tell-me-i'm-not-the-only-one-who-finds-this-hilarious.
Governor Sonny Perdue, in cooperation with the Georgia Emergency Management Agency (GEMA), the National Weather Service (NWS) and Georgia's local emergency management agencies, has proclaimed the week of February 2 - 6, 2009, as Severe Weather Awareness Week in Georgia.
The Statewide Severe Weather Drill is scheduled for Wednesday, February 4, 2009. The National Weather Service will initiate the drill and the Athens-Clarke County community and the University of Georgia will participate in the statewide drill. We encourage all students, faculty, staff and visitors to acknowledge the weather sirens and announcements when they are activated by the NWS during the day on February 4th. Whenever possible, you are encouraged to physically execute your severe weather plan, including activation of your building notification system and assemble in your designated safe area(s). At a minimum, you should pause to reflect on the steps you would take should the sirens indicate an actual tornado warning. Off-campus locations (outside the Athens area) are encouraged to work with their local Emergency Management Office to test their severe weather plans as well.
In the event of actual severe weather on Wednesday, February 4th, the drill will be postponed until Friday, February 6th.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Sad/Sitchy-ashun
My/spacebar/is/taking/a/much-needed/sabbatical,/though/I/miss/it/viciously.
I'll-make-this-short.--For-both-our-sakes.--Which-do-you-find-easier-to-read?--I-think-this.
I've-become-somewhat-obsessive-about-keeping-crumbs-and-junk-out-of-my-keyboard,-and-I-have-a-little-thingy-I-use-to-run-between-the-rows-of-keys-that-turns-up-all-matter-of-debris.--So-the-sun-was-coming-in-the-window-on-the-kb-today,-and-I-could-see-fuzz-and-junque-under-the-keys.--I-clearly-was-a-bit-overly-enthusiastic-in-my-sweepage-bc-the-space-bar-went-byebye.--I-thougt-I'd-lodged-maybe-a-doughnut-crumb-up-under-there-so-I-went-to-work-sliding-my-thingy-around-and-oooooh!-what's-THIS-I've-found??--Well,-turns-out-it-was-part-of-the-mechanism-of-the-spacekey,-a-nipple-of-sorts.--So-I-need-to-take-the-key-off,-find-where-this-niplet-goes,-and-get-back-in-business.
I've-no-idea-why-I've-not-yet.
It's-just-who-I-am.
If-you've-lasted-this-long,-thanks.
I'll-make-this-short.--For-both-our-sakes.--Which-do-you-find-easier-to-read?--I-think-this.
I've-become-somewhat-obsessive-about-keeping-crumbs-and-junk-out-of-my-keyboard,-and-I-have-a-little-thingy-I-use-to-run-between-the-rows-of-keys-that-turns-up-all-matter-of-debris.--So-the-sun-was-coming-in-the-window-on-the-kb-today,-and-I-could-see-fuzz-and-junque-under-the-keys.--I-clearly-was-a-bit-overly-enthusiastic-in-my-sweepage-bc-the-space-bar-went-byebye.--I-thougt-I'd-lodged-maybe-a-doughnut-crumb-up-under-there-so-I-went-to-work-sliding-my-thingy-around-and-oooooh!-what's-THIS-I've-found??--Well,-turns-out-it-was-part-of-the-mechanism-of-the-spacekey,-a-nipple-of-sorts.--So-I-need-to-take-the-key-off,-find-where-this-niplet-goes,-and-get-back-in-business.
I've-no-idea-why-I've-not-yet.
It's-just-who-I-am.
If-you've-lasted-this-long,-thanks.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Member: League of Morons
I was doing some genealogical research on ancestry.com and, in looking at an 1880 census, I noticed these categories, subject to a check mark by the census-taker:
"Cannot read/write:
Blind:
Deaf and dumb:
Otherwise disabled:
Idiotic or insane:"
I'M REALLY GLAD THE CENSUS BUREAU PHASED OUT THAT LAST CATEGORY!!!!
[uh, they did, right??]
"Cannot read/write:
Blind:
Deaf and dumb:
Otherwise disabled:
Idiotic or insane:"
I'M REALLY GLAD THE CENSUS BUREAU PHASED OUT THAT LAST CATEGORY!!!!
[uh, they did, right??]
the last dingdong of doom
I pull up beside this vehicle this morning:
I don't know; somehow the existence of a "Bomb Detection Unit" SUV zipping around campus (or the need thereof) didn't make me feel "safer."
And what is that design on the window? Is that the Mayan symbol for "bomb"?
The back seat (light changed before I could jockey for a good shot of it) was, essentially, a cage. Is that where the bomb goes? Or, perhaps, the bomber?
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
and ZIP! he's off, on the prowl for bombs!
When did the world change hands? I suppose it happened slowly, but it feels as if I telescoped somehow to the wrong end of the eyepiece and I'm suddenly looking at a different universe than the one I thought I'd been born into. Are people really more dangerous? Or are there just more of them so the sheer numbers of the mean increase with the percentage? Or maybe an increase in population renders each person being a smaller piece of the big pie and less important and thus, for some, angry with nothing to lose? Or it could simply be that our global communication is now at such a sophisticated level that we have more ways to hear of the tragic, the frightening, the loony.
And yet, nearly 60 years ago now, Faulkner, in his Nobel acceptance speech in 1950, saw, in the shadow of the mushroom cloud, not so much the change within the human spirit but a change in the world's circumstances that might challenge and even endanger that spirit. So, a warning of sorts, but the most beautiful of warnings:
stockholm 12/10/50
I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work - a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
When did the world change hands? I suppose it happened slowly, but it feels as if I telescoped somehow to the wrong end of the eyepiece and I'm suddenly looking at a different universe than the one I thought I'd been born into. Are people really more dangerous? Or are there just more of them so the sheer numbers of the mean increase with the percentage? Or maybe an increase in population renders each person being a smaller piece of the big pie and less important and thus, for some, angry with nothing to lose? Or it could simply be that our global communication is now at such a sophisticated level that we have more ways to hear of the tragic, the frightening, the loony.
And yet, nearly 60 years ago now, Faulkner, in his Nobel acceptance speech in 1950, saw, in the shadow of the mushroom cloud, not so much the change within the human spirit but a change in the world's circumstances that might challenge and even endanger that spirit. So, a warning of sorts, but the most beautiful of warnings:
stockholm 12/10/50
I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work - a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Oh Good Lord
Today I had a short doctor's appointment. The waiting room was peopled with three other women besides myself. One looked to be maybe 60, with long greying hair in a bun (Mr. Button refers to this style as the PHD, or the Pentecostal Hair-Do) and was wearing a dress she must've picked up at a yard sale in 1957. Sensible shoes a la an SS Guard. I pegged her for a Pentecostal xenogloss before she even opened her mouth, truth be told. I'm crazy-good at seeing inside one's soul with a mere quick glance at his or her sartorial choices. Very convenient.
She did not disappoint. She apparently had a passing familiarity with another patient who emerged back into the waiting room. She greeted her (in English, I was glad to hear), asking how "it" went. Friend assures her "it" went fine. Our Lady of the PHD raises both arms in supplication and allows that "Our Lord is a gracious Lord." The friend agrees: "Always."
Through my mind runs the Inquisition, the Black Plague, war, famine, sickness, child abuse, incest, murder, the Holocaust, Stalin, Darfur, etc etc etc etc etc etc etc but this isn't my business, so I keep my bitter judgement to myself.
PHD continues: "He has blessed me in so many countless ways. He is our gracious precious Lord."
Friend: "Always."
Another lady in waiting room: "Isn't He just amazing, the way He cares for us?"
PHD: "He is wondrous. In fact, He changed my husband's eyes from brown to blue."
Other lady: "Is that right?"
PHD (nodding with what I'm sure she considered humility): "He certainly did. I asked him to, and he did it. Our Lord is amazing."
W.T.F. I think to myself. Some kid's dying somewhere who won't live to see first grade, and she thinks God's busy shifting around eye color to suit her whim???
Then: "And on the eleventh day of September, He brought my dead mother to see Me. I was about to leave my home to go to the hospital and she appeared there with Me When I got to the hospital, she had already died, but He brought her right straight back when I asked him to and now she's fine. In fact, this morning she called and was talking My ear off!!"
About that time, she got called back. I heard the receptionist ask how she was before the door shut, and she replied, "Oh, the Lord has blessed me in every possible way today! He is a good and gracious Lord!!"
UPDATE:
No sooner had I finished the above post and closed out did I run across this item:
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,483507,00.html
She did not disappoint. She apparently had a passing familiarity with another patient who emerged back into the waiting room. She greeted her (in English, I was glad to hear), asking how "it" went. Friend assures her "it" went fine. Our Lady of the PHD raises both arms in supplication and allows that "Our Lord is a gracious Lord." The friend agrees: "Always."
Through my mind runs the Inquisition, the Black Plague, war, famine, sickness, child abuse, incest, murder, the Holocaust, Stalin, Darfur, etc etc etc etc etc etc etc but this isn't my business, so I keep my bitter judgement to myself.
PHD continues: "He has blessed me in so many countless ways. He is our gracious precious Lord."
Friend: "Always."
Another lady in waiting room: "Isn't He just amazing, the way He cares for us?"
PHD: "He is wondrous. In fact, He changed my husband's eyes from brown to blue."
Other lady: "Is that right?"
PHD (nodding with what I'm sure she considered humility): "He certainly did. I asked him to, and he did it. Our Lord is amazing."
W.T.F. I think to myself. Some kid's dying somewhere who won't live to see first grade, and she thinks God's busy shifting around eye color to suit her whim???
Then: "And on the eleventh day of September, He brought my dead mother to see Me. I was about to leave my home to go to the hospital and she appeared there with Me When I got to the hospital, she had already died, but He brought her right straight back when I asked him to and now she's fine. In fact, this morning she called and was talking My ear off!!"
About that time, she got called back. I heard the receptionist ask how she was before the door shut, and she replied, "Oh, the Lord has blessed me in every possible way today! He is a good and gracious Lord!!"
UPDATE:
No sooner had I finished the above post and closed out did I run across this item:
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,483507,00.html
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Idea for Short Story
"Blagovitch the Scrivener"
Basic plot outline: State of Illinois tries to impeach its guv'ner, Blagovitch, who refuses to leave office, repeats simply, "I would prefer not to."
Update of shame:
Did I spell that wrong? I should be shot on the spot!
BLAGOJEVICH
Basic plot outline: State of Illinois tries to impeach its guv'ner, Blagovitch, who refuses to leave office, repeats simply, "I would prefer not to."
Update of shame:
Did I spell that wrong? I should be shot on the spot!
BLAGOJEVICH
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Newzq from Rizq
You've heard of the Nuwaibians, right? Sure! You know! The "religion" established by Malachi York (sentenced to 135 years in prison for child molestation and racketeering) from the planet Rizq (via Brooklyn)? Yeah, this bro set up his sect in fine style here in my fair town but followers have since left the area due to "hostilities." The religion appears to sport a decidedly Coptic edge, judging by the Egyptianesque temple near downtown. But don't take my word for it! Read all about it! This article provides an veritable study in Crazy As It Gets.
Did you see at the end of the story the mention of a web site called Anciet Egiptian [SIC] Order offering a "range of Nuwaubian products from $400 mirrors. . . to tubes of toothpaste and deodorant decorated with an image of York [the imprisoned leader from the planet Rizq] in full Egyptian headdess"? OMFG. When I saw that, I threw down the newspaper and rushed to the computer to sign on because I HAD. TO. HAVE. THAT. TOOTHPASTE!!!
Web site here: http://www.ancientegiptianorder.com/
(Be sure to let the little movie load and turn your sound up!)
But my hopes were DASHED! Dashed against the Great Pyramid and splattered all over the Sphinx! For I found that one must have, in hand, one's Ancient Egiptian Order Membership Number in order to access the products (I suppose....though I saw no link for the retail section from where I sat). Now don't get me wrong. I certainly hated to release cash to these criminal nutcases, but! Toothpaste! Full Egyptian headdress! The Pull of Kitsch proved just too strong.
So....if any of my readers happens to be a card-carrying Nuwaibian and able to speak fluent Nuwaupic (not sure I understand the "b" and "p" interchange, but that's probably the least of my ignorance on this topic), forget what this poor misguided Tamahu Authority said about your being a nutcake, and please please get me a tube of that paste, thx.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
oh hosoe!
Years ago, I wrote a review of an Eikoh Hosoe art exhibition on campus for a now-defunct (through no fault of my own!) small campus paper. Incredible photography! Check out more!
Also, I've added a few new links of fablogs to the right. Check out especially "Fuck You, Penguin." I was about to choke!!!!
My mother died of the same superbug this model had (though after a much, much longer life). So sad.
Brazil model dies
RIO DE JANEIRO - A BRAZILIAN model whose feet and hands were amputated following a drug-resistant infection died early on Saturday, health officials said.
Mariana Bridi, 20, died at 2.30 am from complications related to a generalised infection caused by the bacteria Pseudomonas aeruginosa, the Espirito Santo State Health Secretariat said in a statement.
The bacteria is known to be resistant to multiple kinds of antibiotics.
Bridi had been in the hospital in the city of Serra in Espirito Santo state since Jan 3.
Doctors originally diagnosed her with kidney stones in December, local media said. But as her condition worsened, she was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection that spread.
The cause of the infection was not immediately known.
It reduced the flow of oxygen to her limbs, causing her feet to be amputated last week and her hands this week. Part of Bridi's stomach was also removed as doctors tried to contain internal bleeding, local media said.
Health officials on Friday said Bridi was not breathing on her own and was undergoing hemodialysis at a hospital in the city of Serra. -- AP
Friday, January 23, 2009
grrrr
Am I the only person SICK of these disgusting ads???? They pop up on every damn page I open these days.
I have the worst headache I think I've ever had in my life. It's ah-maze-ing.
*
60 degrees my ass. I'm FREEZING.
*
That place came by this morning to pick up more donations for the homeless. The man on the phone said they needed clothes, but also "small household items." I felt kinda like it would be rude to ask why the homeless needed household items.
*
What? What are you looking at?
*
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I Won't Even Pretend This is a Proper Review
If you find yourself hungry to watch people in desperate situations seeking solace in and help from immoral selfish pigs, and if you have a need to see their tableaux played out against the depressingly stark and unforgivably bleak backdrop of Communist Romania, by all means,
this is the film for you.
It really is very good, though :)
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
www.whitehouse.gov
Page Not Found
The page you requested wasn't found at this location. The Obama Administration has created a brand new White House website, and it's possible that the page you were looking for has been moved.
Monday, January 19, 2009
MLK 1929-1968
Let me add this in honor of Martin Luther King. His “Letter from Birmingham Jail” is one of my favorite pieces to assign for class reading. It is a rhetorical masterpiece. As many times as I’ve read it, I still tear up in parts. This passage, for instance:
This has a biblical feel in its repetition, very much like Psalms or Proverbs. And the absolute control and simplicity in the understatement of that last line: incredibly powerful, so much more so than a bombastic declaration one might expect.
His balance of logic and emotion is perfect . He anticipates arguments from the other side and answers them beautifully.
Another favorite passage:
A line that hits me as emotionally sound at first proves problematic considering the current debacle in Iraq, however:
Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
He ends the letter with the following words, and I can’t think of a better wish on this eve of what we all are praying will be a new era in so many ways:
Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, "Wait." But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five year old son who is asking: "Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?"; when you take a cross county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading "white" and "colored"; when your first name becomes "nigger," your middle name becomes "boy" (however old you are) and your last name becomes "John," and your wife and mother are never given the respected title "Mrs."; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness"--then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait.
This has a biblical feel in its repetition, very much like Psalms or Proverbs. And the absolute control and simplicity in the understatement of that last line: incredibly powerful, so much more so than a bombastic declaration one might expect.
His balance of logic and emotion is perfect . He anticipates arguments from the other side and answers them beautifully.
Another favorite passage:
I have traveled the length and breadth of Alabama, Mississippi and all the other southern states. On sweltering summer days and crisp autumn mornings I have looked at the South's beautiful churches with their lofty spires pointing heavenward. I have beheld the impressive outlines of her massive religious education buildings. Over and over I have found myself asking: "What kind of people worship here? Who is their God? Where were their voices when the lips of Governor Barnett dripped with words of interposition and nullification? Where were they when Governor Wallace gave a clarion call for defiance and hatred? Where were their voices of support when bruised and weary Negro men and women decided to rise from the dark dungeons of complacency to the bright hills of creative protest?"
A line that hits me as emotionally sound at first proves problematic considering the current debacle in Iraq, however:
Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
He ends the letter with the following words, and I can’t think of a better wish on this eve of what we all are praying will be a new era in so many ways:
Let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear drenched communities, and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all their scintillating beauty.
bored in bama
I’ll have to say that this little neighborly connection I’m riding shotgun on has served me quite well during My Stay. Unless of course some evil maniac genius is ganking all of my personal info off my computer and will soon—ack!—post the ButtonBlog as his own. Everyone wants it. That’s easy to see. Duh!
Today has been pretty much solidly excitement-free. I awoke and broke my overnight fast with a drive-thru biscuit (you rule, Hardee’s) and went on a box scout that ended up being productive after my initially almost giving up--Almost all businesses compress their boxes immediately these days. Came back here and packed up some things. Grumbled to myself about this NOT being a four-star hotel while I was gathering towels and sheets and such from when my brother and sister-in-law stayed here when in town for my mom’s funeral. Who do they think will eventually be washing and cleaning up after them? ELVES? ELVIS? ELKS?
My mom hated my SIL, but then she held more than a few irrational grudges against people. I just figured she didn’t like her because she was a Yankee and she and my bro shacked up without the benefits of Holy Macaroni. But it might be because she was a slob? Cleanliness wasn't NEXT to godliness, in my mom's book; it WAS godliness!
I’ve only met her twice. The sister-in-law. The first time she was reading a bodice-ripper romance while my mom cooked. The second time she went with me to pick up my mom’s clothes at the nursing home where she (my mom) only stayed four days before her last hospital stay. I was in a huge hurry to get on the road because I had class the next day; it was already 4 in the afternoon, and then I would be headed BACK to Alabama after class for the funeral the next day, and SIL wanted to stop by CVS “just for a second” and was in there almost 40 minutes while I sat in the car.
Why am I being snippity over this? Rule 1: if I’m going to complain in a public forum, at least I should make it funny, right?
Sorry. Fail.
No, I have a complex relationship with my brother right now (let's just say it's testate-related, the details of which are beyond the scope of tonight's blog) and my SIL has, naturally, become part and parcel of't.
So my rad day continued when I finally broke for lunch to get BBQ around 4. Dunch, maybe, as I'll have no dinner, still full. But my fave bbq place has changed its slaw recipe which gravely disappoints me, especially since I’d asked for extra to take home.
Speaking of home, I’m ready to go. I wish I had a TV (well, one connected to a live cable feed, rather; there are TVs here if you like the grey snow video and the susurus audio). I feel the need to watch the inaugural events. I should have gotten a hotel for tonight. I’ve Stumpy the Cat with me but he would have laid lower than low; he’s SuperStealthCat! HOOOra!
Twenty-one degrees tonight with snow (flurries) forecast. Egad. Don’t let me get snowed in! The biggest snow I ever saw (3.5 feet) was outside this house. When I stepped off the front steps, it was up to my chin. (I was shorter/younger then. I am 5 feet 6 inches at this writing). The End.
Today has been pretty much solidly excitement-free. I awoke and broke my overnight fast with a drive-thru biscuit (you rule, Hardee’s) and went on a box scout that ended up being productive after my initially almost giving up--Almost all businesses compress their boxes immediately these days. Came back here and packed up some things. Grumbled to myself about this NOT being a four-star hotel while I was gathering towels and sheets and such from when my brother and sister-in-law stayed here when in town for my mom’s funeral. Who do they think will eventually be washing and cleaning up after them? ELVES? ELVIS? ELKS?
My mom hated my SIL, but then she held more than a few irrational grudges against people. I just figured she didn’t like her because she was a Yankee and she and my bro shacked up without the benefits of Holy Macaroni. But it might be because she was a slob? Cleanliness wasn't NEXT to godliness, in my mom's book; it WAS godliness!
I’ve only met her twice. The sister-in-law. The first time she was reading a bodice-ripper romance while my mom cooked. The second time she went with me to pick up my mom’s clothes at the nursing home where she (my mom) only stayed four days before her last hospital stay. I was in a huge hurry to get on the road because I had class the next day; it was already 4 in the afternoon, and then I would be headed BACK to Alabama after class for the funeral the next day, and SIL wanted to stop by CVS “just for a second” and was in there almost 40 minutes while I sat in the car.
Why am I being snippity over this? Rule 1: if I’m going to complain in a public forum, at least I should make it funny, right?
Sorry. Fail.
No, I have a complex relationship with my brother right now (let's just say it's testate-related, the details of which are beyond the scope of tonight's blog) and my SIL has, naturally, become part and parcel of't.
So my rad day continued when I finally broke for lunch to get BBQ around 4. Dunch, maybe, as I'll have no dinner, still full. But my fave bbq place has changed its slaw recipe which gravely disappoints me, especially since I’d asked for extra to take home.
Speaking of home, I’m ready to go. I wish I had a TV (well, one connected to a live cable feed, rather; there are TVs here if you like the grey snow video and the susurus audio). I feel the need to watch the inaugural events. I should have gotten a hotel for tonight. I’ve Stumpy the Cat with me but he would have laid lower than low; he’s SuperStealthCat! HOOOra!
Twenty-one degrees tonight with snow (flurries) forecast. Egad. Don’t let me get snowed in! The biggest snow I ever saw (3.5 feet) was outside this house. When I stepped off the front steps, it was up to my chin. (I was shorter/younger then. I am 5 feet 6 inches at this writing). The End.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
I have a VERY iffy connection. I'm in Alabama and riding on the coattails of an unsecured connection entitled enGenuis. Which is a rather ingenious name, I think. But it waxes and wanes with little warning. It's a very weak connection from here. I think it's the geeky guy next door with the prosthetic leg (shout out to Barry if he’s out there!)
I don't have much for you. Sorry. I'm here to pack up stuff. And, hopefully, have the fortitude and lack of sentiment to perhaps get rid of some things, either by donations or consignment or throwing away. The 1959 set of Book of Knowledge encyclopedias? Dishes I don’t want but remember eating off of when I was four? Ancient Christmas decorations that dance like sugarplums through my Christmas memories? And what the hell to do with bizarre things like my grandfather’s PLOW that my mom brought here from his farm in the 70’s, painted a godawful color of green, and positioned in the middle of the front yard??? Brings to mind that Alice Walker story “Everyday Use,” if you know it. But quilts hanging on the walls as art are more acceptable (in my book) that a painted plow! This was during her furniture painting phase. She’d buy antiques, strip them, and paint them colors that nature refused to claim. A chest of drawers comes to mind, painted black but with the drawers alternating black and another color…..something in the pink/peach/salmon family.
Mostly, I guess, I’m here to check on the house. All looks to be well except I think I hear mice in the walls. Or something! Thing is, I even brought a cat with me! But since he wailed for about 5 hours straight on the way here, he is wiped out and passed the hell out! He could be surrounded by a little ring of meeces and not notice a thing.
But now that I see the house is standing, the pipes haven’t burst (no, not with a $233 heating bill for December, I didn’t figure they had) and I see no one has broken in, okay, I’m ready to go home. But I’ve signed on until Tuesday noon. I’ve some errands to attend that need doing on a weekday when businesses are open.
It’s just…..weird here, at night, alone. Quiet. Not right. Things aren’t in their places. I’ve taken the most valuable smaller stuff already. So there are gaps. Books are packed up. Pictures are off the walls.
The house is something it isn’t anymore.
Sigh.
I don't have much for you. Sorry. I'm here to pack up stuff. And, hopefully, have the fortitude and lack of sentiment to perhaps get rid of some things, either by donations or consignment or throwing away. The 1959 set of Book of Knowledge encyclopedias? Dishes I don’t want but remember eating off of when I was four? Ancient Christmas decorations that dance like sugarplums through my Christmas memories? And what the hell to do with bizarre things like my grandfather’s PLOW that my mom brought here from his farm in the 70’s, painted a godawful color of green, and positioned in the middle of the front yard??? Brings to mind that Alice Walker story “Everyday Use,” if you know it. But quilts hanging on the walls as art are more acceptable (in my book) that a painted plow! This was during her furniture painting phase. She’d buy antiques, strip them, and paint them colors that nature refused to claim. A chest of drawers comes to mind, painted black but with the drawers alternating black and another color…..something in the pink/peach/salmon family.
Mostly, I guess, I’m here to check on the house. All looks to be well except I think I hear mice in the walls. Or something! Thing is, I even brought a cat with me! But since he wailed for about 5 hours straight on the way here, he is wiped out and passed the hell out! He could be surrounded by a little ring of meeces and not notice a thing.
But now that I see the house is standing, the pipes haven’t burst (no, not with a $233 heating bill for December, I didn’t figure they had) and I see no one has broken in, okay, I’m ready to go home. But I’ve signed on until Tuesday noon. I’ve some errands to attend that need doing on a weekday when businesses are open.
It’s just…..weird here, at night, alone. Quiet. Not right. Things aren’t in their places. I’ve taken the most valuable smaller stuff already. So there are gaps. Books are packed up. Pictures are off the walls.
The house is something it isn’t anymore.
Sigh.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
ADVICE
If you're in California or Florida or, perhaps, the Sahara Desert:
STAY WHERE YOU ARE!!!!!!!
it's spectacularly cold
**
a pretty web site for warming. laurel burch. i used to have one of her t-shirts, and my mom had some jewelry. my mom liked lots of color. me, i'm miz black/grey/brown/white.
http://www.laurelburch.com/ArtGallery/index.html
Thursday, January 15, 2009
huh?
A request from a student from last semester:
"Hey Dr. Reeves,
I was just wondering if you would do me a HUGE favor. About a week ago I got stopped at a roadblock and I got two tickets for which I have to show up to court on the 22nd.
I was wondering if there would be anyway that you could write me a letter of recommendation as maybe this will have the judge be a little bit nicer on me.
Let me know as soon as possible."
[name deleted to protect the guilty]
-------------------------------------------------
Is this something I've been missing? Not bringing a letter from my English teacher to court with me?
"Hey Dr. Reeves,
I was just wondering if you would do me a HUGE favor. About a week ago I got stopped at a roadblock and I got two tickets for which I have to show up to court on the 22nd.
I was wondering if there would be anyway that you could write me a letter of recommendation as maybe this will have the judge be a little bit nicer on me.
Let me know as soon as possible."
[name deleted to protect the guilty]
-------------------------------------------------
Is this something I've been missing? Not bringing a letter from my English teacher to court with me?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
a vow and a bow
I'll say more about the posts below and why I posted them and what it means, all of it, in a bit. Don't touch that dial!
Update on Lil Hitler
Child named Adolf Hitler removed from home in New Jersey
Updated Wednesday, January 14th 2009, 4:19 AM
Related News Articles
Boy named Adolf Hitler denied cake
A young boy named Adolf Hitler, who attracted national attention when a local supermarket refused to make a birthday cake with his name on it, has been taken away from his parents by authorities, according to a local website.
LehighValleyLive.com reports that Adolf and his sisters, JoyceLynn Aryan Nation, 1, and 8-month-old Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie, were removed from their home by New Jersey's Division of Youth and Family Services.
No reason was given for why the children were removed, however, and Holland Township police chief David Van Gilson told the site they had not received any reports of abuse or negligence.
Back in December, the boy's parents, Heath and Deborah, were outraged when a local ShopRite declined to provide them with cake for Adolf's birthday.
"They're just names, you know," Heath Campbell told the Easton Express-Times in December. "Yeah, they (the Nazis) were bad people back then. But my kids are little. They're not going to grow up like that."
However, Heath reportedly denies the Holocaust and their home is decorated with swastikas.
The parents were to attend a hearing regarding their children on Tuesday, but it was apparently postponed.
http://www.nydailynews.com/news/2009/01/13/2009-01-13_report_child_named_adolf_hitler_removed_.html
Updated Wednesday, January 14th 2009, 4:19 AM
Related News Articles
Boy named Adolf Hitler denied cake
A young boy named Adolf Hitler, who attracted national attention when a local supermarket refused to make a birthday cake with his name on it, has been taken away from his parents by authorities, according to a local website.
LehighValleyLive.com reports that Adolf and his sisters, JoyceLynn Aryan Nation, 1, and 8-month-old Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie, were removed from their home by New Jersey's Division of Youth and Family Services.
No reason was given for why the children were removed, however, and Holland Township police chief David Van Gilson told the site they had not received any reports of abuse or negligence.
Back in December, the boy's parents, Heath and Deborah, were outraged when a local ShopRite declined to provide them with cake for Adolf's birthday.
"They're just names, you know," Heath Campbell told the Easton Express-Times in December. "Yeah, they (the Nazis) were bad people back then. But my kids are little. They're not going to grow up like that."
However, Heath reportedly denies the Holocaust and their home is decorated with swastikas.
The parents were to attend a hearing regarding their children on Tuesday, but it was apparently postponed.
http://www.nydailynews.com/news/2009/01/13/2009-01-13_report_child_named_adolf_hitler_removed_.html
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
a smackeroo of eliot
i love these last prufrock lines.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
*
I do not think that they will sing to me.
*
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
*
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Lil Story
Hmm. Let's see. I need a really quick story.
Well, how about this one.
I have lots of stories, by the way. Many can't be told here. It just wouldn't do. But.
This one can.
When my brother was a baby, he was kidnapped. Really! Kidnapped! This kidnapping took place in Santa Fe, N.M. Brother Jim was an infant, around six months old, I'd say. He and his mother (my mother) and father (not my father) parked downtown Santa Fe. My mother went into a pharmacy to pick up a prescription. Her then-husband (whose name was such mud it wasn't allowed to be spoken, so I know very little of him) was to stay in the car but did not do as told (I know my mother; I'm sure he was told) but instead lay the baby in the backseat, got out of the car and went also into a store without informing my mother he was leaving the infant Jim alone in the car. With, apparently, the doors unlocked.
While both parents were in separate shops, someone ganked little Jim from the car.
I can only imagine (no, really, I can't, I don't think) the absolute Hysterical Fit that my mother threw upon getting back to the car and discovering that the baby was gone. [oh, of course, most mothers would; I would; anyone, sure: let me assure you, however, that my mother's Hysteria was in a special class of its very own. Let me say I'm just glad to have not been born yet]. When she first came out and saw the car empty, she assumed that Baby and Name-is-Mud-Baby-Daddy were together until she saw her soon-to-be-ex loping, babyless, down the street.
Luckily for everyone involved, Baby was found soon (three hours, I think) alone in a hotel room, lying in the center of the bed sporting a VERY nasty diaper. The kidnapper's sister had done the right thing and called the police when she discovered that her Stupid Brother had actually stolen a BABY from a CAR DOWNTOWN when he was supposed to be stealing useful things like money and cool shiny stuff. Not poopy stinky babies. She had been asked to watch him, but began, I suppose, to think, "For how long?? And for what?" So she went out for diapers but decided to notify authorities while out instead. That must've been one seriously rank load!
So Jim: yeah. safe and sound.
At least for a while.
--------------------
Cool web site du jour:
http://www.liquidgrace.com/
nice art, southern artist, not exactly sure how to take the daddy/God comment on the "about" page, though. Any ideas?
Well, how about this one.
I have lots of stories, by the way. Many can't be told here. It just wouldn't do. But.
This one can.
When my brother was a baby, he was kidnapped. Really! Kidnapped! This kidnapping took place in Santa Fe, N.M. Brother Jim was an infant, around six months old, I'd say. He and his mother (my mother) and father (not my father) parked downtown Santa Fe. My mother went into a pharmacy to pick up a prescription. Her then-husband (whose name was such mud it wasn't allowed to be spoken, so I know very little of him) was to stay in the car but did not do as told (I know my mother; I'm sure he was told) but instead lay the baby in the backseat, got out of the car and went also into a store without informing my mother he was leaving the infant Jim alone in the car. With, apparently, the doors unlocked.
While both parents were in separate shops, someone ganked little Jim from the car.
I can only imagine (no, really, I can't, I don't think) the absolute Hysterical Fit that my mother threw upon getting back to the car and discovering that the baby was gone. [oh, of course, most mothers would; I would; anyone, sure: let me assure you, however, that my mother's Hysteria was in a special class of its very own. Let me say I'm just glad to have not been born yet]. When she first came out and saw the car empty, she assumed that Baby and Name-is-Mud-Baby-Daddy were together until she saw her soon-to-be-ex loping, babyless, down the street.
Luckily for everyone involved, Baby was found soon (three hours, I think) alone in a hotel room, lying in the center of the bed sporting a VERY nasty diaper. The kidnapper's sister had done the right thing and called the police when she discovered that her Stupid Brother had actually stolen a BABY from a CAR DOWNTOWN when he was supposed to be stealing useful things like money and cool shiny stuff. Not poopy stinky babies. She had been asked to watch him, but began, I suppose, to think, "For how long?? And for what?" So she went out for diapers but decided to notify authorities while out instead. That must've been one seriously rank load!
So Jim: yeah. safe and sound.
At least for a while.
--------------------
Cool web site du jour:
http://www.liquidgrace.com/
nice art, southern artist, not exactly sure how to take the daddy/God comment on the "about" page, though. Any ideas?
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Banjo on My Knee
The property taxes on my parents' house are due, and, since I paid MINE online, I thought I'd go to the web address on the bill for theirs and pay it online as well. But no. I get a web site that DEFINES property taxes and tells me that no, the county tax commission canNOT lower your property taxes, that they are set in stone by the Lord God Himself. Okay, it doesn't mention the Almighty; I'm reading betwixt the lines. Other links lead me to the craziest, most difficult map to navigate that I've yet to find online (and I am a veteran of Online Maps, trust me); FAQ (e.g. "I bought a house, what do I do now?" [comma theirs] "Well, for one," I would say. "Try to avoid hanging a big Confederate flag in your living room window." Also, "I live in a trailer, do I have to pay taxes?" Surprisingly, no, but you "must obtain a decal."); and a history of the county, which I copy below for your pleasure:
The History of Colbert County
After the War of Northern Aggression, Colbert County was formed from the Northern part of Franklin County, in February 1867, but was abolished later that same year. It was reestablished February 1870. There was a vote of the people to decide whether Tuscumbia or Cherokee would be the County Seat. Tuscumbia, being more centrally located was chosen and has remained the County Seat. It was in 1870 that an election of County Government was called for. I am most pleased and honored, that my Great Great Great Grandfather, Trimigan Washington Thompson was elected one of the first County commissioners of Colbert County.
Colbert County is in the Northwest corner of the great state of Alabama. The entire County is bordered to the North with the beautiful Tennessee River. A four-lane highway runs east and west through the entire County. Colbert County is the birthplace for many great Americans. One of the most recognized is Helen Keller. We would love to have you come visit our County for a day, week or you could just move here. We have one of the lowest tax rates in the State and Country and I am sure you will be pleased here.
Okay, let's look at this little gem more carefully, shall we? THE WAR OF NORTHERN AGGRESSION?!?! Are you JOKING ME? This is some serious stuff here, folks! In 2009, we actually have a person referring to the Civil War as such. Wow.
Furthermore, without giving the slightest indication who "I" (the writer) is, said author toots his great great great great gummybear's horn.
Note also the charming random capitalization and inappropriate prepositions (bordered WITH the river......no matter the level of beauty, it's bordered BY a river!)
And the friendly invitation to move to "our County" might be countered by the info on the demographics page and supported by my personal memories: 87% white, .1% foreign born (note: foreign might mean "outside Alabama" ) and the certainty that "you will be pleased here" might be countered with the fact that the population saw an 8% drop since 2000.
The History of Colbert County
After the War of Northern Aggression, Colbert County was formed from the Northern part of Franklin County, in February 1867, but was abolished later that same year. It was reestablished February 1870. There was a vote of the people to decide whether Tuscumbia or Cherokee would be the County Seat. Tuscumbia, being more centrally located was chosen and has remained the County Seat. It was in 1870 that an election of County Government was called for. I am most pleased and honored, that my Great Great Great Grandfather, Trimigan Washington Thompson was elected one of the first County commissioners of Colbert County.
Colbert County is in the Northwest corner of the great state of Alabama. The entire County is bordered to the North with the beautiful Tennessee River. A four-lane highway runs east and west through the entire County. Colbert County is the birthplace for many great Americans. One of the most recognized is Helen Keller. We would love to have you come visit our County for a day, week or you could just move here. We have one of the lowest tax rates in the State and Country and I am sure you will be pleased here.
Okay, let's look at this little gem more carefully, shall we? THE WAR OF NORTHERN AGGRESSION?!?! Are you JOKING ME? This is some serious stuff here, folks! In 2009, we actually have a person referring to the Civil War as such. Wow.
Furthermore, without giving the slightest indication who "I" (the writer) is, said author toots his great great great great gummybear's horn.
Note also the charming random capitalization and inappropriate prepositions (bordered WITH the river......no matter the level of beauty, it's bordered BY a river!)
And the friendly invitation to move to "our County" might be countered by the info on the demographics page and supported by my personal memories: 87% white, .1% foreign born (note: foreign might mean "outside Alabama" ) and the certainty that "you will be pleased here" might be countered with the fact that the population saw an 8% drop since 2000.
If I were prez-elect......
.....here's what my answering machine would say:
"Hi. You've reached the Obama residence. Please leave a message after the beep and we'll get back to you on January 20. Thanks!"
the other day some moron wrote a sort of "told ya so" letter to the editor asking what exactly had Obama even DONE since being elected president, anyway???? "Nothing! Not a single thing!" as far as this astute, informed writer could see.
"Hi. You've reached the Obama residence. Please leave a message after the beep and we'll get back to you on January 20. Thanks!"
the other day some moron wrote a sort of "told ya so" letter to the editor asking what exactly had Obama even DONE since being elected president, anyway???? "Nothing! Not a single thing!" as far as this astute, informed writer could see.
For the Prevention of Unravelling
----------------------------------------------
What? And with whom? And most importantly where (& what-time)?
----------------------------------------------
Atonement might be an illusion. A bill of goods we've been sold. Flying off the shelves like so many hotcakes of advertised forgiveness.
click here.
guilt free.
out of order.
this page cannot be displayed.
try again later.
it is decidedly so.
you've reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service.
if you feel you have reached this atonement in error, please hang up and try your life again.
thank you.
-----------------------------------------------
the silence before dusk is the only redemption i know.
-----------------------------------------------
but
today's sponsored web site of decidedly gorgeous things:
http://www.selvedge.org/
this is a british textiles magazine. click on 'skip animation' to enter the main site.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The Mickey Mouse Club Ending
Words can't possibly begin to explain how integral this show was to my childhood. I've not heard it sung by the originals in, what? 40 years? I cried so hard when the singing started!!!
Friday, January 09, 2009
**Home from class. I was seriously going to pay a couple of bills on the computer and gather together some personal effects and head to Alabama to check on my parents' (well, mine now, I guess) house and pack more stuff up. And I actually was looking somewhat forward to it; it's a beautiful day, and I've not been since my mother's funeral November 19, and I was sort of looking forward to hanging out and just working, but for reasons I can't explain, something tells me not to go. I'm not superstitious and I tend to rely more heavily on logic than emotions. That fact notwithstanding, I feel that next weekend is best. Plus, next Monday is a HolyDay so I'll have an extra day.
**I watched a movie on TV the other night, Bounce, about a guy (Ben Affleck) who gives another dude his plane ticket. The plane, of course, crashes, and Affleck's character seeks out the plane crash victim's widow (Gwyneth Paltrow) and, of course, falls in love, etc etc. I thought overall the movie was lacking (stilted cliched dialogue, for instance), but at one point Paltrow's character said something to which I can deeply relate, about the fate that rules our lives---or whatever you want to call it--By any name, we have a very limited control over future circumstances. We can make a choice, and do our best, but we've no way to know how that choice will play out. She's talking about one day when her husband offers to take their son to school rather than have him ride the bus. And she's thinking, "Which one is best and safe? To ride the bus? Or take the car?" I can't tell you how many times I've had those sort of thoughts. Do we take the ticket offered by the stranger, or wait overnight for the next flight? Do we take one route, or the other? Do I go this weekend, or next?
**Because "character" is a verb, not a set of empty intonements for the weak, those moth-eaten mantras with no more more substance than circling toys you wanted in the Sears catalogue when you were a kid. No. Do something. Get up, get out, get busy.
**Speaking of: doughnut update.
**I watched a movie on TV the other night, Bounce, about a guy (Ben Affleck) who gives another dude his plane ticket. The plane, of course, crashes, and Affleck's character seeks out the plane crash victim's widow (Gwyneth Paltrow) and, of course, falls in love, etc etc. I thought overall the movie was lacking (stilted cliched dialogue, for instance), but at one point Paltrow's character said something to which I can deeply relate, about the fate that rules our lives---or whatever you want to call it--By any name, we have a very limited control over future circumstances. We can make a choice, and do our best, but we've no way to know how that choice will play out. She's talking about one day when her husband offers to take their son to school rather than have him ride the bus. And she's thinking, "Which one is best and safe? To ride the bus? Or take the car?" I can't tell you how many times I've had those sort of thoughts. Do we take the ticket offered by the stranger, or wait overnight for the next flight? Do we take one route, or the other? Do I go this weekend, or next?
**I'm sure some people never have these thoughts. How very lucky they must be. Because these speculations are fruitless. They are nothing more than proof of our frailty, the helplessness that we try to convince ourselves isn't there. You want to affirm your power: "you are in control, you are not a victim, you are beautiful, you are healthy, you are
**fucking delusional."
**Because "character" is a verb, not a set of empty intonements for the weak, those moth-eaten mantras with no more more substance than circling toys you wanted in the Sears catalogue when you were a kid. No. Do something. Get up, get out, get busy.
**Speaking of: doughnut update.
**Today was the first day of class of Spring semester 2009 at the University of Georgia. I've two classes, putting me in the classroom for a total of six hours per week. Stay tuned for bitching about even that!! :( Apparently my entire first class plays the saxophone in the marching band (according to their info sheets; they didn't all have saxes in hand!) My second class has several sportspersons enrolled. My two (or so) faithful readers may remember fall semester's joy: a guy who requested to be called Wombat. And I did. This term, I've "SupaShoota." And one who just wants to be D (no period after, he cautions. Hey, whatever--I'm open).
**"Whatever" is just about the worst thing anyone can say to me. Is there a more dismissive phrase on this planet?
**Nevertheless, I think THIS is precious!!!
(It doesn't appear to have imbedded, so linkadink here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jg4FkkVZVCQ)
If you've been around kids very much, you'll know what I'm talking about here. Consider a 3 or 4 year old that says something really funny, as many are prone to do from time to time. Everyone laughs at the cute and funny antics. But there's a certain stage that a child reaches when he or she becomes aware of being funny and having the ability to make others laugh. This stage seems to be a rite of passage as surely as the shift from looking at the finger pointing to what is being pointe at. Once the kid knows he's being funny, then he will repeat what he's said over and over. The second time isn't as funny, and the third through the nineteenth are downright annoying. You can see the confusion on the kid's face as he tries to figure out why what he just did isn't funny any more. It's all about timing, kiddo, about knowing
when to walk
away
when to shut
up
*** .
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Deadly Sin: Gluttony
Earlier this evening I make a foray out to my nearby Publix for cat litter, bread, milk and.....
.....oh shit.Is that the Krispy Kreme delivery truck, bringing in fresh doughnuts for Publix shoppers?
My, my. What an INVITING display. Look how neatly stacked! Oh, I hate to mess it up.....
D'oh!!! [nut!]
Instructions: get in car, find KK box in bags, slide thumb under tab, take a second to admire the confectionary goodness of the nestled dozen, take big bite, apply directly to hips!
My, my. What an INVITING display. Look how neatly stacked! Oh, I hate to mess it up.....
D'oh!!! [nut!]
Instructions: get in car, find KK box in bags, slide thumb under tab, take a second to admire the confectionary goodness of the nestled dozen, take big bite, apply directly to hips!Bon Appetit!
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Holy crap! You wouldn't believe how much noise this branch made when it fell at 2:30 am. Not that I was asleep. That's Widdles at the top of the steps checking out the situation.
What is this jelly-like substance that clings to some trees? It's downright gross. It splatters, too. Slug-like.
As luck would have it, everything that fell off that tree missed everything it could have damaged! It was almost as if limbs had been carefully placed around things. Nota bene the green growing on the deck due to not raking leaves often enough that's going to have to be cleaned come spring. Leaves can get very deep on the deck if left unattended; then rains produces a soggy mess allowing for lots of algae-braic growth.
A view from the top of stairs.
This small nick was the only vestige left of the tree's regurgitation of its limbs.
Admittedly rather random:
What is this jelly-like substance that clings to some trees? It's downright gross. It splatters, too. Slug-like.
As luck would have it, everything that fell off that tree missed everything it could have damaged! It was almost as if limbs had been carefully placed around things. Nota bene the green growing on the deck due to not raking leaves often enough that's going to have to be cleaned come spring. Leaves can get very deep on the deck if left unattended; then rains produces a soggy mess allowing for lots of algae-braic growth.
A view from the top of stairs.
This small nick was the only vestige left of the tree's regurgitation of its limbs.
Admittedly rather random:
Cheeba hates piano lessons. He'd rather play drums.
Well, here I am again, late yestere'en, on my way somewhere in a car with a camphone and a sky:
Well, here I am again, late yestere'en, on my way somewhere in a car with a camphone and a sky:
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Feast of Epiphany. .
(if you click the title, you might hear music)
Lute Music
Kenneth Rexroth
The Earth will be going on a long time
Before it finally freezes;
Men will be on it; they will take names,
Give their deeds reasons.
We will be here only
As chemical constituents --
A small franchise indeed.
Right now we have lives,
Corpuscles, ambitions, caresses,
Like everybody had once –
All the bright neige d’antan people,
“Blithe Helen, white Iope, and the rest,”
All the uneasy, remembered dead.
Here at the year's end, at the feast
Of birth, let us bring to each other
The gifts brought once west through deserts --
The precious metal of our mingled hair,
The frankincense of enraptured arms and legs,
The myrrh of desperate, invincible kisses --
Let us celebrate the daily
Recurrent nativity of love,
The endless epiphany of our fluent selves,
While the earth rolls away under us
Into unknown snows and summers,
Into untraveled spaces of the stars.
How I love this poem. When I teach lit and comp, I bring copies of the poem in on the second or third day of class, hand them out, and say, "Explain this poem in what you imagine a college-level essay might look like." I assure them that they won't be graded on their efforts. Most read through the poem with growing panic on their faces, sigh deeply, and dutifully put pen to paper. The next class period is spent discussing the poem. The responses have run the gamut: from a couple of barely incoherent sentences to a full ten pages (in an hour!) of tiny writing that blew me away with insights.
Without question, this is an extremely difficult poem. I love it because it's about.......everything. I love the way it telescopes all the way to the end of the world (where did we get the idea the world would "end" anyway? I find that even non-religious people hold on to this idea, at least in part, without ever really analyzing it), and I love the way, in the second stanza, it zooms backwards to the beginning of Christianity and then forward again to time rolling away under us into eternity. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, there we are, living and grieving, hoping and celebrating, and, if we're lucky and don't fuck it up, loving and being loved. I love the bitter cold of the first stanza--the physical cold, the chill of the grave, and the philosophical coldness of ourselves as nothing but a collection of chemical reactions--and how that's juxtaposed with the warmth of love and birth and the discovery of ourselves and others, every single day, if we allow it to happen. And that knowing voice in the poem, like the voice of eternity speaking to us. The comfort it gives might seem small: yes, we'll die. yes, you'll be forgotten. and yet....and yet......until then.....there's something to be gained, something worth this short time we have. In other words, carpe diem!
"Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us, and in the very brilliancy of their gifts some tragic dividing on their ways, is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before evening."
---Walter Pater
I'm also surprised at how few of the students know about the Feast of Epiphany on Jan. 6, the day the Magi supposedly arrived at the stable to visit Christ. That's where, in fact, the "Twelve Days of Christmas" comes from, the span of time between Dec 25 and Jan 6.
I'm also surprised at how few of the students know about the Feast of Epiphany on Jan. 6, the day the Magi supposedly arrived at the stable to visit Christ. That's where, in fact, the "Twelve Days of Christmas" comes from, the span of time between Dec 25 and Jan 6.
Adoration of the Magi Bartoleme' Esteban Murillo
Monday, January 05, 2009
we are such things as dreams
"Silver Bed Head" Alexander Calder
How much sense does it make for almost every news and talk show on TV to be talking about how the Travolta family needs privacy and a chance to grieve when at the same time they're devoting half the show to the story???
fucked up world.
Trip to Taco Hell tonight. Mr. Button works late on Mon and Thur, so, hungry for one of Taco Bell's VOLCANO tacos that guarantees absolutely no nutritional value, I decide to zip on down to the drive-t'ru in a torrential rainstorm. I tell the voice at the lit-up menu that I'd love to have the baja gordita (I was hungry! and I've been eating healthy! sorta.) and a volcano taco as well as a pie and a Pepsi. When I get my loot at the window, no volcano taco.
I say:
My taco isn't here.
The Drive-Thru Technician says:
whut taco you tawkin bout?
I:
I ordered a volcano taco also.
DTT:
No you din't.
I:
Uh. Well, yes, I did. But maybe the person who took the order didn't hear me.
DTT:
I took yo order.
I:
Well, yes, I know. I was just being tactful, but...
DTT:
Bein WHO?
I:
Tactful. It's no big deal. Could I get.....
DTT:
What is that you sayin?
I:
Tactful, uh [scanning thesaurus-in-vivo for synonym. clearly this fast food worker is hungry to learn!]...it's like inoffensive? Can I order a volcano taco?
DTT:
[another order coming in from drive thru via her headphones] Can you hold on a second?? [pause] I SED! Could YOU! hold ON! [to me] what is it you want?
I:
a volcano taco
DTT:
We ain't got none of 'em.
I:
What happened to them?
DTT:
They quit.
I:
Quit? [did they work there?] Do you mean you're out of them or have they been discontinued?
DTT:
No, we don sell em no more.
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Last night I had a dream, but the dream was within another dream, or wait, maybe the first one was inside the second? I'm not sure, but I dreamed I was writing a blog post! Cuz I'd just written one before bed, right? But this blog post/dream just went on and on, and I dreamed I typed, "Sorry this is so long; I promise I'll edit it before hitting publish," which makes no sense, does it? Well, that's a dream for you. Anyway, the dream I was having that I was blogging about was actually a memory. Years ago (how many, you say? it was 1987) I fell into this monstrous funk in February. I thought I'd ride it out and it would eventually dissipate. But it wouldn't go away. It stayed through March, April, and May, at which time I finally went to a psychiatrist, who must've taken me seriously, as he put me on Triavil (an evil combination of perphenazine and amitriptyline. Perphenazine is commonly given to schizophrenics. Looking back, I see absolutely no reason, based on what I said to the doctor, that he should think in any way I had schizophrenic presentiments. But I was depressed and didn't give a shit. I guess it did make me feel better for a while, except that--are you ready for this--it made me gain 60 pounds in about 2.5 months. If you've never experienced a Triavil hunger, I'll say it's very different than a normal "OMG I'm like starved" type craving. I simply could not stop eating. I started out in May weighing around 130. And I'm sure your addition skillz are mad enough to figure out how pimped and blimped I was at summer's end! I remember one morning after Mr Button had left for work opening a bad of those soft chocolate chip cookies and, in a trance, stuffing them in my mouth until every one was gone.
And then I was depressed because I was fat.
Oh, and god, the sleep. The depth of the sleep. There was never really a time during the day in which I could not have curled up and gone deeply to sleep if given the chance. Always sleepy, and SOOO difficult to wake up from.
But the part that appeared in the dream is this: at the time, Feb 1987, I'd had two extremely difficult and intense situations rear their heads at me, of which each alone would have caused almost anyone to be seriously depressed, and I thought that I'd be able to talk about what I was experiencing with the doctor. I'd only had one other experience with a psychiatrist, when I was 19, and it was about as negative as they come, but I was hoping for the best. The doctor said to me, "Well, let's get you feeling as good [or did he say "fat" and I misunderstood?] as we possibly can and then we can talk!" That sort of made sense, so I said okay. But we never did talk. And at the end of the summer, we moved to Athens, I was transferred to a psychiatrist at the university, who yanked me off of the Triavil.
[Big fat gap happened here that caused me to leave this story for an hour or two and TOTALLY lose interest in it. If you're still reading and/or awake, let's shake on wrapping this up quickly, shall we? Good].
I've had one other try with medicines of that ilk: antidepressants and the like. And I just don't have much luck because of so many side effects.
But I've been having trouble sleeping, which is very very very very crazy very unusual for me. I don't LIKE to sleep, and I don't DO it much, but when I'm ready, I turn the light out and I'm asleep soon. But, as I was writing in my blog that I was writing inside my dream last night, maybe I should try something again. Because not only do I have trouble sleeping; I imagine all sorts of crazy horrid scenarios, bad turns my life will take any day, for no reason, totally out of my control. Sometimes I'm simply terrified, there in the dark. Morning's light? Everything I worried about seems manageable, silly in some ways.
And I'm not serious about the medication. No way. That was just part of the dream.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
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okay, now for today's sponsored neat web site: Be Calder! TADA!!!
http://www.wikihow.com/Create-a-Calder-Mobile
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Hey Shugah!
My nephew Bert has a little animal living with him called a Sugar Glider, shown here on Bert's shoulder. Have you heard of these little creatures? Read about 'em here: http://www.sugarglider.com/gliderpedia/index.asp?SugarGlider
I was going to paste a paragraph or two to highlight these little guys, but I found nearly the whole article to be really fascinating. Some keywords and phrases, though, do stand out:
in natural habitats, they travel through midnight tree tops
like a living kite
have opposable fingers and thumbs
males have forked penis
toe used as a grooming comb
can chirp, bark, and rattle
love scrambled eggs and monkey biscuits
crave attention, love snuggling
live 10-12 + years
spouse might demand divorce with addition of new pet in household
Here's Bert and his gf Anna Clare with Shug!I think if I didn't have cats I'd get me a sugar glider! I hear they can get so lonely, though, that they will actually die, but that might be a rumor. It's nice to be needed, though.
If you must have one, here's one place to buy. Please send photos! I think they're a little steep for a marsupial at $175, but they appear to be worth their weight in affection!
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Zest for Life
Undated scribblings found from fall 08 from a trip to check on my mom. Staying at her house: sans TV, sans computer, sans radio, sans everything. Save a yellow pad of paper, a pen, a lamp.
* *
It's very late, very quiet. I sit here in my parents' living room without them here, my father dead, my mother dying. I was at home alone on occasion in high school, but never as an adult, visiting. I've always been deeply attuned to and affected by the "feel" of a place: especially the way people or their absence can transform a space, make it alien or familiar. I don't like it here, alone, but I've been spending too much on hotels and have to put aside my resolution never to spend the night here again for the sake of finance. And here I am, the only sounds being an occasional passing car and the voices of the past that echo in my head.
Memory.
Right now, there's an old bar of Zest soap on the lavatory of my parents' bathroom upstairs, dried from long lack of use, split and cracked into flat layers, as soap is wont to do. Both my parents, but particularly my mother, had an almost pathological loyalty toward certain brand names. One must purchase only
Sherwin-Williams paint
Chef Boyardee spaghetti sauce
Colonial bread
Maxwell House coffee
Buick automobiles
Crest toothpaste
Zest soap
Just to name a few. For my mother, using certain brands appeared to signify more than a mere preference based on past satisfaction; her loyalty seemed to stem from the idea that only the morally superior would use certain products. Maybe you remember an old TV commercial in the 1960's that asked, "Aren't you glad you use Dial? Don't you wish everybody did?"
Whenever my mom heard that, she'd stop what she was doing and march in the den. "No. I. Certainly. Do. NOT!" she would say, loudly and emphatically to the TV. Sometimes she'd change the channel.
Stores were the same way. For example, only "tacky people" shopped at Sears. I never remember my mom setting foot in a Sears, ever.
So while many teens had to go out of their way to find avenues for rebellion (drugs, sex, rock and roll), I merely had to step a bit to the left or right of the Brands That God Endorsed.
If all this sounds crazy to you, I'd call that an appropriate response.
* *
Like every teen girl I knew, I read Seventeen magazine cover to cover, studying the articles and ads for tips on How To Be and how far off I was.
April 1974
During my heydey, Seventeen was still publishing the oversized version, and many of the ads had a sort of romantic dusty-pink softness to them, as I recall, often featuring a young woman in a contemplative pose staring dreamily into space.
Other ads featured the fresh-faced, on-the-go crowd.
Ads that I remember: Jean Nate. Clairol Herbal Essence. Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific (and it really did!). Bobbie Brooks. Charlie by Revlon. Pursettes tampons. Cover Girl makeup. Gunne Sax dresses. Jessica McClintock. Windsong perfume by Prince Matchabelli. Coty. Rive-Gauche. Corn Silk. Modess sanitary napkins.
And it was in Seventeen, I believe, that I first saw an ad for Yardley's English Lavender soap when I was about 14.
The ad implied a sort of romantic indulgence, a langorous luxury that, in my limited experience, bespoke something vaguely European; and I knew I had to have some. I felt this product echoed all that I was meant to be. I imagined lowering myself into a steaming-full tub with the loveliest of smells wafting up: lavender. I'd have my long hair pinned casually in a loose, elegant bun and tied with a cream-colored satin ribbon. In my bath fantasy, the oversized clawfoot tub is beside a big fireplace, the sounds a piano being played can be heard coming from a distant room, and a gold shaft of sunlight slices down through a high window as I lazily straighten a leg out of the water and lather it with Yardley's English Lavender soap. In truth, I wasn't even certain that I'd ever smelled lavender, but it had to be most wonderful.
One could not, of course, ever take such a bath with Zest, whose aqua sameness meant all-business and no messin' around.
So the next time I went to the grocery store with my mom, I traipsed off to the soap aisle to check out the Yardley's. I sniffed the box and was rather disappointed by the smell, but it wasn't about the smell; it was an attitude, a lifestyle I was after. I snuck the bar into the basket when my mom wasn't looking, and it was soon covered by other items. But my stealth was exposed upon check-out. My mom eyed the alien soap riding down the conveyer toward the cash register and asked, aghast, "What is THAT?"
"Oh, it's just some soap I want to try! Please?"
"What do you want with THAT stuff?? I've got some soap already."
"But I don't LIKE Zest! It STINKS! Please let me just try it!"
I can't imagine what the check-out clerk must've been thinking.
After my first Yardley's bath, my mom asked with a smirk, "So. How do you like your 'new SOAP'?" I was a bit disappointed in it, but I'd never really let on. It did serve as a gateway soap for me, though, leaving me open to trying the wide and wicked range of bars beyond Zest: Ivory ("it floats!"), Dove ("one quarter cleansing cream"), Irish Spring ("...but made for a woman").
I honestly remember feeling a bit guilty about branching out past the family-endorsed soap-of-choice, but also a bit proud that I'd broken with some of the insanity that was my mother.
Friday, January 02, 2009
I just drove to the CVS, which was closed, so ultimately to Kroger, for some analgesic (Goody's powders, yo, this is the South, what else would I take? BC powders, maybe). Here's my powder of choice: http://www.goodyspowder.com/products_coolorange.aspx Excellent with a coke chaser. Co-cola, that is. I haven't tried the Other Powder. Well, as a chaser to Goody's, anyway ;)
I don't know how far north these wondrous products are sold, but I'd like to do a personal study. Just start driving and check out headache products. My web site tells me, under FAQs: "Where is Goody's® Headache Powder sold? Goody's® is sold in food, drug, mass merchandise and convenience stores, primarily in the southern U.S."
Why is this such a regional product? I posit that NOTHING kicks a headache on its ass like a powder. "In today's society," wouldn't you think you could get just about anything anywhere? But this assumption will over and again disappoint. Try buying a Dos Equis beer in New York City. Good luck. Or some REAL sweetened iced tea! They bring it in are-you-joking-me a bottle that says "Nestea" on it. No one with any genuine tea knowledge would touch a Nestea product in the first place. Horrid. Think about all the millions of people who don't even know what tea tastes like, not really. Or think about how difficult it is to get clotted cream and scones in a non-British setting. Or Vegemite upside of Down Under, even though it's owned by Kraft. Should one be prone to searching for yeast paste, mate.
This started out to be about something else entirely. I was going to say: that I drove to get something for an aching wrist in some of the densest fog I've ever seen. That I'd spent a goodly portion of the day cleaning. That I threw away tons of crap. That I found some pages with odd scribblings that I'd written in Muscle Shoals at my parents' house in October or November. That I also found something I'd written that I normally would have blogged but had no computer connection. But it can wait. My wrist aches yet.
````Today's neat-o website````` involves spirals. I love the shape of a spiral*, and thought this was a lovely page full of them. Each one is made more by the presence of all the rest: http://spiral.gallery.sytes.org/
*ps except that I hate snails and their nasty cousins, slugs.
No, that's not true.
I don't hate them.
I LOATHE them. It is my one irrational fear. My first reaction, if I touch one, is to freak. I have learned to control this visceral reaction and avoid screaming and flinging whatever it is the creature was attached to as far from me as possible. However, I will need to be alone for a bit if I experience contact with a snail (spiral notwithstanding) or slug.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
new year's streaming consciousness
Though the idea of a "new" year is certainly artificial and arbitrary, I do believe it is psychologically important. We humans seem to have a strong need to divide time: slice it up: 60 seconds, 60 minutes, 24 hours, 7 days, 52 weeks. New days, weeks, years.
And those are just a few of the divisions familiar to most westerners. So many more historical and cultural ways to measure time.Illusions of the linear, the cyclical.
I've always been fascinated by instruments of measurement and order. I love buying a new date book for a new year, new calendars. I love clocks but find their ticking annoying though I like their chimes. Difficult to have one without the other. My grandfather restored and made clocks as a hobby and had hundreds in his house, a symphony of ticking. There was a definite precision about the place that the clocks merely metaphorized, an overall formality. Every time I went to visit, my grandfather always had on a suit, and his wife, Willie--who was my stepgrandmother--always in a dress and a single strand of pearls. She wore very red lipstick. I suppose the two of them sat around the house all dressed up all the time. as far as I know. I visited alone with my father; I remember very few occasions when my mother came along. As my dad, my grandfather, and Willie talked, I went out to the backyard which had been converted entirely to a maze of hedges and brick paths. I loved that place. The same precision in nature that those clocks represented in the house. Later I'd be called in to play something on the piano....and, after my grandfather bought a violin and started taking lessons at the age of 80 (!), he'd play along. Half the upstairs of the house was a large room, a library with a big round heavy oak table in the middle on which lay over sized atlases that I loved to leaf through. I spent hours as a child poring over atlases and road maps. I can't say entirely for what reason; I just loved them--I still do. Now I have to be careful about opening up Google Earth because I can stay for HOURS and not even look up.
New on Button this year: I'll be posting links to web sites (non-blogs) that I find interesting. Just to share. I don't have strict criteria in my head except that the site must be beautiful in design, color, ideas or philosophy, or any combination of these. This new feature will commence with my next post--this one having rambled enow.
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