Wife pregnant, mother dying.
Three day labor and traumatic dangerous birth.
Baby and wife survive, hooray!
Mom's health precarious...will she see the baby?
Emissaries visit the hospital and make impressions to hang on the dying woman's wall.
Out of the hospital into the car, straight as the crow flies to her bedside.
Bittersweet success, three days later she is gone.
I guess this kind of shit happens to people all the time, but I keep looking around for the camera crew. One is surreal enough, both of them entwined is genuinely soap Operatic.
More proof I'm living a movie:
I just called the mortuary to check on the death certificate.
A guy who sounded like a Spanish stevedore put me on hold where a Troy McClure sound-alike serenaded me with the depth of sensitivity I could expect from the caring professionals of McDermott/Crockett Mortuary.
He finished his spiel and it segued into a vaporous new age piano rendition of Wind Beneath My Wings that would have shamed Kitaro.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
gone
Just got the call.
Needle in the Hay was playing, of course.
RIP
Needle in the Hay was playing, of course.
RIP
i see you're leaving me and taking up with the enemy
the cold comfort of the in between
a little less than a human being
a little less than a happy high
a little less than a suicide
the only things that you really tried
this is not my life
it's just a fond farewell to a friend
it's not what i'm like
it's just a fond farewell to a friend
who couldn't get things right
fond farewell to a friend
this is not my life
it's just a fond farewell to a friend
Monday, July 28, 2008
baby update
The wife took him to some breastfeeding hoe-down today and they weighed him and he was 3 oz heavier than yesterday.
I think she gave birth to THE BLOB- we should all head for the bowling alley, hunker down and wait for the national guard to arrive.
I think she gave birth to THE BLOB- we should all head for the bowling alley, hunker down and wait for the national guard to arrive.
tattoos of the unfortunate
A tall, gangly young lady of the alternative sort came in looking for our graphic novels & I directed her thither.
While browing she took off her sweater and when she returned to the counter I was treated to the banner tattoo taking up most of the real estate between her collarbone and her breasts.
It read
P O E T
In a bolded Copperplate script.
I think it would be nice if this trend caught on.
Everyone would benefit if certain segments of the population bore banner headlines like
S O C I O P A T H
or
M I D W E S T E R N E R
or
A G I N G H I P S T E R.
While browing she took off her sweater and when she returned to the counter I was treated to the banner tattoo taking up most of the real estate between her collarbone and her breasts.
It read
P O E T
In a bolded Copperplate script.
I think it would be nice if this trend caught on.
Everyone would benefit if certain segments of the population bore banner headlines like
S O C I O P A T H
or
M I D W E S T E R N E R
or
A G I N G H I P S T E R.
pooping
With babies comes poop, in all of its incarnations.
So far we've gone from the beach tar-ish meconium to the greenish transition poops to amber curds of breast milk poop.
And nothing stinks yet, which is greatly appreciated when his feet get loose on the changing table and he pounds his heels on the dirty diaper like a pint sized Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance.
The wife roused me at 2am last night to try and put the baby to bed.
While sitting in the glider attempting vainly to still his lusty howling with pattings and rockings and shushings, he pooped at the very height of his most operatic shriek.
It went something like this:
eeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAA
*pskeeeeewurrrrrrrt*
AAAAAAAAaaaaaeeeeee!
The wife heard me laughing all the way in the bedroom.
Entertaining, if not restful.
Earlier in the evening we had a nice family pantomime session in bed, with our little darling displaying an impressive range of faces during the intervals of a multi-stage poop.
Ppppbbt
*brow furrowed like an angry old man castigating whippersnappers from his porch*
BBBBBBBbbbbbppht
*eyebrows arched, face beatific like a meditating yogi*
HrrrRRRUUUUUPt!
*look of intensely focused concentration, like Kasparov confronting Big Blue*
Pssssssssssssssht
*absolute deadpan, like a poker player trying a bluff*
Who says poop isn't a laughing matter!
So far we've gone from the beach tar-ish meconium to the greenish transition poops to amber curds of breast milk poop.
And nothing stinks yet, which is greatly appreciated when his feet get loose on the changing table and he pounds his heels on the dirty diaper like a pint sized Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance.
The wife roused me at 2am last night to try and put the baby to bed.
While sitting in the glider attempting vainly to still his lusty howling with pattings and rockings and shushings, he pooped at the very height of his most operatic shriek.
It went something like this:
eeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAA
*pskeeeeewurrrrrrrt*
AAAAAAAAaaaaaeeeeee!
The wife heard me laughing all the way in the bedroom.
Entertaining, if not restful.
Earlier in the evening we had a nice family pantomime session in bed, with our little darling displaying an impressive range of faces during the intervals of a multi-stage poop.
Ppppbbt
*brow furrowed like an angry old man castigating whippersnappers from his porch*
BBBBBBBbbbbbppht
*eyebrows arched, face beatific like a meditating yogi*
HrrrRRRUUUUUPt!
*look of intensely focused concentration, like Kasparov confronting Big Blue*
Pssssssssssssssht
*absolute deadpan, like a poker player trying a bluff*
Who says poop isn't a laughing matter!
Sunday, July 27, 2008
fading
Two weeks ago mom was answering the phone and bathing herself.
Three days ago mom was sitting up and holding the baby.
Yesterday mom was able recognize me and exchange a few words.
This morning opening her eyes a quarter of an inch took a whole body effort, and I don't know what she saw.
She's on a diet of morphine and ice chips. The lady said she hasn't eaten anything since a half cup of rice pudding the previous morning.
The sitter was cleaning and trimming mom's fingernails and maintaining a stream of bubbly chatter even as she adjourned to the kitchen to 'give us a minute'.
She handed me a silver lozenge stamped with a spiral, hanging from the same sort of chain as my grandfather's dog tags. Mom's necklace. It had started wearing a red groove in her white soapstone flesh.
Such a trivial thing.
Now it sits in my shirt pocket like a stone dredged up from the bottom of the sea.
My uncle called but she's past using the telephone and I wasn't much better.
I think he's a decent person, but the whole family was made to drink from the same poisoned well and ever after have sweated and tossed in shared delirium.
I've engaged my mom because she's my mom and no amount of therapy can lever that boulder out of the middle of the road. The smaller rocks I just drive over or swerve around.
Before I left I stood by the bed in the corner of the living room and petted her cap of sweaty gray curls, just now growing out out from the weeks and months of useless chemotherapy. Her hands belong on a marble statue, cold to the core, but her head is still hot, hair striving outward as everything else collapses in sections.
I said "I forgive you," even though she can't hear me.
And maybe she said "I'm sorry," even though I can't hear her.
elliott
Three days ago mom was sitting up and holding the baby.
Yesterday mom was able recognize me and exchange a few words.
This morning opening her eyes a quarter of an inch took a whole body effort, and I don't know what she saw.
She's on a diet of morphine and ice chips. The lady said she hasn't eaten anything since a half cup of rice pudding the previous morning.
The sitter was cleaning and trimming mom's fingernails and maintaining a stream of bubbly chatter even as she adjourned to the kitchen to 'give us a minute'.
She handed me a silver lozenge stamped with a spiral, hanging from the same sort of chain as my grandfather's dog tags. Mom's necklace. It had started wearing a red groove in her white soapstone flesh.
Such a trivial thing.
Now it sits in my shirt pocket like a stone dredged up from the bottom of the sea.
My uncle called but she's past using the telephone and I wasn't much better.
I think he's a decent person, but the whole family was made to drink from the same poisoned well and ever after have sweated and tossed in shared delirium.
I've engaged my mom because she's my mom and no amount of therapy can lever that boulder out of the middle of the road. The smaller rocks I just drive over or swerve around.
Before I left I stood by the bed in the corner of the living room and petted her cap of sweaty gray curls, just now growing out out from the weeks and months of useless chemotherapy. Her hands belong on a marble statue, cold to the core, but her head is still hot, hair striving outward as everything else collapses in sections.
I said "I forgive you," even though she can't hear me.
And maybe she said "I'm sorry," even though I can't hear her.
elliott
they're waking you up to close the bar
the street's wet you can tell by the sound of the cars
the bartender's singing clementine
while he's turning around the open sign
dreadful sorry clementine
though you're still her man
it seems a long time gone
maybe the whole thing's wrong
what if she thinks so but just didn't say so?
you drank yourself into slo-mo
made an angel in the snow
anything to pass the time
and keep that song out of yr mind
oh my darling
oh my darling
oh my darling clementine
dreadful sorry clementine
stolen from Devra
the wife LOVES this picture.
A nurse came yesterday and reports that the tyke has been packing on 2 oz a day instead of the traditional 1 oz, which means everything is going swimmingly.
His shoulders are covered with a fine pink fur. My camera can't do it justice. We'll have to wait for Aunt Anna to provide documentation.
Thanks to all our friends who have been providing meals and treats, it's a big help.
My cousin ordered us a pizza last night. It arrived when I was at my mom's and Erin was alone, breastfeeding in the living room.
She recreated the scene for me- topless in her mesh hospital underwear, wearing My Breast Friend like a life preserver. The door was open because it was hotter than hell, and she had to shuffle right past it to get a shirt from the bedroom.
At least it gave all three of us a good story to tell.
Friday, July 25, 2008
visits
Mom's health is precarious enough that I forayed out during the wife's second day of labor, leaving her cupped safely in the capable hands of my sister in law.
Mom's dog Lulu was badly adrift.
There is a stark contrast between the early visits when mom was still ambulatory. She stares a lot, she doesn't jump into my lap any more, she doesn't charge out her pint sized doggy door to challenge perceived intrusions, she's lost weight.
She may not understand the scripted call and response of cancer's tedious litany, but she knows everything has gone fucked and there's nothing she can do about it except dive deep and wait.
Dogs are like children that way.
Mom's pill organizer is the size of a cereal box, a drawer for every day of the week, subdivided into hourly bands each with their own toy surprise. Squat bottles tipped with rubber membranes dot the counter beside her bed, toadstools sprouting between the ranked trays of inexplicable medical paraphernalia.
Talking to her is like navigating a ship through the fog, a general dreamy haze with jagged dark shapes that loom unexpectedly near at hand.
Something murky and indefinable has been traveling between us during this series of visits. Neither one of us says anything for the record, but heavily encrypted messages are negotiating deniable back channels and triggering equally enigmatic and unauthorized responses.
It is in no way satisfying, and we still can't understand each other.
But at least something is happening.
Which brings me back, as happens so often lately, to Elliot Smith.
Mom's dog Lulu was badly adrift.
There is a stark contrast between the early visits when mom was still ambulatory. She stares a lot, she doesn't jump into my lap any more, she doesn't charge out her pint sized doggy door to challenge perceived intrusions, she's lost weight.
She may not understand the scripted call and response of cancer's tedious litany, but she knows everything has gone fucked and there's nothing she can do about it except dive deep and wait.
Dogs are like children that way.
Mom's pill organizer is the size of a cereal box, a drawer for every day of the week, subdivided into hourly bands each with their own toy surprise. Squat bottles tipped with rubber membranes dot the counter beside her bed, toadstools sprouting between the ranked trays of inexplicable medical paraphernalia.
Talking to her is like navigating a ship through the fog, a general dreamy haze with jagged dark shapes that loom unexpectedly near at hand.
Something murky and indefinable has been traveling between us during this series of visits. Neither one of us says anything for the record, but heavily encrypted messages are negotiating deniable back channels and triggering equally enigmatic and unauthorized responses.
It is in no way satisfying, and we still can't understand each other.
But at least something is happening.
Which brings me back, as happens so often lately, to Elliot Smith.
i'm here with my cup
afraid to look up
this is how i spend my time
lazin' around, head hangin' down
stuck inside my imagination
busy making something from nothing
pictures of hope and depression
anything is better than nothing
anything is better than nothing
anything is better than nothing
anything is better than nothing
birds
When we finally returned home I addressed the aviary that's surrounded our home for the last few months.
"We made it!"
A hummingbird buzzed over and hovered in front of us on the sidewalk.
The wife's aunt and cousin came over later bearing gifts and delicious Persian stew, and while we sat talking with the door open the mockingbird regular readers will already be familiar with landed on the table in our garden and stared at me, flicking his jauntily angled tail, making sure all was well.
"We made it!"
A hummingbird buzzed over and hovered in front of us on the sidewalk.
The wife's aunt and cousin came over later bearing gifts and delicious Persian stew, and while we sat talking with the door open the mockingbird regular readers will already be familiar with landed on the table in our garden and stared at me, flicking his jauntily angled tail, making sure all was well.
what happened
Late Friday night the wife started having contractions.
They weren't steady & the intensity was all over the place, so we figured (wrongly) that they were some pre-labor deal and would dry up. We were treating the due date as a guarantee instead of the guess it was, and it was early so there was no way it could really be labor.
We called our doula and told her what was going on and not to come over yet.
Saturday things continued, but in the afternoon there was a lull with contractions coming around 30 minutes apart. We figured Okay, here's where it peters out and we go back to waiting.
Except that they sped back up in the evening. They were never really regular and they never got very close together, but they kept rolling in like waves, with some big sets mixed in.
Sunday the sis-in-law arrived & we gave our doula the green light to come over. It didn't seem like there was a lot of headway being made, but we finally figured out it wasn't going to stop so we turned on the Bat Signal for help.
We were all up Sunday night, trying every trick in the book to move the labor along. In the wee hours of the morning there was an uptick, with contractions coming in faster and more consistently.
Seizing this small encouragement we headed for the hospital a little after dawn.
They took a look at things when we checked in and the wife was 4cm dilated.
Ten hours later, after a parade of showers, having her water broken, a multitude of positions to make a yogi blush and literal abuse of an innocent birthing ball she was....4cm dilated.
And along the way the midwife had noticed a troubling dip in the baby's heart rate during some contractions. The further into it we got, the lower and longer the depressions were lasting. She started suggesting things we might do and raised the possibility of a cesarean birth if it became critical.
By this time the wife was absolutely exhausted. After three days of labor she had no reserves left and it was obvious she would need help to get the baby out. So we decided as a group to give Western medicine a chance.
The down side of the traditional hospital approach to birth is that each step taken to encourage birth increases the likelihood that you'll have to take the next step, and the next step beyond that, etc etc. It's like an ever-steepening trail- once you set foot over the ridgeline, chances are you'll end up hurtling pell mell toward the valley below, windmilling your legs like the Road Runner trying to keep up with gravity.
But we'd exhausted all the 'natural' alternatives. The wife was spent and the baby was having problems.
It started with a probe inserted next to the baby's head to release amino acids.
Then there was another probe to monitor his heartbeat more closely- the external monitors kept moving around and losing him. Then they hooked her up to an oxygen tank so the baby would get more air. Then they put in an IV shunt and started giving her fluids.
She kept accumulating these pieces of medical kit until she started looking like one of HR Gieger's biomechanicals. The bed was surrounded by a thicket of wheeled stands connected to her by a pulsing web of tubes and wires.
Saying I didn't react well to any of this is an understatement.
We were so lucky to have Burl and Carrie with us. I can't even consider what I'd have done without them, the prospect is too awful. Even so, I'm hazy on details from this point on.
At some point they gave the wife an epidural, the idea being she'd be able to get some rest and then resume the assault. Except that the baby's heart rate started dropping again. They said there was some problem with the cord, either something was pinching it off or it was wrapped around his neck and the contractions were strangling him. The cesarean option went from a possibility to a likelihood.
So they gave her a shot to stop the contractions and negotiated her onto one side where the baby seemed to have the least trouble to give us time to consider.
Except the nurse didn't like something on one of the monitors and called over another nurse, who didn't like it any better.
"Hmmm, yes. Let's call so-and-so."
Who didn't like it, and called the next higher up.
She was attracting doctors like a magnet attracts steel, they were coming through the door in ever increasing numbers, collecting around and attaching themselves to her bed with an almost audible CLANK.
Then something really bad happened and they burst apart like a flock of crows, spinning and flapping, each to their own branch.
"WE'RE GOING NOW," one of them said.
Someone was on the phone, others were gathering up her retinue of rolling carts, some flew out the door to clear the way. I was dazed, observing the chaos with an uncomprehending eye, like someone who'd walked away from a plane crash.
Several of them stayed with her, doing different things, shifting her around, messing with tubes and dials.
Something worked- the 80's synthpop monitor clatter grew less strident. Suddenly they were all much happier, for reasons opaque to the layman. There would still be surgery, but without the sirens and flashing lights. Everyone settled down
One person could go with her, they said.
I know my limits and opted out.
The Burl put on their uniform so she could slip past Cerberus into the underworld, where she took pictures I can't look at.
I went to the surgery waiting room with Carrie & we talked about my mom and the horrible decor. Everything in Vegas is designed to get you onto the casino floor, and everything in hospitals seems designed to inspire existential despair.
After a while someone came and got us & we went to the nursery, where they were weighing and measuring Eamonn.
He was freaking out and I put my hands on him and talked to him and he calmed right down. We both talked to him all the time when he was inside- Carrie said he recognized my voice.
Erin was in the recovery room for over an hour but it seemed like it was just a few minutes before we were together again, with our new baby.
They weren't steady & the intensity was all over the place, so we figured (wrongly) that they were some pre-labor deal and would dry up. We were treating the due date as a guarantee instead of the guess it was, and it was early so there was no way it could really be labor.
We called our doula and told her what was going on and not to come over yet.
Saturday things continued, but in the afternoon there was a lull with contractions coming around 30 minutes apart. We figured Okay, here's where it peters out and we go back to waiting.
Except that they sped back up in the evening. They were never really regular and they never got very close together, but they kept rolling in like waves, with some big sets mixed in.
Sunday the sis-in-law arrived & we gave our doula the green light to come over. It didn't seem like there was a lot of headway being made, but we finally figured out it wasn't going to stop so we turned on the Bat Signal for help.
We were all up Sunday night, trying every trick in the book to move the labor along. In the wee hours of the morning there was an uptick, with contractions coming in faster and more consistently.
Seizing this small encouragement we headed for the hospital a little after dawn.
They took a look at things when we checked in and the wife was 4cm dilated.
Ten hours later, after a parade of showers, having her water broken, a multitude of positions to make a yogi blush and literal abuse of an innocent birthing ball she was....4cm dilated.
And along the way the midwife had noticed a troubling dip in the baby's heart rate during some contractions. The further into it we got, the lower and longer the depressions were lasting. She started suggesting things we might do and raised the possibility of a cesarean birth if it became critical.
By this time the wife was absolutely exhausted. After three days of labor she had no reserves left and it was obvious she would need help to get the baby out. So we decided as a group to give Western medicine a chance.
The down side of the traditional hospital approach to birth is that each step taken to encourage birth increases the likelihood that you'll have to take the next step, and the next step beyond that, etc etc. It's like an ever-steepening trail- once you set foot over the ridgeline, chances are you'll end up hurtling pell mell toward the valley below, windmilling your legs like the Road Runner trying to keep up with gravity.
But we'd exhausted all the 'natural' alternatives. The wife was spent and the baby was having problems.
It started with a probe inserted next to the baby's head to release amino acids.
Then there was another probe to monitor his heartbeat more closely- the external monitors kept moving around and losing him. Then they hooked her up to an oxygen tank so the baby would get more air. Then they put in an IV shunt and started giving her fluids.
She kept accumulating these pieces of medical kit until she started looking like one of HR Gieger's biomechanicals. The bed was surrounded by a thicket of wheeled stands connected to her by a pulsing web of tubes and wires.
Saying I didn't react well to any of this is an understatement.
We were so lucky to have Burl and Carrie with us. I can't even consider what I'd have done without them, the prospect is too awful. Even so, I'm hazy on details from this point on.
At some point they gave the wife an epidural, the idea being she'd be able to get some rest and then resume the assault. Except that the baby's heart rate started dropping again. They said there was some problem with the cord, either something was pinching it off or it was wrapped around his neck and the contractions were strangling him. The cesarean option went from a possibility to a likelihood.
So they gave her a shot to stop the contractions and negotiated her onto one side where the baby seemed to have the least trouble to give us time to consider.
Except the nurse didn't like something on one of the monitors and called over another nurse, who didn't like it any better.
"Hmmm, yes. Let's call so-and-so."
Who didn't like it, and called the next higher up.
She was attracting doctors like a magnet attracts steel, they were coming through the door in ever increasing numbers, collecting around and attaching themselves to her bed with an almost audible CLANK.
Then something really bad happened and they burst apart like a flock of crows, spinning and flapping, each to their own branch.
"WE'RE GOING NOW," one of them said.
Someone was on the phone, others were gathering up her retinue of rolling carts, some flew out the door to clear the way. I was dazed, observing the chaos with an uncomprehending eye, like someone who'd walked away from a plane crash.
Several of them stayed with her, doing different things, shifting her around, messing with tubes and dials.
Something worked- the 80's synthpop monitor clatter grew less strident. Suddenly they were all much happier, for reasons opaque to the layman. There would still be surgery, but without the sirens and flashing lights. Everyone settled down
One person could go with her, they said.
I know my limits and opted out.
The Burl put on their uniform so she could slip past Cerberus into the underworld, where she took pictures I can't look at.
I went to the surgery waiting room with Carrie & we talked about my mom and the horrible decor. Everything in Vegas is designed to get you onto the casino floor, and everything in hospitals seems designed to inspire existential despair.
After a while someone came and got us & we went to the nursery, where they were weighing and measuring Eamonn.
He was freaking out and I put my hands on him and talked to him and he calmed right down. We both talked to him all the time when he was inside- Carrie said he recognized my voice.
Erin was in the recovery room for over an hour but it seemed like it was just a few minutes before we were together again, with our new baby.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
all hail BOBO
thanks to his donation of a year of Flickr Pro, y'all will have more pix to ogle, and video coverage of the tot (provided I can decipher how to shlep the footage from camera to computer).
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
updates
Eamonn is doing great.
He's mostly sleeping during the day, which made for a rough one last night.
We were up all day with visitors while he chilled out, then he wanted to party when we were totally wiped out.
We got a few winks when he finally passed out after his last feeding at 8am.
More pix on Flickr, more to come.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
All's Well That Ends Well
Eamonn Rook O'Farrell
born on July 21st around 6pm
7 lbs 7oz
21" long
A beautiful pot of gold waiting at the end of one terrible horrible no good very bad day.
More pix on flickr, more to come.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
updates
The way things looked yesterday my mom hasn't got much longer.
Last night around 3am the wife started having contractions.
The experts agree she's in pre-labor so things are immanent.
Unless things back off (which I hear happens sometimes) I'll be AWOL for a bit.
Watch this space for announcements.
Last night around 3am the wife started having contractions.
The experts agree she's in pre-labor so things are immanent.
Unless things back off (which I hear happens sometimes) I'll be AWOL for a bit.
Watch this space for announcements.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
your hot spot for the latest breaking baby news
Wife just called in a dither because the midwife told her the baby already weighs 8 pounds.
"What did you expect, it's not like you married Woody Allen." I replied.
"What did you expect, it's not like you married Woody Allen." I replied.
Monday, July 14, 2008
a poem
from the wife.
8 1/2
I like that one a lot.
8 1/2
i had a happiness inside me
locked up in a hedgehog of will and pearls
that day you began as a frog to grow
ate the pearls
and unwrapped the spiny formation
a person supposed to be me
there was something bright in there
only you knew by heart
the way in, and about stars
unleashed a stunning color
rose red hair
what else do you have to show me?
I like that one a lot.
names
place names for baby!
In my never-ending quest to remain au courant we will be adding the following hot place names to our short list:
Girl
Darfur
Hiroshima
Zzzyyyxx
Bangkok
Casmalia
Boy
Atascadero
Nagasaki
Levittown
Bosnia
Wasco
Add your place/baby name suggestions in the comments!
A trend which has started in 2007 is getting stronger and looms to crown the title of the hottest trend for 2008 is Place names. London, Boston, Dresden, Paris, Ireland, Hudson and Athena are just some of the names given according to places.
In my never-ending quest to remain au courant we will be adding the following hot place names to our short list:
Girl
Darfur
Hiroshima
Zzzyyyxx
Bangkok
Casmalia
Boy
Atascadero
Nagasaki
Levittown
Bosnia
Wasco
Add your place/baby name suggestions in the comments!
Happy Bastille Day!
No party this year cause of the impending arrival, but rest assured our revolutionary sympathies still flow toward the sea of LIBERTE, EGALITE & FRATERNITE like the mighty river Seine!
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Stock Answers
I hate scripts, but sometimes you need them.
We've got a sign behind the counter, it came in with a box of books and stuck around.
A Rotten Dog Lives Here
Once a week or thereabouts some profound wit will spot it, read it aloud and ask the inevitable question "So, where's the rotten dog?"
While it would be temporarily satisfying to growl, snarl and inflict a rabid bite on a taut, rosy cheek I've developed this stock reply:
"The dog is more metaphorical than physical."
I'm sure this confuses more people than it enlightens, but it gets them off my back.
We've got a sign behind the counter, it came in with a box of books and stuck around.
A Rotten Dog Lives Here
Once a week or thereabouts some profound wit will spot it, read it aloud and ask the inevitable question "So, where's the rotten dog?"
While it would be temporarily satisfying to growl, snarl and inflict a rabid bite on a taut, rosy cheek I've developed this stock reply:
"The dog is more metaphorical than physical."
I'm sure this confuses more people than it enlightens, but it gets them off my back.
frames
I shucked one bucket of family photos this morning before we went to her house.
I ended up with a thin sheaf of snapshots in search of an album and a distended white wicker basket full of junky dime store frames to throw out.
One of the pictures was backed with a quite good pen drawing of a crow clutching a pair of scissors. Another bird added to the flock surrounding our baby, a scavenger with a blade, one to keep an eye on.
The wife called ahead and asked if there was anything she needed. We stopped on the way for her Egg McMuffin.
Needle in the Hay came on when we hit the edge of town and the last note sounded as we parked in front of her house.
Another face from the past I don't remember had flown in from Canada.
"It's been so long since I've seen you!"
"Mmmmm."
There were pictures of their last visit, acres of snow and people I didn't recognize and two snapshots of a huge black wolf walking down the side of the road that at first they'd mistaken for a dog.
She asked me to get the will from her bedroom
I didn't find it because it wasn't there, but I saw the same brandy bottle full of unspent pennies, the same gargantuan jug of that perfume she never wore and the same matched set of combs and brushes that never touched her hair.
The same poster on the wall, a stylized gamine dangling a pair of shears from one crooked pinkie, out of its element and badly faded from hanging near a window.
The same props for the same show she's been starring in my whole life.
Postscript
Leaving we passed another of my mom's old friends pulling in.
She'd earned my enmity by periodically harassing the wife at work, peddling her opinion that the wife only knew half the story, and wasn't I awful for not speaking to my own mother and she really needed to give my mom a chance. The one who hauled her misconceptions into my work and waved them at me like a matador's red cape.
In keeping with the tenor of the times here's her theme song, courtesy of Mr. Smith.
I ended up with a thin sheaf of snapshots in search of an album and a distended white wicker basket full of junky dime store frames to throw out.
One of the pictures was backed with a quite good pen drawing of a crow clutching a pair of scissors. Another bird added to the flock surrounding our baby, a scavenger with a blade, one to keep an eye on.
The wife called ahead and asked if there was anything she needed. We stopped on the way for her Egg McMuffin.
Needle in the Hay came on when we hit the edge of town and the last note sounded as we parked in front of her house.
Another face from the past I don't remember had flown in from Canada.
"It's been so long since I've seen you!"
"Mmmmm."
There were pictures of their last visit, acres of snow and people I didn't recognize and two snapshots of a huge black wolf walking down the side of the road that at first they'd mistaken for a dog.
She asked me to get the will from her bedroom
I didn't find it because it wasn't there, but I saw the same brandy bottle full of unspent pennies, the same gargantuan jug of that perfume she never wore and the same matched set of combs and brushes that never touched her hair.
The same poster on the wall, a stylized gamine dangling a pair of shears from one crooked pinkie, out of its element and badly faded from hanging near a window.
The same props for the same show she's been starring in my whole life.
Postscript
Leaving we passed another of my mom's old friends pulling in.
She'd earned my enmity by periodically harassing the wife at work, peddling her opinion that the wife only knew half the story, and wasn't I awful for not speaking to my own mother and she really needed to give my mom a chance. The one who hauled her misconceptions into my work and waved them at me like a matador's red cape.
In keeping with the tenor of the times here's her theme song, courtesy of Mr. Smith.
you say you mean well, you don't know what you mean
fucking ought to stay the hell away from things you know nothing about
Saturday, July 12, 2008
lovely combination
Danger is my Business by John D Craig
Prologue:
The Philosophy of Danger
Part One:
How Danger Became My Business
Then it falls off, but what a promising trifecta that is.
Prologue:
The Philosophy of Danger
Part One:
How Danger Became My Business
Then it falls off, but what a promising trifecta that is.
perils of retail
There are small groups of developmentally disabled folk who get herded downtown by their minders every so often for an outing.
They're low impact, not being avid readers, but maybe once a month somebody will get a wild hair. What inevitably happens is they bring up some fairly expensive book, in the $20-50 range. Then they dig through their myriad of bags and satchels tracking down hidden reserves of small coin. This is piled in the middle of the counter like an alter and a prayerful look is aimed my way.
With luck a minder is handy to break the bad news, otherwise the role of heavy falls to me.
I have no problem puncturing the fantasy lives of dreamers in search of lighter than air discounts, but these encounters always dampen my spirits.
They're low impact, not being avid readers, but maybe once a month somebody will get a wild hair. What inevitably happens is they bring up some fairly expensive book, in the $20-50 range. Then they dig through their myriad of bags and satchels tracking down hidden reserves of small coin. This is piled in the middle of the counter like an alter and a prayerful look is aimed my way.
With luck a minder is handy to break the bad news, otherwise the role of heavy falls to me.
I have no problem puncturing the fantasy lives of dreamers in search of lighter than air discounts, but these encounters always dampen my spirits.
mortality
My mom's near the end of her rope & we went to see her the other day.
DO NOT CALL 911: CALL HOSPICE HOME CARE read the banner on the refrigerator door. She's cocooned in a hospital bed in the living room. There's an oxygen tank hidden behind the couch, as if everyone can't hear the compressor gasping or see the tangle of tubes on her chest. Just like her dad, except his sat at attention by his recliner in the living room like a temple dog. The same chair my grandmother shit in a decade later, passed out with an empty bottle in her lap.
I was there with her for two weeks that last time
Just us, the drawn curtains and the dog who jumped up on the dining room table and ate off her plate, and the ghosts.
My grandma was a hermit disabled by liquor and her dog had grown morbidly obese on a diet of hamburger & boxed mashed potatoes, so it wasn't physically dangerous.
Compared to other bad scenes my mom dumped me in the middle of it doesn't rate.
The only thing I hated was the song and dance when she picked me up.
"I didn't know it was that bad, I'll never leave you there again!"
She burst into tears while I observed her through the slits in my porcelain kabuki mask.
She never did understand the way I can see through people.
You shouldn't be able to tell when your parents lie to you.
My grandmother would secret vodka bottles in our toilet tank when she came to visit, like a vampire stashing a coffin full of grave soil in the manor house basement.
It was a bit of ledgermain I never understood. Her hiding spot always blocked the handle, and I'd lift the lid of the tank and shift it to the far corner so it would flush.
The first time I turned her in to my mom.
They had a big fight and mom poured it out down the kitchen sink & grandma went to stay in a hotel.
It was a dinner theater take on the Broadway production of The Concerned Family after my grandfather's funeral.
They herded her into their bathroom off the master bedroom, and made a big deal out of flushing all the sleeping pills and prescription drugs down the toilet. The medicine cabinet was decimated.
"You're not going to kill yourself, your family needs you."
The bar in the living room went undisturbed by these histrionics.
(The wife asked her mom recently "are you afraid dad might murder you?"
"Oh, I've thought that for years! But don't worry, I hid the handguns he keeps in his bedroom!
Do you think I should hide the shotgun, too?")
My mom gave me two baskets of family pictures with a big empty space between her own childhood and the two of us washing ashore on 11th street, a perfect puzzle piece match for the hole in my own memories.
I kissed her forehead on our way out and flashed on Needle in the Hay.
It's not a literal fit, even with the liter bottle of morphine & spoon on her bedstand. But the aura of narcissistic martyrdom is spot on, although hers lacked both irony & redemptive art.
And she was always chasing after The Man in some shape or form, dragging me along behind her by one arm like a doll she'd forgotten she was holding.
People always wonder at my facility with metaphors, the way I can sketch a connection between two seemingly unrelated things. A Joan Didion collection came in the other day, We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live. Whatever alchemy I command developed more from survival than craft.
DO NOT CALL 911: CALL HOSPICE HOME CARE read the banner on the refrigerator door. She's cocooned in a hospital bed in the living room. There's an oxygen tank hidden behind the couch, as if everyone can't hear the compressor gasping or see the tangle of tubes on her chest. Just like her dad, except his sat at attention by his recliner in the living room like a temple dog. The same chair my grandmother shit in a decade later, passed out with an empty bottle in her lap.
I was there with her for two weeks that last time
Just us, the drawn curtains and the dog who jumped up on the dining room table and ate off her plate, and the ghosts.
My grandma was a hermit disabled by liquor and her dog had grown morbidly obese on a diet of hamburger & boxed mashed potatoes, so it wasn't physically dangerous.
Compared to other bad scenes my mom dumped me in the middle of it doesn't rate.
The only thing I hated was the song and dance when she picked me up.
"I didn't know it was that bad, I'll never leave you there again!"
She burst into tears while I observed her through the slits in my porcelain kabuki mask.
She never did understand the way I can see through people.
You shouldn't be able to tell when your parents lie to you.
My grandmother would secret vodka bottles in our toilet tank when she came to visit, like a vampire stashing a coffin full of grave soil in the manor house basement.
It was a bit of ledgermain I never understood. Her hiding spot always blocked the handle, and I'd lift the lid of the tank and shift it to the far corner so it would flush.
The first time I turned her in to my mom.
They had a big fight and mom poured it out down the kitchen sink & grandma went to stay in a hotel.
It was a dinner theater take on the Broadway production of The Concerned Family after my grandfather's funeral.
They herded her into their bathroom off the master bedroom, and made a big deal out of flushing all the sleeping pills and prescription drugs down the toilet. The medicine cabinet was decimated.
"You're not going to kill yourself, your family needs you."
The bar in the living room went undisturbed by these histrionics.
(The wife asked her mom recently "are you afraid dad might murder you?"
"Oh, I've thought that for years! But don't worry, I hid the handguns he keeps in his bedroom!
Do you think I should hide the shotgun, too?")
My mom gave me two baskets of family pictures with a big empty space between her own childhood and the two of us washing ashore on 11th street, a perfect puzzle piece match for the hole in my own memories.
I kissed her forehead on our way out and flashed on Needle in the Hay.
now on the bus
nearly touching this dirty retreat
falling out 6th and powell a death sweat in my teeth
gonna walk walk walk
four more blocks plus the one in my brain
down downstairs to the man
he's gonna make it all ok
i can't beat myself
i can't beat myself
and i don't want to talk
i'm taking the cure so i can be quiet
whenever i want
so leave me alone
you ought to be proud that i'm getting good marks
needle in the hay
needle in the hay
needle in the hay
needle in the hay
It's not a literal fit, even with the liter bottle of morphine & spoon on her bedstand. But the aura of narcissistic martyrdom is spot on, although hers lacked both irony & redemptive art.
And she was always chasing after The Man in some shape or form, dragging me along behind her by one arm like a doll she'd forgotten she was holding.
People always wonder at my facility with metaphors, the way I can sketch a connection between two seemingly unrelated things. A Joan Didion collection came in the other day, We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live. Whatever alchemy I command developed more from survival than craft.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
elliott smith Rosarch
You can tell a good bit about a devotee of Mr Smith by which of his songs insinuates itself deepest into their subconscious.
This came to me while the wife was talking with a nurse and I was listening to a swath of his work on the 'pod.
Before the last batch of therapy that finally cut me loose from the past mine was Independence Day.
It's still one of the most perfect songs ever written (in the pantheon of titans like Night and Day, Someone to Watch Over Me & Come Rain or Come Shine).
But I made my change, although the magic's still there.
One of our closest friends adopted Waltz #2 as her anthem.
She didn't understand why, but we did.
I just polled the wife, unaware of this post.
She proclaims her allegiance to the two crippled chimera in her life by calling it a tie between Independence Day and Waltz #2.
This came to me while the wife was talking with a nurse and I was listening to a swath of his work on the 'pod.
Before the last batch of therapy that finally cut me loose from the past mine was Independence Day.
i saw you in a perfect place
it's gonna happen soon but not today
so go to sleep and make the change
i'll meet you here tomorrow
independence day
independence day
independence day
It's still one of the most perfect songs ever written (in the pantheon of titans like Night and Day, Someone to Watch Over Me & Come Rain or Come Shine).
But I made my change, although the magic's still there.
One of our closest friends adopted Waltz #2 as her anthem.
first the mic then a half cigarette
singing cathy's clown
that's the man that she's married to now
that's the girl that he takes around town
she appears composed- so she is, i suppose
who can really tell?
she shows no emotion at all
stares into space like a dead china doll
i'm never gonna know you now, but i'm gonna love you anyhow
She didn't understand why, but we did.
I just polled the wife, unaware of this post.
She proclaims her allegiance to the two crippled chimera in her life by calling it a tie between Independence Day and Waltz #2.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Catches of the Day
Sold a stack of astrology books to a dizzy gal with one hand.
Sold a Ben Hecht novel to a fellow named Bjorn with a thick Scandinavian accent (Americans won't buy him, I'm happy someone will).
Sold a mystery off the sale cart to the Homeless Steve Martin mentioned earlier.
Sold a copy of the Complete Beatrix Potter in Spanish to a couple of tourists from Spain.
Sold a couple of anime books to a dude with one eye that was looking at the ceiling to my left.
Didn't sell a weird old edition of Pinocchio to a kook who was disenchanted by the fact we couldn't provide a copy in the Italian for him to check the translation against.
C'est la vie!
Sold a Ben Hecht novel to a fellow named Bjorn with a thick Scandinavian accent (Americans won't buy him, I'm happy someone will).
Sold a mystery off the sale cart to the Homeless Steve Martin mentioned earlier.
Sold a copy of the Complete Beatrix Potter in Spanish to a couple of tourists from Spain.
Sold a couple of anime books to a dude with one eye that was looking at the ceiling to my left.
Didn't sell a weird old edition of Pinocchio to a kook who was disenchanted by the fact we couldn't provide a copy in the Italian for him to check the translation against.
C'est la vie!
baby steps
The nut who used to roam the streets in a dirty Miami Dolphins parka with the hood up, giant old person visor sun-glasses and a pair of filthy bunny ears like a homeless Steve Martin has, wonder of wonders, ditched the bunny ears.
tipping points
Cell phone saturation is so total even the crazy homeless guy who dresses like an extra from The Road Warrior in 90 degree heat (black leather duster, black headscarf, motorcycle boots with metal plates on the shin, fingerless gloves) has one.
His dialog is eerily similar to every other cell phone user in the world.
"Yah, I'm in the bookstore."
Combine these scripted discussions with the advent of ubiquitous Bluetooth ear-sets and we get the first step in the Borg-ing of America.
The re-programming of the buying public to use plastic for everything also continues apace.
So far today I've had three customers use credit/debit cards for sale cart purchases totaling less than two bucks.
I love how banking has evolved over the years- stuff that used to be free for their customers costs money and they even figured out a way to charge businesses for selling their goods.
Viva capitalism!
His dialog is eerily similar to every other cell phone user in the world.
"Yah, I'm in the bookstore."
Combine these scripted discussions with the advent of ubiquitous Bluetooth ear-sets and we get the first step in the Borg-ing of America.
The re-programming of the buying public to use plastic for everything also continues apace.
So far today I've had three customers use credit/debit cards for sale cart purchases totaling less than two bucks.
I love how banking has evolved over the years- stuff that used to be free for their customers costs money and they even figured out a way to charge businesses for selling their goods.
Viva capitalism!
Monday, July 7, 2008
security theater
A pointless law went into effect this month. I had a guy wandering around the store the other day blabbing the usual platitudes into thin air- when he checked out he mentioned he was trying to figure out his Bluetooth headset, nestled behind one ear like a wasp.
Drivers on phones aren't dangerous because they have one hand off the wheel, they're dangerous because a wireless vampire is feeding on the lifeblood of their attention.
All the cell phone close calls(hah!) I've had weren't caused by one-handed drivers, they were caused by blank-faced zombies staring dazedly into the middle distance.
My guess is the law of unintended consequences will bite hard here.
"Oh, I can talk all I want now, the law says it's OK as long as I have a headset!"
*crash*
It's also an illustration of our emerging Corpocracy.
They're getting official cover for the obvious dangers of using their product while simultaneously soaking the rubes by requiring them to buy a new piece of equipment- it's win/win!
Drivers on phones aren't dangerous because they have one hand off the wheel, they're dangerous because a wireless vampire is feeding on the lifeblood of their attention.
All the cell phone close calls(hah!) I've had weren't caused by one-handed drivers, they were caused by blank-faced zombies staring dazedly into the middle distance.
My guess is the law of unintended consequences will bite hard here.
"Oh, I can talk all I want now, the law says it's OK as long as I have a headset!"
*crash*
It's also an illustration of our emerging Corpocracy.
They're getting official cover for the obvious dangers of using their product while simultaneously soaking the rubes by requiring them to buy a new piece of equipment- it's win/win!
jeez
Tard on the Loose
However great your admiration for SUVs only some kind of profound dolt buys one THIS SUMMER and gasps at the price of filling the tank.
Breathlessly hysterical stories on the local news about the PAIN at the PUMP have become a running joke at Chez Baxblog (I eagerly await the creation of a slick graphic logo for the PAIN, like they cook up for wars and big storms and white female abductees).
At this juncture how can anyone be genuinely surprised that their steroidal dinosaur-mobile costs a lot to feed?
Bryan Carisone, a heating and air-conditioning contractor in Raritan, N.J., “absolutely loves” his new GMC Denali XL, an extra-large sport utility vehicle with televisions built into the leather seats. But in June, one week after he bought it, he pulled into a station on a near-empty tank and watched the total climb higher and higher — to $109.
“It just about killed me,” Mr. Carisone said.
However great your admiration for SUVs only some kind of profound dolt buys one THIS SUMMER and gasps at the price of filling the tank.
Breathlessly hysterical stories on the local news about the PAIN at the PUMP have become a running joke at Chez Baxblog (I eagerly await the creation of a slick graphic logo for the PAIN, like they cook up for wars and big storms and white female abductees).
At this juncture how can anyone be genuinely surprised that their steroidal dinosaur-mobile costs a lot to feed?
Sunday, July 6, 2008
biodiesel part II
In which the wife and I continue our depraved quest to starve the world with our deadly famine machine, the Mercedes 300 CD.
book title of the week
The Ethical Slut by Dossie Easton and Catherine A Liszt.
I've had people ask about it but this is the first copy that's actually come through.
I've had people ask about it but this is the first copy that's actually come through.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
the home stretch
Less than a month until the debut.
The midwives report if it was born tomorrow it wouldn't be premature, which is reassuring.
We've gotten as much stuff as we can tidied up and ready to roll- all that's left is transporting the changing table/dresser from the Burls and stuffing a few more boxes of miscellaneous books into the tiny walk in closet turned storage space.
I suffered a delusion our house was cluttered because we had too much in the way of miscellaneous crap.
When I boxed it all up the tally was not kind to my belief- it was 98% books, 2% yarn and crocheted items.
Chalk up another one for the wife.
Work is taken care of- I've been instructed to call the boss when I need to head hospital-ways and he'll cover whatever shifts I need for as long as necessary.
This kind thing is one of the main benefits to pursuing a marginal career in a dying industry.
Now we just hang around and wait.
The midwives report if it was born tomorrow it wouldn't be premature, which is reassuring.
We've gotten as much stuff as we can tidied up and ready to roll- all that's left is transporting the changing table/dresser from the Burls and stuffing a few more boxes of miscellaneous books into the tiny walk in closet turned storage space.
I suffered a delusion our house was cluttered because we had too much in the way of miscellaneous crap.
When I boxed it all up the tally was not kind to my belief- it was 98% books, 2% yarn and crocheted items.
Chalk up another one for the wife.
Work is taken care of- I've been instructed to call the boss when I need to head hospital-ways and he'll cover whatever shifts I need for as long as necessary.
This kind thing is one of the main benefits to pursuing a marginal career in a dying industry.
Now we just hang around and wait.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
80's Explosion
behold THE RED ROCKER before he was corrupted by Van Halen.
a palate cleanser for the previous two posts.
True Customer Tales Redux
about 5 minutes after the last guy, an balding older fellow in a Hawaiian shirt:
"I'm looking for a book- there was this guy on TV? I didn't get his name, but I think it's about something futuristic? Recently?"
True Customer Tales
Gnomish looking middle aged guy with a buzz cut and about a gallon of frozen yogurt in a big styrofoam bowl:
And yes, you could hear the italics.
Suggestion from Bobo:
"you should have handed him the bathroom key."
Where would be your section on THE HUMAN CONDITION?
And yes, you could hear the italics.
Suggestion from Bobo:
"you should have handed him the bathroom key."
on fiyah
It looks like it's foggy today, but it's smoke from one of the innumerable blazes consuming my fair state today.
Excellent weather for asthmatic pregnant women, I'm sure.
Excellent weather for asthmatic pregnant women, I'm sure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)