November 29, 2007 by Dave.

One of the great things about being a grandmother is you have a free license to unabashedly spoil their grandkids. Whether it be with toys or love, they get away with bestowing pretty much everything they can onto their grandkids and leave the parents to deal with the children’s inevitable withdrawal later that evening.

Sophia and I drove from my cousin’s house in Jersey to meet my mom at her usual Saturday brunch at 107 West only a block away from her Upper West Side apartment. She had been there a while when we arrived. It took Sophia a few seconds to recognize her grandmother, but when she did, she ran through the foyer to give her a big hug. Since she’d already been there, she already ate. This was the breakfast I should have had before jumping into the car so I was happy to eat anything. Sophia was a different story. I was hoping to have her eat healthy since the night before we took longer to get into Jersey than I thought, and wound up at the Vince Lombardi service station off of 95 South to take in some Nathan’s hot dogs and fries. It was needed at the time, although I admit it was good to introduce Sophia to the best tasting fries ever. Still we need to keep her diet adjusted and her weight steady. However Sophia wasn’t interested in healthy. She didn’t want the fruit or yogurt offering they had, which she usually is into. Mom asked and ordered the kid’s chicken tenders and fries for her instead. I had the Scottish eggs Benedict (salmon instead of Canadian bacon). After watching Sophia eat an entire plate of fries while draining half a six-ounce bottle of ketchup, mom told her waitress friend at the bar to invest in Heinz.

Since my mom was going to miss Sophia’s birthday in December (I wouldn’t be coming down again with her until January at the earliest), my mom told Sophia that she was taking her on a “birthday present walk” up Broadway to buy her some toys. Mom grilled Sophia (and me) on what she liked best. We sort of focused on stuffed animals, which I give her in droves. When we got to the kids’ store about 4 blocks up, I remembered that she also loves Littlest Pet Shop toys. Her aunt gave her a few of them and she loves them a lot. I of course remembered this right after seeing Sophia drooling over one of the pet packs. After a lot of negotiating, Sophia settled on a hospital and a bathtub Pet Shop pack, and a Wishbear Care Bear.

We took the bus back to mom’s apartment because Sophia said she didn’t want to walk the whole six blocks back. She could have but she wasn’t in the mood to. Sophia played with her Pet Shop packs on the open futon couch while I had to set up mom’s fax machine with help from a friend of hers on the cell phone talking me through it. It’s one of the unwritten benefits of your son coming in from out of town; they have to help with putting together electronics, taking out garbage and killing insects while over there. Mom was apparently exhausted from my Dad’s stay the night before. He kept her up most of the night with his being on the retired Puerto Rican timetable (up at 6:00 am in bed by 10:00 pm at the latest) but also by over-organizing his schedule for the next couple of days and reminding her about it. There’s a reason they divorced. Having Sophia around was relatively tame by comparison. It even gave her a chance to recharge a bit. Sophia played with her dolls, got both mom and I involved in a game of “I Spy” with stuff around the apartment and generally being her own five year old self.

As it has been generally a strange experience being a father, it was equally so having my daughter and mom in the same room. First of all I never knew how to refer to my own mother. I kept calling her mom when talking to Sophia, but she was Sophia’s grandmother so I had to immediately correct myself. Each time I did that, the more confused I got as to what to call anyone. The other big thing is that concerning her children, my mother is a mini-archivist. She still has many of the art projects we’ve done over the years from kindergarten to grade school. The handmade mock banjo I made out of a block of wood, nails and yarn when I was a huge Pete Seeger fan at the age of five, the one I used to give “concerts” with in the nursery, hangs prominently in the hallway entrance to her apartment. A picture of a clock made with various pebbles and glitter collaged together on a wooden board that I made in kindergarten hangs on the wall in the living room (I dispute that I did it all by myself—the numbers on the clock face look more like my dad’s hand than mine—but she says it was all me). Somewhere on the bookshelves with the tonnage of books she collected over the years, I know there is an autobiography of mine written in fourth grade. So it should have been no surprise that she was easily able to pull out a photo album with a bunch of pictures of me as a toddler. As usual, I’m embarrassed to look at those photos of me as a kid. This time was a much different reaction. I knew Sophia always looked like me, but to see me at almost the same age she was really a shock. Certain shots I could look back and forth between the photo of me and Sophia and not be able to tell the difference. My mom said that Marie (her lifelong friend and my de facto godmother) said that Sophia couldn’t be more like me if she was cloned. It was surreal to look at me as a child and see my daughter instead. I also got a little sad about it as well. I’ve said the past that I was a much braver child at six than I am now. I had no problem telling a story into a tape recorder complete with sound effects and imitations. Now I struggle to put more than a sentence on a page. I’m still not sure I can recapture that again, but I would like to make sure that Sophia never loses it like I did.

Many “I Spy” games later, we took a walk to VT’s, a famous Upper West Side Italian restaurant well known for its pizza. I remember it more for several family dinners there with my mom and occasionally my dad, including a few with the whole immediate family after a group therapy session at the nearby Roosevelt Hospital. We got a table rather quickly despite the place being pretty full up. The main congestion was due to a kids’ soccer team celebration with coaches and parents. As is custom with Upper West Side Manhattan family group meals, the kids had their own table where they usually laughed, screamed to talk each other and generally annoyed the other patrons; the parents and other adults sat at their own table trying to be oblivious to all the noise around them (or at least ignoring all of it), engaged in civil conversation over coffee in their own group cone of silence. Luckily their party dispersed partway through our bread course. We all enjoyed our time together over our family style Italian meals and made small talk with Sophia as she played more “I Spy” using shapes around the room (paintings, decor, etc).

Later I drove mom back to her apartment before heading back to Jersey. Sophia insisted that her grandma sit in the back seat with her. It meant moving the passenger seat much further forwards, but it was more bonding time between grandmother and granddaughter. My mom told me that when I went looking for a new parking spot earlier that day, Sophia told her that she thought she was awesome. I do admit, she has her moments.

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November 24, 2007 by Dave.

A couple of weeks ago, I bought Sophia a Dora the Explorer memory card game. It’s basically a match the 72 flashcards of Dora characters. It’s pretty scary how well she’s doing at it. She’s been playing against me the whole time and she’s been really stunning at it. I’m not bad, but my memory sucks these days. I can’t tell you the full standings (because I lost track) but I can say this. The first game she played she only lost by 8 cards. She’s beaten me at least twice (maybe three times) and once very handily. The last game we played she lost, but it was by only four cards.

What surprises me about her playing is that while she does the same kind of strategy I do—which is to try to watch what cards are turned and where they are to find them later—but she has been able to pull matches out of nowhere. I know she’s not palming cards so I’ve been very impressed. She’s also getting an attitude about it. She always asks if I’m proud of her that she made a match. I am, but there’s a couple of times that there was a lilt of sarcasm in her voice that made me want to toss her out a window. Yes, she’s also got my natural competitiveness as well. Sometimes she sulks when she hasn’t won the whole game. I need to work on that.

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November 23, 2007 by Dave.

I went to New York/New Jersey for a few days to see family and relax. I did a little pre-blog writing while trying to get some sleep, and had a good start to a short story. When I came back to work today (yes, on Thanksgiving) I tried to write a little more of my novella. The second I tried, I froze. While in New York, I wasn’t anxious with writing and trying to get things on paper. I do it at work on a holiday when I have a lot of time on my hands and a computer in front of me, all that internal crap comes right to the surface and keeps me from getting anything on paper. It’s too much of a struggle these days, and I keep getting in my own way. I can’t keep doing this to myself but I don’t know what to do about it.

I know I’m scared. I think I set a bar so high for myself that any two words I string together have to be perfect. I’m doing this to myself. I’ve gotten good responses from my writing and I want to keep getting it. The thing is I can’t seem to enjoy simply getting the words out and working with them. I have to have it out on the page exactly right the first time. I do that and I can’t get anything done. I can’t relax, I can’t do what I need to do to get the stuff out on the page. I’m getting more and more lost and can’t seem to get out of my own rut.

I know my daughter has the same issues. She’s been practicing her writing doing names and such, but any time she makes a small mistake, it’s the end of the world. I keep telling her that it doesn’t matter that it’s not perfect, nothing ever is. I don’t want her to fall into the same trap I have already. Thing is I won’t listen to my own advice.

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November 21, 2007 by Dave.

It’s been a while driving around with Sophia’s CD in th car. Here’s how Sophia has renamed the songs (or at least how she refers to them:

You Are My Sunshine = “The Sunshine Song”
The Word = “The Word”
De Do Do Do De Da Da Da = “The Police Song”
Yellow Submarine = “The Submarine Song”
Ob La Di Ob La Da = “Marketplace Song”
Good Day Sunshine = “The Other Sunshine Song”
And Your Bird Can Sing = hasn’t come up with one yet
Dear Officer Krupke = “The Story song”
I Feel Pretty = “The Other Story Song”
All You Need Is Love = hasn’t come up with one yet
Hello, Goodbye = “The Oh-No Song”
Piggies = “George’s Song”
Big Rock Candy Mountain = same
Stand By Me = hasn’t come up with one yet

She knows who all the Beatles are now, and she knows who sings each song. She also keeps reminding me (asking me) who sings what. She can also sing each of the songs pretty well now, too. BTW, her favorite Beatle right now is George.

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November 15, 2007 by Dave.

I’m switching some gears slightly. I started writing more of the second chapter of the novella I posted and was trying to write earlier in the year. I stopped writing it when I was applying for Sundance and had to rewrite the screenplay I was submitting. I had a feeling to try and get back to the story and wanted to finish what I started. It’s been slow going. Like always I second-guess my every step in writing. It doesn’t help to write and edit as you go on. You never get going at all. Which is pretty much how things are going right now.

I’m also paying more for my car. Again. I brought it in to check the brakes and a something minor before I went to New York this weekend. My mechanic calls me and says I need four new tires—I knew I needed two, but four?—a new axle and something for the exhaust. All this is about $700 more. Needless to say I won’t be renting a car to go to NYC.

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November 12, 2007 by Dave.

During our rummage sale at the Medford UU church, among the various old videos in the tape section, there was a copy of “Wild Things” up for sale. I had a great laugh at that one.

Sophia was pretty much planted at the toy section for the duration while I helped on the floor at the sale. Among the toys was a huge laundry bin filled with stuffed animals and beanie babies. Many of them were the usual fare— bears, ponies, dogs, a couple of birds— but there were a few beanie babies that were unusual and some downright strange, including a koala, awolf, a rooster, an anteater, an ostrich, and a pterodactyl (yes, a pterodactyl). My three favorites were a blue and yellow coiled snake, something that I thought was an iguana but turned out to be a chameleon, and a frog. The frog wasn’t a green pond frog, but deep blue with black spots all over it. To me, it looked like one of those hallucinogenic frogs you can get stoned on by licking it. Somehow I pictured in my head the executive marketing meeting about new stuffed animal development. One of the execs finishes snorting a line of blow, jumps up holding his nose and yells, “I GOT IT! We make hallucinogenic toad beanie baby! Kids’ll love it!” and everyone around the table nods in agreement just as the executive goes into convulsions.

An older woman who is like a grandmother to Sophia bought her a beanie baby dog and a swan as a present. I bought her the chameleon and the frog. Although I really bought those for me.

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November 10, 2007 by Dave.

As an aspiring screenwriter, the script affects me in some ways and as an aspiring screenwriter it doesn’t affect me in others. No, I don’t have to walk picket lines holding a placard; no, I don’t have to stop writing. Since I have not yet sold a screenplay or am working on a network, cable, or syndicated TV sitcom, I am not a member of the Writer’s Guild of America and do not have a job as a paid/employed writer. Like many other wannabe writers, I have a day job that pays my salary and benefits and I write on my own time hoping to make a big splash (nee sell script for a lot of money) in the industry.

How the strike does affect me is that while I have many scripts I can sell, I can’t sell them to a struck signatory production company— which is basically most prodocos in the industry. I also couldn’t try to solicit an agent in any agency that is a Guild signatory—which is also most of the agencies in the business. Anyone who sells work to a struck company or to an agency will be barred from joining the Guild in the future, or be expelled if they are a member. Since it’s in my career interest to be a Guild member, I’m abiding by the rule. Granted I’m abiding by the rule more because I support the union.

I probably should be writing short stories or my novella instead of any script, but I’m still writing my own web series, which since I’m not a Guild member I can do. This series idea has been in my head since May and is probably my best chance to make it in the business. Also because it’s a web series, no one is getting paid at all including me, and that can only come if we actually are able to package this into DVD sales—and that is WAY further down the road. As such I’m willing to abide by whatever contract agreements both parties agree to eventually. Plus I’m very excited about the prospects for this kind of writing—writing content for the web/new media. That’s part of what the strike is about to begin with.

Not a lot of people know what the debate is about. Years ago when the burgeoning video market was starting to grab hold, the writers negotiated slashing their request of a residual rate to allow the market to grow; they agreed to four cents for each video sold. They were supposed to get their rate raised up to a regular rate later. That was back in the ’80s. Now with the DVD market and the internet, writers want to double their current residual rate to eight cents; the producers want to eliminate writer residuals. I’ve always felt that there’s enough money to go around for people, but some people want to hoard more of it than others.

For some background information, you can watch this:

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November 7, 2007 by Dave.

Monday wasn’t the day from hell, but it was climbing definitely through Purgatory. My car wasn’t ready yet, so I had to take Sophia to school by bus. She likes to ask how many buses it will take to wherever we’re going; it takes three buses to get to her school. As I’m walking her to the school (there’s also a five or six block walk from the main avenue in Newton to her school), I get a call on my cell from the body shop. My car is ready, I can pick it up after 11:00 am, and I need to pay the $900 balance—cash or money order. I know they don’t do checks or credit cards, so I was trying to figure out a way to get a $900 money order with my credit card, not my debit card/checking. I tried to buy a money order with my credit card from the post office. Turns out you can’t buy one that way, unless you withdraw it like an ATM card and that is the specific reason I don’t know the pin number for almost all of my credit cards (I only know one of them and that one is never in my wallet). The bank told me the same thing. So I went to a check cashing place up the street to see if I could buy a money order with my credit card there. No dice; cash only. The only way was to buy it with my debit card. I knew I had enough money in my checking to do it, but I would later transfer money from the credit card that I wanted to use in the first place. I went to the ATM to withdraw the money, however I’m not sure what my withdrawal limit was. Couldn’t do the full amount but was able to get $500. So I went back to the post office to buy a $400 money order with my ATM this time. But that was also declined. Not knowing what the hell was going on, I went back home. I thought I might be able to find the pin number for the credit card and withdraw that money so I can do what I originally intended. I’m apparently smarter than that—I threw out all the pin numbers for my credit cards. Then my ATM card got flagged for suspicious use, so I had to call my bank and get that straightened out.

I do have a newfound respect for Bank of America. They halted all action on my debit card after I withdrew the $500 and then tried to buy the money order. Apparently some people try to purchase large money orders after stealing ATM cards in order to raid accounts. So when I tried to buy the money order the second time they clamped down on the card activity immediately, and I had to call and verify who I was and all the charges of the day I tried to make. At least I know there’s some protection on my money.

So after all the verifying, I had to raise my withdrawal limit so I can get the $400 to get the car. Finally I got all the money I needed to pay for the car out of my checking account, half of which I then need to replace with a transfer from my credit card to carry me to the next paycheck. However I have to make sure I do it on the credit card that already has a balance transfer on it and I have to do it after the close of the statement (which was is today but it doesn’t take until after business hours Wednesday morning) so I don’t have a third money transfer on the card I transferred all my debt to and paid for my car to start with.

After Wednesday I’m going to start freelance money laundering for the Russian mob.

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November 2, 2007 by Dave.

Before the crash, I finally made that mix-CD for Sophia to play in the car. It mostly has stuff that I know she would like, but I put a few things that I like too. Here’s the playlist:

You Are My Sunshine—Norman Blake, “O, Brother, Where Art Thou?” soundtrack
The Word—The Beatles
De Do Do Do De Da Da Da—The Police
Yellow Submarine—The Beatles
Ob La Di Ob La Da—The Beatles
Good Day Sunshine—The Beatles
And Your Bird Can Sing—The Beatles
Dear Officer Krupke—”West Side Story” soundtrack
I Feel Pretty—”West Side Story” soundtrack
All You Need Is Love—The Beatles
Hello, Goodbye—The Beatles
Piggies—The Beatles
Big Rock Candy Mountain—Harry McLintock, “O, Brother, Where Art Thou?” soundtrack
Stand By Me—John Lennon

Okay, some of the songs don’t exactly make sense. Listen to the lyrics to De Do Do Do De Da Da Da, and it mentions rape (”their logic ties you up and rapes you”). Not great for children and I winced when I realized the lyrics with her in the car the first time. Luckily she told her mom she likes it, and more often than not she skips over it to go to Yellow Submarine. The “West Side Story” songs are actually from my childhood. I wore out the grooves on my dad’s copy of the Broadway album when I was a child, although I was 8 at the time. Yeah Officer Krupke isn’t the best song for a kid (granted these versions are from the movie soundtrack—which is better in my opinion—and the Broadway version is a little worse). Still Sondheim is good for rhythm and lyrics, and it’s one of my favorite songs from the soundtrack. She also likes to skip over the two “West Side Story” songs, too.

They also kind of break up the monotony of only Beatles songs. Not that I have anything against them, believe me I wouldn’t put so many Beatles songs up there if I didn’t. But you need a variety of styles to get a child interested in stuff. And Piggies is one of the stranger songs to include, as Sophia’s mom loves to point out that that song reminds her of the Manson family murders.

So she’s getting hooked on the Beatles for now (or as she likes to call them, “the white beetles”). And she likes the “O Brother Where Art Thou?” songs, too. Later I’ll be working her up to the Clash, Pearl Jam and Rage Against the Machine, but the Beatles are a great place to start.

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