Talkin' 'bout My Girl

Again, I know I said I've taken a break from blogging. I believe I also said I would chime in with a post from time to time. Well let's consider this a chime, okay?

Last week, my Noodle (and Skippy's, too) participated in her school's Spring Vocal Concert. The students were magnificent. But what made this concert extra special (and not short-bus special... beep beep) was that my our Noodle got to choreograph and perform an Irish Step dance to "The Voice" by the Celtic Women. I We are biased, Skippy and me. We thought she was awesome. We saw firsthand how hard she worked to make this a great performance, and it showed.

Way to go, Nood!

My apologies for the amateurish video quality. I used Ricky D's camera. I should have taken his tri-pod, too.



Okay good people. It's back to blogging hibernation for me.

My Man Ricky D

Tonight I had one of those Ricky D moments....

I worked a little late tonight to prepare for my two-week audit trip to Tampa.

Yeah, yeah, Spartacus... Like I'm going to believe that one...

I'll just have to bring my camera and post photographic evidence, won't I?

I digress...

When I walked through the door tonight, this little man was just emerging from his shower in his tighty-whiteys, proud as a fucking peacock to show me the huge raspberry on his shoulder.

Ricky D: Check this out Dad (pointing to his shoulder)! I got it playing football at the youth center.

Me: Really. That looks like it hurts. What happened?

Ricky: I made this amazing catch as I was falling to the ground!

Me: Really? That's awesome.

Ricky: Thanks Dad! You know what the best part is though?

Me: No. What?

Ricky: I didn't cry about it at all. I got up and kept playing.

(Please avert your eyes if you're disinclined to reading mushy parent talk.)

After we talked about his battle scars (he had two more on his knees), he put up his boney arms to show me his muscles. Then he pointed to his abdomen and asked me if I could see the six-pack.

C'mon. Admit it. You took a look at his picture and got a chuckle. It's okay. I did, too. But he was being serious. He was really trying hard to prove to me he's a man, and not a little kid.

I know he's my son and I am biased by my unconditional love for him, but I can't help but root for him. If you met him in person, you would know why. He's always been one of the smallest kids in his class and he is very self-conscious about his small stature. He's easily intimidated and gets bullied sometimes. He has ADHD, so thoughts race in his mind alot faster than his ability to communicate them coherently.

But he has heart. He has that hunger; that indefatigable drive to be good at something.

He's still making movies.



And he plays piano.




And now I know that he's willing to run through his walls and endure the sting of nasty welts to be true to himself and be the man he wants to be.

Skipping Through Years...

Skippy turned 46 yesterday. She really doesn't like it when I mention her age or that she's a full 11 months older than me.




"Don't you dare go there, Spartacus!!"







Okay. I won't.

But she's happy we remembered her special day.

We gave her flowers...












and some cards...












(I simply couldn't resist this one...)












Noodle baked her a lop-sided yellow cake with chocolate frosting...












Zeb and Rick just showed up...

We all came together to show our birthday girl how much we love her.












Happy birthday, Skip!

I Know That Kid

I know Garrett Quedens. I never met him before, but I know him.

Garrett Quedens is any young 14-year old child of suburban parents. He has lots of friends. He never cuts class. He rarely gets into trouble. Everyone that knows him describes him as a good kid.

Living in the Town of Babylon, which includes the Village of Lindenhurst where I live, I run into lots of Garrett Quedens all the time. In fact, I live with one. You know him as Zeb.

I also know his parents, Thomas and Gizella. I never met them, but I know them. They're not much different than me and Skippy or from our neighbors who work hard to provide a comfortable home in which to raise their children.

That's why this story threw me and Skippy for a huge loop. This could be our story.

No one could have forseen Garrett Queden being found dead in the early morning hours of New Year's Day, much less freezing to death after downing a bottle of vodka with his friend.

But that's how it went down, and now we have lots of questions.

Not so much of how it could happen, but if it could happen to us.

The answer is yes.

We broke down the circumstances behind Garrett's death.

He was out late.
We live in a bedroom community where it gets dark, cold and quiet early in these parts during Winter. So, whether one's curfew is 12 midnight or 8PM is negligible. The streets of Lindenhurst and West Babylon are fairly safe, and most kids know to avoid the trouble spots. After all, our neighborhood is not an idyllic, crime-free community.

His parents did not know where he was.
Like many kids his age, they all have their usual hangouts, and most parents know where they are. Garrett's was in a wooded section at the end of Watson Avenue. Zeb and his pals like to go to the athletic field behind Lindenhurst High School. When they get bored, they move to other haunts. These days, they all carry cell phones, so it's alot easier to get in touch with them. But regardless of whether they're carry a phone or not, when they are out of the house and on their own, they never roam far from home.

He drank a liter of vodka with a friend.
Okay. Garrett did a stupid thing. But that comes with the territory of being 14. As it turns out, this mistake cost Garrett his life. But it's still a mistake. His parents probably had that talk with him about the consequences of consuming alcohol, taking drugs, and premarital sex without making the boy feel like an idiot. That said, he died on a brutally cold night. He could have been hit by a car while walking along a poorly lit street.

The biggest fear of any parent is losing one of their children. Sadly, Thomas and Gizella Quedens fears have been realized. Their realization could just as well be ours.

And there's the rub.

This could have happened to anyone's kid.

So, yeah, I know Garrett Quedens. I never met him, but I know him well.

And I because I know him, I grieve his loss.

Doing Some Shameless Shilling

Please welcome to the blogosphere, my wife, Skippy.

Skippyland Elementary

A few months ago, we attended a blogger meet up at Morse's place in Brooklyn and had an absolute blast. Morse, Mrs. Morse and the Morsel were, as usual, incredibly gracious hosts to me, Skip, Distributorcap and Pissed in NYC (aka GMB).





















We ate, we drank and we told stories.

GMB gave us serveral about her adventures delving into her family's history.

Man, does she have some wonderfully colorful ancestors.

And then Skippy regaled us with some of her school stories. Who knew bringing a math book to school could so traumatic?

I've been hearing them since she took the job two years ago. And, now, she's decided to share them with you.

Enjoy!

Hit The Road, Jack!

Yes...it's that time.

Time to pack up Skippy and the kids, pack off the mutt to a sitter and hit the road for a well-deserved vacation to Lake George.





It could not come any sooner. We had one helluva day today, the highlight of which was when a suitcase tumbled down a flight of stairs and crashed through the plate glass window of our storm door.


Skippy got very upset about it because she had placed the suitcase at the top of the stairs and didn't think it would fall over.

She cried. We all consoled her and cleaned up the mess.

Problem solved.


We then drove to Home Depot and ordered a replacement glass plate for about $60. We also replaced the broken glass plate with the screen that fits into the spot where the plate glass was, and discovered that a nice breeze comes in through the front door on late afternoons.




Who knew?







Speaking of "who knew" -- Can someone tell me the likelihood of two mushrooms growing together to form what looks like a d-cup bra? Skippy found these by the pool in our back yard. Amazing....






Have a great week everybody. I'll be out on the Internets sparingly... This is a vacation after all. And right in the middle of the campaign season, no less. Listen, when nature calls, I have to answer....











(Photo credit: Xaviermarchant © 2008)

Warped on Long Island

What do you get when you get 48 bands to play on 6 stages for one full day of music?

Warped Tour

I was planning this whole post about the experience of taking my sons to this show. They've been bugging me about since the 2008 line up was announced last December. "Yeah, yeah," I said to them dismissively, hoping they wouldn't bug me about it.

But they persisted.... and persisted... and persisted.... until..



Here's what you should know about last Saturday's show At Nassau Coliseum in Uniondale, NY:



- Arrive at the parking lot with enough time to build the grill and get the charcoal going. Otherwise, you end up eating burgers and dogs that taste like lighter fluid. Come to think of it, they weren't half bad.

- Do your drinking outside the gates. Warped Tour organizers have a strict "No Re-entry" policy, which lets them charge $5 for a 24-ounce bottle of tap water and $6 for a 20-oz Gatorade -- even when it's over 90 degrees out.

And yes, me and my BFF, Glen, were drinking beers.

- Have a plan. There's just NO FRIGGIN' WAY to see all 48 bands that played on the six stages scattered over a huge parking lot.

- Never pass on a free hug.

- Warped Tour shows are supposed to be fun. Even if you can't bring yourself to let loose because someone needs to play the role of "responsible parent", ya gotta let the kids skank .

- After watching my sons go nuts over Reel Big Fish and The Aggrolites, I was reminded that kick-ass music comes in all forms shapes and sizes, even if it is Ska. And, yes, I'll do anything to make sure my kids get the most of the experience, even lifting Rick on my shoulders so he can watch and listen.

My apologies for the video and sound quality and Rick's vocal overdubs. What would you expect from an excited kid sitting on his dancing dad's shoulders shooting video from a Sony CyberShot?



But if you prefer, here's some video from these bands shot with a much steadier hand:

Reel Big Fish -- Beer


The Aggrolites -- Don't Let Me Down

Getaway....

I had an idea to write a long narrative post about my weekend in Livingston Manor, NY, but I thought I'd show you in pictures. Skippy and I packed the Jeep with kids, clothes and the family pet and took off on July 4th to escape the yearly re-enactment of the Tet Offensive on our block to the Catskill Mountains countryside.

We were up there for a little over 24 hours. We snapped 160 pictures. Here are ones I liked best:


Spartacus and the boys










Isn't she lovely?








Noodle (formerly known as The Eldest) and Peanut.










The Clark-Travanti barn where most of happenings happened.








There was music.....










and dancing.....









and people who just couldn't keep up with the rest of us.







At one point in the day, Skippy and I took off down this road to find a little adventure....

and found just the right spot to stop....







and admire the beautiful scenery.

Zeb and The Boys

He's a high-schooler now.

Last Thursday, Zeb and his running buddies graduated from Lindenhurst Middle School where they were the BMOCs. Next year, they'll be the little shits terrorized by the Class of 2009. My how their worlds will change.

Zeb and his friends are game. After all, the kids have been friends since kindergarten. They'll stick together. They'll stick up for each other. Oh sure, they'll make new friends along the way. These handsome devils may even find themselves a girlfriend, or two..or three. But I get the sense that they'll never be so occupied that they can't get together for a pick up baseball game or for placing a prank call to a science teacher. (Yes, Zeb really did do this recently.)

There are about 10 or 12 kids in this posse. They call each other by their last names, even though none of them shares a first name. You figure that with names like Van Floerke, Sanchez, Zuppel, and DeRosa, they would stick with their given names. Not so.

"Zeb, why do you guys call each other by your last names?" I ask him one day in passing.

" I dunno." And he skulked off back to whatever it was he was doing.

I'm jealous of Zeb for the friends he has. I had friends like that, too, when I was his age. But I had to leave behind my running buddies in Jacob Riis Houses, when my parents moved us to Richmond Hill, Queens. I hated it. I got into six fights in one weekend because the new kids I met weren't like my old pals. I was homesick, and once you move out of an old neighborhood, you're dead to your old friends. That's just how it is.

But my jealousy lives and dies in those memories from 30 years ago. I look my son now and marvel at how much of a young man he's become and how loyal he is to his pals. I'm fascinated, too, at how unglued they are from their X-Boxes and PlayStations, instead opting to be outdoors riding bikes, skateboarding, or playing baseball. Several of them have developed an interest in a musical instrument, and want to form a band. I can't wait to drive Skippy crazy when I let them jam in our basement.

Congratulations Zeb. Welcome to high school.

Life's a Beach...

...when you're 16.

The Eldest is on the right. Her BFF is on the left. What they're staring it at is anyone's guess. Boys perhaps? Maybe other girls? Who knows.

What I do know is that The Eldest won't be having too many of these moments with her BFF this summer now that she got her first job.

She'll making minimum wage ($7.15) working the rides and concessions at Adventureland Amusement Park in Farmingdale. (Great website, eh?) I know it's not a whole lot of money, but when you're 16, $100 a week after tax is pretty damn good.

So, enjoy these days at the beach while you got them my baby girl. Or figure out what you'll tell the boss when you show up to work with a sunburn after calling in sick the day before.

The End Of Religion...

...class.

Today, 13 became a soldier of Christ. He was confirmed. In the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church, he's a man.

Somehow, I don't think he really cares. In fact, I know he doesn't. Religion class and all those hour-long weekly sessions of catechism are done. But you couldn't tell that from the pained expression on his face as he processed into church with a gazillion other 13-year olds making their confirmation. He looked more like a skel on a "perp walk" than a kid taking part in a solemn procession.

It even killed him to wear a decent outfit. He work a pair of khakis with a striped blue Oxford shirt, a Navy blazer and a tie that barely matched. Look at him with his head of Roger Daltry hair. Does this kid look like he'll ever want to wear a suit and tie when he gets older? Fuck. I hope not. Please don't take an office job like your dad. In fact, if my plan works out, I'll be leaving my office job, too....to drive trains. But that's a post for another day.

Back to 13.... Part of the Sacrament of Confirmation is having to choose a confirmation name. The name is supposed to have some spiritual significance. Most kids choose names in honor of someone they admire or a deceased relative. 13 had other ideas. His choices were Jebediah (a variant of Jedidiah) and Zebedee because "they are names in the Bible", and because he found them funny. He finally settled on Zebedee.

E. was was not amused by his choice and called him on it.

E.: C'mon, can't you choose a normal name like Paul or John?

13: No. They said I could choose a name in the Bible and I want this one.

E.: I have to hand it to you, I least I know you're paying attention in church because I know you're not reading the bible at home.

13: So what's your point, mom?

E.: Well, if you want the name Zebedee, you're going to have to research the name for me and tell me who he was.

13.: Okay...I'll use John.

And so it went. The ceremony lasted an excruciating 90 minutes with most of it being chewed up by the auxiliary Bishop of Rockville Centre, Paul Walsh, who delivered a most uninspiring sermon based on a sappy Keanu Reeves movie "Hardball", to which he gave absolutely no credit. Somehow he melded that feel good story into "the sanctity of life", which is code for "I'm about to read you the riot act on abortion." Yes, the Bishop gave his abortion schpiel.

When the moment came for 13 to stand before the Bishop and give his confirmation name and receive the blessing, E. was very worried he would say Zebedee. I was taking bets on it, but no one bit. I would have lost. He gave the name John.

There is some good that came of this event.

For one, he doesn't have to go to religion class ever again.

Two...my family was in one place long enough to snap this picture.

Three...I finally found a new online name for 13.

Congratulations Zeb! You are now a man!

Happy Birthday Sweet 16

My little girl, Erin, turned 16 today.

Someone needs to explain to me why this birthday is so special for girls. In my culture, the big birthday is 15 (la Quinceañera). You guys can answer that question in comments. I know it's a big one.



Neil's right. She's not a baby anymore. She is quite the young woman with hopes and dreams and pie-in-the-sky ideas that just may come true. I hope she realizes all of them. When she was just learning how to speak, I taught her a little mantra that seems to have stuck. I would ask her to repeat after me.

"I'm smart. I'm intelligent. I can be whatever I want."

Every now and then, she also reminds me of the song we wrote together called "Glue and Tape." It's about literally using glue and tape to fix anything from a broken lamp to broken limbs. She's the lyricist on this one...Go ahead and try it...

If you have a broken (insert object)
Whaddaya do?
Ya get some tape
And ya get some glue
Ya get yer (insert mom or dad)
To help you out
And that's what it's all about

These days, we don't get to hang together much. She's a full-fledged, all-about-me teenager. I could not be happier. She is a member of the National Tri-M (Music) Honor Society. She's made the academic honor roll at her high school this year. She's already getting letters from college because she kicked ass on her PSATs. And soon she'll be taking the written exam to get her learner's driving permit. I'm so proud of her.

But I would be remiss if I did not switch gears and mention her uncle George in this post. Today is also George's birthday. He would have been 52. He is no longer with us, having passed away in 1997 after losing his battle with AIDS. But he lives on in Erin. I swear it.

You see it was George who gave us the idea for Erin's name, forever linking uncle and niece together. As I recall, E. and I were at my brother Ralph's wedding in August 1991, when we told George she was pregnant. No one was more excited than George; so excited, in fact, that he told us flat out, "It's going to be a girl." Then he told us what we should name her.

E: Well, we like the name Emily as a first name and Margaret as the second.

George: Oh that's pretty. But it's not Irish enough. E. you're Irish. Don't you want her to have an Irish first name? How about Erin?

The name stuck.

In fact, it's uncanny how Erin and George are so much alike. She is a gregarious and kind-hearted soul who can be a bit flighty at times. She loves to play with kids and has an impeccable sense of style. I'll bet she'd like The Stylistics, too if I played them for her. She also thinks she's a princess.

I really don't like to dredge up old posts, but here's a poem I put out here a while back for George. I'd thought I'd resurrect it today to honor his memory.

Fairy Princess

I’m flying back to when
We cowered ‘neath our blankets
In advent of your morning arrival;
To our housing-green room,
When your linen bedsheet gown
And knee-high tubes socks announced,
“I’m the Fairy Princess. LA!!!!”

How naive we were to think
That our concealments
Would not reveal our secret location.
But you, dear fairy princess
Knew too well the happy sounds
Of muffled shrieks and giggles
And raised your wood-spoon wand anyway!

“LA!!! You are a mangy cat!
And, LA!, you are an ugly toad!
And if you tell mom or pop
I’ll turn you both to unmovable stones,
When you least expect it”,
You deliver in a sinister shrill
As only our Fairy Princess can.

But your threats were idle
And all your magic useless
To the power of Margie’s mind.
“A toad?” we say,
“We’ll give you warts!”
“A mangy cat, huh?”
Xing! Xing! “Fear my claws!”

Sadly, the day came when
The spoon lost its magic;
When the childhood disease of
Compounding days and years
Dragged us to another realm
Away from your magnificent spells,
Into a cubicle of boring responsibility.

In that grown-up confinement
Of living, dying, and taxes
There is nary a shock nor temblor
Nor the sparkle of pixied illusion
To provide us with happy diversions
From all that is
In our mundane, work-a-day world.

Will you join me stranger?
Come and see my housing-green hideaway,
Where my dear Fairy Princess
Still waves his wood spoon
In flowing linen robes
And knee-high tube socks.
You just may become something else.


Happy birthday Erin and George. I love you both so much!

Oliver!

This weekend some of my friends in our corner of blogovia dealt with a sociopath of President in midst. Some dealt with tornadoes near their home. A huge crane fell in Manhattan. JPMorgan purchased Bear Stearns for $2 a share and some of us just aren't feeling well physically.

But this business of life must go on. And so it did. This afternoon, I was treated to the final performance of the St. John The Baptist High School production of "Oliver!"

Rickdickulus opened the show with his fellow orphans with a great rendition of "Food Glorious Food", while The Eldest played a Londoner in several scenes where she sang "Consider Yourself", "It's a Fine Life" "Who Will Buy" and "Oom Pah Pah."

Anyone who knows the musical, knows that these are bit parts. But as Milan Kundera once quipped: "There are no small parts. Only small actors."

And so it was with my two Thespians. They played there parts flawlessly; as good as any seen on Broadway. But what do I know? I'm unabashedly biased.

Here are some shots of my kids with their cast mates. Thanks, once again, for allowing me this indulgence. In the face of so much bad shit going on in the world, I'd thought I'd chime in with something good.



My Londoner and Orphan Rick. (For this photo, Rick decided he wanted to stay in character.)











Here's Rick with Mr. Sowerberry.










The Eldest (center) with two of her high school chums -- Widow Corney (left) and a member of Fagin's Gang (right).










Finally, here's Rick with every orphan's on-stage nemesis, Mr. Bumble, The Beadle.