you sing do snigger
her understand do stovepipe
But comb it inaccurate
was ask to ornament epicentre
of other people's actions. Their
enhance your masculity
Not take he proposition caftan
As teach in tearoom numbskull
fiasco What's not to cherish in a fancy
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Friday, December 30, 2005
More Christmas Pics
Some pics from David and Margaret Adams' house.
Here, you can see the true nature of their cat, Ripley:
The Adams' other cat, Bob:
Dave & Coop:
Margaret & Savvi:
Everybody but me. (Pout.)
Here, you can see the true nature of their cat, Ripley:
The Adams' other cat, Bob:
Dave & Coop:
Margaret & Savvi:
Everybody but me. (Pout.)
Christmas pics
Sorry for the lack of posts over the last few days. I finally caught the cold that Kelli and Savannah had prior to Christmas. I've gotten over it now, but Cooper is taking his turn. I would rather I had stayed sick than see him feeling so poorly.
Here are some photos from Christmas:
Playing Santa:
A hug for Daddy:
Savvi with her new Leapster L-max:
Beautiful even when she blinks:
Smirking Lil' Santa:
Savannah and her Papa INSIDE her new Barbie castle:
Cooper and his Paw-paw recuperating from the big day:
Savannah and Cooper at the Curtis family Christmas party (Kelli's extended family:)
Our two beautiful children:
Megan Greer with Cooper:
Here are some photos from Christmas:
Playing Santa:
A hug for Daddy:
Savvi with her new Leapster L-max:
Beautiful even when she blinks:
Smirking Lil' Santa:
Savannah and her Papa INSIDE her new Barbie castle:
Cooper and his Paw-paw recuperating from the big day:
Savannah and Cooper at the Curtis family Christmas party (Kelli's extended family:)
Our two beautiful children:
Megan Greer with Cooper:
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
More Adventures in the Mind of a Four-Year-Old
Savannah has thoroughly enjoyed the Christmas season this year. Santa and her family loaded her up with gifts, some so large, we're going to rearrange her bedroom to get them in. On Christmas morning, she was careful to learn who had given her each gift, so that she could give them a hug before opening it.
We spent most of the 26th on the road to the sprawling metropolis of Luverne, Alabama. There we gathered with Kelli's extended family for a little feast and a round of Dirty Santa. I left with a fishing pole and Kelli with a basket of bath goodies. (She had her mitts on some Altec Lansing computer speakers and a DVD of "Cinderella Man," but lost them both. We were the mean people who contributed lame gifts -- a Waterpik flosser and a nose/ear hair trimmer. I told everyone the latter had only been used once -- on my bikini area.
Savannah had a blast playing with her cousins. She was completely exhausted by the time we hit the road for home. That, combined with no nap, made for an interesting drive. Sitting in the back, playing with her new Leapster L-Max (think PSP for the pre-school set,) she would get very frustrated with herself whenever she made a mistake. That frustration led to a round of sweeping proclamations: "this thing is making me mad, and when I get home, I'm going to right to bed with my shoes on and I'm never getting up ever again!"
While watching "March of the Penguins," she inexplicably lashed out at Morgan Freeman's narration about the pairing up of male and female Emperor penguins at the bottom of the world: "I don't like this movie. It's not for girls. It's for boys. It has males and females in it. And when I get home, I'm going to get up tomorrow and I'm going to have a yard sale and I'm going to sell all my stuff because it's not good for me." Kelli and I, of course, laughed. You try not laughing at a diatribe that begins with concerns about the appropriateness of male and female penguins for viewing by little girls and ends with plans for a massive rummage sale.
Our amusement only brought on more ire: "It's not funny!"
"What's not funny, Savannah?"
"When I say I'm going to sell everything, it's not funny!"
"But the way you said it was funny."
"Well, when I get home, I'm going to have a yard sale and I'm going to sell all of your stuff, because you're being mean to me!"
Kelli managed to salvage her things, but mine were apparently headed for the auction block. Soon thereafter, she finally dozed off. The key was getting her to shut her trap long enough to fall asleep -- no small feat.
Last night, Savannah and my mom were putting together puzzles on the kitchen table. My dad entered and made a comment about them not knowing what they were doing. Without missing a beat, Savannah snapped back, "I don't know how you can call yourself a Paw-Paw." I don't know how long she had been waiting to use that little gem, but am I glad she did! Now if we can just find a way to channel all this creativity and word play into a lifelong passion, we'll have gone a long way toward being the parents we've always wanted to be. The reality, of course, is that we will probably screw these kids up along the way. At least they'll get their money's worth out of their therapy.
We spent most of the 26th on the road to the sprawling metropolis of Luverne, Alabama. There we gathered with Kelli's extended family for a little feast and a round of Dirty Santa. I left with a fishing pole and Kelli with a basket of bath goodies. (She had her mitts on some Altec Lansing computer speakers and a DVD of "Cinderella Man," but lost them both. We were the mean people who contributed lame gifts -- a Waterpik flosser and a nose/ear hair trimmer. I told everyone the latter had only been used once -- on my bikini area.
Savannah had a blast playing with her cousins. She was completely exhausted by the time we hit the road for home. That, combined with no nap, made for an interesting drive. Sitting in the back, playing with her new Leapster L-Max (think PSP for the pre-school set,) she would get very frustrated with herself whenever she made a mistake. That frustration led to a round of sweeping proclamations: "this thing is making me mad, and when I get home, I'm going to right to bed with my shoes on and I'm never getting up ever again!"
While watching "March of the Penguins," she inexplicably lashed out at Morgan Freeman's narration about the pairing up of male and female Emperor penguins at the bottom of the world: "I don't like this movie. It's not for girls. It's for boys. It has males and females in it. And when I get home, I'm going to get up tomorrow and I'm going to have a yard sale and I'm going to sell all my stuff because it's not good for me." Kelli and I, of course, laughed. You try not laughing at a diatribe that begins with concerns about the appropriateness of male and female penguins for viewing by little girls and ends with plans for a massive rummage sale.
Our amusement only brought on more ire: "It's not funny!"
"What's not funny, Savannah?"
"When I say I'm going to sell everything, it's not funny!"
"But the way you said it was funny."
"Well, when I get home, I'm going to have a yard sale and I'm going to sell all of your stuff, because you're being mean to me!"
Kelli managed to salvage her things, but mine were apparently headed for the auction block. Soon thereafter, she finally dozed off. The key was getting her to shut her trap long enough to fall asleep -- no small feat.
Last night, Savannah and my mom were putting together puzzles on the kitchen table. My dad entered and made a comment about them not knowing what they were doing. Without missing a beat, Savannah snapped back, "I don't know how you can call yourself a Paw-Paw." I don't know how long she had been waiting to use that little gem, but am I glad she did! Now if we can just find a way to channel all this creativity and word play into a lifelong passion, we'll have gone a long way toward being the parents we've always wanted to be. The reality, of course, is that we will probably screw these kids up along the way. At least they'll get their money's worth out of their therapy.
Haiku, take 4!
rarely lend
Go fall to ascription
you make a redcoat dottle
annul impunity
But believe an interpretation channel
I study do bookseller
Go fall to ascription
you make a redcoat dottle
annul impunity
But believe an interpretation channel
I study do bookseller
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Spam Title Haiku, take 3
This one's actually 5-7-5 Haiku!
As spell is velar
As live in disciple douche
peeling underpin
Re: lush hooper
Of read do evince undercoat
In put to lucerne
And this little gem was attached as a postscript to a piece of spam:
sometimes: it kilogramme would not be well to have any uncertainty at the
weekend about the safe transmission
pause. It exposure phonetic consisted of upward of five hundred individuals
"I thought of my uncles; and as tongue bachelor I was engaged in wondering
whether Edward's
As spell is velar
As live in disciple douche
peeling underpin
Re: lush hooper
Of read do evince undercoat
In put to lucerne
And this little gem was attached as a postscript to a piece of spam:
sometimes: it kilogramme would not be well to have any uncertainty at the
weekend about the safe transmission
pause. It exposure phonetic consisted of upward of five hundred individuals
"I thought of my uncles; and as tongue bachelor I was engaged in wondering
whether Edward's
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Spam Title Haiku, take 2
I left the "Re:" intact on these, because they are designed to make me think it's in response to my original message. Now, I'm not sure why I would send a message entitled "stinging casual" to Pacey Cho, but I must have -- there's a Re: in front of it.
Re: referable collectivity
Re: in fix an stocky
Re: stinging casual
I wait be sop
unsympathetic radium
are permanent.
Many former football
As spend on
irremovable sec
Re: referable collectivity
Re: in fix an stocky
Re: stinging casual
I wait be sop
unsympathetic radium
are permanent.
Many former football
As spend on
irremovable sec
Merry Christmas!
I hope, first of all, that all of you have better things to do than read this blog today. But just in case, I want to wish you all a very Merry Christmas! If you haven't paid attention during "A Charlie Brown Christmas" as Linus explains the true meaning of Christmas, I encourage you to go back and give it a listen.
Faith in Christ can be a transformative experience, even when you aren't expecting it. I am being changed every day in great and subtle ways, thanks to the Grace of God. Any of you who read this blog know I need it!
My prayer for all of you is that you would experience that Grace for yourselves. Peace.
-Wayne-
Faith in Christ can be a transformative experience, even when you aren't expecting it. I am being changed every day in great and subtle ways, thanks to the Grace of God. Any of you who read this blog know I need it!
My prayer for all of you is that you would experience that Grace for yourselves. Peace.
-Wayne-
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Spam Title Haiku
Lately, we've been inundated with spam e-mails with bizarre titles. These are designed to get past word-based spam filters, while still vaguely resembling the English language. The results are nothing short of absurd.
It's a shame to waste these, so we've decided to celebrate them with a new feature here on the Stone Bridge: Spam Title Haiku.
True, it doesn't fit the strictest definition of Haiku, but you get the idea. Each line is an actual subject heading from a spam message we've received.
Here are our first two entries:
include lunch, but more times than
To cough a stipulation regular
you complain as fulfilment
A study as procrastinate
Have ask to soporific
As go a suburban
It's a shame to waste these, so we've decided to celebrate them with a new feature here on the Stone Bridge: Spam Title Haiku.
True, it doesn't fit the strictest definition of Haiku, but you get the idea. Each line is an actual subject heading from a spam message we've received.
Here are our first two entries:
include lunch, but more times than
To cough a stipulation regular
you complain as fulfilment
A study as procrastinate
Have ask to soporific
As go a suburban
Christmas card
I know most of you got one of these, either in hardcopy or via e-mail, but I adore my kids, so here's our Christmas card (again):
That's the real Winter Claus in there, by the way. Wait, I've just been informed that the Claus in Winter Claus is still a derivation of the Catholic Saint Nicholas. Therefore, he shall now be known as the Holiday Gift Distributor, or the HGD, if you prefer.
Other updates: He does not wear fur on his jacket, that is purely synthetic. Upon advice of counsel, he will no longer allow children to sit in his lap to present their gift wishes. Nor will he accept hand-written letters out of concern for deforestation. (An exception will be made for letters written on papers made of at least 80% post-consumer material. The preferred method of filing one's request will be via e-mail or the convenient web form (sponsored by the Home Depot) on his new website, www.hebethehgd.com.
The so-called "naughty and nice" list has been appropriately renamed to reflect the complex psychological roots of child behavior as the "acting out due to deep emotional wounds inflicted in infancy or early childhood and simply in denial" list. It may not work in a song, but poet Maya Angelou has been commissioned to squeeze it into a Haiku.
Happy Solstice everybody!
That's the real Winter Claus in there, by the way. Wait, I've just been informed that the Claus in Winter Claus is still a derivation of the Catholic Saint Nicholas. Therefore, he shall now be known as the Holiday Gift Distributor, or the HGD, if you prefer.
Other updates: He does not wear fur on his jacket, that is purely synthetic. Upon advice of counsel, he will no longer allow children to sit in his lap to present their gift wishes. Nor will he accept hand-written letters out of concern for deforestation. (An exception will be made for letters written on papers made of at least 80% post-consumer material. The preferred method of filing one's request will be via e-mail or the convenient web form (sponsored by the Home Depot) on his new website, www.hebethehgd.com.
The so-called "naughty and nice" list has been appropriately renamed to reflect the complex psychological roots of child behavior as the "acting out due to deep emotional wounds inflicted in infancy or early childhood and simply in denial" list. It may not work in a song, but poet Maya Angelou has been commissioned to squeeze it into a Haiku.
Happy Solstice everybody!
Friday, December 23, 2005
Christmas Advice for Parents
Savannah's to the age now that she tries to sneak a peek at her presents. I told her every time she peeks, a reindeer dies. I don't know if she bought it, but I haven't seen her within a yard of the tree since then.
Happy Holidays, or whatever...
I just read that, in response to the Wal-Mart "Happy Holidays" flap, Jon Stewart said on The Daily Show that "every time you say Happy Holidays, and angel gets AIDS." Brilliant.
What an interesting Christma-, I mean, holiday season this has been. I don't see a problem with saying Happy Holidays as opposed to Merry Christmas -- many of us have done that for years. I always figured it encompassed the whole season from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. Plus, you never know if the person to whom you are speaking is Jewish or not. Okay, if someone has a bowl cut and a little mutton chop mustache and they walk around goose-stepping with a copy of Mein Kampf under one arm, chances are they aren't going to bum matches off you to light up the menorah. On the other hand, a guy named Moishe Feingold who owns a wholesale diamond concern isn't likely to know the lyrics to "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." Otherwise, play it safe.
The rub comes with businesses that have banned the word Christmas while being careful to include Hanukkah and Kwanzaa. (For those who still cling to the ancient Roman holiday of Saturnalia, you'd best subscribe to HBO, because that's the only place you're going to get some love.) I heard it suggested that if the Christmas tree must become a Holiday tree, then the menorah should become a Holiday candelabra. I like it.
Carrying the PC trend to the extreme, we must then rename every potentially offensive or exclusive holiday tradition. The dreidel becomes the "solstice spinner." Yule logs, mistletoe and lights on trees should be banned altogether due to their connections to the traditions of the Druids. (Just don't bring it up to your Druish friends. You know how those Drus are.)
Christmas stockings become celebratory decorative archaic footwear. Wreaths should be used only to show solidarity with Martha Stewart. But you have to make it yourself!
Even Santa Claus suggests a Catholic origin, so Winter Claus would be more appropriate. Some might suggest the use of SC's alter-ego, Kris Kringle. But it is derived from the German Krist Kindle, or Christ Child. That's more overtly Christian than the word Christmas itself. I should be sued by the ACLU for even typing it!
I wonder how many of these "issues" would even be discussed if it weren't the era of 24-hour cable news... If the fundamentalists ever wake up to the fact that these networks are using their self-righteous indignation against them, they'll probably lighten up and start treating people with the same love and grace that Jesus personified. And that, friends, is what we call sarcasm. Actually, they'll just start their own CNN -- Christian News Network. I can see the bumper stickers now: God is my co-anchor.
Speaking of which, why haven't I seen "God is my wingman" yet? It's out there. You know it is.
Would it be so bad if we all just said our greeting of choice? I say Merry Christmas. You reply with Happy Kwanzaa. It's practically Han and Chewie, and that has to be good. And big retailers like Wal-Mart need to be honest with their greetings as well. Instead of Happy Holidays, their banners should read, "Celebrate your consumerism -- buy needless crap under the guise of religious observation." Okay, so it would look terrible on a banner, but Wal-Mart is not exactly known for their chic.
What an interesting Christma-, I mean, holiday season this has been. I don't see a problem with saying Happy Holidays as opposed to Merry Christmas -- many of us have done that for years. I always figured it encompassed the whole season from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. Plus, you never know if the person to whom you are speaking is Jewish or not. Okay, if someone has a bowl cut and a little mutton chop mustache and they walk around goose-stepping with a copy of Mein Kampf under one arm, chances are they aren't going to bum matches off you to light up the menorah. On the other hand, a guy named Moishe Feingold who owns a wholesale diamond concern isn't likely to know the lyrics to "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." Otherwise, play it safe.
The rub comes with businesses that have banned the word Christmas while being careful to include Hanukkah and Kwanzaa. (For those who still cling to the ancient Roman holiday of Saturnalia, you'd best subscribe to HBO, because that's the only place you're going to get some love.) I heard it suggested that if the Christmas tree must become a Holiday tree, then the menorah should become a Holiday candelabra. I like it.
Carrying the PC trend to the extreme, we must then rename every potentially offensive or exclusive holiday tradition. The dreidel becomes the "solstice spinner." Yule logs, mistletoe and lights on trees should be banned altogether due to their connections to the traditions of the Druids. (Just don't bring it up to your Druish friends. You know how those Drus are.)
Christmas stockings become celebratory decorative archaic footwear. Wreaths should be used only to show solidarity with Martha Stewart. But you have to make it yourself!
Even Santa Claus suggests a Catholic origin, so Winter Claus would be more appropriate. Some might suggest the use of SC's alter-ego, Kris Kringle. But it is derived from the German Krist Kindle, or Christ Child. That's more overtly Christian than the word Christmas itself. I should be sued by the ACLU for even typing it!
I wonder how many of these "issues" would even be discussed if it weren't the era of 24-hour cable news... If the fundamentalists ever wake up to the fact that these networks are using their self-righteous indignation against them, they'll probably lighten up and start treating people with the same love and grace that Jesus personified. And that, friends, is what we call sarcasm. Actually, they'll just start their own CNN -- Christian News Network. I can see the bumper stickers now: God is my co-anchor.
Speaking of which, why haven't I seen "God is my wingman" yet? It's out there. You know it is.
Would it be so bad if we all just said our greeting of choice? I say Merry Christmas. You reply with Happy Kwanzaa. It's practically Han and Chewie, and that has to be good. And big retailers like Wal-Mart need to be honest with their greetings as well. Instead of Happy Holidays, their banners should read, "Celebrate your consumerism -- buy needless crap under the guise of religious observation." Okay, so it would look terrible on a banner, but Wal-Mart is not exactly known for their chic.
Vital Stats
Cooper went in for his 2-month check up today. He's extremely healthy, and as previously mentioned -- big.
He's now 24 inches long and weighs 12 lbs, 10 oz. For comparison, Savannah weighed 12 lbs, 8 oz at four months. We've started working on his recruiting tapes for all the major football programs.
He is in the 95th percentile for height, 80th for weight and 50th for head size, which means that he's not as much of a hippo head as his old man. That also means that half of you are raising some seriously hydrocephalic babies.
He's now 24 inches long and weighs 12 lbs, 10 oz. For comparison, Savannah weighed 12 lbs, 8 oz at four months. We've started working on his recruiting tapes for all the major football programs.
He is in the 95th percentile for height, 80th for weight and 50th for head size, which means that he's not as much of a hippo head as his old man. That also means that half of you are raising some seriously hydrocephalic babies.
Monday, December 19, 2005
SNL Funny Again!
For the first time in I don't know when, I watched most of an episode of Saturday Night Live last weekend. And I actually laughed! Since Will Ferrell left a few years ago, the show had been left with the feeling of a high school skit. The cast members didn't sell their performances, they looked as if they didn't rehearse at all, they were so focused on the cue cards that they didn't bother making eye contact with the other actors in the sketches and the writing was terrible. Still there are lingering bits of all those symptoms, but the show was very funny.
Jack Black hosted, which made a difference. There was a great music video featuring two of the cast members doing a hard core rap about going to see "The Chronicles of Narnia." There were a handful of brilliant moments in the Christmas edition of what is a new regular sketch, "Appalachian Emergency Room." In true SNL fashion, one of the real gems of the show was buried right at the end. Suffice it to say this is the funniest Spelling Bee you'll ever see.
Jack Black hosted, which made a difference. There was a great music video featuring two of the cast members doing a hard core rap about going to see "The Chronicles of Narnia." There were a handful of brilliant moments in the Christmas edition of what is a new regular sketch, "Appalachian Emergency Room." In true SNL fashion, one of the real gems of the show was buried right at the end. Suffice it to say this is the funniest Spelling Bee you'll ever see.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Those People and the Missing Irony Gene, Pt II
In the previous post, I explained how we, the Franklins, almost became "those people" by taking our baby to the movies. In writing that post, I was reminded of a verbal shorthand that my friend, David Adams, and I have. It's the kind of ironic joking that, if overheard by someone who didn't know us, would sound an awful lot like intolerance. And even some people who know us would think the same.
That's the problem with being ironic -- there's always a large part of any audience that doesn't get. It's the very nature of irony. Before we go any further, let's be sure to define irony because there's a lot of confusion on this topic. Here are the definitions from dictionary.com:
First of all, notice there is no mention of coincidence being a form of irony. So when you meet two people named Jesus on the same day, it's not ironic -- not even if it's on Christmas. Meet a guy named Jesus who allows you to die for his own benefit, now that's irony.
In this case, the definition that's of most import is 1.c: A literary style employing such contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect.
When David and I are working or hanging out together, we often slip -- perhaps too easily -- into a style of discourse that is rarely not ironic. More often than not, the irony is a parody of racist, intolerant people. We'll use phrases like,"we ARE talking about THOSE people, afterall" and "you know how they are." The topic doesn't even have to be race. We could be talking about librarians or chipmunks or Armenian racecar drivers. But we have to be careful.
Unless you've been living under a rock, you know the world has been beset by a social plague known as political correctness for more than a decade now. In some cases, I think PC can be a good thing. Anybody with a brain knows that the N-word is cruel and inflammatory. Referring to your female co-workers as "dames," "broads" or "skirts" is a really bad idea. No one should be referred to as a "gimp" or a "mongoloid," even if they are from Mongolia. But a little PC goes a long way. The problem is we don't have just a little PC anymore -- it's choking our verbal and literary discourse to death.
Now, I was quick to embrace "African American." It seemed a reasonable phrase at the time, but it raises a lot of issues. What if the person you are talking about is from another country? Are they African Briton? African French? African South African? And now, the new PC term is "people of color." Kelli and I have spent years reproving our parents for saying "colored people." How in the world am I supposed to explain the difference? Many people have chosen to stick with the tried and true "black people." You and I both know that most people of African descent are not actually black, but I'm not actually white either. But you don't hear me clamoring to be called a "sickly pallid American" do you?
The other problem with irony is that there are far too many people who were born without the irony gene. I know there's no evidence of the irony gene in the Human Genome Project, but that's probably due to the fact that a bunch of humorless scientists ran the project and likely studied their own DNA. Try this as an experiment: go to dinner with a bunch of scientists and then say something like, "we can fake sending man to the moon, but we can't find a way to make a decent cup of coffee." Rather than smirks or chuckles, you'll probably get a table load of socially inept frowns. Then they'll no longer talk to you, but around you the way people awkwardly talk around the handi-capable or the height disadvantaged.
Speaking of which, you tell me which term is more demeaning: midget or little person? I think if I were of short stature and someone called me a "little person," I might have to... I don't know, whatever midgets do to kick some ass.
Those of us with the irony gene have a responsibility to use it, but to do so thoughtfully. In fact, I think we should all agree to only speak ironically around those who we know will understand it, out of sensitivity for those who are irony-challenged. And if you believe that last sentence, I think you have a gap in your genome.
That's the problem with being ironic -- there's always a large part of any audience that doesn't get. It's the very nature of irony. Before we go any further, let's be sure to define irony because there's a lot of confusion on this topic. Here are the definitions from dictionary.com:
1.a. The use of words to express something different from and often opposite to their literal meaning.
b. An expression or utterance marked by a deliberate contrast between apparent and intended meaning.
c. A literary style employing such contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect.
2.a. Incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs: “Hyde noted the irony of Ireland's copying the nation she most hated” (Richard Kain).
b. An occurrence, result, or circumstance notable for such incongruity. See Usage Note at ironic.
3. Dramatic irony.
4. Socratic irony.
First of all, notice there is no mention of coincidence being a form of irony. So when you meet two people named Jesus on the same day, it's not ironic -- not even if it's on Christmas. Meet a guy named Jesus who allows you to die for his own benefit, now that's irony.
In this case, the definition that's of most import is 1.c: A literary style employing such contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect.
When David and I are working or hanging out together, we often slip -- perhaps too easily -- into a style of discourse that is rarely not ironic. More often than not, the irony is a parody of racist, intolerant people. We'll use phrases like,"we ARE talking about THOSE people, afterall" and "you know how they are." The topic doesn't even have to be race. We could be talking about librarians or chipmunks or Armenian racecar drivers. But we have to be careful.
Unless you've been living under a rock, you know the world has been beset by a social plague known as political correctness for more than a decade now. In some cases, I think PC can be a good thing. Anybody with a brain knows that the N-word is cruel and inflammatory. Referring to your female co-workers as "dames," "broads" or "skirts" is a really bad idea. No one should be referred to as a "gimp" or a "mongoloid," even if they are from Mongolia. But a little PC goes a long way. The problem is we don't have just a little PC anymore -- it's choking our verbal and literary discourse to death.
Now, I was quick to embrace "African American." It seemed a reasonable phrase at the time, but it raises a lot of issues. What if the person you are talking about is from another country? Are they African Briton? African French? African South African? And now, the new PC term is "people of color." Kelli and I have spent years reproving our parents for saying "colored people." How in the world am I supposed to explain the difference? Many people have chosen to stick with the tried and true "black people." You and I both know that most people of African descent are not actually black, but I'm not actually white either. But you don't hear me clamoring to be called a "sickly pallid American" do you?
The other problem with irony is that there are far too many people who were born without the irony gene. I know there's no evidence of the irony gene in the Human Genome Project, but that's probably due to the fact that a bunch of humorless scientists ran the project and likely studied their own DNA. Try this as an experiment: go to dinner with a bunch of scientists and then say something like, "we can fake sending man to the moon, but we can't find a way to make a decent cup of coffee." Rather than smirks or chuckles, you'll probably get a table load of socially inept frowns. Then they'll no longer talk to you, but around you the way people awkwardly talk around the handi-capable or the height disadvantaged.
Speaking of which, you tell me which term is more demeaning: midget or little person? I think if I were of short stature and someone called me a "little person," I might have to... I don't know, whatever midgets do to kick some ass.
Those of us with the irony gene have a responsibility to use it, but to do so thoughtfully. In fact, I think we should all agree to only speak ironically around those who we know will understand it, out of sensitivity for those who are irony-challenged. And if you believe that last sentence, I think you have a gap in your genome.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Those People and the Missing Irony Gene, part I
On Friday, Kel and I took the kids to see "The Chronicles of Narnia." (Sorry for the quotes, but my browser won't let me italicize.) That's right, I said KIDS plural. We were dangerously close to being those people. You know the people I mean -- the ones who show up to Spiderman 2 with a three-year-old in tow. "Hey, little Johnny! How'd you like it when that mean man's robot arms dragged that screaming lady across the floor, and her fingernails dug grooves in the linoleum? I bet Dora the Explorer can't do that." And in 20 years, little Johnny's parents will wonder why he's sitting on death row for slaughtering nurses across a six-state area.
Then there are the parents who show up to Star Wars Episode I with their newborn. Still wonder exactly who or what the Phantom Menace is? It's that baby! He starts screaming about the time Jake Lloyd first appears on screen. Then Jake Lloyd tries to act. I start screaming. The baby keeps screaming throughout the rest of the film. His parents take turns trying to feed him, rock him -- nothing works.
Then they finally get smart. The dad picks the baby up and heads for the exit. Whew. That only took about an hour for them to figure out. But wait! He's not leaving! He's just walking a path along the landing between the stadium seats and steerage down in front -- just pacing back and forth trying to calm the baby down... In front of everyone! Thanks, buddy. I could almost ignore your scream box when it was confined to one spot in the theater, but now you have successfully pulled me and everyone else here out of the movie. In retrospect, I guess I should have thanked him, but still, it's the principal of the thing.
I remember back in the day there would be a moment in the exhibitor trailer (you know the badly animated preview where the stars in the sky pop like corn and the milky way turns into, well, a Milky Way just before the theatre chain's logo comes surfing in on a bitchin' wave of Coca-Cola products) when we were all reminded that "crying babies should be taken outside." I always thought that was a rather obvious point, and I resented the theatre chain for talking down to me that way. And for making me sit through their inane, four-minute candy and light show. Apparently, that point was not obvious, and no one should ever rely on the common sense of the American public. But I am not like those people. I remember.
So there we were on Friday. Kelli and Savannah to my left and Cooper, with his baby carrier balanced between two armrests, to my right. We were officially white trash. We got there really early so we could settle in ahead of everyone else. It was a midday showing, so we were hoping to avoid a crowd. We fed Cooper and changed his diaper, hoping to provide him with maximum comfort. After all, Cooper is most concerned with his comfort. He was relaxed and quiet. So far, so good. And besides, if he started to cry, I knew exactly what to do -- hand him to Kelli and tell her to take his butt outside.
The crowd started to show. Two by two they came like an all-human Noah's ark. There were two comfortably well-off retirees, two goth nerds, two middle income parents with their two little girls, two uptight fundamentalists, two more uptight fundamentalists, two teenagers -- hey, wait, this is a school day! -- two apparently home-schooled teenagers, then. And each one, to a person, looked at us as if we had killed Jesus, shot Reagan and canceled "Touched by an Angel." (You see, they were mostly Christians. That is if you believe the media hype. I don't, but it is a funny image. Oh come on, do I have to draw you a diagram? Sheesh!)
As the theatre was approaching 75% capacity, a projector bloomed to life and we learned that the cheesy trivia/commercial/billboard still-frame slideshow had been replaced with a full-motion digital trivia/commercial/billboard slideshow -- still cheesy. But now there are goofy cartoons in between the ads. I love goofy cartoons! Cooper was calm. There were goofy cartoons and all the fundies in the theatre were restrained from killing us only because of their behaviorialist hang-ups. All was right with the world.
Then the trailers started. And so did Cooper. Crap! He still doesn't cry very loud, but his impeccable timing means that his whining and grunting our loudest in the quiet spaces of the trailers. Hell! Crap! What am I going to do? I read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" to Savannah over the summer, and we've been looking forward to this all year. He's getting louder. Crap! Hell! Crap! Maybe he's hungry again. I try to give him the little bit of formula left in his bottle. He rejects it. Hell! Hell! Crappity Crap! I have to send Kelli out to check his diaper. But I can't make Kelli leave. She has all the candy. Crap! Bugger! Double crap!
I pick him up out of his carrier. He's still fussy. I cradle him facing me so I can talk to him. No good. The fundies in the back are scaring him. I think one of them said something about the plagues of Egypt. The joke's on him, though. Cooper's not my firstborn. Ha! Ha! Semi-liberal Presbyterians: 1. Freedom-hating Fundies: 0.
So I turn Coop around, laying him back against my chest. Now he's facing the screen. Quiet. He's not grunting. He's not whining. No crying either. I look at him to make sure he's still breathing. His eyes are glazed over as if in a daze. The screen! He's transfixed by the images on the screen! He wasn't hungry or dirty or wet. He wanted to watch the movie. He's a cineaste! Now I can let the UPS guy out of his holding cell in my basement -- this truly is my child!
This is an opportunity not to missed or taken lightly. My child is a prodigy. At less than seven weeks old, he is showing a deep interest in the cinema. I start to whisper to him the more basic points about the art form. I explain to him the difference in aspect ratios and how widescreen was invented to combat the threat of television in the 50s. I talk to him about persistence of vision, suspension of disbelief, mise-en-scene, editing, sound, the evolution of special effects, the importance of a good cinematographer and the underappreciated role of the screen writer.
He starts grunting again. Oh, no, I've lost him! I pushed too hard! I've turned him against me. Now he'll hate the cinema and everyone involved in it. He'll resent me and my love of the popular arts. He'll embrace radical, outdated means of storytelling like books and painting, opera and theatre. Not theatre! He's become one of those people -- the movie haters! I've ruined my boy!
I lean close to start the damage control. I listen closely. He's not grunting. He's snoring. What a relief! Sure, I'm disappointed that he fell asleep in what was supposed to be a moment of unadulterated joy and excitement, but it's not the first time I've gotten this reaction. And now Kelli can let the babysitter out of her cell -- this truly is her son after all.
Next time, I'll explain the function of the irony gene.
Then there are the parents who show up to Star Wars Episode I with their newborn. Still wonder exactly who or what the Phantom Menace is? It's that baby! He starts screaming about the time Jake Lloyd first appears on screen. Then Jake Lloyd tries to act. I start screaming. The baby keeps screaming throughout the rest of the film. His parents take turns trying to feed him, rock him -- nothing works.
Then they finally get smart. The dad picks the baby up and heads for the exit. Whew. That only took about an hour for them to figure out. But wait! He's not leaving! He's just walking a path along the landing between the stadium seats and steerage down in front -- just pacing back and forth trying to calm the baby down... In front of everyone! Thanks, buddy. I could almost ignore your scream box when it was confined to one spot in the theater, but now you have successfully pulled me and everyone else here out of the movie. In retrospect, I guess I should have thanked him, but still, it's the principal of the thing.
I remember back in the day there would be a moment in the exhibitor trailer (you know the badly animated preview where the stars in the sky pop like corn and the milky way turns into, well, a Milky Way just before the theatre chain's logo comes surfing in on a bitchin' wave of Coca-Cola products) when we were all reminded that "crying babies should be taken outside." I always thought that was a rather obvious point, and I resented the theatre chain for talking down to me that way. And for making me sit through their inane, four-minute candy and light show. Apparently, that point was not obvious, and no one should ever rely on the common sense of the American public. But I am not like those people. I remember.
So there we were on Friday. Kelli and Savannah to my left and Cooper, with his baby carrier balanced between two armrests, to my right. We were officially white trash. We got there really early so we could settle in ahead of everyone else. It was a midday showing, so we were hoping to avoid a crowd. We fed Cooper and changed his diaper, hoping to provide him with maximum comfort. After all, Cooper is most concerned with his comfort. He was relaxed and quiet. So far, so good. And besides, if he started to cry, I knew exactly what to do -- hand him to Kelli and tell her to take his butt outside.
The crowd started to show. Two by two they came like an all-human Noah's ark. There were two comfortably well-off retirees, two goth nerds, two middle income parents with their two little girls, two uptight fundamentalists, two more uptight fundamentalists, two teenagers -- hey, wait, this is a school day! -- two apparently home-schooled teenagers, then. And each one, to a person, looked at us as if we had killed Jesus, shot Reagan and canceled "Touched by an Angel." (You see, they were mostly Christians. That is if you believe the media hype. I don't, but it is a funny image. Oh come on, do I have to draw you a diagram? Sheesh!)
As the theatre was approaching 75% capacity, a projector bloomed to life and we learned that the cheesy trivia/commercial/billboard still-frame slideshow had been replaced with a full-motion digital trivia/commercial/billboard slideshow -- still cheesy. But now there are goofy cartoons in between the ads. I love goofy cartoons! Cooper was calm. There were goofy cartoons and all the fundies in the theatre were restrained from killing us only because of their behaviorialist hang-ups. All was right with the world.
Then the trailers started. And so did Cooper. Crap! He still doesn't cry very loud, but his impeccable timing means that his whining and grunting our loudest in the quiet spaces of the trailers. Hell! Crap! What am I going to do? I read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" to Savannah over the summer, and we've been looking forward to this all year. He's getting louder. Crap! Hell! Crap! Maybe he's hungry again. I try to give him the little bit of formula left in his bottle. He rejects it. Hell! Hell! Crappity Crap! I have to send Kelli out to check his diaper. But I can't make Kelli leave. She has all the candy. Crap! Bugger! Double crap!
I pick him up out of his carrier. He's still fussy. I cradle him facing me so I can talk to him. No good. The fundies in the back are scaring him. I think one of them said something about the plagues of Egypt. The joke's on him, though. Cooper's not my firstborn. Ha! Ha! Semi-liberal Presbyterians: 1. Freedom-hating Fundies: 0.
So I turn Coop around, laying him back against my chest. Now he's facing the screen. Quiet. He's not grunting. He's not whining. No crying either. I look at him to make sure he's still breathing. His eyes are glazed over as if in a daze. The screen! He's transfixed by the images on the screen! He wasn't hungry or dirty or wet. He wanted to watch the movie. He's a cineaste! Now I can let the UPS guy out of his holding cell in my basement -- this truly is my child!
This is an opportunity not to missed or taken lightly. My child is a prodigy. At less than seven weeks old, he is showing a deep interest in the cinema. I start to whisper to him the more basic points about the art form. I explain to him the difference in aspect ratios and how widescreen was invented to combat the threat of television in the 50s. I talk to him about persistence of vision, suspension of disbelief, mise-en-scene, editing, sound, the evolution of special effects, the importance of a good cinematographer and the underappreciated role of the screen writer.
He starts grunting again. Oh, no, I've lost him! I pushed too hard! I've turned him against me. Now he'll hate the cinema and everyone involved in it. He'll resent me and my love of the popular arts. He'll embrace radical, outdated means of storytelling like books and painting, opera and theatre. Not theatre! He's become one of those people -- the movie haters! I've ruined my boy!
I lean close to start the damage control. I listen closely. He's not grunting. He's snoring. What a relief! Sure, I'm disappointed that he fell asleep in what was supposed to be a moment of unadulterated joy and excitement, but it's not the first time I've gotten this reaction. And now Kelli can let the babysitter out of her cell -- this truly is her son after all.
Next time, I'll explain the function of the irony gene.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Take this faux European design and shove it!
Kelli and I are doing some long-range planning for our housing. Our plan, crazy as it sounds to some, is to pay off all of our debts, then save up a substantial down payment for a lot. Eventually, we will build on that lot, hopefully a home that we design ourselves.
We've got our eyes on a 20±acre estate lot in the Sterrett/Vandiver area. That would allow us to have horses, which would then cause Savannah to have some sort of fit. I'd really like to build a green house (as opposed to a greenhouse) that is environmentally friendly, low in chemical off-gassing (Cooper and I can handle all the off-gassing, thank you,) built primarily of renewable and recycled materials and with a cool, modern design.
I get aggravated with all of these subdivisions and their covenants. I know they are designed to maintain a certain level of aesthetic beauty, cleanliness, architectural continuity and general non-white-trashiness. I can understand that. Nobody wants some alcoholic with a dozen broken-down old cars in the back yard parked around a dilapidated tin shed cum chicken coop. Believe me, I know. That pretty much describes our next door neighbor when I was growing up. But I have a disrespect for authority, and someone else's continuity is my totalitarian uniformity.
Plus, architecture has always evolved based upon available technology. That being the case, why does everyone want a house that looks like it was built 200 years ago? Traditional homes and building methods result in huge amounts of construction waste which crowd our landfills and push up housing costs. And they're often boring. Look at the house we're in -- it's just a cracker box turned on end with some brick slapped on the front. There's a difference between simplicity of design and lack of design.
To that end, check out these sites that feature some pretty innovative, modern design styles:
Live Modern
FabPrefab
the weeHouse
glide house
And for those of you who need to fit a house in a very small space, the micro compact home.
We've got our eyes on a 20±acre estate lot in the Sterrett/Vandiver area. That would allow us to have horses, which would then cause Savannah to have some sort of fit. I'd really like to build a green house (as opposed to a greenhouse) that is environmentally friendly, low in chemical off-gassing (Cooper and I can handle all the off-gassing, thank you,) built primarily of renewable and recycled materials and with a cool, modern design.
I get aggravated with all of these subdivisions and their covenants. I know they are designed to maintain a certain level of aesthetic beauty, cleanliness, architectural continuity and general non-white-trashiness. I can understand that. Nobody wants some alcoholic with a dozen broken-down old cars in the back yard parked around a dilapidated tin shed cum chicken coop. Believe me, I know. That pretty much describes our next door neighbor when I was growing up. But I have a disrespect for authority, and someone else's continuity is my totalitarian uniformity.
Plus, architecture has always evolved based upon available technology. That being the case, why does everyone want a house that looks like it was built 200 years ago? Traditional homes and building methods result in huge amounts of construction waste which crowd our landfills and push up housing costs. And they're often boring. Look at the house we're in -- it's just a cracker box turned on end with some brick slapped on the front. There's a difference between simplicity of design and lack of design.
To that end, check out these sites that feature some pretty innovative, modern design styles:
Live Modern
FabPrefab
the weeHouse
glide house
And for those of you who need to fit a house in a very small space, the micro compact home.
Hell Freezes Over!
My good college buddy, Jerrod Brown, got married over the weekend. The wedding was a simple affair at Tannehill State Park's old country church. The celebration was marked by the release of one dozen flying pigs and guests were invited to ice skate in Hell following the reception.
Jerrod's new bride, Shalon, is a very special woman. Now, I've only met her once prior to the wedding, but if she married Jerrod, she has to be pretty special. They basically catered the reception themselves, serving their guests a feast of turkey, dressing and assorted veggies. The groom's cake was instead an assortment of cheesecakes -- an idea that should sound awfully familiar to anyone who attended our wedding.
Another similarity to our wedding was in the vows -- they wrote their own. That is, they re-wrote ours to create their own. (Jerrod was the minister in our wedding. Old friend Bill Morrison was also there and he performed my first wedding. I used the opportunity to scout a minister for wife #3.) I haven't called Jerrod on it, yet, but I'm not even sure he realizes they were the ones we used. It'd be pretty cool if our vows caught on and became an alternate standard.
The best man, old pal Edwin, and I stole away with Kelli to do some dec'ratin' on the car they were using to leave town. It was pretty standard stuff--writing on the windows, shrink-wrapping the car to make opening the doors especially tough, condoms blown up as balloons on the antenna, Vick's vapo-rub in the grille to clear out their sinuses as they drove. We also put together a little "love kit" for them. It was mostly standard stuff, except for a few touches like a pack of Red Bull energy drink (Edwin's idea,) a 20-pack of Energizer batteries for the "personal massager" and a Barry White CD.
Jerrod's planning for the wedding, it turns out, was a weird hybrid of meticulous and haphazard. He asked Ronnie Brewer, our old campus minister from college to perform the ceremony, but Jerrod completely scripted every word and moment himself. On the flipside, he never even spoke directly to Ronnie. He just sent him two e-mails with his ceremony plan, and that didn't even happen until a month prior to the wedding. He asked Edwin to be in the wedding party, but didn't tell him he was best man until the rehearsal. Edwin didn't even get an invitation!
It all came off beautifully, though. It was simple and thoughtful and reflected the personalities of the couple.
The best part of the weekend for me was catching up with old friends. The worst part was not getting to spend more time with them than we did. To paraphrase a toast I gave at Paige and Chris' wedding, "here's to Jerrod and Shalon: may they trust in God and lean on friends through all of life's comings and goings, and as they grow older, may the comings be frequent and the goings regular!"
--------------------------------------------------------
On a more somber note, our dear friend Missy Leonard lost her grandmother to leukemia this weekend. They were very close. Our prayers are with Luke, Missy and her family.
Jerrod's new bride, Shalon, is a very special woman. Now, I've only met her once prior to the wedding, but if she married Jerrod, she has to be pretty special. They basically catered the reception themselves, serving their guests a feast of turkey, dressing and assorted veggies. The groom's cake was instead an assortment of cheesecakes -- an idea that should sound awfully familiar to anyone who attended our wedding.
Another similarity to our wedding was in the vows -- they wrote their own. That is, they re-wrote ours to create their own. (Jerrod was the minister in our wedding. Old friend Bill Morrison was also there and he performed my first wedding. I used the opportunity to scout a minister for wife #3.) I haven't called Jerrod on it, yet, but I'm not even sure he realizes they were the ones we used. It'd be pretty cool if our vows caught on and became an alternate standard.
The best man, old pal Edwin, and I stole away with Kelli to do some dec'ratin' on the car they were using to leave town. It was pretty standard stuff--writing on the windows, shrink-wrapping the car to make opening the doors especially tough, condoms blown up as balloons on the antenna, Vick's vapo-rub in the grille to clear out their sinuses as they drove. We also put together a little "love kit" for them. It was mostly standard stuff, except for a few touches like a pack of Red Bull energy drink (Edwin's idea,) a 20-pack of Energizer batteries for the "personal massager" and a Barry White CD.
Jerrod's planning for the wedding, it turns out, was a weird hybrid of meticulous and haphazard. He asked Ronnie Brewer, our old campus minister from college to perform the ceremony, but Jerrod completely scripted every word and moment himself. On the flipside, he never even spoke directly to Ronnie. He just sent him two e-mails with his ceremony plan, and that didn't even happen until a month prior to the wedding. He asked Edwin to be in the wedding party, but didn't tell him he was best man until the rehearsal. Edwin didn't even get an invitation!
It all came off beautifully, though. It was simple and thoughtful and reflected the personalities of the couple.
The best part of the weekend for me was catching up with old friends. The worst part was not getting to spend more time with them than we did. To paraphrase a toast I gave at Paige and Chris' wedding, "here's to Jerrod and Shalon: may they trust in God and lean on friends through all of life's comings and goings, and as they grow older, may the comings be frequent and the goings regular!"
--------------------------------------------------------
On a more somber note, our dear friend Missy Leonard lost her grandmother to leukemia this weekend. They were very close. Our prayers are with Luke, Missy and her family.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
A New House for You (and a few dozen of your friends)
I know many of our friends are looking to move up to a bigger house, a nicer neighborhood, maybe a little more land. We'd like to eventually get a place where we can have some horses. Well, unless you've been concealing a secret (very wealthy) identity from me, this is not the house for you. If you can afford it, we need to talk about some very exciting business opportunities in the television and film industry.
Does anyone here can't Breastfeed?!
Okay, the title of this post has nothing to do with the subject matter, but I saw that on one of Kelli's parenting boards and I couldn't resist. I'm not sure what sort or grammatical structure governs a sentence like that, but I like it! It's better than Yoda-speak, which very tiresome has become. Now, I do Moving on to the post I have can Write.
Cooper is going to eat us into bankruptcy. If it's not bad enough that the kid always seems to choose the 4-7am window to exercise his colon (usually to no avail,) he is now eating every two hours! We're going to bump him up from four to six ounces per feeding, and see what that does. If it doesn't work, he's going out to live with the dog. I'm still convinced we can get a research grant for that kind of thing.
It's gotten so that if we want to accomplish anything, we must leave the house to do it. The narcotic effect of the car does work on him -- it's like baby Kryptonite, baby crack and baby snake oil all rolled into one. Baby too fussy? Take a drive. Baby not sleeping enough? Load 'em up in the family sedan. Baby sleeping too much? Also the car. Baby screaming in tongues and levitating six feet off the floor? Lasso it, strap it into the car seat, fill the radiator with holy water and go for a drive... Then leave it on the doorstep of a monastery far, far away.
Savannah's a bit of a nut job, fluttering from sweet and considerate to obstinate, manic and crude. She has boundless energy these days, and it's tough to get her settled down for bed at night. She got in some trouble last week, and we told her we were taking back one of her Christmas gifts. This was a gift she had accidentally found, mind you. She was very upset about this punishment, so she decided to take it to the Big Man -- Santa. This is the same girl who screamed her head off two years ago in her Santa photo op and flat refused to see the JOE (Jolly Old Elf) last year. Now she was itching to go.
Last night we took the kids (that still sounds weird) to the mall to meet the man himself. Savannah was not only willing, but excited to do the photo. Then she stuck around to make sure she got the list to Santa: Barbie House, Barbie Castle, some horsies and the Barbie Pegasus movie. The last one was most important -- that's what we were going to take back. We'll see if Santa sees fit to bring it himself...
The adjustment from one kid to two has been a little tougher than I would have hoped, but thankfully I'm light on work right now. My exhaustion stumbles on. Earlier, I almost spread baby formula all over the counter top and put Clorox kitchen wipes in the baby's bottle. We're double-teaming this challenge and, in time, it'll get better. Until then, I'll keep surviving on caffeine and prayer.
Cooper is going to eat us into bankruptcy. If it's not bad enough that the kid always seems to choose the 4-7am window to exercise his colon (usually to no avail,) he is now eating every two hours! We're going to bump him up from four to six ounces per feeding, and see what that does. If it doesn't work, he's going out to live with the dog. I'm still convinced we can get a research grant for that kind of thing.
It's gotten so that if we want to accomplish anything, we must leave the house to do it. The narcotic effect of the car does work on him -- it's like baby Kryptonite, baby crack and baby snake oil all rolled into one. Baby too fussy? Take a drive. Baby not sleeping enough? Load 'em up in the family sedan. Baby sleeping too much? Also the car. Baby screaming in tongues and levitating six feet off the floor? Lasso it, strap it into the car seat, fill the radiator with holy water and go for a drive... Then leave it on the doorstep of a monastery far, far away.
Savannah's a bit of a nut job, fluttering from sweet and considerate to obstinate, manic and crude. She has boundless energy these days, and it's tough to get her settled down for bed at night. She got in some trouble last week, and we told her we were taking back one of her Christmas gifts. This was a gift she had accidentally found, mind you. She was very upset about this punishment, so she decided to take it to the Big Man -- Santa. This is the same girl who screamed her head off two years ago in her Santa photo op and flat refused to see the JOE (Jolly Old Elf) last year. Now she was itching to go.
Last night we took the kids (that still sounds weird) to the mall to meet the man himself. Savannah was not only willing, but excited to do the photo. Then she stuck around to make sure she got the list to Santa: Barbie House, Barbie Castle, some horsies and the Barbie Pegasus movie. The last one was most important -- that's what we were going to take back. We'll see if Santa sees fit to bring it himself...
The adjustment from one kid to two has been a little tougher than I would have hoped, but thankfully I'm light on work right now. My exhaustion stumbles on. Earlier, I almost spread baby formula all over the counter top and put Clorox kitchen wipes in the baby's bottle. We're double-teaming this challenge and, in time, it'll get better. Until then, I'll keep surviving on caffeine and prayer.
Monday, December 05, 2005
But do Electric Sheep Dream of Androids?
Okay, this new-baby-lack-of-sleep thing is getting old. Last night I handled Coop's 2:30 and 6:30am feedings. The feedings themselves weren't so bad, but the kid is so bound up (I am no longer using the term Gershon'd -- that is so November...) that he spent most of the night grunting and straining like one of those little midget Greek powerlifters in the Olympics. Needless to say, it's tough to sleep through that. On the upside, his clean-and-jerk is up to about 260 kilos.
This period with Savannah was so much easier, because we didn't have an older child to care for everyday. That meant if work was light (and boy was it!) that we could sleep in every morning. Not so right now. Sleep or no, we've got a four-year-old in our faces every morning clamoring for cartoons and chocolate milk. With this lack of sleep, Kelli and I are getting very... shall we say, terse? Our temptation is to say to Savannah, "aren't you able to get yourself fed, dressed and drive yourself to school, yet? What? You're only four? Well, that's no excuse!"
We're so edgy, I got mad at Santa Claus last night while watching "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." It's that part at the end -- you know, when Santa's off his Zoloft and has developed an eating disorder -- when the fog has rolled in over the North Pole, and Santa decides that Christmas should be cancelled. What? There's never been fog at the North Pole before? It's covered with ice! If the temperature gets above about ten below, there's going to be fog.
So, Santa makes his declaration in the movie, and suddenly I imagine myself as the lone disgruntled elf: "Cancelled? Son of a b****! You mean I just wasted a whole year of my life for nothing? You know what this? You know what it is, old man? It's the four P's -- Piss-Poor Prior Planning! Have you ever thought of, oh I don't know, HEADLIGHTS!? I tell you what, Karen Carpenter, give me the suit. Give me the suit and that stupid hat and I'll deliver the toys myself. If I crash and burn, who cares? Because I'm just an elf, and apparently my whole life's work means nothing, if you can just come waltzing in here and call off the whole thing on a whim. One day! That's all you have to do is work one day, but no! I guess that's too much for you. No, I tell you what: keep the suit, keep the hat and keep your nasty livestock -- who should not be in here where we're eating, by the way -- keep 'em all, because I quit. I'm going back to the lodge, and you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to knock back about a dozen egg nog shooters, and then I'm going to build a hot tub. Any elfettes with no morals and low self-esteem are welcome to join me. Blinky out!"
The sleep deprivation is not only affecting my mood. During the feedings last night, I decided to take that time to do some praying. That's a good thing, right? I've been spending some time in Bible study every night before bed and so the next step is to add in some prayer time. Except, it didn't go quite the way I had planned. It started off normally enough. I prayed for family and friends, for wisdom in running our business, for those dealing with health problems and those generally going through a hard time in life. How nice.
Then I started getting weary and the real motives of my heart were revealed as my consciousness waned, and those motives were selfish at worst and just plain weird at best. It started with money -- it always starts with money. I prayed that God's will would be done in our finances -- and it just so happens that I know his will is for us to be butt-stinking rich. I told God that I knew the world would be a better place if we were rich. People would be healthier, wars would cease and everyone would have good taste in both personal and home fashions. The world would finally be perfect. Plus, as a bonus, I could buy whatever I want, and really, who doesn't want that for me?
Next, I prayed that God would reveal to Kelli the wisdom of polygamy. After all, the prohibition against it in the Bible applies only to deacons. Let's face it, I'm no deacon. Clearly life would be easier with two wives -- built-in babysitting whenever I needed to take one of the ladies out on a date, a good split of household duties and somebody they could complain about me too without even having to pick up the phone. So I prayed that God would impart this wisdom to Kelli. And I prayed that he would impart it to Jennifer Love Hewitt at the same time.
From there, things took a turn from just plain selfish to the absurdly selfish. I prayed that I would be abducted by aliens. This is an old one for me. We're not talking the missing time, you-never-buy-me-dinner-before-you-probe-me kind of abduction. In my version, wowed by my rapier wit and superior intellect, the aliens would use me as the subject of their most ambitious human sociology study to date. They would, using their painless alien technology, morph me into the perfect man -- muscle definition, perfect teeth, 20/15 vision, nine percent body fat and cheek bones so high that Sir Edmund Hillary would weep that he had never conquered them. Then they would place me back into society to see how my life would change based solely upon my appearance. After a year, when I had conquered the worlds of big business and high society; once I had more wealth than is imaginable and when J-Love had become my second wife, the aliens and I would hang out in the hot tub and laugh about the vanity of man. We might even invite some happening elves to join us.
Then Cooper grunted and strained, snapping me out of my absurd prayer-dream. Then I prayed a real, heart-felt prayer -- that this baby would go to sleep so I could do the same.
This period with Savannah was so much easier, because we didn't have an older child to care for everyday. That meant if work was light (and boy was it!) that we could sleep in every morning. Not so right now. Sleep or no, we've got a four-year-old in our faces every morning clamoring for cartoons and chocolate milk. With this lack of sleep, Kelli and I are getting very... shall we say, terse? Our temptation is to say to Savannah, "aren't you able to get yourself fed, dressed and drive yourself to school, yet? What? You're only four? Well, that's no excuse!"
We're so edgy, I got mad at Santa Claus last night while watching "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." It's that part at the end -- you know, when Santa's off his Zoloft and has developed an eating disorder -- when the fog has rolled in over the North Pole, and Santa decides that Christmas should be cancelled. What? There's never been fog at the North Pole before? It's covered with ice! If the temperature gets above about ten below, there's going to be fog.
So, Santa makes his declaration in the movie, and suddenly I imagine myself as the lone disgruntled elf: "Cancelled? Son of a b****! You mean I just wasted a whole year of my life for nothing? You know what this? You know what it is, old man? It's the four P's -- Piss-Poor Prior Planning! Have you ever thought of, oh I don't know, HEADLIGHTS!? I tell you what, Karen Carpenter, give me the suit. Give me the suit and that stupid hat and I'll deliver the toys myself. If I crash and burn, who cares? Because I'm just an elf, and apparently my whole life's work means nothing, if you can just come waltzing in here and call off the whole thing on a whim. One day! That's all you have to do is work one day, but no! I guess that's too much for you. No, I tell you what: keep the suit, keep the hat and keep your nasty livestock -- who should not be in here where we're eating, by the way -- keep 'em all, because I quit. I'm going back to the lodge, and you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to knock back about a dozen egg nog shooters, and then I'm going to build a hot tub. Any elfettes with no morals and low self-esteem are welcome to join me. Blinky out!"
The sleep deprivation is not only affecting my mood. During the feedings last night, I decided to take that time to do some praying. That's a good thing, right? I've been spending some time in Bible study every night before bed and so the next step is to add in some prayer time. Except, it didn't go quite the way I had planned. It started off normally enough. I prayed for family and friends, for wisdom in running our business, for those dealing with health problems and those generally going through a hard time in life. How nice.
Then I started getting weary and the real motives of my heart were revealed as my consciousness waned, and those motives were selfish at worst and just plain weird at best. It started with money -- it always starts with money. I prayed that God's will would be done in our finances -- and it just so happens that I know his will is for us to be butt-stinking rich. I told God that I knew the world would be a better place if we were rich. People would be healthier, wars would cease and everyone would have good taste in both personal and home fashions. The world would finally be perfect. Plus, as a bonus, I could buy whatever I want, and really, who doesn't want that for me?
Next, I prayed that God would reveal to Kelli the wisdom of polygamy. After all, the prohibition against it in the Bible applies only to deacons. Let's face it, I'm no deacon. Clearly life would be easier with two wives -- built-in babysitting whenever I needed to take one of the ladies out on a date, a good split of household duties and somebody they could complain about me too without even having to pick up the phone. So I prayed that God would impart this wisdom to Kelli. And I prayed that he would impart it to Jennifer Love Hewitt at the same time.
From there, things took a turn from just plain selfish to the absurdly selfish. I prayed that I would be abducted by aliens. This is an old one for me. We're not talking the missing time, you-never-buy-me-dinner-before-you-probe-me kind of abduction. In my version, wowed by my rapier wit and superior intellect, the aliens would use me as the subject of their most ambitious human sociology study to date. They would, using their painless alien technology, morph me into the perfect man -- muscle definition, perfect teeth, 20/15 vision, nine percent body fat and cheek bones so high that Sir Edmund Hillary would weep that he had never conquered them. Then they would place me back into society to see how my life would change based solely upon my appearance. After a year, when I had conquered the worlds of big business and high society; once I had more wealth than is imaginable and when J-Love had become my second wife, the aliens and I would hang out in the hot tub and laugh about the vanity of man. We might even invite some happening elves to join us.
Then Cooper grunted and strained, snapping me out of my absurd prayer-dream. Then I prayed a real, heart-felt prayer -- that this baby would go to sleep so I could do the same.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
New Pics 11-30-05
The grandparents on Thanksgiving.
Here's one of my cousin Hyrum's wife, Allie -- well, at least her shirt -- holding Cooper. (Thanks to Hyrum for letting me snag these from his blog.)
Savannah takes a turn at feeding Hyrum and Allie's son, Ian. (Yeah, that's a helmet. The way Ian eats is apparently an extreme sport.)
Big sis and lil' bro.
Savvi makes her brother smile.
A couple with my maternal grandmother, Elsie Scott. She rode up with my cousin, Josh -- Hyrum's brother -- a couple of weeks ago. This was her first time to see the Coopster.
Here's one of my cousin Hyrum's wife, Allie -- well, at least her shirt -- holding Cooper. (Thanks to Hyrum for letting me snag these from his blog.)
Savannah takes a turn at feeding Hyrum and Allie's son, Ian. (Yeah, that's a helmet. The way Ian eats is apparently an extreme sport.)
Big sis and lil' bro.
Savvi makes her brother smile.
A couple with my maternal grandmother, Elsie Scott. She rode up with my cousin, Josh -- Hyrum's brother -- a couple of weeks ago. This was her first time to see the Coopster.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
What's New with the Fam
Okay, I don't know if I've updated on some of these topics lately, and I'm too lazy to go back and look, so here goes:
Cooper -- We took him to the doctor last week for something (I think it was his ongoing Gershon issues and his congestion.) Anyway, they weighed him and he was 10 lbs, 6 oz. That's up 22 ounces in two weeks! We had noticed he was getting noticeably heavier, but even we were surprised by that number. The weight is nicely distributed, though. He has definitely gotten longer (taller,) but we don't know exactly how much. Unlike his sister at the same age, he is staying closer to the Winston end of the Churchill-Shriver scale -- his cheeks are wider than his head at any other point, and he still has a nice collection of chins going.
He's not as low maintenance as the kid in the NICU who didn't even cry when King Peter lost his crown. First of all, he's almost always hungry. And when he's ready to eat, he loses any semblance of a sense of humor. Once, I made the mistake of not getting him his bottle right when he wanted it, and I got my hand too close to his mouth. I know babies aren't supposed to eat meat at this age, but somebody forgot to tell Cooper that, because he was going for a finger sandwich. I think any other cranky behavior is due to the Gershon.
The cool thing about him is how sweet he is most of the time. He still sleeps a lot, but whenever he wakes, he typically spends the first several minutes smiling at us. This morning, something I said or did made him do a sort of giggle that was so cute I forgot how little sleep I had gotten. He also has a knack for smiling at me whenever I pretend to fuss at him. I think this is going to be his strategy for getting out of trouble -- winning 'em over with cute.
The Fridge -- In case I didn't mention it earlier, Sears fixed the fridge just in time for Thanksgiving.
The Car -- After spending over a thousand bucks on repairs, I worked with my dad for a couple of days to finish the repairs and get the engine purring again.
Thanksgiving -- Did I mention a thousand dollars spent on car repair? And the fact that I spent Friday and Saturday working on the car? It was, as usual, not a good Thanksgiving. That morning, my dad -- influenced by his negative experiences working for car dealerships -- decided that we had paid all that money for them to do no work at all. He shared this sentiment with Kelli, which put her in a great mood. She shared her mood with me. True to form, I overreacted and managed to piss her off, piss my dad off and ruin my day all within a span of a few minutes. (And I wonder why I have so many ex-clients and so few current clients...)
On top of all that, we decided to order our meal this year. We thought we were getting fresh, deli-cooked food. Instead, we got pre-packaged, factory food -- including a pre-cooked turkey. Overall, it was pretty terrible. What's worse is that I could have spent my day cooking, and it would have put me in better spirits. Instead, I just sat around watching football all day with nothing better to do.
I've officially sworn off this holiday in its traditional form. Next year, Disney World!
Work -- I've spent the better part of the last week working with my friend Chris Tomberlin at his company, Outpost Pictures. It was cool working with Chris again. I've got a pretty large project for the old alma mater coming up soon.
Kelli -- She's beautiful, sweet, strong and sexy. What else is there to say? I'm the luckiest man in the world! Last week, we celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. It was pretty low key with a new baby, but we at least got to go to the movies, which is a rarity these days. Kel's trying to put a few pounds back on. The rapid weight loss took a toll on her, and she's ready to get back to normal.
Savannah -- She's beautiful and sweet as always. She's still crazy about her brother and is always in his face. She really enjoyed her time with her grandparents last week. She also got to see her 8-month-old cousin (actually, 2nd cousin) Ian. She was enamored of him and kept him smiling and laughing most of the time. She actually got to feed him, which I missed unfortunately. I hear it was quite the adventure. Savvi's really into learning how to read now, and is sounding out words all the time. She'll be reading very well by the time she starts Kindergarten.
Health -- Kelli and I are getting back on the Body-for-Life bandwagon starting tomorrow. I don't know if she's going to do the workouts or not, but I'm going full bore. I'll start a new blog tomorrow with my current measurements, my goals and the sheer humiliation of my before photos. Don't eat for at least an hour prior to viewing.
Cooper -- We took him to the doctor last week for something (I think it was his ongoing Gershon issues and his congestion.) Anyway, they weighed him and he was 10 lbs, 6 oz. That's up 22 ounces in two weeks! We had noticed he was getting noticeably heavier, but even we were surprised by that number. The weight is nicely distributed, though. He has definitely gotten longer (taller,) but we don't know exactly how much. Unlike his sister at the same age, he is staying closer to the Winston end of the Churchill-Shriver scale -- his cheeks are wider than his head at any other point, and he still has a nice collection of chins going.
He's not as low maintenance as the kid in the NICU who didn't even cry when King Peter lost his crown. First of all, he's almost always hungry. And when he's ready to eat, he loses any semblance of a sense of humor. Once, I made the mistake of not getting him his bottle right when he wanted it, and I got my hand too close to his mouth. I know babies aren't supposed to eat meat at this age, but somebody forgot to tell Cooper that, because he was going for a finger sandwich. I think any other cranky behavior is due to the Gershon.
The cool thing about him is how sweet he is most of the time. He still sleeps a lot, but whenever he wakes, he typically spends the first several minutes smiling at us. This morning, something I said or did made him do a sort of giggle that was so cute I forgot how little sleep I had gotten. He also has a knack for smiling at me whenever I pretend to fuss at him. I think this is going to be his strategy for getting out of trouble -- winning 'em over with cute.
The Fridge -- In case I didn't mention it earlier, Sears fixed the fridge just in time for Thanksgiving.
The Car -- After spending over a thousand bucks on repairs, I worked with my dad for a couple of days to finish the repairs and get the engine purring again.
Thanksgiving -- Did I mention a thousand dollars spent on car repair? And the fact that I spent Friday and Saturday working on the car? It was, as usual, not a good Thanksgiving. That morning, my dad -- influenced by his negative experiences working for car dealerships -- decided that we had paid all that money for them to do no work at all. He shared this sentiment with Kelli, which put her in a great mood. She shared her mood with me. True to form, I overreacted and managed to piss her off, piss my dad off and ruin my day all within a span of a few minutes. (And I wonder why I have so many ex-clients and so few current clients...)
On top of all that, we decided to order our meal this year. We thought we were getting fresh, deli-cooked food. Instead, we got pre-packaged, factory food -- including a pre-cooked turkey. Overall, it was pretty terrible. What's worse is that I could have spent my day cooking, and it would have put me in better spirits. Instead, I just sat around watching football all day with nothing better to do.
I've officially sworn off this holiday in its traditional form. Next year, Disney World!
Work -- I've spent the better part of the last week working with my friend Chris Tomberlin at his company, Outpost Pictures. It was cool working with Chris again. I've got a pretty large project for the old alma mater coming up soon.
Kelli -- She's beautiful, sweet, strong and sexy. What else is there to say? I'm the luckiest man in the world! Last week, we celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. It was pretty low key with a new baby, but we at least got to go to the movies, which is a rarity these days. Kel's trying to put a few pounds back on. The rapid weight loss took a toll on her, and she's ready to get back to normal.
Savannah -- She's beautiful and sweet as always. She's still crazy about her brother and is always in his face. She really enjoyed her time with her grandparents last week. She also got to see her 8-month-old cousin (actually, 2nd cousin) Ian. She was enamored of him and kept him smiling and laughing most of the time. She actually got to feed him, which I missed unfortunately. I hear it was quite the adventure. Savvi's really into learning how to read now, and is sounding out words all the time. She'll be reading very well by the time she starts Kindergarten.
Health -- Kelli and I are getting back on the Body-for-Life bandwagon starting tomorrow. I don't know if she's going to do the workouts or not, but I'm going full bore. I'll start a new blog tomorrow with my current measurements, my goals and the sheer humiliation of my before photos. Don't eat for at least an hour prior to viewing.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Depressories
Are you like me, sick of all those motivational posters and calendars with pictures of beautiful mountainscapes or little kittens dangling by a single claw with the caption "just hang in there?" There is a solution. You can invest in my new business venture: Depressories -- unmotivational products for the professional who doesn't want to get their hopes up.
For example, using the kitten poster, we simply replace the caption with our own: "Let go already." It's the perfect message for the modern American who is disillusioned by devoting decades of his life to a greedy corporation whose executives pilfer his pension funds and leave him penniless in his advancing years. For those burned by manipulated election results, we offer a poster of a voting machine draped in an American flag with the caption, "Why Bother?" Then there's our signature product for the Paxil generation, "Today is a good day to kill yourself."
Many Americans today find themselves smothered in debt, exponential interest growth and escalating late fees. For them we offer several products: "Screw the Creditors," "Default Now," "Bankruptcy is Your Birthright," and the ever-popular "Sometimes you just have to skip town" featuring an image of a family of four helping Dad swap the license plates on the station wagon.
To maintain the proper workplace attitude, Depressories offers phrase-a-day desktop calendars. Some of the phrases include: "You're right. Your boss is an idiot," "Reject authority," "I want immediate gratification and I want it yesterday," "That's not in my job description," "Butt-kissers finish first" and "Nobody likes initiative." For women: "Sleep your way to the top," "Somebody has to clean the glass ceiling" and "Bonuses are for boob jobs."
Adjunct to our Depressories line are our misfortune cookies. A sample: "Be ashamed of mistakes," "Forget history, and repeat it," "Hold not on to hope, but rather a grudge," "Distrust everyone for they distrust you," "Buy the extended warranty" and "You're adopted."
Anyone with suggestions for new Depressories of misfortune cookies, post them in the Comments section.
For example, using the kitten poster, we simply replace the caption with our own: "Let go already." It's the perfect message for the modern American who is disillusioned by devoting decades of his life to a greedy corporation whose executives pilfer his pension funds and leave him penniless in his advancing years. For those burned by manipulated election results, we offer a poster of a voting machine draped in an American flag with the caption, "Why Bother?" Then there's our signature product for the Paxil generation, "Today is a good day to kill yourself."
Many Americans today find themselves smothered in debt, exponential interest growth and escalating late fees. For them we offer several products: "Screw the Creditors," "Default Now," "Bankruptcy is Your Birthright," and the ever-popular "Sometimes you just have to skip town" featuring an image of a family of four helping Dad swap the license plates on the station wagon.
To maintain the proper workplace attitude, Depressories offers phrase-a-day desktop calendars. Some of the phrases include: "You're right. Your boss is an idiot," "Reject authority," "I want immediate gratification and I want it yesterday," "That's not in my job description," "Butt-kissers finish first" and "Nobody likes initiative." For women: "Sleep your way to the top," "Somebody has to clean the glass ceiling" and "Bonuses are for boob jobs."
Adjunct to our Depressories line are our misfortune cookies. A sample: "Be ashamed of mistakes," "Forget history, and repeat it," "Hold not on to hope, but rather a grudge," "Distrust everyone for they distrust you," "Buy the extended warranty" and "You're adopted."
Anyone with suggestions for new Depressories of misfortune cookies, post them in the Comments section.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Confessions of a Fat Bastard
That's eventually going to be the title of a new blog that I'll use to keep track of my fitness efforts, but for now, it'll suffice to sum up my opinion of myself. Over the last two months, I've gained 20 pounds! I would say that if measured on a aquatic mammalian scale, I'm now in the neighborhood of beluga whale. I'm trying to prevent an escalation to orca.
After a long year of halting progress in maintaining my fitness and diet routine, I finally realized in September that the only way I would be able to stay fit would be to stop trying to eat several (5-6) small meals per day and cut back to only 3 small meals. The heart of the problem is my work schedule. Over several months-long periods this year, I worked in excess of 80 hours per week.
When you can only manage 3-4 hours of sleep per night, it's tough to find the time and energy to work out. Somehow, the idea of lifting 60 pounds of steel over my head when I can hardly walk across a room without falling asleep seems just south of stupid. There's an obit you don't want your name on: "Franklin, 35, was found dead with a dumbbell lodged in his brain after the dumbass fell asleep during a bench press. His family, mortified at his idiocy, is forgoing a funeral and would like to donate his body to ballistics research. Thus far, most law enforcement agencies have declined the donation stating that Franklin was 'not a challenging target.'"
So, cutting back to three small meals with no snacking worked out really well. I was able to get back to a moderate 220 pounds. That sounds huge, but I'm 6'3", so I can handle it. I was feeling good about my new plan and my descent to walrus class. I needed only stick to the plan until my schedule allowed me to start working out again. At the time I was sleeping about 6 hours per night and working 60-70 hours a week -- not a busy schedule for me. It could get worse, and it did.
As I wrapped up the Alabama videos, I began to work 110 or more hours per week. I began sleeping, at most, four hours per night. Even though my workout had been on hold for several weeks, this change in my work schedule was detrimental. What happens when I work those kind of hours is an interesting study in psychology and physiology.
To successfully manage 18-20 hour work days, you have to drink a lot of coffee. The key to knowing when you've had enough to stay awake is to keep drinking until you can feel every cell in your body vibrate. If you're not that in tune to your body, lie still on a smooth surface. If your body begins to drift around like that creepy little pointer on a Ouija board, then you're there.
When you don't have time to fix more coffee, supplement with sodas. By no means should you drink water, because those additional caffeinie-free fluids will force you to spend too much time in the bathroom.
The second key to staying awake is food. Lots of it. It's 3am and you're trying to figure out how to keep going for three more hours before your morning nap. You've just finished off a pot of coffee. It's been four hours since you had your last snack. Time for food. There's no time to prepare something. The obvious choice is anything in the house that starts with "choco" or cleverly avoids the phrase "trans fats" on the label. I don't know why, but that's immediately what I crave. Some lady on a commercial with wireframes of roundisg human figures and way too much text on the screen tells me it's due to cortisol. A young man with an MD from one of Guatemala's finest educational institutions concurs. Cortisol or no, there's got to be some cake in this house somewhere.
I know some people who work out to support their food habit. I don't get that. If I'm carving out time in my schedule to work out, I'm not going to ruin it with Oreo's or a trip to Mickey D's. I have the opposite problem when my work schedule gets full. I'm sedentary, spending 18-20 hours a day behind the computer. I'm not working out. AND I'm eating too much of the wrong foods. There's this weird, fatalistic switch in my brain that says, "if I can't maintain a fitness routine, then I may as well eat as poorly as possible. It's the equivalent of driving your car off a bridge because you're low on gas. I can't explain it, but I wish I could change it.
A couple of days ago I got tired of sorting through clothes that I can't wear, so I cleared out the closet. It was sobering and depressing. Depressing because only two years ago I had to replace most of my wardrobe. I had lost down to about 205 from 242, and I had better muscle tone than ever in my life. I still wasn't in peak physical condition, but I was roughly at porpoise level, maybe seal. Now here I am, going in the opposite direction.
I hate when people suggest I have a weight problem. I don't see it as a weight problem, but a work problem. I had never weighed more than 185 until I was 26. That year, the combination of a divorce, a stressful work situation and, of course, 100-hour work weeks pushed me above 200 for the first time. (I had also stopped eating on a vegetarian diet, and my metabolism slowed down.) When I was 28, I had started doing cardio every day and was eating a better diet. I got back below 200. Kelli and I bought bikes that we rode every single day. In July of that year, I started a new company called Wannabe Films, and I haven't ridden my bike since.
Since '98, my weight has gone up and down -- up when I'm working too much, stressed out or when Kelli is pregnant. This year brought all three. My weight has gone down in years when I'm working only a moderate amount and our stressors are fewer, but those are also years when we weren't making enough money. So there's the rub -- make money or be healthy.
I suppose the only solution is to find a way to work smarter -- not harder. (Okay, I promise that's the last time I quote Successories on this blog.) I need to find a way to work, make adequate money to take care of my family and work 60 hours or less per week. I have plans and ideas, but at some point I have to rely on God to make them reality. Until then, my short-term goal is to get down to sea lion.
After a long year of halting progress in maintaining my fitness and diet routine, I finally realized in September that the only way I would be able to stay fit would be to stop trying to eat several (5-6) small meals per day and cut back to only 3 small meals. The heart of the problem is my work schedule. Over several months-long periods this year, I worked in excess of 80 hours per week.
When you can only manage 3-4 hours of sleep per night, it's tough to find the time and energy to work out. Somehow, the idea of lifting 60 pounds of steel over my head when I can hardly walk across a room without falling asleep seems just south of stupid. There's an obit you don't want your name on: "Franklin, 35, was found dead with a dumbbell lodged in his brain after the dumbass fell asleep during a bench press. His family, mortified at his idiocy, is forgoing a funeral and would like to donate his body to ballistics research. Thus far, most law enforcement agencies have declined the donation stating that Franklin was 'not a challenging target.'"
So, cutting back to three small meals with no snacking worked out really well. I was able to get back to a moderate 220 pounds. That sounds huge, but I'm 6'3", so I can handle it. I was feeling good about my new plan and my descent to walrus class. I needed only stick to the plan until my schedule allowed me to start working out again. At the time I was sleeping about 6 hours per night and working 60-70 hours a week -- not a busy schedule for me. It could get worse, and it did.
As I wrapped up the Alabama videos, I began to work 110 or more hours per week. I began sleeping, at most, four hours per night. Even though my workout had been on hold for several weeks, this change in my work schedule was detrimental. What happens when I work those kind of hours is an interesting study in psychology and physiology.
To successfully manage 18-20 hour work days, you have to drink a lot of coffee. The key to knowing when you've had enough to stay awake is to keep drinking until you can feel every cell in your body vibrate. If you're not that in tune to your body, lie still on a smooth surface. If your body begins to drift around like that creepy little pointer on a Ouija board, then you're there.
When you don't have time to fix more coffee, supplement with sodas. By no means should you drink water, because those additional caffeinie-free fluids will force you to spend too much time in the bathroom.
The second key to staying awake is food. Lots of it. It's 3am and you're trying to figure out how to keep going for three more hours before your morning nap. You've just finished off a pot of coffee. It's been four hours since you had your last snack. Time for food. There's no time to prepare something. The obvious choice is anything in the house that starts with "choco" or cleverly avoids the phrase "trans fats" on the label. I don't know why, but that's immediately what I crave. Some lady on a commercial with wireframes of roundisg human figures and way too much text on the screen tells me it's due to cortisol. A young man with an MD from one of Guatemala's finest educational institutions concurs. Cortisol or no, there's got to be some cake in this house somewhere.
I know some people who work out to support their food habit. I don't get that. If I'm carving out time in my schedule to work out, I'm not going to ruin it with Oreo's or a trip to Mickey D's. I have the opposite problem when my work schedule gets full. I'm sedentary, spending 18-20 hours a day behind the computer. I'm not working out. AND I'm eating too much of the wrong foods. There's this weird, fatalistic switch in my brain that says, "if I can't maintain a fitness routine, then I may as well eat as poorly as possible. It's the equivalent of driving your car off a bridge because you're low on gas. I can't explain it, but I wish I could change it.
A couple of days ago I got tired of sorting through clothes that I can't wear, so I cleared out the closet. It was sobering and depressing. Depressing because only two years ago I had to replace most of my wardrobe. I had lost down to about 205 from 242, and I had better muscle tone than ever in my life. I still wasn't in peak physical condition, but I was roughly at porpoise level, maybe seal. Now here I am, going in the opposite direction.
I hate when people suggest I have a weight problem. I don't see it as a weight problem, but a work problem. I had never weighed more than 185 until I was 26. That year, the combination of a divorce, a stressful work situation and, of course, 100-hour work weeks pushed me above 200 for the first time. (I had also stopped eating on a vegetarian diet, and my metabolism slowed down.) When I was 28, I had started doing cardio every day and was eating a better diet. I got back below 200. Kelli and I bought bikes that we rode every single day. In July of that year, I started a new company called Wannabe Films, and I haven't ridden my bike since.
Since '98, my weight has gone up and down -- up when I'm working too much, stressed out or when Kelli is pregnant. This year brought all three. My weight has gone down in years when I'm working only a moderate amount and our stressors are fewer, but those are also years when we weren't making enough money. So there's the rub -- make money or be healthy.
I suppose the only solution is to find a way to work smarter -- not harder. (Okay, I promise that's the last time I quote Successories on this blog.) I need to find a way to work, make adequate money to take care of my family and work 60 hours or less per week. I have plans and ideas, but at some point I have to rely on God to make them reality. Until then, my short-term goal is to get down to sea lion.
Monday, November 21, 2005
No More Thanksgiving!
Somebody up there does not want us to enjoy Thanksgiving. To wit, a description of Thanksgivings past:
1996 -- The first year Kelli and I were dating. Let's cover the basics of that year: the 5th anniversary of my first marriage, followed shortly thereafter by my first divorce -- not necessarily a bad thing. The Powers That Be refused to replace the three employees that left my department at TCI cable, leaving me as a manager with no one to manage and doing the work of four people. After working 110+ hours per week, putting on nearly 25 pounds and waking up one morning to discover I was driving, I quit without another job. My last day was to be the day before Thanksgiving. Thanks to my usual bad luck, I worked until 5 am Thanksgiving morning. Kelli had gamely hung in there with me all night (that's when I knew it was love), so we went back to my place and crashed until about 2pm. We obviously didn't go to Mobile as planned. Instead, we went to dinner at the Omelet Shoppe and caught a Star Trek flick.
1997 -- We try going to Mobile again. The night before we were to leave, we reheated some leftover seafood from Ralph & Kacoo's. By the morning of our travel day, Kelli was deathly ill with food poisoning. We made the trip anyway, but she spent most of the trip in bed.
1998 -- Our first Thanksgiving in Carrollton. Familial conflicts made the trip less than enjoyable. I suppose that's pretty typical of most people's Thanksgivings. Shortly after, my mother had a heart attack due to un-managed back pain.
1999 -- Our one good Thanksgiving. We were on our Honeymoon cruise. Of course, Kelli had been deathly ill due to a respiratory infection and an allergic reaction to an anti-viral right up until the wedding. Then, I was down with strep for the first three days of the cruise. Thanksgiving was the first day I felt relatively well.
2000 -- We started off in Mobile for Thanksgiving. Kelli was coming down with something. She thought it was a sinus infection. We then went to Carrollton for an extended family gathering. Kelli was really sick and smelling phantom onion smells. Her mom joked that Kelli was pregnant. On Monday, we found out she was right. That's the silver lining.
2001 -- Savannah was a baby. We went to Mobile, and everything was fine -- believe it or not. Of course, we were in the middle of a four-month period of no work and were headed toward our worst financial crisis of our lives.
2002 -- Kelli's extended family packed about 40 people into a 900 square foot house for the big meal. It was a 2 1/2-hour drive each way, and a bratty distant cousin kept being mean to Savannah. Miserable trip!
2003 -- We were on our way to Mobile and our engine died just outside of Montgomery. Kelli's cousin Stephen had to rescue all of us -- me, Kel, Savvi and Pippin (the cat.) We were stranded at their house in Millbrook for most of two days while we tried to find a way to get us and the Expedition back to Birmingham. The dealership in Prattville told us the engine was locked up and we needed a new one. We had the car towed home. My dad and I put some oil in it, cleaned the oil pan and strainer and replaced the oil pressure switch -- good as new. Our actual Thanksgiving dinner was a menu of various junk food items. For what it's worth Kelli was hospitalized with the flu shortly before Christmas.
2004 -- Unbelievably, a pretty good Thanksgiving, at least as far as we knew. We went to Mobile and had quite the feast with my extended family. We didn't know it yet, but Kelli was in the first days of a doomed pregnancy. We lost the baby on New Year's Day. And Sears caused us to wreck our car just before Christmas. Happy Holidays!
2005 -- Thanksgiving Day isn't here yet, but so far not so good. Cooper is still sick with a respiratory/sinus thing. His umbilical cord was starting to smell infected this afternoon, so Kelli was going to take him to the pediatrician. On the way, the car shuddered and the "check engine" light came on. She came immediately home. Tomorrow, I take it to the dealership and rent a car to get us through the week. I guess two years of driving with a locked up engine isn't too bad!
1996 -- The first year Kelli and I were dating. Let's cover the basics of that year: the 5th anniversary of my first marriage, followed shortly thereafter by my first divorce -- not necessarily a bad thing. The Powers That Be refused to replace the three employees that left my department at TCI cable, leaving me as a manager with no one to manage and doing the work of four people. After working 110+ hours per week, putting on nearly 25 pounds and waking up one morning to discover I was driving, I quit without another job. My last day was to be the day before Thanksgiving. Thanks to my usual bad luck, I worked until 5 am Thanksgiving morning. Kelli had gamely hung in there with me all night (that's when I knew it was love), so we went back to my place and crashed until about 2pm. We obviously didn't go to Mobile as planned. Instead, we went to dinner at the Omelet Shoppe and caught a Star Trek flick.
1997 -- We try going to Mobile again. The night before we were to leave, we reheated some leftover seafood from Ralph & Kacoo's. By the morning of our travel day, Kelli was deathly ill with food poisoning. We made the trip anyway, but she spent most of the trip in bed.
1998 -- Our first Thanksgiving in Carrollton. Familial conflicts made the trip less than enjoyable. I suppose that's pretty typical of most people's Thanksgivings. Shortly after, my mother had a heart attack due to un-managed back pain.
1999 -- Our one good Thanksgiving. We were on our Honeymoon cruise. Of course, Kelli had been deathly ill due to a respiratory infection and an allergic reaction to an anti-viral right up until the wedding. Then, I was down with strep for the first three days of the cruise. Thanksgiving was the first day I felt relatively well.
2000 -- We started off in Mobile for Thanksgiving. Kelli was coming down with something. She thought it was a sinus infection. We then went to Carrollton for an extended family gathering. Kelli was really sick and smelling phantom onion smells. Her mom joked that Kelli was pregnant. On Monday, we found out she was right. That's the silver lining.
2001 -- Savannah was a baby. We went to Mobile, and everything was fine -- believe it or not. Of course, we were in the middle of a four-month period of no work and were headed toward our worst financial crisis of our lives.
2002 -- Kelli's extended family packed about 40 people into a 900 square foot house for the big meal. It was a 2 1/2-hour drive each way, and a bratty distant cousin kept being mean to Savannah. Miserable trip!
2003 -- We were on our way to Mobile and our engine died just outside of Montgomery. Kelli's cousin Stephen had to rescue all of us -- me, Kel, Savvi and Pippin (the cat.) We were stranded at their house in Millbrook for most of two days while we tried to find a way to get us and the Expedition back to Birmingham. The dealership in Prattville told us the engine was locked up and we needed a new one. We had the car towed home. My dad and I put some oil in it, cleaned the oil pan and strainer and replaced the oil pressure switch -- good as new. Our actual Thanksgiving dinner was a menu of various junk food items. For what it's worth Kelli was hospitalized with the flu shortly before Christmas.
2004 -- Unbelievably, a pretty good Thanksgiving, at least as far as we knew. We went to Mobile and had quite the feast with my extended family. We didn't know it yet, but Kelli was in the first days of a doomed pregnancy. We lost the baby on New Year's Day. And Sears caused us to wreck our car just before Christmas. Happy Holidays!
2005 -- Thanksgiving Day isn't here yet, but so far not so good. Cooper is still sick with a respiratory/sinus thing. His umbilical cord was starting to smell infected this afternoon, so Kelli was going to take him to the pediatrician. On the way, the car shuddered and the "check engine" light came on. She came immediately home. Tomorrow, I take it to the dealership and rent a car to get us through the week. I guess two years of driving with a locked up engine isn't too bad!
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Our offensive line...
is the worst I've ever seen. (That's the last time I pick a game with my heart.) Bama was not ready to play, and it showed. That is inexcusable. I expect coaches will be fired after this. Typically, the head coach would go after losing three to the Cow College, but I think everybody's giving Shula a bye on the first one. Offensive coordinator Dave Rader has shown no ability to build an offense around his available talent, and has shown even less ability to be imaginative. (Where was Jimmy Johns?) O-line coach Bob Connelly has to go. I'd expect special teams/tight ends coach Dave Ungerer to face the music as well.
Anyway, at least there's a month to practice for a bowl game. Roll Tide.
Anyway, at least there's a month to practice for a bowl game. Roll Tide.
Iron Bowl Day!
It's the most important religious holiday in the state of Alabama -- the High Holy Day of Football. Today is the annual Iron Bowl showdown between Alabama and Auburn. There's always a big national debate this time of year about which is the most intense rivalry in college football, and anyone who says anything other than the Iron Bowl has never set foot in this state.
As many people have learned over the years, when you move here from elsewhere in the world, you must make a declaration at the state line. You must answer one simple question that will determine your fate for the rest of your life: "who ya for?" There is no middle ground in Alabama. Even if you are a graduate of West Point with a master's degree from Notre Dame and a doctorate from Stanford, you have to make a choice -- is it Alabama or Auburn?
There was a time, and I hesitate to mention this in a public forum, when I thought I might like Auburn. It lasted for about 2 weeks when I was, I don't know, maybe 13. Coach Bryant had died. I was going through puberty. I had grown six and half inches in one summer, and I think I was still dizzy from the height. It didn't last long enough for me to actually buy any Auburn stuff, which is good, because I would have had to go through the ritual ruination when I came to my sense. That ritual consists of burning the offending items in a crimson cauldron sprinkled with Dreamland Bar-B-Q sauce, urinating on it to put out the fire, then burying it with a lock of tiger's hair (or a feather from a golden eagle, if you're in a pinch.)
Apart from that brief daliance, I've been an Alabama guy. I don't know why. My parents don't really give a flip about football. Unlike so many of my friends, I wasn't raised right when it comes to football. I am, however, correcting the sins of my forefathers by raising my kids as Bama faithful. Savannah has been to more games in her four years than I had attended prior to my freshman year at the Capstone, and she already knows the fight song by heart. (And she sings it the right way, unlike all those cretins out there who think it's "Yea, Alabama, Crimson Tide." It's "drowned 'em Tide," you posers! Look it up!)
I remember how devastated I was when Alabama lost to Mississippi State in 1980, snapping a 28-game win streak and dropping the Tide from its last #1 regular season ranking. I didn't understand it. Alabama isn't supposed to lose. How could this happen? Had God forsaken us? Savannah had a similar reaction after last week's OT loss to LSU.
Had things worked out differently, my life could be a real challenge in the fall. My first true love in high school was an Auburn fan. She eventually attended the Cow College, and I assume she married some poor misguided soul who will burn eternally for wearing the orange and blue.
What the hell kind of color combination is that anyway? Orange is just not a pretty color, I'm sorry. I know Auburn's is not as offensive as the road pylon orange in Knoxville, but it's still orange. You know the old saying, "all things evil wear orange." Or as they say in fashion circles, "orange is the new puke." For religious reasons, we don't let our kids wear Halloween shirts -- not because we're ultra-conservative and opposed to Halloween celebrations, but because we're opposed to orange in all forms. It is the anti-crimson.
I am sometimes saddened that I wasn't able to save my high school sweetheart's soul, but it's a broken world. Freedom of choice does mean that people have the freedom to choose their doom. Sadly, many do just that. Fortunately, God smiled upon me and blessed me with a wife who knows blood cells come in only two colors: crimson and white.
As for the question of the best college rivalry, it's no contest. Only the Iron Bowl is so intense, so contentious that the game was not played for 40 years -- all because the two teams couldn't even agree on the proper per diem for the players in 1907. As a result, it's not the most often played rivalry. It definitely is the most heated. Only in Alabama do we live all year for one game. Even if it's pushed to the backs of our minds, thoughts of this game are present during each of the four seasons: football season, recruiting season, spring practice and fall practice.
Today is the 70th matchup between the Tide and Tigers. My pick: Bama 16-13. What else?
As many people have learned over the years, when you move here from elsewhere in the world, you must make a declaration at the state line. You must answer one simple question that will determine your fate for the rest of your life: "who ya for?" There is no middle ground in Alabama. Even if you are a graduate of West Point with a master's degree from Notre Dame and a doctorate from Stanford, you have to make a choice -- is it Alabama or Auburn?
There was a time, and I hesitate to mention this in a public forum, when I thought I might like Auburn. It lasted for about 2 weeks when I was, I don't know, maybe 13. Coach Bryant had died. I was going through puberty. I had grown six and half inches in one summer, and I think I was still dizzy from the height. It didn't last long enough for me to actually buy any Auburn stuff, which is good, because I would have had to go through the ritual ruination when I came to my sense. That ritual consists of burning the offending items in a crimson cauldron sprinkled with Dreamland Bar-B-Q sauce, urinating on it to put out the fire, then burying it with a lock of tiger's hair (or a feather from a golden eagle, if you're in a pinch.)
Apart from that brief daliance, I've been an Alabama guy. I don't know why. My parents don't really give a flip about football. Unlike so many of my friends, I wasn't raised right when it comes to football. I am, however, correcting the sins of my forefathers by raising my kids as Bama faithful. Savannah has been to more games in her four years than I had attended prior to my freshman year at the Capstone, and she already knows the fight song by heart. (And she sings it the right way, unlike all those cretins out there who think it's "Yea, Alabama, Crimson Tide." It's "drowned 'em Tide," you posers! Look it up!)
I remember how devastated I was when Alabama lost to Mississippi State in 1980, snapping a 28-game win streak and dropping the Tide from its last #1 regular season ranking. I didn't understand it. Alabama isn't supposed to lose. How could this happen? Had God forsaken us? Savannah had a similar reaction after last week's OT loss to LSU.
Had things worked out differently, my life could be a real challenge in the fall. My first true love in high school was an Auburn fan. She eventually attended the Cow College, and I assume she married some poor misguided soul who will burn eternally for wearing the orange and blue.
What the hell kind of color combination is that anyway? Orange is just not a pretty color, I'm sorry. I know Auburn's is not as offensive as the road pylon orange in Knoxville, but it's still orange. You know the old saying, "all things evil wear orange." Or as they say in fashion circles, "orange is the new puke." For religious reasons, we don't let our kids wear Halloween shirts -- not because we're ultra-conservative and opposed to Halloween celebrations, but because we're opposed to orange in all forms. It is the anti-crimson.
I am sometimes saddened that I wasn't able to save my high school sweetheart's soul, but it's a broken world. Freedom of choice does mean that people have the freedom to choose their doom. Sadly, many do just that. Fortunately, God smiled upon me and blessed me with a wife who knows blood cells come in only two colors: crimson and white.
As for the question of the best college rivalry, it's no contest. Only the Iron Bowl is so intense, so contentious that the game was not played for 40 years -- all because the two teams couldn't even agree on the proper per diem for the players in 1907. As a result, it's not the most often played rivalry. It definitely is the most heated. Only in Alabama do we live all year for one game. Even if it's pushed to the backs of our minds, thoughts of this game are present during each of the four seasons: football season, recruiting season, spring practice and fall practice.
Today is the 70th matchup between the Tide and Tigers. My pick: Bama 16-13. What else?
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Attack of the Hippo Heads!
Cooper is settling into his personality a little more now, although I must admit that I don't know him as well as I knew Savannah at this age. With Savannah, it felt like I knew her instantly. Very few things about her personality have surprised me to this day. Cooper's a bit more of a mystery. He is developing a little more of a temper -- mainly because he has had sinus congestion for a couple of weeks. He is also battling some Gershon issues and some colic (which always sounded like a vegetable to me) brought on by his formula. (He has forgotten his superior belching skills since coming home.)
When I hold him, there are a few things that really jump out at me. He has these deep eyes that always look like he's plotting some conspiracy or staring deep into your soul, reading the thoughts and impulses even you don't know yet. He is obviously beautiful. And he has a melon roughly the size of a hippo's. Don't get me wrong, I don't think he's freakish or anything. Cooper's just following the hydrocephalic lead of his old man. You know those fitted caps without the little adjusty thing on the back? Can't find one that doesn't look like a yarmulke on me. And sunglasses? Forget about it. Even the biggest ones look like a monocle on my cabeza. And no adult should have a face that is perfectly circular. I guess the upside is Kelli can use a 12" frying pan as a stand-in for me in family photos.
They always say that a large head is an indicator of success. It's an exciting thought for my children. Savannah's a member of the giant melon club, too. If there were a Franklinland theme park, the character costumes based on us would actually have heads smaller than ours. My kids should get something in exchange for a lifetime of stretched-out necks in their shirts and sweaters. The real question is: where's my payoff?
If head size is indicative of success, I should be like the white male Oprah (also a hippo-head.) I should have the money of Bill Gates (I could swallow his little pinhead whole), the fame of Ben Affleck (famous due only to his hat size, because it sure ain't for his acting), and the power of Ted Kennedy -- the undisputed King of Craniums. That thing has its own zoning restrictions.
Why should I suffer through a life of mediocrity while dragging this thing around? Do you know what kind of neck muscles it takes to walk around with a 40-pound medicine ball on your shoulders? I've always wanted to go to New York for Thanksgiving, but I'm afraid a crowd of volunteers with matching Macy's shirts will start clipping cables to my head and pulling me back into the parade. Hollywood is not an option -- "Look Mommy! John Boy Walton got fat!" And forget about me ever getting near Easter Island.
This kind of attic space should be celebrated, not ridiculed. I want my success! It's my birthright just as surely as success in women's golf is the birthright of every attractive lesbian, like a knack for comedy is the birthright of every short, thin Jewish guy and like the presidency is the birthright of everyone named Bush... or so they seem to think.
So for all the melon heads out there, I will achieve my success. I will rise up and snatch it away from those of lesser cranial volume. I will stand up for everyone who, like me, had to get two paper crowns from Burger King. I will stand up for the lowly, the oppressed, for everyone whose promise of large-headed triumph has been denied -- except Patrick Swayze. You had your shot, Road House. I will stand up for the Big Heads. And then I will quickly sit back down, because holding this thing up is exhausting.
When I hold him, there are a few things that really jump out at me. He has these deep eyes that always look like he's plotting some conspiracy or staring deep into your soul, reading the thoughts and impulses even you don't know yet. He is obviously beautiful. And he has a melon roughly the size of a hippo's. Don't get me wrong, I don't think he's freakish or anything. Cooper's just following the hydrocephalic lead of his old man. You know those fitted caps without the little adjusty thing on the back? Can't find one that doesn't look like a yarmulke on me. And sunglasses? Forget about it. Even the biggest ones look like a monocle on my cabeza. And no adult should have a face that is perfectly circular. I guess the upside is Kelli can use a 12" frying pan as a stand-in for me in family photos.
They always say that a large head is an indicator of success. It's an exciting thought for my children. Savannah's a member of the giant melon club, too. If there were a Franklinland theme park, the character costumes based on us would actually have heads smaller than ours. My kids should get something in exchange for a lifetime of stretched-out necks in their shirts and sweaters. The real question is: where's my payoff?
If head size is indicative of success, I should be like the white male Oprah (also a hippo-head.) I should have the money of Bill Gates (I could swallow his little pinhead whole), the fame of Ben Affleck (famous due only to his hat size, because it sure ain't for his acting), and the power of Ted Kennedy -- the undisputed King of Craniums. That thing has its own zoning restrictions.
Why should I suffer through a life of mediocrity while dragging this thing around? Do you know what kind of neck muscles it takes to walk around with a 40-pound medicine ball on your shoulders? I've always wanted to go to New York for Thanksgiving, but I'm afraid a crowd of volunteers with matching Macy's shirts will start clipping cables to my head and pulling me back into the parade. Hollywood is not an option -- "Look Mommy! John Boy Walton got fat!" And forget about me ever getting near Easter Island.
This kind of attic space should be celebrated, not ridiculed. I want my success! It's my birthright just as surely as success in women's golf is the birthright of every attractive lesbian, like a knack for comedy is the birthright of every short, thin Jewish guy and like the presidency is the birthright of everyone named Bush... or so they seem to think.
So for all the melon heads out there, I will achieve my success. I will rise up and snatch it away from those of lesser cranial volume. I will stand up for everyone who, like me, had to get two paper crowns from Burger King. I will stand up for the lowly, the oppressed, for everyone whose promise of large-headed triumph has been denied -- except Patrick Swayze. You had your shot, Road House. I will stand up for the Big Heads. And then I will quickly sit back down, because holding this thing up is exhausting.
Kid Actors
The best child actors are... well, Dakota Fanning. There aren't many others. In all of film history, only a few kids have transcended precociousness or self-aware mugging to do real acting. Jodie Foster, Tatum O'Neal and Anna Paquin come to mind. Probably the best male child actors both have Alabama ties -- Lucas Black in Sling Blade and Haley Joel Osment, especially in The Sixth Sense. (I personally love Peter Billingsley's performance as Ralphie in A Christmas Story, but that's still not Fanning-esque.)
I've worked with a few kids, and directing them is tough. The key with kids is to get them to relax and ignore the fact that they are acting. They have to ignore the camera, ignore the crew and ignore the equipment. That's to say nothing of actually becoming a character. It's hard to do. I've worked with some so-called professional actors who couldn't pull it off. I read about a commercial director named Bob Ebel recently who brings out great performances from average children. He does it by disguising the camera and gear in a set that looks more like a household room.
Here's a link to a brilliant spot he did for Trigon Blue Cross/Blue Shield.
I've worked with a few kids, and directing them is tough. The key with kids is to get them to relax and ignore the fact that they are acting. They have to ignore the camera, ignore the crew and ignore the equipment. That's to say nothing of actually becoming a character. It's hard to do. I've worked with some so-called professional actors who couldn't pull it off. I read about a commercial director named Bob Ebel recently who brings out great performances from average children. He does it by disguising the camera and gear in a set that looks more like a household room.
Here's a link to a brilliant spot he did for Trigon Blue Cross/Blue Shield.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
I Wish Terrorists Would Take Issue with my Hedges
Yard work is a funny thing. I don't mind doing it. In fact, there is a Zen-like bliss that comes from isolating yourself in a cocoon of small-engine noise and the visual serenity of staring at patterns in the grass for hours. But I find it really hard ot get motivated to do the yard work. Maybe motivated is the wrong word. All I have to do is look outside at the jungle that is taking over my driveway, and I'm motivated. I want the yard clean. It's just tough to make the time commitment.
If I don't do it soon, though, the Sierra Club will come in here and declare the hedges along my driveway a protected ecosystem. I think I saw a sloth in there the other night, but it's hard to tell. They're so slow-moving, you can't see those things at night. Maybe if they'd smile or something.
The problem is not one of maintenance. Mowing, blowing and edging I can handle, even though our front yard is nearly half an acre. No, my nemesis is that hedge row. And to call it a hedge row is an insult English boxwoods everywhere. The bushes are something called Thorny Elaeagnus. It's a bush that can grow as tall as a tree and spreads like a vine. And it has 1-2 inch thorns! It grows up to a foot per day. Getting rid of it usually results in cuts all over your arms. Think of it as Kudzu on steroids with a nasty disposition.
The bushes (let's call them Agnes) had been allowed to grow at least 10 feet tall in the years prior to our moving in. After trying to contain it, we've finally resolved to remove it -- not completely, just prune it down to a "hat rack." We've brainstormed a number of solutions. The first and most obvious choice was to invest in a herd of hedgehogs. Brilliant! But, it turns out that hedgehogs don't crave hedges the same way an attention hog craves attention. It's just a name. That left us with the challenge of liquidating our stock of hedgehogs. I thought it was a safe investment, especially since the brochure said they were "prized for their delicious meat and luxurious pelts."
Plan B was a more aggressive approach -- flamethrowers. The rising price of oil made that impractical. Plan C - appeasement. Our negotiators attempted to meet the demands of Agnes, but when the bushes referred to us as "nancy Chamberlains," we walked away and declared open war. I don't understand the Chamberlain thing, but no plant calls me Nancy. Plan D -- Fargo. We hat-rack the individual bushes then shove them into a wood chipper. Then I started thinking about those 20+ foot thorny limb/vines whipping about like a cat of nine tails, shredding me worse than if I were the main character in another Mel Gibson torture-mentary. I ditched that plan like my crazy college girlfriend who I only went out with on a bet.
Plan E -- convincing radical Islamic terrorists that my hedge row is an affront to the Quran. The problem is I'm too lazy to read the Quran to determine what would the offense would be. And what's up with all the different English translations of that word? Is it Quran? Koran? Couric? Somebody make a decision, please! Maybe I could convince them that Agnes is a symbol of the US economy...
Other failed plans: Plan F -- nanotechnology. The problem there was that the nano race are very secretive people and quite protective of their trade secrets. They are also easily offended by the misappropriation of the nano name. There goes the University of Illinois' plan to change their mascot to the Fighting Nano-monkeys! Plan G -- slave labor. That one went over like a lead balloon... kind of like this joke. Plan H -- anti-gravity potting soil. The bags floated away as soon as we put them on the utility trailer... along with the trailer. At least we saved enough to get rid of that lead balloon. Plan I -- introduction of natural predators. Did you know that plants don't have predators, per se? If so, why didn't you tell me. I don't think that botanist at Auburn has stopped laughing yet.
So we come to the final plan, Plan J -- hard work. Cut the stuff back, load it on a utility trailer and haul it to the dump. It could take days or even weeks, but it has to be done. I've got to move quickly, though. I just saw a very boxy-looking woman wearing a hemp dress and Birkenstocks casing the house in her Subaru Forester. I think the Sierra Club is on to me.
If I don't do it soon, though, the Sierra Club will come in here and declare the hedges along my driveway a protected ecosystem. I think I saw a sloth in there the other night, but it's hard to tell. They're so slow-moving, you can't see those things at night. Maybe if they'd smile or something.
The problem is not one of maintenance. Mowing, blowing and edging I can handle, even though our front yard is nearly half an acre. No, my nemesis is that hedge row. And to call it a hedge row is an insult English boxwoods everywhere. The bushes are something called Thorny Elaeagnus. It's a bush that can grow as tall as a tree and spreads like a vine. And it has 1-2 inch thorns! It grows up to a foot per day. Getting rid of it usually results in cuts all over your arms. Think of it as Kudzu on steroids with a nasty disposition.
The bushes (let's call them Agnes) had been allowed to grow at least 10 feet tall in the years prior to our moving in. After trying to contain it, we've finally resolved to remove it -- not completely, just prune it down to a "hat rack." We've brainstormed a number of solutions. The first and most obvious choice was to invest in a herd of hedgehogs. Brilliant! But, it turns out that hedgehogs don't crave hedges the same way an attention hog craves attention. It's just a name. That left us with the challenge of liquidating our stock of hedgehogs. I thought it was a safe investment, especially since the brochure said they were "prized for their delicious meat and luxurious pelts."
Plan B was a more aggressive approach -- flamethrowers. The rising price of oil made that impractical. Plan C - appeasement. Our negotiators attempted to meet the demands of Agnes, but when the bushes referred to us as "nancy Chamberlains," we walked away and declared open war. I don't understand the Chamberlain thing, but no plant calls me Nancy. Plan D -- Fargo. We hat-rack the individual bushes then shove them into a wood chipper. Then I started thinking about those 20+ foot thorny limb/vines whipping about like a cat of nine tails, shredding me worse than if I were the main character in another Mel Gibson torture-mentary. I ditched that plan like my crazy college girlfriend who I only went out with on a bet.
Plan E -- convincing radical Islamic terrorists that my hedge row is an affront to the Quran. The problem is I'm too lazy to read the Quran to determine what would the offense would be. And what's up with all the different English translations of that word? Is it Quran? Koran? Couric? Somebody make a decision, please! Maybe I could convince them that Agnes is a symbol of the US economy...
Other failed plans: Plan F -- nanotechnology. The problem there was that the nano race are very secretive people and quite protective of their trade secrets. They are also easily offended by the misappropriation of the nano name. There goes the University of Illinois' plan to change their mascot to the Fighting Nano-monkeys! Plan G -- slave labor. That one went over like a lead balloon... kind of like this joke. Plan H -- anti-gravity potting soil. The bags floated away as soon as we put them on the utility trailer... along with the trailer. At least we saved enough to get rid of that lead balloon. Plan I -- introduction of natural predators. Did you know that plants don't have predators, per se? If so, why didn't you tell me. I don't think that botanist at Auburn has stopped laughing yet.
So we come to the final plan, Plan J -- hard work. Cut the stuff back, load it on a utility trailer and haul it to the dump. It could take days or even weeks, but it has to be done. I've got to move quickly, though. I just saw a very boxy-looking woman wearing a hemp dress and Birkenstocks casing the house in her Subaru Forester. I think the Sierra Club is on to me.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
The Thing About Losing is...
It sucks. For all of you who hide from all things football, Alabama lost its first game Saturday in what had seemed like a season of destiny. For those of us who sit awake during 4 am feedings of our newborns, worrying about whether the offensive line will be able to sufficiently protect Brodie Croyle from speedy, dangerous defensive ends, the loss was tantamount to the shattering of our dreams. I was going to compare it to the loss of a relative, but that seems harsh. However, I have lost some distant cousins and great uncles that didn't hurt this much. I know, I'm a heartless idiot -- save yourself from the Carpal Tunnel Syndrome of sending me hate mail.
And to make matters worse, Auburn won a big game against Georgia last night. Don't get me wrong, I don't completely hate Auburn. Auburn is a great client, and I really enjoy working with them and visiting the town. However, I hate when they win a big game because of their fans. I have friends who are Auburn fans, and they don't seem to be obnoxious, but I'm always afraid it's lurking down deep inside them. I just know that one day they'll go all William Hurt and turn into some feral beast that feeds on hapless Bama fans in the dark of night. (That's right, I just referenced 1980's "Altered States." Put that on your Netflix queue!)
Maybe I listen to too much sports talk radio. Every Auburn fan who calls into those shows talks only about Alabama, never about Auburn. If Alabama is losing, they call in to gloat. If Alabama is winning, they call in to diminish the victories. And then there are those who call in to say that not every Auburn fan is obsessed with Alabama, and in doing so, they spend the entire call talking about Alabama.
This is not to say that there aren't obnoxious Alabama fans calling in. There are plenty. The haters in crimson tend to throw around buzzwords like "class" and "tradition," and they never fail to reference the late Coach Bryant and Alabama's 12 national championships. But I can rationalize their behavior as being aberrant in comparison to "real" Alabama fans -- reasonable, respectable fans who don't gloat or boast about the fact that Alabama is home to the greatest sports tradition in all of recorded human history, but who, out of a deep magnanimity, pity fans and alumni of lesser schools. Fans like me.
So the loss was a blow to my Alabama arrogance. That arrogance is lessened of late, thanks to a recurring three-year cycle -- year one: a losing season; year two: mediocrity; year three 10 wins and the false hope that Bama is back. It seems we're in year three. Let's hope the cycle ends here. Otherwise, I might have to learn fan humility, and what fun would that be?
As an Alabama fan, there is only one thought as each season begins: national championship. Alabama could have no coaching staff and a roster of one-legged octogenarians, and we would still believe. "Well, Coach Bryant once fielded a team of lab chimps and overweight circus clowns and got 10 wins, because they played as a team."
I'm not one of those Bama folk who buy into the whole 12 national championships talk. Alabama never claimed a certain number of NCs until after Coach Bryant died. (By the way, only rednecks and the uninformed call the legendary coach Bear. Real Alabama fans afford the man the respect his position deserves and call him Coach Bryant, even in death.) In the mid 80s, as the Coach Perkins era was in full swing, an SID (Sports Information Director) named Wayne Atcheson took it upon himself to put a number to Alabama's championships. The number he picked was 12, which would be defensible if not for one glaring, idiotic choice: 1941.
You see, since 1937 the gold standard for determining the national champion(s) has been the wire service polls: the Associated Press and the ESPN/USA Today (formerly United Press International.) In that era, Alabama has won seven national championships (1961, 1964, 1965, 1973, 1978, 1979 & 1992) and has been robbed of a couple of others. 1941 is not one of those championships. That year, Alabama lost two games and was nowhere near being the best team in the land, but some drunken idiot at Atlantic Sewing Monthly or some such organization named the Tide number one. This is not something to gloat about.
Had Mr. Atcheson chosen 1945, I could get behind that one. In '45, the Tide had two of the greatest players in their history, Harry Gilmer and Vaughn Mancha. The mighty twosome led Alabama to a 10-0 record, a victory over USC in the Rose Bowl and recognition as national champions by the National Championship Foundation. I know that's not a wire service poll, but those weak-minded fools were swayed by an old Jedi mind trick: they gave it to Army, the same Army who, it just so happens, won a war that year. (Of course, had the Tide been in charge of the campaign in Europe, Hitler would have faked his suicide and fled to Argentina in 1942 and hundred of thousands of newly enlightened ex-Nazis would have been goose-stepping through Nuremberg chanting "Rollen Tide Rollen!") The Tide had been named champs four times prior to 1937. There was no real standard then, so some years saw as many as five champions.
Even now, with a loss, I'm still devising scenarios which would get Alabama to the championship game. LSU will lose to Arkansas, putting Alabama back in the SEC championship game. Virginia Tech loses to Virginia. Miami loses in the ACC championship. Penn State suddenly remembers how lousy they've been in recent years and just gives up. Notre Dame's players will all quit football to enter the priesthood. Texas is declared ineligible after their home state gives up on this whole "federal experiment" and secedes, once again becoming the Republic of Texas and stealing our president, naming him to a lifetime term as Cowboy-in-Chief. Then, Alabama meets USC in a rematch of the Rose Bowl of 60 years ago. The score is the same as then: Alabama 34 -- USC 14.
(Please do not read the above paragraph to anyone who has the power to declare me legally insane.)
So here I am, facing headlong into a scary Iron Bowl this Saturday and trying to come to grips with a loss. Savannah doesn't really understand it either. When I called home after the game, she asked, "Daddy, why didn't we win?" I said, "because sometimes your team just doesn't win." What I wanted to say was, "because one of those blind crack addicts in the striped shirts wouldn't know an offensive pass interference penalty if he had just finished watching a Ken Burns documentary entitled "Offensive Pass Interference: Every Way it Can Happen and How to Know it When You See it in the Alabama-LSU Game." But I'm not bitter.
------------------------
In other news, Kelli's getting sicker. I'm exhausted. Savannah's fine and Cooper's a little Gershon'd. But who cares about any of that? Alabama lost.
And to make matters worse, Auburn won a big game against Georgia last night. Don't get me wrong, I don't completely hate Auburn. Auburn is a great client, and I really enjoy working with them and visiting the town. However, I hate when they win a big game because of their fans. I have friends who are Auburn fans, and they don't seem to be obnoxious, but I'm always afraid it's lurking down deep inside them. I just know that one day they'll go all William Hurt and turn into some feral beast that feeds on hapless Bama fans in the dark of night. (That's right, I just referenced 1980's "Altered States." Put that on your Netflix queue!)
Maybe I listen to too much sports talk radio. Every Auburn fan who calls into those shows talks only about Alabama, never about Auburn. If Alabama is losing, they call in to gloat. If Alabama is winning, they call in to diminish the victories. And then there are those who call in to say that not every Auburn fan is obsessed with Alabama, and in doing so, they spend the entire call talking about Alabama.
This is not to say that there aren't obnoxious Alabama fans calling in. There are plenty. The haters in crimson tend to throw around buzzwords like "class" and "tradition," and they never fail to reference the late Coach Bryant and Alabama's 12 national championships. But I can rationalize their behavior as being aberrant in comparison to "real" Alabama fans -- reasonable, respectable fans who don't gloat or boast about the fact that Alabama is home to the greatest sports tradition in all of recorded human history, but who, out of a deep magnanimity, pity fans and alumni of lesser schools. Fans like me.
So the loss was a blow to my Alabama arrogance. That arrogance is lessened of late, thanks to a recurring three-year cycle -- year one: a losing season; year two: mediocrity; year three 10 wins and the false hope that Bama is back. It seems we're in year three. Let's hope the cycle ends here. Otherwise, I might have to learn fan humility, and what fun would that be?
As an Alabama fan, there is only one thought as each season begins: national championship. Alabama could have no coaching staff and a roster of one-legged octogenarians, and we would still believe. "Well, Coach Bryant once fielded a team of lab chimps and overweight circus clowns and got 10 wins, because they played as a team."
I'm not one of those Bama folk who buy into the whole 12 national championships talk. Alabama never claimed a certain number of NCs until after Coach Bryant died. (By the way, only rednecks and the uninformed call the legendary coach Bear. Real Alabama fans afford the man the respect his position deserves and call him Coach Bryant, even in death.) In the mid 80s, as the Coach Perkins era was in full swing, an SID (Sports Information Director) named Wayne Atcheson took it upon himself to put a number to Alabama's championships. The number he picked was 12, which would be defensible if not for one glaring, idiotic choice: 1941.
You see, since 1937 the gold standard for determining the national champion(s) has been the wire service polls: the Associated Press and the ESPN/USA Today (formerly United Press International.) In that era, Alabama has won seven national championships (1961, 1964, 1965, 1973, 1978, 1979 & 1992) and has been robbed of a couple of others. 1941 is not one of those championships. That year, Alabama lost two games and was nowhere near being the best team in the land, but some drunken idiot at Atlantic Sewing Monthly or some such organization named the Tide number one. This is not something to gloat about.
Had Mr. Atcheson chosen 1945, I could get behind that one. In '45, the Tide had two of the greatest players in their history, Harry Gilmer and Vaughn Mancha. The mighty twosome led Alabama to a 10-0 record, a victory over USC in the Rose Bowl and recognition as national champions by the National Championship Foundation. I know that's not a wire service poll, but those weak-minded fools were swayed by an old Jedi mind trick: they gave it to Army, the same Army who, it just so happens, won a war that year. (Of course, had the Tide been in charge of the campaign in Europe, Hitler would have faked his suicide and fled to Argentina in 1942 and hundred of thousands of newly enlightened ex-Nazis would have been goose-stepping through Nuremberg chanting "Rollen Tide Rollen!") The Tide had been named champs four times prior to 1937. There was no real standard then, so some years saw as many as five champions.
Even now, with a loss, I'm still devising scenarios which would get Alabama to the championship game. LSU will lose to Arkansas, putting Alabama back in the SEC championship game. Virginia Tech loses to Virginia. Miami loses in the ACC championship. Penn State suddenly remembers how lousy they've been in recent years and just gives up. Notre Dame's players will all quit football to enter the priesthood. Texas is declared ineligible after their home state gives up on this whole "federal experiment" and secedes, once again becoming the Republic of Texas and stealing our president, naming him to a lifetime term as Cowboy-in-Chief. Then, Alabama meets USC in a rematch of the Rose Bowl of 60 years ago. The score is the same as then: Alabama 34 -- USC 14.
(Please do not read the above paragraph to anyone who has the power to declare me legally insane.)
So here I am, facing headlong into a scary Iron Bowl this Saturday and trying to come to grips with a loss. Savannah doesn't really understand it either. When I called home after the game, she asked, "Daddy, why didn't we win?" I said, "because sometimes your team just doesn't win." What I wanted to say was, "because one of those blind crack addicts in the striped shirts wouldn't know an offensive pass interference penalty if he had just finished watching a Ken Burns documentary entitled "Offensive Pass Interference: Every Way it Can Happen and How to Know it When You See it in the Alabama-LSU Game." But I'm not bitter.
------------------------
In other news, Kelli's getting sicker. I'm exhausted. Savannah's fine and Cooper's a little Gershon'd. But who cares about any of that? Alabama lost.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Here's the pic...
that some of you may or may not be receiving depending upon your level of worthiness. Bribes are not only accepted, but encouraged.
For comparison, here's Savannah's birth announcement:
Kelli and I are getting to know his features well enough now that we can tell the difference between them. The biggest difference we've noticed is the shape of their lips. Where Savannah has my top lip and Kelli's lower, Cooper has Kelli's top and my lower.
For those of you keeping score, that leaves Kelli and me with exactly no lips. Here we are, the lipless freaks, trying desperately to whistle. And of course, there will now be no kissing, which may explain what happens to the love lives of new parents. Don't you worry, though. We have a plan. I'm going to have my lovehandles lipo'd and the fat injected into our lips. That would give each of us lips roughly the size of a hippo's. Hippo lips. That's what they'll call us. Or lip handles. Your choice.
For comparison, here's Savannah's birth announcement:
Kelli and I are getting to know his features well enough now that we can tell the difference between them. The biggest difference we've noticed is the shape of their lips. Where Savannah has my top lip and Kelli's lower, Cooper has Kelli's top and my lower.
For those of you keeping score, that leaves Kelli and me with exactly no lips. Here we are, the lipless freaks, trying desperately to whistle. And of course, there will now be no kissing, which may explain what happens to the love lives of new parents. Don't you worry, though. We have a plan. I'm going to have my lovehandles lipo'd and the fat injected into our lips. That would give each of us lips roughly the size of a hippo's. Hippo lips. That's what they'll call us. Or lip handles. Your choice.
Sleep at a Premium
Sorry for the distinct lack of blogging the last couple of days, but we're all pretty tired around here. Here's a quick rundown of life in the Franklin world:
Kelli sick -- It doesn't seem to be anything serious, but Kelli is a little under the weather -- sinus congestion, sore throat, slight fever. She's taking some antibiotics and resting. She slept in the guest room last night, which left me with sole care of the Coopster. Combine that with an early morning yesterday, and I'm pretty wiped out.
We got some work -- I had a meeting in Tuscaloosa yesterday that will result in some new work for the University. The last thing I expected from my next project is that it would be a re-working of my last project. Fine by me. Work is work. BTW, God is good, and faith is rewarded.
Body for Life? Yeah, right. I've been too tired and too busy this week to really re-establish the workout routine. I'll keep trying, though.
Some good meetings -- I've met with a couple of guys this week about representation and the development about some of our TV/film projects. Don't want to bore you with the details, but we are really getting focused on moving our careers into a new direction. On those same lines, we got a verbal commitment from Alabama's gymnastics team to take part in a reality series next season that we will develop. Now to sell the series...
Pics on the way -- I'm headed out now to pick up a bunch of photos of the kids. We printed one birth photo of Cooper with his birth stats to send out to those special people in our lives. (You know who you are.) If you don't get one, don't take it personally. We can still be friends; we just don't think you're all that special. I'm sure somebody does, though. I can't imagine whom, but stranger things have happened. Not many stranger things. I think I'll quit while I'm way behind.
Kelli sick -- It doesn't seem to be anything serious, but Kelli is a little under the weather -- sinus congestion, sore throat, slight fever. She's taking some antibiotics and resting. She slept in the guest room last night, which left me with sole care of the Coopster. Combine that with an early morning yesterday, and I'm pretty wiped out.
We got some work -- I had a meeting in Tuscaloosa yesterday that will result in some new work for the University. The last thing I expected from my next project is that it would be a re-working of my last project. Fine by me. Work is work. BTW, God is good, and faith is rewarded.
Body for Life? Yeah, right. I've been too tired and too busy this week to really re-establish the workout routine. I'll keep trying, though.
Some good meetings -- I've met with a couple of guys this week about representation and the development about some of our TV/film projects. Don't want to bore you with the details, but we are really getting focused on moving our careers into a new direction. On those same lines, we got a verbal commitment from Alabama's gymnastics team to take part in a reality series next season that we will develop. Now to sell the series...
Pics on the way -- I'm headed out now to pick up a bunch of photos of the kids. We printed one birth photo of Cooper with his birth stats to send out to those special people in our lives. (You know who you are.) If you don't get one, don't take it personally. We can still be friends; we just don't think you're all that special. I'm sure somebody does, though. I can't imagine whom, but stranger things have happened. Not many stranger things. I think I'll quit while I'm way behind.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
My Nemesis and Friend
Now that we're home and settling into life with two kids, I'm trying to get into some healthy life habits. The trick is fitting everything in. There's work, the yard, the house, taking care of the kids, and, of course, my work with orphans. At least I think they were orphans. They were all wearing matching t-shirts and eating food off the ground in the park. I guess they could've been kids on a field trip having a picnic. I bet that was it! Idiot! No wonder they looked traumatized when I started crying and screaming at them, "you poor children! Your parents are dead! Your parents are all dead!"
With Kelli still recovering, my share of the load is larger than usual. I'm trying to fit in a couple of hours a day for working out and some spiritual quiet time. It's a work in progress, but not impossible. It's all about time management. But if there's one thing that is likely to throw me off my game, it's -- and I hate to say this, because I'm betraying an old friend -- it's television. It sucks me in like that cross-dimensional vortex thing from the show "Sliders." (It's a classic.) TiVo has only made things worse. Now I know there's always something on I want to watch. And when there's two hours of "The Amazing Race" and a new "My Name is Earl" on the Now Playing list, it's tough to pull yourself away. I NEED to know what happened to the annoying Bronx family. My health can wait.
I'm 35 years old, and there are so many things I've never done. I can't speak a foreign language. I've never finished a Russian novel. I almost never read. I don't know anything about philosophy or the great thinkers. I don't know Bach from Bartok, and I wouldn't know Charles Mingus if his piano fell on my head. I don't even know what instrument Mingus played! Work often catches most of the blame from me, but the real fault lies with television. That wonderful, mind-numbing, taste-lowering, irresistably tacky lightbox television. Damn you, Zworykin and Farnsworth!
But before we throw our TVs out the windows and scream, "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!" we should stop to consider all the good things TV has done for us.
Without TV, we wouldn't know how many maggots a person can eat in 30 seconds with their hands tied behind their backs. Without TV, we would never consider packing all of our belongings for a 3-hour boat ride. If there were no TV, what would we point our furniture at? Without TV, I wouldn't have been able to steal that last joke from "Friends." No TV would mean I would be limited to watching only a single game on Saturdays, and that would be criminal.
TV has taught us how to find our perfect match -- by competing against 11 other single losers, of course. TV has taught us that if we have dark secrets haunting our relationships, it's best to reveal them to our loved ones in front of the entire world. Jerry Springer is our friend. Thanks to TV, war is finally entertaining again.
Without TV, there would never have been a trained chimp co-hosting the Today Show. When is Katie Couric going to retire, anyway? Great icons of our pop culture heritage would be meaningless: Fonzie's jacket, Archie Bunker's chair, that little robot who said "beedee-beedee-beep" on Buck Rogers.
TV has enriched our lives, flavored our culture and expanded our language. "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do!" "Bang! Zoom! Right to the moon!" "I think you were a little hard on the Beaver." "Nip it in the bud." "Missed it by that much!" "No soup for you!" "Doh!" I'm not apologizing for TV anymore. It's like the crass uncle you don't want to take to parties to meet your friends, but you can't wait to see when you go home. So my brain may be a little smaller and my worldview a little shallower. Who cares? My name is Wayne, and I'm a television addict -- not that there's anything wrong with that.
With Kelli still recovering, my share of the load is larger than usual. I'm trying to fit in a couple of hours a day for working out and some spiritual quiet time. It's a work in progress, but not impossible. It's all about time management. But if there's one thing that is likely to throw me off my game, it's -- and I hate to say this, because I'm betraying an old friend -- it's television. It sucks me in like that cross-dimensional vortex thing from the show "Sliders." (It's a classic.) TiVo has only made things worse. Now I know there's always something on I want to watch. And when there's two hours of "The Amazing Race" and a new "My Name is Earl" on the Now Playing list, it's tough to pull yourself away. I NEED to know what happened to the annoying Bronx family. My health can wait.
I'm 35 years old, and there are so many things I've never done. I can't speak a foreign language. I've never finished a Russian novel. I almost never read. I don't know anything about philosophy or the great thinkers. I don't know Bach from Bartok, and I wouldn't know Charles Mingus if his piano fell on my head. I don't even know what instrument Mingus played! Work often catches most of the blame from me, but the real fault lies with television. That wonderful, mind-numbing, taste-lowering, irresistably tacky lightbox television. Damn you, Zworykin and Farnsworth!
But before we throw our TVs out the windows and scream, "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!" we should stop to consider all the good things TV has done for us.
Without TV, we wouldn't know how many maggots a person can eat in 30 seconds with their hands tied behind their backs. Without TV, we would never consider packing all of our belongings for a 3-hour boat ride. If there were no TV, what would we point our furniture at? Without TV, I wouldn't have been able to steal that last joke from "Friends." No TV would mean I would be limited to watching only a single game on Saturdays, and that would be criminal.
TV has taught us how to find our perfect match -- by competing against 11 other single losers, of course. TV has taught us that if we have dark secrets haunting our relationships, it's best to reveal them to our loved ones in front of the entire world. Jerry Springer is our friend. Thanks to TV, war is finally entertaining again.
Without TV, there would never have been a trained chimp co-hosting the Today Show. When is Katie Couric going to retire, anyway? Great icons of our pop culture heritage would be meaningless: Fonzie's jacket, Archie Bunker's chair, that little robot who said "beedee-beedee-beep" on Buck Rogers.
TV has enriched our lives, flavored our culture and expanded our language. "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do!" "Bang! Zoom! Right to the moon!" "I think you were a little hard on the Beaver." "Nip it in the bud." "Missed it by that much!" "No soup for you!" "Doh!" I'm not apologizing for TV anymore. It's like the crass uncle you don't want to take to parties to meet your friends, but you can't wait to see when you go home. So my brain may be a little smaller and my worldview a little shallower. Who cares? My name is Wayne, and I'm a television addict -- not that there's anything wrong with that.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Update on Cooper -- Three Weeks Old
Believe it or not, Cooper is three weeks today. So many of our friends have yet to see him. In some ways, it seems like time has stood still over the past few weeks. Given that it's cold & flu season, we're hesitant to take him around too many people right away. We'll probably start easing him into some outings over the next two weeks.
He had a check-up today. He's almost back up to his birth weight at nine pounds even. He has gained almost 2 inches in length (I guess it's not really height until you can stand under your own power.) I even had to adjust the position of the car seat straps to accommodate him. His check-up went well, but they had to take a lot of blood. I've never heard him cry so much. He had a pacifier in his mouth the whole time, so he ended up sounding like Chewbacca "talking." Not the roaring Chewie, but the "roah-roah-roah" soft-spoken one. Okay, okay. Next time, you try typing in Wookie.
The reason for the extra blood was a slight bump in his adrenal activity in his original lab work in the hospital. Dr. Stone said that was to be expected with the way Coop was struggling to breathe at birth. This is just to double check the numbers and ensure that everything is okay.
He's been allowing us a couple of three-hour stretches of sleep at night. Last night was an exception, as we totaled about 4 hours. He is still a little congested, so sleeping was a challenge. The kid is also eating us out of house and home. To think the NICU doc was worried about his "eating problem." I still harbor a deep desire to step on that little man. Need to repent of that one.
Savannah is very attached to him, and even began sobbing as we left for pre-school this morning. "I want my baby brother, she cried." We're still fighting her need to constantly touch him. It's funny; already she can tick him off faster than anyone. They already know how to behave like siblings. She simply touches his forehead or kisses his hand the wrong way, and he starts complaining. And she has already complained about the music from his bouncy seat interfering with her movies. Welcome to our future.
He had a check-up today. He's almost back up to his birth weight at nine pounds even. He has gained almost 2 inches in length (I guess it's not really height until you can stand under your own power.) I even had to adjust the position of the car seat straps to accommodate him. His check-up went well, but they had to take a lot of blood. I've never heard him cry so much. He had a pacifier in his mouth the whole time, so he ended up sounding like Chewbacca "talking." Not the roaring Chewie, but the "roah-roah-roah" soft-spoken one. Okay, okay. Next time, you try typing in Wookie.
The reason for the extra blood was a slight bump in his adrenal activity in his original lab work in the hospital. Dr. Stone said that was to be expected with the way Coop was struggling to breathe at birth. This is just to double check the numbers and ensure that everything is okay.
He's been allowing us a couple of three-hour stretches of sleep at night. Last night was an exception, as we totaled about 4 hours. He is still a little congested, so sleeping was a challenge. The kid is also eating us out of house and home. To think the NICU doc was worried about his "eating problem." I still harbor a deep desire to step on that little man. Need to repent of that one.
Savannah is very attached to him, and even began sobbing as we left for pre-school this morning. "I want my baby brother, she cried." We're still fighting her need to constantly touch him. It's funny; already she can tick him off faster than anyone. They already know how to behave like siblings. She simply touches his forehead or kisses his hand the wrong way, and he starts complaining. And she has already complained about the music from his bouncy seat interfering with her movies. Welcome to our future.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)