Don't Stop Believin'

There was no Santa Claus. I had come to terms with this fact at age seven.

Years later, when Adam called to deliver a similar bit of devastating news, I felt the same smack of disbelief as the night I caught dad setting up Hot Wheels tracks under the Christmas tree.

I cut off Adam mid-disclosure, “Shut up! No!”

Adam shot back, “Seriously. It wasn’t them. I saw their website. It was a tribute band.”

Steve Perry had not been in front of us that night, clad in acid washed jeans, serenading the heavens. He was a hired impersonator, so were all the members of his band, and they had all manipulated me into believing I'd just witnessed the highly unlikely reunion of one of rock and roll’s all-time pretty good groups, Journey.

“No way!” I protested, “We were like 15 feet away from them. I saw Steve Perry’s mole.”

“Probably fake. Fake mole, fake mullet, fake falsetto…”

It was 2009, the opening night after-party for “Rock of Ages,” a Broadway musical featuring the electrifying sounds of 80s hair bands. Our friend at the time, Amy (Spanger), was the female lead and had offered me a last minute ticket. I attended the performance and the after-party. It was a legendary night, mostly because Journey performed. Or so I thought. What a waste of lighter fluid.

“Are you positive?” I wouldn’t let it go.

“It wasn’t them.”

“But..”

“I’m telling you.”

When you believe in something with such vehemence, you resist accepting the truth with every fiber of your body. I continued to resist.

“What about everyone else there? They all believed it.”

“Actually…”

“What?”

Adam paused before answering. He knew this would sting,

“Amy knew.”

“She knows now? Or she knew then?”

“She knew then.”

“But she was going crazy like we were. I grabbed her and screamed ‘OH MY GOD!’ and she screamed ‘OH MY GOD!’”

“She knew.”

“This is a joke?”

“No. They’re called Evolution.” (Release the doves!) “They’re a Journey tribute band. Steve Perry was a guy named Hugo. Amy didn’t have the heart to tell us.”

“HUGO? Gross.”

Amy had held onto to the truth. Probably didn’t want to bust our bubble. I’m still wondering if it was the best decision on her part.

I’d be fine not knowing forever. I visited their website, Adam still on the line offering his emotional support.

“I can’t believe these jackasses make their living by messing with the emotions of pop/rock enthusiasts.”

“A pretty good living.” Adam offered, half-kidding.

“Well I’m going to write a letter.”

And I eventually did…

Dear Dream Crushers,

I’ve stopped believin’. My arms are no longer open. If I can’t have it anyway I want it, I don’t want any of it.

Faithfully yours,
Craig

I never sent it.

“Jesus, I texted everyone I knew that night,” I muttered regretfully as if recollecting moments of a black-out crack binge.

“Yeah so did I.”

Of course we did. When (who you think is) the original line-up of Journey is belting out, “Na Na, ne Na Na nuh …” from their 1979 smash hit “Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’,” you grab your mobile device and go to town, posting and texting stuff like:

“Journey's back! Full Escape line-up: Perry, Cain, Schon... I am witnessing it right now! Sucks not to be me!”

Goddam social media.

“What do I tell the people who now think Journey’s back together because of me?”

“Ahh, let it go, ”Adam countered, dismissing my panic.

“But everyone’s gonna think I’m the boy who cried Journey.”

“Why are you worried about what everyone else thinks?

Good question. Why was I worried? This was about my sense of existential loss. I needed to come to terms with being duped by a bunch of permed-out poseurs. Evolution (more doves!) had betrayed my memories of Journey by looking just like them. Wait a minute...

Had Evolution really betrayed me? After all, they had succeeded in recreating not just the music, the look, the everything of a Journey concert, but also my experience of being a crazed fan as a kid, which ultimately resulted in the realization that rock stars weren’t all they seemed to be – they were just a bunch of guys from the suburbs using copious amounts of hairspray and an upper middle-class music education to score chicks. Could it be that Evolution was honoring my memories? Honoring the passage to adulthood I experienced years ago when I learned that my feelings, which had seemed so intense at the time, were actually fairly juvenile and easily manipulated… kind of like how I felt that night at the after-party?

Whoa.

And what about my friends discovering I was a fraud? That I wasn’t the bitchin’ dude who witnessed a once in a lifetime performance? (Evolution in fact was booked fairly regularly around the country.)

Here’s how I see it.

The night of the after-party, I really was watching Steve Perry sway gently as he crooned “Wheel in the Sky.” I had believed. Just as I had believed in Santa Claus. Shouldn’t that be all that mattered now? It had still been one of the greatest nights of my life. It had still been the night Journey put aside all personal differences in the name of musical theater after-parties. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s all my social network needed to know.

“So did Amy tell anyone it wasn’t Journey?” I plotted.

“Don’t think so,” Adam replied, reflecting back, “I think she’s been trying to protect us. She did tell people Night Ranger was there.”

Night Ranger actually was there.

I continued, “So you think anyone knows we didn’t really see Journey?”

“Probably not.”

“So we did see Journey then?”

“We did?”

“Yeah. We did.”

“Okay.”

“No.” I demanded, “You have to believe we saw them. Do you believe?”

“Yes, I believe.”

“Good. So do I.”

I wrote about frisbee golf

ONE DISC TO RULE THEM ALL

The lines between sport and leisure have blurred over the years. I tend to be very liberal in my designations. I think, despite the level of exertion a game requires – whether you're tossing horseshoes or entering the final digit into a Sudoku grid (medium difficulty) – to be an athlete, you don’t need to immediately think, “ice climbing.”

Think disc golf – or Folf, for fans of brevity – a sport that, to some, may seem like a stroll through the park chasing a plastic saucer. But to me it’s one of the most invigorating outdoor contests the “everyday” athlete could choose to undertake. 

Despite ultimate Frisbee being the ultimate of Frisbee games, I think disc golf is the ultimate in Frisbee games resembling golf. Though really, is it fair calling the game you invented the “ultimate” in its genre? Kind of automatically pegs other Frisbee games as average and not so awesome. Cocky move, ultimate Frisbee. Cocky move.

Disc golf was invented by some guys, probably who had grown tired of launching their Frisbees into the distant horizon without a purpose. They decided the element of golf was the perfect solve. “Sure we love to chuck stuff, but let’s start aiming for something.”

And disc golf was born.

Like ball golf, disc golf can be enjoyed by anyone with access to swaths of land and a passion for taking nature walks. Courses are set up like ball golf, except instead of whacking a tiny ball with a club toward a small hole in the ground, you wing a miniature, extra-aerodynamic flying disc toward a suspended catching device resembling a hood ornament from Mad Max Fury Road. Although courses are scarce in large cities due to the pedestrian factor, you shouldn’t have trouble finding one nearby in the outskirts.

Disc golf rules are few, but nevertheless should be followed with exactitude. You don’t want the DGA coming after you – that’s the Disc Golf Association, not to be mistaken for the Director’s Guild of America. Although you don’t want to tick them off either, unless you never want to work in Hollywood again.

First, a player tees off (throws the disc) from a rubber pad, keeping at least one foot on it at the time of release. Sort of like the discus throw, but without requiring spandex or muscles. Then watch as your disc soars like a bald eagle toward its destination–or away from it, depending on the kind of day you’re having. Just like in regular golf, some days you’re Tiger Woods, other days you’re Tiger “Lost in the” Woods.

Next you mark your “lie”–where the disc comes to a rest. Then, from a stance, you throw again from that spot–unless of course that spot is home to a black bear. If so, stand your ground and make lots of noise. Do NOT climb a tree. Black bears are excellent climbers. After the bear is gone, grab your disc, wait for the pee stain in your shorts to dry and get your head back in the game.

Players continue to throw their discs until reaching the chain basket target. To “hole out” you must toss the disc into the bottom cylinder of the basket or within the chains. A disc on top of the basket or wedged into the side of the cage doesn’t count. Got it? This game demands the best from you. Not your best wedged into the side.

Side note: In regular golf, frustration can be taken out by throwing your club, which you can then retrieve. In disc golf, there are no clubs, so when it takes you six “putts” to hole-out, the easiest thing to angrily hurl is your disc. Refrain from doing this. Those things fly. You will lose daylight searching for it and likely come up empty handed. Instead, punch a deer.

Also be aware of disc golf’s courtesy rules.

1. Do not throw until you are sure your disc will not distract or decapitate another player.

2. Help others search for their discs, unless that person slept with your sister in high school. Then hold firm to your grudge and focus on beating him.

3. Don’t be a litterbug.

Courses are typically nine or 18 holes. Scoring is just like golf with par holes, eagles, birdies and the like. Lowest score wins, and throws MUST be marked down on a scorecard backed by your thigh with an eraserless half-pencil.

So now that you've learned the nuances of Frisbee golf, it’s time to grab a disc and hightail it to Big Sky Country. Let's go. Disc golf is the future of golf. A sport poised to be 2064’s newest, most talked-about event of the Summer Games. It requires skill, stamina and can be mastered entirely while holding a frosty tallboy. If that's not the picture of an athlete, I don't know what is.

How to Make a Mr. Clean Costume for your Infant

White onesie

Gold hoop earring

Color logo printout

Drywall sealant

(JK! infant sunscreen)

Preparing for the Games

The 2016 Summer Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro are approaching. That’s right, it’s the Carnival of global sporting competitions. New events this year include Synchronized Samba, 400 Meter Drag Queen and Golf. Actually, I made up two of those. Unfortunately the ones that aren’t Golf.

So there’s a lot to learn about Rio 2016 besides how to vaccinate Zika. I’d like to offer a quick overview of some of the more obscure events, because you can’t go into this simply knowing China is a favorite in Table Tennis.

First, Kitesurfing (or Kiteboarding) is a new event this year, replacing Windsurfing – both popular activities in hair-loss commercials, both mainly perpetrated by guys named Braxton. In Kitesurfing, your two most important elements are wind and, wait for it, a kite. Remember flying kites? Too much fun! How exhilarating it was, your dad shouting, “Run! Run! Higher! Higher!” as that rainbow-colored, piece-of-shit, tissue papered-diamond rose three feet…four feet…five...over the meadow until your little legs gave out, sending you tumbling into the tick-infested brush, beginning your battle with Lyme Disease. Well now our world’s greatest athletes are taking that experience to the next level. On WATER! Look out for this event and dazzle friends with your prediction that someone from a “beachy” country will bring home gold. But not France. They consider Kitesurfing to be (blows smoke from cigarette), “Infantile.”

Another overlooked sport in this year’s Olympics is Badminton, Tennis’s goofy little step-brother. You might know Badminton if you’ve ever attended a backyard barbecue in 1981. It’s what you did after the tetherball rope snapped or Uncle Pete impaled the dog with a lawn dart. Players wield bulimic tennis rackets, smashing what’s called a shuttlecock back and forth over a raised net at hair-bending speeds of up to eight miles per hour. Landing the shuttlecock on the other’s court gets you one point. Winner is the first to 900, or at least it feels that way. A shuttlecock is difficult to describe, mainly because as you describe it, you’re snickering at the word “shuttlecock.” Badminton was introduced to the Games in 1992, marking the year Earth became the laughing stock of the universe.

Finally, I’d like to talk about an event that was introduced at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics – a sport that really could only come out of LA – Rhythmic Gymnastics. It’s that thing where spritely elfin nymphs sporting sequin and man-buns prance around a rubber mat taunting you with ribbons and hula-hoops. “Look at me! Look at my cascading ribbon! I move like a goddam swan! You’re NOBODY!” Really though, it feels like you’re watching the D-squad of Cirque Du Soleil. Not to say Rhythmic Gymnastics aren’t impressive. These girls are lifelong gymnasts who decided one day they’d dip into the prop closet and shake things up a bit. In addition to ribbons and hoops, the gals also brandish plastic balls, clubs and rope. It’s kind of like a game of Clue if Colonel Mustard and Professor Plum were wearing unitards. But don’t let all the tchotchkes distract you from the pure elegance of this event. Rhythmic Gymnastics are a direct descendent of classical dance and ballet – these are professional athletes at work. Though it makes you wonder if one day other events might start tossing doodads into the mix: “From now on, all pole vaulters will be awarded extra points for their use of this rubber chicken.” You never know.

As a bonus, here’s a list of some pithy Olympic event summations that can serve as a quick reference in case someone in the room needs schooling:

Fencing – Bee Keeping with Swords

Rugby Sevens – Somewhere between Rugby Sixes and Rugby Eights

Artistic Gymnastics – Self-Aggrandizing Gymnastics

Equestrian – ????????

Taekwondo ¬ – Opposite of Taekwondon’t

Trampoline Gymnastics – Gymnastics BOING! Gymnastics BOING!

Marathon Swimming – A Marathon Where People Aren’t Handing Out Cups of Water

Synchronized Swimming – The Rockettes in Chlorine

Table Tennis – Actual Tennis on a Table

Triathlon – 3 Athlons

Beach Volleyball – Spring Break

You’re now officially ready for this year’s Olympic Games. Enjoy Rio 2016 and remember, don’t try any of the events at home. Except maybe Archery.

Questions for GOOGLE

I just Googled “What sex is Nyquist?” Nyquist was the horse that won this year’s Kentucky Derby (equine gender keeps me up at night). A menu dropped down of most frequently asked “What sex is……” questions, the most popular being “What sex is my baby?” “What sex is my baby?” was number one! Don’t people know the sex of their babies? This prompted a new question for Google. I typed, “Do people know what penises look like?” On the dropdown, the first “Do people…” option was, “Do people use QR codes?” Ya know what Google, why don’t you worry about how YOU'RE using QR codes, not how everyone else is? The first dropdown option for “Why don’t you…” was “Why don’t you do right?” I am doing right, Google. I’m asking questions. I’m looking for answers. That’s what life is about. Why don’t YOU get a life? Ha! The first “Why don’t you get….” question was “Why don’t you get a job?” Well asshole, I’m looking for a job. Job searching leads you down unexpected roads. Like trying to figure out what the goddam sex of Nyquist is!!? HE’S A BOY. Of course you’d never know that. YOU see a dick on a baby and think it’s a third leg! Ya know what, I’m done here. I need to find a job. Or do I? Let me ask Google.

How to Be a Gentleman

Are you looking to carry yourself like a modern gentleman? Does your demeanor turn people off? Is it because you’re an aardvark? I see you nodding your head yes.

I’m here to help, because I too am… excuse me, was an aardvark. I too know the difficulties of entering a room as a gentleman when your entire being screams, “Do it like a sub-Saharan pig-like animal!”

To be a gentleman, first get yourself a tailored suit. Don’t picture how it will look as you scavenge for ants– that’s not you anymore. You glide debonairly down banisters. You do not have four legs ideal for digging burrows with multiple entrances; you have two legs that float across dance floors. (Note: embrace dancing even though it feels counter to survival.) I know, there was a time you could dig the hell out of a burrow– fourteen, fifteen entrances, sometimes more. Bitch-ass hyenas were left scratching their dumb mullets as you darted into entrance #9 behind the peyote cactus. You were one badass capital-double-A AARDVARK. Man I feel you. That was me in a nutshell. Trotting through the Sahara like my feces didn’t put predators on my trail. You know what though? Forget all of it. Ant Season is over. You are a gentleman now, and the time has come to dig a burrow in a gentleman’s world and it requires cufflinks.

Second, your fingernails and toenails should always be clean and manicured. “Ridiculous!” you’re thinking, “that people would expect this of me after a day of cracking through crusty termite mounds,” right? But wait, why would you be doing that? You’re a gentleman. STOP EATING TERMITES. If you have some in your mouth now, spit them discretely into a napkin (the one in your lap!), excuse yourself from the table and flush them down the nearest toilet. It’s not what a gentleman eats. He eats foie gras and bourbon. Sure, there was a time female aardvarks got all gooey when you showed them your filthy, chipped nails. You’d be like, “Yeah, I probably foraged 50,000 termites today. Got some back at my burrow.” And she’d be all, “I should really wait for my friends...” And you’d be like, “Suit yourself, I’ll just mate with someone else--” And she’d be all, “Wait! Where’s your burrow?” Score. Next thing you know, she’s choosing from fifteen strategically dug entrances all leading to one tricked-out, sub-Saharan mammalian cave. Those were the days.

You may be wondering if I’m for real: “Does this guy seriously think there’s a market for this?” Fuck you, this is not a joke. When I was a young aardvark in Botswana, preparing for a life of eating ants and digging burrows with multiple entrances, I was rudely poached one day while napping in an empty ant nest (excavated by yours truly) and sold to a well-to-do family in Lake Forest, Illinois. They took me in as their son and raised me to be a gentleman. I had to train myself to behave like a man, i.e. not run for my life in a zigzag fashion every time the neighbor’s goddam pug, Saffron, came into our yard. I would have to repeat to myself: “He is not a predator. He is Saffron, the pug. He is not a predator. He is Saffron, the pug.”

It was a hard road. Kids in the neighborhood would call me Arnold “anteater” Goldblatt. I am not a goddam anteater! YES aardvarks eat ants. YES they have long, beautiful noses built to jam down anthills, but they’re nowhere close to being related to anteaters. Anteaters are of the suborder Vermilingua while aardvarks are of the order Tubulidentata. It’s like if you called an armadillo an elephant shrew. Exactly– duh.

So after years of debutant schooling and more than my share of ridicule, I became more than just Arnold Goldblatt, the kid down the street who ate a SHITLOAD of ants. I became a gentleman, and now I want to give back to the young men who face the same problem. I want them to know it gets better. Better than a volcano of tasty fire ants scattering helplessly from your sticky snakelike tongue. Fire ants are not all that. They think they’re hot shit, but I’ll suck up two thousand of those little pussies in one snort without feeling a single sting. Punk-ass fire ants. Not that I would ever…anyway, where was I?

As a gentleman you should always wear a classy watch. Never be caught checking the time on your cellphone or by the angle of a soldier-anthill’s shadow.

That’s it. Remember, to be a gentleman, you must behave as one – say please and thank you, don’t curse, don’t poop on the floor of an Olive Garden (been there), etc. When a woman enters the room, do not feel threatened and run for the nearest burrow– stand up. When meeting another gentleman, do not flip onto your back and lash out with all fours– shake his hand firmly. When the check comes, do not snort and bellow– reach for it.

Follow these rules and I guarantee, when you look into the mirror, even though the thing staring back at you may still look like a prehistoric insectivore, you will see a gentleman.

And remove your hat indoors.     

A Story with a Not-so-Favorable Ending

So my wife joined Snapchat. Finally, she and I can communicate through quick, fleeting images of each other wearing dog ears. The day she joined, I did what any normal husband/father of two does - I send her a dick pick. It’s why Snapchat exists, right? I was paying tribute to the platform’s roots. Really strange, though, pointing my phone at my penis and snapping a photo – framing it up, focusing, making it pop. Not that I was trying to do it justice. My penis doesn’t seek justice. Just a nice pat on the head every once in a while…but anyway it was weird primping it for a photo shoot. After taking the shot and typing, “Welcome to Snapchat!”, I entered my wife’s handle and sent it through. Later that evening I asked if she'd received anything interesting on her first day of Snapchat, tee hee. "No," she replied. "NO? What do you mean NO?" Obviously she didn’t grasp the user functions yet. So I grabbed her phone and opened the app. She was right. No message alerts, nothing. My exposed ding dong was out there somewhere, on some cloud, possibly in the palm of some other woman, or MAN, and I had no idea where. I must have mistyped my wife’s username before sending. Exactly one week later, I get a call from my friend Billy. It’s his dad. Brain cancer.

Contemplating Prince

When someone like Prince dies, I wonder why I’m struck with such sadness. I mean I know WHY: an incredible artist is gone, and living in a world without him feels less vibrant. But it’s not like I knew the guy. I knew his music. I loved his music. I loved who he was and what he stood for. I’ll never forget the first time I came across Prince. It was 1982, I’m at my friend Damon's house and we head down to his brother Jeff's room in the basement. Jeff is listening to Prince on vinyl – Dirty Mind or 1999, I can’t remember which record – and he shows us the album cover then opens it to a picture of Prince lying on his side naked, glistening like a pornographic Calvin Klein ad. I was like WHAT THE SHIT IS THAT? Jeff replies, “That’s Prince,” and I was like, “I need to forget I ever saw this” as I continued to stare…and listen – my prepubescent brain knew something was up. Purple Rain wasn’t far behind and somehow with that release, the same little lascivious creature from Jeff’s room had crept his way, still naked, across a bathroom floor and into the mainstream. The rest for me was history. Decades later as a DJ, I’m closing every party with a Prince jam (or Michael Jackson) (ok sometimes with Footloose) (I no longer DJ) and I'm playing Raspberry Beret daily for my kids.
And now he’s gone. But his music is still alive. It’s right here on my computer, though frankly, I haven’t been waiting anxiously for him to drop an album in some years. So why my profound sadness? I think it has something to do with how I feel about time and space and the slim odds of being alive to bear witness to someone so extraordinary in the first place. Humans have been around in modern form for a couple hundred thousand years, and could be around for thousands more (barring a Trump presidency), so to think that within my small window of time on this planet, Prince was also here making music, that’s pretty fucking fortunate. John Quincy Adams never heard Darling Nikki and I feel bad for him. You and I are part of an elite club that in my opinion is learning and experiencing the most exciting stuff ever to be learned or experienced by human kind: the dawn of rock and roll, the Internet, Doritos, and so much more (not that the light bulb wasn’t mind-blowing for folks back then or the wheel wasn’t the illest thing on “Shark Tank B.C.”). I just feel like our era (about the last hundred years) is such the sweet spot for seminal sounds, tastes and patterns, that losing Prince is losing a rarity that in essence will never be matched for an eternity, not just because he was so unique and self-possessed, but because of how watered down the world has become and will become. I hate to sound so cynical, but we all know that with every passing year, art and culture get exponentially derivative – to me, one of the future’s saddest truths – (and yes I'm aware that much of Prince's music was derivative, but skilled and wildly creative nonetheless). So can we even breed another Prince? And will that person have the edge of someone as raw as Prince? For my kids’ sake I hope so. God we were so lucky to have had him. Maybe I’m sad not just because Prince is dead, but because he represents a certain sort of genius that, in the wake of a ticking clock, will never be heard from again.

Free Philosophy

I finally found a program that offers practical help to those in search of inner peace. It's called Free Philosophy and classes are said to teach ideologies of both East and West. Also how to rid your life of worry and pressure, bringing profound value to your existence. I think it sounds like an incredibly reasonable way to connect to something deeper. But classes are all the way up on 72nd Street, so fuck that.