Thursday, April 27, 2006

Shufflememe me!

I’m not much of a meme-er, but today I am really grinding my gears - I slept poorly and woke up in a panic when I realized the alarm had somehow been switched (eh, Zach?) from loud NPR to a very quiet wooshing breeze sound; then the baby woke up before I got a chance to stretch the kinks out of my back (yes, they’re back on tour, the Kinks appearing live at Daniel’s spine, L2 - L4), we were out of anything reasonably breakfasty for breakfast, I rode a bus to work that was full of entirely entertaining travelling companions but wound up actually surrounded by smelly guys who sighed and yawned incessantly all over me, and I just discovered that the pillow that I’d found soaking up all the ink from a red pen left open on the desk at home somehow stained the cuffs of the shirt I’m now wearing… and now I’m bored, people, just goddamn bored.  So I dragged out my results of a meme I did a few weeks ago, prompted by Reecie - a meme that Lynn just posted as well. 

Reading Lynn’s post about it, it was so nice to see that I had a buddy in the iPod-shuffle-meme/ignored-for-admin-professional-day thing that I decided to share my results with the whole world, of which a shamefully small percentage will actually see this.  but anyway.  What you do is set the ‘pod to shuffle, ask a series of pre-determined questions, and, magic-8-ball style, it’ll kick back your fortune.  Oh don’t snicker.  It’s just as accurate as those folded paper things you made in grade school.  You didn’t make these in grade school?  That makes one of us a nerd.  And the way my day is going, I can guess which one it is.

ANYWAY.  Here’s the questions, and my faithful pod’s responses thereto:

How does the world see you? Bugs (phish) (oh good, an exoskeletal parasite.  I was afraid this would be depressing.)
Will I have a happy life? Panacea (greyboy)(makes me think that every little thing’s gonna be all right, except I have that song and it didn’t come up for this question.  maybe they meant “pangea,” which actually makes even less sense.)
What do my friends really think of me? La Marea (manu chao) ("the tide") (so they think of me as alternately waxing and waning on a twice-daily schedule, raising all ships but waiting for no man.  Apparently my friends start drinking early.)
Do people secretly lust for me? The Prisoner (gil scott-heron) (this is a depressing song and it strongly suggests that the main emotion being sent my way is more like pity than lust.  I guess I can see how that would be true.)
How can I make myself happy? Love Tractor (widespread panic) (what I need is professional-grade diesel-powered industrial machinery that literally drags love across the rutted surface of the planet.  This was not my original plan, but if the ‘pod says so, so it must be.)
What should I do with my life? Sexual Healing (ben harper) (this is too shameful to even make fun of)
Will I ever have kids? Gully Low Blues (louis armstrong) (a sad song for a man who adopted the world’s greatest boy.  I’ll need to chew on this one for a while.)
Good advice for me: Con Poco Coco (chucho valdez)("with a little coconut")(So the advice is, add some tropical flavor - your nut is huge and rock-hard and covered with tough fibrous hairs.  Yeah, I can see that.)
How will I be remembered? Touch You (golden palominos) ("Your memory is made up of light / It takes up residence and shines out / Like a photograph of fire / Like the light of my own body in the dark / Like something you almost remember” - I don’t know if I merit this kind of recollection)
My signature song? Green Chimneys (stanton moore)(this is rather dissonant hipster jazz, and not a song I particularly like.  Then again, I’m not crazy about my signature either.)
What do I think my current theme song is? Lead Me On (Kelly Joe Phelps) (a powerfully evocative song about a man seeking his place in the world.  I hadn’t thought of it as my theme, but now that it comes up, it rather makes sense)
What does everyone else think my current theme song is? I’m Sorry (zony mash) (instrumental hipster jazz fusion.  I’m sure folk think I’m pretty sorry so I guess this makes sense too.)
What song will play at my funeral? New Kind of Neighborhood (jonathan richman)(lots priced to sell!  adjacent to parkland!  quiet at night! (except for those pesky zombies!))
What type of woman do I like? Git Morgn (margot leverett and the klezmer mountain boys) (traditional ethnic sounds reborn through a bluegrass-jam band mentality - the kind of woman who’ll enjoy mazoh brie with cayenne, marmalade and local honey.  sure, I can buy into this one.)
What will my day be like? Insurance Fraud #2 (mountain goats)(this was true for that day a few weeks back when I did this first, but hell, it’s probably still true. “I won’t be cashing in that policy/till I find out what it is you’re trying to do to me” - a great song about a man facing some tricky ethical questions.  Story of my goddamn life.)

Hope you had a good time playing along.  I’d better get back to work now before I find a meme that will have me taking the bus back home to see what I’ve got in my recycling container or something.  In theory, I am an administrative professional, after all.  Maybe I should administer some professionalism at some point today. 

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

An Impertinent Little White that Would Do Well Laid Down for Proper Aging

Today I will spend most of the day on a site visit, imposing my will on the good people of a small hardworking legal support center.  However, even as I labor in those thankless trenches, interviewing MIS managers and LRS managers and other acronymical entities, I will be keeping in mind this special new status I enjoy beginning today, as a person whose age is divisible by both six and by seven.  In honor whereof, I offer you this pome of maturity:

A POME OF MATURITY

42 has come upon me
with the cunning of a mudslide
hear it rumble on the hillside
gives no quarter now it’s drawn me
Yet I sense a denser present
as I parry, braise and dandle
find more ends to burn my candle
living out beyond the legend
Roles untried now second nature
stepping up with single mission
strategist becomes tactician
if I bet I’d lay a wager
Less of all but get more from it
worlds evolving and expanding
came in steep but aced the landing
I can fake it if you hum it
Now is now the time, it’s true
to make the most of every minute
leave it if there’s nothing in it
turns out now I’m 42.

You may now return to more important activities.  And have a happy Daniel day. 

Sunday, April 23, 2006

My Year as a Stalker

I took malicious self-denigratory pride in my hortocidal ways.  That is to say, I kill plants and have chosen not to be ashamed of it.  I don’t do it on purpose but it happens most every time I try to keep one alive.  I did have a spider plant in college, but since then, I have left a trail of drowned, desiccated, burned-out or under-exposed plants in my wake – a trail that lies empty and sere through the landscape of gardeners and keepers-of-houseplants who seem to constitute most of the human race.  Not me, though.  I kill plants. 

Anyway, that’s what I said till last year when I got a birthday present that seemed designed to challenge this perceived incapacity to foster plant life: for my birthday a very dear friend sent me a kit for growing bamboo at my desk.  Bamboo is a grass, a sturdy monocot that, once in place, is famously hard to remove – but this particular fistful of stalks had an especially tough challenge to overcome, and I felt fear in my heart for their precious young lives as I gazed over my present.  It was a very thoughtful gift, but damn if it didn’t put me in a tough spot.  I would have to try to keep a plant alive now.  Not just for my sake or the plant’s, either – this time it was a symbol of a friendship I valued deeply, and that meant the game was on for real this time.  Project Genesis was underway. 

The pack consisted of a little plastic planter, a packer of gel crystals, and five segments of bamboo stalk.  Each one shone with naive toughness and was green as a rainforest; they looked utterly foreign under the buzzing lights at my workstation, but I was not going to let my friend down – nor the plants, nor myself.  Those bastardsuckers were going to thrive for me, goddamnit. 

I tore open the packet of crystals and dumped them into the planter, and arranged within them the five stalks upright in a little ring in the middle.  The crystals looked like ground glass and only filed a few inches of the three-inch-tall planter, but once I added water they swole up significantly and within a few hours they’d overflowed onto my desk. Clearly I was already dabbling in strange and mysterious powers.  The stalks that had been teetering in a paltry layer of pseudosoil were now wedged in nicely and gave every impression of vitality, each striving vertically from the waterlogged crystals below to the fluorescent fixtures above.  I was sustaining life.  Just like God. 

Within a fortnight my illusions of godlike generative capacities were ratcheted somewhat back, as I noticed that two stalks weren’t really pulling their weight, thrive-wise.  They had developed yellow spots on their leaves, which turned shortly mostly yellow with black spots.  I was outraged – I had done my part to provide them with occasionally refreshed hydration and plenty of overhead lighting and paperwork and keyboarding, yet 40% of my desktop bamboo thicket was failing.  Out of curiosity I plucked the underperforming specimens from the planter and saw that they were blotched, puckered and rotting down where the crystals covered them.  Root development was inconsequential.  For the health of those remaining, I had to cull the deadwood.  It felt sadly familiar as I threw them away. 

At least I had three stalks left, I consoled myself, but after a few more months two of them had also succumbed to the creeping rot that seemed destined to wipe me out in triumphant reiteration of my horticultural incompetence.  I extracted them too from the planter and dropped them unceremoniously into the trash.  Only one stalk still remained standing, and it was leaning now pretty badly – but otherwise, actually, it looked okay.  It had a bunch of new leaves in an approximately verdant hue and it looked like it wanted to send off a branch or a shoot or whatever it’s called.  Gingerly I pulled it from the cup of crystals to check it below the plimsol line, and found a complex root structure dangling pale and delicate before me.  This one was doing great.  I just needed to give it a new home with a little more support. 

The original planter had been generously proportioned to hold a little five-stalk bamboo forest.  Now that I’d lost 80% of the crop, there was too much room and the sole survivor couldn’t get the support it needed.  What I needed was a cup, and, to my shock and delight, I had one.  It held roses – five or six tiny ones, stuck in tired green polyfoam, where they’d been for about 18 months as a dried-out throwaway office gift from a meeting on a long-past valentine’s day.  Though they had a permanent place on my desk, I didn’t even see them in front of me anymore.  They’d long since stopped being flowers to me, and had turned into a sort of hole where reality didn’t quite reach.  But I could dump those little bundles of crispy petals and that dusty faded foam frog, and fill the now-empty plastic cup with rubbery hydrocrystals and a single proud piece of undefeated bamboo, and have a truly living thing standing at my desk to greet me everyday. 

So that’s what I did, and that’s what I have – even now, today.  Chlorophyll has stained the once-clear crystals green, and maybe the new leaves are coming in a little pale, but they’re still shining with pure vital energy.  I didn’t think I had it in me, but after a full solid year and all the setbacks we’ve overcome, I guess I can finally admit that I do.  Talk about a gift that keeps on giving. 

When I told Pea about this essay she suggested that it might make little curly lines come out of her head, as if she were an animated figure being exposed to something odorous or surprising.  I can’t worry about that.  My priority is keeping that plant alive and if she can’t be part of the solution, she’s part of the problem.  Not that there’s any problem but she’d be part of it if there were one.  Just to spite me, she would.  She’s such a troublemaker.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Technical Update

Here’s a brief technical update:

* My fabulous webwizard Patricia has tweaked my search engine (at the bottom of the home page) and now it really works - so if you recall that I wrote some damn thing or other about something, type in a word or two and see if you can’t find what you’re looking for.  If you can’t, blame yourself; it’s not the search engine’s fault.  It’s working great.

* My recipes page has been tidied up.  I’ve updated the entries so they show photos now, and renamed them so you know what you’re getting, and I’ve pulled in all the other recipes that were uncategorized before, and I removed that bogus latin from the “say somthing here about recipes” area.  Mmm, recipes.  Get cooking, people!

* My blogroll (links to other blogs) has been updated.  I’ve heartlessly culled out a lot of links that have not updated in three or more months, that being my arbitrary limit line. I also revived a few links that I’d deleted last time around but that have come back strong.  I even poked around at a few other sites and cannibalized their links list.  I may do this again soon, so if there’s a site you just can’t not read (other than this one, tyvm), shoot me an email and share the love. 

That’s all I’ve got for now.  All I’ve got for the likes of you, anyways.  Now sit up straight and stop mumbling.  There’s blogging to be done. 

Fritz

Folk sometimes ask me why I don’t practice law anymore.  Short answer: in seven years I almost never felt like I was able to help anybody.  Mostly, I worked with good people who never got the outcome that justice seemed to dictate. But sometimes even failure had some nebulous value.  Here’s the story of the hardest case I ever took, and how my client lost everything but hope. Maybe that made it worthwhile for him.  Maybe he did better with me than he would have otherwise.  Hard to say.  I hope I helped.  He certainly helped me.

They thought Fritz might be a special case, but they didn’t really know what his problem was.  He seemed to think that he’d won an asylum case, but when he tried to get some paperwork confirming his status an IJ told him to get a lawyer.  He had come, as a result, to the SF Bar Pro Bono HIV-AIDS clinic, and they had sent him to me.  From the outset I had no idea what I was getting into - but I could tell right away that it was going to be interesting.

Our first meeting was at the program offices where I was volunteering. Fritz walked in with his girlfriend and the standard tattered folder of documents. I’d had a little basic training on issue-spotting and remedial strategies, so I took the folder from him with an open mind, left it closed on the table between us, and asked him to tell me his story first. 

Monday, April 17, 2006

SportVest Gibberish Freakout

I’ve got a few minutes and the photos are just sitting there so let me just show you the weird thing Zach got.  This came from an extremely well-meaning and enthusiastic “proxy auntie” who wants to make sure the little feller doesn’t get cold.  It’s a bit big for him, but I like him to wear it anyway because I think gibberish keeps you warm.  Hence the balmy climate here inside the Chucklehut, and hence the protective and salubrious qualities of this HaoPengYou Sport Vest.  I give you first, the front view:

You can tell from this image that the color is “alexander the grape” purple, from the Otter Pop of the same name.  It’s rip-stop nylon for durability, and it’s got sturdy plastic snaps as well as a redundant zipper, which is wise given that I’ve broken some of the snaps already.  Oh snap, indeed. 

We also get to meet our two new friends, HaoYeng and Gibberish Dude.  They are shown in vignette, small introductory images that let us know we’ve got some sartorial buddies who are going to make life more fun than a Tony Danza sitcom again!  This is a vest with a lifestyle built right in!

Intriguing, eh? Let’s see if we can get an even closer look - sneaking around for the rear view, today on Wild Unintelligible Logo Kingdom. 

Yes, the closer you get, the weirder they is.  First, there’s the mysterious invocation in black beneath their frolicking images.  I’m waiting for some good cursing weather before I try saying it out loud.  We can also see that HaoYeng and G.D. are playing some kind of game, but it’s hard to tell exactly what because of the provocatively faint silkscreening. 

Also, a comment is being exchanged between them: “sport.” That’s what he’s saying as he thrusts forward his tiny, tiny badminton racquet from the safety of the tumbling beach, resplendent in his green jacket.  I find this to be fascinatingly opaque.  Is he calling his friend “Sport,” as in, “Hey sport don’t bend your thumb like that, it’s scaring the children?” Or is he invoking the muse of Sport, as an attempt to equalize his obviously lame paraphenalia and location with those of his swingin’ surfing buddy?  Or is he just emitting an almost-involuntary cry of enthusiasm for the many sports in which he and his friend are simultaneously engaged?  Current investigative methods prove unsatisfactory in deriving a meaningful answer.  The mystery simply resonates.  Like sport itself. 

Meanwhile, his carefree necktie-wearing friend gives him a thumbs-up from atop a cheerfully-painted surfboard, a matching boomerang clutched in his fist.  He’s wearing the “B B” logo that the kids are all enjoying so much these days.  While neither of them wear vests, both men wear hats. 

Okay, I don’t know if they’re men or not.  But they are wearing hats, and at least the boy has a role model now.  I’m going to get him a surfboard and boomerang as soon as possible.  That badminton racquet, though… well, only if he asks for one.  A fellow can get too sporty.

Ressurective Weekend Freakout

Let me be brief, if I can (pause for audience laughter): this was a really nice weekend.  My morning will be dense but blissful, but the weekend was chock-full of chocolate and all manner of rich satisfying experiences.  Seder was held on saturday night and went especially well, I thought, with strangers from afar and strangers to the assembly and strangers to the ceremony and strangers new to the planet, including my little Zach; sunday was the definition of a lazy easter rising, with purple plastic grass-shreds hiding creamy ovoid surprises and delightful toys (once again, for the Z-meister).  Then, since it was still raining, in lieu of taking our once-traditional easter hike, we drove a bit more of the 49-Mile Drive and just gaped and stared and enjoyed each other’s company.  We also went to the arboretum in the park and took a few photos, and they’re probably the best way for me to share the experience with you:

first, from the city drive:

Then, from the park:

He speaks for us all, I think.  And I think he’s saying we all need a diaper change.  Coming soon: Zach’s Hilarious Engrish Vest.  Don’t miss it!

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Pesach Risin’

Good yontiv to you all – as far as I can tell it’s Passover already, though I somehow had it in my head that it started tonight, which I guess is what you get when you have a holiday that runs eight days straight.  So muncha matzo, snatch an afikomen, get your moror on, and so on with all that pesachdik chazzerai. 

If you’d like a copy of my hagadah (guide to observing the Passover feast, or to understanding the prior sentence) just shoot me an email.  It’s been freshly re-edited and revised for this year, and runs about 50 pages of seder text plus a havdalah service and some introductory material.  It comes with your choice of supermodel too.* Meantime, I’m getting excited about my upcoming feast and celebration this Saturday with the old crowd, significantly supplemented with some key new players.  As for now, though, I guess I’ll leave you with a short list of REJECTED PLAGUES:

* Runny curds and lumpy gravy
* Papyrus cuts
* Hieroglyphics coming to life and messing with folk
* SBDs
* Pyramids (more of them) (lots)
* Hipsters
* Loss of Sphinx control
* Forgs
* Junk Faxes
* Mariachis

Floss regularly to prevent plague buildup, and have a delightful evening. 

*Sorry, supermodels have already been claimed.  Let me know if you need anything else super and I’ll check the backstock.  I mean, the super-backstock.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Life Underground at The Secret Cafe

We’d been planning on seeing David and Kim but their kids were sick.  However, David continued on the telephone to me, Kaleb’s illness meant that Kim was going to stay home to take care of him, and couldn’t use her reservation to see Daniel’s show at the Secret Cafe.  Did either of us want it?  Hell yeah, I wanted it.  David gave me directions to a specific unmarked gate leading up certain stairs near a particular intersection in a complex and transitional neighborhood on the far side of the bridge.  Be there by 8, he told me, and bring $12.  “It’s an unusual place,” he explained. 

At 7:45 I found the gate on a block of small shops with apartments above, an unmarked iron grill next to an unassuming storefront.  I went up dark stairs into a spacious whitewalled apartment hung with excellent art.  Empty bookcases stood bolted against a few walls, and the living room floor was otherwise filled with two-, four-, six- and eight-tops under red tablecloths.  Seating was on wooden chairs of innumerable design.  A wide bank of redwood-framed windows spanned the front of the room looking down on the street below.  I found Dave there already but we were among the first to arrive.  Things were pretty quiet.

We signed in with a woman managing the guest list, paid $12 each, and went to get a drink in a roomy adjoining gallery with the same white walls and rich wood floors.  The night’s menu was posted near the front door, and on a hallway leading back to the kitchen hung a collection of a dozen or so older menus from prior feasts.  Beer and wine were outrageously inexpensive, and they also were selling crystal mugs of a brandy-champagne concoction called a “loving cup” - yowzah.  As we drank, things filled up quickly; by 8 the place was packed with 70 likeminded folk and we were asked to take our places at our assigned tables. 

I had the pleasure of sitting opposite David (who had been calling me his “date” until I explained the role assignments), and also with his cousin (and my friend) Mark and his new wife Mikisha, the esteemed Dr. Andy, Benjy (who seemed like a very decent fellow) and Daniel and Holly, soon to be wed.  Daniel is David’s brother; I’ve known him for 20 years, and his fiancee Holly for at least ten.  That particular night was the 6th anniversary of Daniel’s diagnosis (by Dr Andy no less) with a very serious illness, which he’s long since completely beaten.  He also just just found out he’d passed his state boards and is now officially a L.Ac.  With Marc and Mikisha also very recently returned from their honeymoon in Vietnam and Thailand, the conversation was lively and warm.

Service was a bit informal, since there were so damn many of us crammed into that room, but we all passed bowls and plates amongst ourselves and no one went without.  We dined like kings - like vegan California kings, but kings nonetheless.  And on what do the Californian vegan kings dine?  They start with a warm bowl of soba noodles in asian broth (with lotus root, which is delicious and fun to eat), and then move on to risotto of sushi rice with mustard greens, escarole, green garlic and nijiki; a salad of asparagus, orange, avacado and purple carrots (and I could swear there was a little kumquat in there too); and a nice crisp wedge of pan-seared tempeh with miso, ginger, chili and perserved meyers. For dessert we each enjoyed an individual old fashioned strawberry shortcake, drizzled and drenched with with some kind of non-cream cream that was rich and sweet and gooeylicious.  Needless to say, it was great food, and left me feeling strangely energized and focused. 

By 10:30 the chairs had been moved into the gallery, where Daniel and his old friend Rich picked up guitars and performed an hour-long set as “Bruised Orange,” their name floating above them on a calligraphed banner frozen in mid-breeze, with clouds surrounding it hung from monofiliment.  They hadn’t played in public for four years but their decades of friendship and their well-honed skill immediately kicked in for them.  Despite some professed pre-show jitters, Daniel looked totally comfortable and sounded great playing the guitar and singing tight, counterintuitive harmonies.  After a while they were joined by a percussionist and, later, by a cello player.  The music was keening and passionate and restrained; it had a subcutaneous effect.  All around, an excellent show.

At midnight the show was over.  I bade my friends goodnight at the nondescript gate on the now-quiet street and drove home in record time.  The bridge, the skyway, Octavia and Fell and the park.... it all just fell into place.  I got home at 12:30 and fell very deeply asleep.  My mind was at peace.  I possessed the secret of the Secret Cafe, and I was damn glad they let me in on it. 

Monday, April 10, 2006

LAudamus

It’s been a busy few days here at the ‘hut, and I wish I had more to show for it than eye-bags and a grim determination to survive. Of course, there’s that fabulous underground supperclub I need to fill you in on, and you don’t need much of an update about housekeeping and Z’s sleep schedule. I’ve been sinking vast amounts of time lately into stuff that makes for very boring reportage.  But I did want to share a few words about Simon and Julia’s wedding.

I met Simon thirty-five years ago when I got back from a six-month trip abroad; he was a student in the second-grade class in which I was placed. He wore a black armband because Jimmy Hendrix had died just a few days prior.  He knew big words, could draw and sing, and had a quick sense of humor. Simon and I got along great - a pattern that continued right through the rest of elementary school and into junior high and high school. We did a lot of extracurricular activities together too - debating and theater, mostly, but we also got together with any spare time we had, between classes or on weekends. We went to summer camp together. We read each other’s writing and commiserated with each other’s woes. We were very close friends.

Then we went to colleges on opposite coasts, and now we live in cities 400 miles apart.  Simon and I barely see each other anymore, but that is apparently not cause for despair, as it can be for some friendships that need constant refreshment to survive. On those rare occasions when Simon and I are in communication, the communication is instantaneous and profound. We still get along great - just like always. And now he’s doing so fabulously well - he and his beautiful, brilliant, charming and witty wife, in their gorgeous canyon-edge home full of music and art, and their fascinating, glamorous, mysterious life together. I wish them a wonderful honeymoon and a very long future together full of shared revelation and bales of laughter. Good going, guys.

Their ceremony was beautiful, brief, and very touching. The longest segment by far, and the only reading by anyone other than the JP who ran the show, was Julia’s sister’s poised and hilarious recitation of the story of the first serious flirtation between Simon and Julia - the official beginning of their relationship, a night exactly fifteen years to the day from their wedding date. Which was why they got married on a Thursday, but that’s no nevermind. I was so glad to be there whatever day it was, finally to be able to enjoy their company for a few minutes (even if they were stretched thin with all the guests and family). Simon is still a very dear friend and I couldn’t let him celebrate this event without contributing my goodwill on the auspicious occasion.

At one point after the ceremony Simon stepped over to speak with me on the patio by a large decanter of Lemon Drops. We instantly picked up again with a conversation we’ve been having since about 1975; it felt good to talk again. He mentioned that he was just realizing there would be no “toast,” in the traditional sense - their free-form low-profile wedding plans had not really allowed for some of the familiar components of what a wedding has become. There was no wedding cake - just endless boxes of fabulous tiny cupcakes (red velvet being my personal favorite). There was no procession of the bride and groom. And there was no best man - so, likely, no toast. “Nobody’s doing toasts,” Simon summed up succinctly.

I pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper out of my breast pocket, torn from my notebook and covered front and back with scrawls and crossouts. “Here, I wrote this for you. I’ll try to read it. It’s pretty sloppy.”

I did read it and it was sloppy in any number of ways but he seemed to appreciate it, and asked for a copy. And since then I’ve felt like sharing it more widely. Anyway, that’s how I feel about it this morning, so here’s the

Poem On An Old Friend’s Marriage:

It started with propinquity -
a fair coincidence, the luck
of finding someone like ourselves
amidst the elemental muck.
The hornrim glasses clued me in:
this fellow had an active mind;
a band of black around his arm
for Hendrix showed he was inclined
to listen widely to the world,
express his youthful, yearning soul -
together, we two targets braved
a world that seemed more path than goal.
Together we endured and grew
and moved from school to school to school
we wrestled with our heads and hearts
and learned the sages from the fools.
Then, as we teetered at the cusp
of being who we really are,
we separated, each to test
peculiar waters from afar. 
New victories, and new mistakes,
new friends and old, they came and went
our lives evolved on separate paths
in brilliant dissolution spent
until I could not help but see
that he and I had come undone -
my world and his, two separate spheres
yet sharing something still as one:
resiliant deep within us both
the I in him, the he in me
it lingers, percolates, pervades -
it supercedes propinquity.
The friendships that were forged by chance
have long since faltered and decayed;
but what we shared we share anon
despite the distance or the day.
And so I gladly reconfirm
this friendship that so long we shared
in gratitude that I am here
to see how far you’ve come from there. 

Simon and Julia - Long may they wave.  Back soon with some cool stories and stuff. 

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Dumpers

Today I fly down to LA for a very very quick visit - attend a wedding, go to sleep, get up, fly back, and get a ride right back to the office again.  It’s a party that will last all day long.  And it promises to be quite a long day indeed.  Tomorrow will be no easier, though it will likely be less party-oriented. 

Respecting which, in lieu of a more substantial post (I have a few stocked up, don’t you worry), here’s a few words I wish someone else had written.  They should be in a book that Z got for his recent birthday: “Diggers and Dumpers." It’s full of photos of trucks, with their names written beneath them (like “giant excavator,” not “Smitty").  But I really wish it also contained at least this tiny snippet of dialogue:

(knock knock)* Hello?  Are you in there?
* Yes!  What?
* What are you doing?
* What?!!
* What are you doing in there?  Are you digging?
* No, goddamn it!  Can I have some alone time now please?

Back in a few.  Dig it. 

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

For Those About to Explode, We Salute You

It’s entirely likely that a phone is within arms reach of you as you read this very blog post.  And that means that, conceivably, you might find yourself speaking at any moment with a bomb-stowing maniac.  Someone, you know, who’s surruptitiously secreted an explosive device in your building.  And who has obtained your phone number, and chosen to contact you to advise you of the imminent threat of being blown up.  Apparently these guys are all about the advance phone warning.  The likelihood, in fact, of receiving a telephone call from a mad bomber (what bombs at midnight) is considered by my employer, for one, to be so acute, that every telephone in my building comes with a 3 inch by 10 inch reference card, with the title “Bomb Threat Report Form” at the top and “BOMB THREAT” printed in large letters across the bottom.  The card is white, and is printed with cheerful red ink. 

The Bomb Threat Report Form is invaluable in establishing a degree of national paranoia so intense that all right-thinking people will be trapped in a miasma of fear, unable to antagonize those who wish to do us harm.  It’s the new millennium version of a bomb shelter – not really likely to do much for you, just there to make sure you’re good and freaked out.  And just in case you turned your shelter into a rum-pus room in reckless disregard of the threat of global thermonuclear war, and in so doing, you lost your goddamn Bomb Threat Report Form, I’ve transcribed it pretty much verbatim right hereinbelow.  Remember, bomb threats reported on non-conforming Bomb Threat Report Forms will be returned for correction until such time as the threat, or the building, no longer exists. 

Questions to Ask:
1.  When is bomb going to explode?
2.  Where is it right now?
3.  What does it look like?
4.  What kind of bomb is it?
5.  What will cause it to explode? (hint: don’t tell it you fogot to TiVo “Survivor”)
6.  Did you place the bomb?
7.  Why? (you may want to get a fresh cup of coffee for this one)
8.  What is your address?  (surprisingly unsuccessful inquiry)
9.  What is your name? (try to trick this out of the threat maker by suggesting he may have won a prize but you need to confirm his name and address.  You may need to provide the threat maker with one of your own prizes as bait.)

Exact wording of threat: (attach extra sheets if necessary; bonus points for creative use of multi-media)

Sex of caller: (orientation is not so much an issue at this point.  You’re not dating, you’re just trying not to explode.)
Race: (a tricky one.  How can you tell?  “You sound Asian.  Are you Asian?  Maybe Kashmiri?  I’m just guessing here…. Give me a hint.  Let me hear you say ‘Hasselhoff.’”)
Age: (again, a challenge.  “Hey, trivia question, Mr. Bombs-a-lot: Did you ever watch the original Speed Racer on tv?  Or was that sort of before your time?  How about Thundercats?  What’s the zipcode for ZOOM?”)
Length of call: (42 short, with cuffs)

Caller’s voice (select all that apply):
Calm / Angry / Excited / Slow / Rapid / Soft / Loud / Laughter / Crying / Normal / Distinct / Slurred / Nasal / Stutter / Lisp / Raspy / Deep / Ragged / Clearing Throat / Deep Breathing / Cracking Voice / Disguised (a tricky one.  How do you know it’s a disguise?  “He was clearing his throat and stuttering, but I think he was just putting us on so we wouldn’t notice his angry, excited lisp.”) / Accent (or Mrs Dash) / Familiar (if voice is familiar, who did it sound like: select all that apply – “that guy” / dude from Fraiser / Dude from Survivor / Michael Douglass / Michael Jordan / Michael Jackson / Jan Michael Vincent / Not much like a Michael)

Background Sounds (select all that apply):
Street noises / Crockery (I am not making this up) / Voices / PA system / Music / House Noises / House Music (okay I made that one up) / Motor / Office Machinery / Factory Machinery / Bullwhip and Kettledrum (that one too) / Animal Noises / Pet Sounds (me again) / Clear / Static / Local / Long Distance / Booth / Other

Threat Language:
Well spoken - educated / Foul / Irrational / Incoherent (though apparently not necessarily irrational) / Taped (as if before a live studio audience) / Message read by threat maker (as opposed to threat maker just rubbing a piece of paper with the threat written on it against the telephone)

So print this out and keep it by your telephone.  If you can get your caller to answer all these questions, you’ll probably still be in the building when it blows up.  Let me know how that works for you.  You may need to leave me a message though – I’ve taken to screening most of my calls anyway.  There’s a lot of wackos out there with dialing privileges. 

Monday, April 03, 2006

That’s a Warm Load

I think this is a good time for a bullet-pointed summing-up of the Three-Day Chucklehut Weekend (thank you Mr Cesar Chavez and the Great State of California):

* Brought my mag trainer bike in from the garage and set it up in the study, and also got the other bikes road-ready
* Reset several clocks but not all of them because sometimes you need that wacky fun-time clock too
* Dinner with the Paiges featuring a Dan-tastic salad and delicious roast chicken and veggies and mac-n-cheese-n-peas and of course good bourbon and wine (separate glasses)
* Discovering an extra container of mac-n-cheese-n-peas that Kim packed up with our salad leftovers
* Giving Daisy a toy that Zach had received before he was old enough to play with it, and having her be totally thrilled by it - felt figurines of characters from The Wizard of Oz, that “stick” to a felt background
* Intense relief at being able to get rid of the “Felt Kids” toy, the name of which always reminded me of some sort of fraternity of molestees ("make a story” is their motto, which again just sounds like a recruiting call for repressed memory syndrome)
* Shopping for produce at the Richmond Market (jicama!  plantains!  am I the only one, people?)
* THREE naps
* Did all the laundry and all the dishes (best quote: “That’s a warm load.")
* Threw out the last of the instant baby formula, because our boy drinks cowjuice now and he drinks it straight - the days of measuring and mixing and shaking and cleaning up that sticky expensive crap are behind us at last!
* Saw an academy-award-winning film and wasn’t really that into it (Crash, for what it’s worth, or Do The Right Thing in the Grand Canyon)
* Updated my iPod software so maybe I’ll get more than 2 hours per charge goddamnit
* Realized, in a blinding moment of clarity, the primary drawback of Helper Monkeys: Helper poo
* Took a nice run in the park and discovered that construction is finished on the intersection of 10th and JFK, which is now an all-foot-traffic intersection and pretty sweet (if I do say so through gritted teeth because that old 10th Ave automotive entry to the park they’ve taken out was even sweeter)
* Petaluma Outlet Mall shopping: one pair of slacks and four shirts, plus baby stuff
* Took a bath with Zachary, which was more interesting for me than it was for him; he really didn’t seem to take much notice of me anyway
* Caught up with the Sopranos, which I’m enjoying again now that they’re not wallowing in excessive surreality
* Lots of rain (which I like) (which is good because they’re saying we’ll have two more weeks of it)

And yes, of course there was more.  Much more.  There is always more.  I use my discretion; you use your imagination.  I think I’ve made my point, though.  This is going to be a short, intense week for Chuckles.  It’s a good thing I had such a relaxing weekend to ease me into the action.