Week 33 - Honest Abe

I know, I know. Wicked long layoff. Sorry. But two weekends ago we had a shower here in DC which included houseguests, and that complicated the weekend and made the pregnant lady tired tired tired. As such, we failed to go on our photoshoot on Sunday. Fortunately, the houseguests, our friends Shawn and Sarah (who, it should be noted were separately Shawn and Sarah when they arrived at our home, but by all indications were rather collectively Shawn and Sarah by the time they left) did some excellent photojournalistic documentation during a moonlit trip to the Lincoln Memorial and environs, so week 33 is officially "guest photographer week" here at Puck's Progress.

Actually, before we got to Abe's Pagoda...


No, no, you must have misunderstood. I said "Abe's Pagoda."

Sheesh. Sight gags are too damn easy on the internet.

Anyway, before we got to the Lincoln Memorial we stopped off for a quickE=MC2 with Albert Einstein who's camped outside the National Academy of Sciences.


From there it was an easy wander over to the Lincoln, and we arrived just as the Park Ranger with the bathroom key was leaving. Which was only a problem because he left BEFORE we knew he was the one with the bathroom key. And even so, this was only a problem for one of us (guess who). So our visit was short. But Anna managed to stand still long enough for this time lapse of the Washington Monument and Reflecting Pool.


Yeah, we've used this location before, but this time Anna's not being fondled by a reluctant biker. So I consider that an improvement. And if you need an indication of how far the belly has come since then, head on back to week 25 for a reminder.

Meanwhile, the bladder clock was ticking, so we only had a few minutes, but Shawn did grab what might be the shot of the series if only because it has given me the ultimate confidence that this whole "being a parent" thing is going to work out just fine.


I just don't think there's any way I can fuck this up with a disembodied Abe Lincoln floating over my left shoulder. Unless, of course, there's a disembodied Abe Vigoda floating over my right. If I catch wind of that, all bets are off.

Look for week 34 before it's time to post week 35...

Week 32 - Hoya Saxa

My initial thought upon bringing Puck to Georgetown for the first time was that this would be a fantastic opportunity to show him or her--and through the magic of digital photography, you--all the places where our posse did ourselves proud during four years of nose-to-the-grindstone academic and athletic achievement.

The ivy outside Village A 87 where Sell "reverse drank" a funnel of Milwaukee's Best.

The square of cement outside Reiss that leapt up and shattered G's navicular bone on an innocent trip home from the Tombs. Running backwards.

The second floor balcony of 3413 R Street from which Paul dumped a spaghetti pot full of rancid kitchen leftovers on my unsuspecting head.

Unfortunately 3413 is a swank, privately owned home now, likely complete with a lobbyist and a golden retriever in the backyard. Wonder how long it will take them to realize they're sitting on about 13 years worth of toxic waste worthy of a SuperFund designation. And the rest of those halcyon locales of yore really don't look like much to an eye bereft of our shared intellectual experience. Stripped of its "NO OGLING" and "NO FLAUTING" signs, the front of Henle 40 sports nothing more than hardpacked dirt, chipped brick, and mistreated venetian blinds.

So instead, we went to the gift shop.


And then we did venture out to some of the more classic bits of campus. The lawns and halls trod by three generations of Conathans: Ed ('42), John ('67) and me ('94).



No pressure, though, Puck...




...there's no need to follow in ALL your father's footsteps.

Week 31 - Delusions of grandeur

It's starting to get a little cranky here in Conathan-land. Those pregnancy books don't lie: first trimester = tired and pissy, second trimester = high-flyin' good times, and third trimester = tired, pissy, AND bloated. So I started thinking to myself: there must be someone more unpopular than the guy who knocked up his wife and now gets to cool himself off with a nice gin and tonic, sleep through the night without getting up to pee three times, and NOT carry around an extra thirty pounds.

And then it came to me:


With junior's approval ratings slumping to just 26% in the latest Newsweek poll--only slightly north of Julio Lugo's batting average--the White House was a mortal lock for Place Where Mike Is Not the Least Popular Guy Around. So off we went.

This was not Puck's first visit to Casa W. Back in late January, one of my co-workers was kind enough to set us up on a tour of the West Wing. Here we are, as a matter of fact, in the Rose Garden. I know, it's dark, and there are no roses. But trust me. That portico thing in the background that you can barely make out? You recognize that, don't you? Outside the Oval Office? Where Martin Sheen goes to brood and make his really hard decisions? Work with me here.

It was on this trip that Anna endeared herself to the Bush Administration. I'm expecting some kind of executive branch appointment any day now. We were standing outside the Roosevelt Room, and when the conversation took this delightful turn:

TOUR GUIDE (AKA, SPECIAL ASSISTANT TO THE PRESIDENT): Over there on the wall is Teddy Roosevelt's Nobel Peace Prize. He is the only sitting US President ever to have been awarded one.

ANNA: Oh yeah? How's it look for George?

[LONG BEAT OF STRAINED SILENCE]

TOUR GUIDE: Not good.

Needless to say, we weren't invited back in for iced tea and a dip in the pool. We were left to commune with the hoi polloi out front.


Naturally, some of the rabble were more rousing than others. We were really hoping this guy had a website we could direct you to, but apparently his campaign to become president via Constitutional amendment hasn't made the leap into cyberspace.


He seemed like a nice enough guy, but presidential material? It's just not that hard to get your own blog together and cobble up a few planks for your campaign platform. At least he was clever enough to cut an eye hole in his head sign.

A call for change is in the air outside the White House, but the question remains: a change to what? If "Me for President" ain't it, and I feel pretty confident he ain't, why not look to some fresh blood?


Puck in '08!

Week 30 - Puck puts down roots

Last week was likely the pinnacle of our summer. I know, we're peaking early. But given the increasing frequency of the under-the-ribs harrassment Anna's getting from her uterine tenant, and the sultry torpidity of DC's infamous, swampy summer weather, the time we spent at the Conathan family beach shack at Saquish is the early clubhouse leader for top dog days. Finn would clearly agree.

A Saquish (pronounce it SAY-kwish) tutorial for the unannointed: it's a strip of barrier beach about halfway between Cape Cod and Boston--check the map--closest town is Duxbury. There are no utilities, no phones, and no paved roads. Boat or four wheel drive are
your only transporation options. Technically, cell phones work out there, though Saquish purists frown upon their use, and I noticed that blackberry batteries have a mysterious tendency to lose their charge upon reaching Gurnet Head and without a power outlet to crank them back up, what's a congressional staffer to do? Not work, apparently. I opted for a lot of sitting on my ass and drinking beer.

Anna, meanwhile, sat for pictures. Or, occasionally, laid down and hosted some of the local tidepool dwellers.

Only slightly more than an hour's drive from Boston, including a 30 minute sojourn over the dunes, the beach is literally unknown to the vast majority of even lifelong Massholes (no offense intended, it's just a far more pronouncable term than "Massachusettsians"). Even cyberspace has yet to discover this oasis of rusticity--google "saquish" and hit "I'm feeling lucky" and you'll end up at a site hosted by our friends Jamie and Molly Talbot with a slate of photos from a weekend excursion in 2003.


The house itself was built by my grandfather, Ed Conathan, after his return from World War II, and the place has borne witness to the ongoing evolution of the six Conathan kids of my father's generation, and the eleven Conathan/Kopke/VanOrden kids of my generation. I don't know whether my cousin Jenny (due in August) has ventured out to the cottage with her cargo, but it was a good feeling to deliver a fourth generation.


We're back in DC now, and into the home stretch. More monuments tomorrow since we're already on to week 31--lack of electricity makes for late blogging. The mercury's supposed to hit 99, so maybe we'll find some more of those nice fountains around town... Until then, signing off...