Monday Moanin'

  This past weekend’s weather has rekindled long forgotten memories of winters past.  As I’m now working for a very small design studio and I’m generally the first to arrive in the morning, it will periodically fall to me to clear the sidewalks of the previous night’s malevolent flakes.  I remain mindful of the obligation to shovel for several reasons: 

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October 22, 2007 (Agincourt pending)
It’s about time
Really, it’s about time 

    It isn’t necessarily a problem when your hobbies interfere with your work; the problem begins when your hobbies start to interfere with each other.  Around the time of my last post, I downloaded a trial version of World of Warcraft.  I had been interested in the game, partly because one of my brothers-in-law is a huge fan (a self-proclaimed “War-crack” addict), but mostly because Blizzard was offering a free trial.  It may go without saying that I have since become a moderate fan.
    Though WOW has not been the primary reason for my extended absence from this forum, it has admittedly played a part.  More to the point, it takes a fair amount of time to compose my often-extended rants.  And with the needs of the house (and yard) in Georgia, coupled with the demands Sadie places on Doc and myself. plus my desire to claim some me-time, I found that I did not have the time – or the innate talent – to knock out the long, hopefully sardonic rants that I used to.
    Now, with a tidy house and a tiny backyard, we’ve got a bit more time.  And, wanting to continue this monologue, but with a little less effort, future installments will exhibit a character more in line with those that Bobbo originally offered: shorter thoughts, not entirely connected, but not disjointed either.

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    Doc, Sadie and I are now comfortably settled in East Lansing.  On the way north, we checked off a few “need to do’s” before leaving the Southeast, including the Biltmore Estate and Chickamauga.  Now that we have had few months to acclimate ourselves, I can comfortably offer the following:

Big Ten things I can say positively about MSU/East Lansing

1. I like the Spartans better than Brussels sprouts.  And far better than Notre Dame.
2. MSU has a very classy bell/clock tower, quite possibly better than Michigan’s Burton Memorial Tower and certainly better than the Charles Moore memorial on U of M’s North Campus.
3. The awesome size of the MSU campus has allowed university planners to retain the remains of an old burned-down dorm and even add a State Historical plaque to commemorate it.
4. We’re closer to Sadie’s cousins and my sibs and parents (but not too close).
5. The football team at the local aggie college regularly loses to my U of M.
6. The MSU Sheep Teaching and Research Center (though they lose some cred for using the term MS-EWE).
7. Our home comes complete with a basement, a genuine attic and a lawn so small that I mow it with a human-powered mower in about 30 minutes. And there is just enough room for improvement, that we will be able to leave an indelible mark here (Currently that list includes a bracketed front porch awning, picket fence and a rear covered deck/balcony)
8. MSU ice cream.
9. There are multiple coffee shops, bookstores and quirky restaurants within walking distance of our home.  My current favorite is a gyro joint called Lou & Harry’s.  And given the demands of the typical clientele, the businesses keep very broad hours.
10.The street on which we live has sidewalks (where cousins can have fun).
11.The legendary dungeon-like steam tunnels.

    The apocryphal nature of Egbert’s dungeon adventures notwithstanding, there is something to be said for geek hobbies. Though some might reasonably suggest that online roleplaying is not really for someone of my advanced age – that it is a waste of time – I find it enjoyable and challenging.  It does not interfere with my family or assorted household tasks.  Frankly, I don’t see it being all that different from parking one’s broadsides in the La-Z-Boy and watching back-to-back football games on Autumn weekends.  And since I’ve never been a great fan of televised sports, a new vice hobby was born.
    Truth is, beyond the fighting and pillaging, much of the game is about solving very large (and periodically frustrating) puzzles.  Plus, the graphics and the environments are really well done. 

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     Some guy is currently making the rounds touting his book The Fanatic, which offers a list of “Ten Things All Sports Fans Should Do.”  Yours truly – an unashamedly sports-non-fan – clicked off three of the ten without breaking a sweat*.  And while I wouldn’t say no to a couple others, I wouldn’t pursue them.  One – I’ll leave you to guess which – I will never see under any circumstances.
    Already beginning his brand extension, the author adds that there were “other events I considered that were harder to leave off. They included the Olympics, World Cup soccer, The Americas Cup and, believe it or not, the Bassmaster Classic...  They're now the first four events on my new list.”  Spare me.  Fishing is a sport in the same way hunting for a parking space is athletic.  If one is going to lump the tradition of the Ancients with this guy, I want to be entered in the Decathlon of furniture building, sponsored by Overstock.com.

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 As of today, I have absolutely no intention of voting for Presidential candidate Clinton.  God knows we could use more women at all levels of politics.  And beyond the fact that between now and November 2008, she will be referred to as “that bitch” in myriad boardrooms, pubs, golf courses and NASCAR urinal circles, I still cannot support her.  Hell, there is absolutely no doubt that she’d run circles around the current occupant of the Oval Office.  But, if the past six years have taught us anything, it’s that familiarity and name recognition are not acceptable qualifications for public office.

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And now, with the lawn mowed, Doc and Sadie both napping and having finished the preceding as this month’s (quarter’s? year’s?) update, I’m off to Azeroth.  Unapologetically.

Anon,

Daniel

 *Not to mention a few others that few can claim.  <cough> Augusta National <cough> Royal Troon <cough>.

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December 18, 2006
Prejudice in the Attic
The Hard Bigotry of Low IQ’s

    Despite the actual lunar phasing, I would’ve sworn there was a full moon developing this past week, as all the lycanthropes were raising their heads.  A co-worker forwarded the marquee musings of some New Jersey sage.  The first mutt released the latest of “his” videos, once again absolutely bereft of humor.*  And, as I was refilling my coffee tanks one morning, I actually overheard a job interviewee all-but-proclaim his intolerance for Hispanics. When casually asked if he spoke any Spanish, our applicant replied bluntly, “No.  I have no desire to learn, either**.  Let them learn.”  Needless to say, this was not our most enlightened applicant and I’m pleased that he has withdrawn his interest in our project.
    I understand that the issue of establishing a national language is nuanced.  If you don’t want to learn eine andere Sprache because you have no desire to exercise your grey matter, expose yourself to another culture or make it easier to converse with the staff at your favorite ethnic restaurant, that’s your business.  To my mind, it highlights a character flaw, but one that is forgivable.  However, if you refuse to learn even conversational Spanish – despite the fact that your industry (e.g. construction, agriculture, prize-fighting) is teeming with native speakers – specifically because you have no intention of making it any easier on the Tex-Mex waitress when you demand your third basket of complimentary tortilla chips, then you are a bigot.  And – dare I say it – a pendejo.
    Our applicant could undoubtedly relate the story of his own family’s mistreatment at the hands of last century’s established citizenry.  I imagine that some of my own distant relatives were not openly received by those who preceded them.  That occurrence is truly unfortunate.  Given that my paternal lineage passed through what used to be Prussia, my relatives probably experienced some considerable friction in early part of the 20^th Century.  Twice.  But that is a legacy that I have no intention of perpetuating.  History is fraught with stories of man’s inhumanity towards other men.  That we choose not to behave in the coarse manner practiced by our forefathers should serve as proof that we are evolving.
    If there is one thing that this American Experiment has taught me, it’s that I have innumerable blessings to count.  And basic human nature requires that we extend our good fortune to the less fortunate whenever we can.  Having witnessed the merde that The Doc endured to get her tarjeta verde, my impulse is to simplify things for any that follow.  And while I have no great desire to learn, say Polish, it’s not because I disdain the Poles or think they should assimilate more quickly.  It’s because I already know a smattering of one Slavic language and would like to focus on another family – namely Romantic – precisely because it will help me help others.
    The (marginally) more thoughtful might suggest that by not insisting that immigrants learn the vernacular, they will be subjected to untold later difficulties.  One wonders if these dissenters would be quite so compassionate if they weren’t the majority.  Because soon enough, they won’t be, as Faux News’ John Gibson (hoary author of a paginated loo-roll called The War on Christmas) has realized.  Seeing the dire possibility of a planeta marrón, Gibson has called his viewers to counter the impending Hispanization by making more babies, implying that he knows his audience is exclusively Anglo.  To which my good friend Tomich might reply, “Well, whadda ya know? /sarcasm” 

And now, Your Moment

 

Don’t you just hate it when one person (in this case, my favorite speaker of Spanglish) ruins what would have been a great picture? 

Anon,

Daniel

*      If you actually watch the whole dreadful video, by all means let me know.  You are in dire need of a new hobby and I’d be willing to front you the cost of a new woodburning tool.

**   If I knew any thing about deconstruction, I’d say this first remark speaks volumes.

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July 20, 2006
The Tao of Esta
And the Fallingwater-shed

    I began the following as homage to my youngest sib to commemorate a significant milestone in his life.  But, after tireless re-reading and editing, I couldn’t escape that it felt like a eulogy.  In fact, the whole thing threatened to be so sappy, that I almost threw in the towel and offered a lampoon, involving Esta’s well-known admiration of this guy.  Instead, I persevered.  Concluding that respectful tributes are wasted on the deceased, I decided to accept the inevitable and simply offer my respects, not to a lost friend but to a living relative--albeit one who recently shuffled off his mortal Twenties.
    One presumes that being the youngest child (of six, in this case) is occasionally  demanding.  When you choose to follow the path of older sibs, you are naturally expected to match or outperform them.  Too often, I suspect that teachers and coaches compare you only to the selectively chosen best traits of your older sibs (which pretty much meant that all of us were considered mathematic mental midgets.)  In turn, when those older sibs actually consent to acknowledge you, it is only to administer periodic beatings – of brow and body – and you often have little recourse but to take it.*
    With all that in mind (not to mention the flattering paper he wrote about me in fifth grade**), I offer the following: 

    Our Estaban actually managed to chart his own course in several areas, trying his hand at things his five predecessors did not: varsity soccer, altar service, retail sales, an appearance on a syndicated game show and, to celebrate his 21^st birthday, unassisted flight over the handlebars of a mate’s bicycle.  Though it’s hardly surprising that such a diverse collection of talents would lead to his current calling as Jack of all Trades, it’s a wonder he’s not better at Trivial Pursuit:

Celebrity Math Lesson #6 - Pie Charts

While the boy is several Stone less than Hill, he takes his Johnnie with rocks, so it cancels out.

    Esta is particularly well-traveled, and I have little doubt that he gets along with the locals wherever he is, as that is his unflappable, good nature.  He has definite, well-considered opinions about nearly any topic, from politics to blackjack, art to popular culture, soup to nuts.

Esta’s Big Ten Foods That Will Make You “All Fulled Up.”

1.      Cheez Whiz
2.      Proper Scottish bacon sarnies and a pint, possibly served with a side of hot soup
3.      Coo-oh-vasia
4.      Bilbo’s Pizza of Kalamazoo (Fumble!)
5.      A nip of Dewars
6.      One, wit’
7.      Mein Bier (daβ ich habe getrunken.  Jetzt, wo ist das Badzimmer?)
8.      Chilequiles (a staff favorite)
9.      Zingermann’s French fries
10.  Hog fat
11.  Mom-made sandwiches (especially when eaten in the back of my Ranger.)

    The last item holds a particularly special place in my Memory Palace.  In 1990, the boy and I took a long weekend whitewater rafting trip that included a tour of Fallingwater and we stopped somewhere along the Ohio turnpike for a tailgate brown-bag dinner.  Over time, that trip has become–for me, anyway–one of responsibility and coming of age.  With very, very little embellishment, I believe it could be transformed into a great narrative.  That is, if it is left to a moderately capable writer.  It truly has all the facets of a great yarn:  setting up camp in the dark under headlights and in terrible soil; dealing with a whiny-ass raft mate, who did half the work of my kid brother; jumping off a boulder into a reasonably calm stretch of foamy river; saving said kid brother’s cyclist’s hat from loss in said rapids; paying for coin-op showers after a shoot down a water slide; feeling relived that he ordered something for dinner that was so far under my budget that he could afford to (and did) order dessert; and splitting a six-pack with some issue-laden dame over the fading campfire coals while the boy slept off the day’s events.
    It is exactly through these (now romanticized) teenage roadtrips that–despite the aforementioned harassment–our youngers stand to gain.  We older sibs make mistakes, but we also lay the bedrock to soften parental predispositions.  And since physical defiance does not usually work to the youngers’ advantage, a sharp wit and wry sense of humor are often honed to fine edge.   That our trip to Wright’s masterwork allowed my kid brother to challenge one of his high school teachers about its actual whereabouts is pure icing.  Knowing I had a hand in developing his nascent defiance makes it that much sweeter.

Happy Birthday, Pie-boy.  Hope you enjoyed the cheesecake tart.

Anon,

Daniel

*  Including one particularly shameful passive-aggressive rebuke I delivered when he was staying on our couch.  Thankfully, and thanks to some drunken e-mails, we made our peace with that episode, declaring a common enemy in El Gordo.
** An essay entitled “The Person I Admire Most,” which I have retained to this day.  If memory serves, the only other individual receiving similar tribute was Theodore Roosevelt, whose favorite phrase–we were reminded–was “Bully!”.

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Third week of June.  Aught six.
Your wee lass fills in for dad/dan on his day
With some help from dad’s sib [who he calls bro doc].

 Friends and kin;

     I’ve been charged to fill in for my dad, since right now he is now out cold on the big green couch in my room [that I share with mum and him].  He claims to have caught a cold from me and now he can’t get up and mow the lawn or do those ‘dad things.’  And while I gave him the bug, he’s dead beat ‘cause he stayed up late last night with ‘his game’ in one more failed try to ‘push on through.’
    So it is left to me to give you the up to date news from ‘these here parts’ in my dad’s place on ‘his day.’  And trust me, that which you see here is not at all like that fake bill keane, who draws lame-ass puns with his off hand to mock his son’s poor art skills.  This rant is well-thought out and quite terse.  My sole hitch is that I can’t work the shift key.  [In case you made note, the I’s and the first words of each line make the switch to caps for me.  It’s called ms word; you might look it up some time.] 
    On to the news from this ‘branch o’ the clan.’  Right now, at just two months old, I’ve got mum and dad both ‘wrapped.’  Mum now pre-cuts her meals so she can eat with one hand while she tends to my needs.  As for dad, on his best days, he seems naught else but a naff lout.  I mean, have you seen him dance; that face he makes.  And he tries to use big words when he speaks to mum and claims that I am an ‘enigma.’  [I had to look that word up, but I’m fine with it, since I think he’s a bit of a joke too.]  To show him who’s boss, one of my best tricks is to make a huge fuss over a small bit of wee in my shorts.  And he can’t feel it, since it’s so small, so I get to watch as he sticks his nose in to smell if it’s wet.  Great fun.
    Now last week, there was this big deal with a bat [not the kind you play ball games with; the kind with wings].  The foul thing got up in the eaves and dad could not get it out.  Bright lights would not shake it loose.  And dad claimed to not want to kill it, since it eats bugs.  But in truth, I think he was quite scared of it [ask dad’s sib zeb how my ponce dad deals with mice, then add a pair of wings].  And this is what he did to save mum and me; when the bat flew off for the night to get its meal rich-in-bug, dad nailed a wood plank on top of where it had slept.  Note that he did not try to grab it in a gloved hand like a real man, but just tacked up bits of wood.  It was a bat fight planned by steve and norm from ‘this old house.’  But to show off this self-grand deed, dad hummed all sorts of stuff from that winged mouse work by strauss.  Then he switched to that one with all the dead norse men to show his proud fight skills for the next three days, all while he pranced through the house like some great brave man.  The fraud.  What’s more, now he has no clue where that beast has gone.  Smooth move, prune juice.

The real man’s way to fend off the bat scourge: bits of wood, ring shank nails and good stuff [r] foam.

    To be fair, he does a fair job as a dad.  He wakes at five or six on non-work days, makes a big pot of strong joe [which he takes black – much like his soul] and feeds me mum’s milk, which he brings to temp while I wait and wait - starved and in a foul mood.  While we sit, I feast and he wipes my chin.  He surfs the ‘net, reads the wire news or plays a game he calls ‘civ.’ In fact, we do this so much that he now calls me his ‘civ girl,’ though I think he spells the word ‘sieve,’ in what I take to be a droll crack at the rate of my need to use the bog [which is my pants].
    Though he plays ‘his game’ a fair amount – at times late at night – I can’t say he’s good at it. Not once have I seen him play at the ‘sid’ rank.  And, for all the books he’s read on the wars of rome, for all the black and white greek art films he’s watched, he can’t seem to grasp the ‘flank move.’  His whole game is brute force.  It pains me that he won’t ‘form a square.’  Or at least pour it on with the big guns, and then send in the foot troops in a ‘pont on feu,’ which – as we know – was used for great gains by one sawed-off runt.  Of course, that frog knew his war craft [not like some I might note].  Now and then, I try to help with a sharp kick to dad’s mouse arm while he plays, but it does scant good.  C'est la vie.
    In all, I think he means well and I that he does all that he does since he has my best at heart.  To wit;

The big ten things I’ve heard him say he’d like to shield from me

      1.       Bats, cats and spoiled brats
2.       South park
3.       Skinned knees
4.       The vile twins from ‘full house’
5.       Pop tunes
6.       Sports [though I’d guess that u of m games might pass]
7.       Foie de boeuf
8.      Red necks
9.       Bud, bud light, bud dry, ‘the bud bowl’ and all else to do with the so-called king of beers
10.   Two-faced dolts who claim to speak for God [but know him not]
11.    Fox news

    If he can pull off this list, I’ll make him a pie.  And not like the one currently in my shorts.

Yours,

McLaren (nee Scout)
 

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May 22, 2006  June 12, 2006
‘Bout time!
What it lacks in frequency, it makes up for in graphics. 

    Once again, I began writing the following several weeks ago, and returned to it periodically, only to set it aside to pursue more pressing endeavors.  After a while the material started to get old, and I decided to bring this chapter to a close, so as to not let the good stuff go to waste. For instance, I realized that I’d hit a bit close to home when I joked that we considered calling our dear daughter Billy (Billie) Ruben.  Then she (who will not be named) got a moderately troubling case of jaundice and the “humor” dissipated.

    But if I’d written this three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have been able to pass on her apparent fascination with ceiling fans.

   Or that she is frightfully “windy.”  And that this–though a source of some embarrassment–actually comes in handy in masking my own vents, for which I am happy to let her take the blame/credit. 

    Or that she’d passed her first meeting with the pediatrician with flying colors:  She’s in the 50^th percentile for length; the 75^th percentile for weight; and in the 100^th for head circumference (and, one presumes, diameter.)

    Or that she seems to enjoy being read to.  Lately, we’ve been reading “The Conservative Nanny State,” which I like to think she finds enlightening, if troubling.

    A colleague recently asked what, specifically, I found to be most different.  Overcooked or cold dinners, routinely eaten in shifts came to mind.  And that I am woefully behind in my reading.  But the “most different” thing is that seeing to her needs means that many former priorities have taken the back seat.  Of course, this will not come as a surprise to most people–with or without children.  What has amazed me is not the effort, so much as the time it takes to take care of her.  And the fact that she does not observe any sort of schedule in making her demands on us, has given me a greater appreciation for Eddieism #63: “We always love you, but we don’t always like you.”

    But we are enjoying the challenge, not to mention her company.  And we are managing to adapt.  I’ve found that I can master a surprising number of tasks with only one hand (as the other is occupied holding her):  bottle-prep, ironing (harder than you’d think), reading, Civilization and PhotoShop.  With her frequent late-night feedings, I’ve had ample opportunities to perfect my photo manipulation skills. If you’ll excuse the brazen plagiarism:

“Use me as wallpaper, will you?  I’m the real George W, beeyatch!”

    Despite my patient attempts, I’m still not as good as the people at The Creepiest Website Ever*, though that doesn’t prevent me deriving genuine amusement from her photos.  Generally, the applications are more practical, such as the color balance and red-eye control in Your Moment of Zen below.  I’ll try to keep her images up to date, but if you don’t want to wait for my infrequent posts, more pictures can always be found at Flickr.

 

A photo that Uncle Esta will appreciate.  And one that will make an appearance at her high school graduation. Or wedding.

Anon,

Dan 

*I’ve secured a promise from Esta that if I ever try anything as diabolical, he’s to charge a first class airplane trip to Georgia, avail himself of the complementary hooch, catch a taxi to our home, and break my thumbs. 

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Volume Two of Monday Moanin' may be found here.
Volume One of Monday Moanin' may be found here.

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