We had a very tired Coulter and Varnell over for dinner and cake. They were just back from roughing it for a few days in the Angeles Forest. Luckily no one was eaten by mountain lions.

This is the ode de Coulter I wrote last year for his birthday...

coulter

In decades past a child came to be
the youngest brother, but not the least.
His mother doted, nay not to blame is she,
on life and laughter he does feast.

As he frets with restless whirls,
the teeming crowd he does dare
to be hypnotized by fancy twirls
of sticks in hand and in the air.

Behind cymbal, snare… away in back
sits working man in cowboy hat.
Crashing in like a ground attack
in perfect time a-rat-a-tat-tat.

Music feeds the frenzied soul
whose stories never cease to amaze.
The phoenix reborn to rock n' roll
each time his drums are set ablaze.

A hero, he is, on a summer's day
as magic is grilled and deftly shared.
Spirits drank and wantoned away
'til mind grows calm and then impaired.

He disappears without a trace
swiftly flying across the ground.
Perhaps he finds a state of grace
as dawn rolls in without a sound.

If in some sorrow he breaks to tears
a gentle heart resides within.
Yea, stong enough to face his fears,
ne'er weakly to disguise chagrin.

With dedication he pursued his love
near Paradise she lived, yet not in.
To him she is an angel from above
he endeavored her heart to win.

What wondrous old friends they are
and now true loves they have become.
Each gone from far to near to far,
together now they make a home

In our wild friend we do delight
lest we forget why we are here…
To him a starry future bright
and to dreams he stay sincere.

To the left of this blog is a little countdown to when this baby is due. We are well under 100 days and the kicking is steady and often catches me by surprise. I'm trying to keep moving as much as possible, this seems to make the little guy rest. The minute I sit down he starts in shooting goals, doing the can-can or whatever is going on in there. The "there" being what once was my stomach and other organs, but which is now been taken over by the being who seems to be all arms and legs that occassionally protrude and create a weird hard spot on my belly, a bit too reminescent of that movie Alien to make me feel comfortable. Where did all my organs go?

Best not to worry too much about it.

Good morning baby Sydney, time for a walk around the reservoir...

Do we look worried?

Then someone special took me to Millie's for a great meal.

On this beautiful and 80 degree Wednesday, I met up with Jo and baby Sydney for breakfast at Dupar's in the Farmer's Market. I have had my eye on this diner for some time, so the minute she suggested it I jumped at the chance.

I was not disappointed.

After the most amazing pancakes, I would have preferred to nap but instead we took a pass through Pan Pacific Park. Who knew such a great park could be found right in the middle of Hollywood? It's perfect for walking, strollering, or picnicking.

I'm surprised at the number of people out and about during the day? Do none of you people have jobs? It makes LA feel like a major metropolis, when the stores and restaurants are packed midweek. Yet it does make one worry about the weekend and wonder if you should even attempt to venture out.

I almost forgot, I do have some bad news...

After swimming yesterday, the baby wanted fast food. I don't eat fast food. So right there on Glendale Boulevard we made a little compromise. I would drive him to Burger King and but he would have to at least try the new veggie burger. He negotiated for fries and a shake, that wily one, I cannot imagine what we are in for once he can actually talk.

Longish story short, the veggie burger sucked. It tasted terrible. All the condiments and accessories in the world could not save it. As most staunch vegetarians are probably aware, the thing is even thrown on the grill right next to the meat. You would think that would give it some extra flavor just by association. Moral of the story: should have gone to In & Out... oh yeah, and baby does not (yet) know best...

Where do you think it went wrong?

BK VEGGIE™ BURGER PATTY
Water, Mushrooms, Water Chestnuts, Cooked Brown Rice, Textured Wheat Protein, Rolled Oats, Vital Wheat Gluten, Frozen Onions, Corn Oil, Frozen Carrots, Potato Starch, Frozen Green Peppers, Frozen Red Peppers, Contains 2% or Less Of Onion Powder, Corn Starch, Black Olives, Methyl cellulose, Salt, Modified Tapioca Starch, Rice Flour, Yeast Extract, Oat Fiber, Sugar, Potato Dextrin, Konjac Flour, Garlic Powder, Black Pepper, Maltodextrin, Natural Flavors From Non-Meat Sources, Dextrose, Sodium Bicarbonate, Sodium Acid Pyrophosphate, Hydrolyzed Corn Gluten, Malt Extract, Sage, Grill Flavor, Basil, Raisin Juice Concentrate, Oregano, Jalapeno Pepper Powder, Sesame Oil, Modified Corn Starch, Corn Syrup Solids, Natural Smoke Flavoring , Celery Oleoresin, Wine, Citric Acid, Caramel Color, Xanthan Gum.

I snuck Greg into my ceramics class tonight. He showed us all how it's done.

The workshop is amazing. We have endless clay and a great assortment of underglazes at our disposal. The instructor, painter Frank Romero, often dazzles us with his various works of art. Pablo the dog and Jaqueline the cat wander around the studio all night occasionally asking for attention. If I'm in bad mood (blame it on those damned cranky hormones) before I go, I'm always happy and peaceful about fifteen minutes into the class and completely blissed out after the three way-too-fast hours have slipped by.

In honor of the boy-to-be inside of me, I have been rereading the Ender's Game series of books by Orson Scott Card. The first book, Ender's Game, was written in the 1970s and it clearly outlines the internet, usergroups and a number of other future inventions that we now live with everyday. The protagonist is a very young, hyper-intelligent boy who is taken away from his parents and trained to be a fighter/strategist in a war against an alien life form called "the buggers". Rumor has it that they intend to make a movie of the first book and include parts of an auxiliary book called Ender's Shadow. I imagine it will be live-action, though the book would be best served through animation.

"Do you think that human parents, once they bear young, are ever truly free again? If life to you means independence, a completely unfettered freedom to do as you like, then none of the sentient creatures is alive. None of us is ever fully free." Orson Scott Card, from Xenocide.

G reviews The Bourne Identity.

And I think Ebert sums it up nicely... "There comes a point at which we realize there will be no higher level to the screenplay, no greater purpose than to expend this kinetic energy. The movie's brutally cynical happy ending reveals that it doesn't take itself seriously. And we catch on (sooner than Marie) that the girl stays in the picture only because--well, there has to be a girl, to provide false suspense and give the loner hero someone to talk to. " Roger Ebert, "Chicago Sun-Times"

Only I would replace "loner" with "loser".

I dig superheroine Franka Potente though, they should have let her strut her stuff more. She is way more interesting to look at than Matt Damon.

Just realized she plays Johnny Depp's first love interest in Blow, before Penelope Cruz comes on the scene.

The freakshow continues... my feet are growing. They are not much wider than six months ago. But they are somehow longer. During yoga this morning I started imagining that my toes have actually gotten longer, perhaps they are more stretched out. I used to wear a size 6.5 or 7 and now I am a solid size 8. Lucky me, at the end of all this I'll still be short and squat with Peggy Hill feet and no cash to buy new shoes.

from Father’s Day June 2001...

What is it we want from a father? Is it different over time? I know exactly what we want from a mother. We want a mother’s love. It is as simple as that. Her love. Motherly love. There is nothing else like it and nothing can be substituted. Some people seek a mother’s love in a bottle or a pill, sex with strangers and a million other ways. Through the centuries great and mediocre artists alike have sculpted, painted, paper-mached and otherwise assembled the image of Madonna and Child and the pieta (Madonna holding the dying Christ) in an effort to convey the importance of motherly love.

From a mother we want never ending support and encouragement. We want to be wept for, worried about, obsessed over and nagged to death. Just like mother Mary, we want our own mother to think that we are as special as the baby jesus and as spotless as the crucified messiah.

From the father we need something else.

Sticking with the biblical analogy, what did jesus get from his father? God put him to the task. He asked jesus to become the greatest sensation in the world and then let him be put to death. Somehow this sounds pretty par for the course when it comes to dear old dad. Sounds a little like the Joseph Jackson or Murray Wilson (Beach Boys) approach to parenting.

I think their respective prodigies, Michael Jackson and Brian Wilson, would agree, what we need from a father is approval. We want an endorsement from our father that our choices are rock solid.

Some of the most successful and yet unhappiest women and men I know are simply waiting for a father figure to slap them on the back and say, “Well done!” They may be waiting a long time.

Most addiction, self-mutilation, abuse and all those other, terrible things we do to ourselves (and those around us) can be traced back to the basic needs of love and approval. They are separate yet linked. You can have all the mother’s love in the world, but without someone to give you the push you need to get out of the womb and into the world you might just as well stay there.

In college I constantly found myself among people with missing fathers. Studying in a coffeehouse one afternoon with five other students, someone casually mentioned that his father had died when he was young. The table went silent and one by one we discovered that all of us had lost our fathers. We decided to create a “Dead Dads” club, as you can probably guess that was our first and last actual meeting. We all acknowledged that our loss had created a gaping hole in our life. Where this person should have been was an enormous black hole, a giant question mark.

It is not that a mother’s approval is guaranteed or easily won, or even that is not important. It is secondary to that of a father in the same way that the need for his love is secondary. Her love is primal. From birth, a baby instinctively cries for its mother’s arms because she is the source of nourishment, of comfort, of understanding. Next it seeks a father’s eyes for confirmation. These roles are not gender specific; these roles are not created by the mass media or a patriarchal society. This is basic primary and secondary caregiver studies thought up by the likes of Freud and Jung.

In our early years we want to be acknowledged by our father. We do cartwheels and headstands for him. We read whatever words we have recently learned. We draw pictures and get good grades. We want his time and attention, but mostly we want his focus. As we bob and weave on our journey, there is the look back to see if he is still watching. To make sure he is still paying attention.

Yes, I miss my father. I miss him so much it makes my bones ache and my head throb. An eleven-year-old wound that makes my heart hurt in any kind of weather. I miss the sound of his laughter and his terrible singing. But what could he give me now, what am I missing from a father that makes it different than just missing someone whom I once knew? What is the source of this pain? As go I through life I am constantly looking up to the stands to see if he is waving and cheering me along.

And what’s a young person to do with no father and no chance of clouds parting to reveal a big thumbs up to let her know she is doing okay? A brief session of therapy just after college led me to a ridiculously simple conclusion. You have to give it to yourself. And how many times have I seen The Wizard of Oz? I had to learn how to stop looking for it and just give myself permission to make huge decisions, to accomplish great things, to fail miserably and to find the time to acknowledge myself for doing all of these things. Susan, my wonderful though brief analyst, asked me point blank, “What are you waiting for?” To which I had no reply. “Well, if you are waiting for someone to tell you to get on with your life, to buy yourself a car, to change jobs or to do whatever you need to do next. I’m telling you right now, it all sounds good to me. So, get a move on.”

Amy needed to raise a little cash while she was down here in LA so we took what we could come up with us out to Hollywood Park.

I put everything on ItsAllIntheHeart to Win in the 2nd and she pulled through for me just fine!

At this stage the baby is ready to rock, so we headed down to the knitting factory (ugh, i know, terrible club) where Hell's Belles absolutely shredded. They are an (almost) all female band that covers AC/DC songs, and does them extremely well. I cannot get "Dirty Deeds" out of my head. The star performers are the lead singer, Om Johari, and the guitarist, Adrian "Angus" Conner. Here's to hoping they come back soon. G also happened to be out of town, so it was time for a little ass-kicking time with my friends Amy and Jeanine. Jeanine apparently knows the band so we hung out with them a bit afterward and I hope I impressed them with my belly. I explained that it's never to early to influence our child in a musical direction. A big salute to the fine ladies of Rock.

I would like to apologize to the readers of this site for my absence. Too busy living to sit down and write about it. I have been feeling a huge surge of energy and just keep going with the flow, barely able to sit down. I've also been experiencing a lot of "movement", kicks and such, from the little boy blue in my belly.

Follow this link.

by Marge Piercy

The woman in the ordinary pudgy downcast girl
is crouching with eyes and muscles clenched.
Round and pebble smooth she effaces herself
under ripples of conversation and debate.
The woman in the block of ivory soap
has massive thighs that neigh,
great breasts that blare and strong arms that trumpet.
The woman of the golden fleece
laughs uproariously from the belly
inside the girl who imitates
a Christmas card virgin with glued hands,
who fishes for herself in other's eyes,
who stoops and creeps to make herself smaller.
In her bottled up is a woman peppery as curry,
a yam of a woman of butter and brass,
compounded of acid and sweet like a pineapple,
like a handgrenade set to explode,
like goldenrod ready to bloom.

I just got an email from Mike Randle in Barcelona. He is currently on tour with Love and the tour diary is a great read. He is so enthusiastic, loving every minute of each show. It seems the whole band is making the most of the European tour.

We could all use a little European vacation... go ahead, take a little break and read it.

We waited at USC Perinatal for almost two hours while grumpy pregnant women went in and out of the doctor's office. G was nervous while his mom and I just chatted it up. Finally my name was called and we all filed into the examining room. Like a good little patient I hopped up on the examining table, laid back and exposed my ever-growing belly to the technician waiting with ultrasonic jelly in hand. G and his mom watched a big computer screen and I had a little monitor to the right of my head so I could watch the little bugger swim around.

He showed us the different parts of the brain, the spinal cord, the arms and legs. He magically colorized the blood so we could follow it into and out of the fast-beating heart.

We made a lot of oooing and ahhhing noises, completely amazed that this is going on inside my body.

After a little while the technician switched off the machine and said that everything looked fine.

"Well?" I asked. "What is it?"

He smiled. "Oh I know what it is, but let me double check."

He flipped all the machines back on and ran the scanner across my belly once again. "Do you see that?"

We all stared at the monitor, not sure what we should be looking at.

"It's a boy."

We stared harder and I decided to take his word for it.

"How sure are you?' G piped in, a little vklempt.

"Do you mean, could that be the umbilical cord? Well it does not look like that, so I'd say about 98% sure."

Can you count all ten toes?