Noah's ark

I am reading one hell of a book.

The Children's Hospital by Chris Adrian chronicles the end of the world. How's that for an ambitious premise?

A biblical deluge covers the earth with a sea seven miles deep. The only survivors are those who were inside a children's hospital during the storm and subsequent flood. The hospital building turns into a magical floating vessel full up with humanity, including as much sex and blood and bone as anyone can handle, maybe more.

It's not often when an author earns character names such as Father Jane and Ishmael, but Adrian does within these pages. This is top-shelf literary fiction, but with none of that literary arrogance I detest. I'm about halfway through the 600-page tome.

I cannot think of a succinct ending sentence for this post, so this will have to do.

Godspeed

I've lost many people in many different ways. After a death, people say the most inane things.

"It was a blessing in disguise."

"He's finally at peace."

"He went the way we all want to go."

They mean well, but for those left behind, there is no good way to lose a loved one. The relief one feels at the conclusion of a long and harrowing illness is riddled with guilt. The profound grief and shock that accompany a sudden death are emotionally debilitating and can put you down for months or years.

Hence when I heard the report this morning that officials say there is no chance anyone surivived the Air France Flight 447 crash, I crumpled inside for the loved ones of those on board, sentenced to a prison of terrible hope that some impossible Cast Away scenario saved their daughter/spouse/father and that they're managing along somehow talking to a soccer ball named Wilson.

No matter how the monolithic and inarguable the facts before them are, they will have hope. I know I would. Grief is surreal. It bends you. It twists the space around you. It squeezes time.

And then one day, in a month or year or decade, the hope will leave. Maybe it will go violently or perhaps it will dissipate gradually; but one day it will be gone and the tragedy will be new again.

I am sorry. I am so sorry.

Mowing on a Rainy Day

In my column this week, I muse on the nuances of mowing the lawn.

And if you hop over there, yes, that is a picture of me at age 12; and yes, that really is how much smoke used to come out of that miserable old mower.

If you have something to say about any of this, Scene's new website has a user-friendly comment section and you can comment on the article directly (via the above link), or you may tell me off here, or feel free to email my editor Frank Lewis at flewisATclevesceneDOTcom.

Chelada taste test

Junior Godfather

My kid had a school assignment for which she had to create a fantastical creature. She took some old stuffed animals and cut them up in order to sew together a conglomerate horse/dog/frog.

The proceedings were charming and successful, but the aftermath was a bit surreal:


She's carrying the horse head around with her now. But she's not the only one with an affinity for plush decapitated horses.

That's what it's like to be a parent. You're just doing your daily junk and the next thing you know, you've got an amputated plush horse head on your kitchen table.

I shouldn't complain. It wasn't nearly as messy as the original.