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by Kevin Nealon, June 13, 2008 8:58 AM
My father was never hard to shop for on Father's Day. Every year, when I was a little boy, I would get him a bottle of Old Spice after-shave lotion. Well, actually, my mother would make the purchase and wrap it and on the big day I would present it to him and take all the credit. As a child I wondered why, if it were a spice, it couldn't be used for cooking? I still remember the red box it came in and to this day I don't believe the fragrance or any of its original packaging has changed. The bottle itself is also a classic; a unique shaped, opaque, off-white glass container with a little, grey stopper on top. Every Father's Day my dad would unwrap my gift and act so wonderfully surprised when he saw what was inside. He'd throw his hands up in the air and his jaw would drop as if he'd just unwrapped a million dollars. "Kev, this is just what I needed! Thank you so much! Wow, isn't this great!" he'd say excitedly to my mother. I would feel so proud and satisfied that I (and my silent partner, my mom) was able to provide him with this unique and personal gift that he cherished so much. He would immediately empty some out onto his hand and splash it onto his face and neck. He would then put some into my hands and I would follow suit. Later that morning he would casually place the bottle in the bathroom cabinet, neatly resting amongst the seven or eight other, nearly full Old Spice bottles from past Father's Days. Occasionally, during the days that followed, I would fish for compliments about my gift. "Gee, Dad. Something smells good." "Yeah, Kev," he'd boast as he was running off to work, "I've got some of the Old Spice on that you gave me." I would smile and know that he was going to have a good day. Back then, Old Spice was not considered a cologne or aftershave that you would wear to attract women. That would be a mistake. Girls would smell it and immediately be disinterested in you because you would remind them of their father. As I grew older, there were other colognes for attracting women that my friends and I would use: Brut, High Karate, and Aramis, to name a few. I felt very strongly then, and still do today, that women are inherently drawn to a cologne called Karate. There's nothing smoother than being able to answer "Yes" to the question, "My, is that Karate you're wearing?" With all those colognes, you could see the liquid in the bottle through the green, brown, or grey, Euro-trashy-shaped glass container with the large, bulbous tops. Throughout my teen years I had all these potions lined up neatly and systematically on my dresser, available to me for whatever occasion I deemed them necessary. They were my special team. But I never included a bottle of Old Spice in that line up. It was much too innocent to be involved with them. That would be like putting a cute, little collie next to a bunch of coyotes and mountain lions. Since my colognes were so potent and you only needed a little dab, they never needed to be replaced ? and to this day those original bottles, half full, are still sitting in a box somewhere in my storage unit. Of course, Dad would never wear those types of colognes. He stuck to the Old Spice, which was like the Disney of all fragrances. To this day, there is not a time when I get a whiff of it that I don't think about my father. In fact, a few years ago I was with my friend when I immediately noticed he was wearing Old Spice. Out of reflex, I sheepishly asked him if I could borrow the car for the weekend. Some things stay with you forever. As such, it's much easier for me to think of Father's Day as Old Spice Day, something that I'm sure the parent company of Old Spice would love to hear. It's a day when men and their children come together to relish the smell of aftershave. A day of appreciating whatever the 'old spice' is and wherever it comes from. It is comforting to know that this Father's Day I will be in possession of two bottles of Old Spice: one to give to my father and one to give myself, from my sixteen-month old
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by Kevin Nealon, June 12, 2008 9:27 AM
Recently, while at a bookstore, I came across a popular book that was published a few years back called The Power of Now. I hesitated buying it because I wondered if it was still relevant. What is the shelf life of that book? I mean, shouldn't a book about "now" have an expiration date of 'Immediately' or 'In One Second' on the side of it? Realistically once you read a page, that page should become obsolete. 'Now' is just so limited. As I approached the cashier I found myself seriously second-guessing my impending purchase. How could I be sure a book with a title like this still held up? For the record, I do understand the concept of the book. I am all for living in the moment ? but there is nothing wrong with reliving stuff later on, is there? Besides, if "now" is so powerful, why waste time reading a book when you could be using that "now power" to do something really important? If it were called The Power of Then I wouldn't be questioning my purchase. Or perhaps the author should have considered writing a book called The Power of Now and Then. I like the notion of infrequency being potent. Come on, how impatient do you have to be to dedicate a whole book to 'now'? I've always been something of a procrastinator and quite frankly, I would rather read a book called The Power of I'll Get Around To It When I'm Ready. I mean, isn't the power of 'before' more important? I thought we were supposed to learn from history. History, after all, can be pretty powerful. And what about the power of later? Seems like that would make more sense. This way you have time to plan and line up all your ducks for your powerful move or whatever it is you are going to do later. My wife is considering writing a book called The Power of Not Now. I personally think it would be a bestseller. What better way to give your frisky partner the 'down boy' signal as he or she crawls into bed with you at night? I don't know how I feel about self-help books. The other book I almost purchased was The Secret. Oprah was really pushing this one. I actually listened to it on one of those books on tape, which, by the way, was very difficult to hear. The entire book was read in a whisper, almost as if the reader was cupping his hands around his mouth while narrating. You will never see a book called The Power of Whispering for that very reason. I must say I am generally not a fan of books on tape. I like to read and am a voracious reader. In fact, I consider myself to be a fast reader. Even when I listen to those books on tape I usually finish before the narrator. It seems strange that they would have self-help books on tape. By reading to the person you are only enabling them to continue with their lazy behavior. You are not letting them help themselves. Let them do some work, for God's sake! The next thing you know they are going to want someone to load the CD into the player for them. The whole thing is pretty counterintuitive. I suppose there are some people that go from one self-help book to another and by doing so they never have to work on their real problems. Typically, self-help books are the most successful books on the market and there are tons of them. I bet the only people that are deriving help from them are the people that write them. They must make tons of money. Which reminds me that I suppose now is the time to mention that I'm currently considering a follow up to my book Yes, You're Pregnant, But What about Me? It's called How To Stop Reading Self-Help Books...
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by Kevin Nealon, June 11, 2008 10:28 AM
When my son was born, my wife and I received a slew of baby gifts from friends and family. My wife made sure that we kept a legal pad nearby and anytime we opened one to immediately write down what it was and whom it was from so they could be properly thanked with a proper thank you card. "I'm from the South," she would remind me, "and we are taught the importance of sending 'thank-you' notes." I'm not sure what being from the South has to do with that. Maybe being closer to the equator makes the people there more polite? Or at least more willing to recognize generosity with a floral print 4x6 piece of heavy stock paper. It's almost as if she's saying we in the North have no manners. "In the South we are also taught to bring a gift to one's house when we visit." She not only has boxes and cupboards at home full of various, blank thank-you notes but her dream is to one day have a room just for wrapping gifts which she will call 'The Gratitude Room.' There would be a long spool or shelf just for ribbon and wrapping paper, drawers for scotch tape, scissors and address labels and stacks of various sized boxes for wrapping or shipping. This is her fantasy. Currently she has a closet full of beautiful pre-wrapped gifts in the event that someone should visit us with a gift. God forbid she wouldn't have something to give them back. Then she would have to send a thank-you note along with a separate apology note for not having a gift for them. I suggested, "Why not just have a gift shop in our home?" Visitors can pick out what they want, have it gift-wrapped and ready to pick up when they leave. I agree that thank you notes are a nice gesture but when is enough, enough? Just last week she was sending off a thank-you note for a thank-you gift and note she had recently received. I say once the other party has thanked you the thanking should end with a simple 'You're Welcome.' Period. I also suggested that maybe it would be easier for her to just fire off an email of thanks but noooooo... that would be "inappropriate." I expected her to say something like, "In the South, we don't use computers," but instead she went on to explain that she feels time and consideration must be put into a thank-you note: the actual selection of the card, the personal touch of hand-writing it (calligraphy, if possible), an appropriate stamp from the post office (a 'Love' stamp, if possible), and of course, the customized cute return address stickers for the upper left hand corner. "This way," she says, "people will know that hard work and thoughtfulness went into it." Personally I don't see why people need to know that hard work and thoughtfulness went into it. Call me a fourteen-year-old boy, but I like to think that thank-you notes are and always have been a means to an end. It doesn't matter what form they come in, it's the thought behind them that people remember. Someone gives you something and you need to recognize it with a note, so that in the future, they will feel good about giving you something again. It's a very practical approach. It's also coincidentally how I ended up buying my current house. Try explaining that to someone from the South. Once we thanked the wrong person for the wrong gift. We only found out because we eventually got a return note from them that read, "I'm glad you love the blanket and you consider us thoughtful, but we gave you guys the mobile." My wife was horrified. She spent the rest of the day at the stationary store looking for a "My Husband's an Idiot" card to send them. Luckily they had twelve in stock. I remind my wife that in the North, we occasionally make mistakes. After all, we are farther away from the equator. Incidentally, if you'd like to thank me for writing this blog, please do so by contacting my website, Kevinnealon.com. Oh, and an email will
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by Kevin Nealon, June 10, 2008 10:56 AM
I was having a highly charged conversation on my cell phone the other day as I was cruising along a California freeway at about seventy-five miles per hour. My friend, on the other line, was venting about how disappointed she was that Hillary dropped out of the presidential race so quickly. "Why didn't she give it a chance?" she griped. "The least she could have done was give it a few more months." She went on to tell me how much she had supported Hillary and now considered her 'Hillary, The Quitter.' I agreed. Too many people quit before they should: I thought the Detroit Pistons should never have dropped out of the playoffs, either. Who cares if they lost? Stay in it. Where's your tenacity? Where's your heart? Just keep showing up ready to play, and be prepared to fight the opposing team for locker space. Show them that you're a winner. And what about the young kid that quit on American Idol after they proclaimed David Cook the winner this year? Have you no shame? Demand a recount, I say and keep showing up ? cameras or no cameras. You never know. Oh, and let's not forget Sadaam Hussein. He didn't have to come out of that spider hole but he did. Why? Because he was a quitter. Unlike those people, I am not a quitter. I can honestly say I've never quit anything in my life. Instead I tend to put things in a holding pattern, and leave the door open for the future. If the door happens to close on its own because I've failed to quit, so be it. At least I didn't say the words myself. I mean, seriously, why burn bridges by quitting? It only causes headaches and resentment. Hey, I've had jobs in the past that I left but never actually quit. Why? Because I'm not a quitter. Let's face it, quitting is for quitters. Me? I just stop showing up. I assume that my desk, taxi, waiter's tray, drive-thru window, presidential campaign, whatever, is still there and available to me. Likewise, I am proud to say that I don't have any ex-girlfriends because I never officially quit them. The cowboy in the movie Brokeback Mountain had it right when he told his lover, "I just can't quit you!" It's not in his DNA to quit, and I can't say that I blame him. There is something soothing about knowing that my past girlfriends are still available to me. All of them, that is, except for Laurie, but even with a restraining order I did not quit her. I continue to keep an eye on her at a minimum distance of 500 feet until I can find a way to make that restraining order quit itself. It's reassuring to know that there are other people like me out there. You know who else is not a quitter? Bill Clinton. We all know that. Even under oath he stood by his story. He looked directly into the camera and said, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman." And according to the recent Vanity Fair magazine, he allegedly has not quit his indiscretions, either. You go, Bill! Maybe Hillary can learn a thing or two from
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by Kevin Nealon, June 9, 2008 9:26 AM
My one-year-old son is a very light sleeper, much like my wife, except he doesn't cram wax into his ears and strap a sleeping mask to his face. A few nights ago, while he was dozing, I attempted to sneak into his nursery to retrieve a pair of my shoes from his closet. My wife, you see, has taken up all the room in our other closets and there is currently a six-month waiting period for me to get space in her walk-in closet, so I've been forced to steal space in my son's closet, since for the moment he can't say "Dad" or take me in a fight. This shouldn't be too difficult, I thought as I traversed the thick shag carpet. I mean, after all, there are no lazer-beams shooting across the room that I have to elude and limbo under like in those Mission: Impossible movies. I simply have to cross the room, quietly open the closet door, and retrieve my shoes. How hard is that? It's not easy being a first-time dad at the ripe old age of fifty-four. Last week my son threw up on my AARP magazine and then finger-painted the walls with my Just For Men hair dye. I would have cleaned up the hair dye, but I found that it made our walls look much more youthful and confident, so I just left it where it was. Though this shoe retrieval seemed simple, the expedition was just one more thing that tested the limits of my age. As I tried to stealthily cross the room, the loud popping and cracking of my aged joints sounded like I was walking on a strip of bubble wrap. Someone younger and more limber could have made this mission an easy success, but I knew it was only a matter of time before one of my body's audible warning signals would set him off. Sure enough, my right knee eventually began to sound off like Jiffy Pop in a microwave. Almost as if he had been waiting in bed for his cue, my son bolted upright. I stood frozen in the middle of the room, thinking that as long as I didn't move he wouldn't be able to see me. I remained quiet in the "Peeka" position of Peeka-boo. I knew I would not be able to maintain this position very long without my joints locking up, but luckily he soon drifted off back to sleep. Once I reached the closet, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and used it as a dim flashlight to find my black walking shoes with the orthopedic inserts. "That wasn't so bad," I thought as my neck let out a small 'pop.' Of course, that momentary hubris quickly did me in. I was almost back in friendly territory when my cell phone began to blare "When The Saints Come Marching In." I fumbled it in my hands as I quickly tried to mute the ring tone, but I was too late. The baby was up again with a blood-curdling wail. "Hello?" I yelled into the phone. It was my pharmacist. My beta-blockers were ready to be picked up anytime. But first, I had to get my son back to sleep. I slipped on my shoes, picked him out of the crib, and began to walk him around the room. There's nothing like holding a baby and wearing orthopedics; hey, at least we're both riding in comfort
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