Fame

Wealth is everything. The lifestyle poll is halfway through its cycle, but there's obviously a trend: money trumps fame. That's to be expected. Who wants to be famous and poor? A much better question would have been: Would you want to be rich if you had to be famous as well?

I have always been mystified by those lottery jackpot winners who step before the cameras with their enormous checks (numerical and physical) for their fifteen minutes. The last place I want to be after winning a fortune is on the front page of the paper. I'm certain there are legal maneuverings that could deposit that ticket into a trust, the sole, anonymous, trustee and beneficiary of which is oneself. Let a lawyer take care of the details while you take the money and run.

Most of us will never experience fame of any significance (or substantial wealth for that matter). We won't ever have our every move scrutinized in our media-saturated world. There are blogs dedicated to single clelebrities. Who could live like that?

A number of years ago I costarred on a television show. Don't worry; you never saw it. No one did. Well, maybe my mother and Curry. I doubt you could even find a reference to it anywhere. Nonetheless, it brought me my only brush with fame, however infinitesimal.

During the run of the show, I was never recognized. People knew me not at all. It would have been nice, I thought then, because I was in the throes of bachelorhood and a little bit of fame might have led to a more prosperous social life. C'est la vie. Then, one day, as I wandered the aisles of Walmart, it happened. With my little red basket in hand I was approached by two attractive young women, perhaps twenty or so. They were demure, but bold enough to ask, "Aren't you that guy on that show?" At first I had no idea what they were talking about, but then it dawned on me. "Uh, yeah, I guess I am," I answered. "I told you," said one to the other. "Can we get your autograph?" My ego puffed up. "Sure, glad to," I answered with all the mock humility I could muster. One of them fished out a pen and a scrap of paper. I had to put down my basket, of course. It was then that I realized the only item in the basket was a bulk pack of Trojans.

That was embarassing, but also enlightening. I saw very clearly that my life was more open at that moment to complete strangers than it would have been without that element of nano-fame. How ugly would it be if I really were a celebrity?

My costar on that television series was a funny, self-deprecating man who understood the fleeting and two-sided nature of fame, but also knew that without it paychecks were few and far between. He used to hand out business cards that simply gave his name and below that his title: Local Celebrity.

I have known semi-celebs in my life. Tony Swartz, a former actor with whom I worked closely for a number of years had been a regular on the original BSG (he played Flight Sergeant Jolly, Rebecca). He hated the little fame he had encountered. When my old girlfriend and I split up she shared an apartment with a former child star, Lisa Gerritsen. Most famously known for playing Phyllis's daughter, Bess, on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, she didn't even enjoy talking about it and much preferred anonymity.

I have known others for whom the spotlight was everything. Having tasted it and then lost it, they pined for its return. Their lives felt, to them, empty absent the possibility of adoration.

It's pointless and hollow. Just give me the loot.

The Only Good Aphid...

The invasion is in full swing. Aphids abound. They are overwhelming this year and are doing what aphids do: devour. There is no winning this battle, just the hope that you can keep them under control.

Our property came with roses - too many roses. After removing more than twenty I still have twenty-five or so left. I'm not a huge fan but some of them are quite nice and until I figure out what else to do with those spaces the roses remain. That fact makes the aphids quite happy. They line up and suck sap. They crowd one another and eat until there is nothing left but dead stems. They are, in a word, evil.

Having an aversion to chemicals, I introduced ladybugs and initially they worked, but now even they are undone. Those ladies either look like dead, tank-floating, goldfish done in by overabundance or; as if they're in some kind of gluttonous, post-Thanksgiving, torpor. They lounge next to the aphids trying to nap: "Oh no thanks, not another bite. I'm stuffed." I feel as if I should enroll them all in a gym or Jenny Craig. Still the aphids come.

I have taken to working myself around the rosebuds daily and simply squeezing the life from the suckers between my thumb and finger as I run them up the stem. Aphid guts have stained my fingers brown. Yet everyday, there are more. They especially like the new shoots, covering them so thickly that they are two and three critters deep. Where do they come from?

I have made it my mission to wipe them out. If ahimsa really does matter, I'm going to have a lot to answer for.

Resistance Was Futile

It has been a struggle. The Boy has never had an issue with a dirty diaper. As an infant he never complained when it was time to be changed. We had to check him regularly because he would give us no sign that anything was amiss. He was content to sit in his own waste. The diapers changed, but he didn't. That detail didn't bode well for potty-training. He showed no interest in moving on from the status quo.

Various methods were utilized. The potty was purchased early on to familiarize him with its presence and function. He thought it was neat - as a storage device. There was the exposure to mommy and daddy using the potty: Ho hum. There was the book, Everyone Poops: great for reading - nothing gleaned. There was the Elmo Potty Video ("brought to you by the letter P and the number 2"): fun to watch, but it didn't sink in. There were the all-day potty sessions: "NOOOOO!" There were the long heart-to-hearts: "Are you afraid of the potty?" "No I like the potty. I just don't want to." There were the incentives: "If you use the potty we can go out for ice cream, little man." "Hmmmm. How bout we go out for ice cream first?" There was the logic: "You're not really a big boy till you use the potty. Babies wear diapers." "Well, babies don't talk. I talk. Sooo, I a big boy." There was the peer pressure: "Ellie uses the potty. Sam uses the potty. So does Christopher, and Caton, and Bennett, ad infinitum." "Uh huh." My wife even introduced the yogic mantra, "Ohmmmm, let the pee out." All failed.

We turned to the big threat. His desire to go to school is substantial. When he got accepted to a pre-school for the fall (yes, even in a small town pre-school is a series of interviews and waiting lists; especially if it's the only secular one) it came with a caveat: he had to be potty-trained. "You can't go to school unless you use the potty." "But I want to go to school." "Then you have to use the potty." Two hours of sitting on the potty later he would pee and announce his readiness for higher education. When informed that he had to use the potty exclusively he felt conned.

We put the potty outside, stripped him down and allowed him to roam the yard. When the call came he was expected to slip over to the chair and take care of business. Instead he slipped over to a corner and peed on his shoes.

In between these techniques we would give it a break; a chance to regroup for both sides. After a week or two we would return to the battlefield, but the stalemate continued like the Fields of Flanders. He viewed most of his potty time as nothing more than a wince-inducing opportunity to exercise a little penile contortion; "Hey! Look at this." What we had is referred to as potty-training resistance. At his age he is more than ready and something was going to have to give.

It was time to go to the next level. Goodbye carrot, hello stick. Over the weekend we informed him that privileges were now being rescinded. He would not be allowed to watch Sesame Street, or Little Bear, or Word World, or Caillou until there was a cargo drop. He would not be allowed to go to the gym with mommy (he loves the daycare while she works out), or swimming lessons, or the Movie Nights of popcorn and Pixar delight, or of course, school, until he was using the potty all the time. This new system was explained and completely understood (well, almost). He was not pleased, but he had no vote; only the option of changing course.

The new bylaws prompted Saturday's renewed interest; a desire to do what was expected. He peed with abandon, requesting potty time on a regular basis. Sunday saw the same. Yesterday, he was even more enthusiastic. He would go within seconds of sitting down. His diaper remained dry. Last night, as I fed his sister, he raced into the kitchen naked from the waist down and announced he had just peed. He had stripped his pants and diaper off, gone to the potty and done his job. It was a rather impressive act. This morning, his overnight diaper was bone dry and his first order of business was relieving himself. Score one for the stick.

There is still the matter of solid waste. He has yet to drop. Strangely, with boys, it is usually urine that causes problems, but not so with him. Today is all about the BM. If we can get over that hump we have hopes it will continue on course (backsliding is to be expected) and my life changing diapers, for at least one of them, will be over.

It's sad for an adult to see so much of their time wrapped up in such a mundane effort and so much happiness derived from its success, but that is my life; a cheer once reserved for sporting events, now expressed to announce a turd in a bowl. Yee haw.

I Got Better

Lest you get the impression that bad facial hair remained my standard, fear not, I eventually figured it out...

Me, 1984

Redneck Beefcake

The decade heart stake post led to this, which has me wondering if the 70's were the problem or just me... My wife affectionately refers to this pic as Redneck Beefcake.

Me, 1981.