Father Goof Eaten by Tigers in India

SUBURBAN MARYLAND - While visiting India, FatherGoof, father of two, a resident of suburban Maryland, was eaten by a tiger. This is the first such incident since India launched its world renown tiger preservation efforts. According to the safari guide, FatherGoof actively sought to be eaten by the tiger, taking the safari three times in order to ensure he would come into contact with the elusive predator.

"He kept saying that it was his lifelong dream to be eaten by tigers. I thought he was joking, and stopped listening after a while," the safari guide, who's identity is being protected to prevent retribution, explained, "But when we finally found a tiger, he jumped out of the jeep and ran after the tiger yelling, 'Here kitty, yummy, yummy.' At first the tiger didn't seem interested, but he poured barbeque sauce on his head and chest and the tiger finally ate him. It didn't seem very hungry, more annoyed."

The incident threatened to further damage relations between the U.S. and India, but after a full investigation both nations determined that it wasn't really anyone's fault. The Indian tourism bureau, in an official statement explained, "Our tours of tiger preserves are completely safe. But if a tourist is deadset on being eaten by a tiger we really cannot prevent it."

A State Department source who preferred not to be identified showed reporters documents showing that FatherGoof had discussed his interest in being eaten by a tiger to U.S. diplomatic authorities on several occasions.

A Close-Knit Community Unsurprised

At the close-knit community of parents and students at the Jewish Day School where the little Goofs attend school, there was little surprise or despair that a community-member had been eaten by a tiger.

His wife MamaGoof observed, "Well I'm surprised. He was always talking about all these things he was going to do. He said he was going to build a catapult so he could hurl the kids to school and wouldn't have to drive carpool anymore.  He said he would finish his dissertation and get a real job.  He said he would do laundry.  He never did any of those things.  So I'm surprised he actually did this."

Several friends of the family noted that he had posted on Facebook and Twitter that "I'm going to India to fulfill my lifelong dream of being eaten by tiger" but that he posted "lots of crazy stuff on Facebook" so they didn't pay much attention, except to forward it to one another.

One student, with a pronounced Jewfro who claimed to be a good friend of his son GoofBoy stated, "FatherGoof is awesome. He was always telling us crazy stories in carpool, like the time he was giving blood and made the bag explode. Plus he blasted Tom Waits and translated Spanish radio for us. Now he was eaten by a tiger, that guy is amazing, like the coolest dude in 7th grade."

Sources confirmed that at the time of his devouring FatherGoof was in his forties and was not fluent in Spanish.

One friend of the eaten was distraught.  She was seen running around the Lower School campus, crying, pulling her hair and tearing her garments.  She was yelling, "My carpool husband! Who's going to pick up my kids now!"

Versions of Venison: On Autumn & Death

With school closed, I had charge of the little Goofs. I had work to do, but with the gorgeous fall weather I could not let them sit around all day and watch an entire season of Cupcake Wars (Amazon Prime has changed our life.)

So I insisted that there would be a late afternoon expedition.  We hadn't visited our favorite promontory for hurling rocks into the creek for sometime. (Although we had hurled rocks into other bodies of water fairly recently.)

Joined by the indominatable 3C, we did exactly that, I spent a lot of time playing on my phone - which in retrospect is a little ridiculous when you are surrounded by this:

3C hadn't joined us on one of our "throwing rocks into water" adventures, but was game. She got even more excited when they turned to launching logs into the creek because this required teamwork and coordination. (It's more fun to do than watch, as you can see.)

Confrontation
But, autumn days (like autumn itself) is all too brief. I didn't want us in the woods after dark (lest we truly learn what the fox says.)  So we turned home.  The trail goes under a major road near our home and close to the creek was a deer lying on the ground.

"Look a deer, I wonder what it's doing there?" 3C observed.

"It looks like it's sleeping," GoofBoy added.

GoofGirl is no fool. "It's dead. Why did it die? Why is it there?"

Thoughtlessly, I observed, "Maybe it was hit up on the road and was thrown into the air and landed here."

"That would have been an amazing YouTube video," GoofBoy exclaimed, then added, "Rough on the deer though."

"I'm sure the deer conducted a full investigation. CSI: Bambi, with deer wearing lab coats and with magnifying classes.  Did they drew a chalk outline around the corpse?" I riffed.

"Dad, I don't want to go on this trail anymore," GoofGirl stated flatly.

"Hey nina, maybe the deer died here of old age, after a long life."

"Why would the deer die here?" GoofGirl demanded.

"This was her favorite spot."

"Right, in all of these woods, why would this spot by a grubby bridge be a deer's favorite?" 3C chimed in.

"Well," I said, thinking quickly, "When she was a fawn and it rained she would come under here with her mommy and stay dry.  She always felt safe her.  Now, after living a long life and being a mommy to a lot of fawns and maybe even grand-fawns, she wanted to come back here one more time.  Then, she looked around at the woods and creek, thought about her life and had one last breath."

We walked on the trail.  3C and GoofBoy ahead chatting (possibly a first, ever) and GoofGirl held my hand.

"Daddy," she said, "I know the deer got hit by a car and died and I am kind of freaked out about it. But thanks for trying."

Bar Mitzvah Planning II: A Festival of Wonks

"You know buddy, I have some contacts.  I could call in some favors so you could have a star-studded bar mitzvah," I suggest as I drive him home from track practice.

"What are you thinking about Dad?" GoofBoy asks nervously (and not without reason.)

"What if you had your bar mitzvah party at the Brookings Institute!"

"Does it have anything to do with Brooks Robinson?" he asked warily.

"No, but you could meet Strobe Talbott!"

"Who?"

"He was the Deputy Secretary of State in the Clinton administion," I press on, "And then maybe you could have a special roundtable about Energy Market Regulations and Climate Change Policy! Wouldn't that be awesome?"

GoofBoy groans.

"You aren't really into domestic affairs, would you rather have a foreign policy bar mitzvah?  We could do it at the Atlantic Council.  I hear Brent Scowcroft makes balloon animals.  Well, not animals, but balloon figures of old foreign policy hands like, well - Strobe Talbot!"

Believe it or not, there is a method to my madness. If I wear him down, maybe we can do the bar mitzvah party at Dogfish Head! I don't know if his friends will get much out of it - but I know I will.  Too bad that while Judaism states that at 13 boys are counted as men, the right to drive doesn't come along with that.  It would be so handy if he could be my designated driver.

Bar Mitzvah Plannning I: Nerf Wars!

GoofBoy is in seventh-grade, which means it is annus bnai mitvahus: the year of the bar mitzvah.

GoofBoy frequently has two invitations a weekend, which means a LOT of parties. So be it, GoofBoy likes to party.  It also means we have to plan his bar mitzvah.

For many children the “performance” of reading from the Torah and delivering an appropriate lesson about the reading is an enormous source of stress.  But GoofBoy will have no problem.  He has an easy confidence and (thanks to years of Jewish day school) an impressive command of Hebrew.  But, while GoofBoy likes to party, we do not particularly like to plan parties.

Some of GoofBoy’s friends have had rather elaborate affairs (so I’ve heard, I haven’t seen since I’m not invited.)  I have heard tales of gaming tables, multiple DJs, and all you can eat sushi buffets.  GoofBoy has come home with bags of swag like an Oscar nominee.  Fortunately, a wonderful thing about boys is that they do not tend to be style conscious.  Boys, as a rule, tend to seek interesting ways to release energy.  Multiple high-end DJs are one method, but a pile of rocks will often do just as well.

So in that spirit, I had a simple brainstorm.  Fifty kids (girls are certainly invited, but I’m not expecting a lot of yeses from that quarter), fifty high-powered Nerfweapons and Rock Creek Park.  There are woods, cliffs, open fields, and a stream.  It would be epic.

(The pics give some idea of the varied topography.)

I came up with a few possible variations.

The Most Dangerous Game: Some kids are hunters, others are hunted. They would switch off until it was time for cake.

The Hunger Games: Only the winner eats – I really like this option since kosher catering is pretty expensive.

Basic Training: After the ceremony the kids change into battle gear, put on their Nerf vests and safety glasses, put their Nerf rifle on their shoulder and march to the park.

This is only the beginning.  I see dozens of boys charging at each other across an open field like in Braveheart (I could spring for some Nerf swords).  I see them re-enacting every war movie cliché ever, as one kid sacrifices himself, going down in a flurry of Nerf darts so the rest of his squad can live.  I see bicycle-riding cavalry, amphibious assaults, and maybe even some trench warfare.

GoofBoy’s friends are pretty keen on this (especially since the party favors will be advanced Nerf artillery), but my obsession with scenarios and battle planning has soured GoofBoy on this option. (Probably for the best, I have no idea how to get permits for this stuff.)

Back to the drawing board – but I think whatever I come up with next will make GoofBoy wish for the simpler times when I was just planning a Nerf battle.

Book Review: The Day the Crayons Quit is Fun for all Ages

A boy comes home to find a pile of letters waiting for him.  They are from his crayons.  They have some complaints about his coloring habits.  Does this sound like a great premise for children’s book?  It is!

In The Day the Crayons Quit (by Drew Daywalt and illustrated by Oliver Jeffers) each color has a distinct personality, from over-worked red to under-used white to peach which just wishes its wrapping hadn’t been torn off and is now too embarrassed to leave the box.

I’d better stop now – I don’t want to give it all away.  But it is a really cute story.  The little Goofs are not in the 3-7 target age group, but my friends who have kids in the right age group, tell me their kids LOVE it.  Also, I sent a copy to my nieces, so I definitely think it is good (only the best for them.)

The only problem is that sensitive children might now worry about the hurting the feelings of their crayons and stop using them altogether.  But I don’t think that is too likely – the fantastic illustrations (by the renown Oliver Jeffers) will make readers of all ages open up a box of crayons.  Hopefully it will inspire young Picasso's to make greater use of the less used colors.

Full Disclosure

I know Drew Daywalt, the author, we went to college together and he’s put me up a few times on visits to LA (he even got me a job for a day working on a set – but that’s a story for another time.)  So I guess I owe him.

But the truth is, I find that I am tend to be extra critical of work my friends have done.  I worry that it will stink and so I put off looking at it.  Drew co-directed the movie Stark Raving Mad.  I passed it in the video store for months before I finally rented it (pretty good – not Casablanca, but definitely fun to watch).

I had The Day the Crayons Quit on my desk for about a week before I read it.  I needn’t have worried.  It is terrific.

One More Thing

Tomorrow, July 22 Barnes and Nobles bookstores across thecountry are having readings and drawing activities around this book.  If you have kids in the 3-7 age range and the time, find one and swing by and pick up a copy.

Missing Papa: Part II

In one of their last conversations, my father-in-law told Mama Goof:

Quiero un caballo.

What kind of horse, Daddy?

Amarillo.

Why do you want a yellow horse? 

Para ir a mi casa.

But we couldn’t take him home.  My father-in-law, one of the best men I’ve ever known (and I’ve known my share of the great and the good), was losing his mind.

Papa (his daughters called him Daddy, but I called him Papa) was well taken care of.  He couldn't stay at home, his wife and sister couldn't care for im. hHis children placed him in a comfortable assisted living home.  They found a caretaker for him who did everything in his power to make their beloved Papa comfortable.  The caretaker came from a place where the elderly are revered and he cared for Papa as though it were his own father.  At the funeral, the caretaker shed many tears.

But the loving care could only be a palliative in a lousy situation.

Did he know who we were?

He wasn’t speaking much.  He mumbled a bit in Spanish, a word here and a word there were clearThe little Goofs were wonderful.  They never complained about visiting abuelo and were never uncomfortable around him.  They hugged him and kissed him.  They puttered around in the big yard at the home.  GoofGirl picked grapefruits off the trees and GoofBoy played pool with some of the other residents.

Abuelo made regular circuits around the yard – his caretaker knew he had to move at least a little every day.  The little Goofs walked with him.  GoofBoy “played” ball with him.  GoofGirl drew a picture for a school assignment with the caption, “I helped my abuelo walk.”

With Alzheimer’s the mind goes.  But does the soul remain?

Papa worked hard his whole life.  Sitting still was never an option for him.  As long as he was able at the home he puttered in the yard picking up leaves and shredding them.  And he scouted the yard for things to disassemble.  The caretaker would laugh and tell us, “He’s looking at the water outlet and hoses for his next attack.”

Still, without tools he couldn’t really get to work.  He tore apart his bed on a regular basis – frustrated and for something to do.

One time, I saw a gleam in his eye as some workmen opened up the shed in the yard.  Papa knew if he could just get into that shed, he would find the tools he needed and maybe even his caballo amarillo.  Then he could go home.

I won't post  pictures from the home, they are too said for me.  I prefer to remember him strong, vigorous, and smiling - while working in the yard or sipping Moxie Blue Cream soda his son-in-law bought at a joke.  We really only had one (and later three) things in common.  But we got each other ok.