Number Nine

The yungest turns nine tday

Hw weird that my cmputer keybard refuses t prduce the numera nine

The etters " " and " " mysteriusy stpped wrking, t

And I can't type a perid, thugh cmmas and excamatins wrk fine!

Perhaps a series f iPhne birthday candids t cmpete the picture:

Kid surveys treats frm big bday grab-bag as kitty gives us the evi-eye

Presenting Pptarts, rdinariy a frbidden fruit

And ast but nt east, "the beef stick f wisdm" brandished as a weapn, the way wisdm shud be

Party this afternn incudes skating with friends, then dinner with grandparents

And maybe a trip t the Appe Stre is in rder, eh?

Happy Birthday Jnah! We ♥ yu even bigger than nine!

Princetonian For A Day

An odd request to share MY TOWERING WISDOM came in a recent invitation to speak at Princeton University. The subject? Christmas and Christmas cards. The venue? An intro-level course called "Sociology from E-Street: Bruce Springsteen's America," created and taught by renowned sociologist Mitchell Duneier.

~ Sample architectural symbol of aforementioned towering wisdom ~

Why me? For that matter, why Bruce? Because Prof. Duneier is not the usual theory-obsessed academic. He has a deep interest in empathy, both as observed in society and as practiced by sociologists and ethnographers. So his idea of greeting cards as an empathetically-imagined vehicle for social connection met his interest in exploring cultural issues through the lens of Springsteen's famously socially-aware songs (the raucous cover of "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town" is atypical, but fit this particular hour), resulting in a December 17th class about Christmas, Christmas cards, and associated social meanings.

It was cool. Prof. Duneier interviewed me and a fellow writer in a big lecture hall of about 200 students, with a little Q&A after. We then attended a small break-out section of the class for a conversation that ranged all over the topic. Such bright, sweet kids, so easy to talk to (I'm not sure what I expected... bluebloods with monocles and George Plimpton accents, maybe?), exploring a wide range of issues and sharing personal stories that illuminated them.

At the end of the first class, two kids got up on the stage of the big lecture hall and played the featured song on guitars and harmonica, and everybody sang and clapped along. It was the kind of day that gives a semi-cynical guy a little faith in the future.

Afterwards, a few students came up and asked about the job, internships, possibilities. It's the worst time to apply for work at Hallmark since the Great Depression, but you never know. I'm sure we'll hear from a few of these marvelous kids--either as job applicants or as movers and shakers in the world at large. There was a lot of soulful brainpower in and among those ivy-clad buildings.

~ Nassau Hall at Princeton, where I practice pedantry now and then ~

The school was founded in 1746. My photos of other magnificent buildings came out shitty, shot with an iPhone in low light. It's an amazing campus. If you ever get a chance to be a visiting PRINCETON EDUCATOR LIKE ME, don't miss it.

~ A pedant non-euphemistically "rubbing the tiger" at Nassau Hall ~

I thought I had a picture of Prof. Duneier and me mugging by a statue or something, but all I find is the one above. There's a squirrel in the ivy behind me, but you can't hear it scolding me for touching the big tigger on the steps, or for looking somewhat bloated from being wined and dined on the university budget the night before.

Beautiful place, beautiful people, beautiful day. A great way to close out the year. Happy 2010 from me, Princeton lecturer and holiday deadbeat who sent out only half the usual number of cards. Welcome, new austerity and laziness.

Beautiful Blast from the Piano-Pop Past

I woke up singing this song, for some reason. Maybe it was the soundtrack to a dream I don't remember. What I do remember is how gobsmacked I was the first time I heard it. Senior year of high school, standing in a record store, and the little gallop and kiddie gunshot noises came over the sound system--and then those first notes, with their syncopated accents that made it hard to tell exactly where the beat was. What in the world...?

I fancied myself a teen piano idol in the Elton John mode, with a little Rick Wakeman thrown in, a little Keith Emerson, Tony Banks, a little delusion of grandeur. I went up to the counter, and looked at the LP jacket on the "Now Playing" stand. I'd never heard of Andy Pratt and here he was just playing the ass off the thing.

The story goes, he spent 500 hours in the studio on this song, playing everything except drums. He's every bit as good on bass as he is on keyboards. How does a guy who's capable of this not become a huge star? I remember digging the whole album. But this song is definitely the piece d'irresistible.

There are a couple of other YouTube versions, including one that intercuts a performance video of Andy in his 50s, looking like Art Garfunkel, but it's all obscured by special effects. This little montage of stills will do. And you can see Andy then and Andy now.

Or just close your eyes. It's the fall of 1973. Maybe you weren't there for it. But this song has just galloped into the world, beating "Bohemian Rhapsody" to the punch by two years, a one-of-a-kind musical vision announcing itself, blowing away one delighted listener after another. I was one of them. Still am.

I Sired A Werewolf

All Hallows' Eve PSA: Hey, kids. This Halloween, don't forget to shove sugar into your face until you turn into a monster.
And if you get a mail-order werewolf costume and the shirt attached to it feels like a polyester nightmare, rip out the furry chestal area and then sew it into a nice, soft thrift store shirt that you got for 50 cents and tore up. Or have your mom do this while your dad kind of freaks over the mask, which is genuinely creepy and scares him every time you leap out to surprise him. Careful, he might poop his pants.

Better you should scare your fellow classmates, many of whom showed up in the Scream outfit that apparently was massed out at Target. Do not breathe of the Scream mask, which smells like a PVC meltdown amid cultural decline.

Try to uphold the old traditions, such as trick-or-treating with Isabelle, the girlfriend you've had since pre-school, who dreamily combines her first name with your last name, like something out of a beach bunny movie from the mid-20th century. She's half angel and half devil, and that can be a pretty good combination.

Be a good werewolf. Show up at your girlfriend's house with flowers.

And have a very happy Halloween.

Save This Family. Name This Cat.

Presenting our Replacement Kitty:


She's a miniature of the late, great Tova. Same breed (Birman), same markings (blue eyes, gray points & professorial patches on her hind legs) same delightful disposition (lovey-dovey). If anything, she's even more affectionate than Tova was, lolling about on our laps and napping on Penny's shoulders during the day. We all fell in love immediately.


BUT. It's been two weeks, and we have yet to arrive at a name. Leave it to two writers and a verbally agile child to bollox up the naming process to the point where we all hate each other. We're sick to death of suggesting names and having the other two family members snarl, "No, I hate that, I hate you, and you're making me hate the cat. I hate all cats now. All animals. I hate Nature, the Universe, the fabled singularity. I hate God. But mostly, I hate you." You could probably set that to The Beatles' "I Want You," from the newly remastered Abbey Road," which I'd much rather be blogging about, to tell you the truth.

Penny came up with the best name: Kish. It means pillow in Yiddish, offering a cute diminutive, Kishela. Come here, little pillow. Wait, you're already behind my neck, like a good little Kish?


No wonder it's the perfect name. Jonah and I have been calling her Kish, Kishy, and Kishycat for days, but Penny has decided she hates it. She's around the cat more than any of us. She tried the name, and it just didn't work. Doesn't roll off the tongue or something. Here, let me strangle you so I can see that tongue, try to figure out the problem...

Update: To punish me for posting this, the darling spousette looked up Kish in the Urban Dictionary. It means, "A very swollen vagina." Seriously. I'm not Will Ferrelling you on this. A couple of other meanings, too--a latent homosexual, a warning that someone's coming, e.g., "Kish! Stash the weed! It's my mom!"

What other names are contending? The current top 10::

Ava
Edie
Cali (from Jonah's day 1 remark, "She smells like calamari.")
Pie
Simone
Mimi
Gia
Jess
Tess
Indiana Jones & The Temple of Doom

Of those, Pen likes Ava, I like Edie or Pie or Cali, and Jonah hates everything but Kish. I actually know a family who let their young son name a cat, and ended up with the last entry above. Everybody called the cat Indy, except for little Nicholas, who insisted on, "Come here, Indiana Jones & The Temple of Doom! Get down from there, Indiana Jones & The Temple of Doom! Mom, Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom just coughed up something black!"

We could do worse. Go on long enough with naming, and some wretched things start to sound reasonable. Penny, at wits' end, keeps saying things like, "How about Pebbles?" or "I know--Talullah!" and I keep giving her looks like, "No, Wilma" and "I hate you AND Demi Moore."

Our marriage is in tatters. Our son is ready to be adopted by other, better parents. Please. Save us. Name this cat.



Update: As of New Year's Day, the cat's name is Tavi. Best little kitty we ever had. And that's going some.

If I Might Interject At This Juncture

Here's Jonah at breakfast on his first day of 3rd grade.


He's doing his Timid Pirate voice, which is like a bookish elf crossed with Woody Allen as Broadway Danny Rose. The basic Timid Pirate construction is: "If I, uh, might interject at this juncture...um...ARRR?" or "Could someone please, uh, tie that scurvy dog to the, um, yard arm?" Always with the index finger raised.

We're working on a long skit for the cub scout den, in which all the other boys are regular pirates and Jonah is the Timid Pirate. It goes like so: "12 pirates walk into a BARRRRRR (all the boys chime in with ARRRR). Bartender says, 'What's your pleasuRRRRRe?' And the pirates all say (three groups of boys yell in sequence, 'MARRRRRGARITA!' and 'MARRRRTINI!' and "GROG!"). But one pirate steps up and says, (Jonah, index finger aloft): "Could I perhaps, uh, order a Wild Berry Capri Sun?" And the pirates all go, "ARRRRR! Stupid timid pirate...." Bartender says, "It's Happy HouRRRRR. Would you like any appetizeRRRRs?" And the pirates all order, "CalamARRRRRRRi!" Except for the timid pirate: "Um, could I trouble you for a small house salad with lite ranch dressing on the side?" (Jonah came up with these lines himself--priceless, in his high little voice.) Eventually the other pirates beat him up with their wooden legs...

We're still working on an ending that kind of reverses the roles. Please submit ideas if you have them. (First pack meeting is tonight. My love-hate relationship with this stuff remains intact, but a good skit can transcend the venue.) Seriously. Help me finish this goddamn skit.

In the above photo from August 17 (weird, summer being over so early), he's the Timid Eater: "If I might make a small request...um, could I eat this pancake without being photographed?"

This, along with fart humor (both real and armpit-generated), faking like he's just taken a painful shot to the crotch (we probably hear "oooof...my groin!" at least a couple of times per day), and anything having to do with pineapples (beats me, but he's talking about going as one for Halloween--I think he just likes the randomness of it), currently constitute 90% of the kid's comedic stylings. The rest is on-the-fly wackiness.

He really is one of the most spontaneously funny kids I've ever known. I hope he can keep that alive through the next decade of public school. It's been weird to watch him grow more like other boys as he adjusts to social pressures, the need to be cool. Yep, already. He was always way ahead of everybody his age, verbally, but was a late-bloomer emotionally, a strange combination of oversensitive and under-aware, as if the membrane between him and the world was too thin in some places and too thick in others. He seems closer to the middle of the spectrum now, as other kids have narrowed the gap intellectually and he's learned to deal a little better with what life throws at him.

I can't imagine that he won't always be exceptionally bright and at least somewhat acerbic. This is the kid who, having been called a "know-it-all" by several of his classmates last year, said, "They don't even know what a know-it-all is." I hope he can develop social grace without losing his unique perspective.

If I might make a small, um, addendum to all this, uh...I love you, kiddo.

"A Better Way To Go"

Had a birthday and got feted, free-lunched, fully loved upon the earth. But within a week or two, I was kind of blah, holding back a certain low-level despair, appalled to see political machinations drag down progressive ideas, kind of pissy, not sleeping too well, feeling creatively stymied and generally feckless and fatigued.

Then my old friend Peter Stein sent me a link to this guy, Peter Mulvey, who will kill you softly, telling your whole life with his words, as it were, and playing the absolute ass off his guitar. Dig it:

I'm robbing two Peters to pay back an appall. And whaddya know, I had a little breakthrough on a script idea I've been wrestling with. Found a better way.

If only it were always so easy.