, which when fried are mealy and bland because the State stocked them only 3 days prior…..Somehow it is fun and you look forward to it every year.

6.       Open windows: Driving just isn’t driving when the windows are up….you know you want to crank up the Sir Mix-a lot CD, roll down the windows, and hit the main drag.  Or maybe some great euro-techno and find an empty, curvy road to fly down.  Spring makes it happen.

7.       Baseball: Beer, Hot Dogs, early season before the heat makes the fans smell. T-Ball and Little league before the kids lose interest and prefer the pool. Its all good.

8.       Spring is an affirmation of life, (See Sandals and Green) you have survived the winter.  I know in today’s world surviving the winter isn’t a regular concern.  Sure some people are in bad situations but I think most of us don’t necessary worry if the provisions stored throughout the summer will be enough to carry us through the winter.  Thanks to Shop Rite winter scurvy and diphtheria are a thing of the past.  Spring is where mother nature wakes up, and begins to mend the wounds winter ripped open. Although “civilized” in ideals we are not too far removed from nature to “feel” spring.  We know it’s here when it’s here, and we relish it.  (sorry allergy sufferers).

9.       Birthdays: I’m a spring baby, my kids are spring babies, most of my in-laws and family are spring babies.  April showers bring may flowers, but mid summer thunderstorms bring Spring Babies.

10.   Beer: Winter is brown liquor, Summer is clear, Fall is for red wine, while Spring is for Beer.  Yeah ok poetry aside, as soon as it is warm enough to open the windows I’m jonesing for the first case of Lager beer. 

Now that I have you thinking….what’s on your list?  Add a comment.

Duty Free: My Advise to Future Disney Travelers

Thanks in a very large part to my In-laws; I have just returned from a great trip to Walt’s World.  Or rather Worlds, as there are 4, Magic Kingdom, Animal Kingdom, Epcot and Hollywood Studios.  The trip was our families first and included my sons’ first flight, first upside down roller coaster, and the first TV in the bedroom experience for the kids (which strangely I think will be what they remember most).  Prior to leaving we did our homework, bought a planning book, reviewed the web and took advice from those who have ventured before us.  In fact advice is so common and forthcoming, I feel obligated to pass on my experiences, as if it was a final atonement prior to being allowed to return. So lest I piss of the Mouse god who started it all, the following are my thoughts and experiences.

But first some back ground.  We stayed 7 days in a rented house just outside of the parks in a community called Windsor Hills.  House had 4 bedrooms a screen enclosed pool, patio, and a kitchen…..everything we needed.  (excepting dishwasher soap, hand soap, or sharp knives).  We were able to leave the house and navigate to any of the parks in less than 15 minutes, door to gate.  Parking was 15 per day, and the Disney people know how to run a parking lot…trams were quick and painless.  We would typically hit the parks in the AM and stay as long as the kids had energy, then go home cook a dinner while the kids hit the pool.  On a few days we left the park prior to lunch chilled at home then returned for the evening. We hit every major ride and attraction in the 4 parks, Dumbo through Tower of Terror, Stitch through Energy.

Everyone in Disney is helpful.  When they say “how can I help you?” they mean it.  Not like us New Jersey types who use the phrase to mean, get out of my face.  Ask for help and you will be surprised.  We got free stuff, made it to the front of the line and generally were happy….the vat of Kool-aid must be huge because everyone drinks it.

Disney Fast Pass is worth it!  We waited a maximum of 15 minutes the entire time we were there.  The fast pass gives you a ticket with an hour bracket to return where you get to skip the line….this is a must.  When combined with the I-Phone app that shows you real time waits and maps, we were able to get a fast pass, head to a ride or two without a line, then return for the fast pass.  No down time.  It was great, but we criss-crossed the parks several times, lots of walking.

Take good shoes.  We walked 4 miles a day, on hot pavement.  If your shoes are stylish, they are the wrong shoe for the parks.  We used Keen sandals for adults and kids alike and were able to get through just fine.  You want something that dries quickly but has good cushioning.  Also since you are already carrying a backpack add a few band aids and mole skin to get on anything your kid complains about before it becomes a blister.  Sore feet = pissy kid= pissy parental unit.

Take a backpack: Bottled water is $3.78 per pint, we went through 10 pints a visit.  Do the math, even if you have to buy the backpack it’s worth it. They search the bags for evil doers, sharp stuff, and glass, but it was quick.  Freeze some the night before and drink them as they melt.  Refill from the others to keep cold water in the kids.  Also in almost every ride the bag fit nicely in the car with me or my wife.  Bag is also good for snacks…Duh!

At no time where the rides too small for me, I fit everywhere.  This surprised me as I’m over 6’6” and on skinny days exceed 300 pounds.  Space Mountain was the tightest fit, but worth being jammed in the car.

Disney does not sell gum.  Ok I get it, they don’t want it on the ground in the parks.  However the airport doesn’t sell it either.  So on the return trip if you like gum to help relieve the pressure in your ears, buy it on the way to the airport.

The parks are worth seeing at night, everything lights up, fireworks, a cool parade with lights, and nifty light saber like LED toys for the kids to play ninja with. Epcot especially is cool at night.  Really, the counties in Epcot were “lame” for the kids during the day, but at night became cool, plus Epcot serves some good booze, which you may be more interested in after 5 than before 11.  The Magic kingdom does an excellent show with fireworks at night.  We were most impressed with the light show on the castle.  Somehow they made it look like it was on fire….very cool.  The “Fantasmic” show at Hollywood studios is also worth seeing, the story is disjointed but the light show is amazing..

Some of the rides are loud, really loud, scare the kids loud.  Get disposable soft in the ear plugs for young kids at CVS.  It’s a 5 dollar fix that will help them brave the loudest rides and keep them from fearing the next ride.  The Dinosaur ride in Animal Kingdom was the worst offender.

The monorail is neat, but it breaks down and can be crowded.  I think at times we made it home faster than those in our party who stayed on Disney property and used the Disney transit….so consider all your options before staying on Disney property.  Besides the pool attached to the living room was excellent at the rental house.

Disney restaurants are a mixed bag.  We heard great things, but frankly I was disappointed.  We ate at the Aquarium place in Epcot, Morocco in Epcot and did the Luau in the Polynesian, and my reviews in order are….Dismal, OK food, good service, Good show, OK food.  The dismal in the Aquarium place was due to horrible service (really the only sub excellent customer service of the entire trip) uninspired food, tiny portions, and a bad view.  In this place you look out into a large aquarium, however we were 50 feet from it, and it is so poorly lit you can barely see the fish.  If you want good food and a view of fish hit the Rainforest Café….that was great.

Lastly, Take Pictures.  All over the parks are Disney types with cameras who will take your picture, and then give you a card.  The card lets you collect the pictures from the pros for later perusal and purchase.  Be advised, the purchase at home for a digital copy is like 14 bucks each. However those same pros will also use your camera to take the same shot.  This is key.  They know how to take pictures and were very happy to use every camera handed to them, and are conveniently stationed in prime locations.  On our return we found no need to purchase any of the Disney shots because the pro took the same shot on our personal camera….cha ching!

Ok, I’m spent.  Hope this helps, I have done my duty. I now return this blog to its original slightly skewed, and highly opinionated programming.

The Flounder and the Chameleon

My son has the fastest Chameleon in the land, its green with shimmering red and blue bands.  Similarly his younger brother owns the fastest land based flounder ever, its red and black, with a gold skeleton.  These beasts don’t quite conger thoughts of speed for most of us.  For my boys, these lower vertebrates are the very embodiment of speed. They chose them as the basis for their Pinewood derby cars.  I was proud of my boys for stoically picking up, and racing the only animal themed cars in the troop, they unabashedly raced faster looking cars, and often won. 

Lesson: Do your own thing, Stand Strong, Innovate rather than follow.

What strikes me about the race was the conflicting messages the kids received. A race is by definition a contest to see who is best, but they were regularly reminded to cheer for everyone, “we are all winners” “If you had fun you won.” No! If you won, you won; if you lost you lost, hopefully you had fun regardless. The idea is to build a car and beat other cars and win, it isn’t just part of the American mantra, it’s a theme etched into the very psyche and genetic code of boys.  We don’t race to tie, we race to victory.  Victory means someone lost.  We want them to be fast, we want them to be the best, they want to win, but then we encourage them to be nice about it….something doesn’t add up.

What we should be saying is play to win, be prepared to lose, accept whichever outcome graciously. (In my book an end-zone dance is gracious, punching the guy who beat you is not)

I see that it is a hard line to walk balancing grace with victory, especially with kids. No one wants to see a shattered kid weep over a lost pinewood race, rather we want to see a kid beam with pride. Instead of teaching the kids how to handle disappointment, the scouts were admonished for showing pride or support for the winner.  Ridiculous.  We should not tame the winner, in the hopes of buoying the looser.  Let’s hold the winner high as an example and give kids a role model from within their ranks.  Build pride, by building a challenge.  Kids are perceptive, they can spot a stranger looking at them from 100 yards, and know a hollow victory, if everyone wins there is no pride. 

In life you win and lose, some people win all the time, others lose all the time, the rest of us have to learn how to recuperate after defeat and continue to push for the next opportunity to win. (I had a professor who called tests “an opportunity to demonstrate subject mastery”. I hated it at the time but think it is a great way to look at a challenge.) 

As a society we are softening, we are sheltering our kids from the reality that you can’t win everything, they don’t know how to lose.  Video games just allow you to restart from where you began….not a great lesson.  Everyone gets a trophy, ok the trophy is small and meaningless.   “We are all beautiful on the inside”….crap; guts are ugly, evil is internal, and people run the gamut from perfection to putrid. 

It is important for kids to know how to lose, to know that losing one race is not the end of life, to use what they learned from the loss to help them become prepared for the next challenge.  I’m not condoning the idea of teaching our kids to lose, or promoting that losing is ok, or even the idea of reducing goals to ensure success.  These ideas all suck.  It’s a recipe for an underachiever.  Teach the kid to win, strive to win, want to win, enjoy winning, set big goals and work to beat them.  But also teach them how to handle a loss.  How to accept it, pick up the pieces and move on…..and if that means fighting again, now you’re a bit more ready.

The Chameleon came in second, my son was disappointed, frankly I was not.  He needed the lesson, and handled it well.  He built a fast car, raced well, and lost.  I am proud of how he accepted it, congratulated and admired his friend’s car, and I’m proud that already he is discussing a new design for next year.    

Lesson: You learn more from a loss than a win, but winning feels good.