The Ubiquitous iPod

Sarah got her second iPod for Christmas, bringing our household total to three. We started with two Shuffles (the big ones - the size of a pack of gum - not the new ones, which are the size of a single Chicklet), and now we've added the Nano(RED). I love the PRODUCT(RED) campaign for the simple fact that it has turned altruism into an aspirational brand. I generally disdain the voracious consumerism that is pushed upon us nowadays, but if consumption can be focused to benefit The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria, then by all means people, hit the malls. And so far, the campaign seems to be working.

At first I resisted the iPod phenomenon. I saw those little white earbuds as yet another way that individuals isolate themselves from their environments, to our collective detriment. Do we really need constant entertainment? Can we not enjoy the sounds of our surroundings, or take advantage of the quiet in order to ponder our existence? Or at least what to make for dinner?

That was before I flew to DC beside a talker. And not just any talker - a Vietnam vet who had lost his mind, but didn't seem to realize it. I adhered to the stereotype that Vietnam vets were scarred by their experiences and generally reticent about the subject. This guy, however, shared fond recollections of Saigon prostitutes whose services could be had for a quarter. "A quarter! Can you imagine that? It was great!" And the women received a bonus if they filled a teacup by the end of the day. Not with quarters, mind you. I'll let you figure it out.

I learned then that some situations beg for insulation from your surroundings. I looked across the aisle at the guy wearing the white earbuds, and I lamented the fact that my simple magazine offered so little protection. I was grateful that I had brought my Shuffle along on my flight back from Michigan Wednesday morning, when I sat next a woman whose job somehow involved raisin growers and NASCAR. My wackometer was heading into the red, so when she engaged the neighbor to her left, I immediately plugged in those earbuds and breathed a sigh of relief. I'll stick to my own form of madness, thank you very much.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

The weekend before last, we finally got around to taking the kids to the top of the Washington Monument. Ben had been talking about it since our first failed attempt, when I committed Parental Sin #1 (that being "making uninformed promises") by telling him could go before learning that you need to get tickets in advance, and they're usually all gone before lunchtime.

Fortunately, by December most of the tourists have their sights on far warmer climes than Washington, DC. It's amazing how quickly I came to view this as "my" city, where tourists are invaders rather than fellow visitors. Ben has yet to make that transition, however; when a park ranger asked where we were from, Ben said Michigan, not Virginia. Which prompted us to hurriedly explain that we're originally from Michigan, but now we live in Arlington. God forbid we be labelled tourists.

The 500-foot elevator ride to the top of the Monument is surprisingly fast. I swear the elevator at my prior workplace took longer to climb four stories, and all you got at the end was a view of the hospital helipad and a funeral home, so you could watch unlucky patients take their last flight and possibly their last drive, all from my office window. According to the guide (Elevator Ranger?), the Monument is the tallest free-standing stone building in the world with no structural steel. Which makes you wonder what holds up the elevator, and whether it's stopped Flintstone-style with your feet, or lowered gently by an underground dinosaur.

Anyway, the view from the top is pretty impressive, even through thick, narrow windows:



Here's the view to the west, including the Lincoln Memorial and World War II Memorial:



That bridge in the upper right corner? We drive that godforsaken thing every day.

This past weekend, I spent some time working on the car, hoping to rectify my failed emissions test. You see, the State of Michigan, being invested in its primary local industry, is far more interested in keeping its products on the road than keeping the air clean. Pollution in western Michigan is always blamed on Chicago, but where does the pollution from Detroit go? Lake Erie? Who gives a crap about Lake Erie?

Passing the emissions test has proven a greater challenge than I predicted. Not only is my car about ten years old, but without any requirement to keep it in prime running condition, I followed the path of least resistance (read: lowest cost) and let a few things slide. Like driving for about a year with my Check Engine light glowing. You know - the idiot light? Yeah, something like that. Now my tags are close to expiring, and the emissions gods have yet to answer my prayers. My advice for drivers subject to emissions testing? Test early.

Tomorrow we drive back to Michigan for the holidays. If the Thanksgiving traffic was any indication of what to expect, we'll spend two hours or more just getting out of the metro DC area. We might just reach the end of Toy Story before we leave the beltway.

Oh, and Santa? If by some miracle I'm not on your Bad list yet, I might need a new catalytic converter. Just leave it beside the bushes outside the garage.

Ian likes my shoes

Christmas Music

Okay, I confess: I like Christmas music. The day after Thanksgiving I whip out Volume 1 of A Very Special Christmas, and I only skip past the Pretenders. Take me to your winter wonderland, Annie Lennox. When you sing, Sting, I believe in angels. Maybe even Jesus. And few things made me prouder of Ben than his declaring "Christmas in Hollis" his favorite song on the CD.

I'm a sucker for the classics, too. Burl Ives will run through my head for an entire month and I don't mind. The only thing I can't take is when holiday music sounds like a funeral dirge. I got all excited when Aimee Mann released a holiday album, but if I were expecting her to make good on "I'll Be Home for Christmas" I'd put out a bowl of Xanax instead of marshmallows for her hot chocolate.

Even I get a little weary of listening to one holiday CD over and over again, though, so I set out to make my own compilation - something that would unite my Dr. Demento side and my Bing Crosby side without overindulging either. The best thing about this list is that each and every track is available at the iTunes Store, so you can download one or all. So here, for your consideration, is my Ultimate! Christmas! Mix!

"It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year"
by Andy Williams
from The Andy Williams Christmas Album (Remastered)

"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen / We Three Kings"
by Barenaked Ladies with Sarah McLachlan
from Barenaked for the Holidays

"Sleigh Ride"
by The Brian Setzer Orchestra
from Boogie Woogie Christmas

"Run Rudolph Run"
by Bryan Adams
from A Very Special Christmas

"A Holly Jolly Christmas"
by Burl Ives
from Have a Holly Jolly Christmas

"Carol of the Bells"
by Celtic Woman
from Christmas Album

"Frosty the Snowman"
by Dan Tyminkski
from A Very Special Acoustic Christmas

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"
by Diana Krall
from Christmas Songs

"White Christmas"
by The Drifters
from Clyde McPhatter & the Drifters

"Winter Wonderland"
by Ella Fitzgerald
from Ella Wishes You a Swinging Christmas

"Baby, It's Cold Outside"
by Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Jordan
from Ella & Friends

"Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer"
by Elmo & Patsy
from Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer

"I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas"
by Gayla Peevey
from Vintage Children's Favourites

"Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!"
by Lena Horne
from Christmas Classics

"All I Want for Christmas Is You"
by Mariah Carey
from Merry Christmas

"Greensleeves"
by Méav Ní Mhaolchatha
from Celtic Woman Presents Meav: A Celtic Journey

"Good King Wenceslas"
by Mel Tormé
from Santa's Bag

"The Christmas Song (Merry Christmas to You)"
by Nat King Cole
from Christmas Classics

"Silver Bells"
by Perry Como & The Ray Charles Singers
from Perry Como: Greatest Christmas Songs

"I Saw Three Ships"
by Sting
from A Very Special Christmas, Vol. 3

"Come On! Let’s Boogey to the Elf Dance!"
by Sufjan Stevens
from Sufjan Stevens: Songs for Christmas

"I'll Be Home for Christmas"
by Tony Bennett
from Snowfall - The Tony Bennett Christmas Album

"O Holy Night"
by Tracy Chapman
from A Very Special Christmas, Vol. 3

"Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)"
by U2
from A Very Special Christmas

YouTube

My test run of uploading video was successful. Apple's iMovie proved a cinch to use; the entire process of copying the video to our iMac, editing, exporting, and uploading took about fifteen minutes.

I couldn't think of anything in particular to record as a test, so I just set the camera on the desk and taped the boys watching the YouTube compilation "Funny Cats," which they ask to watch almost daily. The result is basically just a video of Ben and Ian laughing and offering some commentary, but all I wanted was to know what I could do and how. And who doesn't like to watch kids laugh, anyway?

Procrastination

Procrastination means you get to spend your birthday at the DMV.

Famous Last Words

The Pennsylvania Turnpike is bad enough when you have to watch your speed like a hawk to keep it within the range above 65 miles per hour deemed unworthy of attention from the state police. This is a small range, mind you. What counts as speeding on the Pennsylvania Turnpike is only just fast enough to avoid being tailgated on Michigan freeways, where Hemi engines roam freely and enjoy frequent exercise, eliciting little more than an approving grin from local law enforcement.

What's worse than the Pennsylvania Turnpike on an ordinary day? The Pennsylvania Turnpike on the last day of a holiday weekend, when it slows to a crawl as expat midwesterners make their way back to DC, Philly, and New York. After an hour of clutch-roasting stop-and-go, I wondered What could be worse than this?

Then it hit me. It hit Sarah about the same time. Then Ben. A certain familiar smell, which grew to a stench, which grew to a fog of war on our olfactory glands. Sarah and I exchanged knowing glances, then looked back at Ian, who remained stoically silent. "Aw, did you have to?" I said. We rolled down the windows to no avail. Ben started to cry, then to gag. I started to look for an emergency pull-off while wondering whether the car's hood would be too hot to act as a changing table.

As luck would have it, a sign appeared indicating an exit two miles ahead. I thanked the fates, then moved into the right lane. As I crept forward, I noticed something odd about the truck we had been following. Holes in the side. A glimpse of - what - a tail?

Cue enlightenment.

Then shame.

Then hilarity.

Ian just turned three, so I doubt he'll remember being scapegoated for the wafting odor of livestock. Heck, if we were lucky, it might have shamed him into using the potty. Alas, such was not the case. But at least we have another good story to tell at next year's Thanksgiving dinner.

Fog

Ian: "Look at all the smoke!"

Ben: "It's not smoke, it's fog."

Ian: "No, fogs go in the water. That's smoke."

Magic 8-Ball

CLUNK-clatter-clatter-clatter

"Ian! Do we throw things in this house?"

Parents ask the dumbest questions. Kids know better than to answer them. All I get is a pouty lip.

"Well, why don't we consult your victim?" Shaking it at arm's length, "Should we throw Magic 8-Ball?"

WITHOUT A DOUBT

"See? You broke it!"

Don't Spill the Beans

We joined the Friends of the National Zoo (abbreviated FONZ in tribute to the character who honored animals with his duck-tail 'do and cowhide jacket), so now we take the kids to the zoo at every opportunity so we won't feel ripped off. That's entirely untrue, of course. Becoming a member of a zoo with no admission charge was our way of making the transition from life where every public attraction costs as much as an off-Broadway show to life where every public attraction is Free! Gloriously Free! without feeling guilty.

Today's highlight for me was the invertebrates exhibit. The octopus that wowed Sarah and the boys three weeks ago was mysteriously absent from its tank, and considering a sign indicated that a "new" octupus would be arriving soon, I fear the worst. The Lobsters of Unusual Size seemed fine, though, and looked more menacing than Russell Crowe in a hotel room. Right next to the exit was a display of several large spiders on webs three feet across or more. One was wrapping up lunch, which drew me closer and closer for a better view until I realized that there was no glass between us, at which point I suffered a moment of arachnophobia and reflexively began stomping the floor around me. Hey, look before you judge.

Since we'd spent the entire day outdoors, I suggested a relaxing game before the kids' bedtime. "How about Don't Spill the Beans?"

Ben said, "No, that game's too hard. We always spill the beans."

Guess he expected the game to be won by achieving its title. Glad I didn't suggest Ants in the Pants.

Forklift

The other day I was driving my two boys to daycare when we passed a construction site. Ian (recently turned three) exclaimed "Look Daddy! A big green crane!" (Green is his favorite color, and he never fails to mention it if something is green. We could be driving over the Golden Gate and he'd point out a green truck beside us before he mentions the awesome red bridge)

"Well, it looks like a crane, but it's actually a forklift," I said. (I hope they look back on these corrections as I intend them. Hopefully they're thinking "Thank you, Daddy, for acknowledging my childish ignorance and expanding my knowledge base" and not "Shut up you damn know-it-all. One day I'll write about this in my memoir, My Daddy The Asshole.")

After a few moments of contemplation, Ben (not quite four and a half) asked, "Why does it lift forks?"

Relating this endearing snippet to Sarah, my wife, she of course laughed, then asked "Did you tell him it's called a forklift because it has the two prongs for lifting things?"

"No, I told him some people just need a whole lot of utensils, and the spoonlift and knifelift were probably in the garage."

Pepsi Forest

 

 

Somewhere along northbound Interstate 79 in West Virginia, there is a rest area with a path off to one side leading past some picnic tables and up into the forested hills. Enough wandering will presumably take you to a rustic cabin in a valley echoing with prodigious banjo-picking and perhaps the squeals of a befouled pig.

I was hoping to find some of nature's hidden treasures, but I had to settle for vintage litter, the poor man's Ötzi. How long ago did someone carelessly toss this can into the woods? I can't place the exact timeframe of the can's design, but I'd bet it was back in the days people were stilling buying the Chevy Camaro. My original thought was to say back when mullets were popular, but in West Virginia that particular fashion trend has outlived the Iroc-Z that went up on blocks behind the trailer, around the time (ironically) the Eagles decided to start touring again.

Tree-hugger and rabid recycler that I am, I couldn't bring myself to properly dispose of the Pepsi can. The gravity of so many years spent outdoors held it to the ground, as much a part of the landscape as the moss beside it.

Bicycle Crash Test

For some reason I can't stop laughing at this:

Oktoberfest by the Bay 2006

Oktoberfest By the Bay was missing something. A certain ich weiß nicht was that might have made me glad I went.

Waiting in line outside for nearly an hour and a half was probably the most enjoyable part; at least I could talk with friends without having to shout. I could hear the horde inside long before I could see it. Once through the door (a privilege that cost $15), we learned that they were sold out of the liter-sized beer steins ($10), so there was no longer any hope of making $6 beers worthwhile. Various booths sold kitschy hats that looked more like souvenirs from a Harry Potter convention than anything a Deutscher might wear. The bratwurst on offer looked lamer than what I can get at the local county fair. The beer was good, but at $6 a pop I felt like I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a football stadium. The Jäger shots ($4 each or three for $10) couldn't have been more than half their claimed volume, so I stayed sober enough to feel ripped off, and the thin plastic test tubes did nothing to retain the cold necessary to keep Jäger palatable.

The warehouse lights of the pavillion lent nothing to the atmosphere, exposing the grimy, beer-saturated detail of every horizontal surface. Once the sun went down, the other side of beer consumption went on display outside in the form of every imaginable style of public urination, from the masculine arc into the Bay to the more gentle squat against the wall. The pier's moorings held fast the wallowing masses.

After an hour the music finally started, but "Brown-Eyed Girl" was hardly what I was expecting at Oktoberfest. Entertainment came in fits and starts throughout the evening, with the occasional traditional number thrown in between the chants of "ziggy zoggy ziggy zoggy hoy hoy hoy," obviously learned by most from studious hours spent watching "The Man Show."

Long after I decided that I needed a trip to a real bar to make up for the Oktoberfest experience, we finally took our leave of the event. From beneath the dumpsters emerged a rather large puddle I don't recall seeing on my way in. Revellers embarked on their journey homeward, some lightening their load along the way. For several blocks in every direction, the remains of well-used steins lay scattered along the pavement, thoroughly shattered along with my expectations.

Shenandoah National Park

The changing leaves at Shenandoah National Park

 

Catfish at Wendy's

Yesterday we treated the kids to Wendy's (which I love, but usually regret) on the way home from Shenandoah National Park. The location in Vienna is right next to a grungy tributary of the Potomac. On our way out, a woman on the creek side of the parking lot calls over and asks if I know something or other, but I couldn't understand what she said. She's wrangling a toddler, so I cross the parking lot.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Do you know how to de-hook a catfish? Weird question, I know."

Her son and a friend (around nine or ten years old) were fishing from the bank and had caught a six incher, but one kid was clueless and the other was afraid to try since being stabbed once by a catfish barb. Searching my memory with the lone keyword "catfish" pulls up a visual from twenty years ago of my father, somewhere on the Minong Flowage in northwest Wisconsin, yowling as the one catfish I ever caught latches onto his thumb while he tries to free it from my fishing line.

"Um, sure. It's been awhile, but I'll give it a shot."

Peering into a tupperware of murky water, I see first that it's not just hooked, but also entangled in the fishing line like some sort of aquatic Bob Flanagan. Naturally, the hook is lodged in the roof of its mouth to boot, so between that and the fact that the stupid thing won't unclamp its jaws, it takes a minute to free it.

Meanwhile, the kids catch another catfish, this one nearly twice the size of the first.

"What the heck are you guys using for bait?"

"Bacon and sausage."

"Looks better than what I just ate."

"It's from Whole Foods. It's all I had in the house."

Suburbia at its finest.

Tattoos

Tattoos are getting so common, I figure it's just a matter of time before the surprise gift in a box of Cracker Jack isn't one of those lick-em-and-stick-em temporary jobs that kindergartners put on to scare their parents, but the real deal: a tiny disposable gun and ink to start that tattoo addiction early. Even sorority girls have one now, so the people who are really into tattooing need to up the ante by getting ever more eye-catching tattoos in ever more visible locations. Already used up the space available on your arms and legs? No problem - your neck is the best place to show off your most cherished design. Seems the only thing that still carries a stigma is having little blue tears at the corner of your left eye. Of course it's only a matter of time before you gotta shank someone in a prison brawl to earn some street cred.

Now the kids with full sleeves and a crappy haircut are getting older and breaking into truly frightening territory: parenthood. Not that I object to tattooed parents. But am I the only one who feels somewhat surprised to see inked moms and dads walking down the street with an unembellished child? I always feel a bit thrown off - as if I expect tattoos to become part of one's genetic code, passed on to offspring just like eye color and fear of math.

"Oh look, little Tommy has his daddy's barbed wire armband. How adorable!"

"Was that a butterfly I saw peeking above Jessica's diaper?"

Naturally there might be some unfortunate instances of tattoos combining and mutating. Picture a pink heart-and-crossbones or Winnie the Pooh pissing on a Ford logo.

Call it unreasonable, call it insane, but this is one more reason I remain ink-free. Maybe I'll consider it after I have that vasectomy.