Cat Walk

There is a guy in my neighborhood who walks his cat. I'm not sure why this is so odd to me, but it is. The cat doesn't have a leash or anything; he just skulks along behind her like the secret service or something as she sniffs her way through the parking lot. Honestly? It could be the Hawaiian shirt and flip flops that he wears well into December, but more likely it is the suspicious look he gives me when I step out my own front door with my... gasp... dog! (Hey-- she's gotta go out sometimes. I'm sorry-- I didn't expect you and your cat to be hanging out on my stoop.) That look is nothing compared to the alarm and downright horror on his face should I drive my car through the complex at cat-walkin time. Buddy! Relax-- I see your cat.

Listen, I'm all for keeping your pets safe. I would never allow my dog to roam about unleashed, and after witnessing a beloved cat of mine struck by a car, I will never have an outdoor cat again. I believe that the needs of a cat can be met indoors with love and proper attention. It's too dangerous for them outside-- no matter the setting. One of my best friend's cats was killed by coyotes on their property in Maine. Maybe that's why the catwalker bugs me so much. Dude-- you can't keep her safe outside, and I don't want to share your anxiety.

Is That You?

We went over to the National Portrait Gallery today. I'm beginning to love these hot August days in D.C.-- nobody's around, so not only did we get a parking spot right in front, but we had the whole third floor to ourselves, just us and the 20th Century Americans. I've decided that I like a good bust. (Minds out of the gutter, people-- I mean a marble or bronze head.) In fact, if anyone should ever choose to immortalize my visage for any reason, I want it to be a bust. (That sounds kind of amusing, too. Ha ha. Let's just get it all out... Bust, bust! bust, bust. Ready to continue? OK.) Here's why: my features will be, by definition, chiseled, and my hair? Why, my hair will look great! Marble and bronze hair always looks fabulous. For that hair, I could put up with those creepy blank eyes. So make it a bust, friends, unless I live to be over 80, and then I'd like a nude portrait like Alice Neel's. (I especially love the toes on her right foot.)

Ha! I Knew It.

Back to the Adolescent Development thing. I had hoped that the title of this post would be Identity Crisis Resolved, and it almost is, but not quite. So, instead, I'll share just a tiny fraction of the research that I've been trying to synthesize:

The following is an excerpt from a report entitled Child and Adolescent Development Research and Teacher Education: Evidence-based Pedagogy, Policy, and Practice which was published in 2005 by the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development (NICHD), National Institutes of Health, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND HUMAN SERVICES and National Council for the Accreditation of Teacher Education (NCATE):

The field of child and adolescent development lacks mechanisms for disseminating research findings and information to sources readily available to teachers, administrators, and other school personnel. Scholarly articles are often difficult for non-scientists to follow and require translation into language that pre-service teachers find meaningful, and that practicing teachers and administrators can put into action. Policy makers, parents, and other lay stakeholders need objective and informative overviews of current research in child and adolescent development and appropriate application in classrooms with clear rationales for those applications.

Yeah, NFK. Give me a call when you get around to providing that.

Details, Details

I reconnected with a childhood friend on facebook last night. She and her husband still live in the house next door to the one we lived in when I was in middle school. We chatted a bit online, posting back and forth on each other's walls and filling in the largest of the gaps of the last thirty-three years. Somewhere in the conversation, it occurred to me that today was her younger brother's birthday, so I asked her about it, and she confirmed my memory.

I was telling my mom about it this morning, and she wondered whether our former neighbor had been surprised about such a remarkable recollection. "She didn't seem to be," I reported and then laughed. "Do you know how I remember that?" I asked my mom. "Because the day that Nixon resigned was his eighth birthday. That made a big impression on me at age twelve."

"Didn't we go to Great Adventure that day?" my mom responded.

"Yep, and out to dinner for Chinese food," I added. "Remember? Granddaddy was there, but he didn't go with us. He paid for everything, though. And then the president resigned."

So, Happy Birthday, Bobby.

Brushes with Fame and History

I went to the National Gallery of Art yesterday. It wasn't a planned visit-- Josh and I wanted to try the hamburgers at Top Chef contestant Spike Mendelsohn's place, Good Stuff, on Capitol Hill, because we'd seen him on TV the night before. After a pretty good lunch, (during which we watched the Senate vote to confirm Sonia Sotomayor as the next Supreme Court Justice on one of the several flat screens in the upstairs dining area, AND I spotted my neighbor, who works for the Senate, standing right next to Al Franken) we headed to the National Mall, agreeing that we would go to the museum closest to any parking space we found. As luck would have it, we found a space right away outside the East Building, so in we went.

We liked all the Calders, especially the wire sculpture of the head, and there was lively discussion about Presidency I–V Photographs by Thomas Demand as well as Barnett Newman's Stations of the Cross. It was after we took the moving sidewalk through Leo Villareal's light sculpture and past the fountain cascade that we found our way to the exhibition called The Art of Power: Royal Armor and Portraits from Imperial Spain.

Honestly? It was awesome, in that European museum way. (I only wish I'd gotten the audiotour, but maybe next time.) There was all sorts of armor, and historical information about the Spanish dudes who owned it, and old paintings of them wearing it. Seeing the actual armor in front of me that was also in that 350-year-old painting on the wall was really cool-- it made such a concrete connection to the past for me. The guy was dead, but his armor was right there. Wild. (I also appreciated the Spanish history refresher... I hadn't thought of Phillipe Guapo and Juana la Loca in the over twenty years since we visited their tomb in Granada.)

Later, we went for ice cream in Delrey. We were on our way out of the store when Josh noticed that one of the chairs was stenciled on the seat: President Barak Obama sat here on June 20, 2009. Of course he sat right down.

What's the Offense?

Yesterday I learned that a friend of ours does not like the Life is Good brand. Now, we are all about Life is Good around here. Not only do we own several t-shirts each, but we frequently give them as gifts, and we own plenty of other Life merch as well. For those who may not be familiar, the signature LiG character is Jake, a jaunty little stick figure who really knows how to live. Jake is drawn with a black body and white face. It's not too much of a stretch to connect Jake to images of minstrel show actors in white face, and that offends our friend, who happens to be African American. I'm not sure if it offends me too, but my consciousness is raised.

Which is why I had to scratch my head this morning, reading a lengthy piece in the Washington Post about some posters of President Obama that have been turning up in LA. In them, he's got on the smeary facial make-up that Heath Ledger wore as the Joker in The Dark Knight with the caption of "socialism" beneath. The writer of the article made a rather far-fetched argument about the underlying racism of the image. He went way around the barn to connect the urban anarchy in Heath Ledger's portrayal of the Joker to a mainstream subconscious association of such anarchy and violence with African American people. I guess the depiction of the president as a psychotic comic-book villain, not to mention a black man in white face, just isn't offensive enough?

The Prodigal Consumer

I never understood the parable of the prodigal son. My sympathy was always with the son who stayed faithful to his father all along; to me his resentment was valid. As a teacher, I sort of get it... maybe I do celebrate the kids who turn it around a little more than those who have had it all along, but I also try to be pretty sensitive to any offense the others might take-- it always seems kind of justified.

The last couple of days, I've been thinking about the cash for clunkers program. (Forgive me, I live inside the Beltway.) I read somewhere that it would take, on average, 5-6 years of driving the new, more fuel-efficient cars in order to offset the carbon footprint of manufacturing them and transporting them to their point-of-sale. So, in many cases, owners would better serve the environment by keeping their old cars longer. I also heard the opinion expressed that the people who purchased these so-called clunkers did so with full knowledge of the harm they would do. Others, who bought more fuel-efficient cars at the same time, are not eligible for the rebate, and so, in an oh-so-prodigal-son approach, the policy effectively rewards those who ignored the environment when they bought their last car, while offering nothing for the environmentally faithful. I guess we should just be content with driving our cars for the next five or six years to be sure we cancel out that new car footprint.