Reading and Chewing

I've shaken up my weekly routine a bit by eating actual meals for lunch. I previously avoided all restaurants during my lunch break for a number of reasons, but mostly I didn't want to be That Guy Who Eats Alone. It's sad. I've always found it sad to see, and I didn't want to multiply that feeling by being That Guy.

I used to at at my office. When the office eating policy changed, I took to window shopping to kill my lunch break, and I'd snack to maintain my blood sugar. Recently though, I decided it was no sin to sit down and eat a meal, and I've ventured into a few of the local eateries: Golden Palace (great for lunch), Firehouse Subs (overpriced), Burger King (heavy on the stomach), and others. Whenever I went to a restaurant, I took a book. Otherwise, I hit a store or two and grab Starbucks and bananas for lunch. I think that helped me lose weight, and it is a filling meal. I eventually worked up curiosity about the sports bar and went in a few weeks back with a West Wing scriptbook.

Yesterday was my third trip into the sportsbar across the street, and I had a new book, The Wordy Shipmates, an extended essay on the Pilgrims. I've probably created a reputation as That Weird Book Guy because, come on, who takes a book to a sports bar? But the lunch prices are good, and I'm filled up, and it's well lighted. There are banks of TV screens showing mostly sports highlights, and I can only watch so much of that without hearing the channel. And instead of staring at the walls, I want to read. Yesterday, I made a shocking discovery: A man reading a book in a sportsbar lures waitresses. I'm sure, were I a hump, I could exploit this. I'm surprised by it, but the sight must be such a rarity that people slow down to interact with it like a car crash on the freeway.

One of the recurring comments during the Thanksgiving assembly was how much a baby instills within a new parent (me) an expanded scope of love and purpose. So far, I'm not feeling it. My resolve to care for the sidekick remains intact, and yes, I'm willing to punt other kids who bother him. But that alleged supernova glow of harmony doesn't broadcast through me. I'm still the same me as before, but now I have a small roommate who can't walk. I suppose I'm the kind of parent who doesn't romanticize the infant stages. I prefer someone who can talk and walk, someone who can convey a personality. I can work with that. I can grow attached to that. Now? He's a larva in clever onsies.

Picture of the Day
I found this yesterday.

Socks and Sabers

I've enjoyed my months of wearing Converse without socks, but now that time must end. The sharp, cold air is too stark, even for my short walks from the car to the office or the mall. Add to that the strong probability of rainstorms, and these simple canvas shoes won't cut it. I must dust off my socks. I must smother my feet and say goodbye to the Converse until spring's sunlight again warms the earth. Converse with socks, so suggest? I'd need to buy a size larger to accommodate the socks. Also, that combination doesn't look right. Converse are practically boat shoes. Socks are unnecessary.

I bought three new pairs at Target, and the flustered clerk only rang up two of them. I debated saying something, but the register aisles were crammed. I didn't want to add to the wait times of those behind me, and, hey, free socks.

I've been paralyzed in writing the new hero comic. My brain churns with plot strands and scenes, but formatting it on paper freezes me. concerns of issue length and format stymie me, and I need to simply write everything down as it flows and whittle it to an affordable size later on. This is what I must do. Yes. Now to do it. I know what happens in the story but not how the comic will depict it. I'm wary of starting with four pages of conversation -- and as I type this, I think I figured out how to avoid that.

The deputy seems to have forgotten how to sleep all night, and I wonder if the change to crib sleeping put him off his schedule.

Picture of the Very Cold, Rainy Day
Empire director Irvin Kershner died this weekend. This image is from Ain't It Cool News.


Watching Empire this weekend, by sheer confidence, I noted a new subtext to the Vader/Luke fight created by the prequels. We know from an earlier Empire scene that Vader would rather turn Luke than kill him. But Vader reveals to Luke that he wants to team up to overthrow the Emperor. I suggest that that's half the new story.

I think Vader wants Luke to turn to prove to himself that he wasn't weak when he turned on the Jedi and caused Padme's death. If Luke can turn, anyone can, and Vader would be no worse than anyone else. I propose he yearns to settle this in hopes of redeeming himself, but Luke wants Vader to join him and redeem himself via a Skywalker family intervention. They both want the same thing -- Vader's peace of mind -- but Vader sees himself as so corrupted and low that he fights Luke's sales pitch of the good side of the Force. We get that in Return, but it's delivered in such simple terms that it lacks heft.

Also, I wonder if age plays a part in the Empire fight. As they begin, Vader exclusively wields his saber with one hand, and it's a theatrical move: Luke is fresh from Jedi boot camp with Yoda and Ben and is fighting to save his friends. He has initiative and vigor. Vader plays the part of a grizzled gladiator who is in no way threatened by this. The stance gives him a swagger I missed the first four dozen times I saw the film. Vader has been cleansing the galaxy of Jedi and rebels for decades; he shouldn't be threatened by a dirt farmer even if he is carrying Vader's old weapon.

Maybe we do need to show the films in episodic order to the deputy. I intended to go by release date before I considered all this.

Recovering

I did a strip for my friend's Comics From Space webcomic, and it went live this morning. There will be a batch of guest strips, and mine is the first.

I was flattered to be asked and immediately set down what I thought was the perfect idea for a joke involving those characters. Within two weeks, the joke was used by a Conan O'Brien ad. After much cursing and cat kicking, I summoned up another gag and sent the strip in ridiculously early to avoid a similar joke theft. That's probably why my strip is the first to see daylight.

My voice is low and rumbly today, making me sound hungover. Your Sister and I ended the weekend by watching The Walking Dead, a new series based on a zombie comic. It's hitting her hard, spooking and exhausting her within a hour. We have to watch more TV afterward before we dare go to bed.

Moving Picture of the Day
60 Minutes gave the first extended preview of the new Spider-Man musical last night. The backstage story threatens to eclipse the stage work: Bono and The Edge wrote their first musical, and director Julie Taymor's reputation as Broadway's most dynamic creator helped this show stay alive despite financial collapse. Also, the two original leads actors left during production delays. The show is alleged to cost about $65 million, making it the biggest show in the history of the Great White Way, and it will have to summon the loyalty enjoyed by Wicked to break even. It's a giant enterprise, but it looks amazing. There's no way this could tour though; it's too technically demanding.

I'm very curious about it, of course.

Gap Part Two

I went back to the mall with a new Dr. Oid app called ShopSavvy. It's a barcode scanner that uses your camera to read codes and find nearby prices on the same item at similar store. The Superman shirt didn't show up, and I expected that for an item so exclusive that it's only sold in brick-and-mortar Gap stores.

I called the Gap customer service line again and asked them if they could find the item via the item number. The operator did so but confirmed that the smallest size (6 months) is sold out nationwide. They have no sizes smaller than one year. She asked if I wanted to check back later to see if they might re-order that size. I asked if there were some other means I could track the item availability myself. Like, maybe, a website of some sort, a website that might -- indulge me, operator -- take my order online and send the item to me. Nope, I was told. I can either call that number gain or go back to the store randomly to see if they have it.

I remain surprised. I'm so used to shopping in the 21st century that I'm baffled by a major outlet chain's inability or lack of desire to make shopping convenient. I can only defend them if I assume they had no idea this item would be popular. If that's the case, they'll probably over-order the next time, and I'll get it on sale within a few months. There's always eBay too.

A new comic is up. You might see ads on the blog now. I'm testing the Google Ad program with the new-found global demand for Doom recipes. The ads, so far, are unobtrusive. If that changes, I'll end the ad experiment.

Picture of the Day
The new theory on T.Rex is that it was covered in feathers. Blasphemy.

Retail Horsefeathers

I stroll the mall to kill lunch breaks. I hit my usual shops -- Old Navy, Barnes & Noble, the anchor stores for their constant clearance sales -- and go back to work with a Starbucks drink. I like to go into the Gap stores to look for sales. The three local Gap stores are connected by doorways, so you can go from my sizes to those of the deputy easily. I like Gap when it has a sale. I'm not spending $70 on a sweater, but I'll stock up on $10 thermals. I haven't bought anything at the Baby Gap store, but I appreciate some items that look clever or fun.

For instance, I saw this shirt last week.

The cape is Velcroed on. It didn't come in a size close to where Your Nephew is, and I held off on buying it. It felt rash to buy something he'd have to wait until next summer to wear. But I thought about it over the weekend, and Your Sister encouraged me to buy it. He were probably affected by his new favorite play. We hold him over our heads and zoom around the room. He swims through the air. He's Superbaby. Back to the store I went.

They had only one left, sized for two-year-olds. I can't say I was very surprised. Deflated, yes. I made the mistake of anticipating the purchase and eventual unveiling to the boy. I looked through the store and found no more. I checked the label for the brand name and Googled with my Dr. Oid Phone. Nothing. I checked the Gap website. Nothing.

I picked up the remaining outfit and carried it over to the cashiers who were kibbitizing. They had little interest in helping me as I stood with the hanger on my finger. This is the international retail sign for "I want to speak about this item, perchance to buy it." One of them looked at me and walked away. I could feel Angry Brain clear his throat. The other cashier looked at me and simply said "hi." I said "I need to ask about this please" and explained my hope there would be more coming in. They weren't forthcoming with that info.

"Yeah, it sold fast. We have plenty of Batman." [said while she walked to the Batman shirt and held them up.]
"Nah."
"He's a Superman huh?"
"Yeah, he is. Are you going to get anymore of these in?" [said with an expression that hopefully communicated that I would buy it and one assumed they were in the buying/selling business]

What followed was a clucking of confusion. A third cashier was brought in, and the air filled with "um" and "I dunno." Eventually the new woman said they would get their next shipment in Wednesday and perhaps I could try then. Out the door I went. I wondered if they held single male shoppers in suspicion.

I later pulled up the Gap site at a desktop monitor and called their customer service. After describing my experience and the shirt, I was told that the item was probably a "store-specific" item, and the Gap universe couldn't help me. The store would have to contact the Gap folks to tell them where they ordered the shirt. In other words: Gap can't tell me what Gap stores sell, and Gap.com doesn't sell what Gap stores do. That's a significant breach for the customer to fall into. I see why it's called "gap."

Next time, I'll scan the price label and search via barcode.


Hokey Smoke News of the Day
Via the Associated Press

Vatican: Everyone can use condoms to prevent HIV

VATICAN CITY (AP) -- Using a condom is a lesser evil than transmitting HIV to a sexual partner - even if that means averting a possible pregnancy, the Vatican said Tuesday, signaling a seismic shift in papal teaching as it further explained Pope Benedict XVI's comments.

The Vatican has long been criticized for its patent opposition to condom use, particularly in Africa. But the latest interpretation essentially means the Roman Catholic Church is acknowledging that its long-held, anti-birth control stance against condoms doesn't justify putting someone's life at risk.

Benedict said in a book released Tuesday that condom use by people such as male prostitutes was a lesser evil since it indicated they were moving toward a more moral and responsible sexuality by aiming to protect their partner from a deadly infection.

His comments implied that he was referring primarily to homosexual sex, when condoms aren't being used as a form of contraception, which the Vatican opposes.

Questions arose immediately about the pope's intent, though, because the Italian translation of the book used the feminine for prostitute, whereas the original German used the masculine.

The Vatican spokesman, the Rev. Federico Lombardi, told reporters Tuesday that he asked the pope whether he intended his comments to only apply to male prostitutes. Benedict replied that it really didn't matter, that the important thing was the person in question took into consideration the life of the other, Lombardi said.

"I personally asked the pope if there was a serious, important problem in the choice of the masculine over the feminine," Lombardi said. "He told me no. The problem is this ... It's the first step of taking responsibility, of taking into consideration the risk of the life of another with whom you have a relationship."

"This is if you're a woman, a man, or a transsexual. We're at the same point. The point is it's a first step of taking responsibility, of avoiding passing a grave risk onto another," Lombardi said.

The clarification is significant.

UNAIDS estimates that 22.4 million people in Africa are infected with HIV, and that 54 percent - or 12.1 million - are women. Heterosexual transmission of HIV and multiple, heterosexual partners are believed to be a major cause of the high infection rates in Africa.

Benedict drew the wrath of the United Nations, European governments and AIDS activists when, en route to Africa in 2009, he told reporters that the AIDS problem on the continent couldn't be resolved by distributing condoms. "On the contrary, it increases the problem," he said then.

In the book, the pope was not justifying or condoning gay sex or heterosexual sex outside of a marriage. Elsewhere in it, he reaffirms the Vatican opposition to homosexual acts and artificial contraception and reaffirms the inviolability of marriage between man and woman.

But by broadening the condom comments to also apply to women, the pope is saying that condom use is a lesser evil than passing HIV onto a partner.

While that concept has long been a tenet of moral theology, the pope's book "Light of the World" - a series of interviews with a German journalist - marked the first time a pope had ever publicly applied the theory to condom use as a way to fight HIV transmission.

Monsignor Jacques Suaudeau, an expert at the Vatican's bioethics advisory board, said the pope was articulating the idea in church teaching - long practiced by some church officials with regards to condoms - that there are degrees of evil.

"Contraception is not the worst evil. The church does not see it as good, but the church does not see it as the worst," he told The Associated Press. "Abortion is far worse. Passing on HIV is criminal. That is absolute irresponsibility."

He said the pope broached the topic because questions about condoms and AIDS persisted.

"This pope gave this interview. He was not foolish. It was intentional. He thought that this was a way of bringing up many questions. Why? Because it's true that the church sometimes has not been too clear," Suaudeau said.

Luigi Accatoli a veteran Vatican journalist who was on the Vatican panel to launch the book put it this way:

"He spoke with caution and courage of a pragmatic way through which missionaries and other ecclesial workers can help to defeat the pandemic of AIDS without approving but also without excluding - in particular cases - the use of a condom," Accatoli said.

Picture of the Day
This girl is going to become Internet-famous today. When a very popular wrestler lost his world title last night to a bad guy, the cameras cut to the disappointed faces of children in the audience. She was the first. And how anyone could hope to top this is beyond me. That -- THAT -- is the sincere face of audience displeasure. You can almost see the daggers fly.

Cooking With Villainy: Porckhops With Sherry Sauce with Glazed Carrots

The Latveria mountains are truly resplendent as autumn's bold colors blanket Doom's fair kingdom. Doom allows this. Doom is pleased.

Doom is aware that this is a time of much hustle and bustle as families gather to celebrate their success and feast themselves into comas. Yes, yes, Doom also will indulge the noble populace of Latveria with the annual Doomsgiving. All Latveria will reap the bounty of our happy laborers. All Latveria will relish the finest foodstuffs, and the world will envy the camaraderie and joy that Doom bestows. Observe, jealous globe, the delights that could be yours if you but recognize the genius and largess that makes Doom the pinnacle of human achievement. Doom is good. Doom is gracious. Doom awaits your fealty.

But before the grand banquet, Doom wishes to assemble a simple meal. Simple but robust in flavor. Simple for Doom to concoct, of course. You lesser beings could not begin to cobble the glorious culinary architecture that Doom whips up as but an afterthought. But Doom feels a swelling of altruism this time of year (which explains why Doom is not crushing the accursed Richards clan while they are sluggish with sated stomachs), and Doom will grant you this delicious boon to tide you over until your own paltry Thanksgiving meals. Do not ask Doom to extend this courtesy a second time.

Now, attend Doom.

Porckhops With Sherry Sauce
4 porkchops
2 tablespoons cooking oil
2 tablespoons cracked black pepper
1/3 cup chicken broth
3 tablespoons dry cooking sherry
4 ounces cream cheese or sour cream

1 tablespoon fresh cut chives

Doom commands you to rub peppercorn on the porkchops and place in the heated oil in a skillet on medium high. Doom commands you to cook the pork eight to 12 minutes, turning once. When done, Doom commands you to remove pork from skillet and set aside, kept warm.

Doom commands you to add sherry and broth to the skillet. Doom commands you to stir constantly over medium heat to loosen drippings from skillet. Doom commands you to add the sour cream/cream cheese and stir constantly until it is melted. Doom commands you to maintain heat to reduce sauce slightly. Doom commands you to add chives and lower temperature on sauce to thicken. Doom commands you to pour over chops.

Doom commands you to smack your lips.

Glazed Carrot Side Dish

1 pound of carrots, sliced

1/3 cup packed brown sugar

2 tablepoons butter

1 teaspoon salt

1/3 tablespoon orange peel/zest

3 cups water

Doom commands you to boil the water before adding carrots. Doom commands you to to allow the water to boil again and then reduce heat to simmer for ten minutes. Doom commands you to drain the carrots and set aside.

Doom commands you to heat butter, sugar, salt, and peel in a skillet over medium heat. Doom commands you to stir constantly until mixture is bubbly. Doom advises that the mixture may become pasty as the sugar combines with butter. Do not be alarmed, puny one. This is no reason to cower. Whatever form your mixture takes, Doom commands you to add carrots and coat with mixture in skillet until carrots are warmed and serve.

Doom commands you to make yummy sounds. Doom suggests that you allow glaze and sauce to mix. Doom himself is impressed with the alchemy he has consumed. Doom's concoction is a true reason to be thankful this year.

Doom decrees you are welcome.

Small Move, Sparks. Small Moves.

When the food grinder instructions tell you how wonderful the apples will be when you mush them for a baby, they do not say that the apples will oxidize immediately and turn into the most yucky looking crud this side of his diapers. Yet, it tasted right, and he seemed to like it. This was his first fruit and his first ride in the high chair. The seat is a little big for him; his arms can't quite reach properly across the tray. We gave him a sip cup to play with and filled it with water. It's built differently than the bottle nipples and requires some effort to get the drink. Also, he wasn't impressed with the flat taste of water. We progress slowly.

However, he also may have executed his first intentional cooperation. Usually, when you try to put his pants back on, you fight to get two fat, bent legs into two pants legs. It's a struggle. Tthis weekend, when I held up his pants after a diaper change, he stuck out both legs arrow straight. It was a definite muscle movement that lasted more than a few seconds. He wanted to help and moved accordingly. I was delighted. It suggests "normal" mental development and motor coordination. I told Your Sister about it when she woke up from a nap, and she got the same results a few hours later when she changed him.

I ran Sunday for the first time since the abominable performance in the Halloween race. I stayed in a low gear and chugged through about 3 miles, including the rotten hill near our house and intended only to walk a cool-down lap around the neighborhood. I was almost back to our hose when the iPod shuffled onto "Hungry Like The Wolf," and I had to run and run flat-out. I had no choice. The faux jungle rhythms got me kooky. That was fun, and now I'm suffering (the new title of my autobiography).

We've made some conditional plans for the weekend travel with Mom with the understanding that we'll have to be flexible. She seems up for it. Your Sister is weighing seeing a new Disney movie with the nieces versus shopping with the in-laws. Neither sound much fun for a five-month-old. I could stay home and mind him while scarfing leftovers.

Picture of the Day
This might be the largest man-made partial lunar eclipse ever seen.

Thinking Ahead

According to Your Sister, whom I'm inclined to believe, Your Parents said Tuesday they were not going to Alabama. They cited the neighbor's dog and said they agreed to take care of it over the holiday. They told her this while they were out at the baby store. When Your Sister got home, she found a message on the phone. It was Your Parents. Saying they were going.

By the time you read this, their answer probably changed four times.

We're talking about various Future Baby Concerns including gates and locks and playpens. He's fairly immobile right now; you set him down, and he won't go anywhere. But eventually those knees will find purchase, and he'll probably rocket himself into the ceiling fans. We figured out how to fence in the kitchen and TV room. Also we discussed how we should teach him to refer to his bathing suit area. I suggested "battleship."There was no applause. In related news, the boy seems to have learned how to cough, and it's his new party trick. If you cough back at him, he laughs.

Ingles held a companywide food drive yesterday complete with soldiers standing outside next to donation canisters. I bought a small bag of items from his posted list and offered to buy him something from Starbucks. He wouldn't hear of it. I assume he didn't want to tempt fate amid limited pee breaks.

Moving Picture of the Day
Another comic book film. I don't know this title, but that's a nice cast except, honestly, I'm seeing Olivia Wilde everywhere, and it's getting boring.

Weak Copies and Grand Masters

I was so concerned about leaving my concert ticket at home that I kept in in the car for three days. I was ramped up. Not so much in eagerness to see Sir Elton, but in a heightened pessimism that my ducks should be lined up when the inevitable obstacle falls from the sky. It didn't. I saw the show. It was huge.

Your Sister called right as I parked to say she and the sidekick were in town meeting Your Parents at a baby store. We couldn't meet for dinner as she was on her way home. After a quick dinner at the Noodle Shop (with a West Wing scriptbook), I snuck into the nearby 16 Patton Gallery to pursue a mystery. I was in there last week as a new exhibition was being assembled, and I saw a near life-size reproduction of a Bouguereau. That's my favorite artist. I know my guy. This is the original, Evening Mood.




Here's the copy.



I hadn't seen this gallery offer reproductions before. Not direct reproductions, anyway. Anna Jurik's work includes a series of people taking in artworks in museums, and her work includes those art pieces.


I like Jurik's work. It exemplifies everything good about oil paint. I was sorely tempted to buy one earlier this year but couldn't justify the cost.

Anyway, the Bouguereau copy is weak, and I couldn't figure out why it would hang in a gallery with this pedigree. I consider it on par with Blue Spiral. They shouldn't offer this kind of knock-off. I wondered if they knew it was a copy and secretly hoped I could bust the artist for trying to sneak one on the local art scene. I downloaded a copy of the original on my Droid (or, as Your Sister first called it, Doctor Oid) and prepared my comments to whoever was minding the gallery.

Turns out the painting is part of a display from a local fine arts club dedicated, their flyer says, to studying and creating realistic fine art. So this was a student's work. To his credit, or maybe his teacher's, the ID card notes the original, calling it a reference. I think that's a stingy word choice. Not stingy is the asking price.


That's some chutzpah right there. You could probably buy a print of the original for a few hundred.

I killed some time at the nearby art store and discovered a portfolio designed to the dimensions of my comic art boards. That would make it easier for me to make sketches at that size for the convention and sell them. I made use of downtown's new-ish public bathrooms (very practical, not decorous) and browsed Malaprop's. About 7:10 I headed to the civic center and got in a line that strung from the center's front door to the parking deck behind the library. There were two big concerts in town, and the parking spaces vanished quickly. I felt pretty good about getting a first-floor space three hours before the show began. Leaving would be a breeze.

I sat between two sets of women in the back right corner of the civic center. The stage was a simple platform on the concrete floor, and the room was a barebones brick box.

But once the lights went down and the stage lights went up, none of that mattered. We got three hours of Elton John. Kinda.

The show was advertised as a greatest-hits show by Elton. But he recently released an album with Leon Russell, whom he cites as an influence. Elton took the stage at 8:07 to explain how the night would go: Russell would play some of his solo hits, Elton would play a few of his, they would play from their new album, and Elton would finish the concert. That duo material was a solid hour of the show, and it was all new stuff. Some folks around me grumbled at that, and I admit that it's not what we paid for. But one gets the feeling Elton is gonna do the show his way, and the new stuff isn't bad. It's very much in keeping with the classic Elton sound: background harmonies to kill for, honkytonk piano, and white soul vocal phrasing.


When he did play the classics, they each had a vigor that made them practically new-sprung works. "Rocketman," for instance lasted well over ten minutes and drifted into gospel, blues, and prog rock. He's got a galaxy of songs to choose from, and I'm glad to say I heard some of my favorites -- "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road," especially -- and didn't hear those overplayed on local radio -- "Get Back Honky Cat" and "Crocodile Rock."

There was no intermission. A three-hour show like that is worth the money even if it's not what the money was coughed up for. I think Your Mom and Sister would have balked had they come along. As it as, streams of folks left at 11, presumably to relieve babysitters.

Leaving the parking deck was indeed a snap and well worth the special-event fee. I picked up a soda and candy bar at a local convenience store (while evading beer-seeking hobos) and drove home with my ears ringing and my grin glaring.

Moving Picture of the Day
Earlier this year, Warner Brothers realized they owned DC Comics, a goldmine of licensing material, and cranked up several movie projects. The success of the Batman and Marvel films (Iron Man, Spider-Man, X-Men) suggests the superhero genre isn't fading. The first of the new films is Green Lantern, and the trailer was released with the new Harry Potter film.

Speaking as a comic fan, this isn't bad. They've brought in a LOT of the Lantern franchise instead of hedging their bets. The hero is a cocky pilot and the origin also seems intact from the comics. This looks like the next big thing for boys.

Because the trailer deals so much with fighting fear, I think the It Gets Better project could make some headway by handing out lantern rings to show support for gay kids.

Mutable Plans

Your Sister and Sister-in-Law talked yesterday and worked out some details of Thanksgiving. Then Your Brother called me, and we exchanged new information. As of yesterday afternoon, Your Parents were going to Alabama. As of six hours later, they are not. Many pairs of hands were thrown into the air.

We are going. We are on the record with this. Sharing rooms will let us stay in in the Alabama house, and the single grandparents will share a room. I ran the suggestion by My Mom, and she's OK with it. Also, we're not coming back the day after we drive down. I told Your Brother we'll call to keep them informed as we drive down, but we have no idea how long this might take.

I thought the radio interview was on the weekend, but it's tonight ... while I'm at the Elton John concert. Crap beans. I was told another interview ext week might be possible, but as we're leaving town for Thanksgiving, there remains only a small window of opportunity.

New carpet welcomed me to the house. It's not much different than the original, but the padding is better. And of course the new carpet is a billion times cleaner. I unplugged and unhooked and de-cabled the TV and its accessories before leaving home and reconnected everything when I returned. The wifi wouldn't work. I checked the phone cable and AC wire and hit the reboot buttons. Nothing. I checked the phone outlet and found it working. I wondered if the carpet people had nudged the baseboards against the internal wiring and spent a few minutes wondering how soon they could come back and fix it and if they'd need to hire an electrician. Finally, I moved around the plugs to different outlets. That worked. It shouldn't make a difference. A cosmetic change like this shouldn't affect the contraption. And yet. That kind of fix is akin to magic. "I'm doing this in hopes a meaningless alteration will make something work the way I want." Took me almost an hour to get it going again.

Picture of the Day
Sometimes the British tabloids give us something beyond cheesecake and fake news. Here's a look of images from the new space station window. This image in particular is straight out of an industrial scifi movie. Yet she's really up there, 220 miles above us, reclining in a TIE Fighter cockpit.

Talking About Shows

I sometimes hit the local comic store on my Friday lunch break. Comics come out on Wednesday, and that day is usually the busiest as people take their own lunch breaks and grab the newest issues. I avoid that scene. I go to the mall on Thursdays, making Friday my best choice for killing an hour there.

Last Friday, I ran into a guy who co-hosts a local radio show on comics, and he asked if I wanted to sit in on a few shows. I could pimp my minicomics and chat about recent comic happenings. (Me, talk about myself for a couple of hours? Where do I sign up?) He interviewed me during the convention this summer, and he reran that segment on air within the last few weeks, so I hear. As it stands, I can't hear the show in Mayberry. The station is too weak to reach that far, but it does stream online. I want to do this. I have to figure out when.

Later that day, Your Sister and I were invited to a dinner with a teacher buddy and her son. Like his mom, the kid is smallish, and he seems to weigh the same as the deputy even though he's two years older. Of course, our boy is tall for his age.

I ran into my theatre liaison at the grocery store, and he caught me up on the company's doings. You might remember he, like me, swore up and down that he was walking away from them. But, unlike me, he's too nice to watch them founder and continued the work with playbills and publicity. One of the folks who succeeded him quit in a huff, and he picked up the slack. He noted that even though the rent on the theatre space had been cut in half, the company faces a complete lack of money around March.

The director of the Christmas show can't find a lead, even though that show opens within a month. He might shutter the production if no one can be found. They're looking for singers and haven't contacted me about it. I noted to my liaison that the group could dust off one of their other scripts and do a reading theatre in a short amount of time. This would unfortunately mean they'd change shows yet again after selling tickets, but it's better than refunding tickets sold for a show that never hits the stage. There are reasons reading theatre is my default suggestion for this group: it's easy, cheap, and doesn't require full casting. Do it as a faux radio production, and you have something unique in an area awash with theatre groups. But, of course, I have stepped away, and those ideas no longer have an advocate. And the company is this close to closing. Maybe those facts are connected. Maybe not.

As I talked to My Mom last night, she asked if I missed theatre. I said I missed the Greenville group specifically, but I don't miss doing bad theatre amid a constant string of bad decisions. I don't miss the ever-present hum of regret as I stand onstage and watch someone bungle their lines when they have script in hand. And it would be magnified now by the realization that, for this, I didn't do my turns at feeding and bedtime for a month.

Picture of the Day
Hokey smoke, are our maps bad.

The Trouble with Good Intentions

As we sat in the parking lot of the local grocery store, sipping our Starbucks breakfast drinks and planning the rest of our day, we had the idea of treating Your Aunt. She had driven into town Wednesday and was staying with Your Parents for Veterans Day, and we were invited to have a meal with them. The boy would of course be in tow.

Our big idea was this: Ask the parents to watch the deputy while we take Your Aunt in town. We'll treat her to a dinner, if she wants, and stroll downtown. Your Parents are always saying they love watching the boy; it didn't feel like we were dumping him on them.

Your Mom cobbled together a meal of frozen lasagna, hummus, pita bread, and cranberry salad. It was fine. We had it for a late lunch not long after we arrived and fed the sidekick. We told Your Aunt of our notion, and she was relieved almost to the point of tears. I didn't know this, but apparently those sisters have very little diet in common, and she didn't want anything in the house. We were happy to be of service. I was with the deputy when Your Sister mentioned the idea to Your Mom. I didn't hear the sales pitch, but initially Your Mom was OK with it. We fed the baby again and left with him sleeping on the floor. We said we'd be back soon, maybe a few hours. All seemed well.

We ate at Tupelo Honey. None had eaten their before, and we enjoyed it. Your Sister got shrimp and grits, which made her very happy. Your Aunt wanted to duck inside Urban Outfitters, and we did. Back home we went. And the bottom fell out. Your Mom was insulted that we went somewhere else to eat. She was crying. She appeared drained to the point of exhaustion.

As I made a beeline to the boy and Your Dad, I missed what the womenfolk were saying, but I caught up later. Your Mom took our excursion as a comment on her food. I assume she was told that we thought of the invite before we even got to their house. I dunno. Again, I was with the baby. The back-and-forth went on a while. Your Aunt commented to Your Dad that when they visit her house, Your Mom brings all their food with them. They don't eat the same, she said. I stayed back. I minded the sidekick. This was based on a family dynamic I'm not a part of. I did mention to Your Aunt later that, as far as we knew, there was no dinner planned. And as I type this, I have no idea what, if anything, Your Parents ate last night. We packed up the boy and drove home after reassurance was attempted. When we got home, Your Mom and Sister talked on the phone for about an hour.

It was goofy and awkward, but I still think the invite was correct: Your Aunt drove a long way, and should have had the chance to sight-see. Which is what we did in a very small amount of time.

Your Mom is also trying to convince Your Sister that the boy prefers bottle and formula over nursing. We understand that bottles let everyone feed the baby, but if Your Sister needs to be milked, why not use this handy, new milking machine? Formula is for emergencies. Earlier this week, she threw away an entire bag of milk over concerns of contamination, and she used formula instead to feed him. Are these items related? I'm not sure. But I found a handful of Tums in the diaper bag last night, and one was the exact same color of green that he pooped out a few weeks back. I couldn't figure out why he made that strange color. I'm forced to wonder (until I hear back from Your Sister for confirmation) if they've given their grandson non-prescribed medicine. I hope this is a misunderstanding. I hope I'm very wrong. If not, I'm going nuclear. Until I hear anything, my angry brain is tightly leashed.

Your Aunt said Your Parents won't go to her house for Thanksgiving for the same reasons they won't go to Alabama. We appear to be going there.

Picture of the Day
Seriously this stuff is confusing.

Or Maybe Not

Your Sister is cool to the idea of staying in NC for Thanksgiving. She's concerned the Birmingham contingent has already budgeted for the food and may already have it in storage. As it stands now, we're driving down there. But I continue to worry.

As I warned her, if we're resolved to do it, we'll do it. But we need to warn everyone what we're dealing with on this drive. And My Mom will have to be content with staying down there longer than one night. I don't relish the idea of making that drive again the very next day.

I intend to mention to her that the Alabama family couldn't make our wedding because of their baby. I don't begrudge them that. At all. But I think that will temper their temptation to begrudge us the desire to stay home.

A while back, I offered to join a buddy in her AIDS walk 5k this weekend, but she hasn't chimed in to say if we're still a go. It's in Asheville, the same day as Asheville Pizza and Brewing's Superhero 5k Race. The latter is very tempting, but I can't spend two consecutive Saturdays in town and leave Your Sister with His Highness. I'm still working on core exercised to ensure my recent 5k disaster doesn't repeat.

Speaking of Asheville, two things I forgot to mention about roller derby:

1) The singer forgot the lyrics to the national anthem, and started every lyric with "so," making it sound conversational. So, you know, I was watching the rockets glaring red and stuff. So, there I was, with bombs and stuff bursting as bombs are wont to do.

2) The halftime show was interpretive juggling set to '80s rock music. That's a tough sell, but the crowd was into it by the second verse of "Don't Stop Believin'."

Picture of the Day
Some days are like that.

We May Wimp Out

Since last we typed, the deputy has learned to roll over.

He rolled over for the first time Thursday night. He was trying to look at the TV while on my lap, and I set him on his mat facing away from the screen. He arched to find and stare at it and eventually rolled completely over to -- and this is most important -- get up on both elbows. He did it again Friday while she was watching, and he was a rolling-over machine this weekend. He moves in one direction -- to his left -- and he once accidentally rolled onto his back again. It's a new trick, and he enjoys doing it. He and I had lots of face time Sunday while Your Sister backed. She made cookies for the carpentry class, who just finished the deck, and made another upside down cake for us.

She and I had another dust up Saturday over the boy. She picked lunch at the local pad thai restaurant and specifically ordered crispy tofu. Just after the food arrived, the deputy wailed, and she began to move to take him outside to settle him. I leapt up and took him instead. She objected hard. I argued that she should enjoy her food while I care for him. He always acts up when our food arrives, and I always grab him first. I see it as courtesy. She saw Saturday's move as a rude veto of her gesture. This debate went on for a while even after I apologized and promised to let her grab him first the next time it happened. When we had lunch out on Sunday, I positioned myself in the corner of a booth so I couldn't get to him. She got him first, and that seemed to settle it. We get frazzled. We chafe. We grumble through it and let it go.

I especially felt Saturday afternoon that I needed to let her sit and eat in peace because I planned to go to roller derby that night. And I did. It was another blow-out win for our gals, and I have yet to hear anything about the team logo I made. I did ask a "fearleader" if they plan to have a B-team to use that logo, and she said yes.

It was a cold walk back to the car as fall gives way to winter in Asheville. My town didn't get the snow that fell near the Tennessee border, but the cold did kill off my remaining pepper plants. I yanked them up Sunday evening, officially closing the garden this year. We did not plant any cold-weather crops.

We are considering staying in town for Thanksgiving this year. We're wary of taking the deputy on his first long car ride, through Atlanta no less and speeding to Alabama to make a lunch date. We hesitate about this. It is our turn to go down there, and we always like the food and company. But ... It feels daunting. We're daunted. The idea dauntifies us. And Your Parents claim they're holding out to save money, but they always say that and they always break down and go. Feels like we should too. If we do stay in town, we'll make dinner for whoever wants to come by. Maybe we could set up webcams on our laptops and have a virtual dinner with the Alabama folks.

Speaking of plans, I'm going to write the first draft of my new convention comic this week. I must give myself more time to make that comic now that we have a mobile fire alarm in onesies.

Picture of the Day
How fresh was that bundle of kale we got from a neighbor? This fresh:


He didn't survive the night in the fridge. We didn't discover him until after.

Daddy Time

The evening was deliberate.

As soon as I got home, Your Sister pointed out some bottles of milk and offered the deputy to be fed when I was ready. The offer was not snippy or forced. She set the tone immediately, and all seemed well. She wanted me to have the most opportunity to be a dad. I appreciated it. I don't think either of us expected him to drink so much that night though.

I gave him one bottle's worth and moved him to the play mat with dangling animals. He's learning to intentionally reach and grab. His aim is wonky, but he's getting there. No matter how good he gets with that, I don't see his arm strength catching up to that of his legs. I don't think my arm strength can catch up to his legs.

Around 7, he started to get noisy, and I began the bedtime routine. He still won't let me read to him, but he'll happily chug milk while I hum along with Pandora. And that's exactly what we did. He drank himself into sleep within 20 minutes, and I knew he'd wake up before long. Half an hour later, he did, and more milk and music ensued. I probably walked two miles within that room as I held him after feedings. Each time he would nod off, I'd attempt to set him in the crib, and he'd fully wake up and want to interact. I scooped him up, hummed some more, and we repeated this about three times. He was dry, he was full of milk, he was not too hot or cold. He just wouldn't sleep. After the fourth time and an hour later, I threw in the towel (gently, quietly) and let him have the recommended 15 minutes of cry time to see if he'd settle. He didn't.

I changed him and gave him more milk, and by now he'd swilled 15 ounces. That's a record. I set him down again, and Your Sister offered to come into the game as a closer. I stepped aside (gently, quietly), and she had no better luck. She suggested he was scared to be alone and wanted to be held. She tried that and got another earful when she set him down. We gave him another 15 minutes, and he finally conked out as we started our late supper.

A few hours later, I changed his not-surprisingly packed diaper and changed him into a sleep bag. I held him for one song off Pandora, and he was out cold. I set him down with no problem, satisfied I had worked my shift like a proper father should. I do suspect he was unaccustomed to this and didn't understand that he was supposed to sleep.

Almost all the ironwork is up on the deck, and we have an estimate for the new carpeting. Progress is progressing. We watched the primetime election coverage for some hours after supper but called it a night before we heard anything about the Western states. I woke up this morning to restrained Republican commentary, and the onus is on the successful Tea Party candidates to live up to the rhetoric. They have to drastically eliminate spending without compromising with the larger caucuses.

Picture of the Day
Dig the shoes.

I'm Spewing Here. You Can Ignore It.

I have felt for a while now that my role as a dad has become marginalized. I hadn't put the deputy to bed for four nights in a row, despite my protests that I need to pull my weight. I'm concerned that Your Sister doesn't get a breather nor will he trust me. I feel a mix of guilt and shameful relief that I do relatively little to care for him. I'm also insufficient on a basic level; I can't yank up my shirt and offer him some solace at a moment's notice. Before I can warm a bottle, Your Sister jumps in to feed and quiet him. It's sensible; he's calmed quickly. But it removes me from the baby-soothing toolbox. And it happens often.

A few days ago, I suggested that I watch him while she voted this morning. I could tell as soon as I mentioned it that she wasn't keen on the idea, and I heard no objections. Last night, she instead offered to feed him, vote as soon as the ballots opened, and return before I woke up. I swallowed my objections and said OK.

ASIDE: "OK" is quickly becoming my secret codeword for "it's easier to go along with this, but I'm quickly losing relevance, and it's getting pretty fucking old."

Your Sister asked me to check on him last night as he was sleeping and change his diaper if need be. He was already squeaking in his sleep, which means he's waking up. He was wrapped in clothing, requiring me to shuck a sleep bag and a pair of pants. That made him immediately cold, and he shrieked. I checked his diaper, and it was dry. So I had done this for nothing. I tried to quickly get him bundled back up, but he is a terror to put pants on. He constantly kicks, and you have to put them on three or four times each leg. I hate putting pants on him, and I think it's unnecessary in general. Now he was screaming.

I threw the pants into the hall, zipped up his sleep bag and moved him back to the crib to warm and calm him. Your Sister came in -- prompted by surprise flying pants -- and offered to feed him, which I interpreted as being benched. That didn't help. I scooped him back up, hoping my body heat would make him sleep quicker, but he was now screaming with a hoarse-voiced fury. She sat in the rocker to prepare to feed him, and I dropped him in her lap, calling myself an idiot and giving up. I was furious. I stormed out of the room and clamped down before I yelled or punched a wall.

I have a temper. It takes a lot to get it going, and that's by design. I've worked hard to make it a thick boil. I tamp it down as it starts up, and I do things like say "OK" to keep the waters still. But when it goes, it goes, and it takes all I have to remind myself that being a stupid angry person just makes a larger mess to clean up later. I wish it didn't feel so good to hit that rage button. I wish I had tackling dummies at my command. I wish I didn't get worked up over something as fundamental as a crying baby. The hospital's PURPLE video was right in all ways. I remind myself that his screams aren't a sign I've failed him. It's a problem to solve, not a judgment.

I wish most that I didn't begrudge Your Sister the things my angry brain suspects her of. I usually don't think she's claiming the baby as her own, either because I'm incompetent or she's controlling. But my angry brain is as paranoid as it is eager to fuel itself with stupidity. And it's equally fearful that I'll once again come home to a trashed house and an escaped wife (with the added abstract abandonment by my son.)

I tried to explain my feelings last night, but I bit my tongue in some places. It was late. Late-night arguments are never good. She said I do pull my weight, that I'm a good father. I dunno. I feel like a third wheel.

I set my alarm early his morning, hoping Your Sister could go vote. Your Sister was feeding the sidekick and suggesting another option, possibly the fourth so far. She would go vote when I came home from work. I've heard that kind of suggestion before. It leads to her backing away from what she wants and dropping it altogether. I again offered to watch and feed him so she could go before I left for work. She wouldn't have it. I took that personally, that my reasonable idea was less attractive to her than giving up on what she wanted. We both would be left unsatisfied. OK, I said.

Not long after, she suggested we go at the same time, taking him with us and going in opposite directions when we were through. This struck me as needless work; why take him along to distract us both? Why waste time getting him ready to leave and pack his things in the car? What was wrong with my original idea? And here comes angry brain.

"You don't trust me with him."
"I do."
"Then why make this more difficult by taking him with you?"
"You'll be late for work."
"I wouldn't be if we had pursued my idea a half-hour ago."
"Alright, I'll go."
"He'll be alive when you get back."
"I KNOW."

Off she went. I changed him and collected myself. He spit up on my shirt, and I changed myself, now laughing at the silliness. That's the only good thing about my temper: When the fever breaks, I have an almost euphoric high as my head clears. I was in a very good mood when she returned.

ASIDE: Yes, I've considered that some chemicals in my brain are unsettled. I have images of my default brain looking aghast at my angry brain and wanting to slap it into coherence. So my default brain wants to treat my angry brain the way my angry brain wants to treat the world. Great. I've also considered that maybe decades of watching pro wrestling and a steady diet of bullying as a kid has turned me into Bruce Banner, secretly wanting to be inconvenienced so I could righteously go bananas. That would mean I perceive the world as an intentional barrage at myself. Wunderbar. The problem is me. I know this.

When Your Sister returned, I gave her some room to ease us into a conversation. She seemed alright. I was contrite. I don't want us to be on bad terms (angry brain doesn't want to give her a reason to leave), and she doesn't need two babies in the house. This baby experiment isn't about me and my imagined offenses. I can't help her if I'm untrustworthy. If I'm easily inflamed. If I'm stupid.

I'm supposed to put him to bed tonight. I'll feel better on the other side of it.

I'm probably gonna stay home Saturday instead of going to the roller derby. I shouldn't traipse off while she's trapped in a nursing cave.

ASIDE: Like her, I'll abstain from something I really want to ensure I've learned my lesson. We were made for each other, and if I can stay out of my way, I won't chase her off to find a man who isn't demented or lazy. The cliche question about where have all the nice guys gone? There are no nice guys, just more stupid guys with varying means of eating their anger. There should be PURPLE videos on menfolk. Our screaming isn't a judgment, just a problem to be solved.

The Race Actually Does Go To Swift.

It's been six years since I had anything resembling a physical. I was given a quick check when I applied for my current job, and the doctor's visit was geared around a drug test. I think he checked my temperature. I considered getting a check-up when I started running but didn't follow up on it and didn't encounter anything unnerving as I moved from treadmill to sidewalks (except my shocking weakness which I'll bemoan later).

Your Sis and I signed up with the same GP in town. This doctor was the one who checked on the deputy right after he was born, and we liked her a lot. We were glad to be accepted to her new client list in August, and we both had our appointments Friday. I went last. There were family history forms to fill out and dates of surgeries to remember, and I was at least close with those. The nurse was surprised with my weight ("I wouldn't have guessed you were 176." I took that as a compliment.), and she took a blood pressure reading that was as low as the previous ones at blood donations. I mentioned this to the doctor and passed along the comments by the nurses there and My Mom. The doctor held up my donor card with a year's worth of pressure readings and said emphatically "these are healthy numbers."

In fact, she said that my lack of doctor visits suggested that all is well, but we scheduled blood work and a proper physical for December. She wants to look at my blood sugars as I had (notice the past tense) uncles who who very big. I have never had my cholesterol checked, and I would not be surprised if it is sky high. The doctor gave me her new-patient sales pitch that she will be attentive but not hovering, cautious but not badgering, and I told her I wasn't looking for trouble, but I'm getting older, and I want to find anything amiss early if something gets all amissy. And with that I went home.

My Mom came by Friday and stayed until Saturday. She declared the deputy the cutest and happiest baby she had ever seen to no one's surprise. I made a muted stir fry for her, and she was not assuaged by the doctor's comments on my blood pressure.

After Mom left, we grabbed a quick lunch and began our party preparation. I stretched tarps along the deck railings to prevent tumbles where the railing artwork should be. We bought a new firepit, and I assembled that. I had a short window before the race.

And let me say how disappointing my run was. I had a decent lunch and snacked an hour before I left for the run. I thought I was ready. I didn't run at all this week, and I knew that would hinder me a bit, but I had no idea how difficult the race would be. The sun and wind were strong, and I felt dryness in my mouth while standing at the start line. I hoped it wouldn't be a problem. It very much was. I had to walk twice to my great shame, but I did manage to run up the heartbreaking hill and finish strong. My lungs and legs felt OK, but I had no energy. I was tapped. It was as frustrating an experience as I've had in a race, and I'm determined to not let that happen again. I'll keep up my run efforts between the races and do more floor exercises. I finished with a time under 30 minutes but still seven minutes behind the other men in my age group, and I can cut that in half by next year. I'm sure of it.

I returned home before the party started. Your Sister made two kinds of carrot soup and cider. It was a good turn-out, easily 15 people and kids were there. I was asked to draw a Supergirl on a pumpkin and did, and the commissioner was so happy with it that she suggested we work a booth at next year's street festival and sell pre-designed pumpkins for people to carve. Your Sis and I traded turns with the sidekick and didn't cut our pumpkins that night. I squeezed those in on Sunday afternoon before the trick-or-treaters arrived.

Before we did our Sunday rounds, my old friends the Warrendorf parents, arrived with gifts for the sidekick. They hadn't seen the house, and I gave them a tour while Your Sister nursed. We did get a decent number of costumed kids that night -- decent for us anyway -- and Your Sister told me to put the leftover candy in my workshop to keep it out of sight lest she devour it. And there it sits.

Our state trooper family next door moved out suddenly Sunday. It's our understanding that a new family is to move in today, and this morning, the first family was still cleaning out the house. It's a terrible time to move, and I hope they didn't go far enough away that the kids change schools.

Picture of the Day
Among next year's comic movies is Captin America, and the first photos from the film came out last week. I like what I see here.


The triangular shield was the design original to the character in the mid-40;s. he got the circular shield when we was revived in the '60s. The film looks like it's mostly set in WWII which should be fun.

New Baby Plateau

Your Nephew had his checkup.

He is in the 75th percentile of length, weighs just under 15 pounds, and is in the 55th percentile for head size. The last one surprised us. I suspect 12 of his pounds are skull. He got a second round of vaccinations, but he won't be considered fully immunized until the third round in two months. The doctor suggested we both get flu shots and warned he's still vulnerable to the local whooping cough. The doctor said he forgets how young the deputy is because he's so big. He's long but apparently lean.

My Mom is driving up Friday to spend the day with us and help babysit while we both visit the doctor. This weekend is quickly becoming packed. We only just yesterday put up Halloween decorations and cracked open the bags of candy to fill the official candy cauldron.

Amid the big push for early voting comes this caveat: Late surprises can make you regret that vote. A local sheriff candidate has been revealed to have legal decisions against him regarding bad checks for his various businesses. There's a bill in the NC legislature that would prohibit felons from acting in law enforcement, doubling the interest of this disclosure. The local paper did a bang-up job putting the article together, and the candidate is in a full defensive mode. It's both a shame and a relief the news came out this close to the elections. Imagine if no one knew about it until after he won.

Picture of the Day
Ray Bradbury is a bad motherfucker.

An Odd Wake-Up

You know the sitcom/movie cliche of baby monitors picking up conversations from other homes? It's real. I awoke to the sounds of a conversation in the bedroom with me, and that sort of thing always wakes me up. It wasn't the alarm clock -- that plays a John Williams orchestration CD. Our two-channel receiver unit locked into some other machine starting around 7:oo this morning. I called in Your Sister, who was diapering the deputy (my new album title), and we decided the state trooper next door had his walkie on. We couldn't tell if his family heard any sounds from our nursery, and it's unlikely our bedroom receiver was broadcasting. It's not engineered to, but, still, we will now shut that off when we repair to the boudoir. The baby
s across the hall. We should hear him without it.

I bought a drain repair kit during my lunch break, but I didn't use it at home. I instead took the broken plug rod from Your Sister's sink and cobbled together a fix using an X-Acto knife and the plastic ball seal from the first repair try. After 15 minutes of whittling, the ball seal allowed the old rod to control the plug, and the sink is now fixed. I'll keep the new repair kit in case my work falls apart.

Your Nephew spent the day with Your Parents and did not go to bed quietly. He seemed to have a fit of colic -- more likely indigestion -- and eventually crashed into sleep for ten hours. He has his four-month check-up today. It's been that much time since you and I hovered over Your Sister as she spat out a deductible. That weekend is both a haze and perfectly preserved in my head. Also? World Cup.

We're replacing the living room carpet within the next few weeks. We've had enough of a dirty carpet peppered with carpet-cleaning blobs.

Picture of the Day
A choice image rerun.

Sink Surgeon

I am the Hawkeye Pierce of sink repair.

I smooched the wife and petted the boy and went straight to the bathroom to show the sink who's boss. In return, it showed me a downright foul sleeve of goop that coated the drain. Monstrous. Inhuman. I dragged the whole thing out in one piece, a faded mix of toothpaste, hair, and failed drain-cleaning product.

I saw the plug control rod was rotted and rusted to the point it couldn't move the plug anymore. It has a ball seal to block the pipe where it connects to the drain. That ball plug had to be moved back along the rod, thus allowing a decent length to move the plug.

It looks like this:

The ball seals is right at the red dot on the above pivot rod location. I used pliers and a vice to twist the ball back along the rod and reassembled the lever contraption. The sink works just fine now.

I looked at Your Sister's and discovered that her lever plug has a ball seal with a plastic rod to move the plug. That rod broke, and I'll need to get a sturdier rod/ball combination to move her drain plug. I'll stop by a hardware store today to find one, and I might be able to fix her sink too. That's gotta improve our property value by at least $5.

The boy is intentionally reaching for objects now, and he is much more verbal.

Picture of the Day
This weekend saw the annual Wonder Woman Day held in Oregon and New Jersey. Auctions for art such as this raise money for abused women.

Repairs Needed

I discovered last night that my sink no longer worked. The push/pull that hinges the drain plug was moving, but the plug wasn't. It was jammed in the drain, backing up the water. I let it be, and hoped the water would eventually seep down the pipe and relieve any pressure keeping the plug down. I awoke this morning to the same amount of water. The push/pull connects to the drain via an access screw, and I removed that to jimmy the plug. What I found was a blockage of crud. I can't tell if the crud had eaten away at the plug connection and broken it, but I was able to remove the plug. I cleaned off the various parts and set them to dry. I'll attempt sink surgery tonight. This very thing happens all the time to Your Sister's sink, and she blames it on heavy use. I've replaced the plug mechanism a few years back. I think the design might be bad. She currently uses a rubber stopper for her sink, but I want to fix mine properly.

My Saturday morning run was a deadweight slog. My legs had no zip. I forced my way through the downtown route so I could claim to have run a 5k distance in preparation of this weekend's race. The next day, I carried the deputy in his new carrier and wore the diaper bag at the same time during our grocery shopping. I figured that was a good follow-up workout. I didn't dare complain about the weight to Your Sister, who carried this guy around for much longer than 45 minutes. I had hoped to buyyd up for the race, but the person I asked is at home with whooping cough. It's officially in our county. We think the deputy was vaccinated for that during his two-month checkup. We'll ask Wednesday at his four-month.

I started a guest comic for Comics From Space. I was asked about doing one about two months back, and it's due in mid-November. The pencils are done, and I'll ink it in between feeding and changing the deputy. I used my phone to stream Pandora for him Friday night to lull him to sleep.

We have chosen one of my costumes for next year's DragonCon: The Stig from Top Gear. We'll spread out the cost for it during the next year, and we can use her bike helmet.


Picture of the Day
A fantastic convention photo.

From Beyond

During a lunch break a few weeks back, I saw a flyer for a local film society's free Halloween movie series. It's a monthlong viewing of cult horror movies playing at the Carolina Asheville, where we three saw The Two Towers in the snow before you went to Africa. Because the viewings are at night, I would have dismissed seeing any of them because it would mean stranding Your Sister with the deputy for the entire.

But one of the listed movies was 1986's From Beyond, my most favorite b-grade horror movie ever ad always. I discovered it around 1988 on the first night I was left alone in the house overnight. I took advantage of our cable channels to see as much stuff that my parents wouldn't allow. Amid bad cop thrillers and campground slashers was From Beyond, an adaptation of an HP Lovecraft story. It came on in the dead of night, around 3 am, on Cinemax (which should tell you a lot about the film right there), and I devoured it. The TV Guide practically dared me to watch it with the warning "not for the squeamish." Well, even then, I was never one to squeam. I was in love with horror movies. I would buy Fangoria, the horror-film magazine almost monthly, and read Stephen King whenever I could. I was the average teen loner boy. I was solitary to the point of being cocooned, and any interests were fixations.

Here's the original trailer:

It's a relatively cheap film. The producers made two movies back-to-back on the same set in Italy. This was the second film; the other, Dolls, is also another variation of the haunted-house formula. The original story is only three pages long, and it's completed before the film's opening credits. Lovecraft wrote pulpy horror about alternate dimensions and creatures so bizarre that men go mad at their sight. He's seen as the link between Poe and King, and of course I read his stories as much as I could, to the detriment of my GPA.

The other 80 minutes of the film is a mix of stilted dialogue, weak plot points (where do psychiatrists get dynamite in the middle of the night?), and enough T and A to earn an R rating. It's schlock, but it's stuck with me as a chippy production that doesn't realize the makings of a very good story are all around the script. I often considered making a comic that adapts and expands this film. That's how invested I am in it.

Because I saw this in the middle of the night and had only ever seen it again on TV screens, it never felt like a movie to me. It was a multimedia short story, and it felt like a secret. I've bought multiple DVD copies on eBay from overseas hoping to get a quality print. Finally, MGM released a director's cut Blu-Ray a few years back. The chance to see it in a theatre was akin to getting into Wonka's factory.

You might remember that theatre has an upstairs section, previously housing an arcade. Now it's a lounge with a functioning bar, small kitchen, and a screening room. Four rows of sofas face a large projection screen, and this is where I found myself last night. Your Sister and I agreed that I'd attend if I watched the deputy during her charity ride last week. And here I was, giant popcorn and giant Sprite in hand. Seeing this among others is as close to coming out as I'll ever experience.

Before the film, we saw a chapter of a brilliantly bad Bela Lugosi evil-doctor serial and a famous acid-trip of a Betty Boop cartoon featuring Cab Calloway. The whole this is here:

Because I hadn't seen From Beyond with a room full of people before, I had perceived it as an earnest, slightly slack movie. With his audience, I realized a) it's fucking goofy; and b) it's a tight, efficient production. It was as if I hadn't seen it before. It was a great crowd, and they were clearly horror fans, even if half admitted they hadn't seen the movie before. I'm pretty sure I've seen it more than everyone else there combined. I may have seen it more than any other movie besides Wizard of Oz. It's my pet film. In my workshop hangs a poster for the film from Belgium. If this movie was a person, my interest would be considered stalky.

I drove home beaming. Your Sister was still up when I got home, and we caught up on the day. Your Parents are watching the sidekick today, and we're just a week away from Halloween, the race, and the party.

Making Calls

As we near the date for the annual pumpkin party, two concerns may throw in wrenches: the constant rumblings of moving trick-or-treating to our party night (avoiding Sunday because God hates free candy), and the incomplete decking.

We were told way back in early September -- wait, was it late August? -- that the school carpentry students could do this and do it quick and do it well. Your Sister had passed along to me a deadline of two weeks for construction from the class teacher. That span passed long ago, and I suspect the teacher is dragging this out to fill the whole semester. This normally wouldn't be a problem. It's cold and rainy, and we rarely use the deck in the cold rain. But we're hoping to have a deck party on the 30th, and we still don't have the ironwork installed. That makes it dangerous for the kids we hope to host. And probably the random tipsy adult.

I called the police department asking which night they will be dispatched. I'm waiting to hear back. I also called the newspaper and heard nothing back. Maybe the grapevine was off the mark entirely. We announced our party date to match that of the annual town festival and race. But that was before the rumors of moving candy-begging one day earlier. The race organizers don't seem to realize that the police probably can't block the race route and the more popular trick-or-treating zones at the same time. I hope that provides the police an alibi to keep the kids home Saturday night and keep the costumed soliciting on the 31st, where it belongs.

If there is trick-or-treating on the 30th, we'll lose half our potential guests and would be for moving the party to an earlier date. But we need to know what the deal is. The worst-case scenario is two nights of it. Expanding Halloween as a mood is fine, but stretching the food distribution beyond one night will dilute the fun for adults, and there's too much danger of double-dipping. I don't approve of giving the same kids in the same costumes another handful of candy one night later. We're generous candy givers, but we have our limit.

As we watch Jeopardy! we note the careers of the contestants and judge them. A recent contestant was announced as a "stay-at-home mom," and I began to instinctively mock her before I remembered who was sitting next to me on the couch. Your Sister says she doesn't consider herself that; she's a teacher on a leave of absence. I agree.

She dropped off a gift certificate to a coffee store for the service lady ho told me how to rewire the internet connection. She called me back to thank me, and I think she got choked up.

EDIT: The newspaper called me back, and the news editor told me the county council announced trick-or-treating would take place on Sunday, the 31st. There's my answer. Thank you, old-school media.

Picture of the Day
This new sign from a Barnes & Noble is making the rounds online. The store closest to my office is packed with the genre.