After losing the highly profitable Pixar as a partner, embattled Disney CEO Michael Eisner refuses to give up the ship. After all, he’s reported to say, “Who needs animators, imagineers and general talent types? They get in the way. I’ll do it myself.”
Eisner has put together a list of ten projects guaranteed to turn the company around and make everyone forget about Pixar and that damned traditional animation department that did nothing but, oh, build the company.
1. Skippy the Crack Squirrel—The story of a talking squirrel who has a little problem. But his talking raccoon friend, Chippy, refuses to watch another friend die in the grips of addiction. They take off from their happy woodland home to check into a posh Beverly Hills rehab center, where they meet Nurse McMeany, who wants to enslave Skippy and put him in a sideshow. Hilarity ensues. I hear the animatics for the 3D crack pipe are amazing. Because of Eisner’s promise to keep the budget on this one “negligible” he has decided to farm out the animation to a group of junior high students all working from a copy of Maya the downloaded off of Kazaa.
2. Beaver Valley: The Ride—Join narrator Winston Hibler (actually a cheap imitation since Hibler died in 1976) for this fascinating and exciting theme park ride through the daily activities of a beaver. The ride mechanism will be built around a giant turning mechanism that has a variety of beaver related ride vehicles strung to it. Riders can choose from a birch log, pine log and walnut log. Eisner is adamant that this is not just another “hub and spoke” ride. He describes it as more of a lazy susan. “Besides,” he points out, “most hub and spoke rides turn counter-clockwise. This one goes clockwise.”
3. Mary Poppins 2: Dociousaliexpilisticfragicalirupus—Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke return for this exciting sequel to the 1964 classic. Forty years after the original finds the Banks kids desolate after their father has squandered his fortune by flying kites year round and ignoring his work. Mary has lost her voice and Bert is confined to an old folk’s home. Can the Banks children help save their childhood friends before the bank forecloses on their home? Songs by Phil Collins and Elton John. Animated sequences pulled from the archives.
4. The Forest is Alive—Ever wonder what happens to those characters Disney rejects in other films? Well, they still own copyright and this is their movie. They sing, they dance, and they are now 3D. In order to keep costs down the animation is being done by drunken monkeys using Poser 2 software.
5. Toy Story 3: Woody’s Big Ride—Andy has grown up and moved out. Woody is trapped in a box with Buzz, whose mental capacities are quickly slipping. Woody, tired of sharing the spot light with the goofy spaceman, takes Bo Peep on the adventure of her life. Animated by three men in chains, held against their will deep in the Burbank animation studio using a stolen version of Renderman (circa 1989). Unfortunately, none of them how to do the shaders or lighting.
6. Frontierland Shooting Gallery Rehab—Remember those days of your childhood at Disneyland and Disney World where you could plug in quarters and shoot at targets in an old west scene? It’s been completely redone to look like an office in Emeryville, CA (not a specific office, mind you). Your job is to smash all the desk lamps. Price of admission: Free. The title of “Eisner’s Honorary Heir” is awarded to anyone with the day’s highest point total.
7. The Little Mermaid Finds Nemo—Why not? Let Pixar and that little midget at DreamWorks sweat.
8. Eisnerland Cuba—Disney feels that the citizens of Cuba need a good dose of the Eisner magic to wash away their communist blues. The park will be an exact replica of Disneyland in California. Due to a request from government officials “It’s a Small World” will not be included because of similarities between the ride’s design and President Castro’s current torture designs for “Democratic Insurgents”.
9. Snow White 2: Back in Black—After the death of the Prince, Snow White is left to put the pieces of her life back together. Estranged from her family because of the demise of the Queen and in mourning over the death of her husband, Snow White returns to the forest she once loved in the hopes of reuniting the seven dwarves. She finds that life isn’t what it once was in those enchanted lands. Dopey has disappeared, Doc lost his license due to malpractice, Grumpy is on Paxil, Sneezy has been driven mad by his persistent allergies, Bashful’s suspected of murder and she has no recollection of the other two dwarves. As she embarks on her journey, sure she will never be happy again, she runs into the woodsman who once tried to cut her heart out and prospects of love bloom. Animated by drawing over the original artwork from 1937 using white out and a sharpie.
10. Work in Progress: The Story of Michael Eisner—commissioning his own bio-pic, Orlando Bloom portrays Eisner as an idealistic young man who builds his career using only his brains and his alarming beauty. Never one to give up, Mike eventually finds himself in the dream job: CEO and Herr apparent to the Disney company. By fostering creativity and a sense of belonging, Mike brings the company from the brink of death and saves it from its own horrible past: animation. Will be shot in 70mm with no animation sequences because, hey, let’s face it, who wants to hire an animator? They clutter up the screen with their ideas about “art” and “creativity”.
Discuss
Friday, January 30, 2004
Moving On . . .
So this happened.
I've been a fan of Disney and the Disney company for quite some time now. And these last few years, I've seen what has excited me about the company slip away. Most importantly, their dedication to their company's traditions (gone), their fostering of creative talent (gone) and their unflagging attention to detail (totally flagged).
The loss of Pixar will, in my mind, kill this company. Disney has slashed and burned their own animation department (after destroying all creativity on the inside first) and now they've lost an association with the most creative team on earth. In my mind I believe this is going to spell the end for Disney as we know it. When a creative company loses their creative spark, they are no longer a creative company. Disney is now no different than any other company out there.
Pixar, on the other hand, is different. They are led by a creative genius (John Lasseter) whom I would gladly work for in a heart beat. In fact he has the potential of replacing Walt Disney as the icon for creative family entertainment. Hell, I'd visit "John Lasseter World" any time.
I wanted to say something about this, but I couldn't think of anything that great. So I'm going to repeat something I wrote a few months ago.
In the meantime, visit Ronnie Del Carmen's site to see what an employee at Pixar does on his free time. And, if you want to watch an animation studio being born, check out what a few newly unemployed Disney artists are doing these days.
And now my ode to Pixar:
This is what life is all about.
Right now some of you are saying, “That’s just a stupid cartoon. And I don’t get it. I suppose it’s kind of funny, sure. But it’s not Shrek funny. And why does the character look so weird?”
To those comments and questions I reply: you’re stupid.
Though animation has not traditionally been an American industry, it certainly has been a benchmark of American art. From Fleischer to Disney to Warner’s to Pixar, America has always led the way as far as breakthrough animation. American artists have taken the chances, destroyed the boundaries and created beautiful, living pictures. Let me say that again: Living Pictures.
Film maker David Lynch once said the reason why he started making films was because he wanted to see his paintings move. “I looked at one, and heard a wind. Then I started making films.”
To most people, pictures are just that: Pictures. However, to an animator, a picture is the prelude to a moment. Any given painting shows that moment, but a great painting implies the next moment and fills it with mystery.
I’ll use Edward Hopper as an example: his painting “Chop Suey” shows two dapper women sitting and enjoying a mid-day meal. And you could enjoy it merely for that moment. But looking closer, you notice that the woman facing you isn’t looking at her companion. And the woman with her back to you looks slumped down, tired. You want this painting to move, to give you a clue as to what happens next.
Artists can also give life to inanimate objects. Again, using Hopper, his ”House by a Railroad” shows a simple, turn-of-the-century home sitting behind a railway. But look at the house closely. What’s wrong with it? It looks sad. As if it is sighing. As if the simple act of staying standing may be too much effort for it. It’s a lonely, sad building.
The greatest moment Hopper has ever shown was in his painting “New York Movie”. There’s no reason to describe this one. The image itself screams with a story. A wonderful story. This painting almost begs to move. You want to know what happens next. It tells you an incomplete story, which is part of its mastery.
Animators take painting to the next level. They are artists who truly do give life. They take a motionless object and give it motion. Fluid grace and movement. The swinging of a pony tail, the brush of an arm against the dress, an embrace, touching of a cheek.
But more so than simply giving life where there once was no life, animators show us things that we can only imagine. Dancing trees and skeletons, water dancing to music, talking animals, living toys . . . They give life to whole worlds that seem to be just around the corner. And it is the part of the imagination that drives these projects that gets them pigeonholed as children’s projects.
Animators are one of the lucky few have never lost a child’s sense of glee with how the universe works. An animator will look at a dandelion blowing in the wind and stare for hours at its movement. He’ll blow the seeds into the wind and watch how they fly through the air.
Unlike a child, an animator can show us what he sees. Just because animated fare generally appeals to children (for obvious reasons: children like invented worlds, they like the color palettes and they like the stories they tell . . . that an adult cannot dive into the part of their imagination that animation requires is not the fault of the artist, but of the audience).
Pixar, the maker of the above clip, understands us better than anyone. They know that the only difference between children and adults is that many adults have forgotten how to be a kid. They’ve forgotten how to play. Pixar shows us great and wondrous worlds that we heartily wish existed.
They paint beautiful pictures that move with a grace; fluidity and humanity that make us laugh and cry. They can show a wind blow through the grass, a current rip through the ocean, with such a stunning beauty that we are astounded.
Better yet, Pixar doesn’t strive for hyper reality like some animated studios do. True, they aim to get their characters to move realistically, they try to get textures just right, etc. But they do not try to replicate the real world. They imitate our world for the benefit of their world.
Pixar is the last great animation, if not film, studio. And I hope they continue to delight and challenge us, and themselves.
And I hope they never forget how to be a kid. And I hope they never stop reminding me.
Plus they have really cool ugly shirts.
Discuss
I've been a fan of Disney and the Disney company for quite some time now. And these last few years, I've seen what has excited me about the company slip away. Most importantly, their dedication to their company's traditions (gone), their fostering of creative talent (gone) and their unflagging attention to detail (totally flagged).
The loss of Pixar will, in my mind, kill this company. Disney has slashed and burned their own animation department (after destroying all creativity on the inside first) and now they've lost an association with the most creative team on earth. In my mind I believe this is going to spell the end for Disney as we know it. When a creative company loses their creative spark, they are no longer a creative company. Disney is now no different than any other company out there.
Pixar, on the other hand, is different. They are led by a creative genius (John Lasseter) whom I would gladly work for in a heart beat. In fact he has the potential of replacing Walt Disney as the icon for creative family entertainment. Hell, I'd visit "John Lasseter World" any time.
I wanted to say something about this, but I couldn't think of anything that great. So I'm going to repeat something I wrote a few months ago.
In the meantime, visit Ronnie Del Carmen's site to see what an employee at Pixar does on his free time. And, if you want to watch an animation studio being born, check out what a few newly unemployed Disney artists are doing these days.
And now my ode to Pixar:
This is what life is all about.
Right now some of you are saying, “That’s just a stupid cartoon. And I don’t get it. I suppose it’s kind of funny, sure. But it’s not Shrek funny. And why does the character look so weird?”
To those comments and questions I reply: you’re stupid.
Though animation has not traditionally been an American industry, it certainly has been a benchmark of American art. From Fleischer to Disney to Warner’s to Pixar, America has always led the way as far as breakthrough animation. American artists have taken the chances, destroyed the boundaries and created beautiful, living pictures. Let me say that again: Living Pictures.
Film maker David Lynch once said the reason why he started making films was because he wanted to see his paintings move. “I looked at one, and heard a wind. Then I started making films.”
To most people, pictures are just that: Pictures. However, to an animator, a picture is the prelude to a moment. Any given painting shows that moment, but a great painting implies the next moment and fills it with mystery.
I’ll use Edward Hopper as an example: his painting “Chop Suey” shows two dapper women sitting and enjoying a mid-day meal. And you could enjoy it merely for that moment. But looking closer, you notice that the woman facing you isn’t looking at her companion. And the woman with her back to you looks slumped down, tired. You want this painting to move, to give you a clue as to what happens next.
Artists can also give life to inanimate objects. Again, using Hopper, his ”House by a Railroad” shows a simple, turn-of-the-century home sitting behind a railway. But look at the house closely. What’s wrong with it? It looks sad. As if it is sighing. As if the simple act of staying standing may be too much effort for it. It’s a lonely, sad building.
The greatest moment Hopper has ever shown was in his painting “New York Movie”. There’s no reason to describe this one. The image itself screams with a story. A wonderful story. This painting almost begs to move. You want to know what happens next. It tells you an incomplete story, which is part of its mastery.
Animators take painting to the next level. They are artists who truly do give life. They take a motionless object and give it motion. Fluid grace and movement. The swinging of a pony tail, the brush of an arm against the dress, an embrace, touching of a cheek.
But more so than simply giving life where there once was no life, animators show us things that we can only imagine. Dancing trees and skeletons, water dancing to music, talking animals, living toys . . . They give life to whole worlds that seem to be just around the corner. And it is the part of the imagination that drives these projects that gets them pigeonholed as children’s projects.
Animators are one of the lucky few have never lost a child’s sense of glee with how the universe works. An animator will look at a dandelion blowing in the wind and stare for hours at its movement. He’ll blow the seeds into the wind and watch how they fly through the air.
Unlike a child, an animator can show us what he sees. Just because animated fare generally appeals to children (for obvious reasons: children like invented worlds, they like the color palettes and they like the stories they tell . . . that an adult cannot dive into the part of their imagination that animation requires is not the fault of the artist, but of the audience).
Pixar, the maker of the above clip, understands us better than anyone. They know that the only difference between children and adults is that many adults have forgotten how to be a kid. They’ve forgotten how to play. Pixar shows us great and wondrous worlds that we heartily wish existed.
They paint beautiful pictures that move with a grace; fluidity and humanity that make us laugh and cry. They can show a wind blow through the grass, a current rip through the ocean, with such a stunning beauty that we are astounded.
Better yet, Pixar doesn’t strive for hyper reality like some animated studios do. True, they aim to get their characters to move realistically, they try to get textures just right, etc. But they do not try to replicate the real world. They imitate our world for the benefit of their world.
Pixar is the last great animation, if not film, studio. And I hope they continue to delight and challenge us, and themselves.
And I hope they never forget how to be a kid. And I hope they never stop reminding me.
Plus they have really cool ugly shirts.
Discuss
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Potty Training Update
I bet you couldn't stand waiting could you? You sat there every single day wondering, "How in the world is Gertrude doing with potty training? Is she a natural? Or is there pee dripping from the walls?"
The answer to both questions is "yes".
Gertrude is a natural. In that she has a sphincter muscle and a bladder. Both seem to understand that when one releases, the other empties. Gertrude has also peed on all of us.
It's not her fault, though. She's learning a new skill. And, let's face it, holding our urine is quite a decent skill to master. In fact, it is so difficult that after a few beers many men forget to use the skill and are peeing wherever they can find cover. Sometimes they don't even seek cover. Often, they like to show off their skills by going for long distance records. And, even better, sometimes they explain how much they micturate. The male of the species is an interesting animal.
But that is another topic.
After being introduced to the strangely primary colored plastic potty in our bathroom, Gertrude expressed a more than passing interest in the mechanism. She would sit on it at random times. She'd strip down and we'd find her contemplating life's tougher mysteries while lounging on the loo. It was cute in a sort of disgusting way.
Slowly, however, she started to get the idea of what the thing was for. You could see the mechanisms working. "If I take off my pants and sit here I won't have to wallow in my own mess. Yes, I can see the benefits. On the other hand, why bother? The big people always save me from my own bodily fluids. It never seemed to bother Richard Burton much."
She started telling us when she had wet her diaper and was requesting a fresh one. That's a major step. She could recognize the warm stream of relief and the unpleasant feeling of the quick chill. She then started going for many hours without wetting her diaper, followed by many false alarm trips to the potty. When she seemed to start understanding the process, we switched her into the next step of potty training.
The pull ups.
Pull ups are diapers, but fastened in such a way that the child has control over application and removal of the diaper.
Initially, this was a problem. We had unscheduled naked time in our house. One moment our daughter would be a cute toddler in her trademarked and licensed clothes. The next moment she'd be a free-wheeling hippie, dancing on the table and celebrating her freedom from the confines of the paper servitude.
Not ones to be undaunted, we started training her when it was okay to remove her clothing. She quickly grasped the idea and was on her way to urinating like a civilized human being.
The key element being the entire family cheering her efforts. It's a strange ritual. You all lord over a half naked child who is struggling to control her urethra, looking expectantly as if a monkey is going to materialize. She stares back at you with a look of fear and curiosity. "Will they always watch me do this? I'm not sure I like that idea."
Suddenly her face contorts into that strange mix of pleasure and relief you feel after downing a six pack of cheap beer and finally finding the port-a-potty. A great surge of joy fills the house as we cheer her success. We cheer as we flush the toilet. We cheer as we clean up the baby potty. She smiles, looking as if she had just been nominated for the Nobel Prize in Urination Studies.
But there is a downside to potty training. The soul-crushing disappointment of accidents. This disappointment is heightened by the fact that her little girlie pull-ups have flowers on the front that disappear when they come in contact with urine. Usually she is able to tell us that the flowers are about to disappear and we rush to the potty. But sometimes . . .
One day we were playing Play-Dough. Just the two of us. She was rolling her snakes and baking her pizzas on the coffee table. Suddenly she stops, gets a strange look on her face as her bladder empties. Then, sadness.
"Oh no," she cries, "I made the flowers disappear." And she starts to sob.
"It's okay honey," I assure her.
"The flowers are all gone!"
"It's okay," I soothe, "we'll get you new flowers. It was just an accident. Everyone has an accident every once in a while."
She looks like she feels better. I'm doing my job. I am the king of healing wounds!
"Daddy have ackydents?"
"Sure honey. A fifth of Jack and a little Faulkner can do that to a guy."
"I like Faulkner?"
"Let's hope not sweetie. I'd prefer you not be a drunken, misogynistic ass."
"Okay daddy. I be Flannery O'Conner?"
"At least a Dorothy Parker, I'd think."
We laughed, changed her soiled drawers and shared a moment over some Kettle Corn and an episode of Clifford the Big Red Dog.
Life's good. Even if it?s not always dry.
Discuss
The answer to both questions is "yes".
Gertrude is a natural. In that she has a sphincter muscle and a bladder. Both seem to understand that when one releases, the other empties. Gertrude has also peed on all of us.
It's not her fault, though. She's learning a new skill. And, let's face it, holding our urine is quite a decent skill to master. In fact, it is so difficult that after a few beers many men forget to use the skill and are peeing wherever they can find cover. Sometimes they don't even seek cover. Often, they like to show off their skills by going for long distance records. And, even better, sometimes they explain how much they micturate. The male of the species is an interesting animal.
But that is another topic.
After being introduced to the strangely primary colored plastic potty in our bathroom, Gertrude expressed a more than passing interest in the mechanism. She would sit on it at random times. She'd strip down and we'd find her contemplating life's tougher mysteries while lounging on the loo. It was cute in a sort of disgusting way.
Slowly, however, she started to get the idea of what the thing was for. You could see the mechanisms working. "If I take off my pants and sit here I won't have to wallow in my own mess. Yes, I can see the benefits. On the other hand, why bother? The big people always save me from my own bodily fluids. It never seemed to bother Richard Burton much."
She started telling us when she had wet her diaper and was requesting a fresh one. That's a major step. She could recognize the warm stream of relief and the unpleasant feeling of the quick chill. She then started going for many hours without wetting her diaper, followed by many false alarm trips to the potty. When she seemed to start understanding the process, we switched her into the next step of potty training.
The pull ups.
Pull ups are diapers, but fastened in such a way that the child has control over application and removal of the diaper.
Initially, this was a problem. We had unscheduled naked time in our house. One moment our daughter would be a cute toddler in her trademarked and licensed clothes. The next moment she'd be a free-wheeling hippie, dancing on the table and celebrating her freedom from the confines of the paper servitude.
Not ones to be undaunted, we started training her when it was okay to remove her clothing. She quickly grasped the idea and was on her way to urinating like a civilized human being.
The key element being the entire family cheering her efforts. It's a strange ritual. You all lord over a half naked child who is struggling to control her urethra, looking expectantly as if a monkey is going to materialize. She stares back at you with a look of fear and curiosity. "Will they always watch me do this? I'm not sure I like that idea."
Suddenly her face contorts into that strange mix of pleasure and relief you feel after downing a six pack of cheap beer and finally finding the port-a-potty. A great surge of joy fills the house as we cheer her success. We cheer as we flush the toilet. We cheer as we clean up the baby potty. She smiles, looking as if she had just been nominated for the Nobel Prize in Urination Studies.
But there is a downside to potty training. The soul-crushing disappointment of accidents. This disappointment is heightened by the fact that her little girlie pull-ups have flowers on the front that disappear when they come in contact with urine. Usually she is able to tell us that the flowers are about to disappear and we rush to the potty. But sometimes . . .
One day we were playing Play-Dough. Just the two of us. She was rolling her snakes and baking her pizzas on the coffee table. Suddenly she stops, gets a strange look on her face as her bladder empties. Then, sadness.
"Oh no," she cries, "I made the flowers disappear." And she starts to sob.
"It's okay honey," I assure her.
"The flowers are all gone!"
"It's okay," I soothe, "we'll get you new flowers. It was just an accident. Everyone has an accident every once in a while."
She looks like she feels better. I'm doing my job. I am the king of healing wounds!
"Daddy have ackydents?"
"Sure honey. A fifth of Jack and a little Faulkner can do that to a guy."
"I like Faulkner?"
"Let's hope not sweetie. I'd prefer you not be a drunken, misogynistic ass."
"Okay daddy. I be Flannery O'Conner?"
"At least a Dorothy Parker, I'd think."
We laughed, changed her soiled drawers and shared a moment over some Kettle Corn and an episode of Clifford the Big Red Dog.
Life's good. Even if it?s not always dry.
Discuss
This is quite good news. Granted, it would be impossible to live up to the brilliance of 69 Love Songs. But each song starts with "I"? Why not?
Now if only they'd release an album of all his music for the Lemony Snicket audio books. That would be worth the price of admission.
Now if only they'd release an album of all his music for the Lemony Snicket audio books. That would be worth the price of admission.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Snow Day!
Or two, actually. We had an ice storm on Sunday (which sadly did not look like Ang Lee shot it) which closed school for the kids on Monday. The ice was followed by a snow storm. Which lead to another snow day for the kids. Groovy.
However, Sunday night was excruciating for Matilda who was anxiously watching the news hoping to see her school had closed. If they closed it before bed, she could sleep knowing that she didn’t have to get up early. Which, of course, makes us all feel better.
But she learned a valuable lesson. He school starts with “P” and we live in a largely Catholic town. In order to get the information we wanted, we had to wait through the “Our Ladies”.
Oh yes. The school of the Our Lady was a thorn in my side as a child too, as I went to a public “P” school as well. In all my life, I have never met anyone who actually attended any of the Our Lady schools, but I know for a fact that there are three hundred of them.
So Matilda and I settled in. We were getting excited. Mascoutah R-32 had closed. Either that or a Republican from Mascoutah had voted for something. We couldn’t tell. The important thing was that the alphabet was slowly advancing toward “P”. Yes, Nerinx! We’re nearly through the “N”s.
“We’re almost there,” yelled Matilda. “Soon I will know my fate!”
I had forgotten about the Our Ladies. I hadn’t told her. And it was almost too late, as I found out that Nyman High School was on a snow schedule. She was vibrating from the expectations.
“Matilda, there’s something you need to know,” I said.
“Shhhhh.”
“Mat—“
“HUSH!”
So she was ushered in on her own.
The “O”s started out innocently enough, as there are plenty of innocent and completely innocuous words that can be filed between Oa and Ou. So Oakville was closed. Groovy.
And then it hit.
Our Lady, Queen of Peace
Our Lady of the Sacred Heart
Our Lady of Lourdes
Our Lady of the Lake
Our Lady When You’re With Me I’m Smiling
Our Lady of the Holy Blood
Our Lady of the Bloody Mary
Our Lady of Perpetual Motion
Our Lady of Expectant Waiting
Our Lady of Cosmic Vibrations
Our Lady of Virtual Chagrins
Our Lady of Spain
Our Lady of the Night (GED Center)
Our Lady of the Yellowed Bruise
It was endless. Horribly endless. The Our Ladies kept coming and coming. Our eyes began to glaze over and we began to drool. We were mesmerized. Completely taken in by the beauty of the scrolling names. We began to chant, “Ourladyourladyourlady.”
Suddenly, before we knew it . . .
“We missed it,” screamed Matilda.
“What? How? What?”
“We weren’t paying attention, they’re on the Qs!”
“Okay, it’s okay! We’ll just wait for the next round.”
So we watched. And this being a Catholic town . . .
Christ, Prince of Peace
Christ, Our Savior School
Christ Our Savior School and Nacho Stand
“Crap,” yelled Matilda
“Honey, don’t talk like that,” I said.
“Sorry Dad,” she said. “I’m just anxious.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Let’s just go check the district’s website.”
“Good idea,” she said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
“I just want to see what else Christ is the Savior or Prince of . . .”
And so, there in the bluish glow of our Sony, My daughter and I shared a moment. True, it was also a minor defeat, but together we discovered that Parochial schools have very strange names. And we decided that, no matter how strong our faith was, I would never send her to a school named “Blood of the Lamb” because she really doesn’t want to cheer for the Fighting Holy Platelets.
Discuss
However, Sunday night was excruciating for Matilda who was anxiously watching the news hoping to see her school had closed. If they closed it before bed, she could sleep knowing that she didn’t have to get up early. Which, of course, makes us all feel better.
But she learned a valuable lesson. He school starts with “P” and we live in a largely Catholic town. In order to get the information we wanted, we had to wait through the “Our Ladies”.
Oh yes. The school of the Our Lady was a thorn in my side as a child too, as I went to a public “P” school as well. In all my life, I have never met anyone who actually attended any of the Our Lady schools, but I know for a fact that there are three hundred of them.
So Matilda and I settled in. We were getting excited. Mascoutah R-32 had closed. Either that or a Republican from Mascoutah had voted for something. We couldn’t tell. The important thing was that the alphabet was slowly advancing toward “P”. Yes, Nerinx! We’re nearly through the “N”s.
“We’re almost there,” yelled Matilda. “Soon I will know my fate!”
I had forgotten about the Our Ladies. I hadn’t told her. And it was almost too late, as I found out that Nyman High School was on a snow schedule. She was vibrating from the expectations.
“Matilda, there’s something you need to know,” I said.
“Shhhhh.”
“Mat—“
“HUSH!”
So she was ushered in on her own.
The “O”s started out innocently enough, as there are plenty of innocent and completely innocuous words that can be filed between Oa and Ou. So Oakville was closed. Groovy.
And then it hit.
Our Lady, Queen of Peace
Our Lady of the Sacred Heart
Our Lady of Lourdes
Our Lady of the Lake
Our Lady When You’re With Me I’m Smiling
Our Lady of the Holy Blood
Our Lady of the Bloody Mary
Our Lady of Perpetual Motion
Our Lady of Expectant Waiting
Our Lady of Cosmic Vibrations
Our Lady of Virtual Chagrins
Our Lady of Spain
Our Lady of the Night (GED Center)
Our Lady of the Yellowed Bruise
It was endless. Horribly endless. The Our Ladies kept coming and coming. Our eyes began to glaze over and we began to drool. We were mesmerized. Completely taken in by the beauty of the scrolling names. We began to chant, “Ourladyourladyourlady.”
Suddenly, before we knew it . . .
“We missed it,” screamed Matilda.
“What? How? What?”
“We weren’t paying attention, they’re on the Qs!”
“Okay, it’s okay! We’ll just wait for the next round.”
So we watched. And this being a Catholic town . . .
Christ, Prince of Peace
Christ, Our Savior School
Christ Our Savior School and Nacho Stand
“Crap,” yelled Matilda
“Honey, don’t talk like that,” I said.
“Sorry Dad,” she said. “I’m just anxious.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Let’s just go check the district’s website.”
“Good idea,” she said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
“I just want to see what else Christ is the Savior or Prince of . . .”
And so, there in the bluish glow of our Sony, My daughter and I shared a moment. True, it was also a minor defeat, but together we discovered that Parochial schools have very strange names. And we decided that, no matter how strong our faith was, I would never send her to a school named “Blood of the Lamb” because she really doesn’t want to cheer for the Fighting Holy Platelets.
Discuss
Friday, January 23, 2004
How The Mighty Have Fallen
Just a few days ago I'm talking about all the great music I've been listening to.
Now? I'm listening to Lancelot Link & the Evolution Revolution. "Sha-la Love You" is the "Caroline, No" of Bubblegum pop performed by lower primates. Behold them, in their glory, during the height of Link-o-Mania:
Tomorrow I fully expect to fall to the point of listening to just random electronic tones.
Now? I'm listening to Lancelot Link & the Evolution Revolution. "Sha-la Love You" is the "Caroline, No" of Bubblegum pop performed by lower primates. Behold them, in their glory, during the height of Link-o-Mania:
Tomorrow I fully expect to fall to the point of listening to just random electronic tones.
Serious Help Needed
How in the world do you teach an eight-year-old how to hold a spoon properly? Currently she is holding the spoon the way you would hold a knife to inflict personal damage. She then makes a sound, something like this:
Mwarf nug umph snarg garl slurp
The food makes it into her mouth, on her face, the floor, the walls, the ceiling . . . It's not a pretty site, and somewhat nauseating first thing in the morning.
I've shown her how to hold the spoon. I've explained that it provides increased mobility, range of motion and control. I've also explained that she need not set a land/speed record.
She tried. So, how to you teach a child who claims that she's genetically encoded to hold the spoon like a spade how to hold it properly. And not eat like a hobo on the 2:25 to Poughkeepsie.
Discuss
Mwarf nug umph snarg garl slurp
The food makes it into her mouth, on her face, the floor, the walls, the ceiling . . . It's not a pretty site, and somewhat nauseating first thing in the morning.
I've shown her how to hold the spoon. I've explained that it provides increased mobility, range of motion and control. I've also explained that she need not set a land/speed record.
She tried. So, how to you teach a child who claims that she's genetically encoded to hold the spoon like a spade how to hold it properly. And not eat like a hobo on the 2:25 to Poughkeepsie.
Discuss
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Things I Can’t Remember to Forget to Remember
Things I can remember, but don’t know why:
• The lyrics to every song on Robert Plant’s “The Principle of Moments”, which I owned on cassette. Haven’t heard it in at least fifteen years.
• Every Elvis Costello album, in chronological order, including the band, label and major single releases.
• The names of every dog I’ve ever owned, or wished I owned.
• The films that David Lynch didn’t make, but has always had a passion for (i.e. Ronnie Rocket and One Saliva Bubble).
• The entire Prologue to The Canterbury Tales (in Middle English).
• That I cried when I heard Jim Henson died, probably because the radio station announcing it immediately played “It’s Not Easy Being Green”.
• The names of the girls who rejected me in high school (possibly for revenge purposes).
• My phone number when I was eight.
• The crews of each Apollo mission.
• Every item I loaned to an ex-friend which she took with her when she moved to Arizona (possibly for revenge purposes).
• The script for Army of Darkness, in its entirety.
• Name a movie, I can tell you who was with me when I saw it.
• The story behind every CD I know.
• Each CD that is currently in my car, what is upstairs and what is properly filed away.
Things I can’t remember, but probably should:
• All of my nieces and nephews’ birthdays.
• And sometimes their names.
• My siblings’ phone numbers.
• My password.
• Exactly how old my wife is. 25? 26? 29? It depends on the day.
• What clothes I wore yesterday.
• What I ate for lunch.
• My entire freshman year of college. (Possibly for revenge purposes.)
• Whether or not I turned off the stove.
• How to tie my shoes without using the “bunny ears” technique.
• Why I ever thought parachute pants or Van Halen were cool.
• Whether or not Matilda has her enrichment program on Tuesdays or Thursdays, regardless of the fact that I’ve been picking her up there for eight weeks.
• How many cups of coffee I’ve had today.
• Whether or not I’ve read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, or just claimed I have.
• Whatever I’m supposed to remember when my wife says, “Do you know what today is?”
I’m still trying to figure out if each group is related.
Discuss
• The lyrics to every song on Robert Plant’s “The Principle of Moments”, which I owned on cassette. Haven’t heard it in at least fifteen years.
• Every Elvis Costello album, in chronological order, including the band, label and major single releases.
• The names of every dog I’ve ever owned, or wished I owned.
• The films that David Lynch didn’t make, but has always had a passion for (i.e. Ronnie Rocket and One Saliva Bubble).
• The entire Prologue to The Canterbury Tales (in Middle English).
• That I cried when I heard Jim Henson died, probably because the radio station announcing it immediately played “It’s Not Easy Being Green”.
• The names of the girls who rejected me in high school (possibly for revenge purposes).
• My phone number when I was eight.
• The crews of each Apollo mission.
• Every item I loaned to an ex-friend which she took with her when she moved to Arizona (possibly for revenge purposes).
• The script for Army of Darkness, in its entirety.
• Name a movie, I can tell you who was with me when I saw it.
• The story behind every CD I know.
• Each CD that is currently in my car, what is upstairs and what is properly filed away.
Things I can’t remember, but probably should:
• All of my nieces and nephews’ birthdays.
• And sometimes their names.
• My siblings’ phone numbers.
• My password.
• Exactly how old my wife is. 25? 26? 29? It depends on the day.
• What clothes I wore yesterday.
• What I ate for lunch.
• My entire freshman year of college. (Possibly for revenge purposes.)
• Whether or not I turned off the stove.
• How to tie my shoes without using the “bunny ears” technique.
• Why I ever thought parachute pants or Van Halen were cool.
• Whether or not Matilda has her enrichment program on Tuesdays or Thursdays, regardless of the fact that I’ve been picking her up there for eight weeks.
• How many cups of coffee I’ve had today.
• Whether or not I’ve read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, or just claimed I have.
• Whatever I’m supposed to remember when my wife says, “Do you know what today is?”
I’m still trying to figure out if each group is related.
Discuss
Brrrrrr
I don't want to whine. Especially because I know how cold it is elsewhere. But . . .
I just went to get gas for the batmobile and it was so cold out there that my nipples had goose bumps.
When is summer due?
I just went to get gas for the batmobile and it was so cold out there that my nipples had goose bumps.
When is summer due?
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Take Me Higher
I’m addicted to a certain type of music lately that I can’t seem to find anywhere but my own house.
It started out simply enough. I wanted to listen to a simple Jobim song. So I popped in “Por Todo Minha Vida”. Then I realized that I’m secretly in love with Astrud Gilberto, who gave voice to so many of Jobim’s greatest songs. (Her breakthrough being “Girl From Ipanema”, of course.) Now I had to listen to all the Gilberto songs I had, in addition to the straight Jobim. Well, this lead to “Samba Una Nota”. Love that song. The performance I have is collaboration between Astrud Gilberto and Stan Getz. It’s incredible. “Hey,” I said to myself, “didn’t Ryan give you a disc with another version of that song not too long ago?” Why yes Self, he did! He gave you music from Stereolab’s “Alluminum Tunes: Switched On, Vol. 3.” And, if you have to be exact, “One Note Samba/Surfboard” is collaboration with Herbie Mann, another great interpreter of Jobim. And “Surfboard” is, of course, one of Esquivel’s signature tunes. So off I went into Esquivel land.
I thought I had finally reached the end. Naturally, I could take the Jobim angle further and further if I really wanted to. Elliot Smith’s old band Heatmiser had a quite rollicking number entitled “Antonio Carlos Jobim” on their album “Cop and Speeder”. But that wasn’t quite the same.
So the Brazilian groovin’ curse was out of my body. Or so I thought.
Then my wife and I watched a film called “CQ”, directed by Roman Coppola, which details the making of a fictional erotic, French, Sci-Fi film in the late 1960s. It’s kind of a Barberella/James Bond thing. The movie itself was alright. The music, however, was amazing.
It’s by the band Mellow. It may not be a band you recognize. But one of the principal members, Patrick Woodcock, who co-wrote one of my favorite Air songs, “Ce Matin La”. That’s not a bad pedigree. To say that this music was groovy would be an understatement. I was humming and grooving to the music for days on end. I searched for the soundtrack in local stores, to no avail. I needed immediate gratification.
So I surfed on over to my favorite legal repository for musical sampling, Epitonic and lo and behold, they had Mellow. So I did some sampling and downloaded “Take Me Higher”. And I was happy.
But it lead elsewhere. And further. Soon I was sampling Llorca and bustling to their song “Indigo Blues”. Could life get better?
Apparently. The French, whose music I used to abhor, much to the chagrin of Geek Friend and his soul-mated Boston cohort, are growing on me.
Llorca led me to Les Sans Culottes, who have a quite groovy song “Les Sauvages”. Every time I hear this song, I feel my rimless glasses turning into Horn-rims and I suddenly get an urge to grab a Tom Collins and a smoking jacket.
But it didn’t end there. Oh no. There’s also Miss Mary, Persephone's Bees, Quix*o*tic and The Oscillators.
I can’t stop. I’ve suddenly reverted to my old Esquivel ways. I’m spending time in my 60s mod basement and thinking of how groovy it would be to see a man on the moon and the wonders of plastics.
It’s a sickness. But a good one. Damn these bands and what they will do to my CD Budget! Damn my inexplicable obsession with proto-sixties corniness!
Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to dig out my Jet Set collection and listen to “Lolita Ya Ya”, a groovy remake of the theme from the Stanley Kubrick film.
I accept my dorkitude gladly.
Discuss
It started out simply enough. I wanted to listen to a simple Jobim song. So I popped in “Por Todo Minha Vida”. Then I realized that I’m secretly in love with Astrud Gilberto, who gave voice to so many of Jobim’s greatest songs. (Her breakthrough being “Girl From Ipanema”, of course.) Now I had to listen to all the Gilberto songs I had, in addition to the straight Jobim. Well, this lead to “Samba Una Nota”. Love that song. The performance I have is collaboration between Astrud Gilberto and Stan Getz. It’s incredible. “Hey,” I said to myself, “didn’t Ryan give you a disc with another version of that song not too long ago?” Why yes Self, he did! He gave you music from Stereolab’s “Alluminum Tunes: Switched On, Vol. 3.” And, if you have to be exact, “One Note Samba/Surfboard” is collaboration with Herbie Mann, another great interpreter of Jobim. And “Surfboard” is, of course, one of Esquivel’s signature tunes. So off I went into Esquivel land.
I thought I had finally reached the end. Naturally, I could take the Jobim angle further and further if I really wanted to. Elliot Smith’s old band Heatmiser had a quite rollicking number entitled “Antonio Carlos Jobim” on their album “Cop and Speeder”. But that wasn’t quite the same.
So the Brazilian groovin’ curse was out of my body. Or so I thought.
Then my wife and I watched a film called “CQ”, directed by Roman Coppola, which details the making of a fictional erotic, French, Sci-Fi film in the late 1960s. It’s kind of a Barberella/James Bond thing. The movie itself was alright. The music, however, was amazing.
It’s by the band Mellow. It may not be a band you recognize. But one of the principal members, Patrick Woodcock, who co-wrote one of my favorite Air songs, “Ce Matin La”. That’s not a bad pedigree. To say that this music was groovy would be an understatement. I was humming and grooving to the music for days on end. I searched for the soundtrack in local stores, to no avail. I needed immediate gratification.
So I surfed on over to my favorite legal repository for musical sampling, Epitonic and lo and behold, they had Mellow. So I did some sampling and downloaded “Take Me Higher”. And I was happy.
But it lead elsewhere. And further. Soon I was sampling Llorca and bustling to their song “Indigo Blues”. Could life get better?
Apparently. The French, whose music I used to abhor, much to the chagrin of Geek Friend and his soul-mated Boston cohort, are growing on me.
Llorca led me to Les Sans Culottes, who have a quite groovy song “Les Sauvages”. Every time I hear this song, I feel my rimless glasses turning into Horn-rims and I suddenly get an urge to grab a Tom Collins and a smoking jacket.
But it didn’t end there. Oh no. There’s also Miss Mary, Persephone's Bees, Quix*o*tic and The Oscillators.
I can’t stop. I’ve suddenly reverted to my old Esquivel ways. I’m spending time in my 60s mod basement and thinking of how groovy it would be to see a man on the moon and the wonders of plastics.
It’s a sickness. But a good one. Damn these bands and what they will do to my CD Budget! Damn my inexplicable obsession with proto-sixties corniness!
Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to dig out my Jet Set collection and listen to “Lolita Ya Ya”, a groovy remake of the theme from the Stanley Kubrick film.
I accept my dorkitude gladly.
Discuss
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
My Secret Hobbit
Having just finished the current Lemony Snicket book, Matilda and I were out of good books to read together. She has a stack that she wants to tackle, but on her own, without the benefit of my goofy voices and over-dramatic reading of the narration.
So she turned to her mother, who had a wicked gleam in her eye.
“The Hobbit,” she said.
Now, each night they curl up with Tolkien and begin to wend their way through is wonderfully twisted, circular narration. Hearing my wife explain the proper pronunciation of Gloin is quite amusing. What’s better is seeing my young daughter’s eyes alight with the same joy I had when my brother Marty gave me my first copy of the Hobbit when I was in sixth grade. Had he not been in college when I was in third grade, he may have undertaken the joy of reading the book with me (a tradition my father started with “Tarzan and the Lost Safari”, the reason I could read before I made it to kindergarten).
How could your imagination not run away with that wonderful opening paragraph? Just hearing it recited again sent me back several decades. I had the distinct feeling of a child, ready to go on an adventure. An adventure that would be as real to me as the chair I was sitting in.
As of this time, Matilda has seen Fellowship of the Ring. We knew it was PG-13 and that allowing a child her age to watch it may open us to criticism. In fact, I thought of every argument against letting her watch it. My wife countered them all:
1. They are no scarier than Harry Potter.
2. They have a deep basis in the myth and literature she and I spent far too much time studying, most of which still clutters our bookshelves.
3. This is Matilda. She’s eight going on forty. Smarter than both of us.
So they watched Fellowship and Matilda loved it. They paused it periodically because she had questions, not about the complex plot, but about the deeper history of Middle-Earth. When Frodo accepted the position of Ring Bearer, Matilda yelled out, “No, not Frodo!” When Sam followed him at the breaking of the fellowship, she cried (I do every time I see it as well). And she’s dying to get into the Two Towers.
Now, I know I should feel guilty about letter her watch the movies. I should object and moralize. But I realized something. She’s a smart kid and this isn’t a Jim Carrey film. I’d let her watch Shakespeare (not Titus, mind you). I’d read Beowulf to her if I could. Lord of the Rings is a gateway drug to a rich and varied world of literature (none of it, mind you, authored by Piers Anthony).
Most importantly, I realized that the story of the Ring is laying a good foundation for her. A foundation of history, tradition and myth. If her mind is set afire by reading Tolkien, perhaps she’ll start a long rich life of reading Mallory and the Arthurian legends (my personal obsession). Or maybe, like her mother, she’ll learn to speak Old English and become interested in early English poetry.
She may be considered too young. But she has already learned the deeper message of Lord of the Rings. When her fish died recently she decided she wanted to replace him with not one, but two fish.
“I’ll call them Sam and Frodo,” she said. “That way they’ll never be alone.”
Discuss
So she turned to her mother, who had a wicked gleam in her eye.
“The Hobbit,” she said.
Now, each night they curl up with Tolkien and begin to wend their way through is wonderfully twisted, circular narration. Hearing my wife explain the proper pronunciation of Gloin is quite amusing. What’s better is seeing my young daughter’s eyes alight with the same joy I had when my brother Marty gave me my first copy of the Hobbit when I was in sixth grade. Had he not been in college when I was in third grade, he may have undertaken the joy of reading the book with me (a tradition my father started with “Tarzan and the Lost Safari”, the reason I could read before I made it to kindergarten).
How could your imagination not run away with that wonderful opening paragraph? Just hearing it recited again sent me back several decades. I had the distinct feeling of a child, ready to go on an adventure. An adventure that would be as real to me as the chair I was sitting in.
As of this time, Matilda has seen Fellowship of the Ring. We knew it was PG-13 and that allowing a child her age to watch it may open us to criticism. In fact, I thought of every argument against letting her watch it. My wife countered them all:
1. They are no scarier than Harry Potter.
2. They have a deep basis in the myth and literature she and I spent far too much time studying, most of which still clutters our bookshelves.
3. This is Matilda. She’s eight going on forty. Smarter than both of us.
So they watched Fellowship and Matilda loved it. They paused it periodically because she had questions, not about the complex plot, but about the deeper history of Middle-Earth. When Frodo accepted the position of Ring Bearer, Matilda yelled out, “No, not Frodo!” When Sam followed him at the breaking of the fellowship, she cried (I do every time I see it as well). And she’s dying to get into the Two Towers.
Now, I know I should feel guilty about letter her watch the movies. I should object and moralize. But I realized something. She’s a smart kid and this isn’t a Jim Carrey film. I’d let her watch Shakespeare (not Titus, mind you). I’d read Beowulf to her if I could. Lord of the Rings is a gateway drug to a rich and varied world of literature (none of it, mind you, authored by Piers Anthony).
Most importantly, I realized that the story of the Ring is laying a good foundation for her. A foundation of history, tradition and myth. If her mind is set afire by reading Tolkien, perhaps she’ll start a long rich life of reading Mallory and the Arthurian legends (my personal obsession). Or maybe, like her mother, she’ll learn to speak Old English and become interested in early English poetry.
She may be considered too young. But she has already learned the deeper message of Lord of the Rings. When her fish died recently she decided she wanted to replace him with not one, but two fish.
“I’ll call them Sam and Frodo,” she said. “That way they’ll never be alone.”
Discuss
Brrrrrrr
It is so cold in my office today that I am considering breaking up my furniture and lighting it on fire.
Just thought you should know.
In case you saw a plume of smoke.
Or something.
Just thought you should know.
In case you saw a plume of smoke.
Or something.
Friday, January 16, 2004
My Little Eraserhead
Last night Mommy gave Gertrude a piece of charcoal and some paper and asked her to create an image. This is what little Gertie Van Gogh came up with:
I have to admit that I am impressed. Nice shapes, nice lines. Clear angst coming through. I think she's making a statement against society's repression of candy when it comes to the toddler culture.
However, the more I looked at it, the more familiar I felt it looked. Then I realized, she was channeling David Lynch. Though she's reversed the image, you can clearly see the mouth, eye and shape of the head. In fact, I think that she was showing the scene where Henry opened the baby's swaddling clothes and was horrified by the results. Behold what I feel was her inspiration:
You have to admit, there is more than a passing resemblance. I'll have to check my video collection. I don't think she's been watching Eraserhead lately. Maybe it came from her collective unconscious. Mommy and Daddy have seen it many times.
I know I keep saying she's a genius. But she's now a surrealist. She'll be the first surrealist painter/filmmaker/engineer/physicist/geologist/comedian on Mars.
Discuss Gertie Van Gogh
I have to admit that I am impressed. Nice shapes, nice lines. Clear angst coming through. I think she's making a statement against society's repression of candy when it comes to the toddler culture.
However, the more I looked at it, the more familiar I felt it looked. Then I realized, she was channeling David Lynch. Though she's reversed the image, you can clearly see the mouth, eye and shape of the head. In fact, I think that she was showing the scene where Henry opened the baby's swaddling clothes and was horrified by the results. Behold what I feel was her inspiration:
You have to admit, there is more than a passing resemblance. I'll have to check my video collection. I don't think she's been watching Eraserhead lately. Maybe it came from her collective unconscious. Mommy and Daddy have seen it many times.
I know I keep saying she's a genius. But she's now a surrealist. She'll be the first surrealist painter/filmmaker/engineer/physicist/geologist/comedian on Mars.
Discuss Gertie Van Gogh
There Goes My Baby
For the last six months my mother-in-law has been watching Gertrude four days a week. She doesn’t always keep her for a full work day and, taking Fridays off has taken a toll on my ability to bill the amount I need in order to feed the family. So we had been talking about getting a neighborhood sitter for one day a week, or more.
Gert loves spending the week with Grandma. And it’s been great for both of them to get the one on one time and develop a truly wonderful relationship. But, Gert is also isolated with Grandma. There are no other kids to play with and she desperately wants friends and needs to socialize with other kids.
Last week we finally made our decision as to which sitter we liked, Gertrude being the final deciding factor because she liked the other kids. And today is her first day.
She was excited. For days she’s been talking a blue streak about how “kids will be my friends” and “they play with me but not hit” (a serious problem with the kids at her old sitter’s) or, “Diana take care of me!” The idea of having more kids to play with, new friends, was just exciting her beyond what a two-year-old should comprehend.
Mom and Dad, however, are a nervous wreck. We both feel like we’re sending our baby off to college . . . or worse. Last night we both went to bed feeling sick to our stomachs, nervous and excited at the same time. We stayed up until midnight talking about how great this little baby is, how funny she is, and how we feel bad for leaving her with new people. We’d done our interviews and research. We were comfortable with the sitter. Would Gert be comfortable? Would the sitter be able to understand her? What if she got scared?
All last night she had put up a great performance for us. As if she needed to prove how cute, smart and funny she really is.
“Gertrude, how old are you?”
“I two!”
“Yes. Finally! Okay, how old is Matilda.”
“Don’ know. Sissy, how old?”
“I’m eight.”
“Sissy eight! How old are you daddy?”
“I’m thirty.”
“No. Not thirty. You’re twenty dollars!”
“Um. Okay.”
“Mommy, how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
”No, Mommy! You’re twenty dollars!”
So, we are to assume, that mommy and I are worth precisely forty dollars to our daughter. It’s good to know.
This morning was filled with dread and excitement. Excitement for Gertrude. Dread for us. What were we sending our baby into?
I kept kissing her and hugging her all morning. I irritated the crap out of her. She bounced off the walls. Mom looked at her with a wistful, painful look on her face.
Matilda distracted me and we sat down to figure out the secret code in the latest Lemony Snicket book. Mom and Gert went to the door and we said our goodbyes.
“I be right back,” she said, just like any other morning. “I go play with kids.”
And with that, my tough and eager little girl was gone. Off to the unknown.
I don’t know for sure, but I suspect Mommy cried. She said Gert gave her an extra-long hug when she left.
The sitter says that she did well this morning. She watched the kids play for a bit before she got into the fray. Friday is movie day and they watched Ice Age. Gertrude exclaimed that she had seen it and got excited. Which, of course, shocked me. Her sister and I watched the last half hour this summer while Gert was a part-time observer. Her memory amazes me.
I’m stunned how a child can teach me something new every day. I want to believe that because I’m older and more bitter that I am wise. But Gertrude’s happy acceptance of change, her excitement over a new adventure, has taught me that the unknown isn’t always scary. Her vigorous zest for life has shown me that sometimes you just have to hold your nose and jump on in the water.
Of course, she also taught me how to dance like a penguin.
What a wise little girl.
Discuss
Gert loves spending the week with Grandma. And it’s been great for both of them to get the one on one time and develop a truly wonderful relationship. But, Gert is also isolated with Grandma. There are no other kids to play with and she desperately wants friends and needs to socialize with other kids.
Last week we finally made our decision as to which sitter we liked, Gertrude being the final deciding factor because she liked the other kids. And today is her first day.
She was excited. For days she’s been talking a blue streak about how “kids will be my friends” and “they play with me but not hit” (a serious problem with the kids at her old sitter’s) or, “Diana take care of me!” The idea of having more kids to play with, new friends, was just exciting her beyond what a two-year-old should comprehend.
Mom and Dad, however, are a nervous wreck. We both feel like we’re sending our baby off to college . . . or worse. Last night we both went to bed feeling sick to our stomachs, nervous and excited at the same time. We stayed up until midnight talking about how great this little baby is, how funny she is, and how we feel bad for leaving her with new people. We’d done our interviews and research. We were comfortable with the sitter. Would Gert be comfortable? Would the sitter be able to understand her? What if she got scared?
All last night she had put up a great performance for us. As if she needed to prove how cute, smart and funny she really is.
“Gertrude, how old are you?”
“I two!”
“Yes. Finally! Okay, how old is Matilda.”
“Don’ know. Sissy, how old?”
“I’m eight.”
“Sissy eight! How old are you daddy?”
“I’m thirty.”
“No. Not thirty. You’re twenty dollars!”
“Um. Okay.”
“Mommy, how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
”No, Mommy! You’re twenty dollars!”
So, we are to assume, that mommy and I are worth precisely forty dollars to our daughter. It’s good to know.
This morning was filled with dread and excitement. Excitement for Gertrude. Dread for us. What were we sending our baby into?
I kept kissing her and hugging her all morning. I irritated the crap out of her. She bounced off the walls. Mom looked at her with a wistful, painful look on her face.
Matilda distracted me and we sat down to figure out the secret code in the latest Lemony Snicket book. Mom and Gert went to the door and we said our goodbyes.
“I be right back,” she said, just like any other morning. “I go play with kids.”
And with that, my tough and eager little girl was gone. Off to the unknown.
I don’t know for sure, but I suspect Mommy cried. She said Gert gave her an extra-long hug when she left.
The sitter says that she did well this morning. She watched the kids play for a bit before she got into the fray. Friday is movie day and they watched Ice Age. Gertrude exclaimed that she had seen it and got excited. Which, of course, shocked me. Her sister and I watched the last half hour this summer while Gert was a part-time observer. Her memory amazes me.
I’m stunned how a child can teach me something new every day. I want to believe that because I’m older and more bitter that I am wise. But Gertrude’s happy acceptance of change, her excitement over a new adventure, has taught me that the unknown isn’t always scary. Her vigorous zest for life has shown me that sometimes you just have to hold your nose and jump on in the water.
Of course, she also taught me how to dance like a penguin.
What a wise little girl.
Discuss
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Robo-Scientist
Uh oh. Mr. Physicist? You better tell your students to watch out.
But, hey, that's a hell of a big star. Still, I've had burning gas much worse than that.
I know, I know. This isn't nearly as interesting as AICN's story about "Quicktime Boobies". I'm sorry. What can I say?
Thanks to Geek Press for doing all of the hard work and finding the links. I just stole 'em.
Discuss
But, hey, that's a hell of a big star. Still, I've had burning gas much worse than that.
I know, I know. This isn't nearly as interesting as AICN's story about "Quicktime Boobies". I'm sorry. What can I say?
Thanks to Geek Press for doing all of the hard work and finding the links. I just stole 'em.
Discuss
Life Imitates Blog
In a stunning turn of events, just days after I posted a joke regarding this very subject . . . Ain't it Cool News actually has the word "Boobies" on their home page. Yes, just as they are introducing their coverage of the Sundance Film Festival, Harry and his group of thirteen-year-olds have managed to sink further into their pre-adolescent masturbabtory fantasies.
Need proof? Screenshot of their home page today:
Way to go Harry! To think that you once considered yourself an "industry" insider because people bought good reviews from you. How far your crappy site has come.
Need proof? Screenshot of their home page today:
Way to go Harry! To think that you once considered yourself an "industry" insider because people bought good reviews from you. How far your crappy site has come.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Excelsior! We’re Going to Mars! Excelsior!
Well, no. Not really. Not now. Maybe not at all. But the idea is there and, if we do it for the right reasons, I’ll be excited. I’ll also be excited if we go for the wrong reasons, but I’ll make snide comments.
What’s the right reason? Science and understanding. Discovery, observation and learning. Oh, I don’t know, learning a little bit about or little cosmic neighborhood?
Wrong reasons? Politics, hubris and stupidity. Or to satisfy some need to prove that we simply can.
That being said, my little Gertrude has already begun training. She should get her Ph.D. in physics by 2030, hopefully a little before. So she’ll be perfect to go. Though I may convince her to switch to geology for practical purposes. She already likes rocks. Well, at least their destructive properties when introduced to large panes of glass.
Just last night, in preparation for the announcement, I put her through a minor zero-gee experiment and she giggled with glee, exclaiming, “Do it agin! Do it agin!” Tonight I’m tying a rope around her ankles and doing an experiment with centripetal forces.
Just kidding honey! (My wife is reading.) We’ll use bungee cords.
I just hope we can get the world excited about space exploration again. Are there good reasons to go? Hell yeah. Here are ten just involving the moon.
Hey, the whole universe is out there waiting to be looked at and questioned. Let’s do it. In fact, why don’t we put more effort there and less behind showing commercials before movies?
Surely I’m not the only one who looks up in the sky and wonders, “Just what the hell happens out there? And why? When can I go?”
What’s the right reason? Science and understanding. Discovery, observation and learning. Oh, I don’t know, learning a little bit about or little cosmic neighborhood?
Wrong reasons? Politics, hubris and stupidity. Or to satisfy some need to prove that we simply can.
That being said, my little Gertrude has already begun training. She should get her Ph.D. in physics by 2030, hopefully a little before. So she’ll be perfect to go. Though I may convince her to switch to geology for practical purposes. She already likes rocks. Well, at least their destructive properties when introduced to large panes of glass.
Just last night, in preparation for the announcement, I put her through a minor zero-gee experiment and she giggled with glee, exclaiming, “Do it agin! Do it agin!” Tonight I’m tying a rope around her ankles and doing an experiment with centripetal forces.
Just kidding honey! (My wife is reading.) We’ll use bungee cords.
I just hope we can get the world excited about space exploration again. Are there good reasons to go? Hell yeah. Here are ten just involving the moon.
Hey, the whole universe is out there waiting to be looked at and questioned. Let’s do it. In fact, why don’t we put more effort there and less behind showing commercials before movies?
Surely I’m not the only one who looks up in the sky and wonders, “Just what the hell happens out there? And why? When can I go?”
Actual Conversation with Gertrude This Morning
Me: How old are you?
Gert: Three.
Me: No you’re not. You’re two.
Gert: I three.
Me: You’re only two. You’re this many.
Gert: I three!
Me: How are you three?
Gert: I had my birthday.
Me: That was your cousin’s birthday. She’s three. You’re two.
Gert: I two?
Me: Yes. Stop trying to grow up so quickly.
Gert: I two.
Me: That’s right. How old are you?
Gert: I two.
Me: Good girl!
(Enter mom)
Me: Hey mommy, Gert and I have been talking about how old she is. I think she understands.
Mommy: Good girl Gert. How old are you?
Gert: I three. Not two. Right Daddy?
Me: Sigh.
Discuss Age is Relative
Gert: Three.
Me: No you’re not. You’re two.
Gert: I three.
Me: You’re only two. You’re this many.
Gert: I three!
Me: How are you three?
Gert: I had my birthday.
Me: That was your cousin’s birthday. She’s three. You’re two.
Gert: I two?
Me: Yes. Stop trying to grow up so quickly.
Gert: I two.
Me: That’s right. How old are you?
Gert: I two.
Me: Good girl!
(Enter mom)
Me: Hey mommy, Gert and I have been talking about how old she is. I think she understands.
Mommy: Good girl Gert. How old are you?
Gert: I three. Not two. Right Daddy?
Me: Sigh.
Discuss Age is Relative
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Today's AICN Exclamation Point Count
35. Yes, 35 on only the home page. 35. That is exactly 35 more than should have been used.
Please, someone stop Harry and Ain't It Cool News before their inflated sense of self-importance grows to the point that it blocks out the sun and all life on Earth will cease.
Or, as AICN would say:
Please! Stop!! AICN!!!!! Insert penis or sex joke here because I'm Harry Knowles and I never made it past 8th grade. Boobies. Hee hee!!!!!!!!
Please, someone stop Harry and Ain't It Cool News before their inflated sense of self-importance grows to the point that it blocks out the sun and all life on Earth will cease.
Or, as AICN would say:
Please! Stop!! AICN!!!!! Insert penis or sex joke here because I'm Harry Knowles and I never made it past 8th grade. Boobies. Hee hee!!!!!!!!
Dancing QU33N
Holy crap. This is cool (via Michael Williams).
With one of these puppies at my side, I'd never have to dance at a wedding again.
What bothers me, though, is that one of these puppies can actually dance better than I can. They look graceful, poised, talented. I look like I got poked in the ass by a burning ember.
With one of these puppies at my side, I'd never have to dance at a wedding again.
What bothers me, though, is that one of these puppies can actually dance better than I can. They look graceful, poised, talented. I look like I got poked in the ass by a burning ember.
Death (Mine) Has Been Greatly Expurgated
The one topic of discussion in my house lately has been death. Specifically mine. We’re not getting into the actual details of my death, though I’m sure my family would be willing to discuss it.
“I think Dad is going to have an aneurism by the time he’s thirty five. But, see, he’ll be driving at the time. He’ll survive the brain event, but his car will leap off a cliff into a river, float down the river into the Gulf, go out to sea, burst into flames and then be consumed by a Blue Whale. We’ll miss you Dad.”
Yeah. Actually, the truth is, we’ve been looking at a variety of options for life insurance. Specifically, my life insurance. More specifically, when I die, how much is that worth to my family?
Your Dad just died? $500,000
His Burial? $3 in cardboard and elbow grease in the back yard
The enjoyment of spending $499,997 in death money? Priceless.
It’s a difficult time when you have to put a price on your own head. You are afraid of mentioning a price too high because your insurance agent, or worse, your wife, will laugh at you.
“Ha ha. Very funny. No, seriously, we were thinking about $19.83.”
But these discussions make you think about death in ways you never thought possible. How will you die? When? Will you be wearing pumps or a sensible sneaker?
I realized, however, that new life insurance may be the best thing that ever happened to me. After all, there will be an entire company, an entire company that doesn’t want me to die. In fact, it is in their best interest that I stay alive. I think that’s pretty cool.
I’m hoping they’ll call me every day to see how I feel. And they’ll send me things to keep me happy. That’s what a good life insurance company should do. Conspire to keep you alive at all costs. In fact, I’m going to have them drive me around everywhere I go. You can’t be too careful. And they can sit next to the treadmill to make sure I get in my full workout. “Stop! Don’t eat those potato skins!”
Thank you Mr. Insurance guy. I’m glad that you care about me. At least, you care enough not to want to pay out in the event of my death.
Still, the talk about death has been making me think of what I want as far as a funeral. I’ve been to far too many funerals and I must say that they are all boring and depressing. I’d like to change that.
So, I’ve narrowed my internment options down to two.
1. Build a giant trebuchet in the middle of the woods. Hook my feet up to it. Turn on Whiter Shade of Pale and cut the rope, thereby sending my body to fly through the air with the greatest of ease. Then you leave. No need to worry about a head stone or anything like that. I’ll just land in a tree. I’ll be fine there. Just make sure you film it.
2. Preserve my body and encase it in Plexiglas. Then install me in the very center seat at the local movie theater. In my hand you can even put some fake popcorn. On the Plexiglas, put a plaque that reads, “Tomb of the Unknown Movie Goer”. It’s perfect.
Of course, some guy will always be pissed at me. “This bastard always gets the best seat!”
Discuss Death
“I think Dad is going to have an aneurism by the time he’s thirty five. But, see, he’ll be driving at the time. He’ll survive the brain event, but his car will leap off a cliff into a river, float down the river into the Gulf, go out to sea, burst into flames and then be consumed by a Blue Whale. We’ll miss you Dad.”
Yeah. Actually, the truth is, we’ve been looking at a variety of options for life insurance. Specifically, my life insurance. More specifically, when I die, how much is that worth to my family?
Your Dad just died? $500,000
His Burial? $3 in cardboard and elbow grease in the back yard
The enjoyment of spending $499,997 in death money? Priceless.
It’s a difficult time when you have to put a price on your own head. You are afraid of mentioning a price too high because your insurance agent, or worse, your wife, will laugh at you.
“Ha ha. Very funny. No, seriously, we were thinking about $19.83.”
But these discussions make you think about death in ways you never thought possible. How will you die? When? Will you be wearing pumps or a sensible sneaker?
I realized, however, that new life insurance may be the best thing that ever happened to me. After all, there will be an entire company, an entire company that doesn’t want me to die. In fact, it is in their best interest that I stay alive. I think that’s pretty cool.
I’m hoping they’ll call me every day to see how I feel. And they’ll send me things to keep me happy. That’s what a good life insurance company should do. Conspire to keep you alive at all costs. In fact, I’m going to have them drive me around everywhere I go. You can’t be too careful. And they can sit next to the treadmill to make sure I get in my full workout. “Stop! Don’t eat those potato skins!”
Thank you Mr. Insurance guy. I’m glad that you care about me. At least, you care enough not to want to pay out in the event of my death.
Still, the talk about death has been making me think of what I want as far as a funeral. I’ve been to far too many funerals and I must say that they are all boring and depressing. I’d like to change that.
So, I’ve narrowed my internment options down to two.
1. Build a giant trebuchet in the middle of the woods. Hook my feet up to it. Turn on Whiter Shade of Pale and cut the rope, thereby sending my body to fly through the air with the greatest of ease. Then you leave. No need to worry about a head stone or anything like that. I’ll just land in a tree. I’ll be fine there. Just make sure you film it.
2. Preserve my body and encase it in Plexiglas. Then install me in the very center seat at the local movie theater. In my hand you can even put some fake popcorn. On the Plexiglas, put a plaque that reads, “Tomb of the Unknown Movie Goer”. It’s perfect.
Of course, some guy will always be pissed at me. “This bastard always gets the best seat!”
Discuss Death
Monday, January 12, 2004
Update
My wife claims that while Gertrude was sitting on the couch watching TV and reading the paper with a helmet on she also was sucking on her big toe.
I can't vouch for this. But it wouldn't surprise me.
Nothing would.
I can't vouch for this. But it wouldn't surprise me.
Nothing would.
It Started Out Innocently Enough
This weekend was not very exciting. We did stuff. And then we were finished.
Yesterday, after grocery shopping, we came home and unloaded our culinary haul. Mom was slamming stuff into the fridge, I was roasting garlic and Gertrude went into the den to watch TV. A few minutes go by and I realized that I hadn’t heard her, seen her or even sensed her presence.
I walked into the den to find her sitting in the dark with the TV on. She had a section of the news paper in her hands and her uncle’s karate sparring helmet on her head.
I guess she was prepared for anything.
I swear I’m not making this up.
In fact, earlier we told her we were going to interview a new baby sitter for her. She kept looking at us like we were idiots. Finally, she dragged her car seat into the kitchen and said, “This is my baby seater.”
I don’t make this stuff up. I swear. She does it on her own.
Nut.
Discuss
Yesterday, after grocery shopping, we came home and unloaded our culinary haul. Mom was slamming stuff into the fridge, I was roasting garlic and Gertrude went into the den to watch TV. A few minutes go by and I realized that I hadn’t heard her, seen her or even sensed her presence.
I walked into the den to find her sitting in the dark with the TV on. She had a section of the news paper in her hands and her uncle’s karate sparring helmet on her head.
I guess she was prepared for anything.
I swear I’m not making this up.
In fact, earlier we told her we were going to interview a new baby sitter for her. She kept looking at us like we were idiots. Finally, she dragged her car seat into the kitchen and said, “This is my baby seater.”
I don’t make this stuff up. I swear. She does it on her own.
Nut.
Discuss
Thursday, January 08, 2004
A Good Start
This morning I woke up and fixed a really great cup of coffee. Full-bodied, piping hot. It was a damn fine cup of joe.
Then Matilda sneezed in it.
It's a mucus blend.
Then Matilda sneezed in it.
It's a mucus blend.
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
By the Way . . .
I'm not moody, per se. Moody is when you are in one mood now and an opposite mood in five minutes.
Me, well, I can't decide what mood to be in. It's like driving down the highway, really having to pee, but not being able to decide which exit to use.
That's me. Sorta. I can't decide. Which, in a way, proves me point.
The intense irony of this post is, of course, I really do have to pee.
Me, well, I can't decide what mood to be in. It's like driving down the highway, really having to pee, but not being able to decide which exit to use.
That's me. Sorta. I can't decide. Which, in a way, proves me point.
The intense irony of this post is, of course, I really do have to pee.
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and Me
Wait for it. Wait for it. It's about to hit . . . there it is. Ahhhh.
I promised myself it wouldn’t happen this year, but I’ve entered my Winter Funk.
Despite the title, this is not the time of the year where I whip out my P-Funk discs and groove to “Dr. Funkenstein”. Instead, it’s where I pull out my Neil Young CDs and listen to only the songs from Neil’s scruffy, Wolverine-esque, I’m-Fixin’-To-Pull-A-Brian-Wilson period. Usually, but not limited, to acoustic music. We’re not talking “Cinnamon Girl” Neil. But “The Old Laughing Lady” Neil. Or even “Helpless” Neil.
Not that it’s a bad thing, mind you.
So, the question is, why to I become a Nihilist (or is that a Neilist?) at this time of year? Why do I listen to “I Am a Child” or “Sugar Mountain” and wallow in an undirected misery?
Worse, why do I not feel funny? Or useful? Or productive?
Or, explain why I see a little girl running after her mother in the grocery store and get an intense longing for my own daughter, whom I had seen only moments before. Why is it that I want to scoop my daughter up in my arms, freeze the moment in amber, instead of yielding to the onslaught of time? Why did I sit there listening to Matilda read to me last night, as if it were the last time that this exact Matilda would read to me? Tomorrow she’ll be a different kid. With different thoughts, dreams, ideas, knowledge.
It seems that each year at this time, I get a certain longing to stop the march of time. Couple that with a complete inability to think for myself. Or a feeling of helplessness with regards to my ability to actually articulate my feelings.
Or worse, that what I am able to articulate isn’t sufficient.
Kind of like this.
It’s not that I’m depressed. Or sad, even. Just uneasy. Or restless.
I guess I have to decide what Neil Young I am today.
Am I this Neil Young?
I feel like I died
and went to Heaven
The cupboards are bare
but the streets
are paved with gold
And all the lights
were turned down low
And no one wondered or had to go
Out on the corner the angels say
There is a better life
for me someday
Or am I this Neil Young?
Now the night is gone,
a new day is dawning
And our homeless dreams
go back to the street
Another time or place,
another civilization
Would really make
this life feel so complete.
I'll always be a dreamin' man
I don't have to understand
I know it's alright.
Dreamin' man
He's got a problem
Or perhaps this one?
I am a child, I'll last a while.
You can't conceive
of the pleasure in my smile.
You hold my hand,
rough up my hair,
It's lots of fun
to have you there.
Maybe it’s this, except replace boy and son with girl and daughter:
Why are you growin' up so fast
My boy?
Oh, you'd better take your time.
Why are you growin' up so fast
My son?
Almost time to live your dream
My boy.
Oh, you'd better take your time.
Almost time to make some plans
My son.
Vacation gone, school is out,
Summer ends year in year out.
Oh, you'd better take your time
My boy.
I thought we had just begun.
Why are you growin' up so fast
My son?
Vacation gone, school is out,
Summer ends year in year out.
Why are you growin' up so fast
My boy?
Why are you growin' up so fast
My son?
But I think, more likely, I’m this today (but who is it to? My wife? One or both of my daughters?):
The flash of a distant camera
reconnecting
thoughts and actions,
Fragments of our missing dreams,
Pieces from here and there
fall in place along the line,
Disappearing between you and me.
Life is changing everywhere I go,
New things and old both disappear.
If life is a photograph,
Fading in the mirror....
All I want is a song of love,
Song of love to sing for you.
All I need is this song of love,
To sing for you.
On the floor where daylight dances
With the ones
that missed their chances,
When they couldn't let it show,
Lies the land of sweet surrender,
Like a dream
it might have ended there,
but we didn't even know.
Now forever we will live as one,
Floating in love's atmosphere.
If love is a piece of dust,
Shining in the sun...
All I want is a song of love,
Song of love to sing for you.
All I need is this song of love,
To sing for you.
Song of love...
Song of love...
More likely I just don’t know how I feel. So I have to replace my explanation of how I feel with a song about how someone else felt and that’s okay. Or something.
Hey, you know what? You can ignore this post. It’s more for me than for anyone else. I just had to write it out, I guess.
Discuss Or Not
I promised myself it wouldn’t happen this year, but I’ve entered my Winter Funk.
Despite the title, this is not the time of the year where I whip out my P-Funk discs and groove to “Dr. Funkenstein”. Instead, it’s where I pull out my Neil Young CDs and listen to only the songs from Neil’s scruffy, Wolverine-esque, I’m-Fixin’-To-Pull-A-Brian-Wilson period. Usually, but not limited, to acoustic music. We’re not talking “Cinnamon Girl” Neil. But “The Old Laughing Lady” Neil. Or even “Helpless” Neil.
Not that it’s a bad thing, mind you.
So, the question is, why to I become a Nihilist (or is that a Neilist?) at this time of year? Why do I listen to “I Am a Child” or “Sugar Mountain” and wallow in an undirected misery?
Worse, why do I not feel funny? Or useful? Or productive?
Or, explain why I see a little girl running after her mother in the grocery store and get an intense longing for my own daughter, whom I had seen only moments before. Why is it that I want to scoop my daughter up in my arms, freeze the moment in amber, instead of yielding to the onslaught of time? Why did I sit there listening to Matilda read to me last night, as if it were the last time that this exact Matilda would read to me? Tomorrow she’ll be a different kid. With different thoughts, dreams, ideas, knowledge.
It seems that each year at this time, I get a certain longing to stop the march of time. Couple that with a complete inability to think for myself. Or a feeling of helplessness with regards to my ability to actually articulate my feelings.
Or worse, that what I am able to articulate isn’t sufficient.
Kind of like this.
It’s not that I’m depressed. Or sad, even. Just uneasy. Or restless.
I guess I have to decide what Neil Young I am today.
Am I this Neil Young?
I feel like I died
and went to Heaven
The cupboards are bare
but the streets
are paved with gold
And all the lights
were turned down low
And no one wondered or had to go
Out on the corner the angels say
There is a better life
for me someday
Or am I this Neil Young?
Now the night is gone,
a new day is dawning
And our homeless dreams
go back to the street
Another time or place,
another civilization
Would really make
this life feel so complete.
I'll always be a dreamin' man
I don't have to understand
I know it's alright.
Dreamin' man
He's got a problem
Or perhaps this one?
I am a child, I'll last a while.
You can't conceive
of the pleasure in my smile.
You hold my hand,
rough up my hair,
It's lots of fun
to have you there.
Maybe it’s this, except replace boy and son with girl and daughter:
Why are you growin' up so fast
My boy?
Oh, you'd better take your time.
Why are you growin' up so fast
My son?
Almost time to live your dream
My boy.
Oh, you'd better take your time.
Almost time to make some plans
My son.
Vacation gone, school is out,
Summer ends year in year out.
Oh, you'd better take your time
My boy.
I thought we had just begun.
Why are you growin' up so fast
My son?
Vacation gone, school is out,
Summer ends year in year out.
Why are you growin' up so fast
My boy?
Why are you growin' up so fast
My son?
But I think, more likely, I’m this today (but who is it to? My wife? One or both of my daughters?):
The flash of a distant camera
reconnecting
thoughts and actions,
Fragments of our missing dreams,
Pieces from here and there
fall in place along the line,
Disappearing between you and me.
Life is changing everywhere I go,
New things and old both disappear.
If life is a photograph,
Fading in the mirror....
All I want is a song of love,
Song of love to sing for you.
All I need is this song of love,
To sing for you.
On the floor where daylight dances
With the ones
that missed their chances,
When they couldn't let it show,
Lies the land of sweet surrender,
Like a dream
it might have ended there,
but we didn't even know.
Now forever we will live as one,
Floating in love's atmosphere.
If love is a piece of dust,
Shining in the sun...
All I want is a song of love,
Song of love to sing for you.
All I need is this song of love,
To sing for you.
Song of love...
Song of love...
More likely I just don’t know how I feel. So I have to replace my explanation of how I feel with a song about how someone else felt and that’s okay. Or something.
Hey, you know what? You can ignore this post. It’s more for me than for anyone else. I just had to write it out, I guess.
Discuss Or Not
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Arial Font Announces Bankruptcy, Shuttering its Doors
Lithodelphia, PA (GO) – Citing the economy, the terror alert level and poor punctuation, the Arial Font has announced that it will cease operations immediately and liquidate all characters, punctuation, letters (both capital and lowercase) as well as leases to various documents throughout the World Wide Web.
“As time has moved on,” Mark Schenk, VP of Public Relations for Arial, stated, “we’ve found it harder and harder to keep our foothold in the market place.” Once considered one of the “Mother Fonts” of the Internet, Arial’s reach used to span far and wide. From personal websites to news organizations to pr0n sites, Arial was the font of choice for so many web designers, writers and self-publishing authors.
“It was clean,” remarked Schenk. “Arial was easy to read, looked good in 10 point through 16 point type and even translated well to the printed page. It’s a strong font without serifs or any other accoutrement that various other fonts, like the ubiquitous Times New Roman, utilize to give an air of formality and flourish.”
Founded in the 1980s, as part of the personal computing revolution, Arial Font has weathered some criticism and storms through out its illustrious career. “The first few years were tough,” Schenk recalls. “People would call us a Helvetica rip off. That we were simply trying to take Helvetica off the map by replacing it with a cheaper version. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. In all honesty, we were really trying to find a sleek, nice font for personal computing that recalled simpler times. In fact, if you delve deeply into our history, you’ll find that the inspiration came from several bottles of very cheap wine and the cover of ‘Pet Sounds’, which as we all know is Cooper Black.”
Regardless of its history, Arial is now liquidating its assets. “Though we may keep a comma or semicolon to put in a museum,” Schenk muses.
The once Internet industry standard font has suffered for the last several years. “It really all began when the terror alerts started,” Schenk recalls. “People felt that Arial was not a serious font. That it was akin to wearing a t-shirt to church. People wanted something more serious. Times, Verdana. They even started using Helvetica again.”
But they still cornered the market as the default email font. “That was nice for a few years,” says Schenk. “But as more people started to figure out the finer nuances of email, we saw a rise in Comic Sans, Tahoma, Georgia and even Trebuchet MS. Worse, sometimes a few crazy kids would use Bauhaus 93, stating it was ‘all futuristic and stuff.’ It was a nightmare. And, of course, we could never quite gain market share in the ‘system font’ arena. Courier seems to have that pretty well locked up.”
The nightmare was only beginning. Soon the DIY Font craze of 2002 hit. Adults and kids alike, worldwide, began creating their own fonts. “A Scratched Remix” hit the market, and kids began using it to design covers for their mix CDs. “JAMI”, a handwriting font, soon followed and the font world was rocked by a new level of creativity and informality.
“That was about all we could handle,” Schenk responds. “Home brew fonts were the last nail in the coffin.”
Since filing for bankruptcy, Arial Font has begun selling its assets and contracts and big name websites have begun switching to Verdana for the time being. Though bootleg Arial Fonts may still exist, the Arial we’ve known since the hey day of the personal computer is gone.
“We’ve sold our capital A to Helvetica,” Schenk says sadly. “I knew it was all over when we got their offer sheet.” Other letters and characters are soon to follow.
A public auction of Arial assets and memorabilia will be held on Friday, January 9th. Among the items available for bids will be the remaining alphabet and punctuation marks, t-shirts promoting Arial and coffee cups emblazoned with Arial’s 80’s slogan, “Motions of Arial”.
This article was composed in Times New Roman, but has been published in the last full set of Arial available to the public.
Discuss
“As time has moved on,” Mark Schenk, VP of Public Relations for Arial, stated, “we’ve found it harder and harder to keep our foothold in the market place.” Once considered one of the “Mother Fonts” of the Internet, Arial’s reach used to span far and wide. From personal websites to news organizations to pr0n sites, Arial was the font of choice for so many web designers, writers and self-publishing authors.
“It was clean,” remarked Schenk. “Arial was easy to read, looked good in 10 point through 16 point type and even translated well to the printed page. It’s a strong font without serifs or any other accoutrement that various other fonts, like the ubiquitous Times New Roman, utilize to give an air of formality and flourish.”
Founded in the 1980s, as part of the personal computing revolution, Arial Font has weathered some criticism and storms through out its illustrious career. “The first few years were tough,” Schenk recalls. “People would call us a Helvetica rip off. That we were simply trying to take Helvetica off the map by replacing it with a cheaper version. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. In all honesty, we were really trying to find a sleek, nice font for personal computing that recalled simpler times. In fact, if you delve deeply into our history, you’ll find that the inspiration came from several bottles of very cheap wine and the cover of ‘Pet Sounds’, which as we all know is Cooper Black.”
Regardless of its history, Arial is now liquidating its assets. “Though we may keep a comma or semicolon to put in a museum,” Schenk muses.
The once Internet industry standard font has suffered for the last several years. “It really all began when the terror alerts started,” Schenk recalls. “People felt that Arial was not a serious font. That it was akin to wearing a t-shirt to church. People wanted something more serious. Times, Verdana. They even started using Helvetica again.”
But they still cornered the market as the default email font. “That was nice for a few years,” says Schenk. “But as more people started to figure out the finer nuances of email, we saw a rise in Comic Sans, Tahoma, Georgia and even Trebuchet MS. Worse, sometimes a few crazy kids would use Bauhaus 93, stating it was ‘all futuristic and stuff.’ It was a nightmare. And, of course, we could never quite gain market share in the ‘system font’ arena. Courier seems to have that pretty well locked up.”
The nightmare was only beginning. Soon the DIY Font craze of 2002 hit. Adults and kids alike, worldwide, began creating their own fonts. “A Scratched Remix” hit the market, and kids began using it to design covers for their mix CDs. “JAMI”, a handwriting font, soon followed and the font world was rocked by a new level of creativity and informality.
“That was about all we could handle,” Schenk responds. “Home brew fonts were the last nail in the coffin.”
Since filing for bankruptcy, Arial Font has begun selling its assets and contracts and big name websites have begun switching to Verdana for the time being. Though bootleg Arial Fonts may still exist, the Arial we’ve known since the hey day of the personal computer is gone.
“We’ve sold our capital A to Helvetica,” Schenk says sadly. “I knew it was all over when we got their offer sheet.” Other letters and characters are soon to follow.
A public auction of Arial assets and memorabilia will be held on Friday, January 9th. Among the items available for bids will be the remaining alphabet and punctuation marks, t-shirts promoting Arial and coffee cups emblazoned with Arial’s 80’s slogan, “Motions of Arial”.
This article was composed in Times New Roman, but has been published in the last full set of Arial available to the public.
Discuss
Monday, January 05, 2004
Welcome to the Monkeyhouse
Back when I was single and on the prowl, New Year’s Eve usually meant I would sit at home alone and watch TV until midnight. I didn’t drink then and all of my friends were usually paired off and going to do “romantic” things in which I had no interest.
Flash forward to New Years 1998. I had a fiancée. She had a kid. We sat at home and watched TV until midnight. A few years later and that kid is sitting up with us, playing Scrabble and getting sucked into the Twilight Zone marathon on Sci Fi. She’s a good kid.
Scrabble is a dangerous game in our house. The wife and I tend to get angry over words and there have been more than a few occasions where the game was banned for months at a time. True, she always wins. But that’s because she becomes verbally abusive over her contention that the word that I used is not part of common language. We should get an official Scrabble dictionary, but it wouldn’t help. Hell, the only thing that would make us happy is to use the OED and an Anglo-Saxon Dictionary.
New Year’s started early for us. To be precise it started at 12:01 on the 31st. Young Gertrude suddenly woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep. Mom brought her in bed with us and this kid was wired like a crack addict in Rush Limbaugh’s bathroom. She was peel-her-off-the-ceiling-wired. And babbling non-stop.
At 12:10 she started patting her mother on the cheek.
“Don’t cry mommy,” she’d say. “I love you.”
“I’m not crying,” Mom would say. “Go to sleep.”
By 12:20 she had made this comment 12,453 times.
By 12:25 I was getting a little irritated. So I rolled over to tell her to be quiet and go to sleep.
“Gertrude,” I said, putting my arm around her, “go to sle—“
“BLORK!” She puked all over my arm, all over the comforter and all over mom.
“I sorry,” she said. “I not be sick anymore.”
It was true. She was running a fever and it seemed like she had gagged on her own snot (lovely!).
So we nursed her well for the next few days. That is to say, we gave her medicine and she would rebound back into this strange delirium that we couldn’t describe. I suppose it was some sort of fever-induced weirdness. But she was a nut for the rest of the weekend.
For example, yesterday she came running into the kitchen and screamed, “I like socks!” We were all very happy for her love of foot coverings.
But her biggest regret this year was being banned from candy. Between Christmas morning and this weekend she had perfected a stealthy creep that would allow her to steal candy from the stockings. We suspected her creeping, but could never catch her doing it. Finally, mom took away the stockings.
“Aw, Mom” she cried, “that’s not fair!”
“No, Gert. You’ve had too much sugar.”
“I NEED my sugar,” she yelled.
It was to no avail. In order to make her happy, I gave her a soy shake that I drink. It’s chocolaty and yummy. She thought it was a treat, not knowing it was good for her.
“Whaddisit?”
“It’s a shake. It has isoflavones in it.”
“I like isoflavones.”
So, keep that in mind. To make my daughter happy all you need is a pair of socks and something loaded with isoflavones.
Discuss
Flash forward to New Years 1998. I had a fiancée. She had a kid. We sat at home and watched TV until midnight. A few years later and that kid is sitting up with us, playing Scrabble and getting sucked into the Twilight Zone marathon on Sci Fi. She’s a good kid.
Scrabble is a dangerous game in our house. The wife and I tend to get angry over words and there have been more than a few occasions where the game was banned for months at a time. True, she always wins. But that’s because she becomes verbally abusive over her contention that the word that I used is not part of common language. We should get an official Scrabble dictionary, but it wouldn’t help. Hell, the only thing that would make us happy is to use the OED and an Anglo-Saxon Dictionary.
New Year’s started early for us. To be precise it started at 12:01 on the 31st. Young Gertrude suddenly woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep. Mom brought her in bed with us and this kid was wired like a crack addict in Rush Limbaugh’s bathroom. She was peel-her-off-the-ceiling-wired. And babbling non-stop.
At 12:10 she started patting her mother on the cheek.
“Don’t cry mommy,” she’d say. “I love you.”
“I’m not crying,” Mom would say. “Go to sleep.”
By 12:20 she had made this comment 12,453 times.
By 12:25 I was getting a little irritated. So I rolled over to tell her to be quiet and go to sleep.
“Gertrude,” I said, putting my arm around her, “go to sle—“
“BLORK!” She puked all over my arm, all over the comforter and all over mom.
“I sorry,” she said. “I not be sick anymore.”
It was true. She was running a fever and it seemed like she had gagged on her own snot (lovely!).
So we nursed her well for the next few days. That is to say, we gave her medicine and she would rebound back into this strange delirium that we couldn’t describe. I suppose it was some sort of fever-induced weirdness. But she was a nut for the rest of the weekend.
For example, yesterday she came running into the kitchen and screamed, “I like socks!” We were all very happy for her love of foot coverings.
But her biggest regret this year was being banned from candy. Between Christmas morning and this weekend she had perfected a stealthy creep that would allow her to steal candy from the stockings. We suspected her creeping, but could never catch her doing it. Finally, mom took away the stockings.
“Aw, Mom” she cried, “that’s not fair!”
“No, Gert. You’ve had too much sugar.”
“I NEED my sugar,” she yelled.
It was to no avail. In order to make her happy, I gave her a soy shake that I drink. It’s chocolaty and yummy. She thought it was a treat, not knowing it was good for her.
“Whaddisit?”
“It’s a shake. It has isoflavones in it.”
“I like isoflavones.”
So, keep that in mind. To make my daughter happy all you need is a pair of socks and something loaded with isoflavones.
Discuss
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