I'm the Decider

Thanks to Ethelbert for this: I'm the Decider

It's just a bit creepy how tightly this is written. (Definitely listen to the end when the clips come in.)

How To Propose

My friend Karen from Colby sent out a great story about getting proposed to (at? No, it's to. It sounds like getting acclimatized to...). Anyway, the story involved her man taking her on a bike ride, but of course that day she didn't want to go on a bike ride, but he insisted. And then, after they fell down a mountainside, busted up their bikes, and sprained some arms and legs, he proposed.

No, it was more romantic than that.

But M-N brought up the point that proposals, or at least the slightly involved and complicated ones, tend to involve one person suggesting to the other that they go do something that's completely symbolic of them as a couple. But the proposee is, naturally, often disinclined to do whatever it is (bike riding, pole vaulting, or stamp collecting).

So the proposer has to get adamant, force the issue a bit ("But I've wanted to grind wheat into flour all day!"), which may then lead to some resentment ("We just ritualistically slaughtered the pigs on Tuesday!").

I could mention here that this is very appropriate preparation for the squabbles of marriage, but that's too easy. When I proposed to M-N, I had come to visit her for a week (we were living half-way across the country from each other at the time). I kept waiting for a good time, but she was working a crap job, it was play season, and I finally just had to do it on the last night.

What's the point of this story? Hot air balloons. If you get the proposee in a hot air balloon, she or he can't think about anything else but how great you are, how romantic it all is, and the possibility of plunging towards a horrible, horrible death.

Hot air balloons.

A Puking Good Time

We've been going to the park these last few afternoons, and with the boy's level of motor skills, his options are: the swings, the slide (w/one of us at the top and one at the bottom), the see-saw (they have one of these new-fangled ones with springs so it's harder to hurt people), the animals on springs you sort of ride like a bull, and eating sand.

We usually do each activity until he seems dizzy, which seems to be the point of most playground activities. This never occurred to me until I was spending my time at the park watching a baby. It got me thinking about one of my favorites from senior year of high school (when we'd skip out on first period to go to the park -- yeah, we were rough).

I loved the merry-go-round. The idea is to spin it so fast that you either get flung off or you get so discombobulated that you can hardly walk. Perhaps that's why this local playground doesn't have one.

This gets me back to the see-saw. M-N seems to have been traumatized by a mutant killer see-saw when she was a kid, but I clearly remember liking them because of the trust issues. You don't go on a see-saw with someone you can't trust. Or, you try to coax someone on the see-saw who shouldn't trust you, then when it gets boring, you jump off while he or she is up in the air.

With the spring-controlled see-saw, this is impossible. I guess it's safer, but if childhood isn't about overcoming peril and rampant danger, then what's the point?

A beautiful day in the neighborhood

Sometimes it's almost more fun to google relevant images and find crazy stuff than to write these posts.

Anyway, it looks like a nice day outside, finally, after about 39 days of rain. We haven't ventured out yet. Paxton's been on a weird nap schedule and my philosophy is, if he'll sleep, let him sleep.

So I've been taking advantage of the nice day by writing cover letters for job openings and writing a classified ad for one of our cats. If only I could trade the cat for a job.

Or make a living selling cats.

Perhaps to be used in experiments that benefit humanity or involve giant cannons.

I need to research this. To Google!!!

Little Dude Walks, Villagers Flee in Terror

For those of you keeping score at home, mark down yesterday as the first time Paxton walked completely unaided by a parent, table, couch, wall, or by hanging onto the tail of a fleeing cat. He first did it while hanging out with M-N as I was out tutoring. He successfully repeated it a few more times after I got home.

There's that saying, "Necessity is the mother of invention." Well, with Little Dude, it goes like this: "Mother is the necessity of invention." She's always fostering these breakthroughs. She's been the driving force behind other advancements, such as the the move to solid foods and the wearing of layers during winter.

In fact, when I tried to repeat the walking move this morning, now with recharged batteries in the camera, he wouldn't do it. That's ok. She'll be home this afternoon, and I'm sure that while I'm again out tutoring, he'll learn to pole vault or defuse a bomb.

Incidentally, his nickname is shifting from raptor-baby to MacGyver-toddler. The scary thing about raptors was how they could open doors and not eat Jeff Goldblum. MacGyver-toddler figured out how our answering machine works, learning how to play messages and retrieve our passcode.

So when I mentioned he'll learn how to defuse a bomb, I fully expect that.

In West Philadelphia, born and raised...

We're home for a while, finally, after two trips to the scenic Philadelphia airport in one week. We had to on Sunday, return home Monday, then go again on Thursday, returning on Friday.

Should anyone out there be seeking advice on the various terminals, car rental agencies, and eating options in PHL, just let me know. We're blossoming experts.

The great tragedy of these trips is that while we drove through Will Smith's neighborhood twice (or three times, I'm not sure), drove past the art museum (aka, the Rocky museum), and got to experience Philly rush hour (like Boston's, only with more PA plates), I never got a cheesesteak. In fact, the only cheesesteak I had last week was on Wednesday, at a D'Angelo's in Braintree, while taking M-N to her knitting group.

Although, that cheesesteak was awesome. Actually, it was a "Steak Bomb" -- and though I'm a pacifist, I wholeheartedly support any and all food products with "bomb" in the name.

Torgo seeks work

Little time for blogging this week. Several trips in search of a job for the fall. I just need one.

Like a retired general, I have an opinion

I'm not a retired general, but I think Rumsfeld should resign. Does that count? If they're going to cover it in the news, I have many more suggestions about who should resign.

On a related note, Dick Cheney made over $8 million last year, as reported on his taxes. Bush made just about $750,000. Bush needs to get in on more of those no-bid contracts. And hunt more farm-raised, hand-fed, caged, docile, confused and disoriented birds. (That story went away too quickly.)

Sustainability

There's a Quicktime video you can watch that's really only compelling if you like Pearl Jam, but in it, there's an interesting bit about living responsibly with regards to the planet. One of the guys in the band talks about researching the environmental impact of the cd manufacturing process-- the raw materials, the factory, the workers --and how they want to be conscious of what goes into making each Pearl Jam cd, and then either minimize the harmful effects, or balance those actions with others that effectively negate the damage.



I'd read about these same guys trying to counteract the pollution from their tour buses through reforestation programs. The idea was roundabout, but noble: calculate the exhaust produced in a tour, then, supposing one can know the positive environmental effects of each tree, plant trees to neutralize the buses.

It's probably not a foolproof system, but it's nice to see them trying. Plus, the new album is supposed to be awesome.

The power of two minds in a marriage

They have dog biscuits that brush a dog's teeth. What if they had the same thing for people?

I could be sitting on the couch, having a snack, and preventing tooth decay.

I could not have come up with this on my own.

I have 1000 friends

Ok, no, not really. But the counter on this site was at 999 a minute ago. Not the counter you see, that counts the page views. The counter site I get also tracks the number of visits to the site, and that's at 999. I should probably change it so you see the regular counter, but I didn't know how at the time I set it up, so, well, it's there now.

What's that mean? Nothing, really. I probably account for about 400 of those. But still, thanks to everyone who reads this blog.

I think I may have more readers on this thing than I had listeners in 4 years as a DJ in college. I had a lot of readers while writing for newspapers in high school and college, because people liked me in high school and hated me in college, and both sentiments were made quite clear. As for this blog, I think the consensus is: "eh." But "eh" 999 times is still cool.

LIIIIIIME!!!

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about a recipe that required kaffir limes, which are different from common American limes, I learned. I went to a couple of grocery stores, searching all over the produce departments. I didn't ever find them then.

Today, I decided that kaffir limes are my Khan, as in the fabled Star Trek character (and no, incidentally, I'm in no way a Trekkie, but I did see a bunch of the old movies, and the best one by far was the second, Wrath of Khan, where those little slug things crawled into those poor bastards' ears).

Tonight's entree is supposed to be fresh sea scallops with, you guessed it, both kaffir lime juice and kaffir lime peel shavings. The last recipe called for the leaves. I guess, like the buffalo, all parts of the mythical kaffir lime are precious.

Little Man and I went to three supermarkets, found some great scallops at Roche Bros., but not limes. In fact, it wasn't until the third store that I found red chiles, another vital ingredient. I mean, c'mon, these places can't stock an assortment of chili peppers? Shaw's used to have a great selection, but that's gone now. Only Stop and Shop had several varieties to choose from.

I've given up on the kaffir limes for now. I got a regular lime (S&S did have key limes, in addition to ordinary limes. I opted for the ordinary). It'll have to do.

Next time, I'm seeking out small Asian grocers. I don't know where any of those are, but I'll find one. There's an Indian grocery store up the street, but I think kaffir limes are primarily southeast Asian. I will find them.

Craptastic day ends ok

Little Dude authoritatively has a grasp on movement. He can crawl quickly. He can walk while holding onto things. He can climb. What he doesn't have is any sense of danger.

Yesterday, as the culmination of a series of lousy events, while I stood a few feet away folding laundry, he went sliding off the bed. Fortunately, the hardwood floor broke his fall. He actually slid down the side of the bed, holding onto the comforter, so it wasn't quite like he just leapt off a cliff. Still, it sucked.

He got a nice little shiner on his noggin, one of many he's had, though this is the first time he's fallen like that. They go away quickly, but still, I now see him falling when I close my eyes.

This happened shortly after I botched a batch of M&M blondies. I didn't know what a blondie was, but I guess it's like a brownie, but with light brown sugar and less chocolate. I was moving smoothly through the recipe, proud of myself for knowing how to soften butter and follow a confusing recipe. But then I baked them at 450 instead of 350. I noticed early enough to save some of the bars. The corners were a bit charred, though.

But this is a week for cooking adventures, so I pressed onward and upward for dinner. I made lemon chicken, which was easy but new. Basically, it's just chicken breasts dipped in an egg white/soy sauce/water mixture, then coated with crushed corn flakes, ginger and black pepper. You bake it at 450 (yes, 450) for a bit, and while it's in the oven, you make the sauce.

I love making Asian sauces, like for sesame chicken or sweet and sour sauce. The cool part is that you start with this cloudy, opaque combination of chicken broth, cornstarch, honey, freshly squeezed lemon juice, ketchup, garlic, and maybe one or two other things (wood chips?). As with gravy (and I guess it is gravy), you stir it while bringing it to a boil, but as it thickens, it turns translucent and entirely changes not just consistency, but color.

Little Dude opted for creamed spinach, but we feasted on pretty good lemon chicken.

Book Report: What the Living Do by Marie Howe

Doug recommended I read Howe's The Good Thief, but What the Living Do turned out to be at my local library, so I got that.

The poems in the book mostly center around the death of Howe's brother. She takes the elegy and explores its possibilities. She writes about his sickness, his near recoveries, his eventual death, and what happens afterwards.

As a form, I think the elegy is fine. Donald Hall's best book (of the few I've read) is Without, about Jane Kenyon's death. But Hall proved with its follow-up, The Painted Bed, that the elegy can go wrong quickly. I think a book-length study of a family member's death opens up too many possibilities for sentimentality and meaningless nostalgia. This is the weakest aspect of Howe's book. Too often, she recounts happy family memories, attempting to drench them with meaning by juxtaposing the brother's present day suffering. It's a boring, tired conceit, and Howe doesn't add anything to it.

The tiredness of subject isn't helped by Howe's style. She's a verbose poet, one of many current American poets who write with no apparent attention to language, rhythm, or concision. There's a frustrating abundance of unnecessary prepositions, conjunctions, definite and indefinite articles. For example, this opening to "For Three Days": "For three days now I've been trying to think of another word for gratitude / because my brother could have died and didn't." Every poem is as wordy as this line. There's no economy of language.

Having said all that, there are some strong poems here. To appreciate them, you have to look independently of the book, and ignore any stylistic complaints.

"Practicing" is a saucy little poem about girls discovering about sex with boys by trying things out between each other. It sounds a bit like a teen reading book, but it works as a poem. It ends with "I want to write a song // for that thick silence in the dark, and the first pure thrill of unreluctant desire, / just before we made ourselves stop."

Then there's "Separation," about seeing her ex in a Brooks Pharmacy parking lot. She asks, "How is it possible that I am allowed to see him / like this ... what he wears in the world without me, / his hands swinging by his side, his cock quiet // in his jeans, his shirt covering / his shoulders, his own tongue in his mouth." The word "own" in the last line is terrifically placed. That's an attention to language I wish happened more often.

Lastly, "In the Movies" is one of my favorites. She makes a bit of an odd transition between her brother and his friends playing PIG in the driveway and how soldiers in movies rape a woman. What's effective is how she follows the woman after the detailed description of the rape, years later "She's dignified and serene. Maybe / her son has been recently killed, maybe she's successfully // married her daughter." And then this: "How can a woman love a man?" It's an evocative line full of depth and truth.

I think these three examples show how the best work in the book isn't about her brother's sickness and death, but relationships between men and women. She most profound, interesting, and thoughtful in those poems. Perhaps I'm too well read in elegies, and not well read enough in poems about sex. Well, next up is Anne Sexton's Selected Poems. That should balance me a bit.

All right stop, collaborate and listen

Pointless link of the day:
Glarkware

There seems to be an entire industry of sites peddling the t-shirt equivalent of "I love the 80s." Still, this site has some funny stuff.

I particularly like the baby shirts and the stop sign stickers.

Carbon Monoxide, you have been warned

As noted here, today was another in a long string of Me & Little Dude days while M-N goes off and does something either profitable or fun. (Today was fun.)

We live in an apartment that's part of a house. We have the first floor, and there's another apartment upstairs. Those people moved out a week ago, so it's just been us. Today, me and the boy were hanging out, listening to tunes, shredding documents, gnawing on teethers, vacuuming, chasing the cat, when I heard footsteps upstairs.

I first thought it was Nicole Kidman from The Others (that was a good movie). Then I thought it the people under the stairs from The People Under the Stairs (that was a bad movie). But Nicole Kidman's Australian, so it wasn't her. And the footsteps were upstairs, not under the stairs, so scratch that too.

It turns out, our absentee landlords were installing carbon monoxide detectors all over, and replacing smoke alarms. It also turns out that that's a law these days, and they were violating it. They're about to sell the place, and after an inspection, they decided to spend half an hour installing the things so the place will sell.

This led to an awkward conversation with one of the landlords as he installed the detector in our hallway and tried to act like he'd talked to me or been in the apartment more than twice (he didn't know how to turn the hall light on, if that's an indicator). The other landlord, whom I'll call Boo Radley, I still have yet to see. I heard footsteps, but I've seen enough movies to know better (plus this week's episode of Lost).

Anyway, now we're legal. Rock on.

Damn it

These are the stupidest leaders we've had in a long time.

Stupid human tricks

If you look closely, there's a little speck on the iceberg in the picture. That's a crazy man who decided he wanted to attempt ice climbing on icebergs in the North Atlantic. Read about it here.

Awesome.

Beware the Quiltening

M-N was commissioned to make a quilt for a wedding recently. I've included a picture of it in progress. The finished project is much better, but providing a picture of that would involve taking the picture, uploading it, and then writing what I'm writing now, and I'm not sure Mr. Man's nap will last that long. (Incidentally, I'm not sure I finished that bit on Blindness, but I pieced it together over a couple of short naps. The more mobile he gets, the less writing I do.)

Anyway, as for this quilt, it turned into a massive project, making borders for all the pictures and sewing them on, then sewing those onto the quilt. This led to my first foray into quilting. Ok, I didn't do much, but I ironed quite a bit, and prior to this experience, I didn't know quilting involved ironing. I also learned how the sewing machine works after one long night attempting to hand-sew a picture onto a border. Previously, the extent of my sewing experience included sewing on buttons and, once in junior high home ec. class, breaking a sewing machine while attempting to sew the manual shut. I think I also made a tote bag for my mom in that class, but I don't remember if that was pre- or post- book sewing.

I think I'm now a certified apprentice quilter. At first, I thought this was silly, but now that I think about it, this quilt is bringing in more money than I've earned in 10 years of writing poems. M-N always seems to find the lucrative hobbies...

Book report: Blindness by Jose Saramago

I loved it.

This book has been praised to the extent that I don't need to write any sort of review, but I do want to point out a few things.

First, the basic plot (a population stricken by a mysterious blindness) reminded me most of Albert Camus' The Plague. If I remember correctly, that book also focused on a doctor (though w/Saramago, it's more on the doctor's wife) and the way a society decides to quarantine the affected. I also thought about all those Stephen King books I haven't read about post-apocalyptic worlds (I think his current one, Cell, is another).

What's effective about Saramago's novel is how the characters respond with complete realism to the blindness. There are heroes, certainly, but he portrays them all with great depth. The doctor's wife, the one person not blinded, is remarkably conflicted. She is a leader, but she also wavers in her confidence and often makes decisions that she acknowledges as being morally questionable.

Saramago also balances the events with philosophy, though less so than Camus, and he avoids excessive preaching. I was concerned near the end, as he introduces a new character who is presumably Saramago, writing the story of the blindness. But he holds back, and this writer ends up being a minor note. Also, it seems as though Saramago might take on religion near the end, as two characters end up in a church, but again, he holds back.

His restraint is more remarkable considering the platform he's given himself. He's reduced his characters to a primitive population of scavengers, and he doesn't hesitate in describing the debasement of each person. But the doctor's wife is no Messiah. Yes, she uses her sight to avenge and save, and her altruism towards the end is near the point of excessive, but ultimately she is loyal only to her small group, and, more than even neglecting the population at large, she is indirectly responsible for the deaths of many so that her group can eat.

Made in China?

Rainster sent me a note about this:

Adidas is marketing a blatantly racist new shoe. It has a stereotypical Asian face with slanted eyes, buck teeth and a bowl haircut. It's part of their "Yellow Series."

The Adidas site with pictures is here.

I don't get how this shoe is even being made. I thought it was a joke at first, but no, Adidas just seems to be shameless. I'm trying to picture the meeting where this shoe was approved. What ideas did they reject?

April: The Busiest Month

Ok, usually December is the busiest month, what with all the caroling and merrymaking, but so far this year every month has been crazy. I didn't think not working full time would mean so much work. There's a month stretch we're putting together that begins in late March and will hopefully end in a couple of weeks where we're going to fly three times to visit schools in the great big job search.

I just booked our second flight to Philadelphia. We have to go twice in one week because of scheduling conflicts. Fortunately, that's a super-short flight. But I'm getting well-acquainted with booking plane tickets and renting cars, something that was part of my job description once.

Little Dude is stacking up the frequent flyer miles, that's for sure. By the end of this month, he'll have visited New Hampshire, Maine, Rhode Island, Vermont, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Ohio and Arizona. That's cumulative, in his almost 9 month lifespan, not just April. We don't count Georgia, but he was in the Atlanta airport for about 10 hours around Christmas, which is almost as long as some of these job interview trips.

Hopefully, by his first birthday, we'll be living in a new state. Then, like me and Florida, one day he can say "I was born in Massachusetts but I'm not really from there."

Local International

I was in the Barnes & Noble music department the other day, and despite the fact that I used to run that section, I never quite put together this little observation:

There's a section called "International." This is where you find African artists, Latin artists, bellydance cds, etc.

There's a subsection in International for Irish and Celtic artists. At first look, that seems ok. But then, all of the other European artists, like the Beatles, are in Pop/Rock. Unless they're particularly "ethnic," like Polish folk music.

Also, some of the people in the Latin section are U.S. citizens, I think. Isn't Ricky Martin? Maybe not.

The most funny thing about this section is that it's where Native American cds are. I'm pretty sure Native Americans are from, well, here.

So, you go in the International section if you're not from the U.S., or if you're from the U.S. and "Latin." You don't go in International if you're from Europe, unless you're from Ireland. And Native Americans? Definitely International.

Pork Fried Rice vs. a Ghostbusting Monkey

Last night, we tried a new pork fried rice recipe. Around here, fried rice is a contentious, hot-button issue, like abortion or the Real Ghostbusters vs. those knock-off cartoon ones with the big monkey (in depth expose: here).

We like our fried rice, and of the approximately 850 restaurants in the area, only one or two make it good. Most of our homemade versions have been ok, not great.


This new recipe added a few quirks. First, lime. After frying the onions, garlic, pork, rice, eggs, soy sauce (all basic), you take some fresh lime quarters, and juice it up a bit. This was nice. I wonder if limes mind being the garnish of the world. I hope not, because they're quite good at it.

Beyond limes, this recipe suggests chopping up some chile peppers and tossing them on as an additional garnish. Or, an additional way to maim your tongue when you foolishly opt against deseeding. Lesson learned. Maybe. No, probably not.

So the mix of lime and hellfire made an otherwise bland rice pretty good. Maybe Emeril had something with that irritating "Bam!" schtick.

(One epilogue on lime safety: should you come home later, hungry, and see that tupperware with what little remains from dinner, make sure you notice there are still two lime quarters in there before microwaving. The citrus fruits don't enjoy the microwave. I'm not sure what happened, just that some form of implosion took place. I still ate the rice, of course, but I had to nudge around the small green carcasses in the bowl.)