Skelligrants

Happy Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T13:48:00.002-06:00

Today happens to be my favorite holiday of the year. I love that there is no hype, no expectation other than hang out with family and eat yourself into oblivion (if you so choose). Plus it gives me the opportunity to post this, the best Thanksgiving story ever, again. My mother is a wonderful person, and the fact that she readily admitted her "error" also shows what a great sport she is. Believe me when I say we laugh WITH her about this, not at her.

Happy Thanksgiving to all, especially Mom!

(The following was written in late November, 2004)

Is that a neck in your turkey, or are you just glad to see me?

I would like to apologize to my mother in advance, for being unable to resist the urge to tell this story...

My fiance and I had Thanksgiving dinner at my mother's home this year, with the rest of my family. My mother is an excellent cook and has prepared many wonderful holiday dinners throughout the years. This year was no exception.

Wednesday afternoon I was home as Mom placed the frozen turkey in the sink to began preparations to cook it. At one point as I was walking through the kitchen, I heard her say that something was missing.

I don't know anything about cooking turkeys.

I looked at the turkey in the sink. Mom had removed two packages from inside, which I assumed to be giblets and something else, a liver maybe, since it was dark. My mother and I then had the following exchange:

Mom: Doesn't it look like it is missing something?

Me: Um, the head? I hear they usually get rid of it before they sell them.

Mom: I mean from the inside. There should be something else.

Me: I don't know what's normally inside a turkey.

Mom: It's male parts, it's missing it's male parts.

Me: WHAT?

Mom: The male parts of the turkey aren't inside like they usually are.

Me: (Just now understanding what she is talking about) What? I'm never eating turkey again...

As I said before, I know nothing about cooking turkeys. I can identify the parts of the turkey after it is cooked, but I have no idea how one is packaged. So I did a little research and found that when you buy a turkey, there is supposed to be a package inside containing the giblets and the liver, and also the turkey neck. For all I knew before, I thought the neck was still attached and you just cut it off when you prepared the bird. I don't even know what the point of including the neck is.

Then it hit me.

My mother, who later told me that she has been cooking turkeys for over 40 years, has always thought that the neck that is normally included inside the turkey was instead, um, "something else."

That something else being what puts the "Tom" in turkey.

This explains why the neck has never been part of a holiday meal in her house.

And why I will never not laugh at the sight of a turkey, live or dead, cooked or uncooked, again.

Don't stand so close to me

2010-10-25T00:31:00.002-05:00

Potentially, I may be about to tick off God, so be warned about lightning strikes.

Evan's baptism was Sunday. We had the christening in the chapel of the parish I attended when I was growing up. I had all of my "C" sacraments there-communion, confession, confirmation-and I bet I've attended close to one thousand masses there in my life.

But not recently. I have a tendency to encounter "falling out" situations with churches. I grew tired of this particular parish over a decade ago, because they played the city in which the parish is located for fools, acquiring a valuable piece of land (in the name of creating a "badly needed" parking lot) and demolishing an historic building. Guess what? The lot is nothing but grass, and has never been anything but. I have had a falling out with two other parishes in the area over what I believe are blatant political endorsements-more on this later, promise.

I digress. We went to this parish for the baptism for logistical and sensible reasons. My mother still attends this parish, and we thought it would be nice to have her third grandson baptized there (five of her six grandchildren have now been christened there-Desmond is the only one who was baptized elsewhere). I had no problem with going to back to this church.

We arrived at the church about twenty minutes before the start of the baptism, and I snagged a bulletin available in the lobby expecting to see our son listed with the other babies being christened there on this day. To my surprise, there was no mention of forthcoming baptisms.

I was a little disappointed but it was certainly nothing for me to be alarmed at. However, later in the bulletin, there was a half-page block of text, and it began like so:

"We remind our parishioners to vote, and to encourage others not just to vote, but to vote correctly. We all should vote and encourage others to vote for life."

The emphasis is mine. It took a few moments of conversation in my head to figure this out: Vote correctly? What the hell does that mean? And why does the parish want to make sure that I vote for the remainder of my life...wait a tic, that's not what it means. They're telling everyone to vote pro-life.

I wanted to leave. I wish I had the stones to say that I didn't want to be a part of anything this church participates in, but of course I didn't, and we had our son baptized, and I forgot about all this until we returned home.

Look, I understand the Catholic Church's position when it comes to abortion, and I understand why they are so passionate about it. Truly, that would never upset me, but I draw the line at them telling me that I need to vote Republican.

And let's be honest, that is what this was, an implicit endorsement of the GOP because it is the "pro-life" party. And it is completely wrong. As far as I'm concerned, this parish should have it's tax-exempt status removed for making a political endorsement.

(For the record, if there had been an implied message to vote Democratic for any one particular reason, I'd say that was wrong too. However I admit that it would not incense me the way this actual message does, because the entire abortion debate nauseates me.)

The Church is pro-life, and I am pro-choice. By the way, that does not mean that I am "pro-abortion." I wish there never had to be another abortion performed anywhere on this planet, and I am tired of pompous, holier-than-thou pro-life supporters who accuse those of us who are pro-choice of encouraging pregnant women to have abortions no matter the circumstances, like we are all population control freaks or something.

I am pro-choice for one and only one reason: I am a man. I will never know what it is like to be pregnant. I really don't think men should have a fair say in restricting a woman's personal choice.

Obviously, this is an extremely volatile topic, and I could write about it for the next year. To placate my disappointment, I am going to write the pastor of this church a letter expressing my distaste for seeing a thinly-disguised endorsement in the church bulletin. The church has no place in politics unless it wants to pay taxes. I will be respectful and courteous, but I won't feel better about this until I write him. I will be curious to see if he contacts me afterward.

One last point, and I can't express this in any other way, so let me apologize in advance for the way I say this. Have you ever seen a bumper sticker that says "You can't be Catholic and Pro-Life"? I see them around more and more these days, and when I do, I want to tape a large piece of paper next to the sticker and write in big, bold, block letters with a giant black permanent marker:

"The fuck I can't!"

G'night Stimpy

2010-10-04T23:14:00.002-05:00

So Bears quarterback Jay Cutler got sacked nine time in the first half of the team's 17-3 loss to the Giants last night, and I think I might know how Jay is feeling.

Am I equating sleep deprivation to being slammed to the Astroturf over and over? Yes. Yes, I am.

Seems lately that if I am not sleeping, I am thinking about sleeping. Yes, I'm thinking about it now. ZZZZZZ.

Evan will be two months soon, and he's a great baby. He has a witching hour, however, that lasts for more than an hour. It's closer to three or four, and it starts around midnight. I did not give birth to this baby. I did not go through the anxiety of knowing that there was something growing inside of me that would eventually have to be expelled. Or excised like a like a fly out of soup. I slept fairly comfortably from the time this baby was conceived until the time he was born.

Thus, I stay up with Evan during his witching hours. We go to sleep sometime before two and three in the morning. Evan is a ball to be around during his nighttime prowl-he's not fussy unless he's hungry-and I'd be lying if I said that I didn't enjoy the one-on-one time with him.

Did I mention that we have another son? Did I mention that he gets up every morning by 7? Did I mention that he creates about as much noise as a jet engine at takeoff?

I've taken more cat naps in the last eight weeks than I had in my life up to that point. I have fallen asleep while standing in the shower. While drinking coffee. While watching the first thirty minutes of Saving Private Ryan.

I'm sure on more than one occasion when I've been out in public lately someone has taken a look at me and thought "Yowsa, that guy looks horrible; he must feel awful."

Just the opposite. Sure, I'd love to be sleeping more (or writing more) but if I have to be lacking in sleep, let it be on account of my boys. These days wont last forever.

Six pounds later...

2010-09-02T01:17:00.002-05:00

We're alive. The baby was born on August 12th at 8:55 AM, and we named him Evan. He's thriving. Big Brother Desmond is thriving. And we are tired. Really, really tired.

Did I mention that we are tired?

No complaints though. The surreal feeling that comes with doubling the number of kids in our house has finally worn off, and I no longer anticipate the knock at the door that brings an official-looking person who tells us that this is all a mistake, that this child is not ours. Parenthood 2.0 has officially left the beta stage.

Every single time in the last three weeks, when I have tried to write here, Evan wakes up. It just happened again two minutes ago. As I took him upstairs to Kristen for a feeding I told myself to come back and at least write something.

Something.

More later. Promise. There's a lot to say about this new kid.

My new hero

2010-08-11T08:45:00.003-05:00

One thing I absolutely love about the Internet is when it delivers pure liquid gold.

Like this video, for instance:

The woman in orange is my new hero. The banner she is standing next to says "Worst Governor Ever." I have a minor complaint: it should say "Worst Half-governer Ever."

What the hell is Sarah Palin wearing on her feet? Are those Caribou Barbie boots? And clearly, Bristol has been working on her sign language, given her use of international symbols when she defends her Grizzly Mama as "defending United States."

24 carat!

Six months later...

2010-08-07T22:04:00.004-05:00

So I took half a year off. And now the layout of this blog is blue.

Speaking of blue, there's about to be another boy in our house. Come Wednesday the size of our clan is doubling. Circumstances beyond our control means our son will be "plucked" instead of going through a natural childbirth, so we know exactly when he's going to be born.

The idea of having two kids? Surreal. More than surreal. It was surreal thinking about having a child when we were waiting for the arrival of our first, a little more than thirty months ago. Thinking about having another is almost beyond the realm of my comprehension.

I may not sound thrilled. I assure you that I am.

We feel like we are ready for this, since we've been through the newborn experience before. The difference this time is that we know that we aren't going to sleep. The first time, we had no idea how much sleep we would lose with a newborn in the house. It was a lot. Being sleep deprived soon became as normal as breathing and eating, though I will forever be surprised by just how much my intelligence waned during that period. About a month after Desmond was born, if you had asked me how much two plus two was, I would have said fifty-six.

Two kids. When I was a kid, a family with two kids was small. Now it seems huge. I look at our house and deem it too small. I wonder if I will ever have a day when I don't trip over a toy or a laundry basket. How old will I be when I no longer hear the Thomas the Train jingle over and over and over and over...

We aren't going to name this child until we see him. I had the name of my first son picked out ten years before I ever met my wife, so I let her choose names this time, with the caveat that I wouldn't support a name that I really, really disliked. And there were a few of them.

I'm thinking "Rabo", which would only make sense if you've read Kurt Vonnegut.

I do plan on visiting these parts a little more often than I have so far this year.

Who Dat? No, really, who is that?

2010-02-07T16:03:00.004-06:00

If you twist my arm and force me to pick, I'll go with the Saints to win the Super Bowl, but this is one of those years when I'm fine with either team winning. I just want to see a good game.

A bigger issue for me is the fact that The Who are the half-time entertainment. My reaction when I first heard this was "WTF?"-with the 'W' standing for 'Who' instead of 'What'-because The Who doesn't really exist in a modern form anymore. Unless Keith Moon and John Entwistle come tumbling out of the Miami sky, what you'll see at half-time ain't gonna be The Who.

I love The Who. Have since I was thirteen or so, whenever "Faces Dances" came out. And what a treasure it was to realize a few years later that that was far from their finest work, and that there was a whole trove of earlier stuff to discover.

And I love what Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend have done together and alone, both when the Who was still whole and after. Townshend's "White City" is my favorite album of all-time. But they are 65 and 64, respectively, and for the life of me, I can't figure out what they are doing performing at half-time of the Super Bowl.

Uh oh...follow me to...the horror.

The game is being televised by CBS!!!

The game is being played in Miami!!!

DO YOU SEE WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!?!?!?!

Three...is a magic number.

1. CBS has three "CSI" shows-Las Vegas, New York, and (gulp) Miami.
2. All three shows have opening theme songs written and performed by...The Who.
3. Super Bowl half-time shows are usually three songs long.

If the half-time show by The Who today are "Who Are You" (theme for Vegas), "Baba O'Riley" (NY) and "Won't Get Fooled Again" (Miami), I'm going to be physically ill.

Well, spit: I just went to The Who's Wikipedia page to verify the spelling of their songs, and there's a snippet at the end that claims "Pete Townshend says the band will play a medley of their hits consisting of "Pinball Wizard", "Who Are You", "Baba O'Riley", "Won't Get Fooled Again" and the finale of Tommy.

If you told me back in 1979 that this was going to happen, I'd've started listening to opera instead.

Merry Christmas

2009-12-23T12:30:00.005-06:00

Our family celebrations begin on the evening of the 23rd, so as things prepare to get rolling here in the Great Midwest, I bid the warmest of Christmas wishes to any and all who stumble upon this. Joy to the World, and all that.

The Ballad of Dr. Biff McSparkland

‘Twas the night before Christmas and on Santa’s sleigh

Was a jolly old man who had lost his way.

In the skies over New York there had been a great flash

Then into Rudolph’s side, a meteorite did crash.

The collision knocked out his nose of red light

Leaving him helpless to navigate this flight.

The sleigh then began to tumble and pitch

Leaving Santa to mumble “Son of a …Kringle!”

“Rudolph is hurt, he’s ruptured his spleen

Gotta find a place to land this thing!”

Far below Santa, a man drove alone;

Dr. Biff McSparkland, on his way home.

With no family or friends, he’d no plans the next day.

So after a night of sleep, he’d work Christmas away

At the hospital ER, tending to sickness and wounds,

And griping endlessly about cheesy Christmas tunes.

(Biff was unhappy and needed a change

But that’s a story for a time less strange.)

So on the road he drove, when he heard a great roar.

Great, he thought, another accident, no more!

Santa had landed his sleigh in a field.

(Remarkably without losing any of his great yield.)

Poor Rudolph lay on his side in great pain

For the space rock had caused much more than a sprain.

Santa, grief stricken, yelled “Now what do I do?

I can’t possibly treat such a large boo-boo!

Christmas is ruined! Oh those poor girls and boys!

And what will I do with all these toys?”

It was at this time that Dr. McSparkland arrived

And looking at Santa, said “what’s all this jive?

I heard your crash, is everyone all right?

And why are you wearing that? Your coat is too tight!”

Santa replied “We hit trouble over Schenectady!

And I fear poor Rudolph needs a spleenectomy!”

It hit Biff then, just how much he was needed.

“I’m a doctor,” he said. “Then help him!” Santa pleaded.

Biff did his thing, and Rudolph recovered.

(Minus one organ, but no less discovered.)

Next morning the toys were under the tree

While Santa, back home, remembered with glee

His pal, Dr. Biff, who had saved the day.

Next year he’d reward him in some special way.

Meanwhile Biff had gone home and rested,

then rose a little early, gone to the kitchen and tested

A new recipe that he had thought of last night

When he placed a small package in the fridge by the light.

So at work Christmas Day, Biff shared with his team

A new holiday tradition, the Roast Christmas Deer Spleen!

Happy Birthday, Desmond James

2009-12-22T00:53:00.003-06:00

(Warning: corny, yet touching video at the end of this entry!)

Yesterday (12/21) was Desmond's 2nd birthday. I was warned that as a parent time would just fly by, but it does seem like it has been two years. He's been around long enough that I struggle sometimes to remember what life was like before him. It was certainly much less active, and much less interesting.

I had been around enough children before he was born to form an idea of what parenthood would most probably be like. For the most part, it has been as I thought, with the exception of sleep. Kristen and I spent the better part of Desmond's first year in major sleep deprivation, and although we are not "in demand" at night as much as we used to be, neither of us has adjusted back to pre-parenting sleeping habits. She's had it rougher than I have, no doubt, but we would also both say that the change has been worth it.

Obviously, Desmond has changed a lot in two years. He looked exactly like me when he was born, and now he looks exactly like his mother. He used to fit into the crook of my arm like a sack of potatoes. Now I can barely lift his 35-pound body without feeling it everywhere. I miss the baby Desmond with all of my heart, but the little-boy Desmond is amazing, and I can't believe that I get to spend every day with this kid.

Desmond's personality exploded about two months ago. He hugs, he kisses, he gets excited whenever and wherever he sees his mother, and he expresses his individuality hundreds of times per day. It has been astonishing seeing the transition from a baby who relied on us for everything to a toddler who feels more confident about his place in the world with every passing day. Our life is not without obstacles; Des can be stubborn and resistant, and he has definitely discovered the emotion of anger recently, but it is all part of learning to live--I wouldn't trade the moments of impatience for anything--and we have to remember that a lot of life is facing challenges.

I still find it hard to believe at times that I am a parent, and I know that it is because I never thought about it growing up. Later, when I was an adult and living on my own, it just seemed like something that wasn't for me. Up until I met my wife in the spring of 2003 (when I was 36) I still didn't think I would ever get married, much less ever be a father.

Obviously, I am grateful to have been wrong about that.

I guess I would say that being a parent is hard, simply because at times the knowledge of being responsible for another life can be a little overwhelming. I've never regretted doing this, and I never will, yet I think of some of the challenges being a parent will bring in the future--normal things that will occur "down the road"--and I don't look forward to dealing with them.

Right now, Desmond thinks that I am the second-coolest person on Earth, but I'm willing to bet that in about ten years or so, his opinion might change. One day, maybe he'll think I'm too old to understand what it is like to be him. When I was a teenager, I didn't understand that the adage "with age, comes wisdom" was about the truest thing that has ever been said.

I'm a realist. Life isn't fair. People suffer, some through no fault of their own. You cannot create a world without angst. I want the best for my children, but know that there are forces at work that may keep it from them.

Right now? All I want for Desmond is to be healthy and happy, and to learn about the world around him. I want him to explore to his limit and develop a desire to learn, so that when he goes to school he really gets into it. I want him to create and imagine, and most of all, I want him to stay innocent.

Down the road, I want him to develop strategies for dealing with "the world." I'd love to be able to tell him that he will always be happy, that the sun will always shine, but life isn't like that, and I feel that I'd be doing him a tremendous disservice by not acknowledging it.

A good friend said to me recently that a parent "prepares the child for the path, not the path for the child." I agree wholeheartedly. Right now, I can control somewhat what life has in store for Desmond, but those days are waning fast.

I check on Desmond every night before I go to bed. Last night, I went upstairs after one, so it was already his birthday. He sleeps with a few of his blankets, and I noticed yesterday that he had wrapped two of them around his face. I moved them, and in his sleep, he tugged them back, wrapping them again around his face. After I moved the blankets for the third time, he woke up and gave me a look that said "What in God's name are you doing?" And then he smiled that smile, the one that says "Oh yeah, I recognize you. You're my Dad, and I love you." He reached out to me, and I thought, what the heck, it's his birthday, so I picked him up and we sat in the rocking chair in his room for twenty minutes.

Times where Desmond will sit still with me are few now, so I cherish any chance I get. He was half-asleep, and while sitting with me he rotated between yawns, rubbing his eyes, and smiling, the entire time holding on to my right index finger with his right hand.

Right after Desmond was born, I stood by him in the room while the nurses washed him and checked his signs. It lasted about ten minutes, and the entire time, he held onto one of my fingers just like he did last night. I remember feeling his grip then and thinking "I am in, for life. When you want to let go, let go. But it will always be there for you."

And I thought the same thing last night.

I love my son in such a way that I cannot describe, so I won't even bother. I feel like I was destined to be here at this time. Life has never had a greater purpose, and I've never understood it more. I only hope that it stays like this forever.

To my son: I love you unconditionally. I will do my best to prepare you for this world, but at times you will hurt, you feel anger, you will feel disappointment. It's normal. Hopefully those times are far outweighed by the joy that life can bring. Whatever path you find yourself on, I will always be there for you.

The Season of the Knuckle

2009-12-14T23:36:00.002-06:00

My father was not one to complain about something unless it bothered him incessantly. He had a certain way of ignoring annoyances until they either went away or stopped being annoying. It is a trait that I don't have.

So it is not difficult for me to remember something that he complained about: the knuckle on his right index finger. Every so often, it would swell up to almost twice its normal size with arthritis, and the slightest movement would cause him pain. His flare-ups would last less than a week, but when he was in the middle of one I'd hear him wince over and over throughout the day.

This is a trait that I do have. In the exact same finger. Three or four times per year it shows up on my digital doorstep and hangs out for a few days. Just last week I happened to realize that it had been a long time, more than a year, since the knuckle on my right index finger swelled up, looking like a pale pickle and stiff as three fingers of scotch.

I woke up this morning, went to scratch my head, and saw more stars than the Hubble Telescope. Sometime while I was asleep, my overdue visitor arrived.

My right index finger looks like an albino sausage.

It's literally impossible for me to move the finger without feeling like it is on fire, and simple tasks are rendered, well, not simple. Today (and for the next two or three most likely) I opened the refrigerator, dialed my cell phone, and did one hundred other menial, everyday tasks with my left hand.

Typing this is taking much longer without the use of my primary finger, and every time a different finger on my right hand hits the keyboard, the spike digging through my index finger plunges deeper and deeper.

It's a nuisance, but I'll live. Every time I feel stiffness or pain I am reminded of my father. I never experienced arthritis in the knuckle until a year or so after he died, and I've come to the point that I believe that maybe that wasn't just a coincidence, that a swollen, painful knuckle is a two-to-four day visit from my father.

Just trying to wiggle my finger now, the pain is excruciating.

I hate it and I love it. I want it to go away and I want it to last forever.

There's irony, and there's IRONY

2009-12-04T00:34:00.002-06:00

I got a rejection letter in the mail today from a literary journal to which I submitted a piece of writing.

The literary journal in question is published by the university where I received my MFA in 2008.

I was an editor of the literary journal's 2006 issue.

The rejection was a form letter, though written very warmly, and it's easy to see that the person who wrote it understands what it is like to be a writer. I think it is one of the best rejection form letters I've ever seen.

Of course, I'm biased.

I wrote the damn thing back in November 2005.

Getting used to disappointment

2009-09-30T23:15:00.001-05:00

More later.

Ah.....

2009-09-12T18:36:00.002-05:00

It's the finest Saturday of the year.

Why, you ask?

Michigan 38, Notre Dame 34.

I always enjoy the first ND loss of the season, so that we no longer have to suffer talk of ND winning it all.

(Sorry, Beth. It's nothing personal. And I'm even 100% Irish!)

Swing batter, batter! Swing, batter!

2009-09-07T13:21:00.003-05:00

I've been told more than a few times that there must be something wrong with me because I'm not particularly fond of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. What can I say? It just never appealed to me. It's not a bad film. I just don't think it's the classic that everyone else seems to think that it is. Why? I can't get past the whole idea that there is no way that Ferris, Cameron and Sloane can get everything accomplished in the time that they have before Ferris has to get back home to keep his ruse going.

Yes, I know, it's only a movie, but I have always had issues with movies that don't assume the person watching it can figure out when something is complete BS. More on that later.

Next week, a reporter from Chicago is going to try to re-create the events of the film, as the movie lines up with reality in a nice tidy row. He won't be the first to try this, either.

Given that it's 23 years later than the time of the movie, there's no way he's even going to come close to pulling this off. The Wrigley Field situation alone will ruin any chance.

I've thought about this a few times since the death of John Hughes (especially about this move, because I'll just say that I seem to be the only person who ever existed who doesn't fawn over it), and really, I just can't get over the fact that the viewer is supposed to believe that all this is possible. It's not, not even in 1986, and there are clues in the movie that let you know this. The Cubs game alone is enough to break it into a million pieces. A vendor mentions that it is the third inning, and in '86 Wrigley Field still didn't have lights, so every game started at 1:20. It'd be a stretch to say that it would be 2 PM by the time the game is in the third inning; it would be more like 2:30 at the earliest.

But the premise gets blown further to bits when the game is on TV (as is Ferris) and you clearly hear Harry Caray say that Lee Smith is pitching. Smith was the Cubs closer, so it would be the 8th inning at the earliest that he'd be on the mound, and quite possibly the ninth inning. That puts Ferris and the gang at Wrigley Field around 4 at the earliest. You think they're driving back to the North Shore, going through the stuff with Cameron wrecking the corvette, etc. in 90 minutes? No way.

I remember feeling this way the first time I saw the movie. And it's petty, sure, but it bothers me that someone didn't catch the infeasibility of all this.

I just hate when movies do this. Yes, I can accept the story of ET crawling out of the garage because you know it's a fairy tale going in, but I'm pretty sure that you wouldn't find Ferris Bueller's Day Off in the sci-fi section of your local video store.

You know what other "classic" movie drives me crazy with this stuff? Jerry Maguire. Decent movie until the last half hour, and then it just loses me. It starts when Rod Tidwell gets injured in the end zone and lays there for a while while Maguire is on the phoen with his wife, detailing how badly he is hurt. I can fathom that, I suppose. But then Tidwell recovers, hears the fans cheering for him, and proceeds to dance and strut all around the end zone. If someone tried that in actual game, someone from the opposing team would clobber him in about five seconds. And then when he got back to the sidelines, his coaching stuff would clobber him for doing it too.

And let's not forget the big revelatory moment when Rod is on a talk show and the host divulges the huge new contract the player has been offered. It's complete bull. No team, no agent, would ever allow something like that to happen.

That kind of stuff drives me crazy yes, can ruin a film for me. My brother is a pilot. You should hear him go on about the dozens of aviation moments in movie involving airplanes that are complete BS. The 747 blowing up at the end of the second Die Hard? Phooey. The rescue of the president in Air Force One? Bunk. I always say he should host the "Oh That Could NEVER Happen" Film Festival. He could have day one, I'd take day two.

Last night I was getting ready to go to bed when I got sucked into a movie called The Final Season. It's about a high school in Norway, Iowa that built a baseball dynasty, winning 20 championships before the school was closed due to enrollment issues. The film is about that last season, which was spring of 1991, which also happened to be my last semester before graduating from the University of Iowa. I remember hearing about the situation in Norway.

The film seemed true to the story, with some embellishments in it, of course. I doubt that the team really had an angry Chicagoan who happened to excel at the game move to the town just before the season started, among other things, but all in all, it was an adequate baseball movie that told a true story that also happened to be heartwarming: here was a school with a rich tradition of winning about to be gone forever. Could the team win one last title?

Norway does (and did) win, of course, but the recreation of the game is what killed the movie for me (again). I really, really, really doubt that in the last inning that a Norway player went up and over the wall to take a go-ahead home run away from the other team. I doubt that the stud pitcher on the other team was a prick who yelled at his players on the field "do I have to do everything myself?" I doubt that with the bases loaded and the winning run on third that a manager would have his batter bunt.

Wait, unless maybe the manager was...Ferris Bueller!

What's wrong with a little realism? Why make this movie and then turn it into a complete fantasy at the end? Does the average film maker think everyone in his potential audience is a complete moron?

I can hear the collective voice of the movie-watching public telling me to get over it. A movie is a movie, much like a novel is a novel. Which reminds me: what they did to The Time Traveler's Wife was CRIMINAL...ah, don't get me started.

Time for a Random 11

2009-08-08T23:32:00.001-05:00

(This is a complete, total ripoff from here)

I haven't done one of these in a while. It was finally, finally hot here today (which means over 90-it's been a depressing summer) and I celebrated by overdoing it outside. Tomorrow it might be over 95, and I'm playing golf. Let's hear it for sweat.

1. "A Certain Girl"-Warren Zevon. Look! He's linking to videos! Yes, this is another way I am ripping off from another blog. On to Warren: I miss this man. This is the first song of his I remember hearing, around 1979, on WEFM, the first classic rock station I ever got into. Within a year of discovering the station, it changed formats to country. I started listening to another station, WMET, and they switched to jazz within a year as well. When I was a pre-teen, apparently I was the Typhoid Mary of FM classic rock. As someone who used to practice lots of unrequited love, this song speaks to me. Ah, those were the days.

2. "I Can't Stand Up for Falling Down"-Elvis Costello. Truth be told, I am not much of a dancer. I tend to only dance at weddings, and then only if I have had a few beverages. This song makes me want to dance no matter the circumstance, and if I were to jump up on the coffee table in front of me, and there was not another awake person in the house, I'd find myself rocking back and forth while swinging my arms in the opposite motion. Take a look at the three dudes in the background while EC sings the refrain: they are doing it all wrong.

3. "I'll Fly Away"-Allison Krause. Someone else named "Gillian W" sings this as well, but the screen on my 'pod is too small to display here entire name. I'm sure it's here somewhere...Welch! It's Welch! This is from O Brother Where Art Thou, a severely underrated movie (Do not seek the treasure!). I love it. When I first met Kristen she told me that she was a big George Clooney fan, and I told her that this was one of my favorite movies (We thought you was a toad!). She had never seen it-really? I mean how can you be a Clooney fan and not have seen this? I forgave her, and we moved on. No, not really. I still hold a grudge. Hi Honey! She's seen it several times since (I've counted to three!). This song gives me a bit of comfort when I think about those who have gone before me. Imagine how I'd feel if I took religion a tad more seriously.

4. "Departure"-REM. From the vastly underrated CD "New Adventures in Hi-Fi." The video is a little, um, weird. I'm not sure why Michael Stipe thinks he is a purple raccoon. Anyway, any song I hear from this CD makes me think of a road trip I took out west in the summer of 2003, and I recall hearing this song as I passed the Salt Lake City airport heading towards Nevada early on a Sunday morning (the song talks about heading out over the Salt Flats). The rest of Utah after Salt Lake on Interstate 80 is a little, shall we say, barren, but yet fantastic, if you are into looking at things that you've never seen before. We don't have salt flats in the Midwest. I ended up in Sacramento that night, and saw more from less in fourteen hours behind the wheel (there's nothing in Nevada either) than I could have possibly imagined. I don't think I'd make it through an hour of the same drive without falling asleep though.

5. "Waiting on a Friend"-Rolling Stones. It'd be hard to a favorite Stones song, but this is in the top five. We got cable television for the first time when I was a freshman in high school, and there was a public access channel that ran community bulletin boards for every city on the system. They'd play the best music on it though, and I recall sneaking into my parents' room to turn this channel on just for the music. My father busted me frequently, and it drove him nuts that I'd turn on a television for music. One time he busted me as this song was on, and I said "Dad, come on it's the Stones." He replied: "I don't care if it's a meteor. Get out of here."

6. "Yellow"-Coldplay. Ah yes, before Chris Martin got all Gwenyth on us. I like this band, but they haven't been the same for me ever since "Fix You", which is the worst song ever. My niece Erin was a baby back when this song was popular, and she loved it, kicking her feet like crazy whenever it came on. Three years later I played "Fix You" for her and she cried. Really.

7. "Follow Your Bliss"-B52s. OK, there are times when the Internet freaks me out completely, and this is definitely one of them. I didn't think that there'd be a video for this song, and there isn't. Stick with me here: I remember being in Iowa City in the summer of 1990 (just before my senior year) and turning on the Weather Channel before I walked to class to see if it was going to rain, and was a little put off by the fact that this song was being played during the local forecast. It seemed (then, and still does now) a little depressing that someone at the Weather Channel would coordinate music for local forecasts, and that someone would have to contact the B52s and get permission to include this. And I thought this would be an interesting anecdote, but as it turns out, you can see it for yourself at the link, because someone has posted on YouTube a local forecast for Jackson, Mississippi from July 9, 1990 featuring "Follow Your Bliss." Of course, that means the use of the song was national. Unbelievable. What did we do before the Interent again?

8. "Save Me"-kd lang. Whatever happened to her? My very first apartment was in Oak Park, Illinois and had one of those big old fashioned basin bath tubs. The first time I used it I put 6 CDs into the player, hit random, and stayed in the tub for two hours. This is the first song that played. I bet no one else anywhere in the universe hears this song and thinks about a bath tub.

9. "Daughter"-Pearl Jam. As with dancing, I am not much of a singer, but there are a few songs that for some reason I can just nail. This is one of them. I sing it better than Eddie Vetter, and no, I won't sing it for you. Another song that was written for me is James' "Born of Frustration" though I refuse to do the "woo woo wooo woooooo" part at the beginning. Those might be the only two.

10. "Just Like Heaven"-The Cure. Winner of the "Let's Turn a Great Song Into a Crappy Movie" award, which is different from the "Let's Turn a Crappy Song Into a Crappy Movie" award. What the hell is Reese Witherspoon's problem? I digress. Remember the annoying guy in college who played his guitar on the roof of his rental house across from the dormitory where you lived, the one who annoyed the hell out of you and made you wish you had a catapult and several small sheep? The only time I found him mildly entertaining was on a very foggy night in the spring of 1990 when he was playing "Just Like Heaven" and I couldn't see a damn thing. I wonder if Reese Witherspoon was over there.

11. "Romeo and Juliet"-Dire Straits. We started with unrequited love, we finish with unrequited love. Back in my pathetic 20s, when I was blindly carrying a torch, I used to listen to this song and think of how cool it would be when she finally came around. Then a few years later it was featured in Can't Hardly Wait (which is a great song and wasn't a bad movie, so it doesn't win any awards from above) and seemed completely pathetic. It makes me laugh now, especially since I am married and all that pathetic 20s shit is behind me (Thank you, Kristen; when I met you, you made me 56000% cooler. God love you). I do admit that there are times of my life that I could scrub out of my brain with a Brillo Pad, but experience makes us who we are today, doesn't it?

Stay thirsty my friends.

Surely, this one was the King of all Muppets

2009-08-04T11:24:00.002-05:00

I have acquaintances who, when they found out that I was going to be a father, said to themselves "HA!" These were people who heard me say that if I ever had kids, there would be certain things that I would never do; things that I saw other people do with their kids, like wait for an hour just to see a Disney parade pass by.

I wasn't being judgmental. People are free to do what they want. And I'm free to not to do what I want, regardless what any child of mine may think.

So far, no Disney parades, and I don't see that changing. Call me Grumpus. I don't care.

I did do something last week that I thought I might never do though: I bought my son an Elmo.

Yes, Elmo. Some love him. Some hate him. Some of us hear his voice 24/7. Desmond has discovered Sesame Street, and he loves Elmo. He completely freaks out whenever he comes on. So last week, when we in Target, I saw a small stuffed Elmo that spoke when shook (and if that isn't an apt metaphor...unfortunately it does not say "stop, my brain hurts.") and I showed it to Desmond. He squealed. Windows five miles away shattered. I put it in the cart.

And this is how cool my son is: he didn't freak because I didn't give him the toy. He just kept his eye on it for the rest of the time we were in the store. I let him hold it in the car, still in its package, and he squealed the entire way home.

So we hear Elmo now, 24/7. I will never get used to it, but I know that it is not forever.

Shake-Me-Like-a-British-Nanny Elmo (and if you have issues with that name, address your complaints here) is packaged quite tightly. He comes sitting up in a cardboard container, his arms and legs fastened to it with plastic. I needed a scissors to free him of these restraints.

It struck me as I was doing this that Elmo is packaged in a most peculiar way: his arms were outstretched, the plastic attached around his wrists. His feet were crossed over, and the plastic wrapped around them as well.

I not only unpackaged Elmo, I de-crucified him.

I feel so noble.

A Man in Full

2009-07-22T22:35:00.002-05:00

I found it quite distressing to hear that Frank McCourt died a few days ago. Unlike most of his readers, my first book of his was not Angela's Ashes. I read 'Tis first, his memoir of returning to America from Ireland and establishing a life in New York City.

I loved the book, and have read it multiple times. His last book, Teacher Man, seemed a bit forced, but was worth the effort. Frank McCourt was a great story teller.

I will remember McCourt as the author of 'Tis above all else. The book fits into my memory nicely, of the many times that I listened to my father tell me about his father, who came to America in the early 1920s from the Irish county of Kerry. My grandfather died when I was eight months old and has lived forever in the words of my father and the images they created in my mind. Dad was incredible at bringing Grandpa to life. In my world, I can hear him speaking; if he were to suddenly appear behind me, I would recognize him by the voice.

My father was first generation Irish-American, and he dove into the history of the land where his parents came from and some of his family still remained. He sang songs of rebellion when he was bored, sometimes to the entertainment of my friends in another room. My father died without ever having visited Ireland, and it wasn't until after his death that I understood why he never went: he had a vision of Ireland in his own mind from his father (my father's mother died when he was ten), and had he actually gone to Ireland he would have found things very different. I used to think it a shame that Dad never went to Ireland, but I have since realized that a part of him always lived there.

Back to McCourt: he became a version of my grandfather. I read his words and pictured my grandfather talking to me about his journey to America and the struggles he found here as he made a new life for himself. It was comforting. I have always been a little angry that I never got to know my grandfather, despite the wonderful job my father did of personifying him. I have compensated for this in a small way by identifying with certain Irish authors, none more influential than Frank McCourt.

I've been to Ireland five times, each trip better than the last, and the Ireland that I have experienced is nothing like the Ireland that McCourt wrote about nor the Ireland that my grandfather left behind. I have romanticized Ireland, which is ironic since the Ireland I have read and heard about was about as unromantic a place as could be.

We paint our lives in the colors that we see fit.

McCourt only wrote three books, and I can't believe that I will not be reading anything else of his. I went through this a few years ago when I discovered Pete McCarthy, who had the temerity to die shortly after I finished his two books about the joys of being named "McCarthy" (note to contemporary Irish authors: you should consider writing stuff that I don't like if you crave longevity). It's an ending, though not written, and not expected. I saw McCourt about two years ago at a local bookstore, and I asked him if he was working on another memoir. He said that he was not, that he "was tired of talking about himself", and he said it in a way that made everyone laugh.

On the dedication page of Teacher Man, McCourt lists the next generation of McCourts, and tells them to "Sing your song, dance your dance, tell your tale." It's bittersweet to read this now, knowing that McCourt will tell no more tales, and I feel like I am saying goodbye to my grandfather again, to my father again, and to every Irish tale that I have been told.

There is a new story teller out there somewhere. My search has already begun.

Today's game: Rock Band or Woman's Problem?

2009-07-11T17:03:00.005-05:00

(Please fill in your answers in the space provided)

1. Alice in Chains

2. Suzy Under Water

3. Jane's Addiction

4. Betty's Hammer Toe

.

Getting a head start

2009-06-21T01:21:00.003-05:00

I got a two hour head start on Father's Day this year: Desmond decided that it was party time Saturday at ten pm, just as Mom was falling asleep. We played with some blocks, watched a little "Wow Wow Wubzy" and shared some philosophies about life before he finally cashed it all in just before midnight. I am amazed that he was still up. We went to a cousin's birthday party Saturday afternoon and Desmond ran himself silly for about three hours. Desmond in public is a lot like a shark in the water: neither remains still, ever.

My boy turns one-and-a-half today. Eighteen months. He is everything that I could have ever imagined him to be, even if he moves at half the speed if light. He's changed so much in just the last month or so, as he has become assured of his upward mobility (read: he can run without stumbling all over the joint); new bits and pieces of his personality erupt from him by the minute it seems (the latest innovation? The TEMPER); he babbles endlessly, but we can definitely start to hear him forming his words (we are sure that we are days away from the point where he will not stay silent for the next several years). Every day is something new, something we have never experienced before. I can only imagine what it must be like for him.

I've never been much of a Father's Day kind of guy. My father was not the type of person to celebrate any kind of "special" day, whether holidays, birthdays or anniversaries. He was quite content to spend most of his free time with his family no matter what time of the year it was, and never expected gifts for anything. As a result, he was impossible to shop for. He had two set responses when asked for suggestions: "I have more than I could ever possibly need" and "If you don't know by now what I like, then you haven't been paying much attention, have you?" He saved the latter response for when he knew that we were frustrated in coming up with ideas for him, for he was quite sinister when he chose to be.

From the time of my mid-teens, I never had a problem finding a present for Father's Day: I bought him a round of golf. I think Dad and I played golf together on father's Day morning for fifteen or so straight years, up until a few years before he died, when he stopped playing altogether due to his arthritic shoulder.

I can't recall what I bought him for those last few years.

My most vivid Father's Day recollection? Easily 2002, though it wasn't the day itself. Dad passed away on June 8th, eight days before Sunday the 16th. The night before his wake, I went to buy a dress shirt, and I'll never forget the spectacle of the signs in the men's department, banners that hung from the ceiling imploring shoppers not to "forget Dad this Father's Day."

I remember having this feeling of wanting to light each and every one of those banners on fire, and watch them burn into charred strips of blackened paper until they blew away into the air. I've never felt more ominous in the presence of any kind of advertising, even though I was well aware that we had never made a big deal of Father's Day. It was simply a reminder of what had been taking away from me about forty-eight hours prior.

Or what I thought had been taking from me. The hindsight of seven years (seven years!) has given me the knowledge that death does nothing to the status of a relationship other than force it into a place where it exists solely in the heart and in memory. There are certain things that we can no longer touch, feel or hear, but these things do not go away; they are just re-appropriated to long-term storage.

In 2007, when I was a first-time expectant father, I got quite tired of people telling me that that particular Father's Day "counted" for me. There were still many questions left about what we were headed for: we didn't know the sex of our child, and ultimately there was still a chance that the pregnancy would never make it to term. I didn't feel like a father yet. I recall that it was a nice day that year, and I spent a good deal of time sitting outside on our deck. I couldn't help but think about my father because in six months I would be joining him in fatherhood-it was one of the last life experiences that he had that I had yet to-and I also couldn't help but think of what it had been like to have been without him for the past five years. Sadness over his death had gone away a long time ago, replaced by a comforting knowledge of knowing that for as long as I was alive, I would be keeping him alive with me. I also felt a burden, because he was gone, and if my child was going to know him, it would be entirely up to me to give him that knowledge. How could I possibly do such a thing? How could I describe thirty-five years of a relationship in such a way as to assure that my child would not feel that his late grandfather was a stranger?

Throughout this initial pregnancy, I experienced an existential crisis that in some ways is still around: I became obsessed with the idea that I could die before my child was born. The irony of such a fate! I had spent most of my adult years convinced that marriage and parenthood was not for me, yet when the opportunity presented itself I went for it as hard as anything ever in my life prior. How cruel would it be to be taken away from this life just before bringing a new one into it?

This was a daily (irrational) battle. And because of my state on Father's Day 2007 it manifested into me trying to understand how my child might feel on that first Father's Day, be it in a year or in fifty, when I was no longer alive. How quickly would he forget me, if he ever knew me at all? The only word I can think of to describe Father's Day 2007 is probably a bit exaggerated: "tortuous."

I am like my father in that I don't particularly care to celebrate certain days over others. I'm 42, and my birthday has just been another day now for more than half of my life; I enjoy certain holidays, of course, like Christmas and Thanksgiving, but they pass so quickly now that I feel like I never quite experience them. I love being a father, and my gut tells me that I don't need a certain day to celebrate the miracle of being a Dad. I live it every day, no matter what the calendar says.

My two favorite days of the year are August 2nd and December 21st. Those are the birthdays of my wife and son, the two people who bring me an amount of joy and contentment that I never really understood was possible.

I think about my father every single day, and I think about being a father to my son every moment of every day. Always, I am smack dab in the middle of a generational seesaw: a son of a father, a father of a son.

It has taken me a while to reach this state of balance, but now that I am here, it is where I will always be.

Paging Dr. Freud

2009-06-15T18:15:00.001-05:00

My sleep is normally full of dreams, and I have had plenty of crazy, out-there moments, but nothing quite like a short one from last night:

I took Hitler to McDonald's for lunch. He ordered a Happy Meal.

Inspirational, muppetational...

2009-06-11T00:05:00.002-05:00

This is brilliant. Every time I've seen 30 Rock I've had this nagging feeling that I've seen this before, and now I have my answer.

Apparently, we've moved to Iceland

2009-06-10T23:07:00.003-05:00

I have no real way of explaining my absence from these parts for the last month, so I will just blame it on the weather. It's been completely ridiculous here in Reykjavik (wait, I'm still in Chicago?) since April. It has rained over and over and over. It has rained while raining. I've been on a first-name basis with clouds since Easter.

The temperature? Let me put it this way: it's 11:15 in the evening on June 10th, and I'm drinking tea to stay warm. I can't keep track of the number of times I have had to resist the urge to put the furnace on. There was a frost advisory on the night of my birthday which is in mid-May. That put a crimp in the ol' birthday crocus, believe me.

Last Thursday, I believe, the high temperature was sixty-one. In Reykjavik, Iceland. In Chicago, the high was sixty. That same day, it was sixty-one in Seattle.

(That was the low temperature that day in Seattle)

It's incredibly depressing to wake up on a June morning and think that it is still February. But we move on...Desmond is thriving. He'll be eighteen months old in eleven days and has turned into a little man. He's quicker than I am now, which makes for some interesting early mornings around here. And Lord Almighty, is he determined. When Desmond decides that he wants something, or wants to do something, he is hell-bent on getting his way. This makes for some interesting mornings, afternoons, and evenings. His favorite thing to do is pound: he pounds on tables, the television, appliances, the sides of his crib, and my face. And he cackles with glee whenever he does it.

Desmond snuck up on me a few days ago when I was reading the newspaper and snatched it out of my hand. After I peeled myself off of the ceiling I tried to tell him not to do things like that and he laughed. I vividly recall seeing this written on the wall in front of me: it's all over.

I'm watching David Letterman at the moment. He radiates cool. Dave got himself into a little controversy earlier this week at the expense of everyone's favorite governor, Sarah Palin. The Alaskan Queen was in New York and attended a Yankees game with Rudy Giuliani (AKA St. 9/11), giving Letterman the opportunity to make the following joke:

"One awkward moment for Sarah Palin at the Yankee game, during the seventh inning, her daughter was knocked up by Alex Rodriguez."

Now given what we know about the Palin family, who do you think Dave was referring to? The daughter in question was Bristol, the eighteen-year old Alaska unmarried mother of the year. You have to be an idiot (or an opportunistic politician) to not see that.

The problem with Letterman's joke is that Bristol wasn't at the game. The Palin daughter with Sarah in NY was fourteen-year old Willow.

Oops.

Predictably, the Palin family expressed "outrage" over Letterman's suggestion that a fourteen year old girl be subjected to the carnal urges of a steroid-using Yankee third baseman.

Tonight, Letterman made it clear that he was obviously referring to Bristol, and owned up to the fact that the joke was in poor taste regardless of its target. And that was it. I love the fact that he never apologized. He shouldn't have. The idea that he'd joke about the sexual abuse of an underage girl is absurd.

Isn't it lovely to see Palin using her family in another "us vs. them" moment? She was so eager to parade everyone on stage at the convention in Minneapolis, especially Bristol's now-ex, Levi, to show they are an "American" family. How very convenient then, and how convenient now. Leave my family alone, she says, until it bodes well for my political aspirations.

God, she makes me ill. She's found her niche up in Alaska (where it is no doubt warmer than it is here), where she can spew her BS endlessly and they buy it, but why must she subject the rest of the nation to it?

At the end of his explanation tonight, Letterman invited Palin to appear on his show. She'll never do it, of course, but I can dream about it, under fifteen blankets.

2009-05-10T22:42:00.002-05:00

I discovered this growing up, and I've been reminded of it every single day since Desmond was born:

There is nothing quite like a Mom.

Seems a simple question

2009-04-30T14:06:00.002-05:00

Should it keep raining here, I may change my answer.

A long distance call to arms. And legs.

2009-04-27T01:19:00.003-05:00

We live in a house that is over fifty years old now, with a partially unfinished basement that has lots of nooks and crannies, and some damp areas. I knew it when we bought it, but since it was winter I was able to put it out of my mind:

We're going to be battling bugs.

In my previous homeowner adventure I found that having a cat helps keep things in the basement, and we have two now, so I'm hopeful that they do their job. But as we found out tonight, visitors can make it up to the second floor.

I was in the living room (our bedroom is directly above) when I heard Kristen hightail it out of there and come down the stairs like her feet were bowling balls. She's actually pretty good about dealing with bugs-she's eliminated many a spider for me (I hate spiders; it's a long story, but man, do I hate them)-but apparently when she went into her closet to pick out clothes to wear tomorrow she was greeted by something with many, many legs staring back at her from a hanger.

I never saw it, but judging from her description I'm pretty sure it was a centipede. While harmless, they are freakin' ugly. I give her credit for making it down the stairs. I would have hit the floor right there, as I am one not much for surprises.

I never found the offending menace, which no doubt descended back into the darkness of the baseboards, and it's been a few hours. I haven't heard any cries for help from my sleeping wife so I assume all is well. For now, at least. I really am not looking forward to what we come upon when the humidity edges up to rain forest quality in summer.

If it gets really bad, I might give this guy a call. He seems to do very well with roaches, so I'm sure he could handle the rest. I'm not digging his dance moves though.

Subterranean Second Ammendment Homesick Blues

2009-04-26T00:40:00.003-05:00

Saturday, in the Roseland neighborhood on the south side of Chicago, a memorial to children murdered by gang violence-built in a vacant lot-was dedicated.

Mayor Richard Daley was there, expressing his disbelief over the "acceptance" of gun violence not only in his city, but in all of America.

I wasn't there. I haven't seen the memorial, but I'd wager that each and every child memorialized is of a minority representation.

And it makes me angry that none of the people who spoke at the event will cross the line that needs to be crossed: a majority of the citizens in the US who are being slaughtered by guns are from urban, minority neighborhoods.

Daley complains about the assault weapons ban being overturned but he is missing the point. Sadly, he knows what the point is. He just can't acknowledge it, because it wouldn't be politically savvy.

What he should have said today was this:

"Look around you. Look at the faces on this memorial. Look at the faces of the people here who mourn their children. Realize that in our society, violence is skewed towards urban minorities. Now get angry. Use your anger positively: ask your leaders, your elected officials, why they find it acceptable for this to happen. Ask them why they are OK with this slaughter, because we all know that if this level of death and violence occurred suddenly in affluent areas, there would be steps taken to ensure that it stopped. Tell them that you will not tolerate this any longer, that attention must be paid to those less fortunate."

Can you imagine this? I'm not one to believe that race should be injected into societal debates as often as it is, and am loathe to see the usual suspects jump in front of the cameras at the very hint of injustice, but this is different. The facts are clear: if one is going to die at the hands of a bullet in this country, the odds are overwhelming as to where it will be.

Why is it tolerated?

3000 people died on September 11, 2001. Ten times that amount died from gunshot wounds that same year in the US.

Number of people killed in America by terrorism since 9/11: zero (fact).

Number of people killed in America by guns since 9/11: 210,000 (estimate).

We have abandoned the principle that all men are created equal in this country.

From the Fir Tree State

2009-04-19T14:04:00.003-05:00

"The bluest skies you've ever seen are in Seattle

And the hills the greenest green, in Seattle

Like a beautiful child, growing up, free an' wild

Full of hopes an' full of fears, full of laughter, full of tears

Full of dreams to last the years, in Seattle"

Any guess where I might be writing this from?

When I was a kid I vaguely remember a dude named Bobby Sherman and a show he was on called "Here Come the Brides." I don't recall ever watching it, but the guy seemed like a big deal.

Years later, I became a huge fan of "The Critic." If you've never watched it, you can see an entire episode here. I'm a sucker for animated shows with self-loathing main characters, and this is the Mt. Everest of such shows.

I can't find a clip of the scene that I really want here: the critic's name is Jay Sherman. In one show he finds himself trying to use his public persona to get a date, and a woman squeals with delight at meeting him. I don't remember what she does, but his teenage son immediately says "Dad, she thinks you're Bobby Sherman." Not to miss out on his chance, Jay grabs a microphone and starts singing "Seattle" (where the above lyrics are from), which apparently was the theme song to "Here Come the Brides."

Welcome to my world, where obscure references are ready to pop out without warning. My brother-in-law lives in Seattle (in the quite lovely Magnolia district) so we are in the midst of a four day weekend trip here. I've been to Seattle once before, in the summer of 2003, but Kristen has not.

And yes, this means that we put Desmond on a plane. For four and a half hours. For the first forty-five minutes he earned a solid D-, not wanting to sit still, shrieking and thinking he could throw whatever he got his hands on. Once we got into the air he mellowed considerably, and though he barely slept he improved to a B+. Thank God for flirtatious flight attendants and the couple sitting behind us who miss the heck out of their own grandchildren. Hopefully our return flight tomorrow is as smooth.

I like it here. They are actually having a spring here, and there are flowers blooming all over the place. I'm wondering if Seattle translates to "place of giant tulips" in some other language. We've explored a lot of the neighborhoods along with the downtown pier (I find the market to be a bit underwhelming). I was hoping to get to a Mariners game but it looks as if driving by Safeco Field is the closest I'll get to Ichiro and Junior on this trip.

I don't want to go back to Chicago unless it is perpetually 75, and it isn't. By the time we land tomorrow it will be 40. I went to last Thursday's Cubs-Cardinals game at Wrigley (bite me, St. Louis) and froze my extremities off. I expect to see glaciers coming in off Lake Michigan any day now, and the experience at the game was an adventure in pure obnoxiousness (which is another entry all its own) and made me feel like I was sixty years old.

I've been typing this with one hand while Desmond sleeps in my other (actually on it, since he is atop my entire left arm, which I can feel nothing of) and it makes me appreciate the slower pace of life here. As soon as he wakes we will head down to the Space Needle and the area around there. Lots of hills in Seattle.

It was clear enough here yesterday to see Mt. Rainier off in the distance. I want that view in my backyard, or on the expressway, somewhere, anywhere in Chicago. All I've got now are billboards.

To so easily prove a point

2009-04-15T22:04:00.001-05:00

Think all that "teabagging" today wasn't directly about Obama?

I beg to differ.

Twice.

Is that a tea bag in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

2009-04-15T13:36:00.002-05:00

So, um, were you aware that today is, um, a big day for, um, teabagging?

Yes, today, April 15th, is not only Tax Day, it is Teabag Day. Dozens upon dozens of people who are mad as hell are gathering all over the country to...well, I'm not quite sure what they are doing. Whatever it is they are trying to say, they are saying it with tea.

A little history: The Boston Tea Party was an act of civil disobedience in 1773. Cue Schoolhouse Rock:

He taxed their property,
He didn't give them any choice,
And back in England,
He didn't give them any voice.
(That's called taxation without representation,
and it's not fair!)
But when the Colonies complained
The king said: "I don't care!"

He even has the nerve
To tax our cup of tea.
To put it kindly, King,
We really don't agree.

Gonna show you how we feel.
We're gonna dump this tea
And turn this harbor into
The biggest cup of tea in history!

OK, enough history. Today's protest is all about...well, again, I'm not sure. I do know that I first heard about a tea uprising in the aftermath of the economic stimulus bill that passed shortly after President Obama took office. A popular buzz was that one could spend one million dollars per day since the birth of Christ and still not have spent the $787 billion in that bill. Quick math: 2000 years, 365 days per, that's 730,000 days, and $730 billion. Clearly, Obama's spending is out of control, and he must be stopped. Why, if any American president attempted to spend that much money, there's be protests all over the place, right?

Wait a tic. Go back to the birth of Christ, and spend FOUR million dollars per day (go ahead, I'll wait, you deserve the Lamborghini). Done? Great. You still haven't spent the amount of money President Bush did on his two wars, his medicare prescription drug benefit package, and the TARP bailout of last fall.

So, teabaggers, you've done this before, right? There were"uprisings" aplenty when Bush was spending like, well King George, yes? No? Really? Must be something else.

Oh yes, how silly of me! Taxes! Taxes, taxes, taxes! Why, that scoundrel Obama has slammed the American people since he got into office with a tax break for ninety-five percent of us. Who the hell does he think he is?

And the rich are getting soaked, I tell you. Soaked like a baseball glove left out in the rain! Do you realize that the top five percent of wage earners in the country are paying ten percent less in taxes then they were under that bastion of tax relief, President Reagan? That's completely unacceptable!

In reality, the only taxes that have gone up under President Obama are those on tobacco. If the teabaggers are protesting taxes, they must be mighty confused. Obama is doing exactly what he said he would on the campaign trail, reduce taxes for a great majority of people, yet that is an alternate reality for those Lipton and Tetley screamers today.

An aside here: protesting against taxes is pretty much a libertarian passion, but you'll be shocked to know that this tea movement has been hijacked by the GOP, and promoted like hell on FOX, the fair and balanced network. HA! They have anchors hosting shows from protest locations today. Can you imagine the aneurysms they would be having if the folks at MSNBC we running ads for war protests and hosting from them back in 2004?

But here is what cracks me up the most about the Republicans: every time they think they are being "hip" (see "Steele, Michael"), they instead demonstrate that they are completely out of touch. I don't know how many times I have heard someone on TV saying that they were going "teabagging" today. Excuse me for releasing my inner thirteen year old, but do they have any idea what that means? How am I not supposed to have my lunch come through my nose when they interview Ethel from Oklahoma, who proudly proclaims that she has "never teabagged before" and is "looking forward to it"?

(OK, it occurs to me that there might be a person or two out there who has no idea what I am talking about, so in the interest of being informative, go here-but be warned that it's not rated PG-if you need to know why I cringe every time I hear Glenn Beck talk about going out to teabag.)

So where was I? We've determined so far that: if you protested today because of outrageous spending, and you didn't do it when George W. Bush was out of control, you're full of it. If you protested today because you're outraged over your skyrocketing taxes, you're full of it.

What else is left?

How about you're protesting because the candidate you voted for lost in November, and it drives you absolutely bonkers that Obama is president now. How about you're protesting because it drives you crazy that the Democrats are in control, and you will do anything to express the contempt that you have for them, even though that when your Republican president and Republican-controlled US Congress were doing worse, you sat on your ass and did nothing, because Armageddon under the GOP is better than anything under the Democrats, at least in your view.

Admit your partisanship, and I'll at least give you credit for being honest. Otherwise, where the fuck have you been for the last seven years?

I leave with this video. Watch the first two minutes, forty-one seconds (actually, just listen to it-that's the key). It's fookin' brilliant.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Oh, those eyebrows

2009-04-15T01:43:00.002-05:00

Maybe it's because it's really late and I'm really tired, so tired that I can barely remember how to spell "remember."

Or maybe it's the whole Desmond thing. I'm definitely much more sentimental now then I was fifteen months ago. I can hear him snoring over the baby monitor, and it sounds like Beethoven.

Whatever. I strongly recommend spending the next seven minutes and thirty-four seconds watching Susan Boyle. I abhor shows like this, yet I could watch this particular clip over and over again.

(I'd embed the video, but that function has been disabled by YouTube for some reason)

Useful shot, that

2009-04-12T22:22:00.002-05:00

I know a lot of people find it quite boring, but I've always enjoyed watching golf on television. When I was a kid and trying to learn the game, it was helpful to remember what I had seen so I could try to copy the form of the professionals.

That was the idea, anyway. I'm a better-than-average golfer, probably. By the time I was 16 (I started playing when I was 14) it was pretty much a guarantee that I'd break 100, and by 21 I was a good bet to break 90. By the time I was 30 my handicap was single-digits; the lowest I ever got it down to was 6.

Things have changed mightily. I don't play enough now to have a handicap, but if I did I'd guess it would be around 15. Breaking 90 would a big deal (I haven't busted 80 in a long, long time), and I'm just as likely to shoot 100 instead.

I'm sure if I played more, as much as I used to, things would be different, but I'm OK with the things in my life that have led me to play less golf (***cough-DESMOND-cough***). And I have some physical issues that have started to affect the way I play-my knees are twenty-five years older than the rest of my body, and my back hates me.

I've been playing golf for 28 years, and I never once thought I'd ever be in a position to make some money off of it. That fact makes me even more impressed when I watch the game on TV now, how some of these players can drill shot after shot with millions of dollars on the line.

I think the golf world is just a tad over-saturated on Tiger Woods these days, but there is an ample reason-the guy is the best player in the world. He does things on the course that amaze everyone, like winning the US Open last year with what was essentially a torn ACL and a fractured leg.

When I watch a sporting event I tend to drift away from the favorites-I root against teams like the Cowboys, Lakers, Celtics, Yankees, etc (no doubt my lifelong allegiance to the Cubs plays a part in this)-and golf is the same way. I'm kind of tired of seeing Woods win everything. So this afternoon, as the final round was winding down, I was gritting my teeth at the idea of Woods coming back from seven shots down to win at Augusta for the fifth time.

And then came 18.

Yowsa. How many times have we seen Woods pull a shot out of his backside and turn a troublesome hole into one of glory? (maybe that's not the best way to say that...) Woods was under the pine trees on eighteen, needing a shot only he can make, to have any hope of winning.

He gripped it, ripped it...and watched the ball ricochet right off a tree and ninety degrees away. Game over.

And I am quite sure that is the only time I have ever watched Woods hit a shot and said "big deal-I do that all of the time."

So a dude named Angel wins on Easter. Seems OK to me.

I will not be sucked in

2009-04-06T22:30:00.002-05:00

I caught most of the Cubs' opening day 4-2 win over Houston, and they looked really good. I know it's just one game of 162, but it's always a pleasure to watch a well-played game of baseball.

They are stacked again this year, and might even be better than they were last year, when they won 97 games.

And I will not be sucked in!

I mean it. I had an epiphany last October, when the Cubs fall flat on their collective butts and didn't even win a freakin' playoff game.

For me, the Cubs might as well be playing English Premier League Soccer.

The EPL plays a full regular season, and nothing else. The champion is whoever does the best during the season-there are no playoffs.

It's a perfect setup.

The Cubs play in the National League Central along with Houston, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati and Milwaukee, and they are demonstrably better than those five other teams. There's no reason why they shouldn't win the division by a wide margin.

AND THEN IT'S DONE BABY!!!*

Playoffs? What playoffs?

(*I reserve the right to come back here in October and delete this post if...ah, never mind)

Sins of the father

2009-04-06T01:04:00.002-05:00

For as long as he has been able to, Desmond gets the hiccups when he laughs. Sometimes I feel bad about this, when I make him laugh because I get such a kick out of listening to him giggle, and he spends the next fifteen minutes hiccuping.

I made Desmond laugh about six hours ago. He did not get the hiccups.

I, however, have had them pretty much ever since.

All hail the Hawkeyes

2009-04-04T00:23:00.000-05:00

Right on, Iowa.

Things that are good to know

2009-03-30T19:21:00.003-05:00

The "solution" to global warming is in the Bible.

Apparently, "Shimkus" is evangelical for "I'm smart and you're not." My sister lives on the cusp of this guy's district, so fortunately, when things get too hot for her, she will have just a short drive to relief.

It's a long, long way down

2009-03-25T23:41:00.003-05:00

I have had a Grade AAAA rant building in me for the last few days, and I am not quite ready to unload. I intended to blow off some writer's block steam here with a random eleven (which I will in a moment), but a visit today to the same store that led to this lesson demands that I make the following proclamation:

I declare open hostilities towards those who think that they are better than everyone else.

Des and I went to Target today (normally I wouldn't bother to identify the store, but I think it lends to the idiocy that I am about to describe) around 2:30, and the parking lot was not crowded. There were plenty of spots available within twenty-thirty yards of the store entrance.

I got out of the car and as I walked to the other side to spring my son, I noticed a black Mercedes enter from the north-actually I heard the gunning of the engine first, as the car accelerated from the turn-and proceed closer towards the entrance. I got Desmond out of the car, and as I walked with him towards the store, I noticed the car had pulled up onto the sidewalk, maybe five yards from the entrance to the store. The tires squealed slightly when she braked. A middle aged woman got out and went inside, her stride confident and quick. She was dressed well, wearing a leather coat, carrying a large purse, and had wrap around sunglasses covering what looked like a well-made up face. Her hair was impeccable.

I knew what she was doing. She was going in to pick up a prescription-the pharmacy was adjacent to the entrance. I put Des in a cart and decided that if I saw the woman when I passed the pharmacy, I was going to say something.

Sure enough, she was at the pick-up window of the pharmacy. As I approached I heard her complain to another customer that she was in a hurry.

Since Desmond was with me, I politely excused myself and then asked her why she felt it necessary to park on the sidewalk (had I not had Desmond with me, I would have been a tad more direct).

"Oh," she said, "I'm not feeling well."

I didn't break stride as I said that I felt it wasn't her right to drive in such a manner, and that there were plenty of parking spaces close to the store. I distinctly heard her say "I don't care what you think" as I went away.

I was pleasant in the ten seconds that our encounter lasted. She was full of shit, and she's fortunate that I didn't say that to her.

I've been around long enough to know that ignorant people like that shouldn't bother me, that I should let other people's ignorance bounce of me as long as it does not directly affect me. Perhaps I've changed somewhat since Desmond was born. I don't know. I do know that I was quite happy to interject my opinion into this woman's day.

You're getting a prescription at Target, lady. Maybe spend a few more bucks and go to the Walgreens drive-thru next time.

Obviously this is just the tip of something building up in me for a while. Today was the tipping point. I am completely fed up with those who have this sense of entitlement, that they are above doing things like regular people when out in public.

And I am not going to have any problem pointing it out to the in a dignified manner from this point forward.

OK, on to the eleven. Again, this bit is 100% ripped-off from this guy. Go spend some time over there. He's much funnier than I am.

1. "Kiss Them for Me"-Siouxsie and the Banshees. "Banshee" is one of my favorite all-time words. I've had days when I've used it a thousand times. I'm quite thankful they didn't go with "Siouxsie and the Hags of the Mist." Anyhoo, I have a very specific memory of this song: August 1995, a train traveling overnight from Paris to Berlin, and I was having an impossible time getting to sleep so I put on my Walkman (remember it was '95) and stared out the window into the dark. I recall having a dream but felt as if I was still awake, and in the dream my grandmother, who had died the previous month, was telling me about all the things I was going to enjoy on my first-ever trip to Europe. This song grew louder and louder as she talked, and at the end I couldn't hear her anymore. I opened my eyes and realized this song was playing on my headphones. It was so odd. Ergo, I think about my grandmother every time I hear this song. Clunky, yet oh-so sentimental.

2. "Put Your Records On"-Corinne Bailey. This songs plays over the end credits of Venus, which is the only movie that has made me cry in the theater. I absolutely lost it at the end of this movie, partly I'm sure because it was a Saturday matinee and there were perhaps six people in the place. Long story: I love Peter O'Toole, for many reasons, one of which is that he reminds me of my father (the two men could not have been further unalike, so go figure; must be the Irish). The end of this movie was like saying goodbye to an old friend. I got hooked on O'Toole in 1981 when I saw My Favorite Year, and when I mentioned to Dad how much I liked him he introduced me to his earlier roles. Wow. I go into a coma every time I try to watch Lawrence of Arabia. And how is it possible that O'Toole has been nominated eight freakin' times for an Oscar and has never won? Blows my mind. He lost for this role to Forest Whitaker in The Last King of Scotland, which brings to mind my primary beef of acting awards: which is harder-playing an actual person or a fictional character? Whitaker was great as Idi Amin, but O'Toole was brilliant. Acting should be different from imitation. I haven't seen either Milk or The Wrestler, but I bet Mickey Rourke deserved an Oscar over Sean Penn. I'm not taking away the achievements of actors who can portray actual people (Helen Mirren as Queen Elizabeth and Jamie Foxx as Ray Charles come to mind) but it seems to me that if you have the ability to watch hours and hours of a person in public, you can eventually nail their mannerisms perfectly. Oh well.

3. "Seven Veils"-Peter Murphy. Finally! I just now figured out what bugs me about Peter Murphy's voice-it's exactly what I would expect Hugh Laurie ("House") to sound like if he sang. This has vexed me for a while, the "there's something I'm not catching" feeling I get every time I hear Peter Murphy. I like it, don't get me wrong, but for ever more I shall always hear him and think "House sings!!!"

4. "New York"-U2. I'm a little perturbed at how U2 has adopted New York City as its own since 9/11, which would lead me to think that this song was written after. Nope. It came out almost a full year before. Maybe Bono and the boys wanted to avoid the whole Irish-Boston stereotype. Don't know. I've never seen the allure of New York myself, though I definitely love Boston.

5. "White Room"-Cream. Quick! What Scorsese movie is this from? I'm sure he used it somewhere, sometime. Can't find anything. It was used for white I-macs in 2000. Apparently Scorsese used the same Rolling Stone's song in every single one of his movies, but I'm not telling what it is.

6. "Binky the Doormat"-REM. I wasn't much of a fan of New Adventures in Hi-Fi (the CD on which this song appears) for the first seven years it was available (except for the song "Electrolite", which reminds me of wandering alone in Galway, Ireland in 1996, but that's another list...); however in June 2003 I got hooked while driving up the Pacific coast from San Francisco to Seattle. I think of the redwoods; I think of the mountains in Oregon (I detoured a bit east around Eugene); and I think of things I saw that I find hard to describe. I spent the better part of three days listening to this CD while driving, driving, driving. This is also the only song I've ever heard that talks about Astroglide, but then I don't get out much.

7. "Lady Madonna"-the Beatles. Did you know that the Beatles have approximately eighty-seven songs with a woman's name in the title? I can thank Sporcle for that. Warning: do not follow that link unless you have a ton of time to waste and L-O-V-E useless information. Like how many songs the Beatles have with a woman's name in the title...

8. "Our Love"-Rhett Miller. "He still found time to write to her/His heart exploding words." I discovered Miller around the time that I met my wife (a long story chronicled here-as if I haven't given someone enough to read yet) and it's uncanny how much this song has nothing to do with it. Almost every other selection of the CD does though, including one that I simply will not go into detail about. Ever. Don't ask.

9. "River"-Enya. Enya's songs are impossible to describe because 1) I don't speak Gaelic; 2) her titles have nothing to do with the music itself. Am I supposed to think of her floating on a tube down the Liffey as I listen to this? I have no idea.

10. "Buffalo River Home"-John Hiatt. There is a radio station in Santa Fe, KABC, that I stumbled upon in 2004. It reminded me of a station that went bust in Chicago in the late 1970s-WEFM. As far as I can recall, WEFM never played a song I didn't like (oh to be twelve and discovering rock n' roll), and in the 2 days that I spent in Santa Fe listening to KABC, it never played a song I didn't like. This happened to be one of them. I was never so happy to discover upon returning home that KABC streamed live over the Internet. I was in radio heaven for the better part of the next year. And then one day the stream disappeared. POOF! Gone. It's never come back. Every once in a while I write the station BEGGING them to start streaming live again but I never got a response. Anyone who has connection in Santa Fe and can phone in a favor will have my enduring gratitude.

11. "Tokyo Storm Warning"-Elvis Costello. This is the song I imagine playing in the background as I drive around busting a few heads in an effort to crack the case that has been vexing me for most of my career.

Anyone make it this far? Martin Scorsese has put "Gimmee Shelter" in every one of his movies.

Saying adieu to the land of the quadrupeds

2009-03-09T22:06:00.002-05:00

Desmond is a walker.

Late to the party, my boy finally decided over the weekend that enough was enough. He teased us for several weeks, standing up on his own and taking the occasional clunky step, but resorting to plopping back onto his butt and shuffling off to Crawl Town.

Now he's a pro. Less than twenty-four hours after stringing together multiple steps, he's discovered that he is so much quicker when he stays upright. Clomp clomp clomp. When I'm in the basement and he's on the first floor, it sounds like he is riding a horse. Clomp clomp clomp. Overnight, his feet have transformed from sponges to anvils.

I can't help but laugh at the moments when he takes one step too many and hits the deck. Down goes Desmond! It's just so funny to see him inching along on his own one second, and sitting on his keister the next with a "what the heck just happened?" look on his face. He hasn't hurt himself-yet. I know it's coming. Boom!

(OK, in the course of writing this I've seen the Subway commercial where the "Five dollar foot-long" musical breaks out when the guy can't decide what to order. This is the most obnoxious thing I've seen on TV in a long, long time. Please stop it.)

Re-education

2009-03-03T22:51:00.002-06:00

Let's go over this again, shall we?

The Fundamental Rule of Parking Lots clearly states that once a car has pulled into a parking space, that car owns said space until the driver pulls out of it. For example, when someone returns to their vehicle after, say, spending thirty minutes in Target, they do not have to move their car until they damn well want to.

The rule also states that any driver that pulls next to a parked car, intent on taking the parking space when it opens, and expresses impatience at the pace at which the car already parked is leaving, shall be referred to as an Asshat. Additionally, if multiple open parking spaces exist within fifty feet, he/she/they shall be elevated to the title of Festering Asshat.

(Side note: although not encouraged, if the driver of the parked car is in the process of putting their fourteen month old son into his car seat when the Asshat makes its presence known, it is acceptable to fling a dozen rotten tomatoes against their windshield.)

So let's review: a car in a parking spot is entitled to that spot until it leaves. The driver is not required to acknowledge anyone interested in said spot, nor give a rat's ass about them. If the driver of the parked car wants to have a pizza delivered and eat it in the car, they may do so.

Any driver skulking in a parking lot looking for a space should assume that any and all parked cars are empty, and will be remaining there for an undetermined amount of time. Move along.

Don't be an Asshat. At least not while I am around.

Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle

2009-03-02T22:42:00.003-06:00

I want to write about the Republicans and their weekend hoedown, but I am still laughing too hard. My. Sides. I haven't been this entertained since the Christmas where I got my first chemistry set.

So I default to a random eleven. As always, these are actual songs on my i-pod, and this idea is a blatant rip-off from here. He's much more prolific and funny, so I'm going to pay any royalties.

1. "Crystal Wrists"-Peter Murphy. I'm watching David Letterman at the moment, and they just showed a woman in the audience who is wearing the exact same scarf that my wife has. For the first five years that I knew Kristen, I never saw anyone else in that scarf, but in the last year it's been all over the place. If you saw the video of Sarah Palin pardoning a turkey before Thanksgiving while another is being drained of it's blood in the background, then you've seen the scarf. I saw file video of Paul Harvey attending an honorary street-naming in his honor over the weekend, and he's wearing the scarf. I've seen it one hundred times since October. I can't find a video of this song anywhere on the web, but if one exists, I bet Peter Murphy is wearing the scarf.

2. "(Don't Go Back to) Rockville"-REM. None of the members of this band strike me as scarf-wearing types (and we have an official theme!). I used to live in the Chicago suburb of Oak Park in the mid-90s, and every time I left my parents house after a visit my nephew would sing "Don't go back to Oak Park" over and over again, not because he didn't want me to leave, just because he liked to try to drive me crazy every single moment.

3. "Rebel Rebel"-David Bowie. Love this song. "You got your mother in a whirl/She's not sure if you're a boy or a girl." I once tried to write a parody of this called "Rubble Rubble" (about the Flinstones-Rubble is Barney's last name), but it didn't go well. This was waaaayyyy back in college and someone else suggested "Rubble Rubble" be about The Hamburglar, and proceeded to sing it, with every word being "Rubble", since that is all the Hamburglar ever said. It was hysterical. You had to be there.

4. "Intervention"-The Arcade Fire. This song has been waning on me for a while. Too much organ. Takes itself way too seriously.

5. "Is It Any Wonder"-Keane. As much as I like this song, I couldn't tell you another one by this group to save my life. And wouldn't that be interesting? I was walking in a dark alley when all of the sudden a thug popped out from behind a dumpster, stuck a gun in my back and said "Tell me two songs by Keane or your toast." There's a point in this song about an empty spire in an old cathedral, which has always made me think of the Sagrada Familia, which is the strangest building I've ever seen in person.

6. "Black"-Pearl Jam. How much more popular would Pearl Jam be if Nirvana never came along? Both groups have (had?) the annoying habit of giving songs titles that appear nowhere in the lyrics (um, but not this one...), which no one should have been allowed to do once Led Zeppelin broke up.

7. "Penny Lane"-The Beatles. If I had to pick a street in my hometown to try to write a song about, it would probably be "West", and it would be pretty boring. I grew up in a really boring place.

8. "Chicago"-Sufjan Stevens. The ultimate road-trip song, I think (and I thought that well before Little Miss Sunshine). The first time I heard this song while on the road I was driving out of Joshua Tree National Park in the middle of an August afternoon. It was 110 degrees, I had been in the park for a couple of hours, getting out of the car every once in a while at points of interest. In the time I was there I never saw another human being. I did, however, see five scorpions.

9. "Heroes"-David Bowie. I remember this song from the concert for Freddie Mercury in the spring of 1992 at Wembley Stadium. Bowie had just finished singing "Under Pressure" with Annie Lennox (who had painted a mask over her eyes and looked likean over-sized performing raccoon) and launched into this as soon as she sauntered off the stage. I don't know who played guitar on the studio version, but Brian May played it like it was a siren at the concert. He's probably the most under-rated guitarist in the history of rock-and-roll.

10. "Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us"-Robert Plant and Allison Krause. I have long ignored the Grammy Awards but was pleased mightily to see the album this song appears on (Raising Sand) win mutiple big awards. It was the best album of last year, hands down, and I've read that they are in the studio recording a follow up. Hard to believe when I was discovering Led Zeppelin in the early 80s that my favorite Robert Plant performances would come almost thirty years later.

11. "The Unforgettable Fire"-U2. I was wondering if they were going to pop up, since I am watching Letterman mostly to see them. The band is appearing on the show every night this week, and as pretentious as they can seem at times, they are still probably my favorite. I haven't heard anything off their new album (well, at least for another two minutes, I think) but I have to assume that it will be worth being up this late for. I have to see them live one more time-saw them in '93 on the Achtung Baby tour and in '97 on the Pop tour (the giant lemon? Not a good thing; the '93 show blew the other one away)-but have missed them the last few times they have been on the road.

I completely forgot about the scarf after number two!

I am Manny Ramirez

2009-02-28T01:08:00.002-06:00

I get to play baseball for a "living"; people pay me to play a game.

I can hit a baseball a long, long way. I drive in a lot of runs. I can't really play defense, but then I don't really need to.

I am completely full of myself, and I know how to play "the game." Last year I got sick of playing for the Boston Red Sox, so I started loafing, not running hard, faking injuries, etc. while still drawing a salary of well over $100,000 per game. I was rewarded by being traded to the Los Angeles Dodgers, where I hit a ton and led my team to the playoffs.

I have been a free agent since the end of last season, which means I can play for any team I want, so long as they want me. And really, who wouldn't?

Remember, I am Manny Ramirez.

I am thirty-six years old, and probably have less than five productive years left in the game.

I've been offered a contract with Los Angeles three different times this off-season, each one paying over twenty million dollars per season, and I have turned all three down.

I turned down an offer yesterday that would have paid me twenty-five million dollars for this season, and twenty million dollars for the season afterwards.

I turned down this offer because it isn't "fair." A "fair" offer would pay me closer to thirty million per season, for four years.

I turned down forty-five million dollars, guaranteed. No matter the economic situation, once the ink was dry (had I signed) I would have been guaranteed that money.

I turned down forty-five million dollars!

Don't you wish you were me?

In a perfect world (I am no longer Manny Ramirez-I am just the humble scribe of this blog) Manny Ramirez will go by the way of Latrell Sprewell, who a few years back turned down a fourteen million dollar deal from the New York Knicks because it wasn't enough, citing that he had "a family to feed." The Knicks told him to go scratch, and he hasn't really been heard from since.

I loved baseball when I was a kid. I have kept trying to love it as an adult. This is always difficult, as I am a Cubs fan. It is harder now than ever, knowing that someone has the stones to turn down FORTY-FIVE MILLION DOLLARS and will probably wind up getting it sooner or later.

If Ramirez winds up getting that type of money from the New York Yankees, I can only wish for the hallowed new grounds of Yankee Stadium to shake, rattle and roll on opening day, and then open up, swallowing every overpaid athlete into the bowels of the Earth (OK, spit out Derek Jeter, as he seems like a nice enough guy), never to be heard from again.

Forty-five million dollars! And Ramirez treats it like an insult. How can someone be so out of touch? And why isn't he being laughed out of the country?

If you make $100,000 per year, you'd have to work 450 years to earn forty-five million dollars. That sounds like one hell of a rat race.

Fourteen months

2009-02-22T00:21:00.003-06:00

As of Saturday, Desmond has been around now for fourteen months. We celebrated by going to get his very first haircut-hard to believe that the kid who had a natural mohawk for about the first seven months of his life needed one. Aside from a little discomfort when the electric razor trimmed the back of his neck, he was fine.

Getting your haircut must be tiring at that age, because he fell asleep around 5:30, shortly after we got home, and he is still upstairs sawing wood and has barely stirred. When he was an infant I felt the need to check on him while he slept all of the time, waiting until I could discern that his chest was rising and falling, sometimes putting a finger under his nose to feel his exhalations if it was taking too long. I don't check on him when he sleeps now nearly as much; he flops around all over the place and actually sleeps quite loud. I'll poke my head in when I am going to bed for the night, and then he normally wakes up as soon as my head hits the pillow. He is uncanny that way.

Fourteen months. Might as well be fourteen years because it gets harder and harder with each passing day to remember a time when he was not around. And I cannot believe how sentimental I've become in that time. It's impossible for me not to think about everything in terms of what it means for my kid first. Before all this I never thought of myself as the type of person who would want to see their kid get his haircut for the first time, but I really, really wanted to be there today. I'm not a fan of the type of place it was-too cheesy with everything available to make kids unafraid of getting their haircut; what's wrong with just plopping the kid down in a chair and cutting his hair?-but seeing Desmond's reaction in person made my day.

Yep, I'm getting soft. I'm sure age has something to do with it, but I react to everything now in terms of being a parent. Last night I watched a fictional TV show where a fictional woman lost a fictional four month-old fetus, all I could think about was how emotionally painful that experience has to be. Kristen and I watched Juno tonight (somewhat over-rated, and I hated how Jason Bateman's character turned out to be a dick) and throughout the entire movie all I found myself thinking about was how these imperfect (fictional) characters were making decisions that would affect an unborn (fictional) baby. And when the fictional adoptive mother holds her fictional adoptive son for the first time, and asks the fictional grandmother how she looks, it seemed pretty real to me.

I remember going to see Into the Wild a few months before Desmond was born. I loved it, one of my favorite films of the last decade, and sitting in the theater I thought about Emile Hirsch's character just wandering away from his life to roam and live off the land, and I was envious.

I rented the movie last March, when Desmond was three months old, and had a completely different reaction. While I still loved IT, I found myself screaming "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU ARE PUTTING YOUR PARENTS THROUGH???" over and over in my head at the main character, the same one that I had romanticized just a few months ago. He was cool in November, reckless in March.

That, in a nutshell, is what parenthood has turned me into.

Now there are certain things that I will NEVER do: I will never use the word "playdate" in a sentence (unless it is to say something along the lines of "Whoever came up with the term 'playdate' ought to be kneecapped"). I will never get excited about a parade. I will never spend my entire weekend driving my kid(s) to fifty-six sporting events. I do have some limits.

And with that, I can hear Desmond stirring upstairs. He's going to be needing a midnight snack.

(Kristen took some pictures of Des getting his haircut and can be seen here if interested)

2009-02-17T09:28:00.002-06:00

And now we see if I can embed video in blogger...

When I was a kid this song was painful, and abundant, so I am happy to finally listen to nineteen seconds of it and not want to stick bamboo sticks into my ears:

I have no good title for this

2009-02-13T22:30:00.001-06:00

Has it really been three weeks since I wrote anything here? How is that possible? I write all the freakin' time-granted most of it is in my head, but still-so you'd think I'd get over here more often.

We were cruelly teased with a high temperature of 66 last Tuesday, and despite the rest of my body pleading with it not to do so, my brain immediately moved into "winter is over, here comes spring" mode. Fool me thirty-six times, shame on me. It snowed last night, not much, but it did, mostly because I told Beth that it was going to be balmy here for the weekend. If by "balmy" I meant "still cold enough to rue not having your gloves if you have to walk more than two blocks" then I nailed it.

And this is what we call a segue: I spent some time downtown Friday and Saturday at the AWP Conference at the Chicago Hilton and Towers. If you've seen The Fugitive then you've seen the hotel-it's where the movie ends. This reminds me that no one does a better impersonation of the evil doctor who is startled to see Richard Kimble in at the banquet in the ball room: "Richard, I'm in the middle of this speech..." Part Ren from Ren and Stimpy (duh), part Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd's "Two wild and crazy guys," and a little recall of what it sounds like when I have a massive headcold.

But I digress. AWP stands for the "Association of Writers and Writing Programs" (I have no idea why it is not known as AWWP, but I would like to know what the unused W did to deserve non-inclusion) and while I am technically not a member, I was able to attend the conference through Roosevelt University (where I FINALLY graduated from in December, though I have yet to receive my dilpoma, and I envision myself in graduate purgatory. It's not as bad here as I thought. Could use a little color though).

I keep noticing that the autosave has been failing over and over. If I lose this entry when I try to publish it, I'm going to angry, really, really angry (I'll be mad-I've been watching too much Sesame Street). Of course, if I do lose this entry, no one is going to know about it except me. I think I just proved that purgatory is also highly existential.

AWP is two things: first, it is a festival of writing programs. The exhibition area in the basement of the hotel was chock full o' people from writing programs all over the nation. The scope of this was a little depressing because until someone out there decides to publish something I've written, these are all entities that have fostered my regret. I did my fair share of getting to know some of the folks behind the scenes of a few literary publications, and I am hoping that 2009 is the year I get to see myself in print. Maybe if I wrote poems instead...

The other thing AWP is is a bevy of seminars and panels, everything from how to write your memoir of growing up poor and not having indoor plumbing to getting people to pay you to write. I am being vague; there were hundreds of things to choose from in three days. I went to three. One was a reading by Stuart Dybek, who is a brilliant writer, the best at capturing Chicago as I have ever read. I had looked forward to this for a while but found myself incredibly annoyed at whoever decided to have someone on stage with him translating his reading to sign language. I should say that the presence of this person was not annoying but rather their positioning right next to Dybek. I swear they bumped shoulders a few times. It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying and I found myself either closing my eyes or looking away, which worked all right, but I have to say it made for an awkward experience. I'm happy that I got to see one of my favorite authors in person, but I'll always remember that while he read there was someone next to him on stage that looked like they were trying to hail every cab in the city.

I also attended a seminar discussing the rise of nonfiction on the radio. If you've ever listened to "This American Life" on NPR you'll know what this was about; there's a greater demand for stuff like this, and it intrigues me, because I write nonfiction more often than not. I believe I have a tremendous drawback to this though: I do not have a voice for radio. I hate to hear a recording of my own voice. When I talk I think my voice sounds OK, but when I hear it played back I'd swear it wasn't me. It's far too nasally and high-pitched. I've heard other people mention that their recorded voice sounds a lot different from what they here when they speak. There's got to be a name for that.

At the end of today I caught up with a few friends that I hadn't seen for a while, and then I walked a little over a mile to the train. I remember when I started grad school in the fall of 2005 that I though I would find it a lonely experience. I was very wrong, and I made some great friends, but I always knew that this time would go quickly and that most likely when it was over I wouldn't see much of them. I felt the same way about being in downtown Chicago three times a week. Yesterday was the first time I walked in the loop in a few months, and it has been well over a year since I was down there more than once in a week.

Today as I walked to the train I thought about when the next time would be that I might be downtown. I have no idea. I only live fifteen miles away, but it might as well be fifteen hundred. And I thought about how I was right, about how quickly the time that I would spend there would go. I'm happy that I had the ability to recognize that as it was happening.

I don't know where I am going with this. I guess it is the idea that change is always coming, and it is better to know it than to be surprised by it. I sit here now and I can hear Desmond breathing as he sleeps upstairs (I do not have extra-sensory hearing, just a really good baby monitor) and it makes me wonder how much longer he is going to sound like that, because he already sounds so much different than he did just a few months ago.

Why do my endings always seem like something that belongs at the end of an episode of "Doogie Hoswer." I'm going to try to post this now. If it fails and you happen to be struck by my computer as I throw it through the window, well, perhaps you shouldn't be out this late.

And it's a trifecta

2009-01-25T23:26:00.001-06:00

This pretty much sums up how I feel about winter right about now.

The sooner, the better.

The aroma of sleep

2009-01-25T23:20:00.004-06:00

I wasn't feeling all that well late this afternoon (Desmond has an ear infection and I think I was having some sympathy pangs) so I went upstairs for a nap. I dreamed that my father was remodeling our family room from way back in the late 70s, and I also dreamed that my wife and I were being tormented by Christmas carolers.

Both dreams had heavy themes of garlic. In the redecorating dream my father complained that the wall paper he was removing smelled so much of garlic he was concerned that its scent would always be in the room. And in the caroling dream we talked about running away from the carolers because they reeked of garlic.

Bizarre. But not as bizarre as waking up and smelling garlic, as my wife was cooking a chicken garlic pizza in the oven, and the aroma was all over the place.

Christians and Muslims and non-believers, oh my!

2009-01-25T16:21:00.003-06:00

"We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus, and non-believers."

The above is from President Obama's inaugural address, and while listening to the whole thing, the last word of that sentence is the only part that surprised me. I cannot believe:

1. That in this day and age, a United States president would acknowledge the fact that some people do not believe in God.

2. That bus loads of people from the deep south have not converged on Washington since then and demanded Obama's head.

3. That James Dobson, Pat Robertson, and what remains of Jerry Falwell have not choked to death (well, I guess that would be hard on Falwell's part) on their outrage, mostly because I haven't heard of any.

It's about damn time that someone said it publicly, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with not having a religious influence in one's life. For the last twenty years there has been a cavalcade of of judgement towards those who do not share the same religious values as the rest of the population. Religion is a choice, and the nation was founded on the ideal (among many) that all people should have the freedom to religion. I think I was six when I first learned that the primary reason the pilgrims left England and came to America was to escape being forced to worship in the Church of England. Bravo to them for dedicating themselves so much that they sailed across an ocean to a unforeseen place. However, freedom of religion most definitely includes the option of freedom from religion.

Not everyone is happy over Obama's inclusion of non-believers:

With that one line, the president "seems to be trying to redefine American culture, which is distinctively Christian," said’ Bishop E.W. Jackson of the Exodus Faith Ministries in Chesapeake, Va. "The overwhelming majority of Americans identify as Christians, and what disturbs me is that he seems to be trying to redefine who we are.’"

I have no idea who Bishop E.W. Jackson is. He might be one heck of a guy, but he also talks out of his ass. The only truth in his statement is the fact that a majority of people in this nation identify as Christians. By saying that Obama "is trying the redefine who we are" Jackson is parlaying the rhetoric of exclusion into a card of oppression.

So let me get this straight: most Americans, but not all, are Christians, and by acknowledging the fact that not everyone is religious Obama is trying to change society's view about religion? Jackson makes no sense. What he wants to do is scream "How dare he! How dare the president insinuate that God does not control everything we do and everything we are!"

(Hysteric interpretation all mine, of course)

Recent surveys suggest that 16% of people in this country do not believe in God (personally I waver, changing my mind more than a sewer worker changes their shoes, but that's a post for another time); that is almost one in five, yet of the 536 people who represent the nation in the elected government, not a single one would claim to belong in that 16%. A lack of willingness to embrace religion is probably the most potent forms of political suicide. Think about it: we have officials who are caught taking bribes and getting involved in sex scandals, yet you never hear of one disavow the presence of God. Not even a politician is that dumb, I guess.

The more I think about this, the more that I am amazed that this is not a bigger story. Perhaps one of the changes to come to political discourse is a less of an emphasis on God (go ask Elizabeth Dole how that ad she put out trying to label her opponent an atheist in the NC senate race went), or maybe everyone was so hung over from the historical significance of this inauguration that they didn't care.

Whatever the cause, I thought it was a bold move by the president, and it tells me that he is trying to be all-inclusive as he settles in. We'll see if this stays true.

Here's another quote about Obama's inclusion of "non-believers":

The Rev. Cecil Blye, pastor of More Grace Ministries Church in Louisville, Ky., said the president's reference to nonbelievers also set off major alarm bells for him. "It's important to understand the heritage of our country, and it's a Judeo-Christian tradition,"’ period. But his even bigger beef with the president, he said, is that a disproportionate number of "black kids are dying each day through abortion. President Obama is supportive of abortion, and that's a genocide on black folks. Nobody wants to talk about that as a civil rights issue."

Stepping away from religion, Blye's last comments on abortion forces me to wonder a little about him. Of course, it is perfectly fine for him to express his opinion on the matter, and I am not surprised that he is pro-life, but it seems odd that he mentions abortion as a civil rights issue. I don't know if I've ever heard it described as that.

Given his comments, I assume that Reverend Blye is African-American, though I cannot verify this through anything on the church website. There also isn't much on the website pertaining to the philosophy of his church, as I tried to find as much information about him as I could.

My questions are these: does Blye feel as strongly about the scourge of AIDS in the African-American community? Has he spoken out against the disproportionate levels of gun violence? Does he have any ideas on how to stop people from dying? I'm just wondering if he is as staunchly concerned about other civil rights issues pertaining to death as he is about abortion.

I raise these as legitimate questions, not to point the finger of hypocrisy. As I said, I couldn't find any information regarding the preachings of Rev. Blye nor the philosophies of his church.

I'm sure his church brings comfort to a great many people in his community, but given his somewhat inflammatory comments over what was a stunningly honest moment by President Obama, I wonder if he is as concerned with the rest of the population, or if he is just taking this moment to make a political statement.

Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out

2009-01-19T23:31:00.004-06:00

I've been waiting for this night to come for a long, long time. It's finally here. A thousand miles or so east-southeast of here, a beaten man is sleeping in a room for the very last time. By this time tomorrow, he'll be lying in a bed of obscurity.

One can only hope.

So tonight becomes the last opportunity for me to put the words "president" and "George W. Bush" together. Stare at that for a while. It has quite a calming affect on me.

My great-great-great-great grandchildren will open up their history books one hundred years hence to the years 2000-2008, and instead of a long, detailed description of the nightmare that was this presidency there will only be a blank page, save for the words "what the hell were they thinking?" smack dab in the middle.

That's the true legacy of this president, that somehow, we gave him another shot. The first four years weren't bad enough, I guess.

I'm supposed to thank GWB for making sure that there hasn't been another 9/11 since, well, 9/11. Yet somehow I doubt that he was the one who has been on sentry duty lo these many years, because if he were, he had've managed to shoot himself in the foot fifty-seven times by now.

Far be it for me to tell anyone what to think, but we must remember that after 9/11, a great majority of the world sympathized with us. This stayed true even when bombs fell (rightly) on Afghanistan. That war went so well that Cheney and the boys had some bigger drums delivered to the Oval Office and spent the next year banging louder and louder, and We the People did nothing except collectively wet ourselves with fear, and let the one hundred members of the most exclusive club in the world (yes, even with Roland Burris) tell them that firing up the war machine in the direction of Iraq was A-OK.

War beget chaos, chaos beget insurgency, insurgency beget torture, torture beget blah blah blah.

(And at the Capitol Building, they ate "Freedom Toast" for breakfast, and had "Freedom Fries" with their burgers at lunch...)

We must always remember the way this president used 9/11 to further an agenda of misconceptions, fear and arrogance. From the moment he decided to invade Iraq, he has perpetually tap-danced on the memory of every innocent person who died that day. It is the most shameful part of his term. America is a very different place now then it was six years ago, especially across the oceans.

Failure on a level so extreme, so unprecedented, cannot solely be the responsibility of a single human being. It cannot rest on the shoulders of only a certain few.

It can, however, have a poster boy.

This was a president who sent over 4000 American soldiers to their deaths, a fate they freely and honorably accepted as a possibility when they volunteered to do a job that I never could--due to a profound lack of courage--in a war with the moral basis of a pebble. This was a president who never once asked the people of his country to sacrifice a single goddamned thing while these soldiers sacrificed everything they were, and everything they would ever be.

Gerald Ford was 93 when he died two years ago. No former president has lived longer. I hope George W. Bush shatters that mark; I hope he sticks around for a long, long time. I hope he has the memory of the celebrations going on around the world tonight and tomorrow, rejoicing that his term is expiring, for forty years. I hope that as he grows older and older he lives in an expanding state of terror of what his creator has in store for him when his time comes.

I hope he is scorned everywhere outside the four walls of his home. I hope he feels the fingers of judgement pointing at him wherever he goes. I hope he comes to know exactly how pathetic of a leader he was. I hope the clouds of regret rain over him for forty years of day and night.

I do not hate the man. I hate the damage he has done all over this world; I hate the divisiveness of his spoken words; I hate that a man so unqualified, so unfit for the office somehow found himself in it for two full terms. I hate that my son had to live for a year with this man as the president.

I hate that this night did not come sooner.

So let us be done with him. Let him sneak away into history, where he foolishly believes one day he will be deified. The same sun that has risen for the last eight years will rise tomorrow, but surely, it will be brighter.

President Obama is not and will never be the be-all, end-all messiah that some build him up as. He doesn't need to be. He will screw up plenty. He will have much of the country shaking their heads in disagreement at times. He's a politician--what else would we expect?

But he is such an upgrade over what we have been forced to tolerate for the last eight years. It's as if we've all been driving Yugos and when we wake up tomorrow there will be Mustangs in all of our driveways.

(Wow. That was an analogy on par with, well, something bad. I need to go to bed.)

The heating of our discontent, or, my kingdom for a home warranty

2009-01-16T18:49:00.004-06:00

Note to self: when having a home inspection before buying a home, take the front of the furnace off and look inside.

When I went to sleep last night it was -13 outside, and 68 inside. When I woke up this morning, it was considerably colder. Nothing like frozen cockles first thing in the morning.

A technician was able to come out early this afternoon (but not before the temp on the thermostat dipped below 50-I evacuated the boy to Grandma's well before) and I wish I had taken a picture of his face when he took off the front of the furnace.

Let's just say it was a tad dirty. I was tempted to write "WASH ME" with my finger on the motor. He estimated that it hadn't been cleaned in over five years. Guess the people we bought the house from didn't care much about it.

Shame on me, though, for not checking it out before we sealed the deal. As it was, a sensor controlling the heating mechanism was shot, and would've anyway no matter how clean or filthy the furnace was. Still, it makes me wonder what else is lurking in the bowels of our new home. We got caught up in asthetics: every room has been redone in the last few years, and aside from a paint job or two, there is really nothing we need to do.

Well, except replace all major appliances in the next year, probably. I'm exaggerating; everything in the kitchen is new as well.

Ah, homeownership! It's been obnoxiously cold here this week, and it hasn't stopped snowing since Christmas. A few days ago I heard Kristen call me from downstairs smack dab at 7 AM: "We've got a water problem!" Being razed from slumber to news that water is causing a "problem" certainly gets the blood flowing. Turns out the ice damning up on the roof encased the top of the window in ice, and the heat from inside melted some. It had nowhere else to go except through the slats of the blinds. It actually wasn't much, and since the temp dropped twenty degrees that day, it hasn't come back.

It will, though, unless I get up on a ladder and get rid of the ice. Me on a ladder = high comedy. Pray for me, and help my wife with the insurance premiums.

I'm starting to wonder if I've moced into a money pit. The house is 57 years old, and five years of home ownership in the 90s taught me that things go wrong in houses all of the time. They are supposed to be mildly annoying.

This week mildly annoying would be an upgrade.

Ah, to whine about things that really aren't much of a big deal. At least I wasn't on an airplane that landed in the freakin' water yesterday. Wow. Color me impressed. Seriously. That pilot is more of a stud than Seattle Slew.

Maybe he can come over and replace my furnace.

You thought you might be a ghost

2009-01-11T21:06:00.003-06:00

As it turns out, moving in late December might not be the best idea ever conceived. Especially when the coldest weather of the year arrives about three hours before the movers do. Especially when you think that you can have a first birthday party for your son five days after moving into the new house. Especially when you relaize that yes, indeed, you have too much stuff.

Moving sucks. Yes, I know people are losing their jobs, homes and other stuff, and in the grand scheme buying a home is pretty special, but moving still sucks. It's been three weeks, and I finally feel like things are somewhat "normal."

Don't ask me what normal is. I don't know.

Desmond turned one year old on the Sunday before Christmas, and while there were boxes and piles all over our home-for-one-more-day, it was a special day. He was born at 8 PM, and I wasn't able to sit and hold him until almost noon the next day. Now, it is almost impossible to get him to sit still for more than a few seconds, but on his birthday I somehow coaxed him to sit on my lap until he fell asleep, and he took a peaceful one-hour nap. For that entire time I stared at him and tried to recall all the moments of his first year.

I am amazed that I have a one-year old son. I am amazed at the things that he does (which yet to include walking, and there's no rush), the things that he says (which yet to include "da-da", and there's no rush, though I would note that he has been saying "ma-ma" for the last sixty days or so. There is nothing quite like a mom, is there?), and everything else in his existence. I still can't quite believe that he is ours, and that he will always be ours.

Kristen has done a wonderful job posting pictures of Desmond so that our family that live outisde of Chicago can see how he has changed, and now that he is a year, I'm feeling generous, so take a gander at the boy if you so desire. No pressure.

I'm hoping to get into the habit of posting more and keeping up with those whose writing I enjoy so much. My Google reader yesterday hit 95, so I have some catching up to do.

Moving, birthdays and Christmas. Oh my.

2008-12-26T22:50:00.001-06:00

I have no mental capacity for anything other than a quick joke:

What lies at the bottom of the ocean and twitches?

(Wait for it)

(Wait)

(Wait)

A nervous wreck.

End of days

2008-12-19T00:12:00.003-06:00

If you watched the news here today, you'd think that we are all going to die. Did I miss something? When did snow become as dangerous as radioactive fallout?

(Entry interrupted to tend to a wailing, soon-to-be one-year old who appears to have had a nightmare, poor guy. But all is well. There is nothing quite like a mom.)

I'm just blown away by the way the media here in Chicago reacts to winter storms. It's Chicago. It's winter. What do you expect? Two days ago a four inch storm hit at the peak of the evening rush hour, and anyone trying to go more than a few miles was stuck in crawling traffic for at least a few hours.

If there is no traffic you can drive from the Loop to O'Hare Airport in about twenty minutes. Tuesday evening at five, it was four and a half hours. On the CBS station here at ten o'clock, they had a feature where a reporter drove from the downtown studio to the airport, which took four hours. How is that news?

Flakes start falling, and it's like an OJ trial around here. Bizarre.

Just three days until Desmond's first birthday. On this day last year we went to the doctor and made the appointment to induce labor on the 21st. I'll never forget the feeling sitting in that office, knowing that it was now a sure thing that in three days our first child was going to be born. It was like plunging your head into ice water-I never felt more aware of my surroundings.

Those three days turned out to be the longest three days since the dawn of time, seventy-two hours of anxiety, anticipation and just plain waiting. I did five hundred crossword puzzles, read fifty-seven magazines and learned twelve languages. Seems like I remember every second.

Today's statement o' funk

2008-12-15T23:38:00.004-06:00

Craig Ferguson is wearing a tie on his show tonight that reminds me of something. It took a minute or two before getting it: it's the same tie that we buried my father in.

Moving on...Desmond's first birthday is this coming Sunday. You have got to be kidding me. There is no way my son is already one year old. Sometimes I think that this past year has passed in the blink of an eye, and sometimes it feels like it has been two years instead of one. It has been quite a time.

Desmond is not walking yet. He's close; he pulls himself up on everything and can walk along a table or anything else he can hold on to (including my wrists). I thought I would find the prospect of my son walking melancholy, like he was crossing a barrier that he couldn't return to, but I find myself ready for this. I am starting to see him as a toddler, and toddlers walk.

They also take their pants off, apparently. Des hasn't kept a pair of pants on longer than thirty minutes for about the last week. Putting a pair of pants on him is slightly more difficult than having a root canal without Novacaine (thank you, James Frey. I will never tire of reminding people that you are full of crap), and it's quite disheartening to see him get them off in twelve microseconds.

We don't wear shoes unless it's an absolute necessity.

I'll have more to say about Desmond as the week progresses. My memories of this year seem the opportunity to knock myself out of my writing funk.

Nothing like a fine whine.

2008-12-14T22:37:00.003-06:00

I forgot how much moving sucks. Packing things that you swore that you got rid of last time you moved, doing it again because you're too far behind to deal with it now, and stuff all over the place. I hate it. Hate hate hate it. Every time I move (which happens about every four or so years, it seems) I vow to never do it again.

The thing is, I can't wait to move. We are finally moving into a home of our own. It's a great house. I just wish I could go to sleep, wake up and have everything be moved in.

My funk continues. I'd swear it is February, which makes me nervous to think about how I will be once February actually gets here. I'm hopeful that new surroundings will snap me out of this malaise.

Since I'm getting bogged down in negativity, I will submit myself to a random eleven. As promised last time, here is where I stole this from.

1. "Point Shirley"-Rhett Miller. The thinly veiled reference to Hamlet throughout this song intrigues me, though I don't recall there being a Shirley in the cast. Maybe Ophelia is Dane for Shirley...

2. "Fool in the Rain"-Led Zeppelin. When I was a sophomore in college, I had a rough year. I hated my roommate (who was actually not a bad guy, though he was incredibly boring, I was just deranged) but took some odd pleasure in using his boombox whenever he wasn't around. Since he knew I didn't like him (because I pretty much stopped talking to him by Labor Day-again, I had major issues) he would be gone all day. Of all the cassettes that I listened to back then-this was the late 80s before CDs-In Through the Out Door was the one I listened to most. Ergo, whenever I hear a song from this CD I can't help but think about my roommate. Fortunately, it doesn't happen with the rest of the LZ catalog. In a slapdash of irony, when I started grad school in 2005 I discovered that his sister was chair of the English department (I had never met her before). I eventually worked up the gumption to introduce myself and asked her if she might give me his e-mail. She did, I wrote him a note apologizing for my behavior, but I never heard from him.

3. "Slow Emotion Replay"-The The. I have this odd habit of remembering specific, obscure things about uneventful moments in my life (see above), and this song always takes me back to four in the morning when I got up extremely early to go in to work at an ungodly hour for some dog and pony show. I hated my job, I hated the fact that I was up at four, I pretty much hated everything, except this song, which came on the radio when I turned it on as soon as I woke up.

4. "Perfect"-Smashing Pumpkins. I used to think this song was about unrequited love (and identified with it passionately-God, could I be more of a depressing mole tonight?) but now think it's about a stalker telling his "beloved" that he isn't giving up anytime soon.

5. "New Test Leper"-REM. The obligatory appearance of the boys from Athens on the Random 11, from the vastly under-rated New Adventures in Hi-Fi, which I listened to extensively while traipsing through central Oregon in summer 2003. When I typed the previous sentence, I noticed that I omitted the first "p" in "appearance" and proceeded to do something that drives me insane: instead of just moving my cursor to where the missing letter was, I deleted all the way back to that point and wound up re-typing most of the word. Usually I don't catch mistake like that until a few words later, and I wind up deleting whatever part of the sentence came afterwards. It's bizarre. I tell myself not to do it, but I do every time.

6. "Home By the Sea"-Genesis. Listen to this song, then watch the scene in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind when the home by the sea is fading from memory, and tell me that Charlie Kaufmann wasn't thinking about that all through the movie. In this room they sigh and they moan.

7. "Goodbye Girl"-Squeeze. Not to be confused with the ballad from Bread to the movie of the same name. I should mention that when I was 12 my mother would not let me watch The Goodbye Girl on TV, and to this day I still do not understand why. Perhaps she thought I was allergic to Richard Dreyfuss. Come to think of it, I did sneeze throughout Mr. Holland's Opus. And whatever happened to Quinn Cummings? That's one heck of a resume, culminating with an appearance on "Blossom".

8. "I've Seen All Good People"-Yes. This is one of those songs that you (by which I mean me) listen to three thousand times before getting what it is about. They're playing chess!

9. "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby"-Counting Crows. Wasn't this the title of a "very special" episode of MASH? I find the crows mostly pretentious (and in need of a bath), but I love this song. Doesn't take much to reel me in, just a mixture of melody, lyrics and inquisition. Well done.

10. "Viva la Vida"-Coldplay. This is a group that I was looking forward to slapping down a few rungs on the ladder, if for nothing else than writing a song as awful as "Fix You," but this album is outstanding. Their last CD was extraordinarily pretentious and muck, but all is forgiven. I'd prefer that every song not be about death, but there you go. This song was in the news last week because it apparently sounds just like a melody Joe Satriani wrote about five years ago. And it does. I suppose it could be a happy accident, but either way, I have a feeling someone is going to get a co-writing credit on any further pressings of the CD just to keep everyone in Whoville happy.

11. "Please Read the Letter"-Robert Plant and Allison Krause. Normally I would have finished my rave to Coldplay above with a decisive "this album deserves to win a billion Grammys" rant, but I don't for two reasons: first, who really gives a rat's ass about the Grammys? They've been awful ever since they gave three hundred awards one year to Lionel Ritchie; second, no album this year has been better than Raising Sand; this is the best song from that CD. I saw Plant and Krause in September in Kansas City, the first concert I had been to in ten years, and it was spectacular. If you ad told me twenty-five years ago that I would one day see Robert Plant live singing a folk song version of "Black Dog" I would have bet that I was committed somewhere. The two are amazing together, and I hope that the rumors I hear about them doing another album are true.

Papal job sharing

2008-11-29T01:34:00.003-06:00

I have not stopped writing. Since I last posted this way I have written many other things but have never got far enough in my satisfaction to leave them. It's been very gray here, literally and figuratively. Normally this time of year doesn't bother me-I get all wrecked in February, when it's been cold and gray (Chicago has descended into Seattle weather-wise the last few winters it seems) for eons-but this year I have felt a sense of brutality that usually stays away until Ash Wednesday.

This reminds me of a very short dream I had this afternoon during a blissful nap on my mother's living room couch. My wife and I were sitting at the dining room table with the last two popes. Benedict was admonishing me for not being consistent with teaching our son about religion and said that I needed to do better.

"After all" he said, "you asked us both to be popes for him."

"I prefer the term 'co-popes'," I said. And that was the end of the dream.

The concept of co-popes is something I definitely intend to explore.

So why am I in such a funk? Beats me. I have nothing to feel despondent over. We're moving next month into a house of our own, and while that should trigger a certain level of stress, it doesn't. It's exciting and I wish we were doing it tomorrow. I received final approval on my graduate thesis, so I will finally have my MFA next month and can pretend that I am an actual writer, which is all I've wanted to be these last forty years. Desmond is now on the down-slope of eleven months old and is perfect in every way still, so there is no reason for dirge there.

I could understand my mood if Obama had lost the election, but he did not, and as I watched the returns that evening I realized that the country nailed it, and that I really have no desire to wallow in the groans of those who will spend the next four years tearing him from limb to limb. This moment of clarity has led me to delete several bookmarks of punditry from my laptop; I don't have the stones for forced outrage and negativity anymore. Obama is not the messiah and will struggle as all presidents do, but he was the best option out there.

We can be such a bitter country.

So I don't know what's happening. All I know is that the last fifty times that I have tried to say something here I've abandoned it before the first paragraph was complete. I saw tonight that there is an auto-save on blogger so I had the pleasure of going back and reading snippets of muck, and I made the proper choice each and every time.

I haven't been worth my weight in words lately. I feel like I've walked into a spider web hanging across the front sidewalk and can't get it off of me.

This is not an original idea but it has cured me of block before: the random eleven, the first eleven songs that play randomly on my i-pod along with any thoughts that pop in. I'm too lazy to look back at who I took this from, but I will next time.

1. "Shaking the Tree"-Peter Gabriel. "Waiting your time/Dreaming of a better life." Show me a song that has more first-line-lyric angst for the average awkward fifteen year-old. I'll be waiting here for a while. I listen to this song and wonder what I am missing: the message is clearly skewed towards women, and given the melody, the women of Africa, and I wonder what Peter Gabriel has done that made him qualified to address feminine issues on that continent twenty years ago? Don't get me wrong, it's a great song. I just don't get what made him think of it.

2. "Hiding Out"-Pete Townshend. With an 'h'. This is from the most under-rated album of all-time: "White City." While it would be a stretch to say that the nine songs on this work saved my life, they certainly had an influence in the way I handled some difficult events. There is no sense explaining the circumstances that are unique to one life and one life only. Everyone has their White City (mine just happens to be named "White City"). I've made it known that many, many, many years from now I would like a copy of this CD to be buried with me.

3. "Zooropa"-U2. Zooropa is my favorite U2 album. I don't know anyone else who admits this. My best friend from college had the most annoying habit of listening to one song over and over and over again. I suffered through a cavalcade of multiple Madonna, Prince and Sheena Easton marathons while we were room mates, and if I could retaliate seventeen years after the fact, I'd force him to listen to the second half of this song for thirteen straight months. "She's gonna dream of the world she wants to live in. She's gonna dream out loud." About co-popes!

4. "Second Hand Love"-Pete Townshend. Normally I have a rule about repeating artists during a random eleven. Not tonight. "He's been laying his sin on you/I can sense it from a mile. And all my money is bet on you/But you're still selling your smile."

5. "Jailhouse Rock"-Elvis. I actually wrote "Presley." I remember the day Elvis died, and I remember some local radio DJ talking about it on a national news broadcast, and he went on and on about how this song was the best, not just of Elvis's, but in all of recorded history. That guy is still on the air in Chicago, and I've thought him an idiot since. I like the song. It's not the be-all end-all of Elvis though.

6. "Man on the Moon"-REM. Perfect. I am felling very Andy Kaffmaun-ish these last few weeks. Interesting fact that my only concern me: I just googled "Fred Blassey" after hearing his name mentioned in the song for the billionth time, and I still don't know what kind of breakfast mess he ever got into, but I am amazed that he was the genius behind "Pencil Neck Geek."

7. "Harvest Moon"-Neil Young. This song has been ruined for me eternally by the movie Away from Her. It was used in an almost perfect context, mind you, but it was just so exceptionally sad that I can't think of anything more now when I hear it. I used to think of how corny-romantic it would be to try to sing this song to my wife if we make it to, say, our 40th wedding anniversary, but now I would just be singing it to the empty shell of Julie Christie's mind. Moment goes POOF!

8. "I Feel Free"-Cream. There's a pun here that escapes me. Enjoy the humming.

9. "Modern Love"-David Bowie. Here's proof that I am a child of the MTV generation: my first thoughts upon hearing the distinctive drum beat that begins this song is the moment towards the end of its video where DB takes a bouquet of roses from a fan, nods his head in appreciative thanks, and then tosses them to another person in the audience. When you care enough to fling the very best.

10. "Seven Veils"-Peter Murphy. There are times when I wish I could plug my brain in and people could relive certain moments of my life, because there is no way that I can convey certain feeling in writing. This song would be one of those moments, and I would show you an early morning in Iowa City, May 1991, me walking through a city park at 5:30 on my way home from work, this song playing on my headphones. You have no idea what I am talking about, I know.

11. "Little Bird"-Annie Lennox. Maybe it's because I really want to be done this now and go to bed, but I have no thoughts about this song.

2008-11-03T23:28:00.002-06:00

I'm tired. I'm beat. I'm exhausted. And yet, I can't stop. I'm watching Sean Hannity on Fox right now swear on the souls of his children that every single poll that shows John McCain losing tomorrow is spot-off. It's laughable, even if McCain somehow wins.

I'm tired. I can't wait for this election to be over. I have a high degree of confidence that Obama will win tomorrow, though I do no think that it will be the stomp that most think it will be. I think we will all be strung along for a while, and that McCain will grab a state or two that he was not expected to win, but I don't see a scenario where he can win.

Gee, Newt Gingrich thinks all of the polls are wrong too.

I don't think Obama is going to be the be-all, end-all savior president that some envision him to be, but he surely would (let's not get ahead of ourselves shall we?) would be a massive upgrade over the "current occupant."

Irony alert: eight years ago I probably would have voted for John McCain had he been running against Al Gore (whom I did vote for-George W. Bush never had me fooled). I think the 2000 John McCain would have been a decent follow-up to President Clinton. Plus, if McCain had been the GOP candidate in 2000 it would have meant that he rose above the Republican slime machine. As the nominee in 2008, he has embraced it.

And Palin? Look, I share no negative opinion of her as a woman or even as a republican, but there is simply no way that she should be second in line for the presidency of this country. Not now. When the election is over let her go back to Alaska and season herself for four years, and then we can talk. McCain could have asked many more qualified conservative women to be his running mate and might have won the election.

I can't wait for the phone to stop ringing. We don't even answer it anymore. Our machine is full of pleas to vote for this water-reclamation manager (and what is political about water, pray tell?) and that state representative. Please make it stop.

It's laughable. And on the national stage, I proclaim that starting Wednesday that I will knee-cap anyone who refers to another person by the first name and their occupation. No more "Joe the Plumber." No more "Chico the sous chef." No more "Jessica the elevator repair person.
Enough.

Ah, Joe the Plumber. I held off on this pork chop for a while and thus my remarks are probably passe, but there was other stuff going on around here: homes to buy (yes!), theses to FINALLY be approved ('bout damn time), ten-month old sons to dress up as Piglet for Halloween (forgive me, son).

Newt Gingrich just referenced Joe the Plumber. If it were thirty-six hours later, he'd be limping for the rest of 2008. Thwack!

Joe the Plumber is an idiot. Wait a tic, Sam the plumber. There we go. In the great tradition of laborers named Sam made famous on TV (There was "Sam the Butcher" from the Brady Bunch, and, um, "Sam the Butcher" from the Brady Bunch), we have Sam Wurzelbacher, the Plumber. It's the plumber! He's come to fix the sink! And raise the bar of self-electoral-righteousness.

Look, I respect any person willing to do a job where the possibility exists that someone else's poop might wind up on your hands, but that doesn't give you the right to be duplicitous and self-serving. Sammy tried to make it seem like he was an undecided voter when he had his little "chat" with Obama, but he was hardly that. He might have had me going if he didn't show up on 57 conservative radio shows within the next week.

The challenge here is to say something about Joe the Plumber that hasn't been said so far in this party, since I am so late to it. I've heard he has hired a publicist, is thinking of running for Congress and wants to cut a country music album. May I suggest he market the "Wurzelburger"? Of course, I suspect people might want to verify what it would be made out of before ingesting it.

With apologies to John, Paul, George and Ringo (and this is really one of my favorite Beatles' songs), I present:

THE BALLAD OF JOE THE PLUMBER

Standing on a street in Toledo
Waiting for Obama to pass.
Plumbing's my game, can it get me some fame?
Cuz you know my balls are made out of brass.
Christ! You know it ain't easy,
You know how hard it can be.
Can't buy my boss' business,
You should feel sorry for me.

I told him that his tax plan was crap,
With my arms folded across of my chest.
But Obama he say, "you can make it ok,
You'll have lots of money left to invest."
Christ! You know it ain't easy,
You know how hard it can be.
Should have been a butcher,
Then I'd get my meat for free.

Last debate I'm mentioned eighty-six times,
Set the minutes on the clock to fifteen.
Then the newspapers stressed, Joe the Plumber's depressed,
And my bald melon's in Us Magazine.
Christ! You know it ain't easy.
You know how hard it can be.
My life's a talking point,
Ain't got no privacy.

Need a plumbing license and I owe back taxes,
Roto-rooter won't return my calls.
When life's one great big clog, and the media treats you like a dog
It's like your septic system won't vent-
Stink!

Made a lightning trip to Manhattan,
Sittin' next to Sean Hannity.
Like Momma always said,
If you let things go to your head
Even you can shill for the GOP.
Christ! You know it ain't easy,
You know how hard it can be.
Hair transplants are expensive,
But smear campaigns are free!

Now I'm out with Sarah and John,
Hey look there's Mike Huckabee!
If I say with some measure, that Obama's soft on terror
Can I get a picture with Guiliani?
Christ you know it ain't easy,
You know how hard it can be.
I'm gonna need some help here,
Fifteen minutes is an eternity.

"As the Titanic went down, I came up...

2008-10-31T22:19:00.003-05:00

Studs Terkel died today at ninety-six. I discovered his work rather late in his career, only about ten years ago, but since then I've read him as often as I could. As a nonfiction writer, Studs was an icon. He had the ability to take people's words and turn them into inspiration. He was an oral historian. He recorded people's words and put them on the page in a way that made his subjects sing.

My favorite Studs' work is Will the Circle be Unbroken? It's full of people talking about death. While it might not seem like a feel-good topic, it's a fascinating look at how different cultures and faiths deal with the inevitable. I've read it several times and feel the need to read it again soon. Other books to read are Working, Hope Dies Last, Division Street, and his memoir Touch and Go, which was published in 2007.

Throughout Touch and Go Terkel mentions that he has been fortunate to have lived so long, that he has outlived almost all of his friends. "At 94," he says "I've come to the realization that I am 99 and 44/100ths dead"
(that's a play on a popular ad campaign by Ivory Soap from a long time ago), and it's my favorite line of the book.

I was surprised to read in that book that Terkel did not publish his first oral history until he was 55. Before then he had a long career in broadcasting and public service. He had an interesting life.

It feels weird to be so seriously bummed out about the death of someone who missed living to be a century by four years, but I feel like Terkel still had some words left in him that will never make it out now. It's a selfish feeling; I loved his work, and I wish there was more forthcoming.

Zephyr in the sky at night I wonder

2008-10-19T22:44:00.004-05:00

Well bust my flange and call me Joe the Plumber. It's the end of just about a perfect weekend here-beautiful fall weather, some house hunting, and a curious almost-ten month old baby boy continuing to discover all the different things about life.

What could be better? Heck, even the Chicago Tribune endorsed Barack Obama today. The Trib never endorses Democratic presidential candidates. I was glancing over some news sites before this and saw the list of papers (which the minions in the McPalin camp will remind us tomorrow have become completely irrelevant) that have endorsed Obama. Houston? The LA Times? Idaho? I guess anything can happen these days.

What the...? It's almost 11 PM here, and the doorbell just rang. Back in a sec.

(Hey-Desmond here. This remote controlled doorbell I wired from my crib finally comes in handy. Look, I know everyone is tired of this, but I just wanted to warn that Dad is about to mention the Cubs again. Here he comes...I gotta scoot.)

No one there. We don't live in an area with a heck of a lot of kids, so I don't know what is going on. Anyway, it's been a good weekend. Kristen and Desmond are asleep, and I'm just goofing around before I call it a night. Maybe I'll see what's on TV here...

And the cabin explosively decompresses. The Tampa Bay Rays are going to the World Series! Wonderful! Thank God that the long nightmare for the folks of Tampa/ St. Pete is finally over.

Really, it's bad enough that I have to endure being a Cubs fan. It's excruciating. I was walking around a pumpkin farm with my family today and every time I saw a carved jack-o-lantern I knew exactly how it felt. Think about it: a pumpkin grows rich and plump through the summer, spending its day wondering what is to become of it, and then at the height of its excitement and anticipation, it gets cut open and completely gutted-like that it isn't enough-and then it gets carved into some bewildering characterization.

Watching the Cubs roll over and play dead to the Dodgers a few weeks ago was like having someone cut a circle off the top of my skull and then reach in, pulling everything out. Watching Tampa celebrate going to the World Series is the final straw, the slim serrated knife carving an image of Sarah Palin into my torso.

There's the damn door bell again. I'm going to squash whomever is out there...

(Hey, Desmond again. Look, I can hear him hyperventilating over this, and the best thing for him is to vent. He's gotta get it out. It's pathetic that I have more perspective on this then he does, but then he's been around a lot longer.)

No one there. Maybe I'm hearing things; on the way back up here I swore I could hear little feet running away. How much am I supposed to endure? Do you know how awful it has been being a Cubs fan since 2003? The implosion they pulled off that year was enough to kill most of my brain cells, but what has conspired since is ridiculous. And it's not just the team's performance (though that has been spectacular as well-a last-week collapse in 2004 to miss the playoffs, then two pathetic seasons back-to-back in '05 and '06, and the three-and-out playoff performances of '07 and '08); it's been just as hard watching who gets to end up celebrating at the end of those seasons.

Now the phone, the phone is ringing. There might be an animal in trouble. Be right back.

(Des, yet again. This is worse than I thought. I'm afraid he's about to break out into a list. I don't know what to do. Maybe I'll go make him a bottle. That always makes everything better for me.)

Where was I? Right, October suffering. Here's what I've had to deal with since the Cubs flame-out of 2003:

2003: The Florida Marlins (who were the beneficiaries of said flame-out) win the World Series over the Yankees. This is the second championship for the Marlins, who also won in 1997. They didn't join the league until 1993, or 85 freakin' years after the Cubs last championship. People in Miami love their baseball, as the Marlins average around 10,000 fans per game.

2004: Up until this point, most scholars of the game would suggest that fans of the Boston Red Sox have been subject to more cruelty than Cubs fans, and since the Sox have managed to lose a few playoff series in spectacular fashion (paging: 1986) there is some truth to this. This all changed in 2004. Boston became the first team ever to win a seven-game playoff series after falling behind three games to none. Undeserved extra oomph #1: they did it against the Yankees, their most hated rival. Undeserved extra oomph #2: they went on the win four straight in the WS, thereby eliminating any drama as to whether they would finally win. It was the first championship since 1918.

2005: If you think envy was a healthy presence in '04, '05 gave it a pandemic-force presence. The White Sox hadn't won a championship since 1917. They went 11-1 in the playoffs. It was never in doubt, my friends. I ripped my heart out of my chest and ate it so many times during the World Series that my ribs walked out on me. I must point though that despite popular theory, a Cubs fan does not consider the White Sox to be his team's greatest rival. Any true Cubs fan keeps all his vitriol for...

2006: ...the St. Louis Cardinals! The Cards barely made the playoffs (and in fact set a record for the fewest regular season wins by a World Series winning team-83) and then drove the stake further into my heart by winning it all. Seriously, who writes this stuff? Boston, Chicago and St. Louis back to back to back?

2007: So I figure this has to be the year that the Cubs are finally vanquished. I mean, what else is left? Everyone has won the World Series by now it seems...so let's let the long suffering fans of Boston win a second series in three years! And let's make it even better by letting the Colorado freakin' Rockies (established the same year as the traditional Florida Marlins-1993) get to the World Series too. Thank God those fans in Denver had this, because they have nothing else to celebrate out there *cough-John Elway-cough* And let's have this happen after the Cubs roll over and die to the Arizona Diamondbacks, who by the way won the World Series in 2001, thereby ending the prolonged suffering of their loyal fans who saw them enter the major leagues in 1998. When I think about all those Phoenix-area first graders who had yet to see the D'Backs win it all, I can barely stand it.

The phone is ringing again!

(Desmond again. OK, he's officially out of control, and I'm starting to get a little peeved. If I don't get fourteen hours of sleep per night I am a mess the entire next day. I am asking anyone who might have access to a tranquilizing gun to come over immediately. I can pay handsomely-apples, pears, sweet potatoes, etc.; all pureed, all chock full of YUMMY! Please help.)

2008: Two teams won 97 games this year: the Cubs and the Rays. One pulled the ultimate Mr. Bungles and was eliminated quicker than AIG spends bailout money on "massages" while the other beat two good teams and made it to the World Series. Their opponent? The Phillies, another team that has brought much woe to their loyal fans (and I'm actualy serious here-next to the Cubs, the worst team to be enslaved to has to be the Phillies, though they did win a World Series in 1980). So either Tampa or Philly wins it this year. I'm sure Tampa will win. It's about time that a team that has been in existence less than every sixth grader on the planet has been alive purges the demons of its past. Did I mention Tampa had never won more than 70 games in any of their nine prior seasons? Of course they did!

What's going to happen next year? Will the roster of the 1927 Yankees regenerate in late August and make a final addition to their legacy? Will Steve Garvey come out of retirement for the Washington Nationals post-season run? Will Will Clark hit a three-mile long grand slam?

Who just thinks I spontaneously combusted? Oh, and Desmond, you are so grounded when you turn twelve.

I promise here and now that these are my last words about the Cubs for at least the rest of 2008, and more than likely until the first pitch of 2008, of which by then I will have completely done my best Men In Black impersonation and forgot all about this.

When I sat down to write this, I grabbed my i-pod. The first song it played randomly?

Madonna's "Ray of Light."

Of course it did.

Holy Schnikies

2008-10-15T20:58:00.003-05:00

Yes, I'm watching the debate (I've done such a good job at avoiding politics here lately, just because the process has been going on for what seems like forever), and I actually feel sorry for John McCain. He reminds me of the kid in school who blew his top every time he was teased and thus was teased all the time because everyone knew they could get a rise out of him.

Why would anyone want this man to be President of the United States? Red, blue, democrat, republican...this dude is (Mel Brooks shout out here) "N-V-T-S."

And who the hell is Joe the Plumber?

2008-10-09T10:26:00.000-05:00

This is Desmond.

Yes, I know that I'm only nine months old and that I should be in bed, but I've been sleeping all day today, and it's boring. Baby stuff gets boring sometimes. There's only so many times I can pretend to be amazed by "Brahms' Lullaby" and watch a mobile spin above my head.

So when I wake up in the middle of the night when everyone else is asleep? I'm so out of that crib. I gotta do my own thing. You'll understand if I don't describe my activities. I don't want to jeopardize my independence.

Of course, I realize that hijacking Dad's blog isn't exactly the way to remain anonymous, but odds are he'll never read this anyway, or if he does, he'll forget that he didn't write it. He's always thinking about writing in my perspective, but that "Yeah I'm a baby but I'm sooo intelligent" bit has been overdone.

By the way, should anyone be curious, I look like this.

Amazingly, Dad seems to be over the demise of the Cubs. It's weird; we spent all summer watching games and getting excited about how well they were doing. Dad spent a good deal of time telling me about baseball, and while I did the best I could, I still don't get everything about it.

One thing I did get (man, did I get it) though was how much Dad likes the Cubs. It's more than just entertainment. He's devoted. Dad is 41. He's been watching the Cubs since he was five. He can name 99% of the men who have played for the team since 1972. He remembers just about every single one of the hundred or so games he has been to in person.

When I sneeze, this strange gooey stuff comes out of my nose and they use a white cloth to wipe it away. I hate it. Hate, hate, hate it! But I digress. When Dad sneezes, baseballs with Cubs logos on them come flying out of his nose, and we have to make sure that we duck.

You get the idea. My Dad is a little excessive when it comes to the Cubs. (HA! I just sneezed but no one else is awake to wipe my nose! VICTORY IS MINE!) So imagine my surprise when I have noticed that he isn't moping around the house since the Cubs so brilliantly flamed out of the playoffs. I give him credit. I barely know anything about the Cubs and how the playoffs work and I wanted to pound my head against the side of my crib for a while after those two games at Wrigley Field last week. How can a team that played so well all season long suddenly channel their inner t-ball player? They were awful-walks, errors, a total lack of hitting. What the heck happened?

Can you give me a sec? I just noticed a small decorative pillow on the couch next to me, and it has a tag, so I must play with it immediately. Talk amongst yourselves...OK, I'm done.

History is an amazing thing. History tells us that anyone who is a Cubs fan should know better than to get excited in October. I think Dad had this idea that now that I was here that the Cubs would win, that I was the thing missing since 1908 (yeah, no pressure there pops, thanks). I may only be 293 days old but I already know that no one person can fix what ails the Cubs in the post-season.

I did some research for a few minutes before starting to write this, and it's no wonder that Dad is half-insane. He was born in 1967 and suffered through some truly awful Cubs teams until 1984, when they finally went to the playoffs. They've been to the playoffs five times since then: 1989, 1998, 2003, 2007 and 2008. They've never made it to the World Series any of those years.

What's amazing about that is how they've accomplished it: in all six playoff appearances they have lost the final three games. In '84 they needed to only win one of three possible games in San Diego after winning the first two at home; they lost all three and the best-of-five series 3-2. In '89 they went to San Francisco at one game apiece and lost three straight (and the series 4-1). In '98, '07 and '08 they lost the only three games they played.

And then there is 2003. This is the only time in my Dad's lifetime that the Cubs won a playoff series. The beat Atlanta in a best of five 3-2. They won the first, third and fifth games. Next was Florida, a best-of seven for the right to go to the World Series, and after losing the first game, they won the next three. Up 3-1 in a best of seven, they had three chances to win one game. They lost all three. You might remember what happened in one of them.

Geez, I'm sorry I put that picture in there. That poor guy. Ihad to look up "scapegoat" to make sure I understood how to use it properly. That guy is the ultimate scapegoat. He is as much to blame for the Cubs demise in 2003 as I was, and in 2003 I was cruising the Andromeda Galaxy (I will deny that if you tell anyone). I can only imagine what he feels each year when the Cubs season ends, and he continues to be a man without a country.

It's uncanny: when the Cubs lose a second game in a row in the playoffs, it's over. Why did the bother going to LA after game 2 last week? You could see the forks sticking out of them as they walked off the field.

I'd like to think that maybe I'm the reason Dad isn't taking this year's demise as badly as we thought he would. After all, there is more to life than baseball now. There are things like pacifiers and teething rings and strained carrots (and TAGS!), etc. The sun has come up five days in a row now. He sits there and says that he's not going to get caught up in the hype anymore, that from now on he will get excited about them winning during the regular season but ignore the playoffs, and I know he is full of 100% USDA Grade A BS. I know two things for sure in my young life: one, that there is nothing like a warm bottle just as one reaches the point of exhaustion, and two, you don't spend 7/8ths of your life in utter devotion to something and just punt it away in frustration. Dad will let go of his devotion to the Cubs just as soon as he saws off all his limbs.

I do believe him when he says that he is done thinking and talking about them until April though. Good thing. It scares me when I see those giant veins sticking out of his forehead.

A very short statement about the Cubs

2008-10-05T00:14:00.000-05:00

Fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me five billion times, shame on me.

And we move on...

2008-10-01T00:11:00.000-05:00

I've been writing here for a little less than five years. I've had two instances where I had a sudden increase in readers. The first was one I was a guest editor two November's ago. A few days later the ads hit, and people left all over the place. I did too, for a spell, bouncing over to the UK version until they put ads up and then I beat the drums of hypocrisy all the way back to here. Then last month Mary was kind enough to mention this journal in something she wrote, and people came by to see what was going on. I've enjoyed getting to know some new people since then.

But as we found out today, this is all going "POOF!" at the end of the month. So it happens again. I don't pretend to know the business world very well anymore, but it seems like every time AOL makes a decision, they stick it to the few people who are left. The only reason a decision like this gets made is financial.

This will force me to do what I should have done a while ago and move over to Blogger, so I am not concerned about myself. I hope folks who have been kind enough to stop by here will do so there.

It's inevitable that some people who had an AOL journal will stop writing. I can think of at least ten people that I lost touch with after the ads mess. Losing this space doesn't really bother me since there is an alternative, but the idea of seeing people disappear again depresses me.

And a happy October to you too

2008-09-30T23:57:00.000-05:00

Man, am I glad to see September go away. More stuff has happened this month that I can recall, not all of it bad, but it has been way too eventful.

The aftermath of our flooded basement can be summed up like this: eh. It could have been so much worse. We were fortunate to have someone come out the next day to rip up the carpet and dry the floors and walls out. Most of the material stuff that had to be pitched belonged to people who don't live here--the basement is mostly used for storage--and should have been dealt with a while ago. I hate to sound unsympathetic, but procrastination will get you every time. The residual aggravation is that the garage is full of things that I hate looking at (mostly because little of it actually belongs to us) and I doubt I can create enough room for the cars before it gets cold out. I can't wait to move out of this joint.

Desmond (9 months) has now been out of the womb longer than he was in it. He seems more like a little man than a baby recently, albeit one that still only has five teeth (three new ones--we've had some long nights here recently),is dependent on us for almost everything and eats meat from a jar. He is sufficiently mobile and trying to get into everything, which means the door to the basement is closed 24/7 now. He is not an expert at crawling as he still cannot seem to scoot on his knees but does the army crawl very well. He babbles incessantly whenever he is awake and it is music to my ears. He is such a happy kid. There were many times this month where it seemed that all we had was stress, and every time all it took was a look in his direction to be reminded that we have it pretty good. What an amazing little boy. How did we get to be so lucky?

I'm happy to see the tide of the election starting to stretch more and more towards Obama. I've decided that I can't watch the VP debate this week because I can't take the cringe moments of Sarah Palin anymore. It's become uncomfortable to watch. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

Who am I kidding? I'm not going to watch the debate because it falls smack dab in the middle of Game 2 of the playoffs. I have been low key about baseball this summer, and intentionally so. I have enjoyed this season as I have no other, but the "real" season starts now. I'm 41, been following the Cubs since I was 5 and no team ever won 97 games until this year. Number of wins aside, this is clearly the best Cubs team of my lifetime; best pitching, best defense, best management. The time is right. This should be the year.

However, I am not assuming anything. I don't believe in curses, jinxes or anything of the sort. Every past post-season failure of the Cubs has been the result of not being the best team. They were outplayed last year by Arizona, much as they were in previous playoff series by Florida, Atlanta, San Francisco and San Diego.

They should beat Los Angeles, and then they should beat Philadelphia or Milwaukee, and then they should beat Boston or Anaheim or Tampa or the White Sox (gulp) in the World Series. They should. Do it, please. I am not getting any younger.

By the way, this is the first time in 102 years that both Chicago baseball teams have made the playoffs in the same season. If both somehow managed to make it to the World Series I am fairly certain that this city would implode. The Sox took a bit of the luster off that possibility by actually winning a World Series three years ago, but it would still be the most intense ten days in the history of Chicago. I'm not rooting for or against the Sox to get there; all my energy is focused on the Cubs.

Do it please. I beseech thee.

Some days are better than others

2008-09-14T00:56:00.000-05:00

Thursday, September 11, was a beautiful day here just outside Chicago. It's that way every single year it seems since 2001, when it was one of those perfect late-summer days where there isn't a cloud in the sky, the air is warm but there is little humidity and you tell yourself that you could handle living in a place where it would be like that 365 days a year.

And yet I was grumpy as hell.

First, and I don't know how to say this without sounding like an arrogant jerk, but I am completely fed up with never being able to approach 9/11 without being bombarded with the command to "never forget." Really? Gee, I've lived by O'Hare airport pretty much my entire life. Every time I see the underside of a plane I think about watching the second plane hit the WTC. The only way I'll ever forget September 11 is when I die.

Here's the thing, though, I want to forget it. Well, in a way. If I had my druthers, I'd forget about September 11, 2002. See, every year, when the rest of the nation flashes back to 2001, I can't help but think about 2002. My father died that June and the first anniversary of the attacks three months later drove me crazy. I was encased with grief over my sudden loss, and I couldn't stand the collective grief of an entire nation. I wanted to stand up and scream, demanding that my father be remembered in the way that every one else was-read his name, toss a flower into a pond, ring a bell.

It wasn't the most rational of reactions, but then grief discriminates when someone you love dies; that person automatically goes to the head of the line.

I must be the only person in the world who thinks more about 9/11/02 than 2001. I can recall most of where I was all day in 2001. I guarantee that I can recall every single thing about 2002.

Second, I went to the doctor Thursday afternoon for a cortisone shot. My back is better but still iffy, and my doctor recommended a shot. Big deal. I was born with a kidney defect that didn't show up until I was nine and necessitated major surgery. I have had other medical issues since and I bet that I have had a needle jammed into me over one thousand times. I've never had any kind of reaction to one. Until this one, of course. Heck, I blanched just at the shot of Novocaine they gave me to numb my spine and had to wait thirty minutes before they could give me the cortisone shot. That one didn't hurt at all, yet within two minutes of getting it I was puking into a garbage can in the doctor's office.

What should have been a fifteen minute process took two hours. I was sleeping this morning when I felt a tug on my lower back. It was Desmond pulling at a band-aid that they must have applied after the shot. I had no idea it was there. Forty-eight hours later Desmond tried to take it off but couldn't. He did succeed in making me yelp. As did Kristen when she yanked it off.

Some days are dry, some days are leaky

Yesterday (Friday) we had a plumber come out to investigate a leak in a pipe running from the first floor toilet to the basement. The leak itself wasn't bad, but the growth accompanying it was, in a word, nasty. Sure enough, the seal beneath the toilet blew and there has been a trickle of "stuff" seeping steadily into the surrounding area for who knows how long. And what we can see growing on the outside of the pipe is but a smidgen of what is inside the Petry dish. A floor has to be ripped up; baseboards have to be replaced.

Some days come clean, other days are sneaky

Around the time that we found this out it started to rain, and it pretty much hasn't stopped. According to the news, the area where we live has had about eight inches of rain since Friday midnight. We have a basement. A nice full, finished basement that we barely use. Other people use it store stuff. Stuff like furniture that doesn't fit into smaller homes now. Stuff like boxes of crap that should have been dealt with a long time ago.

Some days take less, but most days take more

Well, it's been dealt with now. There's been water coming into the basement all day. The pump works, it just can't keep up with the volume. There is a lake behind our home that wasn't there yesterday. Many backyards are now part of this lake. Neighbors behind us have first-floor flooding. I know things for us could be a lot worse.

Some slip through your fingers and onto the floor

Still, there's carpeting that's been destroyed, and wood work that will need to be replaced. The water keeps coming in slowly and every time I think I have a handle on it I come back in fifteen minutes and feel my feet sink a little deeper into the water-logged rug. We got most of what needed to be salvaged up off the floor, but it is going to have to be moved upstairs eventually so that the carpeting can be ripped out.

Some days are sulky, some days have a grin

As I said, it could be worse. We could be in Galveston or Houston. Of course, I heard a forecast just an hour or so ago that gives the possibility of seven more inches of rain here in the next 24 hours, courtesy of what is left of Ike. It's not raining here right now, but it is supposed to start again in about two hours, and it looks like once it does that it won't stop for a while. I'm seriously concerned about waking up to two feet of water in the basement instead of two inches. I don't think I can do anything to stop it.

And some days have bouncers and won't let you in

Breaking news

2008-09-12T19:48:00.000-05:00

There's been a shakeup in the McCain campaign:

Riddle me this

2008-09-09T14:40:00.000-05:00

A question for any of the white woman who have switched their support from Obama to McCain in light of Sarah Palin being named the VP nominee for the GOP:

Why? What could possibly be the reason that you would switch? Has Sarah Palin caused you to have an epiphany on women's issues?

I'd wager that it has a lot more to do with skin color than reproductive organs.

I'm not female, obviously, but I would think that the stark differences on womens' issues in the two campaigns equate this as a vote between Gloria Steinem and Phyllis Schlafly. And I don't see how one could change their mind simply because a woman is part of the ticket now.

Last question: Where the hell is Hillary Clinton? Why isn't she out there clearly defining the differnces between her and Sarah Palin?

It couldn't be that she is thinking more about 2012 is it?

Just a brief interlude

2008-09-08T22:12:00.000-05:00

Two things:

1. Read this.

2. Then go here.

(Salty language warning in effect)

Carry on...

La La La La La I Can't Hear You

2008-09-06T10:20:00.000-05:00

I'm thinking now that the RNC is over that it is time for a self-imposed political hiatus, because frankly I don't think I can last for sixty more days at the rate that my head is spinning.

I did watch McCain. I tried not to, but ultimately I had to so that I could compare the two (he and Obama, not Palin); it's amazing how different two people and events can be. Obama's speech was electric; McCain's was as dull as year-old sandpaper. I continue to be amused at the length that the GOP goes to discredit Obama as a public speaker ("When you strip away the glitz...") as if Obama's motivation is to fool the country into thinking that he is eloquent and presidential, and once he gets into the Oval Office he'll start using (gasp!) split infinitives.

I think that there are thinly veiled racial overtones to that type of ad strategy, of course, and paired with Palin's "community organizer" slams we are starting to see the "BOO!" factor here. Unlike 2004, they won't spend all of their fear fuel just on terrorism; some of it will go towards the idea of whites not being in power. It will all be just hinted at, of course.

Just asking: what is the racial/religious makeup of Palin's staff in Alaska? Why hasn't this been looked at?

I think it is vital not too get bogged down on race though, because there are other things that are more obvious to prove that McCain/Palin is a hypocritical ticket. For example, I dug McCain's finger-wagging at Washington all throughout his speech, and how he claimed that the tone in DC will change if he is elected. First, that is the EXACT same thing GWB said all through the 2000 race, and he was right-the tone became even more polarizing than before. Does McCain seriously believe we buy this? Did he even listen to the speeches at his own convention? They were nothing but polarizing! Giuliani, Huckabee, Romney, Thompson, etc. Do you think that if McCain wins that these folks will not be part of his administration in some capacity? Of course they will! Do you think that every one of them will suddenly have an epiphany and stop demonizing the other side?

The hypocrisy of the GOP is huge and examples are ample. For instance, how many times has it been mentioned that Sarah Palin, in a moment of reform so daring that Martin Luther came back from the grave to kiss her feet, sold the Alaska state plane on Ebay? You'd think she built the plane herself from spare parts and then tugged to the airport with her teeth from the way this story has been all over the place. There's only one problem: it's not true. She put the plane up for sale on Ebay, but it did not sell, and when it did sell through a broker, the net loss was half a million dollars. Oh, and the company that bought the plane wants Alaska to give back some of the money because there have been a ton of maintenance issues.

There's nothing wrong with her trying to sell the plane. That's not the issue. The issue is that the backstory being told isn't truthful.

This video from the Daily Show is brilliant. I don't see how Karl Rove has any credibility when he is shown to be such a duplicitous liar, but I'll go to my grave not understanding a lot of things about conservative punditry. People like Rive think that a majority of Americans have the intelligence of an ear wig, and I am sorry to say that most of the time, we seem to prove him right. How else to explain George W. Bush being re-elected?

I have to take a break from the political spectrum because I can feel my sanity seeping out of my pores. I can't stand another presidential election that becomes all about God again. I can't watch as poll after poll shows the country moving away from common sense even though we've lived through eight years of an example of how screwed up this country can get when people who have no clear right to hold office are elected anyway.

I didn't hear one thing from John McCain Thursday night related to policy. Nothing. Not a mention of health care, no reference to ending the war in Iraq, nada about energy (except DRILL DRILL DRILL!). It was devoid of information.

Why should that be rewarded? St. Paul was nothing but a hurricane of anti-Obamaism. Shouldn't they have spent some time telling us why to vote for them instead of against Obama?

I still have high hopes for this election, though it is going to get worse before it gets better. The pro-life attacks should be getting started any day now, and it will be uglier than ever before. I'll have more to say when relevant, but be prepared to hear this phrase over and over again: "Barack Obama is for infanticide."

See, that's why I have to self-impose for a bit. I'll spontaneously combust if I keep going at thispace.

In the theater of the surreal and absurd

2008-09-04T19:40:00.000-05:00

First: Gustav, Chicago. Chicago, Gustav.

Yesterday might very well have been the strangest of my life. I went to the doctor to discuss the results of the MRI on my back Tuesday (and let me say that I managed to survive being shoved into a tube for an hour or so without wigging out but there is no way I could have done that when I was a kid-I was so claustrophobic as a child that I could barely wear hats) and things could be a lot worse. There is no herniation in the disc that I hurt and I seem to be responding well to treatment. Today is the first day that I have been able to do stuff around the house (to which my lovely wife screams "AMEN!" as she should, because she was awesome these last two weeks and deserves to take the next year or so off) and so far I feel fine. I still need some follow up because I am not 100% symptom free.

The most interesting part of the appointment is when the doctor put one of my x-rays up and asked me what I did ten years or so ago to break three vertebrae just at the end of the rib cage. Huh? Are you sure that's my x-ray we're looking at? Yep, that's my name, birth date, time I was here, etc. Hmm. Yep, I see the three vertebrae that have fused towards the end in a bit of self-healing and look quite unlike the other ones that have never been fractured (think tuna cans, and the broken ones have bent sides).

I guess that car accident that I was in during July 1998 was more serious than I thought. It was early in the morning and I was on my way to some BS meeting that was forcing me to rearrange my day off, which meant that I had to cancel a golf outing. Traffic on the Eisenhower was horrible so I took Roosevelt Road, and at Cicero some clown pulled out in front of me to make a left turn. I smacked him just above the back wheel, and he was kind enough to flee. The front of my car crumpled, and the first auto I ever owned totaled.

I remember seeing the accident unfold in front of me, closing my eyes and gripping the wheel. I know they say that you aren't supposed to brace for a collision, but I did. I walked away from the crash without a scratch, or so I thought. I never got checked out, never felt any pain.

When I relayed this to my doctor yesterday he said: "this looks like an injury consist with someone who either was wearing their seat belt (I was) and hit the steering wheel (I didn't), or went through the windshield and flew into a light pole."

I don't know what to tell him or myself. I don't recall it being that big of a deal. There is now danger or risk from it now, but it sure does explain why my back has ached so much since then.

I could not resist the RNC last night, and I would have sworn that I was hopped on some very effective pain pills while listening to the cavalcade of speakers, because those were some unbelievable auditory hallucinations I experienced. Wait, they were real? The heck you say!

Mitt Romney? Bat shit crazy. There's just no other way to say it. Well, yes, there is:

Mitt Romney seems to use the word "liberal" in a randomly pejorativefashion. I half expect him to say "I was eating breakfast thismorning, and my hash browns were all liberal. I sent them back andtold the waitress to bring me some good, conservative hash browns.

Damn skippy! Next was Mike Huckabee. For some reason, I like this man. He seems like a really nice guy. I think it's because he avoids much of the nasty rhetoric that the majority of the GOP spews. He's still nuts though. His speech was all rah-rah faith, troops, John-McCain-can't-raise-his-arms stuff, but it also included the single funniest moment I've witnessed in the political arena. Funny how? Well, I probably cannot do the story justice, so I urge those who have not seen it to watch the speech, but towards the end Huckabee told the story of an Arkansas school teacher who removed the desks from her classroom on the first day of school, and vowed that no student would get one until they knew where the desks "came from".

Now I'm listening to this and trying to figure how out how the manufacturing of desks at some factory bleeds into Republican policy, but then Huck revealed how the teacher revealed the answer: one by one she had a uniformed soldier walk into the classroom with a desk. Get it? It's the troops, man. The GOP "old reliable." All those times that the US went to war was about desks! I never knew that! It wasn't for freedom, or bashing Nazi oppression, or defeating communism (all noble causes for sure)-nope, just desks. Millions made the ultimate sacrifice...for desks.

Huckabee then thanked John McCain for spending all that time in the Hanoi Hilton, because it allowed him "to get a desk." Huckabee said that he wanted to give McCain a desk of his own-the one in the Oval Office.

Of course now I picture a President McCain walking into the OO on his first day, seeing that there is an empty space were his desk should be,and bellowing in his best Ricky Ricardo "Huckabeeeeeee!!!!"

(Seriously, you have to watch or read the end of Huckabee's speech. I am not doing it justice. It was completely ridiculous, a perfect ten on the scale of unintentional comedy).

Next was the female governor of Hawaii, Linda Lingle, who stepped in it big time I thought when she took a dig at Joe Biden's home state of Delaware. She mentioned that both Alaska and Delaware have the same amount of electoral votes (3) even though "you could fit 250 Delawares into Alaska." Think about that. Lingle is obviously inferring that Sarah Palin is better qualified to be VP because she's governor of such a large state while Biden represents tiny, tiny Delaware in the Senate.

Her logic might be witty if electoral votes were awarded according to land area. They're not; they're awarded according to congressional representation, which is determined by population. So despite being 250 times smaller than Alaska, as many people (actually more) live in Delaware. And this makes Palin more qualified how? Because she governs more moose, salmon and glaciers?

It was almost Palin-time, but we had to suffer through Rudy Guiliani first. Rudy is all teeth and 9/11 these days. As to further make the point, the screen behind the stage featured a shot of the NYC skyline with the spot where the twin towers of the WTC centered perfectly. Deep. Guiliani was embarrassing; he openly mocked Obama's "only in America" story and made googly eyes at his voting record. He is repulsive. The less said about him the better.

By the time Palin emerged, I knew it was going to be all pit-bull, all the time. She didn't disappoint. She lied about Obama's record again and again, which was to be expected and didn't bother me so much. What else was she there for really? But one thing she did really irked me, and made me lose just about any respect that I could ever muster for her: she mocked Obama's time as a "community organizer" in Chicago-her exact quote was "I guess being a small town mayor is like being a community organizer except that you have responsibilities."

How dare she? She was mayor of Wasilla, Alaska, a town of about 9000 people. Obama worked in poor neighborhoods that might have had as many people living within a square mile. And which area was less economically viable?

It was a bitchy comment, ignorant and unnecessary. I spent about three years working at stores in the inner city (not as a community organizer, but a retail manager. They were some of the highest performing stores I worked at, yet the inner city has challenges unique to other spots) and I can't imagine Sarah Palin working there. She made Obama sound like a city worker who sleeps in his truck all day. What's more, it is extremely insulting to the people who take pride in the places where they live, no matter the societal factors. Palin told the world yesterday that it is far more important to be a mayor in rural Alaska than to work as an organizer in the inner city, that gun-owning hunters are more deserving of representation of inner city poor.

Remind me who is supposed to be elite in this race again? And when was it written that being a mayor qualifies one for being president? I grew up in a town with almost fifty thousand people. Is the guy who was mayor throughout most of my childhood five times more qualified to be president than Sarah Palin? He's about ninety now. I wonder if McCain knew he was available?

And let's not forget Sarah Palin's family. How could we? They were plastered all over the TV during her speech last night, including the newest member, the boyfriend of the pregnant 17 year old daughter. Talk about surreal: this dude (who looks like Joe from Blue's Clues, I think) has been whisked off on a whirlwind adventure from Alaska to the Midwest, getting to meet countless well-known GOPers and shake the hand of the Republican nominee for president. He gets rock star treatment for knocking up his girl friend! What do you think John McCain said to him on stage? "Well done"?

Amazing. Just try to imagine if Barack Obama'a eldest daughter was seven years older, pregnant, unmarried, and parading on stage at the DNC. Tell me that the Republicans would not be all over it. Go ahead. I'm waiting. Tell me that if the Obama's had a special-needs infant and insisted on having it passed around in full view of the cameras (and having a seven-year old sibling lick her hand to slick his hair back-ick) that they would not be vilified as using the baby as a "prop."

The same folks having aneurysms about Palin's family being attacked are the same ones who made sure to call him "Barack Hussein Obama," are the same people who swore that there was a video of Michelle Obama trashing "Whitey" and are the same folks forwarding e-mails that still suggest Obama is a Muslim.

Republicans live in the largest glass houses, and they also toss the largest stones. They can't have it both ways.

Back to Palin: she did her job. The VP is supposed to be the attack dog. Never mind she contradicts her presidential running mate when she chastises both Obama and Biden for being senators only and therefore having no executive experience (like, um, say John McCain); never mind that she has no experience when it comes to national security in a time when the GOP swears that if they lose the White House that we are all going to die; never mind that she lies every time she says that she was against the infamous "bridge to nowhere." She had them frothing last night, convinced that Obama wants to take all of your money, destroy America and kill every single conceived baby.

I have no idea what world I am living in anymore. Maybe I did go through the windshield ten years ago. Maybe. I do know that I am skipping McCain tonight. I'll read the speech instead. I can't stomach hearing anymore of whatever Bizarro World I have been inhabiting lately.

Pop Quiz

2008-09-03T00:35:00.000-05:00

I am dealing with a feeling of sickness in my stomach that I've never quite felt before, nausea of indescribable measure, and almost--almost--feel like dying is a better option. Have I:

1. Eaten a pound of raw oysters left out in the sun for half a day?

2. Spent the last week on a fishing boat in Antarctic waters without any Dramamine?

3. Watched five minutes of the Republican National Convention?

Who had two minutes in the "how long until the first time 9/11 is referenced at the RNC" pool? You've won an authentic Alaskan Wilderness chastity belt.

Did you know that the GOP is now "The Party of Unwed Mothers"? I actually heard someone say this on television. He (of course it was a "he") was being serious.

There isn't enough Pepto Bismol in the world to save me. Must...turn...off...TV...now...

The gathering storm

2008-09-01T02:06:00.000-05:00

This is one of those times when I know that I am about to write for two hours or so. It's 12:31 as I begin. Let's see where I end up.

The back is better for now, but it looks like I have a herniated disc, which means that some gelatinous goo has burst through the side of one of my vertebrae and is pressing up against a whole lotta nerve endings. Rest and medication help, but nothing is guaranteed until I subject myself to a claustrophobic morning in an MRI on Tuesday. I am back on planet Earth, at least for now, but for a few days there it felt like my back was a break away Soviet Republic and the Russian army was throwing all it had at it. There were times where I felt like I had been tasered for about one month straight. I am not looking forward to the possibility of re-visiting this type of pain anytime soon. At least I can pick up Des again, for now.

I've had some time to further reflect on Obama's convention speech, and the same word comes to mind: presidential. He's the one. This might be the most profound difference among the two candidates in my lifetime.

The GOP is starting to implode. Someone please explain to me why the RNC has to cancel most of their convention activities because of Hurricane Gustav hitting Louisiana; I don't get it. It's not like the convention is in New Orleans, though I certainly would not have been surprised if they tried to have it there. Remember how the Republicans couldn't wait to get to NYC for the 2004 convention so that they could tap dance all over 9/11 and Ground Zero?

So McCain has decreed that tomorrow is nothing but business at the convention, which crushes me, truly, because both Bush and Cheney were supposed to speak in St. Paul tomorrow. There are millions of Republicans praising the powers that be for delivering this hurricane, thus sparing the spectacle of the worst president/vice-president tandem in history from the thrashing that the media would have so deservedly given them.

Perhaps you heard that in the build up to the Dems convention in Denver last week that several bigwigs from "Focus on the Family" (I feel so dirty even writing that) called for people to pray for "significant, torrential, historical" rain during Obama's speech at Mile High Stadium last week. What better to way to establish the moral high rode through meteorological censorship? It didn't work; the weather was perfect last Thursday night in Denver and Obama nailed his speech. But hmm, less than a week after a significant rain event is bearing down on the one part of the country that surely doesn't need it. How do James Dobson and his boys feel about that? What a pity Jerry Falwell isn't still around to contemplate this.

Now McCain and his running mate (more on her, oh so much more, in a sec) are in Mississippi being briefed on what's being done in preparation for the storm. Why? Are they the head of FEMA now? What could they possibly do to help? McCain does have seven homes, remember, so surely he could help out and put up some folks who need to evacuate for a few days. If Obama went to New Orleans today, he'd be vilified for getting in the way. He's stayed for away, and rightly so. The storm isn't about him, and it's not about the GOP. Have your convention already; you couldn't possibly look more uncaring or inept than you did the last time New Orleans got hit.

Now, on to Sarah Palin. I freely admit that before Friday I had no idea who this person was. I thought Mitt Romney was going to be McCain's veep choice, but silly me: Romney is a Mormon, and much of the evangelical base don't like Mormons. I never felt the rumors about Tom Ridge or Joe Lieberman were worth taking serious despite their "strong" national security credentials (you do remember that if anyone but a Republican is in the White House that we are all going to die right?) because they also happen to be pro-choice. Mickey Mouse could be McCain's running mate and he'd get more votes than a ticket with a pro-choice running mate on it.

I digress. Enter Sarah Palin. She's got guns. She likes to eat moose. And, most importantly, she is 44 years old and has an infant son who has Downs Syndrome. The inference here is as large as the storm surge about to hit the bayou: she had a baby with Downs; she could have aborted it instead; she is a pro-life hero; ergo, she is qualified to be president of the United States.

Now let me clarify something here: I'm a cynical, cynical person who believes that each and every move on the presidential stage is carefully calculated, and since the abortion debate is so heated, I certainly believe that the infant son with Downs is being used as a thinly-veiled political pawn.

National security? Over-rated. Besides, according to Cindy McCain, Palin is qualified to be president because she is governor of the state closest to Russia. Good to clear that up. By the way, Palin's oldest son is in the army and is being deployed to Iraq soon. Remember, Joe Biden has a son who is being sent to Iraq as well. Push.

Let's go back to the baby issue: how do I continue without sounding sexist? I don't understand how a mother of four month old can leave the baby for the campaign trail, especially a baby with special needs. I don't understand how any parent could; there is no way I would leave Desmond to spend eighteen hours a day campaigning all over the country for the next few months whether he had special needs or not. Others have expressed that opinion, and combined with some other observations there is a rumbling starting that suggests perhaps that this baby is instead Palin's grandson, the son of her eldest daughter. It's a lengthy story that can be read here, and I have to say that I am now inclined not to believe it. However, it also brings up this point, which I believe is quite insane. I am speaking to the issue with the airline flights. Why would any mother who has already four kids and knows that the kid she is carrying now is special needs be so reckless with her decision making? It seems more than a little risky to me, but apparently, Gov. Palin has a little bit of Russell Crowe in her.

Here's the deal: this whole thing is not about Sarah Palin. It's not about a baby boy with Downs Syndrome (and the parents of the child deserve praise and respect for going ahead and having the little guy-while I'd like to think that I would make the same decision I will not judge anyone who actually has to do it). It's not about anyone else but John McCain. It's about his decision making process, how he didn't bother to recognize the potential land mines of his decision.

And I haven't even got into the offensive implications of how this pick assumes that Hillary Clinton supporters who are not thrilled by Barack Obama will now flock to McCain.

Almost at two hours. I feel that this is terribly unorganized and unclear. I have a feeling that Gustav isn't the only storm approaching.

Presidential, baby

2008-08-29T00:58:00.000-05:00

I'll have more to say about this when I can guarantee that I am indeed living on this planet (been dealing with a back injury for the last week or so), but I the speech by Barack Obama tonight was easily his finest hour.

Yes, I've exposed my blatant Obama-bias in the past, so my feelings should be no surprise, but that speech was gold. He is miles of a better choice than McCain.

I'll say it again: if Obama loses in November, it will be solely due to the fact that a majority of America cannot deal with the idea of a black president. He is exactly the kind of president that this country needs in the aftermath of Bush-Cheney.

If we blow this, America will never be the same.

Time to see if I can get back into orbit. I've seen more stars this past week than Halley.

Reeling us in

2008-08-22T02:48:00.000-05:00

Desmond was eight months on Thursday. He celebrated by spending most of the day sleeping, as he has his first ever cold. He's handling it well, except for the moments when he realizes that he cannot breathe through his nose and ERUPTS in a cauldron of anger, nasal fluid and dismay. It would be heartbreaking if it weren't so damn cute because it only lasts a few seconds and as soon as it is over he goes back to his smiley self.

He's a pretty happy kid. I know his parents are as well. We expected parenting to be a roller coaster, especially when our child would be unable to communicate with us in our own language, but he is so easy to read. He cries when he is upset, be it hunger (the full spoon of food had better be back in the mouth less than two seconds after its been removed or there will be heck to pay), pain (he has rolled into a few hard structures lately with no permanent damage, and his teeth are cutting through his gums like a machete cuts through sugar cane) or frustration (he understands now that if we take something away from him we are impeding on his fun); it's pretty simple to determine why he is fussing, and he generally stops in appreciation when we address it.

Ah, we get along well. I have a hard time believing that this kid will ever scream "I HATE YOU!!!" or want to sneak out of the house or eat his own shoelaces rather than tell us anything, but I know someday he's going to be a kid instead of a baby, and then a teen instead of a kid, etc etc etc (cuing my inner Yul Brunner here...); I guess this is why we start out as babies, so that our parents will fall completely in love with us and therefore tolerate whatever crap we try to pull once we start growing. And by "tolerate" I mean "not kill us." Looking back, I must have been one heckuva cute baby because I drove my folks nuts once I hit ten, and yet, here I still am.

Our son flirts with strangers. He wraps them around his finger in about two seconds. He knows he is doing this now, and he enjoys it. He understands the power that he has. We are thinking about paying people to ignore him.

I thought that there would be times when he was a baby that I would toss my arms up in complete confusion with no idea as to what he wanted or what was wrong, and just try to plug my ears until he fell asleep. Hasn't happened. I speak the same language that our baby does, and when he cries, all I think about is how much he needs us. We're fortunate that he really doesn't cry much, that he seems so happy all of the time, but we also know that we probably control none of that. He could wake up tomorrow and decide that he wants to do nothing but cry just to confound us, and we'll react the same way.

He's got us hooked. He knows it. We don't even try to hide it. The center of our universe is twenty-eight inches long, weighs twenty-five pounds and has as many teeth as the average ninety-seven year old.

Pinky and the Brain

2008-08-07T01:01:00.000-05:00

So, in what I have to admit is a stroke of pure super genius, Paris Hilton has put out an ad in response to the McCain campaign including her in the Obama "Celebrity" attack ad.

Well played, Ms. Hilton. Don't get me wrong-I still despise you; I still think that you are the biggest waste of DNA ever, and I still can't understand why anyone would admire you-but you do have a sense of humor. And your delivery here is spot on. The fact that I could watch you speak for more than ten seconds is proof of a miracle. Wait a sec...

AMERICA, YOUR NATIONAL NIGHTMARE IS OVER! BRETT FAVRE HAS BEEN TRADED BY THE PACKERS TO THE NEW YORK JETS!

I'll get back to Ms. Hilton in a moment, but the news about Favre just pre-empted my watching "Baseball Tonight" on ESPN. I couldn't care less about Brett Favre. The attention that football gets year-round drives me bonkers. Here in Chicago, there could be a nuclear attack in Europe tomorrow when the Bears open the exhibition season against Kansas City and it wouldn't be enough to knock the Bears off the lead story on all local newscasts. I like football, but it's not a year round sport, and I would lose this argument to 75% of the population here. I digress. I think sending Favre to the Jets is great, because he can slip in under the radar there, since the NY media is so ambivalent. It will be a long, long time before we hear about Brett Favre again.

(Question: should it be required that sarcasm be written in a different font, or maybe a different color?)

OK, back to Paris: this is your moment. Or should I say "was." I implore you to go away for a while, say two decades, so that the genius of this spoof is not lost. Go into the vault for a spell. Sure, it would be very tempting to give your pal Britney Spears a call and make a series of follow-ups where she is your vice-presidential running mate, but I fear that would get old fast. And as we all know, old is not hot.

God, I just made a reference to Paris Hilton's catch phrase. Where am I, and what have they done with my universe? We'll always have Paris. That is one of my greatest fears.

I've never needed to cleanse my pallet more, so I'll segue into Desmond. It's been far too long since I mentioned my son, who is 7 1/2 months now. Sigh (that's both a wistful and content sigh). When he was a newborn and the days turned into weeks and then into months, things seemed to be going by in a proper perspective. Somewhere a few months ago that changed and time stared going by faster than ever. I woke up a few days ago with an infant, and now he barely seems like a baby anymore.

For every addition there is a subtraction. He has one and a half teeth; he cannot sleep comfortably on my chest anymore. He rolls around on the floor like a golf ball on a cart path; he can't be left alone to nap in the middle of our bed by himself. He has his own personality, and his complete and utter dependence on his mother and I seems gone, like if he wanted to, he could find a way to get by without out us for a day or so if need be. Not that he'll be cooking his own meals anytime soon, or even changing his own diaper. It's just that I can see him laying the bricks on his road to independence already.

Everything new makes me smile, and the realization that some things about him exist only in memory now does not break my heart as much as I imagined it would six months ago. I know that he is barely half a year old, but I think the latter realization is the first step towards letting go. I think about Desmond as a grown man a lot for some reason. I am in no hurry to see him twenty years from now obviously, but I also know that as life progresses we are left with no option other than watching our kids become adults. I'd rather accept this in pieces than all at once.

When Desmond is happy he purses his lips together and blows, making a sound like a motor boat. This is unfortunate when he is eating and makes me wonder if I could patent a plastic baby-feeding bubble, but otherwise it is a sound of glee. It is an especially pleasant sound to wake up to. Then there are the times when we mistake him for a parrot because of the loud squawks that erupt from him when he discovers that he can now put his toes in his mouth when he lies on his back, or that when he goes into the highchair food almost always follows. He's very excitable. Wouldn't have it any other way.

And now the news for parrots.

Man, I love Monty Python. See the second title of the video in the 'related' column? "Sheep in Wainscotting." That happens to be the name of a band I played in when I was in college.

No, it wasn't. I leave with this: a week or so after the 9/11 attacks I walked over to the grocery store across the street from the drug store that I was managing at the time, and immediately noticed a small display table by the entrance full of plastic containers of red, white and blue miniature cupcakes. A handwritten sign hanging off the table read "Patriotic Cupcakes $1.99." And ever since I have fought the desire to go out and discover the next big singing group, name it "The Patriotic Cupcakes" and produce their first hit single "Only $1.99"

Dancing is forbidden

2008-07-30T22:29:00.000-05:00

WARNING: ATTEMPTED VIDEO EMBEDDING AHEAD!

I have never got the hang of embedding video into this, and I apologize for bogus alerts (if they happen) but I can't pass up a few that came to my attention today. I'd like to thank John McCain and the geniuses (genii?) of the GOP in advance.

First, this is priceless. Pay close attention to the first five seconds:

I thought I was hallucinating. Britney Spears and Paris Hilton in a political ad? What the hell is that? What's the IQ of the dude who came up with this idea? I'm trying to figure out how this ad is meant to hurt Obama, and the only thing I can think of is that the GOP slipped in subliminal messages that no one noticed. I gotta go back and watch the ad real slow...aha! It's just as I thought. When Britney Spears is on screen, there is a brief flash of a message: "Your next Secretary of State. And don't forget Vice-President Kevin Federline." For Hilton, it's "This is Barack Obama's new BFF!"

Is Obama a "celebrity"? Sure. And I'm a Supreme Court justice! Why would the McCain campaign knowingly promote the fact that Obama drew huge crowds in Europe last week? He wasn't giving concerts. He wasn't performing his new one man show. He was introducing himself to multiple regions of the world as the man who might be the next president of the United States.

Ya think McCain would create a reaction like that? I picture an Obama ad including Bea Arthur and Betty White.

Remember all the "Obama hasn't been to Iraq" screeching last month? Now it's "Obama's going to Iraq...and the Mid-East...and Europe. Who does he think he is?"

Someone tell me why anyone wants to run for president anymore?

Backfire! Most of the populace is laughing at the inanity of this ad, and anyone who supports it wasn't going to vote for Obama anyway. President Celebrity! He'll deliver the State of the Union on TMZ instead of CNN! He'll drill for Botox offshore instead of oil! He'll raise taxes on the ugly!

Good Lord, even Jon Voight is getting involved. Angelina's gonna be pissed...

(By the way, Jonny, babe, loved you in Midnight Cowboy but your op-ed implodes from the git-go. If I may quote you directly:

"We, as parents, are well aware of the importance of our teachers whoteach and program our children. We also know how important it is forour children to play with good-thinking children growing up.

Sen. Barack Obamahas grown up with the teaching of very angry, militant white and blackpeople: the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, Louis Farrakhan, William Ayers andRev. Michael Pfleger. We cannot say we are not affected by teachers whoare militant and angry. We know too well that we become like them, and Mr. Obama will run this country in their mindset."

So if we follow your logic we are to assume that Obama was taught by this quadrennial collection of all that is hateful in America when he was a child? I don't think so. Why is Obama portrayed as easily influenced from his twenties? Shouldn't you be working on "Anaconda 3"?)

I'm John McCain, and I approve of this message, because I am running out of things to say. Yes, I am getting desperate. But hey, Jon Voight is behind me, so good news, it looks like I have that "Runaway Train fan club" vote sewn up. Good times.

And I will end this with one more McCain ad that broke today. This one also features Europe, and again please pay close attention at the 25 second mark for the cameo of cameos. I hate to spoil this, but the secret word is HASSELHOFF!

(God help us all. Seriously, God help us. No really. God help us.)

Flash it across the screen

2008-07-15T23:57:00.000-05:00

Today's word is: SATIRE

Satire is that most trickiest of literary devices. Its usage triggers more "is it or isn't it?" moments than all others combined. Commonly confused with irony and sarcasm, satire is neither. It stands alone. It's like a pelican on one leg.

Satire has suffered needlessly in this age of ultra political-correctness. People are terrified of using it lest it be misinterpreted literally. It's a shame really; good satire is as entertaining as a campfire sing-a-long.

To wit: the cover of the New Yorker this week. It's been all over the news these last forty-eight hours: Barack and Michelle Obama, in their finest Muslim/terrorist garb, celebrating the destruction of America with a "terrorist fist jab" in the Oval Office.

Obama hates it. McCain hates it. I think Bugs Bunny hates it too. Pity, because it is absolutely brilliant.

Come on! How many bogus "Obama's a Muslim" e-mails have you received since January? How many times have you heard him referred to as Barack HUSSEIN Obama by right-wing blowhards? Michelle Obama hates America remember? Oh yeah, this is definitely what an Obama Oval Office will look like if we are foolish enough to elect him. Obama! Osama! Osama! Obama! Let's call the whole thing off! (before they kill us all! BOO!)

In my opinion (and we all know how important that is) this cover illustration is a perfect satirical commentary on the politics of fear, racism, and Islamophobia. It's completely ridiculous how we accept and allow the political forum to distort the realm of our elections, and this cover calls it out. We have more people who will cast their vote on the basis of whether or not they believe Obama is a Christian then on the basis of whether he will be good for the economy, the war, etc. It's unbelievable.

The New Yorker knows this. And they knew that when they released this issue that a lot of people wouldn't get it. They've proved their point.

What I like most about this is that it recalls the single dumbest piece of "objective" and "responsible" television journalism in the history of mankind: Fox anchor E.D. Hill referring to the Obamas' fist bump when he claimed the nomination after the Oregon primary as a "terrorist fist jab." She said this. Seriously.

Personally I have always thought of terrorists as high-fiving kind of folks, but what do I know? I'm not witty enough to make up things for Fox News. Hill (I think E.D. stands for "Eloquent Dingbat") was never made to explain what she meant. We all know what her intent was: use the word "terrorist" in the same sentence as "Obama" because someone somewhere will make the "connection." Remember, if Obama is elected, we are all toast. By March.

You've been warned. If you don't rip that cover off, frame it beneath your American flag on the wall, and take it with you into the voting booth while you vote for John McCain, then you hate America.

How ironic. Um, no I mean sarcastic. Damn! Satirical! Yeah that's it!

Everybody's got a Jesse Helms story!

2008-07-08T02:02:00.000-05:00

A happy belated birthday (just one day, and only in print, as I was there Sunday) to my mother, who doesn't look a day over forty. Which is amazing, since I am forty-one.

That is not the Jesse Helms story. I continue:

I heard that Helms died on July 4th and my eyes rolled back into my skull because I knew knew knew that as soon as I turned on the news some GOP lap dog would go on about how appropriate it is that he died on Independence Day because he was (say it with me) a "Patriot." The fact that it was President GW was like getting an extra scoop of ice cream in a banana split.

Helms was legendary for his bigotry and his outrage over the degradation of society, and sometimes he was able to combine the two. I was guided to a list of his "Greatest Hits" and he has some whoppers. The man was clearly upset that the South lost the Civil War. I'd also guess that he wasn't too pleased when the drug cocktail that kept many HIV patients from developing full-blown AIDS was discovered.

I am amused at how those in the public eye conveniently forget a person's character when they die. I take no joy in Helms' death but I certainly am not going to change my opinion of him just because he has shuffled off this mortal coil. That's the thing about life: in the end, nobody wins. The good and the bad end up the same, non-metaphysically speaking.

I can't remember how it first started, but when my nephew was very young, maybe five, he reached a point where he thought he knew what was offensive and what wasn't. After while it got kind of annoying, and being it the time when Helms was ranting and raving about the moral character of America being further down than Atlantis, I developed a retort to my nephew whenever I heard him raise an objection:

"Thank you, Jesse Helms."

I said it enough that within a week or so my nephew was saying it too, in delightfully inconsistent ways. I can't have a cookie. Thank you, Jesse Helms. Time for a bath. Thank you, Jesse Helms. I can't play outside while Ihave the chicken pox. Thank you, Jesse Helms.

It came and went quickly, as everything subjected to the attention span of a pre-kindergartner ultimately is, and I hadn't thought about it in a while. Like I said, I'm not happy that Helms died, but I am definitely amused by the memory of a five year old wandering around our house invoking Helms' name for all sorts of reasons. You can't make that kind of stuff up.

It was nauseating to hear people call Helms a patriot in the aftermath of his death. I remember about ten years or so ago he waged a one-person war to keep former Illinois senator Carol Mosely-Braun from becoming ambassador to New Zealand. I can't recall why he was against it (wait a tic, CM-B is black); he ultimately lost and the episode was embarrassing for him and probably enhanced his decision to retire when his term was up. He was petty and a bigot throughout his life.

He was nothing like a patriot. Give me an H and take the P-Helms was a "hatriot". The sooner that the remainder of his generation that shares his beliefs passes the better off we will all be.

Your attention please

2008-06-22T23:23:00.000-05:00

Would whoever had June 21st in the "First time that Desmond sprays his father with 'buckshot'-the kind that comes from a baby's nether regions and does not clean up with just a mop-at the ungodly hour of five a.m. with absolutely no warning, timed to release just as an old diaper is pulled down to be changed, loud enough to make him jump back three feet, which is not far enough to avoid the 'pellets', and stuns him so much that according to his wife (who was in the bathroom at the time) he yells out 'I've been hit', which he does not remember and assumes is due to a form of 'septic shock', then looks at himself in the mirror and wonders when his torso became covered in 'freckles' while listening to the six-month old baby giggle non-stop, then slips on the floor which needs a major cleaning, not to mention a fumigation, and thanks the Heavens above that he did not happen to be singing to the son at the time, which has been known to happen before, and wonders if it would have killed him, and as he changes his boxers wonders if it is worth it to try to wash the old ones or just throw them away, but isn't sure if he has a hazardous material container anyway, and then shakes his head as he goes back to the bed, where he swears he hears the son snicker softly and say 'did you really think I was never going to get you sucker?'" pool please report to information.

You have won a fabulous prize.

In which I commit political arson

2008-06-20T01:40:00.000-05:00

Usually I try to avoid making generalizing statements, but I am making one now: based on what I have seen and read in the last month, I am completely convinced that if Barack Obama is not elected president inNovember, it will be for one reason, and one reason only.

Because he is black. Yep, I went there.

This is not to say that someone who votes for John McCain is racist. Of course not; millions of Republicans would vote for Bozo the Clown if he were the GOP nominee (in fact, millions did in 2000 and 2004...). The way I see it, no matter the candidates in any election thirty-five percent will always vote republican, and thirty-five percent will always vote democratic. It's the undecided thirty percent that determine every election.

Given the attitude of the country, the mismanagement and neglect that the Bush years have left us in, and the way that the rest of the world now looks at the United States, there is no reason that the majority of Americans could think that another Republican president is what the country needs.

We should be looking at a landslide this November for Obama, along the lines of the Reagan victory over Mondale in 1984. Yet every poll I see has the race very close, and I don't understand why.

Well, yes I do. As I said, I believe it is because that Obama is black. And if I am going to make such an inflammatory statement, I better be prepared to back it up.

First, a lot of people in this country are morons in the sense that they tend to believe the people whoever shout the loudest. So far, the GOP machine has made the most noise, and has been for a while. A good example of that is the whole "Obama is a Muslim" drivel that has been out there for the better part of a year. Don't forget, all Muslims want to kill us and no one shouts "BOO!" louder than the GOP. But that's not particularly racial now is it? And since the Muslim smear did not keep Obama from getting the nomination, the GOP had to come up with another way to scare everyone. In this country, what scares some white folks more than anything? Black people in power.

That's why Jeremiah Wright was plastered all over the media more than Farrah Fawcett posters on the bedroom of horny teenage boys' walls in the late 70s. The overkill was meant to scare people, to say "you see what's going to happen if youelect this black man? His 'people' are going to rise up and get you."

I may be over-reacting, of course, but every report on Wright should have had only one caption: "This black pastor hates America, thus all his black parishioners, including Barack Obama, hate America."

You know, maybe I'm wrong and maybe race doesn't exist on the political sphere anymore. Maybe this button that was worn by many people at the Texas GOP convention recently was something I just made up.

Or consider the plight of Iowa these last two weeks as they deal with record flood waters. I found out during my four years at the University of Iowa that people there are pretty tough and it doesn't surprise me that they've dealt well with the incredible amount of flooding that they have had there. What I didn't know is that, apparently, if you had put the people of Iowa in New Orleans during and after Hurricane Katrina, the city would have bounced back ASAP.

At least that is the point I got after reading the comments at the end of this blog entry. The people of Iowa? Gooood!!! The people of New Orleans? Baaaaad!!! Iowans are white, so they know what to do, how to handle adversity. New Orleanites (I have no idea if that is the right way to describe those that are from the city) are mostly black, and well, you've seen what they've done to that place since Katrina.

Equating the flooding in Iowa (a disaster and tragedy, yes) with Hurricane Katrina is probably the dumbest thing I have ever read this year. To go further and compare the aftermaths to how people of different race handle crisis is patently offensive.

While you may think that one blog does not reflect the thinking of a great deal of people, Michelle Malkin is one of the more "popular" conservative blogs. It scares me to think how many people agree with everything that is posted there, both by her and in reader comments.

But perhaps the thing that confuses me the most are the supporters of Hillary Clinton who say that they will vote for McCain instead of Obama in November. Why? Surely it isn't a gender issue, and it can't be a political party issue. John McCain has declared that as president he will appoint justices to the Supreme Court comparable to John Roberts and Samuel Alito. If he has to replace two justices, there will be six conservative justices on the court, and as soon as possible the controversial Roe vs. Wade decision will be overturned.

Senator Clinton is a steadfast supporter of a woman's right to choose. One would assume that that particular issue means something to those who supported Clinton for the nomination. But now that she will not be the nominee does it suddenly not matter? Obama is pro-choice. McCain is not. Why would anyone who supported a pro-choice candidate now want to vote for one who is not?

Maybe abortion isn't the central issue to those who supported Senator Clinton. Fine. She and McCain differed on almost every issue from health care to tax cuts to energy etc etc etc. So please, someone tell me why all these Clinton supporters are now vowing to vote for McCain?

It's not female vs. male. And I can't help thinking that it is white vs. black. Take a gander at the exit polls from certain states where Mrs. Clinton won the democratic primary. I believe it was in West Virginia where one out of every five people who voted for her admitted that the race of the candidates matter. One in five. And those were the people who had the stones to admit it. I bet at least twice that many thought that but refused to admit it.

I know that there is a long way to go until Election Day, but I picture myself waking up on the morning after either elated that the country has moved into the 21st Century by electing that best available candidate, or shaking my head in absolute shame that the mindset of fifty, one hundred, two hundred years ago still exists and that we will never truly move on and become one in this country.

I feel required to wrap this up with a bad cliche: it will be as plain as black and white. I will now dodge your tomatoes.

Ride my see-saw

2008-06-16T22:58:00.000-05:00

I am all over the place lately, taking the good along with the bad. My first Father's Day was wonderful. Desmond got me a coffee mug with his mug on it, a great picture of my son smiling. I love it, and it makes the coffee taste better.

Desmond is going to be six months old Saturday. Time is starting to pass by quicker, and he's becoming more of a "person" instead of just a baby. He grabs things now, and loves my ears. He can't sit up yet but he moves around and we can't leave him on a blanket by himself anymore. He babbles constantly. From the moment he wakes up he is non-stop, chattering to himself and anyone who he can see. He has no teeth yet, but he drools like a fish, if fish actually drooled. I've never seen a kid that drools like my son. If I can figure out how to harness it, I might be able to end the drought in the southeast. Every day is an adventure, and it is so much fun to be a part of it.

I am bummed by two things that happened over the weekend. The first was the death of Tim Russert last Friday. I'm not much for watching political television shows, but if I came across Meet the Press on Sunday morning I would watch it until the end. I also enjoyed watching him appear on cable shows from time to time, and on election nights. It's completely unfair that he won't be around to see how this year's election plays out. But what I most admire about Russert is how he honored his father. I'm a complete sucker for good father-son moments and he did a great job of relaying stories about life with his, "Big Russ." I never got around to reading his two books about his dad, but they have been added to my list. Russert seemed like a genuine guy, and it's a shame that guys like him have to go early.

Second, I went to the University of Iowa from 1987-1991 and took full advantage of the beautiful campus, especially the area along the Iowa River, which cuts the university in half. The Student Union backs up to the river, as does the English-Philosophy Building, which was my salvation for the last year of my time there. With all of the rain in the Midwest recently, the river has risen to record-high levels, and the campus has suffered some extraordinary damage. I've seen photos of the damage online, and it's unbelievable. They'll fix things, of course, but some parts will never be the same again. It's pretty depressing. In the irony department, Kristen is a graduate of Kansas State, and their campus was seriously damaged by a tornado last week.

There are other things, of course, but those are prime examples of the up/down see-saw state of life right now. I ain't complaining. I'm never bored.

And how 'bout those Cubs? They are 45-25, the best team in the majors. I've seen a lot of Cubs teams, thirty-five years worth, and the only one that measures up to this year is the 1984 squad that won 96 games. They broke my heart of course, losing three straight to San Diego when one more win would have put them in the World Series. Yeah, I'm still not over that. Only four other teams in my lifetime have made the playoffs, and they all let me down. 1989, 1998, 2003 (we shall not speak of Game 6 ever again), 2007-all the same result, sucking us in and breaking our hearts.

I'm optimistic about this team, because nothing seems to bother them. They lose a game and then go out and win three. They are almost impossible to beat at home. They pitch, they hit, they defend. No other team is playing as well as they are. The season is almost half-over, so I find myself getting more and more sucked in with every passing game. I know that as a long time Cubs fan it would be idiotic of me to get cocky and think that this will finally be the year-one hundred years of disappointment tells me otherwise-but I also know that this team is beyond the legacy of ineptitude that follows the franchise.

As with many things in my life, my feeling about the Cubs can be summed up by something by The Beatles.

EAMUS CATULI!

An appreciation for blessings overdue

2008-06-08T23:52:00.000-05:00

As Paul McCartney would say, "It's just another day." That sums up my feelings about June 8th. It hasn't always been that way.

The only thing I struggle with today is the fact that my son never got to meet his grandfather. I feel like he has been robbed. I don't think that feeling will ever change. Desmond is fortunate-his other three grandparents are alive and thriving, and he is lucky to have them, but fate shafted him six years ago today.

Today was a good day. We lounged until noon and then went to look at a house before ending up at my mother's for dinner. All the time that we were there, I kept thinking the same thing, something that I've known for quite a while:

My mother is an amazing human being.

Growing up, Mom was the person who kept us to our schedule and made sure our work got done. We never woke up for school and had to get breakfast for ourselves; she always saw us walk out the door and was there when we came home later that afternoon.

Our parents were concerned with us being good people. We learned manners and were expected to use them. We behaved ourselves in public. We said please and thank you all of the time. We were polite and respectful in school.

I had a bit of a rebellious side once I became a teenager; I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I never agreed with anything my mother said, and I had no problem letting her know. I never swore or threatened her, but we had some blowout arguments. It drove my father nuts. If he said it to me once, he said it a billion times: "Why can't you just shut the hell up?" I did, finally, around eighteen, I think. Um, maybe twenty. To be honest, I can't remember the last time we argued.

My grandmother passed away in July 1995. For the last ten years or so of her life, she needed a lot of help, and much of that burden fell on my mother. I know it wasn't easyfor her, as it was the first time I realized how much effort goes into caring for the elderly, and that doesn't even consider the difficulty in watching someone you love age, but she did everything she could to help Gram. It was a lesson in what a person is supposed to do, one that I have never forgotten. I know my grandmother spent the last years of her life comfortable in knowing that people loved her and she was not forgotten.

My mother became a grandmother for the first time when she was in her early fifties, and she has four grandchildren now. I love watching her interact with all of them. One is 22, another 8, and another almost 18 months (along with my son Desmond, almost 6 months). She dotes on them but does not overdo it. All four of her grandkids absolutely adore her.

Nine years ago, when my sister married, my parents found themselves alone. I moved out in 1994. There has never been a day when I haven't felt like I couldn't show up there anytime. My folks made it very clear that even if we didn't live there it was always our home. We had so many fun and wonderful times there after all three of us were out on our own.

And six years ago, everything changed when my father died. As devastated as we all were, we were also very concerned with our mother, who had been with my father since 1956. It seemed like all that ended in the snap of a finger, and I couldn't imagine how that could possibly feel.

It was amazingly difficult time, and in the week that we were all together, from the night he died until we tried to get back to "normal" life, my mother was what held us all together. She's deny that and say that it was her three kids that kept her going, but we all know better. It was because of her that the night of his wake we spent 99% of the time laughing and sharing wonderful stories instead of being sorrowful. It was because of her that we spent the following week celebrating the life of our father instead of wallowing in the shock and grief of losing him.

She kept us going. She has been amazing since my father died. Of course we know that she misses him terribly, as we all do, but soon after his death she decided that she had to keep living. Every once in while she'd tell me that she had a dream where my father told my mother that she would be coming to him soon, and shewould always say the same thing: "I'm not ready to join him. I still have a lot to live for."

Damn right she does. She continues to make her house open to us all of the time. I just turned 41, and I still am able to go to the place that I grew up in with my siblings and our families, and we still have great times, just like we did years ago. I don't know too many people who can still do that. My mother gets embarrassed whenever I thank her for everything she does for us at her home, saying that it is not a big deal and that she enjoys it, but it is a big deal. She could have very easily withdrew from that house and moved somewhere else, but she wanted to keep her life. And we are so thankful that she did.

My mother is amazing. I could spend the next couple of days giving examples. She has grace, style and wit. She loves her family unconditionally. She is giving, compassionate and fun to be around. She has given us many examples to follow throughout our lives, but none greater than what she has done for the last six years-shown us how to go on after suffering a great loss. We live everyday with the memory of our father glowing inside of us like a white-hot star, burning forever.

My father was a great man, and I miss him more with each passing day. He lives on in many ways, and I wonder how that would be if my mother had not shown us the way to keep on living. Thank God for her.

I've felt that way for forty-one years, but never stronger than I do now. And I know a lot of other people that feel the same way.

We love you, Mom. Always have, always will, and we will never be able to properly show you the appreciation for everything that you have done for us. You are amazing.

Fingers crossed

2008-05-16T15:41:00.000-05:00

I'm still frosted by the other night. I wrote about mothers, and it took me a while, and in the blink of an eye it disappeared. And now it seems too late to redo it. Anyway, it was cool to see my son and my wife celebrate their first Mother's Day together, but in reality I think that every day since December 21 has been Mother's Day, and it always will be Mother's Day from now on.

I have one more thought about this, but I will save it for a while later.

Some quick other thoughts:

-I'm ecstatic about the gay marriage ruling in California for no other reason than it makes the uber-conservatives froth at the mouth, which reinforces that the GOP is the party of discrimination. I can't get enough of the Dr. James Dobsons of the world hyperventilating about "traditional" marriage being "under attack." I can't help but wonder if they all have a little bit of Ted Haggard brewing inside of them. Otherwise, why are they so concerned? What I don't understand about the anti-gay crowd is their ignorance (or indifference) at the fact that homsexuality has been around as long as man has. Have they not read about Ancient Greece? The Roman Empire? And spare me the "it's in the Bible!" rant; so is killing your children if they are disrespectful. Just as they do with the Constitution, conservatives selectively interpret the Bible.

-Yo, Hillary! There's the door, don't let it hit you in the ass on the way out. There's no way to convince me that she wants Obama to win. She's willing to sacrifice the next four years of this country just so she can run again in 2012. No one will be more disappointed with a McCain defeat than she.

-I'm stunned at how the incompetence of others sometimes puts me behind. Grad school, I'm talking to you.

Wrapping it up with a random eleven. The dude I stole this concept from has been on fire lately.

1. "City of Blinding Light"-U2. I'm usually not too fond of "anthem" songs, particularly by groups like U2 who should know better, but I dig this one. And I did before Obama picked this as his campaign song. I would have had a hard time with this being Mitt Romney's though.

2. "My Baby"-The Pretenders. I don't really listen to this song differently since Desmond was born. I've always thought the baby in this song to be a lover instead of a child. Have I mentioned that I do a killer version of "Brass in Pocket"?

3. "Shiny Happy People"-REM. It's amazing how many people think of this song as REM's "Sussudio." I like it, always have. Nephew embarrassment time: he graduated from the University of Illinois-Chicago last Saturday (and already has a job; good for him, I say, through gritted teeth). This song came out in 1991, when he was five. Whenever I played the CD and this came on, he'd come running into the room and dance to it. Unfortunately, I do not have any video of this. But it happened. A lot.

4. "Hard Day's Night"-The Beatles. I'm starting to think I dreamed this because no one seems to know what the heck I am talking about, but I swear when I was a kid that there was a Beatles cartoon show. I don't remember much of it, but I do recall that the opening and closing credits featured the Beatles running away from mobs of screaming girls while this song played. And Ringo was portrayed as a complete dumb-ass. At one point, he gets bonked on the head with an anchor or an anvil, and it doesn't faze him a bit. "You know I work all day" (CLANK!) "to get you money to buy your things."

5. "Spanish Dancer"-Steve Winwood. Winwood was a huge influence on me during my freshman year at Iowa, when Back in the High Life was at the top of the album charts. This song isn't on it, but it is on Chronicles, his greatest hits CD. I lived in a room on the first floor of the dorm, and we had a huge window that faced north. I can remember sitting at my desk at night with no lights on just staring out that window, listening to this song. Those were interesting times.

6. "Amsterdam"-Coldplay. This is a big roadtrip song for me. The first (of many) in the years post-retail was to New England in October 2002 and A Rush of Blood to the Head got some heavy rotation in my car stereo. It also reminds me of John Irving's A Widow for One Year, which I was reading around this time and has a significant portion take place in Amsterdam. Still can't get over what happened to Rooey.

7. "Sky Bird"-Neil Diamond. When I was a kid we had an 8-track player (a concept that seems laughable now, can you imagine people tolerating a song changing tracks in the middle?) and I got hooked on the Jonathan Livingston Seagull release. I'm not familiar with the literary aspect of JLS at all, but I like the music.

8. "Burning Photographs"-Ryan Adams. Ladies and gentlemen, the number one played track on my i-pod. And I couldn't give you the title of another Ryan Adams song to save my life.

9. "All or Nothing at All"-Frank Sinatra. Eh. This is mediocre Frank at best, but I put it on the 'pod because of the organ solo towards the end. If indeed it is an organ. Maybe it's a hurdy gurdy.

10. "Chicago"-Sufjan Stevens. One of the all-time greatest road trip songs ever recorded. I don't even mind that it's in Little Miss Sunshine (though I am bothered at the error that occurs in the movie at that time). I recall driving out of Joshua Tree National Park on a blistering hot August afternoon (number of scorpions seen in the park: 1; number of other people seen in the two hours I spent in the park: 0) and heading east towards Arizona on I-10 when this song came on. Can't help but think of cacti now every time I hear it.

11. "I Grieve"-Peter Gabriel. That this song was released shortly after June 2002 is indeed an eerie coincidence; that its lyrics mirror my thoughts for most of the rest of that year is a measure of influence, I'm sure, but whenever I hear it every inch of my skin stands up.

Getting ready to hit "save." This had better not disappear.

UPDATE: Yippee

AOL, you suck!

2008-05-13T22:53:00.000-05:00

Yes, you do, my inadequate blog provider. I just spent more than an hour crafting my thoughts about something rather important to me only to see it disappear under the banner of "Sorry, AOL journals is unavailable" when I hit the "save" key. Interesting that when it comes back to the entry screen, nothing remains except the title.

Blogger is looking more and more desirable with each passing day, you miserable technical succubus.

The way things are

2008-04-21T20:20:00.000-05:00

The boy is four months old today. I continue to be amazed at how the time seems to be going by slowly. It seems like Desmond has been around for a lot longer than 120 days or so.

Things are different since the three month mark, as Mommy has gone back to work, meaning that it is Daddy and Des during the day. Don't know how long this will be, since I am graduating soon (thesis has been delivered, waiting to have it approved). I know it's tough for Kristen to be away during the day, but she does get time with him before she leaves and he is thrilled to see her when she comes home in the late afternoon.

So far, so good. He's an amazingly easy baby to care for. When he fusses it is easy to tell why-he has distinctive cries for "I'm hungry", "How about a new diaper", and "If I don't sleep NOW the whole neighborhood is gonna hear about it." The weather has finally started to warm up so we've been taking walks, and he seems fascinated by his surroundings.

It has taken me a little while to understand that if babies get up early, so does the person taking care of them. I haven't gotten up consistently by seven in a long, long time and for the first few weeks I was not adjusting the time where I normally went to bed, which meant I got about five hours of sleep each night. I was a zombie by the end of the second week. My son has got me doing the impossible: going to bed before midnight.

Desmond loves music and the Beatles are his favorite so far. If I play "Norwegian Wood," "Hey Jude," or "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" he kicks until the song is done. This can be quite uncomfortable if he happens to be sitting on my lamp at the time. I love that he loves music. Now if he would only start reading...

I am forcing the Cubs on him. Well, not really. I've dressed him in a few team onesies and took some pictures but that has been it. He tends to sleep a lot when the games are on. So far the Cubs are doing very well. Maybe he's all they needed. Maybe I'm setting him up for a lifetime of baseball angst. We'll know as the summer progresses.

Tomorrow is our third (!) wedding anniversary. I was thinking about the days around our wedding a lot last week because the Pope was in the US, and he was elected just before the wedding. When it comes to being married time has flown. I can't believe it's been three years (and five years since we met) already. It's hard to measure the difference in our lives now that we are three instead of two, mostly because it is hard to remember what life was like before Des came along.

This is such a sunny entry, yes? What's happening to me? Am I mellowing in my fifth decade?

Nah, not really. I'm just not writing about politics.

Dammit

2008-04-06T12:31:00.000-05:00

I somehow just lost my entire entry that I've been working on this morning, and I am using Firefox. I thought this wasn't supposed to happen in that browser.

To sum up:

1. We survived the first week of my playing Mr. Mom
2. My son gets up way too early
3. (Sound of him filling his diaper in the midst of me writing this)
4. I hate Oprah.
5. The infamous "pregnant man" is not a man, people. "He" is a biological woman who wants to live as a man, yet "he" kept his baby parts. Please stop acting like this is an actual man who somehow got pregnant.
6. I'm all for "him" having this kid. God knows it's the best thing anyone can ever do with their lives.
7. I hope James Dobson et al is choking on his Wheaties in apoplexy over this. Morons.
7. I really, really hate Oprah.

A three hour tour? A THREE HOUR TOUR?

2008-03-28T02:49:00.000-05:00

Quiz for you: which candidate for president said this concerning Reverend Jeremiah Wright?

"I canonly say that I am sure, knowing Senator Obama, that he does notshare the extreme views that were expressed that I saw ontelevision."

It was John McCain. Imagine that, if you can. Obama is his likely challenger in November, and while the rest of the GOP is foaming at the mouth over the smear potential of the Wright sermon videos, McCain pretty much has declared that it should not be an issue. Do you think the rest of the Republicans will mirror McCain's opinion? I sort of doubt it.

Here's another question: which candidate has said nothing about this except for "He would not be my pastor."

That would be Hillary Clintion of course, who believes that "as far as she knows" Barabk Obama is not a Muslim. Maybe HRC has been so quiet about the Wright issue because she's talking to James Frey about how to elaborate real-life experiences. I wonder if Frey has ever been to a war zone?

I voted for Obama in the primary and will in November if he is the nominee. I will not vote for Clinton under any circumstances. Ugh. I can't believe I am saying this publicly-if Hillary Clinton somehow weasels her way into the nomination, I am voting for John McCain. That will be the first time in my life that I have voted for a Republican presidential candidate.

Why? Well, why not? I've mentioned how disappointed I have been in the Clintons lately, but after this Bosnia thing I am actually scared of her being in control of anything. I don't believe that Clinton thinks she lied about her visit to Bosnia. I think she actually believes what she said to be the truth. I also believe that she has a strong sense of entitlement, that she thinks that she deserves the presidency.

I know it takes a lot of ego to even consider running for president, but Hillary Clinton is a meglomaniac. She is delusional. There is no way she is fit to be president. Jeez, what would I do if Guiliani or Romney were the GOP candidate? I'd have to go into exile for the next year.

Be fully prepared for the onslaught once the race is set, for there is no doubt that there will be ads all over the place telling us that Obama is an anti-american muslim dog killer. Amazing that a guy like that wants to be president. His plan to kill us all must be devious.

I ranted about the GOP running on BOO! in 2004-"vote for us, or the terrorists will kill you." They will run on BOO! again in 2008, but in terms of "Vote for us, or the big bad black men will get you." By the time the conventions are over, that is the only way that the GOP will be able to win, especially in the deep south.

And that is what this whole thing about Jeremiah Wright is about. It's fear. Fear of losing control. Fear that the establishment will be "replaced" by something else. And it's completely ridiculous. Not to mention incredibly racist.

Here's a politically and racially motivated-free random 11:

1. "When I Want You"-Del Amitri. These boys just fell off the planet in the mid-90s didn't they? Their Waking Hours CD gets more play on my stereo than 95% of everything else I own. You sent greetings from Liverpool, and I took the next train. Liverpool? Who named that city and why?

2. "Driver 8"-REM. I see they have a new album coming out soon. I can't think of anything interesting to say about this song, so I'll mention that I've been watching Natural Born Killers for the last hour or so, and that I've never seen it. Bizarre. I have no idea what Oliver Stone wants this film to be, but I'm guessing he wanted it to be a three hour acid trip.

3. "Wine Safari"-Rolfe Kent. Rolfe? Isn't he the dog that plays the piano on The Muppet Show? This is from the Sideways soundtrack. I sort of which I had been watching this movie for the last hour instead. This movie made me a Paul Giamatti fan (though it is not his best work-see American Splendor if you haven't already). I haven't seen any of the John Adams mini-series on HBO yet. Kind of having a hard time picturing Giamatti as Adams.

4. "The Painted Desert"-10000 Maniacs. This is almost two different songs now, since I have been to the Painted Desert recently (that's relative-the song came out in 1988, I was there in 2006). It really is amazing how the color of the desert changes depending on the time if day. The landscape in late afternoon, when the slowly falling sun makes most of the desert a bright red, is best. Still doesn't make me want to camp in it like the people in the song though.

5. "Miss Halfway"-Anya Marina. I heard this song performed life on NPR's "Whatta Ya Know?" but have since been told that it was popular on an episode of "Grey's Anatomy." I feel stained by the association.

6. "Slit Skirts"-Pete Townshend. He is incredibly underrated as a songwriter and solo performer. His White City is my favorite album of all time. Hard to believe I used to listen to this song on vinyl way back as a high school freshman, when the line "I was just 34 years old and I was still wandering in a haze" made him seem like such an old man. Hmm, I might have been wandering in a haze at 34 myself.

7. "Ticket to Ride"-The Beatles. Just added a bunch of Beatles tunes to the 'pod. I'm reading the biography of them that came out in 2005 (I think) which is so long and detailed but fascinating, and has me on a kick with their music recently. Looking at their songs and albums, it amazes me that they were only around for eight years. I found out last Sunday that my son (who has passed the three month mark) is a fan of the boys from Liverpool (Liverpool. Liverpool?), as a medley of their work soothed him down from a rough patch and even put him to sleep with a smile on his face. My favorite Beatles song? Think I have to go with "Hey Jude."

8. "Fortune Teller"-Robert Plant and Allison Krause. If their Raising Sand album does not win a billion Grammys next year, there should be an investigation. And this is one of the only so-so tracks on the CD.

9. "Minutes to Memories"-John Mellancamp. Still ain't too happy with him for selling out to Chevy after he ranted for years about people who did, but can't bring myself to jettison his stuff from my catalog. This song makes me think of Champaign, Illinois.

10. "Dry Country"-The B52s. I was a senior in college when this came out, and I remember a friend of mine had one of those fake flowers that moved to rhythm, and this song made it move like no other. Maybe I have been watching this movie too long. At least now I know why Tom Sizemore turned out the way he did.

11. "Even Better than the Real Thing"-U2. Almost had a full one without U2. Take me higher. So is this movie a commentary on the media? I'm starting to think it is. Why is Robert Downey's character Australian? Is he a symbolic Rupert Murdoch? Did Tommy Lee Jones come straight from his "Batman Returns" scenes to the set of this movie? He looks exactly the same. Nice 'stache. Hey that's Robert Jordan at the end! He's a news dude from Chicago. Why is he on there? Did he get paid? OK, it's definitely a media thing. I get that now. I'm guessing Stone absolutely loved how this flick gets the conservatives into a froth.

Stuck in March with the February blues, again.

2008-03-16T02:00:00.000-05:00

This is the March of my discontent. My somewhat-reliable case of the February blues (which I thought I managed to avoid this year) decided to show up a month late this year. I've always had this problem; for as long as I can remember by the time mid-February comes I am crawling out of my skin for the season to change. Just when I think I can't take it anymore, it disappears.

So I know that sometime soon, hopefully within the next week or so, this feeling of mental paralysis will go away and we will all get along with the year. Thank God for my wife and son; I'd be feeling about a billion times worse if they weren't here. Desmond will be three months next Friday. He was baptized last Sunday and wore the same outfit that I did when I was christened a-way back in 1967. Kristen has been documenting a lot of his life on a separate blog so that our out-of-town family can see what he is up to (I don't want to link it here, but if anybody would like to check it out, leave me a comment and I will e-mail it to you). It's good to be able to click on a link and see multiple pictures of my son; it's a guaranteed mood booster.

So I get bothered by things much more easily during times like these. My thesis is driving me nuts. No, I'm driving myself nuts about it. I am so close to finishing and that seems to make it that much harder to complete. I write for a bit, I get stuck on trying to express something (it is so much easier to write in my head) and then the frustration distracts me to the point that I walk away for a bit. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I also want Hillary Clinton to go away. I'm stifling myself here, because I could easily go on and on and on about how I am completely repulsed by her. It's not gender-related; I'm sick of Bill Clinton too (and anyone who knew me in the 90s would be stunned by that admission). They will say anything to get elected (Her answer on 60 Minutes about whether Obama is a Muslim: "He's not, as far as I know." As far as you know?). They are living in a dream world-has there ever been a second-place candidate who talked openly about how the person who is currently bashing their political brains in would make a great VP running mate? But what bothers me most about them is their outrage over the Michigan and Florida primaries not counting. Everyone involved in the campaign agreed that these states would not seat their delegates, because they broke party rules. Clinton was quoted long ago as saying that she agreed that this was fair. Well, she won both primaries and now THE DELEGATES MUST COUNT, DAMMIT!

OK, enough. They are making me ill, and I am sick of the politics of entitlement. I never thought I would say this, but here goes: go away, Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. Far, far away.

Usually crabbiness means a need for a random eleven: Apple, take me away...

1. "All the Way to Reno"-REM. Another by-product of the late-winter blahs is an intense desire to road trip. All this song makes me think about right now is Vegas. I'd love to be there next week for the first four days of the NCAA basketball tournament. I've driven through Reno but that's it. I have no idea what this song means, and the fact that Michael Stipe sings "You know who you are" 100 times doesn't help decipher it.

2. "Slow Turning"-John Hiatt. One of the greatest driving songs of all time. Quite possibly has the greatest lyric in all of mankind: "And I'm yellin' at the kids in the back 'cuz they're banging like Charlie Watts." It has a banjo. Life is short and here's the damn thing about it: you're gonna die, gonna die for sure.

3. "Shiver"-Coldplay. Two questions about this: why isn't this considered one of the best rock songs of the last twenty-five years? The guitars alone clinch it. And what happened to Coldplay? A band that is capable of something like this should be exiled for ever recording a song like "Fix You." I discovered this song in the summer/fall of 2003, after moving out of my house into an apartment (something I vowed never to do when I started paying a mortgage) and having just met the woman who I would marry. It was a different, different time. I was road-tripping a lot then too. In fact, I was listening to this song in central New York when i got pulled over by a state trooper for going 85 on the Interstate, and if he had come upon me about ten seconds sooner, I would have been going 105. Just decided to open it up and see how fast I could go. Timing saved me about $250 there, I think.

4. "January Rain"-David Gray. This is an instrumental from the movie Serendipity, which was one of the dumbest movies I have ever seen. If I recall correctly, this movie has one of most ridiculous scenarios that an audience has ever been asked to believe: John Cusack is in New York at his bachelor party (he's getting married the next morning) but he's pining for a girl he met earlier who is in California blah blah blah so he and Jeremy Piven get on a flight that leaves NY at 11 PM, fly to LA, and are able to rent a car, somehow find where this girl lives and get back to the airport in time to catch a flight back to NY that gets him there in more than enough time for his noon wedding. OK. I know there's a three hour time difference but there's no way that flight out lands before 1 AM Pacific time. You rent a car at LAX, you look up and find your way to a house somewhere in the metropolitan area, you get back to the airport. It has to be at least 3 if not 4AM, which means that it is 6 or 7 in New York. You're going to get on a plane then, land at LaGuardia and have time to get dressed for a noon wedding? Right. Of course, had the movie been any good, I probably would have bought this scenario. Alas, it sucked, and shall henceforth be referred to as Serenstupidity. Thank you. And I don't really blame you if you stopped reading this particular entry a long, long time ago. I'm really not worth much as a writer when I am crabby.

5. "Revolution Earth"-B52s. One of those songs that I heard during a time when I wondered if I would ever get married. Ah, mid-20s angst. Have you ever wanted to take out your brain and use a brillo pad to erase certain memories? Yeah, me too.

6. "Ring of Fire."-Johnny Cash. Not much to say about the brilliance of this. Did I really once watch an episode of "ER" where Carrie woke up to a version of this song being sung by Grace Jones?

7. "39"-Queen. Hoo boy. Did not need to hear this song in this mood. This song completely reminds me of my father, who hated just about everything I listened to when I was a kid, but absolutely loved this song. He used to walk into my room every once in a while and say "Put '39 on" and then he would sit and listen to it without saying a word, and then say "thanks" when it was over, as he walked out of the room. I've played this song for Desmond a few times.

8. "So Cruel"-U2. Have to have the mandatory U2 song.

9. "In Bloom"-Nirvana. At least it wasn't "Lithium." There was something disturbing about seeing my nephew rock out to this song when he was fourteen. He's turned 22 since I last posted here. He was a great kid, and now he's a great adult.

10. "Screw"-The Cure. Ah. mid-1980s angst! Anything by The Cure reminds me of road-tripping to Champaign to visit friends who were going to school there while I was home looking for brillo pads. I think I went there seventeen times in what would have been my freshmen year. I used to have major regret at how I screwed up my opportunity to go to school there, but I have long since graduated from the everything-happens-for-a-reason school. This will either make you laugh or reinforce the fact that I am an idiot: the first time I went to U of I to visit with friends, I was in a dorm room with about ten other people. There was a courtyard and when I looked past that into the window of a room across it, I clearly saw a poster on the wall. It was Albert Einstein, but this was only pointed out to me after I remarked several times that I thought it was strange that a college student would have a poster of Larry Tate (for those of you under 40, he was Darren's boss on "Bewitched") on his wall. Yes, I had been drinking, but surely someone else could have made this mistake, yes? By the way, if you are feeling blue, don't read the accompanying bio for David White (the actor who was Larry Tate) after that picture; it's incredibly depressing. The dude had a tough personal life.

11. "Tusk"-Fleetwood Mac. The only highlight of this song comes at the 2:26 mark, when for some reason Mick Fleetwood (It has to be him, but I don't really know) bellows in the background "Real Savage Like!" in his best Tim Gunn voice.

In which I become overwhelmingly sappy

2008-02-24T17:28:00.000-06:00

The boy is now two months old, and is exploding onto the scene. He's gone from someone who eats, sleeps, fills his diaper and stares at nothing to someone with a personality. He smiles all the time, which of course melts my heart every time he does it at me. He recognizes us. He giggles, especially when I rub the bottom of his feet. He has "conversations," mostly with himself. He's discovered that he can make other noises than just cries.

He is amazing. A week or so ago I was nestling him in my arms as he was falling asleep when all of the sudden his eyes shot open and he smiled at me. Then he fell fast asleep. There may never have been a more perfect moment in my life. When I die, I hope I have the chance to make that the last thing I remember about this world.

Kristen and I are adjusting, but we are still stumped by a few things. He had his first vaccinations last Friday, and even though we knew he could be a little fussy for a while afterwards, we were still a little stunned by how loudly he screamed, how persistently. Even though it's normal, it's hard to hear a baby that you would do anything for be that upset. He calmed down after an hour or so and slept for the rest of the night, so all is well. We know that he is not a crier unless he's hungry, needs a diaper change, or gets startled while he is sleeping (those cries can be very startling for us too) and we are good at recognizing which cry it is. And now we know the "I've just had multiple needles plunged into my legs and you're damn right I'm going to howl" cry, so we'll be better prepared next time.

He is a pork chop. I can't believe how different he looks, how he has plumped out all over the place. He has rolls on his legs and his neck, and multiple chins. His belly sticks out over the sides of his torso.

I know 99.9% of people with children saw all this when their first child was an infant. Still, because it's new for me it feels so individualistic, like I am the only one who has ever gone through this. It will be interesting to see how I react when number two comes around (no, that is not a breaking news story-that is still a ways away).

Having Desmond in December (though not specifically planned) has done wonders for my mental being. Normally around this time of year I get significantly blue as I get full sick of winter. We are actually having a winter in Chicago this year; multiple snowfalls and cold temperatures, in contrast to the last few years when it seems like we get shipped to Seattle for three months. Forty degrees with rain and low, gray clouds really head me into a funk when they last for weeks at a time. They shouldn't call what we've had in the past winter; it ought to be called blah, or something a bit more vitriolic.

(By the way, no offense to Seattle. I like it there. There's enough to do to overcome the iffy weather most of the time. I'm just not used to it)

I am already thinking to next winter when Des will be able to go outside and experience what it feels like in the snow. Of course before that he'll have the opportunity to roll in the grass. Having a kid is like being a kid again, because I get to see the things I did again, this time as a witness. I never really thought about that before.

Man, I love my son. I knew I would, of course, but I did not think it would be this much of a rush. I feel like I just climbed Mount Everest in an hour.

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

2008-02-16T02:48:00.000-06:00

Nothing is more aggravating that writing for an hour and then forgetting that if you put something in a search engine without opening a new window, you're going to lose whatever you failed to post.

So I'll sum up: two weeks ago five women were massacred at a Lane Bryant store outside Chicago. Two days ago five students were massacred at a university just outside Chicago. In response to the school shooting, President Bush today said that "all anyone can do is pretty much pray." Yeah, that'll stop everything. Of course, Bush is a Republican, and this is an election year (even though, thank God, he won't ever run for anything again) so he can't say anything that will piss off the NRA.

Look, I'm realistic. The 2nd Amendment isn't going away. Some people need a gun to feel safe. Some folks like to hunt. I respect that. I'm not a gun owner and I will never be one, but that's a personal choice.

But for God's sake, it seems like people are being slaughtered every week now. There have been five multiple shootings in the country in the last ten days. When is it enough? When the hell is someone somewhere going to say something? Where is Hillary Clinton? John McCain? At least Barack Obama said something today, though he had to express support for the 2nd Amendment before anything else.

If you go to the NRA homepage (google it, I'm not linking to them, ever) you'll see no mention of the Northern Illinois shooting. It's like it never happened. How many people are they willing to let be sacrificed before they acknowledge a problem?

I've reached the point where I am fully convinced that it is just a matter of time before my life is affected by someone with a gun who has no business having one.

I can't imagine going to the store or going to class and have it be the very last thing I do on this Earth. It's numbing to think about. Worse yet is the idea of it happening to someone I love.

Remember, guns don't kill people. People kill people. But as Eddie Izzard says "I think the gun has something to do with it. Go up to someone and yell BANG! and see if that kills them."

Turns out, it's good that what I originally wrote got chomped. It was much more snarky, and pretty unintelligent.

I'm really, really sick of hearing about people getting shot who have done nothing wrong, who are just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When? When is enough enough? How many more people have to die? We've spent an enormous amount of money fighting terrorism since 9/11, when 3000 people died. Not to marginalize their deaths, but no one has died in America from terrorism since that day. It's estimated that close to 200,000 people have been shot to death since 9/11. And we haven't done a goddamn thing about it.

Things that go middle in the bump of the night

2008-02-07T03:47:00.000-06:00

Let's play "Jeopardy!"

Answer: getting up in the middle of the night with a newborn, while exhilirating on the "I'm bonding with my new son" level, sucks. He's evolved; Desmond normally wakes up once between midnight and eight now. I, on the other hand, seem to be up all the time. It's an event when I manage to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time.

Question: Why the hell am I writing at 3 AM?

Correct. Select again.

I'll take "different types of spit-up" for $400...

Anyway, I'm up again. It's kind of peaceful in the "I might be the last person on Earth" way, and I've had this habit most of my life. My last two years in college I worked three nights a week from midnight to six in the lobby of one of three dorms. All I had to do was sit there and make sure nothing bad happened. It was on the less-exciting side of the Iowa River, so very little happened, though I did punch a pizza delivery guy once. And I ran down a hallway at 4 AM with a flaming bag of popcorn (though not at the same time as I punched the pizza dude). It was essentially eighteen hours of mostly uninterrupted study time and I was getting paid for it. I rarely had to do any work outside of those three shifts. The only drawback was trying to sit through a class on three hours sleep. I took a lot of naps in secluded regions of the library back then.

(Think of that last paragraph as the answer. The question: "What is a random, pull-it-out-of-your-behind memory from college that you haven't thought about in at least ten years?")

There has been a lot of snow here lately. I think we passed fifty inches for the season today, after a little less than a foot fell here. When I first came downstairs an hour or so ago after giving up on sleep again, I walked into the dark kitchen that looks out to the backyard. I love how the darkness of the middle of the night is brightened by a newfallen snow. It's one of the few things I enjoy about winter.

So I stood looking outside for a while. It was completely silent except for the hum of the fridge ten feet behind me. Very peaceful; I was glad that I was awake. Then, for no reason that I can think of, it hit me like a slap: today is February 7th, my father's 74th birthday, the six he has celebrated up in Heaven.

I've written about this day before, and I think I've made my point about it, so I think I am done writing anything else in regards to this day. I will say that I have been thinking about my father a lot lately, obviously because I just became a dad, and I am comforted by my memories. Once a day, I tell Desmond something about his grandfather. By the time he is ten he might know as much about him as I do.

There is a specific direction that I want to go with this, but I will have to resume at a later time. Someone is hungry again, and it ain't me.

I mean this with all sincerity: being a Dad rocks.

I read the news today, oh boy.

2008-01-26T02:51:00.000-06:00

Today, I've reached the breaking point. This has nothing to do with babies, by the way.

Nope, what I'm sick of today is the media. Whether it's Clinton/Clinton vs. Obama, or the entire roster of GOP candidates vs. Clinton (hey guys, could you hate Hillary just a little bit more please?), or nonstop coverage of casino's roof burning (could it be terrorism? we'll examine in just a moment...), or fifty-seven mentions of Heath Ledger (when I am leader of the free world, the first thing I shall decree is that the death of anyone famous can be mentioned in the media for only the first twenty-four hours. There will be an exception-request process for ex-presidents and the like, but I will likely refuse most of them) or the idiocy that is Drew Peterson, etc etc etc. I've about had it with the way news is reported in this country. Even newspapers! Sigh. I've read the Chicago Tribune daily for as long as I can remember, but I am seriously considering giving it up. I can only take so much.

This was just a rant. My day ends with a random eleven:

1. "Cherry Bomb"-John Mellancamp. I'm not happy with J(C)M as of late. I remember him ranting and raving about people selling out when he first got famous, and now I can't watch more than ten minutes of a sporting event without hearing him singing for a Chevy commercial (side note to anyone familiar to Chicago businesses: doesn't Sellencamp's "this is our country" refrain sound exactly like the "this is our country" ending to the Countrywide insurance theme song?). It makes it hard to listen to his music. I'm so fickle, so holier than thou. I sold the only house I owned so that it would be knocked down and have a home three sizes larger built on the lot. I guess that remembrance is why I haven't deleted any J(C)M's song of the 'pod.

2. "Floating"-Julee Cruise. More "Twin Peaks" music. If I live to be 200 I will always remember how this music fit into the TV series. I'm not sure why I included this song. It's only average compared to most of the selections.

3. "Kid Charlemagne"-Steely Dan. I have this pipe dream of becoming an English professor (not gonna happen; I don't have the patience for a PhD) and creating a class analyzing the lyrics of Steely Dan. This song would definitely be on the final. Is there gas in the car? Yes, there's gas in the car. Now clean this mess up or we'll all end up in jail.

4. "Piove"-Lorenzo Jovannotti. This is from the first Sopranos sound track, mostly sung in Italian. I can't really explain it if you're not familiar with it. When I first heard it, I thought he was saying "Bjork" at the beginning. Somewhere on my desk or in a file cabinet are lyrics to this song to reflect someone's infatuation with the Icelandic pop princess.

5. "Deireadh An Tuath"-Enya. Heh. I get what I deserve. I'm doing this without my headphones, so I am not listening to the music, and originally this spot was taken by a song called "One By One" also by Enya. I can't remember exactly what song that is, so I decided to skip it. And I get more Enya! Words that I can't pronounce! (By the way, # 3 on my list of "Things that I say that I will do while knowing that there is no way I will ever motivate myself to actually do them" is learn to speak Irish). So I can't tell you what this song is about, but I can tell you that she chants a bit, and there are a lot of heavy bell sounds. Perhaps the title translates to "You're a Moron."

6. "All She Wants to Do is Dance"-Don Henley. Hoo boy. I have a vivid memory of being at someone's house my senior year of high school and being QUITE angry that a certain girl I had my eye on was locking lips with a friend who I considered to be infinitely dorkier than I was (and who I haven't seen or heard from in more than twenty years) while this song was playing. I quietly seethed and then drank a six-pack (No worries Mom. I spent the night); irony is, had she been sweet on me instead, I'd be writing something along the lines of "what was I thinking" in memory of this song. Ah, teen angst. I was pathetic.

7. "Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town"-Pearl Jam. I do love this song, and it seems like Eddie Vedder is the only guy who can sing it. One thing drives me nuts about this, though. There are at least three spots where consecutive lyric lines should rhyme, because a word exists that fits, but for some reason whoever wrote the lyrics didn't do it.

8. "Goodbye Girl."-Squueze. One of those songs that I will be listening to when I am 75. This is on the greatest hits CD of Squeeze, music that I will definitely be introducing to my son. When he is a teen, he will tell me that this stuff sucks, and then go listen to it secretly in his room. I bet on it.

9. "The Well and The Lighthouse"-The Arcade Fire. Almost indescribable. This CD has been in my car player for the last six months, I think. This is one of those bands that I checked out because I kept hearing the same two songs on the radio, and they turned out to be two of the lesser songs on the CD. This song is about a guy living at the bottom of a well who somehow becomes responsible for a lighthouse. You want the truth? You know I'd do it all again.

10. "In Bloom"-Nirvana. Nirvana visits the "Led Zeppelin/Robert Plant School of Naming Songs Where the Title Does Not Appear Anywhere In the Lyrics." (Lesson 1: when to use "Big Log": wait for it.) Here's what I want to know: Nirvana was a trio. Kurt Cobain died, and Dave Grohl has been all over the place since (he's very underrated as a singer and songwriter, methinks.), but what happened to the third guy? Christ Novolesic (I had to look him up) has been completely screwed by Cobain's decision to off himself. I'm wondering if there is anyone on Earth who has been more screwed by someone else committing suicide.

11. "Texarkana"-REM. I actually drove through Texarkana in 2003, and listened to this song repeatedly as I was doing it. I am sooo spontaneous. And I don't think the word "Texarkana" is anywhere in the lyrics. I feel so superficial.

The first 31 days

2008-01-23T23:52:00.000-06:00

The boy turned one month old Monday. He and I celebrated during his normal witching hours by watching Braveheart, though I don't think he understood most of it. However, when he woke up the next morning he looked at me and said "They can take our lives, but they can never take our (sound of him filling his diaper)!!!"

Many people warned me that time would go by quickly, but I have to say that it has not. It feels like Desmond has been around for a lot more than just a little over four weeks. My life has changed a lot, obviously. I knew that it would. Still, it has not been easy. This is not a complaint, but I find myself doing nothing except tending to my son and trying to keep our house under control. I can't imagine how my wife must feel, since she is on call 24/7. Every time Des needs to nurse, she has to drop everything. It's amazing. She has never said anything about the loss of personal time since our son was born. She is a natural mother. Both Desmond and I are lucky to be going through this experience with her.

I can't say what my favorite thing about Desmond is. I love it when he falls asleep on my chest. That happened a lot in the first two weeks of his life, but since then it has only happened once. I love his wide eyes. At times I think my son is the reincarnation of Marty Feldman.

I just realized that link doesn't have a picture of Mr. Feldman. Excuse me while I hunt...ah, here we are!

Des has really big eyes, and I love it when they just stare out at anything. They widen and he looks completely enraptured. I've been told that he really can't focus on much yet, but I don't care. As far as I am concerned, he's studying the details of the cracks in the ceiling.

I'm fairly good at calming him down whenever he is upset (except when he is hungry, for obvious reasons), and I usually can get him to sleep just about anytime. I have a secret weapon that I call "The Redeemer." Resting Desmond face-up on my arms, I cradle his head in my hands. His arms go limp, hanging over the sides of my arms, and he falls asleep quickly. I call it the Redeemer because he looks just like the statue in Rio (if someone knocked it over) when he lies like this.

This is normally the only time, when he falls asleep on me like that, where I want time to freeze. I want to be able to pick him up in forty years and have this still happen. Just the thought that I won't always be able to do this saddens me. So I guess that this is my favorite thing about him.

That will change soon, I reckon, because he is days away from smiling voluntarily. We can tell that he is trying but not yet able, which leads to some highly comedic moments. He has an enjoyable smirk. When he smiles now, it is usually when he is asleep. He's got a penchant for letting one slip out just after I have said something somewhat inappropriate.

I still can't quite believe that I have a son. At night, he sleeps next to us and I am constantly staring at him. His involuntary jerks and spasms are like signals from a faraway place, telling me that there is something else out there. It's like a bolt of reassurance going through me. It reminds me of how different things are now, how life will never be the same as it was before December 21, 2007.

Most of all, it reminds me how freakin' lucky I am.