Reading Jared Diamond's excellent "Collapse," a book about human-inflicted environmental catastrophes, I was struck by his reported fact that Arizona and Nevada are the country's two most friendly states to the mining industry.  "Friendly," in this case, means that the legislation and contracts that allow the mining companies to operate allow for "self-regulation" on the cleanup process once the mines have been exhausted.  Apparently, around the U.S. and in many other parts of the world, hardrock mining companies tend to hollow out the ground, dump millions of tons of chemicals and waste, and then, when it comes time to remediate their sites, declare bankruptcy. Their promises of "self-regulation" and responsibility evaporate with the company.

No question, the mining industry in the U.S. has been a notoriously horrible environmental steward.  McCain's a big supporter, of course. And of coal (but not feather Indians) too, apparently, according to the UN.

So why are so few writing about this? Surely someone must have investigated McCain's energy industry ties in his previous reelection campaigns???

...Wouldn't it be something if the Black Mesa Mine Coal Slurry Pipeline had an accident this election season, a la the final season of "The West Wing?" Life imitates art.




...I blog when I can.

Date:	2008-04-27 10:09
Subject:	northern lights
Security:	Public
Mood:	awake
Music:	Alban Berg Quartet - String Quartet No. 14 in G Major, K. 387

From Barry Lopez's excellent "Arctic Dreams," his magnum opus on Arctic natural history:

"Animals confound us not because they are deceptively simple but because are finally inseparable from the complexities of life.  It is precisely these subtleties of fact and conception that comprise particle physics, which passes for the natural philosophy of our age.  Animals move more slowly than beta particles, and through a space bewildering larger than that encompassed by a cloud of electrons, but they urge us, if we allow them, toward a consideration of the same questions about the fundamental nature of life, about the relationships that bind forms of energy into recognizable patterns." (pg. 178, the Caribou chapter)

One of the few benefits of a child who screechingly meets the dawn on weekends is the early jump on the days' reading it affords. By the time so many are only thinking of rolling out of bed, X and I are already at work on a project or ensconced on the couch with a book, respectively: awake, alert, with coffee at our sides. Huckleberry is, absurdly, back asleep for his two-hour morning nap, usually taken within two hours of waking in the morning. His job, he may feel, is to rouse us, to kick us into the river of the day, and then turn his back and amble back to somnolence. I'm not complaining.  Is this how parents become "morning people," pushed without protest from their "night owl" ways?

The boy crawls now, to a degree.  It's a belly crawl: a hard scrabble on the wood floors, a continuous rugburn on the carpeting.  He is not speedy, but he is determined enough to cross rooms now, in purposeful quests for, in order: power cords, shoes, toys, dustbunnies, table leaves. Fortunately, were any German machinegunners gunning for him, his profile would present too low a target. And also luckily, his still-massive head is already to oblong too fit beneath most of our furniture... though X did find him with a bucket on his head the other day -- a preview of his future career?



But back to the Arctic.  Lopez's book is superb, dignified, meditative. Poignant. Another selection:

"To lie on your back somewhere on the light-drowned tundra of an Ellesmere Island valley is to feel that the ice ages might have ended but a few days ago.  Without the holler of contemporary life, that constant disturbance, it is possible to feel the slope of time, how very far from Mesopotamia we have come... Lying flat on your back on Ellesmere Island on rolling tundra without animals, without human trace, you can feel the silence stretching all the way to Asia... You can sit for a long time with the history of man like a stone in your hand. The stillness, the pure light, encourage it."

We watched "Into the Wild" last night.  A beautiful, sad, aching story.  I wish we'd seen it on the big screen, as friends advised (but with an infant, and consideration for other people, it's tough). Synopsis: a young man, Christopher McCandless gives us everything, leaves the "civilized" world behind, to become a vagabond, a tramp. He travels across the country in the early 90's, meets fascinating people, affects them profoundly, but always eventually moves on to his goal: living off the land, alone, in Alaska. He gets there, he survives, then he makes a mistake, and he dies. His body and writings are found by hunters, and noted author Jon Krakauer writes, first, an article, and then a book, about the tragic adventure.  And then Sean Penn writes a screenplay and makes a film.

The film is gorgeous; Eddie Vedder's soundtrack perfect. Handily enough, "Into the Wild" is also a moral tale on the art of living (my favorite kind). Not to spoil it, but the final epiphany, naturally arrived at only when the tragic hero is about to die from starvation, is this: "happiness is only real when shared." That kind of wisdom you can't take seriously on a gum wrapper... but, on the other hand, need one travel alone for years to learn it? 

My twenties had their share of such vagabond adventures: though shorter, more conservative, and car-bound, through them I still gained some taste of life.  Those days are behind me now, and when we travel as a family in the future, the flavor will be different. Fortunately, "Into the Wild" gives me pause in what would otherwise be my mourning for the death of those spirited days of breathtaking freedom. I realize now that I do not have to hitchhike across the country, drive the lonesome highways, or backpack into the wild, to find the lesson those journeys would arrive at: to live alone is a lonely life.  Better to share the adventure, and the rewards, with those you love.

And, of course, within Nature. Lopez's "Arctic Dreams" and Penn's "Into the Wild" (and Herzog's "Grizzly Man," while we're at it) have sown a fierce desire in both of us to experience the Great White North, before it's gone. Those are the vistas, and though the wisdom I've already ingested, the space and the majesty still beckon, for confirmation. Perhaps next year, a trip to Alaska with the boy.  When is black fly season in Denali?

In the film appears this emblematic passage from Tolstoy's 1859 short story "Family Happiness":
"...I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one’s neighbor — such is my idea of happiness. And then, on the top of all that, you for a mate, and children perhaps — what more can the heart of man desire?”

Maybe we'll move up there some day.


An article I read yesterday:

A review of Herodotus that compares him to Tolstoy and the Persian Wars he chronicled to Iraq, accurately. Continued proof that the New Yorker is simply the best weekly magazine in America.

A photo I saw today:


Getting Out, Jill Freedman, 1971.


Do yourself a favor and unpack something from your brain today.

Mahalo.

TXT messages sent to X during my hour morning commute yesterday:

8:36am:  "Good coffee today!"
8:38am:  "Oranges on sale"
9:06am:  "Train slow"
9:07am:  "Tons of schmiegals* tho"

* schmiegal (shmee'-gul), n. a dumpy, twentysomething single metropolitan woman who, surrounded by more attractive metropolitan women, forlornly neglects her appearance and thus holds out little promise for future romance.  Often referred to as having "a nice personality" and "small eyes."

So that's how I pass my mornings now, a straphanger, a true New Yorker.  I'm getting a lot of reading done.  I'm not complaining.

The first three weeks at the new job have been intense, though it is nice to be learning things again (and also, I must admit, discovering how much I learned at the last place).  I'd talk more about the new outfit, but some trouble having to do with this blog caught up with me. Its future remains uncertain as I continue to weigh the pros and cons of maintaining an online, public presence. I'm considering...

New baby pictures coming soon, of course.  How could I deprive the world of Sir Farts-a-lot!?

Date:	2008-02-18 23:46
Subject:	late night shots
Security:	Public
Mood:	relaxed

Happy Presidents' Day. What a lovely day off.  I spent some Quality Time with The Boy and took some pictures:



In his fifth month, he's now belly-crawling. Or attempting to, anyway. He doesn't get too far, but his frustration amuses us immensely. We could stand and watch him flail about for hours. Ah, parenting. It's really quite easy, if one doesn't buy into all that "nurturing" BS.




We tested out a new counter clip-on seat with him today. He's a little small for it, but the point was made: soon, he'll be in charge of getting himself to the table. We're tired of holding his squirmy form while trying to eat. Going forward, we're going to be re-civilizing meal time. Finally.  (Doesn't look like he's too keen on the idea, though.)




When he gets bored of the Indoors, we take him for a walk in the backpack. Very quickly, the overstimulation of the Big Wide World forces a stack overflow and he shuts down. Guaranteed nap, everytime. But damn, he's getting heavier. Sixteen pounds of milk-fed calf. Our little veal chop.  Delicious.




Reason #44 that he'll someday hate his father. (Can I tell you how much I like the fur textures and lighting in this photo? Occasionally, I even impress myself.)




But Huckle is getting smarter -- he figured out within minutes that he was engaged in an unauthorized menage-a-bear.




Here he is reading his first Harvard Business School Press publication. My son has taken a definite and early interest in process optimization and best practices strategizing. He's already got Bain and McKinsey interviews lined up. Personally, I'd rather seem him enter the industry directly from undergrad; business school is for wimps, but we'll see.

...no, in truth, the book is mine. It arrived today from my thoughtful mother, who wishes her son to be prepared for
his new job.

Ys indeedy, I'm leaving the Hall. Gave my notice on Friday. Did "the walk-in," and friends, it was mighty sweet. I recommend it to everyone.

So I'm joining [censored]
[censored]
[censored]
[censored]
I'm to be [censored]'s 2nd in command of development. Responsible for raising $2m a year for City beautification, urban planning, and environmental education programs for underserved youth.
...Cool. Plus a nice little salary bump, good benefits, and energetic/visionary coworkers. Finally.

Wish me luck. I start on St. Patrick's Day -- fitting, for a green organization? In between now and then, there's some wrap-up to do at the Hall, a project for the Obama-Klein campaign, a "business" trip to the South By Southwest Festival, and some more family fun in Indiana with X's sister's brood.

What can I say? I'm feeling like a millionaire.

Everything's moving very quickly. More news soon.

Date:	2008-01-29 23:29
Subject:	strange phenomena
Security:	Public
Mood:	recumbent

We return!

Apologies for the silence (I know you're here for baby pictures anyway, you rubes).  Been some busy times since the holidays, with a new job search underway (got to bring home more bacon), a wedding to plan (dear God let this economic stimulus rebate descend soon), and Guilder to frame for it. Frankly, Ty, I'm swamped.

What's happening?  We went on vacation last week to St. Martin in the Caribbean.  It was wonderful.  Highly recommended.  The French food is worth the trip alone. Our hotel: magnicifent.  The water: beautiful.  Even landing at the airport was a fun surprise (the lowest runway in the Windward Isles).  Truly, a paradise. And The Boy loved traveling. Next year: Thailand, and the Andaman Sea? (oogly-boogley, the Andaman Sea)

Pictures of the family honeymoon to St. Martin coming soon. If you're lucky, I'll even post the shots from the topless beaches.

---------

I am already so BORED with the presidential race. Aren't you?  Ten months to go. Huzzah. I distrust them all. However, pressed by Kleiner to choose, I have put my apples in the Obama cart. Why? Because I dislike him least of all. I suppose that's inspiring, no?
At least, as of tonight, Nosferatu is out. Thanks for playing, Rudy. You suck so much.




From the Does This Happen to You? Department:

Whenever I'm washing dishes in the sink, my mind flashes to images from the film "Sideways."  Whenever I'm shaving, I think of Tom Clancy movies like "Hunt for Red October" and "Patriot Games."  When I stick a Q-tip in my ear: "Ghostbusters."  This happens without fail, and automatically.  I make no conscious choice to remember these images.   

Somewhere along the line, I've built some associations between random film clips and repetitive motions.  Maybe some neurons are crossed somewhere or got bunched together too closely in some cerebral nook.

It bothers me, more so lately.  Probably because it is so uncontrollable -- I have spent the last year trying to keep my hand on the wheel, in a manner of speaking, and, by all accounts, have done OK.  The illusion of control over Life/Fate/Events has been maintained.

Except for these niggling motor memories.  Am I going crazy?  Please tell me this happens to you as well.



In the meantime, the paternity of my son has come into doubt. A suspicious resemblance has emerged:



I'm looking at you, Mr. Octopus. You, and your bright, marble-shaped eyes.  Don't think you can hide beneath that ridiculous sailor's hat.  Where were you 13 months ago, on a drizzly New Year's Eve?  Even The Boy looks as though he has an inkling. (Or maybe he's just working on Yet Another Dump.)

The latest innovation from the Sony Wonderlab


I think it's a mailbox...?

Yes, I'm still Christmas shopping.

Merry merry!

Date:	2007-12-18 15:16
Subject:	politics (cont.), science (re-visited), a productive day at the office (scuttled)
Security:	Public
Mood:	chipper

Got some good reading in this morning, even as I struggled to stay awake after a long night up with The H-Berry:

David Brooks finally has something useful to say and endorses (I think) Obama:
"...But Obama does not ratchet up hostilities; he restrains them. He does not lash out at perceived enemies, but is aloof from them. In the course of this struggle to discover who he is, Obama clearly learned from the strain of pessimistic optimism that stretches back from Martin Luther King Jr. to Abraham Lincoln. This is a worldview that detests anger as a motivating force, that distrusts easy dichotomies between the parties of good and evil, believing instead that the crucial dichotomy runs between the good and bad within each individual."

Character matters, as DJ astutely proved in our last go-round. Reading back, I think my frustrated desire for policy details over the usual campaign trail palaver was really a desire for clarity in the candidates' characters. They aren't telling us anything about how they'll govern and delegate, so perhaps their plans reveal how they think? Probably not. I should just read their books, I suppose. Still, it looks like Obama has a chance. Kleiner's favorite Andrew Sullivan has a good article on why.

*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)

I have a couple Edward Said books at home on my shelf, given to me by a Pakistani friend at the U.N., but I have yet to read them. I want to understand political Islam, I really do. And I will read them, Zubaida, I promise. In the meantime, here's a review of a critique of Said, and also a video of Newt Gingrich that's been making a dirty little nest within my family's tree more conservative branches. While Newt asks an excellent question ("Where are the moderates in Islam?"), I found most of his speech chilling, for a variety of reasons. In the Christopher Walken version of Stephen King's "The Dead Zone," his character sees the future of an apocalyptic Martin Sheen presidency. I listen to Gingrich and feel the same foreboding (but without Chris Walken's manic eyeballs).



Incidentally, those who know me know I adore grammatically correct homonym/homophone sentences such as "Fish fish fish" and (my favorite example) "Buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo." (Gents -- the link reveals our misapprehension that Buffalo buffalo is the full species name for the American bison -- it's Bison bison, and so we must have our bullying buffalo from western New York, not Linnaeus.)

Anyway, it occurs to me that, were a deceased Islamic scholar to have once talked about talking, one could rightly claim:

"Said said 'said.'"

Not exactly homophones, but it looks good on paper. Hooray!

*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)

Finally, from an article by Dennis Overbye in the Times's Science section today:
"...When I was young and still had all my brain cells I was a bridge fan, and one hand I once read about in the newspaper bridge column has stuck with me as a good metaphor for the plight of the scientist, or of the citizen cosmologist. The winning bidder had overbid his hand. When the dummy cards were laid, he realized that his only chance of making his contract was if his opponents’ cards were distributed just so.

He could have played defensively, to minimize his losses. Instead he played as if the cards were where they had to be. And he won.

We don’t know, and might never know, if science has overbid its hand. When in doubt, confronted with the complexities of the world, scientists have no choice but to play their cards as if they can win, as if the universe is indeed comprehensible. That is what they have been doing for more than 2,000 years, and they are still winning."

I enjoy bridge metaphors, and that's a nice conclusion to a stirring piece about the current state of our empirically-gained knowledge of the Universe(s). Good science writing is so clean, so precise, so . . . beneficial. I love it.


...honestly, with all that reading this morning, I don't know how I ever find time in the day to get any work done.
Oh, wait.
It's 3:15.
Doh!

Date:	2007-12-10 16:55
Subject:	proof of concept
Security:	Public
Mood:	irritated

Dear friends,

I am a devoted reader of Paul Krugman, the "conscience of the liberal" columnist for the New York Times. In today's column, he takes Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson and Bush Co. to task for not doing enough to bail out subprime mortgagees. The mortgage firms and investment banks, they'll get relief and a safety net, but once again, complains Krugman, the little guy, the common man -- he's left twisting in the winter wind. The scale of this fiasco is quietly and steadily growing; the risk-taking financial industry is to blame.

In my more conservative moments, however, I occasionally wonder: what if Big Business IS the driver of success? I.e., the better corporate America is working, the better it is for everyone. Should industries be allowed to bet on risky ventures like subprime mortgages? Yes, they may lose, and lose big, but when they win, do we all win? Did we all win in the Roaring 20's and the Dot-com Boom, or is win-win a practical impossibility? Aren't corporations really just out for themselves, and damn the common man, the commonweal, the common ethics?

As I'm also an acolyte of Michael Moore's populist crusades (most recently, "The Big One"), I've traditionally consigned free marketeers to the Idiots column in my brain's ledger.
But then again, I've been wrong before (probably).

My question is this: is there any evidence out there in the world that either proves or dispels the theory of "trickle-down economics" and free marketry? Can anyone provide this, or are national economic experiments too complex to be accurately evaluated?

I would prefer as objective an analysis as possible. Therefore, no one-sided "proofs" from conservative zines like the City Journal without substantive rebuttals from outlets such as The Nation (and vice versa). I want a fair and balanced evaluation of this dominant conservative platform plank. I am willing to read many hundreds of pages on this subject, if answers are available.

Is it out there? Surely, in our country's 200+ years of rampant capitalism, some data must have been accumulated? I'm curious.

Yours in skepticism,
N

Date:	2007-12-07 13:43
Subject:	the hucklebear
Security:	Public
Mood:	proud

Rain and snow and driving hail
force X to dress up our little male
as a cuddly teddybear.
His ears are back! Be aware.

Date:	2007-12-06 15:08
Subject:	anti-consumerism, just in time
Security:	Public
Mood:	happy
Music:	Carbon Silicon - Buckethead

This holiday season, let's finally declare a ceasefire in the War on Christmas...
and instead, open up another front for the
WAR ON GREED!!!

Drugs, Poverty, Terror, Iraq, and now . . . Greed? Hell yeah we can fight multiple wars at the same time -- we're Americans!

Michael Moore-wannabe Robert Greenwald is at it again, this time going after KKR principle Henry Kravis and his lavish, earned-with-the-blood-of-innocents lifestyle. watch the clip  Burn in Hell, Kravis.

My anti-consumer hackles are up because I'm still reading Ben Barber's "Jihad vs. McWorld," in preparation for reading his new one, "Consumed." I learned about the latter on NPR's excellent "Consumed" series a couple weeks ago.

I also spent a little time over at the Church of Stop Shopping this morning with preacher cum performance artist Reverend Billy. check him out

To sum up: friends, you're all getting homemade gifts from the C h a r o v s this season, because consumption is bad [and I am cheap].

(Looking at the links here today, I must admit: I am a consumer of media. Is that bad? Isn't everything, nowadays?)


In other news:

Why didn't anyone tell me Mick Jones has a new band? The former Clash member is back with a similar sound but a new name: Carbon Silicon. I heard a track, "The News," on the radio today for the first time... I dig it. Ironic lyrics. Catchy guitar hooks. A driving backbeat. Reminiscent of "Lost in the Supermarket."
Right on.
If the other tracks on the album are as good, I might just [gasp] purchase it.
...oh wait, those songs are downloadable. Score another for the cheapskate cyberboob! (As a notorious critic of virtual experiences, I'm particularly enjoying "Buckethead."  The rest are . . . OK, so far.)


Also, we're slinging mud and debating character in the Comments section of the previous post. Won't you join us?

Date:	2007-11-30 17:26
Subject:	watch the new NBC reality show: America's Next Top Prom King
Security:	Public
Mood:	cynical
Music:	my coworker's Steve Earle albums

Oh no, wait -- it's just a presidential election, the two-year popularity contest and softball interview that now leads to the most powerful job in the world.  The last two seasons saw a craven, shit-eating, language-mangling, perennial failure take the top honor.  Who will be next in the Battle of the Ugly Stars?  Tune into the 2008 Race: it's faaantastic! 

Driven by cabin fever as much as curiosity, Huck, X, and I did indeed tune in last night.  With our "activist" friend Klein, we attended Barack Obama's rally at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem, along with 1,400 other liberal, chilled, occasionally fanatic supporters. 
We paid $100 for:
* the privilege of waiting in line to be assailed by the November wind and all manner of fruitcake liberal causes (including petitioners who want to boycott Columbia's expansion and a rabid pamphleteer from the Revolutionary Communist Party)
* a few hours inside The Temple of the Greatest American Music Ever Performed -- I sat dumbstruck in the balcony, staring at the stage on which James Brown, Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, and so many soul and R&B groups got their groove on (even my seven-week-old son seemed to grasp the sheer funkiness)
* the honor of being serenaded and preached at by the Harlem Gospel Choir (I did not feel The Spirit, though a glass of wine on an empty stomach got me a little lippy)
* not one but two songs by some electric violinist who wasn't that great (but shook a nice booty)
* a reverend from some church in Harlem, who lead us in prayer
* State Senator Bill Perkins, one of the few elected Democrats in NYC who hasn't jumped onto the Hillary wagon
* Princeton celebrity professor (and barechested Elder of the Zion in the Matrix series) Cornel West, gesticulative as ever
* a surprise appearance by Chris Rock, who accused George Bush of putting out the fires in Malibu with "Katrina water" (the funniest line of the night)
* the candidate



After an evening with Barack Hussein Obama and Friends, I cannot say I was energized, or impressed, or even particularly convinced that Barry's the best choice for our next president. 

First of all, the evening's intitial emphases on "Jesus" and "Praise the Looo-ord, Hallelujah" put me in a grumpy, unreceptive mood.  Where's my separation of church and state, Barack?  I came to judge you, the candidate, not get my Christ on.  Furthermore (and this will answer Klein's exasperated morning-after question): I don't get excited about politicians.  They always disappoint.  Isn't there something fundamentally wrong with anyone who would voluntarily undergo the puerile and petty campaign process?  It's ALL smoke and mirrors, soundbites and flip-flops, platitudes and pabulum.  It's verbal pro wrestling, with the outcomes ordained in advance by the Mainstream Media (MSM) and the kingmaking special interests.  We, the gullible public, are invited to participate only at the pep rallies.  Clap your hands and say "yeah" when the spotlight shines on you.  Then, shut up.

Additional bones of contention:
1)
Obama uses his anti-war record to differentiate himself from Hillary.  This bothers me quite a bit. Twenty-three U.S. Senators voted against going to war (H.J.Res. 114, a joint resolution to authorize the use of United States Armed Forces against Iraq in October 2002).  Here's the list:
Akaka (D-HI), Bingaman (D-NM), Boxer (D-CA), Byrd (D-WV), Chafee (R-RI), Conrad (D-ND), Corzine (D-NJ), Dayton (D-MN), Durbin (D-IL), Feingold (D-WI), Graham (D-FL), Inouye (D-HI), Jeffords (I-VT), Kennedy (D-MA), Leahy (D-VT), Levin (D-MI), Mikulski (D-MD), Murray (D-WA), Reed (D-RI), Sarbanes (D-MD), Stabenow (D-MI),Wellstone (D-MN), Wyden (D-OR)

Missing are Clinton, Edwards, Kerry, Biden, Dodd... and Obama.  Barry was a STATE Senator in Illinois at the time, not a U.S. Senator. The stakes (and peer pressure) were much lower for him.  How would he have voted as a real Senator?  Probably YAY, just like all the other current Democratic and Republican presidential candidates. (Last night, I'd assumed that the war resolution vote was much more lopsided, like the 98-1 Patriot Act authorization.  I assumed wrong.)

2)
The audience was half white; the opening acts all black.  The audience contained Christians, Jews, probably some Muslims, and at least two atheists (that cranky Charov couple); the opening acts included the Harlem Gospel Choir and a reverend.  I'm not sure exactly who was being pandered to last night; I doubt whether the target recognized the pander either.  The event, like the wait on line to get in, was a victim of too many simultaneous messages -- the continual curse of the Left.  Our big tent is crowded, noisy, and too often smells of patchouli.  Obama is hailed as a uniter, but what if I don't want to be united?  Increasingly, I'm concerned only with the interests of the Charov clan; I'm becoming an apartment isolationist!  Seriously, though -- when does the Left tighten its belt and say, no more causes until we actually make some progress on the Big Issues?

3)
Finally, where were those issues?  Condensed into two-line pull quotes in his blandly delivered stump speech.  That's what passes for substantive politics nowadays?  I remember being just as disappointed by the Howard Dean rally I attended in New Hampshire in '04.  In fact, the feeling was IDENTICAL, which made me realize that almost anyone could have stood on that stage last night, delivered the same speech, and received the same applause.  John, Hillary, and Barack are proclaiming the same clichés in different words, just as the Republicans do the same on the conservative side (they've got their nutty ones, though).  Where are the nuts and bolts?  On the Obama website?  Well, sort of, but upon closer reading, how detailed are those plans?  Take out some of the numbers and they end up sounding like wishes. 

Barack says he'll pull "our troops out of Iraq within 16 months of taking office."  Oh yeah?  Then what happens to Iraq?  The blood of their civil war will be on our hands. 

"Universal health care!" he cries.  Really?  How do we pay for it?  Medicare's projected deficit makes Social Security's look like write-off.  What are you going to do about that?  Raise taxes on the rich and corporations?  How?  And are you prepared to suffer the political consequences?  If only you, or Hillary, or Edwards had the political history to show you could.

"Justice for all, regardless of race, creed, or color."  Super!  Bang on!  I feel the same way, but when pressed, have no idea how to implement that. 

So what's the difference between Obama and me?  He's got plans on how to fix everything... doesn't he?  Where are those plans?  When do we get to hear about them?  If not at a rally, then when?  Where's his record of sponsoring bills, shepherding them through both houses of Congress, balancing a budget, building consensus, trading favors but keeping his hands clean?  Or is Obama just like you or me, but with a deeper voice, more money, a nicer resume, a better suit and more powerful friends? 

Here's what I saw last night: an actor, no worse than his rivals, and no better.  I was not persuaded, but then again, I'm not sure what it would take to persuade me this time around.

I am too critical.  That is why I am also not religious.  I am rarely swayed by appeals to the heart; give me facts, cold facts.  One would hope that the media would help out and provide some background, the fine-grain view of the planks in his platform.  Alas, neither the NYTimes review of the event, the ABC News review of the event, nor the Chicago Tribune's discussed the content, the speeches, or the endorsements.  The coverage today is all about the jockeying, the turf battle, the horse race between Barack and Hillary.  (See?!  We even use their first names now, as if they were vapid celebrities like Britney, Paris, or Denzel.) 

I need to know how the candidates are going to accomplish their fuzzy goals.  HOW, HOW, HOW!?  The hardest job in the world, and none of the candidates can tell us how they'd actually DO it, let alone why.  The three front-runners are all good campaigners, or so the MSM tells us.  But what does it mean to campaign, anyway?  Does being a good campaigner mean the candidate will be a good governor?  (Liberal oracle Paul Krugman does some post-analysis about Bush over at his blog. Honestly, whose alarm bells don't start clanging at the phrase "cheerful cult of personality about their candidate?") 

I was cheered and inspired by reports of Bill Clinton's wonkery.  When he wasn't groping the Buxom Big-haired, he was hashing out policy, often 'til the early hours of the morning.  He still does, apparently.  That's what I want in a president -- sometime who'll work hard.  He doesn't have to be perfect, he doesn't have to be chummy, he doesn't have to be warm.  He (or she) does have to be honest, humble, effective.

Who in the Democratic field can claim effectiveness?  Who among the group shows a career of experience and results? 
The long-time senators.  The former governor.  Rear-runners, all! 
And what in the legislative records of the MSM-proclaimed front-runners shows us that they can lead?  What have the junior Senators from North Carolina, Illinois, and New York really done for America lately? 

...But what about that former mayor of Cleveland and current Congressman?  I'm going to vote for the eventual Democratic nominee, whoever it is, so in the interim, why not delve into the most bizarre and under-reported candidate?  I'm learning more about Dennis Kucinich today, out of spite (one of my favorite motives).  Check out this brutally honest and ultimately redeeming story on him.  It's entertainingly written, lined with gold like
In the end, [Kucinich's] love of what the country could be makes him something less than an expert on what the country is, which is perhaps the most compelling reason why nobody should ever call an idealist to fix a broken toilet; his solution might forget to consider the existence of the asshole. Like me.

and
Stepping outside again to see if I can get a ride back to Sierra Madre with Marcus or Mary, I think about something a friend of mine used to say all the time. He said that the best way to determine if a video store is any good is to find out if it carries gay pornos.

“A place brave enough to stock Shaving Ryan’s Privates and Dishonorable Discharge,” he says, “is not concerned with promoting a version of the world where only one kind of joy is tolerated.” He sees it as the ultimate metaphor for how best to measure the viability of a democracy, and he brings it up every election cycle. “Show me an American politician who is capable of balancing a budget, and who would never pass judgment on a 7-foot-tall black Tinker Bell who enjoys being blown by a line of Hispanic midgets,” he says, “and I’ll show you our only hope as a nation.” He insists that attempts by candidates to perpetuate the bogus idea that morality is something that can be adequately mapped and staked out and finally reduced to bullet points is akin to telling people that the only acceptable way to die is of old age. “And that’s why we’re completely fucked as a species,” he says, “because most people in the world aren’t smart enough to realize that trying has nothing to do with it.”

and
"Some things really do require deep and sloppy conversation."

A political reporter and a candidate meet, talk, and understand the above?  Now that's a reporter I trust, and a candidate in which I could be interested.  Read the entire article and tell me that Little Dennis is, at least, the most well-read of the candidates.
.
.
.
Oh, fuck it.  I think there's an even chance that, by the end of this election, X and I will be ready to move to France, R. Crumb style, and leave all this bullshit behind (for a more refined, slower-paced, gustatory and socialist bullshit).




In other news:

Male monkeys like porn too.  Who is the real animal, hmm?  The animal that is aroused by other animals, or the animal that analyzes that aroused animal's arousal?
(...what?)

Date:	2007-11-30 11:00
Subject:	the all-night duke
Security:	Public
Mood:	sleepy
Music:	Mozart wind concerti

As lazy champions of the environment, my family has taken forceful action in the face of the 21st Century's looming fresh water crisis: X and I proudly subscribe to the "when it's brown / flush it down, when it's yellow / let it mellow" school of toilet keeping.  It's cut our flushes by more than 50%, I imagine, and though our bathroom has that ammoniac odor more often, we do feel slightly better about our "water footprint."  Besides, with all the disposable diapers we're still guiltily relying on, we need to get our small victories where we can.

Sure, asparagus pee and force of habit still triumph over conservation occasionally.  "When it's brown, flush it down," however, is the half of the rule that's never broken.  At home, anyway.  Yes, sometimes the weak mechanical flush doesn't take and we get a lurking brown alligator, but for the most part, we don't keep the poo around.

Here at the office, my coworkers seem to have other plans.  Many's the morning that I make my routine trip to the employee men's room and find a pool of cess in what I've come to think of as a delightfully powerful toilet.  Why would you NOT flush it down, my brothers?  The pneumatic whoosh is so satisfying, and yet . . . today there was another submarine decaying in the dock.  What gives, my brothers?

The worst ones are those that have dis-integrated and become inseparable from the water.  Reddish brown, slightly reflective, the bowl's contents warn me to keep away.  Peristalsis calls, though, and I grimly flush first, then sit.  Another day at the office, begun with an audience with the "all-night duke."  Oy. 

I remember a story my college roommate Danno told me that even trumped even the all-night duke: apparently he and his suitemates in prep school left a combined contribution to simmer over an entire Christmas break.  ...D, were you fined or suspended for that on your return?  I don't remember.  Nice work, though.  You're an awful human being.

...

More later on the Obama rally the family attended last night.  (My response to the event has festered all night in my mind's bowl, believe me.)  Let's allow the coffee to kick in, my general office malaise to mount, and see what the afternoon brings.

Later. 

Date:	2007-11-27 11:26
Subject:	politics, politics, politics
Security:	Public
Mood:	cranky
Music:	Hendrix, all day

For one year out of every four, I convince myself to give a damn about the government. 
Twice in the past eight years, all my damn giving has amounted to is a hill of beans.

And yet, this week, I find myself getting sucked in again.  I'm devoting an hour each morning to reading the mainstream and offstream medias' election race commentaries (The Note, HuffPo), watching YouTube clips and Nightline, contributing to a campaign.  Hell, the wife, kid, and I are even attending a Barack rally at the Apollo Theatre on Thursday night (to meet the candidate, certainly, but also to take Huck inside that legendary venue).

I'm paying attention to politics again, and just like the last two times, I'm getting angry.

My attitude may best be summarized by a comment I read earlier today:

"If voting really changed anything, it would be illegal."

See, I'm no millionnaire, so my voice is destined to be drowned amid the cacophony of small donors.  Even were a thousand of us to say the same thing, in unison (for instance: further campaign finance reform, ending the war), one voice and a million dollars still speaks, has spoken, louder.  The common opinions of common individuals no longer count in electoral politics.  Bush v. Gore proved that.  Continual anti-war protests prove that.  The corrupt FCC's existence proves that.  The true audacity of hope is to think that one's government is representative of "the people."  America is a paper democracy, and it's taken living with a Canadian for me to see that.  Watching political speeches and the nightly news with X has been irritatingly eye-opening.  I can only imagine what it must be like to be an ex-pat right now.

I can only DREAM what it must be like to be an ex-pat right now.  Why NOT move the family up to Vancouver... or the Caribbean?

Why care at all?

I suppose there's only one honest and short answer: because the future, made flesh in little Huckleberry, depends on it.

Damn it.  I was really starting to look into Caribbean properties...


In other news:

Huckle is holding his head up and sitting/standing quite well when supported.  The sleep schedule is still erratic, but X is taking the brunt of that.  The little potatohead is also smiling a lot, particularly when I blow raspberries at him.  My kind of audience.  I can only imagine that he will only be more entertained by me when he's older, like the Sports Guy's kid.

Today is Jimi Hendrix's birthday.  He would have been 65, had he not flared out at 28. 
His career spanned a mighty four years. 
He was the greatest rock guitarist of all time.



 

Date:	2007-11-14 00:52
Subject:	not a creature was stirring, not even
Security:	Public
Mood:	tired

...a monkey.

This is my favorite time of the day, when everyone, including The Boy, is asleep. So quiet is the apartment, so . . . pacified.

I had some dishes to do from dinner, so I stuck him into his motorized swing (aka The Neglect-o-matic) after an unsuccessful eight laps around the apartment. We usually do 18 laps before bedtime (seems to be the magic number), but tonight he was having none of it and my arms were tired. Thank you, enormous battery-powered plastic piece of crap coupled with 99-cent pacifier!

...Shit, spoke too soon -- the creature stirs... well, it was a nice quiet hour, anyway.

[now typing with a drowsy midget on my lap]
The H-Bear had a rough day -- this week's newly discovered ability is Squirming. At times, it can be adorable, like when he was sitting in the Neglect-o-matic last night and seemed to be waving his arms and legs roughly in time to Bob Marley's "Exodus" album. That might have been dancing? At other times, such as when X is trying to stuff The Tit into his mouth, the wriggling and fussing gets old quickly. While he seems to listen when I say "shhh," this week's increased motor activity is proving to be a challenge for even my strongest hypnotic techniques.

That's parenting -- small eurekas that last a few days, until he changes the rules.

Additional names he has been called, since the last infrequent post:
The Monkey
Sir Shits-a-lot [of the Changing Table]
The Monk
Huggleberry (the hands-down winner of Most Obnoxious Nikname)
Pookster/Pookleberry
Bee
Butterbean
Little Crying Baby
Punkass Bitch
Fuggleberry


Clearly, sleep deprivation continues to "en-ruden" us and lay waste to our neurons like a California wildfire.

Hey, I wonder if he has the strength to type anything:

/.

That's his first [written] word!!! Of course, then he managed to mash Alt+X simultaneously, shutting down my journal editor. Luckily, I learned my lesson the last time and had most of the draft saved.

Life is regaining its previous lustre. We continue to go out to dinner at least once a week. (Any of you thinking of having a child: purchase one of these immediately.) X has resumed her freelance design business and is already bringing in more money per hour than I am. The Charov family has attended two weddings in the past week, including one five hours away in D.C.

The latest parenting book I've managed to get through in between laps around the apartment is George Lakoff's "Don't Think of an Elephant!" Granted, it's supposed to be a book on how conservatives "frame" their ideological crusade, but Lakoff's favored metaphor is the strict father (conservative) vs. nurturant parent (liberal) dichotomy. While X and I are new yet lifelong "nurturant parents," I do understand a bit more about how the conservative perspective draws its strength. An important lesson: facts aren't enough to persuade a frame-abiding conservative to your side. My take-no-prisoners carpet bombasting of Scott some weeks ago was doomed to fail, because I never got past his conservative mindset.

...or maybe I did, and seeded some doubts in his strict father brain. Hard to tell -- he never wrote back after that final salvo.


Uh-oh. Time for more laps.
Later.

Date:	2007-10-31 00:07
Subject:	The Story of Huck, Chapter One (take two)
Security:	Public
Mood:	accomplished

It's taken more than three weeks for the dust to settle, but in the past two nights I've finally caught up on my sleep and gotten down to the business of a)Photoshopping up the 200+ photos I've snapped so far, and b) joining my fellow new dads (Fredo and Rambo) in the occasional musing on this whole parenthood thing.  I imagine I'll be able to write something here. . . once a month?  Once a year, on his birthday?

Fuck it.  I'll try, anyway.  Sleep is for the weak.


Chapter One
In Which A Baby Is Born, Most Unnaturally

I begin with a shameless paraphrase: all happy births are alike in their happinesses, and all unhappy births are unique in their unhappinesses. Fortunately, it's only the former that matters. Everything turned out fine, and we've got ourselves a beautiful baby boy, but... let's just say that we had a plan, and there's no quicker way to make Zeus laugh than to make a plan. 

Overdue by a week, Xanthe went in to Roosevelt-St. Luke's on Friday, October 5, for a biophysical profile (BPP). As coached in class, X scarfed down some high-sugar snacks to get the little creature "activated" ahead of the scan. Immediately after her lunch, the (sex unknown) kid was bouncing around as usual. Upon hookup to the monitor, though, he/she/it quieted down, possibly puzzled by this new level of scrutiny. By 4pm, the techs were "troubled" by a lack of fetal movement -- the kid's heart rate was stable at 140, but not variable enough to show clear movement. Sylvie, our great midwife from Midwifery of Manhattan, was called in, and I got a call at work. Doubts were raised about placental function, and by the time I arrived at 5pm, the call had been made to begin Cervidil for cervix softening and a planned induction for the following morning. (Note to the guys: not to brag here, but I made it from Flushing, Queens, to 58th and 10th in Manhattan, at rush hour, with a stop at home to grab all the stuff, in 54 minutes. Yes, I drove on some sidewalks.)

The Cervidil was inserted around 7pm. Dilation didn't exactly follow readily, though we were told we’d have 12 hours to let the drug take its course. Of course, our intransigent baby was still not moving enough for government standards (or whatever). By the late evening, even our 20-year-experienced midwife was actively using the term "concerned." Things were not, to put it mildly, going as planned. Here we'd been planning a natural birth, hoping to do much of the laboring at home or in the tub, and with as few drugs as possible. We'd already missed the Birthing Center window, oh well, but by 10pm an internal fetal monitor was being snaked through X's unripe cervix and the word “Caesarean” had been mentioned more than once. The stupid monitor connections don’t even let the laborer try different positions -- it was a miserable time. Depressed and frustrated, X and I watched just about all the material we'd covered in our birthing class retreat in the rearview mirror. The labor we’d been waiting 40 weeks for was going in a decidedly different direction – we were headed for a most UNnatural birth.

The painful internal monitor wasn't showing much fetal movement either, so around 1am on October 6 the schedule got pushed up. They switched on the pitocin drip and hoped X’s cervix would cooperate. Her contractions rapidly spiked, and while it was undeniably fascinating to watch the numbers rise and fall, seeing X in that much pain was very hard to take. (X chimes in here to say: “my husband is an undeniable nerd.”) Worst of all, the hospital bed X had been slid into was one of the most uncomfortable beds ever wrought (from cast iron, apparently). Had four pillows not arrived from home (there’s a pillow shortage in the world's hospital, my friends, so BYOP), X would have been in real agony – imagine laboring on your in-laws’ sofa bed, and add in the overwhelming strength and speed of pitocin-induced contractions, and you get a really rough ride. X was moaning, writhing, grimacing, puking. Such is labor, in real life.

And still the baby continued to run silent.

Our midwife made the call at around 3:30am. C-section. They don’t give you a lot of time to consider the pros and cons, or even to say “no” at all. As soon as X nodded her weary consent, they were rolling her off and prepping her for a spinal and the surgery. I was tossed a pair of scrubs and told to meet the team in the operating room. I arrived there as worried as I’ve ever been but found an efficient team of 10 doctors and nurses and anesthesiologists (all women) surrounding X, who was divided in half by a curtain. I sat next to her and held her shaking hands as the procedure got underway. Fifteen minutes later, the strong and healthy cry of a newborn reduced both of us to tears of relief and exhilaration. At 4:14 am, we experienced the best moment of our lives, and the technical first moment of our child’s. The kid was completely fine and, from the peek I took over the curtain, huge. (Homer Simpson's "and what a boy!" line immediately came to mind, though of course no one gamely replied, "sir, that's the umbilical...") I was invited over to the bassinet for the examination of the squalling babe. I’ll admit, my first thought was that he was pretty ugly. Then he stopped crying and settled into the indescribable peaceful gaze that only newborns possess. Time stopped, I fell in love. The pediatrician bundled him up and let me bring him over to X, who was being sewn up. We sat there crying and kissing the little guy and shakily taking in the whole ordeal. They should bottle the feelings we had – it’d be the best drug in the world.

A C-section doesn’t allow the infant to be placed on the mother or at her breast immediately, and the rerouted trip through the vaginal canal doesn’t switch on the mother’s milk mechanisms or neurochemical responses as efficiently. Still, by the time the family reunited again in the recovery room a couple hours later, most of the drama had been consigned, with the help of natural and industrial drugs, to dim memory. It took the rest of the afternoon to get the kid to feed and settle in. Family and friends arrived to share the experience. X, happily stoned on morphine, enjoyed the day and was sleeping peacefully with the kid in arms when I finally left around 6pm to finally go home and grab some sleep and a shower.

We left the hospital on Tuesday, October 9th, three days after our “sunroof” delivery and three days after our fascination ended with hospital food and $5-per-day-network-TV. The three weeks since have been eventful, frustrating, joyous. Let us both state quite firmly: the breastfeeding class we took prior to the kid’s arrival did not prepare us at all. It takes a real baby to teach one about latch, and fussing, and letdown, and all that. Moments of panic, disgust, and at least two comical “milk showers” have gradually given way to more confidence in feeding and changing and holding and cooing.

Ultimately, X has felt a little shortchanged by the C-section. She didn’t get to experience natural contractions or a progressive labor, and so we’re hoping for a vaginal birth after C-section (VBAC) for #2 (at least a year away). And a water birth will have to wait, too. Our experience was nothing like what we’d prepared for… which, I guess, that makes it a good preparation for the decades ahead. We’re not dwelling on the unhappinesses, just noting them for future reference. By far the most important thing is that we’ve got a beautiful, healthy baby boy who’s making our lives richer (and less restful) every day. He’s a puzzle and a joy and quite the little comic. For the first week, he slept through the night, but since we bragged about it, he’s now been waking up every two or three hours to suckle. So it goes. We find him more adorable and hilarious. Xanthe is healing up well (she's a trooper -- on the way home from the hospital we stopped to rent a breast pump and have lunch at our favorite Indian buffet, even though it was a couple blocks' walk). Everything turned out fine and we couldn't be happier with our little guy.

His name is Huckleberry James Charov, and he weighed 8lbs. 8oz. and was 21” long. We call him Huck and Hucklebee and Hucklebear and H-berry and Pookie and Peanut and Baron von Hucklevee Undersea Captain of Das Boob, and sometimes less kind names, depending on the time of night.

Some photos

Here he is, ten hours old and already unamused by your childish antics:


Seems he's suspicious of everyone, not just his fuzzy dad behind the camera:


He's always at home and at peace in X's arms: 


Uncles descended upon our hospital room to illegally film the event (but arrived hours too late, thankfully):


I wouldn't trust that grip for long. Learning to hold a baby is an important skill -- I'm glad I got to practice with my sister when she was born nearly fifteen years ago.


No one's been happier about all this than my mother, who now insists on being referred to as babuelita. This is her giving expert breastfeeding advice, while X grimaces in pain and pretends to listen:


They're very small, these infants:


First bath:


This is by far the best part of being a dad.:


I highly recommend parenthood to everyone reading this. Two thumbs up.

Many more pictures can be found here, on Snapfish. 

I'll be back to my snarky self soon. After all, there's politics to debate, and art to critique, and celebrities to mock.
Until then.

P.S.  Thank you all for your notes, calls, gifts, advice, food, etc. etc.  You have our gratitude, and for Christmas, I'll be sending you each a cookie we baked from the tattered remains of X's placenta.