The 60's Are Over
I'm sitting at work. I hear a man's voice outside of my third story window.

"No more blood for oil. Praise the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Hallelujah."

I stand and look out the window towards the off-key singing. The long brown haired man in his mid to late 20's is sitting on a cement block with his guitar and backpack.

"A gentle college war protester" I thought to myself.

I sit back down at my computer only to be enticed to the window again by the man's angry voice.
"You have a devil laugh. I was wondering where that devil laugh was coming from."

I look again and see that he has moved to the ground level window underneath me and is speaking to the women inside the building through their open window. He turns and heads back to his pulpit, as I hear a cackling laugh taunt his back. He spins around quickly and gestures with his hands together in a prayer fashion, and bows his head to the voices. Then, since his sarcastic motion was not seen by his trapped audience he re-approaches the window.

"Do you know what I have to say to your devil laugh?"

Then he goes through the buddhist-like movements again, followed by a commentary.

"Praise the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. And the Four Corners."

He then faces North with his hands up, pauses, then faces the three other cardinal points of East, South, and West.

"Do you want to see me dance?" he says as he finishes his Native American graces, and begins an arrangements of marching steps in all four directions. He continues on for about a minute with a few different gyrations with his knees and flailing arms before he stops and informs the devil laugher what she just witnessed.

"That's a warrior dance. A warrior dance" he repeats as he finally swaggers back to his guitar, only to stop again and give his bowing head with praised clasped hands to the window one more time.

"I only mean positive words and positive feelings." he clarifies.

I think to myself, "Could of surprised the hell out of me. I thought you were a crack-head tap-dancing for hits of junk."

As with most public nuisances, everyone carries on with their work in their workplace ignoring the free spirit outside. That is until he begins to yell out to passerbys.

"Practice celibacy."
"Hey, if you try celibacy for five minutes, I know you will be rewarded."

Eventually, the cops came and squashed the beatnik's glory. The "man" kicked the soap box out from underneath him. I didn't hear the applause, but I know my fellow employees and I rejoiced the cop muzzle placed on the fruitcake.

I'm all for peace and love, and voicing of opinions. I dislike the blabbering declarations of drunk -like pain in the asses though, especially when it is beautiful outside and I have to work.

Down the Tubes
So I was sitting there in an airport commode stall. I just checked the time on my cell phone and placed it back into my pants' pocket that was shuffled around my ankles when a digital sounding ring echoed off of the metal dividers and tiled floor. I checked, but it was not my phone.

"Russell Connor," the man in the stall next to me answered his phone.
"I always have time for my partner." was his response to the voice on the small device.

"Ker-FLUSH!" one of the mechanical toilets activated.

I chuckled to myself that NO business is too important for his business partner. Then it sounded as if the small area did not like the reception possibilities and disconnected the man from his associate's urgent call.

Moments later, the electronic ring shattered the somberness of the airport restroom a second time, this time from the sinks just outside my stall door. The faceless voice answers, "Russell Connor" again.

"Ker-FLUSH!" chimes in another porcelain device.

"One minute as I ... "
"Ker-FLUSH!"
"... move to a better area to talk ...
"Ker FLUSH!"
"... to you."

It was like a voice activated symphony at a toilet opera, instigated by this man's cell phone. Kind of like Disney World where your conductor movements control the various musical instruments.

Wonder what his partner was feeling like with the echoing sound effects.

Wonder why he even answered the dang contraption at all. I am glad that he washed his hands though.

I Feel Like Chicken Tonight!
The family is in the girl's bedroom. It is bedtime. I am laying down Ellie in the crib. Emma is getting her pajamas on as Abbie picks up the toys off of the floor.

"It smells like a dirty little boy's room in here tonight." Abbie exclaims, even though it probably is her sixth grade classroom scent clinging to her sweater.

Without a beat Emma turns around to me and asks, "Did you fart?"

I wish I could keep all of these little instances locked in my brain. I know I only retain about five percent of the constant humor that is swimming with me. For instance, I got "informed" that Emma had been saying, "chicken butt" all day at preschool earlier this week.

Apparently, "chicken butt" is now offensive, or at least at a preschool.

"Why would she be saying that?" you might wonder.

Well, it all goes back to when that movie star brat was popular with the Home Alone films and he hosted Saturday Night Live. (I am not going to give him the credit of typing his name, plus I don't want to have to check how to spell it.) Anyways, he was in Al Franken's, "Stuart Smalley" skit where Al is "not a licensed therapist. . . but has attended many twelve-step programs" and would give advice to successful people. This one skit the kid would constantly ask Stuart, "You know what?" and Stuart would say, "What?". Then the boy would say, "Chicken butt!"

There you go. Well, it stuck with me, and now it is living, breathing, growing through my offspring.

And do you know why?

Chicken Thigh.

Munsoned in Phoenix
On my way home from a grueling week at the ADIM conference in California, I was standing on the side of the terminal on my cell phone with Abbie. I like to people watch, and the place was packed.

I was discussing with my wife how America West had put me in another irritating and unacceptable situation, (because that is what America West specializes in - totally screwing up your itinerary that you have already paid good money for - overbooking seats - canceling flights for no reason - just generally pissing off and inconveniencing good outstanding citizens and customers.)

Back to the point. I was standing there on the outside looking in, talking to my lady when a figure comes speeding through the terminal with an armload of items, a baseball cap, and a scruffy blond beard. I recognized the person immediately, but did not have the time or the gall enough to stop the obviously late passenger. So instead, I just blurted out, "Hey, Woody!"

The man jerked his head over to me, and his smirky grin gave me the proof I needed, "Looking good, man!" I finished my incomplete thought, surprised that my observation was successful, and gave him a thumbs-up.

He finished his smile with a nod of recognition then turned into the nearest gate. By the time I fumbled my camera out of my bag, it was too late. Besides Abbie hearing it all on the cellphone line the entire time, this is the only evidence of my fleeting moment with Mr. Kingpin, the Natural Born Killer, the White Man that Couldn't Jump, Woody from Cheers, the man otherwise known as Woody Harrelson:

Emma's Philosophical Phrase of the Day:
"Daddy, there are shadows in your coffee."

What Time Do You Get Up?
"May I be et-tused?" Emma asks in her sweet, non-stopping, consistent, chatty, girlish voice.
"Yes you may. Please put your dishes into the sink, then you can go play." I thank the heavens that she is done and is going to go to another part of the house, hopefully.

When my three year old is on this natural high first thing in the morning, all I can think about is that little Looney Tunes mouse:
"somepeople sayItalk toomuch doyou thinkItalk toomuch Idon't thinkItalk toomuch... "

Wishing for silence while I finish feeding Ellie her breakfast, Emma jumps from her chair at the table and does a full ballerina pirouette. It is perfect. Her nightgown lifts in a precise circle surrounding her tiny waist.

I blame my impatience with such a sweet child on the fact that I am only halfway through my first cup of coffee this morning.

She drops her Disney Princesses heart-shaped plastic plate into the sink and pirouettes to the center of the kitchen again. The entire time looking down at the fascinating and spectacular defeat of gravity her nightgown performs.

"I am going to dance for Ellie." she decides.
"Are you going to sing too?" I ask for clarification.
"No, just dance." she replies.
"Thank you God." I think to myself as I reach for another bitter taste of freshly brewed java.

Yeah, I Got Skills

Six Degrees of Separation - a.k.a. The Royal Flush
Emma will not use a bathroom in our house if the door is closed and the fan is operating. She knows from past experiences that it will not smell good in there. Because of this, Emma informs all of us when she has to commit a bowel movement.

She is either not aware of others, or she really doesn't care what anyone will think when she announces,
"Mommy, uh, Daddy, uh... don't go into my baffroom cuz I have to go poop!"

Besides the imagery she creates, she also leaves the bathroom door wide open during her "interlude." We are working on that, but we both are really more happy that she is potty-trained.

So, recently, she has started this thing where she warns us, sits upon her throne with the door wide open to the outhouse, and then proceeds to tell us that she can't go anymore, or that "it's stuck" or something similar to that. It is most likely the heavy doses of cheese she consumes on a daily basis, but that is not the purpose of this story.

Today, Abbie and I are completely relaxed and lounging on the couch. Ellie is sleeping and Emma is playing, reading, eating, and hanging out with us. To remain lazy and to keep her busy, we often give her little things to do for us. I like to brush my teeth while I watch television, so I ask her if she would go get my toothbrush. That is when she declares the personal details of how she needs to take a dump before she exits the room and then she will get my toothbrush.

"After you wash your hands, please!" I shout to her as she leaves.

That is when Abbie turns to me and states how she really hopes Emma doesn't announce to the entire preschool during the week that she has to go potty and that they better stay out of the restroom because it will stink.

After a few minutes we hear:

"Mooooom!" Emma hollers from the commode.
"What Emma?" Abbie responds.
"I can't go poop anyyyyymooooore!"
"Do you have to go more?" my wife asks.
"Yes." Emma replies.
"Then either sit and wait a bit longer, or wipe and get off the toilet." instructs Abbie.

I can't help it but say sideways to Abbie on the couch, "Sh!t or get off the pot."

We giggle.

Emma washes her hands and comes out to us. Reminding her again the rules of finishing the job before you leave the john, Abbie begins,
"Emma, you can't be yelling at us from the toilet, you need to ..."

In Emma's common nonchalant way, she shifts the conversation to what is bouncing insider her melon at that exact moment and says to me, "Do you want me to get your toofbrush?" She asks while her mother continues.

"... you need to either poop or get off the pot." Abbie finishes her sentence not even noticing where to the real conversation has drifted.

Emma turns her clinched brows at Abbie and corrects her lecturing mother,
"I didn't say POOP! I said TOOFbrush!"

So What Are You Really Saying?
So enough with the sad stories... for now.

Emma is talking to Pa Gene, "Me nub titties."
"What?" Pa Gene questions.
"She loves kitties." Abbie injects.
"Oh," Pa Gene relates, "Me no nub titties."
"uh" Grammy Sally adds, "I think you do like them."

A moment drifts like what Paul Harvey calls a pregnant pause.

Pa Gene retorts, "Yeah, me nub titties too."

Twist of Fate
Don't you just love it when a film twists and turns and ends up giving you something you weren't planning?

The last time I went to the theaters and saw a film was this past summer while my family was in California on vacation. I was working and putting in extra time. A friend invited me to join his family in watching The Pirates of the Caribbean. It wasn't too trying on my mental state, so I enjoyed the numbness.

Last Monday my mother-in-law was watching my girls and brought up the idea for Abbie and me to go see a show. The way the schedule fanned out, Fifty First Dates was the easy winner. Although I am pulling through this thing called life, I was not anxious to spend money to remind me of my loss. A humorous getaway sounded refreshing.

The flick was textbook. Through different scenes I could hear his laughter echoing with mine and the people around us. I knew it would be to his pleasing. It is funny how the simplest of things trigger responses we never consciously were aware existed. I once heard a Vietnam veteran explain to me the sound of bullets ripping through flesh. He was amazed because he had finally witnessed a film that had captured the sense. Because of that noise, he said memories flooded his brain more than it had for over twenty years. This was the tingling sensation I felt Monday.

So Drew Barrymore's character has no short-term memory. Induced by a horrific car accident, she is destined to wake-up every day as if it were the day of her accident. Adam Sandler, who was one of my brother's most treasured actors is the gigolo that falls madly in love with the absent minded beauty. Of course, many laughs are had as a love story progresses. It was a fair and more importantly, different way to spend an evening.

It wasn't until the very last scene when the Hawaiian musician, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's rendition of "Somewhere over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" fades in as Barrymore's character awakes to meet her "new" daughter, husband and life again for the very first time that I completely lost it.

I have had a few days to decipher all of what was going on in my brain as I quickly swung my jacket on and paced out to the frozen vehicle, wiping pain from my cheeks:
• It was a cocktail of a paradox of the character trying to remember, while I am trying to forget.
• It was the introduction of her child, the greatest highlight of life I have yet to discover, and she doesn't even know her.
• It was the intention of humor with familiar artists I knew he loved to watch.
• It was the foolish attempt on my part to believe that a two hour movie could chocolate dip my emotions enough for me to wander home and go to bed unscathed.
• It was the false illusion I have led myself to believe that I have gotten over that disgusting hump.
• It was the fact that he loved that song, that I put it into the DVD commemorating his life.
• It was that the original "What a Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong, which both he and I were first introduced to on the Platoon soundtrack was both one of our favorites.
• It was me wanting to blame someone for this piece of shit situation.
• It was happiness to hold my babies, but fear of losing them.
• It was an anger that I was completely blind-sided and now breathing deeply to hold back uncontrollable gasps of wet air.
• It was all of these things and more brought on by the simple human humming and fingers strumming a ukulele.

I know Abbie felt the tension too. We got to the car and each sighed. I might of sighed several times.

"I wasn't expecting that!" I broke the silence.

We laughed.

the way the eyelids drift shut reminds me of your pain and my loss
so little strength, but so much devoted