The Bleat.

Tuesday, Oct. 06

I was on my way to interview semi-drunk people standing in the rain with purple hats when the phone rang. It was Charles from Electrolux.

Suddenly the day was looking so much better.

It began poorly. Daughter is having odd stomach problems that seem to occur when she’s just exhausted and hasn’t gotten enough sleep. A morning barf, a long sleep, no fever, right as rain upon awakening, complete with appetite. We have the annual in a week, so I’ll ask the Kindly Doc what he says. This morning I got the call from the nurse, and went off to get her. If anyone wonders exactly what parenthood is like, it’s this: you’re driving down the street, four blocks from home, hoping you can make it to the garage before your child rupes, but just in case you don’t you grab the bag of emergency supplies in the passenger area, zip open the side compartment, feel for the squishy-thick packet of plastic bags – purchased a half-decade ago for a contingency just like this – and get out out before the trouble starts. I was successful at doing all these things, and felt a small sort of triumph: once again, the bag of emergency supplies came through. If someone would get a snakebite I could die happy. Well, no, not if it meant the snake bit me too and I’d used up all the antidote. I would die knowing I had done my duty, but “happy” seems too much.

So we were home today. I wrote this and that, looked in occasionally to check her breathing make sure she hadn’t keithmooned, or bonscotted, or hedrixed, depending on your age and genre preference. When she perked up we played UNO, talked about this and that, read books. It was actually a sweet way to spend a cool, rainy afternoon, and reminded me of days past. That’s not hard; a small stone in a cardboard box reminds me of days past. Everything can remind you of days past, even tomorrow. Sometimes it’s just a tiny trigger that finds a sympathetic vibration in something packed away in a unconsulted neuron; sometimes it’s a vague but familiar assemblage of circumstances, like today. Sitting in her room in the doldrums of the afternoon on a day caught between seasons.

Watched some Disney – been a while since the Silly Symphony DVDs came out. I have the same reaction to most of them I had years ago, when this was a staple in Natalie’s hit parade. Some – well, most – are saccharine and overdone and often a bit creepy. Some are remarkable pieces of art, such as “The Old Mill,” and some are unaccountable favorites, like “Flowers and Trees.” (That one reminds me of sitting in the theater on Main Street in Disneyworld, alone, killing time. It plays in constant rotation, and I always see it when I’m cooling my heels, waiting for supper at Tony’s, waiting for wife and child to finish shopping. I have no doubt that eight months from now I will be sitting in the theater in the same set of circumstances, watching “Flowers and Trees,” content.)

Watched the “Three Little Pigs,” now elevated as a Depression parable that gave the masses a tune to sing with glee and bravado: who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? An odd conclusion to draw, since 2/3rds of the pigs sang the tune while oblivious to the imminent peril of the Wolf. It’s like a cartoon that had everyone capering out while they expressed a cheeky disrespect for the implications of the Anschluss. It’s the brick-laying practical pig who saves them, of course, and he dispatches the wolf with something modern eyes may not fully understand.

When the wolf attempts to come down the chimney, he pours something in the stew pot:

The wolf lands butt first:

He is expelled into the air on an invisible pillar of pain:

And scoots away.

This is the sort of thing you’d put in a movie if you expected that the majority of your audience had experience, first or second hand, with a particular form of animal abuse favored by bored youth. Apparently everyone dipped a cat in turpentine once, or knew someone who did, or was familiar with the effects.

Then again, the Three Little Pigs cartoons always ended with someone having butt trouble.

Off to work.

But I had to leave at four to work.

This was work:

Since the Vikes and Green Bay were colliding for the first official game since the Wisconsin QB defected to the Vikes, we were tasked with a great responsibility: find out what the tailgaters think! And do it fast. Aimee B. did the Vikes; I got the Packers. But I couldn’t resist interviewing a Wookie. Also got to shoot canned cheese down a very large and inhibition-free Vikings fan. I didn’t get the crazy odd characters Aimee B did, but you go to war with the weirdos you have.

Here’s the video.

It’s so much fun to head into a parking lot full of sporting-contest enthusiasts who’ve been drinking since noon, and are eager to display their team spirit. It’s less fun to have them stand behind you and shout WOOOOO while you’re interviewing, but I suppose it adds to the atmosphere. I just can’t imagine drinking so much before the game, since I assume drinking will be happening during the game as well. (Could; you never know.) Then you have to get out of the place and get to your car somehow and get home somehow.

That was it. Oh, the Electrolux fellow. We’ll talk again tomorrow, but they’re interested in making things right. This of course relates to yesterday’s long complaint, which prompted some chiding in the comments. (Note: the site migrated to another server yesterday, and it appears some comments got lost; if you posted between one and four, your comment may have been evaporated. I didn’t delete any of them. Not even the anonymous ones from you guys in Herdon, U of Maryland, and down there toiling away at Westlaw.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 6th, 2009 at 12:48 am. It is filed under Domestic Life, The Thirties. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.