I will call you the link-y post.

Yesterday I stumbled onto this article which threw me into a brief fit--complete with alarmist imaginings of tuna riots in the Pacific Northwest and marauding packs of wolves along the lines of The Day After Tomorrow.

Hours later, I came across this. Draw your own conclusions, is all I'm saying.

On a lighter side, this made me think of Alex's brothers.

We'd better have a good explanation for all the fun we had.

Take a little artist's block and a restless pen. Add some Mr. Clean Citrus fumes. Ninety degree temps. A dash of Ani. And you've got yourself one strange mix of housewifery and girl power.

The boy-o's at Rhapsody have finally decided to include DiFranco's lovelies. Give 'er a whirl.

Treat.

Yesterday was one of those days when sunshine and events conspire to give Buffalo the appearance of a city that's alive and kicking.

Our street took part in the Garden Walk, an event which I liken to Halloween for the over-fifty. Suburbanites arm themselves with small dogs and large bags filled with antacids and battery-operated fans. The weather is always lovely in a gracious, holiday manner. Nature decorates with obliging butterflies and a couple of drab hummingbirds. The horde of smirking homeowners that terrorizes our sidewalks sits on its porches while non-participants shut their shades and wait for curfew.

And we all stand watch behind our sunglasses to size up the traffic and guess at the costumes. Retired teachers are as abundant as fairy princesses. Divorcees are the hookers of the bunch. Spinsters the ghosts--white-legged and shy. The old Polish ladies are the bullies, travelling in packs, dominating the middle of the streets, eyeing you up for candy. Shaved-head rednecks and young gay men are the masked monsters--outnumbering everyone else and completely indistinguishable from each other. And they all manage to get along until it comes time to find a parking spot.
And then the switchblades come out and it gets good.

"I'll take the branches. They must certainly be the heaviest."

I'm all about the Brave Little Tailor recently. Which is strange because as a kid I couldn't give him the time of day. Probably because he was neither soldierly nor good looking. I was a shallow sort of child. The dogeared portions of my Grimm's were shamefully the pages concerning ballgowns and kissing.

But see how I've reformed! No more empty romantic notions. From here out, it's all got to do with quick wits and courage. And perhaps a well-crafted tunic or two.

Great glowing green gorillas.

"I saw the trailer for King Kong today."
"How was it?"
"Pretty damn bad."
"Well, it is King-fucking-Kong."
"No, it is Peter-fucking-Jackson."

Get your hair out of my soy yogurt.

We went to the no-longer-on-Lexington Co-op yesterday in a reluctant effort to "Support Our City!" (yeah!).

I'm sorry, but I just can't do it again. Too many dirty hippies.

Pirouetting goldfish and eye of newt.

Last night we made ourselves watch as Empire came to its limping conclusion. It started off okay, but if you're going to completely abandon reality, at least let the cute boy and the solemn priestess end up together. As if any of the Vestals remained virgins. They were selling that shit off left and right, I'm sure.

So we retired to the computer room in disgust and he played golf while I sat listless in the papasan and was much better entertained by this screensaver. There's something zen-like about ticking off the images you see in fractals and light:

fish bones...no,
crushed insects
...a trachea
stars...not stars...
...helicopter searchlights...yes
eagle headdress
phoenix beak...

It's an odd mix between precision and randomness. That and it leaves you with a list of things that sounds like a recipe for witches broth.

When does MY someday begin?

It's going to sound unlikely, but if ever there was an immortal, it's Babyface.

Don't ask me why I was rifling through the Kenneth Edmunds archives, but I've found that, other than the coiffure modifications made in the lapsing decades, the man does not change.

Yes, the name. But I suspect it's simply a device to conceal godliness by admitting to it. Roundabout logic. You know, kindof like Lestat in that awful(-ly good) movie that no one saw.

I'm not up to any hefty searching, though. You're just asking to be turned into a sprig of rowan or a long-necked wren when you start sniffing around such matters.

Red Badge of...

I've burst a blood vessel in my eye. I'm embarrassed to explain how, but let's just say that some vigorous vomitting and the aforementioned bottles of cranberry juice were involved. After a panicky internet search to make sure that it's nothing permanent, I'm now just waiting for it to go away.

In the meantime, I'm torn between hiding it behind sunglasses and displaying it in it's full, maniacal glory. I'm unsettling as it is, but the prospect of staring down Elmwood crazies and hapless check-out boys with my Look-of-Death-made-better might be too much to pass up.

End of Days.

The house is cleared of guests. The linens are piled, the dishes are washed, the half empty bottles of cranberry juice have been dumped. All went well. Outside of a few slips (forgivable because they were made on the front porch after eleven), I got through without offending my sister-in-law's religious sensibilities, so we'll call that a near success.

But she was lucky to get out when she did, as I think our bottled irreverence was beginning to leak. After dropping her off we spent the rest of the afternoon letting it all out, restocking the cupboards and shelves with blaspemy. Whispering "goddammits" into the corners.

And got some quiet time in.

A passing remark made by The Boy: "Constantine AND The Gospel According to Jesus Christ? Wow. It really is Sunday."

Crazy grandma quote of the day.

"Here's a card for your anniversary, sweeteeee."
(pause)
"Can you fill it out for meee? Sign it 'With love'."

Easy Breezy.

When in doubt, you can always fall back on silhouettes.

Gotta go. Gotta chat. Gotta eat huge mounds of ciabatta and sage cheddar.

All hail.

Despite the fact that ABC's Empire could be set in Narnia for all its historical inaccuracy, I am enjoying it thoroughly. There's nothing I love more than the sympathetic and completely farfetched illustration of Caesar as a man o' the people. Uh-huh.

That being said, I am eagerly awaiting this. I'm hoping for a more multifaceted portrayal by Ciaran Hinds, who's been practically plucked from an Austen novel and whose voice always sounds like it's coming from underwater.
Yes, I am poised on the edge of crushdom for this one.

There's got to be more than this boat I'm in.

The house has started acting weird again. Different than it's wintertime fits. More organic in a way. It's probably the warm. But old smells are being reanimated--the back hall reeks of puppy once more. The bathroom is seething and dripping and no amount of strangling can stop it or the tiny gnats that are driving me to distraction. The kitchen floor is shedding it's imitation linoleum squares like snakeskin.

And the upstairs is noisy when no one is home but me. Like the deck of a ship. No more of the cold patience of our January ghosts. But instead the hot militant sounds of flapping sails and wooden creaking and sailors running and all. And the house pitches in the wet winds and the trees slap themselves against its sides. And I go green and sickly and try to keep my pencils from rolling overboard.

Will he, nil he.

I may be the only one of my peers that has no memories of the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I blocked it all out years ago. I have deep seated issues with Gene Wilder that I'm always happy to noise about (it's the bleary eyes). I also have a fear of midgets of which I'm much less proud. Not to mention my phobias concerning drowning (especially in food), fat kids (remember the blond boy with the bugle in The Last Crusade? shudder), and dance numbers.

Surprisingly, I have no problems with squirrels.

Really, not the film for me.

So, I'll be sitting it out and waiting for Burton to wake the hell up and make Alice like a good little crackpot.

Shopping plaza adventures.

Giddy from air-conditioning and riding a Starbuck's contact high, they spent ludicrous amounts of money.

Initiates.

Today we held our breath and joined the cord of traffic that was feeding itself into every Barnes and Noble in the city. I've taken part in many a universal craze, but was curious as to how the Nerd Frenzy appears to an outsider.

The Potterists are a different geek crowd than what I'm used to. Made up primarily of overweight twelve year olds and adult females that drive VW bugs. It's a cleaner crowd, more feminine, less redolent. They sport pink purses rather than wallet chains, and Chai tea lattes instead of Mountain Dew. I was inclined to sneer at them and their wan geekitude, but I was mistaken. They look softer and milder, but they move fast, real fast. My cronies and I go at a comfortable plod, developed from decades-long relationships with Lucas and Tolkien. But I was aghast at the energy of these new-comers to obsession and, I must admit, slightly respectful.

It's a fresh crowd, with the annoying intensity that goes with it, but they must be given their due and their place. So, I lifted up my arms and my copy of The Golden Ass and suffered them to pass around me and near me with their high voices and fat jabbing fingers, all intent on those teetering mounds of green...

Where the shadows lie.

I have a passion for national park webcams.

Tell me this doesn't look like Mordor. Well, it did at five-thirty a.m. under a warning red sky.
I was terrified by (false?) stories of freshwater barracuda while canoeing here.
Instead of deer signs, this place has mountain lion signs.
And here's where I'll go back to die. I figure I'll lodge myself in a nice snow drift between Paradise and the Ice Caves.

Paint fumes.

Meh. Not the greatest scan. But not the greatest picture either. I kept getting distracted by thunder and caramel Hershey's kisses. Excuses.

But these guys are still there, and I wanted to give them a nod. I think the glamour's starting to rub thin, though. They're beginning to look more puckish than ever. Or maybe they're just getting careless.

B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Hey, you.

Listen to the Dandy Warhols. The cd with the banana on it. I think it's called Welcome to the Monkey House.

I'm going to call it funkish, grimy, otherworldly, and sweet. Think sweaty candy necklaces.

And speaking of the simian side, I finished Wicked. I'll recommend it as a library rental, not a purchase. Gorgeous cover, beautifully written. But the plot was a little aimless and I think he got lost in the language. So there.

Ziggy Piggy.

"I was thinking, maybe we should take Mari to Fat Bob's. Give her a little Bee-Bee-Q."

"Barbeque? Isn't your sister-in-law from the south?"

"Well, yeah. But she's from the Beef South, not the Pork South."

Is that a trireme in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

I'm going to give myself a little pat on the back for finally finishing The Peloponnesian War. It was arresting, intense, completely linear, and a surprisingly fast read.

But I feel that I must share the secret behind getting through these ridiculous texts that I tackle.

Well. I allow myself to develop serious crushes on historical figures.

It's all really very simple. I would go so far to say that the authors themselves encourage the process. Take any young man from either noble birth or meager beginnigs and follow his military and political ramblings. Add a generalship and my eye is caught. Throw in the words "daring" and "brave" and the heart palpatations begin. Describe him as "brash" and "inventive" and I'm in a full swoon.

In the past three weeks I've had mental affairs with the Spartan General Brasidas (bellicose), the Athenian General Demosthenes (brilliant), and the navarch and hero Thrasybulus (who needs pretty boy Alcibiades?). There was also a brief dalliance with Lysander ("where the lion's skin will not reach, it must be patched with the fox's"). And a mild curiosity regarding Cyrus.

When one of them dies in battle or is executed by enemy Syracusans, I dry my eyes and move onto the next. They are very abundant. And that's how I go, leap-frogging from one dashing man to the next until I end the book exhausted and emotionally drained, but enlightened nonetheless. And onto the next.

I have a feeling that The Mathematical Experience is going to be a tough one.

zzzz...

whisper: Good night, strappy sandals. (nuzzle nuzzle)

Well...duh.

Not two hours ago I was gazing into the closet, appraising my funerary wardrobe with despair and shrieking into the next room, "To hell with it! I'm wearing pants and a sweater tomorrow and you can go to hell, hell, hell!"

Quiet.
Me devising another onslaught. How dare he not rise to the bait?

Swift muttering from the computer room followed by Genesis on Rhapsody (sounds like a biblical perversion, no?).
Phil Collins' voice is the ultimate sedative. The Boy is aware of this and will put his knowledge to genius effect--usually as a last attempt at self-preservation.

That was the low. I may have sulked a bit. I may have shed one tear into a bowl of lukewarm leftover chili. Perhaps while blubbering the lyrics to "Throwing it all Away."

But I rallied, abandoned the gorgeous pink and green concoction that I would never have pulled off (sorry, you know who), frankensteined a darker ensemble, trod down to Elmwood amidst approving thunder and found my salvation...in shoes.

I swear this is royal blood running through my skin.

We recently purchased Frog Prince bookends and I love them.

Let's just ignore the fact that the story is an allegory for girlish horror at the male genitalia.

(Well, it's true. I have my sources.)

Glamour.

The other day we passed by a painting crew that appeared to consist of three fierce-looking twelve year old boys who were clinging to the window ledges and blasting "Prince Igor" from a stereo. I exchanged surprised looks with my companion and dismissed it as a fluke.

Today, same crew, same classical music. This time I stopped and cocked my head in disbelief.

If it happens a third time, I'm bringing a net and some iron filings and am going to demand my three wishes.

The Dilemma.

Now, I love the Fourth as much as the next person. But each year leaves me in an unlikely predicament that starts with a morning of indecision and ends with me second guessing myself for the rest of the day. I like to call it the Tee-shirt Dilemma.

It normally comes down to the Final Five. Each shirt is perfectly patriotic, each appealing in its own way, each just interesting and obscure enough to effect the essential Cooler Than Thou image. But which to pick?

1. The Heil to the Chief: Procured in Deutzchland and it shows. Says something in German about the U.S. and West German collaboration. Perfectly innocent except for the huge black eagle that dominates--looking like it's flown straight off some perch in Burchesgarten. Not really Fourth fare, but it remains in the running, just in case I'm feeling punchy.
2. The VeePee: Another German item, though much less risky. Great colors, great lines. Is dated to 1984 which gives it a nice retro feel. But alas, it's a wee bit too small. Has a good chance, but often comes in as runner up, unless I feel like sucking in the gut all day.
3. The Contender: Has won the last two years. Sports the 82nd Airborne Wings on the front with a nod to Fort Bragg. Has cute little blue caps on the sleeves and neck. Is red, white and blue. Has garnered many approving comments by WWII veterans in grocery store parking lots. But. I'm always a little uncomforable in it. Do I really want to be rocking out the "REENLIST ALL-AMERICAN" ("you snot-nosed chicken shits" (implied)) around a potentially liberal crowd? Not really. One must be respectful of one's hosts.
4. The "There is only One tee shirt, and Jessica is it's wearer.": My personal fave. Best design. Best fit. Has a tiny blue patch on the front with a perfectly drawn chopper. The only writing is on the back, and it's unobtrusive and cool. Unfortunately, it's also in Arabic. So, that's that.
5. The Tangerine Dream: Another close one. Reads a bold "AIR ASSAULT" in black below a huge set of 101st Air Attack wings. Totally sweet. Is also a cool citric color--fresh and eyecatching. But the fit is a little off. Also, the logo was put on crooked which inevitably leads to my pulling the whole shirt back and forth all day like a five year old. Also, if I'm inclined to wear my zip-up hoodie, the only writing that shows is A-S-S. Character appropriate? Perhaps. Family backyard friendly? Not so much.

So, the decision making begins.

And...Go.

Last night was the deep breath before the plunge.

We did some prepwork. Bought a disposable camera, buffered the fridge with beer, stocked up on salsa, made a couple of lists, washed the linens, cleaned the tapestries. Then we sat on the porch until two, slowly exhaling smoke from our last two cigarettes and listening to the Friendship Festival fireworks. And the night exhaled with us and cooled the streets.

Some late night quotes which I blame entirely on the chill:

J:"I bet lembas tastes like birthday cake and looks like a fish fry."

A:"Do you use the Dwarvish, Elvish or Mannish words for things?"

J:"You know you have a problem when you start dreaming about Greeks."

A:"This conversation is awesome."

A:"This conversation needs more wine."

J:"Leave it to the Canadians to have their Fourth of July on the First."

And then the clacking wooden windchimes chased us indoors.

"Is your name Conrad?"

Rumpelstiltskin.

So the name. What does it mean? Well, I was tempted to go the "Rumple-stil(t)s-kin, Rumple-steals-kin--hey! He steals kids! Get it?"-moron route but did a little research instead. The original German is Rumpelstilzchen. "Rumpel" means to jolt (or perhaps to make noise). The second part is a little tricky. "Stelze" means stilt. "Stulz" means lame--though I'm not sure I trust the source on that one (but he does tear himself in two). "Stolzem" means stolen which sounds promising, but I think that's reaching a little far with the translation. Apparently there's an ancient game still played in Germany called rumpele stilt oder der poppart, which is the obvious origin, but I couldn't find out how it's played. Do they use stilts? Do they pretend to be lame? Do they spin flax into gold and steal firstborns (a girl can hope)? Who the hell knows?

So, I'm going with "little guy that jumps around like a fool--maybe with sticks". Which is pretty much said in the the original story "a really strange man was dancing around the fire, hopping on one foot and chanting". So, that for all my looking.

Play. Listen. Repeat.

I can't stop listening to this track. Sounds like a queer mix of TATU (yeah, that's what I said) and Zero 7 (not Remy Zero, for chrissakes). They're called Telepopmusik and the name is only half the fun.

As you were.

We were driving back from somewhere, sweltering, in our own separate moods, and I asked of the glove compartment, "I wonder whatever happened to -----?". I got no response and expected none. I was talking more to myself and was abashed that I spoke aloud at all. My remark wasn't based in nostalgia, but God forbid I get falsely accused of sentimentality.

So, we drove on. Not four minutes later, my copilot, in a tone of suspicious blandness, said: "Hey, lookee. It's -----."

I turned, looked, and started to crow something about my innate precognition or latent superpowers or blah, but stopped on seeing the person. S(He) was at a bus stop, looking at a cell phone, dressed for summer, oddly changed and unchanged in the way people get after the years, and rocking back and forth. You know. Like a Cray-zee.

And my snide comment fell short. Way short. And I may have gotten misty. But who's to say? And we drove on in a different sort of silence.

Another hill?

It really is a book about walking, isn't it?

I'm a bit of a stickler for artistic fidelity. If you're going to illustrate something, you'd better have done your reading. Granted, I'm not sure that there's mention of fairies, but some liberties are allowed. But there will be no jester-Schmendricks in blue tights and patches here. And every harpy is drawn according to her mythic blueprint.

Is now the time to leap onto my soapbox regarding the differences between artists and illustrators?

Nah.

Crazy grandma quote of the day.

"So, Grandma, when are you going to stay with your sister?"

"Oh, bah," waving a fat little hand, "later. When the corn is out."

Seven in the morning?

What's more embarassing than being completely schooled in a run by a five foot seven, forty-eight year old greyhair?

When said greyhair is your dad.

Pertinent quotes, in order of increasing offensiveness:

"Good pace: Nice and easy."
"Pretty good for a starter run."
"So, tomorrow? Pick you up at seven to do your route in the city?"

Wheeze.

"Ehh-vreee-thing will change."

I was standing in line at Wegman's forever, apparently not having learned my lesson about blonde checkout girls and their lack of work ethic. Ten minutes in, I had resolved to not throw the Requisite Fit. Fifteen minutes in, I was successfully distracting myself with Mars bars and thoughts of Batman. At twenty minutes I was singing "Brand New Colony" semi-out-loud, looking like a wacko, but not caring and holding firm.

At the second heartfelt "Oooh-ooooooh" I met the gaze of a neighboring toddler and stopped short.

Good lord, she has white hair and violet eyes. So help me god, she has violet eyes.
Not in the Easter Bunny sense. Not even in the scary albino serial killer sense. But in the "oh-mum-Shiva, swallow your soul" sense.
And she was having none of me.
It could have been my blatant, animal fear that put her off.

But we've finally come to it. When the little daemons no longer keep to their designated hiding spots, but sit in the open, sizing us up and kicking their feet against shopping cart booster seats. Bold and smug and daring you to point them out.

Rhymes with 'duck'.

And it's not 'suck'. Though that would do just as well.

Christ. I don't know what it is with this picture. This is the second botched attempt. I'm guessing that I should move on, but lord.

Maybe it's my checkered history with barnyard fowl. But I can't find it in myself to forgive the bastards.

"Are we going to Addis Ababa, Mr. Luthor?"

Holy Horus.

Did anybody else hear about the twelve year old Ethiopian kid that got rescued by lions? She had been kidnapped and beaten and was being taken away for marriage. They were in the middle of nowhere when three lions drove off her assailants and stood guard over her for half a day. When the rescue team finally found her, the lions simply got up and walked back into the forest.

Am I wrong, or did this girl just fall into folklore?

Either that or she's an X-Man in the making.

Update: Uh. Followed by this . I don't know what's going on over there in Africa, but I kindof like the sound of it.

All better.

Fixed those misbehaving links.

Are they turn of the century aircraft? Are they prehistoric sea life? Space ships? Math equations?

Shrug. Dunno. But they are pretty effing awesome.

Ever tesser?

It was a beautiful and complicated creation of steel wires and ball bearings and Lucite, parts of it revolving, parts swinging like pendulums.
Madeleine L'Engle A Swiftly Tilting Planet

If there were ever representations of the fifth dimension (the cube cubed and cubed again) in art, these would be them. The artist is Lee Bontecou, and wowza.

I love books. (memed)

(tagged by Swish)

Number of books I've owned: Oh, lord. Well, if it's any indicator, our next big purchase is going to be another bookcase. To relieve our overstuffed coffee table, and night stands, and pantry...
Last book I bought: Two on the same day--a collection of Rackham-illustrated Aesop's (four dollars, worth every damn penny and occupying a place of honor by my colored pencils), and Wesbster's Dictionary of Word Origins (yet to be cracked).
Last book I read: I'm currently in the throes of Donald Kagan's (brilliant) The Pelopponesian War. This is after a failed attempt at Thucydides' masterwork on the same topic. I guess you've gotta start somewhere that's right for you.
Five books that mean a lot to me:
Achilles by Elizabeth Cook (the closest any modern writer has come to imitating the classics--it's poetry masquerading as prose)
The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien (once a year--I try to start them in September, in honor of--well, you should know)
The Iliad by Homer (because The Odyssey is for chumps)
The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle (the reason that I'm such a wack case over the movie is because the screenplay was done by Beagle himself--this book is like a series of pictures)
East of the Sun, West of the Moon written and illustrated by Mercer Mayer (I still have the same copy that I got when I was three and I credit it with jump-starting my fascination with illustration and with all things magic. A must have.)

I'll hand this off to Crunchy, the Toybox, and Marshmallow world.

Glad I wore my sneaks.

There's an odd phenomenon that occurs in summertime Buffalo.

Each Saturday, the lawns of Hoyt Lake are dotted with afternoon brides and their entourages. They descend from every church within a twenty mile radius, choke the streets with their SUV limos, and stand in lines to get the perfect shot on the museum steps. It's all very pretty and very glam as the bridesmaids press together and the photographers buzz and the groomsmen puff out their chests.

But if you look closely enough you can see the cracks, and this is why I like to watch. Because really, those bridesmaids are all eyeing each other up. And those in Vera Wang smile and strut, and the losers bow their heads and mutter hatefully against their own bride-queen. And the groomsmen are sweating and painfully aware of the smell of stale vodka seeping through their tuxes. And the photographer is fending off the mothers while trying to keep that loose cocker spaniel from getting into the shot. And as the day gets hotter, the sewage running from Forest Lawn starts to warm and stink.

And it all becomes something of a comic performance, set before a stern panel of old men and speedwalkers. And everyone is applauded or assailed before being sent off to his respective reception.

"Buffalo here we come. Whooo...."

I don't know what we did to offend, but some little god of travel seemed bent against us this past Thursday. We performed all the right rituals*, but it was the Worst Drive Ever.

It was as if we had a checklist of misadventures to complete:
-Get lost at first exit.
-Throw tantrum (broken sunglasses, mangled atlas, and banged knees a plus).
-Conclude that one and a half hard rolls and eight warm Coca Cola's are not sufficient travel fare.
-Get redirected into the dark heart of West "Is that man leaning on a shotgun?" Virginia.
-Exhale in relief crossing over the border of Pennsylvania before being plunged for two hours and a mile and a half of PA traffic.

That evening found us staggering like madmen into my mother's kitchen and grunting for a good hour over chicken cordon bleu before regaining our senses and heading back out.

*Shit. It was Hoist. We forgot Hoist.

Towheads underfoot.

I've been a fan of the Virginia Dare story for quite a while and was ecstatic when we stumbled onto Roanoke Island by chance.

The facts are interesting but tame:
She was the granddaughter of the founder of Roanoke.
She was the first English child to be born in America (1587).
Roanoke was part of the Virginia colony, and is in modern day North Carolina.
Roanoke disappeared without explanation.

But the myth is absolutely fascinating.

When the inhabitants of Roanoke disappeared, legend has it that they settled with the local natives. Virginia was fair and lovely and much admired, especially by one determined brave who tricked her into a boat and rowed her to the island of Roanoke, vowing to kill her if he could not have her. Trapped and distressed, she changed into a white doe as soon as she touched land and escaped. In the succeeding years, it became tradition for young indians to travel to the island in hopes of killing her. She evaded her fate until a certain hunter brought her down with a silver tipped arrow given to his father by Queen Elizabeth. He approached the animal and was appalled to hear her whisper her name before she died.

Pretty sweet. And a nice combo of European and American style. For a modern interpretation, read Neil Gaiman's 1604.

And I found it both unnerving and appropriate that all of the children I saw on our trip to the Outer Banks were exceptionally fair.

With a bit of a limp.

Off to the beaches of sunny Carolina.

What are the odds that any one of them was radioactive?

My lower left leg has been acting the part of Tasty Morsel this summer, proving to be absolutely irresistable to insects. First there were the multitudes of mosquitoes that left what I assume to be some satanic pattern of bites around my ankle. Then there's the violent welt on my tendon that I've simply been calling Mr. Spidey. And now the bee sting on my heel.
Who's to say what the injection of three types of insect poison into one area of my body is going to do, but I'm hoping for great things, people.

In the meantime, I'm playing dutiful invalid and occupying the couch. The baking soda poultice helped not at all. The ice pack served only to turn the entire foot blue. Perhaps some Mr. Veggie pizza will do the trick. Updates on my progress will be coming, but keep your fingers crossed for the appearance of either wings or the intense desire to eat my progeny.

X and Why?

Coldplay's new cd? Horrible. Unaware. Over-produced. Treacle.

And considering that I've spent the last few years kicking myself for enjoying them, this comes as just the reprieve I needed.

Whuh-huh.

I got home from a walk to find a petitioner on our neighbor's porch looking at me with intent.
You're next, buddy.
I swore silently and went inside knowing that I couldn't hide behind the blinds and wait this one out.

So I opened the door, smiled for the kid and let her deliver her schtick--something about cleaning up the Lakes and children dying of mercury poisoning and Governer Pataki being some kind of puppy-eating ogre. And I stood there, giving her my most unsettling look, growing increasingly jealous of her perfect complexion, feeling more and more like a sweating, beasty amazon, all while losing track of what she was saying.
That bee is coming closer. I don't really like her jean skirt. I think I need a jean skirt. I wonder if Banana Republic...Oh, shit. Did she just ask me a question?

At which point I muttered something about working on mercury in a lab a couple years back to test blahblah and that I thought the whole matter was "not that great an issue" (secretly thinking that if the "scientists" these yahoos had hired to run their tests were anything like the dumbass freshman version of myself, they'd better do some serious rechecking).
"But why do you think that?"

Sorry? Did she just ask me why? Didn't I just use the phrase "performed toxicity tests"? Shouldn't that have sent her running?

And here is where I came dangerously close to revealing that I hadn't a clue as to what I was talking about. That I had no real opinions on the matter. Or on much of anything at all outside of summer fashion. So, I mustered all of my archness, tried to avoid using the term "liberal hysteria", repeated myself more slowly, and thanked her before I disintegrated into a stuttering mess.

And returned with real concern to the issue of drawing a bear with pants.

"When they clean the street I'll be the only shit that's left behind."

There were many obstacles between me and the Gay Pride Parade yesterday. An allergic reaction to the finger I had plunged into my eye to fish out a lash. A much needed phone call from Milwaukee. The general protestations of my housemate ("I don't care that you're dressed like a girl today. I am not walking down Elmwood. Now put a washcloth over your cornea.").

So, instead I retreated to the porch where I found two new objects. In the center of the table was an ashtray and in the center of the ashtray was a bottle opener. My first impulse was to examine the ashtray in fascination--I hadn't seen an actual one since the mid-nineties and it was strange to behold. My second was to look around for the Bad Habit Fairy--that redcheeked sprite that trips madly onto deserving porches and leaves little gifts with nicotine-stained fingers.

And then it occurred to me that these were more likely the offerings of a landlady that had taken note of our summertime habits. That she, either as a sign of graciousness towards her accommodating tenants or in a fit of anger over her empty, much abused flower pot that had been serving us so well, had decided to plant her tokens. Whatever the reason, I stood on the porch facing these glaring symbols of dissipation, feeling not a little abashed as I saw ourselves through someone else's eyes.

Still, I contemplated leaving a bowl of beer on the back steps. You just never know.

Such a long way to go.

I'm going to cup my hand and very furtively whisper onto my palm the name of the song that I was so embarassed to play that I had to shut all windows and check twice for the landlady's car.

But there was really no way that I could resist. The helicopter leaves were falling and something in the air reminded me of North Carolina, and I was missing my parents and thinking about the colors of our living room from 1980. When the memories hit, you need to respond quickly, or you elsewise run the risk of wasting the day listening to soft rock and sitting on the floor with the photo albums.
And there are only so many stories about red dirt and rocket slides that The Boy can stomach.

Fine(ally).

After much stomping of the feet on Greg's part and much dragging of them on mine, the headshot for Webshite is done. Lucky for him it was finished during one of my cooler experimental phases--he came very close to being rendered as a Thundercat.

But I think it's time to get back. There's a little German girl that I left standing on the edge of a large lake. She'd be shaking her fists at me if I'd had the decency to give her any.

Part 2, part ii

The conversation that happened between the last two pics:

"You know you have to do one of me, right?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"You have to."
"I said, I know."
"And you have to make me cool. I know I'm not all that cool, but you have to do it."
"Don't be like that. You're...(faltering)...cool. (Recovering a bit) It just takes a little practice."
"Well, I just don't want to look like an asshole."
"Hm. That's a tough one. Just gimme some time."

And after it's completion:

Genuine surprise: "Hey, I thought you were going to make me look like a tool. But you made me look cool!"
"De nada."

Part 2

Haven't you always wanted a monkeee?

All right. So is everyone in agreement about Gorillaz sucking?

The band has two or three excellent songs, a bunch of crap, and the most brilliant marketing campaign ever. Who needs talent when you have a team of artists carefully crafting you into badassed perfection? It's amazing. It feeds right into the modern assumption that if it looks good, it is good. I mean, if you looked this cool, I'd buy your mediocre album too.

I think this may also be the start of the next big thing. The Resume With Headshot. Because an anime pose of you in Raybands and a yellow suit, throwing up the horns may be just the edge you need over the next guy.

Grand Island was straining under the weight.

Around five o'clock yesterday, the silence of the street and of the city was more than we could bear. The amazing weather had lost it's novelty and my "Hey, I'm Bored, Pay Attention To Me" phase was quickly being replaced by the desire to just pick a fight. So we abanadoned the bowl of salsa and the porch, threw ten Molsons in a plastic bag, and packed into the car with a defeated air.

Sigh.

Yes, it took all weekend, but we finally fell victim to the strange exodus that characterizes the beginning of summer. When city dwellers shrug their shoulders, grin sheepishly, and doff their urban pretentions in favor of toll booths and games of whiffleball in dogshit backyards.

uuh...

The uncharitable thoughts of the previous post have been rewarded with a case of writer's and artist's block.

Also with a bad dream about drowning, an inexplicable case of shin-splints, and a pesky craving for some Strawberry Quick.

My superstitions know no bounds.

Have you no shame?

To the portly man taking in his garbage cans: First put on a shirt, then I'll think about responding to your hearty hello.

Always three there are.

A tepid version. I may need to bite the bullet and invest in a new scanner.

And I discovered what had unnerved me about the garbage truck tableau. It was incomplete. Goddesses come in triad. Maiden, Mother, Crone. Artemis, Demeter, Hecate. Always, they correspond to phases of the moon--full, sickle, dark. Less often, they are tagged with certain colors--white, red, black. (Anyone fortunate enough to have read The Neverending Story, or unfortunate enough to have seen The Neverending Story: Part II, might have noticed this. White haired Moon Child, redheaded Xayide, and Dame Eyola who turns into a black tree are perfect examples. The Germans are nothing if not thorough.).

So, it dawned on me. Our sanitation vehicle is missing a Red Queen.

Anyone have any sultry, disembodied redheads laying around? No Raggedy Anns.

She of the many faces.

Giving the devil its due.

They were yellowjackets. I hate yellowjackets.

Crazy Grandma,

Where do you go when we make plans for lunch and you aren't there? To the noon o'clock Episcopalian service? To drink tea at Mrs. George's? Out for your daily twinkies? Or are you hiding in the bedroom, waiting for me to leave? Watching as I sit for half an hour on the porch and glare at the Adelphia guy and kick my feet against the plastic chair and periodically spaz out at the bees.

All I know is that, after ringing the bell twice and banging on your windows, I can only mutter my silent thanks and leave.

That bag on the screen door, by the way, contains the oatnut bread you so politely requested over the phone. Enjoy.

"I get up when I want, except on Wednesdays when I get rudely awakened by the dustman."

The garbage truck for our street has an odd accessory. Nailed somewhat unceremoniously to its side are two heads. The first is a monster mask. Nothing terribly scary--all mashed plastic and fake hair--your typical witchy ghoul. The second is from a mannequin--featureless, hairless, ghostly pale--again, nothing extraordinary.

But I find the pair of them to be horrific.

It's not so much the question of "What the hell are they doing there?". Every man needs a female totem--especially men with rigs. Sailors carve goddesses into the prows of their ships, pilots paint pinups on their jets. Who's to say that a garbageman doesn't have a similar bond with his truck? I would be disappointed if he didn't.

No, my problem is that there are two of them and that they are so desperately different. And when the truck moves they bounce and clack violently against each other and sometimes they kiss. Two sides of one goddess. And I run inside trembling because the sight is terrifying and maddening and completely appropriate. But I can't figure out if the effect is intentional or whimsical and I'm not about to ask her high priests with their sunshine grins and midnight blue uniforms.

Necessity breeds stupidity.

To clarify things, another Hansel and Gretel pic. Not quite what I imagined, and I'm still wracking my brains and my number two's on how to differentiate between little stones and little breadcrumbs.

But I suppose that they cast both at some point in the story, so there's my reprieve. I never understood why two children on the brink of starvation would choose to throw their food away in hopes of it leading them back to an abusive home. Especially considering that the stones had worked so well on the first attempt. I'm also at a loss as to how pocketsfull of pearls were going to help a family so obviously removed from civilization, whose only neighbors were the "thousands of birds of the forest", a crazed confectioner, and an excessively large duck. What good were baubles to people hacking out life on the Uzbakistani frontier? They would have done better to dismantle the witch's home and hunker down for a winter of toothaches. Or even better, develop a craft and start setting nets for the birds. At the very least, lead the duck home and enjoy one healthy meal. But wit does not seem to run in the forester's family.

I foresee approximately two hours of jubilation followed by endless dinners of poached sapphire and boiled ruby stew.

Chirp.

"But really I'm not actually your friend, but I am."

Well, I think I have the right to be a little angry.

I'm a stickler for sidewalk protocal. There are just certain rules that need to be followed if you are a pedestrian in a city.

--a single walker must move over for a couple
--two couples walking towards each other need to go single file. Don't be greedy. Unless of course it's an elderly couple, then move your asses over all the way.
--give wide berth to families with strollers or small children. Cross the street if you must. This saves you and the family time and embarassment--no one likes a gusher.
--Dog walkers must move over. If they refuse to move to the grass, they must suffer their dog to be petted.
--Walkers may greet other walkers.
--Runners may greet other runners.
--Runners and walkers are obliged to ignore each other. If you are a walker, do not assume that a runner has the time or breath to say hello. Gosh.
--Pedestrians always have the right of way. This includes surprise sprints in front of traffic at four-way stops.
--if you are in a car and ask a runner for directions, expect to be roundly abused.

and, as today showed some unlucky piece of shit:
--if you are a home owner with loose dogs that are prone to attack runners, you will be called a "stupid fucker" and your dog's life may be in danger.

Just a warning. But next time I'm taking a penknife and some fishing line, and I'm very creative.

Is the word "mussulman" even fit to print anymore?

Just when it seemed that the last two items clacking around in the old head were regarding Gilmore Girls and ice cream, I rediscover reading. It happens that we have a Parrish-illustrated abbreviation of the Arabian Nights, so praise be to Allah.

I don't know what I was expecting. I don't know if I'm disappointed or not. They are certainly pretty, certainly polite. But also completely anaemic. As if the storyteller were more concerened with having his tongue lopped off than with relating anything of interest. And I suppose that's the whole idea. I mean, Scheherazade feared nightly for the state of her neck. But it's no wonder that she lasted--not when the the sultan's ego was being constantly petted by each successive story.

After this I am definitely revisiting some tales from the more democratic North, where cruel and greedy rulers are dealt with in the most inventive ways.

Blah.

That's it. Tuesday nights have officially become Cherry Garcia nights. Why do I resist? I should just start stockpiling Ben&Jerry's frozen yogurt the way we do raisin bran and Labbatt's.

And that's all I got.

Has anyone else been really gunning for Christmas lately?

Passing the Torch.

Yes, I watched NBC's Hercules last night. No, I didn't have much of a problem with it. Yes, I did sit with one ear tuned to the plot and one eye fixed on a copy of Graves' Mythology just for fun. In my defense, the other ear was occupied by a slew of phone calls and some healthy post-dinner gossip.

In related news, it seems that Timothy Dalton has finally found his niche as That Guy Who's in Every TV Movie With Triremes, Sandals, and Spears. And I can't say that I disapprove. Rutger Hauer was getting a bit too old.

He called it Devolution.

Last week I allowed myself to participate in a little neighborly intrigue. My landlady, myself, and the next door lady converged on the lawn and bonded in the only way women know how--by clustering in a knot and deliberately and maliciously tearing apart the nearest lifeform.

The subject of our acrimony? Strange Gardening Man across the street. Over the past year his lawn has been the focal point of a neighborhood gripe. It started as something resembling a mud hut that reeked and crumbled and ran in goopy rivulets down the road when it rained. It has become incrementally better--a strange combination of green mounds and artfully fallen trees and haphazard flowers. I've watched it's progress and have decided that it's an entrance to a tunnel system for a race of subcity dwellers a la Lovecraft. I did not, however, mention this to my fellows.

But there we stood, silent and hissing. Our conversation touched on everything from the aesthetic to the practical, was peppered with bits of personal gossip ("Did you know he owns So and So?"), and was capped off with stray, unrelated complaints for good measure ("Don't even get me started on the company he keeps."). We were very thorough.

Perhaps from fatigue, perhaps from a vestigial sense of guilt, it ended as quickly as it started. We broke company, settled our feathers, cleaned our talons, and retreated behind our respective windows. And I vowed never to get caught outside again without a male buffer.

Great.

I walked into the house at two thirty last night more than a little drunk and nearly tripped over my dad's shoes. It seems that he had cut his fishing trip short and decided to join my mom who was already staying over.
A fierce but hushed debate then ensued in the kitchen outside of my sleeping parents' room.

Me, stuffing cold bockwurst into my face as a desperate preventative measure: "Maybe he isn't really here. Maybe my mom just set his shoes out for when he gets in tomorrow at noon."
The Boy, leaning up against the fridge and rolling his eyes: "How many people do you know drive green trucks with huge stickers of fish on the cabs?"
Me: "More than you might think, I'll have you know."
The Boy: "Well, I guess this means no pancakes tomorrow."
Me: "That's the least of our worries."
The Boy: "You got mustard on yourself."

"Where mute memories start talking."

I got two hits today from people googling for stuff. The first was for two words from a favorite childhood book of mine*, the second for a phrase from a song I used to sing in the second grade**. This, on top of the general reminiscing that comes from quiet and dusting and not having had enough to eat, made for an odd, lightheaded afternoon.

And it's Friday the 13th.

* A Wind in the Door
** Old Dan Tucker

Yawn.

Today's one of those days where I go looking for trouble just to have something interesting to talk about later. Unfortunately, I'm ill-equipped for starting shit.

I got chased halfheartedly by a neighbor's dog and almost kicked it.

A passing bum threw the standard gripe at my feet and I gave him a dirty look.

I toyed with the idea of stealing my uncle's copy of Theogeny. (It's thin and soft and the notes in Greek that he's written in the margins make it irresistable--I'm such a sucker for the random theta).

I got into a pissing contest with the electricians upstairs when I started blasting System of a Down.

And that's all I got. Poor fare for discussion over popcorn, I'm afraid. But it's clear and cloudless outside, and the air tastes like cold water, and I've a good walk ahead of me and leftover lasagna in the fridge, and no real cause to bitch.

Crazy Grandma quote of the day.

It's a sad day. My intolerant uncle could no longer stand the mood swings and finally agreed to put her on meds. So, in final homage to Her Crazedness here are two oldies:

(Fourth of July): "Yeah, you'll be counting telegraph poles in the back of the bus."

(at the dinner table, mouth of full of chocolate cake and various other sweet goopies): "Alex, do you think a fireplace is romantic?"

Gloves off.

Recently, a random passer-through admonished me "not to assume Alice is dark". I don't know which picture they'd stumbled on, but it likely wasn't my pastelled, butterflied version of the White Rabbit.

Regardless of what they saw, the only way I'm allowing myself to interpret this is as A Challenge.

Shannon-igans.

After a sleepless night trying to recreate my mom's lasagna in my head and an uneasy morning trying to decide if my aunt and cousin were worth the recreation, I ventured out of doors and into the rigors of the holiday.
I opted against running, as traffic on Mother's Day defies logic and law and can only be described as panicky. I kept my head down on the way to the store, assuming everyone I passed was either too grumpy or too drunk to make eye contact. I braved the florist and the chocolateer. I came home with an armload of daisies, truffles, ricotta cheese and cigarettes and worked some speedy magic set to Rhapsody's Classic Soul Station. I juggled phone calls from San Diego, Pittsburgh, Grand Island and one sheepish Canadian who protested that she would not be bringing the wine she promised for toasting because she'd had too much last night and didn't want to drink today. I tried in vain to prevent that same Canadian from baring all and tanning on my front steps while she discussed the attributes of hemp in front of my landlady and her parents. I did not start any arguments. I smoked too many cigarettes, had too few cuccidatti, drank just enough vodka tonic, and laughed myself silly on the porch until late-late.

It's now one thirty and all good mothers are safely in bed and all lovely cousins are securely back over their borders and I remain uncontested in my family as Best Daughter Ever.

I'm gonna look out the window of my color tv.

The great plans I had for the Play-stee (namely, an Invader Zim marathon) had to be postponed. I was instead blindsided by two chick flicks (I'm not saying which, but they both had dance scenes--always a plus) and a slew of music videos.

I wonder if the members of Greenday are aware that the Edgy Political Statement they were trying to make with their album cover art comes off looking more like the Seven-Up logo.

Oh, and I can't watch Coldplay's "Scientist" video without thinking that everything I see afterwards is backwards. Really effs me up.

...and back to bed.

The self foraging begins.

Things went well this morning. Our trickster alarm decided for once to play nice. Nothing was dropped or broken as usually happens in the careful silence of a pre-dawn, pre-flight pack. The pick-up was smooth and timely. I thought we might possibly have a knock-down-drag-out over the Playstation ("But what if I want to play GT4?", "But what if I want to watch Last Unicorn?"), but nary a word was said and it lies safe and cool and dusty--waiting for the great things I have planned.

Not much better.

They're not called murders for nothing, people.

There's been some weird crow activity around here these last couple of days.

-Monday: They were seen skirting the edge of a very obvious, very nasty looking cold front. Penning the northtowns in? Hemming us out? I don't know what was going on in there and I don't want to. For all I know, the Tonowandas have been laid to waste.
-Tuesday: Just as a local swarm was settling into its trees for the evening, our car radio fluttered and went dead. The first sign that they have the ability to block all communication.
-Wednesday: I ran by two of them perched on a dead rabbit. Nothing unusual, but the next day, I ran by the same spot, same rabbit. No crows. But Pressfield had it right in saying that they only go for the eyes and the assholes. Nature or Grim Ritualism? You decide.

This all on the heels of the now-famous Exploding German Frogs story. The latest theory: The crows have been pecking out livers and leaving the amphibians to slow death. A clear case of life imitating myth. But why the Prometheus one in particular? There are a slew of comparatively innocuous bird myths out there, why choose the most vengeful?

It's clear that they are massing for attack. Watchyerbacks.

Er...

wow. "incubus" had a slightly different definition than I thought. oh, well. still works.

This may be the worst scan ever. All subtlety has been lost. I'll re-post it tomorrow.

no comment.

Crap.

This for the failed pic that didn't even deserve to be sliced up.

Big Disgrace.

I've been trying to force myself to like the new Weezer song. I pulled off a semi-cheerful rendition on the ride back from Target but not without fending off some doubtful glances from my compatriot. I just can't accept the evidence of a group's fall from genius, even when it's smacking me in the face with it's awful "We Will Rock You" beat. Being forced to admit that a favorite band has started to suck is like admitting a flaw in your own musical preferences. Why didn't I see it coming? The signs must have always been there. Perhaps the video with the flying baby monkey should have cued me in. What was I thinking? So I keep singing. It's a matter of pride over taste.

We all float facedown.

Been having an issue lately. Three times in the past week, I've woken up abruptly from nightmares. Two of those times I've been screaming. The last time the screaming was accompanied by a bloody nose.

This is unheard of for me, but I don't think the problem ends here. The Boy has been having the same issue, and, unless she's on her cell at four in the morn, our landlady's been doing the same. Furthermore, it seems that we are all on different dream schedules--we never overlap.

My own explanation? Well, an incubus has taken up residence in our home. Obviously. Or perhaps we've taken up residence in its. And every night it perches on a different pillow and sets to work.

I can think of only one solution. The thing must be placated.

Are we forgetting anything?

We went down to the Pittsburgh area this weekend and it occurred to me that we both have travel OCD. It's portable! It's pint-sized! It's just as zany and fun as its full-blown counterpart!

The compulsions begin minutes before we leave and get progressively worse.

1. The Oven Check, the Thermostat Check, the Lock Check. All three times each, all have to be touched.
2. The Packing of the Art. I probably won't be doing any drawing, but god forbid Oven Check fails and the house burns down. No. Strike that. If I don't pack the art, I'm ensuring that the house will burn down. So into the trunk it goes.
3. The Romy and Michelle. After buckling up and before passing the first gas station we give a hearty "(City of destination), here we come! Whoo-hooo!". This is a must, or bad things will happen, and it extends to travel guests. We refused to even start the engine this past time until my mom joined in the chorus.
4. Jess Stays Awake. I'm not going to be doing any driving, but I am convinced that by staying awake, I pass my powers of alertness (by some little understood, but very real form of empathy) onto The Driver. If I fall asleep, we die. That's just how it goes.
5. The Toll Card Yell. Headed towards PA, there's a border town called Ripley. Upon receiving the toll card, I must yell "Ripley!" over and over again in the voice of the little girl from Aliens. This can go on indefinitely as my cue to stop is the giggling of The Driver and he sometimes proves to be humorless.
6. Hoist. The one album The Driver will sing along with and necessary only for the long haul to North Carolina. Nothing puts him into a better mood than a perfectly tuned duet to "If I Could". So, out it must come at the moment I deem crucial (most likely involving the Maryland border, noonday sunlight, or some yahoo in a red car with Jersey plates). Because if he's in a bad mood, we die.

Galled Readers Incensed (by) Maddened Matrons

Hansel and Gretel.

Yet another example of poor parenting. I'm beginning to think that there was a serious issue in pre-industrial Europe concerning spineless fathers and their waspish wives. That a continent-wide campaign was undertaken to combat it and that this was done under the guise of folk tale-ery.

Perhaps making it the first and best of the Special Interest groups.

Not yet.

In response to BAstart's so-called resolution of the Underworld debate that's been raging:

If Michael is living in Budapest, why the abbreviation of the Corvinus name to Corvin? It sounds like an American bastardization to me.

Long distance.

Earlier this afternoon found me shrieking into the phone:

"I like adventure! I like romance! I love bad jokes! I like to dance!"
"Uh, it's 'Animal dance'."
"No it isn't. Really? Is it?"
"Yes."

All part and parcel to the game of childish one-up-manship that is the relationship between me and my brother. I also rediscovered this. Enjoy.

Accidents waiting to happen.

Here's the story of how Radiohead saved our lives a while back:

We were fighting in the car.

The car is really the last bastian of that rare beast called American Privacy. Only within it's fabricked walls can you smoke your disgusting cigarettes and blast your godawful music and discuss your rednecked views. More importanly, I find it to be the only place where people can really duke it out. Instead of arguing in public or even in the apartment, why not save your rage for the Grand Am? Here, your dignity is much better preserved behind the glass where only the most assiduous observer can spot the tell-tale signs of Spatting (notably, straining neck cords and hand gestures).

One must be mindful, however, of the element of danger.

So there we were, weaving through traffic and screaming over the dash about who-the-hell-knows-what, hurtling towards certain doom. We knew it. The car knew it. The divider on the 33 was praying for it. And then on the radio we heard "There There" for the first time. And we were plucked from the brink.

It was an ordering of the spheres. It was magic. It was as goddamned near to being Wyld Stallynz as it gets.

And that's how Radiohead saved our lives. So do yourself a favor and go out and buy Hail to the Thief.

The Good Times are Killing Me.

good times: As promised.

And just in time to accompany the new updated Rhapsody. I'm digging the sky blue and I'm sure I'll love everything else once the boy figures it all out for me. But despite all the buffing and tweaking, their Search element is still, at its best, faulty and, at its worst, felony-inciting.

Happy happy!

Buy the damn book.

I opted to reread Gates of Fire, a decision I never make lightly.

As I see it, I have two choices. The first is to take my time--one kleenex at a time--by reading it in bits and pieces. This breaks the book into emotionally manageable portions, but draws it out woefully. The second is to sprint through as fast as I can, weeping and blubbering the whole way and collapsing in a sodden mass at the end. But I'll have done with it quickly.

Either way involves pain. Lots of pain.

I'm going for option number two.

Hee-ya!

Gotchya. Or at least I hope so. She was a slippery one and downright protean when it came to it. But here she is, and for now I'll leave well enough alone.

Speaking of unending struggles, we had it out with the furnace last night. At twelve thirty, an hour after the thermostat had been shut off, the row of wailing pipes that had previously been dubbed The Whistling Way, took on a new name. Alley of Dying Birds. I swear it sounded as if a colony of sparrows was being tortured for information ("Where's the Guff, damn you?"). After another hour of fruitless ear-plugging, we ventured downstairs and managed to tame* the beast. But not before I had directed some very choice, very ill-advised words at the ceiling below our landlady's bedroom.

*The held breath/swift kick combination always works.

Stupidest Thing.

Memed.

There aren't many--not because I'm not stupid, I'm really just not that adventurous. I guess most of the foolish things I've done have been in the name of "peace and quiet". Like going for a drunken run at eleven at night. Or sitting on tombstones at midnight. Or walking a couple miles into White Sands when the dunes were shifting. I do love me some silence.

My freshman year of college I was bullied into going to a Nine Inch Nails concert by some poser goth friends. While this may have demonstrated a shameful lack of backbone on my part, it wasn't in itself stupid. The fact that, after about an hour, I produced a rumpled piece of paper and a pencil from somewhere in the folds of my flannel men's shirt and started doing calculus homework does however count as Pretty Damn Dumb. I could kick myself now, but I guess the sight of (opening act) Marilyn Manson's pale, flapping penis was just too much for the uninitiated.
I'm also lucky that I didn't get my ass kicked. Goths aren't high on the badass ladder, but I'm betting they're a couple rungs above math geeks.

Hestia.

From here out I shall be known as She Who Sweeps.

From stray grey grandma hairs to newfoundland pup clumps, from eraser flecks to raisin bran flakes. It's all there. A concise and fairly accurate draft of our lives, spread out on the floorboards. And me. The Broomstick Goddess who taps out a circular dance and arranges everything in piles. Who takes inventory and marks the passing events and discards them.

It feels good. In the way all rituals feel good.

sonofa...

Not to belabor the issue, but the Rapunzel witch is proving elusive. This is the third of three that have come up short. And ended up ravaged and rent.
Perhaps she wants more face time. I seem to have a thing for her backside.

I just watched Birth. Not bad at all. Quiet, deliberate, skeletal--(I like my movies like I like my men?). There's a great minute-long close-up on Nicole Kidman where she sits perfectly still and, well, acts--no words, just acting. I swear, you can see a horde of emotions running from her eyes down her nose to her mouth and back up again. Lovely stuff. New respect for the woman, despite her rumored penchant for berries.

You gotta make a list.

I just tested the mood waters and they're looking murky. Which means that today is the perfect day to put a few of my dark plans into motion.

1. Start all-out war with the mailman: I swear, whenever I'm anywhere outside, he refuses to deliver. So, today, I will park myself on the porch at three o'clock with my most basilisk glare and dare him to walk by.
2. Booby-trap the garbage cans: I don't know what makes our trash so damned irresistable to the dregs of Buffalo, but I've a good notion that some expertly positioned glass and other sharp savories will set things right.
3. Set about mastering space and time: Our street has been acting the part of a wormhole for local bums. It seems to offer the quickest path between the hospital and the 'loaves n' fishes', or the liquor store and the gas station, or the coffee shop and the blood bank, or wherever it is that they go. It's really a simple matter. All I have to do is either close the entrances or create a new interspatial route. I think it involves "strings". Perhaps I should do a little more reading first.
4. Quit smoking: Why not? I'm already in a lousy mood. And I figure it would lend itself nicely to the "The Good Times are Killing Me" playlist I've been meaning to make. Given up fags and drugs now, baby. (Am I allowed to quote two bands in the same breath?)
5. Buy a new pair of shitkicker shoes: Cuz it's all about appearances.

"You're so much heavier than the prince."

There's little doubt that Rapunzel's witch made a more suitable guardian than the actual parents.

I mean, first your mother is unhinged by her desire for what is essentially a patch of lettuce. Then your father, instead of growing a pair (of balls, not lettuce--though that would have worked too), resorts to trespassing and theft in your name. When finally caught, they shrug their shoulders and agree to give you up over the whole event.
Good freaking riddance, I say. Go with the person with the goods. With the magic. With the tower in the clouds. So what if she has a wee bit of an overprotective streak--it's got to be a welcome change from your indifferent family.

Though it seems to me that the witch is the one who really gets the shaft. After all of the pampering, the food, and god knows how many bottles of Pert Plus, she ends up betrayed. Proving that disloyalty and dishonesty are, in fact, hereditary.

Note to self: when appropriating a child in witchy revenge, make sure she's from good stock.

The ranting post.

This was the weekend where the sprinklers came out, and the shiny, sport-utility-strollers made their debuts, and all the neighbors hung their flags.

Nothing pisses me off more than a fair weather patriot. Either don't or do, I say. Now, we don't own a flag, but we also don't own a home. You can bet your ass that if we did, the stars and stripes would not be a faddish seasonal thing like inflatable Santas and Snoopy windsocks. You can also bet that if we did, I would totally become that person--the one on the porch wrapped in the union colors, yelling obscenities at dogs and children and daffodils, uninformed and unaware and warmed by the fires of liberty and vodka.

So, perhaps it's best for everyone that I currently rent and, for the time being, practice a seemlier version of patriotism with my 101st Airborne teeshirts and cans of coca-cola.

Watch your ears.

We had a fine waste of a day today. Shut the blinds against the sun and it's bribes and opted instead for an afternoon of shitty, hand-me-down Neil Gaiman (I don't know what's happened to him these past years--I think Tori may have cured him of his genius). We ordered pizza. Had enough caffeine to keep me up until three in the morn. Watched Underworld--best use of the word "fuck" ever, by the by ("Are you fucking kidding me?"). Had a few minor tiffs, as is to be expected when cooped up with no spiral mac n' cheese and mild hangovers. Turned the tv on halfway into Edward Scissorhands and couldn't turn it off despite my violent aversion to Anthony Michael Hall (it's the persistently wet under lip). Resurrected the term "boot to the head" and put it into practice. And had a shortlived discussion on what we'd like our dying words to be (Me: "Fuck yeah" (with raised fist). Him: "I just hope it's not 'Oh, Shit'.").

I have no idea how to punctuate that last sentence.