Pictures of Stacey's Communion

Here are some pictures of my niece's First Communion Mass.

My sister, Stacey's Mom:



LuLu and Ginger in the pew.



My niece and her friend



Great Aunt Mabel



My sister K:



Some random hottie, with YaYa in the foreground.



My nephew. Let's not even begin to talk about the hair.



My Mom





People's Sexiest Man Alive 2029:



My Pop



Yeah, I looked like poop. I needed a haircut. And eight hours of sleep. And to learn how to smile on camera. But otherwise, A-OK.



The crowd before the event



My niece (the little blonde)



Despite appearances, she did actively participate in a surprise dance the kids put on.



Man I needed a haircut. Stacey with her Godparent's





Two funny moments at the Mass: the priest was splashed in the eye by the Holy Water, eliciting a laugh, and the following exchange during the introductory dialogue of the Eucharistic Prayer. At Easter/Christmas/formal events there's a noticeable hesitation in the actions of the crowd. It's not just an influx of people who are casual church-goers and may be stumped; it's also a bunch of family and friends from around town who know each church runs things a little different. During the following you should rise to your feet.

Priest: The Lord be with you.

All: And also with you.

Priest: Lift up your hearts

All: We lift them up to the Lord

Priest (smiling): I don't know what you're lifting, since you'll all still on your knees.

And one touching moment: when we went up for Communion YaYa went with us, and as usual received a blessing from the Priest. As we walked back to the pew I told her "That's the last time that'll happen. After tomorrow, you'll be with the grown-ups." Oh man, you should have seen the pride on her face.

Lastly, here's Ginger on the way home. Oh, she might look peaceful here, but in the pew she was wild and carefree. She once whipped a sippy cut three rows back, nearly smacking a guy in the face.

Some very well dressed kids (for a change)

Saturday May 2nd was our niece/Godchild's First Communion. Here are some photos of my kids in the lead-up to the event (LuLu had already joined her cousin en route to the church). In the hour before the Mass, YaYa took it upon herself to walk Ginger up and down are block to keep her busy. A rare volunteer moment for our oldest, but one that was greatly appreciated as we struggled to get out the door.

Man they're cute!

How did they get on the show?

I'm still a huge Match Game nut (and a growing fan of Charles Nelson Reilly) but I also have fond memories of The Joker's Wild, another after school game show treat from my childhood.

I watched some clips of it today on Youtube, and it holds up well. It's not as good as The Match Game, but then nothing is.

If you have a few minutes take a look at this clip, in which two players battle it out for the title of "Least Effective/Most Ignornant Contestant in Game Show History." Check out Jack Barry's frustration at the pair of them. At least (contestant) Daphne Palmer was hot, so she had something going for her.

Enjoy!




BTW - late condolences for the loss of the great Bea Arthur, an actress with great comedic timing and a biting wit. It was a big enough event in my world for my sister to text me the news at work. As a fan of The Golden Girls (one of the best written, best acted sitcoms of the era), I'll miss her.

Bobs, Fishies, and Funerals on the Front Porch

What a weird day. After I returned from work Lisa immediately left for her own job, and I took a whack at cutting the lawn for the first time in 2009. Let me tell you, that ol' push reel mower gave me a workout. My legs burn a lot more than they would after a half hour bike ride. I don't know if that means I'm that much (more) out of shape, or if I need the blades sharpened. Probably both.

YaYa, who went to play with her cousin after school, then called and started pleading with me to take her for a haircut. She's wanted a bob for over a year, but we refused to do it before the Commmunion. Now she called in her markers, and I agreed if a) I called her Mom and she gave the ok b) she got my sister to babysit and c) if she got home at a reasonable time.

With all three criteria met, we went for the haircut. The stylist had a great personality and YaYa kept up a steady stream of chatter, mainly about the communion. The cut turned out longer than she wanted, but YaYa was so ecstatic afterwards it was nuts. She was grinning, jumping, skipping, you name it. "Are you happy?" I asked. "What does it look like?" she said.

The whole way home all she could talk about was her hair and the two goldfish she'd bought with her First Communion money. Nicknamed Betsy "Bess" (the big one) and Anne (the small one), she was instantly fascinated with them. She even wrote a note to herself on her dresser, identifying each one by size and warning herself to "feed them only when I go to bed."









We were home maybe thirty seconds before YaYa screamed and chaos broke loose, with one kid after another flying down the stairs. "He killed him!" YaYa yelled, "Smiley got into my room and killed Betsy!"

"Smiley is that true?!" I said.

He gave me a panicked deer-in-the-headlights look and shook his head no. I went up to her room and found Betsy upside down in the bowl, surrounded by a heapin' helpin' of fish food.

"SMILEY!!!" I yelled.

We'll skip ahead a few minutes to keep this civil. YaYa was in tears, LuLu was putting her arms around her and trying to comfort her, Smiley was in his room crying, the baby had no clue what was going on and was wailing, and my sister hurried to put on her coat.

"See ya," she said and walked out the door. Lucky devil.

I scooped the fish out and told YaYa we'd have a funeral for her in our backyard, right there in the moonlight. We went outside and picked a spot and were all set to bury the fish when YaYa decided she wanted to write a farewell letter to her. So she went back to her room and I was left holding a dead fish.

The text, which was followed by a drawing of Betsy, read:

Dear Betsy. I loved you. I loved you more than Anne, even thow [sic] I had you for a day. [Smiley] got into my room and killed you. We love you and I love you. [YaYa} + the [Slapinions]

Change of plan: instead of the backyard I'd bury her in the planter on the front porch, then plant our normal summer flowers in it as a 'memorial' to Betsy. Imagine the scene: YaYa, bawling, falling to her knees on the porch in prayer. LuLu, trying to comfort her, asking me if we could "maybe, like, buy one of those round stones with her name on it" to put over the grave; Smiley, no longer crying but staying inside watching through the door; and an endless parade of items to be donated to the grave, from the letter to a cloth tulip to a tiny rabbit statue and a piece of a Mr. Clean Eraser.

"Enough already," I said. "It's a goldfish. Let's keep this in perspective." And with that, surrounded only by the letter and the paper tulip, Betsy was laid to rest.



It turns out Smiley was at fault. Earlier in the day, while I was at work, a visitor (Faith) happened to walk by the bowl and notice Betsy on the floor. Smiley had taken her out to pet her, and then left her on the floor. She survived, but apparently was greatly weakened by the ordeal.

What a day.

Some writing news

The Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel's book editor just answered a query letter of mine with a positive 'send it in'. Which means that she'll look over some book reviews of mine and *potentially* publish them in the paper.

That's a big deal to me, bigger even than the columns. The columns are, by the requirements of the job, Milwaukee themed and unlikely to sell elsewhere. A book review can be sold and resold to any market, and with a published review in the Journal I'd have a solid track record to reference.

Small money, small sucess, sure - but hopefully another step in the right direction.

I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Let it all hang out

This should make you all feel better about your day:

I went to work this morning dressed for success in a new pair of slacks, freshly polished shoes, and silk shirt. Hey, I'd enjoyed resurrecting the ol' shirt and tie for the Communion, and I wanted to carry it over to the workplace. After all, dress for the job you want, not the one you have.

At work a friend was standing on a windowsill as he tried to lower a sign that normally hangs about ten feet off the ground.

"You're an idiot. Why don't you get a ladder?" I asked.

"I don't need a #@$% ladder, that's why. Get up here and lend me a hand."

I walked beneath the sign and was able to grab a corner as he lowered it, taking some of the weight off of him. It wasn't good enough.

"Dude, get up here and hold this while I grab the wire."

Here's where catastrophe set in. I took a step up onto the windowsill and heard what my buddy later called a "cartoon sound effect".

I'd ripped my pants from the knee to my belt, leaving thigh, crotch, and ass hanging in the breeze.

Cue riotous laughter around me.

I'll say this for me: somewhere along the line, in a lifetime full of humiliation and social miscues, I lost the ability to be embarrassed by such horrific scenes. Really. I reacted with detached fatigue. I let the laughter carry on for a minute.

"Are you going to help me here, or are you going to keep staring at my ass?" I asked.

"What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm not holding that together."

"Grab me the tape a**hole."

I wrapped a few pieces of packing tape around my leg and proudly marched across a crowded store at a leisurely pace. I walked into the office, told the boss I had to leave, and strolled back the way I came, then out and across a parking lot.

Somewhere along the first leg of that trip the tape gave way, and for much of the walk I grabbed what I could and tried to muster some dignity.

Yes, I eventually returned to work. My theory was that if I failed to return I'd never live it down. As it is it was a rough shift, let me tell you.

"What did you tell people?" I asked my friend.

"Nothing. Well, Debbie asked why you left so fast."

"What did you tell her?"

He laughed. "I said you had to go home and change your pants because you had an accident."

Great. So the people who didn't see my butt now think I crapped my pants. Only to me folks, only to me.

MEG: Hell's Aquarium - Info Wanted

No, I haven't read Meg: Hell's Aquarium, I'm just looking for information.

When I saw this on the shelf at Barnes and Noble I was reminded that one of my readers won a contest to have her name appear as a character in this novel. The problem is I can't remember who that was. So if it's you, or you know the answer, let me know.

Oh, and congratulations :)

Swine Flu and Communion Wine

If nothing else the swine flu is sure creating memories for YaYa. It's the weekend of her First Communion (a mere 11 hours away now) and it's affected a score of things in Milwaukee. Knowing most kids, in twenty years time the only thing she'll remember about this weekend is that it coincided with the outbreak.

The most stunning example of its impact was at my niece's Communion Mass today. Before it began the Priest announced that, following 'suggestions' from the State and Archdiocese, the communal wine would not be offered at Mass. This was the First Communion day for dozens of kids, and they would not be receiving the wine.

Man, the shock hit my chest like a sledgehammer. I'm serious. Forgetting even the theological implications, its a massive blow to the protocol and tradition of the event. I can't come up with an equivalent example. A marriage ceremony where the exchange of rings is banned? An inauguration where the swearing-in is prohibited? A baseball game where the home team doesn't get a chance to win it in the ninth?

I'll give the Priest credit. He was a witty and charming man, and he denounced this all as paranoia. So he presented an option: the congregation wouldn't be offered the wine, but the kids receiving their First Communion would have the opportunity if the parents so chose. I don't know how many parent's vetoed it, but I'm thinking the number was zero.

Anyhow, I have no idea how YaYa's church will handle it tomorrow. We'll have to see.

* there are some nice pics from today and I'll *try* to post them at a later date*

After Mass we ditched three of the kids and took YaYa out alone to finish off some last minute Communion details. We also had some fun. We went to a rummage sale at a Methodist Church, where a lady presented YaYa with a free cross necklace in honor of her upcoming event (and I picked up a copy of Robert Penn Warren's Remember the Alamo! for less than a quarter). We also hit an estate sale, got myself a haircut, stopped at Half Price Books, and went out to eat, at YaYa's choice, at Carrabas Italian Restaurant (not a great meal for the $; we won't be going back.)

I did ask her at the bookstore if her love of books was genuine or just a means of identifying with me. She looked at me like I was crazy and pleaded with me to buy her a chapter book.

She thrives when she has alone time with us and it was a blast.

Anyhow, time for bed. Some more swine flu notes for posterity:

* Today the number of cases here has jumped from five on Friday to twenty-seven(probable) cases.

* A handful of public schools have closed, but MPS is warning all parents to make alternate arrangements for Monday. The rumor is all public schools will be closed until further notice, and the Catholic versions will follow suit.

* Some of the south-side Catholic schools with overwhelmingly Hispanic student bodies, including my old elementary school, have shut their doors.

* On Thursday night LuLu and YaYa's school was completely disinfected and sprayed down, whatever that means.

* At work a manager wasted an entire day disinfecting our computers and keyboards. This is a pointless task, given we're always mixing with the public and would have no real hope of avoiding it if it strolled through the door.

* I cleared my throat at work and a customer backed away saying "Are you sure you're not ill?". I think she was joking.

* A local store has a sign on their door saying "Avoid the swine flu - buy hand sanitizers here!"

The Bridge

Do a quick search on the net and you'll find pictures of a horrific car accident that claimed the life of a teenager in California. The pictures are real and were leaked by a California Highway Patrol officer. The family is suing the CHP, and for good reason. They they show the victims near-decapitated body as it sits in her crumpled Porche, her head nearly unrecognizable as that of a human.

I am not part of the group of people who would have leaked the photos, posted them on the dead girl's MySpace page, emailed them to her family, or posted them on a blog and captioned them with snarky commentary (all of which occurred).

But being human, with all the morbid curiosity of death that keeps my fear of it at bay, I followed a link and viewed the shots. They are revolting, but I 'x'ed out of the site more disgusted with myself than with the photographs.

The Bridge, a documentary about suicide on the Golden Gate Bridge, leaves you wondering to which group the filmmakers belong.

In 2004 The Golden Gate Bridge averaged a successful suicide attempt every fifteen days. Over the course of that year the documentary was able to capture, start to finish, several of those deadly jumps on film.

Mind you, it isn't a snuff film and the suicides themselves consume a relatively short amount of film. In the rest of the movie we're introduced to the family and friends of the deceased. We learn their stories - sometimes from childhood on - and not only try to grasp what led to that final decision but examine the impact it had on loved ones.

It is an astonishingly depressing and morbid film. I can handle that, if there was a point behind its creation. I have to assume the filmmakers went into the project believing they would honor the dead and explore the effects of suicide, and perhaps discourage someone from doing the same. They failed on all counts.

Jumping - an action one interview labels theatrical by its very nature - is made into a sad but almost poetic end to a life. While the friends who are interviewed are almost universally aghast and view the suicide, sometimes angrily, as a cop out, the family members are oddly accepting. Perhaps they are seeking to assuage their own guilt, or are worn out by a lifetime of dealing with the deceased. Either way it is disconcerting to hear a parent seemingly brush off the death of a son. One father assures his child, as they discuss his desire to die between attempts, that suicides are not judged harshly by God and that sometimes the pain of life is just too great. One woman tells her nephew only to make sure to say goodbye before he kills himself, and later tells the camera that it was an act that might have been predestined from birth. And so on.

Judge those people, don't judge, it doesn't matter; what matters is that in a film like this, whatever the reason behind their statements, it reeks of a big 'OK' for viewers to accept the idea of killing themselves.

In addition, The Bridges's focus on the Golden Gate is a farce. For the jumper there is no significance to the bridge except as a convenient means of finishing a life that would have been ended by other means in Denver or Portland. What I perceive as the true relevance of the bridge in the movie is this: it's the only place they stood a chance of capturing the act of suicide on film. Period.

I have a greater problem with the fact that these weren't abrupt, spur of the moment acts. Most of the deaths follow the same routine: they begin with a pensive, pacing individual who hesitantly climbs over the rail but then lets go with a resolute quickness.

The camera catches this all, and at some point the cameramen became very adept at spotting a future jumper. They zoom in on an individual and follow them for an astonishingly long time, even focusing in on the last horrid minutes as the jumper stand on the ledge debating his end.

There is an endless amount of time for the filmmakers to pick up a phone and alert the police to a potential jumper. The San Francisco cops certainly seem used to the task, as the film shows them questioning people that linger on the bridge.

To ID a suicidal act and sit idly by is reprehensible. This lack of action is a passive contribution to the deaths and a black mark against their artistic and literal soul.

View it and see if you feel the same way.


p.s. - I don't believe the state has a responsibility to actively safeguard it against suicide, but I do question why, if the act is so prevalent they don't stop wasting time and resources and just erect a railing higher than four feet?

Smiley at the park - Easter Sunday

After Easter dinner at my parents house the kids were divided up among the grandparents/aunts and only Smiley returned home with us. If you remember, it was sunny but cold - a winter coat but no hat day - but the sun was too good to pass up. So I took Smiley for a late afternoon adventure to a nearby park.

There were other kids and parents there at first, all visiting nearby houses for the holiday, but within a half hour or so we had the place to ourselves. Smiley had found a lost tennis ball on a nearby court and made a game of tossing it up a slide and then trying to catch it on the fly as it richocheted down the chute.











He played that game FOREVER, or at least until I told him it was time to go home. On the return trip we cut across the tennis courts and came upon an empty wire reel (I think it may have stored the newly stretched tennis nets for the winter). For no good reason other than it seemed like fun, we decided to make this our toy.



We rolled it back and forth across the court, running it into the fence at one end and the net on the other (allright, I stopped it just shy of the net to avoid damage. But only because I'm a dorky scaredy-cat.)