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.

Bullet Proof Baby Stroller

Our new baby registry

This site has it all. Bullet proof strollers, Kevlar vests for baby, helmets... everything! I used to be worried about the weekly shootings on the corner but now we're set! Thanks for the link Dave.





http://www.bulletproofbaby.net

Boat

Dead Guy

The authorities: Hello San Francisco 311, how can I help you?

Me: Hi, there's a dead guy in a bag on the corner of Sansome and Broadway.

The authorities: He's dead? Are you sure he's dead?

Me: Yeah, he looks dead.

The authorities: Would you like me to call the police?

Me: If they're the ones that handle it. I just thought you should know theres a dead guy.

The authorities: Are you sure he wasn't a homeless person sleeping?

Me: He probably was homeless...

The authorities: So you're not sure he's dead.

Me: I think he's a dead homeless guy.

The authorities: Did you check to see if he's dead?

Me: He was stiff and his head was wrapped tight in the bag, people don't sleep like that.

The authorities: Are you near him now?

Me: No.

The authorities: Where is he?

Next year I can't be president.

When assigned by our second grade teacher, Miss Kern, to sketch a picture of our chosen profession, little Bill Bardwell immediately drew the figure of a nuclear physicist. His dad worked at the Indian Point nuclear plant, apparently with a beaker in his hand and the words "Nuclear Phssist" written on his lab coat.

I remember being surprised that I had to choose a career at that point in life. This is my earliest memory of the pressure to be something, and naturally it caused me some anxiety. I'm proud to say that I overcame my initial apprehension, got my crayon down to paper and whipped up the image of the potential job which appealed to me most. My work of art was a composite of fuzzy images gathered from staying up late to watch Steve Martin and Dan Akroyd on SNL. I applied all my stick figure scrawling skills to to depict a comedian engaged in the act of joke telling. I was proud and pleased with my choice, it was unique among a class full of wanna-be astronauts and Yankee first basemen. My aspirations to comic genius were, to me, even more impressive than that little punk Bardwell's future of nuke mongering.

I believe the eggplant-shaped Miss Kern must have gotten into teaching to crush the spirits of little children because that bitch told me "comedian" was not a real job. This threw me into crisis and, in a panic, I asked her what a real job was. What should I be? She told me, probably with cynicism that my young ears were not yet tuned to detect, that "President" was a real job I could do. I now know she was almost certainly being sarcastic, but, at the time, I was flattered and became eager to achieve my destiny.

It should be pointed out that all this followed the "Happy Fucking Valentines Day" incident. That story in short: The eggplant/teacher had the class make Valentines Day cards and the only thing I spelled correctly on my card was the expletive. My parents were called in and presented with the atrocity I had created. They feigned shock and horror while suppressing laughter, but Kern saw through it. As a result of my H.F.V.D. card and my parents subdued reaction to it, the eggplant picked on me ever after. I still don't know exactly what she must have done to cripple my education at that crucial point but I think I can blame her for my inability to spell.

Anyway, for some reason the idea to be president stuck with me right through hundreds of cut classes in high school and even survived a year or two after dropping out of college. I think the realization that the dream was dead hit me during my messenger days... it became apparent that I was just too far down to get that high up. My present had become sufficiently sordid to burden my future with a shady past.

Yesterday was my 34th birthday, which means that next year I will be the minimum age to serve as President Of The United Sates, or POTUS as the secret service guys in the movies call it. Sometimes I wish I could say that I squandered my chances to be commander-in-chief with an ill advised career as a comedian, but alas, I didn't screw things up exactly the way I intended to. Instead I get paid to write about broken stuff on boats. Occasionally folks even pay me just to go for a sail and look knowledgeable while scribbling notes. Maybe I could have/should/will do better, but I really can't complain right now. It could certainly be worse. I wonder if that Bardwell chump is about to preside over the next Chernobyl.

Diapers

A few days ago I mentioned Barry Bonds in a post and now I have ads for "legal steroids " appearing above. Well, I wonder what would happen if I said something about diapers, diapers, diapers.

"Marine Mischief"

Watch this video

Read this article

This is just the kind of thing I love about New York. It's not just the nut-case himself, but the peoples reaction, the overwhelming police response, the hilarious article in the Times and then everything back to normal.

My favorite quotes... “We start arguing with each other and saying, ‘Hey, you’re doing that wrong', and then we realize there is no right way to do this.” He added grumpily, “I’ve basically been wading around in this water for three days in my underwear.”
Also pretty funny...“I’m not really a very technical kind of guy,” he said, sitting shirtless on the pier Thursday with various green things still clinging to his arms from the water. “I just guessed a lot on this.” Asked how he planned to get back to shore after the tide carried him out to the cruise ship, he grinned. “I haven’t really thought about that yet,” he said.

Is it cheating if everyone does it?

One school of thought would say no, it's not cheating if everyone in any given competition is taking steroids - there is no unfair advantage. Would the argument then be that if you really want to win badly enough, the price is taking more drugs and sacrificing your health more than the guy you want to beat? If becoming a chemist's pin cushion is the main path to glory, well then sure, by any means necessary.

This system works fine for everyone except those for whom the no-drugs rules are designed to protect: the athletes who wish to compete with nothing but their own abilities, training and effort. The look the other way culture of drug enforcement is also detrimental to the fans who want to see an event unfold on the road, not in the lab. These may be cheesy sentiments said many times before but they really do ring true. What if we missed the next Eddy Merckx because he was overshadowed by those whose hearts pumped chemicals?

So why do people condemn the Tour when the organizers make such painfully brave decisions to do what's necessary to clean up the sport? Probably because John Q. Dumb-ass has the attention span of a flea and likes to jump to easy conclusions without a second thought. Phil Liggett says that this is the Tour's finest hour and I agree. Pro cycling is facing up to a problem by temporarily sacrificing some prestige in order to restore the true integrity of the sport. The phrase "confronting an inconvenient truth" comes to mind. This is something Major League Baseball doesn't have the balls to do. Giant headed Bonds is about to cheat his way past the home run record with the blessing of his commissioner. Its the same behavior displayed by the Bush administration: as long as you don't admit a problem, it doesn't not exist. Your greatest hero uses illegal performance enhancers? You just pushed the world closer to total chaos? You've made a mockery of our system of government by standing by your appointee to the highest law enforcement position in the land as he smirks while repeated lying to congress? Don't worry, it will all just go away. By that I mean it will be buried just deep enough to fester into a cancer that will eventually doom us all.