Wii Bii Iidiots.

Been awhile, I know, but industrial strength writer's block, mega apathy, supersized malaise and no life whatsoever will do that. The final ingredient to the mix however, my having one foot on Methusalah's age and the other on a banana peel, plays prominently into this piece. Approaching the "golden years" at the same speed as a runaway freight train, I find myself noticing more and more of God's wit and humor in the practical jokes he plays as we age. "This will be a good one, " it says, and presto, I'm bald! What a kidder that Great I Am is. I mean if he had to make me lose something, why couldn't it be weight?

There have been a couple of incidents in the last several months that have really caused my reflection on the passage of time and its effects on the mind and body. And these are not good reflections. More like fun house reflections. The first of these incidents was when my lovely wife, or as I like to call her, Hecate (look it up, everyone except Sandy that is), decided that We needed a Wii. Now I am way too sophisticated for any wee-wii jokes here, although I could come up with several. Anyway, the reasoning was it could be our Christmas gift to ourselves. We could have saved a lot of trouble pain and money if we just bought dueling pistols.

For the unenlightened, the Wii is an insanely popular video game "experience" made by the good sadists at Nintendo. Wii is not your run of the mill, humdrum, everyday kind of video game, but a system that creates virtual experiences that allow you to physically participate in a variety of activities that are designed to optimize both your gaming enjoyment and the depletion of your bank accounts. In future divorce cases, custody of the Wii will surpass custody of the children in terms of most coveted assets. I can see the lawyer ads now..."Call Dewey, Cheatam and Howe at 1-800-ASSHOLE because we're tough and we'll fight to get your Wii from the rotten son of a buzzard adulter, spouse abuser your married to, all at bargain basement prices."

Anyway, once your have shelled out the kids' college fund for a Wii system, you then can begin consigning your paychecks directly to Nintendo for the privilege of buying the next "big game" they put out, which everyone MUST HAVE, OR ELSE YOU'RE NOT FIT TO LIVE IN CIVILIZED SOCIETY AND ARE LOWER THAN WHALE POOP OR ELSE YOU WOULD NOT DEPRIVE YOUR FAMILY OF THIS UTMOST NECESSITY OF LIFE! Not that I'm bitter.

Now that is all well and good, but they don't make your aware of the Wii side effects which are way worse than any of those chintzy little effects you get from Ambien, like sleep walking, sexual promiscuity or waking up and finding yourself in the hoosgow for breaking into the local Food King and eating the entire frozen pizza section. Wii side effects are much more insidious and debilitating. To start, before you can even begin playing the games, you need to create a cartoon version of yourself (called surprise, a Mii) to represent you in all of your Wii activities. I created what I thought was the perfect Mii and was promptly laughed all the way to Pittsburg by my ruthless and thoughtless family members, most of whom are still hospitalized from the laughing spells they incurred whenever my character came on the screen. And they deserve it. Other than becoming the first laughing stock in your circle of friends, more nasty things will begin to happen. You will decide that you need the Wii Fit system which allows you to not only play fun exercise games, but experience the very real strains, pains and bruises that normally accompany being the running back for the New York Giants, but it has music to accompany all your exercises that will move into your brain and immediately take precedence over all the ridiculous commercial jingles that you once thought you would be hearing in your mind on your deathbed. These songs go straight for the aural jugular and lodge immovably and irrevocably in your spinal cord. I'll tell you this, the first time I catch myself humming out loud the ditty that plays during the aerobic stepping exercise, I am going to wrap my lips around the nearest gas pipe.

Getting back to how aging fits into all of this, it is my understanding that the Wii is now being used as an innovative source of rehab and conditioning for people in nursing homes and as a preventative against the onslaught of aging by those looking to keep young and fit. I am quite sure this is a conspiracy between the Nintendo people and the osteopathic professional associations to increase business.

The other incident could be classified really as several incidents and are due to the fact, as I've said many times, that I didn't learn my lesson in the Marines about not volunteering. The AARP, of which I am now a proud card carrying member, was looking for people to help the elderly, the really elderly, do their upcoming tax returns. Sounds nice doesn't it? Yeah, right!

I called the area coordinator for the Lake County program and he informed me I needed to attend training. Well, how much work could that be, so I said OK. Around Christmas time I get a letter from the guy telling me I had to go to two weeks of all day training and take a certification test to meet IRS (whom I love as much as my own children, maybe more so, hey you never know who might be reading this) regulations.

Anyway, when I showed up for the first class, I found that the average age of my classmates was a tad over 112. At the door they handed out a stack of IRS training material the size of a small skyscraper along with an extra strength truss. Several of the ladies had enlisted the help of a local front end loader. I wish I'd thought of that! The classroom that first week was in a community center I am convinced doubles as an extraordinary rendition site. It was a dungeon, er, I mean basement, with whitewashed brick walls, no windows with a porthole for passing the bread and water to the inmates. Since this was the basement of the building the boiler room of course, was about two feet from the room. Hence another fear of growing old. It had to be about 800 degrees in there and 90 percent of the class kept their winter coats on for the duration of class. I can't wait until I am 80 (God forbid) and I vacation at the beach in a Depends bathing suit and gortex parka. Some image eh? No barfing on my watch, please. I wear a very expensive Timex.

AARP was good enough to supply plenty of hot water for tea, decaf coffee (which is like making love in a canoe) and Dick Cheney autographed Nike defibrillators. I must say that this was the only class I ever participated in with an ambulance on site. Now the instructors were, unbelievable as it sounds, older than the entire class. Combined! This made for some humorous situations involving misunderstanding of what the instructors and the class were saying. For instance:
Student: "What is depreciation?"
Instructor: "Out the door, down the hall on your left. Don't forget to flush."

However, a good time was had by all, and we all agreed to get together next year for a wild party at the Sea of Tranquility Nursing Home, or the next funeral, whichever comes first.
So everyone enjoy your birthdays before they become "How much time have I got left" days. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm bald.

Love
Dad

They're Gonna Put Me In The Movies, and All I Gotta Do...

Who among us hasn't secretly believed that we could have been the next (insert movie star's name here), if only we had not gotten married, got a job, overslept or any of a thousand other rationalizations that keeps us from the real reason, which is that we have all the acting talent God gave gravel. I know whereof I speak.

As a result of my recent addiction to Craig's List, which I still contend is the most dangerous site on the Web, I found myself upping my humiliation quotient to new highs by voluteering as an "extra" in a locally produced independent film. The ad requested bald people for a quirky comedic film to be entered in film festivals around the world. Bald, eh? Since that is one thing I am pretty good at, I volunteered. "What can it hurt? Who's gonna know?" I thought. This midlife crisis is getting out of hand. The name of the flick? "The Head of the Company."

My "role" consisted of showing up for several hours on Saturday and Monday at the offices of the Cleveland Plain Dealer (motto, "On a clear day, you can hear our toilets flush in Afghanistan.") and participating in the main pastime of actors everywhere, waiting. I am guessing that real actors movies are a lot like being a soldier at war. 99% of the time is consumed by sheer boredom, followed by short periods of intense fear, insecurity and other generally pleasant emotions.

I did however learn several cinematic "secrets" which I will reveal unless the film's producer/director/cameraman/writer/hall monitor..., who shall remain anonymous, (although his real name is Butch Maier) sends me much cash in small unmarked bills. Since I know that Butch was working on a budget that consisted of nearly $0, I will continue.
The first and most obvious thing I noticed about movie makers is that they have created one of the world's greatest lies. It ranks right up there with "I did not have sex with that woman", "Saddam has WMD" and "We here at Congress are committed to lobbying reform". That lie is uttered by the director after each segment of filming in which they say "Let's do that ONE MORE TIME!" "One more time" in movie parlance, evidently means "ad nauseum." The consequence of this phrase became painfully ingrained when we filmed the "office" scene on Monday evening. More on that later. Butch would shoot a half nanosecond of film followed by "One more time!" so often that some scenes seemed to take as long as extended space travel.

On this first day of shooting in the Plain Dealer's meeting room, I actually got a "line" to speak in the movie. This caused a bit of consternation on my part as I thought I was just going to be sitting or walking around in the background. I can do that. However, I can no more memorize a line and act it out on a second's notice than I could convince Nancy Grace that she is creepier than a bucketful of Dennis Rodmans. Anyway, the line was about 10 words, but it seemed that it was the Gettysburg Address. So I stumbled on the line a tad.

On Monday evening, the main scene of the movie was to be filmed and Butch, who operates on the premise that "Anyone can make a movie if they have actual money," needed to create the illusion that about 15 bald guys were actually about 150 bald guys. This clever bit of Hollywood magic is acheived by having those 15 guys sprint around the camera, while changing jackets, sweaters or shirts running maniacally around the moving camera to get into the next part of the camera shot in about as much time as it takes a congressman to accept a bribe. So, Butch was pushed along a corridor of cubicles with his camera taking a "tracking" shot while 15 crazed bald guys essentially perform what used to be called a "Chinese Firedrill" behind the camera. Jackets flying, people bouncing off walls and stumbling over discarded garments, huffing and puffing to get into the next cubicle these bald guys, several of them a tad past their prime, anxious for the 15 minutes of fame, executed the shot flawlessly. If you ask me, Butch should have filmed us as we flailed around the cubicles trying to get to our places and act casual for the shot, because that was really funny. We executed the scene flawlessly about 20 times. As Butch had the phrase "One more time" recorded and played over the loudspeaker system. By the time we had finished the scene, the combined weight loss of this group of actors could be measured in gross tonnage.

So that's it. My foray into the wonderful and magical world of movies. I guess I'm really excited, despite it all, as I am sure that my line in the film is destined for the same cinematic immortality as "Frankly Scarlet...", "E.T. phone home," and "I'll have what she's having." OK, maybe not. What was my line you ask? If you are asking that question, you have way too much time on your hands but I'll tell you...


"THESE PRETZELS ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY!"

Love
Dad

The most dangerous site on the Web!

I blame this one on the kids. They turned me on to this website a couple of years ago, and recently, over the holidays, I rediscovered it and now it takes up all my time. Is it gambling? Nah. Porno? Nope. Donations to the Republican Party? Wrong again. The dastardly site of which I speak is Craig's List. For those of you that don't know it, Craig's List is a site of free classified ads that are local to any city you choose. I have always liked to peruse classifieds for some reason. Jobs, cars, discussion groups of all kinds, music, just about everything. There's the problem I can see who is selling a car for what price in say, Hong Kong! Why would I want to waste my time doing that? Because I am an idiot.
But why is it so dangerous? Well, for starters, it seems, based on my perusal of the classifieds, that I truly wasted my life with a law degree and education in financial management. Because, I found out that I could have been making billions of dollars an hour just by doing marketing surveys online! Is that depressing or what? What a sap I've been all these years. What's more, I could have done just as well stuffing envelopes, returning phone calls or processing payments for some Nigerian prince who, poor fella, seems to have fallen on political troubles. All he needed for me to make a ton of money was my banking info.
In the last two months I have purchased a used drum set to continue my quest at age 55 of learning how to become the next Ginger Baker. Without lessons. Sandy is thrilled as hell! Especially these past few days with the outside temperature hovering around "absolute zero". What else you gonna do? Seems like there was something else Sandy and I did when we were locked up alone in the house... anyway "Inna Godda Da Vida, baby...." I picked up the drumset on the way home from picking Dustin up at the airport when he was home for Christmas. Dustin grudgingly helped me as we had engaged in the typical parent child blow up within nano seconds of his arrival. You parents of children over the age of 5 know what I'm talking about.
Dustin comes through the airport and greets us with a hug and the conversation goes something like this:
Me: "Hi son, good to see you, how was your flight?"
Dustin: "WHADDYA MEAN I NEED A HAIRCUT!!"
Maybe it's not what you say but how you say it. Oh well. I digress.
After the drums I found an ad looking for a writer for a start up newspaper in New York. Someone who can write sarcasm. So I applied knowing I rate pretty low on the Jon Stewart Sarcasm Scale (those of you who now me can back me up on that), but I sent in some samples from this blog, and the next thing I know, Oscar, the owner calls me and says he wants me to do more. It sounded like he was calling from a heroin addict convention, but hey, its a gig, right?
And finally the coup de grace. It looks like I'm going to be a movie star. Well, not a star, but an extra in an independent film entitled "The Bald Truth". The ad said the director wanted several "bald men" to be in a scene in an office where every one is bald. So I said to myself "Self, you might be able to do this". Sure enough, I got a reply from the director after I sent him my "head shot" (this is evidently movie jargon for a picture of, well, your head) he contacted me and said I'm in. Brando, Gable, Redford ... LaForce? (for you youngsters I guess I should have said Pitt, Di Caprio, Depp) So, I've now got that going for me. Don't be jealous Dustin, I know you'll want me for your next production, so have your people give my people a call and we'll do lunch.
So you can see that I know what I'm talking about when I say Craig's List is the most dangerous site on the Web. Do yourself and your friends and relatives a favor and advise them to keep away from that site at all costs! You can probably humiliate yourself a lot quicker with a quart of Jack Daniels and a good lamp shade.
Well, I've taken enough of your time, those of you that are still awake and reading, but I have to get going it seems I can make obscene amounts of money selling travel packages. All I have to do is send them $1,000 and I can't miss. OH BOY, am I gonna get in on this or what? Also, my caller ID says some guy named Spielberg is calling.

Love,
Dad