Stroller derby

Seems like yesterday my wife and I were taking our baby boy out for a stroll in his awesome Peg Perego stroller - the Rolls Royce of strollers at the time.

Since we lived in Santa Monica at the time (100 yards from the beach in a rent-controlled apartment on the top floor of a 17-story building - don't get me started), we'd take our son for daily stroller walks on Main Street and the Third Street Promenade. The Promenade was a wide expanse of walkway, with plenty of room for us even when it was crowded. And when we were on Main Street, we made a point of staying to one side of the sidewalk so people coming and going could get around us easily.

More than rules of the road, it was just common courtesy. Seems like such a quaint notion from a gentler time doesn't it.

Fast forward to this evening as we're trying to get around these sidewalk hoggin', cell-phone talkin', baby ignorin', stroller pushin' mamas blocking 2nd Street in Belmont Shore with a Mitt Romney sense of entitlement to the sidewalk.

It'd be one thing if they were going slow to carefully navigate the walking throngs so their babies wouldn't get bumped or jostled.

But no,these mamas were in their plastic bubble, oblivious to everyone else on the sidewalk because they were so caught up in their own fabulousness. They didn't care one whit about anyone in front or behind them.

I suppose the good news is we were behind them. With a clear view of their rear bumpers (yes, that is what I meant), we could see the faces of the oncoming crowd as they had to quickly engage in avoidance tactics so as not to get run over by the clueless moms.

I know you can't make people more considerate. Believe me, I've tried. Maybe strollers need to be reclassified as moving vehicles, and parents operating them would be required to take a driving test to get licensed.

The other question that went through my mind is why do they have these babies out so late on a cold February night, with all the germy strangers passing them by anyway.

Oh that's right. You don't need a license to be a parent either.

Another post about juice

See what I did there? (see title of post before this one).

Sometimes you know what you know. And if you're lucky, you know what you don't know. But every once in awhile something you thought you knew turns out to be something you didn't.

Ever since I can remember, lemons and/or lemon juice have always been one of the main ingredients in lemonade.

Hence the name lemonade.

Imagine my shock and awe when I went to make my Arnold Palmer (to the uninitiated that's half lemonade/half ice tea) and saw this little notice carefully concealed in the small white type on the fountainhead.

Now I'm not naive enough to think a soda fountain at 5 Guys should be dispensing anything as healthy as wheatgrass or carrot juice (gagging a little at the thought). But is it too much to expect the lemonade to contain a little real lemon juice?

Apparently it is.

The part that throws me - and if you know anything about me you know I'm easily thrown - is that the supplier is Minute Maid. And what is Minute Maid best known for?

Say it with me: juice.

In fact, on the Minute Maid web site, here's how they describe the contents of their ginormous 128 fl.oz. container of lemonade:

LEMONADE Classics never go out of style. Made with the goodness of real lemons, Minute Maid Lemonade is the quintessential refreshing beverage with the great taste of a simpler time.

See? Their big barrel o' lemonade is made with the goodness of real lemons. Apparently that's the "simpler time" they're referring to.

As if there's not enough to feel bad about eating at 5 Guys, now I know I don't even stand a chance of taking the edge off by having something even the slightest bit healthy to drink.

Next time life hands me lemons, I'm making a lemon Coke.

Jew see what I did there?

Much to my great pleasure, and apparently great dismay of some of our more traditional friends, my wife isn't Jewish. Far from it.

She happens to be a committed Christian.

For some reason, that seems to cause some people great amounts of - what's the word I'm looking for - tsuris.

The fact we fell in love, got married, then stayed married in our unholy interfaith union seems to be a difficult thing for many people to understand. Apparently none of these people ever dated a Jewish girl. BAM!

Before you start all the mishegas with hateful emails and comments, know this: I have plenty Jewish women friends and colleagues that I love and respect (nothing but love for Mama G. and the breakfast club girls). But this is about me, and facts are facts: I dated Ann Siegel, Sandy Izakowitz and went to Fairfax High. Trust me. It's an argument you can't win.

Anyway, the question inevitably comes up about how this works with the children. While technically it's true they're half Christian and half Jewish, or as I prefer to say, Chewish, they're being raised in the Christian faith.

It doesn't bother me. Because I'm pretty much the worst Jew you know - in the practicing the religion sense, not in the as a human being sense - it's just not that important to me the kids be raised Jewish. Given how little I practice it, it'd be straight up hypocritical if it was.

I don't care if my daughter is bat mitzvah'd or my son is bar mitzvah'd. As I recall, my bar mitzvah was mostly a big party for my parent's friends. I'm still looking for the envelope with all the checks in it.

It is however important to my wife that they're raised as Christians. Fine by me.

For starters, they're going to an exceptional private Christian school where they're excelling at the first-rate education they're getting. I also have no problem with the overall values and principals they're learning.

If I'm being truthful, which always seems to get me in trouble but, you know, onward, I'll admit sometimes it's hard having the kids come home and hearing all the Jesus stories. But whenever I feel that twinge, I just remind them Jesus was part of the tribe - one of our boys.

The funny part is that my wife is much more insistent they learn about their Jewish heritage. She's the one who makes sure at Hanukah we light the candles in the menorah, although not too close to the Christmas tree.

Still, there are so many shmendriks who like to kvetsch about us not being the same religion. Which I always like to answer with this non-denominational question: what the f#@& business is it of yours?

I think there's so much about the Christian agenda in the news it just raises curiosity about our situation. Narrow-minded people like to paint in broad strokes (you know, like I do about Jewish girls), and make the assumption all Christians are on that extreme fringe. I can tell you from experience they're not, although granted my support of gay marriage isn't exactly met with open arms on Sunday mornings.

I'm also a bit surprised and upset how effortlessly some friends bash the Christian faith, painting all Christians in a way they'd never tolerate people of their own religion being portrayed if the sandal were on the other foot.

What chutzpah.

Don't you worry your pretty little heads - I still know which side my matzoh is buttered on. I'm proud of being a Jew, even if I'm not a practicing one. I'm proud my kids will grow up, thanks to their mother, with an understanding of both sides of their heritage. And I love a good "rabbi and a priest walk into a bar..." joke more than you can possibly know.

Maybe the people who make it a point of pride and claim to be so accepting will find a way to show it when it comes to respecting not only the two of us, but both our faiths.

God willing.

Breaking news: we have a break-up song winner

It wasn't easy. But then love never is.

Just to refresh your memory, last week I put up a post bringing back my breakup song contest. The first time I barely got three suggestions. This time, it was an avalanche. Apparently a lot of bad memories have come flooding back to all of you since the first effort.

And as we now know, broken hearts make for mighty good song suggestions.

For the last week the Rotation and Balance team of psychologists, relationship gurus, heartbreak counselors, romance novel authors, luv brokers and interns working for no pay have listened to all the outstanding entries and, difficult as it was, chosen a winner.

I won't keep you in suspense any longer. For the song we believe best sums up the emotional devastation left in the aftermath of a failed relationship - all to a good beat - the winner is (drumroll please) Carrie Talick.

Her winning entry? Love Stinks.

Not only does Carrie get her winning song from iTunes (right after she sends me her email), she also gets these six runner-ups. It was originally only going to be four, but the judges decided they were just too good and had to expand the prize.

Congratulations Carrie.

Presented here in no particular order:

Why yes, that is a new tagline

Years ago, Volvo decided to take the bold step of not having a tagline in their ads. At the time it was considered revolutionary by most, and heresy by some, including their agency who didn't get to charge development time against new taglines.

And yet, Volvo continued to do just fine.

The print ads were cleaner and more focused. The TV and radio spots were less "addy." And despite the fact they didn't try to sum up everything they stood for in a few words, people somehow managed to either remember or glean from them that Volvo was synonymous with safety.

You may have noticed by the plethora of lousy taglines out there that coming up with the perfect one is a challenging thing to do (this isn't the first time I've posted about this).

Especially if you're trying to come up with one for a blog. I've often thought of following Volvo's example and just not having one, which would be fine if anyone including me already knew what this blog stood for.

I've had two taglines since I started it. The first was "No meaning. From a tire store sign. Stop trying."

Rolls right off the tongue doesn't it? That was one problem. The other was it spoke more to the blog title than the actual content.

The second one I used for a short while, without any fanfare or any notice was "With a great blog comes great responsibility. Or so I hear."

I liked it, but as a friend told me, I'm not Spiderman.

I keep forgetting.

Although you'd think falling off the sides of buildings all the time would be a good reminder.

So it was time for a new tagline. This time I decided to go with something more descriptive of posts that appear here. Hence the new line:

We didn't invent random. We just perfected it.

It works because random is the central theme of this blog. I almost went with "Mindless ramblings whenever I God damn feel like it."

But for some reason the random thing seems friendlier.

A late break-up entry

You may remember a while back I did a post about break-up songs, and decided to turn it into a contest for the best one.

If you remember that, you're doing better than I am.

Due to the enormously underwhelming response, not only did I completely forget about it, but the grand prize of the winning song via iTunes remains unclaimed.

So here's what I'm going to do, since I'm not ready to break-up with this contest yet (I know, but I went for it anyway).

Let's give it another go. Submit your best break-up songs, and the selection committee here at Rotation and Balance will pick a winner shortly. We'll even sweeten the heartbreak pot: not only will you win your song from iTunes, you'll get the 5 runner-ups as well.

Entries from last time - Maybe You're Right, Hating You For Christmas and With Or Without You - are still in the running, so for the people who submitted them (you know who you are), no need to resubmit.

Just to get the tears rolling, I'm entering Can We Still Be Friends (don't worry, I'm not eligible to win).

What're you waiting for? Get listening. Because now, dredging up all your bitter, forgotten pain and heartache from the past could mean valuable prizes!

Remembering Ann again

Yesterday was an interesting day for me. I was at my friend Al's Super Bowl party that I look forward to each year. And it was also 30 years to the day that my mom passed away. When it happened I didn't know how to get through the next minute, much less 30 years. But she wouldn't have wanted me to waste any time getting on with my life. She was good that way. Please excuse the repost if you've read it before, but one more time, this one's for mom.

It's not like me to get sloppy in my beer. Alright, who're we kidding - I'm a sap. And the fact that today is 28 years since my mom died isn't helping that any. I'm sad to say I can't remember nearly as much about my mom as I would like. 
I can still hear her laugh. Because my parents had me later in life, I can still hear her almost apologizing to me for being "an old lady." But I never saw her that way. She was my old lady. She was my mom. She was there, frightened and strong in the emergency room at Cedars when I'd been thrown forty-five feet out of a car and knocked unconscious in an accident (many people by the way are still waiting for me to regain consciousness). She was there at the graduation when I walked onstage at the Hollywood Bowl to accept my diploma (yeah, I've played the Bowl). She held me, and the bucket, after my first real experience with a little too much egg nog and bourbon.

The last meal I had with my mom was at Nibbler's on Wilshire in Beverly Hills. Coke, tuna melt, arguements. The sounds of a generation and a half older clashing with a time and world that had changed in ways they didn't completely understand, and my impatience at their lack of understanding. Not my finest moment, and probably the first one I'd go back to change. Three days later, it was my turn to be with her in Cedars emergency room. She had died three times in the ambulance, and had been brought back three times. There was severe brain damage, and ten days later she was gone. I remember going into her intensive care room (can someone really be hooked up to that many wires?), and talking to her for about an hour. Trying to make my peace. Trying to say goodbye. And then, my mother opened her eyes and looked right at me. It was the first time she'd opened her eyes in ten days. Her doctors said it was a muscle reflex, similar to a twitch. They said she wasn't really there, wasn't really seeing me. But after a lifetime with this woman who gave me my sense of humor, sensitivity, temper, and everything I ever wanted (yes, only child), I didn't really care what the doctors said. Because I knew better. Every day, especially today, I'm the one who's seeing her. Bye mom. Before you know it.