Clearing the cobwebs

Overheard over bowls of spaghetti:

Diesel: Dad, can we go to Morgantown for my birthday?

Dad: Uhhh.... I've never heard of it. What's in Morgantown?

Diesel: I don't know yet.

Bobblehead

Master Timo is over two years old and we still haven't gotten our act back together since he arrived.

He's a bit cranky this week. Not continuously; but often, and unpredictably. His vocabulary is growing fast, so in a few weeks he'll be able to articulate clearly what he wants; but for now, he mostly keeps us guessing ... by hitting crystal-shattering high notes over apparent policy differences related to milk vs. juice, or the inalienable right to store car keys in the trash can.

This photo helps me reflect on what he's really like. In happier times he'll keep himself (and us) entertained for quite a while with his truncated "knock-knock" jokes -- in which he responds to the customary question "... xxx who?" with hearty, infectious laughter. (Would this be proto-dadaism? Or pre-minimalism? Discuss.)

Riding the bus

When we bought our house in a woodsy, out-of-the-way neighborhood, I confirmed online that we were (theoretically) within reach of Washington-area public transportation. But I never actually tested that theory, until this morning. I did get to work -- but a trip that takes 30 minutes by bicycle, or 15 minutes by car... took nearly 2 hours. (I rode 2 buses (45min.); walked 1.5 miles (30min.), waited at curbs for 35min.; jaywalked across 2x6 rush-hour lanes; and climbed 2 grassy embankments.)

This was homework for that course I'm taking. So I tried to imagine what I would say if I got stopped for running across a divided highway buffeted by tractor-trailers: "Your honor, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury, all this has been happening to me because of this guy named Mark Scandrette ..." (source)

... who writes, "If Jesus lived in our day, I think he would take the bus." I thought about this as I rode, waited, walked, and bushwhacked. I also chuckled at the line from Repo Man, "I do my best thinking on the bus... The more you drive, the less intelligent you are." I recalled the daily bus rides I'd taken as a kid in Tunis and Casablanca; others in Boston, Atlanta, and Los Angeles; ... and how insulated I've become since then from buses and all that they represent.

I also thought of Joseph, a Togolese refugee who briefly lived with us a few years ago, and all the time he must have spent on buses getting from our house to places much further away (30 miles instead of my 6) in search of menial work, or signatures on forms. At one point I realized I'd taken the wrong bus and had to ask the bus driver for advice: I thought of Joseph's severely limited command of English, and how panicky this must have been for him. (And probably a frequent occurrence.) I felt sheepish at how much more we could've helped Joseph get around. More generally, I felt for those constrained to take buses across these far-flung suburbs -- inward along one "spoke" of the network, transferring once or twice to go back out along another spoke; hours spent each day just getting around.

As I stood waiting for the first bus (my feet hurting from my 1.2 mile walk in poorly-chosen shoes), dozens of cars whisked by in sleek efficiency -- door-to-door, no waiting. Through lightly tinted windows I saw their (usually sole) occupants and thought of their plush seats, precise climate controls, and glorious surround sound.... In my mind, every one of them seemed luxurious. Playing a have-not for a day: what could be more artificial? Yet I found myself wishing one of them would stop and give me a ride -- at least to my next bus..? Sharing their convenience, velocity, and comfort with me for a few minutes would cost them nothing, but it would completely make my day. From my curbside perspective this made so much sense that I fully expected one of them to slow down from 50mph, pull over to the curb, and invite me aboard.

Have mercy
Been waitin' for the bus all day
I got my brown paper bag and my take home pay

Mastery

Yesterday young Diesel, not quite 4 years old, learned to ride his bike without training wheels. We're all pretty pleased; Diesel even informed a couple of strangers at the jungle gym. Which he no longer has much time for because he's riding and riding and riding and...

Watching him get steadier and faster, I felt like Crush the sea turtle: "Curl away, my son! ... Chaaaahh" (video@3:35)

So, yeah, fatherhood is pretty OK at the moment.

Playing a tiny part

Well, that was interesting: I contributed (inadvertently and infinitesimally) to Jon Birch's ASBO Jesus comicblog. He spun an earlier comment into a biting new cartoon, the "Greed Creed." Awfully generous of Mr. Birch to give me a shout-out.

The concept originated with Stephen Colbert's brilliant "Word" of Sept. 29. I found it unsettling to see so many people solemnly declaring, "I believe in the free market." (skip to 2:25 if you're in a hurry)

Lord, have mercy on me, an idiot

That was my Facebook status for a few days last week. Nobody responded; I'm not too surprised. I'm a Facebook lurker myself; I've seen much more interesting status lines and not lifted a finger to comment. It was a somewhat feeble form of "soul graffiti" -- a public expression of an inner yelp -- and, part of my homework for the online course I'm taking. There's not much of a story behind it: I'm just overtired, and generally a mess; with no-one to blame but myself. I've been burning the candle at both ends: staying up late for no particularly good reason, news, blogs, etc., despite knowing that 3 little boys will be climbing on me before sunrise. (I've been a bit obsessed with getting the very latest news and opinion on the economy and Gov. Palin -- two of the most bizarre and worrisome news developments I've ever seen.) Under these groggy conditions, Saturdays are especially tough: absent the 9-5 structure, I meander between unfinished tasks in the house and yard, daunted by the least difficulty, irritation growing by the hour. This past Saturday I finally put down the to-do list and took a nap: as I lay sheepishly, hoping for sleep, I thought of the apostle Paul's word from God: "My strength is made perfect in weakness." I smirked as I prayed in reply, "Lord, um, careful what you wish for..." Dim humor, but enough for right then.

Lately I've been mulling a line by a different Paul, "Fools said I, you do not know / Silence like a cancer grows" (suggested by Kathryn, a fellow student). The phrase was probably meant for communities or societies; but it also applies to individuals: as I neglect to express the stuff that humbles or scares me, it transforms and spreads, and talking about it becomes harder. (...Lather, rinse, repeat.) Eventually just writing a personal e-mail becomes an hour-long exercise. Prior to the 6-month hiatus on this blog, my posts had gotten a bit formulaic, with little content that really mattered; even I was getting tired of the formula. In days & weeks to come here, I hope to get up & out of familiar, slippery ruts and get some thoughts out, before the cancerous silence has a chance to grow.

...Interspersed with inane commentary and cute pictures of the boys, of course, just for good measure.

Mental floss

The Soul Graffiti course has begun. Before I dive into that, I need to clear my slate and share a few things with you before they recede into complete irrelevance. First, on a recent day my spam folder -- usually a vile, foaming cesspool -- was glittering with little gems:

• Unemployed To Be Used For Soup
• Mike Tyson To Fight Michael Jackson
• Laika The Russian Space Dog, Returns To Earth
• Polar Bear Finds Yoga Great For Flexibility, But Murder On The Balls
• Sarah Jessica Parker Arrested For Gross Negligee
• 2008 Presidential Election Results Leaked

The flow of fun Subject-fields quickly stopped, and has never resumed; some sort of glitch in the SpamMatrix I guess. I traced a couple of these to The Onion and elsewhere, but others had more obscure sources. (I don't think spammers sit around thinking up funny headlines.)

Another kind of mental flotsam might be titled "wait, am I laughing with you, or at you?" Recent examples:

• "Gratification so instant, it already happened" (Nestea billboard)
• "Even hotdogs get extreme makeovers" (sign for Auntie Annie's Pretzel Dogs)
• "Fear the turtle" (University of Maryland signs)

OK. Thank you for letting me get that off my chest. Sorry to have wasted 2 minutes of your life. It can only go up from here.

From Draisine to .deciMach

I had it easy for my first stint in homeschooling last week. The "kids' choice" subject of the day was: bicycles. We traced the history of the bicycle, from the Draisine (1817) to the Velocipede (a.k.a. "Bone-Shaker," 1864, pictured at right), the Penny-Farthing (1870), and the breakthrough Safety bicycle (1885).

I found this to be a surprisingly rich story of engineering design, patent and business strategy, and social change (Susan B. Anthony praised the bicycle for emancipating women). As bicycling grew popular in the 1890s, doctors warned people (esp. women) about the risk of "bicycle face" and other maladies resulting from the "unhygienic" exertion of riding a bicycle above 7-1/2 mph.

Then it was on to "unusual" bicycles, including Recumbents and the Human-Powered Speed Challenge. Coincidentally, that very afternoon in the Nevada high desert, a new record was being set -- 82.3 mph -- which also earned the .deciMach prize for going one-tenth the speed of sound under human power. That's asking for some severe bicycle face.

Taking the plunge

Let's ignore that little 6-month hiatus, and start this blog up again, shall we? I don't know whether I can restore some sort of regularity to this space, but I need to try. As they say, you miss 100% of the shots you don't take. I think one key to keeping it going will be to write often and quickly -- so, I'll give myself 20 minutes per post. So, reload & refresh... Hello everyone.

Also under the "plunge" rubric, I'm about to take a seminary course -- OK, that's an overstatement; it's just an online four-week study of "Soul Graffiti," with the author, Mark Scandrette, through the Church Divinity School of the Pacific, in Berkeley, CA. I'd been thinking of it as a glorified book club, until I came to the part of the registration form where I had to choose between "Lay" and "Ordained." One clue that this isn't exactly the Applied Math Dept. I have no guarantee that I'll find the time each week to read 4 chapters, write three essays, and conduct a "life experiment", but I can't wait to try.

Thermocouple

I spent most of a precious Saturday fixing our propane stove. Uncle George had already given his diagnosis over the phone; the thirdhand report I got said something about a "thermal coupler." But first I had to figure out what such a thing even looked like. Several Google searches later, I had the stove's user manual onscreen, with an exploded diagram showing a thermocouple. But because the actual thermocouple I could see in the stove seemed (a) undamaged, (b) very unique to this stove (thus hard to replace and probably expensive), and (c) difficult to extricate, I spent some time assessing what else might be wrong. Finally (after a perusal of the Wikipedia page) I decided that the symptoms did indeed point more strongly to the thermocouple than to anything else; and that I might as well try replacing it even in the absence of a watertight proof. For this I had to turn the heavy cast-iron stove on its side (after removing the stovepipe from it and the wall) -- yet another "this'll take a few minutes" project that grew and grew... But to my surprise, further online searches revealed that nearly all gas stoves and water heaters use the exact same thermocouple -- same size, threads, etc. -- which I went out, bought, and installed; that part was far more straightforward than I expected. In the end: yes, that was it; Uncle George was right; now the stove runs great, and we can heat our den again. One notch up the NSGCD scale.

Afterwards I tried to picture myself as an appliance repairman: toolbelt around the waist and Sony Vaio under the arm, stopping every 15 minutes to clean my hands for another Google search. But laugh while you can, monkey-boy -- I only spent $9, and now I *understand* why the fix worked. Such a deal.

Sunday explorations

I've been taking the young'uns on Sunday outings (leaving their Mom at home to enjoy a few hours of blissful silence). 3 on 1 gets a little crazy but it's worth it when I can bring back pictures.

Visiting Fort Foote

This last time we went literally off the map, looking for The Awakening in its new digs at the gargantuan National Harbor complex under construction just south of DC. Didn't get to pay my respects last week; thought I'd make up for it now; but no go -- "We open to the public on April 1st," said the checkpoint guard. So, we had to settle for a foggy sunset walk along the Potomac at Fort Foote. Which was a fun discovery in its own right. I wanted to take more pictures of the old fort's 15-inch cannons overlooking the river, but the sky was darkening, as was everyone's mood. Maybe next time.

I'm just a bill, sittin' here on Capitol Hill

The previous Sunday we took in the Botanic Garden and climbed Capitol Hill. More fun pictures. (Funny how I always flank little Timo [the Inveterate Wanderer] with two older, wiser bodyguards before stepping away to take the photo.) It's tricky getting them all in one frame, but their grandmothers seem to appreciate the outcome. Diesel's real name lent itself nicely to the pun in the picture caption -- we've all gotten pretty familiar with that Schoolhouse Rock song.

Never a dull moment

Little Timo lo-o-ves his bath. Start running the water, step away for a second to check the weather forecast, and there's no telling what might happen.

De Congeriei

Three prolific young disorganizers under our roof accumulate a staggering amount of stuff -- clothing, toys, papers, remotes, mutilated pears, cups, wallets, partially eviscerated NutriGrain bars, etc. -- which they discard in the most unexpected places. Trying to keep the place tidy (car keys out of the trash can, etc.) is bit of a losing battle -- especially as the adults who live here aren't pillars of neatness either.

So it was with a bit of trepidation that I clicked on the NSGCD's Clutter Hoarding Scale. On first reading, I brushed it off ("thank you, God, that I am not like other men"): after all, Level II already mentions things like "Unclear functions of living room, bedroom" and it goes downhill to Level V with "Rodents evident and in sight; Standing water..." But a closer reading led to some nervous laughter on realizing that in recent memory our home slovenly home has exhibited all five NSGCD clutter levels:

Level I: "Light evidence of rodents/insects..."
Level II: "Limited evidence of housekeeping, vacuuming, sweeping..."
Level III: "Visible clutter outdoors ... excessive use of electric and extension cords..."
Level IV: "No clean dishes or utensils locatable in kitchen..."
Level V: "Septic system nonoperational... snakes in interior of home... "

("God, have mercy on me, a sinner!") And just to add insult to injera*: just a few days ago I found my wallet, sitting behind the mending pile on my dresser. It was coated in thick dust; I hadn't seen it since July... Well, at least the picture on my replacement driver's license was a big improvement. As silver linings go, this one's pretty thin; but I'll take it.

(The original title, "On Clutter," lacked a certain something; what better way to lend it panache than translate it to a dead language? Welcome, googling Latin students: your pain is our gain.)

(* Construction of a groaner involving an offensive Ethiopian baker is left as an exercise to the reader.)

Strange bedfellows

A young child makes a perfect pillow
on a lazy Saturday morning.
Provided, of course, one has first
deconstructed the conventional "pillow,"
freeing it from bourgeois metanarratives
such as "sleep," and eschewing social constructions such as
"staying put under one's ear" or
"not shrieking with laughter."