Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Maya's there when a corkscrew's not handy
Originally uploaded by emaggie.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Maya celebrates her 6-month Birthday with a sweet potato slathering
Originally uploaded by emaggie.
Maya and Sarah soak up the atmosphere at Espresso Vivace
Originally uploaded by emaggie.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Back in the original home of Skid Row (not the band)
Being back in Seattle after so many years is pretty cool and utterly surreal. I left for Dallas in the unbelievably steamy summer of '98. We've been back since then, but it's been a few years since the last time. As with any vibrant city spending way too much of everyone else's money, there are some obvious changes. Nothing so obvious as to cause the taste of my memories to sour. The old haunts are largely still there, although I was distressed to see that the stanky old home of the Last Exit coffeeshop that had moved from its prior home on Brooklyn to University Avenue years ago now housed a tapas cafe. Tapas - I love 'em myself, but tapas places stick around about as long as a raging case of crabs. Or so I'm told. Anyhoo, my first stops this morning after we'd done breakfast, exercise and the inevitably extensive planning required for the dealing with a 6-month-old were Bulldog News and my present perch, Big Time Brewery. This is the exact same path I took through the U-District upon arrival here in September of '93. Fresh off the farm. Ready to meet and become Kurt Cobain's best friend. Full of ideas about the "information superhighway" and "smell-o-vision" and "head transplants" or whatever crap me and my ilk of starry-eyed young grungsters were spouting way back when. For me Seattle has nonetheless been my favorite city. And as I sit here at the bar taking advantage of a WiFi hotspot to post up some random thoughts, I feel as though I never left. Just came back with some toys that are much more fun to play with.
Can't help but post a few comments on the last day of Iraq bad newsiness. The Constitution debacle is ridiculous - if this isn't a precursor of a dismantling of the nation, the next ones to show will be even more frightening. The Sunnis are protesting federalism, Moktada al Sadr's people are protesting the overall nature of the process, the Kurds are probably upset about the silliness of their name - nobody's happy. And all we get here is that we're "making progress". It's a bit early to call, but I firmly believe that this Dubya vacation will be the one to put his Preziduncy into the tank. Watch for updates here and elsewhere about the "progress" made while he went biking and speechifying for 5 weeks. The tallies are horrifying. And if the Iraqi come out of this with no Constitution (which they won't - this will go to an election, which will further inflame the population), all of the past 29 months of pain and anguish and death washes into the streets. Jon Stewart had it exactly right when he when went medevil on "The Daily Show" last night. His interview with "The Hitch" was a study in unyielding, yet utterly informed anger. The segments that started the show were of a tenor not yet seen there - unwilling to pull up for the funny. The Bushies won't admit it, but truly powerful cultural forces are aligning to dispute their control of our adventures in Iraq. By the time Dubya comes back to DC, he probably won't even recognize the town.
Ariana Huffington's also hitting her stride. Her brief work-up on her blog of a John Bolton party held at the UN Ambassador's residence - the top floor of the Waldorf Astoria, just so you know - last night is a classic. Shut out from the invitees: the NYTimes and the WashPost. Included: FOXNews and every other mush-mouthed tool that still supports the Bushies. Wait. I'm sorry. Not all of the invited Bushie apologists are mush-mouthed tools. Some are just shameless social climbers.
But since many of you are more concerned with Maya's exploits, I want to admit that she's in a bit of a fussy mode as of the past few days. Cutting teeth sucks, and not just in terms of hitting a nail with your chainsaw (a 'Sconi joke for those out there that have "cleared some brush" of their own). She's overtired, and continues to miss some crucial naps. She's possibly overwhelmed by the people aching to get a piece of her. And just plain ol' not in her regular space. The up-side is that I will probably get some hilariously angry photos to post in the next few days. Or wait - that's the up-side if I were a pessimist. I'm an optimist, so she'll come around. And when she does, you'll hear about it here. Rock on.
Can't help but post a few comments on the last day of Iraq bad newsiness. The Constitution debacle is ridiculous - if this isn't a precursor of a dismantling of the nation, the next ones to show will be even more frightening. The Sunnis are protesting federalism, Moktada al Sadr's people are protesting the overall nature of the process, the Kurds are probably upset about the silliness of their name - nobody's happy. And all we get here is that we're "making progress". It's a bit early to call, but I firmly believe that this Dubya vacation will be the one to put his Preziduncy into the tank. Watch for updates here and elsewhere about the "progress" made while he went biking and speechifying for 5 weeks. The tallies are horrifying. And if the Iraqi come out of this with no Constitution (which they won't - this will go to an election, which will further inflame the population), all of the past 29 months of pain and anguish and death washes into the streets. Jon Stewart had it exactly right when he when went medevil on "The Daily Show" last night. His interview with "The Hitch" was a study in unyielding, yet utterly informed anger. The segments that started the show were of a tenor not yet seen there - unwilling to pull up for the funny. The Bushies won't admit it, but truly powerful cultural forces are aligning to dispute their control of our adventures in Iraq. By the time Dubya comes back to DC, he probably won't even recognize the town.
Ariana Huffington's also hitting her stride. Her brief work-up on her blog of a John Bolton party held at the UN Ambassador's residence - the top floor of the Waldorf Astoria, just so you know - last night is a classic. Shut out from the invitees: the NYTimes and the WashPost. Included: FOXNews and every other mush-mouthed tool that still supports the Bushies. Wait. I'm sorry. Not all of the invited Bushie apologists are mush-mouthed tools. Some are just shameless social climbers.
But since many of you are more concerned with Maya's exploits, I want to admit that she's in a bit of a fussy mode as of the past few days. Cutting teeth sucks, and not just in terms of hitting a nail with your chainsaw (a 'Sconi joke for those out there that have "cleared some brush" of their own). She's overtired, and continues to miss some crucial naps. She's possibly overwhelmed by the people aching to get a piece of her. And just plain ol' not in her regular space. The up-side is that I will probably get some hilariously angry photos to post in the next few days. Or wait - that's the up-side if I were a pessimist. I'm an optimist, so she'll come around. And when she does, you'll hear about it here. Rock on.
Maya settles in nicely on Will's lap
The breakfast this morning was top notch, both thanks to the food and the fact that two other wedding weekend attendees (Will and Tom) stopped by to chat it up. Maya had a less-than-stellar night's sleep, but she put on her perfect angel act for folks in the morning. The weather's amazing - so very much what I remember Seattle being like in August and September when I lived here. So after breakfast, we all got out for some exercise. I ran through U-Dub's still-inspiring campus and down along the trails heading into the Arboretum. Gorgeous. Time to get cleaned up and hit some favorite haunts. Check back for many more shots of Maya's intro to all things post-Grungy. Rock on.
Upon arriving in Seattle at our B&B, Maya promptly killed a bear with her bare hands.
Originally uploaded by emaggie.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Trying to tally up the 700 Clubbers still paying Pat's bills
I probably should stay away from ever mentioning my dreams in this blog. Dream analysis isn't one of my strengths and those that are good at it are, well, let's just say we never really see eye-to-eye on questions of mental health. But I had a dream last night that had me chuckling and confused when I rolled out of bed early this morning to check just what sort of damage Maya had done to her diaper in the nighttime silence. So if you'll indulge me for a moment...in my dream I was talking to Maya who was seated in her multi-colored pre-electronic circular play station. After trying to goad her into responding to some of the monosyllabic bunk I was spouting (you know the whole "baby", "mama", "daddy", "Favre" routine), she then did. But her voice was not her own - it was that of what I'd characterize as a pleasant male voice with a sort of mid-twenties, New Yawky, vaguely-Jewish dialect, that spoke in very analytical grad-studentish terms about not only what she thought of our place (nice enough, for the time being) but us as parents (engaging and talented, but still growing in the role). I shit you not. It went on from there as most dreams do and I won't bore you with the details. But I thought you might appreciate knowing just what's bouncing around in my head thanks to this whole parenthood gig.
In terms of Maya's head - or more specifically, her mouth - you can definitely see two teeth peeeking through the surface. Cool. She's like a crazy lab experiment that we get to monitor and occasionally wheel around the neighborhood for peer reviews. Tomorrow we head to Seattle to show her off to old and new friends alike. New parents are self-involved dorks and we're no exception - always talking about the new operating system and what new features have been added to the hardware. In that light, expect plenty of pics from our old stomping grounds in GrungeCity with Maya featured in the mix.
As usual I'm a bit behind the curve in analyzing just how ballsy and insane Pat Robertson sounded in calling for Hugo Chavez's assassination on his "The 700 Club" Monday. No one will ever call his statements anything but ballsy or insane, often at the same time. But it got me thinking on a total tangent - just what does the "700" in his self-deemed "club" actually mean? Didn't take long to find out using the brilliance of Wikipedia - apparently Robertson named the program for the first telethon he did which aimed for 700 wackos contributing $10/month to support his televised ministry. So now I'm trying to scrub that tidbit from my brain to use for more worthy information. Yet it led me to ponder - how many of those 700 original contributers are still alive? I remember my Swedish Grandma Jenny giving money to those televangelists, but she passed on to the big smorgasboard in the sky way back around the time I was learning to drive. So who's left? Nothing of value was found on the 700 Club website (understatement of the Century). Well, except for a recipe for Pat's protein pancakes that look to be straight from guilt-free heaven. But I want everyone to know I'm on the case and have sent a "prayer request" to Pat to find out wassup wit his 700s. Check back for updates when I hear back with my prayer order.
These are the sort of things I get to pursue when Maya's napping. Rock on.
In terms of Maya's head - or more specifically, her mouth - you can definitely see two teeth peeeking through the surface. Cool. She's like a crazy lab experiment that we get to monitor and occasionally wheel around the neighborhood for peer reviews. Tomorrow we head to Seattle to show her off to old and new friends alike. New parents are self-involved dorks and we're no exception - always talking about the new operating system and what new features have been added to the hardware. In that light, expect plenty of pics from our old stomping grounds in GrungeCity with Maya featured in the mix.
As usual I'm a bit behind the curve in analyzing just how ballsy and insane Pat Robertson sounded in calling for Hugo Chavez's assassination on his "The 700 Club" Monday. No one will ever call his statements anything but ballsy or insane, often at the same time. But it got me thinking on a total tangent - just what does the "700" in his self-deemed "club" actually mean? Didn't take long to find out using the brilliance of Wikipedia - apparently Robertson named the program for the first telethon he did which aimed for 700 wackos contributing $10/month to support his televised ministry. So now I'm trying to scrub that tidbit from my brain to use for more worthy information. Yet it led me to ponder - how many of those 700 original contributers are still alive? I remember my Swedish Grandma Jenny giving money to those televangelists, but she passed on to the big smorgasboard in the sky way back around the time I was learning to drive. So who's left? Nothing of value was found on the 700 Club website (understatement of the Century). Well, except for a recipe for Pat's protein pancakes that look to be straight from guilt-free heaven. But I want everyone to know I'm on the case and have sent a "prayer request" to Pat to find out wassup wit his 700s. Check back for updates when I hear back with my prayer order.
These are the sort of things I get to pursue when Maya's napping. Rock on.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
There's a smell in the air, and it ain't victory...
Yesterday was a glorious event for all of us that came of age with some small kernel of Hunter S. Thompson's crazed voice in our heads. Or at least I assume it was - my invitation to the cannon firing of Hunter's ashes over the heads of the crowd gathered at his beloved Aspen property must have gotten lost in the mail. Nonetheless, I hope we all get the chance for such an over the top send-off when the time comes. For me, I want to be cremated, FedEx'ed from country to country until I truly span the globe, and then launched into space to one of our colonies on Mars where I will be mixed with some of the sure to be further melting Martian icecaps and made into a paste to be used to spackle one of the McMansions sure to crop up there in the early 22nd Century. But please check back for my further instructions - I consider this one of my grander lifelong projects and like Hunter I'm gonna need your help to make it happen.
For those of you that are hoping for a Maya update, she's progressing toward a number of signposts with her usual good-spirited aplomb. As shown in her latest set of shots, carrots ain't exactly her fave. But when mixed with rice cereal, they make an only slightly less-palatable bowl of gruel to compliment her current breast milk and prune juice diet. Yummy. So in terms of food, she eats the sort of mix that gives her, um, by-products a wholly indescribable aroma. Kind of a mix between used YMCA towels, mossy attic air, fish stew, overripe cantelope and an '86 Bordeaux. Doesn't seem to bother her though, and the court of public opinion has ruled that it shouldn't bother us either so we're doing our best. Her napping skills are now first-rate which has added an entirely different level of appreciation to such siestas, whether solo or shared. There's most assuredly at least two teeth on their way to the surface that are causing extra drool and loads of funky new exclamations. She's got tons to say anyways, especially about the Iraqi Constitution. 'Cause if anyone's had real hands-on experience struggling with a Constitution recently, it's been our lit'l diaper filler, Maya.
Speaking of the Iraqi struggle to draw together a national blueprint, I know I've been pretty silent as of late on newsy absurdities. Just like Bob Costas, I've been paying attention but I'm generally appalled by the tenor of what's been discussed recently. For the Iraqis the deadline's supposedly tomorrow, although the Sunnis are totally pissed and the whole thing looks like it will be written in pencil while the Americans distribute big chunky erasers far and wide. And while everyone here has their soundbites ready to go whether they're in favor of the process or against it, I've really only got one broad question - who are the Iraqi statesmen and women crafting this document that Rummy had the ludicrous overdose of second-hand hubris to call "an important tool in the War on Terrorism"? If they pull this mess together tomorrow and come out in a press conference, will they be figures that anyone knows or respects? Will Chalabi be there? My bet is that these framers are nothing close to the big minds that I'm sure a nation with a rich history of academic advancement like Iraq always produced. These people will be backed by militias, as the WashingtonPost reported this morning concerning the machinations of Moktada al Sadr's group of Shiites and equally clandestine Kurdish moves to secure power over so-called democratic institutions. I expect to see a phalanx of security guards securing these drafters, fully separating them from the people they mean to "free from tyranny" or whatever the cliche being used these days amounts to. Call it a hunch. But if they actually finish up the drafting process by tomorrow without finalizing address of all the issues that sound to still be on the table, we're pretty much just pushing forward the real problems anyways, no matter who's holding the broom.
If you read the Conservative blogs and watch FOXNews and rely on Drudge's news judgment, you surely think Cindy Sheehan's a bitch and a mouthpiece for Michael Moore and a woman that wanted her son to die so she could use him to travel to lovely Crawford in the midst of the summertime hell heat and get hate mail by the bushel sent to her and her disintegrating family. But as Frank Rich so forcefully notes in his brilliantly vitriolic column today, it doesn't really matter if you think she's all those things. Because she's unleased the zeitgeist or become the zeitgeist or, well, whatever she could do as/with/to the zeitgesist. If you've been reading her posts on the Huffington Post as many Americans and I have, you know she's pissed and not anything like a shrinking violet. Her marriage is over, her son is dead, her mom just had a stroke. Yet Conservatives continue to come after her. Don't count this woman out, no matter how much you think she might back down or lose steam of step off the reservation or get killed by a crazy counter-protester. Cindy's pissed and she represents a very strong set of opinions that have gathered steam as Iraq has further descended into chaos this summer. And that zeitgeist thingie she's hooked into ain't going away.
On a related note, I haven't mentioned my appreciation for the new FX show "Over There" that centers on a group of soldiers fighting in Iraq. It's gritty, deceptively smart, hauntingly well-shot, and more up-to-date than a pediatrician's vaccinations. My rating gives it a solid (and rare) A-. The last episode was less convincingly new than the two prior to that. But if you've got cable and TiVo and a thirst for the sort of programming that's sure to scare the crap out of the Bushies when it actually hits their tone-deaf pop culture radar, please check it out. I think the over-the-end-credits theme song is incredibly strong, to boot. I'm also planning to check out the hip-hop album I heard excerpted in a decently lengthy interview on the WNYC Podcast of "On the Media" with the artist (Sgt. Neal Saunders) behind an angry yet entertaining current album titled "Live from Iraq". If you're looking for a well-articulated soldier who rattles off more problems than you can count with what's going on over there, this is your guy. Scary stuff. Pretty catchy, though.
I've been thinking more and more about what I'll be doing with my Podcast starting this Fall. I go for runs with a few new Podcasts to listen to daily - most of what's out there I must say is pretty hard to recommend. Hopefully I won't fall into that trap. But thanks for reading and please check back. Sarah, Maya and I are headed up to Seattle this Thursday for a wedding and other important fun stuff. So and the Family Buick will be on the road for five days in the previously grungy Northwest and then we'll be headed to Chicago for a week starting in early September. Getting out of the delightfully foggy Bay Area will be a fun shift in locale. Maybe I'll even head up to Milwaukee for a Brewers game when we're in Chicago. Hey, the New Brew Crew's only 5-ish games out of the National League Wildcard Race. Ned Yost is a stud. If you don't know his work, you will in the years ahead. Til then, rock on.
For those of you that are hoping for a Maya update, she's progressing toward a number of signposts with her usual good-spirited aplomb. As shown in her latest set of shots, carrots ain't exactly her fave. But when mixed with rice cereal, they make an only slightly less-palatable bowl of gruel to compliment her current breast milk and prune juice diet. Yummy. So in terms of food, she eats the sort of mix that gives her, um, by-products a wholly indescribable aroma. Kind of a mix between used YMCA towels, mossy attic air, fish stew, overripe cantelope and an '86 Bordeaux. Doesn't seem to bother her though, and the court of public opinion has ruled that it shouldn't bother us either so we're doing our best. Her napping skills are now first-rate which has added an entirely different level of appreciation to such siestas, whether solo or shared. There's most assuredly at least two teeth on their way to the surface that are causing extra drool and loads of funky new exclamations. She's got tons to say anyways, especially about the Iraqi Constitution. 'Cause if anyone's had real hands-on experience struggling with a Constitution recently, it's been our lit'l diaper filler, Maya.
Speaking of the Iraqi struggle to draw together a national blueprint, I know I've been pretty silent as of late on newsy absurdities. Just like Bob Costas, I've been paying attention but I'm generally appalled by the tenor of what's been discussed recently. For the Iraqis the deadline's supposedly tomorrow, although the Sunnis are totally pissed and the whole thing looks like it will be written in pencil while the Americans distribute big chunky erasers far and wide. And while everyone here has their soundbites ready to go whether they're in favor of the process or against it, I've really only got one broad question - who are the Iraqi statesmen and women crafting this document that Rummy had the ludicrous overdose of second-hand hubris to call "an important tool in the War on Terrorism"? If they pull this mess together tomorrow and come out in a press conference, will they be figures that anyone knows or respects? Will Chalabi be there? My bet is that these framers are nothing close to the big minds that I'm sure a nation with a rich history of academic advancement like Iraq always produced. These people will be backed by militias, as the WashingtonPost reported this morning concerning the machinations of Moktada al Sadr's group of Shiites and equally clandestine Kurdish moves to secure power over so-called democratic institutions. I expect to see a phalanx of security guards securing these drafters, fully separating them from the people they mean to "free from tyranny" or whatever the cliche being used these days amounts to. Call it a hunch. But if they actually finish up the drafting process by tomorrow without finalizing address of all the issues that sound to still be on the table, we're pretty much just pushing forward the real problems anyways, no matter who's holding the broom.
If you read the Conservative blogs and watch FOXNews and rely on Drudge's news judgment, you surely think Cindy Sheehan's a bitch and a mouthpiece for Michael Moore and a woman that wanted her son to die so she could use him to travel to lovely Crawford in the midst of the summertime hell heat and get hate mail by the bushel sent to her and her disintegrating family. But as Frank Rich so forcefully notes in his brilliantly vitriolic column today, it doesn't really matter if you think she's all those things. Because she's unleased the zeitgeist or become the zeitgeist or, well, whatever she could do as/with/to the zeitgesist. If you've been reading her posts on the Huffington Post as many Americans and I have, you know she's pissed and not anything like a shrinking violet. Her marriage is over, her son is dead, her mom just had a stroke. Yet Conservatives continue to come after her. Don't count this woman out, no matter how much you think she might back down or lose steam of step off the reservation or get killed by a crazy counter-protester. Cindy's pissed and she represents a very strong set of opinions that have gathered steam as Iraq has further descended into chaos this summer. And that zeitgeist thingie she's hooked into ain't going away.
On a related note, I haven't mentioned my appreciation for the new FX show "Over There" that centers on a group of soldiers fighting in Iraq. It's gritty, deceptively smart, hauntingly well-shot, and more up-to-date than a pediatrician's vaccinations. My rating gives it a solid (and rare) A-. The last episode was less convincingly new than the two prior to that. But if you've got cable and TiVo and a thirst for the sort of programming that's sure to scare the crap out of the Bushies when it actually hits their tone-deaf pop culture radar, please check it out. I think the over-the-end-credits theme song is incredibly strong, to boot. I'm also planning to check out the hip-hop album I heard excerpted in a decently lengthy interview on the WNYC Podcast of "On the Media" with the artist (Sgt. Neal Saunders) behind an angry yet entertaining current album titled "Live from Iraq". If you're looking for a well-articulated soldier who rattles off more problems than you can count with what's going on over there, this is your guy. Scary stuff. Pretty catchy, though.
I've been thinking more and more about what I'll be doing with my Podcast starting this Fall. I go for runs with a few new Podcasts to listen to daily - most of what's out there I must say is pretty hard to recommend. Hopefully I won't fall into that trap. But thanks for reading and please check back. Sarah, Maya and I are headed up to Seattle this Thursday for a wedding and other important fun stuff. So and the Family Buick will be on the road for five days in the previously grungy Northwest and then we'll be headed to Chicago for a week starting in early September. Getting out of the delightfully foggy Bay Area will be a fun shift in locale. Maybe I'll even head up to Milwaukee for a Brewers game when we're in Chicago. Hey, the New Brew Crew's only 5-ish games out of the National League Wildcard Race. Ned Yost is a stud. If you don't know his work, you will in the years ahead. Til then, rock on.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Monday, August 15, 2005
Friday, August 12, 2005
The August newsy doldrums
August is unquestionably a time of general avoidance of important things. C'mon face it people - we all get a bit slack on what's important in August. It's hot (everywhere but here in SF), the Fall crush of renewal is just around the corner, the summer's surprisingly well past half gone, music festivals and fairgrounds are filling up with shortpanted losers of all manner and stripe. But I'm working to break that trend here at and the Family Buick. For example, I've got a new digital camera arriving today to once again obsessively catalog Maya's epic cuteness and our travels. And Maya's got lots to say, so I want to put up a few audio files to accent her development as visually portrayed. So check back in the next few weeks and I promise to be more regular with my daily postings.
As far as the news goes, August is famously a lousy time for real stories. It's all shark attacks and interviews with serial killers and generally shameless filler junk. Such as how I heard yesterday on NPR's "Talk of the Nation" part of an hour dedicated to a segment on the best movie car chases. They even played clips for a few before I couldn't take it anymore and had to switch to a CD (my latest recommendation - the compelling Eels new album "Blinking Lights and Other Revelations"). But if car chase clips on the radio are insulting, Dubya's attempt to address the Cindy Sheehan protest yesterday with a statement that both wouldn't acknowledge her yet still was crafted to insult her validity is the most unworthy audio of this already ugly sounding August. Never mind how much smoke Conservatives are trying to fan back into the face of NARAL for an admittedly dumbassed John Roberts ad - there's essentially nothing but crap out there for political debates at the moment. Dubya comes back to DC to sign a so-stinky-it's-steaming highway bill with over 6300 earmarked pork projects inserted. "Douchebag for Liberty" Novak's claiming that he erupted 'cause Carville pissed him off. Rove is hiding from scrutiny in Florida while Katherine Harris announces her run for the Senate while proudly showing off her new breast implants. Yes, this is the ugly season folks. And with that said, I'm gonna head out for a run with my daughter in the Park and avoid all this static. I've got a bunch of lousy podcasts loaded up and we need to run a healthy loop. The morning's clearing up nicely. Dubya's clearing brush, time for me to clear my head. Rock on.
As far as the news goes, August is famously a lousy time for real stories. It's all shark attacks and interviews with serial killers and generally shameless filler junk. Such as how I heard yesterday on NPR's "Talk of the Nation" part of an hour dedicated to a segment on the best movie car chases. They even played clips for a few before I couldn't take it anymore and had to switch to a CD (my latest recommendation - the compelling Eels new album "Blinking Lights and Other Revelations"). But if car chase clips on the radio are insulting, Dubya's attempt to address the Cindy Sheehan protest yesterday with a statement that both wouldn't acknowledge her yet still was crafted to insult her validity is the most unworthy audio of this already ugly sounding August. Never mind how much smoke Conservatives are trying to fan back into the face of NARAL for an admittedly dumbassed John Roberts ad - there's essentially nothing but crap out there for political debates at the moment. Dubya comes back to DC to sign a so-stinky-it's-steaming highway bill with over 6300 earmarked pork projects inserted. "Douchebag for Liberty" Novak's claiming that he erupted 'cause Carville pissed him off. Rove is hiding from scrutiny in Florida while Katherine Harris announces her run for the Senate while proudly showing off her new breast implants. Yes, this is the ugly season folks. And with that said, I'm gonna head out for a run with my daughter in the Park and avoid all this static. I've got a bunch of lousy podcasts loaded up and we need to run a healthy loop. The morning's clearing up nicely. Dubya's clearing brush, time for me to clear my head. Rock on.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Maya on the Beach for the first time
This was just a taste of Maya's reaction to her first ocean bonding experience. After the initial skepticism, she couldn't stop staring at the ocean. A wonderful experience for the whole family. Even when Maya peed on Dad heading back to the car.
Maya approaching the Beach, with her sunny California disposition in full bloom
Originally uploaded by emaggie.
Maya and Dad size up the biggest Great White we've ever seen. Or maybe just a gross jellyfish carcass and some kelp.
I don't know which was scarier - the terrible shots I took of myself and Maya or the way she chose not to act on cue. All those acting classes seem now to have not been the greatest investment.
When Crawford's booked, I suggest Santa Barbara
Surprisingly like Dubya and his beloved Bushies in August, we're away from foggy San Francisco for the only occassionally foggy comfort of Santa Barbara on our own version of a "working vacation." Dubya takes 5 weeks. We're taking part of 5 days. The similarities end there. No brush clearing here. No beach time there. I don't expect that Dubya's running with Jenna and Barbara comfortably ensconsed in a double-wide BOB stroller like I've had the chance to share along the Waterfront the past three mornings with Maya in our beloved single Revolution. And here we discuss policy and politics. Such as Dubya's unwillingness to meet Cindy Sheehan and Sludge's willingness to trash this woman who's son was killed in Iraq. Or the importance of teaching creationism, er, pseudo-science, er, intelligent dumbsign as a way to counteract the allegedly corrosive edjumacationism of that dastardly evolutionary theory bunk. Maybe the lesson herein is that no matter where we fall on the political spectrum, our society should encourage everyone to head off and break the cycle for a while when the weather turns summery. Like the French or the Italians or, gawd save us, the Liechtensteinians or Liechish or Liechtenaniacs (whatever they're called - I respect you fully). Hopefully most Americans still get some degree of escape to regroup before the weather turns autumnal, the harvest comes in and we all take a new look at our nation's school systems as classes commence. But if it helps you rest at all easier knowing that I'm just one of the minions of folks paying undue attention to the stories of our time, waiting for the next Novak freakout or the next policy absurdity to arise, I hope I help you enjoy your rejuvenation. Granted, I'm just one voice in the global static. Speaking of which, pay attention to future updates for links to my podcast under development that I want to launch this fall. I'm thinking of calling it "Don't Let Harvey's Wallbangers Raise Your Kids" or "This Week in Shlock." Whatever I settle on for a tagline, I hope you'll give my offerings a listen. That means you - Al Gore. I'm one of the few hundred people checking out CurrentTV. I expect some love in return.
To switch gears, I'd like to offer a brief review of "Hustle and Flow" which Sarah and I saw yesterday after weeks and weeks of saying that we wanted to do so. I've read all the hype since its signing at Sundance this year. And I'm pleased to say that it deserves almost all of the praise that it's received. My rating - a somewhat rare but entirely deserved B+. Terrence Howard is a revelation. He could pimp my hos anytime. So to speak. And the remaining principle cast is masterfully cast and without a clunker in the mix. The rap is inspiring. The storyline is perfectly toned. The portrayal of urban decay in Memphis may be hard for some to stomach. But as Sarah said while we walked to our car, you never really see urban stories set in the South. It works brilliantly in this storyline. Craig Brewster (writer/director) deserves mad praise and I'm sure we'll see much more of this artist in the future. "Whoop that trick!" If you haven't seen it, get there and you'll know what I mean thereafter.
We're planning to take Maya to the Beach for the first time a bit later today. Expect some pics soon thereafter. Thanks for reading. Rock on.
To switch gears, I'd like to offer a brief review of "Hustle and Flow" which Sarah and I saw yesterday after weeks and weeks of saying that we wanted to do so. I've read all the hype since its signing at Sundance this year. And I'm pleased to say that it deserves almost all of the praise that it's received. My rating - a somewhat rare but entirely deserved B+. Terrence Howard is a revelation. He could pimp my hos anytime. So to speak. And the remaining principle cast is masterfully cast and without a clunker in the mix. The rap is inspiring. The storyline is perfectly toned. The portrayal of urban decay in Memphis may be hard for some to stomach. But as Sarah said while we walked to our car, you never really see urban stories set in the South. It works brilliantly in this storyline. Craig Brewster (writer/director) deserves mad praise and I'm sure we'll see much more of this artist in the future. "Whoop that trick!" If you haven't seen it, get there and you'll know what I mean thereafter.
We're planning to take Maya to the Beach for the first time a bit later today. Expect some pics soon thereafter. Thanks for reading. Rock on.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Maya reacts to the day's news - "Tasty!"
Yesterday we headed down to Santa Barbara for another long summer weekend. In the car on our way, Maya got ahold of part of my newspaper, as she's now tempted to do whenever it's within reach. She may be reading the Business section in this shot. But she's all about the Robert Novak meltdown story. Rock on.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Novak Is Mad As Hell, And He's Not Gonna Take It Anymore!!!!!!
Oh. My. Gawd. Bob Novak went off the reservation today on CNN's "Inside Politics." Nothing of note has happened on that show since, well, ever. Yet I've always TiVo'ed it as a sort of Dean Campaign carry-over (we had a bank of the puppies pulling down every day's politically-themed piece of televised detritus). And today it paid off. Before Sarah headed in for an overnight call "we" watched it together (translation: I watched it while she tried to read or something equally productive). The conversation between James Carville and Novak was uninsightful, as always. Ed Henry, the surprisingly effective reporter serving as a rotating temp host as CNN tries to figure out who best might fill Judy Woodruff's recently emptied lightweight and impossibly uninteresting shoes, got things going after the third break (ugh!) with a question about Katherine Harris's makeup controversy (or complete lack thereof). Carville played G-rated "Crossfire" with Novak. And Big Bad Bob lost his shit. Completely. Blogs from sea to shining sea are burning up their servers playing with this one (thanks to everyone for allowing me to piggyback my linking for free). The Washington Post has gone early with the news that CNN has asked Novak to "take some time off." No word yet from Crawford from the assembled gaggle where it's assumed Dubya's mountain-biking through a "working session" to scout new brush to clear.
Still (and HERE'S THE RUB) Judy Miller sits in her prison overalls, waiting for Patrick Fitzgerald to finish up his investigation of who besides Rove and Libby leaked Valerie Plame-Wilson's name in an egregious and UNQUESTIONABLY illegal act of political hackery. I hope Novak's phone is ringing off the hook tonight. Because his meltdown was the funniest bit of impromptu theatre I've seen in decades. Rock on.
Still (and HERE'S THE RUB) Judy Miller sits in her prison overalls, waiting for Patrick Fitzgerald to finish up his investigation of who besides Rove and Libby leaked Valerie Plame-Wilson's name in an egregious and UNQUESTIONABLY illegal act of political hackery. I hope Novak's phone is ringing off the hook tonight. Because his meltdown was the funniest bit of impromptu theatre I've seen in decades. Rock on.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Monday, August 01, 2005
A Friendly Plea the Day After the SF Marathon
Until last week, Maya was always a super pooper, in the most literal use of the term. Yet I'm learning more and more every day to expect twists and turns in parenting a newborn. Luckily, we took one of those turns headed in a good direction this morning when woke up to a happy baby with a full diaper after a few days' worth of rice cereal constipation. Maya's done great thus far with the "solid" food. Until this morning though, she'd not done so great with the "solids" on the other end of the spectrum. I'm maybe overstating the extent of her intestinal back-up, but if you'd smelled some of yesterday's toxic plumes you would have been worried as well. So after spending a few days anxiously interpreting every fart and red-faced grimace, we can now get back to our regularly scheduled lives. I'm sure that's what the teenage Maya would have rather I'd done without going so fully into the past paragraph.
Yet as life now returns to normal with the poopgates once again open, I'd like to switch gears entirely and make a friendly plea to anyone reading on behalf of 826 Valencia and the expanding group of 826s popping up all over the country. If you're not familiar with what 826 means or does, I'll get back to that a bit later in this posting. But the pivot point for bringing this up was the running of the San Francisco Marathon yesterday, of which I ran the first half in hopes of bringing some attention in a very small sense to the work of the 826s. But as far as the Race went, the course through the City was advertised as being in itself inspiring. For those of you that can picture the layout of the City - Start down by the Ferry Building, run along the Waterfront past the Marina to Golden Gate Bridge, cross and come back over the Bridge, continue along the Sea Cliff side of the Presidio and down toward Golden Gate Park. The first half ended in the Park, but the full marathon folks continued on to eventually go down Haight Street, through the Mission and back toward Mission Bay to return to the Start/Finish in front of the Ferry Building. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Except that for reasons only assumed to do with not screwing up pre-7am traffic (composed of priests, ravers and newspaper delivery people), the Start began at 5am, which meant myself and 15,000 or so other maniacs rolled out of bed around 3am. Because of poor public transportation planning on my part, I ended up needing to drive downtown. I drove through the Tenderloin, noting the darkly-dressed denizens wandering about in a form of wobbly unison. Only a few blocks further toward Union Square, the streetwalkers morphed into little pockets of overly perky runners jauntily carrying their Starbucks cups and plastic bags full of gel packs and water bottles. Most were wearing brightly colored race clothing, the occasional plastic garbage bag to keep off the misty fog, and mostly brand-new shoes. I'll leave it up to you to decide who looks more deranged walking the sketchy downtown streets at 4:15.
I parked, got stretched amid the swirling mass of humanity along the Embarcadero, and eventually got onto the Course around 5:30 when just the first hint of daylight began to rise over the East Bay. As we made our way past Fisherman's Wharf and along Marina Green, the sun came up. Somewhere. But in San Francisco, the extra light only allowed a better view of how completely fogged in the Bay was. What was meant to be the visual highlight - crossing the Golden Gate Bridge - was underwhelming. You couldn't even see the Towers of the Bridge through the tepid soup as you crossed under them. It felt more like I was running through a movie set in 19th Century London than toward Marin. Coming back across the Bridge, the wind hit me with a startlingly icy surge that went straight to my colon. Those are the moments that make any sane person wonder quietly, "just why the #*&! am I doing this?" With years of self-control under my belt, I kept it together and eventually made it through to Golden Gate Park and the finish. Nowhere near a stunning time - 2:12. But I finished with no injuries and had plenty to ponder along the way of what was a largely enjoyable jaunt.
Certain vignettes always stick in my mind beyond the few hours of shared effort with thousands of strangers, such as how you begin to look for and fixate on certain faceless folks in the midst of the pack. I even named a few. There was the Thong Lady - a very saucy stripper-type woman wearing white hot pants and an easily discernible dark thong underneath. I don't know about you, but the thought of running any distance more than a few blocks in a thong ain't my idea of a fun run. And then there was Hairy Neck - a totally fit 40ish man with an immaculately shaved head atop the hairest neck and shoulders this side of "BJ and The Bear." I kept thinking that if he so obviously took the time to shave his head, why not add a few strokes and loose the thicket sticking out of your tank top? But then again, I suppose you will always have the question of where to stop the tapering and you might end up losing complete control somewhere mid-chest. See, these are the thoughts that keep you going through a long run. And then there's the chatty folks that are always lurking amidst the sane folks around you. As with most situations, the weather is the easiest avenue for chafeless bonding. My favorite of this class of runner was a guy I named Big Tex 'cause he was maybe 5' tall (wearing lifts), but fit as a freaky-four-foot fiddle and sportin' the twangiest Texas lilt in the field. His ice-breaker with me was "Y'all got some weather out here." I believe my response was somewhere in the neighborhood of "yes, we do." From there it only got more compelling, as I'm sure you can guess.
Much more importantly, races like this one are both outright and incidentally inspiring. Folks with drive - both in terms of their physical and philanthropic endeavors - were everywhere in the field yesterday. And as with many marathons, the San Francisco Marathon increasingly offers non-profits and charitable organizations the organized chance to fundraise based on the efforts of the runners. Since I've done work with 826 Valencia and I could think of no other organization whose mission I agree with more, I hooked up with the handful of other staff and volunteers from 826 that formed a "Booty Team" - meant to remind people of the Pirate Store aesthetics of 826 Valencia, not the other obvious use of the name. 826 Valencia started here in San Francisco a few years ago with the mission of helping kids improve their writing while offering a wide-array of tutoring and creatively expansive activities. The environment that has been created at 826 Valencia is so impressive that an expansion is underway to like-minded cities around the country (NYC and LA are open, Chicago, Seattle and Ann Arbor are in the process of doing so). But as with any worthy cause, 826 relies on the generosity of people, whether in terms of time or donations. In that light, I ask that if you can help them and see the poetry in what is going on in the 826s, please go to my website for donating through the SF Marathon. Or let me know if you'd prefer an emailed form for you to fill out and mail with a donation to 826. As with all such organizations, they will reply with their utmost appreciation and the documentation you need for tax-deductible filing. If you have ANY questions about any of this please let me know.
So yesterday's run is done and I'm feeling inspired for what's next. I'll be prepping to do a full marathon in the nearish future, I'll be continuing to work with 826 in the Fall, and there's lots else on the plate for the weeks and months ahead. Thanks for reading. You're the reason I do this, after all.
Yet as life now returns to normal with the poopgates once again open, I'd like to switch gears entirely and make a friendly plea to anyone reading on behalf of 826 Valencia and the expanding group of 826s popping up all over the country. If you're not familiar with what 826 means or does, I'll get back to that a bit later in this posting. But the pivot point for bringing this up was the running of the San Francisco Marathon yesterday, of which I ran the first half in hopes of bringing some attention in a very small sense to the work of the 826s. But as far as the Race went, the course through the City was advertised as being in itself inspiring. For those of you that can picture the layout of the City - Start down by the Ferry Building, run along the Waterfront past the Marina to Golden Gate Bridge, cross and come back over the Bridge, continue along the Sea Cliff side of the Presidio and down toward Golden Gate Park. The first half ended in the Park, but the full marathon folks continued on to eventually go down Haight Street, through the Mission and back toward Mission Bay to return to the Start/Finish in front of the Ferry Building. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Except that for reasons only assumed to do with not screwing up pre-7am traffic (composed of priests, ravers and newspaper delivery people), the Start began at 5am, which meant myself and 15,000 or so other maniacs rolled out of bed around 3am. Because of poor public transportation planning on my part, I ended up needing to drive downtown. I drove through the Tenderloin, noting the darkly-dressed denizens wandering about in a form of wobbly unison. Only a few blocks further toward Union Square, the streetwalkers morphed into little pockets of overly perky runners jauntily carrying their Starbucks cups and plastic bags full of gel packs and water bottles. Most were wearing brightly colored race clothing, the occasional plastic garbage bag to keep off the misty fog, and mostly brand-new shoes. I'll leave it up to you to decide who looks more deranged walking the sketchy downtown streets at 4:15.
I parked, got stretched amid the swirling mass of humanity along the Embarcadero, and eventually got onto the Course around 5:30 when just the first hint of daylight began to rise over the East Bay. As we made our way past Fisherman's Wharf and along Marina Green, the sun came up. Somewhere. But in San Francisco, the extra light only allowed a better view of how completely fogged in the Bay was. What was meant to be the visual highlight - crossing the Golden Gate Bridge - was underwhelming. You couldn't even see the Towers of the Bridge through the tepid soup as you crossed under them. It felt more like I was running through a movie set in 19th Century London than toward Marin. Coming back across the Bridge, the wind hit me with a startlingly icy surge that went straight to my colon. Those are the moments that make any sane person wonder quietly, "just why the #*&! am I doing this?" With years of self-control under my belt, I kept it together and eventually made it through to Golden Gate Park and the finish. Nowhere near a stunning time - 2:12. But I finished with no injuries and had plenty to ponder along the way of what was a largely enjoyable jaunt.
Certain vignettes always stick in my mind beyond the few hours of shared effort with thousands of strangers, such as how you begin to look for and fixate on certain faceless folks in the midst of the pack. I even named a few. There was the Thong Lady - a very saucy stripper-type woman wearing white hot pants and an easily discernible dark thong underneath. I don't know about you, but the thought of running any distance more than a few blocks in a thong ain't my idea of a fun run. And then there was Hairy Neck - a totally fit 40ish man with an immaculately shaved head atop the hairest neck and shoulders this side of "BJ and The Bear." I kept thinking that if he so obviously took the time to shave his head, why not add a few strokes and loose the thicket sticking out of your tank top? But then again, I suppose you will always have the question of where to stop the tapering and you might end up losing complete control somewhere mid-chest. See, these are the thoughts that keep you going through a long run. And then there's the chatty folks that are always lurking amidst the sane folks around you. As with most situations, the weather is the easiest avenue for chafeless bonding. My favorite of this class of runner was a guy I named Big Tex 'cause he was maybe 5' tall (wearing lifts), but fit as a freaky-four-foot fiddle and sportin' the twangiest Texas lilt in the field. His ice-breaker with me was "Y'all got some weather out here." I believe my response was somewhere in the neighborhood of "yes, we do." From there it only got more compelling, as I'm sure you can guess.
Much more importantly, races like this one are both outright and incidentally inspiring. Folks with drive - both in terms of their physical and philanthropic endeavors - were everywhere in the field yesterday. And as with many marathons, the San Francisco Marathon increasingly offers non-profits and charitable organizations the organized chance to fundraise based on the efforts of the runners. Since I've done work with 826 Valencia and I could think of no other organization whose mission I agree with more, I hooked up with the handful of other staff and volunteers from 826 that formed a "Booty Team" - meant to remind people of the Pirate Store aesthetics of 826 Valencia, not the other obvious use of the name. 826 Valencia started here in San Francisco a few years ago with the mission of helping kids improve their writing while offering a wide-array of tutoring and creatively expansive activities. The environment that has been created at 826 Valencia is so impressive that an expansion is underway to like-minded cities around the country (NYC and LA are open, Chicago, Seattle and Ann Arbor are in the process of doing so). But as with any worthy cause, 826 relies on the generosity of people, whether in terms of time or donations. In that light, I ask that if you can help them and see the poetry in what is going on in the 826s, please go to my website for donating through the SF Marathon. Or let me know if you'd prefer an emailed form for you to fill out and mail with a donation to 826. As with all such organizations, they will reply with their utmost appreciation and the documentation you need for tax-deductible filing. If you have ANY questions about any of this please let me know.
So yesterday's run is done and I'm feeling inspired for what's next. I'll be prepping to do a full marathon in the nearish future, I'll be continuing to work with 826 in the Fall, and there's lots else on the plate for the weeks and months ahead. Thanks for reading. You're the reason I do this, after all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
