I Am Having a Great Day

Another blessed even – a paid day off from serving the public as a tiny but extraordinarily significant cog in the wheel of what passes for government in this corner of the cosmos.

I spent the morning looking after my little son, the lion boy (some times when he wakes up in the morning, before we go in and get him out of his room, he’ll crawl back and forth in his crib like a lion in a cage – I’ve taught him to roar, too), played blocks with him, read books with him, comforted him when he bumped his head, changed him a couple of times, and fed him his solid food, rocked him to sleep.  Nothing is better than being that kid’s dad.

Took Seventy-Six to see his mom, the Cautious One, at work where she’s being tormented with a school-district in-service today.  She took him to lunch with her and a couple other teachers, then over to my mom’s house.

I came home, made lunch, ate it while watching a couple of episodes of Dr. Who on NetFlix Now – one good reason to keep an old Windows computer running and hooked up to the Internet.  That’s got to be one of the greatest shows ever.  I remember when I was a kid, exhibiting an interest in science fiction, and my dad tried to introduce me to The Doctor.  I couldn’t get past, even at the age of maybe 9, 10, 11, the funky production values.

dr_who_jigsawThanks to K von K, I looked up Daleks, and am now fully addicted to the most recent incarnation of that oddball television series that first aired some twenty days before my birth.  Yeah, it’s fate, synchronous geekery, or some idea of reference.  No matter.

Somebody, I can’t remember the source now, wrote or said that we read because we want to know we’re not alone.

So I’ve got the laundry-twins, Scott and Jennifer, working away – expensive Bosch front-loading home appliances.  Jennifer washes and Scott dries.  Nice suburbanite Stepford names.

A couple of the Australian cartoons in my previous post are a little over the top, and the gallery software would not, even though I selected the option, arrange the image files by name.  Dunno why not.

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Mortality

Yesterday I read this interview feature quoting Clint Eastwood’s reasonable response to the criticism he’s received from Spike Lee. Look at the guy’s face in the photo. He’s gotten old.

When I was a kid, I mean in elementary school, I remember we, the boys, used to love talking about war movies we’d seen on TV. That was back when it was a big deal to see a fairly recent motion picture televised. Like ABC’s Movie of The Week. One of our school yard favorites was that Clint Eastwood, Donald Sutherland movie about a bunch of WWII soldiers in Europe stealing SS gold with the collusion of the Panzer commander guarding the treasure.

I’m more than halfway to old, now. Last night, I woke up thinking about Clint Eastwood: Old Man, and then thought about the passage of time, or my journey through time, and how I’ll end up old someday pretty soon. Contrasted that with infant son sleeping in his bassinet. Will he remember me as the active and healthy man in early middle age I am, now, or as whatever it is I’ll be when I die?

Mom, younger brother, me (on the camel), and Dad wearing Burmuda shorts and I Spy shades

My father died at the age of 58 after having lived more than a hundred normal human years. I remember him as the angry tyrant I loved carrying us through Europe wearing Bermuda shorts and Robert Culp I Spy sunglasses – shades, he always called them. I remember spending Saturdays going to garage sales with him. I remember his road rage – that’s where I learned about creative name-calling. I remember his funny voices and the brilliant way he was able to do impressions of popular and classic actors. Probably the actors he grew up watching at the cinema. I remember Dad’s sailboat, and our nocturnal scavenging sessions at local boatyards picking up a sail here, an outboard motor there. I remember more than I’ll write here. I remember Dad throughout my life up to the time he died.

His birthday was in early June. I can’t even remember the date. I don’t remember the year or the date he died, either. Strange lack of recollection. Dad was one of about three people I always knew loved me. He was the one who disappointed me most frequently. Those disappointments were agonizing.