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My big man turned five last week. I feel a little guilty about writing a full blog post celebrating Nicholas turning two, then completely ignoring Owen’s fifth for a week. On the other hand, the number of photos and videos I have of Owen’s first two years makes it seem like I lost my camera when Nicholas was born, so maybe it evens out.

After cohosting (with the parents of one of Owen’s best friends) what was generally considered by all in attendance to be the best fifth birthday party of all time, we took Owen and his friend to the circus the next day. Not some new fangled Cirque du High Concept Performance Art, but the O.G. Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. Yeah, I know, it’s not PC to keep elephants in train cars and make them do tricks. But whatever, it’s the circus, and it’s still pretty darn cool. Now, to be fair, they have made some changes since I last saw the greatest show on earth when I was a kid. They’ve taken a few elements from the Playbook du Soleil. They’ve mostly bailed on the three-ring format, and their costume designers have clearly been looking to make the spandex look a little more “now.” But despite the updates, some things are almost exactly as I remember them.

But this isn’t really a post about the circus. Or about Owen’s birthday. (Sorry, big man. You know I love you, and it’s crazy that you’re already five and starting Kindergarten. There will be more about that in other posts, I promise.). This post is about the circus as a metaphor for my life. Most of the circus wasn’t actually in three rings. It was one act at a time, allowing the audience to focus on that rather than splitting their focus trying to decide what to watch and not miss anything really good. But at a few points during the show, they did do more than one thing. There was some three-ring action. At one point there were FIVE acts at once. I tried to watch all five, but multitasking is a myth. You can only really pay attention to one thing at a time. I think I caught some good bits of at least the four performances closest to where we sat, but I’m sure I missed a lot, and I have almost no idea what that fifth act did.

Here’s the metaphor part. Sorry for the lack of slickness in the transition, but there are two or three other things I’m supposed to be doing at the moment, so the badass writer chops are not what they could be. A year ago I was jobless, overweight, drinking more than my share of margaritas, and trying to figure out what to do next. Oh, how things change. Now I have three jobs, of a sort, each of which I’m exceedingly grateful for, none of which yet pays enough to quit any of the others. Plus there are my kids, my marriage, and this obsession with running which I’d worry was a problem if it weren’t so beneficial to both my mental and physical health. Oh, and this blog. You may have noticed there haven’t been so many posts of late. And in case you’re curious, I’m off margaritas, but haven’t given up wine or chocolate.

I’m fairly certain none of these endeavors is getting what amounts to my best work. That said, I’m pretty darn good, so even with split focus I’m holding my own. But there are times I’m not sure which way to look. Which act to focus on. And sometimes I slip up. I suppose more than anything I hope it’s not my marriage or my family that suffers, though some days I know my fuse is shorter than it ought to be and my attention isn’t where I’d like it. But the occasional slip is to be expected. The dude on the trapeze didn’t manage to hit the quadruple somersault, and the missed attempt was actually pretty exciting. If I do miss one of these days, I just hope there’s a net down there.

This is what I was doing when Sophia’s mother passed away a few weeks ago.

I was waiting for my yearly exam at the eye doctor on Robertson Blvd.  I was hoping I didn’t need another prescription, because my last pair of “progressive lenses” cost me something like $600 bucks.   My eyesight is THAT bad.  Nearsighted and Farsighted.

I was reading an old Vanity Fair in Doctor Ko’s waiting room when the phone rang.  It was Sophia, hysterical, saying that “something is going wrong” at her mother’s house.  The ambulance was there.  I needed to go there immediately.  I was closer than Sophia, who was still in Redondo Beach.

Just then, the receptionist called me for my appointment.  I told her that I had to leave.  A family emergency.  She grumbled unsympathetically, as if she had heard this excuse a hundred times before.

“I will have to charge you a $35 co-payment because you need to cancel three days before blah blah.”

“Fine,” I said.

The next hurdle was the underground parking garage.  I handed my parking stub to the attendant in her cubicle.

“Eight dollars,” she announced.  A Spanish soap opera was playing on a 13″ TV next to the cash register.

I handed her my Visa.

“Cash only,” she said, unimpressed.  I looked inside my wallet.  I only had three dollars cash.

“Can I come back later?”

“No.  There’s an ATM machine in the lobby.”

“I need to go.   It’s an emergency.”

I was getting desperate.

“Sure.  Sure.  Emergency.  I hear that ALL the time.”

It was like the story of the boy who cried wolf, but I was stuck paying for the sins of others.  I never lie about emergencies.

“It IS an emergency.  My mother-in-law is sick.”

The phone rang.  Sophia was sobbing.  The attendant let me go.

It was surreal when I arrived at the home of Sophia’s parents.  My FIL was sick in the bedroom, unaware of what was going on.   My MIL was in the living room, a white sheet covering her body.  The aide was running back and forth between the two rooms, screaming.  Emergency workers and the police were on walkie-talkies.  Noisy Russian neighbors were pacing in the hallway of the apartment building.

Sophia arrived, lifted the sheet, and broke down.  Her mother’s eyes were still open.

I closed Fanya’s eyes.  There was nothing else for her to see in this world.  She had gone to another place.

I was scared of touching her eyes, of the gaze of someone who had just passed, as if it was dangerous to me in some ancient superstitious manner, even though I was just sitting at the kitchen table with this exact same person the day earlier, eating borscht, and taking the finished bowl from her warm hands.

Today I received the bill for the eye exam that I never had.  But I don’t need an optometrist to tell me that, since that tragic day, I somehow see things differently.

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I could write about the utter terror someone who passes out when given shots or blood tests faces when going for surgery on his nethers, but it’s easier to just provide my impressions from that timeframe as they were happening.

Accordingly, here are my tweets, in reverse chronological order:

1. 1. Fireworks behind our house tonight. Either the Braves won, or the city is celebrating my infertility. Fri Jun 25 22:49:22 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   2. Thanks for all the support, but tweeting a bunch isn’t brave. It’s how I cope: diversion. Fri Jun 25 15:23:57 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   3. Post surgery milk shake!!! (@ OK Cafe) http://4sq.com/5c5ccS Fri Jun 25 15:20:00 2010 via foursquare
   4. Am now safely in the passenger seat of our minivan. How appropriate. Fri Jun 25 15:16:03 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   5. The new walk of shame: gingerly shuffling out of the urologist’s office in front of 20 people. Fri Jun 25 15:09:42 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   6. Am upright. Still afraid to look down. Is this what it feels like to be a circus performer? Fri Jun 25 15:03:36 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   7. I like how it says “congratulations!”. Asses. http://yfrog.com/euofngj Fri Jun 25 15:02:39 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   8. This is where my bare ass sweat like a whore in church. http://yfrog.com/5cvhoaj Fri Jun 25 15:00:27 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   9. I am afraid to look down under this gauze. It’s like being on a building’s ledge. Fri Jun 25 14:58:34 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   10. They say no peas or ice. I did it scalpel-free! Fri Jun 25 14:57:19 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   11. Just got busted tweeting. Oops. Apparently I’m supposed to provide a semen sample when I’m at blogher: 6 weeks from now. Hmmm. Fri Jun 25 14:56:40 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   12. The video says I am supposed to take “specimen” cups with me. I can only imagine. Fri Jun 25 14:52:01 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   13. The dr said he knew I was a lawyer by my small penis. I said I knew he was a doc by his med mal insurance releases. Fri Jun 25 14:50:25 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   14. Why is STP’s “Half the Man I Used to Be” in my head? Fri Jun 25 14:49:13 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   15. I think smelling burning flesh was the worst. Oh yeah, and the damned needle that made me sweat a quart. Fri Jun 25 14:48:11 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   16. I think he’s done. I’m alone w the video again. 2:46 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhon
   17. I hope this isn’t “intern day.” 2:25 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   18. The video stopped. http://yfrog.com/j2bzcj 2:23 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   19. Now the video wants me to take off my pants. Stranger danger!!! 2:19 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   20. The video says not to worry. The video does not know me. 2:17 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   21. I like the word “rare.” 2:17 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   22. They are making me watch a video. I don’t want to know the risks, asshole. 2:16 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   23. a touching post by a friend about my balls: http://bit.ly/9OrSkO 11:43 AM Jun 25th via TweetDeck
   24. am 3.5 hours away from my appointment to get neutered. stressed. is that what a rapist in saudi arabia feels like? 10:39 AM Jun 25th via TweetDeck
       

Now that it’s over, I gotta say I recommend doing it scalpel-free, like I did here.  No ice or frozen peas.  No swelling or bruising the next day or the next day or the day after that.  No finding my absent penis on a blanket next to a broken toaster oven several hours after losing it.

The worst part?  The clamp.  I was terrified to look down, but at some point, some sort of vice grip contraption was cinched around my johnson.  I was certain it was going to lose its nutrients’ supply, turn black, and fall onto the floor before ending up in a pawn shop.  But it didn’t.  I was VERY relieved, however, when the cinch came off at the end.

As for my interpersonal relations?  Okay so far.  I mean, my pecker wasn’t talking to me for the first several hours afterward.  I avoided eye contact until Saturday afternoon (a good 24 hours), and even when I reached out to it to resume normal conversation, it played “hard to get” and retracted like a defeated turtle.

I think our relationship will improve over time, however.  It keeps asking to go for vigorous runs down the nature trail behind our building, and I have to gently tell it, “Not yet.  Doctor’s orders, buddy.”  It seems to understand, even if it acts petulant right now.

Someday, it’ll thank me for the sacrifice my psyche endured for its freedom from suffocation by latex or butting its head against hard plastic.  Some day, oh peevish penis.  Just not now.

This is my parents in October 1972.

My Dad had been married fewer than two years.  He’d spent a year in Vietnam, gotten the Distinguished Flying Cross, and made it home unscathed.  He had a Corvette and raced motorcycles.  He was cool.

Til I was born 3 years later and fucked it all up.

Happy birthday, Pa.  Stay cool forever.

Sophia’s mother passed away on Tuesday. Today is the funeral. It was unexpected, since it was her husband who was bedridden.

Fanya had an interesting and adventurous life, which took her from the horrors of war-torn Soviet Union to present-day Los Angeles, in order to be close to her only child, Sophia. Fanya was so proud when she became an American citizen.

The love of her life was her husband, Vartan. She met him in Odessa, Ukraine, where he was her doctor. They had a long and passionate relationship. Fanya and Vartan were inseparable. When Vartan grew ill six months ago, everyone thought it best to put Vartan in a convalescence home. We told her that it would require too much work. She refused to discuss the issue. Despite having an aide, and the help of her family, Fanya was her husband’s primary caregiver, dealing with all the physical strain and lack of sleep. Even as we saw her weakening from the stress, she refused to leave her husband’s side.

Yesterday, Sophia told Vartan the news of his wife’s passing. He is very distraught, especially about being too ill to attend the funeral.

Out of a total coincidence, my mother had a flight coming to visit us today in LA, so she will be attending as well.

Fanya was a bigger-than-life woman. She was tough in spirit, but also extremely caring to others, and will be very very missed.

If you want to send a message to Sophia, you can do it here or send me an email.

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loving life, as usual

Nicholas is two years old today! Our littlest boy. Our baby. Our amazing, adorable, irrepressible little dude, with an unrivaled enthusiasm for all things that makes the rest of us look like we’re phoning it in.

It’s hard to believe it was two years ago you were born. Two years ago last night I went to the opera to sit through opening night of La Rondine, because your mother was the calling stage manager, and despite having had regular contractions since around 3:30 that afternoon, she was pretty sure she could get through the show. So, with the show clock on one side and the contraction timer on the other, she called the show.

meeting little brother

I went back at each intermission to check in, asking, “Uh, think maybe we should go to the hospital now?” But not until the curtain came down did she decide it was time to head out. Even then we didn’t go straight to Cedars, but stopped at Chris and Becky’s to make sure it was REALLY time to bother going to the hospital.

When we finally did get there, after waiting for a room, they had your mom lie down, which of course slowed the contractions. They were almost ready to send her home when the nurse convinced the OB on duty to check her. She was around seven cm, I think, so we weren’t going anywhere (thanks, nurse). About three hours later you were born.

no fear, and no stopping him

Life since then has been a bit of a blur. Watching you grow is a joy, if a maddening and stressful one. You aren’t the cautious child your brother is, slow to take any unnecessary risks. Instead, you hurl yourself into each new adventure with little concern for the inevitable facial bruises. People might think we abuse you if everyone you meet didn’t witness you whirling about, careening into any solid object slow or stupid enough to get in your way. You walked at 10 months, and ran at about 10 months and a week. You were a bit slower to talk, but now that you do you speak with the emphasis of a preacher. We believe, little man, we believe.

he's a lover AND a fighter

Bam Bam, you continue to live up to your nick name. We know you love us from the force with which you smash us with your fists, your toys, your head. It’s a good thing Owen adores you, since you make him cry far more than ever you get upset about anything he does to you. On the few occasions he does do something to upset you, it’s almost never intentional. You, on the other hand, whale on him as though he’s indestructible. I imagine in your mind, he is. As are we all. And you hug us with as much zeal as you beat on us, so we know there’s no lack of love.

If nothing else, your mother and I are certainly thankful you’ve survived your first two years. There were times we weren’t sure it would happen, the way you throw caution to the wind. I think it’s fair to say you’ve gotten a running start at the terrible twos, though I’m sure they’ll also be spectacularly awesome, in addition to terrible. You can be all four seasons in one day, little man. Who knows what you can accomplish in an entire year. We can’t wait to find out.

treasure

Happy Birthday, Nicholas. We love you so.

Today my wife and I celebrate the eighth anniversary of our wedding. Last year on this date I wrote a love letter to Lisa on this blog. I don’t usually try to one-up myself. I want to grow and improve, but I think each new experience should be embraced on its own merits. It’s natural to compare today to yesterday, this year to last year, second kid to first kid, but each one is unique, and comparisons only go so far to tell us what things are really about.

So, I don’t intend to try and best last year’s note. Instead I want to acknowledge this day for what it is. A celebration of another wonderful, challenging, growth-filled year. I knew 12 months ago this year would bring change, challenges, and surprises. It did. It’s been one of the hardest years we’ve faced, and one of the best. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times? Cliché, but fitting.

Thinking of our wedding, I recall a moment during our reception. We were married in Lisa’s hometown of New York City in June 2002. Many arrangements were already made before September 11, 2001, and we had no intention of changing our plans. Most of our guests were not from New York, and many had never been there, so we decided to have our reception on a boat circling Manhattan. It afforded the best possible views of the city, including a sobering moment as we glided past the site of the World Trade Center attack. Some might think such a stark reminder of recent, horrible tragedy would be the last thing you’d want while celebrating your wedding. For me, though, the only honest way to cope with loss is to face it. Sadness is a part of life. We lose things we love. On Sept 11, 2001, nine months before we were married, we all lost a measure of our innocence. For some that loss was deep and acute: losing a family member, a loved one, or a friend. For others it was remote and abstract, but still painful. Looking at the hole in the city where the towers had stood, still fresh with twisted metal not yet repaired or removed, was a reminder that there will be dark times. The best we can do is weather them together, and look ahead to another day. Each year is a new opportunity. Every day a little death, and every day, rebirth.

So, we begin another year. Our ninth year married, our 17th as a couple. This year we’ve had our own minor tragedies, and triumphs. I know next year will be the same. I am hopeful the bright spots will outnumber and outweigh the dark ones. Whatever comes, we will face it together, arm in arm, with our children beside us.

I love you, Lisa. Happy anniversary.

It’s Memorial Day weekend, a time many of us are thankful for a 3-day weekend. Parades, barbeques, friends and family…reunions, even.

Even though I don’t have any holiday plans, I hope each of you has a great weekend. And I hope you remember what this day of remembrance is supposed to be about: the people that have died in service of their country. People that made it possible for you and me to enjoy the day-to-day of our lives. I will admit I’m not thankful often enough, mostly because lately it seems I’m enjoying more drudgery and depression than living. But I am appreciative of all those fallen soldiers.

One of my pet peeves is bumper stickers on cars. Growing up, they were cool, and I loved putting a new sticker on our car to proudly show our allegiance to Disney World after a visit, or even South of the Border. As an adult, I find bumper stickers tacky as shit, even if there is the occasional one that makes me chuckle.

When I see one of those seemingly ubiquitous yellow ribbon stickers that say “Support Our Troops,” it kinda skeeves me out. Mostly because I imagine that, if there’s a need for a sticker to state your support, there’s an *opposite* sticker on some oaf’s car: “Do NOT Support Our Troops!” It’s akin to needing stickers that say “Support Breathing and Blinking!” Who DOESN’T support breathing? And what kind of person doesn’t support our servicemen and servicewomen?

It’s just sad (and unnecessary) to me that we need stickers/ribbons to remind people to support the troops. No matter what your stance – whether you believe we should be militarily involved in Afghanistan or Iraq (or wherever) – you should still support our active-duty men and women.

My father and stepfather both served our country for a time. So did my grandfather and step-grandfather. My brother and I, too. In fact, my bro and I served during the first Gulf War. I never saw combat (thank God), but lived in England and worked a lot of long shifts to support the men and women that were in Iraq at the time.

I’ve had people thank me over the years for serving our country. I’ve learned to graciously say “Thank you,” but the truth is that I joined the military for purely selfish reasons. I was 19 when I signed up, had a wife (and twins on the way), and knew I could get my education on Uncle Sam’s dime.

As it turns out, I couldn’t afford the $100 monthly payment into the G.I. Bill (did I mention the twins?) so that education fund never materialized for me. I was an Airman First Class, barely pulling in $800 a month to support my family. And much as some people may think the military gets a free ride – so many have proclaimed jealousy over free groceries (which is not a privilege military members enjoy) – I can assure you the free ride doesn’t exist. For the first few years my girls were alive, my (then) wife and I were eligible for food stamps and WIC…a sad state of affairs for anyone, let alone someone serving their country. I recall one week my ex-wife and I had only $30 to our name to last us a week. $25 of that went to a case of baby formula, and the other $5 went to the meals for my ex and I: nothing but peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for the next week. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Believe me, I would have LOVED free food back then.

Me in basic training, circa 1987

My military service was a blessing and a curse for me. Some of my happiest and unhappiest moments came during my Air Force days. My military time saw both the beginning (happy) days of my marriage, and the end (depression and desperation) of it, too. I enjoyed the traveling, lived in Mississippi, England, and Texas during my stint. At the end, while stationed in San Antonio, I left on my own terms.

I’m proud of my service now, glad I did it. I think most people could benefit from some time in the military.

I’m thankful for the men and women that died for my country, whether it be during the Revolutionary War, World War I, Vietnam, or yesterday.

And I don’t need a fucking sticker on my car to say I’m proud of the troops.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

The year, 2010, started out promising, like the Goodyear blimp rising over the city, a whirring airship ascending slowly and elegantly, graceful in appearance, like a modern dancer.

“Happy New Year,” I screamed at midnight on December 31, drunk on champagne at the party at Joyce’s apartment on the Upper East Side.  It would be a good year!

It is now May.  Hmm… what happened?

I’ve always loved the Goodyear blimp.  “The Spirit of America” is stationed near my home in Redondo Beach, and on weekends, it flies over our home as it heads for the beach or some sports event in Pasadena.   If you are in the bedroom at the right moment, and glance out the bedroom window, you can see the shadow of the blimp covering the outside patio, like a huge umbrella giving shade.

What a joy it must be to pilot such a majestic blimp!   What an aerial view it must be from inside — not cold and distant like the view from a run-of-the-mill commercial airliner, miles above the ground — but close and intimate, only a few helium bursts away,  looking down at the houses below, like toys for the playing.

I started 2010 like a pilot in command of a Goodyear Blimp.   It was going to be a very good year.

But even a good year can be darkened by murky clouds, few pinpoints of light cutting through the gray mist.

It’s been five months since I returned to Los Angeles.  A broken hip of my father-in-law, Vartan, has morphed into one problem after another.  Despite the advice his doctors, his wife, Fanya, refused to put Vartan into an assisted living home.   And who can blame her?  She loves her husband.  But it hasn’t been easy.  Caring is a full time job.

Vartan is in the hospital again, with pneumonia and an infection.   Sophia and her mother are fighting with each other after Fanya fired the full-time aide.   Caring for my FIL has opened old wounds that can’t be fixed at a hospital.

And I’m… well, I’m still around.

Everyone is exhausted.

Today I took Sophia into bed.  Actually, I grabbed her and told her to GET INTO BED.   I told her we both needed to shut up — not talk about anything — and hug.  We hugged and slept for seven hours.

It was nice.  But I could hear the Goodyear blimp flying overhead, still hidden in the clouds.

clip # 1: 3-year-old is in front of the camera.  Poised.  Not phased by her brother’s bellowing or her nose’s itching.  She knows the words, even we don’t.

clip # 2:  while I’m in the bathroom, the 3-year-old has taken my phone and begun filming.  She refers to her brother as a “beast” and then goes all “Blair Witch Project” on us.