February

Dear Ian:
February is the shortest month of the year, even during leap year.

This is the shortest post of the year.

Crossword Puzzles

Dear Ian:
Crossword puzzles are never a waste of time. Word searches are. Sudoku completely escapes me, and I avoid it like a rock star avoids a day job.

A little secret about some of the crossword puzzles that will be thrown at you, though. And there will be some, trust me, that are intended to completely waste your time, and might as well be word searches. In a crossword puzzle, every square is used twice. There are no dangling little boxes out there on their own.

Don't accept substitutes.

Spaghetti

Dear Ian:
Another trend that you will no doubt notice as time goes on is my absolute fixation on food. I love to eat, and since I figure to do it at least twice a day (ssshhh, I skip breakfast a lot), I pretty much think it is important to make the best of it.

If you sleep 8 hours a day, which is pretty typical, then you sleep for 1/3 of your life. Okay.

That leaves 112 hours per week not sleeping. Of those 112, plan to spend at least forty working.
That leaves 72 hours left over.

Of the 72 "free" hours, you are probably going to want to spend at least 16 of those engaged in some sort of food activity (cooking/eating...let someone else do the dishes). That's 2/9ths or roughly 22% of your free time eating.

Learn to cook spaghetti.

Spider-man

Dear Ian:
It should come as no surprise that I am somewhat of a comic book geek. It's a label that I wear rather proudly, and somewhat undeservedly. I really don't think I carry around the knowledge required to be considered a full blown geek. Meaning to true geeks, the ones who can tell you every appearance of Kraven the Hunter, list every crossover anomaly, and memorized Aunt May's pancake recipe, I am simply a comic book "fan."

Oh, to split hairs.

Of the heroes out there, though, the one masked crusaders that I like to follow the most are Spider-man and Batman.

Going all the way back to running around the Smithville neighborhood and playing Superhero with the "gang." I think I always took the role of Spider-man or Batman. And the choice between the two was always pretty easy there as well, as we generally played DC Universe or Marvel Universe. Rarely did the two collide.

Don't get me wrong, there were still the debates over Hulk vs Superman confrontations, or Tony Stark's riches pitted against Bruce Wayne's fortune, and even who was cuter, Wonder Woman or Susan Storm. For some reason though, we never actually acted out a Hulk vs Superman slugfest.

We did act or re-enact Spiderman vs Thing, Hulk vs Thing, Namor vs Thing (we really didn't like Ben Grimm all that much and everybody got a crack at him at least once).

Spidey always held his own, though. Even though we all admitted that the Hulk was the strongest, hands down, and Thing and Namor were probably #2 and #3 respectively, Spidey always managed to "think" his way through any confrontation that much better than his opponents. When it came to mind against might, mind nearly always won. Hulk was no match. Thing, though more challenging, always fell. Namor for some reason always escaped back to the bottom of the sea, vowing revenge.

Now that I think of it, back then, Wolverine wasn't as much of a presence as he is now. Hmmm, must have hired a new publicist. But I stray.

Spidey and Iron Man, would nearly always fight to a draw. Odd, I really can't remember losing a lot of superbattles. And no one really ever complained. Todd as the Hulk resigned his defeat and shifted back to Bruce Banner. Doug always crept away vowing to bring Reed Richards to the fight next time (which would have been AWESOME!). Jeff always shouted from the waves that he still ruled the oceans. Kyle always called truce and invited Spider-man to join forces.

I chased down an issue of Spider-man recently that was missing from my collection. It was actually a rather recent one, not one from my youth. I had missed this issue in my regular subscription drop. It is referred to as the "black issue" or the "9/11" issue.

I really don't want to say much about 9/11 in this letter. That, again, is something that will have to be saved for a later date and many, many more letters. Suffice it to say, this issue was certainly more special, more moving than most.

After an attack on New York, Spider-man is confronted by the fact that despite his super powers, he may also find himself helpless, while others, who are simply regular men can act heroically when confronted by terrifying danger.

There bravery is made even more special because they face it without the guarantees of Spider success.

Meandered a bit there, as I always do, and I guess the point that I was trying to make was sometimes the Super Hero is the one you least expect.

Answering Machines

Dear Ian:
When I was growing up, there was no such thing as an answering machine. Obviously, at this point, you have to be thinking that a lot of these letters are starting to have a pretty common theme: "back when I was a boy." And you are right.

We used to, sort of, poke fun at my grandpa for the same reason. The winters were always colder, walking a mile was that much longer, and life was always oh so much simpler. The thing is, most of that is true. Granted there were a lot of really troublesome aspects of growing up in whatever era it is that we are referring to (for your great grandpa is was outhouses and for me it was the lack of a 3 minute microwavable baked potato). But overall, when anyone refers to simpler times with any amount of fondness, you can rest assured that they are being sincere. You will do the same, as I am certain technology will continue to make things faster, stronger, etc.

That is if my generation hasn't managed to burn a hole in the ozone by then. For that I apologize in advance (and it's probably a much longer letter later, as well).

Anyhow, back to the point of answering machines. Believe it or not, there was once a time when you could not be reached quickly by phone. Before there were palm sized cell phones one could actually escape communication.

While the telephone may have initiated the death of the letter, the answering machine made every effort to deliver the killing blow. People, of course, attempted to make answering machines "fun" by recording hilarious outgoing messages.

Your grandmother found my Christmas one quite distasteful and told me so in no uncertain terms. I personally thought that I ransom demand on Santa's reindeer was quite funny.

Anyhow, the incoming messages are really where the things went horribly, horribly wrong. People would leave longwinded (such as this letter) messages with garbled directions, no return phone numbers, and basically say, "Since I couldn't catch you in person and let you say no to my request, I am going to assume that you are in absolute and total agreement to house sit my rabid cat next weekend. Thanks again, bye!"

I hate answering machines.

The other big drawback of answering machines is that you find yourself talking to a machine, but listening to the audible cues that you get in a regular conversation. Listen to two people talking to one another for five minutes. The "silent" participant is still coaxing the conversation along with subtle "yups" and "uh-hunhs."

Oddly enough, though, the internet came along. Then emails. Then blogs.

Perhaps the letter, like the phoenix can rise from the ashes and begin anew. There is hope afterall.

The Beatles, Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin

Dear Ian:
At some point in time someone will undoubtedly challenge you with the age old (at least my age) question of who was the better band: Beatles, Stones, or Zep.

This, of course, is an impossible question to answer.

To me, this question is somewhat akin to "What is your favorite color?"
To which I usually respond, "Rainbow."

Appreciate the greatness of diversity and relish the fact that we have the Beatles, Stones, Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Who, Kiss, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Fountains of Wayne, Flaming Lips....

See what I mean?

X-Files

Dear Ian:
Here's the crazy thing about the X-Files, it can be summed up in the simple phrase, "I want to believe."

As bizarre and spooky as some of the stuff that goes on in that fictitious world, Mulder simply wants to believe.

Now, keep in mind that the phrase is NOT, "I want you to believe."

It is not a slight difference.

Short thought for the day.

Rat Tail Island

Dear Ian:
Near enough, as it goes, to the same neighborhood as the Magic Tree and the Witch Pond, you could see Rat Tail Island.

We had a perfect view of the island from the hill behind our house. Down the slope, across the railroad tracks, and in the fast moving channels of the St. Louis river sat Rat Tail Island. I suppose it got its name by virtue of the fact that it skinny and long and nearly devoid of any tree of any type. In reality, it was simply a very long, narrow sandbar.

For us, however, it was temptation.

The older boys built rafts or stole canoes and snuck out to Rat Tail Island to drink beer, set muskrat traps, smoke cigarettes and swear.

I never made it to Rat Tail Island myself. We moved away from the neighborhood before my chance ever arose.

And silly me, I never thought of the fact that the river froze over, year after year, and if I really had wanted to, all I had to do was walk out there on some December afternoon.

But that wouldn't really have been the same now would it?

Magic Trees and Witch Ponds

Dear Ian:
When I was probably no more than 9 or 10, your uncle and I, along with a few other boys in the neighborhood found out that we had a magic tree growing in the yard just down the hill from where we lived.

Now, if we stood hand in hand, forming a human chain, it would take at least seven of us to complet a circle around this tree, the trunk was at least that large. And, the branches reached at least as high as our two story school house, or so it seemed.

Rumor had it, that this tree, if needed, would walk around at night and protect the neighborhood children from witch attacks. All the tree asked in return was that at least once a week, the neighborhood kids would climb its trunk, rest themselves in the crotch of the tree, and read.

Books. Simple books. Simply printed on paper. It didn't matter if it was science fiction, fantasy, sports, pirates, or horse tales. Just read. Quietly to yourself if alone, or read aloud to others, in particular those who hadn't learned to read yet.

For that, we were offered protection from the night time visitations of witches (and ghouls and goblins and other nasty visitors, I suppose).

And, though, I cannot prove it, I am fairly certain that the tree held up its end of the deal, because, around about the same time that I learned of the magic tree, I also learned of the witches' pond.

No one was really sure how deep the pond was. Its width was nearly jumpable, given the right bmx bike and a good and proper ramp, but no one ever dared. And for good reason.

The pond was filled with all manners of rusting and decaying refuse. Old lawnmowers, sewing machines, cables, wires, bike chains, paint cans. You name it, if it was metal and of little use anymore, it seemed to have found its way into the witch pond.

No matter how many times we visited that pond, there always seemed to be something "new" atop the rusting heap, pressing down into the unknowable depths. The rim of the pond, tinged red with rust, seemed an enormous hungry mouth, shouting "feed me," through tetanus tinged mouthfuls. The earth swallowed whole bits down.

Now the pond was owned by a witch and she demanded that the pond be kept well fed. In return, the witch offered a "protection" of her own. Or rather curse fulfillment. Again, I suppose it depends on how you choose to view it.

To receive the witch's protection, one must simply make an offering of metal. Rustable metal. While the pond would swallow any type of trash, it preferred metal, and demanded it to enact its curses. The second part of the deal was that you couldn't face the pond when you made the "donation." This pretty much meant that anything you were going to chuck in the pond and hope for a curse needed to be small enough to toss over your shoulder. I guess people tried a lot of bottle caps because there were always dozens of them strewn about. This was back when you needed a church key to open a bottle of beer. No twist offs then.

The final part of the deal was that the donation needed to be made at midnight. This seemed pretty common for most witch deals. Midnight. Got it. Do this and you could ask the witch for a curse or a hex to be put on somebody.

Once you made your offering, throwing it over your shoulder, you were never, ever, ever, EVER, supposed to turn around. If you did, and this was the scary part, the witch's curse would turn you immediately to rust.

It should go without saying that I never turned around.

Monkey Business

Dear Ian:
When we were growing up, your mother had this stuffed monkey doll named Wilhelmina. Now the doll didn't come with that name. Not that I was aware of anyhow. And where she came up with such a bizarre, out-of-the-ordinary name still escapes me.

But she loved that doll.

And boys being boys, I am sure that your uncle and I kidnapped it and held it for ransom on more than one occassion.

Many, many, many years later, it may have been when your brother was born, we visited your home in Bay City.

Your mother, bless her heart, started bringing forth totems from our youth. Sure enough, amongst the many items that she brought out that day sat Wilhelmina.

Your mother still had that same childlike twinkle in her eye as she paraded Wilhelmina around the room. Gone, for me, was the urge to kidnap that monkey and hold it for ransom.

There are things from your youth worth hanging onto no matter how long, and there are the childish impulses that must disappear. Your mother taught me that.

(though it would have been pretty funny to bring Wilhelmina back to Minnesota, if even for a few months).

Chili

Dear Ian:
Got a little serious and oh-so-poetic there. Not too worry. Sooner or later, it rolls back around to purely random, useless (or useful if looked at the right way, who knows) stuff.

Chili...the debate. Beans. No beans. True aficionados will say no beans. I agree. Sadly, I rarely make the chili this way. Nor did your Baba.

There was a dinner when your mother was served a heaping bowl of her mother's chili. Now when I say heaping, it probably has more to do with pile of crumbled saltines that your mother put on top than it does with the thickness of grandma's chili. This is not to say that grandma's chili was runny. Far from it. But your mother liked her saltines, and hated her kidney beans.

When I say hate, well, I can't emphasize it enough...HATED...kidney beans. Gag reflex hate. Refusal hate. Not a chance in...hate.

I think she always figured she could hide enough of the chili beneath a mound of crackers, eat enough off the top and get away with only finishing "half" of her meal.

Well, your grandma is no fool, and I think she sort of caught on to your mom's ploy. So one night, your mother was informed that she needed to eat the entire bowl of chili, beans and all, before she would be excused from the dinner table.

Your uncle, grandma, grandpa, and I all finished our chili. There sat your mother, staring down at her crackery, dried out mess. She sat. She stared. We did the dishes. We dried the dishes (this was before dishwashers). We retired to the living room to watch television. There she sat.

I think an hour went by before your grandma checked in on her daughter, your mother. A half bowl of chili remained, the crackers turned orange. Your mother's head bent toward the table, not in resignation, but in defiance. She would not eat the chili with kidney beans.

It gets a bit hazy, but I think grandma offered up dessert, chocolate cake, no doubt, to those of us who had finished our dinner. Your mother remained, unmoved and unmovable. No bribe how great or how rich and delicious would bend her will when it came to those infernal kidney beans.

I think another hour passed and bedtime was approaching. Grandma returned once again to check on her stubborn child. Head still down. Bowl still half full.

"Why won't you eat your chili?" Grandma asked.
"It's spoiled." Your mother whispered, more to the chili than to her mother.

"Spoiled?"
"Spoiled. Smell it."

Grandma lifted a spoonful to her nose and sniffed. Nothing.

"Smells normal to me."

"Taste it." Your mother replied.

So, Grandma touched the tip of the spoon to the tip of her tongue.

"Eeew," she said. Something was definitely wrong, but none ours tasted that wrong, that bad.

"You may be excused, but no cake, and straight to bed." Grandma surrendered.

I don't know if it was a day later, a week, a year or years later, but we did learn by some means, that your mother had dosed her own chili with grape Kool-Aid in an effort to beat the system. And beat it she did.

That said, I will also add that chili is always better the second day around. The beans have softened, the spices has worked their magic a little bit more, but skip the grape fantastic if you want to enjoy your leftovers.

t.s.

Dear Ian:
Cheating again, in a way. But I think that it was a professor of mine, when referring to T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland, no less, that said, "A good poet steals."

=============

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

=============
Eat the peach, take the risk, live without regret.

e e

Dear Ian:

Cheating a bit here, but I want to throw this one out there. I know that I have mentioned Whitman (who, though separated by over a century, I still consider a friend). I want to introduce you another friend. e e cummings. He wrote his own rules, too.

==================================
in Just-
spring. .when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles. . far. . and wee --
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
. .the
. .goat-footed
balloonMan. . whistles
far
and
wee
=======================================
May life always be mud luscious and puddle wonderful and seen with the eyes of a child.

Gilligan's Island vs Survivor

Dear Ian:
It's late, or early, depending on how you look at it.

But sometimes, if you are lucky, thoughts will come to you whenever, and you just run with them.

So, I was thinking, the world sure has become a different place. More frightening than I ever imagined.

Now, when I was growing up, we had Gilligan's Island. Some in black and white, some in color, but most assuredly in reruns. I think. Am I that old? Anyhow, I remember constant debates with friends, Todd V. for sure, about the relative "hotness" of Ginger or Mary Ann. This may be the debate of the ages, for we were certainly not the first, nor the last to travel down that path. But the important lesson was always how this group of relative strangers worked in unison to get off the island. With each episode, hope would spring eternal, and a new solution would be given to their predicament, and nearly without fail, it was Gilligan who would muss things up, and there they would remain.

Odd that the island would be named after him, no?

Anyhow, by the end of the episode, everyone would forgive Gilligan and they would go about their lives and be thankful for being together, and perhaps indulge in one of Mary Ann's famous coconut cream pies. No wrankling, no infighting, no blame, no hate...

But now, in this generation that we are setting out for you, we have Survivor, and the impetus seems to be one of elimination. The castaways, one by one, vote each other off the island. They work in unison when it suits them, but will quickly turn on one another.

This has spawned countless "reality" television shows like Big Brother, The Apprentice, and even "The Real Gilligan's Island." All of them work as an force of elimination.

I find it sad, if one considers the planet we live on may be our very own Gilligan's Island, that we are being taught and encouraged to eliminate one another.

There are no reruns on this one.

Cupid

Dear Ian:
There are a lot of holidays that I find strange for more than one or two reasons. Well, more precisely, all holidays.

Valentine's Day is certainly no exception. It is symbolized by a Roman Deity, but celebrated in honor of a martyred saint (St. Valentine's Day if you want to pick nits). All over the world, I suppose, people mark the day by exchanging boxes of chocolates and little slips of paper with "I love you" and lots of X's and O's.

As much as I proclaim a dislike for holidays, I will say that there is nothing as exciting as getting one of those little slips of paper from the one you love. There will be a time, probably in elementary school, if they still allow it, that entire classrooms will exchange candies and cards. The candies will have cute messages like, "You're Special," or "Hug Me," or "Kiss Me," or "You're Mine." The cards will be adorned with hearts and the popular cartoon character of the day.

And you will collect the thirty or so of the cards, and carefully open each one, checking each for the signature. Some will be from friends, wishing you well on the event of the day. Some will just have a name. But most assuredly, you will be looking for "the one." And you will find it, and hold it, and perhaps even smell it a little bit (when I was in elementary school, the girls all wore this particular bubblegum or strawberry lip gloss, that, if they pressed their lips to a letter left behind the most enticing aroma).

No matter what the message written, but hopefully just a little "extra" message, more than the others, you will set that one aside. Press it between the pages of a book. Treasure it forever. It marks the first time that you ever fell in love.

Friday 13th

Dear Ian:
Superstitions...I like them. Mostly because they make a whole lot of sense, but somewhere in them, there is an underlying reason for their existence. Walking under a ladder is just a bad idea; breaking a mirror is an unfortunate accident, probably indicative of clumsiness, and likely to lead to more bad luck.

Throwing spilled salt over your shoulder and the number 13 have strange religious implications.

Saying "God Bless You," after someone sneezes is more than just polite.

Crossing your fingers somehow wards off bad spirits.

Stepping on sidewalk cracks spells doom for mothers but not fathers.

For whatever the superstitions are worth, asking questions about them, digging a little deeper than the surface is certain to lead to adventures.

Halibut

Dear Ian:
I have been fortunate enough to live in many different places. Of all the cities that I have been able to call home, for however brief a period of time, I would have to say that Seattle was my personal favorite. Clean air, Mt. Ranier on clear days, great music, and even greater food.

I had this perfect little apartment that overlooked Seattle Center. It was a fourth floor walk-up. No screens on the windows. During the summer months, I used to leave the windows open and take in the sea air and the sounds of the city.

I could see the sound from my window, the top of the Seattle Post Intelligencer building, Rainier, and of course the Space Needle. All of it, in any direction, picture postcard perfect.

It took awhile to adjust to Seattle. I had just moved up from Portland, Oregon...or Beaverton, more specifically. As the saying goes, I felt like a fish out of water.

Within three or four months or so, the alien feeling slowly dissipated, and I started to venture out. Amazingly, everything was within walking distance. Floyd's BBQ, the Voodoo Barbershop, Minnie's Caffee (for the ultra hipsters), Dick's burgers, Sub-Pop offices, Pike Place Market...and the Pier restaurants: Ivar's and Anthony's (two of my favorites).

Over the course of the next three years, I believe I ate my weight, in halibut, several times over. It is the perfect sea food. A lot of people will go for the tuna, or the crab legs, or an acre of clams, but I stuck, almost exclusively, with the halibut.

Now, a lot of people will tell you that the halibut is an extremely ugly fish. Not me, however. The halibut, over time, has completely adapted itself to living life on the bottom of the ocean. Both of its eyes are on one side of its head. Always looking up. Perfectly adapted to camouflage and cover. Always looking up.

I don't know what it means to say that enjoyed the meals of this fish the most. It seems contradictory, I guess, to say that you enjoyed eating something that you consider beautiful.

A lot of what I say is never really going to make a lot of sense. But, I thought you should know that something as beautiful as the halibut didn't happen overnight. It took time to develop and adapt and we should appreciate that, and be thankful to a fish that teaches us to always look up.

Dandelions and Cattails

Dear Ian:
It's February and there is not a dandelion in sight. No matter. They will be here soon enough, plaguing weekend gardeners before they know it. I have never really understood why the dandelion is such a hated plant. They are hearty and strong and grow just about everywhere on the planet. They add a bit of color to an otherwise undisturbed field of green. Is that such a crime? Why are we so attached to perfect swatches of undisturbed color? Isn't a blue sky made more exciting by the addition of a few billowy clouds?

Anyhow, dandelions. Sooner or later, someone is going to rub one under your chin. I haven't the slightest clue where this tradition comes from, but I am rather sure that a few druids standing around Stonehenge waiting for the Spring festival to begin thought that it was a damn fine idea, or trick, to rub the petals under a friends chin.

The myth is something along the lines of "if it leaves a yellow trace" then somebody loves you. Or you love somebody. I can't really remember, and that is not the point, as it is rather certain that you are loved or love somebody. Really, it is nearly impossible to not have some of the flower's yellow rub off on you. Consequently, you are going to wander around with yellow stuff hanging off your chin, like you just enjoyed a mustard dog at the ballgame, no matter what.

Let them rub. They are your friends, and they are saying they love you. Return the favor.

The other thing about dandelions, and their cousins the cattails, is that near the end of their lives, they give up their seeds in the most spectacular of ways.

Your mom, uncle Jim and I used to love to take the gray haired dandelions and make wishes on them. Just like blowing candles out on a birthday cake, if you managed to send all of a dandelions's seeds to the four winds in a single blow, your wish would come true. I am not sure if this works or not as I usually wished for more dandelions, which seemed pretty much like a foregone conclusion anyhow.

Cattails were a bit more of a boyish toy. I don't quite remember if your mom ever took part in any of the cattail games, but as boys we would cut the stalks, in late season, to sword length and fence with them. Dodging and parrying like a couple of characters out of The Lord of the Rings or maybe Lord of the Flies not really sure, we swatted at one another until the cattail would inevitably burst and scatter the cottony seeds everywhere.

On windy days, we would watch as the tiny "parachuters" were carried away by the breeze to hopefully land somewhere where young boys played.

Candy Canes

Dear Ian:
I was cleaning out one of my office desk drawers today and came across a leftover candy cane from last Christmas (don't worry, it was still wrapped).

Anyhow, it was a cherry flavored job, mainly because I don't roll with the cliche peppermint. So, I unwrapped it, and started to gnaw at it, again, because I don't roll with the "norm" I don't like to suck on the things, rather bite 'em, crunch 'em and eat 'em right away.

About halfway through my leftover treat, in walks a co-worker. She was kind of shocked and aghast that I was eating candy out of season. "You can't eat a candy cane. It's February!"

Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't eat a candy cane in February, or watch fireworks in November. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't wear a Hawaiian shirt to a hockey game, or cowboy boots to prom.

Always do your own thing and you won't miss out on surprises.

Partridge Family vs The Brady Bunch

Dear Ian:
Forgive me for this one. Going to put that up front. You are going to have to get used to a lot of nonsense, random thoughts and useless opinions. That's me.

Anyhow, one of the great undebated debates, or at least in my mind, is The Partridge Family vs. The Brady Bunch.

The Partridge Family had David Cassidy; the Brady Bunch Barry Williams...winner: Partridges.
Partridge Family: Many, many hit singles; Brady Bunch...Keep On...winner: Partridges
Partridge Family: Lori; Brady Bunch: Carol, Marcia, Jan, and Cindy...winner: Partridges

I think they both had a dog named Tiger. No one was hit in the nose with a football on the Partridge family (that I am aware of). David was cool; Greg tried to be cool.

The Partridge family bus; the Brady station wagon...winner: clearly the Partridges.

The Partridge Family was able to replace a child and no one noticed (sort of)....the Brady Bunch added cousin Oliver and nobody noticed (because the show was slated for cancellation), and started the Cousin Oliver Syndrome (or "jumped the shark" before shark jumping had been invented).

Okay, my bias is definitely for the Partridge Family, but then again, The Brady's had Sam the Butcher...

Walt Whitman

Dear Ian:
Sunday and Whitman. For me, there could be no better combination. I know a lot of people go to church on Sundays to reflect and listen to homilies; I choose to spend my Sundays with Whitman. Leaves of Grass makes me "feel" Sunday.

Most people will break down Leaves into many separate poems. Whitman considered the book to be one long poem. Who are we to argue?

I like to open it up to random pages and just read a few lines. Then again there are the tried and true pages that I go to time and again.

=====================================
ONE’S-SELF I sing—a simple, separate Person;

Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.


Of Physiology from top to toe I sing;

Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the muse—I say the Form complete is worthier far;

The Female equally with the male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,

Cheerful—for freest action form’d, under the laws divine,

The Modern Man I sing.
==========================================
Really, after that, do I need anything else?

Stray Dogs vs. Stray Cats

Dear Ian:
There are many stories written about boys finding stray dogs, bringing them home, and instantly having a best friend. There are very few stories about boys finding stray cats and doing the same.

I don't know why.

I can guess, and I am sure that it will make a lot of cat people unhappy, but here goes anyhow. (By the way, I rarely worry about upsetting people...a bad, but necessary habit.)

If you bring a stray dog home, it will be eternally grateful, and in all likelihood, never stray again. A cat, however, once it has strayed, will likely stray again.

I really don't know what this means, if anything.

I do know, that Tom Waits had a great album called Rain Dogs, though. Tom Waits is another musical genius that you and I will share. Rain dogs wander away from home during rain storms, and lose their trail back home.

I guess sometimes we all stray away from home. When we find it again, we should remember our lesson and appreciate those that welcome us into their lives.

Pho'

Dear Ian:
Of the many pleasures that I find in life, I find pho' (pronounced fa) to be very near the top of the list. Most people would look at it and simply say, "That's a big bowl of soup." Me, on the other hand, look at pho' as a miracle of possibilities.

Besides being an inexpensive meal, pho' is your very own customizable meal. In a good pho' restaurant, they will bring you several types of hot sauces, fish oil, beef base, hoisin sauce, sugar, crystallized ginger...and on and on and on and on. Oh! and raw bean sprouts!

With all of the condiments, you can make your soup as hot or as sweet or as salty as you want. Mix and match...hot and sweet....limitless.

The bean sprouts add an extra level of texture, far superior to saltine crackers.

Plus, as an added benefit, you can tell your mom that you want to head out to the Pho' King without worry of a mouthful of soap. When she asks, "Where did you learn that?!!!" You can rest assured that I have your back, when you let her know that Uncle Squid says it all the time.

Birds

Dear Ian:
I don't know why, but today I was thinking a lot about birds. Maybe it is because it is February, and I haven't seen many around for awhile. Where we live, the winters can be pretty harsh on most birds, so they take off and head south for the season. In a way, people do the same thing, only much later in life. We call them "snow birds," retirees that live in Florida or Arizona during the winter months, and Michigan or Minnesota during the summer. So, that is one thing that we, people in general, learned from birds.

I think we learned how to dream from birds as well. Well, maybe not "how," but what. Imagine seeing a bird for the first time, or even better, being the first one to ever see a bird. Dream then of leaving the ground, soaring above all that can be seen, free from gravity.

Birds, for all their worth, are dreams. Reach high, defy the limitations set before you.

Mark Twain

Dear Ian:
At some point in time you will be asked to read Mark Twain. Possibly, you will be asked to read "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County," and most assuredly you will be asked to read Tom Sawyer and later The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. You should probably read Letters to Earth, as well, although I doubt anyone outside of a few square-headed lit types are going to recommend that one.

Now, you will probably read about Tom, somewhere between the fifth and eighth grades, and maybe follow up with Huck around your junior or senior year, if not for sure at some point in college. I am seriously suggesting here that you get a jump on Huck. Read them back-to-back if you can. You'll be ready; I swear.

You really need to compare these two books, and taking too much time between Tom and Huck can kind of destroy your ability to see their stark dissimilarities.

Even though the books were both written by the same man, they really weren't written by the same man.

You'll see what I mean.

Public Parking

Dear Ian:
This will be brief as it is late and I played far too much video games for the evening. Did I just say too much? Impossible. I played a lot of video games this evening.

Anyhow, following up on bumper stickers, and automobiles and, I guess, trying to string something along thematically, I just wanted to toss some advice out there about public parking.

First, learn how to parallel park early. Do not wait until you are 15 or 16 and working on your learner's permit. Start now. Parallel park your stroller, with your mother's supervision of course, and feel free to make the "beep-beep" backing sound while you practice. Graduate from the stroller to the tricycle, Big Wheel (R), or whatever pre-K transportation device you find at your disposal. Start a valet parking business for pre-teen birthday parties. Your uncle Jim may still have the red vest (a completely different story for a completely different time...warning it is PG-13). I can not overemphasize the importance of this skill.

That said, most public parking is angle parking. Malls, grocery stores, universities, airports and delicatessans are primarily angle parking. In and to the right in the northern hemisphere, in and to the left in the southern hemisphere. Certainly easier than its parking cousin the parallel, it is often the choice of city planners, architects, and Vegas 21 dealers.

Now, here is where it gets a bit tricky and very important. There are lines. Usually the lines are painted yellow. Sometimes they are painted white. The car, truck, SUV, moped, bicycle, scooter, bus, tram, cart, whatever, goes in between the lines. In between. Centered.

Now, apparently, the gentleman or lady that pulled their Range Rover (R) into the spot next to my Jeep(R) this afternoon was not aware that the lines were there for such a purpose. Perhaps they felt the lines were merely a suggestion. I don't know. They did, however, manage to manuever the vehicle as closely as possible to the Jeep's driver's side door, that if you were to drop a penny into the space, Lincoln would have come out clean shaven.

By the way, the passenger side door on the Jeep is broken and has been since it was broken into when I lived in California.

If the zipper on my computer bag, and the handle on my Thermos (R), and the door of my Jeep(R) made A LOT of contact with the passenger side of this offending vehicle, I am sure that it was incidental. Kind of like when your dad or your uncle are screaming at the TV for a pass interference call during the big State game and the refs signal "incidental contact."

So, my advice to you is: If you find it necessary to wedge an oversized vehicle into an undersized angle parking spot, at least make sure that you block the passenger side, as it is the least necessary entry point, rather than the driver's side which is utilized 100% of the time. This will save you at least $85 in Earl Scheib fees.

Bumper Stickers

Dear Ian:
Unless your mom is putting bumper stickers on your stroller, this is probably something you won't even think about or consider for at least another fifteen or sixteen years. Bumper stickers are sort of personal graffiti that you have to purchase because you are not creative enough to come up with something original or funny on your own. Or, they show that you support a cause with all of your heart and soul (for $4.98). For commitment-phobes, there are the bumper magnets, just in case you decide that you really don't support the troops, are in favor of breast cancer, or kind of waffle on the whole evolution vs. creation debate.

We'll talk about the greeting card industry later on, I am sure.

Anyhow, on the short drive home tonight, I was behind a car that sported a "just local foods" bumper sticker. Just local is a fairly recent movement that tries to get people to buy their fruits, vegetables, meats and other groceries from local farmers rather than the big corporate giants (pardon the pun) like Jolly Green Giant, Tyson, Hormel, etc. It is a pretty good cause, even though it comes from the same emotional center as the "Buy American" movement from a decade ago.

I just thought it was ironic that this bumper sticker, so proudly and rather crookedly displayed, was plastered on the back of a Toyota. Hmm. Sorry Detroit.

Super Bowl Sunday

Dear Ian:

Super Bowl Sunday. Kind of an unofficial American holiday. Just like birthdays, there is a lot of eating and drinking going on. Also, just like birthdays, a lot of people focus on everything but what is important. In this case, namely, television commercials and half time shows. This year the half time show stars Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Last year I think it was Prince. The year before that, I really don't remember. That may have been the infamous Janet Jackson show, or that might have been the year before that. The important thing is that I remember that it was the Giants who won the Super Bowl last year, but I don't remember who won the year before that. See? I remember more half times. Very, very American.

In preparation for the Super Bowl, I cleaned house a bit today. Not because I had anyone coming over to enjoy my extra special buffalo wings, more like, it is February and I better start spring cleaning now, so I can be finished by summer. This may be a completely genetic thing, I know your great-grandfather John had it, your mother a bit too, I have a full blown case of it: Pack-rat-itis. I don't throw enough stuff away. I keep everything. I went through one of the closets and found clothes that have been too small for at least four years. That means that I packed them in California and moved them to Wisconsin...knowing full well that I would never fit in them again. Whenever you come to visit, please keep that in mind.

I was going to sort comic books today as well. That is usually a two day affair. I got sidetracked and played World of Warcraft in between laundry loads instead. Chances are, if I am still around, and World of Warcraft is still around when you get to college, we will wind up playing together. I will probably be a level 350 druid by then. Just remember, you have to roll a toon on the Horde side. If you roll Alliance, I will have to disown you and will probably never talk to you again. Seriously.

Back to the Super Bowl entertainment for a second. Music. I am still not sure what "album" I will buy for you first. First of all, they are not albums anymore, or CDs, for that matter. It's all digital now, so, I guess I will have to figure out which download I will send you first. Your Baba's sister, Kathy, was the person that gave me my first album. Actually they were cassettes. I remember them still: Janis Joplin's- Pearl and Sly and the Family Stone's-Greatest Hits. The first album (full sized, vinyl, magnificent) was The Eagles'-Hotel California. Later on your mother would "adopt" my copy of The Eagles'-The Long Run eight-track. She was big fan of

"Teen-age Jail."
Stare out the window,
You can't make the time go
You don't even know why you're here
Wait for the weekend to go off the deep end
and make everything disappear
You're lost in a teenage jail
So you and so vicious and so frail
where something is always for sale
You're lost in a teenage jail."

I think she was six. She was very, very disturbed.