Bad Writing? Good Parenting!

Image via WikipediaSometimes, the worst writing conceals the best of intentions. I learned this from Gene Weingarten's heartwarming article on the man behind the popular Hardy Boys series, Leslie McFarlane.

Weingarten first writes of how he felt betrayed by the unbearably bad writing that characterized the adventures of his boyhood heroes, Frank and Joe Hardy:

"The dialogue is as wooden as an Eberhard Faber, the characters as thin as a sneer, the plots as forced as a laugh at the boss's joke, the style as overwrought as this sentence. Adjectives are flogged to within an inch of their lives: 'Frank was electrified with astonishment.' Drama is milked dry, until the teat is sore and bleeding: 'The Hardy boys were tense with a realization of their peril.' Seventeen words seldom suffice when 71 will do:
'Mrs. Hardy viewed their passion for detective work with considerable apprehension, preferring that they plan to go to a university and direct their energies toward entering one of the professions; but the success of the lads had been so marked in the cases on which they had been engaged that she had by now almost resigned herself to seeing them destined for careers as private detectives when they should grow older.'

Physical descriptions are so perfunctory that the characters practically disappear. In 15 volumes we learn little more than this about 16-year-old Frank: He is dark-haired. And this about 15-year-old Joe: He is blond.

These may be the worst books ever written."

Papot 1, Manuel 0.

My son, Manuel, is deeply into the "No!" stage. Ordinarily, when loving, nurturing parents are confronted by the developmental stage wherein their child seeks the safety of boundaries by saying "No!" to everything that is the least bit contrary to their desires as opposed to their needs, they patiently go through the entire, laborious process of firmly establishing these much-needed boundaries by explaining matters thoroughly and setting examples judiciously.

My wife and I, on the other hand, just let my sister Papot loose on Manuel. The following is an exchange that Papot had with Manuel when we went to Zambales to celebrate my dad's birthday.

"Hi dear!"

"I'm not a dear!"

"Hi love!"

"I'm not a love!"

"Hi Manuel!"

"I'm not...Manuel."

Papot 1, Manuel 0. Tina and I are enjoying this thoroughly.

Reconsidering the Reproductive Health Bill

I was reading my friend Nicole's blog, Drawing Lines, when I came across a link to this petition against the Reproductive Health Bill.

Before I used to think that the authors of the RH Bill, while horribly misinformed, could at least be charitably termed "well-meaning". While I still hold to my original position, the upcoming birth of my 3rd child (and 1st daughter) Lucia Consuelo is making me reconsider my position.

It's not enough to be sincere. Lord knows, I've been sincerely wrong on a number of occasions. However, it is our duty to always consider whether what we believe in is true. There are some things which are grounded in human fact, and these are important to consider. I daresay that the contestants on Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader, such as Kathy Cox would rather know what the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow is lest they meet the fate that befalls all bridge keepers who can't distinguish between the African or European variety. And yet human fact pales in comparison with human truth; and human truth is but a pale reflection of a divine truth that makes all these facts and truths make sense.

So please take time to consider your position on the RH Bill. I know that, given both the facts and the truths that inform my understanding of these facts, I am.

And for all those who enjoyed the reference to Monty Python and the Holy Grail, here's how one can go about Estimating the Airspeed Velocity of an Unladen Swallow.

Requiescat in Pace

Please pray for the repose of the soul of my grandmother, Carmen Vargas Borra, who passed away peacefully earlier this morning. A beautiful, elegant woman, she willfully chose to be a wife and mother above else. One could perhaps gently chide her for harboring no ambitions in life, or for never seriously entertaining any pursuits outside of her family. But in retrospect, my Mamang probably had a keener appreciation than most for the finest things in life. Her sole ambition was to raise a happy, loving family. For the most part, and I have only the singular pleasure of having grown up in a family which she had infused with warmth and joy simply by loving my father, one could say that she succeeded. Rest in peace, Mamang.

From Gallipoli to Victory

Last night, my son, Juan woke up his mama, Tina, to complain of an itching sensation. Naturally, Tina went right to the heart of the problem and concluded, with all the grim determination of the Joint Chief of Staffs during the Vietnam Conflict, that she would have to administer anti-allergy medicine to alleviate Juan's distress.

Of course Juan, like any other hyperactive two year-old who had been conditioned to view all medicines as "yucky" and all cockroaches as "funny" would rather play with a cockroach than gulp down his medicine. Which he tried to do, to the consternation of the roaches who happened to be in the vicinity of our bed. Thus began a long, epic battle of wills between parents and the parented. Juan kicked, screamed, squirmed, and in the end, hissed and spat. Mama ducked, while Papa was covered in dollops of medicinal vomit. Eerily, visions of Peter Weir's classic movie on the Battle of Gallipoli featuring a young Mel Gibson, Gallipoli , flashed through my mind, along with other such classically inspired military debacles.

But Juan had spat out his last. Weakened, and perhaps awed by Mama and Papa's resolve (No, it was probably because he was weakened; I must consciously remind myself to avoid the pitfalls of all conquerors who seek to rewrite history), Juan grudgingly agreed to gulp down his medicine. Victory! Wait, wasn't that a cheesy, yet indelibly and unabashedly feel-good movie starring Pele and Sylvester Stallone? What the heck. Mama and I settled down to watch CSI: NY. I must remember to upgrade the software on my stream of consciousness ruminations...

Photo Credits:
Picture of Victory comes courtesy of IMDB.