Neal Pollack's The Maelstrom

{Note: I'm fully aware that we're still having problems with the comments and the archives and the permalinks. Our crack team of technical experts is working on the situation, which should be resolved by the end of the week. }

Elijah turned four today. All week, I've been pensive, thinking about who I was (a drug-addled schmuck) when he was born, and who I am now (a slightly less drug-addled schmuck). Becoming a father has been the most fulfilling experience of my life. In fact, I credit Elijah with saving my life in a lot of ways, or at least for giving me something to write about that people want to actually read. But I'm not one of those bloggers who writes sappy letters to their children on important occasions. So now I present some dialogue, which says so much more about Elijah's essential awesomeness than overwrought prose ever could. I love you, son. Happy Birthday.

"Daddy, is Johnny Cash dead?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he is."

"What is that? What's dead?"

"It's when you're not around anymore."

"Does it mean you're in heaven?"

"Some people think it does. Other people think you're reborn as an animal or something. And other people, like me, think that you're probably just dead, which is why you should enjoy yourself as much as possible while you're here."

"What is heaven?"

"It's a place where some people think you go."

"Will I go to heaven?"

"All kids go to heaven."

"Will mommy?"

"Yes."

"Will you?"

"There might be some debate about that."

"Is Johnny Cash in heaven?"

"Yes."

"What about the lady who sings with Johnny Cash?"

"That's June, his wife. She's dead too. She died a few years ago, and Johnny Cash was so sad that he died a few months later so he could be with her."

"In heaven."

"Possibly."

"Where else do you go?"

"Some people think you go to hell."

"What's hell?"

"There's lots of lava and fire."

"I like lava and fire. I'm Hot Man!"

"You might get tired of lava and fire if you had to deal with them every day in hell."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"I miss Johnny Cash."

"Everyone does."

"OK, Daddy. Thank you for telling me about heaven."

"Daddy doesn't believe in heaven. But you're welcome, son."

Posted by at 3:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Lately, Regina's been sending me links to pictures of adorable newborn Boston Terriers.

"Hercules needs a friend," she says.

"And he can have one," I say, "if you allow me to tie Teacake in a sack and toss him into the Arroyo Seco."

Teacake is Regina's ancient, senile cat. His entire body is covered in benign tumors. He eats a lot, and barfs a lot. He howls all day to go outside, but Regina won't let him because he hasn't had his shots.

"It would give him so much pleasure," I say.

"You just want him to get hit by a car," she says.

"True. But at least he'll die happy."

We simply cannot accomodate another pet. The fish we got at the L.A. County Fair is thriving in the new five-gallon tank that Regina bought for him. And the cats won't die. They really offer us nothing. We have to lock them up in the bathroom at night, because if we don't, they'll roam around howling, keeping us all awake. This means that we have to clean the bathroom every day, unless we want our son bathing in cat shit. This also means that the litter box is in the bathroom. And it means that Hercules has access to the litter box.

Among other endlessly annoying pet-related matters, we're always trying to keep Hercules out of the litter box. He likes nothing better than to squeeze a cat turd between his jowls, chomping on it like it's a Snickers bar. Because of this, his breath is horrible. And he's a licker.

Yesterday, I was at my desk. Hercules came up to me, put his paws in my lap, and looked at me adorably. I petted him all over his face. For some reason, I then put my hand to my mouth. Something crunched between my teeth. I tasted something dusty, then something sour. I immediately rushed to the bathroom, lunging for the mouthwash.

"ARRRGH!" I cried.

"What?" Regina said.

"I just ate cat shit."

"Oh."

"You have to get rid of your cat immediately."

"I think I'll just buy a gate so Hercules can't get into the bathroom."

"I'm going to have to lift Teacake over the gate whenever he has to pee."

"Give him a break. He's old."

"Give me a break."

"No."

"I ate cat shit."

"I'm sorry. I'm not getting rid of my cat."

I predict that, assuming the planet doesn't shrivel and explode before then, that I'm going to live another 40 years. I can only pray that some of them will be Teacake-free.

"Either he goes, or I go," I said.

"Don't make me choose," said Regina.

Posted by at 12:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

{Attention loyal readers: you'll notice that I've temporarily disabled the comments feature. It's nothing that you did: I've been having some database corruption problems. The comments will be up and running again as soon as I can make the necessary repairs. Now enjoy today's entry, corruption-free.}

We threw Elijah his 4th birthday party yesterday, though his actual birthday isn't until Tuesday. He dressed as Bhotman, as previously mentioned here. This made him stand out at a party where four people were dressed as Batman, including me. Regina made the costume as Elijah designed it, adding a special touch on the back, writing "The B is silent" below Bhotman.

Regina also prepared, at Elijah's request, a cake bearing the likeness of a Hungry Hungry Hippo. It's a family tradition that Regina makes Elijah's birthday cake. The first year, it was Frankenstein cupcakes, the second year, a bat cake, and last year, her legendary shark cake. This year, Elijah wanted a green hippo, but Reg couldn't find any green food coloring that didn't contain poison. So instead, she made an organic orange hippo, with googly M&M eyes and candy-corn teeth. She wrote "Happy Birthday!" on the cake with black icing.

"No!" Elijah said, when he saw the lettering. "I don't want it to say that."

We were prepared to get annoyed.

"I want it to say, 'I love you, friends.'"

AWWWWWWWWW!

Even by the standards of his age, Elijah seems to be all about his friends, to the point where he's named all his stuffed animals after them. He's extraordinarily affectionate and considerate toward his actual friends (as opposed to their animal proxies), except when he's pulling their hair or throwing stuff at them. His behavior, as always, is inconsistent.

But during his birthday celebration, it was perfect. The party proceeded without tantrum, though we did have one worrisome moment when Elijah spilt some juice on his shorts. I waited for the explosion, and then the moment passed. When the party ended, Elijah handed out hugs like candy, and everyone left with an awesome Halloween gift bag that included a bubble-blowing robot and a skeleton rattle.

As we pulled into the driveway after the party, he exclaimed "I'm four now!"

Shit, I thought. I guess you are.

The toy mix is starting to seem a lot more boyish. Suddenly, there's a Playmobil zoo, and a treehouse, and an airplane. A couple of Transformers appear to have worked their way into the rotation. Elijah and I are also beating each other up with large inflatable "Socker Boppers" that we put over our fists. And now, thanks to Nana, we have Candy Land.

I don't exactly remember what Candy Land looked like when I was a kid, but these days, the board is kind of creepy, bearing the likenesses of D-list cereal-box-style cartoon personae like Lord Licorice and Grandma Nutt. The world of childhood branding is full of these kinds of characters, ones that never quite caught on; they exist in a permanent purgatory, not totally discarded but not noticed, either. In that way, Candy Land is a perfect metaphor for L.A. Or for my own life. Or both.

It took about 20 seconds for Elijah to learn Candy Land, and when he won his first-ever game, he exulted.

"We're going to play Candy Land all day," he said.

It was ten AM.

"I hope not," I said.

Victory and defeat at Candy Land are completely arbitrary. I could very easily have gotten swept. But instead, I won game two. Elijah met this with resignation.

"Now I won one and you won one," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"I'll win the next one."

"It's impossible to tell."

I didn't intend to beat him at the next game, but it's hard to fudge the results of Candy Land. He was in the lead for most of the game, and then he drew a gumdrop and it was all over. As with the initial successes of almost all expansion franchises, Elijah's early win had been a mirage. His defeat became inevitable, and he began to blubber. Then grief set in, and soon he'd upended the board.
"Why did I lose?" he asked.

"The world is cruel, son," I replied.

"OK," he said. "I understand."

"I'm sorry I beat you."

"I'm sorry I lost."

And thus four began with disappointment for my son, but that soon dissolved when we went next door to dig up worms with the neighbor girl. Still, I think I'm going to forestall teaching chess to the boy. I don't know if he can handle that level of disappointment. Then again, I'm very, very bad at chess, even worse than I am at poker. Maybe I should stick with Candy Land. Sadly, it might be my best game.

Posted by at 4:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

After I picked Elijah up at school yesterday, he climbed into the backseat. I fiddled with something in the trunk. Then I looked up. He was pressing himself against the seat, grinding rhythmically.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"I'm humping myself!"

This is one of the disadvantages of having a dog. Elijah has learned some unsavory behaviors. At least he isn't eating cat poop. Yet.

"Elijah," I said, "you can't do that in public."

"But I love it."

"Of course you do," I said. "Everyone does. But it's something you do in private, in your room, with your door closed."

A minute later, we were driving.

"So did you do anything fun at school?" I asked.

In the rear-view, I could see that he was bopping up and down.

"I'm still humping myself," he said.

"Yes," I said. "I can see that."

"We made pretzels today."

"That's great. Are you done humping yourself now?"

"Uh-huh. My pretzel was very long and salty."

I drove on, pretending that the double-entendre wasn't there.

Posted by at 1:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Note to New York residents. I'm making a super-secret special appearance on Tuesday night, as part of Catie Lazarus' "Fresh Meat" show. It's at Comix, 353 W. 14th St., at 8 PM. Please come by and fete me during my incredibly brief visit to your town.

Now then.

Elijah has recently informed me of two new characters in the Elijahverse. He's making them up all the time, but usually he's just dishing shit, like when we drive past a lamp post, and he informs me that he's "Lamp Post Man." Sometimes, though, they stick, and develop actual personalities.

Our new good guy is Doorman. He has, Elijah says, the power to close doors on people. Interestingly, Doorman has no skin. He only has fur, and underneath the fur, there is blood and bones. This causes him to cut an intimidating swath through the realm of villainy.

Doorman's mortal enemy is called Cloth. This guy has the power to turn people into cloth.

That's about as far as we've gone. But we're having crazy battles every night. I always have to be Cloth.

Posted by at 4:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

INT: Bedroom. Shortly before dinnertime.

ELIJAH: Daddy, what are planets made out of?

NEAL: Matter.

ELIJAH: What's matter?

NEAL: Stuff that planets are made out of.

ELIJAH: Where did it come from?

NEAL: A long time ago...

ELIJAH: Before you were born?

NEAL: Yes. Let me finish. A long time ago, there was nothing.

ELIJAH: Nothing at all?

NEAL: Yes.

ELIJAH: How could there be nothing?

NEAL: Good question. But anyway, there was nothing. And then from nowhere came a huge explosion, called The Big Bang.

REGINA (O.S.): That can't be proven.

NEAL: Ignore your mother. She believes in God. So there was a big explosion and then the universe began to grow and grow.

ELIJAH: And then there was lava and stuff?

NEAL: Yes. Matter. So that's what planets are made out of.

ELIJAH: OK.

Posted by at 5:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

At 7:05 AM on Sunday, Elijah came crawling into my bedroom.

"Meow," he said.

And so my day began.

"Good morning," I said.

"I'm a cat," he said.

"I can see that."

"Meow, daddy."

"Meow."

"Now I'm going to use the litter box."

I've known Elijah long enough to understand that he wasn't being metaphorical.

"Elijah," I said. "You can pretend to be a cat as long as you want, but stay away from the litter box. It is disgusting and dirty."

"OK," he said, and left. I attempted to drift back into my pillows, but I could already see which general direction this was headed. Somehow, though, the boy always manages to surprise me with specifics.

He brought in his Barrel O' Monkeys toy. He'd emptied out the monkeys. This left a small red plastic barrel.

"I'm going to use this as my litter box," he said.

"Fine, fine," I said groggily. "Go into the living room. I'll be there in a minute."

It was about five minutes until I could raise my creaky Jewish bones from bed. When I arrived in the living room, Elijah was on the couch, looking naughty. He pointed at the barrel.

"Look, daddy," he said.

I looked. The barrel was full to the rim with fresh, warm boy piss.

"Goddamn it, Elijah," I said. "Why did you pee in your Barrel O' Monkeys?"

"I don't know," he said. "I just did."

I picked it up, carried it to the bathroom, and emptied it into the toilet. He followed me.

"You have to flush," I said, because, after all, this was a little too weird to actually punish him for.

He flushed.

I said, "Don't ever do that again."

"OK," he said, "I won't."

I believed him. But as I put the pee-soaked Barrel O' Monkeys on the top rack of the dishwasher, I thought: You know, once is enough.

Posted by at 6:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Please read this article from today's New York Times Magazine, in which I reveal to the world Elijah's obsession with Hungry Hungry Hippos. As always, when an issue matters to contemporary parents, I'm there first. Hope you enjoy.

Posted by at 9:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

I recently removed The Johnny Cash Children's Album from Elijah's in-car rotation. Unlike other music that gets banished, never to be listened to again, Johnny Cash will return. But even The Man In Black gets old after a while.

It used to be that I had a couple of beers and went online to get into trouble. Now I just order children's music off Amazon. The other day a shipment arrived containing three CDs: Tom T. Hall Sings Songs For Children, the new John Lithgow album, and a collection of Roger Miller songs. This list should permanently put to rest my undeserved reputation as an indie-rock snob parent.

After listening to the repetitive, whiny singing on Elijah's hideous favorite TV shows--The Backyardigans and The Wonder Pets--it's a relief to just hear relatively intelligent lyrics backed by unsynthesized music. So allow me to justify my purchases. Lithgow makes charming records for kids with a kind of merry big-bandish Broadway-like sound. I like that kind of music; I can't help it if I have the tastes of an aging queen.

The Tom T. Hall album, which is about a bunch of animals who live in a place called Fox Hollow, also has a lot of folksy charm. One of the songs is about a basset hound who successfully auditions to appear on Johnny Cash's TV show.

"Johnny Cash has a TV show?" Elijah asked.

"Yes," I said.

Someday, I will get up the courage to tell Elijah that his hero is no longer alive.

But the Roger Miller album is the real hit.

I'm not entirely sure why I bought the record. Roger Miller has always been a guilty pleasure of mine, ever since this aging queen saw Rene Auberjunois in the original 1985 Broadway production of Big River! And you know, some of his songs are damn catchy.

I guess Elijah thinks so, too, because now we don't listen to anything else in the car, even though the real meaning of "dang me, dang me, gonna take a rope and hang me," probably eludes him. When I asked him what "Chug-A-Lug," a song about 15-year-old boys getting drunk on moonshine, was about, he said, "a choo-choo train."

Naturally, the album's highlight is "You Can't Roller-Skate In A Buffalo Herd," a childhood staple now entering its fourth decade of belovedness. Last night, I caught Elijah on the couch singing these lyrics to the dog: "You can be happy if you put your mind to it. Knuckle down, buckle down, do it do it do it."

"AWWWWWW," went the laugh track to my imaginary sitcom.

One of Miller's signature moves is the controlled stutter. It's different in different songs, but you're all probably familiar with that "dig-a-doo-dig-a-doo" sound. Elijah has grown familiar as well. The other day in the car he said,

"Daddy, this song is making my brain skip."

"Huh?" I said.

"What?" Elijah said. "W-w-what?"

Something in the songs was making Elijah want to holler hidey-ho. We were about five seconds away from a total Roger Miller-induced synapse seizure. I turned it off immediately. Now we continue to listen to the record, but in controlled doses. Johnny Cash may be back sooner than I thought.

Posted by at 3:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

Sunday afternoon. I was monitoring several ESPN Gamecasts at once for signs of impending yardage gain. A thump. A howl. The dark hours descended.

"NEAL!"

"What?"

"Elijah fell off the sofa and hit his head."

"Is he bleeding?"

"AHHHH!" I heard Elijah say. "It hurts!"

"Oh my God, Neal! It is bleeding!"

Seconds later, I was in the living room. Regina was cradling Elijah in her arms, pressing her hand against his left temple. The boy was screaming.

"Do something!" she said.

"What?"

"Get me something cold!"

I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a bag of frozen broccoli. Then I got a big towel out of the linen cupboard and wrapped the broccoli in the towel. This wasn't what Regina wanted.

"I WANT A KITCHEN TOWEL WITH A FREEZER PACK IN IT!" she said. "NOW!"

This I did. She pressed it against the gash, which was, because of the blood, of indeterminate width and depth. Elijah continued to howl.

"What do we do?" she asked, near hysteria. I was being incompetent, but at least I was calm.

"Um," I said.

I ran back to my office and Googled "child head gash." lt didn't yield anything immediately helpful.

"I CAN"T SEE!" I heard Elijah howl.

"Neal," Regina said. "He says he can't see."

That was kind of a cheap cliffhanger to get you to keep reading.

Of course he could see. His hair was in his eyes. Because Elijah is essentially me, but much younger and cuter, I knew this as a tactic of melodrama. Still, he was obviously in pain. I called 911.

Regina's towel-wrapped cold-pack proved successful in stanching the blood. Fewer than five minutes after I called, a fire truck and ambulance came screaming down the street. I guess the operator had been able to tell from my voice that I was white.

Two paramedics entered our house. One of them took Elijah's blood pressure, which was impossibly low. I made some joke about how I wished my blood pressure were that low. No one liked that joke much.

The lead paramedic asked Elijah some questions. He asked us some questions. He took a look at the gash.

"You have two choices," he said. "We can take him in the ambulance, or you can drive him yourself to the hospital. He's gonna need stitches."

"Elijah," I asked. "Do you want to ride in an ambulance?"

"It'll cost you 583 dollars," said the paramedic.

"I think we'll drive," I said.

Two minutes later, we had Elijah's Crocs on and we were in the car. Then I remembered that I'd cleaned the cat box out with with a hose and had left it to dry in the sun. We weighed the situation. Regina and I both agreed that it would be better to come home from the emergency room to find that Teacake had not pissed all over the bathroom floor.

Soon, we were on our way to a hospital in Glendale.

"This hurts worse than all my other boo-boos," Elijah said.

"It is worse than all your other boo-boos," I said.

Then we told him about our great boo-boos past. Regina got her lip bit by a dog when she was little. When I was two, a telephone fell on my nose. And when I was 16, I accidentally sliced my wrist while trying to open a plate-glass window. I'm not sure if these stories made Elijah feel better. He still had the bloody kitchen towel, and he clutched it tightly.

We waited in the emergency room for a while. The triage nurse determined that we could. Apparently, there were a lot of people in Glendale last Sunday who were having trouble breathing. Elijah sat calmly and chewed his fingers. This, he informed us, was what he did when he was scared.

I tried to prepare myself mentally for what was to come. At this point, I knew that Elijah was going to be OK. There really hadn't been much doubt after a hairy first couple of minutes. But I also knew that, upon skinning his knee, this kid howls like he's being cut open with a machete. Some tough minutes awaited us.

It wasn't a very long wait once we got into the actual ER. Elijah doodled aimlessly on a coloring book about a rabbit who breaks his arm. This had been a gift from the triage nurse. A nice doctor lady came in and looked at the cut.

"I'm going to clean this with water," she said.

Upon hearing those words, Elijah threw the coloring book on the floor and howled,

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The doctor tried to swab the wound. Elijah would have none of it. A nurse came in. He twisted out of her grasp, too.

"Dad," said the doctor, "I'm going to need you to hold him down."

I was ineffective. Before I knew it, there were two doctors and three nurses in the room. It became obvious that Elijah wasn't going to be a willing patient.

"Get the board," said one of them.

They came in with a board with lots of straps attached, and a sheet.

"Elijah," said the doctor, "I'm going to wrap you up like a burrito."

"NOOOOOOOO!"

"He's going to sweat a lot," the doctor said to me.

Two nurses and a doctor put Elijah in a sheet and tied his arms and legs up tight. At this point, the poor thing began howling for his mommy. She was right there. I stood off to the side, since I was so choked up with tears I could no longer speak.

"Are you OK, dad?" asked a guy who may have been a doctor or a nurse.

"Gulp," I said.

They cleaned the wound. Then the doctor began applying something called DermaGlue. Apparently, it's all the rage now. Stitches are so 20th Century. Meanwhile, Elijah had been reduced to a sweaty, terrified, gurgling mess. I couldn't speak. The doctors tried to keep him engaged.

"Elijah, how old are you?"

"FWEE!" Elijah shouted.

"Aww," said a nurse. "He's so cute."

"Do you go to preschool?"

"YEAH!"

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"NO! HELP ME MOMMY!"

"What's your favorite TV show?"

I can't help it, but I was thinking, "come on, say Pee Wee, say it, please." Later, Regina admitted that she was thinking the same thing.

"THE BACKYARDIGANS!"

Fuck.

I hate The Backyardigans.

When it was over, Elijah fell sobbing into Regina's arms. The medical crew scattered.

"Say thank you," Regina said.

"THANK YOU FOR HELPING ME!" Elijah moaned.

"Aw," I heard again. "He is so cute."

Even when he's in pain, I thought, my kid plays well to an audience.

Regina had a meeting that night, so it was up to me to put Elijah to bed. We read some books and hung out on the couch, tickling each other. Then I put him down and went into the kitchen to make myself a tuna sandwich, using my special recipe of lemon juice, olive oil, dijon mustard, capers, and sea salt, which transforms a can of ordinary tuna into something edible, though still stinky. Elijah caught a whiff.

He peered around the corner, eyes a-glitter.

"Don't forget to save me some tuna for the morning!" he said. And then he went back to bed and immediately fell asleep. He'd obviously recovered from the trauma, but I'd had to witness my only child in pain, and then had to witness him more afraid than he'd ever been. Plus I'd learned, for certain, that The Backyardigans is his favorite TV show. That alone would have made it a rough day.

Posted by at 8:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (22)

I seem to have a penchant for attending my favorite teams' postseason funerals. In May, I was on hand as the Phoenix Suns fell to the Mavericks in Game Six of the Western Conference Finals. And I was in Dodger Stadium on Saturday evening as the Mets finished their steamrolling of the Blue. There was a substantial difference between the two affairs. The Suns were injury-plagued underdogs who battled their hearts out, barely falling to a barely superior opponent. The Dodgers were also injury-plagued, but they seemed disinterested and disheartened the entire series. Jeff Kent and J.D. Drew's historical baserunning blunder wasn't causal, but symptomatic. If a team can't overcome the loss of Joe Beimel, it doesn't deserve to win.

So I was in Section 10 of the reserve level, fairly high up, but right on the first-base line. There are worse seats. Like the rest of the desperate 55,000, I tried to will my team to win. And when we briefly took a 5-4 lead in the 5th, I exulted. Maybe there's one miracle left in the tank, said the fan of the team that had Marlon Anderson batting third and playing left field.

The lead in the bag, I went to take a whiz.

I've never seen such a bathroom atmosphere. I entered shouting "Let's Go Dodgers!" and everyone else was whooping equally. Unzipping my jeans, I stood at the trough, but it's hard to piss in public when surrounded by screaming beer-soaked behemoths. I froze, zipped back up, and went to get in line at the stalls.

A couple of minutes passed before I got my private toilet, which by the midpoint of a playoff game was looking a little worse for the wear. Vomiting occurred to me. As I uncorked my yellow stream, the chant went up.

"FUCK THE METS! FUCK THE METS! FUCK THE METS!"

I didn't really hate the Mets, but I joined in, mostly because there's nothing like being in a public bathroom reverberating with a chant of "FUCK THE METS!" Then the phrase changed. Someone began chanting culatos! Culatos!

Soon the entire bathroom was doing it.

"CULATOS! CULATOS! CULATOS!"

My knowledge of Spanglish isn't great, but I believe that culato, loosely translated, means "pussy." It was archetypally L.A. to be in the can while people chanted this, but that's when I knew the team was doomed. Carlos Delgado may be a lot of things, but he's no pussy. And sure enough, by the time I got back to my seat Shawn Green was on second. A couple of batters later, the lead was gone.

Green may have been a culato when he played for the Dodgers, but that's because we had him hitting cleanup. The Mets, on the other hand, could afford to bat him seventh. And thus we got swept in the playoffs. Again. Denial gave way to anger, and on toward acceptance. Finally, it turned to relief as I realized that I won't have to watch Julio Lugo next year.

The Suns look like they're going to be pretty good this season, don't they?

Posted by at 2:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

For those of you who don't know, which is probably most of you, Elijah was born on Halloween. For him, the nine-week period between Halloween and New Year's is the childhood equivalent of a guilt-free orgy accented by top-notch drugs with no side effects. Not only does he get Halloween, but he gets his birthday party a few days before Halloween, and then he gets eight days of Chanukah, plus Christmas. The lucky shit.

Elijah has made a decision about what to be for Halloween, and hence for his birthday. He will, after a little coaxing from us, be dressing as Hot Man. The Elijahverse continues to rack up new superheroes and villains, but Hot Man remains the central character. One day recently, I emerged from my office to find that Regina had sketched out a Hot Man costume.

Hot Man, apparently, wears yellow tights, orange shorts, and a yellow long-sleeved T-shirt. On the shirt is the image of a fire-breathing dragon. Hot Man also has a blue mask and flames painted on his cheeks. This, Elijah informs us, is because he lives in a volcano.

Also, Hot Man gets sick sometimes. When this happens, he turns into an ugly yellow knight, whose breastplate depicts "a nasty snake who shoots fire out of his butt." Regina persuaded Elijah to go as Healthy Hot Man for Halloween.

I saw that Hot Man, according to Regina's illustration, wears a belt with a circular buckle. Around the circle were written the words HOT MAN.

"Hot Man starts with B," Elijah said.

"Elijah," said Regina. "You see how to spell it. H-O-T-M-A-N. Hotman."

"NOOOOOOOO! It starts with B. It really really does!"

"It does not start with B. It starts with H."

I saw that Elijah was becoming agitated, so I entered the fray.

"Regina," I said. "Hot Man does start with B."

"What?"

"The B is silent."

"The B is noisy!" Elijah said.

"No, you are noisy. The B is silent," I replied. "But Hot Man starts with a B."

Regina started to protest. I shushed. At least, I said to her later, he cares about letters. Someday, he'll get it right.

"Bush Man starts with B, too," Elijah said. "And he steals people's money and tortures them."

"Actually," Regina said. "He tells other people to steal people's money and tells other people to torture other people. Which is even worse."

"Bush Man is very bad," Elijah said. "I must defeat him."

Bhotman! To the rescue!

Posted by at 9:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (24)

A reminder to my dozens of readers from Minnesota: I'll be appearing at the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul this Friday with John "I'm a PC" Hodgman, his accompanist Jonathan Coulton, and The Poison Control Center of Ames, Iowa. More information is available on the "Appearances" page of this site. Also, here's a nice interview with me in the City Pages, a fine Minnesota newsweekly.

Now then:

I was sitting at my desk yesterday morning, happily twiddling myself under my keyboard stand, when the phone rang. It was, not surprisingly, my wife.

"I don't want to freak you out," she said, a phrase that always means she wants to freak me out. "I was talking with another mother when I dropped Elijah off this morning. She said the cutoff date is December."

"What cutoff date?" I asked.

"Dude," she said. "He starts kindergarten next fall."

"Fuck."

This was a problem. Our lease runs until December 2007 because we didn't feel like moving after only being here for a year. But since Elijah had barely turned three when we arrived, education beyond his immediate nursery-school years didn't really enter into the equation. Perhaps it should have, as our local public grade school is....not good.

Regina and I believe in public education. I used to be more fervent about this belief, for political reasons. Then when I had a kid, my populist leanings took a back seat to my desire not to spend $10,000 a year so my kid can learn how to read. Now I want to send my kid to a public school, just not the one in my immediate neighborhood.

This isn't as callous as it sounds. There's a great public school up the hill from us, way closer to this house than the public grade-school I attended was to my boyhood home. Our house just happens to not be in its district. It's not as though I'm thinking of shipping Elijah out to Santa Monica. God forbid.

So now we're sixth on the out-of-district kindergarten waiting list at that school, where ten people made it off the list this season. And we've submitted an application to a progressive charter grade school for the arts in Los Feliz. A year from now, I don't know where I'll be living or where my kid will be going to school. I don't need that kind of excitement, though I am looking forward to not having to share a driveway with the people who live in the house behind me.

Tonight, as we all goofed around on the couch during an extended session of "family time," Elijah asked a question.

"Are we going to live in this house forever?"

"No," Regina said.

"Where are we going to live, then?"

"I wish I knew," I said.

"I want our house to be orange and blue and green."

"I'll see what I can do."

Since Elijah went to bed, Regina has been sending me rental entries from Craig's List, since buying a house right now is as distant an option for us as buying the Clippers. Many of the rentals look nicer than the place we live. Isn't that always the way? But none of them, as far as I can tell, is orange and blue and green.

Posted by at 8:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

No, the title of today's entry doesn't refer to the Dodgers' postseason chances. It's been a glorious week--my team last was defeated on September 23--but this is mostly a site about raising a devil-child. If you want to read additional baseball musings, please tune to Deep In The Count, The New Republic's postseason group baseball blog, where I'll be serving as token Dodger fan until I get bored. There are many interesting contributors to the blog, most of whom are smarter than I. Enjoy.

Instead, today's post is about a fish.

Regina and I took Elijah to the L.A. County Fair yesterday in Pomona. We met his sometime girlfriend Ariel and her parents. Now my son can add, to his vast catalog of life experience, the following: Riding on a ferris wheel, visiting a cavernous fake barn sponsored by the producers of the new Charlotte's Web movie, plunging (accompanied, on a mat) down a 100-foot-high slide, and eating deep-fried Oreos, among other carnival oddities.

At some point, Regina decided that Elijah needed to win a fish. So she gave five bucks to a booth attendant, and Elijah hucked ping-pong balls at bowls. He didn't sink any, but got a fish regardless. So now we had a goldfish in a plastic container.

"What do you want to name him, Elijah?" Regina asked.

"Hingy Dingy Bangy," Elijah said.

"How about Dead By Tuesday?" I said.

While Elijah and Ariel flew around in a circle while riding plastic pink elephants, I complained.

"Why did you have to get Elijah a fish?" I asked.

"Because he wanted one," Regina said.

"No. You wanted one. Admit it."

"OK. I wanted a fish."

"You realize that the cats are going to kill this fish. I'll be surprised if it lasts through tomorrow."

And then I got grumpy, maybe because the Oreos were wearing off.

"Fucking goddamn five dollars for a ratty goldfish that isn't going to make it through the week. Who the fuck....."

"Don't fuck with me right now," Regina said.

"Fine. But you're in charge of the fish."

"No problem."

When we got home from the fair, I sat on the sofa and watched the Dodgers-Giants game on fast forward. Regina and Elijah went to Target for some fish food. Later, they put a ceramic shot glass on its side in Hingy Dingy's container so he could have a place to hide. Apparently, some video or other of Elijah's told him that aquarium fish like to hide.

Elijah woke up this morning very concerned that his fish had been eating its food, which I'll admit was pretty cute. Now they're shopping for a proper aquarium, and there's talk of getting more fish. Hingy Dingy is still alive, as of this writing. But it's not Tuesday yet, and the cats seem to be licking their lips.

Posted by at 4:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)