Shotgun Daddy

Freckles and Tea

In the waning days of the summer of 1983 I attended my first concert ever, and it was a doozy. There were many tours that summer -- Talking Heads, Tom Petty, Tears for Fears, Steve Miller -- but the biggest by far was the Police’s Synchronicity Tour. Sting, Stewart Copeland, and Andy Summers were on top of the world, and they headed into the Hollywood Park racetrack with three opening acts: Berlin, the Fixx, and the Thompson Twins. (Yes, this was the 80s...) What makes this story interesting, though, is that since I was only thirteen and my step-brother Peter only twelve, we would not be allowed to go alone. My mother took us. In case you’re only thirteen years old and you’re thinking about asking your mom to take you to a concert, you can use this story as a case study of what not to do. Here’s how it went... The first thing you need to know is that September is probably the hottest month in Southern California, and this was a typical September day. The Thompson Twins were scheduled to start things off in the early afternoon, so we arrived for the general admission show at about noon, which gave us plenty of time to bake in the sun. Coincidentally, there was a group of teenage girls sitting directly in front of us who were getting baked while baking in the sun. (Their mothers were not in attendance.) There was one particular girl, probably about fifteen or so, who spent an awful lot of time with the pipe in her mouth. Her brown hair was cut daringly short, just like all the cool kids of the day, and freckles danced across the bridge of her nose, souvenirs, no doubt, of countless summer days spent lounging on the beach. If ever there was a teachable moment, this was it, and my mom took full advantage. As Freckles drifted further and further into her purple haze, my mom became more and more disgusted. "Just look at her," she said. "She's here with her friends at this big concert, and she's not going to remember any of it!" For years it was the image of Freckles trying to keep her eyelids open that served as my own personal anti-drug campaign. But there were other interesting aspects of the day, like when Pete and I went to buy some soda and missed the Thompson Twins' entire set. Or when I had the pleasure of sitting next to my mother while Terri Nunn writhed around on the stage screaming "I'm a slut!" Or when alcohol mixed with pounding sun and boredom between sets to produce the biggest melee I've ever seen. (It was at about this time, I would later learn, that a young Gwen Stefani had the pleasure of shaking Sting's hand, a meeting which -- no doubt -- propelled her to a career in music.) When the Police finally took the stage the sun had finally retreated behind the grandstand and given way to a much cooler evening, but the damage could be seen everywhere. Shirtless men showed off bright red backs, and Freckles and her friends looked like they were waiting to be tucked in. Sadly, the music itself doesn't hold as strong a place in my memory as all the rest of it. In fact, there are only two things that I remember for certain about the performance. First, when they played "King of Pain," I remember wondering why the crowd insisted on singing "it's the same old SHIT as yesterday," when the lyric was clearly supposed to be "same old thing." Second, instead of taking an intermission, Sting imposed his British will and the band retreated to their dressing room for a tea break which was broadcast on jumbo screens for all to see. It was all quite civilized until Sting and Stewart staged a fight and flipped over the tea table. Definitely, an omen of things to come... As soon as the show was over, my mom gathered us up and headed to the parking lot, oblivious to our assurances that there would be an encore. The day had already been much more than she had bargained for. As we were searching in the dark for the family car, we heard the crowd roar in the distance, and then the music started again. We had been right about the encore, but it hardly mattered. On that night the Police became my favorite band. I wore the tour t-shirt proudly on the first day of school later that week, and almost every Friday for the rest of that year. The following year I would find myself in a new school far from my old friends, but it was the Police who came to my rescue. I fell in with a group of tenth graders who spent much of July and August -- and by that I mean every single day -- swimming in my backyard pool. The soundtrack of that summer was Outlandos D'Amour. We listened to it hundreds of times until we owned each of Steward Copeland's drum riffs, anticipated every lilt of Sting's voice, and memorized every aspect of Andy Summers's guitar solos. I cannot listen to any of those songs without feeling the sting of chlorine in my eyes. Eventually I would have all of their albums and follow Sting deep into his solo career, but there was always a regret. If I had seen that concert after becoming a fan, how much better would it have been? Thankfully, I'll finally be able to get an answer this summer. In celebration of the thirtieth anniversary of "Roxanne," the boys have mended the fences well enough to plan what should be the biggest tour of the summer. They'll be playing Dodger Stadium in June, and I'll be there. Tickets went on sale on Monday morning at 10:00 AM, and even though I was teaching class at the time, I was still able to sneak onto my computer long enough to buy two tickets before they sold out at 10:30. The price really didn't matter, because there was no price I wouldn't have paid. I'll finally get to see the encore I've been waiting twenty-four years to hear. And who knows -- maybe I'll even see Freckles again.

Infrequently Asked Questions

What's a Mellow Hut?

Isn't it self-explanatory? It's a place where you can hang out and relax while talking about cool stuff. Picture a grass hut on a Tahitian beach, like in a Gauguin painting. That's a mellow hut. Wouldn't you like to hang out in a mellow hut?

Why another web site?

The reason for starting a site, I suppose, is to save your friends and families from whatever it is you normally rant about when sending e-mails, dominating dinner discussions, or talking in your sleep. The site, then, serves a dual purpose. You have the opportunity to send your opinions out into the great beyond, and your loved ones have the opportunity to live their lives in peace. And so it shall be with this site.

What are you writing about now?

I’m sure the answer to this one will be ever-evolving, but for now I’ll be writing about all things media related. I’ll review movies, discuss books, ramble about gadgets, complain about cancellations, worship the genius box (idiot box + TiVo = genius box), and do my best to convince everyone in the free world to put a TiVo on top of their television.

How often will you post?

At least once a day, probably more.

Are you serious?

No, that would be crazy.

Why would I want to come back?

You’ll come back because, quite simply, you won’t be able to get enough. You listen to music, you watch TV, you're willing to pay ten or eleven bucks to go to the movies, and you love to read. You're addicted to flickering images and the satisfaction that comes with turning a page of printed text. Most importantly, though, you know you can turn off the TV about as easily as you can turn off the sun. Welcome home.

Is media really that important?

You bet your ass. For most people of my generation, all of life’s major signposts are marked by some form of media, and it is no different for me. Devo's "Whip It," sends me directly back to the sixth grade; when I hear Louis Armstrong's "A Kiss to Build a Dream On" I’m suddenly transported to my wedding day, my wife in my arms. In fact, when my wife and I were falling in love, we took it as a sign of our shared destiny when we discovered a shared love of an old Christopher Guest/Martin Short SNL sketch, laughing hysterically as we pointed at each other saying, "Hey, you -- I know you!" Clearly, we were meant to be. For me, though, it goes deeper. Take today for instance. I stood in front of my class reading a play with my students when I came across this line: "Mr. Dussel is standing at the window, looking down fixedly at the street below." And because of that I had a line from an obscure Cure song running through my head for the rest of the day: "...all six eyes stared fixedly on you." Because of one word. But that’s just the beginning. When I think protest movements, I don’t think Susan B. Anthony, I think "Donna Martin graduates!" When the temperature climbs into the nineties, I inevitably tell someone that it’s "Africa hot," parroting a line from a play I’ve never read, a movie I’ve never seen. If that’s not good enough, I’ll invoke Eddie Murphy doing James Brown: "It’s hot in the hot tub!" Speaking of Murphy, whenever I find a shoe I’ve been looking for I have to shout out "My shoe!", thanks to all the time I spent listening to his Delirious record in the ninth grade. Sometimes these references are made purely for my own enjoyment. Whenever I meet someone named Carl, I immediately say, "Hey, Carl!" Carl thinks I’m being friendly, but I’m really doing a Judd Nelson line from The Breakfast Club. And even though none of my students were born when Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was in the theaters, I can’t help myself when their vacant stares are the only response to a tricky question. "Anyone? Anyone?"

Again, is media really that important?

Media isn’t really that important in the grand scheme of things, obviously. Books, music, television shows, and movies are meant only as diversions. But in the right situation -- when a lyric falls into the right ear or when the line from a movie finds its way into the vernacular -- these things are important. How else can you explain that every time Charles Barkley had a big game newspapers across the country ran the same headline: "Charles in Charge." Why does everyone in America know the zip code of Beverly Hills? Why will the line "Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout Willis?" get a laugh in any situation?

Enough already. When does the fun begin?

It already has. Enjoy.

The Perfect Girl

There are four days a year -- holy days of obligation -- when a husband has to be on his game. His wife's birthday, his anniversary, Mother's Day, and Valentine's Day. Four days out of 365 isn't asking a lot, so it's suprizing that so many of us guys (myself included) still manage to screw things up from time to time.

A couple years ago I messed up Leslie's birthday so terribly that she ended up in tears, and there have been anniversaries when I've failed to make plans. Once I even made the mistake of asking her to iron my pants on Mother's Day. Her response: "Sure, I'll iron your pants on Mother's Day."

Last week, though, I think I got it right. The thing about Valentine's Day is that it can so easily be dismissed as a commercial holiday which replaces the spontaneity of romance with the pressure of obligation. True enough, but here's another angle.

I see Valentine's Day as a chance to make Leslie feel special, to remind her that I appreciate everything she does, and to make sure she knows I love her more now than I did last week or last year, even more than on our first Valentine's Day. I suppose I could tell her all of those things on January 14th, but I don't think the message is diminished just because it comes on February 14th.

Anyway, here's what I did. Dinner was doubtful, since our only babysitting options were grandparents who might have their own romantic plans, so I decided to go with breakfast. I picked up Starbucks and some bagels, put on music from one of the CDs I burned for the occasion, spread a path of rose petals from the bedroom door to the kitchen table, and woke up Leslie about forty-five minutes early.

The idea was that we would have thirty minutes or so to enjoy our food and each other's company before the offspring began to stir. It lasted about fifteen. From down the hall we heard Henry's door opening, and then his inquisitive voice as he noticed the rose petals on the floor: "Daddy, who made this big mess? Someone has to clean it up!" Rather than answer, I looked at Leslie and wished her a happy Valentine's Day.

Later that evening I read her a poem that I had written for her:

My Fairy Tale

Were I to start from scratch,
Design the perfect match,
A woman who'd fulfill my wildest dreams,
I know just what I'd find
In corners of my mind,
A subtle twist on several timeless themes.

She'd be beautiful, it's true,
But not with eyes of blue;
No milky skin nor locks of golden curls.
She wouldn't look to me
To come and set her free,
As helpless as a timid little girl.

My image of perfection
Would have a warm complexion
With flowing hair to match her soft brown eyes.
Confident and bright,
Her strength a pure delight,
Success would never come as a surprize.

In making this short list,
One thing it seems I've missed,
A fact which brings a sense of déja vu.
I've written what I need
For all who care to read,
And all the while I've been describing you.

Valentine's Day 2007

Boys Don't Cry

We decided last month that we had too much free time on our hands after we were done with work during the day, Leslie's business on the side, homework time for the kids in the evenings, and Alison's basketball on Saturdays and Sundays, so we enrolled Henry and Alison in karate. (Or, as we like to call it, "kara-tay.")

Technically it's not really karate, but mixed martial arts, so it's possible you might one day see one of our kids in an Octagon near you. For now, though, Alison and Henry are just one of thirty or so kids kicking and yelling at the local park and rec center.

The clear emphasis of the program is on self-defense, and the students spend a good portion of each hour-long class either wrestling on the ground or sparring while standing. The sparring sessions are overwhelming. The kids go at each other like bulldogs, punching and kicking each other under the watchful eyes of their instructors. For my part, it took every ounce of self-control not to yell out "Sweep the leg, Johnny!" or even "Get him a body bag!!" (And if you didn't love the final scene of Karate Kid, well, I guess you weren't fourteen years old in the Cruel Summer of 1984. But I digress...)

Alison and Henry don't yet have their sparring gear, so they can only participate in the ground wrestling, which can still be pretty intense. As soon as the instructor (who's doing a knock-up job impersonating John Kreese) starts pairing up combatants on the mat, the mood in the room changes instantly. Parents who had been doing crossword puzzles or chatting with friends moments earlier are suddenly on the edges of their seats, and the children stand nervously on the edge of the mat, waiting to be thrown into the fray.

The wrestling is serious. At some point a boy will absorb more punishment than he's ready for, and he'll leave the mat crying. Other parents have told us stories about kids breaking bones or getting bloody noses, and it's not hard to imagine someone getting a good poke in the eye. So in case you're keeping score, we're paying $80 a month to put our children in harm's way.

Alison's turn came first. She was matched up with a girl who outweighed her by at least twenty pounds, so we were a bit worried. Two weeks ago the prospect of wrestling with someone scared her to death, but tonight she ran out onto the mat willingly, almost eagerly. The white belt matches are all pretty much the same. One kid pushes down the other, then they roll around on the mat for a while until the instructor tosses a bucket of water on them and chooses the next two customers.

When the match started Alison found herself on her back almost immediately. No worries, though. She pulled up her knees, pushed up her hips, and flipped her opponent over on her back. Now let me tell you something. I've seen Alison make baskets, score goals, dance and sing on stage, and bring home perfect report cards, but nothing -- and I mean nothing -- has ever made me as proud as I was tonight watching her wrestling.

Why was this? One reason, I suppose, is the physicality of the whole thing. Watching her struggling to get the girl off of her and then finally succeeding, was amazing. Leslie and I cheered like hockey fans each time she flipped an opponent (she wrestled three times in the hour), and it took me a while to calm down after each session. The main thing, though, is that I couldn't get over how aggressive she was out there. Alison is normally a shy, quiet little girl, the type who is seen but not heard (unless she's arguing with her brother), so it was great to see her gritting her teeth and struggling with each opponent. Afterwards, she even admitted that she had had fun...

Of course, there is the secret bonus. As I've said before, someday there will be a boy who will want to date my daughter. It's comforting to now that Alison will be able to kick his ass and make him cry if she wants to.