Went out for dinner the other day. Nothing fancy, just some fast food Chinese joint. While looking at the menu above the counter, I noticed some numbers next to the various food items. At first, they appeared to be prices, but a closer look revealed them to be calories. What in the world!? Why would I want that information?
Don’t we assume a certain level of responsibility when we venture into any restaurant, nutrition-wise? Especially fast food joints? When was I supposed to start caring about the number of calories in chow mien, pot stickers or even a Big Mac? I already know there are probably enough calories in any combo meal at any fast food joint to feed half of the starving people in Africa. Who doesn’t?
It’s just another attempt to avoid taking responsibility for our own actions. I fell off the ladder, not because I was foolish enough to climb to the very top step, lean over and lose my balance. It was because the manufacturer didn’t tell me not to be stupid. I gained 100 pounds not because I ate every meal at a fast food joint, but because they kept it secret how many calories I was eating. It’s their entire fault. Damn corporations.
Obesity is an ever constant problem and continues to grow (pun intended). We have a generation that was raised on fast food and soft drinks. Of course, we as a society must assign blame to someone. But it can’t be the kids and god forbid we should look to the parents. It’s the restaurant’s fault. Had they only informed us of the calories we consume, we would have made better choices. Oh, and exercised more. Honest.
So I ordered my Chinese grub. It was yummy, as usual. But I couldn’t help adding up the calories that I was consuming. Couldn’t shake the guilt of making a pig of myself while others are starving. The Karmic numbers just didn’t add up. Or maybe they did.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Fathers
Fathers. We come in all shapes and sizes. And dispositions. It’s one of those situations in life that can be frustrating, exhilarating and downright scary. Sometimes all at the same time. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Some of us take to fatherhood like the proverbial duck to water, others a bit tenuous and others just plain failures. I wonder what sort of father Charles Manson had. How about Adolf Hitler? Did they do their best and then their sons just turned evil? Is raising children really a crap shoot? Do fathers roll some sort of cosmic dice when it comes to their children, or does it involve hard work and a whole lot of luck?
My Dad told my brother and me the same thing: you’ll make plenty of mistakes raising children, just don’t make the same ones as me. Sage advice. Tried to remember those words on more than one occasion. Succeeded more often than not. I think. We are, as Plato said, what our mothers made us, but boy, fathers can sure play a big role.
I sometimes wonder what sort of fathers the more famous around us are. LeBron James springs to mind. Has he instilled the “let them eat cake” philosophy he embraces in his children? How about Mel Gibson, Matt Damon, Cary Grant? And just what sort of father will the aptly named Representative Weiner make? I wonder.
One thing about being a father, it’s a never ending job. No matter what your children might do, or how old they become, you’ll always be their father. The day to day responsibilities lessen, hopefully, as they grow older and face their own world, but you’re a father even if only in name or to spring for dinner. Of course, some of us fathers were seemingly put on earth as a constant source of embarrassment to our children. Ain’t it grand?
The mantel of fatherhood placed on young shoulders can indeed be a heavy one. I accepted it with pride and elation. Those feelings have not faded. Through thick and thin, sleepless nights, graduations and the many firsts: love, job, heart break, car, traffic ticket and leaving the nest. I tried to stand unwavering through it all, a loving and caring father. I only hope my son avoids the mistakes I made with his own children.
Some of us take to fatherhood like the proverbial duck to water, others a bit tenuous and others just plain failures. I wonder what sort of father Charles Manson had. How about Adolf Hitler? Did they do their best and then their sons just turned evil? Is raising children really a crap shoot? Do fathers roll some sort of cosmic dice when it comes to their children, or does it involve hard work and a whole lot of luck?
My Dad told my brother and me the same thing: you’ll make plenty of mistakes raising children, just don’t make the same ones as me. Sage advice. Tried to remember those words on more than one occasion. Succeeded more often than not. I think. We are, as Plato said, what our mothers made us, but boy, fathers can sure play a big role.
I sometimes wonder what sort of fathers the more famous around us are. LeBron James springs to mind. Has he instilled the “let them eat cake” philosophy he embraces in his children? How about Mel Gibson, Matt Damon, Cary Grant? And just what sort of father will the aptly named Representative Weiner make? I wonder.
One thing about being a father, it’s a never ending job. No matter what your children might do, or how old they become, you’ll always be their father. The day to day responsibilities lessen, hopefully, as they grow older and face their own world, but you’re a father even if only in name or to spring for dinner. Of course, some of us fathers were seemingly put on earth as a constant source of embarrassment to our children. Ain’t it grand?
The mantel of fatherhood placed on young shoulders can indeed be a heavy one. I accepted it with pride and elation. Those feelings have not faded. Through thick and thin, sleepless nights, graduations and the many firsts: love, job, heart break, car, traffic ticket and leaving the nest. I tried to stand unwavering through it all, a loving and caring father. I only hope my son avoids the mistakes I made with his own children.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Lists
Almost stopped cringing every time I hear or read the phrase “Bucket List”. The movie, from which it originated, was pretty silly, or at least I think it was since I was only able to suffer through about twenty minutes of its utter nonsense. But, not surprisingly, we’ve adopted the term and even less surprising, we have run it into the ground. Some people will say anything to be hip.
A list of things to do before we die, or kick the bucket. How very noble. But isn’t any list we make, including chores, work duties or even a grocery list supposed to be done before we die? Is there some other plane of existence in which these tasks can be completed? Maybe you’ve figured out a way to do any of those things after you’ve died. If so, please let me know. I’ll add it to my cosmic list of things to be done.
So is this Bucket List something I’m supposed to actually write on a piece of paper, or save as a file on my computer? As an old retired fart, the thought of any list of things to be done is too much of a reminder of my working days. That big pad sitting on my desk emblazoned with TO DO at the top and a bunch of lines on the page filled with crap I had to do to keep my job. Yikes! Makes my stomach start to knot up just writing about it.
Then of course, what happens when I kick off and my list still has unchecked items on it? Do friends and relatives stand around tsk, tsking over my lack of commitment, organizational and time management skills? Kind of like a post mortem job review? Will they be given an opportunity to fill out a performance review and slip it into my coffin as a final evaluation? CC: God.
There are certain things that I’ve wanted to do in my life, but now realize the chances are real slim. Climbing Mount Everest is aptly at the top. Running a marathon. Not walking part way, but running, or in my case, plodding the whole 26.2 miles. A blown out knee took care of that. But there are things that I have done. I witnessed the birth of my son. Running with the bulls in Pamplona and as an added benefit, with my son. There are many others, some long forgotten, some as vivid as the day they were accomplished. But none were on any physical list.
We all have dreams of going places and doing things but to add them to a list is to diminish their value. To be lost among the so many other lists we have for our lives. To add to the pressures we face. To add to those self perceived shortcomings. The best place for your life’s To Do list is in your heart. Now go check some off.
A list of things to do before we die, or kick the bucket. How very noble. But isn’t any list we make, including chores, work duties or even a grocery list supposed to be done before we die? Is there some other plane of existence in which these tasks can be completed? Maybe you’ve figured out a way to do any of those things after you’ve died. If so, please let me know. I’ll add it to my cosmic list of things to be done.
So is this Bucket List something I’m supposed to actually write on a piece of paper, or save as a file on my computer? As an old retired fart, the thought of any list of things to be done is too much of a reminder of my working days. That big pad sitting on my desk emblazoned with TO DO at the top and a bunch of lines on the page filled with crap I had to do to keep my job. Yikes! Makes my stomach start to knot up just writing about it.
Then of course, what happens when I kick off and my list still has unchecked items on it? Do friends and relatives stand around tsk, tsking over my lack of commitment, organizational and time management skills? Kind of like a post mortem job review? Will they be given an opportunity to fill out a performance review and slip it into my coffin as a final evaluation? CC: God.
There are certain things that I’ve wanted to do in my life, but now realize the chances are real slim. Climbing Mount Everest is aptly at the top. Running a marathon. Not walking part way, but running, or in my case, plodding the whole 26.2 miles. A blown out knee took care of that. But there are things that I have done. I witnessed the birth of my son. Running with the bulls in Pamplona and as an added benefit, with my son. There are many others, some long forgotten, some as vivid as the day they were accomplished. But none were on any physical list.
We all have dreams of going places and doing things but to add them to a list is to diminish their value. To be lost among the so many other lists we have for our lives. To add to the pressures we face. To add to those self perceived shortcomings. The best place for your life’s To Do list is in your heart. Now go check some off.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Music
Music. It allegedly has charms to soothe the savage breast (not beast, Google it). We all have our favorites; Mozart, Benny Goodman, Dion and the Belmonts, The Beatles. Maybe even some of the new stuff. Music that is now listened to on satellite radio or iPods. It all has its place in our minds and some even in our hearts. Songs that when listened to can take us back. Back to a time or place, a special memory. Maybe even a bad one.
I can’t listen to Satisfaction by the Stones without thinking of summer nights cruising Twain Harte in Dan & Charlie Bennetts’ purple ’61 Chevy. Nor can I listen to Marvin Gaye’s soulful “Heard it Through the Grapevine” without recalling a college party where my buddy Ed Garcia and I were the only non Blacks in attendance. Power to the people, bro.
Music is never has the same effect to multiple generations. What my parents thought was just a bunch of undecipherable screaming, was helping me define myself and my generation. Now, I think most of today’s crap is, well, just crap. With a few notable exceptions. Very few. And I’m pretty sure that my son will feel the same about the next generation’s music. It’s inevitable. A parental duty.
It’s amazing how sometimes I can’t remember why I went into the kitchen and yet sing the complete lyrics to some song from the 60’s or maybe even the 50’s. “Well, you load sixteen tons and what do you get?” The lyrics just come out of some corner in my brain. Oh yeah, went to the kitchen to get some trail mix to munch on. I think. Yeah, that’s it.
While self employed I was fortunate enough to be able to play music while I worked. Oldies, of course. But in deference to my helpers, I would sometimes let them play Mexican music. Corridas and Norteno, with its distinctive oompa style. I loved the voices of the Mariachis harmonizing. Some of those oldies sometimes still remind me of my Dad and almost bring a tear to my eyes. If I weren’t so Macho, that is.
Maybe we could settle our differences by enjoying our mutual love of music. Maybe President Obama could meet with world leaders and over some music leave the room with an agreed upon plan for world peace. Well, Ok, no point getting crazy over it.
In the meantime, kick back, relax and listen to whatever makes you happy. Makes you one with yourself. Maybe even have a glass of wine while you’re at it. The dishes, laundry, oil change and those other errands will still be there. Here’s to you Mrs. Robinson (wherever you are).
I can’t listen to Satisfaction by the Stones without thinking of summer nights cruising Twain Harte in Dan & Charlie Bennetts’ purple ’61 Chevy. Nor can I listen to Marvin Gaye’s soulful “Heard it Through the Grapevine” without recalling a college party where my buddy Ed Garcia and I were the only non Blacks in attendance. Power to the people, bro.
Music is never has the same effect to multiple generations. What my parents thought was just a bunch of undecipherable screaming, was helping me define myself and my generation. Now, I think most of today’s crap is, well, just crap. With a few notable exceptions. Very few. And I’m pretty sure that my son will feel the same about the next generation’s music. It’s inevitable. A parental duty.
It’s amazing how sometimes I can’t remember why I went into the kitchen and yet sing the complete lyrics to some song from the 60’s or maybe even the 50’s. “Well, you load sixteen tons and what do you get?” The lyrics just come out of some corner in my brain. Oh yeah, went to the kitchen to get some trail mix to munch on. I think. Yeah, that’s it.
While self employed I was fortunate enough to be able to play music while I worked. Oldies, of course. But in deference to my helpers, I would sometimes let them play Mexican music. Corridas and Norteno, with its distinctive oompa style. I loved the voices of the Mariachis harmonizing. Some of those oldies sometimes still remind me of my Dad and almost bring a tear to my eyes. If I weren’t so Macho, that is.
Maybe we could settle our differences by enjoying our mutual love of music. Maybe President Obama could meet with world leaders and over some music leave the room with an agreed upon plan for world peace. Well, Ok, no point getting crazy over it.
In the meantime, kick back, relax and listen to whatever makes you happy. Makes you one with yourself. Maybe even have a glass of wine while you’re at it. The dishes, laundry, oil change and those other errands will still be there. Here’s to you Mrs. Robinson (wherever you are).
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