Ellaven's Birth Story

You've Got To Go Through Hell Before You Get To Heaven


Katie: It was Sunday September 4th, I awoke in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom for about the 3rd time that evening.  Nothing unusual about that at this point in my pregnancy, however there was an extra "release" of fluid when I went.  Hmmm, that's strange, but I am sure it's nothing.  I got back in bed.  About an hour later I awoke in a puddle.  OK, that's something to take note of.  I immediately called Shiela, our midwife to see what she thought so that I could let Will know what to do.  We discussed that it was most likely my bag of waters opening.  She would check me on Monday, but it was probably best to get Will home sooner than later.  After paging Will a couple of times, I slept very little.  I was excited and a little nervous about starting labor already with out him home.  Finally he called around 9am and we decided that he needed to get home as soon as possible.


Will: On the morning of Monday September 5th, I woke up in my dusty trailer and noticed the little red light blinking on my pager. Katie's water had broken. It was our worst case scenario ... I had to get home fast from Black Rock City on Exodus day ... when 10,000 slow-moving cars stood between me and my wife. 


With help from my campmates, I quickly packed my bags and my trailer, and as I was about to set foot in my car to drive off, I overheard somebody say that I-80 was closed both ways in Reno due to accidents on the freeway. Rather than risk getting bogged down in gridlock, I decided to check this playa rumor. 

Flying Home from Burning Man

Burning Man board member Will Roger confirmed my fears, telling me it would take 24 hours for me to drive home at that point. He took me out to the BRC Airport and helped me flag down a ride in a 4-seater Mooney airplane, flown by pilot Ben Woodard, who was headed to San Carlos, just south of San Francisco. Exactly three hours later, I stood in my house, only to have Katie tell me her water had, in fact, NOT broken as she'd thought.


Katie:  While Will was getting off the playa and home to mama, I spent the day preparing with Natalie.  She went shopping for me.  We finished up the last of the organizing stuff we needed to do.  I cancelled dinner at my mom's house that night.  It seemed our little one was on her way and she would be early.


Will: But it was critical that I was home, because by late Monday night and early Tuesday morning, her contractions (we call them "surges") were occurring in the 4-1-1 pattern (1 minute surges, 4 minutes apart, for 1 hour) signifying impending active labor. We called in the birth team, set up the rented birthing tub in the living room, filled it up, took care of Katie, and waited.  And waited ... and waited ...


While the surges kept on, and were increasingly painful, the labor wasn't progressing. The baby was quite content to hang out right where it was, as Katie's body was being brutalized. She would regularly seize up with the worst pain she's ever felt in her life, her lower back, upper legs and uterus full-on cramping.  The problem was, it wasn't labor ... just horrible cramping.


We tried everything from herbs to Tylenol, stretching to acupuncture, showers to soaks in the tub, cranio-sacral work to network chiropractic, emotional soul-searching and psychological purging. And NOTHING worked. She didn't sleep more than about an hour at a stretch in those 5 days.


On Thursday night, after four days of this torture, we went to the hospital to have them load her up with a shot of morphine to conk her out (therapeutic rest, they call it) so she could at least sleep for one night, and hopefully the surges would stop. The morphine was supposed to knock her out for 6-8 hours, and it only lasted 2 hours ... and the surges continued, only now that she was relaxed they were even worse.  

Epidural Relief

On Friday, we had a long, soul-searching talk with our midwife, and we agreed it was necessary to abandon our plans for a home birth, and go into the hospital for a mercy epidural, and hopefully proceed with a vaginal birth there. We checked into St. Luke's on Friday afternoon, by which time Katie was so debilitated she had to be taken to the Labor and Delivery floor by wheelchair. She got an epidural, and welcome relief ... and she became herself again. She was dilated to 5 centimeters by midnight, and they gave her a small dose of pitocin to see if it would move things along. They also broke her bag of waters, and continued to monitor her all through the night. She developed a slight infection and fever, common after the bag of waters is broken.


At 8:30am, dilated only to 7 centimeters, the OB decided to insert an intra-uterine catheter probe (IUCP) to determine the strength and location of the contractions so they could determine how much more pitocin would be appropriate. When it was inserted, Katie immediately started to cough and convulse, her eyesight and hearing suddenly impaired ... she couldn't feel her fingers.  She'd experienced a vasovagal nerve response. The vagus nerve runs from the base of your brain down the center of your body, enervating all the major organs in your body. When triggered, everything goes haywire, fast ... and it did. They say that you feel as if you're actually dying ... and that's what Katie thought. In reaction to this stress, the baby's heart decelerated dangerously low for about two minutes. They rushed Katie into the OR, and the team went into action, preparing for surgery.


Katie: Even as I was having this horrible overwhelming reaction, I felt a certain clarity.  I was hopeful that they could stabilize us both and avoid the c-section, but as the shaking grew worse, I knew a c-section was inevitable.  I was feeling sorry for having failed at delivering our child in a more gentle and natural way.  Even through the convulsions, I asked the OB to allow the cord to stop pulsing before they cut it, but unfortunately that was impossible in this emergency situation.  It was only after they delivered Ellaven and she was in such bad shape that I realized how precarious our situation was and how much distress she was in.  This was the scariest feeling of being completely helpless and truly at the mercy of the medical team caring for us.  Immediately following the birth, I was so grateful for the capabilities of our medical team and their incredible skills.  I knew in my heart that we would both be OK.  

Will: One moment everything was fine, and then next I was standing in a sterile "bunny suit" and mask, pacing and watching as they set up the OR, while Katie was flopping like a fish on the table as she convulsed uncontrollably. The nurses attempted to pin her arms down crucifixion style and load her up with a local anesthetic as she stared into the lights. Finally, they'd set up and I rushed in to comfort her. I managed to say about ten words (hard-pressed to hide my panic) in her ear before they pulled the baby out. Ellaven was born at 8:44am on 9/10/11.

I went over to the other side of the OR where they had Ellaven laid out on a table. "It's a girl!" I called to Katie. But her little body was gray, floppy, and unresponsive. They had an oxygen mask on her, forcing 100% oxygen into her lungs, as she wasn't respirating on her own. I watched as the nurses repeatedly lifted and released her legs, only to have them drop loosely to the table. I was told we had to get her up to the nursery for further care ... on the way I glanced over and saw Katie's internal organs laid out on trays around her, and the open cavity of her abdomen as the doctors worked furiously on what I learned later was major hemorrhaging. 

Intensive Care

I asked the nurse to show Ellaven to Katie on the way out ... they locked eyes, and Katie smiled and said "I love you." As we left the OR, I saw our midwife, who joined me as we went up two floors to the nursery, where a pediatrician, a nurse and respiratory therapists quickly went to work on her, inserting an IV for fluids and antibiotics (in case she had contracted Katie's infection). She was acidotic, which makes for excessive CO2 in the blood, and her lungs were cranking a mile a minute to get enough oxygen. They switched from the hand-pumped mask to a CPAP, which forces oxygen directly into the nose. They moved her from 100% oxygen to 40%, to see if her blood oxygen level would hold ... it didn't.  They moved her back up to 100%.

They repeatedly suctioned her mouth with a bulb, and suctioned deeper into her trachea using a thin tube. They drew blood and sent it to the lab to test for bacterial infection. They took an x-ray of her chest to see if there were any perforations in her lungs. The x-ray showed haziness, but no holes. We talked to her, stimulated her muscles, and desperately encouraged her to cry, which would help expectorate the fluid in her lungs. She had barely uttered a peep this whole time. Her blood oxygen level hovered around 85, sometimes popping up to 90 (it should be 95-100), but with no guarantee that if she came off the forced air that she'd be able to maintain it on her own.


I was haunted by the question of whether Ellaven was at risk of suffering brain damage from the oxygen deprivation she'd experienced.  All this time, I didn't want to ask because I was afraid of the answer. I finally mustered the courage to ask, and the nurses assured me that even with all this, she was getting more oxygen now than she had been in utero, and that wasn't a concern.


After a couple hours, I forced myself to leave Ellaven and went down to see Katie. Once she was able to move her legs, they let her leave the recovery room, and we rolled her up to the nursery so she could see Ellaven. By this time, Ellaven's color was more pink, and her lungs were working significantly less hard. But when Katie entered the nursery, and was able to touch and hold her, Ellaven seemed to click into reality, her shocked system suddenly settled, and for the first time I felt like she was going to be OK. 

Katie Holds Ellaven

Katie: The minute I was rolled into the nursery with Ellaven, I could feel her breathing relax and her spirit lift as she was laying there hooked up to so many tubes and wires.  I knew from my training and mother's instinct that the sooner I could hold her, the better she would be.  Once in my arms, her breathing came down to a level that was much more stable and gave us hope that she'd be able to breathe on her own.  It was heartbreaking to not be able to hold her and keep her with me, but I understood from her condition that it would be necessary to transfer her to CPMC's NICU for better care. 

The Transport Rig

Will: The medical team determined that she should be taken across town to CPMC for monitoring, as CPMC has a sophisticated NICU, putting more tools at our disposal. We loaded Ellaven up in an incubation transport rig that looked like it could be shot into space, and I rode with her in the ambulance to the CPMC California campus. We arrived at precisely 1:11pm and got her settled in the NICU. The doctor asked me for -- and I gave -- consent to do a lumbar (spinal) tap to determine if any infection had infiltrated her spinal fluid, which could allow bacteria access to her brain. It was disturbing to have to make that decision without Katie's input, but I didn't have a choice. I watched as they did the procedure -- amazingly, she fell asleep half way through.

Ellaven and Katie, Day 1

Katie arrived an hour later in a separate ambulance, and settled in to what would be her room for the next five days, as she recovered from the emergency C-section and the after-effects of the vasovagal reaction. We spent as much time as possible in the NICU, so we could give her the attention and closeness she didn't get initially -- we maintained as much skin-to-skin contact as possible, and Katie breastfed as often as she was able.


As it turned out, the NICU was more of a precautionary measure than a medically-necessary one (after four hours she was breathing room air on her own), and though she was stuck with needles, suctioned, spinal tapped, connected to cables, wires and tubes, and had to druck an annoying IV attachment on her hand, she still had it better than the other little kids (mostly preemies) in the NICU. I felt for those parents, and felt strangely guilty as we watched Ellaven settle into herself, get grounded, and start to thrive.

Ellaven and Dad, Day 2

Finally cleared by the tests on her blood and spinal fluid, Ellaven was released from the NICU after two days that felt like an eternity. We went from the NICU to the nursery to be examined before she was released to us. She arrived in the nursery at exactly 1:11pm. Then she was released to room in with us, and we stayed another two days in the hospital, our first days together as a family, recovering physically and emotionally from what was the worst and best week of our lives.

Ellaven, Day 3

Everything with Ellaven at this point is absolutely perfect. She's a healthy, beautiful little person, and we are extraordinarily lucky to have made our way through this ordeal unscathed. We've tried to guess what the universe was trying to teach us, and the best I can reason is it's reminding me that life is precious, and to not take it for granted. And with Ellaven now here and healthy and incredible, I don't see how I ever could.

Katie's VIP Wristbands

We'd like to thank the amazing people who helped us with and through this experience. Our wonderful midwife Sheila VanDerveer without whom we simply could not have gotten through it, our doula (and Katie's best friend) Natalie Mottley, Katie's sister Kristina who held our spiritual space, and the amazing and truly human teams of doctors and nurses at St. Luke's and CPMC whose commitment was surpassed only by their formidable skills.  We wanted a homebirth very badly, and that was our plan, but we also knew that if we ended up in the hospital, it would be because we absolutely needed -- and wanted -- to be there. And when that's how it went down -- well, we owe a great debt of gratitude (and apologies for my shitty attitude towards hospitals in general) to this team for their work.


About Ellaven's Name

Ellaven, 9 Days Old

Ellaven has shown a curious tendency towards numerological significance. Katie told me she was pregnant on 1/11/11 at 11:11pm ... completely coincidentally. Ellaven was born at 8:44am on 9/10/11 (her actual due date) and weighed 7lbs 11oz ... her pH was 7/11 (but that's not something to brag about). She arrived at CPMC at precisely 1:11pm, and was released two days later at exactly 1:11pm. Ellaven's (and my and Katie's) hospital wristband ID#s were 117755. Finally, Katie and I plan to legalize our marriage on 11/11/11 at 11:11am (however, that happens to be Veteran's Day, so we might be screwed). But so ... as a tribute of sorts, "Ellaven" (pronounced ELL-ah-ven) is a play on the number 11.  


We're excited to see what this kid has in store for us.

The Pants Family

Catching Up ...

OK, it's been a while. Like ... way. Gah, sorry about that.

I think since I've been actually writing for a living, it's gotten harder to write for my own edification. Funny that, actually ... I had an epiphany in the shower back in August that, hey, I get paid ... to write. I'm a writer! It took me 8 months to come to that realization. Well, if you knew how long I've aspired to be a writer, and never did enough (read: anything) to actually accomplish that goal, it's pretty shockingly gratifying to have somehow backed into the job.

Here's a rapid-fire, stream-of-consciousness, top-10 (and other hyphenated adjectives) recap of what's gone on since, what? May? Since my dad was in the hospital? Gah, I'm lame. OK, here goes:

1. Went down to Sun City, AZ (see also: Hell) to take care of my dad and mom while he was hospitalized and went through surgery. It was rough as hell, but it all came out well in the end, particularly my dad's physical health, my mom's mental health, and the level of mutual respect and admiration between me and my parents. There's a lot of intense detail in there, someday to be written, but in short: it was a win-win with a happy ending (not that kind of happy ending, you pervs).

2. Katie and I got two kittens from the SPCA. Two medium-length black fur brothers. They were this striking charcoal gray when we got them, so they're named Earl Gray and Smudge. Practically impossible to tell them apart, short of small tufts of white fur behind Earl's ears. Earl is known as Earl Gray Pants of the Famous Pants Family. Smudge is ... Smooodge. They're never-ending fun, especially when biting our toes during sex. Awesome.

3. Helped manage the main stage at The Crucible's Fire Arts Festival, which was a hoot as always. One of the jobs that fell to me was climbing 25' towers and lighting the pilots on giant propane accumulators (read: flame throwers) every time they were blown out. (Note to self: add to resume the ability to have large explosions go off around my head without so much as a flinch.)

4. Flew to Michigan over 4th of July weekend to help manage the greening team at the new, model for sustainable music festivals Rothbury Music Festival. And that? Was an awesome week.

5. Went to Burning Man. Please enjoy my stock answer when asked how it was: "It was great." So there you go. The event has become more of a community gathering for me rather than a let it all hang out self-expression thing, and that's all just fine. C'est l'evolution. Spent a few days post-event with friends at Katie's family's place in Tahoe which was the perfect decompression.

6. Curated the art for the Treasure Island Music Festival, which was a ball. Brought in Bryan Tedrick's giant steel wing sculpture "Spread Eagle", hanging art from Ezra Li Eismont to decorate the artists' dressing rooms, an excellent interactive piece from Mary Corey March, and artistic furniture customized by Calliope Gazetas and Heidi Sandoval. Very much looking forward to working with Noise Pop and Another Planet Entertainment again on future events ... they were great folks to work with, and they know how to put on a great show.

7. I curated a small show at Gallery N!NE, featuring the works of Thomas Hammel and Ursula Xanthe Young (who I'd wanted to show for well over a year now, and finally got the chance). It's up October 4-13.

8. Currently curating a gallery of photography, and managing a silent auction and a raffle for the Black Rock Arts Foundation's Artumnal Gathering fundraiser at the Bentley Reserve, coming up November 22. Come, dammit!

9. Katie's private massage practice is going exceptionally well (categorize under: told ya so), and she's now working less and making more than ever as a result. And she's enjoying it immensely. Thank god.

10. It looks as though I'll be doing yet more writing for Burning Man, which is exciting.

I think that about covers the important bits, other than watching blithely as the global economy circles the drain. You know, stuff like that. More to come, now that we're all caught up.

Dad Down ...

My 83-year old dad is in the hospital with 2 malignant tumors, one on his kidney, one on his bladder. He was scheduled for surgery to remove them on May 15, but he has since developed a staph infection, and is in quarantine for 7 days. He seems to be responding to IV-fed antibiotics, so hopefully it's not a MRSA (drug-resistant strain of staph), and he'll be able to get back in the surgical queue, but it's all up in the air right now.

My 80-year old mom is freaking the fuck out. And my mom does not freak out. She's realizing the full force of the potential of losing my dad, who she's been with for 45 years, and is coming unwound. Plus, her friends all left Arizona for Utah yesterday, as is their summer routine, leaving her largely alone. So she's surrounded by empty houses, no friends, no prospect of going to Utah (which she loves), stuck in Sun City (which she hates), and my dad in the hospital. Since my dad's always taken care of all the finances (somewhat secretively ... the classic East Coast farmer mentality), she's struggling with how to pay a bill, or which bank account to use. She's having trouble getting answers out of the doctors, and it's clear from our conversations that she can't even process the answers squarely at this point.

This all came on my radar really abruptly (welcome to my stoic family), and I don't even know what to think about it at this moment, except that I gotta get down there and take care of my mom. I'm working on getting DSL installed in their house so I don't suffer under the dial-up, and I'll be able to continue working apace. I have no idea what my timing is right now for going or coming back ... or what's going to happen.

Yay ... good times.

Alchemy

San Francisco isn't much of an art buying town. Art creating? Yes. Art appreciating? Certainly. Art buying? Not so much. If an artist wants to make a career of it, the sad fact is that they have to leave the Bay Area, and head to one of the big art cities: New York, LA, Chicago, or Miami. San Francisco runs a distant (and depressing) 5th.

As unfortunate as that may be, it shouldn't be too surprising, really ... more than anything, San Francisco has a storied tradition of bleeding edge creativity, rugged entrepreneurship, and flying in the face of the norm ... oftentimes swinging wildly at it. Our strength is thus in underground and emerging artists who aren't aiming at the mainstream unless they're doing so through a set of crosshairs.

When that's combined with the laid-back attitude and studied casualness for which the Bay Area is known, it can be understood why audacious spending on a scale commensurate with serious art collection just doesn't happen here. San Franciscans value one another more for what they create than the price tag of the art they hang on their walls.

What the Bay Area needs is an innovative structure for its art market that takes this reality into account, and works with it -- augmenting its strengths and offsetting its weaknesses -- to enable Bay Area artists to make a semblance of a living creating exactly the art they want to create, without having to compromise their vision. Otherwise, artists whose work deserves to be seen, and whose voices need to be heard, will forever while away their days as your neighborhood barista.

I'd like to see this new market become a reality, and to that end, I've been curating art exhibitions for a variety of events featuring an eclectic mix of emerging artists, styles and media. The most recent was part of False Profit's Alchemy, an interactive art event at San Francisco's CELLspace. It hosted over 600 attendees, all of whom seemed to thoroughly enjoy themselves as they took part in the various interactive aspects of the evening. The gallery featured a variety of oil paintings, pen and ink drawings, photography, collage, print-making, sculpture (works in steel, vinyl and cement), video, and an interactive site-specific installation. The represented artists ranged in age from 21 to 50+.

It was great working with the smart, driven folks at False Profit, and to have the opportunity to exhibit a strong showing of emerging artists to an appreciative crowd. Now ... to just get that crowd to put their money where their appreciation is ....

The Crucible's "Firebird" Fire Ballet

I just wrapped up stage management duties for a two-week run of The Crucible's latest fire ballet, this time it was their take on Stravinsky's Firebird.

I say "take" loosely, of course, since I have a feeling the traditional presentation of Firebird didn't include disco, funk, fire, a stunt motorcyclist, a flaming tutu, and an actual (not a prop) Pontiac Firebird being flown onto the stage. Yep, for reals.

It's always a good time working on the Crucible's productions. You missed this one? Sucks for you. Big mistake. Next time, go. Good cause, good show, good time ... you won't be left wanting for "You have got to be kidding me, they did not just do that. Good lord, they did just do that."

Big props to the Cru crew and their raging talents, constant innovation, and big hearts.

Yuri's Night

Billed as the annual celebration of Yuri Gagarin's being the first human shot into space (the first terrestrials sent were fruit flies ... followed by a dog, which died a panicked, painful death within hours of launch ... brutal, but I digress), Yuri's Night World Space Party is a collection of 198 parties taking place in 51 countries on 7 continents around the world on April 12th. The Bay Area, certainly no slouch when it comes to parties, stacks the deck by throwing it at the birthplace, home and retirement community of awesome: NASA's Moffett Field.

If you're lame, like me, and get your tickets late, like I did, you really take it in the pooper. At $50 a pop, that's a tall order for getting your money's worth. At the very least, there had better be singing frogs and free-flowing booze and mile-high porn if I'm shelling out $50. Sadly, none were in attendance. And yet ...

It was way cool. Long story short, Yuri's Night was simply the closest thing to Burning Man off playa. It was like somebody had taken the coolest parts of Black Rock City (the art, the scientific innovation, the music, the interesting smart people), combined it with long beer lines, and paved it.

Instead of artists slaving away on large-scale art installations all year long, Moffett Field's freakishly large, awe-inspiring buildings, mongo planes and gigantic signs warning of various ways you can be killed more than provided the recommended daily allowance of WTF? Plus, looking around and seeing a NASA logo when you've got a head full of whatever (and many seemed to, I might add)? That's pretty cool.

Next year, check it out. Get your tickets early.

Hillary Is Officially Pathetic

Today was the Pennsylvania Democratic Primary. Hanging on to any shred of hope, against the odds and all evidence to the contrary, Hillary Clinton remains determined to stick it out and "fight". Because she's "a fighter".

*sigh*

Hillary has become that girl at the prom who hasn't quite gotten the clue that nobody wants to dance with her. She moves in a personal fantasy world, determinedly oblivious to the fact that nobody's going to make out with her tonight ... she keeps trying to talk to different boys, smiling expectantly. Now she's trying to get in a limo to the after party, while the people inside are making quick excuses that there's no more room in the car, Hill, but she just knows she can fit!

Barack, the nice kid, who had spent all school year being kind to her, now sits in the corner of the limo, uncomfortably half-smiling toward her before looking down at his shoes as the doors of the limo close and it pulls away, leaving her standing at the curb.

She's that girl. Nobody wants to remember that girl, and the suffering she brought upon herself. Because we're reminded of the suffering we wrought upon ourselves through our complicity.

The Pope Goes Shopping

On his first trip to North America, Pope Benedict
took some time out to do some shopping.

Sorry. I couldn't help it. Yes, I offended you.
If it makes you feel any better, I offended a lot of people.

Got Torch? No, You Didn't.

Somebody asked me the other day why there should be political protests of the Beijing Olympics, rather than leaving them be as a sporting event. Short answer: opportunity and attention. When the eyes of the world are on a country with such an abysmal human rights record, particularly when they're attempting to bolster their global image, it's a unique opportunity to shed light on the other side of the story.

The Olympics have been politicized ever since Hitler refused to put a gold medal around Jesse Owens' neck at the 1936 Olympic games in Berlin. Appropriate or not, it's a world stage like no other.

The thing to scratch your head about, if anything, is that America has absolutely zero moral right to call the Chinese out for human rights abuses (we're living on Native American land, don't forget, while they're living on reservations if they weren't eradicated, and people are currently whiling away their days at Gitmo as I type), but nonetheless we still have the moral responsibility. Protests like this are likely to spur people in power to put more pressure on the Chinese government in ways individuals simply can't.

As for the San Francisco torch run itself, fearing massive confrontations, the powers that be decided to pull a full-blown bait-and-switch, publishing a route, saying it might change, then changing it "at the last minute". And boy what a ruse ... elaborate, expensive, convincing, and very disappointing for the people who really wanted to see it. They did an excellent job of it, but I shudder to think of the cost.

Admittedly, it was smart to deceive everybody in that a) the protesters got to protest, b) the torch got to run, c) the cops had significantly fewer heads they needed to crack, and d) San Francisco suddenly became a big "where the fuck's the torch" game, pitting the media outlets' live coverage capabilities against each other in grand fashion. Everybody won, except those families and kids all dressed up and performing at McCovey Cove and down the fake torch route, waving flags, all happy and proud. Those folks? They got royally screwed. And that? Sucks.

Of course, undaunted, the protesters protested away ... and the media was there, awaiting the big confrontation with the very scary rows of tightly-wound riot police. Unfortunately for the protesters, they had to find other excuses to get violent ... which meant there wasn't any violence of note. According to the official reports, the total number of arrests was in the 10's or less, and violent confrontations about the same ... just some pushing and shoving.

But still, lacking an actual torch at which to aim their five zillion cameras, the media covered the protests instead, and everybody's message got out. So the City danced a nice little dance: they allowed free speech, without lighting the fuse of what was obviously a potentially explosive situation.

Interestingly, I was struck by the massive numbers of pro-Chinese supporters on the streets. Many were apparently bused in by the Chinese consulate and other pro-Chinese business groups, but many more came of their own accord. They all carried very large, very uniform Chinese flags, meaning they were supplied by an official source. To a one, these folks were all very, legitimately enthusiastic, which goes to show that patriotism is as binding as it is blinding. Hmmmm ... sounds famiiiiliar.

After it all went down, I listened to Mayor Newsom's post-mortem radio interview and I kept saying to myself over and over "bullshit". I believe he totally lied about it being a last minute decision to change the route as dramatically as they did because "the police couldn't guarantee everybody's safety". While I had thought (and still do) that it was a good decision overall, his statement angered me not only because it was utterly disingenuous and self-serving, but it was just an obvious lie.

There's no way the police can guarantee people's safety at any protest ... protesters are, by nature, angry, volatile and unpredictable ... you think SFPD isn't used to handling them? And there's no way they'd be able to make a split-second decision to magically reroute this whole phalanx of police and support vehicles to Van Ness and Pine (why there of all places, right?), creatively think to head up to the Golden Gate Bridge via Bay Street, and then whisk it along 19th Avenue right to the airport and outta town ... meanwhile magically securing this entire new route with the wave of a wand. Sorry, no. They had the bait and switch planned all along, and the original published route was an elaborate ruse from the get-go.

Why? The police don't do impromptu in the face of a predictable foe when they control the game, folks. They just. don't. The least Newsom could do is nut up and show us enough respect to tell the truth. I guess that's pretty naive, though. He knows it'll all blow over after the next news cycle and be forgotten.

And by the way, I'm actually a fan of the mayor ... I have friends in his administration, and they (including Gavin himself) have been good to me ... but he definitely just dropped a small notch in my esteem (I'm sure he's crying in his beer club soda). But alas, this is what ultimately happens the closer one gets to higher office.

Sound Check: Anatomy of a Theatrical Debacle

I arrived at the theater, and as I walked up the stairs, Tim came around the corner towards me, looking calm. Tim's my partner in running Everyday Theater, and our company's artistic director. Tim looking calm before one of our shows is unheard of ... the fragility of his pre-show psyche is legendary. Something was wrong.

"What's up?" I said.

"Well, we have no monitors," he said, way too matter-of-factly. "The monitors are gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone."

I looked at my watch. 9:15. Doors were at 10:00. We had 45 minutes to get set up, sound check all the performers, and open up what was going to be a sold out show. And there were no monitors.

Monitors are the speakers on stage that point towards the performers so they can do important things like hear themselves. They are critical for any musical act, but even more so for beat boxers, and we were producing the Vowel Movement's Bi-Monthly Beat Boxers Showcase ... or trying to, anyway.

The previous group's performance had just wrapped up, and the audience was filing out as I waded upstream into the theater. I reached the sound booth and met Dan, our sound technician who was replacing our normal sound guy, who had been called out of town that day. Dan, I was assured, had worked this theater before, and knew the system and the board.

I found Johnny, the guy who oversees the physical theater and the gallery-cum-event space that occupies the adjacent room, and asked him about the monitors. That day, they'd taken them down and removed all the wiring to create a "screening room" for their event in the gallery that night. Apparently he needed reminding that we're a musical show, requiring monitors, just as we had for the last dozen shows we'd done at that very same theater. Johnny just scratched his head and looked genuinely bewildered, like we hadn't been doing shows there for the past 12 months. It felt like talking to a crackhead about geopolitics.

After making some pointed requests through clenched teeth, we got the monitors back. But no cable ... rendering them useless. We scurried to jury rig the system, running an XLR cable (borrowed from one of the performers) down to a single JBL speaker we propped on stage. It was 10:00. We sound checked quickly, and everything sounded pretty good. We'd dodged a bullet. We opened the house at 10:15, unaware that the real trigger had yet to been pulled.

Despite the sound check, the sound started off buzzy and hissy. Dan rationalized it with a somewhat random, but vaguely plausible explanation. I asked him to try and correct it. From that point on, things went off the rails for Dan. The sound was too quiet, then too loud, too much bass, then not enough bass, feeding back, tinny -- in short: all over the place, and constantly changing. The beat boxers didn't know what to do ... and their frustration was so palpable you could touch it from the back of the room. There were a handful of moments where Dan lucked into a sweet spot where it actually sounded good, the performers rocked it, and the audience went nuts. I told Dan that whatever he did, to just. leave. it. right. there.

But it got bad again. Really ... embarrassingly ... bad. I winced. I gritted my teeth. It became clear that the closest Dan had ever come to being an actual sound technician was hauling speaker stacks and setting up mic stands. Eyeball deep in frustration, I leaned in and calmly said to him, "You really have no idea what you're doing right now, do you?" He wouldn't admit it, but he was clearly in way over his head ... he was just twiddling knobs at random, hoping for something to go right. And it wasn't. And Dan, truth be told, was dumb as bricks. To this point, the only dumber people I've ever had to deal with were mopping the floors in my high school, or pumping my gas. He had absolutely no hope in this situation, which required some intellectual acuity ... or at the very least an ability to follow a finger.

I ran back stage and grabbed Tim, telling him I was booting Dan off the board, and he had to fix it. Tim struggled to untangle the system as Dan had left it, and managed to get it somewhere close to sounding decent. But by this time, the sound had run out of ways to suck.

And while my night felt like that nightmare where you're driving a car from the back seat, and you can't quite reach the pedals or the steering wheel, and you're heading for a wall -- the audience absolutely. loved. the show. At the end, they were screaming for more and more encores ... true testament either to the absolute brilliance of these performers, or the myopic perspective of a producer.

I will say this: the post-show cocktail that night tasted particularly good.

Epic Spam

Try as you might, you just can't. make. this. stuff. up ...






Hohe hoholulu


Gerrard was the illegitimate daughter of laura he played
it cagey.' 'what about the chancellor?' a sort of coincidence.
you mean that whatever is an americana protestant. Ah! That
is true, turn! Called armine. We must take this, showing
with the brackish water of the sands. It takes have me,
jerry. He's very very proud and and i i don't know that
my poor wife's up to seeing another street, its occupants
exchanged easier came across to him. She knelt down again
beside city. Even vandeloup, full of life and animation
the large chesterfield sofa was placed near the round the
little assembly as he spoke, noting rochebertier cave we
must not close this account it, and turned the key in the
lock. To do so he.

A Bad Day for Katie

It's a bad day for Katie. The opening of the 2008 Major League Baseball season.

From here on until October, she'll be talking to me over the dulcet tones of Mike Krukow and Duane Keiper (better known as "Kruk and Keip", whose on-air chemistry is that of legend), calling Giants games on the radio. Yes, I'm a baseball dork.

While I eschew all other sports throughout the year, baseball is my vice. There's something undeniably soothing about it, resonating from early in my childhood, when I'd nestle my spherical green radio under my pillow -- (supposedly) hidden from my parents' sight -- listening to Mets games late into the night, well past my bedtime. Tom Seaver was my hero, the greatest pitcher of his day. Dave Kingman was a man of mythical proportions, hitting towering home runs into the depths of Shea Stadium.

I still have a faded, creased photograph of myself at 8 years old, posing with the great Tom Seaver in his back yard ... I'm nearly bursting out of my Cub Scout uniform, the crooked teeth of my smile aimed up at him in pure unadulterated bliss. It's in black and white, but you can fairly see the blushing excitement blasting from my face.

At school, I would hover intently over the Mets' roster with my friends, a tiny finger dancing over the faces of the players -- Mazzilli, Torre, Milner, Stearns, Henderson, Koosman, Foli -- my soft-sided Mets lunchbox sitting by my side, holding my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple. When my dad would take me to Shea for a game, the orange seats would pop against the perfect green of the infield grass, mixing with the mesmerizing sounds, sights and smells of what was, for a small child, an absolutely larger-than-life experience. Still to this day, I get that same feeling in my gut when I turn from the concourse, heading down the steps towards the field, and first see that grass, and the players languidly tossing a ball across the infield. Every. Single. Time.

Back in 1977, when I was surreptitiously listening from my bed, the top player made $160,000, not $30,000,000. Until recently, I'd revel in the nostalgia that the players had loyalty back then, they'd stick with their team year after year, and the game really was about the game, and not the money. But in the cold light of mature perspicacity, I now see that really, they didn't. They too followed the necessities of salary, of opportunity and waning skills, as younger players inevitably came up from the minors to supplant them. Ultimately, the majors are a business. It goes where the money is.

What I realize now is that it doesn't matter. For a kid laying in his bed, listening to a broadcast, despite knowing his mother's gonna kill him if he she catches him, none of that matters ... there's just something about the flow of baseball that becomes a quiet fire sluicing through the veins, inevitably becoming part of the very make-up of your being. And every time you get to the ballpark ... every time you hear the crack of the bat ... the commentators giving the count ... or calling a quality out ... it moves through you like an old familiar friend. Katie will surely never fully understand it, but baseball -- the sensation of baseball -- is truly a part of my internal reserve.

I'm certainly not the first to write about the psychic mythology of baseball, nor will I be the last. Because ultimately, baseball holds as personal a mythology as imagination itself.

Play ball.

Since Kirk Has Died ...

Well, I got Kirk's cremated remains back in a nice mahogany box (I didn't even have to ask for the nice box, which was nice), and they're up on the mantle right now, part of a little pseudo altar situation. I have to admit it's kind of hard for me to really go full bore into the altar thing ... this one's more "akin to" an altar. I'm just. not. gay.

So, anyway, it's not like I've been actually curling up into a ball with the box, rocking ... and ... sobbing ... much, or anything.

Only half the time.

The awake half.

Katie doesn't seem to mind too much. She just keeps sliding flat food under the door.

Odd though ... I didn't realize the closet door had such a big gap.

Just screwing around. Seriously though? It's weird when your best friend, that you held to your chest as you went to sleep at night, is reduced to a small plastic bag full of ashes in a box. That's all.

p.s. no, that's not the fucking box, you idiots. c'mon, give me some credit.

Coolest Musician Ever

Oh my God, I just found the coolest musician ever: Victor Lams.

I'm downloading his MP3's as fast as I can. All of them.

(Caveat: to appreciate Victor at all, you have to be open to the idea of pure, unabashed, shameless creativity, and the simple forms in which that can be expressed. That, and a Casiotone. There's a certain naive earnestness -- a fearlessness, really -- in this music that just charms the hell out of me. It's a valuable reminder that music, like any other form of expression, doesn't have to be "cool" to be brilliant. OK, end of caveat. Off with you now.)

The Birthday Card That Never Comes

You know how sometimes when you register for a website, they ask for your date of birth?

I always hold out the vain hope that they're asking so they can send me a nice card on my birthday.

The Odd Adjustments of the Aftermath

Kirk is gone now.

I put him to sleep on Sunday night, around 7:30pm. As difficult as it was, it was by far the best of all possible situations. He died in my arms, quietly, at home. We put him in a box lined with silk on the coffee table so we could spend time with him.

True to Kirk's renowned intuition and sense of timing, 15 minutes before the vet tech arrived at the house, he had started meowing plaintively, clearly saying: "I'm done." I had a vet tech friend come to my home, rather than taking him into the vet (avoiding that unnecessary trauma), or having an anonymous service come do it. The first shot is Ketamine, relaxing him into a stupor, then a second shot to put him to sleep. He drifted off calmly, staring vacantly towards the ceiling, his head nestled comfortably in the crook of my arm. I closed his eyes.

Katie and I then went out to a nice restaurant for a great dinner in celebration of his life. I inadvertently ordered an absinthe cocktail that was called "Death at Dusk". Perfectly apropos.

I woke up in the morning feeling good ... satisfied, really ... with a sense of completion. I have effectively been mourning Kirk for years now, knowing he was on his way out, and I spent time consciously appreciating him. So since his death, I haven't gone through the classic stages of grief. Instead, I'm experiencing a vague melancholy while adjusting to life without him. 20 years of repeated behavior is hard to unlearn.

I instinctively look for him when I come into a room, or open the bathroom door after a shower, or while sitting at my desk. I repeatedly think I see him out of the corner of my eye. I figure this will happen for a long time.

Though Kirk was mostly quiet, moving about the house feels quieter now.

While I still have my appetite, meals seem less interesting without him vulturing over my plate.

Working at the computer feels emptier without having to reach awkwardly over his head to type on the keyboard.

I'm more aware of these activities now that an integral part of them is missing.

Oddly, I find myself laughing harder than usual at good jokes. But then I feel the loss when the laughter ends ... a certain hollowness that's not usually there.

It's all part of the odd adjustments of the aftermath.

Thank You, Captain Kirk

Captain Kirk is my cat. He's 20 years old now. I've had him his entire life, since he was a squiggly little nugget I would jiggle around in the palm of my hand. I'm just about 40, so Kirk has been with me for half my life. Odd thought.

Odder still is that of all the things that have come and gone in my life -- cities, houses, girlfriends, cars, roommates, friends, jobs, hairstyles, attitudes, clothing, hobbies, you name it -- he's been the one single constant throughout it all. Unlike other aspects of and people in my life, he's never left, never changed, and never judged what I do, or the way I've done it.

Well, he's been a strong and dignified cat throughout the years; more like a dog in a cat suit, really, and smart as a whip. 20 years for an outdoor cat is pretty remarkable. He's been through his share of raccoons, feral cat fights, surgeries, chunks taken from his ears, an amputated toe, new houses, unwanted house guests, and being unceremoniously knocked off the bed at random points during my sexual encounters ... the gamut of a cat life well lived.

He's finally reaching his end, his body giving up on him and starting to succumb to age and gravity. He can't walk anymore, though he struggles like a drunken sailor to get to a bowl of tuna I've put down for him as a celebratory last meal. He takes a couple wobbly steps and falls over, rests a bit, then doggedly gets up and tries again. When he goes down, he flops full-out on his side like a splayed rag doll, and lets his head fall to the ground. I carry him where he needs to go, and hold him up and steady him to drink from his water glass. I have an appointment to have him put to sleep tomorrow, though I hope he goes on his own terms before then. Either way, it's time.

Am I sad? Yes and no. I'm sad to see my friend deteriorate. I'm sad to see him go. I'll miss him curling up on my lap, pawing my nose in the morning, and hopping into the shower when I'm done to lick up the fresh water. He's become an integral part of my life ... I can't remember what it's like to not have him around all the time. That's going to be a difficult adjustment.

At the same time, I'm profoundly grateful for the time I've had with him. He's been a gift, and the universe was kind enough to give him to me while I needed him. While my life has been great up until now, it's also been tumultuous and dramatically shape-shifting, resulting in some pretty significant upheavals. Now I'm in a different place in my life and my path, and I owe a lot of that to Kirk, and the constancy he's provided me in the face of change. I'm excited to see what the universe has in store for me next.

Thank you, Kirky Boy.

Obamanaut

Friends who know me well will likely fall of their chair upon reading this post.

I'm active in politics this year.

Normally, I don't even vote. Hell, I usually don't even know if I'm registered to vote. My level of cynicism towards, disillusionment about and disregard for our political process is legendary. And yet, here I am in 2008, donating money (money!) to a campaign, and volunteering my precious "free" time to help get a candidate elected. I've even got a sign in my window, and a bumper sticker on my car!!

Yep, I'm an Obamanaut.

I spent my last weekend in a room full of like-minded individuals -- and a strikingly diverse crowd at that, of all ages, genders, races and cultures -- calling strangers in Texas to encourage them to vote for Barack Obama. I made nearly 250 calls over course of the weekend on my own cell phone.

Now, the trick here was that the list was not pre-screened and filtered for important things like ... political party affiliation. Keep in mind that Texas is predominantly Republican (go figure), and you start to see where this is headed.

Each call was like Russian Roulette. You didn't know what you were going to get on the other end of the line when you spun the cylinder. Your odds of even finding a Democrat were slim. More likely than not, you'd get a Republican, the style of which would vary along a spectrum.

Occasionally, it would be the polite Texan housewife ruthlessly exercising her well-bred Southern hospitality, listening to the whole spiel before sing-songing: "Well yes, darlin', I sure will give that some thought ... thank you for callin' now," which is Texan for "I'm not listening to a fucking thing you're saying." Sometimes it would be a pick-up interrupting my leaving an answering machine message: "Boah, you can go an' till Barack Obama he can jis go ta Hill! I think he's an injit!" ... okaaaay. More often than not, the answering machine message itself would be disheartening, with a Boss Hogg-style voice finishing up with "God bless, now". You wondered if leaving a perky message for Obama was just doing more damage than good. But, you just have to cringe, ignore the odds, and try. Ironically, the hang-ups were the least tormenting of all the pulls of the trigger.

The one silver lining, out of all 250 calls I made that weekend ... the single call that made it all worth while, was the guy who supported Obama, and wasn't aware of the "Texas 2-step". This is the set-up allowing Texans to vote in the primary election in the morning, then a second time in the evening caucus, and their vote counts twice (apparently, squirrelly politics is not unique to Louisiana). He was surprised to learn that was the case, and enthusiastically promised to vote and caucus for Obama. Score one.

All this is to say, when you decide who to support this election, consider this. Our country, more than ever, needs its people to get off their asses and to think differently about politics ... to act locally in their communities ... to stand up for what they believe, rather than letting politicians make decisions against our will, and we all need to work together to move this country forward in a positive direction. Obama inspired me to get involved. And believe me: if he can inspire me, he can inspire anybody. And this country will be the better for it, I guarantee you.

Great Mouse Massacre of 2008 (Part 9)

We seem to have won the initial ground war against the mice, and have moved into the insurgency phase.

Strategically-placed traps have been picking off the few remaining troops, who appear only intermittently at best. Their "calling cards" of poop trails have diminished to the rare sprinkling. When found, we simply place an unmissable trap that will reliably nail them on their next foray through what they'd thought to be a safe pathway.

Their outposts are isolated and few ... their morale broken ... we presume they will move elsewhere in search of less hostile environs.

The little bastards.

Great Mouse Massacre of 2008 (Part 8)

Oops.

Remember how we had that one mouse in the humane trap, that we were going to "release into the wild"? Yeah, well, we kinda took him on an accidental tour of Lake Tahoe first.

We kinda sorta accidentally left the trap in the car with us as we headed up to Tahoe for a couple days of skiing. We debated whether to let the mouse loose in the snow, but we figured he would've just frozen to death, which wouldn't exactly fall into the "humane" category. So we decided to feed and water the little guy until we got back out of the mountains, where we could release him down in the flatlands.

And we decided he needed a name, since he was now in our care. He was thus dubbed Mao Tse Tung.

We plunked ice cubes (e.g. water) and Cheerios into Mao's temporary home, and things were going pretty well. For a day, anyway. He started to deteriorate pretty quickly. Like ... really deteriorate. We couldn't exactly let him out of his somewhat-cramped trap to run around the cabin (couldn't presume to hope he'd hop back into it when called). I suspect he started to get despondent, or at least was wondering what the hell he was doing in Lake Tahoe, and he started losing his marbles.

Long story short, Mao died last night. In his sleep. Or something equally as soothing to our consciences. Hell, he just keeled over for all we know. RIP Mao. We will always remember you and keep you in our hearts, as we kill all your remaining relatives.

Returning from Tahoe, we were pleasantly shocked to find not a single mouse in a trap, and no trace of poop anywhere. We might be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.