Perspective with a crunch

A Britax car seat, in "Cowmooflage": It died, so that my baby might live.

So, the other day over on Facebook, I posted a status that "Perspective had slapped me in the face, and I kind of liked it."

I got a frantic call back on the 28th from Marisa. The first thing she said was "Everyone's alright." That's never followed by good news. In this case, the bad news was that there was one casualty: her car.

Apparently a school bus (!) changed lanes without signaling, cutting off a driver, who then was involved in a bit of a fender-bender with M (well, more of a fender-destroyer in M's case). This literally ended her day down the Jersey Shore with Em with a bang. And set off a round of frantic phone calls to insurers and the like. (Not to mention a rather stern conversation with the good folks at the bus company after the other driver made it clear to all involved that this was the fault of the bus driver, who proceeded to go on his merry way without so much as slowing down at the sound of a crash less than 10 feet behind his bus. There are words that come to mind. Most start with F.)

That's really not the point. The point is, my hour-plus frantic drive down to the accident scene (in rush hour traffic, no less) left me plenty of time for thinking. Overactive imagination and all.

A 2005 Toyota Matrix. Believe it or not, insurance repaired it.

And what really occurred to me, in addition to:

A) How grateful I was no one was hurt;

B) How this sort of thing only happens when you've nearly paid off the car;

and

C) Just how important M&Em are to me.

Not that I had any doubts before, but it's one thing to love your wife and daughter with all your heart; it's another to suddenly, involuntarily imagine life without them.

Honestly, I haven't really been depressed (much) since. I'm too busy feeling lucky.

Lucky they weren't hurt. Lucky I have them to begin with. Funny how these things work.

Random trivia: Oddly enough, it turns out I know the cop who responded to the accident and was so very nice to M&Em - she is one of my old bartenders from the late, lamented Sun Tavern Mountainside, back then a Criminal Justice student.

And remember, folks: A baby seat involved in a car accident of any severity should be destroyed as unsafe!

Opposites attract

If you know my wife, Marisa, you know she and I are not always, shall we say, compatible.

Our wedding was the happiest day of my life... until Emma!

That doesn't mean we're not deeply in love. It just means... well... we are probably a textbook example of the theory that opposites attract.

You know you've married a crunchy one when her joy 

at meeting enviro-activist Ed Begley Jr. is topped only by...

... Her joy at meeting fellow Holistic Mom Mayim Bialik.

But that is part of the reason I love her: She is the kindest, most positive person I know. Her smile can light up a room, and there's not a living thing she doesn't care for. She is a child at heart, and a dreamer. A vegetarian, holistic, environmental. Loving, fascinated by new places and things, just the sort of person who radiates positive energy. In short, "crunchy."

For those who know me, you know that... well... I'm pretty different.

You might think Mom is having more fun on Em's first carousel ride...

I always like to joke that our baby, Emma, should be a smiling, laughing, squealing little chatterbox. After all, I say, I spent nine months praying every day that she would get her Mom's personality. (Hey, it worked! See previous post.)

I guess what I'm trying to do here is explain how I knew in just a few weeks that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this woman so different from me. It wasn't the great conversation. It wasn't the pretty face.

Not that those weren't factors...

But I guess when you've struggled with darkness as much as I have, whether justified or just a self-defeating trick of my own mind, when you find someone who loves you so much, and treats you so well, and cares for you in your times of need, and above all reminds you that no matter the demons in your mind, there is reason for joy...

Well, you hang on to her. Even if you have to check menus before you go to a restaurant to see if they are vegetarian-friendly. Even if she insists on "rescuing" the scary, scary spider you just want to vacuum from a safe distance. Even when, excited as a little kid at holiday-gift time, she wakes you up from a perfectly good nap to show you the fawn that wandered into the yard. Even if she insists some weird herb you've never heard of is better for the baby than good-old fashioned Tylenol. And then says "I told you so" when she's right.

My enviro-friendly Sigg water bottle: Yin/Yang, like us.

Interestingly, as time goes on, not only do I find my happiness grows (despite the occasional hiccup), but I find her eccentricities less eye-rollingly confusing, and more endearing.

I can't say if I've become a better person, but I know she has made me want to try.

Em and the art of genetic engineering

One of the most fascinating aspects of fatherhood is not just watching Emma grow, but seeing how she looks and acts relative to her parents.

As an adopted only child of different racial heritage from my parents, I stick out like a sore thumb in family photos. When you have a group of Eastern European Jews and one little semi-Vietnamese teen, it looks like the waiter snuck into the family photo.

"Hahaha... Um. Hey, wait a second... that's not funny!"

When Emma was born, possibly even before she was completely out of Marisa, I took one look at her nose and said, "Well, there's no doubt she's mine." Even Marisa (later) pointed out how it must be interesting to finally have someone in the family who looks like me — and some people who see Emma would say exactly like me.

Once upon a time, I was fascinated with biology, to the point I even considered trying to minor in college. Those ideas were quashed in Bio 101, which I dropped the first time around because a monotone professor plus an 8:30 a.m. class is a recipe for naptime, and which was ruined the second time by a bad allergic reaction that cost me a quarter of the semester. I took that as a bad omen and stuck with Creative Writing.

My favorite part of Biology was genetics. Those Punnett Squares fascinated me. Needless to say, the joy of fatherhood had a certain clinical interest as a sidebar. I have often read that darker characteristics — skin color, hair color, eye color, etc. — are the dominant traits. Likewise, I have often wondered if I was partly white, or at least not entirely Asian — for a Vietnamese man, I am tall and broadly built; I had a fraternity brother once tell me I was about the third-biggest Asian he'd ever seen, and I was all of 5-foot-9 and (then) 175 pounds. Needless to say, now that I'm on the wrong side of 200 — hey, some of that is muscle! — I'm probably the second-biggest Asian in the known world.

The biggest Asian in the world.

Throw in that I married a 5-foot-8 fair-skinned blonde (talk about not looking like your heritage! she's a Jew!) and I was very curious to see how Emma would turn out, physically.

That's me on the top left, Marisa on the bottom right. Who does Em look like more?

Interesting, if Em proved anything, it's that I must not be entirely Vietnamese, because she didn't get the dark coloring we expected at all.

She is darker complected than Marisa (not difficult), but certainly lighter than me. Likewise, her eyes are darker than M's hazel on the blue-green side, but they are certainly lighter than my brown. Call them hazel on the brown-green side. Her hair? Dirty blonde, just like Mom's. She also got Mommy's red cheeks.

On the other hand, it's my nose, like I mentioned, and my thick (is that the right way to describe them?) lips, too. The eye shape is a mix, and we have no idea where the itty-bitty cleft in her chin came from.

Funny thing is, when she's with me, people always remark how she looks just like me. But when she's with Marisa, people think she looks like her. And sometimes, it works the other way — people see Em with M and contrast them, saying Em looks like me then!

There were other surprises — Marisa was a bald baby, and I arrived in America at 10 weeks only with only a bit of peachfuzz on top; but when our midwife checked the baby, she remarked about how she could feel the hair, and we both blurted out, "Hair?!"

But as she's grown and changed through her first nine months, it's not just her looks that remind me of myself, or her mother — it's her personality, too.

Believe me, the Chapel at College is next door to my office, and I spent nine months praying my baby would end up with M's personality. After all, part of what I love about her is that she is the most positive person I know, not to mention the kindest and most giving. Those of you who know me, well, you know I tend toward the darker, less-pleasant side of the spectrum.

And all that praying must have worked, because my Baby Bear is one cheerful little bugger. She's always laughing and smiling... except when she shows flashes of Daddy's quick temper.

See what I mean?

I like to joke that she got my appetite — we practice baby-led weaning, and she eats just about anything you put in front of her, and keeps on eating it. On the other hand, she got her mother's eating skills — which means she wears almost as much as she swallows.

The doctor says she's going to be taller than both of us, though! He's saying 5-foot-10, 5-11, with a shot at 6 feet. That's what I get for marrying an Amazon. I do hope she avoids her parents' predilection for being, to paraphrase the late Douglas Adams, a little stout about the tum. Right now, although she's still in a 90-plus percentile for height, she's down to the 70s for weight, so here's hoping.

All I ever prayed for, besides Mom's personality, was healthy and happy. I still do. But seeing a little bit of myself in her... that's a nice fringe benefit, to go with that smile that always brightens my day.

We even sleep alike... right arm up!

Fatherhood and literature

He's taller, but I'm wider! (I said "wider," not "whiter.")

One of the interesting things about the past nine months or so is the effect the combination of having a baby and studying graduate English Lit is having on my relationship with my father.

It's not that we ever had a bad relationship; I think we have a very good one. It's just that, sometimes, it's hard to relate to problems you don't understand, or hard to discuss issues if one party isn't that knowledgeable about them. That was sometimes the case, and usually my fault, through a general ignorance of youth.

Now, with Baby Bear's arrival, I find myself turning to my father and mother for a different kind of advice sometimes, and, well, feeling bad about what these two loving people had to put up with from the time I was about 13 until I was... um... about 35?

(Not to mention turning to them for baby-sitting! One of the great joys of my life is seeing them react to their first grandchild, which I suppose I made them wait far too long for. Though Emma Claire's worth the wait, methinks.)

More interestingly, from an intellectual point of view, is that my father and I now have a common interest: English literature. My slowly growing knowledge-base has led to some truly fascinating conversations, and I find myself more interested in my father's work - he is a retired English professor, I should probably mention - and better able to learn from him.

As I've mentioned, I studied Creative Writing in college. Despite Dad telling me you have to read before you can write, what I wanted to do was write, and not read. Don't get me wrong, I read plenty. Just not the type of stuff you learn from. More like the type of stuff you read at the beach in the summer. I wasn't interested in English lit. Honestly, I didn't want to follow in my father's footsteps. I was a stubborn teenager, for one, and they're big footsteps to try to fill, for another (to mix a metaphor rather nicely).

But now, even though I still have almost no interest in teaching, I really do find myself enjoying learning. It's been a long time since I sat in a classroom (13 years between courses), and I didn't know what to expect. What I found was a stimulation of my mind that I haven't had since... well, maybe ever. As much as I've loved journalism and so forth, there is a rush, an immediacy to it. To give a text a close reading is something different. Something that stretches me, whether because of lack of experience, academic rustiness, or both.

It's fun to learn.

And it's more fun to really be able to talk with Dad about some of the nuances of literature. Sometimes, I feel like it's a conversation he's been waiting 35 years for. I still remember the day I came home from college at the end of a semester in which I'd taken Shakespeare. My Dad asked me about the final, and we had an intelligent conversation about literature. It was a first. It was like a bar mitzvah of the mind. I'll never forget it. It was one of the happiest days of my life, knowing I'd earned a small measure of intellectual respect.

Imagine how I feel talking with him about "City Comedies," a subgenre I'd never even heard of until this past semester. When I asked him about his doctoral dissertation (on Elizabethan Domestic Tragedy, another subgenre), for the first time, I actually understood exactly what he was talking about. As much fun as our yearly pilgrimage to see the New York Yankees is, this year's was even more fun, because it wasn't just talking baseball. It was talking baseball and talking literature.

It may have taken me 35 years to get to this point in my father-son relationship, but I am so very glad, every single conversation, that I have. I can only pray it doesn't take 35 years for me to be able to talk with Emma this way.

Of course, first Emma has to learn to talk...

Life on the Rim reboot

You may have noticed it's been a long time since I posted anything.

What can I say? I've been busy.

"Why haven't you posted about me?"

For starters, of course, there's Emma Claire ("Baby Bear"), who is now nearly 9 months old - which probably says something about how long it's been since I posted.

Second, there's the matter of my quasi-new job, which has been an ongoing 18-month transition from the world of journalism to the world of academic communications.

"I may be dead, but I'm still torturing grad students."

Third, one of the perks of working in academia is nearly-free tuition. So, despite many of my wiser instincts saying, "Hey, isn't the baby enough in the way of extracurriculars?" I am studying for my Master of Arts in English Literature.

"Emma's first carousel ride: Whee!"

And, given that Marisa is on maternity leave, I've finally taken the "free" out of my freelancing, and picked up a part-time gig doing some copy editing.

"Because where else can you shoot someone in Bangkok? Besides Bangkok."

Needless to say, between all of that and my minor Mafia Wars addiction over on Facebook, I haven't had a lot of time to blog.

But the other night, on a rare occasion when Small Bear went to sleep and stayed that way, Marisa and I got the chance to actually sit down and watch a movie together. After much debate between a chick-flick-loving wife and her horror/action/sci-fi-loving husband, we settled on Julie & Julia. Which is, of course, about blogging. (And food.)

And, as usual, that got me thinking that I should find the time to do more here. I've been tweaking the layout and stuff, as you might notice, and hoping that's the first step in a reboot.

I guess we'll see how that turns out. Wish me luck!

Our new addition (no, not that one)

So, do you know the purpose of the proverbial canary in a coal mine?

To wit:

Early coal mines did not feature ventilation systems, so miners would routinely bring a caged canary into new coal seams. Canaries are especially sensitive to methane and carbon monoxide, which made them ideal for detecting any dangerous gas build-ups. As long as the canary in a coal mine kept singing, the miners knew their air supply was safe. A dead canary in a coal mine signalled an immediate evacuation.

My co-worker's daughter found a trio of kittens out behind a woodpile.

Now, I'm a sucker for cute lil' critters.

And, frankly, one of our concerns with 3/4Em on the way is how Norton and Pumpkin will take to our darling little girl.

So...

Meet the newest member of our household:



That's Oreo. One of the three kittens.

I went for the distinctive-looking one: He's got a black head, black tail and everything else is white.

Thus, the name: He's black on each end and creamy in the middle.

I was going to name him Ninja, since his black head looks like a mask, and we almost went for Zorro (again, the mask).

But as the folks at our childbirth classes were explaining: Cravings. One woman said she craves Oreos. One said she has a bag in her car. Me and Marisa named the kitten after them.

So, as I see it: If the animals don't eat the kitten, they won't eat the baby.

So far: Norton loves him. He's a little afraid of Nort, though he's starting to figure out the big guy's a bit of a wimp (albeit a matching black-and-white wimp).

Pumpkin, on the other hand, hates him. She actually hisses and growls when he's near. But... if she can get used to Norton, she can get used to anything. I speak from experience.

Joy and karma

Sprout's a girl! (Well, 99 percent sure, says the ultrasound tech.)

On the one hand, I'm thrilled to death. Daddy's Little Girl!

On the other hand, I'm aging in dog years.

It's funny. I thought at the start it would be a girl, then I slowly became more or less convinced it was a boy, maybe 70/30. But the last couple of weeks before the ultrasound, I was starting to waver. I just started feeling like it would be a girl. I was down to maybe 55/45 boy by the time the tech showed us the three little lines that mean it's got girl bits.

Marisa and I would have been thrilled either way, I imagine, but I know it's extra special for her being a girl. But it's special for me, too.

I have a buddy, Hawk, who has two adorable daughters (also half-Vietnamese) and he warned me: The trouble with having daughters is, you remember that jerk you were in high school, and all your buddies were? Now you're sending your little girl off to deal with those jackals.

And I've dated/known enough girls who have been messed up by their fathers (such as the one athlete whose father called her fat once, and had about a 1% body fat percentage and still worked out like a fiend so she wouldn't be "fat") that I'm just worried about what I could without meaning it.

So now, on top of praying for good health and happiness for Sprout, I've started praying for strength. I want to be a good father, a great father, but I know I'm even less equipped to deal with a girl than with a boy. I can only do the best I can do, and that's what I mean to do.

But I married the first girl I dated who didn't have more issues than a newsstand, and even she has told me some things that have happened that have hurt her and make me wonder.

She won't let me buy a gun, either. But I guess I'm torn between feeling like my parents loved me so much they were almost overprotective, and the instinct that I have to protect little Sprout no matter what.

It's a lot to think about between now and August. And you think I was worried before...

On the upside, a) little girls get the cutest clothes; and b) I have a great wife who will be able to help with all the things that arise - particularly the "girl" things.

And, of course, every time I think of my beautiful little girl, I smile. That helps.

Right now, we're learning towards Emma Claire. What do you all think?

To borrow a quote...

Look what I made!



Meet Beansprout Babymunkee Strauss!

Thirteen weeks in the oven and counting!

If you can't figure out which end is up...



Keep your fingers crossed, keep us in your prayers and so on...

Sprout should make his or her debut in August!

Further bulletins as events warrant!

Goodbye, Yankee Stadium

Tonight is the final game at Yankee Stadium and I'm watching the pregame ceremonies right now.

It's sad to see the Stadium go. I was lucky enough to see a game earlier this season, part of a recent tradition that has seen my father and I go to a game at the Stadium every year for the past several years.

Baseball truly is a game that unites fathers and sons, and it was one of the first things my father and I could talk about. My father grew up in the Bronx and the Yankees were his team. He went to World Series games as a boy, and he remembers being at Babe Ruth Day and other great occasions.

My first game at the Stadium was in 1983, and the Yankees were routed by the Toronto Blue Jays. Still, what a wonderful experience, one that continued through a great tour of the inside of the Stadium last year, and the game I attended in April with my father and some friends.

I've had good seats and bad, seen Monument Park, seen Japanese fans cheering on "Godzilla," Hideki Matsui, and seen the late Cory Lidle start his last game for the Yankees.

One of the last games we were there, there was a fight in the stands nearby, including thrown beers and punches, and my father remarked that in all the years he'd come to the Stadium, it would be the first time he went home smelling like beer.

Even when not at the Stadium, I have great memories of the Yankees. Watching the Martinez and Jeter home runs off "Byung-Hung Slider" Kim in the World Series after 9/11. Saw that one in a bar.

Saw Aaron Boone's home run off Tim Wakefield in a different bar. Then helped a fellow find the wedding ring that had flown off when he thrust his arms skyward.

My first game at the Stadium, now so long ago that Don Mattingly - a Hall of Fame candidate at first base - played left field as a rookie.

I remember watching, holding my breath, at my first full-time job, as the Yankees won the 1996 World Series for their first world championship since 1978.

But mostly, when I think of the Stadium, I think of my Dad, and the stories he's told, and the games we've shared, together and with my Mom and friends.

I'll be sure and get to the new Stadium next year if I can.

But somehow, although I suspect it will be wonderful, somehow, I wonder if it won't be the same.

Yankee Stadium, on the surface, is old, crowded, behind the times in terms of stadiums. But it has something so many wonderful new ballparks - in Milwaukee, Pittsburgh, Seattle - don't have...

A palpable sense of history, so thick you can practically see it.

There's something magic about Yankee Stadium. There always will be, in my mind, even long after it's gone.

Not the best of days

When I was a younger journalist, I was introduced to the cynicism of the profession when a more experienced editor explained the distance/death ratio as far as where to play a story.

Which is to say, the farther from your home base, the more people have to die for it to be big news. And conversely, lesser deaths closer to home get more weight as well.


Which brings us to the assassination of Pakistani opposition leader Benazir Bhutto today.

This was, of course, major news.

But, being the cynical journalists that we are, it was fairly easy to discuss in that jaded, "objective" way.

Don't get me wrong. I feel bad for her family, and I feel concern for the Pakistani nation.

But it's easy enough to debate things like whether it's overkill, or just thorough, to shoot someone in the head twice and then blow them up for good measure.

Or a pair of rural Pennsylvania liberals debating how long it will take for the disaster of some idiot white supremacist taking a shot at the first black president, and then diverge to the fears the Secret Service must have, given that white supremacists tend to be rednecks, and rednecks tend to hunt from the age of 4, and thus are naturally good shots from a distance, etc.

And, of course, the relative lack of wisdom of someone who's already survived at least one attempt on her life popping out of a sunroof to wave at fans like a teenager on spring break.

I mean, really. Popemobile, hello?

We even got to talking about roadkill and the time our home state's own PennDOT paved over a dead deer on the highway.

You know, death, whatever, affects someone else, yadda.

Then - figures - at the end of an otherwise trying evening at work, I found out a good friend of my father's died suddenly yesterday.

And you know, that's where the distance/death ratio applies here, even if he lived in Vancouver. Because while I feel bad for Mr. Bhutto and so forth, I feel a lot worse for my Dad. Even if his friend wasn't a world leader and wasn't shot in the head and then blown up. It still pretty much sucks.

And as far as I'm concerned, it sucks more than some woman I don't know getting shot in the head and blown up halfway around the world.

So on that cheerful note, I left work, and as I was headed out a road in Newark - which as far as I'm concerned has more than its fair share of shitty New Jersey drivers - I managed to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a stray cat in the road.

Unfortunately, said cat then turned around and ran the other way, into two lanes of traffic, and my efforts to save it went completely for naught...

As a car speeding downhill just obliterated it.

I hit the horn over and over, because I could see it coming the whole way, but the guy never slowed until after he'd crushed the little kitty.

Right before my eyes. I went from feeling sad to feeling sad and completely useless.

It's one thing to see a dead typical-roadkill animal - a la the possum, or Mr. deer, above - by the side of the road. Hell, I remember there was a dead cat on the off-ramp I used to take to work one summer that I dubbed the "Biodegradable Cat" because each day it was a little smaller and flatter.

It's another thing to see some poor little pet-type animal get squished right in front of you.

Just one more thing to make Newark a little shittier.

And all that's how I ended up sobbing to my animal-loving fiancee on the phone for most of my drive home.

I feel better now, obviously, though I gave Pumpkin a stern lecture on staying inside, out of the road, when I got home.

Still. Funny how your brain works. I could care less about a world-shaking assassination, but I'm reduced to tears over a nice man I never actually met, and a stray cat (I hope it wasn't somebody's pet!) I'd never seen before.

(Editor's Note: I know, you, my readers, have heard me complain many a time about the ongoing wussification of America. And here, I cried. It's hypocrisy. Get over it. Not that I have that many readers, if my latest poll - which, by the way, by majority declared "Dead Hunt" the greatest movie ever, so you may be few, but you're smart! - is any indication.)

On an up note, Marisa finished painting our dining room Martha Stewart wild artichoke. I'm so proud of her! She's a much better painter than I am. Yay!

Rest in peace, Art. Thanks for making my Dad's life brighter. Godspeed, and God be with those you leave behind.

Dream a little dream

A slightly belated Merry Christmas, if that's your thing!

Maybe you remember a few days ago, I mentioned the vivid dreams I have sometimes. Well, last night/this morning, I think I had a first: I dreamed about blogging.

Well, actually, I dreamed about dreaming, then writing a blog about the dream.

Unfortunately for all of us, I suspect my dream-blog was much better and more interesting than this post. I'll try to re-create in shortened form, but in many ways, it was an experience not just surreal and bittersweet, but ideal in the sense of finding links and information, and so forth.

THE DREAM WITHIN THE DREAM

The dream itself was, as I said, bittersweet. It mostly took place during the pregame wait for some kind of youth soccer game, and involved two of my best friends and regular soccer teammates from childhood, Turbo and Chris. We were like the Three Musketeers (read the link, I don't mean the candy bar) in elementary school, but over the years, drifted apart in many ways.

One of the nice aspects of the dream was that some of it centered on the coaching of Chris' father, Craig, who was a perpetual assistant coach on teams we played for, and in many ways one of the finest and most honorable men I've known.

Aside, I know the dream was realistic because, as usual, even though Chris - who I think might have played in college - and Turbo were starters and stars, I was a backup. At least I was slated for my usual half-game of playing time. Maybe it was an AYSO game.

Anyway, we never actually played the game. The whole dream was just a bunch of kids pal-ing around and getting psyched up to play. It was a different time in my life (as anybody who's seen me play any sports lately can attest). And even though my life is certainly a good one now, I suppose in some ways, this dream made me miss the way it was. Innocent. No pressures, except to play my best, play the game the right way for Chris' dad. No remorse, no regrets and the whole future ahead of me.

THE BLOG WITHIN THE DREAM

My blog post in the second part of the dream was something like an extended version of the above, in more detail, with a nice little paean to Chris' dad, including his full name - which I wouldn't post here - a full transcript of his pregame speech and links to what Chris and Turbo and others are doing now.

Not to mention some small details, some stories from my soccer days, mostly involving us, that I am going to save, to paraphrase Capt. Miller in "Saving Pvt. Ryan", just for me.

You get none of that. Mostly because some of it doesn't exist or I can't find it, and partly because, well, as usual, in my dreams I'm far more eloquent... and I promptly forget all the words I used when I wake up.

AND BACK TO REALITY

In any event, it was an interesting, slightly strange experience. And like I said, bittersweet. I have a happy life now, and I had a good holiday with Marisa and my family and hers.

Yet there's something nostalgic about my youth, at least for me, and not in a mid-life crisis kind of way. Just something about innocence, a time before jobs and bills and worrying about money and the mortgage. A time when life was simple, and praise measured for how hard and well you played a game. No politics, no backstabbing at work, no ridiculous b.s. Just friends and the joy of a game, and the knowledge that you could measure yourself by time on the field and the final score.

And be comfortable in the knowledge that there are good men out there, like Chris' dad, looking out for you and looking out for their son. Teaching you the right way to play, the right way to live.

I guess maybe, as I approach my wedding and begin to think about a subsequent fatherhood, it's a reminder of certain things my subconscious doesn't want me to forget. Things to teach my kids, God willing, when they come.

Who's to say? It was a blog within a dream about a dream.

Naming rights?

The other day at the office, I went to the men's room and, when I glanced down to aim at the urinal, saw that urinal screen.

Look closely: It's made by Strauss Paper. No relation, but still...

Driving past Strauss Auto (also no relation) is one thing. Whizzing on the family name is something else entirely.

Odd bit of fact, courtesy of my father: Levi Strauss was owned by a family named Haas. My grandfather, of course, was named Strauss. My grandmother's maiden name: Haas. We're not related to either one.

Or else I'd have enough money to pay someone to de-ice my freakin' driveway.

Anyway, nothing against Strauss Paper and their fine line of urinal products, but I think I'm going to settle for "squicked out" on the feeling-o-meter.


Speaking of things that leave me squicked out, try this one on for size, courtesy of Time magazine:

Every child is a gift, as the saying goes. But in a case that has stoked outrage on two continents, a Dutch diplomat posted in Hong Kong has been accused of returning his eight-year-old adopted daughter like an unwanted Christmas necktie. The story, which first appeared in the South China Morning Post on Dec. 9, began seven years ago, when Dutch vice consul Raymond Poeteray and his wife, Meta, adopted then-four-months-old Jade in South Korea. The couple, who also have two biological children, brought Jade with them to Indonesia and then to Hong Kong in 2004, although Poeteray never applied for Dutch nationality for the child — a curious oversight, given that he worked in a consulate. Then, last year, the Poeterays put Jade in the care of Hong Kong's Social Welfare Department, saying they could no longer care for her because of the girl's emotional remoteness.

Now, look, I'm not inside these people's house. I couldn't tell you if they're heartbroken and telling the truth about a child they just can't handle, or if they're complete Grade-A shits.

But as an adopted child, this is the sort of thing that makes me feel grateful - from both sides - that my life turned out the way it did.

The other day, someone asked me about being adopted, vis-a-vis the current trend to find birth parents/children given up, and I said what I always say:

Blood isn't everything. I may not know who gave me life, but I know who my real parents are.

Their name is Strauss. (Yes, relation.)

Most people just buy a T-shirt

As some comedian once said, when most people go to a foreign country on vacation, they bring home a souvenir. Angelina Jolie brings home a child.

And it looks like she did it again.

This time, it's a Vietnamese boy, and I suppose in a way that hits close to home, seeing as how once upon a time I was a Vietnamese orphan myself.

Funny thing, though.

I'm sure between Ms. Jolie and her partner, Brad Pitt, this little boy will have a wonderful life, filled with all the best of the material world and everything fame has to offer. And certainly a much better life than he might otherwise have had. I don't know them, of course, but I'd like to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they're good parents on top of all that.

I don't doubt there are people out there who will at least joke that it would be nice to be adopted by celebrities. Some might even mean it.

But I won't. I don't.

Don't get me wrong. God bless Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt for their love and generosity.

But the simple matter is, from where I'm sitting, I did better than that little tyke, though I wish him all the best and I'm quite sure he'll never have to choose between paying the credit-card bill or the mortgage on time. That's right, I'll say it again: I did better.

When a couple take you into their home, into their lives, when you have nothing, no name, no life, no possessions, it's not money or fame that matter. It's love. Patience. Understanding. And more love.

And take my word for it, people, in that race, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt ain't got nothing on Jerry and Liz Strauss.

There'll be plenty of people jealous of that little Vietnamese boy. What he will probably never know is that he ought to be jealous of me.

(Aside, here's a faint hope that, among all the paperwork they have to do, Ms. Jolie and Mr. Pitt write a check to HALO, Help and Loving Orphans. It's the organization run by Betty Tisdale, the woman who helped found the Babylift, the program that brought me here. So if you or your people are reading this by some chance, do it. It'll make you feel good. And it'll help even more children.)

PG: Parental guidance required

You know how you know your parents love you?

When they don't mind you calling in the middle of the night with questions like:

"How long can I go without heat before my pipes freeze?"

and

"If my power doesn't come on before morning, I won't freeze to death in my sleep, will I?"

It's 20-something here, if that, and somebody hit a utility pole out on Route 206.

Sheared it in half. Car's smashed and still there. So when I got home from work, no electricity. And my house is... all electric. Including the heat.

Thus the late-night call to Mom and Dad.

And the power came on about 45 minutes after I called, and maybe two hours after it went out, if that.

Good thing I didn't have much in my fridge anyway.

Language arts

So I took this quiz after The Lesley did it, and I got some similar results...

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Northeast   Judging by how you talk you are probably from north Jersey, New York City, Connecticut or Rhode Island. Chances are, if you are from New York City (and not those other places) people would probably be able to tell if they actually heard you speak.
Philadelphia
The Inland North
The Midland
The South
Boston
The West
North Central
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Now, before you say, hey, wait a munkee minute, you're from Pennsylvania, and you didn't get Philadelphia, keep in mind...

I'm not from Philadelphia!

Believe me, my uncle's from Philadelphia and it's a whole different accent. I'm from rural Pennsylvania, which is sort of generic Northeast, I guess. And any Jersey/New York influence probably comes from the facts that a) I live in Jersey now; and b) my parents, who taught me to speak, are from New York. Even though neither one has much of a New York accent, depending on whom you ask.

But the survey reminds me of two stories.

First, there was my time with a British accent.

That's right. Once upon a time, I had an accent that most American women find irresistable. (Right, Jin?)

The downside was, of course, that I was about 3 years old.

Unlike a co-worker who tried so hard to lose his Dutch accent as an adult, only to find out that women love foreign accents, this entire thing was unintentional.

My folks had taken me to England, and because children couldn't eat in the dining room at whatever fancy hotel they were staying in, they got a nanny for the dinner hours. And she was, of course, British.

And so I was spending a couple of hours a day with me. While I was learning to talk.

So by the end of the week, my parents noticed that, sure enough, I was starting to sound like her.

Of course, that was all gone a few weeks after we got home. Too bad.

The second story has nothing to do with me, and also happened when I was younger. So maybe I don't remember it 100% accurately, but hey, this is my blog, so you'll just have to trust me.

There was a professor at Bloomsburg, where my Dad taught, who was a linguist.

And my Dad told me once that this professor had solved a missing persons case with his mad linguist skillz.

See, the authorities had found someone wandering with amnesia, and no ID. So they didn't know who she was, and she couldn't tell them.

So they turned to a linguist, this professor. And he talked with her. And by listening to her accent, he figured out what part of the country she was from. (It wasn't anywhere near where they were!)

The cops went to the police in that area, and sure enough, there was a missing person who matched the description of the woman they had.

See? Having an accent can come in handy.

Even a blind munkee finds a banana...

I helped my father out with something this week.

Now, that may not sound like much of an accomplishment for some of you, but for me, it's a big deal. My father is a very, very intelligent, very, very learned man.

And for about 31 years and 318 days of my 31 years and 320 days on Earth (give or take), I've found myself in the position of Padawan to his Jedi master, if I'm even worthy to claim that much credit.

My father was a college professor widely known for his fearsome grading. (I was rather proud when one of my friends referred to another professor's tough grades as making her a female version of my father.) He was the standard by which tough graders and intimidating academics were measured, from all I could tell. (Same friend talked all break about getting into one of my father's classes; he dropped it within days of the start.)

(Best thing about it: He drew the freshman comp rotation for my fall year in college, and many of my classmates were headed to Bloom U. Suddenly, people I hadn't talked to in years were inviting me to parties, asking about me off at college, etc.)

Anyway, I got a nice education, I've done a lot with my career, and I still find myself abysmally failing to measure up to his standards most of the time. (Not the standards he sets for me in the sense that I think I do make him proud, so much as the standard he sets with his intellect.)

My Dad and I didn't always get along as well as we do now. In hindsight, and somewhat at the time, I always sort of got the feeling that while he unquestionably loved me, it was a little tough for him to talk with a child nearly 40 years younger. You know, like he was waiting for me to get a little older so we'd have stuff to talk about besides baseball.

When I got home from college one semester, after taking my first (and only) Shakespeare course, he was asking me about my final in the car on the way home - I think I'd flown home - and I got the feeling he'd been waiting 20 years to be able to talk like that with me. A good, intelligent discussion about something - other than baseball - that we could talk about like adults. He was quite pleased with my answers, too. (I got an A in the class, thank goodness. Rest in peace, Professor Hart!)

Not too long after that came one of the proudest, happiest moments of my life. My parents took me to see a Broadway show, "An Inspector Calls," and afterwards, on the ride home, they were talking about something that happened in the staging of the play that they couldn't quite figure out.

For the life of me, I can't remember what it was, or what it meant, but I knew - I could interpret the symbolism, based on some stuff I'd picked up at school in my English and history classes. So I told them. And they hadn't thought of it.

I knew something my father didn't!

Who needs a bar mitzvah? I had become a man!

So anyway, back to the present day. My father writes scholarly articles - a man's got to keep busy in retirement, eh? - on various subjects, including mysteries. So he's working on a piece on the so-called armchair detective, and I pointed him in the direction of "The Bone Collector,"which I'd read some years back after seeing the movie.

And today he was telling me how he's going to work the author, Jeffrey Deaver, into his article because his detective is, in fact, quite relevant to the subject.

I guess it probably either sounds silly or incoherent to try and explain how his simple thank-you e-mail means so much to me. I mean, I'm a bright guy with a good job and a track record of success in intellectual endeavors of all sorts, right?

But my Dad's my gold standard when it comes to knowledge. I know trivia. Stuff. He knows information. Stuff you can use.

When you are that impressed by someone, and you love that someone so much, it means a lot. Even the little things like this. I helped! And it's like I'm 5 years old.

Except when I was 5 years old, I could make him smile, but I don't think I could impress him or surprise him.

I don't know if my being able to help him out here exactly impressed or surprised him - and it's enough to just please him, really. But it impressed and surprised me.

Oh, happy day!

Holidays with blogs

Well, those of you who follow my comments have probably figured out I'm a big fan of Jin's food and Jewels' jewelery.

So they became part of my little holiday adventure!

(The food and the jewelery, not Jin and Jewels... well, them in spirit, but not in person... you know what I mean.)



Jin's latest yummy package became the centerpiece of the weekend dessert, though our gracious hosts had provided plenty of tasty post-dinner edibles, the brownies and cookies were a huge hit.

The sugar cookies were soft and chewy, which won many compliments, and the brownies were on the receiving end of several "delicious!" remarks.

And then, 'twas the night before Christmas and the moment of truth for my big gift of the year... the custom-made necklace I ordered from Jewels for my mother.



Well, she was absolutely delighted. Here she is, delightedly wearing her new necklace.

Those are glass beads in multiple colors, with a custom-made heart bead from one of Jewels' connections and a pretty silver toggle clasp you can't see here. It's on the other side of her chest, to balance out with her real heart!

(She did get a little camera-shy, so this is only her from the neck down... But still...)

It's absolutely beautiful. I love it. And more importantly, Mom does, too. That made it a wonderful Christmas!

Happy holidays, y'all!

Yellow men can't wrap...

An announcement: I have survived my holiday shopping.

As is my wont, I hit the mall like a hurricane for a day of hostilities, hypertension and entertainment.

(You may notice, on the Bridgewater Commons page linked above, a picture of a child holding a stuffed monkey not too different from my own! Bonusmunkee!)

And now, with presents for many, many people in hand, I can relax.

I'm too wiped out to do the remaining things on my monkey-do list, but that's sort of par for the course. I've gotten most of what I had to get done, done this weekend, but not most of the things I merely wanted to get done.

None of this is to say I don't like either a) shopping; or b) buying gifts for others. If I may say so without sounding disingenuous, I've reached the point in my life where I actually enjoy buying gifts for others probably more than I enjoy buying things for myself. That's not to say I don't spend plenty of my money on myself. I mean, duh, I'm human. But I do get a genuine joy out of buying something unexpected, and/or something special, for someone I care about.

This year's big gift, I think some of you know about, but I won't detail until after the holidays because, well, the recipient reads this blog and I want it to be a surprise.

But my mall and bookstore misadventures were generally successful and provided all the broad-shouldered shoving one little munkee can take on any given day.

I also got my holiday cards in the mail. In contrast, I rather hate doing those. Not because I don't like to think of the people I'm sending them to - and isn't that really the point? - but just because I lack whatever sort of skills are necessary to make them quality efforts. So it's more a chore to try and make them pleasant and fun, than it is a joy to send them and wish people well for the coming days and year. I wish there were a better way, or a better way I knew of.

On a more positive note, I have acquired every gift I need but one. So I don't have to brave the mall traffic, which this year was shockingly not too bad. Perhaps because I did my shopping late on a Sunday.

Which, on a more negative note, means I have to wrap gifts. Also something for which I, in some infamous words, lack the necessities to be good at. I can't wrap a decent package to save my life. So you can always spot mine in the crowd. It's the ugly one, but hey, it's what's inside that counts, right?

(Except maybe for Dave's kids, who really do like tearing the things apart.)

And really, it's the thought that counts. So, considering my antisocial tendencies, I'd like to think that whether it's taking the time to try to write something witty on a card, or ordering something custom-made in a foreign country...

(Speaking of which, did you know Polo makes its socks in not one, not two, but three different foreign countries? Yes, somebody asked for socks this year. And if you ask for socks, you're getting them!)

... I'd like to think that the people I love and care about know the way I feel, regardless of the lame note in the card, or the utter lack of surprise in the gift that's exactly what they asked for.

And hopefully, the two most important people on my list, my Mom and Dad, enjoy the gifts I carefully chose (or ordered) for them. Because they're the most important people in my life, the people who have done the most for me, and if it truly is the thought that counts, I want their gifts to be the best, and I don't think I could give them enough.

And now we return to our regularly scheduled programming, "JAG" on DVD.

Happy Turkey Day!

I know. It's a little late. But Happy Turkey Day, anyway, my faithful readers!

I'm still working on my novel. I think I'm going to make it. Only five-ish more days to write about 6,500 words. And think I get screwed out of the last one, because it's like midnight Greenwich Time on the 30th or something, and I'll still be at work, so I get jobbed out of one night of writing.

Things I'm thankful for:
• My parents, above all else.
• My friends.
• My (relative) good health.
• My toys and my imagination, two things to keep me amused.
• My job (really! honest! I think...).
• And, of course, munkees and bunnies and bunnymunkees!

My dog died about a year ago now, and of course, I miss him. It's only the second time I'm home since he's been gone, and it's still weird not to have him curl up with me on the bed at night, wagging his tail and trying to lick my face before giving up and curling up near my feet. I stole my Mom's little stuffed dachshund from her office and stuck him on the bed last night. But it's not quite the same.

So I guess I'm thankful for my memories, too. If that makes sense.

I hope you all had a great holiday, and nobody ate too much food, like me, or ate anything they were allergic to, like my buddy Mike.

Aside, we went to see the newest James Bondflick today, "Casino Royale," and it was quite good. A bit long, but a lot grittier than the past ones. I was pretty impressed with Daniel Craig, actually. I've never really thought much of him, and he's sort of a one-note actor, but he fits the role as written, he looks good and he really does make a decent Bond. The movie itself is an interesting take, since it's based on Ian Fleming's first James Bond book, Casino Royale.

Think of it as "Bond Begins," a la "Batman Begins."

Not sure what it says about me that the two films I want to see involve a spy killing all manner of people, and dancing penguins.

But you know what may say the most? That I was very excited to see a big-screen version of the trailer for "Rocky Balboa," which looks a lot better than you might expect. It feels very much like the "Rocky" serieshas come full circle, and this could be a very original-"Rocky"-esque film. I just hope it's not another "Driven,"and heck, I like "Driven."

But I do love boxing, and that music gets me every time.

Speaking of gratuitous plugs...

Some of you may recall some of my earlier posts, about my artist friend Peter Ambush. If not, go read the long one and the short one again, then come back.

OK, done?

Well, Petey finally has his Web site up and running, so if you need a portrait done, check it out. There are work samples, rate estimates and everything else you'd need for what, in the case of my family, has become a series of (future) family heirlooms. (I say "future" because I've got a space on my wall waiting for them, but I don't think my folks are going to give them up anytime soon!)

Speaking of artist endorsements, if you'd prefer photos to paintings - or better yet, could use some of both, my friend Joe Ripple, of Timewarp Films fame (shameless plug-within-a-plug: watch for "Dead Hunt," coming soon on DVD!), has gone into the photography business down in the Baltimore area.

Joe is focusing on portfolios for actors/actresses and models, but as he says, "I think you'd make a great model!" so even if you want something for your wall and not to pass out to directors and casting agents, check out his Web site or his MySpace page.

If you're more in the New Jersey region, I heartily recommend my pal Luisa Fernanda Pinzon, who shot the portrait of that handsome fellow you see on the upper right there. Luisa does wonderful photo art as well as shooting portraits and the like.

That should cover all your artistic bases, at least until my friend Carolyn Soltys has a Web site up for her prize-winning photography.

(And yes, I realize I should probably post images, but hey, the point is to get you to go check out their stuff, eh? So click the links. You know you want to.)