Published writer, compulsive reader, Old School Whovian, Match Game enthusiast, NKOTB fan, data hoarder, and - surprisingly, given that list - married with four kids. Welcome to my take on life, fatherhood, entertainment, and whatever strikes my fancy. Enjoy!
Days Remaining unitl the Mrs. gives birth to Parker
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I'm feeling old lately. I know I say that all the time, but this time I mean it.
I am feeling very old.
It's not my age (thirty), my once-glorious now por-ious hairline, my spare tire, or my rotten teeth.
It's all of the above.
The origin of the current episode can be traced back to my dear wife, who pointed to a photo of us on the refrigerator. The picture in question was taken circa 1996 and shows a cleanly shaven man with his bride (also, thankfully, absent facial hair).
"Can you believe how much older you look since that was taken?" she said.
Well, no, actually I couldn't. I thought I looked more or less the same, other than the goatee. It's not like there's some dramatic drop-off in photogenic quality; pretty much any pic of me taken from 1992 to the present looks just like any other. Or so I thought.
[Let me point out that I could have mentioned that any change in me pales in comparison to the difference between a 19 year-old collegiate and a 28 year-old mother of three. But that would be mean and I won't do it]
But then I started noticing the fading hairline, and the lines around my eyes, and the way elderly women are looking more and more attractive by the day. And so I began to take stock of just how much I have changed over the years.
Physically I'm sure I have a few more wrinkles, nicely offset by the reduction in hair follicles. But I really don't feel older. (this may have something to do with the fact that I am healthier now than I was in college; pretty miraculous given I'm a 300 pound smoker. Of course dropping a hundred pounds and laying off the pound of bacon each morning 'll do that.)
Emotionally? Well, sure, I guess I'm more mature now than I was in, say, 1994. Not by much, but enough to make the point. I'm a husband of long standing and a father of two with another on the way. Kind of hard to keep Voltron as the center of your universe with those titles resting on your shoulders.
No, I think the whole age thing for me is mental. Not that that makes it hurt any less, but at least I can cling to the belief that I'd drop a few years if I took up meditation.
And truthfully, most of the time I don't think I'm that old. Unless someone mentions certain trivia:
Like the fact that Eddie Vedder, the one true rock idol of my youth, turned forty last year.
Or that people who turn twenty-one this year were born the year Reagan was re-elected.
But the one that hits me the hardest: most incoming college freshmen this fall were born in 1987, the very same year I started enrolling in high school and took an alarming interest in a Debbie Gibson photo-spread from Teen Beat.
In other words, three-fifths of the women in television and every - count 'em every - adult movie star and stripper currently employed - was in diapers when I was old enough to think happy thoughts about their profession.
Enough to make you want to tour rest homes, isn't it?
I have no doubt this will all get worse in the coming years. Someday my bones will creak when it rains, I'll read the obituaries instead of the comics, and Depends will stop being a punchline to my jokes and start being a fashion accessory.
But I betcha I'll still take a pretty picture.
My three-year old ran an errand to the doctor with my wife. When she returned she was ecstatic because the receptionist had called her beautiful - which she is.
My wife decided to fish for a compliment. "I wish someone would call me beautiful," she said.
My daughter paused a moment, then said stone-faced . . .
"But . . . you're not beautiful momma."
The first time I was introduced to Artie Shaw's music was courtesy of an old cassette on the Laserlight label that I bought on a whim. I was instantly hooked. Dark and mysterious one minute, light and romantic the next, there's no better music for a dark and rainy summer night than jazz, - and few better practitioners of the art than Artie Shaw.
Shaw died last week at his home in Thousand Oaks, California. He was 94.
Even if you've never heard his music, you have to stand in awe of his life.
Born in 1910 to immigrant parents, by his early twenties Shaw was a well paid musician for CBS. Following his 'retirement' - the first of many - he formed his own orchestra. A cut of Cole Porter's "Begin the Beguinne" spent six weeks on the charts in 1938, jumpstarting a career that would see him making a weekly five figure income in the 1940's.
In the next decades Shaw would record many hits: "Fresnesi", "Traffic Jam", "Back Bay Shuffle", "Moonglow", "Accent-tchu-ate the Positive", and his theme song, the brooding "Nightmare". Ranking with Goodman and Miller as leaders of the Big Band era, Shaw was one of the most popular entertainers of the time.
Too bad he hated the attention.
Shaw was an early version of the 'bad boys' of music, mourning the loss of his privacy and shunning autographs. At one point he labeled his jitterbug-happy fans "morons", which didn't go over to well with the people who bought his records.
"I could never understand why people wanted to dance to my music," he said. "I made it good enough to listen to."
Apparently he had just as volatile a relationship with his wives - all eight of them. The musician included in this harem beauties like Lana Turner and Ava Gardner, And while it never led to marriage he once romanced Judy Garland (when he left her, she allegedly had her first mental breakdown).
In 1953 the avowed liberal was pulled before the House Un-American Activities Committee and questioned about communist ties. While he admitted attending several meetings, the WWII Navy veteran told the committee that he had never joined the party or donated money; he had simply gone out of curiosity and an interest in social justice.
Later that decade he left music for good. With a solid career and forty years of life behind him he embarked on yet another artistic venture: writing. In addition to an autobiography (albeit an autobiography that barely touches on his marriages) he wrote two short story collections, "I Love You, I Hate You, Drop Dead!" and "The Best of Intentions." Both were well received.
Yet his music remains his calling card. There are better known Big Band artists - how great would his reputation be if he hadn't pulled the plug himself! - but few were better. One of the most gifted clarinetists of all time, Shaw had started out playing the saxophone and only switched to the instrument in his late teens. With the clarinet, like everything in his life, success seemed to follow Artie Shaw around like one of his devoted fans.
But Shaw spent his life, in one way or another, running away from success. He formed bands, struck it rich, disbanded them and did it all again. He walked away from the business that made his fortune, and he failed to form a lifelong commitment to any woman he loved.
Perhaps that's the way it should be. Even with his flaws Shaw attained near perfection; anything more would‘ve been too much to believe.
As long as I'm on AOL Journals, I'll try to improve the comments situation. Meantime, as promised I'll reprint any emails here. I received this one about the Tsunami post:
Subj: I blogged your post... it was REALLY good
Date: 12/30/04 6:48:20 PM Central Standard Time
From@yahoo.com
To: SlapInions@aol.com
I couldn't find how to make a comment on your blog but
wanted you to know I blogged your post.
Linda :)
http://bunik.blogspot.com
I encourage you to visit her site and take a look around (and be sure to tell her Slapinons sent you). She seems to post quite a bit, so you may have to hunt for my post.
About a week from now I'll spend a day reprinting each comment from BE and email I've received about the site...and I'll post a roll call of blogs that I've had contact with. Meantime, if you're on BE and like this site, leave a comment and rate me.
Later
In the thirty years I've spent on this planet, I can't think of a single New Years resolution I've kept. Whoa, scratch that. From age fourteen on I included "lose my virginity" on each list.
Thank God I got that out of the way last year.
So I thought this year I'd make my self-improvement list public to lend it a little moral authority. You know, give it a little oompah that it's been lacking. I therefore present:
Slapinions Rambling List of Likely Unattainable but certainly Doable New Years Resolutions (Had I Only a Smidgen of Ambition And Personal Will Power) 2005 Edition.
I will lose weight by exercising more and practicing self-control of my eating habits. I will go to the gym on a regular basis. I will also quit smoking.I'm lumping those together so that when I fail it'll only count as one mark against me.
Despite all my inherent masculine distaste at the idea, I will learn to braid my daughter's hair.
Because on the rare mornings her appearance is my responsibility, my daughter goes to kindergarten looking like Gene Wilder.
I will figure out how to transfer my home videos to DVD's using my computer
Which, after all, was the whole reason I spent the extra $500 on the thing in the first place.
I will attend church more often
I did much better this year, but working third shift doesn’t make it easy come Sunday morning and the guilt is piling up.
I will not falter in my assertion that the Godfather is a thousand times better than Scarface
Mark this one as done. It's not even a contest.
Again swallowing my masculine genetic predisposition, I will help my wife catch up on our children's scrapbooks.
Disturbingly enough, I actually enjoy doing this.
I will no longer invest hope, excitement, or expectations in my Milwaukee Brewers
Which is something I should have done ten years ago.
I will no longer childishly try to spoil my wife's orgasms by whispering "Richard Nixon" at that 'special' time
Frankly, this should never have been an issue.
I will make every effort to secure publication of my writing, and will accept rejection with renewed determination
It's sad when your only published work is a twenty-year old letter in Boy's Life
I will read a hundred books.
Been saying that for years, but have never cracked ninety.
I will take the extra time to relearn my parenting skills to benefit my son.
Because after two daughters, the whole 'penis' thing makes me feel like my wife's giving birth to a Martian.
I will make at least a piddling attempt to renew my acquaintance with the guitar
I was never any good, but I enjoyed it. And it would impress my daughters.
I will not lose any more teeth in the coming year
Let's just let that sleeping dog lie, shall we?
I will attend an out-of-state baseball game with my Dad
I will make some effort at mental improvement
Ideally I'd like to learn Polish or Latin, but I'd settle for remembering half the phone numbers in my cell.
I will successfully find a better paying, safer, more challenging day job.
Not just because the one I have now pays poorly and is eventually going to get me killed, but because I really am capable of better. Plus working nights is hell on my tan.
Will I succeed? I'll fill you in with an update next year. 'Til then -
Happy New Year everyone!
I woke up this morning to the news that Father Frank Yaniak had passed away Christmas Eve.
That this shocked me was more surprising than the news itself. He was eighty years old and in declining health for years. It was only a matter of time.
But I couldn't imagine it happening.
Fr. Yaniak was a short, stern faced man with a no-nonsense manner. He wasn't the kind of priest you see advertised today, not when the Church is struggling to restore its tarnished image with kinder, more accepting clergy. In the years I attended his parish there was no holding hands during the Lord's prayer, no showy outpouring of "Amen!" by the congregation, and certainly no new-age philosophy to be had.
But there was another side of Fr. Yaniak, one I had the pleasure of being introduced to the year of my marriage.
Our first attempt to get married was quickly - and rudely - rejected by a priest, allegedly because my wife was Lutheran, but more likely because of our ages (my wife had only just turned nineteen). The chances of finding a Catholic church to marry us appeared slim, and I have no idea why it ever seemed like a smart idea to approach the strictest priest I knew.
But it was.
Mind you, he never wavered on his principles. Because we were living together he had us move up the wedding an entire year. When we argued that we could stay (cough) celibate if it meant an extra year to save up money, he smiled and said "you will never convince me that such a thing is possible with a young couple like you."
Over the next few months we grew to enjoy his company. He was a well-read man that could speak Latin, Greek, and Polish, yet his home was strewn with mystery novels. In an age of Surgeon Generals warnings he was never without a cigar, and he proudly boasted that when he moved in he'd replaced every no-smoking sign with an ashtray.
And in a time when - spoken or not - everyone doubted the wisdom of our wedding, Fr. Yaniak never once gave the impression of anything but absolute faith in our future. Nor did he ever single out my wife's religion, quickly and smoothly suggesting accommodations for a service where half the congregation was Lutheran.
At our wedding, after he spoke a Polish blessing, we re-enacted a German tradition where the groom kneels on the bride's dress and she stands and steps on his shoe to reassert her independence. My wife's actions were not believable to Father. He made her do it again, and she stomped on my foot with gusto. "Now we know who'll wear the pants in the family," he told the audience.
We were the last couple he ever married.
Five years later I asked him to come out of retirement for my first child's baptism. He was shockingly frail, but happily performed the ceremony. At the end he addressed our family.
"There's an old joke I used to tell at the end of these things. See you the same time next year. I don’t think I'll get that chance, but all the best to you."
He was wrong. He lived three more years, long enough to get one last Christmas card from a family that will soon include three children. My oldest, on whose bed his baptismal gift of a religious medal still hangs, came to the funeral with us and said a prayer over his casket.
Rest in peace Frank Yaniak. We'll miss you.
