Birthday party bash

Old age has introduced new forms of despair in my life. Yes, I’m talking about birthday parties for kids. The kid birthday party concept needs reformation. The current model results in escalation a la the Cold War arms race.

From my experience, this is how it goes. Kid gets invited to the first birthday party of the season. You’re obligated to buy a present for Kid to bring along, so you shell out money for a Lego set or a nerf gun or whatever. That’s a problem right there, as there isn’t a socially approved option of being thrifty and making a present instead (such as a painted rock, a toilet paper roll action figure or a box of garden snails).

Anyway, presents aside, the real problem is the scope of the party. You and Kid arrive and the party has a piñata, a small riding pony, and face-painting. Your uncontrollable mental calculator adds up the costs. You think, hmm… not too bad.

But, as the year progresses, the parties escalate according to the Keeping-Up-With-the-Joneses principle. This is not a new principle. In fact, Plato wrote about it back in the 400s, only he called it Keeping-Up-With-Pythagoras.

Anyway, the next birthday party has a juggling clown and a ventriloquist. The one after that has a Russian trapeze act. The next party has the Lipizzaner horses flown over from Austria. The party after that, Kim Jong-un parachutes in and does magic tricks, followed by the chorus line of Cats performing a medley of Broadway hits.

If all that isn’t bad enough, there’s the food. It’s a minefield of dietary restrictions, social justicism, and cultural twirpiness. No meat. Only organics. Only hotdogs made from textured soy protein. No dairy. No hydrogenated oils. No MSG. This is a pity because kids love that stuff. If you made milkshakes out of hydrogenated oil and MSG, the kids would slurp them down like anteaters slurping ants. Standing around with other parents discussing food at parties is worse than getting a tax audit.

Parent A: My Ronnie is vegetarian. Eggs make him weep for the lives of chickens that will never be. He’s such a sensitive boy. I think he’ll be an artist.

Parent B: Well, my little LaFonda is a sustainable fruitarian. She cares about the earth.

Parent D: My Brianna only eats food imported from Iceland.

This is why my policy is no birthday parties. We will send you a polite letter of declination, written in crayon, along with a tastefully wrapped present (a beet from our garden, a spare sock, etc).

Portrait of a Serial Killer

I suppose it’s unavoidable that the majority of serial killer thrillers and mysteries tend to feature the same kind of killer: a depraved murdered with some variety of attendant twists (a fondness for eating his victims, turning their skin into lampshades, getting intimate with their corpses, murdering them in unsettling ways, etc). At the end of the day (or book), these killers blur into the same person. There’s nothing that inventive about them. Oh, one of them might be a supposed devout Christian (always an easy, lazy and fond target) or a white supremacist or a whatnot or a whosit.

But they’re all essentially the same.

Writers of these books must feel compelled to create the most horrific protagonist as possible. After all, they have to shock and compel and carve their name on the genre so readers are inspired to talk about their books to others. “That Hannibal Lecter fellow…” I understand their motivation. I think it unfortunate. It reminds me of the old Soviet-era grocery stores I visited in Eastern Europe: one brand of bread on the shelves, one brand of canned peas…

The problem is, like taking drugs, the high becomes less and less attainable, the more you use. The reader becomes numb over time. Which is one of several reasons why we’ve moved into an era of heroes being just as repulsive as their corresponding villains.

This problem got me thinking recently about the character of the Serial Killer in fiction. Not all of such villains need to be the next Jack the Ripper. I think a blander sort of fellow would be much more terrible in the long run. An acceptable, educated, polished person. An unassuming cog in the machine.

This brings us to Desmond Phipps…

Portrait of a Serial Killer

“Our office has one more suggestion, said Desmond Phipps.

“Yes?” said the chairman.

Phipps cleared his throat and pretended to consult his notes. He was a short, bespectacled man with thinning blond hair and a weak chin that he tried to conceal behind a goatee.

“Dr. Ralston Reed and Dr. George Patterson,” he said, “both statisticians at Princeton, recently published a paper analyzing vehicle speeds on all classifications of roads: highways, city streets, residential, high density urban, rural areas, and how they relate to emissions and climate change. One of the key points they make for the purposes of our discussion is that increasing speed limits within certain ranges reduces carbon emissions due to the improvements in modern engine efficiencies.”

“Increasing the limits by how much?” said the woman sitting three seats down the table.

Phipps didn’t bother looking at her. Melissa Hart. She was the senior aide to the senator from Wyoming and sometimes wore cowboy boots. Her voice sounded like a blender grinding up rocks. Almost certainly a smoker. She was probably was more accustomed to riding a horse than driving a car. He doubted whether someone like her had the intelligence to be on the staff committee for updating national road standards.

“Up to ten miles per hour more for average highway speeds that are still at sixty or below,” said Phipps, “for a national average of seventy. Urban and residential areas would only need an increase of five. The adjustment in urban and residential actually has a bigger impact than the change in highway speed. Viewed on a driver-by-driver basis, these increases really are small, but it’s the small things that count. Collectively, these modifications would result in an annual reduction of six point nine billion tons of carbon emissions at current population levels.”

There was a brief moment of silence as the committee considered this.

“What about school zones?” said someone at the far end of the table.

“School zones would certainly be an exception,” said Phipps quickly. “My senator feels very strongly about education.”

“Did they analyze what their proposal would mean for traffic accidents?” said Hart.

Witch, thought Phipps to himself. “Of course. They calculate a slight increase in mortality from the current level to an additional one per every two hundred thousand. That’s statistically irrelevant.”

“But not irrelevant for that one person,” said Hart sarcastically.

“Per every two hundred thousand,” said the man sitting across from Phipps. He scribbled quickly on his notepad. “Let’s see… point zero zero zero five percent. For a carbon reduction of six point nine billion tons? That’s quite a nice return. I wish my investment portfolio was doing that well.”

Except for Hart, everyone at the table laughed.

“I think Minnesota could get behind this,” said an elegant blonde at the end of the table. “Climate change is polling strongly in our area, even ahead of jobs and immigration, and it is an election year.”

“Any issue you can tie to climate change is a slam-dunk in California,” said another staffer. “Sea levels, kids with emphysema or asthma–hell, find some bald kid with cancer, even if it has nothing to do with climate. Throw in a couple pictures of cute polar bears or dolphins, my boss loves this stuff when she’s out campaigning.”

“Minority kids in wheelchairs,” said someone else. “They’re gold. Do some photo ops with them and you can sit back and watch the polls bounce.”

There were several nods in response. Phipps relaxed in his chair. He didn’t allow himself to smile. He would do that later. In private.

“Alright then,” said the chairman, looking at his watch. “It sounds like we’ve got some pretty good consensus. We’ll add this emissions reductions plan to the list. I’ll have my staff type up the revisions and email them tonight. The EPA will get a copy too. They can come on board early and get their press releases ready. I trust you’ll all brief your senators before the new safety standards go public. Boil it down to talking points so they’ve got a good grasp of what they’re supposed to say.”

“If they ever get asked,” said someone.

Everyone laughed. Even Hart smiled sourly.

Phipps took the train home late in the evening. A sleek white cat met him at the door. It purred and rubbed against his ankles. Phipps opened a can of cat food and dumped it neatly into a blue ceramic bowl. The cat promptly began to eat in neat little bites. Phipps heated up a plate of leftover fettuccine for himself and poured a glass of white wine.

Point zero zero zero five times three hundred and fifty million… No. Point zero zero zero five percent of the population.

He did the math quickly in his head.

“One thousand, seven hundred and fifty, Bella,” he said to the cat. “What do you think of that?”

The cat ignored him.

A chalkboard hung on the side of the refrigerator. It had a long list of numbers, dates and initials on it. He added 1,750 to the list, along with the date and NRSS for National Road and Safety Standards.

He took a sip of wine and finally allowed himself a smile.

“Not bad at all, Bella. And the hearings on trade with China begin tomorrow. Electronics. Electronics have lots of potential, Bella, particularly devices children use. Chemicals, pottery, glass. Toys. Pencils, paper goods. All the everyday small things. It’s always the small things you have to pay attention to.”

The cat stared at him for a moment and then resumed eating its dinner.

“Of course,” said Phipps, “who’s paying attention?” He smiled again.

A Romantic Poem of Heartbreaking Beauty

I infrequently write romance. Pretty much never. Well, that’s not true, as I have written three stories that classify as romances to some degree: Rosamonde, The Girl Next Door, and Ice and Fire. Compared to my other writing, though, fairly inconsequential.

Sometimes, though, you just have to write romance when the mood grips you.

Such as yesterday, when I delved into the depths of poetry. Depths. That would be the way to put it.

So, without further ado…

Rose turned up her nose when Joe proposed.
She shook her head and shouted “No!”
The deposed beau composed an ode
and read it to his best friend Moe.
“Love like a cancer grows.
In my heart and my lymph nodes.
It was a blow when she said go.”
“I don’t know,” said Moe.
“She chose the row she wants to hoe.
So you don’t owe her any odes,
that girl’s just a stuck-up toad.”
“Shucks,” said Joe, “Well, I suppose.”
He heaved a sigh, sad and low.
“I’ll really miss her lovely toes.”

Like I said, the depths. The cold, murky depths. With strange fish swimming by.

A Person With More Foundation than a Library of Books…

And much less dust. Katie Davis. Went to Uganda after she graduated from high school. Went to teach preschool for ten months. And then just stayed. Still there. And has adopted 14 little orphan girls. Regardless of your philosophical persuasion, smile. The world needs more people like her.

And she’s written a book.

Musical Sketch: The Dead Game

The Dead Game

Years ago in my Chicago days, my band, the Autumn War, did a song called The Dead Game. I can’t remember the lyric topic, but I’ve always been intrigued by the title. Anyway, I just borrowed the title and wrote a new song this week (topic: politics, health care, and the forced irrelevancy of the individual). I’m going to do some more tweaking with the sketch, but I’m pleased with how it’s proceeding.