Thursday, August 28, 2008

Phat Farm Fresh

I didn’t usually ride the bus with anyone - fellow riders shared the space with me but not my company, by apparently mutal consent.  But this particular Wednesday I’d met up with Dave after work and he hopped the 38 to join me for my ride back home, where his wife and kids were waiting with mine for us to bring in some pizzas. By the time we boarded, the seats were all occupied; we eventually found our way to the back and stood a little aft of the rear stairwell to sway and chat our way home.  That’s a pretty good spot for keeping an eye on things, to the extent there are things upon which one’s eye might be kept - and on the 38, such things are not unheard-of.

We’d gotten well out toward the westside when a small posse boarded at the exit doors by which we were standing: four kids, no older than high school and some younger than that, dressed in regulation trademark t’s and oversize jerseys, all with sagging jeans; they ran along the sidewalk to the stairwell with the glee of children getting away with misbehavior.  Three, anyway, scampered up the steps; the fourth came more slowly and laboriously, elephantine in both movement and proportion.  Morbidly obese, he gulped air in exhaustion at the effort of catching his ride; his knees seemed to buckle in toward each other.  Sweat beaded unattractively on his swollen forehead.  His supersized t-shirt read “Phat Farm.” I thought the phrase had never seemed more accurate.

The big boy made it halfway up the three steps and then stopped, glaring skeptically at the crowd in the aisle.  With something less than perfect dignity he sank down and took a seat on the stairs, panting and wiping his brow with a massive hand.  The kids who’d come on with him stuck around near him, standing at the head of the steps in postures of studied casualness.  The three of them together probably weighed less than he did alone.

They all began to converse in the staccatto patois shared by youth around here regardless of their ethnicity, but shortly the big kid’s cellphone rang and with an expression of supreme inconvenience he fished the communications lozenge out from a pocket of his voluminous trousers.  That expression intensified as he glanced at the caller ID, and he began the conversation peremptorially and without pleasantries:

“Wotdefokyouwan’?  Yeah I’m busy, man I’m out.  I’m OUT!  Cuz I go out sometimes!  Cuz my dad sed I could!  FUCK!  Well I can’t!  I CAN’T!  FUK YOU, bitch!  FUK!  Cuz I got stuff to do!  STUFF!  FUK!”

The conversation continued in a similar vein for a few more minutes, expostulations and expletives in a thin bitter broth of pure negativity.  I couldn’t ignore him - he was too big and loud and immediate - but I couldn’t follow the conversation either.  All I could really tell was that I’d have hung up on him quite a bit earlier than how long he took to terminate the call with a curt snapping shut of his phone.  Disgust was inscribed unmistakeably on his enormous platter of a face as he crammed the phone back into his pants, and sweat still trickled in humid rivulets down his cheeks. 

The bus made its usual stops, lurching and shuddering into brief stillnesses; the crowd of riders circulated regularly and the rear exit doors were in steady use - or one of them was, anyway.  At each stop the friends of Phat Farm, as if by unspoken compact, hauled out and held the door open for departing passengers from curbside, then hauled back up and in again to their established spots for
the next segment of their ride. Phat Farm never moved, except to shake his head, sneering, and to cradle his beaded brow in his hands. 

Dave and I watched it all with shifting emotions.  I didn’t think much of PF’s behavior, and hoped he’d leave the bus before I had to circumnavigate him, but he was going nowhere (other than where the bus was taking him in the grandeur of his sour passivity).  Eventually we reached our stop and stepped out down the exit.  I tried to minimize contact with Phat but couldn’t help noticing, as I passed him on the other side of the stairwell, the acrid scent of his grimacing, perspiring enormity. 

Off the bus and back into the relatively fresh air of 6th Avenue (and when a KFC/Taco Bell’s offgassing is “relatively fresh” you know the alternative is pretty bad), Dave and I shared our thoughts.  “At first he irritated me,” Dave admitted, “but then I realized that he couldn’t have gotten any further on the bus if he tried.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, “and the strain on his knees was too much for him to ride standing anyway.  But still, I didn’t care for the way he spoke to his friends, or whoever called him.”

Dave countered, “He probably gets treated like that himself.  I can’t imagine it’s easy for a kid that big.”

“Maybe,” I replied.  “The kids with him didn’t treat him badly.  I’ve known some pretty big people.  Some of them were full of bitterness and some of them weren’t.  I can’t help but think that some of his anger is expressing itself in fat, and and some of that fat is expressing itself in anger.”

“Maybe,” Dave concluded equivocally.  Then we picked up our two pizzas and carried them six easy blocks home, where the wives were waiting for us with cold beer.  Supper was delicious and the kids frolicked gleefully.  We left Phat Farm to his own grotesque devices.  Priorities, people.

(typed on my brand new laptop, and remotely uploaded with > new wireless connection.  Damn but this is a cool millenium.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

God’s Half-Tube and the Little Green Guy: In Lieu of Actual Writing

Freaking ridiculous, or as the ancients put it, freakus ridiculousus.  August is turning out to be as intense and demanding as I could ever have expected, and my expectations were high.  Dad came for a visit, as I’ve mentioned; last weekend, it was mom, and next weekend, Delia and her parents (one of whom shares more of my genetic material than any other person on the planet).  I’ve built furniture, laundered a mountain of vaguely musty linens, installed and repaired (with expert assistance) a wireless network, and am now waiting for a new laptop and neighborhoodie.  There’s a bat mitzvah (with associated pre-event shindig), a newly-adopted child’s first birthday party, a dear old friend’s locally-famous pigmeats party, and we’re busily pulling together final paperwork in anticipation of getting the call to fly off and pick up Jesse in Seoul.  Another friend, with whom we lost touch years ago, just called yesterday to suggest that I might do some voice-over narration for him.  And still - STILL - I yearn to blog. 

Well, maybe that’s an overstatement.  I sort of want to blog, though.  I’ve got a transit tale and a poem percolating in the works, but I’ve lost one of my prime writing-times with the change in my morning commute, and even so I spent that ride today sketching out a conference I’m planning for January.  But I’m not going to share the Partnership Grants conference plans with you.  I have more respect for you than that.  Plus, I don’t want to give anything away in case any of you out there happen to be Partnership Grant recipients.  Instead, I’ll just share a brief anecdote from this past weekend.  I’m sure you’ll find it profound and uplifting.  It’s either that or upfound and prolifting, and I think I need a special truss for that. 

So ANYWAY, Congregation Beth Sholom has finally finished its new synagogue, and for what it’s worth (not much) I think it’s a knockout.  The previous incarnation of this structure was a traditional 1920’s edifice with doric columns and stained glass, a staid and unimaginative place to daven.  Or so I have it on good authority and unfettered imagination; I never went there myself though I live but two blocks away.  I tried once but got shut out (high holidays do attract quite the crowd).  In the 70s it was rehabbed with the addition of a big bulky assembly hall on one side, and a clumsy portico with curved bay windows tacked tackily to the front of the sanctuary.  It aged ungracefully and finally the congregation had enough and tore it down, replacing it with a cool new structure that roused my curiousity.

Thus it was that on Saturday - THE LORD’S day, you know - Kel and Zach and Mom and I took a little stroll to check the place out.  It was 2 in the afternoon and we had it to ourselves, which was nice - no irritating tribal-types to distract from the clean lines and austere colors.  The front doors admitted us to an open-air plaza with broad steps leading up to a wide patio fronting the sanctuary.  The sanctuary itself is shaped like the hull of a large boat, with rows of seats rising on either side of a central aisle and the bima, or pulpit, in the middle.  The ceiling is far overhead (as well it should be), coffered in a modern style and rich purple in color, with plentiful hidden skylights.  Even if the place wasn’t brand new it would inspire the soaring of the soul that is the hallmark of spiritual practice. 

Zach hasn’t been to many synagogues - I will admit that his spiritual practice has been honored mostly in the breach.  It’s not that he doesn’t have the sensitivity for it - quite the opposite.  We just have not made opportunities available for him.  But here, we explained that this was a special place to be quiet and let goodness fill you up, and he seemed to understand.  Kel had taken a seat halfway up one of the sides, and Z took a break from assiduously testing out all the chairs to come and sit down next to her.  “This is a place,” he explained to her, “where I think about Yoda.” After a brief pause, he continued: “He’s little… and green.” A numinous light filled his eyes and his face was serene.  Indeed, the force is strong with this one.

(We have not yet shown him Star Wars but he’s seen some video of Yoda breakdancing.  I’m not sure how this will affect his theological development, but I think it must all be for the best.  His cousin is all about Vader since she saw him at Disneyland, and I’m thinking they’ll play well off each other in that regard.)

We will be checking out a new congregation for high holidays, a renewal jew-bu hippie-dippie deal that meets at the arboretum in the park, still within easy walking distance of home.  Beth Sholom is closer, yes, but I think the scene there might be a bit constrained for me, if not for Z, so far as my Rosh Hashona vibe is concerned.  But now I feel confident that Zach will be up for the davening.  Focus your kavanah on the little green guy within you, my man, and the path to righteousness will reveal itself. 

Up next: me going to sleep.  Stay tuned for nothing. 

Thursday, August 21, 2008

The New Ride: The Spleenvent Continues

Yesterday I waxed unenthusiastic about my new commute to work.  My vitriol was unexpended by that rant, so I continue unabated:

The route, too, seems to weave through town so as to minimize our possible exposure to life’s magnificent pungency: Once we leave the park it’s a long shot along Lombard, perhaps the city’s most picturesque street with its sinuous masonry curves - but we don’t visit that part, rolling instead along the vapid breadth of its western reaches lined with innumerable motels and desultory breakfast joints, an architecture drained of poetry and spirit.  At Van Ness we hang a ricky and head south on the city’s broadest boulevard, past bucktoothed condos and shabby dive bars, the occasional remaining stately manse superwhelmed by the surrounding stucco stultification.  A left at Broadway rolls us past a few uninspired blocks of apartments and playgrounds, into a three-block-long tunnel under Russian Hill and out again at Chinatown.

This is not, however, the funky kitchy chinatown so famous as postcard fodder.  Rather, we cruise a wide, gritty boulevard of shuttered liquor stores and cut-rate herbologists, scary-looking pet stores and questionable cafes.  We then barrel through three or four blocks of North Beach’s tawdriest reaches, strip clubs vying with megataverns for the sweat-wet dollarbills of tourists now sleeping off well-drink buzzes.  We speed right past tiny cross-lanes named for people I’ve never heard of - Turk Murphy Lane, someone with the surname Peter whose last name starts with M but whose memorial alley we pass too quicky for me ever to make out the name in full - mere capillaries of asphalt that lead nowhere special, too insignificant to merit inclusion on any map I can find. 

Then, with a suddenness so swift as almost to escape notice, the tone shifts and we’re surrounded by big blocky warehouses and light industrial sites and an INS field office, all substantial in scope and megalithic in their lack of architectural inspiration.  A right on Battery brings us finally into the Embarcadero bussiness district, with tall shiny multiuse towers and a streetscape that has grown inviting and interesting by the time the bus doors open at California and Front street and most of us disembark.  There’s one more stop a few blocks futher down that’s actually closer to my office, but which would leave me to walk beneath a really foul highway overpass I’d just as soon avoid so I hit the sidewalks at my first opportunity.  I walk one block east amid caffeine dispensaries from which sleepy office hotties trundle with their cardboard cups of joe, reach Market Street at the shoeshine plaza and cable car turnaround, cross eight lanes of blacktop and trolleytracks to the Federal Reserve and then head down two blocks as part of a true urban blend of pedestrians to the yeast-rich air of the midblock bakery where my paseo cuts through between tall blocky buildings to the midrise where I’ll huddle in a fifth-floor cube all the rest of the day.  It’s a short walk, not quite four blocks, but that’s where I get my fix of humanity for the morning - and frankly, I cherish it. 

A few Mondays ago I was late enough and unlucky enough to miss my chance for a seat on my boring new bus.  A tall, pencil-slim woman with straight blonde hair, a tailored suit and cold blue eyes had boarded just before me; we walked the short aisle, took our places standing at the rear of the bus, and begain mutually untangling our respective earbud cords.  More commuters kept piling on and I soon found myself cozily wedged between the icy blonde and a beefy pale guy in jeans and a business shirt, his florid necknape peeking at me from under short salt-and-pepper hair.  More people boarded; the aisle was filling up. I fumbled further with my ‘pod, seeking escape.  Yet more travelers were climbing on; my personal space was fast shrivelling. 

I could smell my neighbors - though they were sufficiently clean and inoffensively fragrant, I resented the imposition.  The big guy ahead of me called forward to the driver, “Send them back, there’s still room.” The woman behind me hissed at him over my shoulder, “What are you talking about?  We’re at capacity!” “Don’t be selfish, these people need to get to work just as badly as you do.” “Don’t tell me my business, jerk.” It was the first free-standing conversation I’d heard on this bus, it wasn’t starting off well, and I was in the middle of it.  Great.  “I don’t need to start my Monday like this,” I announced, turning up the volume of the music in my ears and trying to ignore his big wet lips and her pale dessicated ones as the sniping then began in earnest. 

The doors closed and the bus started rolling.  My fellow travelers raised their voices to continue their castigations.  My earbuds, sensing my critical need of them, shorted out.  There was to be no escape.

“Why are you being such a jerk about this?”

“Do NOT curse at me!  There’s no reason to use that language!  Your problem is that you have no respect for other people!”

“I am NOT cursing at you, jerk!  Why are you even being like this?  The bus is full, goddamn it!  There was no room!  Why did you say that there was?”

“People have to get to work!  There is plenty of room on this bus if people aren’t selfish about it!  Why were YOU being so selfish?”

“Okay, forget it.  Forget it.  It’s all gravy.  There’s nothing to talk about.  Jesus.”

The burly guy turned to face the front of the bus; his shoulders sighhove visibly.  The skinny woman behind me wrestled a phone from the bottom of her designer bag and started texting furiously.  The bus lumbered out past the massive Letterman Digital Complex and the antique Spanish cannon guarding the Lyon Street gates, their long barrels beaded with chilly morning dew and gaping mutely in the fog. The manicured lawns and designer groves gave way to dreary streets that subtended blandly outside our tinted windows like the upturned bellies of so many insensate grey snakes. 

If that’s what passes for human interaction on the new bus, I guess I’ll take boredom. 

(Taken yesterday morning at the main post on my way down to the transit center with my new cellphone camera.  Oo lookit me I’m so new-millenium!)

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

The New Ride

Time for transit!  Here’s part 1.  Give me a freaking break.  I’m a busy man. 

The new bus is a new experience, an exercise in veneer.  I’m writing this on the old bus [note: “wrote"], on which I’m riding home after a rare night of camaraderie and carousing; getting on at its second stop I’m already surrounded by plenty of curious characters about whom I could write an essay each.  But my point isn’t the old bus, it’s the new one.  The new bus is a weird little ride, and not in the way that inspires too many essays.  I’d better make the most of this one while I can.

In my pre-fatherhood incarnation I’d take the 38 from the corner by my house, clear on downtown. That’s a bus with plenty of what we might call “personality.” Then, when Z started with the daycare, I’d drop him off a mile or so from home, cross the street, and board the 1BX.  That bus is a commuters’ special, populated mostly with wan grimaces and crackberries, a quick ride without much to distract me.  Good writing time, but not too inspirational despite still being a public conveyance.  It felt like I’d given something up.

Now Z’s in full-on preschool and we drop him off in the Presidio, a national park of over 1000 acres.  His school is about half a mile away from a shuttle stop, straight across parade grounds two centuries old.  I sign him in, give him a hug, say so long to his teachers and the sweetheart who runs the lunch room; I stroll past stately old barracks to one side and patina-green cannon to the other - weapons dating back to Spanish days, their plugged maws gaping as they stand impotent sentry over quiet lawns and parking lots.  There are plenty of cannon and mortar and field artillery pieces scattered about on concrete pads going slowly green in the bayside fog, their placidity eclipsing their bellicose origins just as a garden gnome bears no relation to its frightful pagan forebears.  It is almost unimaginable that those emplacements once belched fire and spat those carefully-stacked cannonballs in death-dealing fusillades.  Today they are nothing more than sculpture. 

At the end of my walk I’m at the Presido Transit Center, and if I’ve timed things right my bus is waiting.  But no longer is it big sloppy articulated public transportation - it’s a private mini-coach with restricted access, lowered, tinted, upholstered and sanitized.  Instead of graffito’d ads for health clinics and trade schools, the upper walls are lined with calming photos of intra-park stops - gorgeous forests and colonial structures and breathtaking overlooks. It’s all perfectly nice.  That is to say, after a few weeks it’s boring as hell. 

Similarly, my fellow riders offer scant distraction and less companionship.  They’re Presidio residents, which now means not soldiers but young professionals reeking of entitlement and privilege.  No more riding with winos and grannies, respectively clad in sopping blankets or mothball-reeking housecoats - it’s all suits with impeccably modern tailoring or slick bizcaz or stylish jackets over smirkingly ironic Ts.  They board glumly, sharing among them a single stale scowl - but not my selective old “sit thou not next to me, ye skungy creepster” scowl from my rides on the 38, the scowl that I drop the instant it’s not needed anymore.  Rather, this is a scowl that has settled in for the duration, upon lips that seem to have had their smiles surgically removed.  It may be that some of these people are perfectly nice in their own little worlds but that’s sort of my point - I’ve ridden that intimate conveyance with them for more than a month now and every day I’m struck by how their disdain for the rider and for each otehr permeates the humid air we all exhale upon each other.  Smiles can be counted on the fingers of one hand; interesting characters, on those of one foot. 

Up next: the route, and the “incident.” But a parenthetical note: as I wrote this one night some weeks back the bus filled with all kinds of folk.  I could hear over my earbuds the two college girls next to me debating seriously whether one’s “two-drink minimum” rule was in conflict at that particular moment with the other’s “three-drink maximum” rule.  The center aisle of the bus was crowded.  A man boarded and was unable to get a seat; I couldn’t see him clearly through the crowd but he seemed to be shortish, stocky, reasonably well-maintained in proletarian garb and a brushy little moustache.  He was accompanied by a dog - perhaps a cocker mix?  I was distracted, tipsy, not particularly interested… till I noticed that the dog had worked its way through the crowd to near where I sat and that its long blue leash had been carefully inscribed with tidy writing in white paint: “One of us has no balls.” I laughed, pointed it out to the girls near to me; they laughed too, loudly and lustily.  Now that’s a situation that just doesn’t come up on the new ride.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Review Day 2: Schick Quattro Titanium Trimmer - This Time, It’s for the Swag

Part II of my swag review: Schick Quattro Titanium Trimmer.  Part I is immediately below.  I know it’s asking a lot but it would mean so much to your mother if you read it first.

Bill raised a cogent point in the comments last time around: where are the blasted photos?  Of course he is cool and does not say “blasted” but I go around in a waistcoat and plusfours and find myself saying “blasted” all the time.  But this is not about my archaic expostulations.  This is about the pictures of my Schick Quattro Titanium Trimmer and my further scrupulous assessment of its qualities, both practical and platonic.  You are trying to distract me.  Stop shining that in my eyes. 

As I was saying: the package came in the afternoon mail, small yet bulky.  Inside the packwrap was a box big enough to hold one of them thar ol’ fashion VCR tapes, with red, grey and black graphics.  Inside was a blister pack with essentially identical design, and that’s where I’m going to start.  And yes, I’m a lazy codpiece who just took one photo and cut it up, not a whole mess of photos of each element, and if you don’t like it you are warmly invited to bite me.  This is what you get and I’m sorry it’s fuzzy but I bet you could handle it if you stopped whining for fifteen seconds. 

The Schick people are so proud of Angelo now.  I’m on my second day of the review and I have not reviewed a goddamn thing.  THIS IS MY SPECIAL GIFT.  Surrender to it, Mr. Schicky Schicklestein. 

In the blisterpack, I find what appears to be quite the fistful of male grooming apparatus.

Broadshouldered yet sleek; heavy in the shaft and thick enough up top to elicit comment.  Like, “dang, that’s a thick razor.” Not that that’s a bad thing.  I’ll be honest, I wanted to rip it open at that moment and find something to shave, but I held off.  I am nothing if not disciplined enough not to shave at my desk with my brand new blogswag.  I mean, let’s not set the bar too high.

It’s nice, right?  Let’s take a closer look at the elements:

They want you to know that this razor has a total of - no, this can’t be possible!  FIVE blades?  They must be mad!! That’s not a grooming device, that’s a gang!  I tremble - terrified, yet thrilled.

Notice well, the broad tapering face of the trimmer utility functionalisation interface.  It lies dormant, awaiting but my touch before roaring back into action!  Yes, it’s rather narrow-gauge, but DUDE IT IS IN THE HANDLE OF YOUR RAZOR.  One-stop shopping, shave-wise.  One-stop shaving.  You’re not getting me.  We’re moving on.

So, I have to admit some trepidation when I see

these.

These hirsute pink things are clearly pod shoots from Invasion of the Body Snatchers (non-porn version).  Should I expect this to happen to me?  Am I supposed to be shaving these off of my face?  Because there is one thing for sure, if those hairy pink things start growing out of me I will damn well be shaving them off.  And if this razor can do that for me, I am going to keep it within arm’s reach so long as humanly possible.

My faith was further restored when I noticed (and I cower to admit that I failed to prepare a special visual for this) that, while the product required a AAA battery for full functionality, my swag came with the battery PREINSTAlLED.  What could be sweeter?  Other than a nine-volt deal or better, NOTHING. Damn that’s a sweet touch.  It’s ready for me anytime I’m ready for it.  This must be how God feels. 

Here’s the back of the package:

There’s no thick glistening object to be the focus of attention in this view.  They made up for that loss of visual excitement, however, by CRAMMING IN AS MANY PICTURES WITH WORDS AS POSSIBLE. 

The product has been broken down for me, in terms of its primary operating systems at least:

At the top are four blades, appropriately enhanced with a strip of lube at the leading edge and gleaming with cold confidence.  Their inherent titaniumosity and tetranumerous quantity are irrefutably demonstrated by a series of grey indicator bars that literally bend over backwards with enthusiasm.  Obviously this is a serious shaver.  There may be a hair or two that might escape one of those blades, but not all four of them.  My face is their house.  I just live there.

We are instructed to “shave;” argument is clearly futile.  We are promised “comfort,” by a visibly relaxed man stroking his denuded chin.  He’s been to the mountain.  Are YOU ready to go? 

Then - and this is cool -

- you can turn the razor around and there’s a single blade just hanging out at the back of the head, the narrowest cutting edge I’ve seen in maybe ever.  It can sneak in and extirpate those errant troublemaker hairs that lurk in places too constrained for a full four-blade head to reach.  I am intrigued.  You have my attention, Quattro Titanium Trimmer.  Especially with the apparent ability of this blade to grow me a nice mephistophelian goatee while I shave.  No wonder that guy in the first panel looks so cocksure.  He’s got the goatee-growing power of the single edging blade!  Damned if I know how it works but I am sure as hell ready to try it out. 

The trimmer is almost an afterthought after that amazing performance by edgy edgemeister, you crazy kid you.

Yes, it’s right there at the butt-end of the shaft, as is so often true of vibrating objects full of sharp blades.  It apparently can also call forth a chinstrap beardlet from your sideburns, snap it off, and wrap it around your piehole as a goatee.  This guy’s facial hair is just flowing freely over his face like some kind of wooly willy.  But with the battery preinstalled.  I tell you, this is heady stuff, and not just in the really obvious way.

So much information is crammed into this series of images that it actually makes me giggle with overload.  I particularly like the image on the right, of the trimmer comb actually lifting off after a countdown to zero.  The ominous arrow pointing back down is a comment on the evanescence of human endeavor, and, by extension, a good shave.  These guys have whole english departments working on this crap, people.  I’m just here to report on it. 

We are instructed to use Schick Quattro Titanium 4+1 replacement razors, but I imagine any 4+1 would suffice.  They are endemic these days. 

The “to clean, rinse with water” datapoint is much appreciated.  When you have to keep dumping the razor in the autoclave you lose a lot of quality shave time.  But really, I love the “shower safe” medallion: (gushing shower head)/"OK" in red!!  It’s okay to be a showerhead - even metaphorically!  Today is the first day of the rest of your shower!  Just don’t forget, every time you take a shower, three baby salmon die in an arid streambed.  Callous bastards.  Callous, shower-shaven bastards.  And I say this as one who showershaves on a very regular basis. 

And finally, as is true for all swag, we are confronted with the true underlying price: legalese.

Don’t worry, I speak it well.  Um, this is actually the libretto for “Rent.” Wait, no, it’s legalese.  Common mistake.  My comments:

DAYUM they got shaving dot com.  That is really going to pay off, and I’m not sure they have to rely entirely on the men’s grooming market.  I’m just saying, I bet there’s a lot of visitors to that URL who are not looking for a 4+1 that features titanium blades. 

Performance guarantee is worthless to me.  My purchase price was zero.  I would prefer next time, Angelo, to be given products with disclaimers that provide me a substantial cash award and a lifetime of professional bodywork if not completely satisfied.  I’m just saying.  I can be a reasonable man given reason to do so but honestly I’m not wedded to the idea. 

We also learn that the handle, which really is not that big when you get down to it, was manufactured in China; the blade assembly came from Germany; and the battery comes from Singapore on behalf of a corporation based in St Louis (Surinam).  It’s an amazing testament to freemasonry and the global conspiracy.  Those Germans and Chinese are troublemakers.  Good thing we’ve got the insensate rigidity of the Singaporean to even things out. 

Finally, we are advised that Schick and Quattro, as well as Energizer, are registered trademarks of Energizer.  I imagine the Audi people and a certain soccer ball manufacturer will be surprised.  Reminder: henceforward “penne quattro fromaggio with chives” will be known as “penne Schick Quattro Titanium fromaggio with Trimmer and chives.” I guess they couldn’t trademark “titanium” or “trimmer.” It’s a pity, really.

Sixteen US patents are identified as protecting Energizer’s interests in this product.  They are not listed in numerical order.  This confirms my “body snatcher” hypothesis: this is a code, intended to guide alien overlords who will rule us with unspeakable and amoral power and turn us into something that grows huge hairy pink tendrils but at least has the good sense to shave them off.  I’m not sure how I feel about that future. 

The Practicum

I’ve used the SQTT several times now.  It is a bit heavier than I’m used to in the hand, but delivers good momentum to the blade surfaces and shaves very cleanly.  I have yet to cut myself in any significant way, despite the seemingly clumsy quintibladed mass.  The single edging blade works even better than I’d have expected, and proved its fell quality by going quite a ways toward carving me a third nostril before I even noticed one bleary morning.  The trimmer - well, it works, but I don’t really have even a sideburn to trim and tempt into turning into one of those metamorphic beard/goatee/sideburn things.  (I will not report the results of my experiment with the trimmer, but will clarify that it was not a test of its trimming ability in the strictly traditional sense.)

My conclusion is that this is a quality razor but I wonder how much the replacement blades will cost.  The trimmer, I can’t say anything about, but it’s a fun feature.  If they had given me a t-shirt, I’d have kept it.  (Angelo, I trust you are keeping notes.) I don’t know that I’d have made the investment to buy this package off the shelf - that would depend on pricing.  However, I am tickled to have gotten it for free and will continue to use it so long as it remains free.  When I wear out the blades, which will happen eventually and soon enough, I will have to assess if it’s so much a better, smoother, and more satisfying a shave as to justify whatever they’re charging for replacement blades. 

I give it a solid B, except on the compulsories where I recused myself for the trim competition ("competrimition").  I am satisfied with this service or product.  I hereby award it the Chucklehut “I Used It On Purpose” seal of approval.  It would get an A- but for the ease with which the blade cartridge came detached when I tapped out the many stubble-crammed crannies of the razor while using it.  You can rise with water till the cows come home (and in some of your cases I recommend it) but sometimes all that gets you is a load of wet stubble.  A man has to tap his razor sometimes, people.  We aren’t barbarians.  And the blade very easily pops off when you do.  It goes on again easily enough, too, but it is a bit of a pain.  (When you pick up the detached blade cartridge, don’t forget that there’s one blade pointing up at you when the four are pointing safely down.)

Schick Quattro Titanium Trimmer: swagmeter points to “kick-ass.” Thanks, Angelo, it was good working with you.  Tell our alien overlords that I say hi - and I’m ready for them when they’re ready for me.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Quattro Titanium: To Shave A Blog

Swag.  Those that get it, deride it; those who lack it, covet it.  This I have observed with clinical objectivity form my position of covetous swaglessness and, lo, it rankles.  Am I not a consumer?  Need I not a Wii, a Roomba, a Cabo cruise?  But such has not been my lot.  The genius of my insight has not been sought out by the commercial benefactors whence cometh le swag.  It may have had something to do with my hyperintellectualism, or with my uncompromising rectitude, or with hit counts in the low dozens per day, but whatever the cause, the agents of Mamon have never sought me out to be a recipient of their magnanimity in exchange for an on-line review or, call a spade a spade, plug.

That is, not until now.  For it was barely a fortnight ago that I received an email from a WMP (web marketing professional) that carried to me through my ethernet cable the unmistakable fragrance of swag.  And, lo, it promised sweetness (and lo-ness, it being saccharine in nature).  I had literally virtually arrived.

The email came from Angelo, a young man with a rigorous work ethic and a disarmingly soft touch, behind which unquestionably lurked a fist of prosthetic strength.  He addressed me by name, expressed familiarity with this my modest site.  He’d read my ol’ “100 things” page and noted that some of those items concerned my facial depilatory activities.  Did he unerringly identify each such item? I didn’t care. (Actual answer: no.) Clearly (I paraphrase on his behalf), I was a man who took his shaving seriously. And, as fate had it, he had a serious shaver for my consideration.  Given my proclivities, my obvious sophistication in all matters of male facial hair, and my legions of loyal reader, could he send me a sample of the new Schick Quattro Titanium Shaver-Trimmer, for my review on-line?

I debated the possible consequences of such an action.  Would I be compromised, sullied?  Could I retain an independence of voice and opinion even upon whoring myself out for the kind of common corporate dross that’s indiscriminately dispersed to every Blog, Dick and Hairy?  Or did I have the bristly stones to take the swag and stand my ground?

The debate raged in my mind for a matter of several fractions of a second. Fingers trembling with a rush of power and influence, I carefully worded a “casual” reply.  Bring it on, Angelo.  I’m ready to shave.

next: arrival of the razor and packaging analysis.  stay tuned, shavesnark fans!

Chihuly at the DeYoung: Keep Your Eyes Inside Their Sockets at all Times

Did I mention that we went to the Chihuly exhibit last weekend?  No?  Tough noogies, you get photos anyway.  It was a fascinating and gorgeous show, and afterwards Helena and I spent some time discussing the essential nature of art.  I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what Chihuly had in mind for us but it was fun anyway.  Plus, we got to see crap like this:

And just to show ya I’m not a total dilettante, we also saw:

- these freaky kenyan heads, and

- this rococo carriage made entirely out of sugar.  Later that night I served up a delicious chili, or “chilihuly,” the recipe for which I will take to my grave.  It was a fine day at the museum.  Glad you could make it for a bit of the fun. 

Monday, August 11, 2008

photos ahoy

I’ve got new photos on the “photos” page, from today’s trip to the Hyde St Piers.  Oh, yesterday’s trip. It’s late.  I’ll throw down something verbal at another time.  Till now, keep that stern well lubed… you never know when it’ll come in handy. 

Friday, August 08, 2008

The Jewish Goodbye: Act 1 of, so far, 1

Y’all look like you could use some more fiction.  Anyway I don’t think you’re ready for my marathon rant about my new bus, thrilling though it may sound from where you’re sitting now.  I know better.  That’s why this is my blog, you see.  So, instead, I’m gonna unload the start of a story I don’t know if I’ll ever finish, or maybe it’s a script of some sort.  It’s about a phenomenon well known to my tribemembers - what happens when jewish people try to take leave of each other.  It’s never a clean break; they linger and chit-chat till your head could explode.  The phenomenon of the “jewish goodbye” is so well-established, I figured it would be easy enough to turn it into a bit of a story.  And so it was.  And so it is:

The Jewish Goodbye

“Oy. / Oy.” Izzy and Sarah both laughed, but gently - not the bellybuckling roars they’d shared earlier in the evening.  These were more like chuckles, their diaphragms bouncing softly on that splendid brisket and brussels sprouts and the second plate of tea cakes over which the’d all lingered for twenty minutes more than the twenty minutes they’d allotted themselves.  Sam would have to open the store tomorrow, early-early, and Tessie would need to do a lot of work in the kitchen before it was clean enough for her to sleep well, despite the well-fed fog that had settled over her. 

For the third time, conversation had come to a pause, but this time it didn’t feel like it was the sort of pause that breaks up different trains of thought - rather, it was the kind of pause that signalled the end of conversation, the opening of closure.  Glances bounced from husband to wife, and from friend to friend.  An unspoken recognition took hold, that an evening of pleasantries was concluding.  “Oy is right,” Leah agreed. 

“Okay, then.” Sam placed his meaty palm on his knees, proffered a businesslike sigh, and pushed himself to his feet.  As he reached verticality his knees cracked and he belched softly.  “Pardon,” he mumbled into his lightly-clenched fist, as Izzy reflexively utterd a “Zeigesunt.” “I guess,” Sam continued, “it’s time we said goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” replied Izzy, rising in response.

“Goodnight,” added Leah, staggering a little as she found her feet after a long relaxed evening of fatty foods. “It’s been lovely.  Thanks so much.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Tessie assured her.  “Its always a pleasure.”

Leah demurred: “With that brisket, the pleasure is ours.” Tessie pantomimed a coy blush through her obvious pride, but then Leah continued, “Oh but yes, Tess, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oy. / Oy.” Izzy and Sam spoke in unison.

“What? What?  She can’t ask me a question?,” Tessie demanded of the men.

“Who’s stopping her?,” Sam remonstrated. 

“That look on your faces, sour like lemons - that’s what’s stopping her.  Leah, don’t worrry about it.  Sam is always this way after he eats too much.”

“I didn’t eat too much!  I’m fine, Tessie, it was delicious.  If you must know, I’m just wondering why my wife had to wait till now to ask you her question.  We’ve been here all night.  She couldn’t decide to ask until we’re walking out the door?”

“No, in fact, I could not,” Leah said defiantly.  “I forgot that I wanted to ask her.  Is it such a terrible thing?  I ask, she tells, bing bing bing and it’s done.  You won’t miss any of your precious sleep.”

“First of all, you know I get up before dawn tomorrow.  You’ll be snoring when I leave the house.  You want I should wake you up?  I don’t think so.  And secondly, it’s never bing bing bing with you.  It’s like, bing bang bongity bumbity bum yadda yadda bla bla bla.” Sam stopped short and glanced down at his shoes.  He knew he’d gone too far. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Leah’s voice was carefully controlled, a carving knife pointed at Sam’s heart.  Sam paused before responding.

“I don’t mean anything.  Just ask your question and let’s get going.  I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

Leah was derisive. “Right, sure, it’s all about you.  And I just sit around making sure you’ve got a nice life to come back to.  Just forget it, we’re going.”

Sam answered with irritation: “Damnit, no!  Ask your goddamn question already!”

A tense hush fell over the sitting room; the tick of the belljar clock mocked their discomfort. 

Leah spat a conclusory, “Forget it.”

“Oh for God’s sake, then let’s go,” Sam replied with disgust. 

Tessie seemed affronted by this.  “Samuel, don’t snap at her like that.  You’re making her forget.  Be nice.”

Sam’s anger erupted at this intercession.  “Don’t you tell me how to talk to my wife!  If your husband likes taking orders from you, that’s fine, but I will not have you speak to me like that!  There’s a reason I married Leah, not you!”

Izzy roused himself and focused on Sam.  “Hold on there.  What are you saying?”

Sam sought redemption.  “I’m sorry, Izzy, I just - “

Izzy cut him off. “No you do not.  You are a guest in my house and it is inappropriate for you to speak to me or my wife that way.  She has fed you and cleaned up after you and you will treat her with respect, do you understand me?  Yes, she can try a man’s patience but be a goddamn man about it and keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to my wife in my home!”

Izzy’s words echoed in the small room and were followed by a brief, shocked silence.  The silence broke when Tessie and Sam simultaneously asked, “What? / What?”

Izzy inhaled, remorsefully.  “Oy.”

Leah stepped in, seeking reconciliation.  “Okay, Sam, I think it’s time to go.”

Sam was having none of that. “No, no, my friend Isadore has raised an important point.  We should get to the bottom of it. Isadore, what do you - “

Tessie, having found her tongue after a few moments of mute stammering, cut Sam off furiously.  “Try a man’s patience?!!  How dare you?  And in front of guests!!!”

Izzy rose to his own defense.  “Yes, guests!  I invited them into my home, and I can speak my mind in front of them if I wish!  Gevalt you can be a shrew when you’ve had your schnapps!”

Leah gathered her wits before chastising Izzy.  “Isadore, that is inappropriate.  Tessy had one small glass - but she poured you three and I have no idea how much more you had on your own.  You should pay more attention.  You should be ashamed, treating her like that.  I’ve had enough.  Samuel, we’re leaving.  Tessie, you can tell me tomorrow who’s that young man spending so many afternoons at Mimi Cohen’s house these days.”

Attention was suddenly galvanized.  Past slights evaporated at this news.  Izzy was the first to ask, “Wait.  What?”

Samuel further pursued the line of questioning: “Rabbi Cohen’s wife?  A male caller?”

Leah dismissively reminded him, “We don’t have time to get into it.  You have an early day tomorrow.  Tessie, Isadore, goodnight.”

Izzy, Tessie and Sam exchanged hungry glances and then Sam gently suggested, “Leah, I think we have time to discuss this one little thing… I mean, it’s late, but it’s not so late....”

That’s enough for now.  Have a good weekend; don’t forget to close the door on your way out.  Wait, you’re not leaving yet?  Gevalt....

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Wall-Eyed

On the plus side, I did some damn fine cooking over the weekend.  Notable discoveries: fresh fish from one of the three fish markets on Clement is in fact superior to flash-frozen stuff from TJ’s.  Also, if a guest is gluten-intollerant and you’d like to serve her some cheese, you can slice jicama thinly and use cookie cutters to make shapely little wafers that go very well with, say, Humboldt Fog or Morbier.  If you’re into that sort of thing.  Which these days I seem to be.  So there’s that.

Very well, Blogopolis.  I see your cynicism, and I raise you fantasy.  These are the stock in trace of der ubernet, and I have enough of both of them to stock a fortress of solitude for long enough to survive the second coming.  I am therefore pleased to unload upon you all:

Wall-Eyed

- No, officer, I’ve got no objection, you can come on in.  Look anywhere, heh, I’ve got nothing to hide.  My conscience is clear.  I just wish that wall outside was clear too, huh?  Um, yeah.  Because I do understand why you’d be interested in visiting me. New guy in town, and all that. Plus that, um, message thing.  Yeah, I have no idea what that’s about.  But I can tell you where it came from, if you’re curious.  It’s actually kind of a funny story. I was just pouring some tea, would you like some?  Okay, let me just get my cuppa and I’ll be good to go.

No, I’m not going anywhere.  It’s a figure of speech.  I’m staying right here.  mmmHeh. 

So, umm… this is good tea, you’re sure - okay, ok, never mind.  So yeah, I moved here a month ago from south county.  I’d been living out on my dad’s old farm; he’d been working the land all by himself till he got in his 70s and then I came back home to lend a hand.  I’d been teaching up at State, you know.  Adjunct math faculty.  Great gig, really, and those undergrads are a lot of fun, but just when I was up for review dad broke his hip.  He told me not to come but I thought I had to.  Tough old bird, he never believed he needed any help but once I got back for a visit I could see the place was falling apart and so was he, so I stayed out there with him on 250 acres for close to fifteen years.  I kept taking on more work and more work till I was running the place myself, though he’d never have admitted it.  He’d swear to you that he was milking cows and getting in the hay all on his own, even when he was using a walker and couldn’t get down off the front porch anymore.  He was a proud man, my dad, and a tough one too.  To tell the truth, I worked my ass off for him and nothing I did was ever good enough.  He’d take credit for what I did well and he was downright cruel when it came to the stuff that didn’t meet his standards, and those standards became less and less realistic as he got older and weaker and less in touch with reality.  It was a hard, lonely life, I tell you what. 

Yes, officer, I’m getting to that.  See, dad finally did pass on - natural causes, you know, heh - and I got my life back.  So I sold the farm and moved here last month and I’ve just slowly been fixing the place up. It’s my first “all my own” place, you know?  I got a little nest egg from the inheritance and from selling the farm, so I figured I’d gussy up the ol’ nest a little.  I don’t know if you remember what this place used to look like but - oh okay, well, yo’ve got it then. A dump.  But I’ve been working on it, little by little, all on my own.  I’m doing the pipes and the sheet rock and - yes, this is the point, officer - I decided to tear down the old raggedy fence outside and put up a nice privacy wall.  You know, something substantial to keep down the street noise and the light from the traffic.  This is a pretty busy intersection sometimes, you know?

Okay, so I got some design magazines and I saw this one wall that I really liked, and it was easy to build, too.  Square blocks, offset to make a little pattern in relief - each block is half an inch forward or back from the ones to either side, alternating on the successive courses.  Right? Couldn’t be easier, and it looks all artistic when you’re done.  I mean, really, it came out great, didn’t it?  Well never mind that, it’s all a question of taste.  But it was fun to build and I like how it looks. 

But once I finished it and painted it all white, the pattern sort of faded away.  It looked all 2-D, you know what I mean?  And I’d really worked hard to make it more, um, 3-D, right?  So I got some paint, the blue and the pink and the green and gold like you see out there, nice soft pastels, easy on the eye.  Thought it’d look good from the street or whatever.  And I thought I should mix the colors up in a nice random pattern, square by square.  But I didn’t want to free hand it, you know?  I’m no artist.  I’m a math guy, right?  Very logical.  I thought I’d just wind up painting a regular pattern by mistake, instead of something really random.  I’m not so good at “random.”

So I tought it through for a while and came up with an algorythm.  An equation, if you will.  To randomize the colors for my wall.  Once I did that it was easy - I just plugged in the total number of squares I had to paint and the number of colors I was using, and blammo, it spat out exactly what color to paint each square.  And then I just took my results and my paints and my roller, and got painting - across one row and then down to the next row and back again, zig-zagging back and forth till the job was finished. I never looked at it from a distance - I just did spot checks every so often to make sure it was coming out okay.  And then once I was all done it was late so I just came inside and went to bed. That was yesterday.  And then today I wake up, step out front to admire the finished product, and whoa - I see what I’ve painted.  So I come in to have a cup of tea and think it through a little, and before the water’s boiled you’re here.

- So, you’re telling me that message just randomly came up, all on its own?

- Come on officer, I’m a logical guy.  Why would I go intentionally painting something like that on my own house, facing a busy street?

- You can understand why I’d be asking, though.

- Sure, sure; you see gold letters painted four feet tall that say “Arrest me, I killed him” and you need to follw up.

- Right.

- But really it was just a coincidence.  The gold squares just lined up that way. That’s all.

- I see.  I see.  Well, you’d better paint over it.  Tha’s not a good message to be sending, especially if you don’t mean it.  Now, could I get that cup of tea?  You know, our high school could use another math teacher....

Friday, August 01, 2008

Mentation Pair the Third: My Goodness

Let’s be honest, people - it’s late and I’m not sure why I feel compelled to dump more words up here, but it’s been a long night of carousing, sake, beer, burgers, chili fries, laughing with many friends - old, newer, and brand new - and what the hell, I’m actually not that tired yet.  I’ve been thinking all day - a day that has been a challenging capstone to a challenging week up till the moment that the whistle finally blew and I left my protective cube for the fabulosity of the outside world - that it’s been a whole week since two particular good things happened in the same day.  Certainly, more good things happened to me since then and even today, but the goodness that was last Thursday sticks with me and Ima gonna bloggit, if for no better reason than that it’ll cheer me up when I realize tomorrow this wasn’t all some sake-induced, chili-fries-exacerbated dream.  Reality can sometimes be a nice change from the world in my head, and to prove the point, here is a final pair of mentations on the subject of Remembering the Good Things:

* It was lunchtime and I was having the kind of day where my jaws were clenched so hard I could brush my molars by putting a toothbrush in my ear.  (Not that I actually was doing this, but I could have.) I glanced up from my desk and saw a sliver of window gleaming at the end of the hallway - the sky, which had been grey and overcast when I’d arrived in the morning, had totally cleared.  I’d already eaten my healthful, boring lunch at my desk.  My options were to keep working, to sit at my desk and read blogs, or to go outside and take a goddamn walk.  I took the goddamn walk. 

As soon as the outside air hit my face I knew I’d made a good choice - warm, soft breezes instantly blew the cobwebs (metaphorical) from my mind (alleged).  I walked a block and a half to the waterfront; I turned left and headed toward the Ferry Building, where I figured I’d see the most interesting people and smell the most delicious food.  As I walked the east promenade where the ferries actually dock, I noticed a fair number of boats on the water - and they were moving fast.  Something, I advised myself in a fit of genius, must be happening.  Then I saw the flag.  It was the famous old Stars and Stripes, but with radically fewer stars than I was used to seeing - maybe 20 or so.  Plus, the flag was up pretty darn high - on a wooden mast.  In a blinding flash of realization I had my epiphany: this was some kind of olde-style boat.  And I wanted a closer look.

I picked up the pace a little and walked around the waterfront decks to the newly-renovated pier 1-1/2, where a gorgeous two-mast wooden ship was already tied up, crawling with crewmembers, mostly in t-shirts, a few in waistcoats with impractically excessive numbers of buttons on them.  As I stood there and listened to them calling out to each other in nautical unintelligibilities as the calm bay waters lapped at the pier pilings under my feet, a second boat came around the bend and into view - another two-master, also wood, also flying the flag of an America long since passed, proceeding under propeller power into the same docking slip.  What were they, schooners? Yachts?  Big-ass beautiful boats, that’s what they were.  As the second one came backing in toward the pier with a minimum of effort like a bodybuilder fitting into a tight seat on the bus, the crowd around me grew in size and enthusiasm. 

I struck up a conversation with a bike rider next to me, clad in bright blue spandex, his eyes aglow with visions of the past.  We talked about the canon on the ships’ decks, how they were used for navigation by timing echoes from known landmarks.  We talked about the hundreds of ships lying under landfill next to the shoreline, that laid the foundation for so much of the city’s expansion into the baywaters.  We talked and watched as the crew scampered ashore like pirate monkeys and made fast to the huge cleats.  The ship having come to rest, it was time for me to go back again to work.  I bade my leave of the ships, the spectators, the pier, the bayside, the outdoors.  I went back to my cube.  But though I’d eaten my lunch at my desk more than an hour previously, I felt as if I had really given myself some serious nourishment on my afternoon break. 

* It was back in January that I provided a column for a website for authors, editors, publishers, and the benighted souls who love them.  The site is cool - it’s linked at my links page as LitPark, feel free to check’em out.  Meantime, the next guest poster at that site was a guy who seemed like he had a lot on the ball, a college English prof who’d been published at McSweeney’s among other important and relevant places.  I enjoyed his article and also appreciated a photo he’d posted there of himself in an Aquaman shirt.  I even commented on his column to that effect.  To my surprise, the author commented back: “I liked the old Aquaman. He had confidence, which could only stem from knowing he belonged to another world the others didn’t know well. Because didn’t he always have to ride in Wonder Woman’s plane when they went anywhere? The new Aquaman is a brute, too obvious.” This got me to thinking, which is usually a sign of impending trouble.  Before I’d really made a conscious decision, I e-mailed him back:

“Your ruminations on Aquaman got me thinking.  First, I’m thinking that I’m not sufficiently familiar with the character, in either his original or renewed iterations, to discuss him intelligently.  Then I’m thinking, that’s never stopped me before.  And so:

“Superman is from a world that’s entirely alien to every terrestrial being, and is equally comfortable under water, on land, in the air or powering through a mountain like Buckaroo Banzai if he so wishes.  Yet his received persona, despite a spate of “superman is an asshole” websites, is the guy who’s too nice to be interesting.  Batman, on the other hand, is one who is a product of contemporary cosmopolitan life – yet he’s always the outsider, scowling through his cowl at ostensible allies with whom he shares no superpowers beside an insatiable craving for justice that has seared his personality to cinders.

“So what about Aquaman?  I have always considered him (despite not having read much about him) to be more of a loner, more of a “batman” type.  He lives where others don’t; his closest allies cannot communicate with any other hominid.  He had to fly with Wonder Woman – humiliating, wouldn’t it be, for a superhero to be so dependent on another, and to be paired (triaded?) with the “wonder twins” for such degradation?  Add to this that Aquaman had his own main squeeze(s), which I think was unusual for members of the J. League… how uncomfortable for him to be aloft with the buxom Amazonian, stranded high above the seat of his powers.  His wife’s death, and his strained relationship (as I understand it to be) with his son, only intensifies what I sense to be a portrait of a man estranged against himself as well as the rest of the world.

“Aquaman is a king, and with that status goes a noblesse oblige, an aristocratic self-separation from a society which depends on his guidance and support but in which he cannot fully immerse himself, if I may be allowed the figure of speech.  It only makes sense to me that he would be taciturn – briny, crustaceous, submerged within himself as well as in his environment.  He is more of an enigma than most of the other superheros, most closely aligned, in my view, with the Silver Surfer, who – unlike Superman – never adopted his new world but just decided to protect it as a resident alien.  Aquaman, too, is alien, but an alien on his home planet.  I think I’m going to cry.”

I got an email back along the lines of “let’s party, dude,” and we moved along on our respective paths, away into our respective futures, which are in fact now the present, or so it was a week ago when I got another e-mail from the author telling me that his novel was about to be published, and he was considering a volume of contributed essays on the semiotics of everyday objects, in the manner of Umberto Eco.  As to which, would I mind his using my Aquaman rant as an example of exactly what he has in mind?  He then had the audacity to opine that I might be a pro writer or pro-fessor thereof.  I then had the audacity to say “sure, dude, use whatever I got if it sounds like Eco to ya.” I spent most of the rest of the day thinking, damn dude, you wrote something that a guy who writes novels and teaches writing, who has words cascading over his head and out of his fingertips and off his tongue every waking minute of the day, that that guy actually liked enough to remember and to think of when he was looking for exemplars for his new project half a year later.  And honestly, after six years of blogging and damn little to show for it, that felt good. 

So there’s my third pair of mentations, and I think I’m ready to move off this theme.  This feels like a good place to let things go - a place of goodness.  Let’s see where it left me, eh?  I have some fiction stored up for you… maybe that’ll be next?  Whatever.  It’s late. Now I’m tired.  Goodnight.