'Julie & Julia' & Peter

I must admit I was really looking forward to seeing the movie “Julie & Julia.” I always enjoyed Julia Child, and in my previous incarnation as a reporter covering television, I actually had the pleasure of meeting her.

Julia Child truly was bigger than life. She was taller than me, six-foot-two, an undeniable reality that was portrayed very well by Meryl Streep in the movie. Oh, the magic of movies, as the five-foot-six Streep was filmed cleverly to always give viewers the understanding of Child’s towering presence.

I met Julia in the early 1980s when she was readying a TV series, for PBS (if I recall correctly). I met her at a hotel, again relying on fault memory I believe it was a suite at the Algonquin. Her husband Paul (portrayed brilliantly by Stanley Tucci in the movie) was there too. I recall her greeting me loudly with a two-handed handshake. Her voice is unmistakable, her energy amazing. She sounds just like Julia Child (as stupid as that sounds). After going through my obligatory list of questions regarding her new show, I could not resist asking about Dan Aykroyd’s imitation of her on “Saturday Night Live.” For those not old enough to recall (check You Tube), it was delightfully included in “Julie & Julia.” I just loved how he blurted “I cut the Dickens out of my fingers,” as blood starts to shoot all over.

While Paul Child had remained silent on the nearby couch for the entire interview as Julia and I sat and spoke at a table, suddenly I hear the slightest giggle from his corner of the room. Julia, still bigger than life, was joyous in telling me how much she enjoyed Aykroyd’s performance. It showed me what a good sport she was. She loved to laugh almost as much as she loved to cook.

I remember her autographing a cookbook for me. I gave it to my mom. With the incredible resurgence in interest in her books since the debut of the movie, I better make a note to ask my mom if I can have that book now.

I loved the movie. Streep is one of my favorite actresses, so that certainly helped. (I needed to get over “Mama Mia!”) And Amy Adams is always adorable, even if they certainly played that down in this movie.

My son Ethan thinks I “could earn a million bucks” if I did my own spin on what Julie Powell did. He thinks I should cook Giada De Laurentiis’ entire cookbook. (She’s our mutual favorite from the Food Network.) Instead, in a nod to Julia, I think we will attempt to make Julia’s classic beef bourguignon.

Ciao—make that chow—Julia, you were one of a kind.

Remembering Woodstock

Forty years ago last weekend I was like thousands of other teenagers: I was packed tightly into a station wagon full of people and we were headed north to the Catskills. I still remember that weekend vividly, even after all these decades. We were in a caravan of thousands, many vehicles brimming over with occupants (remember, this was the era of no seatbelts and metal dashboards, so Lord knows how we all survived). We were on our way to Woodstock.

Well, most of the people on the New York Thruway seemed to be. Me, I was with my sister, mother, grandmother, two dogs and my father driving, and we were going past Yasgur’s Farm (or Bethel, if you prefer, as Woodstock was not held in Woodstock, per se, but many miles away) to continue on Route 28 to our family’s weekend house in tiny Kelly Corners. (Don’t look for it on the map; look for Margaretville, the next town over.)

While I spent that weekend most likely running through the uncrowded open spaces, little did I know my life was going to be changing so thanks to that weekend. I recall reading about the event in the paper. I remember my dad guffawing at “all those hippies” waving merrily and flashing the peace sign as we cruised by them on the road.

I also recall the next year when my dear friend Betty Joe took me to see the movie “Woodstock.” Honestly, while I was captivated by the reality of seeing (and hearing) Country Joe McDonald singing “Fixin’-to-Die Rag” (with its jubilantly defiant F-word chorus), the flashes of bare breasts from the frolicking female attendees (I had yet to meet any girls like that) and the silliness of the interview with the Port-O-San guy (who, if I recall correctly, later sued the moviemakers feeling he has been humiliated for doing his job), But the lasting image from Woodstock is Jimi Hendrix playing the “Star Spangled Banner.” He was amazing, and today I am still mesmerized by his artistry.

Almost 25 years later, I had the pleasure of attending the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in Colorado. It’s the closest I’ve come to a Woodstock-like epiphany-like experience. And I’m good with that. Watching the movie “Woodstock” got me close enough to that action, even though I must admit I have enjoyed reading all the recent articles featuring the reminiscences of those who attended.

Someday I hope to make it to Woodstock, or really Bethel, to see the museum on the site of the event. Meanwhile, I plan on buying the DVD (have had the CD for years) and watching it—without 350,000 of my closest “friends” nearby.

Be My Guest (That'll be $17.50!)

Be My Guest (That’ll be $17.50!)

In our oh-so-politically correct world, I’m fascinated how some common words take on new meanings.

For example, recently we were shopping at Nordstrom’s Rack, the discount arm of the major retailer. As we queued to reach the next available cashier, we were subjected to about three minutes of the check-out people yelling “Next guest!” as they were free to attend to the customer at the front of the line.

Guest??? I’m sorry, but I’m not a guest here. I’m a shopper. Can you imagine having guests in your home and charging them for things? “Like that T-bone, Uncle Charlie? Have some. That’ll be $17.50!” I am a customer, and to hear a cashier tell me my time has come to pay by saying “next customer, please” does not offend me. I certainly do not feel better about the entire process if I’m called a guest as you know Nordstrom’s demands their employees say.

Perhaps I’m splitting hairs here because if I am “a guest in a hotel,” I’m certainly paying. I prefer to think I am “staying” at a hotel. Again, no matter how plush the towels are (or how much soap and shampoo I leave with), I’ve never charged a guest in my house to stay overnight or demand $3.00 for a bottle of water that I leave sitting on a counter. In fact, all the munchies and water you want are free when you’re a guest at my house! (No doubt I’d never become the next Conrad Hilton—and I typically don’t leave a light on either as that’s energy wasteful.)

As I do many times when in doubt about verbiage, I consult the dictionary. Yes, I still keep a big, heavy paper-paged one on my bookshelf instead of relying on the online version. According to Webster’s, the “a” definition for guest is “a person entertained in one’s house.” Hoteliers come in next with “a person to whom hospitality is extended” or “a patron of a commercial establishment (as a hotel or restaurant).”

So sorry Nordy’s, Webster’s doesn’t see me as a guest when frequenting the Rack. Frankly, when I saw the bill for my last “stay,” I could have been a guest at a Hilton for the night and walked away with enough to buy a couple of bottles of $3 water.

The Elementary Power of PowerPoint

I have a vague recollection of second grade. I recall my teacher was a young, energetic woman who got married during the school year and the entire class was invited to the ceremony. It was otherworldly in some ways for an eight-year-old, i.e., this person who teaches me everyday has a life outside our classroom and she kissed a guy in front of all of us!

I don’t recall anything in particular that I learned that year. I am certain of one thing, however, among them was not how to use PowerPoint. Perhaps it was because as brilliant as Bill Gates is, he too at the time was a second grader.

Yet my second-grader son Ethan has mastered PowerPoint as part of his second grade curriculum. Imagine my surprise a few weeks back when he announced that he was working on a PowerPoint presentation for the upcoming Open House at his school. Huh, what? Yes, everyone in the class was putting together a presentation on different elements of the rain forest. (I don’t think I even knew the rain forest existed when I was in second grade.)

As it turned out, Ethan became so good at PowerPoint he was among the first to finish his presentation, so he ended up helping some of his classmates finish theirs. In second grade terms, in other words, he completed their work for them. And the results were amazing. His class has a row of six computers with flat screen monitors and all simultaneously were showing the presentations when we entered the rain forest-themed classroom the evening of Open House.

It was another reminder for me of how far the world has come since I was a second grader in the ‘60s. At least once a week I am amazed at what Ethan is being taught and has learned. I was always a voracious reader, but he’s reading books (most recently, Black Beauty) that I didn’t read until I was years older. I guess some of this is because so much more has happened in our world, it seems the occurrence of events, breakthroughs and advancements are occurring at an accelerated pace.

Still, I remained impressed, albeit perhaps a little skeptical about his PowerPoint skills. That was until yesterday morning when he asked me if he could put together a PowerPoint presentation for his mother’s birthday. I said sure, but offered no help. So he fired up his laptop and the next thing I knew he was grabbing pictures from Google Images and inserting photos I’d taken. I was impressed, so I put a few more photos on a thumb drive, plugged it in, and son of a gun, he was downloading them and adding them to new slides!

While I was content using my crayons to construct thank you and birthday cards, here he is prepping his PowerPoint slide show for the occasion. We sure have come a long way. I can’t imagine what the teenage years will bring other than I better be prepared or highly sedated by then.

What Would You Endorse?

Having just consumed a can of Campbell’s Chunky Healthy Request soup—the official soup sponsor of the National Football League, according to the lid—I got to thinking: What products would I endorse?

It’s all around us, celebrities endorse everything these days. You can’t find a race car that isn’t covered with logos from its sponsors. The shirts of tennis players are adorned with the same. A while back I saw an article in the New York Times about a woman who had shaved her head in preparation for using her noggin as a billboard to advertise Air New Zealand with a temporary tattoo. For two weeks’ work she picked up $1,200. Heck, my head is naturally ready.

So toe to head, here I go:

Footwear: Tony Lama boots, Cole-Haan shoes, Mizuno sneakers;
Pants: Levis, no Wranglers for me;
Socks: Acorn Polarfleece (so toasty);
Shirts: Ralph Loren dress shirts (the best cotton around);
Sunglasses: Serengeti (especially awesome for driving);
And of course, Rogaine, which I wish had been around when I was in my 20s.

My official car would have to be a Porsche. Make all the jokes you want about its drivers suffering from some inadequate body parts, the brand has been a lifelong fascination. But make room for a Mercedes G-Wagen for those trips to Home Depot.

Gadgets: Apple iPod and iPhone, Nikon digital SLRs (after years as a Minolta maniac).

Despite my addiction to Italian and Mexican foods, my food sponsors would have to include Souplantation. I love that place because we constantly battle over what kind of dinner we should have tonight. Burgers? Always a possibility. At Souplantation, you can have almost anything, plus yummy chocolate chip cookies (I’ll continue that thought later). And the soups, as one might expect, are delicious.

I’d proudly wear a Tabasco label on my polo shirt (and probably have a few inadvertent dabs across the front). I’ll put some hot red sauce on almost anything. And Dannon yogurts are the best.

Beverages: Arizona Tea’s Arnold Palmer lemonade/iced tea mix. I buy that stuff by the dozen when it’s on sale. Mountain Dew, my former nectar of the Gods, just has too many calories and sugar.

Liquor: It’s tequila, baby. And I’m open for endorsement. Let’s start with anejos.

But meanwhile, back to chocolate chips. I would ask every supplier in the world to send me a sample or three before I make my decision. It’s really all a ploy, however, as my sister would win the prize. She knows exactly how I like ‘em; soft and not crunchy.

Of course, this rant is built on the misconception that celebrities and athletes only endorse products that they truly love and use—and don’t do it for the money. Ha! How many athletes have stepped in do-do by being seen wearing footwear of some other outfitter than the one that is paying them bundles to wear theirs? Me, I’m dedicated to what I like.

Driving Me Crazy

Yesterday my son and I made a 45-minute drive to attend a friend’s father’s 84th birthday. It was a beautiful day for a trip in the car—weather-wise, I mean. By the time we pulled into the destination’s driveway, I was reminded (once again) of how glad I am (and should be) that I work from home and do not have to commute to work each day (as I once did 55 minutes each way).

In short, people behind the wheel drive me crazy (pun intended). Share some of my insanity:

Why don’t drivers use their turn signals?—This astounds me. What’s so hard about that? Now I know the answer. Courtesy and consideration are at an all-time low. But frankly, now that drivers are supposed to be hands-free on their cell phones (see next entry), couldn’t they get back to signaling? I know, it means they would have to put down the lattes they’re holding, but c’mon. Not only does it improve safety on the roads, it’s the right thing to do.

Cell phones and driving—It’s the law in California; you need to have a Bluetooth device if you’re talking on your cell phone while driving. Yet still, there is not a time I’m out in that I don’t see a lawbreaker. Honestly, the worst offenders are moms in mommy vans and blue-collar types. I have found another handy-dandy application for my eight-year-old; if my cell phone rings while we’re in the car and I don’t have my Bluetooth on, I toss my phone in the backseat and have him answer it.

Britney Spears is an idiot—I guess I could reconcile my disgust for the fact that she drives around without wearing underwear, but the fact she drove with no seat belt on with her infant son in her lap is inexcusable.

Driving with your dog in your lap—I do not recall in my lifetime seeing so many “pocket pooches.” Now I’m a fan of real dogs, by that I mean ones that weigh at least 45 pounds. Any dog that my cats could maul is a waste of time to me. Plus, many little dogs tend to be nippy and shake uncontrollably because they’re cold all the time. But I digress. Let me get to the point: anyone who drives with their dog in their lap (especially if said canine) is hanging out the window is a flat-out moron. Not only is this dangerous, what if Fee-Fee or Foofy sees something and decides to exit stage left? How would you feel then? If you love your dog so much you can’t go anywhere without it, at least make the dog sit on the seat. So what if it can’t see out. Get a bigger dog if that’s a problem.

Geriatric driving—This is a tough one, but once you reach age 70, you should have to take a driver’s test to prove you are still roadworthy. I know this is a tough call. I recall when my dear grandmother finally had to admit she shouldn’t get behind the wheel anymore. It broke some of her spirit and really made her feel less independent than she really was. But at the very least, senior citizens should be aware that the freeways and highways may be too much for them once they hit the age where they want to drive for the 5:00 Senior Special at the local eatery.

Stay out of the left lane—In the World According to Me (which is the name of this blog), if you’re driving in the “fast” lane, you better be going faster than I am. And if you’re not, get the heck out of the way! I don’t care if it’s a 55 mph zone and you’re doing 56, move over. It’s my choice if I want to drive 70 and risk getting a ticket.

Between the lines—This is simple, when you park your car, there is a reason why those white lines are painted on the ground. You are supposed to park your car between them. I know some people drive vehicles bigger than Rhode Island; that's your problem, not everyone else's. So park at the back of the lot and walk. The exercise will do you good. Or trade in that worthless gas guzzler for something smaller.

That’s all. Hey, I feel a little bit better now, but I didn’t have to drive far today.

Desert Island Discs (Music to My Ears)

I think it was Rolling Stone that started the tradition of “desert island disks,” asking the question “if you were stranded on a desert island, which 10 albums (now CDs) would you want to have with you?”

Here’s my list:
Late for the Sky—Jackson Browne
Four-Way Street—Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
How Did You Find Me Here—David Wilcox
Karla Bonoff—Karla Bonoff
A Mark, A Mission, A Brand, A Scar—Dashboard Confessional
Songman—Jim Dawson
America—America
Acoustic—Everything but the Girl
Hear that Music!—Poco
Five Days in July—Blue Rodeo

These are not in any particular order after the first two. That’s just too hard. And I’m not counting Greatest Hits and other album compilations because that isn’t fair.
As you can see, I’m terribly outdated when it comes to my list. My wife is right (again); my musical taste is “so retro.” Of my 10 favs, only “A Mark…” is from the current decade (2003).

I guess you could say I enjoy many “CD of the month” favorites, but few truly stand the test of time. Bottom line for a DID: I would play any of them at any time. That’s the real measuring stick as opposed to the fact that I love Jimi Hendrix’s “Band of Gypsys,” but can’t say I always want to listen to it. Currently, I really like Colbie Caillat’s debut effort, “Coco,” and if I’m still listening to it in another year or two, it will have serious contention to bump off someone.

I looked for a place in the top 10 for “Room for Squares” (John Mayer), but it ends up in the next 10. I couldn’t decide which John Waite CD I liked best. Same with the Eagles. But as with any list, there are no wrongs or rights. It’s totally subjective and it’s my list, and to paraphrase Leslie Gore, I’ll choose what I want to. I would never say this needs to be somebody else’s.

In fact, I am curious to know; what’s on your DID list? But I don’t want to listen to any criticism of mine. As I said, here’s a case where there is no right or wrong. It’s all in the ear of the beholder.

Facebook & Twitter: The Twin Terrors of Time-Suck

I don’t know what possessed me (oh by the way, “possessed” is the proper term), but a couple of weeks ago I joined Facebook. What was I thinking? Since then I have been getting a steady stream of invitations from fellow Facebookers. People I went to high school with, people I used to work with (and that covers a lot of places) and even a 20-something woman who lives locally with whom I share the same last name. (Don’t get any crazy ideas; no she is not some long-lost daughter.)

OK, I joined because I was curious about all the hub-bub surrounding Facebook. In our business, we have been hearing a lot about “social networking” and how it is changing how companies do business and get the word out about what they do. So I’ve dipped my foot in Facebook’s pool, Geez, I may have even submerged past the ankles, but I’ve got to stop now.

Why? Because I have work to do. Work that pays the bills, work that keeps our house and lives running, work being the parent of an active elementary schooler. I’m convinced: Facebook and Twitter are the twin terrors of time-suck. There’s some truth in saying, “Hey, get to work and stop twittering your life away!” There’s a reason it’s called Twitter; it’s a take-off on the ol’ “why do you think they call it dope?” Yes, you are twittering your life away.

It’s bad enough that I am relatively obsessed with my iPhone, at least I use that for business that is beneficial. Writing on someone’s wall on Facebook or dropping my latest locale in 140 characters or less on Twitter seems so incredibly self-indulgent at a time in history when I can’t imagine that our society has ever been more self-indulgent. Quite frankly, I don’t care if you’ve just gone from Starbucks to the grocery store. I just read a few days ago about a professional basketball player who used Twitter while in the locker room at halftime to report to his followers that his coach was mad at the team’s first-half play. A look at the scoreboard could tell you that. Shouldn’t the player be focused internally—or listening to his coach—instead of being distracted with Twitter?

My commitment to myself is that I will not spend/waste time on Facebook during traditional business hours. I owe that to myself and our company. Frankly, most of what I read on Facebook is meaningless and highly trivial. Sure, I enjoy seeing some pictures of friends and hearing if they have been somewhere notable. I may even look with one eye if someone mentions a book they liked or a play or movie they saw. You know how people tend to say “too much information,” when people reveal more than they should? Well, when it comes to Facebook and Twitter, they really mean “too little information” and no one cares. C’mon, leave yourself with some mystique. Wouldn’t you be more productive doing something/anything else?

Right On for Tie-Dye!

I love tie-dye. It speaks to my Woodstock Generation roots. I love it today as much as I did as a teenager.

My mom was thought of as so “cool” by the other neighborhood kids because she let my sister and I make our own tie-dye T-shirts. She put three giant lobster pots on the ratio with different dyes and let us create our own shirts. She even let me tie-dye some old formerly white bed sheets. I recall later taking them off to college where they served me well adorning the cement block walls or covering our Goodwill-purchased couch.

When I was a sophomore in high school our entire class made tie-dye shirts to wear as our uniform for the annual Field Day competition between the four grades. While I don’t recall how we fared that day, I do remember getting into a giant water balloon brawl afterward and finding that the tie-dye from my shirt now tattooed by entire chest. Took three days for it to wear off so I could return to my usual pastiness.

Sue and I bought tie-dyed underwear for a select few buddies who attended our wedding. We went on to buy tie-dye for all the firstborns of friends, feeling it was like a rite of passage. “Be born, wear tie-dye.”

There used to be a hippy-dippy lady at the Seaside Bazaar in Encinitas who was our main connection. While we bought loads of goods from her for more than a decade, I guess there were not enough compatriots to keep her ahead of the tax man and others. So she is gone, but we still proudly wear her wears.

It comes down to a basic: Tie-dye makes me happy. And what’s wrong with that? It’s hard to be droopy when you’re wearing tie-dye. People react well to it too.

I typically adorn Ethan in tie-dye when we go to highly populated places, like baseball games, Legoland or Disneyland. Who wants to say, “Have you seen my kid, he was wearing a white t-shirt?” In tie-dye, he stands out.

The hippies were right; tie-dye rules. And 40 years later, it’s still spreading good cheer.

Littering is Never Acceptable

Living near a high school, we have clear evidence that teenagers, despite living in today’s “Inconvenient Truth” times, have not fully caught on to saving the planet by not littering it.

Every day after eating fast food in their BMWs and jacked up pick-ups, many of the teens cavalierly toss the remains under their vehicles or over our fence instead of disposing of it properly. It’s disheartening and disgusted. And how can this be considered acceptable?

I cannot think of one valid reason why littering is acceptable under any situation. Why every morning when I fetch our newspapers am I also disposing of flying Taco Bell wrappers and Jack-in-the-Box fries containers? I won’t even start on how I feel about our neighbors who let their dogs poop outside our fence!

So my best hopes for our planet rest with the next generation, that of my eight-year-old. He already seems to get it. He wanted to know why his mother used all those store-bought water bottles when she could refill one from the fridge? And why do we use all those plastic bags when we could carry all our groceries in a big canvas bag? Why can’t he take a thermos to school instead of those drink pouches? All good points. Now the inside of our cars may be stuffed with an assortment of snack and candy wrappers, juice boxes and discarded napkins, but I’m basically OK with that unless the contents alert my nose.

Every now and then when a see an army of orange vested people picking up trash on the roadside I think that all high schoolers should be remanded to perform this duty as part of community service. It does the world good. I also try to remember to bring an extra trash bag with us when we go to the beach just to pick up all the debris left by uncaring beachgoers. Hey, every little bit helps.

Sully is My Hero

If you asked my son who is hero is, he probably would say Carmelo Anthony. Not exactly George Washington or Thomas Jefferson, but then again neither of those guys could dunk a basketball or wore a cool uniform. And George’s wig is no match for ‘Melo’s cornrows.

Anyway, the problem here is on a bigger scale than an eight-year-old’s view of the heroism. When I was his age, I probably would have answered Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays. Same narrow focus. Why are these guys heroes? Because they can hit and catch a baseball like few others? That’s a prerequisite for being a hero?

Audie Murphy, the movie star, came to the Silver Screen because he first distinguished himself in battle in World War II. Now that’s heroic. But today, sadly, the men and women who serve their country on foreign soil, especially those who give their lives, are rarely considered heroes. Pat Tillman, the NFL player who gave up a lucrative career on the gridiron to serve and then ended up losing his life (shamefully, to friendly fire), now he should be considered a hero.

Heroes should be bigger than life. Despite Murphy’s puny status, he was—even if not always on the big screen. John Wayne and Harrison Ford have enjoyed distinguished careers portraying heroes.

Yet I still struggle to answer the question “Who is your hero?” I want to say John F. Kennedy. Oh, what could have been, what could have happened. Now we’ve all read and heard plenty about the flawed side of this great man. I’ve read some things about Mantle and Mays that lowered my esteem too. In fact, I met the Say Hey Kid once at a sports convention and he was outright nasty. (Yet he didn’t win the top honor that day; another of my childhood heroes, Cardinals pitcher Bob Gibson, did. I asked Gibby for an autograph and he pushed my ball-in-hand away like he used to brush away batters from the inside of the plate.)

Today, my heroes are more likely to reside in the boardroom than ballpark. Bill Gates and Warren Buffett are amazing. And the three Steves: Spielberg, Wozniak and Jobs deserve much consideration.

Yet nobody fascinated me in the ‘90s more than Michael Jordan. Despite his superhuman athletic abilities, it was his off-the-charts will to win that really impressed me. I wish I had that relentless drive; heck, I even threw a game or two of Candyland when Ethan was a pre-schooler just to avoid a tantrum. Mike wouldn’t do that.

But for today, I give my vote to Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger III, the miraculous pilot of US Air Flight 1549. Here was a man who has trained his entire professional life to be the best pilot he could be and on that fateful day—Jan. 15, 2009—when he was forced to figuratively step up to the plate and apply all his knowledge and skill under life-harrowing circumstances, he came through in brilliance. Hitting that game-winning home run characterizes some people as heroes, but here is a man who saved the lives of his entire flight, 155 people. We’ve seen since that this is not always the case.

And with all the subsequent adulation and publicity that came his way, he remained humbled, measured and completely under control—all the qualities that make him an exceptional pilot and human being. He actually seemed a little uncomfortable in the spotlight, which I really appreciated. I don’t think he’s going to move to Hollywood or start partying with Paris.

What he did that cold day in Manhattan was truly heroic. The lives he touched with his skill and bravery go far beyond the passengers and crew onboard that day. We should hope that the pilots we fly with are somewhere near as competent and composed as my hero Sully.

Introducing X-Golf

I have invented a new sport. I call it X-Golf. Now, it’s not new from the standpoint of its built around golf, but the environment gives the old game a new twist.

Why is it that fans have to be silent during tennis and golf matches while they can scream their brains out at most other sports? In X-Golf, the fans can hoop and holler all they want. Then we’ll see how well golfers can concentrate. After all, I have seen Tiger Woods repeatedly “check his swing,” as they would say in baseball, when there is the least disruption while he’s ready to hit. In X-Golf, you can heckle the players all you want.

Then there’s the course. The worst obstacles they face now are sand traps and waterholes. Let’s get some real challenges in there. Like having to drive it over a house or through a six-foot-wide hole in a wall. Then once you get to the putting green, why aren’t there obstacles before reaching the cup? Well, in X-Golf there are. We’ll steal a few favorites from the miniature golf links, like a windmill and having to put to one hole to have the ball roll out another nearer the cup.

X-Golf mixes traditional golf with X-Games spirit. The golfers could ride scooters or hopped-up all-terrain carts, depending on the conditions at each hole.

And the water hazards? They’d have alligators in them! Sprinklers could go off at anytime, along with explosions and fireworks. Stealing a scene from boxing, shapely ladies would be parading the course holding score signs. There would be no caddies, either.

Think of all the commotion and excitement that has been generated by the X-Games in the past years. Then think of how excited golf fans will be to be able to get out on the course and really cheer, instead of having to stand there in stone silence. This is bound to bring out even more fans and create a real TV-friendly environment. It’s waiting for some Hollywood producer to discover.

50 Questions

Questionnaires like the one below are always flying around the Internet. This one was sent to me by a friend from high school. Even though I have known her for almost 40 years now, I don’t know her as well as a wife and mom as I did as a teenager and good friend, so it was fun to see how she answered and then send along to her my responses to the same questions.

So try this out yourself and ask a few friends to do the same.

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? No, hopefully not Mr. Pan.

2. THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? Last week, but they were happy tears.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? One of my best features, hasn’t changed much since sixth grade.

4.WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? Salami.

5. ANY TATOOS? No.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Maybe, depends on the moment.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? You must be kidding??? Seriously, now, far too much. It’s a habit I wish I could break.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yes, amazingly. But I’d trade them for a full head of hair.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Yes, but have avoided the opportunity so far.

10. YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Trix (they’re not just for kids), but for healthier reasons, I’ll say oatmeal or Special K with blueberries.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR FOOTWEAR WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Yes, if they have laces.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? Mentally or physically? Neither exceptionally.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? These days, mint chocolate chip. Check back next week.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? Height.

15. FAVORITE COLOR? Red, unless I’m blue than it’s black.

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? Lack of hair (on the top of my head).

17. WHO IS THE PERSON YOU MISS THE MOST? My maternal grandfather.

18. BOXERS, BRIEFS, THONGS, COMMANDO? Briefs.

19. EVER GOTTEN A SPEEDING TICKET? Yes, several, but luckily not lately.

20. HOW OLD WERE YOU ON YOUR FIRST DATE AND WHERE DID YOU GO? 14, the movies.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? The birds outside my office window, but wish it was my iPod.

22. FIRST CONCERT? The (Young) Rascals, age 12.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS? Vanilla, rosemary.

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? My wife.

25. BELIEVE IN TRUE LOVE? At least sequentially.

26. FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH IN PERSON? Basketball, but please give me a good seat.

27. EVER BEEN TO THE MOVIES BY YOURSELF? No.

28. OWN A GUN? No.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Only when I want to see.

30. FAVORITE FOOD? Pizza or enchiladas, but not together.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? Every story should have a happy ending.

32. DO YOU OWN MORE THAN SIX BASEBALL HATS? Yes.

33. DO YOU EAT ASPARAGUS? No.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER? Summer—all year ‘round

35. HUGS OR KISSES? Both, if appropriate and heartfelt.

36. FAVORITE DESSERT? Ice cream or tiramisu.

37. HOW MANY SONGS ARE ON YOUR iPOD? 11,000 and counting.

38. iPHONE, YES OR NO? Yes, recently.

39. THE LAST BOOK YOU READ? Autobio of actor Robert Wagner.

40. THE LAST THING YOU LOST? My hair.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT? Two hours of anything on HGTV.

42. FAVORITE SOUND? My son laughing or a 911 Porsche engine.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Fab4

44. WHAT IS THE FURTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? Japan or Hong Kong, I guess—or when I first when off to college.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? Do a wicked cartwheel for an old guy.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN? In a hospital.

47. BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION? Yes.

48. REMEMBER THE NAME OF YOUR SIXTH GRADE TEACHER? Yes, Miss Passor.

49. CAN YOU USE A STICK SHIFT/MANUAL TRANSMISSION? Yes, all six gears and reverse.

50. STEAK OR FISH? Red meat, make it medium rare.

That’s all folks.

30 Days with No Cheese

Did you see where the Vatican is suggesting that its gazillions of followers give up high technology gadgets for Lent?

http://www.ajc.com/services/content/news/stories/2009/03/05/lent_ipods_internet.html

I’m thankful I’m not Catholic because I don’t know how I could make it through the abstinence period while not receiving any text messages or iTunes suggestions from the Pope.

Thankfully, all I’m trying to give up for the five weeks leading up to Easter is cheese. It wasn’t even my idea. On the strong suggestion (i.e., order) of her personal trainer, Sue has decided to give up cheese for the entire month of March (hey wait a minute; isn’t that 31 days?). I knew for my own good on many levels I should make this sacrifice too.

As is her custom, she certainly aimed high. Cheese (especially extra sharp cheddar and Cotswold) could be my No. 1 vice, in front of chocolate chip cookies (especially my sister’s), pizza (cheese there too) and M&Ms or Mounds bars (double-threat of chocolate). It’s not uncommon for us to have six different types of cheese in our refrigerator.

Now I should mention she is also determined to give up chardonnay for the same time period. That’s easy for me, but very tough for her. We do have ulterior motives beyond Lent, I must admit, as we are not outwardly religious. We’re doing it for weight loss.

I have a pair of jeans that must be 30 years old. My mom has faithfully kept them in service all these years. They serve as my “scale” for when I need to step up my gym visits and cut down on the aforementioned tasty pleasures. I haven’t fit into them since after Thanksgiving. Currently, I need to drop at least five “el-bees,” pounds that is, to even get into them uncomfortably once again. Seven or more would be really nice.

Part of the problem with having been skinny until I went away to college was that there is no place to go but up. The fabled “Freshman 10” became the foundation for another 10 when I started being able to afford to eat at better restaurants. Beer has never been a problem, never really liked it, and haven’t had one since 1988.

If I want a treat, keep the Bud or booze, aim me at Mrs. Fields instead. But I know I can lay off the chips for 30 (or 31) days, no problem, I can do it. The cheese, however, is going to be a challenge. I must admit our favorite guilty pleasure when watching a movie at home is when I whip up a tray of nachos for our viewing pleasure. Slathered layers of extra sharp cheddar and Pepper Jack over chips with mushrooms, green onions and jalapenos baked to a perfect melt. Hold on while I whip the saliva from my lips.

But not this month. It’s only Day Six, but who’s counting? I am. Especially as I made a ham-and-cheese sandwich this morning for my son’s lunch. Or when I made him mac-and-cheese a couple of nights ago for dinner. But I can do this. We all need to eat healthier, drop a few pounds and show ourselves we have some self-discipline. I also want to support Sue in her cause. After all, if she can give up wine and cheese for March, I must march with her to her tune.

I was, just three or so years ago, a Mountain Dew addict. Could down two liters a day easy. No, the massive amount of caffeine didn’t affect my sleep, but the calories and sugar didn’t help. (Unfortunately, the diet variety tastes completely different and I have no interest.) Now I just socially do the Dew, whenever I’m lucky enough to be in a restaurant that serves it (and there are not a whole lot, unfortunately or luckily, depending on how I feel that day).

But back to the Roman Catholic bishops in Italy and their absurd request to ditch all your high-tech gizmos and gadgets for Lent. Did they forget that the Vatican launched its own YouTube channel in January? Quite frankly, while laying off the cheese is doable for us, we could not give up our new iPhones even for a day. I’ll wax on about that at a later time.

AARP is Calling (Curse the R-word)

It happened quite uneventfully a year before my 50th birthday: a letter from AARP, welcoming me to the club. I reacted as if it wasn’t even obtaining middle age status, it’s congratulations, you’re old! I was feeling old enough without AARP rubbing it in. My next thought was one of my favorite Woody Allen lines: I don’t want to be a member of any club that would have me as a member.

My biggest beef with AARP is what the letters stand for: American Association of Retired Persons. It’s that R-word that sticks in my craw. I guess it must have bothered officials there too as in 1999, the American Association of Retired Persons morphed into AARP, having outgrown the first “A” and the “R” in its moniker. It’s a transformation not unlike KFC, where everyone (at least of AARP age) knows the “F” is for “fried”—not such a great option in our health conscious society today. As it’s fashionable to go by initials or acronyms, AARP has become bad, phat or hip (you choose the terminology).

While my father and father-in-law were fortune enough to enter retirement before their 60th birthdays, the prospects for me are more than a million-to-one (like winning the lottery). When I hit six-oh we’ll still need every buck we can make to pay for Ethan’s fast approaching college education. If a year at a very good college today costs in excess of $50,000, wanna make a bet on the tab in 2018? (I think my father got off easy—even though he would disagree—as my entire higher education cost half that much.)

So here it is more than three years later, and I’m still a proud non-member of AARP. I’m not saying the day won’t come. I am old (and wise) enough to know I never say “never!” to too many things (besides never owning a minivan or taking up smoking).

But before I do, AARP, fix your tag line: The power to make it better. Shouldn’t it be the power to get into movies cheaper or to even have health insurance? What exactly is it? Am I still too old young to have learned the secret of “it”? I don’t have time to figure it out right now, I must get back to work.

What Do You Do for a Living? (And How Would Your Kid Explain It?)

When I was growing up, I hardly knew the occupations of the parents of many of my classmates. Unless, of course, they were policemen, nurses, teachers or housewives, I probably didn’t have a clue. In many cases I never knew, until I’m reading their obituaries now 40 years later.

Unlike when I was a kid, my son Ethan has a pretty good idea of what his mother and I do for a living because we both work from home and he gets to see us in “action.”

So I was particularly shocked one day when I picked him up at pre-school (this was five years ago) and one of the teachers was giving me the hairy eyeball. “We had a discussion with the kids today about what their parents do for a living,” she explained, with a lilting chuckle.
“Ah ha,” I said. “So what did he say?”

“My dad works on his computer—and does lots of laundry.” Well, that is accurate, I thought. Wait, it gets better…

“My mommy sits in her studio all day and makes money!” Well, neither one of those lines is blatantly incorrect (especially the part about me doing lots o’ laundry), but they don’t paint too accurate (or flattering) a picture. (No Sue is not a counterfeiter, by the way.)

But it did show us that while Ethan did get to see us in action, he didn’t really know what the action was about. Luckily, some of the other kids were just as offbase.

One said, “My daddy is a sailor.” In reality: this guy is a very accomplished electrical engineer who relieves his work stress by going sailing every Wednesday evening.

What does his mom do? “My mom goes to the gym.” No mention of shleping him and his younger sister everywhere, taking care of them, buying groceries, etc.

Ethan knows we do writing and public relations, while I’m sure sometimes he doesn’t have any better handle on the latter than I do.

So next time you’re feeling a bit breezy and whimsical, ask your kid(s) about your profession. You may be shocked by the answers, but better you than the highly amused teacher.

Too Much WWF in the NBA

Remember the old joke “I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out”? Well, I don’t get to watch as many NBA games as I used to, so I recently tuned into a Lakers-Celtics game. Immediately, it made me realize why I don’t watch that much pro basketball anymore. There was too little NBA as I like it and way too many WWF-like moments.

For example, Kevin Garnett dunks the ball after bursting through traffic. Quite impressive. But then he has to punctuate the moment by posing for the camera and assuming a loud-mouthed “check out these biceps” stance. Is he Pretty Boy George or George Mikan? Bill Walton, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Willis Reed or Wes Unseld (guys I watched when I watched lots of basketball) would never stoop to such attention-getting antics.

I always think of that coach’s comment (it’s been attributed to Vince Lombardi and Joe Paterno, among others) after a player scores a touchdown and starts dancing in the end zone like it was “Saturday Night Fever”: “Act like you’ve been there before.” I could see if Garnett’s feat was a game-winning play, but showboat dunks are commonplace these days.

The NBA is not alone in its image problems. Look over the latest steroid news from Major League Baseball or which NFL player is the latest to get pulled over for drunk driving or misbehave in a nightclub.

While I enjoy ex-NBA great Charles Barkley for his candor and cockiness, he shot an air ball a while back when he said he wasn’t a role model so he didn’t have to act like one. All of us are role models, if only in small, brief or seemingly insignificant ways. I put in a lot of volunteer time at my son’s elementary school. I love it, getting to know my sons’ classmates, working with them on their lessons, helping out in the class, watching them grow into the most recent hope for our country. So even in my small way, I know I need to set a good example. What would my example say if my behavior was not exemplary? For that same reason I don’t park in the “no parking zone” in front of the school like many of the “more important” parents. That isn’t acceptable anywhere else, so why at school? I say hello by name to as many of the kids as I can. I help them whether it’s spelling a word or retying their sneakers or reminding them not to forget their backpacks.

So what does it say to our youth when our sports heroes are tattooed like billboards and end up frequently at the police station? After all, who wouldn’t want to be a professional athlete? The worst player in the NBA, for which I could qualify for, makes millions. Geez, backup catchers in Major League Baseball can bring home $2 million a year.

The recent antics of NBAer Stephon Marbury come to mind. I used to admire this guy as he started a line of sneakers that, unlike the LeBron and Kobe models that cost more than $100, were really affordable. Then the guy goes to war against the Knicks front office and refuses to play—despite the fact he’s being paid $20 million a year. What kind of example is he setting? Needless to say, I will not buy my son another pair of his sneakers.

It is difficult to be a role model these days, especially for people in the public eye. You are always being watched in this YouTube era. My son’s favorite athlete is Carmelo Anthony. As luck would have it, right after we purchased ‘Melo’s first Nuggets jersey as a birthday gift for my son, he runs into trouble with the law. (Kobe jerseys have long been outlawed in our household, I don’t have to explain why.) When relying this incident to one of my friends, who’s also a dad, I received some wise advice: “We only root for teams, not individuals.” So my son has quite a few Denver Nuggets shirts and sweatshirts as a result of that sage wisdom.

But I’ve always filled his closet with merchandise of the old-time NBA players, like Walt Frazier and Julius Erving, guy I grew up idolizing. The Knicks of the ‘70s played basketball the way I love it best. No posturing screaming and “Clyde” had those killer sideburns and stylish threads. Can’t wait for that look to make a comeback.

Until then, care to place a friendly wager on when those shorty shorts will come back into the NBA closet?

Why Did I Wear a Mickey Mouse Watch?

There was a time when I wore a Mickey Mouse watch to work everyday. Granted, it might have been hidden under the cuff of a dress shirt, but I had it on. Why? Blame it on the most hateful boss I ever had. (I won’t give him the satisfaction of naming names.)

This guy used the Mouse’s name in vain every time he wasn’t happy with something—and that was mighty often. “This article on page three is Mickey Mouse,” he would growl. He would storm around our offices and if he saw something out of place or not to his liking he would shot, “This ain’t no Mickey Mouse operation!” (Yeah, great, a publisher with poor grammatical skills judging the editorial copy of a magazine.)

Well, to uphold Mickey’s good name—as well as to amuse the downtrodden troops I was in charge of—I purchased a MM watch while in Orlando attending a trade show. I wore it proudly, if not somewhat secretly, every day.

The inside joke among my staff became every time they heard Mickey’s name uttered, everyone would respond like Pavlov’s Dog by tapping their left wrists with the first two fingers on their right hands. It became comical and the more pounded upon we were, the more it became our emotional savior.

Isn’t that the role Mickey should play? Even though that watch died more than 15 years ago, I have continued to buy replacements to maintain the memory. Every now and then, I take that watch out of my bedside drawer, put it on and say perhaps the world would be a better place if just a few more things were "Mickey Mouse."

I (Heart) My Vita-Mix (Want a Chard-and-Strawberry Smoothie?)

When attending the annual convention of one of our clients, while Sue was working, Ethan and I wandered the tradeshow floor and marveled at all the exercise contraptions and assorted health-related gizmos.

Nothing captivated us more than the man doing the Vita-Mix blender demonstration. Not that we hadn’t seen the Vita-Mix before. Every year at the San Diego County (nee Del Mar) Fair we would gaze admiringly at its prowess. After all, the Vita-Mix is the key enabler at stores such as Jamba Juice and Orange Julius, as it’s the Rolls Royce of blenders.

While dreaming about my next perfectly blended margarita (it pulverizes ice like nobody’s business), the pitchman showed us how the Vita-Mix could make many other things, such as smoothies and sorbet. This machine grinds and blends like I couldn’t believe. If I needed additional proof, the guy made the most delicious peanut butter I’d ever tasted right before our eyes. All he did was open a can of Planter’s peanuts, toss the contents in the blender, mash it down and in 30 seconds I’m thinking I could eat a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich everyday. Try making peanut butter with your existing blender, the pitchman dares. (Don’t do it.)

But what sold me was when he made the best chicken tortilla soup I’d ever tasted—in a matter of minutes and without an oven or microwave. I also liked that the Vita-Mix motor is so powerful you don’t have to cut up strawberries. Just clean ‘em and toss ‘em in—stems and all. It’ll also knead pizza dough and grind whole grains.

Throughout the afternoon, Ethan and I strolled repeatedly by the Vita-Mix booth and tasted whatever was being whipping up at the time. After a while, we timed our visits to coincide with the making of ice cream. We almost became shills, making extra enthusiastic yummy sounds as we sampled the little cups from his tray.

When Sue was done with her work, she joined us for another pass-by. She immediately was impressed too and soon after she signed the papers for our own Vita-Mix 5000. She even paid a little more for a red model, as that is our desired kitchen appliance color. The man threw in an extended (10-year) warranty (better than Costco’s!), assortment of flexible chopping boards and a CD with cookbook. What a deal.

After staring at it for a week or so in our kitchen, I got over my intimidation and attempted a batch of chicken tortilla soup. While my initial efforts did not rival the pitchman’s for consistency or taste, I set about refining the recipe for our tastes.

At a baby shower Sue received additional validation when she found our friend Janet, a connoisseur of all things good, loves her Vita-Mix too. She’s a smoothie expert and her favorite is made with chard! While that doesn’t sound appetizing, she swears the chard actually is sweet and the concoction is delicious and extra-healthy. Her husband Drew prefers the concoction with a banana, which sounds more appealing to me.

Shea Goodbye

Shea Stadium, the home of the New York Mets since 1964, met its demise last week.

While I was sad, I was ever so glad that this summer Sue and I were able to fulfill a promise to our son Ethan that we would get him there--and Yankee Stadium too--before both landmarks were torn down.

The promise was an extension of my maternal grandfather taking me to see the infant Mets at the Polo Grounds in 1962. Within two years, both he and that historic stadium would be gone.

I have many great memories of Shea, starting with my mom taking my sister and me on the Port Washington branch of the Long Island Rail Road to Flushing to games. My mom was never a sports fan, but she knew how important it was for a boy to experience pro baseball first-hand. I recall her taking us to Shea in its opening year, 1964, as part of going to the adjoining World’s Fair. There’s a program and yearbook from that game somewhere at her house along with a Mr. Met and bat-shaped pen.

It was at Shea that I first saw Willie Mays. Granted, he was way past his prime (and he played several seasons too many), but I can tell Ethan (and anyone else who will listen) that I saw the Say Hey Kid make his patented basket catch (even if I did see him strike out in situations he never would have in his prime).

Then once we got past the era of Galen Cisco and Marv Throneberry, there was Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman and a pre-prime Nolan Ryan. The 1969 “Miracles Mets” truly were amazing. And who can forget Ed Kranepool or Ron Swoboda?

So it was fitting to see current Mets superstars David Wright and Jose Reyes on the diamond in the last game we saw. It was also perfect that we took my sister Sarah with us.

It’s sad to see these aged but storied baseball palaces come down. But today’s world of professional sports demands dozens of luxury boxes, annoying and cacophonic scoreboards a-blazing and fancy-dancy clubhouses for players who routinely make millions of dollars a year.

I’ll avoid the argument over how ridiculous it is that the Mets new stadium is named after a bank that is currently so screwed up that it requires a taxpayer bailout but somehow has the $400 million to spend on the naming rights.

In a final farewell to Shea, I’ll always recall the line from the classic movie “The Rutles,” which proclaimed the stadium indeed was named after Che Guevara. Still makes me laugh.

How Willie Nelson Got Me a Free Pair of Cowboy Boots

In the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, I went to Dallas frequently on business. Whenever in town, I would try to catch up with my friend Eileen Harrell. We’d met through work, she was a fabulous PR person (yes, there are some) and she also happened to be a lot of fun, terrific company and knew were all the good restaurants and shops were located. One evening she took me to the biggest boot store I’d ever seen, it was the size of a football field.

I was overwhelmed by what I saw, it was an assemblage of footwear that even Emelda Marcos could not have imagined. After an hour of examining every size 10 I could find, I came upon this dandy pair of brown snakeskin beauties. The one thing I had noticed in the store was an entire lack of service. There were plenty of employees, and they were all running about, but no one paid any attention to Eileen and me.

When I finally took my selection to the register, I realized why. There on the counter was a stack of boot boxes five feet (clarification: in this case I mean 60 inches, no pun intended) high. Feeling insignificant, I put my lone pair on the counter. The harried saleswoman looked up from attending to the stack of boxes and took my credit card.

“Quite a pile of boots,” I commented as she rung up my card.

Yes,” she said smiling. She then reached over and extended her hand to me. In it was a credit card, which read “Mrs. Willie Nelson.” She pointed at the stack.

“Wow,” I replied, wondering how many other women had had a credit card just like that one (at least three, I later learned). I then signed the sales slip, she handed it to me and off we went.

As Eileen drove the tollway into the night, she said to me, “Hey, let’s check out those fancy boots.” As I pulled them from the box, the receipt came flying out. It was then that I noticed: the saleswoman had forgotten to keep her copy. (I should inject, this took place during the pre-digital era when credit cards were run through a manual device.) She had no record of the sale. The boots were free! When I began to think that perhaps we should turn back, Eileen said, “Well, I guess this is your lucky day!” And any further thoughts of turning back disappeared as she turned our attention to dinner.

I lost track of Eileen over the years, but every time I dust off those boots, I still think of her fondly—and give a tip of the hat to ol’ Willie, and wish I’d gone for the pricey ostrich pair!

The Legend of Our Bob's Big Boy

OK, I’ll admit it: my family may not be like any family you know. After all, how many families do you know that have a four-feet-tall fiberglass Bob’s Big Boy living in their den? Hopefully, just one.

Bob used to live in the garage, keeping an eye on my prized car. He’d come in the house every Christmas as part of our holiday festivities. I gift-wrapped five sides of a box that slips over the burger he’s holding so it looks like he’s carrying a gift. In the summer, he would go out on the lawn, but only under supervision.

Then, a couple of years ago, in the aftermath of Christmas and New Years, Ethan asked if “his brother” could stay in the den instead of returning to the cold garage. So, like the man who came to dinner, he never went back to his original home.

How Bob came to live with us is an interesting story (at least to us). The story starts back in the mid-1970s when Sue was a waitress (a “Bob’s Big Girl”) at a Bob’s Big Boy restaurant in her hometown of Cherry Hill, N.J. When I first met her in the late ‘80s one of her prized possessions (besides her Bonnie Raitt albums) was a faux-wood nameplate from Bob’s with her name on it. So it was not a stretch that we started buying plastic Bob’s banks when we saw them during our forays into antique stores. We’d drop $5 here and there for the banks no matter the condition. Soon our basketball team became a baseball team became a football team became a small town. There were several types according to the years.

Flash forward to 1992. We met a local antique dealer named Artie Robbins. Over a few years we purchased an array of Bob’s memorabilia from his store on Highway 101 in Leucadia. Then one day, there was a message on the phone. To the uninformed, it sounded like a drug deal: “Ah, it’s Artie. You guys better get down here. Man, I got some stuff I think you’re gonna like. It’s big.”
When we arrived, there they were: six “lobby” Bobs (the “rooftop” Bobs are taller) standing in the back lot of his store. He was already building two “coffins” for a pair that had been bought by some collector in Japan. Well, Artie’s timing was serendipitous as Sue had just gotten a bonus at work. So before we left his shop that day, we were carefully fitting a big Bob into the back of our 4Runner.

While many people would be horrified at the price, let me just say that when the first “Austin Powers” movie came out five years later, our “investment” tripled overnight. I’ve seen similar Bobs on eBay for five times what we paid. That’s why I only polish him with the best Megauirs car polish and wax I use on my car.

Bob loves to get in the spirit of the holidays. Last year for our Halloween party, our friend Mark Brown did up Bob in spiders and cobwebs to go with the lights Sue had already adorned him with. This year he came to the party (or really, the party came to him) as a mummy, wrapped in toilet paper. We have a specially wrapped box that I slip over his hamburger every Christmas so it looks like he’s delivering gifts.

Bob remains a cherished member of the family. He’s so popular every time people come to visit, we take their picture with Bob and add it to the “Wall of Bob” in the hallway to Ethan’s room. There’s quite a collection. C’mon over sometime, we’ll add to it.

Don't Be Sarcastic (and Have a Nice Day)!

My natural tendency to be sarcastic is another thing that I need to change. (I’ve added that to my big, ol’ list).

Sarcasm thrived when I lived in New York, but its appreciation as a keenly aimed barb, verbal prod or raconteur wit is totally lost in California. I mean, totally, man. People don’t get it, whether it’s used as an understatement or juxtaposition. Ultimately, sarcasm does have a place. It may be mistaken for mean or is totally un-understood (if that was a real word).

But like any long-held habit, it’s hard to break. I remember the biggest guy in my college dorm. What did we call him? “Tiny.” (Frankly, I don’t recall his given name.) Sarcasm once was plentiful in the “insert word + much?” equation. Say, some scarfed a Big Mac in seemingly one inhale, my response would be “Hungry much?”

But I also recall when my boss asked me to take on the leadership of a second magazine. After being dumbfounded for a moment as to how I was going to do double-duty, I remember responding, “Sure, no problem. Just throw all that on my back and I’ll take care of it.” (Sorry, Kurt.) He was from California, didn’t see a problem; I missed the opportunity to air just how this was going to be done.

I proclaim that the sarcastic mind requires a bit of a refined sense of humor. Nevertheless, when my son recognizes my insincerity, perhaps I need to go to Sarcastics Anonymous. When he sees me wearing my gray T-shirt that proclaims “have a nice day” across the top of the ubiquitous yellow smiley face, he knows most of the time when I utter that saying I mean just the opposite. Like when someone steals the parking space I am waiting for or cuts in front of me on the grocery line. In my defense, I say “have a nice day!” in defense of being wronged. After all, it’s better than saying what I am really thinking.

My son knows my true intentions because he has heard the story about the day I faced off with a lady who blocked our driveway with her mommy-van as she went across the street to the school. I alerted her to the fact she had parked inconsiderately, to which she replied she would only be a minute. Well, that was too long as I was trying to get out of my driveway now. I asked her to move, things escalated from there, we both gesticulated wildly (but neither with one finger) and as I pulled by her, she yelled “Have a nice day!” I braked, ever briefly, smiled and replied, “No, you have a nice day!” Who said sarcasm can’t be sincere?

I’m trying real hard to extract sarcasm from my verbal diet. So now if I say to you, “Have a nice day.” I’m not being sarcastic. Instead, consider:
• I don’t know what else to say;
• Have to dash and this signals my departure; or
• Hopefully really mean it.

So have a nice day!

The Happiest Place on Earth?

Disneyland is known as the “happiest place on earth.” As far as I'm concerned, that isn't typically true unless you enjoy spending most of your time standing on line (as opposed to how I spend much of my life now, online).

But for one fine day, August 21, 2007, Walt’s dream truly exceeded my wildest expectations. We arrived at D-land early and invigorated. My wife’s older sister, her husband and teenaged daughter were visiting from New Jersey. Also in the entourage that day were my wife, our son and a classmate of his.

Upon entering the gates we bee-lined for Pirates of the Caribbean as most everyone agreed that was their first choice to start the day. Upon leaving the ride, we were greeted by a couple of extra cheery Disney folk who were handing out something. Frankly, I couldn’t see what it was because it was too dark in the exit tunnel, but I took it and headed to the early morning sunshine. Once in the light, I noticed it was a lanyard with a credit-card sized piece of plastic attached to it with eight smaller pieces surrounding it. On the front it said DREAM FASTPASS.

Then it dawned on me, this indeed were the keys to the (magic) kingdom. I made sure everyone in our party was likewise bestowed, and when we found out they weren’t, my wife ran back to ask for enough for our entire party.

We were about to embark on a most amazing day. For the uninitiated, a Dream FastPass gives the wearer the powers and privilege of celebrity. All those long lines? Forget about ‘em! Disney, in its infinite marketing genius, came up with the FastPass idea years ago to give people specific times to ride rides instead of waiting endlessly on the serpentine lines they so cleverly weave. The Dream FastPass, however, lets you cut ahead of those people. You go right to the head of the line, blasting past throngs of envious, sad-eyed guests, and get on. Instant gratification care of the Mouse.

I recall the first time I went to Disneyland, the buzz in the park was that Kenny Rogers was there. Not that it excited me much (you gotta know when to hold ‘em), but it was fascinating to see how the Disneyland workers held the lines as the celebrity party dashed to each the attraction. Life, truly, as a rock star, waits for no one.

We quickly became overwhelmingly intoxicated with our Dream FastPass powers. Wanna ride Space Mountain, right now, well, let’s go. There's a long line on Indiana Jones? Who cares? Right to the front we go! When we wanted to ride that awesome California Screamin’ rollercoaster again, we took the FastPasses from the kids who didn’t want to go and went again. The looks of envy on the other visitors as well as all the employees congratulating us at every turn stay with me to this day. Subsequent visits have all been letdowns, I must admit.

Because for at least that one fine day, Disneyland lived up to its claim as being the Happiest Place on Earth.

Do Not Talk in the Elevator (Especially If You're a Celebrity)

In the mid-‘80s I was an entertainment reporter for the largest newspaper syndicate in the world. It was a great job with terrific perks—if you didn’t mind making little money. Interviewing a cavalcade of TV stars during the days of “Dallas,” “Dynasty,” “Knots Landing,” “Family Ties” and “Cheers” certainly taught me a lot about people and several life lessons.

First off, celebrities do put on their pants just like we do—one leg at a time—it’s just that theirs pants are more likely to be made of silk, Egyptian cotton or leather. But that isn’t the life lesson I’m focusing on here.

I’d just gotten past security and into the elevator at 30 Rock (yes, 30 Rockefeller Plaza) and was headed up to the publicity offices to do a my latest celebrity interview. NBC was about to air a miniseries called “George Washington.” I was there to get the details for a story that would run the week it aired. I was to interview the actor playing the title character. I knew who he was—Barry Bostwick—because he had starred in one of my favorite miniseries of the era, “Scruples.” Quickly, the elevator filled with people and I moved to the very back. I scanned the occupants because you never knew when some “Saturday Night Live” cast member—after all, it was the era of Eddie Murphy and Chevy Chase—might finally be coming to work. (After all, it was almost lunch time.)

Just as the elevator door was about to close, in pushed a hand and the door sprung open again. Two men entered and finally up we went. After a few stops, I was the only one left in the elevator with the two men. From the back I could see they both were tall and had great hair.

“Geez, I hope the next one isn’t as bad as the last one,” the taller men with the better hair said.

“Yeah, I know. But you just gotta hang in there,” the other man said, watching his companion shake his head as he looked down at his feet. Nice shoes too, I thought.

“Why do they all have to be assholes?” the taller man asked in a tone that was more of an assessment than a question.

Just then the door opened and the men got out—on the same floor I was about to enter. I waited gingerly as they then headed down the hall I was going to take. I let them get farther ahead and then they turned into the familiar office where I was going.

I adjusted my tie, took a deep breath and waited for the door to close. Then I opened it briskly and stepped inside.

Yeap, there was Barry Bostwick himself—he must be six-foot-four--and his manager (I guess) shaking hands with the NBC PR guy. I walk up.

“Barry Bostwick,” the PR guy said as he shook my hand, “This is… “

“Your latest asshole,” I said dryly.

“You were in the elevator?” Bostwick said, rubbing his chin. He chuckled.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling.

After that auspicious introduction, we settled down in an empty conference room and had a terrific interview. Bostwick was funny and further self-effacing. We chuckled about the casting of Patty Duke as Martha Washington. [She got the last laugh as she ended up being nominated for an Emmy for the role.] And of course, I had to ask him about “Scruples” with my then-crush, Lindsay Wagner. “I liked her better when she was bionic,” I admitted. “Me too,” he replied quickly as we both laughed.

Roll Up the Red Carpet

It was a sad event a few months ago when the only independent video store near my house became the latest victim of our sagging and tumultuous economy.

Frankly, I proudly supported Red Carpet Video right till its door closed. Initially, it was out of my utter disgust with the lameness and subtle Right Wing leanings of Blockbuster, but later I got to liking supporting the Little Guy in this age when evil “big box” stores like Wal-Mart continue to steamroll specialty stores into oblivion.

But really, it was all about convenience. Think about it: that’s how I picked my grocery store, day care, fitness center, vet and mechanic. The world may be getting smaller, we have means to get anywhere and the Internet fills in most of the blanks, but I have no interest in driving 30 minutes (whether that gets me three or 30 miles) for things I can find in my ‘hood. I need to make life simpler.

I must also admit I was amused by Red Carpet’s clandestine porno section, which was entered through swinging doors at the back of the store. It was fun to watch the purveyors try to slither quietly into the room and just as subtly emerge back into the mainstream of the store—hopefully without anyone seeing them. I loved to stand in the aisle by the door and smile knowingly as they would slip out.

I also loved that Red Carpet gave away all its movie posters. By corporate policy, Blockbuster isn’t allowed to do that. Now, granted, I must admit I did score some of them only because someday I think they will be worth money on eBay and I have to find creative ways to pay for my son’s college education. (After all, two of my prized possessions are posters from two of my favorite movies, “Endless Summer” and “Annie Hall,” and they have increased nicely in value over the past quarter century, so there is merit to this plan.)

While Red Carpet was rolled up because they said their rent was jacked, there were warning signs all around long before then. Netflix has been more than a replacement for Blockbuster as far as our family is concerned. Again, it’s about convenience. I can manage it all online and I’m amazed at how fast Netflix gets me my next selection and the extent of its library.

As I said goodbye to Red Carpet, ironically I said hello to Redbox. How can a “bricks and mortar” store compete with a box the size of a phone booth (I know that comparison dates me) that conveniently sits at the door of our nearby Albertson’s grocery store right next to the floor waxer for rent? Answer: it can’t. DVDs for only $1 is a great deal. Granted, the inventory (focused mainly on new releases) is somewhat limited, but it seems most viewers pay little regard to renting oldies.

And since I’m at the store several times a week, especially toward a weekend, picking up a video in a matter of minutes without any human interaction (annoyingly, the barely breathings at my Blockbuster never knew a thing about movies) suits me fine. Bring it home, watch it, return it. Perfect, convenient.

Meanwhile, I’m waiting to see what moves into Red Carpet’s old space. Probably another Starbucks, 99 Cents Store or day spa. Yea, we need more of those.