Left of the Dial

character identification

So The Brawn and I have been making our way, slowly, through the Marvel Cinematic Universe, one of several projects the various spawn and I have started as a way to get through the pandemic. We're now up to the greatly underrated Doctor Strange and, as if more proof of his intelligence were needed, The Brawn absolutely loved it, justly reveling in its visual sumptuousness. 

But that wasn't the only thing that resonated with him. During a scene during which the magnificent Chiwetel Ejiofor questions another character's morality, the titular hero argues, "She was complicated."

Beside me, from the darkness, I hear a voice quietly respond, "Aren't we all." 

works like a (snake) charm

So when I went freelance, one of my trusted colleagues—himself a long-time freelance writer— warned me that transitioning into being home all the time would likely be extremely difficult at first, that it was nobody's fault, it was just a fact that too much proximity to another adult would be difficult, especially since we were living in a small New York City apartment, and the other adult in question (Top Management) was used to having said apartment all to herself. 

We never found that to be the case. We were delighted to have an extra 50 hours a week together and, if anything, hated having to stop talking to each other so one could leave the room to go work. And 22 or so years later, that's still the case. When it's time for me to leave Lissa's studio to go make dinner or watch Doctor Who with the kids or whatever, my good lady wife will often break into an awesomely accurate Veruca Salt impersonation, expressing her displeasure with my impending departure. 

Fortunately, I have finally, after all these years, found a solution: I begin an interpretive dance which aims to illustrate how I personally feel about leaving her, the anguish I'm experiencing, the deep love I have for her and the conflicting emotion of paternal responsibility. Occasionally I'll throw in a small aside about current events or perhaps a recap of a recent television episode, just for contrast. 

I say I begin an interpretive dance, because I rarely get more than three seconds in before she says, "Okay, you can go now." 

Sure, she sounds eager for me to leave. But she's crying on the inside. I can tell. 

The New Portland Peterson Coat of Arms

I was informed that our new family motto is "no more." Apparently, this is important from a cartoon the youngest five recently watched. 

Ignoring the fact that we perhaps would have been considerably better served had we adopted this slogan somewhere between 11 and 23 years earlier, I quickly grabbed an image that will be the basis of our new family crest. 

Somehow fitting, no? 

not dancing?

So Top Management sent me this just now: 

I laughed. 

She added, "I would have uttered some choice profanities at the screen but the kids were in the kitchen." 

 

my role model

The Brawn comes towards me, holding a very large book, an odd look in his eyes. Intrigued, I take the proffered book and turn it over to see what it is. Ah. It's The World of Charles Addams. And clearly he has just discovered where I got my stellar parenting style. 

startle tactics

The Brawn has been on fire recently. In addition to his spelling phase, he's been trying to subtly expand his vocabulary. (One suspects having sisters talking about the patriarchal society paradigm may have something to do with it.) 

So last night he comes back to his room to get dressed, but is surprised to find me already there. He startles visibly. A minute later, as he's pulling on his ninja pajamas, he says casually, unaware of the curare-tipped dart he has just thrown straight into my chest. "You intimidate me, Dad." 

"I do?" 

"Yeah," he says, not seeming terribly intimidated as he tries and fails to throw his socks into the laundry basket. 

He starts riffling through a stack of books until he finds the one he wants (Shazam!: The Monster Society of Evil, a book he's been semi-obsessed with for the past week). He climbs into bed and flops his feet down heavily on top of the bedspread. It either sounds or feels satisfying, so he does it again, and then a third time. 

"Intimidate does mean 'scare,' right?" he asks. 

"Yeah, that's sorta what it means, roughly." 

He nods as he opens the book. "You intimidated me when I came in." 

the big question II

My kids, man. As has already been proven, they don't play when it comes to posing the gravest of serious queries, probing the depths of the mysteries of humankind's existence. 

So when my 16-year-old came in as I was writing, A Look upon her face, trepidation immediately was felt. 

"I have a question," she said hesitantly. 

I braced myself. 

"There's an upcoming episode of Teen Titans called "Boys v Girls," and we were wondering, if Robin, Beast Boy and Cyborg fought Starfire and Raven, who would win? 

  

(My children may not be like other teenagers.)

Blah

So the other night I discovered, to my shock and horror, not just that I had seven billion children, but that I also had not one single copy of any of the myriad collections of Gary Larson's The Far Side in the entire house. Seven billion to zero is a ratio wildly out of whack. 

This was insanity. This was horrifying. This Would Not Do. 

Stunned at how terrible Top Management and I clearly are as parents (read: me), I immediately went to Amazon. And then quickly shuttered that idea and went to our library system where I found dozens, scores, hundreds of thousands of copies of various Far Side collections...almost all of which were checked out. 

But! Not absolutely all of them. A little baksheesh may have greased the computer system's virtual palm, and mere days later, I get a notice that the first two galleries are in. 

I rush to the library like a bat outta heck, grab the books, make a run for the car, get tackled by the librarian who must run the 100m in under 10, go back inside, check them out like the good law-abiding citizen I am, run back to the car, drive home in a safe and secure manner, come into the house, and casually say to the first child I see (which just happens to be The Bean), "hey, here you go—you might find this mildly amusing." 

I observe her silently reading for two, five, ten minutes: no smiles, no chuckles, just page solemnly turned after page. Finally, I can stand it no longer. 

"So," I say, as casual as all get-out,"How is it?'

She takes a long moment to look up, her eyes finally focusing. "It's awesome." 

She pauses. "It's very odd," she adds. "And he's very fond of cows." 

This'll do. 

But then, paydirt. Five minutes later, she suddenly yells, "Hey! Ginger!" 

I look up, confused. 

She turns the book around to show me the page, an enormous grin lighting up her face, and one of our family's most quoted pop culture moments clearly on display. 

Okay. Maybe we (read: Top Management) haven't done absolutely everything wrong. 

Proposal

A little clunky, a little awkward, a little clichéd. And still the best piece of writing I've ever done. 

 

Happy anniversary, love of my life. You remain, now and forever, the cat's meow.  

Comic Relief

I walk into the kitchen. The 14-year-old sees me, bends forward slightly and then slams her head into my sternum. 

"Don't hurt yourself," I said, pretending I'd felt no pain. I gesture to my chest. "This? Titanium. Mixed with adamantium. It's an alloy. Coated in...what's Captain America's shield made of? Vibranium? Yeah, it's coated in that. And then dusted with Kryptonite." 

"My goodness!" she says, trying to look admiring. She can't quite make it, and laughs instead. The idea of a 14-year-old seriously using "my goodness!" as a mild expletive makes me laugh. Which makes her laugh, which makes me laugh. And then she laughs some more. And I laugh some more. 

She's my favorite today. 

If the Shibataea Fits...

The Golden Weasel notices me wearing an old Swamp Thing t-shirt. 

"Aw..." she says, extending one small finger and gently touching the monster and his daughter. "Look, Daddy—it's you and me." 

Eric Cantor: Don Martin character

Is it just me, or does Eric Cantor look like a Don Martin character? 

Here's Eric Cantor:

 

Now here are some Don Martin characters:

   

Here's what he could do with some relatively famous peoples. 

 

Yeah. No, it's not just me. 

And as a bonus, it also explains some of the stuff he says. 

Aquaman's Lament

So I've listened to this song probably a dozen times over the past couple days. I've spent a bizarrely large percentage of my life thinking about the Batman, but I always loved Aquaman as a kid: we both had blonde hair and loved to swim, and that's about the extent of my introspection. 

And I must say, the King of the Seven Seas makes a good argument, especially when it comes to the unlimited free seafood. 

He, of course, doesn't understand just what it is that makes the Dark Knight not just the greatest comic book character ever but, in fact, one of the greatest characters in the history of fiction full stop. But that's okay, as the song's from Aquaman's POV. The homoerotic angle's kinda been done to death, but we can overlook that given its other charms. 

One thing, though, Mark, if you're reading this: awesome job, oh so catchy, love pretty much everything about it. Except this bit: 

Have you ever got the notion
That he's just a rat with wings
I'm the king of seven oceans
And, Vicki, you're my everything

would work better as:

Have you ever got the notion
That he's just a rat with wings
I'm the king of seven oceans
And I want you to be my queen

Tell you what, you can have it, free of charge.