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"?
Monday, October 01, 2007
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
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.
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.)
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.)
Saturday, September 29, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, September 28, 2007
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.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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.
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:
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."
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 24, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Friday, September 21, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
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?"
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.)
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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.
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.
Al Gore's movie made money, so global warming must be true. The market has spoken.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 17, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Friday, September 14, 2007
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.
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