The Only Emperor Is the Emperor of Ice Cream

I don't know about you, but I'm caught in some kind of worm hole. I'm having a hard time believing it's already April, an even harder time believing that just three days and not three weeks has passed since my last blog entry, and I'm absolutely bewildered by the fact that Finn will turn five this year, that some of my former students are turning 25 (SHUT UP!), and that my nephew is graduating from high school.

Indulge me in the cliche, or sing along if you must: where did the time go?

If you would have captured me, say, ten years ago and asked me that question (and especially after a few beers), you may have gotten more of an answer than you bargained for. I'm sure I would have "deftly" (quotes for the the adverb applied under the influence) woven, given which year, quantum physics, Taoism, the philosophical aestheticism of soffits and lintels, and quotes from Shakespeare and either Julian Barnes, Italo Calvino or Flannery O'Conner (hopefully I'd already exited my Jeanette Winterson phase) into my answer. Catch me in grad school and I would've coated it all in semiotics. Because I was intellectually capable. And, well, drunk. (Which, in those years, meant pretty much the same thing.)

Today, the answer is much simpler--and possibly more poetic: Fuck if I know.

(Watch the ads turn to public service announcements. Yes. That's what a good expletive will get you. Google karma.)

Sometimes It Snows in April

I think I just saw flurries outside our window. Because the Lordie Lord knows, I'm not actually going to go out and inspect that myself.

What up, April? I mean, you're April, for God's sake. The month of showers, not snow and hail storms. You are supposed to beget May flowers. But if you insist on this line of action, you will--and rather are--freeze off all the precious buds we have going. And that, April, I'm reluctant to admit-- because of your intimate connection with Mother Nature--will Piss. Me. Off.

(As if that's a threat. Damn meteorological impotence.)

I mean, come on, already. Snow? It's not like we live in North Dakota where this is expected behavior. This is Kansas City. Home of 97 to 100 plus degree summers and subsequent scorched yards. We've already begun to plant our herbs. This is cruel and rather unusual.

If only I could figure out a way to send you to bed without dinner . . .

So That's It? A Switch Just Goes Off?

For the third year running, we're inflicting soccer on Finn. Or inflicting Finn on soccer. And for the third year running, Finn, as new player on new team, has earned himself yet another new soccer ball and yet another new soccer jersey.

The world of sports and overindulgent wardrobing. The excess of it!

We do, however, have higher hopes this year. This year, unlike last year or the year before for that matter, will be different.

Last year, we went into the soccer season fully resigning ourselves to the fact that Finn would probably hate it. Again. And yet, there we were. On the field, ball in hand, pushing Finn into the vicious toddler fray with demonstrative amounts of force. Finn would lag behind the pack of toddlers, cry because he tripped over the ball, and end up picking daffodils or cheering on the team--either his or the opponents, it didn't seem to matter--from the sidelines. Lots of bouquets, lots of cheering, not a lot of playing

But somewhere, deep down, we believed in this. In soccer, in team sports, in pain and torture and forcing Finn to do something he obviously doesn't want to do.

(Did I ever tell you about piano lessons? Yeah, that wasn't always pretty. But do notice the past tense. We are capable of evolving.)

And yet here we are again. At 1 p.m. on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. We could be at the park or flying a kite or dueling with lightsabers or hunting eggs--any of the number of things that Finn actually likes spending his Saturday doing. But instead we are playing soccer.

Because Finn asked for it.

What?

Yes, Finn asked to play soccer. Not out of some misguided memory, but because many of his friends from school are playing on this team. So we signed him up, got a new ball, new jersey, and headed for the fields.

And Finn actually played. He dribbled the ball, he got trompled and got back up--without tears, he reveled in grass stains and shin kicks and even asked the coach if he could go back in for more. Yes--instead of cheering.

And the piece de resistance, coup d'etat? Take a listen?

Me: "What was the favorite part of your today?"

Finn: "Well, it's the same things as lasterday."

Me: "Ice cream? Playing Transformers?"

Finn: "Nope."

Me: "Well?"

Finn: "Soccer."

Update Part Two

Bear is friends with David Lynch on Facebook. I am still not friends with Jonathan Safran Foer.

Whence the snoot?

Oh, YEEEAAAAAAHHHH, Baby

I name this week in honor of Battlestar Galactica. Crisp Apple Streudel. All. Week. Long.