Nothing is more honest than lycra

If you want to finally be very aware of  your baldness, attend a convention of Native Americans. There are some very pretty people here, and then there's me, so very white, so very maneless.  I don't know how I got this job, liaison to most of the tribal nations in America, but I can hear someone in some high up place perusing through photos and saying, "him, that's the guy...we need to show the Indians that the conquering race is vulnerable, but still large and consuming."   So here I am, at the Native American Journalists Convention, and no one seems to give a darn what I am.  I just try to listen and learn as much as possible (and my wife just laughed), and I tell you, there's so many assumptions from so many parties that I think we all need to redo that original Thanksgiving dinner.  I don't know what they talked about then...

"Mary...this is Runs with Wolves, Runs with Wolves, Mary.  Now lets put our heads down to pray.  Mary...we're looking down now, not at the well-muscled fellow with the piercing eyes and perfect skin...Mary....OK...could someone get Mr. Wolves a blanket?"

But we need to talk again.  Many tribal nations only make the news because of the 80% unemployment, or the suicide rate, or the alcoholism or the such and such anniversary of something about Russell Means.  I meet people who live in the poorest nation within our nation, and they still have hope.  Many tribes are working on renewable energy, and there are even more who are working night and day to preserve their culture while ensuring their children can step off the reservation and succeed in the biggest cities.  

And here's something to keep in mind: Native Americans aren't simply Native Americans.  They're Navajo, Kiowa, they're the Rocky Boys, Paiute--Cui-ui, Koop Ticutta and Toi Ticutta, to name a few Paiute--Kickapoo, Cherokee and 550 other tribes officially recognized by the federal government.   So you think you now what you're doing but you don't.  You have a great conversation with one person and you terrify the next with your warm greeting.  

This all went down with my naked pate shouting about the room.  The Hyatt has mirrors everywhere, and if there's a place that's the furthest place from being outdoors, it's a hotel ballroom, where the vibrancy of noise and enthusiasm is swallowed in a giant of sock of carpet and textured wallpaper.   You could get more acoustical bounce if you yelled into a pillow.  So in the muffled chatter of today's events, I would drift and see myself in the mirror, and see just how different I am.  I am the minority, at least in the Hyatt, and maybe Albuquerque, where my white head orbits like a full moon.  And I felt self-conscious and a little large and awkward.  Mirrors are bad for me anyway because I've never stopped seeing myself as the 19-year-old me, which means a lot of shock every morning and days full of running into walls and door frames and tables that at one point offered much more clearance.  

Here's the weird part; people who feel self-conscious often say they feel naked.  I didn't.  It was worse.  I was wearing lycra.  And every nuance, every crevice and fold were magnified.  My body language seemed out of my control and larger than it was.  A lifted finger was taunting wag, a weight shift was a irreverent booty shake.  It made it hard to move.

But it helped with being humble.  

Big Brother Blues

Paco's been acting up a bit. I mean he is a little needy, or a lot really, but his life has turned to absolute shit. Imagine being the only one who gets all the love and all the time at the park, and then within a two year span a cat and two babies show up. And in that time we invited every wayward, halfway house rehab experiment in the metro area to stumble around our house with power tools. Yah, we remodeled. Well "we" didn't, but some others tried.

Q's been good. Maybe a little moodier, but today I got off work early and we went and threw rocks into the river. It's great therapy.

Oh, god, it's late. I'm just going to post some pictures.

sadness abound

and then there's the new guy...

Flamenco: Either you're born with it or you're not.

Otto can do it in his sleep.

What Every Kid Hopes His Father Will Do at His Friends' Parties

Quin: toddler, mother

So our little friend Scout got a baby doll for her 3rd birthday. Our son promptly stole it and took to cuddling, swaddling, cooing and loving it. Look at his technique...so much like mom I think I even heard him cursing his nursing bra.

I quickly replaced it with a football.

If this doesn't say youth and summer and bliss...

To be this comfortable

and here's why we can all sleep so easy...

Day 2 Message to Family

dang it, hot

I only slept 4 hours last night. All the free time nearly killed me. But I did write. Conversely, I wasted a lot of time trying to upload that stupid video (below). I think I come off as creepy. I need to go for more kid friendly (in the video).

It is hot. Even at midnight. I was starving last night so ventured out of the room. We're near the convention center which in Latin means "nothing open after ten," so I ended up drinking beers at a bar that I did not want to leave because it's so damn hot. I mean I wasn't even enjoying the beers or the bar--to the extent they can't be enjoyed--as I'd already seen the Sports Center they were showing over and over, and I wanted food more than booze. But I didn't want to walk back into the heat. It's crazy. It's like every where you go you're just a few feet from a fire.

Are we sure Native Americans lived here before us? Or were we tricked into conquering a place no one wanted.

Guys Club at Park 09

Message to Boys from Phoenix

Sarah: Probably more annoying than interesting but special message for Otto at 1:18, for Paco at 1:52 and for Q at 4:52.

Trip to Phoenix 09: Time Sucks

I flew in with a conversational baiter. She wanted to talk to me so badly, and I'm usually that guy who will speak to anybody regardless of the detriment to me and others around me, but today, I stood my ground. My airplane neighbor, her largess spilling onto me, would spout little trinkets of conversational curiosity. "I went to Mardi Gras once and didn't like it. I didn't like it at all really..."

She lay out some meat and waited for me to walk into her steel jaws. It was hard but I didn't ask why she didn't like New Orleans. I looked out the window and down at the Afghani terrain of southern Arizona.

"A lot of people are so crazy for New Orleans, but I'm not," she proclaimed, going for pride but kind of sounding lonely.

I'd already been trapped once and by this very woman. Earlier on the flight we hit turbulence, and a lot of it. She grabbed her husband's hand and closed her eyes. The husband, feeling a little self-conscious with the drama, said, "she needs medication just to fly." I felt bad so comforted her with, "I don't know how the wings stay on these things."

From behind her clenched lids she exposed her husband. "I know he's scared too, I can feel the sweat in his hand."

And dryly he replied, "Honey, that's your sweat."

So there the door was opened to dialogue, and the discussion went from airplane safety to god. I call it Born Again Magic: The ability to take any conversation back to Jesus. The King of Kings, it turns out, saved my seatmates' business. She and her husband recycle electronics for a living and a year ago they were down to their last thousand dollars. Well she prayed, convinced her husband to pray, and even implored their employees to pray, and upon hearing all that chatter God tripled their profits. I thought that was great. Except I hated thinkng that people are dying in Bangladesh because God is distracted by the metals market.

From there I just wanted not to talk. I didn't know if we'd all end up in a vigil and feeling each other's sweat.

She set the trap again.

"Everybody sure thought Obama was going to be great but..."

And I looked towards the window and inhaled. It's like she knew exactly what would get me. Politics and a naked conjunction. I held fast and very nearly prayed for strength

-------

The trip to Phoenix is an hour and a half, much of that just up and down, but I'm still not sure what time it is. Sometimes we're the same time as AZ, and other times we're not. If we travel back and forth can we actually stop time?

I hope so.

My friend Jason pointed out that kids born the year we started college are now going to college. Jason is a prick.

I don't know for sure yet, but I think children, at least in the short term, help you forget time.

With kids you live in events, not hours and minutes. You're worried about things like potty training, which has no fixed chronological denomination, and time sneaks on by. Potty training should be a unit of time. Maybe something much longer than a month but not quite a year.

"How long were you in Nam?" A full potty training.

The same could be said for pregnancy. "It's been a human gestation since the Broncos last played!"

As parents this is how you live, not an hour of class with a thirty-minute lunch during a three-month semester. All these events, pottying, learning the alphabet, covering when you cough rack up real time until you're just a menopause away from retirement. If we put numbers on these things we might keep better track of time. I'm afraid it won't be long before I wake up and say, "Seems like yesterday Quin was just in diapers!" Now I could try to defy time and keep him in diapers into his twenties, or just be a better steward of time's presence. I guess this can be done by paying a whole lot of attention. I'm talking Ritalin attention. Taking in every detail and noting every change. Which might be impossible. Because in four weeks and a few days, a time frame I'll refer to as an "Otto", our newest kid has completely changed. And I don't know when it happened.

Otto looks at us now. He's waking up to the world and he definitely fits the bill as an "old soul". Or at least "an elderly person upset with the service at Denny's." Occasionally he lights up. He'll be staring at the ceiling fan and I'll say "Otto..." and it startles him. He's got this "who in the hell are you" face that cracks me up. I'll be holding him, cooing at him and bouncing him on the pilates ball (Lord bless this gift from angels) and he's shocked I'm there.

The good news is that he's sleeping better. He still makes a lot of squeaking noises, and with the strength of a hundred babies can rip out of his swaddle so he can swat at his head. He's really got a problem with punching himself in the face. And the pacifier only causes more problems. He gets mad at it and starts chomping and flailing and by then all you can do is get him out of the crib and go work on your core. Sarah may have rebounded so well with Q and Otto because she spends several hours a day balancing on an inflated sphere.

It's a lot of changes and fast. I worry one day Quin won't be the most loving person on the planet, but I'm sure he'll want to pull pack on the hugs and kisses some time soon, hopefully for him before he joins the football team.

I always thought it was weird and maybe a sign of instability when someone grabbed a child and growled, "I just want to gobble you up," before actually gnawing on them. But a horrifying reference to cannibalism seems to be the best way to vent the frustration of change and time and love. I mean I want to get a marsupial pouch for each of my boys and maybe if I spend every waking second monitoring them I won't come to one day to a houseful of teenagers and wondering what in the hell happened to our children.