Ray Bendici

the friday five: not my last words

May 182012

Okay, quick and morbid this week.

As you all know, I tend to obsess about my death a bit—when I’m going to die, how I’m going to die, where I’m going to die, will I win a Darwin Award in the process …

I think sometimes I’m so fascinated by it because I know that as sure as I’m typing these words, I am going to die, yet I have absolutely no clue about any of the details. Again, since I can’t control what will happen, I’d like to have some say over what will *not* happen.

So foresight being 0/20, here are:

Five Statements That I Hope Aren’t My Last Words

1. “Hey kids, watch this!”

2. “I don’t think it bites.”

3. “Wait, those aren’t mimes coming out of that tiny car!”

4. “Now did Regis say to cut the red wire or the green wire? I think it was the green.”

5. “Hang on Salma, it’s almost unzipped.”

we’ve got talent, yes we do

May 172012

So between periods of the Rangers-Devils playoff game and innings of the Mets-Brewers game, I found myself surfing past “America’s Got Talent” a few times. (Yes, my attention span is that fleeting.) Credit the Howard Stern factor—I think he’s a lot smarter than a simple “shock jock,” and knows how to entertain, or at least how to generate a train wreck that I’ll slow down to watch.

Anyway, as we know, I’m hardly one to judge singers, or dancers for that matter. However, I did find myself questioning the “talent” of a few other “performers,” such as the tattooed stay-at-home dad who was piercing his face with needles or the Robin Hood wannabe wielding a crossbow like he was auditioning for an Ed Hardy ad. Not that running sharp things through your jaw or popping balloons with arrows aren’t cool skills, I just don’t think of them as a “talent” that one is born with, such as being able to sing, play an instrument or hit a baseball 400 feet (without being jacked full o’ steroids).

“Skill” vs. “talent”—a semantic argument, perhaps? Maybe I’m just a word curmudgeon being too restrictive with a definition. Who cares what you call it as long as we’re entertained, right?

Howard Stern talked about how he appreciated that we lived in a country without restrictions that could foster so much creativity. I agree.

Now that I think of it, the producers of “America’s Got Talent” should loosen up the rules (you know, if there are any) because I think we live in the most talented nation in the world. As I continued flipping the channels, I realized that here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. have skills *and* talents that are unique and go beyond anything the rest of the world could hope to offer, even other than our greatness at bringing attention to ourselves—as those fun-loving young professionals from the coast of New Jersey amply demonstrate.

In fact, here are—

The Top 14 Talents of Which All Americans Can Be Proud

1. Modifying our bodies

What, are you saying that someone without talent can get their own TV show? Pffft. Come on. You’re just hating because someone has clearly made themselves better than you.

2. Dragging up logs from the bottom of swamps

Okay, for reasons I don’t quite understand, I find myself watching “Ax Men” on History Channel to see Swampman Shelby Stanga, who may or may not speak English but makes his living in crocodile-infested bayous, enjoys randomly shooting stuff and appears to be just a little crazier than a June bug juiced full of Louisiana hot sauce. But seriously, who else on Earth would even do this?

3. Eating crap

We’re still the fattest people on the planet, by far! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

4. Building trailer parks

There are one billion people in China and not a single trailer park. How do you explain that? They just don’t have that U.S. know-how!

good luck, whore

May 132012

So I got a text yesterday from my sister Joni the Whore: “I’m home.”

Now, that may not seem like a big deal to most, but for her, it means that she’s arrived at her new home in Miami … which, if you know anything about geography, is about 1,300 miles away from Connecticut where we grew up together and where she has lived until yesterday. My older sister (at her advanced age, she’s starting to lose it a bit and insists that I’m the older one—just smile and nod when she brings it up) has decided to make this Big Life Change for a number of good and logical reasons, and as her favorite brother, I fully support her decision and want her to be happy. Also as her favorite brother, I can say that I’m going to miss her tremendously.

I’m fortunate in that I’ve always had great relationships with both of my sisters; I’ll write about my sister Christine another time (you escape for now, Little Muskrat!). Joni and I are very close, and share the same dark, twisted sense of humor—for example, “whore” is a term of endearment between the two of us. We also both accept that in The End it’ll be the two of us playing cards in Hell with Satan and Hitler, and we’re good with that.

Of course, like many siblings, we certainly had our share of fights—although not nearly as many as my sisters had with each other simply because I was bigger and stronger and could easily thrash her at any moment (Mom smoked while pregnant with Joni, and that *clearly* did a lot of damage, both physically and mentally). We also shared other experiences, like discovering the folly of hiding the wooden spoon from Mom and then, after successfully antagonizing her, realizing that a metal spatula was a more painful substitute.

Speaking of sharing, she’s terrible at sharing secrets. Early on, when we were in college, she used to work at Planned Parenthood. Occasionally, she’d come home from work and be like, “Hey, guess who came into the clinic today?” And I’d be like, “Who?!” Then she’d be like, “Oh … um … I can’t tell you. Client-privacy rules.” To this day, she’s never told me anyone she saw.

Bitch.

Two “contests” we engaged in over the years: 1. Trying to make each other laugh during church (which might figure into some of my general disrespect for things religious), and 2. Trying to make each other choke on dinner. I once made her snarf spaghetti through her nose; she returned the favor, making me snarf chocolate ice cream out of my nose. Nasty.

Despite how we’ve tried to injure each other, Joni is still an incredibly intelligent person, you know, aside from the smoking and tanning. Here’s a picture of her from next week:

Yeah, it’s good that she has goals.

I know whatever she does in Miami, she’ll be successful. Like we like to say, she’s a good egg—a little scrambled, but good nonetheless.

I would also like to tell her that if she thinks that simply moving across the country will somehow better endear herself to me (absence making the heart grow fonder), or if she’s under the illusion that the distance will create some sort of safety zone that protects her from being tortured by her loving brother, she’s utterly mistaken.

To wit: Time to share this family classic that she has *demanded* that I tell at her funeral, which hopefully won’t be for another 160 years or so. For those of you who have heard it, sit back and enjoy it again.

It started like any other summer morning around the house, no particular rush to get ready or go anywhere. At that point in our childhood—before happy pills—Joni was renowned for her ill-tempered morning routine. In fact, I can’t recall a day between first grade and when I moved out at 25 that she didn’t have some sort of curse-filled, obscenity-laced meltdown. Really. People never believed us that Joni went absolutely bonkers every single day because she was generally a quiet person otherwise. Senior Smoke insisted that I was nuts for a decade until he finally witnessed a midday meltdown/tirade, after which he told me that I was underexaggerating the severity of her tantrums and apologized.

On this particular morning Joni and I were tweens and Christine was about 8 or 9. Joni was downstairs, so I turned to Christine and said, “Hey, let’s hide all of her underwear!” Even now, it seemed like an innocent, goofy joke, and I swear, that’s all it was supposed to be. We both figured she’d turn to us, say something like, “Real funny guys,” and we’d give it back. So I cleaned out the drawer and hid it all under a pillow on her bed.

Well, when she went to get ready for a shower, Joni came into the room, opened her drawer, noticed the underwear was missing and . . . . went absolutely ballistic, a top-level banshee breakdown, screaming and spewing cusses that’d make a merchant marine blush! Christine and I were stunned—I mean it was so obvious that we took everything out of the drawer—but before we could step in, the future whore bolted out of the room screaming, “MOOOOOM!”

I quickly turned to Christine and said, “Hey, let’s put it all back.” It’d be funny, right? She agreed, so I went and got all the underwear, stuffed them back in the drawer and scurried down the hall. Just as I was ducking into my room, Joni stormed past with my mother—looking very annoyed (uh oh?)—in tow.

Okay, since I was out of the room now, all I got was the audio portion of events; Christine filled in the visuals later.

Joni [standing in front of her dresser, very angry]: “I’m telling you, I don’t have any underwear in here, not one!”

Mom [even angrier]: “And I’m telling you if there’s even *one* pair in there, you’re in trouble!”

Joni [jerks open drawer]: “See, not a . .. . .” [looks down, mouth drops open] “How did—”

*SMACK! SMACK!*

Joni: “No! *SMACK!* They weren’t *SMACK! SMACK!* there a *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!* minute ago *SMACK! SMACK!* I swear *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!* No! *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!* Nooooooo!!! *SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!*

—and so on as Joni literally got the beating of a lifetime!

Oh, it was glorious to have set up a sibling to get whipped so! Especially a sibling that you think had it coming for years of tirades and meltdowns—apparently a feeling shared by my mother as she completely uncorked like I’d never seen. I’ll always remember that I was literally on the floor of my room (I can still see the red-white-and-blue looped carpet—hey, it was the late 70s), writhing in hysterics, crying from laughing so hard that my sister was getting all but murdered (from the sounds of it), and it was ALL MY FAULT! A perfect sibling moment.

Christine said she had her face in her pillow because she was laughing so hard. It was a truly beautiful moment in life, like having a chocolate sundae while watching the sun set, or when Inigo Montoya catches up with the six-fingered man at the end of The Princess Bride. Ah, you can’t make these moments up, just relish them. I do.

Eventually, my mom wore her hand out on Joni’s skinny butt and left her in a battered, crying, red pile of tears. Christine and I were in tears, too—from laughter! Being the caring siblings we were, we waited a week to confess.

Joni was a little upset about it, but curiously, my mom laughed. I guess Joni did have it coming after all …

Anyway, love—and already miss—ya’ whore! Here’s hoping you’ve got lots of underwear in your new home!

the friday five: take a shot

May 112012

After I wrote about my camping experiences the other day, my friend Milo commented: “I am waiting for the follow-up piece on Things You Can Destroy with a BB Gun…Including Front Teeth”

Ask and ye shall receive!

Five Things I’ve Helped Destroy with a BB Gun . . . Including Front Teeth

And for the record, I did actually have a genuine Red Ryder BB Gun (although there was no compass in the stock).

1. A front tooth – For the record, I didn’t pull the trigger that fateful day, but it was my other BB gun (a Crosman “ten pump” air rifle—what can I say, my dad liked for me to have guns) that was involved in the notorious incident. We were going to play “army” and with more soldiers than toy weapons, like any eager tween back in the 1970s, I was able to convince my mother to let me bring my BB gun to “play.” (Try that nowadays, kids!) To this day, I swore all the BBs were out of it, but as you’ve already figured out, that wasn’t the case. My friend Kurt asked to use the gun, and while we were milling around waiting to play, another kid, Craig, jokingly said to Kurt, “Go ahead, shoot me!” Kurt pumped it up a few times, and thinking he was only going to shoot air, innocently pointed it at Craig’s face and pulled the trigger. The moment is burned into my memory—I was only 4 feet away when the shot went off. Craig immediately recoiled, spit out chunks of white, grabbed his mouth and ran home screaming. Kurt and I did the responsible thing—turned and ran away as fast as we possibly could! I went home, put the gun back in the gun rack in the basement and then went out and hid behind the shed until my mother found me later … you know, after Craig’s father had called. Craig got a false tooth for the rest of his life and I still feel awful to this day. Lesson learned: Make love, not war!

2. Lots of model boats – The backyard of our house on Linwood Street would flood regularly, which provided a great place to sail stuff. Like any normal child, I also enjoyed blowing things up, but when fireworks weren’t available—which was the 51 other weeks of the year outside of the first week of July—I turned to other methods of destruction. At some point, I remember thinking “Hey, why just *look* all these battleship models I’ve built when I can *destroy* them?” So I did. It was actually a challenge to shoot a plastic replica of the USS Missouri enough times to make enough holes to sink it, but we didn’t have Super Mario or YouTube to stunt our attention spans.

3. Tarzan, the Ape Man – After I deep-sixed every warship I had, I turned to other models I had painstakingly assembled and painted. One that brought a lot of pleasure to Milo and me to destroy was this one of Tarzan—

(Wow, you can find anything on the internet!)

For some reason, we insisted on calling him “Starpan,” and laughed ourselves silly as we shot off his head, arms and other appendages. Nothing more hi-larious than maiming the Lord of the Jungle, right?

4. A rat – One day a bunch of us were swimming in my next door neighbor Rick’s in-ground pool, when we surprised by the sudden appearance of a live rat taking a dip with us! Of course, some mild hysteria ensued, during which I decided to run home to get my BB gun. By the time I got back, the rat was out of the pool and on the stone patio. Standing at the far end of the patio—and with visions of being the hero dancing in my head—I pumped up my gun, took aim at the cornered rat and fired. I missed the first shot, so I pumped and fired again—and this time, my BB found its mark. Unlike on the countless TV shows and movies I’d seen, the rat didn’t simply just fall over dead. Instead, it flopped and thrashed and squealed and died one of the most horrible deaths I’ve ever seen any living thing die. I swear it seemed to take hours to expire, but I’m pretty sure it was only a few seconds. No one ever said being a hero was easy, right? Ugh.

5. My mother – Let me be perfectly clear: AT NO POINT HAVE I EVER SHOT MY MOTHER! My father, however, can’t make that claim. When he was first teaching me to how to shoot (and the general rules of “gun safety”) in the basement of our home on East 2nd Street in Brooklyn, New York, we would set up a target at one end of the space, which was only a few feet from the washing machine. One night, while we were shooting, my mother was doing the laundry. At some point when my father was lining up a shot, he glanced over a few feet to where she was reaching deep into the washing machine, leaving her … “flank” vulnerable. Temptation was too much. He aimed and … well, let’s just say that nearly 40 years later my mother still seems pretty angry about the bruise it all left on her posterior.

I’m just glad it was only her butt I helped ruin and not their marriage. Guns are dangerous, kids!

the wrong song

May 102012

So this morning I was awakened at 5:30 a.m.—like I have been for the last 6 or 7 days in a row—by the shrill chirping of a bird outside my window.

Now I know you might be thinking, “Wow, what a light sleeper!” but this particular feathered “friend” (possibly straight from a perch next in Satan’s aviary) and its “song” are so loud that it also woke up my wife, who can sleep through the godless racket that is my snoring. That should give you an indication of the volume. This thing puts the Harpies to shame.

As I lay there *not* sleeping, I considered what might be the most satisfying way to bring about the demise of this creature—you know, because interrupting my precious beauty slumber is a crime worthy of death.

A few ideas came to mind:

Getting a pet owl to hunt it down, catch it and rip it apart with its razor-like talons—they are killing machines, for what it’s worth. Of course, then I might have to deal with the owl hooting all night.
Using a flame thrower to incinerate it—it’s got to taste like chicken.
Snapping its avian neck with my bare hands, you know, because there’s nothing sweeter than crushing the life out of another creature with your bare hands … er, or so I hear.

Even though we have a pet parakeet of which I’m pretty fond (it was that or a hairless cat—uck!), overall, I’m not a big fan of birds, unless they’ve been deep fried or covered with bacon, stuffed and roasted for hours. When I used to work at Frank’s Nursery & Crafts back in the day, I could never understand why people would regularly spend hundreds of dollars on bird seed. As direct descendants of dinosaurs, these winged pests have been for millions of years—they hardly need our help to survive. Trust me when I tell you that if you were starving to death, they wouldn’t help you. As a matter of fact, buzzards would hover above while you expire, then they and all sorts of other carrion would feast on your corpse.

In short, I agree with Buddha*—birds can go flock themselves.

[*It was in the 3rd chapter of his autobiography, I believe, after the part about "Lead, follow or get the heck out of the way!" Or was that Ted Turner? I get all of Jane Fonda's exes mixed up.]

Anyhoo, my mother likes to feed the birds, and for years, has tried to lure hummingbirds to her feeder, but without much success. Last summer, when we were in Colorado and staying at the infamous Murder Cabin, there were a few hummingbirds around, which allowed to get me to get this kind of photo.

I’d post more, but I think that’s rubbing it in my mother’s face enough.

Speaking of my family and song birds, that is something we are definitely not: musically gifted. Actually, I’d say we are musically bankrupt, although my older son seems to be able to carry a tune and can play the piano by ear. (Freak!) For a long time, I questioned whether my younger son was of my direct lineage—his hair was on the blonde side, which doesn’t even remotely match me or my wife—until I heard him really “sing.” Although enthusiastic, the experience erased *all* doubt that he was descended from my tone-deaf bloodline.

Obviously, I have no illusions about how bad my singing is—and trust me, it’s truly putrid. When it comes to having to sing “Happy Birthday,” I can guarantee you that I’m pretty much lip-synching and letting others carry the tune. Or maybe I’m whisper-singing, which masks some of the awful. Overall, I’ve been fairly successful in hiding my horrific warbling, except for one fateful night …

[*cue rayality flashback waviness ... or just flicker your eyelids a bit, thanks*]

A few of you may have heard this story already—I know my friend Milo is already giggling since he was there when this fateful event unfolded. Some of the basic details are fuzzy, possibly obscured by the mists of time or, more likely, blocked by a brain trying to forget away a traumatic moment.

Anyway, Milo and I were at this live show in a local hall—I want to say his now-wife Ivette was there also, but again, I’ve desperately tried to forget the details. (Sorry Ivette, either way!) It was a variety show of sorts, with local singers entertaining the crowd.

At some point in the evening, one of the women got up and started channeling her inner Diana Ross, breaking out into “Reach Out and Touch”

For the proper effect, please play this while you continue to read.

If you’re not familiar with the song, it’s popular sing-along, which, if I had known at the time, would’ve sent me scrambling to the men’s room to hide. But I was completely oblivious, so I was caught up in and enjoying the moment as the singer rolled through the chorus:

“Reach out and touch somebody’s hand, and make this world a better place, if you can …”

After singing it a few times, she began to work the crowd like the supreme diva, walking around, throwing in some comments to pump everyone up and extolling others to sing along with her. Before I really could process what was happening, she was standing in front of me.

Smiling at me, she sang the lead up to the chorus and then—

[Oh. my. god. NO!]

—she took the microphone and put it right in my face.

And I mean right in my face, about a millimeter from my lips.

I froze. Nowhere to run, no time to react, no chance of dematerializing into a puddle of carbon atoms and water on the spot. Then she nodded as the musical cue came around.

I didn’t know what else to do … I took a deep breath and—

“REEEEEEEEEEAAAAACCCCCCHHHHH OUT AND TOUCH

SOMEBODY’S hand …

make this world … a better place …

if you …
… can …”

Mere words on a blog can’t convey how awful the noise that came from my throat was. It was like nails on a chalkboard + a moose being crushed in a trash compactor + Fran Drescher after gargling glass x 1 billion to the billionth power. Or worse.

Needless to say, Milo was hysterical (and even now, decades later, he still laughs—hard—about it, as well he should). The singer was a real pro, almost able to mask the shock on her face with a smile that’d make Chuck Woolery jealous. She nodded encouragement, but her eyes were pleading, “Child, for the love of Jesus H. Christ, please please please never sing another note as long as any of us live.”

The only good part for all of us is that it was only a one-time event. That freakin’ bird will be back there tomorrow … maybe I should try serenading it. Maybe that will change its tune!

campfire memories

May 072012

So this weekend, my son went camping with his scout troop. On Sunday, I volunteered for transport duty, so I had to drive up to Goshen to retrieve him and a few of his fellow campers.

During the ride up, I made sure to enjoy the peace and quiet because experience has taught me that there’s not a much more chaotic environment than a car full of tween boys jacked up on pixie stix. I arrived at the camp, found where my son’s troop was and proceeded to load my car full of damp gear and three rumpled scouts. Bracing myself, I started the car for …

… the quietest. ride. home. ever!

Seriously, two of them fell asleep after about 15 minutes while the third stared out the window in some sort of catatonic state. At first I wondered if everything was all right, but then, in the silence, I drifted back to my days of camping trips and remembered: Nothing was more exhausting than an active weekend that included, if I was lucky, about 8 total hours of sleep split between the two nights.

Yeah, we were go go go back in the day, and we were even more exhausted after a full week at Camp Sequassen. I wasn’t very good at earning merit badges, but I was always a full participant in other activities, from boy scout-sanctioned activities like hiking, archery, shooting (with real guns!) and using my knife to cut and whittle stuff, to less official activities such as burning stuff, smashing stuff, burning stuff and using my knife to play slightly less dangerous variations of mumblety peg.

But camp was a time of wonder and fun. Among the things I learned at camp:

Everything gets damp at camp – I don’t care if you keep your clothes, matches and sleeping bag and in hermetically sealed bags, as soon as anything hits the night air in the woods, it immediately turns to uncomfortable mush. Pillows were the worst—and if you’re a light sleeper than me, nothing would keep me awake like having to flip my pillow over a few dozen times in the hopes of finding a small dry patch. And once things get damp, they never ever dry out.
Bears may crap in the woods, but it’s no fun for the rest of us – If you’ve never actually had to do it—and fortunately, I’ve only had to do it a few times—having to empty your bowels over a hole in the ground is about as awful as you might think. At least at camp there were latrines, which I think they gave a fancy French-sounding name to disguise the fact that they were no more than a covered fenced-in pen with a board that had a toilet-shaped hole that barely stopped you from falling into a crap-filled pit. On the plus side, I learned to catch daddy long legs with my bare hands and flick them away while in a latrine because you don’t have many options when your pants are around your ankles and you can’t exactly jump up and move.
Kids desperate for something sweet will promise anything to get it – Being a quasi-responsible, cash-conscious little urchin, I used to budget the $10 my parents gave me to last the entire week of camp. That meant I had about $1.40 to spend a day, give or take, which was enough for three 35-cent treats from the trading post a day—one in the morning, afternoon and evening. I was always able to stick to my budget, but other kids usually burned through their money pretty quickly, and later in the week, would come to me begging for cash. Most were good about paying me back, yet for a reason I don’t care to understand, I remember that Billy Olah still owes me 35 cents from a chocolate eclair he wheedled me into buying him. Let’s see … ten percent interest compounded over 35 years means he still owes me … well, almost enough to buy an eclair from an ice cream truck today.
Don’t feed the racoons – The first year, Jeff Doering, one of the kids in my lean-to, wanted to see raccoons up close, so he left food out and was amused when the raccoons came around after dark. A few hours later, I was awakened by screams, and when I switched on my trusty flashlight, I saw a giant raccoon jumping up and down on Jeff’s head. They were both screaming, now that I vividly recall it.
You need two oars to row a rowboat – Not something you realize until you lose one to some other scouts goofing around and you spend the next few minutes going in circles.
Don’t volunteer for the greased watermelon competition – On the Friday of camp week, there always was a camp-wide competition that included various tests of scout skills but ultimately ended in a melee with such carnage that it’d put the Battle of Thermopylae to shame. The rules were simple: There were no rules other than whoever was holding the greased watermelon at the end of five minutes won—everything went. I’m pretty sure there were kids who spent the week smelting metals to forge brass knuckles to use during the adult-sanctioned brutality. I tried to mix it up, but unless you count letting the other kids drown me as a distraction for my buddy Bobby Paradis, who actually won it for our troop one year, I was about as helpful as Jeff getting mauled by the raccoon.
Give your son the same name as you if you grew up in Brooklyn, NY, and never learned to swim, that way he can pretend to lose his highest-level swimming tag and then re-take the test in order to get a second tag that you can use – Isn’t that right, Dad?
Sex – But not from any actual experience, you sick bastards! One night while a bunch of us were hanging out in one lean-to and one of the older teenaged scouts, Bobby S. told us all in graphic detail about the birds and the bees. Most of us were like, “What? It goes where and *what* happens?! NO WAY!” I thought what Bobby S. sounded a bit farfetched at the time, but it turns out he was 100 percent correct. Who knew?

And of course, my favorite scout discovery story is this one about the time at camp I learned I would never soil myself in a moment of extreme fear and duress. (Always good to know that, by the way.)

Although I encourage you to read the whole story when you have time, I do offer this aside from it:

Quick aside: I am a pyromaniac. Period.

No joking. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent building perfect one-match camp fires that I would ignite, stoke into raging (yet contained) infernos, then use to burn anything else that I could find around the campsite. This is where I learned that almost anything sent with a child to camp—extra underwear, cereal boxes, cereal—will eventually burn, with the possible exception of toothpaste tubes, and by the flames of Hades, I tried everything to melt those b#stards! (Plastic garbage bags, if wrapped around a stick and properly torched, will drip drops of bright blue-orange flame that are absolutely mesmerizing.) Earlier this year, I took my family to Sequassen for a visit, and even some 20 years later, I was able to build a fire with only bark and sticks that lit with two matches. Then we toasted marshmallows. My kids were a little disturbed that I liked to set my marshmallows lovingly on fire for a few seconds, charring them ever so slightly, before blowing them out and eating them .. .

Maybe I should have a bonfire at home tonight. Hmm …

The Friday Five: Get My Motor Running

May 042012

Now that I’m older than I was (thanks again for all the good wishes), it’s time to get cranky …

So as any of you who have enjoyed the wonderful fortune of riding along with the best driver on two continents [*cough cough ME cough*] can attest to, I am …. well, let’s go with *PASSIONATE* about driving.

Consequently, I truly love to be behind the wheel, and wish that many of the other drivers out there would share my … attention to detail … and … interest … in what occurs on the road. It’d be nifty if they—

Okay, enough of this charade!

Let’s get right to the point—there are two kinds of drivers out there: ME, and the rest of you fracking yahoos!

To help get the rest of you up to where I am, and thus make the motor touring experience more betterer for everyone, I propose everyone brushes up on these

5 SIMPLE DRIVING RULES

1. PUT THE PHONE DOWN AND FRACKING DRIVE!!! Seriously, if you don’t read another word beyond this sentence, just do me this one favor: PAY ATTENTION! You are handling a 2,000-lb. hunk of metal and glass that is capable of traveling in excess of 80 miles per hour and that can easily end multiple lives as a result of the simplest of operator errors. Please, despite thinking that you are special and the world revolves solely around you, I can promise that you are not; you are also not the only person on the road, so please concentrate on the task at hand. Chances are you are not texting the nuclear launch codes to the president or giving step-by-step instructions to Dick Cheney’s heart implant team, or anything of real importance. Just drive, baby.

2. When entering highway traffic in normal conditions, enter AT HIGHWAY SPEED! For example, if everyone is going 70 miles per hour—and you can damn well bet that every motorist is doing that on any given Connecticut interstate, at minimum—then the basic laws of physics suggest that if you try joining the flow at traffic at 40 mph (maybe because you are on your cell phone, are not paying attention or are some sort of brain-dead fracktard who got your license as a prize in a box of Moron Munchies), bad things will happen! Either you will be in an accident, cause an accident or cause the brain of the guy behind you (most likely me) to a-splode!

3. When you are turning right, it is *NOT* necessary to come to a complete stop first. Because they usually have the right of way, most times, there is absolutely nothing physically preventing drivers from making a right turn. Yet over and over and over again, when challenged with the prospect of moving their cars in a rightward direction, many drivers feel the inexplicable need to stop first, maybe because they feel that momentum will carry them straight rather than in the direction they intend. Hey Miss Daisy! See the big round thing in front of you? If you turn it with some effort to the right, your vehicle will go into the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly without you having to stop it first. Oh the simple joys of technology!

On a side note: Do not suddenly change the stopping rules to the road without telling anyone else. Look, I know you want to be nice and let that old lady and boy scout cross the avenue, but if you’re the only one who suddenly stops to do this and everyone else is still driving like normal, either you are going to wrecked from behind or there’s going to be a few extra seats at the bingo hall and the next pancake breakfast.

4. Please use your turn signals. You know why the Amazing Kreskin is so danged “amazing”? Because he’s the only who can fracking read minds! The rest of us have no clue that when you drift to RIGHT and slow down, it’s because you need to a wide berth to make a LEFT turn so that you don’t spill your beer or drop your cell phone—we assume you’re going to make a right turn and start to logically pass you on the left. Imagine our surprise when you suddenly speed up and go left? If only there was some way you could SIGNAL the rest of us as to which way you might TURN … OH WAIT THERE IS, AND IT’S ONLY ABOUT AN INCH FROM YOUR LEFT HAND! It takes more effort belch up half of your Taco Bell drive-thru burrito than it does to use your turn signal. Come on!

5. The left lane is for passing only. Section 14, section 230 of Connecticut state law dictates: “Upon all highways, each vehicle, other than a vehicle described in subsection (c) of this section, shall be driven upon the right, except (1) when overtaking and passing another vehicle proceeding in the same direction, (2) when overtaking and passing pedestrians, parked vehicles, animals or obstructions on the right side of the highway, (3) when the right side of a highway is closed to traffic while under construction or repair, (4) on a highway divided into three or more marked lanes for traffic, or (5) on a highway designated and signposted for one-way traffic.”

In other words, you are NOT allowed to just cruise along in the left lane at 50 mph because it’s easier to concentrate on your cell phone, you can’t be bothered to move over for entering traffic or you’re just too fracking stupid to live!!!

Okay, can’t wait to see you out there on the road, you know, so I can shake my fist and curse at you!

/cranky old guy rant, over!

best. present. ever!

May 022012

So as many of you know, I absolutely hate my birthday—I don’t need to be reminded that I’m more than halfway to Betty White’s age, thanks! In addition, I already know that if I’m absolutely lucky and manage to survive all sorts of disease and misfortune, the best I can hope for is another 170 years or so before the odometer runs out and I drop dead, which isn’t nearly enough time to get everything I need done.

Of course, when I was younger, I was like most kids and enjoyed my fair share of birthday parties. The one that jumps out at me—literally—was the surprise party my parents threw for me when I was 13.

I truly had no idea it was coming, and was completely oblivious that Friday night my father and grandfather took me out shopping for a weight-lifting bench. I should’ve known something was up—it was the only time ever that the two of them had taken me to a store that didn’t sell building supplies or hardware. They were both straight arrows, and both were acting pretty goofy; at one point, they grabbed a football and were throwing it around the store, which in retrospect, I realize was to stall. At the time, it was just fun.

Anyway, when we got home, I noticed our dog Smokey was in his crate in the dining room, which was odd, but before I could think about it too much, my parents told me to take the carton with my new weight bench into the basement. I went down the short but dark stairs—the switch was at the bottom—and flipped on the lights and stepped into the room.

I should mention at this point, like many kids, I always had a slight fear of going into the dark basement.

As the lights came on, there was an eruption of what *probably* was celebratory screams. I’ll remember to my dying day—which I thought had come at that moment—one of my friends at the time leapt off the couch and directly at me. Of course, I recognized him immediately, but the incongruity of him suddenly appearing out of the dark of what I thought was an empty basement and then hurtling like a banshee through the air at me was a bit … well, SURPRISING! I literally fell over backward in shock.

Apparently, my “loving” mother had told them that she was going for “heart attack.” Mission accomplished! If that happened to me today, I’d drop dead of a coronary.

But lucky for you all, I haven’t. Yet.

My other particularly memorable birthday was 19 years ago, when I turned … uh, well the number isn’t important. Suffice to say it was more than 13. This time, I was the one planning the surprise.

This was back in the day when my wife Sue and I were still dating. It was 1993, and after two-and-a-half years of exclusivity, we both knew we were the “one” for each other. We’d had open discussions about getting married, and knowing that some day we’d get engaged, my wife made me promise two things: 1.) That I don’t tell anyone first and it be a surprise for her and everyone (because my sister’s husband had told us all before proposing to my sister, which sort of took some of the fun out of finding out), and 2.) That I not ask her father’s permission first because she was not “some piece of property, like a cow, to be bartered for.” (I should’ve *known* right at that point, right?)

So in January of 1993, while my then-girlfriend Sue and I were driving around, I came up with a plan. “You know what I want for my birthday this year?” I said at some point after having conveniently steered the discussion in that direction. “Rather than any gifts, I just want you to take me out for a nice dinner somewhere.” She agreed, and the pieces started falling in place.

Right after Valentine’s Day, I went and bought the ring (they’re cheaper then, by the way), and spent the next three months checking on it every day, like some sort of Señor Wiences routine. (“You still in box? Sí. S’all right? S’right.”) As my birthday got closer, I finalized the details for my special dinner—we were going to The Rusty Scupper by the water in New Haven on Sunday afternoon. As pure luck would have it, since it was my birthday, my grandparents decided to invite all my family and Sue’s family to their apartment for later that night to celebrate me getting older; they had no idea that they had played right into my hands.

Cut to me, twiddling my fingers á la Mr. Burns: “Exxxcellent.”

I also helped sell the surprise. A few days before the question was to be popped, I was talking on the phone with Sue, and mentioned how someone I knew had gotten engaged. I said I was jealous and wished that I had saved up enough money to get a ring, and that she shouldn’t worry, I’m sure it would happen some time “closer to the end of the year.” She said that was okay …

Hook successfully baited!

The big day finally comes. It’s a bright, sunny and warm afternoon, which I realize suddenly presents me with a problem: If it’s too warm to wear a jacket, where am I going to hide the ring box? If I put it in my pocket, someone might accidentally notice the big square lump and inadvertently ruin the surprise.

I think for a few seconds about how to conceal it, and come up with a plan: If police could conceal guns in ankle holsters, then why can’t I hide an engagement ring in my sock?

I tuck the ring into my left sock just below my calf, and to make sure that it doesn’t fall or move around, I use masking tape to hold it in place. My loose-fitting Dockers provide enough space to hide any bulges. It’s perfect!

So I go to Sue’s house to pick her up, and not surprisingly, no one notices that I’m sweating more than normal or the unusual bulge in my pants leg. (Hmm … that doesn’t sound right, does it?) As we’re going to the restaurant, I suggest we stop along the way at Savin Rock in West Haven since it’s a gorgeous weather—we often go for walks down there and watch the old guys play bocce. She agrees, so I drive there.

We stroll along the boardwalk for a while (as I surreptitiously check my sock every 30 seconds) and I finally spot a vacant bench near the point by Savin Rock. We sit down, and I start saying nice things to her—this being back before we were married, it didn’t raise as much as suspicion as it would now. If I was this complimentary to her now, she’d instantly be on her iPhone with the insurance company asking out how much she’d be cashing in for as she’d figure I was dying.

Eventually, I get around to how I want to spend the rest of my life with her. “I know we’ve talked about it a bunch of times,” I say, feeling my pulse beginning to rise, “but if I were to ask you to marry me, you’d say ‘Yes,’ right?”

“Of course,” she says. I can see she has absolutely no idea what’s about to happen.

“Hmmm … good,” I say, nodding my head and reaching down to hike up my pants leg. “So if I were to reach into my sock … like THIS”—I tear the tape off of my leg—”and pull out a ring … like THIS”—I produce the box and snap it open—”… you’d still say ‘Yes,” right?!!!”

“OH MY GOD!”

She is stunned and fumbling for me to put the ring on her. We kiss.

“So that’s means ‘Yes,’ right?” I ask.

“Of course!”

And then she takes me out and for my birthday dinner. You know, because I’m a genius like that.

Happy birthday to me!

commanders, assemble!

Apr 292012

Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you know that later this week Marvel’s long-anticipated The Avengers finally hits movie screens across the nation. Featuring comic book heroes Iron Man, Captain America, Thor and the Hulk (as well as Hawkeye, Nick Fury and the Black Widow), it promises to be an action-packed big-screen event.

If the movie is decent—and the early reviews indicate that it is—then this should be an absolute blockbuster, making a bajillion dollars and, of course, spawning a sequel (or two).

Since Marvel and Disney *apparently* have all the rights locked up on this franchise and its characters, I thought in order to cash in, I am working on a variation of the theme that might make for “corporate synergy” (if I can throw a term out that I would never use in real life but big studio suits seem to eat up like Kobayashi visiting Nathan’s on the 4th of July). Plus, it also uses established well-known names—which studios love because name recognition = easier marketing = more $$$ in their pockets to spend on cocaine, Porsches and cat jugglers—and makes for easier cross-branding.

So, taking Marvel’s Avengers franchise and mixing it with Disney’s Hall of Presidents, I am proposing to create a new super hero team—and lucrative film franchise!—called:

THE COMMANDERS!

(You know, like “The Commanders-In-Chief” … fer crying out loud, do I have to explain everything here?)

Okay, so to ease the transition, I thought I’d move existing presidents into roles that already exist in The Avengers, both the movie and the comics. So, starting at the start for both groups:

Capt. America, First Avenger meet George Washington, First Commander!

Yeah, this one’s a gimme. Both are true American icons, both are military men, both are unquestioned leaders, and I’m pretty sure Captain America’s shield and Washington’s dentures were made of the same material. Or they will be in the movie—when Washington gets in trouble, he’ll pull out his teeth and fling them like ninja stars at enemies! Maybe groom that wig into little wings like Cap has … come on, this stuff writes itself!

Next …

Teddy Roosevelt is Iron Man!

At first, it seems that the old Bull Moose and Rough Rider might make a better Hulk, but Teddy Roosevelt is Iron man because like Tony Stark, he carried unwanted metal in his chest: Before a campaign speech in 1912, he took a bullet to the chest during an assassination attempt, and not only proceeded to give his entire speech before going to the hospital, but wound up leaving the bullet in rather than having it removed. Also like Tony Stark, Roosevelt was a charismatic maverick. Bully!

Okay, speaking of bullies …

William Howard Taft as The Incredible Bulk ... er, Hulk!

Sorry, but when you are known as “the fattest president ever,” (335 pounds!) that makes you the prime candidate to take on the role of The Hulk. And really, who wouldn’t want to see this former commander-in-chief turn green with rage, rip his shirt off and shout, “TAFT SMASH!!!”

Going (slightly) more sophisticated …

Abraham Lincoln: God of Thunder!

Yes, the beard is an important part of this, and although U.S. Grant had an equally impressive set of whiskers, the ol’ Rail Splitter gets the nod because he could handle an ax like Thor wields the mighty Mjölnir. In addition to towering over rivals, Honest Abe was also a bit of a badass, and allegedly had freakish strength from all those years chopping logs. Also like Thor, Lincoln had an affinity for distinctive headgear—can wings be added to a stovepipe hat?

Next up …

Andrew Jackson takes dead aim at the bad guys!

These two are a perfect pair in that both are usually overshadowed by more flamboyant members of the group, but to overlook either would be a mistake. Both lost their parents at fairly young ages and used those events to become something better than normal men. Jackson was a legitimate tough guy with a chip on his shoulder, fighting in the American Revolution as a 14-year-old and subsequent other scraps (including leading ragtag American forces to victory in the decisive Battle of New Orleans), earning the nickname Old Hickory in the process. He also may or may not have shot an apple off a goat’s head at 300 paces, except no one outside of my own imagination can seem to verify it.

Okay, reaching outside of the movies—

Thomas Jefferson understands the genius that is Ant Man

One of my issues with the new Avengers movies is that that have discarded a few of the characters that have traditionally been part of the team in the comics and the animated TV show (which I watch with my kids). First is Ant Man/Giant Man, a.k.a. Dr. Hank Pym, who is a sometimes aloof scientific genius that can shrink and grow to various sizes in order to fight crime. Jefferson is known as genius for his vast intellect and wide-ranging abilities—of all of the presidents, it seems as though Jefferson would be most likely to tinker in a lab and accidentally discover a formula that could shrink or grow him as necessary. Both characters also had issues with women; Dr. Pym was often busy slaving away in the lab and was abusive to his wife while Jefferson often got busy with the slaves rather than his wife.

Speaking of infidelity—

Bill Clinton takes to action as the Black Panther

It only makes sense: the nation’s first “black” president dons the cowl as the Black Panther, one of the first mainstream black superheroes. Similar to T’Challa (the Black Panther’s alter ego), Clinton’s father died when he was very young; also like T’Challa, who is the king of the fictional African nation of Wakanda, Clinton seemed predestined to rule. In terms of super hero skills, Clinton has unusually strong powers of persuasion, although I haven’t quite figured out how getting trailer park mamas to disrobe in the back of an El Camino for a quickie can be used to fight evil. I’m sure it probably doesn’t hurt, although there are some who might disagree.

Speaking of (again)—

Hillary Clinton as The Black Widow

After everything he put her through, there’s no doubt that the wife of the “first black president” wishes she really was a Black Widow. [*insert rimshot*] Okay, Hillary is nowhere as sleek, sexy or mysterious as the comic or movie version of the Black Widow, nor is she a former Soviet spy (or so she claims) but let’s be honest: Is there anyone who has been in the White House in the past half century who you would fear more in an actual street fight than our current Secretary of State? Seriously, she scares me—I can picture her tearing my beating heart out of my chest and taking a bite of it, then standing there laughing while I expire. And does anyone else out there think she really hasn’t killed a mate or two after she was done with them?

Finally—

Barack Obama: Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.

I can make all sorts of comparisons between Nick Fury (the hardcore leader of the comic-book team and Avengers support unit, S.H.I.E.L.D.) and the current President of the United States, but let’s be honest: Obama is the coolest president we’ve had since Teddy Roosevelt, and if you’re going to step into a role being personified by Samuel L. Jackson, you better bring a little swagger with you. Plus, they both look good in black.

All right … time to start working on that script. COMMANDERS, ASSEMBLE!

the friday five

Apr 272012

Okay, trying out something new here, a weekly post to brighten up the end of the week.

Ideally, each time, it’ll be something fast and fun and five—you know, because I love lists and alliteration. Videos, songs, comments, thoughts … with “five” being the only real theme.

I thought about “Monday OneDay” “TWOsday” “Three for Thursday” and “Wednesday Marmoset Madness,” but ultimately, this won out. (The marmoset madness isn’t off the table, by the way.)

So to start things off, here are:

The Friday Five: Fun Songs

Okay, these are far from “hits,” but they are some pretty amusing music videos.

1. Garfunkel & Oates: This Party Took a Turn for the Douche [NSFW language]
Warning: If you never heard of Riki “Garfunkel” Lindhome and Kate “Oates” Micucci, after watching this, not only will you fall in love with them, you will start seeking out all their other clever, snarky songs and videos like “Sex with Ducks,” “Pregnant Women are Smug” and of course, “Hand Job, Bland Job, I Don’t Understand Job.” [All NSFW language]

2. Storm Large: “8 Miles Wide” [Again, NSFW langauge]
How this song isn’t some sort of American anthem is beyond me.

3. Golf Boys: “Oh Oh Oh”
Simply, the greatest golf music video ever, mainly because it’s the only golf music video ever. Plus, all the proceeds from the song go to charity … and yes, that’s your 2012 Masters winner and major champion in the blue overalls with no shirt or shoes. Ooh lolly lolly!

4. The Lonely Island: “Dick in a Box” [All right, the NSFW language has been bleeped out in this one, so other than guys singing about dicks in boxes, it's okay.]
Yeah, this still cracks me up, you know, because I’m juvenile.

And of course, the Greatest. Video. Ever!

5. The Hoff: “Hooked on a Feeling.”

Enjoy your Friday!

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