It is said that off screen Zeppo was the funniest Marx Brother.

During a conversation with a Froose (a friend of moose) this week, I was accused of being "anti." The charge stated that I intentionally take up a contrary view on popular opinions for the sake of being difficult. I spoke to several Frooses and a couple of Rooses (relatives of moose). Some say they see an element of this in my personality, others were more kind.

Most of the problems revolved around different views of comedy. How can there be a side to be against? I thought either something is funny to you or not.

Does not laughing at a joke mean you are anti? Rather than anti, I feel it says your sense of humor has not been satisfied by the joke. This, it seems to me, is inherent in the experiencing of any art form. Your like or dislike doesn't nullify the work. It is just a matter of taste.

Here are three names that came up in the conversation:

Sasha Baron Cohen
Jerry Seinfeld
Eddie Izzard

Still, If not laughing makes you anti, then I'm anti. Two of the above comedians do not make me laugh.

I won't tell you which two, 'cause I don't want any more trouble.

Would love to hear your opinion, since I'm not entitled to my own.

Michael and Nala

On January 23, 2001, eight months before the tragedy of 9/11, we had a disaster in our own community. That morning, my friend and neighbor Michael left for Manhattan to work at his film editing machine. That machine and his incredible talent had won him an Emmy award.

Unfortunately, the ever present cigarette in one hand, and the constant cup of coffee in the other, in conjunction with the stress of a high pressure, sedentary job, were too much for his 48 year old heart. He never came home.

He had been a live action amalgamation of the cartoon, "Tennessee Tuxedo and his Tales." With the hair and the brains of Phineas J. Whoopee, a mustache that looked like Chumley's tusks, and the wit of Tennessee, Michael was unique.

He left behind a wife and five children, the oldest a freshman in college, the youngest a fourth grader, and finally, a dog, Nala.

Though Nala had been a Christmas gift for the kids in 1995, it was Michael who could be seen walking her late at night, cigarette and cup of coffee in one hand, leash in the other. Occasionally, they would stop by the house at night for "a viewing." His work schedule was so crazy, a "view" was all you could hope for. He would come in, and despite my mild protest about Nala, she would come in with him. I'm a pet person, but there was something about Nala that I didn't like. Perhaps she was too big, I'm a small dog person - I just don't know. Michael's answer to any complaint was simple: "Love me... Love my Dog."

For the first few weeks after he died, Nala would lie by the front door whimpering, crying for him to come home. Then she took up her position as a watchdog for Michael's widow, very protective, always alert. The two of them mourning, side by side.

Last Sunday, with a tumor the size of a grapefruit and her quality of life slipping away daily, Nala was put to sleep. She was thirteen years old.

Now - I think about Michael all the time- sharing stories with friends and family- but when Nala died, a flood of memories came back. These memories seemed to be universal on our block. As if Nala was a link to Michael and we were losing him all over again. There were lots of tears on Sunday, many for Nala, but strangely many more for Michael.

Since Sunday and Nala's passing I have started to look at our dog Sidney differently, wondering if he is a link to us. I ask myself "What does he know? What does he think?"

Michael would have made fun of this internal conversation of mine. But then again, he's the one who said "Love me... Love my Dog."

Sidney Augustus Torre

OCO3

A couple of years ago, I was sitting talking with my cousin. She was complaining about her two younger sisters. According to them, anything and everything that went wrong in the world was her fault.

Now, when speaking to this particular cousin, I am usually doing a good impersonation of someone listening. In reality, I am screaming in my head for her to shut up. Complaining is her default postion and there is only so much I can take. But this time something clicked, and I heard myself say, "Yeah, I have the same thing with my two younger brothers."

We spent the rest of the night comparing stories and shocking each other with the similarities in our existence. I thought it had more to do with birth order and family dynamics. She stayed with the theory that her sisters are just plain nasty. Before that night ended we had formed OCO3: the society for the Oldest Child Of Three. A place where the abused and over-blamed, first born come together, commiserate and comfort each other. We have four members in our chapter: my mother, myself, my cousin and my eldest. The problem, of course, is there are at least are eight people in our family who work against the organization. And sometimes the attack is so baseless and so unhinged, all you can do is remember what OCO3 has taught you.

I had one of those moments yesterday. While speaking to one of my brothers--a person I speak to on the average of four times a day--he informed me that I never listen to him. Nor do I "treat him like a human being." Under normal circumstances, I would have lost my temper. But the core rule of OCO3 stopped me from going crazy.

That rule simply says: Mom and Dad were older, clearly their genetic material was starting to degrade.

If anyone is interested in starting an OCO3 chapter, please let me know.

Also, Mr. Moose is making a Thanksgiving prediction: an uncomfortable time will be had by all.

Two Bros Rappin' in Beantown

In response to the question, "What's going on with your blog?" My answer was, "I don't want to keep writing about the election." That wasn't the purpose of the blog, I never want to read a single-focus work, so it stands to reason that I'd never want to write a single focus work.

As the final day to the endless campaign draws near I found a topic to share. And it has only a little bit to do with the election.

This past Saturday, I spent seven hours in Boston. The majority of the time was spent with my best friend and our time together centered in or around Trident Booksellers and Cafe.
If, as Sartre implies, "hell is other people," then for me , heaven is the Trident. It has books, great food, and a thousand different conversations all creating the soundtrack to whatever movie is showing on one of the flat screen TVs hanging over the counter. When I first went in City Lights was playing, a silent film classic. With no dialogue, the soundtrack of the store fought against the images on the screen. This was a bit disconcerting.

Then my friend came in and our conversation added to the mix. We spoke about the election, about "The West Wing." Off the air for two-and-a-half years, it still is the best education in both the power and powerlessness of the presidency. As always we touched upon events that are currently shaping both of our worlds. Work, money, family, a normal conversation between two people whose lives have be intertwined for almost thirty years.

The Trident was filled with flyers advertising the all-day election coverage that would be broadcasting on Tuesday,from the TVs currently showing Chaplin. The flyers were the best example of the home-grown mania that is gripping the nation. The main flyer featured a picture of Tina Fey as Sarah Palin. I hope the coverage on election night will be half as entertaining.
We left the Trident and, as we walked and talked, my friend a long time resident of the area, kept up his streak of being unable to identify any historic landmark in Boston. To any question, his response was the same. "How should I know?" or the annoyed "Take a tour!"

Hours and many conversations later, we returned to the Trident for coffee and dessert. We sat at the counter right in front of a TV. Ghostbusters was starting. No sound, just the thousand conversations. As our conversation a fairly intense one continued, we watched Bill Murray's smirks and looks of shock that made him famous. We laughed and remarked how everytime we saw Murray it made us think of our college friend Jim.

As our seventh hour was coming to a close it occured to me that the election that had occupied so many of our phone calls from "The Garden State" to "Beantown", had played only a minor part of our time together.

While driving home I felt that essense of our day was going to be a common one in America after next week. Certainly on Wednesday there will be a great cheer from one group and a cry of agony from another. One of the men running for president will begin the transition process toward taking office. While the other will begin the transition process of defining a new political future. But once the cheers and screams fade we will all be more focused on our conversations about work, money and family. No longer will we be distracted by the constant coverage, the unending verbal malstrom of point counter point; no matter how entertaining it can be. We will have a new president-elect. And everyone will be waiting for him to take over, waiting for him to make a difference. History suggests that that is not always possible. But we gotta believe.

That belief isn't baseless either. Men have picked up the reins of office and helped America refocus herself. And I think this is why we vote. We are always hopeful, always optimistic about tomorrow.

I still feel this entry is not about the election. It has more to do with us, and our best friends and our families and everyone sitting at the Trident and all the places like it across the nation.

Context, Content, Comedy

In our house the television show Scrubs is a favorite. We watch it in reruns, we watch it on DVD, we watch in prime time. For those not familiar, Scrubs is a half-hour situation comedy based in a hospital. After seven years on NBC, it will be moving to ABC this year. In reruns, it has been running on Comedy Central for years and in the NYC area on the local Fox affiliate in the early morning hours.

On Labor Day, Scrubs was added to the TV Land family of shows. This follows the current TV Land philosophy of running more modern shows in prime time, as opposed to old "classics."

As a lifetime rerun watcher, I am always scared of the edits a show goes through to fit a network's commercial sales package.

When the first episode started on Monday, it was in fact the first episode of the series, "My First Day."

Things were going along just fine. Then came a scene well-known to Scrubs fans. John C. McGinley (Dr. Cox) was explaining to Zach Braff (J.D.) the dos and don'ts of hospitals. During the scene, Cox is referring the problems of caring for the elderly in front of an old woman he has been pushing in a wheelchair.

J.D. is shocked at his behavior and finally suggests that the patient might overhear. Cox reassures him by saying the woman was dead. He ends by explaining "If you push around a stiff nobody will ask you to do anything."

He then leaves the room, the scene ends.

If you watched this on TV Land on Monday, you might have been confused and disturbed because this seems just plain wrong.

But that is not how the scene played out in prime time, on DVD or even on Comedy Central. In all the other versions, Cox exits, the woman opens her eyes and says "I'm not dead" to a shocked JD.

And that is the essence of the show. You can almost imagine Cox wheeling this woman down a corridor and saying , "Listen I need to make a point to a new intern, just sit in the chair like you are asleep."

Do editors watch the show they are cutting? How can you cut without seeing the impact on the content, the context or the comedy? For anyone seeing that show for the first time it must have seemed cruel and sick, not what the writers intended.

Syndicators: Please have someone watch and figure out where the extra 30 seconds you need for a commercial can come from. Don't just cut the ends of the scenes; quite often that is where the punch line lives.

Gotta Ask

On November 5, 1912, Woodrow Wilson was elected president. He beat out Teddy Roosevelt, who was running as the candidate of the Progressive party. Incumbent president William Howard Taft came in third place. As amazing as TR's showing as the only third-party candidate to come in second in a presidential election, the real story took place just over three weeks before. On October 14, 1912 on his way to make a campaign speech in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Theodore Roosevelt was shot in the chest. He gave the speech before getting medical attention.

Eight presidents and seven vice presidents have died during their terms in office, yet no one nominated has ever died before the election. Teddy was as close as we've come.

I bring this info to your attention as a preface to an important question:

By the end of this week both parties will have their nominees in place, with vice presidential candidates handpicked and nominated as well.

What would happened to the tickets if there was an untimely death? Are the political parties committed to the legacy of the candidates? In other words: If something were to happen to either Presidential candidate, would the vice president selection--a person who was not vetted by the primary system--be the new candidate?

Does that "heartbeat away" include the time before the election?

Would the voters feel comfortable with either of the VP candidates as their first choice for president?

Because it seems to me that if the answer is "no," if you are questioning the choice before the election, you had better question the choice before you vote.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation: The Confession of a Flip-flopper

I started the month of August with a plan.

Boycott the Olympics in China.

This was going to be tough for me, since the Olympics have always been a favorite of mine. Still, I have never gotten over Tiananmen Square. I have never been able to accept that George H. W. Bush and Bill Clinton deliberately and openly gave the Chinese totalitarian government the keys to our economy.

All of our bluster about human rights is just that, wind blowing through the tree tops. It finally occured to me what Paddy Chayefsky was talking about:

"You are an old man who thinks in terms of nations and peoples. There are no nations; there are no peoples. There are no Russians. There are no Arabs. There is no third world. There is no west. There is only one holistic system of systems; one vast interwoven, interacting, multivariate multinational dominion of dollars. Petrodollars, electrodollars, reichmarks, rubles, rin, pounds and shekels. It is the international system of currency that determines the totality of life on this planet. That is the natural order of things today."

And while my nuclear family marveled at the opening ceremonies, I sat in another room fueling my anger by immersing myself in the latest Martin Cruz Smith/Arkady Renko novel. Renko would agree with me. We would share some vodka and shake our heads comfortable in our righteousness.

Then the first race began.

For the next 20 days, I watched everything. It was great. The races, the contests of strength, of speed, of agility. It was a great Olympics, and I was thrilled to watch.

Then near the end, the men's marathon was run and in the middle of the race the runners passed Tiananmen Square. The NBC annoucer gave all the history: all the facts and figures about its size, both ancient Chinese as well as Communist names for the buildings. But not a word about 1989.

I waited. "Say something!" Would the Chinese cut the transmission? Had NBC agreed not to mention the event? Did no one remember? As the commentator told us how many football fields would fit into the square, I got sick to my stomach.


I was a sell out. I was the bluster.

I know that this is a temporary dip into self loathing. But I feel guilty.

Maybe the guilt is a good sign.


Before, I felt like Dr. Miles J. Bennell, screaming at the world, unable to get anyone to listen. Then I went to sleep and woke up just like everybody else. "Supporting the athletes," forgetting about all the realities behind the hypocrisy.

Then the marathon and the guilt.

Still, if no one cared about the Chinese, then no one cares about the guilt either.

Moose Droppings: Election, Part II

The election of 1964 was an anomaly. It was a referendum on the assassination of President Kennedy. Lyndon Johnson won 44 states and the District of Columbia (which was voting in its first-ever presidential election.)

Among those 44 states were Alaska, Idaho, Indiana, Kansas, Nebraska, North Dakota, Oklahoma, South Dakota, Utah, Virginia, and Wyoming. These eleven states have never again voted for the Democratic candidate for president.

Here is a more in depth look at the voting record of these states. In all cases the 1 represents the election of 1964.

Republican - Democrat

Alaska
1960-2004
12 elections, 11 - 1

Idaho
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 –1

Indiana
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 - 1

Kansas
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 – 1

Nebraska
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 – 1

North Dakota
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 – 1

Oklahoma
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 - 1

South Dakota
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 – 1

Utah
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 – 1

Virginia
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 – 1

Wyoming
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 – 1

If this current election does not have an "outside factor", as so many of the anomaly elections do (1992, 1964, 1948, 1932, 1912), will any of those eleven states break their streak?

It is an odd thing about these six elections I have just listed. Something outside the norm influenced the outcome, and in all cases, a Democrat won.

So the question I would ask the two parties leaders is this: "If all conditions are normal, why would you waste your money campaigning in these states?"

If history is our guide, McCain should win them all without spending a dollar--and Obama will lose them all no matter what he spends.

In the interest of full disclosure, Minnesota and the District of Columbia are lined up on the Democratic side.

Democrat - Republican

Minnesota
1960-2004 12
elections, 11 – 1

District of Columbia
1964-2004
11 elections, 11 -0

Does any of this sound possible in a land of free choice? Is it true that we are so set in our way of thinking that the ground has to shake for a change to occur?

Is either candidate really a man of difference and can people so entrenched in history respond to change?

I know this entry presents many questions, but the time to ask them is before we cast our votes.

Dear Batman...

Dear Batman,

With all due respect, you are not a superhero and you should never been confused with one. You are a crime fighter. Actually, you are a twisted, unhappy, brooding man who uses crime fighting as therapy. And your brand of crime fighting gets people killed. Fortunately for you, they are usually people you care about, and thus the cycle continues.

Thanks but no thanks. See a shrink. You are a billionaire, you can afford wall-to-wall therapists.

I for one am happy with Superman. Happy, friendly, invincible. Adoptive father died from a heart attack. No need to track down a bad guy, or even sulk. Shed a tear, give a donation to the Heart Fund, then try and be the kind of man your father would have been proud to know.

To the creative team of the The Dark Knight: thank you, thank you, and thank you for showing us a Batman with all of his warts on parade. I, for one, certainly prefer this look at the caped crusader-it is much more in line with both my and my Batman obsessed, holiday ruining brother’s understanding of the character.

As the credits started rolling on "The Empire Strikes Back II", I once again thought to myself, “Do I really have to feel sick for two years?” The answer, of course, is yes. 'Cause that’s how franchises get ya.

Signed,

C. Kent

June 1938

Ken, David and Shelby

This September will mark the 18th anniversary of the premiere of Ken Burns’ documentary masterpiece, The Civil War. If the “war between the states” was an interest of yours, everything you had ever read led up to this event. If your exposure to the subject was a chapter in a high school history book, then this was a real education. I had the pleasure of meeting Ken Burns two years ago at a media event in New York City. It was very hard not to act like Ethel Mertz when she met John Wayne. We spoke for about fifteen minutes and I was honored to be able to give him my thoughts on his contributions to history, education and the fulfillment of television's original promise.

My current viewing of this series was started by a piece I had read on Gettysburg. I wanted to see the episode of The Civil War that covered this historic battle, but I found it impossible not to start at the beginning. This was the first time I had watched the series since the death of Shelby Foote (1916-2005). Foote, a novelist and historian, played a major role in the documentary. Now, I saw what I had not noticed before, the structure of the narration. Ken Burns had brought together the perfect broadcast team to present this historic “sporting event”.

Author and historian David McCullough as narrator played the part of the play-by-play man, giving a detailed account of the events and the people we were seeing and learning about. Foote filled the position of the color commentator, sharing with the viewer the insights and stories that made these “ancient” names and events current and ever so human.

Each of these men has a distinct voice, a sound and a style that very quickly becomes familiar to the listener. After one episode you are so in tuned with their inflections that a change in tone sends your heart beating faster as you wait for the next story that will change your view on this pivotal moment in our nation’s history.

Normally I would use this topic to discuss the historic importance of this event or that. Today I just want to give you a different view of a fabulous resource. It harkens back to the dawn of civilization when our histories were passed down to the next generation orally. One can only imagine the storyteller possessing both a strong memory and a commanding voice. Burns's use of still photography took the place of cave paintings. The only real movement and life they had was with the accompanying words.

Last fall I sat in a lecture hall to hear David McCullough talk about Franco-American relations. I sat with my eyes closed. The voice of this story teller supplied the rest.

Watch the series again. Listen to the series again. Pay attention to this “historical tag-team” as they breakdown the battles, politics and humanity of the re-creation of the United Sates. And if you happen to run into Ken Burns, tell him Mr. Moose says, "Thanks again."

That's freakin' huge!

My oldest is not a morning person. So when she starts a conversation in the car at 7 a.m., I jump right on board.

“That new Target?”

“Yeah?”

“The last time I was there it was a hole in the ground, they had just started building.”

“It has been open, a couple months. “

“I pulled up and like WOW! It’s ginormous!”

“Ginormous?”

"It’s a combination of gigantic and enormous."

"Which is bigger?"

"It is gigantic, then enormous, then ginormous."

"So ginormous is the biggest?"

"Yeah."

"What about 'titanic'?"

She thought for a moment, and then said:

"Titanic is bigger than both gigantic and enormous, but not ginormous."

"So why wouldn’t you use a combination of titanic and enormous, 'tinormus.'"

"Because that sounds stupid, besides it is a building not a ship. Titanic works only for boats."

"Ah, so ginormous is simply a land measurement."

"Yes."


I left her at the bus stop and she went to work. I ran directly to the source. In generations past, the source could have been a religious leader, a parent, a teacher even a librarian. For me the source is Google.

I entered "ginormous."

Here is what I found. At http://www.unwords.com/unword/ginormous.html, the Unword Dictionary says:

Definition of ginormous :.
(jī-nôr'm s)
1. 1. (adj.) Used to describe something so large that it is additively gigantic and enormous.

Origins: The contraction of gigantic or giant and enormous. This word is very close to acceptance into today's vocabulary.

Example: "Millicent, that 32 pound cat of yours is ginormous!" "That's freakin' huge! That's ginormous!"

Freakin’! I know what freakin’ means but I needed the Unword Dictionary’s definition.

And guess what? They don’t have one. How can you use a word in a definition that doesn’t exist in your own dictionary? I found myself slowly slipping into the pit of confusion that makes up most of my waking hours. So I left the Unword Dictionary and returned to the Google home page where I once again saw my search for Ginormus, Where a second glance revealed this:

http://www.usatoday.com/life/books/2007-07-10-dictionary-new-words_N.htm

It seems that in 2007, Merriam-Webster, added Ginormus to their collegiate dictionary.

And the here is where my head started pounding.

gi·nor·mous
\jī-nor-ms\
Function: adjective
Etymology: gigantic + enormous
Date: circa 1948
: extremely large : humongous


1948? 1948! Come on! And what about humongous? How is ginormus bigger than humongous?

These are now the tasks infront of me.

1. Find the 1948 birthplace of ginormous;
2. Find humongous’ place in the “big word” list;
3. Find a dictionary that has "freakin’"

because Merriam Webster did not have it either. It did have freaking and I'm sure its the same thing! But still I need freakin'!

The worst thing about this is that when my daughter checks in to this blog, she will say, "See, I told ya."

The Fault and The Solution

Self-help sometimes needs an outside influence, here is mine.

I had friend who lost 100 pounds and successfully kept it off.

Her story is always amazing to me. When she finally decided to help herself, she attacked weight loss with a vengeance. Complete and total control and a motivation to succeed that was inspirational to everyone she met. When she was down 70 pounds, she stopped losing weight. Weeks went by and not another ounce. Her counselors were baffled. Every week they would come up with a list of suggestions, check and re-check her weekly intact. Nothing. It was not natural, she was as rigid with her diet and exercise as she had been all along. No one could figure it out.

She and only she knew why. She was an alcoholic. Neither her husband nor children not friends had a clue. She drank herself into a stupor during the day when no one else was around. Then she would pull it together, put dinner on the table and nobody was any the wiser.

So, of course, the last 30 pounds were calories from alcohol that she wasn’t figuring into the equation. Her cover was blown one day when her car broke down and she had to call her daughter for help. After the initial family shock, she agreed to go to AA. She attacked the fight against alcoholism with the same fervor that she had her weight loss. Once she beat the drinking, she lost the last 30 pounds.

And just like that, neither the weight and the drinking ever took control her life again. Even when she was dying of cancer, she never let anything break the stride of who she was and what she had accomplished.

I once asked her why it took so long to face up to what was happening. She told me, “I was an alcoholic long before I was fat. Losing weight was nothing compared to stopping drinking. Plus it was tougher to face the problem nobody saw.”

But I always think about those weeks where she wasn’t losing. What was going on in her head? Had she really convinced herself that she didn't know? That’s my guess.

And when I find myself with a problem and I'm backed into a corner, I stop my first thought, which is "how did this happen?" I force myself to review and nine time out of ten the reason as well as the answer comes to me.

It has helped to be able to point the finger at myself when there is a problem. Because if I am the fault, I can also be the solution.

Moose Droppings: Election, Part I

Senior senator from Arizona, John McCain, vs. junior senator from Illinois, Barack Obama.

An e-mail from an American friend living abroad came today, asking about U.S. senators who were also presidents.

I told him I would answer here; a classroom of one can be so boring.

Fifteen men held both offices. Andrew Johnson, being the only one to serve after his presidency, was elected senator from Tennessee in 1874, five years after leaving the White House.

Twelve men served as senators prior to their presidency, but were not holding that office when elected:

James Monroe
John Quincy Adams
Andrew Jackson
Martin Van Buren
William Henry Harrison
John Tyler
Franklin Pierce
James Buchanan
Benjamin Harrison
Harry Truman
Lyndon Johnson
Richard Nixon

Leaving two: Warren G. Harding and John F. Kennedy as the only two men to be elected president while serving as a U.S. senator.

A morbid note for the overly superstitious: neither Harding nor Kennedy finished his term of office.

And though not asked, but certainly thought about: congressmen?

In total, nineteen men have held both the presidency and a seat in the House of Representatives: Eighteen prior to becoming president and one, John Q. Adams, after leaving the White House.

The other eighteen are:

James Buchanan
George H. W. Bush
Millard Fillmore
Gerald Ford
James Garfield
William Harrison
Rutherford Hayes
Andrew Jackson
Andrew Johnson
Lyndon Johnson
John Kennedy
Abraham Lincoln
James Madison
Richard Nixon
William McKinley
Franklin Pierce
James Polk
John Tyler

Polk has the distinction of being the only Speaker of the House to later become president.

Also, Garfield is the sole sitting congressman to be elected president. He was also elected a U.S. senator during the same election. He opted for the presidency.

It should be noted that he too did not finish out his term.

"Please, make this nation remember how futures are built."

On July 16, 1984, I watched Mario Cuomo give the keynote address at the Democratic National Convention in San Francisco. His speech, which I believe is one of the best I’ve ever heard, made two things clear. The first was the there was no way Walter Mondale could win. Mondale, a fine public servant, had none of the fire or oratory that Cuomo had just used to electrify the Convention Center. The second was, "Is this all that is left of the convention process: the prospect of great speeches?"

In a system where candidates run for President for three years, while still “working" for their constituents back home. The primary system has morphed in to a hideous leviathan and the political parties are content to have the process settled in advance. This leaves us to watch toothless conventions, infomercials for a product we need, but may not want.

Now with that said, I always watch and will always watch…usually on C-SPAN, to avoid commentary. But this year I am not looking forward to this process at all.

Not looking forward to the speeches meant to rally the troops...a catch phrase appearing…the crowd picking up on it and chanting as they wave placards bearing the catch phrase. How can they be rallied when they know in advance what they are going to hear?

It is July 25. The Democrats start on August 25, followed a week later by the Republicans. I am hoping against hope for some hint of rhetoric or glimmer of inspiration.

Please. I don’t care which party it is, so long as I hear something that makes me say “Yes.”

It has been too many years since I said yes.

The Floor Factor

I’m an Italian Jew. We are a rare breed, vowel at the end of the name, yarmulke on the head. The two cultures are very similar in that they both revolve around food.

When I was growing up, it didn’t matter the occasion: my parents invited 75 people to the house and served food for 150. At the end of the day, we would send everyone home with leftovers and we still had enough for 30 to feed our family of five. Half the people would come back the next day and my mother would cook more so that there would be enough. And there always was. I know that this isn’t normal, but it seemed normal when I was a kid and honestly it still seems normal to me now.

Today, every time we are having company over, my wife and I have the same argument. I want there to be trays of food out when guests arrive, she wants the kitchen floor clean.

My way says, “Hello guests, you are welcome, you are family, let’s break bread.”
Her way says, “Hello guests, you are welcome, you are family, we are not slobs.”

Trust me, you can not prepare food and have a clean floor, simultaneously.

And this leads to a confession.

I know I’m in the minority but I hated the musical Les Mis.My wife hated it and our unborn child tried to claw her way out of my wife’s belly in an attempt to escape. I hated this show with such a passion that at intermission I left my extremely pregnant wife in the theater and ran across the street to steal a loaf of bread. My hope was to be arrested so I would not have to sit through the second act.
Anyway, the night we were prisoners at the Broadway Theater, the largest applause from the audience was for a scene change. A fabulous moment, the vertical slums of Paris spin in the air and become the horizontal barracks of the uprising. The audience went wild, including us. Note that I have a BFA in theater, and this is what I was taught (and I might be paraphrasing here): "If during a show the audience is paying attention to the scenery…YOU ARE SCREWED!"

Why tell you this? Because if you come to my house to eat, this is the conversation I hope you're having as you drive away.

“My God, have you ever had a better meal? Really restaurant quality. I couldn’t stop eating…They made enough for thirty.”

The conversation I pray is not happening

"My God, have you every seen such clean floors? Where should we go to eat?”

My wife’s family is British. They don’t know about food. The very reason the British built the greatest navy on earth was so they could go out and eat, because there is never anything to eat in England. But if they had food, you could eat it off their floors. Spotless!

Hello

Hello.

Since the advent of Caller ID, I have stopped saying "hello" when I answer the phone. That is if I know the caller. Depending on who is phoning I will do one of the following:

1. Continue a previous conversation in mid-sentence.
2. Attempt a foreign accent.
3. Say something stupid.

If the caller is not a familiar name, I will switch to the neutral "Yes," much in the manner of Lurch from the Addams Family

While my level of maturity has never been high, Caller ID has somehow helped my already low standards sink further into the abyss of idiocy.

On outgoing calls, I have always stuck with my main stay. Since I know who I’m calling and I remember every conversation I’ve ever had, I just:

Continue a previous conversation in mid-sentence.

Why I do this is hard to say. Maybe I think it's funny.

But after answering the phone like an idiot tonight and finding a frantic friend on the other end, I have decided to try "Hello" for a while.

There is a scene in the movie Say Anything, where Jason Gould, whose appearance is over the top, sees himself in the mirror. He is shocked. That is sort of how I feel tonight.

I will report back as to how this change is received.

Help in the Hospital Hallway

My first cathartic experience while reading a blog happened today. Here is the link.

In it, a young lady tells a story about a woman who comforted her outside of her mother's hospital room. I will not excerpt or paraphrase her story. You can read it.

The blog touched me, because I too had found help in a hospital hallway.

Five years ago, our middle child was in the hospital having been diagnosed with Type I diabetes. It was late one night/early one morning, we had been in the hospital for about 18 hours.

In an effort to reduce her blood sugar level, she was on an insulin drip and the nurses were testing her blood every hour. As soon as a nurse would come in to the room, I would rouse myself from the twilight sleep I was trying to fight off.

Finally, at 5 a.m., I heard through the haze of real sleep, a nurse saying "Dad, Dad" and then my daughter calling "Daddy, Daddy"

Sound asleep. I had let my guard down and had allowed the exhaustion to win. My daughter was only eleven and she wanted me awake for this test, it was a large amount of blood. When the vials were filled, she fell right back to sleep.

I left the room, which was at the end of the wing and started to walk. By the time I reached the middle of the hallway, where the nurse’s station stood, I had tears running down my face. I was letting the whole thing: the shock, the fear and the exhaustion get the upper hand. And I couldn't let this happen, because my daughter would be up again in an hour for another blood test and she would need me.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, I turned it was a nurse. She said,"Dad, it’s going to be alright," then gave me a hug.

I hugged back and said "thank you."

I continued walking to the end of the hall. I looked into each room seeing parents, sitting, sleeping, pacing. Children with casts, with breathing apparatus with shaved heads. All of a sudden I understood.

"Dad, it’s going to be alright."

The nurse could not say that to all these parents. In some of those rooms it would not be alright.

I turned at the end of the hallway and marched back. I wasn’t exhausted anymore. I wasn't afraid. I was ready, and when my daughter woke up for the next test, I would be there for her.

Many times since then my wife, my daughter and I have gone back to that same hospital hallway to help newly-diagnosed families come to terms with the shock. I tell them about the help in the hallway and I assure them it is going to be alright.

I feel that I owe it to them and I owe it to the other parents, the ones that will never be able to hear those words.

An Open Letter To My Editor

If this entry has unique spelling or bizarre punctuation the reason will soon become clear to you.

As I have mentioned in at least one other blog, before Mr. Moose’s Story Book hits the web it is “cleansed’’. The proof reader is a good friend and fellow blogger. Whether because of blogs, family issues, celebrity deaths or just a quick story- we communicate several times every day. Between phone calls, IMs, texts and emails, we are always in contact.

A couple of months ago his blog contained a story so amazing, so astonishing, so incredible, that I was amazed, astonished, and incredulous that I had never heard a word about the topic. The events, for which I have provided you the link, took place over an extended length of time. Yet, again, I knew nothing.

Upon reading his blog, I instantly called and asked quite peevishly why I knew nothing of this story. If you have linked over already, I think you will agree that this story would not just “slip your mind.”

The relationship had changed. I was now going to forever be like the new bride who marries the non- communicative husband: only ever able to find out things through the eyedropper method of communication.

My editor and friend, a resident of my old homestead suburban Washington D.C., often takes his family to Ocean City, Maryland. They tan and or burn depending on skin pigments. So when he said they were going away for a long weekend, pictures of fun in the sun popped into my mind.

Over the weekend, a mutual friend called with another story, and mentioned that he had just gotten off the phone, having told it to my editor.

“Oh, are they still in Ocean City?’

“Ocean City? They are in the Finger Lakes.”

“Huh?”

“Upstate New York.”

“I know where the Finger Lakes are.”


We hung up, and I dialed my editor. I was now a cross between the new bride and a petulant child.

“What are you doing in the Finger Lakes? I thought you were going to Ocean City?”

“We are here with friends.”

“You mean your real friends right?!”

In my own teenaged girl- like defense, it was not only that they passed us by in North Jersey to get there, it just seems that as with that blog entry, this should have come up when speaking to someone everyday.

So I asked. Now very much like a teenaged girl:

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to the Finger Lakes?”

And then came the response that neither the girl, the bride, nor I ever wanted to hear, because some how we are at fault:

“You didn’t ask.”

To be honest I would have preferred "because it's none of your business", but I got...

"You didn't ask."

The problem is- my life is an open book, or, specifically an open Story Book. I just assume everyone wants to share every detail of their life all the time.

So to my friend and editor: I accept the blame and will try to work into our daily transmissions questions regarding Bull Frogs and the Finger Lakes.

I have been remiss, please forgive me. I’m a terrible friend. I will try to change.

But if I can’t- is there anyone interested in editing a blog site? Leave a comment below.

Other than a mastery of English grammar, the only requirement is a willingness to share stories of your life and occasionally have them posted over the internet.

The Noonan Conundrum

I get The Golf Channel. That is to say the cable package I have includes The Golf Channel.
I have never watched it until today, wasn’t even aware it was on my TV.

Here is a golf question. I don’t play, so I am asking for some clarification from golfers.

Ready?

There are two teams of two players playing a round and with all four players on the 18th green; the score is tied. Team A’s first player putts out in two and Team A’s second player sinks his first putt. Team B’s first player putts out in two and Team B’s second player sinks his first putt.

The match is still even, right? If the answer is yes, and I can’t see how it wouldn’t be, will someone please explain the end of the movie Caddyshack?

Judge Smails and Doctor Beeper are tied with Ty Webb and Danny Noonan. They are all on the green when Lou announces the match is even. The Doctor two-putts. The Judge sinks his shot with "Ole Billy Barou." Ty two-putts, then says to Danny “if you miss it, we lose.”

This is, of course, correct. But if he makes it, they would only be tied. Once Ty two-putts there was no way they could win, only tie, Ty. Forget explosions, forget gophers. The end of the movie is wrong.
Or maybe it’s me. Somebody help me with this.

And another thing, can someone explain to me why on the Saturday morning of the British Open, The Golf Channel was showing Caddyshack two times, back-to-back?

It is of course easier to understand why I watched it both times.

Still, once this is settled, I need to start working on Roy Hobbs walk off homer in Chicago.

It's A Morale Builder, Isn't It?

Jeanine: Oh, no! I told them once, I told them a hundred times, put "Spinal Tap" first and "Puppet Show" last.

Derek: It's a morale builder, isn't it?

Jeanine: We've got a big dressing room, though.

David: What?

Jeanine: Got a big dressing room here...

David: Oh, we've got a bigger dressing room than the puppets? Oh, that's refreshing..

This Is Spinal Tap

Let me start at the end. The line up for Wingstock 2008 is as follows.

Mini Kiss will open...

...followed by Kansas...

...and then the headliner: Peter Frampton.

Now I want to go back twenty-four hours before this line up was finalized, when I found the above ad in free paper in central Jersey. And my head started hurting.

No offense to Kansas, but I was less shocked by seeing them in the third slot than I was by seeing Peter Wolf in the second. Not that he should be headlining, but warm up for a band to be named later. That has got to be rock-and-roll hell. As both a solo artist and front man for The J. Geils Band, Wolf has had his share of hits. As a club DJ in the early '80s, I can tell you he was hot. I hated him, couldn't stand J. Geils. But my opinion is just that, mine.

How do Mr. Wolf or his handlers agree to take the number two spot at a concert without knowing who was number one?

This question will now rise to the top of unresolved rock questions in my mind. It surpassed the following:

Has Keith Moon really been dead for 30 years?
What happened between Bruce Springsteen and Julianne Phillips?
Why did Paul Weller break up The Jam?
How is it possible that Keith Richards is still alive?

For twenty-four hours this had me crazy. I was deperate to say to Mr. Wolf, “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.”

Then the miracle. Peter Frampton was announced. Mr. Wolf was gone, Kansas had moved up and somehow, someway Wingstock was able to get Mini Kiss. What luck that they were free!

So now the question in my mind had changed. Why had Peter Wolf dropped out? Was Frampton too big for him? Was he hoping he was going to move into the number one spot? What was he thinking? He hasn’t had a hit in years! He should have been thrilled with the gig. My head was hurting again.

And I thought about how none of this really mattered since I would not be attending Wingstock.

But if anyone can contact Mr. Wolf, I would sleep easier.

As for "the ad," it takes alot of spunk to print that.

And to quote Lou Grant, "I hate spunk!"