Adeodatus in Wonderland

This morning I boiled up the lil' woodland creature along with some onion, celery and a dash of worchester. It was intended to be a small batch of stew, but the broth was really weak and tasteless, and we are plumb out of Squirrel Bullion (the canned stuff is too expensive unless you can find it on sale). Sure you can substitute a dash of 'coon and 1/2 tsp of possum bullion, but that sometimes imparts a metallic, MSG flavor, sort of like you get with those Squirrel Ramen packages.

Since stew was right out, I drained the pot, patted dry the squirrel pieces, and cleaned the meat from the bones. Then I fried up some rice and cabbage and stirred in the meat. You may be surprised to hear that there isn't a whole lot of white meat on a squirrel, especially a red squirrel. The kids picked at it for about ten minutes before asking to be excused. Squirrel should rhyme with 'lead balloon." I tasted the stuff before throwing it all out and realised that I hadn't added a single pinch of salt or spice. One little squirrel cannot carry the weight of flavoring an entire dish. You people of the woods know such things, and I learned the hard way as I scraped out the frypan into the rubbish.

Let's hope the pelt meet with a little more success than the meat. I'll let you know how it turns out in a few weeks. It is now in the work room (our Green Room), nailed to a board, scrapped of its fat and liberally salted. If I had thought about it beforehand I would've tried to tan the pelt with a little more finesse so R. could have a real fur jacket for Barbie by Christmas.

Last week the one year anniversary of this blog came and went without ceremony. Instead of marking the occasion with a reflective look back or even a blithe remark, I wrote about boycotting advertisers. Hardly momentous. Do note that I have, in the last year, never done a darn thing to my off-the-shelf template or even updated my tagline.

But big news comes sometimes without herald or fanfare. The big news here is that Tim Berglund has graciously opened up his prime-location virtual property for the likes of me. No more staring down these lonely country lanes for this lad. No siree. Now we have a genuine collaborative effort underway over at his place, right in the thick of things. I haven’t given much thought to how this will look on this end, whether I’ll shutter this thing or save it for little weekend getaways. If you don’t see much happening here, though, take a quick look over yonder at Tim Berglund (et al) dot com.

Thanksgiving 2004 will not go down as a forgettable little get together. Turkey, mashed potatoes, one broken nose, a poached pet squirrel, and some late night family history from Dear Old Dad’s DOD days.

J. got an airgun for his birthday a year ago, but an unfortunate incident with a pocketknife (during Sunday School, no less) has kept the rifle in its box an entire year. But since a year of maturation has passed and my sister’s new house has an expansive, wooded back yard I figured it was time to show the boys how to properly handle a firearm and punch a hole in a soda can from 10 yards. J. and his two older cousins took turns plinking soda cans off of stumps for about an hour until the squirrel showed up in the trees to the north. I felt pretty confident in their lack of sharpshooting skills, enough to let them aim at the little wooded beast. Besides, I thought, this is hardly a gun or ordnance to take down a small rodent. But then I took a turn, and at 20 yards in an offhand stance I managed to hit the critter right in the noggin. Ooops. The nephews were ecstatic, running into the house to tell everybody the news. My sister was none too pleased. As we were carrying it into the house to skin it, my brother-in-law said it must be the fat squirrel which has been stealing all the birdseed from their feeders. I noted this to my sister, thinking it would make me out to be the good guy. Another oops. Turns out she’s been feeding it on purpose, watching it every morning from the picture window as she drinks her first cup of hot tea.

The feast went off well enough. We enjoyed all the usual trimmings and unique family appetizers. A roommate in college introduced us to smoked oysters and Tabasco on Triskets, and it has been present at every Big Family Dinner ever since. Crab & cream cheese spread. Hot ham dip.

We skinned out the squirrel after we ate. I tried to look up some clear instructions online, but in the end I just handed the knife to Dad. It has been just about half a century since he cleaned a squirrel, but it came back to him quickly enough. My boy would have nothing of it, wanting instead a tasteful burial. The nephews were all over it, wanting to mount the head on a pike and post it by the bird feeder as a warning to all other rodents. Sigh. No, boys. We respect God’s provision and the profound cost in ending a creature’s life. Sister would not let any of the creature into the house. Not the fur, not the meat. Nothing.

St’s mom and sister said their goodbyes around seven, and Lil’ Scotty ran over to give his favorite uncle a nice hug. I tossed him up high a few times for a few last giggles. But his mom didn’t see it and he wanted more, so I flung the skinny two-year-old up again. Only this time he performed an acrobatic maneuver at the apex of his flight, and even though I adjusted to make a clean catch, his head came down right on my nose. I’ve never heard it make that kind of crack before. Somebody then snapped a picture of me sitting on the couch with a frozen Jimmy Dean sausage roll on my nose.

The day ended quietly. BIL took all the older boys bowling, so we sat on the couches and pried my dad for more stories about how he won the Cold War. We learned things about how he played both sides against the middle to get a few experiments on the shuttle, how he was offered an academic position in Leningrad by an unsuspecting visiting Soviet climatologist (military grad students didn’t exactly wear their uniforms to their labs), how compartments work. Stuff you should know about your dad’s military service, although it made my life seem mighty small. What was he doing when he was my age? Serious science in the service of the country. I make sure the house is cleaned up after the kids are in bed.

And now we are home. Unpacked. Ready for the holidays. Were we thankful? Sure. But I am not cooking up Mrs. Squirrel until tomorrow, so I’ll let you know how truly thankful we are then.

"I want to go out of here," N. wimpered whenever the action in Polar Express got a little intense. The 5-story-high screen and booming sound did indeed make the scenes intense and absorbing, especially for a three-year-old. Add the 3D element, and you've got the stuff of head-buried-into-Papa’s-chest and a possible bad dream or two.

I didn't want to get out of there until the movie was nearly over, when the story took a decidedly weak turn for bogus Kierkegaardian faith and a worked-up Christmas-spirit emotivism.

Let me say up front that I am not a big fan of the Santa myth as it has come down to us. About this time of year a few years back J. looked out the window on the drive to school and asked if Santa Claus was real. Sure he was real, I told him. I saw his bones in a box. This led into a teachable moment on the historical Saint Nicholas, a flesh-and-blood man who felt compassion for poor children and gave them modest gifts. This is the sort of man I would like my children to celebrate and remember in wonder, not the Victorian, department store caricature. That does not mean that I despise the caricature, that I forbid my children from sitting on his lap, or whisper in their ears the origins of Satan’s nickname “Ol’ Nick” and shield their tender eyes as we pass Christmas displays.

Polar Express succeeds in so many ways as a movie. Technologically it is a thing of beauty, and I don’t even know the half of what went into making it. The shots of reflections in the chrome Ford hubcap and later in the silver sleigh bell are genuinely stunning. The action scenes do more than scare little boys – they provide a frenetic, engaging cinematic ride. And at points along the way, you get the feeling that this kids’ movie could really become a nice vehicle itself for exploring the nature of faith and belief, of crass wants and sacrificial service.

“Seeing is believing,” says Mr. Conductor several times along the ride. At one point, though, he turns to boy and says something about believing without having to see. The climatic scene has Boy straining to see Mr. Claus or to hear the strangely silent sleigh bells. A bell comes loose, rolls to his feet, and provides the germ for his leap of faith. Eyes shut tight, he pronounces his faith. “I believe. I believe…” and there is Santa, in the flesh to reward his leap into the faith of the elven throngs.

Up to this moment, all is fine and good. Belief does come with difficulty, and we are often called on to profess our faith before the evidence is clearly manifest. But here is where the movie breaks down and becomes little more than a slick vehicle for Dickensian Christmas Spirit, only more trite and bound to the gift-getting element. The faith Boy works up is nothing more than the faith of the red sea of elves, a cleaned up Christmasy version of the Matrix rave. He wants to believe in Santa. Other children seem so happy and fulfilled retaining their faith in St. Nick, so by pure force of will he joins the Christ-free cultic apparatus. His reward for belief in the Big Man? He receives first gift of Christmas, anything he desires. (See, you think that Santa will give the destitute Billy the first gift, since he has never experienced any of this Christmas charm, living as he does on the other side of the tracks. Psyche! Santa tells him that he should be glad to have a few new friends. There is a bit of sick humor in Santa telling a penniless lad that All This isn’t about presents or possessions. Billy should have kicked ol’ Santa in his Silver Bells right then and there).

Was it disturbing to see Christmas utterly reduced to the cultic myth of Santa? Sure, but that is hardly unique or new. What this film does is to strip the event not only of its religious referents but even of the supposed residual ethos of love and sacrifice. Grinch (the book and cartoon) left us with families enjoying one another even when stripped of goods. It's a Wonderful Life finishes with a lifetime of sown sacrificial goodwill reaping salvation through the sacrifices of an entire community. Even Dickens himself assured us that the benefits we gain from loving and helping others far outweigh the products of a self-centered existence. Polar Express tells us that the summum bonum of the Christmas experience is to retain a childish belief in the cult of Santa, which, according to this movie, is consummated beneath the Tree of Presents. Not faith in the dignity of human beings or the power of redemption or the profound effects of personal sacrifice, but faith in faith, because it feels nice to remain innocent of crass myth-destroying social forces.

In spite of the show's overwhelming commercial success with key demographics, two companies have yanked their advertising from ABC's Desperate Housewives. St. and I watched one of the first episodes together, and she doubled over whenever the scene switched to the blond lady who tried to deal with three unruly boys. However, the other scenes had to do with a lonely wife seducing her teenage landscaper, a loose lady working her way into the new neighbor's pants, and the mystery surround the wife and mother who plugged a cap through her grey matter. A wasted hour when it comes to thoughtful or pleasant entertainment, but another bit of insight into the general state of things.

And this is the hit which has saved ABC from the abyss. This is the proud network which mangled St's favorite show by evidently replacing the season 1 & 2 writers with a tired guy from General Hospital who had a few minutes to spare after rewriting his punchy daytime dialog. The network also killed the only contemporary sitcom I would've ever let my kids watch, assuming the scheduling geniuses hadn't put it on well past their bedtimes and crammed it between Dog-strewn Trash and Flacid Annoyance. But now it has DH, a genuine hit with the Right People. You are seeing articles and spin-offs all over the place. One of the Sunday insert magazines: "Dating Guru's Advice for the Desperate Housewives." Desperate Housewives Christmas album, shamoo, and Upscale Marital Aids will be released in time for the holiday season.

So imagine my surprise when flipping through the paper today and reading in a sidebar on the Business front page that both Lowes and Tyson have pulled their advertising from the show. Maybe it was the idiotic crossover with Terrell Owens on MNF a few days back. Or maybe it was a genuine move of corporate responsibility (hardly words associated with Tyson in the last few years). In a very uncharacterist move, I contacted both to let them know their move is appreciated. Here are the links: Tyson Foods and Lowes. Now, Tyson requires a static, cold e-mail, but when you call Lowes you get to speak with some sweet gal from North Carolina. That alone should motivate you to take the three minutes it takes to call.

Postscript: Turns out that both these companies pulled their advert dollars immediately, after the first episode, in keeping with strict company policies. So much for the High Ground in spite of demographic success. Still. . .

A more bothersome thing for me is the company this post puts me in. I do not believe deep down that broadcast television is a sacrosanct medium which requires the diligence of the people to remain squeaky clean. Really: was television so much better in content (or, more importantly, its nature as commercial visual entertainment) when married couples slept in separate beds and the word "pregnant" was taboo? Is a showing of an unedited Private Ryan of much more concern than the utter banality of most programs? Where is my petition to mark my outrage at idiodic dialog (and idiotic H2) of David Caruso in CSI Miami ? (History will not be kind to that program, lemme tell you. In fifty years you will have papers in cultural studies journals noting that this insipid, pretentious cop show could barely last one round in the ring with its clear ancestor).

Check out this nifty new politcal map of north America!

Denver proper follows the rest of this country's major urban centers by voting blue. I never saw nor heard the name of the Republican challenger for Disctrict 1 until I read it to myself behind the ballot curtains. Incumbant Dianne DeGette was quoted in the paper saying she never took this election for granted. Funny, though: I never saw any yard signs with her name on them. No TV or mail or newspaper ads. No grassroots door knocking. If this wasn't taking an election for granted, I'd wonder what such confidence would look like. Democrats live here. Just like Detroit, San Francisco, and Chicago. Interestingly, though, Denver doesn't get to treat the rest of the state like a HipHop Video BeeAtch like those other cities do. The Mile High City may be a lovely shade of blue when the results are tallied, but all she can do is scowl at the sea of red surrounding her when the 9 electoral votes are handed over.

Look at the election maps for several important states who went for Kerry: Michigan, Illinois, , and to a lesser extent, Pennsylvania. Look at the maps of California, Oregon, and Washington, too, if you want to see how broad the geographical borders of JesusLandUSA really stretch. I am no fan of dismantling the Electoral College as it stands, but imagine if the Winner-takes-All systemm were replaced by a percentage system, especially by county or district...

I'm hoping that this election results in a Democratic party taking a long, hard look at their platform. I go to dances and youth group with the Right, but I like to hang out with those other kids after lunch most days. Well, when they aren't getting freaky. The way I see it, the party to the left can adjust its platform a bit, inject a bit of centrist vigor, and survive for a few more decades, or it can maintain its moral arrogance and remain content with a few majorities in state houses and school districts.

Dear Web Diary:

What a day we had today! J. turned 10. We had a big waffle brunch, complete with chocolate chips, CoolWhip, bacon, and homemade strawberry syrup. Yum! Only a few more years of active parenting left with the boy. Better start to make it count. Better start to get him proficient with

Then it was quick baths & a dash over to Mark R.’s Mountain People Wedding Reception. As is the hip thing with many of our friends, they became man and wife in the Midwest but kindly hold a reception over here for all the old college and work pals. It served as a nice college reunion and wasn’t even spoiled by the blaring of the fire alarm.

When the alarm went off I turned to the seat beside me to find N. gone. Can you guess whose curious little fingers had reached up and pulled that little white lever? I found him standing in the hall with his hands over his ears and a terrified look buried in his chubby face. The only other interesting thing the kids did was smash a glass or two. Same-o.

Still got this cold. You would think that my scientific diet of Halloween candy and coffee would have nipped it right in the bud. Alas, no. Sneezes and congestion abound.

Finally, Diary, our 12th Qwest service call looks like it did the trick! After replacing the drop line, the network box on the pole and the box on the house, removing a network branch, sending us an unnecessary new modem and a good chunk of my life on the phone with tech support, we haven’t seen our DSL drop all day. Turns out the last guy was right: old wiring was creating errors. Run new, dedicated lines and WhooooT! High-speed like God intended. No more getting ready for school only to have the kids’ online lessons unavailable. No more cursing the modem’s blinking lights.

Well, that's enough for today, eh, Diary? Sleep tight.

Last President Election I tried to do it old timey: first we voted, then I eschewed all electronic media. I wanted to wake up in the morning, make a pot of coffee, and pick up the paper nonchalantly from the frosted grass. Then I would lay it out on the table, sip the hot, strong joe, and glance down at the front page to learn the direction this country would take during the next four years. You know the rest of the story.

This year we decided to make it a Civic Event. I dressed up in slacks and tie and herded the family the two blocks to precinct 114 polling place, the local elementary school. Some punk 3rd grader looked St. in the eye as he marched by and told her to vote for Kerry. She steeled her gaze at his little face and said No, like you would speak to a puppy nipping at your socks. I complained to the election judge of blatant electioneering within 100 feet of the polls, but the coward did nothing. Get that bleached-hair 3rd grader in shackles for violating federal law. That'd show him.

R. fell on the way home, jamming her finger. We put a wad of snow on it when we got home. Now St. is at work, and I’m whipping up a batch of Pumpkin Pancakes as I listen to election news streaming across the InterWeb. Hoppy wheat beer is in the glass. Kids yelling at each other as I squint at graphics of reds and blues. . .


Update: 7:42. Less screaming as they down the pancakes. Ohio's still up for grabs. Exit pollers are desperate to gain some respectability, but I still have my doubts. Wheat beer's gone. Lil' glass of barleywine is now poured & sipped.

Update: 8:08. If the Fox projections are correct, only 100 electoral votes left to go. Did I mention how thankful I am that we have enjoyed freedom from a Madrid Surprise? It could have been ugly.