Meet Jesus

See that? That’d be a toothbrush piled high with a generous dollop of sparkly toothpaste.

It’s bright.

Colorful.

Tasty.

It’s oral-hygieny heaven.

It is also apparently an instrument of torture devised by the devil himself.

My kids won’t touch one. Not the boring one the dentist gives them. Not the battery-operated vibrating one that set me back a night at the movies. Not even the Hannah Montana one that plays a pop tune while you scrub.

Instead, they sit there on the various countertops. Upstairs. Downstairs. In the cubbyhole by the back seat of the minivan. (Just in case, I guess???!!!!) They’re everywhere, relics of some ancient persecution ritual. And they are never wet.

Well, never may be putting it a bit hyperbolically. They do see action every once in a while, the operator grudgingly forced to complete the insanely simple toothbrushing procedure at gunpoint. But if not coerced into action? My kids just let it slide.

They don’t know that I know this. If you ask them before you tuck them in if they’ve brushed their teeth, like they were asked, nay told, by She Who Must Be Obeyed when they were sent upstairs, they’ll chirp, “Why, yes, father! We have brushed our teeth! See?” Mouth gaping wide, plaque build-up hidden in the darkness of night. So I’ll try the famous Uncle Buck line about having a friend down at the crime lab check their toothbrushes for recent activity. But they’re on to me: they know none of my friends are cool enough to work at a crime lab. “That’s so CSI, dad!”

Darn.

Today, the hammer fell. Their dental hygienist, the one with the smile that isn’t really a smile but a mask hiding her discontent with it all (every time I see her, I can’t help but think of Laura Linney’s character from The Truman Show), sat me (I had the pleasure of going along this time, for my wife claims she has had enough) and the middle two down and gave us yet another Meet Jesus speech. She showed us pictures . . .

These are happy teeth. They are happy because they are brushed twice a day, for two minutes each time, using fluoride-rich toothpaste, the aforementioned toothbrush, and plenty of good old fashioned (gentle) elbow grease. These . . .

. . . are sad teeth. They are sad because some idiot didn’t brush them. Evah! From this, you don’t recover. Evah!

“Have a nice day!”

[/snark]

If you’ve been around The Cheek for a while, you may recall that I am not the one to talk to if you’re looking for a success story in favor of consistent brushing. Rather, I am the bad example, the paragon of what not to do regarding all-things-pearly-and-white. I smoked.* I seldom brushed. I used floss only when I needed to dig out some Snickers bar residue. I neglected my teeth for years and I paid a hell of a price. And yet, even as I neglected to develop my own, I have tried to instill in my kids the habit of brushing. Sure, it’s fun for a while. It’s new! The toothpaste tastes good! The brushes come with Spider Man and Barbie on them! But somewhere along the line, they seem to have given up. My kids are 8, 10, 11, and 15. There is only so much hand-holding you can do . . .

So how to reverse this. I’m up for ideas. How do you, Dear Tweaker, get your kids to brush? Don’t have kids? What has worked for you then? Can my years of being a poor example be undone in a way that makes brushing less of a chore and more of a healthy, positive discipline?

Meet Jesus speeches aren’t much fun. And I don’t want my kids to have to hear another one . . .

********

* Did you notice? “I smoked.” Past tense. This is my 193^rd post, and only the second one I’ve written smoke-free. I’m trying to quit. Again. As my diminutive Zen master Yoda says, “Do or do not! There is no try! Watch the papers . . . this could get ugly!

Money for Nothing

Tolerance is the virtue of the man without convictions.

~ G. K. Chesterton

Tolerance implies no lack of commitment to one’s own beliefs. Rather it condemns the oppression or persecution of others.

~ John Fitzgerald Kennedy

I’m tooling down the freeway this morning after applying for yet another job, the radio cranking the local Classic Rock station, WFWI – 92.3 The Fort. There’s Rush. And some Head East. And some not-so-classic-but-doable Aerosmith. I’m thinking about my lack of work and the bills that need paying, so I’m not really paying attention.

And then, there’s Sting, all falsetto-ey and smooth:

. . . I want my MTV . . .

Suddenly, I’m sixteen again, working at McDonald’s, and without even noticing I nudge the volume up a notch or three, just as the drums kick in. Soon, I’m singing along, embarrassingly loud:

. . . that ain’t working / that’s the way you do it / you play the guitar on the MTV . . .

No doubt, the song is a classic: “Money for Nothing” spent three weeks at #1 on a couple different charts in the fall of 1985, and came from Brothers in Arms, the first album to sell a million copies on CD. The song, of course, was also quite controversial: the version that scored on the charts didn’t include the second verse . . .

. . . see the little faggot with the earring and the makeup / yeah buddy that’s his own hair / the little faggot got his own jet airplane / the little faggot he’s a millionaire . . .

In an interview with author and music critic Bill Flanagan for his book Written in My Soul, Dire Straits frontman Mark Knopfler gave his account of the genesis of the song:

The lead character in “Money for Nothing” is a guy who works in the hardware department in a television/custom kitchen/refrigerator/microwave appliance store. He’s singing the song. I wrote the song when I was actually in the store. I borrowed a bit of paper and started to write the song down in the store. I wanted to use a lot of the language that the real guy actually used when I heard him, because it was more real. It just went better with the song, it was more muscular. I actually used “little faggot,” but there are a couple of good “motherfuckers” in there.

Knopfler addressed the controversy specifically in a 1985 interview for Rolling Stone magazine:

The layers of irony in “Money for Nothing” have certainly confused people. I got an objection from the editor of a gay newspaper in London – he actually said it was “below the belt.” Apart from the fact that there are stupid gay people as well as stupid other people, it suggests that maybe you can’t let it have so many meanings – you have to be direct.

In fact, I’m still in two minds as to whether it’s a good idea to write songs that aren’t in the first person, to take on other characters. The singer in “Money for Nothing” is a real ignoramus, hard hat mentality – somebody who sees everything in financial terms. I mean, this guy has a grudging respect for rock stars. He sees it in terms of, well, that’s not working and yet the guys rich: that’s a good scam. He isn’t sneering.

Now I’m all in favor of irony, and I’m more than willing to allow an artist the creative freedom to assume the stance of a working stiff and voice that individual’s commentary, no matter how belligerent, about the state of the world; this sort of thing is the staple of many an excellent songwriter. But as I sang along, and found myself growing self-conscious and quiet during that controversial second verse (being a Classic Rock station with an appreciation for playing cuts from the album unedited, they played the entire song, not the official, edited single) I got to wondering . . . would a song like this be suitable for airplay, in its entirety, if it were released today? Would today’s society, with its heightened sensitivity regarding anything even closely resembling “hate speech,” let Mark Knopfler and company get away with lyrics like these? They’d probably still edit the song, but would that be enough, at this moment in time?

Would “Money for Nothing” be a hit today?

And, perhaps more to the point of my post, should I be offended that my local Classic Rock radio station played this song unedited?

I realize that there are plenty of other classic rock songs that would just as easily fall into this category. And I also agree with my wife: If you find it wrong, then turn the channel.

Food for thought. And, as always, I welcome your opinions . . .

[photo credit]

Beefcake

I can remember the first time I had to go to sleep. Mom said, “Steven, time to go to sleep.” I said, “But I don’t know how.” She said, “It’s real easy. Just go down to the end of tired and hang a left.” So I went down to the end of tired, and just out of curiosity I hung a right. My mother was there, and she said “I thought I told you to go to sleep.

~ Steven Wright

I have four children, and my wife carried each with relative ease. Ultrasounds weren’t necessary; we didn’t want to know what we were having, just that they were healthy. Only one child decided to make things difficult, my youngest boy Ethan. He had been breech for a while and the doctor wanted to take a look and make sure he had managed to swing himself around before his due date. So, my wife waddled into the darkened room, bared her once-again enormous belly, and let them poke around. She let out an audible sigh when the tech said things looked good, and then my son did the coolest thing: he turned toward the “camera” and blinked. I watched the monitor and literally gasped. There he was, my little boy, staring right at me, as if he knew I was there, perhaps a bit worried, letting me know things were hunky dory.

A week later, on May 16^th, he kept us up late waiting for him. I laughed, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time.

His big sister couldn’t say Ethan too well, so she got to calling him “Beefan”. Scrawny enough to worry the pediatrician, we upgraded the name to Beefcake, an effort the convince him by word alone to start packing it on. He did good . . .

This morning, while he ran up and down a rain-drenched field playing soccer, my wife called wanting me to ask him what he craved for his birthday supper. So, when the period ended, I ran over to the bench and asked him. His answer? “Duh! Macaroni and cheese!” The staple of his diet, he can practically make it himself.

So tonight, we’ll eat macaroni and cheese, blow out some candles, play some Lego Star Wars (“We have to beat Darth Maul, Dad!”) and maybe watch a movie or two. Then he’ll head to bed, hang a right, and eventually drift to sleep, the wonder of life dripping from his chin . . .

[top photo credit]

Golly

The days come and go like muffled and veiled figures sent from a distant friendly party, but they say nothing, and if we do not use the gifts they bring, they carry them as silently away.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Every day is a gift — even if it sucks.

~ Sherry Hochman

I don’t win many awards. It seems some days that Blogland just doesn’t know where to pigeonhole me, for I am up one day, down the next, and generally off-topic or late into the conversation. These traits do not a “successful” blog make. But you, Dear Tweaker, are a patient and longsuffering soul, and every once in a while, one of you bestows upon me a nod of appreciation.

Last week, Kweenmana, the Carol Brady of my Reader subscriptions, wrote . . .

Brian at The Cheek of God is one talented writer.  His thoughts on unemployment, going back to school, and raising his kids are put into well-crafted posts that should be, in my humble opinion, published in national publications.  His is a tongue in cheek type of humor that is fun to read.

Her family is large, older, blended, and some of the neatest people on the planet. Coming from her, these words mean so much. She has been there for me, both in public on her blog and though private conversations (read: pleas for help), offering words of encouragement and sage advice. Thank you, Kari Ann, for all that you’ve come to mean to me. I may now make it through my kids’ teen years, not unscathed, but wiser.

So, now it falls to me to pass along this Lemonade Award to a few of my fellow bloggers who look at life through lenses tinted with gratitude . . .

Chris at CSquaredPlus3 never fails to make me laugh. Even with her new braces (or perhaps because of her new braces), her smile is bright and her words warm my heart.

Amanda at The Wink has been a Cheeky favorite since Day One. Her love for her daughters and respect for her man are second-to-none, and she’s the one I will readily go to for words of encouragement should I ever get brave enough to finally kick my smoking habit.

Gwen of Gwen Alison Wonderland is a recent addition to my Reader. I admire her honesty most of all. Seldom are her posts happy little chunks of life; rather they tend to cut deep to the heart of what it means to hurt and yet wear a genuine smile. If we ever meet up, I plan to hug her neck tight.

Jennifer of Thursday Drive takes me along wherever she goes, and the ride is always more than worth it. She listens, shares openly, and has a knack for taking the scenic routes. I’m glad she’s moving to my neighborhood.

Ed, known to all as Zoe’s Dad, is my glass-half-full go-to guy. He sees light in his kids’ eyes, and I generally end up blubbering like a baby after reading his stuff. We need to do coffee one day, my friend.

Pat, who is Single for a Reason, adds perspective to my life. She’s the wise, no-bullshit foil to my hyperbolic side and never fails to call me out when I need it. And she can take one helluva behind-the-wheel photograph.

Becky, always busy Tapdancing on the Edge of Reason, is my twin-sister-of-sorts, an ever-present help in time of an emotional uplift. She’s a history buff, a painter with words, and a dear friend. She hasn’t been posting often enough as-of-late, but when she does, I jump for the proverbial joy.

Michael, my header man who is Always Going, Going, Going on Beyond, would be the guy I would gladly hang out with most frequently, if only he didn’t live in the outback of Canada. His kids are adorable, his eye attuned to the beauty of the simplest things, and he prods me toward greatness.

Caren lives an Open-Hearted Life that I admire beyond words. Her writing is magical, and her son has the coolest hair! She’s the cool side of the pillow, welcoming and tender.

And finally, there’s Mark, lost In Ether. Whether he’s writing about bologna or baloney, he makes me laugh and think simultaneously. What more can a guy ask for?

I had to pick ten, and there they are. I wish I could just post the contents of my Reader for you; so many people, not enough space. Each one of you has made an impact in my life. I wonder what you’re up to, think about you often, and hope you are well. Don’t feel slighted if you didn’t make my list. You know I love you, right? And there are other awards to be doled out, so stick around . . .

The Ride

Beauty is an experience, nothing else. It is not a fixed pattern or an arrangement of features. It is something felt, a glow or a communicated sense of fineness. What ails us is that our sense of beauty is so bruised and blunted, we miss all the best.

~ D. H. Lawrence

I remember well certain details of one particular ride with my grandmother. Windows up. Air conditioner on full blast, because she always liked it cool. We were headed to the grocery store for some eggs and milk. She had walked out to the pop-up camper her and Papaw had erected on the front lawn, my hideaway during summer visits, with her pocketbook in hand, and interrupted my reading, telling me she was ready to go.

She drove faster than most grandmas, I imagine. Everything seemed to go by really fast. Yet she saw everything; noticed everyone. She saw someone she knew coming our way, walking along on the sidewalk, so she smiled big in their direction, took her hand off the wheel just for a second to wave, quickly grabbed the wheel again, and quietly said “Hi”, even though they couldn’t possibly hear her.

Then she began administering advice. In the midst of some conversation I honestly, and perhaps thankfully, can’t recall, she exhorted me to “Keep that thing in your pants! You hear me?!” I checked. It wasn’t out, I assure you. As you can imagine, I don’t remember much else about that particular ride with Memaw. But I’ll readily admit: it’s sort of creepy and disconcerting how her voice comes screeching to the front of my mind when I least expect, or desire, to hear it . . .

Other rides led to memories of destinations that to this day are still scented with the winsome smells of a childhood lived with time to spare for the little things: Aunt Naomi’s house in Mt. Vernon, with its steep gravel driveway and tiny kitchen smelling of breakfast and dish soap; the Five and Dime, kitty-corner across the street from Bob’s Barber Shop, my very own Willy Wonka’s, featuring aisles of bins and wall-mounted shelves filled with innumerable, tantalizing knick-knacks, more than any little boy could ever possibly play with in a lifetime; the beauty shop, nestled in the back room of a corner house a couple blocks away, where Memaw would sit under an industrial, helmet-style hair dryer, big blue curlers in her hair, and read a magazine or work a puzzle book, while I sat by, watching the timer tick away the minutes, trying my best, but mostly failing, to deflect the spurts from the nearby hair spray can, its contents clinging to my tank and watering my eyes for the rest of the day; lengthy road trips with Jackie and Carl, stopping at rummage sales for nickel books and eating braunschweiger on crackers at rest stops.

To hang out with Memaw meant being given an opportunity to perceive the beauty of life. From the sweetness of the multi-colored hard candies she made for Christmas to the gentle squeeze of her embrace – her breath against my cheek as she assured me that she wouldn’t take a farm in Texas for me – she assaulted the senses with love. Being around her brought a trenchant awareness that, no matter how low others may make me feel, there remained one person who cared. She accepted every gift, every school art or craft or woodshop project, regardless of how useless or hideous, with genuine thankfulness and displayed it proudly, telling others when they stared, “Brian Jay made that for me!” She kept the cupboards stocked with cereals and snacks that had sugar in them! And she wasn’t too bashful, too prim and proper, to let one rip in the bathtub; the sound of popping bubbles, followed by her “I still got it!” cackle, never failed to leave me in tears.

Except for that one day, when she decided me and my two sisters needed super-tight curly perms, and then had the nerve to take a picture, my grandma was pretty cool.

See that smile on my son’s face? That’s not a pose. No one forced a smile when they spent time around Memaw. She carried around a bushel and a peck of beauty, and sprinkled it upon every one she knew. Indeed she had her moments, when overwhelming pain, sadness, and pride short circuited the best parts of her. And, living in this bruised and blunted world, the temptation is there to tarnish my memories of her with a dusting of cynicism, to lug around a grudge for each little slight. But there is no beauty there. There is no love there. Only the callousness that comes when one chooses to miss out on the best this ride of life has to offer. And being Wilma’s grandson has made this road sweeter by far . . .

Wilma Marie Thomas

September 14, 1924 – May 6, 2009