"Well, at least there's one thing you can do in the dark"

The title of the post comes from one of Angela's ex-boyfriends, who turned and said that to her when the lights went out on the train -- and then whipped out his laptop. The moral here: when presented with a blackout, go for the instant romance.

There may be an exception, however, when watching a World Cup soccer match with friends and the lights go out during a terrific thunderstorm when Germany and Italy are still 0-0 ten minutes into the first overtime period.

After the collective scream, we scrambled around the house to find our portable radio in order to pick up the sole radio station that we knew was carrying World Cup games. Done entirely in Spanish with narration provided by an over-ebulliant Argentine and featuring a very catchy theme song ("¡¡Fútbol, fútbol, fútbol de primera, la radio del Mundial!!"), I translated as best as I could for everyone on our front porch, given the spotty reception and the excited Argentine. When, in second overtime, he yelled "Goooooooooooooooool," we still weren't sure who had scored and had to wait what seemed like an eternity before he yelled "Italia" and we all started cheering ourselves, no doubt startling all our neighbors still without power. (I was trying to act angrily, of course, since my "curse" is back -- but of course, I was rooting for the Italians. Sorry, Stefan.)

We just got our power back around 10 or so, and then it went out again for a while only to have just come back. And guess who's typing on a laptop now?

Lessons in hilarity

While out to lunch at an amazing Peruvian restaurant in Gaithersburg called La flor de la canela with a bunch of friends, it's the following comment at the table that causes my son (my son!) to crack up and laugh harder than at any point in time during the day:

"So, Jeff, do you have tenure yet?"

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. No.

Europa Europa

Well, as becks492 sadly points out, despite my whimpers of Allez Bleu!, France indeed did not lose today. In fact, they played darned well and Brazil justly deserved to lose. (This, unlike the Final in '98, which I'm still not over.) On the plus side, I said enough wonderful things about David Beckham under my breath to actually have him taken out with something of an injury and the darling upstart Portuguese made it through. At this point, I have no idea who I should really be rooting for at all. I'm just sad that all the New World teams are out and that, dagnabbit, the Europeans who sniffed "It wouldn't be right if the Cup is played and Europe and not won be a European" will have their wish come true. (I'm still bitter that Argentina, clearly the best team playing up until their goalie injury, is not still in this hunt. Boo.)

Since I appear to be cursed...

I have just walked out of the ridiculous defeat of Argentina by Germany in penalty kicks. I'm so depressed. (And here's the real kicker: now I have to grade final papers. "What's the likelihood I'm going to be lenient?" he says to himself as he reaches for his reddest of pens...)

Given my current curse, I hearby declare my undying love and affection for Italy, France and England. Live long and prosper... and therefore suffer under my World Cup curse, which has now taken the last six teams that I was rooting for.

Fabián Bielinsky 1959-2006

One of Argentina's most successful directors to have emerged from the most recent crop, including some notice in the US for his movie Nine Queens, Bielinsky apparently died in his sleep last night, only three days after sweeping the Argentine critics awards for his latest film, The Aura. Such a terrible shame.

Not waving, drowning

I think every DC blogger is talking about the rain these days, and I'm not going to be any different. Avant moi, le deluge indeed. I just got off the phone with my parents, assuring them that everything is fine -- the roof, the books, the basement where all the books are, the small child. We have not checked the garage, but then again anything that goes in there automatically has the word "expendable" stamped on it, so I'm not worried.

I will tell you one thing: the one person who is getting a huge kick out of all of this is my son.

On Sunday, when this whole shebang started, Xan and I came home from a Costco run right before the rain began. I raced inside with groceries and child while Angela was outside in front of the grill with an umbrella. (Envisioning the heat and humidity, we planned this week's recipes around salads and grilling. At least the first part will keep us somewhat dry.) Xan complained bitterly, so I let him go back outside, thinking that he would have learned enough from Vega to not enjoy being wet and come back in. Nope: not only were we not upset by the rain, but we happily romped all around and ate even more blackberries, even as the rain poured down and stranded both Mom and Dad under a deck umbrella, two ninnies who were trying to remain dry for some ridiculous reason.

Yesterday, he came to campus as I was shilling for New Student Orientations, dispensing with professorial advice. (Mine amounts to: Talk in class, make sure you investigate DC beyond the Red Line, and yes, it actually is possible that you will meet the person you're going to marry in your first weeks of school, even if you don't actually start dating until long after you graduate.) Xan came to lunch with my colleague -- an adventure in itself -- and afterwards we went out to enjoy the 15 minutes of sun that emerged between monsoons.

And what comes after the rain? Puddles!

Here is how one must apparently examine a puddle:

1. Toddle forward until you stand directly in front of puddle.
2. Bend over.
3. Maneuver hand up and down in rapid manner, causing ripples or, if deep enough, sincere splashes.
4. Contemplate. Process. File information away.
5. Look for another puddle nearby and move on.

This process continued until we encountered a rather large puddle, which we then made the mistake of walking through. At this point, we discover that our shoe makes an even bigger plash. In which case, we add the following direction:

• If puddle is large enough to clomp around in, clomp wildly away until laughter is as loud as splashes are high. It is preferrable to wet Dad in the process.

All was going very well especially when, after detouring onto the grass, Xan slipped backwards and fell flat out into a huge mud puddle. Now, his jeans, shirt and socks are covered in mud. I am hysterically giggling at the sight and, when I bring him back to my office, not only show him off to my colleagues who are around, but allow him to sit on a paper in someone's returned-papers box. (Said paper now has the imprint of a baby's bottom in mud on it.)

It was only at this point that I discovered the diaper bag is missing (a) a change of pants and, more crucially, (b) a change of diaper.

We'll see what happens today. I have no Xan today but, for some reason, I thought that it was a good day to drive to work. Hmm. Maybe I should retrieve that brain from wherever I left it last time.

Bring it on, Joles

I have been reading for quite some time now about Jolie, Xan's friend and the primary focus of an amazingly amusing blog which you should all check out. At several points, this event called the World's Strongest Man competition keeps being referenced. I try very hard not to be one of those parents who foists their children into unnecessary competitive streaks that will only lead to me throwing a Coke in someone's face and their beating me to a pulp against a set of bleachers.

It appears, however, that perhaps my son has started reading this blog himself.

Yesterday, before the rain came, we let Xan toddle around the backyard freely while I grilled some dinner and Angela finished making some hot-n-spicy slaw on the back porch table. It is at this point that we discover our accusing the birds of eating all our blackberries has been something of a fallacy.

As you can see, our little boy appears to be mysteriously sneaking out in the evening to eat all the ripe blackberries. Strangely, he seeems to recognzie that only the black ones are good, and that the red ones should be left alone -- but that the opposite is true for the strawberries that are right next to the blackberries.

Obviously, the eating of blackberries is akin to spirulina or guaraná or something like that, because then he decided to scale outdoor furniture as if it were a climbing wall.

We acquired these new lawn chairs from a family friend (along with other lawn furniture, and a couple bookcases -- hooray!!) but had taken off the cushions because it was going to rain. It is, however, quite a good resource to train for World's Strongest Man competition.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention that yesterday also included a food-shopping outing with Dad, which had a particular twist at Whole Foods. Because riding in the cart was not an option this time. No, today, Xan decided that he had to push the cart. Himself. Non-stop. And if the cart stopped for whatever reason (hitting a wall, stuck on a cucumber display, Dad stopping the cart before he runs over a septegenarian examining some scallops at the seafood counter, etc.), the loudest, highest-pitched shriek would emerge from this little body. This meant that we had to go back and forth five times (this is not hyperbole) in one aisle just so I could find the black beans, and several times through the register line, just to keep him amused. This continued into the parking lot, where the only thing that finally distracted him from pushing the cart was a large pot of purple flowers. And even that didn't last.

Xan is definitely in training now. While I would still put my money on Joles for squashing my son like a bug, I'm now not so sure he wouldn't go down without a fight.

Student Appreciation Day

I know I just said I wasn't going to blog for a while, but this was so special, I have to get it down before the feeling goes away.

This summer, I'm teaching a course on short films, something I am now seriously considering as a future research topic. I turned on to this topic a while ago when I discovered in my own current research that, while Peru really arguably barely has produced enough feature-length films to even be called a tradition, a whole industry of filmmakers produced several thousand short films in Peru over the course of twenty years from 1972 to 1992. Granted, nearly all of these films were god-awful -- but, by law, they were all theatrically shown and every single Peruvian feature filmmaker (until 2003, ten years after that law was repealed) had gained their primary filmmaking experience from working on these shorts. In researching this chapter for my book, I went searching for information on shorts as a genre, or form, or whatever it is, just so that I would be able to put shorts into a critical and historical context... and found, to my great surprise, that there is virtually nothing written about short film at all. Naturally, this makes for a good research topic -- so stay tuned.

In the meantime, to determine whether or not I was really interested in this topic, I decided to teach a summer course on it; in the process of prepping and teaching it, I would be forced to at least bring about the foundation of future research. And, since there is very little information out there on it, for the first time I actually assigned a chapter from the book I'm writing now on the Peruvian film journal Hablemos de cine. I did not provide any further context about the book and just expected them to glean the information they needed about how the concept of national cinema was so new that shorts were all Peruvians had to go on for a very long time.

After class, however, one of the graduate students cam up and started asking bigger questions: but weren't there any other film journals in Peru? didn't only a limited number of people read this journal? how come they had such an influence? As he kept asking questions, I started explaining more and more about what I'm trying to say about my bigger project. At one point, he stopped and said, "Gee, your book really sounds compelling."

I almost wept.

He has no idea that, particularly now, this was exactly what I needed to go forward. The cynic in me thinks that he might have said this to butter me up -- but I'm not that much of a cynic. He really did seem genuinely interested in my work. Which makes the first time someone completely otherwise uninterested in me or my topic is actually turned on by it. My work is relevant! Students are actually interested in my work! Even some of my other students that I've taught before just seems humored if I talked about my work, not actually interested and wanting to know more.

We talked for a good long while about it. I was so thrilled, and these words don't convey that very well. But it will be a while before I forget this, I think.

Yet another break, this time with warning

With a lot on my plate these days -- a very necessary writing deadline, house work, the last couple weeks of my class, etc. -- look for very sporadic updates over the next month or so. I still hope to get some entries up and I will try to get back to posting more regularly soon. This is just so as not to be too disappointing when I don't have somethng up every couple of days, heh heh.

Father's Day #2

Not that today wasn't wonderful -- many wonderful things happened today. World Cup games were actually exciting -- particularly when viewed with actual World Cup Afficiando Señor Pájaro (who, living up to this moniker, brought guacamole to the festivities of the Brazil-Australia game). The air conditioner made its way downstairs. Friends M&M came over to help us continue the weekend project of finally replacing our evil bathroom ceiling. (Natually, that is becoming more of a hassle than originally expected, but let's move on...) Angela decided to braid my hair; yes, there are pictures. (Yes, point taken: the hair will be chopped soon.) And, in an indelible memory, Xan expertly crawled out of our kiddie pool (filled with just enough water to cool off) and ambled across the lawn in search of ripe blackberries, stark naked.

All this wonder was, I believe, meant to counteract the present that Xan decided to give me earlier this morning.

(note: if eating, please wait until after you finish before continuing. consider yourself warned.)

After breakfast, Ange felt a little tired and asked to go back to sleep for a bit. I agreed and played with Xan for a bit. Coming into his I-want-to-play-by-myself-just-stay-here-with-me mode, I crawled onto the sofa and turned on Univisión to catch part of the (boooooring) Korea-Croatia game. I started to doze off when Xan wandered over and I smelled that familiar smell that indicates a diaper change. No problem, I picked him up, all ready to change him.

As I started to clean him off, however, I realized that there was poo on his leg. I turned him around, got enough wipe -- and found some on the front of his leg. And then on his foot. And his other foot. And back on the first back part of the leg. I thought, "What the hell?!"

To make a long story short: shockingly for the first time, we suffered a combination poo explosion-wardrobe malfunction. Resulting in poo everywhere: all over him, on me, on the floor (all over -- he tracked, then Angela came out and tracked...), on toys, the high chair, everything. Somehow, Vega was spared. To say that this was vile is putting it mildly. The good thing that came out of this: our hardwood floors are now spotless.

Naturally, Xan was entirely unperturbed. In his own way, perhaps this is the beginning of I-can-make-my-own-gifts-for-Dad stage, a step before macaroni sculpture.