Every time I read another article, or even a headline, about the financial crisis, I feel my gorge rising majestically from my gut, like the Hindenberg from its mooring mast. It has become so predictable that I am forbidden from talking about it at home, unless a conversation about it has already been started by my wife or 15-month old son. And, frankly, I suspect that the kid may be employed by the financial sector, because this endless malfeascence is just not on his radar. He is much more concerned with "Ball" and the opening and closing of all doors, neither of which is remotely controversial. So I try to keep up on the unfolding scandal while also trying to find stuff in the world to be encouraged by, since a dad of sagging spirit is not what I aspire to be.
We need to be clear here-- if you think I'm one of those harpies who all they do is stomp around the house calling for the perps to be hoisted from the yardarm-- well you're right. Hence the ban. But with each revelation-- that people who owned their home out right were foreclosed upon, that hairdressers reviewed mortgage documents, that one guy's "due diligence" was apparently practiced at a 5000 signature a day clip-- it's hard to keep quiet. Until I looked at it all from a new angle. With each revelation of not just bizarre or criminal but criminally bizarre behavior, I am reminded of those wealthy kleptomaniacs or indigent bindlestiffs who shoplift a diamond bracelet or a cold Olde English 800 in order to be caught. They are unhappy, and ignored and tired of doing it all for themselves. I think our major banks are sad that we haven't been paying enough attention to them. They feel like we don't love them anymore, so they act out. They think "Hey, what does a soulless multinational corporation have to do to get an indictment for criminal conspiracy these days?".
Let me say this: as a parent, I am familiar with this behavior. My son is fifteen months and 24 pounds of never sit still, of exploration and crawling and joyous shout-outs and crying and hitting his enormous head (like father like son) on things and savoring individual words like fine chocolate drops. (The latest is "Attica!", which started out as a funny reference the wife made when he was throwing a tantrum on the changing table, was horribly run into the ground by yours truly, and now has been picked up by the bairn himself, becoming yet another thing that I will need to explain embarassedly in the future. Remember, babies enjoy affection and attention, but they LOVE irony and satire. I am the world's worst dad.).
Anyway, in addition to the aforementioned "Ball." and doors, he has a fascination with electrical cords. He will crawl over to them, tug on them, twist them, chew them-- not all the time, but often enough that it's a thing we watch out for. And he knows it-- he's a smart little anarchist. So nowadays, if he feels he's being neglected by parents who are busy posting pictures of him to Facebook, or writing blog posts that nobody reads ,instead of playing "Ball.", he will crawl (yes he's 15 months and not walking-- he's a boy! With an enormous head! Need I say more?) over to some handy cords, look over at us, and start tugging. And we come over, as though he is on fire, and scoop him up, and hug him and mutter things like "No cords, Elvis" and take him away. Maybe even give up the blog post and play "Ball." Which is probably what he wanted all along, but does not have the language to tell us, "Attica!" notwithstanding.
So now I know what the banks and the bankers are up to. They just want our attention. They want us to play. They don't really like toxic bundles of poorly-vetted mortgages anymore than little Elvis really likes electrical cords. They just don't know how else to get our attention. "We're stealing people's houses! Hairdressers are our securitization due diligence! Won't somebody please stop us, pick us up, hug us, and play "Ball."?" (What an end to that last sentence-- five punctuation marks in a span of nine characters. Because I roll gangsta like that.) Of course, there IS an easier way. The banks, unlike Lil' Elvis, have language. In fact, they have multibillion dollar advertising budgets. So, why can't we just see their ads, on TV, on bus benches, wherever, "Come home to B of A. We need a hug." After seeing all of these rosy ads about what they can do for us, without once mentioning that what they were doing for us was mostly screwing us out of billions of dollars and the roof over our heads, I would welcome the change. But remind us of the stakes as well, big banks. "If you don't hug us, we'll wreck the economy. Again. For like the fifth time in the past hundred and thirty years." And remember, fellow Americans, "Hug" is just banker-speak for "regulate the hell out of, and prosecute where necessary". If you live with a willful, smart, never stop moving child for long enough, you learn to speak their language.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
On Not Writing Well
So, here am again, after another absence of many months. Apparently I am the absentee father of this blog, AWOL much of the time, showing up every once in a blue moon with a toy (piece) that the child (blog) has long since outgrown. "What's the matter," says I, "I'm here now, ain't I? Better late than never, right? Don't I get credit for the effort?" To which the proper answers (oh, if only this blog could talk. Oh wait it can, if I do. Never mind.) are, "So?" "No." and "Hell No!"
The reasons for my absence are many, but they all boil down to a single one: "Ummmm... (scuffles on the ground with one foot and chews lip awkwardly)". Yes I am a real father now, and therefore this blog and my live satire and comedy are kind of like my mistress's kids-- ya love 'em, but you don't take 'em to Little League games-- or, more germane to my situation, to the doctor to see if there's an ear infection. Again.
Don't get me wrong, it's not all ear infections. The child is adorable. He is smart, confident, happy, makes friends easily, has a sense of humor, loves to play, and is supremely comfortable in his own skin. He takes his own time doing everything ( "When will he crawl?" has been replaced by "Will he never stop crawling?"), makes friends easily and charms strangers. If we were in college at the same time I'm sure I'd hate him, or at least talk smack behind his back. But I can't. I'm still gobsmacked by his presence, this new little man, chin jutting, head held high, pointing and going "Ahh-Gah!" to God knows what. And because he is my son, I get to take some credit, rightly or wrongly, for the ebullient miracle that he is. So I tell myself, no way can my mistress' kids compare with this. There just does not seem to be the time, and since for me writing and performing are almost monastic activities, done before just enough eyeballs to prove I am not a fictional character (more than twenty years in, and I've worked my way up to the point where I can proudly say I've become a narrative space-saving composite of several different people.) It has been easy to push this stuff to the back burner. And that's why this blog has been gathering iDust (hey, I'm a Mac guy) for so long.
Which of course is just more convenient rationalizing. I mean, I haven't spent every waking moment tossing him in the air, blowing raspberries into his stomach, playing peek-a-boo (well, there HAS been a lot of peek-a-boo), feeding him super porridge, reading from the classics ("Goodnight Moon" in my hands is what "My Favorite Things" was to John Coltrane). I have gotten so good at not-writing-- anytime, anywhere, in almost any conditions-- that maybe I fear the writing won't be able to compete with the boy, my wife, with working, traveling some, getting out every once in a while. Nothing interesting enough to write about-- or (heywaitjustaminute!) maybe SO interesting that not writing is the only option. If you've been watching this blog waiting for something to happen, how would you know the difference?
But you haven't been waiting. You're probably doing what I have been doing-- reading some other blog. And I have discovered while doing that a lot of posts just like this one. These memoirs of not-writing are like a negative image of addiction stories. We not-writers apologize to people we may have harmed by living healthy, balanced lives. We strive to make amends for not letting our text addiction take over, and promise to remedy that as soon as possible. You have been seeing way too much of me on the streets and bars and pediatrician's offices, but all that's about to change. I am back where I belong, alone in a room or at some coffee house taking up valuable table space, nursing a latte for hours, staring a hole thru the blank grey rectangle on the screen, as the industrious computer thoughtfully saves and resaves the empty space at five minute intervals, my fingers stock still, waiting to pounce on any halfway amusing clause like a cheetah on a baby antelope, my mind desperate for a concept yet blank as a Zen master's. Ah yes, it's good to be back.
The reasons for my absence are many, but they all boil down to a single one: "Ummmm... (scuffles on the ground with one foot and chews lip awkwardly)". Yes I am a real father now, and therefore this blog and my live satire and comedy are kind of like my mistress's kids-- ya love 'em, but you don't take 'em to Little League games-- or, more germane to my situation, to the doctor to see if there's an ear infection. Again.
Don't get me wrong, it's not all ear infections. The child is adorable. He is smart, confident, happy, makes friends easily, has a sense of humor, loves to play, and is supremely comfortable in his own skin. He takes his own time doing everything ( "When will he crawl?" has been replaced by "Will he never stop crawling?"), makes friends easily and charms strangers. If we were in college at the same time I'm sure I'd hate him, or at least talk smack behind his back. But I can't. I'm still gobsmacked by his presence, this new little man, chin jutting, head held high, pointing and going "Ahh-Gah!" to God knows what. And because he is my son, I get to take some credit, rightly or wrongly, for the ebullient miracle that he is. So I tell myself, no way can my mistress' kids compare with this. There just does not seem to be the time, and since for me writing and performing are almost monastic activities, done before just enough eyeballs to prove I am not a fictional character (more than twenty years in, and I've worked my way up to the point where I can proudly say I've become a narrative space-saving composite of several different people.) It has been easy to push this stuff to the back burner. And that's why this blog has been gathering iDust (hey, I'm a Mac guy) for so long.
Which of course is just more convenient rationalizing. I mean, I haven't spent every waking moment tossing him in the air, blowing raspberries into his stomach, playing peek-a-boo (well, there HAS been a lot of peek-a-boo), feeding him super porridge, reading from the classics ("Goodnight Moon" in my hands is what "My Favorite Things" was to John Coltrane). I have gotten so good at not-writing-- anytime, anywhere, in almost any conditions-- that maybe I fear the writing won't be able to compete with the boy, my wife, with working, traveling some, getting out every once in a while. Nothing interesting enough to write about-- or (heywaitjustaminute!) maybe SO interesting that not writing is the only option. If you've been watching this blog waiting for something to happen, how would you know the difference?
But you haven't been waiting. You're probably doing what I have been doing-- reading some other blog. And I have discovered while doing that a lot of posts just like this one. These memoirs of not-writing are like a negative image of addiction stories. We not-writers apologize to people we may have harmed by living healthy, balanced lives. We strive to make amends for not letting our text addiction take over, and promise to remedy that as soon as possible. You have been seeing way too much of me on the streets and bars and pediatrician's offices, but all that's about to change. I am back where I belong, alone in a room or at some coffee house taking up valuable table space, nursing a latte for hours, staring a hole thru the blank grey rectangle on the screen, as the industrious computer thoughtfully saves and resaves the empty space at five minute intervals, my fingers stock still, waiting to pounce on any halfway amusing clause like a cheetah on a baby antelope, my mind desperate for a concept yet blank as a Zen master's. Ah yes, it's good to be back.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Both Sides Now
So recently , the sad case of the Swedish Rapper and the Jazz Pianist lurched to its inevitable conclusion. I don't have time to rehash all the details, but the basic facts are these: slightly tipsy Jazz Pianist is crossing the street in Hollywood, Swedish Rapper drives pimped-out rental Hummer thru the crosswalk, angered Pianist swats hood of said Hummer, Swedish Rapper goes berserk, beats Jazz Pianist for time enough to attract the attention of an off duty cop, who attempts to stop the beating. It does not stop, Rapper kills Pianist with a kick to the head, and drives the Hummer over used-to-be-Pianist, while the cop is clinging to the windshield wiper slamming his badge on the window, as a sign that John Law takes a dim view of the proceedings. Th rapper was convicted, and sentencing is pending. Case closed. But that's not why we're here
.
Now, you would think that there's not a lot of room for " he said, he said" here. There were witnesses, including law enforcement, one of those involved is dead on the pavement and one is sitting in a Hummer texting his lawyer. So it's pretty cut and dried where the blame should go, right? Ah, but you didn't read the comment thread to the article describing the outcome of the case. And apparently, there are people willing to step up and defend a person's right to blow through an occupied crosswalk unmolested by jazz musicians who have the legal right-of-way. I'll be paraphrasing here, but you'll get the drift. "While I don't condone the outcome," said one -- and big of them to say that, that they're against murder and all, "if [the rapper] had rented that car, and [the pianist] had scratched the paint with his hands, [the rapper] could have been looking at a charge from the rental company. Pedestrians should be more careful.". Because the pedestrian is clearly the one with the power here, not the rageaholic driving 8000 pounds of shiny stupidity. There were actually quite a few brave sentiments like this, and the sad thing was, I was ultimately not surprised. The BpR strikes again.
The BpR, for those unfamiliar with abbreviations unique to me that I only just made up, is the Bipartisan Reflex. It's a nearly omnipresent trick these days, wherever there is a disagreement. And you can do it at home too, in these easy steps! 1) Remember, in any confrontation, it is axiomatic that both sides are dangerous, fringe extremes. Therefore, 2) the truth must lie somewhere between them, and probably exactly halfway. In the case we're talking about, the Jazz Pianist was clearly insane, or maybe just drunk. He had the temerity, the gall, the hubris, to expect to be able to cross a street at a crosswalk. Yet despite his obvious insanity, he still had a chance to escape his fate-- if he'd been a little more chill about nearly being run over, he'd still be alive today. The tragedy here, thus, is these two crazies coming into contact with each other, but that's life in the big city (no lie, several commenters basically took this position.).
Which is arguably true, but misses the central truth of this case and many others like it. What is the wrong thing that happened here? The traffic violation, yes, but mostly the beating and the murdering. It is NO WAY the Jazz Pianist's fault what happened. There, I said it and I'm glad.
I would also venture that this reflex is not, unlike breathing or finding the costumes of figure skaters idiotic, a natural thing. It's something we've been taught by rote, repeated over and over again, and if we want to meet the distinguished faculty inculcating us, it's important to follow the money, as it were. The people who benefit from the promulgation of the Bipartisan Reflex are those actual extremists in the game. For instance, if the jury had bought Mr Swedish Rapper's claims that he 1) he was just defending himself 2) he feared for his safety because there might have been a second attacker (perhaps behind the grassy knoll? Just askin'.), and therefore 3) he had to choose the most direct escape route in his 8000 lb. Tiny Penis Protect-o-Pak, which turned out to be over the body of the Jazz Pianist, he would be looking at a lot less time. And so it goes, from the streets of Upper Losangeleswood to the corridors of power in national capitols.
If you take nothing else away from this tale of urban street rage and comment threads gone wrong, take this: Just because there are two sides to every story, it does not mean they are equally valid. The next time you hear anyone describing someone else, who seems to hold fairly standard, even boring, middle of the road ideas-- akin to "I want to cross the street at a crosswalk" in their outrageousness-- as some disgusting, crazy, alien "other" whose heresies will bring all of us down if we don't eradicate him soon with any and all weapons at our disposal-- put your head down, and cross to the other side of the street. But look both ways first, you never know who's behind the wheel these days.
.
Now, you would think that there's not a lot of room for " he said, he said" here. There were witnesses, including law enforcement, one of those involved is dead on the pavement and one is sitting in a Hummer texting his lawyer. So it's pretty cut and dried where the blame should go, right? Ah, but you didn't read the comment thread to the article describing the outcome of the case. And apparently, there are people willing to step up and defend a person's right to blow through an occupied crosswalk unmolested by jazz musicians who have the legal right-of-way. I'll be paraphrasing here, but you'll get the drift. "While I don't condone the outcome," said one -- and big of them to say that, that they're against murder and all, "if [the rapper] had rented that car, and [the pianist] had scratched the paint with his hands, [the rapper] could have been looking at a charge from the rental company. Pedestrians should be more careful.". Because the pedestrian is clearly the one with the power here, not the rageaholic driving 8000 pounds of shiny stupidity. There were actually quite a few brave sentiments like this, and the sad thing was, I was ultimately not surprised. The BpR strikes again.
The BpR, for those unfamiliar with abbreviations unique to me that I only just made up, is the Bipartisan Reflex. It's a nearly omnipresent trick these days, wherever there is a disagreement. And you can do it at home too, in these easy steps! 1) Remember, in any confrontation, it is axiomatic that both sides are dangerous, fringe extremes. Therefore, 2) the truth must lie somewhere between them, and probably exactly halfway. In the case we're talking about, the Jazz Pianist was clearly insane, or maybe just drunk. He had the temerity, the gall, the hubris, to expect to be able to cross a street at a crosswalk. Yet despite his obvious insanity, he still had a chance to escape his fate-- if he'd been a little more chill about nearly being run over, he'd still be alive today. The tragedy here, thus, is these two crazies coming into contact with each other, but that's life in the big city (no lie, several commenters basically took this position.).
Which is arguably true, but misses the central truth of this case and many others like it. What is the wrong thing that happened here? The traffic violation, yes, but mostly the beating and the murdering. It is NO WAY the Jazz Pianist's fault what happened. There, I said it and I'm glad.
I would also venture that this reflex is not, unlike breathing or finding the costumes of figure skaters idiotic, a natural thing. It's something we've been taught by rote, repeated over and over again, and if we want to meet the distinguished faculty inculcating us, it's important to follow the money, as it were. The people who benefit from the promulgation of the Bipartisan Reflex are those actual extremists in the game. For instance, if the jury had bought Mr Swedish Rapper's claims that he 1) he was just defending himself 2) he feared for his safety because there might have been a second attacker (perhaps behind the grassy knoll? Just askin'.), and therefore 3) he had to choose the most direct escape route in his 8000 lb. Tiny Penis Protect-o-Pak, which turned out to be over the body of the Jazz Pianist, he would be looking at a lot less time. And so it goes, from the streets of Upper Losangeleswood to the corridors of power in national capitols.
If you take nothing else away from this tale of urban street rage and comment threads gone wrong, take this: Just because there are two sides to every story, it does not mean they are equally valid. The next time you hear anyone describing someone else, who seems to hold fairly standard, even boring, middle of the road ideas-- akin to "I want to cross the street at a crosswalk" in their outrageousness-- as some disgusting, crazy, alien "other" whose heresies will bring all of us down if we don't eradicate him soon with any and all weapons at our disposal-- put your head down, and cross to the other side of the street. But look both ways first, you never know who's behind the wheel these days.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
How to Fix the Whole Wide World, part One
So, North Korea is back in the news, testing missiles, darkly threatening the world with annihilation, sending suspicious freighters hither and yon-- and quite uncharacteristically, freeing two imprisoned American journalists into the custody of ex-President Bill Clinton, acting as a Very Special Envoy. The Big Dog, as he can, made Special Envoying look effortless, securing the journalists' release in an American record few hour's time. Various right-wing sites have wondered darkly about what concessions Clinton gave to the DPRK. The reality is more prosaic: the 6' 2" Clinton, after making nice with a letter to Kim Jong Il, hoisted the 2 journalists to his shoulders and played keep-away with them over the soldiers (average height 5'4") all the way back to the plane. Pausing on the steps, he called out a cheerful "No backsies!", thus frustrating Kim Jong Il's order to recapture before it could even be given. Of course, the mainstream media has suppressed this, but my readers (and you know who you are) can handle the truth. Whatever the particulars, the journalists are now home, or maybe they are still stuck in Burbank Airport, from whence they did their obligatory but certainly heartfelt tearful press conference. While not that crazy about Burbank Airport-- technically the Bob Hope Airport, and thus only the second best airport named after a millionaire right-wing Hollywood icon here in Southern Alta Californgeles-- I can say with near certainty that the food there is better than in North Korea, where the national dish is false hope, lightly grilled. What i would have liked to have seen is the two of them, after their flight with Clinton, taken to-- wait for it!-- North Koreatown for their press conference, but apparently there are no great ironists at the State Department.
And now, Clinton's shrewd use of "No backsies!" thwarting their revenge, the North Korean government is quietly plotting-- well, something, of that one can be sure. They are determined to-- well, mostly continue being just what they are. Unlike Americans, who want to be all they can be, for instance. Can these two cultures ever find an accomodation? I think so, and I have an idea whose time has come.
Some years ago, I read some account of another journalist who had actually gotten permission (Getting permission? Now there's a concept…) to hang in Pyongyang and see the glories of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (first question-- are the People Democratic, or is the Peoples Republic Democratic? Discuss. Their missiles may not work terribly well, but the North Koreans can dangle a modifier with the best of them.). He described an urban moonscape-- being the only guest in a 40 story luxury hotel where the elevators didn't work, wide boulevards devoid of cars or pedestrians, all electric power shutting off at about 9pm. Most haunting was a crew building an automotive and railroad bridge spanning the river-- using only hand tools, because of the scarcity of electric power.
It was this last that got the international peacemaker in me out of his slumber. Building a bridge with hand tools may be a way of life in North Korea-- but it's a basic cable show here in the United States. If we have "Orange County Choppers", why not "Pyongyang Bridge Builders", the story of a crusty, emaciated ace with a rivet bucket, his wayward sons, and the crazy edicts that come down from the Ministry of Bridges or whatever they call it. Right there, you've promoted international understanding and world harmony, etc etc. And then, the part of the plan that I'm most proud of, we can send our "Monster Garage" guys abroad-- "You guys have to design and build a mass transit system in Ouagadougou, using only this donated ski lift and surplus Soviet-era mini-subs-- GO!" to rebuild the Second and Third World one project at a time. A sort of "Pimp My Democratic People's Republic", if you will, and I'm sure you will.
Some of these places are primitive, you say (and by "you" I mean a fictional strawman I can knock down)? We have people with more money than sense who have become experts in the same "primitive technology"-- any primitive technology you could name! We have mead brewers, artisanal pickle makers, constructors of Stirling engines of any size! Why should our Marines have to rebuild what they just knocked down, when we could recruit a volunteer corps of bisexual hipster steampunks who would be only too happy to work with actual Edwardian-era power stations. To arms, bisexual hipster steampunks, you are America's new foreign ambassadors! And let Orange County Choppers open a satellite office in Kabul! Let freedom ring from a thousand robot street sweepers, a Zeppelin bus system, escape pods from sinking island republics, all courtesy of the good old US of A! We can stop being the largest weapons exporter and be the world's largest exporter of retro-cool gearhead geekism. A big step up, if you ask me.
And now, Clinton's shrewd use of "No backsies!" thwarting their revenge, the North Korean government is quietly plotting-- well, something, of that one can be sure. They are determined to-- well, mostly continue being just what they are. Unlike Americans, who want to be all they can be, for instance. Can these two cultures ever find an accomodation? I think so, and I have an idea whose time has come.
Some years ago, I read some account of another journalist who had actually gotten permission (Getting permission? Now there's a concept…) to hang in Pyongyang and see the glories of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (first question-- are the People Democratic, or is the Peoples Republic Democratic? Discuss. Their missiles may not work terribly well, but the North Koreans can dangle a modifier with the best of them.). He described an urban moonscape-- being the only guest in a 40 story luxury hotel where the elevators didn't work, wide boulevards devoid of cars or pedestrians, all electric power shutting off at about 9pm. Most haunting was a crew building an automotive and railroad bridge spanning the river-- using only hand tools, because of the scarcity of electric power.
It was this last that got the international peacemaker in me out of his slumber. Building a bridge with hand tools may be a way of life in North Korea-- but it's a basic cable show here in the United States. If we have "Orange County Choppers", why not "Pyongyang Bridge Builders", the story of a crusty, emaciated ace with a rivet bucket, his wayward sons, and the crazy edicts that come down from the Ministry of Bridges or whatever they call it. Right there, you've promoted international understanding and world harmony, etc etc. And then, the part of the plan that I'm most proud of, we can send our "Monster Garage" guys abroad-- "You guys have to design and build a mass transit system in Ouagadougou, using only this donated ski lift and surplus Soviet-era mini-subs-- GO!" to rebuild the Second and Third World one project at a time. A sort of "Pimp My Democratic People's Republic", if you will, and I'm sure you will.
Some of these places are primitive, you say (and by "you" I mean a fictional strawman I can knock down)? We have people with more money than sense who have become experts in the same "primitive technology"-- any primitive technology you could name! We have mead brewers, artisanal pickle makers, constructors of Stirling engines of any size! Why should our Marines have to rebuild what they just knocked down, when we could recruit a volunteer corps of bisexual hipster steampunks who would be only too happy to work with actual Edwardian-era power stations. To arms, bisexual hipster steampunks, you are America's new foreign ambassadors! And let Orange County Choppers open a satellite office in Kabul! Let freedom ring from a thousand robot street sweepers, a Zeppelin bus system, escape pods from sinking island republics, all courtesy of the good old US of A! We can stop being the largest weapons exporter and be the world's largest exporter of retro-cool gearhead geekism. A big step up, if you ask me.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Papa's got a Brand New Bag
(Author's note: just to be perfectly clear, I am not a dad YET. In another month or so. It's a little like waiting for Godot, but at least we know where the baby is.)
Papa's got a brand New Bag, indeed. And in that bag, shiny inside the packaging, is Papa himself. My wife is giving birth to our baby, and I am going to have to give birth to a father, who is me and yet who is hopefully better, brighter and shinier and stronger. There are a million types of fathers here in the naked city, and no telling yet which one you are. I'm not cut out to be the one who goes out for cigarettes and never returns, because I don't smoke, but that's all I know. And I don't get to know, until it's all over, which means I never get to know, because we are starting a family, and it's never over. Until it is. I admit that watching a line of distant cousins flicker to extinction in a nursing home in Seattle played a role in my decision to become a father. And that decision will end up maybe reverberating down through my own family. Maybe I will make such a hash of fatherhood that vows of celibacy will be taken. Maybe everything my child does as a parent will be with me as a negative example fresh in his head. But adjustment is possible My wife can tell me that I'm coming on a little strong, or that toddlers really don't get sarcasm-- unless, of course, she's gone out for cigarettes. And even if she does, there are many ways of winning at parenthood. Sometimes it's being the best listener in the world and not saying anything. And maybe I fail that test, some of the time. But I can redeem myself later, when all that matters are the four most important words I will ever say: "Look out! Runaway bus!" . There are peaks and valleys of parenthood, is what I'm saying, and everyone goes in without a map.
Having no map, I must look for landmarks around me, to see if anybody has left me a message, scrawled on a rock, or in some freshly guzzled, still damp fifth of Jack Daniel's. There are none to be had, for at this stage, it seems, everyone has gone out for cigarettes. But I am starting fatherhood at the age that my pop, this kid's Old Grand-Dad, was when I graduated from college. I'm not sure that repeated cries for the kid to get a decent job are appropriate here, but I guess it can't hurt to get an early start, since I'll be retiring almost exactly when my son graduates from college, an all too literal example of the generational compact of Social Security. I am late to this party, as I am late to almost everything, or so it seems everywhere I look. Except for around my neighborhood, where wiry, greying dads push strollers with the stolidity of yoked oxen, or jog behind them, racehorses gone to stud, pushing their own Triple Crown dreams onto their kids while guiding their Quinny's around the Rose Bowl. If they can do it, so can I. Why this grey-by boom? Does maturity come so much later now? is it that maturity has always come now, and our previous generations of younger parents were even more terrified and clueless than we are? Or does the specter of the flame extinguishing itself finally give the necessary push?All I know is that in my own mind, at some point "not now" became "why not now?" and then each month without the child became its own anxiety: "WHY not now?". And then finally, relief on that score, and a whole new set of anxieties. And so on, from now until the end of etc. etc., see paragraph 2.
I used to think that making a baby was a kind of zero point for becoming a father,a useful lower bound ; for instance the courtroom question "Did you father that child?". But for me the first decision was to make a home for the baby in my life, to see if I had reached the point where I had to do this. Of course, these discussions weren't just for me, by me-- I would have been royally pooched if they were. Fatherhood begins as an idea, and it has to be translated into reality again and again and again and again. And in that translation, you go from being a father to becoming Dad.
See, fathers make only one thing: babies. There's always a father involved somewhere, whether smiling as you remove your clothes, ladies; or grimacing dutifully over a test tube and a copy of "Perfect 10". But everything that a man can do after that requires a Dad. Being a father is formal and abstract. You can die never knowing your father; but you'll never do that with Dad. Dad is informal as hell. Dad is concrete, not abstract. One thing would have made me a father. But being a Dad means to keep making things. As a dad to be, I have sat in on ultrasounds, massaged my poor wife's neck and lower back as some hedge against the discomfort of her steady inflation, helped put together a baby registry, done the dishes, cooked most of the meals, felt guilty about missing the breastfeeding class even though I'm not about to do it myself, and done the dishes again. And again. I have built walls, painted trim, picked up cribs and mattresses, found an antireflux pillow and have grown just a little bit with each task. I am ready to be a dad, dammit. I'm only missing the one thing that will tell the world I am.
But these are just names, people say, and by people I mean fictional strawmen who exist only to make me look good. But names are important. For me, mother and father are titles. But mom and dad are people, real people I know and love and probably put through hell at one time or another. You can father a child by mistake, but being a dad takes concentration and preparation and years of improvisation. A child can be a father, but being a dad means being an adult-- there I said it. The A-word, that most misunderstood, oft-euphemised, and belittled state, and the most necessary for the survival of the culture. The only phrase that's straightforward about it (“adult books” “movies” or “beverages” don't count) is “responsible adult”, which is made to sound as exciting as hi- fiber cereal. But it's thrilling, in its way. Being a responsible adult is the feeling you get when you first ride your bike without training wheels.
There are ceremonies and laws and rules of thumb to tell you when you have become a man, but rather tellingly, none that tell you when you've become an actual adult. For me that time definitively came a couple weeks ago, when me and my ripening honey sat kissing, legs wrapped round each other, on top of the brand new linoleum floor I had just laid down, in what is now "the baby's room". With each smooch I held her as tightly as her abdomen would allow, and I could feel my heart pounding and my blood rising , and I thought so loudly I wondered if the neighborhood could hear it : "Yeah, damn it, Daddy's home. He's right here. In our house, which is mommy's house and daddy's house. And this is the room that we decided was yours, and I made for you, because we love you, and I love you. I haven't met you yet but I love you and I wanted you to have this cute little room with its mommy-selected striped floor in Whispering Blue and Sahara, with the bright blue crib for you and the glider I got for mommy, 'cause all mommies need a glider, says so on all the forums and anyway it's great because it doesn't scratch up the cute striped floor-- that's your job, with the toys you'll have and that we'll help you play with. We'll have to see about the puppy, no promises there. All this is for you, and I do it because I have to and because I want to, because fathering is easy but being a dad is hard work and you have to be a goddamn adult to appreciate it, because one of the pleasures of adulthood as a friend of mine has truly written is getting as much pleasure from giving a gift as getting a gift. I gave you life, little boy to be, and now I must give you a life, and you must give me nothing but yourself-- well a secure retirement would be nice, but we'll have to see about that, no demands there-- so for now you just be you and I will give you everything I know how and we'll see how it all works out. Much love till we meet, Dad."
(a version of this piece was performed on June 13th in Los Angeles, as Part of the Lit UP! series. video may be posted shortly.)
Papa's got a brand New Bag, indeed. And in that bag, shiny inside the packaging, is Papa himself. My wife is giving birth to our baby, and I am going to have to give birth to a father, who is me and yet who is hopefully better, brighter and shinier and stronger. There are a million types of fathers here in the naked city, and no telling yet which one you are. I'm not cut out to be the one who goes out for cigarettes and never returns, because I don't smoke, but that's all I know. And I don't get to know, until it's all over, which means I never get to know, because we are starting a family, and it's never over. Until it is. I admit that watching a line of distant cousins flicker to extinction in a nursing home in Seattle played a role in my decision to become a father. And that decision will end up maybe reverberating down through my own family. Maybe I will make such a hash of fatherhood that vows of celibacy will be taken. Maybe everything my child does as a parent will be with me as a negative example fresh in his head. But adjustment is possible My wife can tell me that I'm coming on a little strong, or that toddlers really don't get sarcasm-- unless, of course, she's gone out for cigarettes. And even if she does, there are many ways of winning at parenthood. Sometimes it's being the best listener in the world and not saying anything. And maybe I fail that test, some of the time. But I can redeem myself later, when all that matters are the four most important words I will ever say: "Look out! Runaway bus!" . There are peaks and valleys of parenthood, is what I'm saying, and everyone goes in without a map.
Having no map, I must look for landmarks around me, to see if anybody has left me a message, scrawled on a rock, or in some freshly guzzled, still damp fifth of Jack Daniel's. There are none to be had, for at this stage, it seems, everyone has gone out for cigarettes. But I am starting fatherhood at the age that my pop, this kid's Old Grand-Dad, was when I graduated from college. I'm not sure that repeated cries for the kid to get a decent job are appropriate here, but I guess it can't hurt to get an early start, since I'll be retiring almost exactly when my son graduates from college, an all too literal example of the generational compact of Social Security. I am late to this party, as I am late to almost everything, or so it seems everywhere I look. Except for around my neighborhood, where wiry, greying dads push strollers with the stolidity of yoked oxen, or jog behind them, racehorses gone to stud, pushing their own Triple Crown dreams onto their kids while guiding their Quinny's around the Rose Bowl. If they can do it, so can I. Why this grey-by boom? Does maturity come so much later now? is it that maturity has always come now, and our previous generations of younger parents were even more terrified and clueless than we are? Or does the specter of the flame extinguishing itself finally give the necessary push?All I know is that in my own mind, at some point "not now" became "why not now?" and then each month without the child became its own anxiety: "WHY not now?". And then finally, relief on that score, and a whole new set of anxieties. And so on, from now until the end of etc. etc., see paragraph 2.
I used to think that making a baby was a kind of zero point for becoming a father,a useful lower bound ; for instance the courtroom question "Did you father that child?". But for me the first decision was to make a home for the baby in my life, to see if I had reached the point where I had to do this. Of course, these discussions weren't just for me, by me-- I would have been royally pooched if they were. Fatherhood begins as an idea, and it has to be translated into reality again and again and again and again. And in that translation, you go from being a father to becoming Dad.
See, fathers make only one thing: babies. There's always a father involved somewhere, whether smiling as you remove your clothes, ladies; or grimacing dutifully over a test tube and a copy of "Perfect 10". But everything that a man can do after that requires a Dad. Being a father is formal and abstract. You can die never knowing your father; but you'll never do that with Dad. Dad is informal as hell. Dad is concrete, not abstract. One thing would have made me a father. But being a Dad means to keep making things. As a dad to be, I have sat in on ultrasounds, massaged my poor wife's neck and lower back as some hedge against the discomfort of her steady inflation, helped put together a baby registry, done the dishes, cooked most of the meals, felt guilty about missing the breastfeeding class even though I'm not about to do it myself, and done the dishes again. And again. I have built walls, painted trim, picked up cribs and mattresses, found an antireflux pillow and have grown just a little bit with each task. I am ready to be a dad, dammit. I'm only missing the one thing that will tell the world I am.
But these are just names, people say, and by people I mean fictional strawmen who exist only to make me look good. But names are important. For me, mother and father are titles. But mom and dad are people, real people I know and love and probably put through hell at one time or another. You can father a child by mistake, but being a dad takes concentration and preparation and years of improvisation. A child can be a father, but being a dad means being an adult-- there I said it. The A-word, that most misunderstood, oft-euphemised, and belittled state, and the most necessary for the survival of the culture. The only phrase that's straightforward about it (“adult books” “movies” or “beverages” don't count) is “responsible adult”, which is made to sound as exciting as hi- fiber cereal. But it's thrilling, in its way. Being a responsible adult is the feeling you get when you first ride your bike without training wheels.
There are ceremonies and laws and rules of thumb to tell you when you have become a man, but rather tellingly, none that tell you when you've become an actual adult. For me that time definitively came a couple weeks ago, when me and my ripening honey sat kissing, legs wrapped round each other, on top of the brand new linoleum floor I had just laid down, in what is now "the baby's room". With each smooch I held her as tightly as her abdomen would allow, and I could feel my heart pounding and my blood rising , and I thought so loudly I wondered if the neighborhood could hear it : "Yeah, damn it, Daddy's home. He's right here. In our house, which is mommy's house and daddy's house. And this is the room that we decided was yours, and I made for you, because we love you, and I love you. I haven't met you yet but I love you and I wanted you to have this cute little room with its mommy-selected striped floor in Whispering Blue and Sahara, with the bright blue crib for you and the glider I got for mommy, 'cause all mommies need a glider, says so on all the forums and anyway it's great because it doesn't scratch up the cute striped floor-- that's your job, with the toys you'll have and that we'll help you play with. We'll have to see about the puppy, no promises there. All this is for you, and I do it because I have to and because I want to, because fathering is easy but being a dad is hard work and you have to be a goddamn adult to appreciate it, because one of the pleasures of adulthood as a friend of mine has truly written is getting as much pleasure from giving a gift as getting a gift. I gave you life, little boy to be, and now I must give you a life, and you must give me nothing but yourself-- well a secure retirement would be nice, but we'll have to see about that, no demands there-- so for now you just be you and I will give you everything I know how and we'll see how it all works out. Much love till we meet, Dad."
(a version of this piece was performed on June 13th in Los Angeles, as Part of the Lit UP! series. video may be posted shortly.)
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Some Lazy SOB with a Shovel
So. for the last little bit, since the project I was working on went away for rehab, I've been doing some unskilled labor around the house. It's unskilled because I'm doing it, aided and abetted by my Dad, who comes up and makes sure I don't kill myself with tools or effort. He has a lot more practice than me and a generally good sense of humor, which is what is needed when I pick up a hand tool. It's not all sweetness and light, as we have different ways about us. Dad is of the type who believes that working means actually doing something, anything, and if he has a hammer in his hand it is usually moving. Me, I prefer to analyze all my options before committing to any one of them, and thus I can usually be found staring at a project, my eyes burning a hole in the atmosphere, as I appear to be attempting to pound the nail with the power of my mind alone. Eventually my hammer swings, blows are landed, something happens. While waiting for that, Dad repairs to his coffee thermos, in which I have often wondered if there isn't something stronger, to salve the frustration at having to watch me work, or think about working. But we have been doing this for a while, and we have learned to complement each other-- my job is generally to say "Whoa there, Tiger", his is to say "Well, let's at least do something." So we have been installing some sweat equity, and nothing is more truly named-- a linoleum floor synthesized from coffee. cursing, perspiration and ham sandwiches; and currently a wall, taking place behind our garage, where we enact most of the travails of the ancient Egyptians, slowly moving block after block, with considerably less grand results-- two and a half feet so far. Well, they had slaves (They didn't? Damn it. Damn it to hell.). We have each other, and a "helpful brochure".
It has been an education, no thanks to the brochure. Everyone should do it at least once. This doesn't explain why I keep doing it, but the fact that I'm cheap and just a bit of a control freak probably will do for that. The thing is, despite the undervaluation of manual labor, its continual marginalization and defamation, there remain two facts about it: 1) it's necessary, and 2) it's hard. It's not just physically demanding, it requires skills that you and I don't have. There is nothing more humbling to the college bound youth than working along side someone who can really use a hoe. I've seen it, and I'll never forget it. That simple tool, bane of casual gardeners and reluctant lawn owners, can be wielded like a sushi chef's knife or sculptor's chisel. My painfully slow "improvements" just makes that memory burn brighter-- the merciless sun beating down on our six-person weeding crew, till finally this kid, an aspiring chiropractor no less, said "We'll never finish this like this. You guys take this half of the field, and I'll take this half." And he finished before us. It was a sight to behold.
And it is physically demanding as well. This wall has taken a lot out of me, and if sweat were equity, then I'd live in the Taj by now. But I had a realization that I really needed as I stood there, drooping off the top of my shovel like a wet gym sock, trying to find another breath somewhere. I had a picture of myself in my mind's eye at that moment, that I had seen a hundred times. Mostly, I'd seen it driving past highway construction sites or street work. We all have seen it-- some lazy SOB with a shovel, just leaning stock-still on the thing, taking what surely must be a long, lazy break. And I have taken this as proof of the decline of America's work ethic, or misplaced staffing priorities, or whatever. Well, now I have some idea of what might have been going on before I drove by and saw what I saw. SOB's with shovels, I owe you an apology. Take your rest, you've almost certainly earned it.
It has been an education, no thanks to the brochure. Everyone should do it at least once. This doesn't explain why I keep doing it, but the fact that I'm cheap and just a bit of a control freak probably will do for that. The thing is, despite the undervaluation of manual labor, its continual marginalization and defamation, there remain two facts about it: 1) it's necessary, and 2) it's hard. It's not just physically demanding, it requires skills that you and I don't have. There is nothing more humbling to the college bound youth than working along side someone who can really use a hoe. I've seen it, and I'll never forget it. That simple tool, bane of casual gardeners and reluctant lawn owners, can be wielded like a sushi chef's knife or sculptor's chisel. My painfully slow "improvements" just makes that memory burn brighter-- the merciless sun beating down on our six-person weeding crew, till finally this kid, an aspiring chiropractor no less, said "We'll never finish this like this. You guys take this half of the field, and I'll take this half." And he finished before us. It was a sight to behold.
And it is physically demanding as well. This wall has taken a lot out of me, and if sweat were equity, then I'd live in the Taj by now. But I had a realization that I really needed as I stood there, drooping off the top of my shovel like a wet gym sock, trying to find another breath somewhere. I had a picture of myself in my mind's eye at that moment, that I had seen a hundred times. Mostly, I'd seen it driving past highway construction sites or street work. We all have seen it-- some lazy SOB with a shovel, just leaning stock-still on the thing, taking what surely must be a long, lazy break. And I have taken this as proof of the decline of America's work ethic, or misplaced staffing priorities, or whatever. Well, now I have some idea of what might have been going on before I drove by and saw what I saw. SOB's with shovels, I owe you an apology. Take your rest, you've almost certainly earned it.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Live Satire Alert!
If you've never seen the really huge trainwreck that is the Nosmo King live experience, come catch me, Nosmo King, tomorrow (Tuesday, March 24th) night at the YDFPFT show. It's at The Room, 1323 Santa Monica Blvd., Santa Monica CA 90404, and it starts 9pm-ish. The entrance is around the back of the building, and the show is in the third room in. I was booked a long time ago for this-- let's hope they remember I'm on. If not, free guerrilla-style Nosmo King Show in the parking lot, or the Volvo dealership next door-- your choice! There will be other fully credentialled comedians on the bill, but let's face it, we know who the draw is here.
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