Seven Red

The last couple of days, Ellie’s been coming home from daycare with actual writing that she’s done. Well, writing out individual words, but still. I’m impressed. Her latest effort seems to be focused on the letter U, as the assembled words make clear: bud, nut, cut, mud. I would have started with A, but maybe they covered that and I missed it. We also noticed that one of the words seems to be RUM, and that the theme itself seems to have to do with rum as well, or at least drinking in general. You have your cup, your mug, and even your jug. Come to think of it, the other words could fit into a drinking theme, too: you’re at the hub, some nut’s around, at least two people get cut (one of whom’s your bud), you end up in the mud, and then you have to take the bus. Sounds like a fun Friday night. Ah, I’m proud of her.

Ellie and I also just got through the 8th volume (out of 8 ) in the Judy Moody series. Let me tell you, Judy Moody is a world class pain in the ass. As a character, I mean. The books are really meant for second and third graders to read, I think, but Ellie digs ‘em as bedtime stories one or two chapters at a time, so I oblige her, and now I know more about Judy, Stink, Rocky, Frank Pearl, Jessica Finch, and even Amy Namey than, to be quite honest, I ever really cared to. It’s a lot of friggin’ pages of this stuff!

In other news, Rafe goes straight for the Bergson. I’d stick with Judy Moody.

Is this really going to be a weather post? A weather post? No. I guess I shouldn’t do that, not least because it really means we’ve hit bottom on subject matter – the worst kind of uncomfortable small talk: “Cold enough for ya?” Yeah, well. But it is winter, finally, after a mild November, so we’re just hoping to get our trips off OK out of the sucking pit of O’Hare. We have quite a few. The whole fam will fly to Albany, and from there the short drive to Schoharie to see Granny and everyone else. Then we drive to Queens, spend some time with the NYC famiglia, then back to Schoharie. Then she and the kiddos make the solo flight back to Chicago, while yours truly takes the Amtrak to Philadelphia, where I have some – ahem – business to take care of. No, not that kind. The other side of the table kind. The asking the questions kind. Should be interesting. Then I fly back to O’Hare, and then it’s New Years. So, winter, finally. I suddenly remembered that we’re leaving from Midway.

Has this been pointless enough for you? Good. Because it was all a thin ruse, a mere delivery device for these adorable pictures of the kiddos in and around various signifiers of the season.

Scene 1: me at computer, actually typing up the grocery list. she folding laundry on the sofa.

she: Hey, on the April baby boards, one person has a kid named Wolfgang.
topspun: I like that.
she: Yeah, Wolfie.
topspun (being pedantic, as per usual): Volfie.
she: Yeah, Volfie.
topspun: I once knew a guy named Helmut.
she: What’s short for Helmut?
topspun: Nothing. If a man’s name is Helmut, you best damn well call him Helmut.

Scene 2: About 2:30 Friday afternoon, me walking out on to back deck to take a writing break; three gangbanger dudes who moved in next door about two weeks ago walking down their back stairs.

topspun (making eye contact, lifts hand in greeting): What’s up, man.
gangbanger dude (looking genuinely surprised and delighted to finally be addressed by whiteboy neighbor): Hey man! (holds up a twelve pack of Modelo). You want a beer?
topspun: Nah. I’m working. Thanks, though.
gangbanger dude: Cool, man.

Scene 3: Jewel-Osco at Foster and Pulaski, check out line.

ellie: I want to press the button. Hey, I can’t reach it!
she: OK, but wait until the lady is done scanning all the groceries.
ellie: I know, but I want to press it!
cashier in next aisle (to Ellie): Do you have enough money for all those groceries?
ellie: I wasn’t talking to you.

It’s getting a little heavy in here, I’ll admit, so I want to lighten the mood a little with story time. Every night, as part of the going-to-bed ritual, I have to tell Ellie a story. Note that I didn’t say I have to read her a story. No. I have to make up a story for her, on the spot. So, a few of the story series:

1) The Good Witch – The Good Witch stories always start off the same way. Ellie is watching TV with her daycare friends (Elliot, Gwendolyn, Zoe, Sadie, and MaeBelle), when the Good Witch comes on the television and proposes some adventure. Ellie and her friends have to help out some other kid in trouble in some part of the world. So, in one, they brought water across the desert to a village. In another, they saved a town from a giant snake. And the like. They always get to the place by saying the place name three times, and get back by saying “Chicago Chicago Chicago.”

2) Brooklyn Stories – These are a subset of the Good Witch stories. Rather than have a different kid-who-needs-help and place for each one, however, all these stories take place in Brooklyn, and involve the same kid and antagonist. Ellie has requested these almost non-stop since we got back from our trip. They start off with the Good Witch coming on TV, as per usual. The kid-who-needs-help is their friend in Brooklyn, Pinky McCoy, who has a green-haired dog named Punkrock. Pinky is plagued by the Meanest Boy in Brooklyn, a little jerk named Meanie Meanie Roger Marini, who is constantly stealing her shit and otherwise effing with her. How is he the meanest boy in Brooklyn? One time, he jackhammered the sidewalk so no kids could ride their bikes. One time, he stole all the balls in town and sunk them in the Hudson River, so no kids could play ball. One time, he glued the doors of the aquarium shut so no kids could see the fish. But he’s got a special vendetta against Pinky McCoy. In one story, he kidnapped all her dogs, including Punkrock. Another time he flooded her basement and put a shark in it. They funneled it out with the help of the New York Aquarium, which didn’t particularly like Meanie Meanie Roger Marini anyway, on account of the door-gluing incident. And etc. Each time, the kids have to say “Brooklyn Brooklyn Brooklyn,” at which point they are transported magically to Pinky McCoy’s house, where they solve some problem caused by Roger Marini. When they’ve solved the problem (for instance, rescuing Pinky’s tent so they can camp out in her yard), Roger Marini always says “Drat! Foiled again!” Ellie loves saying this. One more twist to the Brooklyn series. After they’ve foiled Roger Marini, Ellie insists that they all visit Aunt Allison and Zio Fredo’s apartment, at which point Ellie has to recount what happened to Aunt Allison (which turns out to be a nice little test in comprehension), and then has chocolate milk made for her by Zio Fredo: first you pour the milk, then you squirt the syrup…and then what? “Stir! Stir! Stir!” Two weeks of these.

3) Stuffed Animal Series – Then there are the stories deriving from Ellie’s stuffed animals. First, the Gypo the Giraffe stories. Gypo is sitting at home one day, when he suddenly gets a call from his friend DeeDeeDee the Lion. There’s going to be a dance party at the townhall! But poor Gypo doesn’t know how to dance! First he watches a dance show on television, but when he sees the people dancing he says “I…..don’t like that dance!” then he watches a dance movie DVD. “I…..don’t like that dance!” So he goes to the movies to learn to dance from a movie in the theater. But he doesn’t like that dance either (you always have to say “I…..don’t like that dance!”). He goes to a ballet studio. “I…..don’t like that dance!” He goes to a dancehall. “I…..don’t like that dance!” But finally, it’s time to go to the dance party at the townhall. He meets DeeDeeDee the Lion and Ellie, and then the music starts. He didn’t like any of the dances by themselves, so he combines them all together, at which point DeeDeeDee says “I…..don’t like that dance!” There’s a variation in which he pays a dance instructor, but doesn’t have enough money, so he goes to work at various businesses in the neighborhood. When he comes back with the money, the dance instructor informs him that he already knows how to dance, because that’s what he’s been doing all day: Gypo’s dance is sweeping and folding, and watching dishes, Mr. Miyagi-style, and so forth. Then there are the Henry the Parrot stories, in which a city parrot always longs to fly to South America, but makes some mistake that prevents it, like trying to follow Canadian Geese south for the winter only to learn it is spring, and they are flying back north. Then there are the Slippo the Hippo stories. Slippo is an entrepreneur who makes the best tasting mud pies ever, so Ellie gets the back story on how he got the recipe and ingredients together, like when he met a little man who lived in a tree who made the best cocoa in the whole world. On and on like this.

What I’ve learned: It’s pretty goddamn hard to make up a new story every night.

More on the Brooklyn trip later. For now, just some pics of babygirl killing time while we brunched it up with the famiglia.

On Saturday we took a trip down to the Taste of Lincoln Avenue festival. Luckily, we ate before we left, so there was nothing much to do but drink beer and bump into too-rich twenty-somethings. Oh, and the Kids Carnival.

  she and Ellie have quite the conversation on the El.

  But Ellie wasn’t really happy until she got to go down the giant slides.

   But that wore her out, which of course meant it was time for…more beer!

  This is the part of the story where the kids are asleep so I’m standing around drinking beer.

Then back on the train, Rafe in tow.

I received a nice present from Ellie yesterday. Trying to get Rafe to go to sleep, I left a book on the table; it had about thirty flag stickers identifying relevant passages. When I came back with a still-crying Rafe, Ellie handed me the flag stickers in a bunch, removed from the pages. “Here, Daddy,” she said. “I think you need these.”

Why, thank you, sweetie. That shouldn’t be hard to reconstruct!

Note to self: don’t leave books unattended.

So for about six weeks Ellie has been into finding money that we’ve left around the house and hoarding it in a little wooden box. Well, we said, we’re going to get you a piggy bank. Of course, because doing that is out of our usual routine, weeks and weeks go by with only the promise of a piggy bank, kinda like the promise of a moderately useful banking system in the US. Then I go on this trip to Davis, CA for the inimitable Computers & Writing conference, and suddenly find myself in the Sacramento airport not having bought the kids a promised present. The last time this happened I had to go get a present at Target and pretend I had gotten it during my trip. That wasn’t going to happen again. So I go into the airport gift shop, ready to be robbed blind for some tourist trinket, and what do I see staring me in the face but a tiny little piggy bank painted with various scenes of Sacramento. Score, I thought. Double score. I wrap the damn piggy bank up and stuff it between various layers of clothes in my carry-on, hoping it doesn’t break en route. Needless to say, my plane is delayed and then delayed again, and we sit on the runway in Sacramento for two hours. During this time I call home and tell Ellie that I got her a present, which raises her excitement level. I miss my connection in Minneapolis, and have to sit there for another two plus hours, and once again I call and talk up the present, not having totally forgotten this time. So this morning, I get up and Ellie is right in my face asking about her present. It’s time for the big reveal, so I pull out the wrapped up piggy bank and take the tape off so Ellie can extract it from the newswrap. She peels through a layer. Then another. Then another. My present! My present! Finally, she can see the piggy bank. She grabs it, looks it over, screws up her eyes, and tosses it across the room. Smash, and it cracks right in half.

But the addendum: It cracked so perfectly in half that she was able to crazy glue it back together, and Ellie now claims to like it. I know, however, that she probably doesn’t. A broken bank for this time of broken banks.

Oh, it’s that time again. Insomniac rambling about daily life and such. Meaningless reports: nostalgia for the always incomplete end of bureaucratic culture. There’s still something vaguely sexy about the forgotten colonial outpost, and the dedicated functionary who sends in the dispatches, despite the fact that nobody’s reading them, and that the surveillance has lost all utility. Hmmm. The horror of banality. So here we go.

1. The kids are asleep. I’ve been saying that a lot, even when they aren’t, or not really. It has a nice ring to it. The kids are asleep. Variations: The kids are sleeping. Kids? Asleep.  …and a couple of kids of course. Them’s some sleeping kids. You might have fooled the Philadelphia, and joshed the Joliet, but you never did the Kenosha kid(s are sleeping). Are the kids asleep? Yup, they are.  It’s fun to say. Try it. The kids are asleep. On account of there’s two of them. Kids. Asleep.

2. Kids These Days – Two flicks I liked recently, with the usual proviso that “recently” for us means months or even a year old for normal people who can go to movies in actual theaters. First, Paranoid Park, Gus Van Sant’s continuing exploration and twisting of the American high school film. A clear follow-up to Elephant, even if not in the trilogy, complete with the continuous following shots of teenage boys walking. I noted this feature of Elephant in a discussion with Chuck from Austin once, and he made a good point: the frustration and boredom the viewer feels at the seemingly aimless, though clearly purposive walks mimics the boredom and aimless directionality of the American teenage experience itself. Elephant opens with what feels like a 10 minute sequence of the following shot; it feels like ten minutes, in the same way the last two minutes of sophomore level math felt like ten minutes, so you’re back there while watching the film, in the pointlessness of the educational system that you already know, by tenth grade, is cracked and broken. That it gets shot up or otherwise cut in half then seems like an afterthought, or at least something happening. If anything, Paranoid Park is even less moralistic and sentimental than Elephant (or Milk for that matter), and certainly seems less interested in pointing up some lesson about youth culture. Yes, it’s fucked like everything else. The film is also, maybe in the same way as The Lookout, about writing. I could see how various expressivist teachers would love this sort of thing, even if it leaves off ambiguously, to the extent that the main character has to write himself a meaning for a meaningless act. Maybe that’s high school, too. Second film, the Swedish vampire flick Let the Right One In. For some reason, the version I got was dubbed rather than subtitled (truly the sign of a shitty distribution agreement), so some of the acting seemed off, but it maintained itself despite this thoughtless crime. Plot: Oskar, a weird little Swedish boy is bullied at school until he meets his new neighbor, a little girl vampire named Eli. The film is then their story. I’m not usually into horror or vampire films, but this one did good. It’s more a sweet little tale with the occasional and very subtle special effects. In one scene, for instance, the little girl scampers up the side of a hospital building seeking her guardian, a man who keeps her in blood through various murders until he screws up for the last time. Her insect-like climbing is a background effect, made more effective for being almost out of sight. Even the one real attack scene has a novel element, as the little girl clutches her victim like a child would, which suddenly seems eerily animalistic. It’s well done. These are both small films, mostly about people, with the sudden and nearly antiseptic introduction of gore.  Better, then, for being small. Of course, we get the sense that Eli’s previous guardian, who came to such a grotesque end in what seems to be his mid-fifties, was the last Oskar, perhaps engaged when he was himself a sweet and bullied little boy, and so the sweetness of the movie leaves off with this disastrous implication. Better, then, for cutting the saccharine with the ultimately dark suggestion. We also saw Frost/Nixon, which is engaging, if a little Karate-Kiddish. The Karate Kids are asleep.

3. Trips and Events – Our big summer trip will be to….State College, Pennsylvania. Oy. Some people go to Paris, etc. I’m going for some workshop that I applied for, while she and the kids are coming along because we know people there, etc. I wouldn’t call it a vacation destination, but it’s pleasant enough in the summer. So we’re probably going to drive out, and we’ll try to then make our way to upstate NY, maybe, but even that sounds dicey. That’s our vacation, essentially: one night in Ohio and a few in Happy Valley. I would have also gone to Montreal this summer for the ISHR conference, but I received notification that my paper was accepted in…April! Everybody else I know received acceptances in friggin’ November. And I’m fine taking the second cut after somebody else no doubt dropped, but I had just assumed that the non-notification was a rejection, not some limbo state waiting list sorta thing. So I’m not going. I have too much other stuff to finish up now to rev up that research bit again for these people who kept me dangling. It seems like an odd way to run things up there. Finally, if our last Big Night Out was kind of a catastrophe, our next promises, I hope, to be better. We’re going to pay ridiculous fees for some professional nanny-type to watch Ellie and Rafe, and we’re going to see Leonard Cohen at the Chicago Theater May 5. Just rah. Can’t wait.

So back to the colonial outpost, and the proverbial forgotten functionary. There’s always a strange local fever spreading mysteriously across the outpost in these things, and no less so now. Isn’t there a strange moment in every one of these plague panics (swine flu) when you think, just for a second, that you really should be scared, even though any disruption would be an inconvenience or worse? It’s like the first few pages of Camus when the rats start to come out of the sewers to die, or the first few pages of And The Band Played On, with the Kaposi’s sarcoma and pneumocystis carinii popping up all over the place – and you’re gonna be the one who is both alarmed, but much too jaded to act on it?  Maybe my usual disdain for being affected by media outbreaks is being blocked by the fact that the kids – these two kids – are asleep…