Looking for my alter ego...I'm sure I left it someplace around here...
I'm still insanely jealous of that clever pun by one of Ken Kesey's Merry Pranksters posted on a sign outside his ranch, so I've been drafting a few signs of my own:
Pest control truck parked outside church:
Last Halloween we joined several other families so our children could go Trick-or-Treating together. The hosts first served a kid-friendly dinner to the eager, costumed kids. The plan was to allow the adults to eat a more leisurely meal in two shifts, taking turns shepherding the kids through the neighborhood. The women decided to take the children for the first shift, leaving the men behind to eat, talk, smoke cigars (not), sip Scotch (just kidding), and watch football.
I have no recollection of which teams played that night. What I do recall is how stimulating I found the conversation among the men. For once the discussion was not repeatedly interrupted by children and I was able to enjoy the conversation of intelligent, well educated men from a variety of professions (surgeon, venture capitalist, entrepreneur, etc.). I found myself stimulated by the conversation and the intelligence with which various points of view were expressed and different complex topics explained.
It reminded me not only of the best moments of college (well, you know what I mean), but also of a goal I've occasionally articulated about raising children. Essentially, it's my dream to raise my sons in an intellectually stimulating environment where they are surrounded by successful adults from many disciplines. I have this image of them sitting at the dinner table across from astronauts, politicians, pro ballplayers, architects, CEO's, teachers, ministers, musicians, travelers, writers, journalists, directors, doctors, investors, entrepreneurs, volunteers, and even attorneys. (I know: I need a much bigger table.)
And you know what? It occurs to me that I am capable of providing them that environment since we know someone from nearly all of those occupations. So why not bring the talk show into the dining room and play the Bill Moyers role to a range of interesting and enjoyable dinner guests? It'll be like dinner at Barbara Walters' or Walter Cronkite's house...except for the chicken nuggets and paper napkins.
Even when the boys become teenagers and want nothing more than to escape the house and race off with their friends, how preferable is it to envision the scene they are racing from being one so enriching, rather than one of perpetual domestic drudgery and embittered family disputes? Besides, as the conversation the other night reminded me, I myself am starved for intellectual discourse and debate with adults who have something intelligent to say and the ability to express it well.
For several days following that Halloween dinner, I contemplated the part of the discussion when several men spoke of which journals, magazines, and periodicals they read regularly. One dad lamented that he no longer had time to read anything but the most technical journals in his field and missed reading Science, Discover, and Natural History. Thinking about that, it occurred to me that I also don't have time to scan Scientific American, Wired, Popular Science and others every month. I know from experience that such subscriptions will just result in a pile of unread magazines and wasted money.
But that's when I had my epiphany: Why not let someone else do the work of reading dozens of periodicals and culling only the best articles for my edification? I'd still miss a lot of fascinating and important articles, but I'd be reading far more technical and educational material than I am now. So I sauntered over to the bookstore, and although I wanted to buy every essay anthology on display, I limited myself to two from The Best American Series®.
I purchased The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2004 and The Best American Essays 2004. They make terrific bedside reading. It was there that I found both Peggy Orenstein's article on baby names and Susan Orlean's terrific essay on the 2003 World Taxidermy Championships. I also read interesting articles on neuroethics, high school pranks, multiverses, and The Matrix.
I'm one step closer to my goal of creating a stimulating and intellectual (and arguably eccentric) environment for me and my family.
Now I just need to invite a few poets, astronauts, and governors to dinner.
Ever have that experience where a familiar word one day suddenly sounds foreign? Not only strange and alien, but actually ludicrous and implausible?
For me that word is "much."
"Much?"
Just listen to it: How much? Not much. So much. That's too much. Does that hurt much? Pretty much. Thank you very much. I ate too much. Do you ski much? Not as much. How much is that? Not too much. Oh no, that's way too much. How much did you expect? You can never have too much.
Much!!! It's too much! Do you hear it? I thought as much. Doesn't it sound absurd? What the hell is "much" anyway? Does every language have a much equivalent? Could we live without much? Could we go a whole day without saying it?
Try expressing sincere gratitude. "Thanks a lot," sounds sarcastic. You almost have to say "Thank you very much." What else could you say?
How do you get rid of much? You're pouring coffee and you want to know when to stop. Or someone is cutting you a slice of cake and they are slicing it too thick. How much? That's too much. Not so much. It's endless!!
How much is much anyway? When does something go from being enough to becoming much?
What the hell does much even mean? (No, I am not going to give you Webster's definition; any time you read a column that begins, "Webster's defines the word 'citizen' as..." trust me, you are reading a lazy, cliched writer who hasn't given much thought to being creative. Argh! That drives me nuts, too!)
At bedtime the other night, Kevin asked me, "Daddy who first invented words?" While I was mulling over this latest imponderable, he added, "And what was the first word they invented?" We talked about this second question, and came up with several ideas. I especially liked his suggestion of "Look." So now my imponderable as everybody, myself included, is muching away all day long is, "Who the hell coined the word, much? And what are the alternatives?" Cause I'm all muched out.
Don't even get me started on "such."
Postscript: I know you'll ask, so I'll answer you: "much" occurred 54 times during the first one hundred entries of this blog. Is that too much?
(Yes, I know, it also appeared 40 more times in this 400 word post alone.)
We bought our tree this weekend and I brought the boxes of ornaments in from the garage. The boys were eager to decorate the tree right away, but Kathy and I had dinner plans so we only had time to string the lights. When we returned around 10 o'clock the boys were asleep and the living room was beautifully decorated.
Valley Girl was sitting in front of the TV folding laundry. She told us the boys had done all the decorating completely on their own. What about the top ornaments? we wondered.
"They got the stool."
Who set up the manger?
"They did."
What about Dickens' village?
"They did that, too. Did you see the snowbank they made?"
You didn't have to help at all?
"No, they did it all by themselves."
The next day they brought in Frosty from the garage. "Mom says it's our job to set him up with you," they informed me. Frosty was a gift from grandma and Uncle Harold last year. We weren't too eager for an eight-foot inflatable snowman on our front lawn, but the boys were in a mood to decorate, so up he went.
They still have gingerbread houses to make and they want me to string lights outside the house which would be another first. It seems like they are determined not to let Dad play the role of grumpy ole Scrooge.
Kathy reminded me I have another responsibility due. It's time for the annual Christmas poem which has become a tradition in our Christmas card. I am not a poet. Hell, I'm not even a writer, but every year we somehow manage to collaborate on a Christmas poem expressing our gratitude for friends and family and celebrating the things we are thankful for.
Some of the poems have been admitted clunkers, but the intention is always heartfelt, and the picture of the boys is always adorable no matter how candid and unprofessional. My best poem, I always thought, was the one Kathy would never be willing to choose. It expresses what happens when software engineers by training make a feeble attempt at creativity:
When programmers write poetry, the words don't always rhyme
The tenses may change; it may not sound sublime.
/* It may have lines that are commented out */
OR IN ALL UPPERCASE WHEN TRYING TO SHOUT
But the message is still heartfelt; the intention sincere
Such as wishing you Joy at Christmas each year.
And when programming poets take marketing wives
Expect artistic conflict the rest of their lives.
And if the pair should happen to breed
Pity the poor offspring the lives they will lead.
For with programming dads and marketing moms
Its "impact" from her and from him its all ROM's.
And if family talents together combine
On a simple verse, a Christmas rhyme,
You may get a message of Peace on Earth,
It might sound convoluted, but for what it's worth
When programmers write poetry, it may croak like a toad,
But it's still less of a disaster than if poets wrote code.
Kevin woke up, but Justin did not.
It was one a.m. when I heard "a sound like someone trying not to make a sound." I found Kevin washing his hands in the bathroom and after confirming that he was fine, I walked him back to his room, gave him a hug, and tucked him in. Before leaving, I also checked on Andrew and Justin—they sleep in the same room, side by side like the three bears—and covered them again as well.
Ten minutes later I went back to check on Kevin and found him asleep. Andrew, however, had flipped off his covers and was sleeping the way I so often discover him, with his head toward the foot of the bed. I considered covering him in that position, then decided to flip him back with his head on his pillow. As I lifted his heavy, still form, I whispered, "Andrew, you're sleeping upside down again."
I never expected a reply, but he gave me a reassuring smile and said, "It's okay, Dad. I sleep both ways."
He's right, of course, he does kick off his covers and flop around in bed. He likes to sleep with his body pushed up against the wood frame and often with one limb draped over it. He tends to run warm and quickly kicks off his covers. He's the last to fall asleep and the first to wake up. We don't even set an alarm clock on school days; we let Andrew wake us up when it's time.
When the boys were infants, the NICU nurses taught us to wrap them up like little burritos while they slept. We learned to calm them by holding their arms pressed against their chests so they couldn't flail about and get over-stimulated.
Yet even as babies they slept differently, but it wasn't until they were out of cribs that I discovered Andrew's magic formula for putting himself to sleep: he thrashes. I instinctively tried covering him, but it seemed to frustrate him. So I watched him fall asleep several nights in a row while I cuddled beside him. And sure enough, he thrashed. He'd flop from position to position, then eventually end up face down with one leg kicking. I watched as he repeatedly kicked his foot, gradually slowing down, and eventually his foot paused in the air, then settled down one last time and he was asleep. It's not a technique that works well with covers tightly wrapped around you, but I could see it worked for Andrew. In fact, in later weeks if he claimed he couldn't fall asleep, I'd just tell him to lie on his belly and kick his foot. Sure enough, he'd be asleep in five minutes.
I know the boys' sleeping styles pretty well—I should after ten thousand bed checks—but I still marvel at the differences. Kevin sleeps on his back, often with his hands beside his head on the pillow, looking for all the world as if he's in Hollywood lying on a beach chair by the pool as the starlets parade by wondering if he's someone famous. He looks as if he's having great dreams about playing sports and scoring points. He prefers to sleep inside a sleeping bag on top of his covers. I still don't know whether that's because it keeps his thin frame warmer or whether he's just trying to make less work for himself every morning when making his bed.
Justin could give a class on sleeping. He's a cuddle bug and he wraps the blankets up tightly over his shoulder and sleeps on his side. He has a ritual of arranging his pillows and favorite stuffed animals by his head. His two greatest comfort items are his lambies. He puts one on top of his pillow, lays his head upon it, and then drapes the other on top of his face, and he is instantly out. I've watched him make himself into a lambie sandwich at night and teased him about it. "You never have to count sheep, Justin," I've observed. "You just have to count lambies: one, two, and then poof, you're asleep."
But Andrew will always be the squirming, flopping, wiggly boy I'll find in a heap at the bottom of the bed, occasionally sleeping beside his bed, sometimes collapsed amidst an absurd pile of stuffed animals, and other times with his feet in his pillow case. Maybe one day he will outgrow it. But for now, he continues to sleep both ways...and every other way imaginable under the moon.
I found it intriguing when, of all the topics I've written about, I received an anonymous comment about my (re)discovery of Ish Kabibble. I at first assumed that it must be a practical joke by a close friend, but the usual supsects have not owned up to it.
The reader mentioned watching "a movie with Ish Kabibble, Kay Kaiser, Bela Lugosi, Peter Lorre, and Boris Karloff." For a moment I thought the giveaway was the inclusion of the name Kay Kaiser, whom I momentarily mistook for Keyser Soze, who indeed was one of The Usual Suspects. That would certainly have pointed the finger at my brother, one of the unusual suspects and a fan of that movie. But Kay Kaiser, who the reader correctly identified, was the band leader of the orchestra that included the mop-topped cornet player, Ish Kabibble.
Serious movie trivia buffs would more likely have been suspicious, not of Kay Kaiser and Ish Kabibble, but of the group appearance by the three veteran stars of classic Hollywood horror movies, Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, and Peter Lorre. It turns out that those three only appeared in one picture together, a forgettable 1940 horror comedy called You'll Find Out.
How's that for a clue?
It's unlikely, of course, that I'll discover that the identity of the reader is anyone I know. But having been led so directly to such an intriguing movie, I figured the least I can do is watch it. Easier said than done, as it turns out. Neither Blockbuster nor Netflix has it in their 25,000+ movie rental lists. (But if I can wait until 4:30 a.m. on December 17, I can catch it on the Turner Classic Movie channel—which is my duty as a blogger, don't you think?)
Hmmm. How did that reader just happen to have watched that movie and to have conveniently found my posting on Ish Kabibble?
As soon as I learn anything, you'll find out.