Don't Not Panic

Where was I?

After a bunch of years I'm dusting off this old thing again. I hope to post some writing worth reading, thoughts deserving of consideration and absurdities to be laughed at and condemned.

Is that it?

Is it really over? Did we really close the deal?

Yes. The boxes were packed and schlepped, the place was cleaned and the keys left behind. I gave into a moment of sentimental drivel as I passed over the spot where Max was first set down on hospital homecoming day; two seconds later my ass was evading the slamming door as I ran out. Without looking back, lest I be turned into a pillar of salt, its onward and upward. Seeing as how we are living in a basement, the upward part ought not too be terribly difficult.

Our Chinese mortgage overlords have been paid off with enough left over for a few scraps to be thrown to our beleaguered savings. The family is underway. We have pushed off the dock and thrown the heaviest lines ashore. We now drift, for a few short months of our lives, in the relatively calm waters of a semi-suburban outpost on the side of a hill at the foot of the city. We wait in this appropriately named neighborhood of West Portal until we can step through to the East Coast and put down some real roots. Roots that are now packed in boxes and bags containing pictures and books and warm weather clothes. We have a little seed (that we nurture attentively most waking hours of the day and night) which we intend to plant in the fields of Brooklyn. He will be fertilized with cultural diversity, strengthened by challenge, tempered by heat and cold.... for our efforts now he will grow to be the astronaut hero elected mayor of NYC. Or at least he will visit his crazy father in the asylum.

Busy moving... will be back soon

I've had it with this stupidity

I'm fuming as I watch the Democratic "debate" on abc. I feel like I'm witnessing stupidity, greed and fear murder hope and reason right there on the TV.

Where to start?

A video question form a voter was played asking Obama why he doesn't wear a flag pin. This just after Obama got through explaining how the American people are too smart to be distracted by manufactured issues.

I see the two clowns moderating, Gibson and Stephenopolis, as ridiculous stooges of ABC's corporate interests; they are charged with sensationalizing our democracy to sell toothpaste. The selfish, lazy, greedy fools masquerade as journalists to gain attention and advance their careers. They spend the first twenty minutes harping on fake issues that have nothing to do with running a country. They cater to the absolute lowest common denominator... guns and god.

This is the environment in which Senator Clinton appears to thrive. She misses no opportunity to try out a new persona or a new angle from which to sling mud. I find myself unable to believe anything she says. As a Democrat and informed voter I'm supposed to assume that she will "do a good job" and "can't be any worse than Bush" and I should just vote for her because she is "better" than McCain. I see it differently. I believe the President should be a leader, not a secret advocate for some agenda that I am supposed to be satisfied with.

Yeah, I think McCain is worse than Clinton. No, that is not good enough for my vote. If she and the corporate media (NY Times included by the way) somehow manage to derail Obama, I will be the bitter one. Let her compete for the guns and god vote with McCain. The country deserves exactly what it elects.

Beautiful home for sale

Spread the word!! We are reluctantly putting our beloved home on the market. How to describe this remodeled two bedroom TIC in the heart of NOPA? A few words and phrases come to mind: sun drenched, centrally located, steps to Alamo Square park, hip urban bliss, luxuriously remodeled...

43 White Men

In the absence of religious belief, I seek comfort from intelligent people with good ideas. In the absence of an interest in sports, I seek entertainment in the con-game horse race that is the presidential campaign. So, with each Obama primary win I am comforted and entertained; my fear is that I will be neither when he wins the race and finds himself in a possibly un-winnable situation.

Everyone in the country, with the exception of the absolute stupidest and stubbornest 25%, believe that just about anyone will be an improvement over the current captain of state. The problem is that the same 50.0001% that may have voted for him might be somewhat regretful, but not any smarter. Short memories will fail and blame for their particular share of our collective nation karma will fall to the person trying to fix the mess.

What motivates the trio of presidential candidates to clamber over one another, spitting and biting, in an epic battle to force their way into the wheelhouse of our metaphoric ship of state, so they can stand behind the helm as that ship slams into the rocks and makes a dive for the bottom? It really takes some big cohones to get up in front of a country and declare that you are going to make everything alright.

Any sane person to do such a thing must know that apart from the majority of their audience, who will ignore them, there are well organized, clever people who will try to either debunk or sabotage them. True believers are then disappointed and bitter... this is the logic that makes hope difficult.

A burning freighter loaded with empty containers is adrift in a rocky harbor during a growing storm. The captain is an idiot and the crew is comprised mostly of lunatics and thieves who have stolen all the cargo. The ship is running out of fuel, and much of what is left in the tanks is on fire. The fire extinguishers were thrown overboard because they were somehow perceived to be in the way of the lunatics' thieving. The only hope of ending the conflagration is to let the ship sink in shallow water so the the waves can quench the flames. We'll try to re-float it later, but while resting on the bottom waiting for the storm to blow itself out, why not launch our lifeboats and see who needs help?

My new favorite quote

"Everyone has a plan, until they get hit in the face" -Mike Tyson

I don't imagine he was speaking metaphorically at the time, but I read this as a variation of "The best laid plans of Mice and Men..." The fact that it was spoken by a dangerous half-wit lunatic makes it all the more true and hilarious. This quote really cracks me up.

I think the accidental wisdom of dangerous lunatics around the world should be heeded. A million monkeys banging on a million keyboards for a million years will eventually write Hamlet.

That's my boy!

He's the big one on the end that has shoved the others over. He's in the 99th percentile in height and weight, he can kick others babies' butts!
I figured fatherhood would change me: I would mature and discover new emotional complexities in my own character, maybe even gain a more meaningful view of my place in the human race. Yes, perhaps that happened, but so far the most profound revelation since donning the Dad hat has been a developing instinct to brag about my kid and engage in "little league father" type behavior.

Look how big he is! Look, he can stick his hand in his mouth!

I must have some deep down need to convince myself that evolution is going on here. Or maybe there's an urge toward vicarious living... I've stated here before that I expect him to be a top notch Astronaut, a concert pianist, award winning journalist and two term Mayor of New York. Right now though, I'm really proud of how big he is.

I do complaints and kvetching, that's my thing. I do not specialize, or even dabble in, declarations of unconditional love or ridiculous superlatives about emotions. So, since I feel the need to maintain an image of a semi-decent person and passable parent, I preface my post with the following disclaimer: I love my child and would kill and/or die for him. He's the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. - now on with the bitching....


Since Max got here my capacity for productivity, beyond baby related matters, has been reduced to that of a triple amputee with attention deficit disorder. Where torture is concerned, water boarding is exciting enough to make video tapes worth destroying, but it is easily forgotten that sleep deprivation is also favored by the sadists charged with protecting our way of life (although war crimes would be a more appropriate charge) This baby has no qualms about routinely inflicting cruel and unusual punishment - on the very people that gave him life - by waking us at all hours with demands for food and entertainment. We heave up all 18 lbs of him, clutch him in a two handed wrestling hold, and bounce around in short circular patterns across the room. Smiles and laughter are the gold standard of goals, but sleep, quite contemplation or sleep are preferable to screaming.

Of course I can't blame the baby, he can only do what he knows how to. For my suffering I hold responsible the bizarre instincts within my genes and hormonal juices which compel me to analyze shitty diapers at 3am. Things like that were not a component of my character a few months ago; I never gave human waste a second glance in my pre-parental life. Nature drives me to my own demise by installing within my brain an unreasable program of absolute dedication to this new person.

Given the world's surplus of parents and the epidemic of literacy, I'm sure these thoughts have already been thunk and these words been scratched down a million times by now. There is no shortage of human breeders with a few minutes of free time, a half assed thought and a keyboard. I write anyway. The baby is fussing...

The culprit

I was under a boat in a boatyard today photographing an oily stain on the client's hull when I happen to look up and see the leaker of that very oil docked a short distance away. The infamous Cosco Busan was tied up in the shipyard next to the yacht yard in which I was working.

Damn I'm Tired!!!

It feels like I've slept about four hours in the five weeks since Max was born. In addition to all the baby stuff there has been an unusual amount of survey business lately. My blogging has suffered but I'm here making an effort to post some profound thoughts and observations for my millions of readers. Amazing insight for the day: Babies are hard work.

Hope there will more to follow soon.

Its about 35 hours after the most incredible moment of my life and I'm still kinda speechless, so here are some stats...

10 lbs 3 oz, 21 inches long, drugless natural childbirth, perfect Apgar score, beautiful baby.

Just add infant

Here we are surrounded by baby paraphernalia waiting for a baby. He can show up any day now so we are in a holding pattern; staying vigilant but keeping calm.

We have taken the classes for childbirth, fatherhood, breastfeeding and newborn parenting. Attended sign language seminar, car seat installation instruction, hospital tour, baby fare and five hundred visits to the OB. The tests have all been taken, the vitamins have been eaten, questions asked and books read. We have narrowed all the choices of pediatricians to two. The baby gear has been bought, contributed or otherwise gathered: stroller, crib, bassinet, baby furniture, diapers, wipes, a million little articles of clothing, bags, car seat, toys, bath, books...

We are ready to rumble. Bring it on!

Vicarious adventures

Just finished reading "The Happiest Man in the World", an account of the the life of Poppa Neutrino. Among many other things he built this raft out of scrap and sailed it across the Atlantic with his Salvation Navy.

Random Lunacy

To boat or not to boat..

...that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous expenses,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To sell: to float;
No more; and by a sale to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That boat owners are heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To swallow the anchor, to sell;
To sell: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that boat-less sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this floating coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of waves,
The oppressor's slip fees, the proud man's yard bills,
The pangs of scratched gel coat, the law's stupid rules,
The insolence of the USCG and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a Yachtworld listing? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a dirty bottom,
But that the dread of something after selling the boat,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.

Ms Brody

I've overheard a number of snide comments directed at Sarah since she changed her last name. Apparently there are some women who see themselves as so independent, sophisticated and brave that they are in a position to criticize someone like Sarah for choosing to take her husband's name.

I challenge anyone that dares to look down on that decision to honestly compare themselves to Sarah.

Do they think they are more independent than the woman who has thrice changed careers and excelled at each one? Braver than the woman who finished a marathon on a broken leg? Or maybe they are tougher than the woman who chose to live on a sailboat in New York City with two dogs and a bike messenger through two winters... and then walk away when she had enough. More sophisticated than the woman who can look and feel good about herself without devoting large portions of her time and income to cosmetics and fashion? Do they think her actions are ruled by convention, insecurity or trends? Do those who criticize Sarah really define themselves on their own terms?

In the three years since leaving a successful career in New York to pursue a dream of west coast living she has driven cross-country twice, traveled to Japan (leading her companion by the hand) bought a new home, gotten married, started a family and maintained her professional ambition despite being surrounded by mediocrity at work. All done on her own terms. Eight months preagnant, she gets on a crowded bus everyday and goes to an all boys club of an office in order to pay a mortgage that most American families could never even hope to afford.

She has made a happy and balanced home with a man who has his head on faraway shores half the time. For her love and approval that man has found himself doing things he did not know he was capable of. She is the primary bread-winner, the number cruncher and very often the voice of reason and responsibility... she can also carry ten times her own weight in groceries but thats for another post.

She has the self confidence to dive head first into a decision; changing her name is only one symbol of that confidence. Max is going to know from day one what a strong, independent, brave, resilient, successful and truly beautiful woman is no matter his mom's last name.

Fatherhood Class

My expectant father class lasted only four hours. Two hundred forty minutes may seem like a remarkably brief time to prepare for a lifelong challenge but, not unlike a religious epiphany, its the profundity and relevance of the time that counts.

After the long tedious hours of our childbirth class - where in an effort to gain a tactile understanding of the varying firmness of the cervix during labor we were compelled to touch the tip our noses and the insides of our cheeks - the fatherhood class did no such thing to demean or belittle; it was a reassuring boost to my enthusiasm towards child related matters.

Unlike the childbirth class's instructor, whose accurate description would require cruelty I'm not capable of, the Fatherhood class was taught by an actual real life father. In addition to having done that particular deed, Armin had written a number of respected parenting books, hosts a radio show about parenting, is a former Marine Corps interrogator and best of all, had useful information he was able to convey without treating his students like slack jawed mouth breathers. Regardless of the subject matter many instructors seem to design their lessons for the stupidest person that is likely to attend; if the pupil managed to pull pants on and get to the classroom without natural selection weeding them out, the pace and tone of instruction is geared to that particular lowest common denominator incarnate. Not so with Armin, this guy knew what we wanted to know and simply told it to us. There is nothing like the feeling of satisfaction derived from a veil of ignorance being lifted. Nothing relieves anxiety like relevant information, just as nothing stokes the fire of fear like stupid distraction and meaningless drivel. I remember being thrilled about learning Roman numerals on the very first day of third grade, I figured at that rate I’d have acquired the entire wealth of human knowledge by Junior High.

So, what did I learn that was so wonderful? Here it is: I learnt several baby holding techniques that allow for my freedom of movement and for the babies comfort. We got to practice the holds on little fake babies. I also learnt that baby poo does not stink as long as he’s breastfeeding. Do not shake the baby, throw him in the air or leave him alone on the changing table. Babies may be very ugly when they get out of the womb; acne, blotches, jaundice and weird dandruff are normal and will go away. I learnt all the stages of awareness, what the baby can be expected to do. I now know about merconium, colstrum, placentas and umbilical stubs. There is good vomit and bad vomit, normal crying and pain crying. It is impossible to spoil a baby in the first six months so you should always pick him up when he cries… except when you are angry, then you must put the baby down.