Some days, you get a message from your carrier in the morning saying you have less than 2% data remaining for the month that ends tomorrow, so you put your phone into airplane mode for the day while you're away from wifi to avoid paying an extra $20.
Some days, you drink coffee black.
Some days, you ditch responsibility and the growing list of to do's and take the family to the water park, and feel smug about how little guilt you feel, especially when the kids remember to say thank you at the end of the day.
Some days, you enjoy a random few minutes of conversation with a stranger about structural engineering and the amazing feats of genius it took to build airplanes and spacecraft in the 1960s.
Some days, your wife winks at you from across a crowded space filled with strangers and it makes you feel super good. Some days.
Some days, you watch your two-year old racing down a four-foot waterslide with an attitude of focus, enthusiasm, and energy that is infectious, and then you realize he's wearing a swim diaper and pray heartily that it holds up on his 497th descent of the slide.
Some days, you watch your eight-year old take on something scary and challenging and dark, like an enclosed supersonic waterslide, and you see him emerge with bravery and the confidence of the conquered, and you feel like Mr. Miyagi must have at the end of the first Karate Kid, even though you know it's not really about you.
Some days, you watch your 11-year old daughter-athlete exit a pool with her mischievous smile of undisguised joy and you want to grab onto that and do whatever it effing takes to keep that mischief and that smile and that inimitable sense of unique self growing boundlessly and eternally.
Some days, you exchange almost no words with your eight-year old son on a rainy afternoon drive because he's so deeply absorbed in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and you smile with happiness at being ignored for a splendid reason.
Some days, you think about stopping for coffee on a rainy day because you really feel like it, and you don't because then you'd wake up your sleeping wife who looks magical with little damp ringlets of blonde drizzled down her face after she's played hard, and besides it means you'd have to take your attention away from listening to Future Islands' Ran, and you're just not okay with breaking up that piece of magic.
Some days, you listen to Billy Joel's We Didn't Start the Fire, the Pixies' Gouge Away, and Xavier Rudd's Storm Boy back-to-back-to-back and think nothing of it.
Some days, you eat a bean burrito from Taco Bell when you're so hungry and it tastes like one of the top five burritos you've ever had in your life. You know it's not true, but for a few brief moments, it seems like it.
Some days, you fight with your wife over a book from the library your daughter finished, and you've both discovered it's pretty good, and then she's two chapters ahead and selfishly dived into bed with it before you could wrest it away. Some days that happens.
Some days, you look over at your wife in bed, reading the book you're supposed to be reading, and she's falling asleep and you can hear frogs singing away in the forest creek a hundred yards away and you know it's time to put the day to rest, because it was a good one, and also you still have .07% of data left on your cell phone plan that rolls over tomorrow, and you totally stuck it to them because you saved twenty bucks. Looks like you're gonna buy yourself some good coffee tomorrow. But that's a different day. Not today.
Some days, you realize were inimitable, like and unlike every other, and you'll carry some special snippets from it around with you for a while. Like...forever.
Some days.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
4.07.2019
10.17.2018
IT'S THE FUTURE NOW, SILLY.
One of the small triumphs in my life has been an ability to play around with constructs of time.
In concrete terms, the ability to be in a difficult situation and place myself outside of that situation, at a point in the distant future, and ask myself:
If the answer is yes, then it opens the possibility of choosing to laugh about it now. In the present.
The accompanying question, slightly less important, but interesting and relevant nonetheless, is:
If again the answer is yes, then it is worth questioning whether there might, in fact, be a modicum of humor to be found in the current situation.
That is the preface to what unfolded last night.
It's bedtime,
I told him, scooping him up after night-time rituals had been concluded.
No.
he said.
Uhh, yes.
I said, firmly holding his squirming body.
Book.
he said, using his minuscule meaty hand to grab my cheek and force a direct gaze into his eyes.
You want a book?
I asked.
Uh-huh.
he said.
Two.
You want two books?
I asked for clarification; his 21-month old enunciation of most words still a project in progress.
Uh-huh.
he said, pointing.
Okay,
I said.
As a fellow bibliophile, I can respect that. Go ahead and choose two books.
I set him down next to one of the piles of books strewn around the bedroom he shares with a brother; there was more than one pile to choose from. He made his decision.
Uh,
I said.
That's three books.
No.
he said.
Two.
Nope.
I said.
That's three books.
No.
he said.
Two. Two books.
Incorrect.
I said.
That's three books.
No.
he said.
Two.
False.
I said.
Three books.
No.
he said.
Two.
That is simply not factual.
I said.
You're holding three books.
No.
he said.
Two.
I am right.
I said.
You are wrong. You're holding three books. But for the sake of getting you to sleep soon, I will allow three books on this one occasion.
Two.
he said.
I scooped him up again; a task made more uncomfortable with the three, or two books digging into my chest as he held them tight between us.
You wanna lie down in your crib now, or do you want me to hold you and sing for a few minutes?
Uh-huh,
he said,
lying his head on my chest, or rather, cranking his neck high over the corner of a book so he could sort of rest his head against my shoulder.
The titles of the books he beds with vary, but one thing is constant: they are hardcover.
I sang for quite some time, almost making it through a single verse of Old MacDonald had a Giraffe, when there was a clatter.
Uh-oh.
he said.
Did you drop a book?
I asked; a question to which I already knew the answer.
Uh-huh.
he said.
Two books.
Technically,
I informed him.
You now have two books.
Book.
he stretched angrily in the dark for the errant literature.
Unfortunately, the moon was on duty and an errant shaft of light squeezed its way into the corner of the bedroom. The tiny pool of light was enough illumination to remind him of the many other book options he had.
Book.
he said, pointing to a completely different title.
No. No no no no and no.
Book.
he said insistently, shark to blood, his desire for this book growing in proportion to my irritation.
That Richard Scarry book,
I said,
is a wonderful book, and I love it too, and it is also two feet tall. I am not rocking you to sleep while you're holding the big book.
Note: this is not an exaggeration. It is literally two feet tall. And sixteen inches wide. I measured. My mom gave it to us years ago and it has inexplicably stayed intact, through many hurricanes of the domesticated wild child variety. It is a great book. And it is huge. Physically huge. I did not want to be gently rocking him to sleep while he was holding this giant book.
TWO MINUTES LATER.
Buddy,
I said, as I gently rocked him to sleep while he held the giant book.
This is so not comfortable.
Two.
he said.
Two books.
I'm going to put you in your crib now.
I said.
Unless your brother is okay with you lying with him.
He can lay by me,
his tired brother grammatically-incorrectly murmured from his bed five feet away.
I gently maneuvered the little boy, his three little books, his one big book, two stuffed animals, blanket, and poker chips into place under the covers by his brother.
May I lie by you for a couple minutes?
I asked my older boy.
Yeah.
We laid there in silence, the only sounds that of the gentle night breeze outside the window, and the occasional non-stop rustling of the younger one practicing flopping from belly to back and back again, accompanied by a whispered monologue:
Book. Two. Uh-huh. Oh no! Uh-oh. Book. Baa. Baa. Baa? Uh-oh. Book. Two book. Uh-huh. Uh-oh. Moo. Baa. Moo. Baa. Baa! BAA! Woof. Two book. Mama. Mama. Uh-oh. Oh no. Oh boy. Oh no. Uh-oh. Moo. Baa. Two book.
His brother exhibited a degree of patience extraordinary for his eight years, but finally whispered in the kindest, gentlest manner you could possibly imagine:
Can you PLEASE stop moving around and talking? I'm trying to go to sleep.
His little brother, junior by six-and-a-half years, responded with how I imagine Winston Churchill might have responded if he was woken in the middle of the night by a door-to-door evangelist asking if he wanted to join prayer circle.
he screamed in the night's stillness; six inches from his brother's face.
I literally watched in the blackness as atoms split and sound waves parted at the vocal blast.
Okay,
I said when my hearing had climbed back up to fifty percent or so.
It's time for you to be in your own bed.
I am bigger and stronger, so I used that advantage, the only one I had left, and found enough squirmy limbs and fat to get him in the air and launch him the five feet into his own crib. With a thud, he collapsed onto the flimsy - but super comfortable - mattress, with a sigh, a grunt, and another noise explosion that made me question whether a diaper change might be in order.
No,
I convinced myself internally.
What happens in his diaper tonight can stay in his diaper. Tomorrow's another day.
I laid myself down on the floor next to his crib and reached through the slats to hold his grubby little boogery hand.
Book.
he murmured.
No book.
I murmured back.
Time to sleep.
No.
he said confidently.
I whisper-sung to him for a long while and almost made it to the second verse of The Ants Go Marching - that's the one where one ties her shoe - before darkness overtook my eyelids and I nodded off on the cold cold hard floor.
I awoke a great while later to feel the absence of that warm little booger-smeared hand. I panicked for a nanosecond before remembering he was in his bed prison and wasn't smart enough to escape yet, so he was likely fine. The moon was hiding, or taking a pee or something behind a cloud, so I could only listen in the chilly blackness.
I strained carefully to hear signs of life. One child five feet away, slumbering with grunty breaths. The other, the one in the jail bed next to me? Where is he? Is he breathing? Is he okay? Did he get out? Did he climb out a window? What's the matter? Why can't I hear anything? Should I turn on the light?
The moon chose this moment to make a starlet's entrance, gracefully sliding out from behind her cloud curtain and providing a spotlight for the scene in front of me; the actual curtains providing a proscenium for this nightly theatrical production.
Simultaneously as my eyes processed what was in front of me, my ears caught the whispering of a monologue not quite internal, but almost. A whispered murmuring, repeated, accompanied by the rustle.
The rustling of paper. Of paper turning. Paper pages turning.
The boy, sitting up in bed, in what had been pitch-black darkness, Braille-reading his way through Richard Scarry; reading to himself in a whispery monotone.
Book. Two. Uh-huh. Oh no! Uh-oh. Book. Baa. Baa. Baa? Uh-oh. Book. Two book. Uh-huh. Uh-oh. Moo. Baa. Moo. Baa. Baa! BAA! Woof. Two book. Mama. Mama. Uh-oh. Oh no. Oh boy. Oh no. Uh-oh. Moo. Baa. Two book.
He looked up and made eye contact by the light of the moon. He grinned big, and stood up wobbly with his book in the half-darkness.
Hi!
he said.
Hello! Dada. Book. Two book.
I sighed, and took a deep breath, and thought of the distant future, when I will someday laugh.
Someday.
In concrete terms, the ability to be in a difficult situation and place myself outside of that situation, at a point in the distant future, and ask myself:
Will you someday think this is funny?
If the answer is yes, then it opens the possibility of choosing to laugh about it now. In the present.
The accompanying question, slightly less important, but interesting and relevant nonetheless, is:
If you were an onlooker watching this situation unfold, would you find it humorous?
If again the answer is yes, then it is worth questioning whether there might, in fact, be a modicum of humor to be found in the current situation.
That is the preface to what unfolded last night.
It's bedtime,
I told him, scooping him up after night-time rituals had been concluded.
No.
he said.
Uhh, yes.
I said, firmly holding his squirming body.
Book.
he said, using his minuscule meaty hand to grab my cheek and force a direct gaze into his eyes.
You want a book?
I asked.
Uh-huh.
he said.
Two.
You want two books?
I asked for clarification; his 21-month old enunciation of most words still a project in progress.
Uh-huh.
he said, pointing.
Okay,
I said.
As a fellow bibliophile, I can respect that. Go ahead and choose two books.
I set him down next to one of the piles of books strewn around the bedroom he shares with a brother; there was more than one pile to choose from. He made his decision.
Uh,
I said.
That's three books.
No.
he said.
Two.
Nope.
I said.
That's three books.
No.
he said.
Two. Two books.
Incorrect.
I said.
That's three books.
No.
he said.
Two.
False.
I said.
Three books.
No.
he said.
Two.
That is simply not factual.
I said.
You're holding three books.
No.
he said.
Two.
I am right.
I said.
You are wrong. You're holding three books. But for the sake of getting you to sleep soon, I will allow three books on this one occasion.
Two.
he said.
I scooped him up again; a task made more uncomfortable with the three, or two books digging into my chest as he held them tight between us.
You wanna lie down in your crib now, or do you want me to hold you and sing for a few minutes?
Uh-huh,
he said,
lying his head on my chest, or rather, cranking his neck high over the corner of a book so he could sort of rest his head against my shoulder.
The titles of the books he beds with vary, but one thing is constant: they are hardcover.
I sang for quite some time, almost making it through a single verse of Old MacDonald had a Giraffe, when there was a clatter.
Uh-oh.
he said.
Did you drop a book?
I asked; a question to which I already knew the answer.
Uh-huh.
he said.
Two books.
Technically,
I informed him.
You now have two books.
Book.
he stretched angrily in the dark for the errant literature.
Unfortunately, the moon was on duty and an errant shaft of light squeezed its way into the corner of the bedroom. The tiny pool of light was enough illumination to remind him of the many other book options he had.
Book.
he said, pointing to a completely different title.
No. No no no no and no.
Book.
he said insistently, shark to blood, his desire for this book growing in proportion to my irritation.
That Richard Scarry book,
I said,
is a wonderful book, and I love it too, and it is also two feet tall. I am not rocking you to sleep while you're holding the big book.
Note: this is not an exaggeration. It is literally two feet tall. And sixteen inches wide. I measured. My mom gave it to us years ago and it has inexplicably stayed intact, through many hurricanes of the domesticated wild child variety. It is a great book. And it is huge. Physically huge. I did not want to be gently rocking him to sleep while he was holding this giant book.
TWO MINUTES LATER.
Buddy,
I said, as I gently rocked him to sleep while he held the giant book.
This is so not comfortable.
Two.
he said.
Two books.
I'm going to put you in your crib now.
I said.
Unless your brother is okay with you lying with him.
He can lay by me,
his tired brother grammatically-incorrectly murmured from his bed five feet away.
I gently maneuvered the little boy, his three little books, his one big book, two stuffed animals, blanket, and poker chips into place under the covers by his brother.
May I lie by you for a couple minutes?
I asked my older boy.
Yeah.
We laid there in silence, the only sounds that of the gentle night breeze outside the window, and the occasional non-stop rustling of the younger one practicing flopping from belly to back and back again, accompanied by a whispered monologue:
Book. Two. Uh-huh. Oh no! Uh-oh. Book. Baa. Baa. Baa? Uh-oh. Book. Two book. Uh-huh. Uh-oh. Moo. Baa. Moo. Baa. Baa! BAA! Woof. Two book. Mama. Mama. Uh-oh. Oh no. Oh boy. Oh no. Uh-oh. Moo. Baa. Two book.
His brother exhibited a degree of patience extraordinary for his eight years, but finally whispered in the kindest, gentlest manner you could possibly imagine:
Can you PLEASE stop moving around and talking? I'm trying to go to sleep.
His little brother, junior by six-and-a-half years, responded with how I imagine Winston Churchill might have responded if he was woken in the middle of the night by a door-to-door evangelist asking if he wanted to join prayer circle.
NO!
he screamed in the night's stillness; six inches from his brother's face.
I literally watched in the blackness as atoms split and sound waves parted at the vocal blast.
Okay,
I said when my hearing had climbed back up to fifty percent or so.
It's time for you to be in your own bed.
I am bigger and stronger, so I used that advantage, the only one I had left, and found enough squirmy limbs and fat to get him in the air and launch him the five feet into his own crib. With a thud, he collapsed onto the flimsy - but super comfortable - mattress, with a sigh, a grunt, and another noise explosion that made me question whether a diaper change might be in order.
No,
I convinced myself internally.
What happens in his diaper tonight can stay in his diaper. Tomorrow's another day.
I laid myself down on the floor next to his crib and reached through the slats to hold his grubby little boogery hand.
Book.
he murmured.
No book.
I murmured back.
Time to sleep.
No.
he said confidently.
I whisper-sung to him for a long while and almost made it to the second verse of The Ants Go Marching - that's the one where one ties her shoe - before darkness overtook my eyelids and I nodded off on the cold cold hard floor.
I awoke a great while later to feel the absence of that warm little booger-smeared hand. I panicked for a nanosecond before remembering he was in his bed prison and wasn't smart enough to escape yet, so he was likely fine. The moon was hiding, or taking a pee or something behind a cloud, so I could only listen in the chilly blackness.
I strained carefully to hear signs of life. One child five feet away, slumbering with grunty breaths. The other, the one in the jail bed next to me? Where is he? Is he breathing? Is he okay? Did he get out? Did he climb out a window? What's the matter? Why can't I hear anything? Should I turn on the light?
The moon chose this moment to make a starlet's entrance, gracefully sliding out from behind her cloud curtain and providing a spotlight for the scene in front of me; the actual curtains providing a proscenium for this nightly theatrical production.
Simultaneously as my eyes processed what was in front of me, my ears caught the whispering of a monologue not quite internal, but almost. A whispered murmuring, repeated, accompanied by the rustle.
The rustling of paper. Of paper turning. Paper pages turning.
The boy, sitting up in bed, in what had been pitch-black darkness, Braille-reading his way through Richard Scarry; reading to himself in a whispery monotone.
Book. Two. Uh-huh. Oh no! Uh-oh. Book. Baa. Baa. Baa? Uh-oh. Book. Two book. Uh-huh. Uh-oh. Moo. Baa. Moo. Baa. Baa! BAA! Woof. Two book. Mama. Mama. Uh-oh. Oh no. Oh boy. Oh no. Uh-oh. Moo. Baa. Two book.
He looked up and made eye contact by the light of the moon. He grinned big, and stood up wobbly with his book in the half-darkness.
Hi!
he said.
Hello! Dada. Book. Two book.
I sighed, and took a deep breath, and thought of the distant future, when I will someday laugh.
Someday.
12.15.2017
9.15.2017
Hey Becca, it's your anniversary, and mine!
...
We've been wed a while now. We should open that 20-year old can of Nuteena today.
___
Here's the plan: we listen to a bunch of ABBA and Judas Priest. And then wing the rest. #planner
___
In response to your upcoming inquiry: sadly, the answer is yes. The children DID get into the dark chocolate peanut butter cups you just got. I failed to stop them. I am so, so sorry.
P.S. The hashtag you invented is awesome.
#15andout
___
If someone was to get you either a giant television OR a motorcycle today, which one would you most prefer? #hypothetical #ornot
___
I don't want to freak you out, but Costco has Christmas stuff out, and I'm afraid if we don't jump on it now, everything will be gone. Shall I grab an extra cart and throw in everything I can fit? I'll get some straps to tie down stuff on top of our automobile too. One fake tree, or three, just to be safe?
#holidaypanic #valentinesdayiscomingfast
___
OVERHEARD (ANONYMOUS).
Let's look for a new mother on Pinterest,
one child grumbled to another with wicked grin.
No.
I said.
___
So true, mostly. Doing our part to try and make the world less evil, along with the magnificent, personable Washougal Community Library. Thanks for being awesome and un-wicked.
*Mr. Lemony Snicket
We've been wed a while now. We should open that 20-year old can of Nuteena today.
___
Here's the plan: we listen to a bunch of ABBA and Judas Priest. And then wing the rest. #planner
___
In response to your upcoming inquiry: sadly, the answer is yes. The children DID get into the dark chocolate peanut butter cups you just got. I failed to stop them. I am so, so sorry.
P.S. The hashtag you invented is awesome.
#15andout
___
If someone was to get you either a giant television OR a motorcycle today, which one would you most prefer? #hypothetical #ornot
___
I don't want to freak you out, but Costco has Christmas stuff out, and I'm afraid if we don't jump on it now, everything will be gone. Shall I grab an extra cart and throw in everything I can fit? I'll get some straps to tie down stuff on top of our automobile too. One fake tree, or three, just to be safe?
#holidaypanic #valentinesdayiscomingfast
___
OVERHEARD (ANONYMOUS).
Let's look for a new mother on Pinterest,
one child grumbled to another with wicked grin.
No.
I said.
___
"Well-read people are less likely to be evil." *
So true, mostly. Doing our part to try and make the world less evil, along with the magnificent, personable Washougal Community Library. Thanks for being awesome and un-wicked.
*Mr. Lemony Snicket
9.01.2017
4.08.2017
4.07.2017
3.31.2017
12.07.2016
DUDE VS ELF. I wouldn't say The Big Lebowski is a staple on our household family Christmas cinema schedule, but watching distant cousin Elf, in installments this week, has brought me to a realization that they share something in common: these are possibly the ONLY TWO FLAWLESSLY STRUCTURED FILMS IN HISTORY. Forget Chinatown. They cannot be cut down by a single scene, there are no throwaway lines, scenes, shots, or cutaways. I'm not saying either Elf or Lebowski is my favourite film, or the best film ever (though they are wonderful); I am simply saying they are subatomic-good. They cannot be split.* One film a massive cult classic, the other a massive mass classic; both stripped down, no fat examples of films that demand and reward repeated viewings (or, just LISTEN to them all the way through sometime). There are three films that I would love to see a sequel to, but I hope I never have to, because they ended just where they were meant to end. Except I wouldn't mind seeing Buddy and The Dude share some screen time in a holiday spinoff... I would also highly recommend Christmas in Connecticut, the 1945 Barbara Stanwyck classic. She does not appear in either Elf or The Big Lebowski, and in fact, I would not call these three films highly similar. Feliz navidad. ____ *physicists, fact-check me** **privately*** ***or just ignore any trivial physics misstatements; those laws of the physical universe are really more suggested guidelines, I think. . #christmas2016 #longx4 #pnwonderland #biglebowski #elf #joesacco #44books http://ift.tt/2h5H1BP December 07, 2016 at 10:27PM
6.21.2016
BRAZILIAN LIBRARIES.
Little piece I did a few years ago for fun. A community library in Brazil contacted me recently about using it as a poster for their facility and...sent it off today! Having conquered dozens of other continents with my arts weaponry, it felt good to know that South America has finally noticed me.
Hoping for an offer from Brazil's Ministry of Tourism to cover the Summer Olympics. I art very fast. Fingers crossed.
AND GO TO THE LIBRARIES THIS SUMMER; ESPECIALLY THE FORT VANCOUVER ONES, ESPECIALLY WASHOUGAL COMMUNITY LIBRARY!!!! They have awesome summer programs, awesome people working there, and I think they even have some books you can rent for reasonable rates, in case you still need to find a copy of Girl on the Train.
9.04.2015
EILONWY (PEAS IN A ).
Probably one of the most currently underrated classic children's authors I can think of is Lloyd Alexander. He wrote a bunch of books that were pretty good, but his pinnacle was the five-book Prydain Chronicles and the (for older readers) Westmark trilogy.
Delicious blends of high fantasy and adventure, comedy, sometimes dark and provoking themes, and a love of Welsh mythology and Dickens-channeling characters have kept him high on my bookshelf ever since I first read him many decades ago. So good. Also, I love a decent mystery and enjoyed the one John Green I've finished so far. One lifetime for so many books...
Delicious blends of high fantasy and adventure, comedy, sometimes dark and provoking themes, and a love of Welsh mythology and Dickens-channeling characters have kept him high on my bookshelf ever since I first read him many decades ago. So good. Also, I love a decent mystery and enjoyed the one John Green I've finished so far. One lifetime for so many books...
8.20.2015
I think,
she said.
That you would really enjoy this book. It's REALLY good!
Oh really.
I said.
Tell me about it.
It's about,
she said.
a mystery that has to to do with Michelangelo and some kids who sneak into a museum. I bet you would really like it.
Okay.
I said.
I will have to read it. But perhaps I will read it on a couch.
8.11.2015
YOUNG, ARMSTRONG, HARRIS, GAIMAN.
It is difficult to calculate the degree of joy
I felt when I looked up recently, and
realised my daughter and I were simultaneously reading
different Neil Gaiman books.
There is a special bond that comes with sharing your literary loves with someone else.
 |
| girl reading Neil Gaiman (2015-06-24) ©joseph ivan long |
5.18.2015
I'VE GOT THE SUN ON YOUR BACK.
A cuppa Joe*,
a good cap,
morning sun on your back**
sounds of the city
and someone to pal around with
and not correct you for improperly using prepositional phrases and such.
As the Utah Saints said in the only good song they ever wrote:
there's gotta be something good about today.
Find it.
smile emoticon
____
*or something hot non-caffeinated
**or face, depending on which way you're facing, or if you're in Australia
 |
| Powell's Books |
There's a lot to grumble about in the world.
And I totally love grumbling.
It feels good,
like you're doing everyone a favor by noticing all the things not right.
Some places are really hard to grumble in.
Which means you have to work at it.
No couches?
No lemonade on tap? What's with the harsh light?!
If you're willing to work hard though, and really
take time away from doing something fun, then it's definitely possible to find something worth grumbling about.
The value of hard work.
Don't give up.
Just because you think you're happy,
doesn't mean you should be.
So look around.
There is probably something wrong.
You might have to work hard to find it.
Depending on where you are.
You can do it.
____
Happy* Mondays, universe smile emoticon
*unless you're working**
**see above
3.13.2015
OSHA READY.
In the furthest recesses of my memory,
I try to recall,
or imagine,
a world in which we had no children to assist with household chores.
But it is too challenging,
and the thought of going back to that world;
a world in which the adults had to do all the work ourselves,
is simply too horrid to dwell on.
Thank goodness for enthusiastic work ethics,
good shop vacs, and extra-safe safety accessories.
PEOPLE > LAWNS.
Do you want to see my really serious expression?
he asked.
Sure.
I said.
And then finish landscaping really quick. Almost there.
I try to recall,
or imagine,
a world in which we had no children to assist with household chores.
But it is too challenging,
and the thought of going back to that world;
a world in which the adults had to do all the work ourselves,
is simply too horrid to dwell on.
Thank goodness for enthusiastic work ethics,
good shop vacs, and extra-safe safety accessories.
PEOPLE > LAWNS.
Do you want to see my really serious expression?
he asked.
Sure.
I said.
And then finish landscaping really quick. Almost there.
The Reader.
AORTA.
I'd like to think I have a decent music sensibility, and a relatively alive cultural awareness, but I also hope I'm the kind of person who never stops getting goosebumps when Phil Collins comes on singing "You'll Be in My Heart."
Jonny Long, I know you know what I mean.
____
Phil Collins
You'll Be in My Heart
Tarzan soundtrack
1999
1.10.2015
THE FAR SIDE (VIKINGS, AND THE IMPORTANCE OF STRETCHING BEFORE AN ATTACK).
One of the great joys of my life recently has been seeing our children discover The Far Side; Gary Larson's classic one-panel depictions of life-forms at their ludicrous best. Many of them require additional explanation from me about WHY it's funny, which would, under normal circumstances, dilute the comedic value considerably. But in the Far Side world, somehow explaining them has given me a whole new level of appreciation that I didn't think was possible (I was already a big fan). And after explanation...we all laugh uproariously.
TFS, along with A Series of Unfortunate Events, root beer, and Franz Ferdinand, is becoming another key piece of shared family bonding. Gary Larson's odes to life and biology and extreme-anthropomorphism are not only hilarious, but such a great gateway to imagination and what-if? curiosity about biology, anthropology, psychology, and even history.
Thank you, Mr. Gary Larson, for making the world laugh. And reminding us to be aware and care about creatures of all brain sizes.
12.24.2014
IN WHICH WE DO OUR CHRISTMAS SHOPPING ON CHRISTMAS EVE (RIGHT ON SCHEDULE).
It's Christmas Eve, which means...
...it's time to start wrapping presents.
Feliz, all!
FAMOUS BLUE WINTERCOAT.
 |
| My son and Leonard Cohen |
But when I saw this poster of our son's nemesis,
I couldn't pass up the opportunity.
"Hey buddy,"
I said casually, hoping he wouldn't get a glimpse of what was behind him before I had time to snap.
"Go ahead and stand right..there - okay, move over a couple inches, alright? And..snap. Got it. Look what's behind you!"
He turned around.
"Is that...Leonard Cohen?"
he asked, recognition slowly dawning.
"Yep."
I said proudly.
"And now you have a picture with him! Ha!"
"Well,"
he said, smiling furiously
"I still don't really like Leonard Cohen at all."
"Well,"
I said.
"This picture says otherwise."
And we walked off down the sidewalk together; one of us so proud of himself.
____
11.12.2014
MONEY, BOOKS, AND THE CREATIVE PROCESS IN THE PURSUIT OF GIFTMAKING.
Can I have some money?
she asked.
What for?
I asked.
For books.
she said.
I have to get more books. And you promised we'd always have plenty of books and art supplies and now I'm running out of books. So, we need to go to the bank and get some money so I can buy some more books. Can we go now?
Wow.
I said.
You are good.
He was cranking out Christmas presents.
But when he found out it was his uncle's birthday,
it leaped to the top of the priority list.
Rarely has a gift had so much love, focus, and hot glue poured into its making.
Look out holidays, it's gonna be a handmade one to the extreme.
%2B%22art%2Bby%2BJXIL%22%2B%22art%2Bin%2Bprocess%22-10.jpg)
____
Of course this isn't a competition to see who survived the most dreadful weather last night, but the wind speed hit 270 miles* an hour at our house. At least one tree down, approximately sixty feet in diameter. Conservative estimate. Be safe, PNW peeps.
*ballpark
she asked.
What for?
I asked.
For books.
she said.
I have to get more books. And you promised we'd always have plenty of books and art supplies and now I'm running out of books. So, we need to go to the bank and get some money so I can buy some more books. Can we go now?
Wow.
I said.
You are good.
He was cranking out Christmas presents.
But when he found out it was his uncle's birthday,
it leaped to the top of the priority list.
Rarely has a gift had so much love, focus, and hot glue poured into its making.
Look out holidays, it's gonna be a handmade one to the extreme.
____
Of course this isn't a competition to see who survived the most dreadful weather last night, but the wind speed hit 270 miles* an hour at our house. At least one tree down, approximately sixty feet in diameter. Conservative estimate. Be safe, PNW peeps.
*ballpark
11.05.2014
YES YES YES YES YES YES (SERIES OF FORTUNATE EVENTS LEADS A SECRET SERIES TO NETFLIX).
Oh my goodness oh my goodness oh my goodness yes.
YES!
(now do it right, please. maybe...hire the crew over from Sherlock?...)
http://variety.com/…/netflix-to-produce-original-series-ba…/
YES!
(now do it right, please. maybe...hire the crew over from Sherlock?...)
http://variety.com/…/netflix-to-produce-original-series-ba…/
Lemony Snicket rocks, as does Daniel Handler.
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