The lost Lenore continues her search for childhood failure stories, as well as moments of prepubescent humiliation, so naturally I'm happy to chime in...
"When I was a wee lad, since I had very low self-esteem and was afraid of everything, the result of both nature and nurture, I rarely would speak for myself. My poor social skills were noted on my kindergarten report card as I had this habit of speaking through my friend, Markie. Now Markie wasn't an imaginary friend, he was flesh and blood, but if I had to give an opinion, it was usually prefaced by "Markie says," a defense mechanism to turn attention from myself and on to another target, i.e. Markie. To give you a sense of my inner fragility, when asked as part of some class exercise to "be a tree," I refused, as I was terrified that, should I surrender myself to the concept of becoming an oak, I might never be "Dan" again. Speaking through or "behind" others became a habit, but the tide may have turned one day in grade school during a "Parents Day" event when I was asked a solution to some odd numbers problem. Afraid to give the wrong answer, I said, "I agree with (insert name of kid who had been asked previously and didn't have the right answer either)," which struck the parents in the room as being incredibly funny. Nothing like being laughed at by adults in front of your peers and your own parents to make you feel so small you wouldn't be picked up by an electron microscope. As I recall, my father took some action at this point and got me focused on my arithmetic, but the real result I think was my realization that this strategy of hiding behind others was doomed to failure, particularly if you choose people who are bad at math. Today, I am a self-actualized, confident, bon vivant and writer who never met a camera he didn't like, so yes, one can face shame and humiliation as a youngster and yet still rise to celebrity heights...at least in his own mind!"
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Fail Safe
The Lost Lenore seems to have been lost from the pages of the New York Sun as she's been so dang busy with her new book, FREE RANGE KIDS, soon to be hitting shelves o'er the land from the good people at Wiley publishing. Anyway, her most recent query asked for anecdotes about failure...the point being that yes, little Jimmy can fail a quiz or strike out in his Little League game and it doesn't mean he needs to have a private tutor and a sports psychologist. You can fail and still learn something and turn out fine. So, here's what I had to say on the subject (she loved it, as per usual...!)
"When I was in the fourth grade, one quarter, I got a "D" in a particular class. You have to understand, I didn't (don't) get "Ds." I was the fat kid/last kid-picked-for-dodge ball, so I had no self-worth whatsoever, since it became clear to me, from watching the daily vignettes from LORD OF THE FLIES in public grade school, that a person was deemed worthy based on either their physical prowess (I had none) or their mental prowess (good grades). To be fat AND stupid, well, I should just jump off the roof of the school and be done with it. So I was thoroughly upset, panicked, etc. I talked to my Dad about it, and seeing that it was of a concern to me, we both met with Mrs. Hunt, the teacher, and the culprit seemed to be my lack of understanding of how a battery works. To this day, I remain mechanically uninclined (I've been a competitive fencer for 22 years and still have NO idea how to rewire my electrical weapons, nor do I want to learn), but anyway, I was assured that this poor grade was not the end of the world and if I gave this battery thing another shot, I'd be fine. I did, somehow managed to get my mind around the idea of volts and currents or whatever, and got a better grade. Evidently, it must have had an impact on me as I still remember this 37 years later. I learned that I could "fail," or at least get a bad grade and (1) still have worth (2) still be loved by my parents (3) and that there is, in fact, something I could do about my situation. I think as children, we think that if we make a mistake it is irrevocable, that there's no hope, all is lost, woe is me (at least kids who grew up in the 60s and 70s; today's kids are likely to contact their lawyer and start a class action suit against the teacher who gave them the poor grade, but anyway...). You might say my failure taught me EMPOWERMENT. Like Alfred told Bruce Wayne, "We fall, so we that we learn to pick ourselves up." And there it is...
"When I was in the fourth grade, one quarter, I got a "D" in a particular class. You have to understand, I didn't (don't) get "Ds." I was the fat kid/last kid-picked-for-dodge ball, so I had no self-worth whatsoever, since it became clear to me, from watching the daily vignettes from LORD OF THE FLIES in public grade school, that a person was deemed worthy based on either their physical prowess (I had none) or their mental prowess (good grades). To be fat AND stupid, well, I should just jump off the roof of the school and be done with it. So I was thoroughly upset, panicked, etc. I talked to my Dad about it, and seeing that it was of a concern to me, we both met with Mrs. Hunt, the teacher, and the culprit seemed to be my lack of understanding of how a battery works. To this day, I remain mechanically uninclined (I've been a competitive fencer for 22 years and still have NO idea how to rewire my electrical weapons, nor do I want to learn), but anyway, I was assured that this poor grade was not the end of the world and if I gave this battery thing another shot, I'd be fine. I did, somehow managed to get my mind around the idea of volts and currents or whatever, and got a better grade. Evidently, it must have had an impact on me as I still remember this 37 years later. I learned that I could "fail," or at least get a bad grade and (1) still have worth (2) still be loved by my parents (3) and that there is, in fact, something I could do about my situation. I think as children, we think that if we make a mistake it is irrevocable, that there's no hope, all is lost, woe is me (at least kids who grew up in the 60s and 70s; today's kids are likely to contact their lawyer and start a class action suit against the teacher who gave them the poor grade, but anyway...). You might say my failure taught me EMPOWERMENT. Like Alfred told Bruce Wayne, "We fall, so we that we learn to pick ourselves up." And there it is...
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Why do women DO that?
The Lost Lenore and her pal, Lance, are writing an article for Reader's Digest looking at why women do some of the very odd things that they do...I was asked to give my erudite and experienced input into the cobwebby labryinth which is the mind of the Typical Female...Read, chuckle, and nod in silent approval...
- Why do so many women own so many pairs of shoes in general?
I've asked women this question. They stare blankly into space for a moment as the gerbil gets a claw caught in the spinning wheel in their heads, and the response is usually one of three theories: (1) I don't know (2) Because I'm a woman and (3) It has something to do with SEX AND THE CITY.
- Why do so many women watch the Lifetime channel? I know very intelligent women who watch some of the sappiest movies I've ever seen. Is it a guilty pleasure?
I believe women watch the LIFETIME Channel because they want to make sure that Valerie Bertinelli and Victoria Principal stay gainfully employed and don't end up homeless.
- Why do so many women like Oprah?
Because all women want to BE Oprah. Rich, the center of attention (there's something odd about a woman who has her own magazine and puts herself on every single cover), a medical staff the size of Sloan-Kettering's at their beckon call, uberempowered, and at the same time, sensitive to the needy (let's give everyone in Ethiopia a new Pontiac!) generous to a fault (let's give everyone in the studio audience a new Pontiac!), but business savvy (let's get a new advertising contract going with Pontiac!)
- Why do so many women defend egotistical men, claiming they're
"insecure"?
Because women are insecure. If women admitted that the men they were attracted to were egotistical louts it would make them appear either shallow, stupid, or inherently defective (i.e. do women have a natural tendency to be attracted to egotistical louts), so they must defend these men so they themselves don't look bad.
- What's up with those twenty-pound purses? Do you really need all that stuff? I've taken less stuff camping for a weekend than many women take to work every day.
A woman is creature that wants what it wants when it wants it. And wants to look GOOOOOOOOD doing it. So that requires either a contract with Local 360 Teamsters Union to come out and do facial/body reparations every 15 minutes or an arsenal of assorted cosmetic and feminine products and devices (that thing they use on their eyelashes looks like some form of medieval torture device to me) which must be kept in complete disarray in a leather sack the size of a cow's udder and worth twice the GNP of Somalia.
- What do so many women have against beer?
Beer is masculine. It involves things like "hops" which women haven't a clue about, and usually sports as the vast majority of beer is consumed while watching Monday Night Football and just about anything on ESPN. Wine on the other hand is French, and therefore, feminine.
- Why do women ask so many questions? Maybe it's just me, but it
seems like many relationships have dialogues like this: "What time
does the party start?" "I don't know." "Will Joe and Jill be
there?" "I don't know." "Will there be food?" "I don't know." Are
you just naturally curious, or is there some higher
purpose/ulterior motive to all those questions?
Women are constantly afraid of being judged and found LACKING. Lacking in terms of their physical appeal, their mental prowess, whatever. It's a Western Society thing. Women are made to feel from the time they begin to toddle about that their main appeal is their appearance and one gets one's sense of beauty not from within, but from without. What do my friends and colleagues think about my new hairstyle? My new shoes? My new clothes? My new boyfriend? This puts a great deal of pressure on the typical female who therefore requires as much intelligence and reconnaissance as possible about every outing and venture in which they may take part. This allows them to prepare. WHAT TIME DOES THE PARTY START gives them the information they need regards how many hours, minutes, seconds, they have to shower, do their makeup, call in Local 360 of the Teamsters union, etc. WILL JOE AND JILL BE THERE? This may be her favorite couple...or likely, least favorite, the ones who are most likely to be in judgment about her, about her husband, etc. WILL THERE BE FOOD? Women are always interested in food so they can be sure to avoid it. It's their eternal hope, but it is never fulfilled as ultimately no woman has any defense against anything that contains chocolate, sugar, and carbohydrates.
- Why do so many women own so many pairs of shoes in general?
I've asked women this question. They stare blankly into space for a moment as the gerbil gets a claw caught in the spinning wheel in their heads, and the response is usually one of three theories: (1) I don't know (2) Because I'm a woman and (3) It has something to do with SEX AND THE CITY.
- Why do so many women watch the Lifetime channel? I know very intelligent women who watch some of the sappiest movies I've ever seen. Is it a guilty pleasure?
I believe women watch the LIFETIME Channel because they want to make sure that Valerie Bertinelli and Victoria Principal stay gainfully employed and don't end up homeless.
- Why do so many women like Oprah?
Because all women want to BE Oprah. Rich, the center of attention (there's something odd about a woman who has her own magazine and puts herself on every single cover), a medical staff the size of Sloan-Kettering's at their beckon call, uberempowered, and at the same time, sensitive to the needy (let's give everyone in Ethiopia a new Pontiac!) generous to a fault (let's give everyone in the studio audience a new Pontiac!), but business savvy (let's get a new advertising contract going with Pontiac!)
- Why do so many women defend egotistical men, claiming they're
"insecure"?
Because women are insecure. If women admitted that the men they were attracted to were egotistical louts it would make them appear either shallow, stupid, or inherently defective (i.e. do women have a natural tendency to be attracted to egotistical louts), so they must defend these men so they themselves don't look bad.
- What's up with those twenty-pound purses? Do you really need all that stuff? I've taken less stuff camping for a weekend than many women take to work every day.
A woman is creature that wants what it wants when it wants it. And wants to look GOOOOOOOOD doing it. So that requires either a contract with Local 360 Teamsters Union to come out and do facial/body reparations every 15 minutes or an arsenal of assorted cosmetic and feminine products and devices (that thing they use on their eyelashes looks like some form of medieval torture device to me) which must be kept in complete disarray in a leather sack the size of a cow's udder and worth twice the GNP of Somalia.
- What do so many women have against beer?
Beer is masculine. It involves things like "hops" which women haven't a clue about, and usually sports as the vast majority of beer is consumed while watching Monday Night Football and just about anything on ESPN. Wine on the other hand is French, and therefore, feminine.
- Why do women ask so many questions? Maybe it's just me, but it
seems like many relationships have dialogues like this: "What time
does the party start?" "I don't know." "Will Joe and Jill be
there?" "I don't know." "Will there be food?" "I don't know." Are
you just naturally curious, or is there some higher
purpose/ulterior motive to all those questions?
Women are constantly afraid of being judged and found LACKING. Lacking in terms of their physical appeal, their mental prowess, whatever. It's a Western Society thing. Women are made to feel from the time they begin to toddle about that their main appeal is their appearance and one gets one's sense of beauty not from within, but from without. What do my friends and colleagues think about my new hairstyle? My new shoes? My new clothes? My new boyfriend? This puts a great deal of pressure on the typical female who therefore requires as much intelligence and reconnaissance as possible about every outing and venture in which they may take part. This allows them to prepare. WHAT TIME DOES THE PARTY START gives them the information they need regards how many hours, minutes, seconds, they have to shower, do their makeup, call in Local 360 of the Teamsters union, etc. WILL JOE AND JILL BE THERE? This may be her favorite couple...or likely, least favorite, the ones who are most likely to be in judgment about her, about her husband, etc. WILL THERE BE FOOD? Women are always interested in food so they can be sure to avoid it. It's their eternal hope, but it is never fulfilled as ultimately no woman has any defense against anything that contains chocolate, sugar, and carbohydrates.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
A-Rod, Madonna & Me
This time, Lenore solicited me for my thoughts about the whole A-Rod, Madonna, has-she-brainwashed-him-with-Kabalah (which isn't a Jewish laundry detergent btw) scenario. So first, here's my full response, followed by a link to Lenore's article in the NEW YORK SUN:
"Lenore: Deep A-Rod/Kabalah/Madonna thoughts? Isn't that a contradiction in terms? First off, I knew nothing about this, but did a google search, read some people's blog comments and have come to the conclusion that that this all a pathetic attempt at getting attention (whose attempt you ask? All of'em) and for C-Rod to lay the groundwork for any divorce or court proceedings. Beyond that, the real culprit here, the one that set the stage for this fiasco, is, of course....
George Steinbrenner.
A-Rod was a nice guy playing for Texas until he was seduced by Darth Sidious, I mean, George Steinbrenner, and joined the Evil Empire, and I'm not talking the former Soviet Union or WAL-MART. A few seasons of playing in pinstripes, and the guy is shirking his fatherly duties to hang out with a woman who receives AARP magazine and takes Centrum Silver. He's clearly been brainwashed, but not by Kabalah, which he probably thinks is some kind of kosher cereal.
There's really only one thing to do--an Intervention, whereby A-Rod can be turned from the dark side and embrace the sanity of another baseball team, like, I don't know...the Orioles. I mean, we need some help here. Any team that has Kevin Millar batting cleanup is in TROUBLE."
http://www.nysun.com/opinion/like-a-prayer-a-rod/81417/
"Lenore: Deep A-Rod/Kabalah/Madonna thoughts? Isn't that a contradiction in terms? First off, I knew nothing about this, but did a google search, read some people's blog comments and have come to the conclusion that that this all a pathetic attempt at getting attention (whose attempt you ask? All of'em) and for C-Rod to lay the groundwork for any divorce or court proceedings. Beyond that, the real culprit here, the one that set the stage for this fiasco, is, of course....
George Steinbrenner.
A-Rod was a nice guy playing for Texas until he was seduced by Darth Sidious, I mean, George Steinbrenner, and joined the Evil Empire, and I'm not talking the former Soviet Union or WAL-MART. A few seasons of playing in pinstripes, and the guy is shirking his fatherly duties to hang out with a woman who receives AARP magazine and takes Centrum Silver. He's clearly been brainwashed, but not by Kabalah, which he probably thinks is some kind of kosher cereal.
There's really only one thing to do--an Intervention, whereby A-Rod can be turned from the dark side and embrace the sanity of another baseball team, like, I don't know...the Orioles. I mean, we need some help here. Any team that has Kevin Millar batting cleanup is in TROUBLE."
http://www.nysun.com/opinion/like-a-prayer-a-rod/81417/
Monday, June 2, 2008
Of Pantsuits & Dead Designers
This time, the lost Lenore is musing on the passing of fashion designer Yves St. Laurent and that famed sartorial invention, the pant suit. Is this good, bad or ugly...the pant suit that is? What about Hillary Clinton and all her myriad pant suits? Is there a political agenda here? What say ye?
So here's what me-ye says:
"Dear Lenore: Not to disrespect the dead, but when I read your PROFNET query, an old joke came to mind. "He's so dumb he thinks Yves St. Laurent is the day before St. Laurent!" That is my one and only Yves St. Laurent joke. I didn't know the guy invented the pant suit. I mean, women were in fact wearing pants long before the day before St. Laurent came along. Just look at pix of women throughout history. I recall pix of Amelia Earhardt wearing pants. She was, of course, an Aviatrix which is not something you're supposed to ask your doctor about (if you have herpes...Aviatrix will not stop the spread of HIV...Do not take Aviatrix if you are allergic to eggs, walnuts, early 20th century biplanes or large bodies of water including oceans).
As a man, I want it to be known now and for the record that I am not intimidated by women who wear pantsuits. If a woman has a great body, it'll look good in anything, including a navy blue polyester pantsuit complete with oversized white satin bow blouse, the official 1985 officewear of women in the United States at the time I first entered the workforce.
Political repercussions? Nah. People are used to seeing women in pantsuits. In fact, they expect it. Hillary Clinton campaigning in a DRESS? How would that play in Peoria? Sorry, Mr. Prime Minister, Madame President Hillary Clinton is late, she got a run in he pantyhose and can't be seen in public that way, lest the Axis of Evil divine from this run, this veritable Grand Canyon divide of nylon threads, a sign of weakness, the inability to unify her constituency, her lack of attention to detail, and the fact that she has eczema and the heartbreak of psoriasis.
Whatevs.
There's nothing mannish about a pantsuit (unless you're Tilda Swinton). I think we've gone beyond that now. It's not the pants, it's the man or woman wearing the pants.
Now if Obama or McCain show up a rally wearing a miniskirt, that's a fashion statement NOT for immediate release..."
So here's what me-ye says:
"Dear Lenore: Not to disrespect the dead, but when I read your PROFNET query, an old joke came to mind. "He's so dumb he thinks Yves St. Laurent is the day before St. Laurent!" That is my one and only Yves St. Laurent joke. I didn't know the guy invented the pant suit. I mean, women were in fact wearing pants long before the day before St. Laurent came along. Just look at pix of women throughout history. I recall pix of Amelia Earhardt wearing pants. She was, of course, an Aviatrix which is not something you're supposed to ask your doctor about (if you have herpes...Aviatrix will not stop the spread of HIV...Do not take Aviatrix if you are allergic to eggs, walnuts, early 20th century biplanes or large bodies of water including oceans).
As a man, I want it to be known now and for the record that I am not intimidated by women who wear pantsuits. If a woman has a great body, it'll look good in anything, including a navy blue polyester pantsuit complete with oversized white satin bow blouse, the official 1985 officewear of women in the United States at the time I first entered the workforce.
Political repercussions? Nah. People are used to seeing women in pantsuits. In fact, they expect it. Hillary Clinton campaigning in a DRESS? How would that play in Peoria? Sorry, Mr. Prime Minister, Madame President Hillary Clinton is late, she got a run in he pantyhose and can't be seen in public that way, lest the Axis of Evil divine from this run, this veritable Grand Canyon divide of nylon threads, a sign of weakness, the inability to unify her constituency, her lack of attention to detail, and the fact that she has eczema and the heartbreak of psoriasis.
Whatevs.
There's nothing mannish about a pantsuit (unless you're Tilda Swinton). I think we've gone beyond that now. It's not the pants, it's the man or woman wearing the pants.
Now if Obama or McCain show up a rally wearing a miniskirt, that's a fashion statement NOT for immediate release..."
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Pricey Proms
This week, the lost Lenore of the New York Sun is writing a column about how proms are becoming more like weddings in terms of the cost and hoopla involved as parents may pay "$600, $700 even $1000" for prom "fixin's", girls getting their makeup "done" etc. So, as a man who never went to any prom as I was too busy becoming an obese, society-shunning reclusive hermit in my adolescent years, I thought I would now offer my own perspective...
"Actually, I've heard tell of parents paying a heckuva lot more than $600-$1000 for prom and it's "fixin's" not to sound too much like the condiment section at the Burger King (for men, "fixin's" are raw onions, relish, and nacho cheese sauce). Nowadays, prom goers expect limonsines, and they're going to cost you several hundred right there; I've even heard tell of kids getting helicopter rides, and now you're into the thousands.
To answer your question, "do high school girls really need their make up 'done'", no, in fact, they don't NEED ANY of this stuff, but it's all part of the rite of passage from child to adult...of course, if you really want to instill this rite of passage into your teens, I'd suggest having them PAY for it as I've found a huge part of growing up is paying bills. Actually, maybe there's an idea there. Just like parents will have Christmas credit union accounts where they have money put away throughout the year to pay for their holiday gifts, parents can work with kids to have them do the same thing for prom. Year before, kid gets a summer job, save the money for prom. Maybe Mom and Dad, ala corporate 401ks, can offer a 50% match. Personally, I've always found that I've enjoyed things I worked for and truly earned than gifts that were just given to me. Ultimately, the kids may find they enjoy the prom alot more when they know they've earned the money to enjoy it. Of course, kids may say they've earned it through their grades, but again, reality check time. School work is to "real life work" the way climbing Mt. Everest in a video game is to ACTUALLY CLIMBING EVEREST. Just a wii bit of difference there. Pun intended."
"Actually, I've heard tell of parents paying a heckuva lot more than $600-$1000 for prom and it's "fixin's" not to sound too much like the condiment section at the Burger King (for men, "fixin's" are raw onions, relish, and nacho cheese sauce). Nowadays, prom goers expect limonsines, and they're going to cost you several hundred right there; I've even heard tell of kids getting helicopter rides, and now you're into the thousands.
To answer your question, "do high school girls really need their make up 'done'", no, in fact, they don't NEED ANY of this stuff, but it's all part of the rite of passage from child to adult...of course, if you really want to instill this rite of passage into your teens, I'd suggest having them PAY for it as I've found a huge part of growing up is paying bills. Actually, maybe there's an idea there. Just like parents will have Christmas credit union accounts where they have money put away throughout the year to pay for their holiday gifts, parents can work with kids to have them do the same thing for prom. Year before, kid gets a summer job, save the money for prom. Maybe Mom and Dad, ala corporate 401ks, can offer a 50% match. Personally, I've always found that I've enjoyed things I worked for and truly earned than gifts that were just given to me. Ultimately, the kids may find they enjoy the prom alot more when they know they've earned the money to enjoy it. Of course, kids may say they've earned it through their grades, but again, reality check time. School work is to "real life work" the way climbing Mt. Everest in a video game is to ACTUALLY CLIMBING EVEREST. Just a wii bit of difference there. Pun intended."
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
summer memories
Dear friend Lenore has a wonderful column now online at the New York Sun regarding people's personal "summer memories"...including one of Yours Truly. Check it out at
http://www.nysun.com/opinion/as-salamanders-waddle/78628/
She had to edit, of course, so here's my submission regarding her "Everything I need to know I learned in summer" in its entirety:
How about a near death experience?
It was summertime, I was 7, and Clyde was eating a hot dog.
Clyde was the family English setter, a dog that had absolutely no business taking up residence in a little rowhouse in Baltimore City with a backyard about as long and wide as your typical comic strip (i.e. TINY). English setters live to RUN and so Clyde had turned our once quaint wee patch of urban green into Hiroshima after the bomb.
Anyway, about the hot dog.
Clyde was white with black spots and splotches, strategically placed on his furry face that, with the hot dog lodged in one side of his mouth, made him look like a canine Groucho Marx.
Being a budding journalist and writer, I instinctively spotted a photo opp, and dashed about seeking a camera with film in it to capture the Kodak moment.
When I could find none, I was left with nothing to do but to pat my pooch on the head and head in for the evening after a day's summer play.
Unfortunately, Clyde had other ideas.
Personally, I blame Lorne Greene, remember him? After Lorne got kicked off the Ponderosa, he found himself in sent to TV purgatory otherwise known as Alpo commercials.
"Ol' Rex here really knows a good meal when he sees it," Lorne would say, rubbing his gnarled hand over some German shepherd's head as the dog's face violated a heaping bowl of Alpo dog food.
Of course, we now know it is a BAD, BAD, BAD DOG idea to touch a dog, particularly around the head/mouth when it is EATING.
Clyde mistook my head pat as a attempt to steal away is ballpark frank and like a drunken, angry Yankee fan (granted that's all a redundancy), attacked me.
Clyde hit me with full force, knocking me against one of two metal poles where my mother would sometimes hang summer wash when she didn't feel like tackling the Manhatten Project which were the family washing and drying machines (that's another story).
I remember things went fuzzy, like looking through wax paper. Luckily for me, I was blessed with a big bulbous head which made a much more easily accessible target than did my throat, otherwise some other PR guy would be writing this response to your PROFNET.
Clyde gnawed my head for awhile until some neighbor interceded. When all was said and done, I received a free ambulance ride (I remember wondering why I didn't feel any pain...they told me in the ambo that I was in shock...and kept thinking to myself, "Thank God for shock, thank God for shock, I LIKE shock!) and 36 stitches in the back of my head (and these were the days before dissolvable stitches...docs sewed you up with good old fashioned CATGUT boyhowdy...which, I have to tell you, is a real JOY to have to have removed...NOT).
For sometime after, everytime I had a summertime haircut, my father would tell the barber, "Not too much off the back. The scars will show."
So, at the ripe old age of 7, I learned about spectre of DEATH and BETRAYAL. As a high school student, I would write an essay about this experience, wherein I attributed it as a major factor in what path my life would take in ensuing years. Up to the Clyde incident I was a pretty active kid and pretty much a B's and C's student. After Clyde, I stopped going outdoors nearly as much, began cultivating a rich inner life (and rich diet), becoming the fat kid-last-kid-picked-for-dodge-ball, an afterschool special starring Bert Convy and Gary Coleman. My grades went from B's and C's to mostly A's and my fate as a pseudointellectual writer instead of a construction worker were sealed.
So that's my summer memory.
Oh, as for Clyde? Story goes my Dad gave him away to man who trained hunting dogs. Personally, I think it was just a prison break. Clyde got out of his tiny suburban prison and likely spent his days running, running, running over hills and dales, like Snoopy was always urged to do, chasing rabbits...
http://www.nysun.com/opinion/as-salamanders-waddle/78628/
She had to edit, of course, so here's my submission regarding her "Everything I need to know I learned in summer" in its entirety:
How about a near death experience?
It was summertime, I was 7, and Clyde was eating a hot dog.
Clyde was the family English setter, a dog that had absolutely no business taking up residence in a little rowhouse in Baltimore City with a backyard about as long and wide as your typical comic strip (i.e. TINY). English setters live to RUN and so Clyde had turned our once quaint wee patch of urban green into Hiroshima after the bomb.
Anyway, about the hot dog.
Clyde was white with black spots and splotches, strategically placed on his furry face that, with the hot dog lodged in one side of his mouth, made him look like a canine Groucho Marx.
Being a budding journalist and writer, I instinctively spotted a photo opp, and dashed about seeking a camera with film in it to capture the Kodak moment.
When I could find none, I was left with nothing to do but to pat my pooch on the head and head in for the evening after a day's summer play.
Unfortunately, Clyde had other ideas.
Personally, I blame Lorne Greene, remember him? After Lorne got kicked off the Ponderosa, he found himself in sent to TV purgatory otherwise known as Alpo commercials.
"Ol' Rex here really knows a good meal when he sees it," Lorne would say, rubbing his gnarled hand over some German shepherd's head as the dog's face violated a heaping bowl of Alpo dog food.
Of course, we now know it is a BAD, BAD, BAD DOG idea to touch a dog, particularly around the head/mouth when it is EATING.
Clyde mistook my head pat as a attempt to steal away is ballpark frank and like a drunken, angry Yankee fan (granted that's all a redundancy), attacked me.
Clyde hit me with full force, knocking me against one of two metal poles where my mother would sometimes hang summer wash when she didn't feel like tackling the Manhatten Project which were the family washing and drying machines (that's another story).
I remember things went fuzzy, like looking through wax paper. Luckily for me, I was blessed with a big bulbous head which made a much more easily accessible target than did my throat, otherwise some other PR guy would be writing this response to your PROFNET.
Clyde gnawed my head for awhile until some neighbor interceded. When all was said and done, I received a free ambulance ride (I remember wondering why I didn't feel any pain...they told me in the ambo that I was in shock...and kept thinking to myself, "Thank God for shock, thank God for shock, I LIKE shock!) and 36 stitches in the back of my head (and these were the days before dissolvable stitches...docs sewed you up with good old fashioned CATGUT boyhowdy...which, I have to tell you, is a real JOY to have to have removed...NOT).
For sometime after, everytime I had a summertime haircut, my father would tell the barber, "Not too much off the back. The scars will show."
So, at the ripe old age of 7, I learned about spectre of DEATH and BETRAYAL. As a high school student, I would write an essay about this experience, wherein I attributed it as a major factor in what path my life would take in ensuing years. Up to the Clyde incident I was a pretty active kid and pretty much a B's and C's student. After Clyde, I stopped going outdoors nearly as much, began cultivating a rich inner life (and rich diet), becoming the fat kid-last-kid-picked-for-dodge-ball, an afterschool special starring Bert Convy and Gary Coleman. My grades went from B's and C's to mostly A's and my fate as a pseudointellectual writer instead of a construction worker were sealed.
So that's my summer memory.
Oh, as for Clyde? Story goes my Dad gave him away to man who trained hunting dogs. Personally, I think it was just a prison break. Clyde got out of his tiny suburban prison and likely spent his days running, running, running over hills and dales, like Snoopy was always urged to do, chasing rabbits...
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