44

So I'm staring down the barrel of my 44th birthday, past middle age and cruising towards death. I feel like all that's left is trying to not be a hairy eared old man telling the same anecdotes over and over again. I don't want to become totally irrelevant. Let's face it, the only old men who aren't irrelevant are the very smart, the very rich or the very funny. I'm kind of funny but mostly I'm fucked.

I decided to do a little research - looking into what successful people were doing at 44. But what fields of success to look at? Honestly I'm a pretty shallow person so philosophers, writers, scientists and political figures were out of the question. That pretty much left celebrities.

When researching celebrities at 44 do NOT look at rock stars; you will start looking for a building tall enough to jump out of without the risk of just getting paralyzed. Mick Jagger? Dirty Work. Sure it went platinum but it sucked platinum ass. Pete Townshend? The Iron Man Musical, hated by grownups and children alike. (ok, I'm Not Going To Run Anymore was good) David Bowie? Two words - Tin Machine. Springsteen released two albums on the same day, Lucky Town and Human Touch, both were universally ignored so they just stuck him in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to distract him. Lou Reed? Became a Honda Spokesman and performed at Farm Aid to a generously luke warm reception. So where to look? Professional athletes? F-that, you get hailed as an iron man for being able to walk after 40.

I realized that what I was looking for wasn't about accomplishments or notoriety, it was about the half way point actually being half way. I was looking for hope that there was more to come, perhaps even something fun or exciting. So I looked to the people I know could give me hope - A-list Hollywood actors.

At the age of 44 Paul Newman had just released Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. He still had The Sting, Slap Shot and The Verdict ahead of him. At 44 Clint Eastwood released High Plains Drifter which he directed and starred in, still ahead for Clint? Four Dirty Harry movies, Escape From Alcatraz and The Unforgiven which brought him his first Oscar at the age of 64. Max Von Sydow did the Exorcist at 44 and would go on to appear in almost 90 more movies.

At 44 Samuel L. Jackson was still a year away from the release of Pulp Fiction, Viggo Mortenson was Aragorn in The Fellowship of the Ring. Although both had been around for a while many would cite these films as career breakouts. Hope! There it was. Yes, I know that I'm just another schlub who won't do anything spectacular. I'm cool with that. It's not about fame or fortune, it's about how these guys kept going into middle age or reinvented their careers. I just need to find a spark to do something interesting or fun with the second half of my life.

NOTE- All celebrity ages at time of said accomplishments are guesstimates based on birthdays and release dates. Could be way off so don't quote me.

a word about stay at home dads

Today was "Camp Olympics" day: children dressed all in either green or blue while the parents wore the same color as their child to show support. In a line of about twenty cars there is one car wrapped in green crepe paper with green balloons and a giant "Green rocks!!!" sign in the back window. When I see this kind of "look at what a great parent I am" behavior, the sexist in me thinks it's a bored housewife looking for something to talk about. When the car rounded a curve I was shocked to see a dude, a dude wearing douche-bag wrap around sunglasses trying to ruin shit for other stay at home dads.

Since I've been a S.A.D. for the last seven years it's been great to see our numbers swell, it's a sign that the lines that shouldn't even exist are getting blurred. Women who would rather have a career now have an option other than daycare, fathers now have an chance to be a bigger part of their children's lives and men who have been laid off or downsized to feel less emasculated and know that they're providing a valuable service to their family. So why are some dads trying to fuck this up?

Gentlemen, we stand at a great turning point in American cultural history. We can shape the future of the stay at home dad. So no more fucking baby talk! No more rolling luggage bags full of supplies for a trip to the playground! STOP OVERCOMPENSATING!!!!! Kick back and watch how the moms do it, they've got a cultural collective of experience and know how it's done. I can't believe I'm saying we need to look to the housewife to learn to be cool but we do. They pack exactly what they need, no more, no less. They praise and discipline their children without being all up in their grill -- and in a normal voice, they talk to other adults or read and apply sunblock. Mission accomplished.

Almost every stay at home dad I see at the pool or playground is overly engaged in "playing" with their kids. Not only is this annoying to watch, it robs your kids of the opportunity to meet and play with other kids. And speaking in a high pitched voice doesn't bridge some sort of communications gap with your child -- it just makes you sound like a guy who's trying to do a hilarious "gay" voice at a party. Stop it. When you sit in the kiddy pool splashing with your five year old you look more like a pedophile than a good dad. So knock it the hell off, talk to a grown up, read a book or play solitaire on your phone, look up when they yell "hey dad" and wave or give a thumbs up, if they need a push on the swings go do it, but if you start swinging on the seat next to theirs I swear to god I will KILL you. Seriously, I will do it.

Valuable Awards

So father's day came and went and I'm apparently still a father. Not that I didn't expect to be but I thought there might be some kind of "Get out of fathering for a day" card or something. The day after father's day it was back to the lunch packing, bus stop walking, feigning interest world of the stay at home dad. It's not easy pretending everything your child does, says or makes is super awesome, but I do it. It's not easy packing a lunch that won't get eaten because it was squished or gross, but I do. It's not easy refereeing every fight, misunderstanding and insult fest, but I do. I'm actually thinking of driving to the Home Depot and buying a shitload of plexiglass, brackets, hinges and a bench to build my own penalty box. They can sit there and think about what they've done while they watch me play video games, drink tequilla and smoke cigarettes.

My son got an "award" at the end of the school year for being such a good kid. The award? A free kids meal at Chili's®. For real? Are you fucking kidding me? So of course he wants to use his valuable award for father's day. A little bit about what kind of a food snob I am: I think food is mostly a pain in the ass necessity, so if I'm going to a restaurant it better be really fucking good. Chili's is not really fucking good, it's not fucking good nor is it even just good. A Chili's coupon is a lot like the "Small Fry" thing that the Sixers do, a shitty prize that your kid won't let go and forces you to go to culinary hell. Really a coupon for a free small fries at McDonalds? Why not just hammer a nail into my forehead for a "prize".

So I spent my father's day at Chili's thanks to the Cheltenham School District. Five grand a year in school taxes and I'm sitting in Chili's. Bastards. I hate prizes, they ALWAYS inconvenience me in some way. Free museum tickets? I still have to actually go and it always costs me at the stupid gift shop. Anything free with purchase is just another thing for kids to fight over. The only prize I want is a hot dog from the Fanatic's air canon.

Fellow Travelers

I love watching people travel. It's a fascinating state of the human condition and a free perk when traveling. I tend to think of myself as a relaxed, reserved and observant traveler but I'm sure other travelers have a category for people like me, maybe "creepy guy who won't stop staring at me" or "don't make eye contact". I have my categories because they make make it easier to dehumanize people and judge them, laugh at them or marvel at them with no guilt.

It's amazing to me how people tend to fall so easily into their categories. The guys with monogram cufflinks and bluetooth headset? Always speaking at top volume in a condescending voice to someone who's existence is questionable at best. The Southern guys with the polo shirt, wrap around shades and sunburn? Always smiling, always. What the fuck are you smiling about? You have painful looking sunburn. When this guy finally says something so riotously funny that he needs to flip his shades up and wipe away the tears of hilarity, he invariably has pure white circles around his eyes.

I really like the bohemian twenty somethings with the overpriced REI backpack, organic hats and sandals. They take traveling very seriously. I bet they never freeze their asses off when they get off a plane 800 miles to the North because they wore shorts and a t-shirt. Some travelers I kind of fear like the middle aged, tightly wound and slightly attractive business woman. She's smiling on the outside, but I get the idea that she would slice, skewer and feed me to the tiger she's hiding in her carry on if I even remotely got in her way. Then there's her opposite number: the over thirty, overweight and childishly dressed woman in the Pooh Bear sweatshirt. I call her the Chunky Brewster.

My favorites are the anomalies, the ones that I can't glibly file into a category and laugh at. These travelers are not the sweet old couple going wherever the hell they've always dreamed of or the college kids traveling together to some enviable, boozy destination, no these are the people who come to the airport in all of their quirky individuality. Which brings me to.......

My wife and I were in the Chicky & Pete's (I know) at the Philadelphia airport when a young African American traveler sidles up to the bar holding a very large, very sparkly silver cup with rhinestone (or diamond, who knows?) lettering. We dubbed him Pimp Cup. Pimp Cup proceeds to order a double Hennessy with ginger ale, which the bartender served him in a pint glass. He proceeded to pour it into his pimp cup. Amidst the giggles from the staff and wide eyed stares from the tourists and business class he leaned back, smiled and took a big sip.

I hope Pimp Cup had a great trip.

Dear Baltimore...

Today we visited you, Baltimore. I have some suggestions and criticisms. First and foremost? Your aquarium, the crown jewel of your Inner Harbor, is second rate thanks to the Camden Aquarium. Yes, you have a LOT of sharks and rays but so does every other aquarium; Camden has hippos for Christ's sake, not to mention the coolest jellyfish exhibit ever. You guys need a new "money shot" - the rainforest is an impressive structure but it has about four birds and some crickets. Woo hoo. Most aquariums are letting you touch shit now, sharks, mantas and starfish can be "pet" at any self respecting aquarium. Lastly, you have too many big brown and grey fish, they come in crazy colors you know...

Where to begin with the rest of the day? I'll start with the overpriced seafood restaurant. I won't say which restaurant because they're all a little overpriced for the average food you get. This one charged too much and had no AC on a 90º day, so that by the time your waiter got there with your food he was drenched in sweat. Tasty.

Then we get to the "Historic Ships in Baltimore," which has a very cool submarine tour. I love a good sub tour. I have to say that it was pretty awesome to sit on a torpedo like Slim Pickins in Dr. Strangelove. Even if I wasn't really supposed to. My only criticisms are these: In this day and age you can air condition any enclosed structure, even a submarine. Your sub smells like old people and wet dogs.

Well, after a super fun day we wanted ice cream. Our first try was the Historic Ships snack bar, we waited in line only to learn that they were out of EVERYTHING. So across to the markets we go to find ice cream and are pleased to find a Ben and Jerry's. We wait in line for some smoothies and ice cream. When we order we're told that there's no ice (really Baltimore? No ice in your ICE cream stores?) so they can't make smoothies. Ok, fine. When we order our various ice cream treats we're told there is no ice cream. Why the fuck was the guy in the stupid hat even standing there? Why Baltimore? Why? So off we go to a convenience store where we get some Jack n Jill shit from a cooler and eat it outside watching smooth jazz musicians wilt in the blazing heat. Surreal.

Parking was no better. We entered on Gay street and exited on Lombard to make our way to the aquarium. When we went to get our car we tried to enter on Gay Street. NO. We went to Lombard with confidence high. NO. Turns out we needed to go to Market street to re-enter the garage and get our car. What the fuck Baltimore?

We parked on the "Manatee" level and when we got in the elevator there were buttons for every fucking fish and sea mammal ever. But not the manatee. Twilight fucking zone. We flag down a friendly garage employee patrolling in his golf cart (really, Baltimore?) who tells us there is NO manatee level. But then he pauses to think, "......oh you mean the M level? That's one flight down" Every goddamn button in the elevator had a stupid picture of a stupid fish. The manatee? A letter M.

So Baltimore, next time I think I'll try Hartford or maybe Dover, home of tax free shopping.

RAIN

This winter had it's way with my roof, hard. My insurance company couldn't come out for two weeks and I thought that was outrageous. I had no idea. Roofers: holy shit. I had several roofers come and look at my roof and none of them sent me an estimate. My bedroom was becoming a rainforest and my concerns about our frame rotting were keeping me up at night.

Three and a half very high stories and a 90º pitch were part of the problem. When you're drowning in jobs why would you take a tough one?

So up I went. My ladder would get me up to the first floor so I had to figure something out. That meant building a cantilever out from my bedroom window, and by cantilever I mean an old cabinet door with 100 pounds of iron weight plates on one end with a bookshelf to hold it up to the window. Safety first... My bedroom window has some fancy woodwork around the top that looked pretty sturdy so I hung on to that while I tried to throw my rope over the roof. I imagined that the rope itself, rolled up, would give me the heft I needed to get it over the roof. Stupid. I ended up tying a rubber mallet to the rope and throwing it over. Note - if you plan on doing this, tie it tight. By the time I got back upstairs with the mallet that had sailed over the roof I had figured that out. Having gotten the rope over the roof, I pulled it in through my opposing bedroom window. I couldn't find anything to tie it to so I remembered some Three Stooges physics and tied it to my doorknob.

Go time. I dragged my safety belt out of the basement , filled one pocket with tacks and another with a brush and a putty knife. With some carabiners I hooked up my roof cement and a sack of shingles. I now weighed 75 more and worried about my cantilever holding me. I didn't adjust it, I just worried. Safety first. I began my ascent of mount Holy Shit These Shingles Are Hot by using the rope to climb up until I sat on the peak of my roof. It was really fucking high.

I descended the other side of the roof where the shingles were gone and got to work. The first thing I did was watch my gallon of cement roll down the roof because I didn't check the carabiner. By the time I got back up it was a thousand degrees hotter. The actual work was tedious and difficult and I only had to make two trips to get shit that I dropped, but let me tell you about roof cement.

Roof cement is a malignant substance that multiplies and spreads exponentially over your body and through the simple act of moving your door and window frames, walls, pillow case and floor. My arms were black, my jeans ruined and my work gloves were stuck to the roof. Four showers later there's still patches of black on my arms and ankles. My son asked if a dab of it on the glass panel of the front door was poop, I said no it's roof cement. He asked why it was on the door if it was roof cement.

So now we wait. It's supposed to storm tonight and I'm on pins and needles. Wish me luck.

Boots

I have returned from Nashville with a sense of pride. I'm proud of myself for not buying cowboy boots. For some uncanny reason being in Nashville made me want to buy a pair of boots that I'd never wear, not even if I was on a horse which is unlikely because I fucking hate horses. It almost seemed as though buying boots was an integral part of the whole Nashville experience, like dressing like one of the Village People would somehow make me a little bit honky tonk.

Honkey tonk is one of those things you might say out loud but boy does it look stupid written down, and it's written all over the place in Nashville. There are cool things to do in Nashville, there's Hatch Show Prints, a very unique print shop with a very distinct artistic style. Nashville also has one of the finest vintage guitar shops I've ever seen and the Ernest Tubbs record shop is like a shrine and gift shop all rolled up with a pretty good record shop. The bars on Broadway all have live music pouring out of them and the smell of BBQ is fantastic.

All of this conspired to drive me into a boot shop where the smell of leather is fantastic and earthy. To be honest though, cowboy boots just look retarded on the shelf, making one imagine how horrible they'd look on. I wear sneakers, maybe a dress shoe when I need to or hiking boots in the winter but 97% of the time it's sneakers. I would look and feel like a douchtard wearing big boots with a big heel. I left the shops on Broadway with nothing but a nice t-shirt, really proud of myself.

Happy to be up north now, away from chicken n' dumplings, Waffle Houses and overt friendliness that kind of gives me the heebie jeebies.