King Kong, American Idiot
In which the new King Kong film is awful, but the remix of Green Day’s American Idiot is not.
Will and I saw King Kong yesterday. It sucked. The biggest thing on the screen wasn’t the twenty-five foot ape, but Peter Jackson’s ego. The trip wasn’t a complete loss: Will introduced me to a fantastic remix of Green Day’s American Idiot; and, of course, we walked out of the theater to a world shrouded in snow.
First things first: I don’t know what kind of kool-aid you people are drinking, but Peter Jackson’s exercises in digital masturbation are not quality filmmaking. My complaints about his bastardization of Tolkien are well-documented; now he’s decided to “improve” a cinematic classic.
How does Jackson go about “improving” his source material? He changes things that don’t need to be changed. He adds subplots that contribute nothing to the film. (In King Kong, there are scads. My favorite: the wizened black man who serves as a sort of mentor to the young white sailor. What the hell? Why is this in the film?) He throws as many digital images on the screen as possible. He s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-s running times to the breaking point. He discards reason for spectacle.
Many critics and viewers have complained about how bloated this film is. I watched the original King Kong last Tuesday, and it, too, owns a similar structure. In the original, it takes forty-five minutes for Kong to appear, then there are forty minutes racing around the island fighting dinosaurs, and finally there are nineteen minutes during which the ape rampages through New York. In the original, the first forty-five minutes seemed overlong, but that’s nothing compared to Jackson’s re-imagining. God, the first act drags as he tosses in subplot after subplot, “money shot” after “money shot”. I didn’t time it, but I’d guess it takes seventy-five minutes before Kong appears on screen, after which there are about six hours of running around the island (though it feels like sixteen), followed by half an hour in New York.
Here’s a scene that sums up my frustration with the film: Kong has stolen Ann Darrow and taken her deep into the jungle of Skull Island. Our heroes are in pursuit. When they stop to rest in a narrow canyon, they are startled by a stampede of brontosauri. Not one, not two, not three, but a dozen (or more!) brontosauri come flailing down the canyon pursued by a few small ambiguously carnivorous dinosaurs. The next five minutes are a dizzying mess of visual effects: flailing brontosaurus legs, snarling meatasaurus teeth, falling rocks, etc. As our heroes race along beneath the mammoth creatures, avoiding death by inches again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again, the viewer grows numb and disinterested.
“Suspend your disbelief!” you will cry. Hey — I suspend my disbelief all the time. (My main hobby is collecting comic books, for god’s sake.) I have no trouble buying into the universes imagined by competent creators. I can suspend my disbelief on a macro-level, and for a few times per story on a micro-level. (Meaning I can buy a few hairs-breadth escapes or violations of physics, etc.) However, when a story asks me to suspend my disbelief on a micro-level several hundreds times an hour, it loses me. I can’t do it.
As with the Lord of the Rings films, King Kong has garnered fair praise. Why? I have no idea. I didn’t understand it for the Rings films, and I don’t understand it now. These are not good movies. (The Rings films aren’t necessarily bad; Kong is.) Despite the critics, it seems King Kong may not do well at the box office. “Wednesday and Thursday were slower than any of us expected,” a studio executive has said. (Another article here.)
King Kong is major suckage.
I was shocked — shocked! — by how many people had their cell phones on during the movie. When did this become acceptable? Little shiny screens popped up all around the theater. Worse, I heard at least six phones ring. Worst of all, the woman next to us actually answered her phone and carried on a conversation. This is deplorable. Fortunately, she and her husband left. I suspect that most of the calls were related to the early arrival of our little storm.
It’s been cold and dry for the past ten days. A wet weather system finally moved in yesterday afternoon, arriving a few hours early. We walked out of the theater to a about half an inch of snow. It was fun to watch how pleased everyone was by the stuff: kids threw snowballs at each other; one man slid around the parking lot, using his shoes as skates. A father led his daughter out of the theater, holding his hands over her eyes. “Don’t peek,” he told her. “Keep walking. Now look!” She opened her eyes and gasped in delight.
Will and I sat in his car, shivering, as we waited for all the high-tech heating devices to kick in. Gradually the seats got warm, and then hot. The snow on the windshield melted away, succumbing to a network of heated wires. While we waited, we listened to American Edit, which is a mind-blowing full-length remix of Green Day’s American Idiot album (which you’ll remember was my favorite CD of 2004).
King Kong may have sucked, but the rest of the outing was good.
U2 Dance
In which Jeremy dances with his children.
On Friday night, we joined the Gingeriches and the Proffitt-Smiths for a small pre-Christmas gathering. We shared good food, good wine, and good fellowship. (We also learned that butter and water seem to have have surprisingly similar densities!)
Kris and I stayed the night so that she and Jenn could spend Saturday baking cookies. In the morning we had a breakfast of bacon and French toast. Jeremy played U2 (in preparation for Monday night’s concert), and danced around the living room with his children.
Somehow I hadn’t anticipated that baking would take all day. Though I had fun chatting with the women and writing stories with the kids, the day felt like a waste. I had things I’d wanted to get done, but they just didn’t happen.
Letters from Thousand Needles
In which Venatoro writes home to his father, describing his adventures in Azeroth.
Dear Father,
How are you? How is mother? I am fine. It is difficult for me to hold this pen in my cloven hoof, so I will be brief. Ungulates will never be scribes, I fear.
It has been many moons since I’ve returned home to Bloodhoof Village. I miss the grassy plains of Mulgore, but I feel I am doing right. The humans and the elves and the gnomes press in from every side, threatening to take our land from us. The dwarves (dwarfs?), especially, are very upsetting. They dig deep mines in the Earth, carve great gashes into the mountains, all in the quest for shining metal. They scar the world, and the world cries out. I hear the cries. Though it never pleases me to kill, kill I must. I admit to some satisfaction when I pierce a dwarven heart with my arrows. Dwarves are foul, nasty, smelly creatures.
Since I left the herd, I have learned the ways of the hunter. It is difficult for me to hold the bow, ’tis true, but I do my best. My training as a hunter complements the teachings of the Earth Mother, fits well with the way of the tauren. I grow more in tune with nature every day. I have learned to speak to the animals. I tame wild beasts, and together we seek to cleanse this land of evil. Presently my companion is a bear from Ashenvale Forest. He is a good sort of bear, friendly, and quick with a joke (though bear jokes tend to be esoteric). His bear name is unpronounceable, so I just call him Jolly. He eats too much, and is often sorely wounded, but I like his company. I’ve also acquired a pet bunny that I call Snowball. Snowball doesn’t talk much, but he’s a cute little thing, and Jolly hasn’t eaten him yet, so that’s good.
You remember, of course, that I found my way to Orgrimmar in the orcish land called Durotar. The city is huge, as big as our Thunder Bluffs, if not bigger. There are all manner of friendly people there: orcs, trolls, and tauren from other herds. (There are also a few undead about. I know Thrall has allied himself with the zombie lord, but I cannot abide his minions. They are grotesque mockeries of nature, these living dead. I will never work alongside one.) From Orgrimmar, and from encampments in the Barrens, and in Thousand Needles, and in the Stonetalon Mountains, I am given tasks by wise and powerful men. “Rid our land of the greedy goblins who deforest our hills,” they tell me. “Discover the source of the polluted waters. Kill the giant sea monster that has been terrorizing the coast.” I do as they bid and they pay me well.
You would not believe the places I have seen. I have flown through the sky, father, on the back of a giant bat! I have swum in the ocean! (Not an easy task with hooves.) I have ventured deep into the heart of a mountain, fighting terrible lizards and cursed elven druids! I have traversed salty deserts, and cut my way through thick tangles of jungle. This world of ours is vast and beautiful. Just today, I raced through Feralas, a wooded land that lies south over the mountains from Bloodhoof Village. Danger swarmed all around: the wolves and bears would kill me if they could, but I made my way to Camp Mojache, a tauren outpost. It pleased me to think that we were only a few miles apart, even if we were separated by an impassable wall of rock.
I have made some friends. Zephyrus is a member of another herd; I believe he is from Northern Mulgore, near the Red Rocks region. He is a shaman of uncommon insight, wise even in the ways of the hunter. His advice is invaluable. Bulla is a fierce trollish warrior, and perhaps my closest friend in all of Azeroth. I do not see him often, but when I do, we cut a swath of righteousness through the world. Together, we recently purged a dwarven infestation from the Barrens: we destroyed dwarves, mining equipment, and even flying machines. I’ve also recently met Cotys, a young orcish shaman who is kind and quiet, but sure to be a friend in the future.
In addition to my talents as a hunter, I’ve developed an affinity for botany. You remember how as a calf I was fascinated with all the various flowers and herbs to be found in the hills? I’m afraid I’ve carried this obsession further now that I am nearly a bull. As I wander from place-to-place, I keep my eye out for fascinating plant life. I harvest every new flower and herb and vegetable, and I place seeds and cuttings in a special bag. I have quite a collection now, more than I can possibly use myself.
For a time, I sold my extra seeds to vendors in the villages. My expenses are high, though, and I discovered that I could earn more money if I sold my plant materials at the auction house in Orgrimarr. I kill many animals on my journeys, and as you taught me, I always skin their flesh so that it does not go to waste. These leathers and hides I also sell at the auction house. And here, father, is where I make a confession. I am ashamed. I am no better than a dwarf. I, too, have become a profitmonger.
It started innocently. As I sold my flowers and leathers in the auction house, I noted that sometimes others would be selling theirs for less. In order that my goods would sell, I was forced to buy these cheaper items, and then to offer them at the same price as the goods I’d gathered. When both lots sold, I would have made a tidy profit. Then I noticed that, through chance or design, people often sold swords and bags and magical essences for less than market price. It occurred to me that I might finance the purchase of a better bow if I were to buy these cheap items and then resell them for what they were worth. And so I did, and so I profited. Copper turned to silver, silver turned to gold. I grew rich. It’s true, father: I grew rich. In only three weeks’ time, I transformed two pieces of gold into one hundred fifty! One hundred fifty gold pieces! Can you believe it? That’s enough to feed the entire herd for decades, and yet I am still not satisfied.
I have formed a partnership with a sickly trollish mage. He is too frail to adventure, so he spends his time in Orgrimmar, watching the auction house. I mail him all my goods, and he sells them at great profits. Using this capital, he snatches up whatever bargains are to be had. The more gold I acquire, the more profits are I can obtain. When I had only ten gold pieces, I could only buy inexpensive items and make small profits. Just yesterday, father, I purchased a powerful bow — one I cannot wield for months or years — I purchased it for fifty pieces of gold and in four hours I had sold it for ninety. Ninety pieces of gold! Forty gold in profit! My head swims.
This morning, as I took stock of my inventory, I counted 148 gold pieces in my purse. Secreted in a bank vault, I have ten pieces of valuable equipment, including Lord Alexander’s Battle Axe. This is a powerful weapon, father, one that I could easily sell for 80 gold pieces. My trollish partner has even more equipment such as this.
Can you believe it? I am rich! I am amassing a fortune. I can dream of a day when I will be the richest man in Azeroth. For you and mother, I will build a private range filled with the juiciest leaves and grasses. You will no longer have to work for the chief; mother will not have to carry water from the well. We shall suck on the teats of fortune and grow fat. Is this wrong of me to say? So be it. The Great Bull has blessed me.
Walk with the Earth Mother. Your son, Venatoro.
Ice King
In which I am really very cold.
Beware the Ides of December!
Is it just me, or has this been a cold winter already? When I rolled out of bed this morning, I checked the local weather. According to the web site, the temperature was “-4, but feels like -8. (That’s “25, but feels like 18” to those of you who do not speak centigrade.) Very cold. It has been like this for days.
As always during anomalous weather, I’ve checked the National Weather Service for recent data. I made a lovely table of the temperatures for the past week, but for some reason I cannot get it to format properly in the weblog. I’ve posted it here, on a separate page. Go look at it. Isn’t it fun?
The average temperature for the past week is about 34.6. Last year in December, the average monthly temperature was 45.2. (And the average for all Decembers is 42.8.) This past week has been, on average, ten degrees colder than last December. It feels like twenty.Last year, it didn’t drop below 32 once in December. Our low in January was 27. That was also our low during February. (You’ll remember that we had very strange weather for an entire month starting on Valentine’s Day: not a single drop of rain fell.)
I’ve been cautious on my drive to work this week. The roads haven’t been that icy, but slick patches lurk here and there. The real danger comes at midday: I expect the roads to have cleared, and then something surprises me. On Tuesday I drove to Salem in a heavy fog, some of which had frozen to the road. Yesterday afternoon the sky was sunny and clear during my drive to Hillsboro. I was on a winding country road that dipped into a shaded gully to cross a creek. Just as I approached the bridge, I noticed it was icy. “Crap!” I thought as the car slid from my control. Fortunately, the tires found traction in time for me to recover without incident, but I was much more alert for the rest of the afternoon.
Most winters I can handle the cold. In fact, I like it. Most winters I complain that Kris and her friends keep their homes too warm. I call them Ice Queens. This winter, however, despite weighing more than I ever have before, I am cold. Very cold. Cold all the time. I am colder than Kris, and vociferous about my coldness. I’ve been spending a lot of time in my car, delivering Christmas baskets to customers. This would be fine if the damn heater worked. I hate Fords.
The cold weather isn’t all bad. At times it’s rather beautiful. The days are clear and bright; the nights are filled with stars. As I was leaving Mac’s house last Friday afternoon, we marveled at beautiful sunset: thin fingers of clouds glowed red as they stretched toward the horizon.
Mitch called last night. “Dude, go outside and look at the moon,” he said. “It’s awesome. There’s a ring around it, sort of like a halo, and all sorts of clouds. You should take a picture.”
“I’m in the bath,” I said. “I’m trying to warm my inner core.”
I never did see the moon last night, but I saw it this morning. It still had something of a halo about it, and it looked almost spooky through the trees. Because I was carrying my camera, I stopped to take some photos. I was too cold to set up a tripod, though, so I intentionally took shaky handheld shots, hoping for some sort of cool effect. I’m not wholly displeased with the results.
Enough Food to Feed an Army
In which Kris and I hoard vast quantities of food (including a quarter of a cow).
When Kris and I moved from our house in Canby, we swore we’d stop hoarding food. In Canby we were both notorious hoarders. My pantry shelf was filled with dozens of cans of beans: chili beans, baked beans, bean with bacon soup. Kris’ pantry shelf was filled with various tomato products: tomato soup, ravioli, corn beef hash. Our chest freezer was full of breads and berries, some of which we’d frozen a decade ago. (No joke.)
We didn’t move most of the food, and we vowed that at the new house we wouldn’t hoard as much. Ha! Maybe it’s a disease.
I’m not sure where Kris got her hoarding habits (though I did once have some twenty-year-old cocoa at her grandmother’s house), but I know where I got mine. I grew up Mormon. As Mormons, we obeyed the dictum to lay by a one-year supply of food in case of emergency. We were big on emergency preparedness. Out in the shop we had an entire storage room devoted to emergency rations: freeze-dried fruits, large drums filled with wheat, vast quantities of powdered milk. We had what seemed like hundreds of bags and cans from Deseret Industries.
Now that I am older, I have an innate drive to hoard food. Even in the new house, my pantry shelf is again filled with all manner of beans. We have more space, though, so I’ve begun to hoard other things, such as breakfast cereals. For some reason, whenever I find a breakfast cereal I like, especially if it can be purchased cheaply, I stock up. I have several boxes of Trader Joe’s Essentials, of Kellogg’s raisin bran, of generic spoon-sized shredded wheat. I also have large stockpiles of premium chocolate and of scotch whiskey. (These last two probably oughtn’t be considered food.)
Kris has moved my cache of Asian food down to the basement. During my Asian phase about five years ago, I bought all manner of sauce and powder and condiment. I made maybe two meals from all of this stuff and then forgot about it.
A couple weeks ago, I decided it was time to use some of my Asian food. I dug out two cans of curry sauce and started to prepare a deluxe curry feast. I bought some chicken. I chopped some vegetables. However, when I opened the curry sauce, I discovered it had turned into curry bricks. With much coaxing, I managed to convert the solid to a liquid once more, but I was shocked — shocked! — at the oil slick that floated on the surface of the stuff. I checked the nutrition information. Each can of the curry sauce contained over 2000 calories. My saucepan contained about 4500 calories of curry sauce, and I hadn’t even added the meat and vegetables yet. I’m willing to indulge in a lot of high-calorie meals, but this was too much even for me. And, as you might have guessed, ultimately the sauce had spoiled anyway; I’m sure it wasn’t poisoned yet, but it had begun to turn. I threw it all away and prepared my chicken and vegetables in a more traditional fashion.
Now it seems that Kris and I may be beginning to hoard in mass quantities. We recently joined some of her co-workers to purchase a cow. She brought home about seventy-five pounds of beef the other night, and I spent ten minutes loading ground beef and steaks and ground beef and roasts and ground beef into the chest freezer. (To make room, I had to throw away three bags of rotten bananas that Kris was hoarding — they were making the freezer smell like bananas. “I was going to use those for muffins,” she said, “but I guess I can just buy new bananas.”)
We keep more food than many families of four. When will we eat it all?
When I got home from work yesterday, John Little was outside in his yard. “Hey!” he said. “Do you like salmon?”
“Hell yes!” I said. We’d just had a fantastic salmon dinner at Jeremy and Jennifer‘s house the night before. John scurried into his house and returned with a bag filled with frozen filets.
“This is from my last Alaska trip,” he said. “I haven’t gotten around to eating it and I don’t want it to go to waste.” John is a retired schoolteacher. He spends his winters in New Zealand, and he spends his summers in Alaska on his fishing boat.
I thanked him for the fish, then took it to the garage where I crammed it into the freezer with the cow. Later, I called Jenn for her salmon recipe. Kris and I are going to eat well in 2006, and we won’t even have to buy groceries. We can live off our hoarded reserves.
Isabel Pilar
In which Kim and Sabino welcome a daughter into this world.
As with Diego, I’ve incorporated this birth announcement into the weblog so that people can leave messages to Kim and Sabino, and to each other. The information below is, to the best of my knowledge, accurate. Please send me corrections or additions.
![[photo of Isabel bawling]](/photos/healthylungs.jpg "Tell us about it, Izzy...")
Congratulations to Kim and Sabino Arredondo on the birth of their third child (and first daughter), Isabel Pilar, born at 5:30 this morning via Cesarean section. She weighed 7 lbs., 11 oz. If you would like to congratulate the Arredondo family, they are in room six at the Willamette Falls Hospital ‘Birthplace’, after which they will be at home.
![[photo of Isabel Pilar]](/photos/isabelpilar.jpg "Isabel Pilar")
Aside from the C-section, it sounds as if Isabel was another easy birth for Kim. From what I understand, she went into labor at about 3:00, arrived at the hospital at around 3:30, and gave birth two hours later.
![[photo of Isabel gripping Kim's finger]](/photos/isabelgrip.jpg "Isabel grips Kim's finger")
![[photo of Diego holding Isabel]](/photos/diegoisabel.jpg "Little brother likes Isabel's hands")
Isabel’s brothers, Antonio and Diego, seem pleased with their little sister. Diego is fascinated by Isabel’s tiny hands. Antonio wants “Kimberly” to come home, of course, but he has his trains to keep him occupied.
We joined Jeremy and Jennifer for a hospital last night. Emma wanted to hold Isabel. Here, she and Antonio take turns giving her gentle kisses:
![[photo of Emma holding Isabel]](/photos/kidsisabel.jpg "Emma and Antonio admire Isabel")
It was great to see how proud Sabino was of his new daughter. He positively glowed.
![[photo of Sabino holding Isabel]](/photos/sabinoisabel.jpg "The proud father")
![[photo of Kim and Sabino with Isabel]](/photos/proudparents.jpg "Mom and Dad and Isabel, too")
Congratulations, Kim and Sabino! We’re all happy for you.
Now It Can Be Told
In which I relate the tale of Harrison’s birth from the perspective of iniquitous men.
Seven years ago today, Jeremy and Jennifer produced a little Harrison James Gingerich. Jeff and I have always loved the story of Hank’s birthday as told from our perspective, and so today we are sharing it with the world.
At that time, the MNF women met on one Saturday every December to bake cookies. While our wives did womanly things, the men held a gathering of their own, a gathering dubbed: Den of Iniquity. Den of Iniquity was the sort of thing about which we talked all year long, our brains bubbling with planned debauchery. We could drink beer! We could watch porn! We could be rogues! Reality was always somewhat different: we generally rented a Nintendo, bought several liters of soda, and ordered in pizza.
On that particular Saturday in 1998, we had gathered at Sabino’s home for a day-long Mario Kart marathon. We had ourselves some serious four-player action, with the winner of each race staying in and the loser(s) rotating out. Joel, Jeff, Phil, and I joined Sabino that day. (It may be possible that Brock and/or Roger stopped by for a while, also.)
The women were across town at Julie’s, baking cookies in her deluxe new kitchen. Sometime in the mid-afternoon, Stephanie called to say that Jennifer had just given birth. They were going up to visit the new parents at the hospital. Did we want to come? (Harrison was only the second child born into the group. Ian had been born the previous May.)
“Hell no!” was our response. We were high on pepperoni and pop. “This is a Den of Iniquity. Iniquitous men don’t go to look at babies.” After we hung up, we laughed amongst ourselves and cracked wise. Sabino broke out his Jerry Seinfeld “you’ve got to see the baby” impression. I complained that all babies look like Winston Churchill. We were smug in how strong we had stood up to our wives.
A few minutes later, the women showed up at the house. “Please won’t you come? We’re going to dinner first, and then to the hospital,” they said. “It would mean a lot to Jeremy and Jennifer.”
“No way,” we said. “We have more important things to do. We are mired in sin. Besides, we’ve already eaten pizza.” When the women left, each man knew he was in the doghouse, but nobody cared. Peer pressure hung heavy in the air. “We don’t really know them, anyhow,” we reasoned. At that time, Jeremy and Jennifer were not yet solid members of our group. (In fact, Jenn was a cipher to me; I barely knew her.)
Still, somewhere in the back of my mind, I felt guilty. We played for a few more minutes, and then I said: “Maybe we should go up. Wouldn’t it be funny if the women got to the hospital after their dinner and we were there waiting?”
“Nah,” said Joel. “I don’t wanna go see the baby.”
“It would be kind of funny,” said Jeff. “And then the women would get off our backs.”
“I guess we could just run up there for a few minutes and then come back to see who can defeat the Rainbow Bridge,” said Phil.
And so the five of us piled into a single vehicle and sped to Tualatin. As expected, little Hank looked like Winston Churchill, or a lizard, or any number of the other grotesque creatures that babies look like. “Have our wives been here yet?” we asked. They had not.
“Man, I’m hungry,” said Jeremy.
“Well, let’s go eat!” suggested Sabino. “We’ll take you for a steak.” The six of us piled into a single vehicle and drove to the newly opened Outback Steakhouse across the freeway. We sat at the bar and ordered Jeremy steak and beer and whatever else he wanted. He smoked like Jeremy will. “Congratulations!” we said. Still full from pizza, the rest of us merely snacked on appetizers.
(Sidenote of interest only to football fans: While we were sitting at the bar, the Heisman Trophy results were being broadcast on television. During the meal, I read the subtitles with interest. A young man named Ricky Williams had just won the award, and while being interviewed he seemed remarkably articulate for a football player. And intelligent. I resolved that I would draft this man for my fantasy football squad. The next year, I traded away Peyton Manning to acquire the first pick in the draft. I kept Ryan Leaf. (I had drafted Manning and Leaf with the first two picks of the 1998 draft.) Football fans can understand the complex implications here.)
After our celebratory meal, we returned to the hospital. “Have our wives been here yet?” we asked. They had not. We were flabbergasted. How long did it take these women to eat, anyhow? “You know what,” said Phil. “When they get here, don’t tell them we’ve been up to see you.” The rest of us chortled, comprehending his plan. We said our good-byes and dashed home.
A couple of hours later, a troop of sour women tromped in to find us sitting in front of the television, still playing Mario Kart. “How was the baby?” asked Jeff. The women were icy and distant.
“Are you done yet?” they asked.
“We can be done,” we said, snickering amongst ourselves. We gave each other high fives and went our separate ways. That night, each man revealed our deception to his wife in his own way. Not a single woman thought we were as clever as we believed ourselves to be.
We still believe ourselves to have been well and truly clever. We break this story out every year at Harrison’s birthday and tell it amongst ourselves. The women never laugh, but simply glower at us.
Ah, the Den of Iniquity. Those were the days, back before my friends began breeding like rabbits…
Bonus fact: Why Hank? Before Harrison was born, Jeremy was prone to saying, “We’re naming our son Harrison, but I’m going to call him Hank.” So, when I first started calling him Hank, I was merely doing what I thought his father was going to do. Of course, it turned out that Jeremy never did call him Hank, but I’ve kept at it for seven years.
Tomorrow: More babies! Kim and Sabino plan to give birth to Isabel Pilar on Tuesday, and this space is reserved for all the details. (You can pass the time waiting by reviewing the entry on their last child: Diego Fiesta!)
No Sleep For You!
In which Kris interferes with my sleep.
I went to a cocktail party last night to celebrate Dave’s thirty-seventh birthday. Over kalamata olives and pickled carrots, I told Dave’s parents and Courtney how my sleep has improved during the past six months. I ought to have known that I was jinxing myself.
One of the cornerstones to my sleep regimen has been adapting to my sleep cycle. Because my personal cycle averages about ninety minutes, there are certain optimal times for me to fall asleep. If I fall asleep at a different time, I wake before five or after six, and that’s not good. Last night, I read comic books in bed until the middle of one of these optimal times, then I turned out the light and fell asleep.
Kris woke me a short time later. She turned on the light and shouted: “Are you asleep already? I hate it when you do that.” Groan.
Kris doesn’t like for me to go to bed before she does, even if she’s staying up until eleven to watch Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (while simultaneously reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix). She also doesn’t like for me to go to bed after she does, even if she’s going to bed at eight because she doesn’t feel well. No — Kris is only happy if I’m going to bed at precisely the same time she is, and if I’m not reading or listening to music or anything else.
“This channel is so annoying,” Kris said. “They keep showing commercials every ten minutes.”
“I was trying to sleep,” I said, but she didn’t care, so I got up to check my World of Warcraft auctions (about which more tomorrow).
When I tried to fall asleep half an hour later, I couldn’t. Another cornerstone of my sleep regimen is a dose of melatonin half an hour before bed. The melatonin helps me to fall asleep, and grants me truly deep and restful slumber. However, if I am awakened in the middle of melatonin-assisted sleep, it’s almost impossible for me to get back to bed. Such was the case last night.
I lay there, tossing and turning. Every little thing bugged me: my wrist hurt, my shirt was bunched up underneath me, the pillows (without pillow cases, which are in the dryer) were prickly, the hissing of the C-PAP machine was driving me crazy. Nemo had curled up by my side; he bit me when I tried to pet him. Finally, sometime just after midnight, I fell asleep. “Sometime just after midnight” is not one of the optimal times for my sleep cycles.
“Your face is kind of red,” Jenn told me on Saturday, after book group.
“I know. It’s always kind of red lately” I said. “It’s from my C-PAP machine. The mask irritates my face.”
“Doesn’t it have a little water reservoir?” she asked. “That ought to help.”
“It does have a little water reservoir, but I never use it,” I said, and everybody laughed. Naturally, I resolved to use the little water reservoir that very night. (And just as naturally, I forgot to use the little water reservoir that very night. I did, however, remember to use it last night.)
The little water reservoir is nice. As the air blows through the C-PAP machine into the tube, it passes over the pool of water, picking up some of the moisture and carrying it to my nose. There’s no doubt that this makes for a more comfortable C-PAP experience. There’s also no doubt that it creates a micro-climate inside my face mask. Last night at about three o’clock, I dreamed that I was drowning. I woke to find that my dream was not far from reality. I pulled my face mask aside and a small stream of cold water poured from it onto my pillow-caseless pillow. Great. I turned the pillow over and tried to fall asleep again.
When, because of my natural sleep cycle, I woke at 4:45, I considered getting up, but discarded the notion as silly. I was tired. Kris’ alarm went off at 5:15. Kris’ alarm went off at 5:24. I got out of bed and poked around on the computer. At 6:00, I hollered, “Are you going to get out of bed?”
“Oh,” said Kris.
I can’t do my morning routine before Kris, because if I do there isn’t enough hot water for her shower. Usually the morning routine begins at about 5:45. If it begins at 6:05, we are w-a-y behind schedule. We rushed through things, and I complained the whole time about Kris’ woeful insensitivity to her husband, how callously she had thwarted him at both ends of the night. She bore my admonitions with poise. I managed to make it out the door just on time.
I am very, very tired this morning.
Footnote: To make matters worse, it is cold. That is to say, my office is cold. How cold? It’s 4.2 degrees celsius. That’s 39.56 degrees fahrenheit! I’ve turned on both space heaters: the old fan-based clunker and my new directional parabolic heater. Maybe between the two I can get the office to near 20 before noon. (The temperature has increased to 10.4 in the 48 minutes it took to write this entry!)
Footnote to the footnote: When I spruced up my office recently, I bought three houseplants to give the place a little warmth. “You’re not very good at taking care of those,” Nick told me recently. “You need to water them.” Actually, they get enough water. They don’t get enough light. And 4.2 degrees celsius? Not ideal for tropical plants. No wonder my ficas is shedding its leaves. I shake it and the leaves cascade like, well, leaves falling from a tree. Okay for an oak in November; not okay for an office ficas.
Introduction to Our Cats
In which I introduce you to Toto, Simon, and Nemo.
I often mention our cats in this weblog, and I assume that most of you know their names and personalities. Obviously, given the nature of the internet, this is not a safe assumption. Therefore, this entry will serve as an introduction to the feline residents of Rosings Park.
TOTO
Toto is black: black of fur and black of heart. She has earned a reputation as being one of the bitchiest cats alive, but in actuality, she’s rather sweet. Too sweet. She keeps Kris awake at night, demanding love and attention. She will purr and then gently paw Kris’ chin until she gets the scritching she feels she deserves. Toto used to love outside, but now she’s mostly housebound. She’s getting old. Whereas she used to run and play and leap around, mostly she sleeps on the bed.
Perhaps you remember the entry in which I am interviewed by Toto the cat?
Name: Toto
Other Names: Princess, Bloato, Girly-Girl
Birthdate: 03 May 1994
Color: Black with a very few white hairs
Meow: A sort of whiny squawk or cackle, even when she’s happy.
Stature: Small and stocky. Toto is dense. Her body is far too big for her tiny head.
Nature: Loving, but particular. Often wants all of your attention, but she only wants it her way. A famous hisser and scratcher.
Intelligence: Toto is the smartest cat I have ever known. When she was young, we taught her several tricks. She loved to fetch, for example. She’s always come when called. She understands the concept of doorknobs, though much to her consternation, she lacks an opposable thumb.
Petting rules: Only pet her shoulder or head unless she is purring, in which case you may pet any part of her body (until she suddenly stops purring and hisses and scratches).
Favorite People: Dad, Mom (but only when Mom is asleep), Auntie Tiff, Auntie Aimee.
Mortal Enemies: Nemo, Auntie Pam
Favorite Food: Pork products! Tuna! Starches! (Toto has been known to eat baked potato skins, dinner rolls, and she’s especially fond of bagels with cream cheese.)
Favorite Phrase: “I hate you.”
Hunting Prowess: Toto used to be a wily hunter. When we lived in Canby, she was death to goldfinches. She often brought the birds into the house to show them to us. In one notable case, I was watching the summer Olympics while eating a bowl of hot soup. Unbeknownst to me, Toto brought in a bird and released it: it flew from her mouth, startling me so that I spilled hot soup on my lap. Toto leaped around after the bird, which was flying into ceiling, bumping it repeatedly, leaving bloodstains that remained even when we sold the house last year. Toto’s prowess has declined since her mysterious illness fifteen months ago. (She’s really become old and feeble, losing much of her grace and balance.)
SIMON
Simon is a big lug. He’s a very attractive fellow, and he knows it, often posing for photographs. He’s surprisingly tolerant of children: he will let them rush up to him and rub him all over. Weekends are his favorites because he’s allowed to stay outside almost all day. And any day in which he’s been allowed outside, he’s a much sweeter cat in the evening. Simon doesn’t play much, but when he does, he torments his little brother mercilessly.
Simon wrote the weblog entry The Blood of a Squirrel.
Name: Simon Albert Gates
Other Names: Fatso, Big Guy, Big Goof, Gordo, Diplodicus
Birthdate: 02 August 2001 (the day that Tintin died)
Color: Brownish with grey stripes
Meow: A pitiful Mike Tyson-esque mew unworthy of his size and stature.
Stature: Enormous. Friends often say things like, “That cat is huge!” Yesterday Lisa said, “Simon is massive!” He’s not particularly heavy, but he’s long and stout and has huge paws. He looks dangerous.
Nature: Aloof, but friendly. Simon often likes to be near people, but he doesn’t really want to be touched. It is only in the past few months that he’s begun sleeping on the bed with us. Over the past couple of weeks, he’s become quite fond of sitting on the bath mat while I soak.
Intelligence: Simon is not particularly bright. In fact, he’s rather dull.
Petting rules: You must let him smell your hand first. Most likely he will move away, but he may deign to allow you to pet his head and back. Do not pet hard or long for fear of provoking his ire.
Favorite People: Mom, Uncle Jeff. Sometimes Dad.
Mortal Enemies: Flash (the neighborhood cat, with whom Simon frequently engages in Mind Games)
Favorite Food: The dregs of your breakfast cereal, especially the sweetened milk.
Favorite Phrase: “Whatever!” Also: “Outside?”
Hunting Prowess: Simon is strong and fast, but not particularly bright. If an animal is distracted, it is doomed because Simon will reach it and overpower it quickly. If an animal is aware of Simon’s presence, he’s never going to outsmart it. He seems to think that he’s going to score by sitting underneath the bird feeders, but he never does.
NEMO
Let’s be clear about one thing: Nemo is not named for the fish. Nemo is named for a century-old comic strip character. Nemo is a bundle of energy, willing to play with whatever there is to play with. He looks up to Simon, and likes to wrestle with him whenever possible. Nemo also likes to play with the red stuffed cat (Red Cat) that sits on the dresser in the bedroom; he’ll jump up and throw the thing to the floor before attacking it.
Name: Nemo
Other Names: Neamster, Little Guy, Little Goof, Squeaky
Birthdate: 09 June 2003
Color: Typical seal-point Siamese
Meow: A plaintive squeak.
Stature: Thin and wiry. Squirmy. Nemo is medium-sized, but looks long and thin.
Nature: Nemo is Siamese. This means that he is always in motion, and not a little bit psycho. It’s difficult to get him to sit still for anything. He paces about, squeaking. He sits down for ten seconds, then gets up and moves two feet to a new spot. Nemo is very sweet, and fond of the entire family, though he loves to provoke Toto (who hates him).
Intelligence: Nemo is relatively smart, though he often lacks the patience to pursue more difficult tasks. (For example, he doesn’t understand doorknobs as Toto does; he doesn’t have the patience to play with them.)
Petting rules: If he’s in the mood to be petted, you may pet him as much as you want wherever you want. If he’s not in the mood to be petted, he won’t sit still, so it’s a lost cause.
Favorite People: Mom. Sometimes Dad. Anyone who will open the door for him.
Mortal Enemies: Walnut (the squirrel who lives in the tree just outside the front door)
Favorite Food: None. He never seems to eat.
Favorite Phrase: “I’m Siamese!” (As an explanation for whatever odd thing he has just done.)
Hunting Prowess: Inept. Nemo is the laughingstock of the neighborhood birds and animals. He has made a couple of kills over the past eighteen months, but I’m not sure how. Normally he makes blind charges that miss by a mile. The squirrels, in particular, love to mock him. They literally sit in the walnut tree and mock him. Once or twice a month, they lure him into the tree and then — I am not kidding — they play games in which they race up and down the tree past him, taunting him.
I told Kris the other day, “If you weren’t here to restrain me, I’d be one of those crazy cat ladies.” And I would be. I want more cats. I’m fine getting only one at a time, but I’d love to add a new cat to the household every year. Of course, this would only push Toto completely over the edge into insanity, and she would be hissing constantly. As it is, I’m patiently waiting for my little black daughter to die so that I may replace her with a new feline. Or two.