After The (Two-Hundred-Twenty-) Third Day, Give or Take

Writsmall rose again. To what purpose is still uncertain, but I've had enough of you people camping out on my lawn and begging me to toss you some small morsels of levity and wisdom with which to relieve the misery of your wretched lives.

Friday Cat Blogging

This is a portrait of Pärt by Thing 1. Note the three claws on each paw and the sets of three whiskers, and allow me to remind you that the artist only just had her third birthday. If she weren't mine, I'd say, "That kid's a friggin' genius." But since she is mine, I'll let you say it.

And then I'll say, "God damn right she is."

J. Lew

Celebrity worship being among the most loathsome forms of human behavior, crushes on actresses and singers have always seemed foreign to me. Until now.

This is Jenny Lewis, and you should listen to her. She's the frontwoman for Rilo Kiley, and she has this great new solo album.

You probably knew about her already. I'd never heard of her until a couple days ago, and this is how much of a dork I am: I found out about Rilo Kiley from reading an economist's blog.

Please don't tell her that. I would be soooo embarrassed.

The Two That Are Now Three

Three years ago today, my wife Barb lay enormous and exhausted, 36 weeks pregnant, in the hospital bed she'd occupied for two days. The Pitocin hadn't taken effect, the girls weren't coming out, and her OB/GYN -- her name is DeFederico; we called her "The Fed" -- was about to send us home. We'd both been more or less awake for at least 48 hours; sleeping hadn't been easy at home, and it was even more difficult with the incessant talking of the nurses outside the door and the hiccups of Things 1 & 2, amplified by the monitors strapped to Barb's distended abdomen and thus sounding like the depth charges in Das Boot. So we were only too happy to leave -- but no so fast. Around noon, The Fed said no go. One of the girls was showing stress, and we had a choice to make: stay on the Pitocin or have a C-section. We'd been devoted to the idea of natural childbirth, but crushing fatigue demolished our defences, and we gave the command: Storm the womb.

I've heard guys say that the day of a child's birth was the happiest day of their lives. 'Happy' isn't the word I'd use, I suppose, and it wasn't my belly sliced open that afternoon, but I don't recall, nor do I imagine I'll ever experience again unless I'm fully aware at the moment of my death, such a visceral, primal sense of love. It defies my meager powers of description. It was the miracle of the Nativity, the sense of total submission and devotion in before the pure, and purely vulnerable, infant (or infants, in our case). It was like being tasered by God.

Keen observers of the calendar will note that my daughters' birthday is also that of Kim Jong Il. This is in keeping with family tradition: Daddy shares a birthday with Stalin. Mama thinks Daddy is a tyrant, but Daddy needs only to point out this astrological coincidence to remind her that he could be far, far worse.

Happy Birthday, my little bugs.

Kendrick Perala 1952-2006

A man of voracious curiosity, quick wit and a ready laugh; an eager listener and thoughtful speaker, with a rich and resonant voice; and a fine musician with whom it was my pleasure to sing on many occasions.

I'm saddened that I can't find a photo; he was handsome, with a grey beard, bright eyes and generally jovial expression. He died early this morning, shortly after a horrendous accident in the course of a typically genteel pursuit, making brandy.

Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei.

UPDATE 2/15: Here's a photo, and the Cappella Romana site is hosting a message board. Tomorrow I'll be writing an obituary for The Oregonian. I should be following the example of Kendrick's enthusiasm for life, and taking a lesson from the fact that tomorrow is my daughters' birthday, but at the moment I'm approaching it with a heavy heart.

Dear God, Please Make it Stop

No, not the commentary on the State of the Union, though that's more than enough to spark a long, dull headache. Is there a more tired, tedious and sincerity-free display of political pageantry in this country than that pointless speech? The pathetic attempt at oratory, the solemn assembly, the gratuitous applause -- Molière would have loved it. But it doesn't stop there, of course. For days afterward, the guardians of public speech scrutinize the text like biblical exegetes, pretending that it's not simply faux-statesmanly words put in the mouth of a transparent mountebank by his proganda apparatus. America, the new Ibansk.

Even worse at the moment, however, is the incessant rain. Normally we get five inches in January. This year? Eleven. I'm going to start saving up to have Norman Foster build one of these over our house.

Back in Vermont there was a certain kind of headache I'd get from sun on snow on a bright, clear day. I'd happily have one of those right now.

Why We Parent

Daddy is desperately trying to work. He's got a concert review due at noon, and he's not in the groove, not thinking in clear sentences. The deadline is elastic -- there's a good 45 minutes' leeway before the piece is uncomfortably late -- but he's starting to feel a little anxious.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 sense this like a dog smells fear. It's time to join Daddy in the kitchen.

The gate in the doorway has been useless since they were two and half. Thing 2 climbs over it, while Thing 1 prefers to jump on the pedal that releases the latch. They pull chairs up to the butcher block and reach for the keyboard and mouse; they plant their faces in front of the computer and blow raspberries to see their little flecks of spit illuminated on the screen; they try to get Daddy's goat by sticking their fingers as close to the screen as possible when he tells them not to touch. "Is touching here okay, Daddy?" If Daddy gets up, one or the other scrambles onto his seat and announces, "I'm Daddy!"

Thing 1 then decides to take the bakeware out of the cupboard, breaking a ceramic pie dish on the floor. Thing 2 gets on her hands and knees, declares "I'm Pärt!" and starts to eat the cat food. Not to be outdone, Thing 1 decides to pee on the floor, though she knows perfectly well how to use the potty. Thing 2, having been forcibly separated from her snack, attempts to cross from one dining room chair to another; she slips and does a face plant into the cane seat, bloodying her lip and crying piteously. Daddy's blood pressure is now so high it needs to be reckoned in scientific notation.

And that's when Thing 1 hauls her naked, muscular little body onto Daddy's lap, puts her arms around him and says, for the very first time, "I love you."