Five Thoughts on Human Sacrifice, Duke Ellington, and My Wife's Sense of Humor

1. My wife's new nickname for me is "Tubby." She implies that it is a compliment: "It means that you're pleasantly un-starved."

My personal preference would be something more like "Striker" or "Anaconda 76." 

2. "Is that Gandhi?" My daughter asked, pointing to a photograph of Vladimir Lenin.

- "Is THAT Gandhi?" My son asked, pointing to a painting of Napoleon Bonaparte.

"No." I said, laughing. "No."

3. "What do you think you might want to do someday?"
I asked my daughter.

"Be a pilot,"
she replied without hesitation.
"I think it would be fun."

- "Rad,"
I said.
"We'll have to start watching Top Gun every week. That's probably the best way to learn piloting stuff."


4. Columbus Day is coming up, so naturally it seemed like a good time to discuss the Maya, Inca, and Aztec civilizations. The latter were of particular interest, especially in trying to discuss certain aspects in moral terms.

"Were they bad?" My son asked.

His sister leaped in. "Yes, they killed people."

"Whoa," I said. "It's complicated...they were extremely intelligent, but they also believed that the sun would stop unless they, umm, gave human sacrifices. Which is not good. But they weren't...bad, although it was definitely a bad thing they were doing."

My daughter continued to explain in terms her brother could follow. "Well they threw people's heads down the stairs so I think that's bad. Don't you?"

"Well yes, that's bad...but it doesn't mean THEY were bad. They invented things like - "

"They are bad." My son said with finality.

"We will continue this conversation, but the things they did were not really worse than what Christopher Columbus and his men did. How about we come back to this conversation in ten years?" 

"They were bad."

"You guys are very frustrating sometimes."

5. Duke Ellington and Count Basie put out a wonderful album entitled "The Count Meets the Duke." It is a swingin,' hoppin,' mad frenzy of dancing, dueling instruments that is a fine and exuberant entrance to Fall. 

Pick it up. Spin it. It rocks so hard. 

Good Friday, all.

FIVE THINGS Our Children Have Argued About Vehemently in the Last Week

1. Whether you EAT water or DRINK water,
2. Which of them can swing higher,
3. Who sings a better version of "Sleep the Clock Around": Belle & Sebastian or Mates of State,
4. Whether 2 + 2 equals 4 or 7,
5. Whether we should listen to Cat Power or Cheap Trick in the automobile,
6. Whether or not you can taste air,
7. Whether or not we should get a pet rattlesnake,
8. Who is older, 
9. Whether or not Hulk could make his pee look purple,
and
10. Whether or not their Mom and Dad are weird.

THINGS THEY HAVE UNANIMOUSLY AGREED ON:
1. Camping is better than just about anything, 
2. Bob Dylan is better than Leonard Cohen, 
and
3. Cheap Trick's "Surrender" is the greatest song ever.

SAMPLE FROM CHORUS:
"Mommy's alright / Daddy's alright / They just seem a little weird"

Of course not.

Goodnight everyone.

STORY: No, You May Not Sell Your Brother

I told my children the Biblical story of Joseph -

(RECAP: Joseph was Jacob's favourite son. His ten brothers: understandably jealous. Not so understandably sell him to traders, tell their father he's been eaten; the traders in turn sell him to Egypt where he becomes a trusted servant until he spurns the advances of his master's wife, the end result of which is that he is thrown into prison where he languishes, until he ends up correctly interpreting some dreams, which eventually gets him onto the Egyptian king's radar (a.k.a. Pharaoh); he becomes second in command and with great foresight, leads the country through famine; his brothers show up to buy grain, he tricks them, eventually forgives them, reveals who he is, and is reconciled with his father. The End.)

- and when I finished, we chatted a bit.

"I've got six brothers and sisters,"
I said. "And there is NO WAY I would ever do something awful like selling them into slavery."

I turned to my son. "Do you think you could ever sell your sister into slavery?"

Solemnly, he met my gaze.
- "No."

I turned to his sister. "Do you think you could ever sell your brother into slavery?"

Solemnly, she met my gaze.
- "Yes,"
she said firmly.

"Umm...what?"

- "For a thousand pieces of silver. I'd sell him for a thousand pieces of silver."

He didn't appear overly concerned, despite this revelation from his beloved sibling.

"That's awful, despite your adjustment for inflation! What would you do with a thousand pieces of silver?!"

- "I'd take it to the bank," she said nonchalantly. "And get more money."

"First of all, that's not really how banks work," I informed her. "Second of all, what would you actually do with all that money?"

- "I'd buy two brothers."

"Let me get this straight: you would sell your brother for a thousand pieces of silver, and then you would turn around and buy two more brothers?"

- "Yeah,"
she said confidently. "I'd still see him though."

"How would that work?" 

- "I'd sell him to our grandparents. So I could still visit him. Unless they sold him to Egypt."

"That's your plan? To sell him to your grandparents so you could pick up a couple more brothers, but still see this one?"

He stood there, soaking it in; not overly concerned.

- " Yeah,"
she said. "That's my plan. Unless they sold him to Egypt."

"That would not be a good place for him to go right now. Mohamed Morsi, who was the President, was overthrown in July, and it would not be a safe place for your brother to be right now. You are definitely not selling him."

- "Well he could just stay with our grandparents then."

"No! And besides, none of them have a thousand pieces of silver to throw around. Do you know that slavery is still around today?"

- "Where?"

"In many parts of the world."
We started looking over our giant map on the wall. "Here in Brazil, there are thousands and thousands of people who are basically slaves and work on these giant ranches and they're treated terribly. And here...." (We continued to look over different parts of the world and various locations where different forms of slavery, in all its euphemisms, still exists.

"Slavery is an awful, awful thing that still affects millions and millions of people - including many children your age - in different ways. And even though we're laughing a bit here, the truth is that it is still a very real and very terrible thing today. I think that God expects us to fight awful things like slavery and to help people who need our help."

She nodded solemnly, and she didn't outright promise, but I have a feeling that I may not need to worry anymore about her trying to sell off her brother behind our backs.

And if you are looking for a quality organization to support who actively helps to fight human trade and sex trafficking, then take a look at International Justice Mission. They make a difference. 

There's a line in the film The Usual Suspects where one of the characters says: "the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."

Slavery is not something that happened in the past and is over and done with. It exists. That's a fact. What people choose to do with that fact is up to them. But it is a fact.

Don't sell your siblings. Not cool.

You Can Be Anything You Want to Be. Except Superman.

I suppose every parent gets proud over different things. 

Something I get really excited about is when our children ask interesting questions. Such as my son at the supper* table:

"Daddy, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

I thought carefully as he waited expectantly. 
- "When I grow up...I would like to be, umm...let me think. I would like to be very good at playing football with my family, and I would like to belong in the same sentence as Roald Dahl and Mark Twain. That's all. How about you?"

He had spent some time preparing for this.

"Superman."

I tried to be kind.
- "Actually, you can be anything you want to be.** Except Superman. There is already a Superman. That position is already taken."

His preparedness was impressive.
"Okay. I want to be Batman."

I sighed.
- "Yeah, sadly...there is already a Batman.*** Batman is Batman. You can't be Batman."

"Then who can I be?"

- "You need to make up your own superhero identity."

The girls in the family jumped in with suggestions, ranging from Super Johannes to Superboy to some so obnoxiously atrocious**** that I won't even bother reprinting here (my wife is not as well-versed on superhero protocols and naming conventions as I would like). Along the way I discovered that my daughter wants to be a ballerina or swimmer and Becca, if I remember correctly, also wants to be a superhero when she grows up, but her desired powers escape me at the moment. There's a good chance that when we all grow up, we are going to be a family of extraordinary incredibles. First, we gotta get the superhero names nailed down. That's the big stumbling block. 

Suddenly, I'm excited about growing up. Not now, not today or tomorrow, but soon. 

____

*when did "supper" become "dinner?" I like "supper."
**is that a legal requirement for a parent to say?
***Ben Affleck does not know this.
****those ones would be from Becca.
____

ELEVEN SONGS that have carried our family through this evening; some of which we have accompanied via earsplitting melodic precision with voices and airdrumming:

1. Long Way Home / Mates of State
2. Sleep the Clock Around / Mates of State
3. Sleep the Clock Around / Belle & Sebastian
4. Fire, Fire / M.I.A.
5. Surrender / Cheap Trick
6. Motorcycle Emptiness / Manic Street Preachers 
7. Knights of Cydonia / Muse
8. Electricity / O.M.D.
9. Willis / Sea of Bees
10. All My Little Words / Magnetic Fields
11. Don't Let the Sunshine Fool 'Ya / Townes Van Zandt




Happy weekend!

Typewriters Mafia Lebanon and How to Run a Successful Business

I took my typewriters in for a little tune-up and fresh ribbons. Gus, late-50s Lebanese owner, checked the margin levers on my Hermes 3000 while I hovered.

"Have you been back to Lebanon recently?"
I asked.

- Oh no, it's expensive. So expensive. When I left,  I thought it was expensive, but it's so much more expensive now. You wouldn't think so, but it is. The richest man in the world right now is from Lebanon. Carlos Slim. You know him?

"I know who he is. I'm not personally acquainted."

- He's from Lebanon.* So much wealth there. Mercedes and Lamborghinis all over, yacht parking by hotels...Everybody is educated there. Everybody. When you're born, you're constantly having three languages spoken to you: English, Arabic, and French. It's all about languages. So by the time you get to university, you're fluent in three languages. Last time I was in Lebanon was...ten years ago.

"I've been really interested in Lebanon even since reading Nassim Nicholas Taleb's The Black Swan several years ago."

He looked up. 
- Nassim means "breeze." Yes, definitely Lebanese. And Talib means "student" or "scholar." Perhaps Orthodox.

He wiggled the typebars around, brushing dust and hammering away on each key as he tested letter.

"I really enjoy his writing and his vivid descriptions of Lebanese history and culture. Is there a strong Lebanese community in Portland?"
(I asked)

- Yes. About a thousand families, a couple churches. Good community.

"How'd you end up in Portland?"

(laughs)
- I was in New York first. I hated it. Hated it. I left a war zone behind; I didn't want to live in another one. The Bronx...a bad place. The bad guys had guns and we had nothing. I ran a discount store there. So many shoplifters.

"Lot of shoplifters?"

- Oh yes. And age didn't have anything to do with it. A woman in her '70s stuffing $25 sheets down her underwear...

"I'm not sure I'd want those back on the shelf."

(chuckles and checks the carriage return lever)
- You wouldn't believe what people would do. They'd look around, try to be sneaky and drop items into their bags or their pants or their coat. Ten to fifteen a day.

"Ten to fifteen shoplifters A DAY?!"

- Oh yes. The police finally told us: 'stop calling us.' Just beat them up.

"What?!"

- They said: 'you're wasting our time.' Just take them to the basement and beat them up. And I said 'but what if they try suing us?' And they told me 'if they try suing you, THEN call us and we'll beat them again.'

"That's sort of humorous."

- It was running us out of business. And we had to pay protection money. 

"What do you mean?"

- Protection money. Mafia. They called it "garbage money." We'd leave these cardboard boxes outside for them to pick up - "garbage." $250 a month. I finally had to leave in 1989.

"And you ended up in Portland."

- Yes. I took over this business. It was started in 1926 by a very smart fellow. He was IBM's main competitor. He had 15 trucks with benches in the back that he set up with all the tools, compressor, everything, and they'd go around to pick up appliances to repair, fix them in the trucks, then take them back. IBM couldn't compete. I never met him, but his son-in-law was running the business when I took over, and it was almost bankrupt. He just wanted to get the money and be done with it.

He unscrewed the bottom off my Streamliner.

"Do you get a lot of typewriters coming through?"

- Oh yes. I thought they were done for a while back, but we see plenty. And of course we had to start doing printers and copiers a while back because I couldn't keep a business going with just typewriters.

"How did you get into it?"

- When I was younger, the company I was working for sent me to France and Italy for training. I've been working on these a long time. And then I learned the other stuff by taking a few classes at Mt. Hood Community College. Copiers are easy; I don't need a book anymore for any model.

"What do you mean?"

- The manufacturers try to be tricky and put all these screws where you can't find them, make it as difficult as possible to work on so you have to call their technicians at $250 an hour. But once you figure them out...I don't need a book for any of them. They can't trick me anymore.

"Cool. Do you have an all-time favourite typewriter?"

- Oh no. They're just work for me. I don't like them. I just work on them.

He looked up from my Remington Streamliner. Shook his head. 
- This is what's wrong: the spring came off. We'll have to figure out a new one.

"I may have to wait on that,"
I said sadly.
"What do I owe you for now?"

He told me.

"Gus, I'm pretty sure I owe you a bit more than that, considering all the diagnostics and cleaning you've done, in addition to ribbon."

- No, no, I want you to come back. I don't like sending out a machine with unfinished work. So you come back when you're ready.

"Thank you."

I left, and my heart was light as I paused at the door to wave farewell to my favourite typewriter specialist. And friend.

See you soon, Gus. Thanks for the great conversation.

____


*note: Carlos Slim migrated to Mexico at 14

CONVERSATION: A True Story for the USA, Syria, and Belgium

Gracefully two-handing my fourth taco outside on front lawn when my daughter looked at me and remarked,

"Daddy, you look like a picture."

- "Really!"
I said.
"Thank you...what do you mean?"

She explained calmly.
"Well, you just look like a picture. You're very still and hardly moving and you look like a picture. Like a statue in a picture. You're like a statue."

- "Hmm...is that a compliment?"

She continued eating serenely, then looked at me. "You may take it as one."

- "What do you mean?! Is it a compliment or not?"

Monotone, with Methuselahian calm rationale. "You may take it as a compliment."

My ire rose. 
-"Did you INTEND it to be a compliment?!!"

Serene condescension.
"You may take it as one."

- "That is a very strange remark you made to me, because no one has ever said I look like a picture - or a statue - before. It sounds like you meant it in a nice way, right?"

She shrugged. "You may take it as a compliment if you want."

- "BUT DID YOU MEAN IT AS ONE!!? THAT'S ALL I WANT TO KNOW!! WHAT WAS YOUR INTENT??!"

"You may take it as a compliment if you want."

- "Of course I'm taking it as a compliment! I just want to know if you MEANT it as a compliment!"

Shrug. "If you want it to be a compliment, it can be one."

- "I simply want to know what your motive was - did you mean it as a compliment? That's all I want to know."

"You may take it as a compliment. Daddy, can I have some ice cream?"

- "Of course not! I'm mad at you!"

"S'il vous plait? I asked in French, now may I have some, s'il vous plait?

- "You are maddening. I am irked with you, and you know how hard it is to say No when you start talking in French."

"Yay, we're having ice cream! Merci beaucoup!"

Her brother waddles over wearing taco like face paint. "Can I have ice cream too, s'il plait?"

- "No,"
I said.
"You need to work on your French."

The Story of When I First Told My Children the Story of Beowulf, Which They Already Knew (Farewell, Mr. Heaney)

(I will be telling the story of the first time I told my children the story of Beowulf. It will be mildly intriguing, and at intermission there will be a brief discussion of Radiohead. If you're going to a Taylor Swift concert or have big plans, don't cancel them; essentially the angle is about Grendel's mother and the meaning of perspective in story.

Happy Freitag, world.)

ACT 1.
"Are you familiar with the story of Beowulf?"
I asked the children while we ate.

- "Yeah.
My son replied.

"Really?"

- "Yeah."
My daughter replied.

"Really? Then what is it about?"

Assuredly, she spoke for the duo.
- "If we know, then why would we tell you?"

"I just want to know if you really know."

- "We know,"
my son said.

"Well, I don't believe you. Did you know that Beowulf is one of the greatest epic poems in Old English and was written in the eighth century? Did you know that?"

- "Yeah,"
my son replied without hesitation.

"Really! Okay, cool. Of course you know that one of the reasons for its importance is its strange mix of Germanic pagan warrior society with Anglo-Saxon Christian ideas, like humbleness and forgiveness.

- "Yes, we already knew that,"
my daughter replied. 

"Okay, I guess I have to believe you now. I hadn't realized you already knew the story of Beowulf and Grendel the monster. Now I don't have to tell it to you."

- "You can still tell us, but we already know the story,"
she said.

"Okay. Of course you probably already know that the story starts in the hall of the Danish king Hrothgar. Did you know that?"

- "Yes!"

"So for a long time, a monster named Grendel has terrorized King Hrothgar and his people by breaking in at night and eating his warriors. Grendel is unstoppable, unbeatable, undestroyable. A little like me, but really mean. But then Beowulf shows up with his men. Do you remember where Beowulf is from?"

- "Yeah."

"Where is he from?"

- "Do YOU know?"

"Of course I know. I'm telling the story."

- "Well I know, so why would I tell you?"

"Fine. Beowulf, as you well know, was a prince from Geatland, which is a region in Sweden. So he shows up with his men to fight Grendel. Guess what happens next?"

- "Daddy, we know what happens next. Do YOU know?"

"Of course I know. Beowulf defeats Grendel. He destroys him. End of story."

- "That's not the end of the story."

"OH MY GOODNESS. HOW DO YOU KNOW IT'S NOT THE END? YOU REALLY DO KNOW THE STORY!"

- "Of course I do, I told you. I just know. It's not the end of the story, Daddy. I do know what happens next but I'm not going to tell you."

Her brother chimes in. "Yeah, we're not going to tell you."

I feel compelled to prove that I know the story as well, so I continue. 

"What does every human and animal and monster have? I'll give you a hint: everybody has a father. That's one of the things everyone has. What is something else similar to a father that everyone has?"

INTERMISSION.

We get more food, and break into conversation about Radiohead. 

- "What are fake plastic trees?"

my son asks.

"They're trees that are not real,"

I explain,

"and Radiohead sings a lot of songs that are about things that are sort of real and sort of not, and sort of natural and mostly not. Like fake plastic trees. Although technically, the words "fake" and "plastic" rather cancel each other out. I would be interested in having Radiohead score a cinematic version of Beowulf. What do you guys think?"

- "Just finish the story please,"

my daughter orders.

"But I already know how it ends."

ACT 2.

"So everybody, at some point, has a father and a…what?"

- "Mother."

"Yep. Grendel had a mother. And how do you think she felt when she found out what happened to her son?"

- "She wasn't very happy."

"Yeah…imagine this. Imagine that somebody hurt you. What do you think your mother would do?"

- "Call the police."

"Yep…and if there weren't police around, what do you think she'd do?"

- "She would be mad."

"Yep. She would be very mad. Very, very mad. She would do anything to protect you, and if anyone tried to hurt you, she would go after them. So what do you think Grendel's mother did?"

- "Is Grendel and his mother bad?"

"I thought you knew the story?"

- "I do. But is Grendel and his mother bad?"

"Well, in this particular version of the story, then Grendel and his mother are the villains. So yes, they're…bad. But try to put yourself in Grendel's mother's shoes: if she was telling the story, who would be the villain?"

- "Beowulf?"

"Yep. I bet so. So it's kind of a matter of perspective. It matters who's telling the story. In this case, an anonymous eighth century poet is telling the story, as understood through Seamus Heaney, as reinterpreted and simplified by me. And in this version, Grendel and his mommy are the villains."

- "What did his mother do?"

"Of course you know that she started terrorizing King Hrothgar again and eating his men."

- "I know that Daddy,"

my son filled in confidently.

"Yep. So Beowulf took off after Grendel's mother and sneaked into her lair. Do you know what her lair was like?"

- "Yep."

"Right. Her lair was this really cool scary place under a lake and Beowulf sneaked in. And then Grendel's mother caught him. And ate him. The end."

- "That's not the end."

"Okay fine. Beowulf ended up, umm, vanquishing her as well, after a terrifying battle. There's something just a little sad about both Grendel and his mother dying, don't you think?"

- "Maybe. But they were bad."

"Yeah…I know they ate people and stuff. It just seems tragic that she was unable to avenge her son's death. But things worked out well for Beowulf. He ruled as king for another fifty years and killed a dragon and things like that. Oh, and had the greatest epic poem in Old English literature EVER written about him. Have you ever read Tolkien?"

They look at each other.

- "Yeah, I've read it,"

he says.

(This is a statement of dubious accuracy, considering we were working on learning short vowel syllables earlier in the week.)

She nods.

"Yeah, we've read it. So tell us THAT story now."

I sigh.

"Once upon a time, there was a shire…"

____

EPILOGUE.

Curiously enough, I told this story to my children today, but did not find out until a few minutes ago that Seamus Heaney passed away today at age 74. Heaney was one of the world's great contemporary poets, a Nobel winner, and translator of 1999's critically acclaimed Beowulf. Rest well, Mr. Heaney.

Princess Leia is Not a Superhero

Driving. My son quietly squawked his imminent need to get to a bathroom. Ten minutes from destination. I invoked the classic parenting maneuver simply called: Distraction.

"See if you can name five superheroes,"
I said.

His sister pre-empted his
response: "Superman. Batman. Spider-Man. Wonder Woman."

My son's enthusiasm leaped and he forgot briefly the call of nature and all of us jumped in with contributions: "Hulk. Aquaman. Elektra. Daredevil. Flash. Thor. Green Lantern. Catwoman. Professor X. Wolverine. Silver Surfer. Plastic Man. Iron Man. Hawkeye. Captain America. Captain Marvel. The Thing..."

A pause. Then he added:
"Princess Leia."

I tried to catch his eye in the rear view mirror as kindly as possible. "Umm...no. Princess Leia is not a superhero. You see, a superhero has certain traits, and she does not fall under the classification of one."

My daughter, in the most egregious breach of dad-knows-best truth I have yet experienced, said in the most wise and condescending voice - and I know this voice, because I use it frequently -

"Well Daddy, have you ever SEEN Princess Leia?"

I had a terrible, horrible, no good, rotten feeling that my own logic was about to be twisted around to clobber my intellect. Reluctantly, I replied:

- "No, I have not actually SEEN Princess Leia, but - "

She interrupted with the most infuriating tone of self-righteous truth, which I recognize because I have practiced it in the mirror many times.

"Well then, since you haven't SEEN her, you can't PROVE she's not a superhero!"

I protested, but I felt the weakness in my voice. 
- "That is so uncool - that is MY logic, and I am the one who reads Nassim Nicholas Taleb, NOT YOU! Do not use my own chain of reasoning on me!"

She stood strong. "You cannot PROVE that Princess Leia is NOT a superhero."

- "I shouldn't have to prove it! She simply doesn't meet the criteria! I will tell you WHY she's not!"

Maddening calm. "You cannot prove that she's not."

I heard my son take a deep breath of knowledge behind me, and prepared for his support. I might as well have wished for a billion dollar winning Scratch-it. "Umm...Princess Leia is a superhero."

- "Traitor."
I muttered.

And looked to my wife for support, pleading with my limited telepathic abilities. She looked at me, then at the children. Deep breath. Back to me.

"Princess Leia is definitely..."
She looked at them.
"...a superhero."

I screamed with rage and started driving faster, almost up to the speed limit. "Traitors! I am angry at all of you!"

I did not know there was a level beyond supreme condescension, but my wife invented it on the spot.

She looked at the children with sickening sweet smile and deadly earnest voice.

"Do you know who else is a superhero?"
She asked.

They shook their heads.

"Don Knotts. Don Knotts is a superhero."

- "NO HE IS NOT!!!"
I shrieked with accuracy.
"He was a fine comic actor and I love the Apple Dumpling Gang but he WAS NOT A SUPERHERO!"

My wife didn't hear me over the traffic sounds, because she turned back to the children and said:

"Two of my favourite superheroes are Princess Leia and Don Knotts. He can turn into a fish."

The sounds of their affirmation filled the automobile, and I drove along in silence, at long last knowing exactly what it was like to be Winston Churchill while England appeased Germany, and knowing that he was right and that the country had to stand up for truth and freedom and right...and being surrounded by those unwilling to face the truth. Until that moment, I had not realised I was married to Neville Chamberlain. 

And like Princess Leia and Don Knotts, Neville Chamberlain was no superhero.

I drove along, quiet with my thoughts and rage while the children talked about how awful Leonard Cohen is. Which is untrue. Sometimes I wonder about their future.

We arrived and I swooped my son out of carseat, raced to the water closet, and averted disaster just in time. So I kind of saved the day again. That's one thing that superheroes do.

Don't Mess with Leonard Cohen. Or Me. Or Ed Snowden.

I spent a good part of the afternoon driving. The children became disgruntled with me over something, like not giving them a bag of marshmallows, and began dueting on their favourite song. It is called "You're the Worst Daddy in the World."

If you would like to know the words to this song, they are contained, in entirety, within the song title itself. 

I counter attacked with Leonard Cohen, who they both see as some sort of affront to Bob Dylan. I have explained countless times that Leonard and Bob are not really enemies, but they continue to ferociously defend the honor of the latter, while booing the very sound of the former. Sad. And embarrassing. Also, one of the advantages to jailing children in the back seat is that they can't access the volume controls.
So Leonard's powerful voice battled with theirs, rising higher and higher, until it was chelsea blue sky high.

And then: conferred whispering, which I could not hear because I was driving, and I am a very good driver. Then, the children's spokesperson announced:

"Guess what? We LOVE Leonard Cohen. We love Leonard Cohen so much."

- You LOVE Leonard Cohen?
I asked.
I thought you didn't like him?

"Oh no, we love Leonard Cohen. He's our favourite. Turn it up, Daddy."

I was then forced to quickly decide: I had previously been using Leonard Cohen as disciplinary measure to show how they should never mess with me. But then if they LIKE him, that defeats the purpose of my authoritarian maneuver to establish supremacy. I had a feeling something wasn't quite right, but just to be on the safe side...

...I shut down Leonard Cohen, and with a friendly sneer, looked in the rear view mirror. "Say goodbye to Leonard, children, cause you're NOT listening to him anymore today."

They giggled with anger, and because they were upset, they had to find something else to do. Soon, the strains of "You're the Worst Daddy in the Whole World" filled the automobile, and I smiled, because they wanted Leonard and I took him away. They will not mess with me again soon.
____

I wonder what Edward Snowden is reading right now. I'd like to think he's a Victor Hugo fan. Since you brought it up, here's a link.

http://barryeisler.blogspot.com/2013/08/tom-friedman-no-sixth-amendment-for-you.html

My Name is _______ (That's How You Open a Story, Kids).

I told the children a very abridged version of the classic several weeks ago. Interest piqued. 

Example of my daughter's questions: "Why was Captain Ahab so angry?"

Example of my son's questions: "Was the whale bad? Did Captain Ahab have a gun or a sword? Did he have a lot of spears? Did his other leg get chopped off? Did the whale eat his arms? Why didn't the whale eat his head? Was he vegetarian? Did Captain Ahab fight the whale? Can we get a whale?"

Note: there really was an albino sperm whale called "Mocha Dick" in the 1830 off the coast of Chile. Melville was aware of this, but inexplicably changed the whale's name, ever-so-slightly.

Angelina Likes Beards and Hippogriffs

Daddy, you have a big beard. It's very creepy.

- What?!?! You just insulted me, Zack Galifianakis, ZZ Top, and Brad Pitt. Very rude.

Oh, I'm not talking about them. Just you. It's just your beard that's creepy. 

- So uncool. I hope a griffin swoops down and bites your ponytail off. Then maybe you won't be so horrid to me.

You're the worst daddy ever. 

- You're smiling. That makes me think you're lying. 

Well I'm not.

- I call your bluff. Now I'm going to attack you with my beard and prove my uncreepiness.

So I did. And then my grumpy son informed me that he hopes I get eaten by a minotaur. "Ha!" I said. "Let one try. I hope it chokes on my beard."

Another win for grizzly dads everywhere.

One Out of Two is a Good Field Goal Percentage, But Not Such a Solid Test Score

My son asked casually if I would give him a machete and flashlight to help defend against the robbers who might be coming tonight. 

"We need to buy more batteries,"
I said kindly.
"But of course I'd be fine putting a machete under your pillow if that would help you sleep better."

He fell asleep too early though, so wish our household good luck through the night as my son tries to slumber minus a machete. Ideally his premonition was incorrect, but if worst comes to worst I have some dead batteries I can throw very hard. I will recycle afterwards. I don't care for robbers. Remind me to share some of my booby trap ideas sometime.

Happy weekend, all non-robbers.

____

The only thing better than watching Star Wars movies in the living room is reading Star Wars books in the forest.

____


About 17 years ago, I started buying action figures and books I liked for the kids I knew I would someday have. Remember KB Toy & Hobby? Yeah, they had clearance stuff all the time. So now that I actually have kids, I pull something out once in a while. This weekend seemed like a good time to pass along my three Star Wars paperbacks. Good may your day be.

NASSIM NICHOLAS TALEB VS. THE BLACK DRAGON.

Driving by PDX airport, Blackalicious's Sky is Falling scoring my commute, watching aeroplanes soar overheard, I had the brief thought that it would be a different kind of world if those aircraft were instead carnivorous birds, intent on hunting down automobiles, unicyclers, and daydreaming footwalkers. It would be a different world, I think, and I think also I would be a hero in that world, mostly due to the fact that I tend to look at the sky a lot.

And really, how can you look up in the sky and NOT believe in intelligent life tucked away amidst the billions of trillions of planets within the zillions of other galaxies. It's not a big stretch to imagine that there could potentially someday appear giant bird-like creatures the size of 747s who feed on combustible engines and the humans inside. Do I occasionally watch a little sci-fi, or as I call it: "creative science"? Emphatic maybe. Because it is about acknowledging possibilities. Imaginative science that subtracts a little conventional wisdom and adds a bit of magic. Or as I call it, "unexplained science."

I was talking to a tiny person* recently about dragons, and they asked me if I thought dragons were real.

I said: "Well, have you ever seen a dragon?"

"No."

"My point exactly," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean," I said, "is that you can't really prove the non-existence of something. Does that make sense?"

"Not really."

I asked: "Okay, have you read Nassim Nicholas Taleb's 'The Black Swan?"

"No."

"Well, there might be parts that are challenging for six-year olds, but essentially the idea is that for a long time, people didn't think there was any such thing as a black swan. But then...a black swan was sighted, thus upending centuries of commonly-accepted truth. Does that make sense?"

"Sort of."

"It's just the simple version. I don't know if Mr. Taleb believes in dragons or not. But all I know is that I've never not seen a dragon, so I'm not satisfied that they don't exist somewhere. What about you?"

"I think they're pretend."

"Maybe they are, but can you prove it?"

"Umm...no."

"My point exactly. Shall we watch some cinema tonight?"

"Yeah!!"

"Okay, how about either Horton Hears a Who or Fight Club?

"What's Fight Club?"

"It addresses themes of consumerism, male angst, and stuff like that. There's no dragons. Maybe it's not a good one for six-year olds, now that I think about it."

"I want to see Fight Club!"

"Nah. How about Horton Hears a Who or Pulp Fiction?"

"What's Pulp Fiction?"

"You know what, let's just go on a walk instead. See if we can spot some dragons, or giant carnivorous birds."

"Nooo! I want to watch some cinema!!"

"Let's just go on a walk. We can chat about antifragility. Sound good?"

"No."

So we went on a walk.**
____

*child.

**and then watched a bit of Horton, which I think was the best choice for six-year olds, although I have frequently wished Horton was a dragon instead of elephant.


***the above is the compositing of two conversations separated by Time, which is a different scientific concept I'd like to address soon and straighten out some misconceptions.


****I blatantly fabricated one quote, but I think it helps the idea be taken more seriously so we'll leave it.

Blackalicious

The Sky is Falling

Blazing Arrow

2002

Bob Goff

Nothing like starting off a morning chatting on the phone with Bob Goff about music. Yep. Love that guy. 

If you haven't read "Love Does" yet...then do. Highest recommendation.

Only a Boy Named David

Preface.
Embedded at the beginning is a story called Only a Boy Named David that I tell my children, only to become embroiled in a huge argument, whereupon I challenge my daughter to a storytelling competition in which I clearly emerge victorious, but she disagrees and therefore I educate her about the dramatic arc of traditional storytelling; the outcome being that there is no clear resolution, making this an unfinished tragedy, so if you were wanting to avoid any spoilers then it's too late, but the good news is now you can skip the rest because you know the ending. 

The Story.
Okay, I'm going to tell you a story. 
(I tell my children)
A very short story. So, once upon a time, I was a boy, and I was at somebody's house, and there was another boy there. His name was David. We'll pretend his name was David. When I say ''we'll pretend his name was David,' then what I mean is that his name was actually David. We were walking around, and I don't know how it came up, but he said:

"I'm a very fast runner."

I said: 
Oh really. I like to run too.

And he said: "Well I'm faster than you."

We should race.
I said.

He said: "Yeah, well I'm faster than you."

I could tell by his walking that he was not faster than me.
We should race.
I suggested again.

I don't recall what happened, probably lunch or something, but we never raced. To this day, I have no idea what his last name is. I just have a vision of this little boy named David, shuffling along, telling me that he was faster, and knowing in my heart that it was not true. I would like to find David and race him now. I know that I would still beat him because I am faster.

David: if you're out there, and you ever lived in Tillamook County - specifically Manzanita - then I challenge you to a race. 

The moral of this story - are you ready for the moral of this story, children?

My daughter interrupts: "Can you tell another one?!"

(I ignore her.)

The moral of the story is this: first of all, life is not a competition. So don't make everything a competition where you have to beat somebody. Second of all, if somebody says they can defeat you at something, and you know you can actually beat them, then just go ahead and do it right then and there and make your life a competition. Go ahead and compete against them. Don't wait. I should have raced David right then and there so I could have defeated him and been done with it.

But we didn't. So even though I know that I won, or would have won, then he didn't know that I would have won. He thought that he would have won. But I know, in thinking ahead, in hindsight, that I wish he knew now that I knew at the time that if we had raced, I would have won. I knew that I would have won, and I wanted him to know, and I want him to know now that I knew then. And I still know. Does that make sense?

"A little bit."
(beat)
"Daddy, can you tell another one?"

That was a really good story.
(I reminded her)

"No it wasn't!"

Why?!

"You told a story like the one that -

I interrupt: Don't say it. DON'T.

She does.
"You tell a story like the Mr. Remora, the teacher on A Series of Unfortunate Events."

NO! No! No no no no! I do not tell stories like Mr. Remora. Totally uncool. That was a good story I told!

"No it wasn't. It was like his stories."

It was a good story.

"No it wasn't. It was exactly like his."

NO IT WASN'T! His stories have no structure, no middle act, no conflict…they're simply a recitation of events that happen. No structure! No conflict! They're not actually stories! My story had dramatic structure. A beginning, middle, and end. There was resolution, even though it wasn't resolved -

My daughter rudely interrupts:
"It Was. HORRIBLE."

IT WAS NOT HORRIBLE!! It was interesting, it had a good moral at the end, you actually learn something. It was a good story. 

"No it wasn't."

Yes it was. It was a good story. End of story.

"No it wasn't."

Yes it was.

"No it wasn't."

Yes it was. Okay, I challenge you to a story-telling contest. Let's see who can tell a better story. 

"Okay."
(beat)
She begins:
"One time, I went to Target. And bought some stuff. The End."

THAT WAS NOT A GOOD STORY! 
(I inform her in the spirit of constructive criticism)

"Yes it was. It was a very good story."

No! First of all, it has no interesting characters in it.

"Well I was in it."

I know. But if somebody didn't know YOU, then they wouldn't know anything about the character herself. So your story had no truly interesting characters. That's not even a two-dimensional character. A two-dimensional character at least has a physical description attached: 'there was a little girl and she was this tall and wearing these clothes and so on.' A three-dimensional character is really what we're going for. Do you want to know what that is?

"No. I'll tell you another story."

Fine.
(I graciously allow her to proceed)

"One time, I was in the bath, and I was playing with toys, and my brother pooped in the bathtub. The End. That is a true story. And a good story."

(she goes on to tell another story that I cannot repeat here)

Okay, I have to admit that the bathtub story was a lot better than your first. But you're simply giving these character descriptions with the shell of a plot. I think the only story you've told that has any merit whatsoever is the bathtub one.

"Which one?"

The one you just told where your brother pooped in the bathtub. It actually had a setup; a canonical universe, where you tell what the world is like before the conflict, or drama takes place. However, there is really no third act.

(her brother interrupts)
"Daddy, I got water in my eyes."

I think you'll survive.

"No, I won't survive,"
he grumbles.

Well, go write a story about it.
I order them. 
Go make some money for the family. Why else would we have had kids?

"I'm going to play,"
she says.

Fine. 
I retort.
I win.

Epilogue and Analysis
I admire my daughter's effort, but her stories need considerable development. I rest my case. Keep on trying. And work on those reversals, daughter.

Pee may be sterile, but I'll take fresh drinking water, please

"Daddy, I got water on my boots! Why do I have water on my boots?!"

- I don't know. Do you have any idea where it came from?

"Umm...I might have accidentally peed a little and it got on my boot. Or it might be from swimming."

- Well...we haven't actually gone swimming today, so that starts to narrow the possibilities down, Son.

"Oh. But is pee water?"

We then discussed the body's digestion and filtration system, which left him deciding that poop is cooler than ever, and wanting to eat a banana. 

On that topic, I am appreciative for access to clean drinking water. Thank you to the organizations and people who are aggressively trying to make that become a reality in every part of the world.

2016 Rio, or, Joseph vs. Hulk vs. Isaac Asimov Newton and Lemony Snicket

Never assassinate Archduke Ferdinand
10.01 pm

For some stories, it's easy. The moral of 'The Three Bears,' for instance, is "Never break into someone else's house.' The moral of 'Snow White' is 'Never eat apples.' The moral of World War I is 'Never assassinate Archduke Ferdinand.

Hard to disagree. Thanks, Lemony Snicket.

Rio 2016
10.01 am

Inexplicably, I feel great sadness at how long it is until the next Summer Olympics. I paid only token attention to London 2012, but woke up this morning and am oddly full-on enthusiastic about Rio 2016. Where do I go for press credentials?

Joseph vs. Hulk vs. Isaac Asimov Newton
4:54 pm

I asked: 
"Okay guys, who is stronger: me or Hulk?"

My son answered immediately: - "You!"

"Nope."
I said. "False."

My daughter thought briefly.
- "Umm...Hulk."

"Yes!"
I said. "So, lesson for the day is that family loyalty should not trump the truth. And the truth is that Hulk is marginally stronger than me. Do you know what 'marginally' means?"

- "No."

"It means "barely,' or 'a little.'
So Hulk is barely stronger than me. That's a version of the truth that I'd like to perpetuate. Do you know what 'perpetuate' means?"

- "No."

"It means 'to keep going.' But we'll talk about that one more tomorrow. Who do you think is smarter: me or Isaac Newton or Isaac Asimov?"

- "You?"
My son answered.

"Nope."
I said sadly.

"Not yet."

Evel Knievel. Karl Wallenda. Batman.
They all had to start somewhere. Steady son, steady. Don't look at the crocodiles below.

Pet Lions
If I had a pet lion,
I hope he wouldn't smoke.
Or her; maybe it would be a her.
Lionesses do most of the hunting,
and I doubt many of them use tobacco products.


Richard Scarry has got to be one of the coolest cats ever. What a legacy. Although I still don't think lions should be smoking.