A DAY AT THE DELACORTE
It's that time of year again here in NYC. Sidewalks are baking and A/Cs are on full-blast. So far, this has been the hottest summer on record, and we're all whining about the weather. Especially those who've been queuing up in Central Park before dawn for free tickets to see Al Pacino as Shylock in the "Merchant of Venice."
But that wasn't the case for us last Thursday. My son Max and I, along with his buddy Milo and Mom, Alex, drag ourselves out of bed at 4am, grab breakfast and reading materials, and cab it to Central Park before dawn, beginning what will be an eight-hour stretch, the equivalent of a standard work day. The waiting is effortless, in a lush, glorious setting where your only assignment is to chat, read, play a game of Charades, draw, drink coffee, eat lunch, post your photos on Facebook - anything to pass the time in a line one is not allowed to leave (but for visits to the restroom and snack bar.)
By 1:30pm, we score eight tickets, two each, leaving us free agents until just before the 8pm showtime. Almost everyone in our families will welcome us weary souls back home with love and appreciation for our incredibly selfless sacrifice. The one ticket holder, however, who does not appreciate this coveted prize, this golden opportunity, would be young Julian.
Once I tell Julian how long the performance will last, he is horrified.
"Hey, that's Shakespeare, Kiddo," I tell him.
Act I: Between the occasional spurts of interest, Julian rolls his eyes and shows me his fist, while Max, who can't keep his eyes open, is fast asleep on my shoulder. Feeling guilty for denying Julian candy to keep him entertained, (OK, I'll say it, to 'keep him happy,') I promise him we'll get something at intermission. There's not much other than Gummy Worms. He has something heartier in mind, but this will have to do.
Act II: "Mom, how long is this act?" Julian whispers.
"About 45 minutes to an hour," I whisper back.
Julian slaps his hand to his forehead, and looks skyward.
"Oh My God, I'm going to kill myself," he whines. "You owe me," he whispers with indignation.
Once Julian settles in with his tub of Gummies, I begin to explain that Shylock is intent on collecting his bond for his 3,000-ducat unpaid loan to Antonio: a pound of flesh.
"I wish he would just take a pound of flesh from my head," Julian snaps.
Never too soon to start them on Shakespeare, I always say...
Monday, July 19, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
COOL DADDY-O
There he was, that tall, strong, handsome guy in his uniform tee, tossing the ball to the player covering second base. It was an evening game, a hot, still summer evening's game. The field lights blazed with artificial daylight, while moths danced and fluttered in the shocking brightness of their glow. 'Brand X' was only just warming up.
We sat in the stands, cheering the team on through the game. The ice-cream truck on the edge of the park beckoned, and I knew it would be at least a couple of innings before our presence at Dad's game would be rewarded with the frosty treat of our choice - for me, a double soft serve with rainbow sprinkles. The anticipation of this moment was the only thing that got me through.
I had no idea what position my dad played for his team, but I know it didn't last many seasons - if only one. I didn't know how many runs he might have scored, how many times he struck out, if he stole a base, if he tagged a man out. All I knew is that as soon as the game ended, he was ours again. Uniform, wallet, and all.
The position he played on our family team, though, consisting of a wife, three sons, two daughters, a couple of dogs, a revolving door of cats, an occasional salamander, a gecko, a run of the mill hamster or gerbil (these pets not all at once though), was the ever-present, unflinching, unconditionally devoted father who I want to thank for the following, not limited to and not necessarily in order of appearance:
1. Salami and eggs
2. Papering my bedroom wall with the green ferns over the silver background
3. Drawing a portrait of Farrah Fawcett with me till after midnight, on the dry-erase board next to the olive green rotary telephone. It was uncanny.
4. Saving my life in a Quebec hotel/campground parking lot
5. Driving me to everyone's houses for sleepovers, all the time
6. Taking me to Klein's just before closing hour for the best maxi-dress EVER
7. Taking us to Friendly's at midnight for ice-cream sundaes while the Mets were in overtime (13 innings?)
8. Camping in Montauk
9. Music
10.Corny jokes
11.The candy in his suit jacket pocket (yes, that's where it all went.)
12.The change in his pocket, too.
13.The way he laughs through his teeth, like the dog from Dastardly and Muttley
14.Being the coolest, most proficient handyman, who drilled, hammered, spackled and kept our world patched together with love, kindness and patience, often with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
15. Quitting smoking
Always the athlete, always the artist, always the beautiful soul, always The Man.
It must be Father's Day.
We sat in the stands, cheering the team on through the game. The ice-cream truck on the edge of the park beckoned, and I knew it would be at least a couple of innings before our presence at Dad's game would be rewarded with the frosty treat of our choice - for me, a double soft serve with rainbow sprinkles. The anticipation of this moment was the only thing that got me through.
I had no idea what position my dad played for his team, but I know it didn't last many seasons - if only one. I didn't know how many runs he might have scored, how many times he struck out, if he stole a base, if he tagged a man out. All I knew is that as soon as the game ended, he was ours again. Uniform, wallet, and all.
The position he played on our family team, though, consisting of a wife, three sons, two daughters, a couple of dogs, a revolving door of cats, an occasional salamander, a gecko, a run of the mill hamster or gerbil (these pets not all at once though), was the ever-present, unflinching, unconditionally devoted father who I want to thank for the following, not limited to and not necessarily in order of appearance:
1. Salami and eggs
2. Papering my bedroom wall with the green ferns over the silver background
3. Drawing a portrait of Farrah Fawcett with me till after midnight, on the dry-erase board next to the olive green rotary telephone. It was uncanny.
4. Saving my life in a Quebec hotel/campground parking lot
5. Driving me to everyone's houses for sleepovers, all the time
6. Taking me to Klein's just before closing hour for the best maxi-dress EVER
7. Taking us to Friendly's at midnight for ice-cream sundaes while the Mets were in overtime (13 innings?)
8. Camping in Montauk
9. Music
10.Corny jokes
11.The candy in his suit jacket pocket (yes, that's where it all went.)
12.The change in his pocket, too.
13.The way he laughs through his teeth, like the dog from Dastardly and Muttley
14.Being the coolest, most proficient handyman, who drilled, hammered, spackled and kept our world patched together with love, kindness and patience, often with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
15. Quitting smoking
Always the athlete, always the artist, always the beautiful soul, always The Man.
It must be Father's Day.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
THE END OF AMERICANS IDLE
Now that the winner has been declared, we can finally get off the couch.
I decided to let the rest of the week that followed last Wednesday’s "American Idol" results pass before uttering a word, as tempting as it was to join the fray. I preferred not to get tangled up with other bloggers and commentators who’ve been either lamenting Chrystal ‘Mama Sox’s loss, or celebrating Lee DeWyze’s victory. Because ultimately, the true victory that took place in this house did not emanate from the television.
I’d thought we were home free after the Yankees clinched the World Series last November. The house was back in working order: school projects and homework were getting done on time without the last-minute scramble, after-dinner clean-up happened - get this - right after dinner, and the evening came to a reasonable, satisfying end before the natives got too restless. We were off to a flying start towards the second half of the school year. Even the Scrabble board came out every once in a while.
But something happened. Somebody in this house, and I don’t know who, stumbled upon American Idol, and roped the rest of us into an ominous web of Prime Time television to the point that we were completely, hopelessly committed. It started with the auditions in various home towns across the land after the New Year, then on to the cut for the Top 24, down to the 12, through, among other things, the absurdity of Tim Urban’s repeatedly remarkable bullet-dodging, Siobhan’s shrieking, Big Mike’s ‘save’ and his eventual axing (I was out to dinner when it happened, and received a voice message from a pissed-off Julian with an update: “Mike lost! Stupid Casey!”) and finally, Casey’s departure. In brief, we here all agree that Chrystal’s career as a free agent will take off in a big way, and Lee’s six-year American Idol contract will either take him to new heights (we hope), or leave him writing jingles for Home Depot (we hope not).
So it’s officially summer now. Memorial Day weekend has just set the tone for a trim, healthful new beginning. Take a long, brisk walk after dinner, and don’t rush back. There’s nothing on - with the exception of the remaining “Glee” episode, the Prime-time line-up is on hiatus until the fall. Therefore, my sweet cherubs, I’d like all these things picked up and put back where they belong, K? Please. help yourself to that glass of water or bowl of ice-cream, and after that, you can take that freshly laundered pile of your clothes to your room and put it away, and make sure you brush your teeth before you’re too wiped out to do it. Oh, and on the way to bed, just stop off in the family room, turn on the TV, and tell me how the Yanks and Mets are doing, would you?
This is great. I've got 'em well trained now.
I decided to let the rest of the week that followed last Wednesday’s "American Idol" results pass before uttering a word, as tempting as it was to join the fray. I preferred not to get tangled up with other bloggers and commentators who’ve been either lamenting Chrystal ‘Mama Sox’s loss, or celebrating Lee DeWyze’s victory. Because ultimately, the true victory that took place in this house did not emanate from the television.
I’d thought we were home free after the Yankees clinched the World Series last November. The house was back in working order: school projects and homework were getting done on time without the last-minute scramble, after-dinner clean-up happened - get this - right after dinner, and the evening came to a reasonable, satisfying end before the natives got too restless. We were off to a flying start towards the second half of the school year. Even the Scrabble board came out every once in a while.
But something happened. Somebody in this house, and I don’t know who, stumbled upon American Idol, and roped the rest of us into an ominous web of Prime Time television to the point that we were completely, hopelessly committed. It started with the auditions in various home towns across the land after the New Year, then on to the cut for the Top 24, down to the 12, through, among other things, the absurdity of Tim Urban’s repeatedly remarkable bullet-dodging, Siobhan’s shrieking, Big Mike’s ‘save’ and his eventual axing (I was out to dinner when it happened, and received a voice message from a pissed-off Julian with an update: “Mike lost! Stupid Casey!”) and finally, Casey’s departure. In brief, we here all agree that Chrystal’s career as a free agent will take off in a big way, and Lee’s six-year American Idol contract will either take him to new heights (we hope), or leave him writing jingles for Home Depot (we hope not).
So it’s officially summer now. Memorial Day weekend has just set the tone for a trim, healthful new beginning. Take a long, brisk walk after dinner, and don’t rush back. There’s nothing on - with the exception of the remaining “Glee” episode, the Prime-time line-up is on hiatus until the fall. Therefore, my sweet cherubs, I’d like all these things picked up and put back where they belong, K? Please. help yourself to that glass of water or bowl of ice-cream, and after that, you can take that freshly laundered pile of your clothes to your room and put it away, and make sure you brush your teeth before you’re too wiped out to do it. Oh, and on the way to bed, just stop off in the family room, turn on the TV, and tell me how the Yanks and Mets are doing, would you?
This is great. I've got 'em well trained now.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
AARP HARASSMENT IN THE HOME PLACE
I am 48 years old. I have less gray hair then most of my friends, my age and younger. I don't yet need glasses, and still look pretty damn good without Botox. My youngest son only just reached the double digits in December, and I still have a mean right-arm. In fact, on a glorious Sunday afternoon in the fall, while playing baseball with the kids, I took a heroic tumble in Riverside Park when I tripped over a protruding root from a nearby oak tree. Tossed and rolling across the bumpy ground like MacGyver narrowly escaping an explosion, I skinned my shin raw, prematurely hobbling home, stopping at Duane Reade for a new supply of peroxide, gauze and Bacitracin.
My cholesterol is under control (without medication), and I can still do round-offs on the beach. So what the hell, then, is AARP doing clogging my mailbox and jamming my paper shredder? What the hell?
In an age where 70 is the new 50, 50 the new 30, 40 the new 20 (OK, maybe that's pushing it), I find it outrageous - and a little presumptuous - that the work force has begun to consider me old hat, a used up, unproductive member of society. Why, I've only in the last few years begun a second career, in real estate, and I'm pretty darn busy. I don't play golf or lunch with the ladies, so there is no way for me to benefit from any benefits. Not yet, anyway.
There could not possibly be anything wrong with me, or anyone else my age, that should warrant any 'retired persons' organization bombarding my mailbox with weekly 'association' literature. Everyone forgets their keys, misplaces their Metrocard, loses their favorite lipstick, confuses words like 'breakfast' and 'dessert,' and so on. A neurologist I once spoke to about this said it's all stress-related, and that my brain is just fine.
So where am I going with this? I don't quite know. But what I do know is that today, when I finally decided to attack that colossal pile of bills, coupons, school papers, Holiday photo cards and other stuff that has been collecting since Thanksgiving, I came across another one of those fucking American Association of Retired Persons envelopes, unopened, with my name on it. I was horrified and infuriated that an entity completely unknown to me has invaded my home and the rest of my youth. How could they get it so wrong? So I picked up the envelope along with a pile of papers to discard, and after pulling a muscle in my back, limped defiantly over to the paper shredder and showed those friggin' whippersnappers at AARP a thing or two. Bastards.
My cholesterol is under control (without medication), and I can still do round-offs on the beach. So what the hell, then, is AARP doing clogging my mailbox and jamming my paper shredder? What the hell?
In an age where 70 is the new 50, 50 the new 30, 40 the new 20 (OK, maybe that's pushing it), I find it outrageous - and a little presumptuous - that the work force has begun to consider me old hat, a used up, unproductive member of society. Why, I've only in the last few years begun a second career, in real estate, and I'm pretty darn busy. I don't play golf or lunch with the ladies, so there is no way for me to benefit from any benefits. Not yet, anyway.
There could not possibly be anything wrong with me, or anyone else my age, that should warrant any 'retired persons' organization bombarding my mailbox with weekly 'association' literature. Everyone forgets their keys, misplaces their Metrocard, loses their favorite lipstick, confuses words like 'breakfast' and 'dessert,' and so on. A neurologist I once spoke to about this said it's all stress-related, and that my brain is just fine.
So where am I going with this? I don't quite know. But what I do know is that today, when I finally decided to attack that colossal pile of bills, coupons, school papers, Holiday photo cards and other stuff that has been collecting since Thanksgiving, I came across another one of those fucking American Association of Retired Persons envelopes, unopened, with my name on it. I was horrified and infuriated that an entity completely unknown to me has invaded my home and the rest of my youth. How could they get it so wrong? So I picked up the envelope along with a pile of papers to discard, and after pulling a muscle in my back, limped defiantly over to the paper shredder and showed those friggin' whippersnappers at AARP a thing or two. Bastards.
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