Einstein the Magician

Does anyone else think Einstein would have actually made a pretty cool magician?

Cold Fusion

Does anyone wonder what happened to Cold Fusion? I do. A lot. It had the hype. The cool movie. The high-yield potential. Then... nothing. Fizzle, not fusion. Heck, even Elisabeth Shue's made a comeback.

Doing a search on Google, it's the third item on the search with nothing in the sidebar advertisements urging you to "Buy Cold Fusion at Amazon" or "Cheap Cold Fusion" or "Hot Deals on Cold Fusion". And what the search does reveal is the wikipedia entry.

It's sad, really. A once burgeoning field relegated to the pathological sciences. To the X-Files subdivision of the Department of Energy. It was all the rage and now, bringing it up, seems to enrage scientists.

Where did it go wrong? Is it still possible? From what I've read, the only reason it's not possible is because no one has been able to do it. Since when did science abandon the mentality likened to that parent who pushes and pushes their talented, but not great kid through sports and traveling all-star teams?

When did science get cold feet?

On Books

Great Op-Ed in the NY Times on the future of books. To wit:

"As a technology, the book is like a hammer. That is to say, it is perfect: a tool ideally suited to its task. Hammers can be tweaked and varied but will never go obsolete. Even when builders pound nails by the thousand with pneumatic nail guns, every household needs a hammer. Likewise, the bicycle is alive and well. It was invented in a world without automobiles, and for speed and range it was quickly surpassed by motorcycles and all kinds of powered scooters. But there is nothing quaint about bicycles. They outsell cars."

There's nothing quaint about books. Yeah. I agree.

French Class Moments

Ever have one of those occurrences where you finally get something. Maybe it was something originally required of you to get. Maybe it wasn't. But I recently had one. It involved the comic strip Non-Sequitur. The one that replaced The Far Side in my local newspaper growing up. I just "got it" the other day.

*Not this particular entry, but the name of the comic as it were. I get this entry; it's mildly funny. I just pulled it from some random place on the Internets. Non-Sequitur never quite replaced The Far Side, but was an adequate comic.

Still, nothing compares to Calvin and Hobbes. Nothing replaced it. Here's the final, saddening and maddeningly glorious final entry:

Imaginations Of The Playground, Pt. 3

Isaac is a giant fan of the Playground. Ours, two blocks from the house, offset behind a school, features a long, vastly unkempt field one must traverse to get to the Playground. Isaac, excited and expectant, tries to get across the field. He never can. The ocean of grass is too large, too difficult. So he is inevitably carried to the destination. His energy conserved, he will begin to play on the smaller of the two playgrounds. Systematically conquering its slide by swinging dangerously back and forth then shooting himself down the slide. Only once has he overshot the slide. And did so with a great smile.

From this point, Isaac conquers the larger playground's slide. He climbs the half-parabolic wooden steps to the platform, leaps up to the next platform, then across the metal grating and onto the top of the slide. From the tippity top he yells "Hello" to all who will hear. He is on his mountain and looking down on us all from the apex of his incredible journey. Then, circuitously, he unleashes a glee-filled yell rife with static electricity as he plummets towards the slide's mouth. At this point, I either catch him or he semi-lands on his feet in the scattered and damp wood chips. Then, repeat.

Maybe we throw in a stomach-first ride on the swings. Perhaps a daring crossing of the metal, chain-linked ladder that lies parallel to the ground. And sometimes we just stand and watch and look around. And we always say "Goodbye" when we leave.

I am left to ponder this imagination. One that dares to see jungle gyms and slides and monkey bars and swings as jungle gyms and slides and monkey bars and swings. Not that seeing things as they are presented, as tokens and elements of immense joys, is naive perception -- it is, I realize, a great opposite.

Imaginations Of The Playground, Pt. 2

He has glasses. Those clear-framed ones with the semi-thick lenses. This little boy, no more than 10, wears un-boy like khaki shorts and a khaki button-down top. He also has a dark brown cowboy-like hat and a plastic, play-whip. And the playground, empty, except for his sister and Isaac and me, is his own installment of Indiana Jones.

There is the giant, looming snake pit that requires strength to swing across via the precipitous monkey bars. Evil-doers and monsters plague him, afflicting him with uncounted blows as he ascends and circuitously descends the red slide. Luckily he has this whip, store-bought, long coveted and undeniably needed, especially as they surround him at the slide's delta. He manages to escape and runs, swinging and whipping his arms about, across the cement desert to the more secluded and bastioned younger-kids playground. But his enemies follow. They chase and he fends them off, deftly managing to secure the prized artifact meticulously hidden by his now tether-ball playing sister. And back he runs.

He has his own sound FX. His own soundtrack that mixes plangently with the Star Wars theme. And I am left to ponder this modal imagination. Where the jungle gyms and slides and monkey bars and swings are grand artifices and obstacles and enemies that threaten to destroy humanity. Not that I think fending off imaginary bad guys is an un-heroic task -- in fact, I imagine, a great opposite.

Imaginations Of The Playground

Four kids played loudly out at the neighborhood playground. The one that sits in the cement lot behind the school, dedicated to a 10-year-old boy who must have tragically passed in 1990. These kids played their version of "House". The game that glamorizes adult-hood to pre-teen eyes. Each part of the playground was an aspect of the house. The mom requisitioned the slide set-up as her "room" of the house. The eldest girl, who decided, after much consideration, that her name was Trinity, had partitioned off the exoskeleton, shell-shaped jungle gym as her room.

The scene they re-enacted set-up like typical picket-fenced, suburbia magic. The mom and other daughter tended to the mundane tidying of the AM in their room, while, for her birthday, the dad (and only male in the troupe lest you impart a reverse Victorian scenario) had gotten Trinity a bike. He brought her over to it, stashed in the "living room" that typically was the picnic-tabled habitat of the warm afternoon school lunches of spring, fall and summer. He covered her eyes and she acted surprised while the mom and daughter shouted accolades and then other suggestions for better playing out the scene. Eventually, it all sadly broke down when Trinity folded back to her real-life persona, took her actual bike and sped off over a disagreement with the "mother".

I am left to wonder and ponder, standing in the dull brown wood chips, this modal imagination. Where the jungle gyms and slides and monkey bars and swings are merely appendices to a house where kids can enact the boring events of adult-hood. Not that giving your child a bike is a banal gesture -- in fact, I imagine, a great opposite.

Christmas Music, Bad Metaphors, Bad Headlines

A local Christian music station has given itself over to playing Christmas music already. It posits the reasoning rather brilliantly, in the little used metaphor. The music faithful listeners will hear, for the Christmas season, will be sung by artists that the station does not typically give airtime to. Their hope is that this will attract new listeners, which has worked in the past. To wit, they say: "Think of it as cleaning your house before guests come over." No. That's just wrong. It's more like renting a furnished apartment down the block and then cleaning it and then having guests come over. Maybe I'm just sensitive every time my surname is invoked.

Why do we have to play Christmas music? Why? At this point, hearing it, already, is like being invited to someone's house and it's not been cleaned.

The country is up in arms over this. So. They flew private jets. Would you rather have had them drive their Beamers and BMW's and Hyundai's?

This story was frontpage on CNN.com yesterday. Awesome. Inspiring. Only the headline was questionable because it read "Woman receives new lung from stem cells". Which, while not incorrect, reeks of agenda because, asking most people in the country about stem cells and they think the only type of stem cells are the controversial embryonic stem cells. When, in truth, there are more viable and potent stem cells in our own bodies. Yet, the average "logger-on" sees this and thinks, "See, if Bush wasn't an idiot, this would be SOP in America. America Rules! Bush is an idiot! We love America! Change is coming!" However, the stem cells were her own. You'll find that in the 11th graf.Why push forward with funding embryonic stem cell research, which, regardless of religious belief, is scientifically ethically dubious, when there's this method, that is more viable?

Finally, I just saw this when looking for one more thing to go off about. Obama's already ripped Nike's failed "I Can" sobriquet. I say go after VW with something like "American's Wanted." Or, there's the 2004 Red Sox motto, "Idiots" that I'd be okay with pirating. Maybe some take on the Mac-PC campaign and we can have, infused in the music bed, a catchy pop tune that will then become a sensation. Or, maybe, "Nothing Runs like a Deere in the Forest or in ANWR or Utah because there's no way we're drilling for oil on our own soil." There's the politically charged and insensitive, "We bring good things to life."

I need to go listen to some Christmas music; and clean my house.

America, Be Proud!

America rejoices today. Justice has been served.

Elliot's Hot Dogs

Describing the nuances of a what makes a hot dog good is like applying Shakespeare to Dumb and Dumber (I could; let's try. Hmm. It's a movie of Infinite Jest. There. I did it. Shakespeare to Dumb and Dumber. Yup. Well. Big Gulps). 

Maybe it was the compressed, fried and manually flattened rolls, the thin, flimsy, dripping wet sponge hot dogs they recklessly pulled from the metal vat, the relish sacked in the soggy space between the two, or the tangy, tart and lick-your-lips goodness of Ipswich Ale Mustard (available online!) that leaked over the waxen paper.  Eating an Elliot's Hot Dog was a noble cause. One of those food indulgences you suffered the slings and arrows for later on. 

I always got three Hot Dogs with the Works. "Three dogs with the works," I'd say. Whether it was at the end of a senior-year day of high school, a snack before an evening church service, breaks in-between Driver's Ed class, or at the end of a long, long out-of-the-way stop from West Virginia, I always got three dogs with the Works (Ketchup doesn't belong on a hot dog. See, someone wrote a book about it. I'm not wrong. You just don't put ketchup on a hot dog).

Best Hot Dog I've ever had. Alas, I knew them well.

Oh, and Dad, I know you didn't like Elliot's Hot Dogs. Not a bit. But if you say "Methinks I smell a rat," well, that just wouldn't be nice because I'm feeling a little lost right now because they closed my favorite place in the whole freaking universe to eat, a place where I spent a lot of my childhood eating at and now that place is gone and I'll never eat there again and so it feels like a huge part of my childhood is gone and just cast aside like it means nothing especially when it's been like two years since I last had those three dogs with the Works and it was like 10pm when I had them in a hotel room and so I don't even think I enjoyed them that much and I didn't get them from the real hole-in-the-wall by the church where I really like to get the hot dogs from the place, where, you could probably quote Hamlet at any other time and I laugh and I'd be like "Yeah, that place! Wow it was a dump!" but I'm just not gonna be like that this time because they closed Elliot's and didn't even tell anyone they were gonna close it so a lot of other people didn't get to enjoy their last Elliot's Hot Dog cause they just didn't know and I think if they knew they would've enjoyed that last hot dog and they wouldn't feel lost and really vulnerable right now. Like me. So, Dad, don't say that.  

On The Death Of My Dog

I was a teenager when we got him, soft and so very small when Mom and my sisters brought him home from the pound. That night, my brother and I had the sole duty of watching him. For more than an hour, the Nebraska springer-spitz chased a bottle around the living room, his hindquarters nearly flipping him over he was so bad at running.

Roni wasn't a dog who did tricks. He wasn't a dog that played fetch. He wasn't a dog that scared people away. Roni was a good soul. He was playful when he wanted to be, loved to be petted and didn't mind spending a whole day sleeping in his own, private area. But get him mad, as my dad could tell you, and he would poop in your "area of the house" when you weren't around -- always funny. With the exception of one occasion involving my nephew, Roni suffered from his bark being infinitely worse than his bite. He was loyal and loving to all of us, fiercely loyal above all else to Mom. He was a great dog.  

And I am saddened greatly today. 

As my dad said, his death has been "a terrible thing to think about". 

Fantasy Football vs. Presidential Elections

Let me say this, Fantasy Football and Presidential Election years are mostly similar. You have a draft, you're excited about your team/candidate. Then, the real season starts. Players get injured/candidates do stupid things. By the end of it you're yelling at every inconsequential 3rd and 12 where they don't hand it off to the running back who you need to get rushing yards. FFL turns you into a wreck of a human being. Everything starts sounding good and you go against your better judgement: Hey, I need Cutler and Selvin Young to have a big week against the Patriots so I can pull off a 35 point comeback and win my game knowing very well that those odds mean the Patriots must lose. Still, you're oddly compelled. And your scouring the waiver wire for match-ups. It's the FFL-syndrome.

Presidential elections are just like this. You get fired up over little things. You start yelling at stupid things candidates do, stories the media does and doesn't cover, wardrobe costs, erudite put-downs, negative campaigning complaints (what is this T-Ball?), talking points you've heard and heard and heard. You turn into a wreck of a human being. What you originally drafted your vote around has been twisted, injured and is on the practice squad. And the third party candidates are the waiver wire.

I face a dilemma next week. See, there's this thing called the Redskin's Rule in Presidential Election years. And I have Washington's Defense starting in my Fantasy Football League. I need to have a good week from my defense er go I can't have them giving up a lot of points. Essentially, Washington needs to win for me to have a good week in Fantasy Football.

Am I petty and burnt out enough by both seasons to root whole-heartedly for Washington's DEF even if it means four years of McCain, but a FFL win? Well, I know Washington fans who would take a win and live with the next four years. I lived near Pittsburgh; I know Steeler fans who want a win even if it means Obama-Biden for four years (Hilary 2012!).

Maybe Cutler will have a good week...

Another Morning Worth It

Yesterday was another one of those mornings when Isaac is up with the dawn -- in the hour before morning. And it was an amalgam of the pinching, biting, scratching, crying and hitting that convinced me to get up with him, to not try and convince him to go back to sleep.

By 6am I was in the shower, he was watching the Wiggles, sitting alert in the recliner, rocking it gently, tugging on his blanket and plugging away on his pacifier. Soon, above the din of the falling water I heard a scuffle and soft thud -- a light, fleeting drop. I listened for further noise and I didn't hear anything more. When I got out I walked into the living room. The chair was empty. I turned the corner into the kitchen. Sitting on the rug below the sink was Isaac. He had opened the Lazy Susan, removed a box of Shredded Frosted Mini-Wheats and placed it on his lap. His blanket covered his feet and his pacifier had been tossed aside. His hand was elbow deep into the box, his mouth chewing on a piece of wheat and frost.

He looked up at me, and with his eyes innocent, tired and fierce, seemed to say, "What? I'm hungry. Don't you judge me."

No Comment

No Comment.

Debating The Debates

I have grown weary of these debates. People can't sit through a three-hour baseball game that ends dramatically and magically with a play at the plate but they can listen to a debate for 1.5 hours? And you can't speed up it how long it takes to watch it by using the DVR. I understand the historical place of these debates. In my cursory approach to this opinion, I think the purpose of these things was to allow people to hear the candidates answer questions together in an official setting where many Americans could view them for the first time. I've seen John McCain more times this morning than the Mrs. in the past week.

I have several suggestions to liven up the "debate":

1. Have a Minority Report/CNN type of plasma board where the candidates can shuffle in and out evidence to back up their points and refute their opponents. Make it a full blown media presentation. You can't tell me watching McCain and Obama going Tom Cruise on a piece of technology wouldn't be exciting. Bottom line: It's the 21st Century. People just talking boringly doesn't work.

2. Allow for interruptions. Perhaps the most applicable and easily integrated of my "ideas". If McCain is going on about something Obama doesn't like, let Obama interrupt him. Step on his toes. Raise his hand like a kid in class. Enough with the "gentlemanly" approach. It needs to be a little more cutthroat during these things.

3. Lifelines. I know it's the running joke for the brilliance that is Tina Fey, but why not allow them to "Call the VP". How about Polling the audience: What do you think I should do? And make them give three possible answers and let the audience vote. It's immediate; it changes the flow of the stream of boredom these things have rapidly become. Even ask for a different question.

4. Allow the moderator to moderate. Let them call fouls on the debate if he/she is just wrong or doesn't answer the question. Maybe give them a whistle.

5. Ask a stupid question. Just to see how they respond. And don't make it the same on to both otherwise the other has a chance to gauge and think about the opinion. For instance: "Why did God make the platypus?" or "How many licks does it take you to get to the center of a tootsie pop?" or "What is your favorite book?" or "What's the capital of Montana?" or "Given the economic downturn, can we make stock market be more like the stock market in the game of Life?"

6. Get a comedian to moderate. Seriously. These things are comedy gold. Gold, Jerry. Gold.

The thing of it is I know debates are immensely important. That the job of president is immensely important. That I should watch these things. But the truth is debates are no longer what they were because the winners are determined by "amount of eye contact" and not arbitrary barometers like "substance", "coherence", "affluence". These debates are pomped up, dumbed down, recycled mumbo-jumbo we hear everyday on CNN, FOX News, The View.

So I read the transcript. It's the old, anti-deluvian DVR.

A Morning Worth It

It was a rough morning. Isaac was awake at 4am. He wanted to sleep in our bed. At 4 in the morning, I'm inclined to let him. Of course, then he starts hitting my face because he doesn't want to sleep, he wants to play and talk. He crawls all over me staring at the LCD of the alarm clock. "Wow!","Ooooh!", "Dada!", "Uh-oh!" he says for two hours mixed with sleep, crying and talking. Finally, at 6:30, having almost lost it, I get him to be quiet and fall asleep. At 7am I get up and get ready.

Come 7:30 I'm in the kitchen making his lunch and mine and his breakfasts. I turn the corner into the hallway to get his bag. There's Isaac. I didn't hear him get up. I didn't hear him make a sound. But he's crawled out of our bed. He's turned on the radio on the alarm clock and there's music playing lightly. There's Isaac, in the dark hallway with his green blanket in one hand and pacifier in the other. He's wearing his green and white striped pajama bottoms with his Red Sox T-Shirt (!). And he's dancing.

Bark vs. Bite

I'm more inclined to think the economy is in the tanks when stuff like this doesn't happen. When it does, then, I think, "Hey, it's not so bad, movies about little talking dogs are still funny!" The world is OK. Economic foundations will crumble, people will buy that $300,000 home on $27,000 a year, the minimum payment on credit card bills will be all you ever really need to pay. Where was the government intervention on this one? Sure, bail out Wall Street in policies that effectually force socialism on us, but allow America to see this movie that has has anorexisized Benji without so much as calling in the National Guard? $29 Million? Seriously? For a movie about talking dogs? Really? This movie is to Lumiere what the Atomic Bomb was to Oppenheimer.

Hopefully you paid for the popcorn, soda and candy with your credit card.

The Misadventures Of Isaac, Pt. 2

Yesterday I spent a fun-filled day with Isaac. A day off from work. A day off from daycare. A day in the emergency room. Isaac had a run in with a table at daycare -- not, as is the rumor circulating, that he was defending particular comments made about a certain Yellow Wiggle who drives the Big Red Car. And there it was, red, bloody, oozing a little blood by the time I arrived. He was pacified, calm -- coloring at the table. I took him. After a quick diagnosis from Dr. Mom who met us at home, it was off to the hospital.

He was the star of the ER. Waving at everybody, summoning nurses and doctors to glance his way with his soft, cackling, "Hi!". Isaac sat still while the nurse checked his heart with the stethoscope. He looked at me and smiled, amused. Mom did the same thing at home. When they took his blood pressure and the Velcro patch squeezed at his arm, he looked at me, the patch, the nurse and me and smiled. It was cool to him. It was fun. It was an adventure.

When they took as back to the room, he waved at everyone as I carried him. He said "Hi!" to everyone. Waved at them by twirling his wrist and curling his fingers inward. They commented on his eyes, on the scrap of oozing blood above his left eyebrow that he himself didn't notice. When they put the numbing medicine on it, he screamed and peeled the bandage off several times. I restrained him, quieted him, his eyes fiery and furious and fuming, tears and frustration bellowing out of them. This was an adventure and I was holding him back where no cut could. He wanted earnestly to run into the hallway, to run down the halls to look in the rooms and talked to whomever he could.

When he calmed and numbed we held him down flat against the linen of the raised bed. The surgical tech assured him that he'd be fine, that it wouldn't hurt. I still expected him to rise out of his skin when the first poke went in. But he sat there, through four stitches, knots, pokes, restrained by foreign hands around his head, my body weighing down against his keeping him still. His arms and legs and stomach all relaxed and at ease.

I've told you about his sad, brave eyes when I've left him at daycare. Yesterday I just saw bravery. He didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't cry out, didn't make a sound the entire time. His eyes were encouraged, curious, fascinated by the procedure. They welcomed it, accepted it, allowed it. If he blinked, I missed it. Four stitches and not a sound. When they finished, he sat up and waved at them, with his soft, cackling voice said "Bye!", curling his fingers, twirling his wrist.

I can say I was proud of him, but it was more of amazement than pride. Not that I doubt his toughness -- he is extremely tough, though this morning he cried and latched on to me because his foot fell asleep -- but I think I doubt his courage, his sense of the adventure. Stitches, the adventure of having a little boy.

Isaac is fine this morning. Happy, bouncing around, none the worse for wear. Ready to defend more Wiggles, Play-Doh, toy trucks and bugs. Ready to take on more tumbles, more blood, more dirt, more bangs and bruises. And with those sad, brave eyes below the four stitches, I left him at daycare this morning. I do not have his courage.

...For The Belief Of Alchemists

The following is a topic addressing "Why I Write". I submitted this, along with five others, for one of my classes. I chose to frame each idea around a story, or stories. This one concerns my 2000 trip to South Africa.

I got off the plane, in the uniform of the Salvation Army and proceed to lie to the alchemists at customs who, either ignorant or full of hope for us, granted us entry. Our lie, or story or narrative was that we were tourists only – dressed in black polyester with white shirts, shoes, back packs and jet lag under our eyes. The Bibles were packed away. The cameras were out. The first story or warning I heard was on the trip to the house we would dine at that night: “Don’t stop if you see anyone on the side of the road, especially when it looks like a dead or wounded person. You’ll be killed if you do.” So much for being able to look at this trip with that sense of ignorant bliss and sheltered existence I had secretly prayed for. My life may be at risk if I do something stupid. I did plenty of stupid things, only one that put my life at risk. We were told never to walk out of the church compound in Charlize Theron’s hometown after dark. We did one night. Myself, a ten-year-old girl and a fellow, black, “tourist” who I had come to know marvelously well over the summer of “touring”. When the militia came crawling out of the abandoned gas station, sawed-off uzi’s at eye level, dressed in black jackets, pants and boots, we simply froze against the wall. It was less a “Halt, who goes there?” and more a “Get the f*** against the wall.” I complied aloud. My accent lowered the guns itself. But only a little. “We were walking the girl home from a church function at the Salvation Army down the street.” “She lives just around the corner.” “I have a copy of my passport on me.” They needed to see it. I did all the talking. They were uniformed and armed, even when the guns lowered. They let us pass. I never once was worried, concerned, nervous or scared. I almost laughed out of sheer paradoxical peace. Like the alchemists at the airport, I knew what was going on, there was no hiding it. The alchemists relinquishes control at some point because the reality is something greater is at work, greater than magic but much like it. Either at airport terminals or at gun point, I share in that belief.

My Little Gremlin

Cries in the night are never welcomed. Especially on the second night. Especially when they are not easily pacified by back rubs, naps in our bed, soothing words. No. Isaac wants to sit in the blackness of the living room, illuminated unnaturally by the LCD lights of the wireless router, the rise and fall white, glowing hum of the iBook charging and the moon, in its tireless shining through the blinds. He wants to remain quiet, possessed by the night, awake and alive in its aura. He never sits on the couch; he does at night. We sat there for awhile last night. He couldn't and wouldn't sleep, neither could I with him awake and alive with unrest and the evening coffee still in my blood and breath. So we sat there on the folds of the couch, quiet, silent, encouraging each other in our nocturnicity.

I blinked first, I had to get him to sleep. I offered him juice to no avail. I changed his diaper to the chagrin and mocking of the darkness. I tired more quickly, I was more languid, I was the one who needed a warm blanket to shield myself from the open window blowing cool air. Isaac stared at the natural and unnatural lights. We looked through the windows on the door, at the A.M. night of our street: the star lights on the fence and in the sky, the trash cans like black monsters coated with the effervescence of the moon, the stillness of it. He was curious, bending his head between the window slats, between the recesses of glass that opened the night to his eyes. He would not go easily into this good night.

Finally I offered him food, unfinished yogurt from breakfast. I would not yield and fill the room with lamplight, the LCD display, blinking, was enough. I returned from the kitchen in the black hallway, hearing a movement, not seeing a thing. I almost ran into him, his stealth and invisibility his greatest strength; he was able to escape. I saw him scatter away, scuttle across the carpet, short and quick, awake and fast in his steps. He ran past the light spilling in from the door, past the pulsating hum of the computer I saw him again, I heard his matching footfalls, bursts of speed falling like rain drops. He cut the light from the router and I saw his full form, scurrying full tilt to the couch and in one step leaping upon it. Like a little Gremlin, hiding in the open, in the shadow of a darkness battling with the light he sat upright quickly.

I carry the rhythm of those footfalls today, those harbingers of insomnia, treading quickly across in the Bible-black night. My little Gremlin, my little creature of the night, illusive, almost illusory save for my unnatural lights. I caught the Gremlin, put him to bed, but I still see him there, scurrying quickly, seeing me before I see him. Alive in the night, eyes open, a creature of the quiet and cool, camping in my lap with blankets and lights and darkness all around us. It was the stillest Isaac has ever been, the most fragile, the most contingent and independent and daring and wondrous he has ever been. The night does not frighten him. The darkness does not frighten him.

My little Gremlin.

Mrs. Byers

Mrs. Byers had a full head of gray hair by the time I enrolled in her third grade class. It was frizzy too – almost transparent near the top it was so thin. She wore big green dresses that flared out and sloshed around wherever she walked. Her glasses were always chained to her neck, and I rarely saw her use them. Only, I think, whenever she checked the Bruins win-loss record on the board. It was in chalk and every day someone had the responsibility of erasing it and writing up the new record. You always knew when someone didn’t change the record because you could hear her moving to the blackboard, glasses jangling around her neck. You could see the new record through her hair, without fail.

My Cup

Why shouldn’t I love this cup? It’s some 27 ounces deep. That’s a lot of coffee and I like a lot of strong coffee. It’s green and yellow, not my first choice of color, but I can get past that. After all, it’s just a cup. My son, for Father’s Day, led by his mother, went to the ceramic store and put his hand prints and fingerprints all over it. All in a deep green with "I love you" running vertically near the handle. The prints are fading now– they say a kid’s fingerprints fade over time. And I drink a lot of coffee so I have to wash it and I guess that doesn’t help. But I’m not about to stop drinking coffee. Besides, your son giving you a coffee cup with his prints on it is a memory and a love that just gets stronger.

It's My Fault

Last Tuesday morning I awoke with a start, in a panic, stressed out. I got up and walked around the house. I told myself it was all a dream:

Tom Brady was injured. It was either the Super Bowl game against the Giants or the first game of the season against the Giants -- there was some confusion in the dream itself due mainly to the blinding catastrophic nature of the event. It was revealed his left knee and ankle had been severely injured and he would miss the entire season.

I awoke, convinced myself it was only a dream, that it hadn't happend, that all was not lost and all was still right.

Then there is the fact that for the first time ever I fantasy drafted a Patriot; I drafted two: Tom Brady and Maroney. Oh, and my team name is TomBradyManCrush. Well it was, now its TomBradysKneeCrushed; I am a masochist.

Blame it all on me. My actions in the fantasy/dream realm have caused this horrible catastrophe. I gave up watching football and fantasy yesterday as soon as I watched the play. I will now stop dreaming as well. I will look forward to Sundays for Meet The Press and it being the day before the work week starts. All is lost.

The thing of it is: Is this what Magical Realism is? Dark, Black, Bad Magic.

Network: TV

So I was flipping through the channels last night and discovered that 90210 was in the middle of it's first airing. They say time is cyclical; history too. All things eventually repeat themselves. It's is no shock that T.V. repeats itself, we've been aware of this for awhile. But have we really come full circle now? Can we say we're back at the beginning. For my generation that time is now.

Sure, Password, Pyramid, and every other gameshow (except Press Your Luck? Why? Whammy. That's why) have been remade and recycled to the masses in recent years. But that was infant T.V. Starsky and Hutch has become a movie, along with every other mildly successful T.V. show from the 70s. Again, pre-me. Enter 90210. A continuation remake of the hit O.C. of my life. I watched it at times, missed it more often than not. I remember very, very little about it. But it's back on T.V. now.

I have long given up caring about T.V. Ever since reality T.V. made inroads into the culture. I still do not care. I do not watch dramas; I prefer comedies. My shows are: 30 Rock, The Office, How I Met Your Mother, The New Adventures of Old Christine and Pushing Daises. And Scrubs -- whatever channel that's on (DVR!).

I express this in the interest of full disclosure. I'm not on the outside looking in. I'm also aware of the large plank in my own eye. Recently I watched Definitely, Maybe. Somewhere I'm sure it was billed as a Romantic Comedy. How romantic comedies have changed. How they less and less represent the ideals of love and more and more represent the accepted reality that love is malleable. I'd say it's sad because it is.

As for television and movies then I am fascinated by the prescient and absolutely brilliant Network, a mid-70s Oscar winner:

Max Schumacher: It's too late, Diana. There's nothing left in you that I can live with. You're one of Howard's humanoids. If I stay with you, I'll be destroyed. Like Howard Beale was destroyed. Like Laureen Hobbs was destroyed. Like everything you and the institution of television touch is destroyed. You're television incarnate, Diana: Indifferent to suffering; insensitive to joy. All of life is reduced to the common rubble of banality. War, murder, death are all the same to you as bottles of beer. And the daily business of life is a corrupt comedy. You even shatter the sensations of time and space into split seconds and instant replays. You're madness, Diana. Virulent madness. And everything you touch dies with you. But not me. Not as long as I can feel pleasure, and pain... and love.

Now, with the recycled 90210 television has touched my time and is well on it's way to destroying that. Unless, of course, they bring back MacGyver. That would be awesome.

Sad Brave Eyes

Recently we've had to move Isaac to a new daycare/school (his sitter had a baby recently and is unable to watch him). It's more like a school than it is a daycare: Rules, curriculum, field trips. It's the end of whimsy, regardless of what it's called.

Anyway, dropping him off in the morning has become difficult. Not only for him, but for us as well. It's not the same. It lacks the emotional welcome we were used to -- he was used to. There are kids moving about, dragging bean bags, crying, eating snacks, parents moving in and out and teachers miraculously happy. Each day I drop him off I feel like this as he begins to cry the moment we enter the building. And the moment he sees me at the end of the day, it's more tears and not relieved, happy tears either.

Today, perhaps the saddest of all the days. He stopped crying as the teacher picked him up while I set out his essentials for the day. They looked out the window together near the door. As I left I turned to look at him. No crying, just quiet tears streaming down his cheeks and eyes that looked brave and sad.

I know it will take time to adjust, for all of us.

I don't know what that means.

Fast Words From The IOC

The IOC is the biggest joke. Let's condemn Bolt for his "antics"; how they are not a measure of respect for his competitors. It typical behavior from people who don't understand the true nature of competition. Yes, it's my whole Larry Bird school of sports, even on the largest stage. But I tire of the "why didn't he shake hands?" or "why did he parade around the track screaming he was number 1?" criticism when it's a simple answer. It was his moment. He worked to achieve it. He worked and ran to stand alone. Let him. (And by the way, that 200M run was amazing. Into a headwind?)

Is he a better person if he shakes hands and goes on about with his antics? Maybe. Is he a worse person because he did not? No. He just shattered an virtually unbreakable world record. Give him his moment.

No. The IOC must condemn. Olympics! Higher, Faster, Stronger! Shake Hands! Do Not Focus On Enjoying Winning! Hug! Move On! London 2012! Get Rid Of Softball! Badminton Doubles But No Olympic Golf! The Chinese Are Democratic Afterall! No Human Rights Injustice! Fake Fireworks Are Cool! Lipsynching Is The New Steroid! Sports Are Not Really Sports Unless We Have Judges Who Have Never Competed In The Sports Judging The Sports!

Oh, and all this is coming out of one side of the IOC's mouth. Here's what they're not addressing.

On Phelps

So the Mrs. was working Saturday night in the ER. A little boy, about 8 comes in. They put him in a room. He complains loudly. Not because of the ailment, but because there was no T.V. in that particular room. He was scared he couldn't watch Phelps win gold. Then the Mrs. started talking to him about the races. This kid, 8 years old, then came back with the awesomeness that was that 100M Butterfly finish. About how he took that last half-stroke. About how he touched the wall an infinite minuteness before the other guy. The Mrs. said his facing was beaming.

That's why I love the Olympics. I worked at them in '02; been there, done that. I didn't enjoy the Olympics that year. Though I saw every event and heard the finishes and stood directly next to the take-off point for the Gold Medal ski-jump (a hill I later slid down) -- I even rode the lift back up the mountain with the jumpers (I had all access passes for the ski jump and luge). I even saw a moose. But it wasn't the same. And until Phelps' run, my Olympic awe had been spoiled by everything wrong the the Games. Then the Mrs. told me the story and I remembered my own story and I remembered why I love the Games:

In '02 Jimmy Shea made an improbable run at Gold in the Men's Skeleton I was working down the hill from the track in the Media Compound (I could see the finish area from where we were located). The place was brimming with buzz. Everyone was walking up to see the final run. But the peon that I was, I had to stay put in the trailer in case something was needed. So me and a few other peons were forced to watch it on a small T.V. We couldn't even walk across the compound to the Japanese Trailer that had HD. But as he was coming down we began to hear the roar. Instead of watching it, I walked outside and listened to it. Coming down the mountain. A load, ominous, snow-echoing roar. I started screaming in my solitude for Shea. Screaming for him to win. I knew the second he did. I could hear it. I still can.

I heard the roars when Phelps won every medal. That something great and grand was going on. I felt connected, hearing the story hours later, with that little boy in the hospital sick at not being able to watch it. We don't know if did get to see the final race. Though I'm sure, I'm positive, he heard it.

The Problem Of The Dark Knight

Much has been said about this movie. It's darkness, it's performances, it's awesomeness. I loved the movie. Loved every second of every minute. It, at times, brought out the child in me. The fist-pumping, adrenaline-rushing, beat-the-bad-guys child in me. If you have not seen it, you should, just as an exercise in why movies can be cool.

Ledger's performance was good, perhaps even great. He did not supersede any previous interpretation of the Joker, he merely brought his own to the role. Embodied it in his own way. Whatever you read about the excellence he called upon, his Joker is worthy of the approbation. And if the Joker never appears on screen again, it may very well be because it never needs to. And while I liked Ledger, I still stand by Nicholson who was vastly different in his approach. While Ledger nailed every mannerism, every dark nuance of the character that could manifest itself physically did (especially the tongue flickering), the villain lacked swagger. Nicholson gave the Joker that villainous swagger, an arrogance, a propensity for narcissism and evil. Ledger's Joker was vastly dark but I perceived him as a lightweight. Just because he kills coldly and without pretense does not necessarily make him a worthy adversary -- though I concede he was to Batman. Ledger's Joker lacked some weight, some material, physical swagger that precedes him in the moments before he appears on screen. With Nicholson, you felt the Joker coming before he appeared. I didn't get that with Ledger. Still good though, perhaps Oscar worthy too.

If you've seen it, you've seen the darkness of the film. It's strength. It's brilliance of it's characters. It's non-plot plot. The problem of evil. It was at the forefront of the movie and it cannot be ignored. It's also at the forefront of life around us. The movie did well to incorporate the goodness of mankind, even in small amounts as a necessary adversary, as the true rival of the evil. I compare the problem of evil in this movie to the problem of good in another movie I just watched: Lars and the Real Girl. For that entire film I wanted, expected, anticipated the proclivity man has for evil to show itself. But it never did. That movie was all about the problem of good. It believed in the goodness of people in large amounts. I highly recommend Lars and the Real Girl. It is utterly moving.

Now The Dark Knight believed in it too. And perhaps, in the small amounts we saw we came away with the notion that goodness, even as small of a grain of sand, can combat and overturn and right the largest amounts of evil.

One other thing, I tire of ketch phrases. Perhaps that's the staple of comic books, but the "he's more than a hero" sounds more like a Nickelback lyric than good writing.

A Quote In August

"The evocation of far is a peaceful corridor paved with unflagging and tranquil faith and peopled with kind and nameless faces and voices."

William Faulkner, Light in August

Magical Reality T.V.

In anticipation of my reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, I, in my research, have looked up the term magical realism, which plays a large role in this novel. I'm not sure I entirely grasp the concept-- though I liken it to the technique in Scrubs. Perhaps it's because such things, especially in literature, never seem to strike me as odd or difficult or anything apart from reality. So to categorize it muddies my understanding of its sequellas.

And I am serious: if I should run into a unicorn while on walk, I would not be the least bit surprised. If a lamppost should turn into an elephant, I would not be surprised. If both daylight and night grow longer but the day length remains the same, I would not be surprised.

Suppose for a second that a reality television producer, fresh of his latest success of putting 6 animals (lion, zebra, fly, monkey, dog, cat) and 3 Hot People in a house for 10 weeks and allowing America to vote each one off based on a serious of challenges that involves, but is not limited to, surviving, decides to further push the limits. He or she pitches the concept of magical realism in this fashion. Assembled would be Chewbacca, Frodo, a Gummi Bear, Captain Kirk, Hari Seldon, and three randomly selected Americans who are extremely good-looking and who also think they can dance. Let the mayhem ensue!

Magical Reality T.V. : One Ring, In a Galaxy Far, Far Away, Bouncing Here and There And Everywhere, Boldly Going Where No Man Has Gone Before, uh Who's Hari Seldon? And The Hottest Contests Ever To Be See Dancing On T.V.! This Thursday @ 9pm.

Garcia Marquez would be proud.

Twenty-One, Some 50 Years Later

In lieu of my dirge on How To Read A Book, I stumbled across a piece by one of its authors, Charles Van Doren. His personage, ever since I saw Redford's "Quiz Show", has fascinated me. I am persuaded that it wasn't the pursuit of fame or greed that brought on his fall. But it was something in him, and for that he sought to make it right. I am always glad I convinced my father to rent that movie years ago.

Anyway, he penned a piece for The New Yorker recently about the saga. Can't say life has changed much with the infusion of reality television. It's greatest loss, however, has been the person of character.

On Biting The Hand... And Legs... And Face

It's perhaps our first violent instinct. Our first weapon. Our first acts of a malevolent nature: biting.

That Isaac has started biting has fueled my curiosity (Literally, at times, the hand that is feeding him). Why is this the case?

In thinking about it I have not come to take lightly now the Biblical story of Adam and Eve taking a bite of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. There is present the immediate act of disobedience. The Fall of Man most certainly occurred the moment the fruit was pierced. It was the first physical, violent act of the rebellion.

I find the association between Isaac's recent behavior and the most primal of stories our mankind's rebellion all curious and interesting.

A Sandwich For U

Perhaps the best sandwich I've ever had. Up there with the Bacon Turkey Bravo (man I love that sandwich and yes I am still a man for eating at Panera). Also, Eric, my sandwich won't leave you hungry afterwards.

2 slices of Whole Wheat Bread

Dijon Mustard

1 slice Pepper Jack Cheese

2 slices of Deli Turkey

3 slices of Salami

2-3 pieces of Bacon (4 if you want a piece to nibble on)

1 Kosher dill pickle, thinly sliced.

Garlic powder

Olive Oil

Onion Powder

Now here's the important part. I'm a firm believer that sandwich ingredients must be placed in the correct order to maximize the flavor of each. So this is of the utmost for the supreme enjoyment of this sandwich.

Spread the Dijon over the slices of bread. On one slice of bread place the Pepper Jack cheese. On the other place the pickle, diagonally across the slice. Place a slice of turkey on both pieces of bread. On top of that, on one side, place 2 pieces of salami, on the other place the final piece of the salami. Break the bacon so that you can lay it horizontally across the bread. Combine both pieces of your sandwich.

Heat up a skillet and in it place a liberal amount of olive oil. Add some garlic and onion powder and mix the oil around the pan. When it is nice and hot, place the bread into the skillet and oil. Fry to golden brown and flip to other side, toasting also to a golden brown. Press down on both sides as it is cooking to effectively squish the sandwich.

Eat and enjoy. I had two last night.

I woke up this morning wanting it again. At 6am. It is very good. I may call it The Q. Without the u because there's no sharing this sandwich.

Maybe I should call it something else.

The Letter Q

It's a fascinating letter. For starters, it always must be followed by another letter. It's contingent letter. Parasitic. A letter who's existence is permissible only by the inclusion of another letter. That's fascinating. Sure, there are words with q without u. But a cursory look shows that they are either obsolete spellings or foreign words taken a slight hold in the English language. Negligible at best.

It does have some proper function. There's the disputed Q document. Also, my favorite Star Trek character went by Q.

Q represents an interesting conundrum. Could it exist without U? Can humanity survive? Will we function without a U? We work well with silent letters. We work well with c sounding like k; g sounding like j. I think we could maintain our morality if we took away the U. But I am not a philologist. It's not up to me. Life will go on as it always has: with the U next to the Q.

Some of my favorite Q words in order:

1. Quixotic -- How often to you get and x and q in the same word. Not often. Plus it looks like it means. How often do you get that.

2. Quotidian -- Another word with an odd look about it. Ironic in it's meaning with relation to it's appearance.

3. Quantum -- The double U. It's a sleek looking work. Sounds great too.

4. Quasi -- Looks odd. Lots of vowels. And it sounds like there's a z in there. There's not. But it seems like there should be.

5. Quagmire -- Sounds thick. Heavy to say. Not too tough on the eyes though.

Honorable Mention:

Querulous -- Triple U!!! More vowels than we can count. How can we complain about this word?

Syntopical Syncretism

Call it the post-modern approach to reading, but I've been diligent recently in my approach to reading. I came across the former of the above terms while reading Mortimer Adler's How To Read A Book. Vaguely, it's about moving one's reading across like themes. It's a unique idea and I recommend it and the original book.

Now I've extended this in several ways. First I have tried to read books similar in writing style. This is one reason for my recent love of Catholic writers of the 40s, 50s and 60s. Barth, Bellows and Updike are also more alike in style than the themes of their novels belie.

Another way I've enacted Adler's idea is by researching the influences of authors I'm reading. Just yesterday I began to look into Umberto Eco's greatest influence, Jorge Luis Borges. He's quite a fantastical and unique and challenging writer. For O'Connor I've delved into Faulkner and read up on Hawthorne.

By doing this I've stumbled across another term: syncretism. O'Connor and Faulkner posses widely different world views. Borges and one of his more profound influences, Chesterton, differ exponentially in their respective world views. Not that I am trying to reconcile these authors but it's certainly challenging to recognize the different approach that is at once alike and different. Like seeing an object from all sides simultaneously and managing to maintain a sense of wonder about it.

Pretty sure none of this makes sense, that it's just ramblings. I'm piecing the idea slowly together. Combining it and, at times, justifying it I suppose. The bottom line is that I notice I am drawn to the syntopical syncretism in Art. From Springsteen to O'Connor, Borges to Chesterton.

Not sure if Adler had this in mind, but I have him to thank for issuing that first challenge.

Raising Kids: A Divine Comedy

You want to instill in your children certain things. You want them to possess good manners, morals, a sense of perspective. You want them to be well-rounded and read; athletic, mature, smart and be good. You want them to love God. You want them to love others. You want them to honor and respect everything and everyone in the creation around them. You also want them to be funny. At the very least, not un-funny.

But how do you foster humor in a child?

Kids have a sense of the funny already. I think it's because they see things simply. Not in satire, not in nuance or entendre. Not in sarcasm or in wit. Things are funny in and of themselves. Of course they do things that are funny unintentionally. Call it the comedy of omission. I've got nephew stories to prove it right now. A co-worker has kid stories that top those.

Their sense of what's funny, their appreciation of intentional comedy progresses. And it starts at the slapstick stage, which perhaps, if you're a fan of the Stooges, stays with us no matter what (I contend that walking into a wall is at all times, by everyone considered funny). This is where Isaac is at currently. Yesterday he stood on the ottoman, pretended to lose his balance and fall headlong onto the chair and back for 20 minutes. He laughed hysterically the entire time. So did I. Then there's this.

But I really do think it's because they see things simply. Everything is new and amazing. Being able to grab a toy or ask for the tooth brush is a grand achievement. A sense of the wow permeates it. So it is with humor. That Isaac walks into the table and laughs while we cringe delineates our current world views. Exactly what his is I have not an inkling. But I know he talked to himself on the way to the sitter this morning breaking in with uncontrollable laughter. He gets the punchline. It's simple and it's funny. And a child's laughter, unadulterated, is easily the simplest, purest and most breathtaking joy imaginable.

Missing: 33 Pages

So I'm in the midst of a book the other night when I turn the page. The proceeding sentence makes no sense. Maybe I missed something. I did not. It still doesn't make any sense. Turns out (ha!) that the next page is not in fact the next page but some 33 pages into the book's future. A quite unfortunate turn of events that required me to start a completely new book. Seriously, who just removes 33 pages? Because they were removed; no obvious tearing, fraying, just meticulously extricated from the book.

So I'm looking for 33 pages. From 120 to 153. Love in the Ruins. If anyone's seen them.

But hey, at least I'm not missing this.

A Room With A View

Do scientists get excited about a movie that gets science right? A movie or book on the Uncertainty Principle? Do they applaud it? Give a resounding "Yes" and a golf hi-five? What about people who work in cafeterias? Are they thrilled when an art form gets their job right? Were glove manufacturers excited about American Pastoral?

It behooves the artist to get these things right. It substantiates their work while reverberating to the job or task or hobby itself. It illumines all.

Now I get excited when God is mentioned and mentioned correctly. Not pigeon-holed or hyberbolied or stereotyped. But mentioned with a sort of awe and enthusiasm and appreciation and respect. I get quite excited about correct theology in literature, film, song, poem.

Here's the thing about artists: they build houses with their materials. Rooms, hallways, stairwells, kitchens of words, lyric, song, shot. They set it all up and have an open house. I'm in the field, maybe nearby, staring up at the clearest and most open of skies. The sun is shining and I could never be warmer or cooler or want of anything. So when I go into the house, it's refreshing and assuring and hopeful to have a room, with however small a window, looking out onto that same sky and warm sunshine.

Sometimes that's all you can ask for. And you'd be surprised how much light can shine.

So There's Some Uncertainty

ATOMIC PARTICLE COLLIDER COULD DESTROY WORLD.

That was the byline on cnn.com yesterday. Uh, click. Come to find out there's this particle collider, and it could destroy the world. Seems it's rather large at 17 miles across and 330 feet below the surface. Seems it cost almost $10 billion dollars. And it seems it could destroy the world. Have you heard of the Large Hadron Collider?

Needless to say I've been reading up on strangelets, micro-black holes and every other wiki accessible theory applicable out of quantum mechanics. So what are the odds the world could get sucked into a black hole or turn into a lump of steaming space poo a la Vonnegut's Ice-Nine scenario? Well, there's a nonzero chance.

What exactly is a nonzero chance? 1 in 50 million. The odds of winning the lottery. But, uh, people win the lottery. Here's another breakdown of the odds.

Of course, in a brilliant piece in the NY Times on this, there's also a chance for Don Quixote to make a return. You have to love the Uncertainty Principle.

Aside: I'm reading the NY Times article last night and what does the first line encompass? A quote from the book I'm about to read that I quoted from yesterday. It's an obscure book, so referencing it is quite random. Coincidences like that... well... it's always a little fascinating.

On Putting Down A Book

I've never been one who believed finishing a book proved something. I'm from the Costanza school. The most recent evidence to this belief was Dune, which I gave up on after 150+ pages. As a fact, there have actually been very few books I have given up, sent away to the literary bench.

Thursday I was prepared to give up on Atonement. I knew the plot (or lack there of, depending on the critic). I had seen the movie. Though that's a simple reason for abandonment, sometimes the writing pulls you in despite your objectivity. But such wasn't the case here either. I kept reading. Over the weekend I poured into 300+ pages. And I'm left with the same conclusion: I can put this book down and very much want too. It isn't particularly great. It's good. Introspective. A character study. But it's too extraneous. Too preachy and condemning. Too much prose devoid from substance. And most of all it's too long. At almost 500 pages and rather rambling around it's simple central thesis, you'd think it'd be shorter.

All of this is sufficient a reason, in my belief, to abandon the book. But why can't I? Why do I feel the need to finish this book? I want to move on. I've got another book lined up on the bookshelf, Love in the Ruins by Walker Percy, with a great opening line:

Now in these dread latter days of the old violent beloved U.S.A. and of the Christ-forgetting Christ-haunted death-dealing Western world I came to myself in a grove of young pines and the question came to me: has it happened at last?

That's a fantastic opening line. But still I hang on to complete this book that long ago became banal. Still I hang on, not expecting any of these reason to be atoned for in the book's final pages. After the opening line of Love in the Ruins I fought every urge to keep reading. Feeling as though I was cheating something by doing that. The book, it seems, will not let me go. It's stalking me.

Actually, it's more like a song that gets stuck in your head.

Didn't know books could do that.

What Would You Do

So the Mrs. proposed a rather interesting question on a recent road trip: If you could do something else for your job, something very much different -- perhaps hinging on a regret of sorts from our youth (yes, we're that old these days!), what would it be? Now in the past, we've used this means of questioning to determine career direction. In fact, it was what first suggested to us a different career path for me (one I'm still working towards, mind you!). But in this context, current work happiness and future work happiness did not play a role. It was more simple and straightforward a proposition: What sounds cool and sounds like something you'd want to do?

My answer, to her somewhat surprise, was: work for the CIA. Of course, I'm too passive and possess the complete inability to fool anyone, so being an agent was not my intent. I supposed to her something at Langley in either the tech field or maybe even languages. Leading too my wishing I had spent more time learning languages as a youth.

And this is why the Mrs. and I work. For as much as we are different, we are alike in the cool, essential stuff. The same overarching abstract types of things govern the differences we espouse on a day-to-day basis.

The Mrs. too wished to be a translator. She figured to work in a hospital, being the person people of different cultures can turn to in a crisis. Having witnessed the compassion, comfort and strength the translators can show at her own hospital.

Of course, we went into our explanations for why we chose what we did (my reason, well, it'd be cool to say you work for the CIA. Wait! Can you say that?). I found in fascinating to think it through. To not think what you want to be doing now, but if circumstances were different, if you had taken a different step somewhere along the way, you wouldn't be entirely different than you are now, but you'd be different and doing something different. So what would that be?

Random Tidbits

So if I can't get a tan after being in the sun for 6 hours yesterday, and 12 over the past three days, there's no hope for me. None. A friend joked that Isaac had been in the womb for 9 months and he had more of a tan than I did. Sad, but true.

Isaac is saying his own name. While I don't think he identifies himself yet, the "I" association that differentiates our consciousness from animals, it's still hilarious. The other day he just kept screaming Isaac in the grocery store. I even got him saying it on the phone yesterday. Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats that.

So glad the Celtics won. Banner 17. Fantastic. I am also so glad the playoffs are over. 2 month! 2 months I watched games every other night. It's been exhausting and seemingly worthless. I'm not belittling the greatness of the championship, but it felt more like winning a marathon than winning an all out sprint. The NBA. It's Fan-tastic.

Tiger's performance over the weekend: Best golf I've ever seen. Perhaps the single greatest sports performance (up there with MJ's Flu game) I've ever seen. That was worth it. As was the 9-holes I was inspired to play.

Set-up the hammock yesterday afternoon. I know I'm prone to hyperbole (especially in this post) but it's probably the most comfortable thing ever. I laid there for 20 minutes looking at the sky and rocked in the breeze.

The DVD/Surround Sound System broke. Much to my luck we are looking to get another one. Maybe we'll wait awhile. The iPod plays all our music. We don't watch many movies during the summer. I'm willing to wait. It's been sort-of nice. We'll see if I can get one on the cheap on the eBays.

And I'm reading Atonement. Apparently one of the best 100 books of the 20th Century (and slightly beyond). Not impressed so far -- nor was I with the film version. So I'm not expecting to finish it, we'll see.

Indiana Jones was terrible. Terrible. Terrible. Can't say that enough. Ugh.

One more thing: enjoy summer. Spend time outside, even just for walks. Drink cool drinks and indulge in a coffee on a cool evening. Don't be afraid to wear sweatshirts and shorts. Take the opportunities to be still -- those summer nights. Listen to the summer, it's got such nice things to say.

How Sweet, Sweet, Sweet It Really Is

There's not a lot to add. I can tell you where I was when the Celtic's drafted Paul Pierce and how I hugged Hep. Where I was when Reggie collapsed. How 15 wins sounded on the radio during the M.L. Carr year. The sound of Pitino's whining that quickly drowned the excitement he gave us that opening night against the 72-win Bulls. My confusion after last year's draft when we traded for Ray Allen. My downright, soul-shaking joy when we traded for Garnett weeks later. I can tell you, I can tell you, I can tell you.

There was much joy in my household last night. Phone calls were exchanged. Screaming. Chills. Quiet. More screaming. More chills. Bouncing up and down. Disbelief. Shock. Joy. Screaming. Screaming. Yes. Victory.

Winning it all is all. Winning like last night added a flavor to it by not merely winning, but by dominating the game. That was special and historical and memorable. KG, Allen, you guys played your life for that. Pierce, you played your life and your heart for that win, for this team. You deserve all it entails. You are champions.

I am wearing my Celtics shirt today. I am bouncing off the walls and annoying everyone. What more can I say?

The Boston Celtics have won their 17th NBA Championship. The Boston Celtics are World Champs. The Boston Celtics, The Boston Celtics, The Boston Celtics.

The Boston Celtics.

A Reflection On Father's Day

Yesterday was my second Father's Day. The 28th for my Dad. The 51st and 55+ for my grandfathers. I maintain the only thing that rivals being a Dad is being a Mom. The point being that having a child is the largest of little gifts. Wrapped in little smiles here and there, an occasional temper-tantrum and this feeling of more-than-responsibility.

Isaac's infused my life with an immeasurable joy and pride. I am at once teacher, disciplinarian, jester, comforter, entertainer, entertainee, duck and goose. That I love being a dad, that I well up with emotion when merely approaching the idea that I'm a father to this boy, this blue-eyed, yelling, screaming, pacifier throwing, doubled-over laughing, crying, pushing a toy lawnmower around for 2+ hours, child is my me.

The other night he had trouble sleeping. So I scooped him up before the tears could mount and sat with him in my arms. His grip on his green blanket was impenetrable as his breathing eventually slowed and the tears, watery and large, fell silently away. We sat there, like we do on occasion, for about 15 minutes and then I put him back in bed for the remainder of the night.

There's is a lot to fatherhood. But sometimes, that's all there is.

The Weight Of Glory

It is another aside from the movie "review" I posted about yesterday. And it concerns the child's love as well. For the boy in the film, his goal, his achievement in love was to be to have this particular girl notice him. He believed she didn't even know his name and set about correcting that. After a fervent chase scene, he manages to stand before her only briefly. He calls out her name, she responds in kind. And the boy can say nothing else. He is rendered speechless. She has noticed him. That more happens later is moot as this is the culmination of his story. When he appears back before his father, he is smiling, content, awed. Being noticed by her was his ultimate.

The idea of being noticed recalls to mind C.S. Lewis' greatest piece of writing: The Weight of Glory:

We should hardly dare to ask that any notice be taken of ourselves. But we pine. The sense that in this universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret. And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory... becomes highly relevant to our deep desire.

The promise of glory is the promise, almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ, that some of us, that any of us who really chooses, shall actually survive that examination, shall find approval, shall please God. To please God...to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness...to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son—it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain.

Actually, I Loved It

Caught a rom-com (read: romantic comedy) on TV the other night: Love Actually. Quite an impressive movie (a caveat: I would not have seen had it not been edited). All-star ensemble casts are endeavors that do not guarantee success, but this one worked. And worked well. What I was most impressed by was the adeptness with which the idea of love was handled. Love is a many splendid thing, to be sure. It wears many hats and guises. There's the classical categorization of love into 4 categories. Those were present in the movie, but so were the sub-fields. The unrequited loves. The marriage love. The romantic love that exists when the physical is stripped away and in fact, transcends that aspect of Eros (done in a very interesting and counter-intuitive way).

It was the child-like love that I most appreciated and enjoyed. The storyline ran through the movie like a spine -- suggesting the writer/directors belief that this was the love we are to show others. Born out of tragedy it presented the truest, simplest and ideal form of love. Love that has no fear, has no comprehension, has no concern for convention, no selfishness, no motives, no strings attached, no regrets. It was just love. And if it hurts in the end, so what: "Let's go get our heads kicked in by love." We saw, in that perspective, the freedom that love can give a person.

Love is a battlefield? Love lift us up where we belong? All you need is love? In the name of love? I'll be loving you forever? Love, love, love?

Yes. Actually.

Is Man A Myth?

I was reminded today of a funny aside in Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia. When Mr. Tumnus appears, he is cradling a book bearing the title "Is Man A Myth?". Within the context of the story -- Lucy has walked through the wardrobe and into the white world of Narnia at winter-- the aside is humorous. A dose of irony in fact. But Lewis, whose series as a whole is laced with context and subtext, is suggesting a much more salient point than a smile or slight chuckle can capture.

At stake here, in the answer to the question, is not whether or not Lucy is real. Lewis is asking us a question of much more profundity. Long a studier of Greek, he delved heavily into the literary traditions of the culture. Most notably you will see this play out in Narnia superficially, like in fauns and centaurs. Myth, in such a culture does not imply falsity, a value we readily associate with anything involving that term. "Oh, that's just a myth!" we often cry. But for the Greeks, it simply involves the idea of a story. Prometheus getting his liver pecked out doesn't remotely intend to imply fact but rather to shed a truth upon or about something (and makes for a funny diary). But I am no connoisseur of Greek literary traditions, merely a lover of stories and tales.

Wonder for a moment on the new implication of this title: Is Man A Myth? Are we, simply and profoundly, a story? Played out in time, passed on through time? How important is it that we transfer and concern ourselves with the exactitude's of our livers being eaten out, metaphorically speaking? Is it rather more important that we use our lives, our stories, to shed a truth upon or about something? That we carry on our stories against a backdrop of the greatest of stories?

Getting back to the original irony of the scene, Mr. Tumnus had the question on one hand and the answer staring him in the face. Yet he does not nod in approval of having the question answered, instead he yells "Goodness, gracious me!". In one other famous myth I remember another who had the answer staring them down, the first words spoken that time were, "Mary".

Green With Excitement

I realize commentary on the Celtics have little accompanied this blog. I've maybe mentioned the C's a handful of times in two years. One of those years gave me little to mention, though I did. Then was accused of jinxing which I think I may have. Regardless, this morning I am elated.

I grew up on the Red Sox and Celtics. More than I have ever played baseball, I have played basketball. Never organized, not always well -- but played at it's basic level. For the most part I have romanticized baseball in my pseudo-Updike-ian ways with an occasional longing to be A. Bartlett Giamatti. But basketball I have left alone and I am not sure why. Deny me not this truth in the presence of such a dearth: on my list of sports, basketball is #2 with a #1 ranking in sports to play (this list is made-up with little standards for ranking; in fact, I may have just made it up this morning to accommodate this post).

The only DVDs I own and have ever asked for involve the complete history of the Boston Celtics (complete with Classic Games) and Larry Bird's DVD (complete with Classic Games of which the 'Nique-Bird is included -- and trust me, having watched this game several times, the Pierce-LeBron thing wasn't even close). I have, in effect, re-imagined my childhood -- reconstructed it based on the Big Three, of whom whose greatness and passion and beauty I was too young to fully grasp and appreciate.

Consider the previous as evidence for my love of basketball and the Celtics despite my lack of "posting" on it. And allow we to wax for a moment another reason why I may not have mentioned it with such frequency.

Basketball is an individual sport. As much as I resemble and embody Bird and Magic's style of play, I recognize it is inherently individual. Baseball requires someone else to throw you the ball and you to hit it and another opposing player to not catch it. Football needs the help of several players to advance the ball and score. But all the goals in basketball are the sole responsibility of the person with the ball. Sure, cutting and picking and rebounding from teammates help in the long run. Yet it's simplest contribution to the glory of sport is the satisfaction only the individual can take when the ball goes through the hoop. At it's core, it is of the individual only. And when this is the case, not much can be said because it's post-modern, it's relative. It matters not what I can suppose or state, it matters only what you, the person with the ball, can effort.

I love basketball. Love scoring. Love passing. Love rebounding. Love getting bothered about a bad call. Love taking jumpers by myself in the gym. Practicing foul shots. Pretending there's three seconds on the clock. Thinking Bird or Jordan has given me the ball and suggested I might be the best in a moment, for a moment. I love basketball. I play it with Isaac's plastic balls and a makeshift hoop in the yard. With socks and the hamper. With trash and the trash can. And there's always a satisfaction when it goes in, a determination to make it go if I miss -- even if what I am throwing away is a dirty diaper.

So for the Celtics, my beloved and followed and pretended-upon Celtics, to make the Finals... To hit shots when they need to... To make passes and play defense when it's all of everything a player can give...Well, it is a joy reserved for those who have ever made a shot. A pleasure this morning that only a person who has ever rolled the leather through his hands and felt, if only for a second or two or three, that all time was about to expire and it was all up to you.

So here we go. Beat L.A.. Rebound. Play defense. Don't be too awed by Kobe -- leave that to the fans. And when the ball goes in the hoop or trash can or bucket or child's bed, love the game you are playing.

Go Celtics.

Alternate Version: How Isaac Got That Nasty Cut On His Neck

We walked along as steadily as a toddler allows. The road giving way to speed in places, treachery in others where the rocks jutted and mud, well, did whatever it is that mud does. Clump? Either way, the going, for the most part, was not easy. The woods of Maine piled high pines and maples on either side of our hike towards the "Monkey Bridge". As slow going as it was, Isaac was relentless in his pursuit of other family members ahead, and the greenery growing just off the beaten path. More often than not, as if he sensed danger or intrigue in the woods, he would be caught several steps into the underbrush. His sense of bravery showed itself early in those moments. A harbinger of the hero he would become.

Suddenly, out of the bark and wood to the right 100 yards down the path came charging a bear. At this point, Isaac and I were leading the way. I had run ahead with him on my shoulders and was just returning his little legs to the uneven terrain when the bear approached at an alarming rate. My initial reaction was to run, to grab Isaac and run. Isaac's initial reaction was also to run. But like his approach to squirrels, birds and dogs, it was to run towards the oncoming animal. Run he did, matching in proportion only the throbbing speed of the bear.

His courage and legs were aligned as they propelled him magnificently to the beast. He added the hand gesture he had recently learned: pointing. All this together threw the creature into a tailspin and it ceased his steady approach. In fact, it was the bear that froze as Isaac neared. In an unexplainable way, I was unable to catch up to Isaac. Either fear leadened my legs, or his courage emboldened his and he remained out of my grasp, out of my reach, and his actions beyond my worst of nightmares.

He came within yards of the creature, who remained locked in its spot of mud and rock. He, as he had been taught, made the sound of a bear. It was not loud but it was sure. Like a child he knew he was looking at a bear and knew the sound of that bear, but knew not, like us adults, the menacing and imposing will of it. The bear cocked his head and growled low and broken. It backed up a step, as if to run or leap or attack or cower. Isaac growled confidently again, the sound carrying out past his pointed finger to the hairy ears. The bear cowered for sure, but not before he extended his paw and claw like his foe. Then, with a mere flick of its frame, it reached and scratched Isaac beneath his chin before bounding off back into the forest. Isaac pointed and growled some more bearing the scar of his courage with a child-like obliviousness. It was a bear to him. To us it was fear, danger, death, and sheer terror. To him, it was a bear.

It is a three inch long laceration. A flesh wound only. But in the incision courage seeps out.

***This did not actually happen. True, we went on a hike in Maine over the weekend to the "Monkey Bridge" (a mere two steel cables over a creek) and we did walk through forests with the "threat" of bears (?). But we did not see any. Did not see any tracks or hear any noises resembling that of any creature (although Nate thinks he was tracking a deer). Isaac actually did cut his neck though. But it happened when he fell in a field of flowers -- wild flowers -- but flowers nonetheless.***

The Similes Of Children

Heard this at Church yesterday:

Child: I really like food. My favorite kind-a food is Chipotle Rice. (eyes widen) I love Chipotle Rice.

Adult: Do you love Chipotle Rice like you love your mother?

Child: (thinks for a moment; confused) No. I love it like I love Chipotle Rice.

And here's the reason I love children. We see them as misunderstanding the question. Silly children, we think. But we are misunderstanding the answer. Things are that simple. Each experience and delight, each pleasure and pain is contingent on and comparable to nothing else. It is it's very own experience. Everything, it seems to us they are foolishly saying in their naivete, is "the greatest ever". But to kids, getting a hit in a baseball game is as awesome and cool and memorable as just that. Getting a "A" is as successful as getting an "A".

As adults, in our vast "experience", we compare everything that happens to us to other things that have happened to us or to others like us. We categorize enjoyment so as not to be too overjoyed. We categorize pain so that we may illustrate our "perspective". We long to be mature in the end. To live out Aristotle's Golden Mean. And we are limiting the moments of our lives in the end. Nothing can ever be the greatest, we reason, for that has passed us by. "This was great, but not as good as that one time 5 years ago."

But one day, I think I'd like to sit down with some Chipotle Rice. I'd like to just get a hit. I'd like to just, with utter simplicity and detachment, be awed and overwhelmed and overjoyed without comparison.

To possess the spirit and similes of children.

The Grocery Store: What I Would Say To LeBron James If I Ran Into Him There

Wow. LeBron. You're pretty incredible. Pretty. Incredible. However, here's a couple of things to keep in mind (a la Kurt Vonnegut, but not really):

Commit to playing defense. You're an average defender. You can easily be above average. Like you worked on that mid-range jumper last off-season, work on defense this off-season.

Keep working on that shooting. It's getting better. And when you're on, you're on. But keep at it. You can only get better.

I've never seen a player like you. I've followed basketball since before you were born, and there's not been another player like you. And your passion is unmatched. You love this game. Remember that.

Stop whining. No disrespect intended. You get away with a lot offensively and defensively. Travels. Double-dribbles. Reach-ins. Fouls. Take the foul. You do it occasionally. Do it all the time.

Love the way you walked off the court yesterday. No congratulating the Celtics in the post-game. You stormed off. I've only ever seen Larry Bird do that. You'll get ripped for sportsmanship. But the bottom line is you play to win. Don't EVER take losing lightly. Take it personally. Keep doing exactly what you did.

I've never seen a player like you. I've followed basketball since before you were born, and there's not been another player like you. And your passion is unmatched. You love this game. Remember that.

Whatever happens in the next couple of years, don't play the game for the money. You will be the best player ever. Easily. But the game is such you'll need just a little bit of help at times. Keep that in mind. Let them pay you, but let them be able to pay other players to help you too. You'll make your money and legend in the end.

You are an incredible basketball player. I love watching you play. I will never question you're enthusiasm for the game. Never question your passion. But don't ever give me the opportunity too. Don't ever let up. Don't ever forget you are playing a game you've loved your entire life. Don't let that reality slip from your eyes or your heart. Play to win and play to play the game.

You will be the best. Make no mistake. You will be the best. Don't stop though, even when you are.

My Dentist: A Character Sketch

Short. Hovering around 5 feet tall. Salt and pepper hair. Thin. Early 50s. Small hands and eyes. Impeccably ironed scrubs with turtlenecks on underneath. Dark, thick black glasses with a device that gives her singular, zoomed-in vision attached. When she looks at you, she tilts her head down, not up and therefore cannot avoid looking through the device. Anecdotes and thoughts are only complete in her head, yet they make sense if you listen carefully and casually. She is a woman of many details but wastes no time with them. Her humor is simple, straightforward, but has to be thought about to be found funny. It must be placed directly back against the gait and posture and tone of this woman. She is passionate about her job, loves dentistry. Leads well, her employees speak openly of their frustration with her antics and her personality and incomplete complete thoughts illustrating a lack of fear towards her meaning she's a good boss. And she's very good at what she does. Honest with her patients, genuine as well. She's also a little crazy and it comes through in the pitch of her voice, in its pace and delivery which feels a hair too fast and high for most conversation.

I hate the dentist office. Despise anything that involves cleaning the mouth: brushing teeth, flossing. I cannot be in the same room with another person who is brushing their teeth. Cringing doesn't surmise the physical reaction I have. I cannot brush Isaac's three teeth. I cannot watch a movie where someone is brushing their teeth. I simply cannot. But I like going to this dentist. She is a character I find infinitely interesting. A case study.

Watching people more efficiently is a task I've sought to do more of of late. And there are some strikingly different and overwhelmingly fascinating characters at work in this world around us. From the man with the golden voice who works at the gas station to the woman slowly and distractedly making my sandwich. Asking why another person is doing as they do and watching, trying to figure out why it is so, is a new thing for me. But I find we are all mostly alike in some ways and vastly different in others. We are all characters.