Lord Dude:

I wonder if he knows he's just holding Dude's place?

      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 my 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 slight exaggeration)
     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.
     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 very 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.

 And if I just happened to get some tickets and wander the fest, that would be cool too.
     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.
      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.
   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.
    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.
     How could I not? He was soooo excited about the prints. 'Oh, look! Dragons!'  'Dragons are

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.
     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.
     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.

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 hereally liked was the elfin-eared pretzel guy. After the show he started walking across the clearing and screamed PREEEETZELS!!! 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.
   
     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.
   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.
   Even with the 2 inches of rain Dave and I decided we were in need of some interior liquid. For

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.
   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.
   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.
     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 supposed 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!'
   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.

       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 one 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.

     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
'Mighty Knight' and what more could anyone want than that?
    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.
   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 was 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 isn't 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

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?
 

Authorized to Work:

 

Even Dexter thinks Dudes are funny.

  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.
     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.'
    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.
     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)
     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

He's got a job!

time.
     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.
      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.
     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 wasn't Crap. 'Uh.... we really do have an appointment.' I struggled with a name.... any 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!'
   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 really 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)

Professional Dude

    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 very 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.
     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.
     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.
     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.
   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.
    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.
     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 all the forms on the dining room table and under threat of immediate decapitation or worse left them there and went to play his games.
     So.... 14 days later, the first day of school was upon us and Dave was very excited. Very very excited. The

First day of school
and Dad's got notes!

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.
   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 'Dude's not going to Vegas?' 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 one note for the 14 bucks I still owe them from lunches last year.
   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'.

   

Dark White Nights:

       This post has almost nothing to do with Dude. Fair Warning.
       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...
     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.
     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.
     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.

     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, and 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 known 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.
     I knew right then and there that I had chosen the right line of work.
     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.'

     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.
    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.
   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)
    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 not stoned fell on his head and was lying bleeding in the parking lot. Take that OSHA!
    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.
     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, 3 wraps of very sticky tape from around my very, very, 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.'
     It didn't.

     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 not 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.
     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?
    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.
   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 really 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.'
     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.
     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 definitely 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.
    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

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?'
 '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?
    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?
   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.

Tuppence a Bag:

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.

    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.

   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.
     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 was going) So we loaded up in the car, bought a loaf of cheap bread and headed for the fish.
   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 third 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.

  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.'
     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

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 just barely 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.
     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 all 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.

An American (Ringbilled) Seagull

     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.
      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 much 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.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame:

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.
    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 be 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.
    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 whole 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.

  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.
     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?
     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 all 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.
      I sometimes wonder if my family here knows how often I 'wing it' when it comes to things I've never

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.
     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.
   People just don't seem to understand that when Dave is in an elevator it is his 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 well 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.
 

 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.
     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.
     I tried to interest him in the actual game, actually being played, right in front of him. But I'm guessing that 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
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.

     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.
    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

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 wanting to be the leader. I think I must have gotten elected using Florida voting machines, or something.
  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.
   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?

Once Upon a Time:

..... And they lived happily ever after.
    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.'
   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.
     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.
    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 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. 

My friend Susan and her photoshop again....
She doesn't need to give him any more ideas 

     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.
  One of the blogs I intermittently follow is called Fruity Pebbles for Dinner, 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.
  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: autism robbed me of my son. 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

himself... or myself, rather.

I'ts nostalgia week in the BlogPics. 2008 SO

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.
   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 anyone, 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 one of her posts 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.)
   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.
   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 like my barely communicative, stubborn, non-responsive, but incredibly loud son? Or that I love the things he is in spite of his 'condition'.
  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 much, much 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.
   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.

From the Reed Family archives, a
looooooong time ago

    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) And you both think it's funny.' (That really 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 lie 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...
   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...

Uncomfortable Praise... uh... Pause:

   This is an addition to,  The Minister of Propaganda:
   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.
   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!.
    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.'
    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!'
    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 that 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 didn't understand what my stories meant. At least not all of it.
     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.
     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!'
     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... one 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

like a little girl out of the building and back to the Land of Denial.