Category: lil’ chino

the coming spawn

Posted on

racist? me?

That's racist!
Monday, and the rain and wind have been unending. I haven’t seen so much rain in a while. On Saturday we got a brief respite, and I used the few hours of sunshine to trim the fountaingrass bushes in the front yard with the new electric trimmer I got and deliver a borrowed bed to a new owner. The weekend was also a busy time for baby-prep, with the nursery coming pretty close to “together” over the past few days. This entry is really just a boring weekend recap, so nothing that special.

Friday we dropped a sizeable chunk of moolah on Lil’ Chino’s little white crib, matching white dresser/changing table, and “pack and play” (the modern day combination of playpen, bassinet, portable crib-thing, and a whatnot. Then, we swung into the local hardware warehouse and picked up two gallons of pink paint, one darkish, one lightish. Somehow, knowing there’s not anymore logical “breaks” between now and the baby (for instance, the time prior to now was broken up with things like Thanksgiving, Christmas, India, etc.), it’s really hit home that we need to move into preparation-overdrive; trying to avoid a New Orleans-esque spending of billions to fix the levy after the hurricanes. Sharaun’s last first day back after break is the 3rd, and her last day back before the baby is the very next 3rd… that’s soon, y’allz… that’s soon.

Sunday morning, the last of our new living room furniture got delivered. At the time, I was cleaning the house, more specifically the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I had Sufjan Stevens’ Illinois blaring on the stereo, in all it’s am-I-religious-or-not white-boy glory. Opening my front door, I was greeted by a smiling man who asked me where I wanted the furniture, how my New Year was, etc. As he headed back to his truck to get the goods, I left the front door open for him. Then, I did something strange, almost unconsciously. I went to the computer, from which was the last chords of an ending Sufjan track were fading out to silence, and I switched tracklists. But guys, I didn’t just switch tracklists… I switched tracklists to the Little Brother album, The Listening, which I downloaded a while back on some website recommendation, didn’t like at all, and just hadn’t yet deleted. What’s the significance of this? Little Brother is a hip-hop record, and the furniture delivery guy was black. I did turn down the volume so that it was barely audible from the room where he was working, but it’s the fact that I did it in the first place. What the hell? I felt really stupid really quickly, and changed it back to Mr. Stevens in all his WASP glory. Racist? Me?

Let’s do a random link-rodeo, since I’ve got a lot of stray sentences that need to be wrangled. First off, there’s a good, but long-winded, read entitled “What I Heard About Iraq in 2005” here. Second, I just got around to watching the History Channel’s excellent Banned from the Bible documentary. An outstanding account of the canonization of the Bible and examination of several apocryphal writings. It’s worth it to set your TiVo for the re-airing. Finally, congratulations are in order for Ben and Suzy, as they’ve agreed to tie the knot.

Time to kick rocks, goodnight.

Posted on

slicing stratosphere

Somewhere up there...
Slicing stratosphere on the way home, another tight connection so fingers crossed that the luggage meets us there. Today would be the day my travel-size baby powder runs out, sticky unpowdered balls for an eight hour cross-country trek, what could be better? Laptop’s got enough battery to last the entire flight, but I’ll get tired of it before then. Debating even opening it, don’t really have anything to write, but I wanted to listen to the Andrew Bird album that I’ve been singing all morning. Had a good time in Florida, always do. Will be glad to get back home though, if for nothing more than to try and get tied into the work thing for a short seven weeks before Lil’ Chino arrives.

Speaking of babies, which, when am I not, lately… that little girl is on her way, is coming. I see it occupy more of Sharaun’s thoughts day by day – bringing it also to the front of mine. We start our parenting classes the week after we get back, once a week for six weeks – Tuesday nights for a couple hours. There, I’m supposing we’ll learn to be parents. Picking up skills like shooshing and swaddling and tummy-timing. I’m excited, actually, to go to the classes… even though they’re not free, or anything. I’m sure we’ll learn a thing or two about a thing or two, and that can’t be bad. But, deep down, I’ve talked previously about how I think this thing is just “meant” to work… being that we’ve made it from caveman to here, y’know.

Man these kind of entries are boring: “This is what we did, this is what we’re doing, blah, blah, baby, blah.” It’s easy to complain about the junior-high journal style of writing, but harder to actually do something original; so you don’t, you shoot for just writing instead, and leave lofty goals of creativity for rare moments of inspiration rather than the norm. Plodding on then, faults well known.

Sharaun got me a great little book for Christmas, 101 Things A Good Dad Should Know. It’s got lots of neat little tidbits of knowledge that all dads should have stowed away. Of course, how to throw a curveball and swing a bat are in there… sigh. Not that our daughter will be pitching curveballs that much, but her mom did play softball. What’s the fear, you ask? People, I have no skills; can’t swing a bat, can’t throw a ball. OK, so I can do both, so can a monkey, but I don’t do either correctly. Never did learn, was always laughed at when I tried, so never put much into it. In the book, there’s and illustration of the good dad, we’ll call him Dad Gallant, hanging a tennis ball from a garage rafter for swinging practice. Me, we’ll call me Dad Goofus, I hang a tennis ball from the garage rafter to know precisely how far to pull in the car. I don’t want to be Dad Goofus. Sure, I can teach you how to find the North Star, complete the square, and balance a checkbook – but I’m a wreck on the field. You’ll still love me, right?

I’ve finally decided I’m getting an iPod. I’ve wanted one now for nigh on two years, but so far had been holding off for a larger capacity future model. Yesterday, I just up and decided I’m getting one – perhaps my last vanity purchase before Lil’ Chino gets here. I want the 60GB model, could care less for the video on that tiny screen, but I won’t mind having it, y’know, just in case. While my collection is twice over 60GB and always growing, I think I can pare it down to a good “purist” base that will be nice to have in a pocket. I always rationalize large purchases with some kind of “plus and minus” model where I comb through the last couple months finances for expenses that could’ve been. When I “find” money that could’ve been spent but wasn’t, I then feel better about unexpected cash outflux. In this case, our skymile-funded trip home for Christmas is the plus to my iPod minus. Sane, right?

Before I go, a couple recent disappointments, one expected, one not. Got dragged to a movie with Sharaun and an old friend of ours the other night, The Family Stone. Please, for the love of Jesus y’all, don’t go see this steaming pile. It was, honestly, one of the worst things I’ve seen in a loooong while. At least the old friend sprung for tickets, so I wasn’t lighter in the wallet for the slop. I hadn’t expected much, but I was shocked and awed and how little I got. Second, finally got the Test Icicles album I’ve been wanting since their 1st single did so well. It blows. Don’t waste your money, you’re better off buying this brilliant Andrew Bird record and falling asleep in the sun.

‘Night.

Posted on

gummy smiles

I think I've used this before.
Been finding it hard to write this week, hence the picture cop-out yesterday. And, while on the subject, in regards to yesterday’s entry – I was reminded by my friend Bob that I should’ve postcripted the “Florida is busted and full of tumbleweeds” story with a note about how they’ve also recently suffered through four, count ’em, four, hurricanes. And yeah, he’s right – four hurricanes in one season is bound to leave some broken marquees and un-done repairs. So, while you can’t really blame the retail exodus on hurricanes, I am willing to allow that maybe the state of brokedowness may be somewhat skewed by it. Lets move on.

Upgraded to WordPress 2.0 Monday night and it went off without a hitch. I love the new backend, things are simpler and I don’t have to switch around so much between different backend tabs to get a post up. Things seem a bit faster too, front and back, and all my plugins seem to be working post-upgrade as well. Plus, they’ve integrated the database-backup plugin I loved and some hard-core spam blocking technology – two big pluses. And, maybe the best new feature, the post preview is now an embedded frame of your actual blog, using your stylesheets and layout, so you can see what the thing will actually look like once it’s up. If you’re a blogger, or you’ve been thinking about starting a blog, perhaps keeping a list of ideas around for the eventuality, you gotta get the WordPress.

Last night I left Sharaun in bed as I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth. After brushing, I decided to clean up my beard-line (my skin gets mad irritated when I shave, so I like to give it an overnighter to shape up), so the teeth-brushing turned out longer than I intended. When I finally got back to the room, I saw Sharaun lying on her side in bed, sobbing. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I dunno… nothing…” came the teary reply. I climbed into bed and put my arms around her and asked again, “What’s wrong?” “I don’t know… I’m just afraid I’m not going to be a good mom, there’s so much I don’t know.” I chuckled. After some consoling and empathizing, things were fine again. I think spending so much time around our new-parent friends, watching them take care of their kids and all that’s involved, got her a little anxious. Truth be told, there is a lot involved in the whole deal. But, I think, for me at least, seeing all our peers managing happy young’ns was actually good for my confidence – us kids can do it, are capable. Maybe I’m naive, but I’m not too nervous – far more impatient and ready to dive in than anything. Stress is one thing, and I know she’s feeling a good bit of it late, but confidence is another – and I think we’ve both got plenty of that. I expect we’ll each have a freak out or two in the next coming months, par for the course.

One more thing before I kick rocks. I have no idea what prompted the comment assault on my old entry where I reconciled myself to my new allergy, but I did find it pretty amusing. It makes me smile to think someone (yeah, they were all from the same person) took the time to write that much, for whatever reason. Thanks.

Goodnight.

Posted on

baby math

Piece by infinitely small piece.
I’ll give you an idea of how my “the baby’s coming soon” math has been going lately: When we get back to California, it’ll almost be January – and you know how quickly a month goes by. The baby will be full term before January’s even over, and then, it’ll be February. If the doctors are right, Lil’ Chino will arrive the third week of that second month – but she can “safely” arrive anytime after January 22nd. January 22nd is one month from tomorrow, and you know how quickly a month goes by. Right now, one month (even though it’s actually two) seems like next week to me. I keep thinking we’re late making the “hospital bag” we’re supposed to take when everything goes down, late furnishing and painting the nursery, late. To think, all this writing about our coming daughter and I’ve not once yet mentioned the name we’ve chosen – that’s a conscious thing I suppose… maybe too personal while she’s still “baking” or something.

Being a complete ass of a music snob myself, I got a big kick out of reading the fazed reader comments on Pitchfork’s Top 50 of 2005 list. I love the outrage over the obscurity and snobbery, the incredulous “Where was Staind?”and “Who the FUCK is Sufjan Stevens?!” type comments. Apparently, this is “gay ass yuppie” indie music that “has no balls.” Maybe they’re right. Kyle and I were talking the other day about the amount of pretentiousness involved in the indie scene, an issue which he’s more passionate about than I am. I’ve always not-so-secretly liked the elitism of listening to music that’s good but unknown, liked the crosseyed looks I got when mentioning who I saw in concert last night. In the last year though, it seems to me that the public, or the indie, or both, have been more accepting of each other. With Death Cab and the Decemberists signing to the majors, and more mainstream/indie crossover onto radio and indie-snob “best of” lists, it seems like something’s moving in the right direction. I maintain that I don’t like this music simply because it’s obscure, but it’s a hard line to maintain when nothing that isn’t obscure doesn’t make my list. I guess, as much as I criticize the Top 40 crowd for “missing” all the other good music out there, so could I be criticized for burying my head in the sand and missing potentially good payola-motivated mainstream stuff. But, we all know that’s BS; mainstream blows.

I still need to pick up a couple more things for Sharaun for Christmas, but other than that I plan to stay away from shopping altogether. Sharaun, on the other hand, has been shopping, I think, every day since we’ve been here. This is unfortunate for my reputation with her, since every time I decline to accompany her while she shops, she gets upset. Now, for me, I’d much rather sit and home and do absolutely nothing than go shopping. It still confounds me that she continues to ask me along anyway, I nearly always decline, and, on the rare occasion when I don’t – I only make her miserable with my impatience and disinterest. You’d think that, with the combination of the joint-shopping experience being miserable and my obvious distaste for it, she’d stop asking. But no, she still asks, and I still get called “lazy” because I’d rather stay home. I seriously hate just “shopping” as a leisure activity, with the exceptions of music, book, or electronics stores. I don’t know why that’s so hard to understand, seems simple to me. Anyway, I’ll run out once more and then be done with the pre-holiday rush… then I can revel in my laziness.

I guess this is good enough for an entry, if I write more I’ll bin it for tomorrow. Now to spellcheck and publish, goodnight.

Posted on

tiny little shoes

Wash up.
Florida, I always feel relaxed here. The air feels cleaner, I can tell almost immediately – as inhale that first lungfull walking down the jetway. Maybe it’s the humidity that just gives the air a different breathing quality, I don’t know. Florida just makes me feel “slowed down,” better paced – simply not so rushed. Related to this, I’ve decided that I’m not gonna put myself on any rigorous writing schedule, but rather will write as I have time. May make for a spotty week, but that’s the way it goes. At least the in-laws finally broke down and got broadband and wireless…

Well, as the top indie rags begin to eke out their 2005 best-of lists, I’ve been watching with a keen eye – plotting ans scheming to find myself some new tunes I may have formerly forsaken. My number one album discovered this way so far is the Andrew Bird LP I first mentioned Friday. It’s great, I’d recommend listening to this haunting track to get an idea of what to expect if you’re considering this one. Finding an album like this really isn’t the norm for me though, there are definitely albums that seem to be scored consistently high on most lists that I just can’t get into, even after several tries. The warbley Anthony and the Johnstons is one, and I’m still not convinced the Okkervil River or latest Spoon are really worth all the fuss. But seriously, this Andrew Bird effort is exceptional.

Sharaun’s friends gave her a surprise baby shower, our first day in Florida. Seeing these little outfits, with their tiny little shoes and super-soft fabrics, it’s beginning to all sink in. People have said that it never really seems “real” until the moment you hold your new baby in your arms. I believe that, because it still seems all a bit unreal to me right now – even holding these miniature shoes in the palm of one hand, it’s still just a movement in my wife’s belly that we talk to and think about. It’s hard to “love” something you’ve never seen, what I do feel right now is more of this protectionist thing – overly concerned about my wife’s wellbeing and safety. Inside that vessel is something I can’t wait to see, so I suppose it makes sense to want to shelter it. Anyway, I’ve come to the conclusion that baby showers are great. I enjoy sifting through the resulting loot probably as much as Sharaun does. Baby monitors, diaper bags, bottles with little rubber nipples, pink blankets and floaty bath toys. I tell you, a guy could really get into this.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what I want my daughter’s “first song” to be. I never had a “first song,” but my friend Kyle’s dad remembered what song was playing in the car when they brought him home from the hospital – and I always liked the idea of knowing that. In my case, I’d like to choose the song and have it ready to do. I’ve been thinking about what that should be. Sure, Beatles may be obvious, given my history… but I’m actually thinking I may go more obscure. Is it selfish to want to make it one of my favorite tracks of all time? It’s gotta be something quiet, softish I think, maybe something acoustic. I think to myself that I’d like it to be some selection from one of my favorite albums of all time, but then I remember that I’ve never really sat down and tried to rank all-time best albums – and I’m back to thumbing through my mental rolodex. We’ll see, I’m sure I’ll figure something out before the time comes.

Goodnight folks, until later on.

Posted on

the baby budget

How much for bananas?
We got back, just in time to leave again. Gonna spend these precious three days I have in town trying to cram in a month’s worth of work. Will it work? Likely not. Do I care? Ehh.. maybe a little, but definitely not as much as I should. I’m signed off for the month, I really am.

Starting upon our return in January, I’ve told Sharaun we’re going to begin the “baby budget.” What’s the baby budget, you ask? It’s simple, we’re going to try and live our last two non-baby-havin’ months as if we didn’t not-have a baby. Got it? A kind of “breaking in” to the money situation we’ll be adapting to when Lil’ Chino gets here. Beginning January, Sharaun’s paychecks go wholly into savings, and we subsist solely on my earnings. An end to my daily going-out-to-lunches with the boys from work. Less Friday night eating-outs with cronies, more dedication to not having fun. The way I look at it, it’ll be good for us to get an idea of just how tight things’ll be as a one-income family, and, hopefully, we’ll realize that a few adjustments here and there will make things easier to get used to. Sure, we won’t have true baby-expenditures until the true-baby actually gets here – but it’ll at least be a good measuring stick. Baby-budgeting, oh joy.

Pitchfork’s got a great read in their feature this week, a look back on a 1980s-era documentary outing the Satanic evils of rock music. I remember a little bit of the so-called Satanic Panic, the Salem Witch Trials of the ’80s. I can remember watching Geraldo interviewing scuzzy metalheads with O-Z-Z-Y tattooed across the joints of their fingers who claimed to be Satanists, being afraid of the “Night Stalker,” Richard Ramirez, etc. Those things stuck with me, made an impression on me, even influenced me. I remember once, after my high-school “discovery” of Christianity, the preacher of our small church in Florida asking me, who he knew was a devout Beatles fan, if I could print him the lyrics for John Lennon’s Imagine. He told me that, before he’d been converted, he loved that song. Recently, however, someone had told him how sacrilegious it was, and he wanted to check it out for himself. God and popular music will always be at odds. Anyway, anyway… back to what the heck I was talking about – read that Pitchfork feature, it’s a good one.

That’s it for this evening folks, ‘night.

Posted on

yellow photos

Minorpixels.
Evenin’ folks. Happy Thanksgiving to you all! Sorry for missing yesterday, family in town and just a general vacation malaise prevented me. Enjoy today’s simple, but done, entry.

I was thinking the other day about photos. I can remember looking through old photos of my brother and I, or even older ones of my folks when they were small. Often yellowed with age, the colors had been faded or muted by time – and the even older had no color at all, pre-personal color cameras, black and white. That got me thinking about the current state of personal photography, which can be pretty much summed up with one word: digital. In a generation or two, no more will kids look back on faded yellowed photos of their parents’ younger days. Every picture will be as pixely crisp as the day it was stored as a series of ones and zeroes.

I want to talk a little about baby gear. Sharaun and I went to the local baby superstore today to register for everything the expectant parent could dream of wanting. I was blown away by the multi-function baby gear. Nothing has a single function, everything is Swiss Army Knife style: the high-chair is a rocker in case baby dozes while eating; the Optimus Prime playpen magically changes into either a bassinet or changing table; even the cribs can extend their lives by being reassemble-able into beds. Everything is so fancy, so complicated, so extreme. They have “special edition” cribs that have been stylized by famous designers: the Gucci Edition diaper bags and Coach cribsheets are particularly fetching. I found it all pretty overwhelming, and, rather than get me excited about the coming tidal wave of baby gear, I found myself feeling materialistic, over-sold on things of questionable need and over-marketed-to.

As often happens when I feel pressured or pushed into something, my rebellion-reflex kicks in. The double-overhead shelves piled high with Diaper Genies, Table Edge Protectors, and baby video surveillance systems made me itchy; made me want to skip all the fancy crap. People didn’t have remote-controlled, transforming playpens that played nature sounds and gently vibrated while replicating the woosh of the womb back in “the old days.” (Note: I often refer to “the old days.” This is an idealistic time which exists only in my head that I imagine to be some Utopian mix of Mayberry and the time when dads used to smoke pipes after work in their study while their wives made a roast and their kids were at Scouts). People had high chairs built of wood, cribs built of wood, they changed their baby on any old flat surface rather than an EverSterile, singularly-purposed, Governing Council of Happy-Babies Approved “changing table.” People got along fine without buying straps that tie your tall furniture to the walls in case baby decided to pull them down crushingly. It made me want to go purposely simple, old-skool baby care.

I had a third paragraph, but it was the suck. Goodnight, Dave out.