13 Has Scoliosis...

E. just came back from the pediatrician. 13 has scoliosis. The nurse at Lindenhurst Middle School noticed it first and recommended we take him to doctor to have it checked out. E. took him last year and they said it looked that way, but standard procedure at his age is to wait and see.

Well another year has passed and the original diagnosis has been confirmed. I went out to emedicine.com to learn a bit more about the condition because it seems to happen indiscriminately. One reassuring thing I learned is that most kids don't need any treatment for the condition; that is, if the spine curvature is less than 20 degrees off center. At 25 degrees, a brace is recommended...good luck getting 13 to wear that. It was struggle to get braces on him. More than 29 degrees and he'll need surgery, which scares the living shit out of me.

Yes, there have been some astounding advances in modern medicine, but anytime invasive surgery is recommended, I worry. I also don't like overdosing kids on antibiotics for every little cold that comes. But I digress; that's for a future post.

E. described the exchange at the pediatrician's office this evening:

Doctor (to 13): Hold your hands in the air, put your knees together and try touch your toes.

13: Okay

Doctor: Oh yeah. He has it. (to 13) You can't bend over straight. (to E.) Has he ever complained of any back pains?

E. : (to Doctor) Not that I remember. (to 13) Does your back ever hurt you?

13: Yeah.

E.: (in an astounded voice) How come you never told me?

13: You never asked.

And so it goes....to quote the ever-enigmatic Linda Ellerbee.

Leave it to my son to find a way to draw humor and a silver lining from this condition. According to 13, it's the reason why he's such a good infielder.

A Poem Only A Mathematician Can Appreciate...

Mean

Would that I could
I would chose not to
Take the seat next to you
Now that I know
The depth of your meaning.

I would sit in another rail car
Or head to the far end of
The crowded bar where
I would, had I the means,
Tell everyone there about you.

I would spread the word
Far and wide and beyond,
Would that I had known
About how you mean little
Of everything you say.

Would that it were really news,
Even though everyone may not care
To know the simple truth of you,
I would say it anyway --
That you are simply mean.

Back Home Again

One of my musical guilty pleasures is John Denver. I got it from my older brothers who while learning to play guitar, played this little JD ditty to death:

Back Home Again

But as the song goes, "hey, it's good to be back home again." Even Chester thought so on Saturday night after he pooped himself out from all the excited jumping around he did the night before when we got home from Sandusky, Ohio. "Sorry folks...I'm too pooped to play."

But I think he was happy that we decided not the board him at the kennel, and keep him in his familiar surroundings where some our friends can feed him, walk him, and keep him company. I am ever grateful to 13's friend Andrew and my best friend Dave for tackling this mission. Not only did it save us a few hundred bucks, but made for a very happy Chester. He did not leave us any "indoor" gifts save for all the fur he's been shedding lately, which he has done all those other times we boarded. It's his very special way of telling us we fucked up. Well, not this time. Right Chester? Chester?

That said, I have few more thoughts to share about this vacation to Sandusky.....

A Few More Vacation Truisms:

1) Ten hour car trips are not conducive to family harmony. Pictures are always worth a thousand words and this one of 13, displays what we all felt about taking the long drive there and back.










2) What you see is on the Internet is usually never what you get. When we booked the rooms at the Main Gate Comfort Inn in Sandusky, we thought we were getting this:









and this:










But what we got was an unacceptable shit hole of a motel. We checked out of the place before we even opened our bags, and got nicer rooms at the Best Western a quarter mile west. However, on the way, we couldn't help but notice some of the upscale establishments that checkered Route 6 along the Lake Erie shoreline:

There was this swanky joint which was right next door to the Comfort Inn. Can't you just feel the vibe oozing from this place? I wonder if the walls are carpeted and Murph and Magic Tones are playing.
Or, if the Sandusky nightlife is not to you liking, why not try out a few of their fashionable boutiques like this one selling t-shirts and armless mannequins:










3) Driving in the rain to save your kids from being bored in a hotel room isn't the smartest thing to do, even if your destination is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. This was the view from our vehicle as we traveled along I-90 to Cleveland.










But I suppose it was all worth it when we captured this shot of the little one admiring Johnny Cash's tour bus....









and this one of the brood playing a ginourmous guitar.....









...even if we had to endure a hellish, endless trek on I-80 through Pennsylvania -- five, miles-long, road construction sites notwithstanding. We were just happy to be back home again.

Que the John Denver song....

Back Home Again...again

A Vacation Truism

Imagine the prospect of yourself hurtling down a steel tube track at 80 degree incline at speeds reaching 92 miles per hour from a height of over 300 feet. As your car on the Millennium roller coaster reaches the apex of the first drop, you wonder to yourself "what the hell did I get into?"

..and down you go with a big "WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA....HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!"

Two minutes later, you are completely blown away by the experience of having ridden one of the greatest thrill rides brought to us by the advancements in applied math and physics.

Look at this monster. Isn't she a beaut?

Well, what you don't know is that this is the metal marvel that tamed the beast that is my family.

Anyone that has decided to spawn* several kids knows that one of the inevitabilities of having them is the fights they get into. The endless bickering over who touched who or who teased who over this fear or that habit. It's enough to drive the most even-tempered parents insane. Add to the mix, a excruciating heat and humidity, and you have a mixture as combustible as 55-gallon drum of ammonia and fertilizer.

What the wife and I have discovered on this trip is that there's really only one thing that will effectively defuse this bomb -- strap them into a seat on the Millennium and trap them for two minutes of sheer adrenaline rush. I guarantee you that after the ride is over, your kids will all become the darling cooperative angels that gramma and grampa always see. I pinky swear that this is the truth.

As a test of our theory, we went on lots of rides today besides roller coasters: some that swing and spin you at terrifying heights; some that drop you straight down from terrifying heights, then bounce you back up. But if the ride wasn't on a steel tube track hurting one forward in a train of several cars, it would bring no happiness to our brood.

(Imagine the picture of that happiness here. We have plenty of proof, but no cable to connect our camera to my laptop.)

Here's the ride that took my kids to nirvana:
This one shoots you up a 420-foot vertical incline at 120 miles per hour, then drops you down at a 90 degree incline while twisting you 270 degrees, before gently bringing you to a stop.

Sure beats feeding them Ritalin.

* - borrowed from my friend DCup over at Politits.

What A Drag It Is Getting Old

We arrived in beautiful downtown Sandusky, OH, which is a lot farther from Cleveland than Google maps led me to believe. We came here on the premise that this place held one of the best roller coaster parks in the world and from what I've seen, the rides at Cedar Point Park look pretty impressive.

But they don't run when it rains and, for a visitor who's only mission is to ride roller coasters, rain is like a life sentence at Fulsom without parole with the inmates looking to do a push in into your jail cell....OUCH.

So, what does a family of five from Lindenhurst, NY do when it the skies open up and empty out in northern Ohio? Why, go to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, that's what!

We took a shit load of pictures while we were there. But you won't see any because the wife forgot to bring the connector cable on the trip. You'll just have to Imagine us standing next to some neat guitar props outside the place in a downpour, or next to Johnny Cash's tour bus (in a downpour) because the RRHOF does not allow any picture taking. I guess the RIAA does not want any pirated likenesses of the clients they represent being "shared" for free.

The Hall of Fame itself was...to quote a famous Ohioan, turned rocker, Chrissie Hynde "very run of the mill." With so much stuff to see and so little time in which to see it, I felt overwhelmed and pushed along. We saw a few interesting films and caught special exhibits of The Doors and The Clash. But, it all felt so cleansed and antiseptic. When I told my 13-year old son about the times I saw the Pretenders, The Clash, U2 and other great bands of that late-70s, early 80s era live and before they charged $500 a seat with a two-bottle Cristal minimum, I could feel my age with each passing thought.

But leave it to my wise-assed son to ask me, "how come your picture isn't up on these walls.....DAD?" Ouch! Now, that's a low blow that I wouldn't even throw at my own dear father. But I played along. I told him (sarcastically) that what separated me from fame were a few poor decisions I made along the road to becoming his father: like the one I made to go back to school when I felt my "rocker" career fading; or the one I made to sell my Fender Strat so I could buy his mother a diamond ring; or how about the time in late 1993, when I decided to forgo using a condom when his mother decided to give me some birthday sex.....you see, son, we all make bad choices in life that we have to live with in one form or other.

But he did get me thinking "what if?" Well, I'm happy to say that I could've made the big time and died quite ingloriously from a drug overdose or a plane crash, if I had stuck to it. Here's the proof....


(circa 1984)

A Letter To My Father

I posted this entry back in February 2006 during my first attempt at blogging. You can call this a vacation post. One of those retreads that people "mail in" every now and then. Hey, I have an excuse. I'm so focused on getting out of town that the well of ideas has gone dry....

Dear Dad,

I'm writing to you because I have a great many things to tell you. There is no doubt that what I have to say will break your heart. You may never want to see or hear from me again, or call me your son. But, I write this letter with both the confidence and the hope that I have understood ALL that you've taught me about this world. All I ask now is that you will afford me the opportunity to speak.

I am no longer a Roman Catholic. I am no longer a Christian. I do not believe in the one "god" that you and billions of other Christians, Jews and Muslims call to be theirs exclusively. I'll understand if you stop here, crumple the pages on which I've written this letter, and chuck it into the trash. But I call upon your genuine sense of reason one last time and beg that you hear me out.

How did I arrive at this point in my life? How is it that a child you raised in the faith of Catholicism could come to such a conclusion, after living only half the life of yours? My reasons -- shocking though they may be -- are all based in what I've learned from you. It was you who taught me to defend the honor and integrity of my family. It was you who taught me to be skeptical of those who unequivically claim authority without proof. It was you who taught me to be instinctively kind to strangers; to love humanity as I love myself.

I know these tenets form the basis of your faith, but I've come to realize that one need not be "faithful" to hold these tenets to be universally good. Moreover, I fear that these days, the leaders of your "faith" believe in these tenets much less than you or I do.

So, yes, I have made a conscious choice to reject the Catholic church and any form of religion or "faith-based" dogmas. And, yes you, Dad, had an unwilling hand in influencing my choice. Please don't take this as me "blaming" you for my decision. More often than not the lesson a student learns is NOT the one a teacher intended. Making us pray the rosary every night when we were kids did NOT help me become a better Catholic, but made me realize the importance of family. Your harsh discipline didn't help me get back into line with your way of thinking as much as it pulled me back from the precipice of making mortally wrong choices. Sometimes you drink too much, or are too set in your ways, or are too opinionated about matters of little concern to you. (Who amongst us hasn't been this way?) But never let it be said that you did not love your life or that you cared little for the other human beings with whom you shared this Earth.

Why just the other day, there were two strangers from Mexico who were sitting at your kitchen table sharing a drink and conversation with you. My first thought was "who the hell are these guys?", the expression of caution for which I could barely suppress. But then I came to my senses and realized that it was you being you at your gregarious best; that this is the man I've come to know and admire; the "human" who is the bedrock of my existence. Dad, YOU are the foundation upon which I've built my house.

But there's more to you, no doubt that needs to be noted because inviting relative strangers into your home is NOT a new thing for you. Remember the time many summers ago when you invited virtually all of the kids in the neighborhood -- some of them weren't even my friends! -- up to our East Village apartment for a hot dog lunch? You didn't have enough to feed us all, so what did you do? You told us to sit still while you ran to the A & P supermarket across the street and cleared out their stock of hot dogs and rolls so that everyone had enough to eat. I thought you were nuts then and I was terribly embarrassed by the whole scene. But I never forgot that moment and now I'm quite proud of it and ever grateful to have witnessed it. I wish I knew then that your genuine generosity was a "human" trait to which I should aspire.

Or what about the times you let your friends from St. Brigid's Church "invade" your home in the middle of the night during the Christmas holidays. They had already visited several other apartments, drinking, playing music and telling jokes, all to celebrate the to birth of Jesus. I believe it was called a "paranda". Mom was ready to kill you for opening the door because we were all asleep in bed. But you opened our door, fed them, served them drinks, and joined their chorus of joyful song. You love people Dad! You love your fellow humans! Is that so bad?

Yet, somehow, those examples don't fully capture your greatness. It always seemed like you saved your best moments for people in dire need. Remember that time when Mr. Simon from the 6th floor came down frantic and in desperate need of your help because Mrs. Simon tossed out a broken lamp in which he hid $500 in cash? For me, $500 is still quite a bit of money. So can you imagine what $500 was worth in the 1970s? Mr. Simon knew you worked for the NYC Housing Authority, which is why he came to you for help. You didn't even give his request a second thought, as I recall. You grabbed your "master" keys, went downstairs and opened the utility room to our building, opened the trash compactor and retrieved Mr. Simon's money. You wouldn't even take a reward.

I believe NOW that this was an act of kindness borne NOT out of your Catholic or Christian morals, but of the human ethic of "doing what's right." I have no doubt that a gregarious, kind-hearted soul like yourself, who happens to be a Buddhist would have done the same thing for Mr. Simon. So tell me, what the common denominator in this equation? God? I think not.

Perhaps the most important "life" lesson I learned from you is that your family is your highest priority. How did I learn this? Well, I had plenty of first-hand examples -- you came home every night; you showed up at our ballgames when you could; you took me and Margie on bicycle rides most days in the summer; you were there for us.

But that lesson was never made more clear for me until you were faced with your oldest son’s drug addiction and your second oldest's homosexuality. As I remember it, I disagreed with how you handled Gus and George, mostly because one was an incorrigible thief and the other an embarrassing fag. Oh, how wrong I was back then. Now that I have kids of my own, I'm ashamed of the way I acted back then. But your head was screwed on straight. You knew what was the right thing to do and it was based on your unconditional love of family.

It used to drive me up a wall when Gus would steal stuff from us to pay for his drug habit. Sadly, I still recall some of the things he pilfered -- my bass guitar and my typewriter, among other things. I needed my bass guitar to play my music and I needed my typewriter to bang out term papers for college. Yet, I was helpless to stop him from taking it; all for a dime bag of smack! You would throw him out of the house when he came home high and let him back in when he came in after a bender because he had nowhere else to live. Even after he spent a year in jail for a robbery he committed, you let him back in the house when he got sprung. "He is my son," you would say. "I can't let him live in the street."

Or what about George? Oh, how it must have floored you to know he was a homosexual. I'm sure you had an inkling when he was young that he was "not quite right"; that he was not like your other boys who were active, athletic, and, dare I say it, "macho". "Pero, es mi hijo," you probably said to yourself, using your familar Spanish to exclaim the universally known point of kinship. I'm sure those were the words coursing through your mind as you raced down the stairs of our building in your work pants and "chancletas" (slippers) to help George out in a fight with his homophobe nemisis Robert. You pulled George off of him and finished the ass kicking that he started. Robert was a black man with one of those big 70's afros who came to the mistaken, and near-fatal conclusion that neither George, you nor anyone else would rise up against his gay-bashing bullying. As I recall, from that day, no one would ever fuck with our family ever again. After you and George nearly killed Robert, the message was, and still is -- fight one of us and you fight all of us. Family first.

What surprised me more about your character -- more than the fight -- was when you allowed George to bring one his friends home for Thanksgiving dinner. We were living in Queens then, and, I was really shocked and pissed when they walked in the door because I wanted our celebration to have nothing to do with gays. George was my brother, and that was as far as I would accept homosexuality in my life. Yet, you opened your home and shared your hearth with Tony that Thanksgiving. Little did I know that Tony would repay your act of kindness in ways that benefited me personally. You see, Tony got me the job at Price-Waterhouse in 1984, which pushed me back into college and motivated me to get awesome grades. As a result, I've been gainfully employed, well compensated, and blessed beyond anything I've ever imagined. I know that your allowing Tony to share our table with us was not an act of prescience. But I can't help but wonder and be amazed at the seed you planted.

What I realize now that I didn't then is how incredibly selfish I was; with you, with my brother Gus who was really sick; and with George whose lifestyle I refused to comprehend. Shit. It was all about me back then, even to the detriment of my family. You didn't know this, but once while on vacation in Puerto Rico, I was with Margie and her then husband David Bravo. I found David with another woman in a hotel room and was too much of a fucking coward to bust his jaw. It was all about me then, Dad, and in some ways I'm glad I never told you that story because, if I did, I would have had to get used to drinking my meals. What's worse is that I never told Margie I was sorry.

No doubt, there will be more sorrys to come before I'm through with this life. I'm sorry for my selfishness, but you know as well as I that it's a sorrow whose incubation period has ended. I'm not going to recount that old tripe about not being "the perfect son" or not being "the son you wanted me to be" because you've never burdened me with those unrealistic expectations. What I'm sorry for is hearing everything you said and observing your actions and not understanding one iota of your meaning. But here I am before you, writing to tell you that I get it; that my love must be universal and genuine for my parents, my siblings and their family, my wife and children -- for anyone I befriend in my lifetime.

I have a bit of an admission to make here. I used to laugh when you went out to plant those gardens in our tiny little backyard in Queens. Even when you finally got your "finca" (farm) in New Jersey and began to produce larger quantities of the vegetables and herbs you had in Queens, I still got a chuckle out of watching you till the soil in plaid shorts, black dress socks and dress shoes, which provided a perfect contrast to your short, stubby, milquetoast-colored legs. You looked like an animated lawn ornament. Little did I know that the joke was on me; that you were content to take from the Earth what she would give in return for a soft resting place when the day of your eventual passing comes. If this be the motivation of our God, then how come our cities keep getting bigger, and the world more impersonal and cold? Believe me, Dad, I've struggled with this notion and even prayed for a sign. What I got were a couple of dead friends killed by 18 fanatical Muslims willing to die to make a point that their god was the right, true and only god. Is this what I have to look forward to by leading a life of "faith"? By contrast, how can I be faithful in the face of the proof that love for our fellow humans is all I really need?

This is why I have decided to live a life that places reason before faith. No longer will I believe in the ranting or rhetoric of any man or woman without hearing the proof that validates his or her words. No longer will I accept "because the Bible says so" as the ultimate truth to mankind's ethical questions. Too many people have died needlessly in the cause of their "god" and it's time for the killing to stop. It's time for us to use our minds THEN follow our hearts in the name of humanity.

I love you Dad. I sure hope you understand.

Your ever-grateful son,

Johnny

That's a negative Ghost rider, the pattern is full.

Yeah...I know I'm using a line from "Top Gun" in title of this post....

If it bothers you, leave me a comment that says:

"Hey Spartacus! You talk too fucking much!"
(Cut and paste if you must)

But I'm using it to describe the general malaise I happen to find myself in at this moment. I've had several stops and starts in trying to get a new post up here, but each one crashed and burned like Maverick and Goose's F-14 after it got caught in another fighter's jet wash. I'm simply unable to focus in on any one thought because as the guy in the tower told our favorite fighter pilot... "That's a negative Ghost rider, the pattern is full."

Did Maverick listen? Hell no...

So let's see...what's been on my mind lately....


St. Joan of Seaford
This weekend I went to a party for my wife's dear Aunt Joan. She is a lovely woman, generous to a fault who, I fear, will not find the salvation she has always prayed for as upstanding, dues-paying, member of the Roman Catholic. And believe me, it's not from a lack of trying -- she's probably fulfilled every prerequisite for entry into heaven. At 87, she is without a doubt a most wonderful mother, grandmother, and family matriarch. She is more active and is involved in more charitable work than four people, half her age. There's more to this story. She is a retired math teacher whose former students recall her fondly as much for her class as for her teaching style. She is literate and thoughtful and can opine intelligently on nearly every subject, and has a way of making you feel good about yourself, even when she disagrees. More importantly, she is a listener, and not someone who opines because she can, like yours truly. But she believes in the god of Abraham, that Jesus was born to a virgin, and that a holy spirit will escort her immortal soul to heaven if she swears continued allegiance to the pope and the myths he propagates -- the words for which are encapsulated nicely in the Nicene Creed linked here:

http://www.reformed.org/documents/nicene.html

This is my dilemna. Mind you, I've never had a discussion with her on the whole issue of god and religion, and I'm not sure I want to. But I wonder what her response would be if I asked her whether she is the person she is because of her belief or despite it. Is it possible to be a good and decent human being without believing in religious myths, gods, and clouds that talk? I'm going to leave that question unasked with her because what she believes is irrelevant. She became a part of my life back in 1988 when I first started dating the (future) Mrs. Spartacus, and I have been reaping the benefits of her presence in my life ever since.


Shut the fuck up and play....
At the same party, one of Saint Joan's grandsons, Buddy, told me he liked every album put out by Green Day except the last -- American Idiot -- arguably their best compilation. The conversation came about when I picked up his cheap, "Squire by Fender" electric guitar to play a few chords out of sheer boredom. His statement didn't really shock me -- this kid is a poster boy for right-wingnutdom and every Army recruiter's wet dream. What made me take pause was the statement that followed; "that punk rock should not be political." It was one of those purely "huh" moments where I had to ask if he knew what the fuck he was talking about. After all, great bands like The Clash owe their gravy train to political songs, like that wonderful diddy, "Know Your Rights." I tried to get at his goat by playing a few bars of "American Idiot", but Buddy wouldn't bite. All I could think of were the words of a fellow Long Island Railroad commuter the Monday following the Live Earth concerts who asked to no one in particular, "Why don't they just shut the fuck up and play music?" Have you noticed that we NYers are fond of that phrase "shut the fuck up"?

Burning SUVs
Apparently, out here in the beautiful, bucolic, Lindenhurst, someone has it out for the local Jeep dealer along Montauk Highway. Read the story linked below:

http://www.newsday.com/news/local/suffolk/ny-cref5328232aug12,0,5391255.story

The story drew my interest because I picked up my Jeep Grand Cherokee in 2003 from the same place that suffered the torched vehicles. But, despite its penchant for guzzling gas the way I suck down beer after softball games, my Jeep has lived up to its billing as a rugged, durable truck. Now before you razz me as a lover of all things Ted Nugent, understand that I drive my ride only when I have to. As I mentioned earlier, I take public transportation to work and I walk to most places I need to go to within a few miles of where I live. I take seriously the fact that it is a "utility" truck, which helps me carry home heavy loads from Home Depot and precious cargo (my kids) to movie theaters in a blinding snowstorm (No, really, I've done this). Yet, I could see how people would rail against those SUV-drivers who drive their fat asses around in Yukons and Denalis for the "sport of it. It's a huge waste, for sure, but it does not give anyone the right to destroy another person's property. I'm all for eco-activism, but eco-terrorism is terrorism and that makes you no better than the mindless, blindly-faithful assholes who like to blow themselves up and fly airplanes into buildings.

Vacation
Destination: Sandusky, Ohio. Reason -- Rollercoasters. We are a family of rollercoaster lovers and when it comes to hurdling fearlessly at great speed down a ridiculously steep track, Cedar Point Park is apparently the place to go.

http://www.cedarpoint.com/

You should also know that I also like taking my family on road trip vacations because it's a great way to see our beautiful country and because I have a real mean Clark- Griswold streak in me, right down to my desire to have a nude swim with Christie Brinkley in the hotel pool. But I digress. I just need a vacation. This has been a long, hot summer and I can't wait to hit the road and not think of work, or the house, or the dog.....Oh shit. I forgot about the dog!!!!!!!


Finally...the end
One the reasons I've been so scatter-brained lately is because I've stayed up the late the last few nights. Sometimes for good reason and sometimes not. Who cares? The net result is I end up dragging my ass at work, caught in an endless loop of maddening "Top Gun" quotes to describe my mood. Like this wonderful exchange to describe what it's been like taking my after-lunch walk through Madison Square Park the last two days:

Maverick: This is what I call a target rich environment.
Goose: You live your life between your legs Mav.
Maverick: Goose, even you could get laid in a place like this.
Goose: Hell, I'd be happy to just find a girl that would talk dirty to me.

Ah, shit...I think I just crashed and burned.....

I Talk Too Fucking Much

I talk too fucking much. It's a condition I inherited from my father, which flairs up whenever I decide to drink in the company of seemingly interesting people. 

This point smashed into me again like a wave at high tide last evening. I was at an informal gathering for a colleague who recently retired. Karen is a sweet, affable, older woman who has more energy than a lot of 25-year olds I know. In addition to those of us who worked with her, the party included some of her former colleagues and her "friend" Robert (because apparently old people don't have lovers). 

He, too, was a sweet older man who had many questions and curiosities about my life, which I felt obliged to answer. 

Robert: Where did you grow up? 

Me: I'm New York City born and raised. 

Robert: Did you get to travel, too, as an auditor? 

Me: No, but I traveled quite when I worked for our company's international group. 

It went on like this for a good 15 minutes. At one point Robert asked me about being the father of three kids. I told him I liked it, but that it has it's daily challenges. "My kids are normal" I told him. "They fight with each other about stupid (shit). They talk back to me and (the wife). But it's all good. It is." As I studied the incredulous look on Robert's face, I asked him "Well, what's the alternative? A bunch of obedient kids who question nothing and can't think for themselves? I have no intention of raising stupid kids." 

Then Karen chimed up. "So, what's it like to have a 15-year old daughter?" "It's like digging an irrigation ditch," I replied. "You dig it canal to get the water to your crops in the hopes that they'll grow." Somehow or other Robert and I got onto a discussion about the history of the world and, as I was trying to impress him with the knowledge I gleaned from Spencer Wells' "The Journey of Man", he had another Wells in mind - H.G.'s "History of the World". It was as true a "what the fuck" moment as one can be, but there I was plowing through the Spencer Wells' ideas about how we're all descendants from the same homo-sapiens who crawled out of the African savannas to conquer the world. 

You see, there I go again. Who the fuck cares, right? 

Mind you this is all going on while scantily-clad, young waitresses with a minimum of C-cup sized breasts were bending at the waist to serve way-too-overpriced drinks. The only thing missing from our table was a stainless steel pole and an offer to perform lap dances. Get this. For $250, you can enjoy a (normally $15) bottle of Captain Morgan rum. For a cool, $325, a chilled bottle of Ketel One. 

Well, by this point, Robert had simply had it with me and pointed to one of Karen's former colleagues and said interrupted me as I was making the connection to Wells' work with another biologist/sociologist/geologist cum historian Jared Diamond (Guns, Germs and Steel... Collapse). 

"Oh, look who's here" he said. He then got up and walked away. I was stunned. I got pissed. I can't say I didn't deserve it. 

As I neared the bottom of my second $9 glass of some awful Stella Artois beer later, Robert came back to me. "You were saying?" I had to admire the politeness in his hubris, because his point was well taken. 

"It's okay, man. I've already said it." 

I thought about calling my dad at that point and blaming him for this fiasco. But he couldn't help making me the person I am. The windbag chromosomes came with the sperm delivery that created me.

There is a flip side to this. The way I see it, with all this accumulated (read useless) knowledge I've amassed that is so irrelevant to daily living. my kids will never, ever have to buy a term paper on the Internet. "Just ask Dad," they'll say. "He'll write it for you." 

And, please don't call me the Cliff Clavin of the blogsphere. I know of which I speak. I read it in a fucking book. I just don't know when to stop talking about it and give someone else a chance to blow off some hot air. Say it with me..."Hey Spartacus! Shut the fuck up!"

Bin Laden Blogswarm: The 6th of August really sucks

It used to be that August 6th was that dark date when a B-29 christened the Enola Gay dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima Japan in 1945. There are many arguments posited about this event and the second bomb dropped on Nagasaki on 8/9/45, which boiled down to whether President Truman was justified in making the decision on the basis of saving the lives of American soldiers. Was President Truman justified? Well let's take a look: He was a WWI veteran who served with distinction as a captain of a Field Artillery unit; He signed into law the GI Bill, which provided veterans returning from WWII untold economic and educational benefits; For better or worse, he made it military policy to integrate the U.S. Armed forces; He decided to keep the conflict in Korea a limited war, rather than engage the Chinese and Soviets in another world conflict. Enough with the accolades; he knew something about leadership, and about doing what's right by our soldiers and the people.



Flash forward 56 years later to the year 2001. Sitting in the Oval of Office holding the highest office in our land is George W. Bush, a man whose literally failed at every venture he's been involved in. He ran companies into bankruptcy and as Governor of Texas, he was responsible for more executions (152) than any governor before him. Like Truman, he too served his nation, but as pilot in Texas Air National guard which saw no combat action, and often times, he couldn't be bothered to show up for duty. Yet, because of a fateful decision he made this day in 2001, over what to do with a critical piece of information that could have saved the lives of over 3,000 soldiers, not to mention nearly 3,000 U.S. citizens on September 11, 2001, one has to wonder what Truman would have done in if he was handed the Bin Laden memo. Again, the debate is always open to question, but right now I'm envisioning 19 Saudi terrorists in Leavenworth Penitentiary, had Truman been the President to make the call.

One for us old guys....

He's 41 and he's now a member of the 300-win club in major league baseball. He's a dad, a husband, and a friend to everyone who knows him. He takes the ball every five days the way you and I jump on a train and in a car to go to work. I know this is really schmaltzy, but I tip my cap to Tom Glavine, pitcher for the New York Mets on this outstanding achievement.