Falling from the family tree "redux"

So today my Dad tells me I can take a bit of a break from the whole family tree updating thing while he awaits some information from the more far-flung branches.

The thing is, I don't want to take a break. I'm actually enjoying myself.

I've got a computer program that makes it all pretty easy, an interest in history in general and a vague fascination with all these people I've never met, or only met once or twice as a child.

We're not an especially tight-knit family, and my parents live out in the middle of nowhere, so I sort of think I should have the same vague indifference toward this whole thing that I have toward a lot of my life.

Instead, the OCD or whatever has kicked in, and I'm all excited. Plus, I'm just anal retentive enough to be bothered by some of the more tactful changes people are suggesting (such as doing away with short-lived marriages that produced no children). I mean, I understand those are painful memories and not really relevant - it would be like putting Michelle, my ex-fiancee, on - but the completist in me just twitches. I want this to be perfect. And by perfect, I mean perfectly accurate, too.

Funniest thing of all is, I'm adopted. I'm not related to any of these people. At least not by blood. And with all that recent talk about the 30th anniversary of the Babylift and the kids going back to Vietnam, plus an article I saw the other day about a tour company sending orphans to their home countries as adults, I guess it would be easy to think that the ties to this family wouldn't be as strong as some kind of deep-seated, primordial bond to my blood and genes and true ancestry.

And there's absolutely none.

This is my family, the one in Pennsylvania, and has been from the day I was given to my mother and father as a baby. And as I watch the various lines and boxes unfold on the computer, listing my parents, their parents, and THEIR parents - the brave souls who traveled to this country when they were old enough to know the risks - I can't help but think of environment vs. heredity, as implausible as that may sound.

I know what I inherited from my biological mother and father - dark skin, thick hair, broad shoulders, bad knees, a touch of high blood pressure, an iffy complexion, the fundamental inability to grow a decent goatee (no matter how hard I try) and so forth.

But what I inherited from my real Mom and Dad is something else entirely, something harder to see in the mirror - a touch of my Mom's kindness toward others, a bit of my Dad's intimidating presence and even more of his sense of humor, a little of his eloquence and more than a little of her feistiness, his love of books and baseball, her love of tennis, the love of theater and art they share.

And working on this family tree, I think I've found the most precious inheritance of all: A love of family. Sure, some of them are flawed and some of them are crazy, a few are surly and some antisocial. Everybody's human. But they're my family. And despite the divorces, and the lost-communication question marks and the fact that I haven't seen some of them in years and haven't missed them, when I see those names and words and lines, I see the ties that bind. I see the people I love.

I see Grandma in Florida, making briscuit and matzoh ball soup. I see Grandpa asleep in that chair by the window, head back, mouth open. I see Uncle Mark, with Grandpa's ears and Grandma's hair. I see Dad, the opposite, with Grandpa's build and hair, but Grandma's face.

And I don't need DNA to see that's the man I want to be.

That little box on the chart, that's me. It could have been someone else. It could have been on someone else's chart. But it's not. It's right there, son of Gerald and Elizabeth, grandson of Jack and Claire and Sam and Zibia.

And not a day goes by that I don't thank God or whatever powers there may be for that.

That's why I want that tree to be done, to be perfect, to be beautiful. Because I love my family, I love where they came from, I love that I can call their history my own. It didn't have to be that way, but it is. That tree's my blessing.

And that's what I want my tiny paper chart to show, how much it means to me.

Links:
• Reunion, the program I'm using, getting its second plug in a week (so if you're reading this, Leister Productions, I want graft!)
• A Babylift site, which cover the orphans' return trip
• Nature vs. Nuture, About.com style
• "Apocalypse Now," whose re-release made the word "redux" cool

I know, I said I was counting the last post as my post for today. I lied. We'll both get over it. So for a bonus link, here's a quiz on the movie "Commando," which featured the quasi-memorable Schwarzenegger line, "Remember, Sully, when I promised to kill you last? ... I lied."

(I got an 8/10, with the average being 6/10. And I'm mad I missed two. I love that movie.)

Nostalgia lives, and Jenny Craig weeps

While I warm up my sore throwing arm, allow me to take you on a tour of my (metaphorical) glass house.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I was 15 years old, stood 5-foot-8 and weighed 110 pounds. When I was a senior, I was 17, 5-foot-9 and 148 pounds. By the time I was 19, I weighed 163, and I'd stopped growing taller. At 21, I was 190. At 24, I was 205. I stayed at 205 until 28, when somehow I ate my way up to 238 one holiday season. When I stopped being able to see my Little E when I looked down, I went on a diet and got back down to about 210.

The point is? Most people gain weight as they get older, whether they want to or not. Hey, there's a reason I'm joining a gym in Hillsborough, and it's NOT because I like working out.

So now that all of that is on the record, let me get to my point:

I've found a new TV show to rubberneck at: NBC's "Hit Me Baby 1 More Time," which apparently is named for the Britney Spears song (she's Mrs. Kevin Federline to you Teen Beat readers; she used to be a singer, or at least a lip-syncher).

And based on a column by one of my newspaper's TV writers, I'm not alone in staring, half-amused and half-appalled, at this show.

Hey, "The Contender" is over, and "Trading Spaces" sucks without Paige Davis. I've got to tape something.

The basic premise, for you who haven't seen, is this: Five musical acts, mostly from the '80s and unseen since, sing a hit, then cover a current pop song, with the audience picking a winner. Despite the thought that these has-beens might need the cash, the winner gets only a donation to a charity of its choice.

Musically speaking, I've enjoyed the show. I've known all but one or two of the songs performed, and in many cases, have it floating around on a CD somewhere. And to my surprise, I've known most of the current hits, too, probably the result of listening to far too much Top-40-Crap radio on my commute.

It is fun, though to see how some of the covers differ from the regular songs, like a hip-hop guy covering Britney's techno-dance "Toxic." Although perhaps my favorite song covered thus far (four episodes, I think) was Five for Fighting's "100 Years," and Sophie B. Hawkins just BUTCHERED it.

(Aside, my formative musical years run from about 1985, when I joined the Columbia House cassette tape club at 10 years old, to about 1997, when my music-loving ex-fiancee walked out of my life. I buy maybe a half-dozen CDs a year, and my last purchase was the 10th anniversary acoustic version of Alanis Morissette's "Jagged Little Pill," which falls into my musical prime, as it were.)

But really, the most morbid aspect of the whole affair isn't thinking about how old *I* have gotten as realizing how old *they* have gotten.

And old, generally speaking, means fatter and balder. Well, the women aren't balder.

But I remember Mike Reno, lead singer of Loverboy, as a Canadian sex symbol (now that's an oxymoron) in tight leather pants and a headband. I liked Loverboy then, I like them now, and frankly, they can still rock out pretty well.

But they seemed light a band member, and my guess is, Reno ate him. He was HUGE. Like bloated huge.

Hell, Tiffany was in Playboy about three years ago, and SHE looked chunky, even if her implants were falling out of her outfit.

And there was some guy who had some seriously huge hair back in the '80s, and he came on stage in a ballcap with a ponytail out the back. And he wouldn't take off the hat. Evidently all that hair migrated to the back of his head.

The worst part is, they take pleasure in showing the performers in their prime. You know, young, thin and energetic. Then they bring them on stage as the host, Vernon Kay, intones, "and now, (he or she) is back!" And it's like, DAMN! what happened to you???

By the way, Paige Davis gets fired, and Vernon Kay has a job? He's the most annoying Englishman this side of Tony Blair. I've taken to fast-forwarding through his bits. Hit this one more time, doofus, then SHUT THE HELL UP.

But hey, to the performers' credit, they're musicians, and most of them can still sing. Likewise, almost all know how to play to the crowd, and they must be doing something right, because NBC keeps showing lots of scantily clad young women waving their arms in the front row while mouthing the words and swaying to the beat. Although, oddly enough, the later performers have been winning and it's the vocalists who've tended to win (well, Vanilla Ice isn't really a vocalist) rather than the rockers (who usually go first to get things started with a bang)... me, I prefer rock, but hey.

What it comes down to is, for this child of the '80s, the show is just fun. Even if it's goofy, cruel, morbid fun. Props to NBC for keeping me amused in a post-"Contender" world.

• "Hit Me Baby 1 More Time," on NBC
• I don't know if any of this is true, but it mocks that stupid Vernon Kay and is therefore good
• A random '80s nostalgia link
• Britney, baby, one more time
• And Jenny Craig, because we all need it (though I, for one, still have my HAIR)

Yeah, that's two posts in one day, but it's after midnight, so as far as I'm concerned, this counts as tomorrow's. Or today's. Whatever. You know what I mean. Now where'd I put "The Contender" on my DVR...?

Suicidal foolish and crazy brave

24 hours (and a few minutes) in the life of me:

12:30 a.m. Saturday:
Arrive home from work. Start burning iTunes mix. Pick a new book to read (Harry Pfanz on Cemetery Hill and Culp's Hill at Gettysburg).

Pause to see a man about a munkee.

1 a.m. Saturday:
Mix is finished. Check the two DVDs that arrived in the mail ("American Psycho" and "Team America: World Police." very patriotic titles. both unrated.). Both work fine.

Eat some fast food. Watch a little TV.

2 a.m. Saturday:
Change, go to bed.

2:30 a.m. Saturday:
Stare at ceiling.

Look at alarm clock.

Think about 8:45 a.m. alarm.

Curse the fates.

3 a.m. Saturday:
Get out of bed. See munkee again.

Go back to bed. Repeat alarm clock routine, but with different curse.

Approx. 3:30 a.m. Saturday:
Fall asleep.

8:45 a.m. Saturday:
Alarm on alarm clock goes off.

Fumble around until alarm clock is off. Roll over.

9 a.m. Saturday:
Alarm on cell phone goes off.

Fumble around until alarm is off. Roll over.

9:45 a.m. Saturday:
Wake up.

Realize I have to be on the road by 10. Stagger out of bed.

9:45-10:15 a.m. Saturday:
Personal hygiene stuff you don't want to know the details of. Get dressed.

10:20 a.m. Saturday:
Pull out of garage and hit the road. Destination: Maryland.

10:20-11:15 a.m. Saturday:
Route 206 South to I-295 South to the New Jersey Turnpike.

Listen to new mix.

11:15-11:55 a.m. Saturday:
New Jersey Turnpike South to the Delaware Memorial Bridge.

Change CDs. Stop for gas.

Pay toll at bridge. Pay second toll at bridge.

11:55 a.m.-12:20 p.m. Saturday:
Drive across Delaware on I-95.

Pay toll. Note that once again, the tollbooth attendant at the Delaware/Maryland border is an attractive young woman. (See earlier post.)

12:20-1:10 p.m. Saturday:
I-95 through Maryland.

Call Stewie, ask him where everyone is meeting. 1 p.m. at the Arundel Mills Mall theater.

Pay another toll.

1:10-1:30 p.m. Saturday:
Follow MapQuest directions to Arundel Mills Mall.

Park approx. 1 mile from movie theater. Oddly, unknown at the time, one row away from Stewie.

Curse giant valet parking area.

Buy movie ticket at automated booth to skip long line for some kids' movie. One for "Land of the Dead," 1:35 p.m. Get matinee price. Yay!

One more munkee visit.

1:35 p.m. Saturday:
Stumble into darkened movie theater. Look for Stewie. See no one familiar.

1:36 p.m. Saturday:
Spotted by Squ1d. Find seat next to Stewie.

1:37 p.m. Saturday:
Note with smile that I didn't miss even a trailer. Right on time. Sort of.

Approx. 3:20 p.m. Saturday:
Exit movie theater with a bigger smile. Good movie.

3:25 p.m. Saturday:
Walk to parking lot with Stewie. Discover proximity of truck and car.

Give Stewie borrowed DVDs ("Cube" and "Cube 2").

Walk back.

Group photo!

3:30 p.m. Saturday:
Eat lunch at Chevy's with the movie crew: Stewie, Freak, Tressa, DDM, Squ1d, Squ1d's woman, Hubert and some other guy.

Chips & salsa, Mexican beer and spicy enchiladas. Yum.

5:10 p.m. Saturday:
Say goodbyes.

Back on the road!

5:15-5:20 p.m. Saturday:
Drive around parking lot until I find exit.

5:20-6:30 p.m. Saturday:
Get stuck in traffic on I-895. Get through toll.

Back across Maryland on I-95.

Make some phone calls. Wonder how I lasted 25 years without a cell phone.

Pay more tolls. Again, the toll booth attendant at the Maryland/Delaware line is an attractive young woman. As is the attendant in the next booth over. (Not the same attendants as the trip down.)

6:30-7:45 p.m. Saturday:
More driving. Reverse of previous. Bridge to Turnpike. North this time.

Call girl I've gone on a few dates with. Arrange to meet for a quick dinner.

7:45-8:15 p.m. Saturday:
Get lost on the way to pizza place.

Drive around Cranbury.

Find pizza place.

8:15-9:15 p.m. Saturday:
Dinner. More fun get-to-know-you conversation.

9:16 p.m. Saturday:
Walk her home.

Good-night kiss. Yay!

9:16-10:15 p.m. Saturday:
Back on Turnpike, then Parkway North, then I-280 North, bound for West Orange.

Call Anthony.

Two more tolls.

10:15 p.m. Saturday:
Arrive in West Orange. Pull over into driveway, call Anthony.

Figure out where to park. Walk to Anthony's.

10:20-10:30 p.m. Saturday:
Get settled in for Gatti-Mayweather PPV fight. Potentially fight of the year.

Say hi to Anthony's girl. Meet Anthony's dog and two of Anthony's friends. Give dog a carrot. Remark that carrots make my dog throw up.

See another munkee. Too much soda.

Open a beer. Eat snacks.

10:30-11:15 p.m. Saturday:
Watch "Vicious" Vivian Harris get upset by some guy with the worst punching form ever. Laugh at boxer with girl's name.

Open another beer.

11:15-11:59 p.m. Saturday:
Watch Gatti get systematically destroyed by Mayweather.

Note Mayweather is too quick.

Watch Anthony stomp around in disgust.

Third beer. More snacks. Give dog another carrot.

Watch Gatti's trainer stop the fight. Clearly not fight of the year.

Commiserate with Anthony.

Visit munkee again.

12:05 a.m. Sunday:
Decline Anthony's offer to go to the bar with his friends. Exhausted.

We all walk to our cars.

12:05-12:50 a.m. Sunday:
Drive home. Parkway (South this time) to I-78 West and so on.

12:50 a.m. Sunday:
Home at last.

See last munkee of the day. Too much beer.

Change. Read a little more Pfanz.

And thence to bed.

Links:
• The New Jersey Turnpike Authority
• The Arundel Mills Mall
• "Land of the Dead," the latest from George A. Romero
• Chevys (not the car)
• A list of New Jersey pizza places
• The disaster that was Gatti-Mayweather
• "24," a Fox show I've heard a lot about and never seen

And for today's bonus link: Asia Argento, star of "Land of the Dead."