The Sweet Scout Chronicles

Don't Mess with Moms

I LOVE this piece from Pundit Kitchen. And I hope it will strengthen the wills of the already most powerful force in the world: mothers.

While I understand that there are battles my children have to deal with themselves, I have not and will not sit back from my kids being hurt or maligned in any way. You got an adult-sized problem with my kid? You have to get through me first.

And it ain't just my kids. I've been known to gently(ish) discipline my kids' schoolmates if they need it. And a few times I've even awkwardly intervened when a parent was losing their cool with a kid to the point of danger. I hope someone would do the same for me...as much as I love my girls, nobody can push my nuclear button like they can.

In summary, world...take notice. I'm watching. I'm watching how you treat my kids, my friends' kids, my kids' friends, and all those other kids. That team of doctors will be present you with a mighty hefty bill.

American Prayer

Two Years

She came by 'Maggie' indirectly from Magellan (because she was such an intrepid explorer...as a kitten and even on her last day in my front yard). But her full name, Maggie May, came from this song.

Still missed...still seen, though very seldom now. I think she knows we've got our hands full with Princess Fiona, her rightful heir.

Keep exploring, Maggie.

One More for Neo

Totally forget to mention this recently shared-love gem:

I'm surprised that there's some early-70s trivia that I DIDN'T know...but apparently the 'pilot' of "Happy Days" was this episode of "Love American Style." Too cool!

Neo? That's me and  you-oo-oo.

I Swear, It's the Truth

Yesterday, I heard this song on the way to work.  And inexplicably, I got a lump in my throat and tears came to my eyes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WpmILPAcRQo

(Sorry, couldn't find a decent embeddable version.)

Now, I will confess...I think "Dirty Dancing" is one of those completely wretched movies that is still a delicious guilty pleasure.  Behind "Road House" and "Red Dawn", I think it's one of the top examples of Patrick Swayze overacting. And it has one of the best movie lines ever uttered: "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

But still...I'd never much liked this song, and my reaction to it puzzled me somewhat.

But today I figured it out.

As you've likely surmised from my entries, the past several months at work have been very difficult. We've undergone change after change after change, losing so many valued coworkers and enduring repeated new directions to our program plans.

One bright spot for me, throughout all this turmoil, has been the people I work with. For instance, I have the honor and pleasure of 'supervising' some of the smartest, quickest, hardiest editors I've ever known. (I used the quotes because so little is needed on my part to supervise these folks...I've always contended that the main job of a manager is to make him/herself obsolete.  If I'm right, then I've certainly done my work. My editors continue, on a daily basis, to humble me and make me proud with their knowledge and their good work. THEY teach me something new every day.)

But my most favorite person to work with over the past year isn't even employed by my company. No, it's Neo--mentioned a few times before on this blog--our book designer who works for another company in the Chicago area.

The majority of the time Neo and I have spent together has been over the phone...collaborating on photo selections, status meetings, and 8-hr chapter layout meetings. He and I have been face-to-face only on two occasions...once when he came to Austin when the project first started and I briefly popped into a meeting he was in, and then again for a long lunch when I was visiting the Chicago area last spring.

I've worked with lots of book design folks over the past 15 years, and I can say without hesitation that Neo is by far the most talented designer I've ever had the pleasure to work with. He cares about each page and how the images work together with the text to provide the best possible educational impact to the student.  He's gone above and beyond any designer I've ever known to find the best images, to create the best balance between images and text, to make sure that every page is doing what it's supposed to do. It would be hard to make the average reader of the SSC understand how unprecedented this is--but in so many occasions in working with my editors on certain pages and pieces, I've said "Let's engage Neo on this to see how best we can make this work." I can't say that I've EVER had such confidence in a designer before in my career as an editor. And I'm simultaneously proud and humbled to know that he has a similar respect for me as an editor and editorial lead on a program strand.

But beyond all that...working with Neo has just been plain delightful. He's one of the funniest, easy-going people I've ever known. A lot of people dreaded those 8-hr chapter meetings but I secretly looked forward to them, because it meant lots of fun time in the presence of Neo and his talent and humor. Despite working together for less than a year, we developed lots 0f 'in' jokes that resulted in laughter and good times:  anything Hello Kitty, rusticles, narwhals, Marsha, dog-heaviness, kittens on skateboards,  sad trombones, male ballet dancers in unfortunate leotards...and, most recently, Schneider from "One Day at a Time. "

Well.

Remember the crummy goings-on at my company that I've chronicled in the past months/weeks? Here's what led me to understand my reaction to the cheesy song.

First, they took Robert (our former department director).

Then, they took Il Duce, my beloved boss.

Thursday, they took Neo.

That's right. Due to further 'organizational changes,' we are once again stopping the program that we are working on, which means that we are no longer engaging the design group we were collaborating with. Which means I am no longer working with Neo.

Soon, I expect that 'they' will come and start cutting off my fingers.

Okay, maybe that was a little morbid. But it's an accurate reflection of how pained I am and how uncertain I about what my 'work' is now. Whatever it is, I won't be doing it with anything close to the engagement I had before last Thursday.

Anyway, to loop back around...despite the sheer craziness of the past year, I've had some unbelievably rewarding times at work--and most of that is due to working with Neo.  Neo...I genuinely had the time of my life working with you over the past year. My job was not only bearable but also fun and rewarding.

And I owe it all to you.

Intermezzo

Yes, I've been gone for a long time. Yes, I've been blocked because of the horrific stuff happening at work. Yes, I've been distracted by Facebook (and trust me, there's a long blog entry [hopefully one-day publishable] about that).

But I haven't forgotten the SSC. Despite the exhaled whooshes of certain readers.

I promise to be back soon, blogging regularly--hopefully daily.

For now, I hope this will tide you over.

Found this on Cute Overload a coupla days ago. Clicked back to it about 30 times in one day, and laughed hysterically each time.

When I got home, I showed it to the Jr. Scouts. And THEY burst into hysterical laughter.

So here it is. The girls and I came up with great captions for each frame, but I'll save that for another post. For now...just enjoy this well-intentioned attempt at interspecies snorgling gone terribly awry.

http://mfrost.typepad.com/cute_overload/2009/01/no-exit-strateg.html

Until then...Happy New Year!!!  May all your friendships and relationships run more smoothly than that shown here!!!

For Myself

Let me be empty and weightless, and maybe I'll find some peace tonight.

Thanks, McLovin!

Thanks for all your Xmas presents today (sorry I broke the big one already--but really, what did you expect from me?!?) and for accompanying me on a very fun-filled lunch. And most of all, for introducing me to this great song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mVEGfH4s5g

Merry Christmas, and thanks for being my bestest girlfriend EVARRRR!

P.S. Let's learn that dance in the new year, mmkay?

A Song of Hope

Congratulations on your big day, Mr. and Mrs. Dad! Here's hoping your marriage is always a safe harbor.  Bon voyage!

(P.S. Pirate theme not intentional...it was the only version of the song that was embeddable. Works quite nicely, though...)

My Cover Is Blown...

Scout Nation, it's unlikely that you recall it but several months ago, during a long-lasting, late-night session of video making with my friend Jul, I managed to lift her flagging spirits with a cold-medicine-induced jaunt of midriff-baring, fake-cowbell-playing around her little editing studio to the tune of "Hard Day's Night." (For the record, that may be the greatest number of hyphens I've used in a paragraph.)

I assumed that Jul was laughing because she understood the source material I was riffing on. I learned today that this was a false assumption because, apparently, Jul has this thing called 'a life.' She had, in fact, never seen the legendary skit from Saturday Night Live in which Will Ferrell achieves cowbell genius.

But someone tipped her off, and now she knows that that bit, along with most of my unabashed ploys for making others laugh, is based on someone else's genius. But somehow, learning this seemed to make it even funnier to her.

It is said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. All I know is that I can make Jul laugh with my pale imitation. Though I really do think  (read: hope)  that my midriff imitation falls a *bit* short of the real deal.  (And don't you miss the word 'midriff'? Nobody says it anymore.)

Here now, the original iconic bit from SNL. And as funny as Will Ferrell and Christopher Walken are, also pay attention to Jimmy Fallon. His inability to keep a straight face is what really sends it over the top for me.

If Jul wants more cowbell, we should probably give her more cowbell!

It Was *Just* Like That, Except...

This morning, I did my usual morning thing, though with a little more dread than even usual...Wednesdays are my 8-hr-meeting days. Granted, they are usually pretty fun meetings and I get to spend good phone time with my favorite designer in Chicago, but still. Eight hours of slogging through any chapter of middle-school physical science can be mentally taxing, no matter how good the company.

Before the meeting I went to my office to pick up some needed reference materials. As I rounded the cubicle corner, I saw...Il Duce!!! He was standing outside my office, talking over a cubicle wall to one of my coworkers.

When he looked up and saw me walking toward him I said, "So, it really WAS a bad dream!!! You're NOT gone!!! This is just like that episode of "Dallas" when it turns out Bobby *wasn't* really dead and the entire preceding season had just been his wife's bad dream."

And then, in my inappropriate way, I had to add, "But of course, you're not naked in the shower...cuz that would be awkward."

As Il Duce stepped from behind the cubicle wall, I noticed he was wearing a 'visitor' nametag. Sigh. Turns out he was just dropping off some company stuff he still had at home. He gave me a big hug, I told him how much I missed him, he had a few M&Ms from the candy dish he bequeathed to me, and then I trudged off to my meeting.

It was then I realized how often during the scant 4 days he's been gone that I was still perpetually looking to see if his office door was open and his light was on (cuz I might then actually have a chance to talk to him briefly between meetings) or scanning to see his tall head moving among the cubicle valley.

On my way out of the department, though, a friend (who had obviously overheard my inappropriateness) stopped me and said, "I miss him so much I'd take the awkwardness of discovering him in the shower here at the office."

Ha!

Here's hoping Il Duce finds many more items to return to the company. Fully dressed and dry, of course.

Il Duce Has Left the Building

Scout Nation, last we spoke was before Thanksgiving, and I halfheartedly promised to post over that holiday. I should have known it was not to be. Aside from Bosco being laid low with a cold during that time, I was pretty much paralyzed emotionally and creatively by the impending layoffs that my coworkers and I knew to expect upon our return in December.

As it turned out, my job was safe and I am still employed.  I know I should feel lucky that in these economic times I didn't lose my job, but mostly I feel that I kept my position at too great a cost. You see, in addition to several other brilliant coworkers/treasured friends in my department, my boss--known on this blog as Il Duce--was also laid off.

Aside: The backstory of his nickname is this--Once Il Duce was telling me of a particularly heated discussion he had with our then-departmental director. In his retelling, he likened the scene to a tense standoff that occurred during WWII between Mussolini and Hitler over a piece of land in Italy. After his analogy, I queried for clarification--

"So, in this scenario, [Department Director] is Hitler."

"Yes."

"So, therefore you are Mussolini."

"Yes."

As the real Mussolini's nickname was Il Duce, I thereafter bestowed the nickname "Il Duce" to my boss, especially here on the blog.

Back to modern times.

This past Thursday, 12/4, my coworkers and I watched as several people were led into our now-director's office to be given the official news. In what I consider to be The Biggest Blunder Ever Made by a Corporate Entity in the History of Capitalist America (tm), Il Duce was the first called in.

Several of my coworkers and I watched in disbelief, in tears.

We considered a Quaker-type protest....a huge group of us standing silently outside the director's door, conscientiously objecting to Il Duce's passage to Human Resources for his 'outplacement counseling.' But we knew it would do no good, so we just continued to watch and cry as more and more of our dear friends were led down the hall and then to HR.

Later that day, after taking several of the finest people I've ever known out to lunch after their own 'separation from the company', I caught up with Il Duce.  After a long hug, this was our conversation:

Me: I'm EXTREMELY unhappy about this.

Il Duce: I understand that, and it's okay. But please, be happy for me. I'm happy.

And then he walked off. HUMMING.

All the people laid-off in my department were kept on the payroll another week, ostensibly to take care of unfinished business and transfer things to other folks as needed.

Il Duce was back on Friday morning, wearing dress clothes with a tie, no less (we have casual Fridays, and I've been so apathetic [and fat]  as of late I've not gone beyond jeans for the past couple of months). I went into his office for one final session of inappropriate questions.

Another detour: (I don't think I already mentioned this on the blog, but if I did, give me a break, ok? I had an 8-hour meeting today followed by a 2-hour Brownie Christmas party in *extremely* close quarters. My long-term memory is shot.) One of the best things about working for Il Duce is that I could ask him anything, tell him anything. I referred to this as my "inappropriate" sessions with him. Almost every day, I would go to his office, close his door, and either tell him things I shouldn't regarding office politics, etc, or I would ask him company questions that were not rightly my place to know the answer to. He always gave me an honest answer when he could, told me he didn't know when he seriously didn't know, and told me he couldn't tell me when it was OFFICIALLY none of my business. I cannot begin to express how much he taught me not just through his answers but also through his treatment of me and his serious commitment to my growth as an editor.

So last Friday, the day after Black Thursday (that's what we're calling it) , I went to his office for one more inappropriate session. I asked him, "Are you *really* happy about this? Or are you just putting on a brave face for the rest of us?" And he stopped his file-purging, looked me right in the eye, and said this:  "Let me tell you something. I couldn't sleep last night. And the reason is because for the first time in many years I'm EXCITED about my future."

This gives me comfort, though I have absolutely NO idea how I, much less our department, will get along without him. Il Duce was just coming up on his 18th anniversary with the company. The monumental amount of institutional/publishing knowledge that walked out the door with him is staggering. Despite his long tenure in the industry, he had visions for the future, was still taking risks, was ready to meet the challenge of the digital age full-on.

But it was not to be. And that's a damn shame for me, my company, the publishing industry, and the children of America.

Il Duce and I met about 14 years ago...he was still a baby editor, too, with just a few years' seniority over me. We never worked on the same products at that point, so he was always just my friend (and also my chemistry consultant). Occasionally, before he became such a high-falutin' exec with the company, he would grab me as we walked past each other in the hall and start waltzing with me. (He was instructed to give those kinds of shenanigans up as he rose to the management level of our company.) He came to my wedding. I have a treasured picture of him holding an 8-wk-old Bosco at a company party. Only once I returned to the company after a 4-yr hiatus did he become my boss---and our friendship deepened as we developed the most rewarding working relationship I've ever had.

Today was his last day in the office, and he spent it cleaning out his files and turned over lots of materials to other people. He was still there this afternoon, as I was leaving. I stopped in, and he honored the two requests I made of him before he left.

1) He can affect an awfully stern, loud voice that he often used to faux-yell at me: "DAMMIT  [my last name], WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!? This never did a lot of good, because I always dissolved into hysterical laughter whenever he unleashed it. At my request, he yelled at me one more time this afternoon--after I ensured that there were still coworkers around to hear it.

2) One last time, we waltzed together in the hallway.

At the edge of tears, I broke away and told him I would miss him and that I love him. He replied in kind, but then said, "Ill be around...we'll be in touch."

And that simple sentiment will be the last line of the 2008 Science Department quote list, which those of us that remain have decided to shut down after today. I will post that quote list here soon.

Long live Il Duce--my friend, my colleague, my boss, my mentor.  He will be missed...in so many ways, but most especially just as an everyday reassuring presence in my daily life.

P.S. Much to the Jr. Scouts' delight, Il Duce left me his company candy jar, which he always had filled with M&Ms. I vow to keep that jar always filled for the (dwindling) remaining editors in our department who need a sugar fix. Who knows...maybe I can even make them laugh by faux-yelling at them or answering and/or evading their inappropriate questions.

Honesty, though? I don't feel anything like fine.

Please Stay Tuned...

Yep, I've been absent here for a while...frankly the tribute to McLovin used up a lot of my creative juju. Not that I'm complaining...she's totally worth it!

Work is especially turbulent right now, which has led to less creative energy for the blog. Hopefully I will recharge over the long holiday weekend. Either that or I will go back to work Monday to find out I've been laid off (rumor has it that we'll know the official scoop by 12/5), and then I can blog blog blog all day!!!!  Only I'll have to get a sweet gig like the writer of www.dooce.com, who supports her whole family thru blogging.

Anyway, watch for stuff over the T-giving holiday. Maybe I'll even get Halloween stuff posted then!!!

Love, the Scouts

At Long Last: A Tribute to McLovin

Today, 11/14, is my dear friend McLovin's birthday. Because I've so often completely neglected her birthday in the past, I'm going to go overboard here and compliment/embarrass her as best I can.

Now, in no particular order, are The Reasons I Love McLovin:

--How she got her blog alias:  Out for an "off-site meeting" with some other female coworkers, McLovin and I went to see "Superbad." While the other women in our group were cringeing awkwardly in their seats and watching with one eye closed, McLovin and I were guffawing constantly and hysterically. Her blog alias comes from the nickname of the breakout star of the movie.

--BTW, when are we going to watch that together again!?!

--McLovin and I have a Mutually Assured Destruction Pact. We know sooooo much dirt on each other, if one of us spills we're BOTH goin' down.

--She's one of the top 5 readers/commenters of this blog. Sure, sometimes I have to MAKE her read it, but still...

--We have completely different tastes in men, in almost every single way. This means that not only do we not infringe on each other's market, we can offer objective opinions to each other about said markets.

--She thinks I'm funny. And she has an awesome laugh, which makes it even that much better. Some of my favorite memories of work are talking to her on the phone and hearing her laugh through the receiver while stereophonically hearing her laugh from across the building.

--If our company goes belly up, we have plans for an EXTREMELY successful moving company.

--We complement each other very well physically. She's dark and exotic, I'm fair and Celtic. She's bubbly and friendly, I tend to the shy and reserved in public. I've more than once been her 'wingman', and it's a role I not only don't mind but am happy to serve. Though I'm not above giving a 'come-to-Jesus' talk to any candy-ass 20-something boy that toys with her heart. I've wagged my finger in guys' faces and everything.

--She'll sing any song I ask her to at the Hut...and she'll keep singing even if my laughter at the hither-to-unknown lyrics (see: "Santeria") borders on hysterics such that I'm falling out of my chair and she can hardly stop laughing herself.

--We both think the word "Pronk" is extremely funny in a cartoon sound-effect way.

--She is freakin' COMPETENT. More and more in my life, I appreciate competence. McLovin doesn't hesitate if she doesn't know how to do something...she gets in there and figures it out or finds out who can tell her how to do it.

--She's hands-down the best dance partner I've ever had. (Sorry, Whit.) We could jitterbug the pants off anybody on that silly "Dancing With the Stars." If you want to be twirled, McLovin's your girl. (Hey...there's a motto there.)

--The Junior Scouts adore her. Really, what more stringent criterion is there? When I tell the girls I have a surprise for them they almost always ask "Is it McLovin?!?" (Well, they use her real name. But you know what I mean. And yes, GG, they almost always follow it up by asking if it's you.)

--I can tell her she looks like a bag lady...and while those around us are horrified at my insensitivity, she just laughs cuz she gets where I'm coming from.  And because really, she was actually going for the 'bag lady' look.

--No matter what I tell her, no matter how often I ask "Is that wrong?", she answers, convincingly, "No! Not at all!!!"

--She's been through hell and back, and she survived. She's had to make tough choices, but she always has done what's been right for HER. She helps me to understand every day that you can't take care of anybody else if you don't take care of yourself.

--She's a bigger sucker for adopting stray animals than I am. And THAT'S saying something.

--All my male friends are in love with her.

--She not only laughed at my particularly offensive curry joke, she still remained my friend after I said it.

--She understands, and doesn't question,  my feelings about Wilford Brimley mustaches.

--Three words: Hungry For Health. ROAWR!!!! (Or is that four words?)

--Despite our close friendship we can also work together professionally, quite well. She's saved my ass so many times at work I often call her the "Ass-Saver." I was technically her 'boss' for several months...that was a cushy job, lemme tell you. The girl is a dream to work with.

--She has tasty shoes (thank you, Marc Burgamy!!!).

--She's a role model. This is a girl who ROLLER BLADES to work. Like, many miles and stuff. I'm cranky if I have to sit through more than 3 minutes of commercials on my 10-minute drive to work. She's done marathons and half-marathons, on roller blades and off.

--She knows that you should always 'ask a trusted adult' for help if you have any kind of problem.

--When I asked her to house-sit for me, not only did she take care of and give lots of loving to my cats but she also fixed my dryer, oiled my squeaky door-hinges, and befriended my cranky alcoholic neighbor. THIS is McLovin in a nutshell.

--She's happy when I'm happy; she consoles me when I'm sad. She's ready and willing to stomp the s**t out of anybody who hurts me. She's willing to accept as her close friend anyone who's MY close friend.

Those are just a few of the reasons why I love you,  McLovin. I hope I get to help you celebrate many, many more birthdays. 

Bless your heart.   :-)

A Well-Earned Reward

GG, Have I Told You I Love You Lately?

How did you KNOW how much I adore Fozzie?!?

This includes one of my favorite movie lines ever (tell him, Tebe):

"A bear in his natural habitat...a Studebaker!!!"

The Resolution

Totally unexpectedly, but totally needed, I heard this song--my lifelong favorite--tonight. It really helped me.

Here's a beautiful cover from Ben Harper.

"The grand facade...so soon will burn. "

More thanks than I could ever express to sk8erboy and Grandma for your loving words today.

'Tis True...

Time asks no questions...it goes on without you.

Wisdom

The future's ahead of you. -- Grandma

I'm Still Here...

Just have been swamped with Halloween festivities, 50s day at the girls' school, myriad doctors' appointments, and the general daily soul-grind of feeling overworked yet underqualified in every part of my life.

Poor me.

Anyway, pics to come soon from the Fall Fest and Halloween activities.

It's Complicated Enough for the Adults...

Waiting for the 1st bell to ring this morning, I sat with the Jr. Scouts  and read some posted items from our schools' 5th graders. Seems they're learning about the Constitution, and these posted essays in particular were about the Constitution's preamble.

Each student was supposed to pick one piece of the preamble, analyze what it meant in modern terms, and then give a modern-day example.

Here's the one that stuck with me:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union...provide for the common defence....

The student wrote that this means that "we need a military force to protect our country from being attacked by other countries."

The student went on to write this (my itals added):

A modern-day example of this is Iraq.

Huh. I'm probably late in saying this, but I wasn't aware that Iraq was anywhere near capable of attacking the US.

Can only hope that the teacher, or the student's parents, helped clarify things for this kid.

And if so...maybe for the rest of the country?

More Butch Walker...

A perfect anthem to the modern love-sonnet: the mixtape.

I'm not the same person from back in the day.

I only wish there was more than that....

Lunch Preferences

Yesterday, the Junior Scouts and I attended their school's Fall Fest (what was known in my day as a Halloween Carnival).

Waiting in line for the Haunted House (participation in which is a major crowning achievement of reaching 5th grade at the school), the girls and I perused the many posters created to advertise the Haunted House.

One poster described the lunch menu of items available at the HH. (Dessert:  your own blood!!!!!!) I commented on the offering of "chilled monkey brains," stating that I preferred my monkey brains warmed to at least room temperature.

To which Bumby replied, "I prefer monkey brains still in the monkey's skull!"

(Fall fest pics to come soon, depending on how well I can ignore the hypnotic lure of Facebook.)

My Newest New Favorite Song

Eternal gratitude to my fellow MHS 80-something graduate, Sk8erboy, for turning me on to Butch Walker.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKMp980kKjQ

I can't wait to see you rise, and I can't wait for you to shine....

There Is No Life I Know...

10.19.

Hold your breath...make a wish...count to 3.

Happy Birthday, Mrs. Tebe!!

Here's wishing you the happiest birthday ever with the sweetest treats possible (and the teeniest of My Little Pony hats).

   

Watch for pics from our surprise BBQ round-up to come. Got some good shots of our beautiful girls.

With much love, from the Scouts!!!

The Donut Debate

Tired of presidential politics,  my new (old) friend Sk8erBoy--alias just now minted--and I have been having a Facebook debate about a certain yummy breakfast item. Here is how he elucidated his stance on donut toppings:

"Real men don't eat sprinkles."

Senator, this is one area in which we are in agreement.

Madness

Leaving work today, I turned on the radio in the middle of a song. I soon recognized the singer as Sheryl Crow. Frankly, I'm not a big Sheryl Crow fan. But I liked what I heard, so I kept listening. And soon, a man' s voice was singing along.

A duet. Cool. I looked at the radio console...one of the things that made me buy my car was that the radio display showed the radio station, song, and artist currently playing. (I'm easy that way...plus I liked the 6 speeds.) Pretty low-tech today, but 3 years ago that was IMPRESSIVE!!

And what did I see? Sheryl Crow and....KID ROCK.

OMG!!! I like yet ANOTHER Kid Rock song.

Kid Rock and me...one of us is changing. More than likely, it is both of us.

After the final presidential debate, I can't offer more analysis than this: It's a great song. Enjoy.

"I put your picture away...  sat down and cried today.''

Just When I Thought I Was Out...

They pull me back in.

You know I can't resist the interspecies snorgling. Plus, this makes me think of Fiona. And for those of you who've inquired...Fiona has settled in beautifully. Bonnie is still royally pissed, but Fiona knows to slink by her and offer her forehead to be batted thoroughly. Fiona and Malcolm have become the best of playmates. Occasionally Fiona can be seen to be snuggling with the girls, though the look on Fiona's face tells me it's rather begrudgingly. But best of all, Fiona comes near me and lowers her head, meaning she needs a good ear rubbing. She's got an awesome purr and is just becoming sweeter and sweeter.

If you don't remember (scroll down), I couldn't resist adopting Fiona because of her beautiful story of adopting other babies. Oh, and Fiona's an orange female, too (fairly rare)!

Mai problim...lets me show it 2 u

Sorry for the silence as of late, peeps...my work and life have just taken all the creativity out of me for this blog. I'm probably going to give it a rest for a while. Check back periodically, though...hopefully I'll break through the block soon. That, or I'll get laid off and can blog all day.

Kind of...Catchy

The Jr. Scouts (still enthralled with all things Harry Potter) love this video. They attempt to enact their own version of this 'song' often...even though there's only two of them.  Sometimes they begrudgingly let me join in, just for the extry voice.

My favorite part? Ron...Ron...RON WEASELY!!!

P.S. Why does Dumbledore mysteriously become naked halfway through?!?

This One's For You, McLovin...

who cannot take another 4 years of 'nukuler.'

One Month

Julius has been gone one month today.  It seems like so much longer. Looking back at his pics, maybe it's because he had slowly become so much more ill than than I could recognize? At any rate...as with Maggie, I've seen him again a few times. On the rug by the front door, and especially hanging out at the water bowl. (Friends tell me I'm not crazy...they've seen their pets, too, long after the pet's passing, much like I've seen and heard Maggie.)

At any rate...gone but so much not forgotten. I will always miss that paw on my arm or my face, demanding full attention be paid.

Julius, having his tuna breakfast with the Jr. Scouts, on his last morning with us:

Not here anymore, but not gone.

Whoops

TypePad was funky last night, so I couldn't actually see any of videos on my own blog last night. Imagine my surprise this morning to find that I'd accidentally loaded a bird pooping into a reporter's mouth as my new favorite song. C'mon, I'm not THAT jaded and cynical (yet).

Problem has been fixed. Please enjoy the correct video below.

Drown Me in Love

My new fave song, by semi-unknown artist Matt Nathanson.

He's been around a while, but this is the first song to get significant radio play.

I love that he's not the traditional pop pretty boy...wonder how long before he gets those snaggle-teeth fixed?

Also heard a radio interview with him...and he is funny. Very, very funny. And funny goes so far with me.

Hold on, hold on...

For All You Science Nerds Out There...

and I know there are a few amongst my regular readership:

(LHC = Large Hadron Collider...google it if you're not a science nerd but are still interested.)

All I can say is...at least the damn thing got built. At least it wasn't killed by a bunch of congressman who aren't interested in discovering what the first nanoseconds of the birth of our universe might have been like, or what further discoveries might be gained from such knowledge. And thereby they put hundreds of Texans out of work back in the early 90s. (Of course, I refer to the ill-fated Superconducting Supercollider project, not far from my then-home of Dallas.)

FWIW, I think discovery for discovery's sake is always worthwhile. But that's just me.

Oooh...Burn!

Huh...Hadn't Considered That Comparison

Ma'am, I Am Tonight

Rough weekend. Bile laid me low yet again, perhaps the worst since my last hospital stay. Sinuses got messed up, too. And too many memories.

The upshot was that the Jr. Scouts were housebound due to my being cut low. They were oblivious, building an intricate campsite in their bedroom. Complete with tents, lean-tos, and hiking trails.  I daresay they had more fun than if I'd taken them to SeaWorld, a fleeting thought I'd had on Friday night.

By this evening, I was feeling much better and decided to take them out for a fun dinner at Benihana, which they enjoyed very much. (I'm going to have to learn how to make a volcano with some onion slices and some oil, for sure.) And their joy made me feel so much better. On the way home, they were drowsing in the backseat when this song came on. For some reason, it gave me something to hold onto.

"Reverend Green be glad to see you, when you haven't got a prayer...."

That Was When I Ruled the World

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemies eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing:
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"

One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
Once you'd gone there was never, never an honest word
That was when I ruled the world

It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in.
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People could not believe what I'd become
Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh who would ever want to be king?

Hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

The Law of Kitteh Conservation

It would seem my life requires a 3-cat minimum.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Petsmart to buy some special dog food (and trust me, there's a separate blog entry coming about said dog food. Who blogs about DOG FOOD?!?). Still mourning Julius, I decided to go by the adoption center to see if there were any kittens to cheer me up.

While I adore kittens, I am immune to the lure of adopting one. The Jr. Scouts would just be too rough on one, and I'm not sure a kitten could stand his/her ground if our big dog Reilly managed to corner it.

So I thought I would just watch the kittens being kittens, and this would cheer me up. But of course, they had several older cats. Almost all of the kittens and cats were sleeping. I easily passed by the older ones...one was orange and white--too much like Julius. One looked like Maggie--nope. One was gray and white--nope, got one of those (Bonnie). Another almost-grown kitten was all black...too easily confused with Malcolm. I was safe.

Then I got to the end of the adoption window. Amidst all the sleeping cats, there was this one fairly grown, all-orange tabby sitting up, looking straight at me. NO MORE ORANGE! my heart said. But I looked at the 'story' tag outside the cat's window, and it said this cat was a female. No way, I thought. Orange females are rare. (This is because the gene for orange fur is a sex-linked trait...I'll spare you the rest of the genetics lesson, but the Jr. Scouts understand it fairly well now. They also understand why Bosco got The Dad's curved pinkies but Bumby didn't; they probably also now rue the fact that Mommy's got a degree in Biology). I figured the adoption folks must have gotten the gender wrong.

Which led me to read the rest of the story. "Puffin", as they called this cat, was about 8 months old. She was found abandoned and pregnant at around 5 months old. Soon after being taken into foster care, she gave birth to three kittens. One of the kittens didn't make it. Then, she took on 5 more abandoned infant kittens to nurse. So, pretty clearly, they had the gender right. Here was a hard-to-come-by orange female.

Wow. I looked back up at her, and she serenely gazed down at me with her gorgeous amber eyes. I told myself  "It's too soon, but what an amazing story," and kept shopping.  Took my stuff home, went about my regular life.

But she stayed with me. I couldn't stop thinking about Puffin.

So a couple of days later, I made a deal with the universe. (Scout Nation: Here's a perfect example of what the mental-health world calls 'magical thinking.') If I went back to Petsmart and she was still there, it meant I should call to see about meeting her.

So I went back. And of course, she was still there. This time she was sleeping. I tapped gently on the glass, and she opened one eye just enough for me to see that dark amber again.

I wrote down the adoption phone number. Later that evening I called and set up a time to see her the next day. My head was still saying, "I'm not going to get another cat. I'm still mourning Julius. I'm just going to meet this amazing cat and give her a little love for what she's been through."

My heart, however, was already going through all the girl names I love but would never give a kid. Blanche. Hazel. Harriet. Maude. Mabel.

Mabel.

Huh.

Back in 1992 (yes, I checked on Wikipedia), an episode of "Mad About You" aired in which Paul and Jamie couldn't decide what to name their infant daughter. They went back and forth, weary with the exhaustion only a newborn's parents know, unsure in the way that only a newborn's parents can be. Finally, Jamie's mother (played by Carol Burnett) showed up and scooped the baby right up, natural as can be. Jamie said something to the effect of "How do you know what to do with her?" And her mom answered "Mothers always bring extra love."

Mothers Always Bring Extra Love.

Mabel. Yep, that's what Paul and Jamie named their daughter.

And when I thought of that phrase "Mothers Always Bring Extra Love" and how it applied to Puffin, I literally got a chill up my spine. I knew she was going to be my cat. And her new name would be Mabel.

The next day, I met her.

And she was sooooooooooo NOT a Mabel.

She was out amongst a number of cats and kittens. She did not seek attention from me or the other humans present.  She didn't interact with the other older cats. When a kitten came near her, she whacked it on the head. (Come to think of it, if I'd had to nurse 7 infants at around the age of 11, I'd be pretty cranky around babies, too.) All she wanted to do was play with the toys, stretch her legs, and chase the feather on a stick.

The adoption folks told me that of all their cats, Puffin had been there the longest. I could see why. She was feisty and somewhat of a loner.

I like this in a girl. (That's how I got Maggie, btw.)

I signed the papers, wrote my check, and said I'd be back to pick her up the next day. I knew it was probably best to introduce her to the household while the Jr. Scouts were with The Dad, so she could have some decent decompression time.

On my way to pick up the girls that afternoon, I thought of more-fitting names. This cat was regal, almost tigress-like, independent, and totally not what I expected.  I sensed her name needed to be something ending with an 'a.' I almost went with 'Elsa.' Honestly, the cat she reminded me most of was Christian the lion cub, previously chronicled on this blog.

Then it hit me: Fiona. Regal, feisty, independent, a redhead, and not what was expected. Just like Princess Fiona of "Shrek" fame.

 I picked up the girls, showed them the pictures I'd taken at the adoption center, and told them the name I'd thought of. "YES!!! Fiona!" they agreed.

That night, we talked about how Fiona was not a replacement for Julius. How we missed Julius and he would always be with us (in fact, I'd picked up his ashes shortly after meeting Fiona). But, much like it seemed that Maggie had told us that Malcolm needed all that extra love we had, it seemed that Julius was telling us that there was another cat that needed us. And Fiona was that cat.

We also came up with possible nicknames: Fifi, Fi-Fye-Fo, Fio, Puffiona (to incorporate her former name), and Fiona Applesauce (which blends the pop star's name with the girls' favorite fruity dessert).

Fiona's now been here for 5 days. Bonnie's still totally pissed off, but Fiona and Malcolm have already developed a sibling relationship, tearing through the house and smiting each other on the noggin in a crazy game of 'whack-a-mole' in which one cat reaches up from under a chair and the other cat leans over the edge. Back and forth, back and forth...it's quite hilarious.

As I've written this, Fiona has tried to leap into my lap at least a dozen times...she doesn't give a fig that there's a laptop in the way, though I keep gently lifting her back down to the floor. From the moment she came into the house, she became more sweet, inquisitive, and loving. She has a purr almost as big as Julius's. Almost. No cat could ever match that motorboat.  Amongst her (like Julius) incredibly long white whiskers, she has one black whisker. I've also noticed that she's slightly cross-eyed, which just makes her that much more endearing to me.

I looked up the meaning of "Fiona", and it means 'pale.' Which is fitting, as her orange is a paler shade of Julius's. Her eyes, however...her eyes are the exact same shade of burnt orange as Julius's fur was. I like to think she's a reminder to never forget Julius but to always remember to move on, too, when one story ends.

If Fiona lives as long as Julius, then she will be with me til I'm almost 60. I can't wait to see what this story brings.

____________________________________________

Earlier this week I sent some of my fellow editors a pic of Fiona along with my thoughts on the law of kitteh conservation in my household. My smartest, funniest physical science editor made this lolcat for me:

 

All hail Princess Fiona!!!

Though It's Almost OvARRRRRRGH...

Happy 'International Talk Like a Pirate Day!'

This is a BIG holiday in my department at work. And even though I worked at home today, through the wonders of the IntARRRRRGHwebs and remote connectivity I was able to partake of the pirate goodness that abounded.

For example, someone emailed in about "Just exactly what are we supposed to finalize at step ARRRRRGH of the production schedule?"

Jokes were circulated: How do you know you're a pirate? You just ARRRRRGH.

I was introduced to a pirate keyboard (only one letter...R. Would make manuscript development soooo much easier.).

And though I was only connected via email, I was still called 'matey,' told to 'walk the plank' (can't I just lie down on it? I'm so tiARRRRRGHed), and saw the phrase 'Avast ye' several times in the opening lines of serious emails.

Again...if we couldn't laugh...

So...today, at least: "I'm a pirate, that I be!!!"

Maybe If We Think and Wish and Hope...

In the 15 minutes or so between the time I lie down and I crash into sleep lately, I've been re-reading my Sarah Vowell collection. In one story from Take the Cannoli, she talks about her love for the Beach Boys' song "Wouldn't It Be Nice."

Which dredged up something...

Verrry early in my pregnancy with Bosco, I had lots of aversions and a few cravings. Not atypical, if you're talking about food.

I had the food ones, but I also had aversions to and cravings for MUSIC.

At the time I was trying to listen to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, a Pakistani singer of Sufi devotional music. I wasn't trying to be pretentious, I swear. A friend had played some of his songs for me a few weeks previously, and I really liked it.

But newly pregnant, I couldn't listen to it. It made me nauseated. Seriously. No matter how often or how many different times of day I tried to listen to it.

What I craved? The Beach Boys. I have no idea why. I'd had no real exposure to the Beach Boys in my life, except for that gawd-awful 'Kokomo' during my college years. But suddenly I couldn't get enough. I wore out a burned copy of the Beach Boys' Greatest Hits.

In particular, I craved "Wouldn't It Be Nice." In those first three months I could listen to that song hundreds of times in a row, much like later in that same pregnancy I could have Tuna Helper at every meal (and between) for weeks at a time.

Just remember: I was not driving that music/tuna bus. Bosco was.

Anyway...the literary reminder made me pull up the song on YouTube, and it brought back a rush of much-needed warm, happy feelings. Really....wouldn't it be nice?

If I Couldn't Laugh...

Today was brutal.

I sat through an 8-hour meeting. The first of many such weekly 8-hour meetings. Until January, when they become twice-weekly 8-hour meetings.

Despite said meeting, I learned extraneous things.

For example, a vendor that we've been working with closely for months, whose Chicago-area employees I'm grown incredibly fond of, may leave our project.

Also, an esteemed member of the very old guard of my company (15+ years) is leaving next month for a scandal-shrouded reason.

Finally, after all this, I got back to my desk around 5 pm to find this voicemail waiting for me:

"Hi! Julius is back! We'll be here until 6 pm if you want to come pick him up."

(The few neurons still functioning finally figured out this was the receptionist at my vet's office, telling me Julius's ashes were back for me to pick up.)

On my way out of the office, I stopped in to talk to a coworker, who's been dealing with the same stressful work conditions with her own team.

I told her about the phone call from the vet, using the exact wording I heard in the message.

She said, "God, that's like Pet Sematary!" (the Stephen King book about pets coming back to life, misspelling intentional)

And I then pretended that I'd answered the call, using my mock finger-phone...

"Is this Stephen King?  I told you NEVER to call me here!!!"

And we both dissolved into scarily crazed laughter.

Somewhere this side of the rainbow bridge, Julius is meow-talking his approval at my deranged ability to cope. And probably pouncing on Maggie just for the helluvit.

I've Already Made My Choice

Palin! Palin! Palin!

I especially appreciate the tough stance on the environment.

Will You Recognize Me?

The Jr. Scouts are quite enamored of this commercial:

After seeing it for the first time, they were rockin' around the house singing "Don't you forget about me" and trying to do that side-to-side shuffle dance.

Imagine their surprise when I flawlessly executed that dance move myself.

"How do you KNOW that?!?" they disbelievingly asked.

I explained briefly that that whole commercial was based on a very important movie from my younger years. To which they responded, "Oooookay...now show us how to do the dance!!!" Which I did, though I'm not quite sure they've gotten it yet. I think you have to be a teen to do it right.

Of course, the movie being ripped off in this commercial is "The Breakfast Club." I have seriously mixed emotions about this commercial and how it trivializes such a ground-breaking film about being a teen in the 80s and teenhood in general. But I'll save that for another post. For now...here's the real thing:

And Tebe? Major props to you for pointing out, I think after even your very first viewing of this movie, that during the opening credits the camera pans across a previous class's photo showing that Carl the Janitor was president of his class at Shermer High. It's one of those special John Hughes nuances that lends such weight to (some of) his films.

P.S. And Jul? Beyond the movie, this song will forever remind me of Robert's video and our time spent making it.  (See the entry http://sweetscout.typepad.com/sschronicles/2008/02/salute-to-rober.html )

Guest Blog Entry: Grandparents' Day Lunch

As noted a few posts below, Sunday 9/7 was Grandparents' Day. On Friday 9/5, the Jr. Scouts' school hosted a Grandparents' Day lunch, to which all students' grandparents were invited. Because I couldn't realistically ask the Scouts' true grandparents to travel great distances for a crappy cafeteria meal, I asked my friend, known on this blog as "The Friend," to pinch-hit. He's the closest thing the girls have to a local grandparent.

Below is The Friend's recounting of his experience dining with a bunch of elementary school kiddos, including Bosco and Bumby. Enjoy.

____________________________________________________________

The invitation to attend the Scouts’ school’s Grandparents Lunch Day was an honor I would never refuse. As I spied other grandparents in the elementary foyer, I knew I could also qualify for the Great Grandparents Lunch Day, if such is ever offered.

Bumby’s class came down the hall first. She spotted me from yards away. Her arms hung straight by her sides. She waved by lifting the left hand at the wrist. Of course, I waved with a cheerleader’s gusto. Her eyes said, “No! No! Be calm! Be normal!” but her arm bent at the elbow. This wave, though half-mast, was whole-hearted.

As we walked side by side to the cafeteria, I peppered her with questions. She responded with the most informative monosyllables. As we stood just outside the actual serving area, the boy right behind us became ill. [Blogger's note: He yarfed all over the floor.] I was sorry for him while I was glad it wasn’t Bumby. She was sorry for him while she was glad it interrupted my questioning.

Once facing the food choices, she quickly took a pb&j sandwich, corn, graham crackers, and a fruitcicle. I took the tuna-stuffed tomato and some grapes.

At her class’s table she was quick to eat half of her (half) pb&j before going for the fruitcicle. That’s when Bumby ordered me to move down one seat “so you’ll be across from me; I’m going over there” as she got up, grabbed her tray, darted to the other side of the table and started to plop between two boys.

As the one on her right blocked the seat with his leg and grinned, Bumby reminded him authoritatively that he cannot save an empty seat. She lithely slipped between Matteo (seat blocker) and Kade (innocent bysitter). She directed everyone’s conversation—Matteo’s, Kade’s, and mine—from her seat of power.

[Blogger's note: Bumby and Matteo have been in class together since kindergarten. They have struggled mightily with each other, for three years, for the unspoken title of Class Monarch. I wait, with great interest and a little trepidation, to see who will ultimately prevail. But I'd put my money on Bumby.]

The cafeteria aide summoned kids to line up: boys along one taped floor stripe, girls along the other. Ms. Teacher came and headed the line back to their classroom. Seizing every moment, I went along for the walk. With four around each table and edu-stuff everywhere, Bumby’s classroom has come a long way since 1956!

Then I hustled back to the main lobby and asked the teacher on duty when Bosco’s class was due. She wasn’t sure if they’d already come by and suggested I check the cafeteria.

Standing in the exact spot where I’d stood with Bumby before (during her classmate’s upheavals) was one very sad-looking Bosco. “No one’s here to have lunch with me” was written all over her face and underlined by arms crossed tightly across her chest. I’ll admit I was relieved and ego-flated when I saw her eyes light up and a smile stretch her face. So, as Bumby’s initial greeting was a wrist-flap, Bosco’s was a full-out hug. (I’ll take both, thank you very much!)

We talked through the line about her morning classes. She took pizza and corn and grapes and a different flavor fruitcicle. I was just watching this round. Something standard about the order of consumption by kids these days: half the pizza slice then the fruitcicle then two forkfuls of corn and none of the grapes.

Bosco sat beside me through lunch. Much of her attention was directed at the friend at an adjacent table. Much of the attention directed at her was from two boys across from us. The one whose grandmother sat beside him was stunned when I called him by name without introduction…until I point out that his name was printed on his lunch bag. Bosco gave me a “that was a good one!” nudge on my arm.

I noticed how quiet, even demure, she was as we sat. She offered snippets of information. She remained constantly aware of everything happening 360 around her. Her voice was quiet; her smile was constant. She gives “childhood” the perfect image.

The line-up-to-march-back-to-classroom routine was repeated, perhaps a bit more sedately by fourth graders. Their classroom looked more familiar to me, perhaps because 1958 was two years closer.

Presumptuously, I am looking forward to a possible invitation next year.

A Noticing Machine

GG sent me a link to this tribute (from the Chicago Tribune) to David Foster Wallace, which is much more complete than the one I posted below. I had a love/hate relationship with DFW's writing...I first read his essay collection A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again 8 or so years ago, after reading that, essentially, all the 'really cool' literary people were reading it. You have to be dedicated to read his stuff--this is a terribly reductionist analogy, but it's a lot like watching an episode of "Law & Order": let your mind wander for even a minute and you will be hopelessly lost. And while I love the form and function of footnotes, his were infuriating--entire plot points, almost entire stories were held within his footnotes. But by the time I got just one page into the final essay, for which the entire collection is named, I was hooked. That such a tremendously gifted intellectual wordsmith could so smartly and funnily deconstruct a trip on a cruise ship made me a believer.

A word of humble advice...if you've never read any David Foster Wallace but find that you might like to give it a try, DO NOT start with Infinite Jest. It's just too overwhelming and huge (or at least it was--and is--to me). I'd suggest ASFTINDA or Brief Interviews with Hideous Men (which is being made into a movie by John Krasinski from "The Office").

I'm once again trying to give Infinite Jest a shot, in honor of its writer--gone too soon.

__________________________________________________________

David Foster Wallace: 'a mind that seemed to see everything on every level all at once'

After David Foster Wallace became a twentysomething literary phenom—after the publication of his first novel (“The Broom of the System,” 1987) and short-story collection (“Girl With Curious Hair,” 1989) got the Thomas Pynchon comparisons flowing—he checked himself into a hospital and asked to be put on suicide watch. “In a weird way it seemed like there was something very American about what was going on, that things were getting better and better for me in terms of all the stuff I thought I wanted, and I was getting unhappier and unhappier,” he told me in 1996 upon the publication of “Infinite Jest,” the 1,000-plus-page novel that would cement his status as one the few modern-day literary giants. At the time, Wallace, who grew up in Urbana, was teaching English literature and creative writing at Illinois State University in Normal, and he strove to maintain a sense of normality even as reviewers such as New York magazine’s Walter Kirn were raving about “Infinite Jest”: “It’s as though Paul Bunyan had joined the NFL or Wittgenstein had gone on ‘Jeopardy!’ The novel is that colossally disruptive. And that spectacularly good.” By many accounts, he succeeded; his former students and colleagues remember him as a deeply caring person whose casual persona as the bandanna-wearing “Dave” was far removed from his lofty literary reputation. So the news that the 46-year-old writer was found dead by his wife Friday night after apparently hanging himself in his California home sparked equal parts shock, sadness and an aching sense of loss among those who knew him and his writings. “He had a mind that seemed to see everything on every level all at once,” said Michael Pietsch, publisher of Little, Brown, longtime home to Wallace’s works. “Beside the talent that left every other writer I knew in awe of him, he was just so gentle and tried not to be intimidating, a man who went out of his way to be fair, to be understanding to be kind. “I feel every word I speak is a ridiculous reduction of a mind and a talent that no one could begin to grasp.” Wallace, who received a MacArthur Foundation “genius grant” in 1997, had moved from Illinois State to Pomona College’s English Department in 2002 to take a tenured position endowed by Roy E. Disney. Although he didn’t publish another novel after “Infinite Jest,” he remained a prolific writer of essays (many, myself included, think the title piece of the 1998 collection “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” an account of a hellish vacation cruise, is one of the funniest-ever pieces of magazine journalism) and short stories (“Oblivion,” his latest collection, came out in 2004). In June, Little, Brown reissued Wallace’s account of John McCain’s 2000 presidential campaign as the paperback “McCain’s Promise: Aboard the Straight Talk Express With John McCain and a Whole Bunch of Actual Reporters, Thinking About Hope.” Wallace wrote with an oversize personality but avoided celebrity. His writing was intellectual and emotional, hilarious and dazzling. He used big words, and made an art form of footnotes and endnotes. He also was prescient: “Infinite Jest” envisioned people pleasuring themselves to death through entertainment in a world in which everything, even years, had corporate sponsors. Yet as lively and satirical as that book was, he told me his primary goal was “to do a book that was sad.” Said Pietsch: “The experiences of pain in that book are many, but at the same time it’s a celebration of every one of them for their spirit and their resilience.” Tim Feeney, who took undergraduate and graduate classes with Wallace at Illinois State, remembered his former teacher as a big-brother type who, “once you had his trust, he would do anything for you. He was a big dude, about 6-foot-3, but a real gentle guy.” Feeney also was knocked out by Wallace’s observational and analytical powers. “He could just talk extemporaneously about anything. He just knew so much. He was just a noticing machine.” “He seemed like a person who was really into life, really had an interesting perspective on things,” said Juventino Manzano, one of Wallace’s undergraduate students in 2001. “We’ve had this loss of all these great minds lately, like George Carlin, and now we’re losing someone who was definitely an American original.” Like many brilliant minds, Wallace nonetheless struggled to find meaning in existence, light against the darkness. It’s no wonder that this passage from his 2005 commencement speech at Kenyon College is now making the Internet rounds: “Learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about, quote, the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master. “This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.” When Feeney arrived at Babbitt’s Books in Normal on Sunday morning to open the store that he manages, he put a sign on the door that read, “David Foster Wallace, 1962-2008,” and he reprinted the last line of “Infinite Jest”: “And when he came back to, he was flat on his back on the beach in the freezing sand, and it was raining out of a low sky, and the tide was way out.”

Sad, Puzzling, and Infuriating

From Entertainment Weekly's website:

Remembering David Foster Wallace

"...I have heard steel drums and eaten conch fritters and watched a woman in silver lamé projectile-vomit inside a glass elevator…. I have now heard — and am powerless to describe — elevator reggae music. I have learned what it is to become afraid of one’s own toilet…" And so, in a sublimely wry and supremely hilarious 1996 article in Harper’s magazine, the late David Foster Wallace captured the soulless pleasures and infantilizing excesses of a luxury Caribbean cruise.  I remember reading — and hurriedly rereading — this story while flying across the Pacific in the crowded cabin of a 747, unsuccessfully suppressing guffaws and chortles as my brother shot me looks of bewildered annoyance.  It wasn’t DFW’s first published piece, but it was for me and many friends the one that placed him firmly in our radar — one that started, in those pre-Google days, frantic searches for whatever else he had written. (I can say, with absolute certainty, that I've recommended this article, now the title piece in the collection A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, to no fewer than 100 persons, including more than a few complete strangers.)

I was able to track down another story he had written for Harper’s, a travelogue describing a weekend visit to the Illinois State Fair, which he turned into a harrowing journey through the soft underbelly of Middle America. Even better, I was delighted to discover that his cruise story was no fluke — and in reading more of his magazine work (he had already had written several works of fiction), it was clear he was creating something of a signature style: a whip-smart blend of essay and reportage, larded with his witty observational asides and (often copious) footnotes. Taken individually, these stories were impressionistic but detailed sketches of a wide range of subjects, including director David Lynch, the 2000 presidential campaign of John McCain, the state of American lexicography, and the goings-on at an adult-film convention. Collectively, they may be considered an ongoing narrative of American pop culture: brilliant pieces in a now sadly unfinished mosaic. (I also liked what little I read of his fiction: all of Brief Interviews With Hideous Men, some of Oblivion, and the first 130 pages of Infinite Jest, the once bright-orange spine of the paperback edition now faded to a sickly salmon.)

But nowhere in my sometimes scarily close readings of his words can I recall any hints of a troubled mind: If nothing else, Wallace seemed profoundly grounded and self-aware. Which makes his final actions sad and puzzling (and even, to many a fan I talked to this morning, infuriating). In fact, I'm not sure if I've really taken in the full measure of his untimely passing. In any case, rather than speculating on what may have caused this gifted writer and married man to take his own life at 46, let’s instead talk about his rich legacy. What are your favorite David Foster Wallace stories? And how were you first introduced to his work?

To the Grandparents, With Apologies

Last Sunday, 9/7, was Grandparents' Day. Due to my preoccupation with many things, mostly Julius's death and its aftermath, I completely dropped the ball on getting the appropriate cards and greetings sent out.

Luckily, all the grandparents know that I tend to run late with such things anyway (still working on that bday present for you, Grandma).

Better late than never, here's my tribute to the Scouts' grandparents. It's directed at the grandmothers, but I think Papa will get a kick out of it anyway.

The Grandmothers' Song:

(Yes, that is Steve Martin, from the groundbreaking 70s comedy album "Let's Get Small." (I had it on 8-track tape.)  The pic above shows Steve Martin with a fake arrow through his head...someday you'll see an extreeeeemely interesting post about an adventure Tebe had in his younger days while wearing a similar fake arrow.)

Just promise me, grandparents...if you DO decide to put a live chicken in your underwear, give me advance notice. I want to videotape it. And then put it on the blog, natch.

Happy (Belated) Grandparents' Day to Nana, Grandma, and Papa!! (And to Granddad Scout and Grandpa, too--may you get a good laugh out of this together.)