How Could I Resist?

The Excitement Builds

Something to listen to while I prepare my acceptance speech.

Catch As Catch Can

Thanks to the groundswell of support from Brando, Rotten, and AIF, among others too numerous and unimportant to mention, I have decided to try my hand at this vice-presidenting business. And what does every campaign need, besides a photogenic vessel into which catchphrases and special interest money can be poured? Catch slogans, of course! Fortunately, I have a mittful.

Check 'em out:

"Snag - Experience You Can Smell!"

"Tippiecanoe And Moosies Too"

"Compassionate Fascism"

"Snag - First In War, First In Peace, Last In His Fantasy Baseball League"

"Building A Bridge To A Disturbing Fantasy"

"Stop Belgian Aggression Now!"

"25 Or 6 To 4 Or Fight"

"Is That A Ballot In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?"

Additional suggestions welcomed in comments.

If Life Gives You Plums

It's Sunday and like clockwork my mother was here to visit.

"I brought you a gift," she announced. "You like plums, don't you?"

"I'm allergic," I said.

"Allergic? To plums? I've never met anyone with a plum allergy."

"It's something in their skin," I said. "It's uncommon, but quite severe. I wouldn't dare touch them."

"You ate them when you were growing up," she said.

"It was adult onset," I told her.

She gave me a skeptical look while my oldest pretended to concentrate on loading the dishwasher. "Very well," she said. "Do the boys like plums?"

"I don't know," I said. "They've never tried one. Plum allergies are passed down on the paternal side. It's not worth the risk."

Just then the Lovely Bride came upstairs. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," my mother replied.

"Oh, plums," said the Lovely Bride. "Where did those come from?"

"I brought them," said my mother. "I wasn't aware of his allergy."

"What?"

"Your husband claims to have a plum allergy."

The Lovely Bride stared at me.

"It's possible," I said.

"Why do you ever listen to him?" she asked my mother.

"That's an excellent question," my mother replied.

"It's because I'm such a peach," I said.

"You're a moron," said my oldest.

"Thank God you didn't inherit your father's brains," my mother told her grandson.

My Alaska

The Lovely Bride and I went to Alaska on our honeymoon.

On the plane ride there, some knucklehead let his pet snake out of a backpack. He found it. Then he let it out again.

The Lovely Bride hates snakes. "If I see it, I'm going to kill it," she told the flight attendant.

"That makes two of us," said the flight attendant.

In Alaska we took a guided river raft tour. There was a scheduling mix up and it was just us and two guides. The guides did most of the paddling and the cooking. After we set up our tent in the middle of a moose path, the guides did that for us too. One day we hiked to and from an observation point far above the river and then we drank wine and watched the mountain goats as the guides cooked chicken piccata.

In Fairbanks we stayed at a bed and breakfast owned by someone from our hometown. "The weather's better here," the owner told us. She was probably right.

On the way back to Anchorage we ate the worst pizza of our lives and almost ran into a moose.

In Homer we stayed in a lean to with a feather bed and watched the eagles circle overhead. We fished for halibut and salmon and caught some of each and shipped them home to eat with our friends. We bought a print and a sculpture I see every day in my living room.

In Alaska I was crazy in love. I still am.

Fall Is Back. We Just Don't Know It.

I used to look across a lake late at night and listen to these, while the leaves came down.

Simon and Garfunkel

Lou Reed

Don McLean

Jerry and the Boys

The Beatles

Reading Is Fundamental

"School starts tomorrow," I said.

My youngest glowered at me from the couch. "So?" he demanded.

"You'll have to learn to walk upright again," I told him.

He turned his attention back to the television and silently dismissed me.

Since baseball ended he hasn't done much of anything. I force him to play a little basketball every day; if I'm paying a fortune for a try out he better make the most of it. Besides that, however, I'm not sure he's been moving between breakfast and dinner.

This is nothing compared to our spectacular parenting failure on the reading front. Through some inexplicable quirk of academic evaluation, each of our three boys have been selected over the years to participate in summer enrichment courses. It's a multi-school district attempt to provide a little extra for kids who at least peer through the talented and gifted fence, four hours a day during the month of June. Course offerings range from biology to theater to history, all led by enthusiastic teachers in an environment that encourages learning. Naturally my kids hate it.

The oldest, being the oldest and thus getting the short end of the stick, had to attend the most years. The middle boy wore us down a little earlier. The youngest, sensing the exhaustion that so often accrues to the benefit of those who share his birth order, convinced us he didn't need to do it this year.

"Alright," we told him, raising our voices to be heard over the howls of our other children. "You need to read at least an hour a day instead."

"I will, I swear," he replied.

"He never has to do anything!" shrieked the middle one.

"This is bullcrap!" thundered the oldest.

"You'll read, won't you?" I asked the youngest.

"I promise."

He did read, I suppose, if you include the back of cereal boxes, the crawl at the bottom of ESPN, and an occasional Sports Illustrated article. Not an hour a day, though. Maybe an hour a week. This didn't bother me as much when he was at least playing two or three hours of baseball every day. Watching him sit on the couch like a lump, though, that chaps me.

Which is why I told him this weekend he owes me ninety hours of reading this fall.

"I can't read that much," he complained while his brothers danced in glee.

"Sure you can," I said. "I'll help you pick out books."

"You read terrible books," he snarled.

"Dad doesn't read books. He reads blogs," said the middle one.

"That's because Dad likes his blogs better than us," said the youngest.

"Yes I do," I said. "I can still find you some books to read."

"I'm not reading for ninety hours."

"Was there something in my voice that made you think it was a request? Because it wasn't."

"I hate you," he said.

"Why do you think I have my blogs?" I asked.