Alberty's Blah Blah Blog

This has been a pretty tough week. The kind of week that I think is getting us ready for when school starts. In the morning I take my kid to swim lessons, teach an afternoon class, then I have evening rehearsals. Usually I can get at least 30-minute lay-down, if not a full-blown nap in the afternoon, but not this week, and it has really put the zap on me.

Anyway, my director has been kind enough to schedule rehearsals earlier in the evening so I can an least help my wife with bedtimes: one for a two year old, the other for a six week old.

As the six week old is essentially attached to my wife, I have the task of getting the two year old in bed. I do not have the patience for this task. I love the pre-bed play time, the snack, the reading…but his machinations to stay awake grow old on me pretty quickly.

He has a list of needs and suggestions: he’s poopy (not really), he needs water (or juice or milk), I need to pull up his sheet (then he kicks them off so I need to pull them up again), his arm/eye/chin/leg hurts, or he needs just one more book (the really thick one). I know I should cherish these moments— and I do, right up to the moment the real sleeping needs to start.

By that point his sleeping is such an inevitability I begin thinking about all the other things I need to do…like write a blog post. So I get annoyed that he isn’t asleep already. I mean he’s going to sleep anyway, why not get on with it? Right?

Well, the other night as the weight of preparing for the next day’s class was nearly overwhelming me, I was absent-mindedly (although my mind was really working quite hard) rubbing his back trying to finally get him to sleep. (I think I was working on about 40 minutes in his room at this point.) He rolled over onto his side and grabbed my forefinger with his little hand.

“Daddy,” he said in the dark.

“Yes, son.”

“Daddy,” he said again.

I took a deep breath. Honestly, I was a little crushed. I was pretty sure he was nearly asleep and this speaking boded another good ten or fifteen minutes in his room.

“Yes, son,” I said, probably less than lovingly.

“Daddy….”

I waited.

He finally sighed and said, “Daddy, you’re a good boy.”

Sometimes they say things that at once break your heart, shame you, and fill you with joy all at the same time.

What a crazy ride.

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ZEUS is on stage rooting around looking for something.

Zeus

Hera! Hera, have you seen my Thundercats mug? (To himself) How am I supposed to get it on without my secret magic talisman. It’s like she knows what I’m thinking. Me-damnit! That woman is always …

Hera

[Enters.] What are you looking for, Zeus?

Zeus

My Thundercats mug You’re always putting my stuff up when I’ve put it in a very specific place for…

Hera

Specific place? Look at this mess! You’d think the king of the gods would take some care to keep his office clean instead of this pigsty. You think you’re Dionysus?

Zeus

Bitch bitch bitch. That is all you have done for the last 6000 years.

Hera

Well maybe if you would spend more time at home than down at the Atlantis Bar with Odin and Ra. Ogling at Persephone and that…that cow, Io!

Hercules

[Enters with Thundercats mug.] Hey Dad?

Zeus

Hercules! Thank, Odin! Can you get your mother off my back?

HERCULES and HERA eye each other with disdain.

Hercules

Hey, Hera, I didn’t know you were home.

Zeus

Come on, I told you that you can call her Mom.

Hera

That’s right. You told him.

Hercules

You left those snakes in my bed again last night.

Hera

(Feigning) Oh, that’s where they went. I’ve been looking all over for…

Zeus

Now, come on. Can’t you two just get along?

Hera

Can’t he just get along? I mean how long is he going to keep living in the basement? Do you have another job yet?

Hercules

I’ve been looking.

Zeus

The boy’s been busy. He needs some time to relax.

Hera

Time to relax? He’s been in the basement for the last 5000 years! He hasn’t done anything.

Hercules

I have had twelve very important jobs. And they were very strenuous; I just want some down time.

Hera

Important jobs?! You swept horseshit out of some stables.

Zeus

Hey, come on now. That was an enormous pile of horseshit.

Hercules

It was very big.

Hera

I am giving you 500 years to get your act together, go out there and find a job. I want you out of this basement and living on your own in 500 years, do you understand me?

Hercules

[Cowed.] Yes.

Hera

[Turns on ZEUS.] And I have my eye on you. Athena told me she saw you in the great hall taking a long gander at Leda the other night. I know you are up to no good. If I hear you’ve been down there philandering around again… I don’t care if you can grow it back, I’m cutting that one off. Do you hear me?

Zeus

[Cowed.] Yes.

HERA turns to exit, then turns back to them. Does the two-finger-point to her eyes then the two-finger-point to both ZEUS and HERCULES. Exits.

Hercules

Wow.

Zeus

Well, that’s why she’s the goddess of marriage.

Hercules

She’s why mine didn’t work out so well.

Zeus

Yeah, well…

Hercules

Here’s your Thundercats mug.

Zeus

Where did you find it?

Hercules

You let me borrow it. For a…uh… magical task down there.

Zeus

Who did you, uh, “visit” with this thing?

Hercules

Beyonce.

Zeus

Hmm, I haven’t heard of her. How did you do it? I mean, what form did you take?

Hercules

Justin Timberlake, he’s apparently a highly regarded oracle and cultural icon. Worked like a charm.

Zeus

Nice job.

Hercules

Who do you need it for?

Zeus

Well, I thought, I’d go back down and visit Bea Arthur, again. I haven’t seen her in a while. Thought I’d use the shower of gold trick.

Hercules

Oh, Dad. I’ve got some bad news for you. (To Gerard) Play us out, Orpheus.

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So I knew that having a kid would change some of my perspectives, but I have recently come across a new perspective change that has really affected me.

It’s pretty simple and, in retrospect, makes me feel pretty silly that I have never had this perspective before. At times I’ve said that I had this perspective, but now I realize that was just a little mouth music.

The perspective is this: everyone is someone’s child.

It almost sounds silly doesn’t it? I mean silly in a duh way.

But it is really more complex than that. And it hit me like a thunderbolt. It has placed on everyone around me, each person that I meet, a nearly mind-numbing complexity. At times I imagine them as children. I can see this grown 50 year-old as child in baggy diapers, eyes wide, taking in the world like a splay of sunlight.

I imagine their idiosyncrasies — the ones I like and the ones that momentarily drive me mad — and I know that somewhere in their history an event or build up of events created that lovable or infuriating peculiarity: a parent’s casual statement, a friend’s continual ribbing, a lover’s nefarious machinations. And suddenly I feel freed of judgment —or something like it.

Acquaintances have sprung to life in far-ago fields as little girls adorned with daisy chains and long grass bracelets.

I have caught myself in micro-visions —staring daydreams— of strangers and what they may have been like twenty, forty, sixty years ago.

I’m a little throttled by this realization because, on one end, it makes me feel like much of my life has seemed self-centered and superficial, but on the other hand it feels like I’ve changed the lens on some psychological camera.

And even though I’m sure no one but I have felt this shift, I feel closer to people. Even best friends. It feels a little like nostalgia, superimposed and self-created as it might be.

I feel more connected to strangers even. Knowing that they were children with parents who were children, and that these children pass back to unremembered, unfathomable time. And who they have become was to a great extent the creation of others, perhaps even against their own will.

It feels like moving from black-and-white to color.

And for all the joy and fun and love and companionship that my kids will bring me, this may be greatest gift. It feels as if they have given me the world as it should have been forty years ago.

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(Here is the next t-shirt suggestion. This one from a fellow actor.)

Right now I am sitting in the most beautiful cathedral in the world. Nearly every summer for the last fifteen years I have had the privilege of involvement with an acting troupe called the Classics at Brucemore. Brucemore is a national trust site in Cedar Rapids, an old mansion on twenty-six acres on the southeast side of the city.

For sixteen years we have done classical outdoor theatre at the bottom of a little hill surrounded by trees and a pond.

It is my cathedral.

There is such a spiritual healing that I get from this experience. Lately I have directed in the space: Macbeth, To Kill a Mockingbird, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s been a while since I walked the boards as an actor. But this year that’s exactly what I’m doing…in The Tempest.

The other night it rained. It was a warm soft soothing rain. It fell in satin sheets illuminated by the tower lighting. The frogs chorused by the pond. And backstage I sat in my old camp chair with my face toward the clouds, living in the soft prickling of the tiny drops, drinking in the sounds of the frogs, the rantings of Prospero and Caliban, the drunken musings of Trinculo and Stephano. And I was transcended.

I don’t know which role I like more: the director-priest or the actor-acolyte. They both fill my soul-hoard. As the director-priest I’m able to conduct the ceremony, set it toward my vision of worship and imbue the very fabric of the summer rites with my spirit. But there are responsibilities that weigh heavy. And to do it well I must be in the moment, every moment of rehearsal, which is emotionally and physically taxing. And I simply cannot let go during performances. I must be there, standing —or pacing— in the back, my spirit flitting between actors on stage with psychic reminders and kudos.

As the actor-acolyte I need only be in my moments, flashes of spirit while on stage. When off I can sit and absorb the sounds of others doing their spirit dance just beyond the trees in the green glen that we have come to love so much.

It’s not every participant that feels this connection to the space, to the ritual. But those who do return, or express their desire to return every year.

You know, the actors’ bow was not originally a ‘gracious’ acceptance of audience adoration. In fact, theatre was originally a rite, a mass, a spiritual conduit to the gods. The bow was a reverent supplication to those gods, filled with thanks, humility, worship to the elemental emotions.

I may bow after shows at other venues. But at Brucemore I supplicate myself in thanks for the opportunity to cleanse myself and fill myself top-full of that space’s breathing spirit.

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According to The Week, middle school boys might not simply be the pimply, odiferous, sex-minded, idiotic lemmings they appear to be. Or at least were when I was one.

We had so many little and rather disturbing bits of wisdom, like, “If you look at a digital clock and happen to see the time 11:11 on it, then you’re going to get laid that day.” Remember, I’m talking about 12 and 13 year-old pimply, odiferous, sex-minded, idiotic lemmings. I for one was numbered among the hundreds at my school that knew nothing of what was taught in my pre-lunch class slot. I was too busy sneaking hopeful glances at my Casio wristwatch.

Of course, never once did it work…for me at least.

We had another phrase, “A bush in the hand is worth two in the bird.” I laughed a lot that one. I didn’t know what it meant, but it sure was funny. Now I know what it means, and, although true, it is a bit physiologically disturbing.

Naturally, one of the MSB’s obsessions was penis size. Well, anything penis really. I can’t remember if it was in elementary school or middle school when we had a spate of knuckle wracking. It was nothing to move along the halls and snap your knuckles against another boy’s crotch for fun and profit — profit here being hallway rep, of course. For a while I took to wearing a cup until Mitch McCoy finally stopped attempting to wrack me because he nearly broke his fingers.

We had all sorts of ways to guage assumed penis size, mostly relative to the size of other body parts: hand size, nose size, foot size, space between the eyes. I wear size nine shoes, so that one really didn’t please me. I also have a semi-puggy nose, too. Oh my god! There was a kid named Jeff who had a real-life, in the raw Cyrannoic nose. It was outrageously prodigious and pointed. He got a lot of grief from the other guys, but I had a kind of supposed awe for what he may have held. And if you know MSBs, you know he probably held it a lot.

Okay, back to The Week article. Apparently some Korean researcher has discovered that the relative ratio-size of a man’s right ring finger to his right index finger can predict his penis size. For those of you not presently looking at your right hand, the longer the ring finger, the more prodigious the prong.

Denise McQuade, a researcher from Skidmore College (if you were once an MSB you might giggle at the very thought of a college named Skidmore) told Reuters.com, “That’s probably because the amount of testosterone a man is exposed to in the womb ‘is responsible for both’ penis size and digit formation.”

Then The Week stated with no sense of self-wit, “That means doctors could look at men’s hands as a ‘noninvasive and easy to measure’ way of checking their prenatal history.” Mmm-hmm. Doctors. Doctors of love. Or perhaps doctors of low self-esteem and envy.

Anyway, I feel a small sense of vindication for what I have previously thought of as the first three of my ‘lost years’. Perhaps some of the knowledge that I held fast to for that time was indeed some prescient savant-cable hooked into folkloric truthiness.

Okay…I got to go check the time.

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(The first shirt goes out)

So, in every new parent’s life comes a defining moment, a moment that tests their very mettle, a moment that tests their resolve, that tests their moral compass — yea, their very grip on sanity. That moment is, of course, the first Chuck E. Cheese birthday party.

Recently my son —a two year-old — was invited to a Chuck E. Cheese party. But he was out of town with my wife. And because we are good friends with the birthday girl, I attended in his stead. I admit, I have never been to a Chuck E. Cheese. There was a Showbiz Pizza Place in my home town, but Chuck Es has always seemed like some kind of American cultural icon. Had I missed out?

I stepped out of the car and headed to the Chucks when a black Hummer limo lurched to a stop in of the front door— I am not making this up. As  I rounded the trunk of this ostentatios and unnecessary behemoth, the door opened and out piled a loud rambunctious gaggle of boys…or is it a battery of boys. And I thought, “My god, my friends have lost their ever-loving minds.”

I was also a bit confused. I was heading to a girl’s birthday party, a seven year old girl’s birthday party. I couldn’t imagine that many boys, especially these boys, would get the invite to this party.

I was correct. There were three concurrent birthday parties. But that wasn’t what really got me.

Chuck E. Cheese is essentially a casino trainer. And I don’t just mean for the young customers. Cheap food. Free knick-knacks. Unlimited drinks. And games of chance that give you tickets to redeem for goods. Kids with glazed eyes staring at screens in the hope of more tickets. All that missing is a haze and candy cigarettes dangling from their lips.

Now, I was a little lost. My friends were welcoming and all, but they were busy with the party stuff. So their oldest kid —let’s call him Zee — took me around and showed me the ropes. The main rope consisted of following the staff around while they played the games. Crazily enough, the staff can play the games, they just have to leave their winning tickets hanging out of the machine. Zee would watch and choose the employee that he felt had the most gaming talent then follow him around scavenging the abandoned tickets. Genius without succumbing to the gambling addiction.

When my wife came home I told her about it. She told me about a woman suing the Chucksters for “promoting childhood gambling.” Not kidding. After reading a couple of articles about it, and after seeing the fake cash whirlwind machine at the Chuck E’s, I kind of have to agree.

Am I going back? Probably. I know my kid will have other birthdays to attend there. And, anyway, there’s a pretty cool remote control blimp I can trade tickets for. I only need another 25,000 tickets to get that bad boy.

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This double parent thing (having two young kids at once) is killing. Our work time has been nearly shattered to a fine pulverized dust of memory.

I haven’t had any serious time to write in the last two weeks. And I’ve got a major deadline looming. Even these minimal three blog posts a week are tough, if not impossible to get out.

My wife, who is working on a chapter for a textbook, is in the same boat. except, unlike me, she has to deal with a little parasitical appendage eighteen hours a day. It’s a cute and lovable parasitical appendage that we love and would not trade for anything, but, technically, it is a parasite.

There has got to be some way that we can juggle our non-family obligations and still leave time for the kids…not to mention each other, which has been totally nonexistent since the six hours of labor.

Another winkidink is my wife’s growing frustration, nay —I may say—pathological disdain for the state of the house. By state I mean unkemptitude. The house is a mess. I get that. I know there is a sense I am not helping in this because every time she turns around there is a new mess. But I see it too. I just know that when she picks something up, our two year old pulls something out elsewhere. I’m guessing he does that when I pick stuff up too. And when I clean the kitchen I also know that it is only so I can mess it up again by cooking in it.

I have a friend who calls this love-clutter. I like that phrase. But it certainly doesn’t help me feel better about the mess. Nor does it help give me time to work on my writing.

And now, my wife needs to take a shower… her one unfettered moment of the day. So, while our eldest sleeps — in the big-boy bed for three nights in a row now — I shall take the young one and try to keep him content until he decides he needs what my hairy, unproductive teats cannot give him. Then he will scream my ego into oblivion until his mother comes in to save the day.

And my desire to be productive will have melted into the overwhelming need for sleep.

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I am suffering from being babywracked. Thus I have no writing today.

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My parents celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary this last weekend with a reception for about 40 people.

And for those of you who know my parents, I am happy —yea, ecstatic—to say it was an almost magical night. Seriously.

My father, as he is wont to do, pored over, fixated on, obsessed about every aspect of the evening. He called me at least twice a week for a month to ask questions. I advised as well as I could without being my usual dickish aesthetic nimrodial self.

I remember that one night I nearly gutted him—in person. He was running over the menu: Asiago chicken with steamed veggies. I said, “What is your vegetarian offering?”

He said, “My what?!”

“Your vegetarian offering?”

He looked at me like I had just said, “Look at this Bohemian monkey phallus I picked up at the Marrakech bazaar last Whitsun Eve. It’s delicious!”

He blinked. Then he said, “I don’t know any vegetarians.”

I spent the next five minutes trying to convince him that he probably knew some vegetarians. That there were, in fact, some conservative vegetarians in the world, perhaps not Iowa, but somewhere.

He finally succumbed when I told him my wife would be unable to eat the dinner because she is lactose intolerant. He adores her…rightly so. He finally decided to offer a vegetarian option.

Other than that little hipdaquip things went quite smoothly.

There was music, dancing, drinking, speaking. And it seemed like everyone had a great time.

My son — the two-year old — was running around like a crazy man and dancing like an ecstasy fiend. But people seemed really cool with that and a couple simply fell in love with him.

Including the bartender, who found out that my son loves ice. He kept my son in ice the entire evening.

After the reception I went to the bartender to thank him. He told me that he had worked over 500 receptions and this was one of the tops for him (this is after we paid them). He said that most of the receptions he works are lacking in a sense of familial love.

He mentioned that he is Iranian, and every Friday his family got together at his grandparents for dinner. He said they were married for 86 years. Eighty-six years. I can’t even imagine how that happens. I don’t even think I’m making it to 86, much less being married that long.

It was a wonderful story to end a wonderful evening. And it certainly gave me an appreciation of… a new outlook on longevity, rather than simply survival.

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I am fried like a bad and greasy diner egg, like a dark brown over-crisped wanton, like a newbie nudist in Australia.

Don’t know how much I can write today. Lil’Nipper #2 is really taking us to task. Well, not him, actually. I think it’s #1 that might be doing the most damage. He’s not getting his usual attention—Mom is focused on Babybrutha, and Dad is at rehearsal every night—so he wreaks havoc in the home after 7pm.

By the time Dad gets home Mom is frazzled and a bit short, which then gets Dad a bit short, which leads to an uncomfortable pall of silence over an otherwise blissful marriage bed.

Lil’Nipper #2 can only really sleep well when he’s attached to Mom while she’s sleeping in bed. But this means Mom can’t put on her CPAP—a machine that helps keep her from stopping her breathing (Mom was once noted as having 50+ breathing interruptions within a 1 hour sleeping period during a diagnostic sleep lab episode). This means she snores like a drunken sailor without her CPAP. Dad, on the other hand, sleeps like a dainty spinster, so he wakes up when he hears the dog jump down from the living room sofa at night. Sleeping next to a drunken sailor doesn’t work too well for him.

So…this is the cycle. Very little sleep (for Mom and Dad). Constant Mommy-needy wah-wah from #1 and #2. Coupled with an overriding “Don’t let that dad-thing touch me. I don’t like it” from #1, and “You don’t have that succulent sweet-water nipple! Get that hairy chest away from me!” from #2. Then Dad leaves Mom alone at night to fight the #1 demon. Then, again, very little sleep.

How long can this go on?

I have friends to tell me it can last for 18 years.

That’s a long time to be immersed in boiling oil.

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