Author: dodgeandrew

Oh Man…The WGA is on strike, therefore I’m on strike. It’s August and we recently got back from another fantastic TaiDodgeYu vacation. I was going to blog in a heightened overly clever faux adventure style, but the more I worked on it the more I hated it. So now I am going back over what I wrote and just writing as me. “In my voice.”

I had been off the grid for a couple of days, nursing an injury sustained during an against-all-odds black bag skunk works covert top secret lips-are-sealed-shut-your-mouth-don’t-ask operation in Northern California the week before. Long story short, it was me against the very forces of nature, and if I lost then the very fucking world would be at stake- as usual. I put up a good fight, I played the hand that was dealt me and baby, I was aces, but barely, and at what cost? My broken body was the collateral. Some have called me a rule breaking son-of-a-bitch who will stop at nothing. Others say I exaggerate whenever I blow out my back by merely standing still. I say, “God Dammit, Dodge, you old so-and-so…it’s time to heal.”

But healing would have to ride in the trunk because in the witching hours my hi-tech CPAP machine blipped to life. It was a communique from “Ops Central.” The display that normally tells me whether my nose pillows are properly nestled in my nostrils trilled to a live video feed from the “Director” hailing from an undisclosed location somewhere between here and none of anyone’s business.

“Agent Dodge, your services are desperately needed…again.”

“God Dammit,” I groan, ripping off my nose pillow, my eyes raising like two broken garage doors. “I understand. It’s hard not to need me. Brief away.”

“Agent, as you are well aware, recently a splinter cell of the extremist group formerly known as the GOP has forsaken the appearance of public service and been gnashing their own dicks over the (Q!)uestion about whether aliens are real and whether or not the US government is covering this knowledge up. The Center believes that this group’s oily regard will turn to the northwest…

“You’re not talking about-“

“Big Foot, yes I am. Your mission, should you choose to take it, will be to travel to the Pacific Northwest ahead of this impending character assassination op to ascertain whether or not Big Foot is real. If Big Foot is real, then you must find a way to get it safely out of reach from the cross-eyed gaze of this group’s political insobriety.”

“It’s Zero Four Thirty, Director.”

“Your team assembles at ZERO FIVE HUNDRED.”

“Well, fuck a duck and wish him luck.” I may be a screenwriter by day, but on vacation days, I’m a cock-on, bitchin’ hero. “I’m in.”

“This message will terminate in five seconds.”

“Wait, how have I been having a conversation with a message?!”

“AI, mutherfucker. It’s not only just trying to replace screenwriters…three…two…”

I get up and step away from my CPAP expecting a poof of smoke – but the screen simply reads, “Lost WI-FI CONNECTION.” Practical. Guess that’s destruction enough. And I’m up, rearing to rendezvous with my team.

At 0500 I find myself standing on the sidewalks mustering with my team in hushed greetings, lest we wake the neighbors…oh, I’ve worked with this team before, and I know that if anyone can get the job done, every single one of these SOBs can. 

Joining me on this mission are Agent Chase Dodge, specialist in interrogation, psy-ops, and telekinetic torture.

Agent Charlie Dodge is our Master of disguise – every new day brings the promise of new hair color. A few missions ago, Agent Dodge brought on a new member to our team, Agent Leo Sheingate. Leo can assemble and disassemble a lego machine gun in 9.8 seconds and is what I can only describe as a “reptile tamer.” They both are built for mornings.

There’s Specialist Agent George Yu. Driver. Whiskey Bottle Demolition. Agent Joyce Yu is the muscle behind our operation. Sane people don’t fuck with her unless they want to lose their spleen. And that is why there isn’t a 0500 photo of her, or her husband for good measure.

Running Ops support is Agent Piper Yu – an expert in flag-waving and body motion, and Tyler Yu – who recently installed a device on her head that can detect an enemy a mile away.

Of course, no mission would be worth the risk without the help of Agent Tiffany Tai – who we now have to call Judicial Officer Tai. Chief strategist. Logistical lead. She’s got everyone’s six.

The team climbed into the van and were whisked to the airport. Half the team got some shut eye- hey pal, you take it where you can get it.  The other half kept each other awake with wild tales of yesteryear. Who knows if those tales are true. The point is, we all still remember the themes of our high school proms – and they all sucked. 

Once we reached the airport we got our usual greeting from TSA. But being a hero myself I can tell you that real recognizes real. I know they only act like screaming, inarticulate, half-witted heels for appearance sake ONLY. I have no doubt that in reality, these officers are cobras with sharpened minds of titanium waiting to strike at a moment’s notice for the safety of the populace. That’s why when one of them screams for me to take my iPad out and another one then screams for me to keep my iPad in my backpack, then another one screams at me to step into the body scanner while J.O. Tai is currently being scanned – only already having screamed at J.O. Tai to hurry up herself with the exasperation of an orangutan trying to open a jar of pickles – I know it’s all just a ruse to lull the enemy into believing that these are nothing but blathering dolts who have no idea what they are doing and therefore can only bray like lobotomized animals. But all I would in response to such an assessment is, “Oh, you really think TSA is clueless? Well, are they, Mr. Enemy? Because I wouldn’t want to find out the hard way. Take that! Karate chop!” By the time I make it through TSA, all I wanted to do is give those brave personnel an emphatic double salute to show them how I feel deep down about their service.

One Bloody Mary and a gaze out the window later, we have landed in Seattle. SEA-TAC ops has given us BMW X models with holographic Nav Display and haptic feedback steering. Those should get the job, indeed. They are worthy machines for a worthy team. 

We immediately realized that intel is needed. And there’s no better way to get intel than by visiting where the locals feed their bellies. So we went to Crunch Town. Filipino fast food. The suckers lined up at Jollibee. We crunched a bunch at Crunch Town. Crunch Town afforded us sooo much crunch, and we knew that the next move was crucial. The best place to start a search for Big Foot is Portland.

Portland is just a few amazing playlists away from Seattle. We recoitered at our safe house in the Embassy Suites and decided that the best place to gather solid intel was…a bookstore.

And there’s only one bookstore in town that is worth a damn. Powell’s books. At Powells we found what we were looking for. Hard clues that the locals know of Big Foot. Strong suggestion that we are barking up the right trees. So yes, sure. Big Foot was known and what we found here was proof. But was he real?

Now, for most of our team this is at least the second mission to the Portland area AND Powell bookstore. What was different this time around was a guard in FULL TACTICAL GEAR. I myself have my theories that this was only proof that the information held in this facility was especially vital. But the “official” explanation is that crime is on the rise in Portland and that the homeless population has grown, too.  

And it did seem like there are more homeless people- at least on the walking route that we took. And the police I saw were all armed to the hilt and outfitted with tactical gear as well- real aggressive looking bastards with sleeve tattoos and openly smoking cigarettes as if they were about to make some fuckers bleed. But as we were walking to our hotel with bags full of delicious Mediterranean food to eat together as a team, it was clear to me that all this homelessness stuff must be…a cover? Could the homeless people in Portland actually be agents working in the field to protect a secret? A BIG FOOT secret? Any other explanation didn’t make sense to me. Because America is the richest, most powerful, most capable, most compassionate, most boastful country in the world and can literally get anything done if we set our minds to it – just read some history – which means there is no way there could ever be a “homeless” problem. We take care of our own, we wouldn’t let our fellow citizens suffer merely because we don’t know them, and they have problems and don’t have as much money as us and we aren’t forced to take care of them. That’s not the American way! NO! E PLURIBUS UNUM…out of many, ONE…we are all together. It’s written on our money! That’s how much we mean it!

But I can’t lie I was starting to doubt my theory as I was walking along, heading to our hotel for our first night…maybe they weren’t all here to guard a secret. Maybe some really sad shit is going on that nobody has control of.

But then I saw it. Holy shit, I saw it…and my mind flipped inside out.

TO BE CONTINUED…

We walk with the loose rock gravel crunching under our feet, the bugs making their east-coast noises, and the local red feathered birds trilling in ways that we’ve never heard before. We are at Mount Vernon. The home of the father of our nation, George Washington. We have a three o’clock appointment to walk through the mansion and have arrived early. We’ve been told that we can’t line up yet and are asked to look at other areas of the grounds. Perhaps we want to go to the garden? We head into the garden and discover that the building overlooking the flowers and foliage that buzzes with busy bugs is the old slave quarters. Charlie gets caught off guard. Why would such an important location not be blatantly identified? Why is it called “The Garden” and not “The Slave House” by the Mount Vernon guides?

At three o’clock, we line up to take the self-guided tour through the Washington mansion. The whole thing feels quick. In one room, out another. A slim sampling of the whole place. Not much of a sampling of who the Washingtons were as a people at all. There’s a lot of description of why Washington wanted some part of his house built a certain way, but WHO built it feels tertiary. WHO farmed his fields feels ignored. WHO made his whiskey feels skirted. Enslaved people are mentioned – even occasionally by name – but it all feels like an outline, not a story. Our walk-through tour isn’t the only tour offered by Mount Vernon. In fact, we know that they do offer a talk on the enslaved people who lived on the grounds – so I get it. Our tour is just the quick hits. Yet I think there is something left out even for our tour being what it was.

I love biographies. They are more important than fiction for my personal and professional growth – just by a hair. One of my favorites is “Washington: A Life” by Ron Chernow. Chernow goes to significant lengths to use Washington’s own correspondence to show his conflicting views on slavery. Chernow points out that Washington was motivated to keeping his slaves during his lifetime for selfish means. To keep up the lifestyle he felt he deserved. Yet Washington understood the immorality of it. In his will, Washington specified that his slaves should be freed. After his death, his wife Martha didn’t honor his request and only released one enslaved person. After about a year, Martha freed the rest of Washington’s slaves only due to a growing paranoia that they were out to kill her. But Martha herself owned over half of the slaves that were in bondage at Mount Vernon. And they were never freed.

I’ve had many dinner table discussions with my girls about this – mulling over the conflicts of interest of the founding forefathers – George Washington in particular. So how surprised were they that a “Historical Interpreter” finishes off our tour by telling us that by the end of his life, Washington, “even wrote in his will to have all his slaves freed upon his death.”

And that was it.

They gave everyone the impression that Washington saw the errors of his ways and freed all the slaves at Mount Vernon in his will. But my girls had remembered a different story from me.

So, after the tour, on Washington’s own Bowling Green, my girls are looking at me in front of his mansion. “What’s the truth? Is it what you’ve told us or what they said?” Filled with doubt, I look it up on the phone and confirm that I’m right and the guides offered us a very misleading short-hand. I don’t know if they cut off the story either to make Washington look good or to leave us with an uplifting feeling about the Washington family’s dependence on bondage… But at least right there, in front of Washington’s mansion, a discussion is had by a white dad to his bi-racial daughters and extended Chinese American family about the many shades of Washington’s moral compass.

On the one hand, this is a shitty moment for me. Everyone I love is looking at me, waiting for a more sound explanation about how the father of democracy regarded people who didn’t look like him so poorly.

But at the same time – how incredible is it that on this so called sacred ground I can huddle with my family and openly converse about what possible assholes Washington and his family were without fear of being dragged off and punished. What other holy resting place of a revered dead leader in the world would allow one to do that? This observation may seem extreme, or a consolation. I don’t think it is either. It means something to me.

When I return to the hotel, I deep-dive on the internet instead of taking a much needed nap. Apparently, we missed a whole part of the museum exhibit at Mount Vernon where they address the duality of the Washington family’s morality. They acknowledge that Washington’s adopted grandson “Washy” was a known rapist who fathered children with the people he kept in bondage – they examine more of the truth. I’m sorry we didn’t go into the exhibit and only relied on the quick tour. Though I’m glad to have found out there is a more significant discussion on the Mount Vernon grounds.

As we are leaving, Piper gets pulled aside by a journalist conducting some sort of poll about what Washington means to kids based on what they learned by visiting Mount Vernon. She’s conflicted. A lot of heady discussion just swirled around Piper’s head in the last hour. I don’t know if she knows how to digest or articulate any of it. But I’m glad she’s at least conflicted. I don’t want anyone I love to swallow blind idolatry of some long-dead figure. That’s not thinking. That’s just propaganda and extremism. That’s not what I think useful people in our world should be about. Piper’s at least thinking. Trying to figure it out. Maybe in time, she will find balance to the answers she seeks. But for now, at least, the gears are grinding.

And that’s just this afternoon!

Earlier in the day, we brunched with team Sheingate! Leo’s parents and grandparents came and met us for a delicious buffet brunch where our families could catch up and chat. It was filling and wonderful. Then afterward, we went to the town of Alexandria to walk the street market and have ice cream. It was great catching up with them and introducing them to Team Yu. I hope we can have Thanksgiving together.

The last few days have been happening fast. My feet hurt from all the walking. I have blisters on my feet, but in a way, the hurt feels good, for they signal time well spent and well-walked city.

The day after the Capitol tour, we hit the museum of American History for the first part of the day, then the kids abandoned us to return back to the hotel. Charlie was already stuck in her room, working, but Leo left her side to hit the Museum of Art with us. In the evening, we tackled the National Mall, walking along the stretch of the reflecting pond and taking in all of the monuments along the way. AND WE SAW FIREFLIES. Ever since seeing the fake ones in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, I’ve always hoped to see fireflies in real life. And now I have.

We finished off our evening walk with the powerful MLK monument…

then when most everyone was ready to head back to the hotel, Tiffany, Leo, and I pushed on to the Thomas Jefferson Memorial. The memorial is under renovation – but very run down, with paint peeling and stucco falling off. I’d never been and have always been curious, and all I can say is that its condition seems relative to Jefferson’s tarnished reputation of late. The impression of the joint felt unremarkable and more of a place for locals to hang outside the tourist crowd.

The next day was our White House tour. I enjoyed walking through the halls we were allowed to go through – but felt it was too short. Frankly, I feel like I should be regarded as a bit more of a VIP and should have been invited for a coffee, whiskey, or whatever with President Biden – but maybe next time. Security was tight. It seems like the hardened perimeter around the White House gets wider and wider as time passes, but again, these are the times we live in. I appreciate Joyce’s friend’s daughter for working hard to get us passes to take the tour. It was an experience to remember, regardless of what I think I deserve. I wanted to get a picture with her but we were shooed away by the Secret Service for loitering on the block too long when she met us outside after the tour.

After lunch, Joyce, George, Piper, Chase and I walked back to our hotel room on foot through a residential district and I can’t exactly spell out why but it just felt special. The weather was perfect, the moment felt nice. It was refreshing to experience something very un-touristy. The lamp posts were in the neighborhood were papered with this:

During the evening, the kids went to an escape room, and Tiffany waited for them in the lobby while Joyce, George, and I stumbled around China Town to hunt down a watering hole. George found one that was very clearly a locals-only joint – we practically heard a record scratch when we walked in. But everyone was friendly enough, and we chugged our PBR and Jameson while the locals chummed up to each other and spontaneously danced to the playing beats. Once our glasses and cans were empty we hopped out to another joint for some swankier Gibsons. By the time we were done, the kids were ready for dinner, and we all rendezvoused at Nandos for a nice, simple meal.

And here I am – nearly at the end of our vacation to Washington D.C. in 2022. We came home from an evening at the Wharf, where the kids played video games while the adults ate Shake Shack and slurped down some booze.

One thing I haven’t been very specific on during these two entries is where the kids are in their lives. Tyler is growing into a beautiful young lady as she slugs through her teenage years. Piper is just having a good old time. She likes what she likes (shopping, eating meat, squishmellows) and isn’t afraid to express it, laugh at herself, or anything else, for that matter. She’s amazing. Charlie is a college grad and already working (Fuck you, statistics! Who says her generation can’t find jobs after college?) Charlie works remotely for the Center for Public Integrity. She hasn’t been able to be with us for much of this trip, but I’m proud of her as she begins her adult life! Leo has become a big part of our lives as he is Charlie’s partner in crime. I hope that his companionship with Charlie has made staying at the hotel during work hours easier.

And Chase. Chase is going off to college in about two weeks. NYU Tisch, Game Design. The other night I watched an old video of her walking up the Lincoln Memorial stairs, spinning, showing off for the camera, all the way up, with that naughty look on her face she used to always have…and I broke down. I wept while watching and then cried in the shower later. My eyes were leaking until I fell asleep. It fucked me up.

Chase has worked so hard to get to where she’s going, and I couldn’t be more proud. But I’m going to miss her severely. The pandemic gave us extra, concentrated time together, and I’m grateful for all of it. I got to know her better than I would have otherwise. But now she’s off to start a new phase of her life that doesn’t include us in it daily. That is a painful truth that I’ve lived through before with Charlie. It’s no less painful the second time around. In fact, it may hurt just a little bit more. We will have many more vacations together, I hope. But this is the last one of a specific era. She’s my Monkey. My Demon. She’s the little rager who would scream and writhe in my arms at restaurants, making everyone around think that I was kidnapping her as I hustled her out to give everyone around us peace. And now she’s a brilliant, ambitious young woman diving head first into college and New York City…and I have no choice but to watch from afar. It’s how it should be. But as her father, I can’t help but feel an deep tug about the whole thing. I hope she had a good vacation. I know a lot of what we did wasn’t exactly her cup of tea, but I hope the time spent with family felt as vital to her as I wanted it to be.

So tomorrow we fly home. We will wake up early to hit the Museum of Natural History for Charlie and Leo, and then we will bustle ourselves to the airport and back to Los Angeles we go. Nine days later or so we will fly Chase to NYU to drop her off so that she can embark on her magnificent, hard-earned adventure.

Thank you, Washington D.C. You make us angry. You infuriate us. You house a lot of assholes. Yet you are an amazing, intimidating, well crafted cradle for our government, and we put all our hopes into you to get it right more often than not. You hold endless, evolving stories of what America was, is, and could be. It’s sometimes scary shit. So please, stop being so scary. Maybe you have taught us lessons we might not realize exist until well into the future. I hope you are still around when we realize them.

BBBEEEEEEEEEP…“Can I please have your attention. We have been advised that a dangerous thunder and lightning storm is passing through the area from 4:28 to 5:15pm and ask everyone to please remain inside the building until that time for their own safety. Thank you.”

We were trying to collect ourselves with a quiet walk through the dignified halls of paintings, art, and portraits, among the other hushed looky-loos. That is what blared throughout the Smithsonian Portrait Gallery & American Art Museum moments after we walked in. Devolving everything into some This is not a drill moment. This sort of thing may be typical for East Coasters, but it gave off major apocalypse vibes for this batch of Southern Californians.

Thunder rattled the building like mortar shells. There was a palpable edge found inside that normally calm museum. Just last week people lost their lives being struck by lightning near the White House. Security guards urged everyone to stay away from the windows in case lightning hit nearby outside. Apparently, window glass won’t save your squished face if it’s trying to peek-a-boo the end times outside.

So we tried to center ourselves and have a look around. We tried to admire the beauty within. We kept our composure and concentrated on the experience at hand: the poetry of image, the dignity and grace produced by the hands of humanity, until the danger outside blew over.

Talk about metaphor…

TAIDODGEYU are at it again. This time we decided to forego the tropical and tackle the historical. The Yus have never been to the Capitol, and it just seemed the right time for Tyler and Piper to see it for themselves. For Charlie and Chase – this is visit number three. We are fortunate enough to have Leo join our family vacation for the second year in a row – even though Washington D.C. is very near to his beloved Baltimore in a very backyard kind-of-way. But we are glad to have him, and this trip is only the better for it!

Unlike Tyler and Piper – Washington D.C. isn’t as fresh or new or maybe even that adventurous for Charlie, Chase, and Leo. They also have a different perspective of this place, as they are forced to not only wrestle with the leaden chains of disappointment and frustration at the current state of this country, its politics, and many of its people, but also try their hardest to contain their fears of the very possible paths the aggregate could be heading down. And I don’t blame them – I think much of it is on all of our minds. But for the vacation, we are trying our best to focus on the more pleasant things in life. It seems like a contradictory choice to visit the proverbial epicenter of what gives those of our ilk acid reflux at night. But fuck it. We are a family making memories. Why not poke our noses around the hub of this grand experiment called “Democracy” while it lasts, and storm the Capitol the TaiDodgeYu way…

Yesterday was our first full day here, and what better way to get a vibe of a city than to visit its collection of venomous, back-biting wild animals. I know what you may think: “But the Senate isn’t in session this time of year!” Well, I’m talking about a more civilized form of wildlife; I’m talking about the creatures large and small at The National Zoo.

The high was 97 degrees, and the humidity was 51%, which made it feel about 104 plus, or ”Satan’s Balls” to put it in “President Johnson” parlance. Every seven steps produced about a gallon of sweat. All of the animals were beyond hot as well – The Zoo was trying its best to keep them cool. Many exhibits were closed so the animals could be inside the air-conditioned buildings. You know, just like Vegas. Many of those facilities still have viewing stations. So we did our best, and were most excited to see, of course, the pandas. The pandas were particularly expressive with their heat exhaustion, and I empathized with them tremendously.

I was blown away by how thought out this zoo is! Most of the animal exhibits afford the creatures more space than I’ve ever seen at any other zoo. The whole place effectively creates the sense that this is more of a place for the animals than for the people who visit. The trails meander as if in the wild, shrouded by trees and foliage of the region of each creature’s exhibit. The Zoo clearly loves its animals and tries to give them the best. There are a few head-scratchers though: the tigers are kept right next to a carousel, forcing the cats to endure a nightmarish loop of tinny-circus music that would make any creature with ears utterly insane. If those tigers ever escape there will be a bloodbath and it’s the music’s fault. It seems this merry-go-round is a holdover from a past era, and I hope it soon finds itself removed with prejudice. Why ride a fake animal in a dumb frozen pose when you are also there to learn about and appreciate the actual beasts in a humane manner? And then there’s the ape-house – which lacks the vibrancy, imagination, and space found in the other exhibits for animals of that size. I’m not a zoo person. The older I get, the more selfish they seem. But the National Zoo feels different, and I am rooting for them to seek perfection. Ape together strong! So COME ON, NATIONAL ZOO!

Have I mentioned how hot it was? Dangerously hot. And if it weren’t for Leo – who has frequented the National Zoo so often that he even had one of his childhood birthday parties there – we would have wasted precious sweat trying to figure out what to do and where to go. Leo was our sherpa – and kept our quest for pandas, monkeys, and all other wildlife from turning into a death march.

This morning we trekked from our hotel to the Library of Congress. It was still breathtakingly hot and humid, but whatever, I had a fresh pair of sweat-wicking undies on, so the sky was the limit. Truthfully, there isn’t much to see for a casual visitor of the Library of Congress. Still, I enjoyed the vibe of the place, and whenever I find myself around a bunch of books, it gets me fantasizing about owning a fantastic library’s-worth of first editions. I genuinely am a book person. There is rarely a day that goes by where I don’t feel guilty about not reading enough, and I secretly fantasize about writing a novel, so this place was my jam. Plus, the air conditioning was excellent and at least their insanely muscular fountain statues seemed cooled by their neptunian waters.

After the Library of Congress, we shuffled across the street to the Capitol Building for a tour. Unlike the tour the Dodges went on years ago, we were shown around by two interns from our District Congresswoman, Judy Chu’s office. Calvin and Grace were informative, funny, sincere, and very much our speed. We felt quite exceptional as all the other riff-raff were being led around by the “Red Jackets,” as the official Capitol guides are apparently called. We don’t know how we lucked into such a special arrangement, but it was a great experience. The tour covered the essentials. We saw the original Supreme Court chambers, the dome, Washington’s intended crypt, and the Statuary Hall. But Calvin – a history major at Cal, also peppered in some exciting historical color by pointing out ancient cat paw prints in a tiny corner of cement, made in the Civil War Era. The troops housed inside the Capitol also brought in an abundance of filth – which meant rats. So they set loose some cats on those rats. To those cats who served for the sake of our Capitol, I salute you.

Calvin also included some more color on the original Senate Chamber – Senators of the time were notoriously filthy and smelly! Senators seem to have been far from perfect for quite a long time…

Our tour was Calvin and Grace’s last that they would ever give during their stint at the Capitol, and it was an honor to be the last faces they saw, thanking them for their time and attention, and wishing them luck with their futures.

The one thing I found missing while at the Capitol was any mention of the Jan. 6 Insurrection. I realize that relative to most markers and monuments in Washington, the events of that day are still incredibly fresh. And truthfully, I don’t know how it should have been addressed. I just found it to be quite the elephant in the rotunda.

I stood in the Statuary Hall, gazing up at the statue of Jefferson Davis – a monument placed in the Capitol Building in 1931 by the state of Mississippi. It made me reflect on how angry I felt at the image of a rioter walking through the halls of the Capitol Building carrying a large Confederate flag. I remember reading that never before had that flag been inside the building. Yet here I was looking at a twelve-foot-tall tribute to the man who served as a pillar for the ideals the flag embodied. I realized there had already been an emblem of the Confederacy sitting inside the Capitol for 91 years.

And yet, across from Jefferson Davis rises the statue of Rosa Parks.

It got me thinking that this place is full of so many contradictions. Not just Statuary Hall. But the Capitol Building itself. And the people working within it. And the people they represent abroad. And Washington D.C. itself as a city. It got me thinking about the endless struggle—the eternal work. Nothing is ever done. Nothing is ever indeed won. Is that good or bad? I don’t know. It could be either, could be both at the same time. I can say right now that it’s exhausting if nothing else.

After the Capitol tour, we rendezvoused with Charlie and Leo. Charlie wasn’t feeling too good in the a.m. and decided to rest up. Leo stayed with her. We lunched and then walked over to the National Archives Building to say hello to the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. I noticed that the guards standing next to the cases wore Kevlar vests under their shirts and found myself wondering if they always have worn that over the years, or was this a more recent requirement to adjust to the times. The ink on all those documents is faded, barely legible, but I found it a bit hopeful that so many people show up to lean in and squint for a closer look.

Next, we tried our best to make it to the Old Post Office tower. We actually got into the elevator and made it to the top, but once the doors opened, a guard told us that a lightning safety warning was issued and we needed to go back down immediately. Bummed but not broken, we hustled a few blocks to the Smithsonian Portrait Gallery & American Art Museum – passing by Ford’s Theater on the way – but the clouds were looking very angry, and the drops started to fall, so straight to the Portrait Gallery, we trudged.

My favorite portrait that I saw was of John Lewis, painted during the last year of his life by Michael Shane Neal. The style of the piece gave the impression of a work unfinished, serving as a metaphor for justice.

And the storm raged on outside. So we sat together. We walked together. We joked together. We were together. Until finally, it blew over.

There’s a notion that popped into my head not long ago that I can’t unpop. Life is a constellation in the night sky – an assortment of points, stars, between which we look at from a distance. We see lines connecting those points that make up the bigger picture. That bigger picture forms the story of our lives.

One of those points in my sky appeared in April of 2010…

Cocoa had been gone for about a year. I had puppy fever. Charlie and Chase were still so young, and I wanted them to grow up with a dog in their lives. I wanted them to develope that special strain of humanity that only loving a dog brings. Tiffany had seen that someone had made a post on Facebook about a dog at the Pasadena Humane Society.

His name was Osito. This was his photo on the Facebook post.

The post was frantic. Two-year-old Osito needed to be adopted. The deadline to terminate this animal had already long passed. Who knew how long Osito had?! Who knew if Osito was alive at that moment?! Maybe they finally got around to it and he was already done for.

By the time we happened upon this post it was 11:30 at night. The Humane Society was already closed. There was no way to find out if Osito was alive or dead. As I went to bed that night, I made a resolution out loud. I was going to let the chips land where they may. I’d call the Humane Society in the morning, and if by some incredible chance Osito was still alive…well then, we’d have to just go take a look.

But there was another wrinkle. We were supposed to go to Disneyland that next day with Joyce and the family. So I resolved further, “If it is meant to BE then somehow our Disneyland visit will be cancelled. Good Night GOOD NIGHT I SAY!!!”

And would you believe it we woke up to the news that Disneyland was canceled – one of Joyce’s kids had a fever. I don’t remember who but I’m guessing it was Piper.

That fever changed our lives.

I called the Humane Society as soon as they opened. Osito was still alive. But they impressed on us…he doesn’t have much time.

I piled the girls and my wife in the car. We hurried over to the Humane Society. We made our introductions with Osito in the meet and greet area. My memory is that he was more interested in sniffing the plants. He was bigger than the photo from the post led me to believe. Quite a lot bigger. But I knew he was going home with us and I wasn’t going to worry about all the rest.

While processing Osito’s release, we learned that he’d had a tough life up until that point. He was brought in with severe wounds from a vicious attack by another dog that needed surgery that previous January. After his owners took him home, they returned him a week later to give him up. Apparently, the family was losing their home and couldn’t keep him. Osito had been at the Humane Society all those months. So long that in many ways he was institutionalized. A proverbial Brooksie in Shawshank. Nobody was interested in adopting him. A Husky/Pit mix, not adoption material for most. He was past due to be put down. But even through all that, Osito was clearly a sweet, tail-wagging knucklehead.

We were told Osito was a “volunteer favorite.” And that was proven to us over and over as every worker and volunteer in the joint came in and lit up with relief and joy when they realized that we were taking him home. One volunteer even started to tear up and hugged us. Everyone was so grateful that as a gesture of thanks, the Pasadena Humane waived all adoption and processing fees. We were told that someone had made a donation for this exact circumstance and that if any pooch deserved it, it was Osito.

As we walked across the Humane Society parking lot with Osito I asked Charlie if she wanted to change his name. She didn’t miss a beat.

Frankenstein. Frankenstein Cocoa Dodge. Frankie for short.

And that is how we started our lives with Frankie. A dog who outlived the writing the wall. From the first day we brought Frankie home with us, we always said, “This dog’s life is nothing but gravy.”

But the honeymoon only lasted about a day, as I quickly realized I was in over my head with this guy. I’m just going to say it…

From the get-go, Frankie was a major pain in my ass:

Frankie was reactive to other animals. He would snap at any dog that got excited around him. Especially little dogs – who are always snappy and yippy to begin with. More than once, Frankie turned that reactive energy to me and bit me in the leg as I walked him, drawing blood.

I enrolled Frankie in the Humane Society’s Reactive Rovers class. We fuckin’ failed and had to repeat the class like a couple of flunkies.

Frankie was a howler. He was a husky/pit mix. Huskies love to howl. Our house is just down the street from a retirement home – a frequent stop for ambulances and fire engines as old people do nothing but drop in places like that. This meant a lot of sirens, multiple times a day. This meant a LOT howling for Frankie. I didn’t even fathom the chances of that one. The neighbors quickly became annoyed. Some called the police to complain.

Frankie was a diarrhea king. Regular (reasonably priced) dog food turned his asshole into nothing but an angry volcano of hot spewing liquid shit. It quickly overwhelmed the yard. It wouldn’t seep down into the ground fast enough but was too liquified to pick up. I had to buy special chemicals to try to keep it under control. I couldn’t keep up with the endless flow of nightmare that was squirting out of this animal. The vet was stumped as to how to fix it. Nothing worked. I went through a crazy trial and error run of so much diarrhea. I miraculously landed on the ONE (expensive) kind of dog food that didn’t upset Frankie’s stomach. It was a grim undertaking.

When Frankie had to go pee, he would walk right up to the edge of the grass but always just whiz on the sidewalk, his stream missing the grass by millimeters. EVERY TIME. And his stream was usually so strong that it would gush over his own front paws. He’d just…let loose and look up at me as if that was the best moment of his life as he soaked his own feet with piss, and once he finished, he would step through the massive puddle with his back feet as well. Every walk resulted yellowed piss paws.

Frankie had boundless energy. I bought a special dog leash set-up for my bike and would run him every morning. That did nothing. He’d still run around the yard, like some sort of off brand Boogie Nights Alfred Molina. He’d leap at the fence as people walked by. We finally had to mount a wire grate top to the fence to prevent his head from popping over and terrifying passers-by. Every time someone would merely walk by our yard Frankie would bite at the wire, which ultimately chipped his front teeth, completing his junkyard dog aesthetic. Frankie would run so hard and fast into the dog house that I bought for him that he destroyed it. Let me repeat, he literally reduced his first dog house, a house that was supposed to last a lifetime, to a wobbly shambles a la the Three Little Pigs.

Once, while at the beginning of a walk in the park, Frankie peed on my leg, thinking it was a tree. That elicited such an apoplectic rage in me that I turned right around, marched him back in the car, and drove home, screaming the entire way. He was utterly confused as to why. Another time after a huge poop, Frankie kicked the shit with his back leg, firing it so hard into the air that it smashed into the white door of a new BMW parked in the street. This was during a bike ride so I bolted away from that scene so fast that Frankie thought we were playing, and he ran more quickly than I could ride, pulling me wildly down the street with my feet off of the peddles because they were moving so fast.

Frankie would shed fur like no other animal I have ever known. His yard would clog up with fur. His doghouse would pile up with fur. When he was inside, the house would have fur everywhere, immediately. Our dryer’s lint catcher was perpetually full of fur. Whenever we’d scratch or pet him it would produce such an eruption of fur that your hand would feel like they were wearing mittens.

I was so desperate to get this mutt under control I finally hired a private dog trainer. This guy was a professional’s professional. He was calm, focused, and never smiled. At one point, the trainer rewarded Frankie with a dog treat. Frankie gobbled it so recklessly that he choked, resulting in a violent, simultaneous barf and fart. The trainer lost his mind at this, laughing to the point of tears and a sideache. He told me that in all his years of working with dogs he’d never seen such a maniacal display before. Sadly, the trainer stopped coming – he claimed to have moved away.

Less than a year in, I felt so overwhelmed that I didn’t think I could handle Frankie. The howling. The shit problems. The neighbors calling the cops. The smell of poop that never left our yard. My bitten legs. One night I finally broke down, crying to Tiffany, just wracked with guilt. “I don’t think I can do this. I think I made a horrible mistake!” I called up a friend who owned two acres and horses and asked him if he’d be interested in taking Frankie, warts and all. He was interested. I felt like I was going back on a promise, that I was no better than the people who abandoned Frankie, before. But I just didn’t know what to do. I was going to have to give Frankie up. There’s no way I could continue with this life.

And then Chase came home from a birthday party at Color-Me-Mine. She made this:

And that little ceramic Frankie clarified everything for me. This whole thing was so much bigger than me. 

…Fuckin’ dog.

I buckled down. I stopped fighting the process, whatever the fuck it was. I focused on working with Frankie with his problems. I became a student of all of his expressions, his movements. It got to the point where I knew what Frankie was going to do before he did. I could see the simple gears underneath his thick skull working…I knew what dogs he was going to react to. I knew when to get the poop bag ready because a pile was forthcoming.

Frankie had a lifetime of love from Charlie and Chase.

Charlie would hug him, squeezing his neck until he squirmed. Chase would quietly pull a chair out into his yard and sit with him and read. Sometimes, Chase would forego a chair altogether and sit atop his new, industrial-strength “Dogloo.” Chase taught Frankie how to use a service bell to ask for treats. Once Charlie started wearing make up we would find kissy marks all over the poor dog’s head.

I know the girls have their countless memories and moments with him. I wish I knew them all.

And as the years went by, he, of course, calmed down for the most part. He hated watching people leave through the front gate, which was his vantage point from his yard, and he would bark and howl until they came back. This forced the family to resort to always using the garage to come and go. Eventually, Frankie started to relate the sound of the garage door to someone’s arrival – and he’d always perk up when he knew someone was coming home.

I think for those first few years, as I was throwing myself whole into maintaining this beast and the girls, of course, were giving him the precious love all kids give to their pets, it was actually hard for Tiffany and her parents to allow themselves to love Frankie. The loss of Cocoa was so sad for them, and I think they didn’t want to experience that pain ever again. Thus, in those early years, Frankie was MY project.

But all it took was time. Soon my in-laws were sneaking Frankie Chinese food, and Tiffany was taking daily walks with us. Frankie was a member of our family.

Frankie became my BBQ buddy, although he couldn’t cook worth shit. Early on he was a maniac whenever I fired up the grill. But over the years he transitioned to a more I’ll play it cool and then sometimes maybe pout strategy.

He was also was the world’s worst writer’s assistant, but I enjoyed typing away as he snoozed under the desk, always mindful of having some part of his body touching my feet for security. Ultimately, he’d wake up and demand I scratch him by bucking my hands away from the keyboard.

Frankie hated baths. You would have thought there was acid in the water. If a bath took too long he would start to howl about the bullshit of it all.

Frankie was included on all the Christmas Card shenanigans every year since we started, and was always a good sport.

Frankie always had an odd shape – it’s as if his body forgot to grow into itself. His shoulders bigger than his head.

His thick, meaty melon was proportioned almost in a Far-Side fashion.

All of his teeth were broken at odd angles. He had a brown patch over one eye and a smaller brown patch over his other that gave him an exaggerated eyebrow. As he grew older, that brown eyebrow faded into the rest of his white coat.

The expression on his face would never quite reveal if he was smart, or an idiot.

Frankie didn’t really carry himself like a smart animal. He was goofy and distracted and was never eagle-eyed or aware of his surroundings. The one amazing skill he had was solving dog puzzles. I had bought the hardest puzzle I could find with the hope of occupying this maniac for five whole minutes, and I found one that was shown on youtube as being very difficult for even the smartest of dogs – if a dog was good it would take five minutes. Frankie solved that fucker in 60 seconds. Not sure if it was a marketing ploy to make you think your dog is smart, but I’ve always been happy to chalk it off as a plus for Mister F.

Frankie didn’t have many canine pals. He had only three. There was a neighboring female Dalmation who he always wanted to pal around with but she hated his guts. Later, he befriended another knucklehead pit bull named Zeus, who’s youth turned the tables on Frankie. And finally, Frankie’s best pal in the whole wide world, at least in his mind – his cousin, Booty. When Frankie was younger he’d try to initiate play by doing what is called a “muzzle punch.” Every time Booty saw Frankie coming he would run for the hills.

Over the years, Frankie earned an assortment of nicknames: Captain Bacon Butt (He had a tiny brown patch on his white rump – he also had a warped-looking mickey mouse head-shaped freckle on his penis.) Boner Boy (Jesus, he got a lot of boners.) Brick Boy (He’d pull bricks out of the yard and use them as pillows. Mister F (Inspired by Arrested Development’s Mister E.) Frahnkenshtein (Young Frankenstein.) Pee Paws (Already covered.) Hobo Dog. Finally, Old Man.

Frankie would often sleep on his back, legs spread-eagle. Sometimes it was to give his gear some sun, sometimes it was just the way he was. He’d snore. He’d fart. He’d constantly offer up the muffled “Fwoof fwoof fwoof” from his doggy dreams.

When you held his big head in your hands and scratched him behind his ears he would respond with a very human sounding, “Oohhhh” as he gazed up into your eyes.

If he felt something was unfair, he’d sneeze as if to say, “Horseshit!” But he would also sneeze in your face if you were giving him affection. He seemed to think sneezing was some sort of complaint or compliment.

Being in a household of four women and only two men, Frankie definitely did help bring a little bit more of a male energy into the house – even if it had a tinge of Hobo vibe as well. He was a meat-head dude ready to hang out, lick his junk, then fall asleep and let it all hang out.

Over the years Frankie went on a small road trip or two. Typically he would claim a chair as his own the moment he walked into a hotel room. Then the girls would mercilessly tease him by trying to keep him awake.

During the pandemic we took him on a quick little jaunt to Palm Springs, where he very unintuitively walked right into the hot tub, face first. It did not relax him.

As time passed Frankie grew calmer. He completely lost his hearing, and arthritis found its way into his bones. He grew slow in getting up and although he couldn’t hear the sirens outside to howl at – he started to just howl when he wanted something – scratchies, for me to come back into a room, or whatever else was on his mind.

Occasionally even in his advancing age he would find some sort of mess to get into. Usually, it was toppling over planters and rolling around in the dirt.

After Charlie went off to college, Tiffany and I decided to let the old man come inside the house whenever he wished. We set up a bed upstairs in our bedroom and a bed in the corner of the living room, where he’d snooze in our company at whim, and then retire upstairs come bedtime. Even in his senior years, Frankie would frantically paw at his beds, nesting like a maniac. All throughout the night. On many occasions, I would wake up and whisper scream at him, “WHAAT?! WHATGODAMMIT WHAT??!!!!!!!!!” Although he couldn’t hear me, he’d just freeze after he’d notice my pained, contorted face, then lay down on his bed with a HARUMPH.

But let me refocus on something more important than yet another complaint. These past few years spent with Frankie really made me realize what a sweet, sweet boy he was.

Nothing made him happier in the world than to simply be with us. He’d always show his appreciation for delicious food by wagging his tail until the last bite was swallowed. When sleeping up in our room, one of the main reasons why he’d paw at his bed so madly was that he was moving his bed closer to either Tiffany or me. He always wanted us to be happy with him. He’d lick us all day long if we let him.

He quickly realized the kitchen was a place of food miracles and he’d dote on Tiffany’s Mom and Dad once he found out that they were easy marks for treats. And he was always gentle and generous with the girls in ways that he wasn’t even with Tiffany and me. I feel like these past few years were crucial and made us all even closer to Frankie.

A few months ago, Frankie had to have an emergency Splenectomy. They found a tumor on his spleen that was causing him to lose blood, and he needed it removed to survive in the short term. The doctors told us that he probably wouldn’t have much longer to live. Months, maybe a year at most. Our focus was just getting Charlie back from school for summer break so that she and Chase could spend more time with him for one last summer.

And so, the dog whose life was gravy thus far was now given super gravy-time.

And it was a wonderful summer of lasting hugs and Frankie howling wildly whenever I left a room and horrible farts while we were all watching television and Frankie trying his hardest to climb up those stairs with his tired bones every night for bedtime. And good food. Fuck that diet food. Diahhrea be damned. 

But it finally came time for the gravy to run out.

The night of August 9th, I could see something in Frankie’s face. It was my sixth sense with him. Something wasn’t feeling right. 

On August 10th, the guy made me doubt myself, as he was more alert and youthful and active than he’d been in a long time. On his evening walk, I took a picture of him and wondered to myself, “Is this my last photo of him?”

On August 11th Frankie woke up not wanting to come down the stairs. Not wanting to eat. Once at the pet hospital, we were told that the cancer had come back. 

And Frankie C. Dodge, who came into this world unwanted, left it surrounded by a group of people who loved him: Tiffany’s parents, Charlie and Leo, Chase, Tiffany, and me.

Another point in the sky for me to draw a line to, giving my life story more shape.

It was insane that we had to get on a flight to Hawaii that very evening.

As the plane lifted off the tarmac I remember wondering if I’d be able to just leave my pain in LA.

Not really. Sometimes. But not really.

The night we returned, as we got off the freeway and closer to our house, the tears started to quietly roll down Tiffany’s and my cheeks- almost in sync, in the dark, without us speaking or looking at one another. It was delayed for a week, but for the first time we were returning to a house without its dog, and it washed over us stronger with every mile we got closer to home. That was a very tough night to get through.

Truth be told I didn’t want to write this. I don’t know why I was suddenly compelled to. I fully realize these poorly fashioned words are just so fucking trivial and diaphanous when held up to the blinding light of my broken heart. This is the best I can do.

I love you, Frankie. Fuck, I miss you. You made us all better people. Good boy.

It’s the morning and I’m sitting in my shorts on my hotel balcony with Tiffany across from me and a rainbow has just graced our view of the beach. The large sliding door is open and the rolling waves outside fill the room with a soothing thrum. During the day it’s family time down below. But the night is punctuated here and there by the sounds of tourists drunkenly dragging themselves up and down Kalakaua Ave looking to keep the party going just a little while longer. Mopeds zoom past like angry mosquitos cutting through the ambience of said nature and drunken nurture. But right now the sun is out and we are grabbing our last eyeballful of Hawaii until we come again.

Peering down from the sixth story we have had a full view of Kalakaua Ave and then beach and then water, with the welcoming statue of Duke Kahanamoku holding frozen vigil over the pedestrians, welcoming surfers of all levels, serving as a noble photo spot for anyone with a camera – which is everyone. From sunrise to sundown surfers bob in the warm water, sometimes crowded together in pods, sometimes spread apart as far as the eye can see. There are so many surfers in the water that it seems impossible for those who catch a wave not to collide with or run over the others. Miraculously, they rarely do. I could spend all day watching as they dodge and weave through the anorexic avenues between floating humans and resin, working their way through the cluster of madness as if it were a Hong Kong intersection. Everything seems to work out. It’s meant to be…

From what I have spied, Duke’s statue is tended to by a homeless man who arrives every night or so to clean up the heaps of leis left in dangling tribute from Duke’s arms. This fellow sorts through the wilting stringed flowers, leaving the best one or two to remain, then attentively brushes the base of the statue with a fallen palm frond or two, preparing Duke for the next day’s photo work.

To our left stands proud a giant old Banyan tree where surfers gather to drop off or pick up their surfboards throughout the day. A local flock of birds awaken each morning and set out, only to return at sundown with great ceremony.

As the days grow long on Kalakaua Avenue the performers and weirdos come out. Anti-vax/anti-mask protesters – twelve in total, two of them being kids – have appeared once or twice with signs and bullhorns and drums. Occasionally, a group of tourists – always white – would give them a thumbs-up, but usually the Anti-Vax/Mask protesters were regarded by the common public like a wet fart that erupted on the Avenue. People would mainly look the other way and wait for the unpleasantness to pass.

By nightfall the street performers, tweakers and Jesus freaks alike would intermingle…all pushing their message, their brand, their scam, hoping to draw in the drunks, the curious, the looky-loos with loose cash.

But right now the sun’s out. And so is this rainbow. God, how lucky are we?

Today we return to LA. I am tired. My feet are in rough shape, my experiment with the zero drop shoes has proven that I have a way to go. But the real bottom line is I think we have given everyone a decent run for their money in terms of activities and adventure…

*****

The day after our surf lesson we got into our rental and headed up to the North Shore. One of the more unique aspects of pandemic vacationing in Hawaii is that there is a dearth of rental cars on the island. All of the rental companies sold their fleets during the shut-down to stay afloat and haven’t had a chance to repopulate before what has turned out to be an absolute BUM RUSH of tourists rabid for fun. This has resulted in insane pricing for what few cars are available, or travelers resorting to renting U-Haul trucks, or what can be described as peer-to-peer renting – which is what we did.

So we reached out to a local and rented his tired old white Toyota Sierra – which I have affectionally christened The Aloha Machine. This situation was fine by me because why give money to Hertz when you can inject your tourist dollars directly to a local?

The Aloha Machine was all personality. Upon first driving it George commented that the condition of the truck was such that it would take him driving it straight into the fucking wall in order to damage the truck in any new obvious way. It got us to where we needed to go, and every reached destination felt like a victorious climax of an action adventure film. The engine throttled up with such phlegmy drama and lurched with so much awkwardness it damn near felt cartoony. It’s an uncanny replication of what the Jeeps feel like in the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, and many times as George accelerated we would yell, “YOU LOOKED INTO THE FORBIDDEN EYE!!!”

The Aloha Machine boasted other charms such as a windshield wiper control that only stayed on with manual manipulation (which is often, in Hawaii), the car only unlocks via the trunk, as well as there is an endless population of buggy critters skittering out of who knows where into the cabin – which was a delight for those in our group who are terrified of spiders – I won’t name names, but his name rhymes with LEO. The owner gave the car to us thinking that the front passenger seat was broken and could only be left in a full recline. Thankfully, George fixed that. The owner was delighted when he picked the car back up to see that George saved him a visit to the shop. The Aloha Machine got us from point Aloha to B just fine, and wherever we parked we never had to worry about anyone breaking into it – because it looked like some old surfer guy’s beater truck.

So up the North Shore we travelled. Our first mission? Kayaking. As we were standing around waiting for our kayaks to be dragged to the water for us, our first rainbow arrived, lifting our moods.

Some of us have been kayaking before, some of us haven’t. We started off in a mellow inlet and then awkwardly scooped our way into the mouth of a very mild river. Occasionally, we saw a turtle. One large turtle in particular popped its head out of the water and took a noisy gasp of air into its nostrils, which was a thrill to see. However, our three hour kayaking excursion only lasted about an hour and a half – because we are a lazy breed.

I think one thing I will reflect on often about this vacation is how much physical activity we accomplished. I mean…surfing, hiking (oh we’ll get to that), kayaking, more hiking (we’ll get to that, too), swimming, walking, and waking up early – yes, that is a physical activity in my book. You’d think we were trying to be healthy or something. Yech.

After our kayaking excursion we tried to hit a few nearby beaches, but the crowds were just too much. Yes, we are vaccinated. Of course we are – we aren’t spineless morons addicted to deep-throating every conspiracy that pops up on the internet. But we are still very careful both for our sake as well as Piper’s sake, because she is still too young to be vaccinated. The crowds were an issue everywhere. EVERYWHERE. It was a major turnoff. So, after trying two very crowded beaches, we gave up and hit the Dole Plantation. And that place was a crazy crowded mess, too. There was a capacity limit of people allowed in the store at once, and everyone else had to wait in a line outside. Over an hour wait to ride the plantation tour train? No thank you. We did the the maze, bought some Dole ice cream desserts, and got the fizzuck out of Dodge.

• 

• 

After the brief visit to the Dole Plantation our mission was lunch. We had hoped for Giovanni’s Shrimp – but the line at the North Shore truck was two hours long, according to the friendly security guard who’s twinkle in his eyes urged us not to join the line of suckers. Have I mentioned there are a lot of crowds on the island? We opted for Big Wave Shrimp just down the street and weren’t disappointed. I mean how can you go wrong with shrimp, garlic, and butter? You can’t, is my point. You can’t.

We rounded out our visit to the North Shore by taking a tour of the North Shore Soap Factory. The facility is a former Sugar Mill turned into multiple shops and such. The soap factory smelled…well, probably better than any of us did at that point in the day. This, by the way, was the most useless tour on the planet for Leo, because he barely has a smeller. But he still put bar-to-nose to try once or twice. Although the woman who worked the gift shop was surly as fuck – our tour guide was passionate about the ethical making of soap and showed us how it was all done. At the end of the tour we were each given slim soap bar samples and allowed to stamp a design on it. It was just good clean motherfuckin’ family fun.

After a lovely dinner at a noodle joint in Waikiki we turned in, for the next day was going to be early…

A shuttle picked us all up at 6:20 am for a morning hike up Diamond Head.

There had been much debate about whether or not we should hike up Diamond Head. Tiffany, Charlie, Chase, and I had done it before when we visited years ago…well, Tiffany and I did it, mainly. I hiked up the final stair portions with Charlie on my back and Chase in my arms. I wanted to do it again, sans daughters in arms, of course, just to prove to myself that I still could. It took some convincing, but we got Team Yu and Leo to join us.

This hike had been a goal of mine since the beginning of summer. I had been slowly transitioning to zero drop barefoot style shoes and I wanted to be able to hike Diamond Head in them. However, it takes a while to transition to this style of shoe – one has to wear them more and more over time to avoid injury. In the long term they are supposed to help with back problems and muscle development, which is why I want to wear them. Thus, I had been working toward this Diamond Head hike with my zero drop sandals for quite awhile and here we were.

The hike was hard. It was tiring. An old bearded man literally lapped us twice during our journey up – he ran the trail twice during the time it took us to go up once. Stupid showy old man. We were all gassed, but we made it. Since the last visit, Diamond Head has built an option for those not wanting to take the stairs, but Tiffany and I decided to stair it, anyway, because we are a passionate, sexy couple who celebrate sweat and health and, well, just moving our bodies and looking amazing and sensual at all times…while everyone else took the recently-built paved switchbacks.

Another subject up to debate was whether or not to hit the Polynesian Cultural Center. Although the Yus as a unit have never been there before, both Charlie and Chase expressed reservations about patronizing an institution that profits off of the backs of the native Hawaiian People and their culture. They didn’t want to spend money that wouldn’t go to the local people, but instead to an institution that wasn’t Hawaiian. In the end, we decided not to go. We weren’t interested in doing a Luau this year and the prices were pretty exorbitant, anyway. And you know what? In the end I feel that they were right in their convictions.

But we found a better way to learn and absorb Hawaiian history and culture. After Diamond Head we went to both the Bishop Museum as well as the Iolani Palace and at these two places we got the story of Hawaii finally told by the Hawaiian people themselves, as opposed to a version provided by missionaries. And it was different from the generic narrative. And real. And fascinating. I encourage everyone to especially go to the Bishop Museum – it covers everything about the various cultures and populations of Hawaii, from its emerging populations, to the timeline of its monarchy, to the deep and rich and fascinating history of Polynesian Culture. I think we all got a lot out of it. Much much more than we would have at the Polynesian Cultural Center.

For lunch we got our revenge on those long lines at Giovanni’s by finding a Giovanni’s tucked away in the food court of an Hmart! No line to wait in at all. How clever are we?! So not only were we able to actually compare whether or not Giovanni’s shrimp is worth that long line that all those sucker-assed bitches were waiting in at the North Shore, but we were also able to enjoy a variety of other food stall delights as well. The verdict, it was good, but no better than any other shrimp joint we’ve tried. In HMart Chase spotted a yogurt drink sold in a baby bottle and had to buy it. The drink was disgusting, but Chase kept the bottle and enjoys water in it for a laugh.

Finally, we rounded out our day with the Makani Sunset Sail – A Catamaran ride along the coast of Waikiki with “free flowing” booze as the sun went down. Leo and Charlie snuggled and took a lot of photos of themselves with Waikiki as their backdrop. We all let the ocean breeze while around us. Unfortunately, the sun retired behind the low hanging clouds, but it was still an incredible time to spend with everyone with amazing views. We also met a very bombastic geriatric foursome from Texas – their ringleader being “Jim” who very enthusiastically engaged us with all sorts of conversation, covering topics ranging from guns (he is retired air force and George is George) to how “Orientals” flip out when they see any hair color but black. It’s sounds more sinister that it was meant – he’s from Texas, he can’t help it, and even though Charlie’s eyes went googly on the boat ride as she was hearing him talk we all had a laugh about it once we got back to land.

The following day was another early one, as we met our friend Bruce (vaccinated) again for a morning surf. It was a bit frustrating as his paddle board wasn’t large enough for me and his surf boards weren’t large enough for Chase – so that left us without catching a single wave. But it’s hard to stay frustrated long when you are staring out at the Hawaiian waves. Bruce was amazing with Tyler as he essentially towed her board around the waves.

In the afternoon we decided more beach time was in order and we set up camp at Waimanalo Beach. This was a Sunday, so a lot of the people at this beach were locals enjoying time with their families, making the vibe was a lot more low key than what it was at Waikiki. This windward spot, to me, is also the most beautiful spot that we encountered on this trip. The waves were just playful enough to keep us swimming, and ever direction was a feast for the eyes. I think I stayed out in waves for our entire visit, just letting the water wash over me, throwing all of my worries out as far out onto the horizon as I could.

Much of that time Tyler was bobbing along next to me, and we floated in the waves together, and talked about nothing in particular. I haven’t really had any one-on-one with Tyler in ages. Usually, there are other kids or people around. It was nice to spend time with her. She is growing into an amazing young woman and she was great company.

As I was showering off I met an old man who said he had lost part of his hearing on the gun ranges of Guantanamo and the other part of his hearing in the fuselage of a submarine. He went on to explain that old people always think young people are mumbling because consonants are in the high tonal range and that is what gets lost with hearing first. Sure, was hard of hearing and talking about how much it sucks to get old but this guy was muscular and obviously had just come from swimming around in the ocean. I regretted not asking his name. It’s something I have to work on.

The next morning was our third wake-up-at-dawn stunt. George is a morning person already. Joyce can handle it because she is used to George. Tiffany and I were game because we wanted to make the most of the vacation. The kids, on the other hand, were one giant NO THANK YOU. I think the hours we had been keeping over the last few days almost destroyed Leo and Charlie. Chase had been waking up at 530 am every morning for her NYU computer summer school thr four weeks running up to our vacation, but she also wanted to sleep this one out. The Yu girls were in agreement. So this particular morning adventure was solely for the adults.

Where were we headed? We were meeting another old friend, Donna Choo (vaccinated) for a sunrise hike on the Makapu’u Point Lighthouse Trail. The Aloha machine growled and gurgled its way in the pre-dawn darkness, we pulled over to the side of the highway, and footed our way up a steady cemented incline for a mile.

Here’s the thing about God Damned Hiking. Everyone says a trail is easy because it is either short or paved. Horseshit. Frankly, I would rather have steps and jagged switchbacks than a steady, monotonous incline. It’s not my jam. I find it harder. I don’t like it. It annoys me. I found myself getting grumpier in the dark with every step. The sky was lightening up and I was convinced I wasn’t going to make it to see the sunrise. It was the first time this entire vacation where I felt like maybe I wasn’t game for adventure. Maybe I should have stayed in bed. Maybe I should try to stop doing active things because I feel like a fat fuck and I hate working! WAHHH! Baby had officially got a big poopy in his diapee!!!

Sigh.

But then I did make it by sunrise.

And Donna showed up with her 18 month-old dog Mana. And it was beautiful and peaceful every which way you turned. And this combination made it completely worth it. I concluded that maybe I should stop rushing to conclusions. And also maybe cut down on the pissing and moaning about everything.

After he returned back down Donna gave us snacks made by some local businesses and we said our goodbyes. On our way back to the hotel we found a LEONARD’S TRUCK. Fresh Malasadas…

…and then we returned to the hotel for a quick rest while the kids all went to the Waikiki Zoo on their own.

But our slumber was interrupted by Joyce alerting us that the line at a hot shave ice place down the street was small for once, so we popped out of our hotel room and made our way over to join them for what I think is the most amazing shave ice on the island (screw Matsumoto’s.) Island Vintage Shave Ice. All natural ingredients. It’s so refreshing.

In the afternoon we tackled Lanikai Beach. Many have told us that this beach would be one of our favorites. And it was beautiful. But the vibe was totally different on the day that we went, because it was crowded. It felt more like a pool in Vegas than a serene Hawaiian Oasis. Apparently, this place is such a zoo that the local residents have successfully gotten the city to ban parking along the streets anywhere near the beach. Our friend Bruce told us that locals call the area “Lanicry” because the residents whine and cry to get selfish ordinances passed. It also doesn’t hurt that the area is pretty wealthy, too.

Originally, the thought was that we would kayak from Lanikai to “The Mokes” but we were feeling real spent by this point, one of my feet went lame at the bottom of Makau’u and kayaking for a mile across the ocean seemed impossible to us all. So we camped in the shade, our chairs jammed into a spot right up against the wall of a waterfront house, Leo took the umbrella and found more space a bit off in the distance for the kids, and we tried to enjoy the beautiful view despite the not so serene vibe as the water literally danced up to our chairs to cool our feet.

Oh, I’m sorry, did you think we wouldn’t dare wake up butt-assed early for the fourth consecutive day in a row? Because yes, yes we did dare! In order to bust our way over to the Kualoa Ranch. (I was sincerely worried for Leo by this point, as I found him that morning sitting waiting for us, but just staring in the middle distance.)

Apparently, a lot of crap is filmed at Kualoa Ranch. It’s big and lush and green and exotic. The mountains are alien looking. It’s beautiful to behold. Jurassic Park or World. King Kong. Lost. They have all sorta tours where you can quad run or bus around to see where this or that was filmed, where Chris Pratt stood, etc. But we are from LA and knew that none of that would impressed our jaded and Hollywood hardened kids.

But this joint did boast of a “Secret Island Beach,” so we bit. Was it secret? I dunno. We boarded a boat to the secret beach that was a shorter trip than the raft that takes you to Tom Sawyer’s Island at Disneyland. But it was a nice time. A bit summer-campy. They had someone on a megaphone announcing activities. The water was a tad murky, but again…the views. The views were great. The girls played volleyball, Leo, Tyler and Piper chilled in hammocks. George paddle-boated. We had to get there so early that we brought our breakfast with us and ate it there. All in all, relaxing.

After returning from the Secret Island we stopped off at a scrumptious recommendation by our friend Donna – the Waiahole Poi Factory. Local Hawaiian Eats. One of the best meals of our stay.

After that we made our way to the Manoa Chocolate Factory Tour and learned about the emerging Cacao Industry in Hawaii. Their passion for both Hawaii and chocolate was infectious, and I’m glad that we could expose the kids to that.

But I mean we also ate a lot of chocolate. And sampled cacao husk tea. And that was rad, too. Nobody else had this reaction but by the time we were done I felt a warm, comforting fuzzy happiness after we left.

On our last day Charlie and Leo wanted to venture out on their own, Chase wanted some time to herself to read in the hotel room, and the rest of us visited THE OLD HANOLA BLOWHOLE! So much blowhole, so little time.

We lunched at a delicious spot on the way back to the hotel called the Moena cafe and then rested until our final dinner in Waikiki, which we had with our good friend Bruce (vaccinated) to thank him for his immense thoughtfulness and generosity.

And that is another TaiDodgeYu family vacation in the books.

It was interesting being on Oahu during a Pandemic – for being on vacation during a Pandemic. For the most part everyone was patient and respectful of social distance and mask wearing. Waiting for the elevators in the hotel was more of a task, as only so many were allowed at one time. Sometimes the doors would open and it would already be full, so you’d say, “I’ll grab the next one.” Nobody took offense. Everyone understood. Sometimes we had to wait fifteen minutes for an elevator. Many times we would break up into smaller groups to ride the available space. But it was what it was, and I appreciated everyone’s efforts. Businesses were also very vigilant. Temperature checks. Contact tracing. I think Hawaii proves that when everyone does their part, everybody wins.

This time round I thought a lot about the local Hawaiian people. Charlie in particular challenged me to think about what Hawaii is. Because of her, I read books on its history. I delved beyond the superficial coconutted, grass skirtted narrative most tourists settle for. I thought a lot about what Hawaii has been through over the ages and what it is becoming. The one thing that I admire most is how multicultural it is. I mean truly blended culture. I know it’s not perfect but in many aspects Hawaii is a model society the world should aspire to emulate. I won’t go into a history lesson here but I encourage everyone to learn more.

For me an important part of this vacation was the Aloha that was extended by our friends Donna Choo and Bruce Hsiao (both vaccinated.) The trip wouldn’t have been the same without their friendship. Donna woke up pre-dawn just to meet us for a hike, and then gave us snacks! If I was forced to wake up before the sun to hike with someone I’d send them a damned bill! And Bruce supplied us with a constant flow of food, vacation goods, and lended us surf boards and beach gear and really extended himself. Our friends’ generosity made me realize that I need to be a better friend, myself. Because man, I wouldn’t have even considered meeting ANYONE for a dawn hike. And I would have jist door dashed some food to whoever’s hotel. The level of constant thoughtfulness from Bruce is simply inspiring to me. I don’t know if I’m capable of being a better friend, but maybe I’ll give it a try. To Donna and Bruce, Mahalo.

As I look out on my balcony the word that I keep feeling about this trip is “love.” I love my people. My family. I am grateful for each and every one of them. This past year has made that feeling more intense and placed it front and center in my brain. I love spending time with them. I love having these adventures with them so very much. Sure, things change. Charlie and Chase are a far cry from being the little bugs who we dragged around Oahu years ago. Now, they are women who pretty much stuck together as a unit in the back of the truck, with their own asides and jokes, with their own inside references as they shared stuff they were watching on their phone. But I loved watching them do that, because I know they have each other.

I loved watching Charlie and Leo as they shared experiences during this trip. This was Leo’s first time to Hawaii- I hope he had a good time. I think he did. It was ingenious of him to even look for Pokémon Go characters in the Dole Maze, and frankly he rocks a Hawaiian shirt like a boss. Leo was a great addition to the group and really brought a fun vibe to the tribe.

I loved watching Piper and Tyler, each growing into young ladies themselves, embark on another tropical adventure. Tyler surfed! Piper was always a fantastic sport with whatever lay in front of her and has the most awesome sense of humor I’ve ever seen from a girl her age. I hope she can remain that way for just a little while longer.

I always love vacationing with Joyce and George. George did all the driving this trip, and I appreciate it. I don’t normally get to look around as we travel, and it was wonderful. George is also a true brother. We are at a point where we could just sit in each other’s company in complete silence without any awkwardness, or we can talk about anything. It wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t have my sister Joyce to give shit to and to then get it back in full. I have to say Joyce didn’t rush us once through any of the museums…but I know she was still screaming in her head for us to hurry up as we were reading about the war spears of King Kamehameha I.

And I love my wife. Shit, “love” barely qualifies but will have to do- it’s the only word in the English language that comes close. It’s simply not an adventure without Tiffany by my side. I love wading into the ocean with her. Hell, I love putting sunblock on her. I love sharing Shave Ice with her.

I’ve written about this before but it’s not about where you are, it’s about who you’re with. Every vacation reminds me of that. We were lucky to get this trip in. I am grateful for this time. I, for one think I needed some healing- it’s hard to articulate beyond that. And I was expecting maybe my vacation location would help with that. But I think what helped most was the dedicated time I got to spend with those I hold dearest to my heart.

We will be departing for the airport soon. There is a lot to do and think about back in LA. There is some arduous, exciting, thrilling, enduring, and heavy shit waiting for me. And a lot of it I can’t do on my own.

But what makes me the luckiest person on Earth is that while I can’t bring Waikiki back with me, I get to bring my family back with me.

So I think everything’s gonna be okay.

It’s meant to be!

It has been a long time since I have written. We have all been through so much since the last blog entry. Worldwide pandemic. Political upheaval and horseshit. Tiffany had a health scare where she internally bled so much it was a medical curiosity as to why she didn’t have a heart attack. She had emergency surgery in the thick of the pandemic when even spouses weren’t allowed in hospitals with patients, and I couldn’t be there for her through any of it, but she pulled through. And then we lost Eric. Suddenly. Excruciatingly.

And now, I find myself on vacation, back in Waikiki. Wonderful Oahu.

We booked this trip when the dust was settling from the third wave of the pandemic. Vaccinations had started to flow. We survived Trump, at least for now. Things were possibly looking up. Maybe that was the worst of it. Maybe not. Who knows? Throughout the middle of the pandemic, we (Clan Yu and Clan Dodge) booked Airbnbs here and there but always sequestered ourselves inside, holed up as if waiting out a nuclear winter – we were just desperate for a change of scenery. This TaiDodgeYu family vacation was an attempt to try something more significant. More normal, though not entirely the same. That would not be possible ever again since we lost Eric and Cayden moved away. But it seemed like things were safer and we needed something from a vacation. We NEEDED something. Maybe I’m speaking out of place for the others. I NEED something. I don’t think I know what I need, exactly. But it’s something.

Then as we were waiting for our vacation to arrive, the Delta variant burst through the chest of our collective country. Attacking innocents and dumbshits alike. The sense that life is getting dicey again grows stronger every day. Maybe we are here just in the knick of time before everything closes down again. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come. As we were being shuttled to our hotel from the Honolulu airport, Tiffany turned to me and asked, “Are we doing this too soon?”

Are we?

Maybe this is the worst of it. Maybe it’s not. Who knows?

Shit, ain’t that the motto of our modern existence.

So. Sitting in my red underwear at the Hyatt Regency in Waikiki, I am jotting down another vacation blog entry. How do you like them macadamia nuts? I seriously wrote that sentence as an homage to Good Will Hunting…but now, as I reread this, it sounds like Hawaiian wordplay about my testes…

Will this blog entry remain this stupid?

Maybe this is the worst of it. Maybe it’s not. Who knows?

The funny thing is I’m joking here to cover up more pain. We’ve been here for about twenty-four hours, and it feels like a lifetime. I feel raw. Exhausted. Emotional.

Yesterday morning we had to put Frankie down, and then a mere few hours later, we found ourselves on a plane to Hawaii. I actually can’t write about Frankie right now, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to. Pain is hard to articulate for me. I prefer to avoid it. That’s why I joke. As the plane was lifting off and I saw LA growing smaller in the window, I was hoping that maybe Hawaii could distract me from the pain just for a little while. To give my aching mind a rest from what feels like has been an endless, cruel succession of throbbing loss and stress and horror and grief that hits hard with it’s hand opened and nails sharpened, then lies dormant long enough to make you think that was the worst of it – then hits you fresh all over again with something new.

What was I saying? Distraction. Right. Distraction, that’s what I was looking for. And let me tell you, I wanted a distraction. Well one distraction comin’ right up. For on the plane sitting next to me was a girl that only one word in the English language can efficiently describe.

“PLAGUE.”

The Plague was sitting next to me.

Look, just to give you a sense, here is my modus operandi when I board an airplane:

I get on, I find the flight attendant nearest my seat, and I say in a charming tone, “Hiyeee….at your earliest convenience, could I bother you for a seatbelt extender when you have a chance.

I need extra seatbelt.

Then I put my shit up in the overhead and sit down, and I start to sweat profusely from intense self-consciousness about being a large passenger squeezed into a tiny seat next to a stranger.

So this time, the person sitting next to me was a fifteen-year-old girl whose sister and mother were seated along her other side. I smile very guiltily and stuff myself into the seat. I work the extender, and I prepare for take-off.

Then I hear it—a juicy cough. Everyone’s wearing masks, so I think nothing of it…at first. But then The Plague coughs again, and I mean it’s just globulous, horrific phlegm doing a devil’s dance in the back of her throat.

Then she pops a Ricola. Oh shit, this girl is either finishing up a cold or in the thick of one. I’m confident it most likely ain’t COVID because everyone must prove they are vaccinated or test negative first to get to Hawaii. But I haven’t had a cold in well over a year, and I don’t want one while I’m on vacation. After the doors close I ask the flight attendant if the FOUR empty seats directly in front of us are available for me to take. The flight attendant cheerfully tells me that they are upgrade seats and not open to me, then she slaps a sign on them telling other passengers in English, Japanese, Chinese, and Korean that nobody can sit in them.

As I stare at the empty seats in front of me, The Plague KEEPS coughing. At least once every sixty seconds. Worse yet, whenever she pulls her mask down for a sip of water SHE FUCKING COUGHS OPEN-MOUTHED!

The first time this happens, I go into full red alert. My eyes dart wildly above my mask. I self-consciously press the mask wire on the bridge of my nose to clamp it harder. As we taxi, The Plague’s coughing up a storm and has three Riccolas, one after another. I’m starting to realize that she’s completely stupid and doesn’t understand that it’s not one Riccola per cough.

“Could this get any worse- to be stuck next to this virulent, thoughtless idiot in A PLANE?” I asked myself, panicked, in my head.

Well, yes. Yes, it can.

A few minutes after take-off, The Plague starts wildly fanning her face – as if she ate a chili pepper. But she didn’t eat a hot chili pepper, did she? She grabs a barf bag and wretches into the bag. In a shocking, weird twist, her mother and sister start laughing at her as she’s puking. So clearly, they are idiots, too. The Plague fills three barf bags with puke. The scent of stomach juice and Ricola seep into my mask.

Now I’m screaming with horror in my head. SCREAM-ING a scream that I couldn’t produce with my own vocal cords if I tried…imagine if the Wilhelm Scream snuck up behind Edvard Munich’s Scream and non-consensually butt-fucked him with the violent, sonic pressures created by his Wilhemic Scream…whatever scream produced in that awful scenario is the scream that was going off in my brain.

The Plague now sits with filled barf bags on her lap, not even making any effort to throw them away…as she gets on her phone to check her instagram. Finally, her mom takes them and throws them away for her. OH…OHOHOH SHE’S STILL COUGHING. ONCE A MINUTE ON AVERAGE FOR THE ENTIRE FIVE-HOUR FLIGHT. Pulling down her mask and coughing open-mouthed before drinks of water…then pulling down her mask to…to…

To wipe her running nose with her fingers then wipe said snotty fingees on her clothes.

And the thing is…the thing is she had long nails. Like, two-inch-long fake-assed fingernails. This fifteen-year-old kid had big long fake fingernails and had to use the pads of her fingertips to smear away the lava flow snot off of her face then wipe it onto her clothes. And when she wasn’t doing that, she was recording herself lip-syncing to TikTok shit.

So I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t just turn to her and say, “Hey! PLAGUE! KEEP YOUR FUCKING MASK ON!” I mean, I kept looking at her with disdain. There was even a point during the flight where I stood up and just stared at her…I guess I just felt it in my bones that because her smoker voiced, I’ll-laugh-at-you-while-you-vomit Mom was who she obviously was if I confronted them this would take an insane turn and I was emotionally raw and tired and I hate confrontation, anyway.

So I just did a lot of breath-holding. When the food was distributed I didn’t immediately eat. I didn’t want anything opened around her vapor. And there was NO WAY I was taking off my mask near The Plague. But I was starved.

So I ate my meal in the bathroom.

I went into the bathroom. I gingerly took off my mask with my pinkies, then washed my hands. I took out an airplane bottle of vodka and gently dowsed my lips in a frantic attempt to disinfect them, then I fucking inhaled this pesto chicken hot pocket in the bathroom hard and fast before I returned to my seat and tried to sleep.

But I couldn’t sleep because she kept hitting me with the bottoms of her feet as she was trying to curl up with her legs to her chest…but unable to hold that position. Then she and her sister got into a fight because her sister wanted to hang HER legs over her. But argument resulted in an exceptional coughing fit…and I heard The Plague’s mother tell her she only needs to pull her mask up when the flight attendants walk by.

And that is when I walked back to the flight attendants and said, “I will pay you a hundred dollars if you tell the girl next to me who is coughing open-mouthed and is clearly sick to keep her mask on. To the flight attendant’s credit, she took it very seriously, told her to keep her mask on, and then kept checking her throughout the rest of the flight.

By the time we landed in Honolulu, I was even rawer than when we left.

But then an old friend of ours, Bruce Hsiao (vaccinated), who lives on the island, greeted us with true Aloha.

He met us at our hotel and brought us supplies from Costco, including local rum and a hot dinner from Uncle Bo’s…of some of the most fantastic food I’ve ever had in Hawaii.

And I feel asleep feeling a bit better, a belly full of good food and rum, and the eternal hope that a year’s worth of mainlining my patented “Pandemic Sunrise” vitamin drink will help keep The Plague’s moronic germs out of my system.

And I woke up to the sound of waves. And I realized how ready I am for some adventure. I’m a lucky man. I’ve got Charlie and Chase and Tiffany here with me. Charlie’s boyfriend Leo is with us, too, and of course Joyce, George, Tyler, and Piper. It’s going to be great. What felt like a painful escape from LA, then a grueling gauntlet over the Pacific, might turn into some special memories.

And already today, we made some as Tyler, Chase, and I took surf lessons.

Our instructor, Kurt, was this tall, sweet, sincere dude with a bronze bald head from Moku Surf Shop. There wasn’t a rash guard my size in the shop, so he pulled one of his own out of his backpack to loan to me. At the end of the lesson, he just gave it to me so I can use it for the rest of the trip!

It shouldn’t be surprising that Chase got up and surfed ON HER VERY FIRST TRY EVER. And Tyler started standing by her THIRD TRY. On the other hand, I didn’t stand at all, but I knelt when I rode the last wave in (I quit early because I am out of shape), which made me want to do more surfing because riding that wave…that feeling…I don’t know how to describe it. Nice. I’ll just leave it at that.

Man, this post feels all over the place. But that’s how it is right now. Progress is all over the place. Pain is all over the place. My emotions are all over the place. I am just hoping that maybe the winds and waters of Hawaii will cool and nourish my soul a bit. Maybe make sense of some of it. That would be great. But if not, perhaps I should adopt the philosophy of one of the Moku surf shop guys, who, instead of making excuses as to why they were running late with our surf lesson just yelled, “It’s meant to be!”

A’a i ka hula, waiho i ka maka’u i ka hale, but, ku’ia kahele aka na’au ha’aha’a. E hele me ka pu’olo…am I right?

It’s been a memorable week in Kauai. Our first time on the Garden Island. This year it is just the four of us on summer vacay, sadly. Vacationing without the Yus and Tais is like having ribeye without the three-olive martinis and creamed spinach. Still freakin’ delicious. But not as satisfying…

We’ve been staying in Kapa’a, on the east coast. For a week or so. While here we’ve been trying our hardest to get the most out of our short visit. We’ve been as vacationy as possible. Two nights ago we went to a wonderful Luau at the Smith Family Farm. (Imagine the Arboretum but with a Luau.) Upon entry, they boarded us on a tram that took us all around the farm in what can be considered breakneck speed, in Hawaiian standards. The tram never went slower than ten miles an hour as the driver quickly listed all the foliage that whizzed by — my kind of garden tour, because I super dislike looking at plants and flowers. It’s almost as bad as doing a math problem for fun. They get it. And I appreciate it.

”SMITH?” Charlie asked, armed with an eyebrow jacked into a mile-high arch of collegy accusation. That eyebrow was actually asking, “Is this yet another example of the white man sublimating the Hawaiian culture for his own profit?!!!” Well, the owner of the farm came out for the pig-pulling-out-of-the-ground ceremony and guess what? He explained that Smith was a name used to keep it simple for the tourists…which was the second instance of this phenomena that we had encountered – the first being earlier in the day when we learned that the ABC markets were named to…you guessed it…make it easy for the tourists to remember the store’s name. Thus, no appropriation…THIS TIME. Only business savvy Asians… so Charlie can once again feel comfortable with both sides of her bloodline…FOR NOW.

Anyhoo, Luau. Open bar. Endless pork and poi. Most excellent hula show afterward, complete with mini pyrotechnics and a fire dancing show which seemed to awkwardly be cut short due to what I could only guess might have been a singed body bit during a dramatic twirl. But no harm, no foul. The crowd was happily liquored (A Mai Tai’d Missouri woman behind us kept performing the cliché cowboy and Indian patted-mouth battle whoop whenever one of the hula dancers performed their dance yelps…) and the fire twirler came back out and impotently waved at the last minute as the crowd was getting up just to let everyone know that he was A-OK….Mahalo. 

Soon it will have been a full year since Charlie left home for NYU. For New York. To become a New Yorker. Charlie leaving for New York was very tough on me. I had a total of three very public breakdowns before she left. Oddly, all at Vons. All while standing in front of Vons employees as I was paying for stuff. I now try to use the self-pay aisle whenever I can. But at this very moment, she is in our evil, repressive grip. In Hawaii. In Kauai. She spent the summer at home in the Arcadia gulag under our totalitarian rule. With a paid internship. In boring assed, nothingtodoville. Charlie has counted the minutes until her return to New York. Counting the seconds, literally. Check her Instagram page. But the countdown is nearly over, and she will be celebrating that anniversary, and her birthday, back in New York with her friends. Vons employees can rest easy, no nervous breakdowns from me this time around.  I think I get it, now. The “it” relating to my first born leaving the coop. By the way, that “it” is a moving target. So just because I get “it” today doesn’t mean I will understand “it” tomorrow. And that’s parenthood in a nutshell. That’s why parents of one year-olds look so fresh and bright, and parents of college kids look so fucking chewed up. There’s a lot of rough road mileage in those years – and that’s if everything goes wonderfully! Okole Maluna. Anyhoo, the day after we return from our tropical stay Tiffany and Chase will travel to New York with Charlie to deliver her into the welcoming bosom of the Big City. But for right now…well, she’s still stuck with us. Mahalo.

• 

• 

• 

Two days ago we went on a sunset cruise to view the Napali Coast. Dolphins swam along our 65 foot catamaran, “holding fins” as it were as we saw parts of Kauai that can only be accessed either by a multi-day hike or by sea. It was absolutely beautiful. Tiffany didn’t get sea sick and the girls took a lot of pictures, and the sunset was one to remember. 

I don’t know why that particular sunset meant so much to me, but I found that it did. Tiffany and I stood on the front of the catamaran, plastic cups of champagne in hand with the girls beside us as the captain pumped Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s over-used yet sublimely superior version of “Over the Rainbow.” Was it because it was a rare, quiet, peaceful moment? In a rare, heavenly place? And we four were all experiencing it together? Was it because somewhere in the back of my head I know that our journeys as a unit are growing ever-so finite? Charlie is a young woman, now. No longer a little girl with a missing tooth angling for a purse made from a coconut. Chase is young woman, no longer demanding to be carried up the dormant volcano. Only three more years of high school for her, and then who know where her path leads. Is that why I felt as I did, standing next to my partner in crime, sipping bubbly, watching our closest star slip into the horizon? Or was it because nature has a way of reminding us how connected we are even when we kid ourselves that we aren’t? I don’t know. 

With families it’s always GO GO GO. It’s rare to just be calm and quiet with one another. Even more rare to find that peace without it being cheapened with the kids pressing their faces into their phones. It’s so unusual to just “exist” in each other’s presence. That’s why road trips have been wonderful for us. Same goes for the little mini road trips on this vacay, as well. In a car. Existing together. Sharing an experience – even if it’s silence. Standing on a beach together, looking at the waves. Sitting at a weathered picnic table, being circled by busker chickens, sharing a shaved ice with four kinds of syrup- one for each of us but for all to share. Eating every meal family style – even when that’s not the style of the restaurant. Standing on the edge of our condo’s pond every night, watching the traffic of sleepy koi, tadpoles, guppies and frogs. Winding around the red dirt flanked roads in our rented white Jeep (Which I christened “Vi’aini” – the Hawaiian cousin to our road trip vans of yore.) with the top down – which I discovered is a great way to get your kids to look up from their phones and around at the scenery – because the bright sun and wind prevents them from being able to see their phone screens!!! Point is there is so much in our daily lives that pull us away from what matters. All the sarcastic, tribalistic fuckery and main-lined outrage. And that’s just on top of the normal rat race. But to quietly exist? With people you love? I’m finding that it’s more important than I ever realized before.

We utilized an app called SHAKA GUIDE. It was THE BEST. A GPS based narrated driving tour that pointed out important placed and things to see, and related relevant historical facts and legends as well. It’s the next best thing to having a personal tour guide. Our first day we did the North Shore Tour. We love Hanalei Beach.

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We found that the waves there are deceivingly tasty for body boarding, if you are patient. Chase became quite a body boarder this trip and we returned to that beach Later in the week for seconds! On a different day we took the Poipu & Koloa Driving Tour. And another we did the Wailua Valley & Waterfalls Tour. And finally, before our sunset cruise, we squeezed in the Waimea & Na Pali Tour. The tour also pointed out great hikes but we as a unit aren’t very motivated hikers…so…yeah… But what was so special was the cornball narrator of this Shaka Guide app. He’d randomly break into what I assume can be considered pidgin English whenever he wanted to add “local” flavor… I really enjoyed the feel it gave the tour. This app was so good that I want to go back to the other islands and take the Shaka Tours there as well!

During this vacation in particular I kept picking up on a theme in Hawaii… In general the culture is, of course, more traditionally, historically, in touch with nature, therefore also just more in tune with the cycles of life, than I am, at least. Seasons. Change. And I realized as I was driving along, listening to our charming, goofy Shaka Guide, that this is the exact thing that has been on my mind of late. Change. I feel like in my life I’m in a more dramatic state of change right now than I have been in a long time. It’s probably mostly due to my girls growing up in more independent ways. Ways that require less of…me. As sure as the waves wearing down the face of a million year-old cliff. The sudden streaks of independent rains that come and go. The rays of sunshine that bake the lava rock. The rise and pull of tides. The movement of life. How do you control a changing season? You can’t. You can identify it. You can examine it. You can name it. Give it a face. A personality. Even assign a god to it, I guess. But really, what I learned from thousands of years of Hawaiian experience, is that the best thing that you can do with change is you can celebrate it. Accept it. Make it a part of your existence. Know it is coming. Welcome it. Make it a thing.

So maybe this trip…no. Nononono…OF COURSE this trip was a celebration. It’s a celebration of the people we are becoming. A celebration of Charlie and her yearning to return to a life she is establishing for herself in one of the greatest cities in the world. A celebration of Chase – who’s razor wit and humor is as deceptive as those waves of Hanalei…although I think our constant re-enactment of Aria peddling fresh oysters in Game of Thrones was about to make Charlie jump into the ocean. And it’s a celebration of Tiffany and me. The original team members. My navigator. Not just in Vi’aini, but in life. Our work far from done, the course merely altered.

Look at me! I’m so optimistic! This is what Hawaii does to you. You show up still vibrating with the whack energies of the mainland…then you start to slow down and get that aloha groove on juuuuust when you have to get on the plane and fly back. You promise yourself you’re gonna bring Hawaii back with you. Wear that shell necklace a little bit longer. Try to keep the tan. Decorate the house with tropical stuff. And do you? Sometimes. Maybe for a little bit… what about that aloha groove? I guess we will see this time around.

So tonight we celebrated Charlie’s 19th Birthday – since we won’t be on the same coast as her on her actual day. We’ve come a long way. And it’s all to be celebrated. That is what Kauai gave to me.

E hele me ka pu’olo.

For the 4th we made our way to Independence Hall to watch the reading of the Declaration of Independence. While that was going on someone in a high rise apartment started mooning the crowd from high above. Then at night we enjoyed fireworks along the Charles river in Boston. It was crowded and hot and the fireworks were numerous and bright and explosive…I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a more patriotic Fourth of July in my life. It was a fantastic experience. George’s cousin Ya Ya also made our Boston visit that much more sweeter by arranging a floral arrangement in our hotel room when we arrived…and she guided us around on the 4th and took us to great places to eat. It’s always nice to have someone more familiar with a city show you around…and we’ve been fortunate because every time we’ve been in Boston we’ve had someone lovingly give us guidance.

Maybe it’s just me but each time I’ve been to Boston now it feels like a completely different city. The only way I can articulate the feeling is it’s as if I’m approaching the place from a different angle and I get disoriented and nothing feels familiar. It’s definitely just me.

The day after the 4th Team Dodge and Team Yu split up for the day. The Yu’s visited Harvard to inspired their youngins and we decided to take the train to Salem. Salem’s history is fascinating…however the main area of Salem is nothing but a campy tourist trap. It has all the potential to be more…but it’s not. For a moment I got very excited because a costumed town crier was shouting that a ‘Witch Trial” was about to happen. When we walked to where the trial was we realized that to watch the trial you had to pay 25 bucks. NOPE.

While visiting the oldest grave site in the town I saw what I think crystallized how Salem is…there was a tour being led by a guy with a sloppy-assed pony-tail and holding an iced cappuccino. He was a smug, smarmy guy who was heavy on the snark but light on the facts. “And you’ll notice the symbol of the pregnant woman with the sword…it just goes to show you…don’t mess with a pregnant woman…ammiright?” For all it’s history, I felt that Salem was very much like this tool…light on substance.

After we trained back to Boston we hit the Converse headquarters, got the girls some new kicks…and then reconnected with Team Yu for a sweaty outdoor dinner at some wannabe New Orleans Restaurant that had pretty good fried chicken but a watermelon salad that was light on watermelon and heavy on the frisée.

And then today we came home.

This vacation was a bit weird for Tiffany and me, I suppose. It’s almost as if it had a ticking clock on it in regards to Charlie. Last year when we thought about Charlie going off to college we still could imagine it romantically, because it was more of an idea and less of an upcoming reality. But now…this vacation isdone…we know where she’s going…and the real countdown begins…

It’s funny because on our end our thoughts are a salt bath of anxiety and sentiment. We want Charlie happy. We are excited for her new adventures. The fantastic people she’ll meet. The things she will learn. But we worry about her safety. We worry about her happiness. We worry about her decisions. We worry…well, about her in total. Does she understand that? No. She can’t. Not for a long while, at least.

But on Charlie’s end…she’s ready for the adventure. I can see it in her eyes. She’s ready to figure out who she is and what she’s about. Or at least she thinks she’s ready- that’s youth. I, frankly, have concluded that in truth you are never truly ready for anything.

I think with the notion of Charlie leaving for college hanging over us, along with the amazing heatwave the east coast had while we were there, topped off by my back problems…well this trip actually had an element of a war to it. We had a lot of fun, but endurance was required on many levels.

This vacation also made me realize that my weight has made me borderline handicapped. I wouldn’t have thrown out my back if I wasn’t such a fat ass. And I realized this  from all the walking we did. I am hobbled and slow. Gravity feels heavier for me. I don’t fit in most chairs. I need a seat belt extender on the airplane. I can’t sit on the ground in picnic situations. My family’s constantly asking me if I’m okay. I guess I wheeze so much that I’ve gotten used to it because apparently I wheeze all the time and worry them. I can’t buy clothes in stores when I’m on vacation. I think I’ve reached a point where I can’t forget how fuckin’ fat I am. I can’t push it out of my mind. I need to quite literally take action. Because it is so inconvenient and dumb being this vulnerable and needy…and I for the first time I realized that I tainted my family’s vacation because of my own glut.

Oof.

I guess I’m going to have to deal with that, now.

But enough dragging our mood down! Let’s talk about upside! We have a kid who is going to NYU! Which means TONS more visits to the greatest city in the World! And I have no choice now but to exercise! AND I think the steamy heat of this trip has convinced the vacation planners that the next one’s gonna be a lazy stay somewhere tropical! And I love my career! And Chase is starting HIGH SCHOOL! See? We have plenty to keep us busy!

I’m glad I’m here in Boston on the 4th of July. I’m glad I’m reminded of the Revolutionaries who fought against the status quo, however imperfect they were, who fought for equal rights for all. I think all the time about how our forefathers created an idea of American Identity that included a sense of humor. Samuel Adams Paid children to harass the British by following them around and tugging on their coats just to drive them nuts. Benjamin Franklin once said, “In wine there is wisdom, in beer there is freedom, in water there is bacteria.” He also said, “Fart Proudly.”

One of my all time idols is Kurt Vonnegut – typical, I know. After all, what modern English literature enthusiasist doesn’t worship his work? And for that I say, “Fuck You. I bet you haven’t read Kurt Vonnegut the way were are supposed to.”

Forgive me for saying that I love Vonnegut more than you but I myself can remember specifically where I was when I read certain writiings of his. I remember being on the PCC campus reading “Slaughterhouse Five.” I remember getting to the last page of “Breakfast of Champions” then flipping back to page one to read it all over again. I remember waiting in line for a Easter Ham at Honeybaked while reading “Welcome to the Monkey House.” And I remember being at home, after a long day of working at the office, reading more of his works, where Vonnegut wrote,

”Socialism” is no more an evil word than ‘Christianity.’ Socialism no more prescribed Joseph Stalin and his secret police and shuttered churches than Christianity prescribed the Spanish Inquisition. Christianity and socialism alike, in fact, prescribe a society dedicated to the proposition that all men, women, and children are created equal and shall not starve.”

AND

”I am a humanist, which means, in part, that I have tried to behave decently without any expectation of rewards or punishment after I’m dead.”

AND

”Humanists believe that human beings produced the progressive advance of human society and also the ills that plague it. They believe that if the ills are to be alleviated, it is humanity that will have to do the job. They disbelieve in the influence of the supernatural on either the good or the bad of society, on either its ills or the alleviation of those ills.”

I remember pondering these words and mulling them over and over…thinking about the broad stroked, effectively marketed feelings that have been attached to “socialism” in my lifetime, i.e., socialism = communism = anti-american. However, Vonnegut was one of the most American sons a-bitches I’ve ever known. I remember thinking to myself, “Well, he’s just a writer. He has the convenience of being a dreamer. He never thinks about the practical aspects of policy.”

But then I grew up. And labels don’t mean shit, anymore. Because ideas are what have always made my life better, not labels…

We live in a weird time. Many are predicting we have reached the apex of American dominance in the world and we are starting to trend downward. Frankly, I could give two shits about that, too – because there is so much more that America has yet to accomplish – and being the most dominant power in the world might not be the biggest priority for her…in a literal sense, anyway.

What I’ve always loved about this country – that no other country can provide  – are the ideals it has mainly strived for since the beginning. BIG IDEAS. Ideas aren’t perfect. Aren’t automatically achieved. I firmly believe that our Constitution is more significant than the Bible – yet the civilization that we built on this contract of ideals isn’t even 300 hundred years old. We need to let it breath. We need to keep thinking on it, changing it. Let it evolve. It takes time, patience, vigilance, humor.

But during these times we live in right now, where every-men are prone to subscribe to cynical practicality merely because the limits of their imagination can’t frame anything better – I find myself thinking about the dreamers. The Revolutionaries. The Tavern Crawlers spreading their ideals. And I’ve concluded, ”Hey, I’m just a dumbshit screenwriter! Why the fuck do I have to figure out the ins and outs of solving the nation’s problems? Most of the chuckleheads out there espousing their opinions don’t really know jack-shit about what they’re talking about anyway! That’s for the politicians I elect to figure out…SHIT, I’M ALLOWED TO DREAM!”

A dream of mine: the “Boston Massacre” was how we as a nation describe the shooting deaths of merely five individuals. Five! FIVE! Therefore, according to historical parameters we’ve been fucking riddled with massacres for quite some time at the hands of our own people recently. In the spirit of American patriots throughout time, LET’S FIGHT BACK AND DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!” Let’s end the massacres. Let’s fix the problem. Let’s dream about something better and give it a try.

Listen, I don’t want to get into a laundry list of how I think this country can improve…but I don’t think it’s a secret that what separates the USA from any other country in the world are all the possibilities for freedom…  I guess I just feel that there is a large contingent of people who feel like this country is already perfect – who also feel that if one points out and fights to change the  imperfections then they aren’t patriots. To that I call bullshit. Think Samuel Adams. Think Boston Tea Party. Think Benjamin Franklin. They were all told that the status quo was best and they insisted that they were fundamentally wrong. This is a messy, crazy democracy. This is a land of dreamers and promise. And anyone who tells me how and when I should love this country can kiss my ass. There are too many people who put their hands on their hearts and harmonize the national anthem because they think it makes them better people, instead of actually reflecting – asking the themselves -about what it all means. What it ALL means. We don’t need any more blind patriotism – because it isn’t real. It’s not individualism, it’s mindless subscription.

I will relish the most sacred document ever created by mankind and express my loyalty how I deem fit.  And this is what separates America from any other country in history – because Americans can do that without persecution. WITHOUT PERSECUTION. And because I choose to practice my affection for my country this way, I’m the most American Son of a Bitch you will ever know.

So while I’m in Boston during this 4th of July I will reflect on how much I completely love this fucking country. And how much better it could be. And how much sweeter it would be if my immigrant wife and inter-racial daughters didn’t feel threatened by over-simplified sentiments from over-simplied people. And I’ll ask myself what can I personally do to make it better. And who I can vote for to bring my dreams into reality.

I simply can’t think of a more American way to be.

So I’m on the train riding from New York to Boston and this is going to be a real crap blog. I mean there are some horrible theater student sitting in the seats in front of me, apparently from Syracuse, babbling on and on about the “theater biz” that they seem to already know so much about at the tender age of moron and they are all excited because they have a super wealthy friend in Connecticut who has invited them to stay at her parents’ property over the fourth and one of them wants everyone else to know how much money she spent on said rich friend’s birthday gift to show that she has the better relationship with this person. Every once in awhile one of them tries to sleep and starts violently flopping in his seat as if he’s having an epileptic seizure – which rocks the seat in front of Tiffany so badly that it’s a good thing she doesn’t like to drink hot coffee… People are horribly annoying…

I never finished the UK trip blog – I just simply ran out of time and brain space to write it…but due to very good problems, mind you. I’ve been busy with screenwriting gigs that have kept both my days and head full — I even found myself back in London for some writing work…which was an adventure and a half itself. So I’m just going to jot down some thoughts about our East Coast summer extravaganza before excuses, time, and more excuses set in, or else this trip will become the second victim of time and forgetfulness.

I guess this particular trip is dripping with heavy context: NEXT FALL CHARLIE IS GOING TO NYU. She can’t wait to bust out on her own both and Tiffany and I are trying to keep it together the best we can. Funny enough, this vacation was planned out before Charlie got accepted to NYU. We love the East Coast and little Tyler and Piper have never been and so there were things to do and see for all that would keep a revisit to New York and Boston fresh — oh, and also a day in Philadelphia, too.

If that’s not exciting enough two days before we were set to get on the plane to fly to New York I blew out my back. As usual, it’s totally my fault. Tremendous obesity and several 12+ hour days sitting in front of my computer running from a project deadline served as the straws that broke this fat-assed camel’s back.  Truth be told I’ve been blowing out my back more and more these past couple of years and I know it’s my body telling me to absolutely fuck off. 

So there I was staring down the barrel of a five-hour flight and eight days of serious “about-towning” and I could hardly sit or stand without clenching my teeth and groaning with white hot pain. Throwing out my back causes the most pain I’ve ever felt in my life. It’s as if gravity becomes more intense. I can’t bed over. I can’t get out of bed. I can’t tie my shoes. I can’t lift my legs. I can’t put on my underwear. I turn into a complete, pathetic sack of shit. I hate myself and I hate what a god damn invalid I become when I’m like this.

I went to the acupuncturist and she did all she could to get me mobile…I didn’t want my handicap to overshadow the trip so I simply told myself that if I could stand up and walk to the bathroom then I could most definitely go to New York. Truth be told if there wasn’t a vacation staring me down I would be lying flat on my back in bed as drugged up as I can be. But I somehow got on the plane. And I got to New York. And we walked around daily anywhere between 12,000 to 22,000 steps. It took some serious bearing down, but I was determined not to let it slow me down…and I think for the most part, it didn’t. I just kept telling myself with every step something I heard The Rock once say. “Pain is temporary.” And as odd as it sounds…the mantra worked. We were in New York for four days and every day I got a little better. Surprisingly walking seemed to help me out. Now as I’m sitting on the train I am returning to my old self, still not completely able to bend down to tie my shoes but really only experiencing any blinding pain that turns my brain into a blank slate when I wake up in the morning.

We actually flew into New York a day early to avoid a storm front that threatened to delay our original flight, so we had to scramble to book an air bnb for a night. The company running the place gave us the wrong address so we wandered around for a bit ———- but the upside was that Piper got to see her first New York rat…I fear it made an indelible impression on her in all the wrong ways. I’m not sure what locking eyes with a rat does to a person under ten years old. I guess we will see.

It was interesting to experience what is probably a proto-typical New York 3 bedroom apartment. George looked up the property value of our tiny air bnb place and we all guffawed with huge California accents. That first night we ate at Lombardi’s and toasted the latest chapter in our family travels. I guzzled beer to drown out my screaming back nerves.

Our visit to New York was more like a war that we had to win: me with my back and the insane heat wave that was going on. The thermometer constantly hovered in the high 90s with humidity around 3 million percent. I don’t think I’ve sweated this much since our visit to Thailand. It was suppressive and brutal the entire time. Walking a block would sap us of energy…making it feel like we were walking on the moon. But it didn’t stop us, as the first full day we visited NYU, went to the bookstore for some gear, and Charlie picked up her student ID. I got a little choked up watching her as she gazed upon it, knowing full well that her mind was swirling with all of the exciting possibilities of her immediate future while Tiffany and my mind were simply focused on the inevitable moment of letting go in a way we’ve never had to before…

After our visit to NYU we got the hell out of that tiny air bnb apartment, checked into our hotel at The Roger, then took a peek into the New York Library. Honestly, already by this point we were more focused on finding places we could tuck into for some air conditioning than anything else. But quests for A/C can reward you with happy accidents – in the Library we found the original stuffed animals of Winnie the Pooh. Charlie took a photo next to an old friend from her childhood…Eeyore.

After the Library we went to 30 Rock, took pictures and poked around. My back was feeling like raw circuitry and we were all baked and steamed and salted three ways ‘til Sunday so after that were dinnered and call it a day.

The next day, Tiffany, Charlie and I went to Queens to visit a friend of a friend who is a professor at another university in New York to meet-and-greet and seek valuable insider survival tips for the Big Apple, while Team Yu and Chase did some exploring on their own. Around lunchtime we rendezvoused at Central Park and proceeded to what felt like a death march from one side to the other in the summer heat. However that death march led us to a quaint little Italian eatery where we exhaustedly knoshed on charcuterie and drank cool cocktails and fizzed drinks until we mustered enough energy to continue our adventure to Time Square.

After a hearty night’s rest we trained out to Philadelphia for a day to check out the city of brotherly love. Philly is a great town with lots of personality. I would have liked to have stayed an extra day there. We only had a chance to check out the liberty bell, Ben Franklin’s grave, and Independence Hall. Oh yeah and the “Rocky Steps” and Rocky Statue. Piper and I were the only one who ran up all of the steps. I wasn’t sure what it would do to my back, but there was no way in hell I was going to NOT run up those steps. I believe that ROCKY was the first movie I ever saw.

The heat was really kicking our ass, and I think my input of footnote facts about the Revolutionary War were also wearing the family down. It’s a time period that absolutely fascinates me for its forgotten mix of brutality and optimism. I was in awe to see the ruins of  Washington’s Presidential home, for I had just read a biography on Washington and already knew all about it. It was also interesting to see how there is a conspiracy theory swirling around town that the liberty bell is actually a fake – that the real one was squirreled away after 9/11. 

During lunch we decided to eat Cheesesteaks from both Pat’s AND Geno’s (Pat’s is better. However, every local we spoke to had a different recommendation for an even better cheesesteak.) After our afternoon tour of Independence Hall we had an early dinner at Mac’s Tavern, owned by some of the cast of “It’s Alway Sunny in Philadelphia” and then iced our palates down with some ice cream treats before we trained back to New York.

The next day could be deemed as a statue day. We went to take pictures with the Charging Bull and the Fearless girl. I love how these two icons are together. I love watching people cluster around the charging bull as if it will bring them luck to touch it. A new thing I’ve never witnessed before is people wanted to touch the bull’s balls…in fact so many have done so that the balls are the most polished part of the statue.

Conversely, people were posing with the fearless girl as well….

Then we went to the Statue Of Liberty. Ho man is that whole thing a tourist trap. The Statue itself is impressive…and thought provoking – especially considering the most recent wave of anti-immigrant sentiment being wrestled with in our country. But holy crap the crowds were overwhelming. Add to that everyone had to not only go through airport level security to get onto the ferry, but then more airport level security once we got onto the island before we could get near the statue itself. Add to that the humid, sweltering, broiling heat, the crush of humanity amplifying the heat even more, my catastrophic back…well, the amalgamation of circumstances turned me into a prime grade asshole.

195 steps to the pedestal. By this point my back pain had progressed to a sharp stabbing pain every time I lifted up my right foot, but I just kept going and breathed through it. Tiffany was pretty certain that I was going to drop dead inside the statue, but I made it out alive.

But you know what is even more remarkable than my survival – these four wonderful kids. They are absolute troopers. Chase and Charlie are very seasoned with this kind of business…and Tyler and Piper are keeping up without complaint. Both Tyler and Piper find an enthusiastic angle in everything that we’ve done so far. I mean, Piper looked into the soul of a New York rat! And Tyler always humored me, smiling appreciatively with every nugget of Revolutionary War historical tidbit I layed before her…

*****

So today was our first full day in Boston and we did ye ‘ole Freedom Trail walk, soaking up Boston’s wonderful history. Man I love this town. It’s such a great town it actually made me feel a bit apprehensive for a moment about whether or not Charlie should have chosen Boston University instead of NYU. For a moment…for a small moment.

Boston’s energy is different. And I really enjoy it. It’s a town that I want to come back to again and again.

.

So tomorrow’s the 4th. Who knows if we will succeed in seeing Boston’s famed fireworks show. I guess I’ll let you know