Friday, November 28, 2014

Save Us From What We Deserve

We're sitting on the couch, eating pancakes and watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade, when another band runs on to the screen, doing music from "Journey to the Center of the Earth" (says the announcer in his fruity, rich voice).

The color guard have on these very unusual uniforms: green, scaly-looking unitards with a headpiece that gives them a bright yellow mohawk, and I remark to Katie that it makes them look like Morlocks.

"Oooh, I'm stealing that," she says, typing away at her Facebook page.

But I'm already thinking that if the color guard are Morlocks, that makes the band members in their pure white uniforms the Eloi, and then I'm thinking about what happens to the Eloi, and how they kinda deserved it.

Thursday, November 27, 2014


I scroll through my "Watch Later" list on YouTube: music videos, documentaries about the coming economic and ecological collapse, Fred Armisen doing accents. Meanwhile, she is teaching herself Photoshop and editing her logo until well past midnight - this after baking an apple pie for Thanksgiving tomorrow and previewing designs for her website.

Later, in the shower, I comment on her work ethic. "I mean, you don't have to be a role model or anything," I say, scrubbing off the laziness, "but you are modeling good behavior and making me realize I need to work harder."

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

My Family

I awake from a dream of my old room in Tucson, the cold tile floor, the white walls. In the dream, I lay in my childhood bed, crying, because I knew my parents had left me, and would never return.

Now I lay in the dark, far from Arizona, listening to my wife breathe as she sleeps next to me. She throws an arm across my chest, and though I know that we can't live forever, I am comforted.

Scenes From the Class War in Park Slope, Brooklyn

The dogs, two big, grizzled gents with the sad eyes that all intelligent dogs seem to have, are perfectly behaved the entire train ride from Manhattan to Brooklyn, laying quietly at the feet of their owner and taking up as little space as possible for such large fellows. Said owner, dressed in tattered fatigues, wide-brimmed hat, dusty boots and ratty coat, and wearing sunglasses inside and at night, seems used to the attention his companions attract, periodically patting their threadbare "Service Dog" jackets as if to reassure them, and all his fellow commuters, that everything is fine.

Now, however, getting off the train and tracking their way to the surface, they seem to move with greater purpose, fast and low to the ground. Halfway down the sidewalk, finding their target, they surround the businessman in his suit and tie, and one of the dogs lifts his leg to pee directly on the man's briefcase, after which, mission accomplished, they vanish into the night, leaving the incredulous suit to gawk in their wake.

Sunday, November 23, 2014

What's Eating You?

The bird which, just a minute ago, we held in our arms like a pet (its eyes calm and docile, even bearing as it did the clear signs of having had dinosaur ancestors who would have eaten our evolutionary shrew ancestors for lunch), struggles upside down in the cone as the blood pours from its throat into the aluminum trough thick with the gore of the birds slaughtered before it. Ninety seconds after Katie slit its throat, the butcher lifts one leg to see if it's still kicking and, certain it is dead, dunks it in a bath of boiling water to make it easier to remove the feathers before we gut it, take it home, cook it, eat it.

On the way home, the driver of the cab (smell of smoke, dents in the door, rips in the upholstery), cannot sit still in his seat. At each stop light he stretches, scratches his arms, pushes out of his chair and back down, twitches, adjusts his hat, grabs the back of his head rest, changes the radio (inevitably louder each time), looks in the mirror, at his phone, at his watch, at the road, to the point where I wonder what is inside him, gnawing at him, that he has to move just to keep it from eating him alive.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Growing Up

Brand new baby, one week old, about the size of a loaf of bread, curled up in the crook of her father's arm. He stands and sways, rocking her back and forth to the rhythm of the music coming from the playlist he made for her.

"Something So Strong" comes on, and he smiles and starts lip syncing along.

"I've...beeen...feeling so much older," he half-sings to her, and she is so small, and as big as the world.

At the Opening

While the woman (older, an artist, and self-proclaimed "kind of a big deal"), regales Katie with her wisdom, I talk publishing with her gentle husband. He's thin and with a shock of white hair on top, but tan and sharp, and an accent I later learn is Israeli.

"So I started doing silverpoint drawing - you know this? Ancient technique, you draw with silver on clay treated paper and the oxidation - you know this? - makes the mark."