The Beagle Has Landed

Singer-songwriter Graham Parker once wrote:

Children and dogs will always win

Everyone knows that

I won’t work with either one again

It’s not in our contract 

These lyrics must have seeped into my subconscious, because for years my standard reply to my children’s request for a dog was a resounding “No.”  Either that, or “Sure, we can get a dog, but you have to kill the cats first.”

Neither response was appreciated.

Some days, after denying my children their only opportunity for happiness, I’d watch the neighborhood dog owners walking their canine friends and think a bit about who I used to be and who I’d become: a man unwilling to get a dog for his children.  What had happened to me?  After all, I grew up with a dog, a hyper Maltese named Butch that peed on my record albums and frantically ran in circles when I came home.  My friends and I chased him in the yard, we let him lick our ice cream on hot summer days (ew!) and we searched throughout the neighborhood when he got away (which was often, almost as if he didn't want to be our dog).

Even after Butch left us for that Great Big Dog Park in the Sky and I grew into a young adult, I considered myself a Dog Guy, the kind of guy you’d see at the park with his trusty golden retriever strutting by his side, its tongue dangling happily, pretty women smiling as a more handsome version of me walked by.  What had happened to that guy, aside from the hair loss?  Why such an aversion to dog ownership?

Part of the answer could be attributed to what can only be described as a double homicide.  Six years ago, my sister’s dog, Murphy, killed both of my daughter’s hamsters, not by eating them exactly, but by using his teeth to play with them until they were dead.  And though the event traumatized us (to this day my daughters block out Murphy’s photo on our refrigerator with a strategically placed magnet), the murders did provide us with an opportunity: a silver lining, if you will.  We now had a clean pet-slate, the equivalent of using a small house fire as an excuse to update one’s living room furniture.  We could now purchase whatever family pet we wanted without worry of compatibility for the rodents we’d been keeping in cages (and whose lids weren’t quite as secure as we’d thought).

Time to get a dog, right?  Nope.  On a whim, we chose a couple of cute, flea-ridden kittens to join our family, and though Murphy’s murders could have been blamed for my avoiding a canine companion, the truth is that in the back of my mind I kept hearing that Graham Parker tune:

Children and dogs will always win,

Everyone knows that

In a sense, I had internalized that lyric, the way one might internalize a parent’s suggestion not to eat yellow snow.  It was just good advice, and instinctively I knew that I, as an at-home dad and writer, would be the dog’s keeper.  I would walk it in the morning.  I would walk it at lunch-time.  I would walk it in the afternoon.  I would feed it, play with it, train it, scold it.  I would be the one left to schedule dog-sitting when we decided to head out of town for a few days.  It was all on me, baby, and I wanted no part of it.

Children and dogs, my friends, will NOT always win.  Or so I thought.  

On a frigid Friday in January, I walked past a friend of mine bending over with a blue, plastic bag as she picked up a mammoth-size turd that her Alaskan Husky had happily laid.

“It’s come to this, has it?” I said to her.  She laughed.  I laughed.  And I thought to myself, “What a silly, silly woman you are and what a smart, smart man am I.”

Twenty-four hours later, I was picking up poop.

Children and dogs

And wives.  And cell-phones.

Not one full day after my little quip, my son and I were enjoying a warm winter’s day, unusual in Illinois, and I was experiencing what can be only described as a joyful mood, equally unusual.  And then I received a text with a photo of a small brown and black beagle licking my daughter’s face and the accompanying message from my wife: “Can we take her home?”  I, in my crazily joyful mood, unable to see anything but the best in everyone and everything at that particular moment, texted back, “Yep.”

And so what started out as a shoe-shopping trip for my wife and daughter, ended up with me picking up Toffee the beagle’s feces later that evening.

Toffee is perfect for us.  Like the wands of Olivander’s Shop in Harry Potter, I feel like dogs choose the person.  At the adoption center, Toffee, with her floppy ears and mournful eyes, chose us, and who were we, the chosen, to say no?

These days I walk Toffee in the morning, I walk her at lunch, and most days, I walk her in the afternoon while my children attend their after-school activities.  I feed Toffee, play with her, train her (sort of), and scold her (lovingly).  And soon, I will be the one left to schedule dog-sitting when we decide to head out of town for a few days.  

And it’s all good.  Sure, children and dogs will always win.  Everyone knows that.  But we adults are the benefactors.

Our cats?  Not so much.

Wherefore art thou, Harry Potter?

In 2009, after yet another Oscars ceremony with five best-picture nominees that no one had seen, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences made the decision to double the best picture pool to ten, thereby ensuring that at least a few blockbusters would make the cut each year (the snubs of “The Dark Night” and “Wall*E” were probably the deciding factor).  Increasing the nominees to ten would – in theory – raise ratings, promote the industry in general and lead to more ticket sales.

For the first couple of years it seemed to pan out.  In 2010, “Avatar” and “Up” – both top-ten grossing pictures – were best picture nominees, as were the “The Blind Side” and “District Nine.”  Things seemed to be going exactly according to plan (although “Avatar,” the biggest money-making motion picture in history, lost to “The Hurt Locker,” which came in at 116 for the year).  And last year, big money makers “Inception” and “Toy Story 3” made the list, with “The King’s Speech” – coming in at eighteen – taking the award.

This year, I have to believe that some of the bigwigs in the Academy were shuddering when the best nine picture nominees of 2011were announced (for reasons unkown, they dropped the number of nominees to nine this year):

"The Artist"
"The Descendants"
"Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close"
"Hugo"
"Midnight in Paris"
"The Help"
"Moneyball"
"War Horse"
"The Tree of Life"

Some of these movies are still in theaters and will be sure to add to their totals, but as of today, “The Help” is the highest grossing of the bunch, coming in at thirteen.

Not exactly what the Academy was hoping for.

For a guy who only sees about ten movies a year (and most of them being of the “Puss in Boots” variety) I somehow managed to see five of the ten best picture nominees.  A small miracle.  And I can tell you straight out, none of them was any better – and some were worse – than ”Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2."

The most successful franchise in motion picture history doesn’t even get one nod in the major categories?  Not even an Alan Rickman best-supporting actor nomination?

Seems a little silly.

When “The Return Of the King” won best picture of 2003, it felt more like a “thanks for three successful movies” award than overt recognition that it was in fact the best movie of that year.  Had the final “Harry Potter” movie been given the same honor this year, it would have earned the award.  At the very least, it should have cracked the top ten. 

But just like with the NCAA tournament, no matter how many you allow in the Big Dance, there will always be some on the bubble who are snubbed.  This year, it was Harry Potter.

Maybe next year the Academy could expand the number of best picture nominees to twenty?

The Uncomfort Zone: a trite essay on changing one's life (sue me)

In his non-fiction book On Writing, Stephen King writes, "I think timid writers like (passive verbs) for the same reason timid lovers like passive partners. The passive voice is safe. There is no troublesome action to contend with.”

Over a few drinks the other night, my friend and I discussed this idea of passivity in other aspects of our lives, and how we surround ourselves with people who make us feel comfortable.  A passive person will surround himself with passive friends, because for a timid guy, there’s nothing more uncomfortable than a wild, confident soul who meets life with guns a blazin’. 

But of course, chocolate cake dipped in chocolate with chocolate sprinkles on top is still just...chocolate.  And a passive person surrounded by passive friends will remain passive, despite his intentions to do something extraordinary.

We strive for the Comfort Zone.

But the Comfort Zone should actually be renamed to the Uncomfort Zone, because the zone you’re settled in is the same zone that denies you the place in life where you’d actually be more comfortable: having achieved your dream of publishing a book, or getting that degree, or starting your own business, starting that blog, yada, yada, yada.

Successful people surround themselves with successful people.  Don’t like the word “successful?”  Then substitute the word “passionate.”  It all boils down to the same thing.

There are many examples of accomplished people who happened to know each other during their formative years.  Bud Selig and Herb Kohl, Robin Williams and Christopher Reeve, Al Gore and Tommy Lee Jones, the Facebook and Google guys, etc., and the drive and passion of these people helped to instill drive and passion in each other. 

When I was in college with a goal in mind, it was much easier – much more comfortable – to head to Schnooner’s for a dozen quarter taps of soapy Hamms than to write that paper, send that resume, attend that concert. 

Twenty five years later, I find myself in a similar predicament of my own making (always of my own making – I point fingers at no one).  I’ve been in a writers’ group for eight years now.  Two of us have self-published books, one has a few short story awards under his belt, a few haven’t finished anything, but none of us has achieved what we set out to do all those years ago: publish a book through an agent and make money at it. 

And here’s the thing: most of the time, we’re all okay with that.  We get together and we read.  If we haven’t written anything that week, that’s okay.  We enjoy each other’s company, we give a bit of advice, and if we do mention specific goals, no one holds us accountable to them.

How warm.  How fuzzy.

But do any of us actually drive the other person to achieve?

I think not.

The website, Live your Legend, asks the question: of the five or ten people you spend the most time with, are they passionate?  Do they inspire you?  If the answer is no, then it’s time to find new friends.

Please note that it doesn’t say, “discard your old friends.”  But it does place responsibility on each of us to leave our comfort zones where we are warm, safe and settled, and try a different tactic that – if luck holds – will only make us uncomfortable for a short while.

I’ve been guilty of coasting through life.  But if I can get enough people like me in a room at one time, then the drive and passion I have will be reinforced.  Unproductive spells will be unacceptable.  Goals will be communicated and adhered to.  Networks will be formed, contacts made.

Onward to the Uncomfort Zone.

A Modest Tribute to Seth Erlebacher

I was going to try to write something really profound, but I’ve given up, at least for the time being.  Words are woefully inadequate to sum up a man’s life, but I feel it necessary to offer at least a modest tribute to my brother-in-law, Seth Erlebacher, who died last Friday and whose funeral was held today in New York.  Additional facets of Seth’s life will surely be aroused in future days, but today, still too close to the shock of Seth’s passing to have fully reflected on the magnitude of his life, I’d like to mention just a few lasting impressions that I’ll take with me.

His enthusiasm:  Seth’s zest for life was never more apparent than when my family traveled with his, as he packed his family’s days from morning until night, determined to tap every ounce of his opportunity to explore and discover.  My family and I would be the ones to call it a day or sleep in, but Seth, who worked so tirelessly at IBM for so many years, applied the same zeal in his recreation as he did in his work.

His laughter: Seth video-taped my wedding in 1995, so he isn’t actually seen on tape, but he IS heard.  When a family of ducks waddles across the deck where the wedding party is standing, you can hear Seth’s laughter in the background, a high-pitched, hiccup type laugh that was as infectious as it was entertaining.

His inclusiveness:  when Seth’s family hosted a gathering for Passover or Chanukah, it wasn’t just a family or two in attendance, but virtually any person who might not otherwise have plans.  Early on in my relationship with Seth, I was among the many to join in for Passover, only a boyfriend to his sister-in-law at that time, but it was my initiation into the world of Judaism and associated family traditions.  The effort put forth by both he and his wife, Melissa, to host such functions was always staggering, but they did so with joy and with the ultimate aim of inclusion.

His children: amazing kids should of course be commended for their own accomplishments, but I believe the people who raise them deserve just a little bit of credit.   The best qualities of Seth and Melissa have passed on to their children, and I’ve been honored to watch them grow and become the amazing people they are today.

This morning, my son sang at his fourth-grade holiday concert, and the final song was a song of peace.  “Shalom, shalom, may peace be with you, my friend.”  But in Hebrew Shalom has a triple meaning: it means peace, but can also be used to say hello or goodbye.  So as my son sang “shalom,” and as he waved his arm in sign language with a sweeping motion across his chest, I took it as his way, consciously or not, of saying goodbye to his uncle.

So long, Seth.

Another Ponzi Scheme: Friendship Bread

(Note: this is an edited version of a previous essay.  This version will appear soon on Milwaukee's NPR affiliate: 89.7 WUWM)

It’s that time of year again, and the truth is out: those who gleefully hand out kits of homemade friendship bread are in fact NOT kind and warmhearted people, but rather mean-spirited souls who exult in the false hopes and misfortunes of others.

I recently had the honor of receiving the “Friendship Treatment” from Jan, who en route to her yoga class stopped by to offer me a bag filled with a thick, beige liquid along with a printout of instructions. “It’s a ten-day process, and we’re already on day four, so enjoy!” she said, practically skipping back to her van, certain that she’d helped to spread a little sunshine in my dim world, and I admit that initially I was flattered: someone had made bread for me! How thoughtful. How quaint.

For those who haven’t been indoctrinated into the world of friendship bread, the process is basically a ponzi scheme without the financial implications. You start with a few ingredients and mix them in a Ziplock bag. For the next ten days, you squeeze the bag a few times and occasionally add an ingredient or two. Eventually, you divide the mix into four different bags: one that will provide two loaves of bread for yourself, and the rest to be distributed to three friends who will repeat the process, and so on, until every man, woman and child on the planet has prepared, baked and eaten two loaves of bread.

It wasn’t until day ten that I realized just what a scam this bread-making business is. I learned that none of the previous nine days had been necessary at all, because I now had to empty practically every bag, box and bottle in my cupboard to finish the process.

Here are the ingredients I added on day ten:

Sugar, milk, flour, oil, MORE sugar, vanilla, eggs, baking powder, salt, MORE flour, MORE milk, baking soda, instant vanilla pudding mix and cinnamon.

Seriously. I’d basically fallen for a variation of the story “Stone Soup,” in which a man tricks a community to cook a big vat of soup by asking each citizen to add an ingredient, except in this version of the story, I was a community of one.

I have half a mind to give my friend a Ziplock bag filled with water and say, “Here’s a bag of friendship soup. Enjoy!”

So thanks anyway, but I’m going to pass on this charming tradition in the future. You want to be a friend? Bring a six-pack of Guinness over sometime, and if you really must include something baked, offer me your thoughts on world peace.