The other night, I found myself enjoying the not so random mix list offered by nostalgia and YouTube. When it stumbled upon Mr. Rogers, I clicked. If you weren’t a child in America between 1970 and 2000, Mr. Rogers was a TV host for the children’s show Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, and he basically raised us.

Every day after school we met Mr. Rogers in his neighborhood. He walked into his house singing “Please won’t you be, my neighbor?” while chucking his shoes over his shoulder and slipping off his other oppressive outside clothes for a cardigan and sneakers. I was 100% ready to move to wherever he was, which, in fact, was Pittsburgh, and which, in fact, I did.

Mr. Rogers is like a modern day god. He was loving and gentle. He loved everyone, no matter who they were. He taught us to share and he taught us to be nice to one another. He taught us the joys of exploration and curiosity. And he told each of us that we were special and that we all mattered. He wanted nothing more than to be our friend and neighbor and, if you were like me, you wanted nothing more than the same.

In these stressful times, these ideal ideas might fall away or be subject to conditions. Be friends, you say? Sure, as long as you look like me, screw who I want you to screw, and live where I live legally. We surely put similar conditions on love they neighbor, do unto others, and turn the other cheek. It doesn’t work like that, we say. It’s more complex.

Well, maybe. But couldn’t it be the base we work from? Instead of where we work from now, which seems to be – unless you agree with me then you are my enemy. In the video Mr. Rogers was trying to garner funding to children’s television programs. In a famous moment he told the gruff head of the senate committee that he trusted him to read a letter and that he trusted that he would put thought into his decision. Trust a politician!? Laughable. You must be kidding. Yeah, maybe, but it worked and he was successful.

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43 years ago I was minding my own business, quietly soaking up digested nutrients and kicking away at my mother’s bladder, when I sensed something was amiss. It was late at night, sometime after 11, a theme that would follow me throughout my life.

I don’t remember things too clearly, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that I was a bit shocked at the whole ordeal. I was in a warm and comfy room that would be rented out three more times to my siblings. But it was mine for now and someone was pulling me out of it? Insanity. So unfair. Leave me alone, I probably thought.

But whoever that doctor at Einstein Medical Center was back on October 11, 1974 around 11ish, he didn’t leave me alone. All of a sudden I was sliding south in an experience I would later relive in horror while on the Jumpin’ Jack Splash waterslide at Dorney Park’s Wild Water Kingdom. And then I was out. I didn’t have a name, a beard, a driver’s license. After a spank, I was screaming. I was covered in goo and maybe vernix, who the hell knows? My mother was probably too thrilled to be rid of the parasitic being who had spent 9 months and 13 days kicking her spleen and giving her weird hunger cravings and hemorrhoids. My dad was probably thinking something like: “Wait, I have to pay for this thing to go to college?”

I don’t know exactly what I was thinking at that time, but I would imagine it was something similar to when I went out the door during skydiving: “Holy shit. What have I gotten myself into?”

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The Barnes and Noble at the Neshaminy Mall has become my Happy Place. My backup Happy Place is the Barnes and Noble at the Oxford Valley Mall. Upon entering this day, I instantly melt into a relaxed coma of joy fortified with themed end caps, discount display racks of former bestsellers, and alphabetically organized fiction.

After clearly breaching a $50 birthday book fund, I drop two books on my dad’s lap and ask him to choose. He is aware that I am taking advantage of the fact that the only person who loves book shopping more than me is him. The $50 budget miraculously is raised to $75. In thanks, I offer to buy us burgers at a nearby restaurant.

We are seated by the hostess and then peruse menus while waiting for our waitress. We’d been in this restaurant over the summer, where we were attended to by a James Franco double named Cody. Cody spoke to us in a low smooth almost whisper that was frighteningly appealing. He called us “gentlemen,” he squatted on his heels and gently placed his hands on the table while taking our orders, paying close attention to our needs, and offering exceptionally reassuring answers to our queries. Could I please get extra pickles? Well of course you can, sir. I will gladly take care of that for you today. I felt that Cody was more of our new age holistic aura therapist than our waiter.

The experience was not unpleasant, but I live in the Czech Republic, where waiters initially treat customers as one might a drunken cousin who wants to talk about their bad marriage at a family wedding. Many Czech waiters put the customer off in lieu of literally any other task. I have watched waiters clean tables and restock glasses, and then look around the room for other tasks before begrudgingly stepping over to my table. Once you’re there and settled and they get to know you, Czech waiters are efficient and pleasant, and often deliver new beers before you order another round. Czech waiters do not suffer fools and may the ghost of Jaroslav Hašek have mercy on those who wave or snap their fingers.

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Summa Familia

It’s Wednesday at 5:40 a.m. I am being wrenched from the warm embraces of my bed and Comfort Zone. I’m attending a wedding and I have to fly over the Atlantic Ocean. I have to fly over it again in five days.

It’s my brother, one of six people on Earth for whom I would suffer two transatlantic flights in five days. Plus, in order to avoid four decades of guilt, I suck it up and go. To paraphrase and reinterpret Stein, a wedding is a wedding is a wedding.

Though a wedding is very positive, I am daunted by what is sure to be four majorly hectic days. I have three full days in the U.S, one of which is filled with familial nuptials. Two days lead up to those nuptials. My entire family is going to be present. Crying happy Galeones holding, well, not hands, but drinks…and probably pot stickers.

Aka: it’s going to be intense.

This is especially true because it is my brother’s wedding. My brother is the most intense of my siblings. Sort of an energetic mix of Teddy Ruxpin, Michael Corleone, and Seth Rogan. He takes things very seriously and he is very demanding of those in his life. In return, he is one of the most loyal people I know and if these roles were reversed, he’d be on the flight with a smile, joyfully coercing extra bottles of vodka from the attendant and belly laughing at Ladybugs through a throatful of gravel.

But it’s going to be intense, and it will begin immediately. My dad will pick me up from the airport and we’ll go directly to the rehearsal dinner. It starts with a ninety minute drive. This particular Comfort Zone breach is no joke.

My mantra: weddings are fun.

My dad and I hug in the arrivals lounge, in which nobody actually lounges. He says, “Listen, you need to try on your tux tomorrow morning.”

“I know.”

“Because if it’s too big or something you have to get it back to them asap so it’s ready for the wedding.”

“I understand.”

“Do you know we have to tie our bowties?”

“I do. Chris told me.”

“Do you know how to tie a bowtie?”

“No.”

“I watched a YouTube video.” (Stress on Tube: youTUBE)

For the first twelve minutes of our trip the conversation centers on how confusing the roads from Newark Airport to the New Jersey Turnpike are. The following sixteen minutes are a mix of how bad Jersey drivers are, Bill Bryson’s insights, and a begrudging admittance that the Jersey turnpike is far superior to the P.A. turnpike. My dad mentions the importance of trying on the tux two or three more times and then we discuss the menu at the rehearsal dinner and the wedding. We then spend twelve minutes discussing our plan to visit a bookstore the following day and then have lunch; six of those minutes are allocated to what time we should leave and the other six to what restaurant we should eat at afterwards. Ninety-one minutes and thirty eight short seconds after leaving Newark Airport we pull into the strip mall for the dinner, cutting off his list of the recently dead at the P’s.

Just when I think I might succumb to exhaustion, I see a sign that saves me. In this case that sign is Harry’s Taproom. We go in. A Stone IPA and a Maker’s Mark later, I am ready for the rehearsal dinner.

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I was recently at a wedding as the plus one of an invited guest. The bride was American, the Groom Czech. It was held at a little villa outside of Prague, far off into the Bohemian countryside. The villa consisted of a few quaint buildings and grassy grounds that went for a few hundred yards.

By every measure, the wedding was lovely. The people were friendly and welcoming. The hospitality was overwhelming, beer flowing like wine, enough food to almost satisfy a Galeone. The locale was idyllic.

Though there were some seats open, I stood in the far back during the short ceremony. I think I was having a little Plus One Anxiety. That is, I was afraid of overstepping my bounds or being too familiar. Aside from my date, I had only met the bride and groom once, and one of her bridesmaids once. Otherwise, I didn’t know anyone. If you have experienced POA, you know that it is in no way a reflection on the hosts, who in this case were extremely welcoming and generous.

The ceremony was very pleasant, very formal. If you have ever been to a Czech wedding, you know what I’m talking about. The language at a Czech wedding is worded as though a contract is being drawn up at city hall, which is exactly what’s happening. While we Americans get all gooey (love love love!) and religious (don’t you dare even think of fucking someone else!), the Czechs are very technical and formal.

I, as minister and overseer of the proceedings, verify that both applicants are of sound mind and that they are hitherto entering into this agreement under their own volition. Further, I have weighed and considered your application for the confluence of your properties and have decided that it is acceptable.

It’s awesome.

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Harvey and Sam

Since knocking over two drinks into my computer one (sober, I swear) night a year ago, he has been on a slow decline. Multiple keys have stopped working. The space bar went first, followed by the 3, 9, and 7 keys, then the direction keys went. The battery lasts almost an entire 40 seconds,. It was a sad day when I had to outsource his work to an external keyboard.

I had to face facts, Lester was on his way out.

About a month ago, I was at work in my home office when I realized that I was not picking up the Wifi signal. I had to send an email and the signal was spotty at best, in and out. I was wholly frustrated.

“What the F**k!” I screamed maturely. And then I wove together a quilt of vulgarities that made my cat shake her head. Since Lester’s battery is so weak these days he’s less of a laptop and more of a stationary desktop computer. To unplug it is a race against time to another outlet; I have about 40 seconds until it dies. That day I lost the race, and wove another friendship bracelet of vulgarity. My blood pressure was so high that I think I almost lost consciousness.

It doesn’t seem like a problem, does it? The Wifi signal doesn’t reach the shitty laptop in the office, but it works in the living room and kitchen. Um. Easy solution.

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Veruca Salt After Daddy Ate All of her Halloween Candy

When I was seven or eight, I made a stand against injustice. It was a Sunday evening in autumn, maybe 4ish. I had spent the previous hour ignoring my mom, who had made several entreaties via phone and voice for my return.

Why I ignored her I do not know. It was Sunday night, the black hole of the week, mockingly part of the weekend, yet not, its minutes and hours dissipating like steam. Sunday night dinner set off a chain reaction of events that meant the start of the week: a command to bathe, a query about homework, a glance at the watch and the mention of bed. The return to reality.

As a seven (or eight) year old, it was melodramatically significant. It was the end of the best part of the week marked by friends, games, Saturday morning cartoons, multiple bowls of cereal. An additional blow to my weekend serenity on this Sunday was the waning autumnal light. A summer of long long carefree days was long long gone and they were replaced with the graying light on a Sunday. I was depressed.

So I took a stand against it all. No, I would not come home. My weekend wasn’t finished yet. I was holding a basketball. I would not come have dinner, screw that bath, shove my homework you know where. No.

These days I admittedly laugh at my young self for eschewing an evening bath, dinner, and reading.

I might be laughing now, but I was not laughing then. I was seven (or eight) and I was upset and fed up with the rules. I knew that to disobey my mother was an executable offense, especially if she brought in Dad, Pontius Pilot of the house.

My mom wasn’t laughing either. She had four kids, I was the oldest and my brother was the youngest at one or two. She was exhausted and after a weekend of dealing with us, probably daydreamed about shipping us off in boxes to combat zones around the world. El Salvador. Beirut.

She stalked across the street to retrieve me from the half basketball court in my best friend’s yard, and she was not pleased. I was either defiant or injured, so she was either going to be upset or angry, but which one she did not yet know. I was, however, sure about my stance. I didn’t want to go in yet. I wouldn’t.

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I am about to release a group of high school students at the end of an hour-long class on American history. Many of them enjoyed the lesson. We laughed a lot.

And yet, they prime for release. I don’t know if it’s the general antsy nature of teens or the fact that I told them about the cakes awaiting them, but they can’t wait to escape. I ignore any possible reflection this might be on me or my lesson. I can be self aware tomorrow.

The stampede for the door is laced with murmured goodbyes. In a matter of a few seconds I am alone.

Correction: I am alone with the notebooks and pens the university has provided for each student, many of whom eschewed their utility or ignored them altogether.

I got into teaching for the stationery. Sure, there’s the joy of collaboration and communication, the pleasure and reward found in assisting learner development and helping a student be their best selves.

But mostly it’s the stationery. For I am Stationery Man.

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How I Imagine my Troll

A week ago, I posted a blog about how different nationalities convey active listening to their interlocutor. I poked fun at Czechs, Brits, Americans, the qualities of a tram, and universities. If you have ever read this blog, you are not surprised. It’s what I do.

The reaction was mostly what I expected, which is to say mostly good-humored. There were a few laughs, a few funny comments, a bunch of Facebook likes, a couple of shares. However, the next day there was an extraordinarily hostile reaction by an American woman on my post. The woman called me “ignorant” and “arrogant,” and even a few things that weren’t true. She used extremely abrasive and abusive language, and expressed seething outrage.

As a natural worrier, my initial reaction was Oh no! I’m in trouble! What did I do wrong? But before I responded, I reread my post and noticed that this woman’s claims about it were highly inaccurate. She accused me of suggesting that Anglophone universities were ‘more civilized than’ their Czech counterparts, when in fact my comment about university work (calling it a shit storm) mentioned absolutely nothing about it being Czech. She sneered at my joke about urine on Czech trams, which, again, was nothing to do with the Czechs.

Essentially, she had ignored the tone and purpose of my post and assigned her own narrative to it. In her version of events, I was an entitled American expat hemorrhaging arrogance and ignorance who not only didn’t understand the beauty of Bohemian culture, but found it subversive and subhuman to all things ‘Merica! Go Trump! MAGA!

Her story was and is fiction.

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I venture that there is nowhere in Prague with a more eclectic demographic than in Sherwood Forest, which is the nickname for the park and path system just outside of hlavní nádraží (Prague’s main train station). Businessmen and women storm off to meetings; students, tourists from all locales, and those escaping Prague for the day wander with bags.

Additionally, as suggested in the sobriquet, there is a certain element of the demi-monde present. Thuggish, tough-looking men and women strutting laps, those who find themselves monstrously and unapologetically intoxicated  at 7 or 8 a.m., others who sleep off the night’s pleasures in the grass, the homeless, and those who are too mobile and alert to be homeless, but who nevertheless don’t look like a person who sleeps in a house.

Despite appearances, nobody really bothers anyone out of their little clique. I have been walking through Sherwood Forest every day for eight years and I have not been bothered once. But I am bothered today, by a person, but not directly. The woman who has been at the tram stop selling the Nový Prostor magazine every day is not there today and in her place is a man. And he looks right at me.

OK, let me just state for the record that I am for the most part a lucid man with a reasonably sound mind. I read about conspiracy theories occasionally, but mostly for entertainment. I believe that Bigfoot and Nessie exist. More to the point, I want them to exist. I like the mystery and fun of it. Like most reasonable people, I find Alex Jones certifiably insane and I would pay money to see Rush Limbaugh try to waddle his fat ass away from a hurricane contrived by liberals.

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