Blink-182, Pop punk, Wham!

Daddy/Daughter Date to a Punk Rock Concert: What’s My Age Again?

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Part of being a responsible parent is pretending to like godawful music and listening to it over and over again in a minivan. This was not covered in What to Expect When You’re Expecting. My lovely wife Jen and I will be forever haunted by having certain CDs on repeat when our kids were younger: Sesame Street’s Elmo’s Lowdown Hoedown (Big Bird, Elmo, and friends singing country songs about reading, friendship, and feelings), The Lilo and Stitch soundtrack, and Justin Bieber’s My World 2.0. 

I should note that I like early Justin Bieber. When that precocious kid sang “Baby” (“Ooh, baby baby baby oh, baby baby baby no, I thought you’d always be mine,” etc.), I was rooting for him to have long-lasting success in the music industry. But when our youngest was a  5-year-old music-selection dictator screaming for us to play that song nonstop on car trips while our other kids covered their ears and screamed, “Make it stop! Make it stop!,” it made me reevaluate my relationship with him and, frankly, my love of other things Canadian, like Pamela Anderson and Canadian bacon.

But I wanted to talk about taking my youngest daughter to her first legitimate rock concert. As the baby of the family, she has benefited from Jen’s and my (mostly my) slippery-slope parenting skills. With the first child, we were all, “His eyes won’t see a screen until he’s 3! And he’ll only listen to Mozart and Beethoven and James Taylor! And he’ll only eat organic foods harvested within a 100-mile radius of our home! And let’s bubble-wrap the crap out of this apartment so he never gets a boo-boo on his body!” We were pretty annoying. By the time Child No. 3 came around, our tune had changed: “How long was that hot-dog chunk on the floor? Was it longer than 60 seconds? Just brush off the crumbs and see if she’ll eat it. And is it 9 a.m. yet? ‘Dora the Explorer’ should be coming on soon; TV is our friend.”

I was the baby of my family, too, and I can pinpoint the moment I realized I was the beneficiary of being youngest: July 1980, when I was 9 years old. My mom took a much-needed vacation with her girlfriends to Florida. (My parents had four children in a 4-year span. It was so loud at our house that even I didn’t like to be around us at times, and I was one of us.) My dad took us to a double feature at the local theater: The Blues Brothers (the first time I heard the F word and the S word used repeatedly in a film) and Airplane! (the first time I saw a woman in a state of undress in a film). As we left the theater in stunned silence, my dad turned to us kids and said, “We probably shouldn’t speak of this to your mother.”

By contrast, I had a friend who was the oldest in his family, and when we were 15, his parents took me along with him and his little sister to see the re-release of Disney’s Song of the South. Which, by the way, was controversial for other reasons, but was still a Disney movie. I was like, “I’m too cool for this, man. Pass me some Jujubes.”

When my brother was 18, he convinced my parents to let him take his girlfriend to a concert at Poplar Creek, an outdoor music venue in the Chicago suburbs that no longer exists. The only way they would agree was if he took along his three younger siblings. (Well played, Mom and Dad.) This seriously cramped his style that night. The happy news for me is that I got to see my first band live in concert. I am not ashamed to admit that it was the UK pop duo Wham! with George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley. (The band’s official name includes the exclamation point; please don’t assume I am excited every time I type it out.) Which one of Wham!’s songs are you thinking about now? Is it “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” or “Careless Whisper”? If you’re not familiar with Wham!, they were like the Justin Bieber of their time: catchy tunes, cute faces, lots of screaming fans, never meant to last. I was in love with the whole spectacle of that evening: the long line surging forward when someone thought they spotted George, an opening-act comedian (not something you see with most rock bands), girls crying when the boys took the stage, and the pyrotechnics and light show.

It was the summer before my freshman year of high school. You can bet I wore my “Whamamerica! tour” concert t-shirt to high school exactly once before burying it deep in my shirt drawer.

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As Mark Hoppus sings, “My friends say I should act my age. What’s my age again?”

In recent years, I also buried some of my music collection away so that my kids wouldn’t be exposed to it: AC/DC, Guns n’ Roses, the Violent Femmes, and Blink-182. While it was easy to hide the cassettes and CDs, things got complicated when I switched over to iTunes. Our youngest child perused my music on the laptop and stumbled upon Blink-182’s 1999 album Enema of the State. The joke in the title reveals the level of the band’s juvenile humor (right in my wheelhouse). For whatever reason, our daughter took to this album. Sometimes you can’t explain why certain music appeals to you (e.g., I am a huge fan of Taylor Swift and will vigorously defend her right to pen breakup songs about celebrity ex-boyfriends; I wish I was kidding).

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This is Wham! I was lucky enough to see them in concert in 1985. If you got too close to them and looked at their mouths, their teeth would permanently blind you. Or so the rumor had it. From left: George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley.

We started running into the problem of what amount of foul language is okay to sing aloud if it’s not allowed in everyday talk. Slowly, our daughter pushed for more music along the lines of Blink. They’re a pop punk band, so she fell for the triumvirate of greats in that genre: Blink-182, Fall Out Boy, and Green Day. (Not to turn this into a lecture or to reveal my own ignorance on musical genres, but pop punk basically takes the “screw you” mindset of punk music with its fast chord changes and distorted guitars but adds a more listenable tune to it. To hear the difference, listen to the Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen,” and then listen to Blink-182’s “What’s My Age Again?”)

When our youngest balked at the increased amount of tennis lessons I had signed her up for this summer (I figured that if she liked tennis 2 times weekly for 3 weeks, she’d really like it daily for 6 weeks), I told her I’d make a deal with her: Make it through all the lessons, and I’d take her to the Blink-182 concert in September. (Bribery, ladies and gentlemen!) Originally, we were going to bring her sister and a friend, but they couldn’t make it.

Which is how I found myself heading out on a Friday night to the Hollywood Casino Amphitheater, just my 11-year-old daughter and me, to see a punk show: three bands, one DJ. When I was shopping for tickets, Jen convinced me to buy the lawn seats on the theory that our daughter shouldn’t have nice, sheltered, cushioned pavilion seats for her first show because then she might never want to get the cheap seats. “What if it rains?” I said. “What are the odds that that it would?” Jen said.

When we got to the parking lot, we could barely see the entrance gates because of all the rain. (Thanks, Jen!) It was coming down so hard that there was a chance that the concert would be cancelled. We wore raincoats, and I carried a poncho in so we could sit on something. I wanted to sit in the car as long as we could, but the kid was anxious to see the sights and sounds, so out we schlepped through the pouring rain. I mean, it was raining hard like a Taylor Swift song. In the first 5 minutes we were there, we got completely soaked. The good news is that we had our pick of the lawn and settled into a spot behind maybe 3 rows of people. We watched the DJ (DJ Spyder) and ate our soggy pizza and nachos. My daughter kept looking around wide-eyed and saying, “Look at all the black clothes! Everyone is so emo!” We bought souvenir T-shirts; my first choice turned out to be a woman’s shirt, of course, so I had to scramble to find something manlier.

The first band to play was the All-American Rejects, another pop punk band whose popularity was highest in the early 2000s. They were great, even though the venue was only about half-filled by the time they hit the stage. They played a short, 35-minute set of all their hits and finished with a new song, called “DGAF,” which stands for “Don’t Give A” and then the F word. The chorus was, “We don’t give a *bleep*,” screamed over and over again. Later, my daughter said she liked the All-American Rejects the best, better even than Blink-182. Hopefully not because of their new song.

By the time band number two came on, the rain had stopped for the night. And the crowd got thicker and pushier and scarier. I looked around at one point and realized that (A) my daughter was by far the youngest person in our vast section of the lawn and (B) I was by far the oldest person in the lawn section. I’m not kidding. Fortunately, my kid kept her hood up the whole time, so I’m not sure that anyone around us even knew how young she was. Also, I’m the height of a middle schooler, so she’s about my size now.

The second band was a group called A Day to Remember. Their music has been described as metalcore. I like all kinds of music; however, and especially when I am trying to protect my kid from the headbangers crowding into me, I can’t say I’m a big fan of them. I told her, “If things get ugly, I’m grabbing you and we’re pushing our way out to the right.” And she kept reaching over to hold onto my arm to make sure I was still there. When two guys started a mosh pit behind us, my daughter got pushed about 5 feet away from us, but I had my hand on her arm and stopped her from flying too far. I was never happier to have a band finish its set than when A Day to Remember said, “This is our last song!” I cheered the loudest.

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The nice gentlemen in Blink-182 who were sent to corrupt your childrens’ morals. From left: Mark Hoppus, Travis Barker, Matt Skiba. Photo: Robin Marchant, Getty Images.

Then Blink-182 was up. I went into the concert somewhat disappointed that one of the three original members, Tom DeLonge, wasn’t touring with them (he’s the guy with the nasally voice who shares lead vocals on their songs), but I have to say that I’m glad I went. Although, again, speaking as a dad, I’m not sure about the massive flaming sign behind their drummer, Travis Barker, that was simply an “F,” a “U,” a “C,” and a you-know-what-else. Some quibbles: they didn’t play enough songs off of their best album, they played too many songs that were closer to the metalcore of A Day to Remember and not enough that were closer to the pop punk of the All-American Rejects.

They were supposed to play from 9:20 until 11:10 or so; looking at other setlists from the tour, they’d do about 24 songs. About 5 songs into their set, my kid whispered to me, “I’m really tired. How much longer should we stay.” I was like, “Really? It’s 9:50 on a Friday. At sleepovers, you stay up until 2 a.m.” So I made her a deal: we could leave after they played “All the Small Things,” which I knew they would do as their 22nd song. (One suggestion for the guys in the band: When you have a song like “First Date,” whose chorus is “Let’s make this night last forever,” you should end with that song instead of playing it so early in the set.)

The closer and closer we got to the end, the sleepier my daughter got. As soon as we finished singing along with the crowd on “All the Small Things” (“Say it ain’t so, I will not go, turn the lights off, carry me home…”), we zipped out, hopped in our minivan (only the cool kids drive minivans to punk shows), and headed home.

I put Enema of the State on in the minivan. My little rocker was asleep as soon as we hit the highway.

 

Amy Poehler, Kids, Michigan State University, Nathan Ricker, University of Illinois

Your Child Is Not You

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A lesson 18 years in the making: Your child is not you. One would think I would have figured this out earlier, like when our oldest, the boy, grew to be 6 inches taller than me. So many times over the years (as recently as this week), I’ve heard, “He reminds me so much of you!” and “He has your eyebrows!” and “He’s like a mini-you!” (It’s been several years since I’ve heard that last one; I’m a mini-him now.) What finally helped this sink in for me is the college search we embarked upon over the last year.

Honestly, the boy could not have made this any easier for us. From his sophomore year of high school on, he said that he wanted to go to a college that met these criteria: 1. It was a big school, so that if he changed majors, he would have many options. 2. It was not in a big city. 3. It was reasonably close to home. That was about it.

Fairly quickly, we settled on two possibilities (again, how easy was he going to make this for us?): the alma mater of my lovely wife Jen and me (“We’re loyal to you, Illinois…”) and another Big Ten school (“Go Green! Go White!”).

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One of these people is the father. One of them is the son. (Hint: Only the son can reach the top shelf in the kitchen cabinets.)

I should state here that we were always clear that we were not going to put any unreasonable pressure on the kid to enroll at our alma mater. As I explained to the boy over and over again, “You should feel free to go wherever you want. You are under no obligation to attend my school. Even though it is one of the top 40 universities in the country according to every major college guide. And it has a top-five program in your chosen field. Plus it is close to home. And your mother and I had four of the greatest years of our lives there, got outstanding educations, and met people there who have become lifelong friends. Also, every other article of clothing that I own is orange and blue. No pressure.” (See how I played that? I am subtle.)

From the beginning, Dear Old Alma Mater U. was his top choice. I didn’t even have to steer him that way. He and I made a visit to the campus when he was invited to Scholars Day. The university reps and students put on the usual display (“You are smart, and we hope you come here; undergrads get to do graduate-level research; this is a big school with a small-school flavor,” etc.). The boy and I had an hour to kill, so I gave him a quick tour of campus before the official tour. I went overboard with the minutiae: “On your right is Altgeld Hall, designed by Nathan Ricker, the first graduate of an architecture program in the United States…” I couldn’t help it; my tour was more detailed than the official one.

Then he got invited to something similar at the other school. This one was more involved, and he was invited back to take a test to earn scholarships. The praise from the university reps was even more effusive. A direct quote from the admissions director: “We want you. I’ll go further: We need you. You will make us a better school.” Yikes! I thought; these folks are putting on the hard sell.

People would ask me which way the boy was leaning, and I usually had a percentage (completely made up in my head, not having anything to do with the reality of the situation): “Right now, he is 90 percent sure he will go to my alma mater,” or, “There’s really only a slim chance, maybe 5 percent, that he will go out of state,” or, “Really, the only thing that would change his mind is if the out-of-state school offered him so much money that it became substantially more affordable than the in-state school. Not likely.”

Then, something bizarre happened: The out-of-state school offered him so much money that it became substantially more affordable than the in-state school. Then the college-search process became easy. My son didn’t see a significant difference between the schools, so he reasoned (as did Jen, I might add), why go to the more expensive one? As decision day neared, I looked for all sorts of ways to justify my clinging to the hope that he would go to my school, but really, it was more of a process of my letting go of expectations and getting out of my own comfort zone.

Remember when I titled this blog post “Your Child Is Not You”? Here’s the thing: I could list a hundred different ways that my school is better than the other one, but it’s always going to come out like this to my kid: “You should go to my school because…” And it honestly doesn’t matter what the rest of the sentence is, because it sure sounds like I’m telling my kid what to do and not letting him make up his mind for himself. My school was great for me; maybe it would be for him, but maybe not. The actress/producer/comedienne Amy Poehler, in her memoir Yes Please, uses the phrase, “Good for her! Not for me.”

I was talking with my dad the other day about something, and he reflected back on when he first became a father nearly 50 years ago. He said, “I remember thinking, This will be great, I made so many mistakes in my life that I will tell my kids what to do or what not to do when they reach similar situations, and they will thank me profusely and their lives will be so much easier than mine.” You know how this story ends: None of his kids wanted to listen to him, and we all made similar mistakes. As he said, the cliche is that someone has to experience something for themselves to understand, and it’s true: even with a parent telling us, for example, not to touch the stove, we have to touch the stove ourselves to truly figure out that, hey, we probably shouldn’t touch it.

I saw a piece on ESPN recently about Tiger Woods and his relationship with his father, Earl Woods. Early in Tiger’s career, when he was having incredible success but also dealing with the celebrity that follows it, his father said to him, “I know exactly what you are going through.” Tiger replied, “No, you don’t.” That perfectly sums up the parent-child relationship. As parents, we think we know what is best for our kids because we believe that we went through similar circumstances. On the other hand, kids think their parents have no idea what they are going through. The truth is somewhere in between, and it’s up to us as parents to figure out how to pass on life lessons without lecturing.

For me, it seems as if the best way is to keep my mouth shut. Plus, do my own thing and let my kids see how I handle adversity and decision-making. Because clearly, wearing orange and blue almost daily didn’t work the way I thought it would. Now I have to add some green and white to my wardrobe.

Marathon, Running

Winter Long Runs: Are We Having Fun Yet?

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Now that we are moving on to spring here in the Great Midwest and winter’s worst sting is over (am I jinxing myself on that one?), I can stop worrying so much about my long winter training runs. See, the problem with running a spring marathon is that I do all of my running outdoors. I prefer to run on this canal towpath near our home, but snow tends to linger on it, and snowmobile tracks that freeze over can be ankle breakers. Plus, do I have to mention the dog poop hidden under the snow cover? (Four sentences in and already I am using the word “poop.” My college writing professors would be proud.)

I run outside in winter for two main reasons: 1. I am a tough guy (have you seen me? I thought this one was obvious), and 2. I have a horrible treadmill. It is about 40 years old and is “manual,” meaning that it only moves if you slide your feet on it. This leads to an unnatural running stride. (And please don’t tell me to join a gym or buy a new treadmill; you obviously haven’t read my “I Am a Notorious Cheapskate” blog post yet.)

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That’s my breath and not drool that froze on the ski mask, I swear. Note the knit cap on top of the ski mask; that’s so my brain doesn’t freeze.

If there is a lot of snow on the ground, I am better off running on city streets, although that means I have to deal with traffic. I try to run against traffic, make myself visible by wearing clown clothes, and make eye contact and wave to every driver. (If you’ve seen me, I’m not so much waving “hi” as waving “thank you in advance for not putting me through your windshield.”) Because of the ice and snow, I have to run by “feel” rather than by time. I tried training at specific time paces one winter, and it was a disaster: knee problems and IT band injuries led me to fall far short of my marathon goal time.

The hardest part about winter running, though, is developing that “whatever it takes” attitude and not allowing the weather to play too big of a role in my training. Whether it’s 0 degrees or snow is falling or the plows have already come and it’s icy, the running has to be automatic. If I waver and think, Maybe it will be nicer outside tomorrow, I’ve lost the mental battle.

The number one way to deal with outdoor conditions is to dress properly. I’ve gotten to the point at which I am usually overdressed. Not suit-and-tie overdressed; that would be weird. Rather, I wear extra layers and can strip some off if I need to. I have a rainproof windbreaker that I can wear in all kinds of weather; it’s the most important item in my closet. I also like to keep my neck warm, so I wear an ear warmer headband around my neck. If it is 20 degrees or nicer, I go with one thin pair of gloves. Anything colder, and I have two warmer sets of gloves that do the trick.

During a typical marathon training cycle (about 20 weeks or so), I try to get in four runs of 18 miles or longer. Many training programs will have you run just once at 20 miles, on the theory that if you can make it 20, you can make it 26.2. But I have struggled with those final 6.2 miles, so I try to do a step-up plan where I add 2 miles to my longest run every third week: 16, then 18, then 20, 22, and 24. (Coincidentally, I am supposed to be doing my 24 today, but it is raining with potential lightning outside, so here I sit, typing.)

A few winters ago was historically cold for this area. I remember forcing myself to run, pretty much so I could humblebrag about it on Facebook (e.g., “Went running while it was 8 below! Time to use a hair dryer to unfreeze my contact lenses from my eyeballs!”). On my longest training run that winter, I planned on doing 20 miles, but the snow was falling, it was 10 degrees out, and there was deep packed snow on the towpath already, so I did a circuitous route around our town’s streets. I was wearing my hydration belt, which has two water bottles and a pocket for gels. (I use Gu Gel; my favorite flavors are vanilla and root beer.) I also carried a Gatorade bottle.

About 10 miles into the run, a few things came to a head: First, the snow was accumulating around the bottom of my running pants and then freezing, weighing down my pants and forcing me to stop to retie the pants so they wouldn’t fall off. (That would have been a sight.) Then, my water bottles started to ice up. Initially, I could shake the bottles to break up any slushy parts, but it got worse until they completely froze on me. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to run with two freezing-cold bottles of ice bouncing up and down on either side of your groin, but I wouldn’t recommend it. (Unless you’re into that kind of thing; I don’t judge.)

My cold groin and all the bouncing made me have to go to the bathroom really, really badly. Anyone who has taken a road trip with me knows that I have the world’s tiniest bladder anyway. Usually, I can sneak off into the woods next to the towpath; the whole forest is my bathroom. (Hey National Forest Foundation, here’s your new slogan: “The whole forest: it’s your bathroom.”) But on this particular day, I was running on city streets. I quickly calculated two options for public restrooms open on a Saturday morning: the library and the hospital. I settled on the hospital, mostly for logistical reasons: it was about a half mile closer to where I was than the library. I practically sprinted to the hospital and went through the front entrance. A volunteer at the information desk asked me if I needed anything (besides the obvious shower after a long run) and quickly pointed me toward the men’s room. I waited around for the water bottles to thaw, but it was taking too long.

By that point, my run had completely fallen off the rails, so I walk-jogged home. It would probably not surprise you to find out that I did not meet my goal pace in the marathon that I ran in the spring. My point is, I have been much more consistent with my training this winter, and Mother Nature has cooperated. Any failure to meet my goal this year is on me. At least, until I can think up something else to blame it on.

Fisher-Price Adventure People, Movies, Star Wars

My Old Star Wars Toys Are Priceless! Wait, Does “Priceless” Mean the Same As “Worthless”?

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I decided to wait until all the “Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens” hoopla died down before I posted this story. (Let’s assume that getting beaten in the domestic box office by “How To Be Single” and “Zoolander 2” equals no more hoopla.) As I explained in my year-end review of movies, I was a Star Wars kid growing up and thus will remain ever devoted to the Rebel Alliance. I blame my parents for having me in 1971, making me 6 years old when Episode IV was released.

I should mention that I am not a true Star Wars geek. I don’t delve too deeply into the Star Wars Expanded Universe or even the Star Wars canon, I don’t follow Wookieepedia, and I definitely do not want to get into an argument over whether Han Solo or Greedo shot first in the Mos Eisley cantina.  (There’s no argument because clearly it was Han.)

When I was a kid, my parents had a strict policy on toys: my siblings and I could keep them as long as all of our toys didn’t overflow out of the toy barrel. (My dad had played in a golf tournament organized by his company, and he won a plastic garbage can in the shape of an old wooden barrel. He turned it into a fun toy chest: “Here, kids, keep your toys in this garbage can. Make sure the lid stays on it.”) The four of us Dudley children were in charge of getting rid of any toys that did not fit.

Consequently, I usually got small toys as gifts. (Please, stop weeping for me. Somehow I made it to adulthood relatively unscathed.) And my favorite gifts were Star Wars figures. I would spend hours playing with them all over the house, creating storylines that I am sure don’t fit into any Star Wars canon. Example: Luke and Chewbacca get stuck in the toy barrel under my sisters’ Barbie dolls and have to blast their way out. (All the storylines ended with “and have to blast their way out.”)

Along the way, I picked up some random figures that were the same size as the Star Wars guys but were not from the movies. My favorites were the Fisher-Price Adventure People. My neighbor had way cooler ones than me, but my brother and I got one set that had a Jeep and another that had a motorcycle with sidecar. We played with those indoors and outdoors, and we slept with them (we had no shame).

Like all kids, we were a little rough on our toys, and not all of the Star Wars guys survived. The original R2-D2 had its legs broken off, but was replaced by a newer toy when my son was younger. The Adventure People vehicles are long gone. A few of the other Star Wars guys had their heads popped off. None of them are worth anything at this point, I am sure.

I bring this up because of an article in the Chicago Tribune on December 15, 2015, that highlighted the worth of older, well-maintained Star Wars toys. A recent auction fetched $505,202 for the sale of a collection of over 600 Star Wars toys, including $32,500 for a 1980 boxed set of Boba Fett, Han Solo, and Luke Skywalker figures. Yikes. The $25,000 sale of a Luke Skywalker with a double-telescoping lightsaber is no comfort to me: my Luke Skywalker was of the replacement single-telescoping kind, and the telescope on him and my Darth Vader broke off shortly after we got them.

My point: Let your kids play with their toys. They will destroy them, and that’s okay. You don’t want them to become like Al McWhiggin, the toy collector who stole Woody in “Toy Story 2.” They just might end up keeping those toys in their basement when they are adults, and then post an article about them. Complete with photos:

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This was the carrying case for my Star Wars figures. It has two trays and can hold 24 figures. The figures came with a sticker so you could label their slot in the case. The trays flip over and have plastic pegs so you can stand the figures (there are round holes on the bottom of their feet).
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These are all Luke Skywalker. Left to right: wearing his Bespin fatigues, X-Wing Pilot, and the original. Note the missing lightsaber on the original. You could open and retract it.

 

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“Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy!” Darth Vaders from 2005 and circa 1977. Poor guy lost his cape and lightsaber.

 

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The arm on this 2005 Darth is spring-action. But it can never be lowered, so that’s annoying.

 

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Bleep blorp bloop. R5-D4 from 1977 and R2-D2 from 2005. R2 makes noise, but I haven’t changed his batteries in a long time.

 

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I’m pretty sure I said I wasn’t a Star Wars geek, but apparently I lied. This is an Ugnaught (left) and a Power Droid (right).

 

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Oh, how I loved Yoda. He was short, smart, and funny. This figure came with a brown snake and a cane. I’m sure they were vacuumed up by my mom in 1983.

 

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“Going somewhere, Solo?” “Yes, Greedo, as a matter of fact, I was just going to see your boss. Tell Jabba that I’ve got his money.”

 

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Boba Fett and Lando Calrissian. Lando liked to make the moves on my Princess Leia figure. (I lost the Leia figure just before I started dating girls. Might have been a correlation.)

 

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Okay, now we’re getting obscure. These are a rebel soldier in Hoth battler gear and a Bespin security guard from Cloud City.

 

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This is a Tusken Raider. (Labeled as “Sand People” on the original packaging, although technically it should have said “Sand Person.”)

 

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C-3PO and Death Star Droid. C-3PO’s hands broke off. Chewbacca probably did it.

 

 

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Hey, it’s Hammerhead! And his brother Hammerhead! (I’m guessing my parents got sick of hearing my brother and me fight over our toys and so got us the same thing once. Even though it was the ugliest of the Star Wars figures that we owned.)

 

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The Chewbacca Brothers. Mine was the one on the left. Just kidding. But not really.

 

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Maybe these guys were the ugliest figures we owned. Snaggletooth and Walrusman.

 

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These are my son’s. Note the bendable legs and arms; clearly, that’s a 21st-century toy. Left to right, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Utapau Shadow Trooper, and Clone Commander.

 

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Original Tron figures. Made of translucent plastic. We welcomed all kinds in our game-playing.

 

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Fisher-Price Adventure People. These were part of the cycle racing team; the guy on the left sat on the motorcycle and the guy on the right went into the sidecar.

 

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Adventure People. These were my favorites. Two outdoorsmen and a cowboy. They had a Jeep. Note that most of the Adventure People had left hands that could curl around any vehicle’s steering wheel.

 

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Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones (left) and as Han Solo (right). Indy had a whip, and his right arm is spring-action.

 

Books

The Best Books I Read in 2015

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I am not a big “Oh, let’s totally make New Year’s resolutions so we can learn and grow and then compare and share our lessons on learning and growing at the end of the year” type of guy. Well, I am, but I just don’t say it out loud. (I’m not even sure what type of voice one would use to say that quote; I’m imagining Shoshanna Shapiro from “Girls.”) I usually set a reachable goal and then quietly keep track of it myself. Because, if I don’t say it aloud, no one will know how badly I have failed. (Rule for Living No. 83 for the Dudley kids!)

In 2015, my goal was to read 48 books for the year. I had done 40 the year before, so I figured it wouldn’t be that much harder to crank it up to 4 per month. To prepare, I sang the Speed Reader theme song from “The Great Space Coaster”: “Who can read on the run and have lots of fun? Speed Reader, Speed Reader!” (“The Great Space Coaster” was an early 1980s kids’ show whose plot didn’t even make sense back then. Unless you were on drugs. Then it made all kinds of sense.)

By year’s end, I read 49 books. (I’ll wait for a minute to let the applause die down.) Then my mother-in-law stopped by for a visit and casually mentioned that she checked her reading history at her library’s website: she had read 80 books last year. I said, “Oh, great! Now I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re a better cook and that you traveled more than me in the past year!” (Um, yes and yes.)

The lesson is, you shouldn’t compare yourself to others. Unless you are clearly better than them at something. But do it quietly in your head.

Of those 49 books, here were my ten favorites. I had trouble cutting the list down to only ten. Now, on to my 2016 New Year’s resolution:  To stop using so many parenthetical asides in blog posts. (Probably not going to happen.)

51uAnaPJE1L._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_1. Ally Hughes Has Sex Sometimes, Jules Moulin. If the title doesn’t grab your attention (sorry, it’s not a picture book), the plot should: Ally Hughes, a college professor and the single mom of a precocious girl, has a weekend fling with one of her former students. Flash forward 10 years, and her now-grown daughter brings home her new boyfriend, an actor whose star is on the rise. Oh, and one more thing: he’s the former student with whom she shared a passionate weekend. Awkward. Funny and deeper than one would expect. I read most of this book out loud to my lovely wife Jen, but she read it herself, too (mostly for the sex scenes, I think).

Unknown2. After Visiting Friends: A Son’s Story, Michael Hainey. A heartbreaking memoir about a family’s secrets and a son’s need to discover truths about his father, however painful they might be for him. When Hainey was 6 years old, his 35-year-old father, a newspaperman, died on a Chicago street in the middle of the night. Now a reporter himself, Hainey goes looking for answers to questions that have nagged him into adulthood, including inconsistencies in the obituaries published in two different newspapers. Unfolds like a mystery.

Unknown3. The Clasp, Sloane Crosley. Part wild goose chase, part comedy of manners, Crosley’s novel starts as a look at the dynamics of a group of friends who knew each other in college but now find themselves in their late twenties wondering if they still have any reasons to be connected: Victor, recently fired from the world’s seventh-largest internet search engine; Kezia, personal assistant to a demanding jewelry designer whose latest necklace has a clasp that may be so defective that it could bring the company down; and Nathaniel, a television writer. When a classmate gets married and Victor passes out in the mother of the groom’s bedroom, he is awakened to the story of a necklace that may or may not have been hidden from or by the Nazis and may or may not be the necklace upon which Guy de Maupassant based his story “The Necklace.” Anyone who is a fan of Crosley’s droll humor in her essays will like her debut novel.

Unknown4. The Great Beanie Baby Bubble, Zac Bissonette. The subtitle of this book is “Mass Delusion and the Dark Side of Cute.” Parents of young kids in the late 1990s will remember the insanity of chasing down Beanie Babies at mom-and-pop stores and in McDonalds Happy Meals, and the inflated prices that they were supposedly worth, a modern version of the Holland tulip craze of the 1600s. This book is a combination of retelling how the heck that all happened and the bizarre life story of Ty Warner, the eccentric billionaire creator of Beanie Babies. I checked this book out thinking it would be good for a laugh, but there was nothing funny about what happened as people poured their life savings into collecting $5 stuffed animals believing that they would eventually be worth hundreds of dollars each.

3774553b6f174c9fd5eaa7e07927e978-w204@1x5. The Understudy, David Nicholls. Stephen McQueen is an English actor whose biggest role so far has been a corpse in an episode of a TV police procedural. He lands the understudy part in a play about Lord Byron, “Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know,” backing up Josh Harper, the Twelfth-Sexiest Man in the World and the husband of Nora, an American who surprisingly takes an interest in Stephen. His hopes to impress his ex-wife and his 7-year-old daughter rest on somehow finding a way to get Josh off the stage so he can have his chance to shine. Like Nicholls’ other novels, this is a sad-funny tale of a striver who just can’t seem to get to where he thinks he needs to be.

Unknown-16. 81 Days Below Zero: The Incredible Survival Story of a World War II Pilot in Alaska’s Frozen Wilderness, Brian Murphy. Here’s how clueless I was: I didn’t even know we had military bases in Alaska that faced attack from the Japanese in WWII. We tested planes in cold weather and then sold them to the Russians, who had a presence on our Alaskan bases. This is the gripping tale of Leon Crane, a 22-year-old co-pilot from Philadelphia who was apparently the only survivor of a B-24 crash in December 1942, somewhere east of Ladd Field. Somehow, with little outdoor survival training, and carrying only his parachute, a pack of 30 matches, and a pocket knife (no gloves), he finds the will to live for nearly 3 months in the harshest of weather conditions.

Unknown7. As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride, Cary Elwes. Elwes, who starred as Westley, offers a behind-the-scenes look at the production of “The Princess Bride,” one of my family’s favorite films. Sections of the book are contributed by fellow cast members, director Rob Reiner, and others involved in making the movie. Probably my favorite parts were the stories that they told about the late Andre the Giant, who played Fezzik. A must for people who loved the movie.

Unknown8. Love May Fail, Matthew Quick. Quick’s debut novel, Silver Linings Playbook, was turned into a hit film. His latest follows Portia Kane, who returns to her New Jersey home (and her hoarder mother) after her marriage falls apart. She makes it her quest to track down Mr. Vernon, her high-school English teacher who resigned after a traumatic classroom incident. It’s about redemption, healing, finding love again, and, especially, hair-metal bands from the 1980s.

Unknown9. Every Love Story Is A Ghost Story, D.T. Max. The first biography of David Foster Wallace, the brilliant and tormented writer who battled addiction and depression before his death at age 46 in 2008. Reading a Wallace novel or collection of essays (Infinite Jest is his most well-known) is like trying to decipher hieroglyphics or read Joyce’s Ulysses. Max’s haunting book is thorough (he uses almost as many footnotes as Wallace did in his books). I only wish it didn’t end the way I knew it had to.

Unknown10. Where You Go Is Not Who You’ll Be: An Antidote to the College Admissions Mania, Frank Bruni. As someone who is going through the college-admissions process with one of my kids right now, I needed to read this book to calm myself down. I have spent the last several months quoting from it to other parents. Bruni’s basic message is: Your kids will still be fine if they don’t get into Ivy League schools. In fact, he offers reasons why the top-rated schools might not be the best for everyone. If you have high schoolers, you should read this book.

Other books that I recommend but just missed the cutoff: Stories I Only Tell My Friends, Rob Lowe (funny, revealing, and surprisingly insightful); Rod: The Autobiography, Rod Stewart (he does not apologize for living the rock-star lifestyle); Factory Man, Beth Macy (true story of American furniture manufacturer who innovates to keep his factory open); Modern Romance, Aziz Ansari (not a memoir by the comic but a sociological study of dating in America); Even This I Get To Experience, Norman Lear (legendary TV producer looks back on his 90-plus years of living).

Movies

The Best Films I Saw in 2015

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Faithful readers of my blog (all three of you; you weirdos), here’s the list of favorite movies I saw in 2015. Just a reminder: These are not the best films released last year. These are the best movies I saw last year; they could have been old or new, but I just happened to see them in the calendar year 2015. I saw some movies that were released in the last month (Star Wars: The Force Awakens) and some that were released decades ago (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid). They only qualify for my list if it’s the first time I have seen them. For example, I watched the original Star Wars trilogy for the twentieth time in anticipation for Episode VII, but they would have been on my list in 1977, 1980, and 1983.

If I had a blog back in ’77, my list of faves would have looked like this (remember, I was 6 years old): Star Wars, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Saturday Night Fever, The Rescuers, Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo, Oh, God!, The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, The Bad News Bears In Breaking Training, Pete’s Dragon,  and Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown. 

UnknownHonestly, the Charlie Brown movie may have had as big of an impact on me as any of the Star Wars films. I have such a vivid memory of sitting in the front row of our hometown theater, which had been built in 1925 and had yet to be chopped up into four smaller screens, and staring wide-eyed at the adventures of Charlie and his pals as they tried to survive life at Camp Remote.

Anyhoo, here is the list. If you’ve been following me (since 1977), you’d notice my taste in movies: no horror flicks and very few big-budget blow-’em-up action films; lots of indie films and comedies. My lovely wife Jen doesn’t have as much free time as I do, so she only sees movies in her wheelhouse (dumb comedies, romantic comedies). I filter out all the other dreck to save her some time. I often watch a movie and think, “Would Jen want to sit through this?” Strangely, I didn’t have her see all the movies on my list.

10. “Young@Heart,” 2007 documentary directed by Stephen Walker and Sally George. This touching film is about the Young@Heart Chorus, a singing group whose members’ average age is 81. Also, they sing punk, rock, and other songs you wouldn’t expect from them. Funny and heartbreaking.

9. “Alan Partridge,” 2013 comedy directed by Declan Lowney and starring Steve Coogan and Colm Meaney. Steve Coogan is one of those actors whose films I gravitate to (Simon Pegg being another). Alan Partridge is a character he has played for years on British TV. The plot: A corporate conglomerate has bought out the radio station where Alan is a DJ, and one of his disgruntled co-workers takes everyone hostage to protest. Bonus: This film contains the single funniest scene in a movie I saw last year, wherein Alan attempts to escape through a window.

8. “Argo,” 2012 drama directed by Ben Affleck starring Affleck, John Goodman, and Alan Arkin. Some of this movie was hard to watch because I remember the Iran hostage crisis and how miserable a time in our nation’s history it was. (See, this is why I usually stick with comedies.) Affleck balances deftly the tension and humor in this little-reported story of a joint US-Canadian effort to save the lives of six Americans holed up at the Canadian embassy using the ruse of a Hollywood film crew scouting locations for a sci-fi movie.

7. “Obvious Child,” 2014 comedy-drama directed by Gillian Robespierre starring Jenny Slate and Jake Lacy. A comedy about abortion? One of three movies on my list that I greatly hesitate to recommend. Slate is such a fresh voice in this charmer about a young woman dealing with the aftereffects of a one-night stand. Plus, Polly Draper, who was Ellyn in the TV show “thirtysomething,” plays her mom. Yowza!

6. “While We’re Young,” 2014 comedy-drama directed by Noah Baumbach starring Naomi Watts, Ben Stiller, Amanda Seyfried, and Adam Driver. Painfully funny story of a couple in their forties who fall in with new friends, a twentysomething couple who makes them feel younger but also makes them question how little they have accomplished so far in their lives. Which made me question how little I’ve accomplished. Besides this blog.

5. “The Interview,” 2014 action comedy directed by Evan Goldberg and Seth Rogen starring Rogen, James Franco, Lizzie Caplan, and Randall Park. I know what you’re thinking: “Why, Dudley, why?” The second of the movies I hesitate to recommend. I swore I was never going to see this, especially after subjecting myself to “This Is the End,” which was (to me, but apparently not to others) unfunny, violent, and disgusting. This one was also violent and disgusting but funny! I laughed throughout. Do I have to explain the plot to the two of you who don’t remember the international incident that this film caused? Okay: a talk-show host and his producer score an interview with North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un, and the CIA tries to convince them to assassinate him. Best use of the song “Firework” by Katy Perry in a movie since “Madagascar 3: Europe’s Most Wanted.”

4. “Silver Linings Playbook,” 2012 comedy-drama directed by David O. Russell starring Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence, and Robert De Niro. What an original character Cooper played (Lawrence, too). There’s nothing funny about mental disorders, but Russell (who, in the DVD extras, talks about dealing with bipolar disorder in his own family) uses humor to tell the story of a guy and his family dealing with his release from a mental institution after his marriage falls apart.

3. “Boyhood,” 2014 drama directed by Richard Linklater starring Ellar Coltrane, Patricia Arquette, Ethan Hawke, and Lorelei Linklater. I am of the camp that believed this movie should have won the Best Picture Oscar last year over “Birdman,” which I liked (see my “Movies that just missed the cut” list below) but I found slightly pretentious in the “it’s a Film about Actors! and Directors! so it must be Important” way that usually goes over well with the people who vote for the Oscars. What happened in “Boyhood”? Not much, except a kid grew up. I could relate.

2. “Rudderless,” 2014 drama directed by William H. Macy starring Billy Crudup, Anton Yelchin, and Felicity Huffman. Hoo boy, did I struggle with this one. I didn’t even have Jen watch it; it’s too painful.  It is about something that most people will not want to see, and it tells a side of the story that most people won’t want to hear, and yet it is redemptive and (at times) funny and surprising, and the original songs are great. The plot: Crudup plays a guy whose son dies in a school shooting (are you still with me here?). His life falls apart. Then he discovers his son’s unrecorded music and starts performing it, passing it off as his own (did I lose you yet?). Please don’t see this and be mad at me if you hate it. I’m not recommending it for anyone else, but it moved me more than any other movie I saw. I admire Macy for choosing this subject matter for his directorial debut.

1. “Star Wars: The Force Awakens,” 2015 sci-fi directed by JJ Abrams starring Daisy Ridley, John Boyega, Carrie Fisher, and Harrison Ford. You may have heard of it. Yes, I was a Star Wars kid growing up. I can’t defend the derivative plot, but I had more fun watching this movie than any other. I laughed, I cried, I was surprised. I will probably see it again.

Movies that just missed the cut: “The Great Gatsby,” “Kings of Summer,” “Life Itself,” “Big Hero 6,” “Birdman,” “Land Ho!,” “It’s Kind of a Funny Story,” “Inherent Vice,” “Nebraska,” “Laggies,” and “The Artist.”

Marathon, Movies, Naperville Marathon, Running

My XXXL Marathon Adventure

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My lovely wife Jen and I were out on a walk, talking about the marathon I was going to run that weekend. I was going over my clothing options for race morning. Dressing appropriately for a race that will take (for me) 3½ hours is tricky; typically, the marathons I run are in the spring and fall, and the temperatures can rise 20 or more degrees during the course of the race.

“I am definitely going with the shorts,” I said. “Maybe a short-sleeve. Weather Underground’s website says it will be 39 degrees at the start and rise to 51 by the finish; maybe I should go with a long-sleeve shirt and a T-shirt over it. Then the gloves, a baseball cap, and maybe my neck warmer. But then again, I might not need the long-sleeve. What do you think?”

Jen said, “I think you’ve crossed the line and gone over to Crazy Town. Just do what you always do and stop obsessing about it!”

She had a point. But in my defense, I haven’t gotten this far in life without a few side trips to Crazy Town.

I was running in the Naperville Marathon, a relatively small race. My previous ones were all big-city marathons, and consequently, they had big marathon expos at convention centers. A marathon expo is where you have to go to pick up your packet with race bib, free shirt, gear-check bag, etc. If you’ve been to an industry expo or a college fair, you know what these things are like: vendor booths, free samples of frozen yogurt or another trendy food item, people generally harassing you into visiting their booths. This one was similar but with one big difference: it was teeny-tiny. The first clue was that it was being held not in a convention center but in the back room of a health club.

The health club was about an hour from my house, so I drove there 2 days before the race.  I wanted to do a quick get-in, get-stuff, get-out trip, but first I needed to ask some questions at the Information desk. The nice lady at the desk said I could ask her anything I wanted.

“Great,” I said. “I notice that there are parking garages a few blocks from the starting line. How soon before the race do they fill up? I’m trying to avoid having to use the remote parking.”

“Good question,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?!?”

“This is my first time volunteering at this marathon. I’d guess 6 a.m., maybe? Any other questions?”

“Um, no, I’m good.” I did have other questions, but seeing as my guesses would be as good as hers, I saved them.

Flustered, I went to the packet pickup table and got my goody bag. The guy at the table looked at my packet, yelled, “Men’s small!” to the volunteers behind him, and grabbed the shirt they handed him. Into my bag it went. I had already seen a photo of it online and decided it wasn’t really my style, so I hadn’t planned on keeping it; but hey, it was a free shirt. (Editor note: obvious foreshadowing ahead.) Usually, I would spend some time looking through my packet and verifying that everything is there and that the shirt is the correct gender/size, but I was in a hurry.

When I got home, Jen was back for lunch. Like a little kid showing off Halloween candy, I said, “Look at what I got!” I took out the marathon shirt and held it up for her to see.

“Oh my,” she said. “It’s kind of big.”

P1060104
I am pretty sure this is not my size. Please note: I am actually wearing shorts. As far as you know.

“What the?” I looked at the tag: Men’s XXX-Large. “Are you freaking kidding me?!?” This thing was a dress on me, and my arms flapped in the too-long sleeves, like when Tom Hanks’ character turned back into a 12-year-old boy at the end of “Big” and he was still wearing a man’s suit. (Sorry to ruin the ending of that one for you.)

Jen said, “Don’t get upset. You had already said you weren’t going to keep it. And don’t drive back to the expo for a replacement shirt.”

She was right, but it was the principle of the thing that ate at me. I mean, seriously. How did they get this one wrong? Plus, is there really that much of a demand for XXXL shirts at a marathon? I didn’t see any 6-foot-5-inch, 400-pound runners out there on Sunday morning. And did they accidentally give my small shirt to that guy? (“Hey, why did they give me a handkerchief instead of a shirt?”)

On race morning, we got there around 6. (Guess what? There was plenty of parking in the parking garages.) It was freezing; Jen didn’t want to hang around the starting line, so I wore some throwaway clothes. We have a “donate” box in our bedroom, and anyone who is retiring clothes in our family knows to throw them in the box; then I run it to goodwill when it’s full.  Anything that remotely fits me ends up in my “marathon throwaways” pile. At the starting line of most major marathons, spectators aren’t allowed near the runners, so it’s best to have clothes that you throw out just before the gun sounds. The marathon organizers then collect them and donate them.

There was plenty of space for spectators at this race, but Jen went to stake out a spot a few miles into the course. Unfortunately, the only long bottoms in the donate box were pink flamingo-covered pajama pants. (I’m pretty sure Jen retired them just to see me wear them to a marathon. And no, I didn’t allow her to take a picture of me wearing them.)

This was how ugly they were: 5 minutes before the race started, I took off my ripped-up old sweatshirt and put it on the fence around the starting corral. I then took off the pink flamingo pants; when I went to put them on the fence, the sweatshirt was already gone. I placed the pants down and moved further into the crowd. For the next few minutes, every time I glanced back, the pants were still there on the fence, crying out, “Take me! I am in need of a loving home!” As far as I know, they are still sitting forlornly on a sidewalk in downtown Naperville, waiting for a brave (or color-blind) citizen to claim them.

I won’t bore you with the details of my race. I wanted to run somewhere around 3:20 to 3:25; I went out at 3:20 pace for the first 20 miles, then faded in the last 6 and ended up at 3:27:12. (Sorry, I actually did bore you with the details.) The course itself was great, and the people of Naperville (Napervillains?) deserve a lot of the credit for supporting something that disrupted their Sunday morning for 6 hours. For a small race, there was great fan turnout, a beautiful course, and ample water stations throughout. If you are insane enough to run a marathon, you could do worse than this one. Bonus: Because there were so few people in the race, I came in 85th place. That’s the top 10 percent, about where I usually finish in a marathon, but much more impressive than telling someone that I finished 3,500th in the Chicago Marathon: “Not to brag or anything, but I was in the top 100. And what have you accomplished with your life?”

Weather Underground

The Naperville Marathon. Correction, the “Healthy Driven” Naperville Marathon. I don’t know if the phrase “healthy driven” follows any rules of grammar. But it sounds cool.

Dessert, Food, Holiday, Pie, Sweet potatoes, Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Dishes: The Ultimate Ranking

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Let’s get straight to it: You don’t have time to read a blog post about the joy of traditions and family and giving thanks for whatever it is I’m thankful for. I’m here to rank traditional Thanksgiving dishes by order of enjoyment. Judged by me, the expert.

What makes me an expert on Thanksgiving? I’m glad you asked. These are my qualifications: 1. I am an American, last time I checked. 2. I eat food.

Let’s do this!

The Ultimate Ranking of Thanksgiving Dishes (from Best to Worst)

1. That sweet potato dish with the big, puffy marshmallows on top. I love that stuff. Jen’s family introduced me to that. Oddly, my family never ate sweet potatoes when I was a kid. The marshmallows on top are not necessary. (But come on; seriously, who doesn’t love them when they melt into the sweet potatoes?)

2. Pumpkin pie. Illinois is the top pumpkin-producing state in the nation. Around 90% to 95% of all pumpkins used for canning are grown in Illinois. In fact, in 2012, Illinois produced twice as many pumpkins as the second-leading state, California. (Oh, snap! Now California has a pumpkin inferiority complex!) I totally did not make up this information; it came from The Illinois Farm Bureau and the University of Illinois Extension.) None of this explains why I love pumpkin pie, though. I have a secret ingredient for making awesome pumpkin pie. (Is the secret ingredient “love”? It might be.)

3. Cornbread. One of my old flames taught me how to make delicious cornbread. Her name is Betty Crocker. Oh, you’ve heard of her?

4. Stuffing. An in-law of mine makes a sausage-based stuffing that is to die for. On the years that we don’t get together with that side of the family, Jen gets a twitchy look in her left eye that speaks directly to me: “Find. That. Recipe.”

P1060096
This was either colored by my son during his preschool years or painted by Picasso during his Blue and Purple Turkey Period.

5. Turkey. Of course turkey was going to be in my top five. But I am ambivalent about it. I enjoy it when properly cooked. I have improperly cooked it many, many times. I’m getting better. My father-in-law loans me his electric carving knife when I host Thanksgiving; he makes me do the carving because he is testing my manhood. The first time he made me do it, things didn’t go so well. (I believe my final words after having gotten the knife stuck in the skeleton of the turkey were, “Mommy! Make it stop!”) I’m getting better.

6. Whipped cream. Can this be a separate entry?

7. Cranberry sauce (not canned). I make a cranberry swirl bread that is so time-consuming that, frankly, I would rather just prepare the cranberry filling and eating it. (Cranberries and sugar; it’s a beautiful thing.)

8. Cranberry sauce (canned). Jen prefers the jellied cranberry sauce.  I use it in the days that follow Thanksgiving on a leftover-turkey sandwich. I’m a little creeped out by the metal-can shape it holds when it slips out of the can.

P1060100
Our youngest, light of our lives, did this one. We pull this artwork out of storage every year, to embarrass them. Now it’s on the Internet. Forever.

9. Black olives/gherkin pickles. My dad was a big fan of these food items, so they always had a place on our table at the holidays. My siblings and I would put five olives on a hand under the table and then wave at each other with them before our beagle, Tiger, would eat them off of our fingers. My mom was under the impression that we ate the olives. Please don’t feed your dog olives; they are probably not good for dogs in large quantities. (But Tiger had an iron stomach and lived for 15 years.)

10. Bread rolls. Because dinner wasn’t filling enough already. I only ate them because, being the youngest in the family, I never knew when the food would run out before it got passed to me. (This explains so much about my personality; I should really be sharing this stuff with a therapist and not with the Internet.)

P1060098
My middle child drew this. “My favorite food is mash ptados and grave.”
P1060099
Why are the mashed potatoes black? Because the white crayon wouldn’t show up on the paper. Obviously.

11. Mashed potatoes/gravy. I know I am in the minority here when I say that I’m not a big fan. There have been times when one of my kids ate only mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving. Just a big plate filled with white slop and brownish sludge. I don’t have time for something that doesn’t have sugar in it.

12. Mincemeat pie. Is there actually meat in it? Does it have to be minced? Can it be diced or chopped? Again, my dad likes it, so I defer to him on this. Turns out, according to Linda Stradley of What’s Cooking America, this was a way of preserving meat in the 11th century. According to an English cookbook from 1545, “Pyes of mutton or beif must be fyne mynced and ceasoned wyth…” I’m sorry, I have to stop. That sentence is all kinds of annoying for the editor in me. Didn’t people know how to spell in 1545? (By the way, canned mincemeat nowadays might only have dried fruit and spices, but there are animal fats in it.)

13. Green bean casserole. Oh dear God. Please keep this “food” off of my Thanksgiving plate. I know that there are a good many people who absolutely adore this stuff. You can’t explain taste. But I will try: I believe that these people are missing taste buds. This was an annual tradition at the Dudley house; it is part of the reason I got married so young and moved out. This wasn’t even one of the original dishes passed around at the first Thanksgiving: it was actually invented in 1955 by the Campbell’s Soup Company. Cream of mushroom soup, green beans, French fried onions. General rule: If you would never eat two or more ingredients in a recipe by themselves, you shouldn’t eat all of them slopped together.

So that’s my ultimate list. I know I left off some dishes that others might traditionally have at their Thanksgiving feasts (e.g., collard greens, apple or pecan pie, deviled eggs, turducken, pepperoni pizza, leftover Halloween candy), but I don’t have time for arguments now: as we speak, my father-in-law is cleaning his electric carving knife.

High school, Pink Floyd, Running

My First Varsity Cross-Country Race: The First Time I Ask, “Why Am I Doing This?”

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Now that my son is on the high school cross-country team, I’d like to take this opportunity to write about my favorite topic: me. Oh, wait, you thought I was going to say my children, or teamwork, or school, or something like that. This must be your first time reading my blog. (Subtitle: “The All-About-Me Blog. Starring Me.”)

I was built to be a long-distance runner.  That’s not just my opinion; it’s science. The November 2014 issue of Runner’s World had a discussion of the nine factors that would allow a human to break 2 hours in a marathon, and their description of the perfect physical specimen for this sounds a lot like me: “He’ll be 5’6″ and a buck-twenty soaking wet.” (Perhaps the first time “me” and “the perfect physical specimen” were used in the same sentence.) Which makes it all the more surprising that I played football my freshman year.

My football career didn’t last long. It turns out it’s not easy tackling or running past someone who outweighs you by 100 pounds. I played halfback and safety, scored one touchdown, made one game-saving goal-line tackle, and traded my football cleats for running spikes at the end of the season. It took a while, though, before I ran my first varsity cross-country race.

I was in 11th grade, happily plodding away on the junior varsity squad, running with a pack of teammates and holding conversations during the JV races. (Handy tip for aspiring XC runners: If you can hold a conversation while running, you are going too slowly. Other handy tip: The cool kids call cross country “XC.”) I recall one Saturday-morning meet discussing a teammate’s previous night: a Pink Floyd concert that kept him out past midnight. He was nearly incoherent; he kept talking about a giant pig flying above the crowd. (Pink Floyd aficionados: This was the A Momentary Lapse of Reason tour, 9/25/1987 at the Rosemont Horizon.)

The next week, my coach pulled me aside and said, “Dudley, I have good news and great news: The good news is I’m moving you up to the varsity. You’ll be our seventh man at the Pow-Wow. Be prepared.” “Wow,” I said. “What’s the great news?” “I’ll tell you later,” he said.

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I still have this 28-year-old shirt from my first varsity race. Still fits me. Strangely, it is a size large.

The Crete-Monee Pow-Wow was a fun cross-country meet (not an oxymoron!) that was unusual in its format. The typical meet has the top seven runners from each team running in one race. At large invitationals, things can get crowded. The first year I ran the Pow-Wow, there were 65 teams, so that’s over 450 runners. The meet organizers came up with a unique way to get around the crowding problem: seven different races, or flights, one for each individual runner on a team. All of the seventh runners would run against each other, then 5 minutes later, all of the sixth runners would run. After those flights were done, the fifth and then fourth runners would go, and so forth until the final flight would pit the best runners from each team against each other. This would mean that we didn’t actually run with our teammates, but the payoff was that, for those of us who were not the best runners on our team, we could still earn a medal or even win a race, since theoretically we were running against people at our level only.

The scoring was different from a typical meet, too. In a typical meet, you add up the places of your top five runners, and whichever team has the lowest score wins. The perfect score is 1+2+3+4+5=15. It is embarrassing to lose a meet when the other team scores 15 points. (I speak from experience.)

The sixth and seventh runners aren’t scored, but they can help by pushing the scores of the other teams higher. In case of a tie score through five runners, you would check the positions of the sixth runners to determine who wins. In the rare case of a tie finish between two sixth runners (if, for example, they came across the finish line together, holding hands and skipping), then the places of the seventh runners would be scored. And hopefully there would be no ties with them. (“Guys, quit holding hands and skipping across the finish line with our opponents! It’s the first rule of cross country!”)

In the Pow-Wow, the perfect score was 7 points; conceivably, a great team can have a runner win every race. The flip side is that, if you are on a bad team and every runner comes near the end in their race, you could score 400 points, and no one wants that. The race organizers also gave out a nifty trophy for most improved team, the team that lowered their score the most from one year to the next.

My XC team that year was not good. There’s no sugar-coating it. We were mediocre. They needed a boost, someone to come forward and light a fire under them, thereby uniting the team and propelling them to greater glory. That’s the reason I always tell people that my coach decided to promote me. Honestly, his thinking was more along the lines of, “Well, this guy’s brother was a halfway-decent runner; as long as he doesn’t trip over his shoelaces, he’ll be serviceable.”

On the bus ride to Crete, our coach gave his usual pep talk and then talked strategy with us. “Guys,” he said, “everyone knows we are not going to compete in this thing, so I have a way to make it more competitive for all of us and allow us to have some individual success. Our first man is going to run a race down, against every other team’s second man. Our Number 2 will run against the Number 3s. And so on.” The first through sixth guys on our team loved this idea and started talking up their chances in their races right away.

I sat there for a while mulling this over. Finally, I raised my hand. “Coach?” I said. “I’m the seventh guy on the team. What do I do?”

My coach’s eyes lit up. “This is that great thing I was going to tell you about. You have the opportunity to run in the top flight against all of the best runners in the state. In your first varsity meet ever.”

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This is actually from my senior year, wearing the gold and blue (note the 3-38 on my shirt, meaning I was the third runner on my team that year). It was raining that day. The guy in front of me looks like a stud.

Wow, I thought. That sucks. But I kept this to myself. I spent the morning watching all of my teammates run their races and have success matching up against slower runners than them, and I got more and more freaked out by having to run the top race as the day went on. What made it even worse was that we had to run through a wooded area that had turned muddy in the previous night’s rain, and a teammate lost a shoe during his run. Like, literally lost it in the mud, never to be found again. What was I getting myself into?

When I toed the line, I looked over at my teammates. One of them gave me a thumbs-up. I felt like raising a different finger to him. When the gun sounded, I sprinted out to position myself with the lead pack. That lasted for about half a mile. Then I faded badly. It’s good to have a mantra when running, and my mantra for this race was, “Please don’t let me be 65th place. Please don’t let me be 65th place.” Etc.

I think it would serve us all if I just skipped over the details of the race. Here are the positive takeaways from my first varsity run: 1. I finished. 2. I did not lose my shoe in the mud.

Oh, and I did not come in 65th place. I came in 58th. Meaning I was better than the top runners on 7 other teams. Unless (and I just thought of this 28 years later) those 7 teams also had their worst runner go in the top race. Well, now I feel bad.

P.S. The Crete-Monee Pow Wow, once billed as the largest cross-country race in the United States, was discontinued after 42 years in 2009. According to an article in the February 26, 2010 Chicago Sun-Times, “The Pow-Wow field peaked at 71 teams in 1978, but has dropped into the 20s in recent years.”

P.P.S. The next year, my team won the Most Improved trophy. I’m assuming my 58th place finish the year before had something to do with that. Maybe that was my coach’s plan all along.

Beach Boys, Counting Crows, George Harrison, High school, John Hughes, Kids

It All Goes By So Fast

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Sometime around when my son was in the fourth grade, I made the mistake of blinking. Now he’s a senior in high school.

Broderick-huh
Fun Ferris Bueller fact: Matthew Broderick was 23 years old during filming. I always thought there was something “21 Jump Street” about him playing a high schooler.

Whenever I post pictures of my kids on Facebook, a longtime friend  will see how big my kids are getting and ask, “How the heck did this happen?” Answer: I have no idea. Because I was a teen in the 1980s, I am legally obligated to quote from a John Hughes movie in this post: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” That’s Ferris Bueller, for the two of you who don’t know.

I am trying to look around. It’s hard when you have a life outside of that one kid’s to be present for all his milestones. Sometimes I am so caught up in the day-to-day (my dad likes to say that the days drag on but the years fly by) that I’m not even aware of a milestone slipping by. When my son finished grade school, my other two kids were still there, so there wasn’t a “we’ll never walk these halls again” moment. Same with preschool, middle school, etc. Now our middle child, the patient one, is a freshman. A freshman! And as a matter of fact, our youngest (light of our lives) is in her last year of grade school. (Look for my “We’ll Never Walk These Halls Again” blog post in May.)

I realize that it’s the beginning of the school year and I am already getting all maudlin about the end of it. I’ll try to “Be Here Now,” as George Harrison sang (he cribbed that title from Ram Dass). George says, “The mind that wants to wander ’round a corner is an unwise mind.”

The thing is, my kids seem to like high school. It makes no sense to me. My lovely wife Jen certainly enjoyed it. I hated high school.

What exactly did I hate about high school? If you say “everything,” you’d be mostly right. (I am exaggerating, of course. The chocolate chip cookies in the cafeteria were a particular highlight.) I did meet Jen in high school, so there’s that. But we started dating once I went away to college. I spent most of my school days doing one of three things:

  1. Running
  2. Avoiding bullies
  3. Studying

One of them was a career-preparation activity. One of them was a life-preservation activity. I should point out here that bullying was seen in a different light back in the day. There was more of a “kids will be kids, there’s not much we can do about it” attitude. It was like Lord of the Flies in the boys’ locker room. If you really want to get an idea for what life was like at my high school, watch any John Hughes movie. I always imagined myself like Jake Ryan in “Sixteen Candles.” Pretty sure I was closer to the Anthony Michael Hall geek. Strangely, I loved my big suburban high school and getting lost among the 3,200 kids who roamed the halls. The Beach Boys put it this way: “Now what’s the matter buddy, ain’t you heard of my school? It’s number one in the state…”

But enough about my miserable existence before the halcyon days of college. As for what the kids seem to like, certainly they are involving themselves in school way more than I did. Already, the freshman is in the art club, drama club, color guard, band…am I missing something? Probably. I’ll let you know the next time I’m driving her somewhere in the minivan. The senior is running cross country and soccer simultaneously. (Not literally simultaneously; that would look strange. He alternates from one practice to another.) They are packing their schedules this fall.

I’m enjoying attending their big events, knowing we might not pass this way again: the cross-country meets, the soccer games (Senior Night is only a month away), color guard performing in the football halftime spectacles. I’m trying to be present when I’m with these kids, and especially this boy before he is off to college in (yikes!) less than a year.

In Counting Crows’ “A Long December,” Adam Duritz sings, “I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell myself to hold on to these moments as they pass.” That’s me, pretty much, for the next 9 months. And then the 3 years after that for my middle child. And then the 4 more for our youngest…

“A Long December” by Counting Crows

“Be Here Now” by George Harrison

“Be True To Your School” by the Beach Boys