It's One More Day Up In The Canyon

With winter playing hard to get in this here mountain town, the unseasonably warm weather has allowed for some fantastic early November bike rides. Today I took a break from my fatherly duties (read: financial support and spankings) and headed out for a quick jaunt up to Ruedi Reservoir.

While Denver and the surrounding foothills were pounded by a late October storm, the Roaring Fork Valley hasn't seen any significant accumulation as of yet. Here's the rather green view from 7,500 feet, a few miles up the Frying Pan Road. Coincidentally named Frying Pan River to the right.

Once out of the shade, here's the Frying Pan River illuminated by the vibrant sunshine that's been the norm around these parts for the past few weeks.

Fifteen miles and 1,200 vertical feet from the start of the ride, here's my goal for the day, the Ruedi Reservoir. Not much to look at here.

Zoom towards Hagerman Pass. While the valley is green, the high country is donning its traditional coating of white.

A beautiful view from the descent. This pretty much sums up why I live here.

Nearing the town of Basalt, Mt. Sopris peeks out from behind the foothills.

A close-up of the twin summits of Mt. Sopris. Thomas Lakes bowl begging to be skied from 12,995 feet.

Advice From A Kick-Ass Dad: How To Scare the Shit Out of Your Kids Before Someone Else Does

Lauren and I have this friend. To protect her identity, let's call her Melissa X. No...wait...that might give it away. Let's go with Mrs. Maguire. Yeah, that's better.

Mrs. Maguire has a three-year old son. On Friday, she woke up, got her little boy all dressed up as a tiger or elephant or mutant ninja turtle or whatever it is three year old boys dress up as for Halloween, and headed off to his first preschool costume party. Her son was, predictably, rather excited for the day. This was going to be his first real Halloween, and it was going to kick ass. (My words, not his.)

When they arrived at school, they were greeted by a room full of similarly dressed, similarly enthused toddlers. There were princesses and pandas, Doras and Diegos, butterflies and Batmans...you get the idea. Everyone was having a great time.

Until that one kid showed up. You know, the one dressed as an extra from 28 Days Later, all blood and gore and festering wounds. Once he crashed the party, all the excitement of dress-up and Jack-O-Lanterns and Trick-or-Treat promptly disappeared, as 19 preschoolers peed themselves in unison upon the realization that Halloween isn't all puppy dogs and ice cream. It's meant to be scary, dammit.

As you can imagine, Mrs. Maguire was none to pleased about this. Nor were the rest of the parents. They were the ones left holding the bag, desperately attempting to salvage Halloween for 19 traumatized, pee-stained kids.

And I've gotta' say, I couldn't agree with Mrs. Maguire more. As a new dad, the potential for this kind of situation in my near future infuriates me. If anyone is going to emotionally scar my son by exposing him to stuff he shouldn't be exposed to, it's going to be me, godamn it, not some other unfit parent.

That's why I plan to indulge Ryan's every desire to watch any scary movie that intrigues him, regardless of his age or its level of appropriateness. It's much better to have him ease into a lifetime of debilitating phobias while in the comfort of his own home rather then have them thrust upon him while he's bobbing for apples at his preschool Halloween party.

Phobias like these:

The Clown From Poltergeist

There are a lot of scary movies out there, with many a disturbing scene, but for my money there is no more crippling fear a kid can develop then the realization that when you least expect it, something as seemingly innocuous as a stuffed clown can flat out wreck your shit while you sleep.

In case you've forgotten the movie, here's the clown in it's not-yet-possessed-yet-still-exceedingly-creepy state.

I was seven when Poltergeist came out. I had a stuffed clown hanging from a shelf in my bedroom. You can see where this is going.

Each night before bed, I would turn that clown around so it faced away from me, and every time I opened my eyes, I fully expected it to have gone missing. Every shuffle, squeak or creaky floorboard I heard throughout the night could only be that murderous clown, slowly making its way from the shelf to my bed and preparing to unleash hell. And if I dared to look...well, we all know how that ended for the kid in Poltergeist.

Eventually, I toughened up, waited until the light of day, and hid the clown in my sister's room. Let her deal with it.

The worst part of being subjected to Poltergeist at such a young age wasn't so much the sudden fear of clowns as it was the newfound distrust I quickly developed towards all of the inanimate objects I harbored in my bedroom closet. If a freaking clown could be the end of me, what about those toys better equipped to do some serious damage? Curious George, is that you? GI Joe? Hungry Hungry Hippos????

The Twins from The Shining

You know, for the first hour or so, The Shining really isn't all that frightening. Then Danny Torrance decides to go for a little cruise on his Big Wheel, and stumbles upon these two.

Meet the Grady twins; loving daughters/brutal axe-murder victims of Charles Grady, the former caretaker of the Overlook. They want Danny to come play with them forever...and ever...and ever.

If you saw The Shining before the age of 17 and claim that this scene didn't 1) leave you terrified of identically-dressed twins, and 2) forever change your expectations when you turned the corner of a hotel hallway, then I'm calling bullshit.

The truly debilitating aspect of this Shining-induced phobia is that it doesn't fade with time. Any reasonable adult will eventually come to realize that they probably won't suffer death-by-stuffed clown, but you can never be absolutely certain what previously went down at that Motel 6 you just checked into.

Sweet dreams.

The Shower Scene in Psycho

There's an episode of The Simpsons where Homer, in an attempt to cheer up a despondent Mel Gibson, tells him, ''Before Lethal Weapon 2, I never thought there could be a bomb in my toilet, but now I check every time."

If you've seen Alfred Hitchcock's original Psycho, as I did as an impressionable 13-year old, you know where Homer's coming from. I haven't showered while home alone since 1988 out of fear of being viciously stabbed by a cross-dressing lunatic. Adherence to this policy has kept me safe from harm, though it has made for some awkward elevator rides.

The real power of this legendary scene is that it forces you to accept that you aren't safe anywhere.  There you are, enjoying a hot shower, scrubbing your back, belting out your finest falsetto to that Aaron Neville-Linda Ronstadt duet you dig so much, when BAM...butcher knife through the shower curtain.

Now, by today's standards, these three movies are relatively tame. And that's what pisses me off about Mrs. Maguire's experience on Friday. Thanks to today's cinematic efforts, by the time he's seven, Ryan will very likely be terrified of a whole bunch of shit that I haven't even considered. God knows, if he stumbles upon Paranormal Activity on Starz one night he'll be sleeping in our bed until his late teens. He certainly doesn't need the rest of his classmates' help in introducing him to the concept of fear.

The lesson here is simple, yet so many parents seem to struggle with its implementation. If you want to be irresponsible and screw up your kid, by all means have at it, but kindly make sure you're screwing up only your kid. Don't go screwing up my kid. I can do an excellent job of that on my own, thank you very much.

Reason #427 Why We All Inevitably Grow Up to Subconciously Resent Our Mothers

It's A Celebration!! Lightly Read Blog Hits 200th Post, Author Applauded For His Abundance of Free Time

While Lauren's brother Freddy sleeps off the hangover induced by Saturday's ALittlePlaceCalled.blogspot.com's 200th Post Celebration Gala, I'm already hard at work, fulfilling my obligation to update friends and family on the mundane and trivial details of day to day life in the tiny mountain hamlet of Aspen, Colorado.

It's been a good run for this here blog. To give you an idea of the magnitude of its lifespan, when the inaugural post hit the interwebs in August of 2006, Lauren and I owned neither a house nor a dog, my brain was pleasantly titanium-free, and Ryan was but a twinkle in his daddy's pants.

All of that has changed, obviously, and we're thankful that much of what we've experienced over the past three years has been memorialized here, if for no other reason than to allow future generations to study our writings and gain some insight into our beautiful yet primative culture.

I don't always get to sit down and write as much as I'd like, and when a week or two goes by with no posts, the boy gets a bit concerned that he may be getting robbed of some time in the spotlight on the glorified Ryan-centric slideshow this blog has become. He's spoiled like that.

And if I've learned nothing else in the four months I've been a father, -- and I haven't -- it's that it's vital you give your child whatever they want, whenever they want it. See that, it worked!!

The best part of this philosophy of parenting is knowing that it will never, ever, come back to haunt me.

To be honest, I haven't had much time for the boy lately, what with my beloved Phillies making their second run to the World Series in as many years. The Nitti house has been filled with palpable angst over the past three weeks, and who's got time to deal with the incessant neediness of an infant when Jimmy Rollins is at the plate with two on and two out in the bottom of the ninth?



Speaking of which, one of the greatest things about the internet is that anything that can be done, has been done. For example, take this video where some bored yet innovative Phils fan dubbed the call of Rollins' walk-off double in Game 4 over the scene in Goodfellas where Henry Hill learns his boys pulled off the Lufthansa heist. Pure genius.

Similarly affected by the Phillies post-season run is this very happy, very blurry man, my brother Mike. I chronicled our mutual love affair for the Fightin' Phils here, and if you've already read it, it won't suprise you to learn that Mike and I shared the final three outs of the Phillies series-clinching Game 5 victory over the sacrificial lambs Dodgers via Skype. I took the opportunity to snap this still photo of our video call while Mike was in the midst of this standard celebratory gesture.

Not to get off on a tangent here, but if you live far away from family, Skype is a kick-ass tool to have. We've got our parents using the technology, and it helps them feel closer to the boy if they get to see him from time to time. Added bonus: if you've ever wanted to put to bed the age-old debate of religion versus science and prove Darwin's theory of evolution, simply hand one laptop to a 68-year old and another to a chimpanzee, and see who can get Skype working first. You'll find that we're not so different after all.

In between baseball games, we've been doing all the things families do. Here we are posing in front of my most recent investment, a pumpkin patch. The value has been skyrocking throughout October, and I expect it to peak right around Christmas. Then it's time to sell and watch the money roll in just in time for the holidays.

With all of the family time recently, I've developed a hypothesis that the long-rumored "maternal instinct" is nothing more than every woman's inherent desire to have someone in the house that she can:

A) dress to her specifications,
B) talk to throughout the day without having to be interrupted by a response, and
C) take photos of in various staged poses for the sole purpose of sharing said photos with her friends in exchange for photos of their kids in various staged poses.

Allow me to present Exhibit A:

Nineteen years from now, if my son gets arrested on the Wisconsin border with three dead hookers in the trunk of his car, this photo should be the first piece of evidence shown by the prosecution to establish motive. Who tucks a kid's flannel shirt into corduroy pants and thinks this won't have some sort of long-lasting effect on his mental state? I don't know much about parenting, but I do know this: doing this to your son can only end badly.

Exhibit B:



Look, I love my wife. She's beautiful and she's smart and she's caring, but she's no Margaret Cho, if you know what I mean.

/OK, you don't know what I mean. Fine, let's see you try and reference a funny female comedian. It's like trying to reference a white running back or monogomous ESPN analyst.

Anyway, who can blame Lauren for wanting that type of audience? Five minutes with the boy and she's feeling like...Wanda Sykes? Kathy Griffin? Lisa Lampenelli? I give up.

And lastly, Exhibit C:

Allright, I'll admit, this one is pretty cool, although Maci doesn't look all that pleased with her new role as baby prop. Within minutes of this photo being taken, it was traveling through cyberspace to Lauren's collection of baby-mama friends, to be ogled and rated as to its level of cutenesss. Verdict? Damned cute.

I've tried to figure out an appropriate way to celebrate reaching post #200, but nothing really comes to mind. When a long-running TV show reaches some arbitrary milestone, it invariably offers up some sort of quick retrospective/musical montage to mark the moment and highlight some of the show's more entertaining moments. Since that concept doesn't work particularly well with the written word, I've decided just to rip off The Simpsons again. Enjoy!!

The Three Fallacies of Fatherhood

People are full of shit. No, no...not you. You're a straight shooter. I was talking about everyone else.

If it wasn't bad enough that I spent Lauren's entire pregnancy being pestered with a million iterations of the same unanswerable question, ever since Ryan's arrived, people have felt the need to offer their unsolicited nuggets of wisdom as to what it means to be a father. At first I listened, since I knew dangerously little about what I'd gotten myself into. But now that I'm four months in, I can pretty safely call bullshit on a lot of what I was told. So for those of you soon-to-be-first-time-fathers, take heed.

Fallacy #1: "Having a Kid Changes You, Man"

I used to hear this one quite a bit before the boy showed up, and I must confess, I started to look forward to the potential for a forced transformation. The way I figured it, I could stand a good personality overhaul more than most. From the way people made it sound, as soon as Ryan popped out, I'd be bawling at Kay Jewelers commercials, doffing my cap to strangers, and generally -- to quote Clark Griswold -- whistling Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah out of my asshole. Needless to say, none of that happened.

That's not to say parts of who I am haven't changed. For example, before I became a dad, I rarely carried around an L.L. Bean bag containing used diapers. So that's new. But I don't think much else about me is different. Best I can tell, I'm still the same selfish, anti-social guy I was June 1st. Only now, I'm a selfish, anti-social guy with a kid. Which means there's a 50% chance he'll grow up to be selfish and anti-social, which kind of sucks for Lauren. Circle of life, I guess.

Fallacy #2: "Enjoy Every Minute of It. They Grow Up So Fast!"

Oftentimes, people say things merely because they believe they're supposed to say them. Some common examples include:

a) "What a lovely home you have here!"
b)  "You have beautiful children!"
c) "You're a great gal. I'll call you sometime.....now can you help me find my pants?"

It's the same situation with Fallacy #2. It seems every parent I know has warned me just how quickly time goes by with a baby, and how Ryan will be all grown up and applying to several small liberal arts colleges before I know it. These people are very, very wrong. The boy is four months old, and I can say with confidence that it's been the longest four months of my life. Do you know why?

BECAUSE I DON'T SLEEP ANYMORE.

/Turns and shakes fist at boy. Boy appears unfazed.

Remember that one time when you went a little crazy, stayed out until 3AM on a Wednesday night, and went to work the next day really, really hungover? I'm willing to bet that day didn't exactly sprint by, now did it? Of course not. The days absolutely drag when you're exhausted. I clearly remember a Tuesday in early August that lasted 43 hours.

Of course, that's just my subjective view of why life has crawled since we had the boy. We can also look at this from a  purely mathematical perspective.

For the better part of my adult life, I've slept somewhere between 8-12 hours per night. That comes to, on average, 70 hours of my week spent in a state of blissful rest. Time flies when you're sleeping. You go to bed, your body recovers, your mind rests, you travel to far off places and solve mysteries or arm wrestle Yoda or whatever it is you do, and the next thing you know, it's morning. Sleep rocks.

Take away that sleep, however, and there's nearly twice as much time per week you've got to find a way to kill. Essentially, your conscious life has instantly doubled. Does that sound like a good way to speed up time to you? 

Fallacy #3: "The Birth of Your Child Will be the Best Day of Your Life"

Prior to Ryan's birth, I'd been alive for 12,000 days, give or take a few. That's plenty of time to fit in a memorable moment or three. Now, I've given this a lot of thought, and with apologies to my wedding day, college graduation, and that time I found a twenty wedged between the couch cushions, the best day among those 12,000 came on Saturday, September 29th, 2001.

I had just finished a week of work at a client site in Portland, Oregon, and while I was free to head home to Denver for the weekend before returning on Monday morning,  the events of three weeks prior had added the very real possiblity of being flown into a large building, so I made the sensible decision to stay put and spend my two off days in the Pacific Northwest.

On Saturday morning, I woke in my Westin hotel room at 9AM, just as the first games of the day were kicking off. I flipped on the TV, cranked up the A/C, and drew those wonderful hotel double blinds, leaving my room darker than Wesley Snipes and colder than Ted Williams' head. Over the next twelve hours, while never venturing outside my self-created cave, I managed to win $900 during an 11-1 stretch betting on college football while spending roughly the equivalent of my company's money gorging on room service, before finally falling asleep bloated and happy in my Heavenly bed at 8:30 PM. Now that, my friends, is a good freaking day.

Lets compare this to Ryan's birth.

After a semi-panicked late afternoon phone call from my wife, we went to the OBGYN and found out we'd reached the point of no return. I dropped Lauren off at the ER, then drove forty miles round trip in an apocalyptic thunderstorm to retrieve our stuff for the hospital stay.

By the time I got back to the delivery room, Lauren was in active labor. For the next 13 hours, I alternated between being scared shitless for my wife and scared shitless for my soon-to-be-born son, separated only by brief moments where I was scared shitless that I was going to go into cardiac arrest from being scared shitless for so long. Two days after Ryan was born, I got an EKG because I was convinced I'd had a minor heart attack during the delivery. Sadly, I'm not joking. Sounds like a great time, doesn't it?

Don't get me wrong, the moment of birth is magical. It's everything it's cracked up to be. But unfortunately, that moment lasts for all of  forty seconds, or roughly until the time you notice the team of doctors surrounding your child and wielding ominous looking instruments, taking all sorts of measurements and speaking in hushed tones.

Look, having a son is awesome, there's no doubt about that, and I'm extremely excited for the future. But if you think having a kid is going to turn you into a better human, save your marraige, or make those 9-5 shifts down at the cracker factory fly by, you're barking up the wrong tree. Have a child because you and your wife/mail-order bride/lifemate think you're prepared to provide a loving setting and a wonderful opportunity for some lucky kid, not because you think that kid will fix all of your problems.

That's what booze is for.

Summer in New Jersey: In Pictures

To paraphrase the sarcastic train station ticket clerk in Dogma, never underestimate the staggering drawing power of the Garden State. Each year since our move to Aspen, Lauren and I have spent late June through early August reconnecting with the family back in Jersey. This year was no different, only due to the arrival of the boy, we pushed our trip back a month and a half and stayed through late September. On second thought, I guess that means this year was a little different, huh?  Perhaps that last sentence didn't make any sense.

Anyhoo, the following pretty much sums up our trip:


July 28th: After a three-day visit from my parents -- shown here perched atop the 11,300 foot summit of Ajax Mountain -- Maci, my old man and I pile into the Pathfinder for the 30-hour jaunt across country. My mom, Lauren, and Ryan fly out two days later and meet us in New Jersey. Normally, you'd think a leisurely drive across country would be infinitely less stressful than cramming oneself into a tiny seat for a four-hour flight with a screaming six-week old infant, but then you've never driven with my father. To put it kindly, he struggles with driving at night. And in the morning. And during the day. It's not nearly as much an indictment of his age as it is his attention span.

July 30th: We reach our destination. Lauren hands the boy over to one of the grandparents. We won't see him again for eight weeks, but by all accounts, he was pretty well behaved.

August 1st: A mere 72 hours after my arrival, I inexplicably break out in hives that cover my face and leave me bearing an uncanny resemblance to Patrick Dempsey in Outbreak. The doctor asks if I've been exposed to any possible environmental allergens specific to New Jersey. I suggest Axe Body Spray and Ed Hardy t-shirts. The doctor doesn't laugh.

August 2nd: Lauren's birthday. Nobody seems to notice, as everyone is engaged in a heated discusssion regarding which family member the boy's ears most closely resemble.


August 3rd: The boy's first day on the beach, resting happily in the arms of his Aunt Karen. Not pictured: Karen's three kids, who were found a short time later playing in heavy traffic. 
 

August 8th: Ryan enjoying the calming effects of his "binky." Fascinating father fact #17: Once you have a kid, your daily vernacular will become dotted with words like "fussy' and "binky" that leave you sounding extremely gay sissified less than masculine. Yet the mere existence of that kid is the single greatest proof of your heterosexuality that you'll ever possess. Ironic, isn't it?




August 15th: Maci, tired of dealing with the oppressive heat and the indignity of having to poop in a backyard comprised entirely of tiny rocks, seeks refuge in her new favorite pastime, driving in the Jeep.

August 29th: If you've ever visited Facebook, then you know full well just how unforgiving and unrelenting the duties of a new martyr mother can be. Here's Lauren, frantically trying to keep up with her many responsibilities.

September 7th: My thoughts on Gap's infant line are similar to Millhouse's reaction to the lyrics he was asked to sing after joining a boy band, "Nobody told me there would be boasting."

September 14th: Maci, taking out her summer of frustration on an unsuspecting tennis ball.

September 20th: Here's Ryan, briefly possessed by the spirit of Vigo the Carpathian, a sadistic 17th century tyrant. Luckily, his baptism was scheduled for later in the day, so an emergency exorcism was held at the church. THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  What a day.

Mere hours later, here's Ryan dressed like  Liberace an angel on his big day and accompanied by his Godmother, Lauren's sister Christine. Not pictured: Christine's two kids, who were found a short time later burglarizing the local 7-11.

September 23rd: Maci pays homage to her fallen favorite actor, Patrick Swayze, and gets barreled by some hurricane surf. Look at it! It's a once in a lifetime opportunity, man! Let me go out there and let me get one wave, just one wave before you take me in. I mean, come on man, where I am I gonna go? Cliffs on both sides! I'm not gonna paddle my way to New Zealand! Indeed, Bodhi. Indeed.

September 24th: The boy spends the morning doing a photo-shoot for Baby Gap Gymboree our fridge.

September 27th: My brother-in-law Rob, shown here while being smoked by yours truly at the 2005 Lake Lenape triathlon, hops into the car with Maci and me for the three day trek back to Aspen. Lauren, after freeing the boy from his grandparents during a brief but spirited wrestling match, flies out two days later and rejoins the family in the mountains of the Western Slope.

September 30th: Reunited and it feels so good.

It's great to be back. More posts soon.

Nitti Family Trip Report #1: Hunter Valley

Five weeks into our son's life, Lauren and I were starting to wonder what all the fuss was about. Ryan was sleeping relatively soundly through the night, keeping his projectile vomiting to a minimum, and had taken to the boob and bottle with equal aplomb. Things were good.

Until this Tuesday, that is.

Up to that point, Ryan hadn't really done any crying without some obvious genesis to his complaint. With infants, it's typically pretty simple: if they're pissed off, they either need to sleep, eat, or be liberated from the pile of shit they've been sitting in for the past thirty minutes. Hard to blame 'em.

But on Tuesday evening, Ryan let loose with an unprovoked crying fit that would've risen Michael Jackson from the grave, had that hadn't already occurred three days after his death. Wait...what? You say MJ hasn't been resurrected and taken his place at God's right hand? Are you suggesting his measure as a man may have been grossly overstated in light of his early death? Balderdash, I won't hear it.

Anyway, the kid didn't stop for four freaking hours. Nothing helped: not the pacifier, not a feeding, not the highly acclaimed "Five S" technique. He just screamed and screamed and screamed, regardless of what we did. If you've never been fortunate enough to have been exposed to this type of relentless, high-pitched wailing, I assure you, it's excruciating on the ears. Try to imagine a chimpanzee playing a violin...with a diseased cat. All. Night. Long. By the third hour, I was pondering the benefit my impeccable police record might have on any sentence I'd receive when I snapped.

This scene repeated itself on Wednesday evening and into the wee hours of the night, so Lauren and I paid a visit to the pediatrician Thursday morning. The diagnosis? Ryan was "fussy." Now, describing what I witnessed as "fussy" is akin to labeling Adam Lambert as "slightly effeminate," but she's a doctor and I'm not, so what are you gonna' do.

That night, Lauren and I nervously awaited the inevitable eruption, but it never came. Ryan was back to being his well-behaved, rational self. You'd think we'd be pleased with that, but in a lot of ways, the damage had already been done. We were left with the knowledge that our kid has this in him, and that's a terrifying thing. Every time he cries for the next few years, we're going to go into a panic, wondering if it will last five minutes or five hours. Thanks for that, buddy.

To reward the boy for pulling it together, we thought it was time he get out into the wilderness for his first hike. We opted for the Hunter Valley, since we could park up high and avoid some of the more precarious climbing and descending that could potentially cause a tumble and leave me forever disowned by my inlaws. From our chosen start, it's a rolling hike through a pristine valley; a perfect place for my son to get his first taste of the beauty the mountains have to offer.

With Ryan strapped squarely to my chest, Lauren was responsible for Maci and the photographs. Here's an idea of the landscape:

Lauren reconnecting with her first child.

Dad playing the role of sherpa, short lining Ryan along the trail. It was 80 degrees and sunny as hell, so we kept the boy adequately shaded.

The Hunter Creek.

Wildflowers are in full bloom.

Lauren, Maci, and some more wildflowers.

Maci's not used to being on a leash in the wilderness, but she did pretty well.

On the return hike, you get a killer shot of the Elk Mountains, in all their splendor.

We hiked for an hour, then loaded up the car to head into Aspen for the Saturday market. Here's a shot towards Ajax from Red Mountain road.

Back at the house, Lauren and I got to work on readying for the upcoming Nitti family field trip to NJ. Maci? She had other plans.