Long Shrift

forfeiting the race

I don't buy the notion that Obama's election ushered in, or is symbolic of, a 'post-racial' America. We have to stop patting ourselves on the back just because we managed to elect a black man (or because a Hispanic woman now sits on the Supreme Court, for that matter). Certainly there is plenty of evidence that when it comes to racism, we're not quite out of the woods yet.

Some suggest that we should be talking about race. And as a white, middle-class guy living in a fairly segregated city, some people will probably judge me a racist when I say that bringing Obama's race into the discussion is a losing proposition.

When the President says it's not just about race, I think he's being sincere, but he also knows he's not living in a vacuum. We're at a critical point in talks about health care reform, and Obama doesn't want to be diverting attention from that, so he plays it smart (well, mostly).

If anything, I think playing the card can only stifle conversation. Bush supporters played the patriotism card: in a time of war, you have to support the President. Any attempt to decouple support for the ill-conceived, poorly managed war from support for the troops that were consigned to fight it was shouted down. It's not being used to the same degree - yet - but it's just a matter of time before it becomes commonplace: anyone who disagrees with Obama is branded a racist, and the dialogue ends.

As a short term solution: if you are about to call someone a racist, just use a different word instead. Something less galvanizing, and with more universal appeal. Like 'dipshit.'

Mars or bust

In an opinion for the New York Times, Lawrence Krauss suggests that we send people to Mars, as a one-way trip. There are a couple of kinks to work out (like trusting this excursion to potentially suicidal astronauts), but he makes a few compelling arguments.

I was thinking about this as my dad was quoting some statistic that there would be 438 million people in the United States by 2050. Not the most credible argument for investing in real estate, as both of us are likely to be beyond caring by then. And personally, I doubt that overpopulation will be a problem.

Meanwhile, we're more concerned about what Kanye said on the VMA's, and what the President said about Kanye, than we are about health care reform or the state of the economy. Not that I think we should all be living like the Cleavers, but we sure as hell shouldn't be so wrapped up in Jon & Kate plus 8 certain-to-be-messed-up kids.

Michael Moore - a guy who probably means well, but has become more caricature than crusader - is releasing a new movie about the dangers of capitalism. To his credit, he says:  "I refuse to live in a country like this -- and I'm not leaving." You can have it, sir.

I'm thinking database management probably won't be of much value, so I better work on some other skills.

questionable

A co-worker recently pointed out a punctuation mark that can be used to indicate sarcasm. More than one person has suggested that I should get this for a tattoo, and I'm seriously considering it.

I think the downside to getting this would be that people would think that I was a fan of this guy.

off to school

On Tuesday, the three of us went to Quinn's new school for orientation. From the outside, the school looked like most other Milwaukee public schools: a brick monolith surrounded by a sea of concrete. The colorful playground equipment cowered in its bed of wood chips under the school's shadow. The inside was institutional but punctuated by children's artwork, including several large papier-mache wall hangings and sculptures.

We were directed to room 101, in one corner of the second floor. The children found their name tags on the tables; the adults stood around awkwardly in any spaces we could find, or hunched down on tiny chairs. The room was filled with tiny furniture, piles of school supplies, and the presence of Ms. Cosby, the K-4 teacher. Ms. Cosby exuded a sense of authority that hushed both parents and children. She had been at this for 25 years, and she had some rules to lay down. We got a sense of the goals for the year - learning the alphabet, and being able to recognize a couple hundred words. Counting to twenty by ones, twos and fives. I was going to make a joke that if he could do that backwards, he'd be ready for a sobriety test, but then decided to keep that to myself.

There are 25 children in the class: surprisingly, 19 boys and 6 girls. The class was less ethnically diverse than I expected. On the tour, looking at the kids' names in the displays on the wall, I saw a lot of Madisons and Reagans and few Tyreeqs and Jorges. There is a Quinton in room 101, so just writing a 'Q' inside Quinn's rain boots isn't going to be enough.

Thursday arrives. At the orientation, Ms. Cosby had said that children should arrive between 7:30 and 7:45. No earlier, no later. This was a change from his days at day care, so I woke Quinn up a little earlier than usual. He sat up groggily. I asked him if he was ready for his first day of school. He squinted and gave me a thumbs-up.

Once he was out of bed, Quinn was much more cooperative than usual. He actually got dressed right away, something that usually requires stern admonishments or promises of a little Sesame Street. He knew what he wanted for breakfast. He brushed his teeth without urging. He was ready long before I was. Finally, we hit the road for the short drive to school.

Parking is easy - there were plenty of spaces right in front of the school. I soon realized that no one was parking: the cars drive up, the kids get out, the cars drive away. We walk past a number of children milling around the front door - kids who all tower over my little boy. Quinn stops to stare, and I have to nudge him forward.

The kids are supposed to wait in the gym until their teachers come to get them. We find the sign for room 101, and sit down on the floor. More kids begin to arrive, and I think Quinn is the only boy who doesn't have a backpack adorned with Spider-Man, Batman, or some spiky-haired Japanese cartoon character; we've probably doomed him to ostracism. Kids are streaming into the gym, and it's becoming difficult to hear. Quinn recognizes a kid from his old day care, and I urge him to say hello. The kid barely responds.

I recognize a few of the kids and parents from the orientation, but we didn't get a chance to meet them, so we merely nod at each other. As the din increases, and 7:45 approaches, most are kneeling on the floor, comforting their children or dispensing last-minute advice. Quinn is excited and distracted. I tell him to to listen to his teachers, and follow the rules. He's looking at me, but it's clear his attention is elsewhere.

Ms. Cosby approaches, an iceberg drifting through the room. She waves to the kids and tells them to form a line. Quinn jumps to his feet. He almost forgets his lunch bag with the astronaut patch. I am trying to think of something to say to him, something that will somehow resonate with him, and I'm at a loss. I feel stupid for not being prepared. Then I feel stupid for thinking that I'm going to resonate with a 4-year-old. And then, for a brief moment, he turns around and locks eyes with me. I simply tell him I love him. "You too," he says.

The line moves towards the exit. I stand with the other parents, waving. I look around, and it strikes me that we look like a bunch of discarded action figures, left standing at odd angles, our purposes suddenly in question.

The line pauses at the exit, and Quinn turns back, waves, and yells "I love you, Dad!" The parents around me laugh. Then the line starts moving again, and Quinn turns around and disappears. The parents scatter quickly, and I wonder if they are tearing up too.

it's a zoo out here

It was unusually cool and overcast for August. Maybe Zoo a la Carte won't be so crowded, we thought. We were wrong. The cars were backed up at the entrance, and we inched forward at a snail's pace.

Ahead of us and one lane over, were two cars, each with a young girl, perhaps five or six years old, hanging out the window. The parents in both cars had apparently let them out of their seatbelts, and they were calling to each other. At one point, one of the girls poked her head up through the car's sunroof.

My wife and I fumed. Surely these parents understood how dangerous this was. The cars were creeping along, but one bump, one sudden brake, and these girls could be seriously hurt. What a great memory for our 4-year-old, who waited patiently in his car seat: the day we went to the zoo, and got to see an ambulance.

Surely, we should say something. Another great memory for the boy: the day mommy and daddy got into a shouting match while waiting to get into the zoo. We kept silent. Well, not Quinn. This was one of those rare times when I would have been fine with him loudly asking awkward questions. "Why are those girls being bad? Why are they not being safe? Do their mommies and daddies know that they're not sitting in their seats?"

We made it past the gate without incident. I'm not sure what happened to those girls, but I like to think that their parents told them to sit back down before they sped off in search of a parking spot.

Maybe I should've said something. Then again, maybe one of those morons would've gotten out of the car with a baseball bat or a golf club. Another chance to see an ambulance.

In the end, we left with good memories of a fun evening at the zoo. But I had to wonder why anyone would say "it's a zoo" to express crowded calamity. The zoo is usually a fairly sedate place, the residents have a lot of room, and the management makes a serious effort to make sure the attractions keep to themselves. The only bad behavior I've seen is on our side of the cages.

deviled in the details

"Yes, I made the deviled eggs. I'd appreciate it if you didn't look so shocked. Yes, I made them this morning. Granted, it's one of maybe three things that I can actually make from scratch. Two if you don't count dinners that come in a box.

What do I put in them? Frankly, it's different every time. I mean, you got your egg yolks, and I mix in some mayo - no, not Miracle Whip, that's stuff is terrible, I mean, seriously - and usually some mustard. I like the brown spicy stuff. After that, I usually reach for whatever is on the spice rack. Curry powder is good, because it adds some flavor as well as a little kick. Cayenne pepper, maybe. Today, I tried horseradish. Didn't realize how powerful that stuff is - I mean, after I mixed in a cup of the stuff - no, of course I'm kidding.

And then there's paprika. It's traditional. Well, I think it is. Maybe nostalgic is a better word. In any case, they just don't seem like they're complete without a sprinkle of paprika, which is dumb, really, because it doesn't taste like anything. And sprinkling the paprika on is a pain, because if you get it wrong and put too much on there, it looks like dried blood or something. OK, you're right, that kinda takes away from the appeal of the deviled egg.

You know what freaks me out? When people say that they put 'a little something of themselves' in everything they make. What the hell is that about? I mean, like, should I expect to find fingernail clippings in the soup? OK, I'm sorry, you're right, maybe I shouldn't have gone there.

Anyway, it's not like I have a recipe or something. I really don't have any secret ingredient. I will say - and this is just between us - I think the trick is to let the deviled egg mix set up a bit. I like to get all the ingredients together, and then just let the bowl sit. Maybe because it's such a relief to be within sight of the finish line. But I usually take a short break at that point, and go do something else that will kill a few minutes. Like this morning, I changed the cat litter, then I came back to the kitchen to finish the job. So anyway, then you take the egg mix, and you put it in a pastry bag - hey, where are you going?"

coming back (up) to haunt me

I used to think that my constitution was stronger than average. But it's only been a couple of months since I turned 40, and I have started falling apart.

It began about two months ago. Had three beers one night, and a sour stomach the next morning. I didn't immediately understand what was going on, so I went against my typical approach to medicine (if it's still bugging me next week, maybe I'll see a doctor) and made an appointment right away. The doctor asked if I was stressed, but isn't everyone? She suggested the minimal dose of Prilosec, which I could get over the counter. A few days after I started taking it, the heartburn was gone.

On the bright side, it's a relatively minor medical condition, cured by taking a relatively inexpensive pill once a day. I think I can manage this. I should feel lucky that I can afford this, and that I have medical insurance in case I needed something more, and that I have a job. While it's something of a bummer that my doctor suggested reducing my intake of coffee and alcohol, this does reinforce my belief that if there is a God, he's a bit of a dick.

Apparently, reflux runs in my family. I asked my brother what he takes, and he said that he used to take Prilosec.

"Used to? You don't any more?"

"Nope. A couple of years ago, I stopped taking it."

"Really? What happened? Exercise? Diet?"

"My ex left town."

I stopped taking Prilosec after a month, and the symptoms returned. I went back to the pharmacy to purchase more, and got another sign that I'm turning into an old man: I bought the generic version, then later I actually caught myself saying "Hey, I saved six bucks, and my gut can't tell the difference."

it's a clunker

Admittedly, my interest in the 'Cash for Clunkers' program waned dramatically when I discovered that my 10-year old Jetta is not eligible for the rebate because the mileage is 1 mpg too good. I suppose I can take comfort in knowing that my car provides a definite economic stimulus to the auto repair industry.

But the more I hear about the program, the more I doubt that it makes much sense. In fact, there is a lot of doubt to go around. Government statistics show that the Ford Focus is the car most often purchased, but Edmunds suggests that these numbers are misleading because of the way the government counts the vehicles. By Edmunds' take, crossover SUV's and small trucks are actually the most popular purchases.

The original $1 billion allocated to the program was used to purchase almost 250,000 cars. Which sounds impressive... until you consider that there are approximately 250 million cars in the United States. So this program has increased the efficiency of .1% of the cars on the road.

And the clunkers? The CARS program requires that they be scrapped: the engines and drive trains must be destroyed, but the rest of the parts can be salvaged. Salvage yard operators have mixed opinions: while this is something of a boon, they caution that prices for used engine parts will likely rise... so people who didn't replace their cars will find them more expensive to maintain.

Meanwhile, Public Citizen has filed a Freedom of Information Act request to find out if the program is actually working - which seemed a prudent consideration before voting for another $2 billion for the program. Or not. The automotive industry would certainly say that the program has been successful, as sales are up after several slumping months - or were the sales artificially depressed as buyers waited for the program to launch? 

On the surface, it just seems like we could do something better with $3 billion dollars. Not that the government has better plans up its sleeve.

I wonder if I would feel differently if my car had qualified for the program. If I had to choose between my doubts in the program and a few thousand dollars off the price of a new car... would I have made the smart decision?

that vision thing

Lately Quinn has been into playing "animal doctor," ministering to his sick (stuffed) animals. He got an animal hospital play set some time ago, which comes with a stethoscope, tweezers, a syringe. While he has trouble settling on a prognosis, letting the animals rest seems to cure all their ills.

But what really fascinates him is setting up his doctor's office. He has some definite ideas of where things should go, and he gets frustrated with me if I can't figure out where something belongs. I tried to make light of this the other day, telling him that I didn't grasp his vision.

He turned to look at me. Hands upraised, palms upward at shoulder height, an artist frustrated by a hapless assistant. "My vision," he said, seething, "is an animal doctor office!"

From that point on, I was relegated to the waiting room.

putting a sock in it

A friend put up the kind of Facebook post that makes people wince: a late-evening request for the name of a reputable washing machine repair service. I gave him the name of a company we used. Even though it was several years ago, I know the exact date: It was the day after we brought our newborn son home from the hospital.

I probably should have some fond memories of that time, but mostly I remember feeling clueless and tired. It was, of course, tougher on my wife, who was still in the process of recovering from the experience herself. There's also the huge pressure on the mother, who is somehow expected to just instinctively know, on day one, everything about taking care of her baby.

I played more of a supporting role, doing things like laundry. It didn't bode well when the first load of laundry I did killed the washing machine. About 12 hours and $200 later, the very helpful and understanding repair guy had found the problem: one of the boy's tiny socks got sucked into the water exhaust pipe, and got jammed in the bowels of the machine.

I started thinking about those statistics on the cost of raising a child. Any way you slice it, it ain't cheap. I briefly considered keeping track of every dollar we spent on the boy, just to see what that number would look like. I imagined presenting him an invoice when he turned 18.

Then I realized that probably would not have been the most effective use of my time and energy at that point.