Invasion of the Banichki Snatchers

Russia is a strange land.

A strange land where people don't celebrate Christmas on the 25th of December.  And think fish eggs are a delicacy.  And wear live bear cubs on their heads.

"Don't ask about the carpets". 

But a largely un-highlighted aspect of Russian culture is what I call the Native American mentality.

Probably the largest complaint that Native Americans had about the White man wasn't that we viciously killed and raped and destroyed their entire homeland with little to no regard for the original inhabitants of the land.  No.  It was that we didn't use all of the parts of the Buffalo when we killed it.

However, if, instead of Spanish and English colonists, the first settlers were Russian colonists, I think they would have gotten along a lot better.

For example, it is well documented that Russians will reuse grocery bags as trash bags.  Ok, that's not too weird.  I remember doing that too back in the day.  Also, they will wash out the "Banichki" (or small containers) that they get their pickled olives, tomatoes, watermelons, mushrooms and herring in from the grocery store.  (Yes, they WILL pickle all of those items)  They then use them as a kind of Tupperware, or a coin collector/piggy bank.  Or, in a pinch, as a little hat.  Russians are also known to save and dry out used paper towels.  While definitely classified as insane, I realize this is not unique to the Russian culture.

But probably one of the most outrageous things I've noticed that I've never seen before is when they save Styrofoam meat trays.  That's right, that yellow thing the meat comes in.  They will save and wash this and use it for a serving dish or a non-permanent cutting board.  

Meanwhile, my wife and I just spent a billion dollars on some ultra super special secret crazy Lock & Locks.  Which are like Tupperware on PCP.  Why?  I'm not sure, but I think we came up with the reason it was "for Sammy's food".  In retrospect, I think some Pickled Tomato Banichki might have been a good alternative.

Disclaimer: I am not saying that I don't understand WHY they save everything, I'm simply pointing out that it is strange from an American ultra-consumerist perspective.  I don't think I need to say it, but I will just for good measure: I understand the historically limited availability of household goods in Russia.

Origins of our Culture - Part 1

American culture bothers me.  Or, because it's important to be specific, suburban white upper middle class American culture bothers me. 

I went to first and second grade in San Diego public schools.  Then I was homeschooled, and then brought to Italy as a Navy brat.  The next time I was in a domestic American school was 7th grade.  But that was deep in the Pennsylvanian Poconos, which, arguably, isn't real American culture.  Appalachia is its own culture all unto itself.

In 8th grade, my parents were in a better spot financially, so they enrolled me in a swanky private school in rural Virginia.  By that time, I had spent 6 years almost entirely removed from any real exposure to what it meant to be a suburban upper middle class white kid. 

Apparently, it has a lot to do with smoking pot in your friend's parents' BMW.

But that's besides the point.  Becoming exposed to American culture as a 13 year old is like that first time you get to drink alcohol - you're so excited about the idea of drinking, but when you finally get to know what gin or whiskey or vodka actually tastes like, you're like...um...this is stupid, how can anybody drink this stuff?  But then, after you have a couple shots, you start to feel much better about the whole situation, and somehow, football starts to make sense.

I never got past the first couple shots.  Football still seems to be incredibly stupid. Same goes for all sports, really.  Barbecued pulled pork.  Disneyland.  Turkey Trots.  Chuck E. Cheese.  The electric slide.  Apple pie.  White kids playing gangster rap.  Jimmy Buffet and Fat middle aged men in Hawaiian shirts.  And while we're on songs typically played by dirty dueling pianos after midnight on Caribbean cruises, that song "The Piano Man". 

It all just tastes like rubbing alcohol, burning the entire way down.  But I think it's mostly because white suburban culture (not unlike most other American sub-cultures) is born out of consumerism and gluttony, and unless you've been born and raised in this culture, you don't really get a chance to see just how well American schools teach their marketing majors. 

So as you could imagine, I struggled to make friends in high school and college, tending to avoid the overwhelming sea of guys trying to out-BBQ or out-Football each other while blasting either "Cheeseburger in Paradise" or "Gangster's Paradise" over the radio.

This is why, I think, I became so attracted to Russian culture - it seemed a lot less threatening.  When introduced to things, I was SUPPOSED to not know anything about them.  I enjoyed so much how we could sit around the dinner table on a Tuesday night until eleven BS-ing and having tea without ever retiring to the living room to plop down on the couch and waste away the night reluctantly watching Survivor.  Or on the weekends, we would march down the streets of Washington D.C., Philly or State College, or any place that could serve as a backdrop for walking hand in hand mulling over our wants and dreams, our future and our past, as walking aimlessly isn't a huge part of American culture. Or how we could go to the Russian Sauna and spend eight hours drinking and laughing with our half naked friends where nobody cares what you look like in a bathing suit.  Or how we might start eating New Year's dinner at 11:30pm and won't finish until six or seven in the morning surrounded by the closest friends and family playing guitar and singing and dancing around like idiots, thanking the past year for all its great moments, and asking the new year to bring on nothing but happiness. 

A lot of this might be because I was unlucky with my own family - my father was too focused on his career and never around to show me how fun watching football with the guys or going to Chuck E. Cheese's could be - and very lucky in finding a woman with such a great and rich culture.  But I also think a lot of it also has to do with the fact that American culture, at its very foundation, is mostly concerned with getting you to buy something you don't want, and until ten minutes ago, you've probably never heard of. 

And this has gotten me thinking a lot about my own origins - largely Irish and Scottish, with a good helping of German lumped in there - and how almost entirely absent those cultural traditions were from my childhood.  Something I'll save for another time

Re-Opening of the Bolshoi - Reflections of an American

One of the most admirable things about Russian Culture is their commitment to the arts.  The Bolshoi Theater re-opened this weekend in Moscow after 6 years of renovations with about as much pomp as a Post-Soviet culture will allow.  Below are the highlights.



Go here if you'd like to watch the whole thing, including a pretty incredible Swan Lake.

What really amazes me about Russian culture is that in the audience, you can see all the major pop stars, movie stars, government officials and (presumably) powerful business people.  In my MBA classes, we study Russia as a so-called "emerging market" along with Brazil, India and China (the "BRIC" countries of current major emerging markets).  However, when you consider that Russia has one of the highest literacy rates and one of the highest rates of advanced degrees per capita (not to mention the USSR was a super power that beat the US to space), it's difficult to think about it on the same level as China and India, who (at least in my mind) more aptly fall within the definition of "Emerging". 

Could you see something like this happening in the US?  This is the equivalent of Britney Spears, Mel Gibson, John McCain, and Bill Gates sitting down to watch a two hour ballet/opera/nationalism extravaganza in an opera house as old as the US itself.  I could never imagine a situation that would match this actually happening in America.  Not only because we don't have any opera houses that have been steeped in as much national pride as the Bolshoi, but also because Americans in general just don't care about the arts.  The closest thing we've had to celebrity endorsement of the arts was Gwyneth Paltrow showing up on Glee in a Marie Antoinette outfit singing Cee-Lo.  God, how I hate her.

But besides this, if you watch the highlights, you get a sense of WHY this would never happen in the states.  The government spent $700 million dollars restoring the building with hand crafted wooden wall adornments, a 6-meter chandelier, and a stage large enough to handle the entire Russian proletariat class all at once.  Obama can't spent $0.50 without the tea party shitting their proverbial pants, let alone $700 million on something the majority of tea party members will never see or can even remotely appreciate.  They'd likely rather see a Blue Angels Superbowl flyby.  Probably costs the same, too.

It's strange, though, that from an American perspective the performance seemed so self-congratulatory.  The Bolshoi troupe spent about five minutes of the entire performance filling up a massive stair-set reminiscent of the Battleship Potemkin's Odessa Steps sequence for the sole purpose, it seemed, of showing just how massive the stage was.  All of this was in front of a scaled down version of the entire opera house, as if to say - "Hey, don't forget that we just spent more than half a decade and close to a Billion Dollars renovating this place!!"  Medvedev gave a long, boring speech before retiring to the Tsar's balcony, and an intricate light show played upon the outside of the building while fireworks erupted above. 

Not that I don't agree with the renovation, or think that they should be lauded for supporting the arts.  I just don't think if we were to do something like this, we would be so "hey, look how awesome WE are".  We already know how awesome we are, I guess.  Flaunting it would just be overkill and rude.

Another thing to note: Russians start to applaud in a sea of applause similar to the way Americans applaud, but then, if they really liked something, they typically will all end up clapping in unison. I've been to a couple Russian performances (violin virtuosos and stringed quartets straight from Russia to NE Philly) where the entire audience all started clapping together.  It made me incredibly uncomfortable.  At first, I thought they were mocking the performers, until my wife explained it to me. 

Russians Want to Touch Your Baby

Americans have two modes of public interaction:

1. "Leave Me Alone, You Crazy Lunatic".  This is generally reserved for homeless people and fellow public transportation takers and passers-by on the street, and people you're in line with to the latest Wes Anderson movie.  The more space we give each other, the better, and I'm residing well within this mentality 99% of the time.  It's where I plan on retiring, deep within Senile Old Man county.  Perhaps "Get off my lawn!" township.

Zombies ESPECIALLY don't like to be touched by weirdo strangers

2.  "Oh My God, Come Here, I Need to Grab You All Over".  This mode is the rarer one, and typically the most scary.  This really only comes about when you're in the company of a serial killer, at a strip joint, or in the vicinity of a pregnant woman/cute baby.

Classic example of #2.  No, not THAT #2, SITUATION #2.  Jeez

I think you know where I'm going with this.

Anyway, I love this set up - I totally understand the boundaries, and have grown up with these rules all my life.  There are a few exceptions, and there are a few people who choose to ignore these rules, but having grown up here, I'm comfortable with my ability to pick out Grabby McTouchy-Pants in a crowd and avoid him as if, well, he will touch you all over.

Clue #1: Grabby McTouchy-Pants tends to grab himself.  A LOT.

But the Russians have been able to find a way to FURTHER polarize these completely opposite sentiments. 

For example, I've spoken about the Grocery store before.  It is a lovely place, full of quiet, distanced judgment.  If you're alone, you are not expected to say "Excuse Me" unless someone is DIRECTLY in your way.  You should not make eye contact with your fellow shoppers, and the only conversation that can ever happen (in only the rarest of situations) is conversation about how slow the woman at the kolbasa/bread counter is moving, or how stupid she is.  Also, as a side note, Russian culture allows you to revert to your primal instincts should there be a price discrepancy at the cashier or if there is a wild sale happening. 

Stampedes are acceptable. 

$0.02 off Pierogies??? BUY/EAT ALL THE PIEROGIES.

This is not like American stores, where you're expected to say "excuse me", eye contact is ok, and limited and minor friendly banter about sales or food choices is acceptable.

HOWEVER, should you be carting around an adorable 8 month old baby who is curious and tends to squeal with glee periodically, it is perfectly acceptable for crazy Russian Grandmas to attack you from all sides like you're Colonel Custer at Little Big Horn. 

"Give me Baby. I wanna it now."

All of the following happened in the past few trips to the grocery store, without exaggeration:

• An old guy winked and clucked at Sammy like a chicken with an eye spasm.
• A young woman tried to play the Russian version of "Patty Cake" with him the second I turned my back to get a bag of potatoes
• Grandmas (yes, more than one) have sprung up from behind me out of no where only to grab his legs and say, loosely translated, "Oh, what nice legs!"
• Standing in line for bread, someone reached out and patted him on the head and said something I didn't understand.
• A rabid team of Cossacks stormed the building atop their horses, headed straight for Sammy, stole him out of my arms, and began tossing him back and forth between themselves while singing Russian Drinking Songs.

Ok, that last one didn't exactly happen like I said. 

It was much, much worse.

But moving on, I want to know what compels people in this germophobic society to reach out and grab someone's child, or come in uninvited to rub a pregnant woman's belly.  The older Russians who came from and grew up in the old country have an excuse - they've never really been part of the Purell explosion of the last 10-15 years in America. 

But while I've been hard on the Russians here, there have been some CLOSE calls in American stores.  I actually had to smack a bitch for coming too close.  No, not really, but I gave her my best dirty look.  After all, who knows if she just pooped and forgot to wash her hands?  And now she's rubbing her hands all over my son!?! No thank you, Poops McGee.

Guest post from the Suniverse

I have a very special, awesome surprise for you: today's guest is the Suniverse, who is the author of her eponymous blog.  And you know what?  She's funny, and clever, and that kind of amazing that you only find once in a while.   Please, read away:


Food, glorious food.

First, I want to thank Bill for being so kind as to invite me to post on his blog, and then being even kinder for not telling me to go suck it when it took me over a month to get him this post.  I am a horrible person.

And that's not the only reason. I'm horrible about the topic of food.

Food is amazing and wonderful and tasty and when you're hungry? It's the best.

It's also weird and bizarre and when you come from an immigrant family, it can be a little scary.  Actually, there are only a few scary things for me [mostly the giant buckets of smelt, the lamb's head that stares at you while people - like your own mother! - start stripping it for weird bits of flesh, and that gross onion stew that permeates the entire house]. 

The other stuff? I'm fine with.  Yummy little bits of meat that have been sauteed until they are super crispy are not merely pieces of fat, they are DELICIOUS.  That baked bit of lamb that's crispy and tasty? OH HOLY HELL, get out of my way.  The crusty bit of dough that has no filling? GIVE IT TO ME, PLEASE.  My sister and I discussed these delicacies, much to my future [non-immigrant] mother-in-law's horror, at the dinner the night before I got married.

The husband, who is generic American, has done a good job enjoying - well, maybe enjoying is too strong a word, maybe he's done a good job just eating the food that is foisted upon him at various parties and dinners.  He deals well with pots of beans and lamb, pastries that are filled with he knows not what and the giant portions that come with them.

I, on the other hand, have a really hard time adjusting to American food.  I mean, it's ubiquitous and I eat it all the time and I cook it, but it never ceases to amaze me that people will make regular American food for a party.  Where is the painstakingly made platter of sweets? You BOUGHT THAT CAKE? What's wrong with you?  You're making dinner and it's a something you'd eat on a weeknight? WHAT? WE'RE COMPANY!

I get very weird about that kind of thing.  It's a culture shock for me, despite the fact that I was born and raised in this country and lived on my own and married an American.  There are some things, evidently, that are simply ingrained in the genes, and my expectation of food that has been slaved over is one of them.

When are you inviting me for dinner?  


Me! I'm inviting you over for dinner.  and I'll get my wife to cook something outrageously rare and difficult.  I'm sure she won't mind.  In the meantime, while she's whipping it up, head over to the Suniverse's blog and get your immigrant on.  Best part of her blog?  The obscure scrubs quote at the top.

ATTENTION: WORLD

I normally don't follow celebrities.  I think it's a giant waste of time worrying about people you'll never meet, or will never have an effect on your life.

BUT THIS IS DIFFERENT.  Why?  Because it shows a couple very important things that I've been pounding the table about for as long as I had fists.

So, what's the impetus for all this fluff'n stuff?  Justin Bieber has finally admitted the obvious: he wears women's pants.

"They're comfortable," he said. "I like the way that they feel around my ankles when I sit down to pee," he continued.  Ok, I'll admit he only said the first thing. But he was thinking the second thing.

What's wrong with this is that there is a giant shift in what's sexy these days, and I'm not happy about it.  It used to be that guys like this were swooned over.

Arnold ripped this tree out of the ground.  Chainsaws are for wusses.

This dude, while a bit of a tool, is definitely hoss.

May as well be "Huge Jacked-up-man"

I know some people will be like, wait, what about Ryan Reynolds?  Chicks dig him, right?

His face says, "I like dudes" but his body says, "Shut up, face"

He doesn't count.  He married Scarlett Johansson and couldn't make it work.  You lose, buddy.

Moving on, I'm finding that it's guys like this who are becoming much more mainstream for women to swoon over.

Yes, this is a guy.  Google Bill Kaulitz, but be prepared to cry first.

This dude, Bieber, the super skinny and pale dude from twilight, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, even Usher and JT.  All dudes that shop in the women's section.  Though JT is pretty awesome and can do pretty much whatever he wants.  I'm ok with JT.

Ok, I get the whole, "I want to look androgynous and woman-y to either make a statement, or be weird" thing that celebrities often do.  Boy George.  David Bowie.  Ernest Hemingway.  But seriously, does this sort of thing appeal to women?

I was always of the opinion that while, yes, we live in a time when physical prowess means little in the way of being able to protect your loved ones from the random attacking puma/ocelot, women still enjoy feeling that a man could protect her in some situation of hypothetical grave danger.  It's sexist, yes, I confess.  But when there's a saber-tooth tiger chasing you, you likely want a guy who will wrestle that stupid cat down and wear its teeth as a hat.  Something like what 50 cent would do.

Bullet holes?  Or Saber tooth tiger tusk puncture wounds?  You decide.

And while I'm married, and no longer in the market for super hot chicks (I got mine already), this shift of the male physique definitely still has an effect on my daily life.

For example, when I was much younger, I did some next-level bodybuilding.  Thus, I've still got the same frame, though without the same level of physique.  So when I walk into any store with cool clothes, say - H&M for example (but it really is just about every other store), I will try on a shirt. I'll pick up a large, because, well, I'm a big dude.  When I put a large shirt on, I expect it to either fit perfectly, or be too effing big.

Not at H&M.  Whenever I'm there trying to put on an extra-super large shirt, I feel like I'm this guy:



LARGE SHIRTS BARELY FIT ME.  They apparently cut the shirts super tight in the chest and arms so big dudes like me can't wear anything but trash bag clothes.

This is why  I'm opening up a store for real men.  And I'm calling it H,B&M "Hoss Badass Mothafuckas".  And there will be an entrance requirement.  You can't come in unless you can bench your own weight.  And the store will be filled with shirts that have regularly sized arm holes.  And other things, like a steak bar.  It's like a salad bar, but only with steak.  And a lion will guard the register - you have to get past the lion to checkout.  Also? Complimentary protein shakes.  I'll also have to work in arm-wrestling somewhere in there too.

What do you think?  Viable business model?  Whatever, I'll "crush" the competition.  Sorry, I'm even a little embarrassed about that terrible joke.

So anyway, what does "sexy" mean anymore?  Is it about primal subconscious concerns about protection, like in the cases of the big dudes above?  Is it about beauty and sensitivity, like in the cases of the woman-y men previously mentioned?  Or is it about something completely different?  like, say, intelligence or personality?

HAHA - ok, now that we've gotten that joke out there, we can all agree it's not about either of those.

How we Remember

9/11 means a different thing for every single person.

Some people choose to use the day to remember the heroes of the homeland who fought to save lives at great risk to their own.  Some people choose to use the day to remember how vulnerable our country is.  Some people choose to use the day to remember that there are crazy nut-job people in every corner of the earth, in every culture, and in every religion. 

The LEAST we can do is provide healthcare for them.

But I think the unfortunate thing about this is that the majority of people only remember these things on 9/11.  They need a holiday to remind them that there are both heroes and nut-jobs everywhere, and that our country has a giant scar across its face that will likely never heal.

What's the difference between two months ago and today?  Two months ago, no one was even mentioning 9/11.  For the most part - people were mostly just going about their day, chatting with their neighbors about Kim Kardashian's wedding and did Jada cheat on Will and other similarly ridiculous things.  Today, people are posting on Facebook about how they'll "Never Forget".  Two months from now, it will again be back to trivial distractions.

I think it's a bit silly.  If you're going to remember the tragic events, remember the tragic events. Carry it with you every single day.  Of course, don't dwell on it, but don't let that memory sit untouched for 10 years only to resurface with phony tributes in your Facebook status.

I was walking with my wife yesterday to the playground so that Sammy could get his swing on (he loves the swings).  We noticed how uncharacteristically dead quiet the playground was, and commented on how it was likely because most people were observing 9/11 in some way or another.  I told my wife how fake I thought it was, and just like every other time we discuss something - she told me I was stupid.

She told me about the Russian Orthodox tradition, where people who lose a family member will set a place setting (complete with shot glass) out for them at the table for the 9 days (or 40 days, I wasn't really listening, and she definitely said the number 40 about something) after their death to commemorate their passing.  Then one year after their passing, they will put a memorial stone on their grave, and every year on the anniversary of their passing, they will light a candle.

Apparently, after a quick Google search, this is not an uncommon practice.

But the way I see it is: what's so special about that day?  Don't you carry the memory of that person with you every minute of every day?  Their death is no more or less significant to you one year later than it is ten years and three months.  It's a tragedy, simple as that.  And it always will be a tragedy.

So for me, when that fateful time comes, I plan on not doing anything special to commemorate.  I'll just keep it in my back pocket, carrying it with me always.  Same as what I do with 9/11.

Thank God This Whole "Summer" Thing is Over

You know what's great?  Mac 'n Cheese.  Kung Fu Movies.  Raises that are above 5%.   Don't get me started on pirates and ninjas.  Also: thinking you woke up at 6AM on a Thursday only to realize it's 4AM on a Friday and you can get 2 more hours of sleep.

But you know what else is awesome?  Fall.  It's definitely in the final four of the NCAA for Seasons.  There's something like that right?  I don't know sports.

Regardless. If you've never experienced a fall, you've gotta get in on it, because Fall is tremendously amazing for all of the following reasons.

• It is not elevinty billion degrees outside and you do not have to constantly sweat while doing things like sitting around wishing it wasn't summertime.  This is the main benefit to the fall.

In addition to the multitude of reasons listed above, you've also gotta consider the other, less important aspects of the hay-ride to Christmas that is Autumn.  Namely: Hay rides, leaf piles, orange and brown house decorations, and my beautiful country's wondrous decision to write into the constitution the celebration of the Turkey.  It is my constitutional right to have a near death experience once a year from turkey-overdose.  

But on a less ridiculous note, I've gotta refute a little bit the arguments that some people have made that tend to paint Fall as the harbinger of all things cold and awful.  There is something magical about walking through the park, shuffling through the dead leaves with your feet, with your wife's hand in yours while watching the remaining leaves on the trees submit to the inevitable arson that is Autumn.  

In addition, Autumn is the official start of Banya season.  More on this later.

Also, not to sound weird or anything, but I happen to know that I look pretty damn good in fall clothes.  

So there you have it - why I'm super excited about the coming fall.  I'm linking this post up with Mama Insomnia who absolutely loves the fall.  And you can too!  Just click the button below for more discussions about how incredibly awesome the fall is.

A PSA: Music Does NOT Sound Better on Vinyl

Dear hipsters:

Ok, I get that gender and general hygiene have taken a backseat to individual expression and raw humanity.  But do you have to be so weird about it?

Sweet gloves, bro.

Seriously, if you're trying to make a statement, please read Aristotle's Rhetoric.  Especially the part where you're not supposed to disgust the people you're trying to make that statement to. Chapter 2, I think.

I'm sorry that you had to see this picture.

I think the world would take these people more seriously if they didn't wear every item of clothing they owned (or no clothes at all), actively try to look like serial rapists, or judge all people who weren't being as weird as they are.

That is all.  (Source for both photos, and quite possibly my new favorite website)

The Proper Way to Raise a Child

For Russians living in North East Philly, raising a child is a magical thing.  A magical, but intense thing.

Ok, maybe not magical.  Intense is probably more along the lines of adjectives that describe this phenomenon. Intense with pangs of guilt, and judgey-ness.  Because you describe anything that happens in Northeast Philly without using the descriptor "judgey".

You see, my thoughts of childhood were always rife with memories of playing war in the backyard with the neighborhood boys, pretending I was treating a patient as a leading physician with the neighborhood girls, and living my life according to the tenets of Calvin and Hobbes before Bill Watterson even knew what a "transmogrifier" was.  I even played a version of Calvinball,but I called it "Billy-Ball".  Seriously.

But that's not how it works within the Russian Community.  You see, if you're a child being raised by Russian immigrants, your parents traveled across the entire world to give you a better life, and you'd better live that better life exactly as your parents dictate, goddamn it, even if you turn into a miserable wreck. It's a life-long guilt trip, and nobody does guilt better than Russian Jews.

As Sammy grows older, and discussions stray away from the consistency of his diaper droppings, the conversations are starting to get more centered around what activities we're going to involve him in. 

I'm the third one from the left.

My parents are advocating the position of the free range child - opening the door to the back yard and kicking him out until dinner time, and if he doesn't make it in for that, he'll make it back in for bedtime.  The more dirty, the more broken bones, the more trouble he gets into, the better.  Structure, for them, is bad parenting.  This is probably why I can't concentrate on anything for more than thirty minutes, and I've constantly got three hundred grandiose plans steeping in my brain matter - each one of them still on step 1.  This is definitely not an option, because I want Sammy to have at least some structure in his life.

But my in-laws are about as opposite as you can get.  Their position is typical of the entire Russian immigrant community: the more classes and extracurricular activities the better.  "Because WE never had these classes growing up, and we have decided for you that your future success will depend upon how many activities you've participated in before you graduated from diapers." 

This man is definitely not gay

So Sammy is in for it.  There are already plans for him to go to chess classes with a former chess grand-master, who will allow breaks from learning the Monkey's Bum Opening with mathematics tutoring. Apparently, Sammy will also be involved in dance.  I've been trying to compromise that if dance is a must, then let it be break dance.  How awesome would that be??  But the rest of the family wants either ballet, or ballroom.  "Look how far it got Maksim Chmerkovskiy!" is pretty much the best argument for anything, even those subjects not including dance.  There have also been long discussions over the optimum sport in which to participate.  Being a former swimmer, I suggested swimming.  But apparently, there's not enough strategy involved, and it has been suggested that Soccer would be a better choice. And over the summer, I've always dreamed of having a kid that went to Boy Scout camp, where he learned how to shoot bows and arrows, and build shelter from twigs and leaves, and not shower for a week.  But, there's a very good Science summer camp where he will be introduced to the basics of chemistry, physics, and biology.  Also, he must either play the violin, or the piano.  There is no room for argument there.

"BC" stands for "Birth Control".  

 

Maybe we should also get him some really awesome glasses too?  What the military calls "BC" glasses!  or perhaps a luxury pocket protector with matching calculator case!  They would be especially helpful on his trips to his math tutor's place!  Pretty much the only thing I'm 100% in agreement with is that they're also huge advocates of some kind of martial arts.  Good.  This way, when people who lived normal lives want to beat him up for being such a math and science loving tool-bag, he can protect himself better than resorting to throwing pawns at them. 

There's also the worry that if he DOESN'T do these things, all of the other Russian parents and grandparents will look down on him, saying "Oh, look at Sam-a-yul over there, who is already three years old and does not know how to do multi-variable calculus!  His family must not love or care about him.  What is he going to be able to do with his life?  He can't be a lawyer, or doctor, or financial professional, so he will obviously be a homeless drug-addict." 

Ahh, Northeast Philadelphia, if it wasn't for all the shish-kabobs and vodka, I don't know if our relationship could last.

Things said this weekend

"Hey mom and dad, great to see you!  Long trip?"

"Of course, it's totally cool that you take a nap - it's been a tiresome journey for you guys."

"Good afternoon!  ...Late afternoon really.  Feeling rested?"

"No, really.  He's not hungry.  He just ate maybe 15 minutes before you guys woke up.

"Uh...hold on...please don't take off his clothes - we're perfectly capable of deciding whether or not he enjoys his over-alls".

"Wait, no - he doesn't need to suck on steak.  We just started feeding him solids as a supplement.  No need for steak."

"Hey, thanks for pushing baptism, but that's the thing about being grandparents, you're not parents.  You don't get to make decisions about your grandchild.  You only get to enjoy him."

"Much obliged for the advice on bedtime, but his bedtime is exactly the bedtime that we feel is proper for him.  Remember the whole thing about grandparents/parents?  Also, you've seen him for a grand total of ten hours since his birth.  I'm betting we know a little more about when an appropriate bedtime for him is."

"Wait, YOU'RE going to bed?  Already?  Ok, see you tomorrow morning then, right?"

"Huh?  What time did you leave? 6:30am? Without even saying goodbye?  Ok, well...Happy Father's Day, I guess."

Punk is not Music - it's a way of life

I'm pretty punk rock.  I mean, honest to god punk, not these eyeliner and mascara pop punk kids who think punk rock involves shiny spiky belts and an earring.

No, I mean, I grew up punk in the way that purposeful physical bodily harm was considered awesome.  That there was value in poverty - the lifeblood of the country ran through the veins of the poor and disaffected.  For me, punk rock was an expression of how Americans could, and should, rally together in a single expression of unified angst towards the uneven playing field that was corporate and political America.

It was almost as if punk rock was like my very own communist revelation.  A socialist epiphany that I had when I was eleven that grew malignantly within me throughout my teenage years.

I started lining my wardrobe with punk tee shirts.  And while I was fairly proud of how many awesome tee shirts I had, they sometimes ended up in strange places when I grew up.  Like this:

Me and the Fam at Washington Square Park

and then there was this:

My wife and I on our first day of our Honeymoon

The first shirt is a Guttermouth shirt that has on the back of it a list that a police officer gave to the lead guy in the band when he was arrested.  The list is 10 things to do to stop being so punk rock.  One of them is "Don't Injure Yourself".  I always get a kick out of this shirt.

The second shirt is a Bad Religion shirt that has a picture of zombies on the back and the caption, "they'll go anywhere their president tells them to".  That went over really well in a military household.

I must have been fifteen when I bought these shirts, and full of misdirected, communist angst.  And now, the shirts have such a poignant nostalgia that I can't throw them out, but they're so out of place in my daily life that I'm not sure I can wear them anymore.

They're just not relevant these days.  I'm so much more concerned with the happiness that my family gives me that I'm not disaffected enough to really give anarchy and revolution a real honest second thought.  They were beautiful ideals as a sixteen year old kid, but for a family man with a mortgage?  A guy who is now PART of corporate America?  Does that make me a sell out?  Or does that make me a victim of the machine?  Or rather, does it just mean my priorities shifted from global anger and uprising to family-centric happiness?

It's amazing to wear these shirts now when I'm at the mall, and some fifteen year old kid will sport a "Rise Against" tee-shirt, or have a skull tattoo on his or her neck and a spider-web tattoo on their elbow (both of which I once upon a time wanted to get).  I'll be wearing my other Guttermouth shirt that says:

That person will sort of glance knowingly, and I'll look back with nostalgia.  Neither of us will make any real sign of acknowledgement, cause that wouldn't be punk.

But I wonder to myself what that person will end up thinking of their 15 or 16 year old self when they're a family man/woman with a mortgage.

Decline of the state of "Man" - Part Two

So yesterday, I started down a dangerous road - trying to figure out a man's gender role when it came to raising a baby and how to treat his wife.

But delving into relationship gender roles isn't exactly the kind of thing that you can tackle in only one blog post - and plus - there's a good amount of suspense involved when you break things out into multiple blog posts, which (at least theoretically) helps to drive blog traffic. ---makes *cha-ching* sound and does one fist pump trucker style---

But let's get back on topic.  I think a fairly good representation of this phenomenon of the decline of "man" is the emergence and relative acceptance as normal of the "Man Cave".

In preparation for this post, I Googled "Man Cave".  This was the only action of preparation, so don't expect a bibliography or anything.  But I wanted to see if there were already sites out there that were discussing how negative a man cave could be for a relationship, or delving into why, exactly, men need to have Man Caves.

I got nothing.  I searched for a full-on five or ten minutes, so it was definitely an exhaustive search.  If you can find something, please let me know, because I'd like to know I'm not the only one of the species, male or otherwise, that thinks these things are damaging to relationships.  However, There were hundreds of sites describing how to properly set up your own man cave, asking for people to send in pictures of their man caves, places to shop for items you can stuff in your man cave, and Spanish Man Caves (wtf?). 

I've now written "man cave" so much that it's starting to sound less like a place for dudes to hang out and more of a gross and hairy body part. 

Look, I know people need their space every once in a while.  I need to have some quiet the same way that my wife needs to have someone to blabber to.  (just kidding, babe - I love talking to you).  But I'm at work all day.  I drive home and listen to the radio.  I have so much time away from her that I can't imagine coming home and saying to her, "Hey look - I know we just saw each other for the first time today...but I've got some...uh...business to take care of in my Man Cave.  Later!"  Sounds like you're gonna need some...friction reducer.

I've got people at my work who are "happily" married, but end up sleeping in separate bedrooms because the other person snores, or they roll around too much, or a whole host of other reasons.  So, let me get this straight.  You're at work all day, you come home into your man cave, and you sleep in separate bedrooms?  Why get married in the first place?

Didn't you marry your spouse so you could be with her forever after?  Doesn't she make you crazy with happiness every time you look at her?  Don't you love her personality so much that it's like a drug you need to get as much as you can every moment of the day?

Look, no one's saying that you shouldn't spend time with your dude-friends.  Watch sports, drink beers, talk about whether or not a PanzerFaust could take out an incoming meteor, or if an Airplane on a treadmill would move. You know, things the ladies aren't interested in.  But you didn't marry your buds.  The establishment of a physical place to purposefully exclude your woman-love is not only unfair, it's reminiscent of prepubescent clubs for boys who haven't figured out that girls are awesome yet.

from here

Disclaimer: Like the last post, I'd love to hear arguments.  Every relationship works differently, and every person needs a different amount of space.  But what I've outlined above is essentially just my own personal thoughts on the importance of being a close partner to your spouse.

Decline of the state of "Man" - Part One

One of the huge things that pissed me off about being at my brother's wedding was the almost blatant disregard for the fact that I've got a wife and a three month old child. 

When we were going to the rehearsal dinner, he had a fecal emergency which put us back 15 minutes.  When we got to the restaurant, it was as if the world had ended that I wasn't there on time.  Seriously, people were melting like Raiders of the Lost Ark.  (side note - remember this movie for this Saturday).  I was also five minutes late for pictures with the groom because I was taking care of the kid while my wife was pumping, and it's damn near impossible to manage to pump and look after a screaming kid at the same time.  I came downstairs and my dad scolds me like I'm three years old for being five minutes late.  It was like this basically all weekend.

This got me thinking about a few conversations I've had at work with guys who say things like, "the first three months or so aren't that bad, because your wife is breast feeding and you don't have to get up to help." 

When my son descends into hunger-insanity in the middle of the night, I will always get up with my wife.  The routine goes like this: she will generally warm up milk while I try to calm the kid down until the milk's ready.  Then I will feed him while my wife pumps.  Then I'll change him and re-swaddle him and put him down and make sure he falls asleep.  By the time he's asleep, my wife is usually done pumping, and we both go back to sleep at the same time. If I didn't help, she would be up twice as long, feeding the kid and then pumping.

I realize we have a bit of a crazy situation, because my son never figured out breastfeeding, and thus we feed him breast milk from the bottle.  Yes, this is just as terrible as it sounds - but less terrible than an infant with his scream set on "permanent".

But in the first six weeks, when we were giving breastfeeding our most valiant effort, even though my wife was trying to feed, I would still get up, help change,  swaddle and get the kid back to sleep-land.  It wasn't even really a question.  Sure I complained, and still do, but if you've made it through three months of having a kid without complaining, you deserve a medal, or at least a high five and some Cheetos.

But the thing about is, that even though I complained, it wasn't because I had to do it.  I complained because, well, after a couple really, really long nights, it just straight up sucks.  But I still did it because I have a wife who carried and then birthed my child, and a helpless child who needed me to be there for him.  It wouldn't really be fair to say to them, "hey, look - I'm kinda tired.  You mind if I go back to bed and you two figure it out?"  Not only would it be unfair, but I'd also be shirking the responsibilities I signed up for when my wife and I decided to have a child together. 

So that's why I was pissed.  Look, I'm not trying to paint myself as some saint, but I'm just trying to honestly figure out why it is that a dedication to your family first and foremost is not only looked down on by other men, but it is also seen as a kind of weakness - that this is something the wife can take care of, while the man should be asleep.  What is this, 1950 and/or the Middle East?

This rant could go on for two or three more hours, but I think it's probably best to split it up into three different posts.   I wanted to get into the Man Cave phenomenon, as well as the gender role polarization, but I figure it's gonna take forever to get all of it into one post.  Thus, the title of this post contains an insinuation of further parts.

So a serious, honest question: Am I wrong to feel this way?  I'd truly love to hear other points of view, because I'm not exposed to them. And I'm legitimately interested in how other families manage their gender roles.

Baba Nancy - the Jerk-Head Neighbor

My neighbor's name is Bob.  Actually, there are three Bobs that live adjacent to me, but I'm talking about this Bob in particular.  This Bob has a wife named Nancy.  And they are old enough to remember first-hand how the land my house occupies was once sold by the Chinnapewak tribe for the knowledge of how to do a proper Fresh Prince high five.

When we told my in-laws what the names of our neighbors were, we said, "Bob 'n Nancy", which they heard as "Baba Nancy", (loosely translated as Granny Nancy) to which they then asked, "Are they Russian"?  Silly Russians, always on the lookout for other Russians.  Thus, being surrounded by an army of Bobs, we refer to this particular Bob as Baba Nancy.

Baba Nancy is a kindly old man who has been retired from a steel mill, or logging company, or some other thing (I never actually asked) for around 300 years.  Being retired and having absolutely nothing to do any more with his life, he takes ri-DIC-ulous care of his yard.  I mean, meticulously pruning his rose bushes to the point of near perfection.  Actually, pruning is one of the most common things I see him doing out there.  Probably because of his love of all things prune. (ba-da-boom!)

This is all fine and dandy.  I enjoy having a neighbor who shares the same desire for a perfect backyard retreat.  And I was totally happy with him and his wife, and even brought over some delicious tomatoes last year as a metaphoric olive branch, signaling many years of peace and the sharing of delicious plant produce. 

Until.........

We had an awning over one of our entry ways that was slightly loose. It was a tin piece of crap that was tacked on as an afterthought by the idiots who owned our house before us.  So naturally, since it was put up by idiots, it slowly began to fall off.  That looseness caused a noticeable tapping sound when the wind was strong, and since I was swamped in the one-half-trillion things I've got going on in my life, putting "making the incredibly infrequent tapping noise stop" at the very bottom of my list of priorities. 

So the nosy old geez-face climbed up a ladder while I was away at work one day and took the awning completely off.

Hey, jerk-head - maybe I liked the tapping noise!  Perhaps I was using it as a sound effect to sample on my newest hip hop record!  Maybe it was something of an experiment to see just how loose I could get it before it fell off!  I swear, the nerve of that guy!

It really hit a climax when he rang the doorbell at 10 at night, right after we got Sammy to bed.  He just wanted to tell us that we left the light in our car on.  Hey, bud - you leave our light alone!  What has it done to you that you've gotta go and tattle on it?  And now we've got a screaming baby on our hands.  Well done, Helpy Helperton!

Then there was the time he brought over presents for Sammy after hearing about his birth.  They were for 3-6 month old kids!  How very useful!  I sometimes buy clothes for myself that are way too effing big also!  This way, I'll seem that much skinnier!  Thanks!  You're like the NE Philly baby-oriented Tim Gunn!

I'm thinking of installing a moat.  At least it's the kind of intrusion prevention device that he can relate to.

Poetry - a treatise

It is a favorite past time of my in laws to recite poetry.  After a few shots, a discussion of the current state of affairs in the US, Israel, and all former USSR countries, and proper ways to do "trick-shots" (such as putting the shot glass in the bend of your elbow), a young Russian's fancy turns to love, and romantic poetry begins to be spouted.

A constant favorite is the snippet from Eugene Onegin "I loved you once", translated in English below for those of you who are link-o-phobic.

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.

I memorized the first three lines (in Russian, mind you) just by sheer contact-repetition.  Every once in a while, they will pull out a Lermontov, or if someone's feeling especially saucy, they'll break out the Bunin.

This gets me thinking, after my head clears from all the vodka/Romanticism, about why it is that in America, we don't pay nearly as much attention to poetry as the Russians do.  My 6 year old nephew (who, to be clear, has Russian parents) is already memorizing Pushkin, and it's treated as if it's completely natural, and not creepy at all.

The only poem I've ever memorized in my life is a William Carlos Williams poem, "Red Wheelbarrow" (cut/pasted below).  This is because he obviously had twitter's character limit in mind when writing the poem.  This helps with memorization

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.

Blogger's note - immediately after this, there was originally a whole bunch of really great and funny stuff that I was particularly proud of...but somehow it disappeared into the belly of the Blogger Beast. What follows is a poor man's attempt to recreate what was once a brush with genius, but is now just figurative blog fodder.


That poem is nice and all - gives a great perspective, and brings attention to blah blah blah, barfidy puke-hurl.  But it's vastly different from the poems in the Russian repertoire.  Why is it, though, that I've only ever memorized one poem?  Most likely because poems are stupid.  But it is also probable that my high school education came into play a little bit.  My teacher would introduce poems to us that made very little sense, and offer very little explanation as to what the poet was trying to say.  This led to the assumption  discovery that most poets end up adhering to the following formula when developing their "poems":

First, decide the tone of your poem, happy or sad.  Happy poems are boring, so it's best to choose sad poems.  Then string together a list of random and infrequently used words in such a way as they are related in a coherent fashion but just mysterious enough to cripple any true meaning. The more infrequently used, the better.  Observe the following stanza from a poem:

Parched and posted atop the pugilistic rampart
The mockingbird does not caw
Misogynistic hands grip the beleaguered bird's heart
To bring forth guilt back into its gaping maw

Brilliant, you say?  Perhaps too brilliant?  A great rhyming scheme mixed with a bit of alliteration?  Did you catch the deeper meaning of the word "Misogynistic"?  Did you go back and read it more than once?  I greatly apologize if you did, because I literally just wrote it in a matter of a few seconds.

This, to me, has become the problem with poetry.  It's almost like a language that has been developed by crazy hipsters to differentiate themselves from everyone else, thus making sure that they retain their elite and esoteric status as hipsters.  So is this the problem?  Is this why nobody likes poetry?

Or is it due to a flaw in our educational system?  Enlisting those who cannot discuss the subject properly could result in generations of Americans who just simply do not get it because they were never taught HOW to get it.

And as a final possibility, could it be that it's a more systemic flaw in our culture that while we can sit long enough to read W.C.W., we can't sit around long enough to extract that he's trying to bring focus to an under-appreciated object, and show us that even the most overlooked things can be objects of adoration.

Not unlike a good poem, perhaps?  Psh, if that were true, there'd be a movie about the stupid wheelbarrow.  And an action figure.

I realize i'm generalizing here, because there are plenty of people who like poetry.  But let's face it.  They're in the minority.  Because honestly?  Poetry's dumb.

The Wedding - a debriefing involving hatchets

Oh, how I've missed you, fellow bloggers and bloggettes.

I've realized with this week or so of absence that I've grown to really enjoy being involved, even remotely, in your lives.  Reading along with your daily or semi-daily posts has become a very welcome routine for me, and I'm like a 90 year old grandpa - I loves me my routine.  Example: I have to wake up at the same time every day, even if I'm not going to work - otherwise, my sleep pattern will be all out of whack.

So, speaking of something out of the routine...how 'bout that wedding, huh?  I think over the course of the three days  I was up there, I tweeted maybe...5 times?  It turns out that tweeting in the middle of the ceremony as the best man isn't exactly considered polite.  I HONESTLY didn't think of that when I was gearing up for the trip.  I thought I would sit through the entire ceremony and reception snickering to myself and delving into my iReporter fantasy by tweeting to you all constantly.

But, boy, it was a doosey. 

Here are a few highlights to make you jealous of our awesome time:

• Driving in a two door coupe with a three month old exploding exactly at the wrong moment, forcing my wife to crawl over the seats in her beautiful new dress to change him in cramped spaces while the entire wedding was waiting for the best man (me) to show up. 
• The bride's father commenting almost immediately upon meeting my father about how poorly my dad kept his yard.  My father, who spends tens of thousands of dollars a year on landscape design and work (and who is as explosive as my son, but just from the other end) actually handled it pretty well, despite displaying his chameleon-like ability to change facial colors at will.
• My brother and the rest of the groomsmen getting tattoos on their inner hips that say, "Riot" - apparently from this one time when my brother said it at a wedding referencing "It's always sunny in Philadelphia", sending everyone into giggles.  I didn't get the joke, so I didn't get the tattoo.  Thank god.
• My overly drunk and newly single aunt (there's always one) squealing at the top of her lungs any time one of my brother's military buddies said ANYTHING, yelling, "You can rescue me ANYTIME!!!"
• The bride and groom entered the reception hall to the Star Wars opening credits theme song (probably my favorite part of the wedding altogether).

As an addendum, my b-day loot included a MacBook Pro - probably one of the sweetest gifts ever given, except for the super sweet hatchet that my wife got me.  It's got a badass leather case and everything.  That reminds me, I wanted to check the local laws to see if carrying a hatchet in public is legal.  And if it's not, I need to check on how much jailtime could I get carrying it.  You know, to weigh the risk/reward. 

The above is an image from here. I do not own the image, but I do own the hatchet, which, admittedly, is much more awesome than owning just the image.

Camping, Part One: American Style

We pulled up to the base of the mountain at two in the afternoon, when my brother and I were 9 and 7, respectively.  It was August in southern Utah, which, for those of you who don't know, is a freaking desert.  My dad had meticulously planned another of our family outings, which had earned the sarcastically affectionate term "Death Marches".

You see, my father was Andrew Jackson, and the rest of the family was the Choctaw Indians, and these death marches were his version of The Indian Removal Act of 1830.  There's your history metaphor for the year.

What follows is what my father had told us:

We get to Zion National Park, and climb a small incline from the canyon floor to the top of the canyon.  All vertical work is done by the first two hours, and the rest of the surrounding area is a forested plain, so it'll be smooth sailing from there.  The destination is "Dripping Springs", a veritable fountain spewing forth water as if there was some overfull bladder underneath the surface that couldn't be held back.  We'll only need to carry enough water to get us there, where we will refill our canteens, spend a night or two playing in the spring, and head back. 

It's actually kind of a beautiful plan when you think about it.  But that's not exactly what happened.

Like I said, it was two in the afternoon, and probably about 95 degrees when we started our hike.  The sun was permanently perched just above the other rim of the canyon, laughing at us with its grossly hot, sticky breath.  There was no tree cover - as it was the side of a canyon in the desert, and the soil was as sandy as a beach.  It could have been Omaha Beach for all I knew.

So the water that was supposed to last us for the entire day's trip to "Dripping Springs" lasted maybe thirty minutes before panic mode set in. And we may have been an hour into the hike when I began creating a list of family members in order of their nutritious value.

My brother started to legitimately get heat exhaustion, which bordered on heat stroke.  You know when you have heat stroke when you stop sweating, even though it's 95 degrees.  That was him.  After throwing up a couple times, my dad finally ended up carrying him the majority of the way up the hill, grumbling something about being "wussy".  I consider myself lucky that I was too young to be considered "able to carry weight" - and my backpack was full of mostly comic books.

We finally got to the rim of the canyon, but nightfall had come a lot sooner than we thought it would.  We weren't half way to "Dripping Springs", and we needed to rest. 

The only semi-suitable campsite was sloped downhill about 15 degrees.  So as we set up our tents and lied down to sleep, we slid a few inches every half hour or so downhill.  And as if God himself wanted to punish us for our stupidity and naivete, it poured.  It was as if all the tears Jack from Lost had cried throughout the entire life of the series were bottled and poured on us all at once.  I guess it was good that we were on a slope, cause otherwise, we would have woken up dead.

The next morning, we dried ourselves off and plodded on towards the holy land.  I think I was too young to feel resentment towards my father for bringing us on a trip with the explicit intention of collecting life insurance benefits.  Everything looked more upbeat in the morning, and we really only had about a three hour hike to get to "Dripping Springs", so we were excited to get moving.  And it was a short walk - especially given we were out of water, and essentially running to where there would be gushing rivers of delicious spring water that we could bathe in to escape from the oppressive mid-day heat.

There is a reason they call "Dripping Springs" "Dripping Springs".  When we got there after such a hellish journey, we realized why they called it that.  There was a pipe stuck in the side of a rock, and from the end of that pipe, there were a few infrequent drips of water escaping into the desert sands.  What didn't immediately evaporate formed a small puddle underneath the pipe where a few green weeds grew, laughing at us, as if to say, "psh, ridiculous idiots running around in the desert, what did you THINK?"

For the better part of the afternoon, my father sat with the water purifier, pumping ounce after ounce of water into our canteens.  After the hallucinations subsided, we asked him if he was enjoying swimming.  He looked up at us over the water purifier, and growled something I don't think I understood yet.

Growing up, this is pretty much all I ever knew camping could be.  Physically exhausting death marches into the wilderness, carrying too little supplies, and finding out how close to death you could get yourself without actually blacking out.

I will go into details of some of the crazier adventures later, but for tomorrow's post - Camping, Part Deux: Russian Style.