Gawking Rainbow

Pant & pace, pant & pace, that's about all I do behind my net enclosure. The rainbows file by and gawk while I pant, and pace. 

Feeling Vicious

This cold weather lends me that vicious and angry edge I just can't get a handle on in summer months. My inner hunter draws back his atomic bow, lets fly a thousand laser thought arrows per short Autumn day, right out my eyes with each blink, burning world after imaginary world to kind of what Burning Man looks like on Sunday, hell of hung over. Some country singer, whats-her-name, Patty Loveless maybe, sings, I can feel bad if it makes me feel better, only she calls I and me you. The October Country warned me of all this chaos, payment for Indian Summers spent living inside Hesse short stories, thinking my name is Chinaski Yossarian. Laugh Now, Cry Later, the new Ice Cube album released 6/6/06, and the story of my life, with the emphasis on now. All the same, Ann wrote true when she penned the to-the-point proverb "Sleep is for pussies". This hunger it burns like fortified wine for breakfast, unleashes armies of H.P. Lovecraft style demons, graceful and dangerous, ever famished, my great misunderstood musketeers.

Her First Cold

Here you see the sweater that lovely Laura knitted for my darling. The sweater still fits a little loose, but rocks none the less. Her nose shines red and eyes appear glossy due to her first cold, replete with snotty sneezes and frequent night wakings. 

Evening Walks

I've started taking the boy for a walk around the neighborhood after dinner. Tonight little sister got to ride along in the sling, quiet with wide eyed wonder for most of the trip, except near the top of the hill, where she graced us with some pleasant and appropriate vocalizations. Traipsing through the fog like that, answering all the toddler questions about flickering blue lights in windows, wafting music, and the potential terribleness of nearby monster teeth, I felt extra alive. It felt so styling to walk with my children, like we were riding in a convertible Rolls, or a fire-breathing hovercraft w/ superbass, but better.

"Lord, I ain't goin' down to no race track
See no sports car run
I don't have no sports car
And I don't even care to have one
I can walk anytime around the block"

--excerpt from Bob Dylan's Blues

All Long Brown Hair All The Time

Shaved the little rock star's head the other night. I cleaned up the rough spots the next night, and it's coming in nice now, but here it is the morning after, looking a little rough. The whole experience took our family out of this world, as any good head shaving should. Yes, there were tears and screaming involved, but not too bad, after the second bath. His pre-school teacher, who hails from Germany, thought we were violent neo-Nazis trying to encourage his violent side. What the hell? We can't all have long brown hair all the time. All has settled down now, just a haircut after all.  

Rock & Roll Night

The in-laws came to visit about a month ago, guess which one is shown here (hint = I have no brother-in-law). Check out the difference in their hand sizes. People come from far and wide to hang with the ultimate gangster of love, otherwise known as my sweet daughter. During their visit we also got to hit the Fillmore as a family, which was special. I remain devoted to the night life, even though recovery from a night out takes longer than ever of late. Sharing my devotion with loved ones pumps me up, and we got Thai food in Berzerkeley on the way back, just to put the official stamp of "Rock & Roll Night" on the outing. Where did that moon get to? I feel like howling.  

You play blocks with me?

No block structure too simple or too complex for me & my boy. We take turns placing blocks, or build whole sections by handing blocks to each other to place, or trade off removing blocks. He often gives words of encouragement such as "Whoa, that's cool" or "That's a great job". Hard to resist the "You play blocks with me?" request. I asked my mother to give me a set of blocks for years as a kid, but never got them until my brother's dad sawed up a bunch for them. I think my mom thought that I had grown too old for them each year, but they still kick toy ass. Note the dead Furby sitting on the shelf.  

Quick, Memorize This Elegy

My mother's youngest sister tells me that, as a school girl in Canada, my grandmother, along with all the other kids I suppose, memorized Thomas Gray's "Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard". My lovely aunt warned me that it would jerk some tears, and indeed it can, if read with enough attention to get what the heck the clever 18th century riddler tries to communicate. Just a glimpse at the flavor of a youth spent in Canada in the 1930s. Funny how literature and arts, in context, can act as time machines, reflections of visions and philosophies.

In 8th grade I memorized the Gettysburg Address, but it did not make a huge impression upon me. I only had it for a minute and it dissappeared, except the "Four score and seven years ago.. " part. Grandmother knew this whole mournful epic for years, how I can not fathom. My mother still knows more Shakespeare than I can believe, so not such a huge surprise. If only kids today were made to memorize more long poems maybe we the world would taste more Utopiated. In 9th grade I memorized Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit", and it has helped me, many a time, much love to Grace Slick.

Boy Eats Cod's Eye

On the way home from work Friday night I picked up a nice whole braised cod with black bean sauce from our favorite Berkeley Chinese restaurant, Long Life Vegi-House. The boy saw the the tail sticking out of the container and right away asked what it was. I got that good feeling one sometimes gets when about to share something with a loved one that the loved one has never experienced.

The fish, partly covered with tofu, carrots, celery, and mushrooms, impressed him plenty. He asked about the various parts, then came back to the eye, asked if he could eat it. I told him that, although some people did eat them, even considered them a delicacy, most Westerners did not partake, and that, even I who consider myself adventurous with food, had not ever tried them. So we sat in the dining room and he ate the chow mein, vegetables and rice, but would not stop asking to see the cod's eye one more time. He almost threw a fit about it, but I explained that I did not want to get up during my meal, and that I would show him the eye again as soon I finished my plate. He kept on it, so when I walked my plate to the sink he trailed right along behind to check the eye. I asked him if he wanted me to remove it. He did. I spooned it out and mushed it around a bit to reveal a perfect sphere of a white eyeball. We looked at it for a moment, in awe. He still wanted to eat it. I double checked his resolve before spooning it into his mouth. This chain of events fair astounded Ma Kettle and me, but we tried not to make a big deal of it since he was still busy chewing. For several minutes he chewed on it until reporting that the remainder was too hard to eat. During those long minutes images of my son as a brave dragonslayer, valiant hero, and brilliant innovator flashed across my vision. I sat there wondering what that eye tasted like, and why I'd never had the cool to eat one. You know I wanted to plenty of times in my youth, but had lost all nerve years ago. The middle turned out to be hard as a pearl and just as round & white. It still sits in our garden window. The boy & I had to scoop out the other one just to check it out, but Phantasma got to eat it, pearl in the middle & all.

We had a bunch of high fives, down lows, & gimme skins over the successful eye eating, and then inspected the carcass for a while longer before settling into a rousing after-dinner blocks session. Ma Kettle soon left the building and the booming bass dance party started. The boy asked to hear Funkadelic's "Butt to buttresuscitation" again after the track ended, singing what he thought the chorus was so I'd know what song he meant. We rocked out serious the second go-round, that being the first time he'd made such a request.

All that rocking upset little daughter's tummy, and she let me know she'd had enough careening aroung the room by showing me how many times an infant can spit up in half an hour. Such a sweet thing, even more so with a fresh blouse. She fell asleep on my hip a short while later, chin to chest in classic baby style, cool as a cucumber. The joys of fatherhood keep coming around the mountain, ever more to reveal themselves.

Dearest Phantasma

I stepped through a third door into a room where lay a dog with eyes as wide as saucers that shone with a light as bright as any moon, the better to talk through. Such expressive eyes my dearest Phantasma.

Best Halloween of my life last night. Maira had a party. Her housemates fired up all their fire toys. I noticed that, when I see some inspiring pieces of fire, the feeling resembles that of a hug, and not one of those wimpy half-hugs. Other fires light my laugh reflex and I can't stop laughing. I can still hear the howl and backfire of the fire jet, feel the bass of the fire ring blowing truck puffing rings 30' into the night, smell the woodsmoke in my nose, hear the sounds of smashing glass as the fire-breathing robots destroyed the model of a corporate headquarters type building, yes it was all that and more. Hmmm, I thought, these folks know how to have a nice time.

Right after the "Rodney King Riots" my mom put a big sign in the rear window of her Valiant, black paint on cardboard that read "BURN LA". Not that I am in favor burning ALL of LA, but she impressed me with that one. "From what I've tasted of desire..."