"Boronto" and the Joys of Business Travel

Toronto is a great city with beautiful and friendly people. Ask anyone that has ever been here and they'll tell you that it's really nice and very clean and it has all of the trappings of any major metropolitan area. But for some reason and I'll concede that it must be me, the largest city in Canada has yet to touch my heart or move my soul. Yeah, it's nice, but to date I've found it uninspiring. Maybe it's too clean, maybe the people are too nice. I have formed some good friendships here and undoubtedly they will not be happy if and when they read this, but I'm hoping this current trip will convert me.

I flew here yesterday which forced me to leave the family on a Sunday so I know I'm already in trouble. The only thing that curbed this was the fact that the weather was absolutely dreadful. We spent the morning as a family piling a chord of wood. Deb thought it would be a good bonding experience for the kids to log off and pile logs on. The kids weren't amused but they stuck it out and we put a good dent in it.

Like me previous trips to Toronto, my drive to the airport and my flight were uneventful. When I got my luggage I realized I had to get some colorful and playfully named money, but the not one, but three ATM's were either out of order or out of cash. I started to question whether my card privileges had been terminated. Would I be stuck here?

I stood on a curb and hailed a taxi. "Where to?" asked the cabby.

"I'm going to the Marriott Renaissance."

Where?" he asked.

"The Renaissance, downtown. You know, it's connected to the stadium."

"I don't know where that is sir."

I thought he must be kidding. I said, "You know where the Blue Jays play? MLB? Baseball? You know next to the CNN Tower?"

"I don't Know that place, sir."

"Listen, you have two tourist places in this city and they're right freaking next to each other. Look. See that big tall thing? Take me there. "

He was actually a very pleasant man, and after he intentionally took me to the Residence Inn, and I corrected him. he kindly corrected me in saying that I shouldn't have incorrectly stated that Marriott because the hotel at Rogers Stadium was a Renaissance Hotel.

When I finally got the the MARRIOTT RENAISSANCE I was greeted by a very pleasant woman who checked me in. She informed me that the Blue Jays were out of town so the rates were a little lower. I already knew this but having even an empty baseball stadium as my view would still be pretty cool. When I got to my room the blinds were closed. When I pulled them open, this, and I'm not kidding here, was and is my view:

Laughing out loud, I left my room and headed out in search of food. Once again I spoke with the nice lady at the counter who told me that I wouldn't find much on a Sunday night but I should head to the harbour to a place called Pier 4. I found my way there and saw a festival happening with a lot of interesting food choices, none of which I could take advantage of because all I had was Uncle Sam's Green Currency of Evil. I passed by the West African and Indian Cuisine and went into the Pier 4. I then immediately walked out of the dreary cheap, establishment which should have been named Pier 70 thus reflecting the decor and the average age of their patrons.

At long last and after wandering through the city I finally stumbled toward my hotel which, again is conveniently seated just below the cabby elusive CNN Tower. That's where the remainder of my evening was spent. A little food, A cold beer. A good bartender. The NBA Finals and a local music rag. Maybe this place isn't so bad after all...

By the way, the shot glass wasn't mine.

Sales Is All About Getting People to Like You!

Ever wonder how your kids view you?

I used to train sales people on the many disciplines that are selling skills. During training sessions I used to coach people by providing them with real life situations and giving feedback. I would tell my sales reps that the feedback they received was a gift and would help them improve their skills their opportunities for success and ultimately their wallet or purse. This past Sunday I had the opportunity to assess a sales person and in the process I received candid, honest and direct feedback.

I was enjoying my day of rest by working in the back yard with my favorite nemesis the weed whacker when Deb let me know that we had to pick up Zachary from yet another sleep over. We both jumped in the car and headed off as we were going to grab some vegetable plants for the garden. We were also going to buy a new "old style" porch swing. After grabbing Zach we headed up to the furniture place which was not and would not open until noon. We had some time to kill. Deb suggested we swing back by a car dealership that we passed. There was a car that caught Deb's eye.

We were barely out of our car when the young salesman appeared. He started off with the used car salesspeak without hesitation and without stopping. He gave me the, "If I can make the numbers work for you, can I put you in this beauty today?" He said, "This car is cleaner than a baby's bottom." This guy obviously never had kids.

We took the car for a ride and then we were led into the interrogation area where the battle of wits would ensue. Without going into all of the details, I can tell you that I held my ground and didn't an inch of ground. He threw everything he had at me and resorted to insulting me in front of my wife and son, but ultimately I escaped without a new car and without a new monthly obligation. I wanted so badly to tell him my profession, but I didn't want to embarrass him. I really wanted to say, "look kid, I know what you're doing..." Regardless, I escaped.

A few nights later we were having dinner and when we were finished with the school and work discussion I asked Zachary what he thought of the experience. He said, "You mean the car? It was really nice!" I said, "No. What did you think of the exchange between the salesman and I?" Zach replied, "It was kind of wierd, but I always know when you want to leave or get out of something. You act smart and start making those faces with that goofy smile, and you act like a dick!" The rest of the family erupted with laughter!

"Dustin" the Wind or "Urned" Run Average

Forgive me readers for I have sinned. It's been one month since my last post. There's no question that I've been crazy busy, but the blog thing hasn't been far from the forefront of my mind. I honestly believe I've been suffering from a slight case of writer's block. This isn't to imply that I think I'm a writer, but I have been struggling to put something together. Over the next few days, I'll try to get caught up on a few of the recent adventures in an average guy's life.

About a month ago I had the opportunity to see the Sox play. Now I don't usually need a reason to hit Friendly Fenway other than to pay the $7.25 for a watered down and warm Miller Lite but this trip actually did have a purpose. My buddy Geoff's grandfather passed and their close relationship inspired Geoff to distribute his ashes at some of his favorite landmarks including the House that Ruth rented. Now I envisioned Geoff casually and quietly releasing the ashes as we walked around the park, or maybe even by his grandfather's favorite seats in the boxes or bleachers. Geoff had another idea in mind. The ashes had to go on the field and no other place would do. There were a few problems with this idea: First, our seats were in the roof boxes. Any attempt from this spot would result in the people below and their Fenway Franks being covered with a fine coating of grandpa. The second and probably more important thing is that unbeknown to either of us, spreading ashes in a privately owned property is a big no no and is actually a crime in some states. Geoff and I plotted like Ralph Malph and Potsie and came up with a plan. He would sneak down and distract whoever he had to and lean right over the field, and I would remain above and document the event with my camera for the court case or to show the doctors how Geoff got all of his injuries. I'm sorry to report that I have nothing to report. The whole thing went without a hitch. He snuck down and was only held up by one usher. He went to a different section and told he usher that there was a friend that he wanted to say hello to. He went down, sat next to a total stranger and told him what he was about to do. He made his move and in front of 33,000 plus, leaned out over the small wall and shook the little baggie onto the field. There was no fuss and no muss.

So the next time you're watching Pedroia, Big Papi, or Veritek up at the plate and they're tapping the bat against their cleats, that little dust that comes off may just be someone somebody loved. And for the record, when I die, I'd like to be cremated and I'd like my ashes to be spread all around my house so Debbie can clean up after me one more time.

Virginia Is For Lovers, But We Went There Anyway...

Deb and I let ourselves be lovers and we've certainly married our fortunes together. And, yes, we did count the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike and did come to look for America. This is a reference to a Simon and Garfunkel song which to my great disappointment, in our relationship, I'm Garfunkel.

The kids and Deb had spring break a couple of weeks ago so we packed up a car and headed south for what was our first real family road trip. Not to say that we haven't traveled as a family, but this was our first real classic family road trip complete with an over-packed vehicle, zero rear view mirror visibility and all of the "Are We There Yet" inquiries to last a lifetime.

I have to say that I had mixed feelings. We were looking at a 16 to 18 hour road trip in total with a stop over in Colonial Williamsburg. I've never driven that long or that far and I wasn't sure how our 15 and 14 year old kids would tolerate being on the road through a good part of the east coast. Would Zachary and Vanessa kill each other? Who would strike first? Would there be collateral damage? When would I lose my patience with Deb's driving instructions and constant directions? Speaking of my own personal driving instructor, for those of you who don't know, Deb has bestowed a Yiddish name upon me. In the Car I'm called, "Shoulda." She says, "Shoulda taken a left, Shoulda slowed down, Shoulda gone the other way, Shoulda gotten gas." To keep things equal, I've given Deb her own special road name. When she refers to me as "Shoulda", I respond with her nick name of "Frey-Cue. " We're so cute.


The first leg of our trip would take us through New England, New York, and New Jersey with our final destination of Williamsburg Virginia. Why Williamsburg you ask? The very first week and maybe our first date, Deb told me that she'd always wanted to go to Colonial Williamsburg. For nineteen years I was able to avoid this but now it was time. Speaking of timing, ours stinks. We waited until our kids became an unamused 15 and 14 before we stole them away from their friends to take them to a town where people lived through hard times and little comfort. "You mean they didn't have wireless, and Hot Pockets?"





Colonial Williamsburg is a special place that offers a glimpse of colonial times and all things revolutionary. You just don't get to see things like that here in New England. You know, places like Strawberry Bank in Portsmouth, Salem Massachusetts, Plimouth Plantation, Sturbridge Village, Lexington, Concord, or that nothing of historical significance town Boston. Don't get me wrong, Colonial Williamsburg is nice, but how many freaking candle stick makers, blacksmiths, and silver smiths can one see in a lifetime? "They used cinnamon, creme of Tartar and licorice root to brush their teeth? Whoa, You're kidding me? You wouldn't happen to have a small pox story in you, would ya buddy?"

Speaking of the blacksmith. I watched in awe as this artisan worked his craft. I took picture after picture as he kept the fire hot and hammered the metal until it started to take its final shape. Intrigued, I begged his pardon and asked what type of treasure he was making. "Nails", he said. Nice.

We walked around the grounds for a while admiring the reconstructed architecture and the authentically dressed reenactors complete with period dress and Ozzy Osbourne tattoos. We eventually got hungry. We stopped by one of the many taverns which didn't seem to sell tavern type drinks, and I was disappointed that I couldn't get a meal of authentic colonial fare. There would be no mutton, and no roast venison, but I could relive ye days of old with an authentic Colonial corn dog and a Puritan Pepsi. No wonder George Washington's teeth were in such rough shape.

Much to the kids' disappointment we left Colonial Williamsburg and headed out for a decent meal. We passed many fine looking establishments because of our desire to keep our family spirit and reach some type of consensus. This strategy led us to not speak to each other, and exasperated I eventually pulled into a decent looking non chain or franchise restaurant. The place was called Jefferson's steak house which was designed to give diners a taste of the past. No, the decor had nothing to do with the 18th century and there were no real references to Jefferson. The connection seemed to be with the diners as most of them had obviously been there at Thomas Jefferson's inauguration ball. I should have went with my instincts and turned us all around, but then I wouldn't have gotten to enjoy the blended sirloin steak which was so good that I was tempted to use a fork, but instead I used a spoon so I could get every drop. We were there for what seemed an eternity each of us watching the Titanic survivors eat their rice pudding and drinking their Manhattans. When our Eugene Levy looking waiter finally brought the bill, we scooted out of there and headed for our hotel. It was only 4:30.

Stay tuned for part two...

Please note that I am embellishing the Hell out of this story but not as much as you'd think. We really did have a great time together. Also, I let Deb read this before I published it. She laughed at a lot of it but mostly at the Garfunkel comment. Maybe I should have brought her to Scarborough Fair...

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Leg O My Ego

Last week a friend of mine sent me a link to a community 5k road race organized to raise money for a local children's museum. I've never run in a road race, but made the mistake of expressing interest. I thought, "What the Hell, it's only 3.1 miles, I can definitely swing that." I went out and bought new running shoes and special no friction, non binding, heat resistant, no moisture, extra cushioned running socks. I've never paid $14 for a single pair of socks before and I suspect I'll lose my mind when I see Zachary wearing them without shoes outside in the yard.

All of us runners gathered near the starting line yesterday to check in and get our numbers and timing chips. The participants varied in every way you can imagine: young, old, male and female, skinny, fit and those who are gravitationally challenged. I sized up the group and wished only to complete the course not finish last, and not look like a goof. This last wish was quickly dashed as I noticed people who were listening to iPods with arm bands and ear pods, while I was standing with my full size iPod and Jimmy JJ Walker coconut half headphones.

We all lined up at the starting line awaiting the signal, and with a blast of a starting pistol the race began, well it at least began for the people up front. I was well in the back of the pack and began bouncing up and down because everyone else was bouncing up and down. I had no idea why any of us were doing this but I suspect it's part of some ancient running ritual. So there we were "pogoing" while the more seasoned and competitive runners sprinted away. As the crowd thinned I finally found myself with enough room to move forward. For those of you who have never experienced a road race, the beginning is kind of like a travelling WHO concert with a thick crowd bouncing then collectively rushing a stage that is some 3.2 miles away.

The course began with a steady incline toward the center of town and I immediately knew I was in trouble. First I was already breathing heavier than expected, but to make matters worse, I felt a pop on my left heel and was experiencing a bit of pain. I figured I could run through it, but I felt every step as if someone was repeatedly taking a bat to the bottom of my foot. Boy what a fun experience. Is this the runner's high everyone talks about? I guess my body is like Nancy Reagan's 1980's wish about highs. My body "just Said No!"

Believe it or not even with the pain, I was running at a pretty good clip for me, but here's the thing I learned about running in a road race. There are a lot of people around you. I was frustrated by the slower people in front of me and the congestion of people that prevented me from getting around them, probably as much as I was frustrating the people behind me. The freedom of running was stifled by being aware of the crowd around me. I felt the need to spit and almost let it fly until I realized that the folks around me would probably catch some of it. Not a good thing to do especially in this time of all things swine.

I should mention that my beautiful wife came down to the race with our good friend Jennifer and cheered me on with a home made sign and a few blown kisses. the limits and length of their eyesight would be the quickest I would run.

As I continued running my mind started to wander: "How far have we run so far, would I make it all the way through and what the hell was I doing here?" I came back to reality when I noticed a lot of movement, people falling behind me and certainly many passing in front of me. These people consisted of fit looking athletic types, men, women, the very young and old, the infirm, and the occasional mother pushing kids in a stroller.


At mile two in my head I came up upon a sign that broke my heart. It said, mile one. Holy Crap! I kept going but contemplated stopping at the yard sale that I passed by. Maybe they would have an old oxygen tank I could try out. If I had had the foresight of carrying a few bucks, I may have dropped out of the race and relaxed looking through the family's old microwave cookbooks and Frampton Comes Alive album.

Now, I don't know who the sick b*st*rd was who created the course, but he or she had both a wide sadistic streak and a penchant for hills, and I mean hills. Every time we took a turn we seemed to be on an incline. One steep grade after another. I half expected we'd be collectively planting a flag to claim a new uncharted peak for all mankind.

At one point I came upon the classic marathon scene where volunteers held out small cups of water. I swung over and successfully grabbed a cup and drank while still maintaining my pace. I was unsuccessful in dispensing of the cup. Instead of throwing it on the ground, there was a young kid holding a large green trash bag. My throw was off and I hit the kid in the neck, dousing him with the half filled cup of cold water. He seemed really appreciative.

I had to stop once or twice to temporarily relieve the pain in my foot, but by this time I was well away from the starting or finish line and knew that I had to press on. Any desire to clock in at a decent pace had now waived bye bye. I was however inspired by the guy who I spoke to before the race who came up to me while I was walking, seeing that I needed a lift and inspired me to keep going and offered to run with me. It wasn't long before I waived him bye bye.

There was one part of the course that had us running through a cul-de-sac which seemed all up hill of course, and had a island that turned us back toward the finish line. Long before I reached it, I saw runners who had already made the turn. "Great", I said, the turn is just up ahead. To my disappointment I could not and did not find this point for another mile or so. I had these visions of finishing the last mile while the seasoned runners relaxed in their homes having already finished the run, the cool down, the award ceremony and the first two discs of the Godfather trilogy.

As I approached the last half mile of the course, I was inspired by the local supporters who were rooting us all on, especially the few who said, "C'mon buddy you can do it." These folks apparently inspired by my gate, pace, tears and drool, and must have thought I was a highly functioning, yet impaired individual.

The finish line finally came into view which didn't have me pick up my pace nearly as much as the sight of Debbie, Jennifer, my buddy Geoffrey and their daughter LuLu. I crossed the finish line and walked over to them asking, "Hey, you guys thirsty?"

A 5K is nowhere near a marathon and at this stage or maybe any stage I will not be venturing near the other 23.1 miles, but I did manage to finish and complete my goal, this despite the injury and the mental challenge that goes along with these types of events. People run races to push themselves, to validate themselves and to learn about themselves. I guess I'm no exception, as I did have to dig deep and push to finish. I was and am proud that I completed the course, but prouder that I actually decided to do it, then followed through.

As far as learning, I've learned much. Training for races is probably a smart idea. Proper stretching would be tremendously helpful, and proper sleep and hydration would be nice. Now I'm learning something else. The fatigue and pain of a running injury warrant no excuse and no dismissal from household chores. Man, I wish I had a riding mower.

There's No "I" in team, but there is in IRON

Personal achievement is measured in many different ways, especially when you are a little older. Long gone are the days of little league trophies and ribbons for the paper mache' volcano we made for the school science fair.

For the guys in my neighborhood, recognition for personal accomplishment hasn't come in the form of a golf trophy or being part of a winning softball team. We don't do triathlons and none of us has been nominated for a Grammy, Tony, or the Nobel Peace Prize. Yours truly has not and probably will not be receiving Pulitzer for the mindless rambling of the blog you are reading. We haven't received notoriety or accolades from the wives for our ability to swing a hammer or build home made furniture. Quite honestly I'm not sure there's a complete set of tools on the street, and the tools we do own have been borrowed and forgotten, left unused in one basement or another. As I write this I realize that I'm generalizing and neglecting to note the one or two gentlemen who have rebuilt their front steps. They look okay but don't put too much weight on them.

Last month we had our one real competitive neighborhood event. It's called Iron Chef, Florence Street. It's a concept borrowed from the Food Network. The competition basically pits one chef against another. Each chef is required to create 5 dishes using a secret ingredient that is not revealed until the competition begins. They then have one hour to create the five dishes. Once time has run out, the dishes are judged by a panel of three notable foodies.

Our version of this competition is a little more simplistic as none of us are chefs. We're meatball cooks with no real formal training other than some experience in restaurants washing dishes or putting cheese on a griddle full of Big Macs. Our version has the women in the neighborhood gathering to select a secret ingredient. This is a painstaking ordeal that apparently requires a few nights worth of mulling, motions and martinis. In the past three years they've come up with challenging ingredients such as Bourbon, Cinnamon, and Coffee. None of these were easy, but the ingredients forced us to push the boundaries of our creativity.

This year we gathered for breakfast at our house, had a little something to eat and waited for the reveal. The girls narrowed the secret ingredient to three options and had them placed in a hat. The first selection, Maple, was met with a collective groan and put aside. A second slip was selected and the secret ingredient was finally revealed. It was....beef. Oh, but wait. There was a twist. Each of the ladies then presented us with a $20 bill and stated that we had to create our one dish for under $20. These women are sick sadistic individuals who deserved some form of retribution, but my mind was already wondering how I could manage 14 servings of surf and turf for under twenty bucks. Would I be violating the rules if I went lobstering and slaughtered my own heifer?

It was amusing to see each of the guys head out to the various markets scouring the aisles for the right ingredients. We passed each other in the aisles and protected our ideas from the curiosity of our former friends and current culinary nemesis'. We stayed in our own kitchens working on our dishes which had to be completed and presented for judging at 6:00. We were able to use any available spices or condiments from our kitchens without having to deduct it from the allotted cash. Lobster tails are a condiment, right?

for those of you who care to know, here is a listing of the dishes. My apologies to the chefs as I'm doing this from memory:

Contestant #1 and the current Iron Chef for three years running prepared marinated flank or skirt steaks that were skewered with leeks. Very yummy.

Contestant #2 made home made meatball sliders with sauce and I believe micro greens. Also very tasty

Contestant #3 made a massive pile of meatballs with a few dipping sauces. Delectable, and not to take anything away from their immediate appeal, but these were even better as the night wore on and the drinks were flowing. I think I was eating them by the handful by the end of the evening.

Contestant #4 made marinated teriyaki steak skewers that were wrapped around mushrooms. A simple, but solid approach.

Contestant #5 made the classic Reuben sandwich (Corned beef is still beef, kids...) with a home made American Slaw and hand cut fries. Oy, was it delicious.

Contestant #6 made seared tenderloin and crimini mushroom appetizers placed on garlic crostini with a a horse radish Creme Fraiche and capers.

The dishes were completed and the judging took place. There were three awards given. the Iron Chef, The Meathead award (second place) and The Chef's Choie award which as the name implies was decided by the chefs. In the end My good man Mark HS took the title and Iron Chef platter for his Corned Beef Sandwich. Meathead and Chef's choice went to yours truly for the tenderloin and crostini thing.

The whole event is a blast and it seems to get better every year. This summer we plan to add a second event called Florence Street's Best Burger Bash. As you can see we are fiercely competitive bunch, but if you want to keep up with the Jones' on Florence Street, all you need is a good chef's knife and $20.

Karma?

Like most guys I recognize and I'm disappointed to know that I can be pretty selfish, but I do believe that one good turn deserves another. My most recent pathetic example of altruism was displayed a couple of times last night. The first being my willingness to accompany Deb to see the iconic Morrissey at the House of Blues. Quite a sacrifice, huh? Even though the Jambalaya and bourbons were nice and the band was tight, I'm just not a big fan of his music, so this was labeled "a chore" in my book.

Like Deb hears similarities in most of Dave Matthews' songs, I hear no distinction in the whiny vocals of this legendary depression inspiring crooner. It was fun to see her singing, clapping, and shouting all while I swayed back and forth to the music surrounded by a fair representation of Boston's gay community. It was pretty cool to see the passion displayed by Morrissey's following. People pushed forward and crawled over one another risking life and limb to touch the man. I have to admit I was a bit stymied by the collective gasp and cheer when Morrissey pulled off his shirt and threw it into the audience. His bare torso was a fair comparison to that of a movie star. Remember E.T.?

When the show ended, we left the venue, got into our car and headed back home. We were traveling north on Route 1 and pulled into a brightly lit Hess Station to get some much needed unleaded. The quiet of the desolated filling station was disrupted by a large Dodge Caravan that pulled in on the opposite side of the pump I was using. A voice called out of the vehicle asking, "Excuse me sir, I'm hoping you can help me." He stated that he was out of work and was heading toward Augusta Maine where his mother in law was currently laid up in the hospital. He and his family were going to stay with her. Being a veteran of working in Boston I was cynical of his tale but reached into my pocket and gave him a five dollar bill. He thanked me and continued to tell me that he was a mechanic and could not find work. I peered over his shoulder and saw a few kids, and his wife sleeping in the vehicle along with a number of possessions packed in the back of the S.U.V. My heart sank. I reached back into my pocket and pulled out another bill, this time a twenty. I handed it to him and wished him luck. I got back in my car and told Deb what had transpired. She seemed surprised that I handed over that much cash, and her tone indicated that the man's tale was genuine. After thinking for a second, she said, "You're a good man, Jack." The truth of the matter is that we've both been in a situation where cash was tight, but nothing like what I believed he was facing. I regret not filling his tank. If I had caught him earlier in the night I would have tried to cheer him up by giving him a free Morrissey ticket.

This morning I headed out to work, but had to make a stop at town hall to register Deb's car. Like the other twenty or so idiots who waited till the end of the month, I waited in line for my turn to hand over more cash to Dover and New Hampshire. Live Free Or Die, but driving will cost you... As I got closer to the front of the line I became impatient and started to fill out the first of two checks I would have to write. The renewal form displayed one fee for the city and one for the state. I filled out the check for the $111 for the city then went to fill out $43.50 check for the state. When I flipped to the next check I my heart sank as I saw not a check, but the deposit slips that occupy the back of most check books. I looked up thinking, "Oh no" and saw the sign stating, "NO DEBIT OR CREDIT CARDS ACCEPTED." I immediately searched my wallet for the $43.50, then my coat pockets, then my pants. How much did I find? $42.00.

Hope he made it to Augusta...

Questionable Parental Influence? Pogue Mahone!

I was away a good part of this week and Deb has been immersed in her schoolwork so we were both feeling the need to spend some quality time with the kids. We decided a little field trip would do the trick and allow us to reconnect. A trip to a museum probably would have been nice or maybe a nature walk would put things back in perspective. No, neither of these would suit our needs. What did we do instead? We took them to see the Pogues at the House of Blues in Boston. What better way to bond with Zach and Vanessa than to bring them to a loud crowded concert filled with Boston's Irish drinking and fighting elite.

If you're unfamiliar with the Pogues, you should give them a listen. They're a great mix of traditional Irish music mixed with a punk edge that bestow the virtues of a good drink, a good fight and a tad bit of profanity. If you take a look at their tragic, humorous, lovable leader Shane Macgowen, you'll understand why there aren't any songs about the benefits of brush, floss, and a consistent six month cleaning.

The show and the venue itself were brilliant. The Pogues walked on the stage to the tune of "Straight To Hell" by the Clash and once settled and tuned, broke into songs themselves with "Streams Of Whisky". Their set was paced just a bit south of a Ramones gig with the Pogues' hits coming fast and furious and without pause aside from the more than occasional libation by Shane Macgowen. He had a little table next to his mike stand which held a small cup of water, a glass of Tanqueray and a full bottle of what appeared to be Chenin Blanc. The glass of gin never seemed to get any emptier even though Shane was continuously imbibing. I suspect that the roadies for this band also must possess responsibilities in the area of mixology.

The hits kept coming: "If I Should Fall From Grace of God", "Pair of Brown Eyes", and the sing a long. "Dirty Old Town" were all played with precision and even our untoothed and unsober hero never seemed to miss a lyric or cue. They even played "Bottle Of Smoke" and "The Sickbed of Cuchulainn" with the one of my favorite lines, "Then they take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground , But you stick your head back out and shout we'll have another round." a great lesson for the kids indeed!

If there was anything more questionable from a parenting standpoint than the band it was the crowd. The place where we were standing was in line with the side of the stage and an exit behind us. Security continuously walked by us with bloody and sweaty stage divers, crowd surfers, fighters both victorious and defeated each covered with their own sweat, vomit, beer, and occasionally blood.

there was a small young woman standing in front of us who commented repeatedly how cute she though it was that we were their as a family. Then she repeatedly bumped and spilled beer near or on us as she danced, spun, kicked and occasional fell. Our kids thought it was so cute how she responded to her unimpressed boyfriend by calling him a "no fun prick" who was ruining her night as usual. I have to claim my share of embarrassment as she put her arm around my neck and pulling herself toward me to let me know how "f*ck*ng proud of me she was that we brought our kids here and we were keeping it real. " In truth I really liked this girl. She had great energy and was intent on having a great time regardless of those around her and their insignificant f*ck*ng opinions. I hope all goes as planned for her.

We stayed the entire set and headed home, all of us excited and satisfied. It was a classic night of Calabrese family fun. Deb stated to the kids that years from now the kids will be able to tell their friends that they saw The Pogues which I suspect will be met with, "Who?" No matter. The important thing to me is that they'll look back at the experience of the cool things we did as a family.

Birthday/Resolution Check In

Happy Jack History Month! Yes, I celebrated my birthday on the 1st of March and I think it's a great time to check in and gauge how I'm doing on my New Year's resolutions, but first a few comments about turning 44:





I recall when my mother turned a certain age we sat together and she told me that although many years have passed she still felt like she was 18 years old. This is clearly the case with me although, 18 may be a bit of a stretch. Here's what I mean. The other day I was planning a very busy day in the office and I was about to embark on my usual journey of "adult stuff" (I'm referring to adult stuff as in grown up stuff, not like adult as in movies, magazines or bookstores.) Anyway, feeling very mature and responsible I began to get dressed and threw on a pair of pants. I could feel something in my pocket and upon investigating, pulled out a small wad of melted Starburst that had been left in my pocket, gone through the wash and were now stuck to the lining of my jeans. High powered insurance executive? I think not.





Despite the bleak economic outlook, the two wars, global warming and the whole world going to Hell, things are pretty good. Good job, great family, friends, and all the goodies that life has to offer. I don't owe anybody outside of the usual institutions cash and everybody's health is pretty good. In certain aspects I am feeling 44. I just got back from what I call "a cereal run". It's a loose term as there's usually some jogging, walking, limping, spitting and drooling. The "cereal" term refers to my knees and associated joints. In short, there's a lot of snap crackling and popping going on.



As for my progress on 9 in 09:



I've read 5 books thus far (the fact I'm counting is indicative of the fact that I don't read enough.)



9 pounds? I'm not doing too badly but I expect to have a big push once the holiday season is over...



U2 less than 9 times? I love the new album, but they're playing stadium shows instead of multiple dates so I should be okay. No promises though...



Charity and volunteering. I'm working on it...



Less T.V. and more interaction. Definitely less T.V. but not as many games so far. I did manage to play darts and cribbage a few times in a few pubs. I may have to rethink this one as I'm not sure this is an improvement in my character, health or well being.

Hiking and exploring with Deb? We haven't but walking around Ireland wasn't a bad place to start...



More time with the kids? Apparently, I have some communicable disease. This one has been much harder than originally planned. It seems like teenagers like hanging with their friends more than their dad. Strange, huh?

9 new bands? This one will be easy. If you haven't already checked them out, listen to the following:

Seasick Steve
The Hold Steady
Fleet Foxes
Neko Case
The Rifles
TV on The Radio

also, although not new... The new U2 album is a monster but it'll take you a few listens to get into it. There's a lot there and it's not as accessible as their last two discs. The Kings of Leon's last album is incredible and a worthwhile listen. I'm also still hooked on Radiohead's In Rainbows and the last Dylan Bootleg Series.

I'll check the list in a month or so and see how I'm doing. Remember kids, inspect what you expect.

Farewell Old Friend...

It was a cold and damp afternoon standing graveside. The mourners were all bundled up, quiet and introspective. The color guard stood close to the family and I could see one of my best friends holding back his tears. His fourteen month old son was struggling and impatient. He began to cry. A soldier began to play Taps and a cool wind picked up out of nowhere. Now the little boy really started to cry. His mother could not comfort him and the boy was temporarily quieted when passed to his father, but he was not able to hold him long. The mother put the child down and he began to bellow. Sensing the frustration of the parents at this disruption during such an emotional time, I thought how I might be able to assist. I searched my deep pockets for some item that may feed the child's curiosity and calm him, but the only thing I could find were my car keys. I gave the keys to the boy who took them and immediately began to play with them. Relief was shared by all who were close. The boy then ran off and threw my keys into the newly dug hole. The family stood by in horror while I was in the grave digging by the casket trying to retrieve the keys.



No, this did not actually happen. Yes I was at a funeral and yes my friend was there and the Marines and the crying child, but the key thing happened only in the wide open spaces that are or is my mind. I can't explain why this passed through my head, but it just did. I actually envisioned it as a potentially hilarious scene in a movie. "Hello, could I speak to one of the Farrelly Brothers, please?" I admit, I'm a bit embarrassed by it, but maybe it's just a defense mechanism against the real emotions passing through me.



Just so you know, I asked my friend Bert for his permission to write about this experience as I'm fully aware that I'm skirting the line of good taste. He gave his blessing because his father who was an incredible man thrived on humor even though he endured more than his fair share of hardship in his life.





Bert Kline Sr. was a self made man who served in World War II and spent time in China, and the South Pacific. He put himself through school earning not one, but two degrees. He opened his own pharmacy and worked very hard to make it the success that it was. He lost his wife at a very early age and he took on the responsibility of raising his six children alone. He provided his guidance, loyalty, and his support, but he also held them accountable for their actions and some of the children learned or will learn the hard way. Bert was a man to be admired as he was classic in every sense.


I was given the honor of speaking at his funeral and I was told by Bert that my part would be to lighten things up a bit. I stood at the podium with the tiny Yarmulke covering just the tiniest part of my head and spoke for a few minutes. I struggle with hats as I think they make my head look big. the Yarmulke was just ridiculous on me. It was like I cut the ear parts off of my mickey Mouse Ears. Speaking of accessories, I once put on a pair of glasses and asked Deb if they made me look more intelligent. She said I'd need a full face mask for that. Lovely girl...

After I finished speaking they brought up Bert's aunt who was Bert Sr.'s sister-in-law for over forty years. Claire who is well into her eighties had a well prepared eulogy and she delivered it with great care and obvious affection. The trouble was that she is so small that she barely reached the top of the podium so all who attended were intently listening but seeing nothing but an empty podium.

Before we attended the service, both Deb and I were hungry, but could not find anyplace to eat aside from a mini mart located across from the funeral home. There we were sitting in the funeral home parking lot with our beef jerky and Pop Tarts. Yet another classy vision for you all to take in.

Probably not the perfect send off, but Mr. K would have approved. The man loved to laugh.

Ireland: Nice Place, But When Are They Going to Clean This Place Up???

So we've been here a few days now and I can say that Ireland is an incredible country for all of the reasons you already know. It's absolutely gorgeous with the rolling hills and the amazing coast line. We've been taking pictures fast and furious and thank God for digital photography as we would have wasted an awful lot of film on the ruins here.





The first time you come across an old and crumbling castle or church, you snap shots like crazy because you don't generally see such things in the states, but then two minutes down the road there's another one and another one. The whole damned country is littered with dilapidated homes of former lords and ladies. Maybe someone over here should invest a little time and fix some of this crap. Maybe a hammer instead of getting hammered???

To be honest I've only gotten a little taste of what this country has to offer as I've been working over the past few days, but I'm off and "off" at noon today (Wednesday) and I'll have the opportunity to explore a little more. I'm sure there'll be more adventures to report, but until then, here's a few quick hits and observations:

• The people are absolutely amazing here and I can assure you that "Irish Hospitality" is alive and well. They're all very friendly and almost too friendly. The biggest challenge is trying to understand what people are saying. They speak very quickly and their accents are as thick as a good pint of Guinness. It's even more difficult in the pubs. I find myself just nodding yes over and over. I've no doubt that someone if not multiple people have asked if I was a flaming arsehole. Nod, oh yes, Thanks!

• Driving on the wrong or right side of the road ( depending upon your perspective) is a challenge. I've never been the most coordinated guy (ever seen me run?), but this is a whole new level. Driving on the right is difficult on many different levels but for me it's remembering there's a whole bunch more car on your left side to think about. I've come way too close to all types of immovable objects including but not limited to cars, pedestrians, signs, sheep, castles, and everything else they've got here. I have hit at least one curb where I was convinced I blew out a tire. Deb was smitten...

• I have to be honest in as good as the Guinness is here the food is equally bland. It's not bad per se, but they don't season their food here. Everything needs salt and pepper, and I don't think they know what garlic is. Have you ever heard of anyone coming to Ireland for the food? How many famous Irish restaurants are there in the states? C'mon Ireland let's get going! A little little Turmeric wouldn't kill you and Tarragon actually sounds a little Irish, doesn't it?

• Belfast is a tough city that's gone through some difficult times. All seems pretty cool now, but you don't want to mess about as you don;t know who's who. Deb and I were a bit lost coming into the city and we were probably travelling slower than we should have been. An obviously frustrated driver honked his horn behind which brought out the Sommerville in Deb. She responded and yelled, but quited down once we saw that it was a police cruiser. Nice...

• Everything closes crazy early and it's difficult to find something to eat after 8:00. A lot of the pubs and restaurants stop serving food at 7:00. Of course, the McDonalds, Burger King and Subway were still open. I'd love to punch that Subway Jared kid right in his Terryaki Chicken Sub filled belly.

• When you drive through the country you see sheep and lamb everywhere. After a long tour through the North Coast we finally found a place to sit and eat. While I was reading the menu I reflected on the cute little animals and thought about the cruelty in slaughtering them for my nourishment and enjoyment. I actually felt a little remorseful. In any event the roast leg of lamb was delicious, albeit a bit bland (see point 2.)

• We toured the Bushmills factory which is the oldest licensed distillery in the world. The tour was cool and the tasting was even better. I tried their Anniversary Whisky and was surprised as I usually don't enjoy Irish Whisky, but it was very tasty. There is definitely an aspect of enjoyment that comes form the surroundings you're in. I tried the Anniversary Whisky when I got back to the hotel last night and it was terrible. It tasted like fermented barley, water and yeast...Gross!

I'm off to work, but we're heading south toward Dublin and Galloway today. More to come...

Home at Last, Home at Last. Thank God Almighty, I'm Home at Last!

I'm finally home, but not before a marathon of a day consisting of meetings and a demo just before noon. Some of the Brits took a colleague and I to a pub for a few laughs, farewells and follies. This is never a good idea because it's very easy to drown a few pints in a matter of forty minutes or so. Not that this is a problem as it was a pleasant time, but far more pleasant than the ride to Heathrow with a bladder full of once proper English ale, now transformed through the digestive process into Miller Lite. I was in traffic, teary eyed, uncomfortable and dancing in my seat. I actually thought of putting my iPod to justify my "pee pee" dance to the driver.

I had a bit of a dilemma as I was on the same flight home with the CIO of my company. I knew she was sitting in business class, but somehow through mileage point status, I had been upgraded to first class. How should I deal with this? Should I be gracious and insist switching places , or should I wish her well in the lower class seats and politely ask her and the ruffians in her section to keep it down? My fears cooled when I discovered that American Airlines eliminated First class on their transatlantic flights, but a new problem emerged. I now was blessed with a seat next to my very senior, very intelligent, and very important mentor. What if I fell asleep and drooled all over her? would I be able to watch Sponge Bob on the in-flight entertainment, or worse, what if I watched a movie and they showed a booby or something? If I had to relieve myself in any way, would I have to sit in discomfort until we travelled the 3,000 plus miles home? What if she was behind me in customs and what if they checked my bags? This is exactly why mom insisted I keep my underwear clean.

In all seriousness, it ended up being a very enjoyable. We got a little work done and discussed my career aspirations. I had a couple of cocktails and relaxed. It was a long flight made short by a developing friendship. I also had the benefit of piggy backing on her status and had a limo ride back to my house, which was, as my luck would have it, was witnessed by absolutely no one. Remember that scene in Aurthur where Liza Minnelli had the chauffeur wait until Ms. Litman, her neighbor could see her come out of the Rolls Royce?

I had a great welcome home by the family, and received many kisses, especially from the dogs which seemed appropriate because after such a long day we shared similar breath. After the hellos and dispensing the gifts Deb and started toward bed and I got my first taste of being home. For the first time in two weeks I had to wait for the bathroom and ended up "conking" out on the bed, half dressed, teeth un-brushed and without relieving myself of the technically imported liquid again holed up in the aforementioned bladder.

I slept deeply, but dreamed about being back in the car to the airport until I forced myself to get up and wander into the bathroom. peeing the bed on the first night home would not have impressed the missus.

I did my duty and finally brushed transforming my Johnny Rotten choppers into minty pearly off white teeth. Unfortunately, I was now wide awake and it was only 3:30 in the morning. I thought reading would relax me enough to go back to sleep but decided TV would be much easier. Much to my disappointment, I couldn't find Cricket, Rugby, Darts, Sheep Herding or any of the other English television favorites. I returned to bed only to be awoken by an alarm clock at about 6:30 with Deb asking if I wanted to wake Vanessa up and take her to the chorus field trip she was travelling to at 7:30. Now here's where the whole perspective thing comes into play. From my perspective, I should be given a pass because I have been travelling and I was obviously tired. From Deb's perspective, she has been carrying all of the weight of the house, kids, work, and her schooling and she deserved a break. Recognizing this and the fact it is Valentine's day I did what I thought would be an example for myself and all men. I faked being asleep until she kicked the blankets over, got up, and drove Vanessa to her thing.

I now get to enjoy the trappings of all things home, at least until Friday when I jump back on a plane and head to Ireland for a week. The great thing is that Deb will be coming along. If anyone deserves the break and the trip, it's her. I imagine Ireland will present itself as a very beautiful place that will inspire much romance. Then will it be her turn to fake it...

Images of London

Westminster Abbey is an awe inspiring place. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get in on Sunday which I found odd, but there's much to see outside with it's incredible architecture, history, and art. One interesting is pictured here. Above one of the entrances there are a number of saints commemorated in sculpture. I was surprised and proud to see an American among the many other historical and religious figures. There in the middle was Martin Luther King Jr. As I looked closer at the statue I couldn't help notice that the pose the artist used to capture him seemed to have him dancing, or it at least appeared that way to me. Never the less, I was impressed just the same.

Later the same day I was walking through Leicester Square when I noticed in front of the National Gallery a bust of George Washington. Again, I thought it strange to see this embodiment of American history and the father of our country in such a spectacularly English location. I did notice, however an apparently English bird, a loyalist if you will, paying his own tribute to old wooden teeth. Uh, George, you've got a little something on your face...

I couldn't help but laugh when I saw this family of four driving through the city. I appreciate people wanting to save on petrol, but seriously folks, what time are you do back at the circus?

Subterranean Homesick Blues

I've been on the road for almost two weeks and I'm dying to get home. Although this has been a very successful trip, admittedly, I'm a little homesick. For eleven days I've had a relationship with my wife by dialing the phone and typing on email.

When I get home I'll mistakenly think "it's all about me" and I'll expect all to smother me with affection. Undoubtedly I'll get hugs and kisses but it won't be long before Deb threatens to douse me with cold water.

Travelling is fun and eating out is cool, but I want a peanut butter sandwich and milk with real hormones and yummy chemicals in it. Is the Salmonella thing still happening back home?

I realize my days of leaving the bed unmade and throwing my clothes on the floor only to come back to the room to find everything neat and tidy are over. Deb has informed me on many occasions that there aren't any house maids at our estate. (Is this a comment about my laziness, or the fact that we can't afford a maid...actually it's all the same, isn't it?)

I want to have a bottle of water that doesn't cost seven dollars American.

I'm tired of flipping through only six channels on the television. I want to be able to not find anything to watch on three hundred channels like we do in America.

I'm eager to get back into my workout routine. I have been getting up to go to the gym in the morning but it's so difficult to pass up "Saved By the Bell The College Years." That Screech kid is a riot.

The people here are great but entertaining is actually work. You always have to be "on" when you're travelling. It's more fun hanging out with friends at home where I can call someone a d*psh*t without fear of repercussions outside of a retaliatory bald joke.

I like and miss the fact that I can just walk into anyone of my neighbors' houses without knocking. I tried that here but it didn't go over well. By the way, the security guys are really gentle here at the St Martin's Lane Hotel. The pepper spray is more Pablano than Habanero. It's actually quite refreshing.

I hear myself picking up some of the local dialect. Yeah, I know it's English, but there's a different way of speaking here. I even hear a touch of an English accent although I'm mangling it to death and sound like a "Bloody Wanker. "

The economic situation is very precarious here. I can't wait to get to the financial stability of the U.S.A.

We've done 22 training classes in 10 days and have received good feedback. I wonder if I'll inadvertently give Deb an evaluation form after our date night Saturday?

London weather is London weather. I wan to see the sun, even if the temperature is two degrees.

See you all soon.

Pappy Van Winkle or Sappy Scam Stinkle?

I'm in London at the St Martin's Lane Hotel. The hotel and accompanying bar is the type of trendy place that literally has the whole velvet rope thing, keeping the poor and uncool at bay while the beautiful people of London's hip scene dance and Crystal the night away. I have to admit that it's a fun place to stay, and even though I am a guest here, it's quite obvious that I'm a casual observer and not a member of the "in crowd." But that's not what this posting is about and it's not what I'm about.

What I am about is friendship. Long enduring friendships that are meant to last a lifetime. I keep in contact with my old buddy Eddie Nowick who's father and mine went to high school together. My friend Bert and I speak to each other at least a couple of times a week, poking fun at each other, almost brutally, but with enough love to not take offense. If you recall the disgusting childish conversations you had with your buddies when you were in junior high school you'll understand what I mean. Although we've accumulated much in our lives, it's nothing compared to the accumulated and dispensed height, bald, fat, short, fart, poop and pee pee jokes.

I've been blessed once again with an incredible neighborhood that mocks the notion that only old friends endure. Mark and Michelle, Tim and Margaret, Dave & Christine are more than anyone could ask. And when I thought the neighborhood wouldn't or couldn't get better, along came Matt and Jess and of course Jen and Geoff. But this isn't what this post is about.

What this post is about is whisky and a mystery, at least it's a mystery to some. You see our neighborhood seems to go through trends. First it was beer. I recall a certain someone walking down the street with a stainless steel bucket filled with Coronas so cold that the condensation from the bucket would drip as he "tip toed" down the street. Drinking beer, making beer, and trotting through the falling snow to catch some of the 99 cent Guinesses at the Barley Pub, we enjoyed the brew and enjoyed each other. Then it was Martinis; Gin, Vodka, cappuccino flavored, it didn't matter. For months we had half filled jars of olives filled with pimentos, almonds, horseradish and anything else that would allow us to experiment with different flavors. You have to understand that it's less about the alcohol and more about the excuse, and I mean any excuse to hang out together. It's the neighborhood you see in old movies. Classic, and the classics never die.

Over the past number of years it has been bourbon. One family is "Sieked" about Knob Creek, another "Debellowed" about the merits of Wild Turkey, while another always seemed to be "Holting" a Jim Beam (Sorry about the lame attempt at humor, I realize it's not "punny.") This trend seems to have lasted, but I'm sure Scotch is not far away.

One day I was driving back from the airport and stopped at Kappy's on Route 1. I looked at the bourbon selection and noted a particularly interesting bottle with an old dude with a cigar that looked like what I suppose I'll end up looking like later, or sooner in life. It was more expensive than I would offer and I politely passed, but I was intrigued and had non buyers remorse. A few months later I found myself in Singapore at a cigar bar that featured this rare amber libation, and I tasted and I experienced it with a fine Cuban cigar.

Upon returning home, I told my buddies about Pappy's and I was told that the distillery apparently stopped producing it and that it had become rare, expensive and coveted. Being the easy sale I am, and always loving a challenge, I jumped online the next day found a website, and called the distillery. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they still make the bourbon, but only in very small batches. After calling a few places the distillery recommended and visiting a few more, I decided to go to the source of all bourbon. For those of you who do not know, it's Kentucky. This is where, and only where bourbon is produced. Did I call another distributor, liquor store or bar? No. I called my favorite, non swearing, non R rated movie viewing, and non drinking Christian friend Byron. Another most excellent friend, he enthusiastically did the leg, found our friend and asked his beautiful wife to do the purchasing, towel and bubble wrapping of not one, but two bottles of the amber treasure.

The anticipation grew on the street, which was made worse by the "Pappy Van Winkle Song" sung in high falsetto at every given moment. I'm embarrassed to say that even the kids got the goofy jingle stuck in their heads. With much debate and discussion, one wonders if we have over thought and over heightened our expectations. Will it be the best bourbon? Will we be let down? I got a glimmer this evening as the trendy place I'm staying at offers the very whisky you're reading about. I have to tell you that I was stunned to see it and taste it. It was unbelievable. Does that mean good, bad, average? I'm not saying.

In the coming weeks or months, the boys and hopefully girls and members of the "Friends of Florence Street will gather, eat, drink, and taste. Only then will the mystery of this posting's title be revealed. So stay tuned kids; Same Pappy time, same Pappy channel. Cheers!

Tony Bennett's Smarter Than He Looks

I indeed left my heart and maybe a small portion of my liver (kidding) in San Francisco. What a fantastic city! I can't wait for the opportunity to get back and explore a little more. Here's a few general comments and observations from a weary traveller who enjoyed the 2.5 days in The City By The Bay:First, speaking of the Bay, I never really saw it, and apparently there's some famous bridge in San Francisco, but again it eluded me. No worries, I'll pay attention to the Tobin when I get home. How much different could it be?

San Francisco is a very crowded city and has some very interesting buildings like the Transamerica building pictured here. It seems like a nice place, but architecturally I don't get the point of it...

San Francisco has a huge Asian population that is the largest in the U.S. I believe, but to be honest with you if you've seen one Chinatown you've seen them all. The weird thing was an hour after I visited this one I felt like I hadn't and wanted to visit it again. One other thing; we were referred to this supposedly great Chinese restaurant, and yes, it was good, but to be honest it looked and tasted no different than the stuff you get at the old August Moon, Kowloon's, or Lucky Garden.

Speaking of food, San Francisco has a great Italian section in North Beach. It's your usual parade of restaurants, bakeries and coffee bars. If you ever come here, you absolutely need to go to Molinari's Deli. This place has been in business for a hundred years and probably doesn't look that different from the day they opened. They have great meats, breads and they even make their own Buffalo Mozzarella. Yesterday I had a sandwich ( Parma Prosciutto, Copa, Sun Dried Tomatoes, Buffalo Mozzarella, and Olive Oil) that if I weren't already married I would have dropped to my knee and proposed immediately. As you can see by the picture, I was simply awestruck by it's sheer yumminess.

Another must see and stop is the Vesuvio Cafe. A classic old bar opened in the 40's and played host to Jack Karouac and much of the Beats. Great decor, great classic drinks, and great people. I was in San Fran for three evenings and I managed to get to the Vesuvio each night.

San Francisco being the eclectic place it is, you can be sure that you'll meet some interesting characters, and I certainly did.

I have have to catch a plane. the next post will be coming from London, and I have a growing list of things to write about pertaining to travelling in First or Business class. I have to tell you that these are the most uninspiring, nasty, needy, lecherous, and entitled people ever.

Coolness? Fade To Black

It appears to this writer that my status and days as the "Cool Dad" are numbered and dwindling, much like the follicles of my life. Like many of you I have tried to maintain a close relationship with my kids, but I've always tried to do things that moved us beyond the father son/daughter thing. This has been increasingly difficult. The harsh reality is that the once regarded funny guy that the kids lived with is now corny, goofy and quite embarrassing. Qualities Deb has endured for quite some time. I just don't think they get the complexities of my sophisticated comical stylings. "Pull my finger."

Recently, I took Zachary and a few of his buddies to see a triple bill of The Sword, Machine Head, and Metallica. Now, I'd like to be able to tell you that this altruistic gesture was purely for the benefit and development of Zach and his friends, but the truth is, which Deb was quick to point out, that I wanted to go. Me wanting to go to a concert? Not much of a stretch.

When we hit the road Zach plugged in his iPod and said, "Dad, you don't mind if we play some of our music?" This referring to the music they like, not their own original work. I laughed when the next few selections came on which included Zeppelin, PearlJam, Van Halen and of course, Metallica. I couldn't help myself and turned down the music to ask, "Why do you think this stuff is your music and not mine?" They responded by telling me that the music they hear around the house isn't "Crunchy." My cool dad status immediately soared when I informed them that I had seen everyone of these bands including Led Zeppelin. They asked where I had seen Zeppelin to which I told them that they played at Live Aid in 1985. Cool dad crash! "Whoa! How old are you anyway?" 1985? They made it sound more like 1885.

Once we got to the show I was quickly reminded of what a Metallica crowd looks like. Picture the largest shop class ever assembled. A sea of faded blue jeans and black T shirts. The whole place smelled like stale beer, dope, and B.O. As we walked on, all of us in faded blue jeans and black shirts and hit our seats. You should have seen the looks I got from the boys when I handed out the ear plugs I purchased. "What are these for?" "They're ear plugs. They're for your ears!" "They look like suppositories, dude!" Apparently it's difficult to be cool with fluorescent yellow marshmallows sticking out of your ears. "Hey, it beats hair sticking out." Uh, dad, you've got that too."

Metallica finally came on and played a blistering set. The four silver coffins suspended from the ceiling were a little silly ala' Spinal Tap, but they can still shred. During the song "One", I found myself really getting into it and started a little fist pumping and I actually yelled out. this caught Zach's attention as he peered at me with a look that said, "Take it down a few notched big guy. We don't want you breaking a hip."

The ride home was long and all of the kids were crashed, sprawled out all over the back seat. Finally I had the iPod to myself and played the music of my generation, you know, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran, and Otis Redding. I drove home feeling pretty cool. The Fonz of father hood, but I have no doubt Zach will, at least temporarily look at me as "Potsie.'

"Potsie, what the hell is a Postie? How old are you, dude?"

Canadian Cuisine. Gravy on Fries? Really?

I was researching restaurants last night to try to find something that reflected the local culture here in Toronto. One of the places I saw listed their cuisine as "Canadian." I clicked on the menu to see nothing but steaks and fish. No special sauces, no indiginous crazy dishes. No elk, no reindeer, no moose and no goose. How the hell did this mix of steaks burgers and fish make it Canadian? Could I at least get Canadian Bacon on my burger? Upon asking some of the locals, they stated, "we don't have a cuisine per say, but if there is, it probably includes bacon and mushrooms." Bacon flavored mushrooms? that'd be a good start.


At the restaurant we eventually selected, I had a Canadian appetizer called "Duck Confit, Poutine". I was so excited and hey, it sounds pretty good, right? Wrong. When they brought me the pile of french fries with cheese, gravy and shredded duck I immediately thought they brought me the wrong dish. Actually, it looked like the discarded table scraps from another table. It didn't taste any better. Heavy, greasy and all out "ducking" terrible. I wept in my Molson Golden Ale.


This morning, just for the hell of it, I typed Canadian Cusisine into Wikipedia and got responses of such culinary delectables as, Beaver Tale, Maple Taffy, Smelts and Chicken Balls. I kid you not, there were even notations referring to Kraft foods and Jello. Planning on booking your next vaca here? Don't bother. It looks like Salt Lake City without the mountains. and if you do come here, pack a sandwich.


What do you expect from a country who's primary export is Moosehead Beer, Bacon and Celine Dion? A country that has currency called the Loonie. A place where the French population wants to cecede. I suppose we should, however give a nod for Neil Young, although the truth is he high tailed it south 40 years ago and hasn't returned. Sugar Mountain? How about Simi Valley.

Look, Canada is a fine place but one that seems to struggle with it's cultural history and cultural cuisine. They should take a lesson from their neighbors down south and partake in the delectable offerings of such American Culinary Mecca's as Chili's, The Macaroni Grille, Applebee's, or that salad and bread stick haven known as the Olive Garden. Look kids, we're not much better.

In all fairness, I've only just started to scratch the surface of what this place has to offer. The people are great and the place is really clean. The money is a lot of fun with their Loonies and Twonies, Purple $10bills and Red $50s. It's like being in play land. It's colder than hell, but not much colder than the climate I just left. As far as the food goes, Deb and Jen say I'm a picky eater and a food snob, which may be true to a certain extent. I can tell you that if I order something that sounds french and they bring me something with fries and gravy again, I'm going to snap and publicly insult Wayne Gretzky, Rogi Vachon, and Ken Dryden. I've never been kicked out of a whole country before...