Early Dismissal Form for the Thoroughly Appalled

When William started kindergarten, I needed to arrange pick up from school on Mondays in lieu of the cheese wagon to accommodate his swim lesson. The proper nomenclature was "Student Pick Up," and it wasn't the easiest thing to invoke. It required a form to be filled out which I requested from the office. They dutifully added the paperwork to William's folder of "Things To Go Home." I hate filling out forms. Some time ago, I wrote a piece about my distain for filling out medical forms. Little did I know I was about to embark upon a form fiasco to get my son out of kindergarten early.

Willy and his Swim Instructor

I thought I filled out the "Student Pickup Form" correctly, but I got it sent back with William's bus number circled in red with a large "X" next to it. Admittedly I didn't look at the form all that closely because well, I'm an idiot. I know all this paperwork is supposed to ensure that my kid is handed off safely, but in truth there is very little actual safeguards. Like the Chapman lock I used to have in my Honda Prelude back in college, the only person kept out was me. I don't have a safe feeling that a properly filled out "Student Pickup Form" will prevent a stranger from snatching my kid from the chaotic exchange in the gym, just like when my car along with the Chapman lock was stolen in broad daylight.

When I filled out the form, I had to delineate what I wanted William to do each day of the week which was mostly "Get on Bus 22, and ride it home." On Mondays he was to go to the gym and wait for me to pick him up for his swim lesson. I inadvertently filled out his bus number on Mondays as well as checked "Pick up." Apparently that was not what you were supposed to do. So I crossed out the "22" and returned the form to William's folder.

The next day I got the form back. The reason for early dismissal was circled and annotated with another red "X." I entered "Swim Lesson" then sent it back. When Monday rolled around, and I went to pick up William, he wasn't in the gym. I asked the woman in charge where he was. She looked into it then told me that William was not on the list. I went to the office and asked why my son wasn't at pickup.

"You didn't fill out the form correctly," exclaimed a smartly dressed, grey haired woman named "Ruth" who I'm sure was once a Catholic nun.

"What do I need to do?" I asked.

Ruth got up from her desk and made her way to the counter. The expression on her face made it clear she was unhappy. She plunked down the "Student Pickup Form," then she just glared at me. I thought she was waiting for me to put my hand on the counter so she could rap my knuckles with a metal ruler. After an unusually long time, she said,

"You didn't sign it."

On the bottom of the form was a line labeled "Name" so I printed my name. If they wanted me to sign, they should have labeled the field "Signature." I thought of telling Ruth that I didn't know how to write in cursive, but I figured she would take one look at my salt and pepper hair and know I wasn't being truthful. Besides William's swim lesson was fast approaching, and I needed to move this along. I scribbled my name on the line as illegibly as I could. Ruth snatched the form then told me to wait for William in the gym. A teacher's aide escorted Willy to me, and we dashed off to the local YMCA.

The following Monday he was in the gym ready to go. The system was working smoothly until William's swim instructor needed to push up his lesson by a half an hour. Now I had to go back to the office and find out what I had to do to get William out fifteen minutes early to make his new swim lesson. Ruth told me,

"We don't like students missing school for outside activities. You'll have to get approval from the principal."

Now it's important to note that William was in kindergarten. He was learning to count and read which are very important skills to master. He also did a lot of coloring which William is moderately good at. As much as I want him to stay within the lines, I think it's far more important for him to learn how not to drown.

I sent an email as directed stating that William needed to get out fifteen minutes before Student Pick Up to make his swim lesson. The principal never responded so after a few days, I went back into the office and tried again. Ruth told me that I would have to fill out a special form each week called the "Early Dismissal Form," and I had to get him a half hour early because fifteen minutes was not allowed. I'm sure it was not possible like certain quantum energy states. I was just glad that she didn't make me say three "Our Fathers" and one "Hail Mary." She gave me the new form. I inadvertently added William's bus number on Monday again. When she saw this, she circled it and said,

"Wrong again!"

Now Ruth could have crossed off the bus number herself, but she insisted I make all the changes, however small. So I crossed off the "22" then noticed that I forgot to fill out the line for "Reason." I wrote,

"Need help on the farm."

She took the form and off I went. Before I left I grabbed a stack of Early Dismissal Forms because I needed to fill one out every week now. The next week, I put for "Reason,"

"His turn in the mine."

The following week,

"Need Willy to change the bobbins."

Then,

"Sweep the chimney. He's small enough to fit."

And that was the one that did it. I got an email back from a school official which expressed their dissatisfaction with my "appalling attitude towards school correspondence." Luckily William's swim instructor asked if she could move back William's lesson to the original time. I hoped the earlier Student Pick Up Form was still on file and would be applicable.


 Owl Moon

Recently I went in to William's school to read the book, Owl Moon by Jane Yolen, to his class. I read the book to his older brother's kindergarten class eight years earlier. That story is much about fatherhood as it is about appreciating wildlife. I wish I could tell you my father and I trekked in deep snow at night just to spot an owl, but that wasn't the case. He wasn't the adventurous type and never seemed to have time for that kind of thing. William escorted me to the office to return my visitor's badge. Before I left I said to William,

"I'll see you at pick up."

"Oh no you won't!" Ruth exclaimed.

"Why not? It's Monday."

She slapped down my original Student Pick Up Form.

"You have to fill out a new form, and it's too late for today. It had to be in by ten o'clock."

Instead of arguing that the new form would have the same info as what was already on the original form, I said, "That's fine."

"I guess he'll just have to miss his swim lesson," Ruth reasoned.

"I guess so."

Luckily a young woman popped out of an office and came to the counter. She spun the form around.

"I'll take care of this for you Mr. Languedoc," she said with a pleasant smile. I thanked her as Ruth frowned.

Most parents lose sleep over safety concerns for their children. A child is far more likely to drown than to be abducted. I went to kindergarten at a local YMCA. My mother had a fear of water so each week she ensured that I forgot my swimsuit. The trepidation she instilled in me gave way to embarrassment as a teenager. At pool parties, I was always concerned that someone would toss me in the water. At the beach, I was keenly aware of the tidal condition after one time being swept out and rescued by a fellow swimmer.

William is back in his swim lesson, and he's a phenomenal swimmer. The other day he got up in the middle of the night to tell me that he heard an owl. He had his little flashlight in his hand.

"You want to go outside and see if we can find the owl?" I asked.

He looked out the dark window then to his diminutive light.

"No, I'm scared."

"Hop up," I said as he climbed into bed, buried himself under the covers then fell fast asleep.

Maybe next year.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 17, 2017.

The Birth of William

 

I'm sitting in a room watching a monitor with a rolling green graph. A large wave periodically moves down the horizontal axis.

"Ok," I tell my wife, Christine.

She grimaces in anticipation.

"This really hurts," she says pragmatically.

The second baby is far less scary, but Christine assures me it's just as painful. I tell her that's because of that apple fiasco in the garden. She laughs, but only briefly as another wave makes it's way down the axis. I wonder what the units are on the graph. The horizontal axis is clearly time. The vertical is probably "misery."

When our first was born I was scared, tired and relieved in that order. Christine was the usual shambles a woman is after giving birth. She had a bunch of people tending to her. As they wheeled Baby #1 out of the birthing room, a nurse said,

"Hey dumb ass. You go with him."

My loyalty was still with my wife. I had to be told to follow the new addition. I don't think she really said, "dumb ass," but that's what I heard. The nurse person in her goofy, mismatched clothes brought the two of us to a quiet, dimly lit room with a rocking chair. I held Baby #1, minutes old, and told him about his room, our John Deere tractor, the horses that graze around the fields in front of our house. I even told him his name, "Aidan." He opened his eyes and stared at length into mine. I was sure he was putting a face to the muffled voice he heard over the past months.

I'm in the delivery room with Christine who clearly would like to get this over with. Baby #2 is moments away. A few weeks early which raised some concern, Baby #2 is big so he must be ready otherwise he would've stayed put. That makes sense. I'm prepping for my repeat performance. This time I know the drill. I'm experienced. I see him for the first time. He looks identical to the first. It all unfolds on script even though we were off schedule.

They measure and weigh him and assess his Apgar score then everything abruptly changes. There's a distinct distress when a newborn is struggling to breathe that reflects in the Apgar and scrambles the medical professionals. Baby #2 is swaddled, briefly shown to Christine, who is told he needs to be transferred to the "Neonatal Intensive Care Unit." NICU for short. I inform the nurse making all the decisions that I am going with him. She's surprised then hesitant. I insist.

I'm on my way to the NICU when in the hospital hallway I suddenly feel very cold. I wasn't going to sit in a chair and rock Baby #2 in a dimly lit space. I wasn't going to tell him the color of his room or about his brother. As I watched him convulse with tiny gasps of air, I thought that he doesn't know his name. The nurse uses her badge to get us into the NICU.

A swarm of medical personnel surround Baby #2, hooking him up to monitors, an IV, tubes in his nose to help him breathe. I'm standing up against the wall, out of the way. A nurse shows me a new screen for me to stare at. She points to a number, telling me what it represents, pulse oxygen which is too low. I'm transfixed on the display as the number rises and falls.

How could this happen? He was four weeks early but seven pounds, eight ounces, bigger than the first. Not your idea of a preemie. We were at my best friend's house for dinner which was luckily near the hospital. Christine felt something coming on so she wisely chose not to eat. Woman have instincts especially when it comes to life. Men, we're all about basic things like mowing the grass and keeping the furnace running. Women ensure the species flourishes while men ensure the lawn looks good. Back in the NICU, I convince a nurse to let me hold him.

"Look, I watch a lot of Lifetime. I know he knows my voice. If I put my hands on him, his stats will all go up," I say authoritatively.

She is reluctant to let me get my man mitts in there but eventually agrees. After scrubbing my hands, I surround Baby #2 then check the monitors. Surely all his vitals will soar. Nothing happens.

"He's struggling to breathe," the young medical professional says.

"What about the power of touch?"

"Look dumb ass. You should go check on your wife."

That's a good idea. By now it's late into the night, and most of the hospital is dark and quiet. I'm making my way through the dimly lit hallways as the lights pop on. I'm following in reverse the yellow line path I noticed earlier to get back to Christine. She had jettisoned her contact lenses before delivery so she couldn't see past the end of her bed, but when I finally find her, she somehow knows it's me.

"He's doing fine," I say.

"Don't lie to me Robert!"

I should've known she'd have an instinct for that too.

"He's having trouble breathing."

It's comforting to be with her. In Baby #2's room I was helpless, in the way. At least here I could hold her hand and reassure her. After a while I went back to the NICU. I'm walking the long walk down the dark hallways which are eerily quiet. I'm buzzed into the NICU. As I near Baby #2's space, a nurse intercepts me.

"We're taking blood, and your presence upsets the nurses so wait here."

I dutifully wait for the blood draw to be over. Now I'm pretty sure I look like an unshaven zombie, and the medical staff just wants me to find a place to sleep it off so they can do their job. I sit in a comfortable chair, but I can't sleep. The nurse returns,

"There's no change."

"I want to see him."

She escorts me to Baby #2. He's laying on his back with tubes and wires emanating from his body. I sit at the edge of a chair and watch the pulse ox wave up and down. On the way up, I'm elated. Down, I worry. I want to rid him of the tiny convulsions, but this was something that I could not do. An hour passed before I make my way back to Christine.

"Still no change."

The crushing weight of my words is evident on her face. She's attempting to express milk so that her baby will have something to eat. There is nothing more comforting than seeing a baby taking his mother's milk. I know some people are squeamish about breastfeeding in public, but you have to understand that's what those things are made for, and if that bothers you, get a warm glass of bovine milk and a fig newton, sit in the corner and shut your garbage chute.

Christine is tired and falls asleep. I'm talking to her quietly as she rests. I whisper to her that he will be fine and will be ready for her when she wakes. He will give his mother a big hug, and ask her what his name is. After sometime, I returned to the NICU. I don't pay attention to the yellow line on the floor and get lost in the dark hospital. Alone and tired, I wander about looking for a sign or the yellow path. Eventually I regain my bearings and am buzzed into the NICU. I'm met by the the nurse who brought him here from the delivery room. She's smiling as she ushers me to Baby #2.

"Look!" she says

He is sleeping on his side, breathing normally. They backed down on the oxygen as his lungs cleared. He's calm and content. I sit next to him and just watch his tiny chest move rhythmically up then down. I check the monitor. His pulse ox is nearly normal. My senses are heightened to everything around me. Although tired, I can't sleep until I know this state is permanent. A long time passes before I have the sense to return to Christine.

I'm entering her room. Christine is awake and being attended to by a nurse. I'm smiling broadly.

"He's sleeping comfortably."

"Really!" she exclaims.

"Yes."

"I want to go see him, but there's no one who can push a wheelchair on duty this early."

"There's one in the hallway. I'll go get it."

"You can't do that, dumb ass. You're not qualified to push a wheelchair," the nurse says.

"I'm going now," Christine declares. 


Aidan Meets his Brother

Now Christine delivered Baby #2 by an unscheduled Cesarean section five hours earlier. She said her insides felt like they would spill over if she wasn't careful. That doesn't stop her. She flips the covers from her legs then swings her feet carefully off the bed. She looks to me.

"You coming?"

I nod hesitatingly.

"Well get over here and help me."

Truth is, I'm waiting for the nurse person in her silly, conflicting flower pattern outfit to tell her to get back into bed, but no one stops a mother on a mission to feed her baby. I help her to her feet, and Christine begins shuffling along. We follow the yellow line to the NICU and are buzzed in. We pass several abandoned wheelchairs which I'm incapable of properly operating so my wife, who had recently birthed another human being, walks instead. I'm sure the hospital's insurance company, the authors of this bureaucratic nonsense, is unaware that any of this is taking place.

The medical professionals in the NICU treat an appearance by a birthmother like a sacred event. There's none of this "hang ten while we finish our sharp needle procedure." A nurse guides Christine to her child. She sees him for the second time. All the tubes and wires are upsetting. I immediately start my TEDx explanation of the data monitor, and how he is actually doing way better.

"Look, his pulse ox is spot on," I note.


Christine and William

Christine sits down, unable to hold him as the sun outside the window lifts into a new day. I need to take Aidan to school. We left him at our friend's house when Christine went into labor. After picking Aidan up and filling everyone in, I spirit him to school only to repeat the story, then I make my way back to the hospital. When I arrive at the NICU, Christine is feeding him.

"He knew just what to do," she says.

I'm relieved. That was the toughest five hours of my life. I don't know how parents soldier through extended stays in the NICU. It was exhausting.

"They're talking like he'll be out of here tomorrow," Christine continues.

When he finishes, I ask,

"Can I hold him?"

Christine hands off the awkward mess of tubes, wires and baby. My arms surround him, them I softly say.

"Hey little boy. We have a room all ready for you. It's green. We have lots of trains. You have a big brother. I think you'll like living with us."

Christine smiles.

"Oh, yeah, one other thing. Your name is William."

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 16, 2017, one day after William's sixth birthday and three quarters through the year of the blog.

On Mother's Day

Christine, William
and Aidan

She never mentioned children. Not when we were dating. Not after we were married. She liked to travel. One year we embarked on a pilgrimage to the Vatican for Christmas. We had gone to Paris a couple of times. We rode horses in Hyde Park in London. A local guide told us what to do if we run into the Queen on horseback. Initially you refer to her as "Your Majesty." Afterwards you can call her "Mum." On our honeymoon we spent weeks wandering the Ring of Kerry in Ireland on large warm blood horses. She knew about babies having sat for three boys, one a newborn, everyday one summer for two dollars an hour when she was eleven.

"The baby used to cry when I left him with his mother," she recalled.

Someone invited their family to our wedding. The father took a picture of us with the now three grown men then announced,

"Ok, now one with just Christine."

Imagine that. Some jerk was at a wedding trying to shoo the groom away from his bride. Well, what do you expect from people who let their newborn bond with a babysitter.

One time a friend handed Christine her infant son. She returned him a short time later, whispering to me,

"He smelled like sour milk."

I was a godparent so I had a connection to my best friend's middle child. I liked kids. They laughed a lot and played fun games. My wife always seemed less interested in the world of kids. Admittedly, it wasn't a big concern for me. We never had a giant conversation about "how we feel about children." We were the adults who grew annoyed by your misbehaving brats running around the restaurant. When we went out to dinner, Christine would survey the space to ensure we were seated furthest from a table with any children. Maybe I'm more tolerant now, but it seems that years ago parents let their little special snowflakes run between tables in restaurants after they scoffed down their chicken nuggets. Once a kid in a local pizzeria was scurrying about with a laser pointer in his hand which he shined in patron's faces. We left before our food arrived. We bought a house in a rural town and fixed it up all while educating ourselves into expert do it yourselfers. One day Christine said,

"Now that we have a house with all these rooms we should fill them up with, you know, people."

"You mean babies?" I asked.

"Yeah, what did you think?"

From the sound of it I thought she wanted us to open up our house to the homeless. That was the first time she had ever mentioned children, albeit obscurely. A routine visit to the gynecologist revealed a medical condition that would make it difficult for her to conceive. Her doctor told her,

"You won't be able to have children without medical intervention."

When she told me it was one of the two times in my life I saw my wife cry. When I came home from work, she met me at the door to tell me that the gnocchi I liked so much was sold out at our local pasta shop.

"I went all the way up there, and they didn't have any gnocchi," she explained in between sobs.

"What's the matter Christine?" I asked.

"They were all out! Now, we'll never have any gnocchi."

Eventually she told me what her doctor said.

"Can I have a turn at bat?" I asked.

Before we were going to cash in our secret desires to start a family, I wanted to at least try to impregnate my wife. We had friends who had difficulties conceiving. I read that some women are fertile for as little as two hours a month. Conception is a numbers game. The more you do it, the more likely you are to get pregnant. I believed in the "Three and Thirty Rule" for procreation, that is, three times a day for thirty days. After the best month of my life, Christine was pregnant. Her Yale doctor remarked,

"What do we know?"

Christine was a happy pregnant woman. Pregnancy ramps up the human body to help ensure the survival of the species. The first birth went off without a hitch. Six weeks later to correct that medical condition, they wanted to take one of Christine's ovaries. That's the state of medical expertise in our society. When a body part is malfunctioning or annoying you then have it nixed. They used to perform hysterectomies on women after menopause when their childbearing years were behind them to prevent "hysteria," then they discovered that there is a correlation between removing a woman's uterus and breast cancer. So not only do women get to grow a mustache after a hysterectomy, they get the big C too. Today tonsils and adenoids are all left in place as if nature or God screwed up and gave us all a body part that needs to be extracted by a surgeon at some time in our life. Not to sound like a Madonna, Christine said,

"I'm telling my doctor I'm keeping my ovary."

Her doctor objected by emphatically stating,"You have another."

"I have two of a lot of things, but that doesn't mean I should give one up," she reasoned.

She was adamant that her doctor leave her ovary in place, and he obliged by performing a delicate surgery. He was quite proud of himself. Normally surgeons dive in with a dirty dull civil war amputation saw and hack off two fingers of their assistant. This dude did a nice job saving Christine's ovary. A few years later time would be against us. Having children later in life is a risky business. Many women lose babies and that absorbs a lot of time that older parents just don't have. We both wanted another child. Neither of us thought it was possible so we adopted a not so regimented rhythm method.

"If God wants us to have another baby, then it will just happen," Christine rationalized.

"Well what's he waiting for? We're doing our part," I said.

Eight years after the first Christine was pregnant again against the odds at 45. She became the poster mom for women trying to have babies later in life. I am certain that life cannot be contained. It breaks free, it pushes boundaries, expands into new territories, painfully maybe even dangerously. Life finds a way. There it is.

William was born which made our population neutral family complete. A consummate mother I've seen my wife cook meals while helping with algebra. She assessed skinned knees while making brownies. She was her father's favorite. An accident herself, welcomed by a former stern navy man who did anything for his little girl. She was his princess even though she was a tomboy. She assisted her father with electrical jobs around the house. He helped her with a science project to make a digital cooking thermometer. She grew to be a very responsible and independent child who maintained the family pool by the time she was eight years old. Her father was a strong and positive influence in her life. The only other time I saw her cry was when her dad passed away after a long illness.

I was attracted to her because of her beauty and intelligence. She was a mechanical engineer who took classes in tribology, that is bearing design. She has a college textbook, entitled Principles of Tribology by J. Halling. I wrote in the inside cover a note that appeared to come from the author,

"Christine,

Good luck with your study of bearings. I hope you find tribology as rewarding a career as I have.

All my best,

   J. Halling"

Apparently, she discovered my lame gag some years ago so she wrote in my computer science text, Object-Oriented Software Construction by Bertrand Meyer.

"Robert,

I hope you discover someday that tribology is a far more intellectual pursuit than computer science.

All my best,

  Bertrand Meyer"

Christine helps me with projects around the house. I've learned to listen to her every word. She is an expert at uncovering mistakes in progress. When she says,

"I have a question."

I know to ring up "All Stop" and listen because she often points out something I'm doing wrong. She has three boys in her life that gang up on her when we play "I Spy." One day Christine found some hospital paperwork for when William was born. She said,

"You know, Willy came down my right ovary."

She pointed to a line of data on the paper.

"Yeah," I said unknowingly.

"That's the ovary they wanted to take."

To think that the our second child would never be the boy we know now if her doctor had trashed her ovary years earlier. William managed to make his way down some busted up piping, and she carried him to the very beginning.

Women often take the lead when it comes to procreation. If they left it up to men, we would be happy muddling along while we occasionally cut the lawn and work on our "projects" in the shed with a case of Budweiser stubbies as we hum Escape, (the Pina Colada song). I for one will never finish that bird house, but somehow I was involved in producing two other human beings. I really think I was just a willing accomplice. I grew up in a time when parents were not all that involved. I could've just as well been the same kind of parent I had. In fact the odds were in favor of it. Although it might be common to climb your way out of a hole, you need someone special in your life to rise above it. While Christine is not my mother, one thing is for certain.

As a father, she made me.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 16, 2017.

Stoic Guy Versus Funny Guy

There are two types of guys, stoic and funny, quiet and talkative. In our society, those who speak the least are often regarded as the smartest. Who becomes the village elder? The quiet guy who doles out tidbits of wisdom for the rest of us to follow. The funny guy becomes the village idiot, the court jester, the fool. Women don't like funny guys. They want the strong silent type. The guy who nods his head while someone speaks as if he's absorbing everything that unfolds, dissecting it, then rendering a wise decision.

You see stoic guys on dates in restaurants all the time. They just sit there with a girl, no one saying a thing. No one laughs or smiles. When their food arrives, stoic guy scoffs down his chow while never coming up to make a comment. Not even,

"Soup is good."
 

Stoic Guy

Like a dog when fed, stoic guy keeps his head down when eating. That's because stoic guy is so super smart that he hasn't time to articulate the many complex thoughts circulating in his head. I was never a stoic guy, but I always wanted to be. I was the funny guy who entertained women on dates. They laughed. They cried. They looked about for a stoic guy who they could go out with next. For, you see, women do not marry the funny guy. They marry the mature man who knows to stay quiet, the mystery man whose depths are discovered like hidden treasure. The fact is comedians in our culture don't get laid. Just ask Carrot Top.

Women, I'm going to let you in on a secret. Stoic guy is not a genius. Stoic guy is a dope. The reason why stoic guy isn't talking to you at dinner is because nothing is going on in his head. You think he's brilliant because he's silent, but the truth is the average stoic guy is thinking about inconsequential things like whether Gumby ever actually rode Pokey or whether they remembered to clear the porn history from their cell phone. Stoic guy doesn't speak because he has nothing to say. 

Funny Guy

Woman are making an evolutionary mistake by procreating with stoic guy. Stoic guy is intellectually inferior to funny guy. It's a fact. One of the chief traits of gifted children is their desire and ability to make others laugh. Middle school students are often very quiet and shy because no one knows how to hone in on something embarrassing faster than a group of middle schoolers. Funny guy usually has a better go of middle school because he can defend himself. Stoic guy is forced to develop thick skin to survive while funny guy develops a sharp tongue to do the same.

Unfortunately, stoic guy usually wins in the end. Stoic guy becomes the project manager. Woman love stoic guy because they see him as deep, gentlemanly, mature, but they're wrong. Stoic guy is not firing on just one cylinder. Stoic guy has only one cylinder. He doesn't care about current events, he doesn't have an opinion nor does he vote. You don't want to marry stoic guy because you'll have stoic kids who will be brutalized in middle school. Everyone knows that project managers are the people who can't actually do any real work.

 

Mark Twain said,

"It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt."

Twain was wrong. It doesn't happen that way. The quiet guy is never thought of as a fool even thought he most certainly is. Twain might have had a better grasp of reality if he was more like his sister, Shania.

So there you have it. Go for humor because it's the stoic guy who thinks himself to be wise, but the funny man knows himself to be the fool.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 25, 2017.

Life According to Gilligan's Island

When I was coming up, life was simpler. There were two kinds of guys, those that liked Ginger and those that liked Mary Ann. We were simpler too. Gilligan's Island originally aired at night, but by the time my sister and I discovered the comic adventures of the seven eclectic castaways the show moved to syndication, airing in the afternoons.



Even when I was eight it seemed odd that the SS Minnow originating in Hawaii would be blown off course by a sudden tropical storm and lost at sea. The tourists aboard the Minnow that day were an unlikely group. A professor and a movie star. And what about the Howells? Why would such a wealthy couple patronize a decidedly rudimentary operation run by the Skipper and his "little buddy."

I always thought the professor was a Soviet spy and was trying to rendezvous with a submarine or something. Most of the plots were far less nefarious with the seven castaways always just missing salvation. Rock stars and cosmonauts all paid Gilligan's Island a visit with none of them assisting in a rescue. My favorite episode was the one in which Gilligan fabricated a pedal powered taxi. He drove the castaways back and forth on the island for apparently no compensation. If the show went on for more than three seasons, food would've gotten scarce, and things might have taken a turn for the dark side. You know more like a Lord of the Flies kind of thing. The Howells would've been the first to go.

Ginger was always made up like she was going to a movie premier, and Mary Ann routinely churned out coconut cream pies. I bought into the coconut part due to the island theme, but where did she get the cream? I think you need a refrigerator, not to mention a cow. Ginger and Mary Ann bunked together as did the Skipper and Gilligan. The Professor flew solo which I always figured gave him the best chance to hook up with one of the women. After three seasons it was bound to happen. Just look at Survivor: Marquesas. Rob and Amber paired off after two episodes. Heck after three years Mrs. Howell would start looking good.

So life is more complicated today. Sure some men like Ginger and others Mary Ann. There are also guys who like Gilligan. Still others are born in Ginger's body and want to be Gilligan. Some Mary Anns are questioning whether they want Gilligan or Ginger while others are perfectly fine with both. There are some men who are still in the closet like the Professor. Some people are shaped like the Skipper and get to talk at TEDx about body shaming and accepting yourself as you are. No one wants to be the Howells.

Through it all one question remains. If that white transistor radio with batteries that lasted for three years could pick up a signal, how far from civilization could the castaways really have been?

Editor's Note: Originally posted on April 13, 2017.

The Accidental Computer Scientist

Back in the mid 90s my wife, Christine, and I were living in a small one bedroom apartment. I toiled away all day on a Unix based mainframe terminal. She used a computer at work for scheduling, presentations and email. One day she announced that she really wanted a home computer. I resisted. This may seem odd today, but back then a personal computer was still a relatively new appliance. I spent all day in front of a screen doing numerical analysis. The last thing I wanted was to get one for our home, but Christine insisted,

"We need a home computer."

"For what?" I asked.

"Well, when we run out of syrup, you can logon and enter it in a grocery list," Christine answered thoughtfully.

Back then whenever anybody talked about personal computers, they would invariably mention the grocery list. In those days the biggest problem plaguing mankind was the lack of an adequate means of tracking staples. That and the hole in the ozone layer. No one ever said,

"With a home computer you'll be able shop online and stay in contact with all your friends."

All of that came much later. Printing out a grocery list via an expendable ink cartridge and consumable paper was the technological achievement of its day. As far as I recall no one on the planet ever actually made a grocery list on a computer.

Cabbage Patch

Eventually I relented. We went to a big box store where the purchasing was frenzied. People were buzzing about, scoffing up anything piled up on display. The last time I saw that kind of unfettered purchasing people were trying to get a Cabbage Patch doll. Caught up in the madness we dove in and surfaced with a Compaq Presario as our selection. Three thousand dollars later we were on our way home with several large boxes. We set up everything, piled a stack of manuals to one side then flipped the switch.

The boot up procedure involved a flashy presentation highlighting all the features of our new personal computer followed by the smug smiling face of Dennis Miller sauntering onto the tube screen. Dennis was sent in to walk us through the setup procedure. Not the old Dennis Miller with the gray goatee we have now. Back then we had the wavy haired fresh off Weekend Update young hopeful Dennis Miller who thought he would have a much more lucrative career in Hollywood post SNL. I always hated Dennis Miller. I thought he was a pompous asshole who tried to come off like an intellectual even though he graduated from a liberal arts school that no one ever heard of with a degree in journalism. Now, he was running his mouth on my new computer helping me set up AOL and configure the modem. I have no patience for this kind of thing especially when I am being directed by a smarmy pretentious asswipe.

Dennis Miller

Miller said things like,

"Hey, Cunningham. Andy Warhol called. You're at 14:55, and we're tickin' big-time here, Chachi."

What the hell does that mean? Anyway after some basic settings Miller starts pushing America Online which I decline. He said something like,

"So you don't care for AOL, babe? You don't mind being left behind by the techno tsunami like Mr. T after a long evening sleeping through Aida."

Dennis and I moved on to the modem. He had me enter simple things like the phone number and select pulse dialing, then he said,

"You're burning through this like a rabbit with a three day pass and front row tickets to the Ice Capades."

What's that supposed to mean? Miller laughed with an ingratiating priggish chuckle, then the modem test failed. As I struggled to get the device to work, Miller said,

"This is a little like watching Mohatma Gandhi arm wrestle the Dalai Lama for a signed picture of Lance Armstrong."

Huh? Dennis Miller based his career on being obtuse as if doing so makes up for excessive partying in college and selecting a major popular among potheads. The string tones of the modem echoed in our small apartment as we tried another test after changing a few settings. The modem failed yet again. Miller exclaimed,

"Looks like someone has to go back to geek school."
 

I began to wonder about the wisdom behind the management decision at Compaq to play a video of an insolent dickhead as a welcome to a product costing thousands of dollars. The desktop finally booted up, and I grabbed for the mouse. Next came the blue screen of death which I carefully read through because I thought it was more setup instructions.
 

The Blue Screen of Death

Now we spent a heap of money on a pile of electronics, and we were unable to configure the modem or gain access to the desktop. In desperation I called my internet provider which Christine set up in advance. They blamed both Compaq and Microsoft and in general were no help at all. I turned to Christine and said,

"Let's just put this whole thing back in the box and take it back."

"Give me a minute," she deflected.

"This is not us," I pleaded, "We like the outdoors!"

It was a beautiful sunny summer Saturday. I wanted to go to the park and play Frisbee or the beach and ride some waves. Christine, sensing mutiny, reached into the stack of books and pulled out a manual at random. Searching for a toll free number, she dialed the first one she found. Christine called the help line to Microsoft Network. A very skilled young man walked us through the proper procedure to get the modem working. When he finished, he asked,

"Now that you can get online you want to sign up?"

"Sign up for what?" I asked.

"MSN," he answered.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Microsoft Network."

"Thanks but no. You've been way more helpful than my internet provider."

If Christine would have pulled out the Windows manual and called their toll free number, they would have charged us $35 to get our brand new modem working. That would have got that thing on the curb in no time, but she inadvertently reached a guy from MSN who was trying to get us to subscribe, and I naively explained that he was way better than our internet provider. He got nothing for his efforts, and I got my new computer up an running with no help from Compaq, Dennis Miller or my internet provider. The only person who helped us was someone trying to hawk a membership to Microsoft Network.

Our new computer fatally crashed at least once a month requiring a full restore which forced us to sit through Dennis Miller's condescending advice every time. It was beyond painful. His monologue was as awkward as Elizabeth Warren explaining her Native American lineage. Eventually we gave that computer to our neighbor's daughter who was just starting college. Later propelled by the technology industry as well as our home PC we both went back to school for a masters degree in computer science. I published papers at leading software conferences. For a few years I taught masters level computer science courses at a local college.

Our oldest, Aidan, went to computer camp in the summer ever since middle school. Our dinner conversations often involve the finer aspects of software engineering. In a day and age when the vast number of college freshman are majoring in finance or psychology, he spends his time programming in Java, Python and C++. Recently, he was hired as a moderator for the discord server associated with the jazz band, Lucky Chops. He's sixteen and a junior in high school. We'll never know if Aidan would have discovered a talent for software development in eighth grade if on that fateful day Christine hadn't pulled that particular manual from the stack.

In truth I have become someone who hates technology. Having to cycle the power to devices to get them to work correctly really chaps my ass. We reboot computers, phones, televisions, the cable modem, the router, even the oven in the kitchen, all to clear some error code to get something working properly again. I had to cycle the power to our pool pump this morning to restore the temperature reading on my smart phone. Imagine that. I had to reboot my pool. Far from making my life more convenient, I have become a slave to technology.

And now that I said that, my last comment will likely trend on social media as culturally insensitive.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on April 4, 2017. 

I Hate the 70s

My son, Aidan, and I were walking to a nearby field to fly a kite. As we hiked I carried a folded delta wing close to my body. Aidan picked up that my head was on a swivel.

"What's the matter Dad?" He asked.

I soon realized my unfounded paranoia was causing him some concern. The reason I was on the lookout was because back in my day when I was walking somewhere to fly a kite if I encounter a long haired hippy type there was a good chance he would grab the kite from my hands and break it for no reason.

I grew up in the 70s not as a teenage participating in the drug fueled free love psychedelic tune in and drop out counterculture. I was a ten years old dealing with the aftermath of a society where most teenagers and many adults were routinely taking illicit recreational drugs. Having an older rebellious sister who was fully immersed into the whole 70s scene meant that all the sordid things of that decade were inside my house as well as prowling the streets outside. My other sister, Jeannine, and I huddled together in our kid world playing with Lincoln Logs and Hot Wheels surrounded by drugs, alcohol and satanic verses.

Whenever the music from the 70s comes on the radio, I overtly cringe. People think the music of that time was so far out, but I think of the many groovy beatings my friends and I took from the fun loving hippies of the time. Ozzy Osbourne, Alice Cooper, Frank Zappa were all the cultural icons of the day. Many of these guys were so artistically challenged that they incorporated carnival theatrics to take the focus away from their poor musicianship. All these bozos were succeeded by the band, Kiss.
 

Kiss

While I disliked the others, I hated Kiss. They were a band formed by four former high school teachers who at least where sober enough to realize that musically they stunk so badly that they had to come up with characters to be successful. Gene Simmons was a demon. Ace Frehley was a spaceman. Paul Stanley was the starchild. The drummer, Peter Criss, became a cat. I can just imagine what Simons must have said when this was being sorted out,

"Look Pete. I'm the demon. Ace is the alien. You have to pick something cool."

"Like a cat?" Criss asks.

"I don't think we're on the same page here. I said something cool. Why not be a ninja?" Simmons offers.

"I want to be a kitty."

Then Paul Stanely says, "I'm gonna be the starchild."

"Am I the only one who get's this? You can't be a starchild if Ace is gonna be a spaceman."

"Well, if Pete can be a kitty, I want to be a bunny," Stanely asserts.

"You're not gonna to be no fucking bunny!" Simmons decrees.



David Cassidy

The part I could never figure out was why so many kids from the 70s related to satanic themes. Ozzy Osborne was the lead singer for Black Sabbath. A British heavy metal band was called Judas Priest, and of course, Kiss was sometimes touted as an acronym for "Knights in Satan's Service," but I suspect it really meant "keep it simple stupid." They all had their demonic songs which my older sister played endlessly. She transitioned from David Cassidy and the Partridge Family to Alice Cooper and his sixth album, Billion Dollar Babies. I heard that record countless times. I still recall the lyrics,


Alice Cooper

If I'm too rough tell me

I'm so scared your little head will come off in my hands

Billion Dollar Baby

Back in the 70s, Alice Cooper said that he didn't want to live past thirty. My older sister thought that was way cool. My father used to say,

"Let's see if he says that when he's twenty-nine and a half."

Cooper, whose real name is Vincent Furnier, is pushing seventy-five and enjoys golf. My older sister used to put on eye makeup like Alice Cooper and wear a white tuxedo she sewed herself, including a white top hat she made out of paper mache. She wore this get up to school and insisted that everyone including her teachers call her "Alice" even though that wasn't her real name.

As a kid in the 70s our parents would let us roam the neighborhood which was great when we were up to mischief but not so great when the hippies were wandering about. They concentrated at the top of the street where the local drug dealer set up a small yellow trailer advertising flowers. He never had any actual plants in the trailer which was chained to a payphone. The dude just leaned against the rig and made drug sales all day. The hippies close to this area didn't have time to mess with us kids. Going in they had a wad of cash. Going out a stash of illegal narcotics. Either way they were usually strung out and on a mission. We learned quickly that the time to worry about hippies was when they were stoned and wandering around aimlessly. It was never near the drug dealer because he wouldn't tolerate that kind of attention close to his operation.

The presence of the sole drug dealer at the top of the street was great news for Alice. She began frequenting the plant stand. When I came home from school if she was sleeping on the couch my mother would say,

"Be quiet. Alice is sleeping."

Slumber meant she took downers. If she was buzzing about the house doing laundry or folding clothes, then she took uppers. Speed or something. Jeannine and I knew to always stay clear of Alice when she was awake and high.
 

Pot would make hippies anything from jovial to paranoid. Recognizing the signs was the difference between being beat up or escaping with your kite. If a hippy was smiling, it usually meant he smoked marijuana and was going to be generally friendly. If he was jittery and agitated, then he took some narcotic, and one of us was going to catch a beating. For some reason a beard usually meant a pot smoker and a cheesy mustache was likely a hard drug user. Both had long hair bell bottoms, a jean jacket and often a drug themed T-shirt or that stupid Rolling Stones lips and tongue logo.

Sometimes we would get detained by some drugged out bully. If we had our bikes there was a chance we could out run them. One time on Monterey Drive a druggy grabbed onto the sissy bar on my bike. I broke free and darted for Cowesett Avenue, a busy road to this day. The hippy chased me as I darted into the street. A driver in a car slammed on the brakes, just missing me. I made it to the other side, my "plat" as we used to called it. I owe my life to an attentive driver who stopped in time. The hippie turned and sauntered by the drug dealer who casually walked up to the dude then beat him senseless.

This guy violated the one unwritten rule, making a commotion around the plant stand. The hippie collapsed on the ground in the fetal position while the drug dealer kicked in his head. It was simultaneously horrible and satisfying. I'd like to think that the dope dealer had a sense that it was wrong to chase a kid on a bike into a busy street, but that wasn't the case. He just didn't want the disruption to his business which would've occurred if the cops had to scrape a body, however small, off the pavement.

One day I was walking to Kmart with my friend, Mark, when this hippy came up to us saying,

"I knew someday I would kick your ass Mark."

He proceeded to hit Mark in the head. I punched him in the kidney because that's all I could reach. I got mine next. Mark and I were resolved to start weightlifting so we would bulk up and protect ourselves from the long haired freaky hippy types. I lobbied for a 110 pound concrete filled vinyl weight set for my next birthday. I bought a bench with my paper route money. It was more puberty than exercise, but before long I was buying another weight set because one wasn't enough. One thing about taking a beating, you get used to being hit and that gives you an advantage. The next time we crossed path with a hippy bent on pushing us around things went a little different.

I wish I could tell you that my experiences made me a better person who stood up for the weakest in our community, that I led the fight against bullying long before it trended on social media, but that didn't happen. Victims of bulling often become the next bullies. While I doled out my share, all of which I deeply regret, I never did so with the same enthusiasm of my tormentors. I'm sure that is no consolation to the people I hurt so badly.

In middle school my son, Aidan, reported countless incidents of bullying both against him as well as others. The backlash was excessive and often physical. He's tall and has a good reach. I've taught him how to defend himself, but I warned him never to use it.

"Why do you teach me how to fight then tell me not to hit anyone?" he asks.

I've explained that striking another student, even in defense, makes it harder to make your case to school officials. Recently a friend of mine suggested that all this anti-bullying agendas might be "making kids incapable of handling conflict." I thought about this for days, and I've come to the conclusion that the bullies are the ones who can't deal with conflict, not my son, who certainly can defend himself but chooses not to.

We flew the kite that day. It soared across the sky. The sound of it's long plastic tail fluttering in the wind was familiar and comforting. We both wondered how far we could pay out the string, and if it was tied to the spindle. It was thankfully. On the way back Aidan asked,

"Dad, did you ever win a fight?"

I was reluctant to answer. Not because I lost many and wanted to come off as a tough guy to my son. I was trying to frame my experiences without reliving the abuse I experienced in my youth. Eventually I answered,

"You know, I used to make my own kites. Once I made a box kite. It took me a month."

"Did it fly good?" Aidan asked.

I never knew how well it would have flown because a drugged out hippy broke it on the way to the field. The late afternoon sun cast shadows across the empty meadow. The wind had dissipated leaving the sound of the frogs in a nearby pond.

"It flew beautifully," I said.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on April 18, 2017.