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Posts Tagged ‘Hollywood’
Some of the most intimate moments my son and I experience is in traffic. While everyone knows Los Angeles possesses the absolute worst, seven-circles-of-hell traffic jams, what many visitors find surprising is that while striving to get your kid to school on time, and attempting to navigate around illegal immigrants in their smoking, broken-down 35-year-old Honda Civics, you can gain some incredible insights into the inner workings of your child’s mind. When not kicking the back of my seat, relentlessly shrieking the theme song to Star Wars, or contracting into a mean little fetal position due to my reluctance to enable his hideous sugar addiction, my son Ethan provides me hours of in-car amusement. Many unimaginative parents provide ‘on-demand’ Disney DVD’s to their children while in transit or play dull games with their children such as ‘I Spy.’ I detest both of these diversions. Does any parent really want to spend ANOTHER 30-40 minutes listening to the ridiculous exploits of Hanna Montana or The Jonas Brothers? In addition, do you really give a flying fuck if your child can identify a tree, a cloud, or police car? I certainly don’t.
While stuck in the molasses-like traffic patterns of Hollywood, do you want to know what truly floats my boat? I like to ask my child twisted questions such as “In a house fire, who would you choose to save, me or the frozen chocolate chip cookie dough in our freezer?” Ethan doesn’t even make the pretense of debating, it’s the cookie dough by a country mile. When I probe him further regarding his choice, he explains that the cookie dough is delicious, filling, and yummy whereas I’m a complete asshole and totally expendable.
While many parents would be offended by their child making such an assertion, I can only admire his candor. At least I know where I stand – and his ability to make empirical decisions is coming along beautifully. Not satisfied with the cookie-dough vs. daddy dying scenario, I ask him to again choose between saving me in house fire, or saving our dog – guess who again loses by a huge margin? Me. Ethan calmly explains that our dog gives him unconditional love, eats all the food he carelessly drops on the floor, and does fun, entertaining tricks that amuse his grade school cronies. I on the other hand ‘bother’ him with annoying ‘stuff’ like eating his vegetables, brushing his teeth, and taking baths.
After a posing a number of theoretical house fire scenarios my son has emphatically chosen to save the cookie dough first, and in descending order my husband, his dog, his teacher, our gardener, his ant farm, his Star Wars Legos, and finally his piggy bank. I didn’t even crack the top 5. We finally arrive at his school and as he bounds out of the car, he cries, ‘Bye Dad, I love you!’ As I watch him go, I tear up and wonder if our smoke detectors need new batteries.
Pink eye. My son Ethan had pink eye. I knew the second he entered my bedroom and demanded I make him a bowl of Trader Joe’s Leapin’ Lemurs cereal he had it. His bloodshot right eye looked swollen and a small glob of greenish mucus rested in the corner of the eye close to his nose.
It is a well known fact that at my child’s school, pink eye is treated with the same scorched-Earth policy I’m certain the CDC reserves for an Ebola outbreak. Once identified with the shameful condition, your child is immediately quarantined from the ‘normal’ population and is confined to a trailer-like ‘holding area.’ The offending child’s work surface, pencils, crayons, and cubbyhole are then sanitized with the zeal and determination an atomic worker reserves for mopping up spilled plutonium.
The neglectful parent is telephoned and the ‘seriously ill’ child discharged to their custody. I’m convinced that peasants dying from plague in the middle ages were treated with more deference and civility then my 1st grader would be were I to send him to school in his present condition.
“You better take him to the doctor.” My husband George suggested already dressed for work, and downing his repugnant peanut butter, banana and low-fat vanilla yogurt breakfast smoothie as he headed out the front door. “They won’t let him in class with Pink Eye – it’s contagious you know.”
“Is that your final diagnosis, doctor?” I responded sarcastically as he passed.
“Yes.”
“What do you mean I have to take him?” I called.
My husband George, the former stay-at-home dad who had recently returned to his highly paid, soul-sapping career in film production was half way down our front steps and stopped suddenly. He turned, and with a knowing grin on his face replied “It is now your responsibility to take our child to doctor appointments. Those joyful, primary care responsibilities that used to mine, are now yours.” He bounded down the remaining steps, hopped into the ‘mom car’ SUV I bought him and gunned the engine. As he pulled away, I could see his reflection in the rear view mirror -his knowing grin had turned into full-fledged laugh riot. The prick.
Our son Ethan joined me on the landing and witnessed George gleefully zoom off. “Get dressed. We have to go to the doctor.” I said to Ethan wearily. He peered at me now with the same sad expression usually reserved for those frightening Margaret Keane ‘Big Eye’ paintings. A single tear fell from his puffy, red rimmed eye.
“I don’t need to go to the doctor.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No really, Dad – I don’t need to go to the doctor. I just rubbed my eye funny.”
“You’re going to the doctor.”
“I really don’t want to go.”
“I insist.”
“I’m not going.”
There comes a point in almost every negotiation with one’s child where you start to feel like the United Nations. My son Ethan had become like the regimes of Iran or North Korea whose defiant, nationalist ideology cause them to shrug off the demands of Washington. On the other hand, I had become like The Bush Doctrine personified – I was far more likely to use preemptive force, rather than negotiation, to counter threats from his weapons of mass destruction which in this case consisted mainly of tears, whining, and a stubborn and steadfast resolve to piss me off.
“GET DRESSED NOW!” I barked. “It’s not my fault you have Pink Eye. NOW MOVE IT!” Like Iran or North Korea, my son slowly and begrudgingly complied, but I suspected that whatever superficial demands he met, I would suffer grave consequences due to the cache of weapons he stored in bunkers deep underground.
As we drove to the doctor, Ethan sat in the back of my car and cried softly.
“Ethan, what’s wrong?” I asked. “Why are you crying?”
“I miss papa.” He said miserably.
“I miss him, too.” I replied.
He paused, and then launched a carefully planned, ‘surgical strike’ attack of his own.
“I like him better than you, you know.” he said provocatively.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” I countered.
Ethan paused a moment and seeing that this minor attack was not achieving the ‘shock and awe’ effect that he desired, my son trotted out the big guns. “I wish you would die so that papa and I could be happy.”
I should have been decimated, blown-to-bits by my son’s ‘carry a big stick’ assault, but for some reason it just made me laugh inside. I have no doubt that in the event of my premature death, George would find a new husband and stepfather for Ethan at once. Immediately after the pomp and circumstance of my funeral service and the emotional theatrics of my Shiva, George would be introduced to a rakishly handsome man named Geoffri (nobody in LA ever spells their name normally) – Geoff to his friends. By an astonishing coincidence, Geoff would be a respected professor of French film at George’s Alma Mater UCLA. Known for his authoritative manner and winning ways Geoff is popular with both students, faculty and the alumni. George and Geoff, or G&G as they would come to be known, would host lively ‘salons’ in the home of the first Mrs. De Winter better known as ‘Tod, the dead guy.” The invited guests, the intellectual glitterati of Los Angeles (an oxymoron) would sedately and meditatively discuss the films of Francois Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard, Eric Rohmer, and Jacque Rivette. My former son Ethan, who would be sitting on Geoff’s lap and hanging on every word, would shed a tear when Geoff expressed his profound sadness that the French New Wave filmmakers were originally rejected by Hollywood due to their self-conscious rejection of classical cinematic form and their spirit of youthful iconoclasm.
“Daddy Geoff, I feel your pain.” Ethan would say bravely.
“Ne vous inquiétez pas, mon amour, papa va bien.” Daddy Geoff would say lovingly.
“Je suis tellement heureuse.” Ethan would respond with a giggle. Daddy Geoff was adamant that if Ethan were truly to understand the French Avaunt Garde, it was imperative for him to speak fluent French.
“Enough of that you two.” George would say playfully. “Ethan it’s off to bed now.”
“Bonne nuit Papa et Daddy Geoff. Je t’aime!“
As Ethan scampers off to bed, George perches himself on the arm of the expensive Donghia sofa paid for by his former, dead lover (What’s his name?) and places a protective arm around a weary Geoff. George frets that Geoff had yet again exhausted himself with his intellectual pursuits. They had better head out to their sprawling, life insurance-paid-for horse farm in Ojai for some much needed R&R.
After chasing Ethan around the doctors office, pinning him to an examining table and prying his eye open with my bare hands, Ethan’s pediatrician and I were able to treat his ‘affliction.’ Feeling that I had been too ‘enemy combatant’ in my approach, I extended an olive branch and offered Ethan a Slurpee at 7-11.
“That would be great, thanks, dad.”
“No problem.”
As we got out of the car, Ethan glanced up at me and said “Dad, You know I don’t really want you to die, right?”
“Of course.”
As we traversed our way hand-in-hand through a filthy Hollywood 7-11 parking lot, I realized that formal hostilities between my son and I had officially come to an end. The battlefield theater closed and the troops sent home. I was tempted to claim victory loudly, but in that moment remembered Aristotle’s famous quote ‘We make war so that we may live in peace.’ I walked next to my son in contented silence.
Last night at the dinner table, my eight year old son Ethan suddenly announced that he would like an Apple Iphone. My husband George and I were startled, as Ethan is not very materialistic and rarely asks for anything.
“Why do you want an iPhone?” I asked.
“Well because it’s black, cool and plays music.” he explained excitedly.
When further pressed about which songs or artists he favors, he said that he likes the theme from STAR WARS in addition to the theme from his favorite movie IRON MAN. I don’t know what alarmed me more – his gross materialism or his complete lack of musical knowledge and taste. I mean I don’t have anything against John Williams, but I was hoping that Ethan would name some cool but obscure chanteuse, he would say Mozart, Beethoven, or Brahms, I would have even settled for Hanah Montana. Nope, I’m stuck with a child who does tone deaf renditions of tunes that were orchestrated the same year I was Bar Mitzvahed.
My first impulse was to say ABSOLUTELY NOT! What six year old requires a musical device that until recently I felt was inappropriate for a teenager? I was about to shut Ethan down completely when I got a brilliant idea.
“Sure,” I said “You can have an Apple iPhone if you get a job and pay for it yourself.” At first my son looked hopeful, but then a frown covered his face and he coyly reminded me that he was six and due to child labor laws was unable to get a ‘legal’ job. “Nonsense,” I countered “A lad of your intelligence, fortitude, and craftiness could certainly find a way to earn the money”
‘Like how?’ he asked doubtfully.
I thought. Hmmm…”Well, now that you mention it, you could start by dusting the house. How about washing the windows? Clean the car? As a matter of fact I think you’re old enough to do the laundry and ironing.” The more I thought about it, the more chores I felt could be offloaded to my child. He’s certainly capable – nice strong back, wiry arms, small hands for dusting behind those first editions George and I had collected for our library. Why not? I could let the cleaning lady and gardener go and finally have the live-in servant I had always wanted.
His expression grew from doubtful to frightened.
I went on to explain that he would not attend school anymore as he would be home all day cleaning, ironing, food shopping, skimming the pool, tending bar, performing oil changes on our cars, and mowing the grass. He would sleep downstairs in the furnace room and I would rent out his room to borders.
Like any good interviewee, my son considered my offer and calmly asked how many days he would have to work as my servant to buy the Iphone. I told him that I could easily outsource this position to a 8 year old from India for pennies a day, (globalization -it’s a bitch) so that it would take him roughly 3 years. Of course I would have to deduct his food, clothing, and medical expenses so the 3 year tour of duty was probably more like 5. I asked him if he would like to tour his new subterranean sleeping quarters and test the straw mat I had chosen for him to sleep on when Ethan’s eyes got red rimmed. I knew that he was trying to be brave in light of having to accept a position that was less than ideal.
My saintly husband George who never appreciates my cruel games, interceded by suggesting that instead of becoming our live-in, Ethan could retain his current position as our son and could collect cans and bottles from our neighbors for recycling. Ethan brightened. “How many cans and bottles would I need to collect?” he asked.
George explained a iPhone is about $199 – so if each can or bottle is worth 5 cents you would need 4000 cans or bottles.
“That’s alot of cans and bottles,” Ethan observed “I’ll have to get back to you.”
George and I never recieved Ethan’s counter offer. Apparently he had done his due diligence with the neighborhood moms and had discovered that we were low-balling him. My offer of domestic servitude and George’s bottle and can offer were not going to fly. The whole iPhone thing died on the vine. I’m stuck having to shine my own shoes, do my own laundry and cook my own Eggs Benedict as my son hums an off key version of DARTH VADER’S IMPERIAL MARCH theme.
Globalization, it’s a bitch.
I love Disneyland. I can’t help it. As cynical and embittered as I might be – the second I enter that crazy, Third Reich-inspired Anaheim parking structure I squeal with pleasure. I delight in the incredibly ordered, military precision of those polite Disney ‘Cast Members’ who direct me into my Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, or Chip n’ Dale parking space. Southern California may have the nation’s worst traffic, filthiest air, and unrelenting poverty – but I am able to buy unrestricted, go-anytime-you-want, zillion dollar platinum passes for my family. (I can’t be bothered with pesky black-out days or having to stand in line with those sandal wearing, German tourists)
I’m one of those truly embarrassing dads that wears his Mickey Mouse ears around the entire park and has the gumption to rock-out to that bizarre ‘Block Party’ parade where all the cute, young dancers dressed as flowers bounce up and down on stilts. Naturally, I maintain a standing reservation at ‘Ariel’s Grotto,’ the chicest place at Disneyland. (Ariel’s Grotto is Disney’s version of the Stork Club, all the prettiest most poised Disney princesses visit your table and make small talk. I’ve developed a very close personal relationship with Cinderella who calls me ‘Sir’ Tod when she sees me – it’s a gas!)
Last weekend, we arrived at the park promptly at 8:30 AM and the moment I slid my Platinum pass though the gate scanner I was like a thoroughbred charging down main street. Anxious to get to Space Mountain, The Haunted House, Indiana Jones, and all the choicest rides I took no notice of my son having come to a complete stop behind me. I whizzed past a tour group of Japanese housewives and was but a few, precious steps from jumping on the new (minimum two hour wait) FINDING NEMO ride when my cell phone rang. My husband informed me that our son Ethan was staging a sit-in and refused (REFUSED!) to go on any rides. My husband George, who works in film production and at times talks to me like I’m his production assistant, ordered me to return to base camp at once.
Angrily, I returned to our ‘base camp’ which of course turned out to be that hokey, general store where Disney sells their ghastly treasure trove of high fructose corn syrup-laden candy, cookies, and Mickey Mouse shaped Rice Krispie treats. Ethan was in tears and made the most grotesque pronouncement I had ever heard.
“I don’t like Disneyland rides,” he cried “I only want to go to the playground.”
George explained to me that the majority of ‘adult’ rides were too loud and hurt Ethan’s sensitive ears. Munching on a Goofy shaped scone, Ethan was resolute. He was absolutely NOT going to go on a single ride that I favored. No Indiana Jones, no Haunted House, No Space Mountain and certainly no Tower of Terror. He even nixed IT’S A SMALL WORLD and PETER PAN for Christ’s sake! My fury began to build.
“You can’t be serious,” I demanded, “What is the point of coming to Disneyland if you don’t ride the rides?”
“I’m afraid this day isn’t about you,” George replied, “This day is about our son and he wants to go to the playground in California Adventure.”
“Yeah, Dad it’s about me.” Ethan sneered as the scone crumbs fell from his mouth.
Hand in hand, George and Ethan began to head down Main Street towards California Adventure home of the infamous ‘Tree Playground.’ I was outraged. Clearly this was some kind of cooked-up conspiracy. What did they mean ‘This day wasn’t about me?’ Excuse me, but EVERY DAY is about me. I work hard. I break my back making the money to pay for those elitist entry passes. It’s my God given responsibility – no scratch that, God given RIGHT to ride THE MATTERHORN with with my family. I was seething and sulked all the way to the gates of California Adventure. I wanted to kill them both.
Upon arriving at the ‘Tree Playground’ which I’ve come to learn is called ‘Grizzly Peak’ Ethan scampered off to climb a rock wall. George and I sat there staring at our son and at each other. It was 9:05 AM and I insisted on getting a frozen Margarita from Rita’s Baja Blenders. (My second favorite watering hole at Disneyland after Ariel’s Grotto) Standing there in my Mickey Mouse hat, sipping my alcohol day-glo drink, I watched my son climb the same rock wall 30 times.
It was probably the cheap tequila that had permeated my brain, but by 9:25 I began to see the Zen of this situation. I had no place to go – I had only to be. My job was to sit there, watch my son climb the rock wall an infinite number of times and shout words of encouragement. My husband George tentatively came next to me and squeezed my neck.
“How’s my baby?” he asked soothingly.
“I’m sad.” I responded.
I mourned that there would be no thrilling rides on ‘California Soaring.’ I mourned that there would be no witty cocktail banter with my close friend Cinderella. Worst of all I would be forced to be my son’s valet, carrying his half-eaten scone, Mickey Mouse ears, and water bottle for the rest of the day.
George put his head on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “I love you, you know.”
I pulled my husband close to me and kissed him deeply. I pretended not to notice the German tourists gawking at the two full-grown, drunk men wearing Mickey Mouse ears kissing.
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