I don't cry often. I used to tell people that I was born without tear ducts, which was true, but then I got the surgery to repair and replace them. The first few days after I got back from the hospital, I cried at most everything. Steak for dinner? Tears. Time to go to work? Unstoppable weeping. Spooning my girlfriend? Broken sobs and sniffles.
Then, after about a week, it stopped. Finally comfortable with my new-found ability to cry, I no longer needed to. Since then, I haven't really indulged. So I was probably just as surprised as the overly touchy man in sweats sitting next to me on the bus when my eyes began welling and I felt that familiar clot in my throat.
And what brought me back into the land of emotion and feeling? Aaron fuckin' Sorkin.
A genius writer, Sorkin is best known for his screenplays (American President, A Few Good Men), his drug use (cocaine, mushrooms) and his television shows (Sports Night, West Wing). Of those six things, I've always been partial to West Wing.
West Wing was a weekly one-hour drama with a subtle undercurrent of snark and empathy that dealt with the President of the United States, his advisors, and his trials and tribulations. For four seasons, Sorkin wrote the majority of the episodes and occasionally directed a few.
During this period, the show was untouchable. Snappy banter, political discussions, and weekly plots that not only resolved in an hour, but often advanced the story arc of one or more characters. That's an impressive, nearly impossible feat to accomplish, and although it's completely unfair, you can't help but wonder how much of Sorkin's success depended on his drug use.
See, Sorkin had an affinity for narcotics that not only bested him, but eventually costed him his involvement on the show. Wikipedia puts it politely:
Sorkin was arrested on April 15, 2001 after guards at a security checkpoint at the Burbank Airport found hallucinogenic mushrooms, marijuana and crack cocaine in his carry-on bag. He was later ordered to a drug-diversion program.During The West Wing's fourth season, major shake ups occurred. Some fans believed the show had lost its way, an opinion that was not helped when series star Rob Lowe—initially slated to be the central character but given less and less screen time as the show went on—chose to leave the series. Soon after, Sorkin and fellow executive producer Thomas Schlamme left the show in a dispute with the network.
It was inevitable that as soon as the driving creative force left the show, the spark would follow. And it did. And I stopped watching regularly, often catching up on missed shows via Bravo's marathon West Wing Mondays. But even at my most lax, the show still meant something to me.
Detractors of the West Wing often call it liberal porn, prime mastubatory fodder for Democrats in both its intent and execution. I disagree. What I saw the show constantly aspire to be was hopeful. It was about a group of people who cared, cared deeply, and worked hard to make the right choices for the right reasons. And as our actual governing body led us further and further into bleakness, the show eventually became a beacon indicating how far afield we had traveled.
I'm probably not alone in thinking this, especially if you're one of the few who have bothered to read this far, but the characters on the West Wing were not just people I empathized with, but people I wanted in charge. They were the epitome of an idealized government, and I think that's where the "liberal porn" label came from.
But we seek idealization in most aspects of our lives, from role models to art, so why should politics be exempt? It's the same reason I dislike people razzing celebrities for their opinions. To be sure, they are coming to the table from a unique vantage point, but that shouldn't immediately negate their concerns nor should it taint their actions (Sean Penn's douchebaggery aside). If they want to speak, let 'em speak; we're a democracy, it's free speech, and last I checked there weren't limits on it (with obvious exceptions).
So here was a show that showed how it could be, and I respected and loved it for that. Then I moved to Seattle and decided against cable. I knew the show was ending--it had been in its last throes for a while--but I wasn't there to watch it go.
Thankfully, there's a little website called Television Without Pity (TWOP). Offering snarky recaps of popular tv shows, it's a great place to catch up on back episodes, which is how I ended up crying at my desk at two in the morning.
If you were a regular West Wing viewer, you can skip this paragraph. The virginal West Wing viewer, however, should continue on. Earlier this season, Toby, one of the president's senior advisors, divulged state secrets to a newspaper in order to help some astronauts who were stranded in space. Toby had a brother who was an astronaut, back before he killed himself rather than face cancer. Toby also has two young children, one of whom is named for a secret service agent who was killed while protecting the president's daughter. Santos is the incoming president, Jed Bartlet is the outgoing president, and Josh was a former advisor to the latter and current chief of staff to the former.
Confused? Sorry. That's about as good as it's going to get.
This is how TWOP recaps the last scenes of the last episode:
Jed tells Debbie that he's finished, and she asks him what he's doing with the final pardon warrant. Jed claims that there's still time, and she calmly tells him, "Not much." And that's so much less about the clock than it is about her sense of how much Jed is wrestling with himself over Toby's pardon. But he claims to have two hours and nineteen minutes, and she tells him he really has two hours and eighteen minutes.C.J. enters, and is surprised to see that Jed has not already left for the Residence to get dressed. She's holding Mallory's present and she hands it to Jed, who expresses disappointment that Mallory didn't stop to see him. Debbie's getting frustrated, and tells Jed that he only has sixteen minutes to get ready. Jed: "I'm a fast dresser." Debbie: "Not that fast." She snatches the gift away from him and tells him that she'll see that it's waiting for him on the plane.
C.J. notes that Jed's note to Santos is on the desk, and you can tell that she sees Toby's warrant there, as well. But she restrains herself from saying anything about it, and I think that's a lot less to do with her sense that the President should make that decision than it is about the fact that she's wrestling with herself over Toby's pardon. After a bit, Jed tells her, "It's been a pleasure, Claudia Jean." C.J.: "The pleasure's been all mine, sir." Lord, she's beautiful. She walks out. Jed, looking like a scared old man, sits down, looks to the heavens, sighs, and signs Toby's pardon. And then he stands up and raps his hand sharply on the desk, almost like a judge marking the end of a hearing. He picks up the pardon and walks towards Debbie's office.
(...)
In the Oval Office, Santos thanks the Joint Chiefs for their input and tells him he'll speak with them tomorrow. The military types all leave, and Josh, Sam, and Bram enter. Santos tells them that the military wants ten thousand more troops in Kazakhstan. Sam and Santos talk about whether or not it is good idea. Josh slowly smiles at Santos. Santos asks what he's smiling about, and Josh tells him, "You look good back there." As though Santos hasn't heard Josh say that a million times before. And then Ronna steps in to bram Santos away to the Residence so that he can start getting ready for all of the balls. He's clearly feeling his power, because he tells Ronna to tell Helen that he'll be up in fifteen more minutes. Sam and Bram leave. Santos looks at Josh and asks, "What's next?" They both sit, and Josh starts briefing him on some other issue.
A flight attendant walks through the former Air Force One and knocks on a door. Jed tells her to enter. It was so nice of the government to let him keep the plane. She's there to tell him that they'll be landing in a while. Jed stands up, and we see that Abbey is in the room. Jed puts something in his briefcase and finds the package that Mallory left for him. He unwraps it and opens the box. It's the napkin on which Leo scrawled "Bartlet for America" on that day so many years ago. He takes the framed napkin, hands it to Abbey, and sits beside her. She asks him, "What are you thinking about?" He looks out the window and tells her, "Tomorrow." We cut to an exterior shot of the plane. Credits.
And then we cut back to me, tears welling up in my eyes as I read those last words over and over again. And I guess what moved me is a combination of factors:
1) It's the end. There will never be another episode, and all we know of these characters now is all we will ever know. Just like on any good long-running tv show, the characters became something more than fictional, more than creations. They became friends. Dependable, honorable, witty, these were people with whom I subconsciously wanted to know while consciously aware that it was impossible. By ending, the show forced a reconciliation between the desire and the knowledge, and the result was a palpable sense of loss.
2) It was a fairly shitty season. More attention was paid to the new characters than the old, and the storylines vascillated between retreads of previous episodes and hackneyed, cloying plots. But instead of bowing out shamefully, powered only on fumes, it really feels like John Wells (the executive producer) gathered the writers together and said: "Make it count." And then they did.
3) It ended on a hopeful note. An elder statesman exits stage left, another steps in stage right, and although that's all we see, we know that--in this version of reality, at least--someone is going to keep on trying doing the right thing. And goddamn if that doesn't make me balance some hope against the sadness on the ending measurement.
All I have now are the show's words, which is what I'll leave this with:
Leo McGarry:
This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls
are so steep he can't get out. A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts
up, "Hey, you, can you help me out?" The doctor writes a prescription,
throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along, and
the guy shouts up, "Father, I'm down in this hole. Can you help me
out?" The priest writes a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves
on. Then a friend walks by. "Hey, Joe, it's me. Can you help me Out"
And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, "Are you nuts? Now
we're both down here." The friend says, "Yeah, but I've been down here
before - and I know the way out."
President Josiah Bartlet:
"We hold these truths to be self-evident," they said, "that all men are
created equal." Strange as it may seem, that was the first time in
history that anyone had ever bothered to write that down. Decisions are
made by those who show up.
President Josiah Bartlet: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world. Do you know why?
Will Bailey: Because it's the only thing that ever has.
Also available here
A Lesson Before Flying
We--the
flight instructor, my photographer, and I--are nearly half-way down the
runway before I realize we're about to take off. The four seat Cessna
in which I'm sitting hums in response to the controls; I pull back on
the yoke and we become airborne, easy, like a rigid mylar balloon let
loose into the sky.
Below us now are islands, at our right is Mount Baker, and off in the distance, only slightly obscured by haze, is Seattle. We hold steady at 3,000 feet, the world serene. And you could be next.
Since 1997, the number of licensed pilots in the U.S. has increased by about 6 percent, and from 2003 to 2004 the number of student pilots rose 1%. In addition, the Federal Aviation Administration predicts a dramatic increase in both student pilots and licensed pilots in the next 10 years.
But if you're anything like me, you'll probably have never considered a pilot's license, thinking it difficult to obtain due to money, opportunity, availability, or even ability. As someone who needs corrective glasses, I assumed that I wouldn't even be able to pass the physical. In truth, a pilot's license, while harder to get than your driver's license, can be earned faster than a college degree and cheaper.
Project Pilot--the company that set up my lesson--is an umbrella organization that contracts with flight schools across the nation, connecting students to schools while providing information and resources for anyone interested in learning to fly. Among them are tips for finding a flight school and instructor, as well as their database of more than 3,500 flight training facilities in the U.S.
When I check, there are nearly 30 schools within 30 miles of my location. The choices are daunting; not knowing one from another, I decide on Regal Air, based out of Paine Field in Everett.
Thankfully, it turns out that Regal Air is a well-established school with a fleet of airplanes available for rental and lessons, from a Piper Seneca I to Cessna 152s. The plane I will fly is a Cessna 172, under the watchful eye of instructor Matt Jolley.
In the email detailing my lesson, I'm told that I may receive a call to reschedule if the weather is at all questionable. As a student pilot, I am not allowed to fly if I can't see where I'm going; only pilots with an instrument rating--i.e. the ability to read and understand all the dials in the airplane's dash--can take to the skies during inclement weather. Luckily, I awoke to an azure sky, cloudless in all directions. A perfect day to learn to fly.
Since 1985, Regal Air has taught students all the necessary skills to pilot an aircraft. They employ 14 full-time flight instructors, each with an extensive knowledge of planes, craft, and safety.
Matthew Jolley has taught here since 2001, after returning to his childhood love some ten years prior. The son of a Navy man, Jolley often saw the comings and goings of military air traffic, and it stuck with him. He pursued other opportunities before deciding to follow the air.
We meet Jolley inside Regal Air's offices; he is of medium build with an easy smile that he flashes quickly as we shake hands. The lesson begins not inside the plane, but under fluorescent lights.
The first stop is the weather center, a big-sounding name for a computer pulling data from the internet. Drawing on feeds from both commercial and government sources, the weather center can show you a thunderstorm in Illinois or the FAA weather report for your airfield, a nearly incomprehensible assortment of letters and abbreviations.
"We don't usually need to use this here," says Jolley, looking at the report. "Paine Field is wonderful for that. I can walk outside and see fifteen miles in any direction. If it's cloudy in the East, we'll head West. If it's going to storm, I'll know."
The weather report is always the first stop for the student pilot.
"Students rely on VFR--Visual Flight Rules--when flying," says Jolley. "While they are in the air, they are constantly looking for other aircraft while making sure their flight path is clear."
Much like on the road, a good airplane pilot is a defensive, aware pilot.
We pass by the Frasca 131 Flight Simulator, where students can hone their instrument skills after their instructors pull up a single approach from the thousands they have available. The simulator can approximate any approach for any airport in the nation under any type of weather condition.
Jolley shows us the garage; it is brightly lit, clean, and currently home to a Cessna 152.
"Every 100 hours, our planes are brought inside, opened up and checked from top to bottom," says Jolley.
All of Regal Air's aircraft are maintained by FAA Certificated Airframe and Powerplant Mechanics and Inspectors employed by Regal Air. All maintenance is completed to approved FAA standards and regulations, which means it is performed in a timely manner by mechanics that are already intimately familiar with each airplane.
The plane currently undergoing maintenance has its cowl--the metal sheeting covering the engine--removed. Two mechanics are moving about efficiently, testing and double-checking for cracks, imperfections, and needed adjustments. It will take them about a day to completely check the craft and give it a clean bill of health.
Every inspection, flight, and change in instrument readings for every airplane is carefully logged inside its own little zippered black binder. The binder also contains the owner's manual for the plane--a well-thumbed, dog-eared book filled with charts, schematics, graphs, and more math than I've seen since high school--and a set of silver keys.
Jolley pulls the binder for the plane we'll be using and double checks the logs.
"Before we take-off, I want to make sure we won't overfly a required inspection by either date or flight hours," says Jolley. "That way we're safe and FAA compliant."
Our Cessna is fine, so we adjourn to the outdoors.
"We'll be taking [plane number] N5512E," says Jolley as we walk. He points to the plane, the lettering huge on the airplane's tail. "The numbers didn't always used to be that big. The FAA actually mandated the size increase. Now if you buzz the tower or land and immediately take-off again, the FAA will find you."
In case you were curious, the FAA does issue plastic licenses similar to the ones you receive at the D.O.V. Currently, they are multi-colored, understated, with the pilot's information and rating printed over a picture of the Wright Brothers.
When flying, the pilot is required to carry his license along with the plane's title and certification of airworthiness. Should a pilot get ramp-checked, the FAA's version of a police pullover, penalties could be enforced if they weren't carrying their papers, much like you would if you were caught driving without your license, insurance, or title.
"We've only had that happen once here at Paine Field and the pilot asked for it," says Jolley. "Our resident FAA inspector was explaining ramp checks, and this gentleman wanted to know how likely it was to occur. The inspector asked if he'd like to be ramp-checked, and he did, so they went out and did it. It really only comes up if you're behaving strangely, recklessly, or illegally."
Out at the plane, there is a comprehensive check list; we make sure all the flaps work, and are properly bolted and hinged; that the tires and brakes are operational; confirm the fuel tanks are full and the gas--100 octane, low lead--is free of sediment; and a dozen other things are as they should be before we even get inside the cockpit.
The check list continues inside. There is surprisingly little lingo to learn. There is the yoke in your hands and toe brakes at your feet, instruments in front of you and a voice-activated boom mike placed close to your lips. After priming the engine with fuel, I turn the ignition key four clicks to the right. The engine turns over and the propeller kicks on loudly.
While on the ground, the yoke does nothing. The propeller still pulls the plane forward but you steer with your feet, braking on the side towards which you would like to turn. It's an unusual skill to master. Jolley directs me to taxi out to the runway and I feel immediately inept.
"Follow the yellow line," Jolley says in my headset. "It's not like on the road. Here you want the yellow line to go straight down the middle of the cockpit."
Instead of going straight down the middle, we zig-zag back and forth like a seismometer needle. Eventually, we even out and turn onto the runway.
"Ready?" asks Jolley. "Keep the white line in the middle."
He increases the power to the propeller and relaxes the toe brakes. The plane sprints forwards.
"Now, pull back on the yoke," says Jolley. I do. The plane's nose edges upward.
"And you're flying."
...
This is the first part of a two-part story. Read the second installment next week here in the Beacon.
For more information, visit Project Pilot's website at www.projectpilot.org or Regal Air's at www.regalair.com.
What's your favorite drink or cocktail? What's in it?
Question submitted by charm.vox.com
My favorite drink is called the Ecstasy. They only serve it at this pseudo-dive cafe/bar in Bellingham, WA called the Horshoe Cafe. It is, more or less, a long island iced tea, but instead of 9 parts alcohol, 1 part non-alcohol, it's 9 parts alcohol.
They'll only serve you two.
I suppose if I were asked to name one thing I don't understand, I'd say the courtesy flush. As stiffly defined by wikipedia, the courtesy flush is when, "in deference to others using the bathroom, toilet users who have defecated [...] flush, despite the fact that they have not yet finished sanitizing themselves with toilet paper, merely so that the exposure of others to the aroma of feces is minimized."
It's not common for me to perform the courtesy flush, but the other day I was forced to act. While rocking forward onto the balls of my feet, I performed a perfect hip flex, snaking my left arm across my body as my bashful ass hovered expectantly over the bowl, my sheepish testicles swinging pendulously in the muggy breeze of the overhead fan. I quickly depressed the lever, sending a fresh 1.2 gallons of gloriously sweet spring water into the swampy bowl below.
Now when I say "forced to act", I'm not speaking speciously. Moments before, my dialated o-ring had borne a solid log of shit long as an ostrich leg and veiny. So grand this delivery that it proudly stood, its head above the water, proclaiming its existence with a mocha-corn pompador and a scent sinister and alluring.
I was immediately queasy. The resulting courtesy flush was not only one for me, but for others in the building. For them and those that would follow.
But instead of returning to my festive post-movement mood, I began to feel lost, lonely, abandoned. I began to look around for causes, confused.
There are moments when you realize that you'll probably do all right as a parent. My epiphany came as I was settling the tips of my pale cheeks safely around the rim of the toilet seat.
My inexplicable uneasiness wasn't some random fluctuation of my aura, but instead my tightly honed nesting instinct kicking in. Without something to jealously guard and protect, my perch on the pot had suddenly become unnecessary. Like a robin returning to a newly eggless nest, I was forlorn.
Normally after dropping a deuce, I sit above it, contemplative and regal. What will it be when it grows up, I wonder. Will it meet lots of new friends in the pipes? Will it one day have little shits of its own?
Not this time.
This time, as I waited impatiently for the flecks of fecal matter to dry so I could scrape them into the water, I gave the courtesy flush a new name: SPDS. Sudden Poop Death Syndrome. Like SIDS, from which it derives its name, SPDS grants you the fleeting joy of a new arrival, only to sweep it away swiftly into the sewers on a bed of gentle refuse.
When I finally stood, sweaty and sad and finished, the only thing I had to show for my effort was the remnants of my cleaning stuck to the quilted two ply TP like darkened paint chips.
The worst part is that I didn't even have the opportunity for a proper send-off. Usually, I give my stools an encouraging speech and a warm wave before setting them off into the future, like a proper father should. Instead, hobbled by my jeans and shameful of my uncleanliness, I refused to watch as the undertow took my dung under.
Was my excrement aware of my embarassment, my shame? I'll never really know. And that may be the hardest part.
In closing, I don't understand the need or purpose for the courtesy flush. Its practice is despicable and should be immediately abolished. Together we can bring the hushed anguish of SPDS to a sudden and swift close. Thank you.
--
Written on spec for the B. Magee, Bellingham's only home-grown four-page reader of note.
What's one thing that you hope to do or accomplish before the end of this year?
Well, unfortunately, I'm not sitting at my home desk where I have my one and five year plans posted (yes, seriously). Luckily, however, I do have my little notebook where I started those lists in the first place.
Year goals:
- Finish a screenplay/play/sketch collection
- Complete, produce, and distribute a demo
- Write for the Stranger
5 year plan
- Get played on KEXP. (Dream big, plan big)
- Get screenplay/play/sketch collection produced
There are times when the jobs I have kick me strange perks. Case in point.
Who is your favorite Muppet? Why?
QotD submitted by knitwitology.vox.com.
Sgt. Floyd Pepper. Easily. 'Cause he was, as part of a cast better crated, effortlessly cool and laid-back. Plus, you knew he could bring the funk when he wanted.
And, it seems, that you can buy an articulated action figure of the mustachioed bassman, which makes no sense to me. Why not a plush toy for the kids or--I don't know--a puppet for the nerds who can't work up the nerve to actually talk to other people.
That's actually untrue. I'm sorry. The actual reason I wasn't terminally suicidal in school was because I choose to be intentionally oblivious of the sheer number of people who wouldn't be caught dead in my company. Of course, this is all in retrospect. At the time, I was a clarinetting magic-making puppeteer, a fucking king-maker.
Anyway, I had--have, actually, as they're probably in a box somewhere--two ventriloquist dolls: a cheap Charlie McCarthy knock-off that my mother purchased from the J.C. Penny catalogue one Christmas and a dog puppet that tried so hard to distract from his and my uncoolness that it wore hot-pink tie-dyed clothes and sunglasses.
My conscience is clear on Charlie McCarthy. I got it as a gift. You get lots of things as gifts that you don't actually want. Calendars, for instance. Please give me no more calendars. I neither want nor need a one-a-day calendar of pithy Tim Allen sayings or a glossy wall-hanger of the best in black and white roadside cafe photography.
But the dog. Oh, the dog. I wanted it bad, but you've got to understand the circumstances. I was 13 years old in the Mall of America, the biggest shrine to commercialization you're going to see this side of television. My eyes had grown numb to the spectacle of six floors of stores upon stores when, suddenly, I happen upon this kiosk manned by a bored high-school graduate and a talking dog.
Marketing wonks will quote you statistics and data compiled from double-blind studies and focus groups, but I'm going to lay it out easy for you: if you want to catch the eye of the ever-valuable tween-aged boy and girl, all you need is a talking dog.
I realized, of course, that the dog couldn't actually talk and resembled more an albino sloth with an arrestingly '80s sense of fashion than a mutt, but I was smitten. Here was my chance, I thought. Here was my chance to finally get some of that popular mainstream attention. Thank God that failed.
God, the more that I think about it, there's a good chance I brought one or both of those to school at some point. Strangely, I never had trouble with bullies. I think they felt sorry for me.
Eventually, I stopped talking without moving my lips, dropped the clarinet, and picked up the bass. And it's much easier to play when you don't have your arm up a big floppy dog sock.
- Tyson
You're looking out the window as the airplane accelerates. The ground
is a blur of detail. You are waiting, waiting for wheels-up, waiting
for the twinge of momentary weightlessness to seize your stomach. This
is what flight is.
The date is July 14th. In exactly six days, I'll fly an airplane. Not fly on an airplane, but actually pilot a vehicle capable of traveling at speeds in the mid-range triple digits.
When
I was in college, I lived in the dorms for a while. It was a sad
situation for many reasons, not least because I was a junior and the
only drinking-legal student in my building. At the time, I was in a
relationship on the decline; a high-school couplehood that couldn't
withstand the change. Her name was and is Lui.
Lui attended a
community college one hour away, and would commonly come up to spend
the night, only to leave early the next morning to make it to her 8
a.m. class. One day we were arguing; she left late. Twenty minutes
later, I got a call.
Hello?
She's crying.
Where are you?
Turns
out she was on the side of the road, midway to school. In an
argument-fueled, sleep-deprived fugue she had decided to make it to
school on time. In order to do that, speed limit laws were summarily
dismissed as arbitrary, too limiting, and too low.
So, uh, how fast were you going?
The
State Police often, on the route from Bellingham to Seattle, hunker
down on the overpasses, hoping to catch some unsuspecting motorists
overclocking their engines. The speed limit along this stretch is 70
miles per hour. Lui was doing 103.
103!?
103
miles an hour automatically qualifies as reckless endangerment, an
offense for which the police can direct you out of your car over
bullhorn, handcuff you and place you in the back of their squad car for
arrest.
Thankfully for her, she had, at that point, kept a
clean driving record. The officer, kindly, did not arrest her and wrote
instead a ticket for $531.
My point in telling you this is that
103mph is seventeen mph away from the top speed of my truck and
seventeen mph above the fastest I've ever driven. In one week, I'll be
piloting a craft capable of topping my best by a factor of six.
I've
invited my friend Kate along to take pictures. She wanted to know if it
would be loud. The answer is yes, it will be loud, especially when we
crash into that mountain.
There is little in my past as a
driver of land-bound vehicles to recommend me to the air. I've hit a
support column in a parking garage for God's sake. But somehow, with
little more than an email and a promise, I can get behind the controls
of my own personal death-jet.
How cool is that?
It does
raise some questions, however. For instance, what good is our
security--or, if I might indulge in some banal buzz-wordery, our
homeland security--if someone with no specific credentials can earn
their pilots wings in an afternoon?
Earning ones pilots wings,
by the way, is nothing--NOTHING--like earning ones red wings. Nothing
to get red-faced over, but still.
So, with six days left until
I fly, I've decided to get my worldly affairs in order. I don't have a
lot, but there's enough worth worrying about.
For instance, all
of my musical equipment will go to Kat. All of the rights to my songs,
writings, and other assorted whatnots will go to Sally. Sally will also
get first pick of my CDs and vinyl--thats right, baby, my mint copy of
Mel Tillis In Concert is all yours. My computer should probably be
destroyed, along with those binders of CD-Rs in my closet, just to
avoid any lingering questions or scandal. Anything left that isn't
scavenged by my family or various friends will go to the Goodwill.
Hmmph. Well, that was strangely easy. Maybe I'll go listen to "Band on the Run" now.
- Tyson
Shaker sure - colliquial phrase - to be fervent in your convictions. A strong endorsement.
"Gerald, are you positive you locked the door?"
"Sssh, Sugar, I'm shaker sure."
"Oh, Gerald."
Don't tell Sally, but I've been thinking about kids. Having some, I mean, and, perhaps even more specifically, becoming a father. At this time, I'd like to let people who may not have yet met me know that I do not want children at any near point in the future, and that goes double for those who do know me, and/or know my parents. Let's leave them out of this, shall we?
The past month or so, I've been thinking about what an awesome father I would be. Don't you think? I'm animated, absurdly child-like in my own right, and have small fingers (Just kidding, you NAMBLA-pambies).
It's strange, though, for me because when I think of parenting, I think of comedians. Which isn't to say my parents weren't wonderful--they were and are--but more to say that my parents never formally codified their teachings. Their parenting curriculum was more by implication than explication. So when I think of parenting, I think of people like Patton Oswalt, Sarah Silverman, and Bob Saget.
I'll repeat that. When I think of parenting, I think of Patton Oswalt, Sarah Silverman, and Bob Saget. Here's why:
Patton: I'm going to be a fucking awesome father. You know why? Because I'm going to the lamest father ever. Phil Collins' No Jacket Required is going to be the most contemporary album I own. And I'll rave about it too: "Hey, have you listened to this? This is some good stuff."
"Fuck you, dad!"
And I'll smile to myself because I'll know I've raised a fucking awesome kid.
Sarah: You know what babies love? Ethnic jokes.
Bob: In comedy circles, there's a famous Saget story about the night his first daughter was born. After a very difficult birth, during which Sherri Saget and her baby almost died, a friend showed up to find Mr. Saget looking utterly destroyed, unshaven, unrecognizable, but holding his newborn. "Oh my God, Bob, she's beautiful," the friend said. "For a dollar, you can finger her," Mr. Saget replied.
I have a belief, deeply held, that I rarely bother to explain to people because I don't want them to think I'm crazy, or some hippie-dippy new age asshole that's perennially out of touch. I believe that if you have a question, be it nebulous or directed, if you have a question, the universe--your surrounding environment--will give you the answer.
Case in point: Ask Metafilter is a community website where members can ask questions of members. Queries run the gamut, from "How would I find a Japanese language "camp" or intensive school in the greater New York metro area?" to "How long can a reasonably healthy human survive without water?"
The other day, the question was "If you could tell a soon-to-be dad anything, what would you say?"
A smattering of answers:
Buy 1000 marbles and put them in a big glass jar. Every Saturday morning take a marble out of the jar (after your child is old enough to avoid the choking thing, you can give them to him/her). That is about how many Saturdays you have to spend with your child before they are off on their own. It's a great visual reminder to take advantage of the time you have together. You will be astonished how quickly the marbles disappear.
When you fall asleep late one night on the couch and the baby rolls off you and falls to the floor, don't freak out. Almost everyone drops the baby once.
Do not underestimate the amount of time a baby requires, from both of you but especially the mother. Take how much time you think it will require, then double it. Now, think about that, and double it again. That's how far off your current thinking is. The quote I remember is "How much time does a baby take? All of it."
in the delivery room: stay away from the vagina. childbirth a miracle!! a beautiful thing!!! amazing to behold!!! but dad, you don't want to visualize mom's ladyparts when they are at their structural extremes.
But the scariest part of fatherhood, to me anyway, is the instant revision of your deadlines, your internal calendar that tells you what should be done by a certain date. For instance, I work at a weekly paper. I have weekly deadlines. I deal with life more or less a week at a time. The date is constantly a surprise to me, because it makes sense to think of life in seven day chunks.
What is a baby? It's a project with a deadline date eighteen years in the future. It's difficult for me to fathom that. If I had a child, right now, today, by the time the due date arrived (har!), I'd be 41 (23 18=?). That's middle-age. By the time you're 41, you should have had all your adventures, sown all your seeds, settled down, and come to terms with the fact that all your songs are in your past. But maybe I'm looking at this from the wrong side; 41 is a starting point, a place of renewal, a great time to schedule your mid-life crisis.
My problem, I suppose, is that while I enjoy taking the long view and planning for the long term, I have no stratagems, no coping mechanisms for a time period nearly as long as I've lived. What's even scarier is that I know of very few people who do.
Maybe I'll have a baby and buy a Ferrari at the same time. I'll never drive it (the car, not the baby) and I'll barely make ends meet, but by the time the baby's gone on to college, or juvie, or Iran, or wherever babies go, it'll be completely paid off.
Of course, by that point cars will probably run on hope and Unicorn tears, and my classic Ferrari will probably be on some eco-terrorist strike list, so I'll have to hide it in my garage, sneaking black market diapers in to clean it with while I down enough tylenol with pine sol to make me think I'm driving South, a hand-rolled cigarette in one hand and a flask full of hard A in the other.
- T
