Adventures in Teen Mortification

What's Been Keeping Us Laughing for the Last Two Weeks

Scene: 5:30 pm.  A local McMenamins, we join our family seated in a booth, gazing at menus.

The Child: “I guess I’ll get an RC.”

Mark: “I think I’m going to order a Grapefruit Pom Nom Paloma.” (To John) “Are you going to order a drink?”

John: “I don’t know… (Thinking about how it’s early, but it’s still a school night, and he would have to figure out how to get home.) I don’t usually order booze when I’m here….”

Mark: “Why not? You could order a margarita.”

John (Holding up his index finger, swishing his shoulders, and launching into song): “Give me one mar-”

The Child (practically launching out of his seat and thrusting his palm across the table, a look of horror on his face tempered by the look of relief that we’re the only ones in this section of the restaurant): “STOP!”

(John and Mark trying and failing to keep straight faces and barely concealing their laughter.)

John: “Whoo! I didn’t even get past ‘margarita!’”

The Child: “What? That’s a weird song.”

Autumnal Transitions

To misquote Oscar Wilde, summer has collapsed into autumn here in the Willamette Valley.  With the Autumnal Equinox, the unseasonably warm and bright days have been washed away, at least for now, by an atmospheric river.  The plants in the yard have gone from looking slightly withered to slightly faded but somehow more lush.  The yellow grass is poised to regain its Pacific Northwest winter verdancy.  The garden gate swings easily now that the clay in the ground has been watered and whatever shrinkage causing misaligned sidewalk and fence post has been undone.  And we've had bewilderingly dim days, as if the equinox acted like a wall-outlet timer switch that tripped and turned off the sun.

On the last day of summer, The Child went off to college. We've all been fairly laid back about it.  I asked him if we could take pictures of him moving into his dorm room for social media, complete with me, hand at my brow, clutching his knees, and wailing while the two of us were surrounded by moving boxes and laundry, but he declined.  We did have some moments on Move-In Day where I would wobbly sing "Please Don't Take My Sunshine Away," and we would both theatrically break down into fake boo-hoo-hoos. But then we'd both start snickering.  

It's not like we haven't been practicing for the last six months for this moment; he's spent a lot of time in the high school theatre rehearsing for shows or hanging out with his friends, so we really weren't seeing him much except for an hour before work and school or for a moment when he would come home for the night.   During the summer, we saw him even less, and it wasn't unusual for Mark and me to be in bed for the night before he'd come home.

Even though he was essentially only sleeping here these last few months, the first twenty-four hours after he was gone, the energy of the house shifted.  Now that he's gone his computer (and fan) are turned off, as is his air conditioner, which can account for some of the shift. But our small house isn't very sound-proof, and The Child is a dynamic person. I am pretty sure I was partially waking whenever he would come home, or get up in the middle of the night to eat the last of the pizza, or when he would thrash in his sleep and knock against whatever.  

Mark and I are not sure what the dog thinks of this.  She would trot to the front door to meet him whenever he came home. Mark thought she would be looking for him, but I haven't noticed her wandering in and out of his room or perching on the back of the davenport, forlornly sighing in a reenactment of Odysseus' faithfully waiting dog.  Although she does seem more clingy.  The cats seem to be more affected by the season's change.

At odd moments the last few days I've been struck by the weirdness of the shift.  I'm reminded of the time long ago when I had returned to Oregon and was crashing at my folks' house.  My mom said to me, "John, when you were in Minnesota and Arizona, I really didn't worry about you.  But now that you're here, I want you to know that I really don't get to sleep until I hear you pull into the driveway." Mark and I are going through something similar, but for us it's in reverse and it's a freeing up of cognitive focus.

We—or rather Mark—scoured out his room, which revealed the accumulated wear of the last fifteen years.  Most of the furnishings have stayed, and the plan is to turn The Child's room into a guest room / office.  We'll see how this works out.  Considering that Fall Term only lasts eleven weeks and he'll be back for about four weeks over the Winter Solstice, the changes we're making feel a little temporary.  

I expect on that December day when she first sees him, the dog will charge at him, barking and growling as if he were an Evil Trespasser bent on perfidy, but a split second before she's about to eat him and save us from Certain Peril and Property Damage, she'll recognize him and beg for belly rubs.

Unseasoned Traveller Moments

We woke early.  The previous night we'd packed before we went to bed.  

We picked up The Child at Mark's Mom's house, and said goodbye to everyone.  

After we dropped off the car, Mark decided that The Child needed to navigate to our gate as practice for future solo air-trips.  He did fairly well getting us to the air train and the TSA Pre-check line.  I think we might need to work on reading signs, but I could be projecting my own inadequacies onto the situation.  

Several unseasoned traveller moments later we were boarding the plane.  We were the next-to-last folks to get onto the plane, with the result that all of the overhead bins had been inexpertly packed with Other People's Stray Items That Should Have Fit Under Seats.  The Child's carry-on had to be checked in on the concorse.  My carry-on started to be checked-in, but the flight attendent found some spare space in first class; then she forgot to tell me where my luggage was and I had to make inquiries.

There were a lot of families travelling with a lot of kids.  Large families.  And at least two Very Angry Babies.  I was surprised by how irritated I was -- I don't know if it was luggage arrangement, or the child behind me kicking my chair seat, or the random shrieks, or not getting enough sleep, or Covid anxiety, or a general combination of airplane travel anxiety -- I had to keep reminding myself that travelling with kids is hard and that I should thank The Child for being a good travel companion for so many years.  

I put in my (battery depleted) ear buds and cat napped for as long as the seat would let me.  

The Child had the window seat, but I did manage to take a photo of Mt. Hood as we were flying into Portland.  I know that it's late August, but Mt. Hood was looking brown and dried out as we passed it.  Ursula LeGuin had a prescient vision of Mt. Hood when she wrote "The Lathe of Heaven" nearly fifty years ago.  The haze smudging the other mountains and filling in the valleys was a sad reminder that forest fires were still burning and hadn't magically gone out while we were away.  I thought it had rained while were were on the East Coast, but I guess it hadn't.

We survived baggage claim, located the car, and I drove us south and home.  

Mark had promised The Child that we would stop about halfway home to get food at In-N-Out.  It should have been called "In-An-Hour," because from the time we entered the driveway to the time we received our food, it took us 70 minutes.  The food was fine, but I think I would have ordered ahead (not, judging by the line of foot-traffic folks, that it would have helped).

Probably the funniest thing about the wait was a discussion of 90's gay club music:  I complained that at one point, dance music devolved into a series of frantic boops with no melody, designed to tickle the limbic brains of dancers who required an extra hit to their limbic brains in order to dance.  "Explorer," by Clubroot was playing at the time, and I snorted because I realized it was only slightly more refined than the frantic boops of the '90's (but it at least pretends to have a melody).  

"It's your kind of boops," The Child said.

This led to a discussion of how most dance music in the 90's wanted to be Darude's "Sandstorm" and the realization that The Child was really into "Sandstorm" because it was good for gaming to.

We got home at 7 PM and fed cats who were grateful that we did not have the dog with us.

That was the next day.

RollerBlade Interlude

 (John RollerBlades up to Mark, who is walking back from the grocery store.)

John (reaching for a gallon bottle):  "I can take the water."

Mark:  "I've got it.  Do you want a macaroon?"

John:  "Sure."  (Takes macaroon, RollerBlades in circles around Mark.)

Mark:  "The Child called; he didn't know where you were."

John:  "He could have looked out the front window or something."

Mark (in teen voice):  "'I tried calling him, but his cell phone rang in the house--'"

John:  "He was sitting in the bathroom when I left."

Mark:   "--'I didn't know where he went; he didn't say anything.'  I told him he was being controlling and said, 'Maybe he's in the crawl space; or maybe he's checking out the water main.'"

John: (recalling Lenny and Squigy from Laverne and Shirley):  "Or maybe I was puttin' on my luv clothes."

Mark (taking in John's RollerBlades, shorts, wrist-guards, black T-shirt, and bike helmet):  "You're not getting anywhere tonight if those are your love clothes, Electra."

John (sings from the musical, "Starlight Express."):  "I am Electra / I'm a computer / (elaborate arm gesture) I am electric / the future is me // if you make me board (pirouettes on RollerBlades)  / I'll hit my keyboard / you'll be erased from my memory (pivots to a stop, brings right hand over head, points at Mark)  // AC-DC it's okay by me / I can  switch and change my frequency..."

Mark:  "Is that how it goes?"

John:  "Well, it's in the song."

Mark:  "No, I meant trains; can they really change like that?:

John (finishing macaroon):  "I don't know.  It's Starlight Express:  Cats for trains."  

When Masks Fall

The big news on the writing front is that a story of mine will be published on-line on October 14.  I'll post a link to it once it's live.

Now that I'm feeling like I've fully recovered from last week's stupid cold, I have to get back into the swing of writing new stories, marketing stories, and going to the gym.   I did go to the gym last Friday night, and I was sore the next day from reminding various muscles what a bench press or cable pull was.


The weekend brought a revelation for The Child.

Scene:  (Leaving a social gathering.  John is waving to D.R. and K.R. as they walk past the car.)

The Child:  “...Wait. _That_ was D.R.?”

John:  “Well, yeah; like I said, we used to have these really great religious discussions about faith and grace and transcendent—“

T.C.:  “Uh, I thought that was years ago at Arcosanti, and you were tossing back drinks and talking about (air quotes) religion (end air quotes) until they threw you out at two in the morning into a big pile of homeless drunks.”

J (Pretty sure that fezes, hookahs, beaded curtains, and sitar background music is part of this re-imagined history):  “Oh, no; we were at Turtles after Wordos.”

T.C.:  “What?!  Only old hippies go there.  I thought you were drinking in a biker bar.”

J (adding a black leather jacket and chaps to his own re-imagined religious discussion apparel, and giving D a poet shirt and black, wide-brimmed Jesuit Priest's hat), :  “I drank tequila; D.R. drank Diet Pepsi.  (Recoloring this history in a Casablanca noir sepia tone)  Did you think D. was some kind of Hipster Priest with an unbuttoned shirt showing a gold bling cross dangling over his hairy chest?”

T.C:  “I thought you guys were cool...”

Child of Streaming TV

Mark woke up early and did some weeding (I think).  I woke up later and after some breakfast, I continued to hack back the forsythia Melissa wants trimmed.

The Child has discovered “Lucifer” on Netflix.  It’s Neil Gaiman style gallows humor, with gritty situations.  Mark decreed that it was too psychotic (as in the characters purposefully psychologically harm the other characters) for binge watching, and so The Child is only allowed one episode a day (and I’d have to agree, given the show’s attitude toward the tortures of Hell).  I’ll have to ask The Child if he discovered this series on his own, or if one of his friends suggested it.

The writing in it is kind of snappy; they could tighten the show with less pans of city-scapes between scenes.  It’s a police-procedural show on an episode level, and it wants to explore faith, identity, and family dynamics on a season level.  The acting leans toward soap opera melodramatic, with occasional moments of character development.   I’ve noticed that the guest villains are typically stereotypical “nice” people, like professors or children’s show hosts, with dark underbellies--so the show’s tone typically veers from snarky to jaded.  … and the writers seem to have a thing for impaling characters on rebar.

The titular character is very cute — (there are some nice fan service scenes), and goes back and forth between naive alien (“you mean this works like this?”), savvy manipulator, and amoral selfishness.  The actor has played a character on the Dr. Who reboot, but it’s an episode I haven’t seen.
I’d have to say, however, that the reception of the show at Grandma Mary’s was frosty at best.

Hiking Bribe Sandwich

For the last few days, Mark has been wanting to go up Spencer's Butte or Mt. Pisgah, but hasn't had enough umph to do so.  This was sad because being in the woods and hiking rejuvenates Mark.   I decided that if The Family went, Mark would be more likely to go.  I enlisted the help of The Child.  This required some negotiation.

Me:  "Mark's been wanting to hike, and I think if we all go, he'll be more likely to."

The Child:  "Oh... Kay..."

Me:  "So Saturday, we should all get up first thing in the morning and climb up Spencer's Butte."

TC:  "Uh -- but what about videos?"

Me:  "We'll start early so we get back early and you can still Saturday binge watch your regular allotment."

TC:  "Can't you go without me?"

Me:  "Bud, Mark's been kind of bummed about not hiking, and I could use your support helping him.

TC: "..."

Me:  "I'll pack a breakfast."

TC (eyes lighting up):  "We can stop at McDonald's and get a McMuffin?"

Me (trying not to roll my eyes or make hacking noises):  "Ugh.  No.  Um.  I'll make you a McMuffin at home and we can eat it up on top."

TC: "You'll make it with 'Merican cheese?"

Me:  "Yes."

TC:  "And those sausage links."

Me:  "I can get some sausages."

TC:  "No, they need to be those little sausage things they put on the side."

Me:  "How about I chop up the bacon and put it into the eggs?  With cream cheese.

TC: "Bacon?  (clearly tempted)  Maybe I could do a bait-and-switch.  You could say, 'Come on Mark, we're going,' and I could get into the car, and then I could slip out the back and into the house and you guys could go without me."

Me:  "If you don't go on the hike, there's no McMuffin.  Come on, bud, this is to get Mark into the woods.

TC (resigned):  "Okay."

* * *

Saturday morning I roused myself from bed, started the water for Mark's coffee (and my tea), and fired up the stove top.  The crescent moon shone about twenty degrees away from Saturn (alas, their conjunction the day before was clouded over).  

Luckily, we live near a meat market, so I had some Canadian Bacon slices and some American Cheese.  It wasn't the original bacon plan, but I vaguely remember ham or something being layered in the original breakfast sandwich, and -- more importantly -- the folks at the meat market had suggested Canadian Bacon when I told them I was making a Hiking Bribe Sandwich.  I tried pouring the scrambled egg-and-cream-cheese into a round cookie cutter to make a kind egg patty, but the the egg either seeped out of the bottom or adhered to cutter, so I just scrambled the eggs as best as I could and kept things as thick as possible.  Once everything was cooked, I assembled the sandwiches and wrapped them up in waxed paper for that cheap-fast-food presentation.

I packed sandwiches, fruit, beverages, and my camera, and -- amid accusations of being an autocrat -- got everyone into the car.   I want to say we got to the parking lot at 8.  It was mostly empty, which was nice, as on pleasant Saturdays Spencer Butte is a popular destination (editor's note: borne out by a friend later).   Someone chose the Steep Route up the west side of the butte, and we got a round of cardio in climbing up to the top.  

At first, The Child ranged in front of us, but we overtook him about two-thirds of the way up.  The ferns on the lower slope were still flattened by last month's foot of snow.  Farther along, uprooted Douglas firs and ponderosa pines lay fallen on the ground or smashed against still standing trees.  Chainsawed segments had been rolled off of the path.   I'd worked up a sweat climbing the shaded side of the butte, and as my head popped up out of the shade, I discovered we'd been climbing in the lee of the butte, too.

Low clouds loomed in the distance surrounding the northern part of the valley, and trees in the meadows between Spencer Butte and Mt. Pisgah cast long shadows through the fog.  Mt. Jefferson poked up through the haze, and the Three Sisters huddled together in the gauze on the horizon.  Saturn and the stars were gone, but the crescent moon sailed the southern sky.

The brisk wind helped unfurl the ground cover, and we needed to anchor the leading edge to keep it from bunching up.  The Child foraged through the insulated bag and ripped into a sandwich.  I poured myself some tea.  Mark bit into a marshmallow-chocolate-chip-mint treat I'd bought, laughed, and said it tasted like the mint toothpaste he hates.  The Child gave the sandwich a rating of 10.  I passed out cloth napkins with a sense of smug accomplishment.  It wasn't exactly a Martha Stewart picnic, but as I sipped my tea, in my head I heard peppy, make-over show music playing.

Dreams Featuring The Child

Driving the Car with The Child

I think the dream started here.  I was driving a car along city blocks in the dark.  I want to say it was before dawn, but it might have been the night.  What was important was that it was dark.  I made a right-hand turn onto a slightly busy street and realized A), I was in the back seat of the car and couldn't reach the controls, B) The Child was in the front passenger seat and would need to steer the car out of the  path of oncoming traffic.  

The Child was freaking out a little, and not able to drive, so I managed somehow (through dream fluidity) to  get back into the driver's seat and continue going.

Apartment Foyer with Mark

There's a break in the narrative.  I might have been coming home for a lunch break.  I sort of remember parking the car at some point, and I have a jumbled recollection of a dream setting that was a mash-up of our house, Mark's work, and a cafeteria.  I think it was a cold day.  

I'd come home for lunch.  Mark was home, too.  We had a short conversation about how our mornings had gone.  I started to change into different clothes and then it turned into a standing make-out session with Mark.  We somehow moved out of a bedroom/living-room and into a kind of entry hall: our door was in the middle of a long space with glass doors on either end; opposite our door was a bank of cash registers and vending machines, and a raised dining area.  There were three or four people at various tables, who were too busy eating or whatever to notice us.

We'd backed up against a vending machine or phone booth when I looked over Mark's shoulder and saw a generic dream guy (dark slacks, white shirt, blue striped business tie) from Mark's work walk through the doors.  He sort of saw us -- the recessed booth we were in blocked the view of us from about the waist down.  A startled, range of expressions crossed his face, that went something like "Ooh!  Whoops!  Oh my!  Where do I look?  Yikes, they see me seeing them.  Smile!  I'm going to pretend this didn't happen and go get lunch."

"Oh," I said, "I'd better get dressed."   Getting dressed in this case meant throwing my old purple-and-black cloak over my shoulders and holding it closed.  During the rest of the dream, I went back and forth wearing underwear, my regular bathrobe, or nothing under the cloak.

Lunch in my cloak.  With Hillary.

There was another break.  Somehow I was on a college campus (possibly Reed, only with less brick buildings), eating lunch with The Child and Hillary Clinton.  The sun was shining, the temperature was pleasant, the grass was green and flowers growing.  We had been walking, but found a space under a building to have a kind of private lunch.  I recall park benches of some sort, the space was dark, with a dry gravelly ground, sort of like being underneath a bridge or underpass.

Hillary and I were chatting, with occasional comments from The Child.  I think The Child said something a ten-year-old would say about The Joker.  I told a story about being at Reed, which involved me being the only guy on a road-trip with five women (there was an important reason that I was the only guy on this trip, but I don't recall what I was trying to tell Hillary).  Hillary asked The Child about his day.   The lunch was informal and friendly. 

And then it was time to go.  Hillary and The Child scrambled through a gap underneath the wall to the bright sunny campus outside.  I had to roll up my cloak around my mostly naked body and rolled on the ground under the wall.  

We chatted a bit as we walked.  I think there was another break because it was just The Child and me, when I realized I hadn't asked Hillary about her stance on NeoPaganism and then Hillary (in white) was on a bicycle in front of us.  

"Hang on, bud," I said,  "There's something I forgot to ask her." 

Politics and Religion

I caught up to her and said, "Mrs. Clinton, do mind if I ask you a campaign related question?" and proceeded to ask her what her stance on NeoPaganism was, which lead to a muddled explanation of what it was, with comparisons to Universalist Unitarians.  Meanwhile we're walking to her next appointment, and The Child is somewhere behind us.

I don't remember her answer exactly, but NeoPaganism wasn't on her radar, and she said something generically ecumenical.  "Oh, and it's time for my next appointment."  We walked into a wood-paneled classroom, which was also my place of employment.  It was 1:15.  My co-workers sat in a row of wooden lecture chairs (the kind with a little desktop built on the right side).  My boss was the instructor, and she was standing at the head of the class, looking at me with a controlled expression that managed to say, "Why are you fifteen minutes late?" and "Why are you at work dressed only in a cloak?"

I was so busted.  "It was nice having lunch with you, Mrs. Clinton," I said.  "I hope to see you soon."  Which was awkward, because we both new that I should be in this room, too, and that I would need to leave to get properly dressed.  

Get me to the class on time

I scurried out.  The setting had shifted a bit, it was still campus and outdoors, but it was also the inside of a vaulted college building.  I looked around for The Child, whom I needed to get to his class.

There was a commotion and I heard him.  "Oh," I thought, "Someone's found him and they're taking him along his way."

I turned a corner and I saw a woman, an amalgam of various severe teachers, dragging The Child to a class.  She was berating him non-stop.  He was trying to explain that he'd been lunching with me.   Then he tripped or something, and she became exasperated with him and pushed him as he was trying to get up.

I sailed over.  "You," I growled in my mama-bear voice, "sit!"  

She had a whiny English nanny voice.  "But he's late for his very important Artistic Expressions class."  Her red hair was done up on top of her head, and she had a beaded ribbon falling along one side of her head.

"Sit!"  

She sat resignedly on a bench or pew at the side of the hall.  

"You do not treat my child in that manner.  Do I make myself perfectly clear?"  

And the dream ended...

===

Commentary.

In the 1980's, I used to dream that I'd be driving through the streets of Corvallis, and suddenly my mother would be in the car and we'd either switched places, or else the steering wheel would switch over to her side of the car.   While I will occasionally have "I'm not in control of the car" dreams, this is the first time I've been displaced to the back seat in a while (it's more likely these days that the car's breaks or steering wheel stop working).

The make-out section of the dream is obvious anxiety about giving our back-door neighbors a show.  Which is theoretically possible, but unlikely.  Unless they're standing on our deck.

Usually, when I wear my cloak in dreams, I can fly in it.  And I'm usually not naked.  In this case I would sort of remember that I was in a state of undress, and then the dream would continue as if it were normal.

Lunch with The Child and Hillary Clinton?  The Child is preoccupied with Trump in the same sort of way he's preoccupied with The Joker.  I can only imagine that speaking about the primaries with Mark (who was reviewing local candidates for city posts) is behind this.  Though why I would want to know what Hillary's stance on NeoPaganis is is beyond me.  Maybe she'll lead us to a Goddess-based theocracy?  

I will sometimes dream The Child is in peril (usually because he's stupidly climbed onto a railing at the top of the Empire State building).  This is the first time the peril has come from a person, much less a mash-up of teachers.  Hmmm... the dream teacher was mix of some of his teachers whom he hasn't always liked the best, but the Very Important Self-Expression Art class seems straight out of the mouth of one of my teachers who wanted you do create your own unique art her way.  

This is the most that I've dreamed of The Child in more-or-less one sitting.  Maybe he was talking in his sleep.

---

Working out:  Monday afternoon's session:  20 minutes and 210 cal on the elliptical.  3x12x50lbs on the pec fly.  3x12x80 on the lat pull-down. 3x12 curl-ups.  3x12x35lbs on the barbells.  3x12x10lbs with an overhead triceps curl.  

These Are Not the Mushrooms You're Searching For...

Yesterday we went on a hike east of Oakridge to search for mushrooms.  The sky was clear and the sun was out, although it felt like it set early in the valley we were in.  Sunlight liberated steam from the saturated ground.  Usually mushrooms are all over the place, but this time we only saw them in ones and twos.  Mark was very happy when we found a purple mushroom, which he took a picture of.

The Child could only speak about Sith and Jedi the entire three hours we hiked.  I attempted to have him listen to the trees and the stream in crane stance because 1) it's good practice for his Kung Fu class, 2) to get him to be quiet for two seconds, and 3) to try to get him to actually focus on self-betterment and other positive benefits of focusing on The Force besides Force-chokes, Force-pushes, and Force-lightning.  (Mark and I have taken to shouting "Force-smooch!" and "Force-hug!" as an antidote to all the violence... and I think I may have to change my name to "Darth Enchanté.")

Latest Hurrah at the Enchanted Forest

Yesterday The Child and I went to the Enchanted Forest with my sister's family.  This was a birthday gift for my niece, and we'd only just now managed to get everyone's schedules aligned.

We've been going to The Enchanted Forest since the late 1970's.  I'm thinking that our first visit was with Velma Seat, an old family friend.  The park is old-school Oregon:  my mother and aunt were baptized by the father of Roger Tofte, the founder and builder of The Enchanted Forest.

The first part of the park is the oldest, which is a walking path along concrete dioramas and simple animatronic fairy-tale characters.  I like the giant dog and cat-headed flowers along the path.  Over the years they've added some rides and a Haunted House.  Although I like the the log ride and the Matterhorn roller-coaster ride, I'd have to say my favorite exhibit there is the seven dwarves' mine; call me a sucker for black-light paint and tinkly synthesizer music.

If it didn't make me feel nauseated, I'd really like the Crooked Man's House.  They do such a good job with the optical illusions there that I have to go through it with only one eye open.  I think The Child's favorite ride was "The Challenge of Mondor"(which he likes much more than he did in 2011) and my niece's was the Old Woman's Shoe and slide.  

.

Gaol Theatre at Shrewsbury

Shrewsbury was fun this year.  One of the acts there was a group from Washington called "The Hangman's Acre," who put folks into gaol cells on trumped-up charges.  After some theatrical taunting, the accused could get out if they did something silly (some folks had to sing "I'm a little teapot," one young boy had to dance like a pretty ballerina).

The Child decided he wanted to be locked up--mostly, I think, for the experience of being able to bribe his way out of jail--so he took his money, marched up to the gaolers, and began to tell them he wanted to be locked up.   This was outside their script, and some slightly confused gaolers shook their heads to clear them, then looked around for the parents.

We laughed and I walked up and came up with the charges of "belching at the breakfast table and extreme flatulence" while Mark and The Child wandered off to be caught.  Once the paperwork was done, the Chief Gaoler and I were off to clap the miscreant into the clink.

Apparently, near the jousting area,  The Child was having some second thoughts.  "Here, Mark," he said, "You take my cloak and wear it; that way they won't know who I am."  But we found them.

The Chief Gaoler made sure The Child wasn't too freaked out, and then went into theatrics, reading the warrant, and then marching him off the the gaol, with many cries of "Make way for a most terrible criminal!"  Mark and I followed, with cries of "Baby-sitting!" which were quickly denied by the Chief Gaoler.

The Child was put into a cell--it didn't really lock, I think it closed magnetically--the charges against him were read and then spiked to the front of the cell.

He was encouraged to use the soap in the cell, and the Chief Gaoler did some more Gaol-Theatre.   I caught The Child's eyes and patted my pockets significantly, and he remembered that he had a bribe to give the Gaoler.

"Wait!" The Gaoler said, "The charges have been dropped.  This child is pure as the driven snow!"

We protested and argued a little with him, but The Child was freed.

The Gaoler leaned forward and said, "Congratulations, my boy; you'll go far in life."

Days of Peanut Butter

Various notes...


Working Out:  Saturday afternoon, I managed to get the full routine in at the gym.  Monday afternoon, I got delayed and  only did the elliptical (180 cal in 15 minutes) and rowing machines (100 cal in 10 minutes) upstairs, and then the pec fly (50-12-3), and some triceps pull downs (40-12-3)... and I've forgotten what else... I want to sat lat pull-down, but that's wrong... maybe I just drank water.


Writing:  Sunday I attended a writing workshop led by Ken Scholes.  What I got out of it was some story starts, and some insight into the writing as a business process.

Afterward, there was a gathering and Ken was playing his guitar and singing some of his songs along with covers of Simon and Garfunkel, the Indigo Girls, and John Denver.  I brought my harp and managed to jam along with him, and he was nice enough to play things in the key of C (even though it was a little high for his voice).  Later, Nina K appeared and pulled out her lute.  It was a lot of fun.  I used to jam with Mark Heiman and with the Carleton College "Picking and Grinning" group (out of the "Rise of Singing" book) in the early 1990's.

Monday Morning I got up and was writing from about 6 AM to 7 AM.  I transcribed some notes.  In the afternoon, while I was on the elliptical, some writing bits came to me, and I managed to write them down before I went onto the rowing machine.


Tuesday:  The Child put gum in his hair Sunday evening, which we didn't discover until the camp counselors told me Monday afternoon.  They suggested peanut butter, and then I promptly forgot all about it as we zoomed off to piano lessons.

So...

Scene (7:40AM in the kitchen.)

The Child:  "I don't want peanut butter in my hair!"

John:  "Bud, you put gum in your hair; having peanut butter rubbed into your hair is a natural consequence."

TC (heading toward the front closet):  "I'm going to hide!"

J (thinking, why didn't I remember this earlier instead of 20 minutes before I have to go to work.  Clears tea kettle, pie pans, and coffee mugs off counter, sets down a towel, and peanut butter.  Sets up a step ladder.  Goes to the closet.  Opens closet):  "Come on, bud; I need you to come to the kitchen.  We don't have a whole lot of time."

TC (resignedly peeking out from behind the great coat and rain pants):  "Were you looking for me?"

J:  "No, I was getting things ready."  (They walk into kitchen.)  "Now, get up on the counter."  (Helps The Child onto the counter.)

TC:  "Augh.  I'm going to die.  I'm going to fall off.  I can't fit under these cabinets."  (Turns around while John stands next to counter to keep him from tumbling off.)  "I feel like I'm strapped down to a table."

J:  (Rolls eyes.)  "OK, so bring your head so it's in the sink."

TC:  "Whoa!  John, those knives are going to kill me."

J:  (Looking at magnetic strip over The Child's face.)  "Oh!  I forgot that was there."  (Places forearm on the cabinet between the knives' tips and The Child's eyes)  "I'm glad you said something... this is an accident waiting to happen."  (Gingerly pulls first knife from magnetic strip so that it doesn't knock other knives loose.)  "I'll just put this over here." (Refrains from singing the Baron and Baroness's number, "Your My Oochy-Choochy Face" from "Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang.")  "There we go..." (Places the fifth carving knife onto the microwave.)

TC:  "Augh, John; I don't want to smell like peanut butter."

J: (Rinsing TC's hair with the sink sprayer)  "Next time don't put gum in your hair."  (Applies a tablespoon of peanut butter to the gum and massages it into TC's scalp.)

TC:  "Ugh.  I smell horrible."

J:  "It's just peanut butter."

TC:  "At least it doesn't smell as bad as you."

J:  "That's not a wise thing to someone who is spraying you with water."  (Rinses out peanut butter.)  "Oh, hey!  That really worked."  (Rinses some more)  "Oh, wait; there's little bit left."  (Repeats peanut butter application on remaining gum.)  "That really does the trick."  (Rinse TC's hair again.)  "OK.  We're done."  (Helps TC off the counter).

TC:  "Augh.  I'm gonna have a crick in my neck for the rest of the day."

J:  "OK, go comb out your hair."

...And the morning rush rushed upon them...

Art and History.

Wednesday (6/17)was Cleopatra's Needle and MET day.  It was also Mark Day, because he joined us (yay!)

The Child and I spent the night at LGL's apartment in the Lincoln Center district.  We were pretty worn out from the previous day, and LGL was so quiet that I only think I heard the door close as he went off to work.  After a few text messages with Mark, The Child and I went to have breakfast and then stroll through the paths of Central Park on the way to the Needle.  

We entered Central Park at Strawberry Fields.  The walk was nice, and mostly shaded by the trees, but even by 9 AM I could feel it already beginning to get warm.  When we stumbled across it, The Child really wanted his pictures taken with the Alice In Wonderland bronze sculpture; he even managed to take a few without his typical Calvin Picture Face.  I'm trying to discourage the Arthur Fonzarelli thumbs up pose that's threatening to enter his picture repertoire.

We took a route that meandered so much I got a little turned around--we mostly followed the waterways--but the next thing we knew, we saw Mark.  The three of us found the Needle and took a few pictures.  One side of the Needle is fairly worn and we circled it reading the translation and seeing how the hieroglyphics changed.  By this time it was warm, and the best place to be was in the obelisk's shadow.

We had to go around to the front of the museum; along the way we saw a host of soccer camps.  We had fun playing with Alexander Hamilton's statue.

And then we were at The MET.  We slowly wended our way through galleries filled with medieval art.  Mark pointed out the things he liked.   And then we were in the Hall of Arms and Armor.  The Child loved it the way I love the Egyptian Wing.  I'll have to admit, the Hall interested me as a research resource for fantasy stories more than anything else; but every case--the guns especially--drew gasps of wonder and avarice from The Child, followed by "look at this!"  Having just written a story with crossbows, I examined and photographed 17th century hunting crossbows.  And dragon helmets.  

There was a side trip to look at American Portraits, which is Mark's thing.  I enjoyed the Singer Sargents.  And we also saw "Washington Crossing the Delaware." Which I had never known was billboard sized.  At some point looking for bathrooms we wound up in a study room were we saw The Bunny Fondue Pot and two very odd objects which it turns out were jagging wheels for trimming and shaping pie crusts  (they looked like modern art, but are actually 19th century scrimshaw, or carved whale bone).  Then it was back for more weapons!

We managed to avoid the lunch crowd and snacked in The Sculpture Garden.  I tried to point out The Angel of Death Staying the You g Artist's Hand, but it was lost on The Child... Whom I think was probably more drawn to martial statues or nubile archers.  Then it was off to The Temple of Dendur.  

This time around, I was aware of how the temple's entrances line up with the mortuary shrine within.  And The Child was fascinated by the 18th Century graffiti.  We spent the remainder of our stay trying to translate various hieroglyphs and then The Child got a little freaked out by the mummy display.  He said he was tired, and so we went back to LGL's apartment.

It was here that I had A Hair Moment; a New York Lady of a Certain Age pointed at me from her bench in front of the apartment complex and said, "You look like Kris Kristopherson.  In his better days.  You can Google him."  Imagine Danny Devito playing the voice of Nicky from "Avenue Q" when he says "You look like David Hasselhoff."

LGL wanted to have a dinner with Mark, so we stayed in The City a little later and went to an interesting (and loud) Mexican food place with jeweled crowns for light shades. The Child managed to put together a wardrobe that impressed our waiter/actor.

After a short discussion, I bade The Child and Mark goodbye and spent one more night at LGL's apartment because it would be easier to catch a plane back home from New York City than from Suffern.

The Grand Tour

Tuesday (6/16).  Our New York friend, LGL, arranged for a tour guide friend of his, Mike, to give us a walking tour of the Market District.  I'd hoped that Mark would be able to join us, but he was recovering from his red-eye flight and really needed to sleep.  So The Child and I took the bus into The City.

We started out with a quick lunch at Grand Central Station, or as it's properly called, Grand Central Terminal.  The Child and Mike hit it off right away; Mike teaches history at a prep school and The Child has managed to store and recall enough pieces of New York and Revolutionary War information that he could probably pass the New York City tour guide exam.

Mike pointed out how the terminal had three "gates" -- the windows -- like other historical cities.  Also, the constellations on the ceiling are reversed.  Somebody thought quick and said, "That's the way God would see it."  He pointed out line 24 to Chicago, where the elite of the Gilded Age would have taken the train following the waterways.  

We went outside and saw Hermes, Hercules and Minerva over the entrance of the building.  Mike pointed out how we had exited under a bridge and how cars were driving over it for folks to disembark.

Then it was off to Bowling Green via the subway.  Mike showed us a monument depicting the Dutch buying the Island of Manhattan from the Indians.  Apparently, this is what Ronald Hutton would call a bold fact, a mythic story that's taken on the veneer of actuality.  Supposedly, an old chronicler made some stories up because "the Dutch didn't keep any records."  According to Mike, records of New Amsterdam are around, but they've been overlooked in the historical record because they're written in Old Dutch.

There used to be a statue of King George III in Bowling Green; after the Declaration of Independence was read nearby on July 9, 1776, some excited patriots knocked over the statue and melted down the lead foundation to use as cannon balls.   Now it's a fenced in garden with a fountain.  

Near by was The National Museum of the American Indian (previously known as the Alexander U.S. Custom House).  There are four seated statues on the front of the building.  The sculptor is Daniel Chester French -- the same person who carved Lincoln's statue at the Lincoln Memorial.  (Oh! And researching him just now, I've discovered he also did "Death Staying the Hand of the Artist").    The four statues we saw represent, from left to right, Asia, (North) America, Europe, and Africa.  

Mike had us look behind the statues so we could see the hidden tiger, totem pole, boat anchor and Bedouin behind the four seated figures.

We wound about the Financial District along Barge and Pearl Streets,and through Stone and Milł Streets.  Stone street was the oldest street with flagstone (not cobblestone).  What I hadn't realized was how much of the area was under water during the early days of the city.  Barge street was a watercourse with a barge.  Bridge Street was over a Bridge.  Pearl Street was named after the opalescence caused by the rising and falling water.  

Mill street is one of the shortest streets in the town.  It's the site where the Torah was first unrolled in North America.  The story was that a Jewish group deported from Brazil wanted to settle in New Amsterdam, but Peter Stuyvesant, the governor, didn't want them; there was enough diversity already, thank you. Then someone took Stuyvesant aside and reminded him that the bankers funding the Dutch West Indies Company might not appreciate it when they heard that the Jewish folks had been kicked out. 

We continued on to Federal Hall, where the Declaration of Independence was read by George Washington to the troops on July 9, 1776; where the first House and Senate were, and later where Washington was first inaugurated.   Farther along, we came to Trinity Church (where Saint Peter sits with crossed legs), and then to St Paul's Chapel.  

I should add that all through the tour Mike was asking The Child all sorts of semi-obscure historical questions, and The Child was able answer them (thanks, Bowery Boys).  I should also add that by now it was something like four PM and The Child wasn't tired of walking around in the afternoon heat (although he was getting pretty thirsty).  More monuments: Hamilton's grave, Fulton's monument, 

We looked into Tweed Courthouse (no pictures, sir!) and The Child wanted to see Five Points and the African Cemetery.

Even more than politicians, the thing that got Mike riled up the most was how the African American burial grounds were "forgotten" about until someone wanted to build a skyscraper over them and then they were "rediscovered."  The graveyard got a memorial, many of the bodies were exhumed and stored at the Twin Towers and then lost in the 9/11 attack... and not one African slave is mentioned along the pools in the 9/11 memorial pools.  

By then it was almost five PM and I said I was tired, even if The Child wasn't.  We took the 1 Subway back to Columbus Circle and proceeded to get drenched.

We met up with LGL at his apartment and went out for a meal of Italian spaghetti and meatballs at his favorite little Italian restaurant.  LGL got only a little drenched when a tarp above the atrium where we were dining shook out its collection of rainwater.  But the tiramisu was good.

Why, You Might Be Selling Tribbles,Too

Let's see... things have gotten busier.

Writing:  The manuscript I thought was kind of ready is kind of broken.  Once again, John succumbs to pretty images, cool world building, and snappy dialog at the expense of characters with shallow, confusing motivation.  Oh, and a focus on the wrong details.  Anyway, I've got a few days to re-work the story so it's good enough to send in to Queers Destroy Science Fiction.  Luckily, Scrivener makes it easier to wade through the broken parts and keep the working parts.

Working-out.  I actually went for a mini-workout Monday night.  My stupid body has been bugging me the last week and a half, so I had been not going to the gym.  My doctor thinks I have a food allergy, the only thing I can think of is that it might be raisins.  In any case, since this seems not to be my liver or my kidneys, and I just turned fifty, I get to have a colonoscopy sooner rather than next fall.

On The Child front, this morning we had a fun moment on the way to school.

J:  (In William Shatner voice):  Why. Can't.  The English.  Teach.  Their.  Children.  How.  To Speak."

A:  Why are you singing that like Captain Kirk?

J:  I thought you wondered what "My Fair Lady Meets Star Trek" would sound like.

A:  I said, "Star Wars."

J:  Oh.  But it would still be funny.  (As William Shatner) "If you. Spock. Spoke.  The way.  She does.  Instead. Of. The way. You do.  Why, you might be. Selling.  Flowers.  Too."  (Dang, I should have said, "tribbles".)

A:  (Using Leonard Nimoy voice):   I fail to see the logic in your argument.

Decade in Review: 2005

Spring 2005

Mark and I joined Mark's family on a trip to Disney World!  I'd never been.  I'd say the coolest ride was the humungous water slide at Blizzard Beach.  OK, maybe Tomorrow Land.  No; it  was our meal at the French Pavilion at the Epcot Court.  Oh, wait... it was the giant tree in Safari World.  It was all good.

A week or two after we got back, Mark climbed up the ladder through the ceiling hatch to my writer's loft (we lived in a converted garage which had two ladders to attic living areas).

"Uh oh," I thought, "Mark's coming up here; he never does that.  This is really important."  I removed my hands from the keyboard and folded them in my lap.

"Want a kid?" Mark said....  The child would arrive in four or five months.  We spent the next months with a lawyer, arranging things.  Although I was not the mother, I compensated by dreaming that the child was born a gerbil.


March 2005.  I went to NorWesCon.   Although the drive up was daunting, it was lots of fun -- like OryCon, only much larger.  I had a great time being roommates with Jerry and Kathy Oltion, who were kind enough to introduce me to Gordon VanGelder.


June 2005.  I became a parent and the stay-at-home caregiver.  Since I was no longer employed, I got health coverage via Mark's work.  This was a taxable benefit, which would not have been a taxable benefit had we been a heterosexual couple.

My hat is off to any parent who has more than one child, and it's off twice to single parents.  I understand why nature has wired us to have children when we're twenty (or younger), because it's exhausting being a forty-something parent.  And yes, infants engage in chemical mind-control because The Child altered my biology so that my pee smelled like him and he fiddled with my artistic sense so that the Mother Pegasus saving the Baby Pegasus during the wind storm in Disney's Fantasia is the Most Beautiful Piece of Art Ever (sniff).

Oh. And men, it's true:  after your first child You Will Never Have Sex Again (mwha-ha-ha-ha-ha!).   OK; that's not entirely true:  you will have sex, but you will never have wild unbridled sex (assuming that you're awake enough to want it) without the nagging sense that the sex must be done before The Child wakes up and walks in on you.

The child's bio-chemical wizardry also activated our Dad Super-powers.   Mine was the ability to identify all threats to The Child in a half-block radius.  And to karate-chop overly-friendly German Shepherds.   Mark's was the ability to clear The Child's respiratory track by sucking up blocking mucus.

In addition to taking the night shift, learning to change diapers, and picking up baby sign-language, having a child brought societal roles as a gay, male, forty-something to the forefront.

First and foremost, was the Baby-Military-Industrial-Complex, which insisted that we brand The Child's gender with either Pink Flowers or Camouflaged Weapons.   Diapers were covered with cartoon characters for early indoctrination.  And we were extolled by The Fearful Parent Magazine to spend every waking second of our lives doing everything in our power to Enrich Our Child, to Super-Charge His Self-Esteem, and to Sterilize and Protect The Child from All Forms of Lurking Danger.

Being the stay at home male caregiver exposed me to:

• Over-praise as a Sensitive Father, 
• Pity as the Out Of Work Partner Doing Child Care,  
• and Suspicion as a man with a child.  
• (And accusations of being a grand-parent.)

I must have taken a break from Wordos.

I remember going to Scary Baby Reading Hour at the local library.  It was scary because most the other parents were 17 year old moms with tattoos who wore hip-hugger jeans showing off their thongs.  Presenters tended to speak  "helium voices."

I quickly bonded with "The Geriatric Parents' Club."  We sat in the corner and traded snarky comments with each other.


Sept 2005.  In a terrible blow to our social life and general culture in Eugene, Savoré, the premiere tea shop in Eugene, closed its salon an relocated to a tea retail shop at 15th and Willamette.   Savoré was our bar; Mark and I would frequently have tea and scones there on weekends.  We could call ahead and the staff already knew what we wanted to order.  I often would go there after work or after-work workouts and write.

Savoré had small tables with white linens, little tea lights, French music, and upholstered chairs.  Canisters of white, green, black and herbal teas lined the walls.  Wire sculptures of the Eiffel Tower adorned tables displaying various tea accessories.   Gilded mirrors hung on the dark red walls.  There had been two over-stuffed davenports, but these had been removed because undergraduates would take naps on them during business hours.

I learned to love rooibos, lavender, and ceylon tea there; once, when the shop's supplier switch plantations on them, I could taste the difference in the ceylon.

Eugene became more dowdy, frumpy and uncultured when Savoré closed.