Thursday, March 30, 2006

From Beeing To Uncertainty

I like reading maps.  A while ago I was reading a map of Texas, and I saw a few items on the map that seemed interesting to me - provocative, even.  These were interesting place-names.  They sent me to Google Maps to learn more, and then to my notepad, and eventually I found that all that cartography was turning into a poem, and here it is:

From Beeing to Uncertainty

Out in the middle of all the everything
a man can’t help but be right there
reality can overwhelm
and the opposite of nothingness
is being in Bee County
I think we sometimes all wake up
in Beeville, down in south-east Texas
a bit too real for our liking
a cold sweat on our cotton sheets
a petrifying need to flee
to someplace that’s a little less
a place that can admit essential
mystery
or someplace anyhow that’s not
so goddamn real
as Beeville Texas
and the opposite of Beeville
is Uncertainty
so you start driving east one short block south
of the body of Jesus
who lies with Sam Houston
but since this is Texas
it’s His street you take
east past Deaf Smith on your catfeet
escaping next through grasping Cobb Webb
next comes Goliad, battlefield
on your left, the waters on the other side,
now you’re into open country
don’t linger in Moody
unless you’re a swinger
storm Port Lavaca, debouche on Highway 59
Zac Lentz Parkway, Lake Texana
Ganado and the Spanish Camp
exotic names that amplify
the pang you feel in Beasley-Needville
that town that makes you need to be
but you’re bound for Uncertainty
just barrel down that Southwest Highway
straight past Houston on the Mobius Belt
Eastex Free Way, Humble little spots
Hill & Dale and Bedspread Road
get some coffee in Splendora
don’t be tempted by the lure
of those that offer easy answers
Security or Cut-and-Shoot
a Shepherd leads you, Hallelulah
in Corrigan the road’s your Home
you find your quest has grown to suit you
pause at Fiberboard Lake’s broad vista
drink it’s vast surreal beauty
and keep on driving
Burketown, thence 287
69 around Lufkin and 59 out
till you’re south of Nagadoches
in a clutch of homey little places
Freedonia, Gasaway, and Lamp-lite
fetterless and luminescent
grab a postcard to remind you
getting into vaguer regions
loop clockwise, take 259
northward through Mt. Enterprise
let its ethic slip behind you
you still quest is for something truer
more true for its very vagueness
as you go through Henderson
43 splits like a photon
through a prism full five fold
just focus on the middle course
the road is rising through the foothills
take it on past Brandy Branch
ambrosial stream
and lo, Elysian Victory
is yours at last
the Karnak Highway
clouds your mind
just get to Rayburn
Cowpen Road
and welcome to Uncertainty.

Now that you’re here
what do you plan to do about it? 

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Long Live the Spider King

Remonstrations to the contrary notwithstanding, the impossible has happened.  I thought it never could, but then it did.  And then it happened again.  And again and again and again.  On the night of March 26, 2006, it happened for the fifth time.  Now I finally feel as if I can tell you about it. 

The first two or three times were each momentous events, and left me shaken to my core.  The fourth time still left me powerfully flushed with excitement and pride, but a degree of familiarity, of ownership if you will, was also creeping into my experience. 

And now, most lately, when I stood (or, technically, sat) at the cusp of my fifth victory, clearing my third stack with two deals yet to go and realizing that vindication was mine to earn or spurn, my pulse did not race and my extremities didn’t tingle.  Rather, I was suffused with a quiet confidence, a power that shone through my skin.  I was invincible, yes, but I didn’t need to make some kind of big thing about it. 

I mean, sure, I’ve won five games of four-suit Spider solitaire.  But that doesn’t mean I can’t still hang out with all you regular mortals anyway.  I’m cool like that. 

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Catch-up Ball: An Alloy of Work and Play Makes Chuckles Nigh Indestructable

It’s been a while since I just caught you all up on things.  Let’s give that a try.

Zach seems to be over his sniffles, which is a friendly, benign word for his two-week transformation into Mt. Snotuvius.  I stayed home with him on Thursday so he wouldn’t glaze the other kids in day care.  He hasn’t been sleeping very well lately either, but at least he’s eating like a champ.  A tofu-loving, lentil-sucking champ in a bib with a zebra driving a bus. Makes you wonder what kind of champs we’re minting these days.

Because I spent Thursday at home, I got to spend Saturday at work.  That was one of those “better to do the right thing” situations and in retrospect I’m glad I went.  It was a bit of a pain to be there though, palliated mainly by my heading straight over afterwards to Chez Lorson for Big Spaghetti Dinner, which I’ve been excited about for more than a month.  The spaghetti was actually normal sized, but there were rashers of sausages and talus-slopes of meatballs and more than a gallon of rich, heavy valpollicella-laden sauce, and sugar cookies for the kids to press and bake and Ace Cafe Happy Sandwiches (or “death patties") for the grownups - slices of poppy-lemon pound cake, drowned in marscapone and toasted pine nuts, and then drizzled with chocolate sauce.  With the cheeses and olives as appetizers first, I truly ate beyond my own capacity and didn’t stay up long once I got home. 

And that leaves today, Sunday, whereon we’ve done some laundry and taken a nice walk in the Presidio, as we did last weekend.  In fact, to make up for the lack of substance in this post, here’s some of the photos I took there.  Enjoy, and you can expect a normal essay or something soon.

That’s it for now.  Oh, but what do you think - will Evite suffer the same fate in Latin America as the Nova did?  Discuss. 

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

I Predicted My Whole Life

Duct-taped to a streetlight pole at Fremont and Market, a sheet of white copier paper with a message printed in a clear simple hand:

“Try this Go hide somewhere in your home & Say I am the C.I.A. or scribble Hells Angel* on a notepad.  They will be there and tell you everything you can’t do these things without them knowing about it.

*I couldn’t make the angstrom show up (not even by pasting or ctrl-shift-@+A-ing) - this letter, shown this way, should really be a capital A with a little circle at the top.  And thanks for playing along.

“I need people who aren’t C.I.A. to help me I will protect you I PROMISE.  If nobody shows up they will tell you the best way out, because the Court of the Crimson King is the worst way to go to Heaven.

“My C.I.A. is already pissed you don’t believe me.  I Told the news I had myself institutionalized so they could shoot me up and cut me up with everything.  They had to hold me up in the Courtroom because I was so doped up.  The Judge made a big mistake I’m everywhere.  I don’t let my C.I.A. help me because I can take care of myself.  I’m immortal. They want you to trust me & I want you to trust me. they love me. The U.S.A. is the worst most corrupt Government. We’re the ones always sticking our nose in other peoples business We start every war. When everybody trusts me I can give everyone a true love.  I can Only use my faith to protect my life at this point, but I showed the C.I.A. I can do whatever I Imagine. I predicted my whole life. Hells Angel tell the future, Dave and Pi.  David Bradbury HAning & P.AHitler your Mother & Father King & Queen Crimson The C.I.A. KORAN”

and running up the left margin:

“federal Government federal Government I’m the Real Jesus Christ David Bradbury HAning federal Government”

Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.  So you can, you know, make plans, or whatever.  You certainly don’t want to be stuck with the worst way into heaven.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Close Focus and Fine Tuning

I’ve been thinking about the past.  I’ve been thinking I’ll keep it around a while longer.

I guess it all started in 1980 when I proudly wore the brown and beige of an Arby’s beef-boy.  I got to spend my paychecks as I wished, and my wish was for a decent camera.  I researched my options as best I could without the internet to back me up, and hoarded a few months of minimum wages until I could go get me a Yashica FX-3.  Fairly compact and densely constructed, it was a simple, all-manual field camera, capable of withstanding the bumps and jostles an immature and overenthusiastic photog like me would hand it. 

And lord love me, I used it - thoroughly and well.  I built skills, invented tricks, made mistakes and learned from some of them, and wound up with boxes and boxes of stiff shiny images through which I could rifle at my leisure.  Which is to say, not often.  And that’s where they are now, 10,000 mistakes and 500 successes, hopelesly intermingled and disordered in a mismatched collection of unmarked cardboard boxes.  Truly an inspiration to my creative drive. 

The old Yashica comes to mind as an example of outmoded technology, and how my relationship to that world is shifting, bounded on one side, these days, by the new camera, and, on the other, by the old radio.

The new camera: My Rebel 300 is hardly the cutting edge of technology.  It’s already going on two years old and was not even the latest and greatest when I got it. But it is new tech, agile and powerful and capable of making a photo that I can easily have printed out to poster size, or - and here’s the cool part - slap down on this here website, or share instantly with my family across the country, or make part of my desktop decor at work.  And it’s physically light - short lens, low-density plastic body… it’s actually a bigger handful, but a lighter load.  When I accidentally picked up the wrong camera bag a few weeks ago, it felt like someone had stuck a brick in it, heavy and crude.  It was just the old steel Yashica, ready for me whenever I’m ready for it. 

I’m not even considering getting rid of it - I still like having that phat analog capacity.  But it has been relegated to the top closet shelf and I have no present plans to pull it down.  I can take more pictures, faster, and do more with them for less money, with the digital.  New technology is where I’m at. 

But, then, the radio: Two years after I got the camera, I was accepted to the college of my choice, though I can’t say I can draw a direct causal connection between the two events.  At any rate, I needed a few key dorm room suppplies, but the only one I really actively cared about was a boom box.  That’s right homes, it was 1982 and a big box was key equipment.  People didn’t play real music on tiny little boxes - those tinny transistor radios were old skool to the old skool. I needed a big wide sound, and a chassis to match. 

I borrowed my mom’s hatchback and drove to a stereo clearance outlet that only the cool geeks new about.  I took my time browsing, and eventually I found a box that suited my needs, style, and budget at once - two feet from side to side and commensurately thick, with speakers seven inches in diameter ringed in shiny silver that set off nicely against a matte grey body - all plastic, of course.  It gave me am, fm, cassettes, shortwave for some mad reason, and line in-out jacks.  Features included a treble-bass dial, a balance dial, and a choice between mono, stereo, and “biphonic” - a playback option that made sounds artificially rich.  The antennum was a yard long when fully extended, and the handle was sturdy enough to carry it anywhere.  Not unlike myself. 

I used that box heavily all through college, and brought it back home with me after graduation and eventually up here to Frisco.  It lived in the bathroom, then the kitchen, then back, and back again.  For years now it’s sat on the counter between the kitchen and dining room, and from its now scuffed-and-worn speakers I imbibe my daily dose of NPR with my morning yoga and tea.  It’s a reliable friend and always ready to help out with a tune or the news.  And lately it’s even gotten cozy with my ‘pod, thanks to the line-in jack that lets me listen to my whole music library in the kitchen with that thick funky biphonic sound. 

Back in the old days when the box was new, music was already starting to get smaller.  CDs had come out a few years before, and I still clearly remember my first walkman experience sophomore year, cranking up the King Crimson till my very soul shuddered as I strolled around the suddenly-transformed campus.  I could sense that the big boom box was hurtling toward obsolescence, even before I schlepped it back to California.

Regardless, I clove to it, and it has rewarded me with sturdy, steady service - for twenty-five goddamn years, now.  From goofy pop to darkest Tull, through ELP and the Dead and the blues, into jazz and boogaloo and acid bluegrass and international eclectic, that big old boom box perseveres.  I’d kind of like to replace it, with someting smaller and cleaner, with better sound and reception and a pod port that doesn’t demand a firewire and a separate power plug.  But then again, I don’t know.  I get a creeping sense of abandonment guilt when I see the old Yashica mouldering on its shelf.  There may be something to be said for honoring this relationship a little longer. I may not be getting any new cassette tapes to play on it and the radio may old, but the broadcasts it picks up are consistently fresh every day.  And I never really did check out that shortwave feature, anyway. 

Sunday, March 19, 2006

al fresco

here’s an image I can’t get out of my head: I’m like some lactose-intollerant homophobe hanging out at the Dairy Queen.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Smile - You’re on Crappy Camera

We have a chest of drawers in the entryway with so many hiding places we sometimes find we have things we don’t really recognize.  This is particularly true for film, in that one of the drawers actually contains, among many other items, several rolls of exposed film and a couple partly-shot disposable cameras.  And we have no idea when they’re from.  Every so often we’ll pull one out and have it developed, just to see what we’ve got.  It’s led on a few occasions to happy accidents, like when we’d shot a roll of Clyde and Cosmo, the two good big dogs, playing at Baker Beach sometime in the early 90s… We mislaid the film, but stumbled onto it again years later and somehow convinced ourselves that it was fresh and shot it again - this time taking photos of the little nephews playing, coincidentally, at Baker Beach, in the late 90s. Then we mislaid it again and when we finally discovered it and sent it in for developing we didn’t know what to expect. We certainly didn’t expect scenes of the boys romping with a dog who’d predeceased them by several years, but it was fun to discover them. 

But for the few rare cool double-exposures, we do seem to get a lot more rather humdrum and less noteworthy stuff back.  Sometimes it’s from a visit from relatives and there’s a handful of nice family shots, but often usually poorly exposed or framed; then there’s a lot of photos that just don’t work at all for any number of reasons.  Exposure and framing are frequent culprits, but other key players include: subject matter too distant, unintelligible, boring, or just missing; camera moving; subject moving; camera malfunction; thumb over shutter; camera in pocket; and so forth.  We get a lot of photos this way that just aren’t that much fun to look through.  “Oh honey - remember that pocket?” “Yeah, we could really fit a camera in there, huh?” Please don’t tell me it’s come to that.

But this time it’s actually really come close.  I recently sent in a roll with a full 39 photos.  With that many in contention, the law of averages tells us that a few will be cool.  But that law fails to take us into account.  We have the power to trump its power and produce a staggering array of effectively useless photos. And the photos we took on our trip to Elkhorn Slough in January of 1998 are a damn good example of it. The slough, as you really ought to know by now, is a small arm of fairly deep water that creeps inland in Monterey County for about two miles, fostering amazing sea life and offering damn fine kayaking.  So we went there, a-kayaking, and took photos - of the birds on the shore, the seals in the water and other sea life, and of course of ourselves at play, which is a subject of endless fascination to marine biologists and other brainy wankers. 

We now have those developed photos back, and the tally is as follows:
* Two of Kelly and Dan in a kayak
* One of Dan in a kayak
* One nice one of pelicans on some old pier pilings
* 16 of open water and the shoreline (on a few of these, a small disruption in the water’s surface probably indicates the location of a seal, but it’s damned hard to make out much more than that)
* 16 taken in rapid succession out the car window, pointed randomly down at some spiny bush in the parking lot border as we crept past it
* Three of the dashboard, steering column and shift lever from the drivers seat

These are the crappiest pictures ever.  We actually only paid for 12 of them, and I still feel like we ripped ourselves off.  The nadir has been reached. I feel like I can move on now.  Which is good because we still have about five rolls to go. 

Monday, March 13, 2006

Tashen Reflux

The absence of any comments to my last post hardly dissuades me from hurling more words from atop Mt. Chucklehut.  These ones, however, are sort of pre-hurled - it’s a reminder that tonight is Erev Purim, and you all have a solemn obligation to give charity, to eat sweets, to rejoice, and to drink yourselves into a stupor unless medical conditions prohibit.  And of course, you should read the Book of Esther.  However, if the bible doesn’t seem turgid enough for you, I’ve re-written Esther in my own Chucklehuttlian way, and most of you probably have already read my version, but I’m linking to it anyway just in case. 

Now go out and party like you don’t know the difference between Mordechai and Haman! 

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Seven Plovdivs of Wisdom

I finished my fun book a while ago.  It was a rollicking read and barely lasted me a week; my friend to whom I lent it had a similar experience, devouring it in a few sittings.  And come on, for a book without any naughty bits or exploding vehicles, it was a serious hoot.  Vampires in the Radcliffe Camera?  Bring it on! 

The only real problem about reading this book was that its action was primarily focused in the Balkans, and consequently the characters occasionally mentioned the town of Plovdiv.  It took me a damn long time to quit saying that placename to myself as a sort of mantra.  “Plovdiv, Plovdiv, gimme that good Plovdiv” I would murmur while on line at the grocery, and the incantation was effective, at least in getting people to move the hell out of my way.  “Plovdiv dude’s freaking out there, just get into another line before he goes off completely.” Yeah, Plovdiv.  It was like the chewy factual center of a literary tootsie pop – in the midst of a toothsome, if somewhat brittle, treat, it was a rich irresistible geographical nugget I just couldn’t get off my molars. 

Because, in fact, great literature, this book was not.  I’d say it was more skillfully written than The Da Vinci Code, but that’s like saying that some new television comedy is better than Mama’s Family was.  In The Historian I still bumped up against clumsy, iconic characters, untroubled by development, driven by the author’s wiles and not their own, through a plot that made up in inventiveness what it lacked in depth.  But I am not complaining; no not at all.  I mean - Plovdiv, baby.  You gotta love it. 

However, all good Plovdivs come to an end, and when I killed off Vlad (or did I?) at last, I was ready for a new book.  Wicked is sitting on my dresser and I’m eager to start it, but some pushy limey got in the way: when I was visiting the folks in L.A. my dad lent me his frazzled old copy of Seven Pillars of Wisdom (the original 1935 public printing with the scimitars on the front, no less!) that I’d read 20 years ago.  I remembered it as having been a tough read, but exhilarating and profoundly informative, as to events both ancient and current.  I couldn’t help but pick it right up again, and though it’s a slow slog, I’m loving it every bit as much now as I did then. 

The particular aspect that I’m enjoying the most, of course, is unrelated to the historical background or the stirring battles or the drama of human will set against the sere desert and fathomless seas.  In keeping with my former Plovdivism, I have found a special delight in Lawrence’s regular reference to travels through and across Wadi Yembo.  Wadi Yembo!  Wadi Yembo!  Starting at Point Guard!  Add two tablespoons!  Powered by Intel!  I can’t even find a Google reference to this apparently critical aspect of the Arabian peninsula’s geography, but damned if I can stop saying it to myself.  I’m Wadi Yemboing myself into a proper fit. 

Having said that, in all honesty, this book is a very worthwhile read.  It’s full of information about Mosul and Medina, Damascus and Yemen and Palestine, that really puts the modern conflicts into a much richer perspective.  It’s not easy reading but it’s not an easy region.  If you can read this blog, I recommend it.  I’ve dumped a few paragraphs of Chapter 2 into the extended entry, if you’d like a taste of Tom’s prose.  I am by turns awed and disgusted by his magisterial superiority, an empire Briton at the height of his self-importance, making offensive pronouncements about whole peoples and then undertaking such nuanced analysis as to render his egotism almost justified.  I think I’d rather not have enjoyed meeting Thomas E. Lawrence, but I sure am enjoying his book.  And eventually, when I’m ready for it, Wicked awaits.  I wonder what clever placename they’ll have me repeating to myself?  “Oz” is so done.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Presently Frustrated

Yesterday was the official birthday of our official no-longer-an-infant.  He had a great time with his new crew and here’s a chance to laud the good people at his day care - not only did they have a party for him with helium balloons and songs and games, but they also gave him two fabulous gifts that he is already soaking with the drool of delighted fascination - AND they had a cake.  And not just any cake, but a Schubert’s Bakery Mango Mousse cake with dark chocolate flowers and a white chocolate plaque that read “Happy Birthday Zachary” in letters of pure red sweetness.  And best of all, the kids didn’t totally love it so there were leftovers for mom and dad to scarf down in an orgy of overconsumption while watching Survivor last night!  Oh man it was good cake.... and all the sweeter because it was part and parcel of the day care adventure that’s teaching our boy to dance, clap his hands, and say something that sounds suspiciously like, “Hi, Da!,” when I come home. 

The thing I am less delighted with, is what I’ve been forced to learn about how children’s items are packaged.  FOR GODS SAKE can’t we please stop the madness?  A few months ago Z got a pack of washcloths: they were stacked up in a box that was both shrinkwrapped and also taped securely shut.  Each washcloth was then separately taped in three places with really sticky yet flimsy tape, and also tacked down through the fabric with a few of those plastic ties that you can only remove with scissors.  Having freed them from those restraints, each then needed to be unwrapped from a central cardboard core.  I’ll admit, the package looked nice, but really, people, what the hell?  Why must removing a washcloth from a little cardboard package be such an ordeal?  Are they afraid I’ll swipe one from the babystore and use it for some sort of illicit wiping purposes?  Or do they just want to discourage the acutal use of these products for their intended purpose?  In an emergency, I’d have just blotted up any excess moisture with the box itself, since the washcloths themselves were effectively impossible to access without a blowtorch and the jaws of life. 

I think the final straw was this morning when I tried to get one of the presents he got from daycare out of its packaging.  The toy is a sort of electronic puzzle with a plastic base and plastic animal-shaped pieces that fit into it, and the whole thing bellows nursery rhymes and encouragements to you as you try to match the pieces to their slots.  “WHERE’S THE COW?  THE COW?  YOU NEED TO FIND—NO, THAT’S THE PIG, THE PIG IS NOT WHAT WE’RE LOOKING FOR, CAN’T YOU JUST FIND ME A COW AND BE DONE WITH IT?  WHERE IS MY BLASTED PLASTIC COW?” (or words to that effect.) In a more practical sense, however, this toy is a brain-teaser relating to how to remove the damn thing from its insidious cardboard container.  First, I had to take scissors and cut through several pieces of tape that fixed the shape of the box.  Then I unfolded the cardboard to open the box but found that it had several cut-out tabs that had been woven into the body of the toy.  I worked those off and discovered a separate cardboard backing that was tied to the toy with plastic-coated wires.  These wires were doubled over twice for a four-wire thickness, poked up through the cardboard, wrapped around the toy a few times in several different places, poked back down through the cardboard, twisted together with the other ends into a singularity, tied into a tight knot, and then taped down again with large pieces of very effective tape. 

There were four of these little wire knots, and once I had untied, straightened out, unthreaded, and removed each of them, only then I could finally pull the actual toy away from the cardboard - revealing that some of the puzzle pieces were also tied down into their spots with supplemental nylon threads, locking them in place and consequentally totally negating the whole idea of a “puzzle,” in which the pieces roam freely and the user gets to figure out where they belong.  I needed scissors again to cut through these nylon strings in several places, since they had been prodigously knotted along their length and would not slip through the channels in which they lay.  Having freed those two puzzle pieces, I had then to return to the cardboard part of the packaging to find the other three pieces, which were individually locked down in place with blisterplastic that was taped and stapled to the backing.

My fingers bleeding and my breath a ragged gasp, I had finally succeeded in releasing the toy and all its constituent parts from its package.  I placed it down in front of Zach and flicked the switch to “on (but not so freaking loud).” It started vigorously singing “Old McDonald” in a cheerful electronically-synthesized voice.  Zach responded appropriately - by crying.  Well I’m crying too, little man - I’m crying on the inside, where daddys emote.  If they can’t trust us with a nice plastic puzzle piece without demanding a password, a multi-tool, and a strategic threat assessment, I guess we’re not supposed to play with those toys.  I’d love to let you play with your other birthday presents but the lockdown wires, nylon ties, and laser-guided sentry geese scare daddy.  I’ll find you a nice mechanical pencil or a few nickles under the couch instead.  It was good enough to injure children when I was a tyke, so it’s good enough for you. 

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Zachary’s One: the Ode of Joy

Howdy there Zachary
Sharp as a tackery
Big daddy Mackery
Power my factery
with Blockage and tacklery
and Hydraulic jackery
so Spit your tobaccary
Till the walls are all spacklry
Just give it a crackery
because You’ve got the knackery
No absence or lackery
In your backpackery
It’s straight off the rackery
The cards are all stackery
It’s a kick in the sackery
so Hush all that yakkery
Don’t give me your flackery
Medical quackery
Computerized hackery
Raising your hacklery
Invading Iraqeri
or You’ll get a smackery
Totally wackery
but You’re cool and slackery
Right on the trackery
Tactile, olfac’ery
yeah, I’ve got your backery
So drink a big daiquiri
Turkish Arakiri
Shake your maracari
Happy Day Zachary
Zachary’s one!

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Baths and Hanbok

Let’s play some catch-up.  Here’s some photos I took out at the Sutro Baths ruins two weekends ago:

and just to let you know I’m not kidding, the boy looked good in his hanbok:

more birthday returns coming up later today, I figure. 

in lieu of photos, The Phantom Strikes Again

I wanted to say a little something about Z’s party but I’m having a touch of trouble loading a photo and I don’t want to do a halfassed job of it so I’m going to leave it at this:

A whole leftover pizza
Leftover birthday cake
and we only opened one bottle of wine, and didn’t even finish that one.  Of course, it’s a three-liter bottle of that nice Bregonzo Amarone… and there’s another whole double-magnum we didn’t even open.  The mandoo and kimbop were delicious; the LOrsons brought Azermendi baked goods, and a very pleasant time was had by all. 

I’ll show some photos later on.  You’ll love them.  I swear. 

But that’s hardly enough to constitute a post, so here’s a little dialogue I hear in my head several times a day:

* I can’t believe you just said that.
* I didn’t say it.  You just imagined it. 
* No I didn’t.  I heard you say it quite clearly.
* But did you really?  Can you truly believe it?
* Yes I can.
* You just said you couldn’t.
* That was just a figure of speech.
* Which is itself a figure of speech.
* Well, yes.
* But they don’t really exist.  “Figures of speech,” I mean.
* What’s your point?
* What you say doesn’t really exist.
* That’s not entirely true.
* But you just said so yourself.
* Only about that phrase.
* Regardless, it’s proof that what is said might not reflect an actual underlying reality.
* That’s a truism.  No one disputes that.
* So if you heard something, maybe it wasn’t there.
* I see where you’re going with this.
* So maybe what you thought you heard never really happened.
* I see.  One question: are we having this conversation?
* Well, yes.
* Why? How did it start?
* Just a figment of your imagination.
* I’d agree, except we started off talking about something else. 
* Oh yes, of course.
* And then I called you for talking nonsense.
* But did I really?
* If you didn’t, we never had this whole conversation at all.
* Works for me.

I’ll be back shortly with some birthday cheer.  See ya later. 

Thursday, March 02, 2006

The Miraculous Renerating MonkeyButt

First, another round of applause (yes, you, I’m looking at you) for Pea and Sawni, and their amazing technical wizardry, for they have not only created this website out of naked pulses of electrical energy, but they did it from 3000 miles apart from each other, and from me, and none of us have ever met, and they still worked together to fulfill my every bloggish dream.  Ladies, I don’t just tip my hat to you, I’m tipping my whole head.

NOW.  In honor of Zach’s birthday, which is, metaphorically speaking, a mere butthair away, let’s tell the story of a magical visitor to our household, and a special gift he brought to us.

Who doesn’t love monkeys?  (I’m not asking you.  It’s rhettorical.  That means that, frankly, I don’t give a damn.) The point is, I love monkeys and so do all right-thinking folk.  That’s why we were so happy when, for xmas, zach got a lovely set of blocks with clear plastic sides and tiny figures inside.

One was a dragon and one was a zebra and there was a whole mess of them, and many of them had tiny moving parts so they could rattle or rotate or some damn thing inside their little blocks.  Zach was getting tired when these were unveiled for him, so we all played with them ourselves.  And then someone - it might even have been me but I don’t recall - noticed a special feature at the back of the monkey block, and we were agog and delighted, and I immediately swore to share it with the world for surely it was a lucky sign and good omen. 

Do you see it?  No?  No.  Neither do I.  For when I got back home from the trip to Maryland where we were awarded this amazing gift, the special portentious sign was nary to be seen.  NAIRY.  I was frustrated and heartbroken, for I did so want to depict it for all you dear friends of the Chucklehut.  But clearly, as clearly as a transparent plastic block, I couldn’t find the special feature any more.  And lo, it did bum me seriously out. 

And then, a month or so later, we were cleaning up the house (that is to say, cleaning it again, because we clean it all the time, we live in a freaking autoclave it’s so goddamn clean here), and Kelly showed me a special amazing miracle that gladdened my heart right up.  WE HAD TWO MONKEYBLOCKS.

I guess we’d gotten some of these same sorts of clear plastic toy blocks before we’d gone to Maryland, and I hadn’t really paid them the necessary quantum of attention, and therefore I overlooked the critical fact that we already had one Monkeyblock when we got the special Monkeyblock while on vacation.  You get it?  I’d been searching the old one for the special feature, and of course I couldn’t find it, because that new monkeyblock was hiding its bad simian self from me and the special feature was thereby shielded from my eyes.  But with the revellation that there were two, I could go and reconfirm that we still had the honor of providing residence for:

MONKEYBUTTHAIR!

Do you see it?  Do you see that this sealed children’s toy actually has a single, gracefully curving, jet-black hair sticking right out of its brown plastic butt?  CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I AM SERIOUS?  Or would you like a close-up?

Well there’s your closeup.  A genuine whisker on a plastic apecrapper.  I am sure it means something good.  I mean, when did a giant hair on a monkey’s butt ever mean anything bad?  And with that, I leave you to your weekend.  I’ve got a Committee meeting most of Friday and I’ll be busting my shavetail on saturday getting ready for the party on sunday.  Send me your monkeybutthair photos, and I may tell you how it went.