Preface
It has been inferred by some, from the title of previous missives, that
I do not celebrate Christmas. That is
incorrect – I do – after all, if it’s capable of coming without presents, tags,
boxes, or bags, what choice do I have, really?
I just don’t write a Christmas letter.
ROBERT
PIRSIG IS NOT DEAD
I’m standing in line at a Kinko’s at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday, holding in
my hand a printed sheet for them to perform their arcane magic on it and turn
it into an overhead. Of course, it is
not my sheet of paper – it is Rowan’s.
So why am I standing here while she is sleeping peacefully at home? Because Robert Pirsig is not dead, and it’s
all my fault.
This started sometime the previous week, when I noticed Rowan writing a
brief report on Robert Pirsig on the computer.
“Hey” I said “Don’t forget to mention that he died last week – I heard
it on NPR the other day.” I think I also
mentioned that the bio she was using as a basis for the report seemed to
seriously downplay the extent of the mental health issues that serve as a
precursor to Zen and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance or something.
Fast forward a week – Jan has obtained the overheads and there is a
final fact check in progress. Funny
thing – none of the online sources seem to show a date of death for the
fabulous Mr. Pirsig, and his death has not been reported in any online news
sources. Hmmm….. Immediately the accusations and
recriminations begin.
“You told me he
was dead!”
“Well, I thought I heard it on the radio – can’t you just mark through
the year of his death or something?”
“No – I’ll get
points off for neatness!”
“Okay, print the change and I’ll have a new overhead by morning.”
I am no longer a credible source in my own house. I blame the liberal media. I think Robert Pirsig should come in for a
share of the blame, too.
THE ERA OF
MAKEUP
This year we entered the era of makeup.
The hard part about makeup is not the actual application of the stuff,
but the protracted negotiation regarding what is appropriate and what is not,
what is okay to wear to school vs. on stage vs. to a large party thrown in a
warehouse in a remote part of town…
“How about fire-engine red lipstick?”
“I’m sorry, did you say clear lipgloss?”
“Tinted lipgloss?”
“Done”
And so on through the basic ingredients.
This all started one ordinary evening - I’m walking past the study and
the Daughter is on a chair. The question
is posed to me “How does this look?”
After sufficient contemplation, I set forth a brilliant critical
analysis – “Well, the liner is a little wavy, but I like the brown, and you
could maybe use a little more eye shadow.”
I then walk upstairs, leaving the Daughter in puzzled silence. The wife walks up behind me and whispers
“She’s asking you if it’s okay for school.”
Oh.
Crap. I’m never going to get
this.
THE
CALL WENT OUT
From up by the blackboard, out toward the desks, burning into the brain
of every 7th grade Algebra student.
“Doo doo de doo doo”
and again, low and insistent..
“De doo doo doo”
a stream of melody emanating from the teacher, almost unknowable,
intense and primal -
“Doo doo de doo doo”
“De doo doo doo”
and one lone voice, echoing back…
“Mahna mahna”
I’m so proud of her.
MAN vs. HIS ENVIRONMENT
In 2006, Connor pulled off one of the greatest feats heretofore known to
man. Sometimes hours of research and
logistical analysis can pay off – well, at least theoretically – around here,
we usually just wing it.
“Okay – wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…”
“Now?”
“Wait…OK GO!”
And with that, he was off – feet pumping, face belying the effort and
concentration necessary for such an attempt.
Up, up, up, past a rather bewildered couple who shouldn’t have been a
factor if I had timed the attempt better…a few feet more, a few feet more…GREAT
SUCCESS!!!
He made it up the down escalator at Barnes and Noble. Needless to say, we go to Borders a bit more
these days.
This year, he and a few compatriots made it up the Pipeline at a YMCA
camp which will remain nameless. I
cannot comment further on the circumstances of this attempt, because, well, I
like going there.
The women reading this will wonder why he did it. I could probably launch into an extended
justification involving biological drives, competitiveness, and the inherent
struggle of man vs. his environment, but the truth is that boys are just weird.
I recommend that you keep your daughters away from them.
THREE POLICE CARS, A FIRE TRUCK, AND AN AMBULANCE
From time to time, I hear accounts of non-responsiveness of
emergency services. An earnest news
anchor is interviewing someone who is angry that the police failed to respond
quickly enough to his reports of alien abduction, or a Bigfoot sighting or
something. I used to listen with a
sympathetic ear and shake my head at the dilatory habits of the responders. No more though. Why?
Because the list of emergency vehicles above is an exhaustive,
wholly-inclusive list of the response to a Bobcat stuck in the ditch behind my
house.
Picture it – the
Bobcat heads back to the safety of its trailer for a well-deserved rest after
digging a really, really big hole. Going
across the ditch, a tread parts company with the drive wheel. For a Bobcat, this is basically the
equivalent of catching your spike heel in a crack and breaking it clean off.
Soon traffic starts
backing up. Then the emergency vehicles
start arriving. All for a Bobcat with a
slipped tread.
I’m starting to
wonder what would happen if there was an actual emergency around here.
“Hello, 911? I
heard a strange noise outside my house.”
“Sir, don’t worry
about a thing – can you hold?”
“Uhh – I guess…”
(da da da da da da da, da da da da DA da da da da da)
“Sir – thanks
for holding – we’ve called in an airstrike.”
“WHAT?!”
APPARENTLY,
I ROCK
And what did I do
to deserve this distinction? Did I nail
a great riff? Accomplish some great feat
of athleticism? Get a verdict in my client’s favor?
Nope – I cut the
head off a squirrel.
A family friend has
a daughter in the 9th grade.
Apparently a key part of the 9th grade curriculum is to
gather all manner of flora and fauna, get all Linnaeus on them, and turn it
in. Most people end up with a lot of
different weeds and maybe a ladybug or something. While the friend was over to pick up a nettle
or thistle or something, Jan offered one of the cats’ recent trophies – an
ex-mouse. But wait – since the cats hunt
competitively with each other, there was something even better on the back
porch – an ex-squirrel!
I should point that
that turning entire dead animals is frowned upon – but turning in just a skull
is dandy. When Jan and her friend next
saw me in the garage, I was attempting to remove the head from a dead squirrel
with a pair of hedge clippers. Squirrel
heads are surprising well-attached. I
supposed I shouldn’t have been quite as surprised as I was, seeing as I’ve
never actually seen one detach by accident.
Anyway, I did finally succeed in removing the head, and wrapped it
attractively in a flowered sock and sandwich baggie for transport. The daughter later got a text message saying
“Your Dad Rocks!” My contribution to
secondary education for the year, thank you.
Rock on,
Jerry
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