Deep Dialogue

SCHOOL
UnMighty: If you had to pick a leader based on one quality, what would it be?
Student: Someone with a state of mind.
UnMighty: Which state of mind?
Student: What do you mean?
...
UnMighty: Tell us about your book.
Student 1: The book I read was called “Code Talkers” and it was about an Indian guy who served in World War 2 because America wanted him to use his language like a code that the Japanese couldn’t understand.
Student 2: What tribe were they from?
Student 1: I don’t know. Native American?
...
UnMighty: If you could do anything without failing, what would you do?
Student: Rid my rats of mites.

HOME
Wife: What are you writing about?
UnMighty: Twinkies.
Wife: (gasp) Are you writing about me?
UnMighty: Yes. It’s about how your body is starting to take on the shape of your favorite foods.
Wife: You are such an #*@#%&@.
(She sees that I’ve just typed this conversation.)
Wife: (gasp) Don’t you dare write that I just said that!
...
(Just left the grocery store with 3-year-old daughter)
Maggie: Gimme my donut. I want to eat my donut right now.
UnMighty: I'll give you your donut if you get in your car seat and act like a sweet girl. Can you be a sweet girl?
Maggie: That's me. Bing!

HOLY CRAP!

Cash's father's day gift to me.


I discovered the surprise when I stuck my left hand in it.
Nice.

Slip 'em a Mickey

I’m not what you would call a “pickle” guy. Sure, I like pickles as much as the next person. I’ll enjoy them with a sandwich, or on a sandwich, or even right from the jar if I’m hungry for a salty snack and there’s a lack of better choices. But I would never use “pickle” in a list of favorites, let alone to describe my tastes. Also, I can’t recall a single conversation, from my 30 years, when someone said to me, “I love pickles” or “I think the pickle is the best damn thing in the world. I think I’ll marry pickle and conceive human-pickle babies.”
No, I have never heard that.

But somehow, by some ethereal sorcery, when everyday people cross the threshold of the Disneyland barrier, they not only want pickles, but they want them so bad they’re willing to pay exorbitant sums of money to obtain one.
“Is that a pickle?” Joe Tourist will ask. “I want a pickle. Nay, I need a pickle! I must have pickle!! How much is pickle? Thirty-six dollars? That’s totally reasonable. Give me one.”

However, the spell Walt has over every person who dares enter his world holds no sway over me. For me, Walt’s domain (which I call Mordor) lost it’s magic in the summer of 1990 when I got kicked out (on my birthday) for nothing more than a few trumped up charges of assault and battery. I was taken behind the scenes to Disneyland “security” and it was there that I was first exposed to the dark underbelly of what was universally touted as “The Happiest Place on Earth.” Dwarves were smoking, ducks and dogs were gambling, and fairy-tale princesses were prostituting themselves for nothing more than a meal. During my short stay, before my official ejection from the park, I focused my senses and became an astute observer. It was there that I saw, firsthand, the puppet strings and learned the Wizard of Oz was just a man behind a curtain.

I saw the canisters, filled with various smells, (vanilla, buttered popcorn, etc.), which were systematically sprayed over the crowd as they walk past the corresponding food shops. I saw the cages where the Disney characters are kept at night. I witnessed an official Disney song recording session in progress where seemingly innocent Disney songs like “It’s a small world” and “A Pirates Life” are laced with subliminal messages that encourage over-spending, over-eating, the purchasing of ridiculous souvenirs, and promote teen promiscuity, binge drinking, communism, Celine Dion, and white supremacy.

Despite the blatancy of it all, no one is the wiser. The world has collectively been slipped a giant Mickey and it won’t wake up. It’s like the town of Stepford, but instead of robotic wives they’ve given us little robotic minorities who chant about laughter and cheer whilst brainwashing us into mindless disciples.

The most alarming thing I discovered was found in the journal of Walt Disney himself. How I stumbled upon said journal is unimportant. From the journal I learned that the capitalistic abuses of Disney Inc. and it’s subsidiaries are for one purpose and one purpose only. To secure Walt’s empire preliminary to the second coming. Not the Second Coming of Jesus, (I would have used CAPITALS to specify that one) but the second coming of Walt Disney himself.

A few excerpts from his prophetic timeline read as follows;
2012: The United States of America becomes The United States of Disney when Disney Inc. pays off the national deficit.
2013: World War 3 breaks out when the entire band of Franz Ferdinand is assassinated at the Mtv Music Awards hosted in Sarajevo.
2021: The United States of Disney emerges victories and declares world domination.
2022: A secret society named The Illuminati of Mickey thaws Walt Disney from his cryogenic status to full vitality thus facilitating his “second coming.”
2022: Walt Disney assumes his position as Supreme Ruler of the World and governs from the highest tower of the Disneyland Castle.

Yeah, I was surprised too. And, despite the fact that going back with my family in tow is only aiding the fulfillment of Walt’s dark prophecy, I went back anyway because I’m a sucker for large crowds and long lines.

In case you’re considering visiting The Black Magic Kingdom on your next vacation, let me tell you what you should expect to spend.
Entrance Fee: $66 ($56 for kids 3 – 9)
Pickle: $36
Churro: $72
Burger: $85
20 oz. drink: $98
T-shirt: $153
Yamaka w/ plastic discs stapled to it (a.k.a. Mickey Ears): $379
Giant Turkey Leg: $586
Glow-in-the-dark crap for post sunset: $1,105 (when I say "crap" I mean stuff. It's not an actual glow-in-the-dark terd. You get those at San Diego Zoo.)
Tiara: $2163
The look on your child’s face when they realize the full magic of Disneyland, try to beat you because of it,

and then collapse from heat stroke:

Priceless.

I wasn’t willing to pay full price for my turkey leg, but I was willing to tear it from the hands of a screaming 6-year-old and hide in the bushes while I ate it.

Miracles Abound

A few days shy of Christmas I was out with my family, doing the last minute shopping. (All my shopping to be more accurate.) My daughter, in true two-year-old fashion timed her tantrum perfectly. She waited till we were on the top floor of Mervyn's in the middle of the crowd waiting to check out. Nearing the registers we were surrounded on all sides by no less than two hundred antsy shoppers. (If this had been an English soccer match at least fifty people would have been trampled.) Just as we were nearing the epicenter of the retail experience my daughter was possessed by the Devil himself and endowed, from below, with the insatiable desire to drink. "I NEED A DRINK!!" she shrieked. Drink what? It didn't matter. She needed liquid and she needed it NOW! I was hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean yet still she squirmed and arched like a newly landed marlin who knew it was fight or die. It took all of both my physical and mental capacity to keep her from flying free of my bear-hug like grip. All four limbs became lethal weapons acting autonomous of the other three. Knees and feet pummeled my torso and crotch. Elbows and hands battered my head and face like a crazed diabetic Mexican trying to shatter a sugar filled piñata. I tried to anticipate the blows by clenching my eyes tightly for fear one of her little fingers should pierce an eyeball, stab my frontal lobe, and drop me like a sack of flour. One man, certain she was having a violent seizure, attempted to insert his wallet into her mouth lest she bite down on, and sever her own tongue. I left my wife and son behind and pressed to the edge of the mob trying to restrain her and minimize the collateral damage upon innocent onlookers. It was my intention to first, remove the danger from the crowd, and second, retreat to more private environs where I could give her the beating she deserved out from under the watchful eyes of children's rights activists. When I broke the perimeter I felt a rush of cool air, breathed deep, and lengthened my stride.

It's an interesting thing about the toddler tantrum; it can subside as quickly as it arises. Not 10 seconds from the crowd her red little eyes spied a shopping cart. Not your run-of-the-mill grocery store cart, but a special department store cart with a child's seat. She gasped, fell silent, and in the blink of an eye changed from demon to angel. Her face went soft, her limbs hung peacefully, and the horns receded. I set her down and as she approached the cart she whispered, "Oh my darling. Oh my adorable."
I asked her if she wanted to ride in the cart and in a sweetness that even Shirley Temple could not have mustered she clasped her hands together, batted her eyes, and softly said, "Oh yes."
Upon observing this astonishing change I had not the heart to deliver the aforementioned beating but instead lifted her inside the cart and pushed her away certain I had just witnessed a genuine Christmas miracle.

God bless us, everyone.

Dad

In Chuck Dickens “A Christmas Carol” Ebenezer Scrooge is visited by his old business partner Jacob Marley who warns Ebenezer that his life of selfishness will lead to sad ends. “…no space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Oh! Such was I!” Scrooge attempts to defend Jacob’s life. “But you were always a good man of business, Jacob” to which Marley replies, “Business! Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”

Over the years I have often been surprised at how liberally my dad gave others of his personal time, money, and love. When he died on August 10, 2007 at the young age of 56, I began to think on how he spent his time and have come to realize that he lived like a man who knew his days were numbered. One of the few comforts I have had since his passing was the knowledge that my dad knew what his business was, and was expert in his field. Sometimes when I’m missing him to the point where my chest tightens and I have to turn my face from anyone who’s not my wife, I wonder how different our lives, our relationships, and the world might be if we all lived in such a way. Before I go on, please know that what I say about my father is said without hyperbole, undue bias, or the typical heroification that usually accompanies the post-partum memoirs written on behalf of deceased parent figures. Since his death I have developed the theory that there are many ways to be a good father, but significantly fewer ways to be a great one. I want to write about some of those ways.

Through personal observation and speaking with friends I learned early on that my dad was different. If at the home of a friend, I knew I could usually come and go without having a single run in, let alone an actual dialogue with that friend’s father. And to be honest, that was fine with me since other dad’s usually seemed gruff, authoritative, and pretty much unapproachable. If I were to have a friend, male or female, over to my house I knew there was little chance of me getting that friend out the door without first being accosted by my father. He wanted to know everything. How’s the family, school, dating, (then to both of us) what are you doing, where are you going, with who, what else, when will you be back, remember who you are and what you stand for, (then to me) I love you. Honestly, his seemingly unnatural level of attention/interrogation sometimes embarrassed me; but my friends never seemed to mind. Now I like to think that they might have been a little envious of the zealous style with which he approached fatherhood. I’m going to miss his zealousness.

I am amazed at how often he found or created opportunities to teach us, his sons, something he felt was important. Sometimes the lessons seemed untimely but he was of the opinion that if children learn important lessons early, and establish a strong foundation, major issues never become major issues.
“There was a story on the news I wanted to talk to you guys about.” He said to me and my brothers one night.
“Ya?”
“A young teenage girl got high on crack and dove headfirst into an empty pool and died. Do you guys know how scary drugs are? How much they hurt not just the people who abuse them but also their loved ones? You four boys mean everything to mom and me. Do you know that?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you have the courage to stand up for what’s right when it comes time to decide.”
(Pause for effect)
“Dad, I’m only six years old. I don’t even know where to get cigarettes let alone crack cocaine.”
(I didn’t say that last part. But if I could go back in time and enter my six-year-old head, I would have.)

I loved the way he valued his our sense of adventure and need to do things that weren’t always part of the mainstream. His willingness to risk financial security to do something unusual with the family had become a source of criticism from friends more than once. But whether we wanted to sell it all and move to Nauvoo, or Jackson Hole, or anywhere else, he was in, as long as the family was doing it together. Even after suffering major financial loss at the hands of dishonest partners, or due to poor personal execution my dad maintained a surprisingly positive outlook, regrouped, and was willing to try something else. When most fathers would try to sober their sons with dream defeating reality my dad praised our ideas and hoped they included the group being together. He knew where his priorities lie. Daily he worked to lay up treasures in heaven and hoped the earthly treasures lasted long enough to do so comfortably.

Though he spent much of his life on the road he somehow always managed to be there when it was important. If someone was moving, had car trouble, was performing on stage, had a game, needed advice, wanted someone to play golf with, dad was there. “Just don’t tell mom. She’s at work while I’m out here with you.”

Speaking of mom, I learned how to treat women from the example he set with my mother. I’m going to miss the way he talked about my mom. In front of her and in private he loved to tell us how lucky he was, and how lucky we were for having her as our mother. He was the first to admit that he married above himself. He would hug her tight, kiss her, and say, “Your mom is one in a million.”

I will sorely miss his liberal showing of affection; the random calls where he would just call to say hi, what’s up, I love you. I talked to my dad on the phone two days before he passed; a long stretch by our standards. The conversation was insignificant. We talked about my family getting back to Utah, and getting moved into our new place. I hadn’t seen him for about two months due to a summer job I had taken and he expressed how much he missed us and how excited he was to see my wife Kathryn and my kids Maggie, and Cash (who he called Jack). He had to get back to work but he wanted me to know he loved me and was thinking of me. The last words that passed between us were “I love you.” If I’d known it was going to be the last time we spoke I would have slowed down, told him I still needed him, that I would miss our private conversations, that it breaks my heart to think of my young mother going to bed at night and seeing only space where her dearest confidant used to lie, that the real tragedy is that my children and many of my brother’s children will have no memory of him, that I wished I were there so I could hug him and kiss his cheek, that I wished I could have looked into his eyes when I said my last “I love you dad.”

There may be some, surface associates, that thought that Martin Quinn’s business was picture framing. But sales and frames “were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of [his] business;” a necessary evil to create free time for his real job. His business was family and man, and he was expert at it. Now that he’s gone it is my intention to take up the family business. I hope I can make him proud.

The Apple And The Tree

Enjoying a little "Father/Son" time.





It's easy when you have so much in common.

My Daughter and The Devil

Before my daughter Maggie was a year old Satan came to my house and recruited her. I say “recruited” as if it were for an important position but I get the impression Hell has a lot of rungs in its hierarchical ladder and Satan takes a personal interest in his employees on every level. Not to say she’s not capable of moving up but she’s not even two and has to prove herself - so for now I think she is working at the level of minion. My wife, in typical mother fashion, is naïve enough to think her kid is the only one not in league with the Great Satan. I have tried to tell my wife that our daughter works for Satan but she won’t hear it. How can someone so cute possibly work for Satan? she asks while twirling one of Maggie’s pigtails with her index finger. Never mind the fact that right after she asks this absurd question Maggie deliberately dumps the very glass of juice that she begged for on the floor and then has the nerve to say “uh-oh” as if someone walked up and knocked it out of her hands.
The actual employment started a little less than a year ago…
One night while lying in bed thinking about nothing in particular I heard a noise coming from Maggie’s room. I got up with the intention of discovering the cause of said noise, but when I got to Maggie’s closed door something stopped me before I opened it. There was a vaporous red light emanating from the crack beneath her door. Now, from my extensive film experience (watching not producing) I knew this meant one of two things. Either she was in there basking in the red glow of a lava lamp while sharing tokes on a bong with her pals OR Satan was in there recruiting her for his work. Irritated by both possible scenarios, I burst into the room to find no bong, no pals, but Satan, standing there smiling at my daughter. The most troubling thing, besides the fact that Lucifer himself was in my house, was that Maggie too was standing. I noticed that Satan had a document that he rolled as he laughed in my face and at that moment I realized what had happened. Maggie had sold her soul for the gift of mobility. (Just so you understand, the curse wasn’t that she could walk but that she could walk before she could reason.) As I screamed revenge I leaped for the throat of Satan but narrowly missed as he dropped into a fiery hole, which I can only assume led to Hell because we don’t have a basement. As I cursed Lucifer’s name salty sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes and woke me. It had all been a dream. My heart was still racing when I wiped the sweat from my eyes and sighed relief. "Thanks to all that is holy, Maggie is still a crawler." The moments that followed were filled with thoughts of the flawed development of the human body and mind. Why does nature or God allow us to develop basic motor skills before we can understand simple instruction or expressions like “no” or “stop unrolling every inch of toilet paper we own or we’ll adopt you to a family someplace like West Virginia where they still use outhouses and wipe their butts with squirrels, you don’t even wipe your own butt anyway, what do you need fifty feet of toilet paper for?” As I tiredly considered this enigma I attempted to readjust my position and go back to sleep by turning on my side and putting a pillow between my knees like a pregnant woman when I heard a bump. This time the noise was real. Paternal instinct took over and my feet hit the carpet and were already moving to investigate before I had the chance to think what I was doing. Like in my dream my search led to Maggie’s door and without pausing I opened it and stepped in. Just then surreal slapped my face and brought me fully awake. Maggie was standing in the middle of the room. I looked at her but couldn’t move or speak. She returned the empty stare in kind. The motionless deadpan staring contest continued for an unnatural length. The silence was only finally broken by the tiniest splash. It was a drop of ink hitting the floor. That’s when my eyes shifted and I noticed the feather quill in her right hand. My heart sank when I realized I was too late. The deal was done. Satan had already come and gone and I wasn’t there to stop him. My paralysis finally gave way and I slowly walked over and picked up the books Maggie had just pushed to the floor. I then moved to her and took the quill from her hand that, of course, disappeared in a poof of smoke. Again I looked down at her and her at me, but this time a smile broke across her face, and my heart went from sinking to melting. Sure she was now working for the Dark Lord, but she was still my daughter. I gathered her up in my arms, kissed her forehead, and set her back in her bed with the admonition to stay there till morning, which no doubt fell on deaf ears, and then returned to bed myself.
It has been nearly a year since the incident and not many nights have passed that she hasn’t ended up in mine and my wife’s bed in the middle of the night, and there isn’t anything in our house less than three feet from the ground that hasn’t been pulled to the floor or covered in whatever she was supposed to be eating, but that is the way of things. I understand that we, the parents, are the ones to blame; always encouraging them as they move from one stage to the next – rolling, crawling, walking – cheering them on along the way. However I should say that as she has learned we too have learned some lessons and we won’t be making the same mistake again. Our month old son will stay strapped on his back till he can communicate and understand, and we’ll not be dissuade by tears, screaming, or bedsores.
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it Satan.