My op-ed that I probably won't send anywhere

Is Our Schools Learning?

Apparently, New York City schools are getting grades, and parent groups are upset about this. They asked me and all the parents they could talk to during parent-teacher conferences to send letters to the mayor and others.
Luckily, I no longer try to impress random women by letting them dictate my opinions, so I asked the lady who tried to recruit my voice what difference it would make if the school got a B or a D, she wasn’t quite sure, but thought it might reflect in funding that goes to the school. I didn’t ask the follow-up, namely whether the B or the D gets more money. Oh, well.
The letter I’m supposed to sign has a list of grievances, all of which pertain to the flaws of a grading system. Ironic, given the context of parent-teacher conferences. Obviously, a major one is that the grading system tries to take into consideration both “achievement” and “progress,” which means that the only way to really get a good grade is to screw up initially.
The letter doesn’t address two flaws I can think of off the top of my head, namely (A) that, unlike a grade for a student which – as the name report card implies – is a report from the school to the parent, here the grader and the recipient of the report card is one and the same; and (B) that the grades aren’t an age-appropriate reflection. What I’m trying to say is that a third grader and a first grader can’t do the same work; neither can schools with differing histories and problems.

But none of this is what really gets my goat. What riled me is that the school that is complaining here got a B and wants an A. This is reflected in the final point on the letter: “the report card demoralizes whole school communities that have worked hard for the success of their schools.”

Is our school’s self-esteem so fragile that a grade makes all the difference? Eek.

Poetic Madge

Poor Madge.
This morning the kids were sleeping in past 7, so I went in to wake them at 7:20.
"Hey, how's my Madgie this morning?"
"I don't feel like Madgie today."
"No? Who do you feel like?"
"Blaaaaack."
(And she was not doing a Richard Roundtree imitation.)
Madge's poetry prize was a thermometer in her ear and a pass to stay home.

Coco Tuesday

Parent-teacher or teacher-parent meetings today, I'm not sure which.
Either way, it appears that the teachers like Madge and Coco, and why shouldn't they.
Coco seems to be doing even better than anticipated - no balky transitions, no scratching, so I'm happy.
Right now, though, he's chewing on the coffee table while pretending to be scared of "What's New, Scooby-Doo?"
Next up: the turn-off-tv fight and bathtime.

Madge Monday

Madge asked today if veteran's day had anything to do with animals.
I should have just said "yes" because when I explained it, her eyes glazed over.
We used the opportunity to see "Fred Claus." Good enough movie.
I'm not sure how much Madge and Coco got out of it. These movies raise as many questions as answer them about you-know-who and neither of the kids really like it when I remind them that it's just a movie and no one has actually seen you-know-who and that all these movies are just "educated" guesses as to his whereabouts and activities.
But they'll paste together their own versions, I'm sure.

Hidden Causes?

In a book called Artist to Artist: 23 Major Illustrators Talk to Children about Their Art, I stumbled across this note to an image of Mordicai Gerstein's studio:

I like northern light because it casts fewer shadows.

Is that the secret to Southern goth? The light casts more shadows? Things are visually presented in greater relief?

Ornament or Weapon?

One of Coco's teachers wears something like this around her neck.

The other day she pulled me aside and said that Coco asked her, very enthusiastically, "Are you a vampire hunter?"

Hee, hee. We're doing something right.

TV Thursday

Since the addition of TV to our household, I figure I ought to make it a regular feature on the blog, like Madge Monday and Coco Tuesday. But the most alliterative possibility is TV Thursday and I’m usually too tired after Wednesday’s late-night limerick-write to put something cohesive together.
Still, TV is bringing up as many issues as either of the kids, so I think I’ll give it a go.
More than just: TV is crap. Because, sure, it is, but it is crap everyone can relate to and everyone seems to have to deal with.
The irony, of course, is that there’s the WGA strike going on now and the kids wouldn’t know the difference since, quite frankly, Disney Channel’s acting is so bad that the writing really doesn’t make a difference.
Only a strike by the fake studio audience would affect their production value , but then, how would the kids know when to react .
I still need to figure out how to get them to watch some TMC. If only that bleeping channel’s schedule would coincide better with the kids’ bedtime, we’d have something.

I’ve said this to Julie and I’ll write it here. I remember viscerally hating my parents for not letting me watch my favorite show, “Wickie,” or for turning it off so we could have dinner or something. Of course now I’m embarrassed by my behavior.
I see where they’re coming from. This just means that when I turn it off I show them my tough skin that can take the insults and attitude.
But I remember…

Hank James, again

Okay, learn along with me. Why aren’t “we” supposed to write with too many adjectives? Because adjectives “tell;” they don’t “show.” And mere telling is uninteresting. When characters are and act, readers feel involved. When characters are merely described they are little more than scenery.
So what is Henry James doing by using adjectives? He’s commenting on the characters he writes about. For example, the passage in “Brooksmith” that made me come up with my silly poetic exercise in “adjectives, adverbs” is this:

They required no depth of attention – they were all referable to usual irredeemable inevitable types. It was the world of cheerful commonplace and conscious gentility and prosperous density, a full-fed material insular world, a world of hideous florid plate and ponderous order and thin conversation.

Whoa.
And later on the same page there is mention of “an elderly dreary dingy person.” If stories let actions and characters unfold, then caricatures burdened with so many adjectives have no chance of becoming anything but stage props. And that is exactly what this “person” is.

Of course I wouldn’t have noticed any of this if Madge hadn’t pointed it out in the reading room of the New York Public Library.

Coco Tuesday

Coco still has a witching hour between two and three o’clock, but now it comes as a surprise again because of the time change. Today we were in Manhattan, about to come home again when started balking and making adamant illogical demands. And, since Madge is usually in school during these fussy periods she wasn’t able to keep calm during the screaming and urged me to give in. We worked it out, though.
Today was an election here, voting for or against several judges and one proposition. Since the voting uses public schools, public schools close for an election and bake sale extravaganza. The voting was in the gym, so we were polite and got the crumbly goodies after voting.
I lured Coco to the voting by saying that it was going to be in the gym and that there might be basketballs around. This worked fine, until he started whining about the absence of sporting equipment. So he got the extra-sugary doughnut on the way out.
Doughnuts followed bus- and subway-ride. Lucky me.
We went to Grand Central Station, just to check it out and to see if the O & Co. store is somewhere I’d like to work. It’s affiliated with L’Occitane, started by the same founder, and does with olive oils what L’Occitane does with soaps. Looks good.
But to get them to go into an olive oil (and other yummy accompanimental foods) store, I plied them with Lifesavers and Dots. And then we got hungry. And Grand Central is a lovely place with lovely foods, but it’s crowded and fairly fast-paced, so the kids did not feel good about eating there.
Luckily, there was a Food Exchange nearby. I know, you’re thinking what I’m thinking: what, you get to bring in food you don’t like and trade it for something you do? No. Turns out you bring in money. So we went to Citibank first.
The irony, though, is that you can’t even exchange the food you put in for something you put out since the place doesn’t have bathrooms.
So we walked a bit to Starbucks. From there we saw the Central Library and forewent the ubiquitous coffee place for a lovely tinkle in a grand old stone building.
Madgie-cutie was enamored by the reading room and picked up, get this, the first volume of The Collected Works of Henry James. She wanted to read it there. I love that kid.
She and I will have to go back to argue in peace – since we all know that she’ll only want to stay and read for about ten minutes before she’ll beg to use the computer terminals.
Still, it was a moment to be cherished. Or would have been if Coco hadn’t whined about going home. Which turned into a whine about Old MacDonald’s and finally a tantrum about not being able to use the subway turnstile on his own.

I should have put out a hat. I’m sure our show would have made us some money.

Bobby H.

Julie's out of town again and as so often happens I use my "spare" time pretending to be literary.

Take a good look at the face in the etching here. Now read the following lines.

Whenas is silks my Julia goes,

Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows

The liquefaction of her clothes.

See, if he had had a pretty face, he wouldn't have the need to come up with such smooth lines, even if he had the capacity, which, with a pretty face, he wouldn't have in the first place. Or would he and we wouldn't have known because the need had never arisen?

Madge Monday

Madge had a sleepover at our house this weekend.
Madge's friend is quite fun and has an amazingly infectious laugh. She's a middle child, so she knows how to deal with a little sibling and is good to Coco. And, apparently, they are very much at ease with one another, which is great to see.
For example, at one point Madge came out of the bathroom (after spending about ten seconds in it) and said,
"Don't you hate it when you have to go to the bathroom and you get there and then you don't have to?"
Which is funny enough on its own and sounds like an intro to a stand-uppy rant. But then her friends topped it off with,
"And then you tell people and they don't believe you that you didn't pee in your pants."

Happens to me every day.

Trifles

This is the kind of crazy idea I have and then get behind. Hear me out.

I'm nosing around in a book called 50 Great Short Stories, edited by Milton Crane. I said to Julie that if I ever got around to writing a collection of short stories, the collection would be entitled 12 Middling Short Stories, With One or Two Great Ones Lurking About.
But the weirdest thing has happened. The more stories I read in this book, the more I realize they're all great. Imagine.
Anyway, there's a story by Henry James in it, "Brooksmith." Henry James is an author I've never read much, mostly because of the kind of people who seem to be enamored by his works. My friend Flo is an exception, and because of him have I read "Brooksmith," which, of course, is great.
I noticed, though, that James embraces adjectives and adverbs and in general writes in the kind of way that "How To Get Your Book Out Of the Slushpile and Into Print" warn against.
So I had this idea of collecting his adjectives and adverbs and writing them up as a poem. The problem is that the story is a bit long and that readers might lose interest. An an exercise, it is endlessly fascinating, especially because the one short paragraphs without any adjectives or adverbs whatsoever is the one in which a decisive crisis occurs.
Here's a select snippet of the opening pages, condensed:

Jamesian, Henrily


Scattered late certain esoteric enough such most agreeable most attaching retired good deal confined delighted any most intimate prime foreign delightful signal horrid principal,
Not too grumpily simply

Overwhelmed particular happy Londonish grey opposite white high exact particular pruned tendered human,
Perpetually merely essentially vividly intensely well largely

Many famous finest social English smiling suggestive sinuous affectionate pious sallow smoked large last distinguished dear apt some physical many social slow only own pleasantest compact charmed casual fine old last-century remarkable best rich somewhat superannuated,
Doubtless usually insidiously slightly certainly peculiarly really finally notoriously

Some opposed present such good happy obvious feminine mere hidden occult other very natural fine,
Perfectly supremely singularly already

Many few right right wrong general single convenient all convenient happy ready willing foreordained unheard of fundamental,
Never never always really always never fast never quickly
somehow

Madge and Friend

Whoa. These girls are starting to be big kids, aren't they? Hamming it up for the camera.

And, yes, that's purple hair.

Trick or Treat

Sorry to inform you that our camera is getting old. Apparently, more than two years of service is too much to ask of digital equipment. It takes the darn thing forever to focus and get a picture taken, especially in dark situations, so I just stopped using it.

We had candy to get to, after all.

So this is pretty much it, picture-wise.

Halloween Pix winner

Our neighbors went as a themed family. But it would have been nothing without the dog.

Installation

Madge set it up. We call it

Careful: Spilled Cat.

Can't wait

Ordinarily, I'd wait for a news story on an indictment for tax-evasion to post this, but I don't have the patience right now, since I just thought of these lines yesterday:

Unreported income -
well-reported outcome.

Coco Tuesday

Perhaps Coco is precocious in the wrong way.
He saw a preview of Over the Hedge, in which the Steve-Carrell-voiced squirrel burps the alphabet (though he may have had a burp double). Coco therefore proceeded to do the same, since he learned from his Opa how to swallow air and make himself burp. But Coco doesn't know his alphabet yet, so he burped something like "A, B, D, G, C, O, P, F, ..."

Madge Monday

Madge can't wait for cable to come, which is tomorrow. She even made a set of rules for good TV usage and behavior. Homework first, agree on what to watch or at least take turns choosing, etc. She came up with the rules herself.
This weekend I told one of my classes about getting TV. For some reason I thought they'd find it cute. They're sixteen and seventeen. They found it no such thing. They were shocked and outraged. "What!? What do you mean, you have no TV!?!"
And then the following questions really blew me away.
How do you get the news?
Don't you follow sports?
How do you watch movies?
And, my favorite: What do you do when you don't know what to do?
Little did I know how deprived Madge really is, having to figure out something to do when there's nothing to do.
Her solution, by the way, is to say, "I'm bored."
Expecting me (or some electronic surrogate) to unbore her.

Sloppy punctuation

I know I wan't consistent with NUMBERam and simply a.m. But I'm lazy and I think it's obvious that "am" after a number is not a form of the verb "to be" while on its own that's not so clear. So I fudged.
I'm currently reading a book on punctuation. Grammar book publishers seem to have a law that insists on punny titles: "A Dash of Style," "You Have a Point," "Lapsing Into a Comma," etc. Therefore I found it rather strange that the book has a section entitled,
"What your use of the colon says about you."

How I use my colon is between me and my proctologist, I think.

Windows

Last week, the GE guy came for an estimate. The window they gave me: 8am to 5pm. He came at 4pm. Hey, at least they could specify a day. I hear some people are not so lucky. As he put it, "Do you want an a.m. appointment, or p.m.?" and, after a pause, "Let me just say that with an a.m. appointment you're more likely to see me on that day, since we overbook."
What's next, a security check?
Jeez. He called me about ten minutes ago, asking if the part came. Since I said yes, he's going to show up. I'm guessing he's looking for parking now on streetcleaning day with alternate double parking.
I'll try to make his job easy.

Teaser for a future post

I have neither the time nor the energy to unpack the whole playdate now.
Let me just say that when someone asks me about our summer and I talk about going to the pool and then reciprocate innocently by asking about her summer I do not expect, "We separated because my in-laws came to stay here."
In retrospect, I feel blindsided. At the time, I was just fighting to keep a neutral expression.

Coco Waxes Poetic

One of the things it pains me to admit about oil and gas on the roads is that they become mesmerizingly beautiful when swirling in water.
As we were crossing a street today, Coco said,
"Look. A rainbow is taking a bath."

Pictures to go with yesterday's post

A Title

You're welcome to this title. All you have to do is write the book.

From Goldwater to Blackwater: Sounding the Depths of the Republican Party.

(I know there's Watergate and Whitewater in between, but I think this suffices. Or, one could play an analogy game - Goldwater is to Watergate as Whitewater is to Blackwater - or some such.)

Science/Art in the Mini-School Hall

One of these days I'll remember to bring my camera, but for now just trust my description.
Across from Coco's classroom is a science lab, and on its wall hang several third-grade pictures of a scientific nature: circuits, volcanos, the usual, all drawn in thin lines with plenty of labeling. But one is different. It's in marker, colorful.
The more I think about it, the more awesome it is.
The picture itself is half green (grass) and half blue (sky). The blue part has a huge sun in it, bright yellow, towards the left.
I think the picture is meant to be "read" from the middle out, but that's just my interpretation. For the sake of this post, I'll continue from top left to bottom right. So, top left had the sun. The ottom left (entirely on the grass) has a red apple WITH A BITE OUT OF IT - I told you it's awesome. In the middle is a black and gray gorilla, bridging grass and sky. On the far right, also entirely on the grass, is yellow fire (from black sticks).
Here's the kicker. It has only two words: one, the artist's name (Peter), and the other, CHANCE (all caps).
At first I thought it was just a weird picture but then I realized that this kid is triangulating creation stories (Biblical-Edenic, Darwinist, Greek-Promethean) and is questioning them by adding the word CHANCE (or is he stacking the deck for Darwinism?) and, don't forget, his own name (which appears to be stacking the deck towards the creationist base).
I've tried to share my interpretation with other parents waiting for their kids, but none have caught his Promethean spark. I'm working on them, Peter.

Sharing

I think I've written about this before, but it happened again and it strikes me that it is a parable for parenting in general.


Family Hotdog(s)

Only the meat for one.
The other wants only the bun.
But – here the vendor gets flustered –
One wants ketchup, the other one mustard.

Coco Tuesday

I'm going to have to keep my eye on Coco and the ladies. Today was the second time he told me that he kissed some girl in his class or that some girl kissed him. He's four, girls. Your people need to talk to my people before we can let anything happen.

On a different note, we noticed again how little he likes change. We moved some furniture around this weekend to more fully accommodate the arrival of cable TV. While we were shuffling stuff around, he just played with a toy on the couch, oblivious to the world.
Poor guy.

Fodder for Discussion

From a quick skim, it seems as if JK Rowling gave a talk and the people from her biggest fan website published what she said. I'm saying seems because this is the web, after all, and fiction and faction get mixed up a lot. That said, there's some steamy things to think about here.
(This post is meant in particular for Julie, Auntie Boo, and Teacher Ana, but anyone is welcome, of course.)

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.