I'd Like to Thank...

Watching the Oscars, we all imagine what it would be like to stand up there in front of god and everyone, statuette in hand, and give the speech of our lives. Being a self-proclaimed neurotic, I imagine myself tripping up the stairs, arriving at the podium with my tie crooked, stammering over my words, forgetting to thank my wife and getting cut off by the swell of the pit orchestra. It's the most embarrassing moment of my life and one I would replay in my mind forever. What could I have done differently? Where did I go wrong?

The bigger question lingers. Is my life better off without that moment ever happening?

There is great truth to the adage, "the bigger they are, the harder they fall." The greater the heights you achieve, the greater the distance to the bottom. At the Oscars, for example, there's no greater height. Wear the wrong dress or say the wrong thing in your speech. and the next morning you can find yourself 30 stories below street level. Soaring highs bring even deeper lows.

So is it worth it? We all experience such highs and lows. They may not be an appearance at the Oscars, but weddings, children, job promotions, you name it. With all of these things, comes greater risk. Much of that risk is actually learning what your limitations are. And are you prepared to face them? The challenge is learning to face whatever shortcomings that surface and looking beyond to what are your gifts and blessings.

In the end, complete and utter disaster is always worth the risk. Otherwise, what is the point of living? At least that's how we comfort ourselves in a valley of despair and loss. You can try to escape to an ashram or kibbutz and never have to face the real world. But life will find you there, too. The best option is to always face every challenge and take every risk, even if it means teetering on an even deeper abyss.

Now, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my mom and dad, my lawyer, all the people at livejournal, my six grade teacher Mrs. Sterling, and my three cats, Emma, Gracie and Bea and most of all my beautiful and supportive ... [music].

Arrested Development Jumps the Shark?

If you're an "Arrested Development" fan like me, you're not just a fan, but a cult member. The cult requires you to clap your hands and dance like a chicken (even though chicken don't clap), wear cutoff jeans under your clothes and make the occasional reference to a stair-car. The news of the show's second season getting cut short early came hard, too. FOX's pledge to keep the show on the air was of little consolation. Based on last night's episode, perhaps FOX is more prescient than given credit for.

The struggling ensemble comedy has always been a bit quirky and off the wall. But last night's "Arrested" was completely off everything. If this is the direction the show's creator, Mitchell Hurwitz, plans to take, I can't blame FOX for pulling the plug.

Martin Short appeared in the episode as the Bluth family's estranged Uncle Jack (although he's not really related) who is crippled and has to be carried around by a deaf giant because he refuses to use a wheelchair -- not the giant, but Uncle Jack. At one point, the giant accidentally shakes Short's character to point that he throws up on himself -- again, not the giant, but Uncle Jack. The whole concept was stupid, crass and unfunny. I credit the writers of the show for really trying to stretch the boundaries. But the show already does that on an average day. Now I'm angry at them for not only taking the show too far, but also for digging an even bigger hole for the show to climb out of.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a huge fan of Martin Short. And that's not at all colored by the fact I spent a week working closely with Marty during which time he affectionately nicknamed me "kid." He's a genuine guy and a true Hollywood insider, but he doesn't show it. He flaunts it. Unfortunately, this character, "Uncle Jack," really doesn't work at all. Even worse, it looks like "Uncle Jack" will be returning for a few more episodes. I only hope Arrested Development and Martin Short in the arms of a giant, haven't jumped the shark already.

Shingles Revisited

Exactly a year ago, I was cut down by the ravages of shingles -- a horrible affliction that cripples you for several weeks. I would say that the worst thing about the shingles is being stuck at home to watch daytime television day after day. But I managed to switch off the TV and get out of bed long enough to scratch out a little ode to my shingles. Enjoy this anniversary retrospective of my shingles, written a year ago today...

My Shingles

It began as an itch near the center of my breast
That seemed a harmless but pesky guest.
It announced its arrival as a tiny red rash
That I marked up to smoking too much cheap hash.

Then not too soon after my chest got an ache
An ache so intense my knees got to quake.
Those rashes grew bigger and deeper dark red,
And all I could do was lie there in bed.

I writhed and I moaned and I cried for my mommy
On the phone I told her, "Gee, mom, I feel crummy."
She told me to rest "it will all be okay."
"See Dr. Margolis and be on your way."

So I rang up the doc and told him the news.
He said to me, "Son, it's only the blues."
"Remember to sleep eight hours per night,
Get some life counseling and you'll be alright."

So I looked to my shrink in continued duress
Who informed me, "Young man, you've got too much stress."
"I think what you need is to quit your new job,
Do something today, don't sit there and sob."

So I went to the phone and I got up the nerve
To call up my boss with vigor and verve.
But when I told them stick it "you know where,"
I hung up the phone and the pain was still there.

So I gathered my strength and I went online
To search out exactly what's afflicting my spine.
I searched and I searched for a description or match
For this bright red rash I continued to scratch.

Neither Lupus nor asthma nor venal stenosis,
Nor pinkeye nor bird flu nor fecal mytosis,
Explained why my torso continued to tingle,
Until I discovered an ailment named shingles.

Once I discovered the affliction I had
I thought to myself, "Hey, it can't be that bad."
But this misery lasts for three weeks or more
With an ache so intense it rattles your core.

The pain can't be told in a cutsie short rhyme,
And you'll know what I mean if it comes in your time.
It's like double the worst pain you've had in your life,
Plus ten thousand hornets on the point of a knife.

I continued to writhe in unbearable pain
Leaving my sheets an unfortunate stain.
The pain was like lightning only twenty times worse
And I found myself praying for my own private hearse.

Percoset blunts the pain you endure
But I wouldn't exactly call it a cure.
All you can do is sit there and wait
And hope that this virus soon will abate.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger,"
But I can't bare to take this much longer.
When the angel of death was soon to appear
I felt the drugs had kicked into gear.

I sat up and stretched feeling airy and light
Only to remember it'd be weeks 'til I'm right.
'Cause shingles don't leave for any good reason.
They linger around for most of the season.

Where Are My Glasses? [Part IV]

Until now, I had only bought a couple of items off ebay -- new camera equipment mostly. These were not items I bid on. I got them at the “Buy Now” price. (If you are unfamiliar with how ebay works, I am not going to explain it here. Go to the site and see for yourself. Just try to not get ripped off.) Previously, I had neither the courage to go through the bidding process nor the patience to wait until the auctions expired (in “8d, 11h, 32m”).

Sporting a mild buzz from two White Russians and woozy from the persistent carbon-monoxide leak in our apartment, I settled in behind the keyboard of my laptop to dip my toe in the dark wold of ebay. I searched the site for matching sets of the Crown Royal glasses I now had to have. It's such a bizarre thing to want to collect, but I had to have more. I wanted all of my friends and guests to experience the same peaceful serenity I had the first moment I raised that glass.

After a quick search, I realized that these glasses were not only collectible, but also oddly plentiful on ebay. There, among the listings for neon Budweiser signs and Miller Girl blowup dolls, were dozens of sellers offering my treasured Crown Royal etched highball glasses. Let the bidding begin!

Over the next several days, I bid on multiple sets of glasses sold by seemingly reputable sellers. I entered what I thought was a pretty generous offer for what is really a cheap piece of glass. And ebay would cheerily inform me that "You are the current high bidder!" I would sit back, smugly cross my arms and wait for my bounty to arrive. But of course, It wasn't that easy.

Another member of the ebay community -- someone with the screen name "mcdoogie44" -- seemed to have a similar affinity for these glasses. And "mcdoogie44" had an obnoxious way of showing it. Moments before the auctions were to expire, "mcdoogie44" would sweep in and outbid me. Not only was I in disbelief that there are 43 other members with the screen name "mcdoogie" but that any one person would need so many matching glasses.

As "mcdoogie44" continued to steal away my precious glasses, each time at the very last second, I grew increasingly impudent. I’m not going to let this schmuck get my James-Bond-without-the-tuxedo-and-explosive-cufflinks etched highball drinking glasses. So I continued bidding on sets of these glasses, one after another, raising the price higher and higher. "mcdoogie44" was not deterred. "mcdoogie44" paid some outrageous amounts for these glasses. I garnered great satisfaction knowing that I was making this person pay more and more for his addiction to cheap barware.

Now, with toxic blend of ire and free time, I looked up "mcdoogie44" on the ebay listings to see what I could learn about my nemesis. What ebay allows you to do is look at every member's activities -- what they've bought, how much they paid for them and how they bid. I scroll through the list of items recently purchased by "mcdoogie44." At the top of the list are the glasses. My glasses. Further down are Hummel figurines. And then more figurines. Dozens of them. If you don’t know, Hummel figurines are these shitty little European-made statues, each about four inches high, depicting stupid little scenes of Aryan kids playing the piano, sledding down a hill or being toilet-trained. The list goes on and on displaying more and more figurines. Who is this freak -- an alcoholic with an obsession for whiskey and small Scandanavian children? And how close am I to becoming this guy myself?

Creeped out by the whole experience, I eventually give up altogether. I savor the two beautiful Crown Royal etched highball glasses I have and move on with my life.

A couple of weeks later, beckoned by my own sulking ego, I go back on ebay and search for my favorite collectible. Oddly, at this moment there is only one set of glasses currently being offered. I smirk and type in the lowest possible bid. I submit my bid and wait. The auction ends in nine days, four hours and three minutes.

You may be asking yourself, "Why don't you just wait until the last minute of the auction and then enter your bid, in hopes that you'll outsmart 'mcdoogie44' ? " Answer: I have a wife and job. And keeping up with this blog is hard enough.

I had completely forgotten about my bid until I got an e-mail in my box nine days later. It was from ebay. I open it expecting the usual message. (You've been outbid! Find similar items by clicking here!") But not this time. The message surprisingly tells me that I won the auction. Finally, the glasses are mine! I was the only bidder with no sign of "mcdoogie44." I've made off with the greatest bargain ever.

While I enjoy the rush of my victory, I do wonder what happened to "mcdoogie44." Did he drink himself to death? Was he picked up on charges of child molestation? Did he sell his Hummel collection and retire to Aruba? Visiting his list of most-recently purchased items, It seems "mcdoogie44" had not moved to Aruba. He had moved on to Hallmark Christmas ornaments. With "mcdoogie44" seemingly now out of the picture, I could now have all the Crown Royal etched highball glasses I wanted. But I had all I needed. Several days later, my glasses arrived, packed neatly in bubble wrap. Each one was, as advertised, in mint condition. They looked pretty, but the moment had passed. It was just kind of a disappointment.

I washed all the glasses, stacked them neatly one on top of another and stored them in the back of the bookshelves. Most likely they'll be forgotten back there. I can only hope that I remember to take them with us when we move.

Moral of the story: Don't forget to look underneath the kitchen drawers before you buy a new home.

Where Are My Glasses? [Part IV]

Until now, I had only bought a couple of items off ebay -- new camera equipment mostly. These were not items I bid on. I got them at the “Buy Now” price. (If you are unfamiliar with how ebay works, I am not going to explain it here. Go to the site and see for yourself. Just try to not get ripped off.) Previously, I had neither the courage to go through the bidding process nor the patience to wait until the auctions expired (in “8d, 11h, 32m”).

Sporting a mild buzz from two White Russians and woozy from the persistent carbon-monoxide leak in our apartment, I settled in behind the keyboard of my laptop to dip my toe in the dark wold of ebay. I searched the site for matching sets of the Crown Royal glasses I now had to have. It's such a bizarre thing to want to collect, but I had to have more. I wanted all of my friends and guests to experience the same peaceful serenity I had the first moment I raised that glass.

After a quick search, I realized that these glasses were not only collectible, but also oddly plentiful on ebay. There, among the listings for neon Budweiser signs and Miller Girl blowup dolls, were dozens of sellers offering my treasured Crown Royal etched highball glasses. Let the bidding begin!

Over the next several days, I bid on multiple sets of glasses sold by seemingly reputable sellers. I entered what I thought was a pretty generous offer for what is really a cheap piece of glass. And ebay would cheerily inform me that "You are the current high bidder!" I would sit back, smugly cross my arms and wait for my bounty to arrive. But of course, It wasn't that easy.

Another member of the ebay community -- someone with the screen name "mcdoogie44" -- seemed to have a similar affinity for these glasses. And "mcdoogie44" had an obnoxious way of showing it. Moments before the auctions were to expire, "mcdoogie44" would sweep in and outbid me. Not only was I in disbelief that there are 43 other members with the screen name "mcdoogie" but that any one person would need so many matching glasses.

As "mcdoogie44" continued to steal away my precious glasses, each time at the very last second, I grew increasingly impudent. I’m not going to let this schmuck get my James-Bond-without-the-tuxedo-and-explosive-cufflinks etched highball drinking glasses. So I continued bidding on sets of these glasses, one after another, raising the price higher and higher. "mcdoogie44" was not deterred. "mcdoogie44" paid some outrageous amounts for these glasses. I garnered great satisfaction knowing that I was making this person pay more and more for his addiction to cheap barware.

Now, with toxic blend of ire and free time, I looked up "mcdoogie44" on the ebay listings to see what I could learn about my nemesis. What ebay allows you to do is look at every member's activities -- what they've bought, how much they paid for them and how they bid. I scroll through the list of items recently purchased by "mcdoogie44." At the top of the list are the glasses. My glasses. Further down are Hummel figurines. And then more figurines. Dozens of them. If you don’t know, Hummel figurines are these shitty little European-made statues, each about four inches high, depicting stupid little scenes of Aryan kids playing the piano, sledding down a hill or being toilet-trained. The list goes on and on displaying more and more figurines. Who is this freak -- an alcoholic with an obsession for whiskey and small Scandanavian children? And how close am I to becoming this guy myself?

Creeped out by the whole experience, I eventually give up altogether. I savor the two beautiful Crown Royal etched highball glasses I have and move on with my life.

A couple of weeks later, beckoned by my own sulking ego, I go back on ebay and search for my favorite collectible. Oddly, at this moment there is only one set of glasses currently being offered. I smirk and type in the lowest possible bid. I submit my bid and wait. The auction ends in nine days, four hours and three minutes.

You may be asking yourself, "Why don't you just wait until the last minute of the auction and then enter your bid, in hopes that you'll outsmart 'mcdoogie44' ? " Answer: I have a wife and job. And keeping up with this blog is hard enough.

I had completely forgotten about my bid until I got an e-mail in my box nine days later. It was from ebay. I open it expecting the usual message. (You've been outbid! Find similar items by clicking here!") But not this time. The message surprisingly tells me that I won the auction. Finally, the glasses are mine! I was the only bidder with no sign of "mcdoogie44." I've made off with the greatest bargain ever.

While I enjoy the rush of my victory, I do wonder what happened to "mcdoogie44." Did he drink himself to death? Was he picked up on charges of child molestation? Did he sell his Hummel collection and retire to Aruba? Visiting his list of most-recently purchased items, It seems "mcdoogie44" had not moved to Aruba. He had moved on to Hallmark Christmas ornaments. With "mcdoogie44" seemingly now out of the picture, I could now have all the Crown Royal etched highball glasses I wanted. But I had all I needed. Several days later, my glasses arrived, packed neatly in bubble wrap. Each one was, as advertised, in mint condition. They looked pretty, but the moment had passed. It was just kind of a disappointment.

I washed all the glasses, stacked them neatly one on top of another and stored them in the back of the bookshelves. Most likely they'll be forgotten back there. I can only hope that I remember to take them with us when we move.

Moral of the story: Don't forget to look underneath the kitchen drawers before you buy a new home.

Where Are My Glasses? [Part III]

After moving into our new home, my wife and I had a lot of work to do cleaning the place out. Although the furniture was all gone (all but the bookshelves and deteriorating sofa we bought from the previous owner), a general layer of dust and greasy newsprint covered everything. Friends of ours came over to help decontaminate. We scrubbed all day and all night, making a few odd discoveries along the way. Like the ten years worth of rubber bands that had accumulated between the refrigerator and the wall. Or the shower cap still hanging on the bathroom door. The most-bizarre find was on the underside of a kitchen drawer – a Cro-Magnon-like doodle of a naked woman’s body in black permanent marker. No head, no feet. Just tits and pussy. We could only assume this was the act of a mischievous construction worker, with poor art skills and a primitive view of the female figure. It was good for a laugh and the doodle remains to this day. It continues to provide wholesome amusement on Thanksgiving with my in-laws.

In our salvaged bookshelves, I happened on the only true treasure left behind -- not a dried-out rubber band or an old phone bill. It was two highball drinking glasses with the Crown Royal logo etched on the face. They were still in their original packaging, a sort of commemorative set. It was obvious they had never been used.

My wife and I are not heavy drinkers. Even so, we could not ignore the impressive heft and sturdy proportions of the glasses. We washed them with a heavy detergent, and set them in the “keep” pile. The “keep” pile now contained only the glasses and a phone book and was easily dwarfed by the “burn and/or exorcize” pile.

The glasses were stored neatly in the back of a cupboard until a recent party. Searching for more glassware for our alcoholic guests, I rediscovered the etched Crown Royal highball glasses. The memories came flooding back. The shower cap. The naked doodle. Signing away my left kidney.

I set aside one of the glasses for myself and fixed a drink. A white Russian. (The Dude abides.) As I swirled the drink in my hand, the clinking of the ice against the thick glass was purely musical. Lifting the drink to my mouth, the glass balanced perfectly in my fingers, allowing me to gracefully sip the “Caucasian” without a single ice cube touching my lips. I set the glass on the table with a percussive thump. I leaned back, scratched my chin and bathed in my debonair masculinity. At that moment, I was James Bond -- without the tuxedo and explosive cufflinks. Perhaps it was the vodka or the expired half-and-half. But when I looked into the cut-glass, as if into a crystal ball, the light glinting off the angled facets enchanted me. I felt warm and secure. And I wanted more.

I could have sought out more alcohol. Vodka and Kalhua were plentiful that night. But I did not. No, I went to seek out what I really yearned for: Crown Royal etched highball glasses. And where else to look, but on ebay?

To be continued...

Philadelphia Feables

As is typical of Philadelphia also-rans, the story of Super Bowl XXXIX wasn't so much what the New England Patriots did to win, but what the Philadelphia Eagles did to lose. While everyone gives Pats QB Tom Brady and wide-receiver Deion Branch their props, the questions about the Eagles failures seem to dominate. "Why was their clock-management so poor?" "Why does McNabb throw picks in the biggest games at the biggest moments?" "Why didn't they capitalize on scoring opportunities in the first quarter?" You'd think if one of these questions was answered, they'd be sporting the Lombardi bling.

I'm happy the Eagles made the Super Bowl. (It beats going 4-12.) They're a fun team to watch. And they should be fun to watch for at least a few more years. They're a good team. But they're not a great team. In the 22 years since Philadelphia has last hosted a championship parade, there have been many good teams -- but they've been beaten by great teams. Since the Sixers brought home their NBA title in 1983, each of the Philadelphia teams has fallen victim to championship juggernauts. I know I sound like a pathetic whiner, but I'm not exaggerating. Check this out:

1985 and 1987 Flyers: Lost to Edmonton Oilers who won 4 Cups in 5 years
1993 Phillies: Lost to Toronto Blue Jays who were the defending champions, winning their second Series in a row.
1997 Flyers: Lost to Detroit Red Wings who went on to win the Cup again in 1998
2001 Sixers: Lost to LA Lakers who were in the second-phase of their 3-Peat
2005 Eagles: Lost to New England Patriots who have now won 3 Super Bowls in 4 years

I can only hope that one day we'll catch a break and a Philadelphia team will beat a team as "good" as they are in a championship match-up.

Where Are My Glasses? [Part II]

The woman who lived (and possibly died) in our apartment before us, didn't buy the place herself. Her gentleman friend did. After his third wife died, she was his live-in, and they never married. When he passed away (probably in the apartment, too), he left the place to her and screwed his own family out of the deal. So the daughter of this woman, who was in no way related to the guy who actually bought the place, got the apartment and sold it to us as her inheritance. Nice deal, eh? She gets the money and we get to live with the spirit of her mother and her mother's boyfriend.

I don't believe in ghosts, specters or poltergeists. But a few months after we moved into the apartment, I had a very creepy experience. I had a work appointment at a local synagogue. The head Rabbi gave us a tour of the facility. Walking down the marble halls of the temple, my goyishe co-worker innocently inquired about the memorial plaques on the walls.

"What are all these names on the walls, and why do some of them have bulbs lit?" she asked. The Rabbi sagely waved his hand at the hundreds of names inscribed on brass plates around the temple and explained that these were "yahrzeit" plaques, commemorating those who have passed away. He pointed to a single name on the wall and said, "See, this one here is lit, to honor the anniversary of the deceased. May he be in peace."

There was moment of silence as my co-worker and I nodded respectfully. He kept his finger on the plaque, closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. I focused in on the name and my eyes widened.

"I recognize that name!" I blurted out. "I get his mail!"

The Rabbi looked at me with a cross stare. But it was true. I had this guy’s mail on my kitchen table. The name on the plaque was that of the man who had owned our apartment -- before leaving it to his now-deceased lady-friend. Letters from the AARP and the Scoliosis Foundation, addressed to him, continued to find their way into my mailbox. Of all the hundreds of names on this wall, this was the one he pointed to. And it was the anniversary of his death, to boot. A chill ran up my spine (Was that you, Mrs. Sapperstein?). The Rabbi looked at me as if I had been sniffing the spice box and moved on. But that moment has stuck with me. It was a sign.

To be continued...

Where Are My Glasses? [Part I]

I don't usually do this sort of thing. I'm not one of those people. Really. But this is starting to become a pattern – maybe even a compulsion. Dare I say, this is my personal crusade.

The story begins three years ago. My wife and I bought a condo just north of the city line where the grass is greener, children are smarter and property taxes a third lower. It was a fixer-upper we slightly overpaid for. But, hey, The Money Pit is like the funniest movie ever and wouldn’t it be fun to live like that?

Our realtor was an older gentleman with liver spots and an affinity for polyester button-down shirts. He had surprisingly poor social skills for a salesman, which is perhaps why we were drawn to him. He took us on walk-throughs of the property before we bought it, pointing out modern amenities like a self-cleaning oven and the instant-hot water spigot. Sure, we noticed the mildewed furniture and dated decor. But there was nothing we couldn’t fix with a combustible mixture of elbow grease and midnight oil.

The previous resident had died and her daughter was selling the place. According to the information we gleaned from the daughter and the realtor, it appeared she did not die in the apartment. Some law supposedly requires the owner to disclose whether or not someone died in the property. But I guess that all depends on what your definition of "died" is. We had no choice but to accept the facts as sufficient and move ahead. (Quiet, Mrs. Sapperstein, I'm getting to that part!)

We jumped in feet first and made our offer on the condo. It was accepted. The daughter explained she didn’t have much need for her mother’s furniture and asked if there was anything in the unit we wanted to keep. My wife and I discussed what would go and what would stay. It was quickly apparent that there was only one thing we liked. A set of bookshelves that fit neatly in the den, perfectly situated on the short wall of the room.

At closing, after signing my name 87 times, and initialing 103 clauses, the deal was done. The sale was approved. The title was transferred. And my left kidney was now the property of the Tennessee Valley Authority. After several handshakes and some awkward small-talk, the daughter asked if we had decided to keep any of the furniture.

Politely we passed on the lime-green velvet armchair and the Johnny Unitas commemorative spoon set. She gave us a disappointed nod. In a momentary fit of guilt, I commented on how nice those bookshelves were. She suggested we buy them and I suddenly found myself writing a check – for $200. She threw in a deteriorating sofa, too, that didn’t even match the room. But I wasn’t going to argue with a woman who had just lost her mother. However, considering the fact that leaving the bookshelves and the sofa in the apartment probably saved her money by not having to move them, paying $200 for them was probably a mistake. But that was only the beginning.

To be continued...