Category: Uncategorized

This morning NPR broadcast some story (I wasn’t listening closely) in which the reporter interviewed an overworked sheriff, and then said he and his partner have to police an area “the size of Rhode Island.”

And it struck me that this is our default measure for any type of vast space in the news: the area is always “the size of Rhode Island,” and it’s almost always un-policeable or unmanageable somehow. “Ranger Danger has to protect against poachers in an area the size of Rhode Island.” “Sheriff Yakima has to watch for illegal aliens in an area the size of Rhode Island.”

Rhode Island now is less a state than a unit of measurement. Distance is measured in miles, weight in pounds, and area in Rhode Islands. (Huge vertical distances are still measured in Statues of Liberties.) It’s bad enough to be mocked for being the teeny-tiniest state, but why should RI be dehumanized to the point of abstraction? Why should it be implied that “an area the size of Rhode Island” is wild, lawless, and bleak? Why should the state get slapped around by a lazy, cliche-spewing reporter? (And how useful is the cliche anyway? More people have visited Disney World or Manhattan Island or the Astrodome, so why not use them as a yardstick?)

Every time this stupid cliche is used, I think Rhode Island ought to charge a royalty. Maybe they could change their state motto to “As Big As Rhode Island”, but it’s not like the journos would get the joke. And they should use their royalty money to start buying up land in Massachusetts, with an eye toward annexation.

So I’m approaching the two-month anniversary of having lungs full of oatmeal and dragging my carcass around in the cold like a character in a “Droopy” cartoon. How did I celebrate this milestone? How else? By camping out in a cave for two nights.

While some Boy Scout troops concentrate on rocketry or sports, ours has a passion for camping. This can prove to be difficult in the winter months, but there are ways around the inclement weather. One is to bury yourself deep underground in an onyx cave in Wisconsin. Many people are aware that caves can keep a constant temperature year-round. What many people DON’T know (including our troop) is that this is not universally true, especially if you get placed in the part of the cave adjacent to the vent shaft blasted into the rock quarry on the neighboring property. This tends to let the frigid air drift down the cave floor, directly into your sleeping bag like floodwater. As long as you don’t mind sleeping with all your clothes on, this wasn’t a problem. With outside temps around 0* on Sunday morning, the situation was a little less pleasant. I was curious what the temp was by our campsite, but wasn’t foolish enough to check until the final morning when we were ready to pack up. Then, I didn’t bother mentioning to anyone that it was about 38* inside our part of the cave. Next time, we’ll have to remember to tip the concierge better.

Still, it was quite a time. The boys got good and muddy from climbing down little holes and seeing where they led. I even crawled through one that went about 30 yards. That was enough for my old bones. I was worried that the whole experience would be torture for Number One Son, who has complained about claustrophobia for some time. But the only part he balked at was climbing down the tight shafts. He was fine hanging out in the cave in general, and didn’t have much more trouble sleeping than the rest of us. Which is to say, he had trouble. But hey. Stiff upper lip and all that. The staff fed us well and organized hikes, contests and Bingo games to keep things going, and our troop is a good bunch of boys in most any conditions.

There was an arcade on the property, next to the dining hall, which became a hang out and a place to warm your bones. With pool tables, video games, an air hockey table and an old Husky dog, it was a typical Wisconsin tavern without the beer and smokes. At 10 am, the jukebox began playing Zep’s “Black Dog” and I had a cosmic vision–that across the state and indeed the entire Great Lakes region, “Black Dog” was likely blaring out of the jukebox in every other tavern, road house and supper club at that very instant!! Wow, dude!!! Such an epiphany sent a chill down my spine. Very 60s. Only this time it wasn’t caused by MDA but lack of REM. The sleep thing, not the band.

In the past few weeks, I have come to the conclusion that phlegm is without a doubt the most interesting bodily fluid. I cannot name one other type of secretion that is nearly as fascinating. First off, the stuff is just so damn sticky. Even in a completely new sink basin, it resists the pull of running water and hangs on like the “Alien” hanging off the back of the escape pod. NASA could work for years to develop an adhesive so flexible yet tenacious.

Secondly, its role as lung cop couldn’t be more effective. Now, in my case, I wish it would hurry up a bit, but I certainly do enjoy the satisfying machoness of a rasping cough that requires sending a projectile into the sink or onto the sidewalk. The art of spitting well (“loogie hocking,” “Launching greenies,” whatever your local colloquialism) eluded me as a kid. And as long as the coughing isn’t a result of smoking or black lung, I can stand it as long as those around me can. Which might not be long, but who has a choice?

Now, phlegm may be one of the four bodily humors, but I really don’t have anything humorous to say about it. It is sui generis, even down to its spelling. I respect it, I even admire it, as long as it is my own. Hail thee, Sputum! Long live phlegm!

Wife induces labor so husband can go to Bears game

It might have seemed like I disappeared from the blog because of too much shenanigans surrounding our favorite simian themed holiday. Like I got kidnapped, perhaps, or had too many banana daiquiris and passed out and woke up in a bathtub full of ice with one kidney missing and a nice note on the wash basin.

But those would all be just nice tours of the imagination (and is it just me, or have we really moved out of the Golden Era of Urban Myths?). What really happened was, we switched DSL carriers from MCI to ATT, so of course we were without connectivity for almost two weeks. Now, I could’ve gone to the library or a wifi cafe to keep up with things, but my wireless connectivity has been giving me fits since Sept. And you know why? I finally figured this out yesterday: I had struck the wireless switch by accident and turned it off. Ooooh, baby, call me Mr. On Top of Things.

Then of course, we were up at the cottage for 10 days or so, thoroughly enjoying the lack of connectivity up there. (I still didn’t know I had a little switch I needed to throw to leech off someone’s wifi.) It’s so very nice to blow off everything up there and pretend you’re stuck at an Antarctic substation, one full of food and liquor and friends and family. The isolation is so enjoyable that, after my brother and I finally figured out how to fix the poor TV reception after 9 years of ownership, it felt very strange to be able to see network TV again. I almost resented it, at least when I wasn’t watching the Bears lose to the Packers, and the Wolverines lose to the Trojans. Then I was glad for the pain, because it proved I was alive.

(It’s always great to start the new year watching the Wolverines act like football offense hasn’t evolved since 1962. Just once, I’d like to see them blow out their Pac-10 opponent, just so the Trojan marching band, which tries to look so cool with their shades while wearing their little gladiator outfits, can look a little more stupid.)

Now we’re back in town, with deadlines and scout meetings and carry-out Thai and all the rest of it. It feels mighty fine. Glad to have had Christmas, glad to be doing something useful again. Whatever that might be.

Well, apparently the essay I recorded for WBEZ’s “848” program was broadcast this morning. That’s such a fast turnaround that they didn’t have a chance to email me about it. I only recorded it yesterday, and my phlegm-hampered delivery left the producer with a complicated editing job. Or so I thought. But I already received two emails about it, so apparently it happened. “Yay,” he said, flatfootedly.

When the link is posted on BEZ’s website, I’ll put it here.

Number One Son went to his first school dance tonight. A Junior High dance.

I ain’t ready for this.

I trust everyone had a reasonably fine Thanksgiving, and without too much heavy obligation, found a lot of things to be thankful for. It really is such a nice holiday, it’s a shame that so many horrible travel stories accompany it. Our family has plenty to be thankful for, but you might be able to guess many of them. But you want to know what I’m really thankful for?

The Nerf Arsenal.

I’m so thankful for the Nerf Arsenal, and the pandemonium it brought to our house on Saturday night, that I can only attempt to describe it.

My son Liam, who’s now eleven, had a couple of the boys from his old school over on Saturday night for pizza and video games. The idea and impetus was actually mine, because I thought it would be a perfect night for it, and December would be too busy for everyone’s schedule. In the afternoon, Liam worked on setting up the television room for it, even checking the settings on the Gamecube so there wouldn’t be any memory problems or technical snafus.

Then he got out his Nerf Arsenal and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Mustering what he thought was a Schwarzenegger accent (like he’s seen many “Terminator” movies!), he greeted the boys at the door. They were stunned, “Wow, that’s the biggest gun I’ve ever seen!” For the rest of the night, allowing for respites in front of the TV, they ran around the house ambushing each other with orange foam projectiles and screaming and panting and laughing their heads off.

Why did all this chaos thrill me so much? Because Liam never has friends over unless it’s his birthday or something. Liam has Asperger’s Syndrome, which we diagnosed around his third birthday. For those of you who don’t know, Asperger’s is a form of autism that makes it hard to understand social situations. The best description I ever heard of it was that it’s like permanent culture shock, in which a person (usually a male) can’t really figure out why things happen as they do and how to keep himself involved in the interaction.

Asperger’s is a spectrum disorder, and not everyone is afflicted to the same extent. Liam is much, much better off than many with AS, and many people who meet him can overlook the condition completely. But I’ve seen him on his good days and bad, and I’m a worrier by nature anyway. For eight years, I’ve fretted about him–how he’s going to grow, how he’s going to function as a teen and adult, how much he’s going to get out of life, how much he’s going to enjoy himself.

So seeing him playing War with two other sixth graders–that’s about the best present I’m going to get this year.

When I bought him the Nerf Arsenal last year, my wife was reluctant. She’s not an incredible peacenik or anything, but the idea of these comically huge guns shooting missiles around her house made her a little uneasy. The trouble is, she never had a brother, and so doesn’t realize how much interaction and satisfaction men get from playing War. For Liam’s sake, I think any kind of interaction is worthwhile. And it looks like so far, I’m right.

So if you hear anybody this Christmas season get on their soapbox and spout off about how awful it is to sell toy guns, just remember that they can be very therapeutic, in a literal sense. It also helps the father, when he gets to shoot suction cup darts at the faces of football coaches on TV.

Thank you, Hasbro, for Nerf N-Strike, Action Blasters, and all your other fine squishy products!!

Fifteen years ago today, on a very frigid and windy Chicago day, my wife and I were married downtown. An intimate chapel in a larger, very beautiful church. Wearing my grandfather’s tuxedo from the 1920s. A wonderful ceremony that I can’t remember anything of. A rollicking reception at a restaurant around the corner. Dancing till all hours to the jump jazz of Dominic Bucci and the International Fingers. Tributes from performer friends during the band’s intermission. Never had a bite of food. Overserving the band quite a bit. Dancing the Batusi. Friends, family, and the official start of a beautiful life together. My brother said it was the best blues wedding he’d ever been to.

So we’re leaving the kids with my in-laws and taking a long weekend in San Francisco together.

It is indeed a wonderful life.

Three great things happened today. In no particular order:

1. I handed in my manuscript to my publisher.

2. Donald Rumsfeld resigned.

3. I got my iPod to work on my car receiver.

I was tempted to climb in bed at 4 pm, just so nothing could come along to wreck the day.

November is here. Probably the least appreciated month of the year, what with the dwindling daylight, the prospect of elections, somber Veteran’s Day, and that dutiful holiday called Thanksgiving. Don’t the calendar makers realize that every month should be fun fun FUN? Why are they keeping us from jumping straight from Halloween’s excesses to Christmas’ excesses?

Not convinced? Okay, here are some of the things we’re supposed to celebrate in November:

British Appreciation Month
Good Nutrition Month
National Alzheimer’s Disease Month
National Stamp Collecting Month
Religion and Philosophy Books Month
Peanut Butter Lover’s Month.

This dreary parade cannot even be saved by National Fig Week, which we are enjoying right now.

But I’m not letting it get me down. One reason is, I’m practically finished with the manuscript for my new book, which will eliminate a lot of tension around the house, at least until the weeks before publication in March. My editor and I have even agreed to a title, which is a long, boring story about which I may post sometime.

Another reason is, our TIVO is finally back and running, along with our DSL modem, cell phones, and dishwasher. Can you dispute the existence of gremlins at this time of year?

So it’s a good time to revisit my New Year’s resolutions and finally toe the line. One of those resolutions was, blog every day. This can still be accomplished, since I never designated a starting date. November 1 is as good a date as any, I guess.

Besides, Nov. 1 is also the birthday of the hydrogen bomb (1952) and the brassiere (1914).

Mich. OKs evolution curriculum

The State Board of Education on Tuesday approved public school curriculum guidelines that support the teaching of evolution in science classes–but not intelligent design.