Double Triangle: David's Blog

The Magnificent Creature

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 11:43:10 -0700

It was eleven years ago, almost to the day, since we purchased our previous home. The Good Boy was just a few days old when I carried him into that house, all bundled up, in a car seat. It was one of the very first places that Beautiful Eema went to since giving birth, and she looked at the empty foyer trying to visualize what life would be like in that house. I remember seeing her walk through the house while I stayed with the Good Boy who was happily napping in his plaid-blue colored car seat on the shiny marble floor of the foyer.

Eleven years later, as we prepare to close on the sale of that house, we know that things turned out very well for our family there. The Good Boy already wears a size Men's Small shirt and he's nearly as tall as Beautiful Eema. His sister, who wasn't even born when we moved into that house, is now a young lady. But, at the time, we were standing at one of life's crossroads, full of uncertainty and doubt.

The first week in that house was very different from our former existence. We were still getting accustomed to having all of the additional space, while trying to figure out how best to set up our baby in his new room.

But there was a particular incident that happened that first week, which still comes to mind more than a decade later.

Enter: The Villain

Our block was a double cul-de-sac ringed by similar Mediterranean-style houses, each with its driveway and carefully manicured front lawn. It was really the epitome of an idyllic suburban block.

Then, one late afternoon, I set out for an evening walk with the Good Boy who was in a stroller, and Beautiful Eema by my side, when suddenly we came face to face with our pinched-faced nemesis and his partner in crime.

He, a small, brown Chihuahua of a dog, off-leash, weighing in at about 8 lbs. of hardened criminal, followed by a brown-eyed eleven year-old girl wearing a pink tank top. Upon sizing up the infernal duo, I could immediately discern their roles. He was the ring-leader and mastermind, while she was a hapless minion serving as the lookout.

Just as I suspected, the canine crime lord selected the scene of his next crime spree, and sprinted onto our property, hopping through the space in between the bars of our side gate and into our backyard where he carried out his dastardly deed. He was gone in 60 seconds, instantly back with the girl who quickly grabbed his leash and ran back to her house at the corner of the block at speeds approximating an Olympic runner on five cups of coffee.

As I approached the scene of the crime in our back yard, there was the irrefutable evidence -- a small pile of Chihuahua poop.

I stood there incredulously, first pondering the sheer nerve of the girl, and then the considerable awkwardness of my inevitable discussion with my brand-new neighbors. A fine introduction, indeed: Yep, here I am, your new neighbor, nice to meet you, sort of, now about the dog poop that's being deposited in my backyard by your hound-of-hell and guilty-beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt eleven-year-old daughter...

Well, the discussion was beyond awkward, just as I had expected. The parents basically refused to do a thing about it although, they "didn't condone it." I just shook my head trying to make sense of this much wackiness so soon after moving into our first big real-estate investment, and I left without further ado.

As the first week at our new home wore on, I learned that the canine arch-villain was named Harley, and that he was an equal opportunity pooper on all the neighbors' backyards. Lawn or concrete, Harley showed no mercy whatsoever.

Howard Knows Best

Just about that time, I had a discussion with my next door neighbor, an older gentleman named Howard, probably in his early 70s. He was a particularly sociable, good-natured fellow, and I thought of him and his wife as one of the ultimately successful retired couples living the good life. On that particular occasion, though, I expressed to him my great displeasure with the neighbor's dog, curious as to his perspective.

I guess I expected him to be just as appalled as I was with having our front lawns and back yards regularly raided by the Chihuahuan villain. But, instead, Howard's response took me by total surprise.

"Sure I know that dog," he said. "His name is Harley. A magnificent creature!"

"A magnificent creature???" I asked in total shock.

"Yeah. Isn't he magnificent?"

I just stood there and looked at Howard, silent for lack of words. In my book, any dog who poops on my lawn isn't exactly magnificent. As a matter of fact the only "magnificent" image that came to my mind at that particular moment was that of Harley flying somewhere over the rainbow as I punt him for a field goal.

But as the seconds of silence stretched on and on, it finally dawned on me: Howard and his wife were just as concerned about the appearance and cleanliness of their property as I was, and there is no way that he didn't mind finding daily dog piles on his lawn.

But instead of creating a confrontation with the neighbors, Howard simply rationalized it and took a positive view of the situation. The truth is that the dog was a sharp-looking purebred specimen and it wasn't his fault that his masters didn't control him properly.

But, better yet, Howard's point of view eliminated any resentment and maintained good relations between him and the offending neighbors.

"Yeah, Magnificent," I mumbled. "You're a good man, Howard."

I should really thank him all these years later for the magnificent lesson I learned from him that day. Maybe I will do so sometime in the future.

Epilogue

As for Harley, the magnificent creature met his sad demise one day as a Screeching Owl swooped down on him and carried him away from his own back yard. That's what a neighbor told me about a year after this incident. I personally think it must have been a Red Tailed Hawk, a species which is native to this part of Southern California and is known to carry away small pets that are left outdoors unattended. Sad and bizarre, but true. R.I.P Harley.

The Trojan Man

Mon, 27 Feb 2012 19:13:27 -0700

I'm standing at the beginning of an aisle at Gelson's supermaket in Calabasas. It's President's Day weekend and we're making a quick stop to pick up some dessert to bring over to a friend's barbecue that we'll attend later in the afternoon.

I'm casually leaning on my half-full shopping cart, patiently waiting for my wife, aka, Beautiful Eema, to pick up paper towels at the other end of the aisle. Across from me, my children, the Good Boy and the Sweet Sweetheart are whispering in each other's ear, quite suspiciously.

I say 'suspiciously,' because any time the two of them are waiting around for more than five minutes without a specific designated activity and without doing something mischievous, I automatically start to suspect that foul play is at hand. Or, at the very least, that there is some serious scheming going on.

Just as the thought starts to cross my mind, they burst out laughing and they start pointing at me, or at least in the general direction of my shoulder.

I look down and to the side of my shoulder, dreading what I might find, but there's seemingly nothing out of the ordinary. My inquisitive look, however, only causes the kids to burst out laughing even louder.

"OK... OK... What's going on?" I ask, bewildered.

This innocent question only causes the volume of their laughter to rise several levels, and they continue to point in my direction.

But oddly, I see nothing at all by my shoulder.

"You're standing right in front of the tampons!" finally yells the Good Boy, holding his stomach and laughing out loud. His sister is almost hysterical with laughter, too.

I turn around and, sure enough, behind me is a grand display of hygiene products for ladies of all ages and stages, in a variety of sizes, shapes and colors, from white to neon -- in mass quantities.

And there I am, right in front of it all, with my kids wildly entertained.

I start to wonder just how and when my 9 year-old and my 10 year-old learned about intimate adult female facts. If it were up to me, I'd still insist that babies are brought by the stork. I still tell them to cover their eyes if we happen to see any romantic kissing on TV. 'It's inappropriate for children," I say.

But, as a master of choosing my battles, I decide not to start that particular conversation in middle of the tampon aisle at our local Gelson's supermarket.

Feeling like I need to say something wise as the adult of the bunch, I mutter, "Well, I'm sure no one will suspect me of using these things." I then casually take a few steps down the aisle, pushing the shopping cart just past the Maxi-pad shelf, as my kids are nearly doubling over with laughter. I stop and resume my leaning on the cart, glad that no other customers are present.

"Ah ha ha ha ha!" The Good Boy starts again, and points past my shoulder with even more delight and enthusiasm than before.

"Well, now they'll think you're the Trojan Man!" he loudly announces.

I turn my head, only to find that I've inadvertently stopped in front of the condom section. Oh, boy...

"I don't know what this is," I say in denial. " And who's the Trojan Man anyway?"

"Well, it's a good thing that you don't know," my son answers. "It's VERY inappropriate!" he says, shaking his finger at me, much to his sister's delight.

The Missing Summer of 2011

Fri, 26 Aug 2011 19:37:17 -0700

Oh, those summers of years past. They were golden hazy days of pure freedom and indulgence. Escapes, adventures, and fun of all sorts, mainly of the sort of fun I would deny in public, if you know what I mean. Wow, it was really great.

I wouldn't say I didn't have a care in the world those days, because I had various summer jobs since I turned 14, but still... Until I entered the full-time workforce, my summers were amazing. Later in life, my summers morphed into something different but, overall, summers still had a more laid back character than the rest of the year.

This past summer of 2011, though, was completely MIA. Missing in action. I have no clue what happened to it or how it could have zoomed by me without my noticing it was summer at all, or that it is about to end even before it began.

I'm sitting in a cavernous empty room, surrounded by other cavernous empty rooms. Actually, it's an empty house and there are echoes where there are sounds. Mostly, the sounds are of power tools and other construction-related noise. In one corner of the house there is a radio stuck between stations producing an equal mix of static and Spanish-language pop music at an incredibly loud, mind-numbing volume.

Elsewhere in the house, a jack-hammer is chomping mercilessly at the chipped travertine tiles it is fighting to extract. Outside, the pool deck lies in utter ruin with chunks of broken concrete visible, as we are in the midst of redoing it.

Somewhere, in a corner of the house, I've set up a small folding table with a few folding chairs, on which I have my laptop so I can get some work done. But more often than not, the noise catches up with me, even so.

The unbearable ruckus has been going on for the past six weeks since we purchased what will soon become our new home, and there are more than a dozen construction companies working on the house, mostly simultaneously. In reality, I'm not a general contractor and I don't even play one on TV, but I do have a couple of decades' experience managing various groups of people at the same time. Thank God, after six long weeks, I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. Based on the number of unfinished projects, it sure is hard to imagine that we will move into this house in about two weeks.

Meanwhile, the Good Boy and the Sweet Sweetheart have had their first day at their new school. It seems promising so far...

Having to relocate to a home in a better school district doesn't bother me so much as my concern for our children attending public school for the first time and the reasons for it. Since preschool, our children attended safe, familiar Jewish day schools, but for all intents and purposes, Jewish education is pretty much dead in this part of L.A. The classes have only a handful of students, partly due to the bad economy, and partly due to a lack of value parents place on Jewish education. So by the end of the 2010-2011 school year, we found ourselves forced to consider other academic alternatives. We chose to relocate to a better public school district within a few minutes from our current home.

I don't know what the future will hold for our children and their education. I'm not even sure that we're doing the right thing by going the public school route. Maybe we should have chosen a different private school option. One of the toughest aspects of being a parent is the fact that we sometimes need to make an educated guess and just move forward without certainty, without guarantees, yet with potentially bad results that could affect our children very negatively. I think we're choosing the best option. But thinking is not knowing for sure.

So for now, we're optimistic about the possibilities that lay ahead. Probably even more optimistic about our children's education than we've been in years. But where in the world did this summer go?

The Sweet Sweetheart Turns Nine

Mon, 30 May 2011 16:58:12 -0700

Meanwhile, time moves on and the Sweet Sweetheart is about to turn nine. She's extremely excited about her birthday and, actually, it's a little misleading to call it a birthDAY celebration. You see, in our family, the birthday process can span over a period of, literally, months. There are discussions, plans made, early gift acquisitions, online gift research, haggling over gifts, creating gift "wish-lists," ordering the gifts, waiting for the arrival of the gifts, wrapping the gifts, preparing the kitchen with posters, decorations and, of course, the presentation of the gifts.

Then, there's at least one more after-birthday celebration, for some unexpected reason, not to mention that we have birthday weekends or birthday weeks, not just birthday days like normal people have. Ah... These kids have no idea just how good they have it...

This year, we spent three action-packed days in Las Vegas in honor of the Sweet Sweetheart's birthday. Seems extravagant (and it actually was), but it beats planning and throwing a class party, which is still the norm for children her age. I don't know, but after ten years of throwing two class parties each year, I'll pay almost any price -- even escape to a different state -- just to avoid that scene.

So, we enjoyed the Venetian hotel, its gondolas, shops, great food, spectacle, and luxury. We saw the Blue Man Group show, and toured Madame Tussaud's wax museum. The kids absolutely loved it, and the Sweet Sweetheart was just bubbling over with joy that this was being done in her honor.

* * *

The Sweet Sweetheart is exceptionally intelligent, creative, and adorable. I'm her father, so I can say so!

She's also a very dedicated and loyal friend, as well as very generous and charitable. Nothing makes her happier than donating her toys, time, and even some of the money she saved up from holiday gifts she received. This year, for example, she donated the $20 she received for finding the Afikoman on Passover to a charity dedicated to helping children who were born with disabilities. She also worked at a lemonade stand set up by her classmates, for which she created colorful promotional posters, to raise even more money for that charity.

The Sweet Sweetheart's dream for her future involves having a romantic wedding and living a lifestyle similar to that of Beautiful Eema who is absolutely adored by the whole family. The Sweet Sweetheart has agreed, until recently, that Beautiful Eema and I will need to pre-approve all of her future suitors. Our plan is to require each suitor to write a comprehensive response to the question "Why do you think you're the one to marry the Sweet Sweetheart?"

But lately, the Sweet Sweetheart has notified us that she will be the one to decide whom she will marry and she will not ask her suitors to submit to the parental pre-approval process. When she mentioned this, I pretended to be shocked.

"What??? Of course we need to approve any boys you might marry!"

"No. I will know who's the best one," she says confidently.

"No way! We know our Sweet Sweetheart and we know all the fine qualities the lucky man needs to have."

"Abba (Dad)! That's embarrassing!" The Sweet Sweetherat rolls her eyes dramatically.

"Well, we need to do a complete financial analysis, career counseling, and to make sure he has a retirement plan and a good health insurance policy," I say flatly.

"Awkward!"

I laugh at the Sweet Sweetheart, who rolls her eyes again, then smiles back at me. In a way, I'm glad that there are many years ahead before the Sweet Sweetheart will be given away at her wedding. And, on the other hand, I'm glad that she has such a positive impression of marriage and family.

Yet, there she is, a formidable nine year-old. A force of nature since birth. Adorable and sweet, yet fiercely determined to succeed when she sets her mind to any task.

* * *

Normally, I'd end this post here. But, as this is a birthday post I'll say just a few more words:

Earlier this year, the Sweet Sweetheart insisted on being placed into the advanced Hebrew class, which is designed for Israeli-born children who speak Hebrew since birth as their first language. But the Sweet Sweetheart was willing to make the extra effort needed to keep up with the class and persevered for the rest of the year, earning top grades.

And, when she decided she wanted to dance, she was willing to take dance classes for about 5 hours a day last summer. Even though her legs ached at the end of the day, she went back and excelled.

In math and English classes, she and only one other student are separated from the rest of her class and given a special advanced curriculum. She then often comes home and solves even more advanced math problems, which I prepare for her.

She also writes her own songs, makes fancy, beautiful get-well and birthday cards for teachers, friends, and family.

I'm so proud that the Sweet Sweetheart is blossoming into an amazing young lady, which is obvious even at the age of nine.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Sweetheart! Just in case you read this one day when your ninth birthday is just a distant memory, remember: Beautiful Eema and I love you and your brother more than anything in the world.

Holy Cow! Bob Dylan Is Seventy

Tue, 24 May 2011 19:56:48 -0700

Well, I guess that I should start off by saying that I never personally met or spent time with Bob Dylan. But that didn't stop me from spending what seemed like a million hours wearing headphones listening intently to his words and songs as if they held all the secrets of the cosmos. All I needed to do to gain this miraculous knowledge was to decipher the deeper meaning of Bob Dylan's lyrics.

"There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief.

"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief.

Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth.

None of them along the line know what any of it is worth."

"No reason to get excited," the thief, he kindly spoke.

"There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.

But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate.

So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late."

Hmmm... The joker said to the thief that there's too much confusion, so he can't get any relief. Apparently, too much confusion is the reason for not being able to get relief. Relief from what? I'm not really sure, but still... At least you and I, we already have gained the wisdom that comes with experience, so we're spared that terrible fate -- just so long as we don't talk falsely when the hour's getting late.

Well, alrighty then. Late-night honesty must be the key. Now that I know that, I'll know just what to do when the opportunity presents itself late one night. Ah, yes...

And so it went. I spent hours as a teenager trying to reach all kinds of philosophical conclusions, because not only did Bob Dylan's words of wisdom seem to offer spiritual advice, they also presented me with an incredibly practical roadmap for happiness. I was absolutely convinced that if only I followed the roadmap, I would be making very wise moves all the time, no matter what challenging situation I would unexpectedly face.

It's amazing what teenagers will believe. Or maybe it was just my friends and me. But we did believe that Bob Dylan was the coolest and wisest philosopher/anti-establishment poet who really knew what we were thinking and feeling at the time. He had sage advice for us all. Every one of his songs was a treasure trove waiting to be unlocked by us. Every lyric a shot at wisdom and, most importantly, ultimate coolness -- the most sought-after prize every teenager craved.

Thirty years later, I'm sitting at home across the continent from the Bronx where I once was that teenager listening to Bob Dylan. My children will soon start their own teenage years. As incredible as that seems to me, it's equally amazing that today is Bob Dylan's seventieth birthday. Wow! Bob Dylan is 70!

I look at the album cover of him and his girlfriend from 1963, two years before I was born. They look like two kids, and the album is named The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. They look exactly like the kids in my high school, and like the kids today. And the streets of Greenwich Village in New York City look exactly as I knew them when I walked down those mean streets very late at night as a teenager.

But Dylan is now 70 years old. It's difficult for me to imagine the pop culture icon I admired as a teenager being this age. Although he's probably a better musician and performer today than he was when he invented his lyrics under the influence of some massively potent substances, the teenagers of today would never relate to him as he is now. Because, as is often the case, the messenger is just as important as the message. True, the messenger, or the pop icon, need not be incredibly handsome or polished, or a fashion trend-setter. On the contrary, Dylan was a simple guy whose strength was that he elevated his lyrics into poetry (or so it seemed), while remaining genuine. Authentic. Real.

Yes, all of Dylan's simplicity was not only overlooked, but actually part of his greatness. Even the fact that, when sober, it was questionable whether his lyrics were mostly devoid of any meaning or logic could be easily forgiven. Because in the world of pop culture, everything an icon does can be forgiven. Except for one thing: Getting older.

Game One Is Won

Wed, 30 Mar 2011 20:30:51 -0700

It's finally a warm sunny day in Southern California after four months of torrential rains, bizarrely strong winds, and uncomfortably cool weather. Of course, in comparison with most of the rest of the country, our winter was considered balmy and pleasant. Could have fooled me, though.

Beautiful Eema, the Sweet Sweetheart and I are sitting on bleachers at the side of the soccer field of a local school, watching the Good Boy clad in his own school's team uniform take the field. The opposing team is warming up on the other side.

The Good Boy is about to turn ten in a few weeks and he's in fourth grade, one of the youngest on the team, which includes boys who are mostly in sixth grade. Unlike the other boys on the team, this is his first game on a soccer team or any other team for that matter. He's been looking forward to this day with lots of anticipation, but also a little trepidation since joining the team. I can see that he's proud to wear the uniform and represent his fellow classmates.

I smile at my son and recall the first time I wore a soccer uniform and how it made me feel like a professional soccer player. It was around 1979, I think, and it was in the Bronx, playing in the German-American junior league, and later I played in the Italian-American league for a team called Lazio, named after a city in Italy from which the founders of the team originated. I knew exactly how the Good Boy is feeling and it makes me smile.

Today is also the first game of the season and it's our turn to provide snacks and drinks for our team, so we have two shopping bags full of OU-stamped Gatorade and Pringles arranged in front of us on the lower-most row of the bleachers. The team members eagerly line up in front of us for their first round of snacks, their faces flushed with excitement, 90% of which is for the upcoming game, and 10% for the red Gatorade.

Several other parents are seated next to us, watching their children and chatting about whatever concerned private-school parents chat about. In a few minutes the game begins.

"How old are the kids from the other team?" One of the other fathers asks, referring to the fact that those kids are mostly twice the size of ours.

"I think they're in their twenties," I reply.

The referee whistles and the game begins.

Our kids immediately take control of the ball and seem to dominate the giants from the other team. In no time at all our team scores a goal, to the loud cheering of the parents.

One of the fathers who is coincidently a soccer coach himself, begins to shout instructions to his son and to the rest of the players on our team. Another father joins in, then me, too, encouraging the Good Boy to aggressively engage the other team's players when they advance toward our team's goal. He does so, and I give him a thumbs-up. He sees it, smiles, and plays even better than before with his confidence visibly soaring. He's giving it his best effort, and contributing to the team's success.

His team scores another three goals to win the game 4-0 and, being on the winning side, the game turns out to be fascinating for us. We're having a lot of fun, and Beautiful Eema and I are ecstatic that of all games, the Good Boy got to taste success his first time out.

As the game ends, we congratulate our team's players who did a terrific job, hand out more Gatorade and chips, and I snap a quick photo of the Good Boy. Then we pack ourselves and our kids' book bags into the our car and drive off, heading home.

"Abba (Dad)," says the Good Boy, "I hope that you upload the picture of me to your Facebook page. You know how all the other fathers talk about how athletic their sons are? So now you also can tell everyone about me and be proud, too."

"I'm very proud of you," I say, smiling.

Later in the evening, as I spend some time with the Good Boy right before his bedtime, that last comment crosses my mind again. I'm glad that my son wants me to be proud of him, and that it's important to him, just as I always wanted my own father to be proud of me.

"I was very proud of you today," I say as I hug him and kiss the top of his head, which is covered with great dark curls.

"But you should know that I'm always proud of you, not only for being a good soccer player and trying your best, but for being a good, kind person and that's what counts the most, and you'll always be that, no matter what," I explain.

"Thanks," he says, and hugs me, then invites me to do the secret handshake routine he's invented for us.

We lightly smack the front of our hands together in a horizontal motion, then return the hands in the opposite direction, bringing the back of our hands together. Then we make fists and tap our knuckles again each other's fists, straight on.

With his tenth birthday looming, I know this routine won't last very much longer. He's already announced that some changes are imminent, now that he's about to enter the double-digit zone.

But for now, it's a great ending to a great day. Most of all, I admire the boy who is showing the first glimmers of becoming a young man. He's truly a warm, kind, nice guy, not yet concerned with girls in a romantic sense, but already the target of several girls' affection.

Often, I second-guess myself as to whether I'm doing the absolute best within my power to provide everything I can for our children. But at the moment, I look at the Good Boy as he nears his tenth birthday and feel content with everything. I just want that feeling to last as long as possible.

1000 Ways to Die

Thu, 17 Mar 2011 16:45:01 -0700

I'm at the gym, jogging on the treadmill, breathing quickly and watching the timer on the instrument panel progress more slowly than I thought possible. Most of the time I speed-walk on the treadmill, but every ten minutes or so I crank up the speed and run a bit.

When I just can't take the running any longer, I go back to speed-walking and check for newly arrived email on my iPhone, hoping for either good news on the business front, or at least no new email that requires my intervention -- which can be just as satisfying.

My iPhone is perched on a thin metal ledge located at the bottom of the treadmill's instrument panel, which is really intended to hold a magazine. Instead, I use it to hold my electronics. Next to my iPhone, I have my iPad, which I use mainly as an e-reader while exercising. After all, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

By now I'm thankfully nearing the last five minutes of my workout, and as I reach to place the iPhone on the metal ledge, the phone slips and falls to the ground. In the past four years of exercising multiple times per week, this is the first time I've dropped my phone, and I frown at the awkwardness of it all.

I look down, my eyes following the falling phone as it hits the conveyor belt of the treadmill and settles flat on its back, its blue glow shining surprisingly brightly against the moving black rubber of the conveyor belt. In an instant, I feel relief that the phone didn't smash to pieces, and I decide to pursue it.

So I stop my forward movement and let myself flow backwards with the motion of the conveyor belt until the iPhone falls off onto the floor. It feels a little like surfing or skate boarding in a way, and as I quickly reach the end of the machine, I hop off it and land firmly near the iPhone.

I scoop up the iPhone, glad that it appears to be intact despite the drama, shake my head that the incident occurred altogether, and get back on the treadmill to complete the last few minutes of my workout.

I feel glad that all's well that ends well, and I'm particularly pleased that both the phone and I came out unscathed, especially because I was aware that a few people on nearby treadmills witnessed the event.

As in many gyms, the treadmills are lined up in long lines, side by side, and I usually take my place in the back row, happy enough to mind my own business and keep to myself as I huff and puff and sweat in an unflattering way.

Meanwhile, in the row directly in front of me is a shapely but fit woman who looks vaguely familiar, and whose bouncing rear-end would be entertainment enough to distract from the unpleasantness and boredom of the exercise, if I were not a family man, which I am.

A guy walks up to her and tells her that her performance in some acting part was amazing. So amazing, in fact, that he just had to watch the movie twice. He's grinning like a star-struck idiot, his jaw nearly hitting the ground.

For an instant I consider telling him that for $20 I'll let him take my place and he'll get a view that would be a bargain for his investment. But instead, I attempt to read a few more pages of my novel before heading home.

At that moment, a man that I guess to be in his late 50s exercising nearby, turns to me.

"Have you seen 1000 Ways to Die?" he asks with a raspy voice punctuated by a thick foreign accent, perhaps Persian in origin.

The question catches me off-guard. "Huh?"

So, he repeats the question. "Have you seen 1000 Ways to Die?"

By then, I gather that he's talking about the title of a TV show I haven't seen.

"Nope. Sorry."

"Well, they show all kinds of ways that people actually died," he explains.

"One guy got shot in the head, and the bullet stayed inside his brain for ten years, because it was too risky for surgery. One day, he gets lightly tapped in the head by something and dies on the spot."

"Ah..." I narrow my eyes and turn my head in a way that shows deference to what was said.

"Another person was using a vacuum cleaner in a room with some flammable gas, and there was an electric spark inside the vacuum cleaner, which caused it to explode and the person died."

"Geez..." I reply, and shake my head solemnly. I find that when faced with strangers imparting wisdom, it's critical to show the proper respect at the end of each idea they share.

"One day everything's good with people, then all of a sudden something happens and, boom, it's all over," he says, hand slicing through the air in front of him, to demonstrate finality.

"Yeah. You never know. When it's time to go, it's time to go," I conclude.

It's his turn to nod, and we both resume our exercise, although I'm getting ready to leave, my 30-minute treadmill routine mercifully up. I bid the man goodbye, and again note the uninvited groupie who is still grinning with a huge, toothy smile, as I head to the exit.

I guess that the man next to me witnessed the falling of my iPhone and my pursuit of it, and wondered if he's about to witness my tragic entanglement in the machinery.

Sorry, not today, buddy. I'll leave the true dramatic performance to the actress right in front of me. Believe me, she'd make a much more spectacular treadmill crunch victim than would I.

The Girls Are Back At It

Sat, 19 Feb 2011 08:18:05 -0700

A year ago, the Sweet Sweetheart and her classmates had some conflicts with the two of the girls in her class I referred to as the Second Grade Supremes. Well, in the past few weeks the girls are back at it.

To a great extent, I really do have to laugh at the pettiness of it all. This one said that the other one said mean things about someone else. And someone else said mean things about the other one, who in turn said mean things about the first one. Still with me? Good, because I think I lost track...

From my point of view, they all need to drink hot cocoa, have a cookie, listen to a nice princess story, and take a long nap. That would solve more than 90% of their problems, but of course just suggesting it to such "mature" young ladies would be taken a grave insult and the Sweet Sweetheart would give me a sharp look and explain to me that they've all outgrown stuff like that a long, long time ago... Like at least two years ago.

But for third-graders, such claims of what was said by their friends behind their backs can be very troublesome. There are social pressures and claims that not only what was said was mean, but the girls themselves are mean.

The result is that the Sweet Sweetheart and some of her classmates have been coming home from school quite distraught for the past few weeks.

As I said about a year ago, as much as my wife and I want to protect our children from any trouble, dealing with mean-spirited individuals is a crucial skill for being successful in life, and our kids need to master that skill. It's a coping mechanism that everyone needs to develop on their own. We can listen to them, give tips, share our experience, and comfort our children but, in the end, they need to figure out what works best for themselves.

However, to complicate matters, some of the mothers have contributed to the problem by either giving their daughters instructions to retaliate against other girls, or they've personally been involved in telling each other and the school's administration that some of the girls in the class are mean. Of course, they are exactly correct about that, but in reality the mean ones, not coincidentally, are typically their own daughters rather than the ones they accuse. By calling other girls mean, they try to preemptively manipulate the administration's opinion of who's guilty. It's truly a case of 'like mother, like daughter,' and so easy to see from where the mean little girls got it.

Anyway, putting the mother-daughter drama aside, as usual Beautiful Eema and I are very reluctantly involved in the thick of things. So off we went for a meeting with the teachers and administration of her school. It's not often that a father joins such a meeting, but since the kids were in pre-K, I've been involved as much as possible in their education. It's one of the advantages of owning our business. I can make my own schedule and set my own priorities to a great extent. I can't say for sure, but it does seem that when a father shows up, there's a perception of extra importance to the matters discussed. And it seems that the child feels represented and maybe even protected a little more. Or so I hope, anyway.

The school's administration and teachers were excellent, and the meeting went very well. But there's another aspect. The Sweet Sweetheart attends a fairly small private school with only one class per grade, and that class only consists of seven girls and thirteen boys in total.

In a larger school, we would advise her to try to find another social circle of nicer girls, but in a tiny class like hers, there's nowhere else to turn. That, of course, increases our never-ending school dilemma for next year: Keep her and the Good Boy in their current school, or make a move to a larger school. There are no great local options either way, nor are there terrible options either, but the school uncertainty continues for the fifth straight year and it's becoming tiresome.

Well, what would life be without a little excitement or a reason to stay awake at night? I don't know what we'd do if everything suddenly all fell into place... I'm sure we'd be soooo bored!

A Day in the Life

Sun, 02 Jan 2011 14:41:42 -0700

I'm sitting in the family room on an early Sunday afternoon with absolutely nothing that I need to accomplish at this particular moment, and briefly pause to double-check that fact. Yes, strange but true -- this is one of the very rare occasions that I have some free time.

Outside there is a tentative rain falling and the branches of the palm trees slowly sway in the breeze. Inside there is a fantastic smell of gingerbread cookies being baked in the oven. Beautiful Eema and the Sweet Sweetheart are in the kitchen rolling out the gingerbread dough and cutting various shapes for the cookies. There are gingerbread boys, girls, and dogs being prepared to represent our family, so no one feels left out -- even Boca the dog who is napping in her crate.

Beautiful Eema and the Sweet Sweetheart's voices carry to where I am, and it occurs to me how adorable the whole scene is.

"They're coming out crispy and awesome!" the Sweet Sweetheart announces excitedly.

"Okay, Sweety, I think that we need to decorate them now while they're a little soft so it will stick," says Beautiful Eema.

"I think we'll use these for the buttons."

"Do you want to add any gumdrops?"

"Oops I dropped one. They're bouncy!"

"That one goes in the trash."

I smile, and think that's it's true what they say, girls are made of sugar, spice, and everything nice. Boys, though, well that's another story altogether.

"Do you prefer blue or green for the girl?

"They're both nice."

"The teddy bear needs eyes."

"What about buttons?"

"We can do buttons."

"I was going to do a mouth for her."

"Oh, yeah, a mouth, sure."

"I'm not too good at this."

"You're doing great."

"I'm going to do a flower."

"Ooooooh, sorry. I can't believe these things are so bouncy."

The discussion in the kitchen continues, and the wonderful smell wafts through our house. Upstairs, the Good Boy is watching cartoons in the home office. There are unnaturally muscle-bound aliens and superheroes engaged in a fierce battle for the future of Planet Earth, and I suspect that at the same time he is also conducting his own Pokemon battles on his handheld DS game. At 9.5 years-old, this is the closest one comes to multitasking.

Suddenly, the smell of baking reaches upstairs and the Good Boy comes barreling down the stairs and into the kitchen. The dog senses the boy in the room, wakes up, stretches her legs leisurely, then turns to see what all the excitement is about.

It's times like these that I shake my head and think about how well things turned out for our family. Father, Mother, kids, dog, and house in the suburbs. No serious illness, no current catastrophes or tragedies. It's not a super exciting action-packed existence, but it's a good one, and I know that things can change in an instant. But for now, I just feel grateful for everything.

So, I sit up on the couch in the family room and decide to join the rest of the family, but first I'll preemptively take the dog out to pee. Like I said, it's not super exciting or glamorous...

One-One-Eleven

Sat, 01 Jan 2011 09:57:17 -0700

It's a little before 7am, and I'm in the backyard taking Boca to her 'spot' so she can take care of her morning business. It's a sunny day and there is an intense chill in the morning air, so I'm wearing a winter coat that makes me look like the Michelin Tire Man. But I don't care. At my ripe old age, I'm more concerned with warmth than with fashion.

It's January 1, 2011, the first day of the new year and I'm already tired, the aftermath of my despicable neighbors' noisy New Years' party and the accompanying lack of sleep. So I decide to treat the offending neighbors to a particularly loud early morning dog training session, complete with shouting various words of encouragement to Boca for fetching the ball, and warnings to her not to eat the shrubs, grass, and rocks at the edge of our yard.

"Go get the ball, Boca, go get it!"

"Good Girl!!!"

"Uh uh... No eating rocks, uh uh!"

Before too long, the Good Boy joins me and we run around the yard and kick the ball, with Boca running in between us. We laugh and yell some more, until we hear the neighbors milling about in their house. I'm sure that the five minutes of sleep from the end of their obnoxious party till their early morning wakeup will do wonders for their inevitable hangover. Mission accomplished.

Inside the house, Beautiful Eema and the Sweet Sweetheart are watching the Rose Bowl parade in bed, and I bring them fresh hot coffee and breakfast bars. The two of them look so adorable sitting there together admiring the colorful floats made of flowers.

I ask the Sweet Sweetheart why anyone would bother having a Nose Ball parade, and she gives me a look of dismay.

"Noooo... It's the ROSE BOWL parade, not the Nose Ball parade. Rose -- R.O.S.E. with an 'R'. A Nose parade would be... gross!" she explains patiently.

"Then why are all the floats made of noses?" I ask sheepishly and shrug.

"Abba!" she exclaims impatiently, using the Hebrew word for Dad."That's just gross! I already told you it's ROSES, not NOSES."

But at the same time, I see a look of mischief in her eyes. She's amused but doesn't want to admit it, because she knows that ladies are supposed to feign indignation at such humor.

I smile and enjoy the fact that the children are still young enough for this type of silly conversation to take place.

I head downstairs to get a small bottle of iced coffee and try to gain at least a tiny bit of energy as I open my laptop to view various real estate listings. I'm really sick and tired of loud parties and a commercial rock band which lives and practices in another house down the block.

Meanwhile, Boca's preparing to nap in her doggie-bed and trying to find an optimal position, but she's got hiccups. I'm not sure why I find that amusing, but I do.

Armed with my own coffee, I'm now sitting In the family room, thinking about the year that just passed. In many ways, I'm glad that it did. 2010 was a miserable year for so many people because of the deep recession and high unemployment rate. Yet for others, it was a banner year with high income and other positive developments in their lives.

As for me, there were many high-points in 2010: We enjoyed having my mother visit us twice this year, the Good Boy turned nine, and his sister the Sweet Sweetheart turned eight. They've both made amazing progress in all areas and are no longer little kids. Now they're 'tweens.' The Sweet Sweetheart learned to ride a bike this year and spent time at dance camp this summer, while the Good Boy went to adventure camp.

For a few months, we focused on the possibility of Aunt Adela and my mom moving out from New York to California but, ultimately, Adela made the move to South Florida, while Grandma stayed in NYC. For our part, we visited Aunt Adela in her new home and enjoyed a great vacation in Boca Raton and Miami. While there, we were joined by Uncle Barry's family and by a few of my childhood friends. It was great to see everyone, and we had such a good time at the Boca Raton Resort Hotel, that we named our new dog after it! In a sense, it was our family's first real vacation ever.

2010 was also the year in which we seriously contemplated buying a 9,000sf mansion in the town of Calabasas we affectionately referred to as The Castle. It was an exciting and time-consuming process. In light of the recession and the decline in real-estate prices, we finally made an offer and the seller declined. And so did real-estate prices. But he wouldn't budge, and neither did we. Who knows... At least it was fun to realistically contemplate that level of lifestyle for a while.

Speaking of lifestyle, in the last few months of 2010, after about five years of development, we made some fantastic changes in our company that have allowed us to live a much better lifestyle.

And, last but not least, in 2010, I was able to get back to reading novels. When I think of all the measures of success, reading novels represents a victory of sorts, like being able to exercise regularly at the gym.

Looking forward to 2011, I feel optimistic. All the right ingredients are in place for another great year, rich with family and friends.

Restaurant review: Ok food, terrible experience

Thu, 31 Mar 2011 17:48:43 -0700

We specifically went to the European Corner Cafe because we had a gift certificate for it. When we went to pay, the manager refused to honor the gift certificate and said it was expired because it was over a year old. When we pointed out to the manager that the gift certificate states right on it, "This gift certificate does not expire," he still refused to honor it. Seriously, is it worth losing customers and your reputation over $25? DO NOT EAT HERE! While the food was ok, I agree with the other reviewer that the manager's lack of judgment and, quite frankly his rudeness, make this restaurant unpalatable.

Restaurant review: Manhattan in Brooklyn

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 20:23:14 -0700

Superbly presented, delicious fare. Ample portions, friendly service, nice ambiance. Suitable for a family dinner as well as more intimate one on one dining.

Restaurant review: Business Lunch

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 21:11:52 -0700

Great pizzas, great salads, great soups, great sushi, great wraps. Prices are fair, portions are decent. Nice place for a hearty lunch in midtown Manhattan.

I must try it, sometime, for a fast dinner.

Restaurant review: Nice Atmosphere, Good Food

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 14:12:49 -0700

I arrived at The Cow on a Sunday night at dinner time. My friend Jonathan was in town, and we were in the general vicinity, so we decided to stop by.

The best aspect of The Cow Jumped Over the Moon is its location. There is no better location in Beverly Hills, and probably no better location in all of Los Angeles. Parking was very convenient, as there is public parking in the building. Very reasonably priced valet. The location is basically in the heart of Beverly Hills, right near One Rodeo Drive. This means that the restaurant is surrounded by a super select bunch of stores and good class people.

The atmosphere at The Cow is pleasant. It?s elegant without being too elegant, so you?d feel comfortable whether dressed for business or in jeans. There?s a setup for live music although none was playing while we were there. That?s OK -- the noise from a large family with young children provided enough audio stimulation?

The Cow Jumped Over the Moon is a dairy restaurant and its specialty is really kosher sushi. There is also a reasonable selection of Italian and American entrees, as well as a decent selection of appetizers. We ordered an eggplant pizza to split as an appetizer, and it was a good thing we split it, as it was basically a full-blown meal by itself. Although the service was good, it did take quite a while to get the appetizer. In the meantime, there was a bread basket.

Both Jonathan and I wound up ordering the Salmon Puttanesca. It was a good-size piece of salmon, grilled, on a bed of steamed vegetables and mashed potatoes. The salmon was topped with a tomato-based puttanesca sauce with capers. We asked for the salmon to be well done (cooked through and through), and it arrived just as we ordered it. It was a nice dish with a good balance of flavors and it was satisfying, although not overly exciting. I would probably order it again, but I don?t crave it as is the case with exceptionally good dishes.

During the meal we were asked several times if everything was to our satisfaction and it was.

When I asked the waiter what the house specialty would be, he explained that the main attraction was the sushi, especially the Sunshine Roll.

Restaurant review: New York's Prime Kosher Steakhouse

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 08:51:23 -0700

Great food, great presentation, friendly service, pleasant looking. All the above sounds good, but does not even begin to do justice to this eatery.

Best steaks I've ever had, not cheap but worth it!

Restaurant review: Food Masterpieces

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 18:52:16 -0700

If any of the great 16th century painters were to come back as a chef, he would surely ply his trade at u cafe. They make make dairy and vegetarian sandwiches I ever tried. Their grilled tuna is incomparable, the fritatta's looks and taste is undescribable delicious. Their cakes are excellent

Restaurant review: Great food, great atmosphere

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 14:54:43 -0700

Intimate, romantic atmosphere, with live music on some evenings. The food is very good, the prices very fair. Located in the Upper West Side, it's an upscale establishment you'll want to return again and again.

Restaurant review: Good restaurant....rude customers

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 05:03:14 -0700

This was my first experience at a Kosher restaurant...I went with my husband and kids. Pizza was great, staff was funny and having a good time but they were all friendly and helpful and the dining room was pretty neat with the murial of Europe. There was a table of 4 sitting next to us and these customers couldn't be any more rude to the staff. From the minute they sat down they did nothing but complain...here are some of the comments that we overheard;

"The prices are high"

"This restaurant should give salads and soups for FREE to the guests"

"Our server is singing"

Here are my suggestions to anyone who is reading this....

#1 - If you can't afford to dine out or expect to only pay $10.00 than stay home and have a microwave dinner

#2 - Don't expect free soups or salads.....do you think the owner of the restaurant gets that stuff for free...It's a business people, they are there to make money

#3 - Since when is it a crime to have fun at work...if the staff is singing or dancing or even doing cartwheels in the dining room then good for them...having fun at your job is a great thing....

So if you are reading other reviews that state the owner or staff is rude than I would probably bet my life that the customer(s) were 3 times more rude to start with!!!!

Restaurant review: The Best Fro-Yo in SoCal. By Far.

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 21:13:52 -0700

OK. Here it is: The best frozen yogurt in SoCal. These people really know how to make frozen yogurt that tastes like ice cream.

Yozen Frogurt is a chain of frozen yogurt stores started by a local husband and wife team. The atmosphere is really nothing to write home about. In fact, it would be good for the owners to consult a restaurant designer, as there are several amateur restaurant owner mistakes evident. So, this store's success is based on product, not style.

Their claim to fame is that their frozen yogurt has the consistency (creaminess and sweetness) of soft-serve Dairy Queen-style ice-cream, not sour, icy yogurt as is served at most other frozen yogurt joints.

Yozen Frogurt offers a large selection of flavors, although my favorite flavor is Country Vanilla. It doesn't sound as exciting as other flavors, but it is the most ice-cream like. In fact, I would never guess that it's anything but ice-cream. Except that is has less than half the calories and fat.

Living in the San Fernando Valley, one can't help but make a comparison between Yozen Frogurt and Menchie's, which is another popular fro-yo chain. I might write about this in detail later, but for now, suffice it to say that Menchie's wins hands down for decor and being a "destination" with superior atmosphere and concept. But as for the product itself, Yozen Frogurt blows Menchie's away.

Restaurant review: Don't waste your money on this place!!!

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 13:46:28 -0700

This was very disappointing. It looks like it would be a good place, but it is the exact opposite!

We started with no soap in the women's bathroom, not a good sign. Then some of the items we tried to order off the menu, we were told they don't have. Finally we settled on a large pizza for two people. We were told to take a seat and the server brought us water.

Twenty minutes later our pizza came in a togo box. Confused, we asked for plates. We were told we couldn't eat pizza in the restaurant. The server couldn't explain why. We asked to speak to the owner. The owner said it was his policy to save money. He didn't want 15 teenagers coming in, ordering one pizza and staying for hours.

We were two starving people and the restaurant was EMPTY! He insisted we leave and would not make an exception. Even though NO ONE informed of us this crazy rule when we ordered the pizza.

The owner made us leave and called us "crazy." The co-owner tried to smooth things over, you could tell she was embarrassed, but we didn't care.

The previous review also had an issue with the owner. We should not support rude restaurant owners like this one. Your experience will not be a pleasant one at this restaurant. Save your money for a place that deserves it!