LETTER

Guest Blogger: Dad

Sunday, Nov. 5th

Dear Mari,

Sorry to be so long in answering your very nice letter of Oct. 7th. It was beautifully written. I hope you are doing well on your clarinet & in school & having a little fun too. Glad that you liked the little kitten I sent to you. It wasn't much but it was something at least.

I am sincerely sorry for being away so long Mari but there is nothing that can be done about it. Dad is trying to get this company going over here so that we can have a little more money to buy some of the things we would like to have. It looks pretty good but it all takes a lot of time. I don't know when I will be home. I thought it would be a long time before this.

The Osmonds are over here & there were 6000 girls to meet them at the London Airport. On television to-night they had a big variety show at the London Palladium & the queen & others were there. The Jackson 5 were one of the acts & went over very big.

The kids like the same type of music over here as they do in the U.S. & have a lot of American records as well as groups of their own -- some are very good.

To-day is Guy Fawkes Day -- an ancient holiday here in England. It is celebrated with big bonfires on Saturday night & fireworks displays. Also kids over 12 can buy fireworks over here so there has been a bit of noise about. There have been a lot of warnings over radio & tv about the safe use of fireworks.

Well, write to me when you can & let me know what you are doing. Always enjoy your nice newsy letters -- keep well & will see you as soon as I can.

Love,
Dad

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SEE

As I was driving around this morning, I allowed myself just enough non-vigilance to be able to notice the flashes of moments around me, as the traffic swirled and crossed and surged. That is how I see things, often -- in frozen snapshots. Something catches my eye, and a story starts to form around the image. All of this takes place in a split second, and some of the ideas remain, and some slip away as fast as they came. There are times I would like to pull off the road and start writing, stop time, but that would just be silly, huh.

I guess this is part of the way I have formed my brain, from experience as a photographer and writer -- to sort and focus the visual instantly, and to create meaning from it, or at least amusement. I have done this as far back as I can remember, and that is a long-ass time. Maybe everyone does that, I have no idea. In any case, now I have an idea for a project that I am very excited about. I will do something about it sometime; whether or not it is ever shared with anyone doesn't matter all that much, although that would be nice. It is just good to figure things out sometimes, and work with the things that get you all "ooh!"

When I get caught up in the laundry or other mindless numbing details of life on this planet, I will look back to this post and remind myself that I have some good work to do, and one of those times, I will do it. That makes me happy.

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NOTIRONY 2

As a reminder that fall is coming, today the zipper to my summer purse, an Ed Hardy bookbag style with skulls that has been both described as "cool" and "hideous," broke irreparably.

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SCHOOL 2

First day back at school for the elementary two. It's a 1/2 day where the parents stand around and look adoringly at their children, and then at their watches, then back adoringly at their children. Some of the kids were excited, some shy, some sleepy, some crabby, some lost, some self-assured. Mine were Excited + Lost and Sleepy + Crabby. I was Sleepy + Crabby + Lost, as I could not find a damn parking space at the school despite three go-rounds. I parked briefly at the Shell station, finished drinking one of the best coffees I have ever had (from the OOGCP), read the "WE TOW UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES" sign, then decided another space was warranted. Eventually, all was well.

It was a pretty, sunny, and warm day as all the kids and parents and staff gathered on the playfield. I cringed as the very nice principal during her speech said, "you guys'es" and "thank you for giving us your childrens." I smirked when a tiny tow-headed friend of my daughter booed every teacher that was introduced, until another mom made him stop. I looked at all the first-time parents, bringing their first-born to their first day of school ever. They look so hopeful and sentimental. HA HA! My children's teachers look like teenagers. Good luck, miss'es.

I hope it all goes well, of course I do. I always do. I am always hopeful.

Odds are I get either a note home or call from the principal by Friday = PLACE YOUR BETS NOW!

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AIRPLANE 2

Going back to Seattle this morning. The Super Shuttle arrived on time, the five bags we brought out somehow turned into eight, stuffed to bursting. Got to the airport with only one complication: teenager lost his phone. OMG OMG OMG! He figured it was on the shuttle, and I rolled my eyes at him while handing him my phone to call his grandparents, who could call the shuttle company. A Minor Miracle occurred then, wherein it was discovered that our very shuttle, with our very same incredibly volleyball-shaped driver, pulled up to pick up more passengers. The Very Important Phone was indeed found, so now he can go back to talking to god-knows-who and taking weird random cell phone pictures.

This Labor Day flight is not completely full, and everyone seems sleepy and quiet. My ten-year-old is getting a cold, teen is drawing graffiti-type sketches, no doubt to mark up his new school, and the almost-1st grader is compulsively drawing hearts and her own name and flowers. I guess if she was drawing gruesome car crashes or slaughterhouses, then I should worry. Stupidly, I drank a cup of coffee plus a Venti Iced Latte before I got on the plane, so I have had to use the filthy plane potty twice already. I especially love wiping off other people’s pee from the seat, but I can hover like a champ with my Thighs of Steeeeeel. But, still. Eww.

Tomorrow school starts, so I have the exciting misery of filling out tons of paperwork, identical to the paperwork I fill out each and every damn year, writing out tuition checks, and going grocery shopping. This year, the school where the two youngest go have no hot lunch program so I have what I consider an extra pile of AM Hell in store: making school lunches. Whatever I seem to make, seems to get half-eaten or un-eaten, and I think on Fridays I might start to make the lunches and dump them immediately into the garbage. They really don’t need to take a ride and sit for hours, just go straight into the can, why not? Sometimes the entire lunchbox also gets tossed out at school. I would have them make their own lunches but it would just consist of marshmallows, uncooked Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, chocolate chips, and video games. I don’t need any more calls from the principal. That’s OK.

The only good part of the day to come still is that I will see our dog in a few hours. She goes to what is surely the country club of dog sitters – a kind English couple who have a beautiful home on Lake Washington with a big long grass lawn. She gets to take long walks, swim in the lake, sleep wherever she likes in the house, and gets treated with lots of love. If I were my dog, I would not want to come home again, but she always does, and is always so delighted to see us all. She will run around for a bit, all excited, take a huge slurp of cold water from her shiny silver bowl, then will go outside and nap in the cool dirt of the flower bed for the rest of the day. If only I could do the same.

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SOLVED

This is a Truth: Most problems I have with people could be solved by my use of an airhorn and/or a paintball gun.

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SQUIZMO

Guest Blogger: Bill from Chicago

Hey all y'all. I didn't even know my hostess blogged so I don't know what confections y'all are used to. I do know that there's a ping pong sized knot in my gut where common sense used to be.

We pulled into The Kiltie for dinner, a vintage Oconomowoc drive-in diner. My daughter ordered the fish filet (rhymes with "kill it") and I had the Pizza Steak, a chocolate malt AND a mollyfloggin Mellow Mint (soft serve sundae with fudge, mint and marshmallow).
All I can say by way of justification is "FAILBOATS fat man."

We drove up to Wisconsin this morning to reunite with your lovely blogstress after six years separation. It's the weekend of Harley Fest so the road was filled with bikers. My vivacious wife (pork tenderloin and a lime shake with custard topping) kept clicking photos of cycles with leather fringe and 'coon tails.

She got a shot of the daughter with a canvas bag over her head in the back seat. She took a picture of an enormous cheesecake and some ugly condos. Somehow she failed to notice the six foot transvestite with acne and razor burn standing in line behind us at the Mars Cheese Castle. That would have been a holiday memory.

Happy Labor Day one and all. Solidarity. Worker's Power. Smash the State. Thanks to the people who gave us the Weekend.

We now return control to your regularly scheduled blogger.

(Unless you'd rather start you're Chanuka shopping early. Check out a Guitar Hebrew t-shirt at http://www.cafepress.com/lov3/4759297 )

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SHOW

More Harley Fest shenanigans today, once again to see BRMC. The day's timing was befouled and I ended up running late, driven by my niece into Milwaukee. The traffic started clogging badly as we got closer to the lakefront, motorcycles everywhere. One of my "things" is that I HATE being late for anything. HATE IT. Especially movies and rock shows. The car clock was ticking away, 15 minutes to showtime, and we are dead stopped. To add to the fun, the car was nearly out of gas and kept telling us so. EEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Tick tick tick, finally get within a few hundred feet of where she was going to drop me off. Big sign: "NO PEDESTRIAN DROP OFF." CRAP! The cops were out in full force too, waving people to keep moving towards to parking lots. We devise a plan; there is no time for parking, and the car must find petrol or the day gets substantially worse for my niece. Once we pass the cops, we pull ahead, get a tiny bit of distance between us and the car behind and my niece says, "GO GO GO!" I jump out of the still-moving car, slam the door behind me without a look back, and start running to the entry gate. I jog past a security worker, and he goes "LOOKING GOOD, SWEETHEART!" and I wave, not stopping to determine if he was serious or sarcastic. I do not care. I HAVE ROCK TO SEE!

It's hot, I have to pee, and I have really no idea where I am going, but I find the main gate, show my elaborate ticket, zip into the women's bathroom, zip out, run run run. The stages seem to be in a row. First one, no. Second one, yes, yes I think that is it. I round the corner, see a bunch of biker folks sitting on flat silver bleachers, look up, and there is Peter Hayes of the band soundchecking. Two minutes to showtime, I walk to an empty spot in the front row, and smile. I made it. The girl next to me smiles and asks if I was at the show the night before, and the extremely-skinny and rocked out teen on my other side wonders if I will be able to see OK. I was, and I can. The show begins, and I am grateful and happy to see them again, even though it was just a few hours ago from the last show.

The bikers seem appreciative of the music, I get lots of good photos, and smile to myself, because I will see them again in Seattle in a few days. I really love music. I drank two bottles of water, tossed a terrible iced latte, ate a decent brat, and called it a day. Go me.

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CAN'TSEE

Can’t see the stars for the clouds
Can’t see the road for the rocks
Can’t seem to open the door
Don’t have the keys to the locks

Can’t see the sky for the leaves
Can’t see the forest for the trees
Can’t seem to make my way through
Don’t know how to get off my knees

Can’t make it happen, can’t make it happen
Can’t will it away, can’t wish it to be
Can’t see a way out, can’t see a way in
Can’t make it, can’t take it, can’t do it, can’t see

Can’t see where it all ends
Can’t see where the road bends
Can’t seem to look too far down
Don’t know what message to send

Can’t make it happen, can’t make it happen
Can’t will it away, can’t wish it to be
Can’t see a way out, can’t see a way in
Can’t make it, can’t take it, can’t do it, can’t see

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CONNECTION

Just got back from seeing Black Rebel Motorcycle Club at Milwaukee's Harley Fest. Now, if you don't know anything about me, the band, or what a Harley Fest is, you might think this was a peculiar evening. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is a band. They are not black, not seemingly all that anarchically rebellious, they do not ever appear to ride motorcycles, and are a Club only in that they are a Band. I am but a humble fan of theirs, and definitely not a Harley person. But, boy, there are a damn lot of Harley-Davidson people in town for this 105th anniversary bash. For the last few days, but especially today you hear the brash burble of their engines, buh buh buh buh buh, in packs of two or three or more, headed to the lakefront. Driving in, there were many people standing on the highway overpasses, looking and waving. I was going to wave at them, but I was driving in a Lincoln, which is not a Harley.

I was having a very sad and crabby day prior to the concert, for various reasons, and I was definitely stressing over the logistics of getting to the concert tonight. Tens of thousands of motorcycle folks flooding into Milwaukee is daunting. But to my relief, by 7PM the highway was flowing well, it didn't take too long to find the Milwaukee Street, which had been blocked off for this little part of the Fest, and - hurray!- parking was a breeze in a nearly-empty garage. YAY! The rain that threatened never came, the streets were not polluted with Hell's Angels drunkards, and people were smiling.

After a quick sushi snack, I made my way to the front of the stage, next to a couple in their early 20s. I could tell they were fans, not bikers, nor the rare biker/fan. A guy next to me asked me when Blind Melon was going to be on and I had to tell him, man, I just don't know. I thought that dude died of an OD anyway. The band came onstage with appreciated punctuality and proceeded to ROCK ROCK ROCK! Wisely, I think, they played a good 90 minutes of their hardest rocking stuff, saving the acoustic songs for perhaps a different crowd. My sadness melted into the music, all these songs I love, and I smiled and danced and connected right in, plugged into the collective.

That is what it is all about, Charlie Brown. Connection. Finding those things that are so powerful, that resonate in your little core, that just make you happy. For me, tonight, it was BRMC. For you, it might be flying a model plane against a peaceful, cloudless sky, or playing roll-the-ball with a toddler you made, reading a novel that seems to pull all your own words right from your heart, or walking with your best friend, talking about everything and nothing. Whatever it is, you will know it. The Harley folks know it. I know it. Plug in.

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JETSKI

Family temperament testing, according to reactions on riding a Jetski this afternoon on the lake:

• Husband: Started off riding, ended up driving. One ride.
• 10-Year-Old Boy: Multiple rides, but asked the driver to go fairly slow the whole time.
• 16-Year-Old Boy: Did not go.
• 5-Year-Old Girl: Most rides of all, asked driver to go as fast as possible, grinned like demon.
• Me: One ride, held on fairly tightly, secretly loved it when driver opened it up.

Make of this what you will.

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BRA

Well, I have to say, going to Target today to help my 81-year-old mother find a bra was a new deposit in my personal discomfort bank. I'm sorry, for as laid-back as I can be, hearing my mother talk about her breasts in public, their shape, her needs in a bra because of their shape, and how underwires are the devil, just made me cringe a bit.

She wanted to go to Target because stupid-ass Oprah said the best bra was there. OK, I love Target, let's go. We get there, get over to lingerie, and I ask her so, which bra is it? She didn't know. Um. Well. There are a lot of bras at Target. Any idea? Any?

No.

OK. Well, let's just assume Oprah loves them all. Mom, what size do you need? No clue. Oh, hell. This means I have to visually size up my mother's breasts. Ah, jeez. OK, Mom I think you should try a 34B, k? She begins to poke and prod at all, and I mean ALL, the bras on sale at Target. She has to feel them all and tell me about what she thinks about each and every one.

"OH! This one feels so rubbery! WOULDN'T YOUR BREASTS SWEAT ALL DAY LONG IN THAT?"

"This one is nice, BUT IT'S TOO FULL IN THE CUP FOR ME."

"THESE UNDERWIRES POKE THE SIDES OF MY BREASTS! CAN'T WE FIND A BRA WITHOUT THEM?"

Fighting the strong urge to run down the I-94 freeway, I methodically go through the bras looking for any non-underwire 34B bras. I find three. My mom keeps looking, and poking, and commenting, even though I have found the only three she will want to try on. I tell her she is going to need to try them on, and she asks me if she can just put them on right here in the aisle over her shirt, and I hesitate about .000000000000001 of a second before saying, "NO! Let's go to the fitting rooms. OVER THERE!" I am SO not going in there with her; that is simply too much to ask. She happily finds her room, and I look at t-shirts with ironic 80s slogans.

After several years, she comes out, holding a pink lace bra I did not pick out for her. She tells me the other ones didn't fit, but this one sitting in the fitting room did. HURRAY! I say, throw a wicked black 36C in the cart for me without trying it on, and that is that.

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MUHWAHKEE

If you are native to this area, that's how you pronounce Milwaukee. I was born there, in a Catholic hospital from a Lutheran mother. She shared a room with another woman, who heard in the maternity ward what she thought would be a beautiful and unusual-sounding name for her own newborn daughter. Fortunately for the child, the nurses convinced her that "Placenta" was not a good name, not at all. I wonder what ever happened to my birthmate, Not Placenta.

Today we drove down to Milwaukee's Eastside, the hip part of town for as long as I can recall. Driving from the farm/lake land quickly changes to big box stores and strip malls and generic developments. I cannot place where I am along the way any more; there is too much new, all my old landmarks are gone. Getting into the outskirts of the city, then I see the familiar brick or limestone 6-plex apartment buildings that go on for miles, one after another, unique in my memory to here. They range from neat and tidy to, when looking closely, tattered and dumpy, with some kind of misery living within. The people on the street go from white, to black, to white again. No mix.

Milwaukee reminds me of my maternal grandmother, the "other" one, whom I had no contact with after the age of nine. She lived here, in the exotic city, on her own for much of her adult life, in-between various husbands. She was what people called a "handsome" woman; strong-featured with a wide smile and squinty eyes, sturdy German stock, with thick beautiful auburn hair. The tiny bit of red in my natural hair color, and in my daughter's hair, comes from her, and also likely my bold-ish temperament, also passed to my daughter. Grandma Milwaukee just had no problems whatsoever telling anyone what she thought at any time, and I remember her as critical, generous, and definitely a my-way-or-the-highway kind of woman. Truthfully, I didn't like her because I thought she was mean, and she could turn on a dime. I didn't trust her. She seemed hard. I think of, as we drive further into the city, the few times I went to visit her here. It was the first time I rode on a city bus, and the first time I saw anyone any other color than white. It was the first time anyone ever made me make a bed military-style, and the last time too, for that matter. I can't say that I missed her as I finished growing up. I just felt bad for my nice mom that she didn't get a nice mom.

Our destination, Urban Outfitters, is at hand. I go with my college-age niece, and she goes wild picking out stuff which is a delight to see because she is so cute and sweet. I get a dark gray skirt and a print v-neck shirt, some stuff for the teen, and the second volume of the great creative nonfiction collection that I got at Urban in April, so that makes my day right there. Walking out and down the street, I see the theater where I saw Elvis Costello in 1979, one of the best shows I have ever been to, and the park were there used to be free concerts, raided frequently by the erstwhile Milwaukee police. It is nice to see something I remember. I also see the sub shop where I consumed a vinegar-laden sandwich that had me puking for days. I stick my tongue out at the shop with vigor.

Drive home, white to black to white. The sun sparkles on the lake, my niece shows off her pretty clothes, and I greet my mother, waiting for me with a smile.

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NICE 2

A lovely day at the lake house today -- blue skies, nice breeze, pleasant and warm. The only thing missing was coffee, so I went in search of a Venti Iced Latte before I got a caffeine headache. I guess I should never go to Borneo or Malawi or other such destinations without Starbucks, huh. Although for all I know they are littered with them.

I sit outside, and the young guy who takes my order comes outside to clean off a table, and strikes up a conversation. He is tall, good-looking, walking the line between goofball teen and assured young man. He talks about Badger football, season tickets, how he is going to Madison in the fall as a freshman, hopes to get into the business school. I ask him where he is from, and he tells me he was raised in the same small town I was. I tell him that my dad used to be mayor there, and we talk about his neighborhood, which is behind a park I spent many hours at when I was little. There are many years separating us and our experiences of living in the same town. When I was there, it had maybe 3000 people, had one main road through town, defined by the lakes and farms, small businesses, churches, quiet. Now it has 7000 people -- not a huge increase but hey, and the character of the town is completely different. It's now an upscale bedroom-community, 45 minutes by highway to Milwaukee, dominated by the Lang Companies, a paper goods/calendar/gift company. Mr. Lang pretty much bought up the town and put up pretty red brick buildings, where there are now busy restaurants, groovy coffeehouses, specialty food stores...even the gas station looks fancy.

I wonder what my dad would've thought of it all. He wanted the town to modernize, improve, grow responsibly. I just don't know if he would've dug the single-vision thing though. He was an individualist, my dad, and somehow I think he would've liked to have seen some of the funky old family shops remain, the crusty bars, the swampy green fishing spot in the middle of town where people sat with bamboo poles waiting for a bite, rather than a paved-over glossy "riverwalk."

As the young Starbucks dude goes back into the store, I wish him good luck at Madison, and he seems genuine in his thanks to me. I had forgotten there are people like that, just nice. He will do well in school, ace the business school, grab a decent job in Chicago or Minneapolis, and someday revisit our small town with his wife and children, and think about how it was and how it changed.

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AIRPLANE

Off today to the airport, airplane, airborne. It is so absurd, the idea of all these people willingly flinging themselves into space, or at least thin air, in a thin metal tube, piloted by regular human people types. FLING! It really takes a lot of trust, or ignorance, or ignorant trust. Yes yes I know, flight safety is better than cars blah blah blah. It’s still a crazy thing to do.

My fellow flingers today are a pretty damn quiet bunch, or it could be that the incredibly loud engine by my seat at 26C is just masking the horrors of screaming infants and nattering elders. SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, goes the engine, like the loudest seashell ever. The seashell would have to be like, skyscraper big, but that is the kind of noise it is.

The flight always feels longer when you have young children along because I am hyper-vigilant that my kids are not little Plane Shits. No kicking the seat in front you, no loud voices, no flinging food, or any other such obnoxious crap. The teen and the pre-teen are fine, absorbed in an ipod and Nintendo DS respectively, although the pre-teen has an early moment with a chewing gum issue. I turned back to look at him, and his face and DS stylus were covered in orange globs and stringy strands of gum. His older brother laughed and laughed, and I sent Gum Boy to the lav to attempt to clean up. I didn’t ask how the gum got on the stylus.

The challenge passenger is the five-year-old. Well, I can so far say that at least she has not had a screaming meltdown, which is new for this year, and did not dump an entire apple juice can on the airplane floor. Progress! She is a hyper thing by nature and even when belted in squirms and wiggles and goes from one thing to the next: draws, reads, talks, raises the window shade up and down and up and down, almost kicks the seat, asks for food, asks for water, asks to change seats with her brother, puts shoes on wrong feet, plays with all the zippers on her new backpack, takes a ribbon off the backpack and attempts to tie it on the tray table, sticks stickers on me, knocks her head against my shoulder repeatedly, starts singing, sticks hand back to poke at teen brother, grabs food off my tray, tries to nap and fails, REPEAT ALL AD INFINITUM. And we have another hour and some to go yet. She is now eating a chocolate chip cookie, whose melty goodness is spreading over her face and hands. The flight attendant walks by and hands me another napkin. Tick tock tick tock.

Somewhere over western Minnesoter now, flat brown and green squares below us, cruising at a fun-lovin’ 35,000 feet. With any luck, we will land smoothly after another 393 miles, have five unmolested bags waiting for us at baggage claim, have a non-felonious Super Shuttle driver, and see an icy cold beer waiting in the fridge at the final destination point.

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