What Thanksgiving means to me

Homemade raspberry chiffon pie, and the coolest, most beautiful little family in the world.

The Frogman Cometh

No, not Clarence. (Though he's amazing enough to deserve a post all his own.)

I'm talking about L. Frank Baum's Frogman, recently encountered (or rediscovered, actually), as Thandie and I make our way through the crazy-ass Oz books:

The Frogman wakened first on this morning, and after going to the tree where Cayke slept and finding her still wrapped in slumber, he decided to take a little walk and seek some breakfast. Coming to the edge of the grove, he observed half a mile away a pretty yellow house that was surrounded by a yellow picket fence, so he walked toward this house and on entering the yard found a Winkie woman picking up sticks with which to build a fire to cook her morning meal.

"For goodness sake!" she exclaimed on seeing the Frogman. "What are you doing out of your frog-pond?"

"I am traveling in search of a jeweled gold dishpan, my good woman," he replied with an air of great dignity.

"You won't find it here, then," said she."Our dishpans are tin, and they're good enough for anybody. So go back to your pond and leave me alone." She spoke rather crossly and with a lack of respect that greatly annoyed the Frogman.

"Allow me to tell you, madam," said he, "that although I am a frog, I am the Greatest and Wisest Frog in all the world. I may add that I possess much more wisdom than any Winkie--man or woman--in this land. Wherever I go, people fall on their knees before me and render homage to the Great Frogman! No one else knows so much as I; no one else is so grand, so magnificent!"

"If you know so much," she retorted, "why don't you know where your dishpan is instead of chasing around the country after it?"

"Presently," he answered, "I am going where it is, but just now I am traveling and have had no breakfast. Therefore I honor you by asking you for something to eat."

"Oho! The Great Frogman is hungry as any tramp, is he? Then pick up these sticks and help me to build the fire," said the woman contemptuously.

"Me! The Great Frogman pick up sticks?" he exclaimed in horror. "In the Yip Country where I am more honored and powerful than any King could be, people weep with joy when I ask them to feed me."

"Then that's the place to go for your breakfast," declared the woman.

"I fear you do not realize my importance," urged the Frogman. "Exceeding wisdom renders me superior to menial duties."

"It's a great wonder to me," remarked the woman, carrying her sticks to the house, "that your wisdom doesn't inform you that you'll get no breakfast here." And she went in and slammed the door behind her.

Ah, L. Frank Baum. Where else in children's literature do you get explorations of transexuality, feminism, plastic surgery, amputation...

They just don't make them like that anymore. And as I ponder ways to adapt the IJG show for a children's audience (if that's even possible) -- over and against the Dora-the-Explorer-ish shout-fest pablum that passes for kids' entertainment these days -- Baum is certainly a model.

Every time I think I'm finally convinced that the world is going to hell in a handbasket...

...my little girl discovers a rainbow.



See it? Ya gotta look close.

A: 100

Q: How many pieces were in the floor puzzle that Thandie did (entirely by herself) the other day?

(Here's the one.)

There are still a few months left until she turns four.

So I've decided: to hell with Obama, I'm going to write this kid in for president.

(Sorry: I'll try to keep Annoyingly Proud Dad (aka APD) away from this computer keyboard from now on...)

The Ballbreaker

Sorry, I find this rather hilarious (both the initial argument and the response to it). I know it's not supposed to be. But I'm a degenerate.

Anyway, I thought I was going to have enough Tchaikovsky to make me sick yesterday when I took Thandie to see Portland's own CBA do their version of the Nutcracker (giving Mommy a much-needed afternoon off). If I had been there by myself, that surely would have been the case (though at least this wasn't the Nutcracker on Ice). I still think the show is too long by about twenty minutes (okay, we get it: every freaking toy and piece of candy has got to have its dance!). And yes it was possessed of some of the typical problems of the classical rep.

But there was something about being there with a three-year-old who has never been to a full-on theatrical production before, and who has been growing more and more interested in music and dance (especially over the last year) that made the experience -- forgive the maudlin here -- pretty goddamned touching. (Especially after we spent the morning listening (and dancing!) to fresh-out-of-the-oven near-final mixes from her Dad's group's forthcoming CD (more about that soon). Said CD will be kind of different from Tchaikovsky, you might say.) Several times I caught myself watching her fascination with the thing, and for a moment, I had such a rush of hope and happiness that I almost couldn't stand it. Or something like that.

The production prided itself on using all pre-professional dancers (apparently most academy-based productions will bring in a ringer or two when it's time to put on show like this). That was sort of endearing (at least half of the cast was made up of children not much older than Thandie). What wasn't so endearing was the use of canned music -- a money-saving choice, no doubt. I for one would have preferred (if no big band were available) to have had accompaniment by a wind quintet, say, instead of being occasionally able to hear shuffling ballet slippers over the sound of the recorded orchestra.

But I guess that wouldn't be "classical" enough.

Oh, well. 'Tis the season, mofos!

No fuss, no muss

So an insert for these came in yesterday's mail, and my day was basically ruined.

I mean, what the fuck? Like, are real human babies not already helpless enough? Do we hafta make 'em small enough to fit in the palm of your freakin' hand? If that's not an instance of de-evolution, I don't know what is.

Or maybe it's a way to feel superior and in-control, subtly disguised as an obsession with "cute things." As my wife said, satirically in character as one of these obsessives (I'm paraphrasing): "Oh, look at me! I'm a giant! Look at my itty bitty baby! Haw haw haw!"

Of course, Jeeeezus has to be involved somewhere under all this. If you're bored enough to click over to the website of the lady who insists on unleashing these upon the world, you will be greeted with some churchy doggerel equating sculpture with divine creation. Hoo-boy.

But if there really is a god, I seriously doubt he/she would intentionally make something like this:



And here's a gruesome twosome for ya:



This guy looks a little like Edward G. Robinson. And he's made out of silicone:



Anyway, the insert had a little disclaimer that read "This doll is not a toy; she is a fine collectible to be enjoyed by adult collectors."

Oh really? "Fine" in what sense exactly? "Enjoyed" in what sense exactly?

I mean, we're not talking about wine here, right?

I guess what really creeps me out is that I can't help but wonder if the existence of these things, much like the existence of the child pageant phenomenon, is actually evidence of a deep disgust for real, living, breathing children. A product of these sad, sick times.