Red Chuck

Tick Haiku

Another one. This for a blood-fattened tick slowly crawling across a cushion.

Tick on a pillow
intoxicated, sated,
where did he come from?

Hmm. . . I don't know. . . maybe he came from the Richland Creek Wilderness.

Dead Armadillo Haiku

We saw a dead armadillo lying on the side of the dusty road that lead into our campsite last weekend. Katherine was thinking about it this morning and haiku-ed:

Death on a dirt road
armadillo cracked open
like a pinata

Snow Howl / Jaws of the Beast

I love this somewhat terrifying picture of Lucky. It captures him doing what he does best - barking. Barking is Lucky's life's work. We often joke that he has a quota of barks he must release each day, when in reality, he just loves barking. Barking is his art. Look at how he throws his whole upper-body into it. In this shot you can see the amazing physicality that goes into a full-throttle Lucky howl - the head thrown back, the fangs revealed, the throat taunt, the hair flared. Truly his bark is a marvel of nature! Barking is the aria of his dog-nification - it extends the signature of his transcendent canine animus in a piercing arch across the azure pages of heaven. "O vaulted, cerulean canopy, feel my vocal punches, hear my syncopated dog hymn: ruff. . . ruff RUFF ruff. . . ruff RUFF!" and so forth.

Yeah. . . so Lucky's incessant barking is fucking driving me crazy. Especially after being iced-in with him for 48 hours. All weekend he stood at the window, barking at neighborhood kids on sleds, at timid birds in the front yard, at the occasional squirrel on the deck and at the gathered movements of, what must be, invisible predators, because every fourth time I went to investigate his furious dog yelps, I looked out of the window to find nothing. So you say your dog is driving you crazy? No, my friend, you need to spend some time with our neurotic mutt. Come experience extreme barking. We got plenty of it.

Buggin at the St Louis Zoo

Though I'm sure this is the last photograph relatives, grandparents, and friends want to see from our trip to St Louis, I just couldn't resist. (Please excuse the annoying shadows in this photograph - they couldn't be helped.) So then, what's so interesting about a 1970s-ish illustration of downtown St Louis? Not much really, unless you are drawn to kitschy art like me, but wait. . . let's put this in its context. This illustration is part of an innocent looking, interactive, educational display at the St Louis Zoo. Interactive in that you look at the picture, read a caption, and then slide a panel next to the picture to reveal. . . Yikes! (mouse over the picture) There's that same 1970s-ish illustration of St Louis only now. . . now St Louis looks as if it's been dipped in brown gravy! Make that, dried brown gravy. But that's not gravy folks. That's an artist's depiction of human waste. And more to the point, that's what every city would look like if we lived in a World Without Insects. OoooHaaaHaaaHaaa (that's my evil laugh, in case you were wondering). See the city caked with crud? See the poo dripping off the arch? See the uninhabitable wasteland? That's right kids, insects are the only thing keeping our society from devolving into a putrid, hellish, sludge bowl. Remember that. And thanks for visiting!

(Now is it just me or is that drawing kind of weird? And I'm not just talking about the poor draftsmanship. Also, I don't think they are intentionally going for a kitschy, let's-play-up-the-midnight-sci-fi-horror-movie look with this stuff. The message seems sincere though humorously flawed. Thus I rant. . .)

I photographed these pictures in the Insectarium at the St Louis Zoo on Saturday. And I guess the argument could be made that if you are hanging out in a place called an "insectarium" then you are bound to see some weird stuff. Point taken. But how many poorly-executed post-apolcalyptic imaginings of a World Without Insects does the St Louis Zoo need? I ask this because the Insectarium played host to several such cutely morbid, artistic renderings of how horrible a World Without Insects would be. And yeah I get the point. Insects are weird and scary. Yes they are. But not as weird and scary as a World Without Insects. Damn! That would be terrifying. We're talking Mad Max terrifying. Actually if we take the illustrations literally we're talking Mad Max in-a-hardened-caca-wasteland terrifying. Why? Because insects help break down waste. Without insects, we'd be neck deep in shit. OK. Given. I guess. But what sort of message am I supposed to relate to my kids about this picture? That's right, son. If it weren't for insects, we'd be wandering a lawless, barren world, populated by motorcycle-riding cannibals and. . . let's see what the captions says here. . . um. . . a lot of excrement. . . No, not eggs-ament, excrement. . . You know, poo poo. . . OK. . . stop laughing. . . alright, move along. . . let's see what those dung beetles are doing over there. Like I said, the reason this caught my attention was because this wasn't the only visual demonstration to make this point. On one wall there's the aforementioned silly-slidy-door-picture-thingy while on another there's a video loop riffing on the same, future-doom theme. (This loop is also very funny in its own right. The first image in the video is a verdant pasture bisected by a creek - oh, how beautiful, one should think. A butterfly and a man in a beekeeper outfit also appear in the pasture, very obviously pasted onto the scene - Awww life. First the butterfly dissolves - signifying the apocalyptic demise of all insects, gulp. Following that, the beekeeper dissolves - duh, no bugs, no guys in white, bug catcher suits. And then - OH MY GOD - everything dissolves - SUDDEN REALIZATION - THE BUG SUIT MAN SYMBOLIZES HUMANITY - leaving nothing but a desert where once a verdant meadow stood - IT'S ALL GONE, ITS ALL GONE!!!) Yeah, so the video was also a hilarious little demented vignette. And really they should have taken the whole Eden-to-Badlands montage to the extreme. Why not follow the pasture-to-desert dissolve with a desert-to-negative-image-of-desert dissolve. Add an ominous, John Carpenter synthesizer drone to that final edit and you could really scare the pants off some little kids. Which begs the point, what are we trying to accomplish here? Oh yeah, get people to imagine a World Without Insects. Yeah, once again, I get the point. Nice dystopian scare tactics. Who's in charge here? Aldous Huxley? Or Vincent Price?

For more information about the St Louis Zoo, the Insectarium at the St Louis Zoo, or The Horrifying Potentialities That Await Us In A Future Devoid Of Insect Life, please visit wwww.stlzoo.com.

Disclaimer: I, the author, do not find the extinction of any life form to be humorous. I do, on the other hand, find bad art to be humorous. But just because I find bad art to be humorous doesn't mean that I hope one day it will be extinct. I don't hope anything will be extinct (except the Republican Party) but I guess that's besides the point.

Sweat Suit Walking

A gray sweat suit power walked through my neighborhod yesterday. After faux-jogging down the sidewalk backwards, it stopped in the park for Tai Chi. At least I think it was Tai Chi. One arm up, one arm down, one leg up, pivot at the waist, backflip. It was free form Tai Chi. I watched in amazement from my front stoop. Noticing Gray Sweat Suit taking a break, I cautiously approached.

Conversation With Gray Sweat Suit

Me: Excuse me.
Gray Sweat Suit (GuSS): Yes?
Me: Hi. Can I talk to you for a second?
GuSS: Sure.
Me: So what were you just doing?
GuSS: Exercise.
Me: Of course, of course. I see you doing that all the time. But that was amazing.
GuSS: Yes. Thank you. I've had a lot of practice. Exercise is what I do best.
ME: I have to say, you seem to have expanded your repetoire over the years. And I'm not just talking about that gymnastics routine just now. I mean, you're not just exercising anymore. You're socializing. You're going out to lunch, you're making it to casual Fridays at work, you're even rocking out on late night talk shows. So when I saw you out here all alone I thought this would be a good time to ask: what up, Gray Sweat Suit?
GuSS: What can I say, people like me. I'm practical, comfortable, dependable, easily washable. You know, what's not to like. And in my case, acceptance has lead to privelge. Finally I'm making a name for myself.
Me: But you've been at this such a long time. Why now?
GuSS: I don't know. Why not? The way I see it, I've always been in, its just. . . no one really noticed.
Me: Wow. interesting. So what do you think? Are you ever going to be out of style?
GuSS: Never.
Me: Never?
GuSS: Never.
ME: But you've had some steep competition over the years. Velour, for instance. Need I say more?
GuSS: Velour has gotten pretencious. Fickle too. You can't count on Velour.
Me: OK. Well then what do you say to the Velvet Sweat Suit. And while we're at it, what exactly are you made of exactly?
GuSS. What I'm made of isn't the point. I could be Velour. I could be Velvet. What I am is Cotton Blend. But more than anything I am Gray. Velour and Velvet don't do Gray. Only I can really pull off Gray.
Me: Wow. I think I'm starting to see your point. It's all still a little Gray though.
GuSS: You're not funny.
Me: I know.

After that Gray Sweat Suit said goodbye and jogged out of the park. This time it did the Rocky Balboa thing - jabbing and ducking from an invisible opponent while running. This looked a little funny since Gray Sweat Suit has no hands. But I wasn't laughing. Gray Sweat Suit kicks ass.

Go Skip Go

I don't know if you noticed but Skip Dahlgren just performed a flawless station identification break at a quarter to one o'clock today on KUAR. His air break also included todays weather as well as tomorrow's forecast. All this, like I said, flawless. This is definitely a first time experience for me as a listener. I'm not trying to poke fun at the man, either. I enjoy his breaks because they are loose and unpredictable. I've been having the same fun with Carl Kassell who also seems to be slipping up a lot lately. I know. Its a tough job. It's live, right? So the pressure is on. As announcer you also have got to be watching the clock. And reading. Man. I'd be fumbling all over the place. . . ruffling papers. . . "Um. . . the time is. . . wait, the temperature is. . . CRIKEY. . . gulp. . . OK. . . help. . um. . . now. . . er. . . back to Day to Day." But Skip is THE MAN when it comes to fumbles. I mean, its like EVERYTIME. The ON AIR sign lights up at KUAR and there's Skip, "the temperature is now. . . um. . . err. . . (long pause)." So bravo today, Skip. You nailed it. Good job. Love ya. . . ahem. . . man. . . I mean. . . dude. . . er/um . . . sir.

Twas the Night Before Christmas And All Through the House Not a Creature Was Stirring Not Even a Half Creature Half Robot

A short conversation overheard at the top of the stairs on Christmas Eve:

Harrison (whispering): Helen, I have something important to tell you.
Helen (also whispering): What is it Hawwison.
Harrison: Its a secret. You can't tell Mom and Dad.
Helen: Ohhhhhh.
Harrison (really whispering deliberately): Helen. . . I. . . am. . . part. . . creature. . . and. . . part . . . ROBOT.
Helen (long pause as she processed this incredible admission): Hawwison. . . that's terrible.
Harrison: It's not so terrible.

There's A New Blog In Town

Notes To Self

I am so excited. K. is undoubtedly the finest writer I know. Damn funny too. Her captions for "Christmas Party 2005" at the KodakEasyShareGallery were the bomb. Especially caption 22 which underscored a photograph of a couple laughing in the wings of the game of Tacky Gift / Bad Santa we played.
And I quote:

I'm not sure who these people are. Perhaps singles wishing to warm themselves in the glow of sugar-crazed children and thinly supressed marital tensions.

Good stuff. Pretty much nailed the mood. I'm still laughing.

Anyway her first post, A Plague Upon Our House, sets the tone of what will be a hilarious and insightful blog about the trials and vicissitudes of sainthood.

I mean parenthood.

MERRY DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS!

Hung Over

Remember that morning I woke up with a black eye. And no, I hadn't been in a fight. I just woke up hung over and black eyed. Maybe I punched myself in my sleep. I don't know what happened.

So no black eyes today but. . . wait. . . let's check things out a little here. . . ok. . . uh huh. . . yep. I am hung over. No doubt about it.

And you know those kind of hang overs that are weirdly OK. You're still a little bit tipsy so you feel fuzzy, clumsy, maybe even a little bit frisky.

Well I don't feel like that. This is a headache combined with neck and jaw pain (ostensibly from all those throw-the-head-back-laugh-out-loud moments I enjoyed last night). This is a mind-bracing clampdown of a hang over. I'm wearing a prickly skull cap of pain. Turning my head makes me queasy.

So the next thing to do is try to remember what I might have done to embarass myself last evening. OK, playing piano at the office Christmas party wasn't the smoothest move. I don't know how to play the piano. Not at all. The only thing I can do to a piano is strike a stacked fourth chord. Which is what I did. Repeatedly. McCoy Tyner would NOT be proud.

Yes the office party was obviously big fun. Great food and great drinks. Knob Creek whiskey flowed into Sierra Nevadas flowed into a shot of some high shelf tequila flowed into more Sierra Nevadas. And I think it was all the conversation about travel that inspired me to travel as a passenger from the office party to that place in the river market that has live music.

And from the way I feel today, that was a bad idea. But the music was good. I only caught two of Kerby's songs but the band sounded great and am I wrong or was that Kerby on the finger tap guitar solo?

And the Big Cats were superb in the way that forces of nature are superb.

And I am very hung over today.

A Letter to P. Wee Sitts, Chairperson, Babysitters Local 151

Dear Mr. Sitts,

As pertaining to your list of "tactics" outlined so convienently in the comments section of the previous post, I avow that strong repercussions will occur against the babysitting industry if any or all such "tactics" actually ever occur. All of the babysitters you have surreptiously drawn into your "union" will experience the full extent of our wrath. To wit:

Odee

We have a funny family expression around here. I say expression. Really it's a word.

Odee.

It's an abbreviation of "O dear." It's diminutive. It's spoken softly. It signifies a small defeat. You're in trouble.

Odee.

Really the word belongs to Peter Sellers. It sounds like an Inspector Clouseau whimper. You know the scene where's he's swinging on the parallel bars. He starts singing, "I'm the pavlaver of the parallel bars. . . ' He swings higher.

And higher.

And HIGHER.

Then he dismounts.

Down a staircase.

That small sound he makes as he hangs there momentarily in the air, that whimper that escapes from his mouth just before he crashes and screams, that tiny, involuntary syllable of fear - you might say it's an audible gulp. Or you might say

Odee.

So more than "trouble," it signifies the realization of trouble. Kind of like "uh oh," but less abdominal. It squeaks more than it bellows. It's meek and, around our house, it has inherited a small world of uses.

Last night Harrison snuck downstairs after bedtime. I caught him in the pantry reaching for the Fruit Loops. "HarRISON!" I said, in a stern fatherly voice.

In response came,

Odee.

Two days ago, out of the blue, Helen threw a stuffed animal at Lucky. "Helen, why did you just throw Bunny-Bun at Lucky? HeLLenNN," again, stern and fatherly, this time really reving up the Nnns.

Her answer?

Odee.

I haven't posted anything to Red Chuck this week and there have been so many things to reveal. Harrison made honor role at school. Helen tried a carrot. Katherine lined up an interview with Kaye Gibbbons. I finished Cormac McCarthy's latest novel. That mini-stereo-amp came in the mail and it's awesome. What else did I forget to say? Oh yeah,

Odee.

Daisy May

Last week Katherine took Harrison to the pumpkin patch in Mayflower, AR.

She came back with a pumpkin. . .

and a beagle.

Meet Daisy May(flower).

"Lucky is very not impressed," says Harrison.

Art Critic

I've been writing about art a lot today.

The Stampede of Children

So we're half a week into kindergarten now and Harrison still hasn't given up too many details about what his school day is like. "You know, we line up for class, then they ring the bell, then we sit in a circle, and then we have lunch," he says matter-of-factly when I ask him how his day has been. (Actually you need to replace all those aforewritten Ls with Ws in order to really get to how he explains the tiresome business of life in K: "You know, we wine up for cwass, then they wing the bewl. . . etc.) He does get quite animated when talking about recess though. "Dad, you won't believe it. . . they open the doors and its a. . . stampede of children." To demonstrate the point, Harrison will then run around the room screaming and waving his hands over his head.

Katherine has signed up to help supervise recess. Tomorrow is her first day as a parent monitor. I can't wait to hear about the child stampede from her perspective.

Hart in Neutra

Kindergarten

So Harrison survived his first day of kindergarten and we survived dropping him off. School starts at 7:30 and as we left the house this morning, Harrison asked, "Are you sure school starts this early?" (My sentiments exactly.) Though he seemed uncertain about school hours, overall his mood was upbeat. He was excited about wearing his uniform, he was excited about his new lunchbox, and he was especially excited to be doing something that his sister isn't old enough to do. ("Hewen, one day you will be 6 and you will go to kindergarten too," he said.) Also, he was determined to bring in homework on his first day, so he wrote 2 + 2 = 4 in black majic marker on construction paper while he ate his breakfast at the kitchen table.

Since we are fortunate enough to live within walking distance of school, we all made the journey this morning, Lucky included. Our morning trek cut through a playground and a soccer field — gorgeous, wide open, dewy, grassy spaces. Yes, a scenic trek with lots of oppurtunities for a dog to frolick and/or take care of business. So in typical Lucky fashion, the TCoB aspect of the walk was performed not in the open fields behind school but in a small patch of grass right beside the school's main entrance. While Katherine took Harrison into his classroom, Helen and I stood out front and did our best to steer the crush of people clear of Lucky's work: "Good Morning, oops, watch out there, the dog just. . ." and instead of saying anything more, I employed an apologetic grin and a sweep of the arm to infer that there was something nearby that needed to be avoided. Thankfully someone appeared with a plastic bag.

Its hard to believe Harrison is now in elementary school. It seems just like yesterday that we were driving down 21st Ave with this cooing, brown eyed newborn boy in the backseat. Its also hard to believe I missed meeting Harrison's teacher and seeing his classmates because of our dog, Lucky. As Billy Pilgim would say, "So it goes."

Or, as Katherine says, in reference to Lucky, "Unbelievable!"

In Their Own Words: The Woefully Gifted or What I Dislike About My Super Power

The Wedding Itself

Two funny things occurred during the wedding itself. First, the ring bearer, or ring master as he called himself, Harrison, lost it. Not the ring, but his cool. I don't know what he thought was so funny but when he got to the front he just started laughing uncontrollably. It was really cute watching him try to gain his composure. He kept turning to the side and giggling as illustrated by the photo.

Second, my brother asked me to hold his phone during the ceremony. He said it was turned off when he handed it to me. The phone looks like an 80's TV remote control. Its enormous. Its not only a phone but its also a PDA. Anyway during the ceremony it started beeping at me. I figured it was a battery issue or something. Every 5 minutes it let out a nice little two pop. Great. So after the ceremony I whipped it out and discovered it was issuing a reminder from the PDA's calendar. And what was the reminder? On the screen it said 11:00am Wedding. When I returned the phone to my brother, I told him about the PDA alert and reminded him that he was a dork.

Lunch Haiku

Summer lunch today.
Lima bean, mayonnaise, and
tomato sandwich.

Petaflop

The Petaflop race is on.

Lollipop Schtick

Ok. Let's get one thing straight. The lollipop schtick is fine and dandy in most situations except for one: phone conversations. Over the phone it draws unneeded attention to mouth sounds. Smacking and the like. Not cool. Gross.

Overall I'm all for the lollipop schtick. Its retro (think Kojak), its healthier than smoking (I'll take cavities over cancer any day), and it casts its user's oral fixation into stronger relief than other mouth accessories (toothpicks, tongue piercings, bubble gum). The lollipop is sensual and colorful. Its mobility astounds. Plus it can be a helpful tool in social interaction. For example, for the practised user, pronounced lollipop cheek swell can signify deep thought and/or concentrated effort more effectively than the subtly furrowed brow or clenched jaw that the rest of us naked—faced people regularly employ in order to signify that we are busy at work and/or emotionally unavailable.

But I'm not here to explain the semiotics of lollipop use. I simply wish to issue a reminder that a lollipop's effectiveness is 100% visual. Don't call people on your phone with a lollipop in your mouth. Ever. Your mother agrees with me. Your mouth agrees with me. Its impolite. So stop it. We mean it.

Breakfast In Bed

Sunday's Menu:

I Feel Pretty, and Witty, and Gay

So this is not the new bumper sticker. On bended knee I removed it before diving into rush hour traffic this morning. I will say that I am impressed that you stuck this upon my car last night. You possess the determination, stealth, and cunning of a ninja. Unfortunately for you, I know who you are (Katherine spilled the beans) and that means one thing — beware bumper sticker ninja, beware.

Telephone Call From 843

Hey. Thanks for the ZZ Top message last night.

Giant Fun Roller

Auntie went to Washington DC last week and brought back a giant fun roller for the kids. As a service to fellow parents let me just say I've got 2 words to describe this contraption — hell wheel. Part of it is that my kids were in a bad mood yesterday afternoon when they were trying this thing out but part of it is that this thing just doesn't work. My son kept screaming "THIS IS NOT FUN!!!" as he tried to roll around the backyard.

Things to do with fun roller:

New Bumpers

So this weekend we broke down. Actually last week our '94 Honda Accord broke down. So this weekend we caved in to that tiny voice that has been whispering "minivan" to us over the years. Actually its not just the word "minivan" but the phrase "they have a minivan" that we've been hearing. If you haven't heard these words then consider yourself lucky. I've been hearing them in my sleep.

The minivan culture grows in numbers daily and it takes claim of souls through attrition. First, one set of friends gets the new Honda minivan and you hear about it when you get home from work. "Hi Honey, how was your day? By the way, did you know that Jake and Amelia just got a minivan." Then, your son makes a new friend at school and when a playdate is arranged, a minivan appears in front of your house. Mentally you chalk up another family as "minivan people." Then one fateful day you notice that every vehicle parked on your street is a minivan, every single one but yours. And the voices in your head get louder.

My beef with minivans is that they are ubiquitous. I mean, and this will show you how far I have fallen, they are also safe, reliable, and roomy. My problem is that they have no soul. Driving a minivan makes you invisible. I know this because in my 20s I used to drive a coral colored GMC van affectionatley dubbed the "Pink Lady." The "Pink Lady" was not invisible. But our new phantom gray Toyota Sienna defintely flies under radar.

I am not totally giving up. And this is where I need your help. I refuse to be invisible. I've decided that the one thing that can save me from becoming unperceivable is a really good bumper sticker. Traditionally my wife has flown some controversial ones. I remember driving through Nashville one day in K's car and wondering why a redneck was spitting at me as he gunned past in his pickup. Then I remembered that her car carried a PETA bumper sticker. That said, we are not afraid to shock with our bumper apparel.

So here's the deal, we need one really good bumper sticker to set us apart from the crowd. Any suggestions?

Also, feel free to relay whatever bumper stickers have caught your eye recently, even if its not for us. Its good to know what's out there.

Sailing Takes Me Away

No Rest reminisces about a sailing excursion with yours truly.

Notes from the Edge

Here's Kyran's new blog about her trip back home to Newfoundland. Installment #1 includes her reflections on travelling 3000 miles with 3 small children!

Today's Your Boy

Savers>Men's Clothing>Sportswear>Razorback visor>yes, the meth—head singing along to Supertramp is Your Boy

Survey Says

Trying the Belief-O-Matic survey, I returned a Liberal Quaker. Hmm. Lately we've been talking about Process theology at my house. I wonder what George Fox would think about Charles Hartshorne?

Links:
The Center for Process Studies
Quaker Web Guides

Naked Mole Rats

Katherine and Helen went to see the new exhibit at the Little Rock Zoo this week — naked mole rats. Katherine's description was fairly disturbing. Imagine a large, squirming pile of hairless, wrinkled, fanged rodents clawing and biting each other. The rats are about the size of small cucumbers. They are long, skinny, and. . . well, Helen's description took the prize. Really, kids say the darndest things some times. And rather loudly as well. But I'm sure she's not the first person to state the obvious regarding those priapic, naked mole rats.

Anthimeria

This came up last night at dinner. It describes the use of a noun as a verb. For example:

At the poetry reading, the symbolist nouned us for over an hour.

or:

His talking parrot nouned loudly.

or:

Don't you hate it when people verb nouns?

Eating A Woman's Energy Bar

So Katherine bought all these Pria Bars the other day for her workout. Unfortunately, they are loaded with soy and so, after one bite, her legume allergy kicked in and she had to throw her bitten Pria away. Now we have a surplus of women's energy bars in our panties. . . I mean, pantry.

"So what exactly is in a woman's energy bar?" you might ask.

Though the packaging of these energy bars targets the feminine sex, I checked the ingrediants and didn't find anything that suggested these are ph balanced for a woman. Obviously they have a lot of soy but no other nutrients different from any other power bar. Not wanting these to go to waste. . . crunch, gulp, mmm, wow! Man O Man! What a difference an energy bar can make! This morning, I was supercharged at the gym. Usually I tend to drag during my morning workout but not today. Today, I was rocking. Endurance, strength, speed. Yeah baby. Bring on the Prias.

As a side note I should also say that I also usually don't get teary when listening to NPR's Morning Edition, but that story about the man being reunited with his sister (sniffle) after all those years (sniffle) was just so (sniffle). . . so (big sniffle). . . moving.

Names of Beach Houses for Rent on Hatteras Island

To The Man At The Travellers Game On Whom My Six Year Old Spilled Red Slushie

First of all, we didn't foresee you sitting there. There was no precognition on our part. But, and I want to make sure this fact is absolutely clear, we found those seats first. You came waddling up with your family approximately 11 minutes after we sat down. There were plenty of other places in the stands for you to choose. Plenty.

Secondly, when I returned with 3 Slushies, 1 Sprite, and 1 Corona, I had been through hell. Literally. Hell. Waiting. The slushie line. The soft drink line. The beer line. And, before all that, the Travs Cash line (because I didn't actually have cash so I had to go to the office and use my MasterCard to buy green laminates redeemable for concessions). Plus, it was hot. Hotter than the stands, I presume, because of all the pre-game queues of people crammed together down there in the bowels of the stadium where the concessions are prepared and sold. People sweating. People waiting. People wanting to leave but having to endure. Like I said, hell. Therefore, I was a little grumpy too.

Thirdly, I didn't mean to sit so close to your wife. By the time I returned with my flimsy cardboard drink holder and my melting Slushies, I barely even noticed your wife. I chose to sit on the outer bound of our group. It was a shepherding move. I was the closing paranthesis for our sprawling, squealing, thirsty little collective. I intentionally sat opposite the other parents in our party just so that I could help form an amiable enclosure of sorts. Establish a natural boundary. I was our Eastern Seaboard, our English Channel, our Bering Strait. I didn't even notice that I was also lapping at your shore. Like I said, a shepherding move, not a "making a move" move. I didn't realize your wife was so close to me. So when you, in all your corpulence. . . I mean, god, what a lot of you there was. . . anyway, when you walked up and grunted at me. . . somthing like "I want to sit by my wife". . . your tone was so grim, so clenched, so steely that I immediately bristled, even though I knew exactly what you had been through. Remember. I'd been there myself — the lines, the heat, hell itself. To be so sullen, to be so rude, because of that, I immediately did not like you. But, I did say "excuse me". I tried to speak politley. And I moved.

And then, the accident. Yes. It was an accident. He slipped. He was trying to sit on his bottom but those bleachers are deceptive, wider than you would think (probably to accomodate fat asses like yourself), and so, misjudging his distance from the next step up, he sat straight down, fell straight back, and in that hard landing, released his hold on that precious cup.

And when I said "I am so sorry" while also trying to console him (and boy was he upset, because not only did he hurt his back but also he lost a full slushie), you were silent. And we were all looking at you. My family, your family, my friends, strangers, all looking. And I was foolishly counting on understanding from you. (I mean, it was just 2 silver dollar sized spots on the right leg of your shorts. It could have been much much worse.) I expected civility. We-are-all-in-this-together words of forgiveness: "Aw shucks. . . no worries. . . I hope the little fella is OK" (ed. note: there was a lot of crying. . . OK. . . lets call it loud wailing from the 6 year old). But you didn't speak those lines. You weren't playing that game. No. You didn't speak at all. In your gruff world, a player only stares stoically at an empty playing field and coldly ignores the surrounding humanity in the stands.

And for a split second, I almost took that other step. Mentally I went there. Why? Because I don't like to be ignored. Plus there's gallantry in voicing certain words. You know the phrase. You've heard it before. Perhaps you've used it yourself. The "let me pay for your dry cleaning" phrase. And I have to say, here was the perfect moment for that utterance. But with you, there was no dialogue. You established those rules. So now, let me turn that dry cleaning offer over and present you with this small curse: I hope those red dye #40 stains don't ever come out.

Dog Island

Given the rash of recent "incidents", I have reached the sad conclusion that his behavior is not being ameliorated by the prozac. Therefore, I am seriously considering sending him to Dog Island.

Scooters and the Law

David got pulled over on his Yamaha scooter the other day. The officer was very serious. He told David that he had pulled him over because his scooter didn't have a license. David politely told the officer that he didn't need a license for a 49.5 cc scooter. The officer went back to his patrol car and returned with a manual. After leafing through the book, he paused on a page, looked up and said, "You're right. What you're riding is considered a motorized bicycle. You don't need a license." David said, "Thanks." The officer then said, "But let me give you a warning. . . don't drink and drive on that thing." "OK," said David. And then, with a miscevious grin, the officer said, "Cause if I had one of those little bikes, I'd wanna have a couple beers and then go for a ride."

Le Grump

I don't know what it is but I've been grumpy lately. Edgy. Small things that I would usually shrug off have stuck, grown, and bloomed into uncharacteristically fragrant fleurs de colére. Maybe its the Allegra D.

Now I will say these temper blossoms haven't gone unwatered. There have been incidents (the keyboard player, the dog, and those damn kids with their bb guns) but usually I ain't so grumpy.

Anyway, I've found that this helps a little.

More Pepe

Pepe's Easter Adventure Part II is now online at Flikr!

Mini Narratives

This was forwarded from paupicon this morning. Basically it talks about how the New Yorker has been playing around with some of its stock illustrations. (And I'm not talking about the cartoons here, I'm talking about the clip art-ish wine bottles and daisies you find here and there throughout the magazine). So David Remnick and Co. have been farming out their illustration work and some of the new doodles they are running tell subtle, serialized stories. Not something you would notice unless you were really paying attention (and/or read the aforementioned article). What this reminds me of is an email I got last week here at work. The clever person I was in contact with was using their confidentiality signatures as a space to convey a very funny mini—narrative about kittens. Primarily, they were trouncing the whole confidentiality signature concept, which I heartily applaud. I mean, come on. I am so tired of scolling though those stupid things. But the end result of this cleverness is that I'm looking forward to this peron's next email, even though the bulk of it will be work related. So, is this a thing? Is this a new trend in email fashion circles? Is anyone else out there getting clever stories in the peripheries of their email? If not, its not a bad idea. I'm sure Donald Barthelme would approve.