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Does Collecting Make You Feel Dirty?
cbertsch
cbertsch
On A Lighter Note

Tonight was the last of Sami's visit. We're always so glad to have him come. It was a shame Andrew couldn't join him this time, particularly since they were missing each other a lot. But we still had lots of fun, despite Sami's post-vacation malaise -- including the distress caused by an apparent parasite ingested along with the water in Belize -- and Kim's post-deadline exhaustion. Today was the highlight. This morning I made Sami a compilation CD of songs "in a post-punk vein." It's one of my best. Kaylee played for hours with the Bean. Later, Kim and Sami went on a hike in Ventana Canyon while Skylar and I watched the first Harry Potter film in masoo's honor -- it only makes sense if you've read the book, I think -- and generally took it easy. Dinner was a particularly fine meal at Zona 78m, to which Sami the gracious guest contributed heavily. And then we returned home for an hour of classic Sami-Kim-and-Skylar antics. The dress-up bin was dragged into the front room. Bean's assortment of odd fashion items was rifled through. First Sami got dolled up, then Skylar, then Kim, who despite an oncoming cold, managed to fire up the old engine of excess. Me, I took lots of pictures, moving and still.

Sami's recent visit to Mayan temples seems to have enhanced his already regal bearing. It's important to look queenly, though, when confronted with the bearer of the dreaded lavender glove.

When we were tucking Skylar in, she said, "Mommy, can we dress up punk again soon?" Yes, that's my fault. I pointed out that a New York Times fashion spread was "punk" a few weeks back and now she spends lots of time figuring out whether a particular ensemble fits the description. "Glam" is not yet in her vocabulary. Nor is "camp." But I suppose "punk" works well enough as a term for over-the-top, caution-to-the-wind, DIY fabulousness. That's what the Bean uses it for. She certainly understands it well enough to tell me, as I was buckling her seat belt yesterday, "Dad, you can't write a book on punk. You're an English professor." Let's hope she's wrong about that, even if she's really right. Anyway, it warms my heart to see her embracing her own inner punk, however broadly and idiosyncratically defined.

It's not the Frank Kozik aesthetic, surely. Yet the who-cares-about-the-mainstream aspect comes through loud and clear regardless. Any girl who can identify with Hermione Granger one minute and belt out her version of L7's "Pretend We're Dead" the next is all right by me. You go, girl!

Mode: indeterminate
Muse: a memory of "Chelsea Girl"

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