A Boy and His Wolf

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bad guys, bedtime, big bad wolf, boys, dads, evil, fatherhood, humor, three little pigs

Most of us are fascinated by bad guys. Doesn’t matter if it’s Lex Luthor or Saddam Hussein or Bernie Madoff. We are repulsed by their terrible acts but we also wonder what causes them to behave that way. Maybe we recognize in ourselves some flaw or weakness that, if provoked, would turn us into villains, too? We are taught from an early age to believe there is some shred of humanity in even the worst of us, which make explain why evildoers are so interesting. Even the devil was once an angel. Bad guys have layers, man.

For my three-year-old, the ultimate bad guy is that infamous threat to homeowners everywhere, the Big Bad Wolf. My son finds him terrifying but also strangely alluring. As a result, the Golden Books version of The Three Little Pigs is well-worn in our household, as is the satirical True Story of the 3 Little Pigs!, which tells the wolf’s side of how things went down.

This fascination has taken over bedtime. “Tell me about the Big Bad Wolf,” my son says as I tuck him into his toddler bed and turn out the light. “Tell me how the Big Bad Wolf come to our house.”

“Well, okay,” I reply, getting on my knees so I can look into his gleaming eyes. He wants to hear a story I concocted in which the Big Bad Wolf emerges from the woods behind our house and attempts to, well, blow our place down. There are several opportunities in the story for my son and I to recite the “I’ll huff and I’ll puff…” line, and, in the end, our heroic Australian Shepherd Keiko runs out of the house and chases the evil wolf out of the backyard, across the creek, through the woods and into the next county. “And,” I always conclude, “we never saw the Big Bad Wolf ever again.”

“Little pig, little pig… Let me come in!”

I was pretty proud when I came up with this tale. Even a relatively clueless dad like me knows the story must end with the wolf vanquished, as opposed to going on some lunatic rampage through our neighborhood. Also, in making our dog the hero, the story seems realistic. My three-year-old would never buy into the idea that his parents, who struggle each morning just to pull him out of his Jake and the Neverland Pirates pajamas, would ever summon the nerve to defeat the Big Bad Wolf. Keiko, however, seems resourceful (and mean) enough to pull something like that off.

Now, being a word person, I enjoy telling a good story. Still, there’s a certain point when one tires of telling the same story over and over, night after night, just as I am sure that Bruce Springsteen sometimes tires of playing “Born to Run,” at every show, no matter how proud he may be of its creation. I told The Big Bad Wolf Comes to Our House every night for about a month, waiting for my boy to tire of the subject. Instead, his obsession grew.

“Tell me,” he growled each night in a way that was intended to sound just like the arch enemy himself, “about the BIG, BAD WOLF!”

So I mixed it up a little, inventing a story called The Big Bad Wolf Comes to Grandma’s House, which ends with the wolf falling into a big pot of scalding water. I also devised a gentler story about my son as a zookeeper who takes care of the Big Bad Wolf and eventually befriends him. There were other variations as well and, like most sequels, all were inferior to my original wolf story. But I had to add some new wrinkles to our bedtime routine just to keep from going completely insane.

So now I have a problem. We are six months into the Big Bad Wolf craze with no end in sight. I am officially out of wolf stories. And I am weary of recycling the old ones. I am tired of describing the wolf as having “beady green eyes that glow in the night,” and possessing “teeth as sharp as scissors.”

Now, I could easily tell my son that Daddy is a little sick of these stories about the Big Bad Wolf, and couldn’t we just read a nice book like Green Eggs & Ham instead? But what would that say about me, the self-fashioned “creative” dad? The one who invents stories on the spot to captivate and inspire his young son, even when that dad is so exhausted some nights that he finds himself sprawled next to the toddler bed, patting his child’s back and murmuring something about a wolf and the dog and Grandma and, are we getting sleepy yet? Want Daddy to go get you a cup of milk?

I know someday my son will tire of the Big Bad Wolf and will probably move on to something mind-numbing like Chuggington or the Power Rangers. One day, I’ll ask him if he wants to hear a story about the Big Bad Wolf, and he’ll say, “No. I want a story about Lightning McQueen.” And I’ll feel sad that one door of his toddlerhood has closed and another one has opened.

But, damn, right now I am sick of that psychopathic wolf. I wish he would go away, like he eventually does in all my made-up stories.

14 Easy Ways to Win An Academy Award

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academy awards, Daniel Day, humor, Lewis, list, Meryl Streep, movies, satire, Stephen Roth

1. Make a movie about an important historic figure.
2. Have either Meryl Streep or Daniel Day Lewis play that important historic figure.
3. Extra points if the important historic figure is British (and the actor is not).
4. If you’re an actor, play a character who is struggling with a severe disability or mental illness.
5. Or someone who is persecuted by the evils of corporate America.
6. But make sure your character isn’t just freaking weird (See: Foster, Jodie; Nell, 1995).
7. If you’re a director, make a movie that tackles a fashionable political cause.
8. And by “fashionable,” we mean “liberal.”
9. For Best Supporting Actor, make sure you haven’t been relevant for 20 years, then suddenly re-appear in a quirky, uplifting indie film.
10. Don’t star in a movie like Norbit just before you’re up for an award.
11. And don’t make an ass of yourself when you don’t win.
12. Make a documentary about a political cause. Make sure the cause is fashionable.
13. If you are a movie score composer, be John Williams.
14. And if you are Martin Scorsese, you should have won about 10 of these things by now.

Where Have You Gone, Billy Mays?

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advertising, billy mays, cable news, current events, media, Mindy McCready, news, Oscar Pistorius

“But, wait! There’s more!”

One Monday morning a few years ago, I was settling into my office cubicle when my co-worker Dave popped his head over the wall and shared some sad news.

“You hear that Billy Mays died over the weekend?”

“Really? No way!”

“Yep. They think it was a heart attack.”

“Wow,” I said, wondering if my father had heard about this. “That’s big news.”

“I guess.”

“So, the Say-Hey Kid is no more.”

“What?”

“The Say-Hey Kid,” I said. “That’s what they called him in his playing days.”

Dave laughed. “Not Willie Mays. Billy Mays.”

“Who the hell is Billy Mays?” I asked.

“You know, the guy on the Home Shopping Network. The OxiClean guy.”

I had no idea who Dave was talking about. I soon would, however, as the cable news networks and celebrity gossip shows reported on the death nonstop for the next several days. I learned that Billy Mays was a fast-talking, charismatic TV pitchman who worked his way up from selling cleaning products and even had his own reality show for a while. I still didn’t know why his death was especially important, other than inspiring this mildly tasteless joke:

First Guy: “Did you hear that Billy Mays died?”

Second Guy: “Why, no, I—”

First Guy: “—But wait! There’s more!”

A couple of recent news stories reminded me of Billy Mays and my cold indifference to his death. Last week, South African Olympian Oscar Pistorius was charged with murdering his girlfriend. And on Sunday, former country star Mindy McCready was found dead in an apparent suicide. My first reaction to both events was, “Gosh, that’s terrible.” My second reaction was, “Who are these people again?” I had never heard of either one of them.

Of course, thanks to electronic media, I know now that Nike has decided to drop Pistorius from its advertising campaign and that McCready once starred on “Celebrity Rehab.” I know that Pistorius’ girlfriend was a supermodel who spoke out against domestic abuse, and that McCready and her boyfriend both died this year, leaving behind a son who hasn’t even reached his first birthday. I should point out I learned all of this without actively watching or reading any of the news coverage. The awareness seeped into me as if it were part of the atmosphere–a sound byte about the disgraced Olympian from the TV in the next room; a headline about Dr. Drew’s reaction to the country star’s death at the top of Google News.

I don’t mean to make light of these two stories. Both are tragic beyond words. But I have a hard time understanding the intense coverage and hourly updates. Is this the kind of news people really care about and want to follow? Or are we trained to take an interest in these stories because the cable networks have been feeding us a steady diet of them for so long? How many viewers knew who Oscar Pistorius was a week ago?

The irony of the 24-hour news cycle is that there isn’t enough real news to fill the cycle. And who wants to be hit over the head all day with stories about budget shortfalls, unemployment, Afghanistan, gun violence and immigration reform? You know, the stuff that really matters and could make a difference in our lives? We want a diversion from all that, and what better way than to fill us up with murder mysteries, courtroom dramas and turbulent lives that allow us to say, “Well, at least I’m not that guy?” Doesn’t really matter if it’s O.J. Simpson or the jerk who slapped an 19-month-old child yesterday on a Delta Airlines flight.

Okay, so I admit to reading a CNN.com article about the guy slapping the toddler. We all have our weaknesses. And, like a late-night salesman hawking cleaning supplies, the news media will keep pitching until it has something our sleep-deprived craniums absolutely, positively cannot resist.

The Story Behind the Tattoo (Maybe)

Tags

bad tattoos, fiction, humor, olympics, sports, swimming, tattoo, wet dream

Candy, a few years after the dream had faded.

Candy and Justin met the first night of U.S. Nationals in Denver, at one of those cheesy ice cream socials the Olympics people set up so swimmers could get acquainted. The two of them hit it off, talking into the early morning hours about Pixar movies, their favorite 1980s hair bands and the captivating prose of Nick Hornby.

Two nights later, when Candy finished third in the women’s 100-meter Butterfly and Justin came in second in the Freestyle, they celebrated by hitting a few clubs in the city’s LoDo district. They were both in their teens but nobody thought to card the two tall, toned swimmers still giddy over advancing to the Olympic team qualifying round. At some point, on a drunken dare, they stumbled into separate rooms of a tattoo parlor. Justin emerged with a shoulder emblazoned with a gold medal and the words, “Athens 2004.”

When he saw the script lettering above Candy’s chest, he laughed.

“Dude,” he said. “Do you even know what that means?”

Of course she did. It meant that Candy was one step closer to realizing the goal she set for herself the first time she dove into a lap pool: to someday represent the United States as a swimmer in the Olympics. And, of course, to take home the gold.

When Justin explained the baser, more popular meaning of the term, “Wet Dream,” Candy was surprised and a little embarrassed. She was 17 and so focused on her sport and schoolwork that maybe she was a little unfamiliar with the latest teen slang. She knew she was inexperienced. That night was only the second time she had kissed a boy, the two of them snuggled under Justin’s fleece Team USA jacket a few feet from the entrance to Coors Field.

Years later, after she failed twice to qualify for the Olympic team, long after Justin ditched her to live with a Bulgarian gymnast, Candy began to resent the tattoo. She suspected its prominent place just below her neck hurt her chances at a respectable office job and locked her into life as a waitress at a Pennsylvania roadhouse called “Meats.” Candy thought more than once about getting the tattoo removed. But that would be painful, and not just in a physical sense. It would mean turning back from a dream she’d held close since she was a little girl staring up at the posters of Mark Spitz that hung in her bedroom.

Candy wasn’t prepared to make that break. Not yet.

Livin’ the Dream, and Other Stuff People Say

Tags

family, humor, life, living the dream, paradise, work

“How’s it going?” I asked a co-worker recently as we passed each other in the 6th floor men’s room.

“Oh, you know. Livin’ the dream.”

He said it in a put-upon way that clearly meant he was aiming for irony. It was 7:30 on a Wednesday morning in the middle of a Kansas City winter. The only dream anyone has in that kind of scenario involves crawling back into a warm bed.

Still, our brief exchange made me wonder why people say things like that. A lot of people reply, “Livin’ the dream,” when asked how they are or what they’re doing. Or they might say, “It’s another day in paradise.” I get that sometimes from a relative who recently had his third back surgery in the past six months. “Another day in paradise,” he’ll grunt in a way that makes it pretty plain that he is, in fact, in another place well south of paradise.

We all know, in this cynical, sarcastic age, what these expressions mean: that life is shitty or, at best, uneventful. We are decades removed from a time when living the dream may have meant exactly that. Still, wouldn’t it be interesting if someone from a faraway place, a place not saturated with television advertising, celebrity gossip, 24-hour cable news, color-coded terror alerts or a stagnant economy, were somehow able to inhabit my body as I pass my co-worker (we’ll call him Mike) in the men’s room at 7:30 on a Wednesday morning. Here’s how I imagine that conversation playing out:

“How’s it going?” I ask.

“Oh, you know. Livin’ the dream.”

“Really? That sounds amazing.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Huh?”

“Tell me about the dream,” I say.

“Are you being a smart-ass?” Mike asks.

“No, I really want to know. I mean, you and I have been in a few meetings with each other. I know you have a wife and, what, three children? I know you drive a Nissan Pathfinder. You don’t seem like a particularly happy man. But to hear that you are living this dream… Well, it makes me wonder what kind of dream you are talking about.”

Mike takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead as he squints into the bathroom mirror. “Look, Stephen, I’m really not in the mood for this. My two-year-old had a meltdown this morning because we’re out of Fruit Loops. My wife’s mad at me for not shoveling the driveway. I left my laptop at home and had to drive all the way back through the sleet and snow to get it. I have a performance review in 30 minutes with my boss. And you’re busting my chops about, what was it again?”

“The dream that you are living,” I reply. “Although I must say it doesn’t sound like anything that I would describe as dream-like. At least not a pleasant dream.”

“You know what, Roth?” Mike leans in close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath. “You’re a real asshole.”

He storms out of the bathroom without drying his hands. The next time I see Mike, two weeks later, he’s glowering at me from across the conference room table as I stammer through my Power Point. I never do learn about Mike’s dream. Neither of us brings it up. Our interactions are brief and business-like.

“Livin’ the dream?” Don’t bet on it. People who are truly living the good life don’t talk like that. They smile politely, say “I’m fine,” and scurry back to their desks in the hopes that no one will find out how truly lucky they are.

Next week, we’ll explore the rising popularity and social implications of, “It is what it is.”

 

Self-Expression in the Extreme

Tags

ads, advertising, bumper stickers, call of duty, cars, media, politics, Stephen Roth, traffic, video games, war

If you gave the Oakland Raiders a bunch of assault rifles, this is what you’d get.

The other day during my commute to work, I drove behind a Jeep with a spare tire cover that bore the ominous silver-and-black logo of Call of Duty Elite. Which, if you don’t know, is an online service that allows you to pretend you are part of an elite paramilitary unit, shooting endless waves of enemies, with other gamers from around the world. According to Wikipedia, there are now about 10 million people who use Call of Duty Elite, roughly equal to the population of Shanghai, China.

Driving through rush hour traffic, staring at the goggled character who represents Call of Duty Elite, I wondered why the Jeep’s owner didn’t just invest in a tire cover that read, “Pretend Soldier?” Wasn’t that basically what he was saying to the world about himself? Unless, of course, he was a real special ops commando who also happened to be a huge fan of the video game. I thought this unlikely, especially after getting a look at the guy as I passed him on the Broadway Bridge. I think he may have been wearing a Best Buy shirt.

Promoting one’s prowess at a violent video game – at a time when people are dying in a real war and mass shootings seem like a weekly occurrence – shows poor taste and an incredible lack of awareness. But it’s not the only example of self-expression in the extreme. On the road alone, you see all kinds of crude posturing: aluminum nut sacks tangling from trailer hitches, Calvin pissing on a Chevy logo, inflammatory bumper stickers about abortion, gun rights or immigration. Then there are the more benign self-promoters: the stick-figure family fans, the vanity plate bearers and the proud parents of honor role students. And occasionally you’ll see someone sharing their grief through a memorial bumper sticker or a roadside cross. More often than not, I’ve noticed, those seem to honor someone who has died in a motorcycle accident.

I’ve never done more than affix a university logo to my car, so I don’t get the mentality of showing your machismo, anger, pride, fear or sorrow to a bunch of strangers who are just trying to get to work on time. Is there a human need in many of us to express ourselves even when we are driving? Is it because we spend so much time in our cars that they’re almost like our homes? Or has the wave of mass-produced, personalized products made it all too easy for us to decorate our cars with favorite cartoon characters, sports teams, rock band logos or political catch-phrases?

Whatever the reason, I wish my fellow drivers nothing but success and satisfaction in sharing their personal tastes with the public. Especially Call of Duty guy. I sincerely hope that someday he will get to kiss a real, live girl.

God Made a Super Bowl

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ads, advertising, America, commercials, Dodge, Facebook, farmers, God, Paul Harvey, Ram, Super Bowl, Trucks

Without a doubt, the most polarizing TV commercial during this year’s Super Bowl was the Ram Truck ad in which the late Paul Harvey extols the virtues of the hard-working American farmer. I say this with great certainty because four of my Facebook friends deemed it post-able subject matter. Two of them liked the ad. Two of them didn’t. Therefore, I assume the entire country is at loggerheads about this, most likely along the usual red state/blue state dividing lines.

I have to say that I am a sucker for ads like this. And for the first time ever, I think I understand the appeal of Paul Harvey. His deliberate pauses and stoic delivery are perfectly matched with still shots of farmers tossing hay bales, walking through the wheat, looking at their gnarled hands or staring grimly at the camera (“So God made a farmer,” Harvey intones). Makes one proud to live in a country where a mere 2 percent of the population feeds the rest of us.

Still, the ad seems a little dated. Almost all the depicted farmers are weathered old white guys. There are a couple of women. One minority. No immigrant workers. No mention, either, of the corporations that own and operate many American farms. So the ad seemed incomplete. Also, it’s a little hard for me to imagine a farmer climbing down from his mammoth John Deere S-Series combine to mend a meadow lark’s broken leg, as Harvey describes. But I suppose it could have happened. It’s a nice bit of imagery, anyway.

What bugs me a little about the Farmer ad is what I also find disturbing about the Super Bowl: how the NFL and many of its sponsors wrap themselves in flag and country for much of the five-hour event. As if sports and patriotism are somehow irrevocably linked. As if the Super Bowl is this special holiday for us to take measure of ourselves as a nation. The NFL has exploited this connection since Whitney Houston sang the National Anthem at the Super Bowl during the first Gulf War. Each year, it seems to get a little more heavy-handed. The Farmer ad is an artful continuation of that tradition – God, country, football and Ram Trucks.

Well, as long as GoDaddy.com doesn’t invoke the Creator, I guess we’ll be all right.

Getting Started

Tags

author, blogging, fiction, first, george carlin, journal, Stephen Roth, writing

“That’s the whole meaning of life, isn’t it? Trying to find a place for your stuff.”

So begins an old George Carlin routine about people’s absurd attachment to things and how those things come to define their lives. I chose “A Place for My Stuff” as the title for this blog not because I’m interested in exploring man’s existential quest to acquire more possessions, but because I really do need a place for my stuff – my writings, musings, photos, short stories, even some old videos. I’ve accumulated a lot of it over 42 years and it would nice after all this time to have it in one location. Of course, there will be new stuff. My goal is to post something new at least once a week. Hopefully, most of it will be entertaining to more than just me. Otherwise, why not just keep it all in a spiral notebook?

I’ve given a lot of thought to starting this blog. Maybe too much thought. I’ve thought and thought about different themes and subject matter. Should it be humorous? Should it be serious? Should I have a gimmick to draw people in, like ranking every major league ballpark or a going on a cross-country quest to find America’s greatest cheeseburger?

After mulling the possibilities, I decided the blog’s mission should be open-ended, a collection of things that are on my mind or topics that I find interesting. And, hopefully, it will contain some good writing. It is writing and my ambition to become a better writer that will drive this little project. Late last year, I learned that my first novel won a fiction award and will be published in 2014. That prospect is both thrilling and frightening to me. My expectation is that this blog will help me further improve my craft as well as, frankly, become a place where I can generate some interest in my book. More to come about that later.

At any rate, I’m looking forward to beginning this journey as a blogger. I hope you’ll join me for the ride. So now I guess I click on the blue button that reads, “Publish Post.”