Using Your Best Deductive Reasoning Capabilities...

Please Explain...

Suddenly, Feeling Better About the Whole Thing

The Palin "bounce" (so to speak) appears to have crested. Everybody who would or could ever support her did, for a couple of days.

The magic is wearing off.

People (enough people) are coming to their senses, as reality sets in.

She's beginning to embarass herself, and the McCain candidacy.

Even those who question Barack Obama's experience take him seriously; and in that regard, there is no comparison between the two of them.

McCain bet the house. Much like Kirk in The Galileo 7, he burned the rest of his rocket fuel to create a solar flare in hopes of getting noticed. He did, but now the orbit is beginning to decay.

Until the Palin selection and the Republican National Convention, I could still defend him somewhat, on some level. But no more. Oh, no more.

(McCain tangent)
Running an ad accusing Obama of teaching sex ed to Kindergarteners because he supported a bill to teach kindergarteners about inappropriate touching? You fuck. You fucking fuck. So - to be clear - the Republican Party is now the pro-molesting kids party. I mean, officially.

He has, in fact, NO HONOR. It has gone the way of his shame.

(back to Palin)
She scared the hell out of me; I'll admit it. But no more. Seven more weeks is a long time for her to avoid interviews and for not one of these percolating scandals and/or beyond-the-pales to catch fire.

Bill Clinton was right. Obama is about to take this fucker to the house.

Then, she will be a supremely confident, yet intellectually incurious, evangelical supermodel footnote in history.

Good fucking riddance, you awful, awful thing.

100

From your whole life, from all you've ever done, felt or thought...what is the one thing you treasure most? Imagine that you must choose one single memory from your life - everything else will be erased forever. That choosing this memory is your only way of passing through to eternity. That you have one hour to choose. Choose now.

October 3-18

I Shit You Not

One of Rose's first three-word combinations. She unveiled it last night, when being served tempe stir fry for supper:

Want...Pizza...Much


That's my girl!!!!

I Don't Get It

I’ve tried – REALLY TRIED – to be congnizant of those moments in which I am trending towards demagogary (sp?) or “hearing what I want to hear.” I try to think of the freest, most pure “Republican” there might conceivably be. One who is not evil, but truly believes in economic theory behind smaller government. Maybe even one who - for reasons beyond their own control - has views on some social issues that are different than mine. But when I get to that place, I don’t see how this mythical person can buy into all the anti-intellectualism and mean-spirited, chest-thumping jingoisnm.

The hipocrisy of the last two nights of the Republican National Convention has been incredible. Running on a message of "shaking up Washington" not one speaker has offered up anything that strays from the Bush administration's policies of the past eight years. Surely, any swing voters watching would see this, right? I'm not sure I can trust in much of anything, with respect to how "the average American sees things." Strange days, indeed.

Big Girl

Today is Lucy's first day of Kindergarten. It's not as monumental an occasion for her (from her perspective) as is probably is for most kids in her shoes, as she will be returning to the same school, in the same classroom, and with a lot of her old friends. In Montessori, children 3-6 (e.g. through their Kindergarten year) attend "Children's House" classes in the same classroom. The main difference for Lucy will be that she is attending all-day; and in a new building, since her private preschool achieved charter school status this year and relocated to a new, bigger building.

Nevertheless, she will be forging ahead into more advanced skillsets and subjects of interest, and entering that world in which she is held accountable by the educational system.

It will be a little hard for Sharon, who has spent the last number of years with a certain portion of each day, or each week, with a little creature in whom the bright flame of childhood imagination, industry, and inquisitiveness burns hot. Their times together were usually good, sometimes bad, but ultimately precious and irretrievable.

And hard, too, for little Rose, who is losing a constant companion she worships. She has a big, loving sister sister and follows her lead in almost all instances. At the risk of sounding melodramatic while paraphrasing Sam from Lord of the Rings, Lucy is going where she can't follow. For another year, anyway.

As for me, I am celebrating the 15th annual "I Don't Have to Go to School" Day.

Skin-Deep

Akin to how the GOP seems to run campaigns (and govern) on the premise that people just aren't paying all that much attention, they seem to think that people are willing to vote for a person based on a very superficial quality (be that race or gender) unrelated to policy that matters in their constituents' lives. This reminds me, by the way, of the line from U2's "The Fly" (It's no secret that a liar won't believe anyone else).

Anyway, This is a quick post, so I don't enter very many instances as evidence, other than what we can witness from the last two campaigns against Barack Obama.

In 2004, there was Alan Keyes.

And now, Sarah Palin.

Five-Star Book: Tale of Two Cities

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Great, great, and great. For me, reading this book by choice and at my leisure was almost some sort of repentance for having watched a "Tale of Two Cities" cartoon in high school, rather than read it as assigned.



If there is any criticism of this book (as I'm sure there is), it would be a criticism that could be levied at most Dickens works; that many of his heroes are two virtuous and pure, and villains too treacherous. That said, Dickens masterfully uses the backdrop of the French Revolution to shift readers' sympathies from one side to the other over the course of the book; making a statement about perspective and shades of grey in any seemingly cut and dry political/historical event. In doing this, he does manage to add a layer of depth to many of the characters that start out somewhat caricaturish; and along the way, the development of the enigmatic Sidney Carton becomes quite compelling/



On top this profoundly historic setting - the real treat for me was to enjoy Dickens characteristic wry humor and skewering of the foibles of the human condition; in particular, mob mentality. Word by word, line by line, as I made my way through this book, I became more and more spellbound. I was in the hands of a master.


View all my reviews.

Saying What Really Needs to Be Said, Here.

How about the whole Hillary Clinton & her ridiculous delegates & supporters? All along, I’ve been thinking, c’mon this is a media-driven much-to-do-about-nothing. But now, as the convention is nigh, polls are still suggesting the Hillary Clinton supporters are not on board. What is the deal with that? I mean, I know what the deal is. But these people, if they’re considering voting for McCain, are zealots in the worst sense of the word.

Now - before any Hillary Haters decide to jump in a pile on and find some sort of kindred discussion, take a breath. Let me be very clear: this is not about Hillary at all. This is about those folks that can't get over it.

All along, I’ve always said that people who are opposed to Hillary Clinton tend to oppose her in a very rabid, irrational way that, really, defies logic. And I’ve generally defended her along those lines. But I’m finally going use that same descriptor about her supporters. Those people really, really think that this was our one chance to get a woman in the White House. Or that her experience so uniquely qualifies her for the presidency. Or that Barack Obama ran such an unbelievably dirty campaign. So much so that they’re willing to vote to continue policies of war, appoint Supreme Court justices to overturn Roe vs. Wade, extend Bush tax cuts, etc. etc. etc. Bascially, flush down the toilet everything that Hillary Clinton ostensibly stands for stands for in what is probably the most defining presidential election of our times, to make a point. Are they really that detached from reality? Is the world really no larger than their own hurt feelings? This is why Republicans call Democrats angry, whiners, and "victims." Your candidate didn't win. Pick yourself up off the matt and do what you can do to make this country better, for the sake of children in poverty, a groaning natural world, and huge, suffering continents; for God's sake don't put a Republican back in the White House.

My God. I mean, really.

My Dad: 1952

Another in the series of tribute pictures I treasure of my dad.
My dad was 23 years old here, stationed at Fort Benning, GA; having been drafted for the Korean War. Little was he to know, at that time, that he would follow this success with three more kids, go into a career of education, and live well over forty of his years on Earth in Waterloo, IA. Additionally, if he knew just a few more things then that he knows now, he might not picked up smoking during his time in the service - but who know s. What I do know as I look at him looking down at his new, beautiful, two-month daughter in this photo, is that he is thinking"life is good." What I can really appreciate now, as a father of two of my own girls, is what is going on in his mind. 56 years later, spanning our respective, disparate histories and vastly different worldviews, I can see his smile and loving gaze and say, "Oh yeah, I know that look, dad! High-five!"

Rocky at Three Weeks

What I know and have learned about my new friend.

• He thinks he's a dog. Unlike any cat I've ever known, he will flop over on his side so you can rub his belly. He follows you everywhere. And - in a subtle but very dog-like indicator - he has no fear. If his butt is in the way of the fridge when you start to open it, he won't move. The end effect is the fridge door slowly pushing him along until it slides him out of the way.
• He has a water fetish. He drinks water out of dirty pans that have water in them to soak. He places one paw in his water dish while he drinks. And, like many pets, he'd drink out of the toilet if it was left open. Worse, this sicko will try to drink out of the toilet while you pee. As the sole male human in my household, this is a particularly awkward occurrence indeed, and requires me to remember to shut the bathroom door even when stumbling downstairs for some 2:00 am bladder reflief.
• He is amazingly tolerant, and calm. This may be akin to #1 (he thinks he's a dog). But he see Rose shambling towards him, squealing in delight, and does not flee. Girls pet him and drape over him while he eats and drinks. He relaxes luxuriously in the middle of the floor while people fly in and out of rooms, over him, and/or if carrying large objects. Basically, all kinds of behavior that would have send the late Saraki into a case of the hives.
• Not a lap cat, yet. This may change. Maybe through the passage of time, or maybe just when the weather gets colder. But for now, he'll seek your company, and do the ol' walk in & out of the legs & so on, but he won't clip up and hang out ON you.

All in all (water fetish notwithstanding), ours has been a happier, more interesting household for the past three weeks.

Thanks to Brown Shoes and a Green Shirt

Announcing My Retirement

While I appreciate the opportunity my employers have given me through the years, it has become increasingly apparent that I am no longer able to approach my daily work with the passion and energy I know it deserves. That I know my employers deserve.

Additionally, it has been difficult for me to find the time I feel I need in order to be the father I'd like to be for my kids; the husband I'd like to be for my wife. And I have a number of pursuits in which I have a long-standing interest; but for which I've never been able to dedicate much time.

And so, it is with mixed feelings that I announce my retirement. I will regret the fast pace, the comraderie involved with being a member of a team, and the exciting potential for growth - both for me as an employee, and for growth of the various businesses that have employed me - that I was able to be a part of, day in and day out. But I am definitely excited to turn the page and enter this next phase of my life.

Thank you.

P-QN4

Lucy, taking on four-and seven-year old sisters in a game of giant chess during the first half of a recent daddy-daughter day. Parental intervention called the game a draw, when both ranks were decimated to one King and one bishop.

That Rare "10": Brief Encounter

Another month, another idea for chronicling my movie-watching endeavors.

It does seem to be overkill to post my capsule reviews, since they'll be sent out en masse, at year's end. However, I am going to plan to go ahead and make special mention of movies that achieve that slimmest end of the mighty bell-curve of my ratings, getting a "10."

Of the 110 or some-odd movies I've seen in the past two years, only three have have gotten this rating: Mary Poppins, The Third Man, and - now - a film I watched the other night with Matt of Panko Crumbs: David Lean's Brief Encounter.

It's a film I actually first first saw in college; and even then, in a more immature state, I was struck by the magnificence of this film, which is based upon a stage play by Noel Coward, is an intimate story of two more or less indescript folks in 1945-era Britain, a housewife and doctor, who meet and strike up an affair they both know cannot continue due to obligations, duty, and - yes - happy marriages in each of their respective lives. Beautiful is the best way to describe it: beautifully told, beautifully shot, beautifully cast and performed (by a collection of not-too-well-known players).

The gentle manner in which this most lurid and commonly filmed topics (the illicit love affair) is treated, as well as the depth of character we are shown in all interested parties (including an innocent, caring husband) is a refreshing breath of air, from before what would prove to be a 60-year run of lowest-common-denominator filth that has only sought to debase and ridicule the instituion of marriage.

Watch it. As soon as you can.

Welcome to the Family

Rocky, age 1 1/2.

Bearing a likeness to our dear, departed Saraki that is downright freaky, you must believe that did not play into the choosing of our newest friend & de-facto family member.

We were visiting the Gentle Touch Animal Sanctuary yesterday, to get a lay of the land and, hopefully, meet some a potential new adpotion or two. The facility is perfect for our purposes, as the multitude of cats are free to wander about and get to know you or avoid you as they choose. In that format, the reaction by cats as you walk through the door with two kids, ages five and one, speaks volumes about the viability of the various candidates. So, immediately after walking through the door, this guy - Rocky, by name (the name he came with: I wasn't immediately too sure about the name, but have since become quite sold on it) - wandered right over to us and made his aquaintance; with Lucy in particular. He even seems fine with Rose and, although I'm sure there will be a few moments in ensuing months when the two of them (Rocky & Rose) will have to test and discover their respective limits & boundaries, so far so good. He's such an amazing mixture of boldness and casualness that he had completely made himself at home within an hour or so of living here.

I gotta say - though there'll always be a place in my heart for Saraki - there's something about being able to actively choose a cat based upon personality type. Rocky doesn't mind being in a cat carrier (nearly gave Squeaky heart attacks), doesn't mind being picked up (Squeaky would rake and claw you), and is cool with strangers (Squeaky, not until her later, later years). In short, he is one cool cat.

Amazing, how natural his presence has already become around the house. We're looking forward to years of yet undiscovered joys and companionship.

My Dad

Just a little commemoration of him, from back when he kicked a little more ass.

My family is notably sparse on pictures from 1929 to about 1989, but I've always liked and sort of treasured this one, which seems to indicate a pretty playful and vibrant character, as he appears to have chased my mom up to the top of a slide. Probably circa 1948 or so.

There's another picture of him right after he was drafted and my sister was born (1952). It's amazing to look at him holding his precious daughter in his arms and looking down into her face with an expression I, now as a father, can understand. I don't seem to have a copy here, but I'll see if I can locate & post at some point in the future.

Goodbye, Old Friend

I went down this past weekend to do the big move for my parents. In a nuts & bolts sense, things went extremely well. Everything got moved in a single day, and everything pretty much seems to fit in the (much smaller) new place. ALSO - and this is actually a very big thing - this "moving my parents along to their next stage of life" has seemed to really bring out the best in my brother & sister's families. From willingness to pitch in and do whatever to an absolute absence of any bickering over "who gets what" as my parents downsize, there was been very little intra-family stress in these past couple of months

But other than that - it was a pretty emotionally draining weekend. I went down by myself; partly because my kids would have just been in the way of the work; but partly also because I had a lot to process, both on the way down and on the way back up. Though the choice to move was fairly proactive on my mom & dad's part (on their proverbial "own terms"), it was not a celebratory event. Nobody is under any illusions. They are simply too old to keep up with the rigors of maintaining a large house and yard, and my dad is far too unhealthy to live in a house with more than one level.

It was a very painful scene for me to witness - my dad, this once vital, powerful man who moved into a house in Waterloo, IA with his two kids in 1967, at age 37 (my age, coincidentally); now ancient and withered appearing, with tubes up his nose, sitting on a lawn chair in the garage watching his offspring carry the accumulations of his past 41 years past him and onto a moving van; too helpless to even assist. We stayed busy enough through the day, though, that there was not a ton of time to dwell on anything, and various interactions the rest of that day and evening prevented me from dwelling on the psychology of the whole weekend.

It was the next morning, when I made my long-planned "last visit" to the old place, all alone, when I was consumed by memory. Undoubtedly, the circumstances of my parent's leaving played into my feelings, but my parents aside, it was a sad enough parting just between me and the house. As I moved room to room, I was frequently overcome, remembering (burning memories, actually) past times; particularly those ones from my young childhood - those times when we all had a moment-to-moment, almost meditative absorbsion of our surroundings: tracing a path between the bumps of spackle on the walls, interpreting the patterns on a tile floor, the rough grating feel of that part of the carpet you can only reach by tunneling your finger in between the individual pieces of pile ,the distinct smell that only comes from smashing one's nostrils right up to a heating vent and inhaling completely. The minuteae of your immediate environment which, at that time in your life, is pretty much just the house you live in. All this came back to me in wave after wave of intense recollection, and I worked to get my head around two of the greatest pieces of evidence I've ever experienced, supporting the notion that I simply don't live in a protected, ageless bubble. The truest "home" I've ever known, gone; and my dad's mortality. Father Time marches on, and he is wearing Vasque Sundowners.

I spent a while in the old house. I may have even spent the time I needed there. At the end, I bid tear-stained farewell, and was off.

What Did I Do to Deserve This?

Behind the Music

Dear God, Stephen, you're right.

44: 1998

44: 2008