My Dad's Watch

I knew, of course, that this is possible. It happens unexpectedly. You're going about your normal life, thinking that everything's hunky-dory and suddenly, something reminds you of some ache of the soul.

The night before we left on our Thanksgiving adventure, I stopped at the little watch repair place near my subway stop. I'd been carrying my dad's watch in the pouch of my messenger bag for, like, two months, and since I'd been released early from The Velvet Prison™, I figured I could take a few mintues before going home to pack and finally get a new wrist band for the watch.

At first I'd been reluctant to get an altogether new band for the watch, since the metallic band was holding up well; it really only needed to have a couple of links removed. But I've always had a bit of a problem with those metallic bands — they tend to grab and yank on my forearm hair.

So I finally made the decision to go and have the band replaced. A bit of a big step, psychologically, since the watch was my father's retirement gift, and I was reluctant to change it.

Still, I wanted to be able to wear the watch, since my mom gave it to me as a keepsake.

Anway, long story short (too late!), I've been wearing the watch since right before Thanksgiving, and pretty much every time I look at it, I'm reminded of my dad.

They're happy memories, and mostly when I see it, I picture him, with his silly sorta old guy grin, and I think about what he did to earn that watch. It was his retirement gift from the Port Authority of Allegheny County. It's not great shakes, as watches go — it's a Wittnauer — but it's gold and understated and tasteful, sort of like my dad wasn't. Or, as my dad could be when he wanted, but generally chose not to be. He was a bit of a merry prankster, which precludes, much of the time, understatement.

Anyway, this morning I was walking to work along West 58th Street, and I happened to glance down at the time. For some reason, I was struck by the fact that now my dad's been gone over a year, and somehow I still expect him to answer the phone when I call home. Or I still expect him to be sitting down to family dinners with us when I'm visiting. Or I still expect to see hiim wearing his stupid santa hat when I'm home for Christmas. And, of course, he isn't doing any of those things anymore.

And I was okay with that, if a little melancholy... but then as I glanced back up to watch where I was walking, my eyes lit on the front license plate of a car that was parked along 58th Street, and I saw the same license plate my dad kept on his car.

And I just lost it.

No doubt, all the busy New Yorkers stomping to work along 58th Street that morning thought I was some sort of teary-eyed pansy, but I had a nice little cry. Not a huge gnashing of teeth, tearing-of-cloth sorta cry. Just a nice I-miss-you-you-old-fart weeper.

Nice, huh?

Bugs Rules

I forgot that this thing was so slow to get started, but once it does, it's pure genius. Screw political correctness, say I:

I don't know quite why Warner Bros. hasn't forced YouTube to remove that thing, but I'm glad they haven't. Then again, maybe that's what this is all about.

Thanksgiving

Well, I've just returned from bit of a whirlwind trip to Fozzie Bear's Spawning Ground, where I was introduced to his extended family. An overwhelming experience, but a delightful one, nonetheless.

We flew out of La Guardia Airport on Thursday morning, hoping to avoid the holiday travel madness, which we did, for the most part. Immediately upon arriving at the Spawning Ground, we made for his mother's house, and I got to meet both his mom (who, I'm happy to report, I j'adore and j'adores me in return) and his oldest brother, who is recently returned from Iraq.

After introductions, we made a beeline for our hotel to check in and get in a quick nap before the Thanksgiving Madness kicked in.

Good thing we did, too, 'cuz the rest of the weekend was a mad riot of family, friends, parents of friends, family friends and family. It was a wonderful study in how human beings will create families for themselves, whether they have families of their own or not.

I got to meet a slew of Fozzie's friends, including his best friend ever and her hubby and baby. Adorable folk, all.

Now I'm happy to be home and looking forward to hitting my bed.

I came to the realization about halfway through the weekend that, no matter how nice the people you're meeting, no matter how far out of their way they go to make you at ease, there's still enormous pressure to make a good impression.

Probably pointless pressure, mind you, but there nonetheless. I mean, after all, you want the people who love the person you love to like you, right?

All in all, I had a great time, and really enjoyed meeting such a bevy of nice folk.

This Makes Me Die a Little Inside

The Second Coming of Richard Dreyfuss

I am in awe. You must watch this:

Why are there not more people like this in public life?!?

At Last

I often despair over the direction of our world. This, at least, gives me some hope.

R.I.P.

"Because I could not stop for Death --
He kindly stopped for me --
The Carriage held but just Ourselves --
And Immortality."

— Emily Dickinson.

And He Sings, Too

From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette review of our favorite wandering actor's latest gig:

The best structured play in Program A is "The Kitchen," an early play by Rob Zellers, best known as co-author of "The Chief." Like "Summer's Tale," it has a frank focus on the gulf between white and black, but at 46 minutes it has the time to develop a fuller story and richer characters.

Primarily, those are white Joe (Ken Bolden) and black Fred (Jamal). In the middle of the night, Joe catches Fred's teenage son, Michael (Redwood), about to rob his house. He calls Fred rather than the cops, and the two spar, exchange views, lecture and fight, while Michael offers objections and Joe's wife (Nancy Mimless) gets her own smaller rant.

Mainly, the two men confront each other about myths and truths about black and white. In the process, they discuss language, clothing, pit bulls, kitchen equipment and especially music -- Stevie Wonder, Funkadelic, soul and the catastrophe called disco. What have we come to, they wonder, when the best golfer is black and the best rapper, white? Some dialogue sounds implausible, but director Jeannine Foster McKelvia nicely balances the many laughs with the serious message, and the ending is not simply feel-good and pasted on.

A Point Very Well Made

Those guys over at Entertainment Weekly's PopWatch Blog are so right on. I thought the same thing.

I those guys.

"Oh, Gays...

...is there anything hating you can't solve?"

Save the Internet

The Competition

One of the perks of my coming world domination is that I shall soon have my pick of celebrity love slaves.

Don't worry, I shall keep Fozzie around because I love him, and when you're in the business of world domination, it's best to keep those you love closer even than your enemies, as they are the ones who turn on you and plunge a knife into your head at the climax of the story.

Hello.

You think despots-to-be don't watch movies?

Anyway, Fozz will have some competition. We've already noted a few of these. This one, for instance. And this one. And this one. And, of course, the granddaddy of them all, crush-wise.

Now an inappropriate celebrity crush has come along to sweep them all away.

I was clued into this madly attractive and talented fellow by my friend ChickenKurry (who can, as a reward, expect a plum assignment in my coming world government, and no more ethnic slurs during my public harangues).

If I weren't too busy planning world domination, I would be sending him flowers.

After, of course, I send them to Fozzie. The last thing I need is a knife in my head because my boyfriend is jealous. Nothing derails your plans for world domination before they even get started like a knife in your head.

You Are So Fooled

My plan for world domination has many facets.

Part of that plan involves fooling people into thinking that I'm actually a caring, interested person, and I've developed the perfect method to convince them I'm a saint among men.

Herewith, I share this bauble of Power with you so that you, too, may rule the world. Or at least cultivate a much better reputation.

When I run into people and greet them, I try not to let the conversations fall into the typical pattern:

[Joe and Foolish Victim enter the pantry at The Velvet Prison™]
Foolish Victim: "Hello, Joe. How are you?"
Me: "Hello, Foolish Victim, I'm fine. You?"
Foolish Victim: "I'm great, thanks."

That exchange, shared among countless plebes in countless offices in countless cities across the soon-to-be-mine globe just reeks of indifference for one's fellow man.

So to give everyone around me the illusion that I am not just another thoughtless, rote-greeting boob, I like to mess with the pattern a little. It gives the illusion that I actually care enough about you to inquire, and gives me the aura of a person who doesn't ask rote questions to which he expects a rote answer:

[Joe and Foolish Victim enter the pantry at The Velvet Prison™]
Joe: "Good morning, Foolish Victim!"
Foolish Victim [thrown when expected "How are you?" Doesn't follow greeting]: "Hi, Joe.... how are you?"
Joe: "I'm very well thanks. [pause for eye contact] How are things with you?"
Foolish Victim: "I'm pretty well... it's a good day so far."
Joe: "Excellent. You be well."

See? Just a couple of extra words — no extra concentration, mind you, just a slight re-arrangement of the usual, stale patterns of disengagement — and you're instantly thought of as a genuine, caring person!

People are such sheep. It won't be long 'til I'm the King of the Shears.

Sometimes the Clothes...

This has been floating around the net. Fozzie pointed out a friend's blog, in which it appeared, and I noticed it the other day in my brother Ron's blog.

I think it bears repeated viewing, so here's hoping they'll forgive my blatant theivery. My favorite part is when Mr. Michael sings "Sometimes the clothes do not make the man":

Happy Birthday

Oh, That I Could...

...embody this:

Do thou restrain the haughty spirit in thy breast, for better far is gentle courtesy.

Homer
Greek epic poet (800 BC - 700 BC)

Welcome Home

"Human beings are the only creatures that allow their children to come back home."

- Bill Cosby

I know, it's been a while since I've posted. Mea culpa.

I left last Wednesday for a quick trip back to Pittsburgh. Thursday was the one-year anniversary of my dad's passing, and it was also All Soul's Day, that day when Catholics remember everyone who's passed in the previous year. Most of my siblings gathered for the mass, and I got elected to be the one to tote the candle to the little alter when my dad's name was called.

They kinda caught me off guard, 'cuz they called the names in chronological order. Since my dad died on All Souls Day last, he was first.

Anyway, it was delightful to see my mom.

She's looking incredibly well, I have to say, for a little old lady whose extremities are in full revolt. She hobbles around on her cane, or on a walker, but I have to say her spirits are remarkably better than I would have expected, given that she was approaching the first anniversary of the death of her husband, and they'd been married for 55 years.

So, we went to the mass on Thursday night, and on Friday, I toted my sister Lois off to pick up her prescription (she had a knee replaced), and then took my mom to lunch at Smokey Bones, a new (to me) BBQ joint in the mall at Robinson Town Center.

It was a lovely afternoon. I don't remember the last time I got to spend one-on-one time with my mom. And I think she probably appreciated the chance to get out of the house.

I'll say this for my family: They're suvivors.

I already mentioned Lois, who's recovering from having a knee replaced. Apparently her heart stopped on the operating table, and she spent five days in intensive care after the surgery.

WTF?

The kicker there is that no one bothered to call me when all this was going on. I guess it's a lesson in being proactive about keeping in touch.

Then there's Sue, the angel who let's me stay with her when I'm in town. She just had her foot operated on, and she's hobbling around with a huge splint/cast/boot on her foot. She spends most nights after work going to my mom's to take care of my mom and Lois.

And there's my brother Patrick. He's got more going on in his life than I could ever possibly deal with. I don't know how he does it.

I don't know how any of them do.

I'm a very lucky person to have the life I do, the friends I do, the job I do.

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

On Friday evening, I had hoped to have drinks with a bunch of old friends. Hoping that it would be more convenient for everyone involved in a show or with some life otherwise, I'd sent an evite to nearly thirty people, hoping to catch as many in one place as I could.

Alas, three showed up.

One of those who did was the beloved Kenjiman. I hadn't seen him since his move back to Pittsburgh in August.

[I must have been truly traumatized by his departure... I just looked back and found that I didn't even blog about it! There's no way to be Cool Blog Guy™ when you have to admit to sobbing on the walk to the train after putting your friend on his moving truck and sending him off.]

I well and truly miss me some Kenjiman. I don't think I understood while he was around just how big a part of my life he was. I was heartbroken when The Lagemæ left New York. They were the dearest of friends, but because they were a couple and had rather busy lives of their own, I probably only saw them a couple times a month.

But Kenjiman was my Social Director, without whom I would have sat in front of the TV most nights, and I often saw him two or three times a week, and most every weekend.

I've learned to fare for myself since his departure — I'm at least getting out and exploring on my own, and trying to meet new and interesting people — but the loss is still keenly felt.

Friday evening, before the aborted gathering to which only a few came, Kenjiman and I had dinner together and did some serious catching up. Saturday evening, we had dinner and saw a late movie. It felt great, I have to tell you.

He's got an amazing apartment in the Bloomfield neighborhood that would cost over $3000 a month here in NYC, which is great, but he's also having a terrible time finding steady, well-paying work. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for him.

I do surely miss my friend.

But all things change, and though he's not physically around so much anymore, I at least get my share of him in e-mails. So there's that, at least.