You: Jail For Life

In late 1998 we were in Turkey getting ready to cross the border into Syria. Earlier that week at an Internet café while surfing the latest travel warnings for the Middle East, we’d hit the U.S. government’s page, clicked on “travel warnings,” and bright red letters appeared on the top of our screen:

“THERE IS A TRAVEL WARNING IN EFFECT THROUGHOUT THE MIDDLE EAST DUE TO THE BOMBINGS IN IRAQ. AMERICANS PLANNING ON TRAVELING TO SYRIA SHOULD ALTER THEIR PLANS IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS A SEVERE TRAVEL WARNING. DO NOT TRAVEL TO SYRIA IF YOU ARE AN AMERICAN!”

OK, maybe if they spelled it out for us…

We were…shocked senseless, to be frank. For the past few days we’d expertly carved out our plans for eastern Turkey and Syria, planning on spending at least another week in Turkey and then 10-14 days going through Syria towards Jordan. Now what were we supposed to do?

It seems that we timed our travels through Syria at the exact moment that President Clinton decided to bomb Iraq. In protest, locals in Damascus were furious and had stormed both the U.S. and British Embassies. It did not look good at all. Furthermore, not only was the U.S. Embassy in Syria closed, but also the Jordanian and Israeli ones for good measure in case anything was to start there. This was no good for anyone.

We read the rolling screens in complete numbness, not speaking and not knowing what we were feeling. Part of us was frightened because we’d have to forgo our precious plans and fall back on something that was less amazing. The other part of us was frightened for our safety and well-being. More “A” than “B.” I mean, I guess we’d just become realists by this point.

Knowing that we were going to have to make some difficult decisions pretty damn quickly, we sent a couple email messages to our families to let them know that we were aware of what was going on and that we were going to make the most intelligent decisions possible. It’s hard to explain why news back home is extremely sensationalistic and detached from the real world. Politics and the general population are almost always separate. While we knew that we’d have to assess this particular situation further and find out as much information as possible, we also knew that more likely than not we’d probably be just fine and not even sense any problems.

But there was also some validity to the notion, “better safe than sorry.” Plus, things could change in an instant; we’d have to really stay aware…I guess that’s what we got for not reading a newspaper for weeks at a time.

We finished our horrible surfing experience by locating a news article posted about how Islamic fundamentalist groups in the Middle East had threatened all visiting Americans in ten Gulf countries with violence and murder over the next 30 days based on the air strike. Wonderful. Their timing was impeccable.

Regardless, we were soon at the Antakya Otogar (bus station) near the Syrian boarder in anticipation of our 12-hour impending bus ride straight through Syria and directly in to Jordan. Soon, we boarded the bus and were off: twenty-eight Turkish (or Jordanian) men, Paige and me. Should be interesting.

An hour later we crossed the border and pulled up to the Pentagon-sized Syrian immigration building. We had arrived where we were not supposed to be. And we had U.S. passports. My heart was pounding.

The bus driver and his helper had already circulated through the bus collecting passports to bring into the Syrian immigration building, but when they saw that we were neither Turkish, Jordanian nor Syrian, you could see the panic in their eyes. They wanted nothing to do with this experience.

“You go in yourself,” the burly driver managed to convey as he shirked all responsibility for what might happen. I half expected him to tell me not to mention that he’d drove me here if something went wrong…

I grabbed Paige’s passport while she stayed behind (no need to tackle ancient religious supressionary beliefs between men and women at the very moment we needed an entry stamp into Syria), and hopped off the bus, following the driver and his helper – both carrying the lot of passports from the other passengers.

The whole Syrian thing had been questionable from Day 1 of planning the year before. After we had laid out our proposed course of travel based on our flights, we had diligently researched both border crossings and visa logistics. It was at this point that we had hit our first major roadblock: Syria. Besides the fact that it was iffy whether we’d even be approved for entry to begin with, the Syrian Consulate in Washington D.C. instructed us that upon approval they would only grant a two week visa that had to be used within three months of issuance. Even if we had gotten the stamp the day before we’d left the U.S., there was no way we’d make it to Syria within ninety days. We were screwed.

It was at this point that Paige had basically begged the Syrian lady over the phone, explaining our predicament and pleading for some other solution. Finally, the lady acquiesced and told Paige that if we FedExed her our passports the week before we left and made sure that they got directly to her, she would personally extend the three month time period into six months, but no longer. And true to her word, when our passports arrived back at our house a couple days before departure, we had until February 28, 1999 to get in and out of Syria. It was now December 22, 1998.

After that near scare (because really, what were our other land choices to get from Turkey to Jordan where our flight to India left from? Iraq? Sail to Israel? It was either Syria or completely change our plans), we truly treasured our Syrian visa, especially when we found out from other travelers that U.S. citizens could not obtain them on the road, only back in the U.S. We had done well.

Meanwhile, here we were finally entering into Syria and looking directly ahead to our departure a scant 6-8 hours from now. Plus, with all the crap going on in the Middle East, who knew if the immigration officials would simply take one look at our passports and say “No, get out,” or “You: jail for life.”

Because, they could you know. There was that “x” factor.

So I followed on the heals of these two guys, entering into the mammoth building flanked with a counter running the length of our side, and quiet emptiness throughout. A good fifty yards away a small group of people were huddled around one portion of the counter where two Syrian officers dressed sharply in military uniforms were busy examining passports and people, determining their immediate fate. The three of us took our places along the outside of the group, even though the driver and his helper were strategically trying to make sure there was a well negotiated distance between me and them.
One of the officers processed a couple of people, handed their passports back, then sat up and took a bored look over the rest of the group awaiting his attention. His expression suddenly changed to bemused interest. In Arabic, he curtly stated something, pointed to me in the middle of the crowd and motioned for me to come forward.

Here we go.

The crowd hushed and parted freely to allow me to approach. I was pretty nervous, but completely at the whim of this guy and really had nothing to lose; I had the visas, I wasn’t the one who had bombed Iraq, I wasn’t smuggling anything, and I was a person who cried at sad movies. How could I possibly be rejected?

I handed over the passports as the officer carefully inspected my face. When it seemed that I couldn’t stand his penetrating eyes for one more second and would surely run screaming in pure madness the very next instant, he slowly tore his eyes away like Velcro and redirected them on the passports. For what seemed like hours, he examined the visas, and I was sure that he was trying to figure out exactly how I had forged a fake 6-month entry stamp. Only one time did he tear his eyes away from the visa to briefly read my face and then immediately return back to the passports. I was convinced that at any moment he would declare me a criminal and scream to have me locked up in some freaky dungeon. Instead, he got up without a word holding the two passports and disappeared around a corner behind him.

Sweat was pouring off my face as I took a breather and turned around to catch a glimpse of the free outside world…maybe for the last time. The rest of the crowd was visibly nervous and definitively quiet, but not one of them would meet my eye – including my own driver. Oh well, I was already committed; things had been set in motion that could no longer be stopped. I’d have to ride this thing out to its end.

Five minutes passed, then ten, when suddenly the officer returned with another, even more important-looking official. They inspected me again, inspected the passports, inspected me…all the time mumbling in Arabic under their breath, just soft enough so that the guys around me probably were not able to decipher what was being said. Finally, the more senior officer took one last look at me, nodded at the first officer, turned around and was gone.

“Is this your wife?”

I was confused; did someone just say something to me? Wait a second, was that English I heard being spoken? Oh my God – was the officer speaking to me? What did he ask again? My mind raced to remember and then assimilate the question into something meaningful. Finally I forced myself to speak up.

“Yes, Paige is my wife.”

“Where is she?” he asked.

“She’s waiting out on the bus,” I answered, forcing my voice to appear smooth and calm. But the fact that he was speaking in near perfect English was having a very definitive calming effect on my nerves. Surely people who could communicate in a common language wouldn’t send one of their own off to some screwed up dungeon.

“What do you do in the U.S.?” he asked. Was he being pleasant? Or was this some kind of trick?

“I’m a musician. My wife is a housewife.”

Before we’d left on this trip and during the research mode of it all, a couple of important things had stuck out in my mind when crossing potential serious borders. First, when asked what your religion is, always answer with one of the widely accepted versions: Islam, Hindu, Buddhist or Christian (although this last one may not be such a good idea some times…better to stick with the first three). Never, never say “agnostic,” or “atheist,” unless you want to ensure immediate rejection from their country and possible persecution. Upholding your values is not always the best course of action…especially when crossing international borders.

Second, when asked for a job, never say “writer,” because they may think you are a spy who is interested in writing something horrible about their country, or even worse: a journalist. Never say “traveler,” because they don’t understand this concept and will think you are hiding something. I’d stuck to “musician,” and at times, “brewer,” just to add a little excitement to the situation, but no one ever seemed to understand what that meant.

“You’re a musician, eh? What do you play?” OK, he was definitely being animated now.

“Mostly guitar, although I play a few other things too,” I responded, secretly wondering if we were having an actual conversation. Heck, maybe he was about to offer me a beer.

He was obviously interested, “And you make a living that way? That’s great. My brother in law is a musician, he’s really good too, plays all over, but doesn’t make a lot of money. But he loves to play. I’ve always wanted to learn…maybe sometime.”

Wow, talk about me overreacting. He had totally put me at ease, and now here we were rapping nonchalantly and building a friendship. I was feeling like I should…share, or something.

The group of guys surrounding us was totally confused. They’d been convinced that I was a goner, and then suddenly the situation had shifted and the official was actually smiling at me. The fact that none of them spoke any English just seemed to further confuse the issue. Finally, the officer stamped the passports, handed them back with a huge smile and instructed me to enjoy my stay in Syria. The group looked at me with a mixture of awe, jealousy and disappointment.

Hey, I’m an enigma.

I practically skipped back to the bus. We were in! Granted, only for the next few hours, but still, it was the thought that counts. It still took another thirty minutes for the driver and his helper to make it back and redistribute all the passports again. And then finally, we were off, heading straight south for the Jordanian border in the falling light.

But very quickly the almost giddy joy of being admitted into Syria changed into reality, and we remembered that we’d actually eliminated the option all on our own. Traveling through the country was only rubbing salt into the wounds, so we’d have to find a way to enjoy the experience for what it was. The other difficult part was that night was approaching rapidly now, and once it fell we wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the Syrian scenery. Plus, we were on a damn bus. Reality started to sink in, and then suck.

But all of our negative thoughts were washed away when the sun began to set. It was absolutely spectacular. Across the green vastness of the countryside, the oranges, yellows, pinks, reds, blues and purples saturated every open space and hypnotized us. This alone made our decision worthwhile. A spiritual moment.

Perhaps it's this example of a sunset washing away life's stresses and annoyances that gives me piece of mind as this season's Survivor winds down. It will soon be over, yes, and we can look forward to the next sunrise in February.

With only the finale left and five subpar Survivors, we are forced to rally behind...someone. I know, I know, those of you reading this who could give a crap about Survivor are saying, "If it sucks so bad this season, why even watch."

You just don't understand.

We're powerless to this reality. We must watch. When the bad is good and the good is great, it's a paradigm that resides deep in our soul. Our escape from reality comes with the very real feeling that these contestants can at any time get redemption, revenge or "jail for life." It's a tremendous possibility.

So let's quickly review the final five:

Dan (odds: 80-1) - Dan has no business being here as his life is purely dependent upon the fact that he's zero threat to win a challenge or get a vote (unless it's an embarrassing sympathy vote or a vote against someone else - which is almost worse). His balsa wood knees are like those 99 cent toy airplane fliers that you used to get for xmas, quickly put together, throw once...and then get broken on that first throw. He or Holly will go next.

Holly (odds 75-1) - Although Holly could garner votes at a final tribal council, she won't have the chance. The only thing she did wrong was sink Dan's shoes like a mob body in the Atlantic. Beyond that she's been helpful, strategic and successful. It's fantastic to see Jane gone, and her childish tirade with putting out the fire and bagging on Holly simply proved she didn't deserve to even go that far. Holly was SMART to vote out Jane - but without the luck of another immunity win, she is likely next to go.

Chase (odds 50-1) - What an idiot. Although some would say at least Chase has used his brain more than say, Vecepia (the black hole of Survivor winner personalities), I would have to disagree. There is a difference between using your brain with the insinuation that it's in a productive manner vs. "using your brain" as Chase has done: with pure idiocy. And besides, it's not his brain he's used, it's his heart. Nobody wins Survivor by using their heart - it's NOT THE GAME. So is he a good guy? Well, no. C'mon, he's so gutless he can't even take responsibiltiy for looking Jane in the eye and telling her, "Sorry Jane, but you're a threat just like I'm a threat to win; I'd be an idiot NOT to vote you out." Instead, he whines and blames Sash. Lame.

Sash (odds 8-1) - Sash has a real chance here. Yes, he's a douche. But that's OK for Survivor. He's played the game, he's been strategic, he's made enemies - which I believe is important - and he may have garnered respect from some of those enemies for the chances he's taken and the lies he's concocted. The flip side is he's waaaaaay too cocky. So, regardless if he has a chance, I personally prefer the final choice:

Fabio (odds 3-1) - ...For one simple reason: did you see his mom? Holy MILF!

Tune in Sunday to prepare for the glorious sunset...

The Good Kind of Scum

Last week I invested the better part of a long afternoon crafting a unique gourmet meal. I'm a realist when it comes to committing my time and energy to concoct something new and difficult, particularly when it comes to my kids. In other words, nine times out of ten they rely upon any of their senses, aside from "taste," to determine if they like it or not, so it's imperative to keep this in mind as I flambe/blanche/infuse.

In all honestly, it's their sixth sense that they rely upon most of all. Unfortunately, relying upon an abstract sense when they haven't even mastered the other five yet is pretty futile and fruitless.

As a result, it's pretty tough to compete with mac 'n cheese.

However, over the years we've worked hard to get the kids to at least pretend to appreciate the effort. My ideal responses from them in prioritized order are:

1. Actually taste the damn thing (yes - unrealistic, I know...)
2. Smile and say, "Thanks for cooking!" Then continue smiling through the meal. Without eating. Quietly.
3. Not wail, "THIS IS DISGUSTING!!!"

Believe me, I'm ecstatic when they can even manage #3.

As they've gotten older I can absolutely see they are trying harder and harder to remember not to denigrate my efforts, but sometimes their efforts come out not quite as they intended. We now have a zero tolerance policy on meal preparation denigration in the hopes that any time these kids are guests at someone else's house, that host will be spared the brutal barbed insults. 

Last week as I set the incredible looking meal on the table, steam and complex aromas wafting among us like a benevolent miasma, both girls managed to keep their faces non-committal. Blank. Quiet.

Tremendous.

Reese, magnanimously working hard to show her appreciation, even went as far as to proactively take a spoonful and place a droplet on her plate. She took a long look at it, brow furrowed...finally and conclusively formulating an opinion.

"This is scum," she proclaimed.

Paige and I looked at each other. 

Sigh. 

"Do you understand how offensive that is to dad after spending the past four hours cooking for you?" Paige said, purely for her own benefit, as she knew only too well it was a rhetorical question. 

"Good-bye," I added, "we're having dinner without you tonight; no need to ruin everyone else's meal." 

But strangely, Reese was honestly shocked at our responses. Her eyes went wide and I could instantly tell she felt the highest level of injustice had just been unfairly inflicted upon her. 

"But-but-but..." she started; we weren't having any of it.

"Nope - keep it to yourself," we added, "just leave."

Defeated, she got up and slowly trudged away. I could see her mind working overtime - trying to determine how things went so wrong, and I was starting to get confused... 

Finally, just before she was gone, she turned around one last time with a broken, misunderstood look on her face and loudly pleaded, "But, I meant the good kind of scum!"

Ah. I should have known: not only was it not an insult, it was actually a compliment! Silly us.

Still, to her it was simply a misunderstanding, and obviously in the end it was more a discussion about understanding the meaning of the words she chose to use rather than intentionally spewing disdain or pointed insults. 

Perhaps she really meant crumb.

Sorghum.

Yum-yum?

Look, in all reality, I'm all for the good kind of scum when the intent behind the words is pure. Otherwise, scum is just scum: nasty. Impure. Evil.

This entire season of Survivor is just plain scum. From the booting of the only interesting players to the inane, imbecilic tribal council votes (and lack thereof), from the human embarrassment quitters to the complete lack of strategy and foresight from a single contestant, this is the bad kind of scum in every sense of every meaning of the word. 

With 21 seasons nearly under the belt, we've seen the best of the best (the last two seasons in particular), and the scum of the scum. It's frustrating - no doubt - but we also know that each season is fleeting and brings with it the promise of a new beginning in a few short weeks. There can be beauty. There is hope.

Are we spoiled having experienced Russell twice in a row? Having experienced brilliant strategy executed covertly and to perfection via delicious blindsides and bold declarations of giving it 100% no matter what the odds? Having experienced meaningful and pleasurable abs and fuzz-outs?

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

So is it fair for us to be irritated - nay, offended that we have to be subjected to this scum for another week before someone supremely undeserving gets crowned "Survivor" and is handed a check for a million dollars?

Yes, yes, a million times yes.

They owe us.

Damn right they do - and at the very least we should demand nothing less than the good kind of scum.

The MOAB In Your Soul

After graduating from college, some friends and I were extremely reluctant to "grow up" and enter the real world. In lieu of adulthood, we unanimously agreed to prolong adolescence, rent a gigantic four-bedroom beachfront apartment in Venice, and continue living life day to day without looking toward the future (other than ensuring that our libations were properly chilled).

Those first few months of life in Venice Beach were incredible: endless parties, midnight frisbee football on the beach, and a conscious disregard to utilize any productive component of the degree I'd just spent four long grueling years to earn.

The "real world" wasn't real to us at all...at least until the real "Real World" - MTV's show - rented the house two doors down from us, fixed it up, and were suddenly filming the 2nd season of their show: Real World Los Angeles.

To us, this was fantastic! We'd loved their inaugural season in New York a few months earlier, now the Real World would actually be in our neighborhood, on our block - we were their peers!

So on their first night of filming we grabbed a 12-pack and knocked on their door to welcome our new neighbors to the neighborhood - just as our neighbors had done to us a few months earlier. We had visions of sharing their rooftop hot tub and toasting our shared prolonged adolescence...

A gruff looking Production Assistant answered the door, "What?"

We held up the 12-pack, "Just want to welcome everyone to the neighborhood - we live two doors down."

"Beat it," he replied, adding a split millisecond before the door slammed in our faces, "and don't bother us again."

We were stunned, was the Real World really not real? Was their environment completely contrived? Controlled? Manipulated? And - more importantly - we were really not going to be allowed into this perfect world?

We were a nuisance. And as we departed the front entrance with our tails between our legs, it felt like our own fantasy world suddenly had a major chink in its armor. Our fantasy world was vulnerable.

Over the next few weeks, more attacks on our fantasy world began to appear: I got salmonella poisoning and was hospitalized...without any healthcare (an unbelievable bill), my best friend/roommate had to move back to New York, and my girlfriend of three years and I broke up. My fantasy world came crumbling down.

Rudderless, I too moved out, moving back home for a couple months until I could find a "real" job: a sales position with a large international company managing a Central Valley territory, and living smack in the middle of the heart/vulva of California: Modesto.

Now, with all due respect to the town that proudly touts the birthplace of the infamous MOAB restaurant (Meal On A Bun), unfortunately it's the LAST place you want to be single and liquid while in your early 20's. I was lonely, isolated and sad...and couldn't see any way out. My enjoyment of life had switched 180 degrees, and I couldn't bridge the chasm between fun and responsibility.

Even a MOAB technically couldn't fill the chasm...

A lot of this had to do with my single status. Breaking up after a long relationship is always difficult, and it became unbearably compounded in the glaring lack of nightlife on the streets surrounding MOAB. I soon lost all self confidence, basked in awkwardness, and struggled for any meaningful interaction whatsoever with the opposite sex. I was set up on a couple double-dates with friends through work, but nothing was clicking, as my low self esteem wasn't allowing me to relax and enjoy the moment. My blunderings became so desperate, that I found myself - twice - asking out waitresses because they were being nice to me (in the hopes of making a decent tip....). Both of these requests were met with, "Aw, that's so nice...but I don't think my boyfriend would allow me to go..."

I left both of these interactions feeling embarrassed. Sad. Broke. By the way, here's a helpful tip: showering a waitress with a gigantic tip to overcompensate for awkwardly hitting on them is like salting a gigantic, festering open wound. Just so you know...

For the next couple months I hid inside my shell. No way was I going to expose that soft underbelly and risk pain again. I plowed through my work days putting in 12 hour shifts, and pouring all of my physical and mental energy into anything and everything that would keep my mind occupied.

Then one day I stopped in at Tony Romas (the rib joint) to pick up some take out, and was met by a cute hostess about my age. Conversation flowed easily as I ordered my ribs and she started talking about her college work...

Later, hardened and distracted with both work and my calloused emotional state of mind, the scintillating aromatic vestiges of the smoky BBQ sauce that had penetrated the nooks and crannies of both the interior of my Grand Am company car and my head shocked me into awareness: that hostess and I had just kind of...hit it off!

I tried to shake it off and disregard the interaction, but couldn't. Tony Romas immediately became a staple in my lunchtime portfolio, and soon the cute hostess and I had quite a fun banter going on.

But I just couldn't get past my own pain and take the risk of asking her out. What if I was rejected? What if I misread the signs? What if she thought I ate too much pork?

A couple weeks of this back and forth continued until one day I gave myself a pep talk in the parking lot and demanded that I grow up. It was time to stop hurting. Time to earn some self confidence back and regain control of my life again.

It was also time to get some ribs: let's head in...

Of course, with this decision tucked in my craw, my interaction with cute college hostess suddenly became...bumbling again. Conversation stifled. Awkward pauses sprang up like asparagus shoots in the  early Spring. This was not how I was hoping it would go...

But I forged ahead; I had a plan, it must be executed...

Unfortunately, "executed" is probably the correct word to use in this case. I finally managed to spew out an invitation to "get together for a MOAB or something...", and her previously effortless smile suddenly and tangibly became forced. My mind raced as I prepared for the worst...

"Oh, that's so nice..."

Ugh.

"...but I already have a boyfriend."

Such a gemstone in the tiara of life may have broken a lesser man. But instead, I left Tony Romas feeling strangely calm. Focused. Controlled. My path was suddenly clear and I could see what was ahead: whatever I wanted.

I had needed to reach rock bottom to realize that my tenure there was 100% self-imposed. This was insane; what had I been doing to myself? Wallowing in pity. Basking in shame. Drowning in BBQ sauce.

I look back now and it was clearly at that point that I decided to grow up. Immediately things changed. With my self confidence back in tow, I saw the world differently and it saw me...for the first time in a long time. Soon after this change in demeanor, Paige and I started dating - and none of it would have happened without my decision to grow the f up.

I never looked back. (I also never went back to Tony Romas again, but perhaps that goes without saying. MOAB, however...well, I could never permanently abandon that forbidden sultry diva...)

This week's Survivor clearly brought back that experience to me.

Why? Because it was PITIFUL.

Two contestants quitting with a week and a half remaining? Lame squared.

I'm disgusted in this season. Disgusted in these contestants. Disgusted that Jeff didn't extinguish their tribal torches with a violent unbroken stream of his own urine. In reality, even that would be too good for them.

Although DanOnka is a despicable character, as repulsive as her personality and "character" are, blame has got to go to whomever brought her up. She claimed to have no regrets, wouldn't have changed a thing, defended her decision to screw over her tribemates, take advantage of them, steal from them, lie to them, seek pity from them...but she is at the nadir of her being. She's a shell whose words are empty. Even she can't believe them any more, but if anyone back home is supporting her decisions, god (or whatever): help us all.

Good riddence - to both her and Purple Kelly. They didn't deserve to be there, and they surely didn't deserve to take up valuable space in my brian.

...And yet, as callous and dismissive as I am about them...I also secretly hope that they see the mistake of their decisions. Right their sinking ships. Jettison that BBQ sauce that is weighing them down.

There is another option girls - and it's even more satisfying, brimming with nutritional prowess and empowering to the fiber of one's being...

Just look to the bun in your soul:

...The MOAB in your soul.

Bask in the Fat

As a parent, I feel that one of my biggest responsibilities is to instill in my kids an innate desire to be...curious.

About everything.

Of course, I don't want to belittle the importance of teaching kids other critical lessons such as the perfect way to boil an egg, how to fast-forward through commercials on TiVo and stop it precisely as the show starts again, and, of course, the proper techniques of delivering an effective dutch oven.

You know: life skills.

But this curiosity thing drives me. I feel like I'm constantly kicking the kids out of the house and locking the door behind them, telling them, "I don't care what you do, but you're not staying inside to slowly morph into one with the couch, so figure it out." Of course, inevitably, and no matter how much whining there might be (i.e. a lot), they end up have a great time exploring, spying, play-acting, etc.

But one way in which this curiosity drive formally manifests itself is through their organized extracurricular activities. We have a rule in our house: only one sports/extracurricular activity at a time with as little overlap as possible. It can be the same series of activities (soccer, softball, etc.), or something new each time - we don't force the kids into anything they don't want to do, but we want them to want to do something. Anything. In the end, our oldest constantly has a list of things she wants to do and try, but our youngest, McKenna, definitively stated last year, "I don't want to do anything."

Hmm. OK, I understand the ridiculous oppressive dangers of scheduling everything for kids, but I needed to understand better what she wanted to do instead.

"I just want to sit on the couch and do NOTHING."

OK, no. I explained to her that she didn't have to follow in her older sister's footsteps down the sporting route - she could do anything that interests her at all - maybe something that another friend was interested in. I went through a list of ideas to see if anything peaked her interest...

"Art?"
"No."
"Gymnastics?"
"No."
"Entomology?"
"No!"
"Phrenology?"
"No!"
"Spelunking?"
"I said I don't want to do ANYTHING!!!"

Hey, I would be fine with this if she instead was out in our court playing with friends, designing a treehouse in the backyard, searching for a cure for irritable bowel syndrome in our laboratory... But no, she only wanted to do "nothing."

Then I remembered she had a propensity for dancing... There were times when I'd have the stereo on and she would break out with her own version of ballet, or, if I was playing some swing, her own (glorious) version of that. One day when she was in a particularly good mood, I proposed it to her.

"Would you be interested in taking some dance classes? I found one that teaches ballet and tap in the same class once a week - all with girls your own age."

She pondered this. "Would I have to wear pink leotards and a skirt?"

I pondered this. "Do you want to wear pink leotards and a skirt?"

She looked at me like I was daft, "Yes, of course!"

"Then absolutely!"

So I signed her up, got her the leotards, the skirt, the tap shoes, the ballet shoes, the tights, the hair ribbons...and started taking her to the studio each week. The only problem was that the studio was a 35 minute drive on a Thursday night in traffic across town for a class of 7 year olds that didn't end until 8:30. It was a commitment. We couldn't simply drop her off and they didn't allow parents to watch the classes, which meant 60+ minutes of driving time each week and another hour reading in the parking lot on a weeknight.

Still, we were happy that she was at least pushing her boundaries and trying something new.

On that first night, she was nervous. When she finally emerged from class, she saw me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out to the car - unsmiling.

"How was it?" I asked, expecting her to rave about how much fun it was and how cool her teacher was.

"I don't want to talk about it," she stated with tight lips and a frown.

I was a little worried. "Did something happen? You didn't like it?"

"No! I liked it! I just don't want to talk about it!"

OK. OK. I get it. She was self conscious - fine. As long as she was having fun. But of course the second we got home, Paige and Reese asked her the same thing, and they both got the same answer: stay outta my bidniss.

So the weeks went on. Every week I would drive her - in silence, sit in the car while she was in class, ask her how it went, and get the same irritated response. We knew she struggled with this type of attention and feedback, but this was getting ridiculous. On top of this, she refused to show us any dance moves she was learning, talk about any of the kids she was befriending, or tell us her teacher's name or anything about her experiences. It was annoying, but...we were happy she was doing something, anything...

A few months go by and then we get word that there will be a dance recital. Finally - we will get to see the fruit of our monetary, time and emotional commitments! But McKenna headed us off at the pass and told us she didn't want to do the recital. We didn't push it, knowing that it was likely she'd change her mind if she didn't feel the pressure from us, and sure enough, a week before the recital she proclaimed she suddenly wanted to do it. Of course, because it had to be on her terms, and in her mind this was the way she maintained control rather than the teacher, her parents or anyone else.

On her last practice before the recital - in which our extended families had already committed (and paid!) to come - I helped her get in the car and she sat there in the back seat tightly gripping her recital costume in silence. With the excitement of the impending event just a couple days away, I had to try again...

"So...how did class go? Are you ready for the show?"

She glared at me. "AAAAAAA! I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!!!"

So, yes...I lost it.

"Look!" I began...blood pressure surging, brow furrowing, bowels clenching, "THIS HAS GOT TO STOP!" I proceeded to soliloquize the commitment that others were undertaking so that she could continue to dance: the hour drives in traffic every Thursday night, sitting in the car while she danced, the money we were spending on the classes, clothes and shoes...and that we were doing this because we loved her and simply wanted her to have the opportunity to try new things, explore new avenues, learn new things about herself.

"You need to understand," I said strongly, "that every time I ask you about your experience, it's not because I'm trying to get you angry; I AM TRULY INTERESTED IN YOUR HAPPINESS. So when you brush me off so rudely and coldly, it not only hurts, but it makes me question WHY Mom and I are spending the money, the time and the effort to bend over backwards to do this for you!"

My long speech and harsh tone hung in the air like a swimmer dying slowly in an Olympic sized pool filled with flesh-eating bacteria.

I was pissed. Frustrated. Hurt and angry. But as I slowly calmed down and began to breath normally again, the silence continued... Suddenly my anger returned. How could she sit there and listen to all of that and STILL ignore me? This was unacceptable. We NEEDED to talk about this. NOW.

"WELL?!?!" I asked in my best Ted Knight impersonation, "I'M WAITING!"

She crossed her legs, looked out the window and said, "Dad, guess what? In class today the teacher had us get on our costumes and mine is so cool, we have to wear our hair in ponytails with a ribbon and we even got socks that we get to keep and I'm the the only person who knows all the dance moves perfectly and..."

My head was spinning...I couldn't exactly assimilate what I was hearing. Was she actually IGNORING my speech? Was she actually attempting to NOT address our concerns? Was this her way of slyly sneaking past these nearly insurmountable problems?!

My first reaction was, "HELL YES SHE IS!" But then I was hit with another thought... Wait a second, it wasn't that she was avoiding the concerns...she was actually addressing them head on. Although I realized I was the one that needed to "talk" about the problem, she instead went right to the "fixing" of the problem. No bullshit. No circular discussions. No accusations or admissions and denials of guilt.

This was actually brilliant.

We each got exactly what we needed: me - having her share her experiences, and her - not having to have to talk about the process of sharing her experiences. Her solution was direct and to the point - cut out the fat, eliminate the MSG, and get right to the meat. And from that moment on, she proactively shared with us - everything: her experiences, her dance moves, her friends... We were both satisfied, and I was once again reminded how eye-opening it is to learn something new about yourself from your kids.

Of course, getting right to the meat isn't always so satisfying... We saw it this week as the tribe cut out the b.s. and went right for the self-proclaimed "King:" Brenda. Now, with Marty and Brenda gone, who really is left to care about? Nobody. Is it satisfying to see someone get what's coming to them? Sure, but in the long run, it's absolutely horrifying.

In fact, that's been the biggest problem with Survivor over these 21 seasons. More often than not tribes figure out a way to cut right to the meat and get rid of the strongest, the smartest, the craftiest, yes: the most interesting players in the game in order to keep themselves alive. The problem is that what's leftover is DEAD WEIGHT. Inevitably it means we'll see a tribal council with idiot vs. loser, or worse: idiot vs. loser vs. someone who by shear willpower and studliness somehow makes it to the finale, only to get trounced by the other two during the imbecilic voting.

So when Brenda refused to stand up for herself and *gasp!* "scramble" to stay alive, fine. You suck, and - why again did you even agree to come on Survivor? The whole point of the game is to do everything you possibly can to WIN. She gave up.

Still, the thought of a final two with Purpletarded Kelly and balsa-kneed Dan makes me cringe. We deserve better than this.

Ultimately, while it's OK for a child to ignore the delicious fat and superfluous seasonings to get right to the meat, the life worth living is one that basks in the fat. Plays with it. Appreciates it. Uses it sparingly, but isn't afraid to nibble it at times, or rub the melted, rendered mess all over their naked bodies in pure acts of self aggrandizement at others.

SNL's parody: A good balance of lean and "fat..."

I don't watch Survivor to learn something about myself.

I watch it for the fat.

Gimme more fat.


Bask in the fat.

Don't Forget the Tzatziki

We were heading from the southeast coastal town of Brindisi, Italy to Patras, Greece across the Ionian Sea: a redeye 20+ hour boat ride departing just after lunchtime. Although the boat had multiple classes, it appeared there would be nothing for the first and second-class stewards to do since the entire group of 15-20 travelers (mostly in our twenties) headed straight for the belly of the ship and the inexpensive third class area.

We were half expecting to have to brave the long trip banished to the decks due to how cheap our fares had been, but thankfully we were led deep underneath the boat to a warm room laden with airplane-like seats and a few tables. Twenty hours to go and nowhere to lie down save for the floor under the tables due to the fact that the chairs were bolted in and wouldn’t recline in the least. But hey, at least it wasn’t a chicken-bus/boat.

We were reassured when we saw the showers on board and hit the snack bar just before setting off to find that they indeed sold beer. We’d be able to make this work for sure. We sliced open a huge cured sausage that we’d packed in our bags back in Rome, toasted our beers to the next 20 hours, and smiled in confidence and comfort.

Then we started moving.

Directly into a fierce lightning/rain storm.

It appeared that I had spoken too soon.

The boat was rocking and swaying so much that everything on our table was swiftly swept off in a single movement. Before we could finish our first beer, three passengers had run out of the room in merciless bouts of vomiting. Not a good sign. Neither Paige nor I had ever been seasick before, and although we weren’t too worried about it, the thought of actually getting sick became more of a frightening reality as each passenger ran from the room with their hands up to their mouths in an attempt to make it out to the bathrooms or deck.

Paige fell first. One moment she was OK, taking her turn on our mini Italian travel Scrabble board, and the next she was running from the room like a madwoman. Twenty minutes later when she still hadn’t come back I ventured out to try to find her, eventually encountering her at the rail on deck in the dark, immersed in the cold beating wind and booming thunder. The boat was rocking so much that I could barely walk straight and had to keep my balance by holding the walls. She couldn’t talk properly and was in horrible shape, having vomited nonstop for the duration of her time out there, wet and chilled to the bone. I asked her if she felt like she could make it inside if I helped her, and she feebly groaned “uh-huh.”

She stayed in for almost ten minutes before suddenly finding enough energy to run helter-skelter from the room back out to the deck. I felt horrible for her, but so far I was not feeling seasick in the least. At that point, all other fifteen people in our room had fallen, and the animated conversation that had circulated loudly prior to our departure had changed to the sound of crashing waves, creaking boat and an occasional moan.

I immediately joined Paige out on the deck with all our coats in tow, my scarf and anything else I thought could keep her warm. She couldn’t stop vomiting and had no intention of trying to get back inside only to have to run right back out here again. Better to stay where she could let it go when it came.

And it came. Often.

I went back inside and laid down in an insanely cramped space underneath a table, intending to go back out in a few minutes to continue checking on her. But instead, I unexpectedly drifted off to sleep. I woke with a start, realizing what I had done and looked around to make sure Paige had come back in.

She was not in the room.

I looked at my watch – two hours had gone by since I had returned inside. Visions of Paige being swept overboard in a huge gust of wind and crashing waves entered my mind as I ran out to the deck.

She wasn’t there.

My heart jumped into my throat as I expected the worse, but as I turned to go back inside and scour the ship, I noticed a heap of clothes on the wet deck next to the wall. It was Paige, crumpled up in a soggy ball.

When I got to her she was shivering beyond control and nearly catatonic. Her mouth was chattering so much that her weak words came out in staccato form. As I carried her back inside, she explained that the wind, rain and lightning were so bad that at one point in her non-stop vomiting, an especially evil gust of wind blew her own vomit right back into her face. At that point she retired to lie on the wet deck and vomit freely in puddles around her, uncaring about anything except getting through this. She must have passed out or dozed off or entered some freaky state of unconsciousness because she didn’t remember anything until I came to get her.

Back inside, I made up her sleeping bag, got her into some dry clothes and tucked her in, placing Pink Floyd’s “Animals” on our CD player and sticking the earphones in her ears. She moved her lips with an inaudible “thank you” as she closed her eyes and slowly stopped shivering through infrequent bouts of jerking. I crawled back under the table, marveling at the insane rocking of the boat and the sound of the fury outside. It was amazing to me how this thing stayed afloat.

About fifteen hours into our trip, the storm finally passed. I don’t think anyone even noticed, however, because by that time they were all fatigued and drained of any remaining energy...or food. When the sun started coming through the windows, I quietly got up and headed for the bathroom. I was not surprised to see each one of the toilet bowl rims, the surrounding floor, and even the dimly lit walls caked in barf.

I’m not saying that made the sight any easier to experience, it was just an observation.

When Paige woke, she weakly explained that she thankfully felt better, although she had had one final vomit bout in the nearby garbage can sometime in the middle of the night. At that point, she remembered briefly considering going back out to the deck, recalling her barf-in-the-face and deck-puddlin’ vomiting episodes, and decided, “Screw it, the garbage can would be just fine.” I supported her decision.

As I looked around, I honestly thought some of the other passengers were dead. Not a single other person even stirred until there was an announcement over the intercom about our arrival. Their asses were sufficiently kicked.

Paige was doing remarkably well, considering that she had vomited and dry heaved nearly 50 times, and felt like she could handle her pack and walk OK by herself. We strapped on our packs and headed upstairs to see a strangely beautiful day on the heels of such a horrendous night, surprisingly hungry…and already smelling gyros…

By this time Paige was getting a little loopy – it had now been longer than 24 hours since she’d eaten. And it had been over 23 hours since she’d even had anything at all in her stomach. And what food she did have was now digesting in the stomachs of sea creatures deep in the Mediterranean or crustily drying on the deck of the boat and the sides of her face.

In the true spirit of Egyptian street vendors, we found a small little alcove down the block and ducked inside to point at food we wanted. The lady behind the counter wrapped us up a couple of amazing gyros, bursting at the seems with crispy pork slices, thick onions, fries, tomatoes and tzatziki sauce and wrapped in a fresh fat pita. Unbelievably good. We hungrily grabbed our plates and sat out at the sidewalk tables underneath the awnings as the rain started up again and poured onto the street right next to us.

We had survived; solid earth and greasy gyros were our rewards.

This evil vomit story reverberated in my head while I watched this week's Survivor episode. Marty IS a survivor...and yet, it's also been absolutely baffling how he's escaped a rapid departure the past three weeks.

Let's quickly review:

1. His new tribe, in an attempt to get him to play his idol, splits the vote between him and Kelly one-leg (a person, I should point out, that is IN their alliance). When the vote ties, everyone re-votes with the threat that if it's another tie, all other tribe members are on the chopping block. Surely Marty will now get 100% of the vote, right? Instead, in a completely illogical vote - COMPLETELY illogical - Kelly no-leg gets 100% of the vote, and Marty returns to camp with idol intact. Huh? Nice strategy Brenda.
2. In a second attempt to get Marty away from his idol and boot him off, the tribe concocts a plan to simply ask him for the idol as a show of trust, guaranteeing him that he will be safe, and then simply voting him off anyway. Unbelievably it works, and as Marty hands over the idol, we are sure that he has just done one of the all-time stupidest blunders in the game. Instead, powerless and with no alliance to his name, Marty is safe during the vote and Jill gets booted. Huh?
3. After the merge, Marty is STILL the main target - even though he has no idol and no alliance. Jane, in particular despises Marty with every fiber of her North Carolina being - apparently because he didn't befriend her in the beginning or something? Whatever. Still, it looks like a sure thing that he's gone...until Sash expresses remorse in promising Marty the idol back for this tribal, throwing a wrench in the works. However, in the end, Sash KEEPS the idol (huh?), and Marty is spared while nearly-naked Alina gets the boot. HUH?!

Marty is teflon. It will now be anticlimactic if he gets booted unceremoniously. That just can't happen.

Like me, Marty looks at all the carnage caking everything around him, and wonders how and why he was spared. Like me, Marty is thankful, and yet even more relieved that he hasn't had to have his viscous inner soul blown back into his own face by some evil wind. Like me, Marty looks forward to solid ground, and a million dollars (and/or a greasy gyro).

But the real question is, like Paige, will Brenda, DanOnka and Jane end up cold, wet, and catatonic, curdled in their own filth?

This, my friends, is why we watch.

Don't forget the tzatziki. 

Don't Forget the Tzatziki

We were heading from the southeast coastal town of Brindisi, Italy to Patras, Greece across the Ionian Sea: a redeye 20+ hour boat ride departing just after lunchtime. Although the boat had multiple classes, it appeared there would be nothing for the first and second-class stewards to do since the entire group of 15-20 travelers (mostly in our twenties) headed straight for the belly of the ship and the inexpensive third class area.

We were half expecting to have to brave the long trip banished to the decks due to how cheap our fares had been, but thankfully we were led deep underneath the boat to a warm room laden with airplane-like seats and a few tables. Twenty hours to go and nowhere to lie down save for the floor under the tables due to the fact that the chairs were bolted in and wouldn’t recline in the least. But hey, at least it wasn’t a chicken-bus/boat.

We were reassured when we saw the showers on board and hit the snack bar just before setting off to find that they indeed sold beer. We’d be able to make this work for sure. We sliced open a huge cured sausage that we’d packed in our bags back in Rome, toasted our beers to the next 20 hours, and smiled in confidence and comfort.

Then we started moving.

Directly into a fierce lightning/rain storm.

It appeared that I had spoken too soon.

The boat was rocking and swaying so much that everything on our table was swiftly swept off in a single movement. Before we could finish our first beer, three passengers had run out of the room in merciless bouts of vomiting. Not a good sign. Neither Paige nor I had ever been seasick before, and although we weren’t too worried about it, the thought of actually getting sick became more of a frightening reality as each passenger ran from the room with their hands up to their mouths in an attempt to make it out to the bathrooms or deck.

Paige fell first. One moment she was OK, taking her turn on our mini Italian travel Scrabble board, and the next she was running from the room like a madwoman. Twenty minutes later when she still hadn’t come back I ventured out to try to find her, eventually encountering her at the rail on deck in the dark, immersed in the cold beating wind and booming thunder. The boat was rocking so much that I could barely walk straight and had to keep my balance by holding the walls. She couldn’t talk properly and was in horrible shape, having vomited nonstop for the duration of her time out there, wet and chilled to the bone. I asked her if she felt like she could make it inside if I helped her, and she feebly groaned “uh-huh.”

She stayed in for almost ten minutes before suddenly finding enough energy to run helter-skelter from the room back out to the deck. I felt horrible for her, but so far I was not feeling seasick in the least. At that point, all other fifteen people in our room had fallen, and the animated conversation that had circulated loudly prior to our departure had changed to the sound of crashing waves, creaking boat and an occasional moan.

I immediately joined Paige out on the deck with all our coats in tow, my scarf and anything else I thought could keep her warm. She couldn’t stop vomiting and had no intention of trying to get back inside only to have to run right back out here again. Better to stay where she could let it go when it came.

And it came. Often.

I went back inside and laid down in an insanely cramped space underneath a table, intending to go back out in a few minutes to continue checking on her. But instead, I unexpectedly drifted off to sleep. I woke with a start, realizing what I had done and looked around to make sure Paige had come back in.

She was not in the room.

I looked at my watch – two hours had gone by since I had returned inside. Visions of Paige being swept overboard in a huge gust of wind and crashing waves entered my mind as I ran out to the deck.

She wasn’t there.

My heart jumped into my throat as I expected the worse, but as I turned to go back inside and scour the ship, I noticed a heap of clothes on the wet deck next to the wall. It was Paige, crumpled up in a soggy ball.

When I got to her she was shivering beyond control and nearly catatonic. Her mouth was chattering so much that her weak words came out in staccato form. As I carried her back inside, she explained that the wind, rain and lightning were so bad that at one point in her non-stop vomiting, an especially evil gust of wind blew her own vomit right back into her face. At that point she retired to lie on the wet deck and vomit freely in puddles around her, uncaring about anything except getting through this. She must have passed out or dozed off or entered some freaky state of unconsciousness because she didn’t remember anything until I came to get her.

Back inside, I made up her sleeping bag, got her into some dry clothes and tucked her in, placing Pink Floyd’s “Animals” on our CD player and sticking the earphones in her ears. She moved her lips with an inaudible “thank you” as she closed her eyes and slowly stopped shivering through infrequent bouts of jerking. I crawled back under the table, marveling at the insane rocking of the boat and the sound of the fury outside. It was amazing to me how this thing stayed afloat.

About fifteen hours into our trip, the storm finally passed. I don’t think anyone even noticed, however, because by that time they were all fatigued and drained of any remaining energy...or food. When the sun started coming through the windows, I quietly got up and headed for the bathroom. I was not surprised to see each one of the toilet bowl rims, the surrounding floor, and even the dimly lit walls caked in barf.

I’m not saying that made the sight any easier to experience, it was just an observation.

When Paige woke, she weakly explained that she thankfully felt better, although she had had one final vomit bout in the nearby garbage can sometime in the middle of the night. At that point, she remembered briefly considering going back out to the deck, recalling her barf-in-the-face and deck-puddlin’ vomiting episodes, and decided, “Screw it, the garbage can would be just fine.” I supported her decision.

As I looked around, I honestly thought some of the other passengers were dead. Not a single other person even stirred until there was an announcement over the intercom about our arrival. Their asses were sufficiently kicked.

Paige was doing remarkably well, considering that she had vomited and dry heaved nearly 50 times, and felt like she could handle her pack and walk OK by herself. We strapped on our packs and headed upstairs to see a strangely beautiful day on the heels of such a horrendous night, surprisingly hungry…and already smelling gyros…

By this time Paige was getting a little loopy – it had now been longer than 24 hours since she’d eaten. And it had been over 23 hours since she’d even had anything at all in her stomach. And what food she did have was now digesting in the stomachs of sea creatures deep in the Mediterranean or crustily drying on the deck of the boat and the sides of her face.

In the true spirit of Egyptian street vendors, we found a small little alcove down the block and ducked inside to point at food we wanted. The lady behind the counter wrapped us up a couple of amazing gyros, bursting at the seems with crispy pork slices, thick onions, fries, tomatoes and cucumber sauce and wrapped in a fresh fat pita. Unbelievably good. We hungrily grabbed our plates and sat out at the sidewalk tables underneath the awnings as the rain started up again and poured onto the street right next to us.

We had survived; solid earth and greasy gyros were our rewards.

This evil vomit story reverberated in my head while I watched this week's Survivor episode. Marty IS a survivor...and yet, it's also been absolutely baffling how he's escaped a rapid departure the past three weeks.

Let's quickly review:

1. His new tribe, in an attempt to get him to play his idol, splits the vote between him and Kelly one-leg (a person, I should point out, that is IN their alliance). When the vote ties, everyone re-votes with the threat that if it's another tie, all other tribe members are on the chopping block. Surely Marty will now get 100% of the vote, right? Instead, in a completely illogical vote - COMPLETELY illogical - Kelly no-leg gets 100% of the vote, and Marty returns to camp with idol intact. Huh? Nice strategy Brenda.
2. In a second attempt to get Marty away from his idol and boot him off, the tribe concocts a plan to simply ask him for the idol as a show of trust, guaranteeing him that he will be safe, and then simply voting him off anyway. Unbelievably it works, and as Marty hands over the idol, we are sure that he has just done one of the all-time stupidest blunders in the game. Instead, powerless and with no alliance to his name, Marty is safe during the vote and Jill gets booted. Huh?
3. After the merge, Marty is STILL the main target - even though he has no idol and no alliance. Jane, in particular despises Marty with every fiber of her North Carolina being - apparently because he didn't befriend her in the beginning or something? Whatever. Still, it looks like a sure thing that he's gone...until Sash expresses remorse in promising Marty the idol back for this tribal, throwing a wrench in the works. However, in the end, Sash KEEPS the idol (huh?), and Marty is spared while nearly-naked Alina gets the boot. HUH?!

Marty is teflon. It will now be anticlimactic if he gets booted unceremoniously. That just can't happen.

Like me, Marty looks at all the carnage caking everything around him, and wonders how and why he was spared. Like me, Marty is thankful, and yet even more relieved that he hasn't had to have his viscous inner soul blown back into his own face by some evil wind. Like me, Marty looks forward to solid ground, and a million dollars (and/or a greasy gyro).

But the real question is, like Paige, will Brenda, DanOnka and Jane end up cold, wet, and catatonic, curdled in their own filth?

This, my friends, is why we watch.

Don't forget the tzatziki. 

Death vs. Embarrassment

We were unbelievably excited as we waited for our flight in the huge Nairobi, Kenya airport hanger sitting area, both because we were finally going to Lamu Island off the coast of Kenya (recommended so strongly to us by people we'd met on the road), and because we had successfully avoided a surely hellacious 12-hour chicken bus experience by finding affordable tickets.

But as we walked out on the tarmac towards the small plane, I sensed an even more frightening reality: something horrible was happening in my stomach, doing nasty things and wreaking havoc to my fragile intestines.

Up to this point in our yearlong trip I had been extremely diligent about not eating or drinking a thing for hours before any type of transportation in which a toilet was not a reality. Chicken buses, minivans, taxis – these were all extremely dangerous options when you have a relentless spastic colon. And that very morning as we sat down for breakfast, I was so good about keeping my food intake as miniscule and bland as possible: a banana and plain toast. But for some absolutely inconceivable reason, a random meat pastry sitting – god knows how old it was or how long it had been sitting there – under a glass case on the counter of the diner appeared to look…desirable.

And going against everything that I knew to be right, I ate it.

And now my bowels were going to make me pay.

About ten of us settled on board and strapped ourselves in our seats of the tiny puddle jumper. The force on my intestines was immense.

What could I do?

They had already closed the hatch and were now firing up the engines…

The plane was obviously too small to have a toilet; an icy sweat broke out on my face and dripped down my spine. I was in serious pain and there was an unstoppable entity taking control of my body. I secretly pleaded for the ability to hold out for the next hour until we made it to the island, if not, it was looking like I would have to take a barf bag and squat near the rear of the plane. Would I have to ask the flight attendant and passengers to keep their eyes forward as I performed the most embarrassing feat of my life?

This couldn’t be happening.

Within a couple minutes, the plane was up in the air and there was no turning back. As I realized what was inevitably going to occur whether I liked it or not, I began to freak out.

Through my sweaty, searing, dreamlike fright, I began having visions of asking everyone else to please forgive me while I squatted over a barf bag. Holy crap, what if they didn’t even have barf bags on board? I couldn’t think in complete thoughts, I was having a violent panic attack and secretly wished that the plane would crash to save me and everyone else from this horrible fate.

My stomach cramped on the Richter scale over and over again.

I honestly wondered if death was not preferable to having to live through this impending embarrassment and pain when suddenly the flight attendant walked by. I reached out helter-skelter, grabbing her arm tightly, and alarming her enough to let out a little wail. Through gritted teeth, I started to lead her into understanding that I would be having explosive diarrhea inside her cabin within a matter of seconds, and began futilely pleading with her, “I know there’s not a toilet on board...”

I simply cannot express the intense relief and utter JOY I felt when she interrupted me with a nod and led me to the back of the cabin where a hidden half door in the middle of the wall the size of a porthole opened up into a tiny onboard toilet. Saved!

And just like that, I was suddenly born again.

Afterwards, I contently settled into my seat with a tearful smile. I was a new man. A free man. Free!

For the next hour the plane hit the absolute worst turbulence that we had ever experienced. People were screaming and sobbing, the plane was lurching beyond comprehension, dipping and dropping for ten to twenty seconds at a time, in an apparent answer to my earlier wish to spare us all.

Paige was literally scared straight, holding onto my arm with a death grip and keeping her teary eyes tightly shut with intense fear; if it wasn’t for seat belts we all would have been thrown around the inside of the cabin like socks in a dryer.

But compared to my near-death-due-to-embarrassment predicament just moments before, this was a piece of cake. Sweet, glorious, chocolaty cake. I actually smiled in pure gratitude as I drifted off into a comfortable nap.

As we neared the Indian Ocean the plane finally leveled out and Paige woke me up. Two kids in front of us were still crying uncontrollably from the fright of the whole experience. The air turbulence, not my intestinal turbulence; although I wouldn’t have blamed them. We shot out over the coast and within no time were heading in for a landing on a tiny island next to Lamu.

Paige and I both kissed the tarmac when we deplaned into the intense heat and humidity...only for two very different reasons.

I recalled this experience Wednesday night as I watched Marty escape imminent extinction on Survivor. Like my colon, Marty was heading uncontrollably toward an embarrassing, violent, yes even explosive end to his stay on the island, surely leaving the rest of his tribe feeling sick, stunned and scarred for the remainder of their existence.

Should he or shouldn't he play his idol? Should I or shouldn't I have eaten that unidentified meat pastry? One bad decision could lead each of us down a path that would potentially be impossible to change...

And when the vote came out tied for Marty and Kelly one-leg, it was with 100% certainty that Marty would have to whip out the barf bag in front of everyone else.

But wait...suddenly an unseen door opens - during the tied re-vote, Marty is spared: UNANIMOUSLY.

Baffling. Inexplicable. But so satisfying!

Marty is spared at the precise moment of death - only to return to his tribe with his idol intact and a new target now on Brenda's back for instigating the whole unrealized strategy. Oh how the tide dost turn.

Good for you Marty. I'm not sure how it happened, but like you, I'm just glad it didn't end all messy...

We both live to see another day, to play another immunity idol, to wipe the tears away from tribe alliances and scared children...and perhaps most importantly, to scarf down another greasy, unidentified meat pastry if we want to.

Ignorance is bliss...as long as you can flush it away...

Parenting Shrills

During 10+ seasons of coaching kids in soccer and softball, I've seen a few things. Some good - usually exemplified by a child achieving something for the first time. Some bad - always exemplified by adults with questionable "parenting skills."

More like parenting shrills.

I've had parents of the opposing Under-6 soccer team scream at me for not taking out one of my players because she scored three goals - even though you don't keep score in Under-6 ball and none of the kids on either team - including the girl who scored three times - had even noticed that anyone scored at all. And we had no substitutes.

Ridiculous.

During another soccer practice one time, I had a 5-year old boy sit down on the field and start crying hysterically. He wouldn't tell me why at first, but finally through his heaving sobs he told me that he had to go to the bathroom but his dad won't let him go because he didn't go before he came to the field. His dad was on the next field and since I couldn't leave the team to take the boy to the bathroom, I told him it was fine and he should just go ask his dad. A minute later our practice was violently interrupted with the dad SCREAMING at the boy at the top of his lungs from 75 yards away, "ABSOLUTELY  NOT! I TOLD YOU BEFORE! NO! NO! NO! YOU JUST PEE RIGHT THERE IN YOUR PANTS!" All six teams practicing on all the surrounding fields stopped - there was really no other choice, it was a violent, invasive interruption...it was brutal. Finally the dad tucked the boy under his arm and ran with him to the bathroom, yelling at him the whole way. Afterward, we confronted the dad and told him we didn't want him at any of the practices or games anymore if he couldn't control himself.

Ugly.

But there are occasionally times when the parenting shrills - as disturbing as they innately may be - are brutally hilarious.

Last softball season I was coaching 8-9 year old girls. After five years of coaching softball where the girls' attention span hovered somewhere between, "Look! A butterfly!" and wearing their mitts on their heads, for the first time they were actually listening, taking it all in, and then applying what they learned during the games.

It was incredibly fulfilling - not just for them, but for me. It allowed me to approach practices and lessons more strategically. To propose situations that required foresight and planning multiple steps in advance. To motivate them with the promise of ice cream.

We had a special team - every girl but one was from the same school, and most of them were even on the same soccer team. The parents were fantastic, the kids were fantastic, and we had a stellar group of coaches. Truly a perfect combination.

Even the girl (let's call her, "Mimi") who didn't go to the same school had an incredible personality. She clearly perceived life as something to be lived moment to moment. She was carefree, always happy and smiling, and became something of a mascot to the rest of the team as she was the youngest and smallest.

It was Mimi's first year playing softball on a team in which most of the other girls had already played four years. She had never picked up a bat, ball or glove even once before she came to the first practice; we could quickly tell she was going to be a challenge. Thankfully, her attitude ensured that it would be a fun challenge.

But at the first game, I quickly became confused. When Mimi got up to bat for the first time, her dad jumped up from his seat and stood behind the backstop - yelling at her to, "HOLD YOUR BAT UP! SWING SOONER! PAY ATTENTION! DON'T SWING AT BALLS THAT GO BEHIND YOU!!!" It was aggressive and absolutely unnecessary - and anti what we had been teaching the kids (learn but have fun). My confusion continued to grow over the next few games as this dad's aggressive screaming increased exponentially and became quite disturbing both when Mimi was at the plate and in the field. How could this child be so happy-go-lucky with a dad that was squashing her every chance at happiness?

We became somewhat protective of Mimi - trying to provide as much positive encouragement and reinforcement as possible in response to her dad sucking the life out of her. After half a dozen games of nothing but strikeouts, the one game her dad didn't show up to she somehow managed to swing and get two hits off the pitcher: a monumental achievement for any girl in the league. She was absolutely elated.

The very next game her dad was back and picking her to pieces from the get go. We had had a couple talks with him - and he did seem like a nice enough guy when he was calm - but he clearly just couldn't help himself. I told him how great she had done and how dramatically she had improved over the first few weeks of the season.

"Bah!" he said, "She's terrible!"

We determined it was our duty to have her focus on us as much as possible and tune her dad out.

I put Mimi at third base and sure enough her dad walked around to that side and stood with his hands up grabbing the fence ten feet away from her each defensive half inning.

"MIMI! BE READY!"
"MIMI! PAY ATTENTION!"
"MIMI!! YOU'RE FACING THE WRONG DIRECTION!!!"

Ugh. This was really getting annoying.

The other team started a rally and after three straight batters they had the bases loaded. I walked around to the infield and made sure each player knew what they would do if they got the ball. When I came to Mimi I said, "Mimi - what are you going to do if the ball comes to you?''

She looked at me quizzically.

"Do you know?"

"No," she replied in a small voice.

"OK, first just touch third base, then throw to first base. Do you think you got it?"

"Yes!" she replied confidentially, smacking her free hand in her mitt.

"MIMI!!!"  a voice came from ten feet away, "THE PLAY'S AT HOME! THROW HOME IF YOU GET THE BALL!!"

"Mimi," I quickly stated out of ear shot of her dad, "The play is at third just like we talked about. Just touch third." In a league of 8 and 9 year olds, the only play is to get the easiest out. If they master that, then move on to the more complicated plays. And Mimi had not mastered the easy play yet. This dad was only going to confuse her.

Of course: next pitch the batter swings and hits a grounder right to Mimi. And of course, defying history and logic, she makes a clean play of the grounder. The crowd is going ballistic. But once that ball was in her mitt, she had no idea what to do next. She simply stood there with dinner plate-sized eyes looking around in confusion as the runners all advanced safely around the bases. Her brain processor had shorted out with the overload of conflicting (and bellowed) information.

"MIMI!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THROW THE BALL HOME!! MIMI!! DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME?!?!"

The torrent continued unabated. I couldn't take it anymore, I walked over to Mimi in the middle of her dad's tirade and kneeled on the other side of her so she would have to turn away from her dad to listen to me.

"Nice play hon." She sniffled in response to me. Her dad's voice trailed off as I quietly and calmly took advantage of the silence to calm her down and get her head back into the game.

"You fielded that grounder perfectly. Did you forget what to do next?"

"Yes," she replied in a voice the size of a mouse's.

"That's OK - no worries. There's a runner on every base, so all you have to do is touch third - or any base that you can get to the quickest before the runners..."

"MIMI!?!? MIIIIIMIIII!?!?"

A voice shockingly interrupted me mid sentence and my words caught in my throat as the shear intrusive volume consumed us from ten feet away.

"ARE! YOU! LISTENING! TO! YOUR! COACH?!?!?!?!?!"

Wow. A dad screaming at his daughter to listen to him berate her for potentially getting distracted when she should be listening to her coach. I'm not sure I fully understand it either - I just know it was inappropriate. And hilarious.

When the loudest, rudest voice demands attention, it's never a good thing (are you listening you imbecilic politicians?). Just like on Survivor: DanOnka has been Mimi's dad times a thousand: bellowing, berating, causing fights, demanding attention, forcing people to listen to her - it's been extremely painful. Hey, at least the Survivor contestants can vote out someone each week. If those of us who coach kids could vote out a parent each week - now that would be really tremendous.

Still - it was great to see her break, although unfortunately it didn't end up translating into her boot. Hopefully that's an inevitable outcome. Instead, however, the dumbest people on the planet show that 21 seasons of lessons learned mean nothing and vote out the strongest member of their tribe because he tried to convince them that a live hen laying eggs is more valuable than the instant gratification of an 8-piece chicken dinner.

I simply don't have the energy to explicate how inane this decision is anymore. It happens every season, and every season the contestants pay. Is it that humanity is so innately selfish as to sabotage their own survival in the hopes that the lottery will hit and their position will be better served at some irrational fantasy point in the future that never comes for 99.9% of the people and is now suddenly even less of a possibility because your tribe will never win another challenge?

Yes, but this is getting much too close to politics now...

Do we side with the "shrill" or the "chill?" Because, really there are three ways to look at this thing when you...

"HELLO?!?!?! ARE YOU LISTENING?!?!?!"

Chill out people. Learn what Mimi's mom learned long ago: earplugs.

The Delightful Story of How Scum and Bag Got Their Names

The summer between high school graduation and freshman year of college, my friend Erik told me that he had heard that we might be able to get jobs at the California State Fair during its three-week run, thus potentially making some good cash right before heading off to college.

Any kind of cash is good when you're 18, but good cash is even better...

Of course, when you're 18, you really don't have any idea what price your soul might have to pay down the road...

One afternoon early that summer we headed over to Cal Expo in Sacramento and officially filled out applications. We indicated that we'd take anything they had available, and would work any time shift for the entire 21-day run starting in early August.

Idiots.

Of course, it's not a surprise now considering how available we made ourselves on the applications, but we got the jobs. Oh did we get the jobs. It's just...well...they were on the garbage crew. During the graveyard shift. 12am to 10am. For 21 straight days.

But, being young, verile, yes even stupid kids, we said, "No problem!" and jumped in with both Air Jordan-adorned feet.

We were nervous as we arrived at 11:45pm on the opening day of the State Fair, flashing our badges at the back gate entrance and then walking through the park as it shut down toward the employee area. It was there that we got our assignments: I would be in charge of emptying and relining every garbage can in the entire park, and Erik was on "bathroom duty." At first glance, we both agreed that Erik had gotten the sewage covered end of that stick...

So for the next few weeks Erik would stop by my house around 11:30pm, we'd stop off at AM/PM to get some Jolt Colas for lunch (at 4am) and then slog across the park toward our final destination: fecal and vomit splattered hell.

They gave me a shopping cart loaded with garbage bags, and I had to roll that baby to every single one of the 600-800 cans  in the park, pull out the full garbage bag, tie it up, then re-line it with a fresh one. Some of this wasn't actually so bad - there were some sections of the grounds that were actually quite beautiful, and, being all alone, there were times when it was practically peaceful, relaxing, easy.

And then, of course, there would be the frightening part of the park - typically near the corn dog and deep fried lard nugget stands - which would inevitably be rimmed with fresh vomit.

Thus began Erik and my countdown to the end of the Fair.

Of course, even this wasn't the worst thing about my job. 50% of my area was relatively fine, but the other 50% was in the games and rides part of the park: Carneys. And, Carney's don't go home to sleep. The Fair is their home. They sleep, eat, piss, shit, fuck and whittle right there in their retarded b.s. toss-off game of chance booth. And every booth has its own garbage can.

No 18 year old sheltered virgin should ever be made to interrupt a group of carneys around a blacktop bonfire shooting heroin and comparing oozing sores to politely ask if he could empty their garbage can, please fine sirs and madams. I would say that this was the precise moment I lost my religion for life if I hadn't already lost it a decade earlier (another unrelated Carney incident...).

Still, as bad as all this was, it pains me to admit that Erik's experience was exponentially worse. His team would attack each bathroom with a tankard of simple green and somehow force a literal cesspool into submission. People relieving themselves on the floor, fecal matter smudges on the walls and ceiling, urine clowns who shared laughter by peeing on everything that anyone has to touch, projectile vomit, coldly tossed tampons, diapers, condoms...it was all bad. But the one thing that stuck with me from Erik's experience was on day 2 when we met for lunch at 4am, Erik was shivering with fright and mumbling, "I hope I never see another pubic hair in my entire life." People are animals.

Around 7 or 8am, both he and I would typically finish our rounds and the crew chief would then reassign us to do random jobs: make a sweep of the entire perimeter of Cal Expo (miles around) and pick up garbage by hand, clean windows, whatever he could think of. A few times, however, Erik and I got to ride together with a couple other guys on a pickup truck as it drove around and picked up all my tied up garbage bags. It was on the first of a number of these routes that we encountered Scum and Bag.

You see, Erik and I were fortunate enough to be educated, accepted into college, looking toward bright futures. Our stop at the State Fair was unequivocally a one-time deal. It would NEVER happen again. That was for sure. But perhaps the most valuable thing about this experience was getting to know many of our co-workers who weren't as fortunate. Who considered themselves extremely lucky to have secured such a good job. Who were frightened what they would do next when the Fair ended. Many of these people were good souls that mentored us, were extremely hard workers, and were honorably dedicated to make their lives and those of their families better. It was humbling being around these people.

But Scum and Bag were different. They were kids - like us - who didn't have promising futures, but were simply passively satisfied being complete and utter imbeciles. Instead of being in awe of their humility, we were in awe that they had somehow managed to stay alive to the age of 20 or however old they were. They didn't work, they slouched off at every opportunity while everyone else did, and they complained and whined incessantly. We didn't actually know their real names, but I definitely remember how they earned the ones we gave them...

It happened on this first ride around the park sharing the back of the pickup, the four of us perched up on a gigantic mountain of garbage bags. Erik and I were in silence, smelling the acrid reek of the crap around us, our minds numb to the early morning exhaustion - physically and mentally. But these two other guys were laughing and joking like they were heading to a tailgating party. Every time the truck stopped for one of us to hop off, grab a bag and toss it back on the bed, those two wouldn't move an inch and Erik and I ended up doing all the work.

Finally, one of the guys pats his pockets and then looks at us, "Either of you guys have a smoke?"

"No, sorry," we said in unison.

He was clearly distraught. He put his hands on his head and leaned forward in a state of agony...but as he did so he noticed something through the lining of one of the garbage bags we were sitting on. Like a cat pouncing on a mouse, he leapt forward on hands and knees, poked his fingers through the mylar, ripped open a hole, put his hand right into the slimy mess and pulled out a bent, but unsmoked, cigarette. He held it up, apparently for all of us to proclaim his innate regal studliness, wiped it on his jeans, briefly reshaped it back into something resembling a cigarette, and then lit that baby up and took a long drag.

Erik looked at me and our dual gaping mouths told the whole story. This idiot had just pulled a discarded, likely AIDS, anal warts and gonorrhea-covered cigarette from the bottom of a disgusting state fair garbage bag, and joyfully stuck it right in his mouth.

Scummy.

Suddenly, the guy passed it over to his friend, and, without hesitation, even he sucked in a double-lungful of cancer and blew it out with an orgasmic, "Ooooooooh yeeeeeeeeah!!!"

Baggy.

Ladies and gentlemen: Scum and Bag.

This story so disturbs me and has for years, that there are two things I must state at this point. First, I truly apologize for having written it down so others might read it. I didn't deserve to experience it, and you for sure didn't deserve to read it. And second, is it really any surprise that I don't like people?

But the only reason I even thought of this story for the first time in years, is because Scum and Bag have been reanimated in the form of Survivor's Jimmy T. and DanOnka. To be fair, DanOnka is technically a complete Scumbag entirely on her own. Gotta give credit where credit is due.

However, with much of the focus this week on psycho Jimmy T., he did remind me a little of Bag. Bag: always wanting to be Scum, but never getting the opportunity, and never understanding that in life you have to make the opportunity, not simply wait around smoking AIDS cigarettes and whining about it.

The one thing Jimmy T. did do on his own was dig his own grave. When he whined to Tyrone about wanting the leadership role after the tribe lost, Tyrone showed incredible restraint and integrity by not reminding Jimmy T. how much he had just sucked in the challenge a mere 30 minutes earlier. Instead, Tyrone asked him if he thought he could have done better in a different role. Brilliant. Keep all the crazytalk focus on Jimmy T. And that's exactly how it all went down.

But on the Scum side, DanOnka appears to have some perceived power because she has the immunity idol. This is a problem. As I stated last week, normally I love drama. But DanOnka is all bad juju - she has disgust for the girl with one leg, disdain for the one-legged girl, and pure, unrestrained, heartfelt hatred for Senorita Una Leg. Scumbag.

Let's keep our fingers crossed that Scumbag lights up a gonorrhea stick in the next couple weeks. Speaking from experience, the rest of us would be much better off if she was off the island and instead perched in the back of a garbage truck surrounded by heaping metaphors of her personality.

By the way, my salary for the duration of that State Fair gig? $5.60/hour. Before taxes.

The Unexpected Boner Division

Back in junior high school it was a giant leap forward to move from the "Major" division to the "Senior" division in Little League Baseball. Not exactly sure what the thought process was for designating a group of scrappy 13-16 year olds as "Seniors," but perhaps it was marginally better than something more factual like the "Raging Hormone Division" or the "Unexpected Boner Division."

But for a small, skinny kid wearing horn-rimmed glasses and proudly (i.e. cluelessly) sporting a Tutti haircut from The Facts of Life, it was quickly apparent how ominous the chasm was between we prepubescent 13-year olds and the non-virgin, two-pack a day smoking, nearly retired 16-year olds.

Rangers 2nd baseman or Facts of Life actress?

One guy in particular, Dan, towered over the rest of us. He had long hair, shaved (!) almost daily, had his own car (a beat up old pick-up truck), and had been nearly kicked out of high school a few times.

But most of all, Dan had a temper. A brutal, frightening temper.

And although we were fearful of Dan's temper, we also secretly wondered how we could poke and prod that temper to satisfy our own childish enjoyment...

Dan didn't talk much, but that might have had something to do with the fact that everyone was afraid to talk to him. When we were at bat, Dan would sit at one end of the bench and the rest of us crowded together at the other end. When we were in the field, Dan seemed to be on a different team than us. Dan was Keifer Sutherland from "Stand By Me"...only without the looks. We'd have bet our lives that, like Kiefer's character, he had had more than a few run ins with dead bodies...

One weeknight evening we were warming up for a game - taking infield. I was playing second base; Dan was at third. The coach was hitting balls to us and yelling out a base to throw to. He'd hit to short and yell, "Second!" and I'd have to cover. He'd hit to first and yell, "Third!" and Dan would have to cover.

We were in a strange mood that day - alive and (momentarily) bonerless. Above all, we were having fun. We used to make ourselves laugh by throwing the ball so hard that whomever was on the receiving end would have to make a perfect catch or risk the danger of it hitting their mitt the wrong way and causing immense pain.

On that day, we were on fire - in particular with the catcher and Dan. The catcher, to our unending delight, would let out these high pitched wails every time we caught him off guard, shaking his mitt and howling with pain, but Dan...well, Dan just remained silent. Pressure building. Tension growing. Demeanor cracking.

Finally, it was too much. The coach hit a grounder to Dan and yelled, "Home!" Dan, clearly not having the wherewithal to realize that the only person who wasn't inflicting pain on him was the catcher, instantly decided to take out all his frustration on him anyway. He fielded the ball, wound up, and half-running, half-tripping toward home (a mere 70 feet away), hurled it as hard as he possibly could, emitting a guttural, "UUGHAAAAAAAA!!!" in the process.

Stunned, we all watched as the ball sailed up and over the catcher, over the 20 foot backstop, out into the heavens, arcing into the parking lot, its taut trajectory halted only by the tremendous "CRASH!" of the ball smashing into the windshield of a car. Glass rained down in a chorus of minute tinkles, painfully loud in the wake of pure, undisturbed silence around it.

Oh, but it wasn't just any car that had been destroyed...

It was Dan's car.

Unified and in slow motion, we turned to Dan with eyes as wide as Lyon's Club pancakes, and watched the fuse burning to the quick as his brain struggled to replace the testosterone with actual functionality.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite pan out...

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!"

Dan took off running to the parking lot, jumped in his car and peeled out of there, glass swirling around the tires. We didn't see him for another week.

How is this tied to this week's episode of Survivor?

Isn't it obvious?

Dan IS NaOnka.

Our first baseman is Fabio. Our shortstop is Alina. I am Kelly No-leg. And
DanOnka is a unapologetic idiot. DanOnka, in fact, may be the single most idiotic contestant ever to play the game.

Now normally I would embrace such a windfall of drama. But I have to admit: the jury's out on this one. There's nothing really funny or rewarding about watching DanOnka. There's no cunning, like Russel. There's no self-deprecation, like Johnny Fairplay. It's pure 16 year old testosterone. In a 20 something year old girls body.

Ew.

Still...just as Dan's story came to a delicious end, I predict that so will DanOnka's. The other tribe members just need to keep pushing her buttons, poking her sanity, throwing balls at her (actually, maybe Fabio needs to keep his balls to himself...).

Their Unexpected Boner Division is in dire need of an unexpected boner...

I am confident DanOnka will step up to the plate.