Madge Monday

Every once in a while, parenting works the way you want it to.
Madge had substitutes today, which meant less homework, which meant that, two minutes into our wait for Coco's dance class, she declared, "I'm bored."
So, instead of telling her that her boredom is not my responsibility, but rather her own, I decided to be more fun than that and said, "Do you want to play Battleship?"
She knew what I was talking about because that odd internet stuffed-animal phenomenon Webkinz has a battleship game.
But she had never played the old-school, pencil and paper version. I do think she enjoyed it, as did one of the moms in the waiting room (moms are a rarity there, it's mostly nannies and a surprising number of dads) who, it turns out, is Czech and reminds me a lot of our friend, Punkin. This Czech lady also played it a lot as a kid and had forgotten about it until this afternoon.
For me, many a school tedium was alleviated by this game, and it's hard to describe how glad I am that Madge and I clicked on this - it's been a while since we've clicked on anything. The game worked so well as a pass-time that we had to fold up our papers and continue at home.
Madge won. For some reason she hadn't launched four boats, only three, but that really doesn't have any bearing on the outcome. All boats sunk is all boats sunk, no matter how many. If anything, she could complain that she had four boats to sink - though, as experience taught me, it is rather disheartening to only hear the virtual splashes of failed missiles.

Asking for it

One of the shops-to-be in our neighborhood proclaims the arrival of a ready-to-heat-and-eat prepared foods place of foods with an expiration date rather than a half-life. The store's name, "Get Fresh."
I can't wait. Not because of the food, but because of the open invitation to harass the help.

Mystery Reader

That's me.
Today, in Coco's class. He doesn't know about it. (I didn't even tell Madge for fear she might pull her "I know something you don't know" first-born thing.)
Yesterday one of the helpers in his class asked me for hints to tell the kids so they might guess who I am. "You know, like if you're a policeman, we can say, 'He's the dad of two and he's a policeman. Who here knows what a policeman does?'"
To which the kids would say, "Writes parking tickets and eats donuts."
No. In my case, it would be, "He's the dad of two and isn't a policeman. Who else has a dad who isn't a policeman?"
Come to think of it, that would be a good way to introduce myself, especially if I added the word "exactly" because it's so evokative. As in, "Well, I'm not a policeman, exactly." See where that's leading your mind? Definitely not towards limericist for a public radio show. If it does, you're twisted.
So now I'm trying to decide what to read. I think Bark, George! has to be on the program. Short. Good sounds. Big pictures. And maybe a George and Martha book, or Pete's a Pizza, asking Coco to be my audience volunteer - but we only have a that in a small board book format, so it might be hard to see.
And I can't help but open with some sort of joke, so I think I'll ask how much time I have and thn, after the answer, open up Anna Karenina and read the line about the happy and unhappy families.
Or maybe something by the Marquis de Sade?

Ah, Manners

As you may have noticed, I am still working on using my “nice words” instead of the first words that come to mind. Coco is a little behind me in that development. Not much, but that’s because I haven’t advanced as I ought.
So here’s an open letter to the lady at Barnes and Noble.

Dear Rotunda,

Contrary to your remark, my son was not being “mean” when he called you fat. He was being what we in the profession of describing things call “honest.” I might even give you “rude,” but “mean,” no. He doesn’t know you. He has no reason to be mean.
I’m guessing you mean “mean” in the sense of “malicious” as derived from the word referring to baseness of class and character and not in the sense of “that was a mean game of tennis you played.”
Neither of these meanings applies. He had no hurtful intent and he definitely did not use a very original way of noting your appearance. He used the best descriptor available to him. If you hadn’t attempted to hide your physique in the mythically slimming all black, he might have pointed out a flashy color or cute shoes or a lovely handbag. But, from what I saw, he actually chose something fairly benign.
Please keep in mind that my son plays no part in the dialogue between your outer husky bitch and your inner skinny one. When he said, “She’s fat,” he did not append the phrase “and therefore can’t be loved.” That’s all you.
I, on the other hand, would like to add that if you didn’t have the propensity to sink your misery along with your teeth into the nearest available baked good, maybe you wouldn’t have been taking the elevator away from people with strollers or carts or wheelchairs and might have seen the malfunctioning escalator as an opportunity to shed 4.62 calories.
In a way, my son did you a favor: he elevated your heart rate.

Coco’s Dad

Procrastinating on the Limericks

Listing some rhymes for a topic that might or might not make it on air I came up with this nugget:


Summary of Select Shakespearean Sonnets

I rehearse my verse
to reverse my hearse.

Coco Tuesday

Coco got his first "tying shoes" yesterday. He is now the proud owner of red low-top Chuck Taylors. Kids' size 9, mind you. Coolness.

Not Quite Done with Madge Monday

The whole TV thing. Julie's been waiting for this day to come. My dad, the kids' Opa has been telling me they'll feel left out and have nothing to talk about.
I still find it odd that she's branded now. I understand this is the case, but I find it odd. Madge told Julie that when her friends ask her why she didn't see the shows they talk about, she says it's because we don't have cable, at which her friends gasp - in proxy pain, I assume.
Julie says her own coworkers did/do the same thing when she can't relate to American Idol moments, for example. Weird.
Poor Madge will have to wear a scarlet C for "cable-less." Until we rectify the situation, that is.

Since it was only one of several first-time parent idealist stances, maybe I should make her eat meat, drink soda and beer, and start smoking now, too. Or do I wait for her to make the first move?

Wait. No. That'll be Coco.

Madge Monday

Well, it has finally happened.
After eight years of not having TV as the rest of the world knows it, Madge feels left out.
Apparently kids talk about what they watched on TV over the weekend when they get to school on Monday; and apparently I'm an anomaly for not having done so when I was a kid. Sure, the occasional soccer game was discussed, but episodes of shows? Maybe an especially obnoxious ad was made fun of, but episodes of shows?
I know, I know. TV was different "back then," especially in three-channel Germany (and a couple East German ones and AFN).
I still maintain that she can keep up with conversations by renting DVDs of shows and guessing at what happens since nothing new ever does. Somehow she doesn't want to hear that. Imagine.
But, hey, if we get cable TV, at least we'll have something to take away when she balks.

On a more uplifting note: we went to IKEA on Saturday. We got some down comforters (with Chinese lead paint in them, I fear), so we're ready for the winter, sort of. We also got a coffee table - maybe that was the beginning of the TV-watching doom.
Madge assembled the darn thing herself. I tightened some of those magic IKEA hex-things myself at first and took the liberty of twisting in two of the tougher wood screws, but the did the rest of the hex-things and all the other assembly, with me as her spotter and Coco as her jealous screaming sibling who wanted to do Bob the Builder stuff, too.
Her hands have already healed; mine are still red and bruised.

it's 10/12 again

You know what that means.
What, you haven't been taking notes? And my parents and in-laws didn't send you a card?
Well, let me tell you then. Anniversary. Wedding. 11 years ago. Chicago City Hall. Basement (more of a pedestrian underpass, really).

One of the books I started this summer and set aside because others came along is Lord Byron's Don Juan. In it there's this funny line:

All tragedies are finish'd by a death,
All comedies are ended by a marriage.

Funny and mellifluous, but, in our case, wrong. As far as I can tell, our comedy continues. Yay, us.
I love you, Julie.

More YouTube

From something for those who don't speak German to something for those who don't speak French. This one, though, has subtitles. In honor of the season that has finally decided to look at the calendar (air conditioner on in October, whose idea was that?).
Prevert's "Feuilles Mortes" with subtitles. Lucky you.

Karl Valentin und Liesl Karlstadt

Fat lot of good it does to those of you who don't understand German.
But I was amazed to find some of their sketches on YouTube, so I'm sharing.
It's still funny. (They're two parents who are about to go to the theater and want to leave their grown son, whose name they have a hard time remembering since they only call him Bubi, a note about the food he can warm up or eat cold.) It actually gets funnier the more you think about it.
Trust me.

Uptight-Man might be here to stay

I was perusing the New Yorker that arrived today and found a "Talk of the Town" piece about Jenna Bush and her new book. Cute. It ends nicely with a quote from a guy called "Kaiser" who cautions against too many drinks of a certain kind, "Metaphors come out like crazy." (If only he'd said "simile's.")
In the previous two paragraphs two guys were talking at a bar. One was named Steven, and the other "Kyser."

But hey, at least this discrepancy in vowel sound spelling made the article memorable to me.

Uptight-Man surfaces

I know I'm overly sensitive, but picture books aim - in part - to teach kids what words mean.
So why not use the best words available?
For instance, in Babies in the Bayou, by Jim Arnosky, which Madge picked up at the library for Coco (aw, how sweet), there's a picture of a mama duck guiding her babies away from the sleeping alligators. The text reads, "She shepherds them away from danger - "
Like I said, I'm overly sensitive, but why "shepherds"? They're not sheep. It's not the kind of book that would get cute and use "duckherds" but that would at least connect kids with the possibilities of language. What about "guides," or "leads," or simply "herds?"
Oh, well.

Coco Tuesday

Still catching up from the day off, sorry.

Yesterday we went to the big library, whose architecture is a blend Vegas faux Egyptian and East Bloc governmental. Weird.
They sell food and drink in the lobby. Usually we only get something to drink but yesterday the snack bar was open so we picked up some popcorn, too. I think they allow food throughout the library because of this, though I don't understand why. Coco promptly carried his popcorn throughout the library as we went in search of comics for Madge (on the third floor).
Whenever we came by security officers - who are now in full force trying to keep the teenagers from brawling - I recommended to Coco to be inconspicuous about the popcorn consumption. No, I didn't use those words, I used 4-yr-old words. "Coco, try not to let them see the popcorn." So he took the tub and put it behind his back, walking around like Groucho Marx. Inconspicuous, no; funny, yes. I asked him who taught him to do that (because I hadn't), and he said, "Miss M[y pre-K teacher]."
I'm sure she'd be proud.

The saga continues, mostly for the benefit of my first-born in-law. (Hi, Karen!)
When we got off the elevator we went by the down escalator. Of course Madge had to go over and try to go up it, even though I told her not to and said it's time to leave. (nag, nag) Once she did it, Coco had to do it, too. But not only did he not listen to me about not doing it in the first place, he also refused to give up his popcorn. Instead, he wound up feeding it to the escalator teeth. Accidentally, of course, but still.
So I yelled at both of them about it. See, Karen, Madge is also to blame for the spilled popcorn because she couldn't let it be when I said no. Also, the whole reason we went to the library in the first place was her darned literacy.
Can't win, can you?

The Wire

I should sue those people from the Shit Parade podcast. They made me think, "Hey, they all seem to love The Wire, why not rent a DVD and give it a shot?"
Now I'm losing sleep about this show. I'm like a junkie waiting for the video place to open up so I can get my fix.
I'm just glad it's on DVD, not because we don't have actual cable TV but because, in the first episode, one of the characters takes a leak about 5 minutes before the episode ends, which means I've been holding whatever I'd been drinking for about 15 minutes already. Luckily, I had the opportunity to pause the thing. Otherwise we might have had to shop for a new sofa cushion.

Madge Monday

It's unfair to do a Madge Monday today because it was a holiday after a weekend after a week during which she was tired and a little under the weather. In other words, I'm making excuses for how cranky she was.
Omigod. I almost forgot.
She tends to wake us up way too early on weekends and asks to play on the computer. She's no dummy, she knows we just want her to let us sleep some more.
This morning she says I said, after her third or fourth time asking, "Go ahead, bitch."

All I'm saying is, "No way."

The bigger question is, even if I had said it, which I didn't, how would she even know what that is. I'm guessing, from the fact that she repeated it (or, rather, twisted around some misheard morning grunt of mine) without sounding upset about it, makes me think she's not too clear on the whole thing and only knows it's bad.
Still, I would NEVER.
(Okay, NEVER is a big word, but not when she's eight. I'm not saying there might not come a time when... But I hope I'll have the wherewithal not to say it aloud.)

more awkwardness

Since I’m already on the topic of awkward moments.
The other day I was in a coffee shop. In front of me was a woman – other people, too, probably, but my field of vision is strangely selective – who looked great. Women tend to, especially in the mornings, when the various tricks they’ve learned from magazines are freshly applied. Clean; good smell; funky hair; interesting clothes, well tailored. But then she turned around and I saw that the raw materials she had to work with hadn’t really given her a head start.
Part of me wanted to compliment her on her ability to make the most of what she had. Because, really, that’s the only compliment that can really mean anything. The things she could take charge of, she did. (Well, maybe the foundation wasn’t blended perfectly at the neck, but still.)
The point is, I’m quite sure that it wouldn’t have worked. People would much rather hear that their parents produced a lucky mix of genes.
Anyway, I didn’t have the guts to try and find out.
Having to pick up Coco two and a half hours after dropping him off doesn’t give me enough time to talk myself out of that kind of a mess.

hi, uh, not hi hi, but hi

Coco found my voice recorder, so I'm using it again.
Without it, I wouldn't have recalled a little exchange I had yesterday.
On my way to school, I passed by a double-parked car with a pregnant woman on the passenger side. It was double parked in front of the house of a pregnant woman. The hair color was the same. The car looked different, but hey, whatever. I, therefore, do the lean-down and happy wave only to see a stranger's face awkwardly wave back at me.
Moments like that are always so deliciously awkward because you want to retract the friendly gesture. You want a gesture that says, "Yes, I'm friendly and you're pregnant and that's always a happy thing even if you're uncomfortable because the concept of creating a new life is a happy thing in theory, but I'm sorry I was giving you a familiarly friendly wave when it should have been non-committedly friendly, neutrally friendly, but there we are, we've both smiled and waved so we may as well be friends in a joint-humanity kind of way." But I didn't even have a kid with me at the time and as a sort-of-regular guy that kind of behaviour is just creepy.
With my luck, she wasn't even pregnant.

Insanity - not the good kind

I now know two women who, as pedestrians, have been hit by a school bus (in the last six months), unfortunately. It's not unfortunate that I know them, but rather that they have this distinction.
I don't know if this is a reflection on school bus drivers or on the way Park Slope women cross the street. Perhaps it's a toss-up.

Either way, I'd prefer it hadn't happened.

Whoa

I know everyone thinks his or her kid is a genius.

And why not?

Remember, Coco is 4 1/2. In pre-K, they're practicing circles right now.

He drew this last week and we had to fight with him not to tear it up because "it doesn't look right."

Seriously. We weren't even allowed to look as he was making it. So there was no help provided by us.

Culture Clash

On one of the first days of Coco’s new school, when the parents were asked to stay, the class sang song. I’d heard it before, I think on a bit of the dreaded Barney program. It goes a little something like this (no need to dim the lights):

The more we get together, together, together,
The more we get together, the happier we’ll be.
For your friends are my friends and my friends are your friends;
The more we get together, the happier we’ll be.

Now, I happened to recognize the melody. It’s a song I got to sing as a kid in Germany, too. But the words I remember go something like:

Ach, du lieber Augustin, Augustin, Augustin,
Ach, du lieber Augustin, alles ist hin.
Stock ist hin, Hut ist hin, [mumble indecipherably], alles ist hin,
Ach, du lieber Augustin, alles ist hin.
Ach, du lieber Augustin, Augustin, Augustin,
Ach, du lieber Augustin, alles ist hin.
Geld ist weg, Weib ist weg, [more mumbling]
Ach, du lieber Augustin, alles ist hin.

The most simple paraphrase is, “Oh, dear Augustin, everything is shot to shit.”
And I think it encapsulates nicely the difference between the two cultures. In the old country, a happy tune will be overlaid with some rich irony which is totally wasted on the audience; whereas here a happy tune gets smothered by sappy lyrics which totally waste the audience.

The full text, if you care, sans mumbling. Apparently Augustin was a guy who drank too much during the plague in Vienna, passed out, and was piled on a cart with corpses on their way to be disposed of, but awoke in time to gather his wits and some material for a song.
Refrain:
Ach, du lieber Augustin, Augustin, Augustin,
Ach, du lieber Augustin, Alles ist hin!
V1:
Geld ist hin, Mädl ist hin, Alles ist hin, Augustin!
Ach, du lieber Augustin, Alles ist hin!
V2:
Rock ist weg, Stock ist weg, Augustin liegt im Dreck.
Ach, du lieber Augustin, Alles ist hin!
V3:
Und selbst das reiche Wien, Hin ist's wie Augustin;
Weint mit mir im gleichen Sinn, Alles ist hin!
V4:
Jeder Tag war ein Fest, Jetzt haben wir die Pest!
Nur ein großes Leichenfest, Das ist der Rest.
V5:
Augustin, Augustin, Leg' nur ins Grab dich hin!
Ach, du lieber Augustin, Alles ist hin!

Coco Tuesday

Lest you think he's all fun and games, he's become so stubborn that now he will hold his ears and say, "I don't like your words, Daddy."
To which I show him my upright palm and say, "Talk to the hand."

Ah, we have some great times while we wait for Madge to get out of school.

Madge Monday

In my haste to be witty, I almost forgot about Madge Monday.
She, dear reader(s), is awesome. I, on the other hand, am a weenie.
And I relearned something else today. When agreeing to get a toy at the toy store, the only adequate way to do it is to simply hand over the credit card and say, "See you outside." Otherwise, the disappointment in having to get the smaller toy while the larger, more shiny, so much cooler one is standing on the shelf RIGHT NEXT TO IT is so overwhelming that the offer to buy anything at all is rendered meaningless.

But, lest you think her an ingrate, she was happy and thankful. And if memory serves, I was waaaaaay worse in my greed.

"Was"?

Found Art

Remember the knight costume I wouldn't buy Coco so far in advance of Halloween? Well, now that it's in our house, I've discovered some ancient runes on it which, in their unskilled use of the English language, amount to a sad, short ballad. All it needs is a better title.
Currently it reads,
CAUTION
THE SIMULATED PROTECTIVE DEVICE WAS NOT
SAFETY DEVICE AND OFFERED NO PROTECTION
MADE IN CHINA

How about breaking up the lines a little to make it more evocative,

The simulated protective device
was not
safety device and offered
no protection

As for titles, how about:
Prenup
Told You So
Scarred
Wait, is "Positive" Good or Bad? or, the Pregnancy/STD6 Test

or, back to original kid's toy theme:

One Eye is Better Than None, or, Hindsight is 20

More on Milt

There was a time when I was playing saxophone on the streets of Berkeley, sort of on a dare to myself, not really for the money. (I sometimes played with an older trumpet player. One night he told me that we couldn't stop until we had enough for his phone bill. I wanted to give him my share, but he wouldn't let me. It wound up being a late night.) One night, this guy came by who looked sort of familiar but I didn't know from where. Then I recognized Billy Higgins and remembered that Milt Jackson was in town and realized that he was the earlier guy. I put down my saxophone and chased after him to shake his hand and thank him for inspiring me. Which was a bonehead move. Not because something happened to my saxophone, it was safe, but because, since he had heard my playing, I wasn't sure he wanted to claim responsibility for my so-called inspiration. Oh, well. At least he had put some money in the case.
And he had hands that were softer and more supple than my grandmother's.

Vibraharp, part 2

As promised, here's Milt Jackson. Unfortunately, the sound quality doesn't do justice to his playing, but there you go.
For the record, he is the swingingest m-f- ever. One of the main reasons I got into playing jazz in the first place is that I saw a concert of the Modern Jazz Quartet at the Berlin Philharmonic with my friend Warner P. And the concert bowled me over. They were promoting their Ellington album at the time.
For what it's worth, I was worried, going in, that the "Modern" in the MJQ would refer to something like the Art Ensemble of Chicago. I was really only fulfilling a concert requirement for a music class. But, man, what a pleasant surprise.
Connie Kay on drums was this giant (6ft something) playing on a mininal drum set; Percy Heath was stoic and steady; John Lewis minimalist and square; and Milt Jackson was just swinging like mad.
Never before this concert had I realized how much "play" is involved in playing music. The contrast of styles between John Lewis and Milt Jackson just made songs soar. Awesome stuff.
And yet, none of their albums really captured that spirit for me. Which just made me buy more, of course. I'd recommend "No Sun in Venice" and "Pyramid," but they're all tantalizingly near-great.
(Bear with Sanborn's yacking; the song is worth it.)

Feedback feedback

Trent, I hope that, by "computer" you mean that he's phenomenally accurate, but not necessarily mechanical.
Anyway, do you think Gary Burton (or Milt Jackson, coming soon) may have started on one of these?
Get one, lock your kids in the basement with it and see if they beat the keys or clobber each other. Good luck.

Vibraharp

Odd thing, this. It's on YouTube, but it really might be better without the visual. Or maybe just the hands. Or maybe the QueerEye guys should give Gary Burton a makeover. Anyway, if you can see and hear it, this is a good way to get into a weekend mood, I think.

Special edition

One of my stand-uppy gripes is “How about those ‘special edition’ DVDs?”
You know, the typical anti-ad-speak thing. If there is no such thing as a regular edition, why have a special or collector’s or limited edition? I’d like to go to the store and say, “Don’t you have the regular version?”
I know “they” need to make the DVDs appear special so you don’t just wait until the movie shows up on TV. Maybe “they” should call it the “at your leisure and without ads” edition.
Except, of course, that the opening credits are one big-ass ad, aren’t they? Who really needs to know the producer’s name and the by now seventeen-plus production companies defraying the costs and slobbering over potential profits?
If I were truly in touch with my inner jerk, I’d applaud at the beginning of the movie. Just stand up and shout, “Yay! Dreamworks! I loooooove Dreamworks! I was worried it might be Warner Brothers, but, OhMyGod, it’s Dreamworks! Whooooooooo!”
Anyway, back to special editions. What makes them special? The special features, of course, which can range from basic, crappy games, to out-takes.
At first I was going to say, What if authors had “special editions” of their books? But of course publishers do that once the writer is canonical or dead or both.
But how about going to a restaurant and ordering the special edition of the House Salad and Steak Frites. Would you get the dishwater in a bowl as well as various shavings and peelings? That’s what the outtakes are, after all, scraps off the editing-room floor. Or how about a “director’s cut” of the pork chop?
But, then again, I guess that’s what the “soup of the day” often is, the “director’s cut” of last night’s special.

Now that I think about it, a literary out-take might go something like this.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning might write,
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Well, there was that time on the boat…”
And she and Robert would break character and laugh, laugh, laugh.
And the next time she’d write,
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
And he’d interrupt with, “Would you like it on a boat? Would you like it with a goat?”
And they’d laugh and laugh and laugh.
Pretty soon all she could do was write, “How do I…” and they’d both be in hysterics.

After-school idea

Madge’s school, now Madge and Coco’s school, has a program called the Kids’ Club Workshop, which allows parents and others to volunteer to teach courses after school. They solicit ideas and volunteers every so often. And I’d like to do it, I think, but A) I wouldn’t know what to teach and B) I wouldn’t know who’d be watching my kids while I’m doing so.
I said as much to Madge and together we came up with this course. “Taking Care of Coco,” an eight-week crash course in handling a stubborn four-year-old. Learn intermediate toddler-speak; approximate anger-management; begin basic bribery; indulge in pretend hide-and-go-seek; and so much more. Handwashing mandatory.
When I told Julie about this, she loved the idea. I told her that the only class that would get perfect attendance would be something along the lines of “Share your Gameboy expertise and secrets,” in which the kids got to play video games nonstop and show off their skills at pushing little buttons which make animated characters do things.
Julie had a great idea, too. One which might get some forced attendance. “Clean Your Apartment.” In each of our eight weeks we draw one lucky family’s home upon which a team of ten to sixteen schoolchildren (ages 7+ only, please) will descend with brooms, mops, buckets, and washrags. (Homeowner’s insurance strongly recommended.)
It might have to be retitled “Get in Touch With Your Inner Cinderella.”
Ideas abound.

New Link

I've got a new site I feel the need to link to. Here. It's the Guardian's Digested Read, a silly recap of a new book. How often it's updated, I don't know yet, but I guess it's weekly.
Here's an excerpt, from their adaptation of Grisham's new book:

"I guess you must be in the mafia," Rick whispered.
"Er, no."
"But this is a John Grisham book and we're in Italy."
"I see what you mean," Sam smiled. "But it's not that type of story. He's writing something homier and cuter this time."
"No gangsters, then?" Rick asked, somewhat disappointed.
"No. It's just a feelgood travel romp to show that Italy may be foreign and bad at football - they play soccer here - but even airheaded jocks can appreciate the quaintness if they really try. Look, to get us started, why don't you start by asking me some brainless questions so I can explain a few of the basic differences between the US and Italy."

Coco Tuesday

I need to remind myself that one of the reasons I’m doing this blog thing is to look on the outside of the insanity in our house. It’s getting difficult.
Every day after school, Coco asks, ever so politely, for a new toy. This process takes about nine or ten hours. And what with retail greed and abuse of random holidays, he’s been asking for Halloween decorations and costumes since about mid-August. And his concept of time is still that of a four-year-old. Imagine.
This means that whenever his eyes alight on a new costume, he wants it. Of course I could praise his active imagination, but man, is it ever annoying. As of yesterday he wants to be a knight.
“Please, Daddy, can you get me a knight costume?”
“Not yet.”
“Please, Daddy, after school?”
“No, it’s not Halloween yet. You’re going to change you mind again. You wanted to be Spiderman yesterday.”
“Please, Daddy, can I have a knight costume?”
Etc.

Ah. I’ve got it. I’ll read him some Arthurian Romances. Not to bore him about knighthood, but to make him understand that he needs to earn it either by slaying dragons or by rewriting the lyrics to an old song of his to suit the funeral of a divorced former princess.

Madge Monday

“We” were watching Scooby-Doo this weekend. The kids are on a Scooby-Doo frenzy right now, and for some reason Netflix and DVD rental stores are accommodating them. Scooby-Doo, like The Flintstones, is the kind of animated series that employs a laugh track.
Me: Don’t you find it weird that the characters in the show are drawn and yet there seem to be people laughing in the background?
Madge: No. Why? It’s funny.

Case Closed.

Madge bonus

Madge Flashback. For some reason having Coco flop around in a recently emptied bathtub reminded me of this incident.
Madge (5 and a little) and Coco (around 2) and I (in my prime) were in a fish market on Clement Street in San Francisco. Madge liked to look at the masses of fish huddled in the tanks as well as the various lobsters. On one visit to the fish market, a fish had been taken out of the tank to be “processed” for sale. The fish slipped out of the guy’s hand and flopped around on the floor. Not phased in the least, the guy took a club and whacked the fish on the head several times, until the flopping ceased. All before I could usher my little ones out of the store. I think Coco was asleep in his stroller at the time; I’m not sure. At last I got Madge out of the store, squinched my eyes, took a deep breath, and awaited her questions and/or concerns.
What she said was, “Cool. Can we see that again?”

I wonder what she’d say nowadays. She might run screeching out of the store. Or not. And I’m not sure which would bother me more.

Does this actually happen in real life?

I don’t know how to write this up accurately, but here it is.
My parents are both seventy, as of Wednesday. Happy Birthday, Mom!
This means that their friends are about that age as well.
Because I don’t want to get anyone in trouble directly, though why not I’m not so sure, let’s pose this as a series of hypotheticals.
Part one. A is having an affair. He says to his wife that he is going somewhere with his friend B, somewhere where they can’t be reached, like camping or hiking or whatever. Now B needs to be off the map for the duration of A’s tryst and asks if he can stay at your place so that B’s wife can’t get in touch with him and figure things out for A’s wife. Would you let B stay at your place?
Hypothetical, part two. If all these people were in their late sixties or early seventies, would you think it’s a little late for a midlife crisis thingy?
Hypothetical, part three. If any of the people involved were your parents (and, in their defense, you’d assume there were degrees of guilt and innocence and therefore they were on the innocent-ish end of the spectrum), what would you drink to soothe your nerves? And at what time of day would you start?
Bottoms up.

Aronian/Anthony

I bet you've been following the World Championship in Mexico City, just as I have.

And I'd lose the bet, because you're asking, "The World Championship of what?"

Chess.

Anyway, there's a player, Levon Aronian, who reminds me of the singer Marc Anthony.

Take a guess which is which.

(I was hoping to be able to upload a more recent picture of Marc Anthony, with scruffy beard, pinstripe suit, and all, but alas, I'm incompetent. Or, maybe They have made the pictures inaccessible in order to hide his chess-player alter-ego identity.)

An aphorism of my own

Which is to say I'm not sure where it's from and it doesn't sound quite right (i.e., mellifluous and memorable), so I'm claiming it as mine:

A rose is a weed in a wheat field.

Feel free to tell me the actual source (if there is one) or to improve upon it. The idea, I hope, is clear.

Great Line from Colbert

(or one of his writers, of course)
Al Gore's movie made money, so global warming must be true. The market has spoken.

Coco Tuesday

New school year means that it's time to meet new parents. And, of course, to see the old ones again. While I'm not quite as direct as Coco and say to their faces that they have "dying skin" I will say behind their backs that they have dyed hair.
What makes the hair dying so interesting during pick-up and dropoff (Cartalk's Russian chauffeur, btw.: Pikap Andropov) is that the grey and white roots come and go in waves. It's almost as if the mothers' time of the month has changed from what it used to be to a time to get out of touch with their roots, so to speak.

More parents in da house

On a more uplifting note - and this is mostly for Julie, who is out of town (remember what that means? Yep, I'm aching for email contact. Any sort of adult-ish converstation) - that pregnant couple in our builing just had their baby today. I know, only the woman is actually pregnant, but they really seemed to be going through this as a couple, so I'm saying he was pregnant, too.
Anyway, I saw her lurching out of the building this morning, gently guided by him (so sweet).
Later in the evening, he was collecting mail.
When I asked him how she was, he said fine, and that was it.
But then I, super-sleuth dad ("Wait. You say you washed your hands, but I never heard any water..."), noticed a hospital bracelet peeking out from his shirt sleeve and confronted him with the truth: "You, sir, have had a baby!"
And he broke down and confessed.
And I nearly cried. I'm such a sucker for newborns and that whole new life thingamagig.

Julie, you'll be proud of my social restraint (though disappointed in my lack of gossip), I didn't press him on the name or weight or details because he hadn't even volunteered that they now have a baby. I just congratulated him most heartily and told the kids that his is the kind of smile you can't translate to anyone who has never experienced it.
Aw, shit, here I am, tearing up again.
I'm a weenie.

Madge Monday

I realized today what a nag I am, but also the causes. To begin with the overly sensitive and defensive bit: I’m a nag because I don’t get the answers I want, if I get any at all. Or, if I do, they have the wrong tone or something.
I’m not proud of it, but there it is.
I think I told Madge about four times this afternoon that she had to do her homework – and we weren’t even home yet. Poor Madge.
But
I noticed it and laid off. Tooth brushing I’ll still need to nag about, I fear, but I’ll let the homework thing go. She’s good about that on her own, as she is with most everything.

Where were we, if not at home? We were supposed to be at Coco’s dance class, but he REALLY didn’t want to go, so maybe my nagging started there. I just wanted some sort of “yes, daddy” success. Instead of the dance class, we were at the nearby Target because the weather has cooled down and some of us have outgrown our long pajamas and our long pants. We also needed batteries for our remote and our Tamagachi, but now I’ve gone past boring you. Sorry.
Though I only lived there about three years total, I guess I’m more of a Minnesotan than I thought. See, contrary to Brooklyn evidence, I keep thinking of Target as a calm, spacious store, not crowded and well-stocked. In other words, I forget about what we have come to call “Ghetto Target.” That name arose one day when we wanted to buy band-aids and noticed that several boxes had been opened and the contents removed.
Today, while we were in the toy department we had promised we wouldn’t whine about, some kids thundered through, whacking each other with floaty noodles before discarding the and giving some nearby bicycles a test ride. I had the stroller with me, which I only mention because only one of the elevators worked on the way up. On the way down, none. Oh, and they didn’t have the batteries we came for and the pants were too big.
So I didn’t feel too bad as a drink fell out of the stroller and spilled all over the ground when I picked the stroller up to take it down the escalator. (It is too wide otherwise.)
But now I realize that most people there feel that way about the Brooklyn Target, especially the employees, which is why it’s in the shape it’s in.

And, on perhaps a related note, we saw some kids (early teens) arrested and taken in a police van in downtown Manhattan over the weekend. I’m guessing for shoplifting, but what do I know? That, combined with the pain-in-the-ass kids at Target today makes me think that juvie might have an amnesty program for the beginning of the school year.
Or maybe they kids just want something concrete they can atone for this coming weekend.

favorite part about the "pool boy"

With all that going on for him, he was adamant about everyone washing his hands after using the bathroom.

Pool recap, or, Cabana Boy, Brooklyn-Style

It’s been a while since we’ve gone swimming and the pool is closed now and the guy probably doesn’t blog, so I feel relatively safe writing about him, the locker room guy at the public pool, that is.
Picture this. A stubby little man, maybe five feet tall, shaved head, including eyebrows. The hair on his head has been replaced by a skull tattoo – and sundry others; the hair on his chinny-chin has been replaced by a Maori (I'm guessing) tribal design; the hair on his pierced brow ridge has been replaced by the tattoo “white” on his right (left as you’re reading) and “pride” on his left (right as you’re reading). My reason for the parentheses is that he would have seemed oh-so-much tougher if it had been reversed because then it would have appeared that he did it himself, assisted only by a mirror and the copious amounts of alcohol he admittedly consumes.
As in, “Let’s face it, I’m an alcoholic.”
What prompts people to say stuff like this to me is beyond me, other than that I appear to be listening.
Most of our “conversations” involved the usual small talk about one’s well-being, which for him invariably meant a lack of sleep because of late drinking and getting some new tattoos from his buddies.
Now, the neighborhood we and pool find ourselves in is rather mixed, and the pool itself is closer to some projects than to our gentrified neck of the borough. In other words, “white pride” is a surefire conversation starter with the general population there. Incidentally, our friend had, surprise, surprise, done some time, too. But the conversations that got started by the black kids seemed to involve unfriendly comments. Imagine. The high point, apparently, involved an accusation by the kids involving a sexual crime and the guy’s sister. This apparently hit too close to home, so to speak, because his brother seems to be doing time for that exact activity. Imagine.
After the incident, the guy told me that he was willing to “kill the little &%s” because they seemed to have crossed a line. Instead of what he would have considered forgivable manslaughter, he got a time-out. In other words, the security staff and the cop on duty put him in a little room until he calmed down. But he’s claustrophobic.
In his words, “Fire me or kick me in the teeth, but don’t lock me in a &%!ing room. You know what I mean?”
Ah, New York.

PS Last week I saw him on the playground cleanup crew, but they rotate, so I think I’m done running into him.

to look or not to look

The kids recently got scooters. Wheeeeeee!
Coco is finally getting the hang of it.
And here's something I noticed, let's call it Parenting Conundrum #377:

When you're trying to talk to your kids or when they want something from you around the house, they don't deign to look up from their task in order to ease communication.
But when they're about to bash into an oncoming pedestrian or stationary tree or when they're balancing precariously on some narrow ledge, they are desperate for eye contact.

snooty neighborhood

Coco's class had a sign outside, saying that parents should "please bring in old NYTimes to cover tables for art projects."

I guess they don't want any trashy or shocking news for the wee ones.

I'll show them. I'll bring in the Wall Street Journal.

Coco Tuesday

Here he is: the Dancer. Tights and a "Don't Mess With Texas" shirt. Talk about a mixed message. Or not.

He enjoyed the class, but not the fact that I dropped him off and picked him up again later.

The embarrassing moment came later, when we saw a girl from his class and he said, "See that girl? I think her hair and eyebrows are terrible!" One dance class and he turns bitchy. Yikes.

And, of course, I had to have the "talking about other people's appearance" speech ready again. I fear it needs a rewrite since the message isn't getting across.

Madge Monday

She's such a big girl. So I feel bad when she gets dragged around the neighborhood in the double running stroller and stared at by other kids. But I don't think she minds because she gets to go places while still reading.
And today, for the first time ever, we went to an activity that was strictly for Coco. He makes her late all the time and she feels like she has to wait for him every minute of the day, but usually that's because I'm dragging him along to some event of hers. But today Coco had his first dance class and Madge was just along for the ride. And, man, let me tell you, it sure is easier to just hang out with an eight-year-old than it is with a four-year-old.
Though next time I need more singles for the vending machines.
And, don't worry, for Coco Tuesday you'll get some pictures of the little guy in his dance tights and my own special touch (because he doesn't have a solid-colored t-shirt).

Ouch

Julie, as you may or may not know, now works for a new company (new to us, not to the world).
The old one blocked my blog. I don't claim causality, but the facts remain.
Anyway, her new company is more conscious of the impact of its act of producing and selling than the old one was.
(For the corporate angle, see here.)
I'm learning all about the company and its products, of course. Just ask me about any of the almond oil products. Omigod you gotta try them. Buy them. Put them all over yourself and feel mm-mmm pampered. It makes me want to take multiple showers. It makes me wish I were bald so I could rub it all over my scalp.
Enough, already.
Julie is also fond of the Shea Butter products. Which is why we had this conversation.

JULIE

The women's collective thing is great. Apparently only women get to touch the Shea trees and handle the nuts -

ME

[I hadn't heard the "-"; they're very hard to hear in a conversation. And I couldn't resist the seventh-grade joke]

What a coincidence, because I also only let women handle my Shea tree and touch my nuts.

JULIE [not even cracking a smile]

- and beat them into a paste.

J.R.

Here's my new friend Jules.

I'm noticing that I need a shirt with a collar like that. (But not the scar on the forehead.)

And, much as I'd like to, I can't really bear the feeling of suspenders.

Oh, well, back to my own style. Which reminds me, all my shorts pooped out during these last weeks of summer.

Well, "pooped out" may give you the wrong image. But they're all becoming torn and frayed I'm afraid. (Hee, hee.)

Other people's words

I'm reading a book by Jules Renard right now, called "Poil de Carotte." Yes, I'm reading it in French, but only because the library copy is one of those instructional books that has text on one side and vocabulary words on the facing page.
The problem is, I can't usually tell if a word is used because it's the regular word or because it's a fanciful one. Not until I try them in conversation and get laughed at - rather than with - will I know. But how to use French words in coversation, you ask? Well, there seem to be French mommy groups in this neighborhood... (Don't worry, Julie, nobody could match your "ponponponfonfonfonfonfon" false francais.)
Anyway, the reason I got a book by Renard in the first place is because of his aphorisms in my aphorism book. (Other great ones are by Cyrill Connolly and Cesare Pavese, both of whom I've read because of this.)
Here's one:

The danger of success is that it makes us forget the world's dreadful injustice.

Magnifique, non?

Wha-?

Luckily the original wasn’t altogether unpleasant, but this is an “artist’s” rendering of the image now permanently burned into my retina.
We were on the subway, coming back from a baseball game in Coney Island. Coco was asleep on my lap and I was only half-alert and staring blankly in front of me. The seats across from us emptied and a young guy sat down at the same time as skinny chick moved towards the seat. He made the voiceless gesture of, “Oh, did you want this seat? I hope not because I really don’t feel like getting up again.” And she made the shruggy smile and forward lean that said, “No, no. Don’t worry, I’m just looking at the subway map.”
At that point Julie said, “You can stop staring now.”
I never thought people actually did double takes, but my eyes blinked and my head snapped back and forth as I realized that the skinny chick’s yoga pants were down past her butt cheeks and she was busy tugging them up with her free hand. About a foot and a half from my face. And I had missed the whole thing!
To top things off, our half of the subway car erupted in laughter. We had already been primed a few stops earlier by the guy who got stuck in the doors.
Ah, New York.

Coco bonus

Two days in a row he's referred an older woman as,
"That girl with the dead skin."

Not to their faces, luckily.

Coco Tuesday

Back to school. Except it's a new school for Coco and nothing is as expected.
He goes half days now. Like before, really, but half days at Madgie's school are from 8:40 to 11:00, so less than before. Oh, well.
One part of the routine was already set, though.
"I don't want to go to school. I'm not going."
"Let's just take Madge."
"Oh, awwight."
And today was from 8:40 to 9:40. You know, to warm them up slowly. And I got to stay the whole time. Cute. None of the kids wanted to talk to the teachers during circle time. Except one, but she didn't want to answer the teachers' questions, so I'm not sure it counted.
But Coco did enjoy the solo time with Daddy, I think, so that's a benefit. We only need to figure out how to transition to having Madge around at 3.
She, by the way, is awesome in her attitude towards school. Not gung-ho, but accepting.
The stomach aches won't start until later.

Madge Monday

There must be a script that I never received.
Today, the last day of our vacation, was the first day for the kids, Madge in particular, to "sleep in" to nine o'clock.
Wish me luck tomorrow morning, when we go back to school.

Refried Mr. Bean

Of course I had marvellous observations today, but because I had two teeny-tiny beers I can't remember any of them. So maybe I should just speak unintelligibly and laugh too loudly at my own jokes - wait a second, that's what I do anyway.
Don't tell anyone, but we saw the Mr. Bean movie again, this time with Julie and her sister, who's in town. Hee, hee. We know art when we see it.
It's enjoyable the second time around, too.
And this time I don't need to keep watching Rowan Atkinsons as he tries to distract me from his co-star.

It's also funny to see the neighborhood now as it's exploding with people who are returning from vacations and camps and whatnot to resume regular life. Not as bad as a college town, but still a surprising change of demographic makeup. Pretty soon the sidewalks will be congested with strollers, scooters, like-a-bikes, and protruding bellies (female and male).

Gracias (Bean in France)

Ah, the simple joys. If you get a chance to see "Mr. Bean's Holiday," go. Hurharhurharhurhur.

We were actually shushed quite a bit during the movie, because the Other Kid had already seen it and occassionally explained what was coming up, Coco kept asking to make sure he was caught up with all the plot points - and later to ask if Willem Defoe is going to turn into Green Goblin any time soon -, and Madge kept saying things like "Oh, no," "stop it," "don't." Mr. Bean kills her.

I may have to see it again because of the potty breaks I had to take. But I don't mind. Some of the bits are worth seeing again.

And, thinking about it, the fact that the kids had an urge to speak up just proves how good Atkinson's timing is.

Hands out for hand outs

At the bank of ATMs at my bank, there is occasionally a person who holds the door open, saving after-hours visitors the agony of inserting the card they will use later anyway in a slot near the door in order to unlock it. In exchange this person is hoping for a little something on the way out.
But
On my way in I tend to have nothing, and on my way out I have nothing but twenties. I assume others are in a similar situation. If I were an honest and consistent person I guess I'd have to decline the open door and insist on opening it myself because I know I'm not going to trade a twenty for the service.
As it is I give the usual noncommittal hypocritical nod/headshake/mumble and go on my way.

Coco Tuesday

The kid who's been with us the past two days is fun and good-natured, as I've said.
And he likes playing with Coco, especially when Coco is being fun and not shouting or whiny.
But Coco's verbal inexactitudes drive him nuts. He's gotten used to having his favorite game referred to as "thwacker ball" but having his favorite show not called by its proper name is too much.
I, on the other hand, love it, because Coco is tuning in to something most people with reasonable ears and a modicum of experience know anyway. All Disney teeny-singers sound similar. Part perky, part constipated.
And therefore Coco calls everything High School Musical 2 (this number part in particular drives the other kids nuts) that has some teenager singing about something unfamiliar in an overproduced fashion.
Today, for example, he proudly remembered that we had a Hilary Duff CD and kept telling the other kid that it's High School Musical 2.
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."

On the other hand, I recently downloaded the Go-Go's doing the original "Our Lips Are Sealed" and Coco preferred Hilary Duff's version.
What is the world coming to?

Madge Monday

Little behind, but here we go.
Had another kid with us all day, a former classmate of hers. And one of his coping mechanisms, I think - what do I know, I don't have a degree in child psychology; but then again, what to child psychologists know, they only have a degree in child psychology - is to ask endless meaningless questions. For example, on the way home from the library:
He: Can we go down this street?
I: Sure.
He: Why?
Madge was extremely (that adverb is an understatement) frustrated with him. At one point she said, "I know I can't call him dummy, but I wish I could."
He is pretty good-natured (and had been bugging me, too), so I said, "You know what? Go ahead."
So she said, "Dummy!" and we all laughed and she felt better.
Then, of course, I had to make her stop.

(And, for some reason, Coco didn't pick up on the name-calling. Lucky all around.)

Monkee Doo

Coco events are always convoluted. Yesterday he threw up after being on the swings too long.

Why was he on the swings too long?

Because we rented some Monkees episodes and their music videos feature them frolicking and swinging and hanging upside down and doing a flip dismount.

On sand.

Coco's version looked a bit different. I should considere myself lucky that it only ended with vomit.

For the interested parties: the main note was red Kool Aid.

absent-minded

Weird how time flies. I was so busy with limericks last night that I forgot to post.

Lucky for you, though, I got to read another poem at the playground.

IT is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,--
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

Cute, at first sight, because of the little "day - May" thingie in the middle. But it doesn't hold up to much rereading because of the cheap rhymes (i.e., I'm no theorist, it's just what I call it when none of the rhyming words carry much meaning).
And, as a result, he may have ironically counteracted his premise.
("He" being Ben Jonson.)

Coco Tuesday

Tonight we went to get a birthday card for GrandJohn. (Happy Birthday, GrandJohn!)
As so often happens, merely going on such a shopping trip means that bribery must take place. Therefore Madge and Coco each got a mood ring.
While Madge's stayed somewhere around purple, I think Coco's ran through the whole rainbow and then stuck out a white flag in resignation.
Those things really work.

Madge Monday

We saw Harry Potter again today. Good thing, too, because the kids asked to leave during different parts, which means that Julie and I got to fill in the gaps on what we missed the first time.
Madge actually talked back at the screen today. Hee, hee.
At her age it's excusable, I think. The first time there were grownups doing it. Less amusing.
But I'm not sure what the cut-off age is.

Staten Island

I'm always impressed with minor league baseball. Not the games themselves, what with the sloppy pitching and all, but with the experience as a whole. And yesterday was a good one. We went to see the Staten Island Yankees play the Brooklyn Cyclones in Staten Island. So the trip itself was fun, obviously. Taking the ferry is always a pleasure, and actually having something to do in Staten Island is a plus. The stadium also has a view of downtown Manhattan, so if the game it too boring, there's always that to distract you as well.
The best part was getting the tickets. As we got to the ticket booth, the lady told us it was sold out. "Awww." But right next to the booth was a lady who couldn't believe her luck to find a party wanting six tickets together. She was so happy to get rid of them all at once that she sold them to us below cost. Not much of a capitalist, obviously. More hotdogs for us.
Speaking of scalping tickets.
This was the second group of guest we've taken on the ferry and they were the second to express their suprise at the fact that the ferry is free of charge. Which got me to thinking that you could make a pretty penny without actually lying directly by standing in the waiting area with a roll of tickets, shouting, "Tickets! Who needs tickets?"
Can they arrest me if I don't say that they are tickets for anything in particular?
And the price? "Five dollars. Wait. Do you have a Metro Card? Yes? Then only three."
I think it could be lucrative.

Not-so-random Aphorism

It's not easy to find one about money that's not over the top.
Here's one by one of the best aphorists ever.

Plenty of people despise money, but few know how to give it away.
-- La Rochefoucauld

money money money

We went to the Federal Reserve today. Going to Manhattan is always an adventure, but that part of town is especially tough for certain people who don't like crowds. The Federal Reserve was quite a respite from all that because it is the Holy Shrine of Gold, complete with sharpshooting monks who enforce silence and humility.
Before you get to go into the vault and see a cage filled with gold bars, you get to watch a video of them handling the stuff. By the wheelbarrow. Literally. And this stuff is 99% pure, not 60%, like the stuff around people's fingers and in their ears.
Anyway, it was quite a mind trip. Especially when the guide asked if anyone was claustrophobic. Because, once your mind is thinking about being trapped, all the information afterward gets filtered through the Escape and Freedom Lobe. Information about being five stories underground in so and so much reinforced steel. And then they start shutting the vault door and talking about how it's air- and water-tight and anyone locked in would stay for 24 hours because the door mechanism is linked to a timer and that there's enough air there for one person for 72 hours. The group had about ten people.
Eek.
Needless to say, I didn't explain any of this to Coco, who gets a little antsy in the subway.

Guests in town

A good thing, because we now have a change of pace. We'll see how much tourist action the kids can take, but it could be fun.
But first. Sticky day. Pool. Picnic in park.
Here's something, though.
Julie asked if Coco had any tantrums today and our guest said yes. I clarified that he just pouted a little. I guess our guest is in for quite a surprise.

word thoughts

It appears the English language doesn't have too high an opinion of offspring since the only rhymes for "babies" that spring to mind are:
maybes, scabies, and rabies.
What is our linguistic heritage trying to tell us?
I should stick to the legal word: issue.

Coco Tuesday

Temperatures in the eighties and Coco is wearing a long-sleeved fleece sweater.
Here's why.
Today's my birthday (thank you, thank you).* Madge was in charge of opening a package from Lands' (they never corrected their inaugural apostrophic typo - shows you what kind of conservatism they practice) End from Granny. The instructions were to hide the thing for me and wrap it and keep and enjoy the things for them. They loved their lunchboxes and her new skirt. This morning I unwrap two things. A nice short-sleeved shirt (thanks, Mom) and a fleece sweater, size M. Turns out the fleece is a kid's M. First I thought Granny made a little online ordering mistake, but then I realized it was supposed to be for Coco. And he was so excited he wore it throughout the day.
He loves it.
And ya gotta love giving little ones gifts. Though that kids of enthusiams stops around age seven, when you start getting, "Is that all?"
I, by now, have learned that actually saying "Is that all?" out loud is considered rude.

* Happy Birthday to Gary Larson, Steve Martin, and Russell Baker as well.

Madge Monday

I always thought it was understood, but I should add here beforehand that facts on this blog (especially conversations) get altered for comic impact. But the gist...

Sunday morning. Yesterday's leftover bagel and cream cheese has just been consumed.

Madge: Do we have more cream cheese?
Julie: No, I had the last. Do you want me to get you more?
Madge: Yes.
Moi: Don't worry. I'll go.
Madge: Thank you, Mommy.
Moi: ?!?

Another Aphorism

And why not? Picked from my book at random again, I swear.

Praises of the unworthy are felt by ardent minds as robberies of the deserving.
-- Coleridge

Thing is, though, that the lack of context here doesn't make clear whether Coleridge thinks it a good or bad thing to have (or be) an ardent mind.

That said, how about that Barry Bonds, hunh?

kid-heavy posting

I've realized why I've been posting mostly about kid activities. It's because we're on vacation and I don't really have contact with anyone else. These last two days we've just stayed at home. The first day because Madge seemed worn out, and today because the weather was too cool for our regular pool routine. So we lounged around in the morning and then bickered and fought later in the afternoon.
But we're good now. All it takes is looking at them when they sleep and things get better.

Read a poem the other day - whoa, alert the media. No, not a big deal, but it was one of Shakespeare's and it was called "The Phoenix and the Turtle" and I (like many other modern readers, I assume) thought it was some sort of Edward Lear thing until I realized in the last line that the titular turtle was a dove. So I had to reread it.
I still didn't make any sense to me.

Give it a go if you want.

For those with short attention spans, here are my favorite lines:

So they loved, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

...Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appalled,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was called.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together,
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded,

...

Truth may seem, but cannot be:
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.

mnemonic hint

Count the letters.
If you need even more, check the comments to this post. I'm leaving the answer there.

mnemonics

My SAT prep gig just showed up again in my inbox and I'll be signing on soon.
It reminded me of stumbling upon an entry on mnemonics. I'm not a big fan of them, because they are usually more difficult to remember than the thing itself. Though, for some people, it really works. Case in point, my mom tends to remember combinations and phone numbers by people's birthdays she knows, which is fine, but she often has to add a number here and there. "It's your great-aunt's birthday plus sixteen, the age you were when she finished that 5,ooo piece puzzle." Or some such.

Here's an example from the entry on mnemonics. I'll give it as a quiz (and don't just type it into Google - that's cheating).

"How I want a drink, alcoholic of course, after the heavy lectures involving quantum mechanics."

What is this sentence supposed to remind you of?
Leave your best guesses in the comments and check in later for a hint and then, maybe, the answer.

I'm a goober

I can't help myself. Sometimes goofy things make me laugh or snicker aloud even when I'm alone.
For example, I occasionally put crappy songs on Julie's iPod just to remind her of me when she's shuffling through the on the subway. This time I picked a real stinker, The Carpenters' "Superstar." I just listened to it. Creepily terrible, but I might have to listen again because there's also something catchy about it. I may have it wrong, but there is a line in it that goes something like, "Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh, baby."
Magic!
And the orchestration, aside from the dull drumming and annoying bass, includes the inevitable english horn plaintive line and harp glissando.
Whoooo!
I can't wait for Julie to call me to complain.
And I'm giggling again right now.

Coco Tuesday

A couple of choice father-and-son moments.

At the pool, he's started bobbing up and down and flailing his arms. I think he's touching the bottom with his feet when he's submerged. The whole thing looks like he's drowning and struggling to stay alive.
Needless to say I get many concerned looks from other parents.
Here's our conversation about it:
"Coco, are you okay?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing?"
"It tickles my penis."
"Oh." ["Carry on."]

A woman who was too big for her clothing - but not by much - was crossing the street ahead of us. I was in the process of determining whether the entire effect was pleasant or not (a difficult task with only a distant view from behind), when we had this conversation about it:
"Daddy. Look at her butt."
"Coco! Shhh. You shouldn't say stuff about people's looks in general and bodies in particular." ["Way ahead of you."]

Madge Monday

Highlights of today's playdate (that is, Madge had a playdate, which then migrated to our house):
When we got there, Madge - who wanted a playdate so she could get away from Coco for a while and play with kids her own age - said, "Can Coco stay?" (I've got a little bald patch from yanking out a chunk of my hair.)
The playdate was brave and tried to eat the bread Coco had chosen at the store even though none of the kids could manage to chew it. I finally made her a peanut butter sandwich.
They played shoe store. Not my shoes, obviously. But those of the person in the house who has more shoes than feet (and fingers and toes and ...) [Oh, have I mentioned that Julie's work has been blocking the blog?]
Finally, I was called in to adjudicate a dispute as to whether the "sugar packets" in the shoe boxes are edible or not. One had already been opened, but none eaten. Or so I must trust.
Meanwhile, I've pressed 9 and 1 and am holding my phone ready just in case.

my likeness

See, this is the fun kind of thing you can make at the Simpsons site. They call it making an Avatar.

(It's late, so I'm wearing my glasses.)

Finished Faulkner

I'm not sure I should have been laughing as much as I was. The beer probably helped.
As did the suddenness and bizarreness of some of the events. Still, not much of a plot.
But, hey, there's other ways to get plot. Like the Three Musketeers, which I'm reading to Madge at bedtime. Now I have two reasons to look forward to the kids' bedtime(s).

Also, if you're looking to use your work time creatively and meaningfully, mosey over to www.simpsonsmovie.com and make characters that look like you, your friends, your colleagues, etc.

Friday slowdown

I can't think of anything witty myself - at this moment - so I'll dip into my handy book of Aphorisms.

How's this? It's the first one I landed on, really.

Regarded as a means, the businessman is tolerable; regarded as an end he is not so satisfactory.
--John Maynard Keynes.

I'd say, if Keynes knew some of our neighbors, he'd realize that it is too weakly worded.

elevator troubles

Our summer schedule has been shifted a bit this week, mostly because the elevator has been out two mornings in a row.
We get to the pool the Flintstones way – through the courtesy of my two feet while the kids recline in the stroller. The stroller is too wide for the regular door and stairway, but it’s just fine in the elevator. And the elevator is one of those fancy contraptions that opens right into our apartment. Which makes it such a crushing blow to discover that it isn’t working.
Now. I happen to be on the email list for the people who own the condos in this building and there’s been quite a bit of yapping about the elevators in the other buildings with the same management company, built by the same developer. Not happy. One of the members suggested going to the NYTimes. I suggested storming the Bastille, but then decided against actually sending that email.
But I think they may have a point with the company that maintains the elevators – called Rotavele (tricky, no? and also ironic since they tend to get things backwards). See, on the days they fixed the elevators they left a scrawled note on the ground floor door saying that they needed to get parts and it would be another day.
Too bad I didn’t take a picture for evidence, because the best part followed. Carelessly scratched out were the words “Sorry for.”
Obviously they thought better of having any compassion for the tenants. Heavens forefend there might be a wheelchair-bound person on an upper floor. (There’s not, but a family with twinfants on the fifth floor who were quite inconvenienced, I’m sure.)

Dead-bleeping-wood

I’m no bleeping prude, but…

On the recommendation of some friends, I rented the first disc of the HBO series “Deadwood.” And within the first few minutes of a show set in the Dakotas in 1876, there were some f—ks, some c—ksuckers, even a c—t. And they made me cringe. Not because I don’t appreciate the use of these words, but because they seem out of place, or out of time, rather.
I’m still trying to decide whether it’s as if the characters were wearing sneakers or merely boots with a Harley-Davidson logo on them.
Typing a few choice words into Google I found this:
http://nymag.com/nymetro/news/people/columns/intelligencer/n_10191/
of which my favorite quote is,

[Creator David Milch] cites a bibliography he put together in his research. “It’s called ‘Profanity in Deadwood,’ and it has like 50 sources.”

That’s like so cool.
I couldn’t finish the first episode the first time around.But then I figured, hell, I rented it, why not watch it. And there’s good stuff, though it seems like a prolonged “It’s a Wonderful Life” set in a Wild West Pottersville. Still, the bad guy is really bad. Who knows, maybe I’ll rent another disc. And pretty soon I won’t care if they’re wearing espadrilles.