I am a movie fanboy and I have a blog, so I am bound by the laws of geekdom to write about WATCHMEN. For those of you not in the know, or without access to Wikipedia, Watchmen is a graphic novel originally published in 1986. It’s considered to be one of the greatest graphic novels ever written. In fact, it’s been mentioned in the same breath as “real” novels as one of the top literary works of the modern age. It’s taken over 20 years, but finally they made it into a movie, which comes out next week.
Here's the thing...I have a dark secret. I only read Watchmen a few months ago. Now that I've exposed myself, I’m expecting an email asking me to turn in my geek card to arrive any minute now. Many years ago, a girlfriend gave me a copy of the book, telling me it was a must-read. We broke up soon after. Considering that one of the reasons we parted ways was my secret questioning of her sanity, I wasn’t in the mood to look at anything on her recommended reading list in the wake of our failed romance. When the trailer for WATCHMEN hit screens last year, it dawned on me that I still had a copy of the book and figured that this would be as good of a time as any to crack it open. (Random fact: inside the book I found a piece of mail from her bank with her pin number.)
Many people have great reverence for Watchmen, but because I didn’t read it in my formative years, I have no sentimental attachment to it and feel I can look at it objectively. Without giving anything away, Watchmen is a dark, brooding tale about people who dress up in costumes to fight crime. Only one of them actually has any real super powers. The rest are just fucked up. In it’s time, Watchmen was one of the first comics to deconstruct superheroes and it was purported to be a dazzling experience for readers. I imagine it was the comic book equivalent of TERMINATOR 2, JURASSIC PARK or THE MATRIX, movies that in their day were groundbreaking and left audiences breathless. Today they remain great movies, but their visuals hardly deliver the gut punch that they originally did.
Watchmen is very well written, but it’s a sluggish read. It reminds me of some of the classic literature that they made us read in high school. I was told those books were important, but struggled to connect with many of them.
So the big question is, will modern audiences care about WATCHMEN the movie? Will they be captivated by the story the way readers were over 20 years ago? Our reality is pretty dark at the moment, so are the masses going to embrace such a lugubrious cinematic experience?
I believe that the fanboys and the curious will give the movie a big opening weekend. But I’m not so sure that WATCHMEN is going to be the blockbuster that Warner Brothers hopes it will. The danger is in the hype. Just because you’re told something is great, doesn’t mean that it is. And if you’re told a movie is made from “the most celebrated graphic novel of all time”, you have to work doubly hard to rise above inflated expectations.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Welcome Home
I wearily walked through the door, returning home after a three day business trip. WW™ is standing there, holding Sprout. The baby gives me a series of the biggest, gummiest smiles (save for her one tooth, which I call "Chomper") I think I have ever seen from her. Later I woke the Bean from his nap. As soon as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he said to me, "I'm glad you're home daddy."
"I am too, buddy boy. I am too."
"I am too, buddy boy. I am too."
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Phish Shirts
I want to tell you a story. I’m sad to say that for this tale, the normally amazing and aptly named woman I call WonderWife™ has been downgraded to just “Wife”. No “Wonder.” No “™.” You’ll see why in a bit.
The year was 1993 and a fresh-faced collegiate Geekboy attended his first Phish concert. It was love at first note and the band would soon become one of his favorites. He went to two shows that year and bought a t-shirt at each one. He loved those t-shirts and wore them often. In fact, the shirts were still in heavy rotation when he met and married Wife. Sure they were starting to get frayed, but to him that only added to their romantic appeal.
Wife hated these shirts. She made no effort to disguise her disdain for the aging articles of clothing, and when holes started appearing in the seams of the armpits, her contempt for them voraciously grew. Evilly, she threatened to dispose of them when the Geekboy was out of the house. But common sense and decency prevented her from committing this breech of trust. She knew that these tattered shirts held great sentimental value to the man she loved.
Wife lived along side these shirts for the next few years, her dislike for the band and the garments never yielding. One day, she had an idea. Wife told Geekboy that she would make the t-shirts into throw pillows, so he could keep the sentimental objects but not have to wear them in public, which made him look like a vagabond and scared the neighborhood children. He could keep them safely contained in his study, where, she imagined, he could gaze upon them lovingly and she would never have to see them again. Wife’s prowess with a sewing machine was well known across the land, and the Geekboy knew that this offer would make them both happy. So he agreed and handed over the t-shirts to Wife.
A fortnight passed before he asked her about the shirts. She said that she had not forgotten about the project and would get to it soon. Two years went by. From time to time, he would ask her about the shirts only to receive different answers. Sometimes Wife would say that she’s working on it. Other times, she would laugh and say she disposed of the shirts. And there are times when she would deny ever having been given the shirts in the first place. No matter what the story, Wife never gave the Geekboy any hope that the project would be done. But she was careful to phrase her answers in such a way that she was not breaking her promise to her husband. She just left him wallowing in melancholy, not knowing where the t-shirts were or if they would ever re-appear as the pillows.
He often wonders what he may have done to her to be treated so shabbily. Why does she have such derision for what he loves? What do these missing shirts say about the notion of trust in their relationship? Tragically, as long as the shirts are gone and the pillows unfinished, the Geekboy may never know.
Has your partner ever held something of yours in contempt? Or hostage? And if you feel sympatric to my plight, feel free to heap some guilt on Wife in the comments section. Who knows, maybe I’ll see those pillows one day.
The year was 1993 and a fresh-faced collegiate Geekboy attended his first Phish concert. It was love at first note and the band would soon become one of his favorites. He went to two shows that year and bought a t-shirt at each one. He loved those t-shirts and wore them often. In fact, the shirts were still in heavy rotation when he met and married Wife. Sure they were starting to get frayed, but to him that only added to their romantic appeal.
Wife hated these shirts. She made no effort to disguise her disdain for the aging articles of clothing, and when holes started appearing in the seams of the armpits, her contempt for them voraciously grew. Evilly, she threatened to dispose of them when the Geekboy was out of the house. But common sense and decency prevented her from committing this breech of trust. She knew that these tattered shirts held great sentimental value to the man she loved.
Wife lived along side these shirts for the next few years, her dislike for the band and the garments never yielding. One day, she had an idea. Wife told Geekboy that she would make the t-shirts into throw pillows, so he could keep the sentimental objects but not have to wear them in public, which made him look like a vagabond and scared the neighborhood children. He could keep them safely contained in his study, where, she imagined, he could gaze upon them lovingly and she would never have to see them again. Wife’s prowess with a sewing machine was well known across the land, and the Geekboy knew that this offer would make them both happy. So he agreed and handed over the t-shirts to Wife.
A fortnight passed before he asked her about the shirts. She said that she had not forgotten about the project and would get to it soon. Two years went by. From time to time, he would ask her about the shirts only to receive different answers. Sometimes Wife would say that she’s working on it. Other times, she would laugh and say she disposed of the shirts. And there are times when she would deny ever having been given the shirts in the first place. No matter what the story, Wife never gave the Geekboy any hope that the project would be done. But she was careful to phrase her answers in such a way that she was not breaking her promise to her husband. She just left him wallowing in melancholy, not knowing where the t-shirts were or if they would ever re-appear as the pillows.
He often wonders what he may have done to her to be treated so shabbily. Why does she have such derision for what he loves? What do these missing shirts say about the notion of trust in their relationship? Tragically, as long as the shirts are gone and the pillows unfinished, the Geekboy may never know.
Has your partner ever held something of yours in contempt? Or hostage? And if you feel sympatric to my plight, feel free to heap some guilt on Wife in the comments section. Who knows, maybe I’ll see those pillows one day.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Table Scraps Volume #2: Galoshes, Doh and Marbles
Most of the things I write wind up as full posts on this here blog. But every so often I'm find myself with bits and pieces of ideas that aren't enough of a meal to be served on their own. Here are a few more:
Since we’re at the beginning of what passes for winter here in Southern California, which is marginally chilly weather and about 4 inches of rain spread out over five and a half months, the Bean has had occasion to wear his new galoshes. They each have a dragon’s face covering the toes. Now he wants to wear them wherever he goes…raining or not.
The boots are big enough that he can put them on himself and he has the uncanny ability to put them on the wrong feet every single time and stubbornly refuses to switch them. He marches out the front door (into public mind you) with the boots pushing up his jeans, making them look like puffy director pants, and boots on the wrong feet, which cause him to walk with a wobbly gait. He looks like a demented soldier.
Who is the bigger kid: the Bean, who loves to play with Play Doh and his marble run, or me, who loves to play with Play Doh and the marble run?
The Bean got some awesome gifts for his birthday. A Play Doh sized tub filled with an insane amount of accessories (I’m serious…more than I ever had as a kid combined). There is something insanely satisfying about playing with Play Doh. It smells amazing. Plus, I get to show the Bean how to make “hair” by squishing it through some of the molds that came in the tub. And did you know that if you mix every color of Play Doh together, you get sort of a dark bruise-like color?
The marble run was given to the Bean by the sons of one of my best friends. But when my buddy gave me a wink as his boys handed over he present, I knew that it was really a gift from him to me.
Since we’re at the beginning of what passes for winter here in Southern California, which is marginally chilly weather and about 4 inches of rain spread out over five and a half months, the Bean has had occasion to wear his new galoshes. They each have a dragon’s face covering the toes. Now he wants to wear them wherever he goes…raining or not.
The boots are big enough that he can put them on himself and he has the uncanny ability to put them on the wrong feet every single time and stubbornly refuses to switch them. He marches out the front door (into public mind you) with the boots pushing up his jeans, making them look like puffy director pants, and boots on the wrong feet, which cause him to walk with a wobbly gait. He looks like a demented soldier.
____________________
Who is the bigger kid: the Bean, who loves to play with Play Doh and his marble run, or me, who loves to play with Play Doh and the marble run?
The Bean got some awesome gifts for his birthday. A Play Doh sized tub filled with an insane amount of accessories (I’m serious…more than I ever had as a kid combined). There is something insanely satisfying about playing with Play Doh. It smells amazing. Plus, I get to show the Bean how to make “hair” by squishing it through some of the molds that came in the tub. And did you know that if you mix every color of Play Doh together, you get sort of a dark bruise-like color?
The marble run was given to the Bean by the sons of one of my best friends. But when my buddy gave me a wink as his boys handed over he present, I knew that it was really a gift from him to me.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The New Bed Situation
If parenting is akin to the old vaudeville act where a guy keeps a bunch of plates simultaneously spinning, this week we had a moment of joy where we removed one plate entirely…but quickly replaced it with a different one.
The plate removed was the Bean’s successful liberation from diapers, eliminating a task which was both messy and time consuming (at least the way I do it). Not content to bask in the bliss of this milestone, we decided this would be the perfect time to convert the Bean’s crib into a toddler bed.
The main reason, the only reason, we’ve had a crib for this long is that my not quite adventurous son hasn’t figured out that can climb out of it. Physically the crib rails pose no real challenge for him, but mentally they keep him in place. Many mornings the Bean would wake up and play quietly in the crib while WonderWife™ and I eked out a few extra minutes of precious sleep. But recently when we noticed the Bean salivating over his friend’s big boy bed, we realized it was time to set our little caged bird free, despite the repercussions it would most likely have on us.
The Bean was jubilant and giddy as we took off the railing. He couldn’t wait for sleep. WW™ and I smiled at each other, knowing that we were doing the right thing. Two hours after his bedtime, however, the Bean was still awake and I was cursing our mindless decision to fix what wasn’t broke. I’d heard plenty of stories about other kid’s bedtime stall tactics, but have always thanked whoever is responsible for these things that I’ve never had to endure this with my kid. Yet here I was, sitting aside the toilet mindlessly reading the Bean a book on what was his third trip to the bathroom. I knew he didn’t have anything in him, but we’d just gotten him out of diapers and I couldn’t risk calling his bluff. I filled his water cup for the second time and tucked him in, giving a stern “you need to go to sleep” speech that we both knew wasn’t going to work. I then convinced the Bean that there were no monsters in his room. “In fact,” I told him. “We installed a monster guard when we took down the rail.” After singing “Down By the Bay” to himself for another half-hour, we finally heard the dulcet sound of his snoring over the monitor.
Now I’m left wondering if this was an isolated incident, or if it has something to do with this new bed situation. Since the Bean got in and out of bed at least seven times that night, I’m pretty sure he knows that he can get out whenever he wants to. While I’m proud that my boy is growing up, I am not looking forward to the newfound freedom he’s going to have around the house.
The plate removed was the Bean’s successful liberation from diapers, eliminating a task which was both messy and time consuming (at least the way I do it). Not content to bask in the bliss of this milestone, we decided this would be the perfect time to convert the Bean’s crib into a toddler bed.
The main reason, the only reason, we’ve had a crib for this long is that my not quite adventurous son hasn’t figured out that can climb out of it. Physically the crib rails pose no real challenge for him, but mentally they keep him in place. Many mornings the Bean would wake up and play quietly in the crib while WonderWife™ and I eked out a few extra minutes of precious sleep. But recently when we noticed the Bean salivating over his friend’s big boy bed, we realized it was time to set our little caged bird free, despite the repercussions it would most likely have on us.
The Bean was jubilant and giddy as we took off the railing. He couldn’t wait for sleep. WW™ and I smiled at each other, knowing that we were doing the right thing. Two hours after his bedtime, however, the Bean was still awake and I was cursing our mindless decision to fix what wasn’t broke. I’d heard plenty of stories about other kid’s bedtime stall tactics, but have always thanked whoever is responsible for these things that I’ve never had to endure this with my kid. Yet here I was, sitting aside the toilet mindlessly reading the Bean a book on what was his third trip to the bathroom. I knew he didn’t have anything in him, but we’d just gotten him out of diapers and I couldn’t risk calling his bluff. I filled his water cup for the second time and tucked him in, giving a stern “you need to go to sleep” speech that we both knew wasn’t going to work. I then convinced the Bean that there were no monsters in his room. “In fact,” I told him. “We installed a monster guard when we took down the rail.” After singing “Down By the Bay” to himself for another half-hour, we finally heard the dulcet sound of his snoring over the monitor.
Now I’m left wondering if this was an isolated incident, or if it has something to do with this new bed situation. Since the Bean got in and out of bed at least seven times that night, I’m pretty sure he knows that he can get out whenever he wants to. While I’m proud that my boy is growing up, I am not looking forward to the newfound freedom he’s going to have around the house.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
He Poops...He Scores
Many months after our first attempt to send the Bean down the road towards diaper independence was met with an untimely end, we find him back on the trail. Unbeknownst to us, he re-started his journey because one of his pre-school teachers, who was most likely as over changing his diapers as we are, put him in underwear one afternoon. Of course, she neglected to tell us so it was discovered after the boy accidentally watered the family room floor. The Bean didn’t let this damp setback derail him this time. Pretty soon, the Bean had mastered “pishy”, but had absolutely no interest in the final potty frontier…the dreaded number two.
Since my son is my clone, you can set a watch to his bowel movements. Ten minutes after breakfast, he will ask to be put back in diaper and flee to the front room of the house, where he “hides” behind his train table and noisily does his thing. Anyone attempting to enter the room is met with a stern, “I need privacy!” I always offer up the potty and he always politely rejects me. That was until a few days ago when, surprisingly, he said, “yes.” A few minutes later, the Bean’s success was rewarded with a few chocolate chips.
Potty training seems to have stuck this time, because for the past few days he’s been like that dude who walked across the Twin Towers on a tightrope, without a net and accident free. But our ingenious reward system has backfired on us because the kid now uses the potty four to five times a day. I think he’s actually rationing his poop so that he can get more chocolate.
I’d like to be mad, but not only is he clever, he’s showing an amazing amount of control.
Since my son is my clone, you can set a watch to his bowel movements. Ten minutes after breakfast, he will ask to be put back in diaper and flee to the front room of the house, where he “hides” behind his train table and noisily does his thing. Anyone attempting to enter the room is met with a stern, “I need privacy!” I always offer up the potty and he always politely rejects me. That was until a few days ago when, surprisingly, he said, “yes.” A few minutes later, the Bean’s success was rewarded with a few chocolate chips.
Potty training seems to have stuck this time, because for the past few days he’s been like that dude who walked across the Twin Towers on a tightrope, without a net and accident free. But our ingenious reward system has backfired on us because the kid now uses the potty four to five times a day. I think he’s actually rationing his poop so that he can get more chocolate.
I’d like to be mad, but not only is he clever, he’s showing an amazing amount of control.
Friday, February 13, 2009
5th Grade Valentine
It was the fifth grade and I was “going with” a girl named Amy. My pre-teen gawkiness was at its peak that year because my old elementary school had merged with a new one. The transition to new surroundings, combined with my awkward insecurities, made for a rough time. We now had two of everything—double the number of popular kids, jocks, troublemakers and of course, nerds. I had been hovering near the bottom of my old school’s social hierarchy and was finding myself slipping even lower in this new one.
Despite my social stature, I had managed to meet a girl. At the tender age of 10, Amy was cunning enough to know that she had me wrapped around her finger, and she seemed to relish wielding her power over me. Amy would agree to go with me only to unceremoniously dump me a few days later. The next day she would take me back and the cycle continued. One night we would spend the evening talking on the phone (which was probably only about 15 minutes, but at the time it seemed like the whole night), and the next day she would totally ignore me. Of course, this only made me crazier about her. I had already made a habit of crushing on girls who were completely uninterested in me. Amy was the first girl to like me back, even though for the most part she didn’t treat me very well.
Valentine’s Day was approaching and Amy and I were in a good place. We had been together for almost two weeks without her breaking up with me, so I was feeling really good about our relationship. Notes were passed. Stickers were traded. Hands were tentatively held for brief, but shining moments. Based on our tenuous past, I knew that I had to make a big splash for Valentine’s Day. I bought her a card that was sweet, but didn’t scream “desperate”, and a box of colored pencils.
That afternoon the phone rang. Before the words were even spoken, I could tell it was coming. I had learned to recognize the tone on her voice. She broke up with me…again. But this time it was permanent.
I went through what I would later learn was the normal range of emotions after a painful dumping. I was hurt, but I was also angry. I mean, come on, couldn't she have waited just one more day? If she had only seen the effort I put into her Valentine's Day gift, she might have changed her mind. I spent the rest of the day wallowing in the "what ifs".
There were no great lessons to be learned from this, except for the obvious fact that heartbreak hurts. It hurts even more on Valentine’s Day. It would be a long time before I realized that bad times make the good times better—sweet doesn’t exist without sour. Every so often on Valentine’s Day, as WonderWife™ and I uphold our tradition of eating fried chicken with a really good bottle of wine, I think about how Amy broke my heart so long ago, and I wonder if today is just a little bit better because of that.
Despite my social stature, I had managed to meet a girl. At the tender age of 10, Amy was cunning enough to know that she had me wrapped around her finger, and she seemed to relish wielding her power over me. Amy would agree to go with me only to unceremoniously dump me a few days later. The next day she would take me back and the cycle continued. One night we would spend the evening talking on the phone (which was probably only about 15 minutes, but at the time it seemed like the whole night), and the next day she would totally ignore me. Of course, this only made me crazier about her. I had already made a habit of crushing on girls who were completely uninterested in me. Amy was the first girl to like me back, even though for the most part she didn’t treat me very well.
Valentine’s Day was approaching and Amy and I were in a good place. We had been together for almost two weeks without her breaking up with me, so I was feeling really good about our relationship. Notes were passed. Stickers were traded. Hands were tentatively held for brief, but shining moments. Based on our tenuous past, I knew that I had to make a big splash for Valentine’s Day. I bought her a card that was sweet, but didn’t scream “desperate”, and a box of colored pencils.
That afternoon the phone rang. Before the words were even spoken, I could tell it was coming. I had learned to recognize the tone on her voice. She broke up with me…again. But this time it was permanent.
I went through what I would later learn was the normal range of emotions after a painful dumping. I was hurt, but I was also angry. I mean, come on, couldn't she have waited just one more day? If she had only seen the effort I put into her Valentine's Day gift, she might have changed her mind. I spent the rest of the day wallowing in the "what ifs".
There were no great lessons to be learned from this, except for the obvious fact that heartbreak hurts. It hurts even more on Valentine’s Day. It would be a long time before I realized that bad times make the good times better—sweet doesn’t exist without sour. Every so often on Valentine’s Day, as WonderWife™ and I uphold our tradition of eating fried chicken with a really good bottle of wine, I think about how Amy broke my heart so long ago, and I wonder if today is just a little bit better because of that.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Pig in the City
It had probably been five or six years since I’d been to New York City. This fact not only stood as a betrayal of my east coast roots, but was severely depressing in and of itself. Last week that was all fixed, when I found myself on a plane to that proverbial city that never sleeps, which is the perfect place for a sleep-deprived dad who can’t manage to stay awake until the 11pm “Simpsons” rerun.
I was in New York to once again congregate with my fellow nerds at a comic book convention. Unlike the pop culture orgy that is the San Diego Comic Con, the NYCC has a different vibe, much like the city itself. New York City brings out the intensity in people like salt brings out the flavor in food. This was abundantly evident in the fans who dressed up for the show. Not only did they take great care in crafting their costumes, but many of them had developed signature super hero poses that were instantly struck whenever a camera was waved in front of them.
The costumed folk also created some interesting people watching. Unique parings popped up all over the convention center. Two wookies were being led by Snake Plisskin. Mario and Luigi hung out with Hagar the Horrible. Lara Croft strolled hand and hand with Indiana Jones. And in a scene eerily reminiscent of “West Side Story”, there was palpable tension between the wizards from Harry Potter and the Twilight vampires.
Thankfully I didn’t spend all of my time in the convention center. New York is a walking town, and even though I live in LA, where we are forced to sign wavers promising that we will drive everywhere we go, I walked and soaked in the city.
I never realized how much food there is in NYC. Just about every other storefront was a bodega or café or sandwich shop or fancy restaurant. This is so profoundly different from the skuzzy strip mall Chinese food and Donut emporiums that litter the City of Angels. I also took great pleasure in seeing more Dunkin’ Donuts than Starbucks.
While I ate in an excellent restaurant or two, I really enjoyed the street vendors. I grew up thinking that one should never eat food from a cart on the street. I think it may have been my dad who instilled this disdain in me. Hot dogs from carts were referred to as DWD’s (dirty water dogs). Though I had been to NYC many times with my family, we never got food from a street vendor. But here I was on my own in the big city and since I’m a grownup (at least this is what the kids in my neighborhood tell me), I figured it was time to take a chance.
Walking back to my hotel after a few drinks on my first night, I stopped at a cart and bought a dog. Turns out it was one of the best hot dogs I’ve ever had. It had been grilled on the same surface where gyros and kabobs had been cooking, probably all day, giving it an extra burst of meaty flavor. As a bonus, the bun was also lightly grilled on the same cook top, providing extra goodness. My only complaint about this dog was that I didn’t buy two of them. This was so far from the culinary abomination that I had been led to expect. I needed to explore more.
I ate some great food in New York. I was compelled to stop at the legendary Gray’s Papaya, which I’ve been curious to try ever since it showed up on an episode of “Seinfeld” along with its numerous appearances on the Food Network. I also made sure to by some honey roasted nuts from a street cart—the smell of which ranks up there with campfires and vanilla extract as one of my all time favorite olfactory sensations.
But this orgy of eating couldn’t last forever. I was soon on a very long flight back home, filled with a longing for my family, only to find WonderWife™ laid up in bed with a virus so nasty she could barely speak in coherent sentences. Sprout greeted me with a bunch of smiles, but really she’ll smile at an unplugged lamp if it’s placed in front of her. I was really looking forward to how the Bean would greet me, but he was engrossed in his 157th viewing of “Cars” and couldn’t be bothered.
Oh well, I’ll always have that hot dog.
I was in New York to once again congregate with my fellow nerds at a comic book convention. Unlike the pop culture orgy that is the San Diego Comic Con, the NYCC has a different vibe, much like the city itself. New York City brings out the intensity in people like salt brings out the flavor in food. This was abundantly evident in the fans who dressed up for the show. Not only did they take great care in crafting their costumes, but many of them had developed signature super hero poses that were instantly struck whenever a camera was waved in front of them.
The costumed folk also created some interesting people watching. Unique parings popped up all over the convention center. Two wookies were being led by Snake Plisskin. Mario and Luigi hung out with Hagar the Horrible. Lara Croft strolled hand and hand with Indiana Jones. And in a scene eerily reminiscent of “West Side Story”, there was palpable tension between the wizards from Harry Potter and the Twilight vampires.
Thankfully I didn’t spend all of my time in the convention center. New York is a walking town, and even though I live in LA, where we are forced to sign wavers promising that we will drive everywhere we go, I walked and soaked in the city.
I never realized how much food there is in NYC. Just about every other storefront was a bodega or café or sandwich shop or fancy restaurant. This is so profoundly different from the skuzzy strip mall Chinese food and Donut emporiums that litter the City of Angels. I also took great pleasure in seeing more Dunkin’ Donuts than Starbucks.
While I ate in an excellent restaurant or two, I really enjoyed the street vendors. I grew up thinking that one should never eat food from a cart on the street. I think it may have been my dad who instilled this disdain in me. Hot dogs from carts were referred to as DWD’s (dirty water dogs). Though I had been to NYC many times with my family, we never got food from a street vendor. But here I was on my own in the big city and since I’m a grownup (at least this is what the kids in my neighborhood tell me), I figured it was time to take a chance.
Walking back to my hotel after a few drinks on my first night, I stopped at a cart and bought a dog. Turns out it was one of the best hot dogs I’ve ever had. It had been grilled on the same surface where gyros and kabobs had been cooking, probably all day, giving it an extra burst of meaty flavor. As a bonus, the bun was also lightly grilled on the same cook top, providing extra goodness. My only complaint about this dog was that I didn’t buy two of them. This was so far from the culinary abomination that I had been led to expect. I needed to explore more.
I ate some great food in New York. I was compelled to stop at the legendary Gray’s Papaya, which I’ve been curious to try ever since it showed up on an episode of “Seinfeld” along with its numerous appearances on the Food Network. I also made sure to by some honey roasted nuts from a street cart—the smell of which ranks up there with campfires and vanilla extract as one of my all time favorite olfactory sensations.
But this orgy of eating couldn’t last forever. I was soon on a very long flight back home, filled with a longing for my family, only to find WonderWife™ laid up in bed with a virus so nasty she could barely speak in coherent sentences. Sprout greeted me with a bunch of smiles, but really she’ll smile at an unplugged lamp if it’s placed in front of her. I was really looking forward to how the Bean would greet me, but he was engrossed in his 157th viewing of “Cars” and couldn’t be bothered.
Oh well, I’ll always have that hot dog.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Twitter Simulator
I think the idea of Twitter is cool, but really who's got the time for it? I'm kind of a Facebook man myself, but I can't ignore something that's smack dab in the pop cultural zeitgeist, like Twitter is right now. So I've collected some of my Facebook status updates from the past few months, and put them together in this Twitter simulator.
DGB is tired, but can't go to sleep before his wife, because he snores pretty bad when he's falling asleep. (There you go, my life laid bare for your amusement.)
DGB knows that you never engage in a battle of wits with a Sicilian when death is on the line.
DGB wants to thank Dave for putting that stupid Killers song in his head. Why do I have to make a choice between being a human and being a dancer?
DGB promises to make something of himself someday. He'll show you all!
DGB is thirsty. But knows if he drinks water now, he's just going to have to wake up and pee in a few hours.
DGB doesn't think he'll ever be over Macho Grande.
DGB is purposely leaving his status vague in order to provide a greater sense of mystery.
DGB wonders how the baby knows the moment when her mom leaves the house and starts wailing. Why? Why do you do this?
DGB is impressed that his wife not only Wii'd last night, but seemed to enjoy it.
DGB is putting himself up for "father of the year" because he managed the morning alone with both kids. Will try not to hurt my arm patting myself on the back.
DGB thinks it's kind of sick and wrong that they serve seafood at the aquarium cafe, but ordered some anyway.
DGB would like to announce that he and Bart are now friends.
DGB is movin' on up. But sadly, does not have a deluxe apartment in the sky.
DGB is trying really hard to think of a status update that will make you all laugh and cry.
DGB is counting the number of times he's been vomited on by his son. For those of you playing at home, the total is 3.
DGB, a rabbi and a talking chicken walk into a bar...
DGB is attempting to de-stress the cat. No that's not a euphemism.
DGB is going to the store. Anyone need anything?
DGB is tired, but can't go to sleep before his wife, because he snores pretty bad when he's falling asleep. (There you go, my life laid bare for your amusement.)
DGB knows that you never engage in a battle of wits with a Sicilian when death is on the line.
DGB wants to thank Dave for putting that stupid Killers song in his head. Why do I have to make a choice between being a human and being a dancer?
DGB promises to make something of himself someday. He'll show you all!
DGB is thirsty. But knows if he drinks water now, he's just going to have to wake up and pee in a few hours.
DGB doesn't think he'll ever be over Macho Grande.
DGB is purposely leaving his status vague in order to provide a greater sense of mystery.
DGB wonders how the baby knows the moment when her mom leaves the house and starts wailing. Why? Why do you do this?
DGB is impressed that his wife not only Wii'd last night, but seemed to enjoy it.
DGB is putting himself up for "father of the year" because he managed the morning alone with both kids. Will try not to hurt my arm patting myself on the back.
DGB thinks it's kind of sick and wrong that they serve seafood at the aquarium cafe, but ordered some anyway.
DGB would like to announce that he and Bart are now friends.
DGB is movin' on up. But sadly, does not have a deluxe apartment in the sky.
DGB is trying really hard to think of a status update that will make you all laugh and cry.
DGB is counting the number of times he's been vomited on by his son. For those of you playing at home, the total is 3.
DGB, a rabbi and a talking chicken walk into a bar...
DGB is attempting to de-stress the cat. No that's not a euphemism.
DGB is going to the store. Anyone need anything?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
The Man of Only a Few Voices
The best storytellers are the ones who breathe life into the words of a book. The Bean loves to read and I hope that when Sprout gets a little older, she will be just as enthralled with stories. So when I read to my kids, I strive to be as entertaining as possible (energy permitting) and often use different voices for the characters in the books.
Growing up loving cartoons, I’ve always wanted to be a voice for a cartoon character. I have sharp memories of Little Kid Geekboy cracking his parents up with a voice or two. Deep down I’ve thought that maybe I’d be a good voice-over artist. But this parenting thing can illuminate some hard, uncomfortable truths—one of them being that I’m not very good at voices.
Creating different voices is hard. Most of my “voices” sound pretty much alike. I also have trouble keeping them straight. If there are a lot of different characters in a book, I will inadvertently give somebody the wrong voice. And if a character doesn’t speak for a long passage in the story, I will sometimes forget what voice I used.
Though unpolished as I am, there are a few voices that I’ve managed to cultivate:
The “Man”
This is pretty much my normal speaking voice, but in a slightly lower tone. It’s used for dad characters and the Man with the Yellow Hat. Honestly, this one hardly counts as a different voice.
The “Romano”
Somewhere between Ray Romano and Marvin the Martian. It’s usually used for background characters that make exclamations.
The “Old”
Similar to the “man” and “woman” voices, just shakier. Reserved for grandparent characters, obviously.
The “Kid”
Take the falsetto of the “woman”, lower the register by half a click and speak every line with a profound sense of wonder. It’s used for kids in stories.
The “Muno”
You know that guy from Yo Gabba Gabba who looks like a giant dildo? The voice is kind of like his. Used to voice Gerald the Elephant and other dim-witted characters.
And if need be for variety, these voices can be modified slightly with a bad country twang or a version of a Wisconsin accent.
Okay, Mel Blanc I am not. But you can't fault a geeky dad for trying, right?
While I’ve come to realize and accept the limits of my talent, thankfully the Bean and Sprout haven’t seemed to notice. But truthfully, I’m not even sure that they care all that much if their stories have voices or not. WonderWife™ says that my using voices makes her plain style of reading look bad. But I think she’s just being nice. If given a choice, I don’t think the kids have a preference which parent reads to them.
So all of this begs the question…who am I really performing for, me or them?
Growing up loving cartoons, I’ve always wanted to be a voice for a cartoon character. I have sharp memories of Little Kid Geekboy cracking his parents up with a voice or two. Deep down I’ve thought that maybe I’d be a good voice-over artist. But this parenting thing can illuminate some hard, uncomfortable truths—one of them being that I’m not very good at voices.
Creating different voices is hard. Most of my “voices” sound pretty much alike. I also have trouble keeping them straight. If there are a lot of different characters in a book, I will inadvertently give somebody the wrong voice. And if a character doesn’t speak for a long passage in the story, I will sometimes forget what voice I used.
Though unpolished as I am, there are a few voices that I’ve managed to cultivate:
The “Man”
This is pretty much my normal speaking voice, but in a slightly lower tone. It’s used for dad characters and the Man with the Yellow Hat. Honestly, this one hardly counts as a different voice.
The “Woman”
My falsetto. Not very easy on the ears. Used (sparingly) for various female characters.The “Romano”
Somewhere between Ray Romano and Marvin the Martian. It’s usually used for background characters that make exclamations.
The “Old”
Similar to the “man” and “woman” voices, just shakier. Reserved for grandparent characters, obviously.
The “Kid”
Take the falsetto of the “woman”, lower the register by half a click and speak every line with a profound sense of wonder. It’s used for kids in stories.
The “Muno”
You know that guy from Yo Gabba Gabba who looks like a giant dildo? The voice is kind of like his. Used to voice Gerald the Elephant and other dim-witted characters.
And if need be for variety, these voices can be modified slightly with a bad country twang or a version of a Wisconsin accent.
Okay, Mel Blanc I am not. But you can't fault a geeky dad for trying, right?
While I’ve come to realize and accept the limits of my talent, thankfully the Bean and Sprout haven’t seemed to notice. But truthfully, I’m not even sure that they care all that much if their stories have voices or not. WonderWife™ says that my using voices makes her plain style of reading look bad. But I think she’s just being nice. If given a choice, I don’t think the kids have a preference which parent reads to them.
So all of this begs the question…who am I really performing for, me or them?
Monday, February 2, 2009
Things Learned During Super Bowl XLIII
- When you throw a party for 40 people and cook 7 different appetizers plus dessert, you’re not going to end up watching a lot of the game. In fact, you're going to spend the greater portion of your weekend prepping for the party. Thankfully, I am not a rabid football fan and I love to cook.
- Never make a bet with my friend K. She has an uncanny ability to always win. It doesn’t matter if she sets the bet or if I do, she always wins. Yet ever year, I am compelled to bet with her. I’m currently trying to wash the “sucker” that’s been printed on my forehead.
- If you serve something with bacon, you will make the crowd at your party very happy. In this case it was bacon crackers. (Leaving it up to your imagination what exactly those are.)
- If you serve something fried, you will make the crowd at your party very happy. In this case, won tons filled with chocolate.
- The Bean loves football, but admittedly doesn’t understand it.
- TRANSFORMERS 2 looks exactly like TRANSFORMERS 1, which means TRANSFORMERS 2 is probably going to suck just as much as TRANSFORMERS 1 but will inexplicably make just as much money. But come on, we knew this already. Way to go Micheal Bay!
- The GI JOE movie kind of reminds me of TRANSFORMERS, but in no way does it resemble anything I remember about GI Joe.
- It’s a good idea to have a 3D ad during the game, but it would have been great if I could have found the glasses anywhere! Guess I'm not watching "Chuck" tonight either.
- If you ever think about punching a koala in the face, that means it’s time for a new job. I bet this is especially true if you happen to be a zookeeper.
- If you’re going to be able to watch the last ten minutes of a football game, it’s a plus if those ten minutes are really close and really exciting. Even if you end up losing to K.
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