Why Couldn't He Be a Drug Addict Like the Other Kids?

By the time my son Ryan was ten years old, he'd already been playing baseball for a few years. He knew the game, was a decent player, and had developed an interest in what was going on in the Major Leagues.

I've been a Yankees fan since I was about five. My grandfather went out to Yankee Stadium during the Ruth-Gehrig days, my dad grew up in the era of Mantle and Maris, and I enjoyed the Munson-Jackson "Bronx Zoo" period of the 70's. In short, our family DNA was encoded with pinstripes. It wasn't until I was 14, in fact, that I found out that "we'll root, root, root for the YAN-KEES!" weren't the original "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" lyrics.

So when my son dropped the bomb on me, right in the middle of the game we were watching on ESPN, I was completely caught off guard.

"Dad, I don't think I'm gonna be a Yankees fan. I don't really like them that much. I have another favorite team."

Not a Yankees fan? Excuse me?

Once the initial shock wore off, I decided I'd be better off staying calm and trying to understand. I mean, Ryan was a Southern California kid, after all. He didn't have the same hometown loyalty that I'd had growing up in New Jersey. I'd just approach the situation lightly.

"WHY THE HELL WOULDN'T YOU LIKE THE YANKEES, YOU LITTLE . . ."

I didn't actually say that. I thought it, but I didn't say it. What I said was, "Okay, this favorite team of yours, is it the Dodgers?"

I felt like a suspicious husband questioning his philandering wife. "Is it that Italian-looking guy that you work with?"

"Nah, not the Dodgers."

"The Angels then?" We didn't live that far from Anaheim, and they'd just won the World Series the year before. Maybe he'd gotten caught up in the hoopla at school or something, hanging out with the wrong crowd.

"No, I hate the Angels. My favorite team is the Red Sox."

It knocked the wind out of me like a clenched Fisk to the solar plexus.

My son, my very own flesh and blood, the child I looked upon adoringly the day he was born and swore to raise and protect to the ends of the earth. The kid who peed in my ear the very first time I tried to change his diaper.

A friggin' Boston Red Sox fan.

The betrayal to the family alone was unforgivable. Imagine a Kennedy not wanting to go into politics or a Corleone treating a snitch with forgiveness and a smile.

At first, I blamed myself. I hadn't schooled him in Yankee history early enough. I assumed too much, thought that the bloodline alone would be enough to make a Yankees fan of the boy. Instead of Green Eggs and Ham, I should've been reading him Bucky Dent: The Little Shortstop that Could. Or maybe The Story of Reggie's Three Dingers.

I talked to my dad about it. He was disappointed, as you would imagine, and he also laid the blame squarely on my shoulders. "How could you let this happen?" he asked.

"Well, it could be worse, right? Ryan could hate baseball entirely."

"That wouldn't be worse."

"What do you mean?"

"Let me put it this way, would you rather your kid hate politics or be a member of the Nazi Party?"

As always, Dad had a point.So now I had to deal with the fact that Ryan was our family's version of Fredo.

"Ryan, you're my son and I love you. But don't EVER take sides with anyone against the Yankees again."

I was distraught. I noticed myself working through the stages of grief.

Denial: "There's no way he actually likes the Red Sox. He's just trying to get my attention."

Anger: "Take off that David Ortiz t-shirt this instant, or you're grounded for a month!"

Bargaining: "Look, Ryan, let me get you a cool Yankees jacket and we'll go see them when they're in town. I'll even throw in an authentic Mariano Rivera jersey."

Depression: "I'm a failure as a father. I've broken the family tradition by allowing my son to root for Team Anti-Christ."

Acceptance: Focus on my other child, Ryan's little sister. "Hey, Lindsay! Let me tell you a story about a cute shortstop named Bucky Dent!"

So now Linds has her very own Derek Jeter t-shirt and Yankees cap.

And someday, Ryan is going to have a son of his own. I'm not going to make the same mistake twice. This time I'm going to nurture the Yankee blood that I know is still in there, and bring true Bronx Bomber spirit back to the family name. I'm gonna babysit my little grandson every chance I get and tell him all the old stories about Mr. October, Louisiana Lightning, Goose and Sparky.

I don't know what my grandson's name will be. Ryan might give him a name like Steven or Michael, Seth or Kyle, Jason or Patrick.

But no matter what his name might be, I'm callin' the kid "Bucky".


d

When in Doubt, Lie

As parents, we've seen it all.  Crayon scribbles on the living room wall.  Muddy footprints on the deep pile carpet.  Chocolaty smudges on the furniture proving that, despite claims to the contrary, MnM's do indeed melt in your hand.  Finding the perpetrator of such kiddie-crimes is usually pretty easy, especially if you only have one kid.  But I've always been somewhat amazed that, even in the face of irrefutable evidence, 98.3% of all children between the ages of two and eighteen will always give the lie a chance.

It was a Saturday morning, my son Ryan was not quite three.  I heard him tooling around in the living room, so I stumbled out of bed to see what he was up to and maybe fix us both a healthy breakfast of Cap'n Crunch and brown sugar cinnamon Poptarts.  When I got to the living room, I found him sitting on the coffee table, magic markers strewn about the carpet, looking like he was auditioning for Tatted Toddlers, inked to the elbows.

Okay, I'll admit it, I had to chuckle.  But then, putting on the "stern dad" face, I asked, "Ryan, how did your arms get like that?"

He looked me straight in the eye and said, "I didn't do it."

I'll say it again, the boy was TWO YEARS OLD.  So I have to wonder, at what age do children first realize that lying is an option?  Is it a survival instinct that they're born with?  Fight, flight, or lie your ass off?  Certainly they don't learn it from their parents.  We'd never lie to our children about anything, right?

Of course we would.  And the exact degree of bullshit varies depending upon the age of the child.  For example, up until the age of five, we lie to them like this:

"I know he might look a little different, but trust me, that's the same goldfish."

Not too long after the magic marker incident, Ryan and I were at a Fall Carnival at his preschool.  They had all sorts of games and activities for the kids.  Ryan wanted to try the traditional "throw the ping-pong ball into the bowl and win the goldfish."  Sure enough, on about his fifth try, he succeeded, making us the proud owners of "Mr. Krinklebine," the slightly unhealthy-looking feeder fish.  We stopped by the pet store on the way home, and spent about thirty bucks on a bigger bowl, fish food, gravel, and the requisite ceramic scuba diver.  Two nights later, Mr. Krinklebine was floating.  Like any good parent, I went to the pet store and bought a new fish, flushed Mr. K., substituted the impostor, and all was well.  Over the next seven years, there were about twelve different Mr. Krinklebines.  Finally, when Ryan was about ten, he was the one to discover the body.  I explained the circle of life, and we gave him a dignified burial at sea.

There's a pretty funny footnote to this story.  Ryan never caught on.  Not too long ago, when he was about sixteen, he was reminiscing about the pets we've had.  "Hey, Dad, remember Mr. Krinklebine?  Man, that fish lived a long time, what, about eight years?"

I laughed my ass off.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Um, I hate to break this to you now, but there were about a dozen of him."

"What?  You lied to me about my goldfish?"

Absolutely.

As the kids get a bit older, we have to step up our game.  They're a little tougher to fool, but it can still be done.  Let's take a look at one of the classics: 

"Being a kid was a lot harder when I was your age."

Okay, sure, kids today have all sorts of conveniences that we never had.  Cell phones, the Internet, high-tech video games.  But let's be honest, it's not like our generation grew up in the 1850's, waking up at 4:30 in the morning to chop wood for the stove and slop the hogs.  We weren't shearing any sheep in 1977, that's for damn sure.  No, the fact is my childhood was pretty candyass.  I woke up at 7:30 in the morning, enjoyed a healthy breakfast of Lucky Charms and frosted strawberry Poptarts, and walked to school in seasonably-predictable weather wearing a sturdy pair of Keds.  If it was uphill at all, we didn't really notice.  On the rare occasions we were asked to do manual labor, like shoveling snow or raking leaves, we expected (and often received) a reasonable allowance.

And we sure as hell never had to worry about some cyber-bully taking a picture of us in the locker room and posting it on his Facebook page.  Our bullies were more traditional, goons like Danny Esposito who would wait for you after class just to give you a power wedgie that you were picking out of your butt crack all through fifth grade.  Not only that, the bastard would stalk you every day in the lunchroom, and swipe your Snack Pack chocolate pudding that your mom bought especially for you because she knew it was your favorite, but you never got to eat it, not once, because Esposito friggin' took it.  And then, in sixth grade, when you were giving your oral report on the Egyptian pyramids, he accidentally (but not really) dropped his social studies book on top of your Great Pyramid, the one that took you six hours and five hundred sugar cubes to make, and had to beg your mom to drive you to school that day so you didn't drop it while you walked.

That's all hypothetical, of course.

Once our kids hit the teenage years, successfully putting one over on them becomes darn near impossible.   Not only do our kids become insufferable lunatics, they also develop a healthy skepticism of our every word.  So their questions demand a much more sophisticated level of deception. 

"Of course not!  I never touched alcohol until I was 21."
"Of course not!  I never had sex with anyone until I was married to your mother/father."
"Of course not!  I have never tried any kind of drugs."

Answering our teenagers' questions about the things we did at their age always presents a dilemma.  On the one hand we want to be honest, in the hopes that they'll be honest in return, allowing us to have open dialogue about the dangers of alcohol, drug use, and sexual promiscuity.  But what if they use our history against us?  Maybe they'll think, "Well, my dad shot heroin, guzzled tequila and nailed an endless parade of disease-ridden hookers and he didn't turn out that screwed up," and see it as permission to experiment with those very things.  "You did those things, so why can't I?" they'll say, at least, that's what we're afraid of.

So we lie.  And try to fool our teenagers into thinking that we were tee-totaling virgins until the age of thirty.

Look, I'm not condoning dishonesty.  Sure, we have to take a few strategic liberties from time to time, but for the most part, as the cliche says, "honesty is the best policy."  We're better off teaching our kids to take responsibility for their actions and to be forthright when explaining their misbehavior.

I remember one time when I was about twelve, my brothers and I were goofing around in the backyard.  We set up a few tin cans on the porch, and tried to knock them over with rocks.  On my second or third shot, I winged one a bit too hard and shattered the kitchen window.  Naturally, I pointed the finger of guilt at my brother Eric, who adamantly declared his innocence.  In an effort to get to the truth, my dad put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said, "If you just tell me the truth, you won't get in trouble."

Which was, of course, a lie.

s

Careful What You Wish For

About ten years ago, my kids and I were spending a sunny Saturday at Knott's Berry Farm, an amusement park in Southern California.  Ryan was seven years old and Lindsay was four, and as we were enjoying our lunch of seven-dollar hamburgers and three-buck fries, Lindsay noticed a "wishing pond" nearby.

"Daddy, can I have money to throw in the water?" she asked.

"Haven't we thrown away enough money today, sweetie?"  I asked.  The sarcasm was lost on her.

"I want to make a wish.  Can I have a quarter?"

"How about a penny?"  After dropping a hundred and fifty bucks on park admission and about fifty more on food, it was time to start cutting corners.

"No, Dad, you don't get your wish for a penny.  They cost a quarter."  I must've missed the memo on that one.  Who says you can't put a price tag on your dreams?

"I wanna make a wish too!" said Ryan.

We emptied our lunch trays in the trash cans and walked over to the wishing pond.  I gave each kid a quarter, and watched as they closed their eyes, silently mouthed their wishes, and chucked the coins into the pond.

"What did you wish for?" I asked them.

"Daaa-aaad," said Ryan.  "If we tell you, they won't come true."

"That's just for birthday wishes.  It's okay to talk about coin wishes."

"I don't think so, Dad."

"If I made a wish, I'd tell you," I said.

"Well, then it wouldn't come true." said Lindsay, the resident expert on wish protocol.

"You're really not going to tell me?"

"Nope!" they answered in unison.

The following Monday night at the dinner table we were making the usual small talk.  How was your day, did you learn anything at school, that sort of thing.

"So, Lindsay, what's the best thing that happened today?" I asked.

"Oh!  I forgot to tell you!  My wish came true!"

"What wish?"

"The one I made at Knott's Berry Farm.  I wished that Daniel in my class would disappear." Daniel was the Tutor Time Preschool's resident bully.  I'd seen the kid a few times when I picked Lindsay up, smoking cigarettes he kept hidden in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox.

"You wished that Daniel would disappear?" I asked, chuckling.

"Yep."

"And it came true?"

"Yeah!  When Miss Wendy called the rolls this morning she said that Daniel won't be here anymore 'cause he moved!  I got my wish!" 

Though I understood Lindsay's desire to get rid of the little punk, I didn't want her to think that she could just wish people away as nice a thought as that is.  I tried to explain to her that Daniel's family would've moved anyway, that they were probably making their plans long before we went to Knott's that day, but at age four she wasn't buying it.  This was no coincidence.  In her mind, she'd banished her nemesis to Siberia with the magic quarter of doom.

Across the table, I noticed Ryan blowing furiously on his mashed potatoes.  After a few huffs and puffs, he slammed his spoon down and stomped upstairs.  This was unusual, as Ryan's always been a fairly easy-going kid.  I went up to his room and found him lying on his bed, scowling at the ceiling.

"What's wrong, dude?" I asked.

"It's not fair.  Lindsay's wish came true but mine didn't."

"Well, Ry, I don't really think her wish came true, exactly."

"You heard her!  She wished for that kid to disappear and now he's gone!  She got her wish, but I didn't get mine!"


"What is it that you wished for, anyway?"

"To be able to breathe fire."

 


d

Stitches, Concussions, and Other Great Moments in Parenting

Over the course of my lifetime, I've been afraid of many things.  When I was a kid, my list of mortal fears included clowns, fire, and coconut cakes.  In high school I added a few more, things like talking to hot cheerleaders, the cretins hanging out in the smoking area and, of course, clowns.  Then in college, I tacked on alcohol poisoning, STD's, and my evil Music History professor.  Oh, and clowns.  The point is, all of us have our innermost fears, and the list just keeps getting longer and longer.

But I'll tell you this.  Until you become a parent, you have no idea what pure, gut-wrenching terror really is.

From the moment the doctor yanks your goopy blue child screaming from your wife's hoo-hoo (or, if you're a woman, your very own personal hoo-hoo), all you can think about is, "How do I keep this wondrous creature safe until he graduates from high school?"

Personally, I was able to protect my son Ryan from harm up until the age of nine days, at which time I attempted to clip his fingernails.  I carefully laid him down on the changing table, making sure his diaper was secured so he didn't pee in my ear again.  I located the Black and Decker Infant Nail Clippers, tenderly placed his delicate little hand in mine and with the utmost caution proceeded to hack off his index finger.  Blood spurted everywhere, like that scene in Jaws when Quint gets bitten in half.  Ryan, meanwhile, was shrieking like a banshee, turning various shades of purple.


In retrospect, it probably wasn't quite that horrific, but that's how it will forever live in my memory.

Ryan is now almost eighteen and my daughter Lindsay is almost fifteen, and for the most part they've managed to avoid serious injury.  This is a definite departure from the family traditions set forth by me and my brothers who, during our childhood years, suffered from broken bones, gaping head wounds, foot-long splinters embedded in thigh muscle, scratched corneas, severed fingertips, chipped teeth, an assortment of gashes and cuts, and one case of mangled face suffered by my brother Bobby when he attempted to ride his bike down the apparently-not-obviously-enough-named "Suicide Hill."  This list, by the way, is not intended to be all-inclusive.

Now, while I did say that my kids have done a decent job of staying in one piece, this doesn't mean we've avoided the emergency room completely.  Our first trip took place a few years ago.  I was sitting in the bleachers on a sunny afternoon watching Ryan and the rest of the Norco Junior League Athletics shag fly balls in the outfield, preparing for their upcoming battle against the vaunted Giants.  I was chatting with my daughter when a collective "gasp" passed through the crowd.  I looked out onto the field and noticed a team of coaches surrounding a fallen player.  As any parent would, I surveyed the Athletics who were still upright, looking for Ryan.  When I didn't see him among the conscious, I used my Sherlock Holmesian powers of deductive reasoning to conclude that he was, in fact, the kid bleeding all over the freshly-mowed outfield grass.

As I got up to go check on him, I overheard a mom say, "Ah, who cares, it's not MY kid."  Before I could even turn around to tell this insensitive bitch to go screw herself, I heard my daughter Lindsay say, "Hey, lady, it's my brother so why don't you just shut up, okay?"

I've never been so proud.

I jogged to the outfield to check on Ry.  I was not prepared for what I was about to see, specifically, my son's face completely covered in his own blood.  It was the fingernail clipping incident all over again.  My initial fear was that the ball had knocked out a few teeth or popped his eyeball out of his head or something.  The gallon of spilled blood made it impossible to locate the actual wound, so I asked Ryan, "Hey buddy, where does it hurt?"  I'll never forget his reply:

"Where it's bleeding from, duh."

I looked at the coach and said, "Yeah, he's gonna be fine."

The Team Mom had arrived with the first aid kid by this point, and managed to stop the bleeding which as it turned out was coming from a nasty gash above Ryan's left eye.  I drove him to the hospital where they stitched him up.  When I went in to see him in recovery he was already hitting on the girl on the next table, who had suffered severe facial trauma trying to pierce her own lip.  A match made in Urgent Care.

More recently, just a couple weeks ago in fact, I paid another visit to our local emergency room, this time with my daughter Lindsay.  In a moment of questionable judgment, Linds signed up for a co-ed basketball league for kids aged 15-17.  On her high school team, she's actually one of the taller, sturdier girls standing about 5'8".  She's used to being one of the bigger players and uses her size to her advantage in the girls' league.  However, playing in a league that's eighty percent post-pubescent guys, she seems better equipped for a stint in the Lullaby League.

So last week, she was back on defense when an opponent roughly the size of Mount McKinley came driving down the lane.  For non-basketball fans, that means he was rumbling toward the basket fully prepared to trample anything and everything that got in his way.

Which turned out to be my poor innocent little girl.

The good news is that she stood in there and took the charge, just as she's been taught.  The bad news is that since Man-Mountain McGee had at least a hundred pound weight advantage, the resulting collision sent her flying through the air.  Gravity, as it tends to do, took it from there and when Linds re-entered the earth's atmosphere, it was the back of her skull that first contacted the wooden floor.  A nauseating "thunk" echoed throughout the gym.

As I raced the ambulance to the hospital, my body was possessed by St. Wimperly, the Patron Saint of Overprotective Parents.  "That's it, she's done with basketball," I thought.  "Tomorrow I'm signing her up for oboe lessons.  The only dangerous thing about an oboe is listening to somebody try to play one."

In a feat of driving skill that would put Jeff Gordon to shame, I beat the ambulance to the ER by about five minutes.  I followed Lindsay's gurney (my baby girl is on a GURNEY!) to the patient inspection room or whatever they call it, where they took her vital signs.

"Hi, Linds, how are you feeling?" I asked.

She looked at me and smiled.  "That ambulance driver was HOT!"

If she wasn't already in the hospital, I think I'd have knocked her out.



j

What the Hell is a Flugalume?

I opened the birthday card my kids gave me, and I found three tickets.  Where were they taking me, I wondered, a hockey game?  The Bon Jovi concert (I hoped)?  Taking a closer look, I saw the words "Spelling Bee" printed on the tickets.

Confused, but not wanting to seem ungrateful, I said, "Thanks.  So, um, we're going to a spelling bee?"  I was imagining a fun-filled evening of ten year-old poindexters rattling off the spelling of words like "succedaneum," "pococurante," and "appoggiatura."

"Well, sort of," replied my 14 year-old daughter Lindsay.

We headed to the La Mirada Theater, about a 50-mile drive.  On the way, my son Ryan said, "We should try to get there early.  The doors open at 6:00."  This was my first clue that something was up.  Ryan is never on time for anything, let alone early.  We got there at about 5:45.  While standing in line, I noticed that the marquee read "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee."  That's odd.  La Mirada isn't in Putnam County, it's in Orange County.  I don't think there's even a Putnam County in California.

It turns out that The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee is a popular Broadway musical.  Too bad.  I was actually starting to look forward to seeing nerdy little kids butcher the word "onomatopoeia".

The doors opened, and when we entered the theater an official La Mirada Community Theater representative approached me and said, "Hi!  My name's Jill.  How would you like to participate in tonight's performance?"

I looked at the kids.  They were giggling.  "This is why you wanted to get here early, isn't it?" I asked.

"Uh huh!"

"Okay, Jill," I said, "what do I have to do?"

"Basically, you'll be one of the spelling bee contestants," she said.  "The script calls for four audience members, and you just do what the cast members tell you.  It's really easy, and a lot of fun."

As you may have already assumed, I'm not what you would call "shy".  So I said, sure, why not?

"Great!  Come with me."

Ryan and Lindsay went to our seats in the front row, while Jill escorted me and three other lucky volunteers backstage for our instructions.  "Okay, here's what's going to happen," she said.  "Early in the show, the spelling bee host is going to say that they're four spellers short, and then she'll call you up by name.  You go up on stage, taking the stairs on the right, and from then on you just follow the lead of the cast members.  They'll help guide you through it."

"So what about the spelling part," asked Jennifer, a real estate agent from Huntington Beach.

"I was just getting to that," said Jill.  "When it's your turn, the vice principal will call you to the microphone and give you your word.  If you remember nothing else I'm telling you, remember this: When he gives you the word, ask first for the definition and then ask him to use it in a sentence.  That's very important.  Also, don't feel like you have to act.  Just be yourselves, and really do try to spell the words right.  The script will take care of the rest."

"What if one of us wins?" I asked.  Hey, I'm a competitive guy, and a fairly decent speller.  I figured I might have a shot at this.

"You're not going to win," said Jill.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Trust me.  A cast member wins.  It's in the script."

Hah!  I'll show her, I thought.

The show started and the spelling bee host called us up on stage.  She gave us each a number to wear around our neck (I was number 25) and a cast member showed us to our seats on the benches with the other spellers.  In character, the actors sized up the late entrants and engaged us in a bit of small talk.  Then a musical number broke out.  A character named Marcy Park, a student at a parochial school called Our Lady of Intermittent Sorrows, took me by the arm and led me to center stage.  Encouraged by the rest of the cast, my three comrades and I shimmied, shook, did the Macarena, and jumped up and down repeatedly.  In the front row, meanwhile, Ryan and Lindsay have laughed themselves to tears.

Then came my turn to spell.  "Our next contestant is Chris . . . "

Naturally, part of the fun of this, at least for the rest of the audience, was for the cast to make fun of the lucky volunteers.  The vice principal led with the obvious.  A bald joke.

"You might remember Chris from last year's third grade production of The King and I."

Audience laughter.

"Also, he is the only member of his fourth grade class with facial hair."

"Thanks," I mumbled.

"Okay, Chris, your word is atheist."  Cool.  I was pretty sure I knew that one, but I didn't forget my instructions.

"Could I have the definition, please?"

"Atheist: A person who does not believe in religion or in the existence of God."

"Could you use it in a sentence?"

"Of course.  Since Mary is an atheist, it doesn't bother her when her classmates yell 'Go to hell, Mary, go to hell!'"

I spelled it correctly, and returned to my seat to the thunderous applause of the crowd.  Ryan gave me a quick thumbs-up.  The rest of round one included the following:

"Martin, Your word is Mexican."

"Can I have the definition?"

"A person who comes from Mexico, and in American slang, also from Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Argentina, or East Los Angeles."

"Jennifer, your word is kinikkinnick."

"Can I have the definition, please?"

"A pipe used by the Indians to smoke marijuana and opiates."

"Can I have that in a sentence?"

"Puffing on his kinikkinnick, Chief Running Nose said, 'And this is where I'll put the craps tables.'"

"Your word is cow."

"Can I have the definition?"  Laughter from the audience.  I mean, come on now.

"Sure.  It's . . . a COW."

"Can you use it in a sentence?"

"Spell the word 'COW'."

Okay, so after a few rounds and a couple more musical numbers, I was the only audience member remaining on stage, having successfully spelled "jihad" and "auctioneer." 

Chip Tolentino, one of the real characters, was eliminated in a particularly awkward fashion. While waiting his turn, Chip noticed an attractive woman in the audience and puberty immediately kicked in.  Desperately trying to hide his arousal, he screwed up his word and was escorted off stage by Mitch Mahoney, the "Comfort Counselor."

And it was my turn again.

"Chris, your word is flugalume."

Flugalume?  What the hell is a flugalume?  I was in trouble.  "Uh, can I have the definition, please?"

"Unknown.  The word has never appeared in print, and there is only one known citation of its use in verbal discourse."

"I don't suppose you remember that sentence, do you?"

"Absolutely.  Caught by surprise, the gentleman called out 'flu-gal-oooo-hooooome!'"

"Uh, F-L-U-," I guessed, wildly, "G-A-L . . . U-M-E."

The vice principal looked at the host, confused.  He looked back at me and said, "Uh, yes, that's correct."

"You're kidding me."

As I walked back to my seat one of the other contestants, a politically-aware over-achiever named Logainne Schwartzengrubenaire, said, "Good job!  I didn't even know that one."

I was immediately called back to the microphone by the vice principal.  "Well, you must think a lot of yourself by now, don't you?"

"Uh, not really."

"O.K, Smartypants . . ."

"Smartypants.  S-M-A-R-T-Y-P-A-N-T-S."

Laughter from the audience, mild embarrassment on the faces of Ryan and Lindsay.

"Nice try," said the vice principal.  "Your real word is xenophileology."

"Z - "

DING!  The bell rang, signifying an incorrect spelling.  I was out.  But before I could leave the stage, good ol' Mitch Mahoney came over to comfort me.   He handed me a juice box and put his arm around me.  I started to walk off stage, but Mitch wasn't about to let me off the hook that easily.  It seems that there's a whole production number built around the last audience member's elimination.  Mitch broke into song:

"Oh, Chris . . . you will be missed.
But now go with dignity.
You've been the best looking dude we've had all day,
And a smart dude as well . . . "

The rest of the cast danced around me, singing backup to Mitch.  Suffice it to say, this was not the most comfortable moment of my life.

When I finally made it back to my seat the kids were in hysterics.  We enjoyed the rest of the show, especially Chip Tolentino's show-stopping number entitled "My Unfortunate Erection".  Afterward, several people came up to me and told me that I did very well.  Someone asked if I was a "plant" and I assured her that, no, I was completely winging it.

On the drive home, still pumped up from the performance, I kept going on about how amazed I was that I'd spelled "flugalume" right.

And that's when Ryan burst my bubble.

You see, Ryan's currently rehearsing for a different production of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee playing the role of the vice principal, so he knows the script inside and out.  That's how he knew about the audience participation to begin with, which is why he insisted on getting to the theater early.

"Um, Dad, I hate to break this to you, but that's all in the script."

"What do you mean?"

"Yeah, in the script it says that as long as the audience member spells anything that could possibly be pronounced 'flugalume', they get it right."

"You mean I spelled it wrong?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean, not exactly?  How's it really spelled?"

"Flugalume isn't a word, Dad."

Well shit.

Note: The picture at the top of this post is the cast of the La Mirada Theater's production of "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee", the actual actors we saw that evening.  Mitch Mahoney is on the far right, and Chip Tolentino is the Boy Scout.

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