In a previous post I discussed the different perspective that Fatherhood has delivered. Going through the Holiday Season has got me thinking a lot about my own Father, and how my Christmas has largely been shaped by him. My most vivid recollections of these merry mornings mostly have to do with him.
Kenneth D. Ireland is a man of Christmas. As much as he likes to tease about his admiration for Scrooge and the Grinch, his heart is very much of the Christmas spirit. He may not have rosy red cheeks, a belly like a bowl full of jelly, or a twinkle in his eye, but to me he is the full embodiment of St. Nick.
My parents didn’t make a lot of money, but they made enough to take good care of us. They’ve always been more generous than they’ve needed to be come Christmas morning. Even with their boys all grown up and well past 30, they still desire to fill our stockings full of joy.
The comfort of our Christmas was always in the consistency of it, the celebration of which remains largely unchanged to this day.
Weeks before Christmas, we’d go down to the corner lot to bring home our tree. No matter how closely Dad would assess these trees, he would always manage to bring home a crooked one. It became such a part of our holiday that when they finally bought an artificial tree, we were disappointed in how straight it was. The one thing I always wanted to do was put the star atop the tree. Every year Dad would patiently try to hold me up as I would stretch over as far as I could. I don’t know if I ever got it on fully, but that was never the point.
The excitable chatter of what we wanted for Christmas was always met with gentle taunting. Threats of Santa passing us over for better-behaved children, or coal-filled stockings were all too common. He would always do it with his same Wicked Witch of the West impersonation. He has, in fact, never stopped doing it.
Christmas morning would begin at the top of the stairs as we waited for Dad to blind us with his Super 8 camera lamp. This thing burned hotter and brighter than the Star of Bethlehem. He would film us coming down the stairs and around the corner to capture our reaction to the first glimpse of the gifts below the tree. Of course, all ever captured was us desperately shielding our eyes from his light assault.
The family would spread out over the living room, and claim a spot to do their unwrapping business. Dad would spend most of the morning distributing gifts, making little piles in front of each person. Eventually, Mom would tell him to sit down and let people catch up. He’d try to capture the best moments on his camera. His Christmas films were always his finest cinematic efforts. Eventually he’d hand the camera over to someone to film him opening a gift. When watching these films later, during his appearance he always exclaimed, “And now, the STAR of the film!”
After the gifts are opened and the living room is a mess of boxes and discarded wrapping paper, the “bag” makes its first appearance. It is at this point you have to account for all your swag, otherwise it may get swept up in Dad’s attempts to clear the living room. In later years Dad became a target of wadded up balls of paper that we were “trying” to toss into the bag.
After the first bag sweep, Dad would then park himself just outside the living room in the front hall to attend to the items where some assembly was required. With his boys surrounding him he would employ every ounce of his admittedly limited mechanical skill to get everything in working order. I think this has to be my favorite memory. Dad never needed to know how to play with our toys with us, but in these moments we could share and bond over them.
As selfish little brats, we never really understood or appreciated the efforts my Mom and Dad made to get us what we wanted. Luckily, my parents never got too caught up in any toy craze from the 80s. Dad never had to chase after a Cabbage Patch Kid, but I know that he would have tried if he had to. If we wanted something (within reason) we usually got it. Much like the Old Man in A Christmas Story, Dad would come through for us. I used to think it was funny to give him grief about the one gift I never got. I had a Star Wars AT-AT on my list for more than a few years. I’m actually not quite sure why I never got it, but I really wasn’t that put out by it. I’m angry with myself now, because I really think that stuck with him.
For over 65 years, my Dad was never separated from his own Father on Christmas. That first Christmas without Grandpa was strange for all of us because it was so quiet. The two of them would start a conversation inside the door that didn’t seem to end until one went out the door. This of course will be the first Christmas morning I will spend away from my Father. Our streak is broken at 38. Sure, this makes me sad, but that is still an incredible run. Living life the right way only increases the amount of loved ones that need to share Christmas. I have so much of my Father’s own spirit to share with my extended family.
In his example, I am now Santa Claus. Or at least that is the job I will take on for as long as my baby girl chooses to believe. If I do it right though, she will never stop believing, as I’ve never stopped believing in my Father.
Merry Christmas Dad.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
In Defense of My Christmas Tree
Nothing seems to generate stronger opinions than that of how to celebrate Christmas correctly. Some think people put up decorations too early, others get their shopping done in September, some want more Christ in Christmas, and there are those who don’t want anything to do with it at all. ‘Tis the season of “to each his own” I guess. One of my favorite symbols of my celebration is one that always seems to illicit opinion from folks… my Christmas tree.
Now forget the fact that I’d keep the thing up year round if I could. Never mind that it is usually up from mid-November to mid-January. Don’t let it bother you that it is not a real tree. These aren’t the issues.
The problems people have with my tree seem to stem from the choice of decoration. I’ll be the first to admit that the greater half of the tree has nothing to do with the common adornments of the season. For example, my ex-wife hated my ornaments so much that she made me hang them on the back of the tree facing the wall. She’d be practically apologetic to people that viewed our tree, fearful of their judgment. Actually this is an analogy for our entire marriage.
Actually, the first impression you have of my tree should be positive. If I do say so, it is strikingly beautiful. Centered in our great room, it is visible from all angles of the house. The silver and bronze metallic balls and trim add extra shine to the glowing white lights. Bronze dusted branches extend from the top forming a sparkling crown around the top of the tree.
Once you approach the tree, however, you start to pick out things that may be out of place. Is that Billy Dee Williams? Why is there an Ecto-1? Does one really need two different Christmas Story Leg Lamps? Shouldn’t Princess Leia have some clothes on? There is no star atop the tree, but there seems to be a Death Star. Is the Grinch holding meat? How many of these ornaments are armed? It is indeed and odd assortment of motley pop culture characters. I know the wise men did not bring gifts of lightsabers, Bumbles, and Roast Beast, but these are featured icons nonetheless. Santa shouts out the ornaments calling them by name: “Now Darth Vader! Now Tigger! Now Swedish Chef and Captain Jack Sparrow; On Greedo! On Ralphie! On Harry Potter and Hermey!
I’ve gone ahead and informally worked out some percentages of the various groupings of ornaments represented. I’m actually a little surprised, as I thought the Star Wars percentage would be higher.
Star Wars: 43%
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: 12%
Anne-Marie (birds, cats, and photo ornaments): 12%
Santas and Snowmen: 6%
Muppets: 5%
Disney: 5%
A Christmas Story: 5% Ohio State Football: 4%
Indiana Jones: 3%
Other Various Pop Culture: 5%
What people fail to realize is that this tree is every bit of what Christmas is to me. Every trinket tells a tale. They are reminders of the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future. Give or take a few years, there hasn’t been a Christmas where something branded Star Wars hasn’t been gifted. I remember distinctly the one Christmas Eve I couldn’t sleep because I was too charged up with excitement to get a Jabba the Hutt playset. I can’t imagine a Christmas spent without watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I’ve always found that herky-jerky bit of animation magical. I’ve had many beloved Muppet gifts other the years, including my first Animal puppet when I was 8 or 9 years old. A Christmas Story was a family favorite from the time it hit the theaters. It has a special place in the hearts of Cleveland residents because parts of the film where shot there. It is always on our television for some part of the annual 24-hour marathon on TBS. The day after Christmas was always a day to wear our new Ohio State apparel to my Mother’s family. College football was always a dominant conversion among my cousins and uncles.
I should really own stock in Hallmark, because they always manage to entice me to spread much of my holiday cheer (er… cash) their way every year. Whoever thought to add ornaments to their list of wares should be filthy rich and retired in some very non-seasonal island paradise.
Now that I’ve spent this entire story calling it my tree, I should mention it is every inch my family’s tree. The tree that stands in our living room is actually one of the first purchases my wife and I made together after only dating for a few weeks. She has come to adore what the tree means to me, and has fully embraced this as our single favorite house decoration. The ornaments I buy for her now aren’t necessarily because I think she’ll absolutely love them, rather they are things that remind me of her, and all the things we’ve shared together. It should also be noted that the first gift she ever bought me was an ornament. It was a small but meaningful gesture early in our relationship. That is exactly what my tree is, a display of meaningful pieces of life that illuminates my house for a few short weeks every year. Let your tree be unique to you.
Oh and the ornament Anne-Marie bought me was an Anakin Skywalker Starfighter from Star Wars Episode III – Revenge of the Sith. Of course.
Now forget the fact that I’d keep the thing up year round if I could. Never mind that it is usually up from mid-November to mid-January. Don’t let it bother you that it is not a real tree. These aren’t the issues.
The problems people have with my tree seem to stem from the choice of decoration. I’ll be the first to admit that the greater half of the tree has nothing to do with the common adornments of the season. For example, my ex-wife hated my ornaments so much that she made me hang them on the back of the tree facing the wall. She’d be practically apologetic to people that viewed our tree, fearful of their judgment. Actually this is an analogy for our entire marriage.
Actually, the first impression you have of my tree should be positive. If I do say so, it is strikingly beautiful. Centered in our great room, it is visible from all angles of the house. The silver and bronze metallic balls and trim add extra shine to the glowing white lights. Bronze dusted branches extend from the top forming a sparkling crown around the top of the tree.
Once you approach the tree, however, you start to pick out things that may be out of place. Is that Billy Dee Williams? Why is there an Ecto-1? Does one really need two different Christmas Story Leg Lamps? Shouldn’t Princess Leia have some clothes on? There is no star atop the tree, but there seems to be a Death Star. Is the Grinch holding meat? How many of these ornaments are armed? It is indeed and odd assortment of motley pop culture characters. I know the wise men did not bring gifts of lightsabers, Bumbles, and Roast Beast, but these are featured icons nonetheless. Santa shouts out the ornaments calling them by name: “Now Darth Vader! Now Tigger! Now Swedish Chef and Captain Jack Sparrow; On Greedo! On Ralphie! On Harry Potter and Hermey!
I’ve gone ahead and informally worked out some percentages of the various groupings of ornaments represented. I’m actually a little surprised, as I thought the Star Wars percentage would be higher.
Star Wars: 43%
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: 12%
Anne-Marie (birds, cats, and photo ornaments): 12%
Santas and Snowmen: 6%
Muppets: 5%
Disney: 5%
A Christmas Story: 5% Ohio State Football: 4%
Indiana Jones: 3%
Other Various Pop Culture: 5%
What people fail to realize is that this tree is every bit of what Christmas is to me. Every trinket tells a tale. They are reminders of the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future. Give or take a few years, there hasn’t been a Christmas where something branded Star Wars hasn’t been gifted. I remember distinctly the one Christmas Eve I couldn’t sleep because I was too charged up with excitement to get a Jabba the Hutt playset. I can’t imagine a Christmas spent without watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I’ve always found that herky-jerky bit of animation magical. I’ve had many beloved Muppet gifts other the years, including my first Animal puppet when I was 8 or 9 years old. A Christmas Story was a family favorite from the time it hit the theaters. It has a special place in the hearts of Cleveland residents because parts of the film where shot there. It is always on our television for some part of the annual 24-hour marathon on TBS. The day after Christmas was always a day to wear our new Ohio State apparel to my Mother’s family. College football was always a dominant conversion among my cousins and uncles.
I should really own stock in Hallmark, because they always manage to entice me to spread much of my holiday cheer (er… cash) their way every year. Whoever thought to add ornaments to their list of wares should be filthy rich and retired in some very non-seasonal island paradise.
Now that I’ve spent this entire story calling it my tree, I should mention it is every inch my family’s tree. The tree that stands in our living room is actually one of the first purchases my wife and I made together after only dating for a few weeks. She has come to adore what the tree means to me, and has fully embraced this as our single favorite house decoration. The ornaments I buy for her now aren’t necessarily because I think she’ll absolutely love them, rather they are things that remind me of her, and all the things we’ve shared together. It should also be noted that the first gift she ever bought me was an ornament. It was a small but meaningful gesture early in our relationship. That is exactly what my tree is, a display of meaningful pieces of life that illuminates my house for a few short weeks every year. Let your tree be unique to you.
Oh and the ornament Anne-Marie bought me was an Anakin Skywalker Starfighter from Star Wars Episode III – Revenge of the Sith. Of course.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Thankful 2010
I’ve spent years noting the holiday with a list of various reasons to be thankful. This year will be no different, but I’m approaching things from a different perspective this year. There, I just said it – perspective. This year I am thankful for being able to be on the other side of things. 2010 brought perspective in the form of my bubbly bouncy ball of baby girl.
The universal parental taunt is “You just wait until you have kids.” Something in our heads always told us we were going to do things better, but inevitably we all suffer that moment when we realize we are handling everything just like our parents did.
Obviously I knew life was going to change, and I’m thankful that I’m in a good place to welcome this change. I couldn’t have done this 5 or 10 years ago, and any earlier I might have raised a serial killer.
I’ve experienced many people around me become parents in the last twenty or so years that I’ve been piecing my life together. I can’t say one way or the other if these people were succeeding, failing, or just doing what little they were capable of. I was half expecting some sort of slight madness wash over me. Would I become the military precision parent who runs drills on a strict time schedule? Would I be the parent who can’t structure a single sentence without mentioning their child? Would I have to shut out the entire world because I can only process one thing at a time? Would my child become a universal excuse? Would I be ignorant enough to think that the rest of the world will be delighted enough with my child to let them run amok wherever? You might consider me one or all of these parents, but I’m a thankful witness to those who've bravely gone before me.
I wasn’t prepared for the perspective. I just wasn’t. The maturity that increases with each passing year may bring to light what a tool one may have been previously. Nothing can prepare you, however, for the installation of operating system Parenthood 1.0. Gazing into the eyes of my child for the first 10 minutes of her life was like starting my own life over. Call it an out of body experience if you will. Years of family photos, movies, stories, and memories cannot place you in the moment of how your own father felt when he held you for the first time. I’m now reviewing my entire life again as if I was re-watching a Criterion DVD box set with commentary from the director. I’d love to describe this in detail, but I can’t, it is just something you can’t share unless you live it for yourself. I have so much more respect for my parents, because I didn’t know of all these beautiful small moments and frightening big fears. I understand so many things now, and I am thankful for this clarity.
I’m of course thankful for my wife and the sacrifices she made to bring us our Mia. I give thanks to our families who continue to exuberantly embrace our addition.
I give thanks to you the reader, for your (hopeful) continued interest.
The universal parental taunt is “You just wait until you have kids.” Something in our heads always told us we were going to do things better, but inevitably we all suffer that moment when we realize we are handling everything just like our parents did.
Obviously I knew life was going to change, and I’m thankful that I’m in a good place to welcome this change. I couldn’t have done this 5 or 10 years ago, and any earlier I might have raised a serial killer.
I’ve experienced many people around me become parents in the last twenty or so years that I’ve been piecing my life together. I can’t say one way or the other if these people were succeeding, failing, or just doing what little they were capable of. I was half expecting some sort of slight madness wash over me. Would I become the military precision parent who runs drills on a strict time schedule? Would I be the parent who can’t structure a single sentence without mentioning their child? Would I have to shut out the entire world because I can only process one thing at a time? Would my child become a universal excuse? Would I be ignorant enough to think that the rest of the world will be delighted enough with my child to let them run amok wherever? You might consider me one or all of these parents, but I’m a thankful witness to those who've bravely gone before me.
I wasn’t prepared for the perspective. I just wasn’t. The maturity that increases with each passing year may bring to light what a tool one may have been previously. Nothing can prepare you, however, for the installation of operating system Parenthood 1.0. Gazing into the eyes of my child for the first 10 minutes of her life was like starting my own life over. Call it an out of body experience if you will. Years of family photos, movies, stories, and memories cannot place you in the moment of how your own father felt when he held you for the first time. I’m now reviewing my entire life again as if I was re-watching a Criterion DVD box set with commentary from the director. I’d love to describe this in detail, but I can’t, it is just something you can’t share unless you live it for yourself. I have so much more respect for my parents, because I didn’t know of all these beautiful small moments and frightening big fears. I understand so many things now, and I am thankful for this clarity.
I’m of course thankful for my wife and the sacrifices she made to bring us our Mia. I give thanks to our families who continue to exuberantly embrace our addition.
I give thanks to you the reader, for your (hopeful) continued interest.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
An open letter to the students of Mentor High School
I was greatly affected by the news of yet another Mentor High School teen taking their own life due to excessive and insufferable bullying. I graduated from Mentor in 1990, and I’ve been angry for days at an administration that continues to allow students to be victimized. I could have spent time writing about my own struggles coming up through the Mentor School System, but I’ve decided to open letter that speaks directly to the students of MHS.
Dear Students
One would hope that a national mention of your school might be for something positive: a state sports championship, academic merits, or excellence in community service. But your school is now known nationally as a place where four teens have decided that death was a better option than to continue to suffer relentless bullying from their peers.
Of the many articles I’ve read, it seems like many of you have done your best to distance yourselves from the situation. Some claim to have not known this girl. Others have said they weren’t aware of a problem. Many claimed that they don’t want to be judged for the actions of a few.
Let me ask a question. What if one of your fellow students pulled out a gun and shot someone in the middle of the cafeteria, and then ran off? What would you do? Would you report the crime? Would you turn a blind eye and pretend nothing happened? Would you be afraid to identify the student out of fear of being unpopular? Would you laugh at the victim? You wouldn’t think twice about. You would tell every teacher, school official, policeman, parent, reporter, and bystander anything and everything you saw. You witnessed a crime and therefore it is your civic duty to report it as such.
The simple fact is that you did see a student get killed. It may not have happened in front of you, but you were witness to what caused it. You turned a blind eye to it, and continued about your day. You said noting to anyone, and maintained whatever social status you cling to. You may have even laughed about the victim. You most likely see a crime being committed every day, perhaps multiple times a day. You continue to do nothing.
You are not innocent, and don’t pretend to be. Bullying is not a silent act. You are well aware of who the bullies are, and you are also aware of who the victims are. You are more than likely a victim yourself. Four students are dead. How many more need to die before you are brave enough to act?
Don’t kid yourself. This is going to follow you for a long time. Are you proud to list Mentor High School on your college admissions? Imagine listing it on a job application. How many years do you think it will be before people stop mentioning it? “Oh, you’re from that school where all the kids killed themselves.” Every time you open your yearbook, every reunion you attend, every story of the good old days you tell will have the cloud of this tragedy hanging over it.
Do something about it.
Stop being a coward. Take a chance and do something heroic next time you have the opportunity. If you see a student being victimized by others then you need to step in. It may one of the most difficult things you ever do, but I promise you the rewards will benefit you for a lifetime. You might be surprised who stands up next to you. The best defense against any negative force is strength in numbers. Be a community. Be remembered for something better than what history has written for you.
And finally, if you are actually one of those who is guilty of bullying, then I can say that I hope nothing but the worst for you in life. I hope the small amounts of empowerment you gained were worth the empty and shallow existence you have. You are and forever will be a criminal, and your future will treat you as such.
Dear Students
One would hope that a national mention of your school might be for something positive: a state sports championship, academic merits, or excellence in community service. But your school is now known nationally as a place where four teens have decided that death was a better option than to continue to suffer relentless bullying from their peers.
Of the many articles I’ve read, it seems like many of you have done your best to distance yourselves from the situation. Some claim to have not known this girl. Others have said they weren’t aware of a problem. Many claimed that they don’t want to be judged for the actions of a few.
Let me ask a question. What if one of your fellow students pulled out a gun and shot someone in the middle of the cafeteria, and then ran off? What would you do? Would you report the crime? Would you turn a blind eye and pretend nothing happened? Would you be afraid to identify the student out of fear of being unpopular? Would you laugh at the victim? You wouldn’t think twice about. You would tell every teacher, school official, policeman, parent, reporter, and bystander anything and everything you saw. You witnessed a crime and therefore it is your civic duty to report it as such.
The simple fact is that you did see a student get killed. It may not have happened in front of you, but you were witness to what caused it. You turned a blind eye to it, and continued about your day. You said noting to anyone, and maintained whatever social status you cling to. You may have even laughed about the victim. You most likely see a crime being committed every day, perhaps multiple times a day. You continue to do nothing.
You are not innocent, and don’t pretend to be. Bullying is not a silent act. You are well aware of who the bullies are, and you are also aware of who the victims are. You are more than likely a victim yourself. Four students are dead. How many more need to die before you are brave enough to act?
Don’t kid yourself. This is going to follow you for a long time. Are you proud to list Mentor High School on your college admissions? Imagine listing it on a job application. How many years do you think it will be before people stop mentioning it? “Oh, you’re from that school where all the kids killed themselves.” Every time you open your yearbook, every reunion you attend, every story of the good old days you tell will have the cloud of this tragedy hanging over it.
Do something about it.
Stop being a coward. Take a chance and do something heroic next time you have the opportunity. If you see a student being victimized by others then you need to step in. It may one of the most difficult things you ever do, but I promise you the rewards will benefit you for a lifetime. You might be surprised who stands up next to you. The best defense against any negative force is strength in numbers. Be a community. Be remembered for something better than what history has written for you.
And finally, if you are actually one of those who is guilty of bullying, then I can say that I hope nothing but the worst for you in life. I hope the small amounts of empowerment you gained were worth the empty and shallow existence you have. You are and forever will be a criminal, and your future will treat you as such.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Naked Guy
I hadn’t been in a YMCA locker room for many years, but I’m here to report that some things never change. Upon entering the locker room, right there by the door, is always Naked Guy. Not “I’m slipping out of my towel and jumping into my shorts” Naked Guy. I’m talking about “I’ve been standing here letting it all hang out from every angle as I consider organizing my bag” Naked Guy. No matter what locker room you enter, this guy is there, and usually front and center for everyone to enjoy.
Naked Guy comes in all shapes, sizes, ages, and races. I can’t be as judgmental to suggest that there is something unsavory about this particular man. One shouldn’t assume that his intentions are anything beyond just the freedom of being naked.
Guys are just funny this way. Some guys can get naked together at the drop of a hat… or pants for that matter. My college rugby team was famous for their desire to drop trou with each other. Yet any suggestion of homosexuality would cause a surge of ugly testosterone to prove otherwise. I think there is actually a large percentage of guys who would be perfectly fine with an installation of a sports bar in the locker room. Picture a bunch of naked guys sitting about eating wings and watching the game. Get too messy with the wing sauce, just walk over to the shower and rinse off.
I dated a girl who lived in a newly renovated downtown loft apartment in Cincinnati. Right across the way was this very old school private executive men’s club. Wouldn’t call it a fitness center, because there wasn’t really any exercise going on. Just a bunch of old white men, sitting around in steam rooms. Their casual nudity and lack of window dressings were common issues raised at the resident meetings.
I just don’t have this level of comfort, and I never have. When I’m forced in to sharing changing space with others, I mind my own Ps and Qs. My eyes are on what I’m doing, and I can only expect that everyone else is doing the same. I have what most would consider an appropriate level of self-consciousness, and have no desire to put myself on display.
There are many activities where nudity is acceptable and very much encouraged. However, most of these are considered socially unacceptable in public. Seinfeld had a whole episode about “ugly naked.” There is many a position that need not be gazed upon. Any pre or post stretching routines can all be accomplished with the comfort of briefs. Sure, you might need to hike that leg up on the bench to dry off, but it completely unnecessary as a stance to help drive conversation.
As a general rule, I feel that if your junk is exposed in a public situation, there should be no conversation. This goes for changing rooms and urinals. The only exception to this rule may be at the doctor, and he is telling you to turn your head and cough. I mean, what do you even have to talk about when naked? “Say – how’s your penis?”
As one might assume, I’ve never been in the Ladies Locker room, so I don’t know how relatable this story is to my copious amount female readers. Our feeble male minds have our own ideas, but I’m going to guess there is Naked Woman in there that is in no way matching our Cinemax-inspired fantasy. However feel free to comment, share descriptions or photos if necessary.
Naked Guy comes in all shapes, sizes, ages, and races. I can’t be as judgmental to suggest that there is something unsavory about this particular man. One shouldn’t assume that his intentions are anything beyond just the freedom of being naked.
Guys are just funny this way. Some guys can get naked together at the drop of a hat… or pants for that matter. My college rugby team was famous for their desire to drop trou with each other. Yet any suggestion of homosexuality would cause a surge of ugly testosterone to prove otherwise. I think there is actually a large percentage of guys who would be perfectly fine with an installation of a sports bar in the locker room. Picture a bunch of naked guys sitting about eating wings and watching the game. Get too messy with the wing sauce, just walk over to the shower and rinse off.
I dated a girl who lived in a newly renovated downtown loft apartment in Cincinnati. Right across the way was this very old school private executive men’s club. Wouldn’t call it a fitness center, because there wasn’t really any exercise going on. Just a bunch of old white men, sitting around in steam rooms. Their casual nudity and lack of window dressings were common issues raised at the resident meetings.
I just don’t have this level of comfort, and I never have. When I’m forced in to sharing changing space with others, I mind my own Ps and Qs. My eyes are on what I’m doing, and I can only expect that everyone else is doing the same. I have what most would consider an appropriate level of self-consciousness, and have no desire to put myself on display.
There are many activities where nudity is acceptable and very much encouraged. However, most of these are considered socially unacceptable in public. Seinfeld had a whole episode about “ugly naked.” There is many a position that need not be gazed upon. Any pre or post stretching routines can all be accomplished with the comfort of briefs. Sure, you might need to hike that leg up on the bench to dry off, but it completely unnecessary as a stance to help drive conversation.
As a general rule, I feel that if your junk is exposed in a public situation, there should be no conversation. This goes for changing rooms and urinals. The only exception to this rule may be at the doctor, and he is telling you to turn your head and cough. I mean, what do you even have to talk about when naked? “Say – how’s your penis?”
As one might assume, I’ve never been in the Ladies Locker room, so I don’t know how relatable this story is to my copious amount female readers. Our feeble male minds have our own ideas, but I’m going to guess there is Naked Woman in there that is in no way matching our Cinemax-inspired fantasy. However feel free to comment, share descriptions or photos if necessary.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Funny Part 2 – Ups Man
Every neighborhood has one I suppose. That one cool kid that everyone looks up to, and longs to be friends with. Our neighborhood had Tim Kraus.
For years I was told by my parents to avoid this particular person. Other neighbors had warned my parents that he was an unsavory fellow, prone to the kind of things that could get an impressionable young man like myself into trouble. As to be expected, that just made him all the more fascinating to me. He lived at the opposite end of the street, and our paths never crossed that much. I heard of him much like we hear of infamous superstars in the tabloids, and therefore many of his exploits were legendary.
Oddly enough, I don’t remember when I started hanging around him. Being so drawn to him for years, I guess I eventually just gravitated to him. Around the age of Junior High, I started to spend nearly every day with him. He wasn’t nearly as bad an egg as he was made out to be. There was indeed something about him that made him a beloved character to us all. He was funny.
Granted, what is funny to a bunch of goofy kids playing in the street isn’t widely regarded as classical comedy. Whatever you want to brand this humor, Tim was by far a master craftsman of it. Nobody could work a crowd of giggling sophomoric misfits like he could. His eyes were shifty with creative delight. His laugh crackled with obnoxious joy. He was often imitated, but nobody could ever come close to his unique brand of delivery. His spoke of body parts and physical acts that we wouldn’t become familiar with for years. His use of obscenities was only used for greater impact. There was truly nothing sacred, and he wasn’t afraid of anyone or any subject.
He had many targets of his humor, but he was honestly never really mean to anyone. The guys on the other end of his jokes became characters larger than themselves. He’d crack heavily on you and you would love him for it. Dale Setzer was perhaps his favorite victim. Tim’s imitation of Dale always started with a “Dah!” Tim made up many hapless adventures involving Dale and his assorted bodily functions and fluids. I’m not sure if Dale ever really knew of his star status, and our collective fascination of him.
I’m sure that we never really knew what we were laughing at. Perhaps Tim didn’t even fully understand why something was funny. One of his random catchphrases was “Lacrosse is a faggot college sport… Dale plays with his dick.” My apologies for the insensitivity of the remark, but keep in mind – we were a bunch of dumb kids. We didn’t understand half of the comment, but his delivery of it kept us in stitches each time he said it.
Everything he did was comical: the slack way he carried himself, his low-rider bike peddling, his crooked middle finger delivery. He took delight in his surroundings, and he introduced me to the subtle absurdities of our every day existence. The UPS man was always the “Ups” man, and later the “U-Piss” man. Various people in the neighborhood had similar nicknames based on his random observations.
His appearance was somewhat odd in style. In the blazing heat of the summer he wore a tropical button down shirt with a battered white t-shirt, dark jeans, and high-top sneakers. All of these items were usually one size too big. He would never wear shorts. Despite this, he was always considered the most attractive of our merry band.
What started out as me basically just being a hanger-oner evolved into one of the most valued friendships I’ve ever had. Like most great comic minds, Tim was covering up a great deal of emotional pain. It’s not my place to go into his troubles, but suffice to say that Tim’s path in life was not a smooth road. It was an important life lesson to learn what kind of masks people wear for protection.
Tim remained a loyal friend through the difficult transition to adolescence. Years later my Dad commented that he was wrong about Tim, and how impressed he was with him in the end. I’ll always envy Tim, and I’ll continue to long for the same kind of adoration he commanded.
I’ll also never be able to not call the UPS driver the “Ups” man ever again.
For years I was told by my parents to avoid this particular person. Other neighbors had warned my parents that he was an unsavory fellow, prone to the kind of things that could get an impressionable young man like myself into trouble. As to be expected, that just made him all the more fascinating to me. He lived at the opposite end of the street, and our paths never crossed that much. I heard of him much like we hear of infamous superstars in the tabloids, and therefore many of his exploits were legendary.
Oddly enough, I don’t remember when I started hanging around him. Being so drawn to him for years, I guess I eventually just gravitated to him. Around the age of Junior High, I started to spend nearly every day with him. He wasn’t nearly as bad an egg as he was made out to be. There was indeed something about him that made him a beloved character to us all. He was funny.
Granted, what is funny to a bunch of goofy kids playing in the street isn’t widely regarded as classical comedy. Whatever you want to brand this humor, Tim was by far a master craftsman of it. Nobody could work a crowd of giggling sophomoric misfits like he could. His eyes were shifty with creative delight. His laugh crackled with obnoxious joy. He was often imitated, but nobody could ever come close to his unique brand of delivery. His spoke of body parts and physical acts that we wouldn’t become familiar with for years. His use of obscenities was only used for greater impact. There was truly nothing sacred, and he wasn’t afraid of anyone or any subject.
He had many targets of his humor, but he was honestly never really mean to anyone. The guys on the other end of his jokes became characters larger than themselves. He’d crack heavily on you and you would love him for it. Dale Setzer was perhaps his favorite victim. Tim’s imitation of Dale always started with a “Dah!” Tim made up many hapless adventures involving Dale and his assorted bodily functions and fluids. I’m not sure if Dale ever really knew of his star status, and our collective fascination of him.
I’m sure that we never really knew what we were laughing at. Perhaps Tim didn’t even fully understand why something was funny. One of his random catchphrases was “Lacrosse is a faggot college sport… Dale plays with his dick.” My apologies for the insensitivity of the remark, but keep in mind – we were a bunch of dumb kids. We didn’t understand half of the comment, but his delivery of it kept us in stitches each time he said it.
Everything he did was comical: the slack way he carried himself, his low-rider bike peddling, his crooked middle finger delivery. He took delight in his surroundings, and he introduced me to the subtle absurdities of our every day existence. The UPS man was always the “Ups” man, and later the “U-Piss” man. Various people in the neighborhood had similar nicknames based on his random observations.
His appearance was somewhat odd in style. In the blazing heat of the summer he wore a tropical button down shirt with a battered white t-shirt, dark jeans, and high-top sneakers. All of these items were usually one size too big. He would never wear shorts. Despite this, he was always considered the most attractive of our merry band.
What started out as me basically just being a hanger-oner evolved into one of the most valued friendships I’ve ever had. Like most great comic minds, Tim was covering up a great deal of emotional pain. It’s not my place to go into his troubles, but suffice to say that Tim’s path in life was not a smooth road. It was an important life lesson to learn what kind of masks people wear for protection.
Tim remained a loyal friend through the difficult transition to adolescence. Years later my Dad commented that he was wrong about Tim, and how impressed he was with him in the end. I’ll always envy Tim, and I’ll continue to long for the same kind of adoration he commanded.
I’ll also never be able to not call the UPS driver the “Ups” man ever again.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Worst Job I've Ever Had
Whenever I reflect on the difficult job market out there, I continue to count the blessings of my employment. I have never been out of work since leaving college, and even better, I've always worked inside my intended career. However, things didn't start out so well. My first year out of school was trial by fire that I have never really been able to let go. Like many of the things I obsess over, I keep this experience with me every day.
As a character flaw, I'm quick to point out that I was never on the fast track to personal growth. With each passing year I reflect on how little I knew prior, and how I wish things could have been clearer for me. The only class I excelled in grade school was art, and it was the obvious path I should take. What exactly I should do in art was the trouble I had. I wasn't cracked enough in the head to be a fine artist, and I wasn't interested enough to teach. The only viable path was commercial art, and my high school teacher recommended the Graphic Design/Illustration program at Kent State University. I spent many years expecting that I would eventually just be an illustrator, and generally struggled with the graphic design portion of my degree. Eventually though, I began to have more confidence in my design, and it became clearer that this was going to be a more marketable skill once I left school. After being selected to be an intern at American Greetings, my confidence spiked, and I soared through a successful final year of college with the highest marks I had ever achieved.
When the job posting for a Graphic Designer at Cedar Point Amusement Park came to my attention, I thought that I had hit the jackpot. This was by far one of my favorite places to visit, and I knew my skill set would be perfect for them. I was over the moon when I got an interview, and accepted the job with no reservation. I had no idea the worst year of my life was about to begin.
The root problem of this job leads back the man that hired me and was to be my boss. Please let me start by clarifying that this is not a cliche "I hate my boss - stick it to the man" bunch of hooey. I've no desire to perpetuate commonality. His name was Paul. He was a gray man. There was no color to his skin. He was probably only in his 40s, but he looked 20 years older. His breath stank of cigarettes, his teeth stained with coffee. His eyes sagged in deep dark sockets. He carried himself like there were weights hung from his appendages. A living Jacob Marley who has already been assigned the eternal chains of damnation. As loathsome creature as you ever saw. It became clear right away that he was hated and feared by everyone. He was the abusive father to the suffering family that had no other choice to live with him and bear it. I was told he was a recovering alcoholic, which didn't as much help to explain his situation as it was to help further define his low level of humanity. I can't find a single solitary decent thing to say about the man. He was a failure as a human being. He sat in his cave of an office, spewing obscenities, making racist remarks, barking into the phone, and dressing down any unfortunate soul who crossed his path. Many managers in other departments refused to deal with him, some outright refused to speak to him. The ones that had to would seemingly lost days of their lives stressing over it. There was one woman who had pushed to the brink of severe mental illness. His negative energy hung over our dank office like the thousands of Seagulls who circled the parking lots. It took only one conversation for me to be completely rattled by him. He thrived with the thrill that he had such an effect on people.
I'm not going to I'm not going to continue on without making it clear that I am not without fault. I was as green as could be entering the job world. I have this ability to make all the mistakes you are usually told to avoid. Paul reminded me many times in my interview that I didn't know anything. I never felt that I proclaimed that I had, but he wanted to make sure that it was understood that I knew nothing. I was actually fine with that. I was ready to learn as much from this man as I could. The problem is, Paul didn't want to teach anything either. It's as if he never really wanted me to know anything. It was much easier for him to ridicule me and berate me if I had no knowledge. He had this uncanny ability to make me give him the wrong answer. He'd bait me into second guessing everything I knew to be correct. It was almost a game for him.
The other designer in the department was a small mouse of a woman. She was married to a park manager, some schlub who was being groomed for bigger and better things by being forced work non-stop from March to November. She had three children, none of whom she ever spoke warmly about. She was plain, neither attractive nor unattractive. She was an unfulfilled woman. The single joy of her week came on Friday afternoon when she would phone the guy who I replaced. The guy that I am told suffered through close to 7 years of Paul at his worst. I'm going to be so bold to suggest that these two had something on the side. It may have just been that survivor syndrome that forms a unbreakable bond between people after experiencing a traumatic event. I thought at first that I could confide in her, seeing that we were now in the same unfortunate situation under Paul. I was blind-sided by the fact that she wasn't as harmless as I perceived. When given the opportunity, she would lash out at me like a pit bull. A beaten and abused dog that was still loyal to its master. I guess I made her situation bearable by taking all focus off of her, and allowing her and Paul to have a common enemy.
There was one particularly ugly day when they cornered me in a conference room and told me everything they didn't like about me. She screamed at me that I didn't listen, despite the fact that she never had any direction for me. They actually told me to lose my attitude, as if I was somehow doing something to wrong them. I'm reminded of the scene in Animal House where the one fraternity was paddling recruits, and they had to yell out with each swat "Thank you sir may I have another!" I can't describe how upsetting this was. Never have I been brought so close to tears in my professional life. I have never since encountered a situation where someone was belittled to a near breaking point, and I honestly can't imagine being near or a part of such thing now. I hate them both for that.
Having the coworkers closest to you making life hard is one thing, but then having the entire office location start in on you is another. I am embarrassed now to have not recognized sooner just how united the entire organization was against me. All the clues were there, I guess I wanted to think so much more of these people. The office admin would come in and regularly ask me If I liked what I was doing. She was hoping for any bit of negativity she could take back to the Office Manager, who would report directly to Paul. One of the the Paint Shop guys would just plainly ask me daily if I had gotten another job yet. I was particularly troubled by him, as I didn't remotely work with him. He got so disgusted with the concept of me he couldn't even eat in the break room with me. Even the park architect and his drafting assistant would be baited into being criticizing me, coming in with random comments about my work. I picture them now huddling in one of the front offices, plotting out new and innovative ways to make life difficult for me.
As a character flaw, I'm quick to point out that I was never on the fast track to personal growth. With each passing year I reflect on how little I knew prior, and how I wish things could have been clearer for me. The only class I excelled in grade school was art, and it was the obvious path I should take. What exactly I should do in art was the trouble I had. I wasn't cracked enough in the head to be a fine artist, and I wasn't interested enough to teach. The only viable path was commercial art, and my high school teacher recommended the Graphic Design/Illustration program at Kent State University. I spent many years expecting that I would eventually just be an illustrator, and generally struggled with the graphic design portion of my degree. Eventually though, I began to have more confidence in my design, and it became clearer that this was going to be a more marketable skill once I left school. After being selected to be an intern at American Greetings, my confidence spiked, and I soared through a successful final year of college with the highest marks I had ever achieved.
When the job posting for a Graphic Designer at Cedar Point Amusement Park came to my attention, I thought that I had hit the jackpot. This was by far one of my favorite places to visit, and I knew my skill set would be perfect for them. I was over the moon when I got an interview, and accepted the job with no reservation. I had no idea the worst year of my life was about to begin.
The root problem of this job leads back the man that hired me and was to be my boss. Please let me start by clarifying that this is not a cliche "I hate my boss - stick it to the man" bunch of hooey. I've no desire to perpetuate commonality. His name was Paul. He was a gray man. There was no color to his skin. He was probably only in his 40s, but he looked 20 years older. His breath stank of cigarettes, his teeth stained with coffee. His eyes sagged in deep dark sockets. He carried himself like there were weights hung from his appendages. A living Jacob Marley who has already been assigned the eternal chains of damnation. As loathsome creature as you ever saw. It became clear right away that he was hated and feared by everyone. He was the abusive father to the suffering family that had no other choice to live with him and bear it. I was told he was a recovering alcoholic, which didn't as much help to explain his situation as it was to help further define his low level of humanity. I can't find a single solitary decent thing to say about the man. He was a failure as a human being. He sat in his cave of an office, spewing obscenities, making racist remarks, barking into the phone, and dressing down any unfortunate soul who crossed his path. Many managers in other departments refused to deal with him, some outright refused to speak to him. The ones that had to would seemingly lost days of their lives stressing over it. There was one woman who had pushed to the brink of severe mental illness. His negative energy hung over our dank office like the thousands of Seagulls who circled the parking lots. It took only one conversation for me to be completely rattled by him. He thrived with the thrill that he had such an effect on people.
I'm not going to I'm not going to continue on without making it clear that I am not without fault. I was as green as could be entering the job world. I have this ability to make all the mistakes you are usually told to avoid. Paul reminded me many times in my interview that I didn't know anything. I never felt that I proclaimed that I had, but he wanted to make sure that it was understood that I knew nothing. I was actually fine with that. I was ready to learn as much from this man as I could. The problem is, Paul didn't want to teach anything either. It's as if he never really wanted me to know anything. It was much easier for him to ridicule me and berate me if I had no knowledge. He had this uncanny ability to make me give him the wrong answer. He'd bait me into second guessing everything I knew to be correct. It was almost a game for him.
The other designer in the department was a small mouse of a woman. She was married to a park manager, some schlub who was being groomed for bigger and better things by being forced work non-stop from March to November. She had three children, none of whom she ever spoke warmly about. She was plain, neither attractive nor unattractive. She was an unfulfilled woman. The single joy of her week came on Friday afternoon when she would phone the guy who I replaced. The guy that I am told suffered through close to 7 years of Paul at his worst. I'm going to be so bold to suggest that these two had something on the side. It may have just been that survivor syndrome that forms a unbreakable bond between people after experiencing a traumatic event. I thought at first that I could confide in her, seeing that we were now in the same unfortunate situation under Paul. I was blind-sided by the fact that she wasn't as harmless as I perceived. When given the opportunity, she would lash out at me like a pit bull. A beaten and abused dog that was still loyal to its master. I guess I made her situation bearable by taking all focus off of her, and allowing her and Paul to have a common enemy.
One major issue was that I couldn't make two moves without having to ask one of them a question. The guy before did practically everything, and therefore they knew nothing. This guy didn't leave any directions either. I'm rather sure that the bristled responses I got were because they didn't want to own up to not knowing. Mouse lady spent most of her time on the phone for Tech support for Adobe Illustrator, mainly because she just didn't know how to use it. Paul caused a great deal of damage to his own machine because of his short fuse. So anytime I needed to know where a file was, or who to call for certain jobs, the chain of command, or be privy to one of the thousand park processes - I had to ask them. I started collecting my questions, because if I was going to get yelled at, I might as well get it all over with in bunches. I eventually got yelled at for doing that.
There was one particularly ugly day when they cornered me in a conference room and told me everything they didn't like about me. She screamed at me that I didn't listen, despite the fact that she never had any direction for me. They actually told me to lose my attitude, as if I was somehow doing something to wrong them. I'm reminded of the scene in Animal House where the one fraternity was paddling recruits, and they had to yell out with each swat "Thank you sir may I have another!" I can't describe how upsetting this was. Never have I been brought so close to tears in my professional life. I have never since encountered a situation where someone was belittled to a near breaking point, and I honestly can't imagine being near or a part of such thing now. I hate them both for that.
Having the coworkers closest to you making life hard is one thing, but then having the entire office location start in on you is another. I am embarrassed now to have not recognized sooner just how united the entire organization was against me. All the clues were there, I guess I wanted to think so much more of these people. The office admin would come in and regularly ask me If I liked what I was doing. She was hoping for any bit of negativity she could take back to the Office Manager, who would report directly to Paul. One of the the Paint Shop guys would just plainly ask me daily if I had gotten another job yet. I was particularly troubled by him, as I didn't remotely work with him. He got so disgusted with the concept of me he couldn't even eat in the break room with me. Even the park architect and his drafting assistant would be baited into being criticizing me, coming in with random comments about my work. I picture them now huddling in one of the front offices, plotting out new and innovative ways to make life difficult for me.
It was by far the lowest point I had ever reached. I felt like I couldn't just quit. All through college they warned you of tarnishing your resume with short stints. I had nothing else to compare the situation to, so I could only imagine it was like that everywhere. I also didn't want to fail, especially since this was my first job. My self esteem couldn't have been lower. I had to learn how to fight it, or I'd never get anywhere. I was becoming one of them. One of the lost souls who hated everything about their miserable existence. If I was such a terrible designer, why wasn't I ever fired? Why was I never asked to leave? It was because these zombies of the graveyard that is Sandusky, Ohio fed on the life that I had. I would have eventually lost every positive thing about my being. I set a mark of at least one year, and once I hit it - I looked for another job. Oddly enough, I was hired by the first place I interviewed at. Strange, since I was so inept and all.
I left with every shred of dignity I could muster, because If anything, I could at least be a better person about it. I gave my two weeks notice, and intended to give them every single hour of work up to that point - despite the fact the the new job needed me right away. I did everything by the book. The mouse woman asked me on my last day if I would remember them, perhaps expressing a slight pang of guilt. I gave some polite non-answer at the time, but if could answer her right now I would say this: "Yes - you've stayed with me every day of my career. I learned who I didn't want to be, and that was the only valuable thing you taught me."
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