Neither of us have ever seen it and I thought would be fun if Jes and I put our preconceptions on record.

I’ll go first.

Jack Black the panda is an outcast from the other pandas because of his unpandalike desire to be a Kung Fu master. He meets a master who sees potential in him and who trains him. Master’s old enemies are jealous of Jack Black panda’s skills and take the master. JBP must prove to himself that he has what it takes to save master. I also think there’s a girl panda interest too.
Basically Karate Kid with pandas.

Here is Jessica’s notion:

Panda is the Chosen One, sought out by powers that be to defeat the ultimate scourge. Panda is a schlub who doesn’t look like he can do the job. Powers that be train Panda in the range of styles, taught by the namesake animals. He looks like a failure until he finds some motivating and compelling reason to fight. He finds his inner Chosen One when his teachers and loved ones are at risk. He saves the day.

The movie is just beginning now.

UPDATE:
Jes was far closer to the facts of the movie, something she attributes to seeing more of the movie trailers than I did. Incredibly imaginative film.

Who the Hell is Bob McElroy?

Bob McElroy was a musician I met while living in at the Santa Fe International Youth Hostel in 1999. He was in town from Monroe, Louisiana to meet with Gary Johnson, then-governor of New Mexico, on the topic of marijuana decriminalization legislation. To this meeting he dressed in an all-white suit with a bolo tie, which at 78 years old, scruffy beard and head of white hair, made him look too much like Colonel Sanders for comfort. Later that night, I found him in the common room singing folk songs to an audience of touring Japanese girls. I asked if I could record him and he was happy to oblige. I immediately ran to Radio Shack, purchased a cheap boundary microphone that I could connect to my MiniDisc recorder, grabbed a six pack of Lone Star talls at the pharmacy, ran back to the hostel and sat Bob down outside the hostel kitchen where he played and I recorded until quiet hour.

Not everything he said was the truth, but enough was.

Bob was an extremely interesting person. A former member of a biker gang and psychedelic enthusiast. With his skepticism of organized religious ideals and anti-establishment attitude he’s exactly the type of person you’d expect to meet while living my life. As he puts it while talking about being “locked up for crazy,” “[Mad houses are] all about separating out people who are constitutionally opposed to following the rules other people have set down.” Or when I ask him to play the song where “the bad guy gets away at the end” he retorts, “the cop’s the bad guy.” He had a special way of looking at things that resonated with me. I didn’t want to be him, or even spend a lot of time with him. That evening, extended for ten years by recording technology, was all I needed. Bob died in 2002.

It’s my pleasure to share the entire evening’s recordings with you.

He’s in quite a state: laying there with a collapsed lung, tired, in pain, and getting a lot of tests done. But he’s okay. By okay, I mean alive, talking, and stable.

My whole day has been spent alternating between thinking he’s okay and thinking that he’s not. And I find myself frustrated with the whole arrangement of things.

A month ago, my brother was dropped from my parents’ insurance plan. Now he gets into an accident that involves a helicopter, multiple days in the hospital, multiple tests. He has no job right now.

This is not okay.

But he’s alive. Thank goodness. And he’s relatively whole, and will likely come home soon. The guy is a trooper, and tries to be pleasant to everyone and probably should have kicked us out a while ago today. He was tired when I saw him, and that was before anyone else got there. Damn it if he shouldn’t have just blown up at us without regards to propriety, and sent us home. This kind of stress shouldn’t get trussed up to save others. This sucks.

And now I find myself doing the same thing. I feel so at ends right now. I need a place to vent, and I never update this bloody site. But really. I mean, come on. It feels foolish to think that what I write here matters. I cannot write too much in order to protect my private life from my work; I cannot write anything worth reading if it’s not personal. When I delve into feelings, I find myself just bitching. When I try to be witty, it all falls flat. This is nonsense.

And as I write this entry, with the hope that it is honest to my feelings, I find myself tucking all of these things up and getting ready to go back to work tomorrow, to support my godsister tomorrow at her high school play, to have a play date with my cousin for both of our sakes, to go to a family event on Sunday. After all that’s done, I find I am trying to figure out how Ian and I can contribute to whatever costs my brother will incur from this hospital “adventure”, even though I already am flirting with burnout and am dealing with a severely compromised budget as it is.

No matter how much I wish for my brother to feel better and to take care of himself, I really find this entire situation to be ridiculous. After all,  I cannot figure out a reasonable way to do it for myself.

While it’s always made me feel proud and optimistic, I think it’s given me every excuse to rest on my laurels and wait for it all to happen. When I was a teenager I wrote songs and people seemed to be in awe of this simple gift of expression. Imagining myself with a record deal, standing on a stage before thousands of adoring fans, money falling out of the sky I let myself slide into my mid-twenties (seemingly the terminus of rockstardom). Around that time my skills started to wane. I never got as good at guitar as my peers, my ability to create catchy melodies dried up, family and work responsibilities replaced the free time I needed to get baked and jam with myself. But moreover, my previous accomplishments seemed to trump what I was currently producing which led to trepidation regarding every note I played. “I’m not as good as I used to be” would be my paralyzing mantra. The thousands of adoring fans became a billion possible critics of the crap I wiped onto tape.

About six years ago I parlayed the skills I developed editing audio into editing video. This was my calling all-of-the-sudden– Visual Storytelling. I got really into movies, sucking up as many as I could and trying to apply the techniques I gleaned to making my own. I was alright at shooting, after all, I did spend two semesters in high school photography. But where I thought I really excelled was in storyboarding and telling the story through the edit. The former was such a wonderful adventure because I was able to use my imagination– free from a camera and crew to compose the visual story, the latter because it was a more pragmatic and concrete method of painting the stages in an imaginary event. Movie-making stardom was only a few years away, I was sure.

Climbing the ladder

Naturally, I found a way to do what I liked doing and make money. Sticking to what I knew was my calling and eventually becoming extremely well-know for it was the way to go. No more sitting around waiting for David Geffin to get my demo tape from a friend of a friend. I was taking my destiny in my own hands. My cheap, little online movies landed me cheap, little job after cheap, little job. The work was simple, yet heartbreakingly embarrassing. Tribute slide-shows for bat mitzvahs, corporate pieces for manufacturers of TiO2 and something known as ‘ERP’ (the client never filled me in on what the hell that is) haven’t gotten me very far to-date.

Still feeling like I should be part of an incredible team making incredible work, I’m frustrated by the fact that nearly everyone I work with has less talent, vision and responsibility to the end-product than I do. Everyday is a challenge, and not the kind of challenge you’d face with self-dignity and the desire to overcome. It’s the kind of challenge where people who work in cubes all day tell you how to work your skill. The kind of challenge where non-designers force you to make design decisions you know are wrong, where the computer-illiterate use you as a mouse and keyboard– executing their bastard whim upon the project. Working with bottom-feeders for so long has convinced me that that’s how I will be someone. This is how I shine. My abilities are so far and above the people who surround me that I practically am a rock star.

This isn’t about feeling like I should be something and complaining that I’m not, it’s about how I’m going to manage to get through the rest of my life. I don’t want to work. I barely manage to drag myself into the office everyday only to polish more turds. If I’m going to make it to 70 or 80, I’m really going to have to hit it big in the lottery or a workman’s comp claim because my talent and my stick-to-it-ness certainly aren’t going to carry me into retirement. Maybe that’s why I smoke cigarettes. Maybe it’s better to get life out of the way than to suffer through it for the typical life-span.

Yep. Saturday night Jes and I exchanged our last gifts at Rob and Leah’s with dear friends. The deal: Handmade gifts under $30, secret Santa style. For me, it was memorable because I officially gave birth to The Sutter Puppet, my gift to secret giftee, Niff. I was equally delighted to receive from Eleanor, a handsome, framed, silk screen portrait of myself. She rolled a hot pair of Eleanor Briefs™ into the deal; one which pretty accurately portrays its contents. Thank you so much, Elea.

Meet The Sutter Puppet

The Niff isn’t exactly an easy recipient when your dealing with special occasion, hand-made gifts. Not that she’d be particularly picky, as long as you put some thought into it– it’s just that she’s so damned talented. Someone in my position (with a tenth-grade art education) has only one choice: Be Clever. I riffed off of Rob’s Virtual Stan idea from years ago and created a Virtual Sutter. I probably couldn’t have pulled it off without the help I got from Paul Muller’s videos. After the party, we drove back to Niff’s house in stitches listening to her portray her true love as he would issue instructions on how to give oral sex to a man… er, oneself, in this case. “You go up… down… updownupdown.” I should mention now that I made the puppet anatomically correct (read: he’s got a ween). Sutter absolutely hates this little clone– a sign that it’s a great gift, say some– and I’m really sorry that’s the case. He should have a little self esteem and learn to love himself for all his wonderful qualities. Freckles, button nose, deep voice, six-foot-long legs. Coincidently, Kevin Nocoins, who bagged Sutter himself in the gift match-up, also presented a Sutter doll. His exaggerates (slightly) the length of Sutter’s arms and legs. Penis is distinctly absent. Pure Nocoins.

Merry Christmas, The Niff! I look forward to seeing your YouTube channel light up with Sutter Puppet vlogs.

I’ll let Jes explain her part

Though Ian argues that Niff is hard to make things for, I got Jason Santa Maria (Stan), and I would say that he’s harder. I feel like he’s the type of person who has everything. Thank goodness for the inside source system! Liz Danzico helped me out a lot by letting me know Stan’s current needs. Since I didn’t think potholders would be all that impressive of a gift and I couldn’t guarantee that a bike bag I made could hold pounds of a bike chain lock, it came down to making something NYC related.

As I thought about it, it occurred to me that the only real points of fondness I have for New York came from my visits with my college friend Dan Steinberg. Going to visit Dan in New York meant getting tours of Chinatown and learning about the gang wars it experienced, or getting the first tenement building pointed out on a walk to the store. So, I thought, why not make a(n) NYC guide like a Dan tour? Move over Lonely Planet!

Garnering Dan’s help along with my cousin Miah, the Internet, and coworkers, I developed a conglomerate of little factoids, cool spots to visit, and maps galore to put into a Moleskine notebook. Insert a bunch of cool pictures, rub in the headings, expand the spine to hold it all, and use the leftover map to make a new spine and little case for it, and there you have it! Poor Stan has to try to read my handwriting, but it’ll do. I’m hoping he’ll find it useful enough to not get lost at least, but he seemed to like it. Though Moleskine has already come out with similar books, I think he’ll like mine better.

Thanks Liz!

Not only did Liz save my gift with giving me good hints, she also got my name in Secret Santa.

She made me a little pillow packed with punch. Okay, so it was really just overstuffed as much as possible. I like my pillows to be as close to a sandbag as can be–pretty hard; Ian illustrated my preferences by drawing a cinder block, to give you an idea. Liz’s pillow was certainly firm (and came with extra stuffing just in case), but it wasn’t hard. Though the pillow was undoubtedly awesome with its tissue and thermometer pockets, I was slightly worried it’d be too soft. Until I slept on it. Wow! I am won over Liz! Thank you! Thank you!

that it was one year ago that Ian and I got married. That day seems so recent and so long ago all at once, I am forever amazed that it ever happened. Oh goodness, forgive this girl her twittery heart and butterflied stomach. That day ended up being such an amazing day that exceeded my expectations and filled my heart to overflowing. I do not know what everyone else’s wedding was like for them, but I never had a stronger sense that I was well-loved as I did that day. Our family and friends were there and everyone else was so happy with us (though some folks had a pretty bad day of it with the rainy weather and slippery roads). Everyone’s wedding gifts funded our six-week long roadtrip honeymoon and still the gifts managed to keep on showing up to remind me of that wonderful day. I could go on for quite a while about the greatness of that day, but I’ll spare you my dear reader.

So, Instead

I am going to go on for quite a while about the greatness of being married. What a gift this year has been for me. How is it that I could have found someone with whom I cannot help but want to spend the rest of my life? I have no idea of how to put this into words without simultaneously apologizing to those who recoil from the pathetically mushy. It is difficult to accurately describe how happy Ian has made me since the day he told me that he had a crush on me; I have difficulties not down-playing things because I am not used to being publicly ga-ga over someone. But as I think about how Ian and I have spent all of this time together and grown together in one small (but significant!) year… wow. I like him. How right this relationship is!

Shared memories, shared life

Admittedly, Ian and I have had our hard moments together this year; I cannot lie about that. That boy has driven me quite mad at times and I am sure I have done the same to him, what with my terrible hearing, tendency to mumble, and proclivity for questions when he just wants to be left alone to his thoughts or to his work. But look at all of the highly enjoyable moments we have shared together throughout our relationship!

My marriage counseling professor told us that a relationship is built upon shared memories; my aunt always says that she and my uncle are most grumpy with each other when they do not spend time together. As I look over the shared memories that Ian and I have had over the past three(!) years of getting to know each other… wowzers. You don’t often meet cute men who like to take you on a date to his mother’s with magnifying glasses so the two of you can look at the bugs in her yard. I can’t just find that anywhere, you understand. Oh, I wish I was less verbose and more poetic; I cannot figure out a way to drive home just how joyful my life has become because of my husband.

Happy Anniversary, darlin’.

Though I am sure many of you, if not all, are pretty much finished with the subject of Natural Family Planning, I thought that it would be silly to not speak to the subject since I am the woman in this relationship. It may sound somewhat nerdy, but quite frankly, I am of the mind that every woman should learn the principles behind NFP. Not only can you save yourself from spending hundreds of dollars on birth control methods, stop going to the doctor for completely natural conditions of your body, know you’re pregnant before you even skip a period, and minimize your exposure to a number of health risks (IUDs can cause uterine scarring, hormonal methods come with a number of possible risks including cardiovascular and increased infertility in older women to name only the bare minimum), you also get a much better sense of just what your body is up to and possibly recognize potential health concerns (like PCOS). Can you imagine being a teenage girl and knowing when you are at most risk of becoming pregnant? For some reason, I feel that that’s a moment of empowerment.

Abstaining or Waiting?

Though the principles behind NFP call for abstinence during one’s fertile phase, a similar birth control called the Fertility Awareness Method is exactly like NFP except for the use of barrier methods during the fertile phase. In other words, you’re not limited to waiting if you don’t want to. However, if one were to practice FAM, I think that you should consider the fact that most studies regarding the effectiveness of various forms of birth control occur over a woman’s entire cycle, i.e., even during those days when she is not fertile. So, instead of saying that a condom (without spermicides and used properly) is 96%* effective, it would be more like 81.6% effective since one has about an 85% of getting pregnant without birth control. Granted, I am not a statistician and I have not read all of the studies on the effectiveness of different forms of birth control, so I admit that my logic is somewhat faulty. For instance the 85% risk of getting pregnant is not saying that you are likely to get pregnant 85 times out of 100, but rather, that 85 woman out of 100 got pregnant when not using birth control over the course of one year. So, my calculation is more amateur than anything else. Regardless, with an effectiveness rate of ranging from 90-99%* when used correctly, NFP and FAM are worthwhile options for any woman even if she doesn’t have a husband to chart for her.

Of course…

*As with any statements about effectiveness, one needs to recognize who’s saying what and their investment in the product. I have not seen the studies that provide this statistical information first hand, and finding justifications of effectiveness rates used and the studies referenced for these rates can be difficult to find.

There’s lots of talk about vaginas and cervixes and mucus and menstruation and cycles and hormones. That aside, it’s an amazing thing to go through with someone you love and trust as much as I love and trust Jes. Seriously. The things that you can live your whole, entire life not knowing about your body (or a woman’s body) will shock you. NFP (which also coincidentally stands for Natural, Free and Partnership.) was suggested to us by Father Peter while we were engaged in pre-cana. It’s the officially-sanctioned “birth control” method of the Catholic Church so he kinda had to bring it up. Who knew that it would be so interesting? Or free?

Care to not jack your wife up on hormones as if you were Frank Perdue?

I’ll tell you this for free…

Everyone knows that a woman’s body has a monthly routine. If not, they should catch up. Some of the natural science behind the cycle may not be so well known to the average person (or woman!). Once per month the pituitary gland secretes estrogen into the woman’s system prompting the release of an egg from the ovary. This egg has 24(!) hours to travel the inches separating the ovary from the uterus, and get fertilized by her man’s sperm, otherwise it will die and be passed from the body in a method we are all familiar with. A short time after the release of the egg, the body begins to prepare for the possibility of pregnancy and releases progesterone. The progesterone initiates a distinct rise in the basal body temperature. Because this very distinct point in time is critical to determining when a woman becomes fertile and for how long she will be fertile, monitoring the basal body temperature becomes imperative.

Let’s talk Mucus…

Along with charting the temperature to determine ovulation, it’s a good idea to also monitor the lubricative mucus secreted by the cervix. Since the egg can only live a relatively short period of time without being fertilized, the cervix aids nature in it’s chances of creating another person. While the ovary is busy producing the egg, the cervix begins to literally froth with a dense, clear mucus which will shelter and nourish sperm from the harsh pH of the vagina for up to seven days. The cervix also begins to dilate slightly and raises so that it’s opening is pointing almost directly at the mouth of the vagina. The cervix does a lot of the work in making a baby happen. Analyzation of this mucus is also a requirement of the method, wiping it from a tissue with your fingers, noting the color, the consistency and, yes, the stretchiness of it. The more clear and the more stretchy, the closer you are to ovulation and the better the chances that intercourse will lead to conception.

Now WE have a routine…

This is why every morning Jes wakes up momentarily at 6:30 and places an electronic thermometer into her mouth and charts her temperature. At the end of the month, the chart makes it very obvious on what day that egg burst through the ovary wall and started it’s day-long trip down to the uterus. And at least 15 times a month we have a chance to be truly intimate – no libido-compromising hormone additives, no latex, just me and my lovely bride.

And her cervical mucus.