I moved away from home in March 1992 at the age of 22. Terry and I had just bought our first house, and I went off to live in it by myself for three months before we got married (the full extent of my bachelorhood, I guess).
Sometime later that year, after I had been gone for several months, I was at my parents' house when my dad said something I thought was a little sad at the time, but that I never fully understood until recently.
He and I were talking about something or other to do with Cleveland sports. We did that all the time. He was giving one of his long and convoluted opinions on why this coach wasn't the right fit for the team or what that franchise had to do to stop losing so much. I don't even remember specifically what he was talking about.
But I do remember what he said when he finished. He said, "At least that's what I think. I don't have anyone to talk about sports with anymore."
He said it with a little smile on his face, but it was the very definition of a sad smile. And I remember feeling a little pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach at his words.
Which, by the way, wasn't at all his intention, I'm sure. He missed having me around the house, and I think it was just his way of letting me know that.
Now fast forward about 25 years.
My son Jared is a freshman in college. He takes a full slate of classes and works a lot of hours at Dick's Sporting Goods. In between, he tries to find time to spend with his girlfriend, Lyndsey, who for the record is pretty awesome and definitely someone worth spending time with.
Jared is my sports kid. From a very young age, he and I have connected over sports. It's my fault he's an ardent Cleveland sports fan. I raised him to live and die with the Browns, Indians and Cavs, and those teams are often our main topics of conversation.
I also raised him to be a diehard hockey fan. He played the sport a little bit, and he knew more about it by the time he was 10 years old than most adults. So we talk hockey, too.
Except we don't talk about hockey or anything else as much as we used to. There just isn't time anymore. He comes home from school or work at 10 in the evening, just as I'm getting ready to go to bed. And I'm out the door the next morning long before he wakes up.
When we do have a few minutes to talk about our favorite subject, we both talk fast, as if we have to cram in everything we've been thinking before it slips our minds. They're fun conversations, punctuated with sarcasm over Cleveland teams' perennial (mis)fortunes and hope that the Cavs' 2016 NBA title won't be the sole championship for us to celebrate in our lifetimes.
Only recently did I gain a full appreciation for what my dad meant when he said he missed having his sports talk buddy around. Jared is my sports talk buddy. I have another son, Jack, but he's not so much of a sports guy, which is fine. He and I connect over other things, and we talk just as much.
It's just that the thing that bonds Jared and me is the same thing that bonded my dad and me. And there's a certain sentimentality and profound sense of legacy in that.
So I get sadder than I probably should be when Jared and I go a few days without talking Browns, Indians, Cavs, Monsters, NHL hockey or whatever. It's no one's fault that it happens, it's just the way it goes when you have a busy college kid and a busy middle-aged dad running in separate directions.
The obvious moral of the story is to take every opportunity to talk with your kids or your parents about whatever it is you have in common, whatever it is you celebrate and fret over together. That could be sports, or it could be a million other things.
What's important is that you never take it for granted.
My dad has been gone for more than 17 years now. In retrospect, I should have stopped over there more often or just called him every once in a while to talk sports. We still had our conversations after I was married, but they weren't as frequent as I would have liked. Certainly not as frequent as they had been when I lived at home.
I'm trying to make sure that doesn't happen with me and Jared, especially while he and I still technically live under the same roof.
We'll see how it goes.
Go Tribe. Go Browns. Go Cavs. And go Monsters. My dad would have agreed wholeheartedly.
Showing posts with label Cleveland sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cleveland sports. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
Sunday, April 2, 2017
What we did right with each of our kids - Part III - Jared
(NOTE: Parents are forever lamenting the things they wish they had done differently with their children. "I should have been more strict about this" or "I wish I had let her participate in that." That type of stuff. I see nothing productive there, so instead I choose to celebrate the things that Terry and I appear to have done well with our children. Plus, it's a good way to fill five days of blog posts. So there's that.)
My son Jared, now 18, was as tall as me when he was 12 or 13 years old. This isn't saying much as I'm of exceedingly average height (5-9½, thank you very much), but now that he has topped out at around 6-1, "tall" is one of his defining characteristics.
There are many people taller than Jared, of course, but for our family, he's a giant.
Speaking of which – true story – one time when was about 10, he was playing soccer and one of the players on the opposing team urged his teammates to "cover the giant," referring to Jared. Every once in a while, Terry or I will exclaim, "Cover the giant!" And the other one will chuckle appreciatively.
For many years, Jared was my Man Child. He looked older than he really was up until high school, at which point he looked like someone who was exactly where they should be. Now, as high school winds down for him, he looks to me like someone trying to figure out where he belongs next.
Which is perfect. That's what you should be doing when you're 18.
Here are five things I'd like to think Jared's mother and I did right for him:
(1) We let him be who he is. Jared is a quiet guy. He talks to people now more than he used to, but he is still widely known as The Quiet Tennant. And that's fine. Jared is who he is, and any attempt to make him seem more outgoing would have been disingenuous and ultimately unfair. (By the way, he and I have always talked a lot. If you know Jared only in passing, you might be surprised to learn he is one of the funniest people I know. He has a dry sense of humor that just kills me.)
(2) We encouraged him to kick a football. In the grand scheme of things, the three years Jared spent as a kicker for the Wickliffe High School football team may seem unimportant. And yes, he will undoubtedly do far more important things in his life. But the experience of putting on the shoulder pads and playing under the lights every Friday night was one he'll never forget, I'm sure. He got there largely on his own. No one sought him out to kick. As a freshman, he asked the coach what he needed to do to become a kicker. He found out where he needed to be and when, and he showed up. He found what he needed to learn, and he learned it. All on his own. No kicking coach or anything, just Jared. Let's hear it for personal initiative.
(3) We let him destroy our garage with hockey pucks. OK, we did't let him do this, but to Terry's credit, she has kept herself from killing Jared for putting a variety of dents in our garage door and gouges in our garage walls. Jared never played organized hockey, but I played living room and driveway hockey with him when he was a lot younger, and to this day his love of the sport continues to grow. When I think back to my own sports experiences with my dad, most of the memories revolve around attending Indians games and watching Friday night boxing matches together. I hope that one day for Jared, one of his memories of his dad will be watching, playing and talking about hockey. It's our thing, as is a shared love for Cleveland sports.
(4) We told him what he should do and watched when he chose to ignore our advice. The older he gets, the more The Boy seems to follow our teaching (sometimes grudgingly). But over the years, he has more than once gone his own direction, often with less-than-desirable results. I'll say it again: There is value in screwing up. Let it happen.
(5) We taught him he is loved. Jared is not an outwardly affectionate guy. He will occasionally hug his mother, but it's not an everyday thing. Still, in everything he has done, and in every decision he has made, we tried to make it clear that we loved him no matter what. I think he gets that concept in his head for now. Someday he'll understand it in his heart, too.
My son Jared, now 18, was as tall as me when he was 12 or 13 years old. This isn't saying much as I'm of exceedingly average height (5-9½, thank you very much), but now that he has topped out at around 6-1, "tall" is one of his defining characteristics.
There are many people taller than Jared, of course, but for our family, he's a giant.
Speaking of which – true story – one time when was about 10, he was playing soccer and one of the players on the opposing team urged his teammates to "cover the giant," referring to Jared. Every once in a while, Terry or I will exclaim, "Cover the giant!" And the other one will chuckle appreciatively.
For many years, Jared was my Man Child. He looked older than he really was up until high school, at which point he looked like someone who was exactly where they should be. Now, as high school winds down for him, he looks to me like someone trying to figure out where he belongs next.
Which is perfect. That's what you should be doing when you're 18.
Here are five things I'd like to think Jared's mother and I did right for him:
(1) We let him be who he is. Jared is a quiet guy. He talks to people now more than he used to, but he is still widely known as The Quiet Tennant. And that's fine. Jared is who he is, and any attempt to make him seem more outgoing would have been disingenuous and ultimately unfair. (By the way, he and I have always talked a lot. If you know Jared only in passing, you might be surprised to learn he is one of the funniest people I know. He has a dry sense of humor that just kills me.)
(2) We encouraged him to kick a football. In the grand scheme of things, the three years Jared spent as a kicker for the Wickliffe High School football team may seem unimportant. And yes, he will undoubtedly do far more important things in his life. But the experience of putting on the shoulder pads and playing under the lights every Friday night was one he'll never forget, I'm sure. He got there largely on his own. No one sought him out to kick. As a freshman, he asked the coach what he needed to do to become a kicker. He found out where he needed to be and when, and he showed up. He found what he needed to learn, and he learned it. All on his own. No kicking coach or anything, just Jared. Let's hear it for personal initiative.
(3) We let him destroy our garage with hockey pucks. OK, we did't let him do this, but to Terry's credit, she has kept herself from killing Jared for putting a variety of dents in our garage door and gouges in our garage walls. Jared never played organized hockey, but I played living room and driveway hockey with him when he was a lot younger, and to this day his love of the sport continues to grow. When I think back to my own sports experiences with my dad, most of the memories revolve around attending Indians games and watching Friday night boxing matches together. I hope that one day for Jared, one of his memories of his dad will be watching, playing and talking about hockey. It's our thing, as is a shared love for Cleveland sports.
(4) We told him what he should do and watched when he chose to ignore our advice. The older he gets, the more The Boy seems to follow our teaching (sometimes grudgingly). But over the years, he has more than once gone his own direction, often with less-than-desirable results. I'll say it again: There is value in screwing up. Let it happen.
(5) We taught him he is loved. Jared is not an outwardly affectionate guy. He will occasionally hug his mother, but it's not an everyday thing. Still, in everything he has done, and in every decision he has made, we tried to make it clear that we loved him no matter what. I think he gets that concept in his head for now. Someday he'll understand it in his heart, too.
Friday, July 1, 2016
On grad school, blogging and Cleveland sports championships
Hello. It's nice to see you again. It hasn't really been that long (a little more than three months), but I feel like we haven't talked in forever.
The following things have happened since March 25th, the date of this blog's last post:
To that last point, I'm sitting with my laptop on the patio of our rental condo in Bethany Beach, Delaware. It's nearly 80 degrees at 9 in the morning and very humid, but I love being outside, drinking my coffee, and doing a little writing.
The following things have happened since March 25th, the date of this blog's last post:
- I started school and completed classes in public relations theory & ethics, and public relations management.
- I decided to quit school.
- I went to Europe, and over the 10 days I was there, two of the sports teams that I support passionately won championships. (NOTE: I puzzled a bit over how to construct that sentence. In the event, it almost seems as if "passionately" describes the way those teams won their championships. And I'm sure they were passionate. What I meant, though, is that those are teams I passionately support.)
- I came back from Europe, and now I'm on vacation in Delaware.
To that last point, I'm sitting with my laptop on the patio of our rental condo in Bethany Beach, Delaware. It's nearly 80 degrees at 9 in the morning and very humid, but I love being outside, drinking my coffee, and doing a little writing.
That is, after all, the point of vacation, right? You do things you love, and maybe do them with people you love. I get to do both this week.
We'll be going to the beach, of course, and there's a nice pool right outside of our condo. I am not, it has been documented, much of a water sports guy. But I'm going to be in my bathing suit every day because I think in recent years I've somehow gotten away from being Fun Dad.
When the kids were little, I think I was Fun Dad. I did all sorts of Fun Dad things, from swimming with them to playing kickball with them to riding bikes and whatever.
Then, for reasons I can't quite identify, I got away from being Fun Dad. I became Serious Stressed Dad. Not good. Yeah, work got more intense, and I stupidly added the graduate school thing, but there really are no excuses. I feel like I have lost time to make up for. Maybe this vacation is a start.
As for the grad school thing, what can I say? I tried it, and I loved it. Or at least, I loved the material. And the writing. And even the heavy academic journal reading. But the time it took? I hated that. I hated that with a passion.
So I weighed my options, and on balance it seemed best to just walk away. And I have. Yesterday I completed my final class assignment, and I have no plans to return to the program any time soon.
Everyone tells you, "Oh, don't worry, you'll find time for it someday." And maybe I will. But for now I'm at peace with the decision to hang it up.
Because I really just need to live life, you know? I need to spend time with my family. I need to sit and think. Sit and read. Sit and...do nothing sometimes, I guess. I hardly ever do any of those things, but now is the time to get back to them.
I am one of those people who always feels the need to fill up any Time Vacuum that exists in my life. I quit doing this? Great! I can start doing that! Only recently has it occurred to me that you don't have to do "that." You're allowed to have stretches of free time in which you just live and breathe and grow and be.
So that's what I promise to start doing. Which is why I'm not going to bring this blog back on any regular basis. I'll occasionally dash off a post or two, but I'm not doing the three-days-a-week thing or whatever. I hope you'll still come back to read my very sporadic missives, because I so appreciate it when you do.
Finally, the sports championships...I don't know what to say, because this is entirely new territory for me and for every person over the last 50-plus years who has supported a Cleveland-based professional athletic team. With the exception of the old indoor soccer Cleveland Crunch, none of those teams had won a title since 1964 until my beloved Lake Erie Monsters and Cleveland Cavaliers did it a week or so apart recently.
And I was on another continent for both title-clinching games. The Monsters won the American Hockey League's Calder Cup while I slept peacefully in a London hotel, while the Cavs miraculously came back from a 3-1 series deficit to beat the vaunted Golden State Warriors while Elissa, Chloe and I were snoozing in Barcelona.
As a Cleveland sports fan of my generation, you defined yourself by resiliency. That's all we had was next year. We came back again and again, and usually the reward was just more misery. And now...we won. My teams are the best. I would write more about this, but I can't even grasp what it means. Maybe there's another post in me at some point in the future once I come to terms with the whole thing. It's just stunning.
Suffice it to say, this is a weird and delightfully wacky time in my life, and in the life of the whole Tennant family. We're on summer break, vacation is starting out wonderfully (other than the bedbugs Jared found in his bed last night...really), and the chaos that is normally July for us won't start in earnest for another week or so.
I am blessed. And so are you in some way, I'm guessing.
That's all we can ask for. And so it goes.
We'll be going to the beach, of course, and there's a nice pool right outside of our condo. I am not, it has been documented, much of a water sports guy. But I'm going to be in my bathing suit every day because I think in recent years I've somehow gotten away from being Fun Dad.
When the kids were little, I think I was Fun Dad. I did all sorts of Fun Dad things, from swimming with them to playing kickball with them to riding bikes and whatever.
Then, for reasons I can't quite identify, I got away from being Fun Dad. I became Serious Stressed Dad. Not good. Yeah, work got more intense, and I stupidly added the graduate school thing, but there really are no excuses. I feel like I have lost time to make up for. Maybe this vacation is a start.
As for the grad school thing, what can I say? I tried it, and I loved it. Or at least, I loved the material. And the writing. And even the heavy academic journal reading. But the time it took? I hated that. I hated that with a passion.
So I weighed my options, and on balance it seemed best to just walk away. And I have. Yesterday I completed my final class assignment, and I have no plans to return to the program any time soon.
Everyone tells you, "Oh, don't worry, you'll find time for it someday." And maybe I will. But for now I'm at peace with the decision to hang it up.
Because I really just need to live life, you know? I need to spend time with my family. I need to sit and think. Sit and read. Sit and...do nothing sometimes, I guess. I hardly ever do any of those things, but now is the time to get back to them.
I am one of those people who always feels the need to fill up any Time Vacuum that exists in my life. I quit doing this? Great! I can start doing that! Only recently has it occurred to me that you don't have to do "that." You're allowed to have stretches of free time in which you just live and breathe and grow and be.
So that's what I promise to start doing. Which is why I'm not going to bring this blog back on any regular basis. I'll occasionally dash off a post or two, but I'm not doing the three-days-a-week thing or whatever. I hope you'll still come back to read my very sporadic missives, because I so appreciate it when you do.
Finally, the sports championships...I don't know what to say, because this is entirely new territory for me and for every person over the last 50-plus years who has supported a Cleveland-based professional athletic team. With the exception of the old indoor soccer Cleveland Crunch, none of those teams had won a title since 1964 until my beloved Lake Erie Monsters and Cleveland Cavaliers did it a week or so apart recently.
And I was on another continent for both title-clinching games. The Monsters won the American Hockey League's Calder Cup while I slept peacefully in a London hotel, while the Cavs miraculously came back from a 3-1 series deficit to beat the vaunted Golden State Warriors while Elissa, Chloe and I were snoozing in Barcelona.
As a Cleveland sports fan of my generation, you defined yourself by resiliency. That's all we had was next year. We came back again and again, and usually the reward was just more misery. And now...we won. My teams are the best. I would write more about this, but I can't even grasp what it means. Maybe there's another post in me at some point in the future once I come to terms with the whole thing. It's just stunning.
Suffice it to say, this is a weird and delightfully wacky time in my life, and in the life of the whole Tennant family. We're on summer break, vacation is starting out wonderfully (other than the bedbugs Jared found in his bed last night...really), and the chaos that is normally July for us won't start in earnest for another week or so.
I am blessed. And so are you in some way, I'm guessing.
That's all we can ask for. And so it goes.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
The Man Child turns 17
It is my son Jared's 17th birthday.
When he was little (like really little, maybe 2-3 years old), I used to refer to him only as "Boy." I rarely used his given name. Instead I would just say, "Boy, come here." And he would come.
Jared was the only boy child we had at the time, falling as he did after the births of Elissa and Chloe. So I could call out for The Boy at any time without the possibility of confusing someone in the way I would if I just randomly yelled "Girl, come here!"
One day I was with a friend of mine, and Jared was sitting on the other side of the room playing with toys. He was, again, really little at the time. My friend heard me call him "Boy" and said, "You had better start calling him Jared. Otherwise he's not going to know his name."
To which I replied, "Oh, come on. He knows his name."
"OK," said my friend, "call him."
Which I did. "Jared! Hey Jared! Jared, look over here!"
Jared did not react. Didn't even look up from whatever toy he was playing with.
Then I said, "Boy!" And his head immediately snapped up as he turned in my direction.
After which I switched to calling him "Jared" permanently.
Another time, not long after he had finally and successfully completed potty training, I was getting Jared dressed. I was helping him pull on a pair of tighty-whitey briefs and my hand slipped, allowing the elastic band to smack him right in the Man Region.
Without thinking I said to (4-year-old) Jared, "Oh, did I snap you in the nuts, buddy?" And Jared, who had no idea at the time what "nuts" were, just said (in a slightly teary voice), "Yeah."
I have a number of great stories about Jared because he is among the funniest people I know. Many friends and family members are shocked to hear this, because to them he's just a quiet kid who doesn't talk all that much. But I'm telling you, he's hilarious.
And now he's 17 years old and about to start his junior year in high school.
He was (and is) my first boy, and he is my fellow sufferer in Cleveland sports fandom. Together we have visited the Hockey Hall of Fame and attended countless sporting events. We do not talk about our feelings unless they have something to do with a blown coverage by the Browns or a missed shot at the buzzer by the Cavaliers.
The only three things we really talk about are cats, food and sports. Or topics that combine more than one of those elements (i.e., if there was ever a place where we could watch cats eating while simultaneously playing sports, that would be paradise).
Happy birthday, then, to my slightly-over-six-feet Man Child Whose Name Is Jared And Not Boy. As my gift to you, I promise not to snap you in the nuts today.
When he was little (like really little, maybe 2-3 years old), I used to refer to him only as "Boy." I rarely used his given name. Instead I would just say, "Boy, come here." And he would come.
Jared was the only boy child we had at the time, falling as he did after the births of Elissa and Chloe. So I could call out for The Boy at any time without the possibility of confusing someone in the way I would if I just randomly yelled "Girl, come here!"
One day I was with a friend of mine, and Jared was sitting on the other side of the room playing with toys. He was, again, really little at the time. My friend heard me call him "Boy" and said, "You had better start calling him Jared. Otherwise he's not going to know his name."
To which I replied, "Oh, come on. He knows his name."
"OK," said my friend, "call him."
Which I did. "Jared! Hey Jared! Jared, look over here!"
Jared did not react. Didn't even look up from whatever toy he was playing with.
Then I said, "Boy!" And his head immediately snapped up as he turned in my direction.
After which I switched to calling him "Jared" permanently.
Another time, not long after he had finally and successfully completed potty training, I was getting Jared dressed. I was helping him pull on a pair of tighty-whitey briefs and my hand slipped, allowing the elastic band to smack him right in the Man Region.
Without thinking I said to (4-year-old) Jared, "Oh, did I snap you in the nuts, buddy?" And Jared, who had no idea at the time what "nuts" were, just said (in a slightly teary voice), "Yeah."
I have a number of great stories about Jared because he is among the funniest people I know. Many friends and family members are shocked to hear this, because to them he's just a quiet kid who doesn't talk all that much. But I'm telling you, he's hilarious.
And now he's 17 years old and about to start his junior year in high school.
He was (and is) my first boy, and he is my fellow sufferer in Cleveland sports fandom. Together we have visited the Hockey Hall of Fame and attended countless sporting events. We do not talk about our feelings unless they have something to do with a blown coverage by the Browns or a missed shot at the buzzer by the Cavaliers.
The only three things we really talk about are cats, food and sports. Or topics that combine more than one of those elements (i.e., if there was ever a place where we could watch cats eating while simultaneously playing sports, that would be paradise).
Happy birthday, then, to my slightly-over-six-feet Man Child Whose Name Is Jared And Not Boy. As my gift to you, I promise not to snap you in the nuts today.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Five movies your kids should absolutely watch
One of the greatest responsibilities we have as parents is exposing our children to the right forms of entertainment.
And by "right" I mean, "the stuff you yourself like and therefore they should like."
Because we all want that, don't we? We have this inner desire for our kids to like the same music, TV shows and movies we do.
The same holds true for sports teams, by the way, which is actually a little unfortunate. My son Jared is, at age 14, not only a devoted fan of Cleveland sports, but already a jaded one, as well. He expects our teams to lose.
So do I, of course, but it took me years and years to get to this point of pessimism. He was there by the time he turned 10. I'm so sorry for pulling you into the horror that is pro sports in this town, Jared.
Anyway, your kids are going to develop their own tastes in entertainment because that's the way it's supposed to be. Nowadays we often think of The Beatles as old-fashioned and quaint, but in the early 60s, there were parents who hated them and thought they were the embodiment of all that was wrong with the world.
But you can still share some of the classics with your offspring. In fact, you must do this. It's one of the obligations of parenthood.
Feel free to add to this list, but here are five movies to which your kids should be exposed if you want to feel like you're raising them right:
And by "right" I mean, "the stuff you yourself like and therefore they should like."
Because we all want that, don't we? We have this inner desire for our kids to like the same music, TV shows and movies we do.
The same holds true for sports teams, by the way, which is actually a little unfortunate. My son Jared is, at age 14, not only a devoted fan of Cleveland sports, but already a jaded one, as well. He expects our teams to lose.
So do I, of course, but it took me years and years to get to this point of pessimism. He was there by the time he turned 10. I'm so sorry for pulling you into the horror that is pro sports in this town, Jared.
Anyway, your kids are going to develop their own tastes in entertainment because that's the way it's supposed to be. Nowadays we often think of The Beatles as old-fashioned and quaint, but in the early 60s, there were parents who hated them and thought they were the embodiment of all that was wrong with the world.
But you can still share some of the classics with your offspring. In fact, you must do this. It's one of the obligations of parenthood.
Feel free to add to this list, but here are five movies to which your kids should be exposed if you want to feel like you're raising them right:
(1) Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
I'm guessing I've watched this movie start to finish maybe 25 or 30 times. And every time I appreciate something new about it.
For one thing, it's delightfully weird. It was made in 1971, a few years after the whole hippie/psychedelic thing hit its peak, but it retains elements of that genre.
Like the boat ride scene? Used to scare the pants off me. But the movie wouldn't be complete without it. Here it is, in case you've not seen it in years (or, God forbid, have never seen it):
And Wonka himself, as played by Gene Wilder, is a trip. He makes the movie. Your kids need to watch it.
(2) The Wizard of Oz
There's actually quite a bit to be afraid of in this movie, too. Like the flying monkeys. Or the way Margaret Hamilton plays the Wicked Witch of the West. Terrifying stuff.
I should note here that I'm not trying to scare your kids. But these are "frightening in a good way" stories. "The Wizard of Oz" may seem syrupy on the outside, but it's dramatic and real at its core, which is why we still watch it 70-plus years after it was released.
By the way, the musical "Wicked," which obviously takes its characters directly from the Oz book/movie, does a great job of fleshing out the human realities of the plotline. One does not end up as the Wicked Witch of the West (or as Glinda, for that matter) without a juicy backstory, and "Wicked" provides it in spades.
Anyway, if your kids haven't seen this movie yet, proceed directly to Netflix and have them watch it. Do not pass "Go," do not collect $200. They need to watch this flick, and they need to watch it now.
(3) Any of the "Toy Story" movies
I just spent 10 minutes trying to figure out exactly what it is that makes these movies brilliant, and I can't boil it down to a single thing.
Is it the performance of Tom Hanks and Tim Allen? Both are excellent as the voiceovers for Woody and Buzz Lightyear, respectively. The inflection, the interplay of the dialogue, the jokes that only the parents in the audience get. They're all good.
Is it the animation, which was pretty far ahead of its time when Pixar released the first movie in 1995? I'm no visual artist, but even I can appreciate the fluid movement of the characters, the shadows and shading, the distinct "look" of every toy.
Or is it the plots, all three of which are extremely well written and engaging?
I'm going to cop out here and say "all of the above." If you have the time to do a family triple feature and watch all three "Toy Story" movies in order, do it. You'll be glad you did.
(4) Mary Poppins
The irony here is that I have never watched this whole movie in sequence. I've seen the whole thing (several times over, probably), but only in bits and pieces, fits and starts.
That hasn't been intentional, but that's what happens when you have cable TV and not a lot of time to use it. You come across "Mary Poppins" somewhere right in the middle and you can't help but stop and watch. Maybe it's only for 15 minutes, but you watch.
Dick Van Dyke's horrible Cockney accent aside, this movie is awesome. The music alone is worth the time, but I also love the jokes and the way the characters come to life.
Everyone knows the songs: "Supercalifragilisticexpialidcious," "A Spoonful of Sugar," "Chim Chim Cher-ee," "Step in Time," etc. But my favorite is "A British Bank," and it's probably because of the way David Tomlinson as George Banks sings it:
(5) Any given Harry Potter film
As with any wildly successful movie franchise, the Potter series has its virulent detractors. They're certainly entitled to their opinions, just as they're certainly entitled to be wrong.
Are the movies as good as the books? No, of course not. Can you name more than a handful of series in which the movies supersede the books? Probably not.
But the movies are still extremely well done and great entertainment. Whatever happens to Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint and Emma Watson, they will forever and always be remembered as Harry, Ron and Hermione, and the world is better for having watched them grow up on screen in those roles.
A few years ago in advance of the release of the last Potter film, my family (all seven of us) spent the better part of a day and a half in our living room watching all of the Potter movies back to back to back to back to back to back to back. It was great fun.
It also gave me an appreciation for how the Potter directors so skillfully adapted J.K. Rowling's books to film. If you think that's easy, try writing a screenplay. Then try writing one based on the best-selling children's book series of all time. Go ahead, I'll wait (NOTE: Keep in mind you will unavoidably fail.)
My favorite character? The very underrated Argus Filch. For some reason I can't embed this video, but I'll give you a link and encourage you to watch some of Filch's best moments. To get to his best two lines of the series (both from the first movie), fast forward to the 1:30 and 2:10 marks: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6k_B5gwAfds.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Confessions
- I don't remember ever hearing of Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus, and Michelle Knight before in my life...and I live within 20 miles of them. Thus, when this whole story broke, it took me a good 24 hours to understand who these people were, what had happened to them, and why this was such an incredibly big deal. You can't imagine my confusion.
- With huge apologies to my nephew Mark, until a year or two ago, I wasn't quite sure who the band Oasis was, and I couldn't have identified a single song by them. Mark is their biggest fan. I don't understand how their existence passed me by, but it did. They're apparently quite good. Sorry, Mark.
- I don't dislike the New York Yankees nearly as much as I dislike the Boston Red Sox. Sorry, fellow Cleveland sports fans. I realize this violates some sort of code, but there you have it. Let it be said, though, that my intense dislike for the Pittsburgh Steelers trumps them both, for what that's worth.
- I like raisins and prunes. A lot. Even more than, say, ice cream. I know this makes me a freak. I know this makes some people almost angry at me. But again, there you have it. I'm not changing. (And for the record, I think the Sun Maid girl in the little bonnet is pretty hot.)
- Speaking of hot, if I had to pick another male on this planet that I could look like, I'm still going with George Clooney. I know he's not the Hot Guy du Jour, but I think he's a darn good-looking dude. In, um, a strictly platonic way, of course.
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