The best prank my Grandpa ever pulled

Well Hello! Comes now another semi-annual installment of blogging drivel, courtesy of yours truly. First and foremost, seeing as it’s Christmas and there is snow on the ground and cheer in the air, I’d like to wish everyone and then some (just to be safe) the Merriest of Christmases!

On that note, it’s always incredibly relaxing being back home and surrounded by family. So relaxing in fact, that today I dug out one of the old Gnusletter books and read it on the couch for hours. To those who are unfamiliar, which I’m guessing the vast majority are, the Gnusletters started circa 1975, when my grandfather began writing regular letters to all of his offspring (Seven, to be approximate) keeping them abreast of the various goings-on in the family. They were, if he may say so himself ‘a witty, cogent, comprehensive, brilliantly worded, precise yet all-encompassing narrative which brilliantly placed the entire ouvre in context.’

This tradition continued with gusto until 2007, when God decided he needed a few more side-splitting laughs up in heaven and summoned the old geezer to join him. Thankfully, in what is widely regarded as one of the best gifts ever, he digitized all of the old letters, had them published in multiple volumes, and gave copies to all of his progeny. It occupies an entire bookshelf.

This then, is what I was reading this afternoon, when I came across the following entry. It is, with no close second, the greatest prank ever pulled on me, and pulled off by none other than my loving grandfather. I still remember this incident as if it were yesterday. It is reproduced below [with my own commentary in brackets]:

March 20, 2004 [I was 15]

Here are the results of the greatest hoax I have EVER perpetrated.

THE BACKGROUND

Last week, Sean Andrew [My dad] emailed me a story about how Ian, in a Catholic Youth Organization basketball game, slam dunked the ball and claimed his first broken backboard. Yes! Shattered glass, limply hanging rim, the works. This is what gave me my opening. I created the attached invoice ostensibly from the Archdiocese of Manhattan (There IS no archdiocese of Manhattan) to Ian Fox in the amount of $2,476.37. I thought it was sufficiently enormous to evoke immediate suspicion by Ian. Turns out that was a very bad assumption.

After mailing the invoice, I e-mailed Sean Andrew and alerted him to what I was doing. He, in turn, alerted Eileen [my mom] who turned out to be more of a culprit than I. Poor Ian.

According to Eileen, who was in the kitchen when Ian, who was near the dining room table and talking on the telephone with his friend Robert, opened the letter. He froze as he read it, blurted out “I’ll talk to you later, Robert,” and hung up.

“Is that about your weekend trip, Ian?”, asked Eileen innocently.

“No”, was all the response she got.

She watched as he held the letter out at arm’s length, dropped it on the table, and maintained his arm in extended position. STUNNED.

Eileen went into the dining room to see the invoice lying on the table and a speechless eldest son staring at it. Reading it Eileen exclaimed “$161 just for cleaning up? You could have done that and saved all that money.”

“They wouldn’t let us! It was all glass!” he replied in an anguished voice.

Handing him the letter, Eileen asked innocently, “And to whom do you have to send the money?”

“To Monsignor Arthur (Shorty) Snively,” he replied

“That’s your Grandpa,” said Eileen

“WHAT?!”, he asked, evidently refusing to believe that his sweet old grandpa could do such a nefarious thing to his own grandchild. Well, he not only could, but he DID. On the other hand, if a lad can’t trust his own grandfather, whom CAN he trust, I ask you? This is undoubtedly the best one I have ever pulled off, Gang. Sort of sets a standard, dontcha know?

A(musing) on Lent

“And what did you give up for Lent?” If I had a nickel for every time I heard this string of words lately. . . I’d be perhaps a candy bar richer.  As is customary this time of year, lots of my friends have chosen to give something up for Lent, whether it be chocolate, drinking, TV etc. And inevitably, I am asked what I ‘gave up’. Having gone to Catholic school for the better part of 10 years, I get the drill and the reasoning behind it – I just don’t think it’s a good way to effect lasting change or long-term altered behavior.

As a child, I would give something up (typically candy/sweets) and then consume in excess the previously forbidden fruit the second Easter arrived. I was even happier when I discovered the alleged ‘loophole’ that you are allowed to violate your resolution on Sundays. Even now, as a mostly adult, I feel like lots of people go through the motions for 40 days, and then totally forget about whatever it was they had given up. Much like a new year’s resolution gone stale by February.

So, I ask you, what lasting changes have been made? Are you a better person for having sacrificed something temporarily? Maybe, maybe not. Who’s to say? This year I’m going to try something different. Instead of giving something up, I’m going to try to proactively alter my fundamental behavior such that it lasts beyond the 40 days of Lent. I’ve tried this before with little success, but for every weekday, I’m going to get up at 6AM and do something productive for 45 minutes before getting ready for work. Whether it’s working out, practicing piano, reading a book, cleaning my room, or writing on here, something will be done.

The idea is that hopefully this will become something I look forward to, and will be able to build into my routine going forward. Now, I tend to wake up at 6, and press the snooze button 3 times. This feels good in the short run, but let's do a little math, shall we?

0.75 hrs/day x 5 days/week = 3.75 hrs/week x 52 weeks/year = 195 hrs/year x 100 years of life remaining  = 19,500 hours

19,500 hours. According to Malcom Gladwell, that’s enough time to become a world-class expert in TWO subjects. Now, this is extraordinarily unlikely to happen, but it just serves to illustrate the point how a small change now can have a massive impact down the road. Like compound interest.

Alternatively, and this may be an idea for next year: have one new experience/go someplace new every week. I'm lucky enough to live in New York City, where potential abounds, but sometimes the impetus is lacking. Now if you'll excuse me, this paragraph was thrown in here because I just though of the idea and don't trust myself to remember it a year from now.

Anyway, now that I’ve wasted several precious minutes of your life with this drivel, I get to ask you: What are YOU giving up for Lent?

Until next time,

Ian

Learning to Read

Do you remember, way back when you were a child, what it was like learning to read? First, you had to learn the building blocks of language, letters, which are really just squiggly lines jotted down on some flat surface. Then, once you thought you were doing well and had a solid grasp on their appearance, somebody (a teacher, I reckon) told you that the shapes were associated with sounds, so you had to go back and learn the sound that was joined at the hip to each squiggly line.

The next layer of complication arose when the individual letters were mashed together to create words. And to make matters worse, there were a bunch of crazy rules you had to learn too! Like people, these letters behaved differently depending who their neighbors were! The Mr. S at the beginning of the word ‘session’ has quite a different attitude and sound from the same sss (esses?) residing in the middle. Once you had those down, you threw the words together to create sentences. Add a touch of grammar and some punctuation for good measure, and voila! So easy a child can learn it! Thus the entire of world of literature was opened before you, and now, as an adult, reading seems like the most natural thing in the world.

So where, exactly, am I going with this? Good question. Tonight, I felt a little bit like the incompetent child sitting in front of his flashcards all over again. I had the first piano lesson of my life.  When I first sat down, I may as well have been a German code breaker listening to the Navajo. The expanse of white keys, interrupted on occasion by black ones, extending as far as the eye could see in either direction was enough to start my head spinning. We started out by reading music, and I was introduced to the bass clef. We sat for 20 minutes as I tried to read aloud the name of each note in several little pieces, and draw the mental line to the key on the instrument. Easier said than done. Next week it will be Chopstix and Chopin.

The goal of all of this is, of course, to be able to read music as fluently and easily as you’re reading this right now. I suppose at some point it will click, become second nature, and I will look back at these struggles with an amused chuckle and slight shake of the head.

Well, that’s it for tonight folks! Until next time, rest easy and illegitimi non carborundum!

The Porcelain Wars

Sunday started off much like any other drizzly, post-santacon Sunday in the city; it was cold, grey, and thoroughly enjoyable, so long as you had a cup of tea and good book - both of which I did.  Lazing on the couch, having returned from a short venture seeking sustenance, I whiled away the morning in a state of contented tranquility.  No hint had I, of the ensuing maelstrom (or lack thereof, as it proved to be), awaiting me in the men’s room.

It was shortly after noon when I encountered one of those nightmares of non-plumbers everywhere: our toilet refused to flush. I can easily imagine a lesser man fainting when confronted with such unexpected hardship in the middle of his day of rest. Or at least placing a desperate call to said plumber.  Not I. I took the porcelains insolence as a declaration of war.

As I surveyed the scene, I took inventory of my considerable advantages over this disobedient appliance; I was armed with a plunger, Youtube videos, superior intellect and a willpower of rivaled by none. Hardly fair odds in my opinion.  After doing the necessary reconnaissance, I confronted my adversary, plunger in hand, and sounded the bugle.

UP! The plunger went! DOWN! The plunger went again. UP! It came once more! CURSES! Uttered the operator! Waves thrashed violently in the bowl below! Sweat poured off my brow as the struggle continued. In my mind, I saw sailors hoisting the anchor with shouts of ‘HEAVE’! On, the battle raged! Finally, in a state of exhaustion, I decided to see if any progress had been made. I depressed the lever. Promising sounds of running water greeted my ears. The water level rose. And ever so slowly receded. I could have thrown stones at a castle and made more progress.

Beaten, but not disheartened, I retreated to regroup and consider my options. One: admit defeat, call a plumber and shell out a considerable amount of hard earned cash. Two: “If a plumber can do it, so can I”. And Three: feign ignorance and let the roommate deal with it. I chose two, and sallied forth into the rain to the nearest hardware store. “Do you sell any tools that can unclog a toilet, and that also are not plungers?” I asked. He led to a vicious looking device that resembled a pipe with a slinky sticking out one end and a handle on the other, that cost only $30. “Insert this, threat the slinky through the pipes and twist the handle with all your might”. This device was the answer to my prayers.

I returned with this formidable weapon and set about at once. I thrust the slinky into the pipe and the battle was on once more! I twisted with all my might and shoved it deeper. Nothing yet, but I could feel my enemy’s will begin to crack. “Aha! I have you now!” I shouted as I felt something give way ever so slightly. I pulled back and tested the lever once more. The water started to spin, but gave up halfway through and threw in the towel. But I knew victory was near. With renewed vigor I attacked again! Spinning as furiously as a drillbit, the auger encountered the obstacle in the pipes, and this time ground it to shreds without hesitation! A mixture of relief, victory and satisfaction swept over me. To verify the victory, the lever was depressed a third time, and as they say, the third time’s the charm. The most beautiful whirlpool I’ve ever seen formed in front of me, was swept away, and replaced with perfectly flat, still water, as if nothing had ever happened.

With my Sunday nearly stolen from me and this traumatic hiccup in the rearview mirror, I was more than glad to return to my tea, my book, and my peaceful way of life. I can only hope the swift and merciless response to the toilet sent a clear message to the other appliances in the apartment, should they get the inkling to misbehave. And with that, I shall again turn to my tea, and bid you a pleasant evening.

The Calm Before the Storm

I've heard, from various and sundry sources, that on Christmas day some year in WWI, the British and German soldiers along the Western Front set aside their weapons and differences and convened for a game of football in the no mans land between the trenches. Whether or not this heartwarming story is true, I cannot say.  The point is that two sides, though far apart in philosophy and negotiation, can temporarily leave acrimony and vitriol on the sidelines and engage in a moment of brotherly love. Thus was the case, Tuesday, eighth of January, twenty thirteen.

I, a mere seedling in the world of business, found myself at a round table, encircled by sixteen grizzled veterans of the power lending industry. Unfamiliarity assaulted my senses; the food was Lebanese, as was the wine, the neighborhood was upper east side, the chandelier was candle lit, and the average age was double my own. To compound the situation, the sixteen accomplices were representatives of opposing sides of a major transaction. Some were lenders, some were borrowers, and none would have been welcome in old Polonius' house. You might have thought there would be a tension, or perhaps just a thickening of the atmosphere, when a debtor of hundreds of millions of dollars is in the company of his creditor. And you would have been wrong. 

Thanks in part to the eagle-eyed waiters watching our wine glasses, a merry time was had by all. Stories abounded, dishes were shared, and a spirit of bon hommery reigned. It was as if chummy college buddies were catching up at a twentieth reunion. After three hours of laughing and back-slapping and stuffing ourselves to the brim with an assortment of lamb, humus, pita and the like, we decided to call it a night, retire to our beds and prepare for the tense day of negotiations to come. A mere 10 hours later, the troops had returned to their trenches, and business was conducted as if it were December 26^th, 1914.

Disclaimer: The above has been dramatized...for dramatic effect.