Friday, December 31, 2004

 

My new year's resolution is this: write more. It was last year's resolution, so who can say how successful I'll be, but I'm going to give it another go. I wrote more in 2004 than I did in 2003, and, if I didn't always finish what I wrote, it wasn't for lack of trying. Okay, it wasn't always for lack of trying. I'll be twenty-eight in 2005, and I've never published a short story outside of a college literary magazine, or an article outside of a school or volunteer newspaper. That really needs to change. I need to write more, try to publish, look for opportunities and create others. I need to write. I refuse to give up on 600 seconds. I refuse to give up on writing here just because I can't do it during the day, or because no one else is writing here, or there's no topic, or -- well, you know, that does seem a little sad, come to think of it. Where is everyone? Even when no one was writing -- and we've gone through our fair share of dry spells -- we had topics. We had people lurking in the shadows, sulking about how nobody ever writes anymore, and how they'd be writing if they had more time or weren't so busy or could get to a computer or whatever. I'm not saying that we don't have real lives, that we don't have excuses which aren't excuses, which are genuine reasons for not writing, but it is a little sad. But I'm going to continue writing. Because if I'm ever going to prove to myself that I'm a writer, I need to be writing every day. I need to finish what I start, put one word in front of the other, give myself license to write the wrong word from time to time, and keep at until I've gotten the right ones. I need to write elsewhere, too, need to look for paying markets for things I've written, expand the unfinished bits, maybe look for nonpaying markets for some of the other stuff -- the short-shorts, like some of the stuff I've written here. Some of it I really do like. Some of the stuff you've written here has been terrific, which is why it pains me when I don't see you writing more, or or more often. There's publishable material here. There's great stories, good beginnings, weird wordings, neat songs, cool poems, goofy bits, terrific stuff. To see a field like this capable of producing such terrific stuff as that just lie fallow is, as I said, a little sad. Some of the stuff here hasn't been that good, or it's been forgettable, or it's been too personal to matter to anyone else, or whatever. The point is, it's kept all of us writing. And that, for a writer, is key. The best advice for any writer, I think, is this: write. There's a wealth of other advice, more specific advice, but "write" encapsulates the heart of it. Even now, I'm just writing, not caring about exactly what I'm writing, trying to make it good or interesting or funny or whatever, but really just typing until my ten minutes are up. I'm writing this in Notepad, with Word Wrap on, so that I can't see more than a few lines of what I'm writing at any given moment. It's stopping my natural impulse to second-guess my words as I write them, to revise as I go along. I wouldn't have written "encapsulates the heart of it", for instance, if I wasn't just typing and letting things stand. I'd have deleted it -- in fact, did delete it, then decided that no, I would let it stand. I would just keep writing. Because that's my new year's resolution: to write. You may worry, then, that 2005 will be full of rambling paragraphs like this, and you might be quite right to worry. I can't guarantee that anything I write here or elsewhere is going to be any good. But I have to keep writing it. It's who I am. Maybe it's not who you are, I don't know. Maybe you've outgrown the need for the this kind of place, or for the kind of writing it offers, the exercise of it. Maybe you're just lurking more quietly in the shadows. Maybe real life has become too much of an intrusion of late and you can't make it here to write. Maybe you can make it here but then find that no one else has, so why bother, huh? I'm going to bother. I'm going to write. You can join me, you can help, you can write your own terrific wonderful things, or not. I don't know. I'm just going to be over in the corner, not quite in the shadows, writing. Let's hope at least a little of it is better, less rambling, than this.

by Fred 11:59 PM

 

resolution

by Fred 5:30 PM

Monday, December 27, 2004

 

"You know me too well."

by Fred 3:44 PM

Friday, December 24, 2004

 

I'm going to try to write for ten minutes, but I may be out the door in five, so not everything may go according to plan. I'm just going to follow my own advice, the advice I keep spouting here from time to time, and just put one word in front of the other. That's all that writing is. Revision is making sure they're the right words and making sure they work well together. But writing, or at least the important part of it, is just putting the words on the paper.

Granted, this isn't paper, but then these also aren't terrific words. Revising, I'd go back and make them better, fiddle around with things until I got it just right. I'd probably have gone off in an entirely different direction, not even talking about writing at all, just doing it, talking instead about the holidays, which is ostensibly what I set out to talk about in the first place. It is, after all the season -- and, maybe more to the point, the topic.

In maybe five minutes, maybe less, I'll be headed out the door to my grandparents' house to help set up for Christmas Eve dinner. In fact, I hear my sister calling me from downstairs now. We're going to go help set up, come back, and then go for dinner when my mother gets home from work. Putting one word in front of the other can be tough when you've got one foot already out the door.

But I digress. It's been maybe ten minutes, probably less. I honestly don't know. I'm just putting words down now, not caring much if they're the right ones or which ones they are. I'm writing. If I had it to revise, I'd likely have erased all of this. I'd have tried again, but if I stop now and try to try again, I might never get anything done.

So, for what it's worth and whichever ones they are, happy holidays.

by Fred 11:53 AM

 

Here it is, The Holiday, it snuck up on me like a mugger with a silencer and caught me with my pants down and my wallet falling out of the pocket. It's The Holiday, you know the one, and we all here are doing our best chickens with cut-off heads imitation, running around in circles with our wings flapping and blood spurting from our severed necks.

The smell of bananas is unmistakable in the air, and we struggle to get all the eggs boiled and dyed, the firecrackers lit, the masks arranged on our faces just so, the paper hearts cut out, the turkey stuffed. It's The Holiday, hurrah, hurray, and the parade begins at noon.

Did I mention the bananas?

For The Holiday, the bananas are strung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Balloon Juice is still full of hot air. We shovel coal and burn ritual logs, pop champagne corks and vie for the honor of first bankruptcy. Diamond-encrusted plum pudding? Please, seconds over here. Have you any bananas to go with that?

Some say The Holiday is under attack, that the reason for the season has been lost, obscured by clouds of fog or consumerism or perhaps just burning banana oil. But The Holiday endures, The Holiday abides, The Holiday buys the house a round and then takes a vacation on a tropical island where the tradewinds take the afternoon off and nap under palm trees.

Here's wishing all of you a happy The Holiday and more bananas than you can count with two hands.

by Generik 2:15 AM

 

Holiday

by Generik 1:58 AM

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

 

When I was a boy, I had a pet peeve. I taught it to do tricks. You can't teach a peeve to do many tricks. Roll over. Play dead. Fetch, if you're really patient. But that's about it. Peeves aren't big on tricks. They're much more sit-around-the-cage pets. Or swim-around-the-tank pets, if you've got yourself an underwater peeve. My peeve was a land-peeve named Roger. I didn't name him Roger, but that's the name the shelter gave him. My mother adopted Roger from the shelter and brought him home for Christmas one year. I think she was trying to make up for the lousy months that had come before that, when we had to leave our apartment and sell our car and change my school. I would have preferred a puppy. You can teach puppies tricks -- I was lying: you can't even teach a peeve to play dead -- and they're a lot more fun to have around. Pet peeves are loyal, there's no denying that, but they're not a whole lot of fun. You can try playing with them, but there's not much use. What kind of game is a peeve going to know how to play? None, that's what kind. Peeves more or less just sit there. Sometimes, you don't even know it's there, can go days or weeks -- sometimes months -- without it ever bothering you, and then wham, it's back, right underfoot, looking up at you with those big peevy eyes. At least, that's how Roger always was. I gather Roger was something of a needy peeve, at least from what I've read on peeve-owner support forums or heard from other owners. Maybe that's from being a shelter-peeve, I don't know. He'd obviously been abandoned. But that apparently happens a lot. People just outgrow their pet peeves, I guess. It's sad, sure, from the peeves' point of view, but how long can you really keep a pet that doesn't do anything but annoy you?

by Fred 8:42 PM

 

pet peeves

by Fred 7:30 PM

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

 

"How's it going?" she asked. "We never see each other anymore."

"That's because I'm invisible," he said. "You're the one who made me drink the serum."

"We never just talk."

"That's because the other serum you made me drink, the one you said was a counter-agent, that left me speaking in tongues for a month."

"Speaking of tongues..."

"No, not again. Not until those spines go away. I can't believe you tested that third serum on yourself."

"Well you were busy. I tried to find you. I threw flour around the room, like they do in the movies, to coat you with."

"They do that in the movies?"

"They did it in a movie. Once. Not a very good one."

"I was gonna say. I was wondering why there was flour all over the floor. I just figured it was another serum."

"They're all gone. I fed the last one to the dog."

"I was wondering what that explosion was the other day."

"So, you didn't answer my question. How's it going?"

"Hey, can't complain."

by Fred 7:54 PM

 

How's it going?

by Fred 7:40 PM

Saturday, December 18, 2004

 

It is, perhaps, the single greatest literary tradition, is the terrible ode. Part of the tradition, of course, is pronouncing the word as if it were spellt "oad," and part of it is the use of bizarre spellings which would look absolutely diminished in "real life." The single most used convention with regards to this is to use not only odd and obscure spellings, but to add apostrophes where none are needed in modern speech and writing, as well as to throw out grammatical constructions which cause pain to even the most careless reader. Let's begin.
To write a properly terrible ode (say it with me, "oad"), you need a sweet sentiment. Today, we will be using "The Stars Make their Wishes on her Eyes." Now, for those of you in the know, those of you who haven't yet Googled the phrase, this is a selection from a sweet little love song by one mister Tom Waits. It is titled Coney Island Baby, and we will not be using anything else from this composition in our Terrible ode.
I'm sorry? Yes, Mister Jameson, we do often use rhyming words in Odes. Today, we perhaps shall. No, Mister Jameson, we will not follow nor precede this phrase with anything having to do with "sweaty thighs." You may excuse yourself, Mister Jameson.
Now, to the work of composing. In the classic tradition, once again, we shall "blow our wad" asitwere on the first lines of the ode. So, let's begin with the good phrase which we'll be using.
The Stars Make their Wishes on her Eyes.
Now, we shall rhyme this with a line which makes clear to any and all observers that we did not in fact compose that line.
The Stars Make their Wishes on her Eyes,
She's sitting on a wharf with twen'ty guys.
Yes. I think this does nicely. Now, this line is carefully constructed, please notice, to be both a little crude and completely unrelated. Also notice please the careful placement of the unnecessary apostrophy. Because of its placement there, the word has been rendered unpronucible. This was, per piaceri the purpose.
Now, the second set of lines in this verse must both give closure and change entirely the established metre scheme. My favorite line, at least from classic literature, is There's nobody else but her for me my dear. As such, this line will now be used, along with a horrible rhyme which will again change the meter.
The Stars Make their Wishes on her Eyes,
She's sitting on a wharf with twe'nty guys.
Thehrs nob'dy else my dear for me but hyr
Thet stands out 'pun the shing light from star to pyier.
Here again, we have used misspellings on purpose which are meant to resemble actual words and evoke a feeling of nausia and nostalgia for actual language, a feeling which I have (under trademark, mind you) called Naustalgia(tm). Now, for those who are fans of Tom Waits, please notice that we have not threatened his status as a far better user of the phrase about stars and eyes. This is important. It is very necessary that all derivative works of lit'rat'ure be absolutely lousy.
Now, if you'll open your copies of British Lit of the 17th and 18th Century, we will find several additional examples of the Terrible Ode. Your assignment is to find one of these which quotes a Tom Waits lyric (there are precisely seven), and turn in on Friday a seventeen page analysis of same.
You are dismissed.

by MisterNihil 1:07 PM

 

The Stars Make their Wishes on her Eyes

by MisterNihil 1:06 PM

Monday, December 13, 2004

 

Alright, here you go, kids: A girl on Flickr picked up some negatives from an estate sale and developed them. Based on a calendar caught in one of the pictures, it's likely that they're from 1958. One of the negatives was scratched out. She's offering a prize for a story inspired by these photos. (Take more than ten minutes. This is too good.)

photos

by Sharon 1:39 PM

Thursday, December 09, 2004

 

slow day at work

by Fred 6:05 PM

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

 

Paul wasn't worried when the paperclips disappeared. Paperclips did that. Rubber bands, too, if you weren't careful. Put a project down, forget where you put it, come back, and the rubber bands were gone. Or there were never enough in the box, never as many paperclips as you remembered seeing there the day before, never the right number if you did the math in your head -- but you didn't do the math, not if you were Paul, not if you were anyone he knew. You shrugged and tossed the empty box, and you went to the supply cabinet and got more paperclips. Gnomes, you might say with a shrug. Paperclips gnomes. Or elves. Some people said elves; Paul usually went with gnomes. They'd always seemed more industrious to him, workers -- miners. They'd likely have more use for stolen paperclips and rubber bands.

So, no, Paul wasn't too worried. He'd only used five or ten paperclips from a box of two hundred. He didn't like doing the math in his head, but he knew the difference shouldn't have been the three that were left in the box. Paul should have had more paperclips, and more rubber bands, and that pair of scissors with the black handle that he'd swiped a week ago from the supply cabinet even though he rarely needed scissors for anything. Paul should have had supplies. But supplies ran out. Supplies went missing. Co-workers took them, they got tossed with the trash, night janitors stole them, or gnomes (or eleves) were rampant. It wasn't a big deal. Paul would just go to the supply cabinet and get more.

When he saw that the supply cabinet was gone, however, that's when Paul started to worry. It looked like the gnomes were kicking this thing into high gear.

by Fred 8:09 PM

 

I love having a house.



Every day, it makes me happy.

For a new adventure, Jon and I got a holiday tree for the living room, in front of the fireplace. (I've got holiday cards hung from my mantle! Well, kinda. I have holiday cards that keep falling off of my mantle. But still, I have a mantle!) The one thing we don't have, though—the thing you collect over decades—is ornaments.

At a recent Toastmasters meeting, I led a group discussion (as part of the Discussion Leader advanced manual), collecting advice for the new homeowner. From the category of throwing parties came this gem: Potluck everything. Taking that advice to heart, we're having a potluck-ornament party, a Decorate Our Tree party.

We'll have ShrinkyDinks and build-your-own pizzas and Mexican hot chocolate. In our house.

I'll post pictures on Saturday. ^_^

by Sharon 5:14 PM

 

Short on supplies

by Generik 11:52 AM

Monday, December 06, 2004

 

You must be a loony!

by Fred 8:03 PM

Friday, December 03, 2004

 

What did I do for Thanksgiving? I relaxed. After the week I'd had -- which somehow, though shorter, seemed twice as long as the previous two weeks combined -- it seemed like the only sensible thing to do.

I have two bosses. One is in the office most of the time, the other works from home and comes in roughly once a week. Both of their bosses are in the UK, where the parent company is located, except from time to time when they like to drop in and see how we're getting on here across the pond. It makes sense, I suppose. The parent company only purchased the publisher for whom my bosses used to work -- and which used to be located in the very same building where we all are now -- a few months ago. A third of the company is in the UK, a third in Florida, and we make up the remaining third on our two floors in Manhattan. There's a lot of transition, and there's a lot of work to be done.

And, since one of my bosses' bosses stopped by last week, it seemed like that's when we were going to try and do it all.

So on Thanksgiving, I decided to relax. We took it easy this year, with the regular turkey and trimmings at my grandparents', but this year we had it take-out so that no one had to cook. (There are reasons why no one wanted to cook, or felt they were able to, but they're personal, not really relevant, and not really interesting.) It was nice. Good food, family, good apple cider. It was a nice respite after the long short week I'd had.

I'm a big fan of Thanksgiving. I'm not sure it's my favorite holiday, but it's up in the top five.

It's only this month-long run-off to Christmas that I could do without.

But anyway, that's what I did: not much. How about you?

by Fred 6:54 PM

 

What did you do for Thanksgiving?

by Sharon 9:51 AM

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

 

I saw a stormtrooper this weekend (11/28):



To top it off, it was next to the footprints of R2D2, C3PO, Darth Vader, and Harrison Ford, at Grauman's Chinese Theater in Hollywood:



The stormtrooper was there for the Hollywood Thanksgiving parade. (The droids are always there.) It was strange to walk down Hollywood Blvd at noon and then see it on television at 5. Television lights turn the street to day. Strange glaring bits of advertising are edited out of the shot. (Other glaring, paid for bits are strategically featured.) The street looks clean. The people look magnanimous and interesting.

The parade was really just like the Allentown parades I used to march in, except that the lame people getting rides in the slowly creeping cars are on television shows.

Marching bands came from high schools all over. The native Californian kids looked glamorous and acne-free, with amazing dental work. The kids from Pennsylvania looked frumpy and awkward and distinctly Northeastern. In other words, like me.

by Sharon 11:59 PM

 

Metaphors be with you

by Generik 10:03 AM

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

 

sexy

by Fred 7:00 PM

Monday, November 22, 2004

 

I was looking at the pictures and trying to decide if the woman I was seeing in them was real or not when the telephone rang and sent me off into the other room.

"Mr. Abbott," the voice on the other end of the line said, the man from the store. "It appears we accidentally gave you the wrong roll of film when you came in this afternoon. We were hoping you could come back in and exchange it?"

"Ah," I said, and I thought of the woman. "I thought these might be the wrong pictures. I didn't recognize anything except --"

Chad, I think that's his name, the voice from the store, was nothing if not apologetic.


"We're really sorry about this," said Chad. "It was Randy. The new girl. She had your last name confused, apparently. Or mislabeled. We're still trying to work out how it happened."

"Uh huh," I said. I wasn't completely sure how to approach this, what I was thinking of asking Chad. "It's just -- "

"We close at seven," Chad said. "But if you could get in before five, that would be great. We'd really appreciate it."

"It's just," I started to say. "This other person. The woman in the photographs, the ones you gave me. Well, I don't know, this might sound funny, but..."

Chad did not sound pleased.

"You...you didn't look at the photographs, did you?" he said.

"What? A few, yes. I don't know, I was looking at them when you called. It's just, it's weird. She looks familiar. And it's weird because I feel like it's because last night -- well, yeah, this does sound funny, but last night I think I dreamt about her."

"I really wish you hadn't looked at the photos," said Chad.

"Why?" I asked. "Who is she? Is -- is she someone famous?"

This had occurred to me as I leafed through the pictures I'd brought home with me from the store. I couldn't place the woman's face, at least not to give it a name -- if she was an actress or a singer or someone famous, I could not have said who or what -- but I knew that I had dreamt about her last night. I remembered her face, even if I didn't know whose it was. I recognized her, so I thought it must be one of those weird coincidences, that she must be someone I'd seen before but couldn't remember where.

"She's someone I should know?" I asked Chad.

"No," Chad said. "She really isn't anyone you should know. I really wish you hadn't looked at those pictures."

He sighed. And Chad, man of smiles, all smiles, was not a natural sigher.

He said, "Now we're going to have to get rid of you, too."

by Fred 7:30 PM

 

I have, in fact, spent good chunks of the last two days "looking at pictures." I've been intrigued by Flickr for some weeks; I think I started hearing about it from Jason Kottke. On the surface, it's an online photo management app, where I upload stuff and you look at it. But that's not what interests me.

Flickr is another piece of social software (she types into a piece of social software). People can comment on photos; conversations emerge. By invitation, multiple users can load photos into an album for an event. Groups become a kind of message board, like the fascinating Technique group, where individuals post altered photos and provide tutorials on creating effects. And then there are tags...

When I upload a photo, I can label it with zero or more tags. Tags are freeform; I can enter any single word as a tag. With that, though, I can surf to other photos that have the same tag. Mine are the only photos on Flickr for "victorychimes," but there are quite a few "ocean"s and "sunset"s. Tags seem to me to be a reflection of the zeitgeist. Flickr lists the most common tags, increasing the font size for more popular ones. From there, a kind of Darwinian selection takes over, and the most successful tags get used more and more often.

I found that the tags can help you create a soothing backdrop, something to, say, toss on a projector during a party instead of the Windows Media Player visualizer. Flickr will display pictures in a slideshow. It's a nice way to view our sailing pictures, but it's also a wonderful way to flip through sunsets and water and flowers.

I'm captivated and calmed.

by Sharon 4:16 PM

 

Looking at pictures

by Generik 10:34 AM

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

 

What else am I working on? Well...work, actually.

I got a job about a month ago. After some three months of mailing my resume and going for (actually kind of rare) interviews, I now work as an editorial assistant in Manhattan for Dekker. Well, actually CRC Press. Or, really, Taylor and Francis. It's not always entirely clear who I work for, or who I should say I work for, but by now I think I can safely put it like this:

My bosses, of which I have two, worked for Dekker. Dekker was bought by Taylor and Francis. This happened pretty recently. Like just a few months ago. Then -- I think it was then -- the imprint became or merged or something with CRC Press, also owned by T&F. So I work for CRC Press, sometimes Dekker/CRC (although not really), an imprint of Taylor and Francis, the company that writes my check.

Which, really, is neither here nor there. It alone doesn't explain why I'm not writing here much anymore when, in the past, I've gone out of my way to post something, at least a topic, every day that I could. I'm not sure how much they enforce the "computers for work only" policy, but I figure it's probably best not to test that my first month in with posts during the day to 600 seconds. If I could figure out a way to get the topics (when there are topics) sent to my e-mail, I'd try to write during my lunch break, or on the train ride home.

Because that's why I'm not writing as much. I have about an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening. Depending on the trains, which are not known to be especially dependable. (One morning, we sat motionless for an hour and a half only to be told we'd have to change trains before we made it to the city.) I live on Long Island, with my parents, where I grew up, where I hadn't exactly wanted to be but where I am because Pennsyvlania just wasn't doing it for me and I couldn't afford anywhere else.

But I digress. I should digress, shouldn't I? I'm not really paying too much attention to what I'm writing, just trying to get the words down on the page, but I get the sense that I might be rambling and running on a bit, so I should probably take a breath (or let you take one) and digress.

But I digress. The long and short of it is, I got a job. I have a long commute. I get a lot of reading done on the train, but not a lot of writing. (It's a bumpy ride sometimes.) I could write during lunch, but I don't know the topics. Because I haven't figured out a way to get them to my e-mail. Or because no one else is writing and there aren't topics. Not that anyone else has to write. I'm not saying that. I'm just saying...well, I don't know anymore. I started out just wanting to write, because that's what this is for, and that's why it's important to me, but I'm not expecting anyone to wade through this now and actually read what I'm writing or understand what I'm trying to say or tell me the secret word is platypus -- which I only throw in there because I know one's reading this deep into it, no one's going to say, "Fred, the secret word is platypus?" I throw it in for no reason other than that I am rambling and I needed to write something before I wrote this:

But I digress.

I'm going to try to write more. And I'm going to try and keep it as unlike the above few paragraphs as I can. I'm going to try not to ramble. I'm going to try to write. I have a story that I'm telling, and I have more I'd like to discover. I hope I won't be alone.

by Fred 11:59 PM

 

"I mean, it's not like there's anything else in the world I'd rather be doing."
That's what he should have said. He should have said it when he had the chance. It was six weeks later now and he was almost finished with the stupid project. What kind of junior high bullshit was this, he wondered, that he "had to" write this novel for them. They couldn't do anything about it. They couldn't actually kill him, could they? He was torn, in the way one can be torn between the fact that one doesn't want to do something and the fact that one already has.
They weren't paying him, of course. When you extort something out of somebody and pay them it's called employment. He probably wouldn't complain if they were paying him, but he knew himself well enough to know that he still might. He'd worked for a software company as a tech writer for about three months and had pissed and moaned the whole time because they'd made him write. Writing, to him, was something sacred that couldn't be forced. It wasn't a trick to be done at a whim and it certainly wasn't something to be cranked out in measured doses like pasta.
And then they'd said that horrible phrase. Those bastards who were making him write the novel. They'd said "Well, what else are you working on?" And he had to admit, he wasn't doing a damn thing. So he started writing for them and now he was almost finished. The denoument had happened and the metaphorical fat lady had sung. In this case, a house fire had taken the place of the fat lady, and its consumption of the One True Love had taken the place of singing. He couldn't really complain, he supposed. He'd learned six new words, all of them meaning either "wither" or "crepuscule," and he learned that he could write in regular spurts when he had to. It became like going to the bathroom. A regular time and a regular schedule. He got to the point that he'd find himself gettin up and going to the computer ever couple of hours, just to get the words out of his head. It filled up and had to be emptied, and he kind of liked the feeling. He found that he had to recharge by watching the occasional movie, and that the best movies for him were Citizen Kane and Biodome.
He hated to admit it, but this was a good thing for him. After they took the novel which they'd extorted from him, he might try his luck again, this time one which he could keep for himself. Maybe something about little yappy dogs. He liked little yappy dogs.

by MisterNihil 11:55 PM

 

So, what else are you working on?

(John should be writing his novel.)

by Sharon 2:35 PM

Sunday, November 14, 2004

 

If I live to be a thousand years old (which would probably be about 910 years longer than I want or need to), I will never, ever forget the smell of Beijing.

A huge urban sprawl of approximately 20 million people, set in a natural basin and surrounded by mountains -- much like Los Angeles -- it is generally regarded, along with Mexico City, as one of the most polluted cities in the world. The Chinese work hard to help it maintain that reputation. Diesel buses, cars and trucks criss-cross the various roads and thoroughfares at all hours of the day and night, spewing black, noxious fumes behind them. Motorcycles and other often indescribable vehicles weave among them. (As an aside, traffic laws in China seem to be more suggestions than hard and fast rules -- the size of the vehicle combined with the boldness and/or stupidity of the driver often determines who has the right of way.) Coal smoke from the primary fuel used to both cook and heat homes mingles with the by-products of the millions of internal combustion engines, and both in turn combine with the heavy industrial pollution put forth by the factories making products that are sold for pennies to American distributors who grow rich by selling them here for highly inflated prices. In many places the smell of raw sewage is added to the mix.

This aroma permeates every inch of the city, seeping into the subways and lingering in the hotel lobbies. It is strong in the downtown sections, of which there are too many to count, and is quite noticeable even in the historic sites such as the Forbidden City or the Summer Palace. Taking pictures in Beijing poses a special difficulty simply because the haze of the air affords poor visibility.

After spending just five days there, both Sally and I were having respiratory difficulties. I didn't get over mine until more than a month later. Sally was physically sick every day in Beijing, using plastic bags and other improvised containers to keep from soiling the back seats of the taxis in which we rode. She probably lost ten pounds in those five days, mainly from not being able to keep food down.

And yet... every once in a while, I'll catch a whiff of something in the air, some hint of diesel mixed with coal smoke mixed with burning plastic mixed with untreated sewage, and I'll think, you know, I'd sure like to go back to China again.

by Generik 1:18 PM

 

The Smell of the City

by Generik 1:15 PM

Friday, November 12, 2004

 

the great un-American novel

by Fred 5:10 PM

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

 

overhaul

by Sharon 8:26 AM

Thursday, November 04, 2004

 

I don't post during the day only because it's against

company policy

by Fred 6:04 PM

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

 

A funny thing happened on the way to voting booth...

by Fred 6:12 PM

Monday, November 01, 2004

 

Part the First | Part the Second | Part the Third | Part the Fourth | Part the Fifth | Part the Sixth | Part the Seventh | Part the Eighth | Part the Ninth | Part the Tenth | Part the Eleventh | Part the Twelfth | Part the Thirteenth | Part the Fourteenth | Part the Fifteenth | Part the Sixteenth | Part the Seventeenth | Part the Eighteeneth | Part the Nineteenth | Part the Twentieth | Part the Twenty-first | Part the Twenty-second | Part the Twenty-third | Part the Twenty-fourth | Part the Twenty-fifth | Part the Twenty-sixth

But once, before all that...

The door creaks open, and although he has no words to describe the thing that walks through it, knows somehow that no words could ever truly be up to the task, Alan knows also that this is the thing his employers have sent him here to kill.

The creature is hideous beyond comprehension, beyond the power of Alan's words (of which he has many), and it radiates nothing but death. For half a moment, Alan allows instinct to take over, and fear washes over him as the thing enters the room; but although Alan knows that it could kill him easily, and likely will, he knows that if he fails here, now, there are worse things than death that may await him. Alan is willing to risk many things -- it is this trait, perhaps more than any other, which has brought him to his employers' attention in the first place -- but he knows that he cannot risk displeasing them, that failure in this task will displease them more than anything, and so he must act.

"You have come here to kill me," the thing says. "I can see it in your eyes."

It does not seem possible, from the look of it, that the thing could even be capable of speech. It has no lips or mouth or throat that Alan can see. There is, in fact, nothing familiar about it at all, nothing that could easily be said to be suggestive of comething else, no features that Alan can claim to recognize or hope to describe. It is, he thinks, this overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity which so terrifies him, the sheer incomprehensible alienness of the thing -- around which his brain can barely wrap itself without the added problem of hearing such a thing speak. The thing is death, is disease, fear, pain, and yet it speaks quite calmly, clearly, in a voice which, if he did not know it to be impossible, Alan might almost mistake for his father's.

"If you have come here to kill me," the voice says, "the least you can do is tell me your name."

Alan has been warned not to listen to the thing, and he knows that he has a job to do. He steps forward, away from the wall, and draws the knife from his bag.

"I cannot give you my name," Alan tells the thing, and as he does so he realizes that it is true. "It is no longer mine to give."

"Yes," the thing answers. "I can see that now." If the beast can be said to have eyes at all, then Alan is convinced they are upon him now. "They know I would have stripped you of it. So they have left me only your flesh to strip."

Without warning, it moves closer, and Alan becomes acutely aware of it, of the stench that surrounds it, permeates the air until Alan can barely breathe or believe that he was not aware of it sooner. The thing that is nothing but fear and death and black -- which, if Alan had to name it, he might be tempted to call evil -- steps closer still until Alan feels enveloped by it, suffocated. He stares in desperation first at the door through which he entered, and then at the one behind the creature, through which he knows he must leave. Alan feels himself grow weak, small, afraid, and he knows that it was a fool's mission to attempt this, that his employers have, as the creature says, sent him to his death.

"I will pull it from you, you know," the thing says. "Your flesh. I will tear it from you in tiny strips. I will let you bleed and let you die, and they will know, as they ought, that I am not to be trifled with or disturbed."

Alan can hear it now, in his head, the sound of the creature's laughter. He feels the sound echo through his bones, and he knows suddenly that it is his father's voice, and that terrifies him still even more.

"They sent you here with nothing," the creature says, "because they have nothing to give you, and because they cannot come here on their own. You will die, for nothing. The ones they send here from time to time, that's all they ever do. They die."

The creature holds Alan there in its grip, its stare, and he can feel the loathing of it, its hatred of both Alan's employers and of Alan himself. From somewhere far away, he hears it tell him:

"Because I am inevitable, you know. I am always and infinite, and I will be the death of you. What could you hope to say against that?"

And so Alan says the only thing he can say, the one thing his employers have told him to say. He says:

"This."

And he plunges the blade arm-deep straight into the beast.

by Fred 11:59 PM

 

the door creaks open...

by Sharon 8:21 AM

Friday, October 29, 2004

 

"This particular model is a luxury model. Solid oak veneer with satin interior and metal handrails."

"'Veneer' and 'metal' are not words that inspire confidence," said Harris, sitting up. "Besides, there's no padding."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Terence, helping Harris out of the coffin. "We don't usually get many complaints."

"That's supposed to be a joke, right? I mean, you thought that was funny."

Terence cursed, inwardly. "Yes," he said, "but it's also true. After all, not many people come in and try these things out when they're actually... able to comment on them."

"That's because they don't plan ahead, Terry. They think a coffin's for dying."

"That's what they're usually built for, yes."

"Don't mince words with me. You don't get a lot of people in here who are looking for a coffin because they want to sleep in it, do you?"

"Actually, you're the fifth one this week. It's probably one of our larger markets."

"You're kidding me."

"Not at all," said Terence. "In fact, if not for the fact that everybody has to go eventually, it would probably be our largest market."

"Hm."

"Of course, not many of them look like you. The men tend to be either... well... effete and given to wearing lace and velvet, or they're broad-chested and dress in leather."

"Instead of looking--"

"Normal, yes."

"I was about to say, 'Like a bank teller,' but I suppose that's about the same."

"If I may ask," said Terence, "why are you looking for a coffin? You don't seem like the type."

"Security," said Harris. "I like security. I like the feeling of being walled in. Something solid on every side of me - makes me fell, y'know, safe."

"But it must be murder on your social life."

"I hate people. Always touching your skin, brushing your hair, breathing your air. I prefer a solid wall between me and humanity at all times."

"But you don't want to give up the luxury life?"

"No, not at all."

"Hm," said Terence. "You know, I don't think a coffin is really what you need. Might I suggest another option?"

by Glen 10:21 PM

 

I've never been good with small spaces. I wouldn't call it, I don't know, claustrophobia. That just sounds so... legitimate. No, I just don't like having my limbs restricted. Knowing that I can't extend my arms and legs as far as they will go. Knowing that there is a finite amount of air. That there is a lot of weight above me, tenuously held at bay by some feeble feat of engineering. Elevators. Tunnels. Scuba diving.

Just the thought of scuba diving makes my chest tight. I saw a movie when I was younger, about a man who lived in the wild amongst the wolves. I remember three scenes from that movie: defiantly eating rats to intimidate the encroaching vermin; drinking 32 cups of tea to mark the territory of his camp ground; and falling through the ice. The protagonist crossed a frozen lake, fell through the ice, and could not find the hole from beneath the water. He pounded his way back through with the shotgun he'd been carrying. I will never forget that scene.

There's drowning in The Abyss, too. That movie's hard for me. Conscious, deliberate drowning, in a little metal death-trap at the bottom of the ocean. Gasping. Struggling. Dying.

They bury a girl alive in Kill Bill. I hope that doesn't spoil anything for you. Buried alive, under six feet of dirt. That was always the thing that got me about the living dead: How do you dig up? It doesn't really seem possible. The living dead, at least, have the benefit of not needing to breathe, so that takes care of one of the major logistics issues.

I've always wondered. After the bite, how long does it take for the infection to set in? Do you die and then reawaken, or just go mad? Are your fingers stronger, or are you just oblivious to the pain? How long will the batteries in my flashlight last?

I guess I'll find out.

by Sharon 1:09 PM

 

Feeling claustrophobic

by Generik 11:25 AM

Thursday, October 28, 2004

 

why should today be any different?

by Fred 8:22 PM

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

 

are you sure this is where you want to be?

by Fred 8:16 PM

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

 

what it means is this

by Fred 5:24 PM

Monday, October 25, 2004

 

buyer's remorse

by Fred 4:58 PM

Saturday, October 23, 2004

 

Wait, what?

by MisterNihil 1:19 AM

Thursday, October 21, 2004

 

When I stand at the kitchen sink here in my apartment -- either preparing a meal or doing the dishes or filling up the filtered water pitcher or eating something messy, as men are often wont to do -- I look out on Hemlock Alley. I see the back doorway to the Chinese restaurant across the way, a small alcove where the cooks and waiters will come out and have a smoke or take the time to eat a bowl of food when it's slow inside. Looking to my right is the entrance to the underground parking lot that gets plenty of business and charges only an arm, as opposed to a lot of places here in the city that charge an arm and a leg. Moving east, the back doors and windows to the Salvation Army store and the pawn shop don't get much play. At the end of the block is the Halstead Funeral Home, which shares a parking lot with a limousine service. There are very often limousines and hearses pulling in and out of the gate down there, and you have to wonder who is inside each one at any given moment.

On my side, the south side of the alley, it's all residence apartment buildings, all the way down. Just below my window is the entrance to the basement garage of our building, and I can often hear the steel door raising and lowering as people come and go. Early in the mornings, about the time I get up for work, the garbagemen open that door and drive their truck in, so that they can bang the cans around and wake everyone on this side of the building. Something about that noise makes me feel safe, don't ask me why.

Living in this neighborhood on the edge of the Tenderloin has always been a bit of a dicey proposition. It's what is euphemistically known as "colorful," which means simply that there can be the occasional crime or questionable character or spontaneous fight break out at any time. It's not at all unusual to find used needles, condoms and broken bottles in Hemlock Alley or the gutters nearby. Sometimes, especially when it's hot, the smell of urine or feces is overwhelming. The make-up of people here is decidedly eclectic, with regular working people like me sharing space with young hipsters hanging out in the evenings at any one of the half-dozen popular watering holes in a two block area; teenage runaways and drug dealers, attracted to the youth shelter nearby, squatting on the sidewalks; a sizable contingent of transgendered folk (some plying their trade on the streets) who consider a disco across Post Street to be their SF headquarters; regular female working girls competing with them on most weekend evenings; a large number of homeless people who show up early in the mornings and evenings, coming into or going out of the city-run shelter down the street; dozens of student chefs in their kitchen clothing and carrying their knives and books as they walk down to the Culinary Academy on Polk Street; and, maybe strangest (or most interesting) of all, what is probably the largest group of traditionally-dressed Middle Eastern Muslims in San Francisco, especially just before dawn, going to or coming from the Al Tawhid mosque just a block up and around the corner on Sutter. I often wonder what goes through the minds of all these people as they pass each other on their way to whatever pleasure or business awaits them... what does the underage runaway from Iowa make of the man in a white robe and beard, wearing a traditional Muslim head covering, as he passes a tall miniskirted hooker built like a burly linebacker with rock-hard breasts the size of volleyballs and a five o'clock shadow talking to the homeless black guy pushing a shopping cart filled with aluminum cans and glass bottles...?

A few years back I read a book called The Magician's Tale, by an author whose name I forget, simply because the opening scene consisted of someone finding a dismembered body in a dumpster... in Hemlock Alley, just off Polk Street. Essentially where I live, in other words. The opening scene (though not the story itself) was based on a true event from a number of years ago, and most of the first half of the book was set right here in my neighborhood. It wasn't a particularly good book, but it held my interest because of the location. I don't know where that author is today, but I'll bet he could put together plenty of more interesting -- though perhaps less believable -- stories, if he just had the view out my back window today.

by Generik 11:44 PM

 

The view out the back window

by Generik 1:44 AM

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

 

"Ther tyranny o' ther printed page is long-gone herstory!" sez Ermajesty, waving the volume above her head. "I declare the New World Disorder in which ther printed page is replaced by a new media which is unprinted and pristine."

"But Ermajesty," sez I, "ain't an unprinted page just paper?"

"Silence, toad!" Ermajesty proclaims, applying her boot to my posterioral region. "Ermajesty has spoken! Let the libraries toss their rubbish in favor o' ther latest craze - ther newes' happenin'! The livin' end, I tell yaz, the livin' end!"

Sez I, edgin' my posterioral regions out of the reach o' her boots, "But, Ermajesty, if the pages are blank, who's gunna read wot's in the library?"

"That's ther beauty of it!" she crows, applyin' the broad side o' the book to my left temple. "When ther libraries are full o' ther unprinted page, all ther great works o' literature will at last be free o' the meanin' imposed uponnem by ther establishment o' critics an' literary charmen. Ther unprinted page'll be ther ultimate in pure meanin'! At last, ther works o' ther greats'll be open completely to all interpertin' without anybody bein' able to correct everbody."

"But, Ermajesty," I sez, protectin' my head with my arms, "What'll the colleges do?"

"Close!" she cries, grabbin' me in an embrace that cracks five o' my ribs as she swings me 'round in a merry dance. "They'll close, they'll close, they'll close! It's a perfect way ter rid the modern student o' ther burdens of college debt! Just don't have colleges ter go ter!"

"So, Ermajesty," squeaks I outta collapsin' lungs, "Where do we start?"

She dumps me inter the chair and spins, droppin' the book in my lap with a thud an' crushin' some very sensitive parts with the leather-bound monstrosity.

"Right here," she sez, "right now. Now-er, if we can swing ther diff'rence."

I picks up the book and looks at the spine in wonder.

"Ther compleat werks o' Willerm Shake Spear," reads the spine.

"Crack ther supine an' read it already," she sez, menacin' me with a fist ter my nose.

I open the book an' looks at the clean, white pages inside.

"Genius, Ermajesty," sez I.

by Glen 7:28 PM

 

blank verse

by Fred 7:04 PM

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

 

skeksis

by Sharon 2:06 PM

Monday, October 18, 2004

 

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Oh, thanks, Mr. Obvious.
I mean, golly, who knew?

Art critics and historians don't like to talk about it much, but the real reason for Pablo Picasso's so-called blue period (1901 to 1904) was not, as they have so often written, an attempt to create images of deep despair and melancholy on the canvas, but rather a futile and desperate attempt to appease the hordes of angry Smurfs who had taken up residence in his Paris flat.

Not since that fateful September day in 1871, when four dogs happened to be spied seated around a gaming table in Yorkshire, had such an animal influence been felt in the arts. To be quite fair, philosophers and scientists have long puzzled over Smurf taxonomy, and the debate as to whether they can truly be said to be animals remains largely unresolved even to this day. But still, their influence in the arts can scarcely be debated. From the earliest cave paintings to the most modern of modern art, Smurfs have been at the center of it all. Greek myths, for instance, speak repeatedly of Smurfberries and Gargamel (although, naturally, by other names). And Vincent van Gogh, whose work pre-dates Picasso's by little more than a decade, is thought to owe his depression and eventual suicide to Smurfs -- more precisely to an inability to determine what exactly differentiates them from a Snork.

This, of course, is just conjecture, and most art historians and critics have little time for it. Which, come to think of it, may be just as well.

by Fred 11:59 PM

 

Today I came home with a case of the blues. I'm not sure where it came from, exactly, but I'm definitely feeling blue. Feeling low, feeling glum, feeling sad and anxious and sorry for myself. I don't particularly want to talk to anyone, and I walk with my head down, staring at the ground, my face in a resigned grimace. It takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile, the experts say, and if so, I'm exercising my face pretty hard right now.

What causes this depression? I can say that politics or my current work situation are contributing to it, and that could be true in a sense, but perhaps it's more than that. Perhaps it's as much genetics as it is the latest presidential poll or the stress of upcoming projects and budget numbers.

See, I've always had a predilection for the bipolar, though that has abated quite a bit in the years since I stopped using drugs. (And if none of you have ever known the deep, black, suicidal depression that can result from falling off the edge of the jagged and abusive high that accompanies cocaine use, count yourselves extremely lucky.) It apparently runs in the family -- I have some relatives who regularly use anti-depressants like Prozac and Zoloft, and a few others who don't, but probably should. Compared to them, I'm the picture of sanity and mental health. But I haven't fully escaped that genetic predisposition, and every so often it catches up with me and reminds me of who I am and who I am related to and just what kind of chemical soup I carry around inside me.

Realistically, it's ridiculous for me to be depressed, I tell myself. I have a job I like and a wife who loves me. I make pretty good money these days, and I live in a place that I love, a place that thousands of people spend millions of dollars every year just to visit. I have a good circle of immediate friends, and a larger circle of people who care about me out there in cyberspace. I'm a lucky sonofabitch, in fact.

And yet... today I'm blue. Today I'm sad. Today I'm prickly, over-sensitive, and occasionally close to tears. So excuse me for a while; I just need to be alone.

"When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get gray and cloudy, then the rain begins to fall..."

by Generik 11:29 PM

 

My toenails are blue. My fingernails are blue. I think my knees may even be blue. And someone had the audacity to quip, "I thought you were from Up North." "Yes," I snapped, "where we keep our buildings above 58 degrees."

It is damn cold in here.

It's in the 80s outside, and muggy and gross, but in the building, you can keep a side of beef for days. I'm wearing the thick shirt I keep around for Arctic Office Days, and I'm still cold. It's hard to type.

I think it's the cold that's making me so hungry. I've been hungry all day. I ate my lunch too early, thinking maybe I could get a little supplemental food from the cafeteria later, but then I coded right through lunch and missed my opportunity. I've already snagged a pack of animal crackers from the vending machine; gone, hours ago. I'm starving.

And cold. Pfoo.

I think the only thing for it is to bathe myself in the warm blood of the SOB on the other side of the cube wall who persists in using that clacky thing despite—no, because—of how much it pisses the rest of us off. I will make a scarf from his entrails. Perhaps then, I will be warm.

by Sharon 4:36 PM

 

blue

Apologies for the missed time.

by Nyssa23 1:30 PM

Friday, October 15, 2004

 

Have we found our way into Hell, or is this just Detroit?

That was the question on my mind as the road twisted away into darkness, disappearing into the night just beyond my headlights. A series of bright yellow lines ran through the twin spotlights and disappeared somewhere beside me, trailing away in my rearview mirror. Hell, I couldn't tell where I was. It just looked like darkness outside. Endless darkness.

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" said Ruby. The ambient light from the lamps just highlighting her curling hair and the edge of her nose - soft outlines moving in the dark with facial features highlighted in the dim green glow of the dashboard indicators.

"Of course not," I said. "That's half of the fun."

"I thought you knew," she said, turning back and looking out at the road - or lack thereof - ahead of us.

"Nope," I said. "Never have before - hasn't stopped me yet."

She sighed, leaned over, and tried to tune in something on the radio. She hit "scan" and the numbers rolled by. And rolled by. And rolled by.

"We can't even get anything on the radio," she said, hitting the power switch. "So, where are we going?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"Right, but I meant where are we heading."

"I still don't know."

There was silence. The dim glow highlighted her mouth as she drew her lower lip in and bit down on it, gently.

"You mean you don't even know where we're supposed to end up?"

"What did I say?" I snapped, a little bit too quickly.

"Then why are we out here?"

"Because the struggle is the blessing, babe."

"Cut the zen shit and tell me."

I rolled down the window. The air blowing in didn't tell me anything more about the landscape around us, but it felt clean and fresh.

"There's something out there," I said. "I don't know what, but it's out there. And we'll never get to it if we don't drive."

"So we're just out driving to get somewhere."

"Right."

"And we don't know where that somewhere is."

"Mm-hm."

"We just know we're going to get there."

"That's the idea."

"Will we know it when we get there?"

I shrugged.

She leaned over again, the green light of the dashboard carressing her bosom as she hit the "power" button on the radio, hit "scan," and watched the numbers roll by.

"I can sing for you, if you like," I said.

"Just drive," she said.

by Glen 5:00 PM

 

Last thing I remembered, I was writing every day for a blog called 600 Seconds. It was a great exercise, spending ten minutes a day writing on a topic that one member of a small circle of writers had chosen at random (or maybe not so much), and it had me excited about writing again. I looked forward to the new topic each day, and occasionally would backdate posts so I could contribute to topics that I might have missed.

Then I started slacking off a bit, writing every other day or every third day, or backdating two, three, even four posts at a time. And then I went on vacation, and got away from interacting with a computer keyboard entirely for a long week. Once I returned, it was harder and harder to find time or inspiration to put my thoughts down, even for as short a time as ten minutes a day. That lack of discipline that has plagued me all my life reared its ugly head once again.

I'll get back into it, I thought, once things calm down some at work. Once we get that new position filled, and the schedule gets a little less hectic, I'll have more time. Oh, and once the election is over, and I'm not so busy with all the political foofaraw, I'll be able to concentrate more on being creative. Sure, yeah, that's it.

That's what I remember... and then it seems that there was this... this coldness... clutching at my heart, at my soul... there was a voice whispering inside my head, keeping me from sleeping, from eating, from working, and, especially, from writing. The tinfoil hat didn't stop it, and neither did the repeated phone calls to the government and the police. No one would listen to me when I tried to describe the torture I felt inside, the things I heard in my brain. I felt as if a hand was clutching my insides, a hand that had never known warmth or light, and that whoever was attached to that hand was standing directly behind me, telling me things I didn't want to know or hear. How could I be creative with all that going on? I couldn't. It wasn't until I took the knife, the big one from the block in the kitchen, and I... uhh... where was I again?

by Generik 4:32 PM

 

Where the heck was I?

by MisterNihil 2:26 AM

Thursday, October 14, 2004

 

Once upon a time, a little man stood on the side of a railroad track, smoking a pipe and thinking hard about jumping rope. He mulled over the type of rope, the number of times to jump and the potential dates of the jumping. He had an opening in his schedule in the next fifteen minutes, when the pipe was finished, but not again for almost a week. He intended, more or less, to jump about forty times, then go back to the farmhouse where he lived. His wife, a fine woman, did not let him do either thing inside the house, either smoke or jump rope. There were reasons for both of these. She was alergic to smoke, and the only time she'd ascented to his jumping rope in the house, it had cost them one lamp and a rather fetching end-table. He was sadder than she about the end table, really, but she put on a good show, looking worried and a little unhappy, as he mourned its loss. It had been just the right size for a particular chess board of which he was very fond. He'd obtained the table in a game of poker, in place of a bet for twenty dollars which a friend of his had been unable or unwilling to cover. His friend knew he'd had his eye on the table, and so offered it. The little man was sad to lose the table, but he was sadder to be banned from the house when jumping rope. As he stood, contemplating, his pipe went dry. He tapped it on the palm of his left hand, knocking the ash out and onto the gravel under the railroad track. He put the pipe into his left breast pocket, and walked out to the barn where he kept the rope. Forty jumps, he though. That should do it. Forty jumps outside, under the lovely starlight.

by MisterNihil 11:52 PM

 

there's a reason for this

by Fred 3:36 PM

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

 

Last week, my mother said it: "Do you know what today is?"

I searched through my brain. "September..."

"It's your father's birthday."

"But that's in October," I protested. And that there would be my main problem with birthdays. I know when your birthday is; I just don't know what today is. Especially since it was well in the 80s on that day. (It's right blustery today. Gorgeous fall day, with wind and goosebumps and everything. I want to fly a kite.)

And just as I was about to write about the event that will be happening today, it happened. The support pager handoff. Suddenly, there is a great weight on my hip. While my teammate was walking over here to give it to me, it went off. So begins my week.

by Sharon 11:59 PM

 

"What's today?" he asked.

"Forehead-Smacking Day," she said.

She glanced at the calendar on the wall.

"Sorry," she said. "Canadian Forehead-Smacking Day."

"So the banks'll be open?" he asked.

"Dear, the bank's one of the main reasons for smacking your forehead. It's their civic duty to remain open."

"But we're not in Canada."

"Well not now. But tomorrow, that's Small Town Invaded by Canada for Absolutely No Reason At All Day. So the bank might make an exception."

"Oh crap. STIBCFANRAA Day? Traffic's gonna be murder!"

"It's also Spontaneous Automobile Explosion Day..."

"Well that does it then. I'm staying home from work tomorrow."

"Can't."

"Whadya mean can't?"

"It's Compulsory Work or Be Eaten by Giant Robots Month. You know that."

"Man, I hate October!"

"Shh! The Calendar Police will hear you!"

by Fred 3:29 PM

 

*smacking forehead* What's today?

by Generik 2:46 PM

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

 

We'll always have obligations that we find we can't live up to. We'll always have guilt. We'll always have regrets and second thoughts and shoulda woulda coulda. We'll always have people to remind us of our failings.

"Why didn't you do what I asked you to do? Why didn't you do what you said you were going to so? Why didn't you do what you were supposed to do?"

"I meant to. I was going to, but I never got around to it. I got distracted. I was busy. I was out of town that week."

We'll always have excuses.

by Generik 10:50 PM

 

"We had some good times, didn't we?"

"Yeah, good times."

(The sound of crickets.)

"What was the first? Uzbekistan?"

"Georgia."

"Right, Georgia. That was a fun one." (A chuckle.)

"Short and sweet, just the way you always liked it."

"Yeah... and Prague, of course."

"Prauge? I, um... was that where we..."

"The rope, yeah. We probably should have researched that one a little more. God, the mess. I thought I was going to die."

"Me to. Glad we never did it that way again. Of course, I'm not as sure it was as bad as Sao Paulo. Sometimes my knees still ache."

"Ho, yeah. I remember the dishwater went everywhere! There we were, beach and ocean all around, and you have to go and do it in the kitchen."

"Only place we could get any privacy."

(Crickets. Somewhere an owl hoots.)

"You sure you won't reconsider?"

(Shuffling feet.)

"-- Look, we had some good times and --"

"-- I don't want to put any pressure on you but --"

(Nervous laughter)

"It's just not the same anymore, it's time for me to move on."

"Well, at least we get one more time."

"I couldn't begrudge you th--"
"Hush, here he comes."

"That him?"

"That's him."

"Tell me you remembered your silencer this time."

(Chuckling.)

"Yeah, I got it. Now shut up and let me aim."

by John W. 8:45 PM

 

We used to think we'd always have bracketed ellipses. We were such fools, so young and so naive, lost in our own innocent typographies. We knew only the grammar of each other, and although we also knew we sometimes made mistakes, I don't think we ever could have imagined a world like this, with so much lost and the stet's we'd scribbled in the margins all but ignored. And now their they're there is nothing to be done.

Oh, we had our ellipses, but what good were they -- and, more important, what words did they omit? What did we lose, in our rush to rush past the inconvenient words? "You're the only one I've ever blank blank blank." "When all is said and done, it's only blank blank blank." "I promise not to hurt you if you only blank blank blank."

What were those blanks, and why the brackets? We may never know.

by Fred 6:17 PM

 

We'll always have [...]

by John W. 7:18 AM

Sunday, October 10, 2004

 

I know you're not going to believe me on this. I'm sorry I can't help that. But just a week ago on my way to the Metro station I actually saw two kids spitting into the wind. Repeatedly. Could tugging on Superman's cape be far behind?

I go way back with this song. I remember listening this song over and over and lauging my fool head off wearing these *enormous* headphones that my father still has tucked away somewhere. The headphones were full-ear, hard-shell beasts, white and black. The brand name eludes me. As young as I was, the headphones were almost the size of my head. And, in fact, "laughing my fool head off" is almost not an exaggeration. After listening to a record or two with those headphones, my head felt like it was about to come off. But I thought they were great. And I've looked for years for headphones like those but haven't found them.

I don't think my father understood why I liked them so much. But they caused something like an out-of-body experience. I was still there in the room. I could see people but I couldn't hear them. I'd hear what was coming through the stereo instead. And while I understood (roughly) how that worked, it was very much like another world to me -- it was easy, surprisingly easy -- to pretend I was a space traveller then. Putting them on I left the planet, taking them off I landed again.

The things I listened to in the inbetween time stuck with me. Had a profound effect, I'm sure. Jim Croche and Arlo Guthrie and a Spiderman comic on record. I remember these things very well, when I can barely remember where I put my keys when I took them out of my pocket.

Now it's all earbuds. "When I was your age..." Perhaps with better headphones, and more exposure to Jim Croche, those damn fool kids would know better than to spit in the wind.

by John W. 8:58 PM

 

In honor of his recent passing:

You don't tug on Superman's cape.

by Fred 6:49 PM

Friday, October 08, 2004

 

When the people from the Egg World landed, the first thing that everyone noticed -- aside from the ray guns, the saucers, the ferocious alien beasts tethered by chains to the saucers, and the large array of tanks and weapons that the army had hastily assembled should they need to combat these interstellar threats -- was that the people didn't look terribly egg-like at all.

They were more square about the head than round, and although their skin did have a kind of pale jaundice to it, it wasn't the sort of thing one would immediately describe as yolky. Their saucers, in fact, weren't really saucers at all but much more boxy, just like their heads. One newspaper helpfully described the craft as space-Volvos. Another suggested "parallelograms from beyond," but obviously that wasn't going to fly with the general public and never entered common usage.

Nor did the Egg People appear to be shelled in any way. They looked reasonably humanoid and fairly mammalian. They had two legs, two arms, three eyes, but most of them appeared distinctly embarrassed by the third eye and would go to great lengths to avoid talking about it. (Interviewers who would not drop the subject often found themselves zapped by those very same ray guns, which usually led to even more embarrassment on both sides and profuse apologies from the Egg People. It's rumored that one station lost an entire news division in this manner.)

Even the beasts that the Egg People chained outside their craft upon landing on Earth didn't appear to be egg-like in any way. No one could understand, therefore, why the aliens claimed to be "ambassadors from the Egg World", unless the world itself was particularly egg-like -- something that the few star charts and maps they had provided didn't seem to bear out. It was quite the mystery for many months.

Until, that is, Earth was invaded by Bacon-ites.

by Fred 11:48 AM

 

When I find a good joke, I tend to stick with it. So my quick-and-easy birthday-note strategy is to find out what holidays fall on your birthday and send a happy-other-day card. It's Dad's birthday today, so I Googled for "calendar holidays 'October 8.'"

World Egg Day, indeed.

It reminds me of an observation Ben made: the word for "egg" in a bunch of different languages sounds like the exclamation you'd make if you were hit in the gut. Thus:
Oeuf!
Egg!
Uovo!
Eiiiiii!
Huevo.

It's funny how we develop these little running gags in our lives. I mean, Ben pointed that out once, and it was funny, but Jon and I still run through the list with each other sometimes (usually after smacking into furniture). And there are events that I know will trigger the same statement from Jon every time. Are they comfortingly familiar or just irritating? Depends on the day.

This is marriage: The person who knows all your running gags.

Man, now I'm all hungry for migas. Hey Jon, maybe Trudy's on Saturday, after Toastmasters?

by Sharon 11:05 AM

 

*snerk* This is great. I kid you not. Today is

World Egg Day

by Sharon 9:59 AM

Thursday, October 07, 2004

 

C'mon! Everybody likes monkeys!

by Fred 4:12 PM

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

 

"I made you a shirt. It says, 'I love you.'"

"You made me a shirt? Like, what, you knitted it or something?"

"Well, no. Okay, I had it made. But for you. I spared no expense."

"How much?"

"Fifteen bucks. Plus shipping."

"Be still my heart."

"But it's custom-made. It has your name on it."

"It's spelled with a C on the shirt."

"You don't spell your name with a C?"

"No, it's Jane. I spell it with a J."

"Huh. Well, it was an honest mistake. It's the thought that counts, right?"

"What's that image above the name?"

"Um, actually, that's a gravy stain. The image is on the back."

"Is that...? What is that?"

"Metroid."

"What?"

"I needed something that was in the public domain."

"Metroid isn't in the public domain. I don't think it's even twenty years old."

"Huh. The website I downloaded it from said it was public domain. Of course, they also said I could satisfy any woman with the power of sooper Vyagra."

"Well trust me, they were wrong. On both counts."

"So you don't like the shirt?"

"It's not even my size."

"Maybe you could grow into it?"

"This is the worst birthday gift ever!"

by Fred 6:40 PM

 

I have a question for Glen, and the rest of you:

What are your experiences with CafePress?

Have you bought things? Sold things? How's the quality of the t-shirts?

If you want to have multiple designs available (like, an "Invisible Citizen" t-shirt and a sawmonkey t-shirt), do you have to get the premium store? You'd think this would be clear from their FAQ, but...

by Sharon 1:20 PM

Tuesday, October 05, 2004

 

Addendum: Two weeks ago I had my annual eye check-up. Dr. Han put me through the usual paces -- "Read down the chart to the smallest line you can," "Better one? Or better two?" etc. etc. -- then announced that I have 20-15 vision. Now, I know my eyes aren't what they used to be, and I do wear glasses for help with my distance vision, but... 20-15? Still, at my age? Jee-zus, I thought, if they're that good now, what were they when I was 25? Did I have X-ray vision back then and not realize it? Could I have burned holes through walls with my eyes? I had no idea.

There's an old German saying that I've seen on a lot of homey-looking faux samplers hung on the walls of people from my parents' and grandparents' generations. I believe it goes like this: We get too soon old and too late smart.

Or, as the line from It's a Wonderful Life goes, "Ahh, youth is wasted on the wrong people!"

by Generik 11:59 PM

 

It's been more than ten years now since a female co-worker asked me "What color was your hair?"

My sputtering answer at the time was, "W-why, the same color it is now, only without the gray!" Of course, since then, a whole lot more of it is gray than is the color it once was when I was young and full of piss and vinegar (that would be a lustrous black, for those of you keeping score at home). My goatee looks as if I soaked my chin in a cup of bleach every night. But at least I still have hair, as I often tell my friend Jon, whose head resembles a shiny ostrich egg. I remember the days when he had long, dirty blonde hair spilling down his forehead and I had that dark, dark hair that hung halfway down my back, but those days have long since passed both of us by in a Greyhound bus taking retirees to an Indian casino half a day's drive from here.

I have few regrets. I used to have regrets, but the older I get, the more at peace I become with myself. The past is what it is, and can't be changed. Sure, I would have done some things differently if I knew then what I know now -- who among us wouldn't? -- but maybe the point is that we do the things we do when we do them simply because we don't know any better. We may never know any better. I'm okay with that.

And I surely don't want to live forever, or go back and start over. All my life, I've entertained the thought of being able to live some or most of my life again -- once again, who hasn't? -- of being 12 or 17 or 25 again, and making different decisions when faced with the same choices I had back then, but... I realize now that I'd hate to have to go through all that again. Even if I could make better decisions, there are so many things I know about myself and about the world now that I didn't when I was younger -- and the world itself has changed so much in that time -- that I would just as soon stay where I am and go forward from here. As for living forever, well, sure, I'd like to see what will happen 50 or 100 or 6000 years down the road, but, criminey, when was the last time you tried to talk to an average 17 year old knucklehead? Can you imagine what the average 17 year old knucklehead will be like in 100 or 1000 years? Forget it. You wouldn't even be able to understand him, much less be able to hold an intelligent conversation.

I guess I'm content to slip happily into curmudgeonhood, to become one of those crusty old guys who yells at kids to get off his lawn (if I had a lawn) and to tell stories about the good old days until company announces that oh my gosh, look at the time, we have to get up in the morning, so long now. But I'll tell you what, I remember when...

by Generik 11:58 PM

 

Ted wasn't worried when he found his first gray hair. When, by the end of the same day, he found his seven-hundred-and-eighty-first, however, he started to grow a little concerned. He supposed that this, along with the newly wrinkled skin and suddenly arthritic joints, was just the price you paid for monkeying with accelerated aging formulas in your spare time, but the old professor hasn't said anything about any side effects. Of course, come to think of it, he hadn't said much of anything to Ted in all those months except "Bwah-ha!" and sometimes "It's alive! It's alive!" -- which, to Ted, had always seemed a touch melodramatic, and which really didn't indicate there wouldn't be side effects.

But it wasn't like Ted had gotten any of the fast-aging goop on him. He'd taken special precaution to keep them in their special goop-containment jars. (He'd just assumed they were air-tight, since they looked air-tight when they were full of mustard at the store.) Except for that one time when the air conditioning went out -- and that month where he just didn't want to for spite -- he always wore gloves. He'd even put up a "Warning: Goop!" sign. Safety first. Ted felt reasonably sure that he'd remember getting goop on himself in the lab, and he didn't.

Sure, there was that one time the goop itself caught fire and burned for three days straight while they all breathed the fumes and Mr. Whiskers, the lab's remaining white mouse, and aged rapidly and died in a matter of mere minutes, but if you were going to panic every time something like that happened...well, why even bother coming into work then?

by Fred 5:53 PM

 

Growing old

by Generik 1:13 AM

Monday, October 04, 2004

 

"Do you remember that night in Madrid, ten -- no, twenty years ago today?"

"Ah, yes, how could I forget? Spain. The excitement, the romance. That's where you and I first met."

"We were quite a pair then, weren't we? I was just a poor peasant girl trying to survive."

"Yes, and I was the local magistrate. One could not ask for a more perfect pair of starcrossed lovers."

"We fell in love. Though it was forbidden, and they said you were mad, you asked for my hand in marriage."

"How could I not? You were so lovely. When they brought you before me, I knew I had to make you mine."

"I sometimes wonder if I stole that money just so they would bring me to you."

"They brought you to the firing squad, but even that couldn't keep me from you."

"I remember. Of course, I wondered then... I was unsure of your love."

"But why, my dear? What was it? What gave you reason to doubt? Something I did?"

"No, something you said."

"What?"

"Fire."

by Fred 8:46 PM

 

"Was it something I said?"

by Fred 1:21 PM

Friday, October 01, 2004

 

No story to tell,
but I put another word on the page
and, before you know it,
I have a sentence,
then several.

I write, for example
"The men who say these things
once were boys,
some more than others.
A great number of them
have no name, no mother,
only the old earth and the sea."

I don't know what any of it means,
but I write,
one sentence and then a second.
That is what the paper is for.
That is why I have these words.
Sometimes, it's the only thing
that can get me through.

by Fred 3:51 PM

 

what i try to tell you
using no words--
don't you see?
i can not say
I ... you.
i can not even say
I ... you.
(i don't.)
i have no ... to give.
no ... to tell.
(but i do.)
what is not said
would say so much.
i have so few words
i can say,
out here,
where all can see.
just:
i want to find you
again.

by Sharon 2:57 PM

 

in your dreams

by Fred 2:53 PM

 

So here's a challenge Jeremy offers on his blog:

Write a poem using only the 300 most common English words. (Follow the link for the list.)

It would be neighborly, after posting your results here, to post a link to them in his comments. I think he'd enjoy that.

by Sharon 2:52 PM

Thursday, September 30, 2004

 

driven

by Sharon 3:10 AM

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

 

Nobody ever wants to talk about the heavy tree machine. It just sits in the corner, collecting dust, which is something Sam's sure none of the ads ever showed it doing. A thousand and two different uses. A must for any home. These are the things the ads said. The ads had pictures of the machine puffing smoke, shooting sparks, practically repelling dust. Sam could never quite figure out what the machine was supposed to be doing in any of the pictures, and, at a thousand dollars, it seemed pretty steep, but Mary said they needed one, which at the time was good enough for Sam.

It had taken five men, not including Sam, to install the heavy tree machine in the basement, and, although each of these men in turn expressed their admiration or jealousy of Sam for having purchased such a fine specimen of machinework, none of them could actually tell him what it did -- or even if it was already doing it.

And so the machine sat, for all appearances doing nothing but sitting, making it very difficult to maneuver anywhere in the basement except directly near the door and necessitating the removal of more than a few of Sam's old boxes, which Mary had insisted he would be able to keep but which she now admitted probably ought to go anyway.

The only thing Sam felt confident that the machine was doing was eating up space and electricity. It wasn't plugged in at all, which was odd, since Sam could not have said how the machine was getting its power. But he knew that it was. The periodic flicker of the lights in the kitchen above was enough evidence of that, and if he needed further proof there was always the monthly utility bill -- which Mary naturally insisted that he pay.

by Fred 7:25 PM

 

Because it caught my eye, and because I'd hate to see a day pass with no topic, here's one from my search referrals yesterday:

heavy tree machine

C'mon, write somethin'. I dare ya.

by Fred 7:08 PM

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

 

Hand puppets, apparently. Or, really, hands without puppets. Naked sock puppets, we call them. Or Manual Americans. The Hensons have always been great advocates of Manual Americans, giving them leading roles in movies and television shows. The contributions Manual Americans have made to the Addams Family franchise cannot be overlooked either. The Tony award for the musical Avenue Q shows how far the fight for Manual Americans' rights has come, and the ensuing flap over the award's validity shows how far there is to go.

Mostly, though, it's Jon. Jon makes me laugh. Holding his own three-way conversations--and sometimes four-way, where he fills in my part, too--he's as entertaining as my own personal performance of the Muppet Show.

It's weird, for outsiders it may be cloying, it just might be the harbinger of complete mental collapse, but it's damn funny. You should see the way a hand will stick out its thumb at you.

(Oh, dang, now I have the internet-is-for-porn song stuck in my head.)

by Sharon 11:59 PM

 

What makes you laugh?

by Fred 1:24 PM

Monday, September 27, 2004

 

"No," the clerk said, "that's not the model you want." His eyes, I swear, flashed red -- as did the iPod he showed me -- but just long enough to make me question my sanity briefly. It's not like I didn't question my sanity many times a day, but there were certain instances that rang truer than others. Instances with color, for instance. "This is the model you want," he said, and I found myself nodding in agreement. Of course, I agreed, the model he held in his hand was most assuredly the model I wanted.

"You won't even have to spend all that time downloading music with this model," the salesman smiled. "Everything you want is already here."

He pressed the smooth, oblong piece of plastic into my hand. "Just listen," he said, nodding slowly yes to me; "Listen to this," he said again, his voice deep and slow, sounding like red silk being pulled through still water. I listened. Through the earphones came soothing, mellow jazz sounds, Coltrane and Davis; rocking cadences, Beatles and Stones and Who; blues from Robert Johnson and Howlin' Wolf to Muddy Waters; big band and reggae and country and soul and folk; everything I could have thought of and everything I did think of, sooner than I thought of it, it was there.

Every song I wanted was on this small rectangular piece of plastic. As was, at least in my ears, a voice urging me to commit horrible crimes -- murder, mayhem, manslaughter. Kill them, the voice urged me, kill them all. Blood. Dismemberment. Veins in my teeth. Eyeballs and brain matter. Spurting arteries and blueing skin. That's what the demon iPod whispered to me, under the lyrics of Mick Jagger and Marvin Gaye. Die, it said to me, die and kill and destroy. Kill. Kill them all.

I snatched my credit card, fast, from the clerk, thanked him for his time, and walked rapidly down the stairs. Every person I passed, I breathed a sigh of relief at his or her continuing presence among the living of this planet. They had no idea how close they had come. As I skipped down the staircase, I just hoped against hope that no one walking up would be seduced by the flashing red iPod the way I had almost been.

"Rape, murder.... it's just a shot away, it's just a shot away..."

by Generik 11:30 PM

 

New Toy

by Generik 9:39 AM

Saturday, September 25, 2004

 

I don't know about you, but when the zombie penguins attack, I'm going to be very far away indeed. Well, as very far away indeed as I can manage, that is. You know, on my salary. It isn't much. It barely covers expenses. Quit looking at me like that. It's all fine and well for you to say go very far away indeed if the zombie penguins decide to attack somewhere a thousand miles from here. Then we're already far away. But I can't exactly go galavanting around the globe on my civil servant's income, now can I? Even if it is to escape the mad hordes of bloodthirsty undead water fowl who even now the radio says have taken most of North America.

And you see now, that's cheating, isn't it? Because it all but ensures that there isn't anywhere very far away if they do get here. If Europe falls to undead penguins and we can't hop across the pond to America, where do we go? Japan? Australia? On my stipend? I don't think so. And what if, sneaky buggers, they decide to attack there first, cutting us off? That hardly seems fair, even by nightmarish post-apocalyptic standards, but that's probably what's going to happen.

Now, if there were only a couple of them, and they attacked, say, the post office in town, and I took a week's holiday as very far away as, say, the next room, then I think we'd be okay. Because it's not as if the zombie penguins are going to reimburse me for cost incurred, is it? Not bloody likely. Bloody penguins.

by Fred 11:59 PM

 

Where will you be when the zombie penguins attack?

by Fred 3:58 PM

Friday, September 24, 2004

 

birthday,

In honor of my beautiful daughter, who turns one year old today.

by Nyssa23 10:43 AM

Thursday, September 23, 2004

 

Am I a giraffe? Now you're just being silly. You know I'm not a giraffe. A giraffe is an African ruminant mammal having a very long neck and legs. It has a tan coat with orange-brown or black splotches and short horns. I don't have any of those things, and neither did Uncle Olaf. You know perfectly well that the splotches on his coat were green and gray, and he bought it for a dime at a yard sale that wasn't anywhere near the plains of Africa.

What? No, a giraffe is not someone who robs at sea or plunders the land from the sea without commission from a sovereign nation. That's a pirate. I already told you that. There's no such thing as a pirate giraffe, no matter what Uncle Olaf wrote in his journal or what you think you saw in his books. He was a thief and a liar and a liar and a thief, and you'd do best to stop reading that kind of nonsense and concentrate on your homework.

No, your homework does not have anything to do with giraffes or plotting a course to a planet in the Camelopardalis constellation where you think Uncle Olaf hid his evil army of giant robot giraffes. Your homework is algebra. One-x plus two-x plus three-x plus nothing about giraffes. You should stop reading those books late at night. Don't think I don't know. Uncle Olaf never had a robot army and you're just going to have to accept that.

No, you can't have a raise in your allowance so you can buy spaceship parts. Did I or did I not say there is no robot-giraffe homeworld? I don't care if Uncle Olaf drew you a map. It's not going to happen. Don't make me lock you in the room with the spotted leopard again.

No, it's not a giraffe either. Do your homework.

by Fred 3:11 PM

 

Are you a giraffe?

by Fred 1:38 PM

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

 

[removed by author]

by Fred 6:10 PM

 

under the stairs

by Sharon 9:48 AM

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

 

listen, then write

by Fred 1:58 PM

Monday, September 20, 2004

 

The trouble began when they started shooting.

"Hang 'em high!" someone shouted, and before we knew what had happened, that's just what they'd done. Of course, the ceilings are pretty low throughout the building, except in the corporate offices. I've always thought that would be a bone of contention for the union, if we had a union -- but if we had a union, they'd probably have advised against the whole shooting and hanging business in the first place.

Not that I can say I'd blame them. I mean, it's one thing to craft an effigy of your corporate taskmasters and set fire to in a sort of desperate glee in the cubicle at the end of the row. Who hasn't done that? But it's a whole different kettle of fish when you start actually hanging and shooting people. It's going to come out of somebody's paycheck, and I think you can pretty much guarantee it won't be management's.

Or, at least, what's left of management. Before I'd really known what was happening, I'd heard somebody shout, "Head 'em off at the pass!" -- which, as it turned out, was my cubicle. (I always suspected I worked in a pass.) I'd poked my head out for only a second when I heard what sounded like a "Yeehah!" and saw one of mail clerks ride by on a horse. He shouted to his compatriots, fast behind him, and shot his pistol in the air.

The union probably wouldn't have liked the horses either.

by Fred 4:39 PM

 

troubleshooting

by Sharon 1:16 PM

Friday, September 17, 2004

 

It's strange, how you integrate new social customs.

My first introduction to Camfield's friends was a party at which 6 of them took a shower. I thought to myself, "Alrighty, then. Loose whackos. I'll just keep to myself, then." When really, I just didn't feel pretty enough or glamorous enough or interesting enough to fit in with them. And I mean "fit in" kinda literally, given the size of the shower.

But all lines lead in spirals in this town, and it turned out that the biggest Invisible City fan, my friend Mo, was dating the cute red-haired one in the shower, and they were part of the "friends who game" group that the girl who made my kitty hat was trying to invite us to. Don't try to sort it out. Point is: Small world, and I had an invite.

We didn't go to Farm Party that first year. It sounded like Camping in Texas in July (right.), and a lot of pudding. With the shower people, after all. So we declined, and just stuck to our board games on Monday nights.

New Year's Eve was different, though. I was starting to feel welcomed, starting to feel missed when I wasn't there. So we went to the party, and how can you not love people after singing the Rainbow Collection with them? That, and a clever little game designed by one of the other guys called "Drunk or Nude?" (and should be called "Both").

Tonight, I have an invitation. Frank is christening his new hot tub. Tomorrow's party is clothed. But tonight, I might as well go swimming.

by Sharon 5:52 PM

 

might as well go swimming

by Fred 9:23 AM

Thursday, September 16, 2004

 

The connections between things are whispy today. Thin gauze, bits of fluff, not even spider silk, just tufts of ephemera connect the ideas in my head today. Conversation is indistinct, and I'm not quite awake. Blame it on weird sleep patterns last night, or post-vacation ennui, or first-day-of-period blahs, or support-pager blues. Any or all, but my skin is a mess and my head is full of gray smoke. I wore cute shoes to counteract it a little, but that has sent me on a shoe mania. I found a good website that carries large sizes and has a good return policy. I didn't place any orders. As with relationships, never make any major shoe decisions on the first day of your period. I found a pair of Kangaroos sneakers, though. Remember those, with the zipper on the side? I had a pair of those when I was a kid. You could fit, like, a penny in the pocket. Expensive, obtuse penny loafers, useless but stylish. But I was shopping for strappy, comfortable, dressy, promotable sandals that wouldn't chafe, flatten my arches, or make my feet sweat. Preferably for less than $100. In size 11. I don't ask for much, do I? I wouldn't know; the connections between things are whispy today, and my head is full of fluff.

by Sharon 6:00 PM