Sunday
9/30/04
Ho ho... whaaa?
One of the many joys of being an at home dad is that the sheer variety of activities in which you can participate with your kids is pretty impressive. Gone are the days of gray suit\fedora dad who gets home just in time to give the tots a pat on the head before bedtime; nowadays dads like us are actually afforded the freedom to play games and such with the kids after checking homework and whipping up a little dinner… all after getting back from karate\soccer\band practice. Each day is full indeed.
That said, as I look back at a random sampling of posts involving my own two fine strapping lads I realize with dismay that most of them begin with the three of us on a trip to the store. Not knowing any better, one would think that our days are consumed with, well, consuming. Praying at the altar of unfettered free market capitalism, if you will. Well, I don’t suppose it can be helped, but that’s exactly where the focus of this post begins as well: at yet another tip to that Mecca of retail goodness known as Target.
So… there were the three of us wandering the freshly polished aisles of our local Target, each with visions of limitless materialism dancing in our heads when, without warning, I turned the corner and was met with a certain jolly sort of countenance that seemed eerily familiar. White beard. Rosy cheeks. Red suit that did little to hide a clinically obese figure that featured a belly that has, on more than one occasion, been noted to shake like jelly. Yes, there was no way around it, staring back at me was an illuminated, four foot tall Santa lawn ornament.
I shook my head as if to clear it as one does after a short doze. The fog was lifting.
"Santa." I said aloud and to no one in particular. I looked at my watch. Yes, it was, as I suspected, still September 29.
"September." I said aloud, again to no one in particular. After blinking a few times I realized that Santa was not alone. The shelf he occupied was filled with reindeer, sleighs, wreathes, colored lights, snowmen and other Santas, all pressed together in a sort of Christmas ragout that stretched away into the distance as far as the eye could see. My final reaction belied my nearly flawless mastery of the English language: "Wow."
After slowly backing away from the menagerie of holiday magic rather as one would back away from a mountain lion or rabid squirrel or some such thing, I grabbed each of the lads by the arm and led them in the opposite direction. My younger lad, who rarely misses a trick piped up with "Hey, was that Santa?"
Although giving the proper parental response often conflicts with my innate urge to lie to children, I once again managed to do the right thing.
"Yep, that was a Santa decoration."
"So it’s Christmas time. You didn’t tell us it’s Christmas time."
"No, it’s not Christmas time. Not for a very long time yet."
"But why…" I had no choice but to cut the boy short; had the exchange gone any further I would have been unable to control my urge to rant about the crass exploitation of all holidays, important and otherwise, and about our culture of obsessive compulsive consumption and addiction to instant gratification… and certainly that would have been a perfectly good rant wasted on a second grader. And besides, having no Rolaids with me I didn’t want to risk a bout of heartburn.
"Hey look!" I said as I cut him off. "There’re some turkeys and pilgrim stuff down there." Heck, Thanksgiving is a mere eight weeks away. That almost seems appropriate. Sure. A moment later the fog of desire was beginning descend again and I couldn’t remember what I had just been so upset about.
I unconsciously pulled out my wallet and the three of us made our way back down the aisle, lured by the electronic gobbling of adorable plush turkeys wearing pilgrim hats.
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Ho ho... whaaa?
One of the many joys of being an at home dad is that the sheer variety of activities in which you can participate with your kids is pretty impressive. Gone are the days of gray suit\fedora dad who gets home just in time to give the tots a pat on the head before bedtime; nowadays dads like us are actually afforded the freedom to play games and such with the kids after checking homework and whipping up a little dinner… all after getting back from karate\soccer\band practice. Each day is full indeed.
That said, as I look back at a random sampling of posts involving my own two fine strapping lads I realize with dismay that most of them begin with the three of us on a trip to the store. Not knowing any better, one would think that our days are consumed with, well, consuming. Praying at the altar of unfettered free market capitalism, if you will. Well, I don’t suppose it can be helped, but that’s exactly where the focus of this post begins as well: at yet another tip to that Mecca of retail goodness known as Target.
So… there were the three of us wandering the freshly polished aisles of our local Target, each with visions of limitless materialism dancing in our heads when, without warning, I turned the corner and was met with a certain jolly sort of countenance that seemed eerily familiar. White beard. Rosy cheeks. Red suit that did little to hide a clinically obese figure that featured a belly that has, on more than one occasion, been noted to shake like jelly. Yes, there was no way around it, staring back at me was an illuminated, four foot tall Santa lawn ornament.
I shook my head as if to clear it as one does after a short doze. The fog was lifting.
"Santa." I said aloud and to no one in particular. I looked at my watch. Yes, it was, as I suspected, still September 29.
"September." I said aloud, again to no one in particular. After blinking a few times I realized that Santa was not alone. The shelf he occupied was filled with reindeer, sleighs, wreathes, colored lights, snowmen and other Santas, all pressed together in a sort of Christmas ragout that stretched away into the distance as far as the eye could see. My final reaction belied my nearly flawless mastery of the English language: "Wow."
After slowly backing away from the menagerie of holiday magic rather as one would back away from a mountain lion or rabid squirrel or some such thing, I grabbed each of the lads by the arm and led them in the opposite direction. My younger lad, who rarely misses a trick piped up with "Hey, was that Santa?"
Although giving the proper parental response often conflicts with my innate urge to lie to children, I once again managed to do the right thing.
"Yep, that was a Santa decoration."
"So it’s Christmas time. You didn’t tell us it’s Christmas time."
"No, it’s not Christmas time. Not for a very long time yet."
"But why…" I had no choice but to cut the boy short; had the exchange gone any further I would have been unable to control my urge to rant about the crass exploitation of all holidays, important and otherwise, and about our culture of obsessive compulsive consumption and addiction to instant gratification… and certainly that would have been a perfectly good rant wasted on a second grader. And besides, having no Rolaids with me I didn’t want to risk a bout of heartburn.
"Hey look!" I said as I cut him off. "There’re some turkeys and pilgrim stuff down there." Heck, Thanksgiving is a mere eight weeks away. That almost seems appropriate. Sure. A moment later the fog of desire was beginning descend again and I couldn’t remember what I had just been so upset about.
I unconsciously pulled out my wallet and the three of us made our way back down the aisle, lured by the electronic gobbling of adorable plush turkeys wearing pilgrim hats.
9/22/04
From the Mouths of Babes...
There are, as most would agree, countless wonderful aspects of childhood as an institution. Children get free room and board, for instance, and only rarely do they have to stop by the bank and the dry cleaner before work. What a life. But, this not being a perfect world, childhood has its disadvantages as well. Not only is there almost constant homework, but they’re too young to drink and smoke. That sort of thing.
Another often overlooked challenge facing children is their compete lack of historical perspective. It’s not their fault, of course, as the very premise of space-time as we understand it precludes them having a lengthy history with which to work, but still, it seems an unfortunate disability indeed.
That said, it’s always a pleasure to turn on my computer each morning and visit Bill Watterson’s Calvin, a curmudgeonly six-year-old who possesses enough insight and perspective to shame even the most prescient of us. And, as with all fine works of art and literature, It’s not unusual for me to find myself identifying with Calvin on a personal and emotional level.
On occasion, though, Calvin will give us an insight into the psyche of others that is so plainly accurate and telling that it’s downright spooky. Take, for instance, yesterday’s Calvin and Hobbes, which, if considered with just the right perspective, provides a priceless window into the deepest thoughts and motivations of a certain man currently occupying our White House. In short; ever wonder what makes George W. Bush tick? Here it is:
Well, if you’ll all excuse me now, I have a bunker to finish in my back yard.
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From the Mouths of Babes...
There are, as most would agree, countless wonderful aspects of childhood as an institution. Children get free room and board, for instance, and only rarely do they have to stop by the bank and the dry cleaner before work. What a life. But, this not being a perfect world, childhood has its disadvantages as well. Not only is there almost constant homework, but they’re too young to drink and smoke. That sort of thing.
Another often overlooked challenge facing children is their compete lack of historical perspective. It’s not their fault, of course, as the very premise of space-time as we understand it precludes them having a lengthy history with which to work, but still, it seems an unfortunate disability indeed.
That said, it’s always a pleasure to turn on my computer each morning and visit Bill Watterson’s Calvin, a curmudgeonly six-year-old who possesses enough insight and perspective to shame even the most prescient of us. And, as with all fine works of art and literature, It’s not unusual for me to find myself identifying with Calvin on a personal and emotional level.
On occasion, though, Calvin will give us an insight into the psyche of others that is so plainly accurate and telling that it’s downright spooky. Take, for instance, yesterday’s Calvin and Hobbes, which, if considered with just the right perspective, provides a priceless window into the deepest thoughts and motivations of a certain man currently occupying our White House. In short; ever wonder what makes George W. Bush tick? Here it is:
Well, if you’ll all excuse me now, I have a bunker to finish in my back yard.
9/22/04
From the Mouths of Babes...
There are, as most would agree, countless wonderful aspects of childhood as an institution. Children get free room and board, for instance, and only rarely do they have to stop by the bank and the dry cleaner before work. What a life. But, this not being a perfect world, childhood has its disadvantages as well. Not only is there almost constant homework, but they’re too young to drink and smoke. That sort of thing.
Another often overlooked challenge facing children is their compete lack of historical perspective. It’s not their fault, of course, as the very premise of space-time as we understand it precludes them having a lengthy history with which to work, but still, it seems an unfortunate disability indeed.
That said, it’s always a pleasure to turn on my computer each morning and visit Bill Watterson’s Calvin, a curmudgeonly six-year-old who possesses enough insight and perspective to shame even the most prescient of us. And, as with all fine works of art and literature, It’s not unusual for me to find myself identifying with Calvin on a personal and emotional level.
On occasion, though, Calvin will give us an insight into the psyche of others that is so plainly accurate and telling that it’s downright spooky. Take, for instance, yesterday’s Calvin and Hobbes, which, if considered with just the right perspective, provides a priceless window into the deepest thoughts and motivations of a certain man currently occupying our White House. In short; ever wonder what makes George W. Bush tick? Here it is:
Well, if you’ll all excuse me now, I have a bunker to finish in my back yard.
|
From the Mouths of Babes...
There are, as most would agree, countless wonderful aspects of childhood as an institution. Children get free room and board, for instance, and only rarely do they have to stop by the bank and the dry cleaner before work. What a life. But, this not being a perfect world, childhood has its disadvantages as well. Not only is there almost constant homework, but they’re too young to drink and smoke. That sort of thing.
Another often overlooked challenge facing children is their compete lack of historical perspective. It’s not their fault, of course, as the very premise of space-time as we understand it precludes them having a lengthy history with which to work, but still, it seems an unfortunate disability indeed.
That said, it’s always a pleasure to turn on my computer each morning and visit Bill Watterson’s Calvin, a curmudgeonly six-year-old who possesses enough insight and perspective to shame even the most prescient of us. And, as with all fine works of art and literature, It’s not unusual for me to find myself identifying with Calvin on a personal and emotional level.
On occasion, though, Calvin will give us an insight into the psyche of others that is so plainly accurate and telling that it’s downright spooky. Take, for instance, yesterday’s Calvin and Hobbes, which, if considered with just the right perspective, provides a priceless window into the deepest thoughts and motivations of a certain man currently occupying our White House. In short; ever wonder what makes George W. Bush tick? Here it is:
Well, if you’ll all excuse me now, I have a bunker to finish in my back yard.
Monday
9/18/04
Movie Curmudgeon Redux. Redux.
It was a balmy autumn afternoon in 1974 that saw a tousled haired youth enter the cool darkness of the Admiral Theater with two of his friends for a showing of Jason and the Argonauts. A mere ninety minutes later the tousled lad, who was otherwise only remarkable for his striking resemblance to me, reemerged into the blinding afternoon sunlight with sticky shoes, a mild stomachache caused by two boxes of Ju Ju Bees and rather too much Dr Pepper, and a newfound love of special effects driven cinematic kitsch.
And now, thirty years later to the day, I found myself, with my own tousle-haired lads in tow, entering our local Lowe’s Colosso-Huge-Googleplex theatre for a screening of Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. And… sure enough, 110 minutes later we reemerged not into the blinding afternoon sunlight, but into the mall’s pallid neon glow with sticky shoes, mild tummy-aches and, most importantly, the sort of wide, satisfied grins that can only be caused by post-cinematic bliss.
In short, Sky Captain is a truly fine movie, and unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is, apparently, the first movie made without a single set or location; every shot is completely CGI with the actors having been filmed in front of a green screen. The resulting soft focus and watercolor palette, combined with impossibly beautiful and epic backgrounds, lends an almost surreal, dreamlike quality to the whole affair.
The movie is not without its problems of course, such as its awkwardly bad and occasionally anachronistic dialogue, or the mildly odd and uncomfortable chemistry between Paltrow and Law, but these are mere quibbles. The action sequences and settings are so incredibly creative and original, and the locations are so extraordinarily beautiful in a distinctly Maxfield Parrish sort of way, that I found the whole thing absolutely irresistible. Early on in the movie, for instance, Paltrow gets caught up with giant robots marching through Manhattan in a sequence that is simultaneously the most surreal, dreamlike and absolutely stunning action sequence I have ever seen.
So, during the drive home I wondered if perhaps I should be just a little wistful when recalling the old fashioned simplicity of Jason and his Argonauts fighting a brace of stop-motion skeletons. How, after all, can they compete with the brute force of today’s digital monsters? But I thought better of it; Sky Captain and his tricked out P-40 clearly rule. And hell, Angela Jolie in a black leather uniform and eye patch? I’m still getting chills.
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Movie Curmudgeon Redux. Redux.
It was a balmy autumn afternoon in 1974 that saw a tousled haired youth enter the cool darkness of the Admiral Theater with two of his friends for a showing of Jason and the Argonauts. A mere ninety minutes later the tousled lad, who was otherwise only remarkable for his striking resemblance to me, reemerged into the blinding afternoon sunlight with sticky shoes, a mild stomachache caused by two boxes of Ju Ju Bees and rather too much Dr Pepper, and a newfound love of special effects driven cinematic kitsch.
And now, thirty years later to the day, I found myself, with my own tousle-haired lads in tow, entering our local Lowe’s Colosso-Huge-Googleplex theatre for a screening of Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. And… sure enough, 110 minutes later we reemerged not into the blinding afternoon sunlight, but into the mall’s pallid neon glow with sticky shoes, mild tummy-aches and, most importantly, the sort of wide, satisfied grins that can only be caused by post-cinematic bliss.
In short, Sky Captain is a truly fine movie, and unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is, apparently, the first movie made without a single set or location; every shot is completely CGI with the actors having been filmed in front of a green screen. The resulting soft focus and watercolor palette, combined with impossibly beautiful and epic backgrounds, lends an almost surreal, dreamlike quality to the whole affair.
The movie is not without its problems of course, such as its awkwardly bad and occasionally anachronistic dialogue, or the mildly odd and uncomfortable chemistry between Paltrow and Law, but these are mere quibbles. The action sequences and settings are so incredibly creative and original, and the locations are so extraordinarily beautiful in a distinctly Maxfield Parrish sort of way, that I found the whole thing absolutely irresistible. Early on in the movie, for instance, Paltrow gets caught up with giant robots marching through Manhattan in a sequence that is simultaneously the most surreal, dreamlike and absolutely stunning action sequence I have ever seen.
So, during the drive home I wondered if perhaps I should be just a little wistful when recalling the old fashioned simplicity of Jason and his Argonauts fighting a brace of stop-motion skeletons. How, after all, can they compete with the brute force of today’s digital monsters? But I thought better of it; Sky Captain and his tricked out P-40 clearly rule. And hell, Angela Jolie in a black leather uniform and eye patch? I’m still getting chills.
9/15/04
Finishing the Race
It occurred me recently that one of life’s little mysteries is that the world appears to be full of people who seem to be entirely immune to the myriad minor annoyances that are clearly tailor made to annoy the bejesus out of people like me. I am, in short, susceptible to every banal pet peeve there is.
To wit: I'm intensely annoyed by people who give you wrong directions to their own homes. Inexcusable. Or, shoppers who leave their carts unattended and squarely in the center of any given supermarket aisle, blithely unaware that I would like nothing better than to grab that box of Cheese Nips and be on my way. Or, even worse, bloggers who insist on public hand wringing over their recent lack of blogging... usually in an entirely unjustified tone of guilt at having deprived the world of their blindingly brilliant insights.
That said, I must admit that standing before you is a blogger who not only enjoys nothing more than the clean, surgical cut of irony, but has an admission to make about my recent lack of blogging as well. Indeed, I too have been depriving the world of my staggeringly brilliant insights recently… but I actually have a reason worthy of my complete lack of production: I was busy finishing the last papers in the last class for my degree.
Yes, it has taken me an a extra fifteen-some-odd years to graduate after I went back to school a couple of years ago; but, as it’s frequently been pointed out to me, the tortoise and hare taught us that the point is not how fast you finish the race but that you finish at all.
So, finally, even though I’ve never been one to indulge in blatant self aggrandizement, I think I may just this once dip my toes in the cool, clear waters of apotheosis: "I’m a college graduate, I’ve got me one of them there degrees in journalism and writing, and I’m feeling pretty darn snappy about it. Huzzah!"
…oh crap. It just occurred to me that now I’m just going to have to find some sort of "real" job. Oh well. Anybody?
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Finishing the Race
It occurred me recently that one of life’s little mysteries is that the world appears to be full of people who seem to be entirely immune to the myriad minor annoyances that are clearly tailor made to annoy the bejesus out of people like me. I am, in short, susceptible to every banal pet peeve there is.
To wit: I'm intensely annoyed by people who give you wrong directions to their own homes. Inexcusable. Or, shoppers who leave their carts unattended and squarely in the center of any given supermarket aisle, blithely unaware that I would like nothing better than to grab that box of Cheese Nips and be on my way. Or, even worse, bloggers who insist on public hand wringing over their recent lack of blogging... usually in an entirely unjustified tone of guilt at having deprived the world of their blindingly brilliant insights.
That said, I must admit that standing before you is a blogger who not only enjoys nothing more than the clean, surgical cut of irony, but has an admission to make about my recent lack of blogging as well. Indeed, I too have been depriving the world of my staggeringly brilliant insights recently… but I actually have a reason worthy of my complete lack of production: I was busy finishing the last papers in the last class for my degree.
Yes, it has taken me an a extra fifteen-some-odd years to graduate after I went back to school a couple of years ago; but, as it’s frequently been pointed out to me, the tortoise and hare taught us that the point is not how fast you finish the race but that you finish at all.
So, finally, even though I’ve never been one to indulge in blatant self aggrandizement, I think I may just this once dip my toes in the cool, clear waters of apotheosis: "I’m a college graduate, I’ve got me one of them there degrees in journalism and writing, and I’m feeling pretty darn snappy about it. Huzzah!"
…oh crap. It just occurred to me that now I’m just going to have to find some sort of "real" job. Oh well. Anybody?
