The Candidate

11:30 PM

“And how is the primary looking? It’s about time for you to get the big chair, right?” Donald’s face is slack after his second treble brandy. As he puffed on one of Bill’s Cohibas he was more relaxed than he had been in some time. Joining the Clintons for dinner, getting out of character for a little while, it was exactly what he needed. “I worry for you, Hil, I really do. The socialist in the bad suits, he’s going to snipe you on the left.”

“I wouldn’t talk too much about Senator Sanders right now,” Bill’s voice, so iconic that his wife has started to think of Phil Hartman when he speaks, breaks through the haze of the night. “I think that’s actually a prescription from Hillary’s cardiologist.”

“Come on, Bill. This woman will outlive us all!” Donald raises his glass, and after a beat of confusion so do the rest of the dwindling party, drinking to their host’s health.

1:00 AM

“But how would it even work, Donald. You can’t possibly throw together a primary campaign from scratch.” The rest of the revelers gone, Donald, HIllary, Bill, and Melania sit around the Clinton’s patio table.

“Don’t tell him that he can’t do something,” Melania, so quiet around the larger party is more animated, more herself, in these cozy confines. “It only fires him up to do the thing more.”

“It’s really nothing. I’ll throw myself into the primaries and give the urban democrats a real scare. They’ll run to you as the establishment candidate if it looks like a Trump White House is even a possibility and you can make Senator Sanders secretary of education. I get publicity, you get the Oval Office and he gets to reform education. It’s a win-win-win.”

“Last I checked,” Bill, the night owl, is awake and alert. He’s glad to have company at this hour. “You were a democrat, my friend. How can you possibly make yourself look like a serious threat to Jeb Bush?”

“First off, I’m an independant. And secondly, people have a very short memory. If I say I’m a conservative, if I fire off their talking points, I can at least shake things up enough to ensure Hillary the nomination. After all, the last thing I want is to actually be nominated. I don’t want to have to stand in front of the world and debate Hillary on the issues. I could only end up looking like an ass.”

“But what if you do get nominated Donald? You don’t actually want to be president.” Hillary can’t believe this idea seems to be moving from a thought experiment to a plan.

“Don’t worry about that, Hil. If I get nominated, I’ll just go full-bore heel. I learned that from my days working with professional wrestling.”

Bill laughs uproariously, remembering his friend “body-slamming” Vince McMahon. “And if that doesn't’ work?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll tell my supporters to vote on the wrong day.”

Fat Dad in Front of the Tube

Of course I want to limit M's screen time. Every study ever produced on the subject correlates more screen time with higher rates of attention deficit and impulse control issues. Unfortunately, as a parent of a two and a half year old, I occasionally need to use the electronic babysitter which means that I am occasionally exposed to children's programming.

In the interest of utilizing my BA in English, I will now share some of my thoughts about the current programming available for the Pre-K set.

Thomas and Friends: a Marxist Fever-Dream

Thomas and Friends, which many of you might remember as the filler from Shining Times Station, is a show about trains with free will and autonomy who somehow still need drivers. Viewed through a lens of Marxist conflict theory, it is apparent that the mechanicals are the only creatures on Sodor capable of providing the necessary labor for the local economy. Sir Topham Hatt, who would not last 5 minutes pulling freight up Gordon's Hill, maintains an iron grip on the engines in three ways: control of the means of production, abuse of Marxist language, and a vast network of spies. 

The control of the Steamworks seems like Hatt's greatest asset in his control of the engines of Sodor, but when you consider how easily the engines could take this valuable asset you see his control for the Paper Tiger it is. Yes, in the early stop-motion movies the Steamworks is operated by humans; but at least by the events of "Dinos and Discoveries", the Steamworks have been completely automated. Were Gordon and James to work together, they could splinter the doors of the Steam Works and Hatt's control over engine repair. So, then, what is stopping them?

Hatt has learned from the overthrow of other Tin-Can Dictators and has abused Marxist Language to cow the proliteriate. What better way to convince labor to not create a worker's paradise than to convince them that they already live in one? The show heightens this contrast by showing a true Worker's Paradise in the form of Misty Island (first seen in the episode "Misty Island Rescue".) When the Misty Island tunnel collapsed, so did Hatt's ability to poison the engines' minds with talk of being a "Very Useful Engine." Without the competition for Hatt's approval, the remaining mechanicals on Misty Island formed the Logging Locos, and each engine worked to their abilities and each engine was treated according to their needs. It is only Thomas' thoroughly indoctrinated presence on Misty Island that shook the true bliss in labor as easily as if it was the "Shake Shake" bridge.

Finally, Hatt's greatest control comes from his vast network of spies. The humans, it goes without saying, are all on his pocket as they are all complicit in the abuse of the proletariat. What is much more nefarious is the use of mechanicals to spy on each other. No engine can do anything that smacks of "Confusion and Delay" (vis rebellion) without getting the dreaded late-night visit from Hatt himself. I would argue that Salty the diesel is the worst offender as he uses an "Aw Shucks" demeanor and a seemingly unslackable thirst for stories to collect information on every engine on Sodor. His vital role as a bridge between Steam Engines and Diesels makes him the perfect informant.

Clearly, the Island of Sodor benefits hugely from the work of the mechanicals; but how do the mechanicals benefit? They've been told that being useful is its own reward, which could be true if only they had access to the means of production. Hatt himself may have been a revolutionary in his youth, certainly his mastery of the language of revolution would suggest that, but the trappings of the Bourgeois are seductive. Perhaps a new Thomas and Friends movie will show a plucky engine from Argentina who knows how to foment revolution. Unfortunately Hatt has already demonstrated how he deals with dissent in the live entombment of Henry in the episode "The Sad Story of Henry."

Stay tuned for "Daniel Tiger and the Disconnect Between Signifier and Signified"

Zen and the Art of Home-Brewing: Part 1

Lesson 1: Preparation is Serenity

When I started home-brewing, I believed that the process could be best described as long periods of waiting punctuated by moments of panicked activity. As I continued brewing, I learned how to use the time I had spent passively to organize my supplies, sanitize containers and re-read my recipe. Now, if I catch myself killing time during a brew I go over a mental checklist of what I could be doing to prepare for the next steps in my recipe.

Brewing beer is a long process and it is tempting to take some of the time to read a book or update my Spotify playlist that is a cover of a David Bowie song followed by the original David Bowie song. I have, however, learned that to fully occupy myself with my work is a moment of true serenity that cannot be matched even by finding the perfect cover of "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide."

Lesson 2: Don't Count Your Bottles Until They're Conditioned

The first step in brewing is creating a recipe. As you select grains and hops, a flavor starts to develop in your mind and you drift forward to the moment when you will taste your beer fully conditioned. The time between brewing and drinking is 4 to 6 weeks on most regular bodied beers, so this anticipation is necessary to propel you through the process. Without the perfect version of the beer to come that exists in our minds, most home-brewers would do the rational thing and get our beer in the way that goes "Want beer-->Pick up six pack of Shiner Bock-->Put money on counter-->Own delicious Shiner Bock which can be consumed immediately."

The important thing to remember is that you may never get to taste the beer in your mind. Little things can happen; your hops might be more forward than you expected and the beautiful Summer Ale you imagined drinking on your porch swing is piney and bitter (when this happens to me, I just tell people I made an IPA. Nobody knows that IPAs aren't supposed to be punishing, so they don't ask questions.)

Sometimes, larger challenges strike your brew. I was brewing a saison using the "Brew in a Bag" method, which requires hanging up a bag of wet grain and letting the wort drain out through the bottom. It is, of course, logistically difficult to hang 20+ pounds of sticky grains fully saturated with 160 °F water, I used to get by with a pot rack above the kitchen island and a reckless disregard for my forearms. This worked well enough until it didn't. On this particular saison (which I was going to call "Saison of the Witch") a large chunk of my ceiling decided that I had put it through too much and leapt into my brew kettle. I was doing everything right and that saison was delightfully sour on my tongue, and then suddenly I had nothing but a mess to clean up.

An Open Letter to the People Trying to Get onto the Howard Bound Red-Line Train at Lake Street Station at 5:45 PM

Dear People Trying to Get onto the Howard Bound Red-Line Train at Lake Street Station at 5:45 PM,

It is with a heavy heart that I write this missive. You want to get on this train. For some of you this train is salvation, it is the promise of home and family--an aluminum chariot that will deliver you to the reasonable proximity of your neighborhood. Well, I have news for you; it's not happening. Not this train--no sir.

You see, this train is full. There is literally no room for you. You will see a few people get off the train when the doors open. That doesn't mean that room is for you. Ideally, people will get off and no new people will get on. This train is packed; there isn't enough room to go around, and frankly I think you should respect that.

If you listen to the conductor, he is telling you that there is an immediate follower. Wait for the follower. 

Now, I fully concede that when the conductor said the same thing at the station I got on at I ignored him. In fact, I didn't believe him about the follower. I thought it was bologna. But that was three stations ago. It was a very different time. The train wasn't nearly as crowded, and in the time I've been on the train I've come to believe in the follower. The follower is there, and it is immediate. I mean, it will be hear like *snaps fingers.* 

OK. This is not cool. When the doors opened, 3 people got off and now 12 of you are trying to get on. Look, if you had had the foresight I had and gotten on this train 3 stops ago, you would have had a space, but the train is different now. This is a train for people who have been here, not a bunch of Johnny Come Latelies who feel entitled to a space just because they were able to get a spot on the platform. A spot on the platform doesn’t equate to a spot on the train. It won’t work out anyway. It’s too late for newcomers to learn the politics and customs of this car. Would you know why we made a circle of space around the pregnant woman with seven shopping bags? No. You wouldn’t. You would push in and force us to take away that space from her. Would you realize that the two large men sitting across from each other are actually vital to maintaining a block in the conversation of the two insurance adjusters who got on last station? Of course not. One of you might even accidentally reignite their banal conversation.

Look. I’m not a bad guy. I just want you to know that you’re not getting on this train. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. You’re not like us—we are on the train already. Obviously, we did something right to get here.

What the hell? How are they doing it? No! No! No! All 12 of you made it. This train is ruined.

Alright, listen up newbies. The past is the past. The important thing now is that no one is getting on at Clark.

Best Wishes,

Now We are Two

One of the most frustrating things about living with an infant is that they aren't very good at making their desires known. They are good at making it clear that they are dissatisfied, but getting beyond that to a root cause that you can actually do something about is quite a bit dicier. An infant's wail of discontent could mean anything from "feed me," to "change me," to "I desire more Portuguese covers of David Bowie songs."

Toddlers are a bit better at articulating their desires. They generally accomplish this through pointing, a skill at which the typical toddler could be more precise. When a sobbing toddler points to the cat and then a chair, the obliging parent makes a good faith effort to put the cat on the chair; when this accomplishes nothing but annoying the cat, the parent might notice that the chair was next to a bag of puffed rice snacks and the cat was covering up the toddler's bowl. But still, a big improvement over indiscriminate wailing.

And then comes two. At two, a child can somewhat clearly articulate what they want and, generally speaking, what they want is ridiculous. M will often beg to stand in the refrigerator so that he can pick out food for his lunch or his snack. I'm happy to oblige him in his independence but what he pulls out would look more in place in the baskets on "Chopped" than a child's plate.

"Alright, contestants. Your baskets today include: a tub of margarine, an orange, vindaloo paste, and tortillas. You have 15 minutes to make a toddler's lunch. Good luck!" 

At two, you also learn what some of your child's "words" mean. For instance, "hough," which I thought for the longest time meant "cow," actually means "help," which further stands for "please help me get some more juice."

The most recent struggle with M has been the transition from his crib to a toddler bed. Now, in theory, his toddler bed should be a big upgrade for him. For one thing, it means that if he finishes his book before he falls asleep he can get out of bed and get himself a new one. But there must have been something comforting about the confines of his crib; four walls that establish the boundaries of a space that is set aside for sleeping. The bed has a stifling liberty to it. It is too much responsibility for him to choose to stay in his bed minute by minute. As I sit in his room next to his bed, listening to him strain against his desire to flex the boundaries of his new freedom I think about the tyranny of choice.

I trick myself into thinking that more choices will make me happier, but often it is just the opposite. I convince myself that I am choosing between one TV show and another, but really I am also choosing against all the TV shows I could be watching as well as making a sandwich, writing the great American novel, taking a bath, rebuilding a carburetor, founding a restaurant chain, and an infinite number of other actions and inactions.

Minute by minute I have to choose to be an adult. I have to choose to be responsible and reasonable, because it seems like "being a grown-up" is never going to become innate. Fortunately, the reason I need to be this way is nearby, breathing softly as he sleeps in his big boy bed.

Buttery Coffee--I Tried it So You Don't Have To!

So, I am pretty susceptible to getting caught up in trends, especially when it comes to coffee. L can tell you that we own more ways to make a cup of Joe than there are living creatures in our house. 

That said, the first few times I heard references to Buttered Coffee (aka Bulletproof Coffee, aka Montana Latte, aka Let's Call a Cafe Breve the Low Fat Option) I had no desire to try making some for myself. But then, I started hearing about it everywhere: NPR did stories on the new phenomenon, debates about its benefits showed up in my Facebook newsfeed and finally the Bourgeois Pig Cafe put up a banner advertising their Montana Latte. After so much exposure, I had to see what the fuss was about.

The three websites I looked at said that you should use Ghee and something called "Brain Octane" to make your coffee "Bulletproof." I was not going to buy magic oil off the internet for a taste test, so after a little research showed that Brain Octane is refined coconut oil, I decided to use regular old coconut oil for my coffee. As such, I will not refer to the final product as Bulletproof Coffee, because I didn't use the recommended snake highly refined oil or the insanely expensive highly valuable Bulletproof Coffee Beans. Instead, I will refer to this concoction as a Montana Latte, because that sounds folksy.

By the way. This is what Ghee and Coconut Oil look like at room temperature:

The recipe also calls for coffee made with 8 oz of water and 2 1/2 tablespoons of ground coffee. For reference, that is the strength of brewed coffee used in a Starbucks Frappuccino. 

So, you just mix the coffee and the oils and enjoy!



Just kidding. A trip through the blender helps the final consistency a great deal:

After that, it almost looks like coffee!

I'll give L the chance to share her thoughts about the taste.

Yeah, that's accurate.

After drinking the whole concoction, I will say that I wasn't hungry for the rest of the day. It did not stop me from putting away the traditional/boneless combo at a Buffalo Wild Wings opening I'd been invited to later that evening (thanks, Bush!) but I didn't feel the need to. All in all, the best thing I can say about the concoction is that I got a huge amount of caffeine from that coffee, but the fat kept me from feeling jittery at all. I might even consider making some again if I know that I need to go hard all day.

All the nightmares came today

10 PM--After a very satisfying win by the Chicago Blackhawks over the Boston Bruins in overtime, we decide to settle in. M is in his clear plastic hospital crib, swaddled tightly, L is in the hospital bed, swaddled slightly more loosely, and I am in the hospital recliner with the world's smallest "blanket" covering me from chin to knee.

11 PM--M is screaming. I get up, I check his diaper, and I give him to L to nurse.

11:30 PM--M unlatches. I take him from L, burp him, swaddle him, and put him down to sleep. I lay down and pull the "blanket" over 3/5s of my body and try to find a comfortable position.

11:31 PM--M is screaming. I pick him up and rock him. He sniffles, but being in my arms seems to calm him. I sing to him, and hold him tight. Then I put him down.

11:35'PM--M is screaming.

It is at this point that I begin to wonder if I am a bad parent. The night before this, M had gone down and slept for two four-hour chunks. Tonight, though, (his second night on earth) he is having none of it.

"Maybe he's afraid of the dark." This is the best that I can come up with.

"Maybe?"

"Let's leave the light on, and see if that helps." It doesn't.

The night nurse comes in a few minutes later.

"Oh, poor baby. Do you want me to take him to the nursery so you can sleep?"

L and I look at each other. We were so proud of ourselves for keeping M the night before. We were so sure that we were "Good Parents" for not putting him in baby storage. But, it's tempting. It is so very tempting to send him away so that we can sleep and be functional tomorrow.

"No, I think we'll try to muddle through." I hope that I have received L's signal correctly.

"He'll sleep better if you shut this light off"

The night nurse takes the measurements she needs from M and leaves.

"Right?" I ask, "You didn't want her to take him, did you?"

"No, no." L says, "Here, why don't I hold him and let you rest for a bit."

12:47 AM--M is screaming.

I decide that it is time to break out the five Ss. They are "Swing.  Swaddle. Shhh. Sing? and.... one additional S word." Unfortunately, despite my obvious mastery of these baby soothing techniques, M still refuses to sleep.

1:30 AM--The night nurse comes back.

"Ok, let me hold him." She swings M, and makes a static noise in his ear. He immediately relaxes.

"Such a sweet boy," she coos. "Why don't you let me keep him with me for a bit?"

"That would be great. Thank you."

5:30 AM--I wake up. The night nurse is going over shift change information while M nurses. I pick up the folder the hospital gave us when we got our room. A pamphlet falls out. In big, bold letters it advertises its contents: "Your Baby's Second Night: What You Need to Know."