Krappy Kristian Musik

Why is there so much bad, bad Christian music out there? Shudder,
SHUDDer, SHUUDDDDEEEERR.

So much of it is completely wrongly directed. A few weeks ago, we
sang . . . no--THEY sang, I stood there appalled . . . a song
entitled "You are Worthy of my Praise." I am not kidding. I wish I
were. It's as if the singer has weighed God, the Almighty, the Lord
of the Universe in the balance and found him not altogether
unworthy. "Yes, Lord, I suppose I can give you my benison."

SHUDD-DDD-DDD-DDDER.

Blech.

Unfortunately, this issue may be revisited. There's so, so much bad
stuff out there.

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What HE said . . .

This reading of Harry Potter puts it better than I ever, ever could.

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Penelope, while we were Discussing Our Legislature and the Roles of the House of Representatives and the Senate

"So talking to the Senate is like playing Mother May I! Expect you'd get in trouble for calling a senator "Mother" if she weren't your mother. Or if she were a man. {fits of giggles}"

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Transracial, International Adoption

I've been reading Outsiders Within: Writing on Transracial Adoption (q.v.). Not every article is thrilling, but there are a great many that I wish I had had to read before or while we were adopting our children. And there are a great many that I'm glad I read now, while we're in the process of raising those children.

I read a lot of blogs about adopting from Vietnam. I would encourage all of you to read a few of the articles. Even if you're utterly opposed to some of the conclusions (as am I), they provide invaluable food for thought. Further, they force you to recognize that some people are drawing the conclusions with which you disagree--and that's the first step to preparing for it.

In the best MLA fashion, I'll be providing annotations to some of the key articles over the next few weeks.

Thanks!

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What DO they think about?

A few weeks ago, in a sudden need to get some genuine work done, I let the kids watch Inspector Gadget. I know, I know--but I had a TON of ironing to do. I'm not proud of it . . . I don't do it too often (let them watch a purely entertaining, by no means education video, that is--I iron relatively frequently), and Amanda knows about it (which is not to say she approves). Anyway . . .

Today at lunch, I was reading a suspenseful book, and I used a deep, growly voice. Van pointed out that it was the same as the voice of the bad guy in Inspector Gadget. Powell supplied the name: "Yeah! Mr. Claw."

Without missing a beat, Penelope supplied, "That's Dr. Claw."

"I wonder where he got his degree?" I asked, trying to get back to the book at hand.

Penelope immediately said, "Oh, he has an M.D. He's not smart enough to get a Ph.D. And, after all, he doesn't have a head!"

Although my ego was nicely stroked (me with my hard-earned Ph.D.), I'm not sure our friends with M.D.s would appreciate that remark! For one thing, it was hard enough for me to get a Ph.D.--an attempt to get an M.D. would have sunk me forever!

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Comments on Vista's emulation of Macintosh software

"It's like Vladimir Horowitz playing the piano after putting socks on
his hands; you get a SENSE of the music, but the beauty, the fire,
the finesse is utterly absent."

I overheard this comment this morning . . . never mind that I heard
it coming out of my own mouth--it's still a good quote!

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Who is God's Dame?

We were a bit flummoxed when that question came up--it was a bit like
an old Art Linkletter program.

"You know--God's Dame. We're always praying 'Hallowed be Thy Dame.'"

After a bit of theological explanation, we were back on track.

It reminded us of the time Penelope was singing "Let All Things Now
Living." The lyrics read

Let all things now living a song of thanksgiving
To God the creator triumphantly raise.
Who fashioned and made us, protected and stayed us,
Who still guides us on to the end of our days.
God's banners are o'er us, His light goes before us,
A pillar of fire shining forth in the night.
Till shadows have vanished and darkness is banished
As forward we travel from light into light.

All was well, except the penultimate line. She was singing,

Till darkness has banished a river of Spanish.

And she was singing it with perfect sincerity! Let's hope that our
Spanish-speaking friends and neighbors didn't take offense.

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Blueberry Cobbler

Modesty is my strong suit. In fact, I'm one of the most modest
people I know!

Actually, it is generally true that I don't tend to praise myself or
my work. And I know it seems like I've been doing just that lately.

So I hesitate to mention it, but today's lunch was another
masterpiece. I made a dish the family is quite fond of--homemade
fried chicken strips. It sounds like chicken fingers, but it's a far
cry from anything you get in a typical restaurant. The secret (don't
tell anyone else this, all right?) is to double-dredge the strips.
First, you dip them in an egg-and-milk mixuture, then in the secret
mixture (keep this to yourself, okay?) of flour, matzo meal, salt,
pepper, mustard powder, and other secret ingredients (let's not let
too many disclosures spoil a friendship, shall we?)--then you dip in
the egg-and-milk and the secret mixture AGAIN, and then you shallow-
pan fry them until they are crisp and golden. The children love them
plain; I love them in a sandwich with a bit of mayo, a lot of fresh,
thickly-sliced beefsteak tomato, some pepper (ah, pepper!), some
spinach, and a splash of French's yellow mustard (q.v.).

That was lovely, but what made everything so marvelous was the
BLUEBERRY COBBLER we made. For the most part, I followed this
receipt--but it needed a bit of modification. For example, we don't
have an 8x8 glass pan, so I melted the butter in a bowl and poured it
in our metal 8x8er. I also think there's not quite enough topping--
next time, I'll do 1.5x the amount of topping. We were also out of
vanilla extract (which is what I assume they meant by "Vanilla
flavoring), so I had to pour some kirschwasser in our old Penzey's
vanilla bottle (which still had the beans in it), swish it around for
a while, and then use that.

When it was done, we let it rest for an hour, which helped the
berries solidify. It was heavenly. I mean HEAV-EN-LEEEEE! We ate
it with a touch of vanilla ice cream. Oh, my. What a summer!

One of the things I like best about the recipe is that it is SO VERY
SIMPLE. It doesn't mess around with corn starch or anything tricky--
just good old fashioned butter.

And don't be afraid to use the butter, folks! Let's face it--how
often do you make blueberry cobbler? When you make it, go ahead and
make it right! No margarine . . . it would turn out horrible. Make
it the right way and blast the consequences!

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http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/recipe_views/views/15052

The Perfect Summer Dinner

Two nights ago, we had the most stupendous summer meal we've ever had.

I can't pinpoint the centerpiece of the meal. I think it must have
had four centerpieces, separate but equal, divisible in theory but
inseparable in practice. Of this meal, we must neither confound the
parts nor divide the substance.

First, the steak. It was a flank steak, locally raised. The
marinade was simple in the extremest way--just a bit of olive oil,
garlic, salt and pepper. It was grilled to a delicate somewhere-
between-rare-and-medium-rare and sliced thin.

Next, the fresh tomato salad. Again, simplicity. Locally grown,
perfectly ripe, summer tomatoes, sprinkled with the tiniest sprinkle
of salt, a fuller amount of pepper, and a bit of olive oil (the good
kind) and red wine vinegar (the cheap kind--but not the kind that can
go wrong). The tomatoes were topped with fresh mozzarella--
stunningly fresh . . . just perfect. Then freshly-torn basil (you
never want to use a knife on basil) from our own window boxes was
tossed on top. Just magnificent.

The grill also produced the bread. It was fresh ciabatta bread
grilled (and I was proud of the lovely grill marks on the bread this
time) to perfection--with exactly the right shade of dark brown
around the square outside of the bread.

A red wine finished off the delightful meal. That wasn't exactly
local--it was an Australian Syrah--but it fit well with everything else.

What a stunner of a meal! It was the essence of summer. We ate it
on the back porch, and the weather cooperated with us for a change:
we hit the only high-of-eighty day in a week of highs-in-the-mid-
nineties.

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Astonishing Menu Item

Today at lunch, I threw together something amazing.

I'm in charge of the kids this week--Amanda has taken on a part-time
job, and she's able to go to work for some full days this summer why
I prepare for the fall semester. Sometimes, meal planning happens
half an hour before the meal. Fortunately, Amanda is an astonishing
cook, and there are often scads of scrumptious leftovers around.

Today, the remnants of the flank steak we had last night (more on
that astonishing meal later!) formed the center of our lunch.

I took some slightly-stale ciabatta bread, split and toasted it, and
thought.

Then I melted some butter in a small saucepan. Yes, butter. Real
butter. More than half a stick.

I thought some more. Mainly, I thought about garlic . . . but our
kids (Penelope in particular) are going through a "YAAAA! THAT'S TOO
SPICY" stage when a dish has a tiny bit more SALT than they like, so
I thought against it.

Instead, I added shredded parmesan cheese--not even the good kind
(though certainly not the stuff in the green can, folks)--and semi-
melted it. It gave the butter a parmesan essence that was thrilling--
and the strands of semi-melted parmesan sprinkles were delightful.

So . . . we spooned that over the toasted bread, added thin slices of
steak, thick slices of home-grown tomatoes, and a touch of
pepper . . . and we had a heavenly lunch.

Now we're off to the soccer field so that Daddy can burn off some of
those astonishingly-delicious calories!

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Study Theology

I took a "Which Theologian are you" quiz, and the results are
interesting.

You scored as Anselm, Anselm is the outstanding theologian of the medieval period.He sees man's primary problem as having failed to render unto God what we owe him, so God becomes man in Christ and gives God what he is due. You should read 'Cur Deus Homo?' Anselm 100% John Calvin 67% Martin Luther 67% Jonathan Edwards 67% Jürgen Moltmann 53% Augustine 47% Karl Barth 47% Paul Tillich 33% Friedrich Schleiermacher 27% Charles Finney 20% Which theologian are you? created with QuizFarm.com

The results are a little surprising. I'm only 2/3 J.C. and M.L.? I wonder if I misinterpreted some of the questions.

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Omage (Omlettes?) to Magritte

You've all seen this:



Magritte's famous painting of an egg declaring itself not to be an egg.

Observe how deeply pervasive this layering (ha!) of realities reflecting artificial realties has become in the post-post-postmodern age. I discovered this in our fridge this morning:



Admittedly, I had placed it there myself the night before . . . but all the same!

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Overheard

Boy One (after Boy Two had kicked him in the bum): You know, you're mean.

Boy Two: I am not mean! [Kick**Punch**Chop**Kick!]

I tried to explain that Boy Two's approach wasn't the most logical way to convince his opposition of the truth of his claim. He didn't necessarily appreciate my intervention or see my point of view, but at least he stopped trying to maul the other kid!

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Summer Reading: Mini-Review

The Last Chinese Chef by Nicole Mones.

Even though this is a pretty predictable, light read, and even though it's heavy-handed at times, it is an idea book for contemplating some of the differences between Eastern and Western approaches to food and eating.

The story is about a widow who needs to travel to China to settle an issue involving her late husband's estate--he's some sort of international lawyer who traveled to a law firm in China from time to time. She's a food writer, and she agrees to take on an assignment while she's there. Her job is to interview a young, up-and-coming Chinese-American chef who has returned to China to open a restaurant that will cook dishes in the old ways.

Along the way, the novel quotes from an imaginary books entitled The Last Chinese Chef, authored by the narrator's grandfather (or great-grandfather--I've lost track of that detail); in that work, the proper (Eastern) approach to food and cooking is articulated.


At one point, the reviewer is doubting that there's that much difference between East and West in terms of the way they eat. The chef says something like, "Are you kidding? You plate! We never plate!" In addition to this trilling use of plate as a verb, he's right. Amanda and I had a good conversation about the communal nature of eating in Eastern nations v. the private, "this is mine; that is yours" mentality of many meals in the West.

We wondered if that was entirely a cultural thing . . . what if a person has an aversion to sharing food (as many do)? Does that person just adapt? Or can he or she somehow avoid communal eating?

All in all, a fun novel. Give it a try--but don't expect too much from it.

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And . . . they're off!

After three and a half years of frustration, confusion, bureaucracy,
and technical difficulties, Rasputin and Tabitha (together with their
two children Khol and Rumaldo) are leaving to adopt the two-year-old
girl (Phoebe) God has provided them.

Wishing you all the best (while using those ridiculous pseudonyms to
maintain your privacy) on your trip to Vietnam,

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Wait . . . What was that Operation for?

I love our boys. The other day, Van asked (while we were brushing
our teeth--a complete non sequitur), "What are our testicles for?"

Formulating an appropriate answer in my mind, I wisely and profoundly
began, "Um . . . ." Fortunately or unfortunately, Powell interrupted:

"We don't have any!" he shouted.

"What?" I asked. "Sure you do."

"No," Powell insisted. "We had them out."

[In the meantime, Van is shouting, "Yes, we do! Yes, we do!" and
attempting to demonstrate with oracular proof the veracity of his
claim.]

"No, dear. You had an operation to correct a condition called
hydroseal, but they didn't remove your testicles."

"Yes, they did! You remember! I ate a lot of ice cream and it was
incredibly hot!"

Finally, it all clicked. "Oh, honey," I said, "those were your
TONSILS. They took out your TONSILS, not your testicles."

Powell thought about this for a while (while Van was pointing and
saying, "See? See? We have them!") and finally said, "Oh. That's
right."

Then he added, a little wistfully, " I didn't have ice cream for the
other operation."

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What I Wouldn't Dare Tell Amanda

One of the wonderful restaurants that served us during our recent anniversary getaway (the first in seven (!) years) had an Italian sausage risotto on the menu. I ordered it because I wanted something relatively filing, and the artichoke salad didn't seem able to manage that.

It was good. Quite good. Amanda liked it very much.

But I don't dare tell her what it reminded me of. That sausage risotto--at a nice, not-too-expensive-but-not-cheap-either restaurant--tasted exactly like the filling for Jeno's Pizza Rolls.

I don't know if I should think less of the restaurant for this or give more credit to Jeno's for filling the pizza rolls so authentically.

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Harry Potter Predictions

We're all anxiously awaiting _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.
Those of us who cannot afford iPhones are putting even more of our
emotional stock in this attainable goal.

I should have posted this many years ago, when it first occurred to
me. But . . . I've been quite busy, and, somehow, this has taken a
back seat. All the same, I wanted to post it before the publication
of Book Seven so that I can be vindicated as being the first to
predict this in print (or electronic media, at any rate).

Actually, I'm posting an extract from an e-mail I sent to a former
colleague who has thought deeply about Harry Potter and _Harry
Potter_. If you happen upon this, former colleague, please forgive
the repetition. I'm sure you understand the necessity of saving time
in this manner!

The only theory I have (and am willing to make public) about the last
book in the series concerns Horcruxes. It's actually an etymological
theory, and it may not be directly addressed, but I feel certain in
my own mind that it must be so. Just as the horrible curse "avada
cadavra" has a Muggle-English equivalent that has suffered, over many
years, from metathesis and B-V substitution, in the comical stage
magician's "abracadabra," we will learn that the making of Horcruxes
involves an incantation containing another ME (not, note, Middle
English, but Muggle-English) equivalent: "Hocus-Pocus."

That's all! It may not seem like much, but it shows the detail and
depth of the world that Rowling has so generously created for us to
romp around in.

Thanks!

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Dear Sir: A Letter Poem

Dear Sir:

I sincerely apologize, for I fear I may have misled you.

When I said that you were one of our nation's shining wits, I was
committing a spoonerism.

Sincerely,

Django Sexton

Someone tell me . . .

Where do my children pick these things up? Right now--now, now . . .
very now!--they are all three marching around the house singing the
following lyric:

Shoo, fly, lobotomy!
Shoo, fly, lobotomy!
Shoo, fly, lobotomy!
Shoofly--lobotomy!

I don't recall using the word "lobotomy" at any point, and we didn't
watch _One Flew Over the Coo-coo's_ nest with the children at any time.

Egad.

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Dear Blog:

We never talk anymore. I wish we could go back to the way things
were. This silence scares me . . . hurts me. Oh, I live in anguish!

But you--you never wear your heart on your sidebar as I do on my
sleeve. So how can I know what you think--what you know--what you
will never know?

Write back--please. I hope we can work this out.

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Groundhog Schmoundhog!

Since the dawn of time, people in our part of the world have looked for a way to determine when winter will end. Recent archeological evidence has pointed toward one means of their doing so . . .

Snowhenge.

These mysterious, age-old structures were discovered recently, but they may date to the beginning of winter here--a time too long ago to be reckoned accurately. Carbon-dating procedures have proved useless with these structures.

As the sun sets over the monolithic structures, our early ancestors would wait and watch anxiously, finding the answers they sought.

When will winter end?


The picture below seems to tell the answer. "Never," whispers the cold, otherwise-silent wind . . . .

Creative Children are Delightful . . . and Creative Play is Very Messy

This weekend brought a lot of snow, a lot of playing in the snow, and a lot of shivering under blankets after becoming drenched in the snow. I suppose that’s why I thought it would be a good idea to introduce the kids to a Looney Tunes cartoon.

We try to avoid gun-related entertainment in our house, so they’ve only seen two such cartoons—“Baton Bunny,” in which Bugs Bunny is a conductor and things go haywire, and “One Froggy Evening,” in which a singing frog torments its finder. This weekend, it was time to go for “Rabbit of Saville.” In that cartoon, Bugs is chased by Elmer J. Fudd, the Hunter, and they stumble on the set for the opera Barber of Saville, and hilarity ensues.

We watched it three times—always with the proviso that we should recognize that we would never shoot a gun at another sentient being.

And what do our dear children decided to do after the viewing is over? Shave each other? Cut each other’s hair? Nope.

In one scene, Bugs suddenly dons a green turban, plays a recorder (or clarinet) and, like a snake charmer, urges an electric razor to rise from a basket and chase the irate Elmer all over the set.

That’s what they wanted to do. They found a piece of plastic . . . well, they badgered me until I found them an appropriate piece of plastic . . . that looked, roughly, like an electric razor; they tied a long series of strings (mostly shoelaces) together; they found a basket and a recorder-like instrument, and spent many hours charming it out of its basket and getting it to chase the other children over the house.

It was a riot.

I don’t even begrudge them the time it took me to track down my shoelaces and to re-lace my shoes this morning!

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Horrible, Horrible . . . oh, Most Horrible! Flu!

The Evil Death Flu struck me down this past week. This is a bad one. I was in bed with a fever around and over 102 for three days! Hence, no posts. That's all!

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The Most Romantic Moive of the Year . . .

. . . said the reviewer for The New York Times. Humph.

About which film, you ask? Well, Three Times, directed by Hsiao-hsien Hou (q.v.).

Whatever else the film may be, it's a certain downer for Valentine's Day. The three stories are sort of about love, but only the first one carrries any deep romantic feeling--and that is almost entirely nostalgic.

The playlist, on the other hand, was a great success! After getting the preliminary Dylan, Clapton, and Beatles out of the way, Amanda started gasping, "Oh, I love this song!" and dancing around the kitchen as we prepared our magnificent meal. Because our attempt with the film took some time (we had already watched the first story, and we thought stories two and three might turn out better), we didn't get through the entire playlist, but that was all right.

Next up, planning for Amanda's birthday . . . one week from today!

Wish me luck . . . and mop those floors, fellas! I'm tellin' ya!

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What's on your Valentine's Day Plate?

The key to a successful Valentine's Day, said the sage, is knowing what women want. Chaucer had one idea (cf. Wife of Bath), Shakespeare had several others (cf. everything he ever wrote), and Dorothy Parker had quite a different one. Two difficulties are uppermost in their declarations:

1. They're all men. Well, Dorothy Parker wasn't, but . . . . All right--scrap number one.

2. They didn't know Amanada.

High on the list of things that inspire love and affection in our marrage is . . .

a clean house!

Honestly, men. Take note. It's not just Amanda, either. Women, can I get an amen?

Amen!

Thanks, women.

Accordingly, I got up extremely early (and, as I usually get up between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m., I mean extremely early) and, as quietly as possible (beacause another essential ingredient is happily-sleeping children), I cleaned the entire downstairs from top to bottom, including mopping the floors. It all sparkled--from the cabinets (which we'll never be able to afford to replace but which aren't that bad) to the countertop (which seems to get uglier every year, but which we'll never be able to replace either).

Back in college, I used to make mix tapes for all my romantic interests (which were many and copius and were seldom returned . . . neither the love nor the tapes, I mean), but I havn't done that for years. The last mix CD I made was for a very close friend who was dying of cancer--he said it's one thing everyone does when they learn you're fighting cancer . . . the mix CDs came by the hundreds!

The mix tape has, over time, changed to the mix CD. Now, it's the mix iPod playlist. Since my post about a sensual (and alphabetical) string of songs, I've been putting together a lovely list for us. Penelope is going to a friend's house for dinner, and Powell and Van are off to their long-time babysitter's apartment for what we're calling a dinner party. They're very excited.

So are Amanda and I! We get four or five hours to ourselves in our own home cooking what we most want to eat and listening to lovely music. Ah, the transports of delight brought on by a house in which every noise is one you make yourself!

I've inserted a photo of the playlist in question above. If you click on it, it will enlarge to legible proportions, letting you see the variety in genre, length, group, and age (but with some notable repeats). Below, I intend to add some commentary on the songs (after a brief meeting that starts in three minutes).

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“I Want You” by Bob Dylan

I’m a big Dylan fan, though Amanda is not. Because of her diffidence, I’ve created a “Dylan” genre on the iPod so that we can have Folk (but not Dylan), Folk Rock (without Dylan), and Rock (sans Dylan). Because Amanda isn’t thrilled by Bob, I’m putting this song first. Again, it’s a light number—one that sets the tone for the rest of the playlist.

“I’ll Make Love To You Anytime” by Eric Clapton

Clapton and Knopfler are two of the very best Rock ‘n’ Roll guitarists working today. Clapton has speed; Knopfler has tone. Clapton is best in a blues genre; Knopfler can play just about anything. It’s hard for me to listen to a Clapton song that I don’t like; I don’t like some of Knopfler’s songs (“Sailing to Philadelpha” is a particularly egregious example), but I’ll listen to anything he plays in just to hear the tone of his guitar.

“I Want To Tell You” by The Beatles

Another fairly light, poppy love song. Because it is the Beatles, though, even a song like this has unimaginable style.

“Stay” by Alison Krauss

Amanda loves Alison. Her voice is extraordinary. I’ll even listen to her sing “Ghost in this House”—an otherwise maudlin number—because of that voice!

“Très Très Chic” by Mocean Worker

This is a late addition. I liked the minimal sound here, as well as the nice beat. And I happen to think Amanda is très, très, très chic!

“Via Con Me” by Paolo Conte

If you haven’t watched the movie Mostly Martha, go watch it now. Go. Watch. It. Now.

Here’s a quick link to the movie information.

One of the most delightful films we’ve seen. Do not see this film on an empty stomach. Plan to eat good food after watching it. Don’t (I’m pretty sure) wait for the Hollywood remake (tentatively entitled No Reservations!).

All that seems irrelevant until you realize that this song is from the film, and it’s a lovely number.

More comments to come—I need to head home to help out!

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Why you should Never Leave your Gym Bag in the Car Overnight when the Low Temperature is Colder than Minus Ten

1. Your shampoo will freeze solid. If you're lucky, you'll have a small bottle with a tiny bit left in it, which you can then thaw by adding a bit of hot water. It will still be cold, but, at least, it will come out of the bottle.

2. If your towel was just the slightest bit wet, it will freeze into a solid board. If you're lucky, you'll be able to thaw it by putting it on the hand / hair dryer provided by your gym.

3. The soap will be very, very cold. In fact, it will be rather like an ice cube. Fortunately, it will warm up pretty quickly in the shower.

3. Deodorant. Erk. You can't run hot water over it . . . it will melt if you put it on the hair dryer . . . it will become mushy if you take it in the shower. You'll just have to bear it, which is not--in any way--pleasant. B.r.r.r.r.r.r.

4. You'll have to wait to brush your teeth until later. Frozen toothpaste simply will not come out of the tube.

I'm sure there are additional reasons, but I'm too cold to consider them at present.

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Blogtrophy

Blogtrophy. n. 1. What happens when a Blog is zipping along nicely, slows down, and stops. 2. An award for the best blog. Uses: I posted every day for a week, but blogtrophy set in. I'll never win a Blogtrophy at this rate. [N.B. In the fashion of "Oscar," Blogtrophy (sense 2) is always capitalized.

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The Tie in Question

I'm not sure anyone would find that tasteful. Except the people who gave it to me. I suppose I'm going out on a limb with this--I'm hoping they're not reading this or that they don't recognize or remember the tie.

In any case, thank goodness for sweaters, eh?

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Fever

Our family is flashing back to this summer--to the few days after the boys had their tonsils removed. Oi, that was a terrible time. They both had fevers galore, they were both in terrible pain, they both refused to drink (though Van is much better than Powell on that score), and they had a very difficult time taking their medicine. Oh, and we were up every night just about hourly with one, the other, both, or all three kids.

Last week, Powell had a high fever for a few days. Other than increased whineyness and an intense desire to watch Larryboy and the Bad Apple ad naseum, it wasn't so bad. This week, Van caught it, and he's been really sick. He's had a higher fever for longer--the doctor says we should just wait it out, making sure he drinks enough not be dehydrated. But it's been hard.

This morning, Van woke up with the fever. I thought he had given it to Powell, but it appears that something new (and worse) has struck our house.

I hope for two things to be different from the last time the two were so sick.

1. Last time, the temperature was over one hundred degrees, and our air conditioner simply stopped.

2. Last time, Amanda had to go to the emergency room in the middle
of the night because of a terrifyingly painful kidney stone. Yes, that was a picnic. All three kids screaming, mommy doubled over in pain, no AC in 100+ temperatures. Whew.

Well, today, the high is expected to be -2, so the AC won't be an issue. Murphy, of course, says that the furnace will go out. We'll just have to trust and pray that he's wrong!

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Separated at Birth: David Smalls (Bassist of Spinaltap) and Our Snowman

It didn't start out that way, but it ended up there! Alas, the snowman is no more, having been attacked by some neighborhood kids with a part of our gutter--they were, apparently, learning to joust in the middle of the night. I didn't save any pictures of the carnage.

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Far too Sensual

The latest set of songs is not to be listened to with a weak will. It's simply far too sensual! We start out, innocuously enough, with an old Beatles song: “I Want to Tell You.” We’re then brought a notch further along with a Dylan song—“I Want You.” That song is a nice, light one—lots of references we don’t get (who is the guilty undertaker?), but the overall feeling is one of joyous desire.

A darker side develops with the Costello number—intense jealousy combined with past experiences drive that lengthy, thrilling number.

One song (at least) was left off Bob Dylan’s 30th Anniversary Concert Celebration—Sophie B. Hawkins’ “I Want You.” Perhaps she had already released it on her own album and didn’t want competition . . . perhaps the lawyers got their hooks into it in some way. Whatever the case, Hawkins’ cover is pretty good—even though it is transparently designed to manipulate our sexual emotions. The concert itself is mostly people playing guitars in a decidedly-unflashy fashion. Sophie B. Hawkins is the exception. She wanders about, gradually taking off a trench coat and a hat and so on. I like it because it seems so clumsy and naïve, not because it is particularly sexy. In any case, it’s a sensual song (even if we see through its intentions).

Coming back to the Beatles, we hit the last song on Side A of Abbey Road. Lyrically speaking, minimal, the song is astonishing. The stormy ending is remarkable. The song has the storminess of the emotions it’s attempting to capture. I always expect a pause (while turning over the album)—and then “Here Comes the Sun.” A welcome relief from the wonderfully-loud turmoil of the end of “I Want You.”

Instead, we get an old Jazz number—Louis Jordan’s “I Want You to be my Baby” followed by Over the Rhine’s “I Want You to be my Love.”

The next song keeps us in the mood—Nat King Cole singing “I was a Little too Lonely (and you were a Little too Late)” is a fine revenge song.

We jump out of the mood with the last number . . . but it has the benefit of being the only Rock song I know to employ the phrase “laissez-faire”:

“In the first bar, things were ‘stop and stare’;
In this bar, things were ‘laissez-faire.’”

All in all, a very nice alphabetical experience!

ds

p.s. I should affix a warning—this will stir you up. I was listening to it while walking around the gym at five o’clock in the morning—among others who look like me: unattractive people sweating in a not-particularly-pleasing way. Yet everyone started to look much more desirable midway through this playlist.

One (of many) iPod Thoughts

The iPod’s importance in our household . . . well, my life . . . cannot be overstated. Without it, life would be like spending a fortnight with Nietzsche in pajamas. Whose PJs? Either one—it doesn’t matter.

In college, I used to listen to my roommate’s cassette tapes (does that let you know when I when to college?) once a year—in alphabetical order. He religiously kept them in alphabetical order, and it was partly to mock that that I did so. But it was also a test of manhood . . . particularly when one had to go straight from Kenny G to Keith Green.

{Shudder}

The iPod makes such an endeavor much easier—and it makes otherwise incomprehensible and inconceivable things possible. For example, stress has prevented me from wanting to listen to anything in particular—I don’t want to make any decisions that complicated! I’ve been listening—in alphabetical order—to my big list of most of my music (later, I’ll reveal what genres are left out of the list). I’ve been skipping a great deal—anything I don’t feel like at that time is axed—but I’ve been staying to the alphabet.

As a result, I ran across this nifty little set of songs . . . they worked really well together. Take a look (and, if you have these songs, have a listen).

“Honey Don't” by The Beatles
“Honey Now” by Gillian Welch
“Honey Pie” by The Beatles
“Honey, Are You Straight or Are You Blind?” by Elvis Costello
“Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance” by Bob Dylan
“Honeysuckle Blue” by Drivin 'N' Cryin
“Honeysuckle Rose” by Canadian Brass
“Honeysuckle Rose” by Django Reinhardt
“Honeysuckle Rose (A Jam Session At Victor)” by Fats Waller
“Honeysuckle Rose (A La Bach-Beethoven-Brahms-Waller) (Piano Solo)” by Fats Waller
“Honeysuckle Rose (Take #1)” by Fats Waller
“Honeysuckle Rose (Take #2)” by Fats Waller
“Honga Encore” by Itzhak Perlman


All right. By the third “Honeysuckle Rose,” I was ready to move on—but the rest mixed incredible nicely!

Ah, the iPod! Ah.

Am I? I'm Not . . . am I?

A month or two ago, I asked my library to purchase Star Trek: The Annimated Series. I didn't think they would--they have this nasty habit of writing nasty notes about my purchase requests, and they'd already rejected my request for seasons three through seven of Star Trek: The Next Generation (they already have seasons one and two, which aren't that great).

They bought it. It came in one week ago. I picked it up. Since then, I've been plagued by them. They are really neat. I keep watching bits of them in my spare time, which I don't have. I keep putting off grading, class prep., personal hygiene, et cetera so that I can watch them.

I suppose I have become a Trekkie. Yay.

You should, by the way, get your library to buy these. There are twenty-two episodes with the voices of most of the original cast. Poor Checkov got left out for some reason, though he did write one episode.

They're perfect. They're lovely. I'm going to show them to the kids, though Amanda is probably going to kill me. I'll wait until she's napping! Hee, hee.

A giddy Trekkie who is not entirely embarrassed . . . or entirely comfortable . . . with that label,

ds

Blogfectionism

The difficulty is finding the time. No, it's finding the time and finding the thoughts. No. It's finding the time, finding the thoughts, overcoming the fear, writing it out, and posting it. But, in all that, the difficulty is perfectionism. Less perfection (but not a ton less) and more composition. That's it.

ds