Finally, Game Night!

I went a little boardgame crazy this year. In December (OK, technically last year) I bought Arkham Horror for Anson for his birthday. It was expensive, but worth it not only because he's my oldest friend, but also because it has the most pieces of any game ever made. Then in May when we were in New York I bought Settlers of Catan for myself. We didn't play it for the first time until last weekend (that's more than three months later). Somehow, two vital pieces had gone missing by then, although I'd only opened the box once in NY, under strictly controlled conditions. (My suspect: Elizabeth Rose Larrison! How, when it was on a shelf way above her reach? Answer: she's a three year old! Why? Answer: she's a three year old!)

I really like games. I like them more in theory than in practice. This is evidenced by the numerous obscure role playing games on my bookshelf (Anyone remember Skyrealms of Jorune? Didn't think so.) that I never played. This thesis is further supported by the videogames I bought cheap from ebay and never played, or played very little. (Sorry, Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines.)

Even without the missing pieces, Settlers was awesome. It's complex at first, but the rules make so much sense that you only need to hear them once before they set into your mind. Amazingly, there's no conflict in the game. It's all about cooperative trading and development. Needless to say, Aaron, Barb, and I enjoyed it and can't wait to play it again.

Maybe in another three months.

Dad Was Right

When I was applying to colleges, my first choice was Syracuse University's Newhouse School. It's a communication school, specializing in writing, television, and the like. Bob Costas went there.

My father always said to me, "You want to be a writer, make sure you learn how to be on TV." This was 1988. I was like, "Dad, you're crazy. I don't want to be on TV. I want to be a writer." I'm thinking: I sit in a room in a Victorian mansion click-clacking on a manual typewriter. As with Johh LeCarre, no one sees my face.

Boy, was I wrong. Boy was Dad, Hovey Larrison (born in 1933), right.

He thought, he expected, he believed that everyone who produced media would be a video personality. He, who was barely aware of the internet when he died in 2001, was spot-on-the-nose right.

Take, for example, Penny Arcade. I love Penny Arcade. It's an online three-panel comic strip created by two guys, Jerry and Mike, one writer, one illustrator. They started off asking for donations to keep the strip going. Over the years they became wildly successful (as they should have, seeing as how awesome they are). Now they've got a fucking TV show.

Dad, if you can hear me, let me say the words you've probably heard a hundred thousand times: sorry, you were right after all.

Facebook Freaks Me Out

One time many years ago I took it upon myself to organize a bunch of old pictures that Mark had in shoeboxes (probably not literally shoeboxes, but you get the idea). Most of them were from Dad's childhood, or Mom's, but eventually I unearthed a strata of late-'70s-early-'80s photos of our family. I showed one to Mark: it was us and our cousins sitting around the dining table at Camp. Mark was sporting a Peter Frampton afro and grinning like the world was his oyster.

"I hate pictures," he said.

Now I get it. Or at least, sort of.

Fucking Facebook.

I want to use Facebook to stay in touch with those people whom I love but who I never talk to. My cousins, as a for instance. But then I log in and get hit with a friend invite from Eamon Lee, someone whose name is only very vaguely familiar. Was he that weird little kid from up the street, whose sister I kind of liked? When I was eight? Who the hell knows! It's the only Eamon I've ever had any contact with, so it seems pretty likely. So I click on his profile and get this photo of some world-weary chef -- goatee, crowsfeet, paunch. What the fuck?

Or follow the link for the Christian Brothers Academy Class of 1988 and find all these names attached to faces. The name -- Kirk Coyle? -- rings some faint bell and the face is like the image from a dream: the fatter, redder, hairier version of some kid I apparently spent four years with a long time ago. Nothing against Kirk Coyle or any of the others. I'm not exactly 16, either. It's not that we're middle-aged. Middle-aged is fine. It's that from my point of view, they aged from 16 to 40 in an instant, like a vampire dragged out of its coffin into the sun, withering and turning to blowing ash in the time it takes for the second hand to make its circuit around the watchface.

Perhaps this whole social networking thing is better left to the kids, who can grow up with it. If I had seen Kirk Coyle's profile picture change gradually over the years, as he sailed serenely into decrepitude, it would have softened the blow.

A little, tiny movie

We've been known to make movies, but since baby Elizabeth joined us it hasn't been easy to do. Last weekend we busted out a very quick commercial parody involving Elizabeth, Barb, Aaron, his daughter Lily, and myself.

It was inspired by my purchase of a gaming headset from Turtle Beach. I got it so I could actually hear the video games I play Saturday nights right outside Elizabeth's room. Prior to the headset I'd keep the TV audio so low I could barely hear anything.

The packaging said "Trash talk your friends! For when it's too late to be loud." That makes no sense, of course, as the video illustrates.

However, the headphones are awesome for hearing the game. I really am glad I purchased them. Tomorrow I'll play an online game with friends for the first time with the headset and that should prove interesting.

It was incredibly fun to make the movie, and equally fun to get two positive reviews on YouTube -- including one from Turtle Beach itself which said "LOL 5/5!"

Dang. That's cool.

The Larrison Family Vacation

Barb and I take weird vacations. For instance, McMinnville, Oregon. What's in McMinnville, you ask? Not much. But we went there anyway. I'm still not sure why. Above is a picture from our recent trip to Baltimore. Okay, technically we went there because I had job-related training. But Barb and Elizabeth joined us to make it a family vacation. And Grampa Grumps and Grandma Susy came down from Long Island to amp up the family-ness.

In the picture above the happy family is on its way to a delicious, 10,000 calorie meal at The Cheesecake Factory.

Who needs Hawaii?

Book baby, book baby!

Elizabeth is now officially confirmed as the fruit of my loins. For one thing, she has a huge head. For another thing, she loves books, as evidenced by this picture.

Also notable in this picture is that she's on her knees. E.R. has been crawling around commando-style for a while now, but hasn't yet mastered the hands-and-knees method. However, she is learning how to lever herself up onto her knees for such favorite activities as pulling every boardbook off the shelf.

She's a good baby.

This Sunday I fly to Baltimore for more VA training. This time it's "Introduction to Leadership," as I am now a manager (guess I did an okay job on my KSAs). I'll be there Sunday to Friday solo, then Barb and Baby E. will fly in. Hopefully Grandma Susy and Grandpa Grumps will come down from Long Island to visit and eat crabs.

As I write this, I can hear Barb reading Goodnight Moon to Elizabeth in the bedroom. We've read that book countless times. It's really an amazing piece of art, but I'll have to delve into the depths of that book later, when I'm sitting lonely in the Baltimore Inner Harbor Marriott with half of a sixpack still left to drink.

Dearth of a Salesman

Ugh. I just got done writing my KSAs for a job application. If you don't speak bureaucratese, KSAs (which stands for Knowledge, Skills, and Abilities) are the essay part of a government job application. E.g., "Describe your experience applying Federal, state, and local laws, regulations, policies, guides, procedures and judicial determinations to the veterans benefits programs."

Sounds like fun, huh?

I hate applying for jobs. However, here I am doing it. I'm afraid to get complacent, so I'm applying for a job I'm not sure I want that might lead to a higher-paying job I'm really not sure I want. Rolling stone, moss, etc.

The thing about job applications is that I'm not a salesman. I hate selling. Just take a look at the sales figures on my movie, Zombie Christ. It's a fun little movie with a killer marketing hook and the people who've bought it have done so almost in spite of me. I don't advertise even in the many free ways the web offers. Or see my various novel manuscripts gathering dust in my basement. It's not necessarily that they can't be sold, it's that I won't sell them. I hate selling -- but I said that already, didn't I?

Hell, I don't even tell people about this blog. My two readers are my Mom and Danielle from New Mommy Rant, and I have no idea how Danielle stumbled upon Awlthat.

Point being, applying for a job is the process of selling yourself. Even though I know I'm a great product, I have no interest in or aptitude for selling the product that is Andrew Larrison.

It's amazing I've made it this far.

The Missing

I'm away from my baby for the first time since her birth: in Cleveland for three and a half weeks to train newly hired service reps for the VA. Cleveland's pretty cool, the extra money is nice, the work is fine -- the only thing missing is my family; especially this beautiful baby!

It's notable how much the missing can really hurt. I saw a fellow traveller here at the hotel step off the elevator carrying a pair of little baby girl shoes and a dart of missing struck my heart. I saw a news story about a local man who allegedly murdered his 2-month-old namesake son and felt a pang of such sorrow... that little baby deserved so much more.

I love my baby girl so much.

Thankfully, we can afford to have Barb and Elizabeth fly out in a week, and stay for the remainder of the trip. Can't wait.

The bachelor thing was fun for a day or two, but the novelty is already wearing off. Frankly, I'm a pretty lame bachelor. I hunker down in my hotel room listening to Built To Spill, drinking beer, and either reading (Lonesome Dove, which is awesome), internetting, or playing video games (see Experiments in Otaku or I Think I'm Turning Japanese, above). Tonight I spent a minute or two looking at the fireworks over Jacobs Field (I'll never call it Progressive Field!), then went back to my beer and my DS.

Baby is My Co-Pilot

Today Barb went to church thence to Robin Burrow's baby shower, leaving me and Elizabeth Rose to fend for ourselves. She's almost four months old, now, but it's been the rare occasion that we spend time with just each other. As if that weren't enough to make Daddy apprehensive, Portland's in the middle of a heat wave (The Surfer's exterior thermometer showed 108 degrees yesterday!) and there were a ton of chores crying to be done (dishes, laundry, unpacking from camping, putting together a couple of Zombie Christ orders, etc.).

We ended up having a great time together. I played with and read to E.R., carried her around a lot on my shoulder (her new carry position), fed her twice, and still managed to get most of the chores done. I came away from the experience feeling that we should make it a regular thing: Daddy-Baby Day. Not only is it great for us, it's a much-needed break for Mommy, who spends so much time with the baby (and will be spending even more, with my upcoming 26-day trip to Cleveland).

The Cookie Incident

I'm fascinated by the ongoing saga of The Cookie Incident. This event involves my mom, Sharon, and her (formerly?) good friend Michael. It's an incident that is very much indicative of the difficulties humans have communicating.

For the full scoop on The Cookie Incident, please read Mom's blog. It's very interesting stuff.

Here's my take on what happened:

On April 24 of this year Mom was invited to her friend's apartment. He had some seemingly bogus excuse about wanting to borrow a stool. Upon reflection, Mom thought it was exceedingly odd that Michael would ask to borrow this stool -- he has plenty of chairs. She went up there, gave him the stool in question, and he offered her a cookie. Now what happened next is subject to interpretation, but I'll present it as I remember Mom reporting it the following morning. That report, if I recall correctly, stated that Michael offered her one of his homemade cookies. She wasn't eager to take him up on the offer. (Michael is a baker of dubious quality; I was once stuck with a piece of his rum cake, or fruit cake, or mincemeat, or something, and it was pretty godawful.) But Mom is as gracious a guest as she is a host, so she said yes. Michael explained something about it containing "seeds" from "Betty," but Mom didn't make the connection that Betty was Michael's pot connection ("dealer" seems too professional a term).

She ate some of the cookie, then got up to go. Michael made a point to remind her to "take your cookie." A while after Mom got home she realized she was stoned. Except it didn't feel like being stoned from smoking grass (something she's done a bit of in her time, though she's no stoner). She called Michael and said she was feeling really funny and he responded, "That's the idea."

Mom had a terrible night, tripping out on whatever was in the cookie. She still feels a detrimental effect from the incident, and her relationship with Michael has basically crumbled -- which is too bad considering he's one of the best people in her building.

Unless, that is, he maliciously dosed her.

But I don't think he did.

One of the problems here is that Betty is involved, and Betty is generally acknowledged to be a bad person. Betty's involvement -- she provided the weed that went in the cookie that caused Mom's bad trip -- casts a sinister light on the whole Incident. But I think Betty's a red herring. I think that Michael's mention of "seeds" (? -- every stoner knows seeds don't get you high, no matter whether you smoke them or eat them) and "Betty" (=pot supplier) proves that he wasn't trying to hide the marijuana content of his cookies. He may not have been communicating clearly, but he showed obvious intent to let Mom know there was marijuana in the cookies.

We should also remember that Mom doesn't hear too well.

Next, Michael acknowledged that feeling funny "was the idea." Were he purposefully gaslighting Mom, or otherwise trying to unbalance her, he would not have said that getting high was the idea behind eating the cookie. He would have feigned ignorance. "You're feeling funny, Sherry? That's odd, I wonder why?" He knows that Mom has had incidents of psychological distress in the past. If he'd been malicious, wouldn't he have professed utter ignorance of the cause of her freak-out?

I think so.

Mom seems to now be interpreting Michael's chilliness toward her as proof, or at least evidence, of his having conspired to bring her low. My take: he's freaked out by how freaked out she got.

I don't think there's a position of fault here. Mom got dosed, and it was a terrible experience. Michael miscommunicated in a way that caused his friend to freak out on him, and now he's gunshy. Given the fact that Michael is an ex-homeless guy who is used to living solo and has been burned by society more than once, I am not at all surprised that instead of offering a defense of his actions he has simply withdrawn into his shell.

But the fascinating thing about The Cookie Incident is that no one involved will likely ever know the full story. Once emotions rise to the levels that they have here, clear, reasonable communication becomes next to impossible.

It's a wonder human civilization has made it as far as it has.

Just when I thought I was out ... they pull me back in!

I decided last year to give up video games for 2008. There were a couple of reasons for this: 1) I had played most of the games I wanted to for my original Xbox; 2) As stated below, time is short -- plus, I was attempting to clear space in my schedule for writing fiction, with an eye toward finishing the final draft of The Brooklyn House, the best book I've written; 3) I lusted after an Xbox 360 and the numerous incredible games available for it, but wouldn't spring the $350.00 for a toy; 4) I was and am a little ashamed of the fact that I like this quintessentially adolescent pastime so much -- as a 38 year old man, shouldn't I really be interested in collecting wine or studying the stock market?

Until a week or so ago, the quitting was going swimmingly. I didn't miss video games at all. I even wondered a couple of times if I would ever climb back up into the saddle of that hobby-horse. Then it occurred to me how cool it would be to have a mobile internet device. Although I'd love an iPhone, I decided to research cheaper alternatives. That led me to the Sony PSP, pictured above, and its rival in the marketplace, the Nintendo DS Lite. Both wi-fi capable machines that can slip into your jacket pocket -- and both video game platforms.

Innocently, I decided to do a little research on these intriguing machines, to see which had the better browsing experience. That done, I thought: "Well, if I end up getting one of these, I might as well know which has the better games -- just in case I ever feel like doing a bit of gaming." And before you could say "Miyamoto," my video game interest, which had burned down to a lukewarm bed of coals beneath a downy layer of ash, was a raging conflagration.

Last night I talked with brother Scott, who has two PSPs in the family, and he mentioned that one of his sons (he wasn't sure which) had lost interest in the PSP and might be interested in selling it for $50 or $75.

I said, casually, "Well, sure. Let me know."

These Are the Armies of the Night?

Last Wednesday Barb, Elizabeth, and I took a stroll through the ole neighborhood. After hitting Mocha Monkey and Creston Park we decided to walk down one of the many alleys that run behind the backs of the houses, dividing the blocks. Southeast Portland alleys are awesome, and deserve a book or documentary, or at least a blog post, all their own. The ones closest to our house are often like country roads -- two dirt wheelruts overhung with tree branches.

Anyhow, we came across this graffito, which annoyed me. I snapped the picture with the intention of really laying into the kids (clearly kids -- or even just kid -- don't you think?) who painted this pathetic tag. There's no art to it. The name is a lame cliche. It's hidden in an alley. Oh yeah, I was going to use this blog to rip those so-called 'Rebels' a new one.

I started to rant about these thoughts to Barb and she said she found it (the tag, not the rant) endearing. "It's like something I would have done when I was a kid," she added. Something stupid but harmless, rebellious yet not really. Of course she was right. Kids do this kind of stuff and as long as it remains fairly harmless (e.g. tagging a garage door that opens into an alley) rather than horrifying (e.g. setting fire to an orphanage) we should accept it for what it is: an outward manifestation of the painful growth of adolescence.

Gift Theme

The other night at dinner I told the story about Barb and the picture of the Asian gentleman with the enormous cat (see Barb is Funny, below). Today I get a link to this picture from buddy Snark, with an email saying "I know you love this stuff." Frankly, I do love it. I desperately want an enormous cat. But now I'm fearful that this will become my gift theme.

You know what I'm talking about. Certain people get stuck being identified with a certain totem, and whenever it's time to buy that person a gift, one can always just default to that theme. With Wendy, for instance, it's frogs. Supposedly you can't go wrong getting Wendy a pair of frog socks, or a frog towel, or a frog calendar for her birthday. A friend of my father's, Dave Mann, his theme was Snoopy. Can't think of something he'd really like? Get Mr. Mann a Snoopy coffee mug.

I think gift themes are a lazy way to make easier the difficult task of gifting someone with something meaningful. And to any friends or family who are reading, I do not want to be the person with the enormous-cat gift theme.

Barb is Funny

I stumbled upon this picture, loved it, and set it as wallpaper on the laptop. The next day Barb sees it and says to me in the most casual tone of voice, "Who's that guy?" Not, "Holy shit, that's one gigantic cat!", but "Who's that guy?"

Holy shit, that's one gigantic cat!

A Magic Box of Terror and Wonder

My friend Gabriel is a computer repair guy, self-employed, who last time I checked charged $75.00 per hour. He once told me that something like half his house calls were for problems no more complex than showing the owner the power button.

I'm typing this on a Gateway laptop that Barb and I bought from a tenant in Mom's building who purchased it new in June of last year and was never able to activate Windows Vista and could therefore never even get to the desktop of his $650 machine. Poor guy – an octogenarian, but I don't think it would have made much of a difference if he'd been thirty years younger – got so frustrated that he sold the virtually unused machine to us for $200. I discovered that Vista needed to go online to assure its corporate overlords that it was genuine, and because Ed (the old guy) didn't have internet at home, it locked him down. Indeed, when I booted it up for the first time it displayed a message: “This copy of Windows is pirated.” But it wasn't.

I ended up calling MS and getting Vista activated, but it was neither intuitive nor effortless. I offered the machine back to Ed, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He took our two hundred bucks and went to Vegas. I respect his priorities.

I have often complained, “I never wanted to be a PC hobbyist!” I never did. But I wanted to own a PC, and it seems like the one follows the other. I don't understand how so many people own and use PCs when they have no idea how to solve their myriad problems. I imagine they must just yield to frustration, which I suppose may be a good lesson in Zen or something. Mom's friend Michael bought a new PC a year or so ago and impressed me with his ability to set up its DVR capabilities, to burn DVDs, etc. Then one day when he booted up he got a dialog box containing an error message of some kind. It didn't seem to cause any trouble, but it was annoying. He couldn't figure out how to get rid of it. I suggested googling the text in the box and seeing what resulted. He did (so did I), but no easy answers were to be found. As far as I know that same error message continues to annoy him to this day. As minor problems like that pile up, as his registry gets fouled, he's going to need to do a clean install. Then what? Either take the plunge himself, as I did one terrifying day years ago, or pay somebody hundreds of dollars to do it for you and continue to regard your computer as if it were the Ark of the Covenant – a magic box of terror and wonder.

Clearly, PCs aren't refrigerators. Our loyal Whirlpool has been chugging away, doing it's job, for three years without requiring any attention whatsoever. And it was used when we got it and is probably ten years old or more. I expect that kind of ease of ownership from my major appliances – stove, washer, dryer, microwave.

Perhaps cars offer a model of ownership that is more comparable for PCs. Cars need regular, expensive maintenance – brakes, belts, tires, etc. Buyers of new computers should budget for the $300 worth of yearly Geek Squad bills if they're not willing to sink dozens or hundreds of hours of their lives into learning about these irritating but seductively empowering devices.

Or just make friends with someone who has done so, which, come to think of it, is probably how a lot of PCs are maintained. Which is why last time I saw Gabriel he was wearing a t-shirt that read: No, I will not fix your computer.

Neologisms a la Mark

When Mark was here in Portland last year I exposed him to Aaron's and my Band Name Project. Over the course of a few years Aaron and I had come up with 700 band names. Mark started generating band names and then couldn't stop. One night of sleeplessness led to hundreds of names -- from great to not great. I'll try to dig up some examples, as I still have his notes somewhere.

Recently he got a forwarded email (not from me!) about a new word contest and his dynamo started spinning so fast it was throwing sparks and issuing smoke. With the following results (and more to come, no doubt):

1) Conflatulations (conflats, for short): saying
"nice one" or "good one" after someone breaks
wind.
2) Cereabral: having fruit loops for brains.
3) Constheorasy : a conspiracy theory.
4) Somerfaulting : making mistakes over and over agin.
5) Nutrilicious: both nutricious and delicious.
6) Sinistair: dangerous stairs.
7) Superfiscal: a minor money mistake.
8) Superspicious: suspicious for no real reason.
9) Regurgitaste: tasting like vomit. The taste of vomit.
The taste when you throw up a little in your mouth
while belching.
10) Terrorfied: scared of terror.
11) Hearesay: unsubstantiated testimony contrary to
church doctrine.
12) Hip-Slop: the fashion of Hip-Hop.
13) Vomic: a comic or comedian so bad they make you
nauseous.
14) Diaryhea: uncontrollable or non-stop journal
writing.
15) Dignifried: wasted (as on drugs or alcohol) and proud
of it.
16) Pursepiration: the immediate uncontrollable panic
reaction of one who thinks they have lost their purse
or wallet.
17) Asstorrhoid: a very large hemorrhoid.
18) Peniscuos: men who are unable to "keep it in their
pants".
19) Bladderuption: when you just CAN'T hold it any more.
20) Legalify: not quite the same as legalize.Claiming or
acting as if something illegal is legal. EXAMPLE:The
President can legalify anything using truthiness.

Vanessa From Queens

Brother Mark informed me of an article in the Wall Street Journal (http://tinyurl.com/39ncry) about undersea cables getting cut. It was illustrated with an image of a shark with laser beams shooting out of it. Could there be any more sure sign that Rupert Murdoch, the Australian tabloid publisher, now owns one of America's most respected newspapers?

Next thing you know the WSJ will be featuring busty Page Three girls, perhaps depicted in a nice sober engraving.

Sick Day

Took my first true sick day in over a year today. Other uses of sick leave have been for family medical issues. After some needed errands in the morning Barb and I crawled into bed (her with her knitting, me with book and laptop) and we've been here ever since.

We both have colds, and it seemed best to spend a day at rest trying to recover, rather than tough it out and consequently prolong the illness -- and potentially inflict our disease on co-workers. Plus, it's really nice to spend a day of forced idleness once in a while. Which wasn't easy! We both had to remind ourselves to slow down, relax, not try to use this "free" time to be productive (the Christmas season being a time of high productivity -- thus Barb's knitting).

One of the morning errands we couldn't put off was an appointment with our obstetrician, Dr. Lin. It was my first time meeting her and it went well. Barb has had some reservations about her, but I got a good first impression. Plus, we learned that Providence Milwaukie, where Barb should be delivering Elizabeth in March, has a laboring-Jacuzzi, which knowledge made Barb glow with the light of a thousand suns. We are trying to really prepare ourselves for a drug-free delivery, and every option for relieving the pain and stress of contractions is welcome. (Dr. Lin had a chart on the wall showing just how big 10 centimeters is -- yikes!)

Consumerism, Car Culture,& Gift Cards

Just got back from our annual trip to Michael's (the crafts store) in Clackamas on 82nd. Every year we go and every year the strip is clogged with cars, brake lights glowing like the bulbs on Satan's Christmas tree; my blood pressure shoots up; I sweat the reliability of my jalopy; I swear I won't do it next year.

After 82nd we stopped at beloved Powell's on Hawthorne and what a difference! Found a parking spot a few blocks off Hawthorne and walked in the light rain to the bookstore (which was clogged with people, but that's a helluva lot better than cars), did our shopping, stopped at another shop to pick up fresh noodles for dinner... It was still hectic and overpacked, but on a human scale. Point being I think America can successfully survive the death (or crippling, at least) of the car without giving up it's love of consumerism -- a love I happily admit to sharing.

Except for gift cards.

One of the reasons we went to Michael's this year was to get a gift card for Barb's sister. I have decided I hate gift cards. If you want to give a gift card to someone, cut out the middle-man, save a piece of plastic from the landfill, and send a goddamn check. What is the difference, really? The big difference is that every penny of the amount on your check will be used.

We got a Visa gift card (basically a debit with our money on it) for my brother and there was a $5.95 service fee. I would have sent a check, except my brother can't easily cash one for reasons we don't have time to go into here.