Ep 45: Groucho and a soliloquy (my fifth stage)

November 20, 2014

Marx once said, "I don't want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member..."

As a spring chicken I used to fancy being a rebel, taking such maxims to heart, cultivating an anti-establishment intellect. But as I grow older and purportedly wiser (I’m celebrating my 17th anniversary of my 30th birthday on Saturday, as my pal Chris Sorgie would wryly say) I'll admit that I do use Facebook (in)frequently, if only to feed the need to (re)connect.

Which is why, I must admit that I envy the camaraderie that is harbored by a couple of the more youthful teams in my department. This jolly band of Millennials is seemingly often doing something cheerful together.

Last week, it was taking pictures for something or other (and making a lot of gleeful noise in the hallway) and then going out together for happy hour; today it is another potluck being held right outside my office door in the communal pantry.

I do envy their youthful fraternization. Oddly, my team is never invited. Perhaps, it is not so odd.

We are a motley crew of GenXrs led by a baby boomer. So, perhaps it is merely a reflection of our own weathered temperament, abetted by cynicism, and a lack of enthusiasm and energy.

As an interesting aside, I stepped into the kitchen to get some tea and jokingly commented on the tin trays of food being prepped for the conference room banquet, "Oh wow, what treats have you brought me...?"  A colleague half my age from the social media team alarmingly replied, "It's a turkey potluck. Don't eat it, it’s only for our 'department.'" 

Duly warned, I restrained myself from correcting her, knowing she had erred, as we all do, when taken by surprise and are prodded to suddenly fend off vultures. She had meant division, for I am part of her department.

Nonetheless, I realize that my team has never been considered the warmest group to work with, so being banned from the feast should not surprise me.

However, this does not bode well for my wake, the sandwich generation, especially when you consider that 80 million Millennials are beginning to squeeze us out of jobs and siphoning the income that is being used to support them, our children, and their grandparents.

That all said, at their age, at former jobs, I too reveled and commingled as they do now.  Perhaps than, this is merely a reflection of who I am now, where I am, at the bottom of the inverse bell curve of happiness, the center stage of my fifth age:

...And then, the justice,

In fair round belly, with a good capon lined,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws, and modern instances,

And so he plays his part.

Albeit the bard’s wisdom is now 412 years old, it still rings quite true.  

This morning I took selfies of my round belly (reminding myself not to place them in the cloud) to inspire my own personal renaissance of regular exercise and austerity, in another desperate attempt to whittle down the remnants of comfort and excess (i.e. a good capon lined) by enduring a month of no carbs and waddling thru the line at the salad bar.

As of late, I am also quite apt to pontificate and wax wise (as I am doing now).

And to ward off the grey that hovers (and grows), I whimsically opted to not comb and gel my hair back today. Rather, the bangs dangle over the cul-de-sac, a nod and a wink to my carefree prep school days.

And so, I play my part.

Ep. 35: The man who has everything, has Nothing to complain about

At least, I have Milo - who makes me smile every time he calls me "Papa"

Friday, May 17

I woke up this morning hoping it was Saturday. Alas, or rather, thank God, it's Friday. I'm confused.

By 6:40 the haze had lifted and I was in the shower scrubbing, soaking, simply trying to wash away my earlier disappointment, so that I may readily embrace responsibility.

As I've told my colleagues a couple of times this week, I may be disappointed by how my work morphs into a homogeneous blah of boringness after all the edits, rewrites and approvals, but, at least, I have a job, and moreover, it's a job I love to do.

So, at least, I have a warm bed to pull away from; at least, I have a beautiful home, Dominguez Manor ; ), which I can home to and call my own; at least, I have a great bunch of boys that I am looking forward to playing basketball and watching Iron Man III with this weekend; at least, I have a little baby boy who looks up to me, scoots to meet me upon my return home and makes me smile with every garbled "Papa"; at least, I have a beautiful wife who I am deeply in love with and who is carrying our little princess, Olivia; at least, the sun still shines every morning I have to get out of bed to go to work.

At least, I'm alive and well and can write, because I love to write.

Okay, I feel better now.

Caffeine is kicking in, the two guys incessantly chatting about their boring lives have faded with the focus upon this composition, and we're almost at Grand Central Station, spoke-and-hub for the greatest city in the world.

I have really have nothing to complain about.

At least, I have this gorgeous view on my commute home

Ep 33: The Merry Mexican; we must all bow before the light

Who came first? Our culture o Cantinflas?

Monday, May 13

Last night, for our Mother's Day dinner, we sat below a large portrait of "Cantinflas", Mexico's all-time greatest comedian.

Film star of the forties, fifties and sixties, he is a legend through most of Latin America. His filmography spans six decades, from 1936 until 1982.

As I was trying to explain to Sidney, he is as funny as Jim Carrey and Will Ferril combined. In truth, his genius is more like a combination of Jerry Lewis's antics, Robin William's wit, the verbal dexterity of Matt Damon, and the linguistic innovation of Shakespeare. Charlie Chaplin once commented that he was the best comedian alive.

His unique manner of talking is known as Cantinflada and during his heyday it was not uncommon for Spanish speakers to say "¡Estás cantiflando!" whenever someone became hard to understand in conversation. La Real Academia Española officially included the verb, cantinflear, cantinflas y cantinflada in its dictionary in 1992.

Born Mario Alfonso Fortino Moreno Reyes in 1911 in Mexico City, Cantinflas was a champion of the working class and impoverished both on and off the screen thorough his political and charitable deeds. His talent and good deeds ultimately made him a folk hero throughout Mexico and for several generations.

In 1993, after his death from lung cancer, thousands appeared on the rainy day for his funeral in Mexico City. The ceremony was a national event, lasting three days. In the US, he is honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

In essence, as I ate my chile rellono smothered in mole, I realized that Cantinflas is the epitome of "The Merry Mexican," who accepts the harshness of life with a grain of salt, adds a squeeze of limón y chile to make it flavorful and is more than happy to laugh at himself, especially if he can simultaneously make fun of others who take themselves too seriously.

The epiphany got me wondering, "Who came first? Cantinflas or our cultural reputation for eternal cheerfulness?"

I'm apt to believe that Mr. Moreno merely embodied and projected the gnawed-up apple core of our culture; much like Vicente "Chente" Fernandez, Mexico's greatest living singer has interpreted the sappier side of how we handle life and it's endless bounty of little glories and it's occasional gush of lovelorn tragedy.

I also like to think that in my own small and somewhat-humble way, I too manifest my heritage with my optimism in spite of other's obstacles; a youthful wit that admittedly lies dormant beneath 14 years of angst-ridden and impatient parenting; the counter-corporate funny fotos of my family that I have hanging in my office; and my humility in the light of life...

...for, in the end, we must all bow before the light.

Some of the counter-corporate fotos of my family
that I have up in my office that show that
I am indeed a merry Mexican...

Ep 32: Running down Requa; the wrong side of the mountain

God bless America! We're slated to hit 77 in NYC today.

Friday, May 10

Running down Requa I caught a glimpse of the majestic mist hanging over the Hudson.

I wanted to soak it in, but I was running, late for the train.

My lament lasted only a few minutes because five minutes after our first stop the entire river was swallowed up by a magical blanket of fog and for a moment it felt like we were either on a vintage amusement park ride or in some scene from the Shanghai Express.

Alas, there was no Marlene nor any exciting episodes with Chinese warlords, and the thrill promptly ended once we rolled into Croton-Harmon.

Speaking too soon, we slipped back under cover as soon as we left the last stop before Grand Central and the dissipating heat of flanking thoroughfares fueled by exhaust and anxiety.

The beauty of the blur lasted for many miles, past the veiled prison-town of Ossining (i.e. home to Sing Sing), past the legendary Sleepy Hollow and its headless henchman, and past the Governor Malcolm Wilson Tappan Zee Bridge*, until we came into the clear between the Palisades and Croton-on-the-Hudson.

Once we sunk into the Bronx and then Harlem all hope was lost; the swaths of red brick and pale concrete reminded me that my joy ride was over.

Back to work, back to worrying about mediating teenage angst and self-interest with parental duty and the bigger picture; back to banging my head against the wall of ex-spousal indifferences; back to the aggravating concern of absent-minded and perilous childcare; back to being the stripped screw at the office; back to being a greying grown-up at the top of the mountain of my life.

The view into nothingness looked good until it cleared; perhaps I'm looking down the wrong side of the mountain.


*Spanning almost three miles it is the longest bridge in the state of New York. It was named for an American Indian tribe from the area called "Tappan"; and zee being the Dutch word for "sea".

It is right to give thanks and praise to pace of the snail;
seen running with me down Requa

Ep 29: What goes around, comes around

Monday, April 29

On Saturday morning at 4 a.m.,I woke to the sound of Milo crying. I dragged myself into the nursery, fully expecting to cuddle and carry him around for a few minutes and then put him back down to sleep, shortly thereafter.

However, when I pressed him against my chest, he was soaking wet and there was a funny smell, not readily identified as poop.

Being that I had thought this would be a routine soothing, I had left my eyeglasses on my dresser, and blindly made my way to the baby in the dark.

After placing Milo on the changing table and inspecting his diaper, which actually seemed fairly dry, I realized that something was truly amiss.

With one hand on the baby, I leaned toward the crib and made a manual inspection - his sheets were all wet and squinting I could see something dark and chunky in the middle. Finally, I realized I had no choice but to turn on the light.

There was vomit everywhere, on the sheets, on his PJs, in his hair.

Milo, as usual, was handling all the trauma quite well. I picked him up and took him to take a shower.

While we were cleaning up, Chelsea came to inspect what was going on. After we dried off the baby and dressed him again, we put him in bed with us.

Of course, he threw up again. Ugh.

My immediate thoughts were that we had overfed him.

Earlier that evening we had chosen to eat out instead of at home, because our dining room was filled with furniture from the adjoining living room and parlor, while the recently refinished floors dried.

I had also been eager to try some of the local restaurants in Peekskill and our neighboring townships too .

Using Yelp, we chose to try Taormina, a shabby chic nouveau Italian joint, that at first, and second, glance, looked like the kind of place where the working class go to have a nice dinner.

I was immediately impressed by their martini - dry, with just a hint of vermouth; filled to the rim. And most importantly, the food was good too - butternut ravioli , chicken martini and chicken napolitano.

Despite the discovery of a piece of plastic in Chelsea's dish, I would give this place high ratings.

If anything the only low marks for the evening were against me and my lack if restraint. I vividly recall the frenzy I was feeling that led me to over indulge when dessert was served:

"Adela do you mind if I try some of your lava cake ?"

"Um, baby are you done with your carrot cake?" [That would go well with the vanilla ice cream...Hmmm, should I finish my cannoli...?]

All the while, I was so entranced that I was compelled to share tiny bits and pieces with Milo, even though he had eaten plenty already.

Ironically, I had filed a story at work earlier that afternoon about the obesity epidemic occurring across this country. Three fourths, 3 out of 4, of all adults are overweight - half of those are considered obese. The stats are sadly similar for children. As a result, children born today are very likely to live shorter lives than both their parents and grandparents.

Ugh, hence my eventual guilt over this mess.

Nonetheless, I'm not too worried because we are blessed to have Adela cook for us - she prepares fairly healthy meals in small portions.

Well, that was Friday.

As per the awful smell of his diaper my wife, Dr. Chelsea, suspected it was actually a virus with some fancy name that she liked repeating all weekend long.

Alas, the virus did not like her and poor Chelsea - : ( - had to contend with it last night while working overnight at the hospital.

She called me this morning from the ER, where they were giving her fluids via IV. She said the room where she tried to sleep in last night looks like a war zone. As awful as I feel for my 5 month pregnant wife, I'm sure glad I don't have to clean up that mess...

Since Milo woke up at three and would not go back to sleep until I put him in bed with me half an hour later, assuredly none of us would have slept if Chelsea was home.

Nonetheless and allthemore, my baby mama says she's feeling better now.

Unfortunately, as Adela said this morning with a slight chuckle of fear and resignation, "I guess we're next..."

Ugh.