Kith & Kin
I sojourned to Xanadu—the farmhouse in verdammt Ohio, not the pleasure dome of Kublai Khan—for the last weekend in June. Sleep was in short supply throughout, as the Kinder awoke early & my host insisted we stay up late deep in conversation. Where's Teddy? has added a new element to his playtime arsenal: combat. He adores the animated film Peter Pan as well as the pirate-themed quasi spinoff Jake and the Never Land Pirates, so assigning himself to rôle & the action figure of Peter Pan he assigns me the rôle & action figure of Captain Hook, at which point his Pan effortlessly defeats my James Hook. After a few go-'rounds he tires of the easy victories, but instead of perhaps allowing the combat to become more challenging or even letting Captain Hook win a bout, he has the crocodile regurgitate & reattach Hook's missing hand, which has the salutary effect of reforming Hook into Peter Pan's best & dearest friend. Fascinating how the mind of a four-year-old works! (I understand why there is not a television show featuring Peter Pan, recognizing that a boy who refuses to grow up is not the best model for constantly-developing pre-school kids, but I am troubled by the unabashed manner in which Jake and the Never Land Pirates both glorifies piracy & distorts history. Perhaps I should let it go & not read so much into a program for very wee bairns, but perhaps not.) We also play superheroes—Uncle Mike being the best in the world at playing—my nephew directing the Batman while your humble narrator directs Superman. In these games, the Batman not only has every superpower imaginable, but among them is the ability to grant Superman these selfsame powers. He asked me, "Superman, do you have sticky power?" (the ability to hang from the ceiling a la Spider-Man). I, mindful of Superman's canonical powers, answer in the negative. Where's Teddy?'s Batman then grant my Superman the ability to stand upside down on the ceiling without falling to the floor. (I yearn to explain to Where's Teddy? that because Superman can, like Peter Pan, fly, he does not need "sticky power" to stand on the ceiling, but the wee perpetual motion machine has no time for such explanations.)
The Cupcake is as sweet-natured as ever, though she's now inadvertently destructive as all one-year-olds are. I was left at Xanadu while Where's Teddy? was taken to his swim lesson on Friday & of course the Cupcake awoke almost as soon as the Olive, their minivan so named by Where's Teddy?, departed. I changed her diaper, only the second time I'd done so for any of my two nieces & two nephews since Where's Teddy?'s birth in '09. The first time, in early '10, I changed the Squeak's diaper, again because I was the only adult with the child. I love my nephews & nieces & I like helping to take care of them, but diapers are the preserve of those kin with "parent" as their degree of kinship: parents, grandparents, godparents. Uncle Mike is the children's favorite, "uncle" making soiled diapers not his problem except in desperate circumstances. I will dutifully if not happily change diapers once I am a father, but as long as I'm an uncle I will do a happy little I-don't-change-diapers dance from the sidelines. (I am the Squeak's "honorary godfather," honorary because she's never been baptized. As long as I'm not her real godfather, I am exempt from the godparental burden of diaper duty.)
We all tried to prepare Where's Teddy? for my departure, but when the time came he was on the verge of waterworks. I staunched the tears & dribbling snot with a reminder that I would see him only a few weeks, during his & the Cupcake's annual pilgrimage to sacred Michigan for the celebration of my birthday. This distracted/cheered him enough for me to get out of Dodge without witnessing a full blown meltdown.
Project MERCATOR
I used the last of my several Firkin & Fox gift cards (prizes from repeatedly winning History Quiz Night) last Tuesday when I met Ska Army for a pint. ("Last Tuesday" meaning not yesterday but a week before yesterday.) He extolled the virtues of the Insanity exercise regimen & sang the praises of the motion picture Star Trek Into Darkness, calling the film "real Trek." As a Trekkie of long-standing & unimpeachable bona fides who knows his own mind & considers carefully his judgments, I feigned giving his opinion due consideration while actually duly disregarding such hogwash. Dishonest? Certainly, but 'tis only a little white lie. What good would it have done to insult the man by openly dismissing his views? The ongoing rape of Star Trek is such a personal, delicate matter to me that I find it difficult to moderate my words; it would have been worse to unleash my fury at J. J. Abrams & the "soulless minions of orthodoxy" at Paramount Pictures on poor Ska Army.
The next day, a week ago to-day, I motored the Lumi to the wilds of Tuscola County to Red Patton's abode for a game of Risk. I enjoy Red Patton's company immensely, but two factors marred the evening. Before the game, my host insisted that we watch the motion picture There Will be Blood, which had the dual vices of being uninteresting & tremendously long. I do not enjoy the films of Paul Thomas Anderson. Prior to There Will be Blood I'd seen & disdained Magnolia & Punch-Drunk Love. I know my own mind, I know my tastes, & I do not wish to be subjected to any more of the man's putrid, pompous motion pictures. Is that too much to ask? Alas, There Will be Blood is one of Red Patton's favorites & he was earnest in his hope that I would enjoy the film, so paying attention throughout & watching without complaint seemed the most polite thing to do.
For the evening's marquee attraction, the game of Risk itself, we were joined by another of Red Patton's chums, Mitch. After the initial moves, I made use of the Australian Gambit, Red Patton was using Out of Africa, & Mitch was playing Pinochle with Pinochet. It soon transpired that Mitch's unnamed green horde had a genuine chance of achieving the North American Dream, which would have spelt certain doom for both Red Patton's Yellow Peril & my Black Raj. This danger could not be tolerated, & both the Yellow Peril & the Black Raj thereafter committed whatever resources necessary to thwart Mitch North American Dream. Mitch interpreted this as Red Patton & me "ganging up on him," & he was surly & combative the rest of the incredibly long game. (The gameplay was lengthened by a two-to-one vote in the middle of the game, lost by me, to cap the number of armies gained for turning in cards to fifteen. Combining this arms control regime with Infinite Colt Fortification—which I think Red Patton adopted as a house rule for my comfort, though I assured his this was unnecessary—meant that no one could build up a large enough army to threaten to wipe out anyone else, resulting in a longer, less decisive war. War is hell; best to do everything you can to win it & get it over with quickly. Fighting a war on a shoestring without enough men, as the United States did in Iraq before "the surge," simply resulted in frustration, stalemate, & more bloodshed. If you seek peace, prepare for war; do not disarm yourself, thus inviting the aggression of bad actors.) It was one of the less satisfying games of Risk I remember, though not as frustrating as the previous game, with The Guy & Red Patton, which saw my every scheme & strategy undone by rolling the likes of which I'd only ever seen afflict The Ace, likewise kneecapping his chances of attaining world domination. Beggars should not be choosers, & Ares knows quality (even "good enough") games of Risk are hard to come by, but I have to believe that Red Patton & I could find a better third. (Mayhap even a fourth? Dare to dream.)
Autobahn
I'm not certain that I've ever experienced a darker night that when I departed Red Patton's house. There were no streetlights out there in Millington & cloud cover obscured the Moon & the stars. The night was pitch black in a way that never happens under the light-polluted skies of Grand Blanc. I had to use my mobile 'phone as a torch just to find my way to the Lumi, the Distaff Son of the Mousemobile. The extreme humidity in the air had fogged over her windows, making getting out of Red Patton's driveway without backing the Lumi into his sister's car more of an adventure than I'd wished. The bright lights of tiny Otisville looked like the Manhattan skyline after the ebon void through which I'd motored. Had I it to do over again, I'd have popped a squat on Red Patton's porch for fifteen minutes to let my eyes adjust to the nigh-absolute darkness before hitting the road.
The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
The Abyssinian Baptist Church Sanctuary Choir, "Battle Hymn of the Republic" from The Civil War: Original Soundtrack recording (T.L.A.M.)
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