Vs. Nature

New Orleans is a place that I've wanted to visit for years. My baby sis completing her Master's degree in nearby Fort Walton Beach seemed like the perfect excuse to finally make the trip. People made lots of encouraging comments about the unbearable heat there this time of year, but only one person, a gal I work with who grew up in New Orleans, forecasted the hurricanes.

"It's hurricane season." That's just what she said. Somehow it seemed ominous at the time. I attributed it to the poor lighting in the hallway of our office and shrugged it off. Mostly.

Then an email from my sister about Gustav. Who, I asked her, is Gustav?

Oh. Not "who," Gustav is a "what." Suddenly, the threat of a hurricane was real. The threat still IS real. Will we be flying into New Orleans in a few days? Will we be driving along the Gulf Coast for the next two weeks?

Not rhetorical questions, just unanswered as of yet.

Battle Scars

If it were an historical battle, there would be shrapnel. If it were a battle between superheroes, there would be hi-tech lasers. If it were a battle at Hipster High, there would be ironic T-shirts and equally ironic expressions. All battles have their own form of execution and recovery.

Execution is a funny word, isn't it? It can mean that something has been killed off, removed, stifled out of existence. It can also refer to how something is accomplished. The execution of the plan, the method by which the work is completed.

What then, about the execution of the execution? What about something that is clamoring to be stifled? What about that execution? How is it accomplished, how is it removed?

Well, if it's a tooth, the answer is: extraction. Extraction is both the accomplishment and the removal. The extraction is the execution. They remove most or all of your tooth, tell you that you may or may not have to return in a few years for the same tooth, and send you home with an extraction care package.

It's not an incredibly varied package, but it's so obviously full of warm fuzzies. After all, the word "care" appears on almost every item in the package. There are instructions for postoperative care, reassurance that the oral surgeon offers exceptional care, cautions to "take care when driving" on the bottle with the pain meds, and admonishment to carefully peel open the protective packaging for the gauze. What a caring bunch the oral care industry must be.

Recovery from a tooth extraction can depend on many factors. David thought he had lucked out this time around. Immediately following the surgery he felt virtually no pain, and even 24 hours later he had to be talked into taking a Percocet. He grinned widely and noted that he didn't really have any swelling to speak of. We agreed that it had been a smart move to get the extraction before the tooth had gotten grossly overdue, and nodded that he must be reaping the fruits of responsible cavity management.

Oops. That evening, our darling daughter left her mark. She loves to cuddle. But being three, she is unable to hold still for more than two seconds. No, scratch that. Her idea of holding still is keeping most of her body still while her toes madly knead your thighs. She absolutely cannot hold still. When she's happy and excited, her movements escalate to keep up with her big emotions. When she's happy and excited, her arms and legs move furiously and without restraint. She has no idea where her body is in space.

So, back to the oops. Dear Daddy David, cuddling with our Crazy Kicky Worm, suddenly finds that -- Ouch. He has been smacked in the jaw by a happily flailing arm. Somehow smacked directly in the half-inch area from where his tooth was extracted.

His jaw immediately swelled up. Suddenly he looked like he'd had a much more dramatic oral surgery. Poor guy. So much for compassionate aftercare.

What A Roast

BBQ is, apparently, not a term to be used loosely. History has proven that propane-grilled, lime marinated chicken and roasted vegetables can produce looks of surprised disappointment on those individuals who arrived in our backyard with a specific image in mind.

The fact of the matter is, mounds of meat smothered in thick dripping sauce, soaking in pools of additional drippings -- courtesy of 80% "lean" ground beef -- are not likely to be found at our house. David can grill up a mean burger, don't get me wrong. But if the food starts to take on a stew-like quality, if the term "BBQ" is supposed to masquerade as some sort of excuse to indulge in excesses of molten animal fat, then it is not likely to be found at our house.

Likewise with the tub full of baked beans. Beans that have started to congeal together due to the intense mixture of brown sugar and -- lest we forget -- a good helping of margarine. Canned green beans sloshed into a bowl then sprinkled with bits of dried bacon bits to add some "color" to the table tend to make the color drain from my face.

Even in Portland, where "healthy eating" is typically as common as, say, sleeping, people often expect a certain type of food when they hear the word BBQ. So, I have learned to carefully avoid using this word. I don't want to provide false hope for those who secretly eat Pork Rinds after hours, and I don't want to repulse those who wouldn't know how to prepare canned vegetables after a nuclear war.

Instead, we have "backyard grilling." This is not a convenient phrase, nor a common one, but it tends to get the point across. Fresh roasted veggies, tender marianted meat, homemade dessert, and an assortment of tasty beverages are really all we need to round out some good conversation and comfortable company. The weather yesterday was perfect, the meat was perfect, and drinks and chat were delectable. Most of the veggies were roasted to perfection, and those that had a little extra crunch just reminded me that these were real, grown in the ground, and picked by a person.

Too bad I didn't make enough berries & cream pops for David and I, but rumor had it they were extra tasty. Now I have impetus to make more, just for us.

The View Through the Periscope

“In many ways, it seems like the ideal job.”

These words have passed by my ears so many times that they have become white noise. But today, something is different. Today these words charge my ears and command my attention.

Today, these words are spoken in a genteel South African accent by a scientist -- a scientist with a reputation for highly detailed work and impeccable manners. Even he, with his brand new BMW in the parking lot, a row of computers in his private office, and a brain over-stuffed with knowledge gets a wistful look on his face, takes a deep breath, and wonders how his life would be different if his job centered around comic books.

What is it, I wonder, that people think happens when you work in comics? The artists are creating images of superheroes, but they are not superheroes. The writers are spinning fantastic tales, while they live in the ordinary world. The editors keep track of everyone else’s loose ends. The publishers may or may not personally pick and choose the projects they back financially, and are likely waist deep in intertwining paper trails.

None of this sounds especially glamorous.

Regardless, people respond with an eerie singularity when they encounter someone who works in the comic book industry. “Wow, that must be the perfect job.” Open a thesaurus and grab a handful of synonyms: utopian, excellent, coolest, totally kick-ass; add or subtract peripheral information: wow, no way, dude, that is completely; and you will find a potentially infinite number of ways of expressing the same basic idea:

“In many ways, it seems like the ideal job.”

Well then, OK, there are fun perks. Going to see The Dark Knight is a legitimate business expense. Surfing the internet is serious research. Professional discounts on some collectibles and publications are available at certain retail stores. The number of hits coming back when you type your name into Google goes up tremendously. There may be a surprise review of your work when you flip through a magazine, or occasionally when you flip through cable channels. Seeing your name on a cover as you walk through a bookstore is always good for a little extra strut.

However, those perks are not exclusive to comics. Everyone from school teachers to janitors have cause to surf the internet for work research. Any published author can strut through Barnes & Noble. And porn stars will always have the most hits on Google.

So now we come to the Peter Pan theory. If you work in comics, you inherit a sort of immunity. You have to be a enough of a grown-up to make some money to pay the bills, but there’s also a built-in excuse to hang onto some kid stuff. Collect toys, sleep in, people watch, color, doodle, and make stuff up. If you’re doing a slice of life indy book, you get to create the hippest characters ever and know that you must be cool, because in that world you are god. For superhero books, you get to imagine life with various superpowers, such as the ability to fight crime while wearing a latex bikini. Surely there is no better way to spend the day. Surely, it is something everyone aspires to. Most definitely, it must be blissful.

As our pediatrician said, “How absolutely cool.”