After the passing of both Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett today, my friend Travis pointed out that momentous events are often said to occur in 3's. Travis was wondering what that third happening would be, and that is when I realized that it was here, in my own house: the amazing quesadillas I made tonight. They were so good.

It is a little strange to be connected to two such famous people in this way, I mean, why me, right? But really, we're all just tools of the cosmos and sometimes, to remind us of this connection, all it takes is a little of that not-all-that-old lime you have sitting under some bananas squeezed onto your quesadillas. What a day.

In other news, it breaks my heart, but I am considering having our dog Smokey put to sleep. It's one of the saddest decisions I can imagine making, but . . . she just won't stop panting in my face. It's driving me crazy, and the vet says there's nothing we can do. A shame, really, especially because she's in perfect health.

Photos for a mother who is on the road for a week with the Vera Bradly RAAM team.

We went for strawberries but here Michelle and J get caught up in a swath of early raspberries.

Mike taking a free sample. What are the rules on this, I wonder. I made up a rule that most of the strawberries I ate had to be somewhat blemished or touching the dirt, and that seemed to work okay. I swear, when you kneel on the straw between the rows and throw that first strawberry in your mouth, no other food seems relevant or necessary to life on earth.

And then the second one is good, but not as good, and you end up trying to recapture that first berry, which doesn't ever quite happen but this is not really that serious of a problem in the big picture.

Mr. Mike is patient. B's latest catch phrase is "better luck next time, old boy!" He looks like he could be saying that here, but I don't know.

Two nights of camping practice in a row now. Instead of ghost stories, I read "gnome legends" out of that old book about gnomes--the one with the gnome skeleton and pictures of actual naked gnomes. I'm pretty sure it's a kids' book, at least. The legends have a lot of dying in them, though.

Things that have been in the house recently:

A sandwich.

New glasses.

A baby.

You might think you're done with babies but then you spend time with one and you can't help but think "awww . . no, that's crazy." How do they do that? Even the cry makes me smile. I love it when this one cries, like the idea of an infant's problems are cute to me or something. I wonder how long that will last with my own kids; I already find myself worrying about how it will feel when I know that they are genuinely depressed or sad or anxious or down on themselves, and that's saying something, because I basically gave up worrying in the fall of 2001, which was kind of a strange time to do that with 9/11 and all, but that's how it happened.

But babies, dang. They are always trying so hard. Everything they do, pure concentration. How do you get that again? I have been trying to listen to less music, and that has helped, but we're not quite there yet.

The third-ever season of "Hamlet Tag" just concluded, and I finally got some photographs to document this growing sport that combines agility and inevitability into one of the few athletic challenges out there that really asks the big questions.

A short primer on the rules that I remember: In the middle of this image is "Hamlet," who is shown in the act of pursuing various other players like the "player-king" and the "gravedigger" because the "ghost" player is on the field, spurring him to his revenge.

When the ghost is on the field, then, players caught by Hamlet yelp "I am slain" and fall to the ground. When they get bored, they can get up and run around again.

Here we see Hamlet being chased because the ghost has left the field, making him lose his resolve. When I was a kid, we called this "smear the queer," but I don't think we were aware of the ugly connotation at the time.

When Mr. Hill is on the field, everyone has to stop and talk about "how postmodern this game is." Eventually, the poison flag is thrown, everyone dies, and the Fortinbras player steps onto the field, announcing "I win."

We had a couple of strong teams this year, and one was even allowed to play at full-speed, the first time that has happened since season one.

Such great classes. I'll miss them.

one of my life goals is to never own a mobile phone, but this iphone app is the kind of thing that tempts:

Spinning vinyl ipod app from Theodore Watson on Vimeo.

I got to go back to Detroit recently. I love it there. It is the anti-Chicago. Or maybe it is Bizarro Chicago. But anyway, when you go back to a place you like, you go to the places you used to hang, and this is one of them, the John King Books just south of Nine Mile. The other bookstore I used to hang out at is now a pool hall. The clerk at John King said the owner of the other one sold at a good time and is "enjoying retirement." But then a friend I met in Ann Arbor that day said that no, he was forced out and is very sad about it. So I get to choose which story to believe and today I choose that he is happy.

I found these things at John King. I couldn't remember if I already owned the Donald Hall book, but I bought it anyway because I love that series of Poets on Poetry books and I wanted to be safe, just in case I didn't. The Jack Spicer book was a score, though, because I thought it was worth more than the $6 I paid for it and it turns out that decent copies sell for $80-$100. I won't sell it though because Jack Spicer is crazy as hell and I need that book. The Rexroth book I got just because I don't like to buy books in 2's.

I can't believe I did not buy this one though. The one that got away. I picked it up and saw that it was just transcripts of Bob & Ray sketches and I thought "why would I want that when I can listen to the recordings?" and then when I was driving home I thought "for fun Cath and I could be Bob & Ray and act out the skits," so now I'm a little devastated at my lack of foresight.

This was my first apartment after college, in the town I helped prepare for its eventual gentrification: Ferndale, Mich. I think the gentrification ended while I was away though. The balcony was ours, where we would try to play Yo La Tengo songs on our new guitar. It was a dumpy place, but I can only remember loving it.

It wasn't all great. The eventual wife and I were doing what some people would call "living in sin," but if we had talked about it at all, which we didn't, we would have said only that we knew that we wanted to be together. We felt this in the way that you know things when you are young and know almost nothing else.

The landlord downstairs would throw big parties where there must have been a rule that you had to smoke at least two cigarettes at once because smoke would pour through the heating grates in our apartment until the clothes in our closets smelled like other peoples' clothes. This happened like all the time.

And then after the parties, the landlord and her boyfriend would yell at each other. Once, he locked her out and then at 3:00 in the morning on a work night she was yelling to the neighborhood "Somebody please call the cops! I have been locked out of my house! Please somebody call the cops so I can get back in my house please!" I can't remember if I called the cops. I like to think I did, but it is also possible that I thought she needed to be away from her violent boyfriend for awhile and therefore didn't call.

Basically, 2-3 times a week, Cath and I would be upstairs listening to some kind of badness downstairs, asking each other "should we call the cops?" I really don't think we ever did. I really think that for us, we felt like outsiders and that maybe that was just a different kind of life that was normal for some people and who were we to call the cops on it? It would be like judging them, we thought, I think. When you are older, it is very hard to remember yourself when you were 22 and not be stunned at how much of an idiot you were.

Blackboard Check-in

So here is what the blackboard is up to these days, a line from one of Black Widow Press's books of Paul Eluard's stuff, Last Love Poems.  Everyone is always all "oh, the Spanish, the Spanish," but for me it's more Desnos and even Breton.  The French were more than just a gimmicky bunch of party boys.  But maybe nobody is accusing them of that.  And maybe you can like both Lorca and Eluard and you don't have to take sides.  I hadn't thought of that.

And in case you were wondering what happened to Mouse after his last adventure, in which he lost his heart, here is the conclusion of "Mouse."

It is rare that gardening is so exciting that you feel like every second counts, but this evening was one of those moments: Frost Warning. I've never had so much fragile stuff in the ground for a frost warning before, so the stakes were high. High enough to cover the freaky rainbow-hued heirloom tomatoes I'm trying this year, at least (not pictured). Looking at that red sheet on the lilac bush there, I think I'm going to have to go out and adjust it.

Last year, this was just an herb garden, but this year it's an herb/ cutting garden, so the bunkers have to be extra-fortified. For some reason, spending money on plants doesn't feel like spending money, but that doesn't mean I want to buy enough stuff to re-plant this thing.

Some blooms, you just have to say goodbye to. God by ye, Sweet Woodruff, my favorite shade plant. I will have that area under the peach tree cleared out a little more for you next year so you can run a little.

And some, you can only cross your fingers for. Siberian Iris, the single most anticipated bloom in my whole yard, I hope . . I hope . . I can't even talk about it--let's just not go there.

I hadn't listened to PJ Harvey since, like, 1994, but apparently, somehow, she has persevered and still makes freaky and cool music.  There's a slightly cooler version of this song on NPR's All Songs Considered podcast, but this version is really good.

My 4 yr old is singing it now and has almost figured out how to work Youtube, so I think it's time to go to the library or something.

Update:  My wife Catherine hates this song.

Dude, The Road trailer is out.  How did I not know this?  I don't know how this happened without me waking up in the middle of the night, distressed, with Catherine saying "what's wrong, honey?" and me responding "It's here.  On Youtube."  

Like most movies, the anticipation might be the sweetest part here, so I plan to make the most of it.  Maybe I will do so by preparing for some possible apocalypse in our lifetime, setting aside a thermos of drinking water, matches, and a copy of The Road as a kind of reference book. 

In fact, the majority of this emergency cache should be books, because the best thing about an apocalypse is that if you survive the initial firestorm, zombies, mutants, and search for a can-opener, you will have a lot of time to read.  It's the hunter-gatherer societies that have the most leisure time, after all. 

Big parental rite of passage to-nite with our first ever attendance at one of the ol' end of school musical show-down things.  And yes, it was total cute overload.  I have two kids somewhere on that stage, I think.  Not sure.

None of these kids are mine, but three flutes and a clarinet and other peoples' kids are really cute, too.  You go there thinking you can't leave until you've watched a couple more groups after your kids are done--don't want to insult other parents you might get paired with when volunteering at the next carnival.  You scan the program carefully, deciding "okay, we can stay for these four acts, but we absolutely have to leave before 'Recorder Blues' comes on."  

But really, I made it through "Recorder Blues" without even realizing it.  I mean, all those kids, and they're happy and holding their hands to their eyes so they can try to spot their folks in the audience, and I don't even know.  I started thinking adoption, but I was pretty sure all these kids already had parents.  Just one of the cutest things and no, I don't think it will get old after a few years of it.

And then to top it all off I got to take this picture in the parking lot, one of those "Life is Good" sticker sets that get under my skin so with all their smugness, where you have a sticker for every member of the family to illustrate how everything is just fine in America.  These things carry implied messages, though, just like "Support the Troops" really means "Shut up about the war you cowardly French Pinko Hippie you can't handle the truth."  "Life is Good," on the other hand, I think reads "Shut up about raising my taxes your [sic] just jealous my kids go to a better school than yours."

Because the stickers above appear to have had Dad removed at some point, they suggest a different story: "Life is Not So Good" or maybe "Life is Sad."  Always have your camera with you.

Things that have been made recently.

I made a pot rack.

My brother and his wife made me a nephew. Sullivan!! We're thinking red hair. Let this be his first mention on the internet.

My Lost Plan

People always ask me, they ask "hey, do you watch Lost," and my answer, it is always the same. I say "no."

My plan is to watch the last episode, in a couple years' time. Until then, I'm going to sign up for saxophone lessons every week at the same time that Lost comes on, on Saturday mornings before Bob the Builder, or whenever it is. I forget.

So in a couple years when the last episode comes on, I will throw a Lost party and invite all my friends who watch Lost to my house and we'll watch the last one and at the end we'll look at each other and say "so that's what the big four-toed statue thing is."

Then there will be a silence because people won't know what to talk about and I'll say "hey, listen to me, I'm going to play a saxophone song." And then I'll play it, real nice, on my saxophone that I have been practicing for two years while they've been watching Lost and when I'm done I'll look at them and say "There. I can play the saxophone. What can you do?" And they'll have nothing. They'll be like "We can't do anything. We've been watching Lost all this time, and just wondering about it and stuff."

Oh, that will be so sweet.

This is an old picture, but I don't have any spring '09 garden photos to upload yet. Film just can't capture what my phlox is doing this year, which is just beyond description. And the peach tree isn't blooming yet like it is in this photo, which has me worried the peach leaf curl fungus is taking its toll after a couple of summers. But anyway, spring. Some things have opened up for me and now I can read anything I want until, like, August. I'm dizzy with liberty.

Today I'm all excited about this spring poem, an acrostic, my littlun' wrote at school this week. I think it might be her first poem ever:

Firef gloe
In the nit they gloe
Ranbos are prite
Estr is fun
Fun dase are sile
Luv is gud
Yay for sping

Yes, yay for sping.

Saturday Indoors

"Postcolonial Family Planning: The Heredity of Desire in J.M. Coetzee's Disgrace and Waiting for the Barbarians."

I came up with the title three weeks ago, have been composing the paper in my head for two weeks, and today I have to write it for realz. And it's sunny out. I'm locked in the library where it is supposed to be quiet, but the guy in the study room next to me is rocking some loud R&B, and out in the hall is a convention's worth of doulas and nutritionists all talking in the animated but knowingly serene voice reserved for the discussion of crunchy child-rearing. Conditions are not optimal.

Still, I'm confident I can get 6-8 pages out by 2:00 so we can drive out to the hippie drum circle May Day celebration I saw advertised at the coffee shop this morning. I will have to cross my fingers as I type.

Derby Girls

We'd been meaning to get to a roller derby night for, well, two years now. We got there an hour late, which was about right. The kids wouldn't have lasted through much more, probably.

In the middle there is the derby girl I was rooting for, "Pushycat," though, not knowing the rules, I didn't know what to root for her to do. She had the funniest name, though, so maybe I was rooting for no other skaters to have funnier names than she did.

I wonder if anyone there knew the rules for Roller Derby, assuming there are any. There were referees, but their signals just weren't convincing. I suspect it was all for show, their whistle blowing and penalty box banishments. The skating was all real, though, as were the falls.

This night out felt like we were trying to get in the last of our indoor winter entertainments. Soon, or already, rather, it will be all about not being inside. We seem to have skipped my favorite temperature this spring, 67 degrees, and headed straight from the 50's to the 80's. No fair.

First Meal Out

And then it got warm--there wasn't even time to prepare food. We were outside, suddenly, looking around and eating a meal. The birds make more sense when you hear them up close. There are so many motorcycles in this town.

Navratan Korma, Medium+, is my drug of choice, but tonight I said to the man on the phone who may or may not know my voice by now, "Hot, please," but even that didn't seem like enough. Maybe I should have said "Double Hot Plus," but no, they would have told me I was crazy, that it had never been done, and how would I have explained it to them, the extent of the powers conferred by the light when it is just like that, when your kid is twirling his tiny umbrella, arguing that "Smoke-ey" is a compound word, and your dog is deaf but not dead and just might make it to 13. You can see the dilemma I was in.

The Sweetest Sixteen

I don't write much about what goes on in the classroom here, but this week we had a much closer and entertaining final four than the one dominated by North Carolina, and it deserves some press. This here is the Eastern Regional for a competition we held to decide the coolest of the sixteen poems we've transcribed over the course of the past eight weeks.

And this is the Western Regional. I thought about seeding it so that the favorites wouldn't meet until the final four, but it was too hard to figure out. My personal favorites on this side are probably the Li Po up top and the Mary Oliver at the bottom, "Rain," and the Jim Moore poem "It is Not the Fact That I Will Die That I Mind."

In the East, though, I was pulling for Robert Desnos' "Infinitive," probably the most out there thing we've read this year.

At the end of a long process involving statistics tallied in box scores, alternating possessions and an evolving set of rules that I only half understood, three different classes picked winners. The Iraq veteran Brian Turner's poem "Here Bullet" emerged as an early favorite in all three classes, but didn't win in any of them. Two actually crowned the Jim Moore and one the Desnos!

I was so pleased with that, really, to see a poem that makes so little sense on the surface strike a chord when most people can't stand poems they don't "get." And another strong competitor turned out to be a somewhat less surreal poem by Robert Bly, "Surprised by Evening."

And this is what the area around my desk looks like in the morning sunlight. The morning light is the best thing about that room. Well, that and the students. The Bunsen burners and the eye washing station are also nice perks.