Getting My Presents Wrapped Up

Every year, the Christmas season offers me a distinct reminder of what I miss most about living at home: Having someone else purchase the gifts I plan on handing out.

The Beast has long believed that Jake and I should give each other gifts, but, in our earliest years, she was pragmatic enough to understand that if the task of picking, purchasing and personalizing this gift were left to us, it would never (ever) get done.

Thus, every year, mid-way through December, The Beast would discreetly pull us aside, one at a time, and show us the gift we would be giving.

We would have no idea where it came from, how much it cost, or if had ever been requested.

But then came the catch.

With this much of the process already completed, we, understandably, reacted poorly when asked to do the wrapping. The situation was finally resolved when we, reluctantly, agreed to apply the correct names to the “to” and “from” areas of the adhesive gift tag.

When the time came to give gifts to relatives, The Beast considered her options and decided it was much easier to simply choose and buy another gift, rather than subject herself to the sounds Jake and I would make when asked what we’d like to give to some random relative.

In our defense, our young minds were abuzz with original gift ideas, but The Beast would have none of it.

“What should we give Uncle Carl? I would ask, with all the insight a seven-year-old could muster. “How about a big pile of crap? That would suit him perfectly.”

This comment would cause Hal to burst out laughing (before a quick, cold stare from The Beast silence him), but nothing ever happened.

Jake might helpfully chime in with the belief that our least favorite cousin (if you’re reading this, you know who you are) should be given a gift certificate to a bottomless pit of snakes.

In recent years (ever since the Condom Piñata Incident, at least) the cousins on The Beast’s side of the family have been hosting an annual “Cousins Night,” which precedes the larger family gathering the next day.

It is, as you might imagine, less interesting than the glowing nuance of my words suggests.

The most nefarious part of this event, however, is that the organizers administer Secret Santa-like gift assignments several weeks beforehand. Participation, I am annually informed, is not optional.

[It’s worth noting that a handful of these cousins have long since renounced religion and America, and become devout Communists. As a result, this gift exchange is less of a Secret Santa and more of a Mysterious Marx or Surreptitious Stalin.]

Falling back on life experience, I have, in past years, bought exactly zero of the gifts I have been ordered to give.

I have revisited the familiar ritual of my youth. Although it once took place in our living room, and it now occurs over the phone, the main points and end results remain the same:

The Beast: Do you know you were assigned your cousin Kevin for Surreptitious Stalin?

Me: Yes, I heard that, but I’m not doing it this year.

TB: Yes, you are!

M: Nope.

TB: Well, I found out he wants a [inane gift], can you just go get it?

M: I refuse.

TB: Fine – if you get it, I’ll pay you back.

M: I reaffirm my refusal.

TB: OK, you little snot, I’ll buy it if you just wrap it when you get here.

M: Out of the question.

TB: Will you at least sign the gift tag?

M: Do I have to hand him the gift at the party?

TB: No.

M: Agreed. I’ll see you on the 21st.

Aside from Christmas with the proletariat on The Beat’s side, I am very excited for these upcoming holidays.

From what I hear, The Beast has already wrapped some things Jake is really going to thank me for.

Parking

In preparation for my trip home this Christmas, The Beast has already drafted a spectacularly long list of proposed activities.

Many of these things on this list are trips to see assorted family members—but a handful of them take place in downtown Seattle.

For some, an evening in the Emerald City sounds like a lot of fun, but to me it just sounds like a lot of walking.

To fully grasp this sentiment, it helps to understand one of Hal’s most passionately held beliefs.

“Those big parking garages,” he has often explained, “are monuments to the weakness and laziness of mere men.”

This belief was extended, of course, to pay-by-the-hour parking lots or any designated park-and-ride area. Putting coins in a street-side meter was even farther outside the realm of possibility.

When it came to finding a temporary place to rest our car, Hal saw a grand game afoot—and he was a player, not the played.

Hal’s reasoning, by his estimation, was simple: He had paid for the car, his taxes had paid for the roads, and he had paid (after finding a steep discount) for whichever event he was attending – no force on earth, hell or hereafter was going to get him to pay for parking once he got there.

This is where all the walking came in.

Since the areas surrounding a major attraction recognize that an influx of people will need a place to stow their automobile, and will be willing to pay for said luxury, it makes sense that every available space will have a pricetag attached to it.

In concentric circles, the prices become much cheaper the farther away they are from the attraction. Eventually those prices drop to zero.

Hal patrolled those outer valences with the intensity and veracity of an ancient predator.

On countless occasions, our trip to the city for Mariners games, ferry rides, festivals and concerts was preceded by an elaborately—comically, even—long walk from the parking spot Hal had so proudly claimed as his own.

Whereas Safeco Field might have been our destination, Hal could not have been more pleased with the spot he’d found on the southern fringes of Portland.

Jake and I, out of a sense of obligation, provided the requisite amount of complaining, but this availed us nothing. Hal, instead, would speak at great length about how his parking spot was free, and that parking several miles closer wouldn’t make any difference.

Over the last 54 years, Hal has avoided paying 65 cents for parking on dozens of occasions. If all goes well, by his 70th birthday he will have saved nearly $40.

The Hawken Family Newsletter -- It's Too Late to Fix it

I received a gleeful call from The Beast last week.

After weeks of careful planning her favorite project, she was proud to report that the Hawken family newsletter, is finished.

There's a wide variety of things Jake and I dislike about this specific Christmas tradition, but the most unlikable element--by far--is our new found responsiblity of adding content to it.

After drafting my portion of last year’s shamelessly self-congratulating newsletter, I felt I had succinctly and thoroughly summarized the New York experience.

I assumed that, with this task completed, I could, in future editions, focus on more prosaic matters like recently broken bones or the refurnishing of my apartment’s guest bedroom -- the kind of things that get my mother so excited that her eyes roll back into her head.

But NYC, for all its voluminous shortcomings, is a place that does not lend itself to pedestrian fare.

Adding to the excitement of the city is my own inherited narcissism, which, when combined with a major metropolis, finds notably exciting things around every corner.

This trait is obviously the result of a specific gene passed on by my mother which became dominant over my fathers gene which selected for unintentional detached indifference.

None of this really matters now, but I think Gregor Mendel would be happy to know it’s all sorted out.

The Gift of Gifts Which are Not for Me

Ever since I got engaged, The Beast has been gathering baby supplies.

During ensuing 4+ years she has never anxiously asked if and when she'll get her first grandchild, but has instead patiently amassed untold quantities of childrens books, toys and clothing.

It is, by any reckoning, moderately creepy.

I suppose in many ways I am lucky -- most women her age are a source of constant questions regarding when the next generation will begin and what awful family forenames the offspring will bear. The Beast does not trouble herself with such inquiries. She instead ravages the infant and toddler sections of Gap, Sears and Target.

I have seen only a fraction of the things already purchased, and it already wildly outdistances any purchases ever made for me.

Whereas I was expected to happily attend school with imitation Converse (minus the laces) or imitation Roo Shoes (minus the velcro), my future children with be lavishly showered (minus the water) with a wide variety of one-piece velour tracksuits and blue jeans with snaps up the sides.

Watching all of these gifts get dispensed is going to be like watching the disarming of Germany. I can only hope that she has accidentally put some stuff for me in these boxes.

If memory serves, I only received 145 of the possible 147 Transformer action figures. There's still time to complete the set.

Dead Drug Guys

Every parent, at some point, feels the need to express concern for their children's choices in media.

In addition to banning MTV, Saturday Night Live, Channel 5 News and The Davey and Goliath Show, Hal was quite prolific with his opinions about the music to which Ben and I listened.

A line must always be drawn in the sand. For Hal, that line looked like it had been drawn by somebody with ADD.

He would tell us that our music was noisy, but then, strangely, tell us to turn up the stereo when we were listening to songs like LAPD, by The Offspring. He'd say that we were damaging our ears with our music, but would blast Boston albums at full volume early on Saturday mornings.

There was a method to his madness I'm sure, but I think I need to take several courses in Advanced Physics or Applied Dementia before I'll ever understand it.

One example of my inability to understand his criteria is particularly telling.

A few months after the infamous demise of Kurt Kobain, Ben and I were listening to a tape of Nirvana and my dad grumbled into the room after a long afternoon of hitting things with hammers and deepening the ingrained sweat rings on his t-shirt. "What is the deal with you kids?" he asked, attempting to turn down the volume or, perhaps, destory the cassette. "All you wanna do is listen to a bunch of dead drug guys."

He then proceeded to flip on the oldies station and smiled broadly at the first sounds he heard. "Now this is music," he said, "nobody can play like Jimi Hendrix."

Re: Wedding Bells

One thing that has never lacked in the Hawken home is support.

As heretofore mentioned, I recently got engaged. I couldn't possibly ask for a more encouraging response from my family. The following are transcripts of my conversations:

On the Phone With Hal
Jake: Hey Dad, I'm getting married.
Hal: Excellent! Well, I have to go coach football.
J: But isn't it 10 o'clock at night in Washington?
H: And...?

On the Phone With The Beast
Jake: I'm getting married!
The Beast: Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever you just said. Can you call back later? I'm watching "Dancing with the Stars."
J: Aren't you excited?
TB: Ok, ok, ok, GEEZ! Happy Birthday! [click]

On the Phone With Ben
Jake: Hey Ben, I'm getting married!
Ben: Call me back later, this costs too much.
J: We're on the same provider...and it's past 9pm.
B: MONIES! [click]
J: Huh?

Wedding Bells!

Regular readers have probably noticed that Jake is posting even less than usual (which, technically, should take him into negative numbers), but this week he claims to have a good excuse: He says he got engaged.

I don't know anything about this, and even his most energetic promises are suspect, but I tend to believe him this time since I could hear sections of a conversation in the background.

Jake: What do you mean? I'm gonna be rich!

Girl: Nope, sorry.

Jake: I mean really rich! I'll buy you Norway!

Girl: Fine, but no touching.

After hearing this I couldn't help but recall the cheery stories Hal and The Beast used to tell about their courtship. I never really paid attention, but the punchline was always the eloquent way Hal asked his future spouse out on their first date.

It went something like this:

Hal: Hey.

The Beast: Is that you Hal?

H: Yes.

TB: Why are you hiding under my car?

H: Do you want to go out with me or what?

TB: I don't think I understand...

H: Do you wanna go to the Super Sonics game on Friday?

TB: I'm busy that night watching four channels of black-and-white TV and not checking e-mails because those don't exist yet.

H: Then I'm staying put.

TB: Fine, pick me up at 6:30.

Hal and Al's Excellent Adventure

Over the years, Hal hasn't had many kind things to say about Al Gore (or any other elected official), but I believe that the former VP would probably appreciate my old man's efforts to save the planet.

When I was seven, and with no prior warning, Hal suddenly decided to start recycling aluminum cans. This eco-friendly decision did not necessarily make Hal unique, but the way in which he went about doing it certainly did.

Hal recognized that recycling was going on, that anyone could do it, and that, potentially, you could make a couple bucks doing it.

Hal began making contacts throughout the South King County area and securing agreements with said contacts to collect their empty aluminum cans on a regular basis. To augment this bottomless supply of cans, he would constantly (and to our great annoyance) pull off to the side of the road whenever he saw even a solitary can laying along the shoulder.

Not a joke.

Gathering the cans was just the first step, however.

Once the cans were finally brought home the biggest part of the process finally got underway.

Hal specified that each aluminum needed to be crushed via a hand-operated crank or a sledgehammer, and then bagged in monstrous garbage liners.

This was obviously the most labor intensive part of the process and, as luck would have it, included only Jake and me.

We were instructed that all of this can crushing was to be done promptly after our arrival home from school (or during all daylight hours in the summer) before we could start frittering away our time by being happy.

I can still remember Hal saying to us, "You act like this is a prison sentence--I don't think you'll ever do this for much more than three hours a day. On the weekdays. Why are you guys so mad?"

While Hal was conveniently tucked away at work and far removed from all the can crushing, The Beast would sequester herself in the living room and patiently wait for reruns of Quantum Leap (which, at that point, were still five years away).

For the half dozen years it lasted, Hal never provided very convincing reasons for why Jake and I had to do it.

He would, with regularity, rattle off a very shaky story about this being a chance to learn about hard work and how this would be a money-making opportunity that any two kids on the planet would die for.

That fact that justice does in fact exist in the universe was manifested when the scrap yard Hal would use to redeem these cans suddenly burnt to the ground. I say "suddenly" because it was leveled by flames in between two of our visits on the same day.

How can an industrial complex filled with acres of metal and constructed solely of concrete be reduced to rubble via fire? After some reflection, Jake and I concluded it could only be an act of God.

In Hal's mind, this whole can operation was something which we were actually quite enthusiastic about, but we kept our excitement from showing because we were trying to look cool.

To maintain our excitement, Hal did what he could to provide positive motivation.

On numerous occasions--and with no intended sarcasm--Hal would call home from work and tell Jake and me that he had "a big, big surprise" for us. Each time we heard this, we would spend the rest of the afternoon bouncing off the walls and trying to guess what it was bringing. A dog? New bikes? A Toys 'R' Us shopping spree? Our imaginations, as per usual, knew no bounds. We even crushed extra cans in hope of tipping a little extra karma our way.

After hours of breathless anticipation, Hal would arrive home and lead us outside to see the surprise: An unusually large bag of cans. He couldn't fathom why we would suddenly become so upset.

Our heartbreak was partially our own fault. We had forgotten that this had been the "big surprise" each of the last 14 times such a treasure was promised. Each time, as we stood there looking at a bag of cans the size of an obese yak, we would feel a sudden surge of rage unknown to children outside of Third World countries.

The only pile of wrenches in the simple gears of this plan (aside from the incineration of his primary scrap yard) was the remarkably low prices scrap aluminum could fetch in the late 80s and early 90s.

When the cost of the gas necessary to collect all these cans was taken into account, Hal must have been losing money on this venture.

As a mathematician, Hal had to have known this. In the back of his head, I think, he felt that it was money well spent--a chance to teach a fatherly lesson about hard work to his slothful, eccentric sons.

The result?

Jake and I both left home after high school and pursued college degrees and professions that do not involve an iota of physical labor.

And, to this day, neither of us can look at a carbonated beverage with getting angry.

In A Different Chain of Events...

Every once in a while you see something in somebody else's life and realize that this could have been you, had you been faced with a different chain of events in your life than you have.

When reflecting back on one of the murderers in his book, In Cold Blood, Truman Capote commented, "It was as if we were born in the same house, but I went out the front and he went out the back."

In scouring the internet for something to amuse me, I came across a reputable news article and my immediate, gut reaction was, "This is Hal, in an alternate future where he never met The Beast."

Uncle Herb: The Sum of All Fears

When I was a child, I had little reason to want for anything or ever endure the fearsome, icy pangs of terror.

Unless I was in my grandmother Hawken's basement.

In the bottom floor of her home lived my dad's older brother, The Terrifying Uncle Herb.

By the time I met him, The Terrifying Uncle Herb was already in his late 30s, and, although he had never moved out or gotten a job, he had not been entirely complacent--he had, quite apparently, dedicated his every waking moment to becoming a tangible embodiment of every fear a young, hyper-imaginative child could possibly conjure.

My grandmother's home and large backyard was an oasis of fond childhood memories, but the long, narrow hallway leading off of the TV room in her basement was a stark exception to that rule. At the end of this dimly lit passageway, was The Terrifying Uncle Herb's room.

During holidays and mundane family get togethers, my cousins and I would often gather in the TV room to avoid the meandering conversations of our parents, but, invariably, this escape would be ill-fated. Without warning, and with a miasmic presence that would chase all light from the room, The Terrifying Uncle Herb would sweep out of the eerie hallway and into the room.

He would stare and glare and, had he been appropriately articulate, he probably would have snarled.

He would mutter questions about why we were downstairs, what we were watching and why our rapt silence in front of a television set was causing so much noise.

The Terrifying Uncle Herb was a bone-chilling combination of a slovenly appearance, directionless anger, seething frustration and a permeating odor of stale nicotine and room-temperature malt liquor.

None of us could understand at the time how utterly harmless he was or that he was, at best, a pitiful caricature of Harper Lee's famed shadowy neighbor.

We simply could not understand this strange character shuffling back and forth across the cold tile floors and occasionally appearing upstairs to pile dark meat and stuffing onto his plate before disappearing back down the well-worn stairway.

When I was much older I realized that one of the emotions I felt was pity, but, while still young, I simply misunderstood everything about him. And that misunderstanding, naturally, struck fear in all of us.

To this day, despite conquering dozens of other trepidations, the anxiety I feel at the mere mention of The Terrifying Uncle Herb remains unabated.

Amongst my Hawken cousins, with whom I have absolutely nothing else in common, we can still talk in hushed, troubled tones about the frightful influence of The Terrifying Uncle Herb in our earliest memories.

I am not wary of walking through my otherwise shady neighborhood late at night, and I don't hesitate to mingle with the assortd riff raff of the NYC subway system, but, to this day, no force on earth could send me down that dark hallway alone.

Happy Birthday Mom!

On this day, a mere 54 years ago, The Beast was born.

Although many readers feel this blog is dedicated entirely to excoriating her various wonderful traits, it, in fact, has always been focused on celebrating them. And on this day, moreso than any other, Jake and I could not be more happy to celebrate her.

Although I do not wish to think too deeply on the particulars of my birthing process, I would be remiss to not pause and express how grateful I am that she brought me (and to a lesser degree, Jake) into the world.

Although old people typically dislike their birthday, I find it a reason to think positively about the future: If medical science holds up its end of the bargain, The Beast may only be middle-aged.

Not only is it comforting to know that she'll be around for another five and a half decades, but it's amusing to note that she will likely spend the final four years of her life in the exact manner which she spent the first four: Laying on the ground with a full diaper while screaming for someone to bring her more oatmeal.

I wish I could be there to spend the day with her, but, alas, three time zones and several thousand miles preclude me. The task falls to Hal to make this day special.

If I were there I would make sure that someone sang her the Spirit Journey Formation Anniversary song (hear it here), but, in my absence, I doubt this important birthday tradition will be carried out.

I can only hope her birthday is as great as all the ones she put on for me.



Readers: Notice how she must actively restrain me from reaching in and grabbing the fire.

Mom, you're the best!

Sorry for making this video an all-too-familar representation of what it was like to raise me.

The Lockdown Comic Strip

When Jake and I were both young enough to attend the same elementary school (he in 1st grade, me in 5th), a prisoner escaped from a regional detention facility over 30 miles away.

The result? A full scale lockdown of our school.

The rationale for this was to limit any possibility that this felon might be able to enter the school and comprise the safety of students or staff, or that he might apprehend a student or staff member while in transit from the school to the safety of their home.

Furthermore, this lockdown ensured that if this escapee desperately needed art supplies or a Voltron backpack, his nefarious scheme would be thwarted.

Although it was kind of exciting to be in a lockdown situation versus an escaped prisoner, I recognized that there was basically zero chance of anything happening on our school grounds. Although recess was cancelled, we spent an uneventful day playing Heads-Up-7-Up and hangman with our vocab words.

Down the hall, however, the collective psyche of the 1st grade classes was volatile.

Having had the situation explained to them, each child was certain they were about to die. Except for Jake.

Noticing the wide-eyed panic gripping his classmates, Jake's instincts took over. While everyone around him fell helplessly into a spiraling miasma of fear and paranoia, Jake overcame these powerful emotions, and took control. Summoning every talent at his disposal, he dedicated himself to exacerbating the problem.

He quickly sketched a three-panel comic strip which he thought would best explain the dire gravity of this predicament to his classmates.



Having completed the first rendering of the scene unfolding directly outside their doors, Jake quickly drew additional copies and circulated them throughout the room.

Doing this--especially with the specific intention of traumatizing his classmates--is despicable, evil, cruel and fantastic.

When I finally heard about this later in the day, I couldn't have been more proud.

Even Hal and The Beast cracked a smile. Then chastised him. Then scrapbooked the comic.

Vacancy at Casa de Hawken

Shortly after Jake moved away to college, and I was living on the east coast, The Beast and Hal had to come to terms with being empty nesters.

Throughout our childhood, they they had spoken at great length about how much they were looking forward to having an empty home without the trials and travails of raising both of us.

Everytime we'd have a bleach fight, invent games like "Steak Knife Tag," knock a door off its hinges, misuse Roman Candles, or incur the petty wrath of school administrators, The Beast and Hal would embark on the same well-rehearsed rant about how much they were looking forward to having some peace.

Once we were both gone, they lost their minds.

Apparently, over time, they had used the intense, unpleasant feelings associated with raising us as benchmarks to measure the passage of time.

No sooner were we gone than they began offering a spare room in the basement to a series of shady, miserable young adults who were trying to get back on their feet.

I couldn't have been more shocked.

If Jake or I had ever left a freezer door open over the weekend or re-spilled Nair on the hood of the Tahoe we were suddenly written out of the will, but a revolving door of 20-somethings with bad credit and GEDs were suddenly invited carte blanche into a well-furnished room.

In an attempt to keep a bad situation from becoming disastrous, I tried to help The Beast be a little more selective about who she let into the basement, but helping either parent salvage their dignity was like trying to desalinate the ocean or legitimize boxing.

I thought the best place to start would be the long list of e-mails from would-be housemates.

Despite passionate protests from Hal and The Beast, we quickly eliminated three people from the running.

The first e-mail read, "I am very clean, I can cook, and I promise to never get drunk and puke in the oven."

The second was similar: "I do not own a pet, I am applying for jobs, I can hear what vegetables are thinking."

Number three: "I currently have $45,631 in credit card debt, so I need a place to lay low for a while. Are either of you immune to scabies?"

No sooner had my visit ended than there were new visitors in the basement.

Hal and The Beast claim they're happy to help, but I know for a fact they weren't to excited about having to replace their oven.

The Official "Admittedly Hawken" Welcome Message

While it's true we were raised as Hawkens, we consider it distinctly unfair to assume anything else about us. For that reason, we present this weblog to you, the reader, courtesy of the world wide Intraweb.

This blog is a database of the most intellectually stimulating (i.e. utterly ridiculous) elements of the proud Hawken family.

We are not so ambitious as to chronicle every distant relative, so we have focused our wit, scorn and mildly antagonistic style of affection on our two parents, Megan and Harold.

The great American sage, Mark Twain, remarked, "Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't." This blog could easily set its mind to pursuing fanciful, fictional notings of singularly gelastic events--but nothing we might imagine could properly compare to what we have witnessed.

Instead, this is a bold, enthusiastic retelling of a childhood spent in the incomparable Hawken home, and our continuing intersections with our unique, fiery and unintentionally jocular parents.

No, we're not making it up.

At least not very often.

Finding Yourself

There's a time in each of our lives (both Jake and I, and all of you on the Intraweb), when we have to ask, which Transformer am I?

The Beast's answer: Quit asking me such dumb crap.

Hal's answer: A what?