Maybe I need a hobby. I was thinking about this as I sat listening to my brother. He collects vintage motorcycles, restores them, loses sleep over them, caresses them lovingly like Kobe beef, says things like, “you sure have a pretty tail pipe,” and then spends most of his waking hours buying parts from far-off lands so he can get them to run for all of 13 seconds. Then they stall and the engine has to be rebuilt. These are really old bikes. When I say “vintage,” I’m not talking about 20-30 years old. I’m talking about the kind of motorcycles the Hun used to invade China back in 176 B.C. Well, maybe not that old. But these British bikes certainly pre-date me. I don’t typically pay attention to all these conversations with my brother about timing chains and oil gasket breaches, so I can only guess they hail from around World War II. With my brother, though, it’s not enough to merely collect and restore bikes. And it’s not enough just to ride them. So instead he has taken up racing — what you call “hobby expansion” or “hobby extreme.” That’s when putting something on a shelf or in a garage simply won’t do. This way you can consume more time and money on your hobby, and further infuriate your wife. (Guys who want to prove that they’re really into their hobbies have steel plates holding their legs together. My brother does. That way people know you’re hardcore about […]
A Dad in Need of a Hug
I’ve been told that a daughter needs a father’s affection. That it is essential — vital even — to growing up right and not bringing home guys who look like alien biker thugs with gum disease. I never thought of myself as an entirely affectionate guy, but that all changed when I had a daughter. I became a puddle of mud. A bottle of syrup. A big soft-serve ice cream. A loving, doting, slobbering, hugging, kissing, sweet-mouth talking lump of sappy blubber. But here’s the thing: I might be affectionate — a sad sack of Mr. Snuggles — but getting the little partner to join in ain’t so easy. When it comes to her dear old dad, she’s affection-resistant. She’s the type of girl many dad’s dream about — adorable, sweet and pretty, yet at the same time a rough-and-tumble, high-energy, grade-A tree climber. She’s strong and agile for a 4-1/2-year-old, and can dole out a mean punch.
The Moron Gene and Wrestling with Chimneys
Isn’t it time geneticists turn their attention to one of society’s greatest afflictions: Why men believe do-it-yourself construction projects will be easy. It is one of the great issues of our time. Of all time. A stressor of marriages back to the earliest days of civilization. Historians have found evidence of an emperor telling his wife, “Hon, chill out. Rome TOTALLY can be built in a day. Let me get the hammer.” It’s been downhill ever since. What is wrong in our brains that we believe the things we say? Because we’re not liars. When we survey the scene, we really think there isn’t that much involved, that it will take next to no time to complete and (maybe the worst part) that there will be virtually no mess to clean up. (How many of us have uttered the fateful: “Put a tarp down! Why in the world would I put a tarp down? I’m gonna’ be real careful.”)
Ode to the Glorious Road Trip
Ten days. More than 2,800 miles. Eleven states, not counting that wacky District of Columbia. Four overnight stops. Enough cheap coffee to stew a yak. Only one (no kidding) fast food stop. A plate of southern stroganoff in Asheville with pork medallions, cilantro pesto and a heapin’ pile of goat cheese grits. (Heaven in a bowl.) Streams. Feet in streams. Kid in streams. Barefoot with that icy, cold water tingling your feet. Smooth, slippery river stones. Picnics and Smoky Mountain air. Hiking. Chipmunks. Skipping stones. More cheap coffee. Metro stations. Yankee beaches. Cousin’s wedding. Dogs who eat Swedish Fish. A tall green lady in New York harbor. The world’s slowest gas pump (still finishing the job as we speak.) And a vehicle that looked like the Clampetts paid a visit to “Sanford and Son.” There’s nothing like a good, long road trip. Few better ways to experience large expanses of a great country like ours. How else can you be high atop a mountain ridge one day, watch pandas the next and then find yourself breathing in that wonderful Atlantic Ocean breeze on the pristine beaches of upper Long Island. From forests of trees in the wilds of North Carolina to forests of skyscrapers in New York City. I think you can find bears in both. Road trips are not merely a longwinded way to get from point A to point B. Rather, they’re a way to experience every single thing between point A and point B. Travel has become […]
Feeling World Cup Fever … Like Fizzy Pop
Pumped. Jazzed. Fired-up. Can’t contain it. The excitement is literally oozing out of my pores. My PORES! People are looking at me funny. It feels like I have fizzy pop inside me. Fizzy pop? I don’t even know what fizzy pop is! I’m just so fired up that the World Cup has started. The World Cup! Heard of it? It’s only the biggest sporting event since the Roman gladiators took on the dinosaurs. It’s football’s — the “real” football — shiniest moment. The Cup. The Big C. When the whole world holds its collective breath then screams, “Goallllllllllll!” until the planet spins of its axis and into a black hole. Here on our little island, it’s not such a big deal. But in other countries it causes people to forget to do simple things like go to work, breathe oxygen, take the wrappers off of food they’re eating and dress their children when they go out. Suffice it to say: It’s big!
Dancing With the Devil … While Navigating Disneyworld
“You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?” It’s a question The Joker asks Batman right before he shoots him. A great movie line, and one I thought about while braving the unrelenting crowds that swarmed through the streets and rides of Disney World this Memorial Day weekend. There are much wiser ways to take your life into your own hands. You can smear a meat-flavored cupcake on a sleeping lion. You can run out into traffic. You can charge into a biker bar and yell, “Ya’ll ride a bunch of girl’s bikes and look like leather pansies.” All would definitely get you killed. But if you’re gonna’ go, you want the quick and painless route. Not to die a slow agonizing death in scorching heat while herds of tourists trample your poor, broken body. Crumpled on the ground as they roll over you with strollers and $6 beverages, you cry, “Why didn’t I check the calendar before I booked the room?” You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight? Yes, yes I have. OK, it wasn’t that bad. As Memorial Day weekends go, I’d rate it as tame. Remember: I’m a third generation Floridian. Buried in our DNA coding are the tactics and survival skills that our forefathers used thousands of years ago to brave holiday crowds at primitive theme parks. They honed these skills while taking their children on rides like “It’s a Pterodactyl World” and “The Real Pirates of the Caribbean.”
Understanding the Dad on the Fence
I never understood why he was always there. Standing alone along the fence line or hanging out in the empty, sun-drenched stands. It was high school soccer practice. Practice, for goodness sake! But there he was. Every day it seemed. Every time we rolled out onto the field. I just couldn’t understand why he would hang out and watch a bunch of knuckleheads run through monotonous drills, get yelled at by a coach and try at every opportunity to drop some poor, unsuspecting teammate’s shorts. Most of us didn’t want to be there. So why would a parent? Tampa’s weather can be terminal. It’s such a ferocious mix of heat and humidity. In 20 minutes, it could fully cook a bag of rice left out on the sidewalk. Dense and sweltering, it burned your lungs and squeezed you like a sandwich press. Then a man with a whistle barked at you to run laps until your feet swelled up like watermelons. When guys dropped, we would just bury them right there on the field and keep on running. So to me it made no sense why my dad showed up all those afternoons. There wasn’t much to see, and there had to be better things to do at the end of a long day. Why was he always there?
Saving the Planet, One Worm at a Time
It’s called vermicomposting. The “vermi-” is Latin for “stinks like stale feet.” That’s the only thing that explains it. Because it smells that bad, and worse. Pickled stale feet, maybe. Imagine that. That’s the scene – check that – the smell in our utility room. Vermicomposting central. What is vermicomposting? Good question. I wouldn’t have been able to answer a month or two ago. Not to save my life. But I’ll tell you now: It’s when you take a lot of worms – in our case, at least 1,000 Internet-bought red wigglers – drop them in a container with holes in it (so the smell can seep out like a backed-up sewer) and then toss in all your vegetable scraps and other food the wigglers find appetizing. (Lucky for us they’re not fond of filet mignon or a nice cabernet.)
Listen Up, Mom, It’s Mother’s Day
A telephone conversation, as I heard it … almost word-for-word: Phone rings. I see it’s my mother on the other line and I pick up. Mentally, I buckle myself in and say a prayer. Me: Hello. Mom: Brian? Me: Yeah, mom. Mom: I’m calling to see what you want me to bring to the Mother’s Day picnic. You know, the one you’re having on Sunday.
To All the People Who Make Stuff that Breaks
Letter to the dumb people who make stuff that breaks: Hey you! You know who you are. I’m talking to you, the designers and builders and head honcho-ponchos of companies who make stuff. Stuff that we, the ordinary stiffs with credit cards, buy. Remember us dopes? Well, we’re not happy with you right now. Why? Because all that stuff you sold us keeps breaking. Yeah, that’s right — it broke. All of it. At the same time. Everything. Kaputski! Why, you ask? That’s what we’d like to know! We’re suspecting it has something to do with the fact that it’s all crap. Yeah, that’s right. We think you sold us a bunch of crap. All of it. And we ain’t happy. We’re thinking about coming to your house and busting some of your stuff.