TwoBusy

Not that you necessarily care

So. As I was saying...

1. WORK
Here's the thing: I just finished 4 months of being pretty miserable in a contract-type scenario. One rife with behind-closed-doors machinations, and backstabbing and unnecessary drama and people being thrown under buses (repeatedly) (including me).  And then, as it was starting to draw to a close, they fired my boss. It abruptly evolved into a whole new flavor of clusterfuck, and then - the same day that they fired my boss - the EVP called me in to see if I wanted to join them full-time.

While I'll admit it was flattering to be seen as a candidate for full-time employment, I had a couple of reservations — including the fact that they wanted to hire me at a title/salary level well below what I've achieved in the past/am trying to achieve going forward, and the fact that I had some concerns about work/life balance issues, and the fact that OH RIGHT THE ENTIRE PLACE IS COMPLETELY BUGFUCK INSANE AND MADE ME WANT TO DIE.

So... I told them I'd think about it.

Long story short: I came back a week later, fully prepared to tell them "No, thanks" and walk away with a smile on my face - ready to take on whatever new challenge life might bring - when they threw me a curveball by saying (in essence) "You can stay on as a contractor for another 6 months... and you'll be working with a whole new group of people... and you'll basically be doing work at the title level you want."

So... (long sigh) I said, "Okay."

Look: the economy still sucks. Much as I'd love to throw caution to the wind and go for broke, the fact is that a (relatively) steady paycheck until April is kind of an appealing thing right now. And yes, while I realize I may be a complete sucker to believe for even an instant that there's a chance my life may become even moderately less sucktastic in the months to come... beggars can't be chosers.

(Subsequently, please forgive me in advance for another 6 months of sporadic - at best - posting. This stuff takes a lot out of me, and I really don't have a lot left afterwards.)

2. TRAVEL
On the plus side, the famdamily and I took our first-ever flight together the other week, as we decamped to the wilds of the greater DC area. And while there were those in the interweb community who (rightfully) cried foul at the fact that I basically blew them off, the fact remains that this particular trip was mostly an attempt to pay back those manymanymany friends of ours in DC - including the Demoncrat and Angus families - who've entertained me in years past when I've fled my family escaped to warmer climes dropped some science on our nation's capital. Anyhow: the good news is that our demonic offspring survived the plane ride intact (they were overjoyed by the experience, in fact). The bad news: we went to the national zoo and pretty well fucked up some pandas. Sorry, America, for the fucked up national pandas.

3. ELSEWHERE
I won't even attempt to set up all the links, but - on the off-chance that you actually care - while I've been neglecting this site with serious gusto I've actually been quite actively involved on Wednesdays at MamaPop, on Thursdays at DadCentric, and on random occasions (and frequently behind the scenes) at Polite Fictions. They are all wildly entertaining sites, frequently occasioned by writers far more gifted, fun and prolific than I, and I cannot recommend strongly enough that you check 'em all out. 

4. APOLOGIES
Here's the part where I apologize for... well, for lots of things.First off, I apologize for having so terribly neglected this site. If you actually read this, you're a far better person than I am, and a far better friend than I deserve. I'm going to try to be better about typing here, and I'm sorry for having sucked so much over the past few months.

Secondly, I want to apologize to those of you who have your own online blog-type spaces, because since I started my craptastic job that I just signed up for another six months of fun with... I just haven't had the time, energy or freedom to drop by and drop comment love nearly as much as I should. Please don't take it as an indication that you are no longer beautiful and fascinating to me, because you are. You are all made of awesome. The fact is: I'm exhausted, and I suck. But again: I will try to be better.

5. THANKSGIVING
Not to get maudlin, but as we approach the Thanksgiving holiday (and to my Canadian friends: I think we all know which one is the real Thanksgiving) I wanted to express my thanks for something I've never publicly expressed thanks for before: my interweb friends. Imaginary though you may be, I'm honestly so grateful for the presence of you in my life that it's just pathetic. Seriously. I'm such a wuss about it that I should kick myself in the balls.

But what can I say? I've met so many cool imaginary people online that it's just an embarrassment of riches — people whose kindness, snark, writing skillz and plain, ol'-fashioned coolness add more to my life than is probably healthy to admit.

So... to any and all of you who read this - and for what little it's worth - thanks. You deserve a better friend than me, but I'm grateful to you for letting me hang around the periphery.

*raising glass in a toast*

vigil

Wrapped in these tender forms of
darkness, blanketed by the reassuring weight
of expectation and routine, the hours slip loose and easy
in the soft exultations of
your breath and your breath.
These are rhythms born of comfort and hidden wonder,
quickened by laughter that never knows
voice but ripples through you with a freedom
deeper than sky, flickering like forgotten stars,
a heartbeat wonder of air twinkling like sudden jewels and then
hushed
subsumed and
absorbed into that next moment, flickering liquid
quick and vivid and real and
once and forever and
gone
as the new hour chimes with steam stretching
wrought iron and a flood of warmth
that reaches out and across this gulf, this
chasm, this measureless space of time and distance
that separates you and with the relentless slow
twist and crawl of new earth rising from the
mantle
and pressing up and out, stretching into
jagged and heroic new ranges that may lie
in darkness, unseen and unexplored, but no less
real
I listen to you turn and you turn and
shift effortlessly into
this newer rhythm of continents drifting toward some
distant horizon these eyes may
never see.

I hear my own breath, frightened and grateful,
to have been delivered here, now, to this

somewhere in the night we pass.

the word she used

Strength was the word she used
but not the right word
(funny,
the things you notice when
the sky is falling.)

Then suddenly, I felt it build
behind my face, under my
skin
a pressure like blood and air ready to burst
or explode into fine mist
— some
impossible measure of violent force straining to
break free, restrained only
by a thin film of flesh, or the
inability to let
go

Except for the Ghosts

11 songs to celebrate a month of spirits and memories.

1. Ghost - Midsummer
Midsummer have been one of my favorite obscure treasures for years, and Ghost gives you an idea why: shimmering guitars, intricate rhythms that grow increasingly complex with the flow of the song, Dale Bryson's plaintive vocals and thoughtful lyrics... it's just a whole lotta lovely. If this tickles your fancy as much as I think it should - and we both know how much I love tickling your fancy - check out some of their other songs on their Facebook page. The fact that it hasn't been updated in... uh... forever gives me the uneasy feeling that they're no longer a going concern, but if that's the case it's a legacy still well worth exploring.

2. Weighty Ghost - Wintersleep
For those of you who may only remember Halifax, NS band Wintersleep from the brilliant and sublimely disturbing video for Insomnia that I posted last November, here's a much different take from the same band: a charming, shuffling ode to the loss of self that takes pleasure in reminding you that - in the end - a ghost just needs a home.

3. Blessed By Your Own Ghost - Elliott
You probably don't own False Cathedrals. You almost certainly should. It's the undisputed high point of Elliott's catalogue, an album completely saturated with a sweeping sense of drama and nigh-overwhelming emotion, where the near-indecipherability of the lyrics does little to diminish the cumulative impact of the music. Whatever: the point is that I want you to love it. I also want you to love me, but for now let's concentrate on Elliott. Baby steps.

4. Midnight Ghost - The Gathering Field
It's a song about a train. As is the case with many songs about trains, it's kind of melancholy and kind of lovely. As is the case with most songs about trains, the train is a metaphor for something more than railed travel. "From this mountain I make my way along the railroad earth..." Bill Deasy sings, as the drums rumble along like wheels moving over railroad ties and the story builds and the guitar begins to reach and strain and gently weep, and in the midst of it all you find yourself transported to someplace both familiar and new. Which is pretty much what you want a song about trains to do.

5. Killing The Ghost - Matthew Ryan
Okay, I'm just about done trying to convince you about Matthew Ryan. This is another great song off his tremendous Matthew Ryan vs. The Silver State, and if you can't find a way to make his broken voice and impeccable sense of melody and remarkable ear for lyrics - "I will carve you from my life/I couldn't care less: it feels all right" - then I'm just going to give up on you altogether. And yes, I know I was just asking you to love me two songs ago. Mercurial is the way I roll.

6. Ghosts Of The Garden City - Caspian
I've been remiss in not singing the praises of the new Caspian album Tertia, and for that I apologize — because it's a towering piece of work. Their previous full-length The Four Trees was one of the best albums of 2007, an epic slab of post-rock that belongs right alongside the best efforts of Explosions in the Sky. Tertia, to my immense relief, is an entirely worthy follow-up. It's... well, this is where words fail me, because it's really difficult to describe how and why the music of lyrics-free post-rock bands like Caspian and EitS and Pelican and Russian Circles (or Mono, for that matter) can be so powerful and moving. So I'll let the song speak for itself. Turn it up to 11 and see where it takes you.

7. Ghosts Of American Astronauts - Trash Can Sinatras
There's nothing about the Trash Can Sinatras that isn't entirely charming, and while this cut from their On A B Road compilation of rarities & live cuts is far from the best thing they ever recorded, it offers a glimpse of the shimmering, harmony-rich musical sunshine that have made them such a beloved part of many people's lives since the late 80s.

8. Except For The Ghosts - Lisa Germano
Last week, I was Twittering Tweeting talking online to Sweetney about sadcore — the morose alt-rock subgenre that's spawned many of my favorite musicians. Afterwards, I realized I'd forgotten to bring up one of my favorite proponents of the style: Lisa Germano, an Indiana native and onetime fiddler for John Mellancamp responsible for crafting an extraordinary array of deeply troubling and often very beautiful music since the release of her debut in 1991. This song, taken from her gorgeous 2006 album In The Maybe World, gives you some idea of what she brings to the table. I recognize that it's not everyone's cup of tea, but I can't imagine there'll ever be a time in my life where something like this won't move me.

Alone in the sea
The deeper you go
The letting it be
Except for the ghosts
Except for the memories
Accepting the waves
And waving goodbye

9. Ghosts - Springhouse
Springhouse was an American shoegaze band of the early 90s who produced some very good music - Ghosts comes from their strong Postcards from the Arctic album - but their real legacy lies in the achievements of drummer Jack Rabid. Who is Jack Rabid, you ask? Jack Rabid is the guy behind The Big Takeover, the best damned music magazine in the world. I discovered it about 4 years ago, and it's been a life-changer for me: a music addict's wet dream, with 200+ pages of passionately written articles, interviews and album reviews (hell, that's half the magazine right there) delivered to your home twice a year. Rabid himself writes about half of every issue, too... it's an absolute labor of love. If your musical tastes overlap with mine in any significant way, I cannot recommend strongly enough that you make a place for it in your life.

10. Ghost Key - Isis
Isis is one of the leading lights of the post-Tool/Deftones movement of heavy music for thinking people. If you can get past the cookie monster vocals of the first two minutes, what you'll discover is a truly intricate and complex composition that develops over the course of 8:29 into something really fascinating and worthwhile: music that rattles your windows without sacrificing a single iota of emotional intensity and atmospheric weight. In all honesty, neither Ghost Key nor the album it comes from, Wavering Radiant, is probably the most user-friendly intro to the world of Isis (Holy Tears from In The Absence of Truth probably serves that purpose better)... but give it a listen, and you'll see why the Tool/Deftones comparisons make sense.

11. Ghost Ship Waiting - Mojave 3
The title of the album from which this song comes - Puzzles Like You - is entirely appropriate, as the evolution of Mojave 3 is one of the most fascinating and unexpected that I know. Back in the late 80s/early 90s, Slowdive was (alongside My Bloody Valentine and Ride) part of the holy trinity of shoegaze — a band that generated great washes of sadness and cathedrals of sound on songs like Catch the Breeze and Allison, captured the imagination of the British music press and European audiences, and ultimately petered out after a few years. Not long thereafter, two of Slowdive's key members (singer/songwriter Neil Halstead and vocalist Rachel Goswell) reunited to form a new band called Mojave 3, which - after its a-little-too-Mazzy-Star-sounding debut Ask Me Tomorrow - evolved into some kind of dream pop/country rock/folk music hybrid that produced some of the most consistently excellent albums of the past decade. Goswell split after releasing a fantastic solo album in 2004, but Halstead soldiered on, and in '06 released Puzzles Like You. Which includes Ghost Ship Waiting, a song that recalls nothing so much as the best of the Pernice Brothers: literate, bittersweet lyrics couched in hummable, radio-friendly music that has you tapping your toes (if you're of the toe-tapping persuasion) even as the darker lyrics embed themselves deep in your cerebrum. In just about every way except for Halstead's vocals, it's about a million miles away from Slowdive — but it's no less fascinating for that evolution.

Cure JM Day

Kevin of Always Home and Uncool asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday. Please join me in wishing her a happy happy one... and in doing the right thing. Read to the end; you'll know what I mean.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptomsin our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeeveror www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

It's Not Easy Being Green

About a month ago, my son decided that he wanted to be - more than anything in the world - Green Lantern for Hallowe'en. More precisely, he wanted to be Green Lantern from the Justice League Unlimited DVD series that is currently serving as video-based crystal meth for all three of my kids.

And so, in my ongoing quest to enable my children to be all they can be... I dutifully went ahead and tracked down a kid-sized Green Lantern costume online, and ordered it.

Today, when we came home from school, it was awaiting on our front doorstep.

My son was thrilled when I opened the package and revealed its contents to him — he couldn't get it on fast enough. Granted, it's about twice as big as he is (note to self: don't order one size up next time), but he didn't care. He was a fake-muscled dude in black and emerald, with a cool Green Lantern logo on the middle of his chest and a new belief in his heart that he could fly.

For a moment, he was crestfallen to discover that the costume didn't include a Green Lantern power ring. I can hardly blame him for this, as the ring is for all intents and purposes the source of Green Lantern's power. But once he moved past that disappointment, he grabbed hold of the costume's cardboard packaging and studied it carefully, comparing it against his own costume, projecting himself onto the tall, strong, confident Green Lantern he'd watched on TV and now saw on the cardboard before him. His smile growing broad. His eyes growing full with wonder and joy.

And then, something else caught his eye. He looked at the picture, then looked down at himself. Then looked at the picture again, and finally looked at me.

"Daddy," he asked, his voice clear and earnest, his eyes wide and guileless, "Can I paint my face black now?"

The fact that I'm irrationally aggravated right now is no reason not to love me

Hey! Hi! How are you? Wait! I forgot to use an exclamation point there! Dammit!

So. This has been one gangbuster of a week for about a zillion different reasons, and insofar as that I tend to post posts (that's right... I said it and I meant it) on this site with blue moon frequency, I'm going to lump a bunch of stuff together here and let fly, thereby emptying the remnants of what's rattling 'round my skull onto your desktop like a child spilling a 6000 piece Lego set onto the floor after you JUST. FINISHED. PICKING. THEM. ALL. UP.

• WORK
Work is natural. Work is fun. Work is best when it's one-on-one. By which I mean: this is the week that I got confirmation that the person I had been suspecting for a couple of weeks might be trying to throw me under a bus... was, in fact, quite actively trying to throw me under a bus. The fact that virtually an entire department of professionals immediately aligned with me to shut this individual down and make it clear that if anyone deserved to be looking up at the underside of a full-sized magic bus... well, it wasn't me... that was kind of nice, but also did little to diminish the suck factor of discovering that somebody in a position of power was actively trying to deflect blame for their fuckup onto me. It's really, truly and honestly not a good feeling.

Anyhow. That was on... Wednesday? I can't remember. Oh, how the days blur together when you're having fun! Wednesday ended with a face-to-face between me, my immediate supervisor (as a contractor, I'm okay with the fact that I'm basically faceless hired help and everyone is my boss) and the bus-thrower-underer (trademark pending)... which began with the bus-thrower-underer basically launching into a half-crazed accusation that my supervisor was the devil, and ended with the bus-thrower-underer smiling and happy and yelling down the hall at me, "You're doing a great job!"

Bipolarity is fun.

Thursday brought more drama not worth going into, but I will point out that during the early afternoon hours my supervisor stopped by my gray, soulless little cube, looked at me, put an open, lukewarm bottle of pinot grigio and a paper cup on my desk, raised an eyebrow, and then walked away without saying a word. Which was actually pretty cool.

And yes, I drank about half of the bottle. (and shared the rest with my neighbors)

Then, on Friday, my supervisor stopped by my gray, soulless little cube, asked if I was okay, and when I replied with my standard "I'M AWESOME!!!" she said in a surprisingly pleading tone, "You're not leaving, are you? Please don't leave." Which was nice. And then she told me that they're thinking about offering me a full-time position, which is nice to hear, but at the same time... uh...  I think I 100% definitely without a question prefer to be a contractor there instead. So... we'll see what happens.

• HOME
Friday was also, as it happened, my 10th wedding anniversary. True story. I won't launch into any kind of long, flowery descriptions of my love for TheWife - hell, if you're in the mood for sentimentality you can check out my 7th anniversary thing here - but I will share my AWESOME! 1800flowers.com! STORY!

Earlier last week, I ordered this giant bouquet of red roses (and threw in a little box'o'chocolates, which I heard life can be like, for good measure) to be delivered to TheWife's office on Friday, as part one of my three-pronged strategic plan of attack. My expectation was that I'd get this phone call from her on Friday morning, all "Oh my God, I thought we weren't doing anything, these are beautiful, everyone is jealous, you are the Cadillac of husbands, blah blah blah," and I'd get a minute or two of feeling good about myself out of it as a result.

By 11am, I hadn't heard anything, so I checked online for the delivery status. Nothing. I started getting antsy. By noon - after I'd just talked to TheWife and she hadn't mentioned my awesomeness as a husband, and the 1800website showed no updates, I called their customer service line. I got someone live, who checked in, didn't see anything, then tried calling the florist. No answer. I told him that this was an anniversary bouquet and my wife would be there until 4pm, so as long as it was there beforehand we'd be fine. He sent the florist a message to that effect, noted it in the account log, and said he'd shoot me an email with updates. About 10 minutes later I got an email: the order is on the truck and being delivered.

2:30pm. I talk to TheWife again... nothing. The online account status doesn't even show that it's being delivered, despite the email. So I call the 1800# again, and get an automated message saying that the order is out for delivery. I'm starting to get agitated.

3:30pm. I call TheWife and finally ask: did you get anything delivered? She says: no. And there's no receptionist there today, so she does a complete lap of her floor (her company has an entire floor in a small building), asks everyone... and nope: nothing. So I call back the 1800 customer service line, and get through to a live rep. He's very understanding, tries calling the florist - twice - and still gets no answer. I tell him that this order is for our 10th wedding anniversary, which is THAT DAY. If the order comes after she leaves... it's a waste. He says: if the order doesn't arrive by 4pm, I can call back the next day and get a refund. I thank him for his help, and presume that the florist is just going to blow it.

She calls me from the train station at 4:25pm. She says she stayed in her office until 4:15, then did another complete loop... and there was no bouquet. Fine. I'm frustrated, but fine: I'll call the next day and get my refund.

At 4:30pm I get an email from 1800flowers.com saying the florist delivered the order to the receptionist at 3:59pm.

At 4:39pm one of TheWife's colleagues emails her to say that the flowers just arrived.

Hmm. The florist told 1800flowers that they delivered the package to the receptionist at 3:59pm. After being told earlier in the day they had a 4pm deadline. But. There was NO receptionist. And there were no flowers as of 4:15pm. And, according to my wife's colleague, they weren't delivered until about 4:35pm. THE FLORIST LIED TO COVER THEIR ASS.

At 5pm, as I'm cooking and dealing with the Comcast guy who's fixing the cable connection in my house that's been fucked up for... uh... about six months, I call 1800flowers to complain that the florist lied to them and to me. They tell me: our policy is that delivery hours are until 7pm. You're out of luck.

I blow a fucking gasket.

Eventually, they tell me to call back the next day and get the refund processed. Fine.

(FYI: I called back on Saturday, and they told me I was out of luck. I blew a gasket again, and they told me to call back on Monday because they're just a satellite office and don't have the authority to issue a refund in this case. If I get the runaround on Monday - after they FAILED TO DELIVER MY 10TH ANNIVERSARY BOUQUET AFTER I GAVE THEM ALMOST 4 F#$@ING HOURS TO GET IT INTO MY WIFE'S HANDS WITH MY FIRST CALL ON FRIDAY and they tell me that 7pm is a reasonable delivery hour to a business office on a Friday after THEIR OWN SYSTEM SAID IT WAS BEING SENT OUT FOR DELIVERY AS OF 12:30PM, WHICH WOULD HAVE GIVEN THEM ENOUGH TIME TO DRIVE IT FROM NEW YORK TO BOSTON AND STILL GET IT THERE BY 4PM... WHICH IT WAS NOT then I'm pretty sure I'm going to find out where the corporate offices of 1800flowers.com is located and get all kinds of unpleasant.)

Anyhow. Then TheWife picked up our kids and came home, and I served her pan-seared, pepper-crusted filet mignon in a maple syrup/balsamic reduction with oven-roasted root vegetables and a very, very nice bottle of Ferrari-Carano Trésor, followed by homemade Snickers/peppermint schnapps brownies. And gave her something shiny and glittery. And she said, "I thought we weren't doing anything" and I said, "You always say that, and I always do something" and thus, our 10th wedding anniversary was celebrated.

• POLITE FICTIONS
I hinted about this a while back, and have been tweeting about it like crazy, but in case you only check me out here... cIII from The Goat and Tater and I brought together a ton of other badass interweb people and started up this site called Polite Fictions, which is basically a running story in which each writer contributes 4 paragraphs or so, and then hands it off to the next writer, who contributes another 4 paragraphs or so, and then passes it along and... well, you get the idea.

It's probably the coolest fucking thing I've ever been a part of, and features a slew of the most absurdly talented writers online -- including Jonniker, Ms. Picket from Post Picket Fence, fadkog from For A Different Kind of Girl, Palinode, Kate from Sweet/Salty, Kevin from Always Home and Uncool, her royal badassness Jett Superior, and Whit from Honea Express. 

And honestly? You should be reading it. Not because I'm a part of it, but because it's consistently really, really good. Seriously. PLEASE check it out. If you like it... tell your friends. 

• ELSEWHERE
I've also put up a slew of things at Mamapop and Dadcentric, should you feel so inclined as to check them out.

• Kevin James kills a giraffe at MamaPop
• I reviewed the new Nick Cave novel, also at MamaPop
• A celebration of the rebirth of Entourage, also also at MamaPop
• I wrote about throwing away old kid stuff at DadCentric
• I also shared the wisdom of the ages at DadCentric
• I wrote about how I'm letting the Justice League teach my kids (also at DadCentric)
• And I'm too lazy to see if I linked to this before, but I also posted something at DadCentric that's actually about a lot of things is probably among the better things I've done. Then again, my judgment is questionable at best, so make of that what you will.

• AND ONE OTHER THING
One other thing I've been meaning to mention for a while is that I finally got around to reading To: -- which is the book that Ms. Picket and Carolyn Online wrote and published via Blurb back in July... it's basically an epistolary romance, except instead of romance it's about the budding of a strong, deep and lasting friendship between two people who've never met, and instead of wax-sealed scrolls or stamped, postmarked and airmailed letters it's an exchange that happens via web posts and emails. The first part of the book is largely a series of web posts in which we learn who these two women are and we see the brief, easy commenting and quick email exchanges that characterize so many interweb acquaintanceships. It's an often breezy and fun read. About a third of the way in, however, the book suddenly takes on new dimension as a legitimate friendship begins to form and their emails start to provide real and fascinating illumination, not just in the sense of what's behind the stories we read in their posts but who these people really are: their lives, their hopes and fears, and - most importantly - their relationships with their husbands and children.

And I've got to be clear: they are brutally honest and forthright in these emails - especially about the frustrations of parenthood and marriage - and I'm both astonished and amazed at their bravery in choosing to publish them. And to be even more clear: it's this bracing honesty that balances their always-strong sense(s) of humor to add real depth and resonance to the book as a whole.

Their relationship - like To: itself - starts out as one thing... and evolves into something far more meaningful and important by the end. It's a really interesting piece of work, and while I had to wonder at how it might be streamlined and reworked in parts for mainstream publishing, I also - by the time I was done - had no doubt that I was reading something worthwhile.

I am enormously impressed anytime someone I know - even in the vague and tenuous way that people "know" each other on the interweb - puts in the time, effort and focus to produce a book. That Darcy and Carolyn actually produced something that left me wanting more... well, this may be an understatement, but honestly? That's pretty damned cool.

She's Lost Control

It was a little less than a year ago that I received a call from TheWife about our friend ElF.

She was the mother of a friend and classmate of TheHurricane's. She was the wife of our friend JiF. She was the kind and brilliant soul who'd turned her powers of clinical focus onto her son when he was diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder, working night and day to develop a program that transformed him from an almost non-verbal child with severe behavioral issues into an impossibly bright and sensitive boy — and and the good friend who'd helped us find our way after our own son was diagnosed and we found ourselves trying to navigate some of the intricacies of public special education programs.

She was a stranger on the interwebs who became a face, and then a voice, and then a good and true friend.

And then we discovered: she was a closet alcoholic of severe and profound proportions.

She was hospitalized. Repeatedly. Went in and out of programs. Came home, tried to piece her life back together... and failed. Repeatedly.

By springtime, her life - her former life - was a memory. She was estranged from her husband. Her job... I don't even know. It's our assumption that her job (and let's be clear: this is the kind of job that people spend decades studying and working and preparing for — and she was the one in a million who was actually qualified for it) had vanished sometime over the winter. And finally, she lost any claim of legal custody to her own son.

It was a heartbreaking spiral. We witnessed it only in fits and starts, but it was never less than painful, never less than entirely awful. We were never less than incredulous at the idea that someone we knew and liked and wouldn't have hesitated to trust with our own kids could fall apart so completely, so spectacularly, so terribly and irrevocably.

A couple of weekends ago, we met with JiF for the first time since the spring. It was a playdate, of course — a chance for his son and TheHurricane to refamiliarize themselves with each other. A chance for JiF to kick back and relax, if only for a few hours.

I'll admit: we were apprehensive. Not that we weren't curious - of course, we were curious - but at the same time, we were afraid of what we'd hear of ElF, of what had become of her, and of overstepping boundaries and respecting his privacy. We would not bring it up, we decided. If he wants to talk about it... he can talk.

He wants to talk. JiF is an interesting guy, and one of his greatest strengths is the fact that he is completely forthright and matter-of-fact about things. He doesn't dance around the fact of the matter: he simply accepts it as fact, asks others to do the same, and plows forward to the best of his abilities. It doesn't make him a perfect guy, but it makes him a good guy doing his best under surreal circumstances.

"It's been an eventful few months," he says.

We give him the half-smile; supportive, appreciative of the understatement, welcoming him to say more if he wanted to say more.

"She's been in and out of so many programs at this point that, literally, I've lost count. She was in Atlanta for one, Texas for another, she's been in and out of McLean several times... it's a true vicious circle. She gets well enough that she has the legal right to check herself out, then she comes back here and starts circling the drain again."

"I think I told you this, but I had to go to court to get sole custody of (my son). Which was granted, with surprisingly little difficulty — I mean, to be clear enough to a court that you, as a mother, need to be legally barred not only from custody but from visitation with your child without supervision? To anyone with a rational mind, that's a pretty clear indication that things need to change."

"But what's becoming more and more clear, the farther into this things go, is that it's tough to figure out where the alcoholism ends and the mental illness begins. I mean, there have been times - multiple times - over the past year where I've found myself talking to my wife and it's like talking to a complete stranger. And I find myself just so confused. Wondering: did the person I knew ever really exist?"

"When we were first going out, she talked about a time in college when she'd had a breakdown and taken some time off from school, and her Dad came out and stayed with her and helped her for a while. But it was something that even at that point seemed like it'd happened a long time ago, and it was never something we got too much into or that I tried to understand too closely. And now? Now it's like: that was a huge red flag, and I missed it completely. Because her troubles then, and everything now... it's all connected. All of it. And it's like (my son and me) just wandered into the middle of it."

"She's got an apartment now. I actually set it up for her, when she was off in (a treatment program in another state), just so she'd have a place to live. Because we just couldn't have her at the house any more. It was, literally, like every other week the police were at our house because of one thing or another and... you know, we became those people. And it finally got to a point where I couldn't live like that, and I couldn't let (my son) live like that. Which is why I went to court, and got custody and a restraining order. But I couldn't just put her out on the street, you know? She's got an apartment over in (a nearby town), but it's like every time I have to go there..."

He shakes his head. Takes a long draw from his beer. It's the last weekend in August; a hot afternoon, and we are sitting in our back yard. An umbrella partially shades us from the sun. Nearby, four children sprint back and forth across our too-long grass, splashing in and out of a plastic kiddie pool, screaming with joy and wild energy.

"The place in Texas... she somehow signed herself out and just walked out the front door. With nobody there to pick her up, no plan of where she was going to go." He looks at us. "That's not the way it's supposed to happen. I called to check in on her, and they said, 'She left two days ago.' They found her a couple of days later — she had literally been wandering the streets. Her blood alcohol was seven times the legal limit."

"Jesus Christ," I say.

"Exactly," he kind of laughs. Because what else can you do? "That's one of the strange things about being that deep into alcoholism: that much alcohol would kill you or me. Literally: we would die. But her body has adapted." He pauses; takes a breath. "Seven. Times."

"I don't even know what to say," my wife offers.

He shrugs. "There's not much you can really do," he says. "That's what I'm learning. Every once in a while, when she's a week or two into one of these programs, I'll have a conversation with her, and she'll be lucid and her eyes will be clear and it's suddenly like: 'Hey! I remember you!'"

(he's half-smiling as he says this. they're the saddest words we hear.)

"So... she got a puppy."

"What?" I ask. I say it as kind of a laugh.

"I know. Seems like a great idea, right? She called me up and said, "I got a puppy!" Like this was a good thing, something to be excited about. Anyhow, maybe a week later I get a call from this friend of hers - this woman, this very nice woman, who she actually met in a program - and she says, "I haven't heard from ElF in a few days, but I don't want you to be worried. Because I have the puppy."

"The puppy," my wife says.

"Exactly. I tell her, well, that's great. I'm glad you have the puppy. But what about her? And she asks me to go and check on her, because she's... well, she's not that close by. So I say, fine. I drive over there, and after I park I see that her garage is open. And the door inside from the garage is open. And as I walk in, I'm completely paranoid for... actually, for several different reasons. There's all kinds of things I can find inside, and none of them are good. I'm concerned, but at the same time I'm thinking, 'Did somebody break in?'"

"Anyhow. I walk in and... she's there, and she's a mess. Incoherent. I mean, seriously incoherent. Just complete 'raving lunatic' time, you know? And it's clear she hasn't showered in days, and it's just..."

He shakes his head again.

"So I called for an ambulance. And they took her to McLean, and committed her - for all intents and purposes - and that's where she is now. Once again, it turned out her blood alcohol content was .4-something, and it literally took days before she was anything remotely close to coherent."

"Anyhow. That's where she is now."

He looks at us, we look at him. His expression is resigned. Calm, logical. Resigned. I'm sure we look entirely stricken.

Our children run circles around us. They are covered in torn blades of grass and warm sunshine and youth and laughter. Water beads off their skin like tears.

We sit on our chairs, listening to them. We look at each other, then we glance away. The bottle in my hand is growing warm. The fourth chair at the table sits empty.

The Ugly Truth About Jonniker

As some of you may be aware, last week - in the midst of our summer vacation - we made a special trip up to the great green wilderness of way wicked northern Vermont to visit The Jonniker. Some of you may even have read her deeply skewed take on the same. But, as everyone knows... bloggers lie. They are fundamentally incapable of telling the truth about an encounter with one another, for fear of backlash and recriminations that may ultimate reverberate across the entirety of the interweb.

I find this unacceptable. And as such, I'm going to take the bold stance of standing up against this tyranny of half-truths and blatant lies and doing something unprecedented: telling you the truth. Why? Because you, gentle reader, deserve nothing less... and because the world deserves to know the real story of Jonniker: Behind The Music Blog.

The setting: 
One of the more sleek and stylish restaurants in cosmopolitan northern Vermont. It is a swelteringly hot and humid Wednesday afternoon in early August, and a large unruly unkempt revolting charming family of travellers has made their way north through treacherous mountain passes, over the rivers and across hill and dale to this Shangri-La of the Green Mountains for a single reason: to meet and dine with the Dalai Lama of blogging. The Jonniker. Their cheeks are rosy and their eyes wide and eager in anticipation.

The players:

• TheWife - a lovely, tall brunette who has spent hours preparing for this pilgrimage, this meeting, this opportunity of a lifetime
• TheHurricane - a six-year old boy. Staggeringly handsome (he clearly takes after his father).
• The Twins - two four-year old girls, adorable little pixies overflowing with mischief and love
• TwoBusy - Man. Myth. Legend. Has awesome hair.
• The Jonniker - Beloved online idol of millions
• The Babyker - Beautiful infant daughter of Jonniker

(scene opens in the restaurant, as the TwoBusy family seats themselves at a riverside table)

TwoBusy: Are we all comfortable? Children - sweet, beloved children; treasured jewels of my life - are you pleased with the setting? The river is beautiful in its fury, is it not?

The Twins: Oh, father. We care not for the beauty of nature, nor for the gentle flavors of food in the air. We are instead atremble with anticipation for the arrival of The Jonniker.

TheWife: Ah ha ha ha! (her laughter sounds like peals of little bells) What delights you are, my daughters. How you will charm her with the purity of your ardor.

TheHurricane: Mommy? Can I have a lemonade?

TheWife: Of course. Nothing satisfies like the collision of the bitter and the sweet. Let us order, and watch as thick warmth of the air condenses on the glass' edge and rolls slowly down the side, like the tears of some forgotten god.

Children (together): Hooray! Lemonade!

TheWife: I hope she will be pleased with us, husband. Your hair looks awesome, by the way.

TwoBusy: It does indeed. And I hope for the same, with all the strength and will and passion and belief that my weak heart is capable of generating.

(the TwoBusy family sits in silence for a moment, contemplating the enormity of what is about to take place, listening to the rush of the river at their side, waiting for the lemonade to arrive.)

TwoBusy: Look! What light through yonder doorway breaks! 'Tis The Jonniker, the morning sun!

(Jonniker enters, carrying The Babyker in her car seat)

Jonniker: You must be TwoBusy. I knew it the moment I walked in, because you are by far the most handsome person in the state of Vermont. Also, because of the awesomeness of your hair. And you must be TheWife! And TheOffspring!

(The TwoBusy family is aglow with this sudden and unexpected recognition, like fireflies luminous with pride and love. They are rendered speechless as a result, and are helpless to do much other than smile with endless warmth and gratitude in response. Each one feels a temptation to leap from his or her chair and to embrace The Jonniker - so great is the magnetic pull she exerts - but holds back, for fear of coming too close to the sun and seeing their wings of hope wither and melt beneath all that radiant heat and energy... leaving only the long, lonely plunge back to a cold and unforgiving earth.)

Jonniker: I hope you will forgive me for being a little late. I was temporarily delayed when I ran down a young mother and the stroller-bound infant she was pushing through a crosswalk. Twice.

TheWife (suddenly sparking to conversational life): Of course, of course. We understand completely.

TwoBusy: Sometimes you have to back up, to make sure you got the job done.

Jonniker: Don't get snarky, jackass. (She snaps her fingers for a waitress.) Hey! Here! Hungry woman with baby! Serve me!

(enter Waitress)

Waitress: Can I help you?

Jonniker: You can start by shutting the fuck up. Then you can bring me a beer and a plate of ribs. And fast!

(exit Waitress)

Jonniker (shaking head): I don't know what the fuck is wrong with these bumpkins.

TheTwins: Mommy, what did she just say?

TheWife: She was talking about pumpkins, my sweets.

TheTwins: Punkins! Like Hallowe'en!

TheHurricane: Mommy, can I be Mr. Incredible for Hallowe'en?

Jonniker: Your children talk too much. (picks up spoon) Be quiet, boy. (pokes him in the eye with spoon)

TheHurricane: Oooooowwwwwwww!!!

TheWife: Hush, little one. The Jonniker knows what's best. Learn from this lesson, and learn well.

(Waitress enters, delivers beer to Jonniker and lemonades to children, then leaves wordlessly)

Jonniker: Hey, lemonade. That's a great idea. It's fucking hot today. (grabs TheHurricane's lemonade) D'you mind? Just kidding. I don't care. (lifts glass to her lips, then throws it all back in a single, gargantuan gulp) Man, that hits the spot. (reaches over, and grabs both of TheTwins' glasses) Don't mind if I do. (lifts each glass to her lips and downs the contents in a single gulp, then throws empty glasses into the river)

TwoBusy: Would you care for more?

Jonniker: (erupts with massive, earth-shaking burp. Across the river, trees sway in the resulting warm, lemon-scented breeze)

Babyker: (giggles)

TheTwins: Mommy, was that you?

Jonniker: (picks up beer, and downs the entire pint in a single gulp) Now where the fuck are my ribs?

Jonniker: (reaches under Babyker's well-padded thighs and pulls out a large cigar) This is something we can all enjoy.

TheWife: Um... if you wouldn't mind...

Jonniker: (pulls a match out of her pocket, then scratches it across TheWife's forehead to spark it to flame) There we go. (applies match to end of the cigar, and begins to puff vigorously)

TheWife: (grasping forehead in pain) Oh my god. I can't believe how much that hurt. (despite her best efforts, she begins to weep quietly)

TwoBusy: (trying to regain some sense of normalcy) So... uh... how do you like living here?

Jonniker: (staring disdainfully at TheWife) Your woman is getting on my nerves, dude. (she snaps her fingers angrily) Ribs! Now!

TwoBusy: I'm so glad we finally got to meet.

Jonniker: (turns disdainful stare at TwoBusy and looks at him without speaking, then reaches over and ashes into Babyker's car seat)

Babyker: (giggles and coos)

TwoBusy: We certainly are enjoying our vacation here.

Jonniker: (rolling eyes) Jesus fuck. I told my husband this was going to be a waste of my time.

TheWife: We're sorry... is there anythi-

Jonniker: (interrupting) Shut up. (using cigar as a pointer, indicating each member of the TwoBusy family in turn)  You know what? Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you.

(enter Waitress, carrying large plate of ribs)

Jonniker: (abruptly stands and knocks the plate of ribs out of Waitress' hands. Roasted meat flies across the room like barbequed butterflies) I'm out of here. Enjoy your lunch!

Jonniker: (grabs Babyker's car seat and leaves, howling with laughter)

(scene closes)

graduation

The breeze is warm and weak. Indian summer.

All is calm. All is quiet.

But buried far beneath
the rounded stones and acres
of scar and sinew
you imagine something new:
a moment in your life when you did not fear
the unknown
or that which in time
you came to know with such
intimacy, passion and disgrace.

You thought yourself an innocent.
You learned
it did not matter.

This may not be a time for celebration but
it is a day you will not forget.

The air is warm. The sky is not filled with explosions
of sound and light. The breeze is quiet.

It’s not quite time to move on.