Published writer, compulsive reader, Old School Whovian, Match Game enthusiast, NKOTB fan, data hoarder, and - surprisingly, given that list - married with four kids. Welcome to my take on life, fatherhood, entertainment, and whatever strikes my fancy. Enjoy!
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
A Quote for the 4th of July
My friend asked if I was free this weekend. Of course I am, this is America -
swiped from a Twitter feed of [domonique.@ObeyTomlinster].
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
A Shadow of a Distant Life
This is the story that won me a public reading at a local library back in 2009.
It was three in the morning when the ghost returned to visit Steven.
At first, shortly after moving into the house, there had had been only the sound of heavy, careful footsteps in the night. Alarmed, Steven would leave the imagined safety of his bed and venture down the hall, terrified of finding an intruder. But it was always the same; the kids asleep and unaware, the doors bolted, the windows locked.
In the morning he and his wife found it amusing, a curiosity to liven up the anecdotes they told about their new home. Neither, of course, believed in ghosts.
That was how it started.
What followed was a lull, two weeks of undisturbed and blissful sleep. Then, an escalation: the footsteps again, this time breaching Steven's room and stopping just beside his bed. After that the mornings brought no peace. The restless nights made tempers flare, and he grew angry each time his wife blamed it all on the shifting frame of a century old house.
Steven, for his part, was no longer sure what he believed.
Soon his wife let the news 'slip' to his mother. "I don't understand why you're worried," his Mom said, scolding him. "Our family has owned that house since it was built. The only people to pass away there are your great-grandparents, and even if they could come back, you know they would never hurt you."
They were words meant to comfort, but did the opposite. He felt no kinship with a couple dead and gone twenty years before his birth. Nor could he fathom caring about his own descendants, at least those he wouldn't live to see. If there were angry spirits in the house, why would they be obliged to tolerate him? For the sake of a relationship four generations removed?
That was the night the figure appeared. There were footsteps of course, loud enough to wake him but no one else (although, to be fair, he never really slept well at night anymore, surviving on catnaps scattered throughout the day). They came forward slowly but confidently, as if the spirit no longer cared to mask its presence, and again, they paused by the bed. Ignoring his fear Steven opened his eyes.
Before him stood a shadow, a man-but-not-a-man. While there was no physical form, the shifting darkness worked to craft an illusion of strength and bulk. Remarkably, through the pressing, physical weight of his fear Steven felt himself begin to climb out of bed.
Not yet, a voice said, and he had no doubt it echoed only in his mind. Not yet.
That was the beginning of the end.
In the weeks to come Steven would stop trying to sleep at night altogether. His work began to suffer; his children, sensing something wrong, grew distant, and his wife, concerned, begged him to seek help. When he refused her pleas he found himself banished to the living room couch. For Steven it was a hidden blessing. His few nights on the couch gave him his first true rest in months.
A Shadow of a Distant Life pg 2
On the night the shadow returned it there was no sound, only an icy shiver that wrenched Steven awake with a stunning abruptness. The figure stood at the head of the couch, leaning over and staring - if it had eyes at all - directly into Steven's face.
Now, it said.
The figure walked away, heading for the kitchen. Steven's mind and body screamed caution, and he resolved to stay where he lay. To his surprise he found himself following the shadow. They entered the room together, and in time it took Steven to blink his eyes the figure disappeared.
Once again Steven's head screamed retreat, but instead he searched frantically around the room, as if instead of vanishing he'd simply lost sight of the figure in a crowd. After a moment he heard the familiar footsteps coming from the basement stairs that lay off the pantry. He followed the sound without thinking, and without bothering with the stairway light. His eyes had grown accustomed to picking out human forms in the dark of night, and they came quickly to rest on a figure below.
At that same moment he noticed the broken basement window, the strangely unfamiliar shape of the shadow, and the glint of a knife in its hand as it rushed up the stairs. Before these thoughts could raise an alarm the intruder slammed into Steven, slashing at him in a frenzy. The first blow missed and struck the wall, but the intruder never hesitated. A second later the man was on him again, pushing him down against the stairs before raising the knife for a final blow.
Steven's eyes went from the knife, to the eyes of his assailant - and then to the familiar figure emerging from the dark behind him.
Pitch dark arms ignored the blade and encircled his neck, leveraging him up and off of Steven. It was then, only for a moment, that Steven saw the face of the shadow. It was no face as we know it, simply the impression of one, but in its imagined features was not one face but many; his great-grandfather and his father before him, his sons and his future grandchildren.
Even in the surreal chaos of that moment he knew that in the end the fight would be his own. Now the shadow said, and Steven struck, knocking the intruder unconscious and sending him tumbling down the stairs.
He would see the shadow only once more in his lifetime. Many years later, babysitting his grandchild, Steven stirred and wandered into the baby's room, sitting in the rocker alongside the crib. From the corner of the eye he noticed a shadow distinct from the darkness, but did not turn to meet it.
Together, the pair was content to admire the future in silence as it slept peacefully in the crib.
It was three in the morning when the ghost returned to visit Steven.
At first, shortly after moving into the house, there had had been only the sound of heavy, careful footsteps in the night. Alarmed, Steven would leave the imagined safety of his bed and venture down the hall, terrified of finding an intruder. But it was always the same; the kids asleep and unaware, the doors bolted, the windows locked.
In the morning he and his wife found it amusing, a curiosity to liven up the anecdotes they told about their new home. Neither, of course, believed in ghosts.
That was how it started.
What followed was a lull, two weeks of undisturbed and blissful sleep. Then, an escalation: the footsteps again, this time breaching Steven's room and stopping just beside his bed. After that the mornings brought no peace. The restless nights made tempers flare, and he grew angry each time his wife blamed it all on the shifting frame of a century old house.
Steven, for his part, was no longer sure what he believed.
Soon his wife let the news 'slip' to his mother. "I don't understand why you're worried," his Mom said, scolding him. "Our family has owned that house since it was built. The only people to pass away there are your great-grandparents, and even if they could come back, you know they would never hurt you."
They were words meant to comfort, but did the opposite. He felt no kinship with a couple dead and gone twenty years before his birth. Nor could he fathom caring about his own descendants, at least those he wouldn't live to see. If there were angry spirits in the house, why would they be obliged to tolerate him? For the sake of a relationship four generations removed?
That was the night the figure appeared. There were footsteps of course, loud enough to wake him but no one else (although, to be fair, he never really slept well at night anymore, surviving on catnaps scattered throughout the day). They came forward slowly but confidently, as if the spirit no longer cared to mask its presence, and again, they paused by the bed. Ignoring his fear Steven opened his eyes.
Before him stood a shadow, a man-but-not-a-man. While there was no physical form, the shifting darkness worked to craft an illusion of strength and bulk. Remarkably, through the pressing, physical weight of his fear Steven felt himself begin to climb out of bed.
Not yet, a voice said, and he had no doubt it echoed only in his mind. Not yet.
That was the beginning of the end.
In the weeks to come Steven would stop trying to sleep at night altogether. His work began to suffer; his children, sensing something wrong, grew distant, and his wife, concerned, begged him to seek help. When he refused her pleas he found himself banished to the living room couch. For Steven it was a hidden blessing. His few nights on the couch gave him his first true rest in months.
A Shadow of a Distant Life pg 2
On the night the shadow returned it there was no sound, only an icy shiver that wrenched Steven awake with a stunning abruptness. The figure stood at the head of the couch, leaning over and staring - if it had eyes at all - directly into Steven's face.
Now, it said.
The figure walked away, heading for the kitchen. Steven's mind and body screamed caution, and he resolved to stay where he lay. To his surprise he found himself following the shadow. They entered the room together, and in time it took Steven to blink his eyes the figure disappeared.
Once again Steven's head screamed retreat, but instead he searched frantically around the room, as if instead of vanishing he'd simply lost sight of the figure in a crowd. After a moment he heard the familiar footsteps coming from the basement stairs that lay off the pantry. He followed the sound without thinking, and without bothering with the stairway light. His eyes had grown accustomed to picking out human forms in the dark of night, and they came quickly to rest on a figure below.
At that same moment he noticed the broken basement window, the strangely unfamiliar shape of the shadow, and the glint of a knife in its hand as it rushed up the stairs. Before these thoughts could raise an alarm the intruder slammed into Steven, slashing at him in a frenzy. The first blow missed and struck the wall, but the intruder never hesitated. A second later the man was on him again, pushing him down against the stairs before raising the knife for a final blow.
Steven's eyes went from the knife, to the eyes of his assailant - and then to the familiar figure emerging from the dark behind him.
Pitch dark arms ignored the blade and encircled his neck, leveraging him up and off of Steven. It was then, only for a moment, that Steven saw the face of the shadow. It was no face as we know it, simply the impression of one, but in its imagined features was not one face but many; his great-grandfather and his father before him, his sons and his future grandchildren.
Even in the surreal chaos of that moment he knew that in the end the fight would be his own. Now the shadow said, and Steven struck, knocking the intruder unconscious and sending him tumbling down the stairs.
He would see the shadow only once more in his lifetime. Many years later, babysitting his grandchild, Steven stirred and wandered into the baby's room, sitting in the rocker alongside the crib. From the corner of the eye he noticed a shadow distinct from the darkness, but did not turn to meet it.
Together, the pair was content to admire the future in silence as it slept peacefully in the crib.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Tennis did not go well
After we picked the kids up from rec all six of us went back to the tennis courts. It was a disaster, as most family outings are. Junie refused to pick up a racket until we were ready to leave, LuLu had a fit the first half of the time we were there, and YaYa took over that gig for the last half. Only Smiley was behaved (and not half bad). It was still better than dealing with most of the adults I know. Afterwards a trip to Home Depot and then on to Woods Cemetery to visit my grandparents' grave.
Tennis Anyone?
Just back from playing tennis in the park. Mayhaps not a great idea in this heat . . .
Quote
“Why do I exist? That is a question very few ever ask themselves. They would not have a ten cent gadget in their homes for five minutes without knowing its purpose, but they will go through life without knowing why they are living. Until we answer that question there is no question worth answering; and the way we answer it determines our character in this world and our destiny in the next.” Archbishop Fulton Sheen (True Liberty – address given 1/15/1939)
Three Books for You to Pick up - Or Not
I'm a fan of the USA Network's Psych, and yes, for the record, shame on CBS for ripping it off for The Mentalist. The great thing about "A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read" is that author William Rabkin accomplishes the near impossible for a TV tie-in novel. He not only make it readable, he captures the characters to a 'T'. The dialouge is spot on and literally LOL.
I grade this a personal A, and an objective B/B+.
Book #48 of the year
I am also a fan of A.Lee Martinez, and I did enjoy his latest novel, "Emperor Mollusk versus the Sinister Brain". But . . . it ain't his best work. Not his funniest. Not his most original. Not the best plot. Not, in short, my favorite.
Grade: C+
Book # 49 of the year.
For the Pysch tie-in novel The Call of the Mild you can second most of my praise of author William Rabkin. But I ID'd the killer long before Shawn and Gus did, and I wasn't pleased with the way the subplot of Henry's protege worked out. This was the weaker effort of the two.
Grade: C
Book # 50 of the year.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
A New Door
I spent a lot of my day off today installing the new rear entry door with Socialist. Surprise, surprise, fitting a modern door and frame into a 120 year old entry isn't the easiest thing to do. Replacing the old door with one of equal size would have meant removing wainscoting and the unique trim around it, so we went down to a 32" door but that provided its own challenges. Anyhow, it's in, it's locked, and all that remains is to put the storm door back on and pretty it up. That will wait for the 4th.
My bit of the office
I thought you might like a glimpse into my cubicle at Job Current. No? Too bad, so sad.
The pic above showcases not only a stunningly handsome man, but a wee bit of my two monitors. God Bless 'em both. Some folks at work have only one on their desk, something that seems guaranteed to reduce efficiency if you ask me.
Anyhow, I've decorated my cubicle for a number of reasons. To bring a bit of home to work. To express who I am. And because I have an illogical hope that the decorations will sway any lay-off decision in my favor.
Here's the wall behind me. There's the Nirvana and Doctor Who posters, a self portrait of LuLu, a turtle she made in art class, and a wonderfully colored 'dog on skateboard' she crafted at a local restaurant.
Here's the wall just to the left of my monitors. Our 2012 Christmas card, a drawing by Ginger, a note from a co-worker that's covering up an ink stain from a pen that exploded ("best mapping response of the season goes to Dan: I'm not sure I can properly map a hop, skip and jump") and an "I love you" card Smiley gave me after a day he and I argued start to finish. :)
To my left is an abstract drawing by Ginger and an age-old art and creative writing project from YaYa, back when she was in K3 or K4 "The bright caterpillar, worm, and butterfly jumped quietly to their home". I love it.
Last but not least, my computer tower itself, decorated in the holiest of holies, the trinity itself: The Yankees, a Tardis, and the Match Game logo.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
It is Very Good. Admit it
Whether you're man enough to admit it or not, One Direction's "That's What Makes You Beautiful" is the catchiest, most memorable song on the radio right now. I'm telling you, take five young white guys who can dance and give them mikes, and you are guaranteed to get some great pop music.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Little Einstein - an unpublished column
I wrote this in 2009, and I can't remember if I ever submitted for publication, or if it was just rejected for one reason or another. I also can't remember if I've ever published here. If I did, I apologize for wasting your time. :)
When my nephew was born fifteen
years ago I wasted no time in trying to secure his future. No, I didn't run out
and buy stocks or bonds in his name,
none of which I could afford as a college student. Instead I drove to the
bookstore and scooped up anything with titles like "Your Baby Can
Read!" and "Teach Math to your Infant!".
I remember knowing, with a faith
bordering on the religious, that these tomes would give my nephew the head
start he'd need to succeed in life.
Did it work? Well, no
actually. He didn't read a book or do
long division until elementary school
(gasp!). While he's a bright kid, I'm
afraid the only way he'll qualify as the
next Edison is if the definition of
'genius' expands to include World of Warcraft acumen.
I thought of those books when I
read that the Disney corporation was offering rebates to customers who
purchased their popular Little Einstein videos between 2004 and 2009. The videos feature simple images of toys,
colors and shapes accompanied by music, and Disney shrewdly chose to market the
product as educational for infants. That led to a a group called the Campaign
for a Commercial Free Childhood filling a complaint with the FCC in 2006. As a result, Disney complied with their
demand and dropped the claim about its educational value.
According to the CCFC's own
website, it wasn't enough. “We thought parents deserved better, “ the website
said. And so, under pressure Disney
agreed to a rebate for customers who bought the films “mistakenly believing the
videos would make their baby smarter.”
Let's gloss over the fact that the
'rebate' only seems to encourage an investment in the product line, seeing as
it primarily comes in the form of coupons or exchanges. What bothers me is the
fact that this argument got any traction at all.
By the era of Little Einstein I was
a parent myself, and yes, I bought a few of the tapes. I no longer had any
illusions about tweaking IQ's, but my daughters found it fascinating and , if
nothing else, it exposed them to classical music at an early age. Or so I said
at the time. If I'm honest, it also kept them out of my hair for a few minutes,
which made the videoes worth every penny. If most parents were as blunt, I'd
think they'd concede the same thing.
As for the 'rebates', argue an objection to
“screen time” for infants, and I might concede your point. But to base the
objection on a failure to make a baby
“smarter” strikes me as ridiculous. More so than even my thoughts that
day at the bookstore. My goal wasn't to raise his intelligence, it was to
jumpstart his education. Tomatoes/tomatoes? I disagree.
How do you define “smarter” in an
infant? What standards constitute success or failure? And smarter than whom?
Mom? Dad? The neighbor's cat? Remember, these are babies we're talking about.
If you express disappointment that they
'only' possess their native intelligence – to the extent you ask a corporation
for a refund based on that fact -what kind of message are you establishing for
the next eighteen years?
There will always be products that
cash in on our desire to help our children. Some will be sincere, some will be
nothing more than patent medicine. Shut them down when they encourage harm, but
I'd be careful about being smug when you
do. Remember: in the end, they do nothing more than fill the need our own egos
demand.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Empire of the Eagle
Around six years ago Lisa and I stayed at a bed and breakfast a few hours outside of Milwaukee, and on the morning of our departure we wandered the streets of the town and, being me, we would up inside a bookstore. While I was there I bought "Empire of the Eagle" by Andre Norton and Susan Schwartz. I am happy to report I finally crossed it off my TBR (to be read) list.
I loved it.
The novel traces the fate of Quintus, a Roman tribune whose family was evicted from their estate in disgrace, a man who still seeks to regain the family honor and reclaim their land. It is not to be. The Romans are horribly defeated at the battle of Carrhae, and their Eagle standards taken as trophies for their enemies. Quintus and his men are purchased as slaves to be given to the Chinese emperor thousands of miles to the East. Along the way disaster and misfortune strike the group, and in those dark hours the survivors learn what it means to be Roman - and what it means to follow the Eagle.
That's the 'straight' part of the novel. There's also a significant supernatural element, involving Roman and Hindu lore. At first that turned me off, and led me to put the book aside a few years ago. This time I felt the realistic and fantastical plots melded perfectly, with neither overshadowing the other. It works.
I really enjoyed this book. I grade it an A.
Book #47 of the year
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Funhouse Stairs No More
You saw the before pictures of the back porch. Howsabout some 'after'? Our contractor came over on the 18th and began the work on one of the hottest days of the year to date. That sucked - for him. Me? All I had to do was sit back, enjoy the A/C and write out a check.
(note my bike in the background. Sniff.)
Here's the old porch post-demolition. I should have painted the side of the shed before the new porch went up to block it, dang nabbit.
Here's the new porch. Nothing fancy, but we didn't want it to be. If we're going to spend money on a porch, it'll be on the front version, not this one. If the shed didn't hug the lot line to the north we might have expanded it in that direction, but practicality dictated it fit the space allotted.
The porch was functional and basic, as requested, but I was very happy with his work on the bilco/cellar door.
He leveled off the sides with concrete, put on seals, caulking, and whatnot, and made a solid, pretty darn snug entrance.
There's still work to be done. In part because of the bike theft I've decided to bite the bullet and replace the rear entry door with something newer and more substantial, although still bright and fitting in with the rest of the home.
Not that it *doesn't* need replacing anyway, as it is old as sin and so worn that I actually saw light coming through the wood the other day. Still, the porch replacement took up a good chunk of my - well I was about to say spending money, but frankly, it took a lot of my anything money. I would have preferred to wait a month or two, but away we go.
Remember, this may be the Year of the Comeback, but I've only been 'fully' employed now for 5 months. I'm still playing catch-up.
So there ya have it. Funhouse stairs no more.
(note my bike in the background. Sniff.)
Here's the old porch post-demolition. I should have painted the side of the shed before the new porch went up to block it, dang nabbit.
Here's the new porch. Nothing fancy, but we didn't want it to be. If we're going to spend money on a porch, it'll be on the front version, not this one. If the shed didn't hug the lot line to the north we might have expanded it in that direction, but practicality dictated it fit the space allotted.
The porch was functional and basic, as requested, but I was very happy with his work on the bilco/cellar door.
He leveled off the sides with concrete, put on seals, caulking, and whatnot, and made a solid, pretty darn snug entrance.
There's still work to be done. In part because of the bike theft I've decided to bite the bullet and replace the rear entry door with something newer and more substantial, although still bright and fitting in with the rest of the home.
Not that it *doesn't* need replacing anyway, as it is old as sin and so worn that I actually saw light coming through the wood the other day. Still, the porch replacement took up a good chunk of my - well I was about to say spending money, but frankly, it took a lot of my anything money. I would have preferred to wait a month or two, but away we go.
Remember, this may be the Year of the Comeback, but I've only been 'fully' employed now for 5 months. I'm still playing catch-up.
So there ya have it. Funhouse stairs no more.
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