Batter Up: Son No. 6… Enough About Me

… Enough about me. Let’s talk about the book. You may remember my initial angst about reading The Baseball Box Prophecy. My initial post on the subject made that rather clear. But a few chapters into the book and I was over the angst. I was hooked. And I liked it. You can see from the rest of my posts that it provided great fodder for poking fun at my own history with the sport of baseball.

What I haven’t discussed yet is the fantasy and supernatural aspect of the story that kept me intrigued, involved and reading a 500+ page novel about a sport that tormented my life, pre- and post-adolescence. And I won’t. Because that would give it all away. It would be like going to the first Star Wars movie and having the kid next to you tell you that Darth Vadar was Luke’s dad. Bummer. But I will tell you that the manipulation of time and altered realities in The Baseball Box Prophecy is hugely fun and what kept me coming back for more. If you’ve read any of my other posts re: book recommendations, you’ll already have expected that. The supernatural genre is a favorite of mine. Altered states of reality are the best — always such an adventure. You’re talking to someone who remembers every flying dream he’s ever had in vivid detail, and longs for more. But you’re also talking to someone who vacillated between wanting to be a werewolf or a vampire his entire childhood (loved the wolf thing, but needed the flying powers of the vamp).

Son No. 3: Bruce Newbold

What makes the fantasy elements in this book intriguing is that Bruce weaves an innocence into a coming of age story to provide a connection point to readers of multiple ages. If you’re a little old and jaded, (Read: Alan) then the story lets you travel through your own time to the moments when you were a little less so and relive them a bit from a friendly distance. If you are a kid now, living and breathing tween and teen years, then you connect immediately to your love of the game, and your secret hope that something fantastical is waiting for you on your bike, in the back yard or on the ball field. Either way, it doesn’t let you down.

Thanks for the book, Bruce. Congrats! I’m so proud of you and can’t wait to see where this leads. And now, of course, my PR mind is just whirling with ways to drive word-of-mouth and sales… Book drops to national sports anchors with tween and teen sons/daughters? Daddy blog tour as “the book to be reading to your kids”? Facebook apps/games/quizzes — Which character are you: The Hag, Cletis, Elston, Roberta? Inexpensive online ad buys on fantasy baseball sites? Radio Disney interviews? Nickelodeon or Disney channel partnership and online giveaway? Search Engine Optimization and Google Ads? Ah, so much fun just thinking about it…

Batter Up: Son No. 6… “You’re OUT!” (No Duh)

If you really want to enjoy some baseball magic, join Big Apple Softball — the gay and lesbian league in NYC. It’s the wonderful collision of stereotypes, norms, social identities, and just pure fun. First of all, just getting called “out”is an oxymoron. But there’s more. I mean, think about it…

You have the guys who were closeted, hard core jocks their whole growing up years — possibly well into adulthood — slapping each other on the ass, talking smack about the cheerleading squad, all the while wishing they could just make out with the team  captain (unless they WERE the team captain). Then you have the other extreme — my experience (save those golden moments created by Mike and Russ) — where you simply suck at it, are constantly self-conscious, but seriously crave the comraderie supplied by the locker room bonding, team victories, and feeling comfortable in your own skin. Oh, and yes, also wishing you could make out with the team captain. And then you have those lucky ducks smack in the middle of the spectrum who were simply well-adjusted, oblivious to the term “self-loathing,” and never really cared about a pecking order or social strata through their formative years. And these guys DID make out with the team captain, and somehow lived to tell about it.

Personify these experiences and histories, put them on the field together to play in one of the most competitive rec leagues I’ve ever experienced, and you’re in for a wild ride. A glorious, wild ride! Every player on the field is finally getting his due: the chance to play ball without any of the emotional baggage and peer pressure that cut him off at the knees before he came out. Now the real love of the game shines through.

I played in Big Apple’s DIMA division, for the elite level players. I know, I know. Based on my previous posts and personal history with the sport, how could that possibly have possibly? Baseball magic, baby. Baseball magic. I had a great try-out (yes, I had to try-out) and nailed my hitting, infielding and outfielding. The rest was Big Apple Softball history. I made the team. I was playing catcher on The Warriors! Talk about coming full circle, right? Catcher. The boys on Gerdes Turd Farms would be proud!

These guys — and girl (Roberta would be proud) — on The Warriors were great. I lived for the weekends, the games, the tournaments, all of it. I played two seasons, and then my work schedule and heavy volleyball schedule started getting to be too much to juggle. Since I could play volleyball 3 – 4 times a week, and softball only once a week, I opted for the former, but really missed playing with the team. I don’t think we were necessarily as rag tag as the kids from Greenberg Junction in The Baseball Box Prophecy (our team consisted of an opera singer, a psychiatrist, an accountant, a salesman, a PR account lead, and a graphic designer, to name a few) but we definitely shared the love of the game those kids did. And still do.

Batter Up: Son No. 6… “The Lunge and the Plumbing”

After Mike and Russ headed off to college and LDS missions, the baseball magic kind of died. I focused on high school track (Dad was a sprinter, I was the last great hope for the Newbold boys to beat his 100 and 200 dash times. No such luck. I never did. Came close. Took 4th at the State Finals, but Dad still rules.) and my music. Before long I was singing and dancing my way around the world with the occassional pit stop in Bountiful, UT to recover from knee and shoulder injuries. Enter City League Softball and George’s Plumbing.

Remember how fun I thought it was to play with Mike and Russ? Extend that: Grandpa (George), Dad (Dale), Dave, Mike, Russ, Alan, a couple of cousins and guys Mike and Dave worked with thrown in for good measure, and you have a serious softball team. And then name it after your grandpa’s first business venture, and you empower it with some REAL baseball magic: George’s Plumbing.” Grandpa coached and beamed. Dad was on the mound, Russ in left, Dave in center, Mike at rover, Bruce and Paul where-ever we needed them when they were in town, the Sperry cousins in the infield, and me at catcher. Yeah, catcher. Enough years had gone by that the trauma of trying my hand as catcher for Gerdes Turd Farms was just a dull ache. Besides, where else can you put a guy with a blown ACL who is still recovering? In fact, every one one of us Newbold boys had a blown ACL at one point or another. Seriously. Someone should do a study on our family. You’s see us out on the field in full uniform, and all the Newbold’s would have an assortment of knee accoutrements. Bonus on two levels: we looked cool and the opposing teams always thought we were slow. (Remember my dad? Yeah, surprise!) Worked every time.

When I started up with George’s Plumbing, it had been years since I really played, and my days on the road entertaining had seriously hampered my baseball skills. (Come on. You can’t be surprised. How many casts of cruise ship reviews or touring musicals do you know that can’t wait to get on shore or out of the theater so they can whip up a quick game of baseball?) When it came to hitting, I was in the dirt of the infield every time — fine as long as I could run it out, but still frustrating. Mike took it upon himself to try to work with me and help me out (brave soul, given our combative history as youths, but that’s a post for another day, and besides, we’ve declared a truce). We worked and worked and worked, but I still sucked. Chopping down. Bad stance. Half swing. Anything related to bad batting form? I was skilled at it. Then he said:

“What is it when you lead with one foot, put your weight on your back, and then step forward and shift the weight to your front when you’re dancing?”

“Oh, that’s easy, it’s called a lunge.”

“Then lunge, every time you come up to bat.” “

That’s it? Just lunge when I swing?”

“Yeah, try it.”

CRACK! Hit after hit after hit that day. I was giddy with success. God love a big brother who steps into dance class on the ball diamond to help his little brother out. No matter how old we are. Now, have you read those reviews of The Baseball Box Prophecy, yet?

Batter Up: Son No. 6… “A Trip to Bountiful”

When Cletis’ best friend, Elston, moves to a new neighborhood, it provides an interesting twist to the plot line of The Baseball Box Prophecy — the two end up facing each other down in a championship game. My move to Bountiful, UT in my mid-teens provided a plot line twist to my life, as well…

Church softball. Now, that may sound a little boring to the guy who lives and breathes pro baseball. But to the kid playing for Gerdes Turd Farms and desperately wants to have some fun and not worry about a small white orb speeding at him with intent to injure? Pure heaven. A big, fat softball that fills your entire mitt with a solid thud and is SO much easier to hit! Now THAT’S baseball — er, softball magic.

My brothers Russ and Mike and I played together on the Val Verda 5th Ward team (that’s Mormon-speak for a parish or chapter — so many wards/congregations = a stake; so many stakes = a region; so many regions = a district, and so on and so forth). I finally started to feel comfortable in my own skin — thanks to Mike and Russ. There’s something about playing on the same team as your brothers that boosts your confidence. It’s like I was given fielding skills by default, since I was their brother, and suddenly, I just HAD them. And I USED them. (Cletis and Elston mysteriously experienced the same fielding and hitting expertise with some expert coaching from the witch of Greenburg Junction) Maybe I had them all along and just couldn’t find them within my little league paranoia. But there I was playing first base! FIRST BASE! Russ on the mound, Mike in center field, and me on first! And I used to love it when Randall Honey (17 year-old) would fire a throw at me from third — the harder the better — during warm-ups and the games. I LIVED for that! It always seemed to surprise him that he never got one by me, as long as his throw was good. And that look of surprise was my inspiration. Bring it, Randall. Bring it. I think over time we may have won a few stake championships, but I can’t remember for sure. What I do remember, however, was the thrill of playing church ball under the lights at Mosquito Flats out by BARD, the city dump. Mom in the stands knitting an afghan. Val Verda 5th Ward has runners on base — me on third, Russ on first and Mike steps up to the plate. And then he brings us in. He always did. Every time.

Batter Up: Son No. 6… “Baseball Magic”

If you haven’t read yesterday’s post, you might want to start there. I can only re-live my early adolescence on the ball field one post at a time, you know. But it wasn’t all errors and embarrassment. I clearly remember my one moment of baseball magic — one of the key themes running through Bruce’s book. That moment when everything on the field came together beautifully, and I was the center of it. That moment is burned into my mind like the lightfire from The Traveller’s fingertips burns into Cletis during their battle. (You’re really wondering what The Baseball Box Prophecy is all about, aren’t you?)

I can’t remember who we were playing, but I was on-deck, watching my team load the bases. While most boys would have loved that challenge and that pressure of the RBI (“ribbies,” as my brothers called them), I was dreading it. For me it was one more chance to embarrass myself and let the team down.  So there I am  in the on-deck circle, taking awkward little practice swings that were anything but level, and praying that the batter before me would make the third out so I wouldn’t have to hit.

Bam! No such luck.  The kid in front of me connects and drives it right between first and second, hits first safely, and the other runners advanced. Bases loaded. Now batting: Gerdes Turd Farms right fielder Alan Newbold. I swear I heard a collective groan from the bench — MY bench.

But somehow, the magic happened. I watched the ball — all the way until it hit my bat — and CRACK! That ball went sailing all the way into right center! Further than I’d ever hit a ball before in my life (that’s assuming I actually had hit a ball before in my life). I was running like a mad man as I watched it continue to bounce and roll away from the outfielders. I rounded second and headed to third. My coach was jumping and waving me around third (that was a signal that was clearly apparent, thank god, or I probably would have misinterpreted it  and pulled up there), so I rounded third and headed toward home. I saw the catcher putting his mitt up, getting ready for the throw, but it wasn’t anywhere near the plate as I crossed home into glory! THAT was baseball magic!

Ah, I can taste that moment like it was yesterday. My biggest — and only — moment of baseball magic during my two years on Gerdes Turd Farm’s little league team. But it gave me confidence. And when I was up next in the game, my team-mates actually cheered me on! “Do it again, Alan!” “Watch out outfield, Newbold’s up!” I swear I had a swagger in my walk as I stepped into the box… and promptly went down swinging. Yep, struck out in three pitches. Ah, life was good. And so was the book… but more on that in my next post. I’m simply having too much fun!

Batter Up: Son No. 6

I hated baseball as a kid. A direct correlation to how much I sucked at it as a kid. And a deeper correlation to how excellent each of my five older brothers were at the game. (No, I don’t need therapy. Get out of my head.) So, when my brother Bruce mailed me the 550+ page edition of his newly printed The Baseball Box Prophecy, I was severely torn between feelings of adulation for him, and feelings of angst for me. (How quickly the publishing of his first fictional work has centered around me. No, I still don’t need therapy.) How was I going to get through it? What if it bored me to tears? What if I didn’t get it? How honest did he expect me to be with my reaction? Then I thought, no matter my reaction to the book, could it possibly be more unsettling than coming out to my LDS family as a 22 year-old? Nah. Absolutely not. So I grabbed a glass of wine (I know, you’re supposed to have a beer with baseball, but remember my LDS upbringing… and then please forget about the wine), propped myself on the couch, and started reading.

The story is told from the perspective of an 11 year-old kid who simply LOVES baseball. Already, I felt myself challenged. My adolescent years started to swirl around me like the blue orb swirls around Cletis, the story’s protagonist…

…Gerdes Turf Farm (pronounced Ger-dees). That was the name of my little league team. Mike and Russ got to play together on some cool team with a winning record year after year. Me? Not so much. Luckily, I only had to play on that team for two years before my parents took pity on me, but we sucked. Big time. We couldn’t win a game to save our lives, and every other team in the league called us “Turdees Turf Farm” or “Gerdes Turd Farms.” Unbelievable. I laugh now, but I’m sure I was traumatized by it. I remember my first practice, when my dad took me to the ball fields out by Wickes Lumber Yards, and I had NO idea what position I wanted to play. So, when the coach asked me, I looked around the field for the position I thought might be the least embarrassing and the most safe from dropping fly balls, missing grounders, or getting beaned. Simple. I chose catcher. Lots of padding. No one sees your face. Only 30 feet from the dug-out. “Whoa,” my dad said. “Oh,” my coach said. Both of them eyed me with a mixture of suspicion and concern, but then quickly smiled, patted me on the back, and told me to grab my glove and throw some balls with the rest of the team. And that was the moment my forgettable career in little league began. (Note: my career as catcher was short-lived when I realized that someone was going to be chucking balls at me as fast and hard as they could, practice after practice, game after game. Hello right field.)

I remember our coach teaching us the “take a pitch” signal. First of all, the signal thing scared me to death. All those hand motions, no real order, and then some fake and others real… how in the hell was I supposed to track that, let alone understand what “take a pitch” meant? But, of course, when the coach asked if any of the team had questions, this catcher was silent. Like I was going to raise my hand among all my team-mates and acknowledge my stupidity! So I stayed silent. And then, when I was at bat, I got the signal: “take the pitch.” I remember that moment with clarity like my brothers remember their home runs. The pitcher was awful. He hadn’t thrown anything over the plate the entire time I was at the plate. So why in the hell was the coach telling me to take a pitch? Like I was going to get anything to swing at anyway! But I took it. I fought it every step of the way. My entire body screamed to let the pitch go by, but no, the coach signaled “take it.” So I swung at a high, outside ball — missing it completely — and struck out. Only then, looking at my coach’s face, and the faces of all my team-mates, did I realize that “taking a pitch” meant letting it go by. Ah, that moment was a glorious mix of adolescent insecurity, adolescent ruthlessness and America’s favorite past time: Little League Baseball. Nothing like it.

More on The Baseball Box Prophecy and my adolescent baseball career on my next post…

Watch Where You Step…

I come from a family of 8 kids, 35 nieces and nephews, and now… er… well… I think it’s 20 great-nieces and nephews (only my mom really knows — she’s a gift-givng genius at Christmas) — and all of whom are under five years of age. So, a little diaper change on an infant? No problem. I’ve got you covered. Hands down. Actually, hands down AND legs down, if you’re pinning a little one down to get that sucker securely fastened! But what do you do when the little one that needs your help is your dog? And you usually don’t know it needs your help until it’s too late? Yep. Diarhea and the dog. Nice combo. Roll up the carpets, folks, and watch where you step.

We ran out of our regular food (Go! Natural) – the pups have been eating the same brand since we got them three years ago — and had to supplement with another brand (Orijen) while it was on back-order. Brand swap for humans? Not a real problem. Brand swap for dogs? Havoc. The problem was that Chloe liked the new food so much she ate an entire bowl while we weren’t watching. (Binge-eating and a female dog… Chris is clearly putting too much pressure on her to keep her weight down… and you wonder why we don’t adopt?) Typically she and Samson are grazers — they take a few kibbles and munch throughout the day. But in this case? Chloe figured she had made a discovery of delight she was going to make sure Samson never saw. Bad choice. Bad result.

Within hours — and this was Sunday –  Chloe was farting to beat the band. That, in and of itself, was enough to put Chris and I over the edge. Dog farts are the worst. And, I’ll admit, there was a bit of cruel humor in how much her own farts scared her and how she’d try to run away from them. But then, I’m a horrible parent. (It came back to bite me when she got scared on her wee wee pad, ran and jumped on the bed, and then had a really, really bad diahrea accident. Karma is a bitch. So is Chloe.)

I felt so bad for her — Chris was traveling that evening for business, and I had to go to work the next day. The thought of putting her in her crate was horrible and inhumane — to me AND Samson. God knows he didn’t want his littermate destroying his sanctuary. But I had to go to work, so put her in her crate, crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. That lasted about three hours, and then I was just so worried, I couldn’t focus at work. I headed home to let her out and work from home the rest of the afternoon (love an understanding employer). Chloe and Samson were thrilled to have me home, but as I was setting up my computer, I felt Chloe cowering between my feet. She’s so sweet, that when she gets scared or nervous, she comes to me and plants herself with her rump facing forward, snout facing backward, between my legs. It’s her hiding place/sanctuary. It’s also a signal that should not be ignored. Yep. Diahrea. I ran her to the pad just in time (this time) and then immediately hopped online to search for advice. I found this great site: Just Answer. You just type in your question and one of their vets/animal techs will answer it within minutes. The vets/animal techs have full resumes available online, so you can decide if you trust them or want to contact them directly. And you can decide how much you are willing to spend for the information they are sharing — or not– and then pay them directly. All right from your laptop or PC. I paid $15 for some advice that completely solved Chloe’s diahrea: Children’s Pepto Bismal mixed with yogurt every four hours until her stools began to harden. Then, immediately discontinue. Turns out that changing dog food suddenly can really upset a dog’s stomach. Best $15 I ever spent (hmmm, well, that 2-for-1 $15 margerita special at Cafe Lurcat in Minneapolis might have been the best…) and came complete with immediate gratification and satisfaction for both me AND Chloe.  I highly recommend it.

My Tropical Commute

My urban commute to work may not be as harried as a drive on the LA freeways, but after dodging a few early morning tourist families (they walk four abreast); the random dog walker (two pugs, two labs, and the token mutt) trying to curb, scoop and toss; the taxi haler (who obliviously cuts you off while talking on the cell) and the texter in heels (need I say more?) who can’t walk and chew gum, let alone add technology to the mix on a NY sidewalk, it feels as though I just spent some time in bumper to bumper hell, as well. And yes, that’s all BEFORE I get on the subway…

Enter “White Noise.” Enter relief. Typically my iPhone app purchases have centered around the brain teasing puzzles, my Starbucks finder, and of course, every weather gadget available, but this one? It rounds out the bunch. Caffein? Check. Weather? Check. Mind-numbing Bejeweled, Chuzzle or Unblockme for the Subway? Check. Tropical birds, tree frogs and trickling water on a Manhattan sidewalk? Check, check and check.

And my choices with this application range from Amazon jungle to beach waves crashing to crickets chirping to camp fire crackling to, yes, city streets, should I ever feel the need to tap back into my commuter reality while on vacation. I can search the sound catalog for whatever I’m in the mood for, and I can even activate a timer within the app, so I can use it before I go to bed, or as a dog- or bird-sitter. And for humans with offspring, rather than animals, there is also a White Noise Baby application, complete with all the sounds required to soothe.

I can’t count the number of apps I have downloaded — free or at a cost — that I rarely use of wonder why I even grabbed them. But this one has already proved its value. In the jungle. On the beach. In the rain. Around the fire. In the forest… and all on the way to work.

Reading Lite

Having been slammed with the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, family visits, relocation within the same apartment building, and a job change, my personal reading time has been severely reduced. And the topics? Definitely weighing in on the lighter side of the literature scale. However, that doesn’t equate to a pointless read. On the contrary. It proves my theory that keeping a wide range of reading materials on your nightstand can supply you with just the respite you need from your current reality, just when you need it. Here are some recommendations for a quick escape:

Frankenstein, Books 1 – 3: Dean Kunz — Being a huge fan of Mr. Kunz, this was an easy target for me. And being a fan of the Frankenstein story, I was eager to see his take on the original. Loved it. I bought into it right from the get-go. I admit to being a bit frustrated that I had to wait four years for Book 3, but know that Mr. Kunz was over-delivering on the wonderfully lovable Odd Thomas series — of which I recommend every one — so forgive the time lapse. Read them all: The Prodigal Son, City of Night, and Dead and Alive.

Arctic Drift: Clive Cussler and Dirk Cussler — I haven’t read one of Mr. Cussler’s novels in a while, so it was fun to dive back in (sorry, couldn’t resist) and rejoin the characters. He’s introducing a second generation in the Dirk Pitt family of protagonists, so will be interesting to see how heavy a hand the second generation of Cussler plays in the writing, as well. All in all a good read, if not a bit over the top in places. But then, isn’t that why you read a Clive Cussler novel?

The Log of a Cowboy: Andy Adams — Published in 1903, this narrative of the old trail days is a gem. Written in the first person, a teen-age cowhand on his first cattle drive chronicles his adventures from the Texas/Mexico border to the Montana mountains. I read this as a college student, and since I’d been hauling it around with me for so many years, thought it deserved a second read a generation later. Still loved it. Every word. The cowboy in me lives on…

I’m Too Old To Vomit

It’s true. I’m too damn old to vomit. Why? #1: No one cares. At 47, my mom is not gently rubbing my back and cooing that I’ll be okay, while handing me a glass of water. Chris? Snoring away in the other room. No. It’s just me, the toilet, and the cool tile floor. #2: It hurts. Regurgitation requires the use of muscles that have not seen action in decades, let alone days (and no, I’m not proud of that), and the recovery time is ridiculous! Who knew you could be so incredibly sore from vomiting? #3: It means I either have the flu or food poisoning, neither of which are welcome in my household. And neither of which I have time for.

But this time around? It was food poisoning. Business trip to Chicago, airport food court, least offensive food source that offered a “burrito bowl.” I can’t even remember the name of the place. But I remember the pain. And I won’t be eating anything resembling a burrito bowl again for quite a while. But oddly, just prior to this… er… meal, my co-worker and I had been discussing “Food, Inc.“, an incredibly educational film by Robert Kenner, and narrated by Michael Pollan, the author of The Omnivore’s Dilemma. And over the weekend prior, Chris and I had watched the film. Even earlier in the year, my niece, Farrah, had blogged about both the film and the book, so clearly the reawakening of my passion and understanding of food in America was already in the works before being catapulted into full comprehension by this bout with food poisoning.

I highly recommend the film. The message of the film is riveting: Wake up, America. Get back in touch with your food sources. Understand what you’re taking into your body, where it comes from, and how it was produced — and how those combined factors affect you, your health, and your environment. I definitely feel a renewed sense of responsibility not only to my own body, but to the animal and vegetable food sources I am consuming.

I’ve not read The Omnivore’s Dilemma, yet, but it’s next on my list. But on the reading front, Chris has also pushed me to some inspired newspaper reading of late that has renewed my passion — and horror — for a better knowledge of my food sources. Check out these two recent NY Times articles. Brace yourself. But read them: “Safety of Beef Processing is Questioned” and “E. Coli Path Shows Flaws in Beef Inspection.” It’s almost overwhelming and discouraging — we’re so trained to just go to the store, grab what we want, fix a meal, and forget about it. The connection between the food source and our table is almost non-existent. I’m certainly not screaming hunger strike and free the chickens (though after viewing the film, I just might), but I’m definitely making a concerted effort to understand the sources of my food, the seasonality of my food, and all of the steps between production and digestion. And in the future? I’m hoping to leave out regurgitation.

Gracie Knows No Fear

Right... these guys hunt badgers...

Dachshunds were originally bred to hunt badgers. Ferocious little guys, they would dive into a badger’s lair, fearlessly intent upon tearing it to pieces. Relentless and stubborn, their tails were often used by handlers to pull them back out! This holiday season,  while Samson or Chloe proved themselves relentless and stubborn — and continue to do so — it was one year-old Gracie who proved to be fearless…

Holiday gathering 2009. Small and quaint, it gave a few good friends I used to work with a chance to get together and toast the season. Gracie was in town with her parents, and, well, graced us with her presence. We loved it. The Dachshunds? Not so much. This little imp of a human completely befuddled them! Chloe turned all nervous and mushy (complete out of character), keeping her tail between her legs and nervously licking little Gracie’s hands and finally giving in and licking the tip of her nose. Gracie loved it!

The only thing they hunt is the softest spot for naps!

Samson on the other hand? He pulled a Kujo. Total Kujo. It didn’t matter how we approached it, he was overcome with aggressive terror and had to be crated the entire time she was here. We tried a couple of separate introductions, but none were successful. He simply went rabid with throaty growls and warning barks. And Gracie? She squealed with delight! She would stand near his kennel, with him growling and barking, clap her hands and sweetly smile and say, “Whoof! Whoof!” What kid does that? She’s clearly the next dog whisperer or an early-developing adrenalin junkie. For her parents’ sake? I hope it’s the former! And yes, you can guess that the next class the Obedience School drop-outs are enrolled in is “Socialization 101 for the Authority-Challenged Pack Leader”… See my post from 12/28/08 for reference…

Working Through Brittle, Painful, Christmas Day Memories

Ah, and you thought I’d be whining about lost loves or family dramas. Nope. We’re talking Christmas Trees. The kind that gave up the ghost about about a week before Christmas morning no matter how much you watered, misted and humidified. Dry. Brittle. Hapless. Pyromaniac heaven. THOSE Christmas trees. MY Christmas tree…

Don’t get me wrong. I loved it, but was so ready to get rid of it — in all of its mummified glory — that it was out the door before 11 AM this morning, Christmas morning. Normally, I get so frustrated when the tree has to come down, that I just pull all the decorations and chuck the tree, lights and all. It always feels wasteful, but by the time Christmas is over, the tree is a fire hazard, the limbs have mummified around the light strands, and the needles are heading to the floor like lemmings to the sea. You can watch them. Add all that to the fact that condo/apartment living and live Christmas tree disposal is always fraught with rules, regs, and penalty fees, if you don’t do everything just so. But, this year, I actually played a little Martha Stewart/Chef Andre combo and came up with a great way to dispose of it! Check it out!

I used a pair of bonsai scissors (past Christmas gift courtesy of my fabulous brother Dave — you may remember seeing his zen garden photos on this blog’s landing page…) and simply cut away all of the branches a bit at a time, shoved them in garbage bags, giving me direct access to the tree lights without scratching the hell out of my fingers and forearms on all the dead branches. Snip, snip, nip, tuck, done.

Then, when the lights were off — and they basically just fell away — I just cut away the rest of the branches all the way up, wrapped the trunk in a painter’s drop cloth, sealed it with tape, and hauled it right through the common area’s lovely carpeted hallway without dropping a single needle.

Project complete. Almost… Now Chris has me looking at every type of artificial Christmas tree produced over the last 20 years in the hunt for the perfect artificial tree. Synthetic Spruce or Lucite-limbed? Ah, the holiday projects just never stop, do they?

A Holiday of the Heart

Celebrating Christmas over the years has taken so many forms for me — the anticipation and family madness on Christmas morning among eight siblings as a kid; the holiday shows and magic of performing with Disney entertainment in my early twenties; the “good luck” associated with having an acting/singing gig over Christmas and New Year’s during my thirties; the “holiday split”  – not a break-up, mind you — between Chris and me, as we work to determine which holidays will be spent with which of our families, together or separately… And then, of course, there is also the Newbold/Douglas tradition of moving every Christmas break, a tradition I’m grateful to say was broken this year!

But, staying true to celebrating Christmas through memories and life journeys, I had a flashback this morning of my holidays in college, and of my good friend and talented musician/songwriter, Stephen Kapp Perry. Back in those days, we were both getting our feet wet performing, before our official careers took us down different paths. But one Christmas holiday, we stumbled upon a song together, which combined our lyrics, his music, and both our family memories: “Holiday of the Heart.”

I have Christmas memories — pajamas from Grandma and candy canes on the tree. Manger scenes and angel hair. Packages from everywhere you know. All wrapped up and aglow.

I love Christmas memories — a time to remember, December the years have seen. Smell the pine and gingerbread. Someone builds a fire against the cold. It wraps us in its glow.

Christmas is a holiday of the heart. We start to leave the world behind, and no one minds the cold for a few short days. Christmas nearly puts all the world at peace. It teaches of a love divine, that reaches down through time and touches me. My very favorite Christmas memory.

But best of all these memories, a babe in a manger, a stranger who would be king. A love beyond all reason, that stays although the seasons come and go. He wraps us in His glow.

Christmas is a holiday of the heart. We start to leave the world behind, and no one minds the cold for a few short days. Christmas nearly puts all the world at peace. It teaches of a love divine, that reaches down through time and touches me. He is my favorite Christmas memory.

Merry Christmas Steve and Johanne. And Merry Christmas all.

ABC Financial Minds Their Ps and Qs!

God love the power of social media. I received a phone call today from our friends at ABC Financial. Perhaps the confluence of Twitter feeds and retweets, blog posts, complaint board commentary, RSS feeds, emails to corporate offices and directors of media relations, coupled with certified letters via USPS actually combined to get me the result I craved: ACTION!

An attentive, polite representative from ABC Financial phoned today to walk me through a few of the pieces of misinformation imbedded in the Anytime Fitness Web site FAQ section, as well as the current steps being taken by ABC Financial — NOT Anytime Fitness – on my behalf to cancel my club membership and discontinue the withdrawal of funds from my checking account. Thank you, ABC Financial.

Apparently each Anytime Fitness franchise owner personally determines the level of involvement and support from ABC Financial with regard to membership cancellations and membership financial dues via a separate contract with ABC Financial. While the club’s Web site clearly directs club members to ABC Financial for assistance with cancellations, unless the franchise owner has opted into an agreement with ABC Financial to handle those issues, ABC Financial is not directly empowered to help the member. Crazy, right? How many irate phone calls and emails must ABC Financial endure from angry, frustrated club members like me? Unlike Anytime Fitness, ABC Financial picks actually makes itself accessible to those utilizing its services via phone and email. Anytime Fitness? You’ll be hard-pressed to even find a human anywhere, much less gain access to a human who actually cares about you after you’ve signed a contract! Once you have that 24-hour access fob, you receive 24-hour inaccess to the club management. I imagine ABC Financial is doing everything it can to quietly distance itself from the multiple Anytime Fitness business faux pas constantly committed by the fitness corporation, as well as the individual franchise owners, such as – in this case — quietly calling me directly to offer assistance. Again, thank you, ABC Financial.

ABC Financial has taken the initiative to work directly on my behalf and reached out today to let me know that the cancellation of my Anytime Fitness club membership is in progress. I will no longer be charged for membership fees for a Minneapolis club while living in Manhattan. Resolution achieved.

As for Anytime Fitness? No response. No reaction. No remorse. I suggest that this company, which prides itself on 24-hour accessibility and fitness excellence,  introduce a new fitness regimen among its owners entitled: “An Excercise in Futility.” It’ll be a hit! They’ve already got a corner on that market, so may as well make use of it. And if you don’t want to take my word for it? Click here for a Google search that lists more than 31,000 hits for Anytime Fitness complaints in 2009 alone…

Anytime Fitness Fails at ABCs

Remember my May and June posts railing on Anytime Fitness for its near inaccessibility? They’ve really upped their game. Now, the franchisee-run operation is truly inaccessible. Incommunicado. At least they’ve learned to do something right — treat their members with disrespect and run their business with the customer service associated with the penal system.

Since my move to New York City in September, I’ve been trying to cancel my membership. According to information from the Minneapolis franchise owner, and the corporate Web site, if a member moves to a city without a club within 15 miles of their residence, the membership may be cancelled. And, according to the Web site, not only can you reach out to your club via phone or email (MplsWarehouse@anytimefitness.com) — please feel free to email them on my behalf — to cancel your membership, you can also reach out to ABC Financial Services to work it out, as they are the contracted financial services firm that controls the automatic withdrawal of funds from your bank account to keep your membership active. You see where I’m going, right?

True to my experience with both of these corporations to date, each is equally inept at managing client relationships. Voice mails? Unresponsive. Emails? Unresponsive. Certified letters? We’ll see, I finally just sent three — to the CEO of each corporation, and then to the local Minneapolis club, as well, to serve as official written notice of my request for cancellation based on my relocation. When I finally got management on the line at the Minneapolis club, it was apparently new management, had no idea I even existed, was perplexed by the fact that I was a Minneapolis club member but living in Manhattan, and no idea how to handle the situation. You can guess how painful that conversation was.

When I finally got representatives at ABC Financial Services on the line, each of the three individuals I spoke with claimed ignorance of the cancelleation policies and freedom from having to help me, even though the Anytime Fitness Web site directs its members to them for questions directly relating to my situation! Funny, both organizations are incredibly skilled at making certain that monthly withdrawal from my checking account happens with spotless regularity — and they’ve even raised their rates due to a MN taxation issue without contacting club members. Funnier, still, that cost increase hit my checking account separate from my monthly membership dues with no problem at all. There is nothing more frustrating than watching a company you loathe successfully withdraw funds from your personal checking account.

Something, however, tells me that if it weren’t for technology’s ability to cover human flaws, this whole Anytime Fitness franchise operation would die so quickly that CEO Jeff Klinger wouldn’t be receiving any awards. And the fact that he was awarded anything with “visionary” in the title is completely beyond me. Maybe he should look beyond his own bank account and little fitness fiefdom and use that visionary prowess to see exactly how poorly the club franchises he spawned are being run. Running a business isn’t for everyone, so if a club owner is relying on “easy money and little management time” because of the business model, maybe he/she should think again. Or actually, maybe they should just think.

That’s it. Just think. Use your brain. Get it together. Answer a phone call. Reply to an email. Know company policy. And respect your members, Anytime Fitness and ABC Financial Services. If you cant’ do that, then get out of the business. And for God’s sake, get out of my bank account!

Thank You, New York Magazine

What to Read? New York Magazine! (Image courtesy gawker.com)

New York Magazine’s “Year in Ideas” is always a fascinating read for me.  This year’s 9th Annual Year in Ideas is no exception.

I love the A-to-Z format in which the ideas are laid out because it gives me 26 chances to be surprised and delighted (to coin a very over-used PR phrase, second only to “shock and awe”). And I can save a few letters for when I need a break a work, stretch it out over the weekend, etc. If I was reading the hard copy, I’d never be able to do that! I’d be glued to it for however long it took me to get through them all in one read! It’s the little things in life, right? And the digital read is just one of my little things, I guess…

This year, the “A” section took top honors for me with an bus-stop installation in Berlin by Amnesty International titled “It Happens When No One is Watching.” Brilliant.

The ad follows, and I’ve actually lifted a paragraph right from New York Magazine to describe the actual advertisement:

ADVERTISEMENT PHOTOGRAPHY BY JUNG VON MATT

The poster, placed in a bus shelter in Berlin, was a one-time installation sponsored by Amnesty International. When a person in the shelter was looking at the poster, he saw, along with the words, a photograph of an amiable couple: a stocky, professional-looking man in a blue oxford-cloth shirt, his arm around the shoulders of his girlfriend or wife. If no one in the shelter was paying attention to the poster, though, the image switched: now the man was raising his fist against the woman as she leaned away and protected her face. (There was a slight lag in the switch, so viewers could notice that the poster was changing its image.)

When Opera Divas Get Stonewalled…

It’s not every night you get to spend an evening celebrating 40 of the most influential lesbians in the New York, but when you also get to share it with two of the critically acclaimed opera divas, as well? THAT’S a night to remember.

Stonewall Inn, 1969; Credit: Diana Davies

Here’s the scoop… The Stonewall Foundation recently honored 40 women for their contribution to community as part of the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. Being honored among those women was Kelli O’Donnell, one of the founders of R Family Vacations — a great company do great work for gay and lesbian families, just check out the 3 minute video on their home page — for whom my best friend of more than 25 years, Dan LoBuono, works. A very gracious Kelli extended an additional invite, so Dan grabbed me and we went.

Beth Clayton

The first portion of the evening was where I met Beth Clayton and Patricia Racette. Opera novice that I am, I had no idea I was in the presence of such amazing talents — I merely thought they were fabulous women who shared a love of good friends, a good laugh, and, of course, a good margarita! But, there was so much more to their stories as the night wore on, and I enjoyed every minute of it. And I enjoyed reviewing there Web sites, bios and careers the next morning, very much cognizant of the fact that I was SO glad I didn’t know who they were before the night began, or I would have been so tongue-tied and sheepish that I didn’t know their world better than I do. But none of that mattered because they both put me at ease, were wonderfully funny, and most importantly, were just so very real.

Patricia Racette

The latter portion of the evening took place at the Highline Ballroom in Chelsea, and was less intimate, but great for people watching — and learning. Whenever I see people honored for their contributions to a cause as potentially volatile as gay rights, I always feel a little less than adequate. What have I done? What else can I do? One of the speakers — Ann Northrop — put it best when she spoke briefly: “All it takes is not letting a bigoted or racist comment go unnoticed or unanswered, no matter where you or are who you are with.” Thank you, Ann, for understanding just what I needed to hear at that given moment. And thank you Kelli, Beth and Patricia for being such powerful examples to all of us that simply being ourselves can be more potent than anything else we might dream of.

Room Service, Please!

I usually tweet about my dining experiences, but had to give Room Service at blog shout-out. I found it by accident — as with all great restaurants, it’s about the “stumbled upon” discovery — walking around my neighborhood in search of good “delivery” menus. This was a big-time score. This restaurant’s Thai food travels so well, I’ve never even gone there in person, yet! It’s all be dial and delivery dining!

Chris and I have yet to miss with anything we’ve ordered, and to date we’ve tried quite a bit from Room Service. Appetizers: Corn Spring Rolls, Coconut Calamari Tempura, Chicken Satay and Pan Steamed Mussels with Thai Herbs. The mussels were absolutely amazing, and the blend of lemon grass, shallots and basil in a lime juice/white wine broth? Delicious — and beautiful. I actually took a photo of the mussel shells because the color combination in their natural rings when submerged were so rich. Okay, that’s a bit freaky, which Chris clearly made known, so no need for additional comments. But that’s just who I am.

For entrees, we’ve tried the Spicey Veggie Fried Brown Rice, Bangkok Chicken Pumpkin Curry, Beef Green Apple Salad (an appetizer on the menu) and Spicy Squid Ink Spaghetti, which was by far the most adventurous and rewarding to date.

Next up from Room Service? I’m leaning toward the Thai Scampi with Curry Powder, Grilled Ginger Honey Pork Chops or the Avocado Summer Rolls… Hmmm… 8:40 AM on a Sunday morning and I’m already thinking dinner? Not a good sign — or maybe it is? At least for Room Service.

NWA Not! Chapter 3: Did Donna Really Check a Bag?

Alas, we have yet to recover Donna’s luggage. While certainly not a surprise, based on our exemplary customer service experience with Delta/NWA to date, it’s still so disheartening. And let’s face it, no amount of shopping at Bloomingdale’s in New York City during the holiday season with two fabulous gay men — even if one of them is your son — can make up for the loss of personal items of monetary and sentimental value.

And speaking of the son… While I have simply allowed myself the use of this blog to rant, vent and occassionally curse Delta and NWA for the inconvenienc of the entire situation, Chris has taken it to a new level: One Bad Airline. (Did I mention he’s a Scorpio? Enough said.) This new Web site chronicles our bad experience with Delta and NWA, and invites others to share their experience with the airlines. And based on a quick Google search for “Delta Sucks”, Chris is not alone in his desire to bring to light the consistently poor customer experience across Delta and NWA. The search for these two ugly little words (sorry, Mom and Dad, but this derragatory term, while in poor taste, has been widely accepted into the American vernacular as the verbal and visual end-all of disgust) landed 1.2 million entries. Crazy, right? But even if you take that search with a grain of salt, it still means that enough people have been angered, insulted, frustrated and hurt by Delta and NWA to warrant making it known via blogs and blog posts, tweets, and even Web sites dedicated to the voicing of these feelings. I guess my question is this: What, exactly, will it take for this airline to work as hard for our money as any other company we choose to do business with? (And yes, I ended that sentence with a preposition, but it just felt right…) Based on my experiences, I’m guessing it will take a lot more than Donna’s lost bag and 1.2 million negative — if not scathing — online conversations. Maybe it’s time to enlist those Mommy Blogger’s who shut down Motrin so quickly to band together on our behalf for Delta and NWA? Let’s do it!

NWA NOT! Chapter 2: The Flight Home

Well, after 4 fun-filled days of shopping for everything carefully packed in luggage somewhere between Minot, ND and NYC, Chris’ mom flew home today… sans bag. Yep. Never found it. Wait, that might not be true. They may very well have found it. But since WE HAVEN’T HEARD A WORD FROM THEM IN FOUR DAYS, we’ll never know, will we.

Lost baggage? Understandable. It’s air travel. It happens. But to have such a poor communications system in place that not a proactive email, phone call or letter has come to Donna’s attention from the airline?  Utterly ridiculous. Four days later, she’ll be filling out a claim form at her home airport without so much as a word frrom NWA or Delta. Now THAT is customer service and an attention to detail that makes me just want to fly with them every day.

And the irony? I continually get emails and letters from NWA and Delta as an elite status traveler reminding me how much more powerful they are since the merger, how many more cities are available to me, how many more flights are available to me, how much more they have to offer combined. Well, the only thing I really need from them is a clear channel of communicaiton and some respect, and it seems neither of those were drafted into the merger.