Verbisaurus Blogicus

I get on these self-improvement kicks. If, by “improvement” I mean “indulgent.” Right now, I’m on this kick of watching lots of movies.

Every once in a while, I remember that I haven’t seen all of IMDb’s Top 250, or that there are still films on Sight & Sound’s top 50, or in Sackett’s Box Office Hits that I’d like to see. And then this gets me all revved up to satisfy my completest desires. This month, I’ve already viewed 15 films for the first time, and I am rationally confident that I’ll eclipse 20 by 11:59 on the 31st.

I can pinpoint the reason why I got on this particular kick. It’s because I keep all sorts of lists about my life. And the answer to “why now?” is because, every January, I need to update my lists.

Of course, some of the lists don’t need updating just because the new calendar year began. My lists of People I’ve Live With, Cars I’ve Owned, and Times I’ve Been on an Airplane don’t suddenly change just because the calendar did. Actually, the list of People I’ve Lived With hasn’t changed since Emmett was born over two years ago. Sort of. The final column in that lists indicates my duration of cohabitation with said person, but I have that column indexed to the World Clock, so simply opening that file on my computer updates it to the precise number of days I’ve lived with a given person.

Honestly, I derive a singular chunk of happiness from maintaining these lists – the point, even, that I will behave in a manner that allows me to alter a list to my liking. For example, when I first created my list of Professional Baseball Games I Have Attended, I had only been to four MLB games: two in the 1980s, and two in the 1990s. Over the next decade, I added two more games to the list.

It was then that I noticed something: I had attended two MLB games every decade. Each time, it was a Twins’ game, but they played a different team each time. Obviously, then, I knew I had to attend two Twins games in the 2010s, and that I should strive to ensure they play against teams I’ve not seen yet. So now I’ve been to 8 MLB games, two in each decade, with the Twins playing the White Sox, Tigers, Rangers, Orioles, Yankees, Royals, Athletics, and Indians; respectively. The Twins currently hold a 5-3 lead in their “Games with James” series.

And since the Twins are not the only professional baseball team within sane travel distance, I also track my attendance at Saints games. I only attend Saints games in Leap Years, to the point that I even turned down a friend to accompany him at a game in 2015. Sorry, Eric, you were a year early.

But January does mean I have to update my Timeline of My Life, in which each month is given its own row, and I color in cells to indicate life events that transpire over several months (such as employment, or places of residence) and fill in major life events (such as graduating, children, and vacations). It also means I have to update my Ultimate Calendar, in which I briefly note interesting activities in my life, and I bold line in between each year, and assign each year the next in a series of four rotating colors. 2017 is yellow. 2016 was green. It also means I have to update my Word of the Year list. I list one or two words or terms that I became aware of or that grew in importance for me over the past year. Terms I’ve listed in years gone include Flyboat, Doula, Geocaching, Dunnage, and KonMarie.

Ensuring my files were in an acceptable state for 2017 drew my attention to my list of movies and, well, here I am watching films nearly every night. Except tonight, since I am updating this. I know that just sounds like I’m spending my

On the first full day after the bad guy became our nation’s 45th figurehead, Jennifer attended a Women’s March downtown. She says that now’s the time to make a difference in the world, to be kind to people, volunteer, stand up for what’s right, and take action. So, with a knitted hat emblazoned with NASTY, I dropped off my wife and her mother this morning to go out and make a difference.

Meanwhile, I kept three kids fed and calm while attempting to maintain a modicum of sanity. I took Owen to Lego League. The season is over for them, but they had one more meeting to say goodbye for the season. I filmed the boys’ robot run, while trying to keep Isla and Emmett quiet and happy.

Later, I took Isla to a kitchen to make food for homeless people. We arrived with a can of corn, a can of beans, and four onions, which Isla carried in a weird mermaid bag.

The other volunteers could, I think, sense that I wasn’t their altruistically, despite Jennifer’s decree. One of them, recognizing me from last spring, said, “Hey, you didn’t wait until the end of the school year this time, did you?” She was referring to the fact that Isla, as per her school’s policy, is supposed to engage in some sort of community volunteer work during the school year. Being a competent father, I waited until about six weeks before the end of the school year, and took her to this kitchen to help make food.

In the evening, Jennifer declared she was spent and frazzled and not able to do anything else for the next day or so. I prevailed upon her to make popcorn, though. As she was pouring the popcorn from the big mixing bowl into smaller serving bowls, I said, “Just leave some in that big bowl, and I’ll use that one.” I figured that was a way to save on dishes. “Just leave me alone,” she snapped, “I’ve already got all the bowls out. I’ll wash them, anyways.”

Today turned out to be a completely boring day. Despite Jennifer’s reiterated comment that she didn’t want to do anything today, she listed off five things that she needed to do. I offered to do some of them, in exchange for her putting a coat of paint on the trim that’s sitting out in the basement, but she got mad and reminded me she had told me not to ask her to do that. So, it was an unpleasant day.

A lazy day, too. That, of course, does fit in with my goal of being lazier this year, but I find it tough to implement in practice. I farted around the house, taking care of very tiny things – I prided myself in putting away a few papers into the file cabinet, and boldly deciding I no longer needed our tax papers from 2008. Later, I wiped the dust off some picture frames.

For lunch, we all had leftovers. I had the remainder of our potato casserole, and as I was about to scoop it into a plate, Jennifer said, “You can just eat it out of that bowl, to save on dishes.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, “good idea.” So I did. Then I washed all the dishes.

Later, Jennifer went to the grocery store. I stayed home all day and that, in an fundamental way, tells me I should view today as a good day, but it wasn’t. I went to bed early, fixing my blankets just right, I curled up and turned over under my heavy blanket, tried to read some Wikipedia on my phone, got bored, went to sleep.

If we’re looking for the source of our troubles, we shouldn’t test people for drugs, we should test them for stupidity, ignorance, greed, and love of power. -P.J. O’Rourke

There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there always has been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that “my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge.” -Isaac Asimov

Maybe January isn’t the worst month. This is the only month this year in which the United States has a competent, qualified President. For two-thirds of it, anyway.

In the days following the election back, what struck me most was not the collective crying and worrying on social media. There was plenty of that. A coworker asked – to anyone reading – how was she going to tell her little daughter that the bad guy won? My mother-in-law confessed to having lied awake that night crying at the electoral results. Jennifer’s midwife wrote that she was heartbroken, especially given that her poor health likely means she will never vote in another presidential election. My oldest friend washed his hands of the situation and said he was leaving for a while.

What struck me most wasn’t the Electoral College, either. In the days that followed, some people bemoaned its very existence. My wife suggested the Electors will be faithless against the presumptive nominee, but I told her the vast majority will simply fall in line, thus proving the ineffectiveness of their position. A coworker lamented she wasn’t sure – “I can go either way,” she said, regarding the continued existence of the College. I said no. “It’s an anachronism that is long past its expiration date.” Like blue laws, no American would seriously advocate for it if it didn’t already exist. Blowhards on talk radio asserted that the College was wonderful, and those who are against it are only against it because their candidate lost. For the record, no. I’m against it either way. Jennifer said maybe this will get people to finally abolish this archaic institution so that we can move closer to a true democracy. “No,” I said, “no one moved to deconstruct it in 2000. Why would now be any different?”

What struck me most wasn’t the surprising turn of a nearly inevitable assumption. On our walk to the polling station, Jennifer stopped Owen and Isla on the sidewalk and said, “You guys have to remember this day. We are going to elect the first woman president. You have to tell your children about this one day – that you were part of it!” Owen pointed out that, at 11 years old, he’s disenfranchised and thus, technically, not a part of it. But that didn’t stop us from snapping photos, including one of Jennifer and Isla with their arms around each other, post-voting, with “I Voted” stickers affixed to their jackets. That evening, as we dined, I opened my laptop and tried to calm my nervous wife – “Look at this chart,” I showed her, pointing out a list of the states by their recent polling. “Clinton will win everything in this column, and she only has to win one or two states in this other column – and most of those went for Obama in 2012.” I even prepared a graphic to post online. Titled “Our Presidents,” it displayed four rows of men – the simple, rounded shouldered, neckless men that adorn the doors of public restrooms. One was slightly fatter, to indicate Taft. One was in a wheelchair, and the penultimate figure was black, both for obvious reasons.  The final figure, though, was the woman figure. Similar to the man figure, but with a skirt, or maybe it’s a superhero cape.

No.

What struck me most was that no one could honestly say, This is Good. This is a positive turn for our nation. One of my coworkers – a lifelong conservative – simply posted online that no candidate truly cares about us. A twenty-year-old I’ve known since he was born posted in naïve adolescent abandon how funny he found it that everyone was so upset; he didn’t care at all, he wrote, because it didn’t affect him. A Republican said the upside to this election is that hopefully it will get his party to nominate qualified, dignified candidates from here on out. Another Republican posted that, despite his incompetence, at least the winning candidate won’t stop Congress from repealing ObamaCare. Another Republican, who had posted oodles of glowing adoration for McCain, and a smattering of appreciation for Romney, posted nothing. Even the morning radio host, who hadn’t said a single laudable sentence about Clinton all year, said that Presidents are, after all, only figure heads, and at least the bizarre outcome kept out a woman we’re all tired of. Conservatives online and at work backpedaled – “Woah, I didn’t think he would win” – or apologized. “This doesn’t make me racist,” was an unnervingly celebratory chant. “It’s okay, Mama,” Isla said, “I will still remember this as a special day.”

In the days following, one of our Bernie-or-Bust friends confessed she just couldn’t bring herself to vote for Clinton. “She wanted Bernie or bust,” Jennifer said, “So I hope she’s happy with bust.” I told Jennifer I didn’t understand that logic. “It’s like, if I got back my draft paper from my professor and she wrote ‘C’ on it, and I said, ‘No, I deserve a B,’ and she said, sorry, you’re getting a C, and then, just to spitefully harm her, I didn’t turn in the final paper and ended up with an F.” Except, it didn’t harm the professor. It only harmed me.

I passed coworkers in the hall, who would respond to “How are you?” with “Oh, I’m hangin’ in there” or “I’m…okay,” with unusual gravity, as if they were really considering my innocuous query. One worker, with her usual gruffness that has always drawn me to enjoying her company, simply shrugged and asked, “How are you?” giving the last word a purposeful emphasis.

A few weeks later, my brother-in-law – w ho defended his vote by sharing a video of a woman bloviating how pleased she was with the election because “maybe some of us are tired of all the baby killing and the persecution of Christians” and something about being sick of the gay lifestyle being thrown in our faces and smart people thinking they know everything – invited Owen and me to go see Rogue One with him. I hate going to movie theaters nowadays. I didn’t feel much like being with my brother-in-law for four-plus hours. But it was Star Wars, Owen’s all-time favorite chunk of culture, and I knew at some point in the next 30 days I would be compelled to bring him to the theater. Twelve commercials in, my brother turned to me in his La-z-Boy theater seat, repositioned his pop-corn, and said, “You know, I just think we gotta see what he’s gonna do. He’s not even President yet, and people already on his case.” I wanted to say that his words were a contradiction from everyone who said the good thing about their candidate is that he tells it like it is. And I wanted to say that the candidates just completed a 12-month job interview, so if we don’t know what he’s “gonna do,” then we weren’t paying attention. And I wanted to say that the statements and cabinet picks since Election Day did not give me any reason to reassess my position on his incompetence, narcissism, and dismantling of the past decade’s progress.

But I didn’t want to create an awkward, tense bubble around us – especially when I was tethered to my seat for the next 2 hours and 33 minutes (3 hours and 33 minutes including commercials). Besides, Paul Simon’s The Werewolf was looping in my head, so I couldn’t really focus on what I wanted to say, anyway.

Martin Luther King, who was born on the third Monday of 1929, gets his own holiday today. That’s quite an honor; not too many people get their own holiday. Sure, Columbus gets one, but that one will probably be retired before I die. Jesus gets one, but he has to share it with Santa. George Washington – who unlike Columbus and Jesus, can actually make a strong claim for deserving one – gets one, too, but thanks to his birthday’s calendar proximity to Lincoln’s, his is being merged into a pan-Presidents’ Day, so we can also honor such luminaries as Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan, Warren Harding, and Gerald Ford. I once read an article arguing that Martin Luther King Day should be rebranded as Civil Rights Day, do allow for honoring of others who played – and do play – a role in bringing equality and justice to minorities. And I’m all for that.

From first- through ninth-grade, I had the day off of school. My mom said it seemed silly to have a day off school so soon after having a long winter break, but since I hated school I didn’t mind.

In tenth grade, I attended school on Martin Luther King Day for the first time. Several months earlier, my family and I had moved to a new home and a new school district, and since none of the staff of students were black, the lackeys in charge of Rosemount High School decided it should be business as usual. Oh, actually, they charged each teacher to spend the first 10 minutes of second hour talking about King and civil rights. It was worse than doing nothing, really.

In fact, the cover story of the next week’s school paper was an article by a student claiming the school’s sad attempt to honor King was a mockery – if we don’t get the day off, she wrote, fine. But at least let’s have an all-school assembly with local civil rights leaders or scholars talking to us about these issues or guiding us in celebrating how far we’ve come.

In eleventh grade, we got the day off.

By twelfth grade, I had permanently exited Rosemount over a month before mid-January rolled around, but I assume my classmates got the day off then, too.

Now I find myself feeling like my mom. I just had twelve straight days off of work. After less than two weeks, there’s already another holiday? Better, I feel, to save this holiday and give us off the day before or after Easter. Or Election Day. Or even the day after the Super Bowl. None of my coworkers, of those I’ve asked, do anything celebratory for the day. Jennifer and I just used it as a day to get caught up with house work, cleaning, and the kids.

I often host the cable access show Atheists Talk. New episodes are recorded on the second Thursday of each month. This evening marked my 66th episode as  host. It was my tenth occasion being on the show in January, and 75th overall, if I include my times as a guest.

As the crew MacGyvered a solution to a camera issue, one of the two interviewees – and they both came on the show at their behest to discuss Camp Quest – remarked that she is nervous about the impending administrative changes in Washington. The other guest shrugged his shoulders. “Eh,” he said, trying to offer a positive lilt to the inevitable disaster, “I still have hope. Hope in humanity.”

“Not me,” I said, and they both turned to look at me. “I’m just gonna sit outside and play my fiddle while the city burns.” There was a palpable pause; I think they were waiting for a punchline or a smirk to slide across my visage, but neither came. “There was a time for hope, but it’s over now. We had a good run, and it’s over.” I’m a realist, not an optimist. The man said something to me, but the crew had initiated the countdown for the recording to begin and, besides, I had Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” earwormed in my brain, so I couldn’t really pay attention.

Isla came with me to the cable show. Jennifer is less incensed when I leave on a weeknight if I at least bring one of the kids in tow. And since one of them has Jiu Jitsu class on Thursday evenings, and another one is only two years old, there remains only one realistic option. She sat in the annex, on my laptop, watching The Secret World of Arrietty. During the drive home, she asked me if, when having one’s ears pierced, small disks of skin are punched out of the lobes, or if the flesh merely moves aside to make way for the metal studs.

Culling from my deep well of auricle accoutrements, I said, “Uh, I think the skin just moves aside.”

There was silence, so I continued, “You think about ear piercings every once in while, don’t you?”

She said she did, and then added that she wasn’t sure if she really wanted her ears pierced or if she just wanted to be like other girls she sees.

“Well,” I said as we exited the highway, “That can be a good reason to do something. There are a lot of things I do just because other people do them. But for bigger things, it’s probably good to make sure you really want to do them.”

Isla said, “It’s kind of like the only person who really wanted to get their ears pierced was the very first person who got their ears pierced.” Then she asked me again if I ever got my ears pierced. I reminded her I did not – in fact, I’m flatly opposed to any sort of bodily modification that isn’t clearly corrective. I don’t even like earrings – I think women are better-looking without them. I had braces on my teeth when I was a preteen, and I still curse my parents for that rancid decision. Circumcision must rank among the ten dumbest practices our barbaric culture approves of – there was no question Jennifer and I wouldn’t submit our sons to that ritual. And I can’t even bring myself to get a tattoo with my kids’ names, even though I’ve mildly considered it a hundred times in the last decade.

So when Isla asked if I think she should get her ears pierced, I provided her with my standard, nuanced answer, “No.”

“What age should I be?” she asked.

“I think you should be at an age where you are old enough to be sure that that’s something you really want to do, and to be able to understand all the good sides and bad sides.”

“But what age is that?” she persisted, looking for a number.

“Hm…I’m not sure. Probably at least 42,” which, I think, was a fair answer coming from someone who is 41 and a half.