This past Sunday I finally made it in to get my car washed, which was long overdue. I have this tendency to put off going to the car wash since it seems so lazy to pay someone to wash my car, but this is what we're advised to do in this drought. And, really, who am I kidding? I am that lazy.

Anyway, as often happens when I get my car washed, Juliette and I were sorely tempted by the donut shop that's in the same building, and we both caved and bought some completely unnecessary sweets. We then had to take turns distracting Jason so we could eat our donuts in peace. When it was my turn to distract him, I walked him around and sang Rose Royce's "Car Wash" to him.

The first thing that occurred to me, singing that song, was that I don't really know many of the words. The second was that it's kind of weird that someone felt he had to write a song about a car wash, of all things. I later found out that it was written as the theme song for a blaxploitation movie of the same name, but that strikes me as even weirder. I mean, were car washes some kind of cultural touchstone back in the seventies? Was working at a car wash some kind of common rite of passage for young black people? And why did that song get so popular, anyway? Certainly, it's much more well known than the movie. What gives?

These are the things that keep me up at night, folks.

You've probably heard the song "Under the Boardwalk," by The Drifters, right? (If not, I imagine you must be pretty comfortable under that rock, though how you got Internet access there is a mystery to me.) There's a line in the original version that goes like so:

(Under the boardwalk) Out of the sun,
(Under the boardwalk) We'll be having some fun.
(Under the boardwalk) People walking above.
(Under the boardwalk) We'll be making love
Under the boardwalk, boardwalk.

I was thinking about it this afternoon, and I don't think I'd like to make love under a boardwalk. It's probably really gross down there, all covered with discarded bottles and cans, hot dog wrappers, cigarette butts, and ABC gum. Not to mention seagull poop. Add in the potential for getting arrested on charges of lewd behavior and I think I'll stick to someplace a little more conventional for my lovemaking.

Last night when NBC announced that Obama had won the election, I found myself getting pretty choked up.  In some ways, my reaction reflected my feelings about the man, and the way that he's gotten me to care about and respect the ideal of the Presidency in a way that I haven't since I was a small child.  And that's no small thing—I, like most of the adults I know, have been very jaded about the entire political process for almost as long as I can remember.  Still, I think the bigger part had to do with Jason, and what this election will mean to him.

I looked down at my son, asleep in his mother's arms, and realized that, as far as he will remember, a black man will always have been elected President of the United States.  And it struck me how different a world he will live in than I have lived in, how different his views will be from mine because of the different basic assumptions of life he'll have.  When I was small, I did believe that I could grow up to be anything, even President.  But as I grew up, I came to see that in many ways and for many people, the promise of America is an empty promise, that there are limits to what we may accomplish that have nothing to do with the limits of our ability.

I thought to myself about the way that Jason will grow up thinking about his country and his world, and realized that he has more of a chance than I had to hold onto that optimism.  And that's a truly beautiful thing.  And, beyond optimism, he really is coming into a world that has more opportunity in it than the one I was born into.

Later, I watched John McCain's concession speech, and while I thought it was a moving and earnest speech, I did think he made one mistake.  "This is an historic election," he said, "and I recognize the special significance it has for African-Americans and for the special pride that must be theirs tonight."  On the contrary, Senator—this election is one in which we can and should all take pride.

Why is it that I only write about the bad stuff? I guess that's not really accurate. Looking back over the archives I only see a few negative ones. It kind of feels that way right now, though. I mean, I didn't write about it when we bought our house five months ago or when we brought our puppy home four weeks ago. I haven't written anything in over six months. And what finally gets me to start again is the email I got from my mom yesterday, telling me that another one of her cats died over the weekend.

When I saw the subject line—"We are down to one cat..."—I figured that this time it was the oldest one, Leon, the one who I found as a kitten in our back yard when I was a kid, the one I had grown up with and who was now crotchety and arthritic and going blind and senile. But no, it was Bill, a stray that my parents took in while I was in college.

Because I was already moved out when Bill came on the scene I never really got to know him all that well. He was sweet-natured and had a very cute face. My mom says that he always got along well with the other neighborhood cats; which was unusual in our house because the other cats were always either extremely timid or ferociously territorial. Once, a friend of my stepdad's brought his two-year-old daughter over and she was quite taken with him. She couldn't pronounce "kitty cat," though, and it instead came out as "diggy dat." From then on he had the nickname "Diggy."

Last year, not too long after my parents moved to Virginia, Bill was hit by a car. One of his hind legs was shattered and he had to have steel rod installed in his leg. When we came to visit last spring he was still recovering; the incision from his surgery hadn't healed completely and from time to time the tip of the rod would poke through. He limped a lot, but he seemed in good spirits even though my mom says he never completely got better.

This past weekend Bill's kidneys began to fail. The vet said that there wasn't anything they could do for a cat of his age—he was 12 or 13 by then—and on Sunday my parents decided to put him down. They were pretty upset about it, especially my stepdad. Meanwhile, their remaining cat, who is 16 years old now, has been looking like he's had one foot in the grave for a while now, but he still eats like a horse and even catches the occasional bird or squirrel. Hopefully, Leon will last at least long enough for me to see him when we go visit my parents this summer. Up until just recently he was the pet that I most thought of as my own and I have a lot of good memories of that cat.

I was sad for my parents but not being very attached to Bill myself, I didn't feel much personal loss. What really struck me was that someday my puppy is going to get old and die. I've got 10 years, maybe 15 if I'm lucky, but it'll happen and that thought does make me sad. When I stop and think about it, it's kind of weird that I've become so attached to Cooper in so short a time. A month ago I'd never ever set eyes on him, and I was even a little resistant to the idea of getting a dog. Now I find that I think about him all the time and I really love the time I spend with him, whether it's taking him for walks or playing in the yard or just having him sit with me while I watch TV. It's a really weird phenomenon, that a person could feel such a strong bond with a creature, but I do.

In the absence of a real conclusion for this entry, I'll just end with a cute picture:

This weekend, Juliette and I went out to look at houses for the first time. We've been thinking about buying now for a couple of years but the time hasn't been right and we didn't have the money. For that matter, we still don't have the money, but apartment life is getting old and we're feeling like we should start seriously thinking about our future as adults and as a family.

It's kind of a daunting task. San Diego is a fast-growing city and, consequently, there are a whole lot of houses on the market. According to one of the agents we met at an open house this afternoon, there are over 170 properties listed in our area alone. That makes for a lot of legwork, even after narrowing it down to our price range.

Speaking of price range, ours turns out to be quite on the low side. Let me give you a few numbers that I pulled off of Coldwell Banker's web site. According to them, the average sale price in San Diego is currently about $628,000, which isn't even all that much by California standards. A 20% down payment would be $125,600—quite a large chunk of change, but let's assume that somehow we were able to put together that much. That leaves a mortgage amount of $502,400. Plugging those numbers into the payment calculator gives a monthly mortgage payment of $3,262 plus a PMI payment of $133. Assuming a 1% property tax rate—in reality it would be higher, but for the sake of this example I'll lowball it—the monthly amount we'd have to put aside would be $523. All of that adds up to a total monthly payment of $3918, and that's without homeowner's insurance or HOA fees. Multiply that by 12 and you get a total annual payment of $47,016.

The whole thing is more than a little bit discouraging, especially considering that I've always wanted to do it on my own. Realistically speaking, though, there's little chance that we'll be able to buy a house without significant help from our families. It's been hard for me to admit that—independence and self-sufficiency are two of the values most ingrained in me. But real independence is kind of an illusion. As they say, no man is an island—there's no way I could have gotten to where I am without the support, both emotional and financial, of the people around me. Coming to terms with that fact and convincing myself that it's alright to ask for help has been one of the bigger issues in my adult life.

I'm trying to stay positive, even if that might not be apparent from this rant. We went to four open houses this weekend, and even though all of them were out of our reach, some of them were close. Finding the right place will be a lot of work, but it may yet be possible.

I broke down and registered a MySpace account a few days ago. I had formerly resisted the idea because all of what I'd seen and heard about the place made it seem like a club for illiterates. I know that sounds condescending. I suppose, when you get right down to it, it is. But I've been on the Internet now for a long time, and I've long since passed the point where "omg lol ur so funy!!1!!!1! kthxbye" constitutes stimulating conversation.

But I digress. I've been on Friendster and orkut for quite a while now, but those places seem to have more or less dried up in competition with MySpace. So, I told myself that if I really am interested in social networking, I have to go where the people are. Hence, MySpace. (If I'm being honest, though, I do have to admit that the social outcast side of my personality still hasn't completely died and that the validation inherent in getting friend requests is the sort of ego stroking that really soothes that part of me. So I guess I am shallow, after all.)

The experience has been somewhat strange. For a couple of reasons. Of course the first thing I did was look up various friends from college and high school as well as some relatives. That, in turn, brought me to browsing through their friend networks to see if I knew anyone. I also eventually poked through the alumni lists of the schools I attended. It was the high school list that really threw me.

See, I've been out of high school now for about nine years. For the most part, I haven't seen anyone from back then except for a few of my closer friends. Everyone else exists to me only as a memory. And, of course, since those memories are necessarily of the last time I saw them, they're all still kids. So it was kind of strange to see how these people I grew up with kept on growing up. The one that really made me do a double take was this girl I knew from chorus. I was only in chorus for my last semester and she was a freshman at the time. She must have been about 15 and she was small to boot, so when I looked at her profile and saw that she's 24 I had kind of a hard time digesting it. She looks older. Everybody looks older. Which is to be expected, of course, but somehow I just wasn't prepared to see all of these people in their mid-twenties when in my head they're still in their mid-teens.

And even seeing all of these people I knew, many of whom I was either friends or friendly with, I wasn't sure I really wanted to contact them. On the one hand it felt like a regression, and on the other, I didn't know if they'd want to hear from me. After all, if I wasn't close enough with them to keep in touch over the past nine years, why would they care to talk to me now?

I did contact a few of them, and some were even excited to hear from me. And I also got a few friend requests from some other people, some of whose lives I am really interested to hear about. It's a little exciting, in a way.

I think I'm coming to realize that I'm kind of lonely. Obviously, I'm not alone—I have my wife as well as a few friends in town. But when I got back from visiting my mom and stepdad I was in something of a funk for days afterwards. In fact, I'm not sure I'm completely out of it yet. It was just so nice to have other people in my life, people who I could really connect with and who I knew and who knew me. You know, family. I think I've been missing that for a long time, that I've been feeling isolated. It's been much better since I came to San Diego because at least here I do have friends. Back in Orange County it was just me and Juliette. But it's still not the same connection I had back home or even in college, where I was part of a bigger group. Maybe this explains why I've been so active on forums here and elsewhere on the 'Net—because I want that feeling of belonging and connection.

I haven't gotten to the other weirdness that has come out of my experience with MySpace but I've gotten rather long-winded in this bit, so I think I'll save it for another time.

My mom and stepdad have a habit of taking in stray cats. The older one of the two they have I found as a kitten in our back yard about fifteen years ago. The younger wandered away from his owner, who didn't feed him enough—I think he's eight or nine now. A third cat, in between the other two, died this morning. Her name was Sweetie.

I must have been in about the eighth grade when we got Sweetie. My stepdad was working at a local restaurant and noticed that a family of feral cats was living underneath the building. He liked the black and grey bullseye pattern that one of them had on its sides, so he caught it and brought it home.

It became apparent pretty rapidly that our new cat had some problems. She was runty and cross-eyed and extremely stupid. It was kind of exasperating at first, because she kept forgetting who we were. Every time you wanted to pet her you'd have to ease up to her very gently or she would run away. My mom was always best at that. "It's OK, sweetie," she'd say, using the same words and reassuring tone that she would with a frightened child. The name stuck, although it took her several years to adjust to being around people.

My mom related the story of her last moments in an email this morning:

I have some sad news to relate. This morning around 4:45 we were awakened by loud cat meowing, which isn't that unusual...often Bill will wake us early to be fed, and in fact we usually keep our door closed to avoid that morning surprise. We are greeted with waiting cats when we open the door every morning. Anyway, last night we left the door open because we kept the attic fan on all night, and I guess it was a good thing because otherwise we might have missed her last minutes.

 

When we finally turned the light on and checked, it turned out to be Sweetie, and she was on her side, crying loudly and panting. We got down on the floor with her and could tell that she was really frightened, which I guess is why she came into the room with us. She always came to us when she was scared.

A couple of times she managed to get to her feet and stumbled toward the kitchen...we think she was trying to get downstairs so she could get under the couch, which is where she spent most of her time. She made it as far as the doorway of the kitchen where she laid down and never got up again. Her breathing became shallower and shallower until she gave one last stretch and then passed away.

It hit me harder than I would have expected. I think that part of it is that, while I've been expecting them to lose one of their pets pretty soon, I thought it would be the older one, Leon, that would go first. I just got back from a visit to my parents' place and Leon was looking pretty old and crotchety. He's had a fair number of health problems over the past couple of years, and he's gotten all bony and arthritic. I even took a little time to say goodbye to him on this trip. Sweetie, though, was her normal self: dumb as a brick, but fat and happy. I guess I figured I'd have a few more chances to see her.

Maybe another part of it is how descriptive my mom was. I keep seeing the scene in my mind and thinking about how scared Sweetie must have been—even more so because she was so dumb. Maybe that's anthropomorphizing a bit too much. I'm sad about it anyway.

It's a little strange, when I stop to think about it, to be so emotionally involved with an animal. I wouldn't have thought I'd ever have to hold back tears thinking about that cat, but I do. I am. I can hear the strange little chirping noises she'd make and see the sort of vacant, sometimes loving, sometimes wary look in her eyes. I'm going to miss her.

Life has been kind of hectic lately, and between that and my natural tendencies to focus on the negative, it's easy for me to lose sight of the ways my life is good. Today, though, I want to take the time to be positive, to think of the parts of my life that are happy.

I have a wonderful, intelligent, beautiful wife who loves me and supports me, who listens to me and hugs me and wants to take care of me. I have parents who are proud of me and forgive the fact that I don't call them often enough, who have always done right by me and have been there when I needed anything from them. I've developed a good friendship with my younger brother—after years of fighting and friction we've come to understand each other and look forward to seeing each other. I make enough money to waste it on luxuries like going to the movies every week and maintaining this web site. I work with people I like, who I actually want to see outside the office. I have good friends who make me laugh and who I know I can count on. The future is full of potential, and I'm young enough to have time to make the most of it.

I think it's important to take a step back from the hassles of daily life and count your blessings from time to time, and not just on Thanksgiving. Life is too short to waste time dwelling on the things that get us down, especially when they're so often so trivial.

• Getting married in Big Sur, CA. Not only one of the most naturally beautiful places I've ever seen, but also very special to me because that's where my wife grew up as well as where I lived for a while in my childhood.
• Breakfast at Deetjen's Big Sur Inn. Some of the best Eggs Benedict I've ever had.
• Lunch at the Big Sur River Inn. Sure, the burger is kind of expensive, but it's mighty tasty (and still the cheapest in Big Sur). Plenty of good stuff apart from the burger, too; it's my favorite restaurant for lunch. And, for dessert, the apple pie is my second favorite in this world (I have to give my mom's the number one spot).
• Dinner at Ventana. They have a filet mignon that just melts in your mouth, and if you go right around sunset you have a spectacular view of the sun going down over the ocean.
• The bathrooms in the Salt Lake City Airport. Cleanest airport bathrooms ever.
• Renting a convertible in Hawaii. Yeah, it immediately marks you as a tourist, but it's so nice to feel the wind in your hair.
• The Hotel Hana Maui. Hands down the nicest hotel I've ever stayed in. The road to Hana is very twisty and a bit stressful (since all of the other people on the road are also tourists), but as soon as you get there it all just melts away. The staff was amazingly friendly and helpful. It's also very close to Hamoa Beach, which is one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen. And if you're into horseback riding, the hotel runs tours on a couple of trails that offer some amazing views.
• Tony and Tina's Wedding. A very interesting off-Broadway production that makes you feel like you really are a wedding guest. It takes interactive theater to a level I've never experienced before.
• Breakfast at the Sea House Restaurant. About six or seven miles outside of Lahaina, it overlooks a beautiful bay and has a great view of Molokai (or maybe it was Lanai, I can't remember) and the food is excellent.
• The Koloa Fish Market. In Koloa, on Kaua'i, there is this tiny, hole-in-the-wall fish market that sells lunch plates that are to die for. There are no seats, indeed there's barely enough room to turn around, but the fish is so fresh and the prices are extremely reasonable.
• Air Kaua'i Helicopter Tours. Not for those who are afraid of heights, but for everyone else, it's amazing. Even the locals on Kaua'i say the helicopter tours are great, and with good reason. Such a beautiful place, and seeing it from a bird's-eye view is even better. And the Air Kaua'i helicopters have huge windows, which makes for a great viewing experience.
• Brick Oven Pizza, in Kalaheo. Also on Kaua'i. They have good pizza. Really good pizza.
• Marrying the one you love. My wedding was the best day of my life. We've been together for almost seven years, since high school. In that time we've had a lot of experiences. We've grown, and grown up, together. I can think of nothing better than knowing that this is the person that I'm going to grow old with, share my life with. I can't wait to see what the future will bring.