Elf Discipline

Elf on the Shelf.

Every half-wit Mommy blogger in the world has covered this subject ad nauseam over the past few years.  I do not intend to offer you the same silly jokes, observations, or suggestions about this Christmas phenomenon. I promise.  Instead, I am going to share some effective (perhaps a bit harsh and in some case outright sadistic) methods to leverage this magical little friend for disciplinary purposes during this joyous holiday season.

Before I divulge these techniques, let me take a quick step back to bring you non-Elf-owners up to speed.

Per www.elfontheshelf.com, here is the low down…

“The tradition begins when Santa sends his scout elves out to Elf Adoption Centers. Waiting for their families to bring them home, these patient elves hibernate until their family reads The Elf on the Shelf, gives their elf a very special name, and registers their adoption online. Once named, each scout elf will receive its Christmas magic and become a part of the family’s Christmas each and every year.

Excellent listeners and even better observers, these scout elves are the eyes and ears of Santa Claus. Although they cannot be touched, or else they may lose their magic, the elf will always listen and relay messages back to Santa. Taking in all the day-to-day activities around the house, no good deed goes unnoticed; these scout elves take their job seriously.

Each night, after the family goes to bed, the scout elf uses his magical Christmas powers to fly back to the North Pole. Once there, the elf will make his or her daily report to Santa and visit with elf friends where they will tell stories about their beloved families, play with the reindeer, and of course, sneak some of Mrs. Claus’ cookies!

Before the family awakes each morning, their special scout elf will fly back to their home from the North Pole. However, since these elves like to play games, don’t expect to find them in the same spot! While some like to hide in the freezer (probably because it reminds them of the North Pole) and others prefer to sit on the fireplace mantle or hang from the chandelier, these elves love to play hide-and-seek with their families.

On Christmas Eve, the scout elf will listen for Santa’s bell and then fly back to the North Pole until the next season, wishing every girl and each boy a Christmas of peace and a year full of joy. Join the tradition and adopt your own Elf on the Shelf now!”

Blah, blah, blah.  These Elves (in my family’s case, “Sanny”) are 12” dolls, for lack a better description that for some strange reason kids actually believe are magical.  I call it genius branding! But the fact of the matter is this little Elf on the Shelf thing is making some guy or gal MILLIONS! 

For a full month of the year “Sanny” becomes the in-house Gestapo at our house.  Every time one of my little cherubs screws up, uh oh, “We are telling Sanny!”

“NO, NO…PLEASE…DON”T!  We’re sorry!  Please,” beg these small-minded simpletons.

“Ok, fine, but no more fighting/hitting/stealing/punching/smoking/whatever or we are telling Sanny who will surely notify Santa.”

And guess what?  It never fails.  If I am being very candid, the Elf is as good a disciplinarian as my wife or I could ever dream of being.  These kids are more scared of this inanimate object that any adult in their lives.

But, I got to thinking, what if it wasn’t enough to simply threaten to rat your little rats out to the Elf? What if we really needed to set an example of what will happen if they don’t wise up?  What if we, as parents, took extreme measures to enforce rules?  What if we treated the Elf with jail yard justice to make our parenting point?  Mob rules.  Violence.

 

While I would never endorse and certainly never partake in the following actions, I am confident they would result in some serious behavioral improvements and, for certain, cause severe childhood trauma that even Sigmund Freud could not rectify.

Level 1:  Exhibited Behavior - Not listening

You keep telling the kids to sit down/eat their dinner/lower their voices/hold the wheel.  Pick your minor infraction.  Instead of an idle threat to simply relay your discontent to your family elf; up the ante

“That’s it, I told you to sit down and eat your brussel sprouts.  Now see what happens.”

Grab said Elf, carry his magical little ass to the children’s viewpoint (and they know you are not supposed to touch him), grab a pair of scissors and cut his hand off.

“How do you feel about your vegetables now, kids?  See what you made me do?  Now Sanny is headed for the North Pole Emergency Room instead of Santa’s Village tonight.  Hope you are happy with yourselves?”

Should carry some weight.

Level 2: Exhibited Behavior - Fighting

Should those tiny treasures of yours engage in physical violence with one another and your ‘use-your-words-crap-psychology-spiel’ does not resonate; set the stakes higher.

“How many times have I asked you to not hit your sister?  How many?”

“You don’t know?  Oh really?  Well, let me ask Sanny.”

Grab your foot-long-merry-muppet, bring him to the sink and create a make-shift Guantanamo Bay water-boarding exhibit (this technique works especially well if you have your spouse pretend to be the elf and scream for mercy in the next room).

“Sorry, Sanny, but some people just won’t’ listen,” you sadly express to the elf as you simulate his drowning.

Trust me, this should break up the scuffle between Frick and Frack.

Once you believe this method had made it’s point, remove now soaked elf from water, wrap him in mini-blanket and place him on the heater as you apologize for nearly murdering him.  Visuals are killer lesson teachers.

Level 3: Exhibited Behavior - Stealing/Cheating/Bullying/Larceny

I realize most children that are still in ‘the believing stage’ will not likely get into this much trouble given their respective ages but let’s face it; there are some bad seeds out there.

If you just reach your limit and do not know what else to do to teach your child that you mean business then Level 3 should set Billy or Lilly straight for a long time.

“What do you mean you just took the candy from the store?”

‘What were you thinking when you looked at Shelby’s test paper?”

“You mean to tell me you pushed a girl at school because you didn’t like her headband?”

“Liquor store robbery.  Officer down?”

And here comes the dynamite.

For dramatic purposes, run away from your child in a frantic manner straight for the Elf on that Damn Shelf.  Be sure to run fast enough so the child can’t catch or stop you in any way.  Grab that cheery, smug bastard, bring him to the (lit) fireplace (If you don’t have a fireplace a lit cigarette/cigar can work.  If you don’t smoke a garbage disposal or blender can suffice) and throw him/her in.

“I’m sorry, Sanny, but ‘Sally’ just keeps making bad decisions.  This hurts me more than you, Sanny.”

Stand in a serious, mesmerized pose as you watch the magical guy burn alive in front of your child’s eyes (again, if you have a spouse strategically planted around the corner screaming bloody murder (pun intended) than it will only punctuate this display of pure evil and ensure an incredibly repentful – albeit damaged -child).

Once again, I highly doubt that any of you loving parents will ever need to take your disciplinary actions to this level, but Dr. Frank is here to help if they do.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

18 Problems with Roadhouse

Mullets make you tougher.

Pleats in your pants make you kick higher.

Silk shirts make oncoming punches miss their target.

Cult classic film, Roadhouse, would certainly agree with these claims

 

Roadhouse much like Caddyshack, The Godfather and any Farrelly Brothers movie is one that I will never, ever turn away from; under any circumstances.  The 1989 bar room brawling flick is an absolute top ten in the world of “guy movies”.  Luckily, the geniuses as TBS, AMC, Fox and the like are acutely aware of this fact and make it a point to frequently run this baby for all of us to enjoy; again and again and again.

Conversely, my unwavering commitment to watch Roadhouse drives my wife crazy – and I am sure she is not alone in this department.

“How many times can you watch this stupid thing?”

How dare she?  I am going to pretend that I didn’t hear that and simply respond with….never mind, here come Wade Garrett!  YEE HA!

Anyway, I am not writing to speak about the greatness of Roadhouse, but after my 186^th viewing I picked up on some very obvious and strange happenings throughout the movie.  I am sure many of you Swayz-iacs have noticed similar findings.

And so, in no particular order, here are 18 Things Wrong with Roadhouse

18.  No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service?

Opening scene in the seedy bar, the Double Deuce, we see a raucous crowd enjoying live music, cold beer and wild surroundings.  Wait, is that guy dancing with no shirt on?  Huh?  I don’t care what kind of bar – even if it is in rural Missouri – nobody just tears off their shirt to just spank the planks.

17.  Do you know who that guy is?

When Dalton first appears in the Double Deuce, the whispers quickly fill the air.  “Do you know who that guy is?  That’s Dalton?”  I had no idea that Bouncers had a national reputation?  How is that so?  Is Dalton on the Cooler Speaking Circuit?  Doing a lot of BRUT cologne ads?  Is he endorsed by the N.B.B.B.S. (National Bar Bare-Knuckle Brawling Society)?  How on earth does everyone know of this guy?  Impressive.

16. Dalton…what?

Let’s take a step back.  Is Dalton your first name or last?  Do you have one name?  Who do you think you are, Seal? (Superbad footnote).  I get that film makers want to make our boy seem dark and mysterious but let’s be honest, if his name turned out to be Herman Dalton or Dalton Finklestein it just would have not have had the same impact on us.  Only way you can improve on just ‘Dalton’ is if his last name turned out to be “McFuriousfists”.

15. Cruel Intentions:

Again, early in the movie, we see The Jeff Healy Band performing for this drunken crowd of criminals.  It is bad enough that they need to perform their show protected by chicken wire, but did I just see a guy throw a beer bottle directly at the BLIND lead singer?  I mean, come on man?  It’s Saturday night.  Lighten up!

14.  ‘Right Boot’

In one of the 27 fight scenes, one of the evil henchmen of the town badman, Brad Wesley, is sent in to halt our hero Dalton’s efforts to clean up this Jasper, Missouri watering hole wearing a boot with a blade coming out of the toe?  Huh?  Where would one purchase such footwear?  JC Penney’s?  I’ll get to that…

13.  Stitch Doctor

As our mulleted knight in shining linen is getting his side stitched by 80s babe, Dr. Clay, after a knife wound inflicted by ‘Tiny’, the aptly named 400 lb. goon with a heart of gold, (adding to Dalton’s 31 broken bones, 9 stab wounds, 4 stainless screws, and 2 bullet holes mind you) she notices that he also has a few stiches in his left shoulder – that he did himself.  We actually see Dalton performing this self-surgery earlier in the movie…one handed…in the back room of a bar.  Cut me a break, bro!  We get it.  You are tough.  While I am not aware of what health insurance plan the Deuce offers, you are making the big bucks, Dalton.  I am sure you can afford to have a trained medical professional fix you up?  No?

12.  Pain Don’t Hurt

Keeping to the emergency room scene with Doctor Clay, Dalton refuses a local anesthetic to ease the pain of the pending 9 staples that are about to be clipped to his skin.  His reasoning?  “Pain don’t hurt”.  Sure it doesn’t, Big Boy?  As the Doc commences her stapling Baby’s Boyfriend (sorry, Dirty Dancing reference…and nobody backs Baby in a corner) winces in pain.  How you feeling about that lidocaine now, chief?

11. 3 Rules

Mr. Dalton gives his little pre-game speech to his merry band of co-bouncers and asks them to follow three rules:

1.       Expect the Unexpected/Never underestimate your opponent.  Really, dude?  Did you make that one up yourself when you were at NYU (I’ll get to that too) or off the back of your Karate Kid cereal box?  Thanks for that keen insight, Confucius.

2.      Take it Outside the Bar.  Essentially Dalton is imploring his team to never allow fights to continue inside of this fine establishment. Well, outside of one occasion, no one seems to disobey this rule more than you, boss.  Maybe try taking your own advice?

3.      Be Nice.  Sure, Patrick, sounds like a plan.  Every guy in this town carries a switch blade or machete on their person at all times, but I should be cordial to them as they attempt to poke my eyes out.  Oh, by the way, how many people here have killed anyone?  Raise of hands. That’s right, just you Dalton….were you being ‘nice’ that day?

10.  If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there to hear it….can you smoke it?

Dalton boasts a degree in Philosophy from New York University.  He speaks like a highly enlightened man seeking to better himself and those around him.  He practices various techniques to unite the mind, body and soul.  He smokes cigarettes.  What?  So you are telling me when you are outside of that crappy barn you live in, Dalton, doing tai chi or yoga or whatever, the first thing you do when you finish to strike up a Lucky.  Makes no sense to me.

9.  Is that Magnum, PI?

During the course of Roadhouse, we see nearly all characters dressed in very similar, humble Mid-western garb.  Jeans, t-shirts and muted colors a plenty.  One scene that troubles me is when a knife-wielding (I told you, all of them are carrying) Double Deuce patron is wearing a very bright HAWAIIN shirt.  Not sure if it was that knife that resulted in Dalton smashing his face through a table or that he violated the dress code?

8.  Housekeeping, please.

So every single night, seemingly every single piece of furniture is destroyed inside the Double Deuce.  All of it wrecked from the night’s bloodbath between Coolers and Customers.  Yet, night in, night out, it is all back in perfect working condition for the next shift.  How is that possible?  Is Dalton also a master carpenter who repairs these items in his down time?  Is Wade Garrett a Furniture mogul that has the financial capital and resources to replace these tables and chairs every night?  Doesn’t add up…

7.  Big Foot

How could I not comment of Big Foot, the giant monster truck that the film’s nemesis, Wesley, has his crew driving around town?  A little ostentatious for small town America, don’t you think Brad?  I mean really, I know it is 1989 and gas prices are not what they are today but still.  Not to mention, these guys are out wrecking lives all over Jasper.  Don’t you think a more subtle vehicle would be more practical for your line of work?  Which brings me to my next concern?

6. Car 54 Where are you?

Where are the police in Jasper?  Sure, I know the knee-jerk answer is that Mr. Wesley has them under his thumb but even that influence must have its limits?  Big Foot completely destroyed a car dealership in front of hundreds of witnesses?  Wesley’s boys are out fighting, stabbing, looting, shooting and assaulting innocent people?  Aren’t any of the Boys in Blue prepared to step up and say enough is enough?

5.  Think I’ll take a load off…on the hood of my car

In one serene scene we see Dalton lying on the hood of his car enjoying a glorious afternoon.  I don’t care how cliché or cinematic you are trying to be, nobody in the history of cars or people has willingly decided to lie on the hood/windshield of their automobile.  Not comfortable and not good for the lumbar region.

4.  Pool Cue Pole Vault

Brad Wesley’s Senior Vice President of Mayhem, Jimmy, is in another brawl with Dalton and the fellas when we see him utilize a common pool cue as a pole vault thrusting him into a back flip across the crowded saloon.  So, the tables in this joint fall apart when you sneeze on them but the pool sticks become pogo sticks as needed.  Not on my watch.

3.  Back to JC Penney’s

Doctor Evil, Brad Wesley, proudly contends to Dalton that department mega-store, JC Penney, is coming to set up shop in Jasper.  Again, I have no clue of the business practices over at the Penney but this seems like a foolish business decision.  Jasper of a town of only 1100 and these are very common folks.  Farmers, hardware store owners and, of course, evil rural mobsters.  The high end swank these guys are peddling does not seem to fit the laid back country style of this town?  No supply.  No demand.  I don’t know…I certainly hope they make it?

2.        Bye, bye BMW

Dalton has a very flashy, mint-condition BMW that we see through the course of the film.  Obviously this must be one of his most prized possessions since he felt the need to have a second car available that would be destroyed by the Double Deuce rabble each evening.  And what does he do with that beauty of a Beemer?  Uses it as $50,000 decoy so he can gain access to the Wesley compound and wipe out our villain once and for all?  Why didn’t he just use that beat-box he bought?  Why the luxury car?  The same result would have occurred right, Dalton?  Bad, bad decision my friend.

1.  Fat Guy + Fake Bear = Funny

Final scene of movie we see our old friend Tiny being haunted (and doing his best Bud Abbott routine) by a taxidermized polar bear that Dalton is using as a shield as he takes out each of the bad guys…one by one.  Mr. Tiny is so scared he actually unloads several bullets into the stuffed carcass.  Let me get this straight, you hurt people with knives and guns for a living but your biggest fear is a hunting trophy?  Man up, Tiny, man up

Fat Guy and the Bear Scene

And there you have it. 

Oh look, Caddyshack just started!

Va-SUCK-tomy

Again, I am dropping my proverbial pants (pun intended) to review a topic with you that is very personal, intimate and embarrassing all in the name of humor; Vasectomies.  More than three years have passed since I went through the incredibly easy, but equally humiliating, “procedure” of being neutered.  Snipped.  Spade. De-manned.  Vasectomized.

As I watched (well, not ‘watched’, I mean ‘witnessed’…I mean 2^nd hand…bad choice of words - ‘HAND' - …damnit!  Nevermind.) my best friend go through this passage of life for a significant population of married-men-with-children-who-want-no-more-children-and-their-wives-are-finally-putting-their-foot-down-after-all-their-bodies-have-endured-giving-birth-to-your-kids-you-selfish-son-of-a…population, I was reminded how difficult this journey was to manage.

Before you jump down my throat, ladies, I do not mean to suggest that this minor surgery is nearly as physically painful (in most cases) compared to delivering a child, but I will contest that the mental anguish which we brave SeaMen endure is worth recognizing. I am not even going to attempt to compare this experience to the ‘joy of childbirth’ (isn’t that what you all called it BEFORE you went through it?).  I won’t do it, but let me relay the internal strife we, as men, must undergo to get through the process of being neutered like your cat, Mittens.

A walk down men-mory lane….

May 2009

After 3 children and nearly 3 years since the birth of our youngest, my wife ‘encouraged’ (and by ‘encouraged’ I mean ‘demanded’) that I ‘cut the cord’, 'close the barn' and host an 'all-things-must-go sale'.  I finally conceded to her and decided it was my time to step up and face the scrotal-carving music.  After all, she was right.  She bore us three beautiful children (of course, I did have ‘something’ to do with it, no?  Probably a bad time to bring up that old adage about Men vs. Women?  If you put 1000 women and 1 man on an island, in theory, you could have 1000 children one year later, while if you had 1000 men and 1 women on an island….yeah, right….forget I mentioned it) and it was time to move on to the next phase of our lives as parents.

Visit 1: The Consult

Before we soon-to-be-sterile suckers get the privilege of having our seed bag scraped open by Dr. Notsofeelgood, we must first take part in a ‘consult’ visit.  Without knowing what to expect during this initial visit to the medical practice of Dewey, Pinchem & Howe, I did have the presence of mind to know I was going to be a nervous mess, so I did the logical thing; drank heavily before my appointment.  After several mini-van sized draught beers I was ready to embark on this testical journey.   I calmly walked into the office, checked in, sat down and tried to relax before I met with the nurse practitioner, Ms. Squeezy Van Nuttwister.  Now, I am no Norman Einstein (by the way that is a reference to a slip of the tongue by NFL Legend-turned-Sportscaster, Joe Theisman.  I know Einstein’s first name was really ‘Harold’) but I do not recall any ‘consult’ I have been a part of which required another party to take a firm grasp of my twig and berries for exploratory purposes?  Maybe I am wrong but my recollection of a, so called, ‘consultation’ usually involved a conversation, a cup of coffee and an exchange of business cards.  Never heard of the kind that would require my 'potato sack' to be fondled by Nurse Ratchet?

I tried to provide some levity to the uncomfortable situation.

A serious and stern woman, the nurse attempted to be very business-like in her pre-surgery instructions to me…

“Now, you will need to shave your scrotum just prior to the procedure,” she explained.

“Just another Thursday at the McCabes, Sweetheart,” I sarcastically responded.

Without cracking smile, she continued….

“Also, following the procedure, after adequate rest you will need to ejaculate approximately twenty-five times before returning with your test sample.”

“Makes sense to me. By my calendar I should be back here on Tuesday then.” The oh-so-funny-inebriated-and-terrified-patient retorted.

Finally, a small smirk appeared on her face.

“Look, I am sorry to be a wiseguy.  I am just really jumpy about this whole thing,” I implored.

“Have no fear, Mr. McCabe, this is actually quite an easy, quick and painless procedure,” reassured the person who has never had a ‘ball and chain’ attached to her anatomy.

I walked out…not feeling a whole lot better about the situation.

Moving on…

Visit 2: V-Day

If you have read my first book, you will recall a chapter called Panic Attacks in which I describe an episode of anxiety so worrisome I actually called an ambulance to come to my aid.  What I did not include in that story was that incident occurred just 2 days before my castration vasectomy.  Coincidence?  I think not.

Walk into Dr. Kevorkian’s office of ill repute in a state of pure horror for what was about to happen to me and ‘my boys’.  After what seemed to be an eternity out comes my buddy, Sir Balldesack, to murder the fruitful existence of my ‘two oldest friends’.

A funny and affable guy, Dr. Derection, guided me to the operating room.  After a few jokes and some general guidelines to how he was going to be ‘Deconstructing Harry’, I actually breathed a sigh of relief.

First he was going to inject a local anesthesia into ‘the twins’?  OH SHIT!

Here it comes…..ah…ah……whew, that actually wasn’t too bad.  What’s next, Doc?

Oh, time to slice open the ‘bag of peas’ (which, ironically and literally, would become my best friend during recovery)?  Super. 

Eyes clenched (along with my butt cheeks), I anxiously awaited the pain to begin.  Amazingly, it was not so bad and before I knew it, it was over.

“Mission Slay Bells”: Complete.

Amen.

After a few off-color ‘cookie’ comments from Dr. Junkenremover, I was on my way home to rest my, now retired, ‘Generals’.

Job well done, men.  Thanks for the memories.

 

 

38

What is the significance of the number 38?

38 is the atomic number of strontium

38 Special was the name of a southern rock band (and a gun)

 

38 is the number of surviving William Shakespeare plays

38 is the number of slots in an American Roulette wheel

38 was the number worn by flat-broke Red Sox legend Curt Schilling

Honestly, I don’t give a crap about any of that. 

38 is the age I turn today and I am not happy about.

“Age is just a number!”

“You are as young as you feel!”

Shutup.  It is a just a number…a number higher than I want to be.  As far as how I feel?  I feel old as dirt.

This may be the first birthday that I am truly I not happy to look in the eye.  There is nothing special, cool or fun about turning 38.  I am that much closer to 40, that much farther from 30…and cripes, my 20s might as well be the Mesolithic period.  Outside of my 94 year old grandmother, no one will EVER say, “You know Frank, young guy from Sector 7-G,” anymore (Simpsons reference, by the way, for you young guns).  Uh uh.  No way.  Kids in their twenties have innocently called me “Sir” and “Mr.” Beat it you punks!

Let’s look back at history and review just why this so called “number” flat out stinks….at least for me.

30 Years Ago

Age 8.  Honestly, could life be any better than it is for an 8 years old?  Memory is a little fuzzy, but I am fairly certain I had some kick ass birthday party with random friends I hardly remember, strange clothing, a punch bowl and pin the tail on the donkey (interestingly, sounds more like my 21^st).  Second grade, Mrs. Leney’s class.  The best.  School was fun.  Little League was king. I could run and play all day long.  Never get tired.  Not a care in the world.  Xanadu.

20 Years Ago

Age 18.  Are you kidding?  18 was almost as good as 8!  Senior year of high school.  Gearing up for a parent-free existence in college.  Playing football.  Chasing (notice I did not say “catching”) girls.  I was actually eligible to vote for President (you are very welcome, Slick Willy Clinton).  It was like the hounds were finally released!

10 Years Ago

Age 28.  Life was still rocking pretty good.  Married.  Had my first child.  Job was going well.  Bought a house.  Bought a car.  No gray hairs in site.  Waist line was ‘reasonable’.  This aging thing ain’t so bad?

You seeing the pattern here?  For the most part, life on the 8s had been a relatively smooth ride.  Then I woke up this morning and looked into (an apparent Fun House) mirror at 38.  Yuck.

Where to begin, where to begin?

Let’s examine a few of the major dimensions of life…

Physical

Well, the fact that I started my day with some blood work and the refilling my blood pressure medication can’t be a good sign? And unlike the 8 year old “me” I cannot run all day.  For that matter I get winded carrying the laundry basket from the basement to the second floor.  Really winded.  How about the used jalopy I call a body?  While I am blessed with some good genetics no one is mistaking me for Adam Levine when I walk down the street.  Lucky enough to have my hair, it now looks like a salt shaker fell on my head while I slept.  Those bulges you see are not muscles…they are moles (I think?).  OK, I need to jump topics.

Mental

I used to love to read and learn.  I greatly enjoyed history and politics.  I would seek new avenues to expand my horizons.  Now…not so much.  Reading the comics, doing the Celebrity News Quiz in People and DVR-ing the latest episode of Modern Family is not likely going to get me a nomination into the local MENSA chapter.

Spiritual

To quote Bishop Pickering in Caddyshack, “There is no God,”  Kidding, just a little jaded today.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DEKyx_eTxBQ&list=PLB224F435DFC30DA9&index=5&feature=plpp_video

Anyway…remember the movie City Slickers starring Bill Crystal.  Lost in mid-life crises (that’s what the trailer actually reads!  ‘MID-LIFE’!), Crystal and his close friends hit the open range and drive a herd of cattle for his birthday.  What birthday was it?  Yeah, that’s right, his 38^th.

Pretty sure a cattle drive is not in my plans for the day, but I did DVR Modern Family.

 

Guilty Pleasures: Barry Manilow

My name is Frank and I am a FANILOW.

What is a Fanilow?

Urban dictionary simply defines this term as follows:

	1. Fanilow (FAN – A – LO)
	Noun: A Barry Manilow fan. Thus, fanilow. "Frank is a Fanilow and giant, raging closet queen."

I added that last part of the sentence

Embarrassed?  Yup.

Disgusted?  Yessiree.

True?  You betcha!

Once again, I am reluctantly sharing another of my guilty pleasures with the world for your amusement.  Unlike previous guilty pleasures I have described in the past, this one snuck up on me.  Like the rest of you (whether you are being honest with yourself or not) I enjoy a few things in my life that I would just assume no one know about.  However, most of those pleasures have been my little personal secret for some time.  This Manilow thing has taken me by surprise, but I have to face a bitter truth about myself.

I am a Fanilow.

I am trying to identify exactly when this metamorphosis occurred?  I attribute it to a few recent episodes.

·        The Tour.  The Brooklyn, New York native (born Barry Allen Pincus – bet you didn’t know that?  Why?  You are clearly not a Fanilow) is currently touring across the U.S. and has an upcoming stop in neighboring Worcester, MA (nope, have no bought tickets…YET).  With all of the commercials on both radio and T.V., The man who Writes the Songs that make the (nearly middle aged straight men cry) subconsciously slipped into my brain. 

·        Easy Access.  My wife is a quasi-uncommitted-Fanilow but she does own his Greatest Hits album which resides in her car. Once when I happen to be the one carting my three (soon to be disgraced by their father) children on the weekends, I noticed the CD was playing when I started up that family wagon.  Didn’t think much of it at first, but I also noticed I did not shut it off or even turn it down despite my kids plea to listen to some other annoyed pop crap.  Kids, when will they learn to appreciate true musical genius?

·        Lyrics.  What I never realized was that I have unknowingly been cataloging all of the lyrics to many of his hits over the years and I was belting out Mandy all the way to swimming lessons.

Close your eyes for a minute and picture this scenario (never mind, you are reading, how can you close your eyes?).

A beautiful Saturday morning in Anytown, USA.  Sun is shining.  The sounds of children playing.  Lawnmowers are starting up all over the neighborhood. Off in the distance you hear a strange sound.  Faint at first, it slowly becomes stronger.  All of sudden, you notice a car barreling down Main Street.  But, what is the noise coming from this Mom Mobile?  Is it singing?  Can it be? 

In a squealy baritone you can finally make out the words…

“Well you came and you gave without taking

But I sent you away, Oh Mandy!

Well you kissed me and stopped me from something

And I need you today, Oh….”

Oh crap.  Yeah, that sound was ME.  And as I pull to the stop light I quickly realized the four junior high school boys riding their bikes are hysterically laughing at me.  As the light turned green I slowly pulled away to the sounds of their laughter and feelings of shame.

(Inner Monologue)

“Real slick pal!  Might as well change the name of the song to ‘Randy’, Liberace!  Maybe next week you can just fly the kids to their lessons on your Fruity Fairy Wings? You are disgusting!  ”

How did this happen?  Without any scientific evidence to back me up I am fairly confident that 37 year old heterosexual married men are not Barry’s prime demographic?

I need a game plan to rid myself of this newfound guilty pleasure.  I need to cleanse, dare I say exorcise, this demon of an affliction that has taken hold of me.

Maybe I should drink myself half blind like Lola did every night at the Copacabana, you know, the hottest spot north of Havana?

Perhaps I need a long quiet Weekend in New England to gather my thoughts and retake my manhood?

Maybe, just maybe, I will Smile (again) Without You, Barry?

I know for certain I am Ready to Take a Chance Again with my manhood.

Even Now, I just don’t know anything anymore, but hopefully by Daybreak I will have some answers to why this has all happened?

Will I Make it Through The Rain?

I just pray that I will be able to say that it Looks Like I Made It.

Whew.  Enough with the bad references.

I need to take the ‘MAN’ in Manilow and self-apply; STAT.  Maybe I’ll head to the store and pick up a few things to break this spell.  Let’s see.  Case of Budweiser?  Check.  Carton of unfiltered cigarettes?  Check.  Old Spice deodorant?  Check.  Wrangler Jeans?  Check.  Copy of ‘Manilow: Live at Royal Albert Hall’.  Che…

No.  Wait.  DAMNIT!!!

P.S. Peter Griffin and his friends are Fanilows! Check it out!

Guilty Pleasures: People Magazine

Celebrities.

Random sightings. Red Carpet appearances. New movie or TV show premiere parties. Marriages. Break ups. I find it all fascinating and a total escape from my reality.

Where do I get all oif the latest and up-to--date news on these events. Enter People Magazine.

People has all of these happenings conveniently packaged for my reading and viewing pleasure. You had me at ‘Hello’.

What started as a mildly interesting glance at the random issue evolved into an outright craving over the past few years. Mrs. CIBF has an admitted love for this leader of the rag mags as well; but I kept my own personal People interest from her; for a while anyway. A few years ago she was given a one year subscription to People; talk about a gift that keeps on giving. Now, instead of guiltily racing through the issue while standing in line at the grocery store and then, ultimately , over paying for a copy, People was now right at our front door, every week, without fail. Touchdown.

In the beginning, I hardly noticed being drawn in by this paparazzi-infused rabble about meaningless Hollywood hoopla. I would catch a new copy on the kitchen table. Pick it up. Maybe a quick flip through. And that, as they say, was it.

Before I knew it, I was reading a few of the articles in full. Soon I was filling in some portion of the crossword. This little hobby was slowly creeping its way towards a weekly, cover-to-cover ritual.

However, the day I realized my interest had turned into outright craving is when I knew I had a problem.

Summer 2008. I recall it was a Saturday morning. I was sitting at the waiting room of Giant Glass (“Who do you call when your windshield’s busted. CALL GIANT GLASS! 1-800-54- GIANT!” There, now that little gem of jingle will be stuck in your head for the rest of the day too. Enjoy!) As I sat waiting, I noticed a wide selection of magazines on the coffee table. I take a gander at the selection…Sports Illustrated, Men’s Health, Car & Driver, ESPN the Magazine and wait, wait, wait…,yep, there’s my beloved People at the bottom. Sweet! Grabbed that sucker and sat back down.

As I smiled and sat back to check out all the latest headlines from the week in La-La I suddenly got a pit in my stomach.

What the hell is wrong with me?

• The Celtics just won their 17^th NBA Banner and here I am checking out what ‘Brangelina’ wore to the People’s Choice Awards.
• The Red Sox were coming off their 2^nd World Series championship season while I am learning about the lineup for the next Celebrity Apprentice.
• One of the golf's greatest US Open finishes was just occurred (Tiger Woods over Rocco Mediate in an 18-hole playoff in case you forgot.) and I am more interested in reading the review of Kung Foo Panda.

And just as I could not have been more disappointed in myself, I caught a brief, but calculated, smirk from a woman in the waiting room who watched me make my sissy-man selection. To make matters worse, she was reading one of the CAR magazines!

The only consolation I had was that my guilty pleasure was still confined to my knowledge. Nobody but me and 'Little Miss Spark Plug' would ever become aware of my proclivity for celebs over sports and speedy cars. This awakening would provide me some time to reflect and address this minor, but distributing, tendency.

Unfortunately, a leopard cannot hide its spots (and by ‘leopard, I mean ‘I’ and by ‘its spots’ I mean ‘my complete and utter disdain for myself’)

A few weeks went by since my windshield waiting room Watergate episode. My wife and I were out to dinner with one of my best friends and his wife. As we sat and enjoyed a cocktail before dinner, the girls were making small talk. My buddy’s wife alludes to a celebrity break-up she read about in People and despite every alpha-male/ X Chromosome/testosterone –possessing instinct I had, I quickly interjected before anyone else could say a word.

“I know, can you believe that! What was she thinking? She’ll never do better!”

And just like that, the jig was up. (and by ‘the jig’ I mean ‘I’ and by ‘was up’ I mean ‘completely suck’ )

The table froze and I was on the receiving end of three awkward and embarrassed-for-me looks of surprise. While this moment did not last more than a few brief seconds, it felt like minutes. Before I could jump to my own defense, my friend bursts into laughter, as did the ladies.

“How the hell do you know about that?” he chuckled in disbelief.

Silence.

“I happen to catch uh, well, she has a subscript….ah,” I fumbled.

It was too late.

Cat is out of the bag. (and by ‘Cat is’ I mean ‘I am’ and by ‘bag’ I mean ‘closet’).

However, I bet more than a few of you men have scooped up one of those gossip mags and had your own fill of guilty pleasure?

No? LIARS!

Now, if you'll excuse me I hear there is a new update in the TOMKAT divorce proceedings.

Smuggler's Blues

“Perhaps you'd understand it better
Standin' in my shoes,
It's the ultimate enticement,
It's the smuggler's blues,
Smuggler's blues."

-Glen Fry

While I am fairly certain the former Eagles front man was referring to the drug trade when he sang these lyrics to the 80’s hit song, this past weekend I experienced a different kind of Smuggler’s Blues.

I woke early Monday morning in a cold sweat and a deep rooted fear of the possible.  One of the truly “wrong” things in the history of this world reared its ugly head (bad choice of words, you will learn) before my eyes over this past weekend.  Not only did it appear in front of me once, but twice.  Not only did this evil appear twice, it appeared in the form of a child; both times.

Can this horror actually be happening?

Is some divine force intervening and causing this pain I have suffered?

What is that which I speak of, you ask?

Answer:  Grape Smuggler Bathing Suits.

Urban Dictionary.com defines Grape Smuggler as follows…

“A tight piece of clothing for the lower body (usually a speedo) that clearly displays the male genetalia.”

Yes, I am truly sad to report these occurrences.  On Saturday, I witnessed a boy, approximately age 6, wearing a constricting bathing suit while we were visiting family at their town pool club.  I actually did the quadruple-take when I saw this grotesque site.  Now, before you grab that waste basket to throw up in, let me soften the blow a little bit; the smuggler we speak of was not of the “speedo” variety, but rather a tight fitting spandex-type bathing suit.  Nonetheless, this is not a whole lot better.  As my neck nearly snapped from contorting it around like that girl in The Exorcist I was simply awe struck.  I quickly realized I was staring at this kid Sandusky-style and needed to redirect my gaze before the authorities (or ‘Pimples’, the 17 year old Life Guard on duty) were called to action. 

As I started to speed walk back to our seating area, I decided I should not feel badly for staring at this injustice.  What kind of parents would dress their toddler in such garb?  Is this mother possibly blind?  I sat in my chair and quickly searched for an alcoholic beverage (or a hot poker to gouge my eyes) in my kids’ beach bag.  DAMN!  Only juice boxes.  A few minutes passed as I continued to try to wrap my arms around this fiasco and come up with a rational explanation.

Is it possible this is some type of ‘floatie underwear’ this poor boy was wearing for safety’s sake?  No, the whole physics/center of gravity-thing throws this theory of the window.

Maybe it is the bottom part of some cool wetsuit?  Not a chance.  We are in an 80 degree pool and I don’t see a wetsuit top or surfboard on the premises.

Wait, wait, wait.  They must be foreign!  Yes, that’s’ the ticket.  Maybe they are French-Canadians visiting their American cousins or something?  That has to be the answer. No?

And then I heard it….

Mom of ‘Junior McTwigginberries’ shouting across pool is a most heinous Massachusetts accent…

“Taaaawwwwmy, get ovah heyah and get some sunscreen awn ya!”

(Sigh)

Well, I am out of guesses.  Clearly this was an intentional act of cruelty and it appeared as if I was the only one who was witnessing the utter insanity of this scene.

Before I knew it, I realized I had not checked in on my own three kids who could now easily be in a steel cage breath-holding match at the bottom of the pool for all I know.  Anyway, I decided to just mind my Ps and Qs and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.  I will simply chalk this one up to random chance.  This poor kid will likely undergo years of psycho-analysis and be the subject of ridicule.  Bon Jour, ‘Little Jacque LaRocks’!  You are going to need it.

I deliberately deleted these surreal swimming shenanigans from my memory bank; until the next day when the demons I had exorcised would return.  Once again they would appear in the form of a child.

On a beautiful and warm Sunday, I needed to occupy my cherubs with some fun, aquatic activity.  With Mom at work, I decided to take them to our local pond where there is a great family beach, a dock for the kids to jump off, etc., etc.  Another relaxing day in the sun and a chance for the kids to safely play and stay cool at the same time.  As I set them free to enjoy the day, I sat my white Irish arse down in a comfy beach chair and grabbed the newspaper.  Today was a going to be a nice lazy day without strange wardrobes puzzles to pontificate.

And then it happened again.  As I looked up over the Comics, er Sports, section, I saw it again.  I could not believe my eyes.  Yet another small boy wearing an altered version of the classic Banana Hammock!  What the?  I jumped up quickly and, again, stared toward the dock at ‘Jean Claude Van DAMN BOY WHAT ARE YOU WEARING’!?!

After gladly peeling my eyes away from ‘Smallsy Smuggler #2’, I frantically looked all around me praying the French Foreign Legion had landed on this small beach and we were under attack by some mutant midget army of seed swaddlers?  Once again, no such luck.  This child was the spawn of, what appeared to be, a normal American family that was sitting just steps from my perch.

Well, this is just too much.  Did I miss some new style, trend, or fad for kids?  Is there some medical reason these boys are dressed like they part of some adolescent Tour de France Fan Club?  Is it possible that these ‘coin purse cut offs’ were scientifically designed to keep the sun away from ‘Marvin Gaye and the Grapevines’? (that’s what I heard)

You know what?  I don’t care and I don’t really want to know.  I am defeated and not going to waste one more second pondering why these odd children and their parents are attempting to sneak ‘Cheech and Chong’ over the border.  Not my problem.  Not on my watch.

Come on kids, time to go.  You can play inside….for the rest of the summer.