Imagine That...

What do Bradgelina and I have in common?

One of this blog's most avid readers and probably it's biggest fan (other than dad) is my dear friend from high school - Sharon Friedman. Yeah, we go way back. In high school, we would joke that one day we would get married and have seven children. They would be named after the seven dwarfs and their middle names would be the Spanish days of the week. Happy Domingo and Sleepy Miercoles were my favorites. Sharon found herself rather partial to Doc Martes.

Little did she know that I actually made the same suggestive-of-a-promise throw-away remark to a whole host of other female debutantes at Hollywood Hills High School, (much to their collective chagrin) thereby negating any reality that it may in fact one day come true.

But I digress. I've received numerous appeals from this so-called dear friend of mine to "please, please write a blog and at the very least mention me" over the course of coming up with things to write about. Often it's hard because we don't really share the same experiences since we don't live anywhere near one another and she often ignores my pleas to have her come visit me here in Tejas. Well, finally destiny prescribed by The Universe and the good people at Yahoo People have provided a reason for a much over due shout out. (How the heck did you find this out anyway? Are you stalking them out there in Pennsylvania?) (Sharon lives in suburban Philadelphia these days with her actual soon-to-be-husband, Greg. They haven't had any kids yet...)

Anyway, what is particularly amusing to me about this article is that it unequivocally parallels Fallingwater's last known run-in with an outrageously popular celebrity...which was, like totally documented on this very blog!

Let's review the coincidental circumstances that have created a special bond between Brad Pitt, Tom Hanks, and myself:

1. Brad, Tom, and I all share a particular fondness for the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright.

2. Both Brad and Tom chose to celebrate their respective birthdays this year at Fallingwater. True, I wasn't there on my birthday, but have for the past several years held feast for the long dead Frank Lloyd Wright on his birthday.

3. Brad, Tom, and I have each met Cara Armstrong (mentioned in the Yahoo article) who serves in the very distinguished role as Fallingwater's Curator of Buildings and Collections - which is probably the best job title anyone can have, really. Now, Tom just met Cara Armstrong in passing on his visit, and while Ms. Armstrong was not the guide for either of the two Fallingwater tours I went on during my week long stay, she did provide me a rare glimpse into the Fallingwater Collections Vault, which she so didn't do for Mr. and Mrs. Pitt. (So there Bradgelina.)

4. Interestingly enough. As rumor has it. Both Tom and Brad are vying for the lead role in the now-in-pre-pre-production Hollywood Biopic film portrayal of Wright's life. I actually can't see either of these gentleman as The Frankinator, but can't help but throw my support behind the third nominee, whom I am told is none other then Johnny Depp. Literally there is a puddle of glee under my chair right now just from thinking about it.

5. Out of the three of us, no one is still married to the first girl proposed to. Granted I haven't ever gotten married for real yet, but I think it's a note-worthy item of coincidence. Plus, it brings this sorry excuse for a long-awaited blog post full circle.

I don't have any insightful cosmic hints about what any of this means, but be assured that when Johnny Depp makes his pilgrimage  to FW, I will take a stab at trying to come up with what we have in common. A mutual crush on Winona Ryder when we were younger? An affinity for Tim Burton films?  The whimsical fantasy of having been a pirate in a former life fathered by Keith Richards?

The Name Game or By Benjamin Frank Lynn

High School sure does seem like a lifetime ago. For me it began just about eleven years ago. At that very beginning, I went by a different name. My given name. And then, no more than two weeks in, that all changed.

Benjamin Lynn was small for his age, even for a freshman.

Benjamin Lynn rode the bus to Hollywood Hills High School everyday.

Benjamin Lynn was not so keen on studying algebra.

Benjamin Lynn was in marching band. He played the bass drum.

Though it now seems cliche and uninteresting, those few statements above were alot of what defined me at the time. I had no idea that my high school life was about to become far more dynamic. I was about to have a secret. It was something that only my closest of friends would be told under blood oath.

It all started one sunny afternoon at band practice. The rest of the band was rehearsing the marching line formations for the drum feature during our halftime show. The drill instructed that the drum line stay put. This fortunately meant that we got to put our heavy drums down for the bulk of practice and bask in the sun, seated beside them. I chose to use the time wisely and rehearse my rudiments on the pavement.

Jeanne and Michelle were best friends who also played bass drum. They usually were pretty nasty to me, which I didn't pay much attention to. They sat on either side of me and decided, since we were all freshman and new in the band, that it might make for an interesting activity to learn everyone's name. They pointed out in the seemingly endless lines of flutes, tubas, clarinets, and trumpets with cooperative effort, and came up with everyone's first name.

They seemed a tad disheartened when this task didn't take up nearly as much time as they had hoped. So with incessant giggling, they opted to go at it again, this time with last names. This proved to be a slightly more challenging activity. Whenever they were stumped, Traci, our drum captian (a junior) would offer assistance.

When that was finally complete, they partially joked about the utter futility of guessing everyone's middle names. Even though they were only certain of four or five, they seemed ambitiously determined. "Ben!" - Jeanne screamed.

Paradiddle Paradiddle Flam Flam Flam. I just ignored them. "Ben! What's your middle name," Michelle insisted.

I rolled my eyes, and turned to her pretending to be mildly disturbed. "Yes?"

"Ben blank Lynn. What is it? What's your middle name?"

I paused briefly and then uttered the one syllable which was to become my high school legacy.

"Frank," I stated firmly.

"Ben Frank Lynn," Jeanne repeated. "Benjamin...Frank...Lynn!"

"Hey! Oh my God Ben! That is so cool!"

"Benjamin Frank Lynn! Ha ha ha ha! I get it. You're parents are funny."

I should mention at this point in the story that Frank is not my given middle name. I had made the connection of how clever it would be if it was, years before. I wasn't a lying freshmen band nerd, and fully intended on breaking the news to Jeanne and Michelle after practice when the joke by then, surely would be stale.

However, my little joke spread like wildfire. Before I new it, everyone was approaching me asking me if "Frank" was really my middle name. Everyone had told everyone and everyone told everyone and everyone told their mother. Everyone at school seemed to know the next day too. They all seemed to get such a kick out of it and I was suddenly and unexpectedly popular. I was doomed.

It all got a little out of control a little too quickly. I did what anyone would do. I went with it. For three years.

I never quite perpetuated the lies myself. It was always a circumstance like someone introducing me to their friend, "This is Ben. Oh! His last name is Lynn. And his parents gave him the middle name of Frank! Isn't that cool?"

"Why yes! Benjamin Frank Lynn... that is rather neat."

What I always found unusual is that more often than not, after say, their first reaction to how "neat" or "cool" it was, people would always ask -- "Did your parents do that on purpose?"

And I think, no wait, I KNOW that had they (or anyone else's parents for that matter) actually been clever enough (since my parents are certainly quirky enough) to give me the middle name of Frank, then damn right it would have been on purpose!

Maintaining this secret was a bit more difficult then you might imagine. There was no turning back, really, I had to. All of my report cards and class schedules had my given middle initial printed on it. I don't know how it was in everyone else's high schools, but at mine it was common to share these documents with your friends and compare classes/grades. My given middle initial inconveniently does not start with "F". So, I either was forced to:

A) Scratch it out.

B) Take a hole puncher to the initial, and fashion the memo to look like it was just paper with a hole in it randomly.

C) Or just "accidentally loose" it.

The most clandestine operation to prevent exposure of my secret was that I had Benjamin Frank Lynn actually inscribed on my class ring, which was received in my junior year. Ha! That took care of any skeptics remaining.

Well, through the rest of my junior year and the summer before my senior year, including band camp, I continued to be Benjamin Frank Lynn. No one suspected anything different, and I expected (with a few minor adjustments on my part) to continue my little charade without too many kinks. Sadly, in first period, on the first day of my senior year, I WAS EXPOSED.

Somehow, through any number of possible scenarios (perhaps someone clued him in, by paying better attention to my name on official files, whatever) my band director, Mr. O'Farrill read off the the names for attendance during our AP Music Theory class.

"...Jennifer Houcek, Traci Lock, and...Oh! What's this? Benjamin <insert initial here> Lynn. That's odd."

Everyone glared at me. My face turned beet red. I was caught, unexpectedly. I had no good explanation. Clerical Error? Misprint? But... my uh... shucks!

Just as quickly as it had spread in the first place, everyone seemed to discover my horrible truth. And boy, were they PISSED. A dark cloud hovered over my senior year. There was a certain almost indescribable bitterness from what seemed THE ENTIRE school - at little ole me. Sure, it wasn't the worst thing in the world, but if you could imagine how much disappointment I caused. It wasn't all at once either, it kept happening and happening. Someone who didn't know would introduce excitedly me like they always had to others.

"Hey Danny, this is my friend Ben. Actually his full name is Benjamin Frank..."

And faster than lightening, some embittered soul would butt in and correct the situation. "NO! Well, actually it's not. HE LIED!" Everyone's smile would sink into sadness. I would turn away ashamed.

Maybe that's a little dramatic, but you get the idea. It actually wasn't so bad. True, I no longer had a cool name, but I resumed being myself again - entirely, truthfully, and completely.

Unfortunately, the consequence of this whole ordeal has been that my real middle name has lost all meaning to me. Its hard for me to even acknowledge it. My high school and college diplomas are respectively devoid of a middle initial. I avoid using it on any official documents I have to fill out.

When people now ask me my middle name, my response is:

"Well, I used to tell people that my middle name is Frank."

They usually give off a good chortle or two, and then ask me, "Really? What's you're real middle name?"

I simple smile, and coyly walk away...

SUBJECT A: Benjamin Franklin

SUBJECT B: Benjamin "Frank" Lynn

How Chocolate Can KILL You

One early evening during my senior year in high school, an undeniable yet familiar feeling came over me. That's right! I had an intense craving for chocolate. And like any junkie, I wasn't going to ignore it.

However, for some strange reason, the house was empty of all chocolate. Not a single stash of M&M's, Twix, Kit-Kat, or even one lonely Hershey Kiss. If I was going to get my fix, I was going to have to go out to get some. Lucky for me, there was a perfectly good candy aisle in the gas station a block away.

I put on flip-flops, grabbed a dollar in change and briskly walked to the Mobil station down the street and purchased a bag of M&M's, which have always been my favorite, except for the blue ones (but that's a different story).

On my return voyage, I thought how marvelous it was going to be to eat my M&M's. I couldn't wait. It was going to be glorious... But just as I was about to rip open the bag, two guys stepped out from behind a tree. The sun had gone down and I didn't notice them until it was too late.

These guys were bigger than I was, and looked intimidating in their black skull caps. "Hey kid gimme your wallet," the taller of the two demanded.

"What? Are you kidding me," I asked seriously. I didn't live in a particularly bad neighborhood. I wasn't accustomed to getting mugged. For a brief moment I considered the possibility that friends on mine from the neighborhood were executing some kind of cruel hoax.

"Really kid, gimme your money."

Okay, apparently they were serious. It occured to me that I didn't have any money to give them, as I had just spent the change I brought with me on candy. I reasoned with them. "Look, I don't have any money. I just walked to the gas station to buy this packet of M&M's. Its all I have. If you'd like, I'll share them with you," I suggested attempting to lighten the situation.

The seedy-looking pair just kind of looked at one another blankly, clearly having not anticipated this scenario. I took it as a cue to make my escape and turned to walk away.

The one doing all the talking then grabbed my wrist. Clearly, I wasn't going to get off that easy, and they did not intend to go away empty handed. "Gimme your chain, you stupid kid." I had a sterling silver chain around my neck with a frog charm dangling about. My friend Tamara had given it to me for my birthday, it had sentimental value. I wasn't in any position to part with it. Well, I suppose I was actually. I did a swift mental survey of the mess I was in, and came to the conclusion that if concealed weapons existed, I would have encountered them by now. I decided to at least do my best at a surprise distraction and an abrupt bolting away.

"LOOK!" I pointed behind them, suddenly. "The goodyear Blimp!" And with that, I ran...

Me and my flip-flops were no match for two bigger guys dressed for the occasion. I somehow managed to dart across the street where I was tackled to the ground and bludgeoned a few times in the head by a couple of fists. I felt my silver chain as it was yanked off my neck. I have a vague memory of my assultants running away behind a fence for a parking lot.

The big irony of this story is that when I regained the ability to comprehend what had just happened, I looked around. Right beside where I was beaten down on the corner was a prominent sign. It stated - WARNING CRIMINALS: NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH.

A few moments later, I was standing again. I brushed myself off and realized I was alive and that though things had gone awry, they hadn't gone as bad as they certainly could have. The best part about it was that somehow I had managed to hang onto my most coveted M&M's.

We'll get right on it. Right after you finish your M&M's.

A Frog Like Me

During my senior year of high school, I got a job working at PetsMart. I always liked the company because unlike other pet stores, they refused to sell dogs and cats claiming that there are already so many unwanted animals up for adoption. So instead, they provided space for these adoption agencies for free! <Insert shameless plug for the Humane Society here.>

At first, I was on the night and weekend Stock Team which usually meant that I was either lugging about bags of dog-food larger than I was or I was taking care of the "wet clean-up" on aisle 6 - surprisingly common since PetsMart encourages customers to shop with their pets. After two months or so, my aching back and urine soaked standard issue back-brace had had enough! And I was delighted that my manager noticed this and transferred me to the "Specialty Department."

Working as a specialty associate was going to be great! I enthusiastically coined myself "Fishboy," being already quite the authority on the subject of freshwater tropical fish. But there were other animals to keep track of in the Specialty Department including chameleons, iguanas, hamsters, parakeets, snakes, crickets (which were my least favorite), and tree frogs (which were soon to become my favorite.)

More specifically, these were White's Dumpy Tree Frogs or Litoria Caerulea. They looked like this:

How can you not love that face? (Thank you Reptile Depot!) There was one frog in the glass-walled vegetated tank which sat upon our fish bagging counter, who developed a particular liking to me. I referred to him as the very creative and original "Frog". My little Frog had some interesting habits...

Every time I arrived to work, he would perk up and begin clawing (well, as best as a claw-less creature could) at the glass to get my attention. I found this to be rather unusual considering that frogs don't necessarily have a reputation of being loyal. Then during the course of my shift, Frog would blissfully perch himself on my shoulder as I carried out various tasks. Once and a while, I would spray him down with nutrient-enriched water which he, being an amphibian and able to absorb fluids through his skin, would enjoy thoroughly.

This continued for a number of weeks - Frog always brightening up my workday. By then, my fellow associates new better than to sell my Frog, for I had planned to purchase him and take him with me to FSU where he would provide me with much affection in a sea of otherwise unfamiliarity.

Then one day...

My friend Carolyn and I jumped on the bandwagon and saw the movie City of Angels starring Nicolas Cage and Meg Ryan, which everyone and their mother was talking about at school.

In the movie, Nicky Cage plays an Angel who's job it is to take folks to wherever it is they go when they die. And in the most  sappy way possible, I might add. Whenever he did this, he would ask the person what their favorite part about life was. For example, the little girl in the beginning said that her favorite part about life was flannel pajamas with little booties attached. Whatever.

Anyway, the movie theater happened to be in the same shopping plaza as my place of employment. And certainly, with a little convincing, Carolyn needed to be taken to PetsMart after the show despite the fact that it was my day off, so that she could be properly introduced to Frog.

As soon as we walked through the automatic sliding glass doors, one of the cashiers yelped, "Oh Ben, thank God you're here!" Before I could ask what all the commotion was about, my manager darted over saying something about my Frog. I'm not sure exactly how it was phrased, it being kind of a blur but she mentioned how it just didn't look so well and that it was just sitting on top of the little log in the tank and twitching.

Forgetting Carolyn, I raced over to the tank! Peering in, I could see that little Frog indeed did not look so good. You could see the pain in his big, bulging eyes as he utilized all of his remaining strength to properly greet me as exuberantly as he could - sitting up desperately - before he kind of keeled over off the log, plunging into the mud below.

It was all very traumatic, and as Carolyn dragged me inconsolably away, I can vaguely recall watching the lead specialty associate concoct some emergency amphibian mineral bath to save him with. Alas, all his effort was in vain. Poor Frog wasn't meant to make it. His time had run it's course.

Much to my chagrin and to the amusement of several of my horrible co-workers, I came to work the next day to find a disturbing surprise. They thought it would be quite funny to remove Frog's carcass from the plastic bag it had been put in with all the other "lost stock" in the freezer from the previous day and prop his little body upright on the log in his tank. As if this wasn't bad enough, they fashioned a little protest sign for him to hold with my name on it. It looked something like this:

The point they were so insensitively trying to illustrate was that I had killed him. That all my love and affection and taking him out of his tank where he was exposed to all kinds of pet store chemicals for him to absorb through his skin was somehow responsible for his untimely demise. Well, they were probably right...

Regardless, I am confident that when Nicolas Cage came to take my little Frog to Heaven and asked my little Frog what his favorite part about life was, that my little Frog would have said me.