Young Old the Budding Cinephile

For those of you out there who know of my love of the moving picture, you've probably been counting down the days till I took Young Old to his first movie theater. I resisted at first, loud explosions and fiery cuss words probably not being in his best interest, but alas, I am a weak man. Two weeks after his birth, Young Old found himself accompanying Mama K and I to the Kennedy School, one of several second-run theater-pubs in the McMenamins empire. An old elementary school, the Kennedy has been remodeled into a fun-lover's wet dream...the classrooms have been turned into hotel rooms complete with student desks and chalkboards, the cafeteria warped into a full-scale restaurant, and courtyards turned into soaking pools. Former janitor's closets, the detention room, and the teacher's lounge have all been turned into cozy bars in which to imbibe their many handcrafted brews and spirits. My favorite room, however, is the old auditorium, which has been transformed into a movie theater replete with decrepit yet comfortable couches and loveseats. It really is one of the finer things in life, settling into a dark, cavernous room with a strong IPA in one hand, a slice of pizza in the other, and watching a movie on the big screen for $3.00.

A few months back, dreading that the world of film was going to end for me with my son's birth, I stumbled across the Kennedy School's "Mommy Matinee." Though I take some small affront at the sexist wording of the event, the idea is either brilliant, or horrifically hellish based on your ability to tolerate screaming infants. The first showing of the day mid-week is dedicated to parents and their babes; the aforementioned screams and shitty diapers are tolerated, if not wholly encouraged. Sign us up. Our first visit found Young Old drifting off into sleep within moments, likely due to the most recent, and unfortunately sub-par, entry into the Indiana Jones saga, The Crystal Skull. The following week we came back for more, watching the infinitely superior Get Smart. Young Old chuckled the entire time, recognizing a solid comedy without having any prior experience with them. Impressive, my boy.

Next up, The Big Lebowski, one of my, and surely soon to be Young Old's, favorite films. I think a tradition is in the works, friends.

It's going to be a long day...

I know, I know...the day's barely begun, and yet I'm dead-tired already, having not been able to do our usual noon wake-up.

Mama K went back to work today, so I'm officially a Stay-At-Home Father starting around 7am this morning. I could tell that Mama K was having a hard time leaving her son with a titty-less man such as myself, but she didn't say a word, just passed Young Old over to me as the still-weak sun was filtering in through the blinds, gave me a long hug and kissed us goodbye. Bless her heart, she's a good mother. Know that the little guy and I will be missing you every second you're off slaving away...

Thankfully, my mother and sister arrived last night, so the cavalry has arrived, back-up has been called in, etc. They've been a big help already, thawing milk, burping, bathing, and changing diapers (finally, a reprieve!).

Anyway, a picture of the little hobgoblin blogging with Papa Old:

Young Old @ Lunar Cycle No.1

Depending on how much sleep we managed the night before, Young Old's arrival into our world alternates between feeling like he slid out only yesterday or sucked in his first breath 37 months ago. Some days it feels like a mix of the two extremes, a sense of being mired in sleepy molasses, yet unable to keep up with our little man's blindingly rapid physical and intellectual growth. I've a feeling we're in for one strange and wild trip...

Our boy at Month One:

BIRTH CONTROL

No apologies will be forthcoming for this public service announcement. If you can't hack it, wait a few more years to procreate.

An Alaskan Tradition

Mama K hails from Alaska, the land of curling, french-speaking separatists, oil sand fields, moose droppings, free health care, and more "Eh?" responses than should ever be allowed. Yes, we're talking about Southeast, little known as a province of O Canada. [Sorry, folks...I realize the humor here is missed by most people, but had to get in a personal dig at Mama K and family. -Ed] The fishing village she spent her youth in was, and somewhat still is, a hotbed of community traditions. Mass potlucks, grizzly hunting parties, shared governance, co-parenting (including breastfeeding...can we all say "gross"), self-made fireworks and parades, and rumored wife-swappings...this little road-less, generator-powered town of less than 100 rugged pioneers took social interaction very seriously, highlighted by their deep dedication to raising children as a united effort. Part of the initial welcome package for newly arrived former fetuses, the birth quilt was something everyone poured their love into. Keeping traditions alive, for the most part (this one was created solely through the efforts of Mama K's close childhood friend), a quilt arrived the other day for Young Old.

And what a fine piece of work it is:

Thanks, Molly O...it's beautiful.

You Too Will Need a Butt Bag

Growing up in a society such as ours, one tends to accumulate something approaching a working knowledge of the items required to raise a child. Diapers, clothes, food source...call it good.

Unfortunately, this knowledge is somewhat limited in it's understanding of waste management. Believe me, there are many things that one must purchase or create for the various realms of responsibility that baby books don't adequately prepare a budding parent for. We're talking nipple cream, booger bulbs, vomit-spillage mops, upholstery stain cleaners, and industrial-grade sanitation suits.

Our newest invention, used to stow away dirty butt rags in the baby bag to avoid cross-contamination between Young Old's anus and his pacifier:

Beautiful Losers and Desserts

Feeling a bit adventurous, the evening found Mama K, Young Old and I heading out to the spanking-new North Portland art gallery Artery for their Beautiful Losers exhibit showcasing over a dozen offbeat underground painters, screen printers, and photographers who connected in NYC during the early 90's, and have since enjoyed mainstream and international success. I came to see the work of several artists that had a big effect on me during my rebellious graffiti-filled teenage years, namely Barry McGee (his Twist pieces/portraits adorning the streets of San Francisco were fucking amazing), Shepard Fairey (anyone remember the "Andre the Giant has a Posse" stickers and the ubiquitous OBEY wheatpastes?), and Harmony Korine (his films Kids and Gummo were on near-constant rotation in the VHS deck of my youth).

Barry McGee at Deitch Projects, one of the most important galleries in NYC...I had the pleasure of delivering some art there last year to make a few bucks while out in Brooklyn visiting my buddy Reid.


Shepard Fairey with some recognizable (and maybe opportunistic) propaganda.

Afterwards, we decided to head out to our favorite dessert joint, Pix Patisserie. We quickly devoured our tasty treats while Young Old began to fuss his little heart out, washing it all down with cups of addiction-satisfying Stumptown Coffee, Mama K's first cup since we set out to impregnate her. It was decaf, of course (we'll show a bit of restraint and wait until Young Old's 3rd birthday before introducing him to the wonders of caffeine), but her heart still thumped like a marathon-running crackhead's. It'll be another long, sleepless night. Good thing we're getting used to those...

Mama K and I's Pix picks, the Queen of Sheba Truffle Cake and the St. Honore, respectively. My mouth is still watering.

I'm Tired So You Get Pictures Vol. 3

Well...to be quite honest, I'm not only tired, but I'm a bit drunk. We had our friends Jeff and Sydney over for dinner tonight and they came equipped with a couple bottles of "2 Buck Chuck" direct from Trader Joe's. Anyway, not much in the mood for writing...I'd rather be hanging out with Young Old, weaving tall tales of gentle goblins, sober pirates, and fiendish Republicans.

So yeah, a few pictures to tide you over.

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Young Old and I on a recent neighborhood excursion with Mama K to return those goddamn Mom to Mom diapers (see earlier post). He loves his stroller, checking out the passing scenery or napping like a narcoleptic whenever he so pleases.

Mama K's life. Milk Bladder, Burp Rag, Sleep Aid. Those are her three job titles. And I love her for it. She's easily the most patient, loving person I know. Big ups.

One of our favorite shirts...thanks, Annie! One of the great things about this whole "Baby" thing = free shit from loving friends/family that you previously wish you could buy but couldn't afford. More on that later.

Mark of the B(r)east

Big Brother recently cast his gaze upon our son, as evidenced by this envelope dropped in our mailbox by uniformed government agents. Young Old's first piece of mail, and it's the allotment of a number, his number, a notification that he's now part of "The System."

While we muttered about the silly necessity of it all, Young Old was displaying a marvelously mature level of apathy, showing less interest in any imagined black helicopters hovering overhead than in the delicious taste of said envelope as he brazenly began to devour his SSN card, a federal offense, to be sure.

"Fuck the Man" in his own special way.

I'm Tired So You Get Pictures Vol. 2

Not only am I too tired to write much (maybe four hours of sleep last night broken up into 1/2 hour chunks), but Young Old is in need of consolation, so I'm typing this with one hand...

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The rarest of moments.

Another rare instance of sleep.

Okay, so maybe he does sleep a lot, but Jesus, it's at all the wrong times. I don't think he's quite grasped the idea of day and night. Seen here with our homie Pork, who's basically another mother to Mama K and I. Not seen is her hubby Mike, who threatened to cook Young Old up if "it" came near him. We love you guys.

Telepathy rules.

This little pig in a blanket loves kisses.

Or not.

One thing he does love is his personal Milk Bladder AKA his mother.