Don't Mess With the Zoo-han

Marlin Perkins died on June 14.

1986.

And that’s too bad.

Because if the host of Wild Kingdom was still with us.

I’d have the perfect location for his next show.

My backyard.

From my backyard you can hear the coyotes.

Sometimes see a deer.

A buck.

Or Elk.

(What’s the difference?)

Add our two dogs.

Loads of insects.

Plus a squirrel or four.

And you’ve got a show.

But wait there’s more.

A few days ago my wife and daughter were roaming around the backyard.

When they saw not one...

Not two...

But three..

SNAKES.

Ok, they were garter snakes.

The wuss of the snake family.

Which was perfect for me.

The wuss of my family.

The closest I ever got to a snake was when Ken Stabler was the quarterback for my Oakland Raiders.

But where I come from, a snake is a snake.

And I want no part of it.

Fortunately I wasn’t home for the first two sightings.

For snake #3, I stood by the door and watched my wife pick up the slitherer with a pair of tongs.

And fling it over the fence.

“THAT’S RIGHT... GET OUT,”  I yelled.

From behind the glass.

Unfortunately three was not enough.

A few days later snake #4 arrived.

And I was the only one home.

As my luck would have it, I had just locked myself out of the house by closing the back door.

In order to get back in, I had to walk to the front of the house.

And go through the garage.

As I took three steps toward the path to the garage.

There he was.

Staring at me.

Like the whale staring at George Costanza.

The backyard was angry that day, my friends.

Like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli.

I got about three feet out and suddenly the great beast appeared before me.

I tell you he was ten stories high if he was a foot.

Ok, maybe he was six inches.

But still.

He was blocking my path to freedom.

So I backed up.

Slowly.

Went inside.

Grabbed those same tongs.

And airlifted the big fella into the next zip code.

Or 20 feet.

Whichever came first.

Thankfully I haven’t seen him since.

Thankfully for him, that is.

But that is far from the end of our backyard zoo.

A few weeks ago my seven-year old daughter noticed a bird building a nest.

The nest kept getting bigger.

And bigger.

And before you knew it, it was the full-time home for a momma.

And her brand new chicks.

Fortunately the nest is located in an area where it provided no challenges.

For us.

Or them.

So like John & Paul, we’ve just let it be.

I must say it is pretty darn cute watching the mama dropping fresh worms into the mouth of her babies.

My daughter loves it too.

So much so that she visits her new friends several times a day.

Well today she was outside visiting when we heard a shreek.

Seconds later she was in the house.

“You gotta see this,” she said.

So we headed out back.

Expecting the worse.

And what we found was bad.

Really bad.

Another bird, building another nest.

Inside our satellite dish.

Gasp!

“OH MY GRAVY,”  I thought.

What if I can’t record Glee?

Come on, a man can only be pushed so far.

So I went inside.

Grabbed a ladder.

And those same pair of tongs.

The ones with the rubber tips.

And I got ready for surgery.

I think it was my 12th grade Physics class that taught me.

Metal tongs on metal satellite dish = KABOOM.

So I inched up the ladder, with rubber tipped tongs in hand.

Got myself in position.

And started plucking away at the nest.

Snakes, Deer, Elk, Coyotes, Insects... fine.

Birds messing with my TiVo?

I don’t think so.

We sent the seven-year old inside.

Just in case there was something in the nest that she shouldn’t see.

Good move.

I pulled piece by piece away from the dish.

Like I was Patrick Dempsey inside a fake ER.

Then finally it was time to remove the biggest chunk.

The nest.

I reached in.

Got a good grip.

And yanked the sucker out of its resting spot.

Dropping it ten feet down to the ground.


Take that!!!

As the nest landed on the pavement.

You heard my wife gasp.

Seconds after you heard three eggs crack.

Like it was happy hour at Denny’s.

(I hope my daughter doesn't read this blog.)

Now I don’t take any pride in killing animals.

But a man’s got to do.

What a man's got to do.

To protect his family.

And his Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Sleepless in New York

4:57am

So when was the last time you had one of those nights?

You know...

So much Tossin’ and Turnin’, you thought somebody was listening to the soundtrack from Animal House.

One of those nights where you can’t fall asleep until the credits for Poker after Dark are over.

And you still manage to wakeup before Good Morning America.

One of those nights where the sheep you are counting fall asleep before you do.

A night where no matter how many spoonfuls of ice cream you eat from the tub, it won’t make the knot in your stomach go away.

A night where you put on your jacket and you ran through the woods and you ran till you thought your chest would explode.

Ok, that last part was from a Bruce Springsteen song.

A great song called “Downbound Train.”

If you haven’t heard it, it starts like this...

I had a job, I had a girl

I had something going mister in this world

I got laid off down at the lumber yard

Our love went bad, times got hard

Now I work down at the carwash

Where all it ever does is rain

Don't you feel like you're a rider on a downbound train

Come on...  

...“now I work down at the car wash, where all it ever does is rain”...

Really.

I have written like 200,000 words for this blog and Bruce summed it up in 14.

Focus Bacon Focus!!!!!!!

Oh, sorry.

5:09am

Back to my life.

So here I am, sitting at the computer, trying to lasso my emotions in motion.

Trying to put my thoughts into words.

Trying to connect with the therapeutic part of writing this blog that has kept me afloat.

Even during the toughest of times.

The recipe has been very simple for me.

•   Feel something

•   Write about it

•   Make a subtle reference to Oingo Boingo or George Costanza so nobody knows what you are talking about

•   Hit Publish

Somehow by the end of my 80’s flashback, you’ve been entertained.

And I feel better.

I got quite the compliment from an anonymous reader the other day, at least I think it was a compliment.

I don't know if you mean to, or not, but your blog entries are the rare combination of: funny, thought-provoking and at times, head shaking.

Keep up the great work!!!

Thank you.

I think.

5:31am

Writing for me has worked a lot better than any other drug.

Better than the beer in my fridge.

Or the Tylenol in my medicine cabinet.

Or even the ice cream in my freezer.

What’s left of it.

In the good times and the bad, I have found a friend in my keyboard who has helped me deal with my reality.

Whatever that reality is.

In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m going through some stuff right now.

I would even qualify it as some serious stuff.

So serious, for me, that I can’t sleep.

I’ve got one of those decisions that I need to make and make it soon.

One of those decisions where you write the good on one side of the paper.

And the bad on the other.

One of those decisions where you call your friends to see what they would do.

If it was their life.

I have evaluated and re-evaluated this scenario so many times, even I’m tired of listening to myself.

I called my wife at 5:45pm last night.

Then we spoke again at 9:45pm.

Then I called her again at Midnight, her time.

Things are so bad, I had to buy more minutes at the AT&T store.

Fortunately they drop half of my calls, so the bill is not too much.

5:47am

Well here I am, almost an hour after I started and I pretty much got nowhere.

My issue is still there.

The knot is still in my stomach.

And I still can’t sleep. 

But somehow I feel better.

I wonder if there is any ice cream left?

Yankee Doodle Dandy

George Costanza never met my father.

And that’s a shame.

They both were raised in the New York area, they both loved eating at diners, they both made me laugh and they both worked for the Yankees.

I always loved it when my dad took me to his work.

Otherwise known as Yankee Stadium.

That NEVER got old.

But the old Yankee Stadium is gone and unfortunately, so is my dad.

Yesterday, I made my first trip to the new Yankee Stadium.

And what a treat it was.

I hopped on the 4 train and about six or so stops later, I was there.

That simple.

I came without a ticket, so I waited in line before the game to buy one.

In case you hadn’t heard, our country is suffering through its worst depression since Babe Ruth was named George.

But don’t tell that to the group of people, at least 75 of them, waiting in line ahead of me to buy the few remaining tickets.

Tickets, that oh by the way, range in price from $14-$300.

I just wanted to see the place, so $14 would’ve worked ok fine by me.

But what I got was even better.

After waiting in line for about 15 minutes, and going nowhere by the way, one of the ladies who worked at the stadium held up a piece of paper about 20 feet from me.

It turned out someone was not able to use their ticket and she was giving it away.

For free.

Just one.

Maybe my dad left it for me.

Either way, I grabbed the ticket and darted to the stadium.   I didn’t pass go or pay the $200 or whatever it would’ve cost.

When I walked in, I was greeted by a flock of stadium workers holding up signs that said, “How May I Help You?”

That’s quite an upgrade from the old stadium, where the same sign said, “What Do You Want!”

But they were incredibly helpful and polite when they pointed to the sky to show me where my seat was.

But I wasn’t complaining.

By getting a free ticket, I had enough money to buy some food.

But not without the guilt.

You see, in New York City, some restaurants are required to list the number of calories for each item they are selling.

And Yankee Stadium had plenty of items.  These were just some of them:

• Veggie Burger, 280 Calories, $7.00
• Slice of Pepperoni Pizza, 310 Calories, $5.75
• Sweet Italian Sausage, 500 calories, $8.00
• Hebrew National Hot Dog, 510 calories, $6.75
• “New York Pretzel”, 630 Calories, $4.50
• Cracker Jack, 840 Calories, $5.75
• Bag of Peanuts, 1190 Calories, $5.00
• Nathan’s Cheese Fries, 1341 Calories, $7.25

I got one of them footlong Hebrew Nationals, since they report to a higher authority and a small order of Garlic Fries.

760 calories for $12.75.  Such a deal.

As you might imagine,  one of the best parts of going to an event in New York is just watching the people.

And the crowd at Yankee Stadium did not disappoint.

There were some chants that had four-letters and some that had more.

Since the Yankees were playing the Baltimore Orioles, some were quite predictable.

And some were not.

Like “Baltimore’s Garbage” and “Where’s Cal Ripken?”.

I even heard, “Boston Sucks!”.

And they weren’t even playing.

I sat right next to a family of four of some hardcore Yankee fans.

At least the dad was.

Early in the game, he screamed at New York’s $180 Million Dollar Man Mark Teixeira, “DO SOMETHING!”

I’m guessing Teixeira couldn’t hear him from the upper deck.  

But the guy who dropped the foul ball one level below us probably did, when the dad screamed, “YOU SUCK!”

When the Yankees tied the game, the father belted out “ORIOLES SUCK!”, bringing a giant smile to the face of his teenage son.

Aren’t role models great.

The man was keeping a close eye on the game, but clearly he wasn’t keeping score on his son’s calorie count.

In the few innings I sat next to him, the boy enjoyed a pint of ice cream, a bag of pistachios, a bag of Doritos and a large bottle of Pepsi.

Hardly a Yankee Stadium record for caloric intake, but he’s still young.

Around the sixth inning, I wanted to return to see level, so I walked around the lower concourse.

At one point I stopped in the memorabilia store.

They had some amazing pieces of Yankee history for sale and some of the prices were actually not so outrageous.

The man who worked there explained to me that their price was based on how much each player charges for his autograph.

Huh?

What happened to the love of the game.

He told me that Derek Jeter, the current Yankee legend, charges $300 per autograph.

Do you get garlic fries with that?

So let me get this straight -- if Jeter signs 110,000 autographs this year, he will match the $33 million he makes for playing a game.

America the beautiful.

Unfortunately for Jeter and the rest of the Yankees, the game didn’t go their way, losing 4-3.

But for me, it was a perfect game.