My Eyeball Story

This week I had cataract surgery on my left eye.  It’s my second round; the right eye got done three years ago, and the original plan was that I would get the left one done a few weeks later.  What took three years?  I hate change.  It’s the same reason I still drive a beat-up SAAB that sometimes gets standing water in the footwells and smells like it needs to get dunked in a vat of fluconazole, and why I truly believe that there has been no new music created since “Love Shack” in 1989.  Plus I was consistently amused by the fact that I saw two different color spectra between both eyes, such that sometimes I would sit in the supermarket parking lot looking out from the car, winking one eye and then another like a railroad crossing just for the effect, until the puzzled stares of the Cart Cowboys interrupted my reverie.  But when the cataract gets so bad that you miss the end of the suture, you can only blame it on the patient moving so many times.

I should mention at this juncture that I’m gun shy about doctors, and ophthalmologists are no exception.  It’s because I know at least one person of any given specialty found on the floor after a medical school party.  So when I think of ophthalmologists, I think of them not as a fine clinicians, but as guys hoisting themselves up on the rim of the toilet, a scalpel in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.  I was also afraid that this particular ophthalmologist, who by all indications is an excellent citizen, holds grudges.  Apparently last time I was sedated, I got kind of mouthy and suggested he had an unnatural relationship with his mother.  That’s probably not a good look.

(My reactions under sedation also bode poorly for me if I ever get any frontal lobe dysfunction.  I’ve always been of the opinion that when you lose frontal lobe regulation of your behaviors…be it from acute encephalopathy, stroke, or dementia…you become more of the person you really are.  So those people we think of as “pleasantly demented” are truly nice people at heart.  For me, well, it looks like I may as well be a Haldol drip on the GeriPsych Unit.  But on a positive note, the ophthalmologist did note that at age 58, I was considered part of his “pediatric population.”  So there’s that.)

I spent the few days before surgery reminding myself, and especially the Beloved Dental Empress, that whatever I saw or did, it might be the last time before I died. 

“Look at me, I’m holding the puppy. This might be the last time I do this before I die.”

“You’ll be fine.” 

 “Look, I’m doing the dishes totally unpromoted.  I want you to have a final memory of me doing my share of the housework before I die.”

“You’ll be fine.”  She’s having none of this.  Her gaze is fixed on the Facebook page for Mommy Dentists in Business.

Maybe something romantic would do the trick.   “Okay, maybe I won’t die, but this might be the last time I gaze upon your beauty with both eyes before they rip one out.”

“You’ll be fine.”  And then she said I was being dramatic.  Imagine that.

(Did I mention that I saw one of our closest friends, who happens to be in the same ophthalmology practice, the day before?  Told him his partner was going to rip out my eyeball the following day.  “Well, good luck with that,” he said cheerily.  “You know once we take it out we don’t put it back.”)

The last thing I saw the night before surgery was half an episode of the Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, so I really hoped I wouldn’t die, because a forest of duck lips would be an awful thing to have burned into your retina for all eternity.

At 9:15 the next morning, I marched into the Surgery Center.  I was wearing scrub pants and a sweatshirt that said “I Dream Of A Society Where Chickens Can Cross the Road Without Having It’s Motives Questioned.”  I figured if I died, the guys who transport the body may as well get a laugh out of it.  That’s me, always thinking of others.

********** 

The Surgery Center itself was pretty slick. It was almost like Disney, where if the Carousel of Progress stops, it starts up again at the very word they left off no matter how long the outage.  The nurses have their routines memorized to the point where if you interrupt their patter, they simply push their internal play button and resume talking.  They put a “safety dot” over the eye that’s going to be worked on, then get you to lay down the cot, start an IV, have three rounds of eye drops, and cover you with a blanket up to the neck like every sci-fi movie you’ve ever seen.

After a few moments of either quiet mediation or abject terror…you make the call…another nurse comes by and takes you to the Laser Room, and now you’re thinking the Laser Room in Goldfinger, which is why this is when they give you the first zap of Versed.  Then the ophthalmogist comes by and draws something with a pen on your eyeball (probably some version of an arrow that says “cut here”), and now the Versed kicks in, and you seem to recall a discussion about someone confessing to a murder under sedation.  Then I’m looking at a ring of six lights, and the Star Trek nerd in me wants to shout “THERE ARE FOUR LIGHTS!” I recall seeing some pink stuff being moved around my eye against a yellow background, and then I’m being helped off the stretcher and into a chair behind a small wall to hide the post-op people from the pre-op crowd so the latter don’t run off scared.  Then I’m drinking a mini can of Coke from a paper straw (Save the Planet!) and then I’m in my bed with no idea how I got there.

***********

We know that work tends to be a family, mostly because nobody else knows what you do and you’ve got to talk to someone.  So when I got home, as a courtesy to my friends and colleagues I texted:

“nor dead cant spell love Versed lors”

(The one word I got right was Versed.  That suggests some kind of pathology, right?)

**********

The rest of the day was admittedly a blur.  What I do know is that I tried to be a good patient.  I was docile and well-behaved.  I took my eye drops at the right times, took my Advil and Tylenol, and stayed in bed.  For her part, I recall the Empress as a benevolent presence.   This must have been difficult for her.  Did I mention that she’s a dentist?  And she and I have discussed the need for her to attend Consolation 101.  Until recently her best gesture of sympathy was a gentle whack on the scalp and an inquiry as the soothing nature of the blow.  It’s a work in progress.

Which led to this morning, post-op day #1.  I was feeling well enough to get up and fix the morning brews.

“No, I’ll do it,” she offered.

“It’s really no problem.”  I’m perpetually helpful that way.

“I WANT TO BE CARING.”

Part of me wanted to ask what kind of Shih Tzu of Altruism had seized her brain and shook until the compassion came loose.  But then I realized that my query would probably get me punched in the eyeball or, as Ron Burgundy says, in the ovary, even though I haven’t got an ovary, because dentists really don’t know who’s got what anywhere below the mandible.

So our lesson today is that when someone wants to be caring, it’s probably best not to question why.  Especially when there’s firearms in the house, and only she knows where they are.  At least she thinks the new reading glasses from the Dollar Store are cute.  Small victories when you can find them.

Brief Thoughts

In my middle age I find myself paying an undue amount of attention to my groin. It's not that it didn't command my admiration and respect in my younger days.  Back then, it was more of a use or lose it kind of thing, the nether id screaming out for activity, to burst free from the suppressive superego that‘s my Hebraic legacy.  (This is a polite way of saying I wanted to be a man whore, as all honest men will confess to be their dream job, at least until they discover the joy of a committed relationship, the wasteland of divorce, or the burning sensation of...well, you get the picture.)  But now it's a more subtle, varied relationship, made full by the maturity of years and the fact that you buy “Dad Pants” on purpose because you treasure the space. 

The latest groin-centered experience (outside of a committed relationship, of course) occurred when I heard a radio commercial for Tommy John underwear.  If that name seems familiar, it’s probably because you’ve seen it in the sports pages. Tommy John was a pitcher for the Dodgers who suffered an elbow injury and was treated with a new kind of surgery that now bears his name.  Alas, the Tommy John of baseball is not the same Tommy John of underwear, which deprives the brand of a useful symmetry of things you can do with your hand and arm:  Pitch and…well…pitch.

Underwear had never really been much of a force in my life.  As a kid, you wore underwear with fun designs until you switched to boxers as things expanded and (hopefully) needed more room.   And that’s pretty much where it stays.  It’s not like women’s lingerie, where the moderately attractive can become alluringly hot through the art of selective concealment.  With guys, there’s no way to conceal anything (and no, a Speedo is nothing more than an abomination of nature), which is if a guy wants to look hot he has to dress up so that everything, even the back hair, becomes nothing but a dream.

Anyway, according to the ad, Tommy John underwear has a variety of notable features.  The one that piqued my attention was the quick-draw horizontal fly.  Personally, I’m not quite sure how horizontal equals quick draw.  The...ummm...generative organs are aligned on the vertical (the midline sagittal plane, if you must know), so it would make sense to align your access on the same plane. You need access, it’s right there waiting for you.  The few times I've worn things with a horizontal fly, access usually becomes something of a fishing expedition because the point of grasp is usually beneath the opening slit.  If this occurs in a public place, it undoubtedly looks to others as if you’re simply having way too much fun in the excretory endeavor.

But I'm also confused by the necessity of the quick-draw fly.  It would seem to me if you need it that quick, the moment has already passed.   To me, the concept of quick draw implies whipping it out for a quick shot, like your own personal Wild West single-barrel rifle (or pistol, or derringer, or cap gun, as the case may be).  But if you need to get it out that quickly before the mood goes away, that doesn't say a lot for the mood to start with; and if you need to get it out that quickly after hearing the word "draw" before the shots are fired,  that’s a Little Blue Pill issue that no underwear can solve.

Now back to your regularly scheduled blog.

Rooms for Rest

The Teen's now the High School Graduate, and in a college preparatory effort to elevate our conversations from how My Little Pony is Communist Plot to more lofty topics of intellectual heft, I've found that he is steadfastly non-committal in many of the great issues of the day.  Which is fine, I suppose, and probably keeps his mind at ease.  Unfortunately, I haven't learned that trick of respite, and I'm well aware that sometimes one thought will generate a virtual cacophony of mental activity.  And my need to share my opinions...repeatedly and in excruciating detail, especially during long drives with a captive teenage audience...often results in The Graduate burying his head deeper into his Nintendo DS.

So by now you're intrigued, right?  You're sitting there, asking yourself, "How does Howard Rodenberg, MD MPH, a fine upstanding member of the Northeast Kansas Medical Community and The Only Guy Who Verified his Age as 53 on a Children's Storybook App, stand on the critical issues of that day?"  Or at least, "Which bathroom should I use in the Charlotte Airport?"

I'm delighted that you asked.

I happen to be of the belief that anyone can use whatever bathroom they want.  I do not say that because of any inherent beliefs, one way or the other, about the rights and privileges of the transgendered.  My thoughts on transgendered rights mostly concern just which pronoun one uses when gender identification doesn't match the anatomy.  I don't want to say "it," or use a made up word like "shim," but I truly have no clue.  Given what I do for a living, where physiology beats identity every time, that's all I really want to know.

I believe that everyone should use the bathroom of choice because that's what's been happening for thousands of years, perhaps even millions, since the first band of Homo Erectus (and isn't that a great name for a species given the current discussion) decided to use a communal waste site and some were more dainty in their use of leaves than others.  It’s never bothered anyone before.  It’s not led to a rampant plague of bathroom oglers nor predators.  It’s not eroded the fundamental values of our nation (that would be urban music and cable television).  It's a non-issue, made into one by a  conservative, rural-dominated state legislature duking it out with hand-wringing urban activists in a large liberal city, magnified by a knee-jerk overreach by the federal government when it should have been left alone, to weasel it's way through the court system for a dozen years or so before the issue goes away by itself...meaning that everyone will continue going to the bathroom as they’ve been doing since the prehistoric scat pile. The whole thing is a chest-beating, cheek-puffing fight for dominance between two bands of howler monkeys hoping someone will pay attention while the rest of the zoo patrons are focused on those oh-so-cute river otters and ring-tailed lemurs.  It's the Transportation Security Administration of Excretory Politics. 

(As an aside, I've always found it interesting how many conservative legislatures, while promoting the autonomy of states to defy the federal government, are perfectly willing to limit home rule if smaller units of government, such as cities or counties, want to do the same. Government should be putting down floors to establish a minimal level of service, not limiting local initiatives by putting up ceilings.  I can live quite happily with conservatism as long as it's based on consistency and common sense.  I'm still waiting.)

If, as mentioned above, physiology beats identify, function beats form as well.  So here is a functional approach to what I think should happen with bathrooms.  Coincidentally, I suspect, it's what's been happening for the last several thousand years, with no discernible effect on public morals. 

If you are a guy, and you think you’re a guy, you go to the men's bathroom.  You may opt to stand near a urinal or enter a stall and sit.  In either case you excrete and leave.  This is not a place for lasting friendships to be made.  Socialization in is not permitted other than to say, "Hey, about those (insert team name here) and grunt in response.  

(I say stand near the urinal because there are people who grasp the urinal during use, which is sad and suggests a real need for human contact.  We do not encourage this behavior, and suggest those individuals subscribe to match.com immediately.)

If you are a girl, and you think you’re a girl, you go to the women's restroom. You enter a stall, sit, and excrete.  It's my understanding that they must do something else in there, because they go in groups and it takes them forever.  But as I quite comfortably fit in the previous category, I'll never know.  Nor do I want anyone to tell me.

If you are a guy who think he's a girl or a girl who thinks she's a guy, it is true that you generally have to look the part.  But given that constraint, if you're a guy who thinks he's a girl and you look like a girl, you go to the women's room, enter a stall, sit, and excrete. You may socialize if you choose.  If you're a girl who thinks she's a guy and you look like a guy, you go into the men's room, enter a stall, sit, excrete, and hope Senator Larry Craig isn't in the booth next door because you're not that kind of girl.  Or guy.  It’s confusing.

If you've had gender reassignment surgery, you can absolutely use the restroom of your choice.  Anyone who has the intestinal fortitude to get things taken off or added on using scissors and knives deserves at least that measure of respect.  I will use the pronoun of your choice without hesitation.  However, if you were a guy who is now a girl and has subsequently developed fibromyalgia, I will address you as a female but will also take that post-operative diagnosis as prima facia evidence that you're most likely crazy as well.  

If you're a cross dresser, who just likes to wear clothing of the opposite gender but are also quite comfortable with your own gender, use the bathroom at home. Linebackers in heels won't fit in either gender-based rest areas.

Of course, if at all possible, individuals of any gender or gender identity should have access to a single-occupancy restroom. This not only obviates the issues of who else is nearby and their level of comfort, but makes it a lot easier to read, make cellphone calls or play Avengers Academy on the iPad at the same time.  Except in the Charlotte Airport, where the restroom attendants will knock on the door of the stall if you take too long and they hear Black Widow talking to Tony Stark from behind the swinging metal door.   Or so I've heard.

IKEA This!

The Dental Empress and I recently made our second trip to an IKEA store. For those of you who are not familiar with IKEA, it's a Swedish company that...well, I'll let them tell you from their website.

"The IKEA Concept starts with the idea of providing a range of home furnishing products that are affordable to the many people, not just the few. It is achieved by combining function, quality, design and value - always with sustainability in mind. The IKEA Concept exists in every part of our company, from design, sourcing, packing and distributing through to our business model. Our aim is to help more people live a better life at home."

Kitty litter also accomplishes the same goals, but that's not what IKEA does.  What they really do is design and sell ingenious thematic, space-saving, low cost, build it yourself furniture and related home accessories for urban living. My understanding of urban living might be tempered somewhat by the fact that I've never been a resident of a core urban area, but I think it means residing in extremely tiny and outrageously expensive cubicles in neighborhoods alive at night with the noise of millennial lamenting the capitalism of their parents that got them their college degrees and the lack of safe spaces to whine about it, or in places you probably shouldn't hang out after dark.


IKEA is very a cool place. The showroom...and it's huge, not just like a really big Wal-Mart Superstore but Donald Trump HUGE..is laid out in a way that you have to see everything is order to get anything. (This promotes impulse buying of things you never knew you needed, which is why I now have an eight-pack of wooden hangers new kitchen tongs, a battery-powered alarm clock, and two stuffed animals. A fluffy puppy and a Daddy fox with a kit, if you must know.) The products themselves are often quite clever. Designed to maximize function in minimal space, they open, close, expand, contract, twist, and turn, and are able to be mounted on walls, floors, and ceilings in ways you'll never expect short of a zero-G space station. My favorite part of the store is where they've constructed a model apartment with a full kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living/dining room, and a spare alcove bedroom in less than 600 square feet. It's brilliant stuff.



(Just so you know, I didn't buy everything. For example, I put down the fire-engine red heart-shaped pillow with arms that I think are supposed to enfold your child to give them a big hug. Instead, I picked up the pillow and made the arms flail me about the head and face, telling the Empress it was a heart attack. That didn't go over well.) 


It's also important to note that everything belongs to some sort of complimentary set, and that each set has a Swedish name. None of these are Swedish words you may have heard of. There is no ABBA four-piece place setting, no Garbo entertainment center, no Vasa sink, no Stockholm Syndrome. Instead, the collections have names like. Oppland, Liatorp, and Stocksund, which according to the Google Translator seem to be made-up words to describe the style, kind of like I'm pretty sure the made-up word "Frito" is a descriptor for the real-life noun "Bandito."


So as I was idly looking about while the Dental Empress was taking careful notes to make sure we got the Malm dresser rather than the Hemnes one, I noticed that all the books on the shelves used to fill out the displays are the same. It seems there are about ten individual titles in the entire store, but each one has been used hundreds of times on the shelves. And these are not hollow plastic imitations of scholarship; they complete hardcover books fully printed on each page, umlauts and all. You almost get the sense that IKEA is single-handedly supporting the entire Swedish publishing industry, making works such as "Smultron och Svek" a perennial best-seller. It reminds you of one of those late-night 1980's commercials for Slim Whitman, who reportedly outsold the Beatles in Bulgaria. In a similar vein, you could also say that Annica Wennstrom has sold more than one million books worldwide, without mentioning that 987,000 of them serve as unread fodder in IKEA stores.


(Interestingly, where CD's are supposed to be represented, there are only empty jewel boxes. Which means that I have more Swedish music in my home than does IKEA, because I not only have ABBA Gold but also a 1990's CD by Tomas Ledin featuring the song "Du Kan Lita Pa Mej," which I think means "You Can Lita on My Mej."  I know this because I also used to watch late-night 1980's commercials for the children's game Husker Du.)


The way IKEA works is that as you work your way through the store you pick out what you like, and if there are things that don't fit into your basket you go to the attached warehouse to load up the big items so you can build them yourself at home.  And so few hours later, a bit of Sweden has been dragged into the house.  ("Look!  It's like they're pooping!" exclaimed The Empress as we opened just the end of an eight-foot box, tipped the unopened side skyward, and watched the pieces cascade, one by one, out onto the floor.)  Buried within each carton was a set on instructions.  The thing the remember is that as an international brand, IKEA has to be able to communicate with anyone regardless of language.  So the instructions use pictures only, and the first page begins with a few introductory cartoons. The cartoons show the wrong way to do things on the left, and the correct way to do them on the right.  It's kind of like Goofus and Gallant in the old Highlights for Children.  ("Goofus leaves as quickly as he can while you're asleep and doesn't leave a phone number.  Gallant makes coffee in the morning and says he had a wonderful time.")  So one of the cartoons shows a person sobbing because there's a crack in his project from building it on the hard floor; the corresponding picture shows him smiling with the project safely cushioned by a carpet.  Another one shows a puzzled man looking at the instruction book; the adjacent drawing shows him calling IKEA for advice.  And them there's the picture of one unhappy person looking at a stack of prefab pieces and parts next to two happy ones gazing at the same pile. The message is clear.  It takes two.

First project is the dresser. The Empress has a tool kit in her house. It contains one ladylike lavender hammer, eight flat head screwdrivers (all the same size) and one narrow Phillips head item, a pair of pliers, a packet of Allen wrenches, and forty plastic cable ties in a rainbow of colors and hues. She also has one cordless drill for which there are no drill bits, but she uses as a power screwdriver. Because I try to obey the admonitions on the right side of the Highlights page (Gallant says "Please use the cordless drill and save your delicate hands;" Goofus says "Go screw yourself"), every minute or so I hear a chirpy, "I'm done! It's because I have a power tool!" Meanwhile, I'm still working on upgrading from moderate to severe carpal tunnel syndrome ratcheting in the second of eight screws, Part #10863. Because I am a supportive boyfriend, I look up and smile at her every time she does this, fighting every urge I have to make some sort of remark about her and power tool (and you can guess where this might have gone, especially in a commuter relationship). 


We made it past the drawers in good order, carried the dresser into the closet where it will reside, and put together the storage unit with a minimum of fanfare. The entertainment center, however, was another matter entirely. Multiple boxes, misplaced rods and ratchets, and difficulties fitting pieces together made it a less than joyous coulee experience. The pot came to a boil after I asked her to tip the piece as a whole up so I could attach the top, and as it did I heard the sickening crack of particle board, splitting the wood over both of the bolts that would secure the bottom of a piece backing up the TV to the rest of the structure.


"F--k a duck with a f-----g duck f---k.!" I exclaimed. (Even when I curse, I like alliteration)



She peered at my with Marlin Perkins interest. "You're mad."



"No, I'm not. I'm frustrated. That's different," I lied.


"Well, it's not my fault. I helped just like you told me to."


I can see where this is going. I'm going to try to bail out the sinking ship, but still make my point. Bad move.

"You're right. I should have told you to keep a hand on that piece while it was moving so it wouldn't fall backwards. I thought you would do that and I didn't specifically tell you to. It's my fault."


"Yes. Well, it's fine." (Fine is never a good word in a relationship.) "It's on the back and nobody will see it."



"No, it's not okay. It's not fully structurally intact. I don't think it's a major problem but it's not okay."



I'm not the most self-aware person, but one thing I do know is that after the initial explosion, my voice drops a few scales and I start talking in a slow, measured fashion. I'm now in full James Earl Jones, deep Mississippi mode. She knows this. She thinks it's hysterical that this is the only thing that can shut up my otherwise constant chatter. 



"You're seething." There was that a note of glee in her voice.


Still looking straight ahead. My teeth are set, my mouth doesn't move. I'm like a bad ventriloquist looking to project my voice somewhere, anywhere at all. 



"No, I'm not. I'm frustrated. That's different." 


(I've also officially run out of new things to say.)


It's now the sound of triumph tinged with just enough righteousness. "No, it's not."


It's at this point that I'm looking around the room for some kind of distraction, and my eye falls upon the last page of the instruction book. And it's at that moment that I realized why there was no cartoon of happy people rejoicing over the finished product after the final step. The Swedes may be many things, but they are not liars. For not only have they lured you into buying their products, they are now going to play the ultimate Nordic prank on you, the one that makes up for them all having Seasonal Affective Disorder and being unable to uproot Julian Assange from the Bolivian Embassy. They knew that the after picture should show only the finished project, and not the carnage in blood and relationships that follow.


Despite the temporary setback, the Empress and I set things right. We managed to back the entertainment center into a corner so the broken piece is leaning against a wall. And then we went to a local bistro and had two bottles of wine and smoked a hookah flavor called 50 Shades. Afterwards it was 1 AM Steak N Shake for Takhomsak Chili Mac with extra cheese. Gallant says, "May I pour you a nightcap?"  And The Empress says, in her best Eva Gabor voice, "Of course, dahling."  It's all good.



(PS: For more information about Sweden, I would refer you to The Suite Life on Deck, "The Swede Life."  In a related note, The Teen tells me that the question of London or Bailey is this generation's version of the "who do you choose" quandry. And just so you know, the correct answers to the classic questions are Mary Anne, Julie Newmar, Veronica Lodge, Jennifer Marlowe, and the Green Orion Slave Girl.)

EterniCat

I inherited a cat three years ago.  Baby was a divorce cat…when we split, the ex said she couldn’t take care of both the cat and the dogs, and was going to take Baby to the shelter…so how could I refuse to take him in?  He was a pretty good cat for a guy living by himself…he’d sit on top of the sofa, go out, come in, eat food, steal my food, and occasionally we would play a game called “Cat Airlines” when I would launch Cat Flight 328 from the Dining Room table to the Couch, ETA 2.1 seconds from takeoff.  He was also a fine muse, being responsible for my own personal modifications of Player's "Baby Come Back" ("Baby the Cat!  Any kind of fool could see...there was something, in your really stinky cat breath") and the King of Pop's "PYT" ("I want to pet you! BTC!  Baby the Cat!").  Baby was also the source material for a song co-written with my son called "Baby the Cat Pooped on the Rug in There," which could be adapted to many different musical styles, but usually with the same crappy outcome.  Or output, in this case.

Anyway, poor Baby went to the Great Litter Box in the Sky a couple of months ago.  I had boarded him at the vet’s office while I was out of town, so it was decided that Baby would be cremated and then I could put his ashes in the backyard.  What I didn’t realize was that his ashes would come back to me in a small white box with the name “Baby Rodenberg” printed on the front.

I forgot to take the box out of the car, and it sat in the front passenger seat for a few more days until the next time I was traveling.  I pulled up to the Park-N-Ride near the airport and turned over my keys to the attendant.  As I did, I saw him stiffen up when he saw the box containing the ashes of Baby Rodenberg waiting to be chauffered to the lot.

I still keep Baby with me in the car.  The love of a cat…or at least it’s ashes…is a gift that keeps on giving.

Bar Mitzvahs and Bomb Shelters

Being a parent is truly the greatest thing ever. I love my kid like nobody’s business, and I suspect most parents feel the same way. It’s true that The Teen drives me nuts in more ways than I can count (and I’m certain he would say the same about his father), but the real frustration is in seeing your faults repeating themselves in your child. He and I were talking about that the other day, one of those pre-dawn chats you have when you come home early on a night shift and inadvertently wake up the kid, when he’s not sleepy enough to tune you out but no so awake that he heads straight for his computer. We talked about the things he does to get in his own way, and I talked about mine. It seems like laziness…or at least the ability to be easily distracted into things that are not productive…is one of my unfortunate legacies.

As I get older, I find I’m much more comfortable with confession and admitting my faults. Maybe this is the insight and wisdom that comes with age; more likely, it’s finding excuses for not being all I could have been, shrugging off lost opportunities based on based on bad habits I can’t break the same way the patient with end-stage lung disease says they can’t give up smoking…and since they’re at the end, why bother now? But I think it’s true that I could have done a lot more in life if I didn’t get lazy.

Here’s an actual example of what I mean, ripped from the pages of my life just this past week. When I get home after work, I should be working out so I don’t wheeze after going up two flights of steps, or so dedicated to the frustrated writer inside of me that I would be willing to scribe on a TV tray like Stephen King used to do before Carrie. What I actually do is eat either two bowls of Apple Jacks or, if I’m feeling adventurous, make French toast. Then I watch an “on-demand” episode of The First 48, yelling at the screen the whole time (“Nail that perp! Nail his a__ to the ____ing wall!), then hit the channel guide and realize that I can’t stay awake long enough to watch “The Big Valley” on MyTV. I then retire to bed with my iPad in hand and find that I’m looking up The Big Valley, then Miss Barabra Stanwyck, then Richard Long, then Nanny and the Professor, then back to Barbara Stanwyck again, then off to Double Indemnity, then Fred MacMurray, then My Three Sons, off to Tina Cole, to the Four King Cousins (four You Tube videos as well, loads of hairspray everywhere), then the King Family, next the King Family Specials on PBS, then Mr. Rogers, and finishing up with searches for Joe Negri. Robert Trow, Francois Clemons, and Betty Aberlin. Then I’m not tired anymore so I play an hour of Fishdom. And by now it’s too late to take a melatonin to get to sleep, because I’ll wake up with a hangover, and I’ve totally missed the episode of The Big Valley that I couldn’t stay awake for three hours before.

(Incidentally, if you’ve not seen “The Bitter Tea of General Yen,” a 1933 film with Barbara Stanwyck and Nils Asther, it’s well worth a look. Obscure now, but daring themes for the time. And don’t get the new Fishdom game, “Dive Deep.” I hate in-app purchases to get to the next level. Just tell me how much to pay for the game and let me play.)

So as I’m talking to The Teen about those things in life that get in our way, I mention to him that while he has unquestionably inherited my wit, charm, good looks, and above all modesty, he’s also got my tendency to be distracted and lazy. As I’ve noted before in these pages, he wants to be the next Roger Ebert, and he unquestionably has the talent to do so. But I’m trying to explain to him that this means you learn to work on a deadline, not just when the flash of literary inspiration hits you. He, of course, rightly points out that I’m just as bad. So he and I have worked out a deal. We will require each other to blog at least once a week. If he doesn’t come through, I get to choose a costume that he must wear throughout the four days of GenCon, the largest gaming convention in the world. (I’m thinking Fluttershy of My Little Pony). If I don’t…well, he’s trying to think up an appropriate penalty because, as he says, “You have no shame.” No, I don’t, not where embarrassing my kid’s concerned. It’s a Dad thing.

Brendan’s entry this week is a review of 10 Cloverfield Lane. (It’s brilliant. Please take a look at The CriticalFrog.blogspot.com.) But as Brendan is a true movie buff, able to place films in context with genres and styles, when I see a movie my mind usually does what it does with my iPad before I go to sleep, wandering from topic to topic with no particular focus in mind. So my thoughts on the movie generally center around the fact that the lead character (played marvelously by John Goodman) is named Howard, which is my name as well, a point The Teen continually reinforces with veiled suggestions that perhaps I should build a bomb shelter in the backyard.

(For the record, I have no intention of building a bomb shelter in the backyard. This is not because I have great faith, as does every pageant contestant since Eve duked it out with Lilith, in world peace. It is because I’m certain that one of my fellow doctor friends whom I know has a guest room in his house will take my in, and that his home has enough tinfoil lining the walls to stop them from reading our thoughts and enough weaponry to keep us all alive throughout the Zombie apocalypse and then some.)

Howard’s not a great name. Never has been, but at least I know how I wound up with it. It wasn’t a deliberate act on my parent’s part to keep me in comic books and dateless until my early 20’s (I did that to myself.) It’s a Fiddler on the Roof kind of thing. In Jewish tradition, you usually try to hand down part of a name of the most recently deceased relative, which in English usually translates to using the first letter of the first name. So when my great-grandfather Harry Burgheim married a woman named Hennie, and they had a son named Harold, the die was cast. My Mom was a Harriet, I wound up a Howard, and my brother is another Harold. And two generations hence, when we’re gone, another crowd will wind up with “H” names and wonder why their parents hate them, too.

Just as Christians often get confirmation names, we also have Jewish names. You usually get this at a bris or a naming ceremony as an infant, which is why no liberal Jew has any idea what their Hebrew name really is. These are also usually passed down from deceased relatives, but not quite as literally. For example, your name could be Bob (and mine is Bob every time I got to someplace that asks for my name on an order, because I’m tired of telling people how to spell “Howard”), and your late great-grandfather’s name could be Fred, but if his Hebrew name was Yitzchak yours likely will be too.

As I’ve mentioned, nobody really knows their Hebrew name unless it’s the same as their actual name (think the ultra-orthodox in New York, where I understand the name Pinchas, with a guttural “ch”, really get the ladies going). This came to be a problem several weeks ago at my nephew Thomas’ bar mitzvah. Before I go any further, I need to say that Thomas did a magnificent job, even though somehow in his speech he forgot to thank his best uncle on the planet for his support from afar, which may or may not manifest itself in an acute deficit of Channukah presents this year. But I digress.

During the ceremony, different members of the family are called to the bimah (the stage in front of the sanctuary) to recite blessings over the Torah before it is read. You get called up to do the blessings by your Hebrew name, which was a problem because neither Brendan nor I knew our Hebrew names. Fortunately, Judiasm is nothing if not a creative religion (we came up with that whole monotheism thing), so we were assigned Hebrew names by the enterprising rabbi of the Joliet Jewish Congregation. I became Avigdor ben Yussel (“ben” means “son of,” and my Dad’s name, Joseph, does translate into Yussel), and Brendan morphed into Efron ben Avigdor. It could have been worse. My Uncle Steve got the alliterative Schmuel Yuel ben Matisyahu, and my nephew Thomas wound up with Tovia Fivesh Meir ben Shoshana, which sounds like…well, I don’t know, but probably something that doesn’t go down well on Tinder.

I didn’t particularly like these names. So I wrote my sister, who was actually in charge of the festivities (she’s a Jewish woman; did you really think anyone else would run the show?), that I wanted a different Jewish name. I wanted mine to be Moshe Dayan, and I thought Brendan’s might be Harpo Marx. I was told that changes this year were not an option, but that I might be able to make a case for next year at my niece Lauren’s ceremony. I’m still holding out for Moshe Dayan, and I have an eye patch ready to go. But I think Brendan may opt for something from Yu-Gi-Oh or Pokemon (Charizard ben Charmander, I choose you! Gutteral “ch”s all around.)

(Incidentally, this rabbi was great. Had a wonderful speaking voice, moved the service along…which matters when you’re the child of parents who always went to the early services on Erev Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashonah because they knew the rabbi had to get up to speed to be able to clear the house for the late show…and was really a lot of fun. He would ask us to “kiss the torah” with the edge of our prayer shawls in the voice of Sebastian the Crab from The Little Mermaid. This made me laugh out loud, much to the dismay of an old man who shushed me from under his rainbow-striped tallit that looked like something on the box of Lucky Charms.  This rabbi also plays dodge ball:  "I never get to throw things at the kids in the synagogue."

Oh, and in the Sibling Rivalry Department, I should mention that while my brother screwed up his blessings, I got mine right. I did so well, in fact, that another little old guy came up to me at the reception afterwards and wanted to know if I was a member of a synagogue. When I told him I lived out of town, he engaged in that well-known game of Jewish Geography, noting that he had second cousins in Kansas City and did I know them? He also wanted to make sure that I was going to take The Dental Empress to Israel. For her part, The Empress was a trooper the whole weekend, especially when confronted with a bowl of chicken liver…“Try it first and I’ll then I’ll tell you,” was my Mom’s response to her inquiry about its’ nature…and she was very understanding when Dad said she was welcome in any of our pictures, but I’d better not do something to lose her because he was tired of cutting the heads of my ex-wives out of family photos. This is the same father who has given his blessing to this relationship, as opposed to my priors, because, “this one comes with a house and a job.”)

It also turns out, unbeknownst to the family in advance, that if you’re over 13 and called to the bimah to perform the religious duties of an adult Jewish male, it counts as a bar mitzvah of sorts, a recognition that through your participation you’re accepting the obligations of an adult Jewish man. So in addition to the bar mitzvah we thought we were attending, there were four additional “drive-by” bar mitzvahs that morning between myself, my brother, my Dad, and The Teen. Which was pretty cool considering that we didn’t have to go to Hebrew school, we got to read transliterations of our blessings, and we got to sponge off someone else’s reception.

But back to 10 Cloverfield Lane. Bottom line: It’s got a Howard in it. He’s a creepy survivalist with a bomb shelter and tub of acid in the backward. Howard is a crappy name. It’s mine, too, which means for the foreseeable future I’m going to hear an endless stream of 10 Cloverfield Lane jokes. But at least I used to be Dan Conner, Geln Allen Walken, Walter Sobchak, and King Ralph, and at least one of them is Jewish. Could be worse. And as I’ve said, I won’t be building a bomb shelter in the backyard. I’m just lazy.

"Fire Phasers, Mr. Grant!"

We've all had the problem of songs getting stuck in our head.  I've noticed, however, that the problem seems to be more acute as I get older, and I think this is because as my short-term memory fades, I can no longer recall any recent tunes that involve anacondas and buns and the like, leaving large gaps in the mental day needing to be filled with retained television theme songs from the 1970's, mostly from The Love Boat, which echoes through my head constantly anytime I'm on a cruise ship, much to the total chagrin of The Teen, who, whenever he sees a cute girl on the ship and his father notices his interest, is likely to have that same father spontaneously break out in a chorus of "Love!  Exciting and New! Come Aboard!  We're Expecting You!" in off-key but most enthusiastic baritone which will hammer at his adolescent brain until he's run down the nearest staircase and the sound cannot penetrate the deck plates. Which is why, as The Teen and I ventured to the frozen North this past week to partake of the opening weekend of the Minneapolis-St Paul International Film Festival, all I've heard since I got off the airplane were the musical questions of Who Can Turn the World On With Her Smile and (you're way ahead of me) if She's Gonna Make It and, because I am a hormonally addled male nearing the end of my days of non-chemical enhanced potency, with whom, and how often.

(For the record, Minneapolis and cruise ships are not the only places this happens to me.  My brother lives in Cincinnati, and I cannot see his phone number pop up on my cell without asking myself if anyone wonders whatever became of me.  Similarly, when Ii was in Seattle a few years back, I spent half the time trying to match up the gray urban landscape and overcast sky with Bobby Sherman's descriptions.  I also spent a considerable amount of effort trying to find the iCarly building, but that's a different story.

I've not known much about Minneapolis.  There's the Mary Tyler Moore show, of course.  There's the Minnesota Vikings, the Minnesota Twins, and the late lamented Most Appropriate Hockey Team Name Ever, the Minnesota North Stars.  I know Bronko Nagurski was a Golden Gopher.  And snow.  Lots of snow.  So it was admittedly with a somewhat narrowed point of view that I arrived in the Eng Bunker of the Twin Cities and headed directly to The Mall of America.

At first glance, The Mall is breathtaking in its vastness.  (It's the only mall I've ever seen that has its own train station and attached $250/night hotel.)  I'm sure most people have heard something of it.  There is an indoor amusement park complete with roller coasters, a ferris wheel, and a log flume.  There are movie theaters, a bowling alley, a miniature golf course, and more shops and kiosks than you can count.

But once you get past that first impression of sheer size and scope, it dawns on you that it's still a mall.  Writ large, of course, and all contained within a nondescript concrete bunker to keep you warm while you do your destination shopping in the depths of December, but still pretty much just a mall with stores you can find anywhere else (although it is interesting to note that because the place is so large, there are sometimes two versions of the same store located at opposite ends or on different floors).

Remember Mary's tune that kept going through my head?  It didn't stop at The Mall. So as I'm looking through the Minnesota souvenir stores (of which, including local crafts, sports, and college memorabilia, I recall at least nine) and I'm finding myself strangely drawn to Goldy the Gopher, who seems so much more cute and cuddly and, well, mascoty, in comparison with the Chickenbird who lives thirty miles east of my house, the Kittycat who lives 45 miles to the west, and the Angry Dancing Wheat two hours to the south, but I am finding no Mary Tyler Moore show trinkets at all. I would have bought a light blue WJM blazer and done homemade podcasts with the news, I really would have.  But alas, I'm too old for consumer culture, and instead the stores are full of natural goods and healthful candies and homespun clothing and things featuring moose instead of aerodynamic tam-o-shanters or the Sue Ann Niven cookbook or t-shirts that proclaim "I HATE SPUNK!  Guess all I can do is grow with the times.  Which is why I now own a necktie shaped like a walleye.

There was one place in The Mall where the MTM theme was replaced by another, and that was at Star Trek: The Exhibition. Several years ago I had seen a Star Trek installation in Las Vegas, and was quite impressed.  I arrived at The Mall too late to go into the exhibit that night, but was able to visit the gift kiosk which, in contrast to the embarrassment of Trek riches I had seen in Vegas, was comprised of not much more than a few shelves of plastic phasers and communicators, one each of a Lt. Uhura and and a Lt. Sulu commemorative plate, and some of the requisite yellow, blue and red tee-shirts.   I did break down and buy a set of Star Trek cocktail glasses and a red leather wallet that, when you open it, has the words, "He's dead, Jim" embossed on the pocket (I'll explain it to you later.)  However, I was not willing to part with nearly seventy dollars for a cheap imitation of a medical tricorder that purported to say multiple phrases but only spouted (you guessed it) "He's dead, Jim."  It might have been fun to take to work if it said a few other things, but I've found that people who are not dead generally don't like to be scanned and told they are, and those who are dead already know it and scanning them is really redundant.

As I said, it was a pretty skimpy gift shop, and I was concerned that the exhibition itself would follow suit.  But ever the optimist, I bought my ticket anyway.  And not only was I was surprised at how much fun I had, I was even happier that The Teen, who knows William Shatner more from a bad rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody than as James T Kirk (or TJ Hooker, or Denny Crane...but trust me, he's being educated) had a blast.

At this point, I need to issue a disclaimer and note that if you're not into the World of Star Trek
or, even worse, one of those people who prefers a universe peopled with fictional furballs like Ewoks and Wookies, and whatever the hell Jar-Jar Binks is, rather than the ABSOLUTELY REAL Hortas, Talosians, and Gorns, you are going to be bored silly and wonder if your $16.95 entrance fee could have been better spent on...well, anything.

But if you are of that world, it's a 90 minute slice of heaven.  It starts out with a timeline of space travel, starting with Robert Goddard and moving through Zefram Cochrane, The Treaty of Khitomer, Voyager, and Deep Space 9.  There is an original Captain's Chair from the Enterprise-D and, more interestingly, one from the Enterprise-B, captained by Ferris Bueller's friend Cameron (don't make me explain this).  There are original costumes (was Shatner ever really that short and thin?), and an occasional set dressing where I found myself involuntarily bent over a recreation of the Engineering console on the Enterprise-D, trying desperately to bring the warp drive back online...even though I'd much rather be working alongside my childhood favorite Montgomery Scott ("Ye canna change the laws of physics!") rather than the pansy, goody two-shoes Geordi LeForge. (But at least we have Reading Rainbow.)  There are models and props that close-up you can tell are nothing but poorly painted pieces of wood and styrofoam, but at which you marvel nonetheless.  And all of this is going on while the theme songs from the five Trek series are being boomed into your head.  I'm in my element, and Mary is finally gone, replaced by the knowledge that it's been a long time getting from there to here.

For me, the piece de resistance of the entire exhibit was a recreation of the bridge of THE Enterprise.  (As Mr. Scott would say in a drunken TNG rant, "Show me the bridge of the Enterprise. NCC-1701.  No bloody A, B, C, or D.")  At heart I'm an Original Series guy, meaning that I believe that sometimes you can't talk it out and you just have to blast someone out of the sky.  So as I walked onto the bridge and stood by the rail, it like where I needed to be.  Sure, there was the Captain's chair, but it didn't feel comfortable.  You can't command while seated.  

There are some who believe that we all have past lives, and that if you look hard enough you can find out who you were from who you are.  Does it mean something that I've always read volumes about naval warfare and The Great Captains?  Does it mean anything that I'm a pretty good leader but a not-so-hot follower?  Could I be the last verse of the song "Highwayman?"  It's been a long road, indeed.

But wait, my reverie is interrupted; here's an exhibit staffer to take my picture.  And now someone else...some...well, tourist geek...wants to sit on the chair.  On MY bridge.  And as my reality comes crashing down, all I can do is take refuge in knowing that there's a candy store three flights down and to the right that makes caramel apples and an Orange Julius stand which
does, in fact ease the pain.

After the Mall we headed downtown to the film festival.  (The Teen, who is currently asleep as I write this pending his forty minute Voyage of Discovery each morning that we call Taking a Shower, has already posted his first movie review at thecriticalfrog.blogspot.com. Many more to come.)  Only been here overlooking the Mississippi for a few short hours but already like the place.  Woke up early and walked from the hotel, a brisk trot under gray skies to the one landmark I know of, which is the bronze statue of Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat into the air at the corner of 7th street and Nicollet Mall. Took selfies.  Song is back.  She's gonna make it after all.  Me?  Somedays I'm not so sure, but I'll get a beret just in case. 

First glance means something to me, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to like Minnesota a lot. Incredibly nice people, the bird-like sing-song accent (don' 'cha know), delightfully unexpected multicultural diversity.  Even in politics, they either elect people who believe in doing genuine good and exhibiting common sense like Hubert Humphrey, Paul Wellstone, and Tim Pawlenty, and when they don't they at least recognize the process for what it is and elect buffoons (Jesse Ventura) or comedians (Al Franken).  There are moose, fish, Vikings, Timberwolves, Ole and Lena, and above all Goldy.  It strikes me as a place relatively free of pretense, where no matter how much money one has you still need to heat your garage and shovel your way out of the driveway in the dead of winter, and where politeness reigns because it takes up too much body heat to be angry.  

(Did I mention that as I sit at breakfast writing these notes at the Renaissance Hotel at the Depot in downtown Minneapolis, a place where the server remembers my choice of tea from the previous day and that knows how to DO BACON RIGHT, it's April and it's snowing?  When it's fifteen degrees higher and sunny even in my own stark Kansas?  Which probably answers the question about how this place became such a large metropolis.  You clearly have to huddle together for warmth. You get the sense that here global warming is not debated, but welcomed.)

I understand there's a lot more to explore in the Twin Cities, and I certainly intend to come back.  But not this time of year.  Perhaps the third week in July.  I understand that's when summer has been scheduled for 2016.

Knowing Me, Knowing You

(Here's a note I found in my computer from a half-hearted 2014 cruise ship journal...)

I love ABBA. There's a lot of ABBA on board, and just like dyspareunia is better than no pareunia at all (look that one up, vocabulary fans), even bad ABBA is better than no ABBA, and good ABBA is beat only by...well, better ABBA.

I'm sitting here having breakfast next to the pool at 10:30 because I accidentally woke up too early, and over the ship's speakers I begin the hear a familiar strain.  It's the introductory bars to "Dancing Queen, and as the infinite buffet fills my stomach the music fills my soul, and soon I'm rocking out in full Air Benny (especially the part where I'm having the time of my liiiiiiiiife...OOOOOOO) because I don't know anyone here and my chances of winding up on YouTube in any kind of traceable way is pretty small.  Of course, no one else cares what I do, as they are either too involved in their own breakfast ("Look, Morty!  It's all free!  But don't eat that.  It's bad for your heart.  Have some fruit.") or sitting in an ark-lie fashion, two-by-two in painful silence by the pool ("There's a reason we've not gone on vacation, Phil, and this is it") to care.  The notes fade, but a few songs later and a cup of tea it's...could it be?  YES!  It's Super Trooper, the song most notable as The One That DrivesMy Kid Crazy because when I'm driving and it comes on the CD player I'll open the moon roof and stick my hand through the top like Agnetha in the video and he puts down his head and tries to get as low in the seat as possible so no on will see him with this psycho Dad.  (This is the same Dad who, when The Teen was reluctant to try on jeans at the store, threatened to sing along to Katy Perry's California Gurls on the store's music track.  He was in the fitting room and half undressed the moment I raised my hands to represent.)

So I'm especially looking forward to the Salute to Disco show they're having later this week.  I've informed The Teen thusly that we will be going to that show so he can see how cool his Dad was back in high school (which, of course, is a blatant lie.  The Captain of the Quiz Team is not a high-cool post.)  He says disco is dead, and when I point out to him that it still lives in the hearts and minds of those who knew it, which is the best kind of immortality, he points out right back that Hearts & Minds is the name of the wedding chapel on board where they also offer seminars on The Non-Surgical Facelift and Your Tired and Aching Feet, for which I have no response other than to say that disco now lives in the hearts and minds of those now old enough to need non-surgical facelifts and to complain about their feet.  Turn Out the Lights, Sweet Darling.

Speaking of ABBA, the girlfriend (to whom from now on I shall refer to as the "Dental Amazon Empress" or a variation thereof) has a theory about the musical Mama Mia, which is that it should be called "You're Mom's a Whore!"  According to her, the mother slept with three different guys within the same week and she has no idea who the father is?  Doesn't that meet whore criteria?  I never thought of it that way.  Same notes, same lyrics, new and fresh insights all the time.  Just like the Shakespeare and the Bible...such is the power of ABBA.

 

Sgt. Pepper and the Cpls.Gibb

(From time to time, I run across something I wrote but never edited and published in the year or so we were “off line.” Here’s another one of those. Hope you enjoy.)

As many of you know, my son has been a steady contributor to the Blogosphere. His forte is movie reviews, and previous blog readers and Facebook friends know that I’ve been pushing his work at thecriticalfrog.blogspot.com. In watching his writing over the past year, he just keeps getting better and more creative. Proud father talking.

The presence of his blog also means that there are now new ways for Father and Son to interact. (He’s too old for me to use the the terms Daddy and Boy anymore…though my head has made the transition, my heart’s not quite there.) We’ve always liked to go to the movies, but now that he’s a critic we not only sit and watch, but review.

We’re not only going to the theater. In what must be one of the most nerd-like things we’ve ever done…and given that we go to GenCon very year, that’s saying a lot…we’ll sit at home on a weekend night, pick a movie on pay-per-view and man the couch with sodas, popcorn, and notepaper in hand. It’s actually lots of fun to compare notes and views. The only difficult part of the exercise is deciding what movie to watch. He’s on a roll where he likes to review obscure, bad films because it’s just fun. I’m pushing for classic films that everyone knows because I think he’ll have an interesting take. I want him to be a young Roger Ebert; he wants to be a literary Ed Wood.

This conflict often results in the tow of us watching movies simply because neither of us has seen them before. Which is how we wound up seeing the “Sergeant Peeper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” starring George Burns, Peter Frampton, and the Bee Gees.

To someone of my moderate years, that’s all I should have to say for you to know this film is going to be awful. But just in case you’d like a plot synopsis, here it is. Having brought about the end of World War I with a small brass band, Sgt. Pepper comes home to small town America and leaves his magical instruments in trust so the inhabitants might always be happy. Some years later, the band reforms in the persons of the three Henderson Brothers and The One and Only Billy Shears, and sets out for Hollywood. However, their departure leaves an opening for Mean Mr. Mustard to steal the enchanted musical mechs. When the boys find out, their search for the instruments leads to encounters with Alice Cooper, Steve Martin, and Aerosmith. In the final battle, Steven Tyler does something unspeakable (like that’s a surprise) and Billly’s girlfriend Strawberry Fields dies. As Billy is then preparing to commit suicide from a towering six foot high porch, a weather vane comes to life as Billy Preston and makes everything right. The movie ends with everyone who ever signed a contract with the Robert Stigwood organization singing the title track in a bizarre precursor to “We Are the World.” The whole movie is underlined by Beatles songs redone by the characters of the movie. All, that is, except George Burns, who sings something vaudevillish but nowhere near as good as “Simon Smith and his Dancing Bear” and does nothing diety-like in the slightest, even when he could have done so much more to rescue this tale than the weather-vane guy.

As I said, to someone of my era, this disaster could be seen coming form miles away. To The Teen, however, this is all new and unexplored territory. So at the end of our two hour odyssey that even Joe Walsh then (and probably now) would have difficulty fathoming, he had six pages of notes.

Here’s all I had:

Brendan knew immediately what country Frampton was from when he looked at his teeth.

I had to explain that the Bee Gees were the Bee Gees because they were the brothers Gibb but not all the brothers Gibb, because Andy died, as have Robin and Maurice, so now the Bee Gees are the singular Bee Gee but still share an An Everlasting Love.

I never liked big frizzy 70’s hair on girls. Big 80's hair is still hot.

Billy Shear’s girlfriend’s name is Strawberry Fields. In the movie she dies. Which is stupid, because Strawberry Fields FOREVER.

My Lord, I had a sweater vest just like that.

Steve Martin was in this? And George Burns? And they still had careers?

The fact that these are my only thoughts is why I’m not a film critic. Compare these to his review, and you’ll see why he is. (http://thecriticalfrog.blogspot.com/2013/11/the-critical-frog-sgt-peppers-lonely.html) Please, read his blog and feel free to comment, about this movie or anything else he’s written. But if you don’t like his stuff I know guys who live under a bridge who’ll do anything for a twenty and a pint of Mad Dog 20/20. Kind of like Harry Truman who went after that critic of Margaret's piano playing in that regard. Proud parent. You’ve been warned.

Thoroughly Modern Me

I’m one of those people who likes to think that, despite the fact that he’s a skinny white boy from the hard-bitten suburbs of Des Moines, I can occasionally manifest some street cred. This, of course, is a fallacy. I cling to it nonetheless as a last remnant of youth and of my still flickering liberal urge to let the oppressed masses know I identify with their struggle. But unlike most commentators from the left and the right, who have the luxury of being able to hide behind the walls of their gated communities and yet are able to be in intimate, Marvin-Gaye-sexual-healing touch with the hearts and minds of America, I freely admit I have no claim to know what's going on in the street. The closest I come is knowing which bars in Topeka are likely to be open at seven in the morning, in recognizing the names of most of the street drugs (a work hazard), and…well, nothing else. Once in an effort to prove myself hip, I came up with a gang sign for Southwest Topeka (three fingers pointed down towards my right hip, kind of like southwest would look on a map). It didn’t fly.



On the other hand, if you want to know what’s going on in white upper middle class 50-54 years old suburbia, I’m your guy. Just as long as it doesn’t involve Twitting, Tindering, Ubering, Instagramming, People Magazine, any reality programming that involves housewives (real or imagined), Dancing with the Stars, television except the Big Bang Theory and The First 48, or music post Love Shack (1989). I just found out several weeks ago that I was supposed to clap my hands if I was happy, especially about open-air rooms and the truth, which I think is just a cheap rewrite of “If You’re Happy and You Know It Clap Your Hands” (public domain = no royalties).

I think it’s no secret to anyone who’s read this blog or my Facebook friends that I reserve a special place in my personal Axis of Evil for the Transportation Security Administration. However, I do need to recognize that several weeks ago, they gave me a golden opportunity to show how “street” I really am.


You’re probably aware that the TSA makes you take off your belt when you go through security. When I do this, being a thin guy with long legs so I can’t buy off-the-rack pants with both a snug waist and the proper length, my pants fall down to my hips and you can, if my shirt floats up at just the right angle, see my underwear. And it occurred to me, as those Guardians of Air Travel were able to know that I do, in fact, have a pair of Captain America boxers, that my pants were at last low and sagging, like the homeboys on the streets that I drive through very quickly in my left-leaning SAAB.

Just for a moment, I understood what it was to have street cred. I was cool. I was a groovy hep cat, in tune, a resplendent wearer of the cat’s pajama’s, BMOC in raccoon road-kill coat. But then I tripped over my cuffs, and facing the prospect of continuing to try to strut my stuff and dropping trow entirely, I hastened through the scanner with one hand on my pants as I raised the other in surrender to the scanner. But just for that one moment, I was sooooo down with my funky bad self. It felt good.

The Critical Frog and Me

Rumor has it that I am the parent of a frog.  Not any frog, mind you, but specifically a critical one.  I know this because he blogs under the name of The Critical Frog at thecriticalfrog.blogspot.com.  And because he has a coffee cup from Senor Frog's in Cancun.  Also there's a plastic model of The Visibile Frog complete with little molded organs sitting upon his dresser, which is creepy, especially if you think about waking up in the middle of the night and there's a set of painted frog organs looking back at you in the moonlight streaming through the blinds.

I bring this up not only because The Frog is my own declared progeny, nor because I think he's an insightful writer with a creative use of language and narrative.  I do so because in his latest piece, ("Night at the Museum 3:  Secret of the Tomb," at thecriticalfrog.blogspot.com), he's noted that we agreed to jointly review the aforementioned film because we disagree about the ending.  This was actually his idea, and I think it's kind of cool.  Plus if this works, I can have at least a minimal claim to bask in his aura and hopefully his checkbook) when he's the next Ben Mankiewicz.  

The movie was a project for last Monday afternoon.  The hospital where i work had decided to reward my sleepless nights and lost clothing due to various expectorations with a pair of free movie passes (INVALID FOR 3D OR SPECIAL PRSENTATIONS) for the holidays.  So it was off the the theater we went that afternoon, with plans to follow the film with a trip to Red Robin for burgers and bottomless fries to follow.

(For the record, I've never understood the whole bottomless concept, at least as it pertains to food. If you have bottomless fries, does that mean someone bites them in half to remove the bottom before you get to them? And which side of the fry is the bottom, anyway?  A bottomless cup of coffee would spill out the base of the cup and scald your most tender rwegons.  I do understand the concept of bottomless in terms of liquor licenses and zoning regulations, but that's an entirely different conversation. And yes, I'm a regular Edwin Newman when to comes to language.  This morning I was doing a computer training that said after you interacted with a receptionist, you were "recepted" instead of "received." Drives me crazy.  Also, please use your Oxford commas.)

I don't review movies.  That's clearly The Frog's forte.  So I will try to summarize the plot and our points of contention,  and if my description doesn't make sense please see his take on it because then it most assuredly will.

Night at the Museum 3 is the latest installment of a family-friendly franchise starring Ben Stiller and Robin Williams.  In the first picture, Larry the Security Guy (Stiller) finds that there's a magic Egyptian amulet at the American Museum of Natural History (AMNH).  The magic brings the exhibits to life at night, most notably a paraffin Theodore Roosevelt (Williams).  There are laughs and a minor conflict, but all resolves well and everyone dances through the credits. ("Now is the time on Sprockets when we dance!")  NATM 2 takes the same premise to the Smithsonian.  The New York gang goes to DC, a few more things come to life, another minor problem is happily resolved with pleasant laughs, and the party goes on as the credits roll.  Both are perfectly serviceable family moves that I enjoyed, and would be happy to watch again while sitting on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate in my and and a dog somewhere near my feet while the winter wind howls outdoors..

NATM 3 has a slight twist on the theme, in that the magic amulet is running out of power, and the only person who knows how to fix it it the father of the mummy who owns the amulet in New York.  The mummy's father...who is also a mummy...and his Mommy, or mummy, or Mommy mummy...are lying at the British Museum.  So Larry and his reanimated crew take the tablet to London, a few more things wake up, things wake up, they save the amulet, and there are good-natured laughs.  There are some brilliant subtle lines as well, including a discussion regarding the exodus of the Jews from Egypt; as  Larry says to the Pharoah, as memory serves:  "It's a long story.  You wouldn't like it. We get together and talk about it ever year."  (Kind of like the line in the Book of Mormon that "I beleive...that the Garden of Eden is in Jackson County, Missouri, which only makes sense if you're from Kansas City, because they DO.)  There is also Robin Williams' last ad-lib on film; speaking of his love for a model of Sacajawea that shares the night time magic, he notes, "I'm wax, she's polyurethane, but it works."

As a family film, NATM 3 is full of predictable messages about family and friendship, the occasional monkey excretory visual (to make sure we appeal to preteen boys...well, all boys), and a goodly amount of light chuckles to keep the story fun.  It's totally pleasant, reliable entertainment, and a nice way to kill a few hours on a cold winter's afternoon.  I left the theater pleased that I saw it.  Probably not going to invest in the video, but didn't walk out dazed after I did with Avatar,  wondering how I was ever going to get those eighteen hours of my life back.  (What do you mean Avatar ran only three hours?  Are you sure?)

The Frog and I both enjoyed the movie. Where we disagree is in the ending, and here is AN OFFICIAL SPOILER ALERT.  Towards the end of the movie, the magic amulet is now back with its owner in London.  And the mummy that was in NYC is now reunited with his family in London.  So the exhibits from NYC who have come to London to help Larry in his quest decide they will leave the amulet in London, giving up their nocturnal existence in order to keep the Pharoah's family together, explaining that they still have value as exhibits helping others to learn.  It's a gentle way to communicate a powerful message about self-sacrifice and the legacy that lives on after us when we leave this word.  And this s where The Frog says the movie should end.

And this is where I disagree, for a few minutes later (three years in movie time), you see where the AMNH is now featuring an exhibit called Treasures of The British Museum.  And...who knew...the magic tablet is back, and not only have our old friends come back to life but they are now joined by those we've come to know from England.  There's a party, and music, and dancing.  Roll credits.

The Frog contends that the movie should have stopped before the last coda.  I think the latter was actually the better ending, simply because the movie was not made for the sake of character or plot, but for us.  NATM 3 is not an art film, nor a tribute to Method Acting.  It's not a novel by Jose Luis Borges or James Joyce.  It's a mass market flick, a paperback to read on the beach.  You've come to like these characters.  You want it to end pleasantly.  You want to think they aren't forever stilled.  And we can still invoke the messages of self-sacrifice, but this time with the promise of a reward at the end. Which is pretty much what most of our world spiritual traditions do.

(I do understand his viewpoint, however.  Some movies...even very good ones...go on too long.  Michael Keaton was remarkable in Birdman, but it ended a minute and a half too late.  I won't disclose the whole story, but once having broken new theatrical ground, there was no reason to open the window and jump. Or fly.  Whichever.)

As I try to break it down, where The Frog and I disagree is not about the ending, but who the ending of a movie is for.  He thinks it's for the characters; I think it's for us.  We have different needs in our real world then they do in theirs, and there's more of us then them. And, as we've learned, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.  Or the one. Even if he's My Very Own Teenage Amphibian.