The Cat Who Hated People

I spent the entire weekend snowed in with the girls, with one of them sick and me coming down with a cold myself. There was lots of imaginative play, where I accepted whatever roles I was assigned, some tossing and rolling of balls, lots of book reading, and endless time at Starfall, with a focus on building the five year old girl, her room ,and her elephant chasing jumping kitty. On the more highbrow side, there was a good deal of beating upon the new piano while standing on chairs to watch the hammers, a first chess lesson for Twin B (she won with her horse in around 9 moves — I cheated by neglecting to move my king out of check), a good deal of art in a variety of mediums, and lots of cuddle-time by the fireplace. And, of course, there was hour upon hour of cartoons on Youtube. This was my favorite.

This 1948 Tex Avery short comes out of what I've come to think of as the American noir period, where the war left people with a hard cynical edge that permeated popular culture. It opens with an alley cat who peers out of his box and says, in a voice reminiscent of Jimmy Durante, "People are no darn good. I hate people."

The voice is Paul Frees, a voice and character actor who, after a year of hospitalization, survived D-Day at Normandy. His vast credits include Santa in Frosty the Snowman, Boris Badenov on Rocky and Bullwinkle, and the Pillsbury Doughboy. This cartoon works for kids, but it's really for the war toughened adults that would spawn the baby boom generation. The scene where the cat gets diapered on the planet of dangerous inanimate objects works well for a time when nearly everyone had a baby or two at home and more on the way.

Ode To Pumpkin Pie

Tonight the girls came home from Kindergarten singing a new song. I remembered it as my first feat of lyrical memorization. I was going to be the last kid in second grade to get it. Then, on the playground, while picking those little red berries that spit seed in a weapon-like manner when you squeeze them, Pat Lambert let me in on the secret. You can sing and it sticks. I was amazed. Twin B got all shy when we went to record, and her version was different from the one I knew. I tried getting tab off the net, and this, amazingly, got me nowhere. If the chords to this classic are anywhere online, they'll probably charge you $5 to download it. Weird. So, I played it the way it sounded to me, and turned it into a rocker.

It's Getting Near Halloween

The early-30's cartoons of the Van Beuren Studios continue to tickle that dark place deep down that I'd rather not talk about. While my five-year-olds are used to much more sophisticated fare, such as the irredeemably insipid Wonder Pets, this one, from the 1930-1933 Tom and Jerry series, gets a lot of repeat play. There's shades of 30's racism, but hey, they've got nothing over Jar Jar Binks and the assorted creepy psuedo-Asians of Star Wars. I guess every era has its blind spots.

This thing's so trippy I had to watch it six times before the plot line gelled for me.

It was a dark and stormy night. Tom and Jerry await their next fare at the train station in their taxi, which appears to have a bad cold. A locomotive with oval wheels does some weird shit before discharging freakishly tall Orthodox Jew twins at the station, who get a ride to their haunted castle and, of course, stiff Tom and Jerry the fare. They get trapped in the castle, and a moronic overweight cloud plays the turrets and towers like a pipe organ while trees with limbs like squid tentacles play accompaniment. Tom and Jerry encounter a freaky bat, a bathing skeleton, and a hallway full of goblins before falling through the floor to see a tango playing skeleton and his dancing friends and a negro skeleton barbershop quartet. Then Tom and Jerry encounter the Jews again, and are themselves turned into skeletons that run in the strangest manner imaginable. The girls love that part, but are equally blown away by the organ playing cloud and the bathing skeleton.

The Eviction

Last week, my Hungarian immigrant neighbor who I'll call G told me he would be evicted today. He's a strong man who knows well how to weather crisis, but his worry was palpable. G has a lovely, bright, well mannered 8-year-old daughter named S who has become my girls' best friend and has begun to feel like my third child. He also lives with his elderly Hungarian, non-english speaking parents, who I mostly know from smiles and nods as I pass the stoop where they smoke outside the apartment, or when they show up humbly at the door to retrieve S.

Today, as I left for work, I found the note above clipped to my door along with G's keys. As I pulled onto the metered ramp for I-5, I called our apartment manager, who I'll call The Good Witch of the North (GWotN). I explained the note, and asked how long I had to rescue some of their things. Her response was legalistic. She wanted the note and keys and could give me no information. I said I'd do what I needed to do and pulled off at 85th to head back north.

When I let myself in, all the furniture was there, along with their large but basic television. A few sitting chairs and cheap bookshelves. An inexpensive folding table and chairs in the dining area. The cable box flashed its green and yellow lights at me. The toothbrushes were still in their cup in the bathroom. Food was in the kitchen. S's oversized teddy bear sat against the wall, looking forlorn.

I went to work, rescuing various small kitchen appliances and things that had been left behind in the rush. S's skateboard, halloween witches hat, chair, bear, and bicycle. The set of child's furniture. The new bed. The TV. The food was what you find in a poverty house. A frozen "gourmet" mac & cheese dinner. A few cans of vegetables, Milk. Eggs. A handfull of spices, including two cans of Hungarian paprika.

I turned in the keys, and spent an hour talking with the GWotN, whose daughter goes to third grade with S. "She's special, destined for something," she said. I agreed. She felt horrible, and called later to ask If I'd heard anything. I hadn't. G isn't returning her calls.

He told me he'd be in touch to bring S by for playdates. Apparently S wasn't in school yesterday. "I'm worried for her," said GWotN. She sounded like she was about to cry. This happens to me too. I don't know what to tell the girls. The truth is too harsh for five-year-olds.

Yesterday, as I sat on another neighbor's porch sharing a smoke, we talked about how horrible and sad this is. A homeless family. A dad who can't make ends meet. A beautiful child. Two elderly grandparents who can't afford to fly back to Hungary.

"What happened," she asked. "Doesn't he work."

Yeah, I said. He works. He's got a crap working class job that he does while trying to ignore the pain from a bad back. He has a kid to support and two parents, and was over his head in a 2 BR apartment he couldn't afford.

Now I walk by their apartment door and it has, for me, the aspect of a corpse. A dead marker for something that is no longer alive. I made fried potatoes for dinner and poured on the Hungarian paprika in their memory.

USA Today reports that family homelesness is climbing dramatically, which should surprise nobody. It's only starting. The GWotN says she knows a place with 2000 sq ft she could get G into for $750 a month. I wish he'd call. I've got their stuff.

On Kicking the Mayor's Ass, and Marimbas

Last night was the 15th Annual Washington State Jobs with Justice Honoree Dinner, and I enjoyed the extreme pleasure of standing in front of 300 some labor activists and allies to say "We're going to kick the Mayor's ass ... and you're going to help us."

The girls came along with Revel and I. The chocolate chip cookies went over big. They also enjoyed the chicken, although Twin B found it too spicy. She has a strangely low threshold for that sort of thing. Dr. Wes, on the other hand. sat to my left at the Real Change table adding his own habaneros. Twin A was pretty much surgically glued to my lap for the duration. She gets a little clingy under stress. She spent much of the evening placing her eyeballs to my eyeballs to get that cyclops daddy effect she finds so amusing and whispering "I love you daddy" in my ear.

She covered her ears and closed her eyes while I hugged her for most of the performance of the Shumba Youth Marimba Ensemble, which was magnificent. Twin B had the opposite reaction. As she sat in Revel's lap, her eyes never left the stage. I marveled at a few of the players in particular as they hammered out complex musical rhythms with arms swings that came from the shoulder, their eyes lost in trancelike concentration. A mallet broke as one kid who looked about thirteen slammed out the lead melody. He kept it going with one stick while the equally intense girl on second marimba slipped him hers. This is the sort of drama you get to be in on when you're three feet from the stage.

Nick Licata and Real Change received JwJ's "leading the Movement for Social Justice award "for mobilizing the community to stop sweeps of homeless encampments in Seattle and promoting negotiations between the city and community members." The somewhat tense stagemanager told me I had two minutes, which I ignored.

The speech was all about how homeless people can't win unless everyone else does, and how badly we need a broad economic justice movement that lifts up the very poor along with the broad middle class. I said that these were dangerous times, and that we are in the final days of a dying empire, and that the rats are raiding the larders of a sinking ship.

I'm told I dropped an F-bomb. I thought my filter was on. This is always a danger when I don't have a written speech. I'm also told that this is the sort of thing people expect from me, and that it just enhances my cred, so I guess that isn't really a problem. I'll still try not to do this in front of the Metropolitan Democrats.

Then I said something about how the economic meltdown highlights the economic vulnerability that we all face, and that this helped explain the public sympathy for Nickelsville that we've seen, and that for the first time in twenty years of homeless organizing, I had the sense of there being a broad movement behind us. I made a joke about how if SHARE/WHEEL and Real Change could work together, anything is possible. I said that organizing on the sweeps issue was just going to broaden and grow, and that homeless advocates understand that our issues don't exist apart. Rising inequality, I said, is the core problem, and that we can't win without allying with others to win on issues like incarceration and tax fairness. And then I said we were all going to kick the Mayor's ass.

All the while, Twin B, stood at the foot of the stage and beamed up at me like she was in on the enormous cosmic joke. This morning she asked why I was looking at her most of the time while I spoke. The answer is obvious. She and her sister were the most beautiful women in the room. Then the Labor Chorus sang and it was time to clear out. We left as the room was on its feet, fists in the air, for the Internationale. Twin B said she wanted, someday, to sing like these people do. "You will, baby," I said. "You will."

Now That's Entertainment!

Tonight I asked the girls whether they preferred McDonalds or pizza for dinner. Pizza won, hands down. I phoned the order into Venice Pizza, one of Edmonds' better kept secrets. They're tucked away in this weird little shopping center a block from where I live that has dog groomers with hand lettered signs, a cool little game store with thinly stocked shelves, and numerous other instantly forgettable small businesses. But the pizza rocks, and their staff is nearly ecstatically grateful when you buy it. If you live north, screw Dominos. Support scrappy immigrants who often seem perplexed by their own cash register and are pursuing the dream.

Anyway, they were cutting the thing and boxing it up when we arrived. For a few minutes the girls were able to play with Pizza Elmo, who lives on the counter. Squeeze his hand and he sings. First Elmo, and then the pizza, who is an Italian contralto. His lips move as Elmo waves him around. "Yummy, yummy, yummy pizza pie!" sings Elmo.

As the girls went to bed, Twin B asked why the pizza sings, "Yummie, yummie, toss me in the air!" "Toss me in the sky," corrected her sister! "Why does he say 'toss me in the sky,'" pusued Twin B? "Um," I said, "It's because you toss pizza in the sky when you make it."

Always the guy with the answers.

"Wow!" said Twin B.

Below is Duckie. He is ready for bed, wearing pajamas, seated on a pillow and sporting a bracelet on his head for a crown. He measures nine inches tall and nearly ten long. Twin B nearly exploded with joy when she found him discarded on a sidewalk in front of one of the odd little stores next to the pizza joint. During bath time tonight, Ducky was the star. I was asked to not disturb him tonight as he slept.



Just before bed, the girls opted for Youtube over stories. After watching Chilly Willie in Hot and Cold Penguin for the twentieth time (the appeal fades), I said daddy got to pick the last one. I went for Tex Avery's Magical Maestro. Any serious fan has seen it. This wikipedia entry has a detailed exegesis, which includes an explanation of "the hair gag" and tells you which sections Cartoon Network edited out in the late nineties to avoid offense. The version below is original and uncut.



I suppose I shouldn't be exposing them to racist stereotypes at such a young age, but I'm pretty much already over it. There's plenty of equal opportunity ridicule here. Even the stuffy opera audience is parodied. The girls were less than impressed, and only found a few parts funny (the Polynesian segment was a big hit).

I guess there is a lot of set-up involved for a few thin jokes. But it's still brilliant, even if it couldn't, and shouldn't, happen now.

Lending A Hand, And Pushing Back

Tonight Twin B started crying because she got shoved by Twin A. I didn't see the incident, but was called upon to dispense some daddy justice in the aftermath. She'd been walking around with a big pink ball, taking what I considered excessive joy in not allowing her sister to play with the thing.

"She pushed me," she wailed.

"Well, baby, when you play keep-away, one of the risks you run is that you might get pushed."

As soon as I said it, I realized the richness of the metaphor.

As Nickelsville continues this weekend in the state-owned parking lot adjacent to the original site, the Mayor is under increasing pressure to do something real to ease the pain of Seattle's homeless. He received a letter recently from a delegation of electeds who attended the Committee to End Homelessness in King County's legislative breakfast this week. The Mayor was there as well. He's all about ending homelessness. Just ask him. But when a few ministers asked him to meet with faith community leaders to discuss Nickelsville and his homeless sweeps policies, the Mayor replied, "Absolutely not. It's going down."

Fortunately, others are working to hold him accountable as well. Here's the letter.

Letter to the Mayor: September 26, 2008
The Honorable Greg Nickels Mayor of Seattle, Seattle City Hall

Dear Mayor Nickels,

As legislators representing districts in the Seattle area, we are calling on you today to enter into discussions with the Church Council of Greater Seattle, Real Change, Veterans for Peace Chapter 92 and other interested parties in order to craft a humane and productive path forward in regards to the real and urgent needs of the homeless and destitute people of Seattle.

The City of Seattle has been an important partner in the state goal to end homelessness. We know you share the desire to substantively address the complex and difficult issues affecting homeless people. As many of us discussed yesterday at the Legislative Breakfast for the King County Coalition to End Homelessness, you have put real resources on the ground to accomplish this goal, just as the state has.

In light of our shared commitment, we feel the positive path forward would be to negotiate with the Church Council for the removal of tents and to enter in to partnership discussions with these organizations to identify both short and long term solutions to help our homeless people, instead of the City of Seattle taking immediate action.

As we approach the winter months where homelessness becomes an even harsher and more difficult reality for many men, women and families, we hope you will quickly and urgently move to bring people together in partnership and dialogue. We appreciate your immediate attention to this request and would be happy to participate in solution-oriented discussions.

Thank you and sincerely,

Sen. Jeanne Kohl-Welles, 36th District, Sen. Joe McDermott, 34th District, Rep. Eileen Cody, 34th District, Rep. Sharon Nelson, 34th District, Rep. Bob Hasegawa, 11th District, Rep. Ruth Kagi, 32nd District, Rep. Maralyn Chase, 32nd District, Rep. Mary Lou Dickerson, 36th District, Rep. Helen Sommers, 36th District, Rep. Sharon Tomiko Santos, 37th District, Rep. Eric Pettigrew, 37th District, Rep. Frank Chopp, 43rd District, Rep. Phyllis Guiterrez Kenney, 46th District

Over the past week, I've seen some remarkable sights. The Chief of the Duwamish tribe standing in solidarity with homeless people. The Governor intervening to give the Church Council more time to find a solution for the encampment. Twenty-two people being arrested rather than give ground. Hundreds of supporters turning out to offer support and solidarity to homeless campers. A media frenzy unlike anything I've ever witnessed (and I was at UMass-Amherst for the Abbie Hoffman/Amy Carter show), with coverage that was almost entirely sympathetic to the campers. A neighborhood community council welcoming the campers into their midst. Homeless people managing a large encampment with what can only be termed grace under fire. People coping with extraordinary personal challenges acting with bravery and commitment, and many, many others pitching in with both hands to help their efforts succeed.

This past week, I witnessed much more than a homeless encampment. I saw a movement, in action, winning. The Mayor's Big Lie that Seattle provides shelter and services to anyone who needs it is less credible than ever, and the pressure is mounting for him to make those words real.

Just tonight, Linda Brill of King5, who has been on this story like white on rice, drove another spike into the Mayor's groin. Some of the Nickelodeans who accepted the city's "guarantee" of shelter, it turns out, didn't get it. The shelters were full. They were turned away from Operation Nightwatch last night with a bus ticket back to Nickelsville.

This, to anyone who is aware of the state of emergency shelter in Seattle, is completely unsurprising.

This afternoon, Revel and I took the girls to Kubota Garden, a magical 20-acre Japanese garden in South Seattle, and swung by Nickelsville on the way home. The Nickelodeons were awash in donated fruit so we were given a bag of pears to take home. The girls were given Dum-dums to suck on and I was handed a stack of kid books as well. Twin A wore her pirate hat and made "aargh" sounds at anyone who cared to listen. Several neighbors came by and let the girls pet their dogs. They had supplies to donate. One was handing out copies of the UN's Universal Declaration of Human Rights that she'd photocopied onto pink paper.

"What do you think is going to happen," asked one of the neighbors?

"Hard to say," I said, "but the Mayor is under a lot of pressure to find a solution."

"I know what he should do," she snorted. "He should open that land back up and let them back in. They aren't bothering anyone."

"I know," I said. "You're right. But this is a guy who's driven by ego. He's not going to admit a mistake."

"Ooh yeah," she smirked. "It takes a real big man to beat up on people who have absolutely nothing."

I couldn't have put it better myself.

Lullabye

We got out the chords for kids songs this afternoon and I noticed that Twin B was singing on key an octave higher (or two). Revel recorded this one for posterity. Below is another we found while flipping through the 17 Youtube videos for Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, featuring four kids and their alien dopplegangers.

Some Quiet, Please

Today's Garageband creation, worked out, again, watching the girls play. When I was ready to record, I decided it was nap time. I hoped the morning spent running up and down the Westgate McDonalds' slide would render the event possible. After about 45 minutes of calling for quiet, I got a clean take.

Afterwards we let Ralph the cat out the front door. What if he goes out the the sidewalk," asked Twin B? It'll be OK, I said. "What if he gets out and goes down the street and gets in the car and drives and orders at Starbucks? And then he goes to cat school?"

Well, that would be wierd.

Moving On

I made this one up tonight while I was hanging out with the girls. They're five, and tolerate my guitar playing fairly well as a backdrop to other, more important, things, like treasure hunts and conversations between rubber duckies. A few nights ago, an upstairs neighbor I'd never met showed up at the front door with a bag of costume jewelry. "I thought your girls would like playing with these," she said. Necklaces. Bracelets. Lots of watches. A few lockets. Even a miniature mantel clock. It looked sort of like booty to me, the sort a pirate might steal from K-Mart. I stopped at St. Vincent de Paul's on the way home and got a few jewelry boxes. When filled, they looked just like treasure chests. The girls marveled at their fortune while I noodled away.

Just before bed, we did Cat in the Hat. One doesn't just read a story to the girls anymore. One engages in dialogical exegesis of the text. Tonight, Twin A observed that "the fish isn't having any fun." This stopped me short. My own interpretation relies more on Freud, with the fish being all about super-ego. Thing One and Thing Two are pure id. The Cat in the Hat, of course, is an expression of healthy, unrepressed ego. I thought I knew all about The Cat in the Hat, but this — this notion of "the fish isn't having any fun" — this was new, and opened up unforeseen interpretive possibilities.

The Cat in the Hat asks how far you can go without getting in too much trouble. I'd always identified with the fish more than the cat or the kids. Maybe this is a Rohrschach to test where one falls on the internalized repression continuum. The fish knows what cats are about. Don't let the bow tie and funny hat fool ya kids. The freak show feline is a killer!

The fish is always right. The cat should not be there when their mother is out. One does not fly kites in the house. Mother would not like it to find us this way. But everything works out in the end, and fish gets all worked up over nothing. He teaches us that being right isn't everything. He isn't having any fun.

The girls had their milk and chocolate chip cookies and were off to bed, leaving me to ponder amidst the scattered treasure. I've been playing a lot lately. I had Twin B feel my fingertips today. They're like rocks with a little perma-grooves engraved into the ends. She said, "cool!"

I opened Garageband once they were down and spent an hour getting this one mostly right. It's recorded without effects. I call it moving on.

Speculation On the Nature of "Soul"

Revel took this picture Sunday at Mercer Slough Nature Park, just prior to the moment Twin A commenced shoveling handfuls of raspberries into her adorable little face. Twin B, as always, was more fastidious, carefully eating one berry at a time, but vigilantly defending her fair share of said berries by keeping the box from her sister as much as possible. These are ways of being that I don't expect will ever change.

Prior to fatherhood, I was of the conviction that we are essentially born who we are, and that all of the life experience that shapes us is essentially overlay to an unchanging core. As I've watched the personalities of the twins emerge and unfold over time, this conviction has only grown stronger. What does this mean? Is this personality, this unchanging being, mere biology, or is it something that most of us would call a soul? I don't have the answer. Maybe someday I will.

I do know that life is, in some ways, a journey to the center of that which we are. The relational flip-side of this is recognizing that core being in others, and trying to see and love the person beneath all of the layers of pain and distortion that often occur over a lifetime. This too, I've come to see as the essence of a life well-lived.

Always Leave 'Em Laughing

OK girls. It's time for bed.

"Story?"

I dunno. It's past your bedtime. Getting the ice cream took longer than I thought.

"But you said story!"

Yeah, but it's getting late. Tomorrow I'll do a story.

"Short story!"

Sigh. OK. Once upon a time, um, there was a fairy with a bicycle.

It's always about the opening line. If you get 'em there, chances are you'll have them to the end. I had Twin B's full attention.

"Heh, heh haaaaa! A fairy with a bicycle!"

Yeah. Her wings didn't work anymore, so she used a bicycle to get around. And she was really good at it, and could go really fast. But she really would rather be flying, because back when her wings worked, she could go to the moon. She missed that.

"Why did she miss it?"

I was starting to feel like I'd already talked myself into a corner when Twin B offered an assist.

"Because she missed her friends the aliens?"

Yeah, honey. That's it! She hadn't seen them for a long time. Not since her wings broke, because her bicycle didn't fly. But then she started to think that maybe it could. Everyday, she'd ride her bike down a big hill, and she'd spread her wings and the air would catch her. And everyday she could go a little farther. Until one day, she thought she was ready.

She rode her bike, fast, fast, fast. And when she got going her fastest, up she went, and she was on the way to the moon. But there was a problem. When she got way up high, the air got thin and didn't hold her up anymore, and she started to fall.

But just then, a huge flock of Bigbirds came by. And these were special birds who could even fly with no air. And some of them grabbed the fairy and some grabbed the bicycle, and they took her all the way to the moon. And the aliens had never seen a bike before. And the fairy started teaching them how to ride a bike.

"HEH HEH HAAAAAAAAA! Aliens riding bicycles!"

Yep. They were so happy! But soon it was time to go, and it was easier this time because it was going down hill. She just let go and started falling, and when she got toward the air, she spread her wings and glided down.

"Wow! What about the aliens?"

Well, they missed the fairy and her bicycle a little bit, but they knew she'd be back. The Bigbirds told her they'd help her anytime. So from then on, whenever the fairy wanted to go to the moon she could, and she always brought her bicycle for the aliens to ride. The end. Ok, goodnight you two. Did you like that story?

"Aliens riding bicycles! Heh haa haaa! Good one daddy!"

A Teachable Moment

This morning Twin B asked about the writing she found on an index card. It said this.

Am F C G
Am F C E

These were the chords from Iggy Pop's The Passenger. A friend and I played around with this several days before and I'd written them down to keep the complicated chord progression straight. It had been a rough week.

This struck me as what progressive educators sometimes call a teachable moment. I told her about how music is represented by letters, got out my guitar, and showed her how the same line repeated over and over with just one chord change at the end to make them a little different. She grabbed her African drum and started banging out a respectable rhythm and singing along.

"Try two hands," I advised. She nailed it. We rocked out while she sang along with me, totally going to town on the la-la-la-la-lalala-la's. Me and my five year old, at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning, sounding pretty good on a song by a sweating lunatic. Sweet.

"That was fun daddy," she glowed, "I'm going to be a musician!" I'll bet she is.

There's an awe inspiring version above, with the young 1977 Iggy glowing at around 10,000 watts. His class anger speech at the end is cool too. Wish I knew what he said.

Below is a photo of the girls and I eating strawberries at the Mercer Slough Nature Park today, where I learned that Lake Washington had once been lowered by 9 feet, that slough is pronounced "slew" and is a marshland connecting two bodies of water, and that there are bullfrogs there that eat mice, birds, and each other.

I Married Strawberry the Mermaid

Twin B has a new little friend. She tells me all about her. Her name is Strawberry. She has an elephant friend who picks her up with his trunk to give rides on his back. He also sprays her with water. Strawberry is a mermaid. Her mermaid friends Cranberry, Orange, and Banana call her that because she smells like strawberries. They gave her a pink ribbon because it matches her name.

Things have been kind of rough for them lately because the King put them in jail and took away their tails. He gave them away to other mermaids he liked better. He shouldn't have taken away their tails. That was mean. He should have gone to the tail store instead. Strawberry got away because she had a key to the jail. She couldn't get her friends out though. She only had a key to her own jail. This makes her kind of sad.

Strawberry can still swim pretty well. Lot's faster than me. She can fly too, and walk and run. She doesn't really miss the tail. Her and I got married last week at a diner over hamburgers and french fries. We ate cake. It's a difficult relationship, her being a mermaid and all, but I love her and try to make it work. She spends a lot of time in the bathtub, and we go swimming together in the apartment complex pool. I think she's hot in an Annette Funicello sort of way. I'm in love.

Total Blow Off Music Video Post

My general rule is to allow myself one music video post a week, usually reserved for those times when things are unusually intense, I'm out of time, and my brain is fried. This morning, I was preoccupied as I drove my girls the ten blocks to daycare. I missed the turn not once but twice. I said, "Daddy's brain doesn't work." Twin A, who is recently five, said, "I'll be your brain." OK baby, be my brain. "Go straight," she says, "and then turn." She was right. It made things a little easier.

So, things being as they are, I've uncharacteristically spent the last hour surfing YouTube. This was the gem. Better than Bill Monroe doing Wayfaring Stranger. Better than live footage of Flipper from 1982. Better than Steve Earle knocking out a jamming civil war tune on mandolin. Better than the Beatles' rooftop concert. It's a bad photo montage running over a rehearsal tape of the Beatles working out I Want You along with Billy Preston. It rocks.

Bless the Crazy Cat People

If only homeless folks were treated as well as cats.

Today, I got a pet. His name is Ralph. He's a chatty four year-old Siamese mix. I spend about half the time at my new place alone and thought the company would be nice. The girls have wanted one since Oz died last year, but I wanted to wait 'til they were a bit older. He likes music. He's on my mantel now with his ear about three inches from the Bose coffeecup speaker, listening to Leonard Cohen.

I have a friend who's into the cat rescue scene, so the ordeal of getting him wasn't a huge surprise. It's one of the more harmless varieties of cultish extremism, and I was ready for it.

The first place I went assured me they had plenty of mature, gentle cats to adopt. Then, I arrived with my two five year-olds. Of the dozen or so cats lying about, they said, none were appropriate. "Kids that age will pick them up and carry them around like a rag doll," the woman accused. She said to come back another day and we left disappointed. When I called today to ask if they had any mature cats that would be good with small children, the woman on the other end made a sound that wasn't the least encouraging. "No," she said. "Maybe next week."

I hung up wordlessly and called PAWS. They were much friendlier. Three had come in today who were used to being together, but they were willing to split them. And then there was Ralph, who was sweet and had been there a few months. I said I'd be there within the hour.

After I filled out a form swearing I wouldn't amputate his claws or use him for experiments, I was allowed a visit. Ralph purred as I stroked around his ears. He got excited and gave my palm the tiniest of love bites. My cat at work, also a Siamese mix, does this too, but with more malice. "PULL YOUR HAND AWAY IMMEDIATELY!," the volunteer snapped.

When I said a little love nip didn't bother me she relayed a story about a man who played with his cat too roughly. It bit his girlfriend on the face and then he needed to get rid of it. "That cat has no chance now," she said. "No shelter would take him. I told the guy, 'you created a monster, and now you have to live with him.'"

At this point in my life, I mostly know when a poker face is in my best interest, even if I don't always do it. Mine was on.

I said I was in a bit of a hurry to get my kids from daycare and wanted to pop over to CVS for litter and cat food before I put him in the carrier. The volunteer looked at me with extreme alarm. "It's very, very important to only feed a cat quality food," she patiently explained. I reiterated how I'd had cats for roughly the last twenty-five years and usually fed them Iams.

"I won't buy Iams," she said, "because of their policies on animal testing. It's OK cat food, I suppose, but the company is immoral. I can't support them."

She suggested I go to a place a few blocks away that sold food they might approve of. Once the adoption went through, I'd get some coupons. She suggested I spend another hour or so getting to know the cat, do the paperwork, think about whether I really wanted him, and if I did, I could come back another day when I had more time, get the approved food with their coupons at the very special cat food store, and then, suitably prepared, I could come get Ralph.

I stared at her, struggling to parse the string of words I'd just heard. "Are you saying I can't take this cat home with me now?"

"Oh. No," she said. "That was just a suggestion."

"OK then, I'm ready."

I sat at a table as she went online to activate the animal's micro-chip while another volunteer explained why letting him outside was a virtual death sentence. They told me I shouldn't allow pregnant women to clean the litter box and gave me a certificate for a vets visit good for nine days, which they strongly suggested I use.

Here's a healthy four-year-old cat who's been chipped and has all his shots. I should take him to the vet ... why?

But that's not what I said. I was all concern and sympathetic murmers. I wrote a check for ninety bucks and took my borrowed cat bag in to Ralph's room. Never, in my entire life, has a cat gone so willingly into a carrier.

Maybe I'm projecting, but Ralph seemed pretty keen to get the hell out of there.

I was only ten minutes late to the daycare pick-up. Twins A&B were beside themselves with glee. I dropped eighty dollars at Petco on the way home. It was Ralph's first day and I was already into him for a hundred seventy bucks. I bought the Iams.

I broke two rules in the handout they gave me by allowing the girls to see him and get excited and then leaving him in the car while I got his stuff. I clearly cannot be trusted.

My plans to introduce him to one room first went sideways when Ralph immediately insisted on the full run of the house. I did my best to restrain the girls from hunting him down. He's made himself at home and had steak for dinner. He has a loud purr that goes off the second he is touched.

Ralph's going to be just fine.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Conversation with my five year-olds, mostly about the man in the picture.

Twin B: Who is that man?

Me: That's the man I was telling you about honey, who lost his place to live.

Twin A: We don't pick our ears. Or our noses. Or other people's noses. If you pick other people's noses, they bleed.

Twin B: That's so sad.

Me: I know honey. It made daddy cry.

Twin B: Where is he now?

Me: We don't know honey. They just told him to get out, so they could wreck his house.

Twin B: Why did they wreck his house? Why?

Me: Because his house was someplace they thought it shouldn't be.

Twin B: The forest!

Twin A: People shouldn't live in the forest.

Me: Some people don't have anywhere else to go. So they have to live in the forest. Some people like being alone.

Twin A: Is he a bad guy carrying a gun?

Me: What do you think Mica? Does he look like a bad guy?

Twin B: No! … Why is his mouth open?

Me: Maybe he's saying something.

Twin B: He's saying, "Why did they take away my house?"

Twin A: Why does he not have a place to live?

Me: Because he doesn't have money honey. You have to have money to have a place to live.

Twin B: Why doesn't he have money? Because he's old?

Me: You're probably right honey. You're probably right.

Jim Page, Joe Martin, and Artis at Folklife

When I heard that Jim Page, Joe Martin, and Artis the Spoonman — three of my favorite people in the world — would all be sharing a stage at Folklife, my Monday afternoon plans suddenly became clear. Take the girls and the video camera. The sun came out on the drive there. Twin A was in doggy heaven. Twin B waved her arms, nodded her head, and danced. We met our friend Revel, who graciously kept the girls distracted while I shot this video. Then we all ate strawberry shortcake on the grass. A lovely afternoon.

My Five Year Old Sings Elliott Smith

I got a USB input for my mic and pre-amp today and had my five-year-old Twin B test it for me by singing along with Smith's Christian Brothers. The eponymous first album is one of those CDs I listen to constantly, and it's been that way for a long time. So she knows it. She even knows what parts she's not supposed to say. "I'm not going to sing that 'fucking' part, OK?"

No bad dream fucker's gonna boss me around
Christian brothers gonna take him down
But it can't help me get over
Don't be cross
It's sick what I want
I've seen the boss blink on and off
Fake concerns is what's the matter, man
And you think I ought to shake your motherfucking hand
Well I know how much you care
Don't be cross
It's sick what I want
I've seen the boss blink on and off
Come here by me, I want you here
Nightmares become me, it's so fucking clear
Nightmares become me, it's so fucking clear

You should see her do Needle in the Hay. Below is Smith doing Waltz #2 on Swedish TV. It's appallingly gorgeous.

Things Fall Apart

"Daddy's peeing out of his mouth," laughed Twin B. "No he's not," defended Twin A. "Yes he is! It's going into the toilet, so he's peeing." "No he's not!" "Yes he is!"

The commentary of my five-year-olds raged back and forth as I sat on the side of the tub projectile vomiting for about the sixth time today. Nothing stays down. Even Pedia-lite.

This has been one of the suckier days of my life. I taught Twin B to say, "sucks to be daddy" just to mark the occasion.

A few days ago the whole right side of my face started experiencing intense pain, radiating from my bottom molar up through my temple and down my chin and neck. I tried Ibuprofen and topical anaesthesia, knowing it was ridiculous. Yesterday a dentist diagnosed a cracked molar that had become infected and prescribed antibiotics and Vicodin. He said I should take the pain meds at night to sleep and stick with Ibuprofen during the day.

Yeah. Right. When, exactly, did the entire medical profession decide that everyone experiencing pain is a drug-seeking whiner? If Ibuprofen was doing it for me, I wouldn't be in his office.

As it turned out, even two Vicodins wasn't touching it. The pain felt like the tooth was highly pressurized from the inside, and might explode at any moment, spraying my mouth with shards of enamel and huge globs of pus. This feeling crept sharply toward my temple and down my neck as well, leaving me with the mother of all migraines. Were I in an emergency room, I'd be telling them this is a nine or ten.

I called and they upgraded the Vicodin to Extra Strength. I just had to go get it.

I have the girls this week while mom's on vacation. Twin B woke up puking this morning, and so did I. I couldn't just have a simple dental emergency. No. I had to come down with flu and deal with a sick kid as well.

So Twins A&B stayed home and quietly played while I sat groaning on the couch, devising various strategies to keep pain meds and antibiotics down when even a few sips of orange juice would spectacularly arise. Twin B didn't eat much. but by noon she basically seemed fine. Twin A was Twin A.

It was getting toward evening. The idea of getting the girls dressed and into the car to go get the heavier pain meds seemed overwhelming. I decided to reach out. I stared at the phone numbers on my cell, formulating my criteria: someone who might be able to drop everything for an hour or two, has a car, and is a true friend. I made three calls. Two were returned within the hour. Mary was visiting her elderly mom at a nursing home the next day and didn't want to risk the contagion. She said she'd do her Buddhist healing vibe thing for me. Perhaps it helped.

Bruce packed his girls into his car, picked up my meds and Gatorade, and arrived wearing a germ filter, which kind of freaked out my neighbor. I thought of putting up a big handmade Quarantine sign just for fun.

The pharmacist gave him advice for overcoming the medication vomiting problem that had thus far vexed me. Take half a Vicoden at a time, with little tiny sips of pedia-lite. Keep the stomach empty. Everytime I have a glass of orange juice, I'm throwing a party for my little viral friends.

This week, Dr. Wes wrote a column about how the nuclear family is an invention of capitalism that doesn't offer the support one needs. Families crumble under the pressure. You simply can't be everything to each other.

The extended family, not the nuclear family, is the norm among those cultures that have low rates of homelessness. If you want to blame homelessness on a breakdown of families, you have to lament the replacement of the extended family by the nuclear family, rather than the breakdown of the nuclear family. By the time the nuclear family has replaced the extended family, social disintegration is inevitable, because the nuclear family sucks. ...

Recent U.S. Census data on internal migration shows that one out of every five people living in the United States over the age of one year lived in a different state one year before. Another one out of five lived in the same state, but a different county. With that kind of mobility, there’s no hope of reinventing extended families anytime soon.

We think nuclear families are the norm because corporations promote them. They don’t want us nostalgic for extended families. They like us mobile and fluid. So corporations have used images of nuclear families in the majority of their advertising since Sears Catalogs. The propaganda has worked.

As for nuclear families sucking? Well, it took corporations, a massive civil war, a couple of massive depressions, a Dust Bowl, and two world wars to shatter the extended family. Whereas nuclear families collapse every day from their own inadequacy.

You think the nuclear family sucks? Try the post-divorce nuclear family. These, increasingly, seem to descend from a tree of similar post-divorce nuclear families. My parents never divorced, but they should have. Theirs is a case study in marriage as extended misery. My ex-wife's parents divorced during her early-adolescence. The atoms keep splitting.

It's a sobering moment when you understand that you are now alone, but with kids. This really hit me hard the first time I was asked who my emergency contact was. My parents and I are quite estranged. My sister lives in Sioux Falls, and we talk briefly maybe six to ten times a year. So, who? I haven't even told the person I put down. How lame is that? What if I told him right now? It's the perfect time. He's already picking up my pain meds for me.