Timothy Robinson Haight

My dad.

Oh. My. God. I know there are a range of dads out there, but this is my friggin blog, so I'm going to go ahead and say that my dad is the best. So there.

Not only has be been a good father, but he's also an amazing person. I mean "amazing" in the traditional sense, where you stand in amasement, absolutely gobsmacked, going "woah..." when you think about all of the things he has experienced thus far. Never have I met a person who has lived such a rich, diverse, colorful life.

(His button collection is also very colorful)

Of course he was born to very colorful parents. Robby, his mother, had been kicked out of the Mormon church as a teenager, and found herself being a lounge singer, a covergirl, and finally a sucessful scriptwriter in Hollywood, most known for her work on the tv show "Lassie", for which she won a Peabody Award. (Incidentally, Timmy is named after my father.)

George Haight, his father, was a producer for MGM, working with big nams like Fred Estaire, Abott and Costello, and producing the first ever movie filmed entirely in first person perspective. George loved magic tricks (He met Harry Houdini as a child.), and would run a joke into the ground like nobody's buisness.

These two beautiful people got together and my father was born June 11th, 1945. Today is his birthday. He is 65, for those of you who don't want to do the math yourselves. And to date, he is the most kickass guy I know. Easily. Why? Well, that would take more like a book, not a blog entry, to do justice too, but I'll put in some highlights:

My father is SMART. Crazy smart. He doesn't make a big deal out of it, but he is. He was a child genius, and holds a phd from Stanford University. The people who know him well say he is the smartest person they have ever met.

My father has lived many different kinds of life. Born in Hollywood- the proper old Hollywood, not this modern mess- he later moved to New York, where he could watch the Macy's Day Parade from his appartment window.

Then to Malibu, where he grew up trying to play sports, finally finding his sport in surfing, dating the Captain of the Cheerleaders.

Then graduating high school and going to Stanford, where he soon found himself involved in the hippie counterculture, not just participating in the war protests but organizing them, getting teargassed, and-through an odd series of events- became responsible for convincing the administration to allow female students access to birth control.

Then he was a DJ in Hawaii for awhile, made rainbow macrame belts, married and Opera singer, divorced an opera singer, married again, had a son, was a college professor at the University of Madison, Wisconsin.

Here he was divorced again, and met my mother. They married, moved to California, where he was a professor again, until an old student offered him a job in a technical magazine and he became a high flying internet boom executive.

Today he is a father of three, two of which still are under his care, working for a company that does some good in this world, and gives him the chance to travel around the world (literally) to such places as Uganda, London, Kenya, Rome, Bangladesh, and -most exotic of all- New Jersey.

My father is funny. Wicked funny. He tells fantastic stories, all the more fantastic becasue most of them are true stories from his past. He cracks puns by the hour, and is an ace at wordplay.

My father is a hardcore gamer. Thankfully he doesn't play WoW, because it would probably be the end of his marriage, but he is a badass at whatever game he latches on to. If you play, just pray that you never have to go up against this guy. But if you do, for fuck's sake, don't ask him to let you win. He hates that.

My father is wise. Not in a higher than thou way, but in a very logical, practical way. He gives good advice. Or, when good advice doesn't come to him, he gives hillarious adivce, which is sometimes even better.

My father is contemporary. Unlike most people, he keeps moving along with the times, instead of getting stuck in one decade, and forever more shaking his head at the things those crazy kids are up to these days. He can school me in life in the sixties, but he also loves the newest techno beats.

My father is my father. He is way cooler than I can describe him in a blog post, has more awesome stories to tell than my 22 years of pestering can get out of him, is a laid back chill dude without pretention, and he is miney mine mine. Its ok to be jealous. You should be. My father KICKS ASS.

Also, Happy Birthday Dad. I love you.

Shabby Chic

Yesterday night, as I crawled into bed after an exhausting, hyper scheduled day, I realized something: I have not checked my facebook account today.

If you knew me (and some of you do!) You'd know just how out of character this is. I'm not proud of it, but I'm a bit of a facebook addict, and check my facebook an embarrassing amount a day. But aside from the fact that I had some 250-odd new posts to go through later, I noticed something strange...

I didn't miss it.

Not even a little. What was normally one of my main lifelines of social networking just didn't seem necessary after spending the day up to my neck first in theatre students and then in the company of friends, and friends of friends. Sorry technology, you still pale in comparison to reality. Keep trying.

Another thing this month of unusual productivity has brought me is a reminder of just how much I love, to borrow a line from RENT, "Making something out of nothing". There's a great satisfaction in asking someone "what can you do with paperclips, cardboard colored folders, and nothing else?" and then hold up a tiled Mod-style go-go dress you made. (Even if it took four hours!) There are lots of things in life I enjoy, but there is a singular kind of pride at being able to point at something and say "I made that."

A secondary victory, but also impressive to me, is I can also point to any of my creations from this week and say "I made that without lacerating myself on the box cutter OR the exacto knife!" This may seem like a small accomplishment, but I have been known to accidentally close Swiss army knife blades on my fingers, and can cut myself on just about anything, including the rim of a peanut butter jar. Safely handling an exacto knife at 2 in the morning for me is like a duck learning to sing "Pirates of Penzance". But the deed is done, and my skin is miraculously unmarred.

Although getting to that point wasn't easy. This particular project did require some ingenuity and finesse. I needed twelve cardboard costumes, each one fitting into a series of cliche cliques. ( "girly girl", "cool kid", "gamer", "the kid that is likely to stab you with his protractor if you look at him funny"....OK, so maybe not the last one. Its not that kind of play) I don't know what junior high you went to, but there are not a lot of kids rocking the cardboard attire. There was no pattern to follow, just a shitton of cardboard cluttering up my house and an alarmingly long to-do list. Hoo-ah.

Now that I'm finished, here is a complete list of the materials used to make them:

Cardboard- all second hand and therefore free (yay!)

Cardboard folders- also second hand, obtained at a pittance at RAFT

Cardboard rings- used to be the foundation for tape rolls

String- the only thing we actually needed to purchase

Paperclips- lots of them.

Black Duct Tape- heck yes

Paint- just a touch, where needed

So if I had to include the things I had around the house in the budget, I'd say I was able to make twelve costumes for about 10 bucks. Not too shabby. Or perhaps Shabby Chic?

...its more chic when they don't have smiley faces on. You'll have to trust me on this one.

Vicarious Weight Loss

America is obese.

We see it all the time in the news. Statistically speaking, America is a country full of fatties. Always ready to exploit anything of interest, reality tv has created numerous shows about weight loss. But these shows are less about being useful, and more about entertainment. After all, its television. Now, these shows range in popularity and theme, from "Celebrity Fit Club" to the hugely- no pun intended- "Biggest Loser", and beyond.

But what do these shows really do for their viewers? They provide some useful information, but mostly its about angsting along with the people participating; getting involved in their personal journey and transformation. Mostly, these shows provide what I like to call

Vicarious weight loss!

Think about it. You're emotionally involved. As a viewer, you invest hours of your time watching these people sweat it out, suffer, complain about healthy eating, and invariably talk about the personal struggles in their life that caused them to become fatties. You root for them, you cheer on their transformations...all the while with your ass on the couch, or lying in bed. Maybe you're snacking on your favorite food. You get a feeling of being plugged into a healthy living mentality, but you aren't actually participating. You get to have that feeling of accomplishment and progress, without doing any of the unpleasant work yourself! Genius...except that when you turn off the tv, you still haven't actually lost a pound.

But these shows aren't entirely useless. It is possible that you can use them for motivation. If you're overweight, you can look at those people and see that losing weight is possible for anyone. (Ignore the fact that they have the luxury of personal trainers, dietitions, and numerous other crazy shennanigans that hollywood can throw together working in their favor.) If you're already fit, you can say "wow. Those people are really unhappy with themselves, and having to work really hard to get back to a healthy weight. I better be sure to stay fit.

So should you stop watchign these shows? No, not necissarily. But while you watch, consider doing some situps.

(somene should tell that trainer that walruses actually need their blubber.)

Old Yeller Zombie

I know several people with contingency plans for the Zombie Apocalypse. It seems to have developed, for some, into a full scale hobby. Intricate planning is involved in terms of where to make their stronghold, how to survive, but the heavy emphasis seems always to be on how to kill the zombies.

Similarly, there are a lot of video games where your prerogative is to kill a bunch of zombies. There are even Nazi Zombies, so if you had any qualms about killing zombies, you can write it off by saying they were also Nazis. (I suppose the inverse is also true...)

Now, this is all fine and good, but I can't help but consider: if it came down to survival of the fittest, I don't think I'd make the cut. Odds are that despite my best efforts, I'd end up with deteriorating flesh, shuffling around craving brains, and eventually get decapitated by a machete, burned with a flame thrower, or shot to death with a semi-automatic, depending on which weapon the zombie killer that got me had on hand.

I don't want to die a zombie! If somebody kills me I'd at least like a little remorse! Not everyone patting my murderer on the back saying, "good job!"

So maybe I'll get lucky, if the zombie apocalypse happens. Maybe someone will rescue me. Or better- I'll surprise myself with my own abilities. But even if I avoid infection, to have a full-on zombie apocalypse, a large amount of people who used to be regular humans, are going to have to become zombies. So here's a crazy thought:

can't we all just get along?

I know, its not easy being friends with someone who wants to eat your brain. I'm not suggesting a group hug: the zombie would probably go for your head. But it seems like zombies have been labeled as one of the groups that its OK to kill on grounds that they aren't human, and therefore those who kill them are not obligated to feel the normal ethical repercussions associated with murder.

By the way, do you remember that book/movie "Old Yeller"?

I do. I remember it because I cried like a baby when poor Old Yeller got rabies while defending the family, and had to be shot. Now, I am not a medical professional, but rabies seems to have certain similarities to the zombie virus. But the family and the audience feels sorrow for killing Old Yeller. Why not zombies? Its not their fault they've turned into grotesque flesh eaters, its their disease.

When you come down to it, even though they aren't nearly as cute as a yellow labrador retriever, zombies were people too. Therefore I advocate cautious compassion towards them in the event of a zombie apocalypse. I propose the survivors adopt one of two policies:

1. secure enough supplies to wait it out and stay put. Zombies cannot reproduce, so cut your losses and let them die out on their own.

2. if you catch it early enough, secure a zombie containment facility, and let them live on a sort of compound. You could feed them cow brains. I am reasonably certain we have a surplus of them with all the beef consumed globally. (unless that is whats REALLY in hot dogs.)

They may not be cute, they may not be fully conscious, and they may not be amongst the living in the strictest sense. They may be after our brains, and spreading their virus amongst the masses in the quest to quench their insatiable thirst for living flesh. But we must not surrender our humanity in the face of adversity. If we do, we've already lost the war.

And if you really still hate them, you can always shoot the fuckers to your heart's delight on your gaming console of choice.

High School Musicals

This weekend I went to see a high school production of "A Chorus Line". It was the first high school musical I have seen since I was in one myself. (Including the disney "High School Musical" movies, which I have worked tirelessly to avoid seeing. No small accomplishment when you live with a tween.) It was a good production, and it really brought me back to my years of high school plays.

...damnit.

Usually I'm not one to reminisce if I can avoid it. But to be fair, the drama program was all I ever really cared about when it came to school. It was also the only place in my heavily acedemic college-prep school that let students be remotely creative. And while drama class was good, and drama club was good, the highlight of the year was the spring musical. It was what I lived for every year, what I worked for, hoping one day I'd finally win the ultimate prize-

*~*~*A Lead Role*~*~*

buuuut yeah, it never happened.

What did happen was this crazy loophole in the system, where somehow I ended up getting credit for my chemistry class by writing a play instead. (To this day, I am still unclear on how this worked out.) After a long, confused road of rewrites, the end result is a short play entitled "Kid in a Cardboard Box". My stab at a satire of my school, and processing my initial experiences there.

= ...?

Now, I never intended this play to actually do anything except get me out of chemistry. But now, gods help me, I am assistant directing it's first production. If I had known it would ever actually be performed I would have

a. probably never written it in the first place
or
b. want it to be performed at the school it was written about.

But since we are basically using it becasue -unlike every other author we looked at- I am not charging my director any royalties, it is up to a brave band of public middle school students to make my play look good. Godspeed, tiny actors.

Still, a part of me wants to have my old fellow thespians come see it. Would they see the reflection of those confusing, frustrating, exciting years, or just a bunch of middle school kids in a play, one in a head-to-toe cardboard box? (No, I'm not kidding. You saw the title.)

So cheers to the actors in "A Chorus Line", and cheers to my budding thespians in "Kid in a Cardboard Box", and most of all cheers to my drama teacher, and all my fellow drama students who made high school just a little bit more livable. Come see the play. It can't be much worse than sitting in chemistry class was.

Spider Songs

Spiders freak me out. I'm perturbed by the way they look, unnerved by the way they move, and totally pissed if they bite me. But I also hate squished dead things, so I am not a spider squisher. I have spent countless occasions trapping spiders with the ol' cup and paper routine, taking them outside, and fearfully flinging it out into freedom, praying the little bugger won't pull a fast one and try to crawl on me.

Songs, generally speaking, I like. So what happens when you cross the goodness of songs with the freakiness of spiders? Well, it depends. While I love the band Gogol Bordello for their crazed, maniacal music, their song "Sex Spider" left me about as freaked out as spiders do, with lyrics like "...for even thousand of creatures/ Won't have enough orifices for all the arms/ Of a spider." It comes off more like a bad Japenese hentai than a spider song. (Also? Never google spider hentai. Mostly its spiderman porn, but the other stuff will require a strong dose of brain soap to get out of your head.)

The first spider song I learned was probably "the Itsy Bitsy Spider". I'm not sure what I was supposed to learn from that nursery rhyme. (Maybe that spiders are fucking tenacious.) But I liked the thing you do with your fingers while you sing it.

My next spider song was by children's musician Linda Arnold, entitled "Hey, Mister Spider". This was a song with a message, and a pro-spider agenda. My young brain poured over the concept that this spider is "a living thing, and he's got feelings too." This song-along with my sqeemishness for dead things- was probably responsible for me never becoming a spider squisher. The only problem was it proposed no alternative to getting the spider the fuck away, as Mr. Spider politely crawls away of his own acord in the end.

Years later I found "Boris the Spider" playing on a friend's cd of The Who.

Best.

Spider.

Song.

Ever.

A simple narrative in the first person of an encounter with a spider, that manages to totally capture the caution, paranoia, and heebie-jeebies shared by me and my fellow spider wimps. Granted the person in this song crushes Boris the Spider. "He's come to a sticky end. Don't think that he'll ever mend." But I'm ok with imaginary spider abuse.

The Who: Visionary imaginary-spider killers.

My new spider coping method: Mostly when I see a spider in the house, I remove it right away. But there are those times, like when I'm going to bed at 3 a.m. and am too tired to find proper spider trapping equipment, where other arrangements have to be made. My favorite course of action? I sing "Boris the Spider" to the spider in question. I think the Who must be famous amogst spider-kind as well as people, because remarkably, the spider almost always crawls away. (That, or my singing voice is worse than I thought.) Either way, it gets the job done.

Susan Boyle and The Wizard of Oz

I was in a checkout line with my mother the other day. Susan Boyle was on the cover of some trash magazine or other, and my mother asked me who she was. (Susan Boyle, I mean. As far as I know my mother knows who she is. In the basic sense, at least.) So I did my best to explain. It went something along the lines of:

Susan Boyle is a middle aged British lady who went on a popular British tv talent show. Because she was unattractive, everyone assumed she would suck, but then it turned out she could sing well, and everyone was astounded and she became famous overnight. Becasue apparently no one unattractive or middle aged could possibly be talented.

I know I am not the first person to say this, but that is fucked up.

At the same time, I look back to the early teachings of my childhood, and it fits. Glinda tells us flat-out:

"Only bad witches are ugly."

Glinda is also fucked up. Or more specifically, she seems to love to fuck with tourists. Granted she gives Dorothy the red shoes, but despite the fact that she could go home right then, with three clicks of the heel, Glinda sends her on a wild goose chase around Oz. "Oh, you need directions home? Well see that friggin longass yellow brick road? Well follow that till you get to a green palace. Ask them to take you to their leader, and he'll totally get you home! Good luck! Oh, and don't be surprised if a green witch and her cronies try to kill you on the way." The amazing part is she is never held accountable for her actions. While the "Wicked Witch of the West" gets melted just for trying to collect on her inheritance after Dorothy inadvertantly drops a friggin HOUSE on her sister, Glinda gets away with her shenanagins with a version of "teehee! gotcha!" Lesson learnt. Pretty people are not punishable.