Haircut

Actually I got them all cut…

In the sixth grade a kid at lunch told be I would never get a girlfriend until I got a “hairstyle” and for the most part, he was right. And even though I never had a hairstyle, I persevered and managed to get someone to agree to marry me, even with my hair handicap.

SMASH CUT TO:

For the past 8 months I have not cut my hair. Yes, that might sound crazy especially if you know my usual hair length (look at my self portrait). But 8 months ago when I was about to go to the barber ( ok, the barber school for a 4 dollar haircut) I was informed by my blushing bride that I should not get it cut “too” short because when the big day came, I was going to her stylist and I needed to “give him something to work with.” “Okay”, I stubbornly though, “I just won’t go at all.”

I’ll have to say, at first things were kind of crazy. My hair kinda puffs out when it gets long and since I have never grown it out long before I didn’t quite know what to expect. Around March I had students asking me about my hair and “what’s that all about?” but determined to let it grow I ignored my students questioning comments and pushed on.

In May I was able to contain my hair by using the tried and true method of hair grease and slicking it back. I looked like I should be cast in a Martin Scorsese Picture but the hair was less poofy and that’s what mattered at the time. By the end of June the back of my hair was getting long and I was slowly turning into a 70’s feathered hair wanna be. I knew July and August were going to be rough months.

Then something happen…

I actually started getting used to the hair, and the hair was getting used to me. The length was getting to be at just long enough to make the hair actually look “good” comparatively speaking. Bree however had just about enough of the hair and was counting down the days to getting my head shaved. I joked with her, “What if your stylist says that my hair is perfect and he’s not going to touch it?” She was not amused.

The big day came this past weekend and much to Bree’s horror and my delight, her stylist thought it looked great the way it was! She insisted he look at a picture that she brought of me, back in the day, with short hair. We came to a compromise and he took away the Seventies-ness and brought me back into the 21st century.

The crazy thing is, now I feel like a grown-up. My hair is not buzzed and does not look long and messy but it’s cut like…like…like an adult. Oh the humanity!

So gentlemen, despite the odds, you can get a girlfriend without a hairstyle, however you gonna need one to get married.

Eagles

I believe in second chances but…

I like football, watching it, playing it, I’ll even watch soccer if I’m in a country and they call it “football”. However due to recent events I might be watching a lot less.

The Eagles are my team. And anyone who has a team can tell you, “your team” is very important. First, your team defines what kind of fan you are. Your team tells you what other teams to hate, and what other teams to really hate. Sometimes you may think your team is a bunch of bums or the greatest group of players to ever touch the pigskin, quite possably in the same game. The point is that no matter what, you are loyal to your team.

My team just signed Micheal Vick.

For those of you who do not follow the game of football and don’t watch the news, Micheal Vick was a quarterback who thought dogfighting was a good idea, AND thought that torturing dogs to death who didn’t win an even better idea.

Micheal Vick got sent to jail.

Now the coach for the Eagles believes in second chances, my brother however feels differently and desided to write Coach Reid a letter:

Dear Andy Reid,

I grew up just northwest of Philadelphia and have been an Eagles fan
since I started watching and playing football over 20 years ago.  I
passionately, my wife would say religiously, follow the Eagles and
have supported the organization through the bad times and more
recently the good times.  I have a great deal of respect for your
character and moral values both on and off the field.  Since moving
out of state I take great pride in telling people that I am a
Philadelphian and Eagles fan.  That has changed today.

I am disappointed to learn that the Eagles have decided to make
Michael Vick a part of the team.  As you know Mr. Vick financed and
operated a dog fighting ring for at least six years.  He allowed and
oversaw the torture and murder of dozens of dogs whose only “flaw” was
pacifism.  Mr. Vick permitted dogs in his care to be hung, drowned and
electrocuted.

Several years ago my wife rescued a dog that was found wandering the
streets.  He was skin and bones and would have surely died but for the
intervention of my caring wife.  Spencer, who is the same breed that
Mr. Vick would have been familiar with, is now a loving and happy
dog.  I have no doubt that Spencer would not have done well in Mr.
Vick’s compound.  The thought that someone would be able to attach
jumper cables to Spencer in order to execute him makes me sick to my
stomach.

I have never written a letter like this before.  It would be easy for
me to stand by and say nothing but I am reminded of a quote by Nobel
Laureate and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel, “Neutrality helps the
oppressor, never the victim.  Silence encourages the tormentor never
the tormented.”  Spencer has no voice, but I do.

Actions speak louder than words, so I wanted to personally inform you
that I can not support the Philadelphia Eagles while Michael Vick is a
part of the team.

Sincerly
Brady’s Brother

So my brother is not messing around and neither am I. Athough my dog would surely kick anyones ass, so there is no need for me to picture her paying the price for losing, I would not want any living thing treated that way.

However I do believe in second chance and believe Micheal Vick may be sincere in his apologies, but “actions speak louder than words” so, Micheal, you better start giving back before I watch a game again, make me believe that you are repentant in your ways.

And to Coach Reid: What the eff? The guy hasn’t played football for 2 years?! We need some recivers not another QB! I hope that you were truly looking to help a guy get back on his feet, I hope you prove me wrong, but that was a dumb move. Really dumb.

So since I won’t be watching any games, dear Readers, please let me know how things fair with the Eagles and if Michael Vick is doing good work both on and off the feild.

Thanks…

(oh and I still hate the Giants)

Responsibility

I’ll admit it, I never asked for a dog…

I was the one who said, “Do we have time for a dog?” I mentioned “Can we afford a dog?” I remember saying “Will having a dog in the city be ok?” and then the issue of “Do we really want to house train a dog in a 3rd floor walk up?”

I was not ready for a dog. (Is anyone really for their first dog?) I did not know how to housebreak a dog, how to train a dog, how to do anything with a dog. And to be honest I didn’t want to know any of these things.

I wanted to take my time on my commute home, not have to rush home to the dog. I wanted to relax after work, not walk the dog, I wanted to sleep all night, not let out the dog.

But even-though I was trying to be the voice of reason, we got a dog. And her name is Rose. Rose liked to pee, she liked to play and she liked to walk.

Did I mention she liked to pee?

I vowed to be a good responsible dog owner, but it was tough because I felt that I was the one who had to rush home to be with Rose, I felt I was the one who had to take her for long walks after work, I felt like I was the one who had to get up in the middle of the night to take her out, and I felt it wasn’t fair, I never asked for a dog, the responsibility was just given to me.

Of course I look back on this now and realize what a team effort it took to get Rose from age 1 to age 4. Bree and I worked hard (and still work hard) to raise our little dog. But lets face it, 3 years ago I was going out of my mind with the injustice of it all.

That is until one day I looked at Rose and saw that she couldn’t take care of herself without me (or Bree). She needed me and although she can’t say it (and even if she could she wouldn’t) she needs me in order to get the right food, to take a walk safely, to be let out when she needs to pee. Without me, she can’t do it.

That’s when I realize that not only can I do this, and that I have to do this, but I WANT to do this and that has made a difference in everything.

Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy a day or two when Rose is in New Jersey and Bree and I have some time to ourselves, but we miss Rose, I miss Rose and it’s nice when she comes back to be with us.

Being responsible is hard, but it’s easier when you finally figure out you love what you are responsible for.

Hawk

Central Park has Pale Male…

But there is a hawk in Tompkins Square Park too. He doesn’t get the children’s books written about him or the songs, but as far as I’m concerned he’s way cooler.

First of all he doesn’t have a name, which makes him all mysterious and junk, and second he lives in Tompkins Square Park which has a higher coolness level than Central Park, if you’re in to that sort of thing, which of course this hawk is not, which makes him even cooler.

The Hawk and I are also good friends. Lots of people want to be his friend, taking pictures of him, wanting to hang out with him, but the Hawk and I always say “hi” in that cool way of nodding your head up and saying “hey” or not even saying anything but just acknowledging you’re there and cool with a head nod. That’s our relationship when other people are around.

But when other people are still asleep in the mornings and Rose and I are walking in the Park, or when I am walking to work in the mornings and I see him on a fire escape watching, the Hawk and I have a chance to say “hello” and not have to act cool or tough.

The Hawk and I are friends because we’ve both adapted to city life pretty well, he has squirrels and rats to eat, I have Nino’s Pizza and Banjara. I have Bree and Rose to hang out with and love and he has…well, squirrels and rats. But we both get by where we live, both have adapted well to our man-made environment of concrete and steel, of asphalt and brick. And both of us would rather live with a little more trees and a little less people.

So for now, the hawk and I will be cool because the people we love are here (and the things we love to eat) and we couldn’t love living somewhere else without them. We have Tompkins Park with the trees (and rats and squirrels) and when the people are around we’ll head nod and play it cool.

We can talk in the morning.

Happy Mothers Day

As far as Mother’s Day presents go, I’m not always on top of things…

I usually end up giving something from the heart (ie. handmade) and usually late. This in no way reflects my love and respect for my mom, it just reflects that I can never get my act together.

I remember one gift I gave my mom in Elementary School. It was a portrait of her drawn on old yellowish paper in Crayon (or “crown” if you are one of those weird people).  It was a lovely representation of her and since I was way past the “stick figure” phase she had a body and legs, which was good because I needed to draw the “Lee” brand sweatshirt (from the Vanity Fair outlets in Reading, PA) and have her holding the vacuum cleaner. And even at that young age I was able to render in perfect clarity the “mom” jeans she was wearing. The drawing was advanced for my age but in no way flattering to my mother. Still, she loved it, and to this day it is thumb-tacked to the wall.

Even though the image of my mom with a old sweatshirt and vacuum cleaner in hand may not be the one that she’d want everyone to see, I think what I captured in that image is, first and foremost, my love for my mom no matter what she was wearing or doing, but also that she is just that, a mom.

And she does that so very well. She is a mom that loves being a mom even if it involves wearing old sweatshirts and vacuuming (although she does have someone to do that for her now). She’s the mom that will be a mom to anyone if they need it (she was a fifth grade teacher, need I say more?). And most importantly she’s my mom and is the greatest mom to me.

So Happy Mothers Day Mom! You’re the best and I love you, thanks for being my mom.

(oh- and your cards in the mail, or at least it will be soon)

Love,
Brady

Fram Filters

A word of advice…

All night we couldn’t stop talking about Fram Filters and how awesome they were. “Dude, Fram Filters are the best!”, “I love Fram Filters!”, “I wish I had some Fram Filters right now!” Everyone would crack up, even Wish, although his expression betrayed his mirth. He didn’t know why or when, but he knew he was left out of the joke somehow. He still laughted, I mean he had to laugh, if he didn’t laugh it would prove he didn’t know what he was laughing at and then everyone would laugh at him, which, it seemed to him everyone was doing anyway, but there was no need to prove it.

Earlier that night, Wish’s dad had stuck a Fram Filters sticker on the back of Wish’s shirt. We, being his good friends, did not tell him and let him walk around all night with it stuck to his shirt, while we regaled the wonders of Fram Filters. Wish did his best to keep up since amazingly enough, he had just yesterday installed a new filter in his car and, yes, it happed to be manufactured by Fram.

By the end of the night, as we were in the parking lot walking to our cars, expressing the merits of Fran Filters, Wish suddenly stopped and a look of comprehention came over his face. Slowly he reached back and ripped the sticker from his back. Applause all around…

So this is my word of caution to you, dear reader. If you hear someone going on and on about the amazingly, wondrous amazement of thier product, step back for a moment and think about Fram Filters. Either they are just playing with you or you have a sticker on the back of your shirt.

There are not too many times I actually enjoy walking up Saint Marks Place.

But in the mornings when the dogwoods are in bloom …

Even at 6:30 in the morning New York isn’t quiet, but it’s soft, it’s soft enough to think and look around. New Yorkers aren’t known for there looking. There is an unspoken rule about minding your own business and that includes making direct eye contact, sort of like gorillas in the zoo.

Don’t get me wrong, New Yorkers see everything, but with sideways glances and nonchalant attitudes. The bike running the red light going the wrong way- yeah I see it. The junkie puking on the corner- step around them. Broken bottles, uneaten garbage, dog shit- I don’t event have to look down. If there is something weird happening (and there’s always something weird happening), it’s probably happened before and will most likely happen again, and as long as it is not effecting me directly, a glance out of the corner of my eye is all I need.

But in the mornings when the dogwoods are in bloom I take a look, I need to look, a glance won’t suffice. The dogwood blooms look like fresh snow clinging to the trees, fresh clean snow. The kind of snow you only find in the mornings of New York before the cars and trucks and people turn it gray and muddy. In the mornings I look at the dogwoods and it’s soft and snowy and clean.

Soon the dogwoods will lose there blooms and the green leaves will bring the heat. Soon Saint Marks Place will become hot and dirty and smelly and sweaty. Soon the summer will come, it’s happened before and will happen again all, but it only gets a glance from me.

I won’t have the dogwoods to look at anymore.

Walking

Hey, I’m walkin’ here…

Listen, I know you’re in Manhattan, and there’s lots to see here. Tall building, taller building, people, more people. And I know you’re on the coolest block in the East Village, there’s lots of stuff to see here too; Asian noodle shops, bars, stores that sell junk, stores that sell more junk, drunk street kids and more drunk wanna be street kids. I know all this because I live here.

See, unlike you and your fourteen friends walking side by side down the sidewalk, I have somewhere to go, home.

Yes, sidewalks on this busy little island are big, wide enough for you and your friends to slowly, very slowly, walk down. Isn’t it fun! Let’s laugh and point and stop suddenly and figure out what we’re going to do next that’s fun and involves laughing! Please don’t worry about the people behind you trying to get somewhere. (And if you’re riding a skateboard, my dog hates you. If you’re riding it on the sidewalk, now I hate you.)

I walk faster than you, and you, the dude that thinks he walks fast, guess what, I walk faster than you too.

I’m going to give you some options.

First, you can walk faster. If you have to walk slow, it’s single file only.

Second, walk in the street. That’s where I’m usually walking to get around you, and it’s not fair, because I use the sidewalk more than you. Besides… most cars won’t hit you (watch out for buses though).

Third, go away.

Bump in the Night

Cannonball, seated senton, spinning double dropkick…

I don’t know the exact technical term for the midnight maneuvers Rose preforms as she wrestles into bed with us. Perhaps it’s some specialty attack she invented herself, like a finishing move in Mortal Kombat.

Rose doesn’t always sleep with us, only when it’s cold and only after she’s slept on the couch for half the night. Then she’ll tiptoe her way into the bedroom and stare at Bree until she sits up. After leaping into the warm spot we pull the covers over her (how she breathes under there I have no idea, I used to wake up and check to see if she was suffocating or not, but now I know better). Then slowly the little dog in our bed starts to grow.

Rose, like Mr. Fantastic, has the ability to stretch her body to unbelievable lengths. She can easily triple her size. Once she managed to take up both couches in our living room at the same time. She is a special dog.

But unlike Mr. Fantastic, who used his powers for good, Rose is indifferent to us normal “humans”. She demands every soft spot, covets every cushion, couch or chair. And, as Tenacious D would say, she has the power to move you.

During the wee hours of the morning, little paws will start pushing. Spreading out. Lengthening. If that doesn’t work she’ll stand up, circle and drop on top of Bree or I, whoever has tried to “Test Their Might” that night. Slowly she grows, until we are both at the edge of the bed.

Luckily I have the wall, it’s pressed up against my face, my arms curled in against my chest, but it prevents me from Bree’s fate, the floor is her only option.

“Finish Her!!”

Back, Forward, Down, Forward, B.

Umbrellas

When it rains in New York…

The streets turn into rivers and the skeletons of umbrellas cluster near corner trash cans. An Elephants Graveyard for umbrellas. Corner lakes drown shoes, jumping becomes an art and those who are unaware or less graceful become victim to deceivingly deep puddles. The silver skeletons shine from the wet, and beckon their brethren. My umbrella folds and bends in the wind and on the next corner I lay it down with the other twisted spines and torn black nylon. Down the street a man waves. He is selling umbrellas.