My Wife is an Animal

It is mildly terrifying to be a mammal. Sometimes I think it would be way easier to be a robot. Or a paramecium. But then again, this whole ability to create another sentient life form is pretty great. In the sense of continuation, I mean. The scariness is in the mechanics. Now, more than ever, my wife is an animal. A thriving, primal, essential member of the cohort Placentalia. I guess I am too, but right now that seems utterly irrelevant.

I am amazed on a daily basis by what she is going through. Yes, I am a dude, so I have no real grasp of this experience, but I am with it enough to understand those fearful mechanics and realize that any fear is irrational here. Granted, one can apply as much or as little internal distress as they want to the situation based on a little research or a lot of hearsay regarding potential unpleasantness, but I have a mind in part inspired by certain heroes. In this case I'll take a page from the great cosmologist Carl Sagan. All else being equal, just look at the numbers. The odds are well in our favor that my wife and our baby will pass through this transition without harm. When the reasons for fear are demonstrated to be irrational, the fear is made distant and meaningless, like a Christmas snow globe for sale in July.

We have chosen to have a natural birth, away from the hospital, away from doctors, away from needless pharmaceutical interventions. I am perplexed by the increasingly common practice of choosing those other options. As if it were a simple decision, chocolate versus vanilla. Sure, the option is there for us should complications arise, but I know we will not go down that path. My wife is an animal. So am I. Our Class have been doing it this way for countless eons. So long, in fact, that we have refined our engineering to the point that we can completely bypass the natural way of things and use wholly unnatural techniques to deliver our progeny into the world. Yes, this is necessary at times. But I can't rationalize the choice to do so without a reasonable attempt at the old school style. Neither can my love. This is her choice, after all.

All I can say is that the choice to schedule unnecessary surgery to extract your baby from your body with drugs and knives is baffling to this dude. It also seems terribly selfish, if you look at what is really happening to your baby, who is another human and not a tumor, after all. This egocentricity would be in keeping with the mode that American's seem to have chosen, if you read the numbers, but I don't believe that is what we really want as a nation of individuals. I believe that we are much more alike than the town criers would have us think. Again, all things being equal... Events that drastically alter the state of the world are not likely to happen to you in your life time. Unless you have a child. Now this is mere speculation on my part. I have a strange feeling that my life is about to change in a very profound way. Parents, you just might understand.

Top 10 Reasons Why My Dog Should be Our Next President:

10: If looks count for anything, he's way ahead of the human competition.

9: He is undeniably loyal, and acts only in the best interest of the pack.

8: He would give his life to defend his pack, instead of hiding like a pussy cat whenever strangers come around.

7: He lives to serve the pack, has no cronies, and can't be influenced by lobbyists.

6: He loves his job, and is ready to work 24/7.

5: His love for the pack is pure and unfailing.

4: He can learn new tricks.

3: He knows when natural disasters are imminent, and will respond appropriately.

2: He is an excellent hunter. (Just let him sniff one of Osama's socks.)

1: He is smarter by far than our current head of state.

So I urge you to consider the true independent candidate, and his choice for VP - look forward to Lucas/Yoda in 2008.

And that's just a little bit more than the law would allow.

I Just got back from Nashville. Working for Arizona Bob with the Hooligan Crew, we were in residence for the weekend at The Gaylord Opryland. This place is a mind blowing absurdity of indulgent waste. Example: at the burger joint they individually wrap each veggie so you can build your mediocre meat burger yourself and then discard the custom made plastic box that previously encased each pickle or tomato slice. The whole place, in fact, is in a giant box made of glass and steel. A huge, individually wrapped, self contained model of life on the moon, or some sterile fabricated future of climate controlled outside inside world. Seriously weird. I really wanted Pauly Shore to be show up, somehow thinking an appearance by the Weaz would ease my mind and take the reality out of this all too real place. It was not to be.
After two days in the dome we started joking about the "outlands" and told tales of something called fresh air. Our destiny was to stay, however, four nights and three days in the Gaylord, where I never saw this Gay Lord, by the way. I could only sense his presence hovering above somewhere, ensconced in one of the inaccessible glass turrets that topped each of the four humongous atria, watching the plump tourists mill about in his perfectly manicured little world of wonders.
The smallest atrium was about two acres, surrounded on all sides by the walls of the hotel room wings. Each atrium was filled with plants and waterworks. One had a giant island where we found a glorious buffet. This impressed me dearly, as I personally regard the concept of the buffet in very high esteem - if managed correctly that is. It is one of the crowning achievements of modernity, after all, though also often one of the most poorly executed.
Another atrium was home to what I could only call the Degobah of Nashville, a bubbling steamy lily pad laden soup where Cirqe du Soleil cast-offs played bizarre cantina band covers to imbue the atrium with an ambiance that bordered on jungle madness. I dared not linger here, lest my sanity be lost.
Our work was dirty and thorough. We fixed about 200 rigging points to the ceiling of a massive event room, a space where one could have assembled a life size replica of Red Square. Apparently the convention business is alive and kicking in Music City. We rocked out the job in under three days, and on Sunday night we hit the town, leaving the safety of the Gaylord for the first time since our arrival.
Contrary to our fears, none of us were afflicted by the so called "outland syndrome," another purported danger of leaving the enclosure. A few pitchers of the local Yazoo, and our anxieties relaxed. Life was just the same as ever. We could come and go from the glass house at Opryland as much as we pleased, with no ill effects. They must put something in the air in that place, the way they do in Vegas, to keep the guests inside and in a docile state of mind. No wonder so many of the other Gaylord denizens were so well endowed of girth. There was little more to do there than breathe the sweet air and sup from the buffet, the burger joint, the pizza place, the many breakfast nooks, the sushi bar, the Old Hick'ry manor house where one evening's tab was in excess of $900.00, or the Jack Daniels tavern where the band faithfully covered Waylon Jennings - to name just a few of the available feeding troughs.
A few days outside the glass and I can see the place clearly for what it is; a well disguised factory farm, where humans are the livestock and the end product is a stupendous amount of cash in the pocket of Mr. Gay Lord, whoever that may be.
During my stay I felt always a degree removed, as a true outlander along with the rest of our crew. We were often dirty and unkempt from the efforts of our labor, roaming about in a pack like coyotes, indulging ourselves in pleasures we would not normally enjoy.

Yes, I'll go back. Wouldn't you?

Three days in Chicago

It was a short trip, packed with plenty of activity. We saw a lot of friends and ate a lot of pizza. Not the over loaded and over hyped "Chicago style" pie, but real normal pizza made by real normal Chicagoans. I know a few people who say Giordano's stuffed pizza is the best, but in their heart of hearts they know they are fooling themselves. It's tolerable stuff, but it just doesn't compare to a good quality thin crust. This has nothing to do with New York. Nothing at all. Their pizza is as good or as crappy as anywhere else and they can do whatever they want with it as far as I'm concerned, so long as they keep it in New York and stop bragging about it.
I see a few places here in Tucson that try to call themselves "Chicago style," as if that means anything. If you want to savor a place, go lick the pavement there. A city is not defined by the food they serve, I think it is more likely the other way around. It is equally easy to find good and bad selections of any given cuisine in any well heeled city. Some places, like Chicago, are greater metropolii with greater populations of big fat egos. They may claim they are the preeminent city of X "style" of food, but at the end of the line it's usually the same imported labor teams assembling the same haute cuisine. Supervised by Mr. Food, overseen by Mrs. Sauce, masters on high who refuse to respond to any name if not prefaced by "Chef (insert name here)". The people who actually do the work are part of the labor-borg, the same faces from town to town, a vast army of choppers, slicers, dicers and platers assimilated into one being. They move the food that moves the earth.
I was trapped in a high end kitchen for a lengthy a/v install this past winter, so my presumptions are based on a limited exposure - I beg correction from any who have an opinion that differs from this reality.
I do not consider myself a foodie, but I do recognize talent and good craft, and I respect it tremendously. The truth is, I like to make fun of the people who act as if the food they serve deserves more respect than the underpaid kitchen staff that put it on the plate. Or the wise-ass a/v installer. All food winds up in the same place at the end, and the people who pay too much to eat it are probably more concerned with how they look and who is watching them eat than what the stuff tastes like. Give me honest pizza.

What about the other two days?

Glad you asked.

The weather was good, the company was pleasant, and the futon put kinks in my spine. I am glad to back in my own bed. I know we've lost something in a few relationships which were made convenient by proximity, but others have grown stronger with absence.

Birthday in the Land of Sand and Eggos

I turned 33 on Labor Day. Melissa and I were in San Diego, just having a good time vacation weekend. We stayed with my cousin Ben and his wife Lydia, the expecting young parents of a real human baby. Saturday evening we watched the sun disappear into the Pacific.

For dinner we ate at a Persian restaurant featuring a madman on synthesizer who accompanied the Persian equivalent of Robert Goulet, singing in his mysterious foreign tongue. By the time the belly dancer emerged, I was so stuffed with lamb that my view of her contortions was filtered through a shimmering meaty haze. At some point during our repast Ben sneaked away and paid the bill, clearly illustrating "The San Diego Way." I shook my fist at him in rage and gratitude.

Sunday we slept in, and by late morning made our way down the coast to La Jolla. We strolled along the shoreline, watching scores of snorkeled pink tourists bobbing about in the water. I marveled that more of them didn't drown, or founder and become dashed upon the rocks. They drifted around in a delirious mirth, somehow staying afloat in spite of lacking any sort of flotation devices. Melissa reminded me that it was salt water and furthermore, fat floats. A few seals appeared, but mostly they seemed to prefer the depths than give show to the masses.

We ate brunch at a cafe on Prospect street where the service was rude beyond the pale, but the food was decent and the fruit was fresh. I have been told that all avocados in California are hand picked by blonde lifeguards, but I was unable to verify this claim. We strolled the streets of La Jolla for a couple hours, then drove south past Sea World and Mission Bay to Ocean Beach.

I had a boogie board, but something about the volume of humanity already at sport in the sea deterred me from even sticking a toe in the surf. I complained that the ocean was more fun when you went at it with a friend, but Melissa doesn't go in the water. In retrospect I realize that the ocean doesn't give a crap who your friends are and will generally try to throw you out of it no matter the company you keep. We gave up the broasting sands and walked under the pier to the rocks. Along the way some grubby youth requested that we support their acid research program with a small donation; we politely declined. Further along we encountered some apparent subjects of severely failed research projects. We had to leave the side walk to avoid stepping on the needle mottled limbs and torso of one subject in particular. He only moaned at the sky, while his silent companion slumped into himself like a deflating Barney the dinosaur forgotten in the scorching sun.

We made it to the rocks. Here the sea was bold and refreshing, clapping and bursting against the stubborn stone, hurling through crevices and erupting in foamy heaves. Tiny crabs danced around in their tide pools with sideways choreography, and countless pea-sized snails did nothing interesting at all.

Later that day we drove to Oceanside, where my Minnesota college accomplice Steve made a tidy home with his wife behind the gates of a hilltop subdivision. The well known Scott Silbor joined us there, having navigated the treacherous 5 from the Palisades with one arm in a sling. Two days prior he himself was dashed against the sands by the insolent Pacific, resulting in a torn deltoid. After dinner (including more of the afore-mentioned avocados) we set about making music in Steve's home studio. There may exist somewhere some recorded evidence of our impromptu cover of the Sesame Street theme. Anything can happen.

My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning. I had been awake at 4, and was drifting in and out of semi-sleep until the beeping peal commenced. Melissa had a shower while I loaded surf boards and other necessities into the truck. BY 6:30 we were back at OB, where Rob Stevens was pacing the shore in wait. My first lesson in Surfer Boarding Man began, and I spent the next three hours eating a vomitous quantity of sea foam. By the end of it I was totally taken by the thrill of the sport, though my oceanless desert residence does make regular practice a bit of a hassle. Maybe next time I'll actually stay up for more than ten seconds. Maybe I'll find myself riding on the face of a wave instead of looking up at it from below the surface. Or maybe I should just focus my efforts on the thousands of feet of granite in my own backyard. I'm sure I'll try surfing again but my real game is on the rock, on the end of a rope, the other end of which is tied to my beloved Melissa. The falling is not as much fun here for the landing is far worse, but the escape is much easier. At any given beach there is but one focus, one direction, and all interested parties are in it at once together. In the mountains the paths are countless and varied and your limits are set only by your will to walk and your skill to climb. The farther you push yourself, the fewer people you encounter on your journey. I don't know exactly why, but for me that is an essential element to the satisfaction of my soul.

We hit the road by noon and made it back to Tucson just before seven. It was a very good 33rd, and I am extremely grateful to all those involved. To those who reside in CA whom I was unable to see; my apologies, and I know we will meet again.

Our Resident Python

There is a bull snake thriving on our property. We like him being here, as his presence would imply a reduction in the local pack-rat population, but we learned the other day that he enjoys a more complex palate. Recent opportunity afforded the snake a less movable feast, as these pictures will show.

Two Tales From Down East

As a teen I used to go to Martha's Vineyard every summer, spoiled brat, but something about real world responsibility has gotten in the way for the last several years. Until now. Next week I'll be taking Melissa there for her first visit, and our first vacation in a long time. The trip is actually a wedding gift to us from my cousin Rachel, who has lived on the Island for some time now. Her other home is the Island's polar opposite, NYC. I guess about the only thing these two places have in common is that they are surrounded by water.

I am sure the Vineyard has changed in many ways since the last time I was there, around the turn of the century (what a time to be alive), and I wonder what things remain the same. Thinking about the island in anticipation of our trip floats two stories to the surface of my mind. Here they are, unfortunately without photos since those previous trips took place before I had a digital camera, before I had a cell-phone, before I had an awesome wife. Anyway, this is just a taste of the past. Most likely a new blog will come along to tell of whatever trouble we get into next week.


I Should Have Walked

The long lagoon between Vineyard Haven and Oak Bluffs has always been a fine spot for water games. Every summer allowed for many days of great fun motoring up and down the mile long lagoon, where the water was calm and less populated than the rough and busy harbor of Vineyard Haven Sound. Any island kid with either gumption or fortune would do his best to acquire a boat capable of pulling a skier. Such was the case with two of my mates, Marin and Zeke. Marin was well possessed of fortune, while Zeke had labored hard to afford his craft. Marin's boat was a thirty-four foot cabin cruiser which we used as a base station. It was well appointed with comfortable deck accommodations, a galley, a long bowsprit, and every one's favorite, a poop deck. Zeke had the ubiquitous "Boston Whaler," a sixteen foot flat boat with a double V hull and a 50 horse out board Evinrude motor. Perfect for water skiing.

We spent a long day playing in the lagoon waters, seven or eight of us in all. I don't recall exactly who was there, but for sure the group included myself and the two boat owners, as well as my cousin Rachel, and our friends Aaron and Amy.

Around five in the afternoon Zeke had to quit the fun and get back to Oak Bluffs to serve chowdah and lobstah to wealthy tourists. He roared out of the lagoon in his whaler, leaving us in his wake on the cabin cruiser with mild sunburns and salty skin. The tide was ebbing away with the daylight. We motored slowly toward a long dock, planning to unload everyone but Marin and myself, and also to pick up the little wooden rowboat Marin kept there upside down on the sand and well above the high tide line. About fifty feet from the dock I noticed that we were in very shallow water, nearly the same depth as the boat's draft. We were in danger of running aground so we turned back towards Marin's mooring, about 100 yards offshore in the placid lagoon waters. The tide was almost fully out, and we couldn't get near the dock. Time to come up with plan B.

At this point, with no warning whatsoever, Aaron threw himself overboard and swam for shore. His pale white arms shone against the dark water as he swam, clearly visible in the fading light. This kid never took any sun, in spite of all his time shirtless on the beach. We laughed at him, and yelled encouragement. After a few minutes he dragged himself ashore and made his way to the rowboat. He intended to row back out to us in order to ferry our party back to the shore. The rowboat was small, with room for three people and a few items, so we would have to make at least two trips. By this time we had reached the mooring, and in a few minutes we had the big boat securely tied up and shut down for the night.

The wind had been picking up for a while, and now it was steadily blowing across the lagoon. The little rowboat was light with only Aaron aboard. He kept having to adjust his course as a result, and before long his efforts proved too weak against the wind. He quickly drifted off course against his best efforts, loudly bemoaning his situation. I decided that I could and should swim out to him, and with two of us rowing as well as my extra weight in the boat, we would have no trouble getting back to the cruiser. The distance between us and Aaron was growing, however. Now he was becoming harder to see in the twilight, a pale white torso in a pale white boat. I hastily donned a PFD and grabbed a pair of diving flippers. No problem, I thought. Now I float, and I can swim even faster! I dove in, anticipating a hero's welcome from Aaron on the rowboat, and perhaps again at home among friends later that evening.

The water was cold and dark, but that didn't bother me. Sea grass and kelp interfered with my progress a little bit, but that didn't bother me. Aaron had given up rowing at this point, and chose instead to smoke cigarettes and comment on my progress. That bothered me. I splashed a little louder so I couldn't hear his witty remarks, and I wondered how he had managed to keep his cigarettes dry. The big boat was lost in the dark behind me, the shore was indiscernible but for a few distant twinkling lights. From my point of view, eyes at sea level, I felt tiny - engulfed in a vast briny darkness. For a few moments I thought I might just be lost at sea. I fixed my intentions on Aaron and the rowboat and swam with all my heart. Aaron finally stopped smoking and put a little effort into fighting the wind to meet me part way. After what seemed like an hour of swimming, though was more likely only twenty minutes or so, I was almost there. I was getting tired and not looking forward to the effort involved in rowing back to the cruiser, and somewhere during my swim it occurred to me that we might just have easily untied the big boat and motored out to Aaron in only a few minutes. I let that thought sink; it only interfered with my determination. At last I reached the rowboat.

Aaron yelled something useless with the intention of being helpful. I don't remember what he said, but it was probably something like, "Nice flippers!" Because I recall throwing them aboard since they had given me blisters on my Achilles tendons. Exhausted, I prepared to heave myself aboard. I grabbed hold of the gunwales and as I did so my body went from horizontal to vertical in the water. Just as I was about to pull myself into the boat, my feet touched the bottom of the lagoon and I stood up, barely waist deep in the water. Aaron was now just below eye level as he sat in the rowboat. He looked at me and started laughing. I looked back and saw the shadowy shape of the cabin cruiser, about a thousand feet away. A thousand feet that I swam, through only three or four feet of water. I could have walked the entire way. I thought I was saving the day, but clearly I had simply been wasting time. Utterly dejected, I positioned myself at the stern and began walking, pushing the still laughing Aaron and the rowboat back to the cruiser. Just then Marin fired up the engines and came to get us.


The Bounty of My Inter-Net

To this day I do not know why they call it Gay Head. You can do the research on that yourself, but as far as I can tell it is only a name. Gay Head is the Western highland region of Martha's Vineyard. Colorful clay cliffs drop in steep crumbling ripples to the long breaks of the Atlantic Ocean. This has always been a less populated area of the island, somewhat more remote and difficult to get to. Tourists frequent the one small public beach here, but mostly keep to the little shack-shops around the lighthouse at the top of the cliffs. Getting to the beach requires a fair amount of walking, a thing which displeases most tourists. My friends and I knew, however, that a thirty minute walk would give one access to one of the best beaches on the island.

It was to these fine sands that we walked on this particular day. There had been a hurricane a few days prior, far to the south on the Eastern American sea board. Though we had seen none of the familiar elements of such a huge storm, the seas were full of atypically large, beautiful waves. In short order I found myself happily body surfing. For some reason, my friends decided to stay ashore. After a few good runs I felt a strange little pinching sensation from within my bathing suit. I reached in and found a tiny little brine shrimp on my upper thigh. Plucking it off my skin I inadvertently crushed the fragile little mollusk, but satisfied that I had found the source of my discomfort, I swam out to catch another wave.

I surfed in, and in shallow water I again felt the pinching in my shorts. I removed another little brine shrimp. The waves were too good to let this minor irritant persuade me from the water, so I swam out for another wave. This time as I swam, I realized that the water was quite busy with the little shrimp. No wonder they kept getting into my shorts. I decided that I just had to catch a few more waves. On the next run in I distinctly felt the same pinching, but this time it was not only once, and not only on my upper thighs. Finishing the ride I stood in waist deep water. I looked down and saw that the water was not just busy, but literally teeming with the tiny shrimp. Millions of them. A pint of glass drawn from the water would have held a hundred or more, each less than a quarter inch long. Now my shorts sang with the pinching tickle of countless sea monkeys, focused primarily on my nether most regions. That was enough for me.

I ran out of the water and into the tall grass at the base of the clay cliffs. I didn't care if anyone could see me. Pulling down my bathing suit, I looked at my crotch and saw a veritable fisherman's bounty of brine shrimp spill forth from the built in netting of my swim shorts. The little bastards were all over me as well, tiny scales and claws causing tremendous frustration to my most sensitive parts. In a few frantic minutes I managed to remove them all, and after emptying my inter-netting I pulled up my shorts and returned to my curious friends. I simply told them, "I had shrimp in my shorts."

I did not go back in the water.