Veterans days is weird without my Dad around. We would always do something together that day…especially in his later years. Even when I was younger and at college I would always call him to say “thanks.” And when I was a young punk that was blind to so much, the one thing I always had a respect for was veterans day. Its funny, as I just typed that last sentence I had to laugh at the idea of “Well I may have been screwed up and a total jerk…But I at least respected Veteran’s Day.” It reminds me of one time my brother was talking about all his problems with drugs and court and outstanding warrants and then he says…”I’ll tell ya what though…I have a perfect driving record. No speeding tickets! Nothing. Spotless”
My reasons for always honoring the veterans may have been more pragmatic than anything though. They put the roof over my head when my dad lost his job and got cancer. They gave us financial help and housing to get us on our feet. The guy from the veterans council helped my dad get food stamps ,and whatever we could, to help him provide as a single dad for three kids. I specifically remember when I was younger I would have to go into the grocery store and pay for stuff with food stamps and I would be embarrassed and always look behind me to see if anyone from school was there.
I would also get free lunch at school and I had a big red card that I would have to whip out at the end of the lunch line.
I tell those stories to also let you know that Dad did find a job. He worked crazy hours at nights too. And we worked our way off of public assistance. And my sister and I payed our way through college with the help of some grants and loans. And these were all things that the government helped us with. They were not hand outs but rather a hand up in troubled times. And I remember the feeling inside of being POOR. And I can imagine how my Dad must have felt. A proud Italian-American. A combat veteran. An insanely smart and talented engineer. And now he was depending on others for help. But no matter how we felt embarrassed or felt like a little of our dignity was taken from us…THANK HEAVENS those things were there for us. And perhaps this is why I get so emotional at times at election time. When I hear “god fearing americans” characterize welfare recipients as “sucking off the teat of America”. When I hear “god fearing americans” talk about how evil the government is and how people need to “pull themselves up by their bootstraps.” Or the WORST. When they say “Why should MY TAX DOLLARS go to help THEM?” And then after they say all this…they have the nerve to question MY patriotism and MY faith. Funny…My dad risked his life in the war and he NEVER questioned anyone’s patriotism nor asked them their politcal party nor checked their race nor ethnic heritage. What gives these people any right to do that to me. Ahh jeez I pity those poor short-sighted and ignorant people. God and country? Really? REALLY?
Because last time I checked it was patriotism like my Dad’s that saved this country.
It was faith like my Dad’s that kept us believing in the hope for our future despite really shitty times and really bad days. And when my Dad and his buddies risked their lives on a B-24 flying over Nazi Germany…I don’t think they ever said “Why should I risk MY life for THEM.” They just did it because they believed that we were ALL in the same boat. We were all on the same side. We all just wanted a decent life and some time with our families and a little bit of dignity. So I send this out to my Dad wherever he is to say “Thanks.” And To my friend Roland Pepin who served with my Dad I say “Thank You” for risking it all for ME. Me. A former “small town punk stoner loser” who managed to turn out OK. Because of the sacrifice of so many for a country that has given me so much.
Happy Veterans day.
BTW the picture shows a few things from Dad’s old cigar box full of war stuff.
Today I went to the stop and shop and was horrified. I had a craving for Count Chocula and they did not have it. How could this be? This was, after all, the SUPER stop and shop. Its bigger than 3 airplane hangers. They had all the cereals except mine. And a bunch of stuff NO ONE eats. Who the hell eats Muesilix?
I asked the young teenage clerk “Hey do you have Count Chocula?”
“Uhhh (scoffing and laughing) No. Dude they haven’t had that in years. You bought it here before?”
“Uhhh Yeah.” I was annoyed the way he called me dude.
“”Well it musta been like a while ago. Cuz I never seen it.”
“Really…How long you been workin here for”
“Uhm like …Probably like uhm since May.”
“Wow! And in ALLLL that time you never seen it.”
“Nope” (oblivious to my sarcasm)
“Have you ever seen it anywhere.”
“Uhm my parents like told me about it. Like how the goverment said it was bad or something”
Now I was totally pissed. I was the old guy. Christ, I might as well have asked if he had that old time sasparilla. Besides, I knew the cereal was bad and sugary and actually I would never dream of allowing my daughter to have it. But I wanted it because it felt good to know in someway that I was physically able to buy it. And I suppose, psychologically, it felt good to know that a little bit of my childhood was still there.
“OK thanks anyway.” I’m walking away and he yells after me.
“You could try like Cocoa Pufffs..”
I spin around. “DUDE…I don’t want cocoa puffs maaan!”
So now, as I’m pushing my cart, the scenario is playing through my head and I’m laughing to myself at my stupid Lewbowski-like response. I realize I’m smiling and I’m walking alone. I consider censoring myself and then I think “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with smiling while walking alone in the grocery store. Is there? I mean if some douchebag next to me can walk around with his bluetooth headset talking to his secretary while fingering casaba melons, than I’m not that bad. So I relax and I’m thinking back on all the good times I had with Count Chocula. And not only him, but all the monster cereals. Frankenberry. And of course the lovable and effeminate Boobery. It was all gone. Gone!
Or maybe it was at the downtown PriceChopper. That place is very, shall we say, Urban. They probably have the original cereal in the original box. Along with Ivory soap in paper wrappers and Tylenol with no seal and child protection whatsoever.
I continued on in my super stop and shop and it got worse. I was innocently glancing at the meats section and there it was. Right between the steaks and the hamburger. Tongue. A big huge tongue. The tongue of a cow. Right there in see through cellophane packaging for all to see. A big slimy 18 inch long white tongue.
WHAT THE CHRIST IS THAT?
AND WHY?
WHY?
Seriously…w h y ?
I almost puked. I fantasized of leaving my whole cart full of stuff right there and running home to wimper in a corner. “Make the tongue go awaaaaay.” I was not only queasy and disgusted, I was angry! Angry at the injustice of it all. Wait a minute! No Count Chocula…But TONGUE!
I don’t know if I want to live in a world like this.
I got my act together and went up to the cashier. I wanted to get the hell out of there and go home. Home. Away from the tongue. My sale was done and bagged and just for the hell of it I ask the cashier, name tag reading Chrissy, if the bags are still free. She says yes. We joke about the inconvenience of the environmental steps we take but both agree that its a good idea. She mentions that instead of reducing bags everyone should shut their lights off for 1 hour a day. I replied “Brilliant. Ya know in some places they do that anyway. When I was in Costa Rica I noticed that whole towns shut their lights off for the turtle population that is mating at night.” Crap! I quickly decide I must tell her something else about Costa Rica to distract her away from the phrase “Mating at night.”
Got it.” Oh and I saw a sloth too. Its a great place. Beaches. Rainforest.” Whew.
She says she would love to travel but just can’t afford it since she just got out of grad-school. I ask her what she’s studying. She said “Art Restoration”. I said “Now that is fascinating. Man. you must look at art so differently because of that. Some look at things conceptually. Others for technique…And…”
“Exactly”. she says, “My sister always makes fun of me when we go to a museum. I’m not very emotional toward it. Although I went and saw Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise…ten panels of gold and bronze depicting religious scenes and it was stunning. These were outdoor pieces from the 15th century…And they were so detailed. And I’m not religious at all…But I wept when I saw them ”
“I can totally imagine”, I said. ‘Seeing passion like that regardless of the subject is so beautiful.”
“Yeah”, she says, “So..Anyway…I’m trying to get into a doctoral art program in Delaware. There’s only like 700 people in the school. They only take 200 applications. 75 are called to interview. And 10 are chosen.”
“You should do it. The world needs you. Art needs people with a sense of beauty…And ethics. I mean their must be a lot to consider. I would imagine ethical dilemmas. How do you decide what gets cleaned or restored or left alone.”
“Exactly. Like over in downtown. In the museum. Ya know past the PriceChopper.”
“Yes…I think of it often. I plan to go there tonight. No tongue. Good cereal”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been workin all day and I’m a little slow.”
“NO. Trust me. It’s me…Just a stupid thing that I uhh…So downtown the musem…”
“Yeah. There’s this big pyramid. You’ve seen it!”
I had no frickin clue what she was talking about but I didn’t want to stop talking to her.
I wasn’t so much attracted to her or anything. I just didn’t want her to stop talking.
“Yeah of course…Its awesome. Its a landmark.” I lied.
“Riiieeght. So its made of a strange mix of metals and copper and materials that rust. It’s supposed to rust. To clean it up would betray the artist.”
“Exactly.” I really didn’t want to leave. But there were people coming. “Chrissy”, I said offering my hand, “A real pleasure. Best wishes. You should go to Delaware.”
“Thanks. Have a great night.”
And that was it. I ended the night on such a high note. I overcame the count Chocula tragedy by just talking to someone.
So the point is this: If you try and live in the past, looking for Count Chocula and cheap thrills and such, you will inevitably be disappointed. And if you go looking around long enough you are sure to see some awful things. Like an accident. Or a bad relationship. Or lose a loved one. Or maybe come face to face with an 18 inch cow tongue. But if you just find the strength to look away from the past and away from the little everyday things that bum you out…You will see something. People. Beautiful people working just like you. People filled with passion. People with stories. Works of art all of us. Some need some cleaning up and some are a little messy but you wouldn’t want them any other way. So thank you Chrissy. Thank you tongue-less cow. And good night Count Chocula wherever you are.
So there was something I been thinking everytime I see them together. I couldn’t wrap my head around it or crystallize of what it was reminding me. And then it hit me. Best in show. The glamorous poodle lady and her …uhmm “husband.”
PARIS — Pope Benedict XVI condemned unbridled “pagan” passion for power, possessions and money as a modern-day plague Saturday as he led more than a quarter of a million Catholics in an outdoor Mass in Paris.
He then had a few people bow before him and kiss his million dollar ring before getting in his pope limo and going back to his castle.
So there is a new ad today that the democrats are unleashing against McCain and it will not work. Its an ad that mocks McCain as old, out of touch, stuck in the 1970’s, and the ad states that McCain:
“..admits he still doesn’t know how to use a computer, can’t send an e-mail
1. This is a dumb approach to take right after half the country (whether correctly or not) thinks you called his running mate a pig.
2. I’m willing to bet that McCain’s response to this will be simple and something like this:
“Senator McCain prefers simple forms of communication and HE HAS ALWAYS FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO SIT AT A DESK OR KEYBOARD FOR EXTENDED TIME BECAUSE OF INJURIES TO HIS ARM AND LEG WHEN HE WAS A P.O.W. IN VIETNAM FOR 5 YEARS.”
(Translated: While Obama was learning computer skills Senator McCain was serving his country)
The dems have left themselves wiiiiide open open on this and should stick to the economy, the war, and extolling the virtues of Obama’s judgment, character, and powerful narrative.
About Thirty or forty seconds after McCain made an impassioned call for Americans to be involved and help fight ADULT ILLITERACY…The camera is panning the crowd and there is a huge sign held by a guy. Thank god for my DVR and camera phone:-)
My friend Jacqui wrote a rather eloquent and touching note about her new prius and the American dream. “A new car smells like the American dream” she wrote:-) on facebook. It made me smile and now I respond with my thoughts.
the american dream does indeed NOW smell like a new japanese import.
In times past it smelled like gunpowder
and sounded like the click clack of rifle loading
it smelled like the sea
and sounded like the waves on a new shore
it smelled like tobacco
and sounded like a whip
it smelled like a machine shop
and sounded like a hammer
it smelled like a dank canvas military ruck sack
and sounded like the rhythmic marching of boots
it smelled like perfume from a letter home
and sounded like rapid unrolling of medical tape
it smelled like a burning draft card
and sounded like a riot
it smelled like a crisp check on the first of the month
and sounded like bass drum and electric wa-wa guitar
it smelled like burning flesh
and sounded like tumbling buildings
My countries heroes in Boston did not see it.
They fought before there was America but there was indeed a dream. Risked all for a country that only existed in their minds.
Indeed a dream that they could only smell and hear.
And when I close my eyes and really concentrate
it smells like the black leather box lined with felt that holds my fathers medals. And it sounds like the crunch of snow under my boots on a sub zero driveway walk.
And thats just it. I can smell it and I can hear it.
But I could not see it. Until now.
