Tell Me Everything

A lovely night with dear Ma on the porch and patio, drinking cocktails and eating a delicious pasta. After, we rode bikes up the bike trail into Winnetka and got some frozen yogurt at a place called Loves that’s new to me. We rode back along the lake and stopped in Kennilworth and looked out at the water for a long while. The sun was going down somewhere in the west and was turning the night sky all shades of pink and lavender. We rode home the long way through downtown Wilmette, which my mom promised would be “jumpin’” and I guess it was. There were teenagers everywhere. At Loves, at the beach, in jumpin downtown Wilmette. The villages are lousy with them, and they look no different than we did fifteen years ago. I remember all of it.

And we came back and I spent some time picking through old writing and journals and stuff and generally making myself sick. My early 20s are well documented in type – I think I was single handedly keeping the Smith-Corona company in business buying typewriter ink. It’s hard stuff for me to look at and bear witness to. Furious growth often is. (Though in Otis, it continues to be impossibly cute.)

But then I found a box of photos and letters I wrote to E back in the early days of our courtship. Letters from Wisconsin, from New York, from my apartment in Chicago, even. Poloroids and photo booth strips from that period. My heart was warmed. Of the literally thousands of pages I typed, it’s these letters, maybe 10 or 12 of them, that are coming home with me.

Towards the ghosts, indeed, but shelter only for the righteous.

I like the Long Beach airport. Outside seating, retro restaurant, literally no line at either the ID checkpoint or the bag and body check, friendly vendors and now, a bar! In the terminal at Long Beach! I don’t need a drink this morning, but I like that it’s an option.

It’s the right airport to be flying out of for this trip. That’s certain.

From the Long Beach Airport
7/21

I’ve had this feeling for a few days now like something’s going to blow this trip. I checked my email on Monday to make sure that I booked the flight right. Seven. Twenty One. Michael Allen. Long Beach to O’Hare. It was all there, all thanks to JetBlue and MSN’s Hotmail. Images displayed, sender trusted.

E dropped me off well early. She has a work day in front of her, plus traffic. I was so grateful for the ride. We listened to retro 1260 and talked the trip, and we talked easy. We drove by the huge railyard off the 710 and I wished for a railroad life. Thought seriously about an imagined interview at Metrolink where I’m being considered for the position of “Conductor.”

“I’ve got a college degree, I can do math in my head, I’m a likeable guy. I’ve even got a beard. Why shouldn’t I get this thing?”
“Have you ever worked on a railroad before, Mr. Allen?”
“No, but…”
“Next!”
“No wait! Listen. You’ve got to understand. I’ve wanted to be a conductor since I started riding the Northwestern to downtown. I can do it. I can boom a fantastic TICKETS PLEASE, an ALL ABOARD. I can get safety certifications and wear a snappy uniform. I can do this. I’ve always wanted to. Please let me.”
“If you’ve always wanted to, Mr. Allen, why haven’t you?”

But I’m doing it now. At least, I’m pretending to. Conductor’s jobs don’t come up often. I look pretty regular.

We get to Long Beach and kiss goodbye. I put my card in the kiosk. My information can’t be found, I’m asked for a confirmation number that I didn’t bring. I’m filled with dread. This trip will somehow be foiled. I should call Elizabeth before she… no. I checked. This has to be right.

I try another card, the one with the cracked strip. The crack doesn’t bother me. The only person who had a problem with it was the hack at the cleaners. It’s not that hard to swipe a cracked strip.

“Hello, Michael C Allen.”

Done.

Now I just need to figure where to smoke this joint. I’ve seen two police so far. One in a car, one on a motorcycle. I’m not going down for the last three hits on this two week old roach. No way.

I walk all the way out of the airport to the golf course across the street. It’s nice to be at such an airport. What a gift.

I poke around, I pick up a score card. “It’s a nice looking course,” I prentend to think, really thinking “Great aliby,” and under that thinking, “Why am I so paranoid?” and under that thinking, “Because the people I love don’t deserve any hassle, but to me this isn’t a big deal and if I’m paranoid that’s fine because I’ll be at least less stupid about it,” and finally under that thinking, “I am here in the world, one with all, my love is ever expansive, my heart bounds towards the infinite.”

And so I go, towards the ghosts, into the ringing past.

I like a dick joke and I wrote that whole thing about Robertson this morning so this is justified.

See you in Tomahawk!

Robertson leaves today for London, where he’ll start his 10,000 mile drive across Europe and Central Asia in an ambulance bought off CraigsList.uk. He is entering the Mongol Rally, a yearly charity/adventure event in which otherwise reasonable people decide to drive ridiculous vehicles across far-flung and unstable regions.

I’m really proud of Johnny. It’s something I could never do. Maybe when I was in my early twenties, when I could pick up and drive for days without even thinking about it. New York to Memphis was an overnight, and then you could be in New Orleans by the next afternoon.

But this is like driving from New York to Los Angeles, and then back to New York. And then back again to LA, and then to Denver. Only the roads are bad, you don’t know the way or speak the languages, and you’re in an ambulance bought off Craig’s List.

I remember when Robertson came home from his trip to Australia, where he drove all over that empty island. His road stories were amazing, and he seemed so suited for him. If there’s anyone who should have gotten to be a merchant marine in the early 60s, it’s Johnny.

But now he has a square gig, one he’s had for like five years. He’s got a kid. He’s got Jenn. And they’ve got an incredible thing going out in Sunnyside Queens.

I guess it’s that square gig what pushed him to do this. He’s been griping about it since he started working it, and fair enough. Square gigs exist to be griped about. When he was out here a couple weeks back, he said that Jenn signed off on this trip based on the fact that they both thought it would curb the pain. I think there’s a lot to that.

To know Johnny is to have a true friend in the world. He lives on camaraderie, and so he needs adventure. And because the adventure is always about a deeper connection to his comrades, he should be rightly outfitted and sent away into the world, arm-in-arm with the wild and untamed, giggling.

Forward, Robertson! Forward!

(You can follow Robertson’s adventures on Facebook or on tumblr.)

The Century Spa boycot is over, all thanks to Tom Hamling. The full details are here.

Headed up to the Lake soon with Tony and Uncle Steve. It will be the second time I’ve seen Steve in almost 30 years — wait, come to think of it, it will be the third time I’ve seen Steve ever in my life. He and my dad were not close.

But at my dad’s memorial service, he asked me to join Facebook so that we could be in better touch. I refused, but said that I would write him letters if he wrote back. We’ve written back and forth maybe ten times. Ten letters will tell you a lot about a person you don’t know. And it’s a courtesy and extension of self I find incredibly generous. His made an uncle where there wasn’t one before.

We’re going up a week from Wednesday. The to-do list is long. On the top of it is to scatter the ashes of Granny Dot and Grampa Don, as well as some of my dad’s. Also at the top is for Steve to make peace with the energy of that house. He hasn’t been there since 1983. He hasn’t been there since his parents died, his mother taking care of that business in the house itself. There is a lot to lay to rest.

As for me, I need to figure out what to do with the place. As I swore before a notary public, I’m the sole remainderman, the person who has to figure out whether to keep the place or to let it go.

This rattles the nest and angers the queen. The only sensible reason to keep the place is if we move back to Chicago. That’s been talked about, especially after our last visit. It’s a possibility, one that we could figure out, one that we could make work.

But are we moving back to Chicago for a vacation house that’s a five and a half hour drive to a location that’s no longer in the far flung wilderness? They put the interstate along the east side of the lake, about a mile or so from the house, and you can hear cars and trucks on it all day and all night, especially when the wind’s not blowing.

And then there’s neighbor Kevin, who moved in after Tracy and Sharon left. Kevin’s from Portage, about 30 minutes north of Madison. He’s a hot dog vendor, a heart attack waiting to happen. A drunk who gets away from his family any chance he can and escapes to right next door to my house to drink himself into oblivion, listen to classic rock and get all up in my business. My dad punched him in the face after a night of hanging out with him. My dad. I almost didn’t believe the story, but Tony, who suffers cell phone calls from this guy, confirmed it. Kevin didn’t remember being punched in the face, but he remembers finding his glasses in the driveway the next morning. My dad had left him face down in his driveway.

But it’s on a lake. And my grandparents built it. The house is part of my family, part of me. Ditto Chicago, where my mom lives, where E’s folks live. We have a great pool of friends there, and could certainly build an interesting life.

But that’s what we’ve done out here. We’ve built an incredibly interesting life. The house we own looks out a literally thousands of trees. We can see for miles from our back deck. Outside the fence, we enjoy nightly parade of wildlife - skunks, raccoons, coyotes. Last night, we cut zucchini from the garden and cooked it in butter and cream and had a feast as the hill darkened and the lights of our little Ewok village started to blink on. It took six years and a lot of work to get to where we are. And we’re still working at it.

That life, however, is in Los Angeles, and I like the city, but I’m afraid for it. Will life be sustainable here in the future? It’s drying up, there’s no question about it. It’s going to get hotter, it’s going to shake until walls fall down. These things will happen. Will I be here with my family when they do?

Or will they figure it out? Is there a genius somewhere, a kid maybe 16 years old and sailing through his senior year at some top-notch university, majoring in some physical science I barely understand, who’s five years away from having the answer to desalinating water cheaply and on a massive scale? Are we fast approaching the days when we can pump water from the ocean into our gardens, the day when solar and wind will be harvesting from the Mojave and shot over here for pennies? Will Los Angeles become a paradise city or will it all go to shit? Will the town dry up and crash to the ground? Will the Chalet become worthless, will it become rubble?

The nest is rattled and the queen is angry. I’m hoping that my Wisconsin retreat will help me feel a strong pull in a specific direction. I will meditate. I will think. I will build a sweat lodge and consult with ghosts.

If you have any other ideas, I’d be glad to hear them.

Went down to get the car washed yesterday, and thought I’d show Otis how to buy a donut from the Yum Yum donut shop that’s across the street. On our way there, we walked past three fellows sitting on the curb. They were talking about the palm trees that lined the parking lot. I figured they were sketchy homeless dudes, so I moved past quickly. A second glance proved me wrong. They were hobos. Real, live hobos, right there in the parking lot of the donut shop.

The differences between sketchy homeless dudes, gutter punks and genuine hobos are actually pretty clear. These were white fellows (racist? maybe…) who seemed both sober and moderately healthy. They were contemplative and jovial, they seemed to share some inside jokes. Only one of them had neck tattoos and weird piercings. One sported a hipster type flat-hat and a heavy beard, the other looked like he’d recently been punched in the face and would be happy tucking into a case of beer and calling it a night. They looked Pacific Northwest. They all had large canvas backpacks and sturdy shoes. They were filthy from a life outdoors. They were a band of hobos. There was no mistaking.

I feel I erred by not approaching the hobos and getting some of their story direct. The gulf between us could have been broached, and it was up to me to broach it. But I didn’t. Without any addition cash (donut and car wash had me all tied up), I was reluctant. Otis was strapped to my chest in Ergo-brand carrier, and I questioned whether his immune system would be able to stave off any weird hobo diseases these guys might be rolling with.

So I hung back, and told Otis about hobos, both past and present. I warned him that a life of pennilessness travel could take it’s toll.

Otis waved at the Fightin’ Hobo, and the Fightin’ Hobo waved back. We all for a minute felt the spirit of adventure.

Some babies you can take just lay down for a nap. Other babies have some fight in them and are hard to get down from standing. If you’re going to be a parent, you want to be developed in all aspects of getting your baby to tap, and submission holds are crucial. There are a lot of ways to submit a baby, some more effective than others. I’ve found the following holds and set-ups to work the best.

SET-UPS

A crucial part of any submission is the set-up. You can’t expect a submission hold to work on your baby if you haven’t done any set up. You’re going to find the baby will be able to work free of the hold and you’ll both be back on your feet on equal ground.

Ergo-brand carrier + walking is a classic set-up. Baby’s movement is already restricted and the walking motion is numbing his brain. When it comes time to finish, you’ll have no problem dropping the carrier and putting him in the hold of your choice.

Breast milk, either via the boob or the bottle, weakens baby’s resolve. His corner can shout all they want, but once you give him the white gold, his game plan is shot and his will to win goes from 110% to about 45%.

Stroller + badly paved street has a similar numbing effect as Ergo-brand + walking. A car ride, or as the announcers call it “Freeway Fathering,” is another popular variation. But beware - the transition from the stroller or car seat to your submission hold can be tricky. Ergo brand is often preferred for both ease of transfer and the consistent body contact that comes with.

SUBMISSION HOLDS

Once you’ve got your baby set up, you’ll want to submit him quickly. Any wasted time is going to allow baby to regroup, change position and rework his game plan. You need to control the body and get him into one of these holds fast.

Inward Claw Crusher

This is a cross-body position that has baby’s head in one elbow and torso controlled on the strong side. Baby can arch and kick from this position, but if you’ve got the elbow placed properly around the hips, he won’t be able to free himself. As he settles, you can move to a more sustaining hold to get him down. Next stop, Tap City, baby.

Shown seated (advanced)

Outward Facing Dolphin Net

Similar to the claw crusher, but baby faces outward. Here you use the arm to block baby's movement like the net that it's named after. Baby goes in, but he never gets out. Ever. Who just tapped the keg? Boom.

Omoplatta

Another cross-body position, but in this hold, you take baby’s feet and cross them at the ankles. Note here that baby can (and should be able to) break free from this position. The key here is being able to get him back in quickly. It’s not a leg lock, per se, but it works like one. A minute in the omoplata and it’s you’ll hear the whistle blow — Tap Time, dogg.

Grizzly

With you baby in the North-North position, you want to hold him securely to your chest, not too tight to restrict breathing, but firmly enough so that he can feel your heart beating in your chest. Note that this submission hold needs a great set up in order to be effective, but if you pull it off, you can head down to City Hall and rename your baby “Tack Hammer,” because all he ever does is tap.

Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board

This is more of a transition hold for when baby has re-doubled and is arching and kicking. It’s extremely counter-intuitive, so listen to your corner and if they call it, follow their instructions. This is another cross-body hold where baby is facing the sky. You’re holding him on his back between your arms and you’re letting him do the work here. He arches, he kicks, and then when he shows a bit of give, you let his body bend as though he was floating on a cloud. You could spend five minutes here. Listen to your corner. Stay with it. And as soon as it’s time to transition, you’ll want one of the other cross-body positions. Only pros get a tap from here.

Good luck, and parent well, and remember: GIT THAT TAP daddy.