So, I got a new job starting a little later this month. It’ll be the first traditional employment I’ve had in 15+ years, but I’m currently burnt out on being a freelancer and want to get back to steady paychecks for a while.

In the course of going through the hiring process, my new company had me take a personality assessment quiz. The assessor – a one man company called Worthington Hurst in Chicago – evaluates a job history document, a job description from the company and a kinda unique 100-question personality quiz consisting of sentence fragments that you have to complete. Here’s my responses, along with the results that the company got back. (By the way, I found out companies are required by law to let you see any and all evaluations like this that. So, if you have something on file with your company, you probably have access to it, if you care enough to see it.)

SURVEY RESPONSES (fragments in bold, my additions in not-bold)

1. I was happiest when people were counting on me for things I love to do.
2. “When behind the wheel” is better than being in front of the wheel.
3. People under me are finding it hard to breathe, me being 250+ lbs and all.
4. Having people lean on me is satisfying.
5. Other people usually do things that are unusual.
6. It is tiring to exercise. Seriously.
7. When I’m put under pressure, I get all Capricorn about it.
8. She is something else.
9. Nothing makes me more furious than injustice for the weak.
10. At night I sleep soundly. Or work. Or… both.
11. Some day I‘ll look back on all this and laugh.
12. What people like most about me is most evident when I show up and play hard.
13. I miss being carefree.
14. It’s fun to daydream about winning the lottery – how much good could you do with that!
15. Brothers and sisters are mirrors – they make you proud, and cringe.
16. When it comes to seeing things, I need glasses.
17. What a man wants most in a woman can be counted on one hand.
18. Walking barefoot in the mud… um, no thanks.
19. When they laughed at me, I did nothing, to my regret.
20. I can’t understand what makes me pass gas.
21. Our family was terrible and beautiful.
22. The main driving force in my life floats around – it’s hard to pin down.
23. As for my legs, the less said, the better.
24. Praise makes me do better next time.
25. Anybody will work hard if they feel they have ownership.
26. I would rather do without small biting insects. Hate ‘em.
27. Nothing worse can happen to a man than to lose his sense of himself.
28. The part of my body hardest to hurt is the visible part.
29. My worst mistake was not telling it like I saw it.
30. If they tell me it’s dangerous, I find out why.
31. What one wants most in a friend is for them to show up.
32. Bosses are an opportunity for creativity.
33. A person who always smiles is not to be trusted. Usually.
34. Most people don’t know that I have a third nipple.
35. Discipline is a loaded word.
36. I get down in the dumps when I cast my past as a series of failures.
37. Giving me the authority is something you can feel comfortable with doing.
38. The future has yet to be written.
39. If the company is nice, invite ‘em over again.
40. I would like most to be photographed while skinny.
41. Having to stop learning is an impossible requirement.
42. If I’m alone I like it for a while. Then I don’t.
43. My only trouble is that I see trouble where it doesn’t exist.
44. The strongest part of me is my stubbornness.
45. If I had my way, people would always feel safe.
46. My father had courage when it counted.
47. Weakness comes from over-estimating your strength.
48. The thing I like about myself is that I can do and learn what it takes.
49. If I would only finish this, I could go to lunch.
50. My mouth needs help.
51. The world – what a crazy beautiful sad place.
52. People think of me as bigger than I experience myself to be.
53. Getting started is… This is one of those incriminating application questions, isn’t it?
54. Guns are just another manifestation of the human desire for control.
55. Every man is a gold mine of possibility.
56. Secretly I pick my nose.
57. When I look at myself in the mirror, I see something different than what I imagine.
58. I would like to be genteelly wealthy.
59. When luck turns against me, I storm and brood. And then I deal with it.
60. I think most conferences are too general to be useful.
61. What a woman wants most in a man is more than you can count on ten hands.
62. To be a leader is to help others find the leader in themselves.
63. The part of my body most easily hurt is the inside.
64. To get along in a group, one must be authentic.
65. The way a person looks is their story about how they see the world.
66. He, he, he.
67. When I let go it generally works out for the best anyway.
68. People over me are just like the people under me – one big human sandwich.
69. Money is something I notice more than I think I should.
70. As for my head, well… It’s bald…?
71. Being older would be inevitable. Wiser – not so much.
72. Nothing is so frustrating as the part in between starting to learn and starting to get it.
73. The best measure of personal success is that you defined it, and you reached it.
74. When work piles up, I turn to the messy geniuses (Einstein, etc.) for inspiration.
75. If people only knew how capable they are, they could relax more.
76. Marriage is designed to take you to the edge and make you decide who you’re gonna be.
77. My mother got lost somewhere. I wish she knew where.
78. Work can be the launching pad for life.
79. When I see hills, I feel at home.
80. If I only hadn’t eaten that last spoonful.
81. I will do anything to make sure it happens.
82. When others disagree, I get interested.
83. I like subordinates who don’t play small.
84. As far as my hearing is concerned, it survived my rock band days.
85. Getting dirty is a necessary evil, but only in yardwork and recreation, and… ‘Nuff said.
86. I prefer the company of those who love life.
87. The weakest part of me is making the initial commitment.
88. Being younger would be way more overrated than it actually is.
89. A “man’s man” is a guy who has thrown up the wrong fences.
90. There are times when I wonder, “where’s my other shoe?”
91. In the morning, I roll over.
92. When I have something to say, it’s taken me some time to get there.
93. I failed at speaking the truth in love.
94. At the end of the day, I look forward to the next morning’s perspective.
95. I like a car that gets me from here to there without interrupting my thoughts.
96. I suffer most from over-analysis.
97. When others do better, I get quietly competitive.
98. My greatest ambition is to express myself and have others do the same.
99. Children can be, and are, more than we can imagine.
100. Finding no one to help me makes me lonely. Teams are better.

THE RESULTING ANALYSIS

Quick-witted and creatively adept, this self-motivated man’s need for control is probably the primary reason he has never held a nine-to-five job (or at least one that he will list on an employment application) more than 17 years after graduating from college. Despite his assertion that he is leaving this work style presently because he is “burnt out,” it seems much more likely that his family’s needs and the downturn in the economy are forcing him to make such a move. Might find enjoyment-even professional fulfillment to a certain extent-from a more regimented work experience, but it will not be easy for him to submit himself to a work life of teamwork and responding on a regular basis to someone else’s dictates. And his potential for making a successful transition could be influenced by factors entirely outside the work place: his wife, also an artist, may end up with more freedom to pursue her own artistic muse.

In sum, this application represents, almost certainly, a nod to pragmatic personal and business concerns, rather than a sought-after career move in a new direction. Relatively sedentary, he is much more agile intellectually than he is physically. Though his pursuits appear rather narrowly focused on the arts, within that milieu he has a fairly eclectic range of interests from which he can draw creative inspiration. Is not used to punching a clock, taking direction, or having others to contend with when he is working. As he finds a level of acceptance with all these new aspects of working in an organization, they will draw energy and focus away from the talents that have brought him to this place. How well he adapts will determine his ultimate success-and, in a real sense, his value to the company.

If he has the technical skills and knowledge necessary for the job (Since, as he says, he is “completely self-taught,” there is no way to check credentials through completed course-work, certifications, etc.), he is judged Solidly Adequate for [name of job title], with the proviso that it would be wise to reach agreement on a probationary period during which he and the company can explore the relationship without committing to a long-term arrangement that might be unworkable-or at least uncomfortable-for either party. While he enjoys the attention his work has brought him, he is not a particularly forthcoming person. Will warm slowly to others and may be a challenge to supervise.

“Relatively sedentary, he is much more agile intellectually than he is physically.” “Solidly Adequate.” What more could a guy want from his personality assessment than that…?

Thanks for the comments, bretheren and sisteren. Lovely thoughts all. Bob, I have some thoughts about Lent, porn and Stephen Colbert that I’ll try and share share tomorrow. Those all go together, right? In the meantime, I have a grab bag of random goodies to throw at you.

Just how good of a political ninja is Obama? This good. First from Al Giordano, a little gem about the pseudo-State-Of-The-Union address last night (which I’m going to nickname SOTU-Furkey):

I didn’t hear a single TV pundit last night or today pick up on what Obama is really up to here. It’s in the bold type: “This budget builds on these reforms.” He was talking about the budget he is about to propose. The next steps in creating national universal health care will come not in separate legislation which requires 60 out of 99 US Senate votes, but, rather, as part of the budget bill that, according to Congressional rules, needs simply a majority – 50 votes – to be passed and which cannot be subject to opposition filibuster.

That was exactly the point in the speech when Senate Republicans got those long unhappy looks on their faces. He had just ripped from them their only obstructionist power. They shifted nervously in their seats and scrunched their “holy crap” scowls. Skilled politicians all, they knew their goose had just been cooked. It was at that point in the speech that, after a couple of minutes of coming to grips with the new rules, they began to make a show of applause and standing ovations for the cameras. If you can’t beat Obama, join him. It was a beautiful play to watch.

Nice. And how about the moment at the Fiscal Responsibility Summit where McCain foolishly tried to bumrush Obama about some embarassing expenditures from the Bush era for new Air Force One helicopters and got a suitcase full of the same pwnage he suffered during the primaries:

This is Obama at his most appealing. He makes a gracious introduction of his rival, who in turn tries to stick in the knife by painting him as wasting taxpayer dollars on needless luxuries. Obama, rather than sniping back, turns around and agrees with McCain while making the point that he’s hardly accustomed to extravagence. The man is just a very, very skilled politician.

After watching Obama tackle the enormous D.C. tangle of egos and divisiveness at the Responsibility Summit, Booman had this to say:

… honestly, we all have to learn from this just as much as the Republicans do. We’re all so jaded and scarred from the last thirty years of politics that we don’t know any other way to operate. We are suspicious of the very concept of a Fiscal Responsibility Summit that puts entitlement reform on the table. We don’t want to work with Republicans and we consider use of any of their ideas to be something between foolishness and cowardice. It’s a reflection of decades of ever-increasing political polarization. But, I’m telling you, Obama is going to keep putting us in the sandbox together until we start changing our behavior. Even if turns out that we can’t work together, the whole spectacle is unlike anything I’ve seen in my life, and it’s pure political gold.

It’s kinda disorienting to have this kind of Jedi mindpower on our side for once. “These are not the droids you’re looking for….”

Christian seclusionist fashion: Janece found this site while researching home schooling. As I understand it, home schooling has become much more diverse and interesting over the last few decades, but every area has its flavor and this semi-rural area we live in is apparently still heavy on the Christian fundies wanting to keep their kids away from The Nasty Ol’ World. All I can say is if that’s what they want, these clothes should do the trick.*

Sweet Fancy Moses. It’s hard to describe the visceral reaction I get from seeing these pics. This kind of Thomas-Kinkade-meets-Little-House-On-The-Prairie throwback retro sensibility was all the rage in the fundie cult-level church I grew up in. Flower prints that look like they came from someone’s drapes, nighmarish pleat-and-gather lines, and lace dolloped on like too much icing on a mushy birthday cake — all in the single-minded attempt to protect young swains from having naughty thoughts about the womanly form. And you know, it really doesn’t ever work. One of the first things I said to Janece was “I wonder how many of those girls will have early pregnancies”. I don’t know what the stats are nationally, but I heard tell that at my fundie church, there was plenty of hanky panky going on under those shapeless virginal sack dresses, at least three of which ended in shotgun weddings. Forbidden = hotter. I can’t understand why fundies never get that.

* At least, at first. See above.

Steel Mother, or The Jungian Myth Of The Female Robot That Will Destroy The World. Tonight Janece and I watched the Japanese anime version of the movie Metropolis.

Now, I swear I’ve never seen or heard the plot of this film. I’d seen stills from the 1930 classic, but that’s as far as it went. But in a serious Jungian twist/coincidence, I had a full dream about this very subject in, like, 1996 or something – one of the most vivid I’ve ever had.

It was all in gorgeous black and white, like a classic ’50s Hollywood epic. It opens with two scientists in white lab coats arguing next to a stunning Bettie Page type female robot, laid out naked on a table and surrounded by those electric ray gun type tubes all crackling and hissing. One was argues with the other that she poses too great a danger and shouldn’t be completed or activated. He is overruled. The “screen” fuzzes and switches to a social party where the robot is gorgeous, the toast of the town, decked out in furs and glamour, but treated as a curiosity piece – not a being with a soul or dignity. Again a “screen” fuzz and switch to a posh sitting room. A dark haired, classically handsome man in a lounging robe sits on a sleek modern couch staring straight ahead without moving. The robot sultrily slinks into the room dressed in a provocative ’50s-era S&M lingerie outfit and begins a sexually charged “seven veils” dance for the man, offering herself up to him. No response. She cannot break into his narcissistic, self-centered daydreams. Fuzz and switch. Now she sits, darkly slumped down and staring straight ahead on a suburban couch, in a scenario lifted right out of Better Housekeeping ad. Father reads a paper, Mother placidly rocks and works with a needle and thread, Son lays on the floor idly kicking his loafered feet and reading Boys Life. The final jagged fuzz and switch. She sits, still staring straight ahead, but the family is now dead – their agonized expressions and twisted bodies suspended in some kind of crystal-like shell. Suddenly, a swift and silent flush of jet-black liquid shoots out from under the couch where she sits as the camera pulls back to reveal an empty film set that is slowly being flooded. I wake up knowing that the world is doomed.

I wrote a song called “Steel Mother” about the dream (never recorded).

Act 1.
Antiseptic and relentless
Men with plastic, tainted eyes
Drained of color and tasting winter
They twisted wire, their dirty lasers, dry hunger
Drowned in oil
The conveyor crawls
Like a snake, the Steel
Mother comes, the wheel
Set in motion – Building flesh and bone in blind devotion

Act 2.
Blood like a junkie, skin like a heat wave
Eyes like a sea cave, pearly smile
She is silky raw, like an empty room
And they take her, the vampires
Fill her up with ashes
Teeth and paparazzi smiles

Chorus.
The great city’s fallen – The temple of the rational
The great city’s fallen – The temple of the rational
Dances like a whore, in leather on the floor
Desperate for his grace, his empty hollow gaze,
His cold, Apollo face; his cold, Apollo face
Frozen in a self embrace
Frozen in a self embrace
Frozen in a self embrace
Frozen in a self embrace

Act 3.
Dad reads the paper – Mom sews an apron
Bobby reads Boys World – She sits with her hands curled
Stuffed in a sundress – Blind to her distress
Wrapped in their lifestyles – Placid and all smiles
Suburbs in twilight – Slumped in the lamplight
Staring at nothing – Her time is coming
The static whispers
Of the TV to baptize her

Chorus.
The great city’s fallen – The temple of the rational
The great city’s fallen – The temple of the rational
Dances like a whore, in leather on the floor
Desperate for his grace, his empty hollow gaze,
His cold, Apollo face; his cold, Apollo face
Frozen in a self embrace
Frozen in a self embrace
Frozen in a self embrace
Frozen in a self embrace

Finale.
The world ends in winter – The den in disorder
The family in plastic — Trapped in their panic
All their hollow gazes and her empty face is
Frozen in a self-embrace
Frozen in a self-embrace
Frozen in a self-embrace
Frozen in a self-embrace

I know, I know. That’s not enough evidence for a Jungian collective subconcious kinda twist ending to this vignette. OR IS IT??? My jaw literally dropped when I saw the Jamiroquai video for “Virtual Insanity”, filmed about two years after my dream. Watch this video and check out the visuals around 3:10 in the video. What’s that I see? A dark oily liquid shooting out from under a couch? Where did that come from….???

This has happened with me one other notable time. I did a band flyer for Springchamber once that had all five of our heads melded together at the neck in kind of a fleshy ball, like Planet Springchamber or something. And what did I see months later on the brand new cover of Rolling Stone at the studio when we went to record? Eerie.

Bonus extra – Trident Passionberry Twist: In a word… DON’T. It tastes like handsoap. Disgusting.

(taken tonight, our front yard)

Like many other Seattlites tonight, I’m going to write about snow. It happens rarely around here – once, maybe twice, a winter – and it’s always magical. We have about 1/2 inch right now, projected for 2 or 3 by morning. Amira has been talking about snow for at least a month now, maybe more, so I know she’s going to want to get right out in it tomorrow. It’s a good thing, too. Her Nana and Papa won’t be able to make it over here tomorrow like they planned, so the snow will help mitigate things.

Janece and I have a fond connection to the snow, too. I grew up in Utah where it would regularly snow 3 and 4 foot drifts at a time. When I was a teen we lived in a house in North Salt Lake on a steep ridge with a steep incline on the driveway. The plows came through pretty regularly, but we still had to shovel the driveway ourselves and it was a pain. Almost every outing incurred a tailbone-meets-concrete event, and the snow would often melt during the day and turn to ice overnight, which meant literally using a pick to chop it off.

When Janece and I got married, we lived in Eastlake just north of downtown Seattle. There are a lot of leftover cobblestone streets in that area, which we loved, but they were a bitch to navigate during any kind of snowfall. I remember watching many a car float helplessly down the street with the driver frantically pumping the brakes to no avail. One time we saw a car jammed underneath the tailgate of a van when we came out in the morning. They looked like two moose mating.

One winter we couldn’t get to work for 3 days due to a combination of icy inclines and overpasses that we couldn’t navigate, even in our new Saturn. Seattle just isn’t built for handling snow very well. That particular week was so snowy that downtown was practically deserted. We hiked into downtown, stopped into REI for some hot chocolate, and even got passed by a cross-country skier going down Boren. It was lovely.

But my all time favorite memory is laying in front of our Christmas tree as a kid, drowsily gazing at the dog-eared cardboard Nativity, listening to Nat King Cole singing “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…” with the lights of our tree reflecting on the impossibly large, lazy snowflakes crowding the freezing air outside, filled with a pleasant low-key excitement about Christmas being just around the corner. For those that are cynical about the Christmas season because of no connection to it growing up or remembering the season through a miasma of awkward or negative family experiences, I’m definitely sympathetic, but I can’t really share their visceral distaste. I’ve lived the cliche, and I remember it living up to the hype.

This year is the first that Amira has really been able to fully take in the pageantry around Christmas, and it’s been a blast. We got a tree the other night, and I kid you not when I say it’s the most perfect tree we’ve ever had – 9 feet tall, perfectly conical and lush, with a smell to die for. We had enough money this year for some fun new decorations, and Amira “helped” me hang lights on the deck and on the tree outside tonight. I can only hope she remembers all of it the same way I did – feeling safe, loved, excited and content.

Happy Holidays!

We were in the $.99 store a couple of days ago. Amira was running around being her usual enthusiastic self. (It’s all interjections right now along the lines of “That is the coolest [object] I ever seen before!”) She found a pink butterfly net on a bamboo pole that particularly caught her fancy. We found her gleefully trying to “catch” the butterflies on the wind chimes display before we had to ask her to back down.

I was monitoring her at the end of the toy aisle when a couple of sisters – one a year or two older than Amira and the other probably 9 or 10, both of them blond and kinda WASP-y – came up the aisle, out shopping with their equally tailored Grandma an aisle over. Amira ran up to them to introduce herself. She’s been on an introductions kick lately, asking the checkers at the grocery store and the college kids working the counter at Taco Del Mar and other shoppers their names and sharing her name and latest finds with them. She believes what the TV has told her – everyone is her friend and wants to be helpful and is interested in listening to her about things she finds interesting. We’re not around other little kids much right now, and she’s naturally extra interested in them. So she introduced herself to the sisters and showed them her net.

Nothing. Just a short stare, no response except maybe the slightest shrug, and the heel turn that left Amira staring at their backs. She smiled and re-tried her opening gambit about the cool butterfly net, a little more tentatively this time. Nothing. She looked at me quizzically with her “why don’t they want to talk to me?” face.

I looked at my daughters dark curly hair and eyes, her rumpled clothes mismatched with her purple splashing boots she loves so much, her beautiful wide open, unguarded face and got pissed.

I wanted to smack the little beeyotches for not even being polite enough to acknowledge that she was talking to them, much less showing some human decency by being friendly. Or maybe scare the bejeezus out of them with the “dark bearded and physically menacing stranger growling about giving his goddamn kid the time of day” routine.

‘Course, smacking or scaring someone else’s kids can get you arrested. Besides, it was more than likely just kids being kids – disinterested more than dismissive or cruel. I think the youngest one even ended up interacting a bit with Amira before rejoining Grandma.

But given my childhood experience of being either ignored, intentionally ostracized, or actively persecuted by kids my age, when I see Amira getting rebuffed I can get suddenly blindsided by a potent, involuntary emotional cocktail of cold fury, hot embarrassment and nauseating rejection. It only takes a second or two for my reasonable adult brain to kick in and referee, but in those seconds I feel a lifetime of shame and anger for being forced to be an unwilling outsider and a ferocious imperative to keep Amira’s wide open and lovely soul hidden away from the emotional catastrophe that is human beings.

Which is, of course, madness. To become fully human, innocence must turn to wisdom, plastic TV reality must give way to acceptance of complexity, surety must evolve to tolerance for ambiguity, shallow affinities must ripen with understanding into the deliberate choices of love. Not one of those things can happen without being wounded a little, or a lot. To hide Amira away would be to condemn her to being an emotional cripple.

So, I’m trying to stay out of it. I’m going to have to let her get smacked around a little bit by the beeyotches, and coach her how to smack back, or pity them for being the little less-than-human animals that they are when they do that, or rise above it all and be a queen.

And more than that, who said her childhood is gonna be like mine? The only thing I know how to teach her is how to deal with a pack of wolves. What if she’s the bully? Or ASB president? I’ve got no map for that.

Out of the two of us, I’m not always sure she’s the one that needs child protective services.

I guess the meme is in the air. Just after last night’s post about us electing Obama in the hopes that basic decency and personal values, intellectual curiosity and a connection to life here on the American streets will be enough to stem the tide that’s against us, Ta-Nehisi (a fellow Gen-X writer at the Atlantic) puts out a great deja vu post about why he voted for Obama:

I don’t know if George Bush is the worst president ever, but his legacy is appalling. What I saw, from my vantage point, was a government of suited thugs who squelched dissent and were intolerant of debate. Virtually everything about the last eight years, stands in direct contrast to everything I learned growing up in my parents house–work hard, be self-reflective, be intelligent, read until your eyes fall out, be honest etc. I supported Obama because, and this is weird to say, I thought he reflected my family values–I thought he represented in the world, the way I’d want my son to represent. I thought he was thick-skinned, deliberative, self-reflective, confident and an avid consumer of information…

Look, it all comes down to this. I believed Obama was the candidate least likely to fly over an American city in the midst of destruction, and appear days later only to tell his point-man he’d done a great job. The most important thing for me is for the leadership of this country to throw off anti-intellectualism and get down to business. I won’t ever know the most intricate details of government policy, and smite me should I ever write like I do. But as a voter, and I guess as a blogger, I knew I wanted someone in the White House who would be able to process all of those details–I wanted someone who was an intellectual, who had a supple mind, and saw no contrast between being a thinking man, and loving Monday Night Football. It’s small, but it’s what I wanted. And it’s why, so far, I’m not terribly disappointed. When it comes down to it, man, I just wanted shit to work again.

Exactly. I also largely voted for Obama because, after watching his brilliant organizational intelligence and his deliberate strategic style of three-dimensional chess, I knew he’d be the best possible choice to get us out of this mess and restore some kind of stability. And he has not disappointed. Anyone with the innate self-assuredness to pick three of his most formidable rivals for VP and Cabinet with the goal of getting things done is just flat-out someone who’s gonna do big things.

I’m mystified by the need of conservatives, liberals and the media to try and shoehorn his behavior into some kind of familiar meme – centrist, liberal, moderate, whatever. It’s this dogmatic, shrill, everyone-in-line kind of political fundamentalism that has been so disastrous for us over the last eight years. Even now, in this financial crisis, Republicans are STILL harping on tax cuts and less spending in the face of pretty much every rational economist agreeing we’re going to have to spend our way out of this.

Obama is a thoroughly post-modern leader. He seems impatient with the rigid categories set up during the last 30-40 years of ideological tug-of-war and wants to do what works – not what is ideologically pure. He has a kind of intuitive, humanitarian-focused pragmatism as his guiding governing philosophy, and has what I think is a healthy distrust of the rhetorical and political straitjackets that are created by adhering too closely to one creed or another.

And that is exactly what makes him so recognizably American. Because that’s how we are. There are very few ultra-pure ideologues in our populace, and because of our richly checkered cultural and political melting pot, we are not locked into having to battle through layers and centuries of class and culturals norms like many other countries are. It’s one of our major strengths and a reason the world finds us so attractive. And now we have a President that embodies that inherent, satisfying tension of many diverse stories jostling together, creating friction, creating debate, creating progress.

When Janece and I were first dating, the only model for calling each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” were other relationships around us that were co-dependent, manipulative or otherwise just icky. So we came up with our own labels – “boypal” and “girlpal”. We felt obviously more romantically engaged than friends, but we didn’t want to feel or treat each other like what we saw around us. People thought it was kinda strange, but those new labels helped us find balance we wanted together. Same with our name change.

So, I get it. Obama is doing exactly the right thing – following his own impressive instincts and being perfectly comfortable with letting the chattering classes roil and stew. There’s work to be done, and the labels of the last 40 years just aren’t up to the task. It time for something new, it’s time for change.

PS. Barack sez “I can do whatever I like!”

Curly headed monsters!

Our curly-headed monster came back today from her Camp Casey Adventure®. Both Janece and I noticed that she seemed a smidgen more grown up, like something about being away from her parents for a couple of days gave her a new lift of confidence in her own independence. She seemed pleased with herself that she was able to both have fun and miss us at the same time. She was really great for her Nana and Papa, too, and of course we’re proud as punch. And, a little sad, of course. Like I’ve written before, each new step for her out into the world is a little bit of tearing apart for us – all good and supposed to happen, but still melancholy.

Zombies!

I had another zombie dream last night, but with an interesting twist given my interesting realizations of late. I dreamed I was one of them, that I could feel their emotions and residual humanness because I was linked to them, even though I retained my own mind and self-will. The dream was still grotesque and disturbing as are my usual zombie dreams, but I woke up with an odd feeling – concern and protectiveness for the zombies, even though they were dangerous and destructive and I could sympathize with the humans trying to destroy them.

Which brings me to a bit of memorabilia I’d forgotten. When I was young – 6th grade or so – we left our cult-ish, fundamentalist church we’d grown up in all our lives. We were, of course, instantly ostracized and for a while my family drifted looking for a healthier church to replace our religious experience. It was pretty traumatic on us kids to have our insular world turned upside down, and we developed all kinds of coping behaviors.

One thing we did was come up with finger/hand puppets we called Kru’ms – a short derivative of “Christian Faither’s” (the Christian Faith Church was it’s name). The Kru’ms were ridiculously antagonistic and annoying, like Colonel Klink and the Nazis in Hogans Heroes. They could spawn infinite clones of themselves and we battled and bested them to great hilarity for so long as kids that the hand puppets became kind of a family institution – something we even passed on to other families who thought they were hilarious.

Our dear cousins, the Osbournes, were a part of the church that we were estranged from for a while (before they, too, ended up leaving). I had a dream one night that my cousin Nate and some of the other kids from the church were hunting me and wanted to kill me. Nate found and cornered me, and even though I begged him not to do it, he shot me in the belly.

I remember the impact in my dream, remember holding my stomach and looking down at the blood running out between my fingers. I distinctly remember feeling my life draining away. But I didn’t die. All the blood drained out and I felt a new bitter strength flow in. I got up and began chasing the now-horrified Nate who kept shooting me with no effect. I caught him and killed him by breaking his neck. When I was done with him, I went after the other kids. Mercifully, I woke up before I finished them off although I knew that their doom was also sealed. When I woke up, I didn’t feel scared or sad anymore about leaving the church.

OK, obviously I was dealing with a bit of trauma, and I clearly came up with a way emotionally to find closure, however disturbing. I think the most interesting part of the dream is that bitter strength I felt flow into me, that zombie power if you will. It was a force that felt deathly strong and powerful, but not filled with joy or completion or forgiveness – just a single-minded bitter will to avenge the injustice done to me. In the dream I felt no emotion/connection – just a dark delight that I was now powerful, that the tables were turned. I think in retrospect that poor Nate represented all of the kids in my school and neighborhood who had persecuted me/us for being the odd ones out. I think that in the middle of the emotional turbulence of my childhood church world breaking down, my destruction of him in the dream was the advent of one of many emotional gates that have come down between me and other people.

The funny thing is that when I had that dream, I’d never seen a zombie movie or read a zombie story of any kind. It was all pure id expression by a little 6th grade kid.

And now, after a disturbing romp through my childhood….

Otters!

We watched Emmett Otter’s Jugband Christmas tonight. We didn’t have TV growing up, but Janece said it was apparently a Christmas time favorite. Cute story, fun songs. “Bathing Suit” had Janece and I laughing:

And here’s the all-time H8R theme song (performed by the River Bottom Nightmare Band):

My favorite lyrics:

We know we’re a mess
But I does not like to be clean
We don’t brush our teeth
‘Cause our toothache can help us stay mean
We don’t wish to learn
But we hate what we don’t understand

Heh heh – spot on. Jim Henson rocks. We have The Dark Crystal in from NetFlix – I’m looking forward to seeing it again.

Happy Halloween! This scared the ever-loving shit out of me when I was 12 yrs old at the roller rink:

Speaking of Thriller, I had a revelation a week or two ago after musing on my core mistrust of people. I find it pretty humorous that my all-time scariest movie monster/scenario is the Zombie Horde. I’ve had countless dreams about being a zombie survivalist and watching zombie movies always has a special thrill. Let’s see – mindless hordes of dead, rotting, relentless creatures that only look human swallowing up the earth and trying to get me while I barely stay one step ahead…. Hmm. Nope! No connection! No connection at all!

Side note: If you like zombie movies, I heartily recommend Fido, pretty much the world’s only rom-zom-com. (That’s “romantic zombie comedy”.)

On the other hand, this Curly Haired Monsterâ„¢ fills my daddy heart with MAJOR love:

Seriously, how did I get so lucky?

As Janece already pointed out, we have a new family member.

And as of tonight she has a new name – Chaya (pronouced “chai-ah”). According to the baby name site we found it on, “chaya” is a word of Hebrew origin meaning “life”.

I think names are a big deal. In legends about Faerie, the myth goes that you never reveal your true name because it gives every magic denizen power over you, over your core essence. So you always pick a traveling name when wandering through Faerie.

While I don’t believe that names have mystical power over you, i do think that a name can shape you over time like a glacier carving a mountain, that it shifts your perception of yourself and others perception of you as well. I think that’s why people find they like shorter versions of their names (“Bob”) while other feel like the long version (“Robert”) fits them better. Some people discard the name they were born with completely in favor of one that they feel expresses them better or for religious/cultural reasons (“Malcom X”).

Janece kept her last name when we were married (Clement). She said liked her family name and didn’t feel like a Mossbarger (my last name). When Amira was born, we talked a lot about how to handle it – maybe letting her choose her last name, or maybe hyphenating.

The only path that seemed to feel right was to change our last names to one that we could all share. It felt right because we knew Amira was going to add a whole new dimension on our long-time friendship that we’d had since high school. In a way, Janece and I were being born into a new family just as much as her and that the new family needed it’s own identity. And of course, “Moment” had all kinds of connotations and symbolism attached to it that really seemed to express what we are after in our lives, a reminder of our goal as a couple to admire those glittering jewels of seconds and minutes and hours that pour through our hands daily.

I didn’t know how it would feel to be a “Moment”. I’d been a Mossbarger my whole life, and had a whole cultural and personal association with that name that would be lost in some sense when I took on the new identity. (Most women go through this when they marry, of course, so this isn’t anything new – it was just new to me.) I’d been kidded about that name in school, written it on countless letters and checks, been associated with it’s reputation through my family, and it felt strange to let it go.

It was a bit tough for my parents, I gather. It’s culturally normal for women to change their name at a big life event like marriage, but I think my dad especially felt more strongly than he realized about a son’s responsibility to continue carrying on the family name. When I initially told him about our decision, he said “great – whatever you guys want to do”, but in a later conversation he brought it up again, wondering why I would give up that name – his name. He understood the reasons I gave him – primarily that our new last name was built on and carried with it bits of our original names – but I’ve wondered occasionally if it still has sat with him over time like me pulling away. And, maybe in a way it was.

As for me, the change has actually had a measurable effect. I feel proud of our new little family circle, and the history we’re writing every day for this new family name, starting with its offbeat origins. I feel reminded by it every day to connect, to take hold of the important experiences as they come by, to steer off the beaten path and open myself up to the unexpected.

Which brings me back to Chaya. I feel new responsibility pretty strongly, to the point of exaggeration at times, and I often drag my feet at jumping into new responsibilities that will mean a life change. And a dog, especially a large dog, isn’t a trivial commitment. This time, even though the circumstances around getting Chaya required a quick decision, it struck me that this was an opportunity to skip the analyzing and just jump in.

Chaya means “life”. It’s a good name, easy to say, and easy to call out with some force, up close or over a distance which is important for training. But symbolically it feels like a good pick because she’s now a Moment, and being a Moment means recognizing the opportunity every day to welcome and embrace life.

Welcome to our circle, Chaya!

If you made it this far, then it’s comment time! Ever thought about your name? Do you like it, and why? Would you ever change it, and if so, what to?

Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity.
We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hands,
and melting like a snowflake…”
~ Francis Bacon, Sr.

From Janece, who finds all the cool quotes

LIFE AT THREE FEET HIGH

We got Amira a camera this last Christmas – a nice little bright pink Fuji digital – to encourage her interest in taking photos. We hadn’t pulled it out of the box it was packed in until recently, and we’ve encouraged her to start playing with it again. It’s a hoot to see what she comes up with.

My parents and dear Grandma have been in town for the last few days. Their presence has helped mitigate Levity’s loss somewhat, and I know they’ve diverted Amira’s attention pretty effectively although she’s still definitely processing Levity’s absence. She took pictures of all of us on the first day. I love the angles and the fact that she caught such natural and engaged expressions. (Sadly, no pics of Janece, tho.)

Great-grandma Robertson, with whom she developed an instant and strong affinity:

Grandpa:

Grandma:

And, her old man:

I also love these couple of shots she got experimenting with pictures of herself:

BIT OF A SCARE

We took the family to see the lovely and scenic Port Gamble today. Amira (with liberal help from the family) and I played some checkers over lunch, and then we walked around the small main strip a bit. Amira started dashing wildly from here to there as she is wont to do when she starts getting really tired. She’s only been around relatively sturdy adults and isn’t really used to great-grandmas in their 80s, so we’ve been trying to coach her about how to be gentle with these wonderful, but not-quite-as-sturdy creatures.

In her tired rush, she came charging up on great-grandma, only trying to break her speed at the last minute as she remembered to not be so wild so close, but she didn’t slow down totally in time. Her body slammed into Grandma’s, and then both went down with her slightly tucked underneath and Grandma on top but trying to catch herself.

It’s scary when 80-year-olds fall, both for them and for people around them. Janece and I’s hearts stopped for a second, and we all rushed over hoping it wasn’t too bad. And, thankfully, it wasn’t. Grandma was definitely shaken up and it looked like there may have been a little soreness in her legs, but she was Ok – nothing bent or broken.

Amira was also shaken and ran immediately to Janece, who picked her up. She said, “I’m so sorry, great-grandma” and then hid her head next to Janece’s, although she didn’t cry. It was obvious our exclamations and checking of great-grandma had scared her and she knew she’d done Something Big. We tried to drive home the lesson of how older people are more fragile without freaking her out, but we didn’t have to do much. She got it.

And here’s how cool great-grandmas are. Even though she was clearly shaken (and had to take some quiet time on the couch to settle down a bit when we got home), Great-grandma walked over to Amira and said, “Can we still be friends, Amira?” What an absolutely perfect thing to say to a scared and sorry little great-granddaughter. It got her a yes, a hug, and awed admiration from Amira’s grateful parents.

AFTERSHOCKS

Some sad little Levity moments today. Walking around the pond with my parents and Amira and Tova, feeling like any moment Levity should come bounding up and tearing off again with Tova in hot pursuit, and only seeing Tova poking around half-heartedly. Looking at Tova’s muted photos from yesterday, watching him curl up with Levity’s old stuffed pink rabbit all morning with listless eyes. His sadness is so palpable. He shared her joy in the way that we humans can’t, and she was the first dog he’s lived/bonded with since we’ve owned him.

On the positive side, this has opened up a new level of connection with Ahmis and our neighbors. It’s been wonderful to remember how many people stand ready to come to each other’s aid when the situation calls for it.

We buried Levity this morning.

Ahmis made blueberry muffins from the blueberries she was picking just before Levity died and brought them up for us to have breakfast together. Then she called our neighbor, Joe, who graciously agreed to bring his tractor to dig Levity’s grave.

We brought Levity out, still in the wheelbarrow that Ken used last night to bring her down from the ridge. We eased her down into the hole, leaving her wrapped in her blanket, and put her favorite, saliva-saturated stuffed animal with her next to her head. I said a few inadequate words at Ahmis’ request. Before we had a chance to start burying Levity, Ahmis’ mom and partner arrived with flowers. There were more tears and comforting Mom hugs.

After a little bit of time, Ahmis put the few shovel fulls of dirt on Levity, and with a few more tears we started in on the work. It was a big hole and hot work as the sun broke through for a while.

It made me think of the countless beings that have been buried by hand – such hard, tiring work to make sure that the dead are properly honored and interred. Graves that are dug by hand wound and re-heal the earth in a way that never leaves it the same as it was before. It leaves a scar that marks the passing of something too important or precious to be left above-ground at the mercy of the elements. It was a good and fitting way to close Levity’s chapter in this world.

We positioned her under the cherry tree with her head pointed toward the pond so that she can keep watch over this property that she loved so much and felt so protective of, including a great view of the dock where her nemesis – the blue heron – would always come and sit and mock her.

Tova said his goodbyes. He’s been really subdued all day and not his usual smiling self. It’s clear he’s missing her and feeling that his beloved pack has been irretrievably altered.

Amira handled it so well. She watched intently every step, and kept saying “We’re going to miss Levity” (which she’s also repeated her and there throughout the day). She used a little scoop to help us cover Levity’s “outside body” and brought some dandelions of her own to lay on the grave with the flowers that Ahmis’ mom brought with her. I’m so glad we included her in everything and walked her through it. She was really tuned into our sadness and laughter, and seemed satisfied when it was all over that she knew where Levity was.

We’ve been feeling all day like we should see Levity moving in the reeds at the pond’s edge or peering in through the window in our door asking to come in and sniff around. She was such a presence here, always walking the property and poking in its nooks and crannies, possessively keeping its space clear for her pack. It’s strange how the property feels altered, empty, unfamiliar.

One final note. One of Ahmis’ girlfriends said that she wondered if Levity was killed by a stag. We’ve seen a young stag around here this summer, and Ahmis said she heard thrashing and a few strange barks from Levity before her final howl. When she walked the spot where Levity died this morning, she couldn’t find any broken branches or sticks that looked like they caused the wound to her throat. I don’t know if that was the cause or not, but it would also be fitting.

Levity, Ahmis’ “St. Dane”(part Great Dane, part St. Bernard), a sweet and loyal companion to Ahmis and an honorary member of our little Moment family, died tonight. Ahmis isn’t quite sure about the details of it, but it appears she was running full-tilt through the woods and accidentally impaled herself on a branch which killed her almost immediately and before Ahmis could reach her. We weren’t home, but our very kind neighbors – Ken and Cindy – came over to help retrieve her formidable body from the woods and be with Ahmis until we got home. She was five days shy of her fifth birthday. We are all grieving her tonight.

We first met Levity when we came to see the property as a potential place to rent. She escorted our old Volvo wagon up the gravel road on the driver’s side of the car. I was driving, and her head was level with mine through the window which was impressive and kinda startling. She gave us her prompt seal of approval and hit it off immediately with Tova.

We’ve watched her for Ahmis numerous times now. She came in the house with us while Ahmis was at work and we’ve cared for her while Ahmis was out of town. She was a regular part of our family pretty quickly. She’d spend the afternoons curled up on our bed in the sun or sprawled out on our carpet in the living room while Amira played around, and often on, her. We’ve all come to love her goofy head tuck and rolls, her ridiculous talky rumbles when she wanted to be noticed or go outside, her incessant nibble/nursing fetish on her toys that left them soaked with saliva, and her insistent attempts to be a lap dog despite being the size of a small horse and weighing about 100 lbs.

She and Tova formed a strong pack early on. They’ve had all kinds of adventures – diving in and out of bushes, chasing away the local wildlife, getting phenomenally filthy wading around in the dark mud at the edge of the pond, playing tug of war with their stuffed animals and rope toys. We’d let Tova outside and he would go sit down next to her kennel companionably and wait for us to let out his “long-legged supermodel girlfriend” as we dubbed her. He’s been subdued and close to us tonight after getting a chance to sniff over her body down in the shed. He’s going to miss his playmate.

Amira loved, and I mean, loved Levity. When we first moved here, she was so taken with this enormous sleek black horse of a dog that stood head and shoulders over her. She loved playing with her, and we caught her more than once reclining against Levity’s curled up side on the living room carpet, watching TV. Just yesterday, she was using Levity as a kind of canine aircraft carrier, running her airplane toy up and down her body preparing for take-off. Levity loved her, too. She would take that downward-dog play stance with Amira and they would tug of war with her stuffed animals or dance around the yard in gales of giggles while Amira tried to get the toy back. In some ways, she’s been emotionally closer to Levity than to Tova.

It was hard to break the news to her tonight. This is the first furry family member she’s lost. We didn’t really know what to tell her. We’d thought we might have to time to prepare her for Freeni dying since he seems to be somewhat in decline, and we had no clue that it would be Levity who was so young and vital.

She didn’t fully understand why Mama and Ahmis and Daddy were so sad, and she kept saying “I’m sorry” like she was trying to make up for something she’d done wrong, even though we kept reassuring her it was OK and she was being totally awesome. I took her down to see Janece and Ahmis and Levity’s body. She said, “She’s not blinking, Mama.” And then later, “Her legs aren’t moving.” She petted Levity’s head a little bit and tried to push it to get her to respond. I could tell it was a bit overwhelming because she asked to go back up to the house.

Tonight, before bed, we said goodnight to her star balloon in the brilliant night sky, and she picked a new star for Levity. After we’d put her to bed, she knocked on the door again and wanted to get an extra long hug and an extra big kiss. When I went in, she said, “Levity is dead?” I said, “Yes, sweetheart.” She asked, “Why did Levity die?” I said, “I don’t know, baby. Sometimes accidents like this just happen. Did you know that we have outside bodies that look like us and inside bodies that shine like stars? Well, Levity’s outside body died, but her inside body is shining like a star and went up to be with your star balloon in the sky.” After some more cuddling and reassuring hugs and kisses, I left her to go to sleep. She didn’t make any more sounds, but I noticed later that she turned her light on to help herself go to sleep.

We held a wake for Levity tonight. We sat around Ahmis’ table and cried and laughed and hugged together. Tomorrow we bury Levity under her favorite cherry tree in front of the house, facing the pond where she can be eternally vigilant to keep the herons from landing on the dock.

I’m feeling whiplash. We got the call from Ahmis in the parking lot of the grocery store, not even an hour and a half after talking with her and laughing at the dogs’ antics in the yard. It’s almost too much to take in, how one day can be filled with so much joy and sadness. You can’t prepare for life – you can only experience it full tilt.

Full tilt. That’s how Levity played, relaxed, ran. Watching her stretch out in that astounding long-legged gallop across the field always gave me that same sense of exhilaration as watching fireworks or hearing Amira in full-on gales of laughter – joy at the speed of life. It’s fitting that she died at the same speed she lived. I hope I’m not too much of an old dog to learn how to live at least some of my life that way.

Rest in peace, Levy-girl. We were lucky to have shared nine months with you, and we miss you.

Our king bed, that is. We sold it Sunday to a lovely Christian couple who live down by Olympia so that we could round up some money for some dental work we both need. The bed is a pillow-top Tempurpedic memory foam bed, and weighs a frickin’ ton. We helped them get it onto their trailer since the guy recently had back surgery (which is why they were buying the bed) and couldn’t help.

Anyway, the point of the rambling intro is to say that as they drove away, Amira cried about the bed going away and she mentioned it again today when she saw the big empty space where it used to be. Janece and I hadn’t even considered that Amira might be affected by it leaving. We weren’t all that attached to it, and just figured it wouldn’t be a big deal to her either until we started thinking about it from her point of view.

We got that bed in the last few months of Janece’s pregnancy. It was a lifesaver in helping her rest and easing her back and pelvic strain. So, it’s the only bed Amira’s ever known us to sleep on and I’m sure it has a lot of conscious and unconscious associations for her.

When she was a baby, she slept between us. We set up a little co-sleeping bed in the center surrounded by pillows to keep us away from her and her from rolling out. We had to whisper to keep from waking her up and we didn’t really get all that much sleep because it was a tad awkward. It was also when we first became aware that she was tuned into us.

One night as Janece was whispering to me, I heard Amira’s head turn toward Janece, making that hair-on-pillow sound. Scrch. I whispered back, and Amira’s head turned to me. Scrch. Then back for Janece’s reply. Scrch. Seeing our opportunity for some fun at her expense, we started purposely trading loud nonsense whispers back and forth. Scrch. Scrch. Scrch. Scrch. We were dying with laughter.

There have been a lot of great moments on that bed with Amira. When I was working nights, we’d have regular pillow fights in the morning once Janece woke up a bit. It’s where Amira first met Neh-neh-neh, a little contrarian hand-puppet I worked up one morning while we were playing. She and I have played jungle vines and flying girl where I’d lift her up or she’d climb my legs.

It made me think of my own parent’s bed. I’m one of eight kids, so as a way to carve out some kind of private sanctuary in a house saturated with kids, my parents made their bedroom largely off limits.  However, I do remember as a young kid getting up on the bed with them if I’d had a bad dream or felt sick. I remember how big their bed (probably a queen) looked and how my head barely came up over the top of it. I remember the glossy black nylon double sleeping bag they used as a bedspread that had vignettes of grizzly bears printed on the flannel fabric liner inside.

Their bed did, and does, have it’s own vivid place in my early memories, so I can get Amira’s consternation at seeing it leave. Not only that, but she’s at the age now where every inanimate object has it’s own personality and story to tell. It’s a big deal to have a familiar friend leave like that without any warning.

So, goodbye, King Bed. Thanks for being a comforter for Janece, a place of rest and important conversation for she and I, and a stage where Amira grew into being herself and we grew into being a family. Carry our good memories in your memory foam and add their sweetness to the new memories created by the family of good folk that you’ve ended up with. Provide them with a safe place of whispers, cuddles, hugs, giggles, tears, and joy, just like you did for us.

Here’s the short version of what you’re about to read: The party was satisfying and wonderful in every way I can think of — family and friends, food, fun. I can’t think of a way I would have rather spent my time marking the milestones of Amira’s 4th (and arguably most important) birthday to date, and our 15th wedding anniversary.

I was dog tired after getting everything ready and already being significantly short on sleep. But I told Janece to be sure to get me up when Amira got up so I could see her reaction. And it was the best “Christmas In September” response we could have hoped for. She was blown away by the streamers and balloons and banners and bounced around all morning asking “can we start the party now can we start the party now please please can we can we?!?!?” She had to make do with playing with her lion balloon, who replaced the legendary star balloon…

We had about 4 hrs to prep for everyone’s arrival, so we dashed around doing the final cleaning and prep we weren’t able to get to prior to the event. I made a last minute run to the local dollar store (GREAT recommendation – thanks, Ahmis!) to get some prizes and party favors (and a speeding ticket!), and I saw a few things for Amira that I couldn’t resist – a fairy hat and a set of fairy wings. She totally dug them both, although, not being much of a hat person, that soon got ditched in favor of the wings.

But I did get a pic of her just before everyone started arriving.

We were pretty proud of our decorating job. We strung streamers, balloon clusters and a “Happy Birthday” banner over the bar, and decorated up the side of the stair case with some lackluster streamer wrapping and more balloon clusters. We used 40 large balloons all told, but we still have 144 left that we were going to use for a “build a balloon animal” game that we didn’t end up doing in all the hustle and bustle. Probably just as well – the balloon “jellyfish” we made that’s sitting behind Amira in the pic above was huge and it was only 8 balloon. 144 balloons probably would have movement impossible.

The first people arrived. Nana and Papa came over from Lynnwood, Ahmis (we’ve now dubbed her our “friend-lord” instead of “landlord”) brought some delicious Thai stir-fry, and in a cool surprise, our neighbor Robert who walks through the property on his way to hike the ridge behind us every day dropped by for a half-hour “hello” and Ahmis’ mom and partner – Jody and Jay – came to the party bearing gifts and some deliciously spicy enchiladas. It was super great to have them there.

We didn’t get any great pics of them, sadly, but some new friends we made through Ahmis were able to make it — Ann and her tween-aged daughter Zoe. Amira immediately adopted Zoe as the resident rock star and Zoe graciously entertained Amira upstairs whilst the rest of us chatted and noshed. Best of all, our long-time friends Sky and Anne showed up with their kids Ave and Isaiah as well as our long-time friend Scott. They braved a 3 hr trip (driving, ferry ride and waiting for ferry) to get here. It was phenomenal that they were able to come and Amira and Ave had a great time together.

After a round of intros and delicious food and lots of great conversation, we got down to serious party business, starting with “Pin The Tail On The Dollar Store Donkey”. Here’s me helping Ave get started toward the donkey (even though it kinda looks like a Guantanamo Youth Corps interrogation training session):

It turns out that Anne won. Sky nailed the tail placement, but Anne did a Robin-Hood-split-the-arrow move and put her tail right on top of his. We took a vote, and Anne won unanimously. (Sky’s response: “If I’d known this was going to be a popularity contest, I would have worked the room a bit more, made some campaign promises…” ). Anne got the “Cool Kid Of The Day” hat and sunglasses prize which was immediate co-opted by the girls:

Then, on Ann’s wise advice, it was time for presents before the sugar cake-ice-cream-punch trifecta, because “you don’t want to try and focus a kid on opening presents with all that sugar in her system”. True dat. Amira showed some great paper-tearing technique. The haul included two large animal lounging rugs (bear and lion), a My Pretty Pony rock band bus, a toy necklace, and some great books. In the hubbub, we missed getting photos but we’ll try and get some pics of the loot with Amira, especially the cool animal rugs. Here she is wearing her necklace (thx Ann and Zoe!). Note the Dollar Store Donkey in the background:

Nana and Papa getting a kick out of watching their favorite (ok, only) granddaughter open their gift (thx for the lovely books!):

After the presents we all donned party hats and got ready for the Entrance O’ The Cake. Side note: Neil never wears anything that will make him stick out. But did he don a smiley face party hat to show his grandparental love in action? You’d better believe miracles can come true:

We didn’t get a pic of the cake, but luckily someone caught Amira’s reaction to it and us singing her the birthday song:

Amira was immediately so comfortable with Scott that she was climbing all over him and showing off all her cool stuff. Scott and Sky confirmed that he’s a kid magnet – pretty much any kid treats him the same way whether they know him or not. Here he is showing some party favor love after singing the birthday song:

Tova got his own hat too, but he wasn’t feeling all celebratory about it for some reason:

“I don’t have to endure this senseless humiliation for another whole year, right….? Right….?”

Amira’s hasn’t really worked out the kinks in her for-the-camera smile quite yet. Here she is with her Nosferatu impression:

And here she is in a temporary post-present low:

A background theme to all the four year old glee and hoopla is that Janece and I are celebrating our 15th anniversary this year with all the accompanying lows and highs that has entailed. 15 years. It’s hard to put into any kind of words what that journey has meant and the places it’s taken us. Our actual anniversary date is on the 25th and I’ll write more about it then, but suffice it to say that I can hardly wait for the next fifteen. Here’s all the Moments (minus Freeni) checking out the anniversary cake, which said, simply, “Yay Us! 15 years”:

Here I am playing Sugar Daddy Dope Dealer. Don’t mess with me in the middle of a drug transaction:

Some of the early arrivals started trickling out of the party, but we had a great time finishing out the evening with Sky, Anne, Scott and the kiddos. Here’s Anne and Isai:

Amira with the Ghost Of Birthdays Past:

A word about dollar store pinatas – who knew that they were built of military-grade cardboard? The kids whacked at the thing for a good solid 15 minutes, as did Isai (via Sky), and it wasn’t given an inch. Sky finally cut loose on it but all he could do was break the hook that connected it to the rope. He had to end up harpooning it on ground shouting “Die! Die!” and then flinging it about by hand to shake out the candy for the youngsters. I guess that’s what you get from a dollar store — stuff that’s either too cheap to hold together for very long, or stuff that’s supposed to break immediately but that you can’t get into without a hacksaw and welding torch.

Ahmis came by after a bit and we played some serious Chinese yo-yo wars. Sky and Scott got pretty good with their aim. I got the hang of it after a bit, but my Floating Crane technique was no match for Sky’s Drunken Fly style. A bit of trivia: Scott said that he used to get so good at shooting bugs with rubber bands that he could lie in his bed and pick them off on the ceiling. That’s ninja level skill in my book.

After they all left, we ended up the night sitting at the table with Ahmis fooling around with party beads and chatting until 11pm or something. It was a perfect low-key way to end a happy day.

It felt really fitting to end the evening with long-time and new friends. This is a year of big changes for us, and in the uncharted path that’s ahead of us it’s comforting to feel a continuity of love and connection going back with people that have known us from before we were married and to feel the future we’re building together both as friends and parents – to see our kids being able to share in those treasured and new streams of life and relatiopnship. I count myself very fortunate to have enjoyed the company of those who came, to have felt the love from those who couldn’t be with us but who wanted to be, and to have a foretaste of the milestones we’ll share together in the future.

Mike, an old friend from college just called unexpectedly today. He’d been cruising around and found my blog somehow. I even changed my last name to keep this kind of thing from happening, but he still manages to track me down… Heh. I kid, I kid! Mike, if you’re reading this, here’s a shout-out for getting here.

Mike puts me in mind of a few stories. There’s a really good story of how he blew out his knee at our church’s college retreat, but it’s a bit randy for some of my more sensitive readers, so instead I’ll talk about pizza.

Mike was the first person I’ve ever seen eat a medium pizza like a sandwich. He just took that Little Caesar’s medium pepperoni pizza, folded it in half like an oversize Italian taco and demolished it. If you think about it, I guess that’s not all that different from a calzone, but it was still kinda shocking to have my college freshmen mores about the separation of tacos and pizza violated so abruptly.

Speaking of calzones and pizza, I packed on the pounds while living in San Diego in part because of the deliciously sloppy Gus’s Subs and Pizza on Rosecrans Blvd. My poison of choice was their enormous breaded eggplant sub, covered in pizza sauce, moz cheese and buttered soft sub bread. The pizzas and calzones were pretty good, too, but the sandwiches ruled. Gus’s is the poster child restaurant for American excess – way too much of everything and, oh, so tasty. If you get a chance to grab a bite there, bring your appetite and tell ‘em that Paul sent you!

Of course, they’ll probably just give you a puzzled stare since they don’t know who the hell I am…

One more. My freshman year I lived in Young Hall on the campus of Point Loma Nazarene University. The units were set up in clusters — 3 rooms with 4 occupants each, a bathroom, and a study all made up a unit. Our unit RA (resident assistant, or chaperone) was a melancholy, mostly absent young Persian religon major named Komron Saadati who liked to sea kayak and who seemed vastly uncomfortable hanging out one-on-one. (I guess he’s a pastor now or something, but there’s precious little that a Google search turns up on him.) His helpless deer-in-the-headlights demeanor when attempting to impose some kind of order on our unit soon left him marked as a low rung on the Darwinian authority ladder and after getting overrun and ignored for a few weeks, he retreated to his room where he was rarely seen the rest of year, much to everyone’s mutual relief.

My freshman unit is where I first met Mike who shared a room with two surfers across the hall. (The dorm is on the edge of the campus, literally about 200 yards away from the ocean, and the school attracts surfer like fleas on a sick dog.) The surfers were perennially obnoxious, sandy, and stoned and they left a trail of surf wax on everything like bleached blond snails. They soon filled up the already small crowded study with surboards, boogie boards, bicycles, damp towels, fast food wrappers, rusted things, sand, and the ever-present surf wax.

One night after attending a home game of some kind in the gym, they returned with 5 boxes of extra pizza that was supplied free by the student body board as a pep rally perk. The boxes were “temporarily” stashed in the study, and after the delicious hot pizza smell faded, were soon covered over by a mass of sandy damp towels and forgotten. That is, until they hatched.

It started with that distinctive lab sample smell of mold cultures — subtly, as a distinctive counterpoint to the ever-present mildew odor. But you can’t keep an old pizza down, and soon the study was a triumphant crescendo of rotting cheese that demanded attention.

No one wanted to touch the boxes at this point. It was clear that handling them involved substantial personal risk, but the stench was becoming unbearable. Finally, with an undertaker’s morbid curiosity, I ventured into the study (accompanied by Mike and several of the “normals” in the unit, as I recall) and lifted the lid on the first box. The top of the box lid had become conjoined to the bottom of the box by a mass of feathery-green strands that were all that remained of the hapless meat pizza. I remember a horrible soft whisper as the rotted fronds of pizza mold stretched and released their ripe spores into the room. The stench was apocalyptic.

We managed, somehow, to get the boxes outside and into the dumpster by sheer force of will and resilience of youth, but the wretched effluvia hovered in the dismal study for weeks, probably due to attaching itself parasitically to the drifts of surf wax.

I do have this to thank the surfers for all these years later: First, their negligence gave me a chance to look into the mouth of hell and live to tell the tale; and second, telling this story has allowed me to use more adjectives than I’ve used in a long time. Feels good.

Great movie, love the soundtrack. Kind of a cheesy title for a blog post. I’m referring to my brother Stephen who’s rolling in tomorrow. I have to work so I won’t be able to pick him up at the airport with Janece and Amira, but I’m looking forward to spending some days together with him.

He’ll be the first member of my immediate family besides my parents that Amira will meet and remember. We live way too far away from my cool siblings and it really hurts my heart to think about it too much – Amira not knowing them the way that I knew my aunts and uncles and cousins: hardly at all. They are such great fun people, and I know they and Amira would have a mutual love fest. Maybe by getting this job I’ll be able to see them more often.

Stephen is my older brother – the first in the family (I’m #3, and I have an older sister besides him). He was the one I looked up to growing up. We were a fundamentalist Christian family in the middle Mormon Utah in the ’70s, and so we didn’t have it easy growing up. I know that he was really persecuted, especially in high school. But I didn’t really see the beleaguered, caught-between-two-worlds Stephen. To me, he was my older brother, the one who could do everything better, faster and more cleverly than me. One of my favorite childhood memories was one that only he and I shared.

In our church growing up, movies were absolutely prohibited. As a kid, the image I’d picked up of movie theaters was that they were dark, shady places where the amoral secular culture and its dark forbidden sins were paraded for a cynical, hardened audience in an endless stream of disgusting images. Every time we’d drive past the theater in town, I’d look at it with profound suspicion and helpless fascination, at the enticing movie posters, the bright marquee, the backlit box office, and wonder what really went on in there. One of the posters I remember vividly was for a movie called “S.O.B.“, which according to IMDB is a so-so comedy starring Julie Andrews. The poster featured an airbrushed-glossy, smoking, leering bull sitting in a director’s chair with smoking stogie and Hunter Thompson sunglasses, and it epitomized my 10-year-old horror and fascination with the invisible corruptive Hollywood boogeyman. (For the record, I’ve never actually seen the movie – it looks pretty lame.)

One evening my family all left to go to some kind of entertaining function — a get-together, or a night eating out (pretty rare and a treat in my family) or some such. I can’t remember. I do remember that Stephen and I were both in trouble for having caused some trouble earlier that day, and as punishment we weren’t allowed to go, something we both felt was mightily unfair. Stephen, being 15 or 16, was left to chaperone me and neither of us was in a happy mood. That is, until he hit on a brilliant idea.

He pulled out the paper, looked through the movie section, and picked one he wanted to see — Disney’s “Cinderella”. We both knew the family wasn’t going to be back until late, and when he said we were going to go see a movie, I was instantly game.

The theater was about 2 miles from where we lived in the suburbs of Tooele on the downtown strip. I’ll never forget that walk. It had been snowing that afternoon/evening — probably about 4-5 inches — but it had stopped by the time we left. The air was crystal clear and the night a rich blue-black. The snow was crisp and pure white and the lights from the houses and streetlamps reflected off of it in a luminous still glow. There was no one on the streets and no footprints on the sidewalk. The snow ahead of us was completely untouched. I remember looking back and seeing how our footprints emerged out of the darkness into the warm yellow light of the streetlamps and then faded back into the shadows outside the pools of light. I was with my older brother, my hero, doing a very bad forbidden thing, taking a risky adventure that my other siblings had never done, on one of the most beautiful snowy nights I can remember. It was magical.

The rest of the evening was just as unforgettable. Getting the tickets under the bright marquee lights, walking through the lobby and the rich popcorn smell to our seats in a largely empty theater, the lights dimming and the curtains pulling back, the technicolor beauty and art and music of Cinderella — all magic. I’ve only seen that movie that once (maybe a few snippets here and there over the years), but the images and especially the songs were indelibly burned into my memory, so much so that I can still hum some of the tunes and lines.

We got in some serious trouble when we finally trudged home and found the family all back from the evening. I’m sure my parents were worried sick about where we were (pre-cell phones, remember) and when they found out we’d been at the theater to boot I’m sure we got the full monty. Like that mattered. I had an adventure, songs and images and stories, and a snowy walk with my older brother that none of my other siblings had.

In retrospect, I’m kind glad my religious upbringing was so anti-movie-theater and that Stephen was inclined to be rebellious. It made breaking the naughty little taboo that much sweeter, the movie that much more larger than life, in a way that Amira — saturated as she is with videos and movies — won’t get to experience. I have no doubt that when the electricity in my brain finally sizzles out for the last time and my internal theater screen fades to black, the images from that night will be some of the last I see.

I’m not one to bemoan getting older. I like being older. I’ve never understood people who want to re-live the glory days of high school. I was fond of college, but I’m just as glad to be out of my teens and twenties — I remember them as fun but awkwardly, painfully self-conscious. I was eager to get into my thirties, and I’m looking forward to the forties, too. I feel like I’ve settle mentally enough to enjoy live and not second-guess things so much.

But, I have to say that watching your cultural milestones get farther and farther away and less and less relevant is kind of unnerving.

I have a friend named Zach that I met when I was leading worship at Lynnwood Nazarene (now Silver Creek Community or some such foolishness). Zach is a great guy, great drummer, and we worked well together on the worship team. He’s just going into his freshman year at college this year (congrats on that, bro!). I got to know him a bit from driving home together after worship practice. He made his way through some of my favorites in my graphic novels and we swapped suggestions of bands we like, although I’ve had less suggestions for him than he has for me.

The relevant part of his is that Zach is 18, I think. This means he was born in 1990. I’d never really thought it through until today, when I saw one of those lists that are put out every year helping teachers in college understand the cultural milestones of the incoming class of freshmen. It’s called the Beloit College Mindset List, and you can read this year’s list here. Check this out:

Freshmen coming in this year are less familiar with having a landline than they are a cellphone, and it goes without saying that they’ve spent their formative years on the Net, live on texting and have already scoped out their roommates on Facebook. That alone puts them about 1000 miles ahead of where I was when I hit college in terms of technical ability and connection with the wider world. They’ve grown up in a world where GPS has always been available, Martha Stewart has always been on TV, MTV has always been Rocking The Vote, Jay Leno’s always hosted the Tonight Show, PCs have always run Windows, and soft drink refills have always been free.

But here’s what got me: As far as this crew is concerned, there has always been a Pearl Jam. WTF?! That’s when I realized that we’re talking about them being born in 1990. That was the year I was a junior in college. Two years later, America elected the first Democratic president since Carter, and bands like Alice In Chains, Pearl Jam, and Nirvana were eviscerating the pop and rock industry on the airwaves and in music videos. I can remember sitting in the basement of the first band house I lived in listening to Clinton debate Bush. I remember the first time a college friend played “Smells Like Teen Spirit” for me and the first time I watched the video, which totally blew me away (best pep rally ever! hot angry cheerleaders with tattoos!).

(I watch the video now and I wonder how many of those moshing kids are working as downtown lawyers or have their own internet startups…)

I remember the alternative scene in Seattle shutting down when we all found out Kurt Cobain had committed suicide, and the massive memorial at Seattle Center with Courtney Love reading his suicide note. I remember Janece going with me to American Music in Fremont and meeting Dave Grohl outside while I plunked around on the instruments inside. He was in there passing out a demo of his new band — the Foo Fighters. She said he was super friendly and pretty short.

To think that all that happened when Zach was younger than Amira is pretty strange. I grew up during the Reagan Cold War – Zach grew up in the playtime 90s in a world where the Soviet Union no longer existed. That junior year, I was excited that my art department finally had it’s first computer with a real graphics program (Corel Draw 3) and Janece’s dad had just adventurously connected to CompuServe. Zach grew up in a world where online connectivity is a given and has never known a world without 24 hr news. The worlds we grew up in are universes apart.

I don’t get the world my parents or Janece’s parents grew up in. And Amira won’t get mine. By the time she’ll have any reason to care, Kurt Cobain and his suicide will be no more meaningful than an entry in Wikipedia, just like Buddy Holly and the day the music died has no meaning for me. That’s the way of things I guess — tides come in with each new generation born, and they go out with every generation that dies.

Still, I guess I can’t be blamed if I’m a little weirded out that the old faded Harley Davidson bandanna that I got my sophmore year in college in LA and that I wore while working out today…

is older than Zach.

“All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances…”
~ Shakespeare, As You Like It

My mind is still on a reminiscing track from yesterday. Thoughts about how my choices influence the future, combined with watching the season 3 finale of The Wire where Avon and Stringer flow into history on a series of natural consequence from the lives and choices they lived, have me in a melancholy mood.

Shakespeare said that all the world’s a stage, but since I can’t wrap my mind around a stage that big, I got to thinking about the smaller stages I’ve shared with the people in my life: the houses I’ve lived in. Since early high school, I’ve not lived in any one place more than 5 years, with the average being 2 years. All of the triumphs and heartaches, gains and losses from those years are framed by each of those buildings and the neighborhoods and cities they were in. They were the stage for my life and the players that have filled it so colorfully.

I’ve realized that in every place I’ve lived, at some point during the move in I’ve done that foolish thing that human beings do. I’ve wondered “What will happen in this house? What will life here be like? Who will come into my life? Who will leave it?” It’s a useless pastime to try and guess the future, and no one really and truly wants to know what’s going to happen. Besides, how could we really handle the glory and darkness we’d have to bear if we knew what was coming? I don’t have to look any farther than the last two houses/stages to feel the drama and mystery of life as it passes by.

Butternut Hollow was the name we gave our last house in Lynnwood, WA – just north of Seattle. It was an acre and a half on a creek, right next to the freeway. We moved in there with Janece’s parents – Neil and Carol – to continue our experiment of sharing a household. We lived there for 5 years – the longest I’ve lived anywhere since 10th grade.

What we lost:

From left to right: My step-grandfather Lee Robertson who married my grandmother, already once a widow, in the 1980s. My very first plane ride as a kid was to their wedding in Portland, OR. Simba, aka Schmooks, our third cat from PAWS who looked and acted like a disgruntled Seattle emo band singer. Seurat, aka Puppy D, Janece and I’s very first dog as a married couple. My two actress and artist sisters-in-law, Diane and Micaela. They were close friends turned feuding sisters who never had a chance to make peace before dying within 24 hours and 30 miles apart — one from heart attack, one from accidental overdose — leaving my two brothers heartbroken and shipwrecked for the last couple of years.

What we gained:

Left to right: Amira. Who can fathom the beauty, mystery and possibility that is our daughter? She has brought vistas and horizons of new worlds we didn’t know were there until she arrived. Tovarisch, aka Tova. His name means “friend” in Russian, and I don’t think I’ve ever encountered an animal as sweet and empathetic and joyful to be a part of a family as him.

The Glass Farm is what our landlord Ahmis used to call this property, after the glass blowing business she had here for a while. Janece, Amira and I moved out to the Kitsap peninsula last January — the first time together as just the three of us and the first time as renters in about a decade. (We’re trying to help Ahmis decide on another name now that the glass business is gone.)

Left to right: Luther, aka Cous-Cous. Our pretty boy, one of the first two cats we took in together as a married couple, with us for over 14 years, lost to coyotes. The Glass Farm, from the deck. I can’t imagine a place more beautiful or restful to the soul. Ahmis. Our landlord, who I jokingly refer to as our “slumlord”. She’s become a wonderful friend, and she’s one of the big reasons why living here has felt so welcome.

When next we have to move (oh, how I hate, HATE, to move), I’ll inevitably think the same thing as we walk in the front door for the first time — “I wonder what will happen here?” But, you know…

I don’t really want to know.

(There are many more of Janece’s beautiful photos of Amira, Tova, and the place we live on Flickr.)

I’d like to think I’ll grow old. Lots of people don’t make it that far because something takes them down — disease, accidents, neglect, some weird betrayal by their body like Parkinsons… But, lots of people do grow old, more and more every day, and maybe I’ll be one of them. And it’s got me thinking — what kind of old man will I be?

There was a guy that lived up the street from us in Tooele, UT where I grew up. I remember him as cranky with a slightly overgrown yard — one of those types where the kids avoid playing around their yard in case the ball rolls in there and they get shouted at. I only spoke to him once.

His next door neighbor was a trucker who had a beautiful big black Peterbilt that he’d park on our street when he wasn’t at home. Being a kid, the size and shiny blackness of the truck mightily impressed me and I wanted to drive one just like it when I grew up. One day, I found myself in a conversation with Cranky Guy. I can’t remember why we were talking. In any case, either he or I mentioned the truck and I piped up enthusiastically — “I want to drive a truck just like that when I get older!” He snorted derisively. “Drive a truck? Drive a TRUCK? What’s wrong with you?” (Enthusiastic smile starts fading.) “You don’t want to grow up and drive a truck. That’s a loser job with no future.” (Shiny truck dreams also fading.) “What YOU want is to be in computers. Now that’s where the money’s gonna be.”

Did I mention that I’m a web designer? Coincidence? I think not.

Anyway, he stuck in my mind as The Cranky Guy. There was the Nice Old Couple that lived across the street and over one, with an incredibly immaculate yard landscaped with white smooth rocks that we were never supposed to disturb, steal or dishevel. There were the Cooks (actual last name) whose yard bordered ours and who were so immensely old and frail that they were practically legends to me, museum pieces. There was my great-aunt who lived behind us and her astoundingly fat husband who never left the house and who I made a point of avoiding because he scared me a little. Visiting them was always a mixed bag. Either you got a Pop ‘n Shoppe root beer and a few hours with the Lone Ranger radio show records she had in the spare bedroom, or you got the sharp end of her tongue and some crap yard work detail. (They also had a healthy collection of plastic lawn ornaments — deer and frogs and a gnome or two, a little dirty green from age.)

All of these people hold very particular roles in my childhood head. All of them had very specific lifestyles, yards, habits, mannerisms, grudges, pleasures. And as I grew up I noticed that older people I knew got more the way they were, not less, as time went on. Who they are was shaped a little by circumstances, but it was mostly shaped by them, their daily choices. Take Grandma Hamilton in church — I don’t think she woke up one day as a little girl or young woman and said “I’m going to be a sharp-tongued, complain-y, bitter old grouch with a chip on my shoulder and nary a good word to say to anyone, especially the Youth Of Today.” I think she just sorta…ended up there. One complaint at a time, one grudge at a time, one judgmental observation at a time, until all she could leave behind with you was a sense of gratitude that you didn’t have talk to her anymore.

I’ve already worn some habit trails into the landscape of my life – some good, some bad. I never imagined in high school/college that I’d look like I do now or be doing the things I’m doing now. (In fact in college I had nothing but disdain for designers – I thought they were all corporate whores who sold out real self-expression for a buck. Heh.) I’m less flexible about working for someone else because I’ve worked for myself so long. I’m less flexible about eating in a discerning way because for so long I’ve given myself license to eat however I wanted. My teeth have gaping holes in them from years of spending money and personal care time on other things. I can’t cut corners with my clients because of years of going the extra mile to make sure my work was good. I’m more of a business man than an artist because of spending years chasing financial opportunities instead of artistic ones.

What will I been when I grow up, get old? What will the kids on my block, my friend’s kids, my daughter, remember me as when they sit down to reminisce? I’ve been thinking on that all day.

Nothing big again today… Just more work and more Wire. Man, what a great show.

During our Wire time tonight, Amira woke up again. She’s been doing that pretty regularly the last few weeks screaming/crying. I think this latest round of cognitive development is contributing to her having nightmares. I don’t remember much at all from when I was her age, but I do remember a recurring nightmare I had.

It was an old-skool home movie screen — the kind where you fold out the legs, hook the screen handle on the top rod and extend the screen. We had one in my family that my Dad would show our home slides and old Super 8 movies on. The screen was playing a flickering movie, no sound — just the racheting clicks of the film going through the projector. The move was in black and white, and it was just an old white man’s face from the neck up in a non-descript background. His face was thin and wrinkled and he was bald-ish with a fringe of hair. And he was laughing. Silently. Looking straight out of the screen at me and laughing.

It scared me so bad that I couldn’t even scream in my dream because I was so choked up. I’d wake up crying and shaking. And then I’d have the exact same dream the next night. That happened for a while — maybe a month or two. And then it ended and I never had it again.

Back to Amira. After hanging out in the doorway while Janece soothed her and got all the sweet talk (“You’re a nice girl, Mama. I really love you” and so on), I finally got a chance to cut in. I smoothed out her curls out away from her eyes and over her warm little head, and said “Sleep tight, sweetheart.” She sighed a sweet little contented sigh and said “Thank you, Daddy.” Just about ripped my heart from top to bottom.

After we sat back down in the living room, I said to Janece, “You know I’d do anything for that kid, right?” And then a heartbeat later, it struck me. Why do we do that when we grow up to be adults, and then parents? At what point do people make the switch into being willing to do anything for the kid(s), but leaving themselves behind? What makes them give up? What made me give up?

I’m a selfish bastard, but I’m willing to put myself out a long ways for that kid. I’ve endured all of her cries and complaints and foot-dragging and bargaining to do things like give her the right food, the right bed time, the right amount of TV, etc., and been happy to do so because I want her to be liberated, capable, rested, energetic, awesome. And it’s worked pretty damn well. I couldn’t ask for a more wonderful, bright, fun kid.

In contrast, somewhere along the line, I gave up on myself — gave up on the Paul Project. I’ve let myself eat badly, sleep badly, dress sloppy, get bad teeth, hunker down in front of some numbing form of media for unhealthy hours, ignore doing the things that feed my humanity and creativity, get withdrawn from others. I’m not just responsible for Amira’s care — I’m responsible for mine, too. More responsible than anyone else on the planet. And of course, my lack of responsibiltiy has put Amira in danger of assuming my habits because she doesn’t have the power to choose — my habits are The Normal for her, The Way The World Is.

I’m not going to bang myself around with guilt. That’s a waste of precious time. But when I said “I’d do anything for that kid…”, maybe doing right by myself is one of those “anythings”. That’s one reason why I’m switching up some things that need switching.

So, it’s been less than a year since I posted last. But what a less-than-a-year… Since the last post – October ’07 – Obama now rules the Known Universe, the US economy has a horrible mortgage-drunk hangover and lots of people are feelin’ the poor coming on, my little family moved from mainland Seattle to the Kitsap peninsula where people live by the sweat of their brow and “hipsters” are old people with joint replacements, my daughter and wife have grown older wiser and more beautiful, and I…. Well, I have not.

However, I did grow a beard.

I called it my “Kitsap beard” (or occasionally, my faux-Orthodox beard). It’s kinda farm-ish territory out here. As I understand it, you can’t even build a home on less than 2 acres. And there’s lots of beards — at least, lots more than Lynnwood. And since I felt like hunkering down, getting my head straight, getting back on an even keel, getting away from society, getting my house in order, and covering up my fat face, I decided that a hermit beard would do it.

Today, I started over.

It started with my beard itching like crazy sometimes and piles of beard dandruff — practical reasons for taking it off, letting my skin breathe and starting over. But I’ve also been feeling like maybe it’s time to take a stab at a new wave of energy, activity, outlook. So in the spirit I took it all off, except for a single pitiful soul patch, a transparently pitiful attempt at saying “I can still look hip”.

I think I look kind of annoying, frankly. My double chin that I’ve lovingly developed over months of desk work, reading blogs, trying to work a night shift, and refusal to exercise, popped right out with a “how-dee-do”! My skin is pretty red, like a vampire burning in the sun. And in my opinion, I look like my chin got blown off with a shotgun. There’s nothing there.

But you gotta start somewhere, so here I am. I have a new project — 20 lbs by Christmas, which should shave down the double chin at least. I’m starting in on taking vitamins again, doing my morning pushups, maybe even jumping rope for 15 mins a day. I’m getting on top of my workload again for the first time in almost a year. My rent is paid early. I’m also going to post here every day for a year — at least 365 posts full of God knows what, and I’m going to lay off my political blog reading to do it (which is going to take some discipline since Obama is clearly going to have a hard time getting elected without me obsessively checking the political blogs 3 times a day).

So that’s it. Day 1. See you tomorrow.

PS. Janece and I are making our way through Season 2 of The Wire which is amazing and sucked us in despite being relentlessly and grimly realistic. Rent it immediately if you have not seen it.