A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

"48 waist with the balloon seat, right?"

I'm gratified to report that, according to the fine folks at Mossimo Apparel, I no longer wear an XL swimsuit. I was all set to buy one at Target the weekend before we left on vacation, having had the old one for going on ten years, but something seemed a little...off when I took an extra large pair off the rack.

The Wife: That thing is huge.
Me: Is it? [holds suit up to waist] Jesus, I could fit a couple of naked...wives in here with me.
TW: Go for the large.
Me: You think? Gee, this is all so sudden...
TW: For Christ's sake. [throws size L into cart]
Me: Should I buy a few new pairs of shoes as well?

My glee was relatively short-lived, for after arriving in Galveston and plunging into the surf (the better to protect She Who Shall Not Be Named from the hordes of sharks lurking just offshore) I realized this particular clothing manufacturer must be having a laugh at our expense. The suit slipped off my waist so often and so...revealingly I realized I could've gotten away with a medium, which is patently ridiculous.

Anyone who's ever met me knows I'm not a small person. I did learn from my recent physical that I've actually lost about ten pounds in the last ten years (at this rate I'll be down to my so-called "ideal" weight around 2039), no big deal. But thanks to America's apparel industry, which is cleverly misleading our rapidly inflating population by adjusting sizes downward, I'll be proudly sporting an 'S' by my 50th birthday.

Time for another McGriddle.

Married to the sea

APCB is on something of a hiatus this week, as the family is vacationing in a spacious beach house in Galveston, courtesy of the lovely and talented CS family. She Who Shall Not Be Named is up to three visits a day to the beach, where she demonstrates her true loyalties by showing no distress when Mom or me leaves her with The Father-in-Law to be pummeled by the waves.

Dinner tonight was courtesy of the plethora of sand trout we caught of the jetties earlier. Now it's a cigar and a cocktail or three on the deck overlooking the ocean. The Gulf may not be the prettiest body of water, but on a breezy April night it'll do just fine.

See you next week.

"You're going to have to go back and suck the poison out."

Excerpt from a recent visit to the doctor:

Dr. F: So just wear loose fitting shorts for a while. Anything else?
Pete: Nope. Well, actually, I've been getting these twitches around my eye.
Dr. F: Any pain or blurred vision?
Pete: No, it's just like a tic. I thought it had to do with how much time I spend looking at a monitor, but it happens on the weekends sometimes.
Dr. F: Yeah, that's not uncommon.
Pete: How do you treat it?
Dr. F: The usual...get more sleep, cut back on caffeine...
Pete: ...so, you're saying it can't be treated.

I've since discovered that having a couple of extra drinks each night take care of the problem. Take that, Baylor College of Medicine.

"You know how hard is it for me/To shake the disease"

Last month both The Wife and She Who Shall Not Be Named fell victim to illness. I somehow managed to escape unscathed, which - now that I've written that out - means I'll be getting hit with a robust case of malaria any day now.

The Wife had a fairly virulent strain of stomach flu, and outside of requiring a few extra trips to the store for fluids and NyQuil it didn't disrupt things too much. Then SWSNBN woke up one day with a fever and a nasty looking rash on her face and chest. Being internet savvy parents, we initially thought it was chicken pox, which was really great news for yours truly, as I've never actually had that particular affliction and wasn't looking forward to getting my zoster on.

A trip to the pediatrician, however, revealed it was not chicken pox at all, but something called "fifth disease:"

Fifth disease has been called the "slapped cheek" disease because it causes a red rash on the face that looks like a slap mark. A lacy red rash may also appear on the child's torso and limbs. Fifth disease doesn't always make a child feel ill, but it can feel like a cold early on, before the rash shows up.

The cryptic name is a holdover from medical lingo a century ago, when a French physician assigned numbers to the common childhood diseases characterized by rashes. For example, measles was "first disease," scarlet fever was "second disease," and so on.

The Wife mentioned SWSNBN's ailment to her own GP when she visited him the other day, and he said that "slapped cheek" was running rampant in Houston last month. I wish I'd been there, because a malady that resembled physical abuse could be a great boon to parents, and I was really hoping to get some feedback on more of these suspicious sounding "diseases," like "Blackened eye disorder," "Handprint on ass syndrome," and "Mysterious series of neck bruises that look suspiciously like interlocked fingers fever."

Just trying to get a jump on SWSNBN's sass-talking period.

"Are these the things we think of, when we think of the Irish?"

Originally posted March 17, 2004.

St. Patrick's Day, for me, ceased being a 10-hour cavalcade of inebriation around the same time I stopped being enamored of elbowing my way through crowds of what Tim Robbins would call a bunch of "amateur night drunks" to get a pint. In other words, about when I turned 23. I may only be half Irish, but even I know when to throw in the towel.

I still have fond memories of one particular March 17, however. So if you'll allow your humble author to indulge in a bit of wistful nostalgia, I'm going to dim the lights here at APCB and tell you of My Favorite St. Patrick's Day.

The year was 1999, when everyone was eagerly looking forward to that new Star Wars movie and a wholesome young Britney Spears enchanted America. The Wife (who is of sufficiently Irish extraction she knew which ancestral hometown of hers we needed to visit) and I (descended from Protestant Ulster teetotalers) were making our first trip overseas together and, after a few glitches involved in getting lodgings and a cruel joke of a Houston to London flight, had settled nicely into the Irish way of life: do stuff until 3:00 or so, then drink. Repeat. We'd scheduled our visit for the week of St. Patrick's Day more or less by accident, but this still meant we had to bug out of Dublin and drive across the Emerald Isle to Galway, where we'd managed to secure a reservation. That was March 16.

St. Patrick's Day eve turned out to be pretty hairy in its own right, as we careened from Galway to the Cliffs of Moher as fast as yours truly, driving on the wrong side of the narrow hewn-from-the-living-rock road and taking a short cut suggested by the Jury's Inn desk clerk, could take us. We had to catch the sunset, you see. In the end, we survived, even though none of my pictures really turned out to my liking.

The 17th was clear, cool, and dry. In short, a bit of an anomaly in the British Isles. Rather than continue the weeklong tradition of pub crawling for the day, we decided to take a charter flight from An Spiddal out to the Aran Islands. More specifically, Inis Mór. The Aran Islands (Inis Mór, Inis Meáin, and Inis Oírr) are really little more than big limestone slabs, covered with a thin layer of soil, that jut out of the Atlantic off the western coast of Ireland. They're windy, barren, and - once you leave the small town of Kilronan - almost entirely bereft of touristy crap. In short, the perfect place to avoid other drunk Americans.

We rented bikes. Apparently you can also take a tour bus, or walk, but bikes suited us fine. We meandered along the roads and rock walls, admiring the ruins of old churches, and frankly marveling that anyone could live someplace so desolate. At the same time, we were often the only people in sight. Something you never had to worry about in Dublin.

The big attraction on Inis Mór is Dun Aengus, an Iron Age fortress that is slowly but surely being devoured by the Atlantic. Large sections of its outer ring walls have already fallen prey to the implacable sea and wind, which means that visitors can walk right up to the precipice and check out the 300 foot drop into the ocean. Not me, of course. I crawled on my belly like an iguana until I was able to get a look. We hiked around, giving the edge a wide berth, while I commented on how a similar attraction in America would have warning signs spaced every 8 feet, and probably a 10' high security fence as well.

In what seemed like very little time, we had to head back to Galway. We took our time on the return trip, preferring to meander from An Spiddal back to the hotel. We had to get an early start the next morning, so we contented ourself with spending the evening in the hotel bar, where a group of drunken old men serenaded everyone with songs I couldn't even try to name. Yours truly gave his best effort to "American Pie," the better to appease some rather demanding French tourists, but that's probably something better left alone.

The Wife and I have done "Irish" things for St. Patrick's Day since, but - and quite understandably - nothing measures up to that one. You guys feel free to cram yourselves into Griff's or Kennealy's, I'm going to spend the evening with a pint or two of Guinness and look through the photo albums from 1999.

Sláinte.

"No one will want to kiss me after these, eh Smithers?"

The Vonder Haar house is in a more or less constant state of disarray. During the most recent attempt by The Wife (who knows my long standing fear of toothy monstrosities) and me to vanquish the filth goblins in our kitchen, I noticed something amiss.

Me: What is this doing here?
The Wife: What? Where?
Me: On the windowsill. There's a bulb of garlic on it
TW: [not missing a beat] It's to keep the vampires from getting in.
Me: That's...a fucking great idea. Why didn't I think of that?
TW: Just looking out for...where are you going?
Me: To the store. We need 15 more for the rest of the windows.

So now the house smells like Fuzzy's Pizza. She's still balking at melting down the silverware for anti-werewolf shotgun shells, however.

"It's a Major Award!"

Oscar nominations were announced this week, with word being that the ceremony will go ahead on February 24, though in what fashion remains to be seen.

My morbid fascination with Hollywood's annual suck-off is well-documented, so lets get right to who's going to win:

Best Picture
Atonement
Juno
Michael Clayton
No Country for Old Men
There Will Be Blood

Just to get it out of the way, Juno has no business being on this list. Then again, neither did Forrest Gump, and we all know how that ended up.

Michael Clayton and Atonement are both the kind of movies the Academy loves. One's a legal thriller that aspires to greater meaning, and one's a period wartime romance of the kind immortalized by the excruciating The English Patient. Unfortunately for them, this category is going to come down to No Country vs. There Will Be Blood. The latter may have the edge, thanks to greater exposure (Blood snuck onto a handful of screens the last week of December) and early critical success.
The Winnah: No Country for Old Men by a Prince Valiant hair.

Best Actor
George Clooney, Michael Clayton
Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will Be Blood
Johnny Depp, Sweeney Todd the Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Tommy Lee Jones, In the Valley of Elah
Viggo Mortensen, Eastern Promises

It's easy to forget just how good an actor Daniel Day-Lewis is. He makes a big movie only every five years or so, and then he drops out of sight. Watching There Will Be Blood, you once again get to see a truly great artist at work. He might as well be alone on the screen, as easily as he dwarfs just about everyone else in the cast (the snubbed Paul Dano being an exception) No disrespect to the other nominess in this category, but the only way Day-Lewis loses this is if he's competing against himself playing Christy Brown.
The Winnah: Daniel Day-Lewis in the easiest category to call.

Best Actress
Cate Blanchett, Elizabeth: The Golden Age
Julie Christie, Away From Her
Marion Cotillard, La Vie en Rose
Laura Linney, The Savages
Ellen Page, Juno

The Golden Age was a critical and box office bomb, and Blanchett's performance in I'm Not There is getting all the buzz, so no. Ellen Page is the new indie darling, but indie darlings don't win Best Actress unless they're playing a man, so nuh-uh. And as much as I heart Laura Linney, she isn't going to win. Personally, I think Cotillard did the best job of all the nominees, but outside of her performance, La Vie en Rose was crap. Away From Her was topical and loaded with great acting, so there you go.
The Winnah: Julie Christie.

Best Supporting Actor
Casey Affleck, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men
Hal Holbrook, Into the Wild
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Charlie Wilson's War
Tom Wilkinson, Michael Clayton

This and Best Supporting Actress are going to be the hardest categories to call. Three months ago, I'd have said Javier Bardem was a dead lock, but Affleck has been coming up on the outiside, and I honestly thought his Robert Ford was better than Bardem's Anton Chigurh.

But Hal Holbrook throws a major wrench in the works. He's already becoming a sentimental favorite, and this category is a notorious "lifetime achievement/consolation" prize (see also Paul Newman, James Coburn, Alan Arkin). And with recession looming and America entering it's sixth year of war, don't you want to feel good about something, dang it?
The Winnah: Beats the hell out of me. I'm still leaning towards Bardem, but that could easily change.

Best Supporting Actress
Cate Blanchett, I'm Not There
Ruby Dee, American Gangster
Saoirse Ronan, Atonement
Amy Ryan, Gone Baby Gone
Tilda Swinton, Michael Clayton

As with the previous category, this was Amy Ryan's to lose up until I'm Not There hit theaters. Right now you have to call them the favorites, with Swinton a distant third. Ronan's a non-player, and Ruby Dee getting a nod for four minutes of screen time when she has no chance in hell is a bad joke.
The Winnah: Amy Ryan. This is the category for breakthrough performances, and Blanchett has already won, and will likely win again.

Best Director
Julian Schnabel, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Jason Reitman, Juno
Tony Gilroy, Michael Clayton
Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men
Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood.

Schnabel snaked the Golden Globe from the Coens, who are still the favorites as far as I know. Whether or not this translates to an Oscar win - especially since The Diving Bell and the Butterfly wasn't nominated for Best Picture and wasn't eligible for Best Foreign Film, remains to be seem.
The Winnah: The Coens. And there is a distinct likelihood that No Country will sweep the major awards categories for which it's nominated.

Foreign Film
Beaufort, Israel
The Counterfeiters, Austria
Katyn, Poland
Mongol, Kazakhstan
12, Russia

I haven't seen any of these, and the two that I would've liked to see nominated - Persepolis and 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days - didn't make the cut.
The Winnah: Beats the hell out of me.

Best Adapted Screenplay
Christopher Hampton, Atonement
Sarah Polley, Away from Her
Ronald Harwood, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Joel Coen & Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men
Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood

If Atonement has a legitimate shot at any award, it may be this one. No Country is still the favorite, which is a shame, because Polley really deserves more recognition for what she accomplished with Away From Her.
The Winnah: I can see PTA or Hampton coming from behind, but it's hard to vote against the Coens adapting Cormac McCarthy.

Best Original Screenplay
Diablo Cody, Juno
Nancy Oliver, Lars and the Real Girl
Tony Gilroy, Michael Clayton
Brad Bird, Jan Pinkava and Jim Capobianco, Ratatouille
Tamara Jenkins, The Savages

I'd go with just about any of these ahead of Juno (not the overrated Lars, however), which of course means it's going to win.
The Winnah: Cody, now please go away.

Best Animated Feature Film
Persepolis
Ratatouille
Surf's Up

I should register some sort of righteous indignation over the lack of a Simpsons nod, but come on. And while Persepolis is a better film, there's no denying that Pixar is doing the best animation out there.
The Winnah: King Rat.

Best Cinematography
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Atonement
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
No Country for Old Men
There Will Be Blood

Roger Deakins ran the risk of torpedoing his chances by shooting three movies in one year (Jesse James, No Country, and In the Valley of Elah), but it shouldn't matter: like Best Actor, this category is Jesse James and four also-rans.
The Winnah: Don't make me type that title again.

Huh, I guess that wasn't very quick at all.

So who got screwed? Personally, I thought Into the Wild deserved some love...maybe for Sean Penn and Eddie Vedder's score. Speaking of score, the rules need to be tweaked so that something like Jonny Greenwood's There Will Be Blood composition doesn't get overlooked in the future.

Looking at the Juno fallout, I'm mildly surprised Adrienne Shelley's Waitress didn't get a sniff, especially since, let's face it, she died and all.

Sarah Polley should've gotten a nod for Best Director.

And you could've easily bumped Hal Holbrook in favor of Gordon Pinsent in Away From Her. Or the aforementioned Dano.

But the biggest surprise for me by far was no Zodiac. I'm sure it's early release hurt it's chances, but you could easily have ganked Best Picture, Best Director (David Fincher), and Best Supporting Actor (Robert Downey, Jr.) nominations for it. But I'm not an Academy voter.

"So what were your top 10 films of 2007, Pete?" Well, since you asked...

1. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
2. No Country for Old Men
3. There Will Be Blood
4. The King of Kong
5. Zodiac
6. Into the Wild
7. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
8. Eastern Promises
9. Before the Devil Knows You're Dead
10. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

I submitted ballots for the Online Film Critics Society and the Houston Film Critics Society, and I wish I'd seen There Will Be Blood beforehand, 'cause uh, it's really good.

SWSNBN - Update

I don't normally post stuff like this, because we're all about lighthearted jocularity here, but Mom called my attention to this link for Autism Speaks:

The band, Five for Fighting, is generously donating $0.49 to Autism Speaks for *each time* the video is viewed . The funding goes toward research studies to help find a cure. When you have a moment, please visit the link below to watch the video and pass it along to your friends and family. They are aiming for 10,000 hits, but hopefully we can help them to surpass this goal. Click on link to view.

Even if Five for Fighting makes you dry heave, like they do me, go ahead and click the link a few times.

While I was watching the video in question, I realized I hadn't given with an update on She Who Shall Not Be Named in a while. At least, not since I last talked about the passage of HB 1919 and its subsequent signing by Gov. Perry. When last we left our Legislative follies, the bill mandating insurance coverage for ABA was soon to become the law of the land, and all was right with the world, yes?

Yeah.

Let me tell you a story. A story of something called the Employee Retirement Income Security Act of 1974, or ERISA. It was originally enacted to protect employee retirement plans, but has since morphed into a body of legislation regulating benefit plans as a whole. One section in particular, Section 514 to be exact, preempts state laws that relate to any benefit plan. Specifically, state law cannot operate on self-funded insurance plans unless the plans opt to allow it. As of right now, both The Wife and I are covered by self-funded plans (as are some 55% of workers in Texas), and as of right now, they're electing not to cover ABA. Quelle surprise.

My reaction, upon learning this, was to go out and cause some severe property damage. All those blog posts exhorting you good people to contact your representatives, all those letters to the editor, all those fucking phone calls...it felt like pissing in the wind.

That was until I found myself talking to another parent at SWSNBN's school. We discussed statistics for a while, when I found myself thinking, Where are the other kids? If we go by the oft-quoted statistic that 1 in 150 children will be diagnosed with autism, and knowing that Houston is a city of over 4 million people, then there must be thousands of kids in this area alone on the spectrum. Where the hell are they? SWSNBN's school has maybe 20 kids in it, and if the number at the handful of other, similar schools in the area are comparable, that means that probably 90% of children with ASD in Houston aren't getting comprehensive therapy.

That put things in perspective a little bit. After all, we still have all the advantages I listed when I first brought all this up: good doctors, unswervingly fantastic friends and family, employers who are very accommodating when it comes to her schedule, and plenty of resources. I'll be honest; I make more money than I ever thought possible when I was waiting tables and tending bar after college, and we're able to pretty much cover the cost of SWSNBN's school through a combination of belt-tightening and loans. Others aren't nearly as lucky.

Which is why I know that all that work wasn't completely for naught. The Wife and I - for now - may not be able to take advantage of HB 1919 (and we remain in contact with our benefits folk) - but somebody out there is able to get their child the help he/she needs because of it. And while that doesn't totally keep us from inwardly wincing when we see our friends buy 50" HD TVs and add on to their houses, it's definitely something.

As for our little girl, she's still making progress. It's incremental to us, but friends and family who don't see her on a regular basis insist she's improved dramatically over even a year ago. We're doing everything we can: ABA, speech therapy, the GFCF diet and nutritional supplements. Her receptive language skills are still just fine, provided you can get her attention, and she's not silent - like the girl in that video - by any means. The frustrating part, for her as well as us, is her continued inability to express herself effectively. The Wife and I continue to hold out hope for another Great Leap Forward in that area, to coin a phrase.

You can see it in her eyes every so often, the kid she used to be. It's so overwhelming sometimes that I almost want to shake her to see if I can get some misfiring synapse to come back on line. Until such actions are proven to have a positive effect I'm not previously aware of, however, we'll just have stick with what we're doing.

Thanks again for all your thoughts and support.

"I wanna live in Los Angeles
Not the one in Los Angeles"

The Los Angeles Times, has an article today about 2007's Crankiest Critics. It's a brief piece, highlighting those annoying movie reviewers who "offer contrarian takes on some of 2007's most beloved films." I was (sort of) surprised to see my name listed, especially in association with the pull quote they used from my Bourne Ultimatum review:

'This isn't us.' It isn't? You mean the Central Intelligence Agency, when not failing to accurately assess the stability of the Eastern Bloc or gauge Al Qaeda's capacity to attack the mainland United States, hasn't maintained a 60-year campaign of destabilization, murder and deception? Wow.

True, I found the CIA chief's attempts to distance herself from the bad guy laughable in light of the Agency's history, but come on...I still gave the movie 3 1/2 stars.

And why do I have a sinking feeling this is the closest I'll ever come to writing for the L.A. Times?

"I was strolling through the gas one day..."

Woo-hoo, a natural resources crime scene in my own back yard:

CenterPoint will be back out tomorrow, as it seems they'll have to replace the entire line coming off the main. Still awaiting word on how much of the carport and garage will be left standing.

And I don't even want to think about the chaos that will ensue if they have to try and move Smogdor.

No motorboating was involved, I assure you

Dear Female Customers at Lowe's Home Improvement,

What can I say, it was a long weekend. Not only did The Wife convince me that the bathroom needed to be painted a different color, she somehow engineered a significant absence on Saturday, leading to yours truly not only taping off the whole room, but putting down one - then two - coats of primer, and finally saying 'fuck it' and painting it today.

So while my spouse's Tom Sawyer-esque plan may have resulted in a totally new color scheme for our salle de bains, it also indirectly led to no small amount of hostility directed at your humble narrator. For as is the case with virtually any home improvement project, one often finds themself making multiple trips to the local home improvement superstore to procure things otherwise forgotten. In my case, I was totally out of brush cleaner and Goop. And so, after putting the final coat of periwinkle...or what the hell ever...I drove to the local Lowe's to make some needed purchases,

Was my decision to wear a "Hooters" t-shirt with the words "Hoops Fever" on it the wisest? Probably not, but consider my situation. Is the very act of sporting such a garment insensitive? That's arguable, but maybe all of you women giving me the stinkeye while I looked for turpentine could take into consideration that fact that nobody wears clothes they like when painting. I was wearing khaki shorts and my St. Louis Cardinals 2006 World Series t-shirt while I was taping, but changed before opening that can of primer. Surely the fact that my shirt was liberally spotted with paint indicated that this was a garment of which I wasn't particularly fond? Did the bombed-out expression in my eyes not give you a clue?

I suppose I could have upended a gallon of Kilz on my torso to make things right, but I think I'd rather finish this drink and hit the sack. To sum up, let me just say: sorry ladies. E-mail me for some coupons for free wings.

"The Rock" - 1919 - 2007

It pains me that I have to begin this with a disclaimer, but I suppose I need to point out that this entry is not, in fact, about ex-wrestler Dwayne Johnson.

I just returned from the funeral of Alvin Joseph Vonder Haar, my paternal grandfather. It was in St. Louis, where he lived the entirety of his life (aside from a stint in the Army during WWII), and was well-attended by family and friends.

Eulogies always start the same way: the speaker goes to great length to convince the assembled of what a remarkable life the deceased led. Grandpa would've been the first to call bullshit on that, and it's emblematic of both the time and manner in which he was raised that he'd do so. I'm probably not objective in this case, but these are the facts: he was a soldier in the United States Army, an officer in the St. Louis Police Department, and a truck and armored car driver. In addition, and no less impressive, he was a husband, a father who raised six children, and a grandfather (and great-grandfather) besides.

It was obviously for this last achievement that I remember him best. We spent countless Christmases at Grandma and Grandpa's house on Sweet Gum Drive, sleeping in their finished basement next to the old potbellied stove and - for a time - my uncle's drum kit (which ultimately helped me realize my aptitude lay with the wind family of instruments). He was never less than indulgent with his grandkids, whether allowing us to shoot BB guns in the backyard, or paying us bounties for the houseflies we killed on the patio so we could go to the convenience store across the street and play Galaga (and so he could enjoy a cigar in peace). He also famously tolerated a certain 7-year old nerd's insistence on dressing like Superman to fight the menace of - no shit - "Supertoe" (Grandpa had freakishly prehensile feet).

I could tell you about his marriage to my grandmother, which lasted almost 70 years and taught me a lot about how to make one work. I could also tell you about the time he and a high school buddy decided to hop a train to South America (Grandpa's knowledge of global geography was a little lacking in his early days), culminating in his getting shot by the Missouri State Police. Maybe you'd be interested to know that he was a voracious bookworm, often reading three at once. Or how about how he earned his nickname? "A.J." was known to frequent a certain bar after a long day driving trucks, and - like so many in his family - was also known to run his mouth rather loudly after having a few. One night, some fellow he antagonized took it poorly and sucker-punched him in the jaw. Grandpa just laughed at him, and he was known as "The Rock" from that day on.

I'm a lucky man in a lot of ways, not the least of which is in getting the opportunity to know all four of my grandparents well into adulthood (The Wife, by comparison, barely knew two of hers). The only downside is how much it hurts when they're gone.

Ultimately, no one ever wins at life. You may be up for a while, but in the end, the house always collects. At the very least, I'm pretty sure Grandpa came out even. I'm pretty sure of that.

Rest in peace, pal.

The Rock and She Who Shall Not Be Named - Christmas, 2004

"Where's this barge headed?"
"Garbage Island."

The third Tuesday of every month is Heavy Trash Day in my neighborhood. Everything from large tree limbs to soiled couches line our street on Monday nights, which - in addition to increasing the resale value of every home in the area - also brings out the hordes of salvage-minded citizens looking for some free stuff. Early evening finds dozens of cars cruising slowly up and down the road looking for fine antiquities. Or a relatively non-stained futon, whatever.

I'm not really bothered by any of this. Trash picking has a long and storied tradition in our culture, and far be it from me to criticize anyone for looking to profit from my castoffs (especially when I still have a few items in my own home acquired in identical fashion). My biggest complaint is that the scavengers often act in such haste they leave crap scattered across our lawns. Right now my neighbor's front yard looks like somebody upended a dumpster on it.

We fared slightly better this time around. I don't usually have a lot to contribute to the occasion, but these days you'd have trouble cramming another bicycle into my garage, much less an actual automobile. This is partly our fault - what with being feckless 21st century consumers and all - but the previous homeowners also saw fit to stash a bunch of shit they apparently were disinclined to move to their new digs up in the rafters. In addition to a battered vacuum cleaner, I moved a bunch of spare cabinet parts and an old Ozarka water dispenser that may or may not still work. Maybe that makes me wasteful, but I know how many petrified rodent droppings I've found in there (I regularly lay out poison and sometimes "accidentally" leave the garage door open so the neighborhood felines can do some housecleaning), and damned if I'm going to drink water slightly more noisome than that coming out of Houston's pipes. At least the folks who liberated them were kind enough to arrange the remaining crap in a relatively tidy pile.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see if my neighbor's computer monitor has been snatched up yet.

EDIT: It hasn't.

"I say we call Matlock. He'll find the culprit! It's probably that evil Gavin MacLeod or George "Goober" Lindsey."

Old age is a horrible thing.

Friday night I had a dream; one of those intricately realized dreams that seemed to run the course of my sleep cycle in vivid detail. In it, I spent the equivalent of almost an entire day (in dream time) with T.J. Hooker-era Heather Locklear. And what did we do? We talked. I can't recall the subject of every conversation, but topics included home improvement(?) and how to break into television.

She's not exactly my type, but still...

The next day, still smarting from my inability to sleep-score, I met up with some guys at a local sports bar to watch college football. I got there a little before noon, and - not relishing the thought of hailing a taxi at 4 PM - elected to drink coffee at the outset. Here's the vessel it was served in:

That's a soup bowl (replete with soup spoon for stirring). This isn't some pissant little sports bar, mind. The SRO in Northwest Mall encompasses over 18.000 square feet and features 100 TVs. I find it hard to believe they weren't able to find a single coffee cup for we few, we happy few, who might like to get our java on before switching to the Miller Lite. Regardless, I had four of them.

In retrospect, it's no wonder the alcohol I switched to around 4 PM had no effect: the caffeine probably killed it.

"Dogs eat shit, man."

It's great to be back in Houston, where the relative humidity is always around 80% this time of year, and the ambient aroma can best be described as "moldering potato." But a scant week ago we were in the temperate climes of eastern Maine, visiting my dad in Bar Harbor. The beer was cold, the temperatures almost so (we had to retreat to the basement one afternoon when temps reached the mid-80s), and She Who Shall Not Be Named honed her cat tackling skills.

Now let's go to the photos.

The view from my dad's back deck, that's his dog Barbaloot in the left foreground. They have about six acres:

More pics in the extended entry...

Barbaloot is what they call an American "wirehaired pointing griffon," and they do a lot of pointing indeed, especially at invisible prey:

She Who Shall Not Be Named had a fine old time, climbing the treehouse and pestering my younger siblings. Here she is following Dad and the dog into the woods, untroubled by the fact her guide is carrying a beer, or wearing a silly hat:

Then again, if large cracks couldn't dissuade her from jumping on boards, her choice of woodsmen can hardly be faulted:

Barbaloot's predecessor "Roxy" is also buried on the premises. The cairn is either to keep coyotes from digging her up or to make sure she doesn't rise from the grave. This is Wendigo territory, after all:

Or it could just be because Maine is full of rocks.

The Wife demurred when asked to join me in visiting the site. When pressed, I learned that my "interactions" with Roxy were one of the only things that made her doubt her decision to marry me. Something about blowing on the dog's snout to make her cheeks to puff out in what I thought was a comical fashion. How wrong I was. Even Dad, whose tolerance of the tasteless is well-documented, reminded me that "Dogs eat shit, man." Thanks for the support.

Our travels also took us to the Penobscot Narrows Bridge and Observatory in Bucksport:

Our seemingly pastoral visit was not without its dangers, however:

I was a little surprised by this. After all, everyone knows if you just ignore white Anglo-Saxons, they probably won't bother you.

Fort Knox (no, not that one) is also strategically situated at the Narrows. It was built in the mid-1800s but never saw action during the Civil War. This is one of the ways in which they welcomed uninvited guests to the Penobscot:

So is this 10-inch Rodman cannon:

The view of Bucksport from Ft. Knox:

After you check out the fort, there's nothing for it but to go up to the observatory, situated 420 feet in the air. SWSNBN wasn't too impressed with the view:

If the observatory attendant recommends a place for lunch, listen to him. Crosby's was one of the best meals we had on the trip:

No trip to the Bar Harbor-Ellsworth-Trenton area is complete without a visit to the Great Maine Lumberjack Show. "Timber" Tina hosts nightly shows, and the one we attended pitted males against females:

The audience was almost as entertaining as the show itself, many of whom - if incomprehensible accents are a reliable gauge - were from New Jersey. I dubbed the two 13-year olds sitting in front of us the "AJs."

Whatever, here's some log rolling:

Surprisingly, there are still some trees left standing in Maine. For example, those around Witch Hole in Acadia National Park.

Our last day there we went to Bangor for the American Folk Festival, held on the banks of the Penobscot River. We arrived just as the Dixie Hummingbirds were finishing up, but sadly missed the Tibetan Monks. Luckily, there was plenty of time to settle in for the Inuit throat singers:

I also shot some video, but I'm trying to keep what few readers I have.

The festival was also the site of the reunion of the Irish traditional group, the Green Fields of America. I commemorated this momentous occasion by taking SWSNBN to the bathroom, but not before snapping a photo:

The festival winds down:

And there are few places better to kick back after a long day of yodeling and banjo picking than the Sea Dog Brewery:

Sea Dog was recently purchased by Shipyard Brewing. I was informed of this fact by the bartender, and probably made a sworn enemy when I responded, "What's a 'shipyahd?'"

Finally, no trip to Bangor is complete without annoying favorite son Stephen King by taking a picture of his house:

A successful trip, by most accounts, Our flight up was only delayed an hour, while we only had to circle aimlessly above IAH for 45 minutes on the way back. For Continental, that counts as an error-free flight. We've talked about making the American Folk Festival a yearly thing, and if it gets me out of this subtropical sauna for a week each year, I'd share a room with the throat singers.

"Grab a shovel. I'm one skull short of a Mouseketeer reunion."

Okay, so...I went to my 20th high school reunion last weekend. I suppose the sense of dread that had been simmering in my gut for the previous couple weeks could be considered a normal reaction in anticipation of reconnecting with a number of people I hadn't spoken with in two decades, most by mutual unspoken consensus. Exacerbating this was the fact that a number of folks I had been looking forward to seeing had to bow out for personal reasons. That left the aforementioned Peenman and Seadogs, who were shooting in from the East Coast for a drive-by visit. They flew in Saturday morning, and we drove up with The Wife and She Who Shall Not Be Named to College Station that afternoon.

Going up on Saturday meant we missed the Friday happy hour (sorry Tim). At...Wings N' More. The only novelty about that particular gathering was that this particular wing joint had been built less than half a mile from the house I grew up in, which probably would've led to a number of arrests as a group of us drunkenly traipsed through our old neighborhood, angrily (and loudly) pointing out whatever alterations the new homeowners had made to our childhood domiciles.

But like I said, that didn't happen.

We also missed the tour of our old high school and the family picnic. The former might have been interesting, but I wasn't keen on leaving my daughter in the care of some kids handpicked by the guy who keyed my Buick senior year, and while it would've been just peachy to meet the spawn of several dozen Baptists, none of us were really prepared to go into this without the help of alcohol.

Having skipped the happy hour, that left Saturday night's dinner/dance. SWSNBN was left with Gran and remained oblivious to our departure while Beauty and the Beast played and she sat in a roomful of puzzles. Meanwhile, we headed to the Veranda, a banquet facility near Messina Hof winery in Bryan. The Wife, knowing our likely post-party condition, took driving duties, and helpfully swung us by a convenience store on the way there so we could secure warm-up beers. We also had an agreement that, should any of us become unable to continue, we'd bail and reconvene at Duddley's Draw with whomever we could convince to join us.

As it turns out, we stayed quite a bit longer than expected.

Missing the previous festivities meant we weren't immediately recognized and set upon as we arrived, and actually saw some friends we still keep in touch with as soon as we got there. This allowed us to form an observation post of sorts, strategically located near the bar and as far from the band as possible. From there, it was a matter of availing ourselves of the free booze and getting caught up. I won't name names, partly because I don't want to misquote anyone, but mostly because I don't know who reads this and I want to avoid any repercussions involving me getting physically assaulted. A few general observations:

1. For being 20 years older, the general trend in physical appearance was surprisingly positive. Some people had gotten fat, and several of the girls who had been merely slender in high school were nigh cadaverous. I retained some comfort in the fact that I still had all my hair, gray as it might be. Also, it is possible to look 50 when you're only 38, but it helps to have gotten started on the vodka and Marlboros when you were 16.

2. The number of people who actively discussed their "blessings" or Jesus with me became tiresome after the first one. I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking one of the saved if she'd found god before or after that party where she blew a guy for coke next to the pool at Treehouse Village Apartments.

3. I apparently grew taller after senior year. That or a couple guys who used to bully me shrank. This was gratifying.

4. Three out of our class of 300 died. 1% is probably pretty low, and I only knew about one of them. Another girl died of cancer, and one guy was someone none of us could remember talking to, or being in school to begin with.

5. The assholes are still assholes. It never failed to amaze me that - for every time I found myself thinking about a classmate, "Wow, how cool that he/she became successful/straightened out, I'm really happy for him/her" - one of the half dozen or so jagoffs whose skulls I always wanted to crush Roy Baty-style in high school would yell something and I'd be right back to wanting to stick my thumbs in their eye sockets. Fuckers.

6. One girl - a cheerleader and member of the homecoming court, among other things - apparently dropped off the face of the earth. Even those of us too lazy to fill out the questionnaires (*cough*) sent in contact info. Not so this person. The only thing listed was her name, and even her fellow cheerleaders had no idea what happened to her. I chose to believe she cast aside her shallow, materialistic ways and joined Doctors Without Borders and is fighting the good fight in Darfur. But then, why should she be any different than the rest of us?

7. Everyone had three kids. I'm not kidding.

We stayed until...oh, midnight or so. Then we apparently went to Duddley's anyway, though my recollection is hazy. The drive back to Houston on Sunday wasn't much fun, but I have to say I'm glad I went. If nothing else, it was entertaining.

I'll probably be up for more entertainment in, oh, another 20 years.

King of Lame

As mentioned previously, there were a couple Eighties-riffic activities taking place this last weekend. The first (and least mortifying) was the Police reunion concert Friday night.

The Wife and I attended with two other friends, and all of us elected for one reason or another not to get righteously bombed. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake. The row behind us seemed to have opted for this approach, and I have to admit; they definitely enjoyed themselves. Then again, I find that mullet-sporting 40-somethings often have lower fun thresholds.

Fiction Plane opened up. You probably haven't heard of them unless you happen to know more about Sting's family than I did. FP is led by one Joe Sumner, Sting's son. They weren't entirely horrible, but we showed up about halfway through their set and I spent a good chunk of the remainder looking for a draft beer line less than 20 people long.

As for the Police...I really wanted to enjoy the show. They were one of my favorite bands and I've been looking forward to the concert for a while, but overall it was disappointing. I could deal with the nagging fear that 64-year old Andy Summers was going to pull a John Entwhistle on stage, and the obvious boredom Sting showed at times, whether clenching his jaw and shaking his head when Summers missed a cue, rolling his eyes while playing those pan flute notes at the beginning of "Walking in Your Footsteps," or flubbing the lyrics to "King of Pain." He wasn't in it for the money, we were told, but his behavior made it plain the weight of the favor he was doing for Summers and Stewart Copeland had placed on his toned shoulders.

And truthfully, I wouldn't have about any of that if they hadn't dicked around so much with the music. Sure, some Police songs lend themselves to noodling: "Driven to Tears" comes to mind, or even "Demolition Man" (which they didn't play). But "Roxanne?" "Roxanne" is not a seven minute fucking song. "Walking on the Moon" doesn't require melodic structure changes. A little goofing around is to be expected, but they did it to such an extent it was taking the crowd completely out of the show. You could see the fans getting excited during the intros to (for example) "Don't Stand So Close to Me" and "Can't Stand Losing You," then watch their enthusiasm fading as the songs went in entirely new, goofy directions. I even made a "Welcome to The Police, Phase II" comment that went largely ignored misunderstood.

Though I did ask the guy behind me if they'd played "Jazz Odyssey" yet.

We'll get to the reunion in a little bit.

"What am I gonna say? 'I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How've you been?'"

The review of last night's Police reunion show (meh) will have to wait until tomorrow, for I am heading up to College Station today with fellow alums "peenman" and "seadogs" for my - sigh - 20th high school reunion.

Expect lots of non-specific snarkery and plenty of self-loathing in my next entry, when we find out if Thomas Wolfe really was right.

"Sometimes Maude - God bless her - she underlines passages in my Bible because she can't find hers."
"Oh, lucky they don't keep guns in the house."

Hold the phone, you're saying marriage isn't always bliss?

The key to a happy relationship could be accepting that some miserable times are unavoidable, experts say.

Therapists from California State University and Virginia Tech University say accepting these problems is better than striving for perfection.

And they blame cultural fairytales and modern love stories for perpetuating the myth that enjoying a perfect relationship is possible.
[...]
The authors, Dr Diane Gehart and Dr Eric McCollum say it is a "myth that, with enough effort we can achieve a state without suffering."

And they say healthcare professionals may not be helping the situation.
"The field of mental health perpetuates this myth with the very concept of "mental health," which implies a state without suffering," they say.

But this belief can eventually cause people to believe that with enough effort they can eliminate suffering.

And experts say this is an unrealistic aim in relationships, and striving to achieve it can lead people to feel they have failed.

First, while he may be a bit Richard Lewis-y for my tastes, I think comedian Marc Maron has an excellent perspective on this fallacy that we as human beings deserve to be happy all the time:

As far as depression goes...folks, I gotta be honest with you: If somebody comes up to you and says, "I think you might be clinically depressed," You should probably say, "Well thank you. That means I'm awake. Is there any indication that I shouldn't be depressed? Are you living on the same planet that I am? Did you every think that depression might be the reasonable human response to the crap we're going through as a species, meant to propel us into the next evolutionary step? Did you ever think that's it? Did you ever think that maybe it's the people who are happy all the time that are really screwed up in the head."

Maybe it's those people, the people who are like, 'God, I don't understand it, I feel great...again!' Really? Well that's creepy and weird. Maybe you should be on medication. Clearly you're self-centered, delusional, and narcissistic.
[...]
In a lot of cases the only difference between depression and disappointment is your level of commitment.

Hyperbole? To an extent, perhaps, but I agree with him that happiness is far from a steady state. I'm usually in a relatively good mood, but that stems more from an awareness and acceptance that certain horrible realities are beyond my control, and that if I can make things better for my little circle of family and friends, hopefully that can do something to improve the greater good.

Second - and back to the article - The Wife and I have what I think is a very strong marriage. If I didn't think that before, the events of the last 18 months certainly made the case. But even before that, we always knew there were going to be rough patches and fights. But kind of like my feelings on overall happiness, the difficult times shouldn't be the norm.

Since I was young, I've heard the adage that "good relationships are hard work." Well, I think that's horseshit. I'm not saying you'll never have to put effort into your marriage, but simply that it shouldn't be the defining characteristic. If anything your relationship should be a haven, a refuge from all real world crap you deal with every day, and going home to my wife is something I actually look forward to. If spending time with your significant other is something you dread or view as a chore, you might not be in the best situation to begin with.

But that's just, like, my opinion man.

Put ABA back in HB 1224

[This is an uncharacteristically long entry, and for that I apologize. I hope that by the end of it, if you last that long, you'll understand.]

HB 1224 - Relating to health benefit plan coverage for enrollees with autism spectrum disorder, passed out of the Insurance Committee in the Texas Legislature earlier this week, and the Committee report was sent to Calendars on Tuesday. The bill is a companion to SB 419, which passed the Senate floor unanimously, with one exception: HB 1224 came out of Committee with an amendment removing Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) therapy from the list of services mandated for children aged 3-5.

ABA therapy as it pertains to children on the autistic spectrum involves teaching social and verbal skills to those not able to learn such things normally, which is to say through observation and imitation. In re-routing these learning pathways, the hope is to get the child back on course to mainstream life. It's intense - 20-40 hours a week of therapy in most cases, much of it one-on-one - and it's expensive, putting most college tuition structures to shame.

ABA is also effective. Half of children who have an early, intensive ABA program are able to function in normal schools with minimal or no support. It's considered the most effective early intervention for young children with autism, and has been recommended by the Surgeon General since 1987.

Finally, it mitigates the cost to the state, estimated at $3 million over an autistic person's lifetime, if they don't receive early intervention. Contrast this with the cost of a .5% increase in insurance premiums.

I'm asking every Texan reading this to call their representative (you can do a search here, calls are more effective than e-mails) and tell them you're concerned that HB 1224 passed out of the insurance committee with an amendment that removed Applied Behavior Analysis, and you want it put back in. You can cite the information I listed above, if you're so inclined.

And while you're at it, feel free to call Rep. Larry Taylor, who authored the amendment in question. His other contributions to the welfare of our state have included authoring a bill requiring elective courses for academic study of the Bible and joint authoring a bill providing for "Choose Life" license plates. After you've contacted your representative about putting ABA back in HB 1224 (especially any Friendswood or League City folks out there), maybe you could ask Rep. Taylor why someone who cares so much about children yet to be born apparently doesn't give a fuck about the welfare of those already here.

But then, I think we already know the answer to that.

[UPDATE: I left a message for Taylor's Chief of Staff to call me back with a reason for his authoring the amendment. You can also call him at 512-463-0729 (his Capitol office) or 281-338-0924 (District office). Or you can click here to send him an e-mail.

And according to his bio, he's an insurance agent. Quelle surprise.]

You may be asking why I care about this. Some of you already know, but for those who don't, I can give you two reasons. The first is that insuring Applied Behavior Analysis is the right thing to do. Autism is at epidemic levels in this country, with an estimated 1 in 150 children diagnosed on the spectrum. ABA is the only therapy proven to be consistently effective in treating it, and the fact that it isn't covered by insurance would be laughable if it wasn't so infuriating.

The second, more pragmatic reason, is that I'm the parent of a child on the autistic spectrum who is currently enrolled in an ABA program. For those who don't want to hear about that, you can stop reading now. If you're curious about my family's personal experience, carry on.

Okay, here goes.

About a year and a half ago, my wife and I noticed some disconcerting things about our daughter, coyly referred to as She Who Shall Not Be Named. At 18 months, she'd been able to count to 20 (and to 10 in Spanish), identify and name all the letters of the alphabet, point to and name just about every external body part, and had a vocabulary of close to 100 words. Some time around Halloween/Thanksgiving of 2005, however, we noticed she was becoming less and less vocal. She also began retreating more and more to her playroom and seemed like she wasn't hearing us when we tried to talk to her. Unsure if we were overreacting, we asked the director of SWSNBN's day care to observe her and tell us what she thought.

I'll cut to the chase, because you can probably figure out where I'm going and I still have a hard time writing it out without breaking down: we were told our daughter was most likely autistic. This was January of 2006, and thus kicked off what was - without qualification - the worst year of our lives. We met with SWSNBN's pediatrician, and also a pediatric neurologist, who in turn scheduled a hearing test to make sure she didn't need tubes (she didn't), an MRI to look for congenital brain malformations, an EEG to look for epileptic disorders, chromosome tests to look for things like Fragile X syndrome and Rett's, and something called the brainstem auditory evoked response test. Everything came back normal.

"Normal" is good, because it means she doesn't have something wholly incurable and/or lethal. It's also bad, because - absent a definable cause - SWSNBN will most likely get lumped in the Not Otherwise Specified bucket for pervasive development disorders. See, the PDD spectrum runs the gamut from classic autism - characterized by self-injurious behavior and retardation - to the higher functioning Asperger's. The "PDD-NOS" appellation, roughly translated, means the doctor can hedge his bets on a final diagnosis until she's older.

In the meantime, SWSNBN has worked with the State's Early Childhood Intervention program and attended the Developmental Building Blocks program at the Parish School, which specializes in children with language issues. She's also seeing a nutritionist, and is on a casein- and gluten-free diet. Before you scoff at that, I'll tell you that the improvements to her behavior and language after we took dairy out of her diet were dramatic and immediate.

Since September, she's also been enrolled in an ABA program. Her improvement since she started has been steady and, frankly, undeniable. Her receptive language and focus have improved, and she seems to have regained some of her interest in her books. Her teachers think she shouldn't have any problem "mainstreaming" into a regular school in the near future. She may always be a little weird, but that hardly makes her unique in our family.

The outlook in our case is relatively good, thanks in no small part to various factors weighing in our family's favor: we live in a city with some of the best medical facilities in the world, and one with easy access to organic foodstuffs. We also have plenty of family close by, and a number of great friends who have given us no end of support throughout this.

We can also pretty much afford everything. ABA therapy isn't cheap - think two mortgage payments a month (and not those wimpy second mortgages neither) - and like just about everything related to treating autism, it isn't covered by insurance. Sure, we were able to get the bulk of her tests paid for, but speech therapy? Occupational therapy? ABA? Not so much.

Which is what makes the amendment to HB 1224 so maddening. After all, if I was feeling a little down in the dumps, my health plan would cheerfully cover the cost of my happy pills. If I drunkenly jawed off to Mirko "Cro Cop" Filipović in a Zagreb bar and he broke my jaw, insurance would cover the emergency room visit and my subsequent weeks of pain meds. Hell, if I was an 80-year old man having trouble getting a goddamned hard-on, insurance would cover my boner pills, but therapy to help my daughter become a functional and productive member of society and not just another ward of the state after her parents die? We can apparently fuck right off.

So we're choosing to tell our daughter's story now, after being quiet about it for the last 16 months: to emphasize how important it is that this bill pass in its original form. If it seems opportunistic or self-serving, well...there's not much I can say about that, except that things like ABA and other therapy programs would seem to be the point of insurance: to insure the well-being of these kids who otherwise would be without hope for a future.

Finally, the only thing that really gave me pause about posting this was something that was said to me about the possibility SWSNBN might read this later on in her life and be mortified. My only response to that is this: I'm not a religious person, so prayer is out of the question, but I hope beyond anything I have ever hoped in my miserable life that my daughter, at some point in the future, is able to read this blog and yell at her father about it. I want that so badly it physically hurts.

Okay, that's all. Thanks for reading.

UPDATE: + Thanks to Chuck for the link.

+ Three Wise Men has (have?) also linked to this, thanks guys.

+ Perry mentions us in his entry about the Republicans' dismal record on the health and welfare of Texas children.

+ Thanks, Greg. And Melanie. And 'stina. And Carol.

To the out-of-staters commenting about contacting family members still in Texas, thank you. I appreciate it.

Hitting the deck

What did you do this weekend? Me, I built a deck.

Okay, really I assisted in the building of my deck. My good friend Sir Not Appearing on This Blog has vast experience in such projects, and had been railroaded/sweet-talked by The Wife into helping my comparatively non-handy ass with the project. Still, I dug many holes, poured gallons of concrete, and drove a lot of screws.

The first order of business - after obtaining the dimensions (8' x 12') and buying the lumber and concrete, was setting the posts. We wanted to dig the holes on Friday, but typical Houston spring weather conspired against us. So, 8:00 Saturday morning, My friend brings over his auger and we commence to perforate my back yard. Several hours later, we have posts:

If they look a little off center in the middle there, it's because the house's previous owner illegally ran pipe off the main water line to the backyard (long since shut off by the City), and we kept hitting it. If it wasn't that, it was 3" thick roots. Love those old neighborhoods.

Anyway, setting the posts took pretty much all of Saturday. Sunday morning, we finally got to put the joists in:

That pail is the mastic we used to seal the bases of the posts. There's still some on my leg, as I'm irrationally afraid of breaking out the steel wool and getting it off.

Still, once the supports were down, laying down the deck boards took almost no time. Hence, the semi-finished product:

I say "semi-finished" because the 2x6"s turned out to be 2x5.5"s. So I need another board or two. And there's still the roof to build, but for now it'll be nice to have a perch to watch She Who Shall Not Be Named as she nosedives down our slide.

Is it too early to call this a phase?

Before she goes to bed, She Who Shall Not Be Named likes to unwind in her playroom in the back of the house, where she has puzzles, books, a piano, drums, a kitchen set, and a hundred other things to toss indiscriminately onto the floor.

The general rule regarding television in our house is that nothing too unpleasant for little eyes and ears should be on display while the nipper is up. This usually means that the thing doesn't even get turned on until she hits the sack, but yesterday was a long one, and I found myself unwisely resorting to one of my comfort movies about 15 minutes before SWSNBN's normal bedtime.

I make no secret of my love for Penelope Spheeris' The Decline of Western Civilization Pt. 2: The Metal Years. Hell, I wrote a column about it a few years back. However I never suspected by particular musical sickness was genetically transferable. It was therefore with a large measure of surprise that I watched my darling little girl rush into the living room and dance to the opening strains of Faster Pussycat's "Bathroom Wall."

Maybe she just made a mistake. I mean, she loves female singers, so she was probably just walking by, saw the suspiciously effeminate Taime Downe and - thinking he was Laurie Berkner's sleazier sister - understandably came in to enjoy what she assumed were more children's folk stylings and...

I really am screwed, aren't I?

"Pete runs afoul of an Irishman"

St. Patrick's Day is rapidly climbing the list of my least favorite holidays. I doubt it will ever supplant Valentine's Day, or the forced jocularity of New Year's Eve, but like the latter it presumes you will at some point be spending a sizeable portion of your evening crammed in with a bunch of amateur drunks. We went to the downtown parade today (my verdict: needed more bagpipe), and I think that's enough for me.

The Wife is off for an evening with the girls, which suits me fine. My liver's still working on its SXSW backlog. She Who Shall Not Be Named is tucked away with Mr. Pig*, and I'm going to watch some more basketball (all my Elite 8 teams are still alive, thus far), last week's Battlestar Galactica, and maybe Casino Royale again.

At least the opening chase scene.

To accompany me this evening, I have some Allagash Dubbel Reserve and this fearsome concoction, given to me by award-winning filmmaker Don Lewis last week in Austin. And none of it is green.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, all. Play nice. Drive safe.

* Want to have fun some time? Let your three-year old daughter pick out a stuffed animal at Target, take it to the register with out realizing it has no price tag, and watch the clueless sales associate yank it away from you and run off to do a price check while your child shrieks at being robbed of her new best friend.

It was like something out of "Guernica."

Love is - indeed - all around you

It's funny. I more or less have my tastes in books, music, and movie engraved in my brain, but when I get to Half Price Books or the music store, it's like my memory's been wiped. I wander the aisles, desperately looking for some kind of visual landmark to remind me what I like. Sure, I have a Wish List on Amazon, but trips to the bookstore are largely a spur-of-the-moment thing, and I don't usually remember to print it out, meaning I'm doomed to roam my local retail outlets, unsure of what I actually like,

A similar problem afflicts me with regard to other things. I have a kind of mental block that goes into effect when I encounter a home repair issue or computer problem I don't immediately know how to solve, preventing me from using the usual avenues of investigation to figure things out.

And then there's the ex-girlfriend.

The young woman I dated shortly before I met The Wife had mentioned to me she appeared in a music video. Okay, maybe "appeared" is the wrong word. It was a live video and she showed up in it for a few seconds. I never saw it at the time, it being the early '90s and all. Not only was MTV not really playing music videos anymore, but the band in question had largely faded from popularity.

Fast forward thirteen years. I'm goofing around on YouTube, vainly trying to populate some playlists, when I come across a collection of '80s metal videos. As I'm scrolling through it, it hits me: Holy shit, I bet [ex-girlfriend's] video is on here too.

Sure enough, it took no time to find it. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you "Love Song," by Tesla. I won't tell you who my ex is. See if you can guess, if you actually have the patience to sit through it all. Hint: It's not any of the chicks on stage.

And I trust the two or three APCB readers who actually know what she looks like to keep their mouths shut.

"Now, I'd like to digress from my prepared remarks to discuss how I invented the terlet."

Jeez, I go out of town for a few days and somebody dies. Normally, I wouldn't have much to say on the subject of Bo Schembechler passing away, but it makes sense later, honest:

In the end, Michigan vs. Ohio State might have been too much for Bo Schembechler's failing heart.

The man with half-century-old roots to The Game died at age 77 on Friday on the eve of perhaps the biggest matchup in the storied rivalry's history, No. 1 vs. No. 2, and his doctor said it might have been because of all the excitement.

Schembechler, who became one of college football's great coaches in two decades at Michigan, collapsed at the studios of WXYZ-TV in the Detroit suburb of Southfield, where he taped a weekly show. He was pronounced dead a little more than two hours later at nearby Providence Hospital.

Okay, technically I was still in town when he died. I went to bed early on Friday because I had to drag ass to Intercontinental at 4 AM to fly to Maine and surprise dear old Dad for his birthday (I won't give the age, but he officially predates the Truman Doctrine). I learned of Schembechler's death while watching ESPN at a bar in the Newark Airport around 11:00 AM (don't you judge me…I was on vacation), and I had to get clarificaton from the guy next to me (Steve from Albany) about the specifics:

PETE: Bo Schembechler died? When the hell did that happen?
STEVE: Friday night, I think.
PETE: Heart attack?
STEVE: I think so, he was about to tape his radio show and collapsed.
PETE: Huh.
STEVE: At least he died doing what he loved.
PETE: Yeah, I guess if you can't go in your sleep it's the next best thing.

At this point, the conversation takes a rather severe left turn.

STEVE: After all, he could've died on the shitter.
PETE: What?
STEVE: How awful would that be, taking a shit and dropping dead? I think about it every time I go to the toilet.
PETE: You know, I never thought about that.
STEVE: It's my biggest fear.
PETE: I think you just made it mine, too.

We discussed the statistical likelihood of dying sur la toilette and famous crapper-related deaths (Elvis, Lenny Bruce) until my sister showed up and mercifully dragged me to our connecting flight.

"All this computer hacking is making me thirsty."

So The Wife's cell phone starts going off around 8:30 last night. By "going off" I mean "vibrating madly on the coffee table." Obviously, it's no one she knows, because they're interrupting Veronica Mars. Being the good spouse, I pick it up, only to be greeted by the following:

I naturally assume that my spouse is up to no good, probably with the local pool boy, but as I'm on my way to the garage for the nail gun she reminds me that She Who Shall Not Be Named was mucking around with the cell phones earlier. Considering the unfamiliar calls I made to Singapore last month (including several to certain, uh, houses of ill repute), this seems eminently plausible. She's figured out how to lock my laptop keyboard and freeze up the TV remote with nary a second thought, after all.

But she doesn't get a MySpace page until she's at least...oh...13 or so.

"That's the one that got me."

Or rather, the one that got The Wife.

She was cleaning the ubiquitous pine needles out of the hedge on the side of our house when she came in to inform me she'd been stung on the arm by a hornet. After securing my faithful can of Spectracide (and, uh, donning a long-sleeved shirt), I poked around in the hedge until I found the offending lair. Not a hornets' nest, but rather the domicile of some paper wasps. One good dousing (and a few minutes to let the bastards die) later, and I snapped a photo.

Texas is home to all manner of biting, stinging, and generally ornery fauna. We regularly deal with fire ants, mud daubers, paper wasps, and yellowjackets, to say nothing of bats, wild dogs, possum (that's Opossum to you), and arboreal rats.

I'm quite proud of the missus for bearing up as well as she did (I don't think the sting bothered her longer than a few minutes), considering the paper wasp ranks a healthy 3.0 on the Schmidt Sting Pain Index.

My name is Earl [Dittman]

It's a truism - for self-deluding writer types, anyway - that the most offhand, throwaway comment you make will be the one that garners you any sort of notice. Hence, this:

Given all the ancillary activities, more than one reviewer who took in the Snakes scene came away with a distinct Dr. Frank-N-Furter feeling.

"It has the potential to supplant The Rocky Horror Picture Show as the greatest audience participation movie of all time," wrote FilmThreat.com's Pete Vonder Haar.

Maybe it was the beer talking, maybe I was just drawing preliminary parallels to Rocky Horror's lousy initial box office performance and eventual cult status and that of Snakes. In an event, now I finally get to start my own quote whore file.

Look out, Peter Travers.

"Yarrr, I hate the sea and everything in it."

I have received enough on- and off-line requests for this..."rebuttal" of my Lady in the Water review that I decided to post it. Enjoy.

From: "Ben Simon" [e-mail redacted]
Subject: The sad truth about Lady in the Water

Okay this is my breakdown of this movie. I've heard nothing but bad reviews about it, which is really ironic and exciting actually. This movie is like nothing I've ever seen before. It's groundbreaking, hyper-original and full of messages. It's insane. It's full of bizarre characters, priceless lines, and brilliantly cooky and original ideas. But that's just my praise. Let me explain.
This movie represents so many things. Paul Giamatti's character finds a sea nymph in his pool. She is part of a bedtime story. An evil creature from the story wants to kill her. He has to get all of the tenants in this resort to help him solve this mystery and get her back to her homeland. Simple right? Not exaclty. You see, M. Night breaks down the concept of writing, originallity, finding purpose, and characterization all in two hours. Paul has to find out which characters are supposed to be the key elements in saving this nymph's life. There's so many tenants he must listen to the way the bedtime story goes and figure out what each character's purpose is. Is one supposed to be the nymph's guardian? her healer? or interpreter? He goes through sequence of character searching to discover this, but the point is, that every character in a well written story has a purpose. The movie openly says this. One of the tenants is a movie critic and he mentions the fact that in writing (and in the world) every person has some link to the overall chain of the plot, to reality, to existence. Everyone must be there for some cause, even if it's to hinder the plot. This movie represented the concept of writing and innovation. And the way that it showed you that it wasn't afraid to do something different was through the concepts. The villain was a huge wolf with fur of grass. One character only works out half of his body, so he has one huge arm and one small one. Bizarre enough for you? Or dare I say, daring? The movie critic characters gives one priceless line that apitimizes the entire movie. And here it is:
"There is no originality left in this world. I have learned to accept this sad fact."
That's it. That is the line of the century. That makes the whole movie make sense. And what's brilliant about it is: THIS MOVIE WAAAAS ORIGINAL. This was the first movie in history ever to do something different, ever to break that fourth wall and openly state the fact that people are afraid to go into certain dark waters (pun intended) and try new ideas that nobody else has. M. NIGHT DID EXACTLY THAT. The reason no one likes this movie? They saw it is a movie. This thing is so out-there, so unlike anything you'll ever see you can't even criticize it. It's a message. It's a vessel of new thought, creativity. How can you say it was stupid? You don't even understand the movie. THAT'S WHY. You think "I don't get it." and automaticaly label it a bad movie because you are too retarded and close minded to get the concept of it NOT BEING JUST ANOTHER FREAKIN' LOVE STORY WITH VIOLENCE SEX AND THE TYPICAL DRAMATIC STRUCTURE. How can you not recognize the clear messages that were there? Later this movie critic character confronts this big bad wolf and says. "This is just like one of those scenes from a horror movie." Bingo, he's coming right out and saying that you see scenes like this all the time. THen he says. "This is the part where a less likeable character is confronted with a monster and narrowly escapes death. He returns later with a lesson learned and a humorous moment to make things better. This is the part of the movie where there has been no nudity, no violence or anything to make you believe it isn't a family movie. Now I will turn and run and the monster will narrowly miss me." He turns, and gets mauled and killed. THERE YOU HAVE IT.
M. Night knew nobody would understand this movie. HE KILLED THE MOVIE CRITIC! There's your hint. That's what should make all you people who didn't understand it feeling like effing idiots because he's laughing in your face. If you didn't like it, you're playing right into Shyamalan's hands. EAT IT, you're just like everybody else. But I can take pride in knowing that I saw this movie for what it really was: not a movie at all, but a gateway into a new world of drama. Okay so maybe I'm sensationalizing this a little bit, but do you see what this movie is doing. This movie is pinpointing all the people in the world who lack imaginations. Another one of the lines in the movie is "Sometimes you just want to believe a story is true." This shows that this movie is bringing to life all those goofy ideas you hide in your childhood (coincidentally Paul's character must act like a child in front of an old woman to get the bedtime story out of her, tell me where that's been done before), this movie is showing that if it's in your mind, it can be done. It makes you believe this sort of thing can actually happen. That bedtime stories have a speck of truth that you can apply to everyday life.
I understand that somebody may simply not enjoy watching the film, but they should at least recognize it for what it is. And if you're too blind to see the obivious hints in the movie, then at least take it from me. The movie has action, suspense, plenty of goofy comedy, and tons of entertaining characters. One of the main messages in this movie is how the nymph comes into this resort, this little private world, or planet if you will and changes the people. Paul G.'s character has a stutter in the film (and he does AMAZING with it by the way, and all of his characterization) and around her, it goes away. A writer's mind is cleared around the nymph and he writes a world-changing novel. This is a symbol of an angel, a hero, a change for the better in reality. It shows how everybody has a purpose, and no matter what happens in life, somebody will be there to guide you, but you must welcome her, you must help her (which is the whole thing of protecting her in the film). You have to WANT to be a better person, which I think is a paralell to this movie. You have to accept the movie in order to understand it, and i