I need an office

It just hit me. I need an office.

I need a brown office with a brown leather chair, brown desk, dark hardwood polished mahogany floors, bookshelves detailing my intellect, pictures detailing the happiness of my family, where I beat and/or molest my sons with my belt.

No, seriously, I need a place to not have to be around Lucy while she's playing Zelda. It's the sensory overload that kids love--the sights, the sounds--that's turning me off.

It's bright lights and bright colors, and there's a sound for everything. Link is yelling, shit is blowing up, monsters are electrifying themselves audibly and they roll at link with giant hard carapaces that sound like dirt bikes, and Lucy has taken to pushing the Wii's home button to pause the game and freeze the action about ten times per minute, sometimes rapid-fire five or six times in three seconds, and of course it makes a nice little menu sound every fucking time. Even with the tv volume turned down to 5, it's like bleach pouring into my ears.

So where do I go? To avoid constant distraction from all adult thinking, I need a separate room. And right now in my apartment, there are three rooms available to me, that aren't the living room. One is my room, with the bed, and not the comfy couch. Another is the kitchen, with a hardwood table and hardwood chairs, and not the comfy couch. The third is the bathroom.

You see my dilemma? BB is finally sleeping, I took the kids outside today, got them dressed and fed, and .. gosh ... darnit... if this fucking game doesn't beep constantly when the player is down on hearts. I was a good dad today, and I deserve a little break.

Also, Lucy deserves a little time to do something she loves. This is exactly what she wants to do right now and she's happy, and it's not filled with advertisements, or even characters that talk at you and don't encourage reaction.

I was thinking about putting on headphones, but that requires sound directly in my ears, and I'd rather just have less sound, overall. And it involves me getting up. And I'm tired. And I don't want to have to get up to do one more thing. But fuck dude, this job of mine is right at home, and I've gotta do it. I've gotta do it.

√∫◊

My landlord is DRAGGING HIS FUCKING FEET with moving us out of here. See, we're waiting on him to get the flooring re-done downstairs, so we can switch apartments in this big, century-old duplex house we share. He's got the bigger place downstairs, and wants to switch with us. He's never frickin home, so it seems like it would be good for all of us.

I dunno. Maybe it's time to move. Again. We've been in this place for three years. That's not that long. Can't we stay here a little longer? This waiting is driving me nuts. My best bet is to wait it out, and get the awesome apartment downstairs with a double basin sink and fucking twice the space as this place. I want it I want it I want it.

Landlord said he'd have us down there by MARCH. Criminy. The waiting. The waiting. The waiting. The dwindling faith. The having to rely on others. The weighing of enslavement to rent wages versus the high price of home ownership. The lack of time and energy when one parent is stuck raising kids and the other is stuck at a full-time job. It's all so depressing.

We're lucky to have this place, it's in the middle of a much richer neighborhood than us. I mean, the people living around here are like, established, money-making, middle-aged parents who have their shit together and own houses with nice-looking yards. And Megan and I just rent this tiny little upstairs apartment in the middle of it all.

We've got a sweeeeet park right next to us, we live literally one block away from Megan's work, it's close to the U District, Capitol Hill and downtown, wi-fi is included in the rent ... it's too good to let go.

Looks like we're waiting! In the meantime, it would be great to have a room to go to to just have some quiet time. But I don't get that right now.

Holy shit, Lucy just made it somewhere on Zelda that I don't know how to get to, and it's all interesting, and I'm actually enthused about where it might go, and then ... "Can I play Mario 64?" sheepishly.

"Ok, honey."

Today at the park I got a phone call about a video internship in Woodinville. This lady lives up there, and she has two video bays in her home, and she makes documentaries. She's trying to put together a non-fiction film festival. She needs help putting some projects together in Final Cut Pro.

Tomorrow morning at 10, I'm gonna go over there and see what she's all about, and what kind of time commitment I'm looking at. And I gotta talk to my school to see if I can get credit for it.

®å∂

Maybe not a brown office, but a studio... with the room divided with the control room on one side and the performance room on the other, and like a big ass couch and not two but three comfy chairs, and a big ass mixing board and like all this shit ...

Two little munchlings

Late June, 2012

Kid pictures

My first experimentation with Flickr. Looks pretty good to me.

Tits

Babies get the best tits.

AM I RIGHT?!

Post-dad-visit reflections

My last post was about my dad's then-upcoming visit.

You know, if it had not been so long since I had last seen him, I would not have been so nervous.

He's an easy-going guy, quick to realize his effect on the moods of others, and generally full of love for the universe. I didn't have much to worry about.

I was so preoccupied thinking of my childhood, when we were both very different people, that it was making me anxious.I was caught up in only remembering my perception of him--dad thru the lens of a son growing up before him.

It seemed strange that, in the weeks before his arrival, I was feeling like how I did as a child, helpless before this giant who could squash me like a bug, who isn't as impressed with my antics as my friends, and whose experience in the world exceeds mine by a long shot. This giant also chose to stick with me, a baby, toddler, adolescent, and teenager, and all the shit I dole out during those life stages.

We loved one another, but it wasn't a way that I understood until I had my own kids and started doing almost exactly what he was doing when he was my age. I realized who he is, who my mom is, where I fit into all that, and who I am as a mixture of the two.

Things were tense in my house for a long time, mostly during high school. Some of it was my fault, some of it was my parents'. Trying to keep score now, to know where to assign blame, is frivolous.

We get along better now that we don't live together. Let's just leave it at that. And they're both great people. And I love them very much. And I owe them my life.

They're leaving my brother and I the house and their assets in their will, did I ever mention that? They'll be providing for me even after they leave this world. Now that's something I'd like to be able to give my kids.

When dad actually visited, it was awesome. He was cool just hanging out, meeting BB, going with the flow. Him, Lucy and I went to the aquarium one day. Another day, we took him to Top Pot, and then to my campus at UW. He got to bond with his granddaughters and leave a lasting impression.

The last night he was in Seattle, he hung out late here at the house. Him, Megan and I sat at the kitchen table and drank Jack Daniel's for a little over an hour. He talked a lot and we listened a lot. It was all truly interesting to hear, and dad told me a lot of stuff that kinda opened my eyes.

For one thing, he was a Detroit and Jersey punk who specifically chose western Michigan to settle down with his family. It gave me a lot of insight into his character.

His process for applying for jobs in that area, while we all lived in San Jose during my first years, was interesting--he sent out letters, by mail, mind you, to various companies. He was going to be in town at such-and-such a time, and if they wanted to set up an interview, they could. He had job offers he could live with in the Muskegon area, and in Manistee. Can't remember why, but he took the Manistee job--there was something about it he liked better.

It was there I grew up, from a five-year-old to my entrance into legal adulthood.

Dad went up to Bellingham after a few days. My family's got a little contingency there--my uncle Guy, aunt Laurie, and their three kids Jared, Savannah, and Tessa, and my brother, live there. Megan and I dragged our kids up there and spent a night in the same hotel as dad. It was fun.

It was a busy time--in addition to my dad's visit, Tessa was graduating high school, and Laurie's parents, cousin, and cousin's wife were all visiting. Hence the hotel visit--Guy was going a little bonkers dealing with everything and constantly cleaning house and trying to retain some composure.

Brother, Dad

So after a good two days with the Smith BHamm Contingency, we left dad in Bellingham and went back to our regularly scheduled lives in Seattle. The next morning he hit road, down to Everett, and from there to highway 2, which took him across the north border of the country, thru the U.P., and back down to Manistee.

After a few days had gone by, I noticed that I had a renewed enthusiasm for, well, life. To be a good father, and put forth that extra effort for my kids, was no longer a trifle for me. Dad gave me some kind of inspiration I didn't expect.

Reconnecting with my family is awesome. You learn so much about yourself.

Also, did I mention that my family is just generally awesome? We don't have squabbles; we don't fight. We're good to one another. I'm a lucky dude.

Grandpa's coming to visit

My dad's coming to visit tomorrow, and I gotta admit I've sorta got the jitters.

He's something else, all right.

A laid-back dude, biker for almost 20 years, self-employed therapist with an MA in clinical psychology from San Jose State University.

Always been a tree-hugger and a hippie. Raised us in Eastlake, a small village just across Manistee Lake. For all intents and purposes, I tell people that I'm from Manistee.

And indeed, my parents are well-known there. They still live in the house I grew up in, are happily married, and basically have their shit really well in order. I'm proud of them, really. From humble, middle-class backgrounds they both came, and they both rose further above them.

Dad took us camping a lot when we were kids, something I didn't always appreciate then, but I sure as shit do now.

Raised my brother and I in the church, something my brother and I have since left, and my mother and father still struggle to reconcile this. It's the elephant in the room with us, so to speak.

But they both know they raised good boys, albeit a little crazy. And I've given them granddaughters, two beautiful granddaughters. Can't complain about that.

My mom and dad are both really nice, cool people. For that I am lucky. They still love each other too, for which I am always thankful.

My dad's riding his fucking Honda 1100cc Shadow out here from Michigan. He called on the phone tonight, from Spokane. Tonight he's staying in a hotel, as, apparently, the drive thru Montana today was windy, rainy, snowy and cold, and kicked his ass.

Or he kicked its ass. Whatever.

He'll be on his way tomorrow morning, and then book himself in a hotel here for four days. Then up to Bellingham to see his other son, the jerk, and his brother's family of 5. The Bellingham Smithold, if you will.

I've got "ammunition," as his cousin calls it, of a certain exchange student he took to prom. I know nothing, but I think Caryn wishes she could be here when I spring it on him, don't you, Caryn?

So yeah, I've got the jitters. For no good reason, other than that it won't be a long enough visit. And I miss my dad, and yet he will always eternally annoy me, simply because he raised me, AND I have his dna, and (mostly) I'm an uptight guy.

Dad's never met Beatrix before, and he's only seen Lucy twice--at two months, and one year. It'll be a big deal for him, and he's been excited about the trip for a long time. Packed and ready to go about two weeks in advance, my mom said.

Gritty Detroit documentary by Loki Films

I come from Michigan. I was raised in Manistee, and went on to live in Ann Arbor for four years before moving to Seattle, where I am now.

This is only so you know that Detroit is a very important city to me, and Loki Films is telling its story as no one else has the courage to.

The link below will take you to a site that has a short video preview of the film that follows an introduction by the two Loki masterminds.

They're asking for donations, but don't click out of an obligation to give money. Click because you love Detroit.

DETROPIA - We're Releasing our Doc Independently by Loki Films — Kickstarter:

'via Blog this'

kids are small

So much to say and only a limited time to say it. Henceforth this entry will probably suck, and read like a hurried, overworked and undersatisfied dad with a 3-year-old leaning on his arm shaking a Wiimote around.

But you know what? I like my 3-year-old leaning on me. Cause then I can put my arms around her and bury my face in her hair, close my eyes, and feel her life force surrounding me, and I'm calmed. The intense vibrations of stress cease, and I am at peace.

The baby sleeps in her room, mama's at work, the weather's nice, it's mostly quiet around here, and life is good.

So much has happened since and before the Racer shootings that I've wanted to blog about, but haven't had the time. Let's see if I can shoot out a quick list without going into much detail:

• Lucy is peeing in the toilet like a champion, and she even poos in there sometimes. And she wears underwear now, not diapers.
• BB can take five or six steps all by herself now.
• I'm done with school for the summer.
• My dad is driving his motorcycle out here, from MI, to see us and meet BB for the first time. He'll be here Monday.
• Megan is taking a week off for the occasion.
• I saw Sleep a few nights ago. Legendary.
• Lucy has a belly button and I like to put my finger in it.
• Lucy can now point the Wiimote at the tv and push the A button when the proper thing is highlighted.

You know what she just did, as I was typing that last sentence? She put the Wiimote on the couch, started pulling her pants down off her ass, which is incredibly funny, and started walking towards the bathroom to go pee all by herself.

I have to get up and wipe her now.

May 30th in Seattle

Never forget the day
The thirtieth of May

Café Racer shootings -- a day-after analysis

Yesterday the Café Racer shootings occurred.

     Why?

Mentally ill guy, off his medication, walks into café, opens fire on people inside.

Word around the neighborhood is that the guy had been to Racer previously, apparently being creepy. He'd been 86'd once or twice.

What was going thru his head? Will it make sense to a person who isn't mentally ill?

Possibly he wanted retribution for being treated as less than a good customer. Maybe he saw his 86ing as an injustice.

Possibly he perceived everyone in Racer as his enemies, everyone against him, and he wanted to end their lives.

Some guy was in his own little world, deep inside his head, slaughtering people who, outside his head, were innocent café regulars. The rage burning behind his eyes was probably too much for him to turn off.

The Racer customers were probably having a good time just hanging out, laughing and talking and consuming delicious drinks and pastries, enjoying the atmosphere. Our gunman was probably jealous that he couldn't do that himself.

One man's malfunctioning brain was the death of five people yesterday.

     How it affected me

This is my neighborhood--the Roosevelt district. The Ravenna district is further west, towards the Rav Tav.

See the two yellow stars near the middle of the picture? Café Racer is the one on the bottom, with the "A" marker. My house is on 12th, just above NE 62nd St.

It was way too close to home. I started getting really scared. There was a gunman on the loose. Not only that, but he fled north from Racer.

He could have been anywhere around my house. I was home with my kids,  effectively trapped inside.

I was afraid for a good deal of the day. The fight-or-flight instinct was kicking in. It was sunny and warm outside; dark inside.

I was vigilant in keeping my eyes and ears out for strangers coming up my stairs. Any random noise outside was suspicious. Like a fool, I went downstairs and checked my basement, to see if there was anyone hiding out down there. If the gunman was down there, I might be dead now. Next time there's a gunman on the loose in my neighborhood, remind me not to leave my kids alone in the house for even one second.

The gunman looked just like a Seattle hipster--white dude, unkempt mop of brown hair, and brown beard. He could have been any one of the many dudes around our Roosevelt neighborhood here who fit that exact description.

So the day is dragging by, and I'm sorta glued to the computer for any updates on the situation. Megan came home from work at four, and I went to school. I had three papers due last night by seven--I finished two, and got an extension on the other.

Before I could even start writing, however, I had to follow the news a little more and do some Tweeting and Facebooking of the unfolding details. It was an exciting time, though disturbing, terrifying, and sad.

My bus ride to school was not the normal kind, cause I sat in the forward-facing seat nearest the front. This middle-aged black dude with beanie and a fucked up tooth or two was right in front of me. He was having an adamant but civil conversation with a slightly older middle-aged black dude, thickly and tastefully bearded with a ball cap, sitting directly across the aisle and facing him.

Dude in front of me was saying that if Mt. Ranier blows, there's no way the city would be evacuated in time. It would take about 15 days, he estimated, for everyone to leave the city. Other dude was saying he'd take his truck on the back roads to get outta town. 

They start looking at me as they talk, I start reacting and soon I'm part of the conversation. Neither of them had heard about Café Racer yet, so I told them about it. The whole time dude in front of me was talking about natural disasters, all I could thing was that that's far down the road, and the murder going down that very day was far more pressing.

Another middle-aged white man with this cool goatee, curly, previously-blonde dyed hair and business attire, who sat across the aisle from me sometime during the conversation. He joined in the conversation as soon as I told the two black dudes about Racer, mentioning the carjacking at 8th and Seneca.

Everyone on the bus behind us got real quiet, too. They heard our whole conversation. It was an almost-full bus. We were all joined in solidarity on the issue--all siblings in fear, so to speak. A few more people joined in the conversation. The issue right then was whether or not the police had procured a photo of the guy.

Seriously--when shit like this happens, people really come together. It's beautiful to experience, yet sad, because tragedy is often the catalyst.

I got to school. My nervousness about leaving Megan home alone with the kids was dispelled as soon as I opened my computer, in a lone classroom, after I'd gotten food.

For an hour or more, I was further glued to my computer. The killer was caught; killed himself; the downtown and the Racer killings were linked, tentatively, then definitely.

I calmed down and got to work.

     Resuming normal life

When class started, Florangela gave a little speech, from the bottom of her heart, about the shittiness of the day's events. She spoke about how, on a day like yesterday, everything else can feel less important; useless, even.

But the silver lining in all of this is that there are many, many people doing nice, beautiful, artistic things. The world is not full of people doing terrible things, though it can seem that way on such a shitty day.

And telling stories about people is an important part of keeping terrible things at bay. People knowing about other people helps keep us grounded and relatable with one another. Love pervades in this way, which hinders hatred.

I gave my presentation in class. I mentioned how I had interviewed my subject at Café Racer, and there was a band setting up at the time and making music in the background, and that we could have been hearing a ghost in the recording. 

The whole class gets heavy faces. My presentation was marred by the Racer shootings, even.

It was our last class together. I sort of bolted out of there--some people, I could tell, wished I would have stayed. They were giving me forlorn glances as I walked out.

Riding the bus home, I got off a couple stops early. I walked to Café Racer, without knowing if anything was going on.

First, I saw news vans with antennas reaching high into the sky. Slowly the mass of people materialized as I turned the corner from Ravenna onto Roosevelt. It was a full-on vigil, son. A beautiful, though saddening thing.

I stayed for a while. The flowers in front of the place were beautiful. It was an altar of life, given to the dead. I didn't know anybody there, and yet they were all my friends. 

So many people were affected. Everyone living in the Roosevelt and Ravenna neighborhoods either knew directly, or was one or two degrees from them.

And, of course, it was like Café Racer had died a little itself, that day. It was up to the vigilant to breathe new life into it, by sharing in their sorrows and mourning together.

Here are a couple photo galleries of the vigil that I found this morning, from The Seattle Post-Intelligencer and Time.

The real show was across the street from Racer, down NE 59th St. Check my map above for a reference. The street was full of people, young and old, hipster, punk, normal, abnormal, all races. I slowly mulled through the crowd until I got to the middle, where there was this big circle of people singing some sort of traditional Jewish song of praise.

A guy I used to work with at Pies and Pints, Gus Clark, was leading the song, holding his accordion, face to the sky. Feeling it.

Two people that died yesterday were in God's Favorite Beefcake, of which Gus is a member.

Though I have a grudge against Gus, because we didn't get along, and I got fired over writing harsh notes to him, calling him out for his sloppy bullshit and how he's a shit cook... I have to respect what he went through. Loss of life is devastating when it comes too quickly; too suddenly.

Reanne was there, too. Crying and hugging desperately on somebody, which she is want to do in tragic times, or when she drinks too much. I was with her at Pies when Vincent Gallapaga died. She wouldn't look at me after I caught her eyes.

I walked away. I wished someone would walk after me and ask me to stay, but I also knew it wouldn't happen. The reason I left was selfish. I wish I would have stayed longer. I'm kicking myself for that. I might have been able to make someone feel better, and that should have been enough for me. I owed it to my neighborhood to show solidarity, but I left for a personal, long-standing, deep grudge.

Call it what you want.

However, it was good to go home to Megan. We spent much of the rest of the night talking about it. We were both freaked out, and needed to get a lot of stuff off our chests.

Everything was fucked yesterday. 

However, my family is safe, and my neighborhood is effectively stronger. I'm planning on going to Racer tonight after class too.

Thanks for reading. My sorrow runs deep and I'm glad I got this story off my chest. I hope I get the chance to read others' personal stories of what happened yesterday.