Very Long Chronicles

Here Is Today, and, If My Guardian Angel Is a Lot Like Dr. Walter Bishop, I Might Be OK With That

2012-02-03T23:44:00.000-08:00

Here is Sunday.

7 am flying monkeys

rehearse on our slumbering heads.

Dawn of the dying weekend:

Jack Johnson & lattes,

maybe hash browns & grits.

Eric Carle memory game maybe,

Becca is Bulls 23.

Floors to lay,

toilets to fix, porches

to finish, windows to

replace, house to

burn and collect insurance on.*

Websites

to wireframe, logos

to design, videos to edit,

title sequences to build,

copy to write.

Evening of family cinema.

Natty Gann, maybe some

Dean Jones or Jerry Lewis,

popcorn, apple slices,

giggling girls, and me.

Prep for Montag; it has crashed here swiftly.

*I jest

Here is Monday.

6 am hungover walrus,

bleary, drag, chug

jar of hot water,

calmly push

'brew.' Chug black lifeblood.

The one day offspring

are not with one of us,

breakneck goodbye as we

race down mountain,

alternating between NPR news

and cheerful Eminem

nihilistic bumpety-thump charisma.

Drop Bride at work, linger as she

disappears, enjoying the rear view.

Hit up mobile office,whisper thanks

for free WiFi and

complementary coffee refills.

Try not to get distracted with the conversations of strangers.

Occasionally, I butt in, and

unstranger them.

Back to laptop, fingers

Charlie Parker on keys,

Da Vinci Wacoming on tablet,

I like to pretend.

Refill to go, stick on Saul Williams'

Act Iii Scene 2 (Shakespeare) as loud as a bass-less automobile stereo can go.

THE MUSIC STOPS as

I approach the school where

I teach young minds

new things and

encourage them to keep their

minds young.

Two classes,

plus independent study with driven young lady.

Picture-making & taking, ethics in media and

digital production techniques, connecting art & life.

Mercurial relationship between the

How and

the Why.

(I lean to the Why, which is why I prefer

The Mentalist over CSI, if we still had telly).

Bell. Zoom. Gone. Whiz up the Interstate,

occasionally venture to passing lane,

mostly get overtaken by F-150s and 250s and 950s

and motorcycles and…

is that a bicycle?

Wow, I gotta start driving dangerously. That's what

Danish babes like,

I hear.

Pick up Bride, sultry hygienist

in dirty scrubs;

pick up wee ones, squeals,

hugs, shrieks, fast supper,

dancing, reading,

wrestling,

bedtime gauntlet,

I invent story, likely involving

parallel story lines with multiple

protagonists in magical realist

mode; me, falling asleep

while Magdelana prods me:

"Tell it….tell it!"

Off mattress. Down to Dungeon,

where magic happens in the

witching hours.

Second wind kicks in, flip

machines on, crisp Portland skyline through night window.

Forehead slumping to delete key, snap

awake, shut down,

Third wind kicks in:

wind down with

Fringe or 1956 Modern European History hardcover

I found somewhere.

****

Here is Tuesday.

7 am water buffalo

pound rhythms on

our weary oasis bed.

Vegan waffles, a

cuppa Joseph, &

Duke Ellington help bring the world to focus,

plus my contacts, without which

I am Stevie Wonder.

Morning in the Dungeon,

emails & briefs,

invoices and all that which

is not creative, but

which is 60% of the job.

Noise from above.

Daddy, hey Daddy?

I gallop up stairs to:

: find missing toy,

: wipe a poopy rear end,

: read a 'homework assignment,'

: get a refilll,

: kiss my wife,

or such, and I plow ahead

doing work I am sometimes really

good at,

and sometimes just

sorta good at.

Video, copywriting,

editing, design

I love it, and frequently

get to work with

my little brother,

Photographer Jonny L. Long.

Fortune shines; as

distant from 9-5 as

Andromeda is from Earth.

But it is hard for my mind

to close down, to to turn off,

when the stresses and deadlines

are 17 stairs away;

too available.

Winking blinking lights of

Portland are familiar friend;

climb in bed past Cinderella hour,

start to turn on lamp for quick 20 pages of Agatha Christie,

stopped by Becca's sleepy

Clint Eastwood tone, calm & sharp,

"Turn that on and

you're dead,"

monotone.

I roll to mattress,

in darkness, trying to think about nothing, finally falling

to dreams with thoughts of

$30 million for my dream project, a transmedia narrative series

based around a young girl and her ensemble of friends,

including a wolf, a giant, and

a hot air balloon.

Here is Wednesday.

6.15, Mags up to "get ready" with

Becca in front of mirror,

Johanni's room, wafting

the stench of donkey

carcass from putrefying diaper; he sleeps purely,

comfortable, content in the

stink of his own body.

He is so cute.

Kitchen, coffee, a kiss.

A Brilliant Little Recipe of Becca's You Might Want to Try for Breakfast.

1. Dump a 3-1 ratio of water and rice into a baking dish. Add a little salt.

2. Put the oven on 175 or so.

3. Go to bed.

4. Wake up in the morning and have hot breakfast. Mix with milk, brown sugar, liquid amines, peaches, peanut butter, and tomato juice, etc.

Note: can use brown rice or steel cut oats also.

Brilliant.

The Wildcard.

Morning worship, usually an Old Testament

Biblical tale involving intrigue, violence, vengeance,

and other children-friendly

morality narratives. The questions fly; wow,

Game of Thrones is tame after a few pages of Saul & David.

We have a "breakfast conversation"

that centers around a

particular person or event,

and metastasizes from there.

I Bet She Better Not Forget (Again), But If She Does, I'll Hurry Up and Finish My Time Machine Yesterday

2012-01-23T22:55:00.000-08:00

The '50s through the Fab Four leaving London (Playing With the Boys)

She played baseball when

Ike made freeways, and Beatles woke up little Susie.

I'm not done inventing my Time Machine (yet)

so I can't yet go back and watch my mom

playing with the little boys,

her mom, waiting for daughter to braid

dolly's hair and keep knees clean.

I bet she woulda liked to fly a fighter jet

across the ocean (without fighting anything)

and I bet she woulda liked to

land in London, maybe eat croissant with

a Royal Guard and talk about life.

I hope she still does, if she doesn't forget.

1956

The '60s (Rocket Man)

She was studying and bookworming when

Buzz Lightyear Aldrin roadtripped to the moon

and she forgot to hop in the trunk.

I bet she woulda liked the ride,

and the conversations would have gravity,

and I bet Buzz and Neil woulda let her

take the first giant step for humankind.

Maybe when I finish the Time Machine, I'll

build a spaceship for her; hopefully I won't

forget.

The '60s

The 70s (Little Lies)

She was a newlywed when

Tricky Dicky Nixon lied about not being a liar

and Bob tag teamed with Mr. Deep Throat.

If she wasn't with Tricky Dicky Lee's Long

I bet she woulda loved to scoop the story, and

I bet even Mr. President woulda liked it,

and everybody woulda forgiven everybody

and

punk rock wouldn't had anything to

shriek about

(which would actually be sad).

1973

The 1976 (Delta (Little Boy Blues))

She had a kid, who was me, which I feel a

little bad about,

because

I bet she woulda enjoyed hopping a train to

Montreal, to cheer on Nadia scoring perfect 10 at

Olympics, and I bet she woulda cheered so

loud that England woulda asked her to be their

Official Best Fan Ever, and asked her to travel around

Europe cheering on their soccer teams,

especially when Liverpool battled Juventus,

but my Mom forgot,

cause I was putting on a gymnastics show

in my diaper, and projectile pooping on

Mr Downstair Neighbor's shiny Harley

underneath our deck.

Need to work out the kinks with

this Time Machine (sorry, it's tough reinventing the laws of physics).

1976

The 1979 (Sweet Child 'O Mine)

She had another kid, a girl.

Was bittersweet because I just about

guarantee she woulda knocked that bird Thatcher

off for P.M. if

she hadn't forgotten to row across the

Atlantic and actually campaign,

instead of letting cheeryfaced Baby Bo Peep

milk away.

Once my Time Machine defeats the

bold arrow of time,

my mom's totally gonna go rock Margaret off

her rocker; but I bet they'll all

be friends, conversing and tea-ing at

purple Round Table.

1979

The 1981 (Child Psychology)

She played with Lee the Long, and

made another toy, a little Dutch Boy,

which derailed her plans to solve the

whole British/Irish debacle; she had

a good plan:

she was gonna have 'em talk it

out, and think of nice things to say

about each other, maybe

lay off the pipe bombs,

but it's tough to travel in a submarine

with a newborn, which is how I bet

she'd love to travel.

So it'll be nice when I can send her

back to fix all that, and maybe enjoy

a beer in Dublin with Michael Collins.
Or a tea.

1983

The 1985 (Take Good Care of the Poor Boy)

The girl played with fire, again, and ended up with

Number Four, grinning Nureyev personality,

preventing her from joining Ron and Mikhail

at Geneva Summit;

woulda been a blast to get there

via hot air balloon.

When I finish The Machine, I'll send her

back for a Swiss holiday

(she'll need to learn Russian) and

figure out how to melt warheads

into 4-D televisions and nuclear pogo sticks.

I bet she hopes she doesn't forget.

1985

The 1987 (Kids)

She was set to strap kids in Impala,

drive east to quiz Ollie North,

au Contraire to Capitol Hill: I ran to tell her that Dad

had made her belly big, again,

so:

here's another, a little dictator

himself, unarmed with two arms

and big stick.

Immunity for Ollie, immunization for Jonny

nixed cross-country trek for her.

You'll get another chance, Muh-ma,

once I fine-tune the science portion

of my Time Machine.

1987

The 1992 (Hey Boy Hey Girl)

L.A. riots, Prez Bill in White, I leave ball to be with #6 boy

and Mom.

I bet she forgot to cancel her

D.C. trip that

she never bought a ticket for.

When I'm done building my you-know-what,

I'm gonna send her to Martha's V-yard,

1993 rewind, I'm gonna throw a 40th bday bash, for her

Kennedy, Carnegie, Vanderbilt,

they'll beg for tix

to the party (it's gonna be

at the F. Lloyd Wright pavilion I'm having built special).

Seriously, my Time Machine will have that capability.

Von Trapps will harmonize with

Abba on Happy Birthday

in Deutsch,

and she'll get a piano lesson

on her new pink baby grand from

Yanni…

or someone else.

I bet she'll really love it.

1994

The 1996 (Girls and Boys)

She missed an English holiday, a trip, a vacation

by only a decade, or several.

Good year, until a seventh: Little

blonde Miss Muffet, born

in the freezing storm rain of Oregon.

British Isles on standby, still.

Crumpets and Piccadilly,

theatre and seashore,

blurring Blair of Anglers

in King Art's old country

for old men and

beautiful babe visitors,

my Mom,

who missed her aeroplane flight, again.

But:

I am sending her back, soon. Realistically,

the first Model will be constrained to

roving second half of the 20th century

(sorry Mom, you'll have to wait on duking it out with Sigmund)

I'm doing my best.

1998

The Now (Things the Grandchildren Should Know)

She plays baseball still,

occasionally,

as the world turns forward

(until I wind it backward for her).

With smile and verve,

purpose, regretless,

Yet I know,

we know

of her dreams to roam the open road,

fly the friendly sky and unstranger people,

to tread the ends of earth

and befriend the world

Sorry we took up your life Mom, most of

it so far.

You've been pretty good about being available to:

your family

and friends

and strangers

and everyone

during your regularly scheduled hours

of twenty-four seven.

Kinda took a break from your adventuring plans

abroad

and showed your family how to lead

the adventurous life

at the end of a cul-de-sac.

Probably got some fascinating

books for yer birthday; maybe mittens

or money, a massage table,

box set of Bones maybe,

but

just wanted to let you know,

we know all the stuff you missed out on

(still smiling)

cause of us.

"I wouldn't trade those memories

for all the tea in China!" I hear you say.

Uhh, yeah Mom, you don't even like tea that much,

and scientifically, you can't trade memories for

tea.

Also, that phrase is a cliche, which I have taught

you to hate.

You don't do hate very well.

Too much practice with love, I guess.

I am working hard on the Time Machine,

so you can have some of your time back.

I'm working really hard on it; I'm really sorry

it's not done for your birthday.

So if it's alright, this year, instead of

sending you back to your alternative

histories, I thought we could

try, try hard

to make some more good memories

in the present.

and I want you to visit England soon,

and the world.

Well, goodnight, and back to the laboratory.

Have a million more birthdays, please.

2011

****

PLAYLIST:

Playing With the Boys / Kenny Loggins

Rocket Man / Elton John

Little Lies / Fleetwood Mac

Delta (Little Boy Blues) / Badly Drawn Boy

Sweet Child 'O Mine / Luna

Child Psychology / Black Box Recorder

Take Good Care of the Poor Boy / Sloan

Kids / MGMT

Hey Boy Hey Girl / Chemical Brothers

Girls & Boys / Blur

Things the Grandchildren Should Know / the Eels

Blue (Ode to My Grandpa, or, I Hear Life Goes Fast)

2012-01-16T21:44:00.000-08:00

Metamorphosis Two

My Grandpa is almost 90.

He is tired, in every possible way.

His memory went to bed a few years ago,

and his body is following suit.

February 2011

Mad Rush

I played blackjack at a casino, in college.

Unfortunately, I walked out up eighty bucks

which gave me confidence & hubris to play again.

Next time, I lost thirty-five and

felt like I'd taken a cigarette lighter to my cash.

And soul.

The numbers were up, numbers were down.

Played the odds, got lucky, but The House always wins,

I hear.

Wichita Vortex Sutra

Feel sometimes I am on a precipice,

surrounded by a Massive Dynamic network of family I adore,

and the odds are slowly, inevitably beginning to tilt the other way: the wrong way.

I have never been hit - truly hit - at a gut wrenchingly personal, intimate level, by the

very worst life has to offer:

divorce.

betrayal.

estrangement.

suicide.

death in general.

I have experienced those things happening to people I care about

greatly, but not personally, at the level of a brother,

sister, parent, child, or

grandparent.

November 2004

There is not a Vegas oddsman who would stick

even money on my Grandpa making it out of

2012 on his feet.

Bob Becraft.

He is my grandfather; also, he is my

mom's dad.

Once Upon a Time in the West

What is it like to see a parent go?

And go slow?

He has returned to a state of infancy; a

state where he now relies on his own

offspring to care for him in the way a

parent would care for a newborn child.

November 2010

I wonder what he thinks, behind tired, so tired eyes

that seem to process nothing,

save erratic flickers of cognition

memory synapses rising their drowning heads

above surface for quick gasps,

then losing, diving underneath to gray void.

July 2011

Mystery of Love

His companion, wife of 65+ years, clutching his

hand, whispering, lifelong worrywart, now with

something truly monumental to worry about.

Her mind, outpacing his by a mere quarter lap, and

their race is a marathon.

November 2007

Big My Secret

I wish I knew more about him.

I wish he would have talked more,

when he could talk.

I wish my Mom could have a memory

of him telling her how beautiful

she is.

August 1973

She is.

I wonder if he is ever sad, inside, at

not.

Strange, talking about someone in the past tense

while they're still alive.

He was:

kind

stubborn

loyal

loving

Concerning the UFO Sighting...

I have a friend who lost his dad in a

car crash.

Almost crying thinking about it.

I cannot,

CANNOT

imagine.

I really suck at dealing with death.

Selfish. I don't want to see

people die; I want to go first so

I don't have to deal with it;

the grief.

But I know no one's ever ready; no one

wants to, or is prepared to deal.

They just do. They learn to. I just feel my

life has been so sheltered, so blessed, so

immune to the horrors striking others, that

it's going to hit me so effing hard when

it's my turn.

Selfish, so selfish.

Metamorphosis Four

What is left of someone when they're gone?

Some words, some pictures.

A storage shed with a million cardboard boxes.

1944

Everybody lives life differently. I wish my Grandpa

could talk about his regrets,

his failures,

his successes,

mostly,

his feelings in general.

My children will have a small collection of photographs

and video clips of them with their great-grandparents.

December 2010

Someday, they will treasure them; a lifeline to their lineage and history, interactions they will see

physical evidence of, but likely have no actual

memory of…

My heart is filled with love for my Grandpa,

and also frustration,

for the conversations we never had

Vivere

His quiet manner is venerated by some,

stuck on a pedestal,

but I wonder how much of his

"quiet dignity" was by choice,

June 2006

and how frustrated he was with himself

over his extreme…quietness.

He had a sense of humor, and sometimes

someone like my dad, pushing his buttons,

could bring that out. The grin, the chuckling,

the classic practical joke.

(think: Oreo filling replaced with toothpaste)

Suite 3 in D

I wonder what he could change, if he could.

What was he afraid of?

Tomorrow, I will be a day closer to death, as we

all will be.

What will I fill my day with. What sort

days will my life be filled with?

I just want my days to be filled with love,

and joy, and Adventure,

creating an Identity where I can be myself and

help others to do the same,

drink coffee (which Grandpa would never do),

find ways to creatively express the love I have

for my family, for God, for existence, for the world,

through Art, and Film, and Words,

and Actions.

My Grandpa sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps, day and night;

right now, it is fair to assume he is nestled in bed,

spooning with my Grandma,

and maybe dreaming of a brighter world.

November 2010

Gates of the Garden

How do you gauge someone's life a success or a failure?

Some people change the world firsthand; others are

the parents of those people.

August 2007

My Grandpa did a lot of good things in his life,

I think,

but mostly, I know that

he is half responsible for my Mom's existence,

and that alone makes his life an

extraordinary one.

We'll talk again, Grandpa.

****

PLAYLIST:

Metamorphosis Two / Philip Glass

Mad Rush / Philip Glass

Wichita Vortex Sutra / Philip Glass

Once Upon a Time in the West / Ennio Morricone

Mystery of Love / Angelo Badalementi

Big My Secret / Michael Nyman

Concerning the UFO Sighting... / Sufjan Stevens

Metamorphosis Four / Philip Glass

Vivere / Andrea Bocelli

Suite 3 in D / Johann Sebastian Bach, performed by Yo-Yo Ma

Gates of the Garden / Nick Cave

Anti-Metamorphosis

2012-01-13T23:08:00.001-08:00

"I have got to stop
eating and drinking anything
for several months,
so I can stop growing,"

Magdelana announced.

"Because I
really love being four."

I love people who are happy being the age they are.

I love being thirty-five.
I am not going to stop eating or drinking though.

Song of the day: Philip Glass "Metamorphosis Two"

Princess Jasmine versus Lisbeth

2012-01-07T23:11:00.000-08:00

Becca took a much-deserved date to le cinéma to see David Fincher's adaptation of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. After she left, Johannes came dragging his pink blanket and bent paperback of Roald Dahl's The BFG. Plopped himself in my lap, Magdelana snuggled up, and we began (over the past months, we have polished off Dahl's Matilda, The Twits, The Magic Finger, etc.)

(Mr. Dahl is a hero of mine).

Turned his head around, buried it in my chest, and fell asleep as I read aloud. Not many feelings better than that.

We read a bit more, and I gave Magdelana the option of

A: going to bed,

B. having a cinema night, watching Aladdin, and eating some snacks.

****

What do you like about Princess Jasmine?

- I like her smile. That's what I like about her. Her smile. And she's brave.

How is she brave?

- Because she rode on the carpet with Aladdin.

****

So we settled in for Disney's version of the classic Arabian Nights tale. She hasn't seen many Disney movies. Largely, her exposure to "princess culture" is from in-store merchandising, and other ubiquitous forms of promotion. Nothing against princesses (see previous posts, e.g. The Police Officers Are Going to Like You...). Just don't care for the attributes they tend to perpetuate (e.g. the need to be rescued, absorbed with clothes & appearance, dismissive tributes to quasi-independence, etc.). At the same, there's some great stories that we have no wish to make 'forbidden fruit;' thus exponentially increasing the allure. Just don't feel that our daughter needs to experience the entire Disney pantheon by the time she's half a decade of age. Anyway. Settled in for Aladdin, taken over by the inimitable Robin Williams voicing The Genie. Snacked away on apple slices, chips & salsa, bread, balsamic vinegar + olive oil, and topped off with a mugga hot chocolat.

So, Princess Jasmine asserts her independence by finally marrying for love, helps out Aladdin a bit,

has a pet tiger, and speaks up feistily to her father, while Aladdin saves the country and learns the importance of being yourself.

Lisbeth, feisty pierced hacker heroine of Dragon, skates around the globe investigating decades-old murder layered in conspiracy, poking her poked nose where it doesn't belong. Not exactly a please and thank you kinda gal. Her attire might not make the Disney cut either. And if a hero's gonna help out, he's gonna have to catch up.

Aladdin: probably a good choice for us this time around. Fifteen years? Maybe an Aladdin+Dragon double feature with Mags...

Becca called me on the way back, little scared, laughing. How was it? I said.

Good...can you meet me outside, in the driveway?

Sure.

So I grabbed my machete and safely escorted her inside, where we swapped notes on our movies and discovered that they bore little resemblance to one another.

Time To Say Goodbye (or at least "Goodnight")

2012-01-06T22:11:00.000-08:00

Andrea Bocelli's Con Te Partirò is one of our quiet-but-glorious Friday night listening rituals; Italian pop opera that is both sensuous and spiritual and a beautiful way to wind down a week and soundtrack a soft-lit bowtie pasta and artisan bread dinner.

Another good way to wind down a long week: having children stay in bed after they go to bed and you're trying to sneakily get into sugary treats.

*off 1995's Bocelli

Cool Morning Sun, Which Barely Peeps Through the Trees in Our Front Yard, Which I Never Pruned Last Year

2012-01-05T21:22:00.000-08:00

My back is better, thanks to ice, heat, some sort of white pill Becca gave me, and managing to avoid further injury from my four-year old orangutan (name: Magdelana) who leaps on me (frequently unseen) every chance she gets. Thanks for all the cards and well wishes.

(There were none, but I'd like to think some of you thought about sending something, like chocolates, or cash).

Cool Morning Sun is a great dishwasher loading song by PDX psychrockers Vive Voce. It has nothing to do with doing dishes or other chores, but it makes me smile and think of Nancy Sinatra.

(Off 2011's optimistic The Future Will Destroy You. Obviously, they use a Mayan calendar.)

Too Tired (And The Fact That I've Gone Four Days With No Coffee Has Nothing To Do With It)

2012-01-04T23:33:00.000-08:00

Too Tired. DeVotchKa. 2004. How It Ends.
It is impossible to top the title track from How It Ends, made famous by the film Little Miss Sunshine. Too Tired is one of their more subdued, haunting melodies...but with a little gypsy dance buried in there.

Everybody Hurts (But Especially Me At the Moment, Due to Unbearable Pain That is Worse Than Anything That Anyone In the World Has Ever Experienced, But Fortunately I Am Quietly Being Brave and Resisting the Urge to Shriek)

2012-01-03T21:44:00.000-08:00

Daddy?

Yes, Magdelana?

I have to go to the bathroom. Which bathroom do you think I should use?

How about...the blue bathroom.

Okay. I think I'll use the yellow bathroom. Thanks!

Everybody Hurts. R.E.M. 1992, off Automatic for the People. A very soft, beautiful, contemplative ballad that should never be listened to before 8pm.

Begin the Beguine

2012-01-02T23:11:00.000-08:00

2.365

Becca just reminded me there is actually thirty-one days in January, thus extending the length of our trial by 24 hours longer than I had mentally prepared for.

Just What Did We Get Ourselves Into?

2012-01-01T23:33:00.000-08:00

1.365

Eleven Notes on December

2011-12-31T23:56:00.000-08:00

Some images and ramblings about happenings in December.

01. The Surprise.
December 21.
Was with the kids a few days before Christmas, and my cellular telephone rang. Was sister Leanna. You interested in meeting up for coffee later? she inquired.

Well...we'll see. I said. Not sure.

Okay, she said. How about if I bring you coffee?

Uhh, sure. When are you thinking?

Open your front door, she answered somberly.

I opened, and she was there, smirk and a tray of beverages from a secret coffee shop I will not mention here. She brought the Starbucks drinks in (soy Pumpkin Spice Lattes for us, soy steamer for Magdelana, nothing for Johannes :( ), and we proceeded to have a lovely afternoon with her. Filled with reading, chasing, conversation, and serious snuggling with her niece and nephew. What a wonderful, great surprise.

That is an example of a good surprise. I don't feel like writing about bad surprises right now, so I won't.

02. The Sassy Lassies Make Tea Time Tassies.
December 24.
My mom knows how to bake. Seriously bake. She also knows how to make serious baking fun. She and Mags banded up to make one of her classics, Tea Time Tassies. They were consumed quickly, but Chief hid the leftovers in a plastic baggie. He was caught the next morning with chagrined grin, and the next time you are looking for sweet leftovers in Tillamook, check behind the microwave.

03. The Tease.
December 24.

My grandpa is not doing well. It is a euphemism to say that he is in the twilight of his life. His memory is gone; many of the day-to-day tasks we take for granted are out of his cognitive and physical grasp; it is difficult to know what brings him joy at this point in life. I'd like to think there is a light in his eyes when Johannes, his great-grandson, scrambles around, little tease that he is.

03. A Kiss Among Strangers.
December 23 / Southwest Portland.

04. Mother / Daughter.
December 20 / outside Anthropologie.

05. A Hug Among Strangers.
December 23 / outside Powell's Bookstore.

06. Track Star.
December 23 / southwest Portland.

07. Santa's Workshop, Tillamook Division.
December 23.
I would scramble atop the roofs with my dad, and we would string lights like manic Griswolds. Now, I pull in the driveway, and it is done.

08. This Was Supposed to be an Image of Just My Sisters, But Someone Shoved Their Way In.

09. Namecards.
Magdelana and I made namecards out of black construction paper for everyone at Christmas dinner. She did all the writing, I helped a little with spelling.

10. Leanna's Spicy Enchiladas, Which I Wish I Could Eat Tomorrow For Breakfast.

11. Dinner.

Where in the World Are You, Matt?, or, I Wish I Was Successful Enough to Leave $20 Tips for the Baristas

2011-12-21T01:11:00.000-08:00

The Professor, a former actor, a faintly Russian-by way of NYC fella, limped about with master of universe moustache and hipster cane, legitimately needed post-radiation treatment, but also wielded excessively with theatrical panache, like Travolta with cigar. He told many jokes, and also tales of his gay ballerina son (dancing successfully in NYC), and unapologetic references to his mentally-challenged brother. It's okay for me to joke about it, he'd harumph eloquently. He was not merely a teacher, but a performer; a posturing filmic Tolstoy by way of Barnum, regaling the freshmen with picks, pans, and cinematic deconstructions. His voice was authority and finality; his picking of a raised hand was the choice of a master deigning to call upon the proletariat spokesman. His voice, thick with moustache and hyper-articulateness and crowd-pleasing sarcasm, raced to the attention like walrus to crippled seal.

Exposition: Fall 2003. I was in my first quarter of grad school at University of Montana. I was a Teacher's Assistant for a lecture class with 100+ students. Media Arts 101 was an introduction to film history, theory, criticism, and visual storytelling mediums.

It was a good class. I enjoyed it greatly, as we sat through screenings of various classics, including Maya Deren's Meshes of the Afternoon (bizarre and...eye-opening), Keaton's The Great Train Robbery (what people used to chuckle at, and I still do), Miyazaki's Spirited Away (magical, strange and delicious), Tarantino's Pulp Fiction (hilarious, jarring, so that's what postmodernism is!). I got paid to sit in the front, grade some papers, and walk a 40-student group through various discussions and concepts.

Hoop + Wire / Boy Eats Drum Machine

One class, we watched Peter Weir's Witness (1985). Harrison Ford plays a detective who hides out in an Amish community while trying to protect a young boy who witnessed a dirty cop murdering an informant. Kelly "Top Gun" McGillis plays the boy's mother, and let me tell you, please let me know if you've ever seen Harry Ford in a sexier film than his scenes with Ms. McGillis.

AN ASIDE, pt. I: In cinema, there is sex, and there is sexy, and there is a big difference between the two. And Witness is sexy. Anyway. I digress.

The film concluded, and (I shall call him) Professor M, also a fan of the film, began speaking of its brilliance. Midway through his candied deconstruction, an arm in the upper bank of lecture halls seats raised itself. Yes? Professor M gave the hand license to continue.

(Footnote: Boy Eats Drum Machine is a Tender Loving Empire label one-man outfit that made the Princiest, catchiest, funky electrogroove of the year in Hoop + Wire. Incidentally, it also is reminiscent of (former) Missoula funksters No-Fi Soul Rebellion.)

I turned, and the voice belonged to a vaguely hippyish Midwest urban blonde-locked, babyfaced, cheerful lad, who went on to publicly voice his strong disagreement with the film, with the film's merits, and with the idea that the film was anything but hackneyed and cliched to begin with, thereby implicitly questioning the wisdom of showing said film to a lecture hall of already Bambi-eyed freshman looking for easy arts credits.

Matt, assisting on the set of my 2004 short film

Professor M's voice dropped into friendly but stern Zen Mr. Miyagi mode, and the use of multisyllabic words increased, and he peremptorily shut down Anonymous Blonde Boy, although the lad's grin never abated, and his face never reddened, and I thought I noticed, from afar, that he lacked regret over his bold public denunciation. Class continued, and I never tired of remembering John Book (Ford's character) slowly fall in love, and wondering how bonnets ever went out of fashion. Are they?

Hearts / I Break Horses

I went up and introduced myself after class. I strongly disagree with your assessment of the film, I told him, but I respect your speaking up. Not the easiest thing (at least it wouldn't be easy for me, I thought.

Note: I converse more readily and actively in small groups than speaking to large masses of people, and also, I didn't do that well in high school Speech class, so people who seem to extemporaneously speak boldly and eloquently to the masses are of interest, and respect to me, sometimes).

His name was Matt. He was a freshman, and he was a music geek too. He introduced me to Modest Mouse's This Is a Long Drive For Someone with Nothing to Think About, the Walkmen's Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone, and many other bands with wonderfully verbose album titles. I believe I shared with him the Polyphonic Spree's The Beginning Stages Of...

Note: the ellipses are part of the album title, not me intentionally trailing off...

Rest / Parts & Labor

I also learned, as we got together over coming months for coffee to talk film, music, philosophy, and unified theories of existence, that his sister Bridget Bedard was award-winning filmmaker & writer for her 2001 short film Baby. (and recently, writer for Mad Men, Men of a Certain Age, and the upcoming The Wedding Band).

Which brings me to Parts & Labor, the noise-rock outfit that Matt introduced me to. He left Montana for a period of time to study in Thailand, and go to school in Rhode Island, and eventually got some sort of...traveling job that took him to Britain? Or was it for a girl? Memory is not linear and I do not know, but I do know that I lost touch with him, even in the Fwitterbook world of always-on, always-there friend networking. I do not know where he is. I lost him, and I cannot locate him. If I had ever met his sister (who sounds very nice, and smart, as most writers and Michigan librarians and astrophysicists are), then I would ask her where he is, because I would like to talk to him about Parts & Labor's Rest, which is one of my favourite electronoisy tracks of the year. We would talk of it, and then inevitably drift into the vagaries of creating a Universal Creative Process that supplants Bauhaus and Flannery O'Connor and incorporates postmodernism in an unironic, yet charmingly self-aware way. In the process, I would avoid asking him how his sister is doing, because she is writing for Mad Men and I would fear that I might somehow try to use that information to leverage a pitch for the television show I may or may not be creating at the moment...

Anyway, Professor M would be a topic, and we would chuckle. But we can't do that, because Matt is lost, and he is one of my favourite conversationalists ever, and I hope to find him.

josef ivan long 2009.

Lose It / Austra

Austra, from what I hear, has some sort of operatic background. I get a vague sense of that with her darkly trippy, pounding synthbreath of a track. I really have no idea what it's about, but I dig it. I was at a coffee shop (way out of my comfort zone) and asked the barista for change (after requesting my third refill of the afternoon*).

*a long afternoon of work, and headphones, and a conversation with a stranger named Jerry that I'll talk about sometime (not now), but let's just say that Jerry used to be an athletic director for Roosevelt High School in Portland, and coached basketball for 30 years until he retired in '99 with the whole PERS Retirement thing, which was a debacle to many, but not to him because he was able to retire at the height of the stock market and live comfortably, which essentially means golfing while his wife is finishing up Christmas shopping for their grandchildren, though unfortunately not his 12-year old grandson who lives in Japan with their son working for CitiBank (which, it sounds like, may be going under soon), which is strange because Jerry's son's degree was actually in Computer Science but now he's working in Management (doesn't actually seem that strange to me), and while he was at Portland State University taking a Japanese class he somehow met a Japanese exchange student who was going to University of Portland and they got together and got married, moving to Japan eventually, where he's been for 15 years , and where Jerry has only visited once, but planned to last year, actually having tickets to leave on the Thursday of the weekend before the earthquake hit, thus validating the decision to cancel and not see their grandson, which is sad (I am guessing he is bilingual, which I am not), but also leaving pristine the memory of the last time Jerry saw his grandson and they went golfing together 16 times; you may wonder what Jerry's last name is (I wonder too), however, I do not know, as I have not consulted the employment records for Roosevelt High School yet, but Jerry did also tell me an interesting story about a retired college coach here in Oregon (the name escapes me, I wasn't paying much attention) who draws a $41,000 monthly salary due to a very nice PERS plan, which has many people upset (but not Jerry, who also retired at the right time), and also led to the following statistic: in the '90s, PERS guaranteed an 8% return, which means that if the market returned 35%, you would still get in the range of 27%, but if the market tanked and bottomed out with a negative return, like -25%, you'd still be guaranteed an 8% return, which (as Jerry noted), may not be fair, but it's just the way things are, and he did actually work fairly hard during his 30 years as a teacher, which is evidenced by a good moustache and World War II-ly demeanor. Anyway, someday I will write about my conversation with him, but I am already beginning to forget it, and I wasn't paying that much attention to begin with, so it may end up lost to the winds forever.

Like my friend Matt.

This is not Matt. It is my wife, pumping her own gas.

Beat And The Pulse / Austra
Beside / Sleeping Bag

So, back to the barista and my third refill. I paid, and gave her a fiver and asked for change. She gave me ones. I made sure to immediately plop one of the George Washingtons back in the tip jar while she was watching (she was), and I hoped she realised that I wanted - I wanted - to tip a lot more. It is shallow, to want to make sure it's seen (The Tip), but it's human nature, and I was also wishing I was successful enough to stick a $20 bill in there (with barista watching), and not feel...empty.

Let You Go / Dimbleby and Capper
So, I wish I had lots of money, so I could give big tips and pay Sergei Brin to find Matt. But, there is something vaguely comforting about knowing that with everything we know; with all the cameras and networks and databases and instant search engines, that it is still possible to lose something (or someone). I wish I could find that missing $100 bill, and Matt. And also, my other pair of glasses, and the charger for my phone, and that overdue library book (I totally support libraries).

I'm sure you are doing well, my old friend. Here is a link to Facebook, if you stumble upon this post. I'll see you there, and we'll someday watch Witness again. You'll see the light.

2011 Melodies: Seven Songs from Husband+Wife Teams

2011-12-16T22:55:00.000-08:00

I have a soft spot for husband/wife musical teams. Something raw, visceral, and seductive about creating something beautiful with someone you like. So I'm always on the lookout for melodies featuring the betrothed.

Some favourites all-time: Low, the Handsome Family, Mates of State, Sonic Youth, New Order, Yo La Tengo, Viva Voce

In 2011, there were some great tracks from the married folk.

Viva Voce.
Black Mood Ring / Cool Morning Sun.
Portland's own Kevin & Anita Robinson veer between classic rock & roll with psychedelic lustre and lovely, bruising ballads with melodic and sultry swagger. They also write some of my favourite song titles (How to Nurse a Bruised Ego (Back to Health), A Viking Love Song, Analog Woodland Song, etc.)

Me, and her: our creative productions, aside from conceiving two children, are generally in the arena of Visual Arts and The Kitchen. Becca has become an invaluable asset in frequently helping edit (design, video, photography), although her painfully acute attention to detail can be maddening. Also, we cook, and bake, and make food together. Although she has been doing more solo endeavors lately, which I am jealous of. She invented both Vegetable Soup Dish and Sweet Potato Curry on her own, without my help or advice, which I am disgruntled about (see previous December posts).

Someday, we will record an album together. It is a dream.

December 2006, when we were children.

Mates of State.
Mistakes / Palomino.
Kori Gardner and Jason Hammel have been making music together since 1997, and now tour with their two young girls (7 and 3). Their bouncy, dueling synthpoppy songs sound like a Beach Boy on speed karaoking with an Erasure-loving, hipper Belinda Carlisle. Mistakes has a chorus from Ms. Gardner that is glorious. I smile, and feel bumps creeping up my arms.

Becca and I met in around the turn of the century, and I thought her bottom looked very nice. I did not voice that fact at the time. Also, I liked her voice. Just the sound of her talking. We have done a great deal of singing and headbanging on our billions of road trips, though we have never played on stage simultaneously. Someday, we shall. I am hoping it will be at Glastonbury.

I did, at one point, take Second Place in an outdoor karaoke contest in SoCal. I blasted out a sweaty, operatic version of Poison's Every Rose Has Its Thorn. Got beat out by an 11-year old girl, who won merely because she was cute, and sounded awful.

$20 / Try to Sleep / Done
Low.
Think of the craziest, loudest, fastest music you can imagine. Got it? Okay. Now I will tell you what the diametric opposite of that is. Low. It is Low. The Minneapolis outfit has been breathing out minimal, hypnotic compositions since 1993. The opening track of this year's C'mon is apropos to their signature sound: Try to Sleep. The slowbeating core of all that is hauntingly melodic.

Inland Empire, California August 2001

Missoula 2005

Amidst the quiet whispers and occasional desolation, there is hope. That is not a metaphor for our relationship; is it is a concrete statement of Low's music. :) 2011's C'mon is a lovely winter album; a hazy, romantic, nighttime gathering of wishes and hope.

To do what you love, with people you love. That is the dream.

I am in dreams.

Playlist.
Black Mood Rising / Viva Voce
Cool Morning Sun / Viva Voce
Palomino / Mates of State
Mistakes / Mates of State
$20 / Low
Try to Sleep / Low
Done / Low

12.13 | Dinner Was Palatable, Dear

2011-12-13T23:44:00.000-08:00

The following is an interview I conducted with Becca Long. In the interests of disclosure, I should note that I do have an ongoing, frequently non-platonic relationship with her.

A Gastronomic Conversation with Becca R. Long About Soup, and Love

ONE.
You made a delicious dish for supper tonight, which was a refreshing change from the ill-advised Carrot Apple Lasagna you made recently. What is your new concoction called?

Vegetable chowder.

Magdelana chimes in. "It's called 'Vegetable Soup Dish!'"

Yep. That works. Vegetable Soup Dish.

TWO.
What inspired you to invent this? Describe three inspirations. If you want, you can include Joan of Arc, or Noah.

Okay. One would be hunger. Two would be cold weather. Three....hmmm. Unconsciously, I suppose...Joan of Arc.

That makes sense.

THREE.
What is in the soup?

Potatoes. Carrots. Corn. Salt. Water. Lawry's seasoning. Dill. Poultry seasoning. Cashews blended up. A smidge of flour and corn starch to thicken. A little black pepper. Garlic powder. Some almond milk.

FOUR.
Okay. So, no magic ingredient, like love?

Uhh, a bit of chaos and compassion.

That doesn't make sense.

FIVE.
What is the secret trick to making a good pot of soup?

It's a secret.

Oh.

SIX.
What do your children think of the soup?

Johannes (17 months) scarfed it down. Magdelana (4 years) loves it.

Magdelana. It's much better than Mama's lasagna. I call it 'Vegetable Soup Dish.'

SEVEN.
What music would you recommend listening to with this soup?

Magdelana pops in. I was going to say Kimya Dawson, but then I couldn't remember her name.

Back to Becca. A few ballads by Jeremy M. Long. And Sigur Ros.

EIGHT.
If you had to survive on only one vegetable for an entire year, what would you choose?

Maybe red potatoes for versatility. But spinach would be a close second.

NINE.
What is your favourite colour of bowl to eat out of?

Green, red, and aqua blue. Bright fiesta colours.

TEN.
How long did it take you to prepare the soup?

Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Washing, peeling, chopping, seasoning. Then I let it simmer for about 30 minutes or so.

ELEVEN.
What sort of food, coupled with minimal exercise, would help me get abs like Ryan Gosling?

(deep sigh and smile)

Fresh vegetable juice and minimal processed foods.

(another deep sigh, and big smile)

Thank you for chatting with me, Dear.

You're welcome, Dear.

****

Note: I kept eating, and eating, and eating. The soup was delicious, and Becca is not even listening right now. In fact, I am planning to sneak out of bed tonight and help myself to a 2 a.m. snack. In a blue bowl.

12.08 | Dinner Was Awful, Dear

2011-12-09T00:33:00.000-08:00

Becca made supper last night; it was terrible.

Watch Our Shadows Run / Joseph Arthur
Becca and I have seen Joseph perform four times over the past several years. The first time, he was wonderful, and in good cheer, and rocked so beautifully, and his bassist wore a skintight outfit that competed for all our attention, and Becca was pregnant. The second time, he was dour, and depressing, and turned in a passable performance due only to a superb encore, and we were not with child. The third time, he had a pale Norwegian opening for him, and she was lovely nightingale personality and voice, and infected him with enthusiasm. The fourth time, recently, he sang, and played, and painted simultaneously, like in our living room, only someone else's.

And we have seen him each time together, his darkly melodious fuzz a binding ritual. I wish we were seeing him this month, but I didn't have time to invite him for the holidays, and I don't know if he has email, or if he's vegetarian. His latest album, The Graduation Ceremony, is quietly gorgeous.

Strange Negotiations / David Bazan
When I was beginning high school, my mom took a sledgehammer, and bashed out our brick fireplace like Lawrence Taylor on a Sunday. It was a commitment; a commitment to commence the remodeling of our home. When you destroy a fireplace, a fireplace that is the focal real estate in the primary entertaining space; that is a commitment. A commitment to change things; to force yourself into changing. So the remodel began. A remodel which would extend throughout my high school years, and beyond.

1994. Me and Jeremy moving 4x8 sheets in the attic.

Throughout the remodeling, life went on. There were still birthday parties, and luncheons, and many visitors, and many, many celebrations. And we never forgot Christmas, somehow. There were always lights, Clark Griswold lights; billions of lights illuminating the three story skyscraper monument we were constructing. Guess what? Guess who put the lights up?

My dad. And guess who helped?

Us. Me, and my younger siblings.

There may have been an element of risk, as thirty feet is not thirty inches. I think now, I would consider being more...safe.

But the idea of pulling your children into involvement with...everything is one I've carried on.

photograph: Becca Long

Horses / Joseph Arthur
Magdelana helped me put up Christmas lights earlier this week. I wouldn't necessarily call her involvement a huge...timesaver. When Johannes helps me load the dishwasher, and stuffs in not only silverware, but shoes, toys, and books, I would also not call his assistance...invaluable.

But I would not change it, because some things, many things, are not about efficiency. They are about an experience, and a memory. Magdelana's appreciation of our modest lights is highlighted by the knowledge that she helped do it; she did the dangerous stuff with her dad. And her mom was cool enough to stand by offering support, and by making sure she didn't actually get on the roof...

There was nothing dangerous, really...

Contrabanda / DeVotchKa
I wanted a cookie, and I was shopping at Trader Joe's after a long day of work, and I saw cookies. I thought I would buy a package of them. Mini ginger bread men, and I saw frosting. Thought of Becca, and how proud she would be of me if I didn't buy them (I have been known to have an affection for sweet delicacies, and she is a Danish dental hygienist).

I did not get them.

Me, at home: I almost got frosted gingerbread men cookies.
Becca: So did you?
Me: No. I thought you'd be proud.
Becca: Oh man, I love those! Why didn't you get them?

So, disappointment all the way around. Sometimes that's what life is. Pure disappointment, until the next day when we went back and bought them, and now it's after 10pm and I just ate one, and Becca doesn't know, and I'm so pleased with myself, but I know I will be found out, because that's where secrecy gets you.

Where are the gingerbread women? Latent, instititutional gender discrimination.

Calgary / Bon Iver
Becca's dinner, the horrible one:

She is a good cook. We both share experimental culinary productions. I am legendary for integrating corn into my brownies a while back. I thought they were delicious; they got a big fail from all other taste testers. Did I let that get me down? No. Sometimes ya just gotta try something out.

Which is what she did, with her almost-raw lasagna. Problem is, her attempt to use a carrot-and-apple pulp as the main sauce* was overpowering. I had seconds, out of pity and hunger, and it was moderately palatable, with her successful cashew cheese sauce smothering it. Our kids ate it, for which they should be commended. The remainder goes to the chickens.

*There was also tofu and spinach lurking underneath

(Meta)

I am going to start writing of my bride's successes in the kitchen, for there are many, such as her stunning sweet potato curry. Her dreadful lasagna was not one, and we laughed, and I laughed longer, and then she pretended to get angry and told me I should write about it, which is what I'm doing now.

I did not care immensely for Bon Iver's Calgary when I first heard it, but it magically kept slipping through my iTunes cracks and forcing me to like it. And now, I might be starting to adore it.

Maybe I should give her lasagna another chance.

Wait / M83
The French duo's gorgeous, otherworldly ballad is toasting the world goodnight.

I am so in love with being in love with someone I can laugh at, and laugh at her laughing at me, and just laughing and forgetting why we were laughing to begin with.

Except I never really forget, because I am writing of it now. The annals are written by Herodotus and Homer and me and Margaret Mead.

12.04 | The Forest is a Cozy Place for Christmas Creatures

2011-12-04T23:33:00.000-08:00

The snow had not yet arrived;
we sneaked out, into the sun-lit forest.
Magdelana guided the way down the invented garden path to the fortress
I can reveal nothing more.
It is secret.
Deep in the heartwoods.

Nightfall fell.
Kids in pajamas (said with British accent);
tooth breeshed, upon our favourite hygienist's recommend.
Hopped in the automobile for surprise trip down
Mount Norway.
Pulled into the drab house neighborhood turned

BEAUTIFUL

illuminated and alive with creatures from the Poles.
Zooey Deschanel & M. Ward dueting with us.
Slow drive, caroling to us.
Then,
home to bed.

HOLIDAY SONG OF THE DAY
Baby, It's Cold Outside / She & Him

RITUALS & EVENTS
Singing O Holy Night very, very loud in the automobile and not remembering most of the words.
Exploring in The Woods and having Magdelana discover another secret fort.
Driving through the neighborhood Christmas lights at the bottom of mountain.
Finishing Crazy, Stupid, Love and having Becca stay awake until the end. A Christmas miracle. Heh heh.

12.03 | We Hope You Enjoy Parenting. Don't Fail At It.

2011-12-04T06:11:00.000-08:00

There are only a few things that can compete with a ball for something simple, versatile, and open to unlimited possibilities for play. Wood blocks offer some stiff competition to the classic ball though. There is something pure, visceral, and peaceful about stacking, building, arranging, and yes, knocking down a collection of blocks. And, it's an activity that you can concentrate on with kids, but also simultaneously have great conversations with them. Magdelana and I have had some of our best conversations while creating massively-ambitious wood structures, and Johannes loves to jabber his three-cents in while he's building his Gehry-inspired Towers of Babel.

So, the sun was out, the air chilly. Just for something crazy, I had a hot cuppa Joe in the early morning. There are people who drink their coffee black, which I respect, and hope to maybe be one of those people someday. But December is just too fun a month to do that.

Drew another Block City as a birthday gift for a really swell one-year old lad, Koen. As noted in previous posts, I use paint markers for these. I spend so much time in front of a computer, editing this, undoing that, living in the digital world. It feels wonderful to live on the edge and paint something that can't be undone with a click.

My friend Joel Henriques introduced me to Elmer's non-toxic paint markers via his blog, and they rapidly became one of my very favourite tools ever. I'm sure everybody uses them differently, but my approach is to just start with a few simple lines for outlining some buildings, and then just wing it from there. No pencil, no pre-planning, just living on that dangerous ledge of no-return. Or, no-erase :) It is addictive. And it is so fun painting on wood. (Makes a big difference to do a good job sanding beforehand).

Buddies by Joseph Ivan Long & MDL .

Magdelana and Becca closed out the day's events by going to a baby shower my sister Leanna threw for our friends Jodi and Kit, who have their firstborn due in January. I cannot imagine being married to someone more crazy, and fun, than my wife, though I forget her name at the moment. Oh yes...it's Becca. We make a good team - she is a person who outlines things in pencil beforehand, and gives me brutally honest feedback on what's working and what's not. She is a funnel for many of my ideas, and she serves a vital role, as one of my creative partners, in determining which ideas:

A. Deserve to be shared with the public, and
B. Need more work before being shared with the public, or
C. Should never, ever be shared with the public.

Our senses of humor are different, but overlapping. She is one of the funniest people I have known, and there are select people who will vigorously endorse that fact. We have fun writing out greeting card messages together, like the card we included with the baby gift last night:

We hope you enjoy parenting, and don't fail at it.

Okay, maybe it's not that funny. But guess what: the two of us guffawed heartily about it in the automobile, and our children looked at us strangely, as they will likely do frequently over the course of our lives. We are a team, and we have fun together. So it will be a pleasant memory for us.

HOLIDAY SONG OF THE DAY
Angels We Have Heard On High / Sufjan Stevens

RITUALS & EVENTS
Singing Jingle Bells very, very loud in the automobile.
Eating not just delicious pumpkin pie, but also warm gooey apple pie baked by our friend Liesl.
Watching the first 45-minutes of Crazy, Stupid, Love with Becca on the couch before falling asleep, unbelievably, before midnight, and thinking that my abs do not closely resemble Ryan Gosling's at the moment.

12.02 | The Police Officers Are Going to Like You, Because You're Driving So Slow

2011-12-03T02:22:00.000-08:00

I have nothing against princesses, or shopping malls. In fact, I like malls this time of year. All the people, and lines, and hustle and bustle. I suppose if I was actually trying to be productive and in a hurry, I might get irritable. But these days, if I am at a mall, it is with my children. And if I am with my children, then we are there to sight-see and adventure-seek, not be productive. So why were we at a mall to begin with? Back to the beginning...

Apparently, December is bonus time. People who have bosses, and who do a good job, sometimes get bonuses at the end of the year. Pretty great thing, if you're the employee. Now, I'm the boss, but pretty much of only myself, so it's not the most productive thing for me to hand myself a bonus. My understanding of bonuses is also that they fall into one of two categories: Bonuses that are:

A. Really good, or

B. Really bad

Becca, my buxomous bride, has a boss. A pair of bosses. She is a dental hygienist, which means that she not only scales and polishes people's teeth, but also helps to educate them on good oral health in general. She is very proficient at it, and she smells good up close.

Do you know how her bosses do their bonuses? I'll tell you. It is very cool. It is this: on a Friday afternoon every year, they close up the office early. They give each of their staff an envelope, with money inside. Then they send them off to go shopping. There are two rules:

A. The money has to be spent that same afternoon, before everyone meets for dinner, and

B. It has to be spent on yourself. No paying bills, or buying gifts for other people, or other behaviors smacking of altruism or common sense. The guilt is removed; the command is absolute. It must be spent on yourself.

So the children and I picked Becca up and traveled with her down to Clackamas, where she was to shop. The siren call of Great Harvest Bread Company was strong; we stopped in to enjoy a free slice of bread and smile at birds and strangers. Also, they serve Stumptown coffee. It was delicious.

2005. Our beloved Missoula. Lots of love for Great Harvests across the West.

A guy. Kid. Late teens, maybe ex-skater, broke stride as he passed the bistro table where I was bantering with Johannes. Smiled, head nod,

Really cute, he said to us. Johannes, trademark Hanna Andersson aviator hat, glurgled a crumb-y smile to him.

Kid smiled back, flipped his hair, maybe a little embarrassed, and shoggled off. Hey thanks! I said. Have a great afternoon!

You too, he called back.

It's just not that difficult to be a decent person. That kid could just have thought that to himself, but he didn't. He actually said it, aloud. And it was nice. A nice thing to say, and I appreciated it. It was a genuine compliment from a stranger that I will likely never see again, from someone that I wouldn't necessarily expect to be saying something of that sort...

I thought it might be a nice gesture to track him down to his automobile, nab his plate number, do some Internet sleuthing and figure out his address so we could show up at his door next week to surprise him with homemade sugar plumb cookies and an original Christmas carol, but Becca told me that wouldn't be a good idea, mainly because we haven't written an original Christmas song yet.

A COMPLIMENT

Daddy, the police officers are going to like you, because you're driving really slow. They don't like it when people drive fast, so they'll be really nice to you when they stop you because you're driving so slow.

So Becca went to shop for something, and I took the children to the Town Center, which is a fancy name for a mall. Years ago, there was an ice skating rink, but it got replaced by a food court, which is the opposite of progress in my book. We entered the mall via Barnes & Noble, where both offspring ambushed my attempt to directly pass through by snatching books off the shelf, in the name of "looking for presents for people." Johannes immersed himself in Eragon and other dragon-looking books; Magdelana found a series that she was certain one of her aunts would just love. I was just as certain they would not, and as I had the cash, we left empty-handed. What a Scrooge.

When I was a kid, I was really into G.I. Joes. I had a very convoluted relationship with them, because my mother, Confucius, was very against them. Mostly, because they were all about war and guns and violence, and my mom is very much not about those things. But her Solomonic pronouncement was this:

A. I could purchase G.I. Joe figurines with my own money, which meant that I would need to find a job. Which became my incentive to start mowing lawns, sell giftwrap door-to-door, collect cans for recycling, etc.
B. The G.I. Joe figurines I purchased could never actually fight, or ever point their guns at each other, or at any other living thing, which made it challenging to figure out what Sergeant Slaughter should be doing, as he had very antediluvian ideas about peaceful conflict resolution. Mostly, they went exploring together, and served more as NATO peacekeepers, but always with their weapons at the ready.
C. I couldn't actually watch G.I. Joe cartoons. Once, my mom said she would watch the show with me, but it wasn't fun watching people shoot each other with someone who didn't approve of people shooting each other. So basically, I had to kind of invent my own storylines, characters, and exposition about my G.I. Joe characters, as I really knew next to nothing about them, at least the version that Mattel was selling.

So now I have a daughter, and We, meaning All of Us in Today's Society, are immersed in a princess world where it is expected that little girls will naturally go through a princess phase. And it may be mostly true, as many gender expectations and stereotypes have certain small truths built into them. But the princess world of today carries the baggage of so many values and traits that subtly reinforce a host of priorities that we, her parents, do not want prioritized or reinforced. At the least, today's princess culture has a cookie-cutter aspect to it that is about passively accepting the manufacturer's idea of beauty and of play; it is not about original thought or story-creation; it is not about the open-ended process of play and character-creation; it is about having characters handed to children, complete with backstories, television tie-ins, and fashion accessories du jour. It is about plastic aesthetics and hair products that mimic fleeting Top-40 icons; it is not about inventing, imagining, or creating scenarios for your characters. There's a blueprint handed out. A map, a.k.a. Twitter link and QR code; a website for ordering additional accessories and Saturday morning showtimes. And it is pushed, it is pushed in a manner to make a child feel that if they don't have it, they are missing out. Missing out. It is maddening. Societal guilt over not providing your children access to the same toys all their peers have. And of course, that phrase "all their peers" carries the same validity as it does coming from a Jr. High student - in Junior High, it's commonplace to use absolutes such as

Everyone,

and

No one

such as, No one I know likes that movie, or Everyone says that teacher is really dumb.

And it's that same mentality, that herd mentality that is pushed. All of the other kids are getting this; all of the other parents are doing this for their kids. And you get pushed into it because it seems like the right thing, because...everyone is doing it.

So here we are, with a daughter whose awareness and interest in princesses grows by the day. We have no desire to remove ourselves from society; we are not going to "protect her" by inoculating her from all media or advertising (for the second consecutive post, I will use Sisyphean).

I hate how the verb "party" is used. As in, "that person likes to party." I hate the idea that the word "party" is automatically tied in with alcohol. Why? Why, and when did that association get locked in? I hate it. I want to reclaim the word. It should be freed to use in a context that is not ball-and-chained to booze. In a more imprecise sense, I would like to reclaim what the idea of being a princess means. I want to devalue its usage as shorthand for a shallow, mirror-focused worldview. I'm not against pink and purple and wanting to look pretty. I like those colours, and I like to look...pretty handsome too. But I don't want my children, especially our daughter now, aggressively under pursuit and attack for her brand-loyalty, to be subsumed by ephemeral ideas of quality and character as being tangential. Real princesses should know how to lace up their own Frye boots and forge their own glittery battle axes. Real princesses don't earn their princess identity because there's a prince on her arm.

I don't want her to figure out the quickest way to get designer princess doll clothes is to beg Daddy's credit card; I want her learning to sew, to make, to create, to understand the value and the reward of playing with something that doesn't come with a receipt. I want her naming her own dolls; making their own stories; creating their own mythologies.

But you know what? That's what I want. Not gonna happen quite like that. And I'm okay. Not okay in the sense of being resigned to losing the battle. I'm okay in the parallel sense that my mom was okay with me and G.I. Joes. Okay in the sense that my mom's concern for the values I was receiving from violent, war-based toys was important enough to talk about. Not to completely shut down my interest, but to serve as a gateway to conversation and discussion. I still laugh, and sometimes poke fun at her abhorrence of all violence, but I respect and validate how she dealt with her concerns. She opened an ongoing dialogue with me about where my interest in military and guns came from. She made me articulate my reasons for those interests. She pushed me to think and to not just accept explanations and pre-packaged storylines.

Also, I love my dad.

We are not passing along our carbon-copied preferences and philosophies to our children; we are trying to pass along the ability to feel empathetically, to think critically, and to create imaginatively. We will not let the bullies of the world, especially the ones with Madison Avenue ad budgets, smile and backslap their way to the front of our child's cultural radar.

Anyway. Mags, Johanni and I strolled around the mall. Got sucked into The Disney Store, the sugary Holy Grail palace for cutesy princesses. One thing, then another. Like a painting with no focal point for your eyes to finally rest on. Barrage of primary colours and pastels and talking animals; Magdelana dancing from Princess Jasmine to Princess Mulan to Princess...oh wait, that's little Princess Johannes, following her every footstep, dismembering entire display cases in a matter of seconds.

We lit out of there, echoes of "can I get this?" followed by its twin. Sensory overload. Why choose one item when there's ten billion to choose from?

Meanwhile, Becca was not answering her cellular telephone, so we continued tromping around. Grabbed ourselves some limp burritos from the Taco Time that displaced the ice skating rink. Disgruntled, I watched as Johannes stomped from one table to another, banana in squeezed fist, waving hello and making himself the most adorable nuisance on the planet to all strangers within a 20-foot radius. There was a toy train charging $3.50 for a five-minute ride; instead, we elected to ride up and down the escalator multiple times (free).

After leaving the mall, we fought traffic up 205 North. Magdelana wrote a one-line Christmas song:

Up on the skylight, the snowflakes dropped down from above

So we hollered that out a billion times or so, then jumped onto Highway 14, eventually stopping in Camas for their annual Lighting of the Tree. We missed the actual lighting, but were pleasantly surprised to run into some good friends, with whom we spent a memorable hour together in a 'waiting for Santa' line. Magdelana asked to get a photograph with her friend Avery on Santa's lap. Johannes went ballistic when I tried setting him on Santa's knee. I hope he does not have latent feelings of betrayal over my attempt to deposit him on a fake-jolly big bearded white giant's knee.

It is late, and I am tired, but it was a good day, and Becca was successfully able to find something unnecessary and fun for herself, which I am glad for. She is a wonderful creature, and I am glad she has good bosses. I hope my boss gets me something nice for Christmas. I am hoping for universal peace (trying to one-up those world-peacers), or perhaps a plate of cookies that Becca will let me eat in bed while watching Ugly Betty, and fall asleep blissfully without flossing afterwards...

This weekend, I am going to write about my brother Jonny, because I need to write about him. I cannot speak of redefining what a particular word means without thinking of what he has done to redefine what the word uncle means.

Tiffany's is not just a jewelry store. Michael Jordan was not just a basketball player. A Mac is not just a computer, and Jonny is not just an uncle.

Because I know you will be reading this, dear little brother, good night, and please know how much I look up to you. Thank you for taking an hour out of your day to pick us up today. You are gargantua.

HOLIDAY SONG OF THE DAY

All I Want For Christmas / Matt Costa

HOLIDAY SONG OF THE NIGHT
Silent Night / Stevie Nicks

RITUALS
Singing Christmas songs in the automobile, Camas Downtown Lighting of the Tree, seeing our friends The Natiuks there.

12.01 I Thought I Remembered Looking More Fit in the Future

2011-12-01T23:55:00.000-08:00

December is such a beautiful, peaceful month, which leads me to wonder why I am sitting in front of the computer, with headphones and white Christmas lights, listening to Foo Fighters shriek out Walk at questionably high levels. I love this time of year. And I love End-of-Year lists, which is also why I've been recently listening to a lot of favourite melodies from 2011.

Colorblind Soldiers blast Leviathan Lullaby. One of the best couplets of the year, amidst its piano tinkling, psychedelic-chilling glory.

Fascist married to a Baptist / thinking about the one who got away

Gonna have to start shopping for a Christmas tree soon. We shop for trees a little...differently. More like creating, or inventing. We liked our tree last year pretty well. Scavenged for Tim Burton branches amidst the savage vegetation of Mt. Norway; drilled some holes in an old post, strung some lights, and voila! Fell in love. We'll see how this year turns out.

December 2010. Winsome though Zooey Deschanel is, I still pick this girl, though I forget her name.

December is such a month of rituals. Was looking at photographs of a year ago. So many fun memories. Funny how you always think you look better in the past than you do in the present. Except that the present is next year's past, so maybe at that point I'll be thinking I looked especially fit and trim in December 2011. Right now, I am kind of thinking I looked better in December 2010. I am planning to seriously exercise a lot this month. Unless I am too busy making gingerbread houses and hosting hot chocolate parties.

December 2004

First time I heard Cold War Kids' Skip the Charades, I thought it was a Coldplay b-side. Not a bad thing, considering I still think Coldplay's 2008's Viva la Vida is one of the finest winter albums of the past decade. Interesting how certain sounds though, play out in 3-5 year trends. And Coldplay has certainly defined a specific intimate-arena juxtaposition of impassioned vocals, poppy Radiohead-ish instrumentation, and beautiful production. So following in those footsteps isn't a bad thing. Always the (unfair) struggle to credit more the band who A) originated a sound or B) perfected that sound, following on the heels of the originators. Anyway. Skip the Charades. Good track. Also: Coldplay's chugging anthem Every Teardrop is a Waterfall.

So, rituals. Started the Advent calendar chocolate thing this evening with Magdelana. Patient girl waited all day long. Finally opened it this evening. Eyes big, salivating, savored. I love little things that are big moments. Tiny rituals that are monumental to some.

Photographs and music. Both connect us to our personal histories in such different, yet such powerful ways. Common wisdom says that in adult years, you default to the music of your high school experience. I still have all my old cassette tapes and CDs, but overall, I would have to say that those years of Queensrÿche, Taylor Dayne, and Roxette launched my interest in a universe now encompassing Rachmaninov, Lightnin' Hopkins, and the Raveonettes (their Raven in the Grave slowly keeps getting better with repeated listens). Music opens braindoors. Down the rabbit-hole; one discovery leading to another. I wonder how our children will soundtrack their early lives someday in the grumpy start-and-stop inconsistencies of their memories? Lot of Bach on vinyl, Vivaldi on CD, and Kimya Dawson on the automobile iPod. My mom paid us a compliment, I think, last year. Something along the lines of

"One of the things I love about coming to your house is that there's always music going."

That is usually true. And often, combinations of pots, pans, spatulas, sticks, toy keyboards, flutes, harmonicas, and little voices accompanying the recordings.

But you can't really control what people remember. Not really. So we'll just keep the good times going, the music playing, the rituals intact, the adventures fresh, the love spilling into everything we do.

I like this month.

HOLIDAY SONG OF THE DAY
Little Saint Nick / She & Him

RITUALS
Hot chocolate, setup lights and decorations, watch a little Elf.

POPPYROCK 2011 PLAYLIST

Walk / Foo Fighters.
Pendulum Swing / Colorblind Soldiers
Skip the Charades / the Cold War Kids
Every Teardrop is a Waterfall / Coldplay
Recharge & Revolt / the Raveonettes
It Will Rain / Bruno Mars
Chapel Song / We Are Augustines

Caldecott #3 (1940) "Abraham Lincoln"

2011-11-27T21:44:00.000-08:00

Why are those soldiers' uniforms gray? Why is their flag different? What is slavery? Is slavery bad? Was Abraham Lincoln nice to kids? Was he sad when his mom died? Why are there footprints on the ceiling? Is there slavery today?

Some of the questions that our latest Caldecott-winnning read, 1940's Abraham Lincoln has sparked.

This has been the most popular book so far with both Magdelana and Johannes. Unlike Animals of the Bible (great illustrations, but stiff prose straight from King James) and Mei Li (great illustrations and interesting, but confusing plot), Abraham Lincoln is a simple, richly-detailed introductory biography about an inestimable leader and gentleman of integrity.

Johannes (17 months) consistently dragged the hardcover, well-worn library copy over to me, plopped it in my lap, and demanded in his squeaky grunt that I read. Now! It is packed with colourful illustrations; Johannes especially loved pointing out all the details on each page (lots of pigs, horses, various animals, flags, etc.) Magdelana (4+) had a bottomless supply of questions, primarily about slavery, and why people let it happen.

This has been a wonderful conversation starter. Magdelana and I have been talking a lot about injustice, and about sticking up for people. I do not always have the best answers.

How do you balance the confusing paradox of A) war is bad; don't fight with B) sometimes you have to fight in order to stand up for what's right?

These are things that adults don't have figured out.

Spoiler alert: the book ends before his ill-fated trip to the theater. Good or bad, it lets his story end on a more upbeat note that leaves out the assassination.

Highly recommend this for both illustrations and text. Informative, thought-provoking and conversation-starting for 4+, visually rich and detailed for younger. And enjoyable reminder of what a good guy Mr. Lincoln was.

He would certainly be a good guy to have around today.

1939

64 pages

Doubleday & Co, Inc.

by Ingri & Edgar Parin d'Aulaire

More Block Rockin'

2011-11-23T18:13:00.000-08:00

Block Party!
The above was for some friends' daughter's 5th birthday.
The one below was for some friends' son's 1st birthday (reverse of the previous post; collaged with paper).

Block Party 01

2011-11-23T00:42:00.000-08:00

Cityscape I drew on scrap wood blocks for some friends' son's 1st birthday. Inspired by the charming creations of Joel Henriques at Made by Joel.

1. Cut and sanded some scrap wood. Mostly 1x3 pine. 320-grit sandpaper.
2. Used a ruler to draw a horizontal line partway down with Elmer's non-toxic paint markers.
3. Free-handed the rest with markers. Used medium for the thicker lines and fine markers for the smaller details.
4. Finished with a coat of beeswax. Wiped it down...voila!
5. Fun for stacking, building, or flipping around (her name collaged on the other side).

Photography with Friends

2011-11-18T21:40:00.001-08:00

With the replaceable assistance of her irreplaceable assistant, Magdelana artfully arranged a motley collection of her dolls and animals for a portrait shoot. There was conflict, there was emotion, there was attention to detail, and finally a single money shot she was happy with. Alas, Johannes was never able to sneak his beloved stuffed giraffe into frame.

A solid session of teamwork, slushy snow slopping outside, and Vivaldi blasting Spring harmonics on a cold Autumn morning.

Shelter

2011-11-16T17:39:00.001-08:00

Occupy Living Room.

Repost : Link to "The Bewildered Brain of Bearded Brian"

2011-11-03T17:46:00.000-07:00

You should read this post by our buddy Brian on his blog, The Bewildered Brain of Bearded Brian. It's insightful, in a humorous way. If you like it, let him know.

Water Bottle Piety

Now go throw some leaves around and eat some pumpkin pie!

Caldecott #2 (1939) "Mei Li"

2011-11-01T21:30:00.000-07:00

Slowly, we continue working our way through the Caldecott Award winners. Mei Li is the 1939 winner; a labour of love that was written and illustrated by Thomas Handforth. It is the tale of a young girl in 1930s China who wants to go the New Year Fair in the city but isn't allowed to because she's a girl. Fortunately, she is curious, adventurous, and importantly, decides to ignore the prevailing idea that girls don't have the same privileges as boys. She sneaks out to follow her brother to the Fair.

At the Fair, the story hopscotches around a fractured plotline - she runs into acrobats, wise old men, beggars, a priest, and various animals. Her brother teases her mercilessly throughout, but she doggedly pursues adventure with spirit and bravery, finally returning to her kitchen where she finds out...I am firmly against plot spoilers, so read it and find out!

The illustrations are black-and-white; sometimes silly and sometimes kind-of realistic. Given the book was written in the 1930s, it is easy to assume it would be filled with offensive stereotypes about China, but it seems to have a tone of cultural respect and love for the characters rather than a pervading sense of stock caricature and dialogue.

Magdelana and I have had some lively conversations and question-and-answer dialogues about China, about history, and about how important it is that girls do not just accept the expectations that a culture may place upon them - children are meant to find and create adventure and excitement. Boys and Girls both.

And adults too.

Smile.

1938

48 pages

Doubleday Books for Young Readers

written and illustrated by Thomas Handforth

September the 30th (the sun pranced in for goodbye)

2011-10-02T23:57:00.000-07:00

Johannes and I hung around Anthropologie for a bit. Checked out some books, jotted down some ideas for combining 2x4 sculptures with fabric, then hit the streets to smile at strangers, chase birds, and read more books at Powell's.

Lively cohort, conversationalist, and urban adventurer.

Books I have not read and people I have not yet met.

Just don't get chrome that looks like this.

Current listening: Joseph Arthur's Graduation Ceremony. Das Racist. Men Without Hats. Benny Goodman.

I love Portland's parking garages, though I hate to pay for parking in them.

We spotted an automobile, and felt strongly it was driven by somebody who smelled good.

Not an eagle.

Love them.

Love their beds.

Love her.

Like these placemats. We will probably make our own now.

Caldecott #1 (1938) "Animals of the Bible"

2011-08-15T21:16:00.000-07:00

We have started working our way through the Caldecott Award books.

The Caldecott Award is an annual honor bestowed on the finest in children's book illustration (its cousin, the Newbery Award, is perhaps more familiar.)

Dorothy Lathrop's Animals of the Bible was the first winner in 1938. A prime example of what the Caldecott represents: illustration, because the text itself is certainly not the most interesting for children. Or for adults, actually: King James Version verse that accompanies the beautiful black-and-white drawings. The attention to both creature and botanical detail is captivating. I ad-libbed my own interpretations of half a dozen stories, which I found amusing. I cannot speak for my children.

Settled at the base of of one of our favourite trees. Johannes found a stick for pointing, and kept his ubiquitous toothbrush gripped in the other hand. He grunt-talked through each page, occasionally getting distracted by a pinecone beneath our feet, or Magdelana popping by to correct me when I read the story of Jonah and the Big Fish, as opposed to whale.

I wish there were more minotaurs in the Bible, or at least one.

1937

66 pages

HarperCollins

text selected by Helen Dean Fish

photographs by Rebecca Long 2011.

Sunday Night Cinema

2011-07-18T22:06:00.000-07:00

2011.07.17
I don't remember what day it usually aired, but I clearly remember watching The Disney Sunday Night Movie when I was around ten years old. The B.R.A.T. Patrol. The North Avenue Irregulars. And...those are actually the only ones I remember. They were hosted by Disney CEO Michael Eisner, who was an interesting choice to be in front of the camera, in the sense of not being a very interesting person in front of the camera (I have heard that he nixed Tom Hanks as host - "too young").

We decided to start our own little Sunday night cinema ritual. Hot dogs, picnic spread, and Father of the Bride. We went with Steve Martin's 1991 version for one reason: we have a copy on VHS. Found it buried between my 8-tracks and typewriter ribbon. Woulda been nice to start with the Spencer Tracy original, but Steve does a splendid job as hapless 'father of the bride' George Banks. Reminds me so much - so much - of my dad sometimes.

Right then, I realized my day had passed. But not in the same way. I was no longer the man in my little girl's life. I was like an old shoe, the kind we manufacture...and get all excited about and then after a few years discontinue. She'll always love me, of course.

Magdelana informed me a few days ago that "I am never getting married."

I said Okay. Why is that?

As she ran away to the forest, she shouted over her shoulder,

"Silly, I'm going to live with you and Mama forever!"

I will probably be a little more George Banks than I think...someday. And a little more like my dad. Funny how those things work.

2007.07 | Very Little Adventures "The Surprise"

2011-07-16T23:12:00.000-07:00

July 2007.
Magdelana has just been born. Josh is in Alaska. There is no way he can get down to see his new niece.

If You See the Third One, You've Gone Too Far

2011-07-12T23:39:00.000-07:00

I love your scarf! Where did you get it?

Oh, thank you. I got it at Costco.

How much was it?

It's about a...size four, or size five. That's about what I wear right now.
I'm four now.

Sweet. How much did it cost?

About, umm, one dollar.

Not bad! I'll have to pick one up.

Actually, it was two dollars.

Well, that's still a pretty good deal.

Actually, it was three dollars.

Uhh...that's starting to get a little spendy.

Okay. It was only two dollars.

I can handle that. How do I get to Costco from here?

Let's see...first you take a left, then you go north. Then there there are
two apple trees. Just turn after the second apple tree, and there Costco is.

Strawberry Jam Forever

2011-07-10T00:10:00.000-07:00

A snippet from our foray into jam-making as a team. Johannes shares his opinions on proper mixing techniques, and tries to sneak a lick.

Got Into a Scrap, or Two

2011-07-08T02:15:00.000-07:00

We have been making blocks out of scrap wood for Johannes (and us) to build with.

She has been having a lot of fun experimenting with lines and patterns. We blasted some Vivaldi and argued over how many syllables are in Sergei Rachmaninov.

Josef / Magdelana

Playlist: Bounce 2010

2011-07-02T01:46:00.000-07:00

I have been to many music venues. Big and small. Indoor, outdoor, intimate, epic, short, long. I have a special place in my heart for the Doug Fir Lounge (Joseph Arthur three times, including a memorable date in late 2006 when Becca was pregnant with Magdelana).

I also have fond memories of the Gorge at George, including Tool frontman Maynard James-Keenan strutting onto stage at dusk in a full-length dress and brunette wig. Also, there I saw Snoop Dogg and Jack Johnson.

But it is tough to beat the Oregon Zoo for best family-friendly venue. Their Summer Concert series is a treat for everyone - green grass, food, families, picnics, billions of hollering children, the skunky aromas of a thousand creatures' poop melding with nachos, sweaty hippie dancers...the music almost becomes extraneous.

The Zoo's first 2011 Wednesday evening concert is July 13. I am not familiar with Plena Libre's Puerto Rican Afro-Caribbean sound, but I hear they are terrific. Swing by Trader Joe's beforehand, grab some snacks and blanket, and show up ready to dance like a hippie banshee with a lawnful of kids, families, and good cheer.

With that in mind: Eleven Songs in summer 2010 that got our little family dancing.

1. July 2010. It became evident in the opening ten seconds of Caravan Palace's zoo show that their performance was not going to be extraneous to anything, including the elephant with the elephantine dangling appendage watching from his home in back. Jolie Coquine is electrofied gypsy-jazz at its danciest. Raw joy with the scat vocals of delicious frontwoman Sonia Fernandez sounding Nancy Sinatra-sexy and Billie Holiday-soulful. We danced, and everyone danced, and the animals that could dance, did.

2. Did Vampire Weekend's Holiday get played way too much in 2010? So I hear. Guess what? I rarely (voluntarily) listen to the radio*, so I have no idea what sort of masochistic captive audience lets themself be subjected to it on overload. I like to listen on my own terms, which is why I don't listen to radio. Which can be silly, in a hermit-crab kinda way - in 2003, I accidentally tuned in to a California hits station and discovered a song that was catchy. Hmm, this is fun, I unfortunately said aloud, and then discovered that the rest of the world had already been listening to Hoobastank's The Reason all summer long, sixteen times a day on every Top 40 station in the country. Oh well. I also discovered The Simpsons in Season Ten. So, Holiday: bouncy, cheerful guitars that sound like they're on vacation. Like what Jimmy Buffett might sound like if he rolled out of his cabana, borrowed a Strokes guitarist, and drank coffee instead of margaritas.

3. Story Told. M.I.A. (Mathangi "Maya" Arulpragasam) bangs her Roland 505 sequencer with the effervescent energy of Jack White on his six-string. Deadpan recitations about information displacement and media reporting in the digital age slog their way across occasional strands of actual singing and roll in and out of background chants and Middle Eastern bleeps, sirens and electronic growls. Chills as she keeps circling back to the reverberating chorus:

All I ever wanted was my story to be told

I want M.I.A. and Saul Williams to duet.

4. Crown on the Ground. Sleigh Bells may be a one-trick pony, but they are a pony with the growl of a wart hog.* Fuzzed up group shout-outs about not liking popular kids, or something like that. I would guess they are fans of Winona Ryder's third-best film ever, Heathers. Band members obviously did not have a good high school experience. Whenever I play it loud, I think a speaker cone is broken. Terrible production, crazily catchy; ironic wink coupled with huge hippopotamus smile. The lyrics are ridiculous and buried under miles of blown-amp guitar shots. The beats are big and the adrenaline is redline. You will dance. You will.

*do wart hogs growl? I like to think so.

5. Scott Pilgrim 16-bit by Camilo Diaz Pino. Blurbly, old Nintendo game-channeling instrumental that Magdelana emphatically loves every time I play it. Does it withstand the power of a thousand listens? I doubt it. But that's what's great about making conscious choices with playlist choices: it will always be a delightful soundtrack addition to a year in our life. And its incessant, repetitive bleeping is shadowed by Magdelana's simple declaration I like this. I really, really like this song.

Also, we double-heart Michael Cera, although Becca still refers to him as George Michael.

6. All rock & roll since 1964 can be traced back to the Fab Four. Some bands wear that debt in subtle fashion (Radiohead, Badly Drawn Boy); others in blatant adulation (Elliott Smith, Oasis). The phrase Beatlesque Pop is like saying "Stalinesque Authoritarianism." Overkill and overstatement. At some point, all pop music sounds a little like the Beatles. It's always interesting to try and pinpoint a band's other reference points. I have rarely heard such barefaced tribute to an idol as OK Go's End Love, a song that ostensibly has nothing to do with Prince, but sounds exactly like him, like an outtake from Sign O' The Times.

Okay, not exactly. But it is very Prince-like. I suppose any song that is sexy and danceable goes back to him at some point too.

7. Los Cuatro Muleros*. Josephine Foster and the Victor Herrero Band romp through three minutes of furious handclaps, castanets, and guitars like operatic Spanish bullfighters. I have no idea what she is singing in her soprano tremolo, but it is spirited, melancholy, and toetappingly irresistible. I really need to learn Spanish. Tal vez mañana.

*Four Mules

8. Khaira Arby's Khaira. Malian vocalist with a voice that gently melds a butterfly and a water buffalo.

9. Delicate Steve's Butterfly. A sweet, simple, complex instrumental that feels simultaneously electro and organic. Deceptively layered. Like an onion, or Eminem.

10. Radiowave. Germany Germany. I have a special place in my heart for substanceless techno and Eurodance. My dancing has occasionally* been described with words such as spastic, dangerous, and arrhythmic. Thank you to you who have used these words to compliment me. I accept your compliments. Generally, when these compliments are paid to me, it is directly inspired by the beautiful emptiness of a track such as this playing at Geiger-counter levels. My moves are impressive to Becca. Ask her.

*frequently

11. Caravan Palace's La Caravane: more gypsy swing that has got our family this close from selling our possessions on eBay and moving to the streets of Paris to hang out with street musicians and bebop our way from one croissant shop the next and just feel that rhythm. Sexy guitars. Sexy voices. Sexy beats. Sexy everything. Umbrella-ed with Joy.

Honorable mention: the first five seconds of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance. I don't even care about the rest of the song. I'm not even sure I've heard the entire song. But her "Ra ra, ah ah ah roma, roma-ma gaga, oh la-la" opening is UNBELIEVABLE. I could hum it all day. Unfortunately, I have done so, and have got Becca and Magdelana growling it out too.

Ra ra, ah ah ah roma. That is songwriting.

Dance. It inspires smiling. Do re mi fa, so long.

This Is a Long Drive for Someone With Everything to Think About

2011-06-28T23:44:00.000-07:00

One fabulous year of Johannes Xavier Ivan.

june 28, 2010

july

august

september

october

november

december

january

february

march

april

may

june 28, 2011

Oh, how I like him.