Left of the Dial

In Memoriam

The Defense Department last week identified the following U.S. military personnel killed in Afghanistan and Iraq:

Nicholas D. Eischen, 24, of Sanger, Calif.; senior airman, Air Force. Eischen died Monday at Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan, in a noncombat-related incident. He was assigned to the 60th Medical Operations Squadron at Travis Air Force Base, Calif.

George J. Howell, 24, of Salinas, Calif.; private first class, Army. Howell died Dec. 21 in Riyadh, Iraq, of wounds suffered in a roadside bomb blast that hit his convoy. He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 87th Infantry Regiment, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 10th Infantry Division (Light Infantry) at Ft. Drum, New York.

Rowdy J. Inman, 38, of Panorama Village, Texas; captain, Army. Inman was one of two soldiers killed Wednesday in Mosul, Iraq, by small-arms fire during dismounted combat operations. He was assigned to the 3rd Squadron, 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment, 3rd Corps at Ft. Hood, Texas.

Peter C. Neesley, 28, of Grosse Pointe Farms, Mich.; sergeant, Army. Neesley died Tuesday in Baghdad, Iraq, of an undetermined cause in a noncombat environment. He was assigned to the 3rd Squadron, 7th Cavalry Regiment, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Infantry Division, Ft. Stewart, Ga.

Benjamin B. Portell, 27, of Bakersfield; sergeant, Army. Portell was one of two soldiers killed Wednesday in Mosul, Iraq, by small-arms fire during dismounted combat operations. He was assigned to the 3rd Squadron, 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment, 3rd Corps at Ft. Hood, Texas.

Bryan J. Tutten, 33, of St. Augustine, Fla.; sergeant, Army. Tutten died Tuesday in Balad, Iraq, of wounds suffered when an improvised explosive device detonated near his position during combat operations. He was assigned to the 1st Squadron, 73rd Cavalry Regiment, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division at Ft. Bragg, N.C.

States I've Been In

I couldn't figure out how to check "intoxication." Or was it "inebriation?"

create your own visited states map

h/t: Bonny Glen Up Close and Personal.

Mountains

Drove up to the mountains this day. Amazing drive, the same one we took on Top Management’s birthday. Drove through some areas hard hit by the fires in October. Large groves of burned out trees in gorgeous meadows of wild grasses a buttery yellow color the likes of which I’ve never seen is a surprisingly beautiful sight.

Not quite a White Christmas, although we did drive through a small section that had snow on the ground. Not one of the girls could guess what said white stuff was, so out of context was it. “We…we can have snow in southern California?!,” the Rose gasped dramatically. At 4100 feet you can, apparently.

After gazing at one particularly stark and fire-ravaged section, the Bean asked, “What’s a fire’s favorite dance?”

None of us could guess.

“The Hokey Smokey!” she said happily.

I had no idea.

Returned home to find out my uncle Oscar Peterson had passed away. Here’s a quick clip of him warming up. Guy didn’t suck.

In Memoriam

The Defense Department last week identified the following American military personnel killed in Iraq:

Juctin R.P. McDaniel, 19, of Andover, N.H.; private first class, Army. McDaniel died Monday in Baghdad of injuries suffered in a noncombat-related incident in Taji, Iraq. He was assigned to the 524th Combat Service Support Battalion, 45th Sustainment Brigade, 8th Theater Sustainment Command at Ft. Shafter, Hawaii.

Austin D. Pratt, 22, of Cadet, Mo.; sergeant, Army. Pratt died Dec. 15 in Balad, Iraq, of injuries suffered in a noncombat-related incident in Baghdad. He was assigned to the 2nd Battalion, 30th Infantry Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division (Light Infantry) at Ft. Polk, La.

Jeremy E. Ray, 26, of Houston; first lieutenant, Army. Ray was killed Thursday in an enemy attack with an explosive device in Kanaan, Iraq, northeast of Baghdad. He was assigned to the 1st Squadron, 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment at Ft. Hood, Texas.

Grohlicious

So pal Marc wrote this here piece a while back, and I then, in my oh so charming and ever humble way, took issue with his assertion and suggested he cut down on a certain dopamine reuptake inhibitor.

Having now finally actually heard the album in question, I must say that I can now almost understand where Marc was coming from.

Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace is one hell of an album. In fact, were it not for Magic, it’s entirely possible it would be the album of the year, the Foo Fighters’ best and a simply wonderful work of art. As Marc said, it’s gorgeous and still kicks your ass (sort of like Top Management).

Godthumb

I...I...

(I woulda gone for the rhombus.)

Top Management

Our eyes met across a crowded room.

Okay, that’s not actually quite true. The room was extremely crowded and she later claimed she noticed me. I most certainly noticed her. Everybody there did.

It’s a long and entertaining story but not generally fit for public consumption—due to no fault of her own, mind you. No, she was merely bolding standing up for the rights of the oppressed, staring down a very large and quite inebriated gentleman who seemed more than willing to take her on, despite weighing twice as much and being about a foot taller. She just stood there and laughed at him as others pulled him away and hustled him out of the room, hurling threats her way all the while. Though she be but little, she is fierce.

It’s funny. Because I first saw her at a party, I assumed for quite some time that she was a party girl, when in reality, she was just like me: there only because it was a Friday night and that’s where all her friends were going, so it was either that or sit alone in her room.

Well, she wasn’t just like me. She was way smarter and funnier and much more well-read and more talented. And oh so much cuter. And if it turned out she had terrible taste in men, well, all the better for me.

And when our eyes finally did meet, across a table at the first read-through of the play we were later cast in, I had an idea immediately that there was maybe something there. When a few weeks later we both discovered that neither of us liked parties at all, deserting one (in her own room, thrown by her roommates) to instead hang out for five hours talking in the television room of her dorm—completely vacant, of course, because it was a Friday night and who wants to watch TV on a Friday night when you could be at a party?—my idea turned into an unshakeable conviction.

And nearly nineteen years later we’ve now known each other longer than we haven’t known each other. And she’s even cuter now than she was then, and smarter and funnier and more well-read and there’s still nothing in the whole wide world I’d rather do than avoid a party to just sit alone in a room and talk with her.

Happy birthday, love o’ my life. Today may be your day, but every day with you, I’m the one who gets a gift.

In Memoriam

The Defense Department last week identified the following American military personnel killed in Afghanistan and Iraq:

Joshua C. Blaney, 25, of Matthews, N.C.; corporal, Army. Blaney was one of two soldiers killed Wednesday when an improvised explosive device detonated near their vehicle at Forward Operating Base Curry, Afghanistan. He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment (Airborne), 173rd Airborne Brigade at Camp Ederle, Italy.

Mark T. Carter, 27, of Fallbrook, Calif.; chief petty officer, Navy. Carter was killed in combat Tuesday during a mission in an undisclosed area of Iraq. He was assigned as a Navy SEAL at Little Creek Naval Amphibious Base in Norfolk, Va.

Gregory L. Elam, 39, of Columbus, Ga.; staff sergeant, Army. Elam died of a noncombat-related illness Tuesday in Kandahar, Afghanistan, south of Kabul. He was assigned to the 54th Quartermaster Company, 49th Quartermaster Group, 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) at Ft. Lee, Va.

Michael J. Gabel, 30, of Crowley, La.; staff sergeant, Army. Gabel was one of two soldiers killed Wednesday when an improvised explosive device detonated near their vehicle at Forward Operating Base Curry, Afghanistan. He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment (Airborne), 173rd Airborne Brigade at Camp Ederle, Italy.

Samuel E. Kelsey, 24, of Troup, Texas; sergeant, Army. Kelsey was killed Thursday when an improvised explosive device detonated near him in Tunnis, Iraq. He was assigned to the 3rd Battalion, 7th Infantry Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Infantry Division at Ft. Stewart, Ga.

Johnathan A. Lahmann, 21, of Richmond, Ind.; corporal, Army. Lahmann died Monday in Tikrit, Iraq, of injuries suffered that day when a roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle in Baiji, north of Baghdad. He was assigned to the 59th Engineer Company, 20th Engineer Battalion, 36th Engineer Brigade at Ft. Hood, Texas.

Jonathan A. Lowery, 38, of Houlton, Maine; sergeant, Army. Lowery died Friday in Mosul, Iraq, of wounds sustained when enemy forces attacked his unit using small-arms fire. He was assigned to the 3rd Squadron, 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment, 3rd Corps at Ft. Hood, Texas.

Brynn J. Naylor, 21, of Roswell, N.M.; specialist, Army. Naylor was killed Thursday when his unit was attacked with small-arms fire in Baghdad. He was assigned to the 2nd Battalion, 12th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division at Ft. Carson, Colo.

Tanner J. O'Leary, 23, of Eagle Butte, S.D.; corporal, Army. O'Leary was killed Dec. 9 when a roadside bomb exploded near his patrol unit in Musa Qala in southern Afghanistan's Helmand province. He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division at Ft. Bragg, N.C.

Randy W. Pickering, 31, of Bovey, Minn.; specialist, Army. Pickering died of noncombat-related injuries Dec. 9 in Baghdad. He was assigned to the Regimental Support Squadron, 2nd Stryker Cavalry Regiment in Vilseck, Germany.

Daren A. Smith, 19, of Helena, Mont.; private, Army. Smith died Thursday in Baghdad of wounds sustained from a noncombat-related incident. He was assigned to the 3rd Squadron, 89th Cavalry Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division (Light Infantry) at Ft. Polk, La.

Just Outside the Big Tent

So. Some discussions on here last week would seem to indicate that things I think are incredibly obvious are perhaps only obvious if you’ve been so tremendously fortunate as to be reading Left of the Dial for some time. Which means when I unexpectedly get linked to and consequently get a couple hunnert new readers, they don’t realize my blistering snark is just a shield I put up to keep the world from realizing what a scared little boy I am deep down inside.

Or something like that.

Anyhoo, here’s a piece I first posted nearly two years ago, but mayhap it bears repeatedly every now and agin, albeit with minor tweaks because our fambly situation has changed slightly and, hey, I’m theoretically two years better at this bloggity thang.

It can be lonely being me.

I know what you’re thinking. How on earth can I, the idol of millions…thousands…hundreds? Okay, scores. Well, dozens. All right. One. The Boy idolizes me. I’ll take what I can get.

Anyhoo, how can I be lonely when my house is never less than seemingly packed to the rafters? It’s because I don’t fit in anywhere.

Now, I’m used to that. I didn’t fit in with my family much growing up. All four of my siblings were a year apart but then I was the youngest, three and a half years younger than brother John, a mighty big gap at that age. They were into sports. I was into reading and music. They were cool. I was a geek. They worked hard in school. I refused to do homework and, on one memorable occasion, simply refused to take a test.

(That one blew Dad’s mind. Looking back on it now, I can see why. But, I mean, seriously, who the hell cared what Uruguay’s major exports were? Other than Uruguayans and those who wanted to import stuff from Uruguay? At the age of thirteen, I most certainly did not fit into any of those categories.)

Later, my remarkable propensity to avoid doing work actually led the Dean of Students at my college to explain that I wasn’t allowed to come back the next semester, largely owing to the 1.2 GPA I’d achieved—that remarkable number translates to three C’s and two F’s for those keeping score at home. The dean "suggested" I take some time off and decide if I really wanted to be a student. After working two jobs, one of them literally digging ditches, something to which I was very much not physically suited, and taking three classes at a branch of UConn, even knowing the credits wouldn’t transfer, and being cut off from all my high school and college friends, I thought, oh yeah—I really, really want to be a college student.

But I digress. My point being that none of my college friends failed out of college. None of my high school friends failed out of college. And my siblings damn sure didn’t fail out of college.

I’ve never had a friend who liked Shostakovich. Or one who really dug Miles. Or Sonic Youth.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m on some desert island friendically. I’ve had friends who loved the Beatles and Bruce Springsteen and U2. I’ve had plenty of friends who love Monty Python and Batman and Scrubs and going for long drives where you try to get lost and then try to find your way back home again.

But I’ve never had a friend who quite clicked totally. Hell, I’ve never even met someone who did, much less liked them. Although, obviously, if I had, they would have liked me. I mean, that goes without saying, right? Right.

Here’s the thing. I’m about as left-wing a liberal as they come. I’m not just pro-environment (polls consistently show that the overwhelming majority of even Republicans are greener than the Democratic party, never mind their own party), I actually used to work for an environmentalist lobbying group; that’s right, I was one of them annoying folks what showed up at your door at dinner time to tell you how polluted your local river was and can I have some money to help fix it? (And I got it too—and, interestingly, the batting average got way higher the less wealthy the neighborhood; you didn’t need to tell these blue-collar joes their river was polluted since they’d been fishing it for fifty years and had seen the difference.)

I’ve never gotten stoned, never even seen the majority of drugs and yet I’m all for the legalization of them, believing our drug policy is unbelievably asinine, does nothing but hurt innocents and enriches the evil and powerful and all stems historically from a big business playing on racism to achieve their own nefarious ends. I’m for incredibly strict gun control. I’m against any kind of censorship.

I believe there’s not one compelling case to be made for the death penalty, ethically, morally, economically or practically, and at least a half-dozen strong cases against it. I’m for affirmative action, believing that the American Dream isn’t achievable if we don’t all start from the same point and that, alas, at this point in our history we’re still not close to all being there yet.

I’m for higher and progressive taxation believing not just that the more you have the more you owe morally but in addition that the more you benefit economically from others also being raised up. I’m in favor of gay rights which, really, just mean making sure they have the same rights as any other American and not special rights as is sometimes erroneously and maliciously claimed. If I’m leaving any major issues out, it’s probably safe to assume I’m with my liberal brethren on that too.

Except for one. I’m pro-life. I’m all about the civil liberties and who’s more in need of protection than those who can’t protect themselves?

And if you think being a fan of Shostakovich and Sonic Youth can get lonely, it’s nothing compared to being a pro-life Democrat.

All of my liberal friends are pro-choice. All my pro-life friends are conservatives. And the thing is, it’s easy to find pro-choice conservatives: the worst of both worlds, as that means they’re wrong about absolutely everything. The one thing—the one damn thing—their party gets right and that’s the issue they depart on. Never fails. People, man.

This means that I know whenever I post anything other than a cute story about the kids, I’m almost guaranteed to bore or piss off a goodly percentage of Left of the Dial’s regular readers. Pal Dave asked me if that ever makes me nervous. It doesn’t exactly make me nervous but it doesn’t make me happy either. I guess maybe it bums me out a little, but hey. There’re worse things. It is what it is and I yam what I yam. What can I say? As Van the Man said, and Paul Westerberg later echoed, it’s too late to turn back now. (Here we go.)

So. If you sometimes wonder why I’m such a curmudgeonly bastard, maybe this is at least part of the reason. It’s because I don’t really fit in anywhere and never have. There are lots of folks with whom I agree on this, that or t’other thang, but no one in this entire world I match up with perfectly.

Well, except, of course for Top Management. We may and do live pretty damn near the poverty line. But at least there’s one person in this whole wide world who gets me, gets how I can be down with most of the Greenpeace agenda and yet against Planned Parenthood, how I’m with Alito on Roe v. Wade yet wish he weren’t such a lying bastard and wish he hadn’t gotten confirmed because, in general, I think our Supreme Court justices shouldn’t be lying bastards who’ll say absolutely anything to get a gig as this jerk clearly is and clearly did. She groks how I’m all for stem cell research but against embryonic stem cell research even though I’ve got two kids who it’s not inconceivable (no pun intended) could benefit from that research. She understands that our pro-life acquaintances are too religious for my tastes and that our liberal friends are so tragically misguided on this one.

So it’s just the two of us. Which means it’s still kinda lonely sometimes. But at least we get to be lonely together. And since there’s nothing else I’d rather do than be with her, even if it means we’re being lonely together, that’s okay.

So if there’s anyone out there who doesn’t have someone to be lonely with, there’s my Christmakwanzakah Wish for you—that you find someone you can be lonely with. Having someone huddling in the bunker with you makes everything bearable. And sometimes a whole, whole lot better’n that.

Now I just gotta work on getting her to appreciate Miles. Or at least Shostakovich. Sonic Youth, I’m thinkin’, is a bridge too far. But one can always hope. After all, what are the odds I’d have found her in the first place? And what are the odds that she’d be so perfect and yet still have this one weird blind spot and fall for me? If that can happen, just about anything can.

Mackris v. O'Reilly

So, much as I love classical music, I've never been able to get into vocal musics that aren’t pop-related. No oratorios or arias, no operas or song cycles--I don’t even like my jazz to have vocals, a fact which causes me spiritual pain and a certain degree of public embarrassment. These are serious failings of mine and I seek to correct them. So far, no go. But on up that mountain I trek.

Why do I then love the vocal stylings of Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen and Neil Young and J Mascis? I have no idea. And yet there ‘tis.

But. If there were more oratorios like this puppy here, well, that might be a whole ‘nother cup o’ fish.

This is "Mackris v. O'Reilly," a baroque oratorio composed by Igor Keller. The libretto uses the verbatim transcript of the sexual harassment complaint brought against Bill O'Reilly in 2004—a recording of which is also easily available online.

Now that’s art. Taking something hideous—Bill O’Reilly forcing someone who works for him to listen to his sick fantasies—and turning it into a lovely piece of music.

And, I mean, how can you not love a composition which has a passage as moving as “loofah mitts, loofah mitts, loofah mitts!”

I should warn you—this is most definitely not suitable for chillens. Well, I’m not sure it’s suitable for anyone, at least in the original—much like Bill O’Reilly himself—but since Bill O already let that cat outta the bag, we might as well make the best of it.

Oh, but also? The wordless vocals in Nielsen's Third is glorious and magnificent.

Bank of America Continues to Suck

Okay. So when I spoke of how much suckitude Bank of America had, I perhaps somehow managed to misunderestimate just how much they had.

Understandable, really. Apparently even they misunderestimated:

Dec. 10 (Bloomberg) -- Bank of America Corp. has frozen its Columbia Strategic Cash Portfolio fund, which is marketed to institutional investors and has about $12 billion in assets, financial news network CNBC reported, citing unidentified people in money management.

Wow. So maybe one reason BoA sucks so mightily is because they’re actually strapped and therefore have to try to skim off their customers where and when they can.

Huh. That’s…disturbing, considering they’re one of the two largest banks in the United State of America.

H/T: Carefully Selected Garbage

In Memoriam

The Defense Department last week identified the following American military personnel killed in Iraq:

Kyle Dayton, 22, of El Dorado Hills, Calif.; sergeant, Army. Dayton was killed in an explosion Monday when his unit responded to a logistics convoy accident near Iraq's Anbar province, west of Baghdad, and one of the vehicles unexpectedly ignited. He was assigned to the 2nd Battalion, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division at Ft. Bragg, N.C.

Blair W. Emery, 24, of Lee, Maine; corporal, Army. Emery was killed Nov. 30 when a roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle in Baqubah, Iraq, northeast of Baghdad. He was assigned to the 504th Military Police Battalion, 42nd Military Police Brigade at Ft. Lewis, Wash.

Eric J. Hernandez, 26, of Waldwick, N.J.; sergeant, Army. Hernandez was among three soldiers who died after a roadside bomb exploded Tuesday near their vehicle in Baiji, Iraq, north of Baghdad. He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 327th Infantry Regiment, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) at Ft. Campbell, Ky.

Matthew K. Reece, 24, of Harrison, Ark.; specialist, Army. Reece was killed Dec. 1 when a roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle in Baghdad. He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division at Ft. Bragg, N.C.

Adam P. Snyder, 26, of Fort Pierce, Fla.; captain, Army. Snyder died Wednesday at a combat hospital in Balad, Iraq, of injuries suffered a day earlier when a roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle in Baiji, Iraq, north of Baghdad. Two other soldiers were killed in the blast. Snyder was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 327th Infantry Regiment, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) at Ft. Campbell, Ky.

Dewayne L. White, 27, of Country Club Hills, Ill.; private, Army. White was among three soldiers who died after a roadside bomb exploded Tuesday near their vehicle in Baiji, Iraq, north of Baghdad. He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 327th Infantry Regiment, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) at Ft. Campbell, Ky.

Name and Rank

So we’ve got the 63rd most common surname. Top Management’s maiden name? 2127th. Which I think speaks volumes. About what I have no idea. My mom’s maiden name? Not one of the top 5000. But don’t kid yourself. Should have been Top Five. She chose not to be and you can’t prove otherwise.

H/T: Everybody Knows (or at least should)

Grinchity

How great is this? Because, really, who hasn’t wondered what their grinch name is?

Mine, in case you were curious and how could you not be, is Surlybeast Rascalnose. Which is a little creepy, actually. Because that really is what Top Management has been calling me for years. Every December, at least.

A big ol' Santa Claus hat tip to blogpal Shannon for this bit o' holiday cheer.

Me and Tom

So I’m doing a little high-brow reading when Senator Smoosh comes down to the sunroom to play. She glances up at the screen and says, “Daddy. Dootbaw.”

I like to think it’s yet another sign of her brilliance. And that it just show how much she enjoys cuddling with me and watching the game on Sunday. Or that, like so many other people, she understandably gets me and Tom Brady confused, the pair of us being extraordinarily similar in that we're both carbon-based lifeforms with Y chromosomes. And that it’s not simply that, like Top Management, she pretty much wishes Tom Brady were really her father.

Not that I can really blame either of 'em.

In Memoriam

The Defense Department last week identified the following American military personnel killed in Iraq or who died at a military hospital of their injuries:

Isaac T. Cortes, 26, of Bronx, N.Y.; private, Army. Cortes was one of two soldiers killed Tuesday when a roadside bomb exploded near their Humvee in Amerli, Iraq, north of Baghdad. He was assigned to the 1st Squadron, 71st Cavalry Regiment, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division (Light Infantry) at Ft. Drum, N.Y.

Benjamin J. Garrison, 25, of Houston; specialist, Army. Garrison was one of two soldiers killed Tuesday when a roadside bomb exploded near their Humvee in Amerli, Iraq, north of Baghdad. He was assigned to the 1st Squadron, 71st Cavalry Regiment, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division (Light Infantry) at Ft. Drum, N.Y.

Jonathon L. Martin, 33, of Bellevue, Ohio; staff sergeant, Army. Martin died Nov. 22 at a U.S. military hospital in Regensburg, Germany, of injuries suffered Nov. 9 when a roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle in Jisr Naft, Iraq, northeast of Baghdad. He was assigned to the 1st Squadron, 32nd Cavalry Regiment, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) at Ft. Campbell, Ky.

Allen C. Roberts, 21 of Arcola, Ill.; corporal, Marine Corps. Roberts was killed Wednesday in a vehicle accident near Al Asad, Iraq, west of Baghdad. He was assigned to Marine Attack Squadron 214, Marine Aircraft Group 13, 3rd Marine Aircraft Wing, 1st Marine Expeditionary Force, Marine Corps Air Station in Yuma, Ariz.

John J. Tobiason, 42, of Hayfield, Minn.; sergeant first class, Army Reserve. Tobiason reportedly was killed Wednesday when he stepped outside of a tent in Baghdad and shots were fired. No other details were released on his death, which was under investigation. He was assigned to the 847th Adjutant General Battalion, 89th Regional Readiness Command in Wichita, Kan.

A Good Age

So The Baby is sitting on the couch, crammed in between big sisters, watching Jane and the Dragon, looking so cute small pieces of my heart instantly begin to liquefy and disappear the moment I set eyes on her. She’s so enthralled in the show and clearly blissful, hangin’ with the Big Dawgs, that I almost hesitate to disturb her.

Almost. But not quite.

I call her name. No reply. Louder. Nothing. The dragon’s got her but good and who can blame her? Can I really compete with such a wingéd, scaléd green beast?

I try again and this time she looks up. I make the sign for “car,” and she beams, hops down off the couch.

The earth’s rotation wavers slightly from the sheer beauty of her in motion.

I make the sign for shoes—I don’t want The Boy to know it's her turn to go with me so this is my attempt at stealth, the fact that he prolly couldn’t hear me shouting at her to get her shoes notwithstanding—and she chortles and trots off in search of sneakers, coming back lickety-split, footwear in hand, and if they’re not from the same pair, who’s to care? With the first kid, such things are of paramount importance, that folks understand you’re a Good Parent with a Well-Presented Child. By the fifth kid you’re impressed with yourself if the young’un makes it out of the house with all ten toes.

[Note to self: remember to count children's toes tomorrow.]

So we stop by the liberry and return a Foo Fighters disc and some Shakespeare plays on CD and pick up Branagh’s Henry V and as usual the folks there are delighted to see The Baby (or Senator Smoosh, as she’s usually called ‘round these here parts—Smooshie to her friends and mother). Then it’s off to the grocery store, where the senator's her usual enchanting self, pointing at things with wide-eyed wonder, captivated by the undeniable glory that is the frozen food section.

So we finish up and I’m pushing the cart through the parking lot and I ask her, “Hey, where’s our car?” I’ve never asked her that before and it’s dark, so I’m not really expecting her to answer or even understand me, but she starts looking around. I push the cart past the car without stopping, just, you know, testing her, as is my wont with the female persuasion. And she spots our automobile and yells, “Ah!” as though she’s started by its sudden appearance.

Which makes me laugh. Which makes her laugh, possibly because she construed my laughter as a sign of recognition of her incredible brilliance. As I’m fairly convinced she is, in fact, the next step in human evolution, I have no problem with her taking it that way. But her laughter makes me laugh harder. Which makes her laugh harder. Which makes me laugh harder.

So there we are, in a cold, drizzly parking lot at 5:30 at night, laughing hysterically at each other.

And from two feet away a voice says, “It’s a good age, isn’t it?” Which startles the bejeebers out of me.

I look up and there’s a guy sitting in the car next to ours, his window down. What he must have thought of our little bout of temporary insanity I can’t even guess.

But I agree, “Yeah, it is.” It's funny, whenever anyone uses that phrase, I always think of what my brother Ler Pete once told me years back, how he learned even before he had kids of a surefire way to start a conversation with a parent, any parent. Ask ‘em how old the kid is and then nod amiably and say, “Wow. That’s a great age, isn’t it?” He pointed out that it never fails. And indeed it don’t. So far, at least.

In this case, of course, it’s true, although every one of the good senator’s ages have been damn ducky and then some.

The car guy says, “What is she, about a year and a half? Yeah, I could tell. That’s how old my granddaughter is. Her mom’s got a master’s degree and her dad’s got his PhD and they just read books about babies and parenting all the time, just tons and tons of books. Yeah, you’re not really allowed to do anything with the baby or give anything to her; she’s not really allowed to do anything. She pretty much just cries all the time.”

I made a sympathetic sound. “Their first kid?” I guessed. He nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. “They’ll learn.”