The Five Songs You Hear On Your Way to Heaven

I traveled far away from home on business last week, and whenever I travel without my loved ones in tow, I always get very weepy because I miss them and I think that I’m going to die and never see them again.  When I do die, I hope it’s many years from now, surrounded by all those I love.  And if I’m fortunate enough to go to heaven, I hope that I hear one of the songs below cranked up to eleven as I fist-bump St. Peter and high-step through the Pearly Gates.  These are not my favorite songs of all time, mind you.  I’ve covered that in a separate post.  No, these are songs that have always struck me as epic and magisterial and worthy of serving as the entrance theme to the Great Beyond.  Here we go…

• “Eruption,” Van Halen — All these years later, I’m STILL blown away by the incredible sounds that Eddie Van Halen was able to create with his guitar on this massive and truly historic track.  There was guitar before this song.  And then there was guitar after this song.  It was better after.
• “Let It Rock,” Bon Jovi — I love this band and I love this song, which opens Bon Jovi’s breakthrough album, “Slippery When Wet,” still one of the greatest album titles of all time.  This track is heavy on the organ, which is a particularly heavenly instrument, as we see again with my next pick.
• “Foreplay/Long Time,” Boston – These guys were all about epic rock and they get epically epic on this track, with a sweeping organ solo, moments of silence, and weird outer space noises.  When they rip into the opening guitar riff of “Long Time,” it really is a beautiful thing.
• “These Dreams,” Heart — Just in case God is not a head-banger, I serve up this lovely song from Heart that was used, most famously, as a theme song of sorts for the Challenger disaster back in the 1980s.  It still gets me when they sing, “There’s something out there/I can’t resist.”
• “Father Figure,” George Michael — Yes, this is a love song, but isn’t God all about love?  He certainly is the ultimate father figure, no?  I’ve always loved this lyric: ”If you are the desert/I’ll be the sea/If you ever hunger/Hunger for me/Whatever you ask for/That’s what I’ll be.”  And that keyboard riff that opens and closes the song?  Heavenly.

So, those are my picks.  What song would YOU like to hear on your way to that great concert hall in the sky?

Coincidence? I Think So!

I was in Sao Paulo, Brazil, earlier this week and sent an e-mail to my three college buddies from my hotel room.  It was one of those “How cool am I?” type of messages and, as it turns out, I’m just about as cool as my buddy, Dave, who was also in Sao Paulo, staying at a hotel about a mile away from mine. 

“Where are you having dinner?” he e-mailed back.  Well played, sir.

I live in New Jersey and Dave lives in Atlanta.  Sao Paulo is 5,000 miles away — literally.  It’s so far away that it’s SUMMER there.  And yet, there we were.  Two college buddies, both in Sao Paulo at exactly the same time.   (We ended up NOT having dinner together.  Next time, Daveedo.)

It got me thinking about other interesting coincidences that I’ve witnessed in my life. 

Like the time my dear old Dad, who is the most unsentimental man on the planet, started doing research on a deceased aunt of his named Queena.  He found out that she had lived in a small town in Massachusetts and he phoned the local library there.  He introduced himself to the head librarian, who instantly asked if he was speaking with the same Fred Doe (last name changed to protect my anonymity) with whom he had fought in the Korean War.  Yes.  Yes, he was.

Then there was the night that my daughter, Madeleine, was born.  She was delivered via an emergency C-section in the early evening.  By about 10:00 p.m., mother and baby were both asleep and daddy was hungry.  I drove to a nearby Burger King and, when I walked in, the Muzak that was playing was John Lennon’s “Imagine” — the exact song played by the mobile that we had set up in Madeleine’s crib.  I started to cry — tears of joy and wonder at the crazy world in which we live.  (I then proceeded to order a shitload of food.)

One more quickie… I work for a company that employs well over 100,000 people.  When I walked into my first big meeting there, about three years ago, the first person I spotted was a gal that I used to run with in New York City about 20 years ago.  We had a wonderfully casual relationship back then, right up until the point that she gave me crabs (which I promptly gave to my ex-girlfriend, who happened to come to town a few days before I figured out why my crotch was so itchy).  “It’s so great to see you!” Crab Woman said to me as I walked into the conference room at my new company.  “How have you been?” I answered, marveling at God and his exquisitely wicked sense of humor (and reflexively covering my privates).

So, what ARE these things that we call “coincidences”?  Are they random?  Or is there some “invisible hand” at work that occasionally decides to have a little bit of fun with us?  I’m in the “random” camp, but sometimes I wonder…

My Favorite Quotations of All Time

I recently moved my office, which involved packing up 20 years of professional detritus.  I found some interesting things, including a packet of quotations that I had saved from those “quote a day” calendars that some department or other was giving out in the 2004-2006 timeframe.  I remember when I first received the calendar and thinking that it was kind of silly.  I am not an overly sentimental guy.  But then the calendar sort of grew on me and I found myself (eegads) actually looking forward to tearing off Monday’s quote to see what Tuesday had to say. 

I sat down the other day and flipped through the quotations that I had saved over the course of those three years.  I thought I would share with you the “best of the best” and give you some insight into what I like about each one.  Here we go…

• “Fall down seven times, stand up eight.” — This Japanese proverb speaks to the ability to pick oneself up off, dust oneself off, and soldier forward — not, by the way, an ability that I have always had in my life, even though it would have come in handy on many an occasion.  Another quote in my packet, from Oswald Avery, offers a nice corollary thought: “Whenever you fall, pick something up.”  And this from Charles Beard: “When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.”
• “No matter how far you have gone on a wrong road, turn back.” — This is a Turkish proverb and I love it because so few of us, myself included, are willing to admit our mistakes and just stop doing whatever dumb thing we’re doing.  Like being married to the wrong person for 10 years, for example.  I’m just saying.  Here’s another great quote in this spirit, from Dennis Healey: “Follow the first law of holes: If you are in one, stop digging.”
• “Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work” — Thomas Edison hits the nail on the head here.  If there is any reason at all for the success I’ve had in my life besides sheer dumb luck, it is that I have worked hard from about the time that I was ten years old right up until today.  Sure, I sit in a plush office now, but that’s only because I delivered newspapers in the freezing cold as a kid and worked in a factory to help put myself through college.  Here’s Lincoln on the same topic: “Things may come to those who wait, but only the things left by those who hustle.”  And the great Muhammad Ali: “The fight is won or lost far away from the witnesses — behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road — long before I dance under those lights.”
• “The virtue of all achievement is victory over oneself.  Those who know this victory can never know defeat.” — This quote from A.J. Cronin has special resonance for me because I spent many, many years of my life in pretty much a state of perpetual anger, blaming others, including God, for any ill wind that blew my way.  I haven’t completely overcome these tendencies — I never will – but I’ve gotten a whole lot better.  Here’s Clarendon with a similar thought: “Anger is the most impotent of passions.  It affects nothing it goes about, and it hurts the one who is possessed by it more than the one against whom it is directed.”
• “Be kind.  Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” — This quote comes from John Watson and it is simple, beautiful, and perceptive.  In these hard times, especially, I have found that a little human kindness goes a long, long way.  My girlfriend has a “smile campaign,” where she simply smiles at a few people every day on the streets of New York.  Earlier today, I said a hearty hello to my mailman, who I’d never actually seen in the year and a half that I’ve lived at my current address.  “You have a great weekend!” she said back to me.    

Two more for the road, for no other reason than I love them… “The most dangerous thing in the world is to try and jump a chasm in two jumps,” from David Lloyd George.  And this from Louisa May Alcott: “Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations.  I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead.”

Please share you favorite quotations with me and why you like them so much.  I’d love to hear them.

Top Stories of MY Decade

Since it is, really and truly, all about me, I thought I would reflect upon the top stories from the past ten years of my own life in much the same way that many newspapers and magazines these days are offering up the top stories of the decade from the world at large.  Here we go…

• September 29, 2000 — My daughter, Madeleine, is born.  She was beautiful on that day, and she is even more beautiful today.  I am so lucky and proud to be her father.
• September 11, 2001 — I was in New York City that day, working in an office building nestled precariously between the United Nations and Grand Central Station.  I am in the field of communications, so I remember working hard, trying to keep our employees informed about the situation.  I would like to tell you that I felt no fear, but I was scared shitless.  I remember walking down the hall and a colleague of mine bursting out of her office yelling, “The Pentagon’s been hit!”  My knees actually buckled.  I took a ferry boat back home to New Jersey.  I remember some jackass saying that he hoped this wouldn’t mess up the season premiere of “Star Trek: The Next Generation.”  When we arrived at the dock in Hoboken, we were greeted by men in hazmat suits and forced to stand under a makeshift shower for 30 seconds, turning in a circle and rubbing our faces with our hands.  I thought 9/11 would change everything.  For me, the biggest surprise of the decade was that it didn’t really change much of anything at all.
• October 16, 2001 — My daughter has open heart surgery to repair a congenital heart defect.  The surgery takes several hours, but Madeleine comes through with flying colors.  In two days, she is up on her feet.  In four days, we go home.  The scar on her chest is still visible.  We call it her “zipper” and tell her that when the doctors fixed her heart, they put extra love in it.     
• December 7, 2005 — My son, Christian, is born.  I was so scared to have a second child, I truly would have been content to quit while I was ahead with just my daughter.  But, my God, how grateful I am that I now have Christian, too.  Someone gave us an old-fashioned baby plate with the inscription, “Christian is my boy, he brings me great joy!”  Yes, he does.   
• December 26, 2006 — My old company completes the sale of my business unit to my new company.  At the time, I was devastated, but the fate of the two firms quickly diverged and, looking back on it now, this was an amazingly fortuitous moment for me in my career. 
• September 2, 2007 — I write my first post for this blog.  Eighty-seven posts and nearly 12,000 visitors later, I’m still at it.  I am no longer 39.  But I will ALWAYS be rising, baby.   
• May 7, 2009 — A judge declares me to be officially divorced, ending a long and largely loveless marriage.  If you think it can’t be done, if you think you should stick it out for the kids, if you think that no one will never love you again, please, please, please, I urge you to give it some more thought.  Getting divorced sucks.  But it sure beats the alternative.  To all those who have stood by my side during my divorce, THANK YOU.  Your support has meant more to me than you will ever know.  To all those who abandoned me because it was awkward or scary, I wish you all the best.  Oh, and go FUCK yourselves, too.
• December 28, 2009 — Well, that’s today, of course, and I will use this date to talk about one more top story…I am in love with a wonderful, beautiful woman, who, remarkably, loves me back.  Sweetheart, you have restored my faith in women and in the world.  It took us the better part of this decade to come together.  I can’t wait to see what the next decade has in store for us.    

So, there you have it.  If the next ten years of my life are, on balance, as good as the last ten, I will be a very lucky man.  Happy New Year!

Top Benders of My Life

My last post concerned a trip I took to New Orleans way back when and a desperate search for authentic Cajun barbecue.  My good friend, Suzy, posted a comment alluding to another evening spent in the Big Easy and it got me to thinking about the top benders of my life.  It is hard to rank these things — in part, because they are so hard to remember at all.  But I recall three benders distinctly enough to write about them here.

First up is the time in college when I was having girl troubles.  I stormed off to a party to drink away my sorrows and found myself throwing back a lovely potion that I had never tried before — a Long Island Iced Tea.  I had another.  And another.  And still more.  My roommates had to carry me home, but getting back to the dorm was the least of my worries.  At the time, I was a contact lens wearer and this was long before they made lenses that you could comfortably wear overnight.  I made a few desperate — and to hear my roomies tell it, quite comical — attempts to remove the lenses from my eyes, but to no avail.  I woke up the next morning with my clothes still on and my eyes sealed shut.  For a few moments, I learned what it’s like to be blind.  It sucks.  Eventually, I dribbled enough water into the slits of my eyes and cried enough real tears for the lenses to start to come loose.  Not a good morning.

Next up is the time that I went to a strip club with my dear friend, Peter, who is now the godfather to both of my children.  Peter and I were living together in New York City after college.  Pete always had a thing for strip clubs and the clubs in the Big Apple were second to none.  We used to go to Scores, right under the 59th Street Bridge.  We went one night to solve the problems of the world and I ended up getting ridiculously drunk.  So drunk, in fact, that I broke the cardinal rule of strip clubs — I fell for one of the dancers.  Ah, this is painful for me to recall even to this day.  Any rank amateur knows that the strippers don’t give a shit about you.  They are businesswomen.  And they are in the business of taking as much money as possible from hapless shlubs like me.  At a certain point in the evening, Peter gave me a little salute and headed home.  Let me tell you, when you outlast Peter in a strip club, you know that you are HAMMERED.   By that time, I had burned through all of my cash — $20 per lap dance and about the same for a beer will do that to you.  So I handed over my credit card and got some “Scores Dollars” — basically, Monopoly money, but instead of buying Park Place you buy Fake Boobs.  I was barely coherent at this point.  My Scores Dollars vanished in about five minutes, as did the stripper who had charmed me.  Time to go.  I hailed a cab and, about halfway home, I realized that I had no money.  Not Scores Dollars.  Not U.S. Dollars.  Nothing.  I asked the cabbie to stop at an ATM.  It was freezing cold out and I was so trashed that I couldn’t punch in my access code correctly.  After about five tries, I headed back to the cab, but he was already driving away.  I couldn’t blame him, really.  I walked the rest of the way home.  There is cold, my friends, and then there is New York City cold.  Hammered.  Broke.  Frostbitten.  Nice!

Finally, I will share with you the story that my friend, Suzy, referenced in her comment.  I met Suzy about eight or nine years ago at a conference in — where else? — New Orleans.  It was a conference of communications professionals — not the craziest people you’ll ever meet, but not exactly wallflowers, either.  At the hotel where the conference was being held, a few attendees gathered at the hospitality suite for an after-dinner drink.  At this point, I was barely even buzzed and was about five minutes away from retiring to my room for the night.  Someone suggested that we head to the French Quarter for a nightcap.  For the purposes of this story, I will say that this was Suzy’s suggestion.  Yes, that seems about right.  Against my better judgment, I agreed to join a group that consisted of me, Suzy, and two guys, both named Andy.  We ended up at bar named the Funky Pirate, which is world famous for a drink called the Hand Grenade.  One or two of these suckers could drop a horse.  We had more than one or two.  One of the Andys fired up the jukebox.  It was probably about 2:00 a.m., so we were the only fools left in the joint.  I remember Jukebox Andy attempting to do one of those James Brown moves, where you sort of drop down to the floor with one of your legs sticking out and one tucked under your ass and then you try to pop yourself back upright.  He made it down to the floor just fine.  A heroic effort nonetheless.  I remember lying down in my bed back in my hotel room and looking at the clock.  4:00 a.m.  What made it even worse was the fact that Iwas scheduled to give a presentation at the conference the following morning — or, more accurately, the SAME morning.  I woke up a precious few hours later, still drunk, my head screaming.  To hurl or not to hurl.  That was the question.  I decided not to hurl.  I went to my conference, sucked it up, and did what I needed to do.  Suzy was there, too, looking none too worse for the wear.  Neither Andy was anywhere to be found.  Jukebox Andy surfaced later in the afternoon and we shared a cab to the airport with two unsuspecting conference attendees.  Andy looked hideous.  The woman sitting next to me kept whispering to me, “Is he OK?”  No, lady.  No, he is absolutely not OK, OK?  At the airport sitting at the gate, waiting for our plane, Andy magically produced an orange from his backpack.  He was hunched over, staring down at the floor.  He looked like he was going to pass out at any moment.  He began peeling the orange, slowly, so slowly, and eating it, bit by bit.  Something about that scene cracked me up to no end.  A few months later, Andy, Suzy, and I had a reunion in New Jersey.  Andy had a Hand Grenade glass with him.  You went that drunk and still managed to take the glass? 

Sensei, I admire your skills.

Best Lines: “That’s Cajun Spice.”

Right after I graduated from Yale, there was a massive wave of weddings as college sweethearts tried to give it a go in the real world — or, as my four-year-old boy likes to say, “for real life.”  I was clueless about weddings.  Honestly, I don’t think I’d ever been to one my entire life until I graduated from college.  My parents both had very small families and relatively few friends. 

I had no idea about wedding etiquette and I recall today with much shame a wedding invitation that I didn’t even have the decency to RSVP “no” to.  I had decided (in my own mind) not to go.  It was in Detroit or someplace out of the way like that and what was the big deal anyway?  My friend (the bride to be) called me a few days before the wedding. 

“Are you coming?” she demanded.  “We haven’t heard from you.”   

“Um, no, I guess not,” I said in the halting tone of voice used by someone gradually coming to the realization that they have fucked up royally.

One wedding that I didn’t miss was held in New Orleans, one of America’s great cities.  My friend, Christine, was getting married to a complete lunatic named Tom.  I always carried a torch for Christine.  She was a Southern girl — smart, pretty, funny, the whole package.  I never did anything about it, of course, but then was horrified to think she was going to marry someone that I didn’t know very well at all, but who seemed like a bit of a jerk, at least compared to me.  (I believe they are still married, some 20 years later.  Guess I was wrong.  Or Christine really likes jerks.)

Anyway, I flew down to New Orleans for the wedding and was pretty much hammered for the duration of the weekend.  It’s not hard to do in New Orleans, of course, where you can walk down the street with a drink in your hand or in both hands, for that matter.  (They should try this in Baghdad.  Why blow yourself to smithereens when you’ve got a nice little buzz going for yourself?  Get McCrystal on the horn, stat.)

The night of the wedding merely ratcheted up the drunkeness to a new level.  The groom had his arm in a sling, having fallen off the roof of a house the previous night at his bachelor party.  (Dude, you NEVER schedule the bachelor party that close to your wedding, come on.) 

At some point, my dear friend, Liam, and I were wandering around the streets of the French Quarter, looking for something to eat.  I’m guessing it was about 2:00 a.m. and we had it in our alcohol-soaked heads that we wanted to experience some real New Orleans barbecue.  I remember (vaguely) deciding this while sitting on a park bench eating beignets from Cafe du Monde.  I believe I burned my fingers reaching into the bag of beignets and not really caring because they were SO DAMN GOOD.

But it wasn’t barbecue.  And so Liam and I set off into the New Orleans night.  We asked a few locals where to go.  By this time, it was probably about 3:00 a.m. and, even in the Big Easy, most of the places to which we were directed were closed.  We ended up VERY far away from the French Quarter, wandering around in search of one last mythical barbecue joint.  I’m not sure how we didn’t get killed.  Two fancy white boys from Yale.  Drunk off our asses.  Lost and well outside the tourist district (which itself isn’t the safest place on Earth).

But there is a God and apparently he likes white boys from Yale and he LOVES barbecue because we found the place and it was OPEN, baby.  To call this place a hole in the wall is to disparage all other holes in the wall around the world.  The entire place basically consisted of a giant fat man standing behind a little glass counter.  No tables, no chairs.  Nothing. 

“We want some genuine New Orleans barbecue!” we said, thrilled to have found this place, any place, really, that would satisfy our fix. 

The man served us some chicken.  We stood there on the other side of the counter and started eating. 

“Holy shit, that’s good,” I said, or maybe Liam said it, I don’t really remember.

“Mm-hmm,” the fat man responded.  “That’s Cajun spice.”

Liam and I still use this line with each other today, typically to indicate that something is excellent or, alternatively, disastrous.  A pretty girl walks by.  That’s Cajun spice.  A pretty girl walks by and you have a giant booger hanging out of your nose.  That’s Cajun spice, too.

I’m laughing as I type this and wondering if it will make sense to anybody but me and Liam.  I guess I don’t care. 

Because that’s Cajun spice.

Wii Are Family

I spent Thanksgiving in Connecticut with my mom and dad, my sister and niece, my two children, and my girlfriend.  Here are our ages, from oldest to youngest: 80, 69, 44, 41, 41, 9, 6, and 3.  What could possibly bring us all together?  Well, it wasn’t turkey, since Mom opted, for no apparent reason, to make pot roast (which was delicious).  No, it was the Wii, the greatest videogame system of all time. 

I’ve had my Wii for about two years now and it continues to amaze and delight me.  I decided to bring it to Connecticut, thinking my kids might need a diversion.  Instead, the whole damn family got involved.   My niece and my daughter had a bowling match.  My dad and my son had a sword fight.  My son and I played some hoops.  At one point, my girlfriend challenged my Dad to a bowling match and then — God bless her — she challenged my MOM to a match.  Who do you root for in THAT one, sports fans?  The woman who birthed you or the woman you’ll be in bed with that night?  (Sorry, Mom, a boy’s gotta’ do what a boy’s gotta do.)

It was big fun and I strongly suggest that you ask Santa for a Wii this holiday season if you don’t have one already.  Assuming you’ve been good, that is.

Greatest Hard Rock Songs of All Time

You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I love a good hard rock song as much as the next tat-covered metal-head.  I have always struggled to control my foul temper and there is something about the pure expression of raw anger in many hard rock songs that I love.  I’m pissed off – and so are they!

As you’ll see, many of the songs on this list are by “the usual suspects,” but I have tried to pick songs from these bands that are a little less obvious.  “Smells Like Teen Spirit” is a brilliant hard rock song, but you already knew that, so what’s the point of putting it on my list?  OK, then, dear reader, please turn your amplifier up to 11 and let’s kick it…

• Nirvana, “Lithium” – These guys changed it all, didn’t they?  The hilarious thing is that “Nevermind” knocked off Michael Jackson’s “Dangerous” to become the #1 album in America.  With all due respect to the King of Pop, Kurt Cobain was dangerous.  “Lithium” is classic Nirvana…Slow, then crunchingly fast, then slow, then fast.  Toward the end, Cobain screams, “I like it, I’m not gonna crack/I miss you, I’m not gonna crack/I love you, I’m not gonna crack/I kill you, I’m not gonna crack.”  Is it any wonder he eventually cracked?   
• Cracker, “Low” – Whatever happened to these guys?  Who cares, they left us with this amazing single, which includes this lyric: “I’ll be with you, girl/Like being low/Hey, hey, hey/It’s like being stoned.”  I’ve never been stoned, but I’ve been low, baby. 
• Smashing Pumpkins, “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” – Is there a better voice in rock than Billy Corrigan’s?  Not when he sings this lyric: “Despite all my rage/I am still just a rat in a cage.”  Yes, Billy.  Me, too.
• Rage Against the Machine, “Guerilla Radio“ – Yes, yes, I know.  I AM the machine. But I can bite the hand that feeds me, can’t I?  Actually, this song takes the hand, rips it from the arm, chews it up, and spits it into a gutter.  The menacingly whispered, “It has to start somewhere/It has to start sometime/What better place than here/What better time than now,” leads to the repeatedly screamed, “All hell can’t stop us now.”  Oh, baby, turn that shit up.
• Metallica, “Enter Sandman” – This is the quintessential hard rock song, so I was tempted to pick another Metallica tune until I had the opportunity to attend Game Six of the World Series a few weeks ago.  They play this song when Yankee closer Mariano Rivera jogs out from the bullpen to the mound and it was EPIC.  52,000 people banging their heads.  Say your prayers, Phillies, you won’t be with us much longer. 
• Silverchair, “Tomorrow” – I can’t name another Silverchair song, but this one kicks ass, Fatboy.  Here’s a lyric that always makes me think of my ex-wife: “You say that money isn’t everything/But I’d like to see you live without it/You think you can keep on going, living like a king,/Ooh babe, but I strongly doubt it.”  She actually HAS kept on living like a king, but, oh, well.  Maybe tomorrow…
• Foo Fighters, “Monkeywrench” – How do you go from being the drummer of Nirvana to the front man of another kick-ass hard rock band?  I don’t know, ask Dave Grohl.  This song is about being gay (I think), but it really hits on all of the classic hard rock themes – not fitting in, persecution, and just being absolutely ripshit about the whole thing.  Take a deep breath and sing along with this lyric: “One last thing before I quit I never wanted any more than I could fit into my head I still remember every single word you said and all the shit that somehow came along with it still there’s one thing that comforts me since I was always caged and now I’m free.”  Remember, you need to save up enough air so that you can scream the word “free” for about 20 minutes.

I realize that I am missing several worthy artists: Guns-n-Roses, Pearl Jam, Van Halen, Hole, and Def Leppard, to name just a few. But I am out of time, and so are you.  Please add your ear-bleeding suggestions to the list.

Postcard from… My Apartment

Here was the scene in my apartment about two hours ago…

My nine-year-old daughter was sawing away at her viola, playing, among other all-time favorites, “Hot Cross Buns” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

My three-year-old son was working diligently with my girlfriend to assemble a Lego Star Wars “Republic Gunship.”  There were about 4,000 pieces to this dang thing, all threatening at any moment to fall to the floor.

My ex-wife’s new dog, Pixie, was attacking her toy, Mr. Squeaky, hurling it around the apartment, growling ominously, and chasing after it.  (We are babysitting Pixie this weekend, while my ex-wife, hopefully, is off getting remarried.)

There was a time when this type of scene would have pushed me to the brink of a nervous breakdown.  Tonight, I loved it, and only wish I could have recorded it on film somehow.  It is recorded in my brain camera, though, so I wanted to share it with you.  Cut!

Happy Meal Me

Is there any product on the face of the planet more perfectly named than the McDonald’s “Happy Meal”?  It’s rather arrogant if you think about it.  THIS meal — not some other meal, cooked by you, perhaps, or purchased elsewhere — is so certain to produce happiness in the consumer that it is NAMED after happiness.  

For once, the wizards at McDonald’s decided to pull back on the whole “Mc” thing and not call it a “Happy McMeal” or a “McHappy Meal.”  No, there is no need to bastardize the meaning of it all. 

It is a meal. 

And it makes you happy.

At least it does if you’re under the age of ten, as both my children are.  (Nine and three, to be exact.)  They get happy at the mere NOTION that we might be heading to McDonald’s to get some grub.  And who can blame them?  It’s perfect, really.  You get your protein in the form of some Chicken McNuggets.  You get your fruits/veggies in the form of french fries or apple dippers.  (What’s the ratio there, do you think?  Seventy five orders of fries for every one order of apple dippers?)  You get a drink, which can be milk or juice.  And, best of all, you get a toy.  A toy made in China by a child half the age of your children, but, hey, it’s a global economy and toys are important.  We like toys in this country.  We NEED toys.

Today, the toy for boys was an Astro Boy action figure and for girls it was a My Little Pony.  (There is not even a hint of gender sensitivity in the toy selections.  At McDonald’s, boys like to blow things up; girls like to play with dolls.  As a father of a boy and a girl, that’s pretty much right, but do they have to be so OVERT about it?)  

My kids figured out a few visits ago that the bottom of the Happy Meal box tells you which toys are up next.  (The DaVinci McCode.)  This is a great way to keep abreast of pop culture, but also indicative of our tiny lil’ attention spans.  A whole lot of people probably worked for five years on Astro Boy — a perfectly fine film, by the way.  Doesn’t it merit more than a week or two in the Happy Meal line-up?  Apparently, it does not.

In Astro Boy (as in so many other movies for children these days), we have completely befouled the Earth and now use it largely as a giant dumping ground for worn-out robots, discarded from the floating city above where all the cool people live.  Someday, a thousand years from now, an archaeologist will stumble across my garbage from this afternoon.  She’ll carefully dust off Astro Boy and Iris, the My Little Pony, with a delicate brush.

“My God,” she’ll say, her voice barely above a whisper. ”They had rockets coming out of their feet.  And really gay looking horses.”