Nancy Davis Kho's Blog, page 39

Our New Normal

When our dog had a seizure at the foot of our bed in the wee hours of last Tuesday morning, our first reaction was to yell at him.

Normally Achilles starts the evening sleeping on our younger daughter’s bed, then at some point migrates into our bedroom, where his double-decker dog bed sits on the floor in the corner (he’s like the Princess and the Pea, one mattress would never suffice.) Sometimes he dreams pretty hard and pumps his legs and yelps, reliving, no doubt, his real-life hard charging romps in the Oakland hills. I imagine in the dreams he actually catches the squirrels. When this happens, we wake up and hiss, “Achilles, it’s a dream, stop it,” and all of us go back to sleep.

So on Tuesday when we heard a ruckus from his spot in the corner, we both awoke and yelled, “Achilles, stop it!” It didn’t stop. “STOP IT!” then “Achilles, what the hell,we’re trying to sleep! SHUT UP!”

Because that’s something really nice you should say to a confused, terrified dog who is having a seizure for the first time in his ten healthy, energetic years of life.

Finally we flipped on a light and realized what was happening. I will spare you further details except to say that it happened again, an hour later – this time with my horrified younger daughter as witness – and my husband carried the dog out into the starlit night and placed him gently into the back of the station wagon. The dog could barely walk, but before I could even put the key in the ignition, Achilles managed to flop himself from the way back, to the back seat, to the passenger seat, and finally into my lap in the driver’s seat, all 57 pounds of him. I’m not sure if the length of time we sat like that, my arms wrapped around him and my face in his warm furry neck, was more for his sake or for mine. Finally I nudged him back to the passenger seat and kept a hand on him there while I raced across town to Berkeley’s emergency pet hospital.

Thirty hours and a raft of tests later, I was able to pick him up and bring him home. As of right now, there is still no diagnosis; looks like there are more vet appointments and tests in his future.

The good news is that the anti-seizure medication seems to be working. They’ve made him so lethargic – he doesn’t even bark when someone rings the doorbell – and he is wobbly on his feet. We’re keeping a hand on his collar going up and downstairs just in case he needs an assist. I told my husband it seemed like he went to bed a superathlete, albeit a middle aged one, on Monday night and emerged from the pet hospital Wednesday morning as a frail old man. I tell my kids, whose suffering during the time Achilles was hospitalized was almost unbearable to me, “This is our new normal. We just need to adjust.”

Mostly it feels like we have been given a second chance to be nice to this dog on a scale that will still be dwarfed by the devotion he has always shown us. Everyone has heard stories of dogs who worship their owners; ours is no different. There are only three things that Achilles has ever needed: food, a romp in the park, and affection from and proximity to us. Frankly, I think he’d dispense with the first two in favor of the third, if a choice had to be made.

And we have always taken that for granted. Of course he’s excited when I wake up every morning. Of course he’s turning in circles from delirious joy when I come home from a trip. Of course his eyes brighten up and his tail starts thumping against the floor, just because I walked into the room. It’s no big deal. It’s always like that.

Since last Tuesday morning, not anymore.

The girls rush into the house from school and head straight for his side, asking me how he’s done today. “Any twitches? Did he eat? Did you walk him – how did he do?” I get up periodically from my desk and just sit on the floor with him in my office, stroking his ears and reminding him what a good dog he is. My husband pets him every single time they pass. Achilles stole a stick of butter off the countertop on Thursday and no one even cared. Eat butter, dude. You deserve it.

Part of me hopes that, with these meds controlling his symptoms, we’ll return to the casual coexistence we had before. That a return to the taking for granted would be a sign that this week was just a blip, some bad luck that we’ve put behind us. You don’t have to treat someone like a superstar when you are assured that they are going to be around forever.

But realistically, I think this is a kick in our collective pants. The 36 hours that the dog spent in the hospital were simply agonizing. Did Achilles know how much we loved him, when we dropped him off? What was the last thing I said to him before I realized he was sick?

I told him to shut up.

But now he’s home, and we’ve had a stark reminder that everyone we love – human, canine, feline, lapine , equine, porcine, and whatever-else-ine– has to leave us eventually. Or, as Bob Schneider sees it, rather darkly: God will destroy everything you love, if you live long enough.

It’s yet another gift that a pet gives to its family: practice in saying goodbye. You don’t get to have the grand entrance of love into your life without setting yourself up for the grand exit. The only thing we can control is our ability to show our loved ones, right now, this second, all the ways we cherish them.

There is not a safe butter stick in this house.

 ***

Bay Area readers: hope you join me on Friday night 4/24, 7 pm, at Great Good Place for Books in Oakland for a reading of  the newly released Listen to Your Mother: What She Said Then, What We’re Saying Now anthology, alongside Michelle Cruz Gonzales, LTYM SF 2014 alum Risa Nye, and Listen To Your Mother SF 2015 co-director Janine Kovac!

                    CommentsThank you so much, Jennifer. He's actually doing pretty well ... by Nancy Davis KhoOh now I want to cry – for Puck, and for you for being so ... by Nancy Davis KhoThanks, Lori. Definitely worth looking into. by Nancy Davis KhoDuly delivered. So far Achilles is enjoying the meds, ... by Nancy Davis KhoI KNOW. With lipstick kisses. by Nancy Davis KhoPlus 5 more...Related StoriesAu Revoir, RemodelSlo-Bowl for SadnessSeven Things My Pet Thought Today 

Midlife Mixtape Concert Review: The Replacements

 

The Band: The Replacements, April 13 2015. Post-punk rockers from Minneapolis, The Replacements provided the soundtrack to every male quarter-life crisis in the 1980s. The original lineup featuring lead singer and guitarist Paul Westerberg, guitarist Bob Stinson, bass player Tommy Stinson, and Chris Mars on drums only made it as far as 1991, not surprising given the level of intraband ruckus. For this long-overdue reunion tour, Paul and Tommy are joined by Dave Minehan and Josh Freese, who’ve played with Westerberg on his solo stuff. I saw some online griping about this being a money-driven faux reunion but you know what? I don’t even care. Never saw them play before and I wasn’t about to miss this chance to see the ‘Mats.

The Venue: The Nob Hill Masonic Center. How have I lived in the Bay Area for 17 years and never been here? As suggested by the name there’s some intriguing and vaguely unsettling symbolism in the lobby, but once you’re inside it’s pretty non-Illuminati and with great acoustics to boot. Its location at the tip-top of Nob Hill was not lost on the band. Westerberg said he pulled his hammies from walking to it, while Stinson said his calves were burning from walking back and forth to get a coffee. The Masonic: The Healthy Rock Star’s Workout Secret! ™

The Crowd: You know that dad from school who cuffs his dark wash jeans and wears cool sneakers? He was there. So was that other dad, the good looking 50-something man who covers his bald spot with a tweed cap. And that guy you know with the salt and pepper beard and the Buddy Holly glasses? He was there too. All those dudes were there. Times 400. Sorry about your bathroom wait line, fellas, hahahahah no I’m not.

As for the ladies, the one I want to commend was sitting two seats away from me, with her eleven year old son Jack in tow. I asked him if he was a big ‘Mats fan and he rolled his eyes, pointed to his mother, and said, “SHE makes me listen to them all the time.” Shout out to my new mom friend who is raising her boy right.

And I’ll tell you who was NOT in the crowd: any black people. It’s like The Replacements send out a sonar wave painful to the ears of black music lovers. It was remarkable. Can anyone enlighten me?

The Company: My husband, the good looking 50-something guy who cuffs his dark wash jeans and has salt and pepper hair and cool glasses.

The Opening Band: John Doe, founder of punk band X. Backed by a full band, I was expecting a punk onslaught but he delved much more into rock, country, and folk sounds. Really great opening set and now I’m keeping him on my Songkick list so I can see him play a full show.

Age Humiliation Factor: Count the rings around my eyes.

The vibe at this show was totally “25th – 30th College Reunion.” There were few if any hipsters in the crowd; just a huge number of smiling, happy people within a few years of my age on either side. Overheard at the hoity-toity burger joint down the street from the show: “I guess this is what punks look like when they get old.”

Cool Factor: Let it be

There’s just something about the ‘Mats that is so “screw what everyone thinks, this is who we are” that was inspiring when I was 25, even more so now. Yeah, we’re closer to 60 than 30 but we still  feel like “the sons of no one, bastards of young.” Which is probably why that song turned into a huge audience singalong.

Worth Hiring the Sitter? You can’t hardly wait.

Admittedly, I never saw the Replacements before, so I can’t compare this to their earlier performances. All I can say is that they were on fuego at the Masonic, ripping through songs, sometimes with the right lyrics, sometimes not so much, but precision was never a particular hallmark of the Replacements’ charm. I was particularly thrilled by a run of songs that included “I Will Dare” then “Kiss Me On the Bus” then “Nobody.” They introduced “Within Your Reach” as a song we’d never heard before, and then “Alex Chilton” at the finale was rip-roaring.

There was a tent on stage, a tent that you’d take camping. I’m not sure why. Sometimes Westerberg went into it. At the end of the show that’s where the band retreated to, rather than the green room. So that was interesting.

One of these days I will totally remember to bring earplugs to a show like this, but Monday was not one of those days. I probably blew another 10% of my hearing thanks to the Masonic acoustics.

We got home at midnight and had a trip to the emergency room with our dog a few hours later (blog post for another time) so I ended up sleeping for 90 minutes between the Replacements show and Tuesday morning. The fact that I managed my day anyway is 100% due to the lingering thrill of seeing the ‘Mats at the Masonic.

Next show on the calendar: Notes and Words, April 25, Paramount Theater

                    CommentsYeah they were definitely kidding about Within Your Reach. You ... by Nancy Davis KhoI so wanted to go to this, but a) Ben wouldn't go with me, and ... by FloribundaRelated StoriesMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Martin SextonMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Robby HechtTurn Down the Music and Read: The Jesus and Mary Chain – Barbed Wire Kisses 

Midlife Mixtape Concert Review: Robby Hecht

The Band: Robby Hecht, April 11 2013. Hecht is a winsome folk singer/songwriter based in Nashville with a gorgeous voice and songwriting chops validated by awards from the Telluride Troubador Contest and the Kerrville New Folk competition. He’s an unassuming guy who plays quiet, reflective, beautiful music – perfect for the living room house concert setting in which we heard him.

The Venue: Rosecrest Supper Club, aka the living room of our friends Jonathan and Tiffany who live up the street. T-fan has hit upon the perfect formula for feeding her 50 guests – a food truck in the driveway. Specifically, Adam’s Grub Truck, which serves gigundo Asian fusion spicy sandwiches and, as Jonathan noted when he saw it pull up the narrow street, was about the size of their driveway, minus a 1/8th of an inch on all sides. Jonathan said this after he’d returned to where we were pre-concert cocktailing in the backyard, unable to watch the 347-point turn Adam’s Grub Truck required to maneuver into his driveway.

The Company: My husband, who is – if anyone besides me is keeping track – on an unprecedented run of concert-going with me. Martin Sexton last month and the Replacements on April 13. After pretty much giving up concert-going for a decade, he seems to be getting a second wind. Then again, the lure of giant Asian fusion sandwiches with a side order of garlic noodles from a food truck did not hurt.

The Crowd: The Rosecrest Supper Club’s email list – aka THE LIST – only has room for 50 concert goers. The drill is: you get the email announcing the show, you respond right away and PayPal over your payment for the show, and you hope that you beat everyone else and are not on the dreaded Waiting List. Ways to fall off THE LIST: RSVP’ing for a show and not paying; not RSVPing at all more than a few times; winning the signed posters that are handed out during intermission and not being around to collect them; yelling out “FREEBIRD” during an acoustic set. (Actually I’m not sure about the latter but I’m not about to try it either.) So we were there with 48 other guests eager to defend their spots on THE LIST.

Age Humiliation Factor: You’re getting sleepy.

Look, it had been a long week for this 40-something music fan. And Hecht’s music is so mellow and soothing. And Tiffany’s decor is so lovely and relaxing. And I’d just consumed 7,000 calories’ worth of food truck grub. If, during a couple of the ballads, I closed my eyes to listen more intently and maybe skimmed right along the edge of dozing off, don’t judge.

Given that one of his newest videos is for the song “Soon I Was Sleeping,” I really don’t feel bad about it.

Cool Factor: On the house

House concerts are the future, man. Artists don’t have to split their pay with the venue, get to keep 100% of merchandise sales, and are fed a good meal to boot. The audience members all get the best seats in the house, don’t have to listen to a crappy opening band, and are fed a good meal to boot. This is the classic win-win scenario (except maybe for Jonathan, who would dearly like his wife to organize a concert at someone ELSE’s house for a change – check out her website for detail on how to make it happen.)

Worth Hiring the Sitter? 

Hecht’s got a silky smooth voice and you can see why he’s a much sought after songwriting collaborator, working with musicians like Nora Jane Struthers and Amy Speace to co-create beautiful songs. This one, “The Sea and the Shore,” which he co-wrote with Speace, was our favorite.

Hecht’s got a quirky stage patter thing going, interrupting himself repeatedly to share sordid true tales of heartbreak, of falling off a bike into a Dutch canal, and of recreational Adderall usage. He also liberally popped Alka Seltzer during the set, in a concentration that I have to admit set off my Doctor Mom warning bells – how many did he just put into that water bottle? What is the overdose level on Alka Seltzer? Wait, did I see him order the same gigundo Adam’s Grub Truck sandwich that I did?

Throw in a couple Bruce Springsteen and Townes Van Zandt covers, and it was a perfect way to spend a Saturday night.

Next show on the calendar: The Replacements, April 13, 2015, The Fillmore

***

Reminder! I’ll be at Great Good Place for Books in Oakland on Weds, April 15 at 7 pm to interview Keija Parssinen, author of The Unraveling of Mercy Louis. Hope to see you there!

                    CommentsI most sincerely hope the house concert trend finds it way to ... by Tinne from Tantrums and TomatoesRelated StoriesMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Martin SextonMidlife Mixtape Concert Review: Chuck RaganTurn Down the Music and Read: The Jesus and Mary Chain – Barbed Wire Kisses 

Au Revoir, Remodel

It appears that, against all odds, our bathroom remodel is actually going to draw to a close this week after six weeks, make that seven, oops more like eight, the glass door for the shower was backordered. How on earth will I cope with having two fully functional bathrooms again?

I guess it means giving up the special closeness that comes with four people, two of whom have hair to the middle of their backs, sharing one shower, one sink, and one toilet in the smaller bathroom. It will mean giving up the fun game of “who left their undies and reading material on the bathroom floor again?” although since only one of us is a man, there were times when it wasn’t that hard to solve. Rhetorical debates about the relative importance of capping toothpaste tubes will fall by 50%. We’ll also miss out on the opportunity to hone vital negotiation skills in the constant conversation about who gets to shower next and how bad do you really need to go to the bathroom because I guarantee you, I have been holding it longer.

For my husband and me, I guess it’s goodbye to the extra cardio and balance exercises that came with the inevitable middle age middle-of- the-night bathroom trip down a set of slippery wooden stairs and a hallway, in the dark, at 2:00 am. We’ll have to add in a nocturnal weekend workout on a sheer rock-climbing wall with no harnesses to recreate the feeling of danger.

I’ll miss how the bathroom looked like our very own (cut-rate) Sephora store, what with the makeup, face creams and potions inventory of two teenage girls and one aging mother arranged just so on the edge of the pedestal sink. Pedestal sink! The first thing I told our contractor when we started discussing the remodel was NO MORE PEDESTAL SINKS because I have learned that the allure of “clean lines and spare design” has a dark side called “Your things will have to be stored on the floor because you don’t have countertops, idiot.” The new bathroom will be 2/3 countertop.

I’ll tell you what else I’ll miss. The feeling of living inside a magical snow globe as the plaster rained like gentle snowflakes onto my head, what with my home office being directly beneath the bathroom that was torn down to the studs. Or the uncanny timing of the workers, who knew to wait until I was on a conference call with an important client before they began jack hammering or grinding or pounding or whatever else they were doing up there. The moment I hung up? Back to quiet pursuits like painting and eating lunch. I’ll miss that. Bet my clients will, too.

Of course how I feel about saying goodbye to this home project pales in comparison to how Achilles will adjust back to the now-unaccustomed quiet. First off, he’ll be able to walk down the hallway from the bathroom to the front door without having an anxiety attack about treading on the plywood that the workers put down to protect the hardwood floor. For most sentient beings, switching out one type of wood flooring for another wouldn’t be so upsetting, but for Achilles it was like reversing the rotation of the planet. He had to concentrate very hard every time he set a foot on that twenty feet of floor, and only did so if coerced by dog treats.

It’s also going to be boring for Achilles there’s no new worker to bark at and investigate each time the front door swings open, even if it’s not so much a new worker as the same guy who has been here for six, I mean seven, I mean eight weeks making yet another trip inside with tools and supplies. Each time, Achilles likes to make him feel acknowledged. Bet my clients will miss the barking dog soundtrack to our calls, too.

But every good thing comes to an end, probably within another week, depends on that glass delivery, and I guess it’s finally time to say goodbye. I’ll miss you, home remodeling guys. I’ll think of you every time I set something on my bathroom counter at 2 am, just steps away from my bedroom door.

Can you imagine the hair product that goes into styling electronic pop band Au Revoir Simone? Glad I don’t share a bathroom with them.

                    CommentsThat looks fantastic! Congrats and enjoy… XO A. by Anna LeflerThat bathroom sink counter in the video is suspiciously lacking ... by EllenRelated StoriesSlo-Bowl for SadnessSeven Things My Pet Thought TodayCanine Agents of Embarrassment 

Announcing the Listen To Your Mother Anthology!

Today’s a big day in Listen To Your Mother land. And in Midlife Mixtape land, because I’ve got work in a brand new anthology (with a cover that looks like an early sketch for a Cars album.)

Listen To Your Mother, the staged reading series founded by Ann Imig about “Giving Motherhood a Microphone,” has grown from one cast in Madison in 2010 to a nationwide phenomenon that will take place in 39 cities in 2015. Anyone who has attended or read in an LTYM show will tell you that there is powerful mojo in hearing both the diversity and the universal elements of mothering experiences. There’s something fundamentally reassuring and inspiring in the stories we share about being moms and having moms. Half the time the audience is howling with laughter at these shows, and half the time they’re sniffling. Sounds like life as a mother to me.

I applied for the 2012 show in San Francisco, didn’t make the cut, sulked, gave myself a pep talk, then tried again the following year. Reading “In Praise of the Other Mother” as part of a diverse set of stories about motherhood in the LTYM San Francisco cast  was one of the highlights of my 2013.

And now the reading series has officially made the leap from stage to page. Today’s the release date for Listen to Your Mother: What She Said Then, What We’re Saying Now, a collection of stories told in LTYM casts across the country and over the years. Contributors include NYT bestselling authors Jenny Lawson (aka The Bloggess) and Jennifer Weiner, not to mention writers who you’ll know from the Still in Rotation series here: Wendi Aarons, Lisa Page Rosenberg, and La Imig herself. I’m thrilled and honored that “In Praise of the Other Mother” made the cut.

Snuggled up with LTYM

I got my contributor copy last week and was sniffling by page 8, laughing again on page 9. While it’s certainly a perfect Mother’s Day gift, the stories that grabbed me by the throat hardest were about an aunt and about a divorced dad who was a better mom than his ex-wife. I truly think anyone can relate to this collection. It’s already been praised by Kirkus, Publisher’s Weekly, Elle, and PopSugar.com.

Want to win a signed-by-me copy? Leave a comment below about a song that reminds you of your mom, or of being a mom. Why? Because I’m putting together the pre-show music mix for the 2015 LTYM San Francisco show, which will be held on May 9 at the Brava Theater in San Francisco. Tickets here – hope you’ll consider attending. I’ll be in the audience with my tissue-pak. (I’ll pick a book winner using Random.org on Friday, April 10 at 5 pm PST.)

And finally: I’ll be doing two readings for the Listen to Your Mother anthology in the Bay Area in the coming months, along with my fellow Bay Area contributor Michelle Gonzales (former member of punk band Spitboy) and some special guests.

Friday, April 24, 7 pm: A Great Good Place for Books, Oakland. For this we’ll be joined by one of the directors of the 2015 Listen to Your Mother show, Janine Kovac, as well as LTYM 2014 cast member Risa Nye.

Saturday, June 27, 1 pm: Book Passage, Corte Madera. Michelle and I will bring our Oakland shenanigans to Marin for the afternoon.

Mark your calendars and I hope I’ll see you at one of them!

***

I’ve been getting great suggestions via Twitter and Facebook for my mom- playlist. This song has come up repeatedly… and if you want a reason to feel old, 2pac’s “Me Against the World” is 20 years old this year.

              http://midlifemixtape.com/2015/04/ann...  CommentsCongratulations to you my (invisible, virtual) friend! Brava! by kathykateWill see you at the LTYM show – and in Marin! Whee! xoxo by Tarja“How to Handle a Woman” from Camelot sung by Richard ... by Sarah BlainThanks for being you, Nancy. I love you. by alexandraCongratulations Nancy! And thanks for the 2Pac link by VikkiPlus 3 more...Related StoriesThings I Never Thought I’d Have to Say to My KidsBenignPack It In 

Notes and Words 2015

When my daughter emerged from surgery at Children’s Hospital Oakland last September, sans a benign tumor from her arm, she had a one-liner for the ages: “Well, at least I know what I’m writing my college application essay about.”

My own revelation took a slightly different angle: “Well, at least I know I’m going to do more for Notes and Words this year.”

Notes and Words is an annual fundraiser in Oakland to support what is now officially called UCSF Benioff Children’s Hospital Oakland. The brainchild of East Bay author Kelly Corrigan (The Middle Place,  Glitter and Glue) Notes and Words brings together authors and musicians from all over to perform in an iconic Oakland treasure, the Paramount Theater, for a feel-good night of raising funds for sick kids. This year it will be held on Saturday, April 25 at 8 pm (doors at 7.)

In years past I’ve participated in their now-defunct essay contest (hey, I even landed a piece in their 2014 anthology!) and sat in the audience, but this year I’m going a bit further and urging my Bay Area readers to consider attending in person.

There are so many fundraisers out there that demand serious time and money in terms of effort, but this one simply asks that you sit back and be entertained: participating writers for the 2015 event include David Brooks, Anna Quindlen, and Lemony Snicket, and musicians Kelly McFarling, Tom Rhodes, Mike Errico, and Paul Leo. Ticket prices range start at $50.

It all goes to support a hospital right here in Oakland is one of only five American College of Surgeons Pediatric Level 1 trauma centers; cares for over 75,000 children each year; and provides translation services in more than 55 languages. I can tell you firsthand that the doctors, nurses, and child life specialists who treated our daughter last fall were kind, skilled, and compassionate in ways that were priceless.

And if I have to show my support by spending a night being entertained by talented musicians and writers, well, that is my lot in life.

Ticket information can be found here. I hope you’ll consider joining me there!

Tom Rhodes comes highly recommended by my friends Tiffany and Jonathan of the Rosecrest Supper Club…

                    CommentsYeah. Good points all around. by Nancy Davis KhoHey – tell our friends at Children's that they should put the ... by EstherRelated StoriesPrecipitation BreakdownTurn Down the Music and Read: The History of Rock ‘n’ Roll in Ten SongsIn Praise of Procrastination 

Family Heirloom

My friend Maria is classy. Classy with a capital C. When, almost 25 years ago, I attended her wedding in Sweden on her mother’s family farm, which was as picturesque and Carl-Larsson-like as it sounds, one of the highlights was The Bestowing of the Family Heirlooms. Every few hours, a scrum of Swedish relatives would arrive, often singing, and present Maria and her fiancé Ted with a delicate set of china, or bundles of worn felt that would be unwrapped to reveal silver cutlery or serving dishes that had been in the family for generations.

At one point my friend Jill, who had been Maria’s college roommate, leaned over to me and said, “I don’t know about you but there is very little presenting of felt-wrapped silver in my family.” (For her part, Maria would thank her relatives profusely and graciously praise each item. Then, behind her hand, she’d say to Jill and me, “How the hell am I supposed to get all this stuff back to the states? What were we thinking, getting married in Sweden?”)

Perhaps because my grandparents were immigrants who packed light, there was no heirloom china to hand down, beyond one porcelain plate with Charles Dickens characters printed on it, and my mom is not handing that over one second before she has to. Maybe that’s why, when my siblings and I were all teenagers, we created our own family heirloom.

I don’t actually recall where the item in question originated. It just appeared one day, like magic, and with its presence a game began, a game that required us to stay in close touch. Because rather than clinging tight to this family heirloom, we like to make sure that it gets ample time with the other siblings. And the more of that time the temporary owner is unaware that the object is under their roof, the better.

Allow me to explain. Say I am in possession of the family heirloom, uncovered perhaps at the bottom of a box that was filled with Christmas gifts for my kids so I couldn’t refuse to accept it. I must then pass it off to my brother or sister and – this part is key – I must not tell them that I have done so. I must hide it in their house so efficiently and effectively that it will take them weeks if not months to come across it, even if they’re looking for it. Think: laid flat between the mattress pad and the mattress in the guest room, or rolled up and stuck inside a little-used vase in a high kitchen cupboard, or layered behind a couch cushion.

Because then when you call the heirloom’s owner, weeks after you were last with them, and say, “Did you find the heirloom yet?” he or she will go INSANE. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch when you find out the heirloom is your house somewhere, the game of hot potato that threatens your sanity. And after weeks of searching, when you DO find it, all you can think about it how to keep the game going. Airline flights have been booked for lesser reasons.

The heirloom went MIA about five years ago, around the time one of our cousins became seriously ill. He needed it more than we did, and if it did anything to cheer him during his illness, it was worth putting a temporary stop to the heirloom’s travels.

But on Monday I received a box in the mail. It was a slightly updated, slightly roomier version of the original heirloom – we’re all middle aged now, after all. It was blue instead of white. But everything else was the same.

No one is taking credit for resurfacing this gem. But both my brother and sister should remember that I’m scheduled for a loooong visit back East this summer. And while this t-shirt will be traveling with me, it won’t be coming home in my suitcase.

Obviously.

                    CommentsI miss you, Ann. Please come back to America. by Nancy Davis KhoMy sister and i have this same “family heirloom” game only ... by AnnWhat a great tradition! Hope they don't find it for months! by ShananRelated StoriesPossible Titles for the 30th High School Reunion Wrap-up Post I Can’t Seem To WriteOur Family AlbumAll in All: The Berlin Wall 

Faith in Words

At the first planning session for a special lecture series at my church called “Faith in Words: St. John’s Writers Reflect on the Spiritual Discipline of Writing,” there was some generalized discussion between the five writers in the congregation about aspects of the writing process in which faith has come into play. One author gravitated toward talking about trust, another toward courage, a third wanted to focus on doubt, and a fourth wanted to focus on community. I focused on being resentful that they had chosen the four topics on which it would have been a snap for me to talk about how writing and faith come together for me.

And then they asked if I’d talk about humor.

Which made sense, because this is a church where a.) our priest is an accomplished stilt walker and does NOT miss a chance to strap his stilts on to illustrate a parable; b.) when seminarians must leave our church to go to their first posts, the big good-bye present is a flaming Bible (to be used ironically, of course); and c.) when a reading is particularly Old Testamenty-fire-and-brimstoney, readers have been known to say, “Hear what the Spirit is saying to God’s people” followed by a backward glance at the priest and a “Good luck with THAT” whispered into the mic.

I have always believed that God has a sense of humor. How else do you explain a Bible passage I like to think of as “Revenge of the Follically Challenged”:

Then he went up from there to Bethel; and as he was going up by the way, young lads came out from the city and mocked him and said to him, “Go up, you baldhead; go up, you baldhead!” When he looked behind him and saw them, he cursed them in the name of the Lord. Then two female bears came out of the woods and tore up forty-two lads of their number. (Kings 2:23)

God had to have been going for the laugh there. Without some comic relief, the Bible is a hard slog, at least it is for me. And that’s the first place where, for me, humor and faith come together – because both make it easier to bear witness to hard truths. That’s why satire is such a potent form: when there is an injustice or indignity, it’s tempting to climb on a soapbox and rail against it. I happen to think it’s more effective to wrap your message in a couple of sly jokes, a bit of playtime with the absurd, to engage people who might otherwise not listen. My entire “Open Letter To…” category is meant to do that – point out where I see people straying way off base from the old “love thy neighbor as thyself” thing.

These open letters are inspired by McSweeney.net’s “Open Letters to Entities Unlikely To Respond” feature to which I always submit, fingers crossed hard that they’ll publish my letters. Ironically, the entity most unlikely to respond thus far has been the McSweeney’s editorial team. But I remain hopeful.

And that’s another place where comedy and faith align, because humor is a sign of hope, and hope is a fundamental requirement for faith. If you’ve lost hope, it’s hard to believe things will ever get better and consequently harder to see why you should bother trying to make them so. As Erma Bombeck once said, “When humor goes, there goes civilization.” There have been times when it’s been hard to find the laugh; I remember writing at my computer on the day of the Newtown massacre and finally having to shut the computer off completely and leave the office. That day, both faith and comedy were in short supply. But without humor, how do you move forward and make the positive changes we are called by faith and our humanity to make? When my eldest daughter was having medical problems last fall, there came a moment when the nursing staff put out an APB on nail polish remover, because her metallic manicure was about to mess up the MRI results. And I laughed, and the sound of my own laughter helped me realize that whatever happened, we were going to get through it ok.

I believe in a God who wants us to be joyful, and comedy (both writing and reading it) is a never ending source of joy for me. I’m lucky because the house in which I was raised was full of laughter: of the five people in my childhood home – myself, my parents and older brother and sister – I promise you, I am the fifth funniest. It raised my game and bred into me a hunger for a daily belly laugh. I feel so lucky to know the humor writers in my “These Crack Me Up” sidebar list, who are guaranteed to make me shoot coffee out my nose whenever I open an email with a new post they’ve written. Besides, laughing is healthy. Scientists say its physical benefits include improved blood flow, an increase in the number of infection-fighting antibodies, and better management of blood sugar levels. I think about music all the time, but the best sound to my ears will always be laughter, and if it caused by something I wrote, so much the better.

Finally, writing – any kind of writing – and faith share another commonality: every morning you get a blank page to start over again and do better than you did yesterday. You can write the worst piece of drivel anyone in the history of mankind ever wrote today, and start penning a best seller tomorrow morning. Conveniently, that’s the same time you can try to be more patient or more generous or less judgmental than you were today. I believe in forgiveness for what I’ve done and haven’t done, and for what I’ve written and haven’t written. That every mistake I make is for a reason, even if that reason is to learn to stop making stupid mistakes or to learn to use the word “nonplussed” properly. That God wants me to get up every day with the intent to be a better person and a better writer, which really boils down to one thing: keep trying.

My proof? In the Bible there is a passage where Paul literally bores a man to death with his words.

“And there was a young man named Eutychus sitting on the window sill, sinking into a deep sleep; and as Paul kept on talking, he was overcome by sleep and fell down from the third floor and was picked up dead. (Acts 20:9-10)

And yet Paul eventually went on to sainthood and, maybe more importantly, became a contributor to the best selling book of all time.

***

Is it any wonder that I love Flight of the Conchords, New Zealand’s fourth most popular folk duo? Here they are putting their humor and music to work on behalf of sick kids in New Zealand. (Totally worth watching the whole 15 minutes.)

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Precipitation Breakdown

As I stood luxuriating in a fifteen minute long hot shower at my parents’ house in Upstate New York last weekend, trying to warm up from the “springlike” 30 degree temperatures of late March, I had one of those brilliant ideas that long showers bring forth, which is part of why brilliant ideas are in short supply around here.

See, we can’t take longs showers in California. By some estimates, we’ve only got a year of water left for the state, so keeping showers in sub-five-minute territory is common sense. Soon Californians are going to be reduced to 1860’s style bathing, where a tub gets filled once a week and the entire family uses the same water to bathe, one after the other. (I call firsts!)

Here is my idea: why can’t we build a pipeline from the East Coast to the West Coast that will transfer the ridiculous, record breaking, will-to-live-crushing amounts of snowfall from places like Rochester and Boston and New York City to the American Southwest, where it can be stored in liquid form in the reservoirs that are dipping to historically low levels and unable to irrigate the agriculture that feeds the nation spreading out to the east of us?

I’m not kidding. I feel like there are engineers who could figure this out. We run a line alongside the transcontinental rail line, just a big fat PVC tube with some sort of vibrating device that would keep things moving. We could pop some solar panels on top to supply whatever energy is needed to convert the snow and ice to liquid and keep it moving west. Toward the end of the line there could be various tributaries where the water gets diverted to Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico, and California.

As my brother pointed out shortly after I’d had my Eureka moment, while we hammered out this idea over drinks at a bar, which is as everyone know is where most brilliant ideas are made even better, the worst thing that could happen is a water spill. A water spill is not that bad. It dries up.

It’s a win win. East Coasters will not have to be faced with eight foot high snowbanks paralyzing their streets, nor West Coasters with dry hills that are ripe for wildfire. And then, to make it a win win WIN, California could use the months where harvest and no snow coincide, to send back east all the fruits and veggies that this country will otherwise have to do without, because they’re mostly grown in California. Picture a waterfall of artichokes, almonds, garlic, tomatoes, and olives cascading onto the streets up and down the Eastern Seaboard. Abbondanza!

Some California tech bazillionaires who want their golf courses to stay green and their Japanese-style garden ponds to stay full could fund it. Could emblazon their names on the tube, all the way from the Statue of Liberty to the Golden Gate, for all I care. Or it could have a cool code name, like “Manhattan Transfer.”

If this model works, we could also put to rest the controversy over the Keystone pipeline. Instead of carrying oil, have it carry snow from Canada to wherever the Midwest is feeling a little parched.

If it doesn’t work? Plan on your California friends and family descending for vacation (and long showers, and glasses of water from the tap, and ice cubes) starting March 2016.

Remember Manhattan Transfer? So 80s, very hairstyles.

                    CommentsI've been dreaming of doing the same with all of the ... by AlisonI've been saying we should ship our snow to California for ... by EllenRelated StoriesA Mixtape For Mercy Louis(AP)pending US HistoryTurn Down the Music and Read: The History of Rock ‘n’ Roll in Ten Songs 

Turn Down the Music and Read: The History of Rock ‘n’ Roll in Ten Songs

I’ve been trying to decide which analogy I should use to describe Greil Marcus’ The History of Rock ‘N’ Roll in Ten Songs (Yale University Press, 2014.) I’ve decided to emulate the approach that Marcus, a Bay Area resident and highly esteemed writer and music critic, took in creating a “definitive” history of something that is, by its very nature, beyond easy definition. I’m just going to use all of them.

But first: in case you’re worried that he’s actually boiling the ineffable beast that is Rock ‘n’ Roll down to only ten songs, let it go. Marcus does, explaining from the outset that he could have chosen any ten rock and roll songs to describe the form, because of its very fluidity. But the ten songs he chooses – among them “Crying, Waiting, Hoping” by Buddy Holly; “Transmission,” by Joy Division; “Money Changes Everything,” both the Robert Gray and Cyndi Lauper versions; and “Guitar Drag” by Christian Marclay – are important in that they create taut jumping off points from which hundreds or even thousands of other songs can be understood.

So here is my first analogy: reading the book is like being on a playground swing set. With one pump of energy, you’re brought up close in one direction to examine the smallest details, as Marcus manages to put into words the energy, yearning, and emotion that we all know lives within a really good song. I don’t mean he describes individual notes: I mean he describes the quality of the breath taken to even sing the note, the fleeting thought crossing the singer’s mind while inhaling, the width of the sharp edge of the sound of the backing guitar. In these places, the narrative becomes microscopic.

And then, whoosh, you’re flung backwards into the air where suddenly the whole landscape in which that note exists can be seen. You’re reading about a song, but it’s really about the civil rights movement, or the Vietnam War, or the difficulties that a gay Jewish man in the entertainment industry might encounter. Marcus understands that it’s impossible to fully appreciate the song separate from the larger landscape, and that without some musical entry points, our societal landscape might never be understood.

Then again, the book is like a tapestry, weaving together eras, musical styles, and musicians into a cohesive, all-encompassing whole. Marcus finds the starting and end points of long, long threads – like “All I Could Do Was Cry” sung first by Etta James, much later by Beyoncé – and then weaves context above, over, and through. This is where work from so many other artists get discussed, with the author explaining how a song made in the ‘50s echoes in one sung in 1993 and reverberates on into 2012. The book makes a strong argument that no one in the rock and roll industry operates alone, and the shameless borrowing and stealing is key to its ongoing evolution.

Finally, the book is a checkered flag to music lovers pay deeper attention. Greil Marcus listens to music in a way that makes me feel sort of embarrassed about how blithely I let music enter one ear hole and exit the other, without more than an “it’s got a good beat and you can dance to it!” opinion. I hate to think of how much I’ve missed.

Audible.com gave me this book to listen to, in exchange for the chance to me to give a copy to a reader (details below.) What with working from home (no commute) and being relentlessly talked at by my family, audio books have never held much appeal – I couldn’t figure out where to fit them in. So I listened to the seven hours of narration over the course of a week’s worth of dog walks and ballet driving.

For this Luddite page turner who lacks even an eReader, there were a few things about the audio experience that I found a little frustrating; Marcus’ language is so rich, I would have dog-eared a physical copy so I could go back to reread, and include a few lines in the review. With audio, as soon as I heard it, it was gone, although his description of Motown artists performing in the 21st century looking like they were dressed by “Omar the tent maker” stuck with me. (There’s annotation functionality within Audible, but because I was always on the move when I listened I couldn’t use it.) Sometimes, particularly when I was listening in spurts while driving on errands, I wasn’t even sure what song we were talking about anymore. Marcus has never met a superlong sentence he couldn’t make longer with a couple parenthetical phrases, so I’m not convinced the auditory rather than visual input process  was to blame. In fact, parts were so dense that I think hearing this book read aloud was probably better for comprehension than reading it. Anyway, you just had to wait until a Beatles or a Dylan song was mentioned to regain your bearings. Those guys showed up so much, it was like Whack-a-Mole.

It was undoubtedly a good way to fit in a “reading” experience into the spare moments of my day, and to hear the lyrical rhythms of Marcus’ prose. It helped that the audiobook is ably narrated by Henry Rollins, a choice that just reinforces the whole message of interconnectedness of the book – of course the former lead singer of punk band Black Flag should be explaining the importance of blues legend Robert Johnson. In Marcus’ hands, it all ties together.

I will be thinking about this book for months. I’d love to give you the chance to do the same. If you’d like your own audiobook copy from Audible.com, leave a comment below with the name of a song that you think deserves a spot in the top ten influential rock songs of all time. Of course there’s no right answer. Or, you’re all right. I’ll pick a winner on Tuesday, March 24 at 5 pm PT using Random.org.

And I’ll leave you with the tune I ended up downloading and replaying after Marcus’ explanation of what it all meant. I always thought Lauper was a bit of a gag act, but this book gave me new-found respect for how she rose to the challenge of this song.

 

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