Don't Let the Younger Generation Forget Either

No matter how many years pass, those who witnessed the events of September 11th, 2001 will never forget the horror, the tragedy and the sadness of that day.  However, it being eleven years in the past the population that was not around to experience it is ever growing.  With two boys younger than the disaster myself, I have turned each year to a picture book that does a great job touching on the subject with kids.

It is entitled Fireboat and is the true story of an antique fireboat in NYC whose owners and crew did what they could to help on that day.  If you are looking for a way to explain what happened to your kids in a way that isn't too scary but highlights the spirit of our country and how everyone pulled together, give it a read with your kids.  I'm sure you will not be disappointed.

Let us all remember those who lost their lives and their families today and remember the freedom that makes this country truly great.  If you don't have the opportunity to fly your own American flag stop and take a moment to salute or at least admire one you see in your travels.

Forever may it wave.

This Labor Day, Remember How far We Have Come

At the time of this posting, Labor Day 2012 is nearly over.  But as your barbecue, family vacation, day of laziness or other chosen method of celebration winds down, I encourage you to remember what Labor Day is really about...

Most of you probably work an eight hour day.  If you work more than that, you are more than likely compensated in some manner, whether it be a higher salary, more pay for the extra hours, or some other sort of perk that you deem worth it.  Saturdays and Sundays are your days off, most likely and you enjoy the weekends with your family and/or friends.

Speaking of family, they don't have to worry as much as they would have many years ago because your workplace is likely much safer.  Also, God forbid you should die in a horrific accident at work, your death will not simply be chalked up to another  unfortunate loss.  Plus, if you have children, you do not have to worry about how their day at the factory went because of our country's chid labor laws.

A lot of the work practices we take for granted these days were not always commonplace.  People spent all their waking hours (and even some when they should have been sleeping) laboring away.  Pay was less fair and work conditions less clean and more dangerous.  Kids had to go out and start bringing in paychecks as soon as they were able.  People got in a lot of trouble and even lost their lives fighting to make these benefits possible for the average working person in this country and many people around the world do not see these rights as a possibility.

I happen to be a Union worker.  I know that carries a negative connotation amongst some circles, but I assure you I do not send my entire day standing around staring at the work that needs to be done...usually.  I kid.  To be perfectly honest, I end up with the occasional opportunity to check my email or complete a level of Plants vs. Zombies on my iPhone during my shift, but that has more to do with the time of day that I am working and the nature of my job in general than it does the fact that I am part of a union.  I am proud of the job that I do and I am proud that I am in a union.

I encourage you all to remember these things on Labor Day.  Remember that no matter how much your job sucks on the average day, had it not been for the men and women behind such labor struggles who sacrificed a great deal for the rest of their coworkers, it could suck a whole lot more.

Space and Math: Both Daunting Frontiers

I was saddened to learn over the weekend of Neil Armstrong's death.  The legendary American astronaut took his fateful steps upon our moon's surface nearly a decade before I was born.  This may explain why, during the first several years of my life, I believed him to be the slightly less amazing brother of Stretch.  Once I reached school age, however, Neil Armstrong was a hero in my mind, even if his arms couldn't be pulled between myself and my brothers to cover the expanse of our basement.

In fact, Neil Armstrong was to me, as a child, what many children need to get through their schoolwork: inspiration.

Self described as a "nerdy engineer," Neil Armstrong was a role model.  His life and accomplishments were goals I kept in mind when faced with challenging lessons.  I didn't know if I would ever have an opportunity to walk on the moon.  If lucky enough to be faced with the opportunity, I realized I might very well shake my head, hold on to the nearest fixed object and loudly protest, "I'm not going out there!"  Nevertheless, the embodiment of hard work, dedication and persistent study habits lived for me in Neil Armstrong and during the tougher moments of my education I often thought to myself, "If I am ever going to do something amazing and groundbreaking like that I had better learn this s***."

Whether it be the direct result of the inspiration of Mr. Armstrong, fear of disappointing my parents, plain old luck or, most likely, a combination of those, I did well in school.  I haven't done anything particularly amazing or groundbreaking (yet) but I certainly think that my studies were not in vain.  I feel I use my education on a daily basis, though few would recognize it, and I want to encourage my sons to work as hard as I did in school, if not harder.

The first few days of their new school year having passed, I see already that my sons need a real world example of where their hard work might lead.  As they struggle to begin and/or perfect their times tables they protest extra practice and would give up if the option were presented to them.  In fact they already show a great deal of dedication and persistence toward getting the option of giving up to be made available.

Over the coming weeks as math drills abound and many a tear of frustration will no doubt be shed (by me and maybe even my sons), I plan to tell them more about Neil Armstrong.  With the unprecedented speed at which technology is progressing, they may very well have the opportunity to achieve something amazing as he did.  Perhaps one or both of them (Pioneer astronaut brothers? Be still, my heart.) will be featured in historic footage much like the nerdy engineer was so many years ago.

But this time, the backdrop may be a rusty red instead of gray.

Happy Birthday, Gene Roddenberry

Gene Roddenberry holds a special place in the sacred halls of sci-fi fame and fandom.  Millions upon millions of nerds would have had to obsess over and absolutely pick apart ad nauseum episode by episode some other television show for the past fifty-six years had he not created the space epic that boldly went where no man had gone before, Star Trek.

Roddenberry is one of the elite when it comes to sci-fi and fantasy.  He cooked up an entire universe in his head and told the story of it.  Too often, our imaginations are stifled by the real world.  We conform to societal pressures and don't let the vivid images that swim through our imaginations take flight (I think a fish just became a bird in that analogy, but you understand).  Had he, Tolkien or Lovecraft listened to the mainstream, the people who ridicule those who continue to dream and wonder at the possibilities of the universe even as they grow older, the world would be a darker and far less awesome place.

Were he alive, today would have been Gene Roddenberry's 91st birthday.  So, I decided to celebrate his life the way I hope people might do after I have been released of my mortal coils.  I looked up his Wikipedia page.

Perhaps the most interesting thing I found (and I'm not sure how this fact escaped me up to this point) is that he was a police officer and sergeant with the Los Angeles Police Department for just over seven years.  According to the site, his letter of resignation read:

• I find myself unable to support my family at present on anticipated police salary levels in a manner we consider necessary. Having spent slightly more than seven years on this job, during all of which fair treatment and enjoyable working conditions were received, this decision is made with considerable and genuine regret.

Being a police officer is, of course, a noble profession.  But I respect Roddenberry even more having decided he wanted better for himself and his family.  I respect the hell out of ol' Gene for wanting to following his dream, a dream we should all keep a hold of, to live long and prosper.

Sorry, Earth...I Suck

It’s Earth Day and the Earth really is something to celebrate, isn’t it?  It has been a spectacular place to live (at least for the past 2.4 billion years or so, prior to that the lack of free oxygen would have made it pretty smelly and awfully suffocating) and has provided us with some really awesome natural wonders.  You have Mt. Everest, the Amazon, the Serengeti Desert, Yellowstone, Mount Rushmore and the Great Wall of China.  Wait, those last two were us…well, you get the picture.

I am a lover of the outdoors and all things nature (except mosquitoes; I hate those little bastards).  While I haven’t exactly hugged any trees, I climbed a lot of them when I was a kid and played outside any chance I could get until the invention of the original Nintendo Entertainment System.  However, if I am to be honest with myself, the conservation of this great planet and its current state of affairs has never been as high a priority in my life as it probably ought to be.

Whether it be Styrofoam, alkaline batteries or dog poop I am not great at making the effort to properly dispose of potentially harmful substances.  I will give myself credit for not carelessly discarding obsolete electronic devices, though.  I keep most of them tucked away in the storage spaces of my house or garage, convinced that in the future, when the zombie apocalypse hits, I may be able to assemble some sort of time machine out of the harvested parts and go back to create an antidote.  At the very least, they will provide heavy objects I can hurl at the heads of the lumbering monstrosities that mean to eat my brains.  Kudos to me.

Ol' Smokey

While I pick up my dog’s droppings, I look up at my pet-less neighbor enjoying his serene backyard, completely peaceful except for the odor wafting in his direction, and I grumble, “You’re not missing out on anything.”

In reality, that is not true.  He is missing out.

When you are gone, your pet misses you.  When you return home, they are happy.  There is an unconditional love, a loyal, steady companionship that you receive from a pet.  They quickly become more than possessions, and turn into family members.  They are with you in good times and in bad, through happy, through sad, and love you just the same in any state.

When I complain to my neighbor about our dog, I am just being human.  By “human” I mean I am being petty and overemphasizing inconveniences.  Pets do not know how to be human.  They don’t know how to complain, but they do know how to stay by our sides, how to rely on us, how to come sit beside us when they sense we are sad, worried or stressed.

This is Smokey…

He has been a part of my sister-in-law’s life for seventeen years.  They have seen so many of the peaks and valleys of life together.  They have moved from place to place, each always with the other by their side to comfort them.

Over the weekend, Smokey became visibly ill.  It became quickly apparent that it was no minor health problem and on Sunday he died.  And when he died, my sister-in-law lost a family member.

There is little I can do to fill the void left by Smokey’s absence.  All I can do is say that he will be missed and that I appreciate Smokey for being there for such a long time for someone that I care about and I hope that he rests in peace.

Thank you, Smokey.  Godspeed.

Let Us Celebrate the Work of Theodore Geisel

Everybody is writing today about Dr. Seuss, and with good reason.  Today would have been the famed and well-respected author's 108th birthday.  Kids have been reading his stories, creating arts and crafts projects and eating green eggs and ham at schools around the world today in his honor.


Nearly everyone I have spoken to who either is or at one point was a child (which is damn near everyone) has some fond memory of Dr. Seuss's stories.  The first Dr. Seuss book I read (or rather had read to me) was One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.  My parents were forced to read it to me regularly.  I, like most children, instantly became hooked by the unique style.  Soon afterward, much to my father's chagrin, I discovered On Beyond Zebra and its prolific made up vocabulary.  I got the biggest kick out of the fact that my dad had read me the story a thousand times and still could not pronounce everything right.  When my sons were younger and wanted bedtime stories, I often challenged myself to try and get through the book without a mistake.  I have yet to do so.

Third Person Thursday (on Friday): From Ear to Eternity

Even in the darkened room, the blond hair looked like an explosion against the deep blue sky of the Spider-Man pillowcase.  The matching comforter was pulled up around the rest of the boy’s head, covering his face, leaving only the top half of his left ear exposed.

There were still several hours before the festivities would begin.  In fact, it would be a good three hours before anyone else in the house would even be awake.

A few hours of sleep before the busy day would help, he thought when he had ascended the stairs and quietly crept down the hallway to his bedroom.  But he decided to stop at the doorway to his sons’ room and leaned his head in to take a peek.

Knowing the effects of sleep deprivation from working the overnight shift, he wasn’t in the habit of stopping in to kiss them in their sleep.  He never wanted to accidentally wake them.  Today was an exception, however, and there he found himself, sitting quietly down on the edge of the bottom bunk bed, staring at the top of his oldest son’s left ear.

He always laughed at people cooing over ultrasound pictures.  “I don’t care if it’s 3D,” he would scoff, “if I showed you another couple’s ultrasound, you wouldn’t be able to tell their baby from yours.”

He believed this was the case for the first week or so.  Infants, for the most part look the same.  Aside from distinct differences like hair, skin and overall size, few people could tell a row of newborn babies from one another.   This was precisely what made his son’s left ear so special to him.

When the crown of his son’s head emerged during his wife’s labor (a process he, to even his own surprise, was not grossed out by in the least) nothing about it seemed particularly unique.  It was the top of a baby head.  Sure, it meant that his first meeting with his son, the moment he had waited months for, was finally near and that excited him.  But if you’ve seen one baby head, you’ve seen them all.

The first distinctive thing about the boy to appear was his left ear.  “There’s an ear!  I see an ear,” he had exclaimed to his wife as if he hadn’t been expecting the boy to have any.

It was from that moment on that fatherhood set in.  Years of love and affection, of worry and fear, of pride and joy were to come.  Over the fleeting months following, he would achieve so many firsts.  First poop, first smile, first word, first step.  The wrinkled, fragile baby would become a hearty toddler, shoving French fries in to the face of his newborn little brother upon his return from the hospital to meet him.

Soon, it was off to school and into sports.  The child’s brain seemed to grow faster than his legs, which they could not seem to keep in appropriately sized pants for longer than a month at a time. He was an avid reader, a budding artist, a stellar video gamer and great at being a son, brother and friend.

And it had all started when he had seen the tiniest little ear.  That ear and the rest of the little boy connected to it, including the unassuming top of his head, had been one of the best things to ever happen to him.

But the time had come to get the few hours of sleep that were left before a celebratory breakfast and the boy’s father lifted himself slowly from the bed.  Then he leaned over his son, kissed him on that very left ear that had so drastically changed his life nine years prior and whispered into it, “Happy birthday, son.  I love you.”

I Thank You, My Family Thanks You, My Dog Thanks You

The past several days have turned from constant dog watch, worrying that a beloved member of our family was on his way out the door to the tree, squirrel and fire hydrant filled backyard in the sky, to days full of hope and Christmas cheer.  Yes, our family pet, the stinky, floppy-eared basset hound that I alternately want to pet and strangle on many days seems to have made a full recovery.


The poop and vomit left behind on our floors has been moved outside where it belongs.  The shivering and listlessness has given way to tail wagging and inquisitive trots through the house whenever he thinks he has heard a visitor enter.  In short, he's gone back to being the lovable, quirky, sometimes annoying pet that he has always been.


I thank all of your who read my melancholy posts regarding his health over the past several days and looked fondly back with me at the great memories he has provided our family.  I honestly believe that your thoughts and prayers have helped him recover from whatever it was that had stricken his stomach.


And it couldn't have happened at a better time.  With Christmas right around the corner, dealing with the loss of such a constant lovable family member would have been tough to bear.  It would have taken the Christmas spirit out of me even faster than stepping on his bloody feces while walking through my living room... barefoot.

Double Third person Thursday (Throwback Edition) In Honor of My Ailing Dog

Third Person Thursday: Dirty Little Secrets

Each morning for three months while he breathed steam across the surface of his cup of coffee between sips, Gregory stared out across the frozen expanse. Anytime a new inch or two fell, he liked watching the loose powder slide across, up and over the largest drifts which had turned to solid hills of ice long ago. He thought of Carl Sandburg’s description of fog whenever he saw it.

That’ll be frozen soon enough too, he would think.

Despite the monotony, he admired the majesty of such a large rolling field of nothing, a surface where you could lose yourself and your sense of perspective if you looked at it long enough. He had to remind himself to look away, blink and rub his eyes now and then.

Snow-blind, he would mumble to himself as he did this and then take another sip of coffee as it had already begun to cool.

He used this routine as a way to clear his mind and relax at the beginning of the day. He imagined that his day started the same way the landscape looked, a blank white canvass. Yet every day, as he looked out the window at the pure, sprawling sheet of white, Gregory knew there were secrets beneath it all. He knew that things were buried below the ice and snow that not man nor creature would reach until Mother Nature had decided to allow them access via thaw.

He knew of the mess and the filth that someone had left beneath the snow, concealing it where nobody would find it for months. And each day, Gregory wondered how soon it would reveal itself. When would the pure snow that he looked at one day recede and expose the disgusting truth that lie beneath? He knew the day came ever closer, but it was impossible to know how long it would take.

And so, Gregory waited. He had learned years ago to enjoy the scenery while he could before it was sullied. Too soon, he would have to deal with the truth. That day always arrived before he would have liked, but it was inevitable.

The worst part came when he began to just see parts of them peeking out through the melting ice and snow. When it first began to warm, the rotting, decayed remains would still be frozen to the ground. There was no point in trying to dispose of them. This was when he stopped enjoying his coffee at the window. During the weeks when he waited for the thaw to grip the ground fully, Gregory peeked out to look at the progress and then retreated to his desk with his coffee. He didn’t want his appetite ruined.

But he could only avoid it for so long. The bits and pieces had to be retrieved and properly disposed of or people would begin to talk. He could only imagine the complaints.

It was then that the yearly ritual would commence. Gregory would don his rubber boots, pull on latex gloves, stuff the oversized pockets of his coat with as many heavy duty trash bags as they could carry, throw the old rusted shovel over his shoulder and go out to do the dirty work. It fell to him to clean up the mess that had been left behind because somebody had to do it. He realized his friend couldn’t help himself, but he wished there were a better way for him to satisfy his urges. There was no changing that now, however, and Gregory would set to his duty.

“Going out honey?” his wife called to him, somehow oblivious as to what had gone on behind their home every winter for the last several years.

Gregory cringed. He didn’t want to explain to her the disgusting task that lay before him. Yet, he didn’t know what to say. To his horror, before he could figure anything out, the truth was escaping from his lips.

“Gotta go clean up the dog crap in the yard,” he shouted up the stairs, “be back in an hour or two.”

Third person Thursday (Throwback Edition) In Honor of My Ailing Dog

Third Person Thursday: Lost in the Storm

He had focused so much on the task in front of him that he hadn't thought about the return trip. He was regretting that now.

As Butch turned to begin his trek back home after dropping off his package, he didn't recognize a thing. The snow blew sideways and swirled past his face, leaving him barely able to see a foot in front of his nose. He saw everything in shades of grey, and now mostly white. Even the tracks he had left behind on his journey had been blown over by the drifting snow. There was no trace that he had ever traveled this way. Butch suspected that if he stood still much longer, he might be drifted over as well.

His first instinct was to call out. Immediately after doing so, he thought about how silly he was to think it would help. The rest of his party was safe and warm. He was the one who had insisted on venturing out in such conditions. He was the one who absolutely had to make that drop off. He was the one that couldn't wait.

His next step was to begin moving in the direction he thought was right. As he did, he sank into drift after drift. He had to use all of his strength to bound over the hills of snow and more kept piling on top.

Before he knew it, he had reached a wall. He knew it wasn't the way he came from and began to panic. Having obviously already headed the wrong way, he had now thrown off his sense of direction even further.

He called out again in fear.

All hope seemed lost. Anger began to well inside of Butch. He pictured the rest of his group huddled in the warmth. They never should have let him go out in these conditions. Not by himself.

He called out again and again. He had no idea what else to do. Butch was certain that he would be lost forever, his frozen body encased in a mountain of snow only to be found in the Spring thaw.

That's when he heard something. His eyesight and sense of smell were useless in the blizzard, but his impeccable hearing picked something up. He moved instinctively toward the sound.

It came again. He still couldn't make out what it was, but he had to keep moving toward it. He had to hope that it was something that could save him. He had nothing else left. While trudging forward, his legs burning, his eyes straining to make out something in the haze of grey and white, the frigid winds bit at his nose and ears.

Just as he was about to give up and lie on his side in the snow to await an icy grave, he was able to make out a figure in the distance, through the blustering snow. The hazy outline of the figure stood as if it was waiting for him. With the rest of his remaining strength, he moved toward it.

"Come on, damn it, it's cold out here," the voice from the figure shouted. "If you're done taking your crap, get inside and quit barking."

Butch didn't mind being spoken to that way. He was just happy to see his master again. He stopped quickly to lick his master's hand then ran into the house where the warm pillow with his name embroidered upon it waited next to the heating vent for him.

Favorite Posts About My Dog Day, Part 6

Rest in Peace, Snaky or Slither or Whatever They Were Calling You This Week

Today, my six-year-old called my attention to the fact that, while our pet snake had crawled out from under his rock earlier in the evening, he no longer seemed to be moving. Being a six-year-old, he wanted what he feared to be confirmed before he would believe it. So, once I reached into the cage and nudged our little reptilian friend and he found didn't slide around the cage like he usually does, I had to make it official.

"Yeah, he's dead," I told him.

Time of pronouncement 5:32 PM.

The next hour or so in my household involved a lot of crying. Other than our dog, they had never really had another pet before. We caught a praying mantis once and fed it bugs consistently, but it seemed to be having problems from the beginning and only lasted a few days. They never had the chance to name it or become attached to it. It was more of a science experiment than a pet.

I saved the snake from getting stepped on at work as I walked out of a fried chicken restaurant one day last October. He stayed with me in a bag for the remainder of my day and then I brought him home for my sons to see. I fully expected to release him in our yard or even a nearby wooded area. But my sons wanted to keep him and my wife surprisingly consented. The little brown snake whose name was changed regularly had been with us for about five months.

While I knew my boys wouldn't exactly be happy about the snake's passing, I hadn't expected their sorrow to be so profound. We spent some time remembering what we liked most about Snaky (his original name) and discussing the most respectful method of disposing of his remains (they immediately rejected flushing him down the toilet, but I figured I'd at least throw it out there).

To conclude the night, a very small yet tasteful prayer service was held in the backyard, a hole was dug and an impromptu cross was made out of wooden kitchen skewers and electrical tape to mark the grave. The tears subsided and my sons began to speak of how much longer the snake had been able to live in our care than he would have been able to live in the fried chicken restaurant and how they will miss watching him devour earthworms whole. Eventually they got back to their activities, playing video games and fighting with one another about whose turn it was to play which video game.

With the passing of the most recent addition of our home behind us, I pondered how my boys had just grown up a little. No matter how small (six inches to be precise), my sons had just faced the loss of a family member. They took their time to express their grief, remembered the good times and moved forward, wiser for the experience.

And me? I went over and paid a little extra attention to my dog. I sat on the floor and scratched him behind the ears. Then I took his head in my hands and went nose to nose with him to let him know how I really feel.

"Hey buddy," I said to him. "I swear, if you up dig that snake up and eat it, I will kill you."

Favorite Posts About My Dog Day, Part 5

It's a Dog Sleep Dog World

I admire someone who can stick to his principles despite seemingly insurmountable odds. When you can face adversity and remain firmly grounded in the fundamental aspects of your self, it commands a certain amount of respect. Many great men have bent to the will of others when under pressure, loosing sight of what they truly held as a priority.

Not my dog.

My dog likes to sleep. He likes it so much that he will be damned if he is going to let anyone or anything get in the way of it. Sleep, to him, is the greatest good and he will not be lured from the path of righteousness.

So committed to his craft is my canine friend that I once actually slid him across the room in order to get him out of the way of something I needed to do. His reaction to this was to remain on his side, lift his head and stare at me while I pushed him (thank God for wood floors). Once the move was complete, he went right back to his position and promptly began snoring again.

While some of you may confuse this with stubbornness, I assure you it is more than that. My dog doesn’t just lie down somewhere and refuse to move. He achieves slumbering perfection wherever he goes. I have watched squirrels leap over his prostrate body as he lay in the sun without the slightest twitch. He growled quietly at a large group of sparrows that had surrounded him on one occasion only because one happened to confuse the tip of his tail with appropriate nesting material. Even then, he remained outstretched and held his position once the hairs at the end of his tail were left alone. I challenge you to have this level of versatility with the things you hold dear.

Yes, my dog’s laziness knows no bounds. He knows his priorities and injects them wherever and whenever he can: on his designated bed cushion, on a small pile of dirty laundry, in the grass outside, on a square of sunlight cast on the hardwood floor from the window, immediately in front of his food bowl immediately after eating. There are no restraints on him. He can make himself comfortable anywhere.

I sometimes imagine he’s actually meditating when I discover him laying perfectly still somewhere. I wonder if his doggie mind is clearing out the stress and worry of the day and returning back to a clean slate. If this is the case, my rotund, furry little Zen master has surely achieved Nirvana a thousand times over, which truly makes me jealous.

Then again sometimes I stumble upon him (literally stumble upon him because I didn’t notice him sprawled out in the middle of the hallway) and fear that his advanced age has gotten the best of him and he has passed in his sleep (which is, undoubtedly how he will eventually go…no chasing cars for this one).

But then he snores inward and lets out a deep breath and I know that neither of these possibilities are true. He’s just sleeping.

Well I say, keep it up, hairball. Don’t let anyone tell you that you have to be awake or go for walks if you don’t feel like it. Being a dog is what you make of it. It isn’t all playing fetch and begging for food and Master, I missed you so much. You’re not hurting anyone else so stick with what makes you happy. Be your own dog. Don’t succumb to societal pressures. Fight the establishment. Swim against the stream. Don’t let the Man keep you…up.

Favorite Posts About My Dog Day, Part 4

Dog Chops with Red Wine

When you were a kid, if you lived in the Midwest, chances are you looked forward to snow in the winter. You hoped there would be enough to go sledding. You hoped it was sticky enough to make a snowman. You absolutely prayed for so much snow that the doors to the school were blocked four feet high and they had to cancel. Then you couldn’t wait to meet your friends outside and have a huge neighborhood snowball fight and use that hopefully sticky snow to plaster that kid you always hated that sits next to you in Math with a slushball to his face.

And if you didn’t look forward to all of this, you at least looked forward to an excuse to stay home and in bed, maybe with some hot chocolate if you were lucky, maybe with a video game controller in your hands most of the day if you were even luckier.

But let’s be devil’s advocates for a moment and pretend you never looked forward to snow as a kid in the Midwest. Let’s pretend that you sat at home, worrying about the gas bill and how much homework you were going to have to make up while you watched soap operas all day.Let’s entertain the thought that you were the lamest kid ever to live north of forty degrees latitude. Even then, you at least expected that it would snow during the winter and that said snow might cause you some level of inconvenience some time between late November and early March.

So when did everyone seem to completely lose that instinct? At what age does the very mention that we might receive a foot of snow start driving everyone over the deep end? How is it that our preparedness actually decreases as we get older on this issue and we begin to panic?

Everybody seems so surprised at the mere possibility of snow. The news comes up with the most terrifying depictions possible for winter storms with headlines like SNOWPOCALYPSE, SNOWMAGEDDON, WHITE DEATH FROM ABOVE or WINTER MASSACRE 2011: WHAT YOU CAN DO TO SURVIVE? NOTHING! They spend hours covering the mad rush to the grocery stores (which puts a real damper in a guy’s plans to just go pick up a case of beer, let me tell you) and the painful details of how every single shovel and ice scraper within a five hundred mile radius has already been purchased and you’ll have to get on a waiting list just to get one by April. Then you get the ridiculous interview with the poor guy at the gas station:

“Sir, are you stocking up on gas now because of the impending blizzard?”

“Um…I was just under a quarter of a tank and figured I ought to fill up.”

The guy is probably confused because the same reporter has been spewing warnings all week about staying indoors, avoiding frostbite and remaining hydrated as if he’s Bear Grylls giving out extreme survival tips to everybody. If we’re supposed to avoid traveling, why should we be running out to get gas?

I sometimes wish I would be the one to be asked such stupid questions by a reporter: “Yes, sir.I’m currently in the process of hoarding as much fuel as possible. That way, when our society crumbles as a result of our complete ineptitude in the face of some winter precipitation, I’ll be the one calling the shots. Ever see The Road Warrior?”

Honestly, we as a nation need to take it easy with our surprise over weather. Flights get cancelled, plans get changed. Our species has survived through much worse. Start remembering what it was like when you were a kid and how excited it would have been to anticipate so much snow.

If you feel like taking a few precautions would make you breathe easier, go ahead, just don’t go overboard.

Me, I’ve spent a little time reading back over The Walking Dead, so that I’m prepared to shoulder the emotional strain that the end of civilization as we know it will bring. I also sat down with my dog and had a long talk about how, if we should become stranded and detached from the rest of society, he is going to be our first alternative source of food once the canned goods run out. We’ve agreed it will be a respectable dinner. I picked up a nice bottle of red wine while I was getting the beer, just in case.

Favorite Posts About My Dog Day, Part 3

The Art of Pet Names

We have a dog. The dog was a gift to my wife before she had the unfortunate distinction of being my wife (I hear self-deprecation is sexy these days). We had the dog three years prior having any kids.

I had the name for the dog already picked out. My wife put up no fight over it. It was a name I’d had in mind for quite some time. You see, my father loved dogs but was allergic to them, so I never had one growing up but dreamed of the day I would own my own home and be able to have a dog waiting for me when I returned. Of course, I may have felt differently had I known then that dogs don’t wait by the door to lavish you with affection so much as they wait for you to feed them, walk them and pick up their crap. When you really look at the whole relationship, it screams Stockholm Syndrome.

Regardless, whenever I call my dog’s name (his proper name, not the other names I sometimes call him) I’m proud of it. I like his name. It’s a quality pet name.

I tend to like naming pets regular human first names. Fred, Cletus, Jesse, Walter, Truman, Daisy, Elvis, Brutus and Ginger all work for me as pet names. Feel free to use them. I also like to use the name of a different animal. A dog named Bear or Snake, a goldfish named Jackal, a housecat named Gazelle or a hamster named Rhino (I stole that last one from Bolt, so sure me) (Note to Disney: Please don’t sue me). I suppose there’s a sort of ironic quality to it that I like. I feel that by being clever with your pet’s name you somehow transfer that cleverness over to the animal.

Recently, while at work, I found a Northern Brown Snake outside of a restaurant, about to be stepped on. I caught the snake and placed it in a bag, determined to bring it home to show my sons. To be clear, by “show” I mean cause them to be so enamored with it that my wife would have no recourse but to suddenly allow a writhing reptile, the likes of which she would never normally allow to set…stomach?...in her house, to establish permanent residency. So, as luck (and by luck I mean emotional manipulation) would have it, we now have a small pet snake.

Upon first capturing the beast, it had occurred to me that I should name it. By naming it, I would exert my dominion over it as master. But, a co-worker suggested that allowing my sons to name the snake would be half the fun. It would make them feel like the snake was theirs and that the experience of caring for a pet that they named would feel like real family time.

I felt like a heel for thinking I’d name the snake without them. How inappropriate would it be to show up with an already named animal from off the street? It would be like walking in with some vagrant and introducing him as your family waited for you at the dinner table.

“Hi honey. Hello, boys. This is Arthur. He was holding a sign along the expressway exit that said he was hungry and I thought it a strong coincidence that I was on my way home for dinner. Oh, and he’s going to be staying with us for awhile.”

Well, at least that’s how it suddenly seemed to me, like I would be placing an enormous, completely unexpected burden upon my family.

So, even though I doubted my boys would listen to any of my clever name suggestions, I decided to let them name the snake I was planning on introducing to the household. That’s not to say I didn’t try. Names like Thadeus, Elroy, Hector, Leonard and even cuter names like Sheds and The Incredible Mister Slithers were whispered by yours truly into my sons ears as they thought of what to name it. To my frustration, not a single one stuck.

But at least they were able to have the fun of naming the snake. Besides, now that I look at him, “Snakey” really does fit the little fella.

Favorite Posts About My Dog Day, Part 2

No, You Cannot Have Your Own Flying Poop Factory...Until You're Ten

Pets are a big responsibility. It takes dedication and compassion to care for the life of an animal. Growing up, my family had a lot of different pets. They were mostly small animals because dogs and cats caused allergy issues. We had parakeets, hamsters, fish, turtles, a rabbit, a frog and even a snake at one point. While the pets varied, one thing was consistent. If it was a pet I or my brothers wanted, we had to take care of it. My parents would help to a degree, but there had to be a significant commitment from at least one of us to get the pet in the door.

This is why my sons are not allowed to get the parakeet or hamster they have been asking for. I know who will end up taking take care of it. I have enough trouble finding a matching pair of socks so adding animal turds to my day, despite how small or tightly compacted they might be, is not something I’m prepared for.

Yes, we own a dog. The dog, however, was here before the children, and as far as its “leavings” are concerned, he makes them outside. Do I have to clean it? Of course, but at least it’s not inside my house.

Furthermore, if comparisons to the current pet are to be made, my sons want almost nothing to do with my dog. Every now and then they will play with him, but for the most part, they tell him how badly he smells or how loud he is when he barks. I’ve tried assigning them the responsibility of letting the dog in and out as needed and this is routinely ignored. He will sit by the back door barking that whiny bark that cuts off suddenly almost as if he thinks something is going to slip out if he put too much effort into it. Meanwhile, the boys sit twenty feet away, watching cartoons.

It is beginning to sound like I’m criticizing my kids. I’m not. They say wisdom is knowing your own limitations. I know that I do not want to take care of a small caged animal of any variety at this point. I also know that my sons are not quite old enough to care for an animal on their own. Thus, it is really my own shortcomings that lead me to this decision. I know that I am currently too self-centered to care for another animal.

When I think of owning another pet and what a low level of commitment I would have, all sorts of images go through my head. I can see row after row of tiny twig crosses in the backyard, marking the graves of all the hamsters who had bravely gone before Mr. Nibbles the Fifth. I can imagine falling out of a tree as I attempt to capture the parakeet I let slip out the door and then, years later, swearing that group of bird sitting on the telephone wire looks like a cross between parakeet and pigeon. These same birds would surely have it out for me and would choose my car as the first one to be decorated by their poop. I see having to explain to my boys why their last twelve fish have just been pulled from the drain by the plumber when I told them they had gone to Fishy Heaven.

“Maybe they got lost on their way.”

“Obviously, they were trying to escape. They must have been convict fish. I’ll have to have a talk with the pet store.”

“They must have been bad and this is Fishy Hell.”

See, none of those work.

I’m not the kind of guy who can change his mind about a pet and get rid of it, either. If I found some other sucker…er, nice…person to take the animal off my hands, I would totally project my own insecurities and feelings of inadequacy into the blank expression that it gave me upon my last look at it. I can’t, in good faith, subject an animal to that kind of emotional baggage. And if it were the type of animal that could be released into the wild, images of it getting scooped up by some predator as soon as it was out of my sight would haunt me. I’m fairly certain I’d be wandering through a forest preserve in my pajamas in the middle of the night, lantern in hand, sobbing as I shout, “Slithers! Slithers, come home! I take back everything! I promise three feeder goldfish a day if you’ll just come home!” The bear mauling I would then receive would only serve me right.

You see, it’s really out of concern for the well being of animals in general that I won’t let my kids get another pet. I’m a pet-related accident waiting to happen. I can’t do this to any innocent animals.

I just care so much.

Favorite Posts About My Dog Day, Part 1

Je Suis un Chien. Laissez-Moi la Paix

I talk to my dog. I know everybody who owns a dog, talks to it, but not the way I do. I talk to him like he’s human.

By this, I don’t mean the pandering baby talk that spoiled lap dogs get from their annoying owners (I find the owners of these dogs are usually far more annoying than the tiny, high pitched yapping dogs themselves). “Mr. Barky would like a snack now, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he? Of course he would!”

Nor do I mean the way an insane person might talk to a dog and actually expect an answer, or even hear one in their own minds.

I am at once realistic and unsettlingly personable in the way I talk to my dog. I never, ever expect any kind of response in return communication from him. Not even a head tilt of confusion. Yet I speak to him in a manner that would suggest I think he actually understands what I’m saying.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” I say to him after I’ve entered and crossed the room and turn to exit again. Having finished what I came into the room to do, I turned and noticed him resting on a pile of dirty clothes.

I acknowledge him in a way suggesting he would understand and appreciate the verbal acknowledgement. I don’t raise my voice or add any over the top inflection like I’m talking to, again, a baby. I respect him too much. He’s been with me almost as long as my wife has and there is a certain dignity I see in that relationship.

Respect and dignity accounted for, I sometimes feel strange when I find myself saying something like, “They won the game last night after all, how about that,” to him during SportsCenter. It’s not a thinking out loud thing, either. This is something I would keep in my head, silent, if I didn't know my dog was in the room with me. It’s like I’m saying it for his benefit, to let him know he’s included. When I do these things, often he barely opens his eyes and looks at me for a second before closing them. I imagine him thinking to himself, “Shut up. I’m sleeping. I’m a dog and don’t give a crap about sports.”

Even my sons know enough to keep their conversation with the dog to commands. “No,” and “Cookie,” and “C’mon,” sum up what they say to him. Anything else is directed at another human in the room, as they know it would be lost on the dog.

Yet still I do it.

I wonder sometimes if it’s an internally imposed comfort mechanism. Saying something to someone I know will not answer or respond in any way, but who will still be there. Or perhaps it’s a repressed dream. My childhood imagination could be nagging at me in the back of my psyche, wanting me to let go enough to entertain the thought that dogs could really be smarter than we think and that he might really understand. Hell, maybe I do hope in some deep inner part of me that he will stand on his hind legs, cross his stubby little forelegs in front of him and say, “I see your point and I’ve been thinking about it for a long time,” as he produces a small doggy pipe from some hidden pocket in his fur and begins to pack it with tobacco. Then we’ll have a long, intelligent conversation about society’s ills.

I must admit, I sometimes feel a small glint of hope that he can at least translate what I’m saying into dog language (what if that weren’t a mix of barks and growls, but French, not that he could speak it, but he thinks in French, how odd would that be?) and I begin to think I see something in his big brown eyes that says, “I hear ya, buddy.” I’d like to think he’d call me buddy, but I think he might be more afraid of me than anything.

More like annoyed. I probably annoy him.

Paws and Appreciate Your Pet Today

My dog turned twelve a few days before Halloween.  I'll do the math for you.  That's eighty-four in dog years.  While I look at him and still see a new puppy tripping over his own ears, the reality of the situation is that he is an octogenarian.  It is far more likely now that any tripping he does over something will come as a result of not seeing it rather than his rambunctious nature.


Let it be known that I often get frustrated with our four-legged friend.  He poops in the middle of the gangway, snores, gets hair everywhere and decides to bark at inopportune moments like the middle of the night or while on the phone with work to tell them I'm running late because I'm on the road back home at the moment...apparently with my dog.


But frustration aside, our beloved family pet has not been well the past few days.  He has looked downright sickly.  He gets up even less than usual.  He hasn't been eating well.


I'm mentioning him now, keeping him constantly in my thoughts and hoping that he will recuperate as he has in the past.  I'm also asking for your thoughts to be with our furriest of family members over the next few days.  Call it what you will, prayer, karma, the power of positive thinking or even superstition, but I believe that it has an effect on the outcome of such things sometimes.  My sons went to school yesterday promising to say prayers for our dog while there and he looked better by the time they returned home.  But, we aren't out of the woods yet as he is looking his age now more than ever.  I feel that the more good mojo he has flowing his direction the better.


Thus, at several points throughout today, I will be skimming the Transformer Generation Dad archives and reposting previous musings about my dog.  I hope that if you have a pet of your own, you take an extra moment today and cherish their companionship as well.  Any and all happy thoughts and well wishes are appreciated.

Third Person Thursday: Thanksgiving Haikus

With limited time and a need to post something for Third Person Thursday, let's turn to what has become a running crutch here at Transformer Generation Dad despite the fact that they are not always presented in the third person...Haikus!!!  This time, they are in honor of Thanksgiving:

Lying on the couch,

falling asleep to football.

Too much tryptophan.

Button's gonna pop.

My belt is on its last notch.

More potatoes please.

Turkey, ham, gravy,

carrots, beef, corn, beans and pie.

What?  Only three meats?

Family and friends

gathered around the table.

What I'm thankful for.

Calling All Would-Be Heroes

If you are anything like me (here's hoping that you aren't or the world is in a lot of trouble), you have always hoped for an opportunity to dress up as one of your favorite superheroes while patrolling the city streets.

Sure, Halloween just passed, but is that really enough?  Does donning your Batman costume and having drinks at a random acquaintance's house (which you enviously note is nicer than yours...what does John do for a living that he can afford that place anyway? He must sell drugs. Yes, that's it...drugs) really do it for you?  Would Spider-Man only be seen in public for the length of a cab ride, then spend the rest of the night hanging out with other costumed drunkards?  Neither of them would be caught dead hanging out with Dorothy form the Wizard of Oz or some guy who put an afro wig on and thinks that constitutes an entire costume, I'll tell you that much.

We here at Transformer Generation Dad would like to present you with an opportunity.  It is a chance to vent that long standing, pent up, childish desire to dress as a superhero and make the rounds of a major, metropolitan area to actually do some good.


I'm not talking about watching for pickpockets, exacting vigilante justice on shoplifters or remaining perched above a bank, waiting for a band of thugs to rob it so that you can swoop down and punch their lights out.  I'm talking about collecting money for a good cause.

With Veterans Day approaching, my thoughts turn to real heroes, namely our men and women of the armed service.  I am hoping to generate interest in an event that would have myself, my family and friends and anyone else out there reading this who would like to participate, dressed as superheroes and collecting money for real heroes.  Think of the amount of attention and, thus, donations that could be raised by you and your kids standing in the middle of the Christmas shopping crowd dressed as superheroes.

It's a raw idea currently and all the details have yet to be worked out, but it's something that we here at Transformer Generation Dad hope to make a reality very shortly, perhaps in time to post more definite details by Veterans Day.  The details we do know are as follows:

HELPING REAL HEROES
(That's the working title)

Date:

Friday, November 25th 2011

Time:

8:00 A.M. - Whenever

Place:

Downtown Chicago

We are planning to do this near Water Tower Place and the vicinity around the intersection of Michigan Avenue and Pearson Street.  The John Hancock Center is nearby as are a lot of stores that will generate Black Friday shopping traffic so we can maximize our contact with the public.

To Benefit:

One or several of the great veterans' organization out there.

Rest assured that the exact beneficiary/beneficiaries of our day's work will be determined prior to the start of the event and you will all be notified accordingly.  We are open to suggestions.

Speaking of suggestions, we are open to them across the board.  You can let us know about an organization you find particularly worthy of the proceeds of our day out.  Maybe you would like to suggest a method of donation that doesn't involve standing around in the cold in tights (but where's the fun in that?).  Perhaps there's a clever slogan or phrase you would like to see on a sign held by one of the participants.  You may want to provide transportation or lunch to our volunteers.  Maybe you are nowhere near Chicago but would like to host your own event in your own city.  Go for it.  Keep us posted and let me know if there is any way we can help.

It's all a work in progress right now, but it is going to happen even if it is just me by my lonesome, standing in the frigid Chicago wind, holding out a replica Captain America shield, begging for spare change and ending up in a police lock-up somewhere for indecent exposure due to the tightness of my...tights.  But nobody wants such a nice gesture to end up looking so pathetic, do they?  So contact us and plan on participating.  You can email madcap1417@gmail.com to ask questions or commit your assistance.

PS – If you do not have a super hero costume but always wanted one, now might be a great time to buy one since there are great after-Halloween sales and you now have a philanthropic excuse.