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?

The Blackest Show on TV

Queer to be here in Baltimore, especially after watching three years of The Wire on DVD in the last few months. I'm in the schmancy Inner Harbor area, so no corner crews, jackboys, etc. Plenty of black folks, though. Which got me thinking about the aspect of The Wire that, to me, is the most striking and, in many ways, the most significant.

But first, a bit about my trip. I'm here for two weeks of Introduction to Leadership. It's interesting, kind of, but now that I'm writing about it, I'm bored. Nine hours a day of ITL is enough.

So, back to The Wire.

It's just that it's so black. For those not in the know (I'm thinking of you, Mom!), The Wire is an HBO-produced drama about police and drug-dealers in Baltimore, Maryland. It's been praised for it's sharp writing, great acting, and for the way it keeps all the characters human, not demonizing the drug-dealers, not sanctifying the cops. It's a really good show, though not the pinnacle of TV greatness that I was led to believe by all the press it received after the fifth and final season had wrapped.

But it is maybe the blackest show on television.

Now, I'm not talking Cosby Show-black. That's the kind of show where they cast more or less everyone black because it's trying to be a "black show." The Wire isn't a black show, it's just that most of the characters are black because it's set in Baltimore and most Baltimoreans (Baltimorons?) are black. The mayor, police commissioner, the major (of the Western district, 3rd season), the lieutenant, the homicide detective, the special-unit lieutenant, and four of the six regular cops from the special unit -- they're all black. Oh yeah, and let's not forget Clay Davis, the state senator. He's black, too. As are, of course, all the drug dealers and fifty percent of the main character junkies (Bubs' friend Johnny* being, pretty obviously, a token white).

I love the "diversity" of this show because it's not diverse. It's not Star Trek, God bless it, with it's ridiculously-multicultural-Cold-War-era bridge crew. The Wire isn't saying black people are this or that. It's just saying that, guess what, black people are. They're bad guys, good guys, they're politicians, cops, businessmen, teamsters, longshoremen, priests, ne'erdowells, junkies, freaks, drug-dealers, whores, bartenders, cabdrivers... you get the idea.

If I may paraphrase Charlton Heston in Soylent Green, "They're people! Black folks are... people!"

*Aaron speculated that Johnny was played by "that kid from 'Kids'." I checked it out, and he was right. (Thanks, IMDb!) Johnny The Junkie is fucking Leo Fitzpatrick from Larry Clark's infamous 1995 movie about out of-control AIDS-infected adolescents in NYC. I reviewed that movie for the Eagle Newspapers of upstate New York when I was 25. Christ, I was so much wiser then. My intelligence and wisdom actually peaked when I was 19, and knew everything. It's been all downhill from there as I discovered in the most painful ways possible that I wasn't, in fact, the smartest person in the world.

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.

Clothes, Lazlo.

Rather than shop for clothes, I have decided to blog about shopping for clothes. Here's the problem: I hate shopping. Most people I know might be surprised to find out that I actually kind of like nice clothes, although I don't own any. I think I've got good (if conservative) taste, I know a little bit about the rules of men's fashion, and I like wearing nice clothes and looking good. I just hate shopping. Plus, I'm cheap.

This is not a good combination.

On December 7th I've got to go to Baltimore, MD (Bodymore, Murderland, for fans of The Wire) for "Introduction to Leadership" training. I am expected to dress as a middle-manager in the government should dress -- meaning shirt and tie during the day, with a jacket (or, heaven forfend, suit!) for the post-training banquet. My Pierre Cardin suit is from Goodwill, not properly tailored, and is still spattered with mud from Aaron and Wendy's wedding five years ago. No go. My blazer is also from Goodwill. It's a traditional blue wool blazer, and it fits nicely, but I hate the shoulder pads. God I hate shoulder pads. Do all dress jackets have shoulder pads? I'll wear the damn thing in a pinch, but not comfortably, because I feel like a pin-headed frankenstein in those shoulder pads.

Shopping online is tempting, because you can be tremendously lazy, and sit in your club chair "shopping" while consuming the better part of a bottle of Chardonnay. That's what I've done tonight, and it's taught me what I already know: my tastes are boring as hell (love that Gap!), I'm too casual to be dressy, and I'm cheap (fifty-nine fucking dollars for a shirt!). The problem is, ultimately you don't know what you're getting, whether it will fit, etc. Therefore, the mall beckons.

Ugh.

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.

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!)