Cheaper Than Therapy

Top of the World Fifth Graders Set Sail for 1834 Aboard the Pilgrim

The Brig Pilgrim at the Ocean Institute in Dana Point

nticipated throughout the lower elementary school years, the overnighter on the Brig Pilgrim constitutes a rite of passage for fourth and fifth graders in Southern California. The Pilgrim is a full size replica of the ship immortalized by Richard Henry Dana, Jr. in Two Years Before the Mast, a widely heralded American seafaring classic (at least in our school district.)

Mrs. Irish’s fifth grade class descended on the dock at the Ocean Institute in Dana Point, with sleeping bags, warm clothes, a spoon, a bowl, and a cup, but no – absolutely no electronic devices, as the instructions dictated in bold and underline. Could thirty 10-year-olds survive 18 hours without their Gameboys? It remained to be seen.

Oh, what fate awaits me?

I watched as the First Mate previewed what life would be like aboard the Pilgrim. There would be no talking unless they were spoken to first. They would not take one teeny tiny step until they heard the “carry on” command. They would say “sir” and “mam” and they would jump to attention when the Captain appeared.

Fun!

First Mate Mr. Britsy addresses his crew

Jackson risked blowing me a kiss as he marched up on the deck with his crew and signed on to the ship’s log, struggling to balance his huge duffle bag. These kids aren’t used to what we call cold (i.e. temperatures below 70 degrees), so they were over-prepared with down jackets, gloves, ski caps, plus rain boots and ponchos.

Signing the ship's log

The wary sailors had been primed by older siblings or friends who warned them about mystery meat stew, two-hour watches on deck, hideous porridge in the morning, and yes, the dreaded “head” which some unlucky sailor would have to clean. With a toothbrush, no less!

That evening, I casually mentioned to my husband that perhaps we should have dinner at Cannons. “I’m really in the mood for a nice piece of fish.” I said.

“Oh, and do a little drive by to check in on the boy?” he responded. Coincidentally, Cannons is perched up on a cliff with a stunning view of the Ocean Institute and Dana Point Harbor.

“Well, we might just take a quick look as long as we’re in the neighborhood.”

It wasn’t that I had any concerns about his well-being, or that he might be uncomfortable during his two-hour watch in the middle of the night. The Pilgrim wouldn't even be leaving the dock, though there was talk that my son’s team would set off in longboats to collect hides.

No, my yearnings were the result of increasingly obvious signs that we’re on the cusp of a major developmental transition, and that one day soon, my son will pull away, and when that happens, he won’t blow me kisses or hold my hand. So I make a conscious effort to experience as many of these last vestiges of his boyhood while I still can.

Sated with blackened salmon and New York steak, we watched under the cloak of darkness while Mr. Britsy addressed the novice sailors in a light but firm French accent.

“And how many sheets of paper do we use?” he roared, hands clasped behind his back, pacing back and forth in front of his crew of fifth graders seated in neat rows on the upper deck.

“THREE, Mr. Brit-sy!” they yelled in singsong unison.

“Because what happens if you use more than three?”

“It OVERFLOWS, Mr. Brit-sy!"

“Very good, crew. And what happens if the head overflows? Someone has to clean it up with their toothbrush, right?”

“RIGHT, Mr. Brit-sy.”

I saw Jackson in the front row exchange a knowing nod with his neighbor.

To add to the authenticity of the "voyage," parents were tasked with writing a letter to their sailors circa the timeframe of Two Years Before the Mast. I would have loved to have been there when my letter (below) was read aloud to Jackson. Even if he was the only one who would “get” them, I included some of his favorite cultural and personal references: Bob, chicken, Uncle Reggie, and of course, cheese. I resisted mentioning Halo 2. That would be a bit hard to fathom in the 1830s.

(click to enlarge)

When he was dropped off the next morning, tired and hungry, he bolted to his XBox. But I managed to pump some details out of him before his game booted up.

As predicted, the mystery stew was excellent (“I ate three bowls, Mom!”), the porridge was horrible, and the watch was SO boring, (“Two hours, Mom, we had to just stand there looking out at nothing for TWO HOURS.”)

Best of all, it had lived up to its many years of hype, making it an excellent adventure of boyish proportion, one that he’ll remember forever.

As will I.

Three Thumbs Up!

t's not often that they line up for new movie releases at the little theater in town across from Main Beach. Last time I recall was for the first Harry Potter movie. But we were among those lining up for the 8:00 p.m. show this past Saturday night (which meant we waited in line about seven minutes before going in and easily getting three seats together) of The Incredibles.

We loved this movie. Loved it! My favorite character is the Edith Head-like superhero fashion designer Edna Mode, and the image that burns in my brain is the front view of the family's stunningly realistic, stylized post-modern suburban ranch home. But that's just me. Jackson was enthralled with Dash's high-octane mobility, and there was plenty of action to keep us all alert and amused.

Important: Don't let the PG rating or animation fool you. This is a smart, funny, amazing must-see movie (in a big theater with a advanced digital sound) whether you have kids or not! And I'm not just saying that because we bought Pixar stock, either.

NYT Book Review Stoops to 'Bait and Switch' Tactics?

ormally, I wouldn’t be tempted to read a review of a biography of Jorge Luis Borges, especially if it interrupted an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants, but in this case, the New York Times Book Review email teaser gave top billing to a book by David Foster Wallace on the Life of Jorge Luis Borges, with a review by Woody Allen. 

Now that I would read.

So they sucker me into clicking through to the review (who wouldn't?), only to find this unpardonable deception: the review is by David Foster Wallace and the book, ''Borges: A Life,'' is by Edwin Williamson.

Where the hell is Woody Allen in all this? I trudge through the three page online report, which includes tedious passages like the one below, but find no references to Woody Allen.

This is not, however, because Borges is a metafictionist or a cleverly disguised critic. It is because he knows that there's finally no difference -- that murderer and victim, detective and fugitive, performer and audience are the same. Obviously, this has postmodern implications (hence the pontine claim above), but Borges's is really a mystical insight, and a profound one. It's also frightening, since the line between monism and solipsism is thin and porous, more to do with spirit than with mind per se. And, as an artistic program, this kind of collapse/transcendence of individual identity is also paradoxical, requiring a grotesque self-obsession combined with an almost total effacement of self and personality.

Maybe I just haven’t had enough coffee (or maybe I’m annoyed because I had to look up ‘pontine’), but this is a lot to wade through with no Woody Allen payoff in the end.

So what is the story behind the facetious Woody Allen byline?

I suspect that it’s an irritated copy editor’s way of poking fun at David Foster Wallace and the NYT for not making the requisite Borges/Allen pontine, as James Whitlark, Ph.D. does so admirably in Chapter Six Part Six of "The Big Picture: A Post-Jungian Map of Global Cinema."

For further evidence of the Borges/Allen bond, look no further than Peter Keough’s insightful essay, "Disillusionment and Faith at the Boston Jewish Film Festival," in which he notes that, "Milewicz’s weakness for Woody Allen is balanced by his taste for Jorge Luis Borges, who’s alluded to in the title (his story "Borges y yo") and in the tale’s penchant for the cryptic and the cosmically ironic."

For final proof of the undeniable Borges/Allen pontine, we need only examine these two quotes, courtesy of curmudgeon-online.com:

"The Falklands thing was a fight between two bald men over a comb."

Jorge Luis Borges (1899 - 1996)

"Why are our days numbered and not, say, lettered?"

Woody Allen (1935 - )

Perhaps a more realistic explanation for this literary snafu is that David Foster Wallace was a last minute substitution for Woody Allen, and the NYT just forgot to make the correction.

We may never know.

One thing is for sure, you won’t find this kind of deceptive reader tactic at The Washington Post.

Update 11/7: It was suggested by an inside source at the NYT that because Woody Allen reviewed a book about George S. Kaufman last week, it must have used the previous email page as a form but didn't change the byline. No teeth-gnashing copy editor, no architects of the "Save the Borges/Allen Literary Alliance." In other words, it may have been just a lame error. I'm still not convinced. That the New York Times would allow a mistake of this magnitude is simply inconceivable. However, should that prove to be the case, "never mind," as the late, great Gilda Radner's Emily Litella would say.

Damn you, Arafat, did you have to pick this week?

CBSNews (AP Photo)

I checked my voicemail from the warmth of the piano bar in the historic Pfister Hotel in downtown Milwaukee, where I was traveling for business this past week.

“Hi, it’s _____ at the Post. I’m probably going to need to hold your story – not because I don’t like it, obviously, I love it – for one week because, uh, Arafat looks like he’s going to die if he hasn’t already and I’m going to need to do something on that, and with all the election stuff the only thing I have that’s not timely is your piece."

Boy, if I had a dollar for every time I've heard that lame excuse.

When I called him back, I pretended to be understanding.

“Oh, no problem, ____.  Sure, the following Sunday’s Outlook will be fine. Yes, uh huh, yeah, OK, I’ll work on that section, no problemo.” 

Inside, I’m seething. Hold my piece!  Not timely?  Grrrrrrrrrrrr.  The nerve of these editors. Bumping me for this Arafat guy, whoever the hell he is.

What about my readers – both of them – who’ll be scanning this Sunday’s Washington Post "Outlook" section, looking for my piece, and all they'll find is a bunch of commentary on the elections and a near or by then actual eulogy?

Sheeeesh. 

I can only hope that next week the world will be a less exciting place, which is not a bad thing to hope for in general, but particularly when getting an article published is on the line. I mean, let's keep things in perspective, shall we?  Balance of power in the Middle East or my "not timely" essay?

My essay, of course!