Backpacking Dad

Stupid Marketing

Thu, 29 May 2008 00:18:57 GMT

Every game of the Stanley Cup Finals I've seen now has been sponsored by the new Coldplay album.

Coldplay is about as un-hockey a band as I can think of. ABBA is more hockey than Coldplay.

Stupid asshats.

You played a great game.

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 05:29:40 GMT

Game 7 is over, and the San Jose Sharks have just finished off the Calgary Flames.

The camera is on the hand-shake lineup, and the focus keeps switching back to Owen Nolan's face. He's disappointed, obviously, having joined a Calgary team that seemed to have a shot at going deep in the playoffs even though they drew the hottest team in the NHL going down the stretch.

Owen Nolan. Who was a superstar in San Jose for years. Who still keeps a home here. Who famously called his shot in an All-Star game played on home ice in 1997. When he was a Shark.

He's in San Jose tonight, looking tired. A nasty red mark graces his left cheek. He was in San Jose in 1996 when I moved here for the first time, and he was new himself, having been traded from the soon-to-be Stanley Cup Champion Avalanche. I watched his Sharks play in the Shark Tank, and I cheered for him. I could care less about the Sharks.

I cheered because every time he touched the ice I was transported back to my childhood, when I could watch Owen Nolan play for the OHL team in my small, smelly town. He was the star of the Cornwall Royals before being drafted first overall. He was the rookie of the year in the OHL in 1989. And just as he would someday be an All-Star in the NHL, one night he was the star of the 1990 All-Star game between the OHL and the QMJHL, played that year in my smelly little town.

After that game the goalie coach conspired to deliver a stick to me: the OHL goaltender's stick, signed by the winning goalie, Fife. That was nice. It was a game-used stick. It was signed just for me.

After the game my mother took me to Cornwall BBQ for a very late dinner. I carried my stick in with me and sat it down at the table. And just as we started eating a family walked in to the restaurant; jovial, starving, and beaming. And the big kid, all of 18 years old, who walked in with them was Owen Nolan.

I saw him, and stammered "That's Owen Nolan." My mother, because she is my mother, said "You should go talk to him."

"What? I can't talk to him. He's with his family, and they're just here to eat."

And because when my mother looked at him she saw an 18-year old kid and a family flushed with pride instead of a hockey god on earth, as I did, she pushed it: "I think his family would be really happy for him to see you come up to him here. Just tell him you are a big fan."

Reluctantly, but excitedly, I gave in. I picked up my bulky goalie stick, and walked into the other dining room, where Owen Nolan, my hockey hero, was sitting with his family.

"Hi, um, Owen?"

"Yes. Hello there."

"Um, I uh, just wanted to tell you that you played a great game."

"Thanks very much."

"And, uh, I was um hoping that you might sign this stick. It'sthegoaliestickPaulDesjardinsgaveittome." This last in a rush of hopeful name-dropping. Paul was the goalie coach for the Royals, and was a family friend.

"Sure. I'd love to."

"Thanks Owen. I'll see you around." And then, elated, I returned to my table with my now sacred trophy in tow.

For 18 years I've carried that memory around with me, close; closer than the stick with his autograph, which was lost in a frantic move about a year later. He's probably had hundreds of encounters like that; I've only had the one. I think I've mentioned it so many times to my wife that it grates on her nerves a little. Whenever his name is mentioned on television she says "Hey look! It's your buddy."

She teases.

But. For that night he was my buddy.

And tonight he's disappointed that his team won't be going on to the next round of the Playoffs.

But tonight I'd like to say, as I did 18 years ago: "You played a great game."

Feeling Raw Because of Facebook--Part 3 You've Got Mail

Fri, 04 Apr 2008 00:27:34 GMT

She "friended" me out of the blue. I had never expected her to have a Facebook account. Surprised, but delighted, I "confirmed" that she was indeed my friend. Curious, I opened her profile, and there next to "Relationship Status" it declared that she was married.

We had met in a chat room when we, and the internet, were all still teenagers. She went by the name "kittycat", a very enticing name for the adolescent I was; I was "Soltan", because I was reading L. Ron Hubbard's Mission: Earth series at the time and the hero's name, "Jet", was already taken on the network we were logged in to; so I was the villain.

Our conversations were innocent, and friendly, and flirtatious, and eventually not-so innocent. And we built a friendship with not only each other but with many of the other regulars in that particular chatroom, on that particular network, during those particular months.

Eventually we were an online "couple", sending each other private messages more often than not even when we were logged in to the public board. And we were online so often that the channel owner empowered us as channel operators (just enough power to go to our heads; we kicked a lot of people out of the room for being trolls). And there were other online couples that we could relate to: Bernie and Emma, separated by the breadth of Australia, were always online when we were (apparently our sleeping schedules were reversed).

Eventually we met in person, and it was electric. She came to me over a Spring Break and I fell in love. No. I was already in love. I was in love with her before I ever saw the picture that she eventually sent to me in the mail.

Her visit was brief. Only a few days in a March that I will never forget. When I said goodbye to her at the airport I didn't think I'd ever seen her again. How could I? The distance was too great, our lives were too fluid. She lived in a different country, and about as far away from me as possible without crossing an ocean.

Spring Break always reminds me of that incredible time we spent together. And seeing her on my "friends" list on Facebook just makes me smile.

12 years after we met I clicked on her profile, and there, next to "Relationship Status" it declared that she was married.

To me.

Feeling Raw Because of Facebook--Part 2, Do Over

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 18:46:48 GMT

I was 14. I was at a new school, in a new city, and my classmates had all been in middle school together before moving across the street to the high school. So, once again, I was starting over.

This time, though I was starting over and I was a teenager. And because I have always been crazy I developed a maddening crush on the smartest girl in class. She also happened to be the least-interested-in-me girl in class. I would try to get, and keep, her attention, but it never worked. She seemed genuinely contemptuous, and really just wanted me to leave her alone, I think.

But the not-secret crush was entertaining to the rest of the kids, and having even that kind of attention was attractive to the new kid; it was a way to fit in, though very dysfunctionally.

Because it was high school, and because I had been raised on television and movie versions of life (I hate you a little, Degrassi. But only a little.) I could recognize the narrative that was going on around me. The elements of a great teen romance were all in place: new kid, having a tough time cracking into the established group; smart girl, pushing the guys away because she is too mature or insecure to play the game of casual romance that the rest of the girls seemed to play; a supporting cast of watchers, and goaders-on, who could be both audience and writing staff for the drama unfolding before them.

There was the scene at the musical, where the new kid worked up the nerve to perform on stage; and the girl showed up and sat in the front row, endlessly distracting him from what he was doing.

There was the cross-country running team the new kid joined so that he might, possibly work up the nerve to talk to the girl directly.

There were the dances, and the narrative demanded that at these special times, when romance was scripted, that he walk up to her while “November Rain” was beginning because this time she would agree to dance with him, and the world would change.

There was the last chance, the brief period after the final exam of the year when he saw that he could speak to her alone, and tell her directly how he felt. He raced out to the bike rack to catch her before she left for the summer; he called out. But with one glance over her shoulder she hopped onto her bike and dashed off. The last chance wasn't.

And there was the surreal moment, after the summer break, when she approached him. Caught off guard by the reversal of roles he couldn't let the old story end amicably and maturely; afraid of trading the known discomfort of daily life for some unknown where they were friends he responded to her friendliness with disinterest and brusqueness.

Returning to normal for the rest of that semester, the momentary role reversal was just a Fourth Act twist, quickly turned tragic by his behavior; his disinterest was belied by his recidivism, his seeking out her attention once again, and once again being greeted by her disdain.

But unlike movies, this narrative didn't end with some sudden, dramatic moment of mutual appreciation and a recognition of deeper feelings. Instead, I left the school. When I looked into the future, the three and a half years that remained, I didn't like the person who I was going to become, and who I had already been to a certain extent. So, I decided to go be the new kid somewhere else, and pretend as though that first year and a half had never happened.

I rebuilt fairly successfully, I think, but I was still wounded. Disdain hurt, and to be held in contempt by someone whose opinion was so important did make me wonder, sometimes, if all of my confidence was fraudulent.

There was a show on tv briefly a few years ago called “Do Over”, in which the main character, a 34 year-old man, is transported back to his 14 year-old self, to go through high school with all of his adult knowledge. In my “wish I had a time machine” moments I've often wished for a do over of the first year and a half of high school. It was pretty scarring, and I was the perpetrator of my own insecurities as much as I was the victim of other peoples' attitudes. And there was the girl...

This girl who affected me so deeply at an age where we are built to be affected deeply and forever. She left me in tatters, and I fled.

And 15 years later I saw her on Facebook; and I worked up the nerve to send her a note, the 2008 version of “Do you remember me? Check “yes” or “no”.” We've been in contact for a while now, and because she is more mature than I am, and probably always has been, she extended an apology for her behavior as an adolescent.

I assured her that it wasn't necessary; that it was no big deal; that I was long recovered.

That was a complete and total fabrication. It actually meant a lot to me. It was as though that year and a half meant something, again; as though I needn't flinch anymore when I recalled my first days of high school. Thank you for that, smart girl.

It's like my very own “Do Over”.

Firefly in HD

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 23:07:20 GMT

On Universal HD starting next Saturday April 5th.

Shiny.

Feeling Raw Because of Facebook--Part 1, The Wonder Years

Thu, 20 Mar 2008 07:02:10 GMT

Like most adolescent boys I was a more than a bit girl-crazy when I was a kid. No, that's too mild. I was obsessive, fascinated, and thrown completely off balance by girls. I was also always always always the new kid, and in each new place there was another girl to throw me for a loop.

My first, and puppiest crush was a girl in grade school. She was a year older than I, but we were in a split grades 5-6 class. It was my first year in a new town, and she was pretty, and popular, and energetic, and the leader of the girl-pack at that school. I was in whatever passes for love in a 10 year old, and surprisingly enough she managed to not ignore me. In fact, through the various pairings-off that happened in that first romanticized pre-teen year she and I were a couple at least once. Who knows how long these relationships lasted? They felt like moments and years both.

But she was in the 6th grade, and our school only went to 6, so at the end of the year she moved on to a middle school, 7-8, and I stayed behind. Partly because of her attention, and partly because it was such a small school, I got over feeling like the "new kid" by the time 6th grade began. I remember thinking about her a lot during that year, though. And by 7th grade we were again at the same school. She seemed even more popular and pretty and social, but she was also long past going out with younger guys. That was a long year, and the occasional phone call from her (or to her) was only enough to keep me enthralled, but never enough to bring us really close again.

The next year she went to high school and I saw her maybe once in that time. A final teasing phone call and then we were done: I moved again.

We had lived in a small place in Eastern Ontario; I moved to a smaller to finish out 8th grade. Then I moved west and went to high school, graduating a year early and eventually going to the University of Toronto, a school with more students than our town had residents. And on my first day of university, sitting on a grassy knoll at an orientation bbq, I met her again. We lived 4 floors apart in our college residence, and we were in the same history class. Despite our proximity we didn't see each other that often. I had gained a lot of confidence since those timid days in the 5th grade, and I had plenty to keep me occupied; and she had a full life of her own, and I only saw her sporadically. But here was this girl, this woman now, whom I had known as a child and who used to hold my heart in her unknowing hands. I admit it; she made me feel shy and awkward all over again. So I never really asked her out (I don't think potatoes at Futures counts as any kind of date), and just before Christmas she left school and never came back.

In January I met Emily; by August I had moved to California to be with her, and I never went back to the University of Toronto. I always remembered her name, though.

12 years after we saw each other last, probably in that history class she would sleep through, we met again, on Facebook.

It feels a little bit, from my side, like Kevin Arnold meeting Winnie Cooper at the plane in the final episode of "The Wonder Years." And once again I feel awkward and shy: how did she ever find this guy interesting?

There is someone on Facebook who is not a member of my family whom I have known for 20 years. That's a little bit humbling.

I want to stay here

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 17:02:01 GMT

The Philosophers Hotel

There's a Thales room that I believe has a water bed. That's just awesome. And a Spinoza room. Who wouldn't want to stay in a Spinoza room?

And Erin's First Word Is.....

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 04:14:56 GMT

....duck.

Sure, she's said "Hi Daddy" twice now (once at 7 1/2 weeks, once over Christmas), but even though I'm counting those, they weren't, in all honesty, um, deliberate.

But after a couple of weeks of being obsessed with ducks and saying the word fragment "da" over and over and over again while pointing at and playing with ducks, she finally got the "ck" part. It's still a little spitty, but occasionally she belts out "duck!" clear as day.

Now. Nobody teach her how to say "fu".

Stupid Mnemonics

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 17:11:00 GMT

I strap Erin into her high chair and force her to watch Signing Time while she has breakfast. On the episode we watched today the host, Rachel Coleman, introduced some mnemonics for remembering some of the letters of the alphabet.

F: "Look, it looks like a bird; with feathers." Yes, 'F' is for 'bird'....

O: "It looks like the opening of a bottle. Remember, 'o' is for 'opening-of-a-bottle'."

X: "It looks like a hook that a pirate would have. And pirates follow their treasure maps to the 'X'." Yes, 'X' is for 'hook'...no, 'pirate'.

S: "It looks like a smiling snake." Words kind of fail me on this one.

Awesome video. Watch it. Watch it.

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 16:05:46 GMT

New blog

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 05:45:01 GMT

As if you care.

I've decided to try out a Dad-only blog at blogspot. I may end up cross-posting stuff, but most of the writing over there will be about Erin and fatherhood and other gooey stuff like that.

This one will remain my primary journal for the thoughts that I have about stuff; the other one will probably be more of an attempt at writing out stories.

Bah. As if this'll work. All I'm really doing is making more work for myself.

But if you're interested, it's http://backpackingdad.blogspot.com

Weird Recommendations

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 07:10:29 GMT

Why is it that my interest in "The Sopranos" on Netflix has prompted them to recommend "Touched By An Angel"?

Do people get whacked in that show?

An Amazing Shift in Priorities

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 22:19:05 GMT

When we found out that Emily was pregnant, in August 2006, we ramped up our housing search. We had been living in a not-too-tiny-but-still-small 2 bedroom, 1 bath apartment ever since we moved to the area the year before, and we wanted a real honest to god house for our new baby, and our growing family. Somewhere in a nice suburban neighborhood (because we are boring like that).

We placed an offer on a house on a nice street. House was sold already. Made an offer on the house next door with a similar floor plan (the first house was a 3/2, this was a pre-addition 3/1 that could be turned into one very like the other). We got it. Hooray!! We were homeowners, in Mountain View California! Still, it was a 3/1, and tiny, so we knew that we'd have to build an addition on it. It was priced a lot lower than the remodeled one next door, which we could also afford, so we had some extra cash lying around for a remodel.

But when we spoke to a consultant about the job we were looking to have done he estimated that it would cost about twice the amount that we had to spend. Grrrr.

Not knowing what else to do, we asked for, and received, help from two family members who are in the house-building business. One was going to draw up the plans by the beginning of 2007; the other was going to come out with a crew and build the addition before Erin was born in April of 2007. And then we'd have our nice family home in our nice suburban neighborhood.

The plans were never finished; but a crew came out anyway and some work was done. Foundation, framing, floors. No roof. No walls. No kitchen remodel. No bathroom. But still, something was done. By June.

Yeah. By the time June rolled around Erin was a month and a half old and we were still in our apartment. We were desperate to move in, but we were also out of money and couldn't do any more building anyway because....the plans still weren't done. That means that all the work we had done was done without permits or inspections and made it very difficult to do any more work.

Fast forward to November 2007. Work frozen on house since June. House sits empty, unlivable. Erin still sleeps with us because we can't bring ourselves to buy a crib to have in the shitty-ass apartment we live in. Actually, the apartment wasn't so bad, it just felt small. But we were also paying rent and a mortgage, now 8 months longer than we had originally anticipated. What could we do? We tossed around ideas, and nothing really seemed to work. Sell it? Can't, we have too much invested in it, it looks like shit, and we'd probably lose money. Finish it? Can't. We have no plans, and no money until the tax return of 2008. Burn it?

Burning it seemed like the best option at the time.

But instead we did nothing. We tried to put some more pressure on the man with the plans, but he was up to his neck in his own shit and I just never felt good about laying the hammer down. You can't fire family.

You can't fire family.

You can't fire family.

February 2008. Why can't we fire family? We're still in our little apartment. We need the plans done to at least make it possible for a new contractor to come in and finish the house for us, whenever we have the money to do it. So why not fire family? What the hell is our deal? Of course you can fire family, especially if they're too guilt-ridden to actually finish the project, or any project, in the first place. It's one thing to ask family for help; it's another thing to permit yourself to follow them into a deep hole because you can't hurt their pride by taking their favor-for-us away from them.

March 1st 2008. Fired family. Asked a structural engineer friend to draw up some plans.

March 7th, 2008. Had a lovely date night with Emily. Talked about the house. New plans are going to cost a lot, especially if they are stamped by an engineer (which they almost certainly will have to be because the construction that's been done to date has been done without permits, so without the City engineer's inspection). After the plans, there's still the actual construction costs, which will burn through our tax return like arson through a half-finished house.

Why do we want to finish it? Why not sell it? At this point, we realized the only thing that was holding us to the house was that we hated the idea of failing at something. But we were going to bury ourselves finishing a house that by now we couldn't stand to think about, so that we could move in and be miserable for probably only a couple of years. Once I'm finished my PhD I have to look for a job, which means, probably, moving. 2-3 years. In a house we hate. Why oh why oh why the fuck would we pay for that privilege???

Last night. "Let's sell the house." It was a fucking revelation. It is more important to us now to be in a nice place (rent a house for a couple of years) for our daughter and our next kid than it is to OWN the house we live in for the next two or three years.

We began our ordeal thinking that we needed to buy the great family house; and then we needed to build the great family house; and then we couldn't risk losing money, and it was too embarassing to give up, so we had to finish the great family house.

Now it doesn't make any sense whatsoever to try to finish the house. Even if it means we lose every dime we sunk in to remodel it. The emotional cost is just too damned high. It's cost us relationships with family members, and to get those back we need to get past this freaking nightmare.

I haven't written much about the house in the past almost year because it's just been that depressing to think about.

After our date last night Emily and I slept very, very well.

Sell the house.

Stupid Cross-Promotion

Thu, 06 Mar 2008 03:32:02 GMT

In honour of Disney releasing "101 Dalmations" on a 2-disc DVD, you are being encouraged to also buy spaghetti sauce.

I think I'm a little dumber for having seen that commercial.

My New Favourite Photo

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 18:19:31 GMT

Taken at the fencing quals on Saturday:

Fencing Quals

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 08:32:49 GMT

I will not be going to the Summer Nationals in either the individual or team events. I'm furious at myself for permitting weapon problems to distract me; and I'm even more furious at myself for allowing a small deficit to drive me into aggressive, unthinking bouting.

I fenced fine in the pools, seeding out at 15 of 32 fencers. But in my first elimination bout I had two weapons fail (one of which I had tested earlier that day before putting away for later use) before I even started (which led to the loss of a point); I also went through two replacement weapons that I had to scrounge, and these two failed because of what turned out to be a weird combination of compressed pins on a body cord after using it in a new weapon, and old, loose plugs on older weapons. So, on my 5th weapon of the bout, and down 8-6 (one point of which was the red card for the two faulty weapons earlier) I started fencing too fast and loose and pissed off, and I lost that bout 15-8. Argh, argh, argh, ack, alackaday, and curses.

Team "Athos, Porthos, and Mentos the Freshmaker" (thanks ronebofh ) was also knocked out in the first round; but that wasn't my fault as much, and I did have a bad weapon on the last point, but we were already down 40-34 goint into that bout. At one point we were ahead 21-19; I was the anchor on the team so I had to try to make up those 6 points in the last period, as well as score an additional one. But once again, frustrated, I fenced poorly and let my opponent get 5 straight touches. I had done very well against my previous two opponents, and I thought we were going to take the match, but we lost a ton of ground in the middle and I couldn't focus enough to make it up. Garh.

So, disappointed. But I did see some great fencing, even if I didn't do any of it. My legs are more tired from fencing sporadically for 4 hours than they are after fencing for 2 1/2 hours straight. I think it's all the standing around getting cold.

Erin's New Trick

Fri, 29 Feb 2008 01:11:00 GMT

She says "bock bock" when she's playing with her rubber ducks. I've told her repeatedly that they are ducks and say "quack quack", but she doesn't listen.

She also barks at shoes.

Rockin' Epee Fencing Video

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 04:34:42 GMT

If the title alone doesn't get you excited to watch the video, then perhaps I can sweeten the deal. If you watch the video, then the next time I see you I will buy you candy. You can choose the type; but I get to choose the quantity (I'm not buying a half-ton of Jolly Ranchers, you greedy wankers).

Lance Armstrong.

It'll make sense later.

http://www.c3presents.com/Video/sultan_preview.mov

Erin Goes to WonderCon

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 08:01:03 GMT

Today I took Erin to WonderCon in the City.

I don't really know why, but I enjoyed ComicCon in San Diego when I went, I'm more than a bit of a geek, and I needed something to do inside with Erin on what was supposed to be a pretty rainy day. I guess I do know why. What I really meant is that I don't know why I took her to what was first, foremost, and dominantly a comic convention rather than just a science fiction con; as big a geek as I am about many things, comic books have never really been a part of it.

After spending $12 to get in, $15 to park, $10 on lunch and another $6 on drinks I was really wondering why I was there. Did I seriously spend $37 for the privilege of buying the "Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Season 8" graphic novel omnibus edition of "The Long Way Home"? I'm pretty sure I could have found that at just about any comic shop around.

I enjoyed the people watching. And Erin enjoyed the people watching and looking at everything there was to look at.

She was pretty cute in the backpack.

But I had my doubts. Did I really show up to wander around and look at micro-celebrities like "the guy who stands around in the Darth Vader costume for LucasFilm", or to wait around for Richard Hatch to show up?

I wasn't willing to shell out $20 for the chance to take a picture with these people, so I didn't take any digital shots.

But it turned out to be a pretty good day after all. Richard Hatch did show up, wearing a scarf inside for no reason. I didn't talk to him; the scarf really threw me for a loop.

And there was Brian Posehn, who I only know as a comedian. He was there, sitting at a lonely, set-back table presenting his comic books. I didn't talk to him; the lonely, set-back table and unusually long beard threw me off. Plus, I couldn't remember his last name, and I didn't want to be that guy.

And Peter Mayhew was there with a woman who looked almost as weird as he did. I didn't talk to him; the weird-looking woman really threw me off.

But I did talk to Herbert Jefferson Jr, who played Boomer on the original Battlestar Galactica. Well, I should say that Erin talked to him; babbled at him; waved at him; smiled at him; laughed at him. Seeing her, he said, made his whole day. That went a long way to making my whole day.

As we were wandering the con floor we walked past BarBara Luna's table. When she saw Erin looking at her and smiling she immediately exclaimed "Put that child to work!" I was pretty sure that she meant on film, and not, for instance, in a coal mine; further conversation confirmed this. She was quite insistent, complimentary, and encouraging. That went even further in making my whole day. I know that Erin is beautiful, and has an amazingly expressive face, but it seems that other people think so as well.

In the artist's area I was tapped on the shoulder to catch my attention: "Who's the cutest baby at the convention?" came the inquiry from the quite possibly inebriated gentleman I turned to face. "Um. Her?" I replied, nodding back at Erin. "That's right!" slurs-he. Hey, he may have been drunk, but that still makes a dad happy.

We wandered by a T-shirt booth, and I stopped to give Erin a bottle. Business was a bit slow, so the two guys who were actually staffing the booth (the owners of the company, I think) were off to the side, chatting, and Erin kept peeking over at them, smiling, and giggling. The guys were so tickled by this that as we were leaving they asked if we would come back so that they could take Erin's picture in the booth to put up on the website. Coming so soon on the heels of BarBara Luna's comments I nearly said yes. But I'm not sure I'm ready for Erin to to model, or if I ever will be. And if I were, I'm not sure that I would want her first gig to be at a t-shirt booth at WonderCon. Especially one whose merchandise was self-described as macabre. But, as I said, I nearly did it. This kid is cute.

My day was even further along to being made.

My day was finally made while walking by Lou Ferrigno's table. I suggested to Erin that she greet the Incredible Hulk ("Hey kid, wave hi to Lou Ferrigno!"). Lou is a pretty imposing man, and earlier in the day I had seen a smartass kid angle up to his table, off to one side, with iPhone pointed at him shouting "Lou! Can I get your picture? For free?" This guy was a douchebag. Lou just very calmly, but darkly, pointed down at his sign: $20 for a polaroid. It was not wanting to be that kind of douchebag that accounts for the ZERO pictures I took of these people that I was encountering.

As I say, Lou is a very imposing man, and now here comes the Backpacking Dad with the suddenly taciturn kid; said dad is insufferably saying "wave hi to Lou Ferrigno!" while said kid is, for once, just staring. No smile. No wave. Nothing. Just a stare. Lou stares back. I start to get a little uncomfortable and begin to walk on by, with a nod to Lou meant to convey "Hey, what can you do with a kid who doesn't want to smile?" Lou still hasn't broken expression; in fact, he's reminding me a lot of the way he looked at the iPhone douche. He reaches his hand up to his head, wipes it across his face, and pulls the old smiley-face switcharoo!. He then proceeds to play peek-a-boo with Erin from behind his table.

That, my friends, is what made my day. The image of the Incredible Hulk playing peek-a-boo with Erin will stick with me forever. And it was the combination of all of those little moments that made today wonderful. Even though I had, somewhat selfishly, decided to go to a freakin' comic book convention to try to be cool and geeky for Erin in the future, the day turned out to be about her being cool and adorable and charming for me in the present.

Today was one of my favourite days to be a dad, and I was sorry that we had to leave.

We'll be back next year.

Let's all go qualify!

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 23:47:37 GMT

The Division I Nationals in fencing are in Portland this year. I won't be going. I still have no rating, and I doubt I'm good enough to even scrape in. Plus, Portland is a little far to go; I'd probably feel differently if I had qualified.

However, I do have a chance to go to the Div II/Div III Summer Nationals in San Jose (right down the road). The quals for senior epee (C and Lower) are on March 1st; the quals for the team are also on March 1st, in the afternoon. I might even have a shot at this; it would be fun to go to a big tournament, even if it is only Div II or Div III.

What I need is a team name for my little squad that is going to be fencing in the afternoon. There are three of us, and so far all we've come up with is "Two Kids and a Goat", "Oh my god, they killed Kenny" (one of us is a Kenny), and "The Ambiguously Gay Trio".

Ideas?

The only thing I was going to do

Tue, 19 Feb 2008 20:50:46 GMT

For several years I managed car washes in San Diego County. I made enough money doing this to buy a condo and put Emily through law school. But I really hated that job; I quit six months before starting at UCSD to finish my degrees just because I couldn't face going in to that place again.

But some days I find myself feeling nostalgic about the car wash. I did have some good days, and I made some good friends. And it is in large part my experience at the car wash interacting with customers that is responsible for my current comfort with speaking in public, lecturing, and teaching.

One day in particular has been coming back to me lately. It wasn't really a good day. It was a strange day. And it was a day with a legacy that I'll never know, because in the end I did the only thing I was going to do.

At the entrance to the carwash is the vacuum line. Cars line up, customers discuss car wash packages with the service writer, and then the occupants of the car leave their vehicles to go into the store, the lounge, or the viewing area. One day I was out at the line, keeping the pace up, when a blue convertible rolled up. It wasn't an exceptional car, but as far as memorable cars for that day it was enough to stay in my memory for a few hours. Driving the car was a blonde eurotrash-looking douche. I always picture him wearing a white scarf and sunglasses, but that's pure fiction. I don't remember what cranial accessories he had, and he may not even have been blonde. But he was a douche. I remember him being snippy when I took his service order and tried to chat with him a bit (my service writer was at lunch).

He wasn't biting on either the service upgrade I pitched him or the conversation, which was surprising to me, because he had a passenger. In the passenger seat was a pretty brunette with her sunglasses up on her head. Now usually when a man is driving his girlfriend around and he brings her to the carwash he is a dead sucker for some showy service. But not this guy; he was just a prick.

I wrote up his ticket and waved them forward, opened his door and hers so they could exit. Then I went back to work for a while. I eventually ended up on the drying end of the line, and their car was being worked on. But I didn't pay much attention until they picked it up. I saw them to their car and then waved goodbye as they pulled away. Except for the guy being a dick in front of his girlfriend, it was a pretty unremarkable meeting.

That was in the morning. In the afternoon, late afternoon I think, the car was back. It pulled up to the air and water tower and parked. The top was still down, but this time the girlfriend was driving, and she was alone.

She looked around until she saw me, waved, then walked over. This time she was wearing the sugnlasses on her face instead of her head, and I figured out why as she came closer: a big red welt was noticeable around the edges of her sunglass frame. I said hi, she said hi. And there followed a conversation that I don't really remember, but it wasn't long on details and I didn't want to pry, but the end is very clear in my mind.

She wanted me to take her somewhere to talk and comfort her (or something!) And I pretended to not know what she was getting at (she was phrasing it as a solicitation for advice about where to go and what to do in her damaged emotional state). I can only imagine what was going through her mind at the time, but I had no interest in getting involved. So I disingenuously suggested she check out the Balboa Park museums. They were dark and quiet and she could be alone among people (rather than alone with me) and think about stuff.

I think she was hurt by my not-so-subtle rejection. But she smiled and went back to her car and drove away. I never saw her again.

Sometimes I wonder about her, and if she is ok, or if by rejecting her I sent her straight back into what was clearly an abusive relationship.

I don't know that I did the wrong thing. But sometimes I don't feel like I did the right thing either. I just know it was the only thing I was going to do.

Heroes are just people you don't yet know enough about

Tue, 19 Feb 2008 08:00:17 GMT

I'm watching Little Big Man, a Dustin Hoffman film from 1970 about a man who spends his life moving between a Cheyenne tribe and frontier America. In the 1870's he encounters Custer, an arrogant and insane version played by Richard Mulligan, and leads him into a trap at the Little Bighorn in revenge for Custer leading the troop that killed his Cheyenne family. Watching it made me think about history, revisionist history in particular, and what I feel is the ultimate goal of revisionist historians/biographers: to de-mystify, and de-heroify (new word!) the heroes that have become habit.

Until the middle of the last century Custer was a classic American hero. Seen as daring (to the point of recklessness) during the Civil War and beyond, he embodied a certain spirit of frontier certainty in an uncertain world, courage in a terrifying world, and yes, was a really white guy who killed many swarthy Indians.

Revisionist history seems to have done a spectacular number on this former cultural icon, and in watching "Little Big Man" I realized how successful the historians and biographers had been. It used to be habit to identify with Custer; and it was this very habitual acceptance that attracts the revisionist historian to the topic. It's not enough in professional academics to write about something you have a passion for; the topic also has to be sexy. In the middle of the last century, with the growing Red Power movement and the Civil Rights movement in full swing, it was very sexy to pick apart and even demonize the cultural icons of the habitual past. So Custer became a prominent villain.

This post isn't a lament for Custer; it's more about my own realization that revisionism in history seems to be one-directional: creating villains out of heroes. I can't think, off the top of my head, of a habitual villain who has been recast by historians as a hero.

Maybe the Marxists can help me with that. The observation was just off the top of my head, so I'm sure I'm wrong.

Disgraceful Hockey Moments

Sat, 16 Feb 2008 19:59:04 GMT

I love the movie Slapshot. Released in 1977 and starring Paul Newman, it's about a minor league hockey team, the Chiefs, who are about to be disbanded. In a move designed to raise the spirits of his teammates the captain-coach, played by Newman, tells the team that they are actually on the market and have to start putting butts in seats to look good to buyers. This results in a run of goon hockey games, more brawls than hockey, that does put butts in the seats but also makes the star of the team ashamed of the game. Hockey, he thinks, is not a sideshow, but a competition.

The movie was made in 1977, and hockey in the 70's was dominated by two different types of teams: the high flying Montreal Canadiens backstopped by the brilliant Ken Dryden, and the Broad Street Bullies (a.k.a. The Philadelphia Flyers) who between them won 8 Cups in the 70's. "Slapshot" can both be a nostalgiac look back at the Broadstreet Bullies days and an indictment of it.

In part because of "Slapshot" and in part because it's just true, hockey is a beer-sport. The fans drink beer; the players drink beer; the movie versions of players drink beer; the sponsors are beer companies. On its own this association is benign: lots of sports are associated with alcohol. But every once in a while that beer-y culture manages to taint the sport.

In 1998, at the first Winter Olympics to involve NHL players the U.S. Men's team (comprised of 23 NHL players and captained by Brett Hull) trashed their rooms in the Olympic Village after being eliminated from the tournament. Some of the players were seen out at local bars during the week, and on the night of the destruction, but despite this Hull claimed that what the players needed was more time out drinking: "That more than anything was a downfall for us; it was almost stifling," he said. "Maybe if we did something to relax a little more, we would have done better."

Last week two members of the Montreal Canadiens were at a bar in Tampa after closing when they were arrested for purse snatching and non-violent resting arrest. Purse snatching? For the hell of it?

And on Valentine's Day members of the Jamestown Vikings went on a drunken rampage after their season was cancelled halfway through the year.

I'm not a hockey fan because of the beer. But I do love "Slapshot". Maybe I like the idea of hockey and beer more than the reality of hockey and beer.

Dadness Mortified

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 05:37:10 GMT

I took Erin to the park today to eat some sand. She one-upped me by chipmunking a leaf and gagging on it later.

It was her first solo playdate, with an adorable little girl, T. By default it was also my first solo playdate with T's mom E. The girls have played lots of times, and E is one of Emily's mom friends who I hijacked back in October when I started going to the playgroup. E and I have hung out frequently, but always in a group of people. She has quickly become a good friend of mine as well. That today was our first solo playdate occurred to me while we were having the following conversation, which I'll paraphrase because I don't remember it exactly:

E: "Have you ever seen 'The Little Children'? Kate Winslet? She's a stay-at-home mom. Anyway, there are these moms who go to a park, and there's this guy who is a stay-at-home dad, and the moms all call him The Prom King."

Me: "Why do they call him 'The Prom King'?"

E: "Because he's really good-looking and they get all swoon-y. So, R (E's husband) and I were watching it the other night, and I turned to him and said, "Don't worry, we don't say that about Shawn"."

Me (after a pause): "Oh. Well, I was never the Prom King."

Even though my immediate response could well have been "Ouch!", it wasn't, because I know her comment to R was about how the moms in the real group differ from the moms in the movie (not swooning, bored idiots, but awesome, professional women) rather than how I look (which is damned good all the time, thank you very much). And I never was the Prom King. But now I was conscious of being the dad in the group, and being out on a solo playdate now, and Hey, how am I perceived in this group of moms? But, that only preyed on my mind for the next hour, because I was about to be mortified.

The girls played for an hour, and we packed up to leave. Erin was in her backpack, and E was wheeling T over to their car in the stroller while Erin and I went to go in the opposite direction. And then, as I was turning to go E said something like "Oh wait [something unintelligible] kiss."

My next thoughts were very quick: (Are we at the kiss on the cheek stage in our relationship? I think I remember giving her a hug last time I saw her; I don't remember a kiss on the cheek. Who have I ever kissed on the cheek? Is E in that category now? Well, we've hung out a lot and I think we're pretty good friends. Ok, why not?)

I leaned in on the right (my right) and gave her a hug and a kiss on her left cheek. And then I hear in my left ear, something like: "I can't quite reach her."

I froze for a quarter-second eternity (drawing out the kiss on the cheek a little longer than the peck I had intended) and then I unfroze long enough to lower the backpack a little over my left shoulder so that E could kiss Erin . But now that I was lowering the backpack I became aware that I was still kind of half-hugging E; I had begun to un-hug her, but paused in mid-un-hug to bring Erin down to her level. So in this half-un-hug state my hands were drawing away from her back but were now more on her waist.

It was like we were dancing. At the Prom.

Oh. Nice. Jackass.

I finally pulled out of the hug (and the dancing cheek-to-cheek) and turned to leave for real this time, when E called out, waving: "Tell Emily that I love her and miss her!"

Not as much as I did, right then.

Someone just smack me.

This moment of embarrassing SAHD park hijinks brought to you by a 3 mile hike with 30 lbs on my back this morning and too much fencing last night.

A bad hockey nightmare I've had

Mon, 11 Feb 2008 04:06:29 GMT

I always thought these stories were kind of apocryphal: Pro hockey player gets his throat slashed by an errant skate blade. It makes a weird kind of sense, though, since hockey is played on skates, and skates are sharp, and necks are exposed on everyone except the goaltenders.

Tonight Richard Zednik of the Florida Panthers took a skate in the neck from one of his teammates (who was flying through the air after a weird check). Zednik is fine and conscious as of right now, and he left the ice under his own power; but still. Fuck. Skate to the neck??

Here's the video, you perverted bastards: