tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16783095211030247722024-03-14T07:40:32.458-04:00The Missing PieceAdventures in Autistic Parenthoodstagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-63514113736685727952016-06-28T16:08:00.000-04:002016-06-28T16:08:23.427-04:00The Family Zoo:<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGjbxw5YB6QVBW0lvdhL0sHhkHoIjPuvglibQsX9mcHflgbZ9-kmbG9Y_Jg9VyxIsCEwtK_AcZLfsowtbauN3ZYJIyXUOaG1dbHki-je5ilLTiz-MVMjJ5zUlDftfa1GUPk-STpwSkq8gq/s1600/calvin-and-hobbes+procrastinar.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGjbxw5YB6QVBW0lvdhL0sHhkHoIjPuvglibQsX9mcHflgbZ9-kmbG9Y_Jg9VyxIsCEwtK_AcZLfsowtbauN3ZYJIyXUOaG1dbHki-je5ilLTiz-MVMjJ5zUlDftfa1GUPk-STpwSkq8gq/s320/calvin-and-hobbes+procrastinar.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;">I didn't draw this.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've been more than normally (for me) sporadic posting stories here, and there are a myriad of reasons, but the overriding one is that it's been a strange combination of personal contentment and the unsettling grind of poling through the morass of bureaucracy to get David into the System. Maybe Bill Watterson got it right, though. Maybe I just needed to be in the mood.<br />
At any rate, now that the mood strikes me (with a mallet), here we go again.<br />
Recently, on the occasion of my Mother's birthday, (she hasn't quite hit the age where it's okay to ask how many yet) she decided that the Area Siblings, (they sometimes forget that I'm one of them now) would meet for the... however-many, anniversary of her birth at the Gage Park Zoo, in Topeka. I'm showing some age. It's now the Topeka Zoo, but this is my story, so there! This was always the place that my Dad took us to when he needed an under-$40 vacation for a family of 7. We'd pack a cooler and the family in a continuing array of large-capacity vehicles and drive the hour to the Zoo. An adventure for kids from a town you can walk across in 20 minutes or less. When we took the off ramp from the Interstate we all got very excited and this ratcheted up to mania by the time we passed under the huge (to us) open park gate. After trekking across the barren wastes... ish we had finally made it to ... the... ZOO!<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAZtIY19p0Ec7kecx8OqmPo7eL8QRydbR71HwcRMLLZldZr3WNt-RfVeaaai6GLhzA6pTGotLsv4m5x9WDcck_nzp-zl30EfN4GAZ4B7tac0F5a1pRh2WH9GYDscw24-4CNtSZP-ZBcC4B/s1600/DSC_0174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAZtIY19p0Ec7kecx8OqmPo7eL8QRydbR71HwcRMLLZldZr3WNt-RfVeaaai6GLhzA6pTGotLsv4m5x9WDcck_nzp-zl30EfN4GAZ4B7tac0F5a1pRh2WH9GYDscw24-4CNtSZP-ZBcC4B/s320/DSC_0174.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;">Didn't that thing used to go the other way?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It wasn't especially impressive, but they did have lots (too many for the space) of animals that we wouldn't ever get to see in the Prairies of Kans-ass, and we got to ride a train. That's right. A train! It was just a little 15" gauge, gas powered train that made a pretty good circle around the non-zoo portions of the park, but it <i>went through a tunnel</i> <i>and</i> <i>over a trestle bridge!</i> Of course the bridge was only 4' off the ground, not over a mountain gorge, and the tunnel was a 10' diameter culvert-pipe covered with dirt, not hewn from the granite fastness of a mountain, but we were pretty imaginative (and loud) kids. We filled in the details. To mom, the pinnacle of the entire trip was the Reinisch Rose Garden. And every subsequent visit to the zoo requires that we return there. Imagine trying to enrapture 5 under-teen kids with 7000 variations of 400 varieties of... flowers. We were not fans, and spent most of that time chucking rocks at the ducks in the lily pond, where she couldn't see us.<br />
At any rate it was her birthday and she got to pick, so the oldest 4 out of the 5 siblings, one in-law (sorry Chris) and 2 grandchildren were to meet in the tame Wilds of furthest Topeka.<br />
When I told Dave we were going to the Topeka Zoo, a place he's only been once or twice before, and even though I didn't say why, he immediately said, 'We're going to see Grandma at the Zoo!!' I smiled... and then... thought about it. And then I thought about it some more. Now I'm sure it says something about me that my first thoughts went two different directions, both of them with varying degrees of sarcasm. So I thought... 'Does he mean he'll see her <i>at</i> the zoo, or <i>in </i>the zoo?' You see, it might be that because he only goes to the Topeka Zoo in the company of his grandmother that he naturally thinks that we wouldn't go there without her. Or... it may be that he believes his grandmother is (or deserves to be) one of the exhibits in the park. At any rate, he seemed very excited to go. And that was the important thing... I guess.<br />
Even though we were the last ones there, it looked like we weren't all that late as the rest of the family hadn't cleared the meeting zone right inside the gate. Grandma got a hug first thing, and, even though we still hadn't answered the 'at' or 'in' question, we all proceeded to have a pretty good time. The reptiles had their 'No Dudes, No Way' sign out, so we immediately proceeded to the giraffes. Even though they don't vocalize much, David is pretty impressed with giraffes. 'Look at that TALL!!' is about all I can get out of him, but he sounds impressed.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6FR9ShNLxL3oeWZLnqiE9-TDBa64IeTcxNZUQjSyU8YTVSCOkI-UIqN4nf_PPD67YI0CnqQrjfpoeeSsHnb_FIeKoDpIU5BRQg7rTn6BVw9fttc88pvM_5c7KL_B3-CaeRGFnY4mA2do4/s1600/DSC_0047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6FR9ShNLxL3oeWZLnqiE9-TDBa64IeTcxNZUQjSyU8YTVSCOkI-UIqN4nf_PPD67YI0CnqQrjfpoeeSsHnb_FIeKoDpIU5BRQg7rTn6BVw9fttc88pvM_5c7KL_B3-CaeRGFnY4mA2do4/s320/DSC_0047.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
One of the next exhibits was the African Lion enclosure. The lions are outside in this... fairly large enclosure and the viewing is inside a large, hollowed-out manufactured rock with plate glass. As we were walking in I heard Dave mutter, 'You must be afraid of the lions...' of course, right after that, 'I'm not afraid of anything.' Both were pretty hushed, and I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to hear either one. We were in the small building for about 5 minutes or so and, although he was kind of dramatically hesitant to approach her at first, most of the time Dude was almost pressed against the window above one of the two lionesses, who was laying against the glass. Once we cleared the door, however, he thrust both hands up in the air and crowed, 'I'm not afraid of ANYTHING!!'<br />
Dave was so impressed with himself that he refused to be impressed by the next three exhibits, even though they were the elephants, the hippo and the orangutans. Usually some of his favorites. I have to admit, that the one exhibit that I hated to go into when younger was, depending on who you listen to, either the first, or second completely enclosed tropical zoo habitat in the country. Going into it led me to decide that if I'm ever lost in the Amazon Rain Forest, I'm just going to look for the first jaguar or piranha pack that I can find, and give myself up as the catch-of-the-day. The building was always too small, too hot, had too many animals, and smelled worse than the elephant building. It says something that I would rather be outside than inside in Kansas in August. The idea was great, tropical birds roaming freely inside a building. But they just crammed so many plants and birds in there that you couldn't stand to walk through it. Even though I still didn't care for the humidity, they had cut back on the animals, thinned the vegetation, and cut out almost all the animals they'd had in tiny cement enclosures. That seemed to be the theme throughout the park. When we went when I was a kid it was really pathetic. Tiny cages with bored animals morosely turning psychotic circles. True, you got to see more animals than you would reasonably expect in such a small ( 80 acre) park, but I always went home feeling sorry for them. Now enclosures have replaced cages for the most part, and the zoo seems to be cutting down on the number of animals and increasing their... habitat. And the process is continuing with plans to expand the area of the African animals exhibit, that look really nice.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL121e5l7S3ZDEeZ83ecJTAlIsaMIFkP2gZNsxcPwc3ZMudwhblBeSdUmUuEfMOCwXVYTuaWq4qeaSnkBmVJEy0qnp1SyWLw5lUBOCCO-R311QepLBasxWdcsoMM_m1Y5sqy3j9qXVC3J1/s1600/DSC_0105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL121e5l7S3ZDEeZ83ecJTAlIsaMIFkP2gZNsxcPwc3ZMudwhblBeSdUmUuEfMOCwXVYTuaWq4qeaSnkBmVJEy0qnp1SyWLw5lUBOCCO-R311QepLBasxWdcsoMM_m1Y5sqy3j9qXVC3J1/s320/DSC_0105.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Let me digress even more for just a minute. I'm of two minds about zoos. I truly wish there was a way for these wonderful creatures to be allowed to live wild, or at least in spaces where they can be <i>animals. </i>But at the same time I can't deny that some of these species simply have nowhere to go, nor can I truly regret the opportunity to actually see them without wearing out 3 passports and at least one Lotto win.<br />
No matter what my opinion, Dave loves to go to zoos... so we go. He had a ball walking through the lorikeet cage-thing with about 20 free-flying lorikeets flitting around. One of them hopped down the rope railing right behind him and then bounced back down the rope when he turned around. 'Don't touch the parrots.' he said, before I could, and then went 'Bphaw! Silly birds!'<br />
Before a brief turn through a similar butterfly 'cage' we went to see the bears. In <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzs-Rtnv3a3nVp102RP37ylJFR8TPVN3Z5JA1DlwFggeB6OHcXDljFEzdPUH2TJPuEj3d6jlkQMp2HLmDvE3B4KAJha5hHXSKsTRosu_gKGhqoKOUROM03u2FjQD3KBP1A4kthAdLNjxl/s1600/DSC_0115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzs-Rtnv3a3nVp102RP37ylJFR8TPVN3Z5JA1DlwFggeB6OHcXDljFEzdPUH2TJPuEj3d6jlkQMp2HLmDvE3B4KAJha5hHXSKsTRosu_gKGhqoKOUROM03u2FjQD3KBP1A4kthAdLNjxl/s320/DSC_0115.JPG" width="213" /></a>keeping with the new enclosure trend the bears were just in a big open space with a huge tree, an enormous fallen log and regular foliage. The humans were on a walkway above the level of the fence giving a pretty good view. The tree is a Black Walnut (I think) about 3-4 feet thick at the base and about 70 feet tall, and it's the bear's tree to do with as they please. And, since it was a pretty hot day, what they pleased was to be sitting about 30 feet off the ground in the branches where the wind was. Most people either don't know, or chose to forget that Black Bears, unlike their brown and white cousins are very good climbers. So while you can sometimes climb a tree to get away from a Grizzly or a Polar Bear (finding trees in the Arctic can be a bit problematic, though), with an aggressive Black Bear all you'll do is leave fingernail marks on the bark as he drags you back down. And, of course, Smokey the Bear was a Black Bear. Among the many people that don't know one or the other of these little factiods were the female members of our tour group. As Dude, Chris and I were ogling the large, flightless butterflies our companions were scanning the ground asking, 'Okay, where are the bears?' When the two younger ones were pointed out the universal sentiment seemed to be summed up with, 'Holy Crap! How did they get all the way up there?' A much wiser group was scanning the trees as we moved on. What they'll use this newfound information on, I have no idea, as Black Bears are not native to the Midwest.<br />
There really wasn't much more to the Zoo, although Dude did like the Mountain Lions, he still doesn't like waiting for me to take pictures of flowers, which the park has in abundance. On the way to the gate was a small garden just full of lilies. Cue: Dude rumbling. Dave and I, having completed this section of the trip, immediately walked out of the gate and started directly across the parking lot to the train, but the 'old fogies' following us had had enough, because they all got veggies and drinks and sat down in the shade, leaving David and I stranded outside. Sort of. I'll admit that I stayed out for the opportunity to take Dave's picture on the <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUCQ_CVYXayAcanQfzOl1QSuJBCGog50pSNCDF2vcdJcSc1UJtT9HF7EPO1NtUTSK6lLQ_AhTLlC2Equ7TBh3PttYzYlYTMmKcJq04BcKGk6G3doDJtSj5pO3KlJlTT2ZK6DWSVgkZaY-H/s1600/DSC_0170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUCQ_CVYXayAcanQfzOl1QSuJBCGog50pSNCDF2vcdJcSc1UJtT9HF7EPO1NtUTSK6lLQ_AhTLlC2Equ7TBh3PttYzYlYTMmKcJq04BcKGk6G3doDJtSj5pO3KlJlTT2ZK6DWSVgkZaY-H/s320/DSC_0170.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;">Locked up, safe and sound!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
other side of the fence from the rest of the family. I thought it would be cute. I didn't however plan for him to give me the 'thumbs up' while he did it. His pose might just be the answer to that 'at' or 'in' question I'd had earlier. I don't know.<br />
After a spin around the park on the train (I was the only one who noticed that it was going in the opposite direction than it used to), and a complete skip of the Rose Garden (a first ever event) everyone met in Lawrence for lunch. Mostly because no one knew Topeka well enough to think of anywhere to eat.<br />
It was probably all to the good that he'd accepted a chauffeured ride from Aunt Beth and Grandma, because I made a wrong turn and was, once again, the last one to 23rd St Brewery as I'd headed toward the wrong landmark despite having lived there for 2 months. There was no one in the brew pub that had any doubts about David's feelings for his shells and cheese and buffalo chicken. There was much approval. My family has a somewhat odd tradition when we all go out to eat. Once everyone has had the first taste of their own food, forks get passed around the table to get samples of whatever might look tasty or interesting off of anyone else's plate. This is probably a measure to cut the time a decision would take if we were each restricted to just one thing. (Oh! I want this, but that looks so good!) Waitresses have gone mad from the dilly-dallying that ensues. Normally Dave is a conscientious objector to any policy that would remove the Holy Cheese from his plate. But, either because of the convivial atmosphere, or the fact that he had a huge whopping chunk of Wisconsin on his plate with about half of Buffalo thrown in for good measure, Dave gleefully passed out samples of his wonderful meal. He felt so good, in fact that he gave the entire restaurant a rousing rendition of 'It's All About Soul' by Billy Joel that extended the length of the building and out onto the portico culminating with triumphant arms, a couple of bows, and, 'Talent Show in Vegas, baby! I'm ready to go!!' I was impressed with his energy and enthusiasm, but the only place I wanted to go was home. And after many promises (by David) to visit each and every one of their houses and check out their systems, (his way of saying goodbye) that's exactly what we did.<br />
Of course, that plan hit a bit of a snag when I ran out of gas on the bike about 3/4 of the way home. Thankfully I was just far enough behind the only sibling that lives in KC, my sister, Deb, and she had only just gotten home and she rescued us with her lawnmower gas in about 10 minutes. So... typical 'smooth sailing' for the 2 Dudes... sheesh.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-46355293198095124632016-04-19T12:58:00.003-04:002016-04-19T12:58:52.942-04:00Self-Driving Tour:<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0sO4qgnH3RX96jO3XFPriAFPiKAifgyUEoFM5ICljFgI3DeI-0KxmWFc_rmgKn6Io5sZHnZOuL9C7nQmGh9RYZotVzI57EqAIC_5TKAByF2XJhus2VNrI6Ch8V5XYRxShyphenhyphenNLqmVDKmQy/s1600/1618598_10201755505071753_369853982_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0sO4qgnH3RX96jO3XFPriAFPiKAifgyUEoFM5ICljFgI3DeI-0KxmWFc_rmgKn6Io5sZHnZOuL9C7nQmGh9RYZotVzI57EqAIC_5TKAByF2XJhus2VNrI6Ch8V5XYRxShyphenhyphenNLqmVDKmQy/s320/1618598_10201755505071753_369853982_n.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">The Wearin' of the Grin</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I sometimes think that people in the Midwest are both less and more able to cope with the Dudeness than Pennsylvanians. Less, because, while friendly and courteous, Midwesterners are sometimes more easily startled by anything that breaks their routine than people on the Atlantic Seaboard. And once brought up short, it tends to take a bit of time for them to get back on a roll. I've seen David make genuinely crazy people wander off shaken, confused and looking over their shoulders in wonder. Typical people generally have no chance at all.<br />
I say more, because they <i>are </i>friendly and courteous and anyone with those traits will almost always at least be given a listen-to. And despite whatever else Dude is, he <i>is</i> very friendly.<br />
Case in point: By now, anyone who's ever read one of these stories (and if you haven't, get to it! There are only 89 of them so far) Dude invites anyone and <i>everyone</i> to Vegas wherever we go. Sometimes he invites them 2 or 3 times in one sitting. The other day we were heading into a place called Vintage Stock, a used game/music/movie store with a bit of game/movie memorabilia and paraphernalia, and when we drove up we startled a small girl and her mother parking next to them in the lot. The bike is kind of noisy. After we concluded our business we were followed out by this same pair. When the woman explained that the girl was especially sensitive to noise (picked the wrong Dude to follow out of the store there, didn't ya?) So I kept the bike silent while Dave and I patiently waited for the two to get into their SUV. When the little one was secured and the woman was getting into the Land Tank, Dave, once again, asked if she was going to have fun coming to Vegas with us. She turned with a smile, and said, 'I'm sorry, I won't be able to make it to Vegas. We're going to Scotland and Ireland this year.' Dude could care about the Gaelic Homeland. The woman said she wasn't going to his Mecca, so she was instantly shuffled into the 'nice, but beneath notice' category. I was almost instantaneously interested... and jealous. Seeing my interest, she pretty much gave me her entire itinerary for the trip. You know, so I could catch up, if I happened to be in the area. The whole time Dave was hawking Vegas like a carnival barker and occasionally drifting off subject (if there ever really had been one) to various movie quotes and restaurant choices for dinner that evening. This woman was genuinely delighted by both Dave and my interest in her Adventure Across the Pond. She spoke to him when he butted in with his questions and then switched back to me when he was done....ish.<br />
That's one of the things I truly love about the Midwest. You can meet a total stranger in a parking lot, accidentally start a conversation with a polite gesture or phrase and end up knowing more about them in 15 unhurried minutes than you do about some of your relatives. I never got this woman's name, nor she mine, but by the time our brief exchange was finished I knew the Where, What, and Why about her trip to the Old Country (Ireland and Scotland: Self-driving Castle Tour; and because they're descended from some of the Royalty in that area). Hell, I don't know where <i>anyone</i> in my family is going on their vacation. But that may be just because they don't want me tagging along. Come to think of it, I don't even know where some of them <i>live</i>. (it's a big family)<br />
The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that, in this one aspect at least, David is perfectly suited to the Midwest. This is the only place I've ever lived where a wrong-number call can lead to an hour long conversation with a complete stranger (it happens more often than you'd think). Anywhere you can start an hour (day/week/month) long conversation with complete strangers is just the place for a Dude to be. He's already found cheeseburgers, 2 favorite game-stores, public buildings with elevators, 2 malls and a steady supply of Mac and Cheese, so all of the essentials are covered.<br />
Pittsburgh people try to be polite in the face of all that Dudeness, but it's really not in their nature. There was always that startled pause whenever Dude would ask, 'You ready to go to Vegas?' A quick look at me to assess the danger and then another look at David. They rarely ever seem to smile as quickly or as easily at David as do the Midwesterners. Of course, smiling is about the <i>only</i> thing that <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Midwesterners do quickly. (Mostly kidding) But the smiles are sincere and the courtesy is genuine.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDICtL5ocK6turJrigBbx7HNTTRrzqZHNQFmWacs_ZOyvZEMQwVGwtgRRsaqEv4ko5jXU8VaGWJk2zgy0KtsyhmNSamwlS5t-NMIr6ThdcEE8aUFRat1pkMZU-P94YohPKe4bfAYAe3E2f/s1600/10318788_869256316422815_1745156762_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDICtL5ocK6turJrigBbx7HNTTRrzqZHNQFmWacs_ZOyvZEMQwVGwtgRRsaqEv4ko5jXU8VaGWJk2zgy0KtsyhmNSamwlS5t-NMIr6ThdcEE8aUFRat1pkMZU-P94YohPKe4bfAYAe3E2f/s320/10318788_869256316422815_1745156762_n.jpg" width="320" /></a> At any rate there was an unexpected hazard resulting from this chance encounter. It seems that Dave's dreams of Vegas Glory have become <i>just </i>a tad more organized. I mean, he's always wanted to go to the 'Big V', but it was more of a 'You ready to go to Vegas?' way. Now he's talking about specific places and things we have to do and see once we're there. I mean, now there's a buffet, complete with elevator, (I mean, how they hell am I going to find one of those?), he's evidently entered into a multi-million dollar Talent Show, we're going to a pool.... <i>on a roof!</i> We seem to be visiting either the Luxor or CircusCircus, depending on what day it is, and we seem to be bringing along everything (including the cats) <i>except</i> Suzi. Not because she isn't allowed to come along.... but because we're sending her on a <i>Spa Cruise. </i>I'm pretty sure, except for the gondola ride at the Venetian, and the sinking ship at Treasure Island there's just not much Cruise action in Vegas. Of the ocean going variety, that is.<br />
Dave does, however, want to take Suzi's <i>car</i> to Vegas with us. He says it's the 'Best, perfect way to get to Vegas!' Suzi drives a BMW Z3. A 2-seat convertible sports car. He's always saying, 'We've got to take the racing car to Vegas!' How we're going to get 3 cats, 5 gaming systems, about 300 game discs, 2 Dudes (regular and Super-sized), clothes, Mac and Cheese, ketchup, ranch dressing, and a long, long list of other things into a vehicle with the total passenger and trunk space of an airplane bathroom I have no idea. Maybe we'll just leave the top down? I just haven't been given the specifics on that one. Dude is beyond such things.... It's probably just my job to figure it out.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrEuqqDUbBbPhckx9V9yUwfXeiQWASOR5_hFnrER7mk0231yLsTJIm9H6H-iIBs4c5XgX6EtI3kYcoK9NzfB5ZxSG_fZfFg36B_zWXTIR4oL46fWv-aRXnqwseDaGXUGUzpHdQxkjkhMW/s1600/1505987_868153989866381_7002202935266446896_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrEuqqDUbBbPhckx9V9yUwfXeiQWASOR5_hFnrER7mk0231yLsTJIm9H6H-iIBs4c5XgX6EtI3kYcoK9NzfB5ZxSG_fZfFg36B_zWXTIR4oL46fWv-aRXnqwseDaGXUGUzpHdQxkjkhMW/s320/1505987_868153989866381_7002202935266446896_n.jpg" width="320" /></a> Right after I wrote this I found out that I'll have to find room for one more package for our Quest. It seems that Suzi is indeed invited along on our Adventure. When I mentioned that she was the only thing in the house that I hadn't been asked to find room for in the Z3, she corrected me. It seems that it's her job to figure out how to find a Spa Cruise in the midst of the Mojave Desert. Maybe a Spa Bus Tour? I'm not really sure. Perhaps <i>Priscilla, Queen of the Desert</i> is making a World Tour from the deserts of Australia? Maybe they'll take along a non-Drag Queen guest with a personal Dude-request?<br />
Also, he's been reminded that I have relatives in Chicago. So now our 'Vegas Road Trip' (his words) is somehow supposed to include a swing by the Observation Deck of the Sears Tower. I think he even knows what floor it's on. Once again, the logistics of fitting in a 350+ mile trip (in <i>exactly</i> the wrong direction) into our 'little road trip' is entirely up to me. I'm evidently capable in ways that boggle the mind... My mind feels boggled, anyway.<br />
stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-6138638157718177902016-04-09T14:52:00.000-04:002016-04-09T14:52:01.134-04:00Wake up, Suzi: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakTzlWxMxxierF-a3ht2SpX_7AMa82PKlA2SufF9Ta34uMAC_FjaIpO8HMDAaD94yhBsUr80V-ssH5z1AebIXco7seo1_Nh2Ayzvj-SsQPzV-3YAY3OXfm5KNwUnPDtRjg3RbuWl4ieaV/s1600/DSC_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakTzlWxMxxierF-a3ht2SpX_7AMa82PKlA2SufF9Ta34uMAC_FjaIpO8HMDAaD94yhBsUr80V-ssH5z1AebIXco7seo1_Nh2Ayzvj-SsQPzV-3YAY3OXfm5KNwUnPDtRjg3RbuWl4ieaV/s320/DSC_0010.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
As some of you may know, Dude and I have managed to con.. uh... coerce.... uh... Blackmail is such an ugly word, we prefer extortion. Or, Long Distance Hypnotism. Anyway, somehow or another Suzi has come into our lives. She quickly became Dave's buddy and he looks forward to the days that Dad has to go to work. They have a (sort-of) routine when I'm gone, and it all starts with the wake-up.<br />
When he was much younger (and the Games were in my room) David would often climb into bed with me <i>early</i> in the morning. This was pretty much self defense, (mine) as there was no way in hell that I was going to get out of bed at 7:30 in the am on a weekend. As he got older this practice was pretty much discontinued and a moratorium was placed on most Dude traffic in Dad's room. You see, Dad likes to stay up late, but David has a firm bedtime, and 9 hours or so later he's going to be awake at some ungodly cow-milking hour, whether or not any cows actually need milking. His dad does not care if the cows ever get milked. As a matter of fact, his dad would sell or shoot the cows and buy his milk at the store at 1:00 in the morning.<br />
When this happens when Dad is home, Dave will stay (mostly quietly) up in his room except to come down for his pad, or to get a drink. I think this is a defense mechanism similar to the small animals that sometimes share the cave of a hibernating bear. Yeah sure he's warm, and <i>nobody</i> is going to come after you in the cave of a sleeping bear, but it's probably not a good idea to play Metallica turned up to 11 either. So we'll just be quiet and let that grumpy old bear sleep. When the grumpy old bear works, however, this is an entirely different story. <br />
On the evenings before I work, (I have an odd schedule) Dude will, after his before-bed drink, stop and say either, 'Dad will go to work tomorrow', or 'Suzi will be home tomorrow.' I've come to understand that these are not questions. He's actually ordering me out of the house for 13 hours. When we agree he'll happily exclaim, 'Then we get the Ipad time tomorrow?' and won't take another step up the stairs until Suzi agrees. Which she does, every time.<br />
Suzi, like me, is an habitual night owl. When given the opportunity either one of us will stay up into the wee hours. And, also like me and most other half-vampires, she doesn't particularly care to see the fresh sun peeping in the windows at that proverbial ungodly cow milking hour of the morning. David has no respect for those who would burn the daylight and often comes into the room before 8 o'clock and sits or lays down in the bed peering at the coma victim on the other side.<br />
Occasionally he takes a couple of running steps into the room, leaps into the air, and lands on the bed in the classic Joe Namath panty hose add pose. 'Suzi, are you awake yet?' he chirps brightly. 'Is it time for the Ipad time yet?' Why she hasn't killed him I have no idea. I mean. The kid doesn't even bring coffee, or a pastry, <i>and</i> he's bright and cheery? He'd better be glad he doesn't do this to me, because I'd start throwing things at him, and some of those things would be large and weighty. Pillows, books... cats... convertables. You know, whatever is handy. Suzi, on the other hand, <i>doesn't even get upset.</i> Weird. After an initial squinty eyed look in his vague direction, she often just smiles <i>and gets out of bed!</i> I mean... what? Oh sure, sometimes she tells Dave that it's too early to get up, and then he goes in the kitchen to make himself a 'grilled' cheese sandwich and juice. The breakfast sandwich is his own invention. It's cheese, on bread, microwaved for 15 seconds, so no actual stoves are harmed in the making of breakfast. But other times they get up and go into the front room for 'Ipad Time'.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu4L9F16vP5GrARU1AJyDxWr1CA8R7E0BbJajiV_0CV5b3H3Xqv-qyJ8aEHSx9VhhSRk1G4YFrLEwxyfOH-mEfzMHYwGRYST5folRU8AWM5e3euOh3Pw0bdn0XaWUKq2kllrRT4OkWcuMD/s1600/001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu4L9F16vP5GrARU1AJyDxWr1CA8R7E0BbJajiV_0CV5b3H3Xqv-qyJ8aEHSx9VhhSRk1G4YFrLEwxyfOH-mEfzMHYwGRYST5folRU8AWM5e3euOh3Pw0bdn0XaWUKq2kllrRT4OkWcuMD/s320/001.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
This has become a really big thing for David. Once the French has been Pressed, and the Elixir consumed, they sit in the front room with their pads (neither made by Apple) and... just each do their own thing. Dave has his YouTube videos that he searches and watches, and Suzi has her stuff that she does, including a Singing Monsters game/app that is pretty cute, but completely incomprehensible to me. Sometimes Dave leans over her chair to watch what the monsters are doing, and other times he shows Suzi the cool vids he's found. It's cute and cheery and homey and just between the two of them. No Dads Allowed. I can't even be jealous, because Dave's normally glad to see me when I get home, and, if you substitute a book for YouTube, that's pretty much the same thing that Suzi and I do. There's usually an hour or so every evening when we just relax in each others company quietly with our Pads.<br />
I got Dude his Pad a couple of years ago for Christmas. I've had to open it up several times because he's dropped it and disconnected the battery, but other than that it's worked pretty well for that whole time. The big reason for that is, I don't let him have a charger. Now, before y'all get the wrong idea, there's actually a couple of good reasons for this. A: Battery powered devices always draw power from the battery, even if it's plugged in. And the way Dude uses it, that would seriously cut down on battery life. And B: If he wasn't limited by the life of the battery, he just wouldn't do anything else. No other games, or playing on his keyboard, or coming downstairs. None of it would happen.<br />
Recently, as sometimes happens, we've had a rash of Micro-USB cable meltdowns. We are death to interfacing technology. In fact, Dave and I were down to two, and then I bought two more and then both of the older ones fritzed. (see what I mean?) So we were back down to two cables and 3-4 devices to be charged. So what would happen usually is that Dave would plug in his pad when he went to bed and I would unplug it and steal the cable to recharge my pad and phone overnight and then plug his back in when I left for work in the morning. I just don't have the capacity in the morning to remember to take it into the other room. Of course, this left his pad in my room, which, since he was in there waking Suzi up in the morning, wasn't out of his way to get.<br />
Until the fateful day when Dude was (cue Dramatic Music) banned from Dad's room again. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7-ioHyQSxHVwljJofzc_CMG3gylGHwiUKxVdItP2jfwrQlYBaqib8-Gfn4ADqawUrDZM92X5K_BpLptrapDv4UJl41NDRZyWLAHr3Kiz3iK7izRXaYBn4Yct0oMOCjA2wrOB-E9R53lzZ/s1600/DSC_0056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7-ioHyQSxHVwljJofzc_CMG3gylGHwiUKxVdItP2jfwrQlYBaqib8-Gfn4ADqawUrDZM92X5K_BpLptrapDv4UJl41NDRZyWLAHr3Kiz3iK7izRXaYBn4Yct0oMOCjA2wrOB-E9R53lzZ/s320/DSC_0056.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Actually, he was just told to get out of my room when he started looking for something in the closet. Don't ask me what, I have no idea. At any rate, David was banned from the bedroom for the evening, although he took that to mean for-ev-er. Or at least until Dad forgot that he was banned from the room. Which amounts to the same thing, in Dude-time.<br />
So... now you see the quandary. That Which Must Be Had at Any Cost was now locked away in the tower of Don't Go In There or Dad will Kick Your Butt, along with his Ipad buddy, The Suzi. Something needed to be done. And Dude was just the dude to do it.<br />
Being Dude, the first thing he did was try to sneak his prize out of the room. Suzi woke up the next morning to see the butt of the Least Stealthy Being in the Universe bob slowly around the corner of my side of the bed and make its way out the door. I'm sure she wondered for, oh well... a pico-second (one trillionth of a second) who that wandering posterior could belong to. Suzi laughed as Dude crawled out the door, apparently unaware that his Ninja skills needed a bit of brushing up. Even though Dude thought he was breaking a Dad-rule and could have gotten busted, it was no big deal. What was kind of a deal was that he'd snatched the cable and taken it with him up to his room. A strict no-no. Of course, if he hadn't absent-mindedly forgotten to put the cable back (or at least downstairs) until after I'd gotten home, it would have just been another silly Dude-story. As it was, I had to talk to him about taking the cord up to his room. During this discussion, I may or may not (no recording exists) have said the words, 'Just wait for Suzi to wake up to give you your pad'. It could have happened. Like I said, there's no actual evidence that it <i>did</i>.<br />
If such a conversation <i>had</i> taken place, that might explain what happened the next morning.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpEw234qvkIjZi04hEmu5PTenBe1Um3Pf4e0rIt-sYrydh6MiOZcJa9NuYyCHB0RS3kZoyAFCzOXA2vo2vh9bovmV_A_xfdnsmUjcXcUuY5NjoEY9WE7Xa2ssL4MWpHPX0AON-fo1YOkdj/s1600/DSC_0144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpEw234qvkIjZi04hEmu5PTenBe1Um3Pf4e0rIt-sYrydh6MiOZcJa9NuYyCHB0RS3kZoyAFCzOXA2vo2vh9bovmV_A_xfdnsmUjcXcUuY5NjoEY9WE7Xa2ssL4MWpHPX0AON-fo1YOkdj/s320/DSC_0144.JPG" width="213" /></a> Suzi was snoozing mightily, early (<i>very</i> early) the next morning when her slumber was interrupted by a persistent repetitive sound. She knew the sound, but in her befuddled state, couldn't quite figure out what it was. After more than a few repetitions of the semi-recognizable electronic noise, she cracked a bleary eye open and scanned the room to see what was up. Of course, what was up, was Dude. David was just <i>barely</i> outside of the bedroom door. Nothing strange there. He can be very patient... sometimes. What made the situation strange (to me when I heard it later) was the fact that he had Suzi's electronic kitchen timer in his hand. Brows furrowed in confusion, she just stared at him for a few seconds. 'Thank goodness it worked!' He exclaimed, shutting the damned thing off. 'Suzi, are you awake now?' I would have killed him quickly at this point. I'm serious. I would have quickly fashioned a prison-shank out of a pillow, or pulled the pin on a cat-grenade and pitched it at him so I could get back to sleep, but Suzi just smiled and said, 'What do you want, Dude?' The Pope will call any day now about her ascension to Sainthood.<br />
'He needs the Ipad, to watch the videos!' Suzi looked at the clock's dismally small numbers and even without the aid of caffeine <i>still </i>managed to smile while she said, 'It's a little too early, David. Why don't you go back to bed, and we'll play with the pad later?' And you know what? He didn't even gripe! He just said, 'Okay, we'll get the Ipad time later.' and went back to bed.<br />
I'm sure I was no help. When she told me the story later that day I admit that I probably missed the point. 'Wait. You mean that he figured out how to program the kitchen timer?' Probably wasn't the first thing she expected to hear. She took the whole thing in stride as one of the hazards <br />
of Dudeworld. I, on the other hand, had another talk with my youngest offspring on the hazards of rogue kitchen-timer usage. Really. Those things are not toys, you know.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-36036784735341427172016-03-08T20:24:00.002-05:002016-06-27T20:03:31.541-04:00War of the Words:<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTwov_5NyycHGBMcM4BB_l3vzxa0L6Jm8z6PsGyDSVemWz_pd677Wvh5co2lNP_LgZHc1vc4zf_KrrbEWoz75Qf2DR-gWAga6hE8BLHokuQO9AjQjEeKp64zZv3un_PnftWzZ1gyunzjH/s1600/jayhawk-current.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTwov_5NyycHGBMcM4BB_l3vzxa0L6Jm8z6PsGyDSVemWz_pd677Wvh5co2lNP_LgZHc1vc4zf_KrrbEWoz75Qf2DR-gWAga6hE8BLHokuQO9AjQjEeKp64zZv3un_PnftWzZ1gyunzjH/s1600/jayhawk-current.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">This one I had to swipe</span>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For a time, Dave and I stayed in Lawrence Kansas, home of the University of Kansas Jayhawks. If you're not from Kansas, and you don't know what a Jayhawk is, don't be alarmed. Almost no one in Kansas knows what one is either, except as a description of a KU Alumnus. Historically, it's the derivation of 'Jayhawkers' a term for the Kansas version of the Missouri 'Bushwacker' before and during the Civil War. The Jayhawk mascot is said to be part 'screaming Bluejay' and part 'stealthy Sparrowhawk'. All I know is that it's blue, red and yellow and looks like the technicolor cousin of Heckle and Jekyll. Quite a number of my family (including my oldest son) graduated from there, and that description will probably start trouble. Oh well.<br />
While we were staying in Lawrence, waiting downtown for my son Tim and his wife Abby next to their favorite coffee shop. Dave had something of an 'encounter', which led me to believe (once again) that Dude is actually a representative of an alien race.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJdzhrMDx4Qc7GXwQhr9iHkje7_ZcdRuGiuzfXnmzWhNbd1nDFLCGjB8xotJzYPMMR-tV3MzdVMFqcJ_4aCmpYqffQY77anPRVnndGf9EQVRvWV1dU6xHTqvgQIIGkd_aN4fTubGYAPdAD/s1600/DSC_0138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJdzhrMDx4Qc7GXwQhr9iHkje7_ZcdRuGiuzfXnmzWhNbd1nDFLCGjB8xotJzYPMMR-tV3MzdVMFqcJ_4aCmpYqffQY77anPRVnndGf9EQVRvWV1dU6xHTqvgQIIGkd_aN4fTubGYAPdAD/s320/DSC_0138.JPG" width="213" /></a> I love college towns. They have the amenities and infrastructure of a town three times their size without the crowding, barring the occasional weekend pub-crawl. What college towns have in abundance is an eclectic and tolerant population of fairly intelligent, if slightly naive individuals who are actually out to prove what they care about before they become jaded capitalists like the rest of us. In Lawrence the one thing that goes along with all this relaxed tolerance is a selection of some of the most relaxed and colorful homeless people you'll ever encounter. (I've been to LA, Orlando, NYC, Berkeley, Chicago, Miami, and every other Major Metropolitan area in the country, so I've seen some stuff) Most of these people seem to have little areas staked-out at various points along the main drag, where they hang out, speak in a friendly manner to just about anyone, some of them play an instrument or dance to CD's. All of them have a small, unobtrusive cardboard sign marked with Sharpie and some sort of receptacle for donations. Dave talks to each and every one of them, asks them if their ready for Vegas, or just to hit a Casino, or just to say, 'Hi buddy! That's some good music!' or 'Way to go, buddy! You're the best!' or even, 'That's some good dancing! I <i>love</i> to dance!' He is a one man support group. The thing is, these people are known to the students and people that frequent Downtown. Most know their names, some of their story and often stop and talk, or give them a little something, or even just to let them pet their dogs. (Lawrence is one of the most dog-friendly towns I've ever seen. It's like a giant PetLand) Sometimes, however, economic or personal choice aren't the reason for homelessness. There's always a group, within the group, that just can't seem to... well... stay on their meds. Some of them are easier to deal with than others. There's no good way to say this. Some of the Clinical Schizophrenics just won't shut up. And if you know who I live with you'll realize how big that statement actually is. Schizophrenia is a disorder designed to make people nervous. Schizo-effectives talk too much, too loudly, never stay on topic for more than a few seconds and generally leave your 'personal space' lying on the floor bruised and gasping in pain. The thing is, while they're avoided a bit more than the other indigents I never saw any of them harassed or antagonized in any way while I was there. It was also obvious that they were consistently directed, or taken, to shelters, counselling, or some sort of outreach program to get them help.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQ_Edl7EQWBpKmFecwizaCNKei57LRCG3A27LU5oUO2dYgwSNMYYDHM72y-wOg_cxPSyIy5N-norFbNM5lFxC3dzkLAfxKNm7ZSHSgAP2w5ehAuYlXryohN2hORlApfVPJgDrD9oxdtrj/s1600/DSC_0074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQ_Edl7EQWBpKmFecwizaCNKei57LRCG3A27LU5oUO2dYgwSNMYYDHM72y-wOg_cxPSyIy5N-norFbNM5lFxC3dzkLAfxKNm7ZSHSgAP2w5ehAuYlXryohN2hORlApfVPJgDrD9oxdtrj/s320/DSC_0074.JPG" width="213" /></a> This leads us to Andrew (not his actual name). Andrew's stated purpose for hanging around the coffee shop was to wait for opening of the bike shop next door. I know this because in the first 4 minutes of meeting Andrew I knew his name, why he was there, how long he'd been waiting, how many times he'd had to wait, every name of everyone he'd ever dealt with in the shop (and why), what he'd had for dinner, lunch, his opinion of the efficacy of his semi-current outpatient treatment, several of the best places to 'crash' in town, and the last time he'd thrown up. Also I learned more about Government (Local to Federal) conspiracies and alien intent and biology than is probably healthy for any one person to be aware of. I also had time to notice that Andrew didn't appear to have a bicycle. Or a helmet. Or any of the other things that go along with riding a bicycle. I'm not afraid of crazy people, and they seem to know that, so I just rode the conversation out, commenting as seemed to be necessary or required, but it didn't take me long to figure out that Andrew, my new and bestest friend, was never, ever, <i>ever</i> going to shut up. Not only did I figure it out on my own, but it was written on the faces of the three or so students sitting in the patio area of the coffee shop. Andrew would never stop. He would never quit. He would follow me (his bestest friend) to the ends of the earth, protecting me from Aliens, Government Agents, Outreach Nurses and Rude Bicycle Shop Associates. Talking continuously the whole time. Since I already had one of those, and had thus reached my quota, I started looking for a way out that wouldn't involve physical violence or hurt the feelings of my new 'bestest friend'. About that time, Andrew carved his own conversational tombstone, thus saving me the effort. Dude had been preternaturally indifferent to my plight, or even our conversation until Andrew mentioned the word, 'Vegas'. (Cue: Meaningful Music) Dave immediately birddogged into the conversation with 'It's only the Casino Elevators in Vegas!' Here is where Andrew met his match and Master. Andrew kept trying to guide the conversation along his lines. Lines that Dude blithely ignored, continuing to talk about Vegas and Hospital elevators. Games and movies, dogs and cats. I could see that Andrew was used to having the upper hand, probably because most people are nervous around him, and talking to someone who not only had the upper hand, but frankly, the upper dump truck, discussion wise, was unnerving him. Dave continued to talk about just about.. well, everything, inviting Andrew to Vegas, complimenting him on what a good job, he was doing (?), asking him if he'd seen his tour bus, and extolling the virtues of nurses everywhere. It was like watching avalanche racing. Except without the St. Bernards.<br />
Coming around the last corner, you could see that Andrew just didn't have the heart to finish the race. He looked confused and hesitant, and he started shooting looks at Dude full of Fear and Awe. It was like watching Indigo Montoya fighting the Man in Black after that man had switched to his right hand. It was a thing of Terrible Beauty.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsQUC_EeRUlpBpeq3pQKczGcoah0Lq9vi26oRA_pIMaLgPAYnFMsS0ns45KVbSA3bKcIHoWhVcUS0CeiUGAMMtvEa92Dia22riEpN5tQE8vRkpdN1dR8AyWscJ3Wi0iv5P_sEBsowkvSs1/s1600/DSC_0136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsQUC_EeRUlpBpeq3pQKczGcoah0Lq9vi26oRA_pIMaLgPAYnFMsS0ns45KVbSA3bKcIHoWhVcUS0CeiUGAMMtvEa92Dia22riEpN5tQE8vRkpdN1dR8AyWscJ3Wi0iv5P_sEBsowkvSs1/s320/DSC_0136.JPG" width="213" /></a> Andrew finally broke off and walked away without ceremony. Dude, ever gracious, said, 'See you in Vegas on June 21st!' Andrew didn't reply, he just kept walking. When he shot a nervous look over his shoulder to 'check his 6' for Dudes, David yelled in a friendly voice, 'See you at Kansas University this June!' That was evidently too much for Andrew, who ducked his head and scurried off around the corner. Never to be seen (by us) again. I mean <i>never</i>. I looked over at the students. Their reaction can be summed up in one word. Stunned. The blond looked at the not-blond and said, 'Did you see that shit? He just walked off!' The blond, who somehow looked sage and stunned at the same time, replied, 'He never just <i>leaves</i> like that.' The two looked at Dude, suitably impressed and maybe even with a little awe. Dude responded like any true Warrior of Words would... 'Hi guys! You ready to go to Vegas?' I pulled Dave away for a walk up to the corner in back. You know, so he could save his Awesome Powers for when they were truly needed.<br />
When Tim and Abby showed up I told Tim what had happened, kind of laughing it off. He immediately knew who I was talking about and was <i>seriously</i> impressed with David's Kung-fu Dialogue skills. I promised that he'd only use them for... all the time. I mean, seriously. He can't be contained with mere mortal force. Even Dude-dad force.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-58914640065110896062016-02-13T13:42:00.002-05:002016-02-13T13:42:04.028-05:00Not-So Secret Service:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGyv4Emv9hQ1bIGj9UzLmPAx6O1xiHlRPnQgX-E1J5oxsn-OhizcocQltsff1FskkzaoRiXgW1p1fkv7Gj9W8ztcXx_nmt9WMKrLCh2BiY1yXPPglnVMZ_UJcnzF9dzTDIxWU3Q5YUYw5/s1600/DSC_0071+-+Copy+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGyv4Emv9hQ1bIGj9UzLmPAx6O1xiHlRPnQgX-E1J5oxsn-OhizcocQltsff1FskkzaoRiXgW1p1fkv7Gj9W8ztcXx_nmt9WMKrLCh2BiY1yXPPglnVMZ_UJcnzF9dzTDIxWU3Q5YUYw5/s320/DSC_0071+-+Copy+%25282%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a> An incident the other day made me think of my time in Florida as a stagehand.<br />
Dave and I were walking a new (to us) mall. I was there because it was getting to be my usual Christmas Shopping Time, (2 weeks before the day) and, while I had a somewhat limited budget, I really wanted to get something cool and unusual for Suzi,(phrenology bank, Galileo thermometer, et.al) as this was our first Christmas together. As far as Dude was concerned this was just another opportunity to ride the elevators and scout a new GameStop location. Don't get me wrong, he really likes Suzi, but c'mon! 'It's the new elevators at the mall!' (that's a direct quote) He also seemed to be <i>very</i> concerned that the outlets in the Food Court had waaaay too much product laying around and we should, as concerned citizens, you know... help them out.<br />
To make his point more clearly, Dave was walking slightly ahead, but turned back toward me, so that he was walking 3/4 backwards and not paying any attention to where he was going, or which of the lucky citizens he would wipe out while he tried to make his point. So... we're in one of the larger malls in the KC Metro area, two weeks before Christmas and my none-to coordinated son is walking backwards with even less of a care for public safety than his usual 'none at all'. Nope. No chance of disaster there. So, as many of you might already have figured out, in the midst of trying to convince me of our desperate need for fast food David was inches away from 4-wheeling right over a young lady and her son. Her tiny, pink, 6 month old, cute as a button son. Baby stroller and all. I desperately grabbed the front of Dude's jacket and manually hauled him out of the way. The young lady, froze for a second and then went on about her way with a huge sigh of relief. Completely oblivious to the fact that he almost wiped out 2/3 of a family, Dave paused briefly in irritation and then continued with 'He has to get the pizza at the Food Court.' 'The Food Court is open, remember?' I was very slightly shaken with the implications of the near miss and started in on Dave, 'Dude you have to watch.... forget it.' Because, seriously, this sort of thing happens about every 34 seconds whenever we're out and there's no way he'd understand why mowing down an infant would be any worse than bouncing off the wall. I'm exaggerating a bit, but you get my point.<br />
While I was thinking about this incident, I realized that my Dude-training had actually been going on longer than I thought.<br />
When I lived in Florida I worked for a Stagehand labor company. We supplied willing crazy people ( I was pretty mild for that group. Which should tell you something) to the Entertainment industry for all sorts of events; Indoor and Outdoor Concerts, Arena conversions, general stage-equipment set up and removal, conventions of all types and once, cleaning up after Warner Brothers Cartoon Characters on a cruise ship. (I'm not kidding) One of the events we handled was The Herbalife, I Have More Money Than You Do, Pyramid Scheme Millionaire's Convention. (Okay... I was the one that called it that) I don't know how many of you have participated in a Convention before, but they're fairly predictable. Lot's of snoozable Corporate rah-rah, some stirring speeches by the most famous people your company could afford, followed by the best music they could afford with whatever was left over from the Motivational Speakers. Despite being called 'Amway Nazis' by someone that will remain beyond prosecution (probably just who you're thinking) had, at the time, quite a bankroll and quite the need to prop their image up just as high as it could go. Their Entertainment was Ray Charles, and 2 of their 3 Motivational Speakers were (Stormin) Norman Schwarzkopf, and Barbara Bush.<br />
The thing about working Entertainment is that, despite their profligate use of money, if you're not actually working the show, they aren't going to feed you so much as a PB&J sammich. So if you've been up since, say 6am and it's now 6pm and you're feeling a mite peckish you are entirely on your own. My friend Tim (Flash) (Don't ask) and I, coincidentally enough, had experienced that very dilemma and were just returning to the Convention Center at the rear of the building from obtaining the necessary grease, carbs and carbonated caffeine to sustain our will to live. Tim was, rather excitedly telling me about... something, to the point that he was walking backwards in front of me to maintain eye contact. So I was the one who noticed that Barbara Bush and her Secret Service escort of 5 walk out of the doors and toward us on the very same walkway. Three things you need to know, 1: Secret Service guys are bad-asses who would die for their charges, but would rather you did instead. 2: They are bad-asses that carry guns that you'd never even know where there until they want you to. And 3: The primary accessory for any well-dressed Stagehand is a backpack of indeterminate origins. Strikingly similar to the standard-issue backpack for, oh... say your average, everyday suicide bomber. Needless to say we had 5 pairs of identical Ray-Ban sunglasses pointed in our direction.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieA8n4elqu4j_QiSYM1Et-exwiLrrc_iUbPxoQ8xyaQmRhyphenhyphenrTzofXm1UibkG-JiTMzDwjcNsgMGZyF_fPC70wkkshArE9S6ZuP7f9QaH9vEpvGJhfVJxTUJEG0btojawr4dSVzoJDTS_Ed/s1600/DSC_0051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieA8n4elqu4j_QiSYM1Et-exwiLrrc_iUbPxoQ8xyaQmRhyphenhyphenrTzofXm1UibkG-JiTMzDwjcNsgMGZyF_fPC70wkkshArE9S6ZuP7f9QaH9vEpvGJhfVJxTUJEG0btojawr4dSVzoJDTS_Ed/s320/DSC_0051.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">Tim, we hardly knew ya.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As the two groups drew closer to each other on parallel paths, I kept trying to gain Tim's attention to warn him of the Brooks Brothers-clad danger, but he was not about to be diverted. The Secret Service detail was in 'standard diamond formation' which is, directly in front, behind and off either shoulder of their charge, with the 5th guy behind and to the side, (He's the one with the Uzi) where he has the best view and can see the rest (or, in front and to the side where he can lead the group). As our groups converged the formation began to tighten a bit and the right hands all seemed to settle on their jacket buttons in a synchronized fashion. I'm sure the panicked look rising on my face was interpreted in the worst possible way by the Armed Federal Agents (I can't emphasize that <i>armed</i> part enough) because now the button-hands were, ever so slightly, under the lapels of the suit jackets they all wore. Tim continued on, oblivious to my ever more frantic attempts to warn him of his (and my) growing peril. For a brief second I frantically imagined that Tim was actually part of a plot to kill the former First Lady and I was his unwitting, soon to be tragically dead, unwitting dupe. (I had been reading a lot of Ian Fleming at the time) Naturally, Tim chose the time when the two groups were about to intersect to veer toward 'Babs' and Company. The Secret Service agents didn't like that. No sir, they didn't like that one bit. Hands completely disappeared under jacket flaps, and the 'rover' had his wrist up to his mouth in perfect 'TV FBI guy' fashion. That would be his left wrist, as his right hand was reaching for his Uzi. That's how I know he had one. Not good. As a matter of fact, we were about 3 seconds away from being part of an After Action Report at the local Field Office.<br />
Luckily for all of us I avoided all that paperwork by grabbing Tim by his backpack strap and physically throwing him about 6 feet to the side, away from the itchy trigger fingers. I quickly spread my arms, hands open, and said, 'Sorry! He's not an assassin! He's just an idiot!' Mrs. Bush actually smiled at that. The Secret Service guys didn't. They evidently practiced not-smiling a lot, because they were very good at it. Their little group never broke stride and they were soon far enough away for me to start breathing again. Tim the Oblivious had missed the whole thing, and had no idea that I'd just saved him from becoming Lead-lined Swiss Cheese and concentrated on the fact that in my adrenaline-fueled panic I'd nearly thrown him completely off the loading dock. (Hey Rocky! Sometimes I don't know my own strength) So, instead of thanking me for not letting him be just another Domestic Terrorist statistic he started after me about his impromptu flight. And naturally, he didn't believe me when I told him that I'd just saved his life and, depending on which Cultural Model we were using, I either owned him, was responsible for anything he did in the future, he had to follow me around until he saved my life or we were now married and I was really hoping that I got to pick which one. Luckily neither of us actually <i>belonged</i> to any of those Cultures and a truck driver walked up and said that Tim should be thanking me for saving his life and I should probably cut down on the Wheaties if I were going to continue saving smaller people's lives by throwing them.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKIrWhbC9KYQv2jooJup99dGN6XU79ZNkeJBiwBbF1gtsBcU2nlyI84rmixy8nzWM26P7l-GHJ3DOAPvS9Nt6i2h-L0M6zj0fYEEZ4yd0Pha42sVy8hjbVR7XYPjfm1CsrEeL-kF-1MAX/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKIrWhbC9KYQv2jooJup99dGN6XU79ZNkeJBiwBbF1gtsBcU2nlyI84rmixy8nzWM26P7l-GHJ3DOAPvS9Nt6i2h-L0M6zj0fYEEZ4yd0Pha42sVy8hjbVR7XYPjfm1CsrEeL-kF-1MAX/s320/DSC_0035.JPG" width="213" /></a> So, evidently I've been training for this Dude-guard position for longer than I thought. I've always said, kind of flippantly, that he's a Rockstar. Perhaps that wasn't the big joke I always thought it was. Actually, it probably was. And, as usual around Dude when a joke is involved, the joke is on me.<br />
That's okay, I'm pretty used to that. The only question that remains is: Am I protecting Dude from Everyone Else, or Everyone Else from Dude? If it's the latter, I really need to talk to y'all about a raise. Seriously. I put my life on the line for you guys every day. I think that's worth a little something extra in the pay envelope. Or even just <i>something</i> in a pay envelope. Or any envelope, box, package, or dump truck you care to send to the house...<br />
Well... it was worth a shot.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-43149486228367572722016-01-30T17:54:00.000-05:002016-01-30T17:54:09.314-05:00Halfway to Vegas:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjel2yArwN6GwuoNopD4z6LJ1H1wlBvPkqlAY4BYvyoFfst80-0p55jCfrB4N0k82aUQdnpcgsOQvfnmkTirCIfYSj0mHED6psyFLvfeRr-15ojZe5rmpwiHOVHtYQKRTVef6EwbsP6G737/s1600/DSC_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjel2yArwN6GwuoNopD4z6LJ1H1wlBvPkqlAY4BYvyoFfst80-0p55jCfrB4N0k82aUQdnpcgsOQvfnmkTirCIfYSj0mHED6psyFLvfeRr-15ojZe5rmpwiHOVHtYQKRTVef6EwbsP6G737/s320/DSC_0023.JPG" width="320" /></a> There have been many upheavals in the Dudeverse in recent months, I'll probably recount specific stories later, but this is kind of an overview of the whole deal, now that I've finally used a crowbar on my wallet and gotten internet again.<br />
For reasons that have nothing to do with Dude, Raine and I decided (several months before the move) that our relationship had come to an end. It was amicable enough that when Jill Mosura (Henceforth called the Evil One) plucked at the sappy, nougatty center of my conscience, and told me I just <i>had</i> to let Dave sing at the opening of the graduation ceremony (unknowingly delaying my departure by at least a month), things were cool enough that I could, in fact, delay my departure.<br />
But depart, we did, two Dudes and a Psycho Biscuit (Dexter), we temporarily stayed with my oldest son, Tim, his wife Abby, and 3 dogs, Yuki (a Siberian Husky), Skylar (a Malamute), and Sweetness (some sort of 3-legged Terrier), and the Cat.... uh.... Psycho-cookie. (okay, I'm the only one that called her that) Her real name is Mila. They were very nice about our staying. It gave me time to get to know Abby, and it gave Dave and Tim time to get to know one another as they've mostly lived in different parts of the country for Dude's entire life. It also gave Dude time to get acquainted with Abby's iPad. Abby, if your iPad is ever missing, I swear I would never take Dude to your house without your knowing about it. And even then, never without a thorough pat-down before we left.<br />
Dave and I spent several weeks driving into Kansas City to find someplace to live with more bedrooms and fewer dogs (sorry guys), so we would jump on the bike and head the 40+ miles to the far side of KC. Dave used to love riding the bike. We'd jump on it and tool around town, or around the lake and take in the sights, and everything was cool. It seems Dude's butt is a bit more sensitive than he previously imagined, because every time a ride lasted for longer than 20 minutes I started hearing about it. Do you know that Bikers call the pillion (passenger) seat on a motorcycle the 'bitch seat'? They have their own reasons, which I won't go into here, but I did start hearing a lot of 'bitching' from the backseat after the first 20 minutes of every ride. Also every time thereafter when we had to get back on the bike to continue our day, or even to go back to Tim's house. (and Abby's iPad) It got to the point that whenever we'd leave Tim's house he'd call out, 'Time to get in the Tim's truck!' Even though neither Tim, nor his truck, where anywhere within 10 miles of the house. Somehow his butt remembered the bike. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'Smart-Ass'<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8ihfMTU2s62xg3k2b62bDtVN-LdkMtZW50y0Ga26dZJqfrWM-_l6XzQDlE57TTuaC-Do102o-6YHHNhbxC7afsoRvX16kP3FR8_noAIpu2qyIMg73CMd7YiqXcNIQ-d8IznmZcf2MmVf/s1600/DSC_0113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8ihfMTU2s62xg3k2b62bDtVN-LdkMtZW50y0Ga26dZJqfrWM-_l6XzQDlE57TTuaC-Do102o-6YHHNhbxC7afsoRvX16kP3FR8_noAIpu2qyIMg73CMd7YiqXcNIQ-d8IznmZcf2MmVf/s320/DSC_0113.JPG" width="213" /></a> I've stated before (endlessly) how much David likes new houses, new doors, and new elevators. But, since most rental homes do not come equipped with elevators, and I have a strict aversion to apartment buildings, the very best he was going to do was 2 out of 3. This didn't deter his enthusiasm for the search one bit (once butt and bike had parted ways). Every house we looked at, and not a few we merely passed by were 'My new house!'. I kept trying to tell him 'We're just looking' and 'Maybe', but he was having none of it. 'We got to get the new house, for the systems!' As a matter of fact, somehow in his mind it became that our new house would come complete with systems <i>and </i> wifi and it would just be a matter of time before the elevators were installed. I'm not sure how that all came about but more than a few of the nice people who were showing us the properties would be accosted with, 'Does it have the systems?' and 'We get the new house with the Wii and the Playstation 4!!' and 'It's just the Wifi in the new house.' Which only embarrassed me a tiny bit, but confused the hell out of them.<br />
Every house was 'The New House', and I think he was starting to wonder why his stuff wasn't already there. Even though we were looking at 3-4 houses a day at one point. We were finally looking at a duplex in Southern KCMO (That's Kansas City Missouri, for the non-Midwestern), we had gone through the place, and it wasn't too bad, although the bathroom arrangement was a little odd, when the woman off-handedly mentioned that the 'unit' next door had just recently become available, but hadn't been listed yet. My instincts, honed by years of garage sales, twitched a bit at this, and when she asked if we'd like to see it my response of 'Well, hell yeah.' might have taken her back a bit. But hey, I'd spent the last several weeks roaming hither and yon, and the prospect of seeing another property, A: Without having to scour the interwebs. and 2: Being able to <i>walk</i> to it in under 32 seconds, appealed to me mightily.<br />
We toured the house, which had slightly larger bedrooms, a <i>huge</i> basement, and a slightly more beneficial arrangement of toilet facilities. I liked it pretty well, and we were talking about rent and deposits and possible move-in dates when I looked around and said, 'Where's David?' Yes, the Least Stealthy Being in the Universe had giving me the slip... again. (that could get embarrassing) Since we were standing by one door and the other was locked, I was reasonably sure that he hadn't taken to wandering the neighborhood to 'board someone else's vessel' like a system stealing game-pirate. After a quick search of the place netted us no Dude, I even checked to make sure all the windows were locked. I wandered the 3 rooms upstairs because that's where I'd seen him heading last, when I heard scuffling sounds in one of the closets.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqKuE17NvsxmmYF-ebf_kacn6_1SV5mGE9GCyErExUDF5kWpnzjXcAmepWUv3YKQI5o9QKYhzxk0WNXbjBGEMxPhVtDYkqQLMtpXT3o5tmflgdYhTz9n0PUHtsf71DPZ3adYaLDRAZmXxy/s1600/DSC_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqKuE17NvsxmmYF-ebf_kacn6_1SV5mGE9GCyErExUDF5kWpnzjXcAmepWUv3YKQI5o9QKYhzxk0WNXbjBGEMxPhVtDYkqQLMtpXT3o5tmflgdYhTz9n0PUHtsf71DPZ3adYaLDRAZmXxy/s320/DSC_0010.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">My score in the new house debate.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The closets in this place seemed to come equipped with vague mumbles. Either that, or impatient ghosts that just couldn't wait for us to sign the contract and move in. I tried to open the doors, but Dave had nearly barricaded himself into the closet, he had pushed himself up against the bifold doors so I couldn't open them and he was refusing to come out. I tried calling him out a couple of times but all I got back was, 'It's his new house' and 'Gotta get the systems in the new bedroom'. I guess I was supposed to just get our stuff and he'd wait right there. This put me in a bad position, bargaining-wise. I mean, it's hard to pretend indifference to whether or not you get a house if your youngest offspring won't leave it. The agent is bound to know something is working in her favor if someone is yelling 'It's the new bedroom, with the systems!' from one of the closets upstairs... or anywhere for that matter. As I walked back downstairs toward the, now slightly smug-looking, Rental Agent, I muttered, 'Found him.' and continued our interrupted 'negotiations'. At least he didn't yell, 'Attica! Attica!'. That would have been awkward.<br />
I finally negotiated the release of the Hostage in the Closet for a minimal fee (steakburgers and fries) and tried to explain to him that you need to have supplies with you before you Occupy in protest. Unless, of course you happen to be in Oregon. I also have to state, for the record, that David did <i>not</i> get the bedroom he so ardently desired. Mostly because that room is now our office and computer room. His bedroom is on the other side of the stairs, next to the bathroom. I do not accede to the demands of terrorists. ... Much<br />
So, two months after our Interstate Adventure began we had a place to keep our stuff. The problem was that our stuff was in a storage facility 50+ miles away in Topeka. Luckily by this time Tim and Abby wanted us out of the house bad enough to actually help us move. My nephew Brendan's motivations are somewhat more obscure, although it may be cynical to point out that I was in possession of his mother's SUV at the time. There may have been urgent messages flying from the Lone Star State to regain possession of the vehicle, although I have no direct knowledge of them. It is possible, however, that he was just being kind to his only Maternal uncle, which would just be... weird. At any rate, we were deeply grateful for all the help on what turned out to be the <i>hottest</i> day of the year. Although, once his games were loaded into the truck, Dude lost all interest in the whole middle part of the moving process, and sat in the cab of the truck with his 3DS until we were ready to actually go to the house. And once there, lost all interest in it again, once his systems and games were in his new room. Naturally.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnY9EeqohK5D0JTE6Imtml2Z4TagB32Vr0T3tnkHfet7xwmOG74tSMCOw0TQ3cRNNQCxpC-UitA1Kri4bUN57ql5Cc3G13ZWiIApBELhXwAp-fe_HwfQLKAJCePR4ZcbUjvZML0_mKEIVy/s1600/DSC_0056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnY9EeqohK5D0JTE6Imtml2Z4TagB32Vr0T3tnkHfet7xwmOG74tSMCOw0TQ3cRNNQCxpC-UitA1Kri4bUN57ql5Cc3G13ZWiIApBELhXwAp-fe_HwfQLKAJCePR4ZcbUjvZML0_mKEIVy/s320/DSC_0056.JPG" width="320" /></a> Along with his new digs, Dude has a new co-conspirator in the endless struggle against All That is Dad. Her name is Suzi. Suzi and I were friends in High School. That doesn't quite cover it (duh), Suzi and I were <i>instantly</i> friends in HS. We never dated each other, we were best friends. Although the nuns did warn her about the evils of 'corrupting' someone soooo much younger. (She was a Senior, I was a Freshman) They didn't understand. Nothing like that was going on, we were just the only two 'green monkeys' in a world full of brown monkeys. Then, after a short stint at the local college, she had to move on... to Chicago. We had no further contact until many, <i>many</i> moons later, but during the interregnum between the break-up and the new digs she decided that living with 2 Dudes might not be such a bad idea. (I still have no idea why anyone would volunteer for that).<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2d5eBik8VD7yiE27vxNEelMBR0aCMcD8bdLIysuSy3d1gG9k1zdFDRk29dKJZHz7Ip_UAAS16lCue5kOF2ZWINrgiGNqULU3mpcy0X3kQ-0n0pPVnDI-zzo9_XpkAz21pq5ihyphenhyphenYaV6xR/s1600/DSC_0159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2d5eBik8VD7yiE27vxNEelMBR0aCMcD8bdLIysuSy3d1gG9k1zdFDRk29dKJZHz7Ip_UAAS16lCue5kOF2ZWINrgiGNqULU3mpcy0X3kQ-0n0pPVnDI-zzo9_XpkAz21pq5ihyphenhyphenYaV6xR/s320/DSC_0159.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">The Evil Organist Effect on Dexter</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now they're thick as thieves, sharing 'iPad time' while I'm at work, when Dave's not practicing for the Las Vegas Talent Show on his new keyboard.(I didn't even know there was a Las Vegas Talent Show) He's really good with it. He'll listen to songs and then play the chords on the keyboard until he has it right, then he'll shut off the song and replay the chords and sing it himself. It's really kind of amazing. Of course, sometimes he just plays the scary sounding chords he's learned from some of the classical music he has recorded... and laughs like a villain in a Black and White movie. When this happens, Suzi and I just chuckle nervously and keep doing our thing downstairs... in the living room... away from the mad keyboardist, as the cats head for our bedroom to hide.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvReIeUEWa8EOQ1r2C-vvKZ05eZ8FWSf_KCax6gfBqPjQZOGDsNSL8HcUK_LTXZMVx0pQ3LLjpcNAGfiHLAReHscDpkwnLEyGPGV5sh99lzjm6Qc4nAtSTvifarsY5CFUrh5C2v_FR6P8/s1600/DSC_0102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvReIeUEWa8EOQ1r2C-vvKZ05eZ8FWSf_KCax6gfBqPjQZOGDsNSL8HcUK_LTXZMVx0pQ3LLjpcNAGfiHLAReHscDpkwnLEyGPGV5sh99lzjm6Qc4nAtSTvifarsY5CFUrh5C2v_FR6P8/s320/DSC_0102.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">The Union Station 'Waiting Hall'</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
Dave's already found his favorite place to go in KC. It's the <a href="http://www.unionstation.org/">Union Station Depot</a>. Which was restored about the time I first moved to Florida, and let me tell you, they did an absolutely wonderful job of it. The ceilings were lovingly repaired and restored and the whole thing shines of old wood, granite floors, mellow brass and early 19th century lighting and hardware. Dave couldn't care less. He's completely indifferent to it all. It doesn't matter to him that the building is over 100 years old (102 this year). He doesn't care about the 95 foot tall Main Hall with its three 3500 pound chandeliers. It doesn't make a damn bit of difference to him that it was the 2nd largest train station in the world when it was built. What matters to most <i>civilized</i> people (him) is that, by my count it has <i>6</i> elevators that we've found so far. All completely open to the public (him) to use whenever they damn well please. And that doesn't even count the Link. An elevated, climate-controlled walkway, connected to the side of the station that crosses a busy street, goes down the block, around the corner and crosses yet another street between Union Station and Crown Center that sits catty-corner to it . Not only does it do all this action a serene 15, or so, feet above the sidewalk, it has 4 or 5 access points and all but one of these have elevators. Add to this the 3 story elevator that lifts people from the old Freight House up to an open walkway that connects to the rear of the Station and you have a positive Dude-fest of elevator happiness. Not to mention that the walkway crosses over about 10 tracks, so there's a good chance for a bit of train-spotting while you're up there.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnYtNmMpPVe3A0_FA_RiFz6jorAfg8Mz5znBzcDTPHQNaQ30rwukO2wuN9s_3_ubNJzS974FM5TcYGH5zyG6JQoRWSPuCy0pCkqI9OtMGzHJ8LRwJXIE4H76L86QMrR7SJtZX6sxDAQAPb/s1600/DSC_0060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnYtNmMpPVe3A0_FA_RiFz6jorAfg8Mz5znBzcDTPHQNaQ30rwukO2wuN9s_3_ubNJzS974FM5TcYGH5zyG6JQoRWSPuCy0pCkqI9OtMGzHJ8LRwJXIE4H76L86QMrR7SJtZX6sxDAQAPb/s320/DSC_0060.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">Watching the trains</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So if you ever hear Dude <i>volunteer</i> to go 'take pictures in the city' with the Dude-Dad, let me translate that for you. It actually means, 'Dad needs to take me to Union Station so that we can ride up and down all the elevators in the building, take another elevator to the Link level, walk along the Link, down the first elevator, walk down to the end of the block, take another one back up to the Link walk back to the first elevator, down to street level, across a bridge to the Freight House area, up another elevator, across the open walkway back into Union Station to try to start the entire process over again.' Dude-speak is sometimes a rather compact language.<br />
So, Midwest America, the Dude-versian Aliens have landed. We've already begun recruiting Dude Robot Slaves (pat. pend) and encouraging your citizens to immigrate (at least temporarily, and at their own expense) to Las Vegas Nevada. Your elevators will be slowly, but irrevocably conquered for the Greater Dude Empire. And your cheese is, of course, immediately forfeit to his greater Mac and Cheese glory. We want you to understand that we come in Peace (but not quiet) and mean you no harm. This is but a stop on the way to the eventual conquering of Las Vegas to be used as the new Capitol in the Greater Dude Empire, but does not reflect negatively on our regard for your lovely, if somewhat parochial, Homeland. After all, you're only halfway to Vegas, it's not your fault. stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-63129942946634571332015-03-12T17:00:00.000-04:002015-03-12T17:00:17.454-04:00Do You Want to Go to Vegas?: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvU87KpgwkPLfyOIZ49DDTDMjcz1Xb_TQBoFN2pPoS7Fl6sun1IQ2G74fv2k8lM1NDrs2HlNEqIPtPuEJCeb0e6OeViefuFHOqiGdeUWCZ5HlPq7ya6AYe778fa1EZaswqNGo-a6fdmToe/s1600/DSC_0020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvU87KpgwkPLfyOIZ49DDTDMjcz1Xb_TQBoFN2pPoS7Fl6sun1IQ2G74fv2k8lM1NDrs2HlNEqIPtPuEJCeb0e6OeViefuFHOqiGdeUWCZ5HlPq7ya6AYe778fa1EZaswqNGo-a6fdmToe/s1600/DSC_0020.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
It's no secret that David wants to go to Vegas. I'm pretty sure everyone in the Free World, or at least all of Southwestern Pa knows about it. It's a common theme that every 6 minutes there has to be a Sin City reference or the world will come to an end... Or at least the Dudeworld will. Mostly the constant Vegas references are a grind. Every other time his mouth opens: 'It's only Vegas!', 'It's only the Casinos!', 'We have to make it to the elevators in the Casinos.' or: 'You ready for the Slot machines in the Vegas, buddy?' (that's the newest one) I haven't gone a day in the last two or three years without hearing some reference to our proposed Sin City Vacation Destination.<br />
I actually made a mistake a couple of months ago by telling him he couldn't go into a casino until after he was 21. Now he's convinced we're leaving for Vegas the day after his birthday. I'm pretty sure I said nothing of the sort, and I'm not exactly sure how he worked that out, but his schedule goes something like; Special Olympics Beaver, State Special Olympics, Birthday, Kansas City, Vegas. The rest of his year is kind of fuzzy, but he's very clear on that part. I'm pretty much doomed.<br />
This sometimes comes out in some strange ways. Anyone who's been anywhere around Dude will know that he incessantly quotes movies, games and sometimes even songs. The other day we were coming out of Target or Wal-Mart, or somewhere, when he started quoting The Lion King. Nothing unusual about that, he recently found his talking storybook CD-ROM collection and that's one of them. I was half listening to the quote when I noticed a certain edit of Muphasa's lines. The quote is supposed to run, '<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: -40px;">Simba, let me tell you something my father told me. Look at the stars, the great kings of the past are up there, watching over us.' </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 24px; text-indent: -40px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What I got was;'Simba, let me tell you something my father told me. Look at the stars, the great <i>Kings of Vegas</i> are up there, watching over us.' I was shocked for a second, and then I completely lost it. Laughing so hard I'm sure I was making the people in the parking lot nervous. Then Dave almost started a panic with his, much louder raucous laughing. </span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px; text-indent: -40px;"> So there we were, two hysterical Dudes walking across the parking lot, laughing our fool heads off heading into Wal-Mart... nothing unusual there. Hey... I've seen some things at 3am in Wal-Mart </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px; text-indent: -40px;">that </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px; text-indent: -40px;">would curl your nose hairs. If that's the weirdest thing they had happen there that day, they need to give us a medal. And a cheeseburger. Each.</span></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3dmFacn4rD2iYNdBX6LJTX7zAwQRm0c8vyvedG23F1APCFqV02-mEoMj7lMZPu8IGJQe5MprkjCc3uHMISwihsjpApkUMGG7r-ppc_Iy8gujbFKOXSxWD79koqMOEYDfet-0YChYmQXY/s1600/DSC_0032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3dmFacn4rD2iYNdBX6LJTX7zAwQRm0c8vyvedG23F1APCFqV02-mEoMj7lMZPu8IGJQe5MprkjCc3uHMISwihsjpApkUMGG7r-ppc_Iy8gujbFKOXSxWD79koqMOEYDfet-0YChYmQXY/s1600/DSC_0032.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-indent: -40px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> Dave's fairly </span></span><span style="line-height: 24px;">magnanimous</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> about going to Vegas, he even has the airline picked out. It's Southwest, by the way, and now every time we go by Pittsburgh International Airport (it's 10 miles south of us) and we see a plane, He points to it and says, 'You know what that is?' The first few times I fell for this I answered, 'It's a plane.' (Oh, foolish Dude-Dad) He immediately jumped on top of that, saying, 'It's the Southwest Airlines.' I peered at the plane and couldn't tell. 'We get on the Southwest Airlines and it takes us to Vegas.' 'Oh lord.' I mumbled and realized too late that a face-palm maneuver <i>probably</i> isn't a good idea at 70 mph. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-indent: -40px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> That better be a big frickin plane too, because Dude doesn't think that anyone should, or would want to be, left out of his trip to Vegas. 'Are you ready to go to the Vegas?' is his normal form of greeting if 'Hi buddy, how's it going?' doesn't seem to fit the situation. 'See you in the Vegas.' is what he uses where most people would put, 'goodbye' in a conversation. The whole thing also seems to be becoming more pervasive. Even dinner has been 'Vegas-ed'. 'We have to get the pizza at the Vegas.' or 'They have the Mac&Cheese at the Vegas.' To which I inevitably reply, 'Why don't we just worry about the pizza/Mac&Cheese/cheeseburger in Aliquippa for now?' He always says, 'Yeah', but I don't think his heart is really in it, because the next thing that hits the table, 'Does the Vegas have the ketchup?' I immediately have to assure him of the certainty of his favorite condiment's inclusion in the Haute Cuisine of </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px; text-indent: -40px;">Sin City, and then I go someplace quiet for a while and lie down.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-indent: -40px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> Of course Dude, being Dude, isn't satisfied with just one trip to one place. He'll also bring up... </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px; text-indent: -40px;">other things. Like his, now yearly, trip to State Special Olympics. 'Time to get ready to go to the Penn State! The City Bus is almost here!' The school charters a bus every year to take them to State College. 'He has to go to the Penn State to take the 3DS to record the elevators!' He doesn't ever talk about the events, or the medals, just, 'It's only the Penn State!' or 'It's just the elevators at the Penn State, he has to record with the 3DS!' And then there's always, 'We have to get to the Western Beaver High School for the Special Olympics!' I usually just put my head down at that point and stay quiet until he goes away. (He never does)</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvSaayTtbgcvsMVR2UbvA-d7Cy9arDzRpR05lluXZssi26IlfQ-eYwQiFz8i9CtPuFWAGPr9TR0nN-yZzDW1egzRSM_Xl4lX1o22KlLa8zR0DDjbUQJK-JQKm_Lvh4dJgarz6rgYxi3W5H/s1600/DSC_0094+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvSaayTtbgcvsMVR2UbvA-d7Cy9arDzRpR05lluXZssi26IlfQ-eYwQiFz8i9CtPuFWAGPr9TR0nN-yZzDW1egzRSM_Xl4lX1o22KlLa8zR0DDjbUQJK-JQKm_Lvh4dJgarz6rgYxi3W5H/s1600/DSC_0094+(3).jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">Would you like to go to Vegas, Mr. Bond?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-indent: -40px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> He's getting a bit more diabolical and intricate in his 'Vegas' campaign. The other day we went to buy him shoes. We have to do this quite often as the way he walks wears down the inside of the heel quite rapidly. When we picked his new shoes, he asked, 'How fast are the shoes?' I, unthinkingly replied, 'As fast as your little feet can make them.' He paused for a minute and then asked, 'Are these the super fast shoes?' Realizing that I had unwittingly found myself in some sort of shoeware cusp moment I replied more firmly, 'Dude, those are turbo booster shoes.' 'YES!!', he shouted, (in the middle of a crowded Wal-Mart that we suddenly had a lot of room in) 'He takes the turbo shoes to the Western Beaver, to run in the Special Olympics and goes really fast!' What could I do? I said, intensely, 'Yes!' and we went about the rest of our business. Dave wouldn't let the 'Turbo Shoes' out of his grasp and almost snatched them from the checkout girl before she could ring them up.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-indent: -40px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> When we got home, I told Raine, 'Ask him about his shoes.' She did, and he was off... 'He has the super fast Turbo Shoes! And he wears them in the race at the Beaver Valley High School and he goes really fast!!' She looked at me in confusion and I just shrugged and said, 'They're Turbo Shoes.' and shrugged, as if that explained everything. I was wrong. 'Turbo Shoes' explained many things, but I was to learn what 'everything' really was.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-indent: -40px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> During the course of the day Dave would often repeat his new 'Turbo Shoes' mantra. But by the time I was tying them on his feet to get them ready for school, I learned that Penn State was also to be conquered by the mighty Turbo Shoes. As this was not only a natural progression, it was also completely expected. It didn't startle me at all when I heard, during his shower, 'He uses the Turbo Shoes to go fast in the raced, and win the medals at the Penn State.' As a matter of fact I </span></span><span style="line-height: 24px;">portentously intoned, 'It will be so.' Then the bomb dropped, 'And then after Penn State we take the Turbo Shoes to Vegas and the Casinos.' Dude-Dad, ever on top of this sort of thing, said, 'Huh?' He leaned in, ingratiatingly, with that Used-Car salesman look on his face, and said, 'It's only the slot machines at the Vegas.' I cocked an eyebrow at him sternly. 'He takes the Turbo Shoes to the Vegas?' He said, with a smile. Obviously falling back I said, 'Why don't we worry about the shower in Aliquippa first?' He laughed and said, 'Yeah.' And we went back to shower things. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyw0Zb2K66pKI-Hk1Vjy2KmSnh78VC6IohnWA7keifY7nxNwGr0yRijKru36SQG3Wvvf3NCZRyof4d9BkDG6R5n3sDnRjNewphZvEc4yPgSUZQEuhsKrZFxPZTwuhrfmp38VN6u3bRe8R/s1600/DSC_0098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyw0Zb2K66pKI-Hk1Vjy2KmSnh78VC6IohnWA7keifY7nxNwGr0yRijKru36SQG3Wvvf3NCZRyof4d9BkDG6R5n3sDnRjNewphZvEc4yPgSUZQEuhsKrZFxPZTwuhrfmp38VN6u3bRe8R/s1600/DSC_0098.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-indent: -40px;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> Why not? He could afford to be magnanimous. In the holding-action that is our Vegas War, he had obviously won this skirmish, hands down. I did the only thing I could do, as a defeated Dad/General. I rallied my troops and sent the opposing forces to bed. I may not have won the battle, but at least I was holding the field at the end of it.... Or at least the towel. Either that, or I'm just the towel boy at the Dude-spa.... yeah.... that's probably it. I wonder what kind of job I can get with that on my resume'? </span></span><br />
<div style="text-indent: -40px;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> </span></span></div>
stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-346590295888867272015-02-03T15:35:00.000-05:002015-02-03T15:35:49.430-05:00Are You Sick?:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-ItjKH95jaxsvsRrg716hfGMuj-HAFVJD_7TvcsGmQnMHZVbAUKYCuWrQy5O8XK5D_bNQ9f9E84xFkuzZPqzHskxkIGn0NtI_pl4Uc2CmwihuFDBgHraeZDJxbMClJp6ducqgru3JsNp/s1600/DSC_0029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-ItjKH95jaxsvsRrg716hfGMuj-HAFVJD_7TvcsGmQnMHZVbAUKYCuWrQy5O8XK5D_bNQ9f9E84xFkuzZPqzHskxkIGn0NtI_pl4Uc2CmwihuFDBgHraeZDJxbMClJp6ducqgru3JsNp/s1600/DSC_0029.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #cc0000;">In all the annals of history there has never been an epic tale of such magnitude. Never has one man, so incredibly intelligent, been bamboozled so thoroughly. Read on if you dare</span><span style="color: #134f5c;">.</span><br />
<br />
In the normal course of events Dave doesn't tell me that he's not feeling well very often. I have to pick up on the clues. Falling asleep early, doesn't finish his dinner (big clue), a lack of energy, or he doesn't want to go anywhere. If he ever doesn't want to play his games, I'm just going to build a box and dig a hole. Now once I've noticed one of the 'unhealthy indicators' it's my job at that point to ask the question, 'Are you okay?' Now I can't always trust the answer he gives, which varies from 'Yeah, I fine' to 'We have to go to the hospital building'. I have to listen to the tone and the energy in his response to judge his relative health. And once I've done that, there's the definitive test. Time hallowed and used by generations of professional parents throughout the world. I put my palm on his forehead and then the back of my hand on his neck below the ear. It's a nearly foolproof system, depending on the fool who's using it, especially when that fool's battery powered thermometer's batteries have ceased to function and he can't find his mercury thermometer.<br />
So, one Sunday, when I went to get David for dinner, he was rubbing his eyes and looking as if he'd just woken up and then, when he didn't finish his corn-dog nuggets and cheese Pizza Rolls (Both on the list of Ranch-dipping favorites) I started to get concerned. I immediately administered the Palm Test and there was a bit of extra warmth there. I asked him if he was okay, and he said, 'He has to go to the Doctor, and can't go to school tomorrow.' I just said, 'We'll see.' and sent him off to his room. The weather was kind of dicey that night, so I figured on a 2-hour delay in the morning to give me a little extra time to make up my mind.<br />
Such was not to be, however. The promised snow and freezing temperatures didn't happen until well after school started the next morning. So, with a brain fueled on 5 hours of sleep (there was a really good late movie) I took a bleary look at my Kindle at 6 am, flicked it to the local news station site, and, when I noticed there was to be no delay, with my un-caffeinated brain I decided that I would, indeed take Dude to the doctor. I remembered to text my boss and tell him I would be late, and why, but forgot to tell either Raine or Dude that I was sticking around or the reason. So when I once again opened my bleary eyes it was nearly the time the bus would already be there and I hadn't called to tell them what I was doing either so I didn't even have time to check Dude again before they showed up. The upside was, that still gave me plenty of time to get Dave and I dressed and to his doctor's walk-in clinic shortly after it opened.<br />
Dave was suspiciously energetic when we got to the doctor's office, but mostly that could be due to his general excitement about going to the doctor. It's kind of twisted, but in his mind, the Doctor's office is the first step to going to the Hospital, and that's where the Hospital Elevators are. And since we no longer have any reason to go visit anyone at a hospital I think he figures that's his only route to get to them. It's one of those things you almost have to be a Dude to understand. At any rate we were seen fairly quickly, and when the doctor started asking me questions it hit me that we were there on very slim evidence. I shot a look over at David sitting merrily on the exam table, kicking his feet and babbling about something, and then turned to the doc with an embarrassed look on my face. Trained<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Hf8Bu8i10nlN-8UbBts-wy82KO87dGc1_jlpdSQWSpa8K8uLCLhm2AcwJgX79H73opdnuCkritreIO9ALUWAGimeugADbumLJu92jmP5O7fewRMWfQhyphenhyphenSV_HilOvJG2nTYtNhjLzkaJ5/s1600/DSC_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Hf8Bu8i10nlN-8UbBts-wy82KO87dGc1_jlpdSQWSpa8K8uLCLhm2AcwJgX79H73opdnuCkritreIO9ALUWAGimeugADbumLJu92jmP5O7fewRMWfQhyphenhyphenSV_HilOvJG2nTYtNhjLzkaJ5/s1600/DSC_0010.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
by hordes of no doubt hysterical parents Dr. Dan (I think), through a series of questions and responses to my answers, seemed to be pushing the idea that there was little he could do. As the interrogation went on, I assured Dr. Dan that I understood that there was, indeed, little to be diagnosed from a patient with no symptoms.<br />
You see, it had just occurred to me that I'd been had. Completely and totally had. Which makes twice in the last month that I'd fallen for one of his schemes. Much more of this and I'd have to turn in my All-Knowing-Dude-Dad card. He'd engineered the whole thing, starting the night before. He'd come down stairs to dinner, rubbing his eyes as if he were suffering from a lack of sleep. He had then strategically left 3, count them 3 pizza rolls on his plate and said he was done. I hadn't taken any special note of the fact that he had cleaned out his little dip-bowl of ranch dressing. As to the warmth I felt when I checked his temperature, that was completely my own fault. I had been holding my Kindle, reading a book before I checked him and my hands must have been a little cold when I'd done it. So, I had come late to the Smart-Party, but I was catching up fast.<br />
We left the doctor's office and walked to the car, with the Mini-Anarchist cheerily babbling away. Certain in his belief that we were headed home, he even asked if we were going to stop at McDonalds on the way! Shadows started to cloud his cheery day three blocks later when we made the right turn to go up the hill to school. As we got closer and closer to the school the passenger seat of the car got quieter and quieter for some strange reason. Another thing the little chiseler hadn't counted on was that when the doctor sees us in good time we actually get to school before they start letting the buses unload. So, not only didn't he get to stay home, he actually got to school before any of his bus-mates. I guess Poetic Justice isn't just a band name any more.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAClsDVzUI891_xxkLL5MqdXYEHDYLZfJcUWhSSe4R2ICbw50nU3loqAi7-ww3O4m-GTkpGQt54P18uZD_BzOFtEB1GKxbAg5zGRdRMrTaNz0ArwcTJTCenMMGlUHyUvOvmca0BP8dnFw4/s1600/DSC_0040+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAClsDVzUI891_xxkLL5MqdXYEHDYLZfJcUWhSSe4R2ICbw50nU3loqAi7-ww3O4m-GTkpGQt54P18uZD_BzOFtEB1GKxbAg5zGRdRMrTaNz0ArwcTJTCenMMGlUHyUvOvmca0BP8dnFw4/s1600/DSC_0040+(2).JPG" height="235" width="320" /></a></div>
When it came time to put down his system and get out of the car all I heard was 'NOOOOOOOOOOO!' Actually, the lady directing the buses at the other end of the parking lot probably heard it. Then when we were walking in the (open) door, he grabbed the edge of the door firmly and shook as if some invisible force were trying to propel him into the Jaws of Doom. Which was a pretty apt description if Dad's authority was the invisible force and the Jaws of Doom was the school. That's what I thought when I was a student anyway. When we went to the office he further declared his reluctance to go to class; When the secretary asked, 'Are you signing him in?' Dave said, 'No! He's going home with the games and the McDonalds' Everyone laughed. Except me. I knew he was dead serious and didn't want <i>anything</i> to do with that school. He had followed all the steps and had been cheated out of his sick day, and he was pissed. I signed him in and then peeled him off the door frame and walked him to his class.<br />
When we finally made it to his classroom I walked a couple of steps inside the door, but Dave was having none of it. He walked straight for the edge of the outward opening door and held on to both sides as if he were expecting a tornado to whisk down the hallway and propel him into the room. He was getting fairly agitated at this point, talking loudly and hanging on to the door for dear life. Then a HUGE dramatic scene ensued. All about bank vaults (?) and police being called and going to <i>jail</i>. I think there was even something in there about a ship sinking. I can't really be sure. But he was for certain he didn't want anything to do with the aftermath of his plan falling apart. I can't really blame him. After all, I kind of cheated, at least in his eyes. I hadn't brought along, or even gone back for, his school backpack. Without the backpack school does not exist. We finally got him talked down and in class, though Ms. Yarosz, who wasn't there at the time, e-mailed me later to tell me that it took some time for him to calm down enough to actually participate in the class.<br />
So who cares that the Villain (me) won out this time over the intrepid hero? We all know how this <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHdcksPQb6hLFm-6KDpdf7tceTws0xnaQatPzb22_NxIIcseHKc6kUYBjcFRXM6Q0BQ5YlMRdL0qBoOVIH39ctFmJ5VW3aro44AhaQ2Ek0sh2x9Cc5WZCZbK1GwKIZR2WTBlA9JkMraUEO/s1600/CSC_0074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHdcksPQb6hLFm-6KDpdf7tceTws0xnaQatPzb22_NxIIcseHKc6kUYBjcFRXM6Q0BQ5YlMRdL0qBoOVIH39ctFmJ5VW3aro44AhaQ2Ek0sh2x9Cc5WZCZbK1GwKIZR2WTBlA9JkMraUEO/s1600/CSC_0074.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
turns out in the end. We've all seen enough James Bond or Jackie Chan movies to write the script. The Evil Overlord (me again) sits chuckling in his Mountain Lair (suburban house), pets his Evil Cat (Dexter), chuckling at his victory over Our Hero (Dude) after sending him to his Doom (school). Just when he thinks victory is in his evil clutches, Our Hero (Dude) breaks away and gets free with all the cheese. Or something like that. I wonder if we could get a movie deal?stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-5305571610787764742015-01-28T15:29:00.001-05:002015-01-28T15:29:39.269-05:00Double Naught Spy:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixzNnMchoBh1eI-BQy1Y9pIO8rN5rEySX1SC6ZlSMPZ3nTxqiv3E5z1BRSHs3gLhqER-EstnfEWFKrvAP8P0RuhiaPkCQy3og4b_LeraZJZ-KQpDSU-ThNq31MiVl8XYwaaFiVvpSJ5LqK/s1600/DSC_0026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixzNnMchoBh1eI-BQy1Y9pIO8rN5rEySX1SC6ZlSMPZ3nTxqiv3E5z1BRSHs3gLhqER-EstnfEWFKrvAP8P0RuhiaPkCQy3og4b_LeraZJZ-KQpDSU-ThNq31MiVl8XYwaaFiVvpSJ5LqK/s1600/DSC_0026.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
All week David bugged me about what he wanted to do with his 'Game-Points'. Even on Monday he was already planning to get 5 good notes and already knew <i>exactly</i> what he wanted to do with them. (More on that later) He wanted me to 'Take him to CD Warehouse in Boardman to get the Paper Mario for the Nintendo Game Cube.' ..... Uh huh.<br />
Okay. Three different 'hiccups' present themselves here. Firstly:<br />
Pre-planning: I have a bit of a problem with the fact that he <i>already knows</i> that he was going to get 5 good notes. Which, to me, indicates some premeditated control over his actions when he wants to. It's the premeditated planning I have a problem with. It pretty much tells me that he could be good whenever he wanted to be and therefore implies a certain decision about being bad all those times he didn't get good notes. It's worthy of noting, however, that decision also keeps me from becoming completely destitute from buying metric tons of games every year. So I'm really torn about complaining <i>too</i> much about that one.<br />
CD Warehouse: CD Warehouse is a company that buys used movies and games and then resells them at a modest mark-up. I love this idea. As a matter of fact, almost half of my extensive movie collection came from CD Warehouse or like businesses. The problem? That particular store is no longer a CD Warehouse. In fact, CD Warehouse no longer has a store in Boardman Ohio, or anywhere else in Ohio for that matter. My son, who can tell you how to get to any GameStop in the Tri-State Area hasn't adjusted to the fact that BuyBacks is the name that particular store has had for the last 4 years. 4 or so times a year we've gone into that building, and every time I've got to tell him that it's BuyBacks, not CD Warehouse. He can take correction on a mispronounced game title in a heartbeat, but Stores are forever. I really think that may just be a 'growing up in Pittsburgh' thing. I'm only now getting to the point that I know where 'stuff used to be' enough that I can take driving directions from the natives.<br />
Specific Game: This is a two-parter. Firstly I'm almost dead certain that Paper Mario didn't come out until well after the Game Cube was no longer a viable gaming system. I'm willing to admit my specific ignorance on the matter, but it seems to me that PM is a fairly recent game, mostly for the 3DS system and was never written for the Game Cube platform. Secondly, it's been a couple of months since the last time we were there. How the hell would he know that specific game is there at all? Was there a disturbance in the Mario Force? What sort of Game Jedi-mind-powers is my son actually employing? Does his brain get Game-Alerts the same way I get Penguins updates on my phone? Is there actually an App for that?<br />
Despite my misgivings and the 50 mile distance, when Saturday came away Dude and I went. Since it seems to be traditional, David was telling Raine that she should 'remain here' and 'You can find us at the CD Warehouse in Boardman' when she'd already said goodbye and closed the front door to go back to the couch.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZCgUIJ3DXe6_yZnWh_jyq_esqC3pVyssrQ4c1hKthglaS77OjbGPTTfRcNUfaCyhOGkRBjbffZLhJiz6h7GXdvCoV9JZbhApzYmrss_x4JmzSUkcqQQ7RkxMiC98IpSQk0zkjBHqDDyO/s1600/DSC_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZCgUIJ3DXe6_yZnWh_jyq_esqC3pVyssrQ4c1hKthglaS77OjbGPTTfRcNUfaCyhOGkRBjbffZLhJiz6h7GXdvCoV9JZbhApzYmrss_x4JmzSUkcqQQ7RkxMiC98IpSQk0zkjBHqDDyO/s1600/DSC_0010.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
I have to admit that I left a part out when I told Dude of our trip. The part where we stopped on the way so that I could take some pictures of the completely frozen Buttermilk Falls. I had been up there the week before taking pictures when it was only mostly frozen, and I was curious about how it looked a week later. Dave is monumentally indifferent to Nature in all it's Wonder and Glory, and he's less than pleased whenever I come up with <i>anything</i> that gets in the way of his game conquest that doesn't involve cheese or Ranch dressing. He especially doesn't like when the camera gets involved, because he knows that whatever we're doing it's not only going to involve walking and probably nature, it's going to take quite some time. I'm pretty sure he's hidden my camera a couple of times. He was pretty good about it, at least at the beginning. We got out in the parking lot, with Dave only inviting <i>one</i> family to Vegas this summer, and made our way to the falls, stopping 3 times along the fairly short path to take pictures.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Dave is kind of funny about some things. He's fairly good at picking out motivations, but absolutely terrible about understanding when I want him to bring me my sneaks. He'll bring me his boots, the wrong shoes or just stand there looking at our shoe rack and just not understand which ones my tennis shoes are. He can however, without anyone actually telling him, grasp the objective of just <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
about any trip, and pick up on just when we've reached that juncture. That's just when he inserts his own agenda. Now, if he would wait until the activity were complete, he would be golden, but such is not ever to be with Dude. Just as soon as we'd reached the falls, which were entirely encased in ice, he started pushing his own agenda, 'Now we can go to the GameStop in the Boardman and then get the lunch.' I just gave him the 'Dad Stare' (pat pend) That dead-eyed, one brow raised, 'you're kidding me' look that your mother gave you when you asked for desert before dinner was started. Again.<br />
Needless to say, the objections of the minor-partner in this endeavor were summarily ignored. Ice falls were pictured and Dude-photos were snapped as well. Of course, once I was done the only thing that kept him from galloping back to the car like a gazelle chased by a cheetah was the fact that the path was entirely covered in snow and ice. With several 'Woah! Careful! It's slippery here's and a couple of actual Ice-Capades moments we made it safely back to the car and were on our way.<br />
I've said it before, but Dave is actually a fairly good car-companion. He generally plugs himself in to his system and tunes out the world, but even when he doesn't he's pretty good in a car. So, half and hour and a sing-along 'Bad to the Bone' moment later and we were opening the doors of 'CDWarehouse'. (BuyBacks) This is where my son's Game-Jedi mind skills would be put to the test. He failed that test miserably. Not even close. Not only didn't BuyBacks have the game he was looking for, but neither BB or the GameStop next door had the game he wanted. As a matter of fact, neither place had <i>any</i> Game Cube games. None. Not one. I was beginning to doubt my son's Game-Jedi powers.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-FaPLRxMcYSncc_Ja-cMCbjSpnrqc7YezH9T-NNavystz03VsWNTB8eGTaZTXsaPY8OrTT-vd02HEfiNyBxOcsp-gCyleQb9o-Y4c4Kqd5_l4NE8ZDgbID4n05xRJHVZDk9S4FUxXOE89/s1600/DSC_0027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-FaPLRxMcYSncc_Ja-cMCbjSpnrqc7YezH9T-NNavystz03VsWNTB8eGTaZTXsaPY8OrTT-vd02HEfiNyBxOcsp-gCyleQb9o-Y4c4Kqd5_l4NE8ZDgbID4n05xRJHVZDk9S4FUxXOE89/s1600/DSC_0027.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
We wandered both places looking for a substitute game. Because there was no way I was going to drive that far and have to listen to Dude whining all the way home about not getting a game. Once we'd purchased the non-Paper Mario game, however the true nature of our trip became readily apparent. As soon as we'd started walking toward the door of the GameStop I heard, 'Now we can have luch at that Golden Corral and get the buffet and the Macaroni and Cheese.' Mystery solved. The fact that I didn't even know there was a mystery is only a tribute to the Puppet Master cunning of my opponent. I was played so well, I couldn't even complain that there were closer buffets to my house than the one in the neighboring state. He left me no where to go. He's just that good.<br />
Dave's obsession with all things cheesy is known far and wide throughout the land. A big part of this lactic OCD takes place in buffet style restaurants where the Mac and Cheese is, well... endless. He often asks/tells me to take him to a particular buffet, which I generally ignore because they're nowhere near where we are going. So my son, fueled no doubt by 007 villain's nefarious schemes, had completely and totally played me with the 'Paper Mario' scam. It was all just a ploy to get to the Golden Corral buffet's Mac and Cheesy goodness. And he got me, I admit it. I fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Like any unwitting hero in an adventure-comedy I stumbled through, unwitting and unknowing and ended up right where the Supervillain wanted me to be. In line to pay for 2 buffet lunches half a hundred miles away from home.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq00XM36ClBxkfrSnBtPRv5MKgp-bdBOwpk8q4HZqZL0ErYPTvGRi-lqLy6hyiXbH3VWrAU_MUzbiQuBj8XF72RkmBKYXIkLtLCwO7HV8Mah3XaPDV_Cp9-cCO20HYm3cuAsB0r1IwYcRU/s1600/DSC_0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq00XM36ClBxkfrSnBtPRv5MKgp-bdBOwpk8q4HZqZL0ErYPTvGRi-lqLy6hyiXbH3VWrAU_MUzbiQuBj8XF72RkmBKYXIkLtLCwO7HV8Mah3XaPDV_Cp9-cCO20HYm3cuAsB0r1IwYcRU/s1600/DSC_0040.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
One thing about taking David to a buffet. You're going to get your money's worth. He ate two generously loaded plates and then about a third of each of my, not quite so full, plates, given to him to keep him busy while I replenished his supplies. He also killed a pretty good sized helping of cottage cheese and ranch. Okay. Foodies, food-purists and those with squeamish stomachs should skip this part. I got Dave started on something he's decided he loves very much. For years I've been putting salad dressing on cottage cheese, so Dude started eating cottage cheese with dressing. Dave likes it because it tastes just like you're eating a big bowl of Ranch dressing. Which he approves of.<br />
So, we drove the 50 miles back home with the 'wrong' game. But I have the feeling that Dude got the thing he actually wanted on that trip.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-86350105569229734522015-01-02T21:17:00.000-05:002015-01-02T21:17:37.235-05:00Are you Here?: After more than a year and a half, my niece, Alexis is leaving us. I think the noise that is Dude <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwx3FPOswnDXGkdWxh5HM9SWUgWL2WFtO_v0ETKQdGPBLUm2L5IPH66-O_6UYcrudHPx9vN2PNSGD8jsSr5unfHHlmVd5cTEIKxgwOXIV_cKjDpmYjw6i08u6nnx_fT5HjqmXZjmKSkPvR/s1600/DSC_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwx3FPOswnDXGkdWxh5HM9SWUgWL2WFtO_v0ETKQdGPBLUm2L5IPH66-O_6UYcrudHPx9vN2PNSGD8jsSr5unfHHlmVd5cTEIKxgwOXIV_cKjDpmYjw6i08u6nnx_fT5HjqmXZjmKSkPvR/s1600/DSC_0023.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
finally just ran her out. Not really, but whenever possible I try to blame stuff on Dude. He doesn't care, and who knows? Some of it could actually be his fault.... No, probably not.<br />
Anyway, Alex is leaving, a situation that Dude has no real concept of. To illustrate: Alexis is often leaving about the same time that Dave is waiting for, or Raine is putting him on the bus. This happens several times every week. Since she works quite some distance from the house, and she sometimes works a bit later than strictly necessary she often gets home well after the time Dude has already eaten and has lost himself in GameLand. He acts shocked almost every time he finally sees her. Often gushing over the fact that she's managed to find the house yet again, and hugging her like he only makes the reunions once every 20 years or so. I know she's not from here, but after the first time, I pretty much figured she had it down. Dave takes nothing for granted though, and is surprised every time.<br />
One of the few times we were out of the house when Alex got home, we walked in and by the time I got in the house Dave was already hugging her. Hanging all over her neck and saying, 'Alex! It's been so long since we've seen you!' She smiled. 'You made it! It's so good to see you again!' Alexis laughed and looked at me. I shrugged, 'It's almost like he didn't just see you 12 hours ago.' She laughed again, 'I know, right?' Of course, once it had been established that this was indeed his cousin and that she hadn't somehow been substituted by Pod People from the Planet Mars, or at least one of his other cousins, (pretty much the same thing) he completely ignored her for the rest of the night. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjjlTtOushf5FfrbeeywqVrSy9pHj5QWacVtHQ8b3qga8l5RgunVti4CJt0jUeH6XZtQ1Do4dRdggA-uAXPzg2Q9x_kp3dBP_dCmff5bqmn42BkXGNjk05v5MhymdmyQj1P6M-ptyw9DR/s1600/DSC_0024.NEF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjjlTtOushf5FfrbeeywqVrSy9pHj5QWacVtHQ8b3qga8l5RgunVti4CJt0jUeH6XZtQ1Do4dRdggA-uAXPzg2Q9x_kp3dBP_dCmff5bqmn42BkXGNjk05v5MhymdmyQj1P6M-ptyw9DR/s1600/DSC_0024.NEF" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
You see, Dave sometimes condenses his affection and worry and then gets it all out at once in a waterfall of emotion, and once it's used up... that's it. You're done. Next!<br />
Other times, it's as if he can't be bothered to check with his senses what's actually going on right at that moment. Most of the time when we leave the house it's just he and I, and he'll stop at the door, shoot out an open palm toward Raine, 'You stay here! We'll be right back.' Not that he's trying to confine her to the house... No one has to do that, she could be under house arrest and never know the difference. He forges ahead anyway, 'You can find us at the Game Store!' She stares back at him in sweat pants, slippers and sleep shirt, obviously (to anyone but a Dude) not planning on going anywhere. She just raises an eyebrow and flatly states, 'Okay then... I'll just stay right here.' Of course by this time David's trying to shove his slow father into the car, so I'm not even sure if he hears her.<br />
And then there are times when he is exactly on point. When he's even more observant and in the moment than anyone around him. I'm not exactly setting any standards for observational awareness, but I can't count the times David has brought me up short. Once we went to a department store called Boscoff's at the mall. Now we've been to the mall and that store any number of times. I've been upstairs and downstairs and to every corner of both floors. It's a pretty good sized, but I was pretty <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vm_JNY7fcLi8HCS3gX28XEhsc552YO7EQ-tHIBqzJ83rfWQ9t6YRFcQiWTl_1anDqtKO7YVqzULeOiAm767677g_FNbfcfzICThsHWXAEqaBBK0A0iYId0sswmc4dNPL5aoTY5vovtWn/s1600/DSC_0074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vm_JNY7fcLi8HCS3gX28XEhsc552YO7EQ-tHIBqzJ83rfWQ9t6YRFcQiWTl_1anDqtKO7YVqzULeOiAm767677g_FNbfcfzICThsHWXAEqaBBK0A0iYId0sswmc4dNPL5aoTY5vovtWn/s1600/DSC_0074.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
sure I'd been to every corner of the place at one time or another. I was not correct. As we were walking toward the store, Dude said, 'We'll go into the Boscoff's and take the elevator to the second floor!' 'Escalator' I said, automatically. 'He takes the Elevator.' He stated emphatically. 'Dave,' I explained patiently, 'There's no elevator in Boscoff's. We're taking the Escalator.' He looked at me earnestly and almost pleaded, 'It's only the elevators, around the corner... in the (something) Department.' 'Dave,' I said, flatly, concentrating on whatever silly crap I was there to pick up, 'we're taking the escalators and that's it.' Me? Stubborn? Nah!<br />
And so we went in and used the escalator. Damn it! Although he did seem to be a bit reluctant to follow me when we first entered the store, but we went upstairs and fruitlessly searched for whatever it was that I wanted, listening to him bitch about the elevator the whole time. 'It's just the elevators.' and, 'He uses the elevators for the Field Trip for the Beaver Valley Mall!' I looked at him darkly, still secure in my knowledge that there <i>were no elevators in Boscoff's!</i> We then wandered around the store for a minute or two and then when it was time to leave, and after 15 minutes or so of deranged rambling, I finally said, 'Okay, time to go. Lead us then to these elevators of which you speak so well.' (yes... I actually do speak like that occasionally. Dave's not the only Drama Dude) Dave shot through the length of the store, dragging his large parent with him, directly to the little 4 person elevator underneath a discrete, but quite large, lit up neon sign which read elevator <b style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-style: italic;">Elevator </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">in 1 foot high, bright blue letters. I mean, what were they trying to do? Hide it? If they wanted anyone to find it, why did they hide it under all that glowing neon? I mean, c'mon! What do they </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">think we are? Bloodhounds? </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5x_lQRsCoq2wWooIKmdbv_4U2fUYBfF4K1kL1ykaGPB2BTgbVfcBemMOq_OQ4UEdZNsR3bpvsW6vSi2S6EVE5f6Zlx91TgZxBayRaohOPA0wwmKwrCuFJPko6dnGB62iZ-XhYLtUA6W0/s1600/DSC_0040+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5x_lQRsCoq2wWooIKmdbv_4U2fUYBfF4K1kL1ykaGPB2BTgbVfcBemMOq_OQ4UEdZNsR3bpvsW6vSi2S6EVE5f6Zlx91TgZxBayRaohOPA0wwmKwrCuFJPko6dnGB62iZ-XhYLtUA6W0/s1600/DSC_0040+(2).JPG" height="235" width="320" /></a> Two weeks before Christmas Alexis moved to live with some friends in Cali. It's a week after Christmas and Dave still mentions that 'He has to wait for the Alex before he locks the door.' or 'When Alex gets home..... ' It's sometimes (always) hard to tell what he will and will not pay attention to... unless it has cheese on it. He always pays attention to cheese. Or Ranch Dressing... that'll get his attention. So I guess all I have to do is... no. That's just too silly to contemplate. There's no way I'm going to carry Ranch and Cheese wherever I go just to get his attention.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-76599751153879385892014-12-23T21:55:00.000-05:002014-12-23T21:55:05.862-05:00It's Just a Christmas Show:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiMMmaFimKowo5yg3gGehtG9-kkfLGOZMTJvSHM5PxHx0vTEj_uxRQXup4BpmeS0dMqZB_t652ZJxuptP0q8pSAUJUDycAo2OMC00RIkzIf9TyDQ5keUJg9w3f9asErbh0iPO3kIlYrTUU/s1600/DSC_0021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiMMmaFimKowo5yg3gGehtG9-kkfLGOZMTJvSHM5PxHx0vTEj_uxRQXup4BpmeS0dMqZB_t652ZJxuptP0q8pSAUJUDycAo2OMC00RIkzIf9TyDQ5keUJg9w3f9asErbh0iPO3kIlYrTUU/s1600/DSC_0021.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a> <br />
About 3 weeks before it actually happened, on the second to the last day of Dude's Thanksgiving vacation, I was sitting at my computer not paying much attention to anything when Dave came downstairs and stood behind me. I thought he was there to exchange the movie he'd been watching for a new one. Boy was I wrong. When he'd been standing behind me for a few moments I turned slightly, looked up and said, 'What's up, buddy?' He sort of looked at me and said, 'It's just the Christmas Talent Show, on December 18th! The school is open so all of the parents will be there. Parents are authorized to be at the New Horizon for the Talent show.' He put his hand on my shoulder and spoke softly. 'Are we going to be at the Talent Show at the school on December 18th?' He waited a beat, but I was laughing too hard to answer. 'I love you, Dad' He said in that soft butter-up voice he uses sometimes. 'I love you too, Dude' I managed to choke out. He was persistent, I'll give him that, 'Are we going to be at the Talent Show?' (Translation: Are <i>you</i> going to be at the talent show? Dave has a problem with pronouns). I shook my head, still laughing as I hugged his waist (I was still sitting down), 'Yes, David. We'll be going to the talent show.' 'Okay! Meet you at the Empire State Building on the 86th floor!'<br />
This is his latest Big Trip Ploy. Someone at school introduced him to a pamphlet about the Empire State Building. He was very excited when he brought it home and made a special effort to point out that the elevators went up to the 86th floor observatory. And that we should, at our (his) earliest convenience make our way to this paragon of tourist activity. Yeah... good luck with that, kid.<br />
Of course along with The Christmas Show, and plans of Empire State observatories, 'tis the season of Christmas Points. Something I had not considered is that decorating is the inaugural event of the Christmas season. Specifically the tree. Dave isn't concerned with the religious aspects of the holiday, the symbolism of the tree, or the ornaments. The twinkling lights are cool-ish and green is an okay color, but that doesn't enter into the equation either. The main and sole purpose of the tree is to provide a space and a center for the most important, or actually <i>only</i> reason for the holiday. Because <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_wcGAFv4QH-tTPb70x7Wj_eVARYJI_9HCLwngd_kfHxluuWqdqBIpxT3PdlpKNQkNMyinoATB81LIxePHSX0LEH7u6po3uRgNd1OqudOOHimQDVIdjm1iINrP36XAx1d6K60fo3zXcr7/s1600/DSC_0012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_wcGAFv4QH-tTPb70x7Wj_eVARYJI_9HCLwngd_kfHxluuWqdqBIpxT3PdlpKNQkNMyinoATB81LIxePHSX0LEH7u6po3uRgNd1OqudOOHimQDVIdjm1iINrP36XAx1d6K60fo3zXcr7/s1600/DSC_0012.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
until that manufactured representation of a blue spruce pine is erected there is no place for presents. It is the visible representation of what he's accumulating all those (millions of) Christmas Points for.<br />
And once again, those Points are accumulating at an astonishing rate. One Monday (the first Christmas Points day of the week) Dave informed me that he had somehow managed to obtain <i>500</i> Christmas Points in that one day. I refrained from asking if the Christmas Points Police were going to be knocking at the door. Well we didn't get a visit from the CPP, but Dave decided how he wanted to cash in on the seething horde of Points he had... He wanted a new PS4. It's the same thing when he brings yet another $4.00 check for 2 weeks at BCRC and he decides he has enough to afford a PS4. I love my son... I really do, but plonking down nearly a week's pay for the <i>5th</i> gaming system on his floor is something I have a bit of a problem with. Mostly because that just makes one more different system I'd have to buy games for...<br />
Two weeks before the show he gets a (mostly) random call from his mother. I've never been able or interested enough to determine how she schedules these calls. We talked briefly and then I handed the phone to Dude. After a very short exchange he asks, 'Are you ready to go to Vegas?' Which is pretty much standard fare with him. She replied with something, and I guess it must have been the wrong thing because he quickly said, 'Only Dad's can go to Vegas.' and while she was replying he <i>hung up on her!</i> I stood there stunned and automatically held my hand out for my phone as he handed it back. I looked at him for a second and said, 'Yeah. 'Cause Dad's are cool like that.' As I turned to head out of his room he asked me, 'Is Dad ready to go to Vegas?' (Okay Dad, how cool are you? Really. I looked my youngest son in the eye (I'm about the only one he'll make eye contact with) and said, 'We'll see.' 'Yes!' He crowed, 'He gets to go to the Vegas with the new games and the Christmas Points!' Uh.... yeah... Not sure you can trade them in for that.<br />
Slooooooowly we edged ever closer to the Show. One thing I didn't quite realize when I'd agreed to the whole thing is that the show would be during school hours. Yeah.... missed that when he said that, too. 'Parents are authorized to be at the New Horizons for the Talent Show'. I didn't initially understand that he meant that literally. Like most schools, to gain entry to NH you have to be authorized by someone in the office to enter. So parents <i>would</i> have to be authorized to enter to watch the show. And parents who weren't bright enough to pick up on the am start time would have to scramble to get permission from their employer to be at the show..... Yes... that would be me. Luckily for me my bosses are pretty indulgent when it comes to Dudestuff. They'd better be, because there's a lot of Dudestuff...<br />
The night before the Big Show, Dave lurked a bit more than usual. Actually, most of the time he leaves a vapor trail upstairs once dinner is done, but he waited and waited for me to notice that he was hovering. I may have made mention, at one time or another, that Dude is the Least Stealthy Being in the Universe. Going right along with that is his complete lack of unobtrusiveness. He could obtrusive for Gold at the Olympics and take the Bronze for Obvious. So, it wasn't his Ninja like skills (he doesn't have any) that kept me from acknowledging his skulking somewhat closer to me than the shirt that I was wearing. It was just pure Dude-Dad meanness. He finally edged so close to me we were practically in the same chair and said, 'Is he going to the New Horizons and the Talent Show?' <br />
He twitched a half-step closer, which should have been physically impossible, 'Is he going to be there at 9:30, to watch the Talent Show? Parents are authorized to be at the school.' I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. 'It's only the Talent Show.' he said somewhat defensively. 'All parents are authorized to be at the school at 9:30 to watch the Christmas Show.'<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hf51ak-Y1_klMm7BaNIRWUoHnBadsJrwFp-qN2kRzkUtgs3HwwRvWx4rO3W6_hUfbvGTH2zHQZfc_aUL2jAU_oYsBL8XNWL0LmFWUUQsaxWmbz1aaCaH_qxNJ5lsLYqlLCVpL6HUXsd8/s1600/DSC_0025+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hf51ak-Y1_klMm7BaNIRWUoHnBadsJrwFp-qN2kRzkUtgs3HwwRvWx4rO3W6_hUfbvGTH2zHQZfc_aUL2jAU_oYsBL8XNWL0LmFWUUQsaxWmbz1aaCaH_qxNJ5lsLYqlLCVpL6HUXsd8/s1600/DSC_0025+(2).JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
You can't tell the players without a program. Dave was actually trying to make sure that <i>I</i> was going to be at the Show. I put his fears to rest. 'Yes, David, I'll be going to the New Horizons to watch the Christmas Show.' (I've got to watch that. I'm starting to talk like him.) 'YES!!' He crowed. 'And after the Christmas show, we can go to the EMPIRE STATE BUILDING, and ride the elevators to the 86th floor observatory! With the Christmas Points!' My mind takes sudden left turns occasionally, which comes in handy when dealing with Dude. 'Just how many Christmas Points do you have?' He looked at me with a steady eye and in a firm voice said, 'FIVE BILLION Christmas Points!' That's 'Billion' with a 'B'. I was a bit stunned, to say the least. How could this dramatic escalation of Christmas Points have taken place without my noticing it? Dave did not wait for official validation of the Points, he just turned and went upstairs.<br />
I know my son is actually a Rock Star and I'm his chief Roadie, but I didn't understand that I was also his limo driver. Okay... I know I'm his limo driver, I just didn't realize fully what that meant. The morning of the Christmas show I woke David up to get ready for school. He was <i>really</i> excited. So excited that he was downstairs in record time. I wondered about that for a moment, looking at him sitting there in his coat, with his shoes and socks on. Then I looked a little closer and realized that he was <i>still in his sleeping clothes!</i> I sent him directly back to his room to change, and... once again when he came back down in his jeans but the wrong shirt. Once he was actually dressed for school he grabbed his 3DS and headphones and sat on the end of the couch. Just as if we were getting ready for a road trip. 'What are you doing?' I asked him, 'You can't take the System on the bus.' 'No bus today!' he returned firmly. 'Uh... what?' I reviewed my spotty knowledge of the notes that were sent home. There was no mention of me chauffeuring the 'Superstar' to his gig. 'You put that away, you're taking the bus to school!' I said firmly. He reluctantly put his game away, but by the time he'd turned he decided to take a different tack. 'Dad can drive him to the Christmas Show and as when it's over, to the Empire State Building and the elevators to the 86th floor!'<br />
So... let me get this straight. I'm supposed to let Dave hang around the house an extra hour, ditching school, and then limo him to the gig, and then once the show is over, pile him and his stuff into the car and drive 300+ miles to my least favorite city in the country and <i>then</i> take him up an elevator 86 floors just so he can record it? Yeah... Pretty sure that ain't happening... like, ever. He went to school on the bus. I'm sure he was very disappointed, but I'm the only Roadie he knows, so he's stuck with me.<br />
NH, as in most schools I've been to recently has a buzzer system to gain entry to the school itself. When I get to the school, there's a nice lady (whom I don't know) by the automatic doors letting people in and directing them to the office to sign in and get name tags. As Alexis and I walked toward the office a very frazzled looking Ashley came darting down the hall. 'Oh good, oh good, oh good, oh good, you're here!' I didn't know what was going on, but it was evidently.... good. 'I wasn't sure you'd be able to come.' When she'd first seen me at the Talent Show, she was paranoid about whether or not I'd remembered my camera, so I slid my camera sling around so that she could see that I had it without her having to ask. 'Oh good! You brought it!' Then she grinned like the pixie she resembled and started off while saying gleefully, 'You're gonna love this, he's gonna be soooo good!' As I watched her leave, I thought that at least it wasn't the 'You're gonna be so proud!' thing I got from everyone at the <a href="http://duderatt.blogspot.com/2014/04/the-show-that-never-ends.html">Talent Show</a>.<br />
Alexis and I waiting in line in the office to sign in and get our name tags, and I told her that Dude had already made me such a known man in that school, that I didn't need a name tag. She thought I was just joking until we had reached the front of the line, and the secretary already had my name on a sticker and was trying to hand it to me before I'd even signed the book. She, on the other hand, had to tell her her name twice and wait for the known person behind her to get his before she got her sticker. To further prove my point, 3 more people stopped me in the hallway, calling me by name (I had almost no idea who they were) to tell me 'He's going to be soooo good!' Do they get together to choose 'The Phrase of the Dudes' every morning, or what? The five or so other people that I stopped and talked to before the show all said the exact same thing, including the guy I'd startled the crap out of at the Talent show by yelling at David, was seated in front of us again, and once again he'd parroted the 'He's going to be soooo good!' line of the day. These people know their lines. I'm starting to have 'Truman' moments, you know, where I look for the cameras hidden wherever I go.<br />
Once again we were waiting in the cafeteria spaces for the show to start, and again, we were <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE6Dus1cMrNjz9EAnPuadujjqpMzop_wwx5ncgXN6oIjX_OGe_8XNvwz9F5ZUUKr9z0fvDKR91AyQuA-XwTRpIVBZRyN4067hSiM2W69gsSHJk3w7R5pJI_Zj7z1Q2MuY2tCW2f4oq2Jc-/s1600/DSC_0062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE6Dus1cMrNjz9EAnPuadujjqpMzop_wwx5ncgXN6oIjX_OGe_8XNvwz9F5ZUUKr9z0fvDKR91AyQuA-XwTRpIVBZRyN4067hSiM2W69gsSHJk3w7R5pJI_Zj7z1Q2MuY2tCW2f4oq2Jc-/s1600/DSC_0062.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
trudging through cute kids doing cute things waiting for the Star of the Show to make his appearance. Only this time the show wasn't quite as polished, and we didn't have any programs. But, like I said, the kids were cute, so we didn't mind waiting all that much. As the show went on I suspected more and more that Jill Mosura, a big fan of the Dudeness, had put David in the final act of the show. So in Roadie parlance he was the 'Headliner' or main act of the show. I shook my head and told Alexis my suspicions, adding, 'He's going to be impossible to live with now.' Which was a lie... he's always been impossible to live with.<br />
Sure enough, the very last act of the show saw my youngest child walk downstage center, with a spotlight and a mic of his very own just like the Rock Star that he is and a chorus of about 20 behind him. The music started and he began singing 'So This is Christmas' and everyone went 'Awwwww!'. And I agreed, it was soooo good, just like everyone told me it was. Now at the end of that particular <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkI8N7bLx0NhyHIZJAkDFyJQcGGJA1NfBYNJRp9JPMVYpmaSNPdakzmqBXLbA6hXcC04Le_SGIPMcwcVnKMBhxdysZeBvpgoD-MYT4kNzYKi3Ma0RbktRmawoMNdBSZxQEoKifgXaCVUD8/s1600/DSC_0099+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkI8N7bLx0NhyHIZJAkDFyJQcGGJA1NfBYNJRp9JPMVYpmaSNPdakzmqBXLbA6hXcC04Le_SGIPMcwcVnKMBhxdysZeBvpgoD-MYT4kNzYKi3Ma0RbktRmawoMNdBSZxQEoKifgXaCVUD8/s1600/DSC_0099+(2).jpg" height="320" width="257" /></a></div>
John Lennon song, the refrain is repeated several times with a pause between each one. During that first pause Dave yelled into the microphone, 'Okay! Now everybody sing it!' and went on to repeat the refrain. I think that thing repeats 5 or 6 times and between each one Dude tried to encourage the audience to sing along, waving his arms and shouting, 'Okay now, one more time!' Which was cute... even after he'd done it for the third time. I was laughing so much I couldn't even take pictures of his wild gestures to the crowd. Once again he made his triumphal march down the center aisle (I'm not sure if this one was planned) accepting his accolades and high-fiving the crowd as he went. Throughout the entire show Dave had tracked me and my camera as we roamed the crowd shooting pictures. So he made a beeline toward me as soon as he shook off his fans. We hugged (which he very rarely volunteers to do) and I was telling him what a good job he'd done when he said, 'Yes! It's after the Christmas Show, is he ready to go to the Empire State and the elevators to the 86th floor and the Observatory?' So he wasn't hugging his Dad, just his chauffeur/roadie.<br />
After he moved on to his dressing room (you know, the one with the big star on it) I made my way through the edge of the crowd to see Jill and tell her what a great job she'd done. On the way I was <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3SUFRLQ9NaGH-AVoy-VoNrErRPCCJjszu7sKZIjiEipYWfM1PfSItkPsAxJUeA94bahH4KsPWUZ1iTKY3AVKJLfrau5MTiVC9rA4sQ6lUxHzizHLdS3928iNoyC6rFW5324bzn-u6HTW/s1600/DSC_0102+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3SUFRLQ9NaGH-AVoy-VoNrErRPCCJjszu7sKZIjiEipYWfM1PfSItkPsAxJUeA94bahH4KsPWUZ1iTKY3AVKJLfrau5MTiVC9rA4sQ6lUxHzizHLdS3928iNoyC6rFW5324bzn-u6HTW/s1600/DSC_0102+(2).jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
stopped 3 or 5 times by aides and teachers so they could express their delight in David's performance. I may have muttered 'hambone' a few more times than was strictly necessary, but I made sure they knew I appreciated their appreciation. Before I'd made it to Jill, Ashley stopped me and started (at high speed) telling me how wonderful she thought Dave had done, and how great it was that she finally got to work with him again in a classroom. She was using up so much of the available oxygen all I could do was smile and nod. She stopped suddenly after she'd said, 'I can't believe this is his last year....' She looked up at me, mournfully, and said 'This is his last year!.... what am I going to do next year?' She repeated several variations of this, and her eyes started to well up as she stared off into space. Honestly, I was a bit unnerved. I hurriedly, if flippantly told her that I'd randomly waylay a bus and send him to school occasionally. She smiled and chuckled, and then we moved apart.<br />
I finally made it to Jill and gave her a big hug, thanking her and telling her what a wonderful job <i>so much!</i> I don't know what I'm going to do without him.' I was flattered for his sake, really flabbergasted. I've been hearing variations on this all year.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
she had done. She hugged back and thanked me for showing up and almost crowed about how wonderful Dave was. I couldn't argue with her... he had been wonderful. She was concerned about the lack of polish in the show. I was quick to reassure her that the show was for the kids and the adults would just have to take what they could get. Besides, I told her, it was a cute show! Jill also took this time to confess something. It seems she had recently made a trip to New York and had <i>given Dude the pamphlet for the Empire State building! </i> She was the reason Dave had been bugging me for weeks about going to the 86th floor Observatory! I was almost too stunned to speak. She then immediately wanted to talk about David singing during the Graduation ceremony. She mentioned several songs she was considering and I noticed they all had one thing in common... They were Beatles songs. I'm not sure what it means that Jill seems to always want Dude to sing Beatles tunes, but I have noticed it. Jill then got a conspiratorial look in her eye and leaned in and said, 'I know I'm not supposed to do this, but in 14 years of teaching David is, hands down, my favorite kid' That was not the first time she'd said something similar, but coming right after was, 'I'm going to miss him very much!' I immediately shelved whatever complaint I might have about the New York Plan.<br />
I want to put this right out in front: <i>I love my son!</i> I really do. But he's a tremendous pain in the butt. He really is. I think about all the thousands of kids that have been through that school in the last 12 years, the hundreds that each of these professional teachers have had to deal with, all the problems and trials and tribulations, the notes and meetings and genuine trouble that my son has been and still these women are genuinely <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BerhdWDyRkT-U7HhSqhp8BmveHjuSt_yMjP2l6bi0pUYz6MbtBJj6Ofn6wvXzIB8O0AHS14q6EOt5hyphenhyphenSNALJdXZ4JE5Ixijf9a1KSCXbmrxGulndOUEECUUweZSTs1nGhiR1x_3c7UO7/s1600/DSC_0120+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BerhdWDyRkT-U7HhSqhp8BmveHjuSt_yMjP2l6bi0pUYz6MbtBJj6Ofn6wvXzIB8O0AHS14q6EOt5hyphenhyphenSNALJdXZ4JE5Ixijf9a1KSCXbmrxGulndOUEECUUweZSTs1nGhiR1x_3c7UO7/s1600/DSC_0120+(2).jpg" height="298" width="320" /></a></div>
going to be sad when he's gone. To the point of catching breath and watering eyes. While parental pride would have me certain that my son is indeed special (and he is) these people feel bad about every one of 'their kids' that leaves. Seriously. If they could keep them all, I know they would.<br />
I know for a certain fact that a large percentage of them have offered to take home/steal/adopt David at every opportunity. It's given Alexis and I an idea that we worked on as we headed back out to the car. We'll rent Dave out over the next year or so to build up interest and accentuate the DudeCraving and then we'll take him off the Market for several weeks to build up the Craving, and then we're going to auction him off to the highest bidder. We figure we'll make a bundle and eventually they'll bring him back and possibly even pay us to take him back! We'll make a killing!<br />
Okay.... calm down. We all know better than that. Anyone who's been around here knows that I don't know what to do with myself when Dave's gone... I guess I'll just keep him and we'll go visit every once in a while.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-72626232656698333972014-11-30T13:57:00.000-05:002014-11-30T13:57:50.245-05:00Helicopter Parent: <span style="color: purple;"> A bit of a rant. It was bound to happen sooner or later</span>.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshbKArGAn7EC8YKwfdNIff4OJv3qaJweaX79JbAx5g9zFf3YO8VfhdgBx_0z49DV2a7v4ziqBj7fiMvJ4aDHy-CBgG9wa77tEzLJLuWwz_iZIOkEBNIPf7JgMCXJk1_PpJ_GjlCzYKG08/s1600/2009+121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshbKArGAn7EC8YKwfdNIff4OJv3qaJweaX79JbAx5g9zFf3YO8VfhdgBx_0z49DV2a7v4ziqBj7fiMvJ4aDHy-CBgG9wa77tEzLJLuWwz_iZIOkEBNIPf7JgMCXJk1_PpJ_GjlCzYKG08/s1600/2009+121.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
One day I got a phone call from a number that I didn't recognize. Like most people I know, I just let it go to see if they would leave a message. They did, so I figured it was someone I knew. When I listened to the VM I became confused all over again. The message was from my ex-Brother in Law and he asked me to call my ex-Father in Law and gave me a number. I was pretty sure if something had happened to what's-her-name I'd have been contacted by someone with a bad tie and a shiny badge, since I would be high on the suspect list. I was also wondering about the double-blind James Bond, Superspy contact routine, so I called Les, wondering what the hell it could be.<br />
I finally got a hold of him to ask what was going on. I haven't consistently kept track of Les and Imogene over the last 14 years, but we do talk and we've never had any problems. There were times when they seemed to get along better with me than with their own daughter. We're not friends, but we're friendly. We talked for a while, exchanging pleasantries, then we finally got to the point. He was very apologetic about it, but he requested that I not say bad things about Ellie in my blog and on FaceBook. I quickly reviewed the last few comments I'd made about the Psycho Redhead and didn't come up with anything, so I told Les I didn't know what he was talking about.<br />
It seems that she had found out about my blog through some of her relatives that I regularly notify, and had taken offense at something I'd written. Like... all of it, I guess. He didn't know any particulars, but for some reason it had prompted my <i>ex</i>-wife to harangue her mother about all sorts of things, all which boiled down to the fact that Imogene didn't immediately buy a voodoo doll with my face and start sticking pins in it, or burn it in effigy after the divorce. I had no idea how she thought this was going to deter me from mentioning her in my blog (which is all I do, most of the time). I told Les that I was sorry they were catching hell, but I thought I'd been pretty mild about the whole thing and, since I only randomly mentioned her anyway, I probably wouldn't change much. He said he understood, and to do what I could, and after a little more catch-up we each went about the rest of our day.<br />
Even though I wasn't the one that raised the psychotic bitch that actually caused the problem, I like Les, and I felt kind of bad about him catching third-hand hell stemming from something I'd written. I was also kind of curious about what I might have said that set her off. I'll admit it was at least partly due to possibly wanting to do it again. Like Richard Pryor in Stir Crazy I was looking for that one word that would set the bull off. Anyway, I reviewed the blog and re-read some of the stories. I did mention things that happened several times. But, other than a few mentions, I really haven't let my feelings about her known to the Blogisphere. Even though the first sentence in the paragraph may give it away, I'm sure it was a secret before that. No. Really... top secret stuff.<br />
She'll probably never get it, but it isn't about her. Ever since she said, 'What about me having a life?' she pretty much lost any of the privileges that go along with Dudedom. That seems to be the biggest thing she doesn't grasp. To expect that we're going to slog through the everyday crap and be happy when she skims the cream whenever it suits her to do so, borders on insane. Of course she's at the far border of insane, so whatever is beyond insane she's almost there. I mean, why does she even care what I say? We've been divorced for 15 years and living 1000 miles away from each other for almost all of that time. She didn't seem to care what I said when we were married, but now she's all insulted by some stuff I wrote in a blog that about 100 people read. I think the time would be better spent asking me questions about our son. But that's just me.<br />
Case in point:For the second time in 12 years, Ellie showed up this year for Thanksgiving with a <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_O_aAAPom6JSpDCakQdGKLpwa9UBG2XM88RbrU4HpDrNmt6PSDuLxDRJNlVjWXXHqsklh97JnNoFKXOg0TlHiyTlgh7TpbHAQUvoK-AaK6fM8mt2dxb_cz9P8TdTVS41ZxgiDQIi1T-_/s1600/2009+028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_O_aAAPom6JSpDCakQdGKLpwa9UBG2XM88RbrU4HpDrNmt6PSDuLxDRJNlVjWXXHqsklh97JnNoFKXOg0TlHiyTlgh7TpbHAQUvoK-AaK6fM8mt2dxb_cz9P8TdTVS41ZxgiDQIi1T-_/s1600/2009+028.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
minimum of communication. Okay, no problem. Knew she was coming, didn't know what day, what time, what flight. Also, no problem. She called Wednesday night and let me know they were in, and we discussed what time we'd meet for the Great Dude Hand-off. And that's it. I don't really care most of the time if she likes to feel that she's in charge because the reality is, she really doesn't even get to vote. So when we met the next day I just left Dave in the car and went to talk to her first. We established where they were staying, how long they were going to have Dude and when and where we would meet for the Dude Recovery Phase. That done, I waved David out of the car. He was very happy to see her, and she seemed the same. I gave them some info, a charger, a little advice, and when there were no questions, got the hell out of there.<br />
The next evening found me in the same parking lot, (nearly in the same slot) and a reverse of the day before with Dave being very happy to see me and giving me hugs. I waited for her to say her goodbyes, explained that there might be a Dude Roadtrip sometime in the future and I would contact her should that happen so she and Dude could get together, even though I had no obligation to do so. Her husband thanked me and she said, 'That would be nice.' in a polite, but skeptical tone. I assured her that we had never been back to the Homeland without contacting her. She looked like she would rather argue the point than thank me for the gesture. Rather than play 'The Justification Game' by reassuring her further I just turned to Dude and said, 'C'mon Dude, let's go home!' 'Yes!' was the quick reply 'He has to go to home and play the Games!' And so, without a backward glance, we did just that.<br />
And, just like that, we got on with our Dudeness like she was never there. One the way home I called the hacienda to gauge dinner preferences and, with almost rookie carelessness mentioned out loud the word 'McDonald's'. From the passenger side of the vehicle came a soft, 'I could use some McDonald's' I said into the phone wryly, 'I guess we're going to McDonald's'. 'Yes! With the chicken nuggets and the ranch'. And that pretty much ended any debate on what we were having for dinner. So situation normal. The radar blip that is occasionally Ellie put into the rear view of our lives and fading fast behind us until the next time she 'blips' up.<br />
Here's the difference and the problem. I have three older children from a previous marriage. Through geographical differences there was a number of years when I was unable to be around them as much as I wanted. I did what I could, when I could and never thought it was enough. I never tried to act like it was enough either. I let them all know that I knew just exactly who was doing all the raising where they were concerned. And, therefore, who was still in charge even when I was around. I didn't feel I had the 'chops'. I hadn't put in the time to throw my weight around, as it were.<br />
I know it's only my opinion, not a natural law or anything, but that's exactly how I feel about Ellie. I have no jealousy about the fact that David always seems to get excited to see her. He lives in the eternal 'now' where bad things just don't accumulate. I just don't think she's earned it. She certainly hasn't earned the right to tell me what to do where Dave is concerned. It baffles me that time after <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFsYHyl5yv1ai4wu46Cq9yWJqm8yQjUd0HX_nbmrQZ0bxSO9qsbbKWwi0_13Ikgg5id_GdqZIZJ4IfewBjDPe6c3WXF8r3mnkca23iVGN7kX-oG_Z4bGJZj7bvKR79jA8MBk0GQq3iHz5y/s1600/2010+028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFsYHyl5yv1ai4wu46Cq9yWJqm8yQjUd0HX_nbmrQZ0bxSO9qsbbKWwi0_13Ikgg5id_GdqZIZJ4IfewBjDPe6c3WXF8r3mnkca23iVGN7kX-oG_Z4bGJZj7bvKR79jA8MBk0GQq3iHz5y/s1600/2010+028.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
time she's set him aside, put herself first, abandoned him, whined and winged her way out of any of the inconvenient obligations where her son is concerned and she still wants to drop in and drive the team like some sort of out of town parenting consultant. I know I'm an easy going guy, but that's pushing it a bit far.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-47457262125766061282014-11-19T13:30:00.000-05:002014-11-19T13:30:57.830-05:00Norman Rockwell Never Met My Son: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3k25FG_3nVdqiwsN5dAxw5Xss6D2ilZlCpdnN_-aIu4a_Qhyphenhyphen2TmHu2EOpjC8J9n5tyiM-HoSvuQ7H7KfKE6OjeDNMwNqFH2JB6OaLyLNeE-JM1iz8pAKG1-SbqVdkUlv5H5eV-_NmQbF/s1600/DSC_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3k25FG_3nVdqiwsN5dAxw5Xss6D2ilZlCpdnN_-aIu4a_Qhyphenhyphen2TmHu2EOpjC8J9n5tyiM-HoSvuQ7H7KfKE6OjeDNMwNqFH2JB6OaLyLNeE-JM1iz8pAKG1-SbqVdkUlv5H5eV-_NmQbF/s1600/DSC_0014.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
It's nearing the Holiday season again, and while I have some extra time this year (Alayna's taking over Thanksgiving this time) I find myself reminiscing about Holidays past.<br />
Somewhere there are Christmases that look exactly like Rockwell's Saturday Evening Post cover. Family all gathered around a table. All smiles and gleaming faces, looking as if presents were the furthest thing on their mind. Just happy to be in the circle of their family's love... We've never even met any of these people.<br />
Minor case in point; Our tree is nearly nude for the first two feet from the floor. There are no dangly ornaments hanging from the lower branches, no delicate stars or glass bulbs, no tinsel or popcorn strings grace the bottom two layers of our artificial pine. Only solid, sturdy, well secured decorations (you know, the 'ugly' ones) are brave enough to fly at the lower altitudes. It's not Dude's tendency to root under the lower branches with alarming regularity and appalling lack of concern for consequences that causes this. Dexter, our resident mountain lion, refuses to admit that he's no longer an 18 ounce ball of fluff instead of the 15 pound rampaging predator that he's become. He doesn't climb the tree when we're home, although I have had the crap startled out of me when I came home unexpectedly and found an ornament that looked suspiciously like my cat's head peering at me from out of the false pine needles. He has no shame, however, in batting at any 'interesting' ornament any time that strikes his fancy. So we make a concession to the eccentricities of a member of the house, and the bottom branches stay lonely and under the couch is periodically swept for ornaments. The addition of roasted feline to the Holiday Menu is only (mostly) mentioned in jest.<br />
El Gato Diablo (The Cat Devil) is not the only threat to our Sacred Tannenbaum. I think my son has landshark DNA. I mean it. The kid who only comes downstairs under threat of imminent dehydration or possible cheese assault, spends the last 3 weeks before Christmas circling the tree like a Great White around a whale carcass at ever decreasing intervals until he's nearly constantly downstairs and has to be threatened with grievous bodily harm (also at decreasing intervals and increasing intensity) to get him out of the room. But like a mosquito when you're trying to get to sleep that won't quit coming back with that sonic whine that keeps fading in and out, every time we thought we could get back to whatever it was that we were doing (watching hockey) he'd traipse through the space between the ottoman and the TV. (Also, incidentally, between <i>us </i>and the TV) He'd circle the tree for the umpteenth time and start saying 'He's getting the Pokemon 'X' Version for Christmas!' Or; 'He's got the Christmas points to get the games!' <br />
And so we would stumble on towards the Big Day, pretty much as we always do, trying to hide the (hopefully) cool gifts from each other, shooing Dave and the cat away from the tree, re-setting any <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdHyKqiVaiotyQGOZNZ3nqn9zc9DzAxj4d8nzi6hR8lsMlFiPN38PkJnS8-HV_fovEP7_2u9yB4uOEI1l4Nbko8PhgtPGz07spxrMxNyb2kNBLQzLisyVZCqPrP5ObFgv2rdvJ_kYSw8Ov/s1600/DSC_0027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdHyKqiVaiotyQGOZNZ3nqn9zc9DzAxj4d8nzi6hR8lsMlFiPN38PkJnS8-HV_fovEP7_2u9yB4uOEI1l4Nbko8PhgtPGz07spxrMxNyb2kNBLQzLisyVZCqPrP5ObFgv2rdvJ_kYSw8Ov/s1600/DSC_0027.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
wayward decorations that happen to have been mysteriously displaced and plotting the demise of the smoked ham my company gives me before every Christmas.<br />
Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is pretty much a non-holiday for Dude. Other than the extra days off and the predominance of things covered with tasty sauces and gravies, he could mostly care less. Everyone else takes the rest of the day as a time to visit with family, argue about how crappy the Lions played, and why do they always get the T-game? David is above it all. He wanders through the room occasionally to get a drink of water, or molest the cat as he meanders. Oh, he says he's all about the holiday, but I think he's just all about the mashed potatoes... Oh, that and Thanksgiving heralds the start of the Christmas points season. The most important season of them all.<br />
Just for a lark I once asked him, 'How many Christmas Points do you have, anyway?' He quickly (and <i>very </i>enthusiastically) replied, Two hundred forty three thousand and seventy eight!' I was stunned at the precision of this rather large number. Since I was in charge of Christmas Point distribution and did not remember that many slipping through my fingers I asked, 'Who have you been stealing Christmas Points from?' His reply was, shall we say...snippy. 'NO! ALL the Christmas Points are mine!!' By his tone and the amount he had expressed I had to assume that by 'ALL' Christmas points he meant every Christmas Point available to every child in the Free World to date. And I'm sure interest on all these points was accruing daily at roughly the same speed at which my bank account was draining. As I sat trying to translate such a huge number of points into an actual dollar amount, Dude happily spun and trundled back up the stairs to calculate how much his hoard of games and movies would be increased. Since his totals seemed to be spinning up like a gas pump filling a Hummer there seemed to be no limit to the increase. (at least in his mind)<br />
Now the only thing New Years means to Dude is that he only has 1 or 2 more days before he has to go back to prison... uh...<i>school, </i>I mean. He spends New Years Eve and day cramming as much game and video goodness into his system as he can stand. He does like watching the ball drop, but he doesn't make it a point to be there to see it. One year he did come down to tell us about the fireworks that a neighbor was shooting off. 'What is all that noise? He heard bombs going off!' But once we pointed out the window and he saw the fireworks he was over it and went back upstairs. Mystery solved, Dad. I need to get back to saving the world, one Megabyte at a time. Evidently if there wasn't actually a full on incursion of mercenaries, he couldn't be bothered.<br />
It goes without saying that MLK day, Easter, Memorial Day and Labor Day only have significance as it pertains to an extra day of weekend gaming. Snow Days are just as revered in his mind, and for the same reason. He is sometimes <i>almost</i> impressed with Independence Day...but once the explosions are over it's just a day that Dad is home to mess up his perfect gaming Summer.<br />
To Dude, the <i>real</i> Holidays are his Birthday, when he gets to go to State Special Olympics and when he and I go back to the Midwest. (But only when it involves a plane ride or a hotel stay) Included in that would be anytime he gets to ride new elevators or when, like recently, I have to replace one of his gaming systems. Times like that he's not sure that the banks are going to be open. <i>is </i>a National Holiday, isn't it?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUKMRdQw3BIsatAWRgM2iXi3muVVg-LfDoi4wky8AYExU0LagHQ3za5TR8ckMMmmCxG5W5idLVYVIw2dm9quqyeApyxFrwzAqoZmkgfuZjUn4W7ZfhtIYmjawkwXGVLy6zwb91Jteq3wC/s1600/DSC_0052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUKMRdQw3BIsatAWRgM2iXi3muVVg-LfDoi4wky8AYExU0LagHQ3za5TR8ckMMmmCxG5W5idLVYVIw2dm9quqyeApyxFrwzAqoZmkgfuZjUn4W7ZfhtIYmjawkwXGVLy6zwb91Jteq3wC/s1600/DSC_0052.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
I have to admit. We don't do the whole 'Over the Top' Holiday thing. We do the Christmas decorating, but we're more interested in our decorations than what the whole neighborhood can see. Thanksgiving is more about me making way too much food for the few people we invite over. So mostly it's just like a regular meal with more food and a few extra people. It's not the 'Gather a small village worth of people from the far corners of the Earth and feed them like fieldhands' kind of a thing I had growing up with my enormous family.<br />
All in all Dave is pretty cool with that. Paring the Holidays down to their essential basics... Food and Stuff for David. What else could the Holidays be for?stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-41445169216878343222014-11-09T21:20:00.000-05:002014-11-10T16:37:07.311-05:00The Sound and the Fury:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLguYvTNUQCPmlWfPTrnJ4FNJyQIbkHfiTeT1CExajTZ8BLg8fTCvOzwh-7iqnb10Qy1bzaSCLOLmPWTFFhrTm9uF5MbNCg4l5yvlTgiyX1phkEgqHcV3AQR3hys9N_LXsghyphenhyphen0yQYSdET/s1600/DSC_0069+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLguYvTNUQCPmlWfPTrnJ4FNJyQIbkHfiTeT1CExajTZ8BLg8fTCvOzwh-7iqnb10Qy1bzaSCLOLmPWTFFhrTm9uF5MbNCg4l5yvlTgiyX1phkEgqHcV3AQR3hys9N_LXsghyphenhyphen0yQYSdET/s1600/DSC_0069+(2).JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
People sometimes ask me, 'Isn't raising David more difficult than you thought it would be?' I, of course, have to answer 'Yes, but I'm more difficult than he thought I would be, so it evens out.' I suppose that my stumble through plan of making life choices has led to this any number of times. I guess I really started my training when I was a Freshman in High School.<br />
Toward the last third of the school year Maur Hill would have what was kind of laughingly called the 'Senior Play'. I say 'laughingly' because the seniors, for the most part, seem to have better things to do with their waning time in school than spend endless hours in a theater practicing for a play. I can't imagine what they'd rather be doing with their last few weeks of fairly unsupervised under-adult time. (that's a lie. I know <i>exactly </i>what they'd rather be doing). At any rate, the other classes tended to outnumber the seniors by about 3 to 1. And, since Theater Geek is actually one word in the high school vocabulary they're always looking for more audience victims... uh, <i>actors </i>for their plays.<br />
So what I was doing was minding my own business, just trying to get out of the building before anyone noticed I was leaving. I passed the theater doors and I saw a notice for auditions for <i>Inherit the Wind</i>, and recognizing the name of the director from an education program I'd participated in before my IQ/psych exam determined that; No, I wasn't an idiot, I was an antisocial underachiever and bored to tears by school, long before Bart Simpson made that cool. I decided to slip in and say hello' to Stacy (the director) and check out the whole audition... thing, in a completely non-participatory kind of way. But what I didn't count on was, A: While she remembered that she knew me, she had no idea from where or when, even though it had been less than a year ago. and B:The fact that friendly people can talk me into almost anything. So, you got it, I ended up auditioning. With strict instructions to her that I would only accept a minor, perhaps even non-speaking role. Best case scenario; A character with no lines that dies off stage before the first curtain.<br />
You have to understand, this was before I realized that the strange things that happened to me weren't aberrations, they were just the beginnings of a lifetime of the slightly bizarre as the living embodiment of the 'Chinese Curse'. So, instead of just talking for a bit with someone I kind of knew, or cruising through a nothing part and having to point out to family members where to look for me onstage, I got the lead... and so much more. It was work. It was a LOT of work. In addition to my regular school work, there were late night rehearsals, contentious cast members, and loads of extra time with Stacy and Dipshit the Self-Righteous (the idiot co-lead) to work on lines and characterization. If that weren't enough I was also helping out with set, props, lighting and publicity. Because just doing one thing you have no idea about just isn't enough for some people, they need five or six things they have no clue about. Yes... that would be me.<br />
That's pretty much the same with Dude. 'Let's have a baby' or at least 'Let's have some Sweaty Naked Fun Time' has so far turned into 20 years of nearly constant wonder and aggravation. Sometimes equal measures of both.<br />
I work in a steel fabrication shop with hammers, air-impact wrenches, train horns, industrial <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXwyj0rBrZnj4YP9hw-IX6LU9t2tSkeic4D0p5OcBWFGC5Gx-y3w4jcaQTmnKVyG5uSIEVEckG4FblKzKfm_m1Uq6VtLlc_TP-MMbkcXKbaEKzudCczLsO4vzgqLVDlNnloXJ0CXw5Geob/s1600/DSC_0032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXwyj0rBrZnj4YP9hw-IX6LU9t2tSkeic4D0p5OcBWFGC5Gx-y3w4jcaQTmnKVyG5uSIEVEckG4FblKzKfm_m1Uq6VtLlc_TP-MMbkcXKbaEKzudCczLsO4vzgqLVDlNnloXJ0CXw5Geob/s1600/DSC_0032.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
equipment, sledge hammers striking steel, the shrieking of metal as it's being cut in the saw and sometimes, something large, heavy and metallic striking the floor. It's basically louder than Quasimodo's bell tower. I leave all that to the rushing of air past my ears at 70 mph to get home. When I get home I have 10 minutes with the house to myself, no TV or stereo, just me and the (mostly quiet) cat. It's quiet enough that the electric clock in the next room is sometimes annoyingly loud.Then for the next hour and a half after that, I'm directly below 'Game Central'. I've long ago learned how to tune the babble, bangs, yells, twitters, tweets, bings and bongs into background noise. But every once in a while something happens that tweaks me out of my 'anti-Dudenoise' Zen.<br />
The other day I was sitting at my computer goofing off when a loud buzzing sound vibrated through the floor directly above my head. It was LOUD. It startled me, but I resolved not to find out what the hell it was. I had recently seen a vid that someone had posted to FaceBook that involved a vibrator flying through the air (please don't ask) and that's the first thing that came to mind. (Because it's my mind and it doesn't work like a regular one) Couple of things wrong with that snap-theory: Firstly, it would be just.... weird and creepy and make me go <i>Eeeeeeeew!</i>. Secondly I'm the one that gets the mail, and I'd have noticed if he'd gotten a narrow, plain brown wrapper package, and I'd have remembered. Even so, I wasn't brave enough to go up and actually find out what was making the noise. It happened again when we happened to have a movie paused and Alexis reminded me that his game controller has a vibrating function and he leaves it on the floor sometimes because he likes to watch it vibrate across the floor. And we already know he likes freaking me out. So, there you go.<br />
One other time I was coming out of the bathroom, muttering to myself about forgetting something and then I heard this from behind Dude's closed door. 'You know what we're going to do now? We're going to put you on the bus, and that bus is going to take you to the place. Then you're going to get out of that bus and we're going to put you up against that wall... And then we're going to BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT! You understand?' ......... I said softly, 'Damn Dude. That's a bit harsh just for forgetting your watch in the bedroom.' I looked around for any bus-driver looking people ready to whisk me away. 'Well, I won't be doing that again, that's for damned sure.' I muttered as I went in the bedroom for my watch. Thankfully the Death Squad didn't know where my room was and I was spared.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-qbRWUKUWAkiPhE9_6etBrib7jvdgUii_cJykXvvvm591KvmJRg5Zv-r02-CmWWbNQ2QdkNYyFQ2oeldsAwEaOS3S9W1rTuIHOdBnMtwO9HvKGrftfakUU7-7O5WuONdMazsOQuvTe4c/s1600/2009+293.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-qbRWUKUWAkiPhE9_6etBrib7jvdgUii_cJykXvvvm591KvmJRg5Zv-r02-CmWWbNQ2QdkNYyFQ2oeldsAwEaOS3S9W1rTuIHOdBnMtwO9HvKGrftfakUU7-7O5WuONdMazsOQuvTe4c/s1600/2009+293.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;">My jersey, not his</span>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Once again in the upstairs hallway, Dave was getting dressed to go shopping with me but had left his sleeping shirt on with the rest of the clothes that I had laid out for him. I immediately sent him back into his room to change his shirt to the one I'd laid out. It was a hockey jersey style shirt with a 'Rotten Rebels' logo. As he closed the door (he always closes the door) I heard him yell, 'Yes! We're going to play hockey in my room!' As I turned away to go downstairs I said, 'Well, that certainly explains <i>some</i> of the racket coming out of your room.<br />
Even the simple act of going through a door can become a major drama. 'No! Wrong door! Exit only!' Which, I will admit, is advice I've actually needed more than once. But you can't explain anything to him. The sign on the other doors saying, 'Please use other doors after ____ o'clock.' Means nothing to him. He doesn't care that you forgot a cart and it's a 32 mile walk around to the correct door. 'Exit only. When you see this sign, it means that this door is only to be used for exiting the building.' Thank you, Captain obvious, but using means I don't have to hire a native guide to get around the 600 people in line and then mount an arctic expedition to get to the car in the parking lot.<br />
So... More difficult? Yes. In ways that I never could nor even now predict. But also, incredibly rewarding in ways that I never could have predicted as well. So... like I said, it kind of evens out.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-24425233702656053042014-10-10T18:18:00.001-04:002014-10-10T18:18:42.548-04:00It's Not Worry... It's Love: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYpdNytPqupyNMaYa9W6CBhf75fX8OfTpMoJQ0cPPpgtdhp2a5H3-hHKtCRQFE7lfsdLhd_M3kQ5F-FLmX-QAEidMTXqUbCUoE7vlTAeyjJ-aNuA53Y06vOT3Aj8HJvnmSVGQG5J6tZu7/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYpdNytPqupyNMaYa9W6CBhf75fX8OfTpMoJQ0cPPpgtdhp2a5H3-hHKtCRQFE7lfsdLhd_M3kQ5F-FLmX-QAEidMTXqUbCUoE7vlTAeyjJ-aNuA53Y06vOT3Aj8HJvnmSVGQG5J6tZu7/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
Recently Dude and I went to a Burger King to pick us up some fish sandwiches and stuff on our way home. While we were waiting on ONE of us to make up his mind (yes... that would be me) about what he wanted for dinner Dave started babbling (no! Really?) and in the middle of a bunch of stuff I didn't really understand he admonished the small man behind the counter, 'He needs to get the systems all packed up to go to the Vegas! And soon!' The guy looked a bit startled (a common reaction) and then just a bit uncomfortable (also, fairly common) I was just ready to file him in the 'Ignorant-But vaguely useful' category when Dude switched gears and ordered a Mountain Dew! 'Dude,' I said dryly, 'You are the second to the last person in the world who would ever need a Mountain Dew, and the LAST one that I would ever buy one for!' David grumped (not too much) away a bit and I turned to choose the food that I would actually take home with us, which did NOT include any over-caffeinated citrus sodas.<br />
When Dave gets going I have to nearly continuously calm him down and bring him back over next to me. Which, in this case, was taking the 'Fast' straight out of the whole 'Fast Food' thing. Jerry, or <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm331vxMeoBjLhWooPjTvHMClTKpeIhV9B4Ds9TJfuL4W9jLkHXIIdZjHYQyZmNKV6Nupuf0xk7bJTS-8pivxW6SqRGbbhB0FtNQF3BrR35fMMMwl3apnm4NXasIeSF6f5GdR3s6FyrZ80/s1600/DSC_0036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm331vxMeoBjLhWooPjTvHMClTKpeIhV9B4Ds9TJfuL4W9jLkHXIIdZjHYQyZmNKV6Nupuf0xk7bJTS-8pivxW6SqRGbbhB0FtNQF3BrR35fMMMwl3apnm4NXasIeSF6f5GdR3s6FyrZ80/s1600/DSC_0036.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
whatever the heck his name was, behind the counter was very patient, which got him upgraded to the 'Ignorant, but useful' category. So, things were looking up for Jerry. He didn't seem impressed with the promotion though. Just as I was about to begin the ordering process again Dude broke in with, 'He's going to Vegas!' Maybe-Jerry once again looked a bit startled, and started to say something when Dave proved that he wasn't done yet (20 years and still going strong, take THAT Energizer Bunny!), 'You wanna go to the Vegas and see the Casinos?' I could tell that Jerry was caught in the 'being nice to the customer and saying something rude' quandary, so I tried to bail him out. 'He's obsessed with Vegas for some reason. He invites about 20 people a day to go with him.' Once again there was a loud noise emanating from just over my shoulder, 'Yes! He gets to go with us to the Vegas! And take videos of ALL the elevators!' And then he wandered over to the fountain drink dispenser, probably to check out supplies for the trip. 'Vegas is the BEST!'<br />
Jerry was studying Dude thoughtfully. I tried to reassure him, 'I don't think he actually expects <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
everyone he invites to actually go.' Jerry looked at me, 'I hope not. Vegas sucks.... I grew up there.' I started laughing. 'Yeah, I've been there a couple of times, I can imagine that stuff gets old pretty quick.' I was pretty sure that David hadn't heard this exchange when he appeared at my shoulder again (I liked it better when he was shorter and couldn't speak directly into my ear) 'It's only the Casinos!' Which is what he says when someone seems to be less than thrilled with being included into the whole 'Sin City Casino Elevator Excursion' crowd. Jerry was definitely looking less than thrilled.<br />
Despite our wanna-be travel agent, Jerry and I eventually worked together to get our immediate supply problems worked out and, with bags in hand, David and I started for the exit. I did my usual, 'Take care.' valediction and Dude started a new, but already traditional farewell, 'See you in Vegas in 2015!' I just kept walking through the first set of doors, shaking my head. I was surprised when I reached the second door, as there was no skinny, loud doorman to shove me peremptorily out of his way to open the door ahead of me. He had turned back to stick his head back into the dining/ordering area to shout out, 'Okay! See you later! You have to get the Game Disks all packed and ready to go!' 'David, let's go.' Because, you know, we already had a 10 minute drive to let the food get cold, and there was no need to add to it. Dave took one step in my direction, then realized he'd forgotten to give <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5nWvOKgIgFZ2c64BbGPwkFHQLm0USyaM12d59DOXM7OYIplOGTKLuwYy8Lu7_QwAs-uh-bJuYsxhE3Xj0VFfhXTaoTdmk3MdlMXedS7z-qeXBZq2nL6JKbXUBrpjUJi-kW8wdtDis2Aj/s1600/DSC_0046+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5nWvOKgIgFZ2c64BbGPwkFHQLm0USyaM12d59DOXM7OYIplOGTKLuwYy8Lu7_QwAs-uh-bJuYsxhE3Xj0VFfhXTaoTdmk3MdlMXedS7z-qeXBZq2nL6JKbXUBrpjUJi-kW8wdtDis2Aj/s1600/DSC_0046+(2).jpg" height="320" width="207" /></a></div>
Jerry an instruction and whipped around and opened the door again. 'He has to get the systems in the boxes, to get to the Vegas!' Jerry, fully indoctrinated by this point, just laughed and waved as Dude followed me outside (finally)<br />
As we were walking across the parking lot to the car Dave, obviously excited to have added another member to his growing 'Vegas Posse' called out, 'He's going to go with us to the Vegas in the 2015! He's a winner, already!' I just shook my head, doubting that Jerry would be going to his hometown, with or without us (especially with), and said, 'I guess he is, Dude.'<br />
Keeping with the food theme, I'm the main cook in our house. I learned to cook from my mother when I was a teenager and I'm well aware that the student is nowhere near to surpassing the teacher, but I want it stated for the record that no one has yet died from eating my cooking. At least officially. David's idea of 'haute cuisine' is virtually anything that comes with sauce, cheese or ranch dressing but he does sometimes let me know when I've done it 'right'. Normally on something I've cooked him seven thousand times before. With Dave it's never, 'Oh! I was just thinking about this, what a coincidence!' But I do get, 'Excellent dinner choice, Dad!' Which amounts to pretty much the same thing.<br />
There's one dish that I serve semi-regularly that I basically stole from my mother. It's a hamburger-green bean casserole, and since it has mashed potatoes and it's topped with melted cheese Dave pretty much will eat as much of it as anyone will give him. (I tell him frequently that he's lucky I learned from a woman who was cooking for 7 people) Raine also loves this stuff, but she also chose me, so take that as you will. Anyway, I was on Facebook the other day when I saw something that my sister, Patricia posted. It was a casserole with almost the exact same ingredients, save one. Hers used <i>tater tots </i>instead of mashed taters, and inverted the potatoes and the cheese so that you didn't have to spread the cheese on top of a lava-hot dish and then stuff it back in the oven. I thought, hey... I can do that. And so it was to be.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BxXSijA-f0FH5SUG-BDWGhRFWdr5drAr1j_I6guPz6XWPE_OwM4Mc_uD3iw9to8cO11Le4XC0UFhTLH9cJNS-CTN69fCEbpWfkB1ddkx-iBVW-Nunnj9ob_ldrznMMv3ayjWSJp-b7Oi/s1600/DSC_0043+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BxXSijA-f0FH5SUG-BDWGhRFWdr5drAr1j_I6guPz6XWPE_OwM4Mc_uD3iw9to8cO11Le4XC0UFhTLH9cJNS-CTN69fCEbpWfkB1ddkx-iBVW-Nunnj9ob_ldrznMMv3ayjWSJp-b7Oi/s1600/DSC_0043+(2).JPG" height="320" width="133" /></a> After consulting with my sister for some of the finer details I made the stuff for dinner one evening. After a comment about tater tots in his dinner and two <i>very</i> generous portions of casserole Dave went about his business without much further indication that he enjoyed it any more than any other meal that he liked. Alexis sometimes gets home later than we eat, so she was just heating her dinner when Dude came back down for something to drink. I was told later that he was distressed that the leftovers hadn't made their way into the refrigerator. 'He has to put the dinner in the bowl in the refrigerator, so he can have it for the lunch!' Despite the fact that he doesn't take lunches to school. Hearing this, however, I decided to break one of my long-standing, but arbitrary rules about serving the same meal two days in a row. (this only counts for leftovers) So, the next night David was pleased to see <i>all </i>of the remaining Enhanced Hamburger Casserole on his plate for his evening meal. As he was munching merrily away Raine and I were talking in the kitchen when I mentioned that he had been worried about the state of the leftovers the night before when, from out of the dining room there came a soft (for once) voice that said, 'No. It wasn't worry. It was <i>LOVE!</i>' Raine and I looked at each other in shock, then put on our impressed faces, nodded to each other and whispered portentously, 'It was <i>looooooove!' </i>And then totally blew the whole, 'reserved parent' thing and broke out laughing.<br />
Well, I guess, since it's <i>looooooooove</i> I'll have to add it to the regular menu.....stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-42355364189379107842014-09-12T18:24:00.001-04:002014-11-02T01:20:18.438-04:00Lord Dude:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_k_jTv1YdvzhZLInSdeW4hsRTUPcQc90-P9CdS08wNpW4kMQernMpXXJDzFRyReRBSoaHQoR_iofMb0fHdnhgO6eTYk2u7Vx1o08Xn1D50bf-B3i-YDFUxiNhAlC_9NYu5AcJ0p8OIP9G/s1600/DSC_0039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_k_jTv1YdvzhZLInSdeW4hsRTUPcQc90-P9CdS08wNpW4kMQernMpXXJDzFRyReRBSoaHQoR_iofMb0fHdnhgO6eTYk2u7Vx1o08Xn1D50bf-B3i-YDFUxiNhAlC_9NYu5AcJ0p8OIP9G/s1600/DSC_0039.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;">I</span> <span style="color: purple;">wonder if he knows he's just holding Dude's place?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dave sometimes... well, almost all the time, treats the rest of us like servants at his Lordly estate (I know the bill, at least is in <i>my </i>name), ordering those not fortunate enough to be Dude to do those things that are beneath The Dudeness. The other day Dave and I had ridden the bike to the store/bank and picked up some things. I timed it (sort of) to coincide with Raine getting off work so we could get some things that normally I wouldn't take the bike to go and get. I thought I had the timing all worked out so that we would be done and in the parking lot about the time that Raine would get there.(foolish boy) Dave and I were walking out the door just as Raine was pulling in our driveway at home. That's when I learned a valuable lesson about waiting for a confirmation text before setting off on one of my 'well timed' missions. Maybe we should have synchronized watches or something. Raine hadn't checked her phone before she started for home. Wars have been lost for less than that! (that may be a <i>slight</i> exaggeration)<br />
Let me tell you something. There's nothing that will get you funny looks more than sitting in a grocery store parking lot with a full cart of groceries in the same stall as your motorcycle. And I'll tell you something else; Having a passenger along with your cart of groceries doesn't exactly help people understand what the hell is going on either. But eventually, your girlfriend will show up and as your autistic son (as a random example) sits in the backseat he will say, 'Take me to (LOUDLY insert full address here), and step on it!' At that point you could A: Murder your offspring in front of 409 witnesses, or B: you might as well invite everyone in the parking lot to a barbecue, because they already know the address, and you won't have to print up fliers.<br />
As if Dude wasn't feeling lordly enough, almost a week later Alexis invited me to drive her to the Renaissance Festival just south of Pittsburgh. Dave got <i>very</i> excited about going to the RenFest. He had absolutely no clue as to what a RenFest was, or what you did when you were there, but he was enthusiastic about it anyway.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpI1u1lEX2QRbXLSRHEZcuZto8nJR6-aemewDCrNT4qUsztCnzrc8w9tgSD9VMrcC9d3XRItUGfjIDkHoIVIgTSyUCCDmk_7jCEVFlISnXaqEHaABPPF97iga7mkrYZMjzmG3i8QUl628/s1600/DSC_0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpI1u1lEX2QRbXLSRHEZcuZto8nJR6-aemewDCrNT4qUsztCnzrc8w9tgSD9VMrcC9d3XRItUGfjIDkHoIVIgTSyUCCDmk_7jCEVFlISnXaqEHaABPPF97iga7mkrYZMjzmG3i8QUl628/s1600/DSC_0003.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
And if I just happened to get some tickets and wander the fest, that would be cool too.<br />
The day of the Fest, Raine was fighting a cold, so it was just Dude, Alex and I that braved the chancy weather and made our way to the Land of Medieval Merchandise. After about an hours drive and almost exactly 1/2 mile before the exit it started raining. It was just about at this point that I remembered the 7 umbrellas that we own... 36 miles away at my house. It was a nice, gentle rain... right up to the point where we were halfway between the car and the front gate. Then it lost most of its 'gentleness'. We secured our tickets and immediately headed directly back to the car to secure some more modern version of lunch. Or at least something a bit less soggy.<br />
RenFests are fun events and they're held all over the country, but not everyone goes, so let me explain a couple of things: Once Theater majors graduate college with their degrees and then find out that only about 11% of them actually get jobs in their field, they need something to do with all that unfulfilled 'theater-ness'. Odds are, that at least one of them has access to a large parcel of undeveloped land (probably owned by an older theater major) and they've all done the bake-sale/carnival fundraising thing any number of times while pursuing their dreams of stage glory. It's guaranteed that every one of them has read every Tolkien book ever invented, and seen every one of those Johnny Depp pirate movies at least 29 times a piece. They quickly find out that many people will pay actual money to wander around in this atmosphere and so they come back every year to the same place to do it again. So RenFests are basically County Faires with style. Also with historical and fantasy based merchandising.<br />
When we got back the weather was much more well behaved so we started wandering around the place. We stopped briefly at the Jousting Arena to watch the preliminary phase of the main joust. This consisted of two guys in armour wandering around the lists shouting Elizabethan insults at each other. Dave liked the knights and was fascinated by the horses, but since nothing actually happened he was more than ready to move on once the shouting had stopped. Now when at a fair or a new mall or even a garage sale, I like to wander the whole thing at least once before I actually buy any of the things or participate in any of the activities. Dude was not hip to my style. He was ready to plunge right in and start riding the rides and playing the games, so right away we had a little bit of a problem.<br />
It's no secret that for all my hard-ass, toe-the-line attitude about keeping Dave 'in line' (yeah, good luck with that, sport), sometimes, and at random intervals, I turn into a giant marshmallow man. So when David started gushing and getting all carried away in the booth with the dragon paintings it should come as no surprise that after 20 minutes of saying, 'Be careful.', 'Leave that alone!', and 'Don't touch that!', that as we were walking out and Dude was taking one last look at a display of carded prints, his big, mean, repressive father said, 'Pick one.' and bought the damned thing before we walked out.<br />
How could I not? He was <i>soooo</i> excited about the prints. 'Oh, look! Dragons!' 'Dragons are <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJBkOXHXDOkLScocTcIPJgKbjJaudCvjHiEa7pU2_KlGvfZmYpcxh6M5nJo5d3kxxaYrisNI7Vgb65XauiyBTkJlraHQc2hmAM-urbbn8VB2QRExoIq3kXdGbYKdPJ0aUxTLTDkA0yAyY/s1600/DSC_0024+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJBkOXHXDOkLScocTcIPJgKbjJaudCvjHiEa7pU2_KlGvfZmYpcxh6M5nJo5d3kxxaYrisNI7Vgb65XauiyBTkJlraHQc2hmAM-urbbn8VB2QRExoIq3kXdGbYKdPJ0aUxTLTDkA0yAyY/s1600/DSC_0024+(2).jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
sooooo cool!', and 'We can get the Dragons and put him on the wall of his room!' I just couldn't resist something new and non game-related that he got that excited about. Besides, he picked the cool looking purple one.<br />
Shortly after our dragon purchase, as we were wandering slowly waiting on Alex to get finished in the Uncommon Scents store we watched a juggler for a while, but since he didn't even singe himself a little bit Dude's interest waned quickly. So we walked some more because Alex wasn't done yet. I don't think she's all that interested in scents, but there was a nice looking person trying to sell them to her, so that might have had something to do with it. Whatever the reason, David and I walked away and started exploring on our own.<br />
Just as we reached the Carrilon (an enormous musical instrument with bells) it started to sprinkle. Dave said, 'Oh no! Not again!' (He was to say this several times this day) So I didn't get a picture of the 4 ton (yes, 8000 pounds) instrument that was making those wonderful sounds that drew me there. We ended up standing under a copse of trees for a while as the rain was only slightly stronger than a sprinkle, but when the lightning flashed and it started to get more intense we ducked into a small-ish tent with more prints and a nice older lady/artist. When we got there, there were only a few people in her modest tent. But that didn't last long. Soon there were about 20 people in a tent rated for 4 and that was without her wonderful art in it. Dave and crowded places don't go together very well. He doesn't mind them so much, it's just that he can't be bothered with whomever he happens to bump into/knock down, so he takes a bit more watching.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwCK_iPdAJs0JG8hQ-NI3P5bnKQETNJnW7QH8MUh68Yyq8cmlttHgPeht9-sDiFhalF-b_ffHfHRZmAlPh7d4h3TUgUD8BCvrrzZn93RSQ2lbTa5ErllmYCuEtLTCTnbkcsRGRVT84N3RB/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwCK_iPdAJs0JG8hQ-NI3P5bnKQETNJnW7QH8MUh68Yyq8cmlttHgPeht9-sDiFhalF-b_ffHfHRZmAlPh7d4h3TUgUD8BCvrrzZn93RSQ2lbTa5ErllmYCuEtLTCTnbkcsRGRVT84N3RB/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
Eventually the rain let up and we actually made the entire circuit of the Fest before we ran into Alex again. She was actually looking for the pirate bar when she stumbled over the Least Stealthy Being in the Universe... and his chauffeur. We found the bar, gave her to the pirates, and Dude and I wandered off again. After the rain sent us scurrying into a glass shop (not a good Dude venue) we went to the top of the hill again to see the carillon. When you play an instrument that weighs more than 2 school buses I guess little things like rain don't slow you down because he was just finishing up his show when we got there. Dave liked the bells, but what he<i>really</i> liked was the elfin-eared pretzel guy. After the show he started walking across the clearing and screamed <b>PREEEETZELS!!! </b>I've been told I'm something of an expert in loud voices (quiet Raine) and this guy was LOUD. But Dave thought he was silly (he was) so when the Pretzel guy asked if Dude wanted one, he said, 'Yeah.' So I bought him a loud pretzel.<br />
<br />
After we hooked up and lost Alexis again (There was a wine tasting going on) (Wine is waaaay more interesting than Dudes) I mistakenly introduced Dude to his new Very Favoritest Food Ever!. It's all my fault. I take complete blame. Mea Culpa Maxima en Aeternum. Loosened up by buying him a loud pretzel only a short while before, I saw a sign that seemed to have Dude written all over it. So, I bought him some and now I'm doomed, doomed forever. It was fried Mac&Cheese on a stick. I know. I'm sorry. So very, very sorry.<br />
While we were walking to the Jousting Area we passed a silly, pointless game. It was a giant dart board that had a knight and a dragon drawn on it, and you threw darts at it. I really didn't see the point. There were no prizes, no balloons to pop, just a board you slung dull darts at. I began to see the point when the girl charged me $2.25 for Dude to throw three darts. Only one of them even stuck in the board, and no where near the dragon, but he got a sticker and he had fun. That was worth two and a quarter. The sticker calls him a 'Dragon Slayer', so if you've got dragon trouble, Dude is the one to call. Just be sure to give him more than 3 darts.<br />
Even with the 2 inches of rain Dave and I decided we were in need of some interior liquid. For <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzX4QfQiizuii0L9VaL22xfd3XdOE3wDuDYmQGmZLvU5BxSoCPzDUDCvyl0yxnUZydmZR7ZMubscFrn5Uw-r3t6-1ywSq8RcX8SLBC7f_z2Qkbt3lHbH_TCxZ49vKiZw7_qXJt0PETVloy/s1600/DSC_0068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzX4QfQiizuii0L9VaL22xfd3XdOE3wDuDYmQGmZLvU5BxSoCPzDUDCvyl0yxnUZydmZR7ZMubscFrn5Uw-r3t6-1ywSq8RcX8SLBC7f_z2Qkbt3lHbH_TCxZ49vKiZw7_qXJt0PETVloy/s1600/DSC_0068.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
some reason places that sell food don't sell drinks and vice-versa, but we found a soda place and bought a 22 ounce Pepsi. I had a good sized drink on our way to the table, then gave it to David and got my camera ready for the Joust. When I went to get another drink all that was left was ice. I cocked a brow, looked at Dave and said, 'You could have at least left me a drink.' 'He was really thirsty' I was informed. I guess he was.<br />
It was finally time for the Joust. Dude and I set up on a hill beside the lists in the 'Not so good people' area. I know this because the announcer guy with the big sword said so. He'd talk to the people on the other side and call them, 'My good people' and when he talked to our side he'd say, 'You, Not So Good People'. We didn't have ushers or anything, we just ended up here. I think they saw us over here and told the 'Bad Knight' to work from this side just to make us look bad.<br />
Dave was getting kind of excited about the horses, but he still really had no idea what was going on. I've lived in Pittsburgh for 14 years and it wasn't too difficult for me to figure out how the whole thing was going to go down. The Knight on the 'Good People' side was wearing the colors, Black and Gold. This guy wasn't representing 'King Henry', the fat guy in the big chair, he was representing the Pittsburgh Steelers. And the Knight on the 'Not So Good-People' side was wearing Black and Purple. And in this football crazed city that can only mean one thing. He was representing the Baltimore Ravens. And if you're Jousting the Steelers against the Ravens you'd better get the winner right, or there is going to be..... trouble. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg29xWEHbPJ4QRuxvijPCZ1L2jaUqbpr7jFGC9LMbuGgXL3ZlWjsy9Bpoe8fThJkEL4vquKRVa7cCOPFNzQL_LjPHTByBR4oKtfgakrrZ9rDRf5lTvkZJ3kNI2VVAFBs9-BlEGNUH3YXCnT/s1600/DSC_0083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg29xWEHbPJ4QRuxvijPCZ1L2jaUqbpr7jFGC9LMbuGgXL3ZlWjsy9Bpoe8fThJkEL4vquKRVa7cCOPFNzQL_LjPHTByBR4oKtfgakrrZ9rDRf5lTvkZJ3kNI2VVAFBs9-BlEGNUH3YXCnT/s1600/DSC_0083.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a> The Knights made several passes at each other and I was impressed with how well they did considering the wet sand they were playing on. Dave, on the other hand, made no concession for technical difficulty, he just enjoyed the show. He was yelling encouragement to the Steeler Knight, even though we were <i>supposed</i> to be rooting for the other guy. It looks like all that Yinzer indoctrination has taken root, because he was yelling, 'Black and Yellow! Yeah!' I'm pretty sure he didn't care that we, as 'Not So Good People' were technically supposed to be rooting for the other guy. Not to prove I'm psychic or anything, but after 3 passes with the horses and some slogging around the wet sand whacking at each other with swords the Steelers Knight won the day with a pretty gruesome looking slash across the belly. I'm pretty sure almost no one but me saw the soon-to-be vanquished knight picking up the pouch of fake blood when he grabbed his second sword, but 20-some years in Entertainment means that I... basically annoy the crap out of people by pointing out things like that. I didn't tell Dave though. Not that it would have mattered if I'd tried. He was yelling out, 'Hooray! Black and Yellow!! Yeah!He's the winner! Black and Yellow is the BEST!'<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9Bf7JAACtkt1fJzj9feS4usR3ZqPlc8rtFLeNjal3Ci-ekWb8xM2Mw2tePVkt3v3-VPAM3TeeIu9FPjXP7RZsbj9HqbyIbwZqIkPclIs0vVL8ftnAhSYhBrPR6Yidrsbg_muul6dvbYw/s1600/DSC_0084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9Bf7JAACtkt1fJzj9feS4usR3ZqPlc8rtFLeNjal3Ci-ekWb8xM2Mw2tePVkt3v3-VPAM3TeeIu9FPjXP7RZsbj9HqbyIbwZqIkPclIs0vVL8ftnAhSYhBrPR6Yidrsbg_muul6dvbYw/s1600/DSC_0084.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a> Here's a travel tip for ya: If you're ever in Pittsburgh and you want to sweeten a sour group, just say something like 'Black and Gold is the Best!' The clouds will part, the Sun will shine, people will smile, and you will instantaneously be invited to marry someone's son/daughter or maybe even asked to dinner. Well, people will smile, anyway. And people were smiling at Dude and I as we made our way back over to the Soda Stand to get us another drink. I think it was because he could shut up about the 'Black and Yellow' winning, or being the best. It's not like we're goofy, or anything.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
You'd think I'd learn, but I never do. Everything was nearly an exact repeat of the earlier hydration trip. I took a drink as we walked over to the table, handed it to David as he sat down, played with my camera for a bit. Took a couple pictures and then sat down myself. After a moment David pushed the cup over towards me. Berating myself for not paying attention, and fearing the worse, I looked down into the cup. Expecting to find it empty but for ice, I had a sarcastic comment all ready to go. It went entirely to waste. In the bottom of the cup, nearly covering the ice was exactly <i>one</i> drink of soda. Dude had left me exactly what I'd asked for. I think that means I just got punked by my autistic son. My own son! Out Smart-assed me!..... I'm so proud.</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GjTlNQ-7nc2to5xZ0A5CdMkDUlh8uZ9QE8y-ui8aeG4e3-K-d8MH-mFy3lz4pk5PH6xsa9_NQZwopZHIe9D4jvEf44JS3j8_WifikmTAVqiGGPb_4FXg6wVWHW2gMF1bXjZyXTBF95Bl/s1600/DSC_0093+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GjTlNQ-7nc2to5xZ0A5CdMkDUlh8uZ9QE8y-ui8aeG4e3-K-d8MH-mFy3lz4pk5PH6xsa9_NQZwopZHIe9D4jvEf44JS3j8_WifikmTAVqiGGPb_4FXg6wVWHW2gMF1bXjZyXTBF95Bl/s1600/DSC_0093+(2).JPG" height="320" width="268" /></a> Things were winding down but we still had time to walk through one more time. Dave decided he'd like to try the High Striker game. (It's the one with the hammer and the weight that hits the bell. Everyone knows the game, no one remembers the name,) (Yes, I had to look it up.) They had three different sizes there, from one about 4 feet tall to one about 15 feet tall. Dude immediately grabbed the largest hammer and started toward the largest Striker.(ambitious young man) The girl running the game stopped him and gave him a smaller hammer, but he still wanted to try the largest game. After the first swing produced nothing but a slight bounce from the weight, (he'd missed the rubber pad) I persuaded him to try the 'Mamma Bear' sized game. He still wasn't having much luck hitting the proper spot, but the girl gave him some instruction and moved him back a step and he was ready to try again, 'He has to hit the rubber to win the Game!' he said, and gave a big John Henry swing. He managed to move the weight about 1/3 the way up the slide. The girl and I were going a little nuts encouraging and praising his efforts, but it did nothing to improve his score. I think his sticker said<br />
'Mighty Knight' and what more could anyone want than that?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig6FgWwlfoZpzsJ3kJNl3GaX4CbG8r0t3HwdlMwFXdp5-e5hYC7TJs5BSfZv0neuHcwUoRYMpm9FBAGvYLh9Xds6eAOdfRTS1_tyNclADKHKfuAePTk3SjxXwm0MPqLpr5p3T2qjz192Zx/s1600/DSC_0097+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig6FgWwlfoZpzsJ3kJNl3GaX4CbG8r0t3HwdlMwFXdp5-e5hYC7TJs5BSfZv0neuHcwUoRYMpm9FBAGvYLh9Xds6eAOdfRTS1_tyNclADKHKfuAePTk3SjxXwm0MPqLpr5p3T2qjz192Zx/s1600/DSC_0097+(2).jpg" height="320" width="147" /></a> We walked the rest of the way around the Fest and stopped by a semi-sorta-authentic Medieval band playing. Since things were kind of wrapping up, most of the wandering performers were hanging around the stage. Dude and I both thought the Owl Woman was really cool so we stood over by her while we enjoyed the music. 'This is my favorite song!' Dave exclaimed. Which just means he really likes it, because neither one of us had ever heard it before.<br />
After the song, but before we made it to the gate we stopped again so I could get a couple pictures of a woman in a fairy costume. Although at this point I was making no assumptions and was fully prepared to treat her as if she was a fairy, because she had the very best fairy costume I'd ever seen. And, hey... it could happen. Dave had no doubts at all. As far as I could tell, he was fully convinced this woman <i>was</i> a fairy and he sat down on the wet grass to watch her. She walked in a very Fairy manner and even though I've never heard of any Fae tradition of blowing bubbles I'm not aware that there <i>isn't </i>one, so I just kept my big fat trap shut. He was nearly glassy-eyed as she went down on one knee and presented him with a green glass 'rock' with gold glitter all over it. That may just be my cynical old man description of what she gave him, because as we were walking to the car he held it with his hand palm-up and open so he could stare at it while he walked (not recommended when walking through a rain soaked, tire rutted grass <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF869fgDj4U7V2vM8r0yzPzAKYaCwGQwtq0Gw7Lhs6mTsiVig8wWl1w0FhU3ghAa7yn8tlyemWaSmXWzhG_Pbx02avbOgi8JEoqX3jO1Nq6pXgg6NhdTtjNWkQN4-kVQDURTvCTzKe707d/s1600/DSC_0099+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF869fgDj4U7V2vM8r0yzPzAKYaCwGQwtq0Gw7Lhs6mTsiVig8wWl1w0FhU3ghAa7yn8tlyemWaSmXWzhG_Pbx02avbOgi8JEoqX3jO1Nq6pXgg6NhdTtjNWkQN4-kVQDURTvCTzKe707d/s1600/DSC_0099+(2).JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
field) 'You like your rock, I guess?' I asked, chuckling. Which was pretty fair, I think, since it was probably going to get him face first in a muddy field. 'It's a magic rock!' he said, earnestly. 'A magic rock, huh?' I said, instantly serious (you don't joke about magic rocks) 'That's pretty cool.' 'Yes!' he returned, 'It's a magic rock. It's cool!' I was fine with that, because if there's Magic out there somewhere, Dude deserves some of it. And that's certainly worth gold glitter all over the backseat of the car, don't you think?<br />
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-IpoJQISNmI8%2FVBNXVUO3IGI%2FAAAAAAAACBw%2FfhOFF8nw9WA%2Fs1600%2FDSC_0084.JPG&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9Bf7JAACtkt1fJzj9feS4usR3ZqPlc8rtFLeNjal3Ci-ekWb8xM2Mw2tePVkt3v3-VPAM3TeeIu9FPjXP7RZsbj9HqbyIbwZqIkPclIs0vVL8ftnAhSYhBrPR6Yidrsbg_muul6dvbYw/s1600/DSC_0084.JPG" -->stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-6578370067384268472014-08-25T20:52:00.002-04:002014-08-25T21:30:01.501-04:00Authorized to Work: <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYnolbY97SHi8AHdAVi4XEvmlXT2aBU5lKLPGY4Ol-axXneEUlEXB9Vhw9BWV5XXhyphenhyphenH1hHA_qkV6M682GHnyOVriCDApIIqjZUx6xOxRgHPWybR_mxVRvl51Moi78Nm7w29HtyGIRpZX8_/s1600/DSC_0004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYnolbY97SHi8AHdAVi4XEvmlXT2aBU5lKLPGY4Ol-axXneEUlEXB9Vhw9BWV5XXhyphenhyphenH1hHA_qkV6M682GHnyOVriCDApIIqjZUx6xOxRgHPWybR_mxVRvl51Moi78Nm7w29HtyGIRpZX8_/s1600/DSC_0004.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;">Even Dexter thinks Dudes are funny.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At our annual 'What the Hell is up With Dude?' meeting (It's actually the IEP meeting) I, once again was given the suggestion that David should start his 'Transition' into an adult program. What this will tentatively entail will be a supposedly growing number of hours at a Work Program. Almost immediately I was told, No, that doesn't mean Dickensian Workhouse. I immediately cancelled my order for gruel for Dude's breakfast. What it did mean was that David would have the opportunity to work, part time, and earn some money while he did it.<br />
This has been talked about several times before over the years, but never acted on. He made it as far as BCRC coming to observe him in the classroom to judge his 'fitness' for their program. After only a little while they decided that 'he should wait' because 'I don't think he's right for our program... yet' Translation: Nuh uh, no way, no how. But this time the school district decided to kick in some extra money for an aide to stay with him while he was 'working', so BCRC said, 'Well.... I suppose he can come. 2 days a week, 3 hours a day to begin with.'<br />
Ever since the IEP (Individualized Education Program) meeting toward the end of the school year David has been convinced that he no longer needs me to further his dreams of Las Vegas Elevator Glory. I mean, he's still trying to get me to bankroll the whole thing, but if the ol' Dude-Dad doesn't come through (which he probably won't), then Dude will still have it covered. Partially.<br />
I received a letter about mid-June from the BCRC (Beaver County Rehabilitation Center) the agency that I immediately 'filed' (yup, you guessed it. Still haven't found it). I was in the middle of re-flooring and painting the kitchen at the time, so I've got a built in excuse. I dimly remember that someone named.... uh.... Whatshername (Stephanie) wanted a face to face meeting with the Dudes and have them worship with her at the altar of her god, Bureaucracy. A less factitious and flowery version would be that she wanted us to call and make an appointment because there was half a truckload of paperwork to fill out and, oh yeah, while you're here we'll walk you through the place. (if there's time) Due to my advanced filing system this letter (with the accompanying phone number) was immediately and irretrievably lost. Forever. (not kidding)<br />
Luckily for me, Stephanie is much more on top of things than I am. She called at the end of July to make the appointment that I was going to do once I'd found the paper. Really! I was just about to do it when she called. When Stephanie called she was expecting to meet some disagreeable ass who would continue to cause trouble and drag his feet until everything had to be done with no time left to do it. She was close, but what she got was a forgetful ass who was willing to adhere to any schedule, just unable to come up with one of his own. So, on the next business day the two Dudes where in Brighton, in the rain, and fairly nearly on <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnUe3ALhxRn9MhEFm7yd0XIljkXbn2oCtPtj-sAuxHcONx3kKEJdCeIUxRsovQjd0cZUnDOhNqE6i3nsW7hUj3Zt_8NQYvVqq4BKMv3pZTCicBmdQz584QkyKskTn3dYxUDlUg54_9WfB/s1600/DSC_0160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnUe3ALhxRn9MhEFm7yd0XIljkXbn2oCtPtj-sAuxHcONx3kKEJdCeIUxRsovQjd0cZUnDOhNqE6i3nsW7hUj3Zt_8NQYvVqq4BKMv3pZTCicBmdQz584QkyKskTn3dYxUDlUg54_9WfB/s1600/DSC_0160.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;">He's got a job!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
time.<br />
Dave had been continuously repeating the refrain, 'He has to go to the BCRC to get the money to get the tickets for the Vegas!' all weekend. Now that we were actually at BCRC I just about needed a whip and a chair to keep him contained. One of their buildings was converted from a single-story multi-office building, so naturally we parked at the opposite end from their office and had to pass 4 or 5 no longer operable glass doors to get to the one that worked. Dave had to try each and every one of them, yelling, 'We're here at the BCRC!' I had to drag him back down the short sidewalk every time until we got to the main entrance.<br />
When we finally reached the entrance, I was pushed slightly aside and arm-barred from walking toward the actual front doors. I looked at Dude suspiciously, thinking that he was getting me back for denying him the other 4 doors walking down the side of the building. (I didn't actually, but it's still my fault somehow) I was puzzled for a minute when Dave Got out his 3DS (in the light rain!) and held it up in front of him to, I assumed, take video of our (his) entrance into 'the BCRC'. I shrugged it off to his continued excitement about starting his Vegas Trip Savings Program. Then I looked up and saw that these doors weren't ordinary doors. These doors were special doors.These doors opened like elevator doors! As the Dude procession made its way slooooowly into the building the secretary looked up from her desk. And waited. And waited some more. To get the angle he wanted on the shot Dave had his 3DS in both hands in front of him and above eye level. So he looked like he was carrying a bomb with a mercury switch or bearing the Chalice down the aisle for a Catholic Mass. That may actually be fairly close to the way he feels about the thing, anyway.<br />
So to reassure the lady I told her he was recording her doors. I'm not sure that cleared anything up for her, and I'm pretty sure she wasn't reassured at all. But, being a veteran of many weird people entering her building she just blinked and said softly ('cause that's how you talk to dangerous crazy people), 'Can I help you?' I quickly repressed the urge to tell her she didn't have the appropriate degree, and simply stated, 'Yes. We have an appointment with..... crap!' I'm pretty sure our appointment wasn't actually with Crap. But with me and names I couldn't be absolutely certain her name <i>wasn't</i> Crap. 'Uh.... we really do have an appointment.' I struggled with a name.... <i>any</i> name.'It's at 11:00...' She was momentarily completely unhelpful. Dave, of course, was more like perpetually unhelpful, 'We need to start the BCRC and get the tickets to go to Vegas to see the elevators.' She looked between us, seemingly unable to tell which one of us was the one that qualified for participation in the program. Dude smiled charmingly at her, 'It's only the casinos!' <br />
She blinked again. Then she seemed to shake it off, turned to me and said calmly ('cause that's the other way to talk to dangerous crazy people), 'Is this an intake tour?' I nodded, 'Then you need to see Stephanie?' My brows drew together as if I were actually considering her statement had an alternative, 'Uhhh.... Yeah. Probably. Could be. Let's try Stephanie?' I was hoping she'd dive in there somewhere and prevent me from drowning. She nodded (thank you!), 'Stephanie takes care of all that.' I smiled. 'Then we definitely need to try Stephanie.' She <i>really</i> couldn't tell which one of the Dudes was the mentally 'challenged' one here to enter the program. And... we're both named Dave so we probably couldn't tell either. (that makes absolutely no sense)<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdVc2GieTxct285EHeWcikah3WO3pZG8Uc-5zPe8dla3xXRhpxKWUWPZfcDtvgDW8LPYZTHEO7_nNsnUZWnmkZOTN-SjK0RQnu7wzMDGWx5Wy4i6-IeE2Lqo4l2MbHWQf_j1HYfdSA_ZL/s1600/DSC_0076+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdVc2GieTxct285EHeWcikah3WO3pZG8Uc-5zPe8dla3xXRhpxKWUWPZfcDtvgDW8LPYZTHEO7_nNsnUZWnmkZOTN-SjK0RQnu7wzMDGWx5Wy4i6-IeE2Lqo4l2MbHWQf_j1HYfdSA_ZL/s1600/DSC_0076+(2).JPG" height="320" width="165" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;">Professional Dude</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have the feeling Stephanie was quickly and intensely briefed by our confused friend, because it took a bit longer for the both of them to come back to the lobby than the 20 foot trip would imply. At any rate Stephanie seemed happy to see us and she immediately took us on a tour of the two buildings. That is to say, she led us into the building across the street, but Dave seemed to be leading the tour, pointing out the break room, the vending machines, the bathrooms, and the tables and chairs. Dude had his nose in every nook, he was <i>very </i>excited and babbling at warp speed the whole time. Stephanie gamely tried to give her 'tour speech' which quickly became, 'tour notes' and then 'the occasional word in edgewise while Dude was drawing the occasional breath. I give her full points, for a rookie she did pretty good.<br />
They have two different programs at BCRC, well... three really, because one is chopped in half. There's the 'work' program, which includes the 'school program'. That is where all the employees are doing small, repetitive tasks, mostly for some business that get some kind of incentive to source through the program. The 'school program' basically is an introductory level, and the tasks that they perform may or may not have anything to do with an outside business. Then there's another program in the main building where they're actually running a business, making candy bouquets for sale and distribution. That's the goal, evidently. To work your way up the chain until you either can get an outside job, or can be trusted to work in their business. Dave, of course, spent the whole time in the second (one story) building looking for elevators and babbling about Vegas.<br />
One thing about having a special needs kid... You'll never forget your name. Even after having your mind wiped by the Evil Genius' mind wiping ray, you'll still be able to sign your name to the innumerable forms that need to be filled out every year. For any of you that haven't seen my signature, it looks like someone did that trick where they pretend to sneeze and then blow Silly String out of the can held next to their nose. I have a friend who's a doctor that actually asked me for signature lessons, it's that screwed up looking. And for the same reason: Because of the hundreds of thousands of times I've had to sign my name over the years.<br />
One thing about Dave being over 18... He now gets to sign quite a few of the forms. When our tour was over, Stephanie led us into a small conference rooms and a medium sized stack of papers to fill out. Dude's face lit up (rookie) and he said, 'Now he gets authorized to work!' He's got pretty good eyes, because I had to take another step or two before I could read 'Work Authorization Form' on the top paper. 'He has to get Authorized so he can go to the BCRC to get the tickets to go to the Vegas!' Stephanie looked confused and looked to me for translation. (This is not the first time someone has done this) I explained, 'He wants to go to Las Vegas so that he can ride all the elevators.' She nodded as if I'd explained everything, but I could still see the confusion in her eyes. I ignored it. I'd given my shot, and that was all she was going to get. I see myself as more of a Doorman to Dudeworld, not a Tour Guide.<br />
Once she started the bureaucratic ball rolling she started shuffling the paperwork at us like a blackjack dealer. David was very enthusiastic about signing his name and getting 'authorized' at first, but about halfway through he began to lose steam. Sighing every time another paper was slid his way. I completely understood where he was coming from, but considering he was about 200,000 signatures behind me, I couldn't muster much sympathy. When we were all done (finally) Dude gusted out a sigh and said, 'NOW, he's authorized to work, and get the tickets for Vegas next year!' He looked up at me, and being the party-pooper I am I said, 'I'm not sure a part time job will get you to Vegas in a year.' He was hearing none of it, 'It's only casinos!' He said with a slight pleading note in his voice. My father always called me a 'Hard-headed Dutchman', but even I wasn't completely unmoved by his pleadings, 'We'll see.' The marshmallow said finally. 'YES!!!' As if I'd already shown him the tickets, 'He gets the tickets and goes to the Vegas and records ALL the elevators!' he shouted. I am sooo doomed.<br />
I happened to glance over at Stephanie and I could see the light showing faintly in her eyes. She was beginning to brush the edges of what it could mean to be sucked into Dudeworld. Here be Dragons. Indeed.<br />
When we got home Dave immediately wanted to do to apposing things. He wanted to keep the paperwork we brought home, and at the same time, he wanted me to get the physical form and the direct deposit form filled out at once, so he could begin ordering his tickets to Vegas immediately. We compromised... Dad style. He put <i>all</i> the forms on the dining room table and under threat of immediate decapitation or worse left them there and went to play his games.<br />
So.... 14 days later, the first day of school was upon us and Dave was very excited. Very very excited. The <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3xbShQ0zDRHCgZfpbTZfwm4xcJmcoRuapu6pih2GBSUW2xrd6N_XK_fOjkfpfcOCHF32U1dxEFaBRUEATib5Y9KXDdXlmT45rH8oulFmj4ZkNmQs2yWXt2q2Q-2Fw2zLPdN4wn0bRUdw-/s1600/2013-11-05+02.38.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3xbShQ0zDRHCgZfpbTZfwm4xcJmcoRuapu6pih2GBSUW2xrd6N_XK_fOjkfpfcOCHF32U1dxEFaBRUEATib5Y9KXDdXlmT45rH8oulFmj4ZkNmQs2yWXt2q2Q-2Fw2zLPdN4wn0bRUdw-/s1600/2013-11-05+02.38.35.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;">First day of school<br />and Dad's got notes!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
amount of understatement here cannot be overstated. Dad was excited to. For a very different reason. For Dude, the return to school (already an exciting event) signaled the beginning of his Journey to the Mecca of Elevator Goodness. I, on the other hand, was excited because this was the first time in 10 years where he actually stayed the same size through the summer. So it was the first time in a decade that he didn't need 3 Sherpa to take home all his new clothes from the stores.<br />
I sometimes don't understand how important Dude can be to other people, until it slaps me in the face. I mean, there was the whole '<a href="http://duderatt.blogspot.com/2014/04/minister-of-propaganda.html">Dude's not going to Vegas</a>?' fiasco and now.... the David needs a physical form filled out so he can go to BCRC debacle. If you look at the picture on the left you will see clutched in his hot little hand The Book and several loose pieces of paper. 2 of those pieces and another in The Book that called for the death of the Procrastinating Dude-Dad. Well... that's a bit melodramatic, but he did come home with 3 different notes telling me he needed the physical form filled out before he could start BCRC and there was tugging of the heart strings telling that Dastardly Dad (twirling my mustache as we speak) 'He's really excited about going and it would be a shame if he couldn't go, wouldn't it?' I know... I teared up when I read it.... 3 different times... in 3 different notes... from 3 different people. I didn't even get <i>one</i> note for the 14 bucks I still owe them from lunches last year.<br />
Well, okay, there probably weren't any tears, but I did immediately call his doctor to see if his last physical was close enough that so we could avoid having to make an appointment and just get the form filled out. By the time I found out (less than 10 minutes) Dave had whipped back through the room 4 different times saying, 'He needs to get a physical, so he can go to the BCRC!!' I finally told him that if he said it one more time he wouldn't have any physical left, so we wouldn't need the form. When the nurse told me that all I had to do was drop off the form, Dude and I jumped on the bike and headed out. For various reasons, Dave is still seeing a pediatrician and the office has a small entryway where the receptionist sits and then a door to the left for 'sick kids' and one to the right for 'well kids'. Dave was either hovering over my shoulder or darting for one of the doors shouting, 'He needs to get the physical!' the whole time I was talking to this nice woman. She promised me, without fail, that the forms would be ready for me to pick up the next afternoon. After I explained that to Dude I looked back at the nurse and said, 'You know, if they're not ready tomorrow, I'm going to bring him back and leave him here.' She laughed and assured me that they would indeed be done. I don't think she took me seriously, but I've already given the address to the bus drivers, 'just in case'. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGenA8H5Tkgmi_ASPavR1huJWVw4JTaoOnzCJpKooY3RT33vAqjH5E7K73UHOfDETgP2qAI7mpqP0ZhxrIe0tMvPGv5I2B_l58WqgLPO2y_ybANaj2h5PX8MattWiBFpPqLWHzmzoYbiXH/s1600/1505987_868153989866381_7002202935266446896_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGenA8H5Tkgmi_ASPavR1huJWVw4JTaoOnzCJpKooY3RT33vAqjH5E7K73UHOfDETgP2qAI7mpqP0ZhxrIe0tMvPGv5I2B_l58WqgLPO2y_ybANaj2h5PX8MattWiBFpPqLWHzmzoYbiXH/s1600/1505987_868153989866381_7002202935266446896_n.jpg" height="210" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-23161575848111529352014-08-15T18:58:00.000-04:002014-08-15T18:58:05.769-04:00Dark White Nights:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mDa0CUWU48mL8g7Hq5TTyTbEQLYIqyDMM4JreZ1Mta9sQfBQT2fRV51PKNV6QSzGAH72LzswRAHBEsRIz8VAAmVSmMK_5-a2aPTKeQiiJHmdo3SHHpy_PEch9DmiSkKf3xM258g1TlPN/s1600/DSC_0014+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mDa0CUWU48mL8g7Hq5TTyTbEQLYIqyDMM4JreZ1Mta9sQfBQT2fRV51PKNV6QSzGAH72LzswRAHBEsRIz8VAAmVSmMK_5-a2aPTKeQiiJHmdo3SHHpy_PEch9DmiSkKf3xM258g1TlPN/s1600/DSC_0014+(2).JPG" height="320" width="313" /></a></div>
<span style="color: blue;"> This post has almost nothing to do with Dude. Fair Warning.</span><br />
I want it stated for the record that 2:00 am is a bad time to start a story. That being said, 2am is my time. Especially on the weekends. I'm not waiting to go anywhere, or for anyone to come home. No one's going to interrupt me and my doing of nothing. It's quiet, which is a precious gift around here. 2am is the time of day when you realize how noisy the rest of your life is. You've pretty much got your little corner of the world all to yourself. By and large, even though you probably wouldn't trade your family for the world, just about anyone can use some time when the world is quiet and you're the only person in it. You can wrap your arm around Boredom's shoulder and say, 'It's just you and me, pal. You. And. Me... So, whattaya want to do?' Mostly my Boredom just looks back and me and says, 'I don't know.... whattayou want to do?' Great... even my boredom is a smartass...<br />
What white nights are good for, if they're good for anything, is introspection about the past. Unfortunately, as a species we're not really geared for the nocturnal, so many times this will lead to dark musings and self-doubt. Well, that and getting pissed off at people from your past. But that's kind of like yelling at idiots in traffic. Raises your blood pressure, but they don't get a damned thing out of it. Okay, there is one further benefit. You get the sole, and undivided attention of your cat. That is also sometimes not a good thing.<br />
Someone (okay, more than just one) told me once that he could never predict what would come out of my mouth. He also said that I had some funny stories to tell. I had no argument with either statement. I did say that he was not the first person to make these observations... Hell, he wasn't even the first one that week. I did explain to him that even my bizarre sense of the ridiculous couldn't explain away all of the funny crap that just seems to happen around me.<br />
Case in point: While I was a stagehand in Florida I had a gig setting up the stage for Paul McCartney's New World Tour. Linda McCartney had declared the entire tour to be vegetarian and the carnivores were restless. A company from Michigan, of all places, was following the tour and erecting the steel scaffold that makes up the structure of the stage. The main problem being, the first week of May the average temp in Michigan was 45 degrees with 57% humidity, and the actual temp in Orlando? 92 degrees with 87% humidity so in the first three days of assembly 15 members of the 60 or so man crew fell out. 3 of them literally falling out of the steel with symptoms of heat prostration and heat stroke. So my company was called in to fill in the gaps, and then by our second day, take over the gig.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyomYuzrcPY8LmZQYfN-mw0dX-hRePND08yVzTfglnJVVNC-8XwHczsDBgxSdVZmMbx__1IngZUZc87jvFz0IK-VBB-ENcSav5mVzi83V3NpOybB0ChhaO-UrMp93rVZIPn71WokyUH-S-/s1600/DSC_0005+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyomYuzrcPY8LmZQYfN-mw0dX-hRePND08yVzTfglnJVVNC-8XwHczsDBgxSdVZmMbx__1IngZUZc87jvFz0IK-VBB-ENcSav5mVzi83V3NpOybB0ChhaO-UrMp93rVZIPn71WokyUH-S-/s1600/DSC_0005+(3).JPG" height="200" width="640" /></a></div>
Jackie, a gypsy on the steel crew, or someone who independently follows a tour and works the steel, walked over in my direction, twitching her left arm like a person with a mosquito bite on her shoulder blade. Most of my crew knew Jackie, as she was through town a couple times a year, but I had only met her the day before. I asked, 'What's wrong Jackie?' thinking that there was some sort of bug (which Florida has a plenitude) in her shirt. She said, 'I got my nipple pierced yesterday, and it itches like hell.' Which is a hell of a thing on your 3rd job with a company, <i>and</i> I was 7 months removed from a somewhat less than worldly rural environment. Okay, I was a hick from the sticks and had never even <i>known </i>someone with a nipple piercing and here I was within inches of a nice looking athletic-bodied woman who wanted to talk to me about it. This was destined to be an educational experience.(I had no idea) Trying not to act like a 13 year old with his first copy of Playboy, I decided to play it cool. 'Itches pretty good, I guess.' She twitched a couple of more times, scowled at her (small, but well formed) chest, looked up at me and said matter-of-factly, 'Yeah. Wanna see?' Before I could even react she grabbed the strap of her tank top, drew it quickly aside and showed me the offending ( or offended) breast and the aforementioned nipple piercing. This was not a flash-viewing, she fully expected me to examine her accessory and the flesh around it, and look for swelling or irritation. Now here I am, a married country boy in a fairly populated city, in the middle of a football stadium in broad daylight with a woman I barely know showing me her tit and asking me to look closely at it.<br />
I knew right then and there that I had chosen the right line of work.<br />
Still trying to be all worldly and cool-ish I tried to remember where her eyes were when I said, 'You know if you put band aids over those they wouldn't move around so much and irritate your nipples.' She brightened immediately, 'Thanks! I think I'll try that.'<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6HSys1K41us5jGFvuBMaEM0rC6K4V9n-URCJSRgTCLLGHukZnkFZMk7s1S53cYn4Rbeixa58Bt7mfVNMyHIFbEaOs7vpIb1K01WI8OfljsWsu1MZBT_xfsCn5N5BmtRufuU_ciMRbNVk/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6HSys1K41us5jGFvuBMaEM0rC6K4V9n-URCJSRgTCLLGHukZnkFZMk7s1S53cYn4Rbeixa58Bt7mfVNMyHIFbEaOs7vpIb1K01WI8OfljsWsu1MZBT_xfsCn5N5BmtRufuU_ciMRbNVk/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
Now even if you took away my somewhat humorous take on the situation and simply stated, 'When I worked my third gig in Florida, a woman I'd just met walked up to me and showed me her boob and the nipple ring inserted therein.' It doesn't make it any less bizarre. So while some of the funny stories can be chalked up to the way that I tell them, the fact remains that some pretty weird shit happens around me quite frequently.<br />
Only some of that weird shit is named Dude. But that is pretty weird sometimes. By this time you might be wondering, 'This is semi-interesting, but when is he getting to the Dude-stuff?' Well, that's another great thing about 2 in the morning... You don't have to follow any rules or live up to any expectations. Even your own.<br />
Oddly enough... relatively speaking, The reason that was only my third gig was because 5 weeks before I was helping to move the company warehouse to a new location and had fallen off a loading dock, breaking my collarbone, separating my shoulder, and requiring 9 staples in the side of my head to keep my punitive brains from falling out. (I know I have something resembling brain matter in there because I required an MRI because of my head injury) (I asked the Dr. to send the proof of brain to my father immediately)<br />
I was all alone on the asphalt with the wind knocked out of me, unable to use my left arm. Every one else on the crew was in the motor-home inside the warehouse having a 'pot-break'. So the only person in the building <i>not</i> stoned fell on his head and was lying bleeding in the parking lot. Take <i>that</i> OSHA!<br />
By the time any of the stoners realized that I was gone I had crawled to the side of the building and was sitting up against it, trying to remember how to breathe. Someone saw the blood on the parking lot and I was found and the ambulance called in short order. After that I was sort of.... dragged out into the parking lot after having a bag of ice placed against the back of my neck in some sort of stoner triage and first aide.<br />
Once the non chemically enhanced ( I assumed) paramedics arrived I was immediately placed on a back-board and then duct taped to it. Immediately after taping my broken, bleeding, long-haired head to the board it was discovered that I hadn't been fitted with a neck brace. The placing of which required, you guessed it, the removal of the 3, count 'em, <i>3</i> wraps of very sticky tape from around my very, <i>very, </i>hairy head. 'Yeah, it's okay, dude. The pain from my broken bones, bruised ribs, torn ligaments, and the 6 inch gash in my skull will just drown that out.' <br />
It didn't.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXoH3F7qDnykacoeQToc8IhSSW8ApFwm51p43V5ZCqsO2xSrERYlSYX6NGmG6BOBbshp2MsmZhXHdWmPNJPEFqOgAcT0zYmqFy8x17FV0BC_bcG_KSD7v8k1jow5xhIhslQ7tDmN32sAHs/s1600/DSC_0019+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXoH3F7qDnykacoeQToc8IhSSW8ApFwm51p43V5ZCqsO2xSrERYlSYX6NGmG6BOBbshp2MsmZhXHdWmPNJPEFqOgAcT0zYmqFy8x17FV0BC_bcG_KSD7v8k1jow5xhIhslQ7tDmN32sAHs/s1600/DSC_0019+(2).JPG" height="189" width="320" /></a></div>
I read somewhere that paramedics, at least the ones who are also firemen, have to, as part of their training, carry a 150 pound manikin either 50 or 100 feet to pass their test. So with three of them there, theoretically they should have been able to lift an NFL offensive lineman in full gear at least as far as the gurney 2 feet away from their supine victim. I weigh somewhere between 240 and 250 pounds. Should be nooooo problem, right? I got a harmonized grunt, a jostle and then dropped from a height of about 4 inches off the tarmac. Ouch. At that point I was glad they'd ripped out hunks of my hair to put on the neck brace. Not only could the limp-noodle brigade <i>not</i> lift me to the gurney, they also required help getting the damned thing up in the raised position, and then called the guys back to help them get it into the ambulance. I was starting to become concerned with the fitness of the Florida Health Care System.<br />
I don't know if any of you have had a Concussive Brain Injury but on the trip to the hospital the medic asks a series of very basic questions that, if I hadn't been about half groggy, would have annoyed the hell out of me. You know; Name?, Birthday? Address? Date? Do you remember how you got hurt?' (Yeah, I took a gainer off a loading dock and only got a '3' from the Russian judge.) I answered all his questions, growing less muddle-headed and more annoyed the whole time. Until he asked me what day of the week it was. 'Uhhhhh....' Was my response. I just couldn't remember. It was bugging me more and more as the 20 minute trip went on. I was really getting anxious about that damned stupid question, even though it isn't all that unusual for me not to know the day of the week at any given time. When we reached the hospital and the guy opened the back door I raised my head the little I could and yelled, 'WAIT!!!' He rushed back to my side, 'What's wrong?' he asked, beginning to become frightened. 'It's Tuesday.' I said, portentously, and relaxed my head back down on the board. 'Yes... yes it is.' he gritted through his teeth. Then he bent his head close, looked me in the eye and growled, 'Don't ever fucking do that to me again.' What was his problem? I mean, he asked... didn't he?<br />
Another cool thing about head injuries... No, and I mean absolutely NO pain killers. So after X-rays and slings (no arrows) and being jostled around for about an hour it came time to 'take care of' that little bleeding problem at the crown of my head. Sans-anesthesia. I was beginning to regret that I wasn't a stoner.<br />
The Doc (the guy was just not dignified enough to call him Doctor) rolled up on his stool, looked me in the eye and said calmly, 'I need you to promise me something.' I placed my working hand to my chest, 'Doctor, we've only just met.' He chuckled a bit and then resumed his serious expression. 'I really need to to promise me something.' I waited for more. And waited. 'What?' I finally said. 'I need you to promise before I tell you what it is.' 'Uh huh... that crap didn't even work for my mom when I was 6, dude.' His earnestness eventually wore me down and I made the promise. 'I need for you not to hit me.' I was confused. 'Well.... I have to put these 9 staples in your head, and I'd rather not end up a patient here to do it.' That was when it occurred to me that he was going to be shoving 3/4 of a dozen small lengths of steel into my delicate (but still manly) skin without even the benefit of an aspirin. I was <i>really </i>regretting not being a stoner at that point. But all I did was nod my head, grab one of the side rails of the bed, turn my head and say, 'Let's get on with this.'<br />
The bright side was, I got to keep my hair. And that was the only bright side. After fiddling with my skull-covering for a moment... CHUNK!!! I grunted in pain and gripped the bar harder. Some more fiddling... CHUNK!! If only I hadn't promised, I'd be beating the hell out of him with my one good hand right now. Twice more huge surgical steel pylons were driven into my cranium.... then nothing. I opened one eye and peered back at the doctor. 'What the hell are you waiting for?' I growled. He seemed to be fascinated with my right hand. He shook himself, looked at me, and said, 'Are you okay?' I wanted to throttle him. Other than that I was just peachy. 'I'm fine, let's just get on with this, okay?' He kept glancing between my eyes and my hand, nervously licking his lips a couple times. Then he nodded, 'Let's get this done.' I finally looked down at my hand grasping the bar. I had bent the 1 inch diameter pipe about 2 inches in a direct line, now that I think about it, between that pipe and his jaw.<br />
CHUNKchunkchunkchunkchunk!!! Suddenly this guy was Machine Gun Kelly with the medical staples. 'Okay, we're done!' as he pushed himself back, the little steel wheels on his stool squeaking as he flung himself across the floor. I sloooowly unlocked my fingers. They were <i>definitely</i> going to have to replace that, I thought, looking at the bowed metal. I grinned fiercely at the quivering Medico, 'It's a good thing I promised, isn't it?' He gulped.<br />
I went home and scared the hell out of my room-mates, and also my wife when she got off work. You know, on account of me looking like I'd spent the day playing in traffic... angry traffic. The next<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtbs24JGG_n0ok5jujGyXTtYaC-Sskg3j3rA_xM3EaRTjsdfRZInTk2DsLxj_IYfD4BmRVvKCvLLNmbfG3WX9Fnz6hUjDni4BrTFb84nDDZqZu3Gumrk0hzbh5VC5BGvtziUlxLMNP6QHq/s1600/DSC_0035+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtbs24JGG_n0ok5jujGyXTtYaC-Sskg3j3rA_xM3EaRTjsdfRZInTk2DsLxj_IYfD4BmRVvKCvLLNmbfG3WX9Fnz6hUjDni4BrTFb84nDDZqZu3Gumrk0hzbh5VC5BGvtziUlxLMNP6QHq/s1600/DSC_0035+(2).JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
day when I got back from the Osteopath, where I'd been having fun holding 50 pounds of sandbags with my bad arm so they could get good X-rays of my broken shoulder, I got a phone call from the hospital; They had noticed something in the MRI and could I come to the Emergency Room to talk about it. No, they wouldn't discuss it on the phone. It was dire enough that it could only be resolved by a personal visit. Well, I couldn't get there until the next day, so if it's one of those 24 hour Death-Virus things, I was completely out of luck. 'I'm sorry, sir, we can't talk about patient information over the phone.' Fuck. 'I guess the rest of this conversation is completely worthless then, huh?'<br />
'That's fine, sir, we'll see you tomorrow then?' Oh great! I'm so doomed. There's no treatment or cure, nothing they can do for me, so another half a day won't make any difference. Brain injuries make you paranoid... did I tell you that?<br />
After a further 14 hours of imagined brain tumors and cranial defects and depression over my lack of anything to actually put in a Will, I was once again facing the doctor who had so cleverly avoided getting beaten by me just 36 hours before. 'You've broken a tiny bone in your face, it's cut a sinus and we need to give you antibiotics to prevent infection.' I stared at him in amazement. 'That's it? Y'all scared the crap out of me for a sinus infection?' You know how when you've been really scared, you get mad when you should be relieved? I looked at him and grinned (it wasn't a nice grin)'You didn't make me promise not to hit you this time.' He laughed. He quickly stopped laughing when he looked at my face. 'I'll just go get the antibiotics.' he said as he turned and disappeared out of the room. Chicken. He even made a nurse come back with the drugs to keep out of arms reach of me, I guess. Hell, I only had one that worked. What was he afraid of? A sudden case of Bent Bedrail Syndrome?<br />
I would normally take this space to make some parallel between these stories about me and some event/detail of or in Dude's life. Nope. Not this time. Me, me, me, me, me, me, me. Mine, mine mine! I'm a happy miser! (Daffy Duck reference) One other thing about 2 in the morning.... It doesn't have to make sense.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-72319821188138107512014-08-08T18:18:00.000-04:002014-08-08T18:18:58.352-04:00Tuppence a Bag:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFTI9SUjWkq4X7McmwVIZ8dtRZLOoeoFpH_67nr4BfSY5Jne63KCSO96lvv3q7AUjWSfSaGcUxXDpBOCLmX2meygJPWeUeorQLL_Qsy5O5T7djC0-S_3Ot2Rf8D-wDsMuYdEJumqwtSw4/s1600/DSC_0039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFTI9SUjWkq4X7McmwVIZ8dtRZLOoeoFpH_67nr4BfSY5Jne63KCSO96lvv3q7AUjWSfSaGcUxXDpBOCLmX2meygJPWeUeorQLL_Qsy5O5T7djC0-S_3Ot2Rf8D-wDsMuYdEJumqwtSw4/s1600/DSC_0039.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
Over the last year or so, I've taken it as my familial duty to show my niece, Alexis some of the interesting things about her/my adopted state. Of course since Dude-Dads are only consistently Dude-Dads and not tour guides, showing her around isn't exactly a regimented, or even predictable event. Things around Dudes rarely are.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
One of the things that I've been meaning to get around to taking her to do is (as Raine and I took to calling it) feeding the 'Fat Fucking Fish' at Pymatuning (pie-muh-toon-ing) State park in Northwest PA. Let me explain: Pymatuning is a man-made lake that was formed in the 1930's that straddles the PA-Ohio border. It was actually formed from reclaimed swampland. It's a pretty good sized lake that has a smaller lake kind of attached to one side that's used as a large sanctuary for the young fish released from the hatchery further up the shore from the spillway that connects the two bodies of water. (take a breath, man!) The spillway is a concrete half-bowl about 20 yards across that the water from the smaller lake flows down into and then under the road to the main lake. It seems that, almost since the spillway was formed people have been gathering there to throw chunks of stale bread to the fat, greedy, well-fed, but very ugly, brown carp that now gather there by the thousands to gobble up the offerings. It's really kind of a disgusting, roiling, fishy carpet of carp when they get going, with hundreds of ducks, geese and gulls gobbling up whatever tidbits are left.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0bd26I5a1qYj8OjNU6ng3Wg-sSHzbfzs9_jIrn2Z1yreuHuN73bQXXniQx8Y2ioFikuEXJP3V_WSeKY0hhGvG8INo_FRbw5bsDVuAapIzxlbs9qHlNwnrgj3bJsv_LYaz-GWWKwZhh3i/s1600/DSC_0018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0bd26I5a1qYj8OjNU6ng3Wg-sSHzbfzs9_jIrn2Z1yreuHuN73bQXXniQx8Y2ioFikuEXJP3V_WSeKY0hhGvG8INo_FRbw5bsDVuAapIzxlbs9qHlNwnrgj3bJsv_LYaz-GWWKwZhh3i/s1600/DSC_0018.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
On the face of it, it doesn't sound like a very interesting thing to do, but Pennsylvanians have been traveling there for generations to participate in a super-sized version of feeding their goldfish. There are postcards from the 30's and 40's touting Pymatuning as 'The Place Where Ducks Walk on Fish'. (something I never saw) because of the density of the carp feeding frenzy. In every other State Park in PA it is illegal to feed the wildlife anything, but here they sell old bread at the concession stand along with hoodies and T-shirts and other touristy things.<br />
While Raine and I had mentioned to Alexis that we'd been there a couple of times we had never taken her there. On one recent Saturday I was feeling a bit restless and asked everyone if they wanted to go to Pymatuning sometime that day. Raine wasn't feeling well, but Alex and Dude were willing to go. (actually, I don't really know if he was willing or not, but he <i>was</i> going) So we loaded up in the car, bought a loaf of cheap bread and headed for the fish.<br />
Normally I have a sense of direction that makes people (Raine) sick. I can generally find things I've never seen before in places I've never been to before. Raine calls it my 'radar'. Well, I must have forgotten to charge the batteries, or I left the remote with Raine because when we unknowingly arrived at the lake I immediately took a wrong turn. Then another. We went on a big, looping circle through Eastern Ohio and NW Pennsylvania for about an hour. And then, just to prove the first two weren't flukes, when we had almost made it back to the lake again (still couldn't see it) I quickly executed a <i>third</i> wrong turn and sent us back 10 miles to a town we'd passed through on our original stab at getting to the lake. Naturally bypassing the town that's right on the edge of the entrance to do so. I also wish to state for the record that this entire time I had an atlas in the trunk that I had completely forgotten about until we'd hit Greenville for the second time. Once I'd pulled it out I found that I had been within rock-throwing distance of the lake, not once, but twice. I don't really get upset on the few times this kind of thing happens to me. I've learned to just ride it out. I think Alexis may have been expecting some sort of meltdown, but Dave, not knowing how long it should take to get to Pymatuning was content to sit in the backseat until the cows came home... or the batteries ran out, which ever came first.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcD0z5IRbmCuqg7zTdhAxjycxSjowROCCfCYSHcnPN1X2xwphm9wdYaBxd57cjWvqhDBROG9rpKjoJ5YG9z0P8d5umhKg9ay-awU5-9kTR5cYuDS7-yIynETA0Pqlj-M_UukTrWWrIMrF/s1600/DSC_0052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcD0z5IRbmCuqg7zTdhAxjycxSjowROCCfCYSHcnPN1X2xwphm9wdYaBxd57cjWvqhDBROG9rpKjoJ5YG9z0P8d5umhKg9ay-awU5-9kTR5cYuDS7-yIynETA0Pqlj-M_UukTrWWrIMrF/s1600/DSC_0052.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
After finally making it to the lake and getting a park map and directions from a Ranger (and possibly divine intervention for all I know) we finally made it to the spillway. Dave was so ready to go by this time he completely forgot the bread. But we finally made it to the railing preventing the fish feeders from becoming fish food, where we waited for Alexis to catch up to us with the bread. Dude had been there before, and had witnessed and incited the feeding frenzy and seemed to have fun doing it, so I wasn't ready for him to mutter something about 'greedy fish' and 'Got to feed the ducks!' Well to feed anything he'd need some food. We looked around to find Alex methodically feeding the 'poor starving fish'. Throwing out bread like she was feeding grain to the chickens. I walked over and stopped her before she could tear apart the whole loaf feeding the greedy things. She said, 'But they're hungry!' I assured her that people stand at the railings from early in the morning until dark and never run out of fat fish to feed. I told her to take a few steps down the rail from her grain-dependent fans and see what happened. 'All you have to do is stand at the rail, and the fish will show up whether you feed them or not.' She looked down at the rows of gaping mouths and said, 'They do seem to be well fed.' I laughed, 'You could stand there all day and never see a skinny fish.'<br />
We walked over near Dude and I handed him a slice to distribute to the masses. He immediately cocked his arm back and was ready to fling the whole piece into the air. 'Wait a minute!' I said quickly, 'Tear that up and throw the pieces!' He looked at me like I was from another planet. (And there's no direct evidence saying I'm not) He simply tore the piece in half and cocked his arm back saying, 'Here you go ducks!' and gave it a mighty heave. It was doomed from the beginning. Not only was the gauntlet of portly pisceans about 10 feet deep at that point, but since the breeze was blowing right in his face it forced his grain-parachute to land in the water about 3 feet from the edge. He looked down with disgust at the carp rapidly<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJi2NQCwwigWbbdfutfMENCdlPiQ1FYQFG_UQzr9RobCDVyKKu55u3zQ8w_4EKHYWvgVTuhWAgQKz5c1oWbqzzjPBxf7xkI2zmFpLdMqH27qxQ7Biv2nvkOm1IKhzHrwINIJZvxlvHJWx/s1600/DSC_0056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJi2NQCwwigWbbdfutfMENCdlPiQ1FYQFG_UQzr9RobCDVyKKu55u3zQ8w_4EKHYWvgVTuhWAgQKz5c1oWbqzzjPBxf7xkI2zmFpLdMqH27qxQ7Biv2nvkOm1IKhzHrwINIJZvxlvHJWx/s1600/DSC_0056.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
and kind of grossly making his offering disappear. He then looked up at me, 'He has to get it to feed the ducks.' I looked down at the now bread-free water. 'You're going to have to rip it into smaller pieces, or it'll never get there.' He seemed to consider my advice, tore his half slice into further halves, cocked his arm back like Billy Dee Williams in Bingo Long's Travelling All-Stars and winged a throw that <i>just barely</i> managed to clear the back edge of the throng and into the duck's territory. One of the ducks darted in and snatched up the bread and hurriedly paddled back to the Duck Zone and safety for his feet, from nibbling fish.<br />
I was explaining to Alexis how not only was this the only publicly owned land that you could do this, but it was actually illegal to feed wild animals in PA State Parks. Unless you had a license and that food was attached to a hook, when David decided that he was the friend of <i>all </i>flying creatures. He came over to us to demand more bread because he had to 'feed the geese and the ducks and the American Eagles.' I had a brief flash of him throwing bread to customers of AE Outfitters, but quickly banished the thought. Now while there are 4 or 6 pairs of bald eagles in the park area and they do nest on an island in the sanctuary part of the lake, I hadn't seen any. The three kinds of birds in the immediate area were Mallard Ducks, Canadian Geese and some Ringbilled Gulls. As I handed him more bread I told Dave, 'Those are seagulls, Dude.' 'American Eagles.' He repeated. I shook my head, 'Sea. Gulls.' He cocked his head at me, 'Sea gulls?' He asked. I nodded, gravely. 'Seagulls.' And I heard him as he turned away, 'Sea gulls' He stated gravely, 'from America.' I shook my head and gave up. Figuring that was about as close as I was going to get.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS7oKrHVXeulrxIeAetxyJyIRssmWOMgwza8zDa-XU78WMYdLjT_2tIwCnCamkPezkowUy4DB3oUoza5yNXy3jgU_hmOHpxtmo6fV43TteFWQ6AiyBXC3LdU0Hi_dhb_vimbAYl4V5e4t_/s1600/DSC_0067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS7oKrHVXeulrxIeAetxyJyIRssmWOMgwza8zDa-XU78WMYdLjT_2tIwCnCamkPezkowUy4DB3oUoza5yNXy3jgU_hmOHpxtmo6fV43TteFWQ6AiyBXC3LdU0Hi_dhb_vimbAYl4V5e4t_/s1600/DSC_0067.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An American (Ringbilled) Seagull</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Since we'd only brought one loaf of bread it didn't really take all that long to fling it all out there. I didn't keep track of how much of David's share actually went to the Ducks and American Seagulls but he seemed happy with the result. And he did drop some little bit of bread straight down occasionally. I think to keep the greedy carp up next to the platform.<br />
After Alex took a quick walk over to the spillway to see the greatest and ugliest concentrations of fish we hopped in the car and drove across the bridge that bisects the main lake. That being the only other interesting thing about Pymatuning if you don't have a boat or a fishing license. Thankfully I was <i>much</i> better at finding my own house than I was finding the lake, (after all, all my stuff's there) so the return trip was rather a lot smoother. Unfortunately my earlier delay meant that we couldn't stop at the Apple Castle, an orchard and farm market slightly out of our way, but probably closed. So instead of apple products and farm fresh produce (I knew they also sell donuts, but didn't tell anyone) we had to struggle through on hot dogs and french fries and apple sauce... I'm actually proud at how brave Dude was about the whole thing.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-44064262925497779592014-07-31T23:55:00.000-04:002014-07-31T23:55:16.513-04:00Take Me Out to the Ballgame:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCn1f9rxqqB5vc6nzcUJLJX160CC5xj8L1bxcEPhMhLZYn0BaeuEt6qgI_6Ev7ooZq0ygw11OOGVk-sbLhaaxmSY1TkG_eOkg13yP3tv0F_wFtdNBY1mf4m7G23-6jNlqh4Auk9MmaYV68/s1600/roflbot+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCn1f9rxqqB5vc6nzcUJLJX160CC5xj8L1bxcEPhMhLZYn0BaeuEt6qgI_6Ev7ooZq0ygw11OOGVk-sbLhaaxmSY1TkG_eOkg13yP3tv0F_wFtdNBY1mf4m7G23-6jNlqh4Auk9MmaYV68/s1600/roflbot+(4).jpg" /></a></div>
Instead of a picnic this year, my company gave us all tickets to a Pirate game. Dude was excited to go to the game. I have no idea why... once he saw that giant scoreboard he never actually watched the game.<br />
At the beginning of the Summer, one of the 4 or so things David was looking forward to was our annual trip to Kennywood. Of course one of those things was also our trip to Las Vegas, which somehow got delayed until next Summer. (It always gets switched to next summer...every year) Due to the switch in divisions in my company, (Manufacturing was phased out and I transferred to Dock and Transfer, although my duties remained essentially the same) I was uncertain there would even <i>be</i> a company picnic this year. It turns out that D&T does things a bit differently and they were offering tickets to a Pittsburgh Pirates game instead of our usual roller coaster tour. This could be a problem, I thought.<br />
You see, I don't care about baseball. I don't mean I hate it, that would mean I cared in a negative way. I could just give a damn whether or not it actually exists as a professional sport. I have been to literally hundreds of Pro games. When I was younger my father was the manager of a grocery store and he received complimentary suite tickets to games all the time. So I averaged about 5 or 6 games a summer. I loved watching the game. I would even bet (a <i>whole</i> dollar!) with my Aunt from Chicago which city would come out better at the end of the season. But the year the Kansas City Royals won the World Series in the Strike Year of 1985, that was the last professional baseball game I had seen in its entirety. It isn't important why. It just was. So Dude didn't exactly grow up in a baseball culture.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGzxdU99zOlt1AkOhHtPCfStLrx1aegU5-j8ON7Q3-YjTfRMjYMBSH66a6RU580VOJ-NYVBzERcOHnhBgsjYHCXdb4JV3xgn0xng2gmrVIVxOFprUea6l3VpeJFo6u2nD7JotYpNFD6z1n/s1600/DSCN3754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGzxdU99zOlt1AkOhHtPCfStLrx1aegU5-j8ON7Q3-YjTfRMjYMBSH66a6RU580VOJ-NYVBzERcOHnhBgsjYHCXdb4JV3xgn0xng2gmrVIVxOFprUea6l3VpeJFo6u2nD7JotYpNFD6z1n/s1600/DSCN3754.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
So while I could imagine that he would like to watch a game at the stadium, I couldn't be absolutely sure that he would be willing to substitute watching a game he barely knew for The Land Where Dude is King and Rollercoaster Game Park. I was such a chicken about it, I actually waited for David to say, 'We have to get to the Kennywood in the Summer Vacation!' before I had the guts to tell him we weren't actually going this year. 'What!?' Uh oh. 'How about we go to a Pirate's game instead?' That actually sparked some interest. 'Pirates Game!?' He seemed to mull it over for a few seconds. 'Yeah! We can go to the Pirate's game at the stadium! In the Pittsburgh! And the tunnels!!' And then he went careening off through the house yelling about going to a Pirate's game while I stood there, stunned. I didn't even have time to tell him there were no tunnels between us and PNC Park. Then I thought about his reaction. Well, cool, I thought, wonder if that'll work for the Vegas thing too? No such luck, you foolish man. Vegas is not a sport... it's an elevator Mecca and he wants to worship there at least, (but not limited to), once before he dies.<br />
He didn't completely give up on Kennywood, but another reminder of the joys of baseball kept him pretty much in check. With Dave (given his immediate ancestry) it's not always certain whether his persistent insistence of things he's been denied is because of his autism, or his... genetic predilections, shall we say. Does he really not understand the cause/effect of 'you can't have this, but I'll give you that', or is he just trying to wear down the great, granite rock that is his father's stubbornness? I mean, does he just not understand that the Vegas trip he dreams of has very little possibility of actually happening? Or is he just trying to out-stubborn his old man into spending hundreds of his hard-earned dollars on what is basically a chance for him to ride new and strange elevators?<br />
Be that as it may, Dave was graciously indifferent to the fact that Alexis, Raine, and I were going to the game with him. And had no interest at <i>all</i> in who the Pirates were actually playing (Colorado Rockies), although I have to admit, I didn't much care about that second one either. But without the other team, there wouldn't be a game, and without me he wouldn't be getting in... 'cause I had the tickets. Mostly. Actually, in fine Dude-Dad tradition I left the 4 tickets and the oh so cool $25 vouchers on my desk when we first left the house. Luckily Raine is a veteran of such situations and asked the question before we left town. So after a quick circle back to the house we were on our way to the game! Dude, another wily vet of the antics of his old man, didn't even bat an eye during the unplanned (but predictable) return to the hacienda.<br />
I sometimes wonder if my family here knows how often I 'wing it' when it comes to things I've never <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioeOgMoxlwa1Gyww-rJYUym-x-77G_e6h_hXrNUd-jjp3JLiWyCmNO-bCpjWurgfskInmHA5HhxKuFH-e5vH615VRZuoSoTK00O5SLiXbevZIZMspVUNhAWwRbrQYoZxOoCpEGy5lCF-Ne/s1600/DSCN3771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioeOgMoxlwa1Gyww-rJYUym-x-77G_e6h_hXrNUd-jjp3JLiWyCmNO-bCpjWurgfskInmHA5HhxKuFH-e5vH615VRZuoSoTK00O5SLiXbevZIZMspVUNhAWwRbrQYoZxOoCpEGy5lCF-Ne/s1600/DSCN3771.JPG" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
done before. Other than some quick internet research on a very uninformative information site I had absolutely no idea of the protocol of a Pittsburgh baseball game. Firstly, I had only a vague notion about the parking thing. Don't get me wrong, I've been parking cars since I was 11 years old, but had no idea how close to the stadium I could park and not have to buy a whole set of tires when it came time to leave. Other than the small dumpster full of cash I had to give the parking attendant, that part was pretty easy. We parked within about 2 blocks of the place and made our babbling (some more than others) way to the gates.<br />
Now I was all set to walk up to the gates like all the other baseball slobs and trudge my weary way to my seat. Two things got in the way of that. 1) We were going to a set of suites named after two of the years that the Pirates had won the World Series, so technically we didn't actually have 'seats' despite what it said on the tickets. 2) As a temporary member of the baseball watching elite we didn't need to mix with the 'rabble' in order to reach our designated viewing area. I can claim no credit for this insight. Raine was the one that found out (by cleverly asking one of the gate people) that we had passed the glass door that gave us direct access to our exclusive elevators that took us right up to our level, about 150 feet away from our suite. Of course I nearly had to tackle Dave to keep him from firstly, crashing his way right through the gates we weren't even going to use. And, secondly, to keep him from bowling several well-dressed patrons to the floor trying to get on our (his) exclusive elevators. Also there was nearly a wrestling match when the (very nice) lady tried to give him his complimentary poster. As primary servant to the King of Baseball, I intercepted the delivery and handed it to His Majesty.<br />
People just don't seem to understand that when Dave is in an elevator it is <i>his</i> elevator. He is the captain of that particular ship until it docks on the proper floor. Well, this time Captain Elevator had a pilot. That may have been only the second time his whole life that he had to deal with an operator. He adjusted quickly though, giving his orders to 'Take us to the floor with the Game!' So, in fact, David had no clue where we were going. The Captain also preferred a small crew, telling the 6 or 8 people behind us, 'This elevator is full! (there were only 4 people on it and even with me there we were <i>well</i> under the weight limit) 'You'll have to wait for the next car. This elevator is temporarily out of service.' The thing is, every time he does this he uses his 'Official Voice' and for just a second these people pause and look at me as if to ask if this young man might actually have the authority to deny them access. I, of course, am usually no help at all. And in that moment he turns to the attendant, 'We need to get to the top floor to watch the Games!' Understandably puzzled the operator turns her eyes to 'oh so helpful' me while the other patrons use this distraction to sneak onto Dave's elevator. Through minutes of intense Internet research (and the fact that I had the tickets) I was able to tell the nice woman that we were going to the club level. And she made it so.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcd59R2kLQ0hSMnk3WfTqHBUHmeqUmwVWklg1CH50alAHzVtrdJsq1bgsGu8vg9rKfyMdlmmiAzL9n65zs0b1e2Ki8yELTqSfZx7pKKln3HiGZnRsuls8WhTjpZhVAkfO6RbU26bAk7BH/s1600/DSCN3734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcd59R2kLQ0hSMnk3WfTqHBUHmeqUmwVWklg1CH50alAHzVtrdJsq1bgsGu8vg9rKfyMdlmmiAzL9n65zs0b1e2Ki8yELTqSfZx7pKKln3HiGZnRsuls8WhTjpZhVAkfO6RbU26bAk7BH/s1600/DSCN3734.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
When we got there we walked straight through the suite and stopped on the top step of the seats. Dave looked awestruck as he looked out onto the field. I said, 'What do you think, Dude? Is this cool, or what?' 'Yeah! this is cool!' We were both so caught up in the whole thing that I'm pretty sure we got in the way of at least half a dozen, probably very nice people, trying to get through. After my stranger-apology time was all used up we easily found some seats and the 4 of us sat down.<br />
Now that doesn't sound epic enough. What really happened was that David fell in Love. Love with a capital 'L'. As soon as he turned to his left to walk to his seat he came face to face and at eye level with the entire glory that is the Jumbotron at PNC park. Once his eyes met this shining wonder of technology he was hooked and didn't look back. He also didn't look at the field for the rest of the game. For the next 3 hours or so he was communing with his god and the rest of us just didn't exist. His Chief Servant (me) was immediately dispatched to return with hot dogs, chips, and soda, or possibly (to Dude) they just appeared in front of him magically. Because hot dogs are just part of a ball game. Besides which, he had a Jumbotron to watch, I'm fine, leave me alone.<br />
I tried to interest him in the actual game, actually being played, right in front of him. But I'm guessing <i>that</i> didn't exist to him either. Because, other than the occasional, and unenthusiastic, 'Yeah.' he absolutely refused to turn his head the 45 degrees it would have taking for him to have actually seen it. Actually, I know<br />
for a fact that he was absolutely mesmerized, because he wore his complimentary Pirates hat the entire game. Pretty much matching the total time he's voluntarily worn a hat his entire life.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1kx33_s99Z7-S8RRyGH9HwLZGYA9rxgsA4WVp2gKTVFip5jQ1Gqk8S2jYfKvZhJWaB0R-fu1r7GZAJggltzIPJQAbccdKgrB6QsLLyuDvLWB9YDM4JyyV1aXcwJ7EDasMBiJJn7D_WhH/s1600/DSCN3779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1kx33_s99Z7-S8RRyGH9HwLZGYA9rxgsA4WVp2gKTVFip5jQ1Gqk8S2jYfKvZhJWaB0R-fu1r7GZAJggltzIPJQAbccdKgrB6QsLLyuDvLWB9YDM4JyyV1aXcwJ7EDasMBiJJn7D_WhH/s1600/DSCN3779.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
Each of the rest of us took off one at a time to do something to help the team pay for some of those players. I think between the three of us we funded the mascot for about...20 minutes or maybe even a whole half hour. I was kind of feeling guilty about leaving him out there in his complimentary Pirates hat, out in the sun. David never noticed I was gone until I put another hot dog and Sprite in front of him. 'Hot dog? That's the perfect food, Dad!' He grabbed the dog, shifted back in his seat and continued to watch the game... The Jumbotron Game. I'm just glad he didn't ask me for the remote.<br />
Well the game finally ended and we casually made our way back to the elevators. Dave, on the other hand was wired like a cheap time-bomb. He practically dragged me to the elevators and I almost had to corral him to save the unsuspecting elevator riding public while we were waiting and then riding the thing. Once we were out, he was still so excited that I risked our lives crossing the street to avoid the heavier crowd on the Park side. For some reason at that moment I was actually 'designated leader' (it's never happened before) and Raine and Alex followed us <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGma37XoW1rxhyphenhyphenE5-B_6-Bqu6bDUBhpub2cLsXGn9AtJZNJz8rLJjgsQWIBMY7cm4u8cmus2N_kPpk_u7Eo0imMPInl3tNZ59bSUpmc0_dyPkFppUGY6a4dSAsXfZ2k9ajBtCx6USf413-/s1600/DSCN3764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGma37XoW1rxhyphenhyphenE5-B_6-Bqu6bDUBhpub2cLsXGn9AtJZNJz8rLJjgsQWIBMY7cm4u8cmus2N_kPpk_u7Eo0imMPInl3tNZ59bSUpmc0_dyPkFppUGY6a4dSAsXfZ2k9ajBtCx6USf413-/s1600/DSCN3764.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
through traffic across the street. And then complained to 'Our Glorious Leader about the dangers of Jaywalking. I don't remember an election, or anything. I didn't lead a revolution or participate in a coup I don't even remember ever <i>wanting</i> to be the leader. I think I must have gotten elected using Florida voting machines, or something.<br />
Although there was an aborted attempt at rushing the elevators of a parking garage we weren't even parked in, Dave finally calmed down about the time we got to the car. (I guess I was demoted from Glorious Leader to Nondescript Chauffeur) He wouldn't take his hat off all the way home, or even once we'd gotten home. He took off his shoes, Raine's Pirates jersey and disappeared into his room babbling about how 'Next week we get the Baseball Game for the 360!' I'm pretty sure that his hat went the way of his Olympic medals once he'd gotten to his room, because I haven't seen it since.<br />
Although we enjoyed going to the park, Raine, Alexis and I have pretty much come to the conclusion that Baseball will never supplant Hockey as the dominant sport in the house. As a matter of fact, Alex has dubbed it 'The most mind-numbingly boring game in the Universe.' But we were all (sort of) ready to watch a game occasionally in deference to Dude's new found enthusiasm for the game. Turns out we didn't have a thing to worry about. Evidently 'Wide-Screen TV' is a euphemism once one has enrolled in the Church of Jumbotron. Dave had no interest at all in watching The Game on a mere 46 inches of diagonal plasma. Oh how can we keep them down on the farm after they've seen Paree?stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-89367491454123843882014-07-25T20:28:00.000-04:002014-07-25T20:28:13.977-04:00Once Upon a Time:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAVeuYK5qz8t9tyCAVhq5PKxZ_l0FyD0LCSVR0RTG-T0ig7-pdnAgECm-XOeuikXuaV9LjejArG6geZ97ZarMlNkDN7pdvfup_P5XnTnNZP7FRac_DL2YdFhJzfs0C60VpCzV0vh1-_Hp/s1600/DSC_0040+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAVeuYK5qz8t9tyCAVhq5PKxZ_l0FyD0LCSVR0RTG-T0ig7-pdnAgECm-XOeuikXuaV9LjejArG6geZ97ZarMlNkDN7pdvfup_P5XnTnNZP7FRac_DL2YdFhJzfs0C60VpCzV0vh1-_Hp/s1600/DSC_0040+%25283%2529.JPG" height="173" width="320" /></a></div>
..... And they lived happily ever after.<br />
When I was a kid that's what I always waited for in the stories. After the big climax. The whole point in the lives of these characters. The Pinnacle, the Acme, the Omega moment. They'd found the Reason for their existence. They had fulfilled their Destinies. From this moment on, everything in their lives would be a cruise. Someone comes up to them the next day and asks, 'What are you going to do today?' They'd look confused by the question for a moment, then shrug and say, 'I don't know... Go fishing I guess.'<br />
I guess I'd always imagined that the people in the stories had just gone through a concentrated version of what everyone else would consider a lifetime's worth of crap. Therefore, with their karmic crap-reservoir emptied they had nothing else that would mess with them for the rest of their lives. The only thing left to worry about is whether or not the fish are biting, or 'Do I get honey mustard, or ranch for my McNuggets?' (Dude would say, 'Ranch') Because that's the kind of balance I'm looking for in my life. You use up your crap reserves and then, like fossil fuels, once they're gone, it'll be like 400 million years before there'll be any more.<br />
At this point in my life, I'm pretty sure I was wrong. It may be cynical of me, but I'm considering the opinion that the people in those books didn't have 'easy' lives. It's just that the 'happily' in Happily Ever After, just means that happily we won't have to look in on the really boring, day to day grind parts of these people's lives. The hum-drum every day stuff that would make a reality TV producer jump off a bridge.<br />
I write a lot here about the highlights, the Sunday Funnies parts of our lives. Mostly because most of the other stuff that goes on with us is boring as hell. At least to us... it's normal... kind of. Dave really does spend about 70% of his life either playing his games, watching his videos (self recorded and others), going to school, and trying to find new ways to integrate cheese into his life. Of the 10% of his time that he actually interacts with outside people (the Straights) maybe 1% is out of our ordinary enough to get me to write about it. Don't get<span style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"> </span><span style="text-align: center;">me wrong, it's always an adventure when we're out in public. Dude will randomly and repeatedly tell everyone, 'I'll see you in Vegas next year!' instead of goodbye. Then, 'It's okay... it's only the casinos! At the Vegas, 2015! See you there!' If they look confused about how they'll find him in Vegas, and when we're all supposed to hook-up there. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHfxEUbcSJOSR5_Rb1f74hyphenhyphen1niImjttTq-jvtZJGnSxCWBO3YMQ01-bAyQaY5uan-iOotNf4YWCycoK-Seb-9QA6dTV9_QSwaR-cUOM-OmrEGEOaFOPWkuRsZsWhQZSYNDVDsylZZHw8c/s1600/dude3.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHfxEUbcSJOSR5_Rb1f74hyphenhyphen1niImjttTq-jvtZJGnSxCWBO3YMQ01-bAyQaY5uan-iOotNf4YWCycoK-Seb-9QA6dTV9_QSwaR-cUOM-OmrEGEOaFOPWkuRsZsWhQZSYNDVDsylZZHw8c/s1600/dude3.tif" height="233" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend Susan and her photoshop again....<br />
She doesn't need to give him any more ideas </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sometimes he's oh so very polite, 'How's it going, buddy?' or even 'How are you doing today, sir?' Mostly this happens the weekend after a 'Bad Notes' week. Other (most) times he could care less, quoting movies at rapid speed and increasing volume until even I have to say, 'Hey buddy, tone it down a bit, okay?' Or, when he gets a bit forgetful driving the shopping cart, 'Hey man, watch where you're going, okay?' (I say 'okay' quite a bit) To which he'll reply, 'Oh! Sorry! Sorry! My Bad!' Then he'll persist in his apology until the nervous woman acknowledges him somehow. This may be new and news to the people around us, but to us, it's just the day-to-day. I often wonder why the folks at Giant Eagle think it's so weird.<br />
One of the blogs I intermittently follow is called <a href="http://fruitypebblesfordinner.blogspot.com/">Fruity Pebbles for Dinner</a>, it's written by a nice (as far as I know) woman named Leah with 2 children, one autistic, and one not. I'd like to say that I initially chose to read her blog because of the similarities of our experiences. At the time, I was also trying to raise 2 children with different needs, trying to find a balance between the needs of one and the other, and the special needs of my son had also earlier caused my spouse to run for the hills (Prairie, actually, she fled to Kansas). But that would sound to profound and thoughtful, and I don't want to lead you astray. At least not in that direction. Actually I'd seen the title of her blog in someone else's blogroll, thought it was cute, checked it out, liked her writing and immediately added her to my favorites. The other stuff I found out later.<br />
As I hadn't read her blog in some time, I scanned the less recent posts for anything I might have missed (namely anything in the previous 6 months) and I found one of her posts titled: <em><a href="http://fruitypebblesfordinner.blogspot.com/2011/05/autism-robbed-me-of-my-son.html#comments">autism robbed me of my son</a>.</em> It stemmed from another blog she'd read and mildly disagreed with, and at the end of it I found a comment by someone I'm fairly familiar with. Yes, the DudeDad<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
himself... or myself, rather.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7Xo3z0khCsjpNysORQZi_m2sehUSoCcYcZPejDVsbncJW9j4vu69D2EXUaiu3ibkMVpjWgU_ntWgCQpEBNZVLtmBVkCmEgASY1vgdM1bLlPoNoHcI0RP_voTUUNvfYqfksVxjgyTZW9u/s1600/dudestuff+009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7Xo3z0khCsjpNysORQZi_m2sehUSoCcYcZPejDVsbncJW9j4vu69D2EXUaiu3ibkMVpjWgU_ntWgCQpEBNZVLtmBVkCmEgASY1vgdM1bLlPoNoHcI0RP_voTUUNvfYqfksVxjgyTZW9u/s1600/dudestuff+009.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'ts nostalgia week in the BlogPics. 2008 SO</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<em>I agree with you. Autism never robbed ME of anything. Dude is, and always has been Dude and I've always accepted that. What it's robbed him of is a bit trickier of a question. There are certainly things that he could and would be doing without autism that are impossible with it. But for the most part he's a happy kid, and not counting the things Dad makes him do, or school (another Dad idea,he's sure) he's doing what he enjoys. Don't misunderstand me, it's a hard slog on a long road, but it is what it is. And if a 'cure' were suddenly found for autism, I'd actually have to think for a bit before I signed him up for it. I'd definitely sign him up, but I'd have to think about it first.</em><br />
As I re-read the comment I'd made in the heat of emotion years earlier I found tears welling up in my eyes again. Also I was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to go upstairs and do something rambunctious with my son, just to have something to do with all these conflicting sad/ warm and fuzzy feelings running through me. The last two lines weren't something I'd have normally said to <em>anyone</em>, not David, Raine, my family, or probably even myself. But somehow there it was for anyone to see. My actual, honest emotional opinion, left out on the interwaves, written for a stranger, someone I'd never met or talked to, or was ever likely to. She'd written some things that touched me and had once quoted me in <a href="http://fruitypebblesfordinner.blogspot.com/2011/03/my-autism-mirror.html#comments">one of her posts</a> but that kind of flattery doesn't explain opening the doorway to things I'm not even supposed to admit I think about. (I recently looked at her blog again while re-writing this, and was sad to find that she hadn't written anything in over a year.)<br />
One thing that's stereotypically agreed to by 'helpers' (those who deal with special needs) and 'others' (those who do not) is that each special needs parent has an automatic and overwhelming blind need/desire/ambition to have their 'burden' relieved by having their child 'cured'. No thought required, no hesitation allowed, no exceptions considered. They put themselves into our perceived position and don't even imagine that we wouldn't automatically want a way out of a bad situation. A question springs to my mind: How much is all this for the child, and how much for the parent? I mean, he/she might thank you for it later. But, when I think about it, atypical children are some of the few consistently truly happy people on the planet. The parents are sometimes grumpy (myself included), but most of the kids are having a blast.<br />
I can hear the question, 'Why wouldn't you want your son to be 'cured'?' But how can you love someone so much for everything they are and not hesitate about the prospect of at least some of that going away? I realize that I'm taking a (supposedly) hypothetical question and treating it with more logic than it probably deserves, but still. Is it really that amazing that I <em>like</em> my barely communicative, stubborn, non-responsive, but incredibly loud son? Or that I love the things he is in spite of his 'condition'.<br />
Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to speak for anyone but myself. I understand that there are plenty of people out there with a <em>much, much</em> tougher row to hoe than I have. But there are also some parents (and others) out there that can get so caught up and bitter about 'what could be' that they miss any chance of seeing the good parts of what is. There are some. Good parts, that is. Tough to find, as elusive as a muffled curse in a crowd. But, hey, if it were easy, anyone could do it.<br />
Like just about any parent, I look for things in my child that may have been passed down from me. Because Dude is who he is, means that I have to look harder, imagine harder, and possibly lie to myself a bit more than your average parent to find them. What it amazed me (and continues to) was that just like every 'typical' parent who ever parented, there are things that, evidently, only Other People can see. I mentioned something about my search for similarities between the Dudes when Raine interrupted, "Oh he is SOOO like you.' I stopped, startled, and when she didn't go on, I said (in my intelligent male manner), 'Huh?' She laughed, and reiterated, 'Even if I didn't know the two of you, I would still know that he's Your Boy.' She said it that way too, Your Boy. In capitals like it was a title or something, not the kind of prize they give away in Cracker Jacks.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ef_XMt-gd4m21RBwpwuX_2-9HZiHh554C-wyPaGOwNVTV37i0-ddhhJTbUT8BEWBzZQeubSqPs1KsobycnJlS2XwRp3TIrcUTwaTHKF8E-ilTOEAa_XVqqnjk27a2pcY2qHeV-w43y6m/s1600/IMG26.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ef_XMt-gd4m21RBwpwuX_2-9HZiHh554C-wyPaGOwNVTV37i0-ddhhJTbUT8BEWBzZQeubSqPs1KsobycnJlS2XwRp3TIrcUTwaTHKF8E-ilTOEAa_XVqqnjk27a2pcY2qHeV-w43y6m/s1600/IMG26.JPG" height="320" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the Reed Family archives, a<br />
looooooong time ago</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She started ticking off her points on her fingers. 'You both do the 'heavy drama' thing.(Drama? We know not whereof she speaks!) You both quote from the same movies, you're stubborn, hard-headed (I had always thought those were the same thing) (And I am not, neither stubborn!!) you can both be incredibly charming... when you need to be.' (She somehow managed to make that sound like it might not necessarily be a good thing.) 'and you both drive me crazy like no one else can.(Uhhhhh... okay, she's got us there) <i>And</i> you both think it's funny.' (That <em>really</em> didn't come out sounding like it was a good thing. Fun? yes. Good?.... not so much.) Even if I didn't know you, I would know that He was Your Son.' She had said it twice.... Like she really wanted me to know she meant it. I know she would never actually <i>lie</i> to me, but I'm sure she's exaggerating a bit here, just for effect. I'm pretty sure she is, anyway. At least some...<br />
So, no swords pulled out of stones, no dragons slayed, or maidens rescued. No 'Happily Ever After's' here in Dudeville. I'm pretty sure we wouldn't know what to do with them anyway. We'll just keep the story going for now...stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-37642194910899429702014-07-19T22:37:00.000-04:002014-07-19T22:37:32.897-04:00Uncomfortable Praise... uh... Pause: This is an addition to, <a href="http://duderatt.blogspot.com/2014/04/minister-of-propaganda.html">The Minister of Propaganda</a>:<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3BwQ1ccV7hNyxCxlB5CjKfazaEFKFldw3Upb1iX9PbaqnWNS081oo90WMeXyLqnys1k7Ybpyg5m7WBPb4863Ai74oXryjMwawD9tlFT0mV_z9e6TEsrGX8UYHubs-JRKB0xd42CGWr0Y/s1600/DSC_0046+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3BwQ1ccV7hNyxCxlB5CjKfazaEFKFldw3Upb1iX9PbaqnWNS081oo90WMeXyLqnys1k7Ybpyg5m7WBPb4863Ai74oXryjMwawD9tlFT0mV_z9e6TEsrGX8UYHubs-JRKB0xd42CGWr0Y/s1600/DSC_0046+(2).jpg" height="320" width="207" /></a> With the faint sounds of hurricane sirens and bloodhounds baying, desperately trying to avoid the harsh glare of the spotlights, and weaving through the razor-wire, I stumbled urgently down the hall toward the distant hope of the front door and freedom. Okay, it wasn't quite that bad, but it sounds much cooler when I put it that way, instead of, 'In craven fear I slunk down the hallway, trying to flee Dave's school.' Just doesn't have the same ring to it. I was actually trying to get away from a veritable storm of questions about bogus trips to Vegas that left me with the vague feeling that I was somehow at fault.<br />
As I was making my surreptitious attempt at exiting the building, I was stopped by Ashley Jakubowski, former and current cohort of Jill Masura, of Talent Show fame. Ashley wanted to talk about Dude, and how wonderful his performance was, but mostly she seemed to want to talk about the Blog. And how wonderful the stories are, and then how wonderful I am, both because I'm writing it and just because...well, I was just born that wonderful, I guess. Now, I'll get all misty and talk about that Talent Show until people's ears fall off. But, for some reason I get uneasy when people gush about me. But Jill heard her talking (and let's face it, who didn't?) and walked across the hallway about the same time that Ashley said, 'We need to find some way of getting your stories published! And I'm not the only one who thinks so.' and when Jill said, with a smile, 'Yes!' Ashley topped her with, 'See?! I told you I wasn't the only one!', pointing her finger at me. I think if there hadn't been such a disparity in our sizes I would have been in danger of getting poked in the chest!.<br />
In my usual self-deprecating manner I tried to downplay my 'wonderfulness', but they were having none of it. 'Everybody here reads it!' Ashley stated sharply, 'We all read it, and we laugh, and we cry.' And Jill said, 'Yes, we all love it. I hope you don't mind that I share it with all my family.' I was pretty embarrassed by this time, but I said sincerely, 'No, I don't mind at all, if you think they'll enjoy it.'<br />
Now Ashley is very brash and up front and intense, and Jill is very quiet. I began to feel like I was in some sort of Special Needs, good cop-bad cop routine. 'All right. confess your wonderfulness, or we'll tell the kid that you're taking him to Vegas.' 'No! Not that! Anything but that!'<br />
Then Jill (the quiet one) leaned forward and said, 'No, I don't think you understand what your stories mean.' I thought I did. I mean, I'd written them. 'People see our kids and all they hear are the bad things. About is how hard everything is, and how tough it is to raise them. They ask me all the time, How can you stand to be around them?, Even my family doesn't understand. But you're not like that, you see the humor and the good things, and you put <i>that </i>in your stories.' She may have said some other stuff, but my blushing had pretty much stopped up my ears at this point. She was right about one thing, though. Evidently I <i>didn't </i>understand what my stories meant. At least not all of it.<br />
Now it says right here in the Manual of the Emotionally Repressed that; When faced by a concerted effort to expose gushy feelings or admittance of Wonderfulness it is required that the repressed individual immediately turn the conversational spotlight on someone else. By any means necessary.<br />
Luckily for me, I didn't have too far to go, since as far as I could see the person with the most Wonderfulness here was standing right in front of me. 'I am sooo glad you're teaching Dude again.' I said quickly, 'And I'm glad you're doing the music thing. I don't think anyone else could have gotten all that out of Dude.' She blushed a bit, and paused in saying 'wonderful' things about me. 'I think I've found my calling.' she said bashfully. Aha! Someone else in this conversation was uncomfortable with praise. 'When you wrote in the Blog that you hadn't sung with David for a while... We had that problem at first, but once he started, it was so wonderful!' Her face got mock-serious, 'I just had to figure out some way of getting him in to the show.' She grinned, 'He looked so good in that tux!'<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7fCkhIs_wPWbR0_ld7FFzmOhoas5TU1l4lp-oeowr0zNhtsSJdFchmQNZB0U0UkjdhxZRKBG1tzAnJrkJAthyXVpo3NDPDL_M5x0XSW091IUMlDYugKYVdryh56-1sP1vNVtFON15aoP/s1600/DSC_0054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7fCkhIs_wPWbR0_ld7FFzmOhoas5TU1l4lp-oeowr0zNhtsSJdFchmQNZB0U0UkjdhxZRKBG1tzAnJrkJAthyXVpo3NDPDL_M5x0XSW091IUMlDYugKYVdryh56-1sP1vNVtFON15aoP/s1600/DSC_0054.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a> Realizing that the conversation may turn back to me at any moment, I turned to bring Ashley back into the conversation but Ashley is a small person with a lot of energy and also a lot of stuff to do, so she used the pause to vanish mysteriously, so I was on my own. But I had lost momentum and the ball, conversationally speaking, was back in Jill's court. I thought I was lucky when she merely asked, 'Is David going to prom this year?' 'Yes.' I said, somehow managing not to roll my eyes. 'Mrs. Yarosz heard that I'd allowed the Talent Show and hit me when I was weak and my Permission force fields were down.' She laughed a bit, then continued, 'My husband, Dan (Ashley IM-ed me his name when I screwed it up last time) would really like to meet you.' 'That would be cool.' I said, thinking... well, that it would be cool. She continued, a bit more earnestly, 'He saw you at the Special Olympics, after I pointed you out, but didn't want to bother you.' That confused me a bit. Bother me? How could meeting new people bother me? It must have shown on my face (after all it was right out front where everyone could see it) 'He reads the Blog too, I think he's a bit nervous about meeting you.' Okay... <i>one</i> of us has to do some reassessment of my Celebrity Status. And I'm pretty sure it's not me. 'Well, he wouldn't have 'bothered' me' I said, trying to stumble back away from me being the topic of praise or awe. 'I'm really looking forward to meeting him.' I finished lamely, but sincerely. I started hearing faint echoes of the sirens again and maybe even the bloodhounds baying in the distance, and was just about to give out with my favorite Never-Fail distraction, 'Look! There's an Elephant!' when Jill said something about having to get ready for her first class of the day, and that allowed me to run <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrCpSFHCTeIbYeLm2kztSpMiLfKuk8h6J03MALfmQbUm7IRdtGjhTN43Y7RQrP1Un4bP2_f0L3thvcGeX9Pj6ReNbz2Y6ju8TsvoD3WNB1HUmgFnbjqbXVXPH4JWQIytFyvHCwdON11UV-/s1600/DSC_0030+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrCpSFHCTeIbYeLm2kztSpMiLfKuk8h6J03MALfmQbUm7IRdtGjhTN43Y7RQrP1Un4bP2_f0L3thvcGeX9Pj6ReNbz2Y6ju8TsvoD3WNB1HUmgFnbjqbXVXPH4JWQIytFyvHCwdON11UV-/s1600/DSC_0030+%25282%2529.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
like a little girl out of the building and back to the Land of Denial.stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-59954777471311246692014-07-14T17:07:00.001-04:002014-07-14T17:07:14.691-04:00The Not So Sporting News:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiujjHiv85Bst2y15I6GaS9uytHIIp9StTSGElbNayDzcQTrNnYg9P2gr7vBMlSjsL8J-2B0C3_9jQQeMZ-1-P-ImWiK49hZmUyStYLgG9ZUwdMO8BKIoRoLs6vMdv-mesJgQSolkDiYxa/s1600/DSC_0154+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiujjHiv85Bst2y15I6GaS9uytHIIp9StTSGElbNayDzcQTrNnYg9P2gr7vBMlSjsL8J-2B0C3_9jQQeMZ-1-P-ImWiK49hZmUyStYLgG9ZUwdMO8BKIoRoLs6vMdv-mesJgQSolkDiYxa/s1600/DSC_0154+%25282%2529.jpg" height="320" width="307" /></a> <br />
The day after Prom I let David see the letter from Beaver County Special Olympics inviting him to participate in the State Olympic Games in State College. We were kind of getting worried because it was getting pretty close and we hadn't heard anything. 'Yes!' He yelled, 'He goes to the State College and then he goes to Vegas on the Summer Vacation!' 'Well...' I said calmly, 'If you get the good notes you'll go to State College to the Special Olympics.' 'Yes!!' He practically shouted, 'If he gets the good notes he gets to take the System to the State College to record the elevators!' Uh... hang on. I didn't remember saying anything like that. I didn't even remember <i>thinking </i>anything like that, or even anything that might be mistaken for that by drunken, LSD overdosed hippies in a coma ward. I gave him one of my patented (r) non-committal looks and said nothing. I said it very well, and for more than a few moments. Just a German-standoff (we're not Mexican, after all)<br />
You see, it's my job to remember things. Which is a sad, sad statement on the position. But we've had some problems getting things back from State College. The first year, it was just a belt. No big deal, except that with Dave's proplastic thumb he can't manipulate a regular leather belt all that well, and decent elastic belts are getting pretty hard to find. Last year it was his entire laundry collection. Completely my fault, I didn't know that they had put everyone's laundry into a separate garbage bag and, when I found his suitcase, I just grabbed it, fought my way through the pack and headed for the hills. So sending him 150 miles away with a couple hundred dollars worth of game didn't appeal to me much.<br />
Dave has a look he gives me. He doesn't use it very often, but he knows when he's hit a wall that won't be moved (me) and even then he only uses it on special occasions. I call it his 'Cocker Spaniel' look. With this look, if a Broadway scout wanted to cast Oliver he'd give it to Dave on the spot. It's the most heartfelt, soulful begging ever carried out without a word being spoken. Strong men have broken under less pressure than this, but all Dude was getting out of me, was, 'We'll see.'<br />
Over the next two weeks I was repeatedly and randomly bombarded with demands, pleas, significant looks and a long and oft repeated list of my youngest offspring's worthiness as a cross-state elevator-video journalist. If only the proper equipment (3DS) was provided. 'He has to go to the State College and take the videos of the elevators!' And if I didn't pay attention occasionally, 'And then to the elevators at the Vegas!' Uh huh... riiiiiight. Nice try kid. But somehow or another the entire fortnight passed without a bad note from school or the bus ladies or even mostly from home. He had the suck-up thrusters working at Warp Factor 10, greeting Raine and I each evening with an almost formal, 'Hi there, Raine/Dad. How was work today?', holding the door and not even hitting us with it trying to close it. We were almost startled at our new Dude-butler 2.0, but we'd seen this kind of thing before. So other than a few amused glances and replies we let it go.<br />
Eventually, as it always seems to do, the two weeks passed and it was time for me to pack Dude's suitcase (which he had been calling for, for two days) and in that case (mysteriously) was Dave's 3DS. Okay, I'll admit it... no. Wait. No I won't. It would be silly of my to ruin what is left of my reputation to admit that sometimes I am a complete softie when it comes to David. So I won't do it. Needless to say somehow or another a certain Japanese video game product <i>may</i> have been secreted somewhere in his luggage by person, or persons unknown. I managed to get him to the School and the ungodly hour that they insisted they had to leave, and, once again, Dave majestically allowed all the other athletes to use <i>his </i>bus to get to State College. I, of course, was one of those not worthy to ride in the Royal Coach, and so had to make my own<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7D4SirRhUa2DTs7_vHK95n9K1nos8XSwJ_z0a5VvVZPQCFiKtQ6_HHWxshOA_IAEjQmp35LiWKLgi9y81tgrH04nqoDO9ccz4JLwcWH3wfMHcJEtCqIWNSYIn7U9HItMg6X1iIzgt0DPh/s1600/DSC_0075+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7D4SirRhUa2DTs7_vHK95n9K1nos8XSwJ_z0a5VvVZPQCFiKtQ6_HHWxshOA_IAEjQmp35LiWKLgi9y81tgrH04nqoDO9ccz4JLwcWH3wfMHcJEtCqIWNSYIn7U9HItMg6X1iIzgt0DPh/s1600/DSC_0075+%25282%2529.JPG" height="320" width="252" /></a></div>
way to the Olympics with the rest of the serfs.<br />
Of course most of the rest of the serfs don't ride their Virago... So I do have some perks. I showed up at State College and being an old hand (emphasis on <i>old)</i> I rode directly to the track just in time to hear, 'Last call for the men's 100 meter time trials' and I'm thinking, Hey, I'm getting this timing thing down really good! Oh foolish boy. I was actually standing around for about another hour and a half in black chaps and boots (much to the amusement of one of the female contestants, who kept asking me where my motorcycle was) waiting for David's heat. And when wearing black leather in the summer, 'heat' is the appropriate word. This set the tone for the weekend. Dude was normally one of the first guys in the tent for his event and one of the last 20 or so to compete.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHtEv_80Vas-AywF9p2GoSFkhv-E0pNzqM02funuyZ48g0Kz4d3NLe90vdhZ84_u0DH6RnTqm62TIxJLmiWTynGEZqI1o6XL198xKUUSvHRtrOYzGWEA8BxAXwNXWMlsMpYKuRscIeLkg/s1600/DSC_0017+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHtEv_80Vas-AywF9p2GoSFkhv-E0pNzqM02funuyZ48g0Kz4d3NLe90vdhZ84_u0DH6RnTqm62TIxJLmiWTynGEZqI1o6XL198xKUUSvHRtrOYzGWEA8BxAXwNXWMlsMpYKuRscIeLkg/s1600/DSC_0017+%25282%2529.JPG" height="234" width="320" /></a></div>
But compete he did. It was finally time to line up for the heat and Dave walked out with the rest and lined up. I thought he looked pretty relaxed for having waited in a tent for over an hour. The boys were lined up and David had gone through 3 or 5 different starting poses by the time all the timers were ready to go, then the whistle was blown and they were off! Mostly. Dave started out dead last and got worse from there. I mean those guys were leaving him in the dust! I was about halfway down the run and about 40 feet off the track taking pictures with a puzzled expression on my face. When Dude was about halfway down the track he noticed me taking pictures and started smiling, waving and saying 'Hi Dad!' I was even more confused. This is the kid who always tries to cheat the start, or push his way to the front and here he is almost side-shuffling down the track waving at the crowd and seemingly having the time of his life. I was digging that he was enjoying himself, but was very confused as to his lack of effort. Everyone else crossed the line about 2 1/2 hours before David did. Well... not really but the 8th place kid finished at least 10 yards ahead of him in a 100 yard race. I now have some suspicions, but more on that later.<br />
You know, people talk all the time about how autistic kids are tied to their routines, but I'm not so sure it's just the kids. Three years I've been going to State Special Olympics and the first time was only time I had to wonder where the group was camped. They set up in exactly the same spot on the stands every year. The same two sisters were wrangling the kids (please don't ask me names... we know how I am with names) and I deposited Dave with the group and found out when his next event was and before I even asked the question, he was sitting down, ignoring me, with his 3DS already playing his game.<br />
Since his next event wasn't until late in the afternoon, I went to my (now) usual motel after having <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvpWouyzOxoXIhlnJu-Nqr5-Ps6N_vkHORssXulcZshkqI-HU6XMNKRvYf1HDnP0-ZeHHuU3iWutgQ04_RPD9IeLMtG132ZknM6OJ1oYUkXrApkygygQIT2OFwZIWjvcv40fGzUhGf9iW/s1600/DSC_0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvpWouyzOxoXIhlnJu-Nqr5-Ps6N_vkHORssXulcZshkqI-HU6XMNKRvYf1HDnP0-ZeHHuU3iWutgQ04_RPD9IeLMtG132ZknM6OJ1oYUkXrApkygygQIT2OFwZIWjvcv40fGzUhGf9iW/s1600/DSC_0031.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
breakfast at my (now) usual cafe. Then, for an hour or so, I went exploring the wonderful little town I stay in whenever I'm up there. It's a little Victorian town, but it's wonderful and I'm only there a few hours every year so I've always got new things to see.<br />
I made it back in plenty of time to watch Dude squirm around in the starting tent for the Running Long Jump. Actually he was being pretty good, but you could tell he was about over the whole 'waiting patiently' thing. Since he's in the 'Over 18' category he has to wait for all the high school aged kids to go first, and that is simply <i>not</i> in Dave's lexicon. But, eventually, the waiting was over (for now) and it was time to line up and head across the field to the jumping pit.<br />
Dave has had problems in the past in dealing with the fact that there is a Line that Shall Not Be Crossed. (a condition not unknown in my family) When he was doing the Standing LJ he would wiggle his toes across the line at the last moment before his jump and his effort would be disqualified. Last year only one of his jumps counted and the year before, none of them did. And this year he'd be running at that line full speed. I expected problems. They're much less lenient at the State level than they are at the County games. The have no sense of humor about mistakes. And personally... I blame the adults. Not necessarily the ones in charge of, or running the games, but I've got to tell you, 'Little League Moms' aren't all watching baseball games... and they're not all 'moms'. Just sayin.<br />
There is no segue back from that, so I'll just muster on: When Dude made it over to the pit, there was a ref/judge who was taking the time with each group to explain the rules and show them, with his own foot, what would be accepted as a real jump. He also, during the competition would make sure that each contestant knew if they'd mad a good jump, or what he'd done wrong, again showing them, not just telling them. I thought it was pretty cool... Dave was less impressed. He... sort-of listened to the guy, but kept walking away, trying to get to the starting position. It was like, 'Okay, okay.... run.... jump... land in <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfueUEsYEswlQPGjUopraaMJL7FHmZYWFZwcvZtvk1L7nNFrU0OUJiGH4VGFuapq1AlpMgqeOLlPEYq0ytfG3JoPrSbo1zgbpxonSYL4YRcT1qpngKdvVe90BPOtI-nb3MAoLPHv93I01/s1600/DSC_0081+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfueUEsYEswlQPGjUopraaMJL7FHmZYWFZwcvZtvk1L7nNFrU0OUJiGH4VGFuapq1AlpMgqeOLlPEYq0ytfG3JoPrSbo1zgbpxonSYL4YRcT1qpngKdvVe90BPOtI-nb3MAoLPHv93I01/s1600/DSC_0081+%25282%2529.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
sand....not over line.. Got it! Let's go!!' The guy would patiently wait for the volunteer to bring him back, and he made sure that David actually understood what he was saying. My mercenary ass was sitting behind the camera going, 'There's only two of them in this heat. If he gets one qualified jump he gets a medal!' I realize at that moment, my son trains me just as much as I train him. After all, he's the one that wants the medals, not me. I never even see the things after he takes them up into his room.<br />
When it came time for the jumps Dude, in typical Dude fashion, went through a couple of different poses at the beginning of his run. There was this kind of Disco thing with his arm in the air that immediately dropped into fists out front and back that immediately got me thinking, 'He has been watching too much Olympic gymnastics...' because it looked <i>exactly</i> like the start of almost every Women's Vault that I've ever seen. Only sideways. And then I thought, 'Where the hell has he been watching Olympic Gymnastics?' But before that important question could be answered he was off.<br />
Now this is what I expected watching Dave. Face intent, running down the lane he hit the stripe with his foot and launched himself in the air.... about 3 feet. The grin on his <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxI8txpLusnJj7ISRXqkjb1dgVw6tFSEuPbzDrEiQRlB-iJOAD7G9JYTVcoq2B5GMmYGAeaIpB0xfV5jwbPNZ4VYSLGwcyS701RSoigOUiWDzOrdwfGuB8DRpCp2_KF_Ixd38SFU95Y2lC/s1600/DSC_0089+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxI8txpLusnJj7ISRXqkjb1dgVw6tFSEuPbzDrEiQRlB-iJOAD7G9JYTVcoq2B5GMmYGAeaIpB0xfV5jwbPNZ4VYSLGwcyS701RSoigOUiWDzOrdwfGuB8DRpCp2_KF_Ixd38SFU95Y2lC/s1600/DSC_0089+%25282%2529.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
face after he'd made the landing told me that he knew he'd made a good jump. After the judge told him he had, he started back toward the Waiting for Awards tent and had to be stopped and brought back for his other two jumps. He was like: Why? We all know what's going to happen. I get a medal. So give me the medal and let's get this over with. No such luck. Unfortunately for the volunteer girls they later had to pass directly behind the award stands to get to that tent, once they were done jumping. Because Dave, thinking to save time and cut out the whole tent thing to get back to his Nintendo World headed straight for the podium instead of just passing it by. This completely disrupted a group of Long Distance walkers trouping up to get their medals. He didn't seem to care about them, he wanted his medal. I'll admit, he was actually a bit less stubborn than usual about heading to the tent. Hardly any argument at all...really....<br />
I think David was more impressed by the Gunnery Sergeant they had giving out the awards last year. He was still respectful of the Lieutenant that handed out the medals with the 'Milk Maid Princess',(I'm not kidding, she had a sash and everything) but officers don't seem to rate as many 'sirs' as a non-com. But Gunny or Louie, the silver was around the neck (as it should be) and Dude was done for the day. We went back to the stands, and before I could even get there he had already snatched his game, plugged in the 'phones' and was lost in the World of Elevators Past. Not for long though. Just after I got up there he looked at me, 'Uh oh! The batteries are dead! He needs the charger for the game to watch the videos!' With a quick glance I noticed that everyone in the immediate area was looking at me. 'Uh....Okay.' I said hesitantly. I mean, obviously they all expected me to fix it. Dave was not only expecting it, he was nearly demanding it! 'I packed the charger in the suitcase.' I told him. Making sure it was loud enough for everyone to hear. Then I put my foot in it. (and we all know what 'it' is) 'You have to wait until you're back in your room to charge it up. You can't do anything here.' Dave immediately shot up from his seat. I realized my mistake at once. But, of course, too late. 'Yup! He has to get back to the room for the charger for the system!' He started to walk across the bleachers (and a couple of kids) I stopped him about the same time Marta (That's her name, really. I looked it up this time. You can trust it) and I said nearly the exact same thing. ' No! You have to wait for the other kids to be done first.' Just as enthusiastic as if we'd agreed, 'Yes! Then we can go to the rooms and ride the elevators and charge the System!' Marta and I both agreed quickly and David sat back down with his System in his lap, looking prepared to wait patiently and the matter seemed to be settled. But with Dudes you never know.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKBkKeTa_mbizcAjHeuWUz4JjfZxm7JCNxLsa1Wua_HgOrlCJPqlBwr9TNuR0n9r9TMQD8Vj1YRR6VDbVyGZ23a1SN4J29w8k7ljGekbCDsLs0aeXKRrwlEjWWbYJFwRxRezdnDcnhPfj/s1600/DSC_0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKBkKeTa_mbizcAjHeuWUz4JjfZxm7JCNxLsa1Wua_HgOrlCJPqlBwr9TNuR0n9r9TMQD8Vj1YRR6VDbVyGZ23a1SN4J29w8k7ljGekbCDsLs0aeXKRrwlEjWWbYJFwRxRezdnDcnhPfj/s1600/DSC_0037.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
Friday is the night of the Big Dance/Appreciation gathering in the evening after dinner. Dude loves to dance. Being way too German, I can't really tell if he's any good at it, but he loves doing it and that's enough. This year I had a big problem keeping track of David. He'd dance his way out of the crowd, stay by me for a little while, then he'd disappear again. I would circle the slowly growing main crowd, but never even catch a glimpse of him until he'd worked his way over to me again. Then he'd repeat the process, leaving me wondering just how the hell he was doing it.<br />
This year we were going to be joined by my niece Alexis, who moved to Pgh last summer to help with Dave and then decided not to leave. Poor girl. Leaving after work would put her in State College just after the dance started, so she would be able to join in the fun.... If two things hadn't happened. One: She didn't have the Military Grade GPS that is about all that can keep up with how screwed up Pittsburgh streets get. And B: If her scapegrace uncle had known she was going to be late he would have continued to look at his phone while waiting for her text much longer. That way she wouldn't have been circling the campus with absolutely no idea where to go. I admire her restraint. She hardly yelled at me at all.<br />
The next morning Alexis and I had just enough time to grab some drinks and zip over to the track for Dave's first event. Well, actually we had enough time to harvest our breakfast out of the fields, cook enough for a crew of field hands, take a nature hike, knit a couple of sweaters and then leisurely stroll to the track.... from Altoona. To paraphrase Thomas Paine, 'These are the times that try men's patience'. Man, we did a LOT of waiting that weekend.<br />
Alex and I, in our foolish quest to get a better view of the shot-put area, trudged around the fence to the other side of the track. Around the outside of the fence, I mean. The SO police were very fierce and frightening. I never did find out what happened to that one couple. But I'm sure it involved years of therapy to recover from the stern talking-to they got when they stepped into the Forbidden Area. Alexis and I were made of sneakier stuff. We skirted our way along the fence, until we came to a hole in the wire. Then we calmly walked through (expecting to hear the howls of the Guard Dogs, and the wail of the sirens.) (It was afternoon, so spotlights just would have been an affectation.) We actually stood there for about half an hour with everybody working on there 'pretending' skills. We pretended we belonged there, and the Olympic Wardens pretended we didn't exist because we didn't enter through one of their gates.<br />
We had a bit of a problem pretending one of the two coaches that snuck through the same hole, didn't exist. He was out there screaming at one of the kids in the 400 or so meter race. Calling out time differentials as if there was some sort of sponsorship on the line. He was about 50 yards away from us, but we could hear him clearly. I know there's a fine line between challenging the kids to do their best and pushing them for your own ends, but if the kid's crying, and the coach's blood pressure is rising you should recognize that the line has been more than crossed. A whole coaching staff in matching uniforms keeping ledgers of times and distances, crunching numbers and stats, screaming at the kids in a negative fashion probably means the line's been crossed, trampled and about to have the life-support unplugged. This is Special Olympics, folks. Not Beijing. For the kids.... remember? A complete opposite from the Uber Coach was a coach and his daughter that snuck through the fence after us. He looked as uncomfortable with SuperCoach as we did. He explained that he had been a runner, and his daughter loved to run. She ran all the time, and hated it when the weather prevented her daily run. He didn't seem to think that yelling at the kids actually helped anything. He sounded so... sane, that it was difficult to believe that he and Her ZuperCoach had the same job.<br />
After standing in the sun for more than half an hour I looked through my lens at the closer shot-put area and said, 'Hey, that shot looks pretty big.' I turned to my niece, 'Maybe we're in the wrong place?' For some reason I remembered there were two different sizes of shot, but only seeing one, couldn't tell which it was. Adding to our dilemma was the fact that they were shot-putting in two different 'pits' and you couldn't see them both from the same place. So, while we were stout enough to brave the track guards we chickened out about looking silly by being in the wrong place, and we bailed. Turns out, they don't use two different sizes of shot, and we <i>were </i>in the right place, but it's probably just as well that we caved. It was nearly another hour and a half before Dave competed. So, while we didn't get roasted out in the open field, we really didn't have a very good view of what was going on.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwUHB88e82O02cRFW6fwlfCXqX538XhgcRN44Al3zKaUz9SuABKePd1cpdZwCHJN7UJS5GL_2T2FgyP1ElV1ej3JleS_vDmgI8DKKaJpDPktDZFd-OXbnw2ewHfUwmxb_gSiQzTTrBIFCr/s1600/DSC_0076+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwUHB88e82O02cRFW6fwlfCXqX538XhgcRN44Al3zKaUz9SuABKePd1cpdZwCHJN7UJS5GL_2T2FgyP1ElV1ej3JleS_vDmgI8DKKaJpDPktDZFd-OXbnw2ewHfUwmxb_gSiQzTTrBIFCr/s1600/DSC_0076+(2).JPG" height="285" width="320" /></a> While we were waiting for the competition we were found by Melissa Neidbala, the head of BC-SOPA (Beaver County Special Olympics, PA) and her heir-apparent... whose name escapes me at the moment... It could have been Carol, it really could have.... I don't think it was Cathy, I really don't. Anyway, they took advantage of a gate-Nazi's inattention and were standing <i>10 feet inside the Line-of-Death!</i> So... we joined them, and could actually see the competition area off in the distance. We were all chatting about the two of them photo-bombing Dave's sacred Elevator Videos. I was under the impression that they were incredibly silly about it, but as I'm not on the Privileged List of people allowed to watch the Holy Videos, I can't accurately gauge their silliness. But we had a great (if distant) view of the competition. This lasted through Dave's first throw, and then Doom descended upon us in the form of a guy in khaki cargo shorts and a bush hat. I really wanted him to have an Australian accent and call us 'mate' when he kicked us out, but was disappointed. But he still kicked us out. Dave threw two more times but we couldn't see because of some silly-assed net that was supposed to protect us from crazed hammer-throwers. So we really didn't know what was going on until about 45 minutes later when Dude and the other kids strolled out to the podium. He won a Silver and<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYLW9kMgFRCFZXr8lXWEmBJBb8C0VQ3IKAl0wHz-LsFxTNgHeSUJEPU1J86JGXz1oco0JtJge7jQDUMYNWQQdmz0sKLeKFEX3IKS5XWvO1oqQAtIbWY1bR3wkDGJJEnWMf6DvuFMHEoF8/s1600/DSC_0087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYLW9kMgFRCFZXr8lXWEmBJBb8C0VQ3IKAl0wHz-LsFxTNgHeSUJEPU1J86JGXz1oco0JtJge7jQDUMYNWQQdmz0sKLeKFEX3IKS5XWvO1oqQAtIbWY1bR3wkDGJJEnWMf6DvuFMHEoF8/s1600/DSC_0087.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a>gave his version of the 'Dude-Power' salute while waiting for his medal.<br />
The day before, David had asked me repeatedly, 'Where's the Alex? Is she going to make it to the State College?' I had assured him over and over that; Yes, Alexis was coming, but had to work and wouldn't be here until the next day. Of course, now that his minion had arrived, and he could ignore her more effectively, that's exactly what he proceeded to do. But once he (was forced to) acknowledge her, he cried out, 'Alex! I was so worried about you! I didn't think you would make it!' Of course, he says some version of this very same thing about every night when she comes home from work. His nod to politeness complete he immediately dropped his head back into NintendoLand and proceeded to completely ignore the both of us. So we ignored him right back and went and had lunch.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFvvk9rvCHY2oUS3UZuouGh27k4wV1UpTC-H9CRZ3-IY1CqbLa7NtctXtzxoBbJ0L-fhACzRBCQPTpoyI7J20-sELhq8NSRjEHgPThxqdjUDSct_eLHS2ceOZBgpKpLbnZFV2rbkbuH4X/s1600/DSC_0106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFvvk9rvCHY2oUS3UZuouGh27k4wV1UpTC-H9CRZ3-IY1CqbLa7NtctXtzxoBbJ0L-fhACzRBCQPTpoyI7J20-sELhq8NSRjEHgPThxqdjUDSct_eLHS2ceOZBgpKpLbnZFV2rbkbuH4X/s1600/DSC_0106.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a> Alexis and I got back just in time... to wait another hour and a half for David to run his race. We strolled up just in time to see Marta walking back to the stands. She told us that she had just taken Dude to the tent for his next and final event; The 100 meter run. We stood at the construction fence that marked the boundary, mostly because Crocodile Dundee was still patrolling that gate, and several times I looked for David in the crowd of guys in the tent, but to no avail. It's pretty bad when you can't find your son <i>because</i> he's being good. I searched and searched for him through my telephoto lens, to no avail. I couldn't find him until there was almost no one left in the tent. Then they almost screwed the whole thing up. When there were only about 10 heats left they tried to organize them in their chairs by heat. The problem was, once they got him up and moved him into another chair... I'm just saying they should have left him there. They should have noted that he was in the wrong place, and just had him wait there for his turn. Instead, they moved him into 3 other chairs and then stood him up next to the List Lady while they got it straightened out. Dave was starting to get irritated and I was <i>thiiiiiis </i>close to walking over there and getting him calmed down, even if I had to walk over the top of Aussie-boy to do it. But luckily for everyone, David was finally put in the proper seat. Even if he did have to wait some more, at least he was doing it in the right place.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSuur6ej0WNNBJHdcfN9MrF1K0ab_-EiMuZOwcYQ8-rS4OSbX1JyVzc2AVLno8hM2GR20IYh-L8QhXvr3NABlf7FpYESuN8fDpbqN5FFC0fVrXg6Iulyux4624xBQEnmwG80YzaJvPBBJ/s1600/DSC_0108+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSuur6ej0WNNBJHdcfN9MrF1K0ab_-EiMuZOwcYQ8-rS4OSbX1JyVzc2AVLno8hM2GR20IYh-L8QhXvr3NABlf7FpYESuN8fDpbqN5FFC0fVrXg6Iulyux4624xBQEnmwG80YzaJvPBBJ/s1600/DSC_0108+%25282%2529.JPG" height="187" width="320" /></a></div>
When it came time for his heat, as they were lining up, one of the other runners noticed that Dave's shoe was untied. I watched the whole thing on telephoto, so I knew what was going on, but what it looked like to Alexis was something completely different. It looked as though David was suffering a Victorian fainting spell while being mugged by the Starter and a runner. Dude was hamming it up for all he was worth, one foot in the air, laid almost completely back waving his arms in the air while the Starter tied his shoe and the other kid held him up. That kid's probably sorry he helped with that because, after some pre-race posturing, as soon as the whistle went off, so did Dude. He flashed out to a very quick start, feet pounding the track, face intent, and glancing behind him to either side to check the competition. The Evil Grin started on his face when he was about 1/3 the way down <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_HI5w2oBK9raEnSTDdmsDyOIslporbTdWElwB6k1Wu8yV24YyAoOzhTuQLsiZEQA89IFdda2_fGjsMcP_NTMmIucfmc3wVtClWFFGyJbYiyUd9mmHorG_AaZU6KdJHLpqPoPVvXa-WT0/s1600/DSC_0114+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_HI5w2oBK9raEnSTDdmsDyOIslporbTdWElwB6k1Wu8yV24YyAoOzhTuQLsiZEQA89IFdda2_fGjsMcP_NTMmIucfmc3wVtClWFFGyJbYiyUd9mmHorG_AaZU6KdJHLpqPoPVvXa-WT0/s1600/DSC_0114+%25282%2529.JPG" height="198" width="320" /></a></div>
the track and was comfortably in the lead. My suspicions from the day before were starting to bear fruit. They got fruitier the further he got down the track and the grin got bigger. It was a complete reversal from the day before. He was running his skinny little but off and instead of being behind the field by 10 yards, he was ahead by that margin 3/4 of the way and it was growing as he got further. One kid looked to make a run at him about halfway and when Dude saw him, he just shifted gears and left him in the dust. When he crossed the line, well ahead of everyone, he bent over, clenched <br />
his fists and shouted, 'YESS!!'. Then he did a little victory dance/jog and said, 'I AM THE WINNER!!' Luckily the volunteers got him under control and off toward the tent before a riot ensued. Yes, David can be a riot all by himself.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6lKrtVxzP5f0n2hNn8urCy8CWcIfT95KtM8CQaxYhwqpF1n6UG4oNgV6ojEn5RnU0CRpCOhbbhMQIPFRa0S4PQxtkAWNsT54iXkmxKvwUXRyQetZTuqpBSxNdIgQwKaBN8GiidgEZfg2Z/s1600/DSC_0125+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6lKrtVxzP5f0n2hNn8urCy8CWcIfT95KtM8CQaxYhwqpF1n6UG4oNgV6ojEn5RnU0CRpCOhbbhMQIPFRa0S4PQxtkAWNsT54iXkmxKvwUXRyQetZTuqpBSxNdIgQwKaBN8GiidgEZfg2Z/s1600/DSC_0125+%25282%2529.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a> After which another round of tent-sitting ensued. While that was going on, the 'adults' where musing over the race itself. We were all very pleased with the outcome of the race. We were also a bit uneasy about... other things. Things that we didn't want to talk about. I got complimented on my (?) decision to allow Dave his 3DS this year. The Coaches were certain it helped keep him calm, even when it wasn't working. I didn't disabuse them of their harmless little fantasy. Besides, it made me look like a 'cool dad'.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU0rtb3c6bEoOxlmHDCVr4fUUuCPL7slT9_DWbqq7vP4vaX15afXT18ixkSaescRtoghN-wINF2jGpVdEGYa7jhaxn9s6AIlYzM-JaYIrRIaeWd_1_OVCOKu1IwwabRqTrbA8oIC5ZpxF/s1600/DSC_0164+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU0rtb3c6bEoOxlmHDCVr4fUUuCPL7slT9_DWbqq7vP4vaX15afXT18ixkSaescRtoghN-wINF2jGpVdEGYa7jhaxn9s6AIlYzM-JaYIrRIaeWd_1_OVCOKu1IwwabRqTrbA8oIC5ZpxF/s1600/DSC_0164+%25282%2529.jpg" height="320" width="136" /></a> Finally, one of the coaches worriedly asked whether or not Dude might be disqualified because he had <i>too</i> good a race. If his time was too much lower than his qualifying heat they might DQ him. Suspecting (I assumed) that someone coached him to 'duff' the first race. I'm sure they wouldn't believe our total lack of collusion in the Hundred Meter Cheating Scheme. After all, we were the adults, right? Most of the people in the immediate area seemed to be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, citing how fast the heat was that he was in, and how much slower these kids were. I, on the other hand, kept my big fat mouth shut and my opinions firmly behind my teeth. I didn't know how well the judges would remember David. I mean they only see him once a year. I didn't take anything for granted until .<br />
the Procession was finished and the Gold Medal was around his neck. It's only a rumor that I looked behind us twice as we headed back to the stands. I wasn't really <i>all that</i> worried that they'd run us down and take the medal back.... Really I wasn't. Well, the Gold now resides in the DudeRoom and I'd pity the Olympic Committee that tried to get it back now. I am kind of worried about myself a bit though... It's really starting to get entertaining to see how the little sneak is going to cheat his way to another medal each year....stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-33081768091785902162014-06-08T18:58:00.000-04:002014-06-08T19:38:00.548-04:00Prom and Circumstance:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkxjudtGLaYwnHpeVkfNHwZk9lLMzU9RmiJpaG8l8LLk927PhyyxFuG5PU-SEsGKz57LgYz5ytv-FNMI42mtruBbaSXMWbJoUMaKjZj-Y6_wB-FfdZRLPQI1DGez09yqC4ELPqTL2a-F0/s1600/DSC_0097.NEF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkxjudtGLaYwnHpeVkfNHwZk9lLMzU9RmiJpaG8l8LLk927PhyyxFuG5PU-SEsGKz57LgYz5ytv-FNMI42mtruBbaSXMWbJoUMaKjZj-Y6_wB-FfdZRLPQI1DGez09yqC4ELPqTL2a-F0/s1600/DSC_0097.NEF" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
I mentioned in an earlier story that Dude's teacher, Marilyn Yarosz, snuck in a Dude-Prom request when she found out I was weakened by giving Jill permission to put Dave in the Talent Show. I'm pretty sure they worked out their scheme in advance. I'm not paranoid at all... really... School Conspiracies actually exist! We'll pause 10 seconds for this brief psychotic break... and a word from our sponsors.<br />
Conspiracy or not, I'd already sent in the 40 bucks for the ticket so now we were committed. (that was an appropriate turn of phrase) So the first thing we needed was, evidently, a Prom Uniform. That's Dude-speak for 'suit'.<br />
I have to explain something. I haven't worn a suit since I quit the local Theater group. I haven't even <i>owned </i>a suit since I was about 22. I have no blue collar prejudice against the things, and I look pretty good wearing them. I just won't own one. I fully blame my mother for this. Just before my own Junior Prom my mother decided (and rightly so) that I needed a suit of my very own. Nothing would do, but we had to go get one, immediately. Mostly because there was no way in hell any of my father's would fit me, since he was 2 inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter. So I was immediately dragged down to a dinky JC Penny store (the only size we had) to gather me some formal wear. The 70's were just a couple years gone and with the time-lag inherent in a small town, a scent of disco must have still been in the air, because Mom went directly to the Haggar rack and picked me out a sky-blue white threadstripe leisure suit and supposedly matching dark tan brush leather shoes and a gold toned Rayon shirt with a navy blue sweater vest. Even with the minuscule amount of sartorial knowledge in my teenage brain I tried to protest. But she had the bit in her teeth and would not be swayed by any thought of mere teenage humiliation or degradation of same. Okay, granted we were just out of the 70's and also, it really doesn't take that much for a teenager to feel humiliated, but still... <shudders> Okay, I'll admit it... I did like the shoes.</shudders><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbMxg7mftwY3z0_ZIGbkA6H37AojM3DZiaMFzw0ZML8Vl0fx_gn2SSJuk-q4iB8uFkUjnKqqyCUIOgbDWEO4PnpEkXOTMCQ2T3vpmhQvXlkjLnWscM79sj-MeZUfKAmibqzJkYAgpB3NJ/s1600/%2524_57.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbMxg7mftwY3z0_ZIGbkA6H37AojM3DZiaMFzw0ZML8Vl0fx_gn2SSJuk-q4iB8uFkUjnKqqyCUIOgbDWEO4PnpEkXOTMCQ2T3vpmhQvXlkjLnWscM79sj-MeZUfKAmibqzJkYAgpB3NJ/s1600/%2524_57.JPG" height="261" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #c27ba0;">Not my picture... but that's my suit<br />Revived from the dumpster</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Powder blue leisure suit? <br />
Two weekends before Prom I lassoed my fashion consultant (Raine) to, you know, consult.... Mostly 'cause this ain't my first rodeo, and there's no way in <i>hell</i> I was going to come home with something she wasn't a part of picking. Then I corralled the Prom-meister and we headed off to conquer us a Haberdashery. To stave off buyer's remorse and to keep my wallet from going into immediate spasms we first tried a couple of re-sell stores in case there were any 'gems' at low-low discount prices. No such luck. But, for once, Dave liked shopping. He moved through the stores like he was part bloodhound (we all know he's actually a cheesehound) and when it came time to search the racks he was, of course, right exactly in the way, every time. 'He needs to get the Prom Uniform, to go to the Prom, next weekend!' or, when looking at a suit 3 sizes too big and some strange green/gold color that should only be seen on Black and White TV, 'That's the cool uniform to go to the Prom!' 'Dude', I said for the third time, 'Prom is in <i>two </i>weeks, and there's no way I'm ever going to buy that, even just to burn it. Now get out of the way.' After our nod to fiscal responsibility we ran for the Sacred Halls of Commerce, to better bolster up the global economy. The cool thing about going to an actual store is that even though it costs 4 times as much, they have more of the stuff you want, or might actually pay money for, and some of it is even in the right size!<br />
Spurning the Arkansas-based chain of Department Stores as unworthy of the Event we went instead to a non-hyphenated chain of vestiary for the 'Prom Uniform'. Immediately we were confused by two things: Firstly, there were more than 3 suits to choose from. And, Secondly, David loved <i>every</i> suit there, so he was no help picking one out. (which wasn't really surprising). I think, that if there was any surprise, the person who was surprised most was Raine. I walked in with very definite ideas about what I wanted to look for in a suit (that isn't the shocking part) and then immediately started setting together what I wanted. (only sort of surprising) The shock came, I think, when the things I set out actually worked well together and looked good (she even loved the tie). Other than a bit of a debate about color (Raine wanted a black suit) the only quandary came when I couldn't find a shirt that was the color I wanted (so I got a black one). I displayed a working <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScq2RivoJqmxo_3AiSXLIxkzJvSc29SG1hpc9kvTDL2vgMv9N5NajAFCj2w6RA9VX24RAFo9BRpywJ90Yd4SCqWz5WmQkizE9yUoVvfJaO-W4okYUTlYt7JjfIKyH7wh_hxIL5klfnd7-/s1600/DSC_0076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScq2RivoJqmxo_3AiSXLIxkzJvSc29SG1hpc9kvTDL2vgMv9N5NajAFCj2w6RA9VX24RAFo9BRpywJ90Yd4SCqWz5WmQkizE9yUoVvfJaO-W4okYUTlYt7JjfIKyH7wh_hxIL5klfnd7-/s1600/DSC_0076.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
knowledge about style, and fit and even taught her a few things about sizing shirts and jackets. This all would have been ever so much more impressive if I'd actually known my son's measurements before we started. I'm pretty sure Raine didn't trust me though. I had to step out to the car for a moment and she whipped Dude and his new clothes into the nearest dressing room to try it all on. Everything fit, except the shirt that I told her was too big.<br />
Dude followed me around like he was attached at the hip. As I slithered through the different collections and selections David was right there, always ready to agree to whatever shirt I happened to pick up, move out of the way or even glanced at out of the corner of my eye. 'Yep! That's the one! Now we've got the Prom Uniform to go to the Prom next weekend!' After a while I just stopped contradicting him. We finally finished our purchases and went home. Dude was immediately ready to put on the Prom Uniform and wait, completely dressed, until the time came for the dance... in 12 days. Thankfully, once the suit was put away and it was explained <i>again</i> that prom wasn't for another week and a half or more he finally seemed to put it out of his mind. Or so we thought.<br />
Finally, Prom Week was upon us. We hadn't heard much from Dude about the Prom except for the occasional, 'Yes! He goes to Prom on the next Friday and then in the Summer he goes to Vegas!' The first part was readily agreed to while the second was quelled as much as possible. I had gotten a note on Friday telling me of the Prom rehearsal to be held on Tuesday. But, other than making sure that David knew about it, (he did... loudly) didn't think any more about it. I left the house at 6am as usual and got home around 3:30, covered the bike, grabbed the mail and opened the front door. I noticed the suit, still in its bag, was laying across the back of the couch as you enter the door. I wondered for a minute why A: Lorraine got the suit out. And then B: Why, once she had gotten it out, she had left it in the front room. After a moment, I shrugged and put it away in David's closet.<br />
Dude came home, and we talked about the rehearsal, but he didn't mention anything about the suit, so I was left wondering why the hell Raine had gotten it out. I get home before she does, so generally by the time she gets here I'm already cooking dinner. I was deep into... I don't know, some stuff I was making that resembled food (if you didn't look too closely) and she was doing her normal after-work puttering around when she came into the kitchen and asked, 'Was David supposed to wear his suit for rehearsal today?' I stopped slicing when I looked up (always a good idea) and answered, 'As far as I know it wasn't a dress-rehearsal. So, no, he wasn't supposed to take it.' I turned back to my vegetable mutilation when she asked in a puzzled voice, 'Then why did you leave it out?' My eyes widened in surprise and I turned to face her. 'I didn't get it out. Why would I do that?' She looked at me suspiciously, 'I thought you were giving me trouble because I haven't hemmed the pants yet.' My face decided it wasn't done with the surprised look, so it stayed there. 'I haven't given you <i>any </i>crap about that, and there's still plenty of time to hem them. So... no, it wasn't me.' My face decided a stern, thoughtful look was more appropriate now, 'So if you didn't do it. And I most certainly did not do it. That only leaves... DUDE!!!!' I yelled at the ceiling. Our ceilings are specially reinforced.<br />
After a certain amount of clomping and clumping about my youngest son graced the Board of Inquiry with his presence. 'David...' I started rather sharply, 'Did you get the suit out this morning?' Without imminent threat of the loss of games or cheese, my child doesn't do 'repentant' 'Yes! We need the Prom Uniform for the rehearsal for the Prom!' He said enthusiastically, totally unconcerned with the fact that rehearsal was 6 hours previous. 'Then he puts on the suit to go to the Prom on the Friday and then the Vegas for Summer Vacation!!' I dropped my head into my hands, peeked one eye out at Raine, who was manfully (?) suppressing laughter, 'Please remind me again why I don't kill him?' She pretended to ponder this for a moment and answered psuedo-helpfully, 'Well... there is that whole 'Law' thing. They kind of frown on that. They think you're suppose to take care of him, or something.' I broke out with a pompous British accent, 'If that is what The Law supposes, sir, then the Law, sir, is an ass! If that is what the Law supposes, then the law, sir, is a bachelor!' Dropping the accent, 'Or at least childless.' I looked imperiously down at my offspring, 'And if you ask, 'Please, sir, may I have another?' I'm gonna kick your butt.' I shook my head in defeat, 'Go play your games, man.' He retreated, then stuck his head back in the doorway. 'He goes to the Prom on Friday!' I had no more fight left in me. 'Yes, David. But it's only Tuesday, so you'll have to wait.'<br />
So wait we did. And eventually (a word often used in waiting) Prom Day dawned. I understand there was a bit of a problem keeping Dave from dressing for the prom at 7:00 in the morning, but other than that it started out as a normal day. Since I had to get him to the school between 4 and 5, I was told that I could pick Dude up from school as early as 1:00 so I raced Raine home at lunch, hung around the house for a while, changed clothes, got something to drink, watched some TV, talked with Raine for a bit, had something else to drink, hunted around for my shoes, remembered I hadn't brought any socks downstairs, got my <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_zgMORGI4fi3T0UmJpP5xz41DYN9HyKV57YasOJoRpzHHzmKgzQlgp5Do8zY9ZFzKKvK3PsrEg_8sF9yT5ECRwmWIOEne1_DSElgQIrDBzFmTzFvEp6D4JHAHlxfCzryNlbW199DHggm/s1600/DSC_0082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_zgMORGI4fi3T0UmJpP5xz41DYN9HyKV57YasOJoRpzHHzmKgzQlgp5Do8zY9ZFzKKvK3PsrEg_8sF9yT5ECRwmWIOEne1_DSElgQIrDBzFmTzFvEp6D4JHAHlxfCzryNlbW199DHggm/s1600/DSC_0082.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
socks, had to hunt for my shoes again... and picked him up at 2:00.<br />
In quick succession we got a snack, a shower and dressed and turned immediately around to go back where we just came from. We were among the first there, so we grabbed a program and started wandering around. Mrs. Yarozs found us (how does that woman do that?) and while we were talking she mentioned that she had forgotten to send the permission/information slip for the State Special Olympics home with David that day. It just seemed to be Dude's day. Already two of the things he'd be desperately waiting for (and bugging me about) came together on the same day. Of course, since his Dad is mean, and he hadn't heard his teacher, I decided to wait until the next day to tell him the good news. It would have only distracted him anyway.<br />
The school had a couple of volunteers (probably conscripted teacher's children) that accompanied the kids without dates for the pictures and the walk. Dave's 'date' was a nice young girl named Laura, or Luana... or something starting with 'L'... probably. Dude walked down the runway like it was an Imperial Progress, waving to the crowd, and knowing him, probably wondering why they weren't cheering.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9oZ5BbK4XFVA4q7idsIkrWpFjLqWsAn_zogCiCSfjd7XfKwyxk-mlF8reIqmaYSj4zZngXKv5WROPm1baJeNWNFETIv39iByJgVdqVA_XeHmuN92l_IYgsaiTQ4F9qu7614l0yQssR5x/s1600/DSC_0105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9oZ5BbK4XFVA4q7idsIkrWpFjLqWsAn_zogCiCSfjd7XfKwyxk-mlF8reIqmaYSj4zZngXKv5WROPm1baJeNWNFETIv39iByJgVdqVA_XeHmuN92l_IYgsaiTQ4F9qu7614l0yQssR5x/s1600/DSC_0105.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a> With that out of the way, we raced (ish) over to the Country Club where the actual dance was taking place. The only problem was, I had only a vague notion of where it was. I struck upon the clever scheme of just following someone out of the school parking lot. The only problem? The first person I picked was obviously going home, because he turned the wrong direction immediately out of the parking lot. But all was not lost! Because of the nice lady in the white mini-van that <i>was</i> going the right way. And I could only hope that she was going to the same place I was. Hey... it got my Dad out of Southeast Chicago one time with a <br />
van full of family and a pop-up trailer. That's good enough for me. I was so intent on staying with her, I even followed her into the wrong parking lot. We exchanged funny looks as she was headed out and I was headed in. Dave laughed, 'Not the Country Club with the Prom and the Dance!' I gave him the Patented Dad Death-Look, but the warranty must have run out, because it didn't have any effect at all. 'Wrong parking lot! We're going the wrong way.' As always, very helpful. I raised my eyebrow to increase the Death-Look's power, but the batteries hadn't charged, or something, because it still wasn't working.<br />
After a short talk with the Nice Mini-Van Lady it was determined that she had misinterpreted her brother's directions and we just hadn't gone far enough. So, back out on the road we went and eventually found 7 Springs Country Club and I had to stop Dude from bolting out of the car while it was still moving. 'He has to get to the Dance with the Prom Uniform!' he explained. 'Yeah, I know. But I'm pretty sure they're not holding a dance in the Emergency Room, so you just wait until I park and we'll go in together.' He wasn't a real big fan of this idea until I told him I would be leaving afterwards.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfrcxpbdD52FmyVJqXZSaY1jvhN5KUn9FmkKt5vSa8MlNzHvywqKoIdtwADa_oj9Z4YUrU9z1aJ1VRCXlDuY9jIMWxbVX9iqfdORZr4F8nQhgq6At-T2KZyuYR46l5THrUswcqGqwd_DH/s1600/DSC_0127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfrcxpbdD52FmyVJqXZSaY1jvhN5KUn9FmkKt5vSa8MlNzHvywqKoIdtwADa_oj9Z4YUrU9z1aJ1VRCXlDuY9jIMWxbVX9iqfdORZr4F8nQhgq6At-T2KZyuYR46l5THrUswcqGqwd_DH/s1600/DSC_0127.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a> Jill Mosura was in charge of the music (naturally) and I finally got to meet her husband. Whose name is, I think, Jim. (I found out his name is Dan. It's really pathological, this name thing. I need a telethon, or something.) He'd been wanting to meet me for a while, and I can only hope it wasn't too much of a disappointment. Jill (Yes, but I've known her for 6 years and her name was on those notes that came home all the time) asked if I were going to stay, but I told her that this was a 1 Dude only event, and I ran out the door. I'm certain I didn't scare <i>too </i>many people as I, Fast and Furious-ed my way out of the parking lot. I'm almost certain that one older lady will recover with the right therapy.<br />
Several hours later I returned at a slightly more sedate pace and made my way back to the Dance. David<br />
was 8 feet away from the DJ table dancing away. I asked Jill, 'Has he been there all night?' She nodded, 'Except when he had to go over to get his picture frame.' I was relieved. I thought he'd stolen someone's iPad and I'd have to wrest it away from him to give it back. She smiled. 'I was surprised how many songs he knew all the words to.' I said, 'Yeah, he knows a lot of songs. And if he doesn't know the words, he makes them up.' She smiled and changed the subject. Smart woman.<br />
Well, finally it was time to wrap things up and head home. (Carefully not frightening parking lot ladies) As we headed out to the car I asked Dude if he'd had a good time. 'Yes!' he said, startling people in the next parking lot, 'He went to Prom in the Suit and next week we go to Vegas!' 'Dude,' I said wearily, 'let's just concentrate on getting home, huh?'<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAKMxDcZTaLvWjDU40XSul_NTd9aJB-Qsh02Whql2F3mWrYo10clJ9qiwOAVfYYtL2hx-xoIYqh1sDlcUgJl4QVus7J_CdTAO9EwFxfCsvFo8ObuI5ifWgbR3c1apw0dasCXgNCH8XwhV/s1600/DSC_0099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAKMxDcZTaLvWjDU40XSul_NTd9aJB-Qsh02Whql2F3mWrYo10clJ9qiwOAVfYYtL2hx-xoIYqh1sDlcUgJl4QVus7J_CdTAO9EwFxfCsvFo8ObuI5ifWgbR3c1apw0dasCXgNCH8XwhV/s1600/DSC_0099.JPG" height="301" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1678309521103024772.post-6360616225879177982014-05-17T02:47:00.003-04:002014-05-17T10:25:06.917-04:00Wide-ish World of Sports:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRRk95m9EPK1wSwOdakMY-5a4L74aOgppdvMGt6LG3IWfPoIacfAnM3YgZ22yQDiIwKG7X1QXi7Pn3F1sG-Rn4G98AI4jiGet61XRk2TDrMLNpR_ODrhWWLPjPbVepntzpOgoVAD3TJ9o/s1600/DSC_0034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRRk95m9EPK1wSwOdakMY-5a4L74aOgppdvMGt6LG3IWfPoIacfAnM3YgZ22yQDiIwKG7X1QXi7Pn3F1sG-Rn4G98AI4jiGet61XRk2TDrMLNpR_ODrhWWLPjPbVepntzpOgoVAD3TJ9o/s1600/DSC_0034.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
First of all, I want it stated for the record that David and I actually made it to the Special Olympics this year, <i>on time.</i> I would also like to note that this year Marilyn Yarosz actually witnessed this total break with tradition. Nearly the first time ever we made it early, except for last year, which doesn't count because she wasn't actually there to see it. What didn't break tradition was the weather. In 12 years of attending the SO in Beaver County there has only been one year where the weather actually cooperated with the event. Coincidentally, that was also the year that Marilyn missed, so I've had some very pointed questions to ask her about that. (She says she's been doing this for 3 times as long and can <i>never</i> remember having decent weather) (I rest my case) The day dawned close, gloomy and grey with wind bending the branches of the trees in the backyard. This put the final nail in the 'Dude and Dad Annual SO Bike Ride'. I don't particularly mind the weather, but there was no way I was riding 10 or so miles away in dicey weather with Dude still getting over his cold. Unfortunately this meant I had to wake up an hour and a half early to take Raine to work so we could have the car.<br />
So, that was my first minor disappointment of the morning. It wasn't to be the last. Dude is like me in several ways. One of them is that we really don't want to wake up to someone else's schedule, but once we do, we want to get on with getting done with whatever it is that woke us up in the first place. After we dropped Raine off at work we took our usual exit back to the house. Dude looked up from his game in momentary confusion. Then when we pulled into the drive he looked up again and said, 'Whaaaat?' Somehow making it sound like one of the Minions from Despicable Me. 'He has to get to the Western Beaver High School, to get to the Games to go to the State College!' This was not a new mantra. 'Later David. First we have to wait. It's way too early to go yet.' I stood up out of the car and started toward the front door. 'Yes! We go later and then, in the summer, he gets to go to the State College, and then we go to the Vegas!' This also was not a new mantra. Not wanting to add fuel to the Vegas fire and since we hadn't received any notice at all that he was going to be invited to State College this year, I just let that one slide by without comment.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvPoNbNa6dZA7fWU80fjXksL-KyPtcu5W7-B7CxGoIBfuOPo9FhyphenhyphenS7oBjiQyyjoRUFP-mUKLpEAfVK_eDPggLLxomPmrajKauO4Khg1O5jju02caqGaETyKmE9LUapiWb93eJNTgmW7-E/s1600/DSC_0067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvPoNbNa6dZA7fWU80fjXksL-KyPtcu5W7-B7CxGoIBfuOPo9FhyphenhyphenS7oBjiQyyjoRUFP-mUKLpEAfVK_eDPggLLxomPmrajKauO4Khg1O5jju02caqGaETyKmE9LUapiWb93eJNTgmW7-E/s1600/DSC_0067.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a> At a loss for anything else to do, and with a case of bed-hair that looked more like a swarm of string aliens had attacked my skull and were viciously opposed by the Warriors of Final Net, I decided that our spare time would be better spent in an Ancient Ritual of Dude Cleansing.... or showers, as they are now called. So we went into battle fairly clean and I looked a whole lot less like a 'before' picture in a hairspray add.<br />
Dave's teacher, Mrs. Yarosz ( yah-roe-s) had called me the night before to tell me that she had forgotten to send David's event card and maps and 'Find us in the morning and I'll give them to you.' Then there was a pause and I may have even heard a chuckle. 'Actually just wander around looking for us and we'll find you.' It seems that someone has finally caught on to my usual tactics. I mean, it's no secret how I find people at these things, right? I mean, I've written about it several times. And that's exactly what we did, I mean, what else were we going to do? Except our 'random' wandering took us mysteriously close to the snack bar, after I had brilliantly deduced that they had Orams Donuts, a Pittsburgh icon of yeasty sugary things to eat with coffee or milk. People from the area will understand the sarcasm of the 'brilliantly deduced' thing. It's not hard to spot 40 cinnamon rolls the size of your head, and even less difficult to figure out where they came<br />
from.<br />
And thereby was my second disappointment realized. Not only were they out of cinnamon rolls, but they were also out of change and I'd just hit an ATM and only had a 20. Dude didn't care. Donuts were offered and donuts must be delivered. 'He has to get the donuts to get the medals to go to the State College!' Great. You had to open your big mouth, didn't ya, dad? While I tried to figure out how to get dough and nut together without exact change I heard, 'Good! Glad to see you brought the camera. Hi David!' I whipped my head around only to see the after-image of blond hair, sunglasses and a teal coat quickly disappearing into the crowd. From the coat and the height of the hair I figured it was Ashley, but she was gone too quickly for either one of us to react, or even actually see her. 'Uh... hi?' I said, scaring the hell out of a group of teenage girls I was trying to wildly look over the top of. After being consigned to the realm of the old and weird I bought a couple of bands from the souvenir tent which gave me the change to get the 'nut' some 'dough'. Although I asked for two custard filled, we ended up with two jelly filled, but hey, they were doughnuts... who cares, right?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPM2StSy1Cwksgeczw9zchLd92ZXrvN_26k60SeVHqShsssHJsqlghwjyC8poiakW4aTiXDhUyCF9Dmkdiw0frFH7D7MJo8axRdUmYNFL8YQCc-pcG6eADK9Uzx-4EFQyW5JFmRa_ha0a/s1600/DSC_0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPM2StSy1Cwksgeczw9zchLd92ZXrvN_26k60SeVHqShsssHJsqlghwjyC8poiakW4aTiXDhUyCF9Dmkdiw0frFH7D7MJo8axRdUmYNFL8YQCc-pcG6eADK9Uzx-4EFQyW5JFmRa_ha0a/s1600/DSC_0011.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a> Mrs. Yarosz, using her Dude tracking software, found us and gave me Dude's packet, and we were off to the events... unnoticed by me, Dave had a big dot of raspberry filling smeared on his forehead, like a wound in a bad action movie, but since I didn't have a 'blunt object' visible on my person, no one called the cops. Or, at least I <i>think</i> that's why no one called them.... It's entirely possible National Guard units were already on standby because of Dude's presence, so why bother with cops?<br />
Last year, after 12 years of the Same Thing Every Year, there was a change in Dave's events, the substitution of hurling the Huge Iron Sphere of Death (or at least possible ouchie) from The Soft Ball Toss. This upset my applecart a bit. Hey, I've got to stand in front of this guy to take pictures. This year they changed the rest. Taking out the 50 meter run and Standing Long Jump and replacing them with the 100 meter run and Running Long Jump. I was a bit worried about them upsetting Dude's autistic mojo, but he'd had several weeks to get used to the idea. I was the only one distressed about it, but, since I wasn't the one actually competing, we just trucked our butts over to the Shot Put area to get ready.<br />
.<br />
Someone has been showing Dave pictures of classical Greek Olympic games. Either that, or he's been <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
watching Hercules again, because when it came time for him to throw the shot-put he struck a pose that I've only seen on pictures of Greek amphora: Shot stuck tight against the neck, under the ear and opposite hand thrust out flat, palm down, and pointed at the clouds. He held this 'Olympic Pose' for several seconds, then heaved with all his might with a manly grunt and a look of concentration on his face. Of course that look of concentration was completely destroyed once he noticed he was getting his picture taken. What a hambone, I really don't know where he gets it. (Shut <i>up</i> Raine! And stop laughing!!) Even with his Gong Show antics, Dude got a bronze medal, so maybe being a goof is actually an athletic achievement. If so, he ought to win Gold every time<br />
Since it was such a nice, sunny day.... oh, sorry. Wrong story. Since it was cold, windy and damp, and since Dave still had a cold, <i>and</i> we had almost an hour til his next event, we snuck back across the school grounds and over the highway to the car... or 'locker room' since we were at an athletic event. Unlike 2 years before I was well prepared for the hiatus, Dave had his 3DS and I had my Kindle so we had it covered. Sort of. As we were walking toward the highway Dude, already over the whole experience, I guess, asked, 'So, he gets the cheeseburgers and the Wendy's to go to State College to video the elevators!?' He looked up at me, with trust in his eyes, (the little manipulator) and continued, 'Then he goes to the Vegas and gets ALL THE ELEVATORS!!!' Caught only momentarily off guard I used the same phrase that's been getting parents out of jams throughout history: 'We'll see.' 'Yes!' He said, as if I'd just announced his winning ticket, 'Yes! He gets the good notes and goes to the Game Stop and gets Pokemon X Version!' Hey, it kind of worked the first time, so I tried it again, 'We'll see.' He stopped me with a hand on my arm, and looked me intensely in the eye, 'I've got the good notes, and Saturday we go to the Game Stop to get the Pokemon X Version!' My brow furrowed a bit, ready to quell the rebellion (Viva La Revolucion!). But at that moment, it was just Dude, with those pleading hazel eyes, working for a reward for being well behaved. (which is sooo against both our natures) and, wishing to maintain the discipline in the ranks, I gave him my best Gen. George S. Patton look and said, 'Boy! I am in command here! You will do as I say, and <i>like</i> it! Now march!'... Okay, I smiled softly and said, 'Yes, we're going to GS tomorrow to get a game.' and left it at that. (I am SUCH a wuss)<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhZoSrJiR1SvJHscq1wfodZImkefIALyyjjGJ93pVxczCnHJrTAmiOi9aUQQB95UsktgibZFLm7iOMgT1Hd2M68YkwpNHhrgYW0OAMvNrBMF58YW6HeX39CIRDhKHmPPy6-Fyq7NMeI3p/s1600/DSC_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhZoSrJiR1SvJHscq1wfodZImkefIALyyjjGJ93pVxczCnHJrTAmiOi9aUQQB95UsktgibZFLm7iOMgT1Hd2M68YkwpNHhrgYW0OAMvNrBMF58YW6HeX39CIRDhKHmPPy6-Fyq7NMeI3p/s1600/DSC_0023.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a> After our electronic Olympic break Dude and I headed back to the field of battle to a brand new-ish event, the 100 meter run. He had battled (or cheated) his way to 2 or 3 straight gold medals in the 50, and also one at the State Olympics so I supposed adding another 50 was someone's way of rewarding that accomplishment. Either that, or the starter for the 50 meter at Beaver County got tired of his cheating butt, and kicked it out. Either way I kept my feelings to myself and just got Dude to race and left it at that.<br />
The weren't done with the under 18's yet. Oh Dave soooo loves waiting. That's either Dave, by the way. Once it was (finally) time to run the race I found my actual objection to doubling the length of his race. It also doubled the distance I had to race to get down to the finish line to take pictures. But soon we had the race Dude-bracketed and we were both waiting for the starter to give his command. Dave again had to start the event with the 'classic pose'. If by 'classic' you mean Mack Sennett, or Charlie Chaplin. All we needed for lunch sandwiches was some bread and Miracle Whip, we already had the ham.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzf4L771Z41y39Rzah7gP-Pw6An29anKlvQIekQSn-hOTTyRoT2FnP-a9EB2i5q6VFsxGQ-v-EaEp89PNwCRp26xbAsbT5Yxikwr58lWhyphenhyphenB4g308Ghs8u3FkpKuXKPff3uF8-LJeJR86S/s1600/DSC_0038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzf4L771Z41y39Rzah7gP-Pw6An29anKlvQIekQSn-hOTTyRoT2FnP-a9EB2i5q6VFsxGQ-v-EaEp89PNwCRp26xbAsbT5Yxikwr58lWhyphenhyphenB4g308Ghs8u3FkpKuXKPff3uF8-LJeJR86S/s1600/DSC_0038.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a> Dude has had some problems with his cavalier attitude about the rules of running a race. (although I'm pretty sure he doesn't consider them problems) You know, the starting <i>after</i> the word go, staying in your own lane.... then there's the rule about not arm-barring your closest opponent and pushing off him to win the race. You know... the little rules. Someone had evidently sent him in for a little 'indoctrination' somewhere, because even when the next kid over cut into his lane and made him come in <i>last</i> he never left his lane, never so much as touched the kid, and actually let the kid live once he found out he wasn't getting a medal. I was so shocked I almost stopped taking pictures... almost. But the world was still spinning, the sun was still converting hydrogen into energy and Hell hadn't actually frozen over yet. (as far as I know) So I still took pictures.<br />
Once again we had to wait a bit for the next event. Somewhere in our wandering around Ashley whizzed <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAiKWquzbcV7i6HWZIBQIJHU3QT-ukGrb7jrDwTOIDCmG5VZ_Lb0bT6oO0rPuD534OLzJ2mSTVfqTzxBM7P006W7zzp3x1Fec7pjhE4q6AraIfH3zvCUJXHIpa8XMolHl8daaEv8-k_JPV/s1600/DSC_0050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAiKWquzbcV7i6HWZIBQIJHU3QT-ukGrb7jrDwTOIDCmG5VZ_Lb0bT6oO0rPuD534OLzJ2mSTVfqTzxBM7P006W7zzp3x1Fec7pjhE4q6AraIfH3zvCUJXHIpa8XMolHl8daaEv8-k_JPV/s1600/DSC_0050.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a>by us, I think twice. Either that, or mosquitoes had taken to wearing blue coats because of the cold, because other than a quick impression of a teal blur and a buzzing sound that might have been her voice, we had no other indication that she had been there at all. While we were waiting Mrs. Yarosz tracked us down again, she's been really great with Dude, and she never misses an opportunity to teach him a little bit more. Despite this, David always seems genuinely glad to see her. My cynical side thinks this is because she's the arbiter of the computer time in school. Most of the time I don't listen to my cynical side, but this time I think it just might have a point. Actually she's pretty wonderful so maybe my cynical side needs to stuff it.<br />
The Running Long Jump is a completely new event for us. I think I annoyed David after about the 12th time I asked him if he knew how to do it. He said, 'yeah' the first 7 or 9 times I asked, and then on the 10th, just to wind me up, he said, 'No'. I stopped, gave him a bit of the stink-eye and then said, 'Okay, I'll stop asking, then.' When I finally walked to the other side of the pit to take pictures I was a little sad, thinking that one of my favorite things about the Standing version was his goofy Silent Movie Windups (without the silent part), and now, with the running approach I probably wouldn't be seeing any of that action. I completely underestimated my son. Between each run/jump there was a girl who was directing traffic. After the sand rakers raked, and the sweeper swept and the other two student helpers.... shifted around aimlessly,she would say, 'Go!' and the kid would, you know.... go. Dude took advantage of that hiatus to 'warm up'. (The less generous would say that he used that time to 'show off') by going through a series of poses and, well... things that looked kind of like stretches. Then when the girl asked if he was ready he started channeling <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duke_Kahanamoku">Duke Kahanamoku</a>, the surfer. Wide sideways stance, knees bent, both hands straight out at the shoulders, palms down. It was a perfect surfer pose. I almost started looking around for Annette Funicello. As soon as the girl said, 'Go!' he ran down the lane with a look of intense concentration and, without crossing the line, (something he can't seem to do in the SLJ) leaped into the air and had a fairly<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5L2WdTldSAkLxNi1PU5jT_xvqSGHlmlVZh5jV3klOg380DODIWsfkC_SGuLlt9vBIzamgp0uV5EMwtB09LeogkqvxaHIZ3YUlryHk14ggf4SlIFDxIZNHjiuSf8yb1YOFkO9EqSFM-6gc/s1600/DSC_0054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5L2WdTldSAkLxNi1PU5jT_xvqSGHlmlVZh5jV3klOg380DODIWsfkC_SGuLlt9vBIzamgp0uV5EMwtB09LeogkqvxaHIZ3YUlryHk14ggf4SlIFDxIZNHjiuSf8yb1YOFkO9EqSFM-6gc/s1600/DSC_0054.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
credible jump. After two more versions of the 'Surfer Start' we walked up to the table and waited for his ribbon. Dude had already started, 'The Wendy's store is open for lunch, remember?' and didn't even seem to mind as much that he'd gotten two ribbons this year instead of the, now usual, 3 medals.<br />
We'd gotten home, cheeseburgers in hand, and consumed same, then I had just started to relax and settle into the comfort of the couch when the thought hit me between the eyes like a bullet and I sat up straight and exclaimed, 'Oh my GOD!! Next week is Prom!'stagerathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11147833500451865126noreply@blogger.com0