Thrills! Amusement! Thick Inner Ear Fluid! It Could All Be Yours!

The sky spun around us as we flew higher and then higher still. One push of the little black button and we soared, in perfect circular formation with the other fat, primary colored jets around us. We were Flying Aces, and it was the first ride we went on at Six Flags New England this past sunday.

We were invited --and comped--for a day at Six Flags New England as part of their Media Weekend and we had a blast. 

For those who want to skip the review, go to the end, comment, and be entered to win a family 4 pack of tix that includes free parking. Free. Parking.  In the Boston area, free parking is as mythical and valuable as Unicorn tears. 

So, first off, we were met at the gate by Samantha. She was our media guide for the day. She was very pleasant. Early on we convinced her to go on a raft type ride with us that both spun "a lot more" than she "remembered," and had about three inches of water in the bottom, immediately rendering her shoes soggy relics of the past.

This is Samantha. We ruined her shoes. 

After that, I myself was not up for much ride wise. I love roller coasters--the anticipation during the long climb, the brief jolt of weightlessness as you plummet earthward, the high pitched girlish screaming emanating from my throat, the soiled undergarments--love it. But the spinny rides .. oh the spinny rides kill me. After 3 or 4 revolutions, my inner ear fluid thickens up like egg white and my stomach threatens to turn the entire ride into a vomit-y whirlygig. Don't love the spinny rides.

But, we had a great time. They have two sections dedicated to little kids like ours (and smaller), plus other family and kid oriented rides sprinkled throughout the park, so there is a lot to do for little ones. Plus, there is the water park. The day we went was in the 90s, so the water park was packed, but we still enjoyed it. 

The Peanut met her personal hero, Wonder Woman, and got her autograph. That was wicked sweet. There was also most of the cast of Looney Tunes, Scooby Doo, and the entire Justice League.

The park was immaculate. Most of the employees carried sticks with levers near the handle and white claws at the end so they could pick up trash whenever they encountered it. I kept trying to convince Sam to challenge one of the other employees to a claw stick duel, but she was far too professional. I think'd it'd be very entertaining, but I'm kind of a moron. 

They had lots of free shows going on around the park. The Peanut had been sick for the magic show they had at her school this year, and I had promised her one this summer, so the magic show at the park totally bailed me out there. The kids loved the show, though there was a whole Marilyn Monroe tribute part that was completely lost on them. Which is probably my fault. I've neglected their pop-culture education. 

I would say, if you do go with young kids, bring an extra adult/big kid, so that two of you can ride the big rides while one watches the kids. Also, if you have someone willing to stay close to your bag, backpack, etc., avoid renting a locker at the water park. It's expensive. Other than that though, big thumbs up to Six Flags New England. We had a friggin' great time and we'd go again in a heart beat. Enter the giveaway so you can have a blast too. 

HM

Bonus Pics!

Trying really hard to catch glimpse of the little Kintner Boy.

Yeah, we blew Scrappy right the fuck off.
Original Gangstas only, please.

The Peanut met her hero. And so, I assume, did Wonder Woman.

Vacation Accompli

The sky was blue like clouds had never been invented. The kids had made fast friends with a very nice man named Charles.  Charles had come up from Manhattan "on a whim." He grew up in San Francisco with summers at his grandmothers house in the French countryside ("It was so boring. It wasn't like it was Paris or anything. It might as well have been upstate New York. My dad got me a Eurorail pass when I was 14 or 15 and boy did grandma freak out about that! He can handle it, he can handle it, my dad said, but she was not happy.")

My Wife, lounging on the beach, took a moment from our Charles chat to beseech our daughter.  "Honey, it's so hot out and the water is beautiful, just try it." Up until then, we had spent most of our swimming time in the hotel's salt water pool.

The Peanut jabbed a toe into the foam near the shore. "It's cold," she bleated.

"Me and the Peanut, we're the glass half empty-girls," said Charles. 

And that is just a tiny sliver of the perfection that was our week in Provincetown, Cape Cod, Massachusetts.  We stayed from Saturday to Saturday. The beach we played at was the hotel's private stretch. It was way more than we could afford but we didn't have to afford it. It was paid for by My Wife's Aunt.

The Aunt, along with her wife, are the legal guardians of My Wife's 14 year old cousin . . . The Girl. The Girl's father, after a long illness, died about 5 years ago. The Girl's mother is a human non-recyclable, so in his will he named his sister--The Aunt--The Girl's legal guardian. The Girl, a fine student, excellent athlete, and all around good kid, is an only child with no cousins near her age. She thirsts for family. 

About four months ago, The Aunt called and said to My Wife, "Do you have plans for the Fourth?" 

"No," said My Concise Wife. 

"Well, we'd like you to come down to Provincetown for the week of July Fourth this year. We go every year and we want you guys (including the dog) to come. The Girl would really love it. We stay at a hotel with a private beach and a salt water swimming pool and you can watch the fireworks from the beach and we'll pay for the room."

"Nonononono, that's too much, we can't do that, thanks for the offer but nonono we couldn't do that I, uh, no," was My Suddenly Inconcise Wife's reply."

The Aunt said, "You never got a graduation present (true), or a wedding present (true), or a honeymoon (with the notable exception of every single day of our perfect union, also true), you never go anywhere (apparently she'd never heard of a little place called "the movies.") just let me do this for you."

So we said yes. We were nervous as hell. A vacation. With family. Who paid! Sounds like the plot of an old John Candy movie.  In retrospect, an excellent decision.

Provincetown is clean beaches, sea waters teeming with life, houses that are New England quaint on the outside and marvels of open space and burnished Scandinavian wood inside. It's thriving night life, great restaurants, fabulous art galleries, a note-perfect Cher impersonator, great shows (Patti LuPone! Megan Mullally!) everything in walking distance, dog friendly, and people without a single unkind word for anyone. Everyone was so upbeat, so joyous, so gregarious and interesting and FUN. We weren't three days in before the kids told us they never wanted to go home. Who could blame them? 

The first day, The Girl was overwhelmed. The affection, the action, the expectations that our kids had for her knocked the pins out from under her. She needed a break. But as the week went on, they grew closer and closer and by the end she was the one holding their hands on our walks, waking up excited to play, spending hours with them at the pool, teaching them how to play soccer. We have plans to go to the movies (see?) with her later this week. Bonds happen quick like Krazy Clue when people are young.

We sat in the sand together and watched my kids' first real fireworks display. Glowing faces and shining eyes and all that. The Pumpkin Man kept up a constant commentary throughout the show. The Aunt said, "he really never stops talking, does he?" She has no idea. We'll be seeing a bit of them from now on, I think. The Aunt pronounced, more than once, that  "you'll have to come down again next year. We'll make it a tradition." We responded with stunned silence. We're slick like that. Family, luck, timing. That shit be crazy. 

As for me, I lived on the Cape some in my former life as a boy nomad and then again as a man-child. I was never a big fan. Until now. PTown. You stole my heart. Seriously, that was some rich food. I think my heart fell out near the library. 

HM

Bonus Pics!

Praise Neptune!

The family marches steadily toward the downtown area,
intent on wreaking millions of dollars worth of havoc.
The kids looove tequila.

The Peanut caught it all by herself in an area called the Beech Forest.
I kissed it and it turned into Prince.
This is what is sounds like, when jokes die. 

The Boy exercises his 1st amendment rights and then finds out he doesn't have any.

The boy got in trouble at school the other day.  There was allegedly a play dough incident involving my son and three other children, The play dough in question--color unspecified--was strewn about the eponymous table and onto the floor.

Play dough: Check. Strewn:  Check. Sounds like the boy may have been involved.

His pre-school teacher is mild-mannered to the point of comatose tapioca, so I knew it was pretty bad because when we spoke, she had her eyebrows. Raised. Both of them. And she held them there for most of the conversation.

Heres how it went down:

The teacher came over to scold the group of salty, doughy, scalawags.

"If you're going to do that with the play dough and not clean-up, then there will be no more playing with the play dough." His teacher  admonished.

The boy, self-appointed group spokesperson, responded:

"I don't care what you say because I have other places I can play with play dough."  Ooooohhh!

This is something to be addressed in my house. We don't truck with that kind of sass or hold with any backtalk. We will not listen to that mouth, tolerate such disrespect for his elders, put up with that attitude, or condone such nonsense. There will be no mouthing off, no giving of guff, lip, or any other item that could be associated with insolence. See middle finger, stuck-out tongue, et al.                             

The wound caused by this snotty rebellion is compounded by the fact that my wife is a teacher. High school. This is what she said to the boy:

"Do you know what I do when my students talk to me like that?"

He shakes his head no.

"I don't do anything because my students wouldn't dare."

Scary shit.  I think one of us actually peed our pants. Possibly him. Me.

He was pretty upset by the whole thing. He's quite a sweet, empathetic boy. He also constantly rages against windmills, tilts against the machine, and other common phetamors. I don't blame him.

As we all can agree, authority figures must be perpetually challenged and questioned, even in times of prosperity and happiness, because if not they become complacent and then abuse that authority. I don't know where he gets it.

I can't wait until his first walkout. I remember mine. Fifth grade. I got into it with a substitute and the subsequent exchange led her to declare in front of the entire class that, "You don't think in school, you do what you're told!" Not her finest moment. Not mine, either. Imagine how hard I had to push that poor woman to get her to say something that silly. I laughed and repeated what she said and then, dumb head held high, I strode from the room down to the familiar confines of the Principal's office.  I sucked. Come to think of it, that was probably not my first walk out that year. In the first one I made it all the way home. I may still hold the detention record in for that grade. I really sucked*.

Like I said, I don't know where the boy gets it. I don't want that for him. Class clown antics disguised as righteous indignation. The constant questioning, yes. Absolutely. Not at four years old maybe, and not over cleaning up his play dough, but still.

I just want him to have enough respect to question politely, and then if dissatisfied with the double talk that the MAN is laying down, come home and talk to us, his parents--the alpha and omega of authority figures--about it before flying off the handle. Before you laugh, shake your head, and mutter, "Good Luck, paper plate face," let me tell you, I think we have a chance. In the home of my youth, a formal education was not considered important, necessary, or even respectable. In my family, we learned our Algebra on the streets, and we liked it. We failed it, but we still liked it.

Not the same here. Like I said, my wife's a teacher. High School. Disadvantaged urban (speaking of double talk) school at that. We gonna do our book learnin' 'round heah.

He wasn't eager to return to school the next day. I told him he could stay home if he was planning on going directly for a nap. Classic playtime embargo. He went, tiny shoulders bowed, soles of his sandals scraping the sidewalk. Heavy is the burden of the Pre-School rabble rouser. Protestin' ain't easy. His teacher said the day went well.

It's going to be a trust thing, in the end. If he trusts that we're listening and that we respect his opinions and have his best interests at heart, then we'll trust that he's not staging a walk-out over his teacher's bourgeois notion of how markers should be used only on things not breathing and covered with skin.

God save us all.

HM

*When his grandfather was a boy, he staged a sit-in in his own high-school cafeteria. I forget the why of it. That story is a legend that the old man would be happy to blow the dust from, were he present. Nope, don't know where the boy gets it from. Must be the fluoridated water.

Duly Noted

A couple of mornings ago,  before school, my daughter is writing in her diary. I take a peek because I'm curious and often she keeps it pretty secret. It's got a little lock and everything. Usually it has things in it like a portrait of herself with her name under it and on the top of the page the musing,  "I love me."  Or one whole page covered corner to corner by the lone exclamation, "My brother is CRAZY!"

I take a lot of peeks. She leaves the key around. Something about unlocking that little pink diary to read it feels oh so right and so wrong simultaneously. I blame the NSA.

On this particular day in question, she has drawn a picture of a flower, dated it June 11, and written a caption above the picture that says "It is winter."

I say, " Hey honey that's pretty intriguing, writing it is winter over a picture like that. Very creative." She says, " No but it's not that."
I say, "Ok honey, I just think it's cool is all."
"No it's not what that says though." She replies.
"Ok, well, even if you didn't mean it, I still think it's neat. Sometimes mistakes turn out to be really--"
She collapses to her knees like a pocket James Brown and screeches, "Noooooo!  It's not THAT!" And then buries her face in her hands. Hardest working tantrum thrower in show business. Godfather of soul devouring outrage.  It's early so I get mad. I slam what ever it is I'm holding (hair brush? lunch box? Monkey's Paw?) down on the dining room table, spill some water and bark, "No! Why are you yelling at me! Stop it!" I pick her up and put her down on her feet and send her to her room. She comes down and we talk about communication. She says sorry, I say sorry, and we go to school. I never find out what happened and we don't really talk about it again. At home later that afternoon, she writes this and hands it to me:

It reads, "Dear daddy, I love you. I Love You! Happy Father's Day.  I hope it's fun. Me and Pumpkin Man did the best we could at listening. Thank You.

I immediately scoop her up in my arms and squeeze her and cover her face in kisses and babble about how wonderful she and her brother are (You like how she threw him in there for good measure?) and how much I love them. Emotionally evicerated, my head swims from lack of blood and I have to sit down and put it between my knees where I've cleverly hidden a bourbon. Some bourbon. A liter of bourbon.

-----------------------------------------

When you're with them every day, all day, you see the best of them and the worst. The thing is, they see the same of you. You can't help it.

A lot of parenting advice boils down to being even tempered. Don't get too high or too low. Don't yell or freak out or get too excited. Be calm and cool at all times. Walk away, take a time-out, breathe deep and consult your higher power (Mine's a chicken burrito. With guac!)

You know, just don't react with any sort of emotional extreme to actions taken by the people you are biologically programmed to love more than life itself. Easy Peasy. When you're kid wins the race, fucks up at school, performs an act of kindness, lathes the cat, poops in the potty for the first time, etc, don't over emote. Just stay on an even keel. That parenting philosophy, with the notable exception of gender roles, hasn't really changed all that much from the 1950's archetype. Just knock the bowl of your Father Know's Best pipe with the heel of your hand, and tousle their hair/give them a stern talking too, and go back to your twitter feed. The truth is, we don't do that. Not every time. The truth is, some of us have called our toddlers fucking assholes when they're acting like fucking assholes or squealed like Bieberites at the Bieber ice cream smorgasbord jamboree and hair combing expo when they nail the landing in gymnastics. It's natural. We feel passion for these little genius/assholes.  The truth is, to remain as even tempered as we're supposed to all the time, that pipe bowl has to be loaded with sociopathic tendencies and opium.

The thing is, they bubble with potential, our kids.That means the potential to be almost anything. Anything doesn't just mean astronaut or president. It means junkie or murderer or lobbyist. They are human, they are imperfect. Their potential is near limitless And as parents, we are the same. Imperfect. More so, maybe. We've had longer to work on our imperfections.  And when you spend countless hours with tiny beings who are just learning the world, those imperfections come to bare. Yours rub against theirs and it results in days of too much yelling, too many tears, too much guilt, too much pride. It happens. What're you gonna do? We love them on a cellular level. That kind of passion is sure to lead to some amount of ill. I mean, have you seen humans?

I strive for even tempered. I really do. But I'm a man of loud voice and large opinion. So my kids know when I'm angry. They also know when I'm happy or proud or content or silly or gassy. Especially gassy. They know it all. In return so do I. It's not so bad, knowing when they're sad and when they're happy. Knowing for sure. Makes thing a little less complicated. Sometimes. Other times it makes getting ready for school in the morning sound like the Red Wedding.

And they test the even temper. They probe it with whines placed just so or negative responses to reasonable requests. They tap tap tap on the wall of my pleasant detachment with psychological ball peen hammers until the wall cracks and I can feel my blood pressure behind my eyes and I'm pretty sure my nose and left ear are bleeding freely. Then their are the times when my better nature wins out and no matter how the they probe and poke and tap and claw, I hold firm. I'm usually pretty proud of myself when that happens. Glassy eyed and exhausted, but proud.

What I hope (What else can I do?) is that in the tumult of a household full of passion and opinion (and gas) that they find themselves unafraid of their emotions. That as they get older they can feel and express themselves openly with just enough restraint to not get arrested. Let me add, just for posterity, that they really do listen well. Most times.

HM

P.S. Happy Father's Day and stuff.

Rooster, Run

So I'm lurching my way through my little 3 mile (generously measured) run the other day. I've started running again because I'm stupid and I also I don't like taking my genetically disadvantaged fat guy  medications. I'd do anything to avoid taking that shit. Even running. Funny though, if Percocet lowered cholesterol, I'd never run again.

But I'm running and I'm at about the 3/4 point and I have the headphones in and the Alice In Chains song Rooster comes on and even as I am aware of how awful I am,  I start to identify with the song. The Rooster is a song written by the band's guitar player about his father. His father was a member of the 101st Airborne division and Team Leader of a Long Range Recon Patrol during the Vietnam War. Which of course is exactly like a chubby jew gasping his way through a half- hour run on a sunny Sunday morning in America. I need more shame.

Scene

Me: Sweating and gulping and jiggling and trudge-jogging and wishing I had a burrito.

My headphones swell with the intro. The lyrics kick in:

"Ain't found a way to kill me yet"
Eyes burn with stinging sweat"

And even though I know how I sound, in my head I'm still like, "Holy shit. That's me! My eyes are totally burning with stinging sweat. And I'm still alive. I'm the Rooster!

It deteriorated from there:

"Seems every path leads me to nowhere"

No shit. I'll barely make it home at this rate

"Wife and kids and household pet
Army green was no safe bet"

Check, check, check, and running is extremely dangerous for a man in my condition.

"The bullets scream to me from somewhere"

If one interprets"bullets" to mean "yippee dogs" then fucking check.

"Here they come to snuff the Rooster
Yeah, here come the Rooster, yeah
You know he ain't gonna die
No, no no, you know he ain't gonna die

Walkin' tall machine gun man
They spit on me in my homeland
Gloria sent me pictures of my boy"

This part is where it gets to be just a little bit of a stretch. Although, I was about 59% certain I was going to live, and I spent some formative years in a small town in New Hampshire and while I wasn't often spit on, I did not get along with many people. Ok, so I'm hanging in.

"Got my pills 'gainst mosquito death"

Cutter with Deet. Bam, I'm back!

"My buddy's breathing his dying breath"

Took the dog with me and she is panting pretty good at this point. Check

"Oh God please won't you help me make it through"

If I had a nickel for every time I said that when I went for a run in my life I'd probably have upwards of two dollars.  Because I hate running.

Then that refrain comes in again and at that point I'm just about home and filled with an electrifying simultaneous sense of shame and accomplishment. Felt that A LOT as teenager. At least I'm exercising again.

HM

Date Night '13' Or How We Spent our night of freedom.

Mild Spoilers ahead. Nothing specific and I was careful. Besides there's a study out that shows that spoilers actually enhance your enjoyment, so live a little.

Tonight was Date night which traditionally in our household means Sci-Fi Movie night. Given a choice between Will Smith's careening narcissism and Star Trek Into Darkness, we chose the latter.  We really had a good time.

We saw it in 3D because that is also traditional in my household. The 3D was great in some spots, a little stagey in others, and in still others just a little too much. At times it felt like we were watching Star Trek Into Chris Pine's Acne Scars.

I love science fiction. The way the good stuff acts as a mirror for modern society. The way any science fiction worth its salt is allegorical. The way shit blows up and makes pew pew sounds and warp speed and encounters with sexy aliens and chase scenes and set phasers to fucking yeah!

Anyway, In Star Trek Into Zoe Saldana's Mediocre Acting Ability (Seriously, I wish someone else was Uhura. She didn't ruin the movie, but is Angela Basset really too old? Kerry Washington not free?), we've got terrorist attacks, including one where a large ship is purposely dive bombed into a city, and a struggle by those in charge as to how we should respond. With vengeance or with justice? And are the two different? It could be seen, by me anyway, as an allegory for our current situation concerning terrorists, drone strikes, Guantanamo, etc. In the movie they waffle, but eventually try to bring the bad guy in alive. Because that's how they roll. In the movie there is a moment when Chris Pine's left pockmark is giving a speech, and in it he says something along the lines of how while we want vengeance on those that harm us, we must be careful not to find or encourage their evil in ourselves. We bring'em back alive and put'em on trial. Because that's how we roll. Or rather, that's how they roll. We're not so sure these days.

Let me say I've read no other reviews of this movie. Doing so would have totally harshed my writing buzz, as they say on New Vulcan. I don't know if this viewing of it has been driven into the ground or debunked as nonsense. And I never watched Lost, so I don't really know where J.J. Abrams's brain is at.

The movie is just light enough, just loud enough, just fun enough to make me think that possibly I'm full of shit. Probably.

Possibly.

But then again, J.J. Abrams is supposed to be pretty good. And it's a good story, the movie. There are themes of friendship, father-son relationships, the dichotomy of human intellect versus emotion, and a totally fucking ripping space jump scene. It is mildly predictable, but it is a Hollywood Summer Blockbuster (said with reverb).

So I'm gonna go the generous route and say ol' J.J. threw one by the Hollywood system and managed to make a pretty solid Lib-Lab Commie Scumbag allegorical science fiction flick. 3 1/4 dead Tribbles out of a four dead Tribble rating system.

HM

P.S. I don't know that you have to see it in 3D. Definitely on the big screen, but not necessarily in 3D. It was fun, but I can't say it was completely worth it.

Birthday Time/How To Succeed In Parenting Without Even Trying

I'm 40 years old today. All week, he kids were asking me, "Are you excited daddy? Are you excited for your birthday daddy? You're gonna be 40 on saturday daddy, are you excited?"

"Yeah, I'm excited." I'd reply eye-rollingly.

Honestly though, I am excited. There a lot of places I expected to be at 40. Dead, drunk, naked, performing in a dive bar in East St. Louis as "Lady Gagguh." So all in all, I'm feeling pretty good about it. 

Also, there's this:

So we found this injured bird in the backyard. A grackle. I found it. The poor thing was flopping around on its back and trying to turn upright without success. I got some gloves on and tried setting it upright. It hitched and bobbed and wobbled and flipped back over again. 

"Maybe it's shitfaced?" I thought.  I smelled it's breath. No such luck. I didn't know what to do with it. I certainly couldn't have the kids finding it.

For more, please go and visit Dadcentric. Thank you and Have a Pleasant weekend.