Something suitably atmospheric for your Friday the 13th picture. A cemetery, shaded with trees and covered by a sky the same color as the monuments below. I tried to capture a ghost, but they move too fast.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Random Kit Pix
Wonderful news! The kitten nursery at the Peninsula Humane Society will be on again this spring and summer. I've signed up to volunteer. In anticipation I went back and looked at the pictures from the first kitten nursery. And since you just can't have enough cute kitten photos of the internet, I pulled out a few favorites from my time there. I can't wait to get started again.
Wonderful news! The kitten nursery at the Peninsula Humane Society will be on again this spring and summer. I've signed up to volunteer. In anticipation I went back and looked at the pictures from the first kitten nursery. And since you just can't have enough cute kitten photos of the internet, I pulled out a few favorites from my time there. I can't wait to get started again.
Oh the trials of a heating contractor!
After 4 days of no heat we finally got our furnace fixed today. I am basking in warm. I am not wearing sweats and three pairs of socks to bed. I am not standing 2 feet in front of one of our space heaters because that's about as far as the heat goes. I am not one with the hot water bottle, electric blanket, or heating pad.
Happy, happy day.
Mr. Grumpyheat, however, had a bad day. The guy we called to fix our heater was apparently disappointed to find that it didn't work and that we expected him to fix it. I honestly think we were putting him out somehow.
First off, our heater is under the house. It's in a moderately sized crawl space with a dirt-lined floor. I've been down there. The PG&E guy spent 20 minutes there and came out smiling and chatting about the Giants. Mr. Grumpyheat looked into the crawl space as if it were lined with the bodies of lepers. Personally I thought those Dickie coveralls were there to get dirty, but I guess they're just there to impress the ladies. Meanwhile, this lady was wearing two sweatshirts in the house because it was 49 degrees this morning. I was not impressed by the coveralls. I was impressed that he had the magic bits to turn cold into heat.
Except he didn't. After moaning and sighing his way back to the heater, crawling over those lepers, he banged for a bit. Said one or two bad words under his breath, and then made the same death trek out to say he didn't have the right part. Wow...this is the company that put this furnace in 4 years ago, I had described the symptoms, you think they might just throw a few possible parts onto the truck in the morning. But, no, he had to go back to the office for the part. So off Mr. Crumpyheat goes leaving me hugging the space heater and putting on another pair of socks.
The return of Mr. Grumpyheater was heralded by much subterranean banging, which terrified Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who was already skittish because the space heater apparently hums in a way that disturbed her greatly.
And then it's done. He clomps up the porch and hands me a clipboard and says 'it's done." Um...you don't mind if I turn the heater on and actually see if heat comes out, do you? So while he's filling out the paperwork I'm crouched down over a vent, fingers crossed, nose nicely icicled. And....oh the bliss.....
On the paperwork he lists the job: Check frangometer. Change whopflange. Replace sleemvalve. And then it says, on the paperwork: Furnace is under house with dirt-lined crawl space. Like we had him working in the La Brea Tar Pits. Hey, you're a heating contractor, do you expect the heater to be next to the hot tub in the conservatory? Maybe in modern homes the comfort of repairmen is given the apparent consideration they deserve and all bit of mechanicals are easily accessible in warm, sunny place with posters of naked women and either coffee or Slurpee machines, depending upon the weather. But in earlier homes (ours was built in the late 1940s) things like a furnace was put under the house. I'd think having to do things like routinely crawl under houses was part of the job but Mr. Grumpyheater acted like I'd provided him with substandard dirt in substandard conditions and would, if ever called out on a job again, expect us to sweep the dirt and provide him with a nice carpet for him to crawl along. And, of course, get rid of the damned lepers.
Oh screw him, we've got heat!!!!
After 4 days of no heat we finally got our furnace fixed today. I am basking in warm. I am not wearing sweats and three pairs of socks to bed. I am not standing 2 feet in front of one of our space heaters because that's about as far as the heat goes. I am not one with the hot water bottle, electric blanket, or heating pad.
Happy, happy day.
Mr. Grumpyheat, however, had a bad day. The guy we called to fix our heater was apparently disappointed to find that it didn't work and that we expected him to fix it. I honestly think we were putting him out somehow.
First off, our heater is under the house. It's in a moderately sized crawl space with a dirt-lined floor. I've been down there. The PG&E guy spent 20 minutes there and came out smiling and chatting about the Giants. Mr. Grumpyheat looked into the crawl space as if it were lined with the bodies of lepers. Personally I thought those Dickie coveralls were there to get dirty, but I guess they're just there to impress the ladies. Meanwhile, this lady was wearing two sweatshirts in the house because it was 49 degrees this morning. I was not impressed by the coveralls. I was impressed that he had the magic bits to turn cold into heat.
Except he didn't. After moaning and sighing his way back to the heater, crawling over those lepers, he banged for a bit. Said one or two bad words under his breath, and then made the same death trek out to say he didn't have the right part. Wow...this is the company that put this furnace in 4 years ago, I had described the symptoms, you think they might just throw a few possible parts onto the truck in the morning. But, no, he had to go back to the office for the part. So off Mr. Crumpyheat goes leaving me hugging the space heater and putting on another pair of socks.
The return of Mr. Grumpyheater was heralded by much subterranean banging, which terrified Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who was already skittish because the space heater apparently hums in a way that disturbed her greatly.
And then it's done. He clomps up the porch and hands me a clipboard and says 'it's done." Um...you don't mind if I turn the heater on and actually see if heat comes out, do you? So while he's filling out the paperwork I'm crouched down over a vent, fingers crossed, nose nicely icicled. And....oh the bliss.....
On the paperwork he lists the job: Check frangometer. Change whopflange. Replace sleemvalve. And then it says, on the paperwork: Furnace is under house with dirt-lined crawl space. Like we had him working in the La Brea Tar Pits. Hey, you're a heating contractor, do you expect the heater to be next to the hot tub in the conservatory? Maybe in modern homes the comfort of repairmen is given the apparent consideration they deserve and all bit of mechanicals are easily accessible in warm, sunny place with posters of naked women and either coffee or Slurpee machines, depending upon the weather. But in earlier homes (ours was built in the late 1940s) things like a furnace was put under the house. I'd think having to do things like routinely crawl under houses was part of the job but Mr. Grumpyheater acted like I'd provided him with substandard dirt in substandard conditions and would, if ever called out on a job again, expect us to sweep the dirt and provide him with a nice carpet for him to crawl along. And, of course, get rid of the damned lepers.
Oh screw him, we've got heat!!!!
A question of sexism
An e-mail thread recently came through on a list that I'm subscribed to with the subject "20 Things I Didn't Know About Women." The author, whom I know slightly, is a thoroughly immature idiot who insists on treating women as basically only about sex. In spite of the fact that he claims "to love women" and seemed to think many of his 20 things were actually complimentary, I found the whole thing to be insulting.
What I found interesting was the fall-out from this note. Many women objected. Few men did and the ones that did were accused by other men of basically kissing up to the women to try and score points. The subscribers to this list tend to be young and very liberal. Had the list been entitled "20 things I didn't know about African Americans" or "....homosexuals" I believe the flak would have been more dramatic and indignant. But sexism still seems to be the one acceptable prejudice amongst liberals.
Now I know I'm making huge assumptions here, but I find it interesting that a group who would slap someone down for making a racist joke would defend someone making sexist comments as "free speech." And yes, you do have the right to make idiotic comments. What bothers me is how few people objected to them or, in fact, saw anything objectionable in them. I guess that's what bothers me most -- that so many people (and all of them men, apparently) supported the writer as "just having fun" or "not meaning anything by it." Not meaning anything isn't the point, the point is that a large group of the recipients of this e-mail found it hateful and yet a larger group dismissed their offense as being unimportant.
It's hardly surprising that sexism still runs rampant. Society continues to support and foster a culture of sexual inequality by making women all about appearance. (You don't get on the cover of a magazine for being a good person or graduating with honors.) But if you consider yourself truly liberal, a humanist, a person who respects the rights of others, then you must speak up when you see disrespect in any form; gender-based, racial, religious, sexual, or other. You can't say one type of insulting humor is OK but another is offensive simply because you don't find it personally offensive. If others object, then the complaint has validity. You don't have to agree, but don't dismiss other's concerns.
Free speech means you have the right to be obnoxious. But if you want to respect yourself then you must respect others.
An e-mail thread recently came through on a list that I'm subscribed to with the subject "20 Things I Didn't Know About Women." The author, whom I know slightly, is a thoroughly immature idiot who insists on treating women as basically only about sex. In spite of the fact that he claims "to love women" and seemed to think many of his 20 things were actually complimentary, I found the whole thing to be insulting.
What I found interesting was the fall-out from this note. Many women objected. Few men did and the ones that did were accused by other men of basically kissing up to the women to try and score points. The subscribers to this list tend to be young and very liberal. Had the list been entitled "20 things I didn't know about African Americans" or "....homosexuals" I believe the flak would have been more dramatic and indignant. But sexism still seems to be the one acceptable prejudice amongst liberals.
Now I know I'm making huge assumptions here, but I find it interesting that a group who would slap someone down for making a racist joke would defend someone making sexist comments as "free speech." And yes, you do have the right to make idiotic comments. What bothers me is how few people objected to them or, in fact, saw anything objectionable in them. I guess that's what bothers me most -- that so many people (and all of them men, apparently) supported the writer as "just having fun" or "not meaning anything by it." Not meaning anything isn't the point, the point is that a large group of the recipients of this e-mail found it hateful and yet a larger group dismissed their offense as being unimportant.
It's hardly surprising that sexism still runs rampant. Society continues to support and foster a culture of sexual inequality by making women all about appearance. (You don't get on the cover of a magazine for being a good person or graduating with honors.) But if you consider yourself truly liberal, a humanist, a person who respects the rights of others, then you must speak up when you see disrespect in any form; gender-based, racial, religious, sexual, or other. You can't say one type of insulting humor is OK but another is offensive simply because you don't find it personally offensive. If others object, then the complaint has validity. You don't have to agree, but don't dismiss other's concerns.
Free speech means you have the right to be obnoxious. But if you want to respect yourself then you must respect others.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Photo of the day: Take a Rusty Pas
I've decided to scrap the theme for the week. I think that I take better photos when I'm not hemmed in by rules so I'm going back to no rules. This may change, but for now it's back to anything goes.
I took a walk yesterday up on Old Sawyer Camp Road by the reservoir. And, being me, surrounded by green hills, towering trees, wildflowers, and glistening water...I photographed barbed wire and rusty signs. And, being me, I liked them better than the pictures of the hills, trees, flowers, and water.
This was my favorite. What can I say? I like the unexpected. I like just looking around and seeing what's interesting as opposed to just what's there.
I've decided to scrap the theme for the week. I think that I take better photos when I'm not hemmed in by rules so I'm going back to no rules. This may change, but for now it's back to anything goes.
I took a walk yesterday up on Old Sawyer Camp Road by the reservoir. And, being me, surrounded by green hills, towering trees, wildflowers, and glistening water...I photographed barbed wire and rusty signs. And, being me, I liked them better than the pictures of the hills, trees, flowers, and water.
This was my favorite. What can I say? I like the unexpected. I like just looking around and seeing what's interesting as opposed to just what's there.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Photo of the day: Still Life With Our Share of the Bailout
This week: shapes and shadows. I'm starting with the perfect roundness of coins in a round jar. I'm going to have to get moving this week to fulfill the challenge, which is always fun. But tonight it's late and this was the first thing my eye came do. I shall improve as the week goes on.
And, as always, if you have an idea for future weekly themes, please let me know in the comments. Any and all suggestions welcome.
This week: shapes and shadows. I'm starting with the perfect roundness of coins in a round jar. I'm going to have to get moving this week to fulfill the challenge, which is always fun. But tonight it's late and this was the first thing my eye came do. I shall improve as the week goes on.
And, as always, if you have an idea for future weekly themes, please let me know in the comments. Any and all suggestions welcome.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
How to be dull
There's an ad currently on TV (for some company/store that I can't even recall) that proclaims "now your home can look like a picture in a magazine."
To which I reply, "why would I want that?"
Seriously, why is that a good thing? Personally, that sounds really sucky and incredibly dull. Why would I want my house to look like a picture in a magazine? I don't want to live with matchy-matchy pillows and color-coordinated accessories. I don't want to decorate from a "collection." (The Martha Stewart Collection, the Has-Been-Reality-Star Collection.) How sad to be so unimaginative that you need someone else to say "this goes with this, which goes with that." What's wrong with the I Live Here Collection?
The problem with Martha & Co is that unless you vote the party line you'll never be certain. Do you dare to mix this rug from the Martha Meets K-Mart Line with the table you bought from the Florence Henderson collection? Wouldn't that require independent thought? And if you're capable of that then can't you just screw the "Collections" and build your own? A rug in a color that reminds you of your first dorm room for a bit of fun factor, a cool table you found at an antique store for $100 that you stripped and refinished yourself. Some blue glass bottles (just because you like the colors) on a mantlepiece next to photos of the people you love. A random white feather picked up while hiking in the woods. That's interesting. That's what a room should be like. It shouldn't be someone you've never meet and who knows nothing about you trying to convince you that beauty can be found when you buy your rooms like Garanimals. Yes, just pair this lamp with the hippo sticker with any of our tables with the hippo sticker and you can't go wrong!
I like mismatched. I like different. I like interesting. I want to live in a house where people feel comfortable taking their shoes off; where they don't have to freak out if they accidentally spill something. OK, so our house will never make the cover of House Beautiful, but I like being the only ones with our particular and creative blend of, well, stuff. A replica Maltese Falcon. An antique radio. An African basket and a Native American pot. No, it's not beautiful (well, it is to me), but it's definitely not dull. And it's a visual representation of who and what we area. We're not trying to recreate a Nantucket beach house, a chic Parisian flat, a Manhattan loft, or Lindsay Lohan's Malibu Barbi Rehab Beach Party.
We're not trying to do anything, except live cozily surrounded by things we love. And Excrutiatingly Perfect Homes Monthly would have a nasty reaction to the old wicker wheelchair we picked up at a garage sale and the beautiful leather-topped table which came from beloved ancestors. A piece of sheet music autographed by Fred Astaire (yes, really) hangs on one wall while the others have North Western animal totems from our trip to Canada. Wanderings through an adored and now, sadly, defunct antique store yielded the ancient Dagurretypes and stashes of old photographs of people we never met, inclduing the huge wedding photo that hangs over our TV. These fictional arbiters of taste would also reject the hideously ugly candlestick from Mexico abut would then want the rights to reproduce the wonderfully beautiful carved hand from Malawi.
I never feel comfortable in rooms where everything is perfect. It doesn't look anything like life. I like piles of books and quirky items. It's a mark of personality and individuality. But rooms that look like, well, a picture in a magazine, they just seem soulless and boring. Like a waiting room in a hospital, not like someone actually lives there.
One of the great thing about my friends is they all have homes that reflect who they are. Some are classy, some are colorful. Others are full of toys or photographs of their travels. Of cats or of collections of spoons. But you walk in and you think "oh yeah, X lives here." You never think "gosh, this looks like a furniture showroom." If that's what I thought, honestly they probably wouldn't be interesting enough to be friends of mine. Because they wouldn't be interesting.
There's an ad currently on TV (for some company/store that I can't even recall) that proclaims "now your home can look like a picture in a magazine."
To which I reply, "why would I want that?"
Seriously, why is that a good thing? Personally, that sounds really sucky and incredibly dull. Why would I want my house to look like a picture in a magazine? I don't want to live with matchy-matchy pillows and color-coordinated accessories. I don't want to decorate from a "collection." (The Martha Stewart Collection, the Has-Been-Reality-Star Collection.) How sad to be so unimaginative that you need someone else to say "this goes with this, which goes with that." What's wrong with the I Live Here Collection?
The problem with Martha & Co is that unless you vote the party line you'll never be certain. Do you dare to mix this rug from the Martha Meets K-Mart Line with the table you bought from the Florence Henderson collection? Wouldn't that require independent thought? And if you're capable of that then can't you just screw the "Collections" and build your own? A rug in a color that reminds you of your first dorm room for a bit of fun factor, a cool table you found at an antique store for $100 that you stripped and refinished yourself. Some blue glass bottles (just because you like the colors) on a mantlepiece next to photos of the people you love. A random white feather picked up while hiking in the woods. That's interesting. That's what a room should be like. It shouldn't be someone you've never meet and who knows nothing about you trying to convince you that beauty can be found when you buy your rooms like Garanimals. Yes, just pair this lamp with the hippo sticker with any of our tables with the hippo sticker and you can't go wrong!
I like mismatched. I like different. I like interesting. I want to live in a house where people feel comfortable taking their shoes off; where they don't have to freak out if they accidentally spill something. OK, so our house will never make the cover of House Beautiful, but I like being the only ones with our particular and creative blend of, well, stuff. A replica Maltese Falcon. An antique radio. An African basket and a Native American pot. No, it's not beautiful (well, it is to me), but it's definitely not dull. And it's a visual representation of who and what we area. We're not trying to recreate a Nantucket beach house, a chic Parisian flat, a Manhattan loft, or Lindsay Lohan's Malibu Barbi Rehab Beach Party.
We're not trying to do anything, except live cozily surrounded by things we love. And Excrutiatingly Perfect Homes Monthly would have a nasty reaction to the old wicker wheelchair we picked up at a garage sale and the beautiful leather-topped table which came from beloved ancestors. A piece of sheet music autographed by Fred Astaire (yes, really) hangs on one wall while the others have North Western animal totems from our trip to Canada. Wanderings through an adored and now, sadly, defunct antique store yielded the ancient Dagurretypes and stashes of old photographs of people we never met, inclduing the huge wedding photo that hangs over our TV. These fictional arbiters of taste would also reject the hideously ugly candlestick from Mexico abut would then want the rights to reproduce the wonderfully beautiful carved hand from Malawi.
I never feel comfortable in rooms where everything is perfect. It doesn't look anything like life. I like piles of books and quirky items. It's a mark of personality and individuality. But rooms that look like, well, a picture in a magazine, they just seem soulless and boring. Like a waiting room in a hospital, not like someone actually lives there.
One of the great thing about my friends is they all have homes that reflect who they are. Some are classy, some are colorful. Others are full of toys or photographs of their travels. Of cats or of collections of spoons. But you walk in and you think "oh yeah, X lives here." You never think "gosh, this looks like a furniture showroom." If that's what I thought, honestly they probably wouldn't be interesting enough to be friends of mine. Because they wouldn't be interesting.
Photo of the day: Ancestors
Using a fancy digital camera to capture what was once the height of camera coolness. A collapsible Kodak, popular in the 30s for tourists and families. With money (and space) I'd have a large collection of antique cameras. But for now I'll just pay homage to the ancestor of the beautiful camera I'm using now.
Using a fancy digital camera to capture what was once the height of camera coolness. A collapsible Kodak, popular in the 30s for tourists and families. With money (and space) I'd have a large collection of antique cameras. But for now I'll just pay homage to the ancestor of the beautiful camera I'm using now.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Photo of the day: Always Hold Out for the 64 Box
A new box of 64 cayons. Crayola, of course. The points all nicely pointed. The colors all neatly arranged. None of the wrappers torn, no yellows mixed in with your blues because you never put things back where you got them. For now, it's perfect. So perfect you're reluctant to grab that first crayon and go. But go ahead, do it. You know you want to...
A new box of 64 cayons. Crayola, of course. The points all nicely pointed. The colors all neatly arranged. None of the wrappers torn, no yellows mixed in with your blues because you never put things back where you got them. For now, it's perfect. So perfect you're reluctant to grab that first crayon and go. But go ahead, do it. You know you want to...
Friday, March 06, 2009
'shrooms
I passed by a ... um....what's a group of mushrooms? A crop? A bunch? Anyway, I passed by a herd of mushrooms on my way to cat duty today so I stopped to take a photo or ten. None of them really struck me, but I had a random conversation with a 127 year old man who was really afraid I was going to pick and eat them. He said "you're not going to eat those, are you young lady?" about a dozen times. While I was amused by his concern for my stupidity, I was also depressed that it's only 127-year old men who think I'm young.
Knowing nothing about mushrooms, except that they come from the grocery store and taste yummy on pizza, I am not going to pick random bits of fungus and think "free food!' Potentially fatal stir-fry is off the menu at our house. But old guy seemed unconvinced. I assured him repeatedly I was just taking pictures -- not taking my life in my hands. But he just kept repeating "don't eat them." Odd, because we were both speaking English, and yet he seemed to not understand my "no, I'm not going to pick them, I'm just taking photographs." "OK," he'd say, "but don't eat them." No, strangely persistent old guy, for the 15th time I am NOT going to eat them. "Fine," he said, "just don't eat them."
I tried to change the subject. Beautiful day. Look how clearly you can see Mt. Diablo. Do you think Oswald acted alone? But he kept beating that poor, dead (because he ate the fucking mushrooms) horse. "Yes, it's a lovely day. Too nice a day to die eating bad mushrooms." Thank you, Mr. Reaper, I wasn't feeling suicidal before but these mushrooms are beginning to look like a quick way of ending this conversation.
I actually wanted to keep taking photographs, but I told him I had to get back to work and trotted back to my car. As he walked off, I swear he muttered under his breath "don't eat the mushrooms."
I passed by a ... um....what's a group of mushrooms? A crop? A bunch? Anyway, I passed by a herd of mushrooms on my way to cat duty today so I stopped to take a photo or ten. None of them really struck me, but I had a random conversation with a 127 year old man who was really afraid I was going to pick and eat them. He said "you're not going to eat those, are you young lady?" about a dozen times. While I was amused by his concern for my stupidity, I was also depressed that it's only 127-year old men who think I'm young.
Knowing nothing about mushrooms, except that they come from the grocery store and taste yummy on pizza, I am not going to pick random bits of fungus and think "free food!' Potentially fatal stir-fry is off the menu at our house. But old guy seemed unconvinced. I assured him repeatedly I was just taking pictures -- not taking my life in my hands. But he just kept repeating "don't eat them." Odd, because we were both speaking English, and yet he seemed to not understand my "no, I'm not going to pick them, I'm just taking photographs." "OK," he'd say, "but don't eat them." No, strangely persistent old guy, for the 15th time I am NOT going to eat them. "Fine," he said, "just don't eat them."
I tried to change the subject. Beautiful day. Look how clearly you can see Mt. Diablo. Do you think Oswald acted alone? But he kept beating that poor, dead (because he ate the fucking mushrooms) horse. "Yes, it's a lovely day. Too nice a day to die eating bad mushrooms." Thank you, Mr. Reaper, I wasn't feeling suicidal before but these mushrooms are beginning to look like a quick way of ending this conversation.
I actually wanted to keep taking photographs, but I told him I had to get back to work and trotted back to my car. As he walked off, I swear he muttered under his breath "don't eat the mushrooms."
Cat of the Week: Budda
We seem to be overrun with black cats at the shelter. Sadly there's still this superstition that black cats are bad luck and they don't get adopted as quickly as others. But this guy is a charmer and it would be stupid to overlook him just because some dopes have this weird thing.
Budda (ID #: A442184) is a total charmer. He loves to sit in laps give head butts, and purr. He's also playful, curious, outgoing, sweet, affectionate and easy-going. What more could you want in a cat? He lives in a "condo" with four other kitties and gets along with them so he might be OK in a multi-cat home. He shared my lap with another and started grooming her, when he wasn't busy licking my hand or trying to eat my badge.
You can find out more about Budda and all the other amazing kitties available for adoption at the Peninsula Humane Society and SPCA website.
Cat of the week update: Mr. Peabody, a previous CoTW has been adopted! Ob-La-Di, whom I love, has been moved to Petco in Colma and is still available for adoption. I miss seeing him big time. Sigh...
We seem to be overrun with black cats at the shelter. Sadly there's still this superstition that black cats are bad luck and they don't get adopted as quickly as others. But this guy is a charmer and it would be stupid to overlook him just because some dopes have this weird thing.
Budda (ID #: A442184) is a total charmer. He loves to sit in laps give head butts, and purr. He's also playful, curious, outgoing, sweet, affectionate and easy-going. What more could you want in a cat? He lives in a "condo" with four other kitties and gets along with them so he might be OK in a multi-cat home. He shared my lap with another and started grooming her, when he wasn't busy licking my hand or trying to eat my badge.
You can find out more about Budda and all the other amazing kitties available for adoption at the Peninsula Humane Society and SPCA website.
Cat of the week update: Mr. Peabody, a previous CoTW has been adopted! Ob-La-Di, whom I love, has been moved to Petco in Colma and is still available for adoption. I miss seeing him big time. Sigh...
Photo of the day: Puff
While taking this one I discovered it's hard to capture smoke. I'm sure there's some deep, Zen revelation there. But I just meant it took me about a dozen times of lighting and blowing out this damned candle to get the shot and even now I'm not happy with it. Just tired of lighting matches.
While taking this one I discovered it's hard to capture smoke. I'm sure there's some deep, Zen revelation there. But I just meant it took me about a dozen times of lighting and blowing out this damned candle to get the shot and even now I'm not happy with it. Just tired of lighting matches.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Yeah, right...
Stupidity overhead at the gas station.
Man gets out of passenger seat to put gas in girlfriend's car: "Your gas tank is on the other side."
She: "Other side of what?"
He: "Other side of your car."
She: "So?"
He: "So I can't put the gas in."
She: "I'm not asking you to pay for it, just put it in."
(Oh there are so many ways that can be taken..)
.....
Stupidity overhead at the grocery store.
Man to another man looking clueless in the produce section: "Is this garlic or an onion?"
Man 2: "I think it's a potato."
.....
Stupidity overheard at the shelter/
Woman 1, looking at adorable white kitty: "I like white cats, they always look so clean."
Woman 2: "I know what you mean, black cats always look like they're covered in something black."
.....
Seen at the store...
Why God? Why???
Stupidity overhead at the gas station.
Man gets out of passenger seat to put gas in girlfriend's car: "Your gas tank is on the other side."
She: "Other side of what?"
He: "Other side of your car."
She: "So?"
He: "So I can't put the gas in."
She: "I'm not asking you to pay for it, just put it in."
(Oh there are so many ways that can be taken..)
.....
Stupidity overhead at the grocery store.
Man to another man looking clueless in the produce section: "Is this garlic or an onion?"
Man 2: "I think it's a potato."
.....
Stupidity overheard at the shelter/
Woman 1, looking at adorable white kitty: "I like white cats, they always look so clean."
Woman 2: "I know what you mean, black cats always look like they're covered in something black."
.....
Seen at the store...
Why God? Why???
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Photo of the day: The Chairman of the Board
You can keep your King (and definitely your Prince). No offense to the Godfather of Soul, the Velvet Fog, or even Slim Whitman. For my money, you can't beat the Chairman of the Board.
Mr. Sinatra. From his MGM years when he danced with Gene Kelly, sang with Betty Garrett, and won the hearts of a million women. To the serious years of Manchuarian Candidate and From Here to Eternity when he proved he wasn't just a pretty boy with a voice, Sinatra was always the definition of cool.
Sliding onto a barstool, cigarette in one hand, trading quips with Dean and Sammy, Peter and Joey as they filled some huge Vegas mega showroom with the sound of friendly insults and fabulous music. Older now, standing solo in the spotlight as he begins to sing "My Way" in a way he couldn't have done when he was only a boy. Knowing the music. Knowing there are some songs you have to grow into, just as some roles actors have to grow into. No King Lear as a fresh-faced 19 year old from New Jersey. And while he aged, the music grew. Sometimes he tried to adapt to the new sound, but it never quite worked. Disco Frank, bad idea. But even in the tasteless 70s, he still epitomized cool, strolling elegantly across some Casino showfloor in a tux with the tie just sexily left dangling. Sipping martinis (probably just water) and telling stories that were always, but not quite, a bit too off-color.
Frank was the star. And I still love him.
You can keep your King (and definitely your Prince). No offense to the Godfather of Soul, the Velvet Fog, or even Slim Whitman. For my money, you can't beat the Chairman of the Board.
Mr. Sinatra. From his MGM years when he danced with Gene Kelly, sang with Betty Garrett, and won the hearts of a million women. To the serious years of Manchuarian Candidate and From Here to Eternity when he proved he wasn't just a pretty boy with a voice, Sinatra was always the definition of cool.
Sliding onto a barstool, cigarette in one hand, trading quips with Dean and Sammy, Peter and Joey as they filled some huge Vegas mega showroom with the sound of friendly insults and fabulous music. Older now, standing solo in the spotlight as he begins to sing "My Way" in a way he couldn't have done when he was only a boy. Knowing the music. Knowing there are some songs you have to grow into, just as some roles actors have to grow into. No King Lear as a fresh-faced 19 year old from New Jersey. And while he aged, the music grew. Sometimes he tried to adapt to the new sound, but it never quite worked. Disco Frank, bad idea. But even in the tasteless 70s, he still epitomized cool, strolling elegantly across some Casino showfloor in a tux with the tie just sexily left dangling. Sipping martinis (probably just water) and telling stories that were always, but not quite, a bit too off-color.
Frank was the star. And I still love him.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Why she runs
For Finny, and for kick-ass women everywhere.
“I must be a fucking masochist,” she said to herself. Well, actually, she said it out loud. What’s the point of being not just awake but actually running at fucking 6 am if you can’t talk to yourself and cement the impression that you are Crazy Lady.
“Why?” She’d left a husband in that blissful half dozing-half awake state to pull on tights she was afraid made her ass look like you could show Lawrence of Arabia on it just to leave the warm, cozy house. And run.
She knew the first 10 minutes always sucked. It was just something you had to force yourself to do. It was cold, it was painful, it was really fucking stupid. No sane, intelligent person would forego that last, delicious hour of sleep to put herself through this kind of punishment. And, to add insult to injury, it was starting to rain.
In spite of Elvis Costello warning her that accidents can happen, she wasn’t really paying attention to the world around her. She was too busy swearing at the hill that looked like a bump when she drove it but which felt like Denali when she ran.
“Think about something else,” she instructed herself, forcing herself to notice the neat lawns and the leafless trees of the neighborhood. The ugly gray house that she once threatened to paint herself because it was such an eyesore. The classic Mustang parked in a driveway that badly needed to be repaved.
Was it just so she had free reign to eat cheesecake? Was that why she ran? She pondered the importance of cheesecake in her life and decided it was not to be underrated. Was it vanity? The desire to be able to wear shorts in the summertime and not look seriously white trash? Well, that was a point. Health? Yay, maybe, in some “I don’t want to be too much of a grown up but not being a fat, heart-diseased slob is a good thing” sort of way.
Suddenly though, the hill was crested and she made the gentle turn down her favorite street. Long and flat, lined by Crafstman style homes with charm and not too much pretense. No nasty cracked sidewalks to beware of. No yippy dogs. No traffic to dodge or bicyclists to swear at. Just a smooth run where she could kick it up, kick it in, and get all Zen about the run.
Her body was no longer cold with the memory of that warm bed. Her legs were no longer protesting the indignity of being asked to work so hard. Her body and mind finally getting into the rhythm they'd been looking for since she'd left the front porch. Even the right music kicking in on the iPod, playing beats in perfect harmony with her legs. She felt the cold air fill her lungs, heard her feet slapping on the pavement in tune to the music in her head and found, at last, that perfect running moment. Focused enough to keep track of pace, rhythm, breathing; comfortable enough to note the fat black crows on the power pole and the ass on the cute bicyclist passing her in the street. She was hip Zen running chick.
"Oh yeah," she smiled to herself, "that's why I run."
For Finny, and for kick-ass women everywhere.
“I must be a fucking masochist,” she said to herself. Well, actually, she said it out loud. What’s the point of being not just awake but actually running at fucking 6 am if you can’t talk to yourself and cement the impression that you are Crazy Lady.
“Why?” She’d left a husband in that blissful half dozing-half awake state to pull on tights she was afraid made her ass look like you could show Lawrence of Arabia on it just to leave the warm, cozy house. And run.
She knew the first 10 minutes always sucked. It was just something you had to force yourself to do. It was cold, it was painful, it was really fucking stupid. No sane, intelligent person would forego that last, delicious hour of sleep to put herself through this kind of punishment. And, to add insult to injury, it was starting to rain.
In spite of Elvis Costello warning her that accidents can happen, she wasn’t really paying attention to the world around her. She was too busy swearing at the hill that looked like a bump when she drove it but which felt like Denali when she ran.
“Think about something else,” she instructed herself, forcing herself to notice the neat lawns and the leafless trees of the neighborhood. The ugly gray house that she once threatened to paint herself because it was such an eyesore. The classic Mustang parked in a driveway that badly needed to be repaved.
Was it just so she had free reign to eat cheesecake? Was that why she ran? She pondered the importance of cheesecake in her life and decided it was not to be underrated. Was it vanity? The desire to be able to wear shorts in the summertime and not look seriously white trash? Well, that was a point. Health? Yay, maybe, in some “I don’t want to be too much of a grown up but not being a fat, heart-diseased slob is a good thing” sort of way.
Suddenly though, the hill was crested and she made the gentle turn down her favorite street. Long and flat, lined by Crafstman style homes with charm and not too much pretense. No nasty cracked sidewalks to beware of. No yippy dogs. No traffic to dodge or bicyclists to swear at. Just a smooth run where she could kick it up, kick it in, and get all Zen about the run.
Her body was no longer cold with the memory of that warm bed. Her legs were no longer protesting the indignity of being asked to work so hard. Her body and mind finally getting into the rhythm they'd been looking for since she'd left the front porch. Even the right music kicking in on the iPod, playing beats in perfect harmony with her legs. She felt the cold air fill her lungs, heard her feet slapping on the pavement in tune to the music in her head and found, at last, that perfect running moment. Focused enough to keep track of pace, rhythm, breathing; comfortable enough to note the fat black crows on the power pole and the ass on the cute bicyclist passing her in the street. She was hip Zen running chick.
"Oh yeah," she smiled to herself, "that's why I run."
Judging by a Cover
OK, so you can't judge a book by its cover. Supposedly. I think that phrase only worked when all books were bound in brown leather and didn't have cartoon poodles on them. Or the bottom half of a cartoon woman walking the cartoon poodle on 4-inch cartoon heels. That book, I don't want to read.
The same is with CDs, I find. In my role as World Music Director at KZSU I see a lot of CDs and some of them you can tell just by looking at them that they're going in the crap pile.
For instance, anything that uses the phrase "a musical experience" is bound to be bad. Also "soundscape" and, less reliably but always a red flag, "journey." Most "musical experiences" are new age releases featuring tracks with titles like "Timeless Moon, Part 1" and "Shadow Dream for Maya." The titles are themselves enough of a warning. No one has ever had any fun to a song like "Timeless Moon, Part 1". It's never been cranked up for a road trip down the Great Highway. It's never been fucked to. It's never been anyone's first dance. "Timeless Moon, Part 1" is the kind of thing you hear at the dentist office when they don't want you to hear the root canal guy screaming.
Warning number two is reviews from 4th rate newspapers or radio markets. When "Stu, host of "Color Me Hip" on KRAP, Solvang, raves about something and that rave is listed on the CD cover....run. It meant the SF Chronicle, the LA Times, the San Jose Mercury News, hell maybe even the Lodi Shopper's Weekly have all received the CD and threw it directly into the "to be sold" pile. No quotes from the big guys? You take what you can get. "A magical journey.....affirming life." (The Sparks Navadan.) So what exactly did that ellipsis cut out? And why do I need my life affirmed, anyway. I have a life, I know this. You seconding the motion doesn't make me any more real and, in fact, your awful music might diminish it in some way.
The cleavage factor is a CD phenomenon that only applies to ladies. The more you show off your tits, the less likely you are to have talent. Sorry, it just works out that way. Gracing your cover of "The Many Moods of Mandy Mellow" with your spectacular 38ds will no doubt get the guys salivating, which just makes it easier for them to laugh when you launch into "Can't Help Loving that Man of Mine." Here's a hint breast girls, covering Billie and Ella is stupid. Covering the crumb-catchers might be smart.
The male equivalent of the cleavage factor is the hair. Oh, the hair! Yanni was just the tip of the iceberg, unfortunately. And, unfortunately, the rest of them weren't buried under the ocean. They some how rose up, flowing locks intact, and put themselves on their music. Blond men with long hair sitting moodily in a B&W scene designed to look like Paris but ruined by the fact that there's a Muni bus stop across the street. Dark men caressing their guitar to show they are passionate and to suggest "if my guitar looks this happy, imagine what I can do with you." Um...I'm guessing what you can do is make me giggle like a schoolgirl when I hear you sing.
Bad astronomy. Why do so many CD covers feature bad astronomy? 70's looking collages with neon colors of planets and stars in some sort of cosmic soup, with the band name written in silver in a font last seen in a Brady Bunch fan poster. Pink comets streaking across pale blue skys while artists with one-word names (Ana, Rainbird, Corrie, Flair) grab the tail and hold on for dear life....the only action the music will ever see.
Now, to be fair, I do not automatically dismiss anything based on how it looks. Everything gets a fair listen. But I gotta say that 9 times out of 10 these judgements hold true. The 10th time I'm always surprised at how someone with musical talent can have so little idea of artistic talent and marketing. I don't think Elvis would have been such a big star if his albums featured inflatable neon green spaceships which he would ride with his exceptionally long hair flowed down his bare back while a bevy of huge-breasted backup singers hung out on Saturn. But then again, he's Elvis. They bought him when he was fat.
OK, so you can't judge a book by its cover. Supposedly. I think that phrase only worked when all books were bound in brown leather and didn't have cartoon poodles on them. Or the bottom half of a cartoon woman walking the cartoon poodle on 4-inch cartoon heels. That book, I don't want to read.
The same is with CDs, I find. In my role as World Music Director at KZSU I see a lot of CDs and some of them you can tell just by looking at them that they're going in the crap pile.
For instance, anything that uses the phrase "a musical experience" is bound to be bad. Also "soundscape" and, less reliably but always a red flag, "journey." Most "musical experiences" are new age releases featuring tracks with titles like "Timeless Moon, Part 1" and "Shadow Dream for Maya." The titles are themselves enough of a warning. No one has ever had any fun to a song like "Timeless Moon, Part 1". It's never been cranked up for a road trip down the Great Highway. It's never been fucked to. It's never been anyone's first dance. "Timeless Moon, Part 1" is the kind of thing you hear at the dentist office when they don't want you to hear the root canal guy screaming.
Warning number two is reviews from 4th rate newspapers or radio markets. When "Stu, host of "Color Me Hip" on KRAP, Solvang, raves about something and that rave is listed on the CD cover....run. It meant the SF Chronicle, the LA Times, the San Jose Mercury News, hell maybe even the Lodi Shopper's Weekly have all received the CD and threw it directly into the "to be sold" pile. No quotes from the big guys? You take what you can get. "A magical journey.....affirming life." (The Sparks Navadan.) So what exactly did that ellipsis cut out? And why do I need my life affirmed, anyway. I have a life, I know this. You seconding the motion doesn't make me any more real and, in fact, your awful music might diminish it in some way.
The cleavage factor is a CD phenomenon that only applies to ladies. The more you show off your tits, the less likely you are to have talent. Sorry, it just works out that way. Gracing your cover of "The Many Moods of Mandy Mellow" with your spectacular 38ds will no doubt get the guys salivating, which just makes it easier for them to laugh when you launch into "Can't Help Loving that Man of Mine." Here's a hint breast girls, covering Billie and Ella is stupid. Covering the crumb-catchers might be smart.
The male equivalent of the cleavage factor is the hair. Oh, the hair! Yanni was just the tip of the iceberg, unfortunately. And, unfortunately, the rest of them weren't buried under the ocean. They some how rose up, flowing locks intact, and put themselves on their music. Blond men with long hair sitting moodily in a B&W scene designed to look like Paris but ruined by the fact that there's a Muni bus stop across the street. Dark men caressing their guitar to show they are passionate and to suggest "if my guitar looks this happy, imagine what I can do with you." Um...I'm guessing what you can do is make me giggle like a schoolgirl when I hear you sing.
Bad astronomy. Why do so many CD covers feature bad astronomy? 70's looking collages with neon colors of planets and stars in some sort of cosmic soup, with the band name written in silver in a font last seen in a Brady Bunch fan poster. Pink comets streaking across pale blue skys while artists with one-word names (Ana, Rainbird, Corrie, Flair) grab the tail and hold on for dear life....the only action the music will ever see.
Now, to be fair, I do not automatically dismiss anything based on how it looks. Everything gets a fair listen. But I gotta say that 9 times out of 10 these judgements hold true. The 10th time I'm always surprised at how someone with musical talent can have so little idea of artistic talent and marketing. I don't think Elvis would have been such a big star if his albums featured inflatable neon green spaceships which he would ride with his exceptionally long hair flowed down his bare back while a bevy of huge-breasted backup singers hung out on Saturn. But then again, he's Elvis. They bought him when he was fat.
Photo of the day: Give Me Moscow x4
I've always wondered about this bank of phones at Stanford. I've never seen anyone actually using any of them. They don't look like pay phones, so what do they connect to? And why are they red? Why do two have red cords and two have white cords? Is this the place we go to when we need to order an air strike? So many questions....so few people in need of red phones.
I've always wondered about this bank of phones at Stanford. I've never seen anyone actually using any of them. They don't look like pay phones, so what do they connect to? And why are they red? Why do two have red cords and two have white cords? Is this the place we go to when we need to order an air strike? So many questions....so few people in need of red phones.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Photo of the day: Happy Graduates
This week's theme is "random" a random sign that I think is funny. An odd license plate I see in a parking lot. The odds and ends that aren't actually that photogenic but, nevertheless, appeal to my visual side and my twisted sense of humor. Like this 1939 ad from Time Magazine.
This week's theme is "random" a random sign that I think is funny. An odd license plate I see in a parking lot. The odds and ends that aren't actually that photogenic but, nevertheless, appeal to my visual side and my twisted sense of humor. Like this 1939 ad from Time Magazine.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Angels and Monuments
Another photo from my cemetery trek this past week. For more in the series, check out my photo blog. I'll be doing another cemetery trip soon, so I hope you guys have a high tolerance for angels, headstones, doves, and various other forms of memory.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Photo of the day: Rocky Road
I love rocks. These look particularly good for skipping across a pond. There's something about small rocks that make you want to put one in your pocket as a souvenir. I can never resist the temptation and, as a result, have small rocks about from Scotland, Africa, Monterey, Lake Tahoe, wherever I find them. I know I'm ruining our landscape. But I'm also enhancing mine.
I love rocks. These look particularly good for skipping across a pond. There's something about small rocks that make you want to put one in your pocket as a souvenir. I can never resist the temptation and, as a result, have small rocks about from Scotland, Africa, Monterey, Lake Tahoe, wherever I find them. I know I'm ruining our landscape. But I'm also enhancing mine.
Friday, February 27, 2009
They've got personality
Now that I’m volunteering with so many different cats I’m continually fascinated at how different their personalities are. Anybody who says, “I don’t like cats, they’re too…. (aloof, demanding, independent, needy, crazy…insert adjective here) for me,” just hasn’t been around enough cats. Each week when I go in I meet new kitties and it’s always a learning experience.
Let me illustrate (note: the names have been changed to protect the reputations of the kitties.)
1. Miss Marple. Super-sleuth Miss Marple wants nothing more than to investigate. Once you get her into the GAR (get acquainted room) she’ll leave you alone in favor of sniffing, exploring, and staring out the window in the hopes of witnessing a murder. Or at least another cat. She doesn’t knit and, as far as I know, has never actually solved a crime, but she is completely disinterested in love. Oh, she’ll take the time to investigate you too. She’ll sniff you, bat at your shoelaces to see if they’re loaded with explosives. Look for Cyanide in your pocket; but for the most part it’s all about what’s going on in the world around here.
2. ADD Kitty. Pipe cleaner! Random piece of paper! Bit of treat left over from last visitor to GAR! Oooh, look, a window! ADD Kitty has the attention span of a 3-year old on a sugar high at Disneyland. He’ll run around chasing his tail and then suddenly stop for a good, long lick at his foot. He’ll bat at the pipe cleaner like it’s the best thing since catnip and then, without warning, notice (for the 15th time) that there’s a nice big window to look out of and there are people walking by. He’ll jump into your lap and nuzzle against you, purring like a steam engine until he catches sight of an abandoned piece of paper in the corner and attack it like he’s bringing down a gazelle. Life is an endless parade of new experiences for ADD Kitty, mostly because he seems to have absolutely no short-term memory.
3. Blanche Dubois. You love me, don’t you? I mean I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers. Poor Blanche, she needs constant reassurance. She may stray a few feet away, but she always comes back. She feels safest if she’s in physical contact with you, preferably on your lap. “Love me, love me,” she implores, as she pushes her cute little pink nose into your hand so you can give her the attention she needs. She’s the ultimate lap cat, a streetcar named “you’re not planning on moving anytime soon, are you?”
4. William “Refrigerator” Kitty. He weighs about 280 lbs. (Ok, maybe 18, but that’s enough.) He could play linebacker for the 49ers. (Hell, at this point I could play linebacker for the Niners.) He’s just a big bruiser. When he head butts you, you feel like it’ll leave a bruise. When he jumps for the pipe cleaner, the chair rattles when he lands. And when he tries to curl into your lap he finds your lap is nowhere big enough. He hangs over all sides like a sack of flour, only purring and not to be used for bread.
5. The Austen Rogue. Every Jane Austen book has one. Mr. Wickham from P&P. Willoughby from S&S. The charming rake with the good looks, dashing manner, winning personality, and faithfulness of hyena. Austen will look at you with those big green eyes and instantly steal your heart. You’ll fall for his charisma and put all your effort into winning his love. You’ll carry him to the GAR, pet him, play with him, give him fishy treats and he’ll look at you like you’re the only woman in the world for him. Then the treats run out and he’ll turn his back on you. He’ll grow weary of the attention you lavish on you and stroll casually to the window, in search of greener pastures (or more treats). And the same cat that couldn’t wait to leap into your arms when you opened the door to his cage will jump back into his cage without a second glance. He’s done with you. You’ve served your purpose. Your heart is broken.
Then there are those rare “perfect cats” that make you fall in love a little. The ones who can’t get enough of your lap but who are also playful and full of personality. The ones with the quirky meow or the loud, non-stop purr. The ones who eager come to you and seem reluctant to say goodbye. The ones who stick their paws out of the cage when someone walks by as if to say “you spin me right round, like a record baby.” (Or something more sensible and feline.) Those are the best of all. But each one is special and each one I work with is deserving of love, security, and a good home.
Now that I’m volunteering with so many different cats I’m continually fascinated at how different their personalities are. Anybody who says, “I don’t like cats, they’re too…. (aloof, demanding, independent, needy, crazy…insert adjective here) for me,” just hasn’t been around enough cats. Each week when I go in I meet new kitties and it’s always a learning experience.
Let me illustrate (note: the names have been changed to protect the reputations of the kitties.)
1. Miss Marple. Super-sleuth Miss Marple wants nothing more than to investigate. Once you get her into the GAR (get acquainted room) she’ll leave you alone in favor of sniffing, exploring, and staring out the window in the hopes of witnessing a murder. Or at least another cat. She doesn’t knit and, as far as I know, has never actually solved a crime, but she is completely disinterested in love. Oh, she’ll take the time to investigate you too. She’ll sniff you, bat at your shoelaces to see if they’re loaded with explosives. Look for Cyanide in your pocket; but for the most part it’s all about what’s going on in the world around here.
2. ADD Kitty. Pipe cleaner! Random piece of paper! Bit of treat left over from last visitor to GAR! Oooh, look, a window! ADD Kitty has the attention span of a 3-year old on a sugar high at Disneyland. He’ll run around chasing his tail and then suddenly stop for a good, long lick at his foot. He’ll bat at the pipe cleaner like it’s the best thing since catnip and then, without warning, notice (for the 15th time) that there’s a nice big window to look out of and there are people walking by. He’ll jump into your lap and nuzzle against you, purring like a steam engine until he catches sight of an abandoned piece of paper in the corner and attack it like he’s bringing down a gazelle. Life is an endless parade of new experiences for ADD Kitty, mostly because he seems to have absolutely no short-term memory.
3. Blanche Dubois. You love me, don’t you? I mean I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers. Poor Blanche, she needs constant reassurance. She may stray a few feet away, but she always comes back. She feels safest if she’s in physical contact with you, preferably on your lap. “Love me, love me,” she implores, as she pushes her cute little pink nose into your hand so you can give her the attention she needs. She’s the ultimate lap cat, a streetcar named “you’re not planning on moving anytime soon, are you?”
4. William “Refrigerator” Kitty. He weighs about 280 lbs. (Ok, maybe 18, but that’s enough.) He could play linebacker for the 49ers. (Hell, at this point I could play linebacker for the Niners.) He’s just a big bruiser. When he head butts you, you feel like it’ll leave a bruise. When he jumps for the pipe cleaner, the chair rattles when he lands. And when he tries to curl into your lap he finds your lap is nowhere big enough. He hangs over all sides like a sack of flour, only purring and not to be used for bread.
5. The Austen Rogue. Every Jane Austen book has one. Mr. Wickham from P&P. Willoughby from S&S. The charming rake with the good looks, dashing manner, winning personality, and faithfulness of hyena. Austen will look at you with those big green eyes and instantly steal your heart. You’ll fall for his charisma and put all your effort into winning his love. You’ll carry him to the GAR, pet him, play with him, give him fishy treats and he’ll look at you like you’re the only woman in the world for him. Then the treats run out and he’ll turn his back on you. He’ll grow weary of the attention you lavish on you and stroll casually to the window, in search of greener pastures (or more treats). And the same cat that couldn’t wait to leap into your arms when you opened the door to his cage will jump back into his cage without a second glance. He’s done with you. You’ve served your purpose. Your heart is broken.
Then there are those rare “perfect cats” that make you fall in love a little. The ones who can’t get enough of your lap but who are also playful and full of personality. The ones with the quirky meow or the loud, non-stop purr. The ones who eager come to you and seem reluctant to say goodbye. The ones who stick their paws out of the cage when someone walks by as if to say “you spin me right round, like a record baby.” (Or something more sensible and feline.) Those are the best of all. But each one is special and each one I work with is deserving of love, security, and a good home.
Cat of the week: Dharma
She's called Dharma but, with apologies to Keruoac, she's not a bum. She's a sweet little brown tabby with a shy and gentle nature. When a big dog came into the other room she got scared and started shaking, so she'll need to be in a dog-free home. But she loves people and spent almost the entire time curled up in my lap, purring, and trying to eat my sweatshirt. She's such a lovebug that I found her utterly charming. I didn't want to put her back and, in fact, stopped by to visit again on my way out. When I walked up the second time she immediately came to the front of the cage, put her paw out to bat at me, and meowed in this completely endearing "hello again, take me out" way. What a sweetie!
Dharma's magic number is A443723 and you can find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
She's called Dharma but, with apologies to Keruoac, she's not a bum. She's a sweet little brown tabby with a shy and gentle nature. When a big dog came into the other room she got scared and started shaking, so she'll need to be in a dog-free home. But she loves people and spent almost the entire time curled up in my lap, purring, and trying to eat my sweatshirt. She's such a lovebug that I found her utterly charming. I didn't want to put her back and, in fact, stopped by to visit again on my way out. When I walked up the second time she immediately came to the front of the cage, put her paw out to bat at me, and meowed in this completely endearing "hello again, take me out" way. What a sweetie!
Dharma's magic number is A443723 and you can find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
Photo of the day: Smooth
Textures week continues with smooth. In this case, marble. I love marble. But not as much as my psycho and way-too-much-money-and-not-enough-taste neighbor who actually has a marble driveway and walkway. Must be very safe in the rain and not in the least slippery. (Perhaps I can manage to fall and sue them for unsafe conditions.)
But marble in the right place can be beautiful. This is old, stained, faded, weathered and, in my opinion, lovely. Part of my photo shoot at Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma. Next week may just be photos from that shoot, I got nearly 300 shots and some of them are really fucking good if I do say so myself. Which I do. But hopefully you'll say the same once you see them.
Textures week continues with smooth. In this case, marble. I love marble. But not as much as my psycho and way-too-much-money-and-not-enough-taste neighbor who actually has a marble driveway and walkway. Must be very safe in the rain and not in the least slippery. (Perhaps I can manage to fall and sue them for unsafe conditions.)
But marble in the right place can be beautiful. This is old, stained, faded, weathered and, in my opinion, lovely. Part of my photo shoot at Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma. Next week may just be photos from that shoot, I got nearly 300 shots and some of them are really fucking good if I do say so myself. Which I do. But hopefully you'll say the same once you see them.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Carnival
The always beautiful Big Picture at Boston.com has as its theme this week Carnival around the world. Check it out for some truly eye-popping photos that will make you appreciate colors in a whole new way.
The always beautiful Big Picture at Boston.com has as its theme this week Carnival around the world. Check it out for some truly eye-popping photos that will make you appreciate colors in a whole new way.
Photo of the day: Prickly When Wet
We planted cactus in the front yard hoping it would keep the neighborhood cats from digging up our planter boxes. The plan was only marginally successful. By that I mean they sleep in the margins between plants. But, so far, they haven't actually dug up the sharp things.
We planted cactus in the front yard hoping it would keep the neighborhood cats from digging up our planter boxes. The plan was only marginally successful. By that I mean they sleep in the margins between plants. But, so far, they haven't actually dug up the sharp things.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Photo of the day: Wood you?
When you see a table as beat up and scarred as this, it's almost impossible to resist adding to it. What is it in the humane gene that makes us want to leave our mark on things like this. From initials carved into a heart on a tree to soldiers writing "we were here" on buildings in foreign lands, we feel the need to have a presence. I've given into it many times. Most recently when they were fixing the sidewalk in front of our house and I went down and wrote my and Husband's initials. Very junior high, I know, but I couldn't resist. Could you?
This table has obviously been the seen of some action. A few couples having their first beer here on a warm spring day, writing their initials to commemorate the event. Or one guy alone, tired of not catching any fish but damned if he's going away without making some mark on the place.
It's more art than table now. Sure you can still bring your deli sandwiches down and fight the seagulls for your own lunch. But there's something almost folk art about what this table has been through.
When you see a table as beat up and scarred as this, it's almost impossible to resist adding to it. What is it in the humane gene that makes us want to leave our mark on things like this. From initials carved into a heart on a tree to soldiers writing "we were here" on buildings in foreign lands, we feel the need to have a presence. I've given into it many times. Most recently when they were fixing the sidewalk in front of our house and I went down and wrote my and Husband's initials. Very junior high, I know, but I couldn't resist. Could you?
This table has obviously been the seen of some action. A few couples having their first beer here on a warm spring day, writing their initials to commemorate the event. Or one guy alone, tired of not catching any fish but damned if he's going away without making some mark on the place.
It's more art than table now. Sure you can still bring your deli sandwiches down and fight the seagulls for your own lunch. But there's something almost folk art about what this table has been through.
Photo of the day: Soft and cryptic
I start this week's "Textures" theme with soft. During the week I'll explore the grain of old wood, the patterns on rocks, and pretty much anything else that strikes my eye. But I wanted to start with one of my favorite feelings, soft. And in this case, soft and cryptic. Looks a bit like dawn highlighting snow on a mountain, doesn't it? Or perhaps looking down on clouds from your airplane window seat.
I start this week's "Textures" theme with soft. During the week I'll explore the grain of old wood, the patterns on rocks, and pretty much anything else that strikes my eye. But I wanted to start with one of my favorite feelings, soft. And in this case, soft and cryptic. Looks a bit like dawn highlighting snow on a mountain, doesn't it? Or perhaps looking down on clouds from your airplane window seat.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Festival
I was always amused that the Fall Festival at the local Catholic church featured a fortune teller. Of course it was just Mrs. Lamont in a gypsy wig and scarf with an empty snowglobe as her "crystal ball" and a semi-memorized book of palm reading. No Tarot Cards, of course. I imagine Father O'Connoll put his foot down about that. Too pagan, no doubt.
But for 50 cents you could pretend Mrs. Lamont wasn't the girl's softball coach and hand over your palm to find out that you'd have a happy marriage or good luck on the lottery. There was never anything bad written in anyone's hand. No impending deaths. No loss of limb. Nothing serious. Although she once (seeing as how she was also the science teacher) warned me that students who don't study for the science test will not likely pass. I think it was a hint to me. I ignored it. After all, I was apparently going to marry a rich and handsome man, so he could do all the science for me. And I seriously doubted Mr. Right would be attracted by my memorization of the periodic table of the elements.
The Festival also featured booths where you could bet your ticket on a spinning wheel and win everything from ham to homemade cakes, bottles of wine to surprise packages, stuffed animals to handmade arts and crafts. And everything was coated with the scent of carnival popcorn wafting fake butter benediction upon the crowd.
Kids with grape snowcone-smeared faces rushed to the few actual carnival rides, run and constricted by people our parents always warned us to stay away from. But once they were up and running, we'd line up for the ferris wheel and the merry-go-round. The bright neon the brightest thing ever seen in this town. The ferris wheel was the best, when it was your turn at top you could look down and see everyone. Watch your folks at the liquor booth with the other adults, trying their luck on a bottle of Wild Turkey. Your older siblings, roped into volunteering, were making popcorn and snowcones. You could see Sister Assumpta trying to make a basket on the playground to win a ham. And all 7 of the Lamgorgini kids running the surprise package booth after saving every bit of wrapping paper from every party they'd gone to since the last time they ran the booth. RIght now their top shelf prizes were wrapped in a mixture of leftover Christmas wrap, a few sheets of birthday paper, and oddly enough, something with stars of David all over it.
Over the playground intercom came appropriately non-offensive music. That means music that nobody likes, but nobody will really object to. Lots of Beach Boys and innocent 60s pop, Neil Diamond, Paul Anka, some Motown, lots of groups whose band name's begin with "the." "The Vandellas" "The Four Tops" "The Miracles." I always thought Smokey & the Miracles would be appropriate to serenade a church built on miracles, but he never got any more airplay than, say, The Supremes. I was just glad it wasn't church music. It's impossible to believe you can win a surprise package while listening to "Hail Holy Queen enthroned above." It does tend to take way that spirit of "the next turn of the wheel will be my lucky one" when the music is telling you that while you're hoping the big package wrapped in yellow birthday paper on the top shelf will be a CD player that, in fact, you should be honoring Mary and hoping she'll put in a good word for you with the angels. Makes that greed for a new CD player seem positively sinful now, doesn't it?
Later in the day the parents would begin to disappear into the kitchen for the big dinner. Fathers had stoked up the massive bar-b-ques earlier in the day and, starting at about 4, the smoke would start followed by the scent of chicken cooking. Pre-vegetarian entrees, they served only chicken. And only blackened bbq chicken at that. In the kitchen the mothers took care of the rest. Salad made in garbage bags (clean, of course) gallons of homemade dressing. Lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, cut by an army of sullen pre-teen girls who resented the unfair sexism that let their brothers out there playing while they had to come in and made dinner for 200 people. Plus we had to serve. Inxperienced arms laded with cafeteria trays full of black chicken, green salad, rolls with individual pats of butter. Later there would be ice cream in little plastic cups. But the first trick was serving in a loud cafeteria, a bunch of lost 13 year old girls terrified of spilling something on an adult. Or worse, a nun. I actually volunteered for the nun's table because I would have loved to "spill" something on one certain nun. But I didn't. Mostly because I never got a chance. It was my luck that she sat at the table next to my mother so that when I was serving her, my mother could see everything I was doing. Screwed over my plan to dump salad all over Sister Assumpta. And you know, you never get those kinds of opportunities twice.
When it was over the families who had worked would gather in the hallway of the school. Adults sipping hiballs in strefoam cups. Kids with cokes and all the leftover candy corn. We'd run up and down the steps, racing around the hallway while our parents sat in groups talking over the day, sharing parish gossip. We'd wait for the final count. My dad was on the accounting committee so we couldn't leave until he was done anyway, but it was always a big announcement. They'd come out of the office and tell us the grand total and everyone would cheer and clap and have one more drink before heading home. Because we'd have to get up early and do it all over the next day.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Cat of the week: Edward
This week's CoTW is a true gentleman, tuxedo and all. Edward and I met yesterday and he decided my lap was a fine place to be. He purred, he played with a straw, he basked in attention. He's a sweet, gentle, friendly guy with lots of curiosity about the world around him and lots of capacity for love.
His reference number is A437380 and you can find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
This week's CoTW is a true gentleman, tuxedo and all. Edward and I met yesterday and he decided my lap was a fine place to be. He purred, he played with a straw, he basked in attention. He's a sweet, gentle, friendly guy with lots of curiosity about the world around him and lots of capacity for love.
His reference number is A437380 and you can find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
Animals doing cute things. Or cute animals just being cute
As you know, I'm a sucker for animals. Love them. Every day I visit one of my favorite websites, the ever-adorable Cute Overload for my daily fix of kittens, dogs behaving badly, tiny pigs, and other critters designed to make you squeal.
Today the BBC is adding to my cute quotient by these videos. In a world that is, sometimes, sadly lacking in reasons to smile, I share these with you in the hopes of brightening your day.
Snow-crazed stoat goes berserk
Baby meerkats make their debut
Jack Russell tree-climber
As you know, I'm a sucker for animals. Love them. Every day I visit one of my favorite websites, the ever-adorable Cute Overload for my daily fix of kittens, dogs behaving badly, tiny pigs, and other critters designed to make you squeal.
Today the BBC is adding to my cute quotient by these videos. In a world that is, sometimes, sadly lacking in reasons to smile, I share these with you in the hopes of brightening your day.
Snow-crazed stoat goes berserk
Baby meerkats make their debut
Jack Russell tree-climber
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
To sleep. Perhance not to sleep
I've been an insomniac all my life. Even as a child I'd lie awake half the night, waiting to fall asleep. I shared a room with my two sisters and I'd listen to them breathe (or snore) while playing little mind games to get myself through the night. I'd doze off and on and was OK living life on 3 or 4 hours sleep a night.
I'm still an insomniac. Only it's harder and harder to get by on so little sleep. And so, after a lifetime of yawning and dragging my way through the day, I've given in to sleeping pills. And I cannot tell you what a revelation it is.
I've tried everything. Cutting out caffeine. Hot milk. Warm baths. Holistic herbs and meditation. But nothing as ever worked. Now the little Ambien-wonderpill has made me fall asleep and I love it.
Friends, don't worry. I'm not an addict. I take maybe 2 or 3 a week, but those 2 or 3 nights have made a world of difference. I fall asleep, for the first time in my life, within 30 minutes. I sleep deeply (until the cat wakes me up at 3 am) but then I actually fall back asleep again fairly quickly. Again, for the first time in my life.
Without the pills it takes me anywhere from 90 minutes to 3 hours to fall asleep and then it's only for an hour or two at a time. I'll wake up, be wide awake for an hour or so and then drift off again for another few hours. This is honestly the very first time in my life when I'm getting continuous, quality sleep and I'm amazed at how it makes me feel. I have more energy. My back hurts less because I'm not tossing and turning and my muscles can actually relax for a bit. And it's easier to get things accomplished during the day because I'm not dragging my tired ass around.
On the nights, like tonight, when I'm not taking a pill I'll do my best to fall asleep naturally. But I know from 40+years of experience that it'll be a lost cause. I'll curl up in the darkness and try to shut my mind off. I'll do my best to relax. And two hours later I'll give up and watch a movie until I can't keep my eyes open (by which time the cat will be awake). But just knowing that in a night or two I'll be able to catch up on my sleep has made me much happier and makes the white nights easier to bear.
And, for those of you who are asleep, I wish you sweet dreams. I'll be having my own on Friday.
I've been an insomniac all my life. Even as a child I'd lie awake half the night, waiting to fall asleep. I shared a room with my two sisters and I'd listen to them breathe (or snore) while playing little mind games to get myself through the night. I'd doze off and on and was OK living life on 3 or 4 hours sleep a night.
I'm still an insomniac. Only it's harder and harder to get by on so little sleep. And so, after a lifetime of yawning and dragging my way through the day, I've given in to sleeping pills. And I cannot tell you what a revelation it is.
I've tried everything. Cutting out caffeine. Hot milk. Warm baths. Holistic herbs and meditation. But nothing as ever worked. Now the little Ambien-wonderpill has made me fall asleep and I love it.
Friends, don't worry. I'm not an addict. I take maybe 2 or 3 a week, but those 2 or 3 nights have made a world of difference. I fall asleep, for the first time in my life, within 30 minutes. I sleep deeply (until the cat wakes me up at 3 am) but then I actually fall back asleep again fairly quickly. Again, for the first time in my life.
Without the pills it takes me anywhere from 90 minutes to 3 hours to fall asleep and then it's only for an hour or two at a time. I'll wake up, be wide awake for an hour or so and then drift off again for another few hours. This is honestly the very first time in my life when I'm getting continuous, quality sleep and I'm amazed at how it makes me feel. I have more energy. My back hurts less because I'm not tossing and turning and my muscles can actually relax for a bit. And it's easier to get things accomplished during the day because I'm not dragging my tired ass around.
On the nights, like tonight, when I'm not taking a pill I'll do my best to fall asleep naturally. But I know from 40+years of experience that it'll be a lost cause. I'll curl up in the darkness and try to shut my mind off. I'll do my best to relax. And two hours later I'll give up and watch a movie until I can't keep my eyes open (by which time the cat will be awake). But just knowing that in a night or two I'll be able to catch up on my sleep has made me much happier and makes the white nights easier to bear.
And, for those of you who are asleep, I wish you sweet dreams. I'll be having my own on Friday.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Album
In the crowded antique store, next a hideous lamp featuring a coy shepherdess casting a longing glance at a long-misplaced shepherd, I found the album. The cover was battered maroon leather with “Our Photographs” lettered in flaking gold leaf, the final “s” just a smear of color after an “h” missing its neck.
The pages were thick and black; corners felt-softened through the years. Inside was a parade of black and white faces secured in place with black cardboard triangles. Weddings. Vacation trips. A graduation. But mostly just snapshots of people captured for no special reason except to save their faces. A few of the pages had captions written in silver ink, someone identifying individuals for ancestors who apparently didn’t care enough to save the book.
“Edgar and Tommy at the Lake” showed two young men mugging for the camera. Twenties’ style bathing suits looking laughable to modern eyes. The blur of a running dog suggesting movement denied to the forever-young faces, caught for posterity in exaggerated poses of the circus strongman. In the background the unnamed lake glistened flat and still like a Sears portrait studio backdrop.
“Janie, Mirella, and the Quigley’s, Logan Street” was written under a photo of children standing in front of a white house, the shade of some unseen tree rendering half the group in shadow while the others squinted into the distance.
The photo I liked the best had no caption. It depicted a young woman with a preposterously large had seated proudly in the driving seat of an immense dark car. Beneath the hat was an oddly modern-looking face. She looked more like a contemporary woman in her grandmother’s clothes than a woman of her day. Put her in jeans and a sweatshirt and she’d fit in at The Gap. But here she was an early daredevil with a Ford. I wondered where she was going, or where she had come from. Did she know Edgar and Tommy and Janie or was she another branch of the family?
Towards the end of the album there were blank pages waiting to be filled on, and one snapshot tucked in between pages, not stuck down. It was a crooked picture, slightly out of focus, of a couple sitting on a rock. Even with the bad photography it was easy to see that he looked at her like she was the sun and the moon. She was gazing towards the camera, past the photographer, at something that made her laugh. There was something about them that told me they were in love.
I turned to the inside front cover. $15.00 it said in faint pencil on a white label. Little enough for someone’s memories, I thought, and tucked the book under my arm.
In the crowded antique store, next a hideous lamp featuring a coy shepherdess casting a longing glance at a long-misplaced shepherd, I found the album. The cover was battered maroon leather with “Our Photographs” lettered in flaking gold leaf, the final “s” just a smear of color after an “h” missing its neck.
The pages were thick and black; corners felt-softened through the years. Inside was a parade of black and white faces secured in place with black cardboard triangles. Weddings. Vacation trips. A graduation. But mostly just snapshots of people captured for no special reason except to save their faces. A few of the pages had captions written in silver ink, someone identifying individuals for ancestors who apparently didn’t care enough to save the book.
“Edgar and Tommy at the Lake” showed two young men mugging for the camera. Twenties’ style bathing suits looking laughable to modern eyes. The blur of a running dog suggesting movement denied to the forever-young faces, caught for posterity in exaggerated poses of the circus strongman. In the background the unnamed lake glistened flat and still like a Sears portrait studio backdrop.
“Janie, Mirella, and the Quigley’s, Logan Street” was written under a photo of children standing in front of a white house, the shade of some unseen tree rendering half the group in shadow while the others squinted into the distance.
The photo I liked the best had no caption. It depicted a young woman with a preposterously large had seated proudly in the driving seat of an immense dark car. Beneath the hat was an oddly modern-looking face. She looked more like a contemporary woman in her grandmother’s clothes than a woman of her day. Put her in jeans and a sweatshirt and she’d fit in at The Gap. But here she was an early daredevil with a Ford. I wondered where she was going, or where she had come from. Did she know Edgar and Tommy and Janie or was she another branch of the family?
Towards the end of the album there were blank pages waiting to be filled on, and one snapshot tucked in between pages, not stuck down. It was a crooked picture, slightly out of focus, of a couple sitting on a rock. Even with the bad photography it was easy to see that he looked at her like she was the sun and the moon. She was gazing towards the camera, past the photographer, at something that made her laugh. There was something about them that told me they were in love.
I turned to the inside front cover. $15.00 it said in faint pencil on a white label. Little enough for someone’s memories, I thought, and tucked the book under my arm.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Crosswords
Rectangular newspapers overflow round tables, but the large cup of coffee anchored it securely.
15 Across: Like Shakespeare's Ariel
The muted sounds of bad light jazz (is there such a thing as good light jazz) played over the coffee house's sound system as the man with the studiously artistic hair worked the puzzle.
9 Down: Chile capitol
In between thinking, drinking, and checking out the legs of the redhead sitting under the reproduction Toulouse Lautrec, he clicked the pen in a habit that would have been annoying, had anyone been close enough to hear him.
23 Down: Terminal stiffening of sinews (two words)
Across the room a couple with matching laptops and expressions of boredom ignored each other. She tapping her foot to something other than the jazz. He casting surreptitious glances at that redhead.
33 Across: Guess Who's _____ _____ Dinner?
Behind the counter the girl with the nametag that read "Oslo" filled a glass jar with Madelines and counted the hours until she could get back to the latest Nora Roberts. Her co-worker, who had no nametag, expertly poured foam and wondered where the readhead got the shoes.
51 Down: Chandler's Philip
Under the poster the redhead wondered why she bothered coming to the place anymore. It was always filled with losers doing the damned crossword puzzle.
Rectangular newspapers overflow round tables, but the large cup of coffee anchored it securely.
15 Across: Like Shakespeare's Ariel
The muted sounds of bad light jazz (is there such a thing as good light jazz) played over the coffee house's sound system as the man with the studiously artistic hair worked the puzzle.
9 Down: Chile capitol
In between thinking, drinking, and checking out the legs of the redhead sitting under the reproduction Toulouse Lautrec, he clicked the pen in a habit that would have been annoying, had anyone been close enough to hear him.
23 Down: Terminal stiffening of sinews (two words)
Across the room a couple with matching laptops and expressions of boredom ignored each other. She tapping her foot to something other than the jazz. He casting surreptitious glances at that redhead.
33 Across: Guess Who's _____ _____ Dinner?
Behind the counter the girl with the nametag that read "Oslo" filled a glass jar with Madelines and counted the hours until she could get back to the latest Nora Roberts. Her co-worker, who had no nametag, expertly poured foam and wondered where the readhead got the shoes.
51 Down: Chandler's Philip
Under the poster the redhead wondered why she bothered coming to the place anymore. It was always filled with losers doing the damned crossword puzzle.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Road Trip
The smell of the first rain on hot sage in the desert. Coming down the long sweep of the mountain to that sleepy 4-way stop at the bottom, roads stretching endlessly flat in three directions. Empty roads. On the radio Patsy Cline was going Crazy and I had the windows rolled down, drinking in the scents and feeling thunder echo around me. Jackrabbits in the distance, flashing impossibly long ears in and out between the manzanita. Patsy gave way to Johnny Cash. Johnny to Elvis. Elvis to Willie.
The rain came harder now. Falling in fat drops, crying dust tears down the windshield. In the slate-colored sky lightning frescoed brilliantly and was gone. In its absence the sky flattened and smoothed itself into a sheet of gray velvet. One solid sheet, no clouds, no definition.
Left, right, or straight? Signposts hinted at options but gave no answers. And the absence of cars gave me time.
I could see trees and the beginning of a town to the left. Ahead, nothing but a long stretch of pavement. To the right, more flat -- but a road ribboned out in a more interesting fashion, hints of curves hidden and discovered by the landscape.
Willie faded away and Hank began to berate Your Cheatin' Heart. I smiled and turned right.
The smell of the first rain on hot sage in the desert. Coming down the long sweep of the mountain to that sleepy 4-way stop at the bottom, roads stretching endlessly flat in three directions. Empty roads. On the radio Patsy Cline was going Crazy and I had the windows rolled down, drinking in the scents and feeling thunder echo around me. Jackrabbits in the distance, flashing impossibly long ears in and out between the manzanita. Patsy gave way to Johnny Cash. Johnny to Elvis. Elvis to Willie.
The rain came harder now. Falling in fat drops, crying dust tears down the windshield. In the slate-colored sky lightning frescoed brilliantly and was gone. In its absence the sky flattened and smoothed itself into a sheet of gray velvet. One solid sheet, no clouds, no definition.
Left, right, or straight? Signposts hinted at options but gave no answers. And the absence of cars gave me time.
I could see trees and the beginning of a town to the left. Ahead, nothing but a long stretch of pavement. To the right, more flat -- but a road ribboned out in a more interesting fashion, hints of curves hidden and discovered by the landscape.
Willie faded away and Hank began to berate Your Cheatin' Heart. I smiled and turned right.
Cat of the week: Ob-La-Di
My choice for cat of the week was extra hard this time around. In fact, it was a three-way tie between Mann (a polydactyl orange with a sweet personality), Kitty (a 10-year old sweetheart who's a perfect lap cat), and this guy. Ob-La-Di won because he has the sweetest, loudest purr of any cat I've ever met. Seriously, you can hear this cat purr in the next county.
Actually, Ob-La-Di (ID#434606) was going to be my CoTW when he first came in a few months ago, his photo wasn't available yet. He came in with his brother who was adopted in December. This guy is truly one of those "why hasn't be been adopted yet? This doesn't make sense!" cases. Ob-La- Di (or Obi, as I call him) is a perfect kitty. He's a bit shy at first but after a few minutes came into my lap (which he generously shared with another cat). Once there he purred non-stop, snuggled against me, bumped noses, licked my hand, and generally charmed me entirely. He's a sweet, gentle, loving little guy who just needs a good home. I cannot understand why he hasn't been scooped up. He's a charmer.
He's only 10 months old so he still has a lot of kitten energy and he obviously has a heart larger than his sleek little body would suggest. You can find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
Photo of the day: The Yellow Aisle
Now that I'm carrying a camera with me everywhere I'm always looking for things to photograph. With yellow as this week's theme, I was amused to turn down the canned fruit and veggies aisle and notice entire shelves of yellow. Apparently they stack the corn next to the pineapple. Add to that their yellow "on sale" signs and it's a whole row of yellow. Too bad I'm allergic to pineapple.
Now that I'm carrying a camera with me everywhere I'm always looking for things to photograph. With yellow as this week's theme, I was amused to turn down the canned fruit and veggies aisle and notice entire shelves of yellow. Apparently they stack the corn next to the pineapple. Add to that their yellow "on sale" signs and it's a whole row of yellow. Too bad I'm allergic to pineapple.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Photo of the day: Qwack
Ah, the long-suffering rubber ducky. Heralded in song and story. Well, song, anyway. (Thank you Ernie.) Ours sits by the tub and has never actually joined either of us in a bath. But it taunts the cat who glowers at it from across a watery expanse. Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) wants the duck but just can't figure out how to get it without getting wet (something to be avoided at all costs). Thankfully it has never occurred to her to try for it when the tub is empty. It's as if it doesn't exist then. Perhaps she thinks the water brings it when it pours into the tub and once that's happened, it's all over, the Red Sea has been flooded again. But one day I know I'll come home and find this guy lying in the hallway, tiny bite marks marring his happy little bill.
Ah, the long-suffering rubber ducky. Heralded in song and story. Well, song, anyway. (Thank you Ernie.) Ours sits by the tub and has never actually joined either of us in a bath. But it taunts the cat who glowers at it from across a watery expanse. Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) wants the duck but just can't figure out how to get it without getting wet (something to be avoided at all costs). Thankfully it has never occurred to her to try for it when the tub is empty. It's as if it doesn't exist then. Perhaps she thinks the water brings it when it pours into the tub and once that's happened, it's all over, the Red Sea has been flooded again. But one day I know I'll come home and find this guy lying in the hallway, tiny bite marks marring his happy little bill.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Stella Mare
Years ago I knew a woman named Stella. She was big and brassy and spoke like a Joan Blondell character in a pre-Code film, only with a Polish accent. Stella was what is known in literature as "a character." I met her when I was Assistant Manager at a bookstore. Stella loved three things, her husband, Leo; her family; and romance novels. She would purchase all the series romances every month. Once I got to know her, I would put together a box with all the latest ones and she would always ask for me when she came in. Over time we got to be friends.
Occasionally Stella would join me on my break and we'd have coffee in the food court and she'd tell me about her latest adventures. She had a lot of them. At the time she was in her late 60s and was always doing wild and fun things. She tried surfing, scuba diving, karate and even roller blading. On the safer side she also took up yoga, Ikebana, and French cooking. She also told hilarious dirty jokes. I wish I could remember them, but I do remember hooting with rude laugher in front of the frozen yogurt shop.
Stella was a Holocaust survivor. She never talked about her time in the camp except once, in an offhanded way, as if it were no more a part of her life story than the guitar lessons she took for six months or the Vespa scooter she wanted for her birthday. I always wondered if her lust for life was due to her experiences with the Nazis. Perhaps losing her family and suffering so much herself made her appreciate life more; maybe feel the need to try everything so as to live life to the full.
I never asked her, though. There was always a "No Trespassing" sign around that time of her life. The fact that everything else was fair game made this silence all the more obvious. She told me about her sex life (great), her beloved dogs (the "angeldevils"), and about her sons, daughters-in-law and grandkids. But she never told me about her life before she came to the US.
Stella and Leo loved to travel and once she "adopted" you, you were bound to get some wonderfully tacky souvenir from her vacation. She brought me a snow globe from Hawaii, a dried pinto bean Rosary from Mexico, and a "can of flattened armadillo" from Texas. I gave her a hideous Halloween sweatshirt with a glow-in-the-dark pumpkin on it and she wore in in April. She also baked wonderful sugar cookies with little flowers stamped in them. They would literally melt in your mouth and whenever she came into the store with a batch work would pretty much stop while we all moaned in ecstasy.
A few years into our friendship, Stella and Leo moved to Phoenix to be closer to two of their sons and their families. I was happy for her, but sad to lose her from my life. We stayed in touch with cards and letters at first, but it was one of those friendships that was destined to fade from lack of face-to-face contact. She was, briefly, one of those "adopted family members" that come into my life now and then...given to me by fate to compensate for the emotional distance of my "real" family. She was an honorary grandmother for a while and then moved on. I have no doubt she adopted some other lucky people in her new home, bringing them cookies from her kitchen and ashtrays from Miami. I wish I knew what happened to her, I hope she's still alive, still happy. Maybe studying pottery or learning how to snowboard.
Stella, wherever you are, I hope you're doing well. Thanks for the memories. And I wish I could remember that joke about the nun and the cowboy.
Years ago I knew a woman named Stella. She was big and brassy and spoke like a Joan Blondell character in a pre-Code film, only with a Polish accent. Stella was what is known in literature as "a character." I met her when I was Assistant Manager at a bookstore. Stella loved three things, her husband, Leo; her family; and romance novels. She would purchase all the series romances every month. Once I got to know her, I would put together a box with all the latest ones and she would always ask for me when she came in. Over time we got to be friends.
Occasionally Stella would join me on my break and we'd have coffee in the food court and she'd tell me about her latest adventures. She had a lot of them. At the time she was in her late 60s and was always doing wild and fun things. She tried surfing, scuba diving, karate and even roller blading. On the safer side she also took up yoga, Ikebana, and French cooking. She also told hilarious dirty jokes. I wish I could remember them, but I do remember hooting with rude laugher in front of the frozen yogurt shop.
Stella was a Holocaust survivor. She never talked about her time in the camp except once, in an offhanded way, as if it were no more a part of her life story than the guitar lessons she took for six months or the Vespa scooter she wanted for her birthday. I always wondered if her lust for life was due to her experiences with the Nazis. Perhaps losing her family and suffering so much herself made her appreciate life more; maybe feel the need to try everything so as to live life to the full.
I never asked her, though. There was always a "No Trespassing" sign around that time of her life. The fact that everything else was fair game made this silence all the more obvious. She told me about her sex life (great), her beloved dogs (the "angeldevils"), and about her sons, daughters-in-law and grandkids. But she never told me about her life before she came to the US.
Stella and Leo loved to travel and once she "adopted" you, you were bound to get some wonderfully tacky souvenir from her vacation. She brought me a snow globe from Hawaii, a dried pinto bean Rosary from Mexico, and a "can of flattened armadillo" from Texas. I gave her a hideous Halloween sweatshirt with a glow-in-the-dark pumpkin on it and she wore in in April. She also baked wonderful sugar cookies with little flowers stamped in them. They would literally melt in your mouth and whenever she came into the store with a batch work would pretty much stop while we all moaned in ecstasy.
A few years into our friendship, Stella and Leo moved to Phoenix to be closer to two of their sons and their families. I was happy for her, but sad to lose her from my life. We stayed in touch with cards and letters at first, but it was one of those friendships that was destined to fade from lack of face-to-face contact. She was, briefly, one of those "adopted family members" that come into my life now and then...given to me by fate to compensate for the emotional distance of my "real" family. She was an honorary grandmother for a while and then moved on. I have no doubt she adopted some other lucky people in her new home, bringing them cookies from her kitchen and ashtrays from Miami. I wish I knew what happened to her, I hope she's still alive, still happy. Maybe studying pottery or learning how to snowboard.
Stella, wherever you are, I hope you're doing well. Thanks for the memories. And I wish I could remember that joke about the nun and the cowboy.
Photo of the day: To be Read
They sit there. Those National Geographics. Silently mocking you with your lack of initiative as you grab for the remote control to watch something you could well do without. Meanwhile, the stack grows and, with it, your sense of guilt. I'm four months behind, you tell yourself as you look at the famous yellow-bordered covers. And you know if you pick it up you'll find out about mice and Mesopotamia. Tree shrews and Tunisia. The Amazon rainforest and life in the mountains of Chile. But still you turn away. One day, you say to yourself. But does that day ever come? Or do you have a shelf life on your magazines? Nothing older than six months? A year? Until your rack fills up? I know they're supposed to be a joy and yet, sometimes, don't you feel weighed down by all those magazines silently mocking you from the floor?
They sit there. Those National Geographics. Silently mocking you with your lack of initiative as you grab for the remote control to watch something you could well do without. Meanwhile, the stack grows and, with it, your sense of guilt. I'm four months behind, you tell yourself as you look at the famous yellow-bordered covers. And you know if you pick it up you'll find out about mice and Mesopotamia. Tree shrews and Tunisia. The Amazon rainforest and life in the mountains of Chile. But still you turn away. One day, you say to yourself. But does that day ever come? Or do you have a shelf life on your magazines? Nothing older than six months? A year? Until your rack fills up? I know they're supposed to be a joy and yet, sometimes, don't you feel weighed down by all those magazines silently mocking you from the floor?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Photo of the day: Weeds
Day two of the yellow theme and I'm thanking the weed gods. While wandering around the neighborhood yesterday I noticed an unsurprising mid-winter absence of flowers. And an equally unsurprising abundance of weeds. This is one of my very own weeds. Yup, didn't need to trespass on anybody's lawn for this one. Just went out for the morning paper and there it was.
Day two of the yellow theme and I'm thanking the weed gods. While wandering around the neighborhood yesterday I noticed an unsurprising mid-winter absence of flowers. And an equally unsurprising abundance of weeds. This is one of my very own weeds. Yup, didn't need to trespass on anybody's lawn for this one. Just went out for the morning paper and there it was.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Photo of the day: 10
Well, since a fire hydrant inspired this week's "yellow" theme, what better way to start? I wandered up the street taking pictures of all things yellow, earning a few odd looks and one chatty woman asking me what I was doing, did I know anything about computers, how to copy music onto a CD, and had I ever been to Iceland?
Well, since a fire hydrant inspired this week's "yellow" theme, what better way to start? I wandered up the street taking pictures of all things yellow, earning a few odd looks and one chatty woman asking me what I was doing, did I know anything about computers, how to copy music onto a CD, and had I ever been to Iceland?
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Yellow. But not mellow.
I was talking to Husband about my idea of doing a theme week for my photo of the day. He thought it was a great idea.
Then I made the mistake of asking if he had a theme idea. The problem was, we were driving past a bright yellow fire hydrant at the time. His suggestion was, of course, "yellow"
Could you pick a more difficult color?
I've gone through my photos and I have nothing (NOTHING!) yellow in my album. So I have some shooting to do. (Yay!) I love a good challenge. So stay tuned, tomorrow....the first in a week-long series of yellow.
I was talking to Husband about my idea of doing a theme week for my photo of the day. He thought it was a great idea.
Then I made the mistake of asking if he had a theme idea. The problem was, we were driving past a bright yellow fire hydrant at the time. His suggestion was, of course, "yellow"
Could you pick a more difficult color?
I've gone through my photos and I have nothing (NOTHING!) yellow in my album. So I have some shooting to do. (Yay!) I love a good challenge. So stay tuned, tomorrow....the first in a week-long series of yellow.
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