Thursday, July 31, 2003

Arrgh

I had a pirated cable box but I had to get rid of it.  I couldn’t stand how everybody on every show had a tricorn hat and that stupid eyepatch.

Mob Mentality

I chose my college in large part because I wanted minimal distraction.  Not “no distraction” - I’d have gone irrepairably eccentric.  But I liked the idea of a school in the kind of big city where big things didn’t happen very often, where I didn’t have friends or relatives to serve me as a foil for perpetuation of my habitual personality, and where academics took precedence over sports. 

So I chose a school that had famous, historic and beautiful sports facilities that had rarely seen recent home victories, much less winning seasons.  Yes, the basketball arena had hosted more games and NCAA tourneys than any other in the country, and was home of the first NCAA championship, but the team hadn’t done better than one trip to the final four in half a century and even then that one trip had been pretty much a fluke. 

And the football stadium - seating 60,000 on two tiers of brick arcades, a tudor castle in the endzone, featured in such films as Unbreakable and 12 Monkeys, site of the first televised football game, once a home to national gridiron heroes - by the time I was packing my freshman trunk, Penthouse Magazine was citing the team that played there as 3rd worst in the nation: “a thoroughbred with four broken legs.” They’d won three games in the prior three seasons.  I was ready to study all year long.

But I also chose my school in part because of its apparently rich historical tradition.  I wanted to immerse my self in the ivy-drenched campus environment.  So, I attended the home opener - just to see how it all came together.  The feeling before the team ran onto the field was strangely electric.  It was a glorious day and I had a lot of fun.

Plus, we won.  Big.  And we’d already won one or two games on the road.  It was the beginning of a very surprising season.  Against patrician league rivals whom we thought viewed our sturdy little school with disdain, as well as against regional squads who saw us as unworthy opponents, we racked up win after win.  I became invested in the team’s success and went to every game, shouting myself hoarse, gesticulating to the school songs, marvelling at the hail of toast hurled from the upper bleachers at the end of the third quarter of every game. 

By the end of the season we were one game out of first place in the league.  Two other teams were tied for first.  On that final saturday, one of those two teams lost early and we were scheduled to play the other.  By the fourth quarter of this game our rival was therefore in sole possession of first place and we were in third. 

The game was brutal, with the lead changing hands several times.  We were up by a point.  With three minutes to go, the hated bluebloods drove for a field goal, giving them a two-point lead with 65 seconds or so to play.

I was screaming.  So were the 40,000 others in the stands with me.  The monumental brick structure was shuddering with sound and excitement.  Over the course of the next 60 football seconds we drove to the 30 yard line and set up for a field goal of our own.  We were pointed toward the heart of campus, kicking into the crennelations of the brick castle that closed the horseshoe of the stadium. 

The snap was good.  The kick was not.  Two seconds had elapsed and the clock read zero - time had expired.  Game over.  Season over.  A season that had started as a lost cause and had evolved into an article of hope, reverted to being a second-best’s third best.  Bronze would have to do.  Forty thousand voices howled. 

And then a yellow flag soared skyward, and with it, our hearts - a penalty: roughing the kicker.  One more try, with no time on the clock.  The ball moved ten feet closer to the goal line.  The snap was clean.  The kick was good. 

At this point I’d been shouting and cheering so hard and for so long that I had no more voice at all, but the din of the crowd reverberated to the center of the universe.  I was aware of my body moving, though I was not willing it to do so.  Rather, I and my 40,000 compadres were surging forward automatically, partisans of one of three co-champions in a season pre-destined for, and then rescued from, ignominy.  We were one-third of number one, and ecstatic about it out of all proportion.  We poured onto the field, rushing the goal post over which the final kick had triumphed.  We began to press it, push it to the turf.  As it fell, dangerously heavy and cumbersome amidst our drunken revels, I realized that I was in a mob. 

The awareness was a dim glimmer buried in my primal scream of a mind.  I quashed that vestige of thought and got a hand on the yellow steel tubes.  We hoisted our trophy and carried it east, out of the stadium, to the river that bordered campus; we commandeered the South Street Bridge and sent the goal posts over the patinaed balustrade to sink and drown. 

My four years at that school were all championship years, but I never again became quite so divorced from my own rationality because of it as to re-submerge myself in the mob mentality.  It had been cathartic, but frightening.  I had become a non-person, a mere organ in a voracious amoral celebratory organism. 

And in the end, though victory was and remains sweet these 21 years hence, that’s what I remember: losing myself, the crude ancient emotion which first came from us but then became our master.  It was life-affirming and olympian and heedless.  It was spontaneous, victorious, terrible.  I’ve never felt the need to go quite so far in that direction again.  I’ve had occasion to celebrate, even in mobs (Kirk Gibson’s HR against the A’s in 1987’s world series opener was one standout example), but I have kept myself under a modicum of control.  Once over the edge was enough.

Wednesday, July 30, 2003

The Bag Behind the Polenta

* Don’t throw that away!
* You know what it is?
* Doesn’t matter.  We’re saving it.
* It’s a sealed featureless bag of an unknown dry granulated product.  It could be anything.
* Exactly.  Maybe something we would never want to throw away.
* We don’t need it.  We’ve had it for years.  We have no idea what’s in it.  We’re never going to open it. 
* Sure we are!
* I’m not.  I’m not interested in trying to figure out what’s in a three-year-old generic packet of mystery powder - and how to turn it into anything resembling a food product. 
* You’ve got to be adventurous.
* That’s not adventure - that’s the cuilinary version of Russian roulette.
* You’re exaggerating.  And what if there’s an earthquake?  Or a power outage?  We need stockpiles!
* Why do you think an anonymous packet of something we don’t know what it is would help us in an emergency?  Won’t we be stressed out enough without trying to figure out what our food is supposed to be?  Imagine - the lights are out, there’s no water, power or gas, the streets are in chaos - why do you think we’d want to try to eat it any more then than we do now? - Which, I think you’d agree, is not at all. 
* Let me see that.  (...) Hmm.
* What, ‘hmm?’
* It’s a peculiar color.  I didn’t expect that.
* Can we get rid of it, then?
* Well, I guess so.  But it still seems a pity.

Uma and the Louts

I wish we had umlauts in english.  They’re so much fun to use, and the word “umlaut” is fun to say.  In fact, since we don’t have to deal with them in our language, I’m going to find something something to name Umlaut.  Little Umlaut Ampersand, the boy with the conjugated declension.  Sounds painful.  Donate now, or his pain will be yours. 

Yeah, Umlaut and me are going to get along just fine.

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Aging Gracefully

Last entry (I think) about the party in PA: Mom-in-law was showing off a pretty potted plant with little purple flowers that her co-workers had given her for her 60th birthday.  I wanted to know what kind of plant it was so I checked the plastic spike that came stuck in its dirt for the details.  I couldn’t believe that anyone would give, as a 60th birthday present, anything called “Exacum.” Are they trying to send a message?  If they are it’s a damn rude one.  I giggled anyway but I wouldn’t say why.  I’m not proud but at least I’m discrete.

Shelf Life

Kel was looking for a magazine for the airplane - something light but with a modicum of self-improvement value.  She was debating the choice between two magazines called, respectively, “Self” and “Shape.” I was thinking that it would be smart to combine them both into a single publication, twice as thick, sturdy as a board.  You could call it “Shelf.”

Not Funny

* Want to hear something funny?
* Not particularly.
* What’s the matter, uptighty whitey? 
* Nothing.  I’d just rather not hear your little joke right now.
* Hey, it’s not a joke, okay?
* No, actually.  I just don’t want to hear it right now.
* You’ve got to loosen up a little, partner.  Laughter is the best medicine.  And this is hilarious. See - ...
* Hey! I’m telling you - I don’t want to hear it.  Why is that so hard for you?
* God-damn you’re uptight today.  I mean, Jesus.  They’re words,, okay.  It’s just communication.  No biggie.  There’s no freaking reason to be such a priss.  You gotta learn to relax and let the music play sometimes.
* Yeah, we’ve all got a lot to learn.  I just don’t want to hear your stupid story, okay?  Is that so hard for you to understand?
* Why the hell not?  Jesus, this is how people get along in this sad old world of ours.  This is how we interact with each other.  We talk, we laugh, days pass, life goes on.  You get an attitude like this and you’ll lose every friend you’ve got.  You’ll die young and alone.
* I’ll take my chances.  You want to tell me that story you told Jim this morning about the kid on the bus, don’t you?
* Yes!  So you heard it?  Oh my god it was hilarious!
* See, here’s my problem.  That story’s all about laughing at somebody.  Somebody real, who’s got a serious disability.  It’s goddamn well not hilarious.  It’s sad.  And it’s revolting me that you find it humorous. 
* Hey, that’s kind of strong.  I mean, if you don’t think it’s funny that’s one thing, but -
* But that shouldn’t stop you from amusing yourself at the expense of others?  That we shouldn’t find the trials of our fellow men important, that we shouldn’t take them seriously when they struggle to overcome challenges that we can’t even begin to comprehend?  I’m not amused.  It’s miserable that you’d even think it’s funny.  And now you’re going around spreading this malignancy so that we can all descend to your level.  Well, I’m not going there.  I don’t want to hear it. 
* Okay, okay, forget it.  Not your kind of story.  I’ll leave you to your tender sympathies.  But here’s a word of wisdom - you have to see the humor in situations.  You have to find laughs where you can.  Otherwise the world is way too sad a place. 
* Great.  Here’s one for you - total lack of respect for other people is a form of mental impairment.  Get that?  You’re handicapped.  And it’s sure as hell not making me laugh.

Monday, July 28, 2003

Incidental Music

Friday’s concert was hot hot hottt.  I got out of work a little early, changed into the party shirt and moshpit boots, and hightailed my lowriders over to L-13 for two quick pints and some stimulating conversation.  Just as the party was getting started I excused myself and took Muni two stops east to the Civic Center, where I grabbed a sub sandwich and got into line for a decent shot at a decent spot once the doors opened.  The Warfield is my definition of a big trippy olde-school theater; in contrast to its palatial interior and facade, it’s in a scuzzy part of town that makes for interesting street interactions to watch while you’re in line.  (When a 7-11 moving into the neighborhood is evidence of gentrification, you know things aren’t good.) The line itself was full of goodhearted folk who shared their beers and desserts with me as we acquainted ourselves.  Dave bicycled up to say hi on his way home from work; he’d be showing up later because he had a ticket for a reserved seat. 

- Break for Kel’s dream about the show: a few days before the show, she dreamed that it was held at a small dingy bar where pretty much the only people there were us and our friends.  The band played slow, ponderous dirges and took breaks to show short films “featuring our political views.” We stuck around but didn’t enjoy it much.  So much for the dream. -

Returning to the *actual* show: we got ourselves a good spot in the line and were able to score a very prime spot on the floor - at the very front of the second riser level.  This put us about 50 feet from the band, but at eye level with them, and no one in front of us to block our view; a four-foot dividing wall stood right in front of us for purposes of letting us lean on it.  They were the best seats in the house, except we weren’t sitting down. 

SCI is one of those rare bands that can cover Johnny Cash, the Talking Heads, BTO, and Paul Simon, all in one show, and actually produce highly credible and enjoyable versions of each one’s music that stand up to the originals.  There was a good dollop of my favorite funky bluegrass stylings and everybody was euphorically friendly and cheerful.  When the band came back for the encore, the drummer was so enthusiastic that he stood up at the drum kit, then stood up on his chair, then stood on his chair on one foot, all while furiously drumming - at first - and then flailing and falling, crashing into the kit like a drunken pelican.  Hi-larious. 

Captain Funk was in the audience.  We recognized him by his knee-length silver-lame’ cape with the words “CAPTAIN FUNK” across the back in black.  I figured he must have gotten a battlefield commission.  I’m just Seargent Funk.  You know - “Don’t call me sir, I funk for a living.”

The set list is in the expanded entry, for the dedicated and curious.

RACE RELATIONS

Having been up in NEPA (that’s what the locals call North-east Pennsylvania, which now that I type it out is a region that crys out for an acronym) one short week before the Pennsylvania 500 roared into Pocono Downs gave me ample opportunity to consider the real value and meaning of NASCAR.  It’s America’s most popular spectator event, apart from the WWE and foxy boxing, and it generates an obscene amount of money.  I’ve heard its drivers referred to as both national heroes and as sponsor monkeys.  I know and respect people who love NASCAR.  I’m not one of them.  Here are several reasons why:

* When we’re, theoretically, trying to reduce our dependence on petroleum products, it’s an utter waste of gas.

* It pumps tons of pollutants into the air.  (And we’re not just talking about race day.  It’s also tryouts, practice, and the boneheads in the parking lot with the huge winnebagos who travel the tour annually.)

* Sitting in a car, regardless how fast it’s going, is not a sport.  I readily admit that these guys are gutsy, courageous, have excellent grip strength and iron bladders, but the car is doing all the real work.

* It’s not even a reasonably fair competition, because everybody drives different cars.  You want to find out who’s the best driver?  They should all drive identical rides. 

* It’s damn loud and nothing happens.  People just go around in circles for hours while others watch them and drink cheap beer.

I understand that NASCAR is bigger than I am.  It’s even bigger than the Chucklehut.  No, no, don’t try to assuage me.  The only way to ameliorate the situation - which is untenable as it currently stands - is to finagle it.  Fiddle with it.  Work a little Chuckle on it.  Here’s my plan:

* A representative of each sponsor rides with each car, preferably on the outside where their logo appears.

* Before each race, hold a random lottery to see who drives whose vehicle.

* Yellow flag means everybody does a whippet.  And I’m not talking about dogs.

* Blindfolds.

* Make everybody get out of their damn car and run around the track.  I’m not kidding.

DRUG FREE AND PROUD

It’s been a while since I got back but I’ve been a bit too busy to catch you all up on all the fun I had in PA.  My focus tonight is the article in the Citizens’ Voice newspaper from July 21, under the headline: “FUN: Kids Will Have A Lot To Do This Week During Drug-Free Festival.”

Wow, I’m already sorry I had to leave.  I bet those kids had even more fun than they did at the previous week’s “Drug Abuse Festival” (or “Orgy").  But let’s not be presumptuous.  Let’s see what the article actually says, and overwhelm ourselves with the drug-free fun.  The items that follow in quotation marks are ACTUAL QUOTES from the newspaper (unless otherwise noted). 

“The festival’s theme is ‘Recreate as We Educate.’ (That’s ‘recreate’ as in ‘recreation.’)”

Okay, good.  Actual re-creation would be too much fun even for a drug-free child.  You know they’d probably create something with drugs in it anyway, and that would defeat the whole purpose.  Damn drug-addled kids, creating all those mind-polluting pharmaceuticals.  Just let’em recreate, and leave the creation to the professionals.  Like God, Sandoz labs and the DEA.

“The celebration begins Wednesday night with a Drug-Free Community Forum at the Kingston Armory.  There will be a free [dan’s note: not drug-free] barbecue afterward.”

- Because otherwise it wouldn’t sound like fun.  But once an ex-junkie and a cop have worn me and each other out with mutual agreement and plenty of repressive advice, I’m gonna want to share a weiner with them.  And it seems like there will be no shortage of weiners at this shindig. 

“The Drug-Free Parade begins at 10 am.  It includes a wide range of entries, including police delegations, veteran’s groups, fire trucks and ambulances.”

Yup, that about covers it.  The sad old days of parades with floats, horses, marching bands, and roming clowns are happily behind us.  Just send a bunch of cops and veterans down the street and the world will turn out to gape.  (The ambulances must be involved because some of those veterans are pretty old.) And I’m thinking they had better be screening those vets.  A few of the boys who came back from ‘Nam, Grenada and that cool base near Amsterdam are not exactly paragons of the drug-free lifestyle. 

“Ambrosino [CEO of local Alcohol and Drug Services], who is also scheduled to go into the dunk tank, said this is partly so people ‘can see some of us as average guys and gals...’”

Some of them are average.  And some of them aren’t.  And the dunk tank is the catalyzer that will show us which of those guys and gals are just a little more than average.  Especially if it’s a warm day.  I’m still not sure that there wasn’t a typo in that paragraph, anyway.  Isn’t there an “r” missing from “dunk tank?”

“True to the festival’s purpose, there will also be finger printing for children by the US Secret Service, drug search dog demonstrations, and a mock car collision complete with helicopters.”

Wow, how purposeful!  When I was a tyke I loved fingerpainting.  Oh, check that - finger printing.  That sounds like a lot more fun.  At least I know that the Secret Service is keyed in on the important stuff, and they’re leaving petty matters like guarding the President to, I don’t know, a bunch of elementary school art teachers with pots of watercolors? - I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.  I’m just glad I know.  And a mock car crash with helicopters - that’s good thinking.  I see at least one of those chopper-vs-chevy accidents every week.  You can’t start too early to train children not to fly helicopters under the influence of drugs. 

“The Childrens’ Area will feature a coloring contest, face painting, and a chance to try on goggles showing what it is like to be intoxicated.”

OMG.  They actually have a pair of Beer Goggles.  Now I really wish I had been able to attend.  Get myself all painted up, slap on some beer goggles and color some stuff.  It sounds like most of the Grateful Dead parking lot experiences I’ve had, which were the last drug-free festivals I was able to attend.  In that the drugs were free.  I’m glad the old ways are returning to enlighten a new generation of americans.  And now, with helicopters!  Kids today have all the advantages.

Friday, July 25, 2003

Sorry for the Inconvenience

I don’t like conforming to my astrological predisposition.  Just because I’m a taurus doesn’t mean I have to act like one.  But too, too often I do.  For instance, I hate to change things that are working just fine.  But there is a time for all things, including change.  (There may be a song in that.  I’ll have to come back to that one.)

That’s why the Chucklehut left blogger - because things didn’t always work so well there, there was no tech support, and I felt lonely and unloved.  (pause for pitiful sigh.) My new host is supportive, efficient, and has a great sense of humor.  I’ve not once regretted changing over. 

Except that my masculinity is kind of threatened by the “lunanina” tag.  I shouldn’t be keying in on this kind of thing, I should be able to look down at my burly hirsute chest and to listen to my own rumbling deep voice and know that I’m every bit the man that Rip Taylor or Andy Dick is, if not more so. 

But I know that some of you out there aren’t able to access my testosterone-fueled manliness.  That’s why I hesitated to switch over to “lunanina.” Because I feared testicular atrophy.  Of course it was an unfounded fear, but nonetheless one which caused me to awaken shrieking at night.  Again, not good for the macho image.  Especially when you add in that I’m wearing a fuzzy nightcap and a dressing gown with ribbons on it.  Don’t ask.

So here’s the deal: Pea has got a new domain and I’m making a FINAL SWITCH thereto.  Starting on Monday I’ll be chucklehut.thalysman.com.  No, not yet, Pea is still getting the kinks ironed out and such, but on monday this site will redirect you to my final resting place.  It looks so peaceful on the yonder side....

No Strings Attached

Advice from a wise man with a very serious health issue: If God wanted puppets we’d have come with strings.

Feeling Secure

We get to the small regional airport and we want to check one bag through to San Francisco.  We’ve already gotten boarding passes on line so I’m expecting minimal additional delays.  There’s no line at the counter and all goes swiftly; I get a tag for the bag and then an unexpected instruction: to haul my own suitcase to another counter for a security screening.  Obediently, I comply. 

There’s one couple ahead me us with the screener.  They’re our age, white, nicely dressed, with two small expensive-looking suitcases to check.  I watch as the screener carefully swabs the outside of one bag and analyzes the swab in an electronic device; then as he opens the front pocket of the luggage, swabs inside it, pulls out the boots it contains, swabs them, and puts them back.  (Every swab gets analyzed in the device.) Then he pulls out all the plastic bags of shoes packed inside the suitcase, swabs each shoe.  He rifles throughall the contents of the suitcase, top to bottom - from the left side, the right side, the front, the back, and down through the middle.  Then he starts in on bag 2 - the same procedure, swabbing everything everywhere.  It takes some time. 

In hopes of accellerating my passage through this gauntlet of vigilence, I zip open my suitcase and the outside pockets, and untie the plastic bags of shoes.  When it’s my turn I hoist the suitcase to the inspection table and proudly announce what I’ve done.  “Oh, sir, we can’t search your bag like that.  Please restore it to its originally sealed condition.” My obedience extends even to this request.  Before his watchful eyes I tie the bags, zip the case closed, and re-present everything. 

With funereal solemnity he pulls a fresh swab, daubs the handles and zipper, checks the swab.  “There you go, sir.  Have a safe flight.” He hasn’t even opened the bag. 

During an hour and a half in the Wilkes-Barre terminal waiting for the weather in our connecting location to clear up, I ruminated on this inconsistency of inspections.  Why did I skate through, with my scruffy appearance, dangerous ideas and antisocial attitude, when the guy with the close shave who wasn’t sweating like Willard Scott doing Bikram yoga got the third degree?  Luck of the draw?  Secret tattoo?  Personal whim or animosity?  Or maybe something more sinister?

Assuming mere incompetence was another possible reason, I was inspired to develop the following security guidelines to assist the TSA in the evenhanded and thorough execution of their duties and of any terrorists they encounter:

* All passengers should strip to their socks before going through metal detectors, or better yet, before entering the airport. 

* Before going through the metal detector, remove all artificial limbs and joints. 

* Jettison contents of all bags.  They can buy more stuff once they land.

* Divide everybody up by gender and have them search each other. 

* Anyone with reading material or eyeglasses is to be considered potentially intelligent and therefore presumptively dangerous.  Destroy all such accoutrements and render said individuals illiterate.  A piece of sharpened rebar will be provided to you for this purpose. 

* Anyone exhibiting suspicious behaviors or hairstyles should be subjected to the “tickle machine” until they confess to something.

* Allow no passengers or luggage onto any aircraft.

Enjoy your flight.

Thursday, July 24, 2003

Chuckle’s Top 40

Wednesday, July 24, 2002: A day that will live in infamy.  I started blogging.  Now, 657 entries later – an average of 1.8 per day – I have taken it upon myself to review the mountain of output I’ve generated.  I’m actually rather pleased with some of what I’ve written, and have really enjoyed the experience of fleshing out some ideas that have been rolling around in my head for years, as well as some ideas that barely even occurred to me before I had them in print.  I strongly urge each and every one of you to read every single post I’ve put up, if you’ve missed any of them.  Really, some of that early stuff was pure gold. 

But if you’re in a rush, you manic 21st century schitzoid person you, the extended entry here contains a procrustean selection of some of my favorite dollops of ‘hut over the past year.  This list of 40 of my favorite posts represents a mere 6.0883% of my total blog contents.  I’ve cut the list down with brutal efficiency.  There are a lot of other posts not on this list that I really enjoyed writing, and a lot that I really enjoyed re-reading – but I remained ever firm in my resolve to limit myself to 40.  40 is plently.  I’m good but I’m not that good.  There’s a reason we’re not built to pat ourselves on the back.

Oh, and in case you thought you were off the hook, I’ve got a notebook and a writing book crammed with weird crap to whine about.  Changes may be afoot, but Huklechut will persevere.  Through the weekend, at the very least.  (Actually, this weekend poses one significant challenge to my sanity and sunny good nature.  If you don’t want to wish me luck, send me an email so stating - otherwise I’ll check my sitemeter and assume you’re all actually invoking some manner of cosmic power to assist me in my unmentionable inconvenience.  Thanks, guys!)

Wednesday, July 23, 2003

PEA ROCKS

Let me just take a second here to give it up, in the vernacular of the day, for Patricia Lunanina, who has once again taken my fantasies of a webpage design and turned them into reality.  For those of you with nothing more to do with your lives than print stuff off the internet, you can now do this with Chucklehut entries, by utilizing the “print this entry” button at the bottom of any given post.  She’s really quite good, and her rates are reasonable.  I’ve worked out a payment plan, but you’re on your own.  Hope you enjoy your day.  Mine rocks.  I’m friends with Pea!

Ball Boy

Last Saturday night I really didn’t feel like myself - or maybe I felt more like myself than I usually do.  At the party I ate prodigiously, took a short nap, hopped in the pool for a few rounds of water volleyball (shorts v skins), then towelled off, ate more, and (once the Yuengling keg had been refilled), started in with the land-based volleyball. 

Differences from the former game were manifold: the water was much shallower, being several feet below us under the turf.  Also, it was dark, going on pitch black, and - most significantly - this wasn’t a game against shrieking sisters and a 15-year-old cousin, it was against men with military training and serious physiques and attitudes.  We broke it off after each team had won one game and the ball rolled down the long, steep back hill all the way to the compost heap, which no one wanted to visit in the dark.  I acquitted myself sufficiently admirably to be dubbed “Danimal” for my grim game face and unreturnable topspin serves.

It put me in mind of t-ball with Mrs. S, who taught phys ed in my elementary school.

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

Long May She Wave

Every holiday the Director of my “Office” (three departments working on loosely related stuff) goes around and gives away little baggies of candy and treats.  (Not every holiday, you’re right.  Just the ones with significant marketing aspects.  I don’t think we got little bags of fruit and hats for Cesar Chavez day, for instance.)

For the Fourth of July we got baggies with chocolates, a little twirly toy, and a white chocolate american flag puzzle (you have to get the little silver sugardot “stars” to settle into divots in the blue field.) My chocolates lasted from 10 am till 11:30; the flag lasted another two days because I solved the puzzleand wanted to revel in my victory for a while.  But then I ate the flag too.  Patriotism only goes so far when candy is involved. 

Last week my supervisor left for a hawaiian vacation.  Her July 4 candy is sitting untouched on her desk.  When she gets back, she’ll have macadamia candy out the wazoo and will most probably throw away the little flag puzzle and the rest of the 7/4 baggie. 

I’ve taken temporary possession of the abandoned baggie of candy from my supervisor’s desk.  It’s hiding in a safe location where no one (but me) can harm it.  Before she left she offered to give it to anyone who asked; it’s just been sitting there in the middle of her cleaned-up desk like a dog left at the park.  Maybe it’s wrong to have taken it, but I’m tired of being right.  Candy is made to be eaten.  Letting it be thrown away is worse than purloining it.  America would agree.  It’s the flag, damnit - and I won’t see it thrown in the garbage.  Even if that means I have to jam it in my mouth and masticate.

Zen Mind, Zen Schmind

This came to me from my friend Lori, who knows I’m into the ju-bu thing.  It’s that magical intersection of koan and kvetch, the Tribal Tao:

Take only what is given. Own nothing but your robes and an alms bowl.  Unless, of course, you have the closet space.

Let your mind be as a floating cloud. Let your stillness be as the wooded glen. And sit up straight. You’ll never meet the Buddha with posture like that.

There is no escaping karma. In a previous life, you never called, you never wrote, you never visited. And whose fault was that?

Wherever you go, there you are. Your luggage is another story.

To practice Zen and the art of Jewish motorcycle maintenance, do as follows: Get rid of the motorcycle. What were you thinking?

Learn of the pine from the pine.  Learn of the bamboo from the bamboo.  Learn of the kugel from the kugel.

Be aware of your body. Be aware of your perceptions.  Keep in mind that not every physical sensation is a symptom of a terminal illness.

If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.  Forget this and attaining Enlightenment will be the least of your problems.

Drink tea and nourish life. With the first sip, joy.  With the second, satisfaction. With the third, Danish.

Be patient and achieve all things.  Be impatient and achieve all things faster.

To find the Buddha, look within. Deep inside you are ten thousand flowers. Each flower blossoms ten thousand times.  Each blossom has ten thousand petals. You might want to see a specialist.

Be here now. Be someplace else later. Is that so complicated?

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single oy.

Zen is not easy. It takes effort to attain nothingness.  And then what do you have? Bupkes.

I feel a bit more enlightened already but it might be the All Bran.

The Best Birthday Party EVER

The birthday bash had a tiki beach party theme - grass skirts, cononut bras, Dick Dale, flaming bamboo torches.  In the welter of images jumbled in my memory of that long hot day and night, a few nuggets gleam particularly brightly:

You know those tall colorful garden candles on stakes? The cool thing about them is, once they’ve burned all the way to the ground, they just keep on burning.  When I noticed ours on Saturday while I was drifting in the pool, they’d been reduced to a puddle that mainly resembled nothing more than flaming vomit on the grass.* I had to leap out of the pool, run over, drop to my hands and knees and blow on the burning mess till Phil came over with a loaded water bomb to douse it.  Good times…
*: Not to be confused with actual flaming vomit.

On the other hand, I’d never done block shots before, but there’s no time like your mother-in-law’s 60th birthday party to start.  We got a 50 pound block of ice and someone chisled a serpentine channel down its face.  It was then set on an angle and Fitz poured shots down from the top while we crouched at the foot, lips pressed to the block of ice as liquor cascaded, chilled and speeding, back and forth down the channel and into our waiting gullets.  This went on for quite some time as the ice slowly melted in the sultry night.  I found myself again on hands and knees, confronting the elements.  And the Jamison’s.  Freezer burn now has a positive spin.

The silver tinsel mullet wig got a lot of play.  I think the one that most impressed me was when my 10 year old nephew put it on with a grass skirt and danced provocatively to “Honey Bun” from South Pacific.  He knew all the words and had a lot of swivelly hip action going.  It was the kind of exhibition that makes you wonder afterwards exactly what it was you’ve witnessed.  Prepubescent boy in shiny wig and skirt, flouncing imagined curls and doing a mean bootie wiggle - it was like one of those puzzles, “find a dozen things wrong with this picture.” One big one was, “you’re watching it.” Yet I couldn’t turn away.  I blame all subsequent drinking on that experience.  This includes future drinking.  I wouldn’t want to limit my options.

As a final reminiscence this fine morning, I was lucky enough at the party to be privvy to a husband and wife conversation between one of my sisters-in-law and her dude about the appropriate boundries of modesty in photography.  “You can’t drop them that far,” she advised sagely.  “Just to the top of your thighs.  And keep your legs together.  I saw way too much of your stuff in that picture.  If you have to give them the moon, just give them the moon - not uranus or the big dipper.”

Now, that’s a party.  Who’s next?  I still have a coconut bra around here somewhere....

Flying Back

Lifting through the turbulence
the zephyrs churn me unimpeded
but something in the spirit shifts
and hearts and minds find common cadence
All of them took all of me
and lavished me with tendernesses
looking gladly to my comfort
reaffirming I and they
are indivisibly a we
I’d launched myself across the country
further than my confidence
could stretch, until I knew that
I was held aloft by those
whose love would never let me fall
until their arms were there to catch me.
Crossing vastness unexplored
and endless acres darkened by
anachronistic anxiousness
and unsupported expectations
I steeled myself against my landing
only to glide softly into
glowing light and gentle nights
when I take off again I wonder
if the flight will ever land me
back quite where I lately started
Back is never truly back
and travellers come home transformed
my clothes and body persevere
You have to look beyond the luggage
In my crowded seat in coach
some doubts were overbooked and bumped
and what is left has been upgraded
sense of self is now first class
there is no meal on this flight
but I have satisfied my hunger
I’ll just stare out from my window
now the land all looks like home.

Monday, July 21, 2003

Dear Dan,

Amy, Anna and I feel really bad about the mess we’ve made. Please believe us when we say that it wasn’t our fault!

Some people stopped by and we didn’t want to be rude so we let them in. Drinks started flowing, I’m not really sure where the keg came from… yadda yadda yadda ... before we knew it we had ourselves a little party.

People have promised to come back to help us clean it all up once they get to feeling better. We also have to wait till a couple of them get back from Vegas with an annullment (Don’t ask. You really don’t want to know.). Don’t you worry about a thing; we’ll have this place looking better than ever soon.

We all hope that you had a fabulous trip and we can’t wait to hear all about it!

Patricia

ps. Don’t open up the hall closet. Even if you hear knocking. I’ll tell you all about that later too. Gotta run. Need to get some bail money.

Friday, July 18, 2003

Report from the Front

umm… hi, it’s me, ballgown boy, flashing my gams here in Wilkes Barre.  Wouldn’t you know it I have 10 minutes of spare time while the family goes into the pool for a post-prandial water volleyball game, and I’m gonna blog while I gots the chance. 

We’re enjoying frozen drinks, which are basically adult versions of slurpees.  But they really don’t hold a candle to the original child’s version of the pina colada - a slurpee with a few shots of rum or bourbon poured in (rum for cherry, bourbon for cola).  This version of the slurpee is now known as the “sloppy.”

We are in a part of this vast and beautiful country known as the Wyoming Valley.  Here’s a regional update, delivered by four women coming back from the craft supplies excursion: The Wyoming Valley is a fro-free zone.  Those of you with fro sensitivity may want to notate this for your future vacation plans. 

The big party is tomorrow.  Wish me luck.  Are there any other places you’d like amy to place me?  I am nothing if not accomodating.

Thursday, July 17, 2003

You Gots To Give The Peoples What They Wants

Playful, yet classy.

UPDATED::
edited by patricia to add

This just in. Have heard from the wandering blogger and he seems to find the above picture quite funny.

Damn.

So, ladies, basically what he’s saying to us is

Where’d he put the dictionary?

Dan’s blogsitting instructions to Amy, Anna, and me included the following:

Just please don’t post any photoshopped pictures of me in ball gowns, it’s staggeringly unflattering.

To which I say - Why bother with Photoshop when pictures like this one already exist?

But even in a goofy picture the boy looks cute.

Some people got it like that.

I hate those people.

Wednesday, July 16, 2003

Can you Smell it?

Tomorrow morning I go away for five days of sweltering fun in Northeast PA.  Mom-in-law’s turning 60 and we’re going to be there to cheer her on.  The chadwicks know only too well how to enjoy a festive occasion so I’m looking forward to the party.  Also, we’re sleeping at Sister Heather’s place 40 minutes out in the woods, and not at party central (the parents’ house) - so I might actually get some sleep at some point.  But that’s not why I’m going.  I’m going to party.  Sleep, as the Chadwicks are fond of reminding me, is for the weak. 

I’ll ask my roomies here at Lunanina if they want to keep the ‘hut hopping while I’m away, but in the meantime let me leave you with this:

I didn’t know much about the life of Duane Johnson, aka “The Rock,” before I got suckered into watching the recent episode of “Driven” which featured his life story, which was on over the weekend while I was boiling down a carcass from a roasted chicken.  “Driven” is a show that picks someone famous and shows how damn hard he or she worked to achieve popular acclaim.  I was impressed with how Duane had worked to get where he eventually got, how diligent and dedicated to his goals he’d been.  I had to keep running in to the kitchen to stir my simmering tureen of chicken bones and onions, but the show kept me coming back out to the living room to learn more. 

One area of particular interest to me was the catchphrases for which Mr. Johnson was apparently very famous.  I hadn’t heard of most of them and I find them very useful.  Thus, as I trotted back into the kitchen and saw that my chicken carcass had boiled down to a rich base for soups and sauces, filling the house with savory aromas, I was able to leap up onto the stovetop, ripping off my shirt and flexing everything I’ve got, bellowing out to Kelly in the living room, “Can you smell how the stock is cooking?”

Tuesday, July 15, 2003

Scrutable

I saw him from my seat on the bus.  He sat under the awning of Caffe Mio, shaded from the morning sunlight.  A broadbrimmed, high-crowned black hat covered his head and gave him a sinister halo of darkness behind the pale brown hair that fell back in waves to his shoulders.  A black trenchcoat concealed his person, with broad lapels and epaulettes, a fortress of oilcloth, inky and mysterious, falling extravagantly to his black jeans and black boots.  Small wire-frame glasses outlined his pale eyes; a pale van dyke beard fringed his delicate pale lips; his pale face was impassive and inscrutable as he smoked his cig, sipped his coffee, gazed out into the street from the shadows where he sat like a visitor from another time, another plane of consciousness.  He was above, beyond his environs.  A wizard in his own mind. 

No sooner had I gotten a good look at him than I saw her walking down the sidewalk toward him.  She was slim, tall, blonde, with long hair trailing veil-like in the morning breeze behind her.  Peach cotton top, white cotton pants, understated sandals, skin like creme caramel.  She looked like four perfect scoops of buttercream frosting packed into a delightful summer outfit.  She walked like gravity didn’t really pull her earthward like it did to other people. 

I watched him as she entered his field of vision.  The impact was visceral - she was three feet from his knee when she passed him.  He looked her rapidly up and down, then hiked himself more upright on his seat, squared his scrawny over-protected shoulders, leaned forward, and helplessly watched her walk away from him down the sidewalk until she was lost in the crowd.  The bus began to pull away as he leaned back in his seat, titillated and frustrated and impotent.  He took another drag on his cig but his inscrutable expression no longer seemed so inscrutable to me.  Underneath that big black hat he looked to me like he would sell his sister for a scrute.

I Said Ass

I’d like to say I put the “cauc” in “Legislative Caucus,” but maybe that’s picking the wrong syllable.

Sunday, July 13, 2003

Clockwatching

Tomorrow is one of those “field trip” days, when I get to go out somewhere else to do stuff.  This time it will be the State Legislature in Sacto, where I’ll be helping, with three of my colleagues and two professionals, to lobby members of the state senate’s judiciary committee.  They’re all in a furor about how much the State Bar charges to attorneys, and how it spends the money it gets.  I need to deliver the chill pill.  Ergo, I am in a state of preparatory chill. 

As I cool my vibe in the pre-chill mode, I note to myself that I won’t be able to post tomorrow, as if that could possibly make a difference to anybody, except I also will be missing a chunk at the end of the week, oh my goodness now chuckles is becoming an unreliable commodity, vrip that’s the sound of the ripcord being torn out of my heart as you leave me for someone you can count on.  This is enough to harsh my bliss, so I’m going to leave a short essay in the extended entry about something I find more entertaining than my erstwhile stress attack.  I’ll be back on tuesday but god knows what else that day will bring… wish me luck I’m going lobbying.

Friday, July 11, 2003

Have a Poopy Lunch

Lunch today was unusual for me - I went out and ate with a co-worker.  I was so unused to foraging for myself in this isolated resource-poor neighborhood two blocks from the ferry building in san francisco (south-west, for those of you tracking my movements, the places east of the ferry building are very damp), that I asked another colleague for a restaurant suggestion.  She told us about a spot on 2nd between Market and Mission with cheap chinese steamtable food, and gave us a good idea of the name but wasn’t sure of it. 

We found the restaurant easily and ate a lot of food for not much money.  But the name of the place gave me cause for pause.  It’s “B&M Mei Sing Restaurant.” Okay, I respect cross-cultural differences - but this name just made me think of Mr. Hanky all through lunch.  Yummy.  Wipe your mouth.

hide and seek

Can y’all help me out with some context for the camo freezers?  I’m seeing these freezers for sale, like you’d have in your basement or garage or mudroom or whatever, deep enough to hide two medium bodies… No modern household is complete without one, especially if there’s a Costco within driving distance… but now I’m seeing them with camoflage paint. 

Now, I understand the purpose of camo is to hide.  Commando: expose; camo: hide.  It’s a simple algorithm. 

And now we have camo freezers, mottled green and olive and brown.  The only place they’d have any chance of blending in, of course, is in the middle of the woods.  And then you’d need a super-long camo extension cord, because a camo generator would be noisy and defeat the illusion of camoflage.  Or perhaps a camo battery would work for a while, but they’re heavy. 

But here’s the thing: you don’t really take this kind of freezer out to the woods and leave it there.  It has no wheels, it’s mother heavy, it’s obviously for indoor use.  And in your basement or garage, camo paint is not going to fool anybody.  It’s not like someone’s going to need your help to find the freezer because it blends in.  “Bill, you need another beer?  Just head toward that marshy area next to the washing machine - don’t worry, it’s stable enough to walk on - can you find a handle?  Yes, pull it - amazing huh?  A freezer hidden in my storage bog!”

No, people with these freezers aren’t hiding anything.  They’re proud of their camo.  They use it in ironically inappropriate contexts.  The idea that camo is a preferred aesthetic for some segment of our population large enough to merit a whole production run of bunker-sized freezers - this idea is disturbing to me on many different levels.

Thursday, July 10, 2003

Get Some Balls

Last night I was supposed to meet my learner from Project Read, the adult literacy program run by the public library hereabouts.  I’d set up to meet him for an introductory session four weeks ago but he missed the meeting - just forgot about it. We met the following week instead; he even called me the day before to re-confirm.  But then he called an hour before our next meeting (which was to be our second) to postpone it from Tuesday to Thursday.  Come Thursday, he’s a no-show.  I call him the next Monday to check in and see if we can have our meeting that week on Wednesday.  He’s okay with that.  Last night was Wednesday night and he didn’t show up again.  I’m going to be “depaired” and “rematched.” These phrases have a very Logan’s Run sort of feel to them on one level.  But on another, more relevant level, I found this pretty irritating.  I’d been waiting for a year to get into this program and start doing some tutoring, and now here’s someone who’s wasted another month of my time.  I wish him an improved sense of focus or timing or whatever he needs, and all other good things, and I’ll be assigned to someone soon who will undoubtedly be more reliable.  And probably a supermodel.

I hadn’t yet taken this final leap into irrational fantasy as I rode two busses home from the Library last night.  I just got tense and clenched my jaw.  Then I picked up a 40lb bag of dog food at the shop on the corner and got to the house in a moderate dudgeon.  Kel had been and gone already - she had a woman’s group to attend and somehow I hadn’t been invited.  The evening light poured through the wide west-facing windows of the living room, over the long stand of eukes and pines across the street.  I pulled out one of the new yoga mats and an old favorite yoga tape, which I ran all the way up through a series of strength exercises I usually skip.  Plus, I exercised unencumbered by the confinements of garmenting.  Yoga is a lot more satisfying with one’s loins ungirded.  It was an invigorating and fulfilling workout.  It was good to notice that I was significantly stronger than I had been last time I’d tried those exercises.  And in the end I was able to leave my lame learner behind in the dust of an ended day.

That sort of makes up for my having had the world’s LAMEST workout on Saturday.  Kel finally got me to do a videotaped “exercise ball” workout with her.  I don’t think I have a problem with the balls themselves - we have two of them now and they’re good company.  But this workout - no.  Osteoarthritics in swimming pools do more vigorous exercise; Hippity-Hops are more dignified.  The key seems to be diaphragmatic and facial control, without which you’d just collapse with hysterical laughter at these pathetic excuses for physical activity.  At one point the human version of a cherry pixie stick who’s running the show has got me bouncing on the ball, swinging my arms… One thought, and one thought alone, occupied my mind: I have never looked even remotely so silly in my entire life before, and I have looked pretty damn silly on occasion.  So we’ve learned an important lesson here.  Stop fidgeting.  We’re almost done.

Because we’ve given short shrift to our good friends, the balls.  My point, really, is: I like the balance balls.  We have a mushy yellow 75 cm and a firm blue-green 65 cm.  They’re great as spare seating or a foot rest.  It’s fun to have them around.  Except - they really do seem to have some level of sentience.  It’s both comforting and disturbing.  You could call it “comforsturbing,” if you wished.  I come home and big yellow rolls over to say hello.  When we had a blackout some years back our ball really seemed to roll around the darkened flat following me - I tripped over it in every room, I think.  That ball died tragically, but we moved on and replaced it with big yellow, which isn’t a great ball for exercise (too mushy) but is an excellent companion.  New blue is a pretty good ball for exercise, but seems a bit underdeveloped in the personality department.  Well, you can’t rush these things.

Wednesday, July 09, 2003

Just as God Made Me

I don’t care to gamble, and I don’t play team sports.  I think this may have something to do with my basic risk aversion - I don’t like to be subjected to the vagaries of fate or incompetence.  I want to win or lose on my own merits, not those of a teammate or team or random quirk of chance.  I don’t like situations that are set up to keep me from helping myself out and achieving my goal.  Situational helplessness, I guess you could call it.  I hate it.  Makes me antsy.

So that’s why I’m settling back today to think of something really easy to write about.  No special challenges for me today.  I’m taking the road of least resistance and highest probability of success.  “Success,” being a word that is contextually shaded - and here, I think it means “a cheap laugh at the expense of someone who can’t fight back.” And since I’m making things so easy on myself, I’ll pick the biggest, fattest, softest and most defenseless target I can think of.

This essay is therefore entitled “Why I’m Such a Geek.” It’s one of a continuing series, but the first here to be so blatant about it.  I’ll limit myself to just a few items for this round, as the subject does not admit to being exhaustively analyzed at any one sitting. 

* I actually care that the word “geek” means “one who bites the heads off chickens.” (or snakes.  Don’t want that whole sub-specialty of geeks gunning for me.  Or gumming for me.  That sounds even worse, actually.) My Webster’s Ninth Collegiate here says that “geek” is probably from E dialect geek, geck fool, from Low German geck, from Middle Low German.  The attribution goes back to 1942.  Okay now I am a bit puzzled because no one in ‘42 was doing the low (or even mid-low) german thing.  How did we leap from mid-low german “fool” to 1942’s “oral poultry decapitator?” And then of course, the dictionary is from 1985 - there’s no reference to computer geeks or other benign modern variants of geekdom.  That’s another fascinating linguistic shift that bears further analysis.  Upshot: only geeks care about the etymology of “geek.” Q.E.D.

* I feel sorry for letters I delete on the computer, and try to use them in other words.  Like, “okay that E and that N are in the right positions if I take out the letters between them and type in three other letters, and then add an e to the end, so I don’t have to erase everything; that’s right E and N, you get another chance at a rich and fulfilling life as a letter....” I waste more time typing around “saved” letters than I would spend retyping everything from scratch.

* I’m really really psyched about my new purchases: a papershredder and a nitelite.  The shredder is going to change my life - believe you me.  And the nitelite has a photosensor so it turns off when there’s enough light to see, but now I can find my waterglass on the bathroom sink at night without turning on an overhead light, after which I can’t get back to sleep again, so either I’m thirsty and awake, or light-addled and awake, but it sucks either way, except now it doesn’t because I have a nitelite!  Next up: low-light shredding - for the ultimate in intimate security!

* I read notes I find.  Shopping carts, bus stops, on the street, left on park benches… I have this burning curiosity about what other people thought important enough to reduce to words.  And usually it’s nothing, a boring shopping list or notes about a used car or something like that… but once in a while I find a wonderful note passed back and forth between flirting schoolkids, or bored officemates in a meeting, or family members at a dreadful outing… these are hilarious, or touching, or something - but they’re worth reading.  And once I found a few pages of a totally filthy novel wadded up on the sidewalk near an elementary school, roughly torn from the book; the jist of the passage that I found was that someone was getting Vicks Vap-o-Rubbed where you’d never ask mom to put it for you.  You gotta keep your eyes open to see stuff like that. 

* If I’m hi-lighting a list where items will be checked off one by one, I like to start with one color of highlighter as a “baseline” color and then use another color of highlighter to show changes.  So suppose you have a list with things that are “finished” in green, and things that “need work” hilighted in yellow.  You finish woring on a “yellow” item and hilight it again in blue.  Now it’s green, matching the others that are “done.” This kind of control over the quality of visual radiation makes me feel like some sort of superhuman.  For like a third of a second.  But that in itself is worth something. 

* I have a blog.  Oh god how much lower could I sink?

Thank you for joining me in this exercise in humility.  Now leave me to my ignominy.  That’s alright, I’ll sit in the dark.

Tuesday, July 08, 2003

Big Contest Winner: Nobody

Not too many guesses at my new DVD purchase.  You can all drop dead.

Plum Lines

ee cummings wrote of plums
enpurpled, dewy, promising
cascading nectar
chin-dripping good
I think he called them icy
and that poem always cooled me
made me taste that purple nectar
that’s what plums had come to mean to me
a worthy image
but not mine
I realize this on my street
mountain pose beneath a plum tree
feral in the public gardens
I had never really noticed
in the spring this city blooms
there’s flowers blooming everywhere
I guess we’d had some flowers here
I’d smelled them, yes, on humid mornings -
powerfully fragile, pink in fragrance -
and then they died and life went on
I gave it not another thought
and now the bough before me buckles
with the weight of gold in green
plums abound in fecundation
the size and shape of jumbo olives
skin bright green and stretched so tight
that I can see the life inside it
green is not the shade of ripeness
but on this morning green means go
how do I know that something so chartreuse
will be so sweet
I hold it in my palm, brush off
the dust that gathers on all things
I spit on it and wipe it clean
my fingers taste it - heavy, warm,
the skin a membrane over flesh
that no one’s ever touched before
I can feel its fullness bursting
I just know it will be sweet
the bite is crisp, the fruit is firm
the nectar blossoms in my mouth
that perfect pink converted to
a form that lavishes my tongue
with flavor bright and rich and deep
a tanker truck of sudden wonder
April captured in the flesh
I consume it to the pit
it is delicious
green and warm though it had been
it has become, for me, for now,
the definition of a plum

Quagmire - by Tom Hayden

Mom’s been back out in the muck, raking away for all she’s worth, which is her weight in pure gold as far as I’m concerned.  Primary Proxy Mom (the first of three) asked me to post this political screed.  Even though it’s from Tom Hayden, I think it makes a lot of sense and echoes my own viewpoint, and I’m a hardcore blue-tick demopublican who’s fiscally conservative and socially awkward.  But don’t take it from me.  I don’t have enough to share. 

Upshot of the article: If Iraq is quicksand, we’re a dangerously overburdened colonialist sinking quickly into it.  If Iraq is a country, we need to get the hell out of it, though we shouldn’t have been there in the first place. 

Have a pleasant day.

Monday, July 07, 2003

Sign Here Damnit

Today’s the deadline for programs to submit their grant agreements for the upcoming year.  And by “Deadline” I mean “suggested submission date.” Nothing dies if somebody gets their paperwork to me a little late.  Not in direct response, anyway.  So we’ve got 99 programs all submitting 2 copies of 4-page agreements with an attached exhibit page, all of which have to get a control form, a programs name form with a circle to show which program in particular we’re dealing with, and “sign here” tabs for our Director and Executive Director.  It’s a lot of paper to shuffle, so I’m not inclined to cut people too much slack when they get the instructions wrong.  To the CEO who uses blue ink and a scanned signature - here’s your non-signed documents back, and try using a PEN this time.  Sneaky twirp.  And a special prize goes to “K”, who failed to remove the post-it note on the signature page reading, “K - forge this!  Robyn”.  K, I hate to spoil the surprise, but you’re gonna see those contracts again shortly, with a terse note asking you to confirm that the signatures are original.  We’re leaving the post-it where we found it. 

People.  Sheesh.

Stuffing on the Side

This is one of those days when I feel the weight of the world on my waistline.  I celebrated this nation’s birth by gorging myself on meats, salads, veggies and sweets.  Charles had an enormous picnic on Friday; Saturday was spent in recovery; and last night was Andy’s dad’s 75th birthday surprise party at Olivetos in Oakland, which is as good as North Italian food can get, which is pretty damn good.  How good?  Well for those of you who don’t mind reading menus, check the extended entry below - and see if you can guess what I chose.  No, that’s gross. 

Other exciting news: I got a new wallet, to replace the crappy lump of pleather that’s been embarassing me at all of Babylon’s chic-est watering holes, spas and emporia with its torn fringes and bedraggled undercoating.  The new wallet has a special bus pass holder that slides out of a slot in the front of the wallet.  For those of you keeping tabs, this makes me cool.  I’m going to write it on my locker in glitter markers so you can remember. 

Here’s another exciting guessing game: I just bought my first DVD this weekend.  It’s classic americana, featuring both farm equipment and explosions.  It was produced within the past 20 years.  Can you guess what it is? 

I have no prizes for any of you, whether you guess wisely or otherwise.  Tough noogies.  I want to take a nap.

Thursday, July 03, 2003

Alms & Succor

hilar ious - care of memepool

Let’s Get Political

In the words of the immortal Olivia Newton John, let’s get political… yes I think the headband is constricting bloodflow to my brain, but that would only put me on par with those of us who fail to question the U.S. Administration’s veracity with regard to our recent escapades in Bagdhad and environs.  They’ve seemed rather oxygen-starved to me for months. 

My proxy Mom sent me this article this morning and it reminded me of two things: first, a rousing debate that I found somehow through Jared’s site, in which people were arguing whether or not the administration had lied to us about the Iraq situation.  One powerful voice in that debate set some ground rules: that a lie is (and I’m paraphrasing with an eye to being fair and accurate) an intentional misrepresentation or withholding of facts so as to create a false impression or understanding in the mind of another, which the speaker knows to be false.  That’s a high bar to clear, but this article really seems to put us over it time and time again.  To say nothing of what’s been put over on us - and that’s the second point of which I’m reminded: that most people in this country just don’t seem to care how misled and ignorant they are. 

I recently saw an editorial in the Orlando newspaper (this is a link to buy a copy of the article, it’s not available for free anymore) that claimed that unemployment is at a “miniscule” level, as I recall - that’s just not true.  That same article lauded the present administration for keeping inflation low - but as I understand things, we’re actually worried now about deflation, price collapse, loss of inventory and the ability to pay to make or buy more - an actual depression is not out of the question, like Britain in the late 40s when they devalued their currency and were strapped into the financial equivalent of a foam helmet to keep them from falling over and injuring themselves further.  Schools are being defunded, libraries are closing, hospitals are unable to care for our sick and injured - and the Sentinel is cheerfully telling its readers that we’ve never had it so good.  And it saddens me that people actually believe it. 

So we’ve got a litany of real lies, people.  Intentional misstatements or pure inventions, all obviously articulated with the sole purpose of getting us behind a war effort that has not produced the desired results for us or the parties directly affected.  And the same is true for the environment, for civil rights, for the impact of the tax cuts and the health of the economy in general.... I’m not saying that the administration shouldn’t ever be wrong, shouldn’t ever have a position different than my own.  But they should be telling us the truth about matters of national importance.  It’s enough to make a guy doubt the trustworthiness of politicians.  What’s next, commercials?  Don’t tell me - I’d rather not know....

Wednesday, July 02, 2003

Runty and Scarry

You want to hear something Scarry?  “Allting Runt Onkring.” That’s the name of a Richard Scarry book my friends have for their very young daughter.  The book is just like all the Richard Scarry books, with adorable pink-cheeked domestic animals driving firetrucks and spreading cement – except this book is entirely in Icelandic for some reason.  The words are all in an alphabet I understand, and sometimes root words are similar enough to ones I know that I try to understand what’s being described – but there is a wonderful profusion throughout of funny syllables and apparent gibberish, and I just can’t take it seriously.  Allting Runt Onkring indeed. Heh. 

For those of you who want something scarrier, I’ll put a little story in extended comments.  Read it by the light of a new moon, and keep the wolfsbane handy.

A TOWN WITHOUT PITA

I developed a strong appreciation for the work product of Philadelphia area bakers when I lived there.  It really shows in the cheesesteak - a good roll, like an Amoroso, will make or break a sandwich, regardless of cheese choice, meat quality, carmalization factor on the onions.... predominance of sweet vs hot peppers… I’m literally salivating just thinking about it.  But it all comes down, as most things do, to the buns. 

And now I find this article about corporate espionage at its yeastiest.  But I am a bit disappointed to read of allegations of terrorism and money laundering - I certainly didn’t read any evidence of facts supporting such claims in the article, but maybe I’m not getting the whole picture.  Maybe there’s some sort of militant sect insidiously diluting the secrecy of american corporate giants, starting with the bakers who feed the birthplace of our hated constitution, and then moving on to… I don’t know… the burrito makers of the Great Satan’s private Babylon, San Francisco, or to the morally corrupting influence of the churro-extruders of Old El Paso… Ray’s Original Pizza… the options are infinite and the repercussions would be beyond imagination. 

What we’re saying is that, if somebody starts baking really good hoagie rolls right down the street from you, replicating a true classic of regional cuisine - the terrorists have already won.

Tuesday, July 01, 2003

Deviant

So a very nice woman who works with my department just stopped by my desk to ask me about the words she’s using in a report.  English is not her first language, and though she’s very bright and articulate, she has some insecurity about usage.  In particular, she wanted to know whether or not to use the word “deviation.” We discussed the relative connotations and inferences attaching to that word, as well as “variance,” “difference,” and “discrepancy.”

I wanted to discuss the negative associations some people have with the word “deviant.” I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I just told her “deviation” could be a very strong word and to be aware that some people might take it a bit personally.  Not me, though.  If someone called me a deviant I’d probably take it as a compliment.  I guess it depends on who’s calling whom abby normal.

Working, Playing, Day and Night…

As I sit here, men with pneumatic drills are tearing up the sidewalk in front of my house.  A flatbed full of conduit blocks my driveway.  The street is littered with chunks of concrete and piles of blacktop waiting to be spread.  I am psyched.  The only thing that’s not aesthetically pleasing about this block where I live is the web of wires overhead, and soon they’ll disappear underground, bringing me at the same time access to Animal Planet and other miracles of modern programming.  Tonight I will get home well after dark, despite the extended length of these early summer days, because I have a literacy training at 6 and I’m meeting a friend after that, and because the heat has broken and it’s summer in San Francisco - the sky is a pale grey bowl from horizon to horizon, diffusing light and confounding shadow.  I ran three miles this morning in about 25 minutes, which is damn good for a deskjocky like me.  Everything seems to be working out okay.

And in honor of working, here’s a little essay.  I don’t know why I wrote it or what it’s about, but it was fun and I don’t have time this a.m. to get all creative on your ass.  It happens.  Deal with it. 

*****

I’m not proud of what I do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to do it.  Somebody has to, right?  And that’s me.  It’s hard work.  I mean, you work hard at this job.  Usually it’s not too hard on the brain, but sometimes you have to think fast, and you have to think of everything.  If you blow it, that’s it - no do-overs.  So you gotta be able to get it right the first time.  And when things go wrong, that’s when everybody comes lookin’ for you.  It’s like, if nothing goes wrong, this stuff is invisible, but if something does go wrong, people are gonna be extremely upset.  Well I’ve been at this job for a dozen years, going on 13, and I think I’ve seen everything.  It can really hit the fan in this business, I’m sure you can see.  I’ve pulled the fat out of the fire more than once, sometimes when even I thought there was no way to avoid disaster.  But I avoided it.  I thought fast, I acted faster, I took control and I fixed things.  I fixed things.  None of them coulda done it - they needed an expert.  They needed me.  And I came through for them.  Most of them probably didn’t even know it, but I know.  I know what I did, what could have happened.  Things turned out okay because I was there, on the job, doing things right.  I’m proud as hell of what I do. 

*****

That was refreshing!  But not very funny.  So, just to ensure you get your RDA of FNY, I recommend that those of you with soundboards check out the “sound off” link on my sidebar.  Just let the page load and pick a celeb to pester with requests; some of these don’t seem to be loading right on my little home PC but Sam Jackson (right column near the bottom) is a true classic.  I should be back soon with lots of weird things to mutter into your cyberear.  Heh.  I said rear.