Maya settles into her bouncey chair while watching Dad on the computer... 

...and the result a few minutes later. 

Bouncey Snoozy Chair

Maya's begun the cool new habit of falling asleep in her bouncey chair, as seen in the above photo. It has a vibrating base that I quite honestly would like to have replicated in a Daddy-sized chair. But until I can find a Sharper Image warehouse store, I'll need to occupy myself with my comfy perch facing the computer. All the better to comment on a few stories anyways.

We're certainly living in Bizarro World when the newly released Commission on Intelligence Capabilities report given to the Bushies can be spun as a good thing for Dubya. The phrase everyone's latching onto is that we were "dead wrong" in our assessment of Iraqi WMD capabilities. And we've got mostly nothing insightful or correct in the hopper on our other alleged threats world-wide. The White House is already saying they'll embrace the report. Whaaaa?!!! Hopefully John Negroponte will get questioned openly and harshly on what we've done to fix things during his Congressional confirmation hearings. But that's like hoping that the playground bully will not give you yet another atomic wedgie on the merry-go-round after doing so everyday for the last month.

Terri Schiavo just died. Looks like the pro-life juggler that God told to come to support her through his art got there too late. But with the Pope and Jerry Falwell currently dabbling with their own forms of life support, I'm sure he can find another audience to inspire soon.

Baseball starts up on Sunday, while the Final Four semis and Championship are Saturday and Monday. Hopefully it will be enough to take the Nation's mind off the so-called Social Security crisis for a few days.

Everyone seems to enjoy cleaning the shmutz off Maya prior to her first night on the Town.

Maya and Sarah breathe in the Bay air (with the Bay Bridge dimly lit in the background).

Maya Hits the Town

We crossed a major threshold with Maya last night - her first evening out in a restaurant. A very hip, impressive restaurant, no less. The Slanted Door in the Ferry Building on the shore of the Bay downtown. We cleaned her up, nustled her into her car seat, and hit the Town. We were joined by some delightful friends of Phyl and El (Yanek and Mary) who didn't seem to mind the prospect of a four-week old ruining their evening if things were to go awry. Which they most certainly did not. The front bar area of the restaurant was full of young, artsy-fartsy, single-types. The sight of a newborn baby turned more heads than a cellophane miniskirt. But they all seemed mildly surprised or at worst unwilling to be bothered by thoughts beyond their prospects of hooking up on that particular evening. We made our way to the table, Sarah surreptitiously breastfed Maya to knock her out quicker than a limbless boxer, and we all enjoyed a kick-ass run through their amazing fusion menu. Before dessert Maya began to stir a bit so Sarah and I took the time for a pleasant, slow-motion good-bye. By the time we'd driven home, Maya made it apparent that a feeding was what she desired for a nightcap. We watched part of one of our new favorite silly shows together ("Cheap Seats" on ESPN Classic), and headed to bed none the worse for the late-ish hour or stimulating journey through the Night on the Town. Rest assured, we look forward to trying this sort of thing again very soon.

Looks like the bliss that was to be democracy in Iraq has shown itself to be a bit more complicated. If the National Assembly can't pick a leader soon, how does anyone really expect they'll do with writing a Constitution? Anytime Ahmad Chalabi's involved, we're screwed...

And I imagine that on some level all Californians today are lamenting the revelation that The Guvernator ain't exactly in top form these days. But all of us might be somewhat aghast if our topless photos were circulated. Except for me. I look the same now as I did on the set of "Red Sonja."

Maya's dinner companions admire her manners on display throughout a lovely evening at The Slanted Door. 

Maya proving Poppy's shoulder is snooze-worthy. 

Maya's first Easter Egg Hunt is not especially challenging. 

Delay Pulled the Plug in His Own Past

Grandma Phyllis and Grandpa Elliot arrived yesterday to spend Spring Break here in SF. Apparently, Fort Lauderdale was all booked up. The bonus for them is that they get some quality time with Maya. The bonuses for us include having the extra hands to take Maya at any given moment, the inevitable fine dining we'll get to experience, and the chance to get out of the apartment often to return more fully to our daily urban lives. Nanna and Poppy (their chosen and verified Grandparental nicknames) feel as though Maya's grown considerably since they saw her last, which we concer upon but appreciate having verfied. Last night Maya slept for 6 hours before waking up for her 3am feeding. She loves being out in the stroller. Her colon operates like a well-oiled factory staffed by kind and attentive robots. Her grunting has taken on an almost operatic character, running the gamut of emotions like a scat-singing diva (pun intended). In short, we've had a very good week and Maya's four-week Birthday on this Easter Sunday looks sunny and promising.

The LATimes published a piece this morning that adds extra personal insult to the injurious posturing Tom Delay offered up in the Terri Schiavo case. Surprisingly, Delay's own father had to be taken off life support by his family back in 1988 after a terrible injury using some sort of hillbilly dumbwaiter he'd built on the family's lakefront property. The hypocrisy is never admitted to by Delay's people, but the report includes an amazing interview with Delay's mother who's living in a nursing home in Houston. Add in the fact that Delay's family also filed a lawsuit against the manufacturer of some of the parts used in this hideous-sounding contraption and you've got yet another reason why The Hammer's one of the most hypocritical weasels in Washington. Couple that with the medical text ("Transplant") written by Bill Frist wherein he calls for removing life support from anencephalic babies and the harvesting of their organs and you've got some necessary backstory to understand just how contrived and contradictory their full-throated "culture of life" arguments truly are.

Great, GREAT Tourney games yesterday. The Illini came back from 15 points down with 4:04 remaining and eight with 1:03 left in regulation to beat a stunned Arizona in overtime 90-89. Personally, I was more crushed by West Virginia losing to an equally resilient Louisville in overtime - those Mountaineers and the home-state pride shown in their big-eared darling, Kevin Pittsnogle, won me over just in time to rip my heart out. Big time fun to look forward to in the Wisconsin-North Carolina match-up today. I don't care nearly as much about Kentucky-Michigan State. But the chance of having three Big 10 teams in the Final Four might quiet some of those nay-sayers that get their annual "they're collectively overrated" swerve on. Once we find all our eggs here, you can bet I'll be watching. This truly is the best sporting event of the year. And all credit due to the Women's Tourney, as well. Da Gopher Ladies lost to Baylor last night, but there's still some great ball to be seen on that side of the gender breakdown.

Maya's grunting her way to a crescendo. Must be a large poop on the way. Or maybe she's just gearing up for "Meet the Press." Yet another of Tim Russert's "wassup wit Faith in America?" guilt-fests on deck for today. He's just about the most Catholic guy in the public eye these days. What with the Pope out of commission and all.

Nanna, Poppy and Mommy admiring Maya's latest stand-up routine. 

Maya practicing her bunny ears for Easter (she's still got a bit of work to do on this one). 

This Week's Too-Sickening-To-Let-Pass-Unmentioned Stories

If any sane person were to base his or her cultural perspective on stories carried by the cable news networks, these would seem very tempestuous days indeed. Some stories are so stupid, so dominating and morose, they are perfect filler for those mindless platforms. And even though I'm very much re-directing my attention to the world that is Maya and her every desire or complaint, I can't help but see the imbalance caused by covering the stories that are being covered. In that light, I'll try once again to remedy my ANID ("appalling news intestinal distress") by mentioning those stories getting the spotlight when it most certainly isn't deserved as well as those stories unjustifiably ignored. With that out of the way, I hope I can safely return to posting the pictures everyone would seemingly rather tune in to see.

This Week's ANID Remedy List (take one shot at each, and leave it behind)

• Jeb Bush. With all the Schiavo appeals almost exhausted, his renewed moment in the sun is fading fast. But I don't expect this MiniBush (no matter how sizable his frame may be) to go down without one last desperate gasp. Imagine an armed assault on the Woodside Hospice to rescue poor Hillary Swank, er...Terri Schiavo before her boxing career, er...life is ended before the bell. Or something to that effect. I only hope people remember to question (which they won't) his own grasp of family matters in the guise of his narco-maniac daughter, Noelle, and his law-breaking, hard-core-shop-aholic wife, Columba.
  
• Barry Bonds. While hoping to skip this season, FreakishlyBigBarry will "protect" his family by asking that the cameras focus solely on his son, pets, and agreeable mistresses. The SF Giants are screwed by giving him such a wide berth. Baseball wants him gone before he passes Ruth, much less Aaron. And I want him banned from newsconferences for the rest of his life.
  
• Pat O'Brien. The voicemails are funny. The offer to masterbate on his producer's couch, random groping and substantial substance abuse are uniquely depraved. But will someone please call his rehab and tell him that Billy Bush just usurped his slot as the most soulless man on the Planet?
  
• Krygystan. If ever a country needed to buy a vowel, this is the one. Thyr scrywd.
  
• Bill Frist. Diagnosing outside his specialty via videotape. Brilliant, and so darn cost-effective. Look for him to fold this into upcoming/unannounced Medicare/Medicaid reforms/retractions.
  
• The crazy kid in Red Lake, MN who killed a bunch of people. Tragic, in all seriousness. The more sensitive among us feel as though it would be nice for Dubya to acknowledge the tragedy. But by drawing attention to the fact that some Native Americans have survived, the Bushies are probably concerned that the cuts in next year's Federal Budget might seem a bit harsh. Remember people if Dubya's told us once he's told us a million times - we must respect the "culture of life."
  
• The Pope. Seems to me that missing Easter for him is like Dick Clark missing the New Year's countdown. They both should be replaced. By robots.
  

There. Feels much better. See y'all next week with this feature's regular installment. Until then, expect the same general randomness here, limitless cuteness from Maya, and the Family Buick.

Bathtub time make Maya feel strong like bull.

Maya practicing her Corey Haim imitation.

Against Maya's better judgment, Dad bows to the fashion pressure to use her in showing some 'Sconi pride for today's Sweet 16 matchup against NC State.

This week's best fake photo (run in the new issue of "Maxim") - Daddy must be so proud.

Maya's first flick ("Millions") rolls credits while she dreams of breastfeedings in her near-future. 

Maya offers no thumbs up or otherwise. Good flick to snooze through, nonetheless. 

Our First Family MovieDate

To get away from all the Schiavo coverage and Barry Bonds absurdity, we attended our first family movie this midday. At one of the downtown SF art-house multi-plex theatres where we saw a few flicks this fall (including the delightful "Sideways"), they have a Thursday noon "Rattles and Reels" bring-your-baby-and-diaper-bags matinee. Today's showing was "Millions" - the new family marshmallow by Danny Boyle of "Trainspotting" and "28 Days Later" fame. A flawed, flip and forgettable bit of fluff. But it was a blast to get out and somewhat about. Maya ate through the previews and part of Act I. Then she snoozed on us through the remainder. Seeing all the other new 'rents struggle with their testy newborns (in general, kids suck) was also worthy of reflection. In short, Maya's a cool chick. And she didn't even mind that we didn't stay all the way through the credits.

Maya when told her bib is made of real kittens. 

Maya after a good night's sleep (for everyone). 

"Who's idea was it to dress me like the bouncey chair?" 

Maya either yawning or practicing her breastfeeding pose. 

Maya stares down the paparazzi after a feeding.  

Maya shows off her post-shampooing pompadour. 

Maya practices her Phantom of the Opera imitation. 

My New Insight into the Terri Schiavo Case

I'm embarrassed to admit that in our household, when there are so many other stories much more worthy of discussion, the Terri Schiavo case is what Sarah and I fell asleep kvetching about last night. Blame the Daily Show's typically brilliant skewering or the astonishment that I still feel having TiVo speed-cast through CNN's "Inside Politics" yesterday which spent the ENTIRE HOUR on that one politicized subject - the sort of monotone full-throated non-newsy-anala-bunk I never even saw all through a 2004 Election cycle that featured Swift Boat Vets and Dean's "I Have a Scream" speech. This story has become such a tempest of pseudo-outrage and counter-outrage that we're now all running the risk of being spun off the planet and hurtled into space. But then in these early morning hours, I've gained what I think is essential new insight into this tragic mess. Please bear with me while I ride this ponied-up metaphor to its intended conclusion. To make it more palatable, it involves Maya.

The last few nights, Maya's been sleeping really well. Every 3 to 4 hours she pleasantly awoke hungry, ate, belched and went back down. Given that and a chance for a long nap yesterday, I'd totally caught up on sleep and felt like I just might get the hang of this whole new parent charade. Then tonight, just before 2:30am, I heard Maya stirring after what I thought was only an hour and a half since she'd last eaten. She grunts all the time, almost always for a reason, and in this case I was sure it was a hidden burp waiting to be gently encouraged out by dear ol' Dad. Gallantly rising to my intended duty in all but my cape and tights, I reassured Sarah that she should go back to sleep. I picked up Maya and began my signature rhythmic burb-elimi-patting. In a matter of a minute, maybe two, she burped as sweetly as a child has ever burbed and seemingly collapsed into a blissful heap upon my chest and shoulder. Mission accomplished, I thought. Pipe in the celestial soundtrack, for I had accomplished a parent's greatest triumph - assessing what ails his or her child and then seeing a self-prescribed remedy act quickly and as hoped. I then thought (and I'm being entirely serious here) even if Terri Schiavo's parents are opportunistic shady characters, they must on some level want to fix what ails their daughter. I returned a sleeping Maya to her bassinet and went back to my own bed. That empathy from moments earlier morphed when I then thought of my wife and all that she means to me and how we now guard each others' interests in so many ways. Terri's husband, Michael, is after all her legal guardian, even if Jeb Bush and so many others in both the Florida and U.S. Congress want to take that right away from him. And Michael's trying to do what he says is best for his wife, even though he now lives with his new girlfriend and their two kids. As I marveled at my new insight that requires empathy for both sides, I reassured Sarah that Maya just had a burp and that we should both go back to sleep.

And then Maya began to grunt again, more loudly than before.

It didn't take long for me to assume the burp-coaxing position, this time while walking around the apartment and beginning to consider what sort of mindless TV might be best to soothe her bubbly innards. After a few minutes, Sarah got up and sleepily confronted me with the opinion that "Maya's hungry." She can't be, I countered, having just eaten at 1am. "She ate at midnight," Sarah corrected me. Oh. Yea. I, um kinda slept through most of that feeding, I agreed. And so we changed Maya's diaper and her increasing cries and grunts solidified the rationale for Sarah's diagnosis. In short order, my Schiavo insight deepened. Sometimes, even when a parent thinks he or she is doing the right thing, their attempt to help may be exactly the wrong thing to do. You can't fix everything with self-assured conviction nor should any parent or loved one be inflexible to the advice of others. No matter how well-intentioned your beliefs may be.

I don't know who's right in the Schiavo fight, but I do know that the politicians who are trying to stir up the outrage using her have reached a new level of depraved opportunism, if that's still possible. Maybe it's just the curious forces that act on a mind in the early morning hours that have me waxing melancholic about this whole mess. Or maybe now that I'm a husband AND a parent, I've got a smidge more insight into the difficult and unique requirements of each role. When the sun rises, this case will still dominate the news. But when Maya wakes up again and presents new challenges on this day like all the others before, I plan to listen a bit more and hopefully learn something in the process. Time to head back to bed. Thanks for reading.

Oh, and the Federal Judge assigned to the Schiavo case just denied the Congressionally-forced appeal. Let the new day's shitstorm commence.

"Peace out to all my homies." 

Maya's multiplying chins illustrate how much she appreciates fine dining.

Turtle Par-tay in Golden Gate Park (Maya was unimpressed, unlike her 'rents).