So This One Time, At Boot Camp...

"Parris is an Island" the man had written, one clever statement packed full of several kinds of truth. He'd been there himself, of course, back in '43, before everything that came later, an island in time as much as a cartographic notation. He'd talked about the place, or if not talked, then certainly I'd been through that chapter of the book enough to feel like we'd had a conversation about it, and not just it, The Place, or it, The Time, or even it the Experience, but the real it-ness of the place expressed in the form of a man with the soul of a devil, it was said, and the name of a saint.

"Santa Maria" was on my mind as we rode the bus from the rifle range back to the barracks one year ago today at the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island. Sgt. Santa Maria, young Harry Anderson's feared, reveared and perhaps respected Drill Instructor, had no doubt walked the paths I myself had walked that day. He (and Harry as well, and many, many others) had certainly seen the sunlight in the pines of the proving grounds, felt the wind blow cold across the land, endured countless hardships (not the least of which the small biting insects), in the places where I had stood that day.

But unlike those men, I was a fraud. An imposter. A tourist. Or perhaps worse than any of those, I was a citified "ad man" come to take a look at what the soldier boys were doing so I could sell it all more effectively to a bunch of other kids too dumb to know better than to become a Marine. Or so I thought when I arrived.
Well, that's not quite true. "Too dumb" is certainly not how I would have characterized the Marines I'd known. There weren't many I'd known, that's true, but they were there in the family tree -- certainly Harry and his book had revealed a lot. But there was an uncle and a cousin who had each had a hitch or two. And there was ol' Mike from Target, definitely one of the smarter cats I've had the pleasure of knowing along the way. But whatever path had propelled me from first chair saxaphone and prancing theatre lad in high school to wannabee cartoonist and boozie ladies man in college and on through to the ad job that ultimately brought me to Parris Island had not included any instrunctional sign posts along the way that adequately described the why, let alone the how, of becoming someone who served their country in a military tradition.

During our four days there last November 28th thru December 2nd, I'd like to think we got the how, and the why, and a whole lot more. Certainly, partnered up as we were on our tour with members of the Marine Corps/McDonald's NASCAR racing team, I got at least a passing appreciation for what the hell was so damn special about the world of stock car racing. And I had the whole familial-historial-tourism angle working for me, getting to see and feel, even in its modern incarnation, the place that was so transformative for a man (Harry) who I deeply respect. And yes, I did get myself one heck of a nice haircut on the afternoon of the 1st, after we'd seen the Eagle Globe and Anchor ceremony.

But the whole lot more was greater than any of that.Yes, that whole lot more showed me the value of training up these young men and women to become Marines (and yes, clearly, the USMC PR folks carefully orchestrate these events for just that purpose). It showed me, in the faces of passing beat-dead-tired teenages in digicams, the true strength of the human body, mind and heart. It revealed the value of the transformative experience that these men and women go through in shaping for themselves and their families and new and more focused life that each and every one of us Americans can benefit from in one way or another.

Clearly, to see even a fraction of the awesome might of the American military power in action is an impressive and dumbfounding thing. The patriotic swagger of the preceding paragraph quickly becomes a quiet awareness that there are limited applications for wave after wave of teenagers broken and refined into well-honed killing instruments. They are most certainly an awesome resource that must not be wasted.

And though this cheery family blog that is better suited to concerning itself with the prancing of little blonde girls than the geo-political movements of armies and the bitter politics of it all, one cannot help but ache to think of the needlessness of wasting the hope and the strength of these young lives so transformed in pursuit of ideological horseshit and a pack of lies masquerading itself as good television and the duty of a nation.I was deeply moved by my visit last year to Parris Island, and deeply honored by the respect shown to me, a mere ad man, while visiting this truly hallowed (and hated, I suppose) ground. I have considered what I saw and learned there, tried to find a transformative angle in it for myself. I cannot, of course, no more can my companions from that visit. Only a Marine can understand what it is to be a Marine, I suppose.

There were some practical takeaways, of course -- some learned directly, others more shared than discovered -- and quite a few of them involved drinking. Don't drink with Marines if you can't keep up, good practical knowledge. The last place in the world you want to get stopped for a DUI is a Marine Corps Base (again, not discovered firsthand, just advice I got.) Don't fire off the range. Don't upset your DI.

A year later, I'm here in my basement in Chicago. In the morning, instead of a warm breeze and the haunting sound of platoons running to cadence, there'll be six to ten inches of snow waiting for me in the driveway. Professionally, the Marine Corps work is behind me -- a small, silly man in MN couldn't manage his schedule or his work (or his team, for that matter) properly, and shunted me off the account to pick up his slack. Ah, but then, as the line from Glengarry Glen Ross points out, "It is not a world of Men." Though I know some fine Marines.

Man, Some People in This Office Have Some Real Homely Kids

In the course of shuffling about the sterile corridors of Building C here, you can't help but notice how many of these worker drones have 8x10 glossies of their kids in a nice $5.99 wood frame propped up on the corners of their desks. No doubt it's the same sort of inspiration Homer J. Simpson found in covering over the damning postings of his nuclear plant job with photos of baby Maggie so that the words that had been placed to remind him that he was trapped in his dead end job -- "Don't Forget: You're Here Forever" -- would, in fact, spell out "Do it for her." It's a nice sentiment, and if I wasn't able to occasionally be sneaking off to our photo-a-go-go addition to this site to get a glance at our cuties, I'd probably do the same thing. But the difference is, quite simply, we've been blessed with two adorable girls. And that's not just parental pride -- you walk around, you notice the way people sweetly take a shine our girls. Yes, we're very lucky, and they're very cute.

But man, some of these kids in these photos, you wonder, when their parents come home at the end of the night, do they hug 'em or just give 'em a bone, put on the leash, and take 'em out for a walk. It's terrible to even think that, I suppose, and I know that these parents no doubt love their babies as much as we love ours. But honestly, there's some real fuggly kids out there. Eeeeyesch.

Visions of Sugarplums

Bruddah Cale sends this artistic interpretation of the event described in the preceding post. I had not mentioned ninjas, but Cale has managed to capture almost the exact image I'd had in my head as I put that little story together. We should probably just get our act together and finally produce some sort of Caldecott Medal winning children's book or something.

...Not a Creature Was Stirring

Around 4am this morning, Aidan crept into our room, "unable to sleep" she said. Perhaps Granny's showing of "Monster's Inc." two nights before had spooked her, we thought. Her closet door was open when I went to tuck her back in bed, so I assumed this was the case, mystery solved. Turn on an extra night light for "safety," kiss her goodnite, back to bed.

Turns out, Aidan was in the grips of some massive sugar-high. Sleuthing Mommy noticed this morning that the previously mentioned gingerbread house, slathered in frosting and candies, was looking particularly picked over and bare, particularly the roof, which had previously been covered with peppermint candies. Near as we can tell, Aidan got up in the middle of the night, proceded to the kitchen, climbed the kitchen counter in some manner, picked about 7 to 10 of the candies off the roof of the house, ate them, and then spent the next hour or so awake and running around the living room, coloring pictures, playing, having a grand ol' time. She sauntered into our bedroom then around 4am and we wrapped things up then.

Obviously, you can't have your child eating candy unsupervised (or supervised, for that matter) at 4am in the morning. But it is kind of cute to picture her steathly little nightime raid. Kind of sleepy, too.

Apparently I've Become a Curmudgeonly Old Fart

So my last entry there reads like it should also have included such tried and true chestnuts as "you mangy kids!" and "you and your newfangled inventions, I tells ya!" and "stay off my lawn!!!" Ah, Old Man Lawrence, hello.

My little rant there also puts, I think, too much of a farty spin on what was a rather pleasant holiday weekend. Like I sort of mentioned, our Friday night out on the town to see Wilco at the Auditorium Theatre was a rather fine time (even though the theatre is in that sort of South Loop no-man's-land where it's hard to find a decent bar during non-work-day-hours; to be fair, the Exchequer, where we ended up, was-is-and-remains a delightful slice of Chicago culture and dialogue.)

Saturday followed up with a number of errands around the city –- a quick photo shoot of sorts down by the planetarium to tee up the annual Lawrence holiday card (probably coming to a mailbox near you soon -- send us your addresses, hey) followed by a swing through Lincoln Square for some light shopping, and then on up to the Gethsemane Garden store to grab a Christmas tree and schlep it home. The girls were very good the whole time, and Granny Lynne was pretty well-behaved as well, wedged in between the child seats in the back of the Jeep as she was. We put up the tree, made some popcorn, watched a few holiday movies, a fine time had by all.

Stood on the front stoop this afternoon after Granny Lynne had gone, enjoying the warm temps, watching the neighbor hang lights on his house. He did a pretty good job with no major mishaps. He's a good guy, and we like him, but I still don't want his teenagers on our lawn...

An Open Letter to the Gal Seated in Front of Me in B108 at Friday Night's Wilco Show

Hi there. You don't know me, though you might, in passing, have some memory of me. That's right, I was the guy who sat behind you at Friday night's sold-out Wilco show at the Auditorium Theatre. I accidentally kicked your friend in the back of the head –- the friend with the tired haircut and the bad shoes -- that one time I came back from the restroom. I was the guy there to enjoy the show with my fun wife, our first honest-to-God night out together in the heart of the city since moving to Chicago. No? Don't remember me?

Well, it's not like I could blame you, I suppose. It must be hard, I imagine, to notice what the hell is going on around you when your text-messaging your little friends for, oh, two fucking hours straight. Sure, I know, you maybe don't know the music really all that well, that you maybe only heard a few songs on a mix tape at that one party at your brother's frat house, and sort of liked it, even though it was sort of hard to hear that one night because you were so damn drunk and there were soooo many cute boys there, I know, and maybe, just maybe, you thought, hey, there might be more fun boys at the concert. I guess there weren't, huh, but you figured you could find them up at John Barleycorn or one of the Rush Street places, so you kept trying to arrange your post-concert plans via your cel phone the whole damn time?

Not that you were alone, I know. Remember your nitwit friend, the one who kept taking pictures of the stage every 2 minutes, the one I kicked? You should tell her that even with our pretty amazing seats, those photos she clicked through on her phone aren't going to turn out any better than the shitty bright blur they looked like when she reviewed the captured images. Those two greenish-grey pixels right there in the corner? OMG, that's Jeff Tweedy!

And yes, there was everyone else, lighting up the concert hall floor like little fireflies, and to all of them as well I have to say, what the hell do you have to communicate that's so fucking important you have to tell the world RIGHT NOW?! You're no doubt writing "Dude, this show is boss." or "Where's the after party?" Only you're using all of those little text'ing shortcuts, because U R C8L N GR8.

If you must write something, dare to write about how incredible Adler and Sullivan's achievement is at the Auditorium Theatre. Write about how the sound moves over you there like the ocean, like the way surfer's describe the deep down pull of the really big waves, the waves that propel you to greatness, or drive you into the black depths. Write that when Tweedy and the boys really tear into it, it's like the best pancake breakfast you've ever had, like cheating on your girlfriend for the first time, like cheating on your girlfriend for the second time because by then you know it's wrong and it's a conscious choice of a preferred experience, like a murder in progress. Write all the poetry of the world and try to measure up. Write Hans Lushina and try to convince him otherwise.

Otherwise, enough with your goddamn writing and texting and little light up bullshit. And take your spikey little shoes off the fucking railing and show some respect for the institution.

L8R.

TM Part 5: Post-Dinner

Well, Cindy outdid herself, I can tell you. A most excellent meal, the turkey perfect and now....uh, now we, uh..... *yawn*... ermmm... willl... *yawn*.... pasv.a?ZAjsd'ZX:Vzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz............

TM Part 4

Snacks have been had, the beers are open, the neighbor girls Callie and Tess are here running around playing hopscotch and tag with Aidan. The girls' folks are having 22 people over at 3pm, so we don't mind watching. Compared to that, it's amateur hour here at 1219. Though the food doesn't look amateurish to us. Of course, to the food, here's what we look like:The "bird's eye view" from the turkey's vantage point at regular intervals this morning...

Thanksgiving Merriment, Part 3: Photo Edition

Shouldn't every day start with you looking at a turkey's ass? Depending on where you work, maybe it does.

Ah, there we go...this morning's effort. Classy and mature.

Really the unsung hero of Thanksgiving Day in our house -- the spicy lamb sticks from the Paulina Meat Market. Mmmmm....stanky!

Thanksgiving Merriment, Part 2

Okay, a little further along now. Grannies done squabbling. Reesie grazing underfoot on whatever she can get to. Turkey prepped and ready, and the andouille stuffing coming along close behind.

Fielded a call from our real estate agent this morning. Seems there's a low-ball offer on the house. C'mon, Minnesota...get your act together. Talk to us when you're serious.

Speaking of serious: does anyone else do this with your butter packaging? It's a long-standing holiday tradition in our house. Apparently, we're 12 year olds. (Truth be told, I think it all started back with the 29th Street house in the Drake days, with Curt or Cabel or one of the Brookings boys handling the repurposing chores initially.)

Mmmm...butter....

Thanksgiving Merriment, Part I

Morning. Aidan is up before anyone. There's breakfast later on, and after breakfast, the Grannies have an honest to God fight over who's helping Aidan and Reese decorate a gingerbread house. Me? I'm already contemplating the need for my first beer, and it's 9:19am. Going to be long day.

One More Post on the Subject of My Inevitble Death, Tucked in Before the Thanskgiving Merriment Commences

On Monday morning of these week I walked into the South Barrington, Illinois offices of the Allstate Insurance Company. This western-suburbs outpost of the Northbrook-based company that has historically been so good to the Anderson clan is almost certainly what Dante had in mind when he collected his thoughts on Purgatory. As a world between worlds, a place outside of any place else, the funereal quiet only distrubed by the slow keening fizzzuxzzz of the overhead flourescent lighting, this office environment is definitely the last refuge of the damned and the hope of none.

On Monday, of course, it all seemed much more melodramatic than it does today. Perhaps it is the slow acceptance of my fate that has made this living death less upsetting. Or maybe it is the knowledge that this here grave won't hold this body down for long. Maybe a little longer than 3 days (I'm here to January) but this situation, and I mean all of it, certainly won't be forever.

The Single Dad Diaries

So with Cindy gone for the weekend to visit friends in Ann Arbor, and me watching the two girls, I had sort of intended to keep a daily diary of the adventure. Of course, the first thing you discover watching two small children on your own for 3 days straight is that its damn near impossible to find a moment to sit down and write your passing clever witicisms on your little website. Oh sure, there's freetime, say, when they're finally asleep and you're drinking beer and gawking at the TV, and you could be writing all your fancy sentences then, but honestly, at that point, you need the beer. I don't know why during all those years of beer commercials showcasing men, having spent the day playing grabass football or chopping down trees with moose antlers, kicking back with a cold one, they didn't just as easily show a dad at the mall for two hours with the kids, followed by old dad, blotto, on the couch, watching cartoons, the kids blissfully asleep. Man laws, indeed.

I make it sound like a chore, but truth be told, the weekend with the girls was a pure delight. Aidan and Reese both remain so damned clever and entertaining, and to catch their antics and interactions minute to minute over the ebb and flow of a day, rather than just when I see them at workday's end, was sort of like catching a behind-the-scenes, day-in-the-life sort of feature about the Cirque du Soleil performers or something. And at the end of it, en route to pick up Mommy at the airport, Aidan's little voice from the back of the Jeep: "You did a good job taking care of us, Daddy."

The girls logged a lot of miles in the Jeep with me this weekend, being out of the 1219 house almost every minute Cindy was gone, for some reason or other. Friday night opened with a small mystery - what do to do,exactly? - the Woodfield Mall becoming some sort of fallback plan, perhaps because Santa was already lurking around out there, and there was most likely food somewhere in the mall as well. Aidan picked the restaurant – "Rainforest Café" – and while you wouldn't quite call it "food," the girls were full by the time we left. Aidan started encouraging me to order the "Volcano!" ice cream desert – a massive pile of fudge and ice cream and brownies and pyrotechnics delivered to your table by shouting idiots that work for the restaurant – and while I momentarily considered it, taking a backwards glance at the "mac and cheese" I'd already ordered for the girls there, to finish their "healthy" meal off with the Volcano! was, to me, about as responsible a parenting idea as if I'd just sat there and shot up with heroin while the girls finished their drinks. I believe we stalked around the mall a bit further, even doing some shopping in the H+M (Aidan: "Dad....this is SOOOO boring!") but got the girls some cute winter things, which the gal at the register took her delicate time removing security tags and folding the garments, while young Reese, at wits end after a long night and reeking of a Daddy-sized b.m., squirmed out of my arms and ran off screaming and thrashing at the jewelry display, a noxious cloud in her wake. I cleaned her up in the parking lot, and sure that the smell would cause us to pass out and crash the car on the drive home, I became "that guy" and ditched the diaper in the parking lot and got the hell out of there quick.

Saturday morning dawned cold and bright, and we were in the Jeep by 9am off to the Shedd Aquarium. En route, the girls ganged-up on me, Aidan making her demands for a puppy for the family, with Reese promptly seconding. "A puppy?" I asked, in response to Aidan's request, turning over my right shoulder to look at Reese. "Puhh-pee," Reese demanded, with all the seriousness you might expect out of some mob stereotype wielding a lead pipe. I distracted them pretty well with the dolphins and sharks at the aquarium however, and having walked them around there for pretty much four hours straight, they were primed for a nap when we got back to the Jeep. Throw 'em in, buckle 'em up, kick the heat up nice and toasty, start rolling south on Lakeshore drive -- Reese was out within 5 minutes, and Aidan followed her to dreamland about 5 minutes later. Killed time then driving around the South Side of Chicago, which, as long as I'm not be shot at, fascinates the hell out of me. So many beautiful old buildings, all falling apart. A whole seperate way of life. And apparently, different business rules -- I can't figure out the business plan for the guys selling baseball caps, peanuts and inflatable Spider-Man toys at the intersection. Certainly different law enforcement rules -- Orwellian TV camera boxes with flashing blue "Hi, notice me!" lights atop, hung every two or three blocks in sections of neighborhoods that look particularly "rough."

The afternoon continued post-nap with a stop at the Spice Merchant for some supplies for Thanksgiving. You wonder, looking at the little plastic baggie of "Herbs de Provence" tossed gently on the front seat of the car, just what that looks like to passerby, or, say, law enforcement. The girls enjoyed the stop though, getting a couple of good snorts out of the big herb mix jars from the friendly staff. The girls' friend Aiden V. seemed like maybe he'd had a good snort of something too by the time we got to his house to hang out for the evening – the kid, who is one of our favorites, was wired up and excited to see the girls. I've had other friends describe scenes where their child, in a fit of excitement, attacks the walls of a home with a marker or a Sharpie, but hadn't actually seen that happen live until Saturday night, when Aiden V. ran rampant around the dining room, leaving a broad green streak. Aiden's folks, Tom and Kristy, were delightful hosts, however, and they were also quick with a Magic Eraser, so no harm done to their lovely home, recently renovated. It was joy just to be in a "finished" home again.

Sunday played out pretty laid back with the girls, though our grocery shopping in the morning could have gone better, through no fault of their own. I think if anyone were to ever suggest to me again that I should go shopping at the Whole Foods in Evanston, IL, I think I would punch them right in the mouth. Though I suspect the Thanksgiving shopping panic had set in for many there this morning, it was much more mosh pit than market, and for their patience, I did not begrudge the girls the two apples they "cuted" their way into having. This "cuting" process basically goes like this: I give the girls some apples, which they start to eat. Roll into the checkout lane, apples still being eaten, "I'll pay for those," I say. Clerk thinks "What?" looks up to see the girls with the apples, the girls do some cute little smile or wave or softly say "Hiii," and the Clerk usually follows with "Ohhhh, how sweet. They...they, uh...can just have those apples..." It's no Jedi Mind Trick, but they're still young. We'll have them working the grift before you know it.

Mommy made it back around 6pm and there was much rejoicing from all parties.

This Cat Hates You

This cat hates you. A lot. Just look at those eyes. It's not mild disgust, or general cat annoyance. No, this cat really and truly fucking hates you.

Well, not you. My brother. He loathes my Brother Dan. And wants to kill Sister-in-Law Jill. Their crime? The birth of the G-Man, little nephew Griffin, a source of joy and happiness to our lives and Dan and Jill's home and everybody and everything that knows him, except this cat. The cat hates Griffin. Won't come out to see the baby. Hides in some dark corner of the house when the baby is around. Eats only when the baby is asleep or gone to day care. Crazy cat.

The cat, cleverly named "Kitty," made a post-dinner appearance Saturday night, no doubt angered by the extra noises of our visit, coming down the steps to glare at us and give us the finger. This photo no doubt only served to anger the cat further, and though not seen again, I pictured him spending the night assembling little cat sized sniper rifles and putting the finishing touches on little Kitty IEDs, muttering to himself with the kitty-equivalent of a Tom Waits growl "Soon...soon..."

The Journey Home

They say you can't go home again. So we didn't.

We did drive by it a couple of times, and we did pop in and out of the 6050 place for just a few minutes on Saturday and Sunday of this past weekend, just to collect some turkey roasting gear and some assorted holiday supplies. Reese, too young to offer commentary on the occasion, slept through the two brief stops. Aidan, who had been interested to see if our house "had crashed down" while we weren't there, was sweetly quiet during the stops, and really didn't say much until arriving back in Chicago tonite, when she asked "So, who lives in our house now?" We hadn't wanted to stay in the house this weekend, for fear of creating an additional confusion or challenge for the girls who have done so very well adjusting to this Chicago life, but its clear we needn't have worried.

Of course, AIdan may have just been too excited to see all of her MinneapPals -- Janey, Michael, Shelly, Holly, Mike, Sierra, Todd, Erin -- we caught up with a nice sectioning of some of her, and our, dearest friends. Obviously, it's hard to be so selective with the short time we had to visit -- you'd love to reach out to everybody who made a difference in your life in Minnapolis and go have a steak at Manny's with each of 'em. But you can't, and hopefully they're sweet enough to understand, and that they know they'll be invited for steak in Chicago real soon.

A nice visit, though. Shelly very sweetly pulled out all of the stops, and the girls had great fun dressing up in princess outfits and exchanging manicures, if their 3- and 4-yr old work can be considered proper manicures. Todd and Erin were very patient parents-to-be, kind to our girls (no doubt considering their own little girl due to arrive in January) a mix of wistful thoughtfulness and pained terror on their faces throughout breakfast. Mike and Holly showcased their new home by flooding the finished ceiling of their basement with water from a dislocated pipe in their kitchen, an event we all agreed was a lovely way to spend several hours. Though it was a very lovely home.

We also got to see Brother Dan and Jill and the little G-man. Lots of fun with them, sitting up late into the night with Dan, catching up and talking more than we probably ever did during the whole 3 years we lived in town. Sometimes the shortest distance between two points is a line in the opposite direction.

What's Buzzin', Cousin?

Rolled up I-94 in a blinding blizzard Friday night with the intent of visiting Brother Matt and his family en route to our weekend in Minneapolis. We caught traffic around Milwaukee, and just outside of town, around Delafield, rain turned to ice turned to some sort of demon snow (with lightning?!) in about five minutes, and it was one hell of a white-knuckle ride from there to Baraboo and Matt and his family. The trip, which should take about 2 1/2 hours, clocked in at a little over five. It was the sort of great drive where you get 20 or 30 cars and semis off in the ditch, and having been one of those cars in the recent past, you don't envy those drivers in the least (though you do sort of chuckle at the misery of the one asshole who blew by you at 60 ill-advised-considering-the-conditions-miles-per-hour while everyone else was doing 20 who you spot wedged in tail first about 20 feet down an embankment at the next exit).

Needless to say, many beers were rapidly consumed upon arrival in Baraboo, and the little girls, who had been absolute gems (well, Reesie did manage to work in a projectile-vomit just to keep things interesting once the start and stop traffic had started) greatly enjoyed seeing and playing with the Baraboo cousins. Here, Aidan and cousin Addison, just a few months apart age-wise, enjoy what would be the first of many dress-up opportunities for Aidan over the course of the coming weekend:

Speaking of Birthdays...

Forgot to mention earlier...Marine Corps Birthday today. Oorah.

Sixteen Candles and Counting

Birthdays on the brain today. A friend of ours turns 30 today -- thirty! -- once one of those "important" milestone birthdays, something way out there in the future, now one of those days rapidly receding in the rearview mirrow of life. Where did it go? How much is left? The Longevity Game from our insurance provider Northwestern Mutual Life may tell you. If this is not the worst tool I've seen in a long time, I don't know what is -- it actually told me when I was going to die (74, sadly). Hey thanks, NML! Like I wasn't freaked out enough.

Also frightening, the girls turning 16. Less frightening in the John Hughes version, "Sixteen Candles," which Reesie and I stayed up watching last night (she'd napped extra long yesterday afternoon, so at 1am, she was still rolling and jumping around the TV room.) After years of catching the movie on basic cable, with all the bad swears edited out, it was good to catch it on HBO with sweet Molly Ringwald swearing with the best of them. And although I can't even begin to grasp Reesie or Aidan getting married (Married? Mahreed. Married? MAHREED!), the scene with Sam talking to her dad late at night about "the boy she likes" doesn't seem all that far away at all. And it's a really nice scene, actually. I'd like to be able to be that sort of Dad for my girls, whatever their age.

Flags of a Father

He's had his critics over the years. Some of the most vocal have been members of his own family. Often, he's been the harshest on himself. Ah, but he's also quite fond of himself. And we like him, too.

That's Harry Anderson there, patriarch of this branch of the Anderson clan, Cindy's grandpa, original owner of our future residence here in Park Ridge. Over the years, he's carried a flag for his country as a Marine at Iwo Jima, a banner of a different kind for the good hands people at Allstate, a big University of Michigan flag from his days playing "a unique brand of college football," and many more. No ludite blindly groping about in the dark of his Floridian retirement cave, Harry peers thoughtfully daily into the digital campfire of this modern world and seeks to make some sense of it all. He proudly displays the visages of his great-grandchildren near his kitchen workstation, smiles flying the family colors high.

He sent this picture to my wife recently. I just think it's great. One image should not define a man, but this one captures a portion of the Harry we know today. I've been fortunate to get to know little pieces of other pictures of the man, and he shares new thing from time to time. I'm grateful for it, thinking how much I've missed not having my own grandparents to know and enjoy and share stories with (I was in the elevator at the Leo Burnett building today for a meeting, looking at my reflection in the door, thinking "God, that could be my grandfather staring back at me, if he was, you know, not dead, and mid-30's'ish, and had a goatee and a suit," and that lead me down whole other paths of memories and mysteries, best covered some other time.)

Anyway, we like Harry, and you should too. Or at the very least, go buy his book.

The High Life

Taking a quick gander at the photo of me holding Aidan at the Halloween parade, it's clear that I'd really nailed my "Fat Miller High Life Beer Delivery Guy" costume. Besides my just being fat, the "Miller High Life" jacket of mine really brought it all together. Cindy hates the jacket with a passion; she just schkeeves it. The other day, cleaning out the garage, I caught her trying to throw it out. She's been trying for years. But I keep holding on to it.

The jacket is a relic of brother Dan's infamous Bachelor Party, a souvenier of a somewhat sedate visit to the Miller Brewery in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Well, to be clear, his whole party wasn't there — just one of the final, fateful stops. The whole thing had been a pretty "classy" affair (the quote/unquotes to indicate it clearly wasn't classy, natch), crossing several state lines and all sorts of boundaries of good taste. (I tried to find a photo of that weekend to "sum it up" just now, but there isn't just one, and few are appropriate for this site. To satisfy your curiosity, though, consider this, this, and this.)

So the jacket is a piece of that. And a piece of nights out in Minneapolis, karaoke, jackassery, trouble. Yeah, that jacket is a piece of work.

And so am I, I guess.

Aidan's Magic Trick

Tonite. Before bathtime. Aidan runs up to Mommy, both hands closed in tiny fists.
Aidan:Guess which hand has the penny? (Fists up in mommy's face.)
Mommy:The left one? (Aidan opens left fist. No penny.)
Mommy:The right one? (Aidan opens right fist. No penny.)
Mommy:(Shocked) What, no penny?! Where'd it go?!
Aidan:I don't HAVE a penny!
Now that's magic.

Halloween Roundup

A few words on the Halloween that was here before all of the candy gets eaten. Cold, yet sunny, the girls and Cindy toured the shops of the South Park neighborhood here, collecting massive candy bars and suckers and the like from local merchants. Nice for the kids. Val brought the boys, and there was much frolicking:I got home a little before 5pm, and we got the girls back out on the street and into the wagon for a loop around the neighborhood. The family across the street got each of the girls little Halloween-themed Barbie dolls (well, "Barbie Babies" or whatever the heck they are. Perky lumps of plastic dressed as spiders and pumpkins. Cute stuff.) The night was awfully cold, but the big haul of candy warmed everyone's hearts. As for 1219, I think Kris reported having about 6 kids visit. We'll have to see if we can work on that in years to come.

Finally, as the Lion has been retired for the season, I wanted to add two more photos shared by Granny Lynne, just because I think they're cool. So, here they are, Chicago Lion 2006, rrraaaaawwwwrrrr:I should add that part of why I think so highly of Aidan's Lion costume is that for nearly a decade, the Lawrence brothers all had to share the same crappy Darth Vader costume. It must have cost my parents all of three dollars, but damn if we didn't all get a few years out of that thing, each of us taking a turn for a few years until eventually it just crumbled back into its component chemicals and atoms and whatnot. Not even a true costume, it was more like a mask and a weird sack with an ad for "Star Wars" on it. If you've ever had one, you probably remember that style of costume, though I think any of us would have been thrilled to look as cool as Aidan this past Halloween.