LA Beneficial



LA. They call it the “City of Angels.” I was there to find out if there were any. A troublemaking newshawk hunting and pecking his way along the dad blog beat. A newshawk in need of a story. Stories are funny. Stories can come out of nowhere and pop you in the kisser just as you’re looking the other way. Yeah, stories are funny like that. I should know. Happens to me all the time, the last time being a few weeks back.

It was another hot Houston night. Hot enough you don’t even fight it anymore. Even the Shirley Temple sitting on my desk was sweating. I had downed who knows how many of them, each sip breaking the irregular rhythm of my hesitant fingers as they fumbled all over the keys of a second-hand Royal mill that I won from this rube in a game of Go Fish.


Clack. Clack. Clikety, clack, clack. DING! Ziiip. A cold swig of grenadine. Clickety, clack, clack …clack. Clack. DING! Ziiiiip. I lifted the glass to my mouth and POW! The phone’s ringer hits me like chin music right on the mug. I jerk back. My drink spills.

On the other end of the receiver a voice tells me there’s a story in LA. I wonder if the wetness I feel through my shirt is from sweat or the contents of my drink. Tell them I'm in. Yeah, stories are funny like that. They make laugh.

I’m laughing again in the cab when the driver tells me how cool the LA summer has been. Cool until today that is.

“This whole weekend’s gonna be up ‘round a hundred degrees,” he says, grinning into the mirror. “Must’ve brought it with you from Houston, mister.”

Maybe I did, pal. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe sweat from my forehead. The windows in the’48 Packard are rolled down, but hitting every traffic light on Hollywood Boulevard doesn’t make for much of a breeze. Now I know why cabs are called boilers. At least it has a radio.

Chet Baker’s singing about finding the silver lining. Guy’s got some pipes. Other than the heat and my throat screaming for a Shirley Temple, there are plenty of silver linings—I’ve got a story, a place to stay, and a ride to get there all thanks to some very serious people—ConAgra, Feeding America, and Schools Fight Hunger. Serious people dedicated to a serious cause—Child Hunger Ends Here.

I knew the country was in a bad way these days. I didn’t know how bad.

  • Almost one in four children not getting enough food to be healthy and active
  • A 50% increase in kids relying on food banks for services since 2006
  • 17 million hungry kids, roughly the combined total populations of The Big Apple, Tinsel Town, The Windy City, and my current home, Houston!

Later I’d learn that in Harris County, where Houston is located, 27.2% of the children have no idea where their next meal is coming from! I'm floored by this.

In this economy, you don’t know who’s affected. The newest face of hungry kids comes from those living in two-income homes. All those kids out there that seem fine, they might not be. They might be going without meals, and not because of poverty or out-of-work parents either.

Makes your guts churn, and mine were. Soon the cabbie pulled up to the Roosevelt Hotel. The guy seemed like a good egg so I slapped a fin into his mitt before walking inside.

The Roosevelt Hotel. Now there’s some history for you. Built in ’27. Named after that Rough Riddin’ son of a gun, president, Teddy. Home of the first Oscar’s Night. I took off my lid and whistled after giving the joint a good up and down. Definitely not your average flop house.

“Old Hollywood.” That’s what a playwright friend of mine called the place when we met in the Spanish-styled lobby the next morning on our way grabbing a stack of wheats. I’ll say. Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Clark Gable—all regular guests. Errol Flynn used to mix hootch in a back room here during Prohibition.

What a time. Nowadays all you hear about is these young guys and gals—guys and gals I’d be doing some work with. That would be later. Right now I had people to meet and places to be.

Upstairs, I walked into a room full of heavy-hitting bloggers—Caryn Bailey (Rockin Mama), Mary Fischer (The Mommyologist), Peira Jolly (Jolly Mom), Linsey Knerl (Lille Punkin), Jennifer Leet (The Dirty T Shirt), Danielle Smith (Extraordinary Mommy), Molly Snyder (The Snyder 5), Laura Thornquist (The DFW Mommy), and fellow dad, Lamar Tyler (Black and Married with Kids). I felt a bit behind the eight-ball running with this crew. No time to think about that. We had business across town, specifically getting the slant on the LA Regional Food Bank.

The Food Bank is a big place. Has to be if it’s gonna support a network of over 600 charitable agencies with more than 1,000 sites and service programs. 1.2 million—that’s the number of meals the place provides each week! But we’re not there just for a sweet little tour. We’re there to work too.

Work turned out to be sorting through four pallets of tomatoes to find ones that would go into smaller crates for distribution around town.

“Pick out the ones you’d feed to your family,” the warehouse boss said. “Toss the rest into those trash cans.”

Five minutes later he said we were being too picky. The criteria changed to, “Pick out the ones you’d feed to your family if were in need of food.” Sobering. Everyone got busy and didn’t stop until every last tomato made it into a crate. We walked out of there smelling like a Heinz factory, but we did so with big old happy grins on our mugs. Not that it was a lot of work by comparison, but in my mind, a few Shirley Temples were in order.

The next day was supposed to be the main event—packing bags of food alongside some Hollywood celebs. Like I said, today’s stars, are all kids to this middle-aged goof with an alderman hanging over his belt. I ain’t wise to none of ‘em, but this one guy, Mark Salling, is said to be a darb crooner and actor—sorta like James Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy, but with less “dandy” and more mohawk.

Salling mugged for some photos and then spent a few minutes chinning to the crowd about the ways parents and schools can get involved with ending child hunger. How?

  • Host or participate in a food drive to collect up pantry items for your local food bank to help ConAgra reach its goal of collecting 2 million pounds of food for Child Hunger Ends Here
  • Collect UPC codes from specified ConAgra Food brands and turn them in because each code represents a meal that ConAgra will donate to Feeding America

Oh, and for those registered schools, they’re eligible for several prizes to include ten grand for a field trip—nothing hinky about it either.

Yeah, the whole event was quite the shin dig. Put stars like Salling, Samantha Harris, Dr. Jim Sears, Kristen Aldridge, Jillian Rose Reed, Kate Mansi, Grace Phipps, and others out on a busiest street in town to promote a good cause like Child Hunger Ends Here, and you’re gonna draw a crowd even when the sun’s putting the screw to you. Sure, it may have been hot as Hades outside, but this bunch along with ConAgra, Feeding America, and Schools Fight Hunger proved that LA does have angels in it, angels concerned about that which is beneficial to others.

But angels are needed everywhere there’s a hungry child. Are you one of those angels? You can be. Find out how easy it is.




* * *

To comply with the regs laid down by the Feds, I'm required to inform you that ConAgra compensated me for this campaign, to include travel, lodging, and meals. The Shirley Temples were on my own dime.

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Girlz Rulz: Wisdom to Live By

During the times when my sons are with me here in Texas there is a reoccurring cycle of adjustment that takes place between them and my stepdaughters. It starts off with a getting reacquainted sort of honeymoon period. This lasts until anywhere from halfway during our car ride home after picking the boys up to maybe the first couple days after getting back into town. From this point it's a good week of on-again, off-again spats and truces that finally deteriorates into a situation, the dynamics of which resemble that of the Israelis and the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip.

"She was in our room!"

"He took my pillow pet!"

And so forth, and so forth. Next thing you know it's rocket attacks and the sounds of jets overhead (proverbially, of course). This summer, the girls decided they were going to take a hard-line stance and lay down some clear boundaries should anyone dare cross the boarder into their room.

As you will see, they were difficult to ignore, for a few reasons.


1. Girls can see girls (Re: when getting dressed or in the bathroom)
2. Only girls can tell secrets
3. No bossing people around
4. No jumping on bed
5. You must have a pass to get in
6. Have fun


To the girls' dismay, however, these rules proved inadequate in specifically addressing a few averse circumstances, and thus were soon revised...


1. No shirtless boys
2. No disgusting things
3. Shoes off
4. If a boy wants to come in he must pay $1
5. Knock
6. If you make a mess, clean it up
7. No messing with the frog or crickets

8. [Listen] if a girl tells you to
9. No excuses
10. No ruining collections
(In reference to the girls' Littlest Pet Shop dioramas)

And then a VIP list was created, granting access to a select few girls from the neighborhood, and Sawyer, the lone boy among the elite. Unlike the previous edicts, this one came with clear consequences...


Warning / Caution: If you are a boy then screw it! If a boy comes in, girls will dress you up like a princess with makeup and perfume

Yes, "screw it" indeed. (Kiss your mother with that mouth?) By this you can tell the girls had difficulty enforcing their self-imposed guidelines. Eventually, though, it didn't matter much as the step-siblings entered the final cycle of adjustment--a three or four day period when they all get along and lament that their summer together is over.

As for the "Girlz Rulz," with the balanced mix of wisdom for living, respect for others, and healthy feminist, anti-shirtless boy undertones, I think we'll keep those around until--oh, I don't know--after they move out.


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Beautiful, Popular, Controversial, Helpful, Surprising, Overlooked, Proud, and Outstanding

That's a whole boat-load of adjectives none of which apply to the IRS or the majority of checkout clerks I come into contact with at my local Walmart. (Have you seen the actors in that Walmart commercial about the price-match guarantee? A little more apathy, and a little less concern for their fellow man and they would've nailed it.) I digress.

No, the adjectives in the title refer to blog posts--specifically mine. Admittedly, I feel a bit sheepish about characterizing anything of my own with such esteem, but there is a reason: I was forced. Okay, not so much forced as asked to by one Wolf Pascoe (@JustAddFather) of Just Add Father (which you should be reading if you're not already).

Technically, Wolf's request to participate in the Seven Links Project is a meme (Remember when memes were fun? No? Oh, um ...never mind) that involves listing old blog posts that fall under several categories--beautiful, popular, controversial, helpful, surprising, overlooked, and proud. I realize the meme are much like the near-extinct Sumatran Tiger, but this one's worth doing for several reasons:

1) It's hard to say no to friends, 2) you get to showcase some older posts to new readers, 3) it gives you a chance to promote some talented bloggers, and 4) it's an easy cheat in coming up with a blog post. Well, I guess I'd better get on with it then.(Oh, and for most of these I asked for outside input so as to feel less narcissistic.)

*Most Beautiful: "About A Boy"

There’s a boy at the bus stop. Cute kid, deep dark eyes, bright charismatic grin—probably in first grade. He’s also a holy terror. He rips things out of other kids’ hands. He tears around the entry drive, darting in front of moving cars without regard...


Most Popular: "Why I 'Hate' Mommy Bloggers"

So I'm waiting to get a haircut and flipping through a parenting magazine when, there it was: another ode to the mommy bloggers article. Well, isn’t that just special. This is the same thought I had last month perusing Babble's list of the Top 50 Mommy Bloggers, and it’s the same thought I always have when somebody writes another oo-la-la feature about the power of moms with Internet access. Listen up sisters. I am dad (with DSL). Hear me roar.


Most Controversial (Read the comments): "When Men Are Victims of Abuse"

I remember exactly what went through my mind at the suggestion that I had been emotionally abused by my now ex-wife. Horseshit. The very idea sounded ludicrous. I had been an all-state athlete, an Infantry Captain, and an accomplished corporate executive—positions that required strength and mental toughness. The only halfway legitimate version of an abusive wife I could conceive was that of a 400-pound woman squashing her rail-thin, hen-pecked husband because he forgot to bring home the extra side of gravy she wanted from KFC—fodder for Jerry Springer, Tyra, and all those talk shows that specialize in bringing off-the-chart social dysfunction to the masses.


Most Helpful: "Cards for Corn Syrup"

This week a sweet debate erupted within the mommy blogger/moms who blog community over a coordinated blogging tour meant to aid in dispelling the misconceptions associated with consuming high fructose corn syrup, or HFCS. The tour was part of an extensive “Sweet Surprise” campaign initiated by the Corn Refiners Association (CRA), a Washington DC-based lobbyist group dedicated to the fair and ethical treatment of …corn. (Okay, refined corn if you want to get technical.)


*Most Surprised by its Success: "Dear Soccer Mom"

Dear Soccer Mom,

I just wanted to take an opportunity to tell you thanks for having my stepdaughter over for a play date with your daughter. From what I heard afterward, it sounds like they had a wonderful time. My stepdaughter couldn’t wait till school started again so they could see each other every day.


Most Overlooked: (i.e. Didn't get the attention it deserved) "Angels & Demons Part 1: Sparky"

(This is an audio post)
For as long as I have known my wife, Ashley, she’s mentioned numerous times her desire to show Allie, Avery, and me the small Oklahoma town, of Tahlequah where she had been born. It’s not hard to understand why should would want to make such a trip. At eight, Ashley left Tahlequah with her mother and sister, thus marking the beginning of a childhood spent constantly moving from place to place. I once asked my wife how many addresses she had as a kid, and for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with an exact number. So, for someone who grew up under such transient conditions, even by Gypsy standards, the rarity of consecutive years lived in Tahlequah represented the closest thing, Ashley could point to as a hometown, a relatively tiny blip on the map, but one that resided in a prominent place among her memories.


Most Proud Of: "What's In a Name"

One question I am often asked is how I came up with the name Clark Kent's Lunchbox for a dad blog to which my immediate response is a quip about it being something of an accident. The real answer, however, is a bit longer. When I started this blog back in 2007, I did so with the intention of improving my writing; I had no idea there was such a thing as daddy blog (or even a mommy blog for that matter). But that didn’t mean fatherhood wasn’t...

* * * * * 

That's my list, subjective as it may be. Now, you may have noticed that there is one more adjective from this post's title--Outstanding--that haven't been used yet. True. As with all memes, the idea is to "tag" several other bloggers to follow the above stated guidelines to carry on the chain. I am going to list some OUTSTANDING bloggers that you may not be already reading; however, there is no requirement for them to participate in the Seven Links Project. The talented Mr. Pascoe I've already mentioned, but since he was the instigator, I can only recommend him once again. The others are, in no particular order:

The Exceptional Man by Caleb Gardner

The Daddy Files - Aaron Gouveia

Always Jacked - Alan Kercinik

Story Wise Guy - Chris Buckley

Dork Daddy - the Dork Dad

How To Be A Dad - Charlie Capen & Andy Herald


Enjoy.



*originally posted on personal blog and published on another site later



Read more...

Beautiful, Popular, Controversial, Helpful, Surprising, Overlooked, Proud, and Outstanding

That's a whole boat-load of adjectives none of which apply to the IRS or the majority of checkout clerks I come into contact with at my local Walmart. (Have you seen the actors in that Walmart commercial about the price-match guarantee? A little more apathy, and a little less concern for their fellow man and they would've nailed it.) I digress.

No, the adjectives in the title refer to blog posts--specifically mine. Admittedly, I feel a bit sheepish about characterizing anything of my own with such esteem, but there is a reason: I was forced. Okay, not so much forced as asked to by one Wolf Pascoe (@JustAddFather) of Just Add Father (which you should be reading if you're not already).

Technically, Wolf's request to participate in the Seven Links Project is a meme (Remember when memes were fun? No? Oh, um ...never mind) that involves listing old blog posts that fall under several categories--beautiful, popular, controversial, helpful, surprising, overlooked, and proud. I realize the meme are much like the near-extinct Sumatran Tiger, but this one's worth doing for several reasons:

1) It's hard to say no to friends, 2) you get to showcase some older posts to new readers, 3) it gives you a chance to promote some talented bloggers, and 4) it's an easy cheat in coming up with a blog post. Well, I guess I'd better get on with it then.(Oh, and for most of these I asked for outside input so as to feel less narcissistic.)

*Most Beautiful: "About A Boy"

There’s a boy at the bus stop. Cute kid, deep dark eyes, bright charismatic grin—probably in first grade. He’s also a holy terror. He rips things out of other kids’ hands. He tears around the entry drive, darting in front of moving cars without regard...


Most Popular: "Why I 'Hate' Mommy Bloggers"

So I'm waiting to get a haircut and flipping through a parenting magazine when, there it was: another ode to the mommy bloggers article. Well, isn’t that just special. This is the same thought I had last month perusing Babble's list of the Top 50 Mommy Bloggers, and it’s the same thought I always have when somebody writes another oo-la-la feature about the power of moms with Internet access. Listen up sisters. I am dad (with DSL). Hear me roar.


Most Controversial (Read the comments): "When Men Are Victims of Abuse"

I remember exactly what went through my mind at the suggestion that I had been emotionally abused by my now ex-wife. Horseshit. The very idea sounded ludicrous. I had been an all-state athlete, an Infantry Captain, and an accomplished corporate executive—positions that required strength and mental toughness. The only halfway legitimate version of an abusive wife I could conceive was that of a 400-pound woman squashing her rail-thin, hen-pecked husband because he forgot to bring home the extra side of gravy she wanted from KFC—fodder for Jerry Springer, Tyra, and all those talk shows that specialize in bringing off-the-chart social dysfunction to the masses.


Most Helpful: "Cards for Corn Syrup"

This week a sweet debate erupted within the mommy blogger/moms who blog community over a coordinated blogging tour meant to aid in dispelling the misconceptions associated with consuming high fructose corn syrup, or HFCS. The tour was part of an extensive “Sweet Surprise” campaign initiated by the Corn Refiners Association (CRA), a Washington DC-based lobbyist group dedicated to the fair and ethical treatment of …corn. (Okay, refined corn if you want to get technical.)


*Most Surprised by its Success: "Dear Soccer Mom"

Dear Soccer Mom,

I just wanted to take an opportunity to tell you thanks for having my stepdaughter over for a play date with your daughter. From what I heard afterward, it sounds like they had a wonderful time. My stepdaughter couldn’t wait till school started again so they could see each other every day.


Most Overlooked: (i.e. Didn't get the attention it deserved) "Angels & Demons Part 1: Sparky"

(This is an audio post)
For as long as I have known my wife, Ashley, she’s mentioned numerous times her desire to show Allie, Avery, and me the small Oklahoma town, of Tahlequah where she had been born. It’s not hard to understand why should would want to make such a trip. At eight, Ashley left Tahlequah with her mother and sister, thus marking the beginning of a childhood spent constantly moving from place to place. I once asked my wife how many addresses she had as a kid, and for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with an exact number. So, for someone who grew up under such transient conditions, even by Gypsy standards, the rarity of consecutive years lived in Tahlequah represented the closest thing, Ashley could point to as a hometown, a relatively tiny blip on the map, but one that resided in a prominent place among her memories.


Most Proud Of: "What's In a Name"

One question I am often asked is how I came up with the name Clark Kent's Lunchbox for a dad blog to which my immediate response is a quip about it being something of an accident. The real answer, however, is a bit longer. When I started this blog back in 2007, I did so with the intention of improving my writing; I had no idea there was such a thing as daddy blog (or even a mommy blog for that matter). But that didn’t mean fatherhood wasn’t...

* * * * * 

That's my list, subjective as it may be. Now, you may have noticed that there is one more adjective from this post's title--Outstanding--that haven't been used yet. True. As with all memes, the idea is to "tag" several other bloggers to follow the above stated guidelines to carry on the chain. I am going to list some OUTSTANDING bloggers that you may not be already reading; however, there is no requirement for them to participate in the Seven Links Project. The talented Mr. Pascoe I've already mentioned, but since he was the instigator, I can only recommend him once again. The others are, in no particular order:

The Exceptional Man by Caleb Gardner

The Daddy Files - Aaron Gouveia

Always Jacked - Alan Kercinik

Story Wise Guy - Chris Buckley

Dork Daddy - the Dork Dad

How To Be A Dad - Charlie Capen & Andy Herald


Enjoy.



*originally posted on personal blog and published on another site later

Comments on my drivel always welcome. Thanks.

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Can You Answer the "Why" of Your Golden Circle




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Work and Play: How I Trick My Kids

Note the absence of grass in TX 
Summer’s that time of year when everyone gets all gung-ho about mowing, hedging, mulching, fertilizing, watering and so forth. Well, maybe not everyone. I, for one, loathe yard work—thus debunking the existence of that green-thumb utopia that national home improvement chains portray in TV ads, where happy couples exchange blissful, satisfied smiles after spending the day creating the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in their front yard. Pffft! Whatever.

Granted, I realize that for some people, this is “their thing.” My father, for example, derives an exorbitant amount of joy—sometimes, in my opinion, bordering on psychotic—when it comes to landscaping/gardening related endeavors, which may also be at the root of my personal disdain for such home improvement projects in general.

Many times, I thought my dad to be insane. Some people hoard junk; he amasses small parcels of land for more shrubs and sod. At last count we estimated that, combined, the yard and vegetable garden amounted to nearly three acres of land, the entirety of which my sisters and I were well acquainted with after years of tending to it. Summers in particular were the worst, not because of the heat, but rather from the list of daily tasks our father would leave for us on a folded note that greeted us at the breakfast table.




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'Tis the OTHER Season (Back to School)

August is upon us and with it comes the beginning of another school year. Hard to believe summer went by so fast—that’s what we say when making small talk with the other parents waiting in line to purchase washable markers, safety scissors, and non-toxic, eco-friendly (edible) glue required for the first day of classes. It’s beyond my comprehension, but apparently there are people who actually like back-to-school shopping, a baffling fact learned via an episode of that show Discovery Channel airs featuring people afflicted with bizarre compulsions like eating glass or hording animals. Eh. To each their own.

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A 5 Dollar Hit to Take Out Jiminy Cricket

Late last spring, Allie and Avery caught a toad, something I had no knowledge of until getting a text from my wife, Ashley. "Can you take a pic of the girls' toad & send to me?" The randomness of such a request, naturally warranted further clarification, which came via a series of concise directions that sounded like those a kidnapper would give someone for bringing ransom money to a drop site.

"Go out the back door through the laundry room. Look left. On the ground you'll see a large plastic container. Inside will be some grass. Push it out of the way, and you'll see the toad. Take a pic and send to me." And indeed there was--a brown, bumpy toad the size of a hacky-sack. I use hacky-sack here because when I was eight I had a friend who liked to pick up toads and kick them as hard he could--not exactly my sport of choice, but the image of amphibians being used as a form of athletic equipment resurfaces anytime I see a toad.

My phone lights up again. "It's a Great Plains Toad!"

The "Great Plains" part indicated to me that the thing is roughly a thousand miles south of where he should be; beyond this, knowing its exact nomenclature means nothing to me. I hope she doesn't think we're this thing. The thought prompted me to inquire as to the nature of her new found interest in herpetology. (That term alone should tell you everything you need to know about amphibians.)

"I need to know what it eats," she replied. Two days later and forty dollars poorer, I now have a Great Plains Toad living rent-free in a brand new, fully furnished aquarium that the girls have placed on their dresser.

What's important to know here is that I abhor having animals in my house. The place is filthy enough as it is without having dog hair coating the furniture or the smell of piss-filled kitty litter wafting through the air.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not judging anyone who does allow their pets inside, but being reasonably sane in most areas of my life, I feel entitled to retain some small measure of neurosis, which in this case, includes amphibians, rodents, and primates (non-human). Even fish don't thrill me.

Still, our family isn't ruled by a dictatorship; it's closer to a symbolic monarchy. I'm the King of the Castle and my wife is Prime Minister--like England. She lets me believe that my decrees are law and then she comes home with two Beta Fish. The thing about my wife, though, is that she never really informs me that, "Hey, I bought the girls a fish." Her tactics are, how would you phrase it? --Less than direct. I'm brought into the loop by seeing the girls smuggle in fish food and related paraphernalia hidden in bags from the craft store, or by being asked to take pictures of a wayward toad that's hunkered down in a plastic container.

Fine. At least the little squatter is quiet, which is more than I can say of its favorite meal--crickets. Crickets, as most of you know, are black, can leap high in the air, and make a chirping noise by rubbing their hind legs together.

Turns out, as a food source for toads, they cost money and come in sizes like T-shirts--small, medium, and large. (Whoever has the job of sorting crickets by their size must either hate life or really love insects.) Oh right, and you can get them in bulk or prepacked, a fact I learned during a begrudging trip to the pet store. Our pantry's stripped down to a bottle of cloves and a gluten-free pizza crust, and yet there I was shelling out cash for some stupid bugs--bugs that proved elusive to find amid doggy sweaters and three-story cat condos. Gimme a break.

I finally broke down and asked a clerk for help.

"Oh, man." he said. "Well, we're almost out. We don't even have enough to feed our animals, but I'll check with the manager just in case."

Lovely. On the bright side, maybe the toad would croak (from starvation that is).

The manager confirmed the store's short supply, but asked how many I needed anyway.

"I don't know. My wife just told me to get a box of 25." I shrugged.

My answer, though, seemed to flip some sort of light bulb on for the two store employees. "Ohhh, you want the boxed crickets," the manager said.

...Yes. The boxed ones. As opposed to the free-range ones because I'm really not too concerned about a toad's preference for an all-organic lifestyle.

Following the clerk, I turned the corner and, whadda ya know, it was a whole shelf full of crickets packed in box-shaped, plastic packages, neatly stacked one on top of another--kind of like cell-block B at San Quentin, only for bugs.

Poor bastards. I imagine it's rather hard being forced to watch excited kids come in here and walk out with a new pet day after day. And then to get their little cricket hopes up having someone like me come along to "adopt them." It's got to be one helluva a letdown to realize that their functional purpose is closer to gladiator fodder the moment the girls dump them into that glass arena with that and then cheer on the death of their miserable cricket existance in a fight to the finish against that toad. And the worst part--their buddies back at the store don't know any different.

Someone will come for us, guys. I know they will; I can feel it in my hind leg. I'm betting he's the one the others shove up front after they land in the aquarium.

Occasionally, though, there's one heady bugger who manages to escape after making a giant leap to freedom. I can always tell when this happens because Allie, Avery and their mom all let loose the same half-surprised, half-terrified "Ahhh!" before they then nearly trample each other in a race for the bedroom door.

Awesome. Now the cockroaches have a jumpy new friend.

Such was the case a few weeks ago, the only difference being that this cricket version of Cool Hand Luke was of the xtra-large variety. In a hurry to get home, Ashley picked up the wrong size from the pet store, a discovery made later in the evening when she opened the container as saw that the toad's meal had been super-sized. That brief moment of pause was all one of those crickets needed. "Ahhhh!" Stomp, stomp, crash, thud.

A halfhearted search turned up nothing, and that was that ...until it got dark outside. Then the chirping started.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

I turned to my wife and gave her "the look." Seriously.

"What?" she asked, but Ashley knew what I was referring to.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

"Alright, fine," she conceded, pulling herself off the couch and heading in the general direction of the noise which seemed to be coming from the top of the stairs.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

Ashley, looked down at me. "I think it's right here." She searched the floor. The way she stopped abruptly told me she found it. Boom, boom, boom. "It's under the carpet, but I think I got it."

I had my doubts. Ashley had just finished two glasses of Merlot, and by the way she held out her empty glass at me as she climbed back on the couch, it was obvious she intended to polish the bottle off. Plus, it was likely more than a coincidence that the end of Ashley's hunt coincided with end of the commercial break during her favorite reality TV show. These suspicions were confirmed five minutes later.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

I hung my head and closed my eyes. Ashley gulped wine and ignored me. And the cricket went on.


CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP...

11:00PM ...CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP...

1:00AM ...CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP...

3:00AM Silence. Finally. Yesss.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP...

Jiminy freakin' Cricket! --CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP!

At 5AM, I got out of bed and closed the door shut. CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep... At 5:15 the alarm went off. And so did the cricket, apparently he was done for the day. Mine would not be so great.

By the next evening, I had been so busy I had forgotten about the cricket, and after dinner, I still had some errands to run. However, right as I started to walk out the door, the cricket fired up those magic legs of his.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

Grrrrr! What my wife and I were able to determine before going to bed the night prior was that the cricket wasn't just under the carpet, he was hiding in some nook and cranny somewhere within the floor-boards. At the present, though, I was in a hurry, and didn't have time to figure out how to get rid of the damn thing. "I will give five bucks to whichever kid can kill that stupid cricket," I said walking out the door.

Based on the sudden scramble of bodies that ensued, I imagine happened next was a chaotic, riot of a scene with five, money-crazed children wielding chainsaws and crowbars over their heads as they mobbed their way to the top of the stairs. By the time I got home, however, all was peaceful ...and silent!

"I killed the cricket," my wife greeted me with.

"Really? How?"

"I used that thin nozzle on the roach spray and slid it in between the cracks in the floor."

"So you gassed him?"

"Uh-hu."

I have no idea why I said this, but the first words out of my mouth were, "Kinda cruel, dontcha think?"

Apparently she didn't. "Where's my five bucks?"




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Summer's Over

Summer's over. Yes, the temperature outside is 100+ degrees; the kids are not yet back in school; and the leaves, unless they're wilted, are nowhere near to changing color. The end of summer is a matter of perspective. For me, the conclusion comes as I watch my sons drive away with their mother, the first leg in their 1,300 mile trip north to a home so foreign to me, it's almost mythical. There's a preciseness in this moment similar to the instant when the earth's axis tilts marking the change from Summer Solstice to Fall Equinox. Just as the earth is now off kilter, so too is my world.


I walk into the backyard and cry for twenty solid minutes beneath the tent I built for them a few weeks back. I am not a cryer. I am a man. I restrain my tears in order to reassure others, to hide my fears, to protect my venerability. Except for now. The salty, wetness seeps through the cracks between my fingers and fall onto the mat of crinkled dead oak leaves below. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. They are rapid at first, the overflow that comes from the rush of memories that flood my mind--games of laser tag, a Star Wars museum exhibit, the shared thrill from Captain America.

Eventually, though, the flow tapers off. Tap. Tap. Tap. And then it is contained, telling me it's safe to wipe away the streams of anguish from my face. I try not to think about when will be the next time I see my sons again. Thanksgiving? It's barely a long weekend. Christmas? No, tt's their mother's turn this year. Spring Break then? That's six months away and too far to know for sure. My eyes water up, but I close them, damming any further spilling of emotion.

I step into the house. It is silent--so much so, that the cold whispering of air being exhaled by the A/C vents sounds strange to me. There is no one here. My wife instinctively knows I need to be alone, isolated like the astronauts after their return from the moon. Because of this, she takes her girls shopping.

The thought of my stepdaughters induces, as it always does immediately after the boys leave, a short-term bitterness over the injustice of my wife getting to be with her children while I remain separated from mine. It's bullshit--absolute bullshit that things have to be this way!

I start to rehash all the avenues that would allow me to move closer to my boys, all the plans that fell apart in the past, all the previous dead ends. How else can I make this happen? Resolve fills my veins, but, pulling a beer from the refrigerator, my focus is distracted at the realization we need groceries. I jerk the cap from the bottle and fling it across the kitchen, unconcerned with wear it lands.

I am disgusted with myself over the slew of failures and poor decisions I've left in my wake. In the time it takes me to swallow a mouthful of bitter tasting liquid from the bottle in my hand, I go from determined to defeated, passing through desperation somewhere in between. Why does have to be like this? The longer this goes on, the more my boys need me. Don't you see this God? I mean, what the hell! It's never going to happen, is it? ...We'll always be apart, won't we?

I drop helpless onto the couch. Summer's over. Tomorrow I'll get groceries. Monday I'll start on a project with a new client. A few days later, I'll discover that the minivan's AC will die. There will be bills. Soon school will start, and not only will I just be packing the girls' lunches, this year I'll now be coordinate dropping them off and picking them up each day since the district canceled their bus route. There will be more bills, more trips to the grocery store, more circumstances beyond my control. Fall is here.

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