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.”

This Post Could Save Your Life

About five or six years ago, I was down in St. Thomas with my then-wife and daughter.  We were staying at the Marriott Frenchman’s Reef, an absolutely lovely resort, and we were enjoying a lazy day at the beach.  One moment I was sitting on my towel, catching some rays and nursing a pina colada, and then, suddenly, I found myself in the surf, desperately trying to pull a drowning woman to shore. 

To this day, I have no recollection of how I made the transition from Jimmy Buffett to David Hasselhoff.  I don’t remember anyone yelling for help, I don’t even remember running into the ocean.  And yet there I was, along with another guy about my age, fighting the waves and tugging this poor old lady up onto the beach. 

What I do remember is how HEAVY she was and how her husband just stood there watching us, a look of profound sadness and confusion on his weathered, old face.  I realized later that the woman was so heavy because she was full of water.   

We dragged her up onto the beach and it was pretty clear to me that she was dead.  Every time we moved her, water came spilling out of her mouth.  She wasn’t the right color.   

In an incredible stroke of luck, an emergency room nurse happened to be vacationing at our resort and was sitting nearby.  She began CPR.  I ran the length of the beach, hollering for a doctor.  One brave young man told me that he was in training to be an EMT.  “Let’s go, brother,” I said and we ran back to the old lady.

She was alive!  The ER nurse had brought her back from the dead – quite literally.  An ambulance arrived and they took the old lady away.  I later learned from the hotel manager that she and her husband were visiting our beach from a cruise ship.  They kept her in the hospital for a day or so and she was able to continue on with her vacation.

I tell you this story not to portray myself as a hero, but only because it stands in ridiculously stark contrast to how poorly I have performed under similar life-or-death situations involving people that I actually know and love.

A few years ago, for example, we gave my daughter (about three years old at the time) her first-ever Lifesaver and she promptly proceeded to choke on it.  I was with her at the time, along with my then-wife and then-mother-in-law.  Three seemingly capable adults vs. one fucking Lifesaver.

We all stood around for a few seconds in a total panic.  Madeleine is choking!  Holy shit, somebody do something!  Somebody!  Anybody!  Hello? 

I eventually stepped up to apply the Heimlich Maneuver.  Bear in mind that I am 6’3” and 200 pounds, while my daughter, at the time, was probably about three feet tall and 30 pounds.  I gave it a go and nothing happened.  I tried again.  Nothing.  My daughter had survived open heart surgery when she was 13 months old.  Now, we were going to lose her to a piece of hard candy.

“Call 911,” I said to my wife and about 10 seconds later, my daughter managed to swallow the Lifesaver, which, thankfully, had melted down a bit (though not as much as me).  The firemen arrived a minute later, God bless them, but it was all over by then and everything was fine.

Something remarkably similar happened a few years later when I was out to dinner in Hoboken with my good friends Andy and Suzy.  Suzy loves to talk, so I knew something was wrong when a silence descended over the table.  Sure enough, she was choking – not on a Lifesaver, but on a piece of skirt steak.  I looked at Andy and he looked at me.  Neither of us moved a muscle.  Suzy looked at the both of us, desperately fighting to breathe.  Her eyes said it all – “Would one of you fucking clowns get off your ass and help a sister out here?!” 

I looked at Andy again and he at me.  Our eyes said it all, too – “Dude, I don’t want to do it.  YOU do it!!”

Suzy was standing up now and really struggling.  Andy and I remained seated, engaged in our game of Cowards Chicken.  Who would blink first?  Not me, man.  I couldn’t get a Lifesaver out of my daughter.  Now, I’m supposed to get a skirt steak out of Suzy? 

Like Madeleine, Suzy eventually took matters into her own hands and down went the skirt steak (or maybe it came out, I don’t remember).  What I do remember is my deep sense of shame and embarrassment afterwards.  A dear friend of mine had been in deep shit and I did nothing.  I didn’t try and fail.  I didn’t even try.  Suzy, I apologize.  Andy, you suck.

One more quick story… Last weekend, I was with my kids, my girlfriend, and her kids in Warwick, NY, visiting friends who have horses.  We were feeding apples to the horses and there is a bit of technique to it where you hold the apple in the palm of your hand and provide a little resistance when the horse leans in to take a bite.  The horses were slobbering like fiends (“Sour apples,” our friend explained), but we were having a good time. 

My three-year-old son wanted to give it a try, so I picked him up and gave him a small piece of apple to hold.  “Really hold your hand steady,” I said to him as the horse approached.  About three milliseconds later, the horse was eating his hand.  My son started yelling and, for a crucial split second, I did what I always do when the pressure is on: absolutely nothing. 

The best part of this story is that my son still has all ten of his fingers and suffered only the smallest of scrapes on one knuckle.  The second best part of the story is that my girlfriend managed to take a picture of the precise moment when my son realized that a 2,000-pound animal had mistaken his hand for an apple.  I’m also in the picture.  I have a near-total lack of expression on my face.  My left arm dangles casually by my side, while I actually appear to be using my right arm to boost my son CLOSER to the horse’s mouth. 

We had some ice cream later to make it all better.  Nobody choked on a thing.

Postcard from Pittsburgh

I traveled this weekend to Pittsburgh to see a baseball game.  I am a huge Dodgers fan, as indicated by my previous post about the happiest moment of my life.  Traveling with me was my girlfriend’s 11-year-old son, who is a huge Pirates fan.  (He is also a huge Yankee fan, thereby ensuring himself at least some happiness in life.) 

On Saturday, the first-place Dodgers played the last-place Pirates.  At stake for the Dodgers was a chance to clinch a spot in the playoffs for the third time in four years.  At stake for the Pirates?  Not much, actually, since earlier this year they set an all-time record for the most consecutive losing seasons.  (Seventeen, I believe, but who’s counting?)

We bought our tickets several months ago, so the fact that this was a game of any significance for either team was sheer luck.  But I am a big believer in luck — in signs and omens from the gods — and so I was feeling rather lucky when it appeared, about a week ago, as though the Dodgers might have a chance to clinch on Saturday.  When they lost to the Pirates on Friday — keeping their “magic number” at one — I was feeling positively flush with luck. 

After all, it’s hard to live on the East Coast and be a Dodgers fan.  They hardly ever play on TV around here and all of their home games start after 10:00 p.m. my time.  Could the stars possibly align to allow me to see them clinch in person?

As we drove to Pittsburgh it became clear that the only thing standing between me and my dream was Mother Nature.  It rained for most of the five-hour trip.  It was raining when we checked into our hotel and it was raining when we sat down to dinner at Atria’s (try the pot roast nachos), right outside of the absolutely gorgeous PNC Park.  It was raining when we first went up to the gate.

“We’re not letting anybody in right now,” the guy at the gate said.  “We’ll be making the call soon.”

Holy shit, I thought to myself, all the while smiling optimistically at my young companion.  They’re going to cancel the game.  We drove 300 miles to be here, my team can clinch a spot in the playoffs, I’m with an 11-year-old dressed in a Pirates jersey and a Steelers cap, and they’re going to CANCEL THE GAME.  What kind of omen would THAT be? 

A few minutes later, the gates opened and in we went.  Thank you, Jesus.  (Best billboard on the trip: “Jesus died for sinners.  That means you.”)

Our seats were ridiculously good.  We were five rows behind the Dodgers dugout — close enough to hear the players talking to each other.  It was still raining a bit — the usher had to wipe our seats off with a ShamWow — but it wasn’t awful and the game started at 7:05 p.m., right on schedule. 

Sitting directly behind us was actor Jake Gyllenhaal of ”Brokeback Mountain” fame, along with some other Hollywood types, including director Edward Zwick.  (I later learned that Gyllenhall is filming a movie in Pittsburgh with Anne Hathaway, who, sadly, was not in attendance.)

I am not a starfucker by any stretch of the imagination, but it was hard not to eavesdrop on some of the dialogue unfolding behind us.  At one point, one of the guys in Gyllenhall’s entourage noted that the Pirates have the least errors of any team in the National League but are still mired in last place.

“That’s just like life,” Gyllenhall replied.  “If you aren’t willing to make mistakes, you’re never going to get anywhere.” 

I can’t quit you, Jake!

Anyway, it was a fine game, with the Dodgers taking the early lead, the Pirates rallying in the seventh to pull ahead, and the Dodgers storming back in the eight to put it away and secure themselves a spot in the post-season.  We saw two home runs and an unbelievable diving catch.  My girlfriend’s son was on the Jumbotron twice and also caught a hot dog launched about 100 feet into the air by the Pirate Parrot.  (No foul balls came our way, but that was OK by me after watching a women behind the Pirates dugout get absolutely murdered by a line drive.  The usher held up a yellow card over her head, as though she had just tripped the midfielder or something.)

It started raining again shortly after we left the park and it poured the next day all the way home.  I must be living right.

Songs That Were Banned at My Wedding

Yes, my marriage ended in a puddle of goo, but, gosh darn it all, we had a lovely wedding and the music was good.  We hired a band called the Rhythm Dogs and they, of course, wanted to know which songs we wanted them to play.

“Let’s save some time,” I said, always ruthlessly efficient.  “Here are the songs we DON’T want you to play.”

And here they are for you now:

• “Shout,” The Isley Brothers – My knees are for shit, so it’s always been a challenge for me to “get a little bit softer now.”  Besides, it’s just stupid.
• “Celebration,” Kool and the Gang – This song is way too prescriptive.  If you have to tell people that “we’re gonna’ have a good time tonight,” you’re trying WAY too hard and you’re probably not going to have a very good time at all.
• “Mony Mony,” Billy Idol – I curse like a sailor, so there is no real thrill for me in chanting “get laid, get fucked,” especially in front of my grandmother.  Didn’t we work these sort of impulses out of our systems in high school, people?
• “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” Meatloaf – The first problem with this song is that it goes on for about 20 minutes. The second problem is that your drunk Uncle Irv is always going to grope a bridesmaid during the Phil Rizzuto part.  Really, there isn’t much else to do.
• “Old Time Rock and Roll,” Bob Seger – I have no problem with people busting out the air guitar on the dance floor.  However, there is no way on Earth to play the “air saxophone” without looking like an absolute ass.

The funny thing here is all the songs that AREN’T on this list.  The “Electric Slide” brings me great joy to this day, and I’m a big fan of the “Macarena.”  If I’m at a party and they play “Hot, Hot, Hot,” I will lead the conga line to the parking lot and back even if I’m sober, sober, sober. 

Hindsight being 20/20, I suppose my wedding should have been banned at my wedding, but what can you do?  Like I said, the music was good.

Postcard from Napa Valley

I spent several days last week in the heaven on earth that also goes by the name of Napa Valley.  My girlfriend and I rented a car in San Francisco – a convertible, of course – and headed North across the Golden Gate Bridge, still one of the most awe-inspiring man-made structures in the world. 

(Two quick Golden Gate Bridge stories.  First, my 80-year-old father told me once that the happiest moment in his life was when he was sailing back to the United States after serving for several years in the Korean War and spotted the Golden Gate Bridge.  “I knew I’d made it home,” he said, a rare display by my dad of… well, of actually speaking.  My dad makes Gary Cooper look like Jim Cramer.  Second, I once biked across the Golden Gate Bridge and nearly froze to death about halfway across.  It was 80 degrees on either side of the bridge – and about 40 degrees in the middle.)

Base camp for us in Napa was the Westin Verasa Napa, an absolutely beautiful property built, rather curiously, in the middle of an otherwise empty field.  I love Westin hotels.  Yes, they have the Heavenly Beds, which are, indeed, quite comfy.  But more than that, I love the Westin vibe, which is sleek and cool and contemporary – just like me.  (Stop laughing, goddamn you.)

After dropping off our luggage, we walked over to the Oxbow Market, where we sat down for an afternoon snack of – what else? – wine and cheese. 

Let me say right here that I am not a “wine guy” by any stretch of the imagination.  When given the choice, I will generally have beer, rather than wine, and when I do drink wine, it’s almost always wine purchased at Trader Joe’s for no more than $7.00 a bottle.  (We actually passed the Hacienda winery, which is one of our favorite Trader Joe’s labels.  It was reassuring to know that it is an actual winery in California, not five guys in a basement in New Jersey peeing into a bottle.)

Still, when in Rome you do as the Romans do and when you are in Napa you drink wine or you go home.  Or, as one local put it, “If you don’t like wine, this really isn’t the place for you.”

For dinner on our first night, we headed to Tra Vigne, which is on all of the “best of” lists and for good reason.  The food was ridiculously wonderful.  We started with some padron peppers, grilled then drizzled with a little bit of olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt.  One bite and I realized that I was in the presence of genius and that the rest of the night was going to shape up just fine.  For my main course, I took the advice of our waiter and ordered half portions of two pastas: a risotto with sausage and a pasta with lamb.  My girlfriend ordered a different kind of pasta with rabbit.  Should I ever find myself on death row, I will order one of these three dishes as my final meal.

We grabbed breakfast the next morning at the downtown Napa branch of the Model Bakery.  Excellent. 

Then it was time for some pampering at the Greenhaus Spa.  I had a deep-tissue massage and a pedicure.  My girlfriend was exfoliated and then basted with some sort of Chardonnay-based cream.  Smooth as silk.   

And then it was time to hit the road and get down to some serious drinking.  (I’m already a bit hazy on the order of the vineyards we visited.  It doesn’t really matter.)  Our first stop was the Cliff Lede vineyard.  (It’s pronounced “lady,” by the way, which will allow you to avoid making an idiot of yourself, as I did, by asking if Mr. “Luh-day” was still active in the winery.)  We sampled two tasting menus, one of sparkling wines, the other of “regular” wines.  All good.

From there, we went to lunch at another local favorite, Taylor’s Automatic Refresher, which is just downright fun to say out loud.  Go ahead, say it.   The line was about 40 deep, but worth the wait. 

In the afternoon, we visited Sterling Vineyards, which is distinguished by an aerial tram that takes you up, up, and away to where the winery is and to some absolutely stunning views of the valley.  At one of the tasting stations, we met a Sterling employee who chucked his career as a tax man in order to work at a vineyard.  “Is your life better now?” I asked.  “Oh, yeah!” he said, laughing.   Dumb question.

Our final stop of the day was Peju, which I think was the most beautiful winery we visited.  The grounds were absolutely gorgeous, as was the main building, which included a spectacular 50-foot tower.  Oh, and the wine was good, too.

Dinner that night was at Cole’s Chop House.  My girlfriend had the filet mignon and I had the rib eye.  Man, there’s nothing like a good steak every once in a while, and these steaks were VERY good.

The next day, we drove through Sonoma and up to Healdsburg, a sweet little town in the Russian River Valley.  We ate lunch at the Bear Republic Brewery, where we drank…beer.  It was excellent.

Having gone more than five minutes without a glass of wine, we dropped by the tasting room of La Crema Winery, where I ended up plunking down $90 for a bottle of Nine Barrel Pinot Noir.  (That’s a lot of Hacienda, baby.)  I couldn’t resist and the description on the web site explains why: “Each vintage, our winemaking team tastes through every barrel to find the nine barrels which best characterize the distinctive personality of the Russian River Valley for that particular vintage.”  Yes, I am special!  (And, no, you cannot come over for a glass!)

Our final meal was at La Toque, which recently moved to a beautiful new location right there at the Westin.  We decided to let it all hang out by ordering a three-course meal, complete with wine pairings for each course (and lovely descriptions of each wine by the sommelier).  I started with the foie gras (which I always confuse with pate because I’m just that stupid), then the halibut, and, last but certainly not least, the antelope.  Yes, I said antelope.  It was absolutely fabulous. 

On Sunday, we headed (sadly) to the airport, each with a box of three bottles of wine ready to carry on.  Precious cargo.  About halfway there, it occurred to me that if you can’t carry a 10-ounce bottle of shampoo onto an airplane, you probably can’t carry on three bottles of wine.  We decided to roll up the bottles in our clothing, pack them into our checked luggage, and pray to the Gods of Wine for mercy.  At the Newark Airport luggage carousel, our prayers were answered – and how many times can you say THAT?

The perfect end to a perfect few days in paradise.

10,009… And Rising

I checked my stats this evening and was thrilled to see that I have crossed the 10,000-visitor mark! 

I can remember when I hit 500 visitors, not that long ago. 

Who are you people? 

THANK YOU!

Five, Four, Three, Two…

Ah, there’s nothing like a good countdown to get the old blood pumping.   The ball dropping in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.  The calm voice of Mission Control before NASA launches another group of brave souls into space.  The chanting of fans at the end of a big football game upset.  The amount of hours, minutes, and seconds left before  ”iFight Shelby Marx” premieres on The Disney Channel.

Whoa, wait a minute, what was that last one again?

The countdown — once reserved for at least semi-special occasions — has become terribly overused and abused in our time-obsessed society.  Personally, I can’t stand it.  It adds to my already unhealthy obsession with time, or the lack thereof.  I often feel as though I am wasting time and/or that I am living on borrowed time.  (And yet he has time to blog?  Yes.  Yes, he does.)

The rise of the countdown also reflects our society’s desire to elevate everything to “event” status.  The finale of “American Idol” is an event.  The finale of “CSI: Des Moines” not so much, but it is billed that way anyway by marketers desperate to attract attention in our ADD world. 

(A brief aside… One of my pet peeves is how everyone these days declares themselves to be ADD.  If you have been diagnosed with ADD, fine.  If not, then shut the hell up.  Can you imagine people walking around saying, “Oh, my God, I am so cancer”?)

Nobody loves a good countdown more than the financial entertainment channel, CNBC.  During the depths of the financial crisis, they were running countdowns to things like Ben Bernanke’s testimony on Capitol Hill in hours, minutes, seconds, and hundreths of seconds.  Geez, I wonder why everyone got so fucking keyed up?

Please.  Save the counting down for things that actually matter.  Like when my humble blog will attract its 10,000th visitor.  I am currently at 9,933.  9,934.  9,935….

(Yes, I realize that it’s a count-up.  Deal with it.)

Desert Island Discs…Sarah McLachlan, “Fumbling Towards Ecstasy”

I listened to this CD from Sarah McLachlan the other night and it STILL kicked my ass, more than 15 years since it was first released.  I remember my initial encounter with this album because I saw it before I heard it. 

I was on an airplane and did not purchase the headphones (cheap even then!).  On the screen, I watched a video that I had never seen before.  Lots of candles and this very good-looking gal at the center of the action.  It was Sarah McLachlan’s “Possession,” the first single from “Fumbling Towards Ecstasy.”  I went out and bought the album and just LOVED it. 

The title of the album alone is brilliant enough.  Who among us has not been, is not, or at some point hopes to be fumbling towards ecstasy?  Hell, I’m two for three just sitting here!  (The only album title that rivals this one in recent memory is “Wincing the Night Away,” a wonderful disc by The Shins.  Been there, done that, too, I’m afraid.)

Beyond the title, there was something about “Possession” and its opening lyrics (and McLachlan’s imperfect, but beautiful voice) that struck me as both thoughtful and somehow very sexual:

Listen as the wind blows
From across the great divide
Voices trapped in yearning
Memories trapped in time
The night is my companion
And solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here
And not be satisfied 

“Possession” is my favorite song on the album, but “Good Enough” and “Hold On” are excellent as well. 

On “Good Enough,” McLachlan sings:

Don’t tell me I haven’t been good to you
Don’t tell me I have never been there for you
Don’t tell me why nothing is good enough

On “Hold On,” McLachlan sings (I think) about the looming death of her lover:

Oh God, if you’re out there won’t you hear me
I know that we’ve never talked before
Oh God, the man I love is leaving
Won’t you take him when he comes to your door

The last track is the title track and the chorus is as follows:

And if I shed a tear, I won’t cage it
I won’t fear love
And if I feel a rage, I won’t deny it
I won’t fear love

Me neither, Sarah.

W is for Wrestling

I rented “The Wrestler” the other night and I thought it was quite good, though relentlessly bleak.  Mickey Rourke is terrific and who knew that Marisa Tomei, who plays an aging stripper with a heart of gold, had such a slinky, smoking-hot body?  My Cousin Booby.

Anyway, the movie reminded me of my long-time – and somewhat embarrassing – interest in professional wrestling.  I’m not quite sure why I first got into it. 

Perhaps because I was the quintessential 98-pound weakling as a boy and all of the wrestlers looked like Charles Atlas.  Vicariously, I could be the one kicking sand into the weakling’s face, not the one eating the sand sandwich. 

Perhaps because I’ve always been interested in the struggle between good and evil, and in wrestling – unlike in life – it was always so crystal clear who was good (“the face,” to use the lingo) and who was evil (“the heel”). 

Perhaps because it was slightly illicit (at least back then) and I was always the goodiest of the goody two shoes.  By being a pro wrestling fan, I was, in some pathetically small way, being a bad boy.

Anyway, I think it’s fair to say that I was a wrestling fan when wrestling wasn’t cool.  These days, you can see wrestling on cable TV just about any day of the week and pro wrestlers like John Cena star in big-budget action movies and make Subway commercials. 

Back then, there was no such thing as cable TV (oh, crap, I am old), so I would go with my friend Glenn Reynolds and his dad to see live wrestling at the New Haven Coliseum and the Hartford Civic Center.  Nothing glamorous here, friends, just lots of beer, cigarettes, and good old-fashioned “slobber knockers” featuring wrestlers like Bob Backlund, Pedro Morales, Greg “The Hammer” Valentine, and “Big Daddy” Don Muraco.

Then, the damndest thing happened.  A guy named Hulk Hogan came along and wrestling broke into the mainstream.  Everyone knows the Hulkster now, of course, and he has become something of a caricature.  But he was quite the genuine phenomenon back then and I loved him.  Suddenly, wrestling was on NBC every Saturday night.  Cyndi Lauper was involved.  Mr. T was involved.  Wrestling was cool.  And that meant that I was cool, too.

In time, wrestling faded from the limelight and I started to follow it far more sporadically.  Every once in a while, a new breakthrough wrestler would come along – like “Stone Cold” Steve Austin and “The Rock,” who now, remarkably, stars in Disney movies – and I would pay more attention. 

Even now, if I come across a match while channel surfing, I’ll watch for a while.  Nothing has changed – the wrestlers are still huge, good still triumphs over evil, and I would still quickly change the channel if someone walked into the room – and I take some comfort in that. 

And that’s the bottom line, because Stone Cold said so!

Greatest Divorce Songs of All Time

Our lives are set to music — songs that carry us through the good times, the bad times, and all the times in between.   My recent divorce was a blend of all these types of times and music was always there.  If you’re looking for sappy songs of heartbreak, you won’t find them here.  These songs are about picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, and moving on — occasionally with your middle finger extended.  Here we go…

“Ordinary World,” Duran Duran — I’ve always loved Duran Duran.  This was their comeback hit from a few years ago and I think it is one of their very best.  Here’s the chorus: “But I won’t cry for yesterday/There’s an ordinary world/Somehow I have to find/And as I try to make my way/To the ordinary world/I will learn to survive.”  This captures how I felt during the divorce process — not as though my world was coming to an end, but that I had actually been living in a false world and was clawing my back to the real one.

“Invincible,” Pat Benatar — Like Duran Duran, Benatar is another one of my guilty pleasures.  I was listening to her greatest hits album just this evening on my way home from work, in fact, and rocking out to this song.  Here’s the chorus: “We can’t afford to be innocent/Stand up and face the enemy/It’s a do or die situation/We will be invincible.”  I’ve written previously about the importance of being nice during your divorce, but there were times during my divorce when I had to “strap on the balls” (as a boss of mine used to put it) and say, “No more Mr. Nice Guy. Let’s get it on.”   

“Scarred But Smarter,” Drivin’ N’ Cryin’ — This hard rock trio from Atlanta knows a thing or two about being stepped on and getting pissed off.  In this kick-ass anthem, they sing, “Nobody said it would be fair/They warned you before you went out there/There’s always a chance to get re-started/To a new world, new life, scarred but smarter.”  I was reminded of this song just the other day when I read an article about scars in The New York Times that included this line, “Better to be a scarred and living dog than to be a dead lion.”

“Gold Digger,” Kayne West and Jamie Foxx — OK, sorry, this song is not only hysterical, but painfully accurate as I sit in my two-bedroom apartment across the street from a train station in blue-collar Fanwood, NJ, and my ex-wife settles into the jacuzzi tub in the spacious, marble-covered master bathroom of the 3,500-square-foot McMansion in fancy-schmancy Westfield, NJ, that I used to call home.  Check out these lyrics: “18 years, 18 years/She got one of yo’ kids, got you for 18 years/I know somebody payin’ child support for one of his kids/His baby momma’s car crib is bigger than his/You will see him on TV, any given Sunday/Win the Superbowl and drive off in a Hyundai.”  My youngest is three years old.  Let’s see, eighteen minus three equals — ah, fuck, get the Hyundai.

“Since You’ve Been Gone,” Kelly Clarkson — I almost pissed my pants during “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” when Steve Carell screeched “KELLY CLARKSON!” while getting his chest hair waxed.  But you have to give the girl credit: this song kicks ass.  Here’s the chorus: “But since you’ve been gone/I can breathe for the first time/I’m so movin on/Yeah yeah/Thanks to you/Now I get/What I want/Since you’ve been gone.”   ‘Nuff said.  Time to have sex with my hot new girlfriend.

“Fighter,” Christina Aguilera — Like “Since You’ve Been Gone” (and the grandmommy of them all, “I Will Survive”), this song is really for the ladies, but, shit, man, I love it, too.  Who can resist this chorus when you’re settling in for your fifth straight hour of mediation, battling for the right to see your own children: “Cause it makes me that much stronger/Makes me work a little bit harder/It makes me that much wiser /So thanks for making me a fighter/Made me learn a little bit faster/Made my skin a little bit thicker /Makes me that much smarter/So thanks for making me a fighter.”

Well, there you have it.  Which ones did I miss, sports fans?