Hot Hands

I am writing a message in a bottle.  I used to be able to sit at one of the few snobby cafes in my neighborhood and surf the net without any restrictions, but that is not the case anymore.  Yesterday, I ordered a cappuccino at In-House Cafe and stationed myself in a corner expecting to pour some thoughts into this forum, but, lo and behold, ACCESS FORBIDDEN!  It's now virtually impossible to visit major blogging sites, such as blogspot, from any place in Damascus.  Gone is the narcissistic pleasure of reading my own blurbs.

However, as the very presence of these words indicates, it is still possible to post via email.  And I ought to continue.

The wind is violent today, and patches of clouds cross through the sky.  Evenings are cool and dry--sweater and scarf weather.

When I was in the Istanbul airport about ten days ago, I stumbled upon a cache of memories from elementary school at Woodward Academy, and ever since I've been working actively to excavate these images and stories and what not because I'm so afraid of losing them.  Also, I have a new penpal (we were peers at Woodward), and I think our correspondences have also contributed to this surge of interest in the WA days.

Generally, "Lower School" was a horrible and miserable experience, peppered with moments of gratification.  Like the time I won $50 in Bingo on the fourth grade trip to Savannah, Georgia (I kept that fifty dollar bill clenched in my fist under my pillow that night), or the time that I won second place and a check for $750 in the National Invention Convention for "Hot Hands."

Three of us from the fifth grade were among the top sixteen young American entrepreneurs invited to Kansas City (which, I learned, straddles the border of Kansas and Missouri...which, I learned, is pronounced MissourAH).  We were driven around in Limousines and stayed at the Ritz Carlton (for free!), and I had to buy a bulky, gray Eddie Bauer sweater because it was so damn cold.

My invention was "Hot Hands," a pair of gloves which heated up when you shook them.  On my tri-fold poster board, there was a picture of my brother--sporting a pair of shit-brown Hot Hands.  His head was turned to the right, and he was looking at his (warm) hand with an expression of incredulous shock.  Underneath, the caption read, "The Glove Fits!"  Probably in the font, Impact.

I didn't come up with "The Glove Fits!"  My mother did.  The OJ Trial was still fresh on everyone's mind, and so the photo + caption indicated that I qua entrepreneur not only had a grasp of current events but also a biting sense of humor.

We had to make a commercial, too.  Like the tri-fold poster board, this item also featured my brother.  We stood in a harshly lit corner, and there was a tree behind us that, if you squinted hard enough, resembled a palm.  Donning our recently purchased neon ski jackets, my brother sang a specially-crafted rendition of Bobby McFarrin's "Don't Worry, Be Happy!" while my father whistled the melody from behind the camera lens.

My role in the commercial was to fill the half-note rest between "Don't Worry" and "Be Happy."  Flashing my jazz-hands to the camera in rhythm, I interjected, "Hot Hands!  Hot Hands!" just off-rhythm.

We thought it was clever.

When it played on the giant screen in the dining room of the Ritz Carlton in Kansas City on that fateful March evening, we knew: it was a gem, and, boy, were we happy.