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.