Last night we went to BAM and saw The State Ballet of Georgia, featuring its artistic director and principal dancer, Nina Ananiashvili.
We live within walking distance of one of the top cultural institutions in this here city, and in the past two years we've barely, barely utilized it. We saw a cool production of Mozart's "The Magic Flute" last year, and I think that's been it (other than to see a couple of movies at the movie theater). So I got us a spring subscription (four shows) as a Christmas gift for Cathleen. Yes, "got us" ... "for Cathleen." I'm clever that way. When you get a subscription, you choose four shows out of their smorgasbord of options. A couple were no-brainers for me: Patrick Stewart in a modern adaptation of MacBeth; John Turturro in Samuel Beckett's "Endgame." I threw in an Alvin Ailey Dance Troupe performance, and I figured that Cathleen, at the very least, would really enjoy the ballet. I had never been to the ballet, and I at least had an intellectual curiosity, though I wasn't sure that that curiosity would hold for a more than two-hour performance.
Oh. My. God. It was amazing. First of all, it turns out that Nina Ananianshvili is some sort of international ballet star...she dances with the Bolshoi Ballet and was recruited by the Georgian president in 2004 to take over the State Ballet of Georgia in an attempt to restore that country's ballet to its former glory (you know, from back in the 19th century). Last night's show consisted of four performances, broken up by two intermissions, with music provided by a full orchestra which travels with the ballet company. A full ensemble piece (Chaconne by George Balanchine), then only two dancers accompanied by a pianist and violinist (Duo Concertant by Balanchine), then a piece with six dancers (Bizet Variations by Alexei Ratmansky) and finally a lively set where a dozen or so men and women danced to Georgian folk songs (Sagalobelli by Yuri Posskhov). The show moved from traditional to more contemporary, and so we were able to experience a variety of music and dance. Nina danced in the first and third of them, and as good as the other dancers were, she was noticeably dancing on another level.
But they were all on another level from normal humans. Perfect body control displayed with unimagineable grace. Even their bows at the end of the performances made me feel clumsy. As they danced, it was as if the rules of gravity and friction did not apply to them. Not that they were jumping particularly high, but that as they flitted about, it was as if the floor was resisting them. And it all appeared as if it was effortless for them, whether they were spinning, dancing on their toes for outrageous periods of time (how do they do that??), leaping about...but then they'd stop, and you'd see these small signs of heavy breathing only in the top of their chests, or strains of sweat on some of the guys, and you realized that you were gazing at truly gifted athletes. It was entrancing to see these beautiful people moving that way.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Victory? Defeat?
I am sure that someday I will look back on this bedbug experience and laugh a mighty guffaw. I am sure of it.
Although I've been quiet on the bedbug postings of late, they have not been far from my mind. Even after we had our third extermination six weeks ago, I was still seeing bedbugs everywhere. Well, as it turns out I was never seeing bedbugs, but every small dark speck anywhere in the apartment posed the immediate concern that a bedbug was apparent. Then there was the Hoy (Spanish newspaper) cover story: "Chinches!" with a ten-inch photo of a bedbug. I was tempted to cut out the picture and accompanying declaration, frame it and hang it in the hallway, but then that struck me as a little bit off -- kind of like if you had an intestinal polyp removed and then taped it to your computer monitor.
I've also been suffering through an annoying body hyper-awareness: is that a bug I feel crawling on me? Is this itch from a bite? Is this a new welt or, oh wait, it's my thumb.
And, of course, living out of ziploc bags is taking its toll. I miss my polar bear boxer shorts (how did they not make the cut?), my fraying khakis, and the roughly 75 tee-shirts that are sealed in a large contractor bag in the top of our closet.
But the light at the end of the tunnel seemed like it was dimly coming into view after five bite-free weeks. We were reluctant to declare victory, especially after Cathleen's friend told her that she had heard that six weeks was the big hump to get over. Sure enough, at around six weeks, Cathleen asked me to look at her face -- three barely perceptible bite-markish bumps in a row, on her left cheek. It didn't make sense -- me, Mr. Canary in a Coal Mine, had not the slightest hint of a bite, and Cathleen, who had barely evidenced a bite reaction over the course of more than three months, suddenly has one? But they were undeniably bite marks.
I had had enough and I reckoned we needed to bring in a bedbug dog. These dogs are trained to sniff out bedbugs (their pheromones, it seems), and my guru on www.thebedbugresource.com was quite high on them. So I hooked us up with the folks at Advanced K9 Detectives, and last Thursday we were visited by Jada. Sadly, I was at work and missed it. For $250, Jada sniffed all around the apartment and alerted (whining and barking) at our wrapped up bedframe and headboard.
On the one hand, it was a relief -- the bugs were nowhere else in our room (anymore) and had not spread through the apartment. On the other hand, we still had bugs, and despite our best efforts to encase our bedframe and headboard in plastic wrapping, they (or at least one) were still getting out. Cathleen spent Friday on the phone and located a container fumigation place where they take infested furniture and gas the hell out of it. With pickup and fumigation, this was going to cost us $500, and then we'd not be able to use the bed for another month or two until we were sure that our bedroom was 110% bug-free. The other option was to toss the bed and eventually get a new one.
Now let me tell you something about this bed. Cathleen and I have a long history of crappy sleeping arrangements. From cramming our bodies onto my twin bed when I was in law school, to the leaky waterbed when visiting Mike and Theresa (yes, I woke up befuddled, wondering if I had peed myself and, if so, how come it seemed to be that I was peeing out of my hip), to the compromised air mattress at Lorri and John's (brrrrr, I'm cold and, ouch, this floor is hard), to the basement at my mom's when we were the only childless couple in the family. When we moved in together in 1995 at 4 Lexington Avenue (the Sage House), we bought a cheap, wooden frame at Ikea to hold the full-size mattress that Michael bought for us on the car ride home. I remember putting that frame together with Michael, neither of us able to bend one of our knees, and so we were screwing it together from some rather odd angles, with a lot of strange grunting going on. Cathleen and I slept on that full-sized bed with two dogs, and then intermittently with a child, for a decade. When we moved to Brooklyn, and that cheap wooden bedframe splintered in the move, we decided that enough was enough, we're getting a real bed, a queen-sized bed. We spent a morning at West Elm down in DUMBO and ordered what we thought was a comfortable and handsome bed for a pretty self-indulgent $700. We lunched at Garibaldis and, afterwards, as we waited to pay for the bed and arrange for the pieces to come out for us to load in the car, I told Max the story of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears" for the first time, and wound up having to tell it to him three or four more times over the course of the afternoon because he loved it so much (nowadays he only wants me to tell the "scary" version, where the bears are viciously violent, and throw furniture and dishes against the wall in order to emphasize their disgust). Cathleen and I put the bed together that night, and I remember feeling like it was this humongous sea of furniture. As much as one can, we loved that bed.
And on Saturday night we hauled that mother out to the sidewalk. Yeah, bedbugs, you wanted that bed from the beginning. You got it.
We beckoned the exterminators back yesterday for a fourth spraying of all things good and poisonous, and spent last night sleeping in the basement again (the allure of which, for Max, has faded quickly). But for the first time in four months, I feel like we have finally conquered the bugs. They won the battle, but we won the war. They won the bed, but we won the right to make really bad metaphors.
Our clothes will remain bagged up for at least another six weeks, but I'm optimistic. Again.
Although I've been quiet on the bedbug postings of late, they have not been far from my mind. Even after we had our third extermination six weeks ago, I was still seeing bedbugs everywhere. Well, as it turns out I was never seeing bedbugs, but every small dark speck anywhere in the apartment posed the immediate concern that a bedbug was apparent. Then there was the Hoy (Spanish newspaper) cover story: "Chinches!" with a ten-inch photo of a bedbug. I was tempted to cut out the picture and accompanying declaration, frame it and hang it in the hallway, but then that struck me as a little bit off -- kind of like if you had an intestinal polyp removed and then taped it to your computer monitor.
I've also been suffering through an annoying body hyper-awareness: is that a bug I feel crawling on me? Is this itch from a bite? Is this a new welt or, oh wait, it's my thumb.
And, of course, living out of ziploc bags is taking its toll. I miss my polar bear boxer shorts (how did they not make the cut?), my fraying khakis, and the roughly 75 tee-shirts that are sealed in a large contractor bag in the top of our closet.
But the light at the end of the tunnel seemed like it was dimly coming into view after five bite-free weeks. We were reluctant to declare victory, especially after Cathleen's friend told her that she had heard that six weeks was the big hump to get over. Sure enough, at around six weeks, Cathleen asked me to look at her face -- three barely perceptible bite-markish bumps in a row, on her left cheek. It didn't make sense -- me, Mr. Canary in a Coal Mine, had not the slightest hint of a bite, and Cathleen, who had barely evidenced a bite reaction over the course of more than three months, suddenly has one? But they were undeniably bite marks.
I had had enough and I reckoned we needed to bring in a bedbug dog. These dogs are trained to sniff out bedbugs (their pheromones, it seems), and my guru on www.thebedbugresource.com was quite high on them. So I hooked us up with the folks at Advanced K9 Detectives, and last Thursday we were visited by Jada. Sadly, I was at work and missed it. For $250, Jada sniffed all around the apartment and alerted (whining and barking) at our wrapped up bedframe and headboard.
On the one hand, it was a relief -- the bugs were nowhere else in our room (anymore) and had not spread through the apartment. On the other hand, we still had bugs, and despite our best efforts to encase our bedframe and headboard in plastic wrapping, they (or at least one) were still getting out. Cathleen spent Friday on the phone and located a container fumigation place where they take infested furniture and gas the hell out of it. With pickup and fumigation, this was going to cost us $500, and then we'd not be able to use the bed for another month or two until we were sure that our bedroom was 110% bug-free. The other option was to toss the bed and eventually get a new one.
Now let me tell you something about this bed. Cathleen and I have a long history of crappy sleeping arrangements. From cramming our bodies onto my twin bed when I was in law school, to the leaky waterbed when visiting Mike and Theresa (yes, I woke up befuddled, wondering if I had peed myself and, if so, how come it seemed to be that I was peeing out of my hip), to the compromised air mattress at Lorri and John's (brrrrr, I'm cold and, ouch, this floor is hard), to the basement at my mom's when we were the only childless couple in the family. When we moved in together in 1995 at 4 Lexington Avenue (the Sage House), we bought a cheap, wooden frame at Ikea to hold the full-size mattress that Michael bought for us on the car ride home. I remember putting that frame together with Michael, neither of us able to bend one of our knees, and so we were screwing it together from some rather odd angles, with a lot of strange grunting going on. Cathleen and I slept on that full-sized bed with two dogs, and then intermittently with a child, for a decade. When we moved to Brooklyn, and that cheap wooden bedframe splintered in the move, we decided that enough was enough, we're getting a real bed, a queen-sized bed. We spent a morning at West Elm down in DUMBO and ordered what we thought was a comfortable and handsome bed for a pretty self-indulgent $700. We lunched at Garibaldis and, afterwards, as we waited to pay for the bed and arrange for the pieces to come out for us to load in the car, I told Max the story of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears" for the first time, and wound up having to tell it to him three or four more times over the course of the afternoon because he loved it so much (nowadays he only wants me to tell the "scary" version, where the bears are viciously violent, and throw furniture and dishes against the wall in order to emphasize their disgust). Cathleen and I put the bed together that night, and I remember feeling like it was this humongous sea of furniture. As much as one can, we loved that bed.
And on Saturday night we hauled that mother out to the sidewalk. Yeah, bedbugs, you wanted that bed from the beginning. You got it.
We beckoned the exterminators back yesterday for a fourth spraying of all things good and poisonous, and spent last night sleeping in the basement again (the allure of which, for Max, has faded quickly). But for the first time in four months, I feel like we have finally conquered the bugs. They won the battle, but we won the war. They won the bed, but we won the right to make really bad metaphors.
Our clothes will remain bagged up for at least another six weeks, but I'm optimistic. Again.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Spring Break
It was 60 degrees today, and I took full advantage of it. After Mike and Jacob ended their brief visit (a 36-hour trip to NYC to take in a Rangers game), I went out on a 6.8 mile run, across the Brooklyn Bridge, and then back across the Manhattan Bridge, and over to the Lincoln/Berkeley playground where I rendezvoused with Cathleen and the kids. I hadn't done a bridge run, I think, since training for the marathon in '06, and it was magnificent. Running up the Brooklyn Bridge, with a view of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty to your left, the sprawling majesty of downtown ahead of you...I can't imagine a better view for an urban run. Coming back across the Manhattan Bridge was a little tougher -- early on at one point I had the N train passing next to me, and as I turned my head away to the other side for fresh air, I caught a wave of raw fish smell arising off of a Chinatown side street. But I needed the challenge of that run (and given my current level of conditioning, it was a challenge), and as I descended off the bridge I could feel my face radiating heat...one of those "I'm alive" feelings you get from a hard workout.
For dinner, we grilled (grilled!) spice-rubbed chicken parts, and ate them with potato salad and a green salad. All of me felt like it was two months hence, and it was revitalizing. Although this winter has been disappointingly tame weather-wise, it has felt long and hard, no doubt as a result of how sick I (and we) have been. Tomorrow aims to be cold again, but today's weather should keep me going strong right up to our Florida trip (a mere 17 days away).
For dinner, we grilled (grilled!) spice-rubbed chicken parts, and ate them with potato salad and a green salad. All of me felt like it was two months hence, and it was revitalizing. Although this winter has been disappointingly tame weather-wise, it has felt long and hard, no doubt as a result of how sick I (and we) have been. Tomorrow aims to be cold again, but today's weather should keep me going strong right up to our Florida trip (a mere 17 days away).
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Ahrs Go to Eleven
She coaxes me into watching Jane Austen movies on Masterpiece Theater.
She often suggests that we "split" a bottle of beer.
She sometimes throws all of the leftover Chinese food into a baking dish with rice for dinner, and then distributes this as a casserole recipe to friends and family.
She takes my suggestion that we go to Florida in March and embellishes it into a "Rick duped me into going to baseball spring training" story, and tells it to others in front of my face because she knows that I'll laugh along with her.
No matter how hard she tries not to, she still laughs at my jokes.
She laughs even harder at her own jokes.
She supports me in whatever I do, no matter how noble, constructive, peculiar, or fantastical my endeavor.
Today we've been married eleven years.
She often suggests that we "split" a bottle of beer.
She sometimes throws all of the leftover Chinese food into a baking dish with rice for dinner, and then distributes this as a casserole recipe to friends and family.
She takes my suggestion that we go to Florida in March and embellishes it into a "Rick duped me into going to baseball spring training" story, and tells it to others in front of my face because she knows that I'll laugh along with her.
No matter how hard she tries not to, she still laughs at my jokes.
She laughs even harder at her own jokes.
She supports me in whatever I do, no matter how noble, constructive, peculiar, or fantastical my endeavor.
Today we've been married eleven years.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
V-Day
You're supposed to do a blog entry for Valentine's Day, right?
I woke up at 6 today and went for a run. It was frickin cold -- low 30s and windy, especially up in Prospect Park. My iPod battery died without about a mile and a half to go in the run which forced me to focus on my thoughts, and my only thoughts were, "who are these other assholes running in this cold?"
I have fluid in my left ear. This has never happened to me before. I mean, sometimes I get water in my ear when I go swimming, but then I do some crazy "get-water-out-of-your-ear" trick, like hopping on the foot on the opposite side of your body from that of your water-logged ear, while shaking that ear down towards the ground, and eventually I feel this warm trickle come out of my ear, sort of what I imagine a brain hemhorrage would feel like, minus the pain and paralysis. I think I learned that ear-clearing trick in the third grade, around the same time that I learned my "get-rid-of-hiccups" trick (light match, put it out in a cup of water, drink water). You learn one of these tricks at an early age, I think, and then you are stuck with that one for life. I, however, in my highly-evolved state, learned a new anti-hiccups trick about five years ago maybe and it is unbelievably good, but it is one that I can do on others, but not on myself. Darnit. You should be so lucky to have hiccups around me. But the fluid in my ear now is not swimming related, but congestion related I guess. Now I have to sit around and hope that it doesn't become an ear infection. And they wonder why I'm going bald.
I think I consumed around 40, maybe 50, Necco hearts today, and I didn't read a single one.
I did, however, read the book Pretzel to Max tonight. It's the one about the extra-long dachshund whose affection for another dachshund, Greta, goes unrequited until he is able to use his length to rescue her from the bottom of a ditch. Then, after having snottily rejected his romantic overtures for the previous six pages, Greta consents to marrying Pretzel. There, I ruined it for you. I hate this book because a) it has a terrible message about relationships and what makes a person virtuous and appealing and b) like in real life Greta is going to be disinterested in the guy who is shaped like an extraordinarily enormous penis.
Happy Valentines Day.
I woke up at 6 today and went for a run. It was frickin cold -- low 30s and windy, especially up in Prospect Park. My iPod battery died without about a mile and a half to go in the run which forced me to focus on my thoughts, and my only thoughts were, "who are these other assholes running in this cold?"
I have fluid in my left ear. This has never happened to me before. I mean, sometimes I get water in my ear when I go swimming, but then I do some crazy "get-water-out-of-your-ear" trick, like hopping on the foot on the opposite side of your body from that of your water-logged ear, while shaking that ear down towards the ground, and eventually I feel this warm trickle come out of my ear, sort of what I imagine a brain hemhorrage would feel like, minus the pain and paralysis. I think I learned that ear-clearing trick in the third grade, around the same time that I learned my "get-rid-of-hiccups" trick (light match, put it out in a cup of water, drink water). You learn one of these tricks at an early age, I think, and then you are stuck with that one for life. I, however, in my highly-evolved state, learned a new anti-hiccups trick about five years ago maybe and it is unbelievably good, but it is one that I can do on others, but not on myself. Darnit. You should be so lucky to have hiccups around me. But the fluid in my ear now is not swimming related, but congestion related I guess. Now I have to sit around and hope that it doesn't become an ear infection. And they wonder why I'm going bald.
I think I consumed around 40, maybe 50, Necco hearts today, and I didn't read a single one.
I did, however, read the book Pretzel to Max tonight. It's the one about the extra-long dachshund whose affection for another dachshund, Greta, goes unrequited until he is able to use his length to rescue her from the bottom of a ditch. Then, after having snottily rejected his romantic overtures for the previous six pages, Greta consents to marrying Pretzel. There, I ruined it for you. I hate this book because a) it has a terrible message about relationships and what makes a person virtuous and appealing and b) like in real life Greta is going to be disinterested in the guy who is shaped like an extraordinarily enormous penis.
Happy Valentines Day.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Not so Terrible
Eliza turned two yesterday. Her birth -- the tense drive to the hospital, the rapidly-developing realization that there would not be time for an epidural, Cathleen's bone-rattling screams, Eliza's emergence -- the entire experience is crystal clear in my mind. I can distinctly see her under the heat lamp, and I can feel the swell of emotion I felt talking to her for the first time. But everything between those moments and yesterday are mostly a blur. I will match my memory up against anyone's, but I can barely remember where the hell I have been for the past two years. Some day, some day I will sleep.
Eliza had a pretty good birthday. She loved the small, wooden toy kitchen we bought for her (and which I allen-wrenched together the night before). Max was refreshingly excited for her, and not jealous as he himself had predicted he would be. We had a decent-sized but smallish party of friends and family. Smoked fish platter and bagels from Fairway. Lots of coffee. To honor Eliza's recent "cow jumping over the moon" obsession, we played "pin the moon underneath cow" and we ate a fantastic ice cream cake that Cathleen had made (with Max's able assistance) in multiple stages the day before. She decorated the top of the cake with a cow jumping over a moon, drawn out in sprinkles (having rejected my idea of a cow jumping over my butt imprint in the icing). The candle ceremony was right out of the book for a two-year-old and an almost-five-year-old: as we sang, Cathleen tried to put a party hat on Eliza; the elastic band grabbed her hair and she began wailing out loud as we were in mid-verse. Max was so anxious to "help" blow out the candles that he was practically hyperventilating before "...dear Eliza, Happy Birthday..." and he obliterated the two flames before Eliza could even manage an unintended breath between her sobs. She recovered in fine order once a spoonful of cake was placed in her mouth.
Eliza is a ray of light, and I do not hesitate to declare that truth. She has such a zest for life, an excitement for the happenings of her daily existence, and an infectious laugh that she employs at every possible opportunity, that to be around her is to enjoy your own life that much more. Yeah, I love her a little.
Eliza had a pretty good birthday. She loved the small, wooden toy kitchen we bought for her (and which I allen-wrenched together the night before). Max was refreshingly excited for her, and not jealous as he himself had predicted he would be. We had a decent-sized but smallish party of friends and family. Smoked fish platter and bagels from Fairway. Lots of coffee. To honor Eliza's recent "cow jumping over the moon" obsession, we played "pin the moon underneath cow" and we ate a fantastic ice cream cake that Cathleen had made (with Max's able assistance) in multiple stages the day before. She decorated the top of the cake with a cow jumping over a moon, drawn out in sprinkles (having rejected my idea of a cow jumping over my butt imprint in the icing). The candle ceremony was right out of the book for a two-year-old and an almost-five-year-old: as we sang, Cathleen tried to put a party hat on Eliza; the elastic band grabbed her hair and she began wailing out loud as we were in mid-verse. Max was so anxious to "help" blow out the candles that he was practically hyperventilating before "...dear Eliza, Happy Birthday..." and he obliterated the two flames before Eliza could even manage an unintended breath between her sobs. She recovered in fine order once a spoonful of cake was placed in her mouth.
Eliza is a ray of light, and I do not hesitate to declare that truth. She has such a zest for life, an excitement for the happenings of her daily existence, and an infectious laugh that she employs at every possible opportunity, that to be around her is to enjoy your own life that much more. Yeah, I love her a little.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Year of the Rat
We celebrated the Chinese New Year tonight by ordering in Chinese food for dinner. We don't need much of an excuse to order in Chinese food, but one was available and so we jumped. Cathleen had read (or heard on the radio?) that you're supposed to eat dumplings (I forget the reason) and lo mein noodles (for a long life). We threw in some egg rolls too because, well, the Kahn boys like their egg rolls. They are, after all, the perfect vehicle for transporting large quantities of duck sauce to one's mouth.
This Chinese New Year is notable because this year begins the first year of the 12-year animal cycle on the Chinese calendar -- it is the Year of the Rat. As the first year in the cycle, the Rat Year is supposed to be one of renewal, or one in which to make a fresh start in some aspect of your life. Sounds like a plan to me.
I, however, am not a big fan of the Rat. Sure, I always get a little warm feeling whenever I see a giant, inflated rat sitting outside an office building, the centerpiece of some union's protest or picket line. But my affection for anything rat-like pretty much ends there. It is hard to live in a city where there is an estimated rat population in the neighborhood of 60,000 critters and feel any love for them. When I stand on subway platforms and spy a rat crawling around the tracks below, my first instinct is to scout the vicinity for an exit plan for myself should one become necessary. And then there was that episode with the mammoth dead rat in our backyard a few months ago. That still gives me the willies.
Max, in his tender innocence, likes rats. This misguided affection derives solely from watching Ratatouille, a good movie for sure, but a deceptively propagandizing one it turns out. Late one afternoon, as we walked down our block, we passed by the garbage storage area of one of our neighbor's buildings. Much to my horror, a large, hideous rat was sitting there in the open, staring at us, his face rendered that much more repulsive by virtue of the fact that his nose was somehow disfigured or bloody. Max exclaimed, with a note of glee and fascination in his voice, "look, a rat!"
Not, "ahhh, a rat!", but, "look, a rat," much as one might expect a young child to say "look, a koala bear" or "look, its Dora!" I was so stunned by his reaction -- I think I would have been less stunned, and more pleased, had he said "holy shit, a mother fucking rat" -- that I lurched into a lecture on how rats actually are not talented chefs in upscale restaurants, but are repulsive creatures that bite and carry disease. All that he heard, however, was Miss Othmar. A couple of weeks later, when he made some other favorable remark about rats, I concluded that the power of Disney is much greater than the power of Rick.
This Chinese New Year is notable because this year begins the first year of the 12-year animal cycle on the Chinese calendar -- it is the Year of the Rat. As the first year in the cycle, the Rat Year is supposed to be one of renewal, or one in which to make a fresh start in some aspect of your life. Sounds like a plan to me.
I, however, am not a big fan of the Rat. Sure, I always get a little warm feeling whenever I see a giant, inflated rat sitting outside an office building, the centerpiece of some union's protest or picket line. But my affection for anything rat-like pretty much ends there. It is hard to live in a city where there is an estimated rat population in the neighborhood of 60,000 critters and feel any love for them. When I stand on subway platforms and spy a rat crawling around the tracks below, my first instinct is to scout the vicinity for an exit plan for myself should one become necessary. And then there was that episode with the mammoth dead rat in our backyard a few months ago. That still gives me the willies.
Max, in his tender innocence, likes rats. This misguided affection derives solely from watching Ratatouille, a good movie for sure, but a deceptively propagandizing one it turns out. Late one afternoon, as we walked down our block, we passed by the garbage storage area of one of our neighbor's buildings. Much to my horror, a large, hideous rat was sitting there in the open, staring at us, his face rendered that much more repulsive by virtue of the fact that his nose was somehow disfigured or bloody. Max exclaimed, with a note of glee and fascination in his voice, "look, a rat!"
Not, "ahhh, a rat!", but, "look, a rat," much as one might expect a young child to say "look, a koala bear" or "look, its Dora!" I was so stunned by his reaction -- I think I would have been less stunned, and more pleased, had he said "holy shit, a mother fucking rat" -- that I lurched into a lecture on how rats actually are not talented chefs in upscale restaurants, but are repulsive creatures that bite and carry disease. All that he heard, however, was Miss Othmar. A couple of weeks later, when he made some other favorable remark about rats, I concluded that the power of Disney is much greater than the power of Rick.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Superduperbowl
It is hard to get excited about a championship when your team isn't in it, especially when your team had the sixth-worst record in the league, but as a dedicated Patriots-loather, watching last night's game was about as much fun as I could have in a game that did not end with a Jets victory. The Tyree catch was crazy nuts amazing (I get to tell my grandkids that I was one of only about 97.5 million people to have seen it!), and I fell asleep with warm images of Bill Belichiks deflatedly dour expression dancing in my head. No larger classless boar could deserve to have his undefeated team lose the big one. It's been nauseating with all of the pro-Giants hype buzzing around the city, but I'll take it.
Pitchers and catchers report in what...a week? We booked our plane tickets and hotel reservations today for an early March trip to the vicinity of Port St. Lucie, Florida with the Bertin/McGoldricks. Spring training baby! I cannot wait!
Pitchers and catchers report in what...a week? We booked our plane tickets and hotel reservations today for an early March trip to the vicinity of Port St. Lucie, Florida with the Bertin/McGoldricks. Spring training baby! I cannot wait!
Going with Obama
With Tuesday's Primary coming up tomorrow, I have been forced to make up my mind as to whom to vote for. It was surprisingly difficult. Months ago -- many months ago -- I had pegged Edwards as my candidate. Kucinich, of course, was really my candidate, but Edwards presented an electable option for me: straight-up-progressive on pretty much every domestic issue (hell, he set the domestic agenda for the entire Democratic campaign); made a regrettable war vote in '02, but understood enough to apologize for that vote, and to advocate for a modestly-aggressive withdrawal plan. Not perfect, but I was very excited about supporting him. Knowing that he had not been coronated by the media, I figured he was a longshot but I also figured that I would be pleased with pretty much any one of the dozen folks who were standing on the Democratic debate stage. But now that we're down to Clinton and Obama, two candidates that I desperately want to be excited about, I find myself decidedly unexcited about both.
Hillary is too hawkish, too poll-driven, too Clinton for me. On the other hand, given her political skills and her incredible command of the issues, she is probably the person still standing in either party most qualified to assume the presidential mantle. She is on target on many issues (health care, global warming), but her war vote, her campaign handling of her war vote, and her continued war-ish votes concern me deeply. Finally, she's a woman, the significance of which should not be dismissed, and cannot be overstated -- what a radical change it would be in our society if the President was a woman! I would love for Max and Eliza to grow up in that kind of society. But four (or eight) more years of the Clintons? I would listen to Bill give State of the Union addresses, and I would hang on every word, feeling truly inspired. And then there would be the inevitable letdown (Don't Ask Don't Tell, Welfare "reform"), and the squirming over every little controversy, no matter how true or contrived (by the vast right wing conspiracy which, by the way, certainly existed, you were dead-on about that Hillary). I'm not sure I can stomach another term or two of that if there's a presentable alternative.
Barack is too centrist, way too centrist for me. It seemed to take him forever to come out with a platform on anything, and everything seems like a compromise (Paul Krugman explained in The Times today that although universal healthcare may not be achieved under a Clinton administration, there's no way it could happen under Obama). Much to his credit, he was against the war from the get-go (though, having been out of office, had less of a political consideration to make in opposing it). And he's a person of color -- talk about radical changes in society, and the world that I want Max and Eliza to know and understand. But the guy can give a speech. I feel like not only could he lead this country through difficult times and perhaps make great headway in restoring this country's credibility, but he could inspire a whole generation to greatness. Oh, and my friend David's father, Richard Danzig, is an advisor to the Obama campaign. Given that Danzig's name was bandied about as a possible Secretary of Defense had Kerry won the election (he was Sec'y of the Navy under Clinton), I can only assume that he would be up for similar positioning in an Obama administration. Having a connection to someone like that, no matter how wafer-thin and tenuous, can't hurt if, for example, they reinstate the draft and expand it to include myopic 38-year-olds with bad knees.
So, tomorrow it's Obama for me. I wish I was more pumped about it, but maybe my excitement will grow over time. After 7+ years of the current nightmare, I crave an option to be pumped about.
Hillary is too hawkish, too poll-driven, too Clinton for me. On the other hand, given her political skills and her incredible command of the issues, she is probably the person still standing in either party most qualified to assume the presidential mantle. She is on target on many issues (health care, global warming), but her war vote, her campaign handling of her war vote, and her continued war-ish votes concern me deeply. Finally, she's a woman, the significance of which should not be dismissed, and cannot be overstated -- what a radical change it would be in our society if the President was a woman! I would love for Max and Eliza to grow up in that kind of society. But four (or eight) more years of the Clintons? I would listen to Bill give State of the Union addresses, and I would hang on every word, feeling truly inspired. And then there would be the inevitable letdown (Don't Ask Don't Tell, Welfare "reform"), and the squirming over every little controversy, no matter how true or contrived (by the vast right wing conspiracy which, by the way, certainly existed, you were dead-on about that Hillary). I'm not sure I can stomach another term or two of that if there's a presentable alternative.
Barack is too centrist, way too centrist for me. It seemed to take him forever to come out with a platform on anything, and everything seems like a compromise (Paul Krugman explained in The Times today that although universal healthcare may not be achieved under a Clinton administration, there's no way it could happen under Obama). Much to his credit, he was against the war from the get-go (though, having been out of office, had less of a political consideration to make in opposing it). And he's a person of color -- talk about radical changes in society, and the world that I want Max and Eliza to know and understand. But the guy can give a speech. I feel like not only could he lead this country through difficult times and perhaps make great headway in restoring this country's credibility, but he could inspire a whole generation to greatness. Oh, and my friend David's father, Richard Danzig, is an advisor to the Obama campaign. Given that Danzig's name was bandied about as a possible Secretary of Defense had Kerry won the election (he was Sec'y of the Navy under Clinton), I can only assume that he would be up for similar positioning in an Obama administration. Having a connection to someone like that, no matter how wafer-thin and tenuous, can't hurt if, for example, they reinstate the draft and expand it to include myopic 38-year-olds with bad knees.
So, tomorrow it's Obama for me. I wish I was more pumped about it, but maybe my excitement will grow over time. After 7+ years of the current nightmare, I crave an option to be pumped about.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)