Disturbia

Mind you, since the sighting last week in the family room, no raccoons have been seen on the premises. And storing the dog food up on the washer seems to have curbed the mysterious morning spills. But I can't shake the feeling that the little rascals are out there, waiting.

I hear them at night.

So does The Dog. The other night he woke me up with his frantic barking, which then transmuted itself into a low, terrifying growl. He wouldn't come when I called, his little body poised in a tight I-will-get-you-and-I-will-tear-out-your-throat stance as he stood before the window. I looked outside but I couldn't see a thing. No punks, no innocent late night dog walkers and certainly no wild life. But The Dog would not be dissuaded. He ran to the back door to be let out but I wouldn't open the door. In the first place, and at the very least, it was entirely too late for him to be outside barking his warnings. In the second, if there was a raccoon out there, all The Dog's fierceness would still not likely be enough in an actual street brawl. Raccoons are MEAN.

I finally just picked him up and took him back to bed but you could tell he was very disappointed. He curled himself up to sleep but I lay there, listening for the weird raccoon bark. Then I heard, I was quite sure, the rattle of the cat door and the cautious padding of feet across the floor. The Dog remained still. Must have been my imagination. Surely if there were actually an interloper in the house The Dog would have sprung up again, a furry mess of agitation and threat. Unless, I thought, he was all talk and his lack of response now was basic survival instinct kicking in. What, I thought, if all a sudden a furry bandit face poked up beside me? Why, I thought, don't I sleep with a baseball bat under the bed?

For a time all I could hear was the beating of my frantic heart. I took slow, deep breaths and listened. There was no sound. No rustle, no padding footfalls. No raccoon. Of course there was no raccoon. A raccoon couldn't get into the house. Oh. Wait. One did. It happened before, it could happen again.

I don't want a raccoon in my house. If the occasional procyon lotor comes by and makes hay of the garbage can well, that's very messy and inconvenient but it is to be expected. But they have to stay outta my house. They just have to.

Did you hear that?

Good News

Early yesterday we got a call from our bank. They had the Seattle police on the line. Turns out, the cops had just picked up some punk who happened to be carrying The Spouse's ATM & American Express cards. Of course, I'd cancelled those cards within minutes of him having been mugged so they were useless. One would wonder why someone would carry useless cards for 7 months but then, one would also assume that "brain trust" is not a phrase that one would assign to a punk mugger anyway.

Point is, the little bastid, or one of his damn little bastid friends, got caught and holding evidence of an earlier crime is going to make the weight of his consequences even heavier. And that's a good thing.

Maybe this will help The Spouse put the experience to rest.

Snaps to the SPD!

Old Friends

After work yesterday I went downtown to hook up with some old college buddies. I haven't seen Sophie & Steve (pronounced Sophiensteve) since their first child was an infant. (She is now 24). In the years since they left Seattle and got divinity degrees and all that we completely lost touch. Chalk up another thankyouverymuch for Facebook.

We met at a gastro-pub (Seattlites: it's the Black Bottle in Belltown. Go there. Tell Paul I sent you) owned by an old seminary friend of theirs. Steve had just been wondering if they would recognize me right away when I walked in. "There she is!" he exclaimed. (Guess it wasn't that hard). Of course, we haven't changed that much. Sophie's hair is shorter, Steve's is greyer and I no longer wear a size 0 but otherwise, I'd have known them anywhere.

We reunited over delicious food (hello - kim chee pork belly!) and a glass or two of fine drink. It was the best sort of reunion, the sort that demonstrates how the passage of time doesn't get in the way of true friendship. There was a little bit of catching up (how I became Catholic, how I met The Spouse, how they sojourned through seminary and child-rearing to end up co-pastoring a church in Iowa). There was a smattering of reminiscence (we agreed that we were all completely full of shit in college; except Steve who was slightly less full of shit and consequently able to occasionally slip in a dry, devastating remark that would put someone - at least temporarily - in his or her place). I shocked Sophie with the information that I had always been intimidated by her intelligence and she volleyed back that I intimidated her because I was "sooooo cool". And we agreed that it would be lovely if we could have seen ourselves back then as others saw us.

But mostly we talked about life and politics and faith and food and families. We laughed, a lot, and there were never any awkward silences or someone grasping to find a topic that might set us going again. There was no time, even, to regret that it had taken us this long to re-connect; only joy in the having done so.

I very often consider that I lead a charmed life. Not perfect life or a lucky life, but a charmed one, a blessed one. And one of the greatest and most consistent of those blessings is the friends who have come into my life and who, even with intervening time and distance, remain friends. Is there anything better? Kim chee pork belly, perhaps, but otherwise, I think not.

Time, See What's Become of Me

I have an odd relationship with time. Not how I spend it or waste it; both of those are pretty normal. Rather, I have feelings about different times. Some make me really happy, others bother me and one or two are quite useless.

For example, as a general rule I am not fond of any time signature that includes :30. There are two exceptions. I think 6:30am is a very civilized time to get up and I never start a dinner party before 6:30pm. (6 is too early...that's always the time when I'm capturing the last of the dust bunnies, figuring out how to fold the napkins so no one can tell I didn't iron them (the secret? napkins rings and fluffing) and putting on something that isn't covered with flour and tomato schmutz).

5:00 am is obscene (I feel nauseous if I get up before 6am) and 11am is just about as boring a time slot as ever there was. What can you do at 11am? You're losing steam from whatever morning whirlwind you may have been riding and it's entirely too early for lunch. Coffee also tastes weird at 11am. (I'm actually done drinking coffee by 10am, although there have been days when a fresh cup at 3pm is almost as good as the first one of the day).

I'm actually not a fan of afternoon times at all. It's a muscle memory, I'm sure. The afternoon was always the hardest part of the school day. That was the time when the light slanted funny and the ticking of the clock was loudest. Afternoon is absolutely the worst time of the day to have a math class. I'm convinced it's why I never succeeded in math past long division; math class was always in the afternoon. The only time I enjoy "afternoon" is on the weekends and I am especially tolerant of summer afternoons. (A comfy chair, a good book and a chilled something....that can be superfantastic. So can a late lunch at a sidewalk cafe; the sort of lunch that doesn't have to end anytime soon and when it does you are either ready for a nap or cocktails). One of the best things about my job is that the pace is so fast I don't really notice the afternoon. The irony? I got married in the afternoon. But that was different. First, it was 3 o'clock, which is when "afternoon" is starting to wind down and also because it gave us plenty of time to have a rollicking good party afterwards and still have the evening ahead of us. Morning weddings are too hard to pull off and evening weddings don't make much sense if one has any plans for a wedding night. Just saying).

I've always considered myself an evening/night person. I catch a second wind and can actually stay up late most nights and still get up early without too many consequences. But there are funky times in the evening, too.

5:30pm doesn't make any sense. It's a very silly time. Too transitional. The best way to deal with 5:30 is having aperitif, nibbling almonds and sipping something until the evening properly starts. I am quite fond of 6pm...it has a nice roundness to it. You're done working, there's still a little play in the hour if you don't quite want to start making dinner and, on summer days, the light is perfect.

7pm is a good time for dinner. The Spouse would, I know, prefer to eat just a bit earlier (6:30) but I like 7pm and really, no matter when I start dinner, it seems to be done by 7. That's a very civilized and leisurely hour to eat and it's still early enough to digest properly before going to bed. The actual sound of 7pm, however, is a little clunky. So I don't say it out loud very often.

9:30pm is weird. The day is clearly running down by this point. You certainly can't get anything started at 9:30, unless you're very young and hip, in which case you are just getting started. But even when I was young and hip I preferred to get started at 9. The thirties, as I mentioned, just generally bug me.

Another :30 of which I'm not fond? 7:30am. Right now. Because I have to stop what I'm doing and get on to the obligations of the day. I enjoy most of my obligations, as you know. But this moment, right now, where I have to catapult myself away from what I enjoy to that nether time of dressing/primping/traveling....not so much.

Wild, Wild Life

"We have to lock the cat door at night." These were The Spouse's first words to me this morning.

"There was a racoon in the back room".

Oh.

I got up and made sure both our animals were still alive.

They were.

This would also explain the 3 mornings straight of coming out to the kitchen to find the dog food container tipped all over the floor.

Damn critters.

Today's Video Brought to You by The Fine Taxpayers of America

And thank you so much for giving me a day off, kids. I appreciate it. Moving on.

I heard a piece on NPR yesterday wherein a music critic was reading some album reviews he composed for Twitter. I don't twit, btw, because as you well know, I'm very busy and important and seriously cannot figure out how one has time to twit and do other things. (Much like I can't figure out how to get much of anything done under just about any circumstances). Point is, the guy in question was raised by editors so when he twits he insists on spelling out all the words and using correct punctuation. This necessarily puts interesting constraints on his twitting, as he is (you know this) allowed only 140 characters per tweet (or whatever you kids are calling them). He actually had some very interesting observations on the form; noting that he will never stop reading in-depth commentary on music but that having a constrained form like Twitter, while doing away with the narrative, forces one to get immediately to the point. (Oh, hey, I think we just figured out why Rainey doesn't twit). He likened the process to haiku. Which I thought was lovely

Anytext, one of the reviews was for a band called The Phenomenal Handclap Band. Some of you hipsters may have heard of them. It was new to me and the clip they played was very B52s-meets-the-Cranberries-at-a-swampy-blues-club, which I found quite enjoyable. So I went in search of videos.

(Note: when JP and I were running "Here's the 80s" we (he) had a rule about not playing amateur concert footage in lieu of a video. I have no such issues right here. Except the video has to possess good quality and sound. And that's why we won't be listening to the Phenomenal Handclap Band today).

Fortunately, I remember another artist I've been meaning to look up (also inspired by a piece on NPR and yes, I'm a proud member-listener thankyouverymuch). The interview with her was very delightful, as were the music clips that were played and I have even downloaded some of her stuff to my iPod because I'm like that. She's been lumped in there with the likes of Tori Amos but I think that's way too easy and not remotely accurate, if only because women songwriters are just as easily distinguished from each other as are male songwriters but every damn time a new girl comes on the scene every one cops out with a "like Tori Amos" line and it just bugs the feminist hell out of me. (Sorry...got perilously close to my soapbox there).

Regina Spektor is a very articulate artist. She strikes me as someone who crafts absolutely every word of every song. (She famously claims to write down very little of her work and that she rarely composes unless she's actually in front of a piano). While this airy-fairy approach may in fact be her method of composition, there is a very intelligent rigor to her lyric. Every word seems carefully selected and precisely placed. And she literally articulates...I love listening to her because there is no sloppiness to her pronunciations, even when she's messing around with accents, languages or forms (which she does). (Part of this comes from the fact that she learned the sounds of English from her father's contraband record collection (Beatles, Queen, Moody Blues) before she understood English. She was born in Russia and didn't emigrate to the US until she was nine).

There is a playful lightheartedness in her playing and singing even if (and when) her lyric tends to darkness. Consequently, you don't have to think when you listen to Regina Spektor, but you can. And sometimes, you can't help it.

I could go on and on but shan't because I feel pretension coming on. Bottom line, I think she is quite delightful and very pleased that she's not above making a good video or two.



Regina Spektor "Fidelity"

Meme-ing Myself

If someone says, "Is this okay?" you say: "I Love Rock & Roll" Joan Jett and the Blackhearts

What would best describe your personality? "Monsters & Angels" Voice of the Beehive

What do you like best in a guy/girl? "(I Just) Died in Your Arms" Cutting Crew

What is your life purpose? "Children of the Revolution" T Rex

What is your motto? "Saved by Zero" The Fixx

What do your friends think of you? "Sweet Emotion" Aerosmith

What do you think about often? "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" The Proclaimers

What is 2+2? "Crimson & Clover" Joan Jett & the Blackhearts

What do you think of your best friend? "You Really Got a Hold on Me" She & Him

What is your life story? "Beautiful Day" U2

What was your favorite toy as a child? "Sneakernight" Vanessa Hudgens

What do you want to be when you grow up? "Over My Head" Fleetwood Mac

What do you think when you see the person you love? "Master & Servant" Depeche Mode (LOL)

What do your parents think of you? "Why Does it Always Rain on Me?" Travis

What was your first job? "Deadbeat Club" B52s

What will you dance to at your wedding? "Going Down to Liverpool" The Bangels

What will they play at your funeral? "Beat Surrender" The Jam

What is your hobby? "Unwritten" Natasha Bedingfield

What scares you the most? "The Wrestler" Bruce Springsteen

If you could go back in time what would you change? "Suddenly Last Summer" The Motels

What do you do when you can't think of anything to blog? "Miss Murder" AFI

And You Thought Never Sleeping Because Your Newborn Cried All the Time was Hard. Pft.

On Friday afternoon The Child got a letter. It was a horrible letter. It basically said that due to her grades and her many discipline referrals she was on the short list of students under consideration to NOT come back to High School.

WHAT?

OK, we knew her grades weren't the best and summer school was a sure thing but how the H does a kid have multiple discipline referrals and this is the first the parents are hearing of it? The Spouse thought it had to be a mistake and intellectually I did, too, but holy hell! The Child was completely beside herself. (Which was the only good thing because it demonstrated how much she loves being at High School. The thought of not going back devastated her). And of course, since the letter came on Friday afternoon there was nothing we could do but stew about it for 2 days. Which I did. I was a nice juicy pot of mom stew by Monday morning. My heart was so heavy and my brain so buzzy I couldn't think to blog about it yesterday.

I called the school and the principal was in a meeting so I left a voice mail that I hoped didn't sound as freaked out as I felt. Then he didn't call back and I couldn't think straight. Plus, the VA has upgraded to Office 2007 and so my computer was buggy as a summer night in the back garden. (Show of hands: how much are we all hating Office 2007? That's what I thought). So I went shopping. Because I get to shop for work and yesterday was a good day for shopping.

I got back to the office and the phone rang and it was the principal, whose first words were, "I'm so sorry; that letter was a mistake". Thanks be to God. I mean, I knew it had to be but those words were some of the sweetest I've ever heard. We talked about the academic plan for The Child and then he emphasized that she is NOT a discipline problem, on the contrary she is a delightful kid. Then he apologized again very profusely.

I've already had friends who've expressed displeasure that such a mistake could be made. "You'd expect that from a public school," they say, "but not a private one where you're paying tons of money for the privilege of being there". Yeah, maybe. Except even people in private schools make mistakes. Tuition is supposed to guarantee a certain quality of education, not that nothing will ever go wrong with a computer. So I hold no grudges. Stuff happens, they made it right and it's all good. And frankly, it provided the sort of wake up call to The Child that no amount of haranguing from her parents could. Grades do matter. Now that she's had a taste of what it would look like if she doesn't shape up, she's determined to do her best next year. Sometimes you have to learn things like that the hard way. She's very sure she never wants to be in a situation where a letter like that could be the real thing.

Cocktails anyone?

Just a Thought

I went to back-to-back funerals Friday and Saturday. Then The Child and I went to Creekside, my sister's house, for a family do. Because if there is one thing this weekend did it was to remind me that you can't assume people are always going to be there and you'd better make sure you took advantage of your opportunities to love on 'em in the meantime.



I love you all. Be good out there.

I Had No Intention

Truly.

Too easy. Too "every one will be doing it". Actually, precisely the same reason I haven't posted anything about the Monday revelations on "Jon and Kate Plus Eight". And I had thoughts. Believe me. I had 'em.

But then this thing happened.

First, I was starting dinner and The Child was listening to her music and I had to remark to her, "Dude, I gotta tell you, it makes me really happy that you have 'The Clash' on your play list".

To which she smirked. (Singing along to "Koka Kola", which, if you know the London Calling album is just way cool because it isn't even remotely a "known" Clash song. Except, you know, for people who like the Clash).

Then all a sudden she exclaims, "Michael Jackson died!?!" to which I replied, "Yeah".

And she was all freaked out and I was all, "Dude, I didn't know you even knew who Michael Jackson was" and she gave me that look; a look with which I am all too familiar; the look that said, "O. M. G. Muuu-ther...you are SOOOOOO dense".

Then she proceeded to play me her two favorite Micheal Jackson songs. Which were classics.

Then I remembered a story which I've maybe shared with you before but it bears repeating. Way back in the day I had a friend who was hanging out with some communists. It was an intellectual flirtation for her, yet another move on her rebellion against her tightly wound, highly evangelical mid-west upbringing. I went to one meeting with her and was bored out of my mind. It wasn't the content nearly so much as the fact that everyone seemed just about as dour and humorless as people can be. Well, that and the fact that the guy who ran things was pretty much a "communist youth leader" right out of central casting. But Marcia persisted with the group for a while.

One weekend she invited me to a potluck at the house some of the group shared. (Of course they did). I was none too keen but she really wanted to go so she begged. I went but only after making her promise that we'd make an appearance but as soon as I wanted to leave we'd go to a club or something and, you know, have some fun. (I figured that would take 2 seconds. A potluck full of politically correct "food" and somber commies just didn't sound like a laugh riot of a Saturday night, you know?)

We get to the house and the place is full of communists, talking earnestly about Marx and Engels. It didn't feel at all like one of those riotous scenes in "Reds", with all these brilliant people smoking and joking and simultaneously carrying on 15 different and deep conversations. But despite the inordinate amount of tofu and sprout casseroles on the table, there was some decent grub and, thankfully, alcohol. (You really need to drink if you're hanging out with communists). I was just fixin' on telling Marcia that time was up when someone put on a record. "Thriller" to be exact.

Now, the mere fact that anyone in that house owned "Thriller" was amazing enough. But what happened next was even more amazing. People started to dance. Wildly, exuberantly and with huge smiles on their faces. This was the first time I'd even seen the teeth of some of those people. The record kept playing, everyone kept dancing and it was a blast. Emma Goldman would have been proud*.

To this day I think of that night when I hear a song from "Thriller". It wasn't just an important album for Michael's career, it was an important album to a lot of very diverse groups of people. And I suppose, and this is as retrospective-y as I'm going to get, it was part of the genius of Michael Jackson. He didn't just crossover, he took everyone with him. It's sad that his bizarre and likely sick life is what overtook the press in recent years. It made it too easy to forget that Michael Jackson was a very talented man; musically brilliant, in fact. But the remembrance of that fact sure seems to be what's resonating with people today.

You're finally at peace, Michael. Thanks for the memories.


Michael Jackson "Billie Jean"


She once famously said, "If I can't dance I don't want to be part of your revolution".