This weekend, let's see... Tomorrow: take the boys to the ticker tape parade tomorrow for the Blackhawks, since I've never been to a ticker tape parade before, and the boys certainly have never seen one, so that should be fun. Then start watching the World Cup (Yay! Yeah, right -- most of the episodes are on ESPN, which I don't have).
Saturday, B1's last soccer game. And then either (or both) Saturday and/or Sunday, take the boys to the 61st annual Old Town Art Fair. Also, I think the US team plays at the World Cup Saturday, so watching that, too, if it's broadcast.
England vs. USA (2 p.m. EST on ABC)
Nothing solid planned Sunday. I'm gonna try to get that damnable screenplay done and out the door, so I can move onto my next writing project. Probably a grocery run in the mix, too.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Tallboys
The boys have grown since I last measured them in May! Like a half-inch for B2, and a quarter-inch for B1!
B1: 4'6.5"
B2: 3'7.5"
They're growing and growing!
B1: 4'6.5"
B2: 3'7.5"
They're growing and growing!
Whew (2)
Yesterday's diatribe was my 400th post on this particular blog. Just carrying a lot of emotional pain, alas. I roll with most everything in life, but there are a few things that are just too painful to roll with, and he's one of those things. I swear, the past couple of years have been packed with emotional pain! Good timing! It can only get better, I think. Move forward, onward, upward. That kinda thing. Try to stay productive, get writing done, get Exene the hell out of my mix (the dire economy of 2008-09, the Great Recession, really, really made those years dreadful), and find the fun and the happy. Get my own little place, move forward. I have discovered that I can handle a lot of emotional pain and remain functional; something I didn't realize I had that in me.
I've been watching Season 1 of "The Wire" -- good show. I don't generally like cop shows, but it's entertaining. HBO typically has it sewn up, those dramas. The absence of ad breaks and the ability to follow stories from episode to episode (versus having it wrap up in an hour), it makes a big difference. Good stuff.
I've been watching Season 1 of "The Wire" -- good show. I don't generally like cop shows, but it's entertaining. HBO typically has it sewn up, those dramas. The absence of ad breaks and the ability to follow stories from episode to episode (versus having it wrap up in an hour), it makes a big difference. Good stuff.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Whew
Man. Blogger was down and I was unable to blog for about 24 hours. Not sure what that was about.
My biological father is dying. I didn't find this out from him directly, but from one of my half-sisters, who thought I'd known about it. But she was closer to him than I ever was -- he was a rotten dad. So much of who I am comes from reacting against who he is, finding the way to Good by understanding the Bad, where parenting is concerned. Not everybody's cut out to be a parent, I guess, which is about the most charitable thing I can say. It's weird for me, because his ghost has been with me since my folks divorced in 1975, and I've found my way without really ever understanding what of him was in me (besides height and smarts). I don't know, because he was singularly guarded about everything that he was, and you could never be sure you were getting a straight answer from him or not. The emotions I remember most with him are those of reproach, guilt, fear, anger -- I remember pain and hurt. I remember him locking me out of the house and taunting me from the other side of the screened door and saying that I couldn't get inside to see my mom. This was me at four or five years of age. I can still see it and hear it, me crying and furious and him mocking from the kitchen. One of many happy memories. I asked my mom about that and other things, what it was all about, and she theorized that maybe he was jealous, because he realized she liked me more than him, and he took it out on me. Not sure.
I remember always packing a handful of quarters (for a telephone) and a pocket knife (for self-defense) and being sure the door was unlocked on the car, and mentally rehearsing what I'd do if he tried to kidnap me -- I was always afraid he'd try to kidnap me and take me from my mom and stepdad. I remember him being willing and able to ruin absolutely everything he touched, taking the fun and joy right out of anything. If a good dad makes their kids feel wanted and loved, he was most definitely a bad, bad dad. Plenty of stories about that I've kept inside. I learned my lesson and am very good at being a daddy; my boys cherish me, and it's because I'm always there for them, I never hurt them, I always listen to them, I treat them with love and kindness and respect and I let them know how special they are to me. I read to them, and almost never raise my voice (sidenote: B1 commented over the weekend that he liked that I don't "overyell," like mommy does). My boys know their daddy loves them, and they take solace and comfort in that. I'm there for them until my dying day. My own father never, ever was. I don't even think he really wanted to be a father. I last saw him when I was 26, when he cycled up to Chicago without so much as a heads-up that he was approaching; before then, I saw him when I was 18. So, we haven't been close. It's been 14 years since I last physically saw him. In many ways, the ghost of who he is has been with me my whole life, more so than the flesh-and-blood man, and that's actually a good thing.
If you want some sense of him, take Johnny Cash (esp. the voice; he loved Johnny Cash -- I can't heard Johnny Cash without thinking of that, him listening to that), Tony Randall (esp. the fussy, pretentious, I'm Smarter Than You manner), and Peter Sellers (esp. the inaccessible weirdness) and blend them. He looks like a fusion of them, and acts like them all, in truth. I can't even watch this clip of Tony Randall without seeing him. Looks like him, and just acts like him...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-u8lcqwXjs
Without letting on that I knew he was dying, I sent him some recent pix of the boys (and myself). A small kindness. I wrote to him about the boys, their prospects, who they are. He wrote back a comment about how B1 looked like he had a date with an orthodontist in his future. It hurt. I'm trying to be kind, and he's slamming his own grandson? This in his last days? Give me a fucking break. And yet, it's so him. He's an emotional trainwreck -- he couldn't even show proper love to his own child, which should be the most natural human emotion a person can express, right?
Anyway, his days are literally numbered (what that number is, I don't precisely know). I'm not going to see him. There is no closure that can be gained with him -- what's he going to say? That he feels sorry he was so rotten to me when he was my dad? If he even sees that, can even get that? I don't know. He was hateful and hurtful. I know that I historically have better relationships with women than men, and I know it's because of him -- I would often be afraid of people's dads when I was a kid, and it's because, early on, I learned to be very wary around dads, because of him, of what he did. I remember hurt after hurt after hurt. I was trying to divine a good memory, and the closest I could come up with was around 1975, and me making a Lego house, working hard to make it wonderful, a model of our unhappy home (and it was very unhappy -- I remember my parents loudly arguing then, and being afraid of that). I heard him coming home, and I ran to show him what I'd made, my Lego house, and I tripped and fell and dropped the Lego house, and, of course, it broke to bits, and I was crushed that it had broken before he'd seen it. And he yelled about me making a mess in the kitchen, and I just cleaned it up. I remember riding on the back of one of his motorcycles (he always had motorcycles) and enjoying that, until I realized that I'd rested my foot on the tailpipe of the cycle, and it had melted the rubber of my shoe on the tailpipe, and he was furious about that, took me censoriously to task for that. That's about as close to a "good" memory as I have with him. He could take the fun and joy out of absolutely everything.
I grew up resolving to be better than he was, and I think I have, at least as far as being a parent is concerned. I try to find the fun and the joy in the world around me. I've succeeded in that, at least, but that's not because of him. People who know me and see me with my boys always marvel at how good a parent I am, but it's a very conscious reaction to what I experienced, doing the opposite of what he did, and banishing that ghost as best as I can.
Vae Victis.
My biological father is dying. I didn't find this out from him directly, but from one of my half-sisters, who thought I'd known about it. But she was closer to him than I ever was -- he was a rotten dad. So much of who I am comes from reacting against who he is, finding the way to Good by understanding the Bad, where parenting is concerned. Not everybody's cut out to be a parent, I guess, which is about the most charitable thing I can say. It's weird for me, because his ghost has been with me since my folks divorced in 1975, and I've found my way without really ever understanding what of him was in me (besides height and smarts). I don't know, because he was singularly guarded about everything that he was, and you could never be sure you were getting a straight answer from him or not. The emotions I remember most with him are those of reproach, guilt, fear, anger -- I remember pain and hurt. I remember him locking me out of the house and taunting me from the other side of the screened door and saying that I couldn't get inside to see my mom. This was me at four or five years of age. I can still see it and hear it, me crying and furious and him mocking from the kitchen. One of many happy memories. I asked my mom about that and other things, what it was all about, and she theorized that maybe he was jealous, because he realized she liked me more than him, and he took it out on me. Not sure.
I remember always packing a handful of quarters (for a telephone) and a pocket knife (for self-defense) and being sure the door was unlocked on the car, and mentally rehearsing what I'd do if he tried to kidnap me -- I was always afraid he'd try to kidnap me and take me from my mom and stepdad. I remember him being willing and able to ruin absolutely everything he touched, taking the fun and joy right out of anything. If a good dad makes their kids feel wanted and loved, he was most definitely a bad, bad dad. Plenty of stories about that I've kept inside. I learned my lesson and am very good at being a daddy; my boys cherish me, and it's because I'm always there for them, I never hurt them, I always listen to them, I treat them with love and kindness and respect and I let them know how special they are to me. I read to them, and almost never raise my voice (sidenote: B1 commented over the weekend that he liked that I don't "overyell," like mommy does). My boys know their daddy loves them, and they take solace and comfort in that. I'm there for them until my dying day. My own father never, ever was. I don't even think he really wanted to be a father. I last saw him when I was 26, when he cycled up to Chicago without so much as a heads-up that he was approaching; before then, I saw him when I was 18. So, we haven't been close. It's been 14 years since I last physically saw him. In many ways, the ghost of who he is has been with me my whole life, more so than the flesh-and-blood man, and that's actually a good thing.
If you want some sense of him, take Johnny Cash (esp. the voice; he loved Johnny Cash -- I can't heard Johnny Cash without thinking of that, him listening to that), Tony Randall (esp. the fussy, pretentious, I'm Smarter Than You manner), and Peter Sellers (esp. the inaccessible weirdness) and blend them. He looks like a fusion of them, and acts like them all, in truth. I can't even watch this clip of Tony Randall without seeing him. Looks like him, and just acts like him...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-u8lcqwXjs
Without letting on that I knew he was dying, I sent him some recent pix of the boys (and myself). A small kindness. I wrote to him about the boys, their prospects, who they are. He wrote back a comment about how B1 looked like he had a date with an orthodontist in his future. It hurt. I'm trying to be kind, and he's slamming his own grandson? This in his last days? Give me a fucking break. And yet, it's so him. He's an emotional trainwreck -- he couldn't even show proper love to his own child, which should be the most natural human emotion a person can express, right?
Anyway, his days are literally numbered (what that number is, I don't precisely know). I'm not going to see him. There is no closure that can be gained with him -- what's he going to say? That he feels sorry he was so rotten to me when he was my dad? If he even sees that, can even get that? I don't know. He was hateful and hurtful. I know that I historically have better relationships with women than men, and I know it's because of him -- I would often be afraid of people's dads when I was a kid, and it's because, early on, I learned to be very wary around dads, because of him, of what he did. I remember hurt after hurt after hurt. I was trying to divine a good memory, and the closest I could come up with was around 1975, and me making a Lego house, working hard to make it wonderful, a model of our unhappy home (and it was very unhappy -- I remember my parents loudly arguing then, and being afraid of that). I heard him coming home, and I ran to show him what I'd made, my Lego house, and I tripped and fell and dropped the Lego house, and, of course, it broke to bits, and I was crushed that it had broken before he'd seen it. And he yelled about me making a mess in the kitchen, and I just cleaned it up. I remember riding on the back of one of his motorcycles (he always had motorcycles) and enjoying that, until I realized that I'd rested my foot on the tailpipe of the cycle, and it had melted the rubber of my shoe on the tailpipe, and he was furious about that, took me censoriously to task for that. That's about as close to a "good" memory as I have with him. He could take the fun and joy out of absolutely everything.
I grew up resolving to be better than he was, and I think I have, at least as far as being a parent is concerned. I try to find the fun and the joy in the world around me. I've succeeded in that, at least, but that's not because of him. People who know me and see me with my boys always marvel at how good a parent I am, but it's a very conscious reaction to what I experienced, doing the opposite of what he did, and banishing that ghost as best as I can.
Vae Victis.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Family Man
I took a personal day yesterday, because the boys had several special things to do that day. I got the boys breakfast, made their lunches, took B1 to a class picture photo shoot, dropped him off to class, then walked B2 down to the grocery store, got groceries. I then took him to his gymnastics final (which was very cute -- he was delighted to have me in the audience, kept waving and saying "Daddy! Hi, Daddy!" and telling his friends in the class "That's my Daddy. His name is [says my name, very emphatically].") Calling it "gymnastics" is probably a stretch at his age -- it's just things like somersaults and skipping, etc. Then I dropped him off at preschool, then had a few minutes to myself for some lunch. I then biked up to B1's school, because they were having a special school spirit parade parents get to walk in, and I took pix of that and walked with B1, until I had to leave and bike back down to B2's preschool and pick him up. Then I took B2 back to the apartment, stowed my bike, and he and I hung out a bit, I gave him a snack, and he and I trekked back to B1's school to pick him up. I use the stroller for the treks to B1's school, just because it's a long way to go for B2's little 4-year-old legs, and he conked out in the stroller. Then we walked down to a salon and I got B1's hair cut, a nice short cut for the summer. Then we went to the grocery store for some ice cream sandwiches and popsicles -- by request of the boys, since is was super-humid and summery, and then home (at last), where I cooked pizza for dinner (Exene brought pizza home), and THEN off to B2's preschool performance show, and then had the boys play in the park a bit to (literally) run off steam. Then home, finally. Whew.
I made like seven trips to B1's school -- I think I logged a little over six miles of foot traffic yesterday! My thighs are a little sore. I was particularly pleased with the bike bit, since I was sweating how I'd get to go with B1 on his parade, and yet cover the distance to get B2, when the bike solution came to me.
My boys are such daddy's boys. It's so apparent. At the evening performance, B2 kept waving to me, saying "Daddy! Hi, Daddy! That's my daddy!" And then he'd remember that Exene was there for that, and would tack on a "Hi, Mommy." and wave to her, and then "Hi, [B1]!" for his brother.
B2 amused me -- like the consummate performer he is, he actually gets a bit of performance anxiety before a gig. For example, before going to his gymnastics, he's like "Daddy! How do I do a somersault? I don't know how!" (he actually does know) I showed him a couple, walked him through'em, and before going to the evening performance, he said "How do you sing? I don't know how to sing!" But he totally does, he sings all the time. So, I made up a song and sang it to him, explaining how to sing with the lyrics. He's very much of a sing-a-long type, so that helped. It did amuse me, however, him getting the lil' jitters or something.
Today I'm taking B1 to his soccer match, with B2 coming along for the ride. I think Exene has a race she's running today, or the usual "Mom In Absentia" kind of stuff she pulls. For somebody who insists on shared/joint custody, I just don't see how she's going to be able to handle it -- like all the stuff I did yesterday, she'd have whined and complained about having to do that, and wouldn't have tacked on grocery-shopping or the hair cut in the mix. Guaranteed.
B2 complimented his brother about something (oh, that reminds me -- it was cute -- B2 saw one of his classmate's shirts at preschool and said "I LIKE that shirt, [Classmate]" -- I loved that he noticed that. He's my lil' fashionista! Anyway, B2 complimented his brother, and B1 was like "Yeah." and Exene said "When someone says something nice to you, or does something nice for you, you should thank them for it." And B1 just watched the show he was watching, didn't react. I said "Wow, he's just like you or your dad. It's been passed down. From him, to you, to [B1]." And Exene said "More like from my grandma, to my dad, to me, to [B1]." And I thought "Ah, four generations of taciturn Teutonic ingratitude." Her grandma was a complete hardass. Seriously. A hard, hard woman. I'm sure Exene picked a lot of that up, honestly. This was a grandma who Exene told me would use an ice cream scoop to pick up dogshit, and then later, Exene saw her using the same scoop to serve her grandchildren ice cream. I'm sure she cleaned it (she was a nurse, after all), but still, Exene commented that she'd not eat the ice cream, and didn't tell her siblings about it until after they ate their ice cream. Now, the visceral reaction to that is "What kind of grandma would DO that to her grandchildren?" and, having met the woman a few times over the years, I can say, without hesitation, that she is exactly the type of grandma who would do that. A hard, hard woman. And Exene most definitely has that, although even she'd not pull Scoopgate on kids, let alone grandkids.
Thankfully, B1's Teutonic lineage is strongly offset by my Celtic ebullience. It sweetens the Sudeten sourness!
I made like seven trips to B1's school -- I think I logged a little over six miles of foot traffic yesterday! My thighs are a little sore. I was particularly pleased with the bike bit, since I was sweating how I'd get to go with B1 on his parade, and yet cover the distance to get B2, when the bike solution came to me.
My boys are such daddy's boys. It's so apparent. At the evening performance, B2 kept waving to me, saying "Daddy! Hi, Daddy! That's my daddy!" And then he'd remember that Exene was there for that, and would tack on a "Hi, Mommy." and wave to her, and then "Hi, [B1]!" for his brother.
B2 amused me -- like the consummate performer he is, he actually gets a bit of performance anxiety before a gig. For example, before going to his gymnastics, he's like "Daddy! How do I do a somersault? I don't know how!" (he actually does know) I showed him a couple, walked him through'em, and before going to the evening performance, he said "How do you sing? I don't know how to sing!" But he totally does, he sings all the time. So, I made up a song and sang it to him, explaining how to sing with the lyrics. He's very much of a sing-a-long type, so that helped. It did amuse me, however, him getting the lil' jitters or something.
Today I'm taking B1 to his soccer match, with B2 coming along for the ride. I think Exene has a race she's running today, or the usual "Mom In Absentia" kind of stuff she pulls. For somebody who insists on shared/joint custody, I just don't see how she's going to be able to handle it -- like all the stuff I did yesterday, she'd have whined and complained about having to do that, and wouldn't have tacked on grocery-shopping or the hair cut in the mix. Guaranteed.
B2 complimented his brother about something (oh, that reminds me -- it was cute -- B2 saw one of his classmate's shirts at preschool and said "I LIKE that shirt, [Classmate]" -- I loved that he noticed that. He's my lil' fashionista! Anyway, B2 complimented his brother, and B1 was like "Yeah." and Exene said "When someone says something nice to you, or does something nice for you, you should thank them for it." And B1 just watched the show he was watching, didn't react. I said "Wow, he's just like you or your dad. It's been passed down. From him, to you, to [B1]." And Exene said "More like from my grandma, to my dad, to me, to [B1]." And I thought "Ah, four generations of taciturn Teutonic ingratitude." Her grandma was a complete hardass. Seriously. A hard, hard woman. I'm sure Exene picked a lot of that up, honestly. This was a grandma who Exene told me would use an ice cream scoop to pick up dogshit, and then later, Exene saw her using the same scoop to serve her grandchildren ice cream. I'm sure she cleaned it (she was a nurse, after all), but still, Exene commented that she'd not eat the ice cream, and didn't tell her siblings about it until after they ate their ice cream. Now, the visceral reaction to that is "What kind of grandma would DO that to her grandchildren?" and, having met the woman a few times over the years, I can say, without hesitation, that she is exactly the type of grandma who would do that. A hard, hard woman. And Exene most definitely has that, although even she'd not pull Scoopgate on kids, let alone grandkids.
Thankfully, B1's Teutonic lineage is strongly offset by my Celtic ebullience. It sweetens the Sudeten sourness!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Y-Town in the news
NPR's "All Things Considered" had a piece on Youngstown tonight.
Also, there's this...
http://www.inc.com/magazine/20100501/semper-youngstown.html
Also, there's this...
http://www.inc.com/magazine/20100501/semper-youngstown.html
Recipe: Rum Cake
I made coconut rum cake last night. Yummers!
Rum Cake
Preheat oven to 325 F
1 yellow or white cake mix
1 container of vanilla pudding
4 eggs
.5 cup cold milk
.5 cup rum
1 cup pecans or walnuts, chopped
Mix cake ingredients (except for the nuts -- pour the nuts into the bottom of either a bundt cake pan or a tube pan). Pour the batter into the pan, over the nuts. Cook for ~1 hour (Obviously a bit less if your oven runs hot). Remove when done and let the cake cool a bit.
For the glaze:
1 stick of butter
.25 cup water
1 cup of sugar
.5 cup rum (or up to 1 cup , to taste)
In a saucepan, melt the butter. When that's melted, add the water and the sugar, and boil for 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat, stir in the rum. Then you pour the glaze on the cake as it sits in the pan.
Once it soaks up the glaze, then carefully remove the cake, and voila!
Rum Cake
Preheat oven to 325 F
1 yellow or white cake mix
1 container of vanilla pudding
4 eggs
.5 cup cold milk
.5 cup rum
1 cup pecans or walnuts, chopped
Mix cake ingredients (except for the nuts -- pour the nuts into the bottom of either a bundt cake pan or a tube pan). Pour the batter into the pan, over the nuts. Cook for ~1 hour (Obviously a bit less if your oven runs hot). Remove when done and let the cake cool a bit.
For the glaze:
1 stick of butter
.25 cup water
1 cup of sugar
.5 cup rum (or up to 1 cup , to taste)
In a saucepan, melt the butter. When that's melted, add the water and the sugar, and boil for 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat, stir in the rum. Then you pour the glaze on the cake as it sits in the pan.
Once it soaks up the glaze, then carefully remove the cake, and voila!
Heh
I just wrote perhaps my most sarcastic comment on SALON, ever. It's the first comment in the article "My Baby Is Too Boring To Blog About." I'd link to it, but SALON seems to be bogging, or my computer's bogging. Not sure which. Anyway, it had to be said!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Wow
I'm listening to NPR's "Fresh Air" at the moment, and Samantha Bee (from "The Daily Show") is being interviewed, and listening to her, what she was saying, I thought "I bet she's a Scorpio." I could just tell. And you know what? She is. October 25, 1969. I just looked her up. Now I can even spot Scorpios without seeing them! I didn't even have to see a picture of her. I knew.
Oh, and a thing I always notice about Scorpios: they routinely cross their arms like that.
Serial Killers, American Style
Isn't it weird that most serial killers are American? Like if you look at serial killing around the world, the vast majority of them occur in the US. There are serial killers everywhere, but they are most common in this country, with the UK having the next-largest number. What is it about American and British life that lends itself to serial killing? What socio-cultural conditions exist that make this so? I have no answer; I'm just wondering. Are Americans just that much more violent than their peers in other countries? Are we more isolated and anomic? I would chalk it up to size of country and/or media, but we have far more serial killers than, say, Russia. What is it about American (and British -- since we have to remember that our cultural roots are British) culture that fosters this? Is it sexual repression? Cultures of violence? As countries adopt an American or British socio-economic model, does serial killing grow there? Is it perhaps tied to our mass media?
I scrolled down the lists of killers by country, and it appears that more Westernized/Americanized a country was, the more serial killers it had. Many Americans like to suck their own dicks about our cultural hegemony, how great and wonderful Western Civilization(tm) is (and how uniquely exceptional and virtuous American culture is), and yet, it has this shadow creeping in its wake, in the form of the serial killer, as well.
I scrolled down the lists of killers by country, and it appears that more Westernized/Americanized a country was, the more serial killers it had. Many Americans like to suck their own dicks about our cultural hegemony, how great and wonderful Western Civilization(tm) is (and how uniquely exceptional and virtuous American culture is), and yet, it has this shadow creeping in its wake, in the form of the serial killer, as well.
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