Four Cheese Fusilli

if yesterday afternoon were an ocean liner...

2008-01-30T14:23:00.002-08:00

Seems that blogging is an annual thing for me now. Kind of like Talk Like a Pirate Day, or--given four young boys--the inevitable t-ball batted swiftly to the plums. But after a certain series of events late Wednesday, Miranda looked at me and said, "That deserves an entry."

Well, yes, m'dear. It does.

It started with Meshach coming down the stairs, his hair bearing an uncanny resemblance to the young George Clooney's or that of various Roman busts.

Not satisfied with his recent 'do from Miranda's House of Beauty, he decided to update his look. Obviously he felt it preferable to go with more of a "mangy weasel" or "cat with psoriasis" thing...

The fun was only just beginning, however.

It turns out that Cars and Trucks and Things that Go suffered similar desecration. Oh, the horror, Mr. Scarry!

Then I noticed some odd fuzz on our bedspread.

Further inspection revealed that he had snipped an arrowhead into the cat's arse. (Note tufts on rug.)

We sent him to school like this in the hopes that a little public ridicule might prevent him from taking scissors to mane again. Wrongo. When asked what happened to his hair, he told people his parents did it.

Clever, clever boy.

A Very Nervous Sombrero

2007-02-05T23:06:00.001-08:00

Well, if there's anything that will knock you out of nearly a year of blog neglect, it's a grainy video of your 5-year-old doing the Mexican Hat Dance like he's Stevie Wonder high on peyote.

Many of those in attendance told me he was the funniest thing they had seen this month. Given that he was COMPLETELY hamming it up for the camera and generally not doing what he was supposed to, I--on the other hand--wanted to put my foot far enough up his kiester to wear him like a shoe.

Be sure you note the highlights: the casual "Do I know you?" wave in response to Dad's overeager welcome, the hushed "Is my hair sticking up?" inquiry, the near total inability to alternate between hops and claps, the head thrown back in centrifugal ecstasy, the transparently phony "dizziness," the feet going up at the grand finale like some cartoon character from a Raid commercial, the low five from the PE teacher with the patience of Job, and the last glance to the camera with the "it's-hard-work-being-this-much-of-a-laugh-riot" expression.

Hmmm, maybe it is funny after all...

As always, Mr. Phelps, in the event of your capture the Secretary will disavow all knowledge of your actions.

2006-02-22T23:04:00.001-08:00

Miranda and I just wanted to bring you up to date on a typical day at the office for Meshach. In one 12 hour period, he managed to get bitten by a little girl at playgroup (perhaps because he had her in what Brazilian Jiu Jitsu practitioners call mata leo?), fall down an entire flight of stairs (carpeted), and nosedive off his brother's bed to land headfirst in a laundry hamper (no cushioning pile in bottom). Largely because he is made of Kevlar and wood (hickory or ash, I think), he emerged unscathed from each of these incidents.

Most parents plan for college, and while we think he'll be more than able, we're currently leaning this way or this way, or maybe even this way.

Thoughts?

Despite the stain between the doors similar to the ones on the concrete menhir from the Who's Next cover and Meshach's slightly guilty look, I can assure you that he didn't just whizz on the wall. At least as far as we know...

er, does the Children's Television Workshop know about this?!

2006-02-11T15:01:00.000-08:00

One of our family's favorite little rituals is Dad's Saturday AM trek to 7-Eleven for donuts. The kids love it, and Miranda and I feel good doing our part to make sure the American diabetes epidemic rolls along unhindered.

This morning, as I sidled up to pay for my pastries, I was greeted by a sight shocking in its discordance. There--bikini clad and staring out at me from the newsstand--was one of the stars of the boys' kiddie DVDs. Kristin Chenoweth is a singer and actress of some accomplishment who moonlights on children's television; she plays "Ms. Noodle" in Sesame Street's Elmo's World. Well, turns out she moonlights in the laddie mags as well.

At this point, it would be easy to make a tasteless joke about Ms. Noodle's potential effect on the noodles of FHM readers, but I'm going to take the high road. I am, however, not sure I'll ever be able to watch "Melmo," as Abednego calls him, quite the same way again. Drat...

About the only chance I have of getting this much hair on my upper lip involves spray adhesive and a dead muskrat.

2006-01-31T00:00:00.002-08:00

Ok, I have a confession to make. For a long long time, I have wanted to be a fireman. Laughable isn't it? It started when I was a kid watching Johnny and Roy (Emergency! joins Rockford in the rarefied air of 70s TV awesomeness) and listening to stories of my great grandfather who was a jake back when horses pulled the engine. Then I read the incomparable Dennis Smith in high school, and as a recent college graduate my fascination got a good kick in the pants when Backdraft came out. (For fifteen years, I have remembered this film as an unbelievably dramatic and inspiring motion picture. Alas, I saw it recently and it is one of the sillier pieces of dreck ever committed to celluloid.) Then more recently Ladder 49 was released, which was exciting and poignant but also crazily unrealistic. The best written "dramedy" currently on TV just happens to be about a bunch of FDNY guys, and that's been the most recent catalyst.

As it turns out I live in one of THE jurisdictions in the country for volunteer firefighting. The opportunities are staggering. In fact the two closest companies to me are some of the busiest in the area and one has a national reputation for its work load and expertise. Training is free at one of the best schools in the United States, there is a sizeable state tax deduction, and you get to help your fellow citizens in a thrilling line of work. In my mind's eye, this is something that the boys and I will do together, the five of us saving lives and fighting the red dragon shoulder to shoulder. The primary catch, of course, is that it can kill you...

A secondary challenge is that you must run with the alpha-est of the alpha males (hence the ability to grow moustachios that look like you have a nutria under your nose). This takes a busload of energy. I am used to expending intellectual energy, but by and large these guys are doers, not talkers or thinkers. Many also--how to put this delicately--do not hinder themselves by adhering to certain social conventions that you and I may take for granted. I have read a great deal about firehouse taunting, hazing, and practical joking, but it didn't quite hit home until I posted on a bulletin board. Note the cheery (clearly interpreted as pansy-ass) tone to my initial query and the absolute savaging I got. Then note the immediate acceptance once I defended myself in like terms. Incredible, eh?

Don't look around the board too long. You'll see racism, misogyny, gay bashing, disdain for incompetent leaders and idiots who wander in and ask dumb questions, etc. No one is cut any slack, no one is treated particularly nicely. Everyone survives on their wits and the quickness and nastiness of their tongue. You may wonder then why I would willingly expose myself to this Darwinian crucible, and why on earth I would expose my sons. There are three reasons:

1. James Kavanaugh wrote a beautiful poem about men who are too kind for the corporate/consumerist world we live in. While his piece was about an economic system, it applies here. I would love for my sons to be gentle-men. I want them to be thoughtful, compassionate, and loving. I also want them to know that there are men who are hard, unforgiving, and cruel, and that the inherently paradoxical combination of verbal violence delivered with a smile can often disarm such men.

2. The whole thing is a ruse. Most firefighters are not really "those guys." They have emotions, insecurities, fears. The coarse machismo and feigned disinterest are just other coping mechanisms. If these guys sat around analyzing each stressful situation they encountered, they would be largely ineffective in their job. Instead reflection is replaced with lockerroom banter and gallows humor. Still, once you play the game and gain entry, once you prove you are trustworthy, you are admitted to the brotherhood for life. Someone may insult your mother, your wife, or your dog, but he will go through the gates of hell to get you home to that family he so disapproves of. So too, whether you are a man or woman, white or black, gay or straight, he will run into a building everyone else is running out of to rescue your sorry arse.

3. You get to drive really fast in great big trucks, put out fires, and save people's lives and memories. Oh, and you also get to cut open cars as if they were old Coke cans. (Uh, reason #3 here is probably all I'll be needing.)

Stay safe and for God's sake, pull over when you hear the siren. In a few years it could be me behind you, and I'll be closer than I appear...

Diaper Bocce (or Poo Petanque)

2006-01-29T21:30:00.000-08:00

Given that a diaper pail smells only slightly better than the average neglected horse stall, we play a little game 'round these parts. Once one of the Beans has a generated an eyelash-curling pantload, we toss it downstairs so it's a full level closer to the back porch where our knockoff Diaper Genie lives. The fun comes in because our little colons-in-residence are frequently synchronized. Once we've got multiple trouser bombs, the first diaper becomes the "pallino"--or target--and the subsequent payloads are the balls. Good times!

The Court (Note usual kiddie detritus on stairs and completely unadorned walls. You wouldn't want a fully-laden Huggie taking down a framed family treasure.)

The Pallino is tossed...(You can tell this one was a real mind-bender because it had to be bagged.)

The first ball arcs down...(Lefty, no less. Is this guy good or what?!)

What a shot!!

#2 (or #1 if we're talking contents) heading downrange...

Okay, this is a little embarrassing. #2 was a "steppie"--or a shot that falls short and doesn't clear the stairs. You can see it peeking out on the left of the bottom tread. This sort of thing will get you ridiculed in a serious turd bocce match. Plus--ever since Garajan Boosnajanian of Armenia did so in the 1936 Finals--tradition dictates that you have to buy one round of drinks for each step you land short of the bottom. (Thankfully, this was a one beverage steppie...in a one player match.) Regardless, even after I rationalize that it happened because the camera was in my tossing hand, I'm afraid I'm still going to cry myself to sleep...

So if you've got the raw materials being produced at the staggering rates we do, I recommend you try this exciting game. Your house will smell better, your hand-eye coordination will improve, and you'll learn to play the back wall carom. Just be sure to wrap the little bundles tightly 'cause if one explodes you'll get a definition of "stippling" that the folks at the Saturday Home Depot class on decorative painting aren't familiar with.

a tonsorial tsunami

2006-01-24T21:08:00.001-08:00

First, I'd like to apologize for the previous post penned by my pal, Mr. H. Clearly delusional with fever. It'll never happen again.

Second, just to show we're all in our usual good cheer, Abednego was slaying us the other morning with his Jimmy-Neutron-has-a-milk-and-cereal-glazed-lower-face routine. (I love it when he does that one.)

The Prototype:

The Uncanny Facsimile:

Spot on, eh? Is the kid good or what?

You call that hell, Hieronymus? Let me tell you about hell, you little Dutch nancy...

2006-01-19T22:04:00.002-08:00

First off pretend that you have four children under five. Make them 4, 21 month old twins, and just for the sheer preposterousness of it, throw in a newborn. Make him a newborn who thinks he's a good looking vampire who needs to sleep during the day and then stay up all night. Then pretend that you are pushing 40 as hard as a Gremlin with a broken timing belt, just to take youthful vigor out of the equation. If that's not enough to get you climbing bareass onto the roof with a bottle of Thunderchicken and a surplus Enfield, pretend you have a fever of 103 degrees. Now add a headache of staggering intensity and a gastrointestinal tract that feels like you've swallowed a sack of violent eels. Oh, and you'll need some explosive diarrhea and vomiting (no links for that). Feeling the love yet?

Okay, at this point we'll want the main waste pipe to the sewer to be broken under the concrete floor of your basement. This will fill the house with the smell of effluent--much of it recently produced by you. The best part is that when the plumber comes to fix it he'll have to bring a special tool to get to it. Because he needs to excavate a 10 foot long trench, he'll run the thing solid for right around two hours and if you didn't have a concussion from the barfing, you will begin to feel the dessicated pea that is your brain rattle off the interior of your skull due to sound waves alone. That, my little wooden shoe-wearing visionary, is the icy ninth circle.

I've had a great day. You?

All 23 episodes?! Do you realize what this means!!

2006-01-16T13:50:00.000-08:00

Two things have conspired to wrest me from my blogging stasis: This and the guy pictured above.

That's right, people, Contestant #4 arrived on January 5th. "Feargal" weighed in at a hefty 8 pounds, 9 ounces. He cries, he eats, he poops, he sleeps. We cry, we eat, we poop, we don't sleep. You know the drill. Still and all, we are delighted that he's here. (Especially Miranda, as she was sick of feeling slightly smaller than an Americruiser bound for Wichita.)

Speaking of delighted, how amped am I that Season One of The Best Television Show Ever is FINALLY on DVD with more to follow?

This may be the happiest week of my life.

In other "my-world-has-been-turned-on-its-head" news, I had been blissfully suffering under the illusion that Penelope Cruz was the most beautiful Latina on the planet. Then Netflix sent over Spanglish. Guess what! Turns out it's Paz Vega. Hands down.

excuses, excuses, excuses

2005-10-21T22:18:00.002-07:00

Lately, calling our family "a little bit busy" would be like calling Robert Wadlow "kinda tall," Monica Bellucci "sorta good looking," or the ad agency that dreamt up Grimace (purple, wearing hat) "moderately creative."

Still and all, I'm storing up stories. Just tonight I described the little fall/harvest shindig we plan to go to tomorrow as a festival, and Shadrach said, "Oh goody, Daddy! I love festivals! [one beat, two beats] Daddy, what's a festival?"

I swear it never gets old...

Nor does the Hamburglar (far right) get any less creepy.

90mph with his hair on fire

2005-09-30T11:26:00.001-07:00

The parenting books use great euphemisms for Meshach's approach to life. They call kids like him "active" or "strong willed" or "busy." I think those have merit, but for me "crazy as a shithouse rat" puts a finer point on it. This kid is absolutely amazing. He idles at about 72, 000 rpm and makes George look like a slacker in the curiosity department. He is the strongest, most coordinated child his age anyone in our family has ever seen. If there is a dangerous object within his reach, he will find it and begin to wave it near his face. If there is a potentially bone-breaking position to climb or squeeze into, he will assume it. If there is something fragile or valuable nearby, he will subject it to gravity. If there is a mess to be made, he will apply it to as wide an area as possible. This is a guy you are glad is on your side; a guy--like David Ortiz these days--of whom opponents would say, "We can't stop him; we can only hope to contain him." Miranda and I have NO idea where he came from--and he frightens the stuffing out of us roughly 87 times a day--but life with him is terrific.

And by "terrific" I mean "like spending the next 18 years on Kraken."

in your eyes/i see the doorways/of a thousand churches

2005-09-24T22:08:00.001-07:00

Boy, the world is full of cheery news these days...Mostly about how it seems to be ending. Wars, hurricanes, killer flu, vanishing fossil fuels, dirty bomb terrorism, irrevocably melting polar ice caps. (INSERT HORROR OF YOUR CHOICE HERE.) Wheee!

Seems that there are at least three responses to all this: you can "borrow Sylvia's inhaler" (aka the Plath Oven Helmet) and do a slow intimate inspection of your stove's interior, or you can head over to this site, or you can take a long look at the face of an 18-month-old. Option three works best for me. First, I've got a lot of them on hand. Second, the ones in my family tend to be beautiful--a fact I can take little to no credit for--and ever since that early Greek philosopher fella people have been figuring that beauty comes directly from the source of all good things. So if folks are right about that and there's still beauty in the world, then it follows there's still good.

Ah, logic. Remember those problems where you'd fill out a grid based on a bunch of statements and then be asked questions like, "If Bob is wearing the red dress and Sam is an ornithologist, what religion is Natasha?"
Me neither.

Third, you don't have to hang around them long to realize that very small people are enlightened. They have no time or reason for existential angst. They see the world as a bright clean place. They live in the moment, marveling at the beauty and richness that surround them. They trust implicitly and are happy doing anything at all unless they are hungry, tired, or in pain. In this way, young children are little bodhisattvas, toddling Jesuses, dirty-faced arhants. All modeling right living for us. All pointing the way. All with much to teach. So after we've prepared for the apocalypse by squirreling away our three day supply of food and water, let's turn off all the chattering screens, look our children closely in the eye and strive to be disciples of what we see there. For in this they are wiser than we.

lend me your rear and i'll play you a tune and i'll try not to play out of key...

2005-09-18T23:28:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the second post in a row on bodily functions, but we may have a serious problem developing here. It seems that Abednego has discovered recreational farting. Essentially every time he lets Polly out of prison, he starts giggling about it. This is a horror show from Miranda's perspective (and for a mom in Britain). M. imagines a future in which she is surrounded by a quartet of teenage male backsides--all belching in four-part harmony--while cries of, "Oh, yeah! Top THIS, you Nancy!" and much whooping, hollering, and knee slapping reverberate through the house. Not a pretty picture for a cultured Flower of the Southland who is biologically incapable of passing gas. (The image of my sons egging each other on to increasingly stentorian and/or protracted imitations of Winkie the Brown-Eyed Clown doesn't exactly thrill me either. Ok, it does...but only a little bit.) Clearly we have some educating to do on the issue, lest one or more of our tribe descend to this outrageously asinine (ooh, a pun!) practice...

Man, times must be slow in the Philippines.

my sons will never be sick a day in their lives

2005-09-16T21:57:00.001-07:00

Whether this is science or quackery, it's darn good news! Shadrach especially should have a constitution of iron. In fact, it may explain my lifetime of fine health. (Touch wood...and swallow a wholesome nose nugget. But only in the privacy of the car, of course.)

I don't know which is funnier: the story itself, or the fact it ran--among other places--in the "new voice for a new Pakistan." That zany Pervez governs a nation of cards, let me tell you; however I was unaware that he was such a rabid numismaticist. Nor did I realize he keeps his sizable coin collection on colorful ribbons pinned to his tunic. What a kook!

(Today's little-known fact: He earned the natty sash as the winner of the Mr. Lahore pageant in 1974.)

i've got your Himalaya right here...

2005-09-13T06:52:00.000-07:00

Aside from still having some of the best '70s hair in the history of humanity, Reinhold Messner was also pretty darn good at walking up hills. He was the first guy to climb all 14 peaks taller than 10,000 meters and he was the first to climb Everest alone. As in: By himself. With no help. Solo. This is the mountaineering equivalent of boating from California to Hawaii. In a kayak. Still given all these accomplishments, there is one summit I doubt he could ever reach: the top of our laundry pile. In this arena, Miranda is the world-class mountaineer and Messner would be more like a 6 year-old Brownie out for a hike on a paved trail. A LEVEL paved trail...with those interpretive signs everywhere...and lots of seniors in scooters.

You see, around the homestead we have five bottoms and ten armpits. (Soon to be six and twelve.) Three of those bottoms and six of the armpits are owned by people who basically roll around in dirt and throw food on themselves for a living. This--paired with a bottom's natural propensity for getting dirty all by itself--makes for a continuous stream of soiled garments. "Flood" might be more accurate, actually.

And who stands firm against this onslaught?

Miranda.

Sure I go down and move things from the The Mountain to the washer, or from the washer to the dryer, and I frequently fold a basket or twenty, but she is in the trenches fighting The Beast everyday. (An innocent Sisyphus springs to mind.) I try to help her out by wearing the same clothes all weekend, but it's all to no avail. Our only hope is to wait until our burgeoning work force reaches laboring age. Then we'll turn it over to them. Along with the catbox, the yard, the trash and recycling, oil changes, and a few other jobs I haven't thought of yet.

Oh, that'll be the day...

Ed. note: The laundry pile pictured above was NOT actually generated by us. I wanted to take a picture of ours, but the digital camera doesn't have a wide angle lens.

mr. big goes to school

2005-09-10T23:53:00.000-07:00

In a development that shocked his parents, our eldest--pictured here being dropped off by his brothers Meshach (on the left and busy as the proverbial one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest) and Abednego (center, clutching "Lambie" and eyeing the photographer warily)--went to his first day of nursery school on Thursday. This was a MAJOR event for Miranda and me. Huge. Monumental. Staggering even. Our firstborn began a ritual which he will continue on and off for at least the next fifteen years, and for the first time we are sharing the responsibility of nurturing his mind with others. We laughed, we cried, it was better than You-Know-What, we will see it again and again...

In unrelated news, I had a lovely afternoon watching Schill get his long-absent mojo going, and the Sox generally kick the Yankees square in the plums, thereby regaining a four game lead in the AL East. Ahh, time well spent.

Long Live the Little Buddy!

2005-09-08T11:54:00.001-07:00

Around my house we like to laugh a lot. Sometimes--when I've said or done something dopey--Miranda puts on a blue polo, take a little cap with a ship's wheel on it, and hits me over the head. This amuses the boys to no end.

Right now Meshach and Abednego are into Baby Einstein (particularly Noah) and Shadrach is a big fan of the Disney heroines ("Daddy, talk in Ariel's voice.") But in a few years--and if we ever get cable--I'm sure they would love the magnum opus of Mr. Bob Denver. Could there be more innocent fun than The Three Hour Tour Gone Bad?

Sample dialogue (paraphrased from an NPR piece I heard):
The Skipper (incredulously): Gilligan, what could you know about space?
Gilligan: I don't know much, but I do know one thing.
The Skipper: What's that?
Gilligan: You take up more of it than I do.

Sure we all know B.D. in his solid red rugby and bucket hat. But do we remember his star turn as TV's first Beatnik: "Maynard G. Krebs" in The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis?

Or as "Junior" in Far Out Space Nuts, another Syd and Marty Krofft classic?

To say that this man was a comedic visionary might be going too far; he was no Peter Sellers or Steve Martin (was there EVER a funnier role than "Ruprecht"?), but he created an icon in American entertainment and that's no small feat. Evidently he earned no residuals from the syndication of Gilligan's Island. None. But when asked if this angered him, he said, "Whenever people come up to me they have a smile on their faces. They talk about all the wonderful childhood memories they have of the show. They thank me. How could you ever be bitter about that?"

Rest in peace, Bob. Thanks for making us laugh.

Telephone call for Mr. Munch...

2005-09-07T00:04:00.000-07:00

Well, given that all concerned parties have been notified, I think I can spill the beans on the big secret mentioned back on May 12:

Miranda is pregnant.

To put this into something approaching perspective, one needs to understand that A) we have three children three years old or younger and B) this is nearly a medical miracle. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were all the result of In-Vitro Fertilization. Miranda and I were incapable of conceiving without a little help from our friendly neighborhood lab. After she became pregnant with Shadrach and his twin brother, Joshua (whom we lost at 28 weeks), her doctor said that pregnancy could sometimes kick start the reproductive system enough to cure ovulation problems. It was rare, but it happened to some women.

It didn't happen to Miranda.

So after waiting a bit, we went around again with jabbing needles into butt cheeks and choking the trouser trout into cups (no links for that, pervert) and we were blessed with Meshach and Abednego. That was it. We were done. Game over. And in the one-less-thing-to-worry-about file, we had natural built-in birth control.

Wrongo.

Yes, indeedy, the fourth bean is on his way--it seems assisted or not we make boys and boys only--and will arrive around New Years. (For tax purposes, I hope he sneaks in a bit early.)

Below are a few expressions that approximate mine upon receiving Miranda's call at work:

This is what I would have looked like if I were an Asian guy in his twenties...

This is what I would have looked like if I were an Asian guy in his twenties who was a cartoon...

This is what I would have looked like if I were an Asian guy in his twenties with slow hands (that's me on the left in the red trunks)...

This is what I would have looked like if I were a nerdy white guy with glasses (uh, wait a sec)...

This is what I would have looked like if I were a nerdy white guy with glasses doing the trés passé Regis Philbin monochromatic thing while eating a pastry...

This is what I would have looked like if I were a nerdy white guy with glasses who also happened to be a washed-up college football coach...

This is what I would have looked like if I were the leader of the free world...or some dope who pronounces every word of the English language like he's saying it for the first time...

This is what I would have looked like if I were Little Lord Fauntleroy all grown up...

This is what I would have looked like if I were a crazed six year-old...

This is what I would have looked like if I were a portly character actor in a bad Zorro movie...

You get the idea.

Lately though, given a few months to think about this incredible event and all its staggeringly frightening and exciting possibilities, I feel more like this guy...

In other words, A-ok!

(Ed. note: The term "A-ok" may--in this instance--be a literary technique known as "foreshadowing." Stay tuned, dear reader...)

What do you want to be when you grow up?

2005-09-04T22:07:00.000-07:00

Labor Day 2005

Seems to me parents can get too caught up in what their children will become and lose sight of what they are. The old bromide is true, children are indeed the future, but they are also the present. I can honesty say that Miranda and I couldn't care less if the Beans are doctors or crane operators (there's a shortage of the latter and those guys now make six figures pretty easily...not that salary is often a true measure of a job's worth). What we do care about is that they grow up to be kind, thoughtful, curious men who spend as much time as they can with their children, if they chose to have them. The best way we know to encourage that is to show them the values that matter to us and make sure they know they are loved.

I am the first generation of my family who doesn't make something with his hands. My father graduated from Amherst College in 1956, was comissioned in the U.S. Navy, sailed the globe at the apogee of American power and prestige in the world, and came home to begin a career in broadcasting. Then his mom got sick, and he helped his father run the family's small paint wholesaling business. He never left.

For almost 35 years he was CEO, CFO, President, and Chairman. He put two kids through private middle school, high school, and college. He managed a small group of employees, paid the bills, made the sales calls, even helped pull the pallets off the trucks. But most magically, he matched hues by eye in great barrels of pigment and oil. His sense of color is amazing. Need the right paint for a swatch of fabric? He can look at it, burn it into some kind of remarkable optical memory he has, and match it spot on without keeping a sample. Nowadays you take it to Lowe's and a computer does it. It's okay, but it's not as close as Dad could get.

He also ran his business with kindness and respect for everyone he dealt with. Even if it hurt the bottom line. When a painter would get too deep in debt, Dad would consult with him and develop a barter plan whereby the man could work off what he owed by doing projects at the warehouse or our home. Employees and tradesmen would tell me repeatedly how my father was universally admired for his fairness and honesty.

Before my father were men who worked as grocers, farriers, grooms (something about the Irish and horses), firemen, and pressmen. All working with their hands. All making a physical difference in the world around them whether by hammering steel to hooves, pumping water on flames, or setting ink to newsprint. I would love if my sons followed in their footsteps. Ideally they would have a life of the mind and soul as vigorous as their life of physical labor; I think an ironworker who reads Merton or Nagarjuna might be the healthiest example of humanity ever.

Regardless of their professional choices, Miranda and I want the boys to be passionate about their work. To love what they do. To look at the paycheck as a bonus, not as a motivation. I think that he grew to love it, but my father chose his occupation out of a sense of duty and fidelity. Those are only two of the myriad traits that make him the best man I know. Ballet dancer or carpenter, lawyer or river guide, Miranda and I want every option open to our sons. We only ask that in making his choice, each one consider his vocation's potential contribution to society. Then each will have been true to his grandfather's sense of responsibility to family and fellow man.

Have a happy Labor Day, everyone. Stay safe.

PS: I know that you are keeping the victims of Katrina in your thoughts and prayers. If you can spare some, consensus seems to be that cash is what gives aid agencies the greatest flexibility.

PPS: It's very flattering that at least two--TWO! count 'em--people who are not related to me by blood or marriage asked when I would fire this thing back up again. (In related news, all my relatives asked me to stop.) Seems The Beans' and their saga took the summer off, kind of like your favorite bad old TV show (or your favorite good old TV show). Now that's not to say they weren't busy riding trains, and sticking peas in their ears, and falling off of furniture and stairs and swingsets, but more that their silly father was too busy laughing at them and hugging them to do much writing. Given that I find myself at the second bookend on the summer season--with work and school beckoning--it seemed right to get the 25% Lebanese nose to the baba ganoush. (Sorry. I don't know the Arabic for "grindstone.")

So return with me to those thrilling days of toddlerhood. And we will see what we will see, you and I...

All is well, safely rest, God is nigh...

2005-05-30T00:28:00.001-07:00

Memorial Day 2005

Today my family will make our customary pilgrimage across the Potomac to Arlington. The green lawns tumbling down from the old Lee mansion will be verdant, and the headstones will remain in ranks as sharp as those found on any parade ground. But this year again, there will be new scars in the earth, and mounds of fresh dirt, and the caissons of the Old Guard strangely absent, resting from their 25-funerals-per-day pace so as not to make someone's burial a photo op. for the tourists.

Regardless of your politics, a trip to this shrine reminds you of the cost we pay. Each of these boys is somebody's son, somebody's beloved. Most are young. They may have died heroically in the maw of battle. They may have died frightened and alone. They may have died by accident, at a moment they least expected it. Regardless, they are gone. Now laid to rest in the soil of a nation somewhat ambivalent about their sacrifice. They leave behind the tear-streaked faces of mothers, widows, and children. "For what?" many of us ask.

National Security? Freedom? Democracy? Perhaps they die in service to these great ideals. But the only thing that I can be sure of after reading all the interviews from the field, and the after-action reports, and listening to the countless radio and TV stories is this: Soldiers and sailors and airmen and Marines die for each other. That's it. That's all. That's more than enough. Anything "bigger" than that happens beyond them. Gets added by men in suits before or after the fact.

When bullets and bombs fly, the "cause" or the "mission" or the "electronic engineering training that will get me a good job" seems always to take a back seat to the welfare of their fellow grunt. To the "John" or "Jimmy" or "Junior" sitting next to them in the Bradley or the Stryker or the F-16. What matters are the people in it with them. They are their friend, their family, their beloved. It's in this way that the members of our country's military ALWAYS fight for America: They are a community of Americans willing to die for one another, fighting to get one another home safe.

You may not feel they should be there in the first place. You may not feel they are fighting for you or your protection. But even if this adventure has created more enemies than it has eliminated, even if Iraq goes further down the chute and we abandon it altogether, the sacrifice of these men and women will never have been in vain. For maybe they died trying to safeguard those of us back at home. Perhaps they died in service to a lofty abstraction. But sure as hell they died trying to save each other. Trying to get each other home in one piece. And greater love than that, no man hath...

things that are out of the ordinary

2005-05-29T14:46:00.000-07:00

Never known for being particularly, uh, sane, this is a recent photograph of Phil Spector at his trial for shooting some poor woman in his home. I think it's safe to say that the Wall of Sound has officially crumbled...

In terms of shocking print media, I read this the other day:

Flyger devoted himself to studying squirrels because, as he explains it, they weigh less than a deer and don't bite like a polar bear. He used to smear a tree behind his home with a mixture of peanut butter and Valium and then tattoo the squirrels that he found passed out below. The Washington Post 5/19/05 Page B1

Really, I don't think I can add much to that. Except to say that the boys and I are off to Costco for a 5 gal. pail of Skippy. Or perhaps--as a less chemically-dependent option--we may go this route. Oh, the choices!

no ice cream for you. ever.

2005-05-27T12:07:00.001-07:00

Well, as I've long suspected (not really), it turns out parents treat their children better if the little nippers are good looking. Due to the fact Miranda and I have a household of very short male models, I will not begin to question the methodology of this particular study which--near as I can figure--was conducted by a Canadian expert on shopping cart safety. Seriously.

On the subject of models, have you noticed that they often come from very plain looking parents? I once saw a picture of Cindy Crawford's folks, and they looked like close friends of Grant Wood. Shadrach, Mesach, and Abednego are similar: beautiful children from average parents. (Okay, Miranda is above average. Way above, IMHO.)

Today's gratuitous link is here. Be sure to check out the "North Korean/Fancy Feast" one too. Good fun, that.

PS: Mesach and Abednego have woken at night maybe three times combined since the 19th. Houston, we seem to have turned a corner.

with the dawn comes rejoicing

2005-05-19T06:39:00.001-07:00

For the first time EVER, Meshach and Abednego slept through the night last night. Both of them. All the way. Without a peep. At no time did an adult have to get up and go into their room.

Now while we realize that there will be backsliding, we recognize this for the monumental event that it is and hope that it is followed soon by many more just like it. (We realize it would then become increasingly less "monumental" but we're willing to let that part go.)

Here too is the latest dialogue after Shadrach had gotten out of bed.
(More evidence for paranormal abilities?)
S: You have an extra puff (comforter) on your floor.
Me: Thanks, honey. But why did you get up.
S: I saw this extra puff and wanted to tell you.

Hmmm....

Today's completely unrelated link contains some doozies. The grapefruit tree story--particularly the response of the Department of Ag. guy--is the one that made me laugh out loud.

any excuse at all OR this sheep never had a chance

2005-05-17T06:44:00.001-07:00

Shadrach inevitably gets up once or twice after being put to bed. He'll be all tucked in with the lights out, and Miranda and I will hear "pat-pat-pat" on the floor and out he comes. When asked why he's gotten up, the reasons are varied:

"When we went to Kurt's house today, he gave me a toy....What was it?"

"You forgot to spray perfume." Ed. note: See first entry.

"Can I go swing?" (Remember it's dark out.)

"This wasn't in my room." (Holding his hat which had been put on the banister AFTER he'd gone to sleep. Indicating that he'd developed his motivation on the way from his room to ours.)

"What are you watching on TV?"

"I had a bad dream." (After being in his bed for 3 minutes)

"I can't find Purple." (Missing one of the 37 stuffed cats on his bed, most of whom are named for their color.)

"I was thinking about Santa Claus." (In May)

"I was thinking about Bob (the Builder) and Thomas (the Tank Engine)." (Any time at all)

"I was thinking about the B&O." (Ditto)

"You forgot to brush my teeth."

"There's a pen on my floor."

I think we'll continue to keep a running list...

sure they're big, but my car was LOUDER...

2005-05-14T00:52:00.001-07:00

I have TONS of love for my mechanic. "Mechanic" doesn't do him justice, really. Master of All Things Automotive, perhaps? Oh, he's handy with a wrench and all, but he's also handy with a CNC lathe and an acetylene torch. Right on site he has the equipment to fabricate any part he needs.

You should see the headlight knob he made for my neighbor's '71 Volvo. It's a piece of industrial art.

He's actually a mechanical engineer who loves to race. A few years ago he opened a race works that preps cars for people FAR wealthier than I who desire to drive in circles very quickly. In his spare time he works on his own race cars and the vehicles of a few members of the general motoring public who happen across him by accident. Like I did.

A couple of years ago, I ordered some (4 exactly) semi-fancy tires on the Web and he was listed as the closest installer. It may have been the luckiest automotive moment of my life.

So a few days after I play bumpercars with the steel workers rep. (details to follow), I pull away from a light and suddenly the car loses power and sounds like a rocket-powered Spad. While the VERY realistic Eddie Rickenbacker effect is quite cool, I'm figuring it's potentially dangerous: The pipe has rotted clean through and I can hear it scraping along the road. I pull over and, wondrous day, it's broken just ahead of the resonator so the FRONT of the pipe is dragging. While I might consider driving with the trés chic trail-of-sparks look I'd get if it had broken in the back near the muffler, I'm not willing to try this. I figure if the pipe drops into a pothole at 55mph I could do some serious damage, perhaps including a nice vehicular Sergei Bubka imitation? This of course would lead to a multi-car pile up of the sort these guys dealt with on EVERY shift.

So I call the dealer who's right up the road from where I've broken down and the nice man tells me that from my description their only option would be replacing the whole pipe. For the reasonable sum of--DRAMATIC PAUSE--three hundred and forty dollars.

After a 3 minute crying jag, I call the insurance co. to learn that "free towing" actually means "We will tow your car to the nearest qualified repair shop which in an urban/suburban setting is probably within 5 miles, and in that case you could probably push it there faster than we could get to you. Anything beyond the 5 mile circle will cost $7-$12 per mile." Home--and my Wizard of Wheels--is at least 15 miles away. More crying ensues.

Then I call him. Señor Mechanical Genius. Mr. MacGyver of the Impact Wrench. (His name is John.) And I get his wife, Linda. Now before your gender roles run away with you, if John is the best mechanic in the world, Linda is the second best. She is always greasy to her elbows, wrenching away with her husband and the other guy who works for them. And she races. Basically if she were any better looking, my marriage might be in trouble.

After I explain the situation and the Scylla and Charybdis of getting robbed at the dealer after a free tow, or getting robbed on a long tow to her and John, she says--and I'm not making this up--"Have you got a wire coat hanger?" And I say, "Uh, yeah." because I have roughly 8,000 in the trunk waiting to be returned to the cleaners. And she says, "Pull the car's front wheels up on a curb, set the emergency brake, chock a back wheel, and lash the pipe to the undercarriage. That way you can limp home and skip the tow."

So perfect! So obvious! At this point I want to crawl through the phone and smother her with kisses. Instead--due to my relative shrimpy-ness which allows me to get sufficiently far under the car with all four wheels on terra firma (thank you very much)--I successfully avoid a headline like Father of Three Crushed by Civic and do just as she says. Minus the whole curb thing.

Ultimately I get it to their garage, John machines a hunk of pipe, welds it into the break and charges me $60 for an hour of labor and $12.50 in materials. Total savings: $267.50.

Tons of back-slapping man love.

Just tons.

it's alive! it's ALIVE!!

2005-05-12T23:07:00.002-07:00

Long live the blog! Between late nights at work--we have a HUGE deadline the first week in June--and taking over PM/early AM duty in an attempt to get Meshach and Abednego to sleep through the night (I have no breasts, you see.) my free time has evaporated. Rest assured though: I have been hoarding myself some stories. They will follow. And soon.

In the weeks that have passed, I've rear-ended a steelworkers union representative at a stop light, had the tail pipe fall off the car in a separate--but perhaps related--incident, and danced a jig or two over the holy tear the Sox are on, including two walk-off homers in a row. I've also learned some news of staggering magnitude which I will have to sit on for just a bit.

What a tease.

As a post without a link is like a pope without a mobile, here are three fairly funny high school kids doing an experiment we probably all should...

Broken link, but they were living in a box for a week. Really.

betcha can't name 'em...(betcha'd be embarrassed if you could)

2005-04-27T23:35:00.000-07:00

I am officially old. In 1986, as a freshman in college, I saw .38 Special and Bon Jovi live at the Spectrum in Philadelphia.

Take your time. I can wait for the laughter to die down. Do you need some water?

This was a MAJOR event, I'll have you know, and just about all of the 18,000+ seats were sold. Bon Jovi opened in a remarkably low-budget way, playing all the biggies from "Slippery When Wet" in front of a banner that looked like it had been made by Ritchie Sambora's mom. Then the real rockers took the stage and charged through "Hold on Loosely," "Caught up in You" and the rest of their southern-fried catalogue (Their front man is Lynyrd Syknyrd's brother, for Pete's sake!!). It was a show for the ages. Alas, two guys named Dylan and Petty edged them out for the coveted Most Creative Tour Package award that year. (What the hell is THAT?!)

Which leads me to why I am old: The woman who owned our house before us was an inveterate high roller. We get promos and offers addressed to her from every gambling concern within a 600 mile radius, and a new one came in today. Where are D. Van Zant and Co. playing next month?

The Atlantic City Hilton.

Oh, the abject horror.

imagine this made of mucus

2005-04-26T23:58:00.001-07:00

Well, we're running a ward around here. Meshach's nose is so full that he's blowing some serious booger bubbles, and Shadrach's complaining that his penis hurts. Of course, Abednego is smiling and cuddling with his "Lambie." Or is it "Lammie"?

I'm wondering how a three year-old boy gets a urinary tract infection? (our operating theory until we hear otherwise) I think holding your pee for great lengths of time can be a factor, as well as having a "helmet" still attached to the old Coronado. Shadrach is a roger on both of those, so we'll see what the doctor says when he calls tomorrow with the results of the urine culture.

Does urine have culture? Little droplets going to the opera, an experimental play, or a film with subtitles? That would be cute.

The only plumbers with cute butt cracks

2005-04-23T14:02:00.000-07:00

Meshach: Can you see the problem?

Abednego: Not yet. Although there's some pitting in the porcelain. They should use a non-abrasive cleanser.

M: A frequent problem. We see it a lot.

A: Yep.

M: Y'know, I've always thought that sitting on these things was pretty silly.

A: I agree. If folks would just go in their pants, we wouldn't be here up to our armpits.

M: Yeah. We could be enjoying our free time by pulling the paper off that roll on the other wall.

A: I dunno. I think that's related to this thing. If one weren't here, then the other might not be either.

M: Wow. Is that cause and effect?

A: Not sure. But I'm nearly positive that it was cause and effect when you threw the trashcan down the stairs and stuff went everywhere.

M: That was cool.

A: Word.

A: Okay, I'm going to reach a little further back...

M: Any luck?

A: No, still fishing. But I bet Dad will prove to be the culprit.

M: Seriously. He's disappeared in here for so long with the Sunday Times, I thought he'd fallen in.

A: What's the attraction? I don't get it.

M: Mom's theory is that it's a sanctuary. Or the only experience of giving birth men have.

A: Hmmm. Thought provoking.

M: Yeah. But why would you want your sanctuary to smell like the aftermath of a circus parade?

A: I couldn't begin to imagine.

A: I think I've got it. Just. A bit. Further.

S: What is it? What is it?

A: Well, Dad's off the hook.

S: Really? Show me.

A: It's a pacifier.

S: Oooh, bad news for our age group.

A: I think it was perfectly reasonable to think that this thing could swallow one. And be careful, don't close the lid on my head.

S: Roger. I'm gonna bring the tools back to the van.

A: Okay. I'll call the office for the address of our next job.

You're certainly coy, madam. However...

2005-04-22T06:34:00.000-07:00

I think that Abednego may be the most flirtatious child in the history of the universe (The MOFLIRTCHOU?). He actually tucks his chin down to one shoulder or the other, looks up at the victim, smiles, and bats his eyes. Basically, he looks exactly like Bambi's skunk friend, Flower.

This must be innate, as it is certainly not learned behavior. Miranda would not do it under any circumstances. (And while I do it quite often--especially when wearing rainbow ribbons into 7-Elevens--I never let my kids see me.) Needless to say, A. slays people with it--especially women: "Omigod, look at his eyes! He's so cute! What a sweet baby!" Etc. It's clearly more potent than either "Blue Steel" or "Magnum," and if he ever figures out what a slam dunk he has working, we'll probably still be seeing this move in middle school and beyond.

His twin's reign as The MOFLIRTCHOU has not deterred Meshach, however, who recently established the family highwater mark for getting folks to fawn despite long odds. Yesterday he got two young women to turn cartwheels over him despite having just barfed all over his shirt. Evidently looking like a shrunken Paul Newman does have its advantages. Even an airsick shrunken Paul Newman seems to have a certain caché.

why is this man smiling?

2005-04-21T06:17:00.001-07:00

I am a gardener by association. My wife comes from a very serious family of diggers in the dirt and makes Roger Swain (pictured above) look like a slacker. (She would also make Roger look pretty darn good just by standing next to him. Then again, so would Marty Feldman.) She knows her Latin plant names, hardiness zones, and soil pHs. I on the other hand do the unskilled manual labor. As in, "Honey, take a pitchfork and turn that peat moss and mulch into the soil."

As an aside, Marty got me to thinking. I would love to have inherited the money of the person who invented those little peepers you glue on sock puppets. That way when someone asked me how I became so fabulously rich I could say that I was heir to the googley eye fortune.

I began my career in gardening the way many 18th century British men began their careers in sailing. My folks would need the yard mowed, raked, weeded, etc. and I would help or--as I got older--do it myself. It was always something undertaken with a chore mentality, like taking out the garbage or vacuuming. I was too immature to experience the Franciscan gardener's high that the serious speak of. These days, I'm getting closer.

Miranda has taken a different approach with Shadrach. She had him planting and tending crops and flowers as soon as he could do it. Now he has his own little set of tools from Target with ladybugs on them and his own 4x4 grow bed with tomatoes, peas, carrots, radishes and zucchini in it. His idea of a great time is going out to "work in the yard." This is genius, as I figure he'll want to mow the lawn when the time comes...

Thanks to Colleen for the signed pic of Roger. Careful at this site; times are so tough that her homepage crashed two different browsers of mine.

dark secrets of the reptilian brain

2005-04-15T11:47:00.001-07:00

I have a confession to make. I am a fan of Mixed Martial Arts.

This is the cozy little discipline where two combatants enter a boxing ring or chain-link octagon and fight using any method. They are not allowed to gouge eyes or hit each other in the dainties. Other than that, anything goes. Currently two events dominate on the world scene: Pride from Japan and the UFC in the States.

My interest in all this troubles me. I have been a wrestler since middle school and a boxing fan since Marvelous Marvin Hagler of Brockton, Mass. so combat sports have always been attractive. But what is it about MMA specifically, which can be so brutal that I choose to turn away? I think part of it is because these guys are pretty much the baddest asses on the planet. Don't get me wrong, I am a BIG fan of the planet's goodest asses: the Buddha, Ghandi, Mother Teresa, etc. But if you are the best at anything--even if it isn't one of humanity's nobler traits--I am impressed by the willpower and sacrifice that got you there. Granted, I agree that the effort of these men may have been better spent in another direction, but I am still amazed that they choose to do something that most of us would avoid like a cutworm Slurpee. Is it courage? Stupidity? Both? Whatever it is, it was old a thousand centuries before the gladiators.

Pride is dominated by this man. Wanderlei da Silva of Brazil.

It may be scar tissue, but I really think he looks different from a typical male of the species (the species being Homo Sapiens). Seriously though--and putting the ridiculous shape he's in aside--he seems to be just a rung or two earlier on the evolutionary scale. Look at the brow and the wideness of the face. Does this account for his success? I dunno, but I find him fascinating. I feel very confident that if you put Tyson--at the peak of his powers--in the ring with The Axe Murderer (Silva's subtle nickname) fighting under Pride rules, Iron Mike would be crushed like an empty Mr. Pibb can.

My co-worker pal, Harry, and I have been making it down to the basement after all. (It's been great, but I can't lift my arms over my head anymore.) We coach wrestling together, so much of our workouts has been rolling around on the mats, experimenting with moves. Harry weighs 180; I weigh 160. Harry has a grip like an anaconda; I have a grip like a geisha. Harry could probably bench press a VW Bug; I could probably bench press Shadrach's Cozy Coupe. You get the idea.

After rolling full-speed with Harry for 12 minutes or so, I feel like vomiting for the next three or four days. Still, Harry is not hitting me in the head. As hard as he can. With his knees. So I know that what these MMA fighters are enduring is far beyond what I can. And for that I admire them. Now if they went and fed the hungry between bouts, I'd admire them a lot more...

Thanks to the good folks here for the image.

a momentary lapse

2005-04-14T10:36:00.001-07:00

So, Miranda's folks have been here for a few days. Contrary to stereotype, this is actually a good thing in my book. I remember hearing somewhere that when you get serious about marrying someone you need to remember that you marry his or her parents too. In my case, I lucked out. What's the worst thing I can say about them? I guess that my father-in-law sounds a lot like Foghorn Leghorn. (By the way, who knew that F.L. hit Mardi Gras? Actually, it does make perfect sense given the whole "Lovelorn Leghorn" thing. I bet he's a big tipper in the nudie bars.)

The only drawback to their visit is that the guestroom has the computer in it. Ergo my early-morning posting has taken a hit for the last few days. Still I thought that preferable to strolling in at 5am, crawling over my niece sleeping on the floor, and plopping myself down at the keyboard. "Morning, everybody! Gee, why do you all look so angry?"

They came to celebrate Meshach and Abednego's first birthday. It was a great time, although I'm not sure the guests of honor quite knew what was going on. Shadrach did however, and he did an amazing job of big brothering (and not in the Orwellian sense, either).

Meshach's testing has all been normal. His level of ALP went down a ton in the second test. Basically he is very little; I guess the Future Jockeys of America have to come from somewhere?

Last little tidbit: Boy, did I take one for the Pink Team this morning. It's Gay Pride Week at work, so we've all been wearing little rainbow ribbons. I slapped mine on and headed to 7-Eleven to pick up doughnuts for our staff breakfast. Now in case it's escaped you, people who wear little rainbow ribbons do not go to 7-Eleven; they go to Starbucks. (That is if they don't have a $500 espresso maker sitting on their kitchen counter.) This realization did not strike me until I pulled into the lot filled with tradesmen's vans and landscapers' pick-up trucks. I thought about taking my little rainbow ribbon (LRR) off but--thinking of my oldest friend in town and my boss, both of whom are "on the bus" and both of whom I admire and love--I decided against it. So I climbed out of my Honda Civic with the John Kerry bumpersticker on it in my pressed chinos, button-down Oxford, and--wait for it--FISHERMAN'S SANDALS!! and headed into the store past the men with shaved heads smoking outside. I don't think I've ever tried harder to walk like John Wayne in my life...

I'm still not half as tired as she is.

2005-04-08T02:58:00.000-07:00

It's pretty much the middle of the night, and I've just finished some work for a big deadline at the office...wheee. However, I am happy to report that since I began sitting on my duff and pushing papers around, Miranda has only had to make the trek to the babies' room once!

They're typically up at dawn, but if everybody under the age of one makes like the first two lines of Jerry's barnyard chicken song (and certainly not like that off-color part about the hens) my dear wife may get more than 5 continuous hours of sleep for the first time in a year!

Dandy.

I've jinxed it.

Someone is screaming, and I am clearly wearing an asshat. Turns out sleeping babies are like no hitters; it's just best not to mention them. Given that I've created this situation, I'd better go see if I can help.

Son: Daddy, talk in Elmer voice.
Daddy (singing): I'm a wittle wed wooster..."

HRH has temporarily abdicated the throne.

2005-04-07T05:16:00.000-07:00

Well, we've had a little backsliding in the use of the toilet. Miranda and I remain potty trained, but Shadrach has had four accidents this week after going three months without one. In all cases he's been very focused on doing something else and he tells us it just "snuck up on him." (Nothing worse than a stealth grogan, eh?) The poor little thing gets very upset, like he really feels he's let the team down. So you comfort him, peel off his wet pants, and there's the bomb--trapped in the tighty whities--looking like a horrible coccyx injury or the tail of a Sleestack. After he's calmed down, you take the sullied drawers to the utility sink in the basement and it's there the epiphany comes: You can count the number of people you truly love by asking yourself whose shite you'd clean up.

Sweet Mary, how I loved Land of the Lost...

speaking in tongues

2005-04-06T06:31:00.001-07:00

Shadrach likes me to be many different people: "Daddy, talk in Thomas voice. Daddy, talk in Bob voice. Daddy, talk in Kanga and Roo voice. Daddy, talk in Bert voice." You get the idea.

Ever notice how every significant children's character originated in England? Basically, when carrying on conversations with my eldest, I find myself frequently sounding like a Vinnie Jones character or a drag queen doing Margaret Thatcher. Will this have a lasting effect on my son? Only time will tell...

As an extra bonus here's a nice shot of Vinnie in his pre-cinema career, playing a tender little game of Five on Two with Gazza. What a sportsman!

a tightening of my overalls

2005-04-04T14:06:00.001-07:00

I am in an odd position: I have time either to exercise or to write about exercising, not both. I've got the next 30 minutes free. I can either go down into the bowels of the building and hit the weight pile/bang out a few crunches, or sit here and type on the subject. Given the legions of TBS readers--I'm imagining there are tens of thousands, but can't tell as my counter is broken (see bottom of page)--and my general lassitude (an amalgam of the words "lazy," "ass," and "dude"), it's an easy call to make.

Contrary to what this blog may lead you to believe, my diet does not consist solely of beer and ice cream. (I choke down an occasional Ho-Ho too.) Miranda and I make an effort to eat well, it's just that after a lifetime of competitive sports and coaching, the calories aren't being burned like they once were. This is compounded by two small people--and one slightly larger person--who have about as much interest in riding a jogging stroller around as they do in reading Turgenev...without translation.

Regardless, my wife has given me a great deal of incentive to solve this problem somehow: she has refused to purchase any size 36 pants. Given that I wear 34 now, and some pairs are getting snug, I have no choice. It's either exercise, or go to work with the tackle on display...not an acceptable option. (Except perhaps on casual Friday?)

Another father of young children was in my office today explaining how he used to condemn parents who claimed they had no time to lift or go for a run. Now he understands all too well. Alas, so do I. So we made a pact. ~~We will steal time from our employer.~~ We will use our downtime wisely in an effort to become healthy, and therefore more productive, workers by heading together--ah, positive social pressure--to the dungeon of sweat. Everyday. At 2pm.

Why am I not there now? He called and said he had work to do.

This is shaping up nicely, eh?

A note about the photo: This is Robert Earl Hughes whom I remember vividly from the Guinness Book when I was a kid. The thing that sticks most in my mind is that his entry said he was buried in a coffin the size of a piano case. Who in the heck knew pianos had cases?!

Per misericordiam Dei requiescat in pace.

2005-04-03T09:19:00.000-07:00

Well, it was either this or a post on Frank Perdue, and after a few hours of quiet reflection I concluded that the Holy Father just inched out Chicken Man in terms of legacy.

On the subject of Karol W., it seems to me that whatever you think of his stance on social issues, he was a giant of a man. Nobody needed to fall all over themselves being his apologist or hagiographer--his life speaks for itself--but George Weigel did a good job of both anyway. Calling himself an "unabashed admirer," he decided to pen a terse little number (1056 pages) on the Wadowice boy made good. It's an amazing yarn.

JPII was the perfect guy at the perfect time, who by the force of prayer and moral certainty moved the Cold War world away from communism and its caging of human freedoms. Now indeed we will cross the threshold of hope waiting to see if the first new pope of the new century can reign in the excesses of globalism/capitalism. That may prove to be an even tougher challenge.

Things I am a fool for:

2005-04-01T21:25:00.000-08:00

my wife in jeans and a t-shirt

my children bareass

uh...the converse of the above

rereading any favorite book (not just this one)

stumbling my way closer to God

Fudge Central

flying kites

dinner with friends

hard manual labor

toy trains

sleeping outside the tent (cloudless night ideally)

The Boston Red Sox

driving alone with the windows down and the radio up (good weather helps here too)

buying flowers on the way home

motorcycles

beer I can't see through

the dark before dawn

singing in a group

going to the local pastry shop early on Saturday for donuts

counting the ridiculous number of blessings in my life

Lord, open my lips...

2005-03-31T21:45:00.001-08:00

This guy has a good gig: A little prayer. A little check to make sure everything in the copper kettle is copacetic. A few more psalms. A little more bottom-fermented-9%-by-volume ambrosia. You get the idea. Would the solitude, silence, and lack of someone to spoon with really be so bad? Hey, you make your trades.

My time with the monks was excellent as always. The ones I hang with make fruitcakes, fudge, and cheese--alas, no beer--but they're still good guys. Their schedule mines an incredible amount of time out of a single day. Having no TV will do that (and the getting up at 3:00am contributes too).

Miranda had a great time with her mom, dad, and niece. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were in heaven in the 70 degree sunshine.

Since I posted last, Meshach had a little medical scare. He is fairly tiny (3rd percentile) so they did some bloodwork to see if anything is retarding his growth. They found that he had elevated levels of an enzyme which on the one hand can be nothing and on the other can be bone cancer or leukemia. After about a week of worry, it looks like things are trending toward "nothing" (or at least nothing terrible). I feel that after about ten minutes with him you can tell he's not seriously ill, but then again my MD/PhD hasn't come in from the diploma mill yet.

Good to be back. Love to all.

Safe and sound, and bye for a while

2005-03-20T14:36:00.001-08:00

We made it in eight hours. The kids were good as gold.

We had about 50 miles of Meshach complaining. Not hollering, just swearing a lot. Maybe he wanted a beer.

It would have been seven hours had Dad not forgot his @&*%$ wallet (+30 minutes) and decided that a new ring road looked like it might be a shortcut (+30 minutes). In this case I ignored the first rule of shortcuts: A shortcut that you don't KNOW is a shortcut rarely is. And one of its corollaries: When you are in a hurry, the shortcut you don't know is a shortcut NEVER is.

While motoring down the highway, we saw a truck belonging to the A. Duie Pyle Company. No kiddin'. Would you entrust a sensitive shipment to a truck with "Lump of Poop Transit" written on the side?

In other news, last Christmas Miranda gave me a retreat. That's right. Three kids to take care of and she decides she can send the hubby off to indulge his desire to sit in the dark and concentrate on his breathing. My guilt is heavy, my love for her immense. She's told me that it makes her angry that I would think about not going, that she's here with her mom and dad and niece and everything will be fine. What did I do to deserve her?

So I'm off for a week with the monks. Will post when I return.

Oh, and the confirmation # on my boarding pass? "GROIIN"

Nice, really nice.

400 miles of paradise

2005-03-19T08:10:00.001-08:00

After about six months spent packing (Normandy was invaded with less preparation), the Beans, Miranda and I will saddle up the minivan and drive to grandmother's house today. Grandmother doesn't live in the Yukon Territory, but sometimes it feels like it.

This particular journey has taken us nine (9!!) hours on more than one occasion. That's an average speed of...wait for it...44 miles per hour. I think there are ride-on mowers that top out higher than that. In fact, these gals passed us one time. They were very friendly, waving and smiling as they made us eat dust.

Of course our crusing speed is not much slower than the rest of the jolly motorists. What kills our average is. All. The. Stopping. Our tiny people do not sit in their tiny chairs long before they feel the need to exercise their tiny lungs. As luck would have it, Meshach and Abednego both go to eleven. Ergo Dad does too...on the speedometer.

Say a little prayer, won't you?

Whan that Apprill with his shoures soote/The droughte of Marche hathe perced to the roote...

2005-03-18T23:26:00.000-08:00

I've got to call the fence guy. (Maybe Chaucer makes him laugh too...)

Spring is coming and that means the Troika will be heading outdoors. We need a way to contain them, and the shock collar/buried wire approach has always seemed cruel to me.

We don't need much fence. This is a good thing given that we'd have to sell the house to afford more than 30 feet. That would create an awkward situation in which the new owners would have a family of five (mine) living in their side yard: "Dammit, we own the fence holding up this tarp and we're not leaving!" As it turns out, the job will take 28. Color me relieved.

Funny as it would be, we don't have a 7' x 7' yard. We just need two 14' sections to go from exterior walls to existing chain link. This is a second good thing (Am I becoming Martha Stewart? Who let these chows in here?!) as enclosing the back yard would be, as they say, "prohibitively expensive." Or, as I'd say, "an effing rip off."

I'd always cavalierly assumed that wooden fencing was made out of, you know, wood. As it turns out each picket actually has a core of solid platinum onto which a veneer is glued. Once you understand this, $647, 283 to enclose your backyard starts to seem like you're handing the fence guy the poopy end of the stick instead of the other way 'round.

Think of it. You get a perimeter AND a liquid asset. When the kids no longer need to be caged, you can dig it up, chip off the thin layer of cedar, and finance their college educations.

Dandy, eh?

Drat!

2005-03-18T05:56:00.000-08:00

Today's post is written...in a notebook...at work. It'll be up today. (By that I mean before midnight. I need every minute, people.)

My notebook does not have the very neato image of a Hopi shaman (I think) pictured above. I wish it did.

If you look quickly at the headdress it appears to read, "Aaaaarrrrggghhh." That too would be appropriate and desirable this morning...

Things I think of today:

2005-03-17T05:05:00.001-08:00

a slave shepherd who made it a point to pray one hundred times a day

The Pogues (especially Shane McGowan...mostly because he's so handsome and has such a healthy lifestyle. I really can't believe he's still alive. He makes Steven Tyler and Joe Perry look like John Tesh and Yanni. Perhaps because of this, his bands always, er, rock.)

my year in Ulster (which as a region kicks Provence's snooty French backside)

slow-poured draught stouts, preferably Murphy's or Beamish

The Saw Doctors

laughing through the night at various Belfast bars including the Bot, the Egg, Lavery's, and St. Galls (Andytown, represent!) and coming home smelling like I'd cleaned the smokestacks at a coal-fired electricity plant

Yeats

House of Pain/Everlast

shit-smeared cells in the Maze, then the death of Bobby Sands and the other nine who followed him

William Trevor

Cromwell, famine, and other sources of misery

faith and hope despite it all

scrambling the last few yards to the top of Slieve League, one thousand two hundred feet above the sea

surfing off Portrush in a farmer john...in October. (what an ass)

Dropkick Murphys

absolutely anywhere in Donegal

my spotter--and dear buddy--Gareth sweating liquor fumes in the ill-ventilated weight room of the Queen's University Physical Education Centre (not "Center")

Flogging Molly

my honeymoon (3 weeks of driving around the island with my favorite person in the world and without a plan of any sort)

unknown ancestors living by Bantry Bay upon whose existence mine depends

my three beautiful sons, another generation of Corkmen (though well diluted) who find themselves by God's grace in the Land of Opportunity

Happy Saint Patrick's Day.

This is what I wear to wash the third one.

2005-03-16T06:13:00.001-08:00

Abednego is a splasher. This kid gets in the bath and, prone or seated, does not stop flapping body parts until we take him out. I feel pretty certain that there is less water in the air at Versailles than when he's in the tub.

And happy? He spends his life in a twinkly impish perma-grin. Sort of like a tiny male Ms. America contestant who knows a funny secret. Or a Keebler elf who's been tickled a lot.

We like him a bunch.

A few thoughts about my wife

2005-03-15T22:18:00.001-08:00

No. This is not my wife. In fact this is probably not a real woman at all. This is Brazilian supermodel Gisele Bündchen--a favorite of the Surviving Grady crew (scroll down to third post)--who most thinking people believe was engineered inside a 55 gallon Lucite drum by Nazi scientists who fled to South America after the war. Evidently some crack Waffen SS mountain troops scaled Olympus and got a cheek swab from Athena while she was napping. The Kraut witchdoctors later used that DNA for their little Zeus-playing experiment. My point? Tom Terrific can have her. (And before him, Leo DiCaprio, Josh Hartnett, etc., etc.) I've got my own goddess, thank you very much.

(As to what this particular designer was thinking, we'll never know; the fashion house he was working for had him trampled to death by elephants. Thankfully that ugly episode did not occur before he committed this little number to his sketch pad.)

My wife, Miranda, (which comes from the Latin for "admirable" or "wonderous") stays at home with our three year-old and our one year-old twins. That's right, initially they were a two year-old and twin newborns. She did/does this BY HERSELF.

(The help? A few visits from mom and mom-in-law, and super supportive neighbors and friends like JJ, Mark and Maribeth, and Barry and Kathleen. We love you guys.)

I consider this accomplishment magic. Divine really. Through it all, she has had only one or two bouts with insanity and our sons are happy, healthy, wonderful kids. As an aside, consider if the roles were reversed: I, and most men I know, MIGHT have been able to adapt and survive, but chances are much better that I'd be down in the basement, curled in a fetal position around the overflowing catbox, mumbling incoherently about laundry. Meanwhile, my sons would be out stealing cars.

Could Gisele do what Miranda has done? Maybe. But until she does, she's just another pretty face (uh, okay...other parts of her are pretty too) who gets paid to do her little turn on the catwalk.

My wife, on the other hand, works for a living. She is busy being the rock on which this family is built.

President Walsh, we have a problem...

2005-03-14T23:06:00.005-08:00

Given Meshach's drinking, it's a good thing he's, uh, male. His paternal grandmother is an alumna of that crazyarse party school, Wellesley College. (I think things are different there now: Her entire class wore matching pearls in their senior photos, and she graduated as a sober heterosexual.) This makes him a "legacy" to the admissions committee, but even if we put the all-women thing aside, I'm guessing it wouldn't be a good environment for him. What with the boozing your way into the ER and the Saran Wrap...

Note to self: Black tie event next month. Search Froogle for "tuxedo thong."

Text of original article follows (dead link):

The Boston Herald

March 7, 2005 Monday
ALL EDITIONS

TOO WILD AT WELLESLEY;
Hard-partying students go to hospital instead of ball

BYLINE: By LAURA CRIMALDI

SECTION: NEWS; Pg. 003

LENGTH: 401 words

A ``creative black tie'' evening at the annual Dyke Ball at Wellesley College ended in the emergency room or infirmary for 11 party girls who drank the night away Saturday before the school-sanctioned celebration sponsored by a lesbian, bisexual and transgender group, school officials and students said.

This is the second time in two years that preball boozing has marred the wildly popular tradition at the women's college where revelers don anything from shorts and ribbed tank tops to Saran Wrap, corsets and, for the men, drag-queen costumes and tuxedo thongs. Alcohol is not served at the party.

The 11 students, some of them underage, were taken from dormitories and the party site at the Keohane Sports Center Field House to the school infirmary and several area hospitals for treatment of alcohol intoxication, said college spokeswoman Mary Ann Hill. It's too early to tell if the tradition, which attracted 2,000 students, could be called off next year, but Hill said ``all options'' are on the table.

``While the party was not out of control, some people's drinking was out of control,'' said Hill. All the students are expected to recover and will appear before the college's alcohol hearing board.

``It's just about doing what you feel like doing, but because people party beforehand, it gets a little risque,'' said a Wellesley senior who attended the party, but refused to give her name.

Under the ``creative black tie'' rules, baseball caps, khakis, jeans and polo shirts are off limits and drag dress is encouraged for the men, students said. Cellphones and cameras also aren't allowed.

``They don't want pictures because there are scantily clad people,'' said junior Liz Abbey.

College officials tried to quell preball boozing by delivering pizza and hot chocolate to dorms and pushing an alcohol-awareness campaign that began after last year's party, when about a dozen students were rushed to area hospitals after heavy drinking.

Students said the school follows a ``better safe than sorry'' policy when it comes to alcohol intoxication.

``They have a policy of taking someone to the hopital if someone is (vomiting),'' said Wellesley freshman Elizabeth Harrell.

Officials of Spectrum, the Wellesley lesbian, bisexual and transgender group sponsoring the party, could not be reached for comment yesterday.

``People who drink are people who drink. There's no correlation with the group,'' Hill said.

There's Thomas and then there's CSX.

2005-03-13T10:30:00.001-08:00

My three year old, Shadrach, loves trains. Actually that's an understatement. He is crazy bonkers nutso about trains. zany loopy cuckoo about trains. He shares this obsession with his pal Sean who is the son of Barry who is the drinking buddy of Mesach. (Oh, the tangled webs we weave...) Both of them would sell their families to Sudanese slave traders for a ticket to the Island of Sodor.

For something even better than the basement train table covered with The Number One Blue Engine and his cronies, Shadrach and I go trainspotting pretty regularly. Until his fascination began about 18 months ago, I associated the term with desperate Scottish junkies fishing around in latrines. The real thing--usually called "railfanning" in the States--involves much less fecal coliform on your shirtsleeves. It's essentially hanging around the tracks doing something pre-schoolers like to do (running, jumping, establishing their independence by telling you not to be their Daddy anymore) until you hear the lonesome wail of the diesel in the distance. Then the anticipation peaks as you wait for 10,000 plus horsepower worth of locomotives and umpteen bazillion tons of rolling stock to come sweeping around the bend. Pretty heady stuff actually. Check it out sometime. Just be smart about it; if you get in the way of a freight train, they won't be able to slow it down much until the next zip code.

my son, Dionysus

2005-03-12T23:49:00.000-08:00

So we went to friends' for dinner last night. Our pals Barry and Kathleen have a son Sean--just a bit younger than Shadrach--and another on the way. I was on the floor reading to Sean when I heard Meshach coughing behind me. Given that he and his twin will turn one next month, I turned around expecting to see him hacking on a Fisher Price person or hunk of Brio track. Instead he was holding a glass of cabernet Barry had left momentarily unguarded. He had a mouthful and had slopped the rest across the lower half of his face, down his PJs, and into a significant crimson puddle on the floor. Glad that he was celebrating his Irish heritage six days early, but more than a little concerned for his brain cells, I hollered to my wife, Miranda. We scooped him up and she slapped him on a breast in an attempt to dilute the wine. Realizing that mom was not dispensing the good stuff and not wanting the bacchanal to end, he popped himself off and began to look for his stemware.

I'm starting to think this guy could be trouble...

"Goes far beyond the role of perfume."

2005-03-11T13:26:00.000-08:00

I would just like to point out that the above is a direct quotation from the Clinique website. I have no idea what it means, but it does lend credence to the "anti-monster spray" theory...

And what the HECK is "Ylang Ylang"? Do they put pandas in this stuff?!

Well, well, well

2005-03-10T22:35:00.000-08:00

I have a blog. What a flipping follower, eh? It's a curious thing this; seems that everyone is doing it. And I might add, monopolizing the first three domains I picked. The kicker was that NONE was active; each site had about two posts...both from 2001. One by a college kid who managed to fall in and out of lust with some guy in three days; one by someone writing in that dopey vanity plate/email language, which evidence suggests was invented by Prince (i wd di 4u); and the last in Japanese. That one was harder to read, but I think it had something to do with slipping into Shintoism's answer to a bowling shirt and riding giant logs down hills...either that or the guy was really into Mothra.

I got so desperate that I actually tried to use thisURLisnotavailable.blogspot.com--or whatever the default "you're out of luck" copy I kept getting was--and THAT was taken! Not even into the "blogosphere" (gag) yet and I was already talking to myself about climbing a water tower with a deer rifle.

Anyway, it turns out my eldest son who is three and named Shadrach--at least on the Web--is sometimes afraid of the dark at bedtime. A friend of my wife's suggested that we use perfume as "monster/ghost/things-that-go-bump repellent" and spritz it around his room. Evidently our pal read about this in a parenting book where the author swore by it. I too am now swearing by it, but for different reasons.

I have learned that in the pitch black it's quite difficult to see which way the tiny hole in the perfume bottle pump is pointing. And while a hint of this particular scent smells sublime and alluring on my wife, a full blast of the stuff has me smelling like I work in a cathouse on a Marseille dock. Why can't he just go to bed easily like his 11 month-old twin brothers, Meshach and Abednego?

Speaking of going to bed, I probably should. I can already see this little project turning into the most God-awful time sink on the face of the planet. Maybe I'll abandon it after two posts...

Sayonara.