Childhood: Or, My Dance With Stupidity (and, possibly, death)

When I was growing up, my best friend Eric lived one apartment away. We grew up in the days when there were seven television channels, none of which catered to kids (that is, unless you were one of those strange kids who liked "The David Susskind Show"). More importantly, we grew up in the days where moms didn't coordinate play dates or, worse, sit on the floor and play with us. No, they did what they were supposed to do - drink coffee, smoke and complain about the neighbors.

This, of course, presented a host of opportunities, and three of my most vivid memories of growing up, having adventures that could not have occurred without this confluence of events.

Adventure # 1: Eric and I, around the age of 7, opened the window to his brother's room and threw out everything that was not nailed down or was too heavy to lift. And I mean everything. Clothes, books, bedding, toys. Everything. This party was only broken up by the superintendent telling Eric's mom that if she wanted to dispose of trash, he'd be happy to help, but there were better ways to do it.

Adventure # 2: Around that same time, in a variation on our scorched earth strategy, Eric and I took every liquid or near-liquid we could find in his family's bathrooms and poured them into the stopped-up sink. Hair tonic. Toothpaste. Talcum powder. After shave. Shaving cream. For all I know, expensive and necessary medication. Our chief observation? We reached a state of Absolute Green, in which no matter what we added to the mix, the solution remained a mysteriously swampy green. Our genius move? We set the mixture on fire. Clearly we had a gift for controlled experimentation, as the apartment did not transform into the Ocean Parkway Inferno but, rather, the liquid maintained itself as a small, quietly burning, sink-sized lake.

Adventure # 3: This memory is a little more hazy, but I swear it's true. In my bedroom, I was listening to some music on my portable record player. Something inspired me (my money is on Eric) to remove the power cord from the back of the player and - with the plug still inserted into the electrical socket - I put the other end of the cord into my mouth. I remember a faint, pleasant buzzing sensation, but nothing more unusual than that. For reasons that are a mystery to me, I cheated death and lived to engage in other acts of pre-adolescent (and adolescent) stupidity.

Now, my kids were not immune to the allure of idiocy. Growing up, Jake was known on a first-name basis in the emergency room, for varied reasons that included but were not limited to standing on the sliding pond (you can connect these dots, I'm sure). The combination of Ben, a metal bat, a super-springy playground ball, a very dumb, permissive father, and the immutable laws of physics, resulted in a nice, juicy opening just a couple of scary inches above his eye. But, by and large, Susie and I - and no doubt, the same can be said for you - kept a much closer eye on our kids.

I wonder, though. By being so vigilant, did we deny our kids the intoxicating freedom that led to the near-death experiences of my beloved childhood? I'm kinda not kidding, for the most part. Aside from the above adventures, I and my friends traveled on buses and trains at age 10, explored our neighborhood for countless unsupervised hours, and were left largely to our own devices. Our own kids' days were so much more closely managed.

I think about this as Ben is more than halfway through college and as Jake spends more and more time out of the house, as high schoolers do. Because no matter how much we kept the boys in our sights when they were growing up, the moral of the story is that eventually they will get away from you.

Of course, I worry about the same things all parents do - the dangers that seem to be a close companion to all adolescents - but they're good kids and I have all the trust in the world in them. But I just hope that they're finding the time and space to engage in profoundly stupid behavior, as long as they come out the other end, as I did, in one piece.

The True Meaning of Hanukkah

Growing up, Christmas didn't mean a thing to this Brooklyn-bred Jew. Some of my other friends in the Tribe envied the families who celebrated Christmas; not me.

Chanukah didn't make much of an impression. My parents were generous but perfunctory. I was asked what big item I wanted, and I'd get it. At the time, it seemed like a great deal. I remember asking for, and receiving, a Panasonic reel-to-reel tape recorder, which back then cost an astonishing $120. God knows why I wanted it, but Mr. and Mrs. Rosen were kind enough to give it to me.

(I remember taping fake interview shows hosted by me and supported by the few friends patient enough to indulge me in this particular brand of meglomania. Eventually, I taped episodes of my favorite sitcoms and listened to them later - a visionary act 15 years before the advent of the VCR and a disturbing preview of my later years of media collecting.)

When I got old enough - I think I was 14 - the gifts stopped, and I didn't lament the end of that era.

So why is it that I'm such a sucker for Hanukkah now that I'm an adult? It's certainly not the underlying story of The Oil That Lasted Eight Nights. Even the most hardcore Hebrew (and that's not me) knows Hahukkah is a sham, a construct by American Jewish parents to distract their children from the more exciting goings on in and around The Rest of America.

No. The reason I love Hanukkah is that each year, I must - must - find eight perfect presents for each member of my family.

I am solely in charge of holiday shopping in my house. It's one of the few domestic tasks I'm well-suited for.

Perhaps too well-suited. I remember one year when my older son Ben cried because by Night # 8, he was overwhelmed with the sheer amount of stuff we gave him. I consider that an accomplishment, albeit one laced with shame.

Thinking back over the years, we've torn through every youth-oriented trend and passion. We've covered various videogame platforms; Legos; books; graphic novels; CDs; gift cards for clothing stores (Rule # 1: NEVER buy clothing for any child over 13).

Then there was the organization of the present-giving, a critical sub-category of the ritual. Here are some more rules: Big presents, if they're part of the mix, must be given on the same night to both kids. Never give two kids videogames on the same night, unless you want to see blood shed. Books are cool, educational, wonderful, but not when they're given on the same night as the other kid gets anything with a plug attached.

Gift-giving was never a problem until the last year or so, as my kids have grown into young men. What do you buy a 20-year-old for Hanukkah? Or a 16-year-old, for that matter?

No matter. I'll figure something out, and before long, the UPS delivery guy will start to know us by name once again.

I know I should scale back. But the minute I do that, I'm conceding that my kids are grown and that a certain era is passed. That's not something I'm prepared to do just yet, so my kids - and Amazon.com - will continue to benefit from my attempt to stop time.

And now for something completely different...

Since July, I worked on a blog devoted to pop culture, and I've decided to move on. I'm doing this for a number of reasons.

First, I work in the entertainment industry and, therefore, I've had to be very careful not to let my little hobby run into conflict with my work. Though I'm comfortable that I've been able to do it so far, it's not easy and it's become increasingly difficult. Second, I've said a lot of what I wanted to say through that blog on those topics, so why not get out before it becomes rote.

Finally, though, it was just too easy. I've spent a lot of my time - probably too much - thinking about culture and why I think what I think about it. I'd like to see if I can explore some other areas and topics.

This may or may not work, but I'm eager to see what I can come up with. Like I said in the first post of my last blog, we'll see how this goes.