Dano

This post isn’t about Coop and Edie, or even Hollywood.

This about my brother, Dan.

Chronologically, he’s younger than me but he eclipses me on age-related issues across the board.  Read: maturity.  Out on jobs with my dad, people would refer to me as his little (slower) brother.

In 7th grade, I was walking home from Sill Junior High with my trombone, and because we had an after school practice, it was around 4:30.  My parents sent Dan on a routine recon mission thrugh the back alleys and backyards to make sure I would make it in time for supper.  Plus we lived across the street from a county mental hospital, and there was always someone interesting skulking about off-property.  This was the 70’s.  A local street tough named Mike Cool (I swear) started giving me the business.  My bone had a really crappy latch on it, so everything it came in contact with caused it to spill out its contents.  I had to carry it in the manner that a mobster conspicuously carries a violin case.

“Hey Muthersballs!”

I ignore the weak attempt at making fun of my last name.  C’mon.  There’s Fathersnuts, for starters.

I just kept walking.  My dad, Gene offered his 1930’s advice in bullies/fighting:

“Sock him in the nose, Al.

Then run like hell.

But don”t come home cryin'”.

The first sentence in that phrase was solid advice, classic Dad stuff.   A bully doesn’t see that coming.  BAM! a surprise shot to the nose stuns and possibly debilitates, be it physically or mentally.  We’ve all seen it.  The only problem is that this kids head was a hard as a bowling ball and shaped like a shovel.  He looked like a German U-boat commander.  Short cropped hair, tight wool cap, and a stiff turtleneck.  all dark blue.  OK, im full of shit, but this is how i remember him.

The second sentence is born out of sheer perseverance.  As to say, “Son, we both know you’re as soft as a marshmallow.  but at least you got the bastard thinkin’.  Plus, if you get yer gums tapped, it will upset your mother.”

But the 3rd sentence?  I’m going to need a freaking safe house to ride out the heaving sobs that a solid ass-kicking conjures-up out of a humiliated and bloody prepubescent teen with a trombone necktie.

Gene meant well, and he grew-up doing crazy guy-stuff.  He used to tow us around the block behind his 1973 Econoline van in the winter.  On our Flexible Flyers.  No shit.  The cops pulled us over once and we walked home.  He came in the back door grinning and mom never found-out.  Dan and I grew-up with an edge.

Dans Edge was a bit sharper than mine.

“HEY! C’MERE GUTTERBALLS!”, Mike roared.

“Gutterballs?”, I thought, “Howabout ‘Mommy’s nuts?  I’ve seen more hostile creativity from male clarinet players in band class.”

I was weighed-down by this nerd-beacon of an instrument, plus I had books, unlike brother Dan, who, from 1st grade on carried a briefcase. I swear on my children’s lungs he carried a briefcase.  I did not.  I just carried my books.   One possible reason could be the fact that, at the time, my mind was surging with with undiagnosed ADHD and I couldn’t be bothered to think ahead to procure tools to make my life easier.

By that time Cool had caught up with me.

A swift kick to my green, Bundy trombone case was all it took for the contents to willfully spring forth with a sickening brassy clang to the icy pavement.

“Hey shithead, you got sumpthin” to say to me?”

I’m picking up my horn, my books and whats left of my dignity in an effort to ride out the inevitable, traveling ass-kicking i’m about to get as i make my way home.  I just need to stay focused till i can get to my street whereupon I can jettison all the excess baggage thats weighing me down and sprint for home.  Like they did in Star Wars.

I don’t get beat-up quietly, yet I am terrible at comebacks and burns.  So, I spew all the my convoluted sunday-school shit I’ve been indoctrinated with since birth.  All under the loving guidance of my Mom, Linda.

“It must make you feel like a big man, pushing me around all the time”.

But then I would mix in, “You smelly, fat turd.”

I’m sure one of the Disciples said that to a Roman.  Mom said that Jesus turned the other cheek, but I found it hard to believe that Jesus just stood there and took it.  Ok.  Lets just say he did, as the bible says, but he’s the messiah, for chrisstsake.  I’m just a pasty goob with a trombone, a mullet and a whisper of a mustache.  Thats a lot to ask a preteen.

“HEY ASSHOLE, CUT IT OUT”

Dan hollers this as he skids to a stop spraying frozen gravel on both of us as Mike Cool stands over me.  We were in a alley, common on the east side of Cuyahoga Falls.  Also common is for Ohioans to ride their dirt bikes as long into winter as possible.  Mike lunges at Dan, buying me time.  Dan has his bike pre-spun around in classic gravel burn-out style and gets his bike going again, riding off in the opposite direction, preparing for another strike. Ever see sparrows run off much larger birds like crows or hawks?  Nipping, darting.  I see his plan develop before my eyes.

Beyond Mike’s range of attack, Dan skids and circles back like a medieval jouster, his mouth his lance.  Mike, facing Dan, foolishly disregards me as weakened prey.  I stuff everything back into my case, folders, books, it doesn’t close, but i have it under my arm, as usual.  Everything is in there but the slide.  I lock my slide in place and grab the end with the spit valve.  I circle away from Mike, my back to Dan, as I start walking backwards waggling the heavy end toward him like a saber.

Dan, pedal-foot at 2:00, poised for immediate acceleration yells, “HEY FATASS, PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE!”

I can tell Dans scared, but he’s tough as hell.  I need 2 hands to count the times we had to take to to the emergency room to get stitches in his head.  I admit, 2 were from me throwing rocks at him.  I take no pride in his edification.

Mike Cool stands down.  He walks away after calling us fags.

I start to cry.  Not a heaving emotional downpour, just a regular, after fight cry.  Dan rides alongside me for the 1/2 mile retreat to 425 East Broadway, all the while issuing 10-year old condolences with a “who cares” affect.  I cant remember what he said, but I remember them being  words of loving nonchalance that, to me now, crystallize the fact that he is a very old soul with a good heart.

After putting my nerd-sword away and straightening out my books and my tears,  I get my shit together and head down our street. We come in the back door and dinner is ready.

“I forgot you had band, I was worried.”, says Linda, setting the table.

“That jerk Mike Cool was chasing Allen”, Dan reports.

“Poor Michael.  He has such a hard home life”, she replies.  I look at Dan with disgust mixed with incredulity.

I look at my Dad. He knows there’s been a fracas.  “That whole family’s a bunch of shitheads”

“Gene”, says Mom.  I know my mom loves me, but geez.

My mom now notices that I have been crying, and she gushes over me.  She asks if I’m okay, am I hurt?

“Nah, Im OK”, writhing away, embarrassed.

“He’s fine mom.”

“Well, you did the right thing by not fighting. ”

Technically, I wasn’t crying when I cam home, so I I guess we followed the latter two of  Gene’s edicts.

I wanted to tell a cool story about Dan because my older, younger brother is getting married.  

I’m proud of him for being such a great dad and finding such a lovely lady.

She’s perfect for him.  She likes animals, they have bees and chickens, she likes being outside and she likes whiskey.

It’s like Mad Men over at their house minus the Camel straights and the bees and the chickens and being outside.

Her name is Jennifer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He has 2 beautiful children named Josie & Gabriel whom she loves as if they were her own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s still got an edge, but its cuddly and domesticated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AVA

Our first 2 extended trips out to LA had us at the Marriott in downtown Burbank. It was expensive and stupid, but we figured if things started to suck, at least we had a pool.  As you may have read, our next lodging choice was on Troy Ave.

The 3rd time around, we locked into the AVA in Burbank.  Lease is signed.  Kristin painstakingly researched apartments from her couch in Brady Lake, OH for months.  She researched this place so hard, she practically burnt the image of the apts. website onto the screen of her laptop.  Once secured, she had our apartment plotted down to the inch so she could stage it correctly with furniture.

So far so good.  The kids and I just kept our distance.

Not surprisingly, the website had the dimensions for all the apts., but when pressed for specifics, the  young fella who was managing Kristin’s transaction from AVA was a bit too blase’

Kristin:  “We’re leasing the xyz model I noticed that it doesn’t show the size of the closet in the second bedroom.”

Young fella:  “Oh.  Uh thats not the one you leased.  You leased the abc model.”

“Can you at least tell me the size?”

“No, because there’s someone in it.”

“Is there any way I can at least see it?”

“No, because its different from the rest.  Can you call me tomorrow?  Thanks >clik<.”

The kids and I all ran out the nearest door.  Code Red.

In Kristin’s mind, this is like an administrator from mission control telling a crew of astro-engineers that he’s pretty sure their shuttle is probably cool and not to worry.

It turned-out fine.  Phew.

I traveled out with the family to get settled-in.  We had four days.  When it comes to setting up an apt., Kristin is a freaking staging ninja.  It seemed like every other person ordering furniture@ IKEA  were arguing while holding those flimsy cloth tape measures.  Not my Gigi.  We stood in line and watched amateur after amateur crumble up their papers and storm away from the bulk ordering hub in frustration.

“NEXT”

She hands a 3-page list to the harried ordering-dude.

Im not sure, but after flipping thru the stapled, highlighted pages of her order, his eyes left the page, met Gigi’s,  and he whispered, “I love you.”

To which i’m pretty sure I heard her reply, “You should watch me file“.

Edie’s like,  “Why’s that dude fanning himself with your order?”

“Good God, man, get ahold of yourself”, I say as I snatch the documents from his hands, leaving him standing there in his retail bliss.

We cruise through the store picking-up odds and ends.  Edie falls in love with every girly bedroom set and tries out every bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had a squeegee moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We slept on floors that night…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And built the shit out of some Norwegian particle board the next day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The apt. is fairly spartan, even with a shitload of IKEA furniture.   And our neighbors are really cool, although I don’t think they are used to chatty midwesterners.

I went home for work, then came back for Coops birthday.  Silas And Lisa took us out to get supplies for his birthday dinner, which we cooked at our apt.  This place has a permanent grill set-up.  Coop wanted a whole fish.  Grilled.  Ok.  After we went to east LA to get some carne asada at a secret butcher shop Silas knew about, we went to the Asian market to get a Red Snapper.

In an effort to defuse any translation issues, I entered, “Please prepare this fish for grilling” into my handy Google translator app.  Lisa McIntyre-Hite savors these moments because I was on the cusp of making a complete ass out of myself.  She’s an electronic bugzapper to my social blunders. She just draws me into the light.

I approached the fishy butcher area where dozens of fish lay under ice.  Their dead eyes staring at me in apprehension.

I held up my phone, the screen full of chinese characters boldly asking the asian fish-man to gut my fish.

He leans in.  “What?  Dat Chineese.  I’m KorEEan”, he harumphs.

Lisa spins away from my side relishing in yet another payoff from her own personal joke machine.

“Ok, I’ll ask in Korean.” I say, chin up.

The fancy translation app  lies dormant like dead fish eyes in my fumbling hands.  No signal.

“Um, um”,  I freestyle, “can you gut, um prepare it for”  He turns his back to me halfway through my stumbly words and flailing gestures

He turns his back to me in disgust and Lisa peels away to laugh her ass off, parking herself 6 feet away to act like she’s shopping for something.

My 60-ish fish monger turns back to me with a beautifully prepared fish.  Eyeball and all.  The dead fish in the icy case start smiling, flapping their tails and wink at me with twinkling eyes.  Just like a Pee Wee Herman movie.

My reverie is suddenly interrupted when he speaks to me and his 2 colleagues in rapid-fire Korean.  They all laugh.  I kind of laugh along, but I know the jokes on me.  I have my fish, but before I can leave, he explains how to say “thank you” in Korean, but it’s like 4 words and I don’t trust him.

Coop prepped it (Under Lisa’s watchful eye) by rubbing it with olive oil and sat and then stuffing it with limes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The the fish grilled-up sweetly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy 15th Coop.

 

Things went bananas but I’m back (sung to the tune of that Drake song)

My last post was in February.  We’ve been at the acting thing for 2 & 1/2 years.

I love writing, but things went bananas.  Sis months ago, as things grew to a close in Los Angeles, I got outta the habit.  Work is so KraZy that I get excited about going to bed early.  Know what I mean?  I’ll go to the Kent Free Library and get my stack of library books.  I like weird fiction, SciFi and stuff like that, but i’ll hit the new book section and get a bunch of different genres.  I lay in bed and leaf thru them.  I don’t really read half of them, I just like barely knowing how to micro-garden or the history of yarn.  I think it has a lot to do with the process and the distraction.  Its comforting.

Kristin has submitted hundreds of taped auditions from home.

One of them was for a well-known comedy camp. Here’s Edie’s audition.

Coop did not give me permission to post his audition because he’s 15 and a dork.    Too bad.  Its damn funny.

Cooper and Edie tape well, but this ain’t the way to do it.  That’s why we are out here.  People who pay actors find it easier to pay actors that are in town.

We left off when Edie shot for About A Boy. 

We took Renzo to as many places as we could before we left.  He got funky with the DJ at Pitfire pizza.

This is Renzo with one of  the kids’ acting coaches, ‘Becca Flinn…

We took Renzo out to eat a lot. Silas got to know him.

Renzo saw the festivities at the Glendale Galleria

Renzo got Spooked at Dark Delicacies

Renzo invited our cousins Maddie and Camryn.

All in all, Edie destroyed on our last trip out and Coops activity was a bit on the quiet side.  This process is disheartening and will grind you the hell down.  There were strings of days where neither kid had an audition.

Not a single one.

Even a rah rah cheerleader like me can only find so many ways of saying, “Team, during times such as these, ya gotta sharpen the sword…”

Getting an audition is cool.

Getting a call-back is better.

Getting a second call-back or a “producer meeting” is huge.

Getting “pinned” or “watch and advise” is life-affirming.  A victory. Enjoy it.  You’ve done all you can.  Outta your hands.

A booking is almost like icing.  Ya know?  Why?  Because Ive learned that one has to look at auditions in the following ways:

1) You get in front of people that will remember you

2) You practice your skill set

3) You practice auditioning.

Boo Hoo poor us.  Whatever.  We knew there would be days like this.  Right?  No regrets, right?  Hello?  We’re doing the right thing, right?

.cricket.

Edie has gotten 4 or 5 bookings.  Coop, 2.  But we’re freaking going for it because Myrna & Ashley say that we’re close and we’re ahead of the numbers; much has happened quickly. Silas said it the best last night.  “Your kids are getting quality “at-bats”.  They have a good management.   My manager just handles the paperwork.  I gotta find my own damn work.”   He’s right.

I have a bunch more to say, but I’ll catch u all up tomorrow. Promise.

#FREECOOP

Quick updates:

• Kristin is too shy to make in roads with Eric the Frenchman.
• Edie inherited her lower intestine from her father.

For those of you that have kids in sports or something competitive, stop and think for a second.  Replay one of those tapes, forever etched in your minds eye and visualize that moment.  Be it a subtle, character-defining gesture on the field, causing you to swell with pride, or a raucous moment that placed him at the bottom of a happy pile of teammates.  Man, I can make myself misty with that stuff every time.

Our poison is hockey.

Walls elementary school, 2008:

Ben Barlow, Coopers gym teacher asks,

“Hey Coop.  What sports do you play?”

“Baseball and wrestling” (whispered)

“Thats cool, man…  Ever think of hockey?”

“No, why?

“You should play.  You have the perfect build for it (basically a pulse).  And when you get you the high school, I’ll be your coach.”

Done.  Done and freaking done.  Coops like, “get me outta this singlet”.  As a wrestler he was technically solid, good (ahem) “center of gravity”, but it was a tough watch.  He would get pinned in epic fashion all while wearing the most unforgiving garment in all of sports, the singlet.  All in all, he was a solid .400.  At the end of his 4 year career, he found himself up against a girl.  Did i mention that she was a good she was 10″ taller?

Dad, I’m nervous…

Aw heck Coop, who cares.  Just go after her.  (Pleasedearlorddontletthisfemalepinmyson)

He went after her like his freedom depended on it.  As aggressive as I have ever seen him.  However, that young lady had something to prove as well.

Three lose/lose scenarios float to the surface when boys wrestle girls:

1) Boy pins girl:  “And?  Your point is?”

2) Boy wins by decision:  “What happened?  Touch of diarrhea?”

3) Boy loses by decision or >gulp< gets pinned.  Boy dies of humiliation, changes career trajectory to “Library Science”, lives with mother for rest of life.

He won.  Thank God.  2-1.  Decision.  Barely made it.  Shot first, got a takedown and just hung on.  She got 1 point for an escape. The other 2 periods were spent circling and circling each other.  Kristin sat next to her mother.  Awkward.  We got ice cream afterwards and never spoke of it again.

Coop did the “learn to play” program when he was 10.  In hockey world, thats akin to a 40 year old lumber salesman deciding to switch to violin as a career move.  I will say, even as a new skater, Coop was a dominant force against those 5 & 6 year-olds.

As for coaching, he was in good hands every year.  Mark Goehle had him twice, his first & third year.  He’s famous for developing Coop’s desire to wreck people.

“Coop, go out there and show that guy we mean business.”

Boom.  Off the bench, straight at this Cro-Magnon from Parma.  Who knows where the puck is, Coop gets penalty, Cro-Mag mellows-out, game on.

Thank god for hockey.  Its defined Coop as a person because he’s a part of something.  12 or 13 brothers who play angry and united.

Oddly, it’s given our quirky family a hard edge.  We feel tougher.  Don’t mess with a hockey family. Especially hockey moms.  When it comes to their kid out on the ice, they give exactly ZERO F&@%S.  Their heavy winter coats protect them from damage. The most common thing you will hear when their kid is getting the “business” from another kid (usually from Parma) is,

“HEEEYYYYYYY”

It starts high, ends low, and they are usually standing.

Stupid ice times and asshole opposing parents serve to bond us.  We are forced to talk to each other and somehow, it works.  Parents, kids, and even the siblings who get dragged along feel that bond because we all suffer together.  Weirdo parents, unable to get along with anyone, bounce from program to program.   Its hard to be a hockey family.

It breaks Coop’s heart to leave his team and pursue his goal to be an actor. This Sunday is his team’s first round of playoffs.  What follows, is the email I sent to all of the parents on the team:

Hey Bantam Parents!

Coop misses hockey and his team like crazy.  We miss you guys, too!  He and Edie are kinda homesick, but we feel like these weird sacrifices are going to pay-off.
When speaking of commitment and my guilt for backing out of one, Brent Pfeiffer put it the best, “Al, Coop is probably not going to be drafted into the NHL.  (I was shocked when he said this, but I let him finish) He has a much better shot at becoming an actor, so go for it!”

Which brings me to some sad-ish news for this weekend: 

I had every intention of bringing Coop home, getting him some ice time @ OHA, and watching him blow some people up on Sunday.  Kristin was waiting until the last second to book his flight.  How do you moms know these things?  Sure enough, even though it’s been really thin audition-wise this season when compared to last year, Coop landed an audition.  Finally.  His second one since we came out.

I know, right?

But this is special.  As you know, getting on a show or a movie goes something like this:
Audition,
if you’re lucky, then,
call-back,
if you’re lucky, then,
3rd call-back or meet with producers
if you’re lucky, then,
“chemistry read” or “table read”
if you’re lucky, then,
Yahtzee!

Well, the folks on Brooklyn Nine-Nine (Fox, Andy Samberg) saw Coops head shot and requested him.  Normally, your agent submits you to casting based on what a show or movie is looking for.  Audition is tomorrow, table read with producers Monday.  If he gets it, they shoot it Tuesday!  Pleasepleaseplease!

Edie?

Edie freaking automatic.  Coop does a good job by staying in his shoes, although I know it hurts on some level.  

Edie: on 2 different episodic shows, 3 dang times.

Last Week:

Audition for NBC’s, About A Boy (starring Minnie Driver),

Boom.  Gets the part & shoots it.  No biggie.

Her own trailer (“A bit smaller than I’m used to”).  Good lord.

Craft services.

Airs next month.

Ice flows thru her veins.

Lets hope she never becomes a self-aware teen, because she needs to bottle whatever she’s doing and hang onto it.

Eric of Troy

Our address is 3375 Troy, Los Angeles CA 90068.

We rented a this house till the end of March.  Our managers, (Myrna & Ashley) say that clocking in for 2 months during pilot season is the only way team Mofo is gonna get any traction out here.

We went with a house this time because last year, our stay at the Residence Inn Mariott in Burbank was kicking our asses financially, and the mexican happy hour every weeknight was devastating to us in its own way.  And while we were grateful for the healthy breakfast choices they offered every morning, the choices people made regarding what they believed was “proper breakfast attire” were sometimes stomach-turning. Being in a house this time is cool because we don’t have to find something to do when we hear the word, “HOUSEkeeeeeping”.

That sounds snobby.  Believe me, we did not stay in a hotel last year because were are aristocrats.  There were cheaper, seedier routes.  We stayed in a hotel last year because if the whole crazy plan fell in the toilet, at least we would be able to retreat to some modicum of stability, albeit stinky.

Renzo, out back, soaking-up the (i’m so sorry)….sun.

Kristin & I are on edge.  The auditions have been thin. Coop has gone on one audition, and they were accepting tapes only.  We could have done that in Portage County.  Gary Hudson (the kids’ coach) said that adults are always cast first; the kids second.  That provides a bit of solace.  Edie has gone on 2 auditions for pilots and one for a commercial. Commercial auditions take seconds.  Its like a livestock auction.  Theres a million kids in the waiting room and they take them in in groups.  The casting agent will walk out and say, you and you….you and you…. and you and you.  The “breakdown” for the audition asked for “interesting, wacky, odd-looking character-types.   No-models, no really cute kids.”

Thanks?

Ya never know with these things, Edie said that the guy ad-libbed with her more than the other kids in her group.

Kristin outside of Edie’s audition with Renzo.

The first couple days here, I was certain our house place was haunted. The owner has an elaborate system of timed lights that go on and off at varying intervals.  I have no idea where the controls are hidden, and I have yet to find out.  This has been a source of extreme insomnia on my part.  Kristin, who has actually seen a ghost (at my moms house, ask her about it) debunked every strange event and I have been sleeping soundly. Just in time for me to get used to the time change when I go back on Tuesday.

News Flash:  The Mothersbaugh Family is loud as hell.  Whenever the vocal fireworks start, be it in fun or in battle, Kristin runs from window to window closing each one in turn.  We are usually yelling at each other when its time to go down to the garage to exercise.  That’s right, exercise. I punish these guys.  Hard.

But its more like like exorcize.  At least it was that way in the beginning.  Edie was like a human siren.  The cool part is that when we start burning off adrenaline, its hard to stay mad at each other.  A sweaty “ah-ha” moment.  The “gym” is in the garage.  I’ve been kicking their chubby butts 5 days a week.  God bless ’em.  They really work hard.  Edie couldn’t sit on the toilet after her introduction to the almighty lunge.  

One day, a nice fella, mid 20’s, walked by the garage with his french bulldog.  Of course all stopped what we were doing, and knelt to pet him.  The puppy’s name is Joey. But since Eric, his owner, is French, he pronounced it, “Jo-EE”.   Because of the tugging, he dropped Joey’s leash and the brindled puppy went sniffing about the workout space.  Joey started to playfully tear the shit out of everything.  I dont know what was funnier, seeing that little tornado go, or hear Eric say, “Jo-ee, Jo-ee”.

“I don’t wan heem to pee pee, so we need to watch heem”.

Edie say’s, “That’s OK, its puppy-pee”.  Coop and I faced him and nodded in agreement.  That seemed to cement our new friendship.  A frenchman put at ease by a few midwesterners who can handle a little pee.

He told us where he lives, “just a few ‘ouses up on de right, the ‘ouse coverrd by de ivEEY.”   Today he drove past us on our tiny street.  As everyone climbed the steps, I circled-back to engage Ereek. “Hey man, is your house the one with the alcove of ivy and the wood door?”

“Yea”.

“Hey we might stop by sometime and say hello”.  And before the ink on the period of my sentence was dry, his eyes widened, blurting,

“Do you play ping-pong?”

“Yea, but you’ll probably kick my ass…”

“You bet!”  He laughed.  I say goodbye bound up the steps to tell everyone, as to not keep him idling in the street.

All excited about doggies, we decided to take Renzo to the groomers…

Red Carpet

As I said on Facebook, Coop and Edie got invited to “Actor Training in LA” benefit at Infusion Lounge at Universal Studios.

We checked-in and got in line for the red carpet.

Edie did her own hair and makeup.  She chose her dress complete with lavender converse.   She said she was going for a “retro” look.

This girl.   What is she doing with her leg? Where did she get that?  I blame the Falcon Academy.  ; )

God forbid Cooper take a normal picture.

As excruciating as it is sometimes, I’m glad Coop is so weird.

We got there when it started, promptly at 4 pm.  I dunno if its an Ohio thing or a hockey family thing, but thats how we roll.  At this stage of the game, “fashionably late” is illogical.  We’ve got shit to do.  I shared this thought with one of the coordinators at the event.  She say’s, “Oh, us too.  I’m from Bay Village”.  Of course you are.  Turns out, it was a smart move because the place was swamped at 5pm with a line around the building.

The kids freaking loved it.  Of course, Coop was nervous, awkward and not down at all (can’t blame him, it’s normal 14-year-old behavior) with the whole idea, but he ended up making friends and  tearing it up.  It was painful to watch him “dance”, but I was glad he was mixing.  His dance style combines comedic performance art and head bobbing.

Edie, always her own beacon, was off getting autographs of child actors.  She wasn’t familiar with any of them, but that didn’t matter, she was aglow.  Oh, and she paused for interviews, of course.

Ashley, their manager, showed-up.  She’s from Erie, PA.  She “gets” us.

The next blog will show how busy Renzo has been and outline our scheme for a potential Ohio-style “block-party” (to the horror of our neighbors)…

Renzo

Evelyn Burgess is 95 years old.

She’s Kristin’s paternal grandmother.

This is all of us at dinner a few years ago:

Context:

• Her career as a teacher has eclipsed my current age.
• She’s been preparing Thanksgiving and Christmas multi-family dinner in her one-story, modest ranch-style home for much longer than that.

A few years ago, a water line burst under her front yard in NE Canton. The excavation contractor involved in digging the hole for repair made the mistake of leaving her lawn an uneven mess.  According to reports, she shamed him with her teacher/gramma voodoo so skillfully, he returned several times until she was satisfied.

She’s affable, in good health and sharp.  She outlived her husband, Wendell, married to him for 60+ years.  She doesn’t ask for help.  Early on, I offered my hand to her in assistance when she was exiting the spotless Camry she still drives.  She politely smacked my hand, exited under her own power and walked past me into my house.  I learned quickly that if gentlemanly assistance is shooed away, effusiveness is out of the question with this woman.  My Eddie Haskell-style bonding & rapport skill-set would be easily exposed as oily subterfuge.  Decades of teaching have made her a ninja in bullshit detection.  

This Thanksgiving at “Gramma B’s”, Cooper went exploring in her basement. He emerged with an ancient photo of a chihuahua, ensconced in a hardy wood frame.  

Holding it in front of her as she sits in the living room, Coop asks, “Was this your dog?”

“Oh no, no…  I bought it for the frame”,  she chuckles softy.

I see Coop make an obvious scan of the walls looking for the perfect place to hang this photo. I summon my dad powers, and force Coop to meet my gaze.  Under a heavy, frowning brow, I send a mind-wave of information to him in a single glance:

put it back, man….niiice and  easy….thats right…you don’t  want this…

I was able to bend him to my will, and I thought nothing more of this exchange until the dog, thats right, the actual picture of the dog, arrives at out house, minus the frame, in a manilla envelope  about one week later, along with this letter:

Coop “deeked” me that day.  Apparently, he hung the dog picture in Gramma B’s bedroom.  He took down another portrait of a flower or something and hung the dog in its place.  I’ve often said that I am both the best and worst influence on Cooper.  As sad as this sounds, my years of weird, irreverent and impulsive parenting has finally started to produce the kind of results I’ve been waiting for.

Something this cool must be cherished and folded into your family’s mythology, right?

We tape auditions from our home.  From what I understand, taping keeps us in front of casting agents, etc., to maintain visibility.  All the notable work Cooper and Edie have been awarded thus far have been from, thats right, live and in-person auditions, thousands of miles away from Brady Lake.

Getting a job from a taped audition is akin to hitting a half-court shot.

At the buzzer.

In the championship.

As a rookie.

One can get away with a taped audition if they know they want you, and we ain’t there yet.

That’s why Coop and I had to get on a plane 2 weeks earlier than the rest of the family & fly to Los Angeles.  Our manager, Ashley, insisted that Coop fly out for this audition; they weren’t taking tapes.  Ashley was adamant.   “This role is perfect for him”.  The way everyone talked, it sounded like he already had it.  Cooper was trying-out for a movie role as Renzo, a quirky, bright-eyed teen hell-bent on making his first kiss a reality.

We took the dog for good luck.

Its like folding a great poker hand when you have a lot in the pot.

For a fleeting moment, we considered just coming out early; all four of us, but decided against it when we realized that Coop would have to miss an annual hockey tournament in Pittsburgh where he’s (in)famous for:

• Being tackled by referees.
• Getting pushed around by very upset hockey moms, from the opposing team, outside of his own locker room.
• Helping to further define what Kent Youth Hockey considers a proper hockey “check”.  Lovingly executed for every played-out Pennsylvanian hillbilly in attendance.

How could we deny him this last wholesome experience?

Silas and Lisa  lovingly put Coop & I up.  Bottomless patience, these two. This is the front of their house.

We all practiced the hell outta the script with Coop.  He owned it.  He coached with Gary Hudson.  We are on it.  Coop and I delivered before, we can do it again, baby.

And we have the Dog for good luck.

I just need to keep Coop frosty…

We’re on the Fox lot.  I’m intimidated in a giddy and over-supportive way.  How annoying.  I should know this shit.  I’m in sales.  OMG!  Is that a Bart Simpson topiary?!

Coop doesn’t seem intimidated, but he’s yelling at me for everything. he’s touchy and tells me not to do anything weird.  He needs Kristin’s even-keeled calm. Her no-frills, ease-rendering, Pepto-Bismol coating.   Kids eyeball each other as they come in and out.   The looks shot between them span from cocky to skittish.  They are all tinged with self-consciousness.

We sign-in and sit down.

Coop gets called in and he emerges 4 minutes later.  He wants to leave.  He wont answer my annoying questions.  He’s got his nervous half-smile going.  According to Kristin, this is his M.O.  He always thinks he did terrible, and he doesn’t want to discuss it.  To my relief, 4 to 6 minutes is the normal audition time.  Kristin does her thing when he calls her from the car.  Coop’s Coop again.

I know this:  We are both glad its over.  All this came down to 4 minutes.

We name the dog RENZO, meet up with Silas, Lisa, & Derek, and get something to eat.

Folly Indeed.

2:45 am Kristin’s iPhone alarm pings.

I had mine set for 3:15.

Sheesh.

This girl is always one step ahead.

Kristin deploys the first round of her gentle reveille on the kids.  The kids treat her like a snooze alarm until I get involved. For the most fleeting of moments, I think my children are dead. Their current depth of slumber makes waking them up for school look like Xmas morning.

With Kristin’s mom Kathleen, AKA “Mama Zeke”, or “Zeke” in tow, we arrive at CAK greeted by frozen tundra.  After stumbling through the TSA screening, I notice a Mennonite couple eyeballing my kids.  I automatically interpret their casual stoic stares as hostile, “tsk, tsk”, silent admonishment.  Instantly self-conscious in my groggy/coffee-jagged state, I start micro managing every sluggish, iPhone-fixated move Coop & Edie make. I pick the worst people against whom to compare my parenting skills; people who don’t use electricity, make their own butter and speak German.  I may as well start scanning the departure area for an asian family with violin case toting children, quietly eating lovingly prepared home-cooked food from biodegrade-able containers.

They de-ice the plane 3x.  This will make us 50 minutes late to our connecting flight in Chicago.  That gives us 10 minutes to make our flight.  We don’t even know our gate.

On the plane with Kristin, Zeke and the kids, there’s a bunch of chipper guys going to the NAMM (National Association of Music Merchants) show in LA. We’re on a puddle jumper jet, 3 seats across. Kristin strikes up a convo with the guy across the aisle, and they are quickly talking rock and roll. Mid conversation, another NAMM guy, a real eager-beaver in his early sixties, excited to add something to the conversation (that he’s not in), turns, phone in hand, and blurts,

“Remember the Rascals?”

For some reason, he’s got to share this NOW.  There’s a picture of this ancient rock band cued-up on his phone for everyone to see.

Again: “Remember the Rascals?”
I’m sitting in front of Kristin.  I can lay low. I’ve been spared the inquisition.  Everyones heard of them, what kind of question is that?

Everyone except Kristin.

Kristin, innocently, “the Little Rascals?”

Everyone within 3 seats of this explodes with laughter, including eager NAMM guy.  There were jokes about Alfalfa’s solo record, and so on…

We deplane.

Apparently, in these situations, Edie acts our advance team.  Leaving our confused and stressed unit, in a burst of energy, she finds and consults the “arrivals/departures” board.

Scanning, scanning with her finger…..scanning…

She locates our gate and just freaking BOLTS, screaming behind her, “C-20!”

My husky-voiced tweener of 11 years sounds like Kathleen Turner barking.  

To crown this moment of confusing alarm, Edie also looks like a hunchback.  She has her hoodie over her backpack.  I’m too proud to feel the embarrassment of being “that” family.

Cooper is literally shuffling along, 50 feet behind us.

Too cooked to exercise parental guidance, Kristin exhales, “Go, just go” she waggles her hand, and the end of her sentence is inaudible. Kristin’s lack of concern illustrates to me how my family does airports.

Arriving at our gate, Edie gathers, then hands out our boarding passes.  In hopes of showing the startled gate attendants that we are seasoned pros, thus easing our entry onto the plane, we wisely we move first, offering to gate-check our carry-ons.

This move bought us zero juice.

Bags tagged, walking down the plane tube, Edie mentions that they were closing the door when she bum-rushed/startled them.

At the bottom, we are hastily told to “Wait”.  Hand-up.  Halt.

They thought we were goners.

Its was so cold, I was blowing massive, steam “smoke rings”.  The kids marveled at my skillful baggage from a past vice.

Three pissed-off flight attendants deplane.

They had given our seats away.  We stood there sheepishly freeeeezing our asses off.  Patient and smiling.

Apparently, United had automatically booked us another flight because they thought, (now, say this like Boromir from LOTR, “Fellowship of the Ring”)

“One does not simply walk across O’Hare in ten minutes.  It is folly.”  

Folly indeed.  We’re from Ohio.  We have Edie.

It’s round 2 of pilot-season in Los Angeles, CA.  

A 75-day dice roll.

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Hornet groomer

Coop and I are at the Pittsburgh intl Airport. As folks deplaned, we passed the time by guessing their occupations.
Sandal salesman
Incense shop owner
Professional poker player
Psychic
Handgun cleaner
Wrestling coach
Sensitivity trainer who owns tennis shop.
Port-a–potty cleaner.

Coop was on fire. A dog barks from a tote somewhere near us:
“Get that kid a lozenge”, craning his neck.

More occupations we came up with:
Parrot tamer
Candle dipper
Puppy breeder
Cuddle instructor.

Coop has a big movie audition tomorrow night w the VP of a big studio.

Our original flight outta Cleve was cancelled Saturday night. CODE RED!!
Kristin grabbed 2 cell phones and a laptop and rebooked us. It took 2 hours, but she did it. That woman is intrepid.

Off we go. I’m typing this as the last of the passengers trickle in.

Taxidermist.
Professional train dancer

Tea Time Terrorist

CLEVELAND HOPKINS AIRPORT

OCTOBER 13 2013

6:33 AM EST

“Weren’t you here just a few weeks ago?”

“Yea, that was us”

“And did you make your flight?”

“Um, yeah…  We got there with 30 minutes to spare.”

“And are we at the right airport today?”

Last month, We had to get the kids to Los Angeles lickety-split.  Coop had been pinned to a Disney pilot.   We went to the wrong airport.  With mortar rounds falling around her, she called me back to pick them up, seconds after dropping off at the United gate.  With the steeled reserve of a embattled lieutenant calling for reinforcements, she calmly asked me to circle back, get them, and haul-ass to CAK.

“Roger that, Mama Bear, returning to Dropzone…”

…stay on target…

But today, all is well.  Kristin leaves the smiling CLE curbside Concierge-Guy and turns to enter the airport.  Edie charges ahead like always.  BAM!  Edie smacks into the sliding doors that did not respond as expected.

“Hmm…  never seen that before.”  The Concierge-Guy muttered, prying the automatic doors apart.  Kristin and Edie, their bags and and whats left of their dignity in tow, enter CLE with an air of lighthearted trepidation.  This is what my family feels like most of the time.  Edie casts a glance over her shoulder to the curbside dudes scratching their heads looking up into the mechanics of the entry.

Lets recap our duo’s first 4 minutes of being at the airport:

• Positively ID’ed & ball-busted by cheerful Luggage Concierge guy for a mistake committed several weeks ago by the most careful woman I know, an event forever committed into Mofo family history.  By me.
• Edie, overconfident in her trust of existing technology and airports, rams into automatic glass doors, forcing a bewildered outburst from their new friend, thusly creating another increasingly strange precedent for something going wrong in the presence of those who stumble into our vortex.

Printing out the tickets at home, we wondered what the heck a “SECURITY NOTICE” was.  It was only on Edie’s ticket.

This is bad.  The TSA probably thinks we are using our kids as drug mules.  The three of them frequently make this trip, I mean really, who would suspect a sweet trio of midwestern midwesternness?

The DEA.  The TSA.  Dogs.  Profilers.

Aw man, this suddenly looks super obvious.  The TSA probably thinks that I’m back home getting all Heisenberg, while Thelma & Louise have their bosoms loaded with drugs.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Upon check-in, they learned that Edie is “pre-cleared” to pass thru security without waiting in line.  Very Cool.  The serpentine misery defining contemporary air travel is very real up in the CLE.  Count on it at sunrise.

Kristin’s ticket lacked the status Edie’s possessed, but was allowed to slide in behind her.  It’s that little side gate you covet watching pilot after pilot pass thru as you get farted on by everyone.

So whats Edie do at security?  She sabotages their short-lived prestige by sneaking a metal spoon from our silverware drawer through the metal detector.

>BEEEP<

“…please back out, empty pockets… blah blah blah…”

“EDIE!  Why do you have one of our SPOONS!?”

“For tea.”

Edie would make a great executioner.  Her matter-of-fact way of presenting the absurd gets you nodding and agreeing and seeing the point until you’re in too deep…

Those of us, already imbibed with the Kool-Aid from Edie-World, really have to stay vigilant.  There’s so many layers to the odd shit she does, making it hard to process.  First, you’re flummoxed by the sheer ridiculousness of the actual act or statement.  Second, while the surface motives seem innocent, the underlying ramifications border on diabolical.

Visitors to Edie-World always buy it.

TSA guy bought it all day long.

“I like tea too.  Go ‘head and put that in your carry-on”

I don’t know how the body works, but how is it possible for Kristin to break out in hives and laugh at the same time.

Years from now, when Kristin has checked herself into a mental institution, they will uncover that she has been suffering from the slow attrition of PTSD.

Edie is filming an episode of Suburgatory this week.  The whole episode revolves around her and Jane Levey.

Me & the Coop are holding it down back in Lake Brady.

In the meantime, we will be checking Edie’s room for spoons.  Oh, hell yes.