Today marks the last day of school and thus the end of the boys’ first foray into the public school system. This photograph is not from today though, but rather from last September on the first day of school. It just seemed more fitting. The weather in Portland today is more akin to February or March. I have the heat on and I’m wearing a sweatshirt and stocking cap. There was to be a picnic in the park for the last day of school, but those plans were nixed. They did go bowling though, bowling being an activity that knows no weather obstructions. I brought their teachers some flowers and chocolate. The boys gave their teachers the gifts, said thanks and goodbye, and then we hung around playing with their friends. All in all, it wasn’t all that eventful.
It’s kind of mind boggling to me that they just finished kindergarten, that they can read now, that they can do complex math. But it doesn’t feel so monumental. It’s just terrifying, because now we have to figure out something for the summer. We’ve got a couple camps lined up, but they’re insanely expensive. Time to pull it together, act like a real family, and just suffer together and make each other miserable. That’s what summer time is all about!
Lisa is taking the boys to New Jersey on Thursday for eleven days, so I actually will have some time to myself. I am going to the beach with Melissa for the weekend for what will be my first vacation sans children in a very long time. I am very excited. I imagine it will postpone my complete and total nervous breakdown by at least four to six weeks. Vacation!
Couple photos of the boys: last day at play.

My phone recently broke. It works just fine, but the plastic casing is literally broken and coming apart. I went down to my friendly Cingular dealer to get a new phone (what service!). I walked out with a free promotional deal: a Sony Walkman phone. Its target market? I’m guessing the 14 to 16 year old set. It’s loaded up with tons of pointless and incredibly entertaining little features. Here’s one!
This is Derryck on his new bike. Today is his birthday. His incredibly thoughtful girlfriend Meghan found him nearly the exact same bike as the one that was stolen a year or so ago. Nice work Meghan! Happy Birthday Derryck!

The boys had their kindergarten music program today. I thought to bring my camera, remembered it was out of batteries, and then forgot it all together when I left the house. There were a number of hands raised above everyone’s heads, hands making that ridiculous shape that is formed only when taking a picture with a camera phone. God bless the camera phone. Now we can document every sentimental moment with a grainy photograph.

The Willamette Week’s feature this week coincidentally–no, it’s not ironic, mind you–touches on a topic I’ve been thinking about the past few days. Specifically, the article is about the disparity between the amount a college graduate makes when they’re in the workplace and the amount they owe for their education. Generally though, the article gets at the fact that the job market is not really set up to provide wages that allow for a decent standard of living.
My parents are often urging me to find a real job, something with a salary, with benefits, retirement, etc. I tell them, they are not really out there, the way they used to be. Just get your foot in the door, my mom says, and then you’ll be able to work up to it. But, they don’t want your foot in the door, I tell her. Salary, fine, a job might provide, but health benefits? This is such an outrageous cost for any business–a cost that is guaranteed to rise year after year–that they offer it to as few as people possible. I’ve talked to people with “real” jobs in this town, like Adidas, and they confirm this. Businesses want part time, three quarter time, free lance: they want dispensable workers who they don’t have to entice with insurance or benefits. And in Portland, that is quite easy to find.
So I, like many in town, have been working in the service industry ever since graduating from an elite liberal arts college, my English Major in hand. (Actually, I did work a few months for some manipulative non-profit types at a local theater company where they took full advantage of me and payed me shit and at a call center making reservations for state parks). Soon enough, I realized I could work less, make more, and have way more flexibility working in a coffee shop, The World Cup*. Then I realized I could make even more, working the same, with the same amount of flexibility busing tables at a fancy restaurant in town.
I began to get a tick while at the coffee shop, something I couldn’t quite identify. I developed a strong feeling towards some of the customers, a very deep seated intense feeling that I hadn’t felt in such a pure way. It wasn’t until I began busing tables at the restaurant that I realized this feeling was absolute hatred for the human race. Once I identified this feeling it gesticulated to the point where if a gunmen had come in and opened fire, I would not race to cover the innocent patrons, I would not race to remove myself from the building: I would laugh maniacally like a four year old watching a roman candle. It took some time from when the feeling first fully set in until I was able to vacate the job, but I knew that it was absolutely necessary for my soul.
I never wanted to work in service again after that job, but circumstances allowed for me to get a job at The Fresh Pot**. The Fresh Pot was, is, and always will be my favorite coffee shop in the world. It has always been home to great people providing a great product with great service and a clientele that reflects this. We have a great customer base who are incredibly kind and considerate, tip well, and are genuinely friendly and often times, friends with the staff. Of late though, as the street, Mississippi Ave is overtaken with boutiques and condos, the customer base is shifting some. Weekends are a whole different scene from when I started nearly four years ago. The weekend customers are not the neighborhood folk, but more like those from the World Cup, o so many years ago. The customers demand more, tip less, and are genuinely less friendly.
These new folk have got me thinking some about the nature of customer service. There are those–Eternal Assholes, let’s call them–who will always make every aspect of life difficult. Expecting these people to behave differently is like expecting the sun to rise from the West. And then, I believe there are those who simply don’t understand the way the system works. There are plenty of people who’ve never worked service jobs before and don’t understand the dynamic. I also believe there are plenty of people who get uncomfortable when outside of their regular routine or environment and react to the discomfort by becoming more defensive and less friendly. So for any of these folk–good, kind people who just don’t really know what is expected of them in a coffee shop specifically, or any kind of service situation generally–I would like to offer a brief rundown of proper etiquette.
1) When someone greets you, greet them back. Sure, it’s cursory, seemingly unimportant, seemingly superficial, but hey, that’s what separates us from the savages, is it not? Someone says, “How are you?” You say, “good, thanks.”
2) Ask for what you’d like, such as “I would like a large coffee,” or “I will have a large coffee.” Saying, “Give me…” sounds abrasive and demanding.
3) The amount of time between when you place your order and when your drink is ready will vary depending on a) the complexity of your order and b) the number of drinks ahead of you. Keep this in mind. If it’s real busy and you order a latte–or similarly at a bar, a complex mixed drink–the next drink placed on the counter is not yours. It simply is not. Just be aware. If you ordered a coffee, it will probably be ready soon.
4) The transaction is a mutual benefit to both the customer and the business. We are providing a good or service that you need or want; you are supporting the business through your patronage. Personally, I believe “Thank You” should be said on both ends at some point during the transaction. But, “You’re Welcome” should not be said by either side, especially the customer. You are choosing to patronize the business and so you are free to decide not to continue going there in the future. But it is not a charity, you are not donating to a cause: you are having a need met.
5) Remember what you ordered. If you ordered a large latte, then the small caramel latte is not yours.
6) General rule: If they take your order at the table, then they will bring you your food and clear your plates. If you order at a counter, they may bring you your food/drinks, but you will need to bus them yourself. If you’re unsure, ask someone. Where do you want this? If it’s a coffee shop, bus your own table.
7) If you see someone being real jokey and kind of rude with the employees and they are all laughing and you think, “I can do this too!” You can not. Charm is not quantifiable and some people are able to pull off behavior that, when coming from someone else can seem quite rude or inappropriate. It’s like watching Michael Jordan jump from the free throw line and dunk the ball and think, “I can jump, I can hold a basketball: therefore, I can do what he does.” Some things are beyond explanation and this must be accepted to succeed in life.
8) Do not sit at a table in a business establishment if you have not bought anything. If it’s busy, put your bag at a table and get in line like everyone else. And, real important here, if you do sit at a table and buy nothing, do not act surprised and/or offended when someone asks you to please order something. Should there be more public places in this country? Sure. Should private business owners lose customers in order to subsidize free public space? No. Tables are for customers. If you’re not a customer, really, seriously, what are you doing there?
I am sure I will have more to add to this list soon. And if you, Dear Readers, have anything to add, please do. It’s an important list.
*Here’s an article my friend Justin and I wrote for the Portland Mercury about working at the coffee shop, which is located in a super fucking green building in town, home to all sorts of environmental organizations. Did they use loads and loads of paper cups for their dumbass drinks? Well, read the article.
**Here’s the trailer for the awful movie that was filmed in the shop two summers ago. It stars Morgan Freeman and Greg Kinnear and is filled with bad sex and hot lesbian action. That is not a joke.

Sunny, beautiful afternoon. The boys’ basketball hoop, recently disabled–due to a monster jam by yours truly–was put back together by Derryck and fully functional. As we barbequed and worked in the yard the boys continued to shoot baskets and mostly dunk the ball. They preceded each dunk by saying, “you want to see how Brandon Roy dunks the ball,” or “this is how Brandon Roy dunks it.” Over and over for hours. Yesterday I told the boys about the Brandon Roy basketball camp this summer. My children believe very little I say to them because of the amount of joking I do with them, so it took several reassurances before they believed me that this camp was real and yes, Brandon Roy would actually be there. They were very excited. The only problem: it’s $350 each. Any time something costs way more than I can afford I tell them, “better ask Grandma and Grandpa,” either ones and probably better to ask both with this price tag.

What could Brandon Roy really teach two six year olds? Would Brandon Roy really be there to teach them anything? Will they even remember or care later in life who Brandon Roy is? These are all valid questions, but really totally beside the point when considering the possibility of my children attending the Brandon Roy basketball camp. It’s Brandon fucking Roy, destined to be one the greatest Blazers of all time alongside Clyde Drexler as well a NBA hall of famer. So yes, it’s worth it. Feel like donating? Making their dreams come true?
One of the best moments tonight: Eban said, “Who wants to see me dunk the ball?” Derryck, Meghan, Lisa and I all sat at the table watching. “Raise your hand,” he said. We all raised our hands. He went up and hit the rim, missing badly. “Ok,” he said. “Who wants to see me try to dunk the ball?” That’s my boy.
Totally unrelated to basketball or Brandon Roy, we pulled up to the house yesterday and saw Frank the cat–my life partner–approaching with something in his mouth. Lisa said it looked like he had a bird in his mouth. Madee said, “It looks like Frank grew pig lips.” I don’t know. We laughed very hard.

There are times when I am jealous of the era of the housewife. Firstly, I don’t even know if there was a real era of the housewife as I imagine it or if it’s a perception I have due to popular media. Secondly, i don’t necessarily wish to have a housewife: I wish to be a housewife. I don’t like the idea of anyone having their pursuits limited or of being forced into a difficult and unappreciated role, that being I believe the prevailing perceptions of a “housewife.” What I am jealous of is the ability to afford a parent to stay at home and take on what is a full time job of just running a household. I believe I know one set of parents who do not both work full–or nearly full–time jobs. I would like running my household to be my day job and then I can pursue music outside of that. As it is now, I work a full time job, I try to keep a household from crumbling into total disarray, and I try to pursue music. And so I feel mostly unsuccessful and frustrated in all three areas.
I realized the other night though, if I could afford to pay someone for some kind of relief from one of the daily duties, I would hire a cook. On the surface, paying someone to make your meals seems like the least necessary and most excessive choice over say, a maid or a nanny. The realization came to me the other night, having sat through the boys’ swim lessons, while waiting for them to get dressed. It was nearly five thirty and by the time we would get home and I get dinner together it would be pushing six thirty. I try to have them in bed, lights out, by eight if possible, eight thirty for sure. Ideally, there’s enough time after dinner to clean up the kitchen, etc so that when they’re finally in bed I don’t have to deal with a complete cluster fuck in the kitchen (this is almost always the case). Dinner is best had between five thirty and six, meaning preparation is done by five, maybe a little before depending on how ambitious the meal is (and it’s rarely very ambitious at all).
The boys are vegetarian–Lisa is as well; I am not–and I want them to eat well, so these are two complicating factors. If I didn’t really give a shit what they eat it would certainly make things easier. And, I don’t necessarily want to eat the exact same thing all the time so I am always trying to mix it up a little, though we do eat an unhealthy amount of pizza and burritos. Either way, I figure the amount of time involved surrounding making dinner at home to be in the area of two hours, sometimes more, from the prep to the meal to the clean up. And that is a big chunk of time at the end of the day that is totally exhausting.
There are certainly things I could do to make dinner go more smoothly–certainly if I were a better cook, for one–such as making a weekly menu. That is difficult too and really not the kind of thing that comes naturally to me. I have worked at it, but since it’s difficult, I have yet to be successful. Neil Young says a man needs a maid: I want a cook.
(I don’t necessarily have a photograph to correspond with the post, but looking at past posts, the ones sans photographic accompaniment seem–to put it bluntly–unimportant and just plain boring. So, here you go. It is children eating–or after eating, I guess–which is loosely related, though it’s at a nearby pizza place that shall remain unnamed because the pizza sucks. But, I like the place. And, it was a real nice afternoon when my girlfriend Melissa and I took Eban, Madee, and her daughter Ida to the park and then walked over for pizza. Ida–who has a little crush on Eban–put her hands up very close to him and signed “I love you”, to which he responded, “Will you get that out of my face?” So sweet. This is right after and Eban is uncomfortable and probably about to say, “Dad…” in a slightly sweet, annoyed voice).

Anyone who reads this probably knows that I play music under the name mbilly: it’s a calculated plan to feed off the popularity of Bonnie Prince Billy and M. Ward; previously I had toyed with the name Iphone Obama). I don’t make a whole lot of money playing out–if any–nor do I have a whole lot of money sitting around to spend on either recording or actually putting out a record, so I decided it was time to have some schwag to sell. My good buddy Adam started a business and so I asked him if he could make me some shirts. I wanted to use one of Eban’s drawings for the shirt, one that I’ve had up on the site before I think. I told Eban that I’d be using it, but obviously he didn’t really understand what that meant.

(This image is in brown ink on a pink American Apparel shirt).
When Eban saw the finished shirts he was excited the fact that his drawing was on the shirt. He said something about where to sell them and how much we would sell them for. Buddy, I said, you’re not going to get the money from the shirts. He smiled like he thought I was kidding and said, but I drew the picture. Yeah, but did you buy the shirts or pay to have them printed? Now i feel like a capilist asshole rippipng off the artist. Then Lisa came down and he said, Mom you can have one for free. I told him we couldn’t give them away, half-jokingly since I had planned on giving one to Lisa. It’s just Mom he said. We will sell them to all our friends and people who want one, he said, for $5. I shook my head. $10 he asked? I shook my head. How much do you want to sell them for, he asked. I could tell that he was thinking this was going to make a lot of money.
After Eban told Blue and Lisa they could both have a shirt, he later said, Dad you can take one. One what, I said. You can have a shirt, he said very earnestly. I told the boys that the shirts are mine and I am going to sell them and I am going to get the money. Since I used their drawings–I used one of Madee’s to make buttons–I would pay them some amount. You could pay us thirty, Eban said. I am not going to pay you thirty dollars, I said. That’s a lot! You could pay us fifteen, he said, to me and Madee. That is still a lot, I said. We went on like this for a while. Finally, I got into some discussion about how they should be happy that their drawing is on a shirt or button and that if they were going to ask for money, then next time I wouldn’t use their work. It was really weird. I’m having a weird business interaction with my sons. They owe me thousands upon thousands of dollars! Why the fuck should I pay them anything for their drawings? I told them I would buy them a toy. Madee said, Ok, how about a toy from Rerun? Rerun is a really awesome neighborhood consignment store. Toys there top out at about five dollars. Eban said, Ok, but I want a toy from Toy’s R Us. At least I know he’ll be the one with money someday and can support me. Then again, my dad assumed that about me. How sad it will be when I drive my father to cash his social security checks just to get enough money so I can buy beer.
The t-shirts re-ignited a whole thing with the boys about selling their drawings for lots of money. I mentioned the upcoming art show at the Fresh Pot–which is what spawned this whole money from art obsession in the first place nearly a year ago–so they spent half an hour drawing pictures that I presume they plan to make a bunch of money off of. I’m a little nervous. Money has already become an issue with them because they have somehow amassed over twenty bucks each in their piggy banks. Eban has nearly thirty. I’ve always thought it a good thing for them to get money and save it, but they’ve become little assholes about it. If they ruin things or waste things, I will make them pay for it. Or, if they are being completely ridiculous–like saying they looked all over for their pajamas and can’t find any in the entire house–I will offer my services for a fee. But sometimes, like when they recently wasted a bunch of my expensive hair product–yes, yes, I look like a total asshole now, I know (i can write a whole entry on why this stuff!)–after I told them they would have to pay for it, Eban said, “that’s ok. I’ve got $30.” He made me so fucking mad.

The boys were given projects, a “Special Interest Report”–optional, mind you–to do outside of class. They had a list of suggested topics of study such as: a type of dinosaur; building a fort; a special place; a special person; a volcano. Madee settled right in on that last one and decided he would very much like to build a volcano. I said ok, let’s do it. I’ve never made one of these volcanos before–you know the kind, that shoot red liquid up out over a paper mache mountain–but I am a resourceful gent. I suggested that there were friends of ours that had probably done these things before and knew more than I, people such as Derryck or Lisa’s boyfriend, Blue (I had no real reason to believe Derryck knew anything about making these kind of volcanos, other than the fact that he has an obsession with molten rock and lava; Blue is very handy and clever so I just thought their was a decent chance he would know something about this kind of thing). It turned out Blue had made such a thing before and he set to work creating a paper mache replica of grand scale.
Madee acted as a kind of foreman for the job. Blue had been setting the whole thing up the first day and once the table was set for dinner, Madee asked, “Blue, will you keep working on it while we eat?” Then, a couple days later, while applying the newspaper, Blue paused to read something on the paper he was holding. Madee asked, “Are you supposed to be doing that?”
Eban came up to me last week and said, “Dad, for my project I want to paint a masterpiece.” Then he handed me his “Special Interest Report” from school. Under topic, he had written in, “Paint a masterpiece.” What did he want to paint, I asked? Squidward, he said, who is the–aptly named–squid from Spongebob. Let me just digress here for one second to say–in case those of you reading do not have kids or cable and have never had reason to watch a “children’s show”–that Spongebob is by far one of the funniest shows on tv, period. Because of college basketball, I was forced to watch CBS and its ads for “Two and a half Men” which it called “America’s Funniest Comedy.” Each time I watched clips of this show–staring Charlie Sheen and Duckie–I vomited directly onto my crotch in revulsion. Spongebob is funnier than the current Simpsons episodes–anything after the 14th or 15th season–and pretty much anything else currently on primetime.
Anyhoo, I am not an artist and since Eban was supposed to research his “painting a masterpiece project” I called our good friend Tarp (née Ryan Pierce). Like I said, I am not an artist, but Tarp is what I consider one of them folk who is obscenely, disgustingly talented. I ain’t bullshitting you. Observe. I asked Tarp if he might teach my young son a thing or two about the art of painting. He agreed. And so the master taught his young apprentice the fine art of at least looking like you’re serious.

I was impressed though, when Lisa asked Eban what he learned from Tarp, he answered: don’t press too hard and take your time. That’s the best advice you can take from any lesson on any subject. After the lesson they celebrated in a very European way, with the young boy gleefully chasing a balloon while his master stares out the window in deep thought.

Eban decided at the last minute to switch subjects and so he painted Patrick, the starfish, instead. I like Patrick a lot more than Squidward anyway, so I supported this decision. He has yet to finish the painting, but when he days I will be sure to include some updated photographs.
This is what the finished volcano looked like. Children and adults alike were wowed.

Lisa set up some poster board covered with photos for the birthday party a couple weeks ago. It’s been sitting in the living room since then. The majority of the photos are of the boys in their first three to six months of life. Then there’s a few of Lisa and I holding them and this one, of Madee and I. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen a picture of myself as an “adult” where I am obviously much younger than I am now. I was twenty two at the time of the picture, but a lot of people–especially middle-aged folk–assumed I was much younger. I remember being at the park with the boys once and this elderly woman said, “you’re not old enough to be a father? What are you, sixteen?” I stole her wallet and ran with the boys, one tucked under each arm.
I looked young when the boys were born. I still look young to be a father, I guess, but I’m used to it now. It was so frustrating at the time, being aware of the fact that we were young, and being constantly talked down to by “adults” who said we had absolutely no idea what we were doing. And it’s true, we did not. However, we were perfectly aware of the fact that we had no fucking idea what we were doing. And so, we attended classes. No less than three different classes on being a parent and raising children, one of which was specifically for parents of multiples. I have to give Lisa credit for all of this, because she’s the one who researched the classes and signed us up. She also read numerous books on all aspects of the pregnancy. We busted our asses to be as prepared as possible for what was coming. But it didn’t matter. No amount of preparation could convince the “adults” around us that we were seriously trying to do whatever we could to be ready.
I am not a rich man. And as I get older, I’m gradually accepting the fact that I will never be a rich man. Along with this acceptance comes the realization that the benevolence and generosity I will bestow on society once I get rich is unlikely to ever happen. But still, should I ever come into a bit of money, I would love to contribute to–or establish if there isn’t yet something decent of its nature–a non-profit that provides free counseling, classes, childcare, etc for young parents, especially teenagers. Lisa and I would talk about this often when the boys were first born. I always come back to, if it is this difficult for me–raised in a white, upper middle class family with two loving parents, educated at an expensive liberal arts college–how do the people with a really fucked up background stand a chance? Getting social services involves an immense amount of time and energy, not to mention a decent understanding of how somewhat complex civil systems work. You have to be on top of your shit to stay on food stamps or Oregon Health Plan, or conversely, in such a mess that you find yourself with a social worker and then basically you’re plugged into a separate system with more assistance and much more government intrusion. Either way, it’s no picnic.
To some degree, the inexperience that comes along with being young always complicates our lives. But if you’re talking about teenagers, it’s not just inexperience that they’re dealing with. They’re battling with their physiology (this is almost undoubtedly not the right word choice; I am not a doctor) and the fact that their decision making ability is not yet fully matured. Couple that with hormones and societal pressures and it’s easy to understand why teens in general and teenage parents specifically, make bad decisions.
Is it obvious that I just had to reapply for Oregon Health Plan for my children or that I have to do a phone interview soon to renew food stamps? It’s mind numbing and ridiculous with forms and forms for forms and copies of pay stubs and whatever else. And it’s never everything they need, even though you send in everything they ask for, they always need something else before they can process your application. And in the meantime, your kids don’t have health insurance. And then you think about the thousands–multiple, four? five? thousand– you spent on health insurance last year through an employer and what did you get? Not a goddamn thing. It is a beautiful system we got going here. So please: go easy on the young people.

I missed Wednesday’s post and I apologize. I have good reason though: birthday week. And, secondly maybe, the start of the NCAA tournament (here’s my bracket!). Monday was the boys’ sixth birthday and to celebrate we took them bowling along with ten of their friends and classmates. Taking ten 5/6 year olds bowling–plus 3 year olds–is slightly overwhelming. I’m happy to say the HBC (the initials for the three last names in our family: Helfrich Bogan Corona) dominated the lanes with Eban, Madee, and I winning lanes 1, 2, and 3 respectively. The boys made out pretty well with a couple remote controlled cars among other items.
Last night was the big kids party. Each year we have a party for all our friends who’ve helped us out so much over the years. We give them a bunch of beer and wine and food. It’s always much fun. The boys made out really well here to, killer wooden swords perhaps the highlight. This year the boys decorated their own cakes. Eban made an amazing face on his with M&M eyes and mouth and large stawberrys for rosy cheeks. Madee turned his cakes surface into a violent tableau of a battle between skeleton warriors and pirates. Amidst the violence are several blueberrys, M&M’s, and lots and lots of sprinkles.
Six years on and we’re all still here. Not only that, but the boys are both some kind of math wiz. Maybe we’re not the monsters I made us out to be. Happy 6th!