I NEVER WANNA DIE: Foo Fighters "Walk"

If you have not played the Foo Fighters Walk at maximum volume outside on this beautiful Sunday, then it's hard for me to believe that you are truly taking summer seriously. I still can't hear you...but that may be because my daughter is yelling at me to turn it up. I think that's what she's mouthing anyway. I hope all our neighbors still love us.

Also, you should probably make yourself a milkshake. Happy day, universe.

Foo Fighters
Walk
Wasting Light
2011

LITTLE TOY PIANO WITH A HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL.

I love life's little discoveries, like when you discover a hundred dollar bill in the front pocket of the jeans you borrowed from your brother, or when you discover that ligers really exist, or when you suddenly discover that the Greatest Song Ever was actually invented by Portland's own Jared Mees (the title is Little Tiny Piano). It has piano and trumpets and a great chorus and says that love is like a little toy piano, which totally makes sense.


Jared Mees & the Grown Children
Little Toy Piano
Only Good Thoughts Can Stay
2011

Dinner Was Awful, Dear

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.

Thank You for Not Respecting My Wishes

Yesterday was Jamey's birthday. My little brother, nine years younger, born into the shoes of P.T. Barnum wearing big boy Corey Haim attitude. With plenty of Will Rogers goodwill and Simón Bolívar wit. I like you, brother.

Snippet from his eighth birthday party. July 6, 1993.

Me and Leanna at the end.

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

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.

Sew I Say, Sure We Can

Daddy, can we please sew a purse this morning? 

Sure, I said. Let's do it...later. How about this evening?

Fine, she said. I will draw a pattern. But...will you please put it on the calendar so we don't forget?

That's it, I said. I dropped the dishes and swept her up. 

We are going to sew now. 

We sketched out some pictures of what she wanted to make. Made a little pattern, which we very much did not follow. Picked out some fabric. Cut, snipped, pinned, hemmed, and covered up a hole on one side with a Beatles album cover. One of the things I love about sewing is the great conversations you can have during the process. There is a high degree of patience involved - particularly with a little hand snuggled on top of mine, helping guide fabric through - that makes it difficult to do anything except concentrate on the undulating needle and converse about...stuff.

We spoke of tennis, baking, painting, and her upcoming birthday. She also informed me that she forgot to brush her teeth this morning, so she should probably have some gum instead so her breath wouldn't smell bad.

The purse turned out decent. It now holds her markers and a small drawing pad. Fun, simple project. Magdelana handles all the backstitching, loose thread snipping, pin gathering, presser foot maneuvering, and helps out carefully with the actual sewing portion.

If you have any simple sewing projects that are "all-ages friendly," I would love to hear!

Jeremy M. Long "June 26 Album Release "

http://www.aftonshows.com/colorblindsoldiers

Pink (Ode to My Son)

He might like trucks and
he might like dolls.


I hope he helps his dolls
drive his trucks.


Someday his sister's frilly tutu
will fit him
and he might want to wear it
which means we'll have to find one to fit me too.


I hope he will dance like a maniac.


Maybe he'll play football and hit very hard.


Maybe he'll ice skate and leap very high.

I want him to grow up and be
himself all along the way.


And keep the optimism and
curiousity and imagination of


CHILDHOOD


so I can keep clinging to it too.


Boots and blue and ammo belts,
swing a hammer and


BE TOUGH!


Little boys are like this
and
Little girls are like that.


Raise your fist, son,
to those who tell
you The Rules for (y)our gender.


Be Martin Luther,
King, do not bow to old patriarchs,
at venerated notions of manliness.


To be a man is to be yourself.
That is what I want you to be.


Do not prove your masculinity by
disparaging
Hugh Grant and rom coms.


(Thou dost protest too much)


Construct, deconstruct,
do not destruct
yourself or others.


Build up, be a bridge, open doors
for everyone.


There is a time to fix
and a time to listen.


Be a leader, and remember
to let others lead too.


A loud voice doesn't make you a leader. Sing.
Be kind.


There is an art director who got in
     hot water
for photographing her young son
     wearing
bright pink nail polish, which he liked.


     "There's got to be a 
     DIFFERENCE
     between boys and girls,"


the wise ones say.


     "Otherwise it gets confusing.
     We've got to protect those differences
      and keep things un-confusing."


Which made so much sense 
a century ago.


They have their drinking fountain, and
     we have ours,


spoke Plessy vs. Ferguson in 1896. And that's how things were,
for another 58 years.


Hunters and gatherers,
Protectors and warriors
     returning


to the caregivers, the
matrons and mothers and childraisers.


It is embedded from an early age
what toys and colours and traits


      Boys Like,


innocuously, innocently, an open feedback
loop of preconceptions turned into actions that
create self-fulfilling reality.


      Boys argue.
      Boys fight.
      Boys are about Action.


      Girls gossip.
      Girls bicker.
      Girls are about Talking.

My problem is not that there is no historic or biological reasons for differences between gender.


      MY PROBLEM


is when these traits are treated as inviolable facts, as raison d'etre for how one gender or the other responds to a given situation in life.


If Johannes grows up loving yellow Tonka trucks and camouflage attire,
     that is fine.


If Johannes grows up loving pink dolls and purple kilts,
     that is fine.


Being a man is developing the self-confidence to be yourself, to like what you want, to live how you want, to approach life with your own rulebook, not one that's been handed to you by a centuries-old code of gender expectations.


There is a troglodytic paranoia that for a 
little boy
to grow up playing with the wrong things or
liking the wrong toys
will turn him into something not...
     blue-blooded manly.


Be kind. Be respectful. Be curious and imaginative.
Those are my commandments, son.


There is nothing,
     NOTHING
that will ever make me disown, or
turn my back on my son.


MY PROBLEM
is when people make assumptions about what kind of person
he will be.


He is eleven months old,
and the wise ones make their assumptions already, because
that's the way Little Boys are.


Why are so many fathers disengaged from
     their children's lives?


(because)
They grew up with embedded ideas and
expectations of what Men do 
     and what
Women do.


And raising children is still looked at by many
as a Woman's Job.


Dad can step in at some point when the kid's
old enough to start hunting, playing football,
     or dating cheerleaders, and


     catch him up on "the guy stuff."


Another cycle continues.


     "This is who I am expected to be,
     therefore that must be who I am,"


     the implicit idea.


"You're not a normal guy," I have heard,
     an ambiguous compliment?


Thank you, I think.


I am not betraying my gender. I am proud to be a Man.


     Tarzan.
     Korak.
     Conan, I roar.


I am proud to be me.
There are many like me, similar,


     'not normal,'


and with raised melodic gorilla voices,
maybe our sons will someday be the


     New Normal.


Men of strength and kindness, confidence and humility,
     empathy and
     humor,
     proud to acknowledge the beauty in the world
     and


     to build lasting relationships of love and respect.


Son, I love you. Let's go paint our nails.

All the Things

The corner of Powell's Books sneaks out behind a row of

parked vehicles. I try not to think

of all the books I will die not having read.

I am now thinking about it.

Likely, I will never finish The Scarlet Letter.

I like the underlying themes more than the

book itself. The prose is heavy.

The sky is blue,

I am nestled under shade

in our automobile in a northwest

nook of Portland.

Windows cracked, breeze and bicycle wheels scoring my

sweaty children slumbering 

in back.

 I have never watched Gone With the Wind.

I am tired, to think about four hours spent leading

up to "Frankly my dear..."

Maybe I will watch it, after everything else I need to see:

Kurosawa + Truffaut + every Sesame Street episode ever 

Realistically, I will never watch Gone With the Wind.

Georgia though. I really need to visit Georgia. Savannah.

Next year, next year we will holiday in Savannah, 

if the timing is right. Which it likely will not be.

I am glad I didn't know the ending before I saw The Sixth Sense. 

I wish I could see The Game for the first time again. 

That's impossible though, if I remember correctly.

There is a noodle company down the block.

It is called "Noodle Company."

Or maybe it's "Noodle & Company."

I wonder if I will ever eat there.

It is a possibility, a slight one. 

It is likely that I will never eat at 

Outback Steakhouse. It is also likely that

I will spend little time in seafood restaurants.

I do not eat seafood, and it is a general assumption

that I could get a better salad elsewhere.

I like George Orwell. I like his precision.

I understand that BMW makes precision motorcycles.

Perhaps I will purchase one, someday.

Likely not though.

There are many bicyclists whizzing past my window.

I like bikes, especially ones with three wheels.

Maybe someday I will invent a bicycle with just 

ONE WHEEL.

There's a strong chance I won't though.

I see a lot of spandex-clad bottoms hurtling past.

On Thursday, I saw a lot of spandex-clad bottoms.

At a concert, an of Montreal concert that

was music and ballet and theater and Ringling Brothers.

Maybe I should become a rock and roll star.

First, I should get in better shape,

for the spandex, and maybe

learn an instrument.

I'm going to do it tomorrow, for sure.

Today is a nice day to listen to the bicycles.

No Idea Where She Got It

She runs into the kitchen,
where I am making supper.

Grabs my Kodak video camera,
turns it on and looks at me
as she races out the front door. Announces over her shoulder,

     I have got to video this...I have just got to video this!

I peek outside. She is hunched over,
inspecting rocks with one hand and videoing herself inspecting them with
the other.

She looks up.

     What day is it?

Monday, I reply.

She turns back to her rocks.
Continues shooting, lens pointed
back towards her. Begins
narrating to camera.

     Today is Monday, and 
     Mama is going to be home soon.

I chopped a tomato, and
my heart was so filled with
joy that I almost sank through the floor, which I need to replace.

But then we just ate supper and
listened to Django Rheinhardt.

Very Little Adventures - Episode 5 "Baking, pt. I"

Designer

I love my jeans.

They cost more than 
twenty dollars.

They are brand-name something.

I wear them everyday.
Seriously...everyday.

They feel good.
I would even pay twenty-two dollars for them.

Bumped

excerpt from 4.25
1.03pm.
Indianapolis Airport. Magdelana and I are an hour-and-a-half early for our scheduled 2.29 flight.

Airports smell good, mostly. Which is good, because airplanes do not smell good, mostly. We buy some gum, tater tots, and water, and admire the installations and sculptures. Also, Magdelana sings, loudly. Nothing specific, just the faux-English, Sigur Ros-channeling dialect she has been developing.

Odie odie hay ong omie omie say /
My say oh my ohsay yoh odie my may

We board our United flight, a few minutes late. The red-haired gate attendant, Katrina, is not friendly. She does not smile, or acknowledge me when I say thank you and inquire how her day is going. It is obviously not a lovely day for her. I notice out of my eye's corner, that the other attendant (I later learn he is Mr. Patel) is returning the phone to its hook with a thundering gracelessness.

Our seats are on opposite sides of the aisle, so I ask a gentlemen with no moustache if he might be willing to switch. He is nice, and does. Magdelana commandeers the window seat, and immediately begins sharing her thoughts on the plane's aroma, loudly.

Phew, it smells really really really awful, she groans repeatedly, not to the amusement of the first class gentleman eating Chinese takeout.



We settle into our seats. Mags peruses the contents of her precious blue bag.

• Stickers
• Art supplies
• Notebook
• Non-working cellphone
• 300 hair ties & scrunchies
• Ten dollars in change she has thieved from my wallet over the last month

We wait. And wait. The flight attendants have a sort of headless chicken aimlessness about them, peppered with an air of panicked irritation. We keep waiting.

Finally, an announcement is made: will somebody give up their seat, in exchange for a ticket voucher and a later flight?
Short version: I ask if they'll double up. We'll give up our two seats and take a couple ticket vouchers, a later flight, meal and hotel, and a suitcase of cash.  Okay, they say, so Mags and I grab our bags. We are heroes. Now, the plane can depart.

To the ticket counter. I meet Mr. Patel, who is slamming the phone down again. No. No. No. Absolutely not! (and then the phone slams)

For the next 45 minutes, we haggle out details. Our original flight soars away, though there still seems to be some issue over a missing flight attendant who stomped off somewhere (seriously).

Our flight is scheduled for five-something the next morning, but Mr. Patel suddenly gets a message, or call, or something from somewhere.

We can get you out tonight...actually, on the next flight. Are you interested?
- Uhh....yeah. 
So we hop in the next line for O'Hare, instead of D.C.




We make the short jog to Chicago. I read aloud Around the World in 80 Days. At O'Hare, we spend $45 in meal vouchers on a veggie sandwich, raisin bagel, eight-dollar peanut butter smoothie, and four Naked juices at $4.25 a pop. Mags is almost sleeping on her feet, but gets a shot of adrenaline* from a bottle of apple juice. We dine on the floor next to a fivesome of United crew. One, a Japanese flight attendant, is sprawled across three seats, sleeping. I aggressively and unsuccessfully work to not pull a double-take, as her slumbering skirt is pulled far above her knees, Abercrombie & Fitch-style while she gracefully rests (I do not sleep gracefully, I am told).  The captain keeps peeking at her, I think. Some things take a conscious effort to do. Or not do. I call Becca and tell her I accidentally looked a second and third and fourth time. She laughs and then gets furious and then laughs and we both laugh.

P.S. She was not furious.



Finally, we board our 5.43. This aeroplane smells too. We read some more. We sit on the tarmac, again. I wonder how long it will be until we take off.

Patience! Magdelana reminds me. Patience!
We fly up, at last. Mags conks out at 6.25, snuggled against me. She is wiped out.

I love her so much, my little adventuring travel buddy.



We arrive at PDX fifteen minutes earlier than our original flight, which is good. And then I get a phone call while we are disembarking and find out that our house has been robbed, which is not good.

The End.

*sugar

A Day in the Forest, a Day in the City

I did not intend to be away all day. But I was. We were. There was bubble-blowing and hiking; parking lot races and window shopping; park swinging and neighborhood strolling. And colours are blooming. Unlike the majority of humanity, I love flowers.

Also, Magdelana found a colony of ants. They were not inside our house, so I liked them.

Red Light

A guy
wearing a beanie and
a sign.

In printed letters,
something about being a
single father,

and needing money for diapers.

The light turned green.
Scrambled for my wallet,
dug out a bill, hoped it
was George Washington.

Thrust it to him, accelerating.
He smiled, said

Thank you.
God bless you.

You too I said.

And thought thank you for
saying 'thank you,' and for smiling.
He is a good dad, at
185th onramp in Aloha, Oregon.

Uno, Dos, Tres

I will defeat you,
I guaranteed,

glaring at Jonny and Jamey, and
at my bride and daughter.

The match began. Coalitions formed and dissolved.
Cheaters (me) tried and failed.
Bluster, banter, gutsy maneuvers and strategic shenanigans.

In the end, gleeful high-fives from a
fast-dealing cherubim.
Red-Six faceup card.

Adults zero, Daughter one.

Strangers on a Starbuck

They were strangers
Huddled in front of a computer, focused

(not a Mac).

A couple, a couple years younger

(I am 34).

Squeaked my chair around and asked what they were working on.

A vacation, they said,
not too unfriendly. Also, not too friendly.
We're planning a vacation.

Whereabouts? I wondered

(because I am interested in these things: the minutiae of strangers' lives).

We're looking at Whidbey Island, one mumbled.

That's nice. I smiled. Squeaked my chair back
to my venti dark roast

(with three pumps toffee nut, which is free with registered card).

I will never see them again,
unless they move to Whidbey Island
and we do too and they bump into us at Starbucks

(and ask us questions about holiday plans that are none of their business).

But maybe there is no Starbucks there.

Or maybe we we will meet in Rhode Island,
someday.

At Starbucks.

Kris Kristofferson

We were doodling.