Moving Stairs?:

Hit the button!

     I may have mentioned at some time or another that Dude likes elevators/escalators. I was wrong... David LOVES them. We once almost missed a flight when he found out about the slideways in the Charlotte airport. We had a one hour layover. So I thought I understood the depths of his attachment to the mechanical consumer movers but recently I've had to reassess my opinion. Upwards.
   Not too many days ago, and for reasons I can't fully explain Dave and I decided to accompany the females in our lives to the Mall. It seems that Raine's daughter, Alayna, was feeling unfashionably shaggy somewhere around her cranial regions. Translation: She needed a haircut. She chose to go to the Mall for some sort of fashion reason that I'm too male to understand, and also chose to have her mother accompany her, for something along the same reason that women can't go alone to restrooms in public places.
    The first I heard of the trip was when I answered my cell phone and Raine asked me to ask 'Layne (who has her own phone. And it's cooler than mine) if they were meeting at home, or at the mall for their hirsute rendezvous. Not being a consistently fluent female go-between, I immediately handed my less-cool phone to Layne. While they were plotting their latest round of conspicuous consumerism something strange was percolating in my brain. Well... stranger than usual, anyway. I vaguely remembered some sort of near-promises of malls and elevators. And I could almost remember who I'd almost promised these things to. Who did I know that liked such things? I knew it would come to me sooner or later. I was pretty sure it was a relative. So that was somewhere to start.
      By the time they'd finalized their meeting I had an idea. During the wait my diabolical scheme began to take shape, and when Raine got home I sprung it on her. Like all male plans it was simple, direct, brilliantly conceived.... and completely doomed to failure from the beginning. It was my intention that all four of us go to the Mall and then essentially pretend like we'd never met. They would go off in one direction to do their 'girly' things and Dave and I would pursue more manly diversions in an entirely different part of the Mall. This would include each group being responsible for their own dinner. (remember that part) And when each had finished their (supposedly) timely tasks, we would meet back up at the vehicle and return to our version of domestic bliss...ish.  Our mutual exit prompted by the fact that we each had keys to the car, and no compunctions about abandoning our partner at the local Monument to Consumerism. (Not really, but we each threaten pretty good)
   It was actually a pretty good plan up to a point. And not the point you might imagine, we met up for the exit, just as I had planned. It was the some of the stuff in between that got kind of skewed. As is wont to happen in our little happy group.
   We arrived, and parted company in the parking lot, and much like a gang of retail ninjas might assault their objective, we split up right there and entered through different doors. We kind of skipped the synchronizing the watches step, but the old Mission Impossible theme was briefly hummed by someone in one of the pairs. (I'll leave it to you to guess which one)  Dave and I entered through Dick's (no joke) a sporting goods store renowned for its selection and higher than average pricing. Dude and I weren't interested in their tremendous selection of overpriced merchandise, because at this mall, Dick's had something in particular that we (?) needed. Dick's had escalators. A big part of my 'Clever Plan' (tm) was a ride up those same escalators to the second floor as access to the Food Court, as a part of our Fast Food Diet Plan. (or FFDP, also trademarked)
     I will admit that Dick's response to the much-delayed, but imminent start to the NHL hockey season did have me distracted a bit with a full, center aisle display of Penguins apparel, so it was David that first noticed their mechanical difficulty. A loud, startled cry of,  'The escalators are broke!' was my first clue that my 'Clever Plan' (tm) was slowly beginning to circle the metaphorical toilet bowl. I turned my head to see real distress on the face of my youngest child. 'You have to fix the escalators!' he cried loudly. 'We can't go up in the escalators until they get fixed!' I obviously had to respond quickly to this tragedy, lest the world stop spinning, or dogs and cats started living together, or something.

Is he leading me down the Garden Path?

   To keep myself from panicking I leaned on my secret Dad-knowledge that there were, in fact, 3 other businesses, with a possible total of 5 other sets of escalators along with a glass elevator and  3 escalators in the common area of the mall. But to Dave, none of that mattered. This was the finest example of movable staircase art in the world, and quite possibly the only specimen left alive in captivity. And it was dead! Or at least that's what it sounded like.
     I tried to calm him down by telling him we would, in the natural course of events find other escalators, and that this one would work perfectly fine as a set of stairs and then to rise from the ashes and move again when that bright day dawned and power was restored, but he was having none of it. This is a kid who, when my car ran out of gas in a parking lot blocks from home, giggled his butt off for about an hour. I mean, this was his major form of transportation. The conveyance that obtained his Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers, and the only thing keeping his skinny hysterical butt from walking 3/4 of a mile home. But does he cry? Does he moan? No. He laughs at his father for the next hour. But one measly set of escalators. One out of maybe 10 in the building, mind you. One set that we see maybe once every 6 months and it's a tragedy of epic proportions. Someone must spring into action immediately to rectify this egregious offence against God and man. Riiiiiiight.
    So, despite this obvious evidence of the downfall of modern civilization, I just said, 'C'mon Dude, let's go.'  and calmly led him up the 'stairs'. Griping the whole way, he followed me, still mumbling about the blasphemy of walking  up a set of what should be moving stairs. Sometimes when we're in a public place Dave lags behind me 5 or 8 feet, so I'm constantly turning my head to check on him, so I saw what happened next, but was too far ahead to prevent it. As we were walking away from the escalator/stairs a man in a red sweatshirt walked past me to begin his non mechanically-assisted journey to the lower level. Dude intercepted him by stepping sideways to put his body between this... random guy in a red sweatshirt, and the top of the escalator. He placed his left hand on the man's left shoulder to fully stop him and gain his full attention. Dude then leaned in slightly, as if to impart some dire secret. 'You MUST fix the escalator!!' Dave practically yelled in his face, 'It's broke!' This guy's back was turned toward me, so I couldn't see the look on his face, but I did see him flinch back rather sharply. 'Dude!' I said flatly, 'C'mon man, let's go.' The guy (who will probably never take a broken escalator for granted again) gave me one startled look, and bolted down the 'stairs', and presumably, directly out the exit to find a land where people made sense, and escalators never broke down.

   Dave and I made our way out of the store. Thankfully the escalators top out only 20 feet away from the front doors. There may have been people staring at us the whole time... It wouldn't surprise me if there were, but honestly, I don't even notice things like that any more. We then walked across the mall to the food court to comply with our FFDP requirements. I was kind of in a hurry to get our dinners going because, A: I'm a large man, and require at least one meal a day, and I tend to skip the other two. B: I figured something with sauce and ketchup on it (hopefully not at the same time) would distract Dave from the tragedy we'd just been force to witness. and C: If we ate while Raine and Alayna were en-coiffure I wouldn't have to pay for their dinner. (long story, and inside joke) Well... none of it worked. Because, Dave never stopped complaining the whole time, and before I even got to pick a place to get food I got a phone call from Raine. It seems their appointment, meaning they didn't have one before we got there, wasn't for another hour and a half. So, figuring that 'B' and 'C' were already shot, I'd go extra hard at 'A' and told her I'd take everyone to Houlihan's, even though it wasn't Fast Food.
   Dave was still complaining about his lack of escalator action, so while we were waiting for the women to arrive, and to prove to him that there wasn't actually an epidemic wiping out all the moving stairways in the land, I took him around the corner and we, for no real reason, made a complete circuit of the escalator thus presented. This had apparently given him enough of a fix to get us through dinner and slightly beyond, but while the girls were attending their appointment Dude and I hit every escalator in the common area of the mall, up and down. We even had to ride the glass elevator before his equilibrium had been restored. After we stepped off and as a woman and her two small children were getting on, Dave, holding the doors, said brightly, 'It's okay, just step on. This elevator WORKS!' (Mr Otis would be so proud of him)

Also Fountain Operator

   All of the vertical transportation devices in the commons having been properly inspected, we could now leave the building. Thankfully Raine and Co. met us on the first floor so when we exited through Dick's we didn't have to reenact our entrance dilemma in reverse order, but somehow... And I don't remember actually agreeing to any of this... I had evidently promised David that we would find more elevators and escalators on the weekend. Presumably, Dude was just taking his newly self-appointed position as Public Elevator (escalator) Inspector very seriously.
   Two days later we went to the Phipps Conservatory (where these pictures were shot) even though they only had 2 elevators. I was checking with the teller that parking was indeed free, he informed me that was because of the holiday. 'Oh, cool.' I said, 'That's the same reason he (Dave) is with me...' I looked in vain for my son, '...uh I mean, with the elevators.'  Dave was peeking at me around the corner where the elevators were, waiting rather impatiently for the only thing in the whole flowery building he cared about. Later, in the Tropical Forest room, and the only other elevator in the building, he blocked a 5-6 year old and her family from entering 'our' elevator. 'Nope! Sorry, you'll have to wait for the next car!' he said briskly, and hit the button to shut the doors in her face. There was nothing I could do at the back of the car except say, 'Dave, you don't actually own the elevator, you know.' He just looked at me like I didn't know what the hell I was talking about.
     I think I could save on video games if I just had an elevator installed in our house. Maybe I'll just go with one of those StairClimber things instead.

Ho, Ho.... Huh?:

Stockings hung by the chimney... check

   Dave and I have a long-standing tradition... Or maybe it just seems like a long time. Every school day I get  smiley/frowny notices on the notebook provided. When 5 of these occur in the same week (No hoarding of Smileys!) we go to GameStop and get a game. Although lately he has been stocking up on movies as well. One lesser known codicil of the Smiley/Game Exchange Contract is that for the 4-5 weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Game points become Christmas points. This addendum to the Contract was mostly to avoid Dude-Dad succumbing to Scrooge-like outbursts from being forced into double game buying duty during the Holiday Season. Of course, in Dave's mind it's a chance to add to the game-unwrapping frenzy that is (to him) the very essence of the Holiday season. He's still not sure why we bother wrapping that 'other stuff', or why the rest of us have things to unwrap as well. But he's magnanimous and allows us our little... whatever he thinks that is.
     Anyway... The accumulation of 'Christmas Points' became the central tenet of Dude's existence, as a matter of fact, he was much like someone who's just gotten his membership card at a local department store and has an inflated opinion of what all those membership points actually mean, and no idea at all of how slowly they actually add up. We heard, endlessly, about what he was wanting for Christmas. And even though the list was quite large, financially speaking, it continued to grow, and change, morphing much like a monster in an old horror movie. Believe me, as the one who was supposed to supply all this stuff to his trusting offspring, I was horrified. Then there were the talks every afternoon about the accumulation of  said points, and once David boasted, 'I'm gonna get ALL the Christmas Points!!' To which I replied, 'Well, I'm sure you're gonna try.' 'No!' He flatly insisted, 'ALL the points. Every Christmas Points!' I had thought (logically) that the sum of Christmas Points was roughly (if not exactly) equal to the total number of possible Game Points in the five weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. From his insistence and growing list of demands, it seemed as though I had only a rough idea of the true extent of the vast sum of Christmas Points to be had in the universe at large. And had also vastly underestimated my son's ability to procure these valuable items.
 

Let's just say he needed help

   Actually, he managed to be (mostly) good for one whole week before genetics and personal inclinations brought him low. He came home the second Wednesday after Thanksgiving whistling the Darth Vader/Imperial Theme from Star Wars. Okay, he didn't really, as a matter of fact, I don't think he can whistle. But he looked like that particular music was running through his head as he got out of the school-van in front of the house. And I seemed to hear the faint dirge-like sounds of Chopin's Death March (dun, dun, duhduh) as he walked up the steps, and waited silently. Holding the screen door open, like he'd just been invited to his own funeral.
    I didn't have any need to use my awesome Dude-dad powers to figure out that the chain of reckless accumulation of 'Christmas Points' had hit a major snag. Also, without using my amazing powers of precognition (if I had any) I knew what I was going to find in 'The Book' before my youngest son dragged it reluctantly out of his backpack. I was even fairly (incredibly) certain as to the reason for this hiccup on the road to Christmas Point glory.
     If Dave gets excited about gaining 5 Smileys in the same week (and he does...more than a bit) he gets 110 times as excited about Christmas Points. Every Day he would LOUDLY proclaim his incredible gain in the standings and immediately and repeatedly (and even more loudly) inform everyone in the area, and most people in Western PA, what his virtuous reward should be. The words 'Kinect', 'Super Mario Brothers' and 4 different games for his 3DS will probably be rebounding off the insides of my skull until just before his birthday in 6 months. Just in time to start the whole cycle again (which may all be part of his diabolical scheme...) So I wasn't too terribly surprised when I looked at the frowny face in the book, and even less astonished when I read the note that said: Wouldn't focus and very talkative.
   I looked at Dave, trying very hard not to chuckle at his expense, and he looked back with the look of hopeless-hope. You know, the same look that death row inmates get on their faces when the phone rings as they're walking to the chair.(you know how much a wrong number would suck at that point?) Too bad for Dude that no call from the Governor was going to save him. He was Doomed. (or at least I wanted him to think he was.) I waited, looking at him expectantly. (It's just not as much fun if you don't torture them) and he awkwardly, nervously, and repeatedly glanced at me to ascertain how imminent his demise actually was. When he's really nervous Dave hunches slightly, cups his hands and brings his fingertips together in nervous little motions. Kind of like a timid mouse in an animated movie.... or Renfield... it's a tough call.

Where's the presents?

   'Well...' said the Voice of Doom (mine), 'Looks like we've got to do better in the Christmas Points gathering, doesn't it?' Which didn't sound much like Doom at all. As a matter of fact, before I'd even stopped talking, Dude was already coming at me with, 'Sorry! Sorry! My Bad!', and patting me on the arm to appease my anger. It must have worked, because instead of cancelling the entire holiday, I promised him some dire (but unspecified) consequences if Bad Notes continued to grace the pages of The Book. It really sounded a lot like the 'Slippery Slope' speech once given to me by a Principle of my acquaintance. And I didn't have any realistic hope that it would have any more effect on my son than it had on me all those years ago. But it says right here in the Manual that you're supposed to give that particular speech in these situations, so I gave it a shot.
    With the Holiday closing in, presents started to appear under the tree, and I learned something new. Dave is a psychic (I always pronounce it with an 'o' instead of an 'ic') because even without looking at the labels he could tell me who all the presents were for. Of course he was wrong, not all the presents under the tree were for him. But, hey, what psychic gets it right every time? The thing was, he hazarded a guess, put his neck out there and stuck by his guns come hell or high water. No matter what I (or anyone else) said, those presents were for him, and the rest of us could just go and find our own. Also, he could evidently peer though the wrapping and the boxes inside to the actual contents. Mysteriously they were all games and videos. And the bigger one off to the side was, of course, a Kinect system for his Xbox. I guess I have to look into the security system, because once Christmas came someone had mysteriously switched all these presents for the ones we actually opened. (His presents weren't even under the tree when he was guessing)
  The Big Day was closing in, and Dude was very lucky... Lucky that Christmas wasn't any later in the year. A starving buzzard wouldn't hover over a dead horse as much as David circled that tree the last 2 days before Christmas. He'd oh, so casually come downstairs about 3 times as often as usual, unobtrusively (If you were blind, deaf, and in another state, you wouldn't even know he was there) peering under the tree, then saying things like, 'Ooo! More presents!' and 'Got the presents with the games and DVD's and Kinect system for the Xbox!'. A couple of times, only my personal tattered ghosts of Holidays past prevented me from strangling him with something decorative. Well, that, and the fact that I'd used all of the garland on the tree, mantle and porch swing.

In case of shopping emergency

   I have to give credit where credit is due, however. The day before Christmas, thinking I was clever, I (foolishly as it turned out) sent Raine out of the house so I could finish wrapping her presents. I know that she hates crowds of people and driving in high traffic areas, so she left as kind of a personal favor to me. Well, that and I told her that was wrapping day and she wouldn't be getting any presents that weren't wrapped. While she was gone I asked Dude to help me bring them out of the 'secret hiding place' so that I could wrap them. David ended up helping me through the whole thing. Not only handing me stuff (paper, scissors, tape), but also helped me put the paper on, fold it and held the corners while I did my Laurel and Hardy wrassle with tape, imitation. I consider his efforts a nearly heroic unselfish act, because it was quite obvious early on that none of the presents were for him. As a matter of fact, if there were a medal for such things, I'd make sure he got one. Once we were done with our wrapping and some extra stuff we were roped into by Raine, I texted Raine and told her it was okay to come home.  Being male I was completely oblivious to the fact that I'd sent an unsupervised woman out on 'Last Chance Before Christmas, Sale' day. Turns out she was enjoying herself and didn't want to come home.

     But 24 hours later, the presents were opened, the ham (mostly) consumed, and peace (of a sort) reigned in the Dude-iverse. Dave was well pleased with the half a metric ton of games and movies that he received. Even more pleased with the fact that he got almost no clothes for Christmas. Which he considers a waste of both time and good wrapping paper that could be used somewhere else (games). Not to mention, the money wasted on clothing that could be used for some other, more worthwhile pursuit ... like games. And Dude-dad had a Special Project to use up that pesky down-time in between presents and dinner.

     Now when I was a kid I was always amazed that my father looked so drawn and tired on what was to any kid, the Most Exciting, Best Day of the Year. When I was a little older I suspected my father of indulging a bit too much in Holiday Cheer the night before, combined with an overuse of the 'adults set their own bedtime' prerogative. Also, it amazed me that we couldn't get him up before 8:00 am, even though we'd been up at 6:30. Dad woke up every morning at 6:30, even on vacation. What was so different about Christmas?  It was a puzzle. One that I solved for myself when I had my own kids. My Father, like so many other fathers was playing Santa's Elf until the wee hours of the morning putting together the Christmas Crap for his 5 ungrateful offspring. It wasn't turkey that knocked him out watching the football game, it was Mad Elf Disease. With this lesson in mind I resolved to A: Not buy my children anything requiring Tab A to be anywhere near Slot B. and 2: If such things were absolutely vital to the survival of my progeny I would, then, put them together in the 'down time' sometime Christmas Day... the next weekend at the latest. Or at least sometime before the end of the school year.

To understand the full horror, click to look at this full size

    So while my son didn't get his Kinect/Wii/electronic present so expensive as to cause bankruptcy, he did receive a tube/ramp/marble/race-game thing that had 847 parts (it looked cool, and I didn't check the box) and took a team of NASA engineers 16 years to conceive and looked like it would take me twice that long to construct. Especially since Raine categorically refused to have anything to do with its construction, and even refused to read the instructions once she'd seen how huge they were. So during that 'golden time' when Dave was upstairs loading games and movies into his machine with the speed of an Uzi, I was downstairs with a table, 8 bags of parts, and a 39 page instruction manual, doing an amazingly life-like rendition of a psychotic roller coaster builder. Mumbling to myself and jamming parts together, peering at an increasingly unhelpful diagram, then cursing in the language of my choice, and ripping it all apart again. Building and checking and re-checking to make certain everything worked correctly at each stage of construction. Between this and cooking dinner, I spent an eventful 5 hours entertaining myself and amusing everyone else in the room.(yes, they were laughing at me) After dinner was over I proudly brought my son over to his new (and cool) machine so that I could receive the accolades I so justly deserved, for both the coolness of the present and the pain and effort I had gone through to provide it.
   I said something like, 'Here it is, Dude. Isn't this cool?' (man, you are so setting yourself up) Dave looked everything over, watched me send the marbles flying up the tubes, then watched the results as gravity pulled them down the ramps and through the chutes until they'd come to rest at the end. He learned the mechanism to send the marbles and sent a couple flying around the course with the same result. 'How 'bout it Dave? You want this up in your room?' Dude looked it over, one more time, and said, in a polite but unenthusiastic voice, 'Yeah, sure.' Then he walked out of the room and up the stairs to his 'real' presents. He is so getting socks and coal next year, I swear.
  PS. Raine still laughs when she remembers how I looked pulling all those parts out of that box, and how long it took me to put it all together. She's just getting coal. No socks.

Short Rant:

   I tend to write here about the bigger or funnier things in our lives. The adventures that we have, and the havoc that we (mostly him) cause. But the devil, as they say, is in the details. The day-to-day, everyday circus that is our lives. It's the constant loud quotes and babble, the imperfect potty-training, the daily struggles for understanding: Him trying to understand us, us trying to understand him, and everyone else trying to understand just what in the hell is going on.
    (Warning: Sudden segue' alert!)   One of my favorite Lucille Ball movies is 'Yours Mine and Ours' with Henry Fonda. If you want to know the plot, you'll have to look it up (1968 ver.). Basically all you need to know is; Man with 10 kids meets woman with 8 and then they have one together. As they're heading to the hospital for no. 19, Fonda explains 'Love' to Ball's eldest daughter...  Life isn't a love in, it's the dishes and the orthodontist and the shoe repairman and... ground round instead of roast beef. And I'll tell you something else: it isn't going to a bed with a man that proves you're in love with him; it's getting up in the morning and facing the drab, miserable, wonderful everyday world with him that counts.
    If you adjust the content slightly (the going to bed part, particularly) the sentiment applies to Dudes as well. Not wanting to sound harsh (but hey.. it's my blog, so what the hell...), but this is the criteria that shows me the difference in the 'love' of his mother and the love he gets every silly, loud, aggravating, crazy, wonderful day from Raine. Like dough-boys in the trenches we're ill-prepared, but every time the whistle blows we still go over the trenches in the face of the withering fire of game and movie quotes. (Drama much?)
    On a regular basis I try not to deal with 2 state agencies, 2 county agencies, 2 schools, 1 school district, and the Federal Government (Your Tax Dollars at work to confuse the hell out of Everybody). Thankfully, not all on the same day... well almost never anyway. And I have to say, in my humble, yet all knowing opinion... that working for the government, any government makes you do strange and stupid things. Mostly just so some one person can't later say that you didn't do, whatever it was, for them... And then sue your ass off.

   A case in point. (Nice way of saying, I'm having a little rant now) David is technically part of the Cornell School District. He doesn't attend classes at Cornell School, he's never met any of the students or faculty in any official capacity. He's never been in the building, or even on school grounds. He's only technically a senior in this school he's never attended, he's autistic, physically handicapped and maintains a godlike indifference to the very existence of  the place. But at least twice a week I get automatic notices on my cell-phone from Cornell telling me about the doings of all of the activities that Dude doesn't participate in, at the school he doesn't actually attend. The comings and go-ings (never far enough) of the PTA, of which I'm not now, never been, nor likely to ever be a member. And sometimes, in the heat of the moment I guess, I even get VM messages about parenting classes and football rallies and I don't know  what all. Most are cleverly designed to reach my phone as I'm riding my cycle home and can't hear them. So I can't just ignore the call, I have to go to voice mail and delete them... (Okay... breathe...the Bad People can't hurt you now) But their greatest tribute to senseless bureaucracy is that about once or twice a month (depending on the phases of the moon, I guess) I get a letter. An actual paper, sent through the US Snail, letter. With a stamp and a post-mark, and everything, advising me how to get student loans! So that David can go to college.  Let's pause here, and have a Moment of Silence for the death of Common Sense... or any Sense at all, actually. I'm eagerly waiting for the notice that it's time to sign him up for the SAT's.

   Student loans? Really? If I weren't almost certain that this was just a case of 'he's 18, so he gets this stuff' I would be really REALLY pissed off. I mean, it kinda feels like someone is sending me this stuff, just so they can laugh at me. That would suck, but it can't really be true. Because if it were, then that would mean they were making fun of Dude, and then I would become an ever-expanding, radioactive, mushroom cloud of righteous  parental fury, laying down death and destruction throughout the entire Ohio River Valley. And let's face it. Nobody really wants that, do they? I hope not, it's very tiring.

Transitions:

The shirt says 'EASY'... he isn't

     I try to regularly write for the blog, but sometimes I'm stuck story-less for weeks because nothing happens! But, being who I am, when I don't have anything to occupy my mind, my mind occupies itself. I start drawing parallels between things that may or my not actually relate. And thus I find myself (and you), here.
     Dave is currently in the 'transition' stage for all his programs. Technically he's in the beginning stages of moving from juvenile (delinquent) to adult programs.Ms Antoniades (Anton-yet-ease) is the Special Ed supervisor at Dave's new school district and she told me it was time to start David's 'Transition'. This got me thinking about the word, and what it means, (Well that, and the fact that I had nothing else to write about.) so I looked it up.
Transition:
       noun
             1.    Movement, passage, or change from one position, state, stage, subject, concept, etc., to               another; ex: the transition from adolescence to adulthood. 

Evil little smile... 

Well, that certainly fits, and we started that process by visiting a handicapped 'labor camp'. Okay, it isn't actually a labor camp, it's a nice place where people with disabilities get to work at a job, earn money and generally feel productive. They never told me how much they get paid... probably afraid I'd apply. Ms. Anton-etc took us on the tour, and Dave really seemed sort-of interested, but generally unwilling to participate. Mostly, I think, because there was no game-controller involved. But he did seem to think it was cool that everyone else had a job. The staff seemed wonderful-ish and they all made certain I knew that no decision was final, and that I could change my mind at any time, but by the same token they were continually asking Dude if this was something he wanted to do. He always replied 'Yes' and that brightened everyone up until I explained that he would answer 'yes' if you asked him if he wanted to be a fire engine. I got the impression they thought I was impious or something. Ms A was really pushing for Dave to go to this particular program, in a nice, friendly way. She did make the mistake of trying to play to my sympathies (as if I have any), by waxing a bit poetic about how it would be a much shorter trip (4 miles) there than say.... New Horizon school, which is about 20 miles away. I interrupted her before she got too far. I told her I  understand that the school district is small, and that Dude is one of the only, if not the only child from the district going to NH, and that it was costing the District a bit more to keep him there. And that she should have started with that premise because Dave loves riding the bus (van), the only way he could like it more is if it went through Pittsburgh, picked up a couple of Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers and some Mac and Cheese before it turned completely around and took him to school. And that I would have to make my choice based on what I thought would be best for him, not the School District as a whole. (selfish I know, but hey, I'm Dude's dad. Let all those other parents dig for their own) They also have a more 'social' program that's even closer, just across the river in Cory (Coraopolis... yeah, I know. I can't figure out how they got 'Cory' out of that either), and also one or two more in the general area. I'm really not too sure what or where they were... her voice was kind of muffled and I missed the salient parts. So everyone left the tour either feeling unsatisfied (Ms. A and staff) or confused and only vaguely informed (yours truly)
    Not knowing what else to do I went back to my 'transition' definition:

              2.     Music
                            a.   a passage from one key to another; modulation
                            b.   a brief modulation; a modulation used in passing
                            c.    a sudden, unprepared modulation

   I'm not sure even I can stretch any kind of metaphor out of that one. Except for 'c' David is a series of sudden, unprepared modulations of random types, mostly vocal.
     So back to the definition I went:

             3.     a passage from one scene to another by sound effects, music, etc., as in a television program, theatrical production, or the like.

     Okay, this one I had a bit more luck with. We are definitely passing from one scene to another and Dude is a series of sounds and effects. Oh and he is a total theatrical production. (Oh! The Pain! The Pain! There could be internal bleeding!) But really, it didn't help me much, so I moved on.

       verb 
            4.      to make a transition: He had difficulty transitioning from enlisted man to officer.

     So far Dave isn't the one having difficulty with the 'transition'...(sorry, 'Transition', they always say it like it has a capital letter) so I was left pretty much to my own devices. I pick up trivia like a Sham-Wow! sucks soda through a carpet, so I entered the word into the aging database, rattled it around for a while, spun a prayer wheel, lit some incense, sacrificed a goat (well, lamb... it was a gyro) and waited for the results to come bubbling to the surface.
   The word itself is about movement. Physical, emotional, metaphysical, sight or sound. Moving on, moving along going around. Going from here to there, one thing or another. It's enough to make you tired just thinking about it.

Concentration...

   And then I thought about it again.  In physics, any time there's a radical change in vector, or direction, there's a brief instant when all motion stops. A breath, or a pause or a period of time, no matter how infinitesimal when all movement ceases and force must be applied to continue motion. I think Dave and I are at that moment in our 'transition'. Readying the turn, but still coasting down the old path on momentum.

Strange Attractants:

I don't think I've delved deeply enough into the fascination that women, including quite a few members of the banking community, have with Dude. Wherever we go, if there's a counter with a woman behind it, Dude is the man. Some attitude, facial expression, or possibly even some strange pheromone he gives off insidiously winds its way into the female brain, around the annoyance cluster, past the common sense center and worms its way directly into the mothering instinct lobe and kicks all the caring hormones into turbo boost. It's uncanny. I've seen it happen time and time again. No matter how world-weary or jaded the women behind the counter/desk are, three minutes and David has them firmly in his back pocket. If I could bottle this stuff (whatever it is) I'd have that Match.com dude out of business in a heartbeat. Antonio Banderas and Hugh Hefner could learn a thing or two about picking up women from Dude.
   A typical outing is something like this: Dave and I walk into the grocery store/bank/something with a counter, and he walks right up to the counter, (regardless of the presence of a line, or our place in it) leans one or both elbows on the counter and says something like, 'Hey babes! How's it going?' And then he just starts talking. Doesn't seem to matter what he's talking about. (Which is a good thing since sometimes I'm not sure he even knows what he's talking about. It could be movie quotes: 'Hmm I bet she gives great helmet!', (Spaceballs) or something from the thousands of movies and games that are stuck in his head and come pouring out of his mouth. The woman/women (numbers are no defense, apparently) stares at him a moment in confused admiration, glance at me for some sort of confirmation/reassurance, at which time I make my only contribution to... whatever Evil Scheme this is. I raise one eyebrow, and smile. That's it. After that he's on his own. I'm pretty sure he doesn't need even that, because within about 2 minutes he's done it again. Made them into Dude's Robot Slaves (pat. pend).

Would you buy a used car from this guy?

  Nearly every Friday Dave goes with me to the bank to deposit my check (such as it is). My particular bank has a partnership with my favorite local grocery chain and has branches in each one, with extended hours and they are open 7 days a week (not a commercial, just a set-up), so we can wander in there just about any time we want without rushing around. There is a teller there that's a special favorite of Dude's (or the other way around) named Leah. Leah is the epitome of the young, professional bank teller. Mid-twenties, bright, cheery, friendly, but professional. The first time they met, David saunters up to the counter, puts both hands on it and declares in a firm, loud voice, 'I'd like ten thousand dollars please!' For some reason this less than subtle extortion didn't mean a stern questioning from an overweight guard (there wasn't one anyway) or immediate expulsion from the premises. She laughed and smiled and said, 'I'm sure you would. And so would I!' She began her conversion to one of Dude's Robot Slaves at that moment and didn't even know it. Over the next few weeks the demand for 10 large was repeated every visit, with Leah becoming more besotted every time. My only comment? ' Dude, if this ever works, I'll buy you any game you want.' After a month, or so, the demand became 100K, which was somehow ten times as cute as the 10 grand had been. Then the very next week he strode up to the counter and said, ' I need the 20 million dollar Lotto Jackpot!' to which I immediately replied, 'Dude, if that works I'll buy you ALL the games you ever wanted.' Which was a bit hasty, come to think about it. I'm not sure 20 million would cover that.
   When we moved about 10 miles upriver I thought, sadly, that we'd seen the last of Leah. I know that for my Midwestern friends moving 10 miles does not always mean a change of branches, because that's still the closest bank. But here, moving 10 miles is like moving to another State. A far-away state, that still has strange-speaking Yinzers (Pittsburghers) in it.I've known people here that have retired less than a mile from the house they grew up in, and proud of it.  Everything changes, with a move of more than a couple miles, sometimes even blocks. You have to get new shops, restaurants, bars, mechanics, and banks. So I was almost certain we'd seen the last of Leah. Until we walked into our new branch the very next week and there she was! David didn't even blink. Silly Dad... Naturally she would be there. Wasn't that where he was going to be?  The power of the Dude-Call is not to be underestimated.
   In addition there are now two other women in that branch that are now Dude's Robot Slaves (pat.pend) and every time (infrequently) that I go in without David I'm grilled as to why I was allowed out without supervision. The interrogation continues until they are satisfied that I didn't A: Slip away without Dude-knowledge. B: Didn't somehow lose David in some sort of high-stakes poker game. Or, more importantly, C: Let some other Robot Slave care for him for any length of time.
  Every one of David's teachers has seemingly fallen under the same spell. (Hey, it could be magic, I don't know) When we first moved here Dude went to Raccoon Elementary School for a total of two months. After living with his mother for about a year and a half (flashback) he returned to the Dad-den and then went to a different school. Not that year, but at the third year's Special Olympics we were stopped by a cry of  'David! How are you doing?' This strange (to us) woman walked briskly up to us and started babbling like a fan to a Rockstar. It took several moments for me to ascertain that she had been David's teacher's aide at Raccoon and that she had just come over to tell us how much everyone loved him there and still talked about him, and just to check on him to see how he was doing. Dave, of course, ignored everything after acknowledging his Just Due as Robot Slave Overlord, leaving me to converse with this politely concerned woman whom I'd met maybe twice, three and a half years before. I managed not to sound too much like a moron, I thought, but she was giving me concerned looks as she walked away.

Let's go check on the Robot Slaves, Dad

   Now I've talked about the Pittsburgh medical community's fascination with Dude and the several dozen new Dude's Robot Slaves (pat.pend) left in his wake in the last few months. Well we finally made it to the Geneticist this month and not only did he charm the Genetic Councilor, but 2 interns, three desk nurses, the Intake woman (and those women are no-nonsense) and the wonderful geneticist, who has a heavy India accent and could barely understand what he was saying. (That's ok, I have problems with that sometimes and I taught him how to talk) He even charmed the phlebotomist, the vampires of the medical community! She actually cut in line ahead of her partner to take care of Dude. And all he was doing was talking about the stuffed frog display beside the nurses section. I think that's what he was doing anyway. We went back into the abattoir (just kidding) and Dave (who was being very good... with my help) started babbling away about going to GameStop, and being a good boy and an involved story about how we had to go to the Mall to ride the elevators to get to the store so we could make copies... of the elevators. (Yeah, that one's still keeping me up nights trying to figure out) He never answered any of her questions, except to say 'Yeah' twice when she asked about games and GameStop, respectively, and the only time he was ever quiet was the minute it took her to take his blood pressure... And she Loved It! by the end of the 1/2 hour bloodletting she was thanking David for coming in, and being a good boy and by the time we walked down the hall back to the waiting room I had to mentally add her to the (long) list of people I have to pay attention to so they don't snatch Dude while I'm not looking. The only problem with that list is I completely suck at remembering people's names the first (fifth) time I meet them. So the list is just basically a mental snapshot album with no captions... probably not very effective.
   I remember hearing a story about William 'Bud' Abbott and his partnership with Lou Costello. From 1935-1957, Bud was Lou's straight man, and he got a lot of flack for being the 'mean guy' to the child-like Costello for all of those 2+ decades. And even though he loved Lou like a brother, he hated being the 'straight' for every one of those 22 years. But when given the opportunity to start later with a new partner and very good reviews, Bud declined, saying, 'No one could ever live up to Lou.'
   And that's pretty much the way I think about our little comedy team. I may hate being the bad guy. I may be jealous for being the 'straight man' and wish I could get all the laughs.... but No one could ever live up to Dude. He's my partner.

Off to the Olympics:

Time to put the Game-Face on

   Now wait. Before you start saying, 'But the Olympic post is late this year!' (Okay, no one is probably going to say that) I have to tell you that this is the super-secret, undercover, double-naught spy version of the Olympic report. (not really, it just sounded cool) For those who follow such things, the Beaver Co. Special Olympics is normally held the last week of April/ first week of May at a Secret Location somewhere in Beaver County. At least it's secret to those of us that... occasionally, have trouble finding it. And so it was this year, and I actually found it this time. In the normal course of events I would, about a week or so later, post a story about 'how everything went', Dude-Dad version. This year, about the time I would normally be chronicling Dave's  athletic adventures I got a phone call from Ms. Neidbala, one of Dave's former teachers and the leader (make that ringleader) of their Olympic Expeditionary Force (I think she's actually Director of Special Olympics.. something-or-another for Beaver County). Somehow it occurred to her that it would be a good thing for Dave to go to the PA State Special Olympics, Thurs-Sunday next month at Penn State (150+ miles away), and would I please let him go? It seems that she'd been thinking of taking him for a couple of years and that he might, finally, be ready for the journey. (or she had sufficiently readied her Band of Ninjas for the peril... take your pick)
      While I admired her pluck, and her bravery in the face of almost certain peril (There could be peril...at least some) something made me pause for more than a moment. I told her I'd have to think about it, and I'd let her know, and hung up on her, probably rather rudely.
      As I was hesitating, I had to wonder why I was even hesitating. Dude would love it, he'd be with his buddies, the teachers and coaches would all be experience people. Most of them would know David or at least have heard about him (Rockstar: remember?) and would, no doubt be able to handle him. I mean they, or their clones handle Dude or more every day. And, as an extra bonus, there would be new elevators. Then it struck me. I had never, never allowed anyone I didn't personally know take David anywhere, ever. (I try not to imagine what happens at his mom's) The only person not directly related to him that I've even allowed to have him overnight is Raine. And she's the only one I have no qualms about him staying with. And this would be 4 days, hundreds (150) of miles away without any direct contact at all. He could be wreaking havoc across the countryside, and I'd never know. And besides, I'd miss him.

   And once I realized that the last point was the only one I had (other than the one under my hat), I knew I had to let him go. So after some consultation with my therapist (Raine) I called Melissa back and told her that Dude would be joining them this year, mumbled some appropriate niceties and hung up again, only slightly less rudely than the last time. And, after several weeks worth of paperwork (mostly received) there came The Day (cue: Dramatic Music). Raine happily (not really) volunteered to take Dude to the bus since it left about the time I got to work. So, other than getting him ready in the morning, I didn't even see him off.
   Raine and Dude getting to the school has been kind of problematic at times, so this time when they were gliding up the hill to Friendship Ridge, Raine asked David facetiously, 'Dave, is this the way to school?' The immediate reply? 'NOOOOO! NO!! No school!' Raine countered with, 'Dude, we have to go to the school to get on the bus to go to State College.' Dude can change direction quicker than a weather-vane in a tornado, 'Oh... Sorry! My Bad! My Bad!'   and as they got closer to the turn... 'Right here! Turn here for the bus to go to STATE COLLEGE!!!' I guess her DPS (Dude Positioning System) recalibrated... or at least recalculated. Anyway, Raine managed to corral a very exited Dude at least long enough to remember to get his bag in the Big White Tour Bus (told you he's a Rock Star) and got him on his way.
   So, there I was. Voluntarily Dudeless for the first time ever. (Visitation doesn't count-not voluntary) I spent the whole day absent-mindedly going about my business. That night, after intense discussion with my Spiritual Guru (Raine) I decided that I was going to hop the next motorcycle to State College and watch some Olympic glory. (Hey... I told you I'd miss him)
   After the longest motorcycle ride of my career, I finally made it to State College only to find out that I wasn't really wanted there... It wasn't the coaches. They were just confused (but pleased) that I showed up after I'd said I wasn't going to. Although I must have explained 6 times that I wasn't there because of them, or Dude, I was there because I couldn't not be there (yeah, I know, double negative. pththththth!), and that I was merely an observer. Nope, the one that tried to kick me out was my own dear, sweet son, David. (I'm changing my will) When told, 'Dad is here!' he replied, 'NOOOOOOOOOOO!' and took off.... After he was tracked-down, lasooed, hogtied, and returned, I explained, 'I'm not taking you anywhere! I just want to watch!' (Lo, how the mighty control-freak has fallen) then he proceeded to pretty much ignore me for the next 36 hours. You know, since I wasn't actually there.

...and you do the Hokey-Pokey...

   My first problem was finding Dude & Co. in the first place. My normal MO at Dude-events is to wander around until someone recognizes me (Dude) and then tells me what to do. There were thousands of kids there from hundreds of schools, and like a total dipshit I'd forgotten my contact sheet at home. So I wandered around Penn State for a little while, asked some information people (they didn't have any), then cruised on back over to the track to see if I could find anyone. Spotting some kids in yellow shirts with angry looking blue beavers on them (Beaver Co.) I stood on the ground in front of the bleachers, and looked the capable seeming young woman (coach) right in the eye until she politely asked, 'Is there something you need?' I facetiously replied, 'Yes, I need my son.' After a bit of confusion, all engendered by me, It was determined that: 1) I was David's father, and: 2) There was really nothing for me to do, because he'd already competed that day. It seems (and I totally approve) that there is no provision for parents or any other non-participants at the Games. Don't get me wrong, there was a lot going on... for the kids, just the kids, and just about no one but  the kids. So I got some phone numbers (just in case) and split to find a hotel.
   The coaches also had my number... and they used it. Turns out there was something I could do at SO... I could watch Dude have fun. There was a get-together for all the athletes where they played games, danced, won prizes and generally had a hell of a time. After finding a motel and the only cloud that was actually raining in PA. (Hail hurts at 60 on a bike) I made my way back to the Olympic Village (dorms). When I got there Dave was doing the Hokey-Pokey and had already worn out one 'coach' and was well on his way to out dancing a second. When Ms. Neidbala had finally had enough (and lost one pair of sunglasses. Which Dude gave back later), she tried to interest him in a game with about 20 other kids, a ball, and a parachute, but that didn't last very long. So, she succumbed to the inevitable and gave Dave her extra iPhone so she could take a break. Other than another (brief) dancing session, that's how Dude spent the rest of the evening,  perfectly contented with all his activities. I returned to my room, slightly jealous, but just about to explode with happiness at seeing David finally getting to be completely Dude, without Dads, or anyone else trying to contain him (much).
  The next day, much rested, and ready for battle I returned to the track. Dude's first event was the 50 meter dash, but it was going to be a while before it started. Jemma (the Dude-wrangler) had implemented a clever scheme. If Dude listened and was good for 45 minutes he could have the iPhone for 15... and it worked! But the time finally came for the 50 meter.

   Dave loves medals. Even so it's sometimes a surprise what he'll do to get one. So I was a bit nervous about the race, because State Special Olympics takes a dim view on some of his practices. But the race started without any troubles and Dude was off in a flash! The only one that was close to him was a big kid a couple of lanes over, but David wasn't going to lose this race! Now normally there's a line of parents/timekeepers/coaches/helpers at the finish line to help the kids know when to stop. At State no one but the officials were allowed on the field and they timed the race from trackside. So when David and the Big Kid (never caught his name) reached the finish line in a fever of competition, neither of them noticed it. Neither one was going to let the other win the race if they could help it. So on they tore past the finish line and around the corner with the two, seemingly fit, high-school volunteers racing after them vainly. By the time the first one had caught up to Dude, he'd actually already won another 50 meter race.

The Winna! and still Champeen!

  David, knowing he had won (twice) immediately ran for the podium to get his medal. The girl tried to tell him that he had to go to the tent to wait, but Dude would have none of it. He walked right up to the podium like he owned it, (he did) and disrupted the next group of contestants coming up for their medals. After much persuasion (and some yelling from Dad) Dave decided to wait in the tent for his due.

Hail to the King, baby..

   Finally the time of adulation had arrived. The volunteers led Dave and the rest out to the podium to get their medals. Everything was fine until Dude slipped in front of the two kids ahead of him in line to get to the top first. You see they come out in the order they'll stand, right to left, on the podium, so when Dave cut in front to assume his regal perch the fourth and second place kids had to walk around him on the fairly small podium. He could have cared less, standing there with his arms upraised accepting the adulation of the masses (in his own mind). There was a marine sergeant and some girls from some kind of Dairy sponsored beauty contest placing the medals, but like Napoleon, Dude had to crown himself. Instead of leaning over for the medal he took it from the young lady's hands and placed it around his own neck. Standing like a conquering hero, arms calmly folded, he waited through the obligatory pictures then returned to his followers. (coaches and team-mates)

I did what?

   The other event of the day, the Standing Long Jump didn't go as well. It was much later in the afternoon, everyone was a bit dehydrated despite quarts of water that were consumed, and it was hovering somewhere around the uncomfortable side of 90 degrees. Dave waited patiently in the tent until the event started and then took his place at the line. They gave him several jumps, but every time, just before he jumped, he would twitch his feet and his toes would just barely cross the line. Now, at the Locals this wouldn't be a problem, but the Judge was having none of it, and disqualified Dude from the competition. Now when this happens at the London Games there's film at 11, newspapers are sold in record numbers, YouTube videos abound, and the participant returns to his home country in shame to sell used cars, or toilet seats, or becomes a stadium hot dog vendor, never to be heard from again. Only to be mentioned with disgust every 4 years when his event is run again. At the State Olympics you get a 'Participation Ribbon'. Which is just a polite way of saying, 'You cheated, but you were here, so we're giving you this crappy ribbon.' Or at least that's what the look on Dave's face said when he received one after trying to stand on the top platform of the podium. He was not happy. He knew that he'd jumped farther than the other kid, so why wasn't he getting his nice, big, shiny medal? He was still out of sorts when he came to the gate, but I made a big fuss over him, telling him what a good job he did, and how cool this all was. I'm not sure I had much effect, but we hugged and he seemed in a better mood when we went back up into the stands.
  So that was it. The rest of the Team had already finished their events. Once Dude was done all that was left was to gather everything up and get ready to go back to the Village for a bit more frivolity before the closing ceremonies and bus ride home the next morning. Oh... and for Dude-Dad to fade into the sunset on his motorcycle. And so that's what I did, full of good, warm fuzzy feelings at seeing my son run rampant, for a time, in a situation totally geared for acceptance of who and what he was. A society for the Asocial. A little sad too, knowing he was leaving the next day for his 'Visitation' and I'd have to be the 'bad guy' when Dave got home from visiting his mother. Then I realized I was just feeling sorry for myself, and, unlike Dude, was missing a Wonderful Day of my own. So that's what I did, enjoyed the day, the ride, and the thought of  many Wonderful Days to come.

Good Boy at the Hospital:

Look into my eye! 

Over the Easter holiday Dave, Raine, and I were visiting Raine's mother at the hospital. She's nearly (if not over) 80 and sometimes her health is a bit chancy. Now Dude loves Raine's mom, and he'd never want any harm to come to her, but he's almost overjoyed to hear about any time she's admitted to the hospital. 'We have to go to the Hospital building and ride the elevators!' Is normally his response to hearing about the woman he calls grandma's latest health crisis.
   After the visiting part was over and the 'Raine spending time with mom' part had begun, Dave and I went for a walk outside. And as we were walking back down the hallway to the elevators a man passed us on the left and Dude made a funny sound. Dave generally walks around plugged into his 3DS and doesn't have any social shame anyway, so he often makes noises or says things that people can misinterpret and take offense to. So I turned to him to shush him and was shocked to see his face locked into a spastic rictus and as his whole body jerked several more times strange grunts were forced from him. Even though he'd never had one it took me only a moment to realize that he was in the midst of a seizure. With his back against the wall and his body spasming he turned toward me as best he could and with a heart-rending plea in his eyes, and tried to reach for me as his body betrayed him repeatedly. I immediately reached to him and lowered him gently to the floor. I cradled his head and quickly scanned him as he went into full Grand Mal, or tonic-clonic seizure.
   One of the few benefits of being me is that I am my own PA system. When I need to be heard, I will be, no matter the background noise. So when I yelled, 'I'm gonna need some help here!' the previously empty corridor became a beehive of activity in mere moments. The professionals shuttled me to the side (not knowing how useful I can be) and immediately began to have problems lowering the gurney, lifting him onto said gurney, and then getting the damn thing to stay up once they'd raised it again. I finally stepped in and helped the nurse at my end to secure the thing. Another nurse (what was she doing this entire time? No idea) asked me if Dave had ever had a seizure before and in the 5 seconds it took me to answer they somehow made Dude disappear. I looked down at my hand and had no memory at all of how the hell I'd managed to separate David from his DS3, but there it was. Right there in my hand.

   The next half hour was pretty much a blur of worry and intake paperwork and texting Raine to let her know that we wouldn't be returning to her mom's room anytime soon. I just barely made it into the secure area of the ER when I was snagged by the Dictator of Documentary Bureaucracy, at least I think that was her title.  I hate hospital paperwork. I know it's necessary, but all I wanted to do was run down the hallway and start rifling through rooms until I came up with a Dude. So while the (supposedly) nice lady was asking me insurance questions (at least I think that's what she was doing) I was craning my neck around and not really paying any attention to what she was asking. I think I got Dude's birthday wrong 3 times, and I pretty much know it better than my own. People ask me for his a lot more often than they ask for mine.
  Then the Cavalry came charging to the rescue in the form of Raine swooping down on the ER like a mother eagle. I heard her voice berating the ER reception lady from across the hall. 'What do you mean I can't go see him?' I heard in an angry, strident, but somehow familiar, tone, 'You'd better open this door, or I'm gonna break it down!'. Luckily for the receptionist I stepped out into the hallway and told the lady she'd better let her in before anyone found out if bullet-proof Plexiglas was also Raine-proof (she had chairs close at hand, and the will to use them).
   As I was explaining to Raine that we had to wait until after the initial Doctor-hovering to see Dude, a nurse walked up to us and said we could go see him. He was something of a minor mess. He'd been stripped to his skivvies and mostly covered with a blanket and was lolling around in a totally un-Dudelike state. If I hadn't seen post-seizure reaction before I'd have thought they'd sedated him to keep him quieter. (Which at times has been tempting, but I've never actually done it) Like most patients after a seizure Dave was pretty much... well stoned. Slurring his words and making even less sense than usual. He was in and out of it for a while, but he seemed less restless with me there holding his hand. So that's what I did for the next hour, or so While Raine finished off the paperwork woman. (I meant 'with the paperwork woman', I'm almost certain I meant 'with') After watching me with him while they administered an EKG, the ER nurses began to get some idea that it might be a good thing to have me around, so they insisted I attend all the tests.
  After a while, when Dude was recovered somewhat, the time came for 'the tests'. First up was a CAT scan of his brain. So they wheeled him out of the room, bed and all, and immediately rammed the corner into the door frame. Dave hollered out, 'Watch out! There's a door there!'. and then, as the nurse bumped the door again because she was laughing, 'Be careful! We don't want to go to the Emergency Room!'. Let's just say that her driving skills didn't improve. It's hard to double over with laughter and see where you're going at the same time, I guess.

Am I under arrest?

   I almost had to tackle Dude back down on the bed when we got to the elevator. You see, Dude is our elevator man, and he knows it's his job to push every button in the process. A little thing like being a patient lying on a gurney shouldn't affect that. When we eventually got to the imaging room and faced the CT scanner it was my job to hold my son still on the table with his head in the Doughnut of Destruction (Spaced Invaders) while keeping my hands out of the image. Yeah... good luck with that. That's something akin to trying to keep a caffeine-crazed ferret inside a box of cereal with a pair of chopsticks... behind your back. But somehow I seem to possess the skills required, (though I hope no one films my face while I do these things), and miraculously an image was acquired.   Now I never saw the images, and even though they said they were 'normal'  I imagine they looked something like a game controller next to a bowl of Mac&Cheese inside a skull. Next was the X-ray, and our travelling nurse stopped the x-ray tech on approach, nodded at me and said, 'Get him an apron, you want him in there.' I guess they figured I had spawned enough mutants without the help of radiation. After making Dude pose in front of the nuclear beam like a marionette without strings, we headed back to his room. On the way back down to the ER Dave performed yet another kamikaze move to hit the elevator buttons, but the nurse was now a veteran and she quickly shoved the gurney up next to the buttons in time to keep him from scrambling his egg on the floor. Buttons pushed by the Agent of the Elevator we descended back to the proper floor.
    When we were escorting the Rockstar's bed through the ER halls and back to his room I heard several of the nurses already talking about David in that awed, giggly tone of someone who's been hit with a cute-ray set on 'Oh My Gosh!'. I don't mean to sound petulant, but I'm sure there weren't this many women thinking I was this cute when I was 17. Certainly not when I was lying half-naked on a gurney, or possibly even when lying all-naked anywhere. Anyway, despite his father's jealousy Dude's hospital visit seemed to be going well.
   After a few more tests, some consultations, much spinning of prayer wheels, and, for all I know, a flip of a coin. It was Determined (by some office drone at Tri-State Pediatric, David's GP) that Dude had the ill-considered bad taste to have his 'event' at the wrong hospital (so much for the good-luck factor). So we were advised to go back home, wait for him to have another seizure, and then take him to a more fitting hospital (one that they had an association with). Needless to say the anxious large man with the long hair (me) was not pleased. So not pleased in fact that he flat refused to go home and insisted on a transfer to Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh within the hour. And so it was to be.
  Dave loved the ambulance ride. He especially loved to tell the guy driving how to get someplace Dave had never been before. They made the mistake of mounting their GPS where Dude could see it, and he called out directions the entire 20 minute trip. With a double dose of directional assistance we made it safely to the ER at CHP (Lots of anacronyms in this one). Which was exactly where the officious oaf from Tri-State wanted us to end up (after another seizure for cripe's sake) but it was also exactly where I wanted to be. Children's has the best group of doctors in the area and I wanted a part of that focused on my son.
So let's tally up and see what has been done so far:
1 X-ray
1 CAT scan
2 EKG's (one at each hospital)
3 Doctors
2 X-ray techs
7 Nurses (now under Dude's Evil Spell. pat.pend)
And 1 officious  oaf (is there any other kind?) from Tri-State Ped.
   Results?

None... Zero, zip, zilch, nothing, nada, bupkiss. Other than affording Dave the opportunity annoy a couple of  EMT's and to turn several more nurses into robot-slaves, the whole evening was a bust. Except for the fact that Dude was now in the system. That's where the real results would come from... or so I thought. In the ensuing 3 weeks we added a cardiologist, 2 more EKG's (machine/Dude interface malfunction) a neurologist, an EEG (and technician), an MRI (and tech) and a veritable gaggle of giggling nurses to the list. And next month we go see a Geneticist, presumably to tell me what kind of mutant my son is. (The Cardiologist didn't like when I said that) Actually to check for Fragile X, as a possible cause for his autism, and ARVD, a genetic heart condition that runs in my family. The Grand Sum Total of the last 2 months watching every twitch of my son expecting him to explode? Or, more realistically, to seize? Imagine if you will, the entire medical community of Pittsburgh shrugging their collective shoulders. I'm starting to think Dude staged the whole thing just to get to ride new elevators....