More Shameless Shameless Boasting

I just got a job that's going to let me have a bunch of free time to keep writing things that no one will ever read.  YES!

While I'm reminiscing (and learning how to spell reminiscing from memory - yes, that was without spell check... thank you, thank you) about my glory days, I thought I'd transcribe this little ditty and get it out of my system.  I'm hoping that by finally putting these stories down on hard copy, I can move on and do something better.  I hope beyond anything that's what happens.  Because sitting around in my pajamas, smelling like a foot, and looking like Charles Manson isn't really cutting it anymore.

My seventh grade Social Studies class was assigned countries in Africa to do reports on.  The teacher had been my homeroom teacher the year earlier and hated me for being a jackass too smart for her, so she made sure to let us choose going in alphabetical order by our last names (this also ensured that T.J. who was one of my best friends would have to pick dead last and she hated him even more than she hated me - so win/win for her) so I would be one of the last ones to choose.

Anyway, I ended up getting Liberia, which was the worst country next to whatever T.J. got... his country probably doesn't even exist anymore.  Liberia may be a great country (it is not), but it was a terrible country for doing reports on if you're in 7th grade.  They don't produce anything and the government is always being overthrown and there is no national identity or culture.  It was really hard, and I was constantly complaining to her that I couldn't find much material outside of the encyclopedia (Al Gore hadn't invented the internet yet) and she would say tough luck and smile.  She really didn't like me.

The final part of the report was to do a visual presentation in front of the class.  We could either use a poster, or use the overhead projector, or do a puppet show.  Seventh graders? Doing a puppet show?  Everyone thought she included this as a joke.  It got laughs.

The day before my presentation rolled around and of course I hadn't even started working on it, but I knew what I was going to do.  My mom kept pressing me on when I was going to start and I told her not to worry about it.  This made her worry about it more and she yelled at me and I yelled at her and then I grabbed all of our art supplies, some CD's, and a tape recorder and locked myself in the upstairs guest bathroom.

I wrote a script, made a stage-front complete with curtain, made roughly 20 puppets, recorded my version of the history of Liberia complete with soundtrack, and rehearsed the timing.  It was going to blow everyone away and I knew it.  Sometimes you just know these things and I knew it.  I was actually kind of scared by how good it was.

I came out of the bathroom around midnight with all of my stuff ready to go for the next day and my mom wanted me to show her the presentation. I would not. She yelled at me, but I did not yell back and just walked away, went in my room, closed the door, and went to bed.

The next day at school it came time to give the presentations and the teacher called on me first, because she really really hated me.  I knew mine was going to be better than everyone else and no one would want to go after me so I asked her if I could go last.  By this time I had developed a reputation of being someone who didn't do his homework, so she thought I was trying to buy time in the hope that we wouldn't finish and I could have extra time to work.  I tried to explain to her that was not the case, but she wouldn't hear it and said, "You are going today, whether you like it or not."  I said, "Okay, have it your way" and she said "I will have it my way" because, just in case I forgot, she wanted to remind me that she really really really hated me.

So I got up in front of the class and proceeded to set up the stage for my presentation.  I pressed play on the tape recorder and stood in front of everyone as my pre-recorded voice explained that I was wearing typical Liberian clothes (which were just regular clothes I bought at the Goodwill, because that's what they wear).  Then the music started. I jumped behind the stage, opened the curtains and did my puppet show.  When I hit stop on the tape recorder about ten minutes later and stood up, everyone was just staring at me.  No applause, no nothing.  Just silence.  They had officially been blown away.

The teacher tried go about business as usual and move along, "Okay, thank you Nick.  Next up is Alex with Nigeria."  Alex just sat in his desk wide-eyed, his mouth agape, shaking his head, and managed to stutter an, "I - I don't wanna go."  HA!  I KNEW IT!

She agreed and said that there would be no more presentations that day.  Then she proceeded to give us a lecture on how my presentation was the best presentation in the history of the world and blah blah blah.  She made me stay for her next period so I could perform the presentation for the 8th grade class.  Then she made me stay after that and perform it for the 6th graders as well.  By that time she had contacted the principal who came down with the school video camera and recorded it.

This story is pretty much the story of my life and I'm about to hit you all with the most magical fucking puppet show you've ever seen in your lives.

Shameless Shameless Boasting

I wrote my 500 words already today.  Normally, I wouldn’t let that stop me and I’d have a full-length post, but I didn’t sleep a wink last night.

I had a dream a while back where I was participating in a freestyle swim race.  There were two teachers I had, who had been extremely helpful during my formative years, and they were cheering me on at one end of the pool.  I was winning the race by a lot all the way until the turn.  When it came time to turn I struggled and everyone caught up and passed me.  My teachers couldn’t help but laugh and looked at each other and in unison said, “He never learned how to turn!”

That’s the reason I had to play goalie when I played water polo, because I couldn’t out swim anyone, not even the fat kids (that's not true, but you get the idea).  I could beat people to the ball in short spurts, but after two trips back and forth the length of the pool, I was done.  Sit me in that cage treading water... and I fucking dominated.

My water polo days sometimes drift into Al Bundy/ Uncle Rico territory where they take on the gleam of glory days gone by.  I don’t want it to be like that and am trying very hard to believe my glory days are ahead of me.

The lack of a coach or mentor is what makes this difficult to realize.  In water polo it was easy to do what my coaches told me.  It was really simple.  Do your warm ups, tread water for three hours, make sure the stupid balls don’t go in the stupid net, and then make a good pass down the pool so that we score in transition.  I could do that.  They couldn’t teach me about the rest of the game's nuances, but the good part about being a goalie is that you get the best seat in the house for watching and learning about the game and after a full season in the water I didn’t need anyone to tell me about the game.

The classroom was always like that for me too.  My teachers could always tell me what I was supposed to study, but in terms of the how and why of it, they couldn’t reach me.  I was always able to just sit back, observe, and figure it out without much coaching.  This usually alienated my teachers and I think a lot of them resented me for making them feel useless when they were finally given what every teacher dreams of: a truly gifted student.

My first water polo coaches were like this too.  They were constantly sitting me out of games and refused to move me up to varsity even though I was far better than the starting varsity goalie, who was the one weak link keeping the team from finally gelling and playing to their potential.  They wanted me to need them, or at least respect them, but how could I respect people whose knowledge of the game they were supposed to be teaching me had already been surpassed by my own in one season?  They were jokes.  Maybe they had higher priorities above coaching water polo, that’s fine – they should have fucking quit and stopped wasting all our time.

Luckily, they did quit my senior year and we got my dream coach.  Not only did his knowledge and passion for the game surpass mine, but he would get his fat ass in the water and fucking destroy us.  He also threw chairs, which is always a plus.  I finally got my spot on varsity, though I wasn’t made captain at the beginning of the season like I thought I should have.  In that way I had met my match though.  He knew it would motivate me to be even better and sure enough by mid season I was the one calling the coin toss and making inappropriate homoerotic comments to the opposing team captains to get in their heads before games.

That team was the only team in the last 20 years of my high school’s history to make the playoffs.  I was named team MVP and First Team All League.  So far, this really is nothing more than Al Bundy reminiscing  his six touchdown game.

I do have a point (not a good point, but a point) and my point is this:  that coach was able to teach me how to turn.  Up until that point I had been getting by on my raw wits and determination.  He pushed me to the next level.  I’m at a point right now where I need someone else to teach me how to turn.  I don’t know who that someone is going to be or where they will come from, but I’m ready to learn.  TEACH ME (but only if you're not a weak-willed self-important dip shit please - I've got all those qualities covered already thank you very much)!

Like every goalie, my dreams were of scoring the game-winning goal at the buzzer.  While that never happened, I did score three times that year (which never happens to goalies), because I’ve got a fucking canon for an arm.  It’s impressive - seriously, I should set up a camcorder an iphone next to the pool one day and just throw bombs so that when the aliens find the tape pick up the signal from radio waves they will know that something truly amazing once existed on earth. Though it’s not official, I probably hold some kind of record for the most kick-outs for a goalie - sometimes I would compensate for my weak swimming by using a stroke with aggressively high elbows and occasionally these elbows “accidentally” connected with the chin of the person chasing me from behind.  I also liked to grab opponents' legs when they were trying to swim back on defense when the ref wasn’t looking (but it turns out sometimes he was).  Water polo is the dirtiest game on the planet.  And I was one of the best.

The only award my 5 foot nothing ass received in my entire academic high school career was the senior award for 7th period Water Polo class.  Ha!

And this post ended up being about 1,000 words, which is what I guess I'm averaging these days.  Am I turning into the most prolific writer on the Internet?

No, no I am not.

Awaiting Response

I'm prettay, prettaaaaaay, prettaaay satisfied with myself right now. I just created a new folder in my Gmail inbox.  And this folder is...

Wait for it...

"Awaiting Response"

Someone get Google on the phone because this needs to be a standard feature.  Why has no one else thought of this, right?  Probably because they just 'star' the emails they need to reply to (whatever!).

New girl names:  Melody/Elodie, Ariel, Megan, Coco, Eleanor, Genievive, Lauren*

*This list was amended by the wife while I wasn't looking.  Very sneaky, darling.  She added and I subsequently deleted the name Paloma.  She's obsessed with that name the same way I'm obsessed with 24601, which has actually emerged as a legitimate dark horse contender for the middle name.

We're going to see a gig tonight.  I haven't been to a gig since I don't know when.  Probably not since Amedeus was born. Before that we'd seen Leonard Cohen (amazing), Jenny Lewis (great), Vampire Weekend (big mistake), and Gnarlz Barkley with Shortwave Set (fun).  We had tickets for Billy Childish in April, but it was for the day we got back from California and we were too wiped out.  I have to see him though.  I say Tarantino is a living hero, but Billy Childish is the person whose life I relate to most and whose work I'd most like my own to be seen as in a similar way.  Leonard Cohen too, but he's much too smooth with the ladies.  That's definitely not me.

I've never been a real big gig person.  It seems like most of the people at those things (me included) would have been better off staying home and listening to the music on their stereo (yes, I know that stereos don't even exist anymore - fuck off) ipods.  Everyone stands there with their arms folded trying to resist nodding their heads or swaying because wouldn't want to look like a nerd in front of a bunch of grown ups dressed like and listening to the music of 15 year olds.

Some people do have voices that have to be heard in person to be fully appreciated.  Jenny Lewis and Jens Lekman are two I've seen recently that fall into this category.  Sea Wolf is recommended too.

The wife is the bigger music fan... or the more knowledgeable fan.  I love music, but I don't dig too deep.  I rely on the occasional recommendations from friends and family, who are better people than me, to stay up to date. She used to go to a gig almost once a week before we got married, now I've converted her to being a movie fan. The fact she's gotten me to five gigs over the last year is a small miracle though.  So you could say we're both working on converting each other.

By chance, on our first date we ended up at the old Largo venue on Fairfax and paid $30 each to see Grey Delisle ($60 for a jobless college student was crazy moeny back then).  It was worth every penny and really set the tone for our relationship.  The performance was a treasure and while I'm sure another woman could have enjoyed it, I knew the wife knew just how priveledged we had been to have seen that and I knew that I had found someone worth getting to know better.  My wife's not so much an artist (yet, at least), but she is able to recognize great art and separate it from the pretenders and it's one of the qualities I most admire about her.

Maybe I'm a snob about that sort of stuff, but I do think there are some things that you see or read or hear that are just universally beautiful, there is no room for opinion on the matter (unless you're dead inside).  It's very rare and harder and harder to discern when you are privy to something like that because of how over-hyped everything is and how everyone wants to be a person who's seen something like that and how everyone says amazing about everything and also on the flip-side how everyone is so jaded and nothing is great and nothing is amazing and what's so great about that person that's not so great about the other person? I resent both kinds of people.

The mindset that universal beauty exists always made me feel pretty lonely.  Not because I was always able to recognize it right off and no one else could.  I don't mean it in that way at all.  In fact I'm sure I've dismissed many great works and given too much credit to others. But the loneliness came in the search for things that were universally beautiful; in having high standards for artistic endeavors and letting myself be disappointed when those standards weren't met.

The disappointment part is something she's helped me let go of a bit and she has taught me a lot about finding the good parts of something that might not be great on a whole and appreciating that.  I love that about her too.  She's not a snob.  She's not like me in that way.  She is beautiful and lovely and has empathy and is everything I need more of in my self.

But when we do see something great, she knows, and I know and it reminds me of that first date and I fall in love with her all over again.  And when we see garbage, she knows, and I know, and it reminds me of when we went to see Jerry Springer The Opera when I came out to visit her in 2004 and that was a great night.  It was first date version 2.0.  I remember that and I fall in love with her all over again.

So we're going to see Whispertown 2000 tonight and I'm not expecting greatness, but maybe they'll surprise me and maybe I can write some twee closing line about how it will make me remember all the reasons I fell in love with her and fall in love with her all over again, but I won't because it's not going to happen. It's fucking Whispertown 2000, their album was pretty blah.  Blah like this blahg.

(Grey Delisle Salcido... Hmmm)

It's the Ones Who've Cracked That the Light Shines Through

Sometimes I'll read something I wrote and say, "Damn, I wish I had written that!"  I'm not trying to be existential here.  To tell you the truth, I don't even know what the fuck existential even means. But I'm pretty sure the first sentence could be interpreted as existential (whatever it means).  I try to keep everything pretty surface level.  I'm a simple guy who writes simple things and I think maybe that's a complicated thing for some people to try and wrap their head around.  I think what I'm trying to say is that I believe quality metaphor and multi-layered writing are usually stumbled upon by accident.

People intending their work to be deep are usually the most shallow and superficial.  It is the work of a child who creates something out of love that God uses to convey His greatest wisdom (adults can be children when they're at their best).  So when I say sometimes I'll read something I've written and say I wish I'd written it, I mean it quite literally in its most paradoxical form.  Yes, I have physically written it, but the words are not mine; the structure is not mine; the message is not mine.  It belongs to God.

Experiences in having completed (transcribed) works of these kinds are what allow me to believe that the Bible and the writings of the saints are the actual word of God inspired by the Holy Spirit.  It happens, and it happened to much holier men and women than me, who were much less clouded by things other than God's will.

Of course, the midget that is my ego steps up on his tip-toes, sees inspired creations that have come from my hands and tells me that they also originated in my mind, but I know better than to believe his lies.  I was there.  The words were whispered to me; the pictures displayed in perfect detail before my very eyes while I tried in vain to capture their original beauty.  Any truth or beauty left is a poor reflection of what exists beyond the limitations of human hands and human words.

The title of this post was taken from the name of a Jeffrey Lewis album. My wife is actually the real Jeffrey Lewis fan, it's her album and while she tried to get me to listen, it doesn't grab me.  I like the idea of Jeffrey Lewis and his work more than I like his actual finished products.  I do love the title of that album though.

The wife and I went to see a classical music performance in London one night.  The orchestra came on stage first followed by the conductor while everyone clapped.  A female violinist walked on stage last and took her seat to rousing applause.  She was obviously the star performer and I was determined to figure out why, despite having no knowledge of classical music performance.  They all started playing and I didn't see it at first. In fact, the other violinists all seemed to be playing what was the exact same music as her, but with much more ease.  She actually seemed to be struggling a little bit. But you could not take your eyes off her.  There was something magnetic about her and the way she played.  Then it hit me.

The epiphany of sorts I had was this: at that level of talent and expertise, what sets the great ones apart from everyone else is their ability to step up to the edge of total disaster and walk along it without ever actually ever falling over.  That was why her playing caused the adrenaline to flow through my body: at any moment there was the possibility that she would crack and completely fall apart, but at the same time she wouldn't.  You knew she wouldn't.

She had probably stepped over the edge of disaster before and fallen to the depths below many times, so many times that she knew every crack, every curve, every pebble on that ledge so well that she would not fall again.  Not that night.  And probably not any other.  Every fall must have been a death and out of every death a resurrection, until eventually death was defeated and no longer held any power over her.

That is the Truth contained in the Word of God.

That is why I love the title of that Jeffrey Lewis album.

Crying It Out

I should be getting to bed: to sleep, wake up, and do my post in the morning like a good boy, but I'm going to cheat and write the next one today, which is technically tomorrow, but I haven't slept in between posts, so not really. I think I'll write the one for the day after that too.  You're probably not wondering why I am doing this, but I'll tell you anyway because this is my blog and I get to do what I want. For one, the genius tab on my itunes just created its best playlist yet and I want to ride it out.  Maybe it's a sign.  Secondly, I'm working on the most tedious motherfucking thing ever and I need all the time I can get these next couple of days to power through it.

I'm bad at being a normal person.  That's pretty obvious to anyone who knows me.  Normal people can work on something for a reasonable amount of time, put it away and rest, and then come back to it with the same normal focus they had before.  Well, I can't do that.  It's like this playlist.  When things fall into place and I have the perfect combination of whatever in my lap, I have to ride it out and milk it for all it's worth.  It's like planets aligning... they're not going to stay like that forever.

Right now, I find myself in the middle of a perfect storm of preparation, inspiration, motivation, and free time.  This is an opportunity I can't pass up, not even for my stupid 500 words.  Someone call the "Artist's Way" police because I'm breaking my parole!  Who knows if I'll be back (Yes, I'll be back because I'm now addicted to having a public record of my thoughts, because now when I say "Hey, I thought of that first!" I can now go to bed satisfied that I can prove this before I cry myself to sleep knowing that someone other than me actually had the initiative to put these ideas out into the world. Just kidding, I never cry when that happens [which is everyday], I just go and write an anonymous hateful post on a message board somewhere instead.  It's funny cause it's true.  And now I will go cry).

One of the most enduring memories from my childhood is of watching my dad spray the side of our house with a hose.  The first house we lived in was built in the California ranch style which had a roof that extended beyond the top of the supporting exterior walls.  Moths would make their cocoons under these overhangs, protected and shaded.  There would be dozens (at that age it seemed like hundreds) of these things tucked in the corner where the roof and wall met and my dad would start at one end, using his thumb to concentrate the spray* and blow them off the house.  I would step on them once they hit the ground, as I was told to do by my parents... to make sure they were dead.

*To this day, whenever I find a hose with a spray nozzle I will unscrew it and use my thumb if I need a harder spray.  There is something beautiful and empowering about being in control of the force of the water coming from the hose.  It may not be necessary, but it takes focus and strength; sharpening the mind and the body.  And in that way it is totally necessary.  It reminds me of driving with your knee when you need free hands.  That's another skill my dad taught me.  It's totally unnecessary, but an invaluable skill once you acquire and master it.  

The first time I saw him do this I remember being confused that mom and pop would want to knock all the butterfly cocoons off our house.  Did they not know the butterflies were still in there?  They explained that these were not butterflies, these were moths, which were like evil butterflies.  I understood, but at the same time did not know how they could be sure that every cocoon contained a moth.  What if some were butterflies?  Wouldn't the possibility of killing innocent butterflies before they had a shot at life be enough to stop this cruel practice?

I was assured that none of them were butterflies and I took my parents at their word as I went along and smashed the cocoons into the ground... their yellow and red guts streaming into the puddles of water in which they lied like the finger-paint from a child's hands swirling around in the drain of a sink.

I'm not a fan of "the cry it out method".  I don't know how anyone could be fan of that.  It would be like being a fan of putting dogs to sleep. Nobody wants to see dogs put to sleep, but sometimes it's necessary.  Just like the cry it out method is necessary.  Some people may disagree with me on this, but let me just tell you: you're wrong and fuck off.  I hate the cry it out method.  It is the most horrible feeling in the world to hear your child crying for comfort from you and not being able to provide it to him.

But Nick, you can provide it to him.  Yes and no.  I can if I want a kid who is reliant on external aides to get to sleep and is conditioned to being used to getting what he wants by crying.  If I want a child who is fully capable of going to sleep on his own when he is supposed to and is not used to manipulating his parents with tears, then no, I can't.

Being a parent is fucking tough man.  But just like anything else in life, if you power through the insanely difficult "cry it out" period you will reap the rewards because life will be easier in the long run.  It's a paradox in this way.  If you take the hard route, life will be easier on a whole and if you take the easy route, life will be harder in the long term.

I choose the hard route in parenting as I now choose it in life.  I am spraying off and stepping on the moth cocoons that have built up around me and my family before they can emerge and eat the fabric of our lives.

Good night, fuckers.

SHOCKING NEWS: I'm A Bad Person

I've finished watching tonight's episode of Rock of Love: Whore Bus.  It was on in the States a year ago, but trash TV takes a while to filter through to England.  That's one reason why I'm a bad person.

Another reason I'm a bad person is that I've realized I'm a bore.  I read a quote from some white guy who may or may not be dead and he came to the conclusion that the definition of a person who was a bore was someone who deprives you of solitude without being able to provide you with any companionship.  That is me to a "t".  My friends and family think I avoid them because of I don't know why - they're just always saying that I avoid them, but it's completely unselfish on my part.  I avoid them because I'm a bore and I know it.

Am I a bore to everyone?  I sure hope not, and I highly doubt it.  Unless my wife is an insanely good actress (she is not) I am not a bore to her.  And I would bet good money that about as many people who find me to be a bore would also find her to be a bore.  Does that mean we are two self-absorbed people totally incapable of providing other human beings with companionship when in their company?

Yes and no.

The terms self-absorbed or selfish did not have negative associations when they were first coined by whatever psychologist.  They were in fact made up to indicate a very desirable way to be.  The idea being that a person who was focused on their "self" or who they truly were supposed to be, would usually end up being a more complete and whole person and therefor better able to be themselves and help others be themselves.

People who are better able to focus on theirs "selves" tend to be introverts.  And it is extroverts who tend to run the world because, well, they're extroverts and they're all up in everyone's business all the time.  These extroverts eventually created the consumer culture that we are now immersed in and quickly learned that people who are focused on perfecting their "self" are less likely to seek a feeling of wholeness through buying stupid shit they don't need.  So the powers that be made the "selfish" a people to be frowned upon and suspicious of, despised even.

So we are selfish.  We are always trying to make ourselves the best "us's" that we can be.  It's never-ending (or until we get to Heaven - fingers crossed).  But being selfish doesn't make us incapable of providing valuable companionship to others.  We prove that by providing it to each other.  Selfish people are the minority.  Introverts are the minority.  Whether this is an artificial effect of consumer culture created by normally introverted people feeling they should be more extroverted to fit in is something I will probably never get to the bottom of - but that would explain the rise in mental illness and depression as people would not be acting according to their true "selves".  Not acting like your true self long enough would make someone crazy. Hmmm.

Like there are many different types of animals with many different types of dispositions.  Scratch that.  Forget the whole animal kingdom.  Let's just talk about dogs.  There are hundreds of different breeds of dogs and they're all the same species and can all fuck and make weird looking babies just like humans could if they wanted to (I have a feeling this is not true about dogs, but I'm sure if there are exceptions they are very few).  Dogs obviously differ in appearance from breed to breed, but they also differ greatly in disposition from breed to breed.  Some are more energetic, some more aggressive, some more shy, some playful and happy, etc. etc.

Humans differ in the same ways and it's totally normal.  These differences aren't specific to any "breed" of human (save your debates about this for your KKK meetings) and cannot be indicated by any physical trait.  They are all mental and must be spoken of in psychological terms.  There are two classification systems that I am familiar with and Jungian typology is my favorite of the two.  Jung divided the mental human "breeds" into 16 different groups.  I could write a 300 page dissertation on how it works, but for the sake of this post I'll limit it to the introvert/extrovert question.  8 of these types are extroverts and 8 are introverts.  The introverts are consistently the most rare.  Again, why that is, is debatable.  Within the 8 introvert sub-sections 2 are the most rare out of any of the 16.  These 2 are the best companions for each other and the wife and I both fall into these two categories.  We're great companions for us and people like us (which are very few people), but pretty lousy ones for everyone else.

Does this mean we're better than everyone else?  If you mean we're better at being the sort of introverts we were born to be, then yes we are better than everyone else at that.  If you mean we are better people on a whole?  Yeah, probably.  Our 2 types are pretty much the smartest, most sensitive and thoughtful people around.  If the world was made up of all us's then there would be no war and everyone would have enough food to eat and free health care and children would be sliding down rainbows into rivers made of chocolate.

In other words: the world would be pretty fucking boring.

We need those other 14 types.  We don't need to be around them all the time, but we need to live in their world in order to appreciate what is unique about us, and have problems to fix, and things to reflect on , and jokes to crack, etc. etc.

We may be bores to everyone else.  But everyone else are fucking bores to us, so put that in your pipes and smoke it, you stupid hippies.

24601

So the wife is about 5 months pregnant with meat sack #2.  "Meat sack" is a term of endearment for "human" used by serial killers, mass murderers, and fathers.  And so we're starting to seriously consider what we are going to call this thing and by thing I mean little girl.

We actually don't know if it's a girl or a boy and we aren't going to find out (hopefully we'll be able to tell what it is the day it's born), but I know it's a girl like I knew the first one was a boy.  What can I say?  I have some kind of psychic connection to my children.  I knew even before the wife (who wasn't my wife at the time, because we're bad people) even told me she was pregnant.  That's true.  Even I'll admit it's kind of creepy and sounds like a bald-faced lie, but it's true.  I knew she was pregnant and I knew we were having a boy.  

So I just knew?  Kind of.  I did have a gut feeling.  But I'm also one of those crazies who looks for symbolism and meaning in the world around him and also in his dreams.  While the wife and her family were looking to things like the shape of her belly and what food she was craving (that's WAY less crazy - except the craving thing, maybe baby boys and girls do need different kinds of foods for their different hormones and stuff.  That could make sense), I would have dreams almost weekly where I was visited by a baby boy.

Was I really communicating psychically with my unborn child or were the dreams just the subconscious projection of my deep-seeded desire for a boy?  I'm open to either interpretation.  I'm not completely nuts.  But then how does one explain the fact that to this day I will wake up almost exactly a minute before he starts stirring from his sleep?  Before any cry, before any movement... there's some invisible super-natural force that has me awake and alert in the middle of the night when I should be sound asleep the moment before my son starts crying.  

My point with all that bull shit is that I know this one is a girl in the same way.  I've actually gotten a better look at her in my dreams and she is a beautiful little lady.  Again, is it my own mental projection?  Will it be another lucky guess from something that has a 50/50 probability? Is it possible that the unconscious desire for a girl was so strong and I have such a strong command over my body that I was only shooting X chromosomes, and that is why there is that feeling of already knowing?  I highly highly doubt it.  I wrote that to make you laugh, but at the same time this whole process of creating life is so powerful and mystical that who knows what's possible.  There is a force bigger than any of us behind all this stuff.  We're talking Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, chaos theory, "life will find away", maybe my wife is carrying a velociraptor kind of stuff.

That brings me back to what this post is about.  What do we name our little girl?  Velociraptor is pretty high on the list.  I worked in an area of London where the rich and famous live, the type of rich and famous who name their kids shit like Apple.  Yes, Gwenyth Paltrow was a customer... and a friend.  And if you know about the shameless name-dropping on her website Goop, then maybe that's funny to you, but if you're like my wife it mostly makes you want to barf, and not because you're pregnant.  Anyway the giggling imp named Vanity that seduces you into naming your offspring stupid shit must have hopped on my back from the shoulder of one my regulars and is now taking me for a ride.  

You're not supposed to use your kids' real names online (but you can post their pictures?), but I'm okay with telling everyone that I got my wish of having my son's middle name be Amedeus (he doesn't answer to it, so all my readers who are child rapists you can go ahead and put the keys to your non-descript white vans down... thanks).  I'm sure most people thought I did this as a nod to Mozart, which was probably amusing to them because I'm not versed in classical music at all and it's spelled with an 'e' in the middle instead of another 'a' like we got it wrong.  Maybe people thought we did that on purpose hoping to look less pretentious.

It is spelled that way intentionally, but not for any reason one might guess.  The looong story short is that I should be dead about ten times over and believe the only reason I'm not is that I've got pretty much the most kick-ass guardian angel ever, and I'm sure he's probably been kept strong by the nightly guardian angel prayer that I've been saying ever since I could talk.  He's been a big part of my life and I've always been grateful for his presence and protection.  So I was reading a book on angels and demons by Peter Kreeft and it said that your guardian angel will tell you his name if you ask him (angels have no sex, but I'm a dude and though I can be kind of a girl [when I'm not being totally sexist] I like to think I mostly project a masculine energy and the spiritual force given the task of protecting me would share that energy and enhance it).  

So one day I found a quiet room and shut the door and sat down with a pen and paper, prayed and asked my guardian angel his name.  Within seconds my hand started writing and when I looked down "Amedeus" was on the paper in cursive.  I haven't written in cursive since grade school.  That was kind of weird.  And I've certainly never learned Latin, so I was surprised to find out from my mom that Amedeus means "love of God".  That made total sense!  How cool!  And what a cool name my guardian angel had.  I've seen him (or my mental projection) in dreams and he ain't no fancy pants composer either, when this dude wants to appear as a human he looks a lot like Mickey Rourke from Sin City.  He's an intimidating figure, but a big teddy bear underneath all the bad-ass demon-slaying exterior.

So I named the kid after him, also because to me our baby represented the love of God, and also because our son's first name is totally Jewish and I'm Catholic and had to slip a good Christian name in there somewhere (How did the first Christians get around this during the time before there were any "Christian" names?  I've always wondered that).  And I can't wait to tell my son that story, because I'm sure he'll think it's pretty cool.

So my daughter's name...  My son's name is so cool, and has a good story behind it, I'm trying to go for something similar with her.  And tops on the list is 24601 after Jean Val Jean's prison number in Les Miserables.  Now this will NEVER happen and I know that, but never say never and women are very exhausted and suggestible after giving birth, so you never know... at least for a middle name?  I mean who has numbers for their name?  And who is named after the most kick ass musical of all time?  For reals.  If you haven't seen Les Mis you need to go NOW!  I could see it once a week for the rest of my life and it would never get old.  The music, the story, the characters...  Slap my ass and call me Susan, I love Les Mis.  So to name her 24601 would be my dream.  Sure, it's a bt more superficial than the boy's, but so what?  There are lots of pretty French girls' names in there as well, but that's a little too twee for me and the wife.  Not quite in keeping with what our family's got going on.  But 24601?  She'd blend right in.

So we've got that and Velociraptor.  The other one I am trying to make happen (and the only one with a chance) is to name her something that will give her the intials G.K. after G.K. Chesterton: a staunch Catholic, one of my favorite authors, and a hero of mine.  Ever since moving to England, there's been a sort of synchronicity going on with certain English authors who I had always admired.  I'll be reading their stuff on the train or in a certain part of the city and wherever I am will be mentioned in the passage I am reading.  London's a big city, so for this to happen multiple times, is pretty unlikely.  Part of me thinks (or hopes - more likely) that I'm being called to carry the torch for these champions of reason and they're up there getting hints dropped for me.  Why would a vulgar, ignorant, and inarticulate slacker with a loose grip on reality like me be called to do this?  All I can think is that because we live in a time and place so full of vulgar, ignorant, and inarticulate slackers with loose grips on reality that there needs to be someone who is one of their own to speak to them on their level without condescending or posturing and talk some fucking sense, and also seem fallible and not have all the answers, but enough of them to point people in the right direction.  That's the only reason I can think of, because wow, Hulk. Not. Good. With. Words.

So yeah, little G.K. Salcido or maybe C.S. Salcido?  I don't know.  We'll be inspired to name her whatever she's supposed to be named.  I have faith in that.