Drifty Sez

Complaint regarding R.Crumb's crappy website

2011-12-10T22:00:00.000-08:00

He can draw, and he can see- Crumb has always been pretty good at showing us our world. And, sadly, he's always been really, really bad at showing us him. He should be shot for what he's done to himself. All his friends should be shot too. Anyone who had anything to do with his career should be shot. I should be shot for inadequately explaining why all these people should be shot. Not that I think anyone should be shot, ever- I don't. Unless they need it, and no one ever does. Unless they do. Crumb doesn't, and none of his friends need it either. But Crumb's website is pure garbage. It's 2011. Make that Two Thousand-FUCKING-eleven. C'mon, Crumb. Hire a decent artist to run your website. Boutique ain't cute. Maybe you don't see it, but it's time to take your place in history. Your world needs you. Thanks.

Oh, yeah. Here's the link to the unspeakably bad website:
http://www.crumbproducts.com/

By the way, it's perhaps possible that this very crummy website is just the result of faulty hyper-linking and lousy editing. Yes, that's more likely than otherwise, but it's still unforgivable. I'll say this again- it's 2011. 2011. 2011. Is that clear? 2011. See the numbers? Do the math. A man who makes his living with a pencil is being robbed blind by fools who (mis)use computers. I don't think I need to say any more.

Why do quarterbacks look so dumb?

2011-12-10T21:41:00.000-08:00

Really, why? I think I know- and please don't hold this knowledge against (or do, I don't care) me. So, why? Well, it's simple and obvious:

1. They wear plastic mesh clothing for a living, and pose in prep-school costumes the rest of the time. That is not smart.

2. They look right at the camera but seem to see nothing- see below.

3. They look cross-eyed, even though they may not be- is that why they miss so many passes?

Is athleticism a birth defect, or must one train for it? I say kill 'em all and let the Olympic Committee sort 'em out.

Valentin Podpomogov

2011-12-08T10:00:00.000-08:00

Valentin Podpomogov is (or was- I have not yet found out whether he is living) exactly the kind of painter I like best. The piece above, Homer, is perhaps the finest depiction of cut stone I have ever seen.

The piece below that, Expectation, is what first caught my eye. I liked the absence of a face and the finely detailed rendering of the hair, face and bandages- a suggestion of a throat was a nice touch, too.

You can see the artist's biography and a full gallery of paintings at the website linked below:
http://www.podpomogov.am/index_eng.htm

As I said, I know next to nothing about this painter, but I know what I like.

I was thinkin' how they shot Mr. Lincoln...

2011-11-27T21:56:00.000-08:00

The title line is from Brewer and Shipley's beautiful song Platte River. You can click on their names to visit their website- you'll land on the words to the song, and you can see the rest of their site here.

For another take on Mr. Lincoln (and meat, and Jimi Hendrix, and yaks) please check out the strange and disturbing paintings of Mark Ryden, whose Angelica Carnis appears third from the top of this page. I can't promise you'll come away happy, but I believe anyone who looks at his stuff will find something to like.

Are there things I don't care for in his work? Oh, yes. Not least is his fixation on pouty, corpse-like little girls. Very creepy, and not in a good way. I could also do with a bit less of the balloon-headed characters. Another thought, about which I may be mistaken- please take a look and draw your own conclusions: there seem to be occasional failures of perspective, as in The Grinder second from the top of this page. Note Mr. Lincoln's distorted face. Failure is too strong a word- I think there is a certain slippage in perspective, as though the artist's attention had wavered or wandered.

Oddly, I don't mind his kinky use of meat and fetuses one little bit. Yes, hmmm. That is odd. But that's me. I am also very impressed with the picture frames- it's almost impossible not to see them as part of the picture; actually in my first several viewings, it did not occur to me that the frames had not been painted within the pictures.

A word on color: his rich and varied yet restrained palette, which I think is usually well complemented by his sky tones, goes a long way toward explaining his technical appeal, at least in my view. The deep reds are used to good effect within a mainly pale range. An example of surprising color: the pinkish Nazi suit in Little Boy Blue, shown at the very top of this page.

These pieces are not tiny, nor are they huge- they range from under a foot by a foot to about four feet by six feet, roughly. It's fair to say I find the scale inviting, even intimate, both in the exterior sense (size of painting) and the interior sense (space within)- while there is often quite a lot going on within the picture, there is also plenty of room for the action, and the elements are never crowded.

Overall, I'm very glad to have seen these works (oil on canvas, if you're wondering) and I will be keeping an eye on this artist.

Wine cork handlebar plugs....

2011-08-14T21:04:00.000-07:00

Really, finding a set of handlebar plugs is the least of my worries in my latest bike project, but I am pleased to have tackled the problem head on and solved it in record time- two minutes from conception to installation. None of the many handlebar plugs I have in my parts bin would fit the old BMX handlebar I'm using, so I whittled down two halves of a wine cork and popped them in. Done! Apologies for the picture quality.

Follow-up: Bike race

2011-08-03T17:18:00.000-07:00

Last week I posted about some upcoming bicycle racing events scheduled here in the South Bay- scroll back to July for details. One of these has already taken place, and here's my report:

I packed a lunch and rode out to watch a day of bicycle races at Foothill College this past Sunday. Because the course ran on the campus perimeter road it was easy to find multiple places for watching. For the first race I cruised around the racers' prep area, joining the throng at the fence whenever the riders came around. I liked hearing the whoosh of all those tires on asphalt, but I cared less for the crowdedness and for having to look through a chain-link fence. For the second race I rode over to another parking lot, where there were no fences- I could have stood right on the edge of the course if I wanted to, but I didn't want to. The main attraction at this spot was that I had it all to myself. And I mean ALL to myself. It was just me and a flagman and hundreds of empty parking spots. Actually, he was a race marshal, and his job was to wave a flag and shout the number of laps remaining as the pack passed. Although the unobstructed view here was nice, there was no shade. For the third race I rode over by the start/finish line and watched there for a while, still without shade. Eventually, while riding around some tennis courts above the football field, I found a shady spot just down the hill from the finish line, about half way through a steepish, snaking descent in the course. Great views of some tricky riding! That was my favorite location, and I stayed there until I left for the day. Along with deep shade, I had a drinking fountain and a real restroom to myself. For some reason, none of the hundreds of other attendees ever discovered this oasis, and they all made do with porta-potties and purchased beverages. The finish line was all of twenty seconds away, so I had plenty of time to get there for the finishes, thanks to the advance notice provided by a race announcer via loudspeakers. Though I had many wonderful opportunities, I took no pictures, but I don't regret that. And I didn't have a camera with me anyway. I greatly enjoyed the whole thing, and I hope it will become a regular event. Race results and links to photos can be found here: http://www.foothillcollegecircuitrace.com/2011results_photos.html

The second bicycle racing event is still in the future- the near future. In a little over a week, I'll be attending some track races at Hellyer Park in San Jose. I'm really looking forward to that. As with the story above, you can find all the details about the Hellyer Park races in my earlier post. I don't know why, but I can't link to earlier posts anymore, but if you search the blog for races or racing, you'll end up there. Sorry for the inconvenience, I'll try to figure out how to link posts. Oh, never mind- just go to the event's website- http://www.ridethetrack.com/info_fri.html

And now... on to my favorite subject, me!

My interest in bike racing is only a few weeks old, and only came about indirectly. Here's how it happened. Because I love to read about bikes and bike riding, I was perusing the library catalog in search of yet more bicycle touring books (which are the very best kind of travel book, if you ask me) when I found a few Tour de France DVDs listed. 2003, 2004, 2005. Initially, I felt almost no interest- more or less on a whim, I brought them home, and BLAMMO I was hooked. Much to my annoyance, during the week I spent watching these highly condensed accounts of races past I learned that the 2011 Tour de France was in progress. Actually, what annoyed me was that I couldn't find any non-pay television coverage. I'm still not very happy about that.

Having become addicted overnight to watching bicycle races, I began to scour the web for local races and stumbled upon the aforementioned two exciting and very local events. My delight was and is nearly boundless. The only limiting factor to my joy is that the track races are twenty miles away and nowhere near any reasonable public transit routes. I'll probably have to drive, which I don't like doing anyway, and can't afford- then too, if I drive I'll have to pay $6 for parking, which I can't afford either. But I'll be there, no matter what!

Best Use of a Sex Doll Ever?

2011-08-03T16:23:00.000-07:00

I don't know, but it's the best- and perhaps the only- good use I've ever heard of. What am I talking about? I'm not, because there's really nothing to be said. Trust me, just go here and give the website a thorough visit. You'll regret it, most likely. I did. But I wouldn't undo the experience.

I may have something more to say about what you'll be seeing, later. Right now I'm still processing my reactions. I will say this immediately: The concept is good, and the execution is superb. The author writes interestingly about the technical aspects, and says little about the content, which is as it should be. The website is fairly well-built and engaging.

You're not going to like this...

2011-07-23T01:52:00.000-07:00

If this offends you... be offended. Or don't. Either way, I'll hate you. Or not. Probably not. You can hate me. I don't care. I won't hate you, I promise. All my promises are conditional. Sometimes.

Usually, I'm a nice person. No, that's a lie, but I do try. I'll try any damned thing. Once. I was a nice person once, for about ten seconds. It made my teeth itch. And it almost made me vote for Ross Perot, but luckily nothing can make me do anything (which is why I do nearly nothing), and anyway I always vote for Bob Pease (1940-2011, RIP) or Frank Zappa (also dead). Or Kurt Vonnegut (dead). Or Douglas Adams (dead). Or B. Traven (presumed dead). Yeah, especially B. Traven. I would probably vote TWICE for B. Traven, except he/she/it was a damned Commie. And speaking of dubious heroes- need I mention this? I have never failed to vote for Ed Abbey (dead) on any ballot on which he appeared, which is (so far as I know, in my voting area, to date... certain limits and/or restrictions may apply. . seek competent advice before acting upon information contained herein) none. I once voted for Willa Cather ( dead), but her ticket was disqualified because her running mate Nicola Tesla (dead) was declared an undesirable alien. And I routinely vote for cartoon characters. Without a trace of irony. By the way, just hearing me say these things makes you a better person. But you'll never be as good a person as I am. Or coulda/shoulda/woulda been. Or so I say. Your mileage may vary- draw your own conclusions, and keep 'em to yourself. Or don't. There's a Comments button at the bottom of the page.

Oh, factual interjection: That crack about Tesla being declared an illegal alien is pure hooey. Nothing to it, so far as I know. But I didn't want to waste a good lie. If I'm ever an alien, I hope I'm desirable. No, I hope I'm irresistible. And undeniably alien. Some aliens blend right in. They walk around like they own the place, and everyone accepts them. I don't want that for me. I want to leave a scar where I settle. I want to be a living mystery, a 9th Wonder of the World. In fact, I'd like to be unfathomable. Maybe even inscrutable. And certainly unflappable. I'd like to be the Napoleon of the law-abiding world. Sadly, I'm all too ordinary. And I'm not much of a Peronist. Well, frankly speaking, I am truly no kind of a Peronist at all. Also a damned poor periodontist. Have a look inside my mouth if you doubt that. I'll thank you kindly to leave my politics out of this. And fuck your mother's Majolica toaster oven, while we're at it. Oh, wow. Where did THAT come from? Well, how do I know what I think until I hear what I say?, as someone once cleverly said.

But seriously, folks, Google the toaster oven reference, including the place name. It might just thrill you through your socks. Or maybe it won't. My money is on won't. Unless you like living a boring life. Or I might be wrong- I haven't Googled it myself, though I probably should have, and maybe will. Or not. That's one of my many favorite qualifiers. Covers a whole lot of nothin', if you know what I mean. And while were on THAT subject, don't forget to drink some water today. Here's a motto: Never let 'em catch you a pint low! And remember, a pint's a pound the world around.

Now, here's why we're all here:

I won't cite sources or dig deep into history on this topic, but here's my take on... well, you'll see.

A microphone is a mic
A bicycle is a bike
Is a dyke a dichotomy?

See what I mean? It ain't worth quibbling over, but it's probably worth talking about. Got any thoughts? You could keep them to yourselves, or you could share them with us. We are tolerant eed-jutz. We see your folly and raise (or lower) it a level or two. And if you would like to vote my poetry in for a Nobel prize, please do. I won't object. I can't, because I have no idea how anything I write ever came into print. Honestly, I don't. Or shouldn't. My lawyers (all 0.000000000001321 of them) tell me I must not say otherwise. As for you... you can (and should, I urge you) take a long walk on a short pier. Really, go for it! Thanks for your attention.

And, on that note...

Have a day, as they say. Thank you, please come again, as the sex-worker said on two-fer-Tuesday. And... Sank ewe- awl be here all zuh veek.

NOTE: Check your facts before quoting me. And then don't quote me, or I WILL sue you, big time. Melvin Belli big time. F. Lee Bailey big time. Remember, I am smarter than Leonardo da Vinci and more attractive than Leonardo di Caprio.

2011-07-20T16:35:00.000-07:00

Real live bicycle racing, right here in town!

That's right, if you live anywhere in the south San Francisco Bay Area and care about bike races, I have news for you.

First, nearest and dearest to my own heart because it's within biking distance of my home, is a day of racing at Foothill College in Los Altos Hills (12345 El Monte Road Los Altos Hills, CA 94022). 7:15 a.m. to 6 p.m. July 31 2011. Admission is free for spectators. If you drive there, parking is $2. The race is a fund-raiser to help pay for a new multi-use path around the perimeter of the Foothill College campus. This race is run on a closed road course, with numerous classes and start times.

Racers must register, and must have a USAC license, which may be purchased upon registration or online. I checked the USAC website and it looks like a one-day license is either $5 or $10. NOTE: USAC charges $10 for non-electronic license applications, so think about doing it online. Also, The race organizers impose a $10 late fee for registrations made after July 28th, so think about that too. Schedule and registration information here: http://www.foothillcollegecircuitrace.com/

Second, did you know there's an outdoor velodrome in San Jose? Neither did I! It's at Hellyer County Park, and if you live in Santa Clara County, you own it. Did you know that on select Friday evenings you can watch track racing for free- and eat and drink for free, too? Neither did I! But it's true. All you have to pay is $6 for parking, if you drive there. Racers must pay fees and have a license and all that. Click the poster at the top for all the details.

2010-02-09T18:17:00.000-08:00

Sigh. Groan. I love my face as only a mother could. If Gunter Grass thought he had something to hide in peeling his onion, well... he lived longer and accomplished more. Yet with what regard do I behold my own battered and drooping visage! Oh, how I love me.

2009-10-25T06:13:00.000-07:00

If-let's say- I wanted to make a movie, I might want to make a flick like this:

Which might have a theme such as why- if you were wondering- you should not complain...

To the tune of:
Music..
as performed by The Beatles

They say that everyone wants someone
So how come no one wants me?
Then, they say that everyone needs someone
So how come no one needs me?

Well, if you wonder who the loneliest
Creatures IN the world can be
Well, there's the Ugly Duckling
The Little Black Sheep, and me (UH-HUH)

They say that everyone LOVES someone
So how come no one LOVES me?

Well, if you wonder who the loneliest
Creatures IN the world can be
Well, there's the Ugly Duckling
The Little Black Sheep, and me (UH-HUH)

They say that everyone LOVES someone
So how come no one LOVES me?
So how come no one LOVES me?

Action:

A shitty character sneaks around sticking a knife in the back of a noble bloke. Ark! Says the noble bloke, I've been stuck in the back! And he has been. Sure enough, a knife is stuck in the back of him. Ouch, he yells. Damn me if I ain't stuck in the back!

He don't ask why, he don't say anything at all, he just takes the blade like a man. He assumes a gent has stuck him in the back, a gent who needn't explain nothing at all, a gent who probably has his reasons.

Ouch, he yells. That fuckin hurts, it does, he says, under his breath. He decides not to look around, decides to let it go, because as he well knows, a fair number of things have no causes and can't be explained.

Meanwhile, another gent- who happens to be a local ladyboy- less than a metre away has been feeling annoyed by the vagaries of amour and has decided to stick a blade in the rearmost aspect of a bystander. Right, you'll do, he thinks out loud, matching his action to his thoughts. He plunges his knife into the rump of a guy who happens to be nearby. Are the results predictable? (author shrugs) The guy who now has a knife stuck in his ass yelps and leaps and spins around.

Shit, he says, not unkindly. What the hell you wanna do that for? That's me arse, and I never asked for a knife in it!

The stabber shrugs and grins meekly. It's not your fault, she says soothingly, it's just one of those things.

One of those things, the stabbed one shouts, it's almost unbearable! It's downright inconvenient! It's damned inconsiderate- what were you thinking?

Oh, says the stabber, it's love.

Love! Love?!? If that's love, I'd just as soon be a virgin, thank you, says the stabbed one, nearly shouting. Why don't you take it out out on someone who gives a damn, eh?

The stabber smirks. I don't suppose you'd like to pop around to my place for a bit of slap and tickle?

The stabbed one looks stunned. Well, he says, I just might...

(Caution: Entire sketch brazenly lifted from Monty Python's Flying Circus- except there's no police officer involved, and no wallet, and the weather is better, and thirty years have passed... and the whole thing has been rewritten.)

2009-10-25T00:43:00.000-07:00

Psychoporn

There's a shit-head in our soul, a bitchy little critic whose least useful mimicry echoes loudest, snuffing out the guttering wick of our better nature. Who said that?* Well, you. And me. We should shut the hell up.

However many dentists (or other doctors) out of how many other recommend it, our propensity-inclination-predisposition-proclivity... for/towards screeching needs to be decreased. Is that English? Don't care! I don't.

People- that's you and of course I- don't matter. Our opinions are trash. Our thoughts are dubious at best, and possibly (probably) much worse. Do I doubt the utility/validity of my thoughts? Nope- I don't. They're crap, as the prattling class would say.

To you and to me I holler- shut up! Shut the fuck up! Stop yelling. Quit whining. Don't keep on complaining. Why won't you (I) just be quiet?

Honestly, you people are wearing out my tolerance. If you can't say something nice (useful/helpful) why don't you (I) say nothing at all?

Do I believe you need to hear this, or that you might learn from hearing it? Nope. I sure as fiddlesticks don't believe any such thing. But I believe I'll go nuts if I don't tell you.

It's masturbation, sheer finger-fucking! A waste of time and essence. You stand a better chance of making a difference in how the world evolves- or doesn't- by stuffing your head in a wet sack full of oatmeal and shouting “Ave Maria” than you do by howling at me. I don't care one stinking little bit whether this world ends with a thump or a sniffle**, for one thing, and I don't give a star-spangled hoot whether/how much YOU care. Get it? Get it! I got it- you oughta get it too.

Your (our) fascinated grasp of “current events” reflects nothing more than a puke-crusted bleary hang-over memory of what coulda-shoulda-woulda-mighta been. So, please, don't mention it. If you're enlightened, good for you! If you're not, even better. If you can't be bothered saying anything at all- best yet!

Why am I so bitterly disenchanted? I'm not. But I thought you might need a bit of reverse psychology to buck you up. Have a *^&%$#*^&% day. That's Esperanto for “acceptably pleasant”.***

* Says who? Not me... maybe YOUR negative thoughts are intruding...
**Thump'n'Sniffle..... T.S. Eliot spoke of- prize-winningly(?)- a Bang and/or a Whimper.
*** No, that's not Esperanto for anything. But have a pleasantly acceptable day anyway.

2009-10-18T00:43:00.000-07:00

Rule number one: Don't take an unscheduled nap while cooking!!! Rule number two: Don't whine about what happens when you violate rule number one. This is very important- whining is counter-productive, and if you take your personal-societal growth seriously, counter-revolutionary, which is a capital (means you may/should/will lose your head) offense. I feel kind of offended by what I "cooked", but I don't dare whine about it openly, which is why I feel free to blog about it. I mean our constitution protects my right to talk about things if I don't whine, right? I ain't whining, I'm just saying, eh?

So, uh, anyway..

Preheat oven to BROIL HI

Place potato wedges on broiler pan rack- season to taste

Place hamburger, egg(s), frozen spinach, frozen vegetables (carrots, corn, green beans, lima beans), relatively fresh green leaf lettuce important- do NOT use iceberg lettuce, ever, anywhere, for anything.. period.) in broiler pan

Place boiler pan (top rack and bottom pan) in oven

Take a nap- DO NOT SCHEDULE!!! Pay attention to timing- be sure you sleep through the smoke alarms, phone calls, wailing sirens...

Don't whine, but please DO blog about it!

2009-10-16T13:11:00.000-07:00

I had a very strange dream last night. I wasn't in the dream at all, except as the subject of it. Strange to see myself like that- I mean, I'm usually in my dreams of course, but I'm not usually the subject. Well, of course, yes I am.. it's hard to explain. It was a dream about me, and I didn't seem to be the one having the dream. It was like watching a documentary about me- there was even a narrator who sounded like Leonard Nimoy. He talked about my work as a bell-maker, how I cast them in bronze, and how I went to a bell academy in Singapore and studied there for twenty years, supporting myself by drawing erotic comic books that were banned by the UN because they depicted bestiality and genocide. There were a lot of still photos shown,both of me and my work- none real, but all very believable. There were images of me in all the stages of my life, from memory I guess, except for the later ones, which showed me looking more distinguished than I probably will. There were frequent snippets of people- both famous and totally unknown- talking about me. Some of the famous people were Bob Dylan, Werner Herzog, and Ernest Hemingway. Dylan said I was a big influence on him, and that I played harpsichord better than anyone he ever heard. Later he told a story about me turning Joan Baez down for a date, and how that made him so mad he tried to punch me in the eye but I wouldn't fight and ran away laughing. Herzog said I taught him how to photograph the wind and took him sailing underwater. Later he remembered me making tea and sandwiches for him and his daughter in my hotel room in Switzerland, using a candle to boil the water, and I burned the curtains and got wax on the carpet. He said that when his daughter died, I mailed him a diaper to use for his tears, asking him to send it back without washing it. Hemingway said he always considered me a big phony politically, and thought I had a terrible sense of color, but he liked my taste in furniture. Later he claimed I stole one of his wives, but he seemed not believe his own story and his voice trailed off into uncomfortable silence, while the camera stayed on him until he blinked and lowered his gaze. Later yet he said there was no question I was influential, but that deep down I was a crook. He said I once threatened to slash his face with a giant shark tooth unless he signed over the rights to his non-fiction books, but that he refused and I backed down, and that another time I urinated in his convertible and left a stolen mailbox on his front porch.

I had no feelings about hearing any of these stories- or rather, I was fascinated and touched by hearing them, but not as myself, only as someone who didn't know me personally.

2009-10-13T15:59:00.000-07:00

That was when we lived in a volcano...

In the mid 1970s my father served on a US Navy ship cruising the Mediterranean Sea, which kept him away from home (at that time Norfolk, Virginia) for several years. Unwilling to be apart from him so long, our family twice spent several months camping in Europe, following the ship around.When the ship stayed out at sea for long stretches, my mother would take us (four kids under the age of ten) on very long trips far inland. We got to see a lot of Europe that way, and just as importantly our family was able to spend a lot of time together. The ship spent a fair amount of time near Naples, Italy, so we frequently stayed at a local resort called Solfatara, which was home to a dormant volcano. Most of the time we lived in our 1970 Volkswagen camper, but when Dad could come for a visit, we would move into one of the rental bungalows for a while. There were other Navy families in the campground too, doing exactly what we were doing, and we made friends with the other kids. When we were on the road, we looked forward to getting "home" to Solfatara, and seeing our friends again. The volcano was a wonderful playground- boiling mud, sulfurous fumes, hot rocks, caves. Great stuff for kids to play with! You can look at the place on Google Maps- the view below is a bit off-center, so just click on the link to bring up the webpage. There are some good pictures on the Maps page, under the Panoramio link.The white, bare area is the volcano, and the campground is in the trees just to the north-west.

View Larger Map

2009-10-10T16:33:00.000-07:00

And then...

I've been having the kind of day where things keep happening, and leading to other things, which lead to other things. I don't mean unconnected things, either- I'm talking about things causing other things. The kind of day that makes you think. And in my case, the kind of day that opens the soul a little wider with each new twist.

I woke up grumpy and sore from a bad night of little true sleep- I'd been plagued by strange and troubling dreams, my bladder and my sinuses and aching joints all pointing to the onset of a cold or flu episode- and the day seemed to promise only gritty-eyed torment. Feeling grim at best, I left the house on my Townie- the smooth-tired, load-bearing bicycle I use for doing things in and around town- to ride over to the library where an audiobook of Paul Theroux's Ghost Train To The Eastern Star was being held for me. Damnit, I grumbled to myself, I don't want to ride anywhere, especially not somewhere I've never ridden before. And I didn't want to. I never want to. I'm a lousy and lazy cyclist- poor technique and a crappy attitude get you nowhere when pedals are involved. Still, once I get going, I invariably start to feel better, which is the only reason I ever set out at all.

My route required a power merge onto an expressway (signal, go, signal again, go again) in which I had to trust strangers not to run me down when I knew darned well they were all on the phone or checking the kids' seatbelts or doing anything but looking out for me, which I dreaded. I'd been successfully avoiding this ride for months because of the scary merges, but now my closest local library branch was shut down until January for renovation, and I would have to make the ride if I wanted any books. As I came to the merge point, I chickened out because sure enough, the drivers were paying too little attention, as always. Two of them waited until the last possible moment to look up from their phones or whatever and panic-sprint their way right across the very piece of asphalt I would need to occupy, still not looking anywhere but straight ahead, and so close together there wasn't an inch of room for me, while yet another aborted the merge and came right back into the only bit of road I could use. This all happened extremely fast. It looked like those cockpit views of racetrack crashes, with cars going everywhere. The hair on the back of my neck is all that saved me.

Damned fools, I grumbled. I circled the block for another try, passing a gas station where I once worked years ago. The combination of workplace nostalgia and near-miss adrenalin was making me feel pretty good, all of a sudden, to my surprise. Just past the gas station driveway, I noticed a pretty nice looking cell-phone with a slide-out keyboard bouncing around in the road after being run over by a car. I considered stopping to see if there might be any salvageable bits, but pressed on. Back at the merge point, virtually the same thing happened again. People just don't know how to drive anymore, and they either brake or turn whenever anything scares them. I managed to avoid being killed, again, and decided I'd go around one more time, hoping for a break.

As I came up to where I'd seen the bouncing cell-phone on my last lap, I heard screeching tires back at the merge point. Really, I thought, this is just too much! I pulled over and dismounted. I wanted to wait until all these heedless drivers cleared the area. The pitiful cell-phone was bouncing around again, the battery was out by now. Yet another car ran over it. Well, I thought, that's three times now. I had the time, so waited for a break in traffic, and picked up the pieces of the phone. To my great surprise, it looked all right, so I slipped the battery in and held it with my thumb while I pressed the start-up button, not bothering to try the battery cover. I figured something somewhere would keep the thing from working, but it came to life instantly, so I tried the battery cover. It fit right in. I opened up the phone book and dialed the first number. Two rings later, I was talking to someone who promised to e-mail the owner immediately if I would leave the phone at the gas station. I hung up and wheeled my bike over to the front of the gas station and went in. A lady and the clerk were poring over a map, both obviously stumped and she looking very frazzled. I handed the phone to the clerk, told him the name of the person who would coming to ask for it- his eyes lit up. I know her, he cried, delighted. She's a customer. This is her phone! Yes, I said, good, smiling. I like it when things work out. I got ready to go on my way. The map lady looked at me and asked if there was any chance I knew how to find … and she named my street, a cul-de-sac with only nine houses on it. I told her I lived there, and led her straight to the house she wanted. I didn't have a working cyclo-computer today (pinched wire, think), so I don't know how fast I rode, but it felt like a record speed for me- I didn't want to cause a traffic jam.

Back home again, I drank some milk and ate a few grapes, thankfully, for I had neglected to eat before leaving the first time. Feeling positively wonderful by now, I set out again, and zoomed through the merge of death and onto the expressway; I surprised myself by arriving at the library in only about as long as I had spent since leaving home the first time- about fifteen minutes.

What's the point? I started out feeling terrible, and not very happy. When I calmly refused to force the situation (the tough merge complicated by criminally dangerous driving) I found a phone and saved it for its owner. Then I got to lead a family to a birthday party on my home street- sort of a hometown parade. Then I mastered the dread merge and had a nice ride. That's enough of a point for me!

2009-10-08T16:40:00.000-07:00

Backyardology

Reduce, reuse, recycle

If a tree falls in your forest and you are not home to hear it, you will know what happened because it will be lying on top of your garden shed... and reaching out as far as the deep end of your OOL.

Our OOL

Long before we moved out to California ourselves and got a pool of our own, we had enjoyed a humorous sign at our uncle's home in Novato. It looked just like the one we eventually hung at our place. “Welcome To Our OOL Notice there is no P in it. Please keep it that way.” I'm pretty sure we and our many guests honored the letter of this law most of the time. As for the rest of the time... Better Living Through Chemistry, anyone?

We had an Atlas Cedar http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlas_Cedar in our yard for many years, which I am sure all my siblings remember, some of them perhaps fondly. Although it was structurally ideal for climbing and tree-house hosting thanks to its dual (or triple- I am no longer sure which) trunks and numerous low branches, like almost any other tree it was also far from ideal for these purposes due to the great quantity of sticky, aromatic sap it exuded. I don't recall that we were much deterred by the sap, though I believe our mother noted its presence in her laundry pile with something less than complete delight. This tree, because of its somewhat spongy wood, was not very strong for its size, and suffered wind damage accordingly through the years; more than once, this wind damage rippled outward- a shed roof, a phone line. Something had to give, and we were tired of it always being that dear old tree, so bit by bit the once full and proud 70 footer was whittled down to about thirty rather ragged feet of snaggle-topped trunk with scarcely enough foliage to keep it alive, and then eventually was cut down to a forlorn stump of a few feet.

When, some years later, this stump had to be removed to make way for a brick patio I gathered some of the stump grindings and further ground them using an old coffee grinder which I had long used for reducing eucalyptus seed pods to powder. Don't ask me why I did either of these two grinding operation- or go ahead and ask me. I don't mind, it's just that I don't have any really interesting reasons. In both cases, I enjoyed the aromatic qualities of the material, which were enhanced by grinding; in the case of the Atlas Cedar, there were also sentimantal motivations- our old tree was finally gone, and I wanted to keep something around to remind me of it. I'm a physical, as well as psychical, collector. I'm a memory monger, and memory can have form. This coffee grinder, made by Girmi of Italy, bore a curiously Fascistic sticker declaring that the appliance had been approved by the City of Los Angeles Department of Building & Safety. You know a local government has gone far wrong when it can find the time to evaluate foreign consumer grade kitchen tools.

What once was lost now is found

Anytime you move something as big as a tree you're going to find things. In the case of a tree that was long used by children, some of those things will be toys. Remember Playmobil? If you do remember the blockily graceful little swing-arm people with removable hair, chances are you also remember some of the wonderful things they brought with them when they colonized our world, such as this dog, who was not born with a bobbed tail, and the accompanying marvelously detailed stave-side pail which is better designed, in my opinion, than 85% of all Playmobil accessories.

You may also remember little green army men- these crippled veterans are about the best preserved, and least destroyed of the hundreds who served and died in that part of our backyard. More fortunate than many, these guys did not fall to fire, airguns, or even the dread shovel-bomb. From their injuries, which include broken backs, missing feet, and one decapitation, I'd say these men were done in by brick artillery, and probably only one or two barrages, at that. Nonetheless when they were called to go forth, they answered the call. The orange-brown box trying to creep in at the right side of the picture is another Playmobil artifact, a non-descript handled crate. I do not consider it notable, and took pains to exclude it, with only about as much success as such pettiness deserves..

The Clown Who Came To Dinner

Things come and things go, staying as long in the backyard as they are needed, or unheeded. Then there are the things that are just passing through. When I first started bike buying about this time last year, I ran across this Miyata “clown bike”, a very goofy eccentric-hubbed machine designed to give an up-and-down ride, sort of a swoopy-bumpy gait. It was of no use to me, but I had been in correspondence with a bike-collecting gentleman in Baltimore who was interested, so I bought it and boxed it and put it on an Amtrak train. Total time on premises- a memorable 72 hours.

Blonde On Blonde

This guitar, which I bought about ten or fifteen years ago was the first of what has since become three mid 70s to early 80s Ibanez Concords, all with maple fretboards. At first, I enjoyed the guitar more for its effortless playability and its balanced sound output than for its stunningly beautiful wood. I didn't think the maple was such a big deal, even visually, though it was kind of nice. Soon, however, I was in love. The visual magic caught hold of my mind, yes, and strongly so, but it was the feel that really got me. After a month of playing this guitar, the regular old guitars with rosewood fretboards I picked up felt a lot less fluid, even downright cranky and resistant. It was the smoothness of the fretboard that made the difference. In fairness, I can't say that the maple is what makes the fretboard smooth, because I believe there is some applied finish -and fairly thick finish at that- involved, but the combination of feel and yellowy goodness proved almost irresistible, and I bought a couple more from this line, as chances came up. This one is a Model 671, and I still like it better than any of the others, though I do appreciate them all very much. I don't know why I never name guitars- it's certainly not that I object to the practice, far from it- but I don't, so I just refer to this one by model number or as the blonde beauty, but if I ever do start naming instruments, I think Ol' Yeller would be about right.

2009-09-30T16:52:00.001-07:00

Pictures
The Townie
Mountain Cat
MB5

The Folder
I just started biking again after many years off. While I doubt I'll ever be a serious rider, I am enjoying the power of pedal. I started out with the current-production Montague in the background. It's all aluminum (though not very light), and it folds in half, which I thought would be very handy but turned out to have drawbacks, which I'll talk about later. It's a bit odd-looking, but also sort of handsome, in my opinion. Unlike "normal" bikes, it starts conversations- sometimes rather intense ones- with people who aren't interested in bikes at all. People either love it or hate it, and I think I know why, but I'm still always a bit surprised by the strong opinions it inspires. The big "top" tube (due to the unusual design, there is no down tube) in bright yellow draws a lot of attention just because it is big and yellow- and I think that's what some people like about it. It's different, and it's cute, and it's highly visible. I like these aspects of the bike too. This big, hard-to-miss "top" tube is also what draws the negative reactions- people flip out over the Hummer logo. I'm not kidding! Many, many people shake their heads sadly when they see that word. More than a few openly sneer. Some have even asked me how I can ride such a thing, as though the name alone makes it the equivalent of driving a big truck. This amuses me. I tell the Hummer haters that I drive a Honda Civic, which is true, and that I would never consider owning a Hummer, which is also true; I respond this way not because I feel the need to defend my environmental footprint, but in the hope that people will rethink their silly assumptions, and maybe even recognize the utter incivility of abusing a stranger over the name on his bike. I wonder whether these people would dare to act this way to a real Hummer driver? I doubt it, though I'm not sure why. I think people may perceive cyclists as inherently mild-mannered, especially helmeted cyclists, and therefore safe targets for obnoxious harrassment. I also think that people might be afraid to challenge people who drive big trucks because they assume that big-truck drivers must be insecure people and therefore possibly dangerous. Anyway, back to the bike. In its original configuration, I liked the it very much, though it did have a couple of problems. First, I don't like flat and/or low bars, even on rough terrain, but that's how mountain bikes are built. Second, the bike was slightly too big for me, giving me a reach problem. I'm an awkward size for bikes and shoes and clothing, and come to think of it, for cars too. Nothing fits me quite right. I have to modify almost everything I use, and when no modifications are possible, I have to put up with a less-than-ideal fit. In this case I was able to solve both problems by changing to a very short stem and a back-tilted BMX handlebar, which helped "shorten" the bike, while also considerably raising the bar height. It worked out pretty well, so I mounted a bell and a cyclocomputer and was in business. I loved folding up the bike and tossing (well, stuffing) it in the back of my car. This allowed me to drive somewhere fun and ride around, no rack needed. Very cool. In the course of a few such excursions I noticed that it was very easy to knock my rear derailleur out of alignment during loading and unloading and not particularly easy to avoid doing so. Not cool. And I was tearing up my rear upholstery. Also not cool. Eventually, I found that I could solve both these problems by loading the bike upside down. Cool, except that this put a lot of wear and tear on my bell and computer. I flipped the bell so that it rode below the handlebar, and I moved the computer to the lower bar- it's a two-piece handlebar, with a crossmember near the top.

As I put more miles on the Hummer, mostly on paved roads and cycling paths, I began to resent the noise and drag of the knobby tires, and I considered switching to something smoother. When I priced new tires, I realized it wouldn't be much more expensive to buy another bike that already had street tires, and so I did that. I'm glad I did because I would have missed the knobbies off-road, and because I throughly enjoy the second bike, which is perfectly suited to what I use it for.

The Townie
While looking for my townbike, I bought and quickly resold an extremely-too-large Panasonic Mountain Cat 3500 (the blue/yellow seatless wonder in the pictures), keeping the fenders with which it had come. I knew I would need them, and the guy I sold the Panasonic to had his own fenders- or didn't want to run fenders, I can't remember which. Anyway, having these made my search easier since I didn't have to look for a pre-fendered bike. The Mountain Cat, a mid-80's lugged steel hybrid with considerable under-stated elegance and very comfortable upright geometry had helped me see that I didn't want a sloping top-tube, or a suspension fork; this enlightenment simultaneously expanded and contracted the field of eligible bikes- on the one hand, all old bikes were possibilities, on the other hand almost no newer bikes were.

I found a 1983 Diamondback Ridge Runner and fell in love with it right away. It had the lugged steel frame and classic lines I had so admired in the Panasonic, a set of good quality street tires, and it came with some accessories I very much wanted but couldn't really afford- things like a rear rack, a rear rack bag, a full-length pump, a seat-post bag, and it already had a computer. I was delighted. All it really needed was some fenders, and a change of handlebar. I tackled the handlebar problem first, because that was not going to be easy, whereas the fenders would practically install themselves, as Homer Simpson might say. I had recently bought a really nice aluminum one-piece BMX riser handlebar, knowing I would probably not find a bike with the kind of bar I liked, so the problem was already half-solved. But halfway isn't far enough. DBRR came with a "bull-moose" handlebar that had an integral stem, which meant that when the bar came off, so did the stem. Bummer. I would have to find a stem. Once again, it was cheaper and easier to buy a whole bike to get what I needed, so that's what I did. I found an affordable ($20) early 90's Bridgestone MB5 and took its stem for DBRR, giving the MB5 the bullmoose bar in return- and installing friction thumbshifters to replace the utterly non-functional grip-shifters while I was at it. That bike ended up at a friend's ski cabin, where I hoped it would get some use by someone other than me- because if I rode it much, it would need a new handlebar. Sadly, because the bike was so small, much too small even for me, it was very unlikely to be ridden at all, and I have since decided that it should be sold. Anyway, with the nice new (to me) handlebar and the pretty black fenders that went so well with the black-on-grey paint scheme DBRR was reborn as the Townie, and now gets far more miles than the Folder. The Jeep saddle was a hand-me-over from my Dad to replace the woman-specific saddle the Townie was wearing when it came to me.

2009-07-29T16:00:00.000-07:00

Try to take a picture of a fly and it will look like crap- try to take a picture of a crap, and you might catch a fly. Look between Dudley Do-Right's right thumb (on your left) and the north-west corner of the turd. Please DO click on the image for a closer look. A fly, doing what a fly does. Can't make out whether the fly is smiling.

2009-06-11T17:28:00.000-07:00

Hmmm. How about that- I never blog anymore, and I'd assumed this space had been reassigned by now, but it hasn't, so here I am, for a moment. That's a lot of commas.

Garden news:

My new, all-white eggplant is languishing as eggplants always do- I'm hoping it will explode in July, as all past eggplants have. Three or four kinds of potatoes continue to colonize, and I think one tomatillo sleeper is living among the spud shrubs, a child of the mostly ignored crop of last summer. I saved some seeds from the first tomatillo crop, and meant to plant them earlier, but I forgot all about them until I spied the straggly, different-looking mini-bush in with my Yukon Golds, which I had dug up and spread all over the former tomatilla acreage (just shy of 3 square feet, truthfully). I'll tell the friend who gave me the original seedlings that it looks like one seed decided not to wait for the official planting date. Things are starting to flower, which I always enjoy. I sometimes tell people I'm a flower farmer, on the strength of this. This year I have fava beans sharing a tiny hill with some peas, both seeded from the stash jar of a dear friend, who lets his beans wave around like horsetails. I trained mine, along with the peas, up three slender bamboo sticks leaning togetherward, and they are now over two feet tall, half the height of the bamboo array. I spend about five minutes, morning and evening, coaxing the newly curling tendrils off of one another, out of thin air, even off of themselves, and onto the bamboo. Lot of commas there too. Wonder why I care?

What else am I growing? Oh, giant pumpkins. And hopefully some heirloom collard greens from Oakland and/or Berkeley. I tried to sprout the one and a half seeds, which were all the donor could spare, without success and finally planted the sodden little grains in a gently watered slope on the sunny side of my blue potato patch. I hope for the best, but fear the worst. If nothing comes of this planting, I'll write to the donor and ask to be included, perhaps a little more generously, in next year's sharing. Historical greens are too important to wait on good manners, not that I won't speak politely while rudely demanding preference... Is that it for the garden news? Well, there are not many snails around this spring, for the first time in a long time. Plenty of slugs, which are just as bad, and harder to relocate when you catch them. I can eat snails as happily as I eat any meat, not that I do (eat snails) anymore, but I don't know, I honestly don't know, whether I would eat slugs. I guess I might, if they weren't slimy, and were appealingly prepared. It's the least of my worries, but I took a moment to address it, eh?

Other news:

Unemployed, and uninspired. Bought a folding mountain bike, haven't ridden it in weeks. I go out and dust it once a week, and pat it on the saddle, and call it a good horse. I'm in love with another bike, and that's enough of an excuse for me to ignore the bike I'm with. The details would possibly bore you, but the other bike folds too, and it could be made into a pretty fair mountain bike. Tomorrow I will ride MY bike. No reason not to, and I like doing it.

I'll put up some garden and bike pictures soon.

2008-06-01T22:25:00.000-07:00

A while ago- probably not a very long while- I started an entry in this space with a thought about art hitting but not hurting. A while later, not very long ago at all, just now in fact- I suddenly recalled the inspiration for the thought:

One good thing about music, when it hits you (you feel no pain)
Oh, oh, I say, one good thing about music, when it hits you (you feel no pain)
Hit me with music, hit me with music now

This is (Trenchtown rock), don't watch that
(Trenchtown rock), big fish or sprat now
(Trenchtown rock) You reap what you sow
(Trenchtown rock), and only Jah, Jah know
(Trenchtown rock) I'd never turn my back
(Trenchtown rock), I'd give the slum a try
(Trenchtown rock) I'd never let the children cry
(Trenchtown rock), 'cause you got to tell Jah, Jah why

(Groovin') It's Kingston 12
(groovin'), it's Kingston 12
(Groovin') It's Kingston 12 now
(groovin'), it's Kingston 12
No want you come galang so, oh no
(... no want you fe galang so), ska-ba-dip-ska-ba
(You want come cold I up ...) Ska-ba-dibby-dip,
ska-ba-doop, ska-ba-doop (... cold I up)
Oh, oh, I'm groovin', and the world knows by now,
now, now, now, now, now, now, now, y'all

Oh now, I said, you feel no pain now
One good thing about music, when it hits you (you feel no ...) feel no pain
Hit me with music now, oh now, hit me with music now
Hit me with music, harder, brutalize me (... music)

This is (Trenchtown rock), I say, don't watch that
(Trenchtown rock), if you a big fish or sprat
(Trenchtown rock) You reap what you sow
(Trenchtown rock), and everyone know now
(Trenchtown rock) Don't turn your back
(Trenchtown rock), I say, give the slum a try
(Trenchtown rock) Never let the children cry
(Trenchtown rock), or you got to tell Jah, Jah why

(Groovin') It's Kingston 12
(groovin'), it's Kingston 12
(Groovin') I said, it's Kingston 12 now
(groovin'), oh, oh, oh, it's Kingston 12
(No want you fe galang so) Didn't I told you that
(no want you fe galang so) we should leave with love?
(You want come cold I up ...) I'm not gonna do that, man,
nothin' (... come cold I ...), and look deh now
(Groovin') And then it's Kingston
12, uh

(Good God ...) Good God, looky here now, uh
Hit me with music ...

Actually, until I tracked down the Bob Marley video, I had only heard the Almost Acoustic Band's version of the song... which you can find here. To date, I've both avoided using and continued to dishonor (in my links on the sidebar) the Internet Archive website for being clumsy and plagued by speed problems- it's better now, though still balky in some functions, and the new streaming player works well and since it always had good bones, by which I mean it was a pleasant and navigable site, I think I can restore my whole-hearted recommendation. There was nothing wrong with the old streaming player on the page, and there's nothing wrong with the new one either. You have to use it, because the old one won't work- and you have to click the link for the new player. Full downloads in various formats are available at the bottom of that same page. If you're an ethical file-sharer, be ye advised that the Almost Acoustic Band are not only wonderful musicians, they're also happy to let people trade their live recordings freely. You can find their statement (along with many other peformances) on file here.

2008-05-29T17:01:00.000-07:00

This is a test of the emergency text entry method- had this been a real emergency (it is) this signal would have been followed by news and official information. This message will not repeat. We repeat- this message will not repeat. See below for some news. It's probably old news- someone else has surely millennia since written the same thoughts, but they struck me and now I turn them loose to strike you. Or not. You could duck, cover and/or run, but you wouldn't do that, would you? I hope you would if you felt like it. Why be proper if proper ain't right? Anyway, see below. If you get rich thanks to them, give me whatever royalties you can afford that haven't already been paid to everyone with prior claim to the idea(s). Or don't. See how easy-going I can be when I feel like it?

Note- everything below this line is below, as mentioned above.

There are but four things necessary to great art:

One must wish to share, or at least to present, a conception.

One must have the means to execute the work, and the energy to do so with passion, precision and despatch; failing these, one must be willing to sacrifice sole credit and enlist aid.

One must avoid entanglements arising from public and critical notice without offending the target of the art, which means everybody.

One must expect and accept obscurity- that is one should be content to live as though the work of art had never been realized.

2008-05-28T21:52:00.000-07:00

And so it fell out unto him, for the people trampled him in the gate and he died.
King James Bible Kings II Chapter 7

If you want to read the story of which the above is the punch line, follow the little red link. It's a quick, easy read of about twenty verses. One of my Gideons Bibles says measures of such and such shall be sold for so many pieces of silver- the other that seahs ... shall be sold. So in this case, a measure is 6.659274893 dry quarts. I don't know which of the two printings is older, but I would expect that modernity demands something more specific than a measure. The printing which uses seahs also changes a lord into an officer, and takes some of the starch out of the writing by removing medieval turns of phrase of the sort which gladden a heart like mine. Don't ask me why- I just like the baby talk; I was pleased to find that the Gideons Bible website still uses the older, and more pleasingly archaic, text. The only reason I read this story at all was because the final sentence as printed above caught my eye and my fancy. But that's not what I want to talk about.

First, it seems that not only were the food and goods taken from the Syrians in this God-assisted victory to be sold to a famine-stricken people, presumably by their own king, but the prices for this wicked gouging were set by God. If that doesn't make you think about religion in general and the God of Moses in particular, you ain't thinking. Then there's the matter of murder. The sassy- and worse, doubting- lord (in the feudal sense, I suppose) or officer in the service of the king of Israel who gets trampled in the gate by the people has been cursed by God (through Elisha) for sneering at something- perhaps the pricing scheme? which is never specified, except by inference- and then sent by the king to die in a food riot. Was the king innocent of murder, though guilty of profiteering and price fixing? I don't know, I wasn't there. Now, unless the cursed man happened to be right that there was something fishy (and not in the good sense) about this deal, why would the people riot? Could it be that the people were a little fed up with starvation and didn't feel like giving up their silver pieces to pay for famine relief the king was getting for nothing from God? Further, though they might not have known it, there was also plenty of gold and silver right there in the abandoned Syrian camp, and therefore little or no need to charge the people for what a king should give to his people freely. Yes, I think this is a story about corruption trickling down from on high, since it is nigh inconceivable that anything could trickle heavenward from Earth.

2008-05-27T21:20:00.000-07:00

Thought: Art should hit everyone and hurt no one.

My goals for this week are to eat only vegetables and to move into a roof-garden penthouse. So there- if I seem a little preoccupied, it's because I am. I have a lot to do this week. The veggies I could probably do, the penthouse probably not. Will I do either? Nope, but I think I will give up coffee, and start planning my pirate implementation of this which I found here by way of here. I really like it, and if it saves even one kitty whisker's worth of fuel, great. I think any decent swivel-mounted mirror will do fine- I'll affix it to the windowsill in some appropriate and feasible manner yet to be determined. Why do I like it? It eliminates a significant blind spot on the driver side at eye level in the forward field of view. It bypasses distracting (driver must select left or right mirror via tiny, lurchy slider switch) joystick adjustment. It's easy to do, and it's one less thing they can damage in the parking lot. Darn them anyway. Yesterday they left a 2 inch paper-washered nail (I know, I know- I'm trying to find a picture) on the shoulder of the road. When I pulled to the right for a bunch of wailing fire trucks, I picked up the nail and got a flat tire. They will stop at nothing to wreck my car. If I stopped at nothing, I'd wreck my car, too.

2008-05-25T11:47:00.000-07:00

There will come a time when no one living will remember a world in which loud, demanding announcements and propaganda did not issue from:

gas pumps
deli cases
check-out stands
waiting rooms
dining rooms
buses
airplanes
trains
jail cells
automatic banking stations
transit stops
public restrooms

But I remember. In the past ten years this authoritarianist approach to broadcasting has migrated from the inhuman (yes, Asia- I'm talking about you) world to our fair land, and it's getting harder and harder to go anywhere without being subjected to a forceful violation. Have you experienced this? You're minding your own business when an unattended audio-video device self-launches into a repeating barrage of mind-numbing, insulting, privacy-invading crap that makes any sort of thought or (let alone conversation) nearly impossible. What gives anyone the right to program a machine to do this to you? If you laid this kind of a trap with a knife or gun, you'd be a criminal. It's called booby-trapping, and it's illegal. Never mind the legality-most of the miserable shits who are abusing technology this way would probably argue that you are asking for it by patronizing their establishments. Bear this in mind when you shop- these businesses think so little of you as a person that they are perfectly willing to let a machine harangue you, on the off-chance that you might respond positively. Please show them otherwise, by protesting everywhere you encounter these pervasive and 100% unacceptable assaults.

Don't give your business to anyone who treats you this way, and let them know why you are staying away. If they tell you how much other people appreciate being blasted with unsolicited and unstoppable blather, ask them where your feedback fits in. This won't do much to change their minds- after all, a) they have already committed a lot of time and money to crafting their traps and b) they know more consumers will put up with it than won't- but it's the proper response to utterly criminal noise pollution. If you don't fight them now in the supermarket and the library and the fast-food line, you'll just have to fight them next month when they want to install one of these infernal devices on your street corner. If you ignore the one they plant at the corner of Home Street and Neighbor Ave, you'll find them putting one in your kitchen next, and when you order them off your property they'll say you are over-reacting to something that's already well-established and generally accepted everywhere else. What will you be able to say to that? Eh?

2008-05-14T23:46:00.000-07:00

Even when I know what's gotten into me lately, I don't always know what to do - or not do- about it. But that's only factual- in my opinion, which is the only authority under your sun I recognize, there's nothing wrong with this world I can't fix by breeding you Earthlings like rats. Ooops, past my bedtime.

2008-05-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

I dug a carrot bed 1.5 feet by 2.0 surface area in my little plot today- depth of screened and amended soil is 1.5 feet,very slightly mounded to a 70% plateau perhaps 4 inches high. I didn't border this mound with the screened gravel as I did with my latest potato patch, but I may do that later if the pile begins to unravel, though such a modest mountain will probably sink into the ground before it can get much of a start at falling apart. Because the new carrot bed is not very exciting, I've attached a photo of the walled-in potato mound instead. I like the gravel retainer ring because so far it's been keeping the mound smooth and soft, which will make harvesting much easier, and it should do a pretty good job of holding the dirt in the ground when I yank the spuds.

I have a couple of other potato beds- a tall un-walled mound which I expect will collapse to clods and loose dirt when I start pulling potatoes, and a deep brick-bordered bed (you can see part of one wall in the picture) that will give the same neat harvest and consistent replanting it always does (third year of mostly volunteer crops)- but I think the graveled mound will do almost as well, without the expense, effort and zoning debates of building another brick pit. My beloved brick bed- originally built as a fire pit- is over twenty years old and though still quite serviceable, it is showing its age, mainly in the mortar, which is cracking and letting moist dirt work on its increasingly exposed inner surfaces. The necessary repairs would amount to a rebuild, which would mean cleaning bricks and mixing mortar- probably a couple of days work. I can rebuild a gravel-edged mound, refreshed soil and all, in an hour using only a shovel and a 1/4 inch screen, so if this first try works as well as I expect it to, I will probably install gravel rings around all my mounded beds next time I turn them over.

My yellow-fleshed icebox watermelon and small striped eggplant are not doing as well as the potatoes, since nights are still too cold and days are not hot enough- if I can keep them alive another month, I think they'll wake up and start growing. The soil is good and they're properly watered, so all we need is the weather. I may dig a bean patch this weekend, unless I can forget in time. I'm working on that even now.

2008-05-06T19:32:00.000-07:00

I'm not political- not partisan anyway, and not at all activist- and I don't intend to take the pulpit or beat a drum in this space, so join me instead in marveling at the power of formulaic language.
Listening to Terry Gross and Al Gore chat today, I heard the man some describe as our former vice president even as others consider him their president in exile give tongue to something very like the following:

On the eve of the Iraq war Senator Robert Byrd stood on the floor of the Senate and asked .. blah, blah, blah, blah.

Note the senatorial phrase Mr. Gore employs in this anecdote, and appreciate the imagery it evokes- even over the radio, I could see Senator Byrd- or at least someone (someone like Colonel Blimp holding forth in the bath) of senatorial and unmistakably grave posture and countenance, to say nothing of voice. So what, you ask? Well, nothing earthshaking, only that it's good to recognize how easily our imagination can be manipulated.

2008-05-04T15:51:00.000-07:00

Patience may be a virtue, but it is also a necessity. I want my potatoes to grow, and perhaps they share that sentiment with me, but there's not much we can do but wait. The ground was prepared, the soil was carefully amended and a safe-and-sane plan for water delivery was implemented- I even planted the potatoes. Apparently the missing ingredient is time.

If I can't be patient, I may suffer for my impatience; I may worry and make futile efforts to hasten the growth; perhaps in my eagerness to see little green sprouts coming out of the ground I will harm or kill my crop. Certainly I will annoy myself and others on this subject. I'm doing that right now, and you're just sitting there taking it. Thank you.

and now... a rip-off of an old song (movies here and here ) I can't get out of my head-

In mia testa, questa canzone caratterizza il minore ma in pieno bodied gli accenti orchestral del barbershop che circondano e che aumentano le frasi e le girate selezionate dell'aria ma affiderò quello alla vostra immaginazione . Se desiderate quella ultima frase in inglese, veda sidebar superiore di questa pagina e scatti sopra il collegamento metta la vostra linguetta nella bocca del Drifty o vada diritto a questo Web site libero stimabile ed attendibilmente inesatto di traduzione.

or, read it like this: In my head, this song characterizes the minor but in full load bodied the accents orchestral of the barbershop that they encircle and that they increase to the phrases and the turns selected of the air but I will entrust that one to your imagination. If wished that last phrase in English, sees sidebar advanced of this page and releases over the connection put yours linguetta in the mouth of the Drifty or go straight to this stimabile and reliable inexact free Web site of translation.

Intro:


Go on gal, don’t take me for no fool

I ain’t gonna quit you, pretty mama, while the weather’s
cool

Around your back door, honey, I’m gonna creep

Just as long as you bring me two-and-a-half a week



I’ve got a girl, she works in the white folks yard

She bring me meal, I swear she brings me lard

She brings me meal, honey she brings me lard

She bring me everything honey that a girl can steal



Lord a vaudeville circus rider came to town

They got a dancer lookin’ nice and brown

They didn’t know it was against the law

For the monkey’s to stop at a five cent store

Well, just around the corner, just a minute too late

Another one standin’ at the big back gate

I’m simply wild about my good cocaine



I stood my corner, hey hey!

Here come Sal with a nose all so’

Doctors said she couldn’t smell no mo’

Lord run doctor, ring the bell

The women in the alley…

I’m simply wild about my good cocaine



Furniture man came to my house, was last Sunday morn

Asked me was my wife at home

Said she’d long been gone

Backed his wagon up to my door

Took everything I had

He carried it back to the furniture store

Honey, I did feel sad



What in the world has any man got, now

Messin’ with the furniture man?

Got no dough, stand for sho’

Certainly will back you back

Take everything from an earthly plant

From a skillet to a frying pan

If there ever was a devil born without any horns

Musta been the furniture man



I hear you mama, hey hey!

Here come Sal with a nose all so’

Doctors said she couldn’t smell no mo’

Lord go doctor, ring the bell

Women in the alley…

I’m simply wild about my good cocaine



Lord the babies in the cradle in New Orleans

The doctors kept a-whiffin’ til the baby got mean

Doctor whiffed until the baby got so’

Mama said she couldn’t smell no mo’



Lord go, Doctor, ring the bell,

The women in the alley…

I simply wild about my good cocaine

I’m simply wild about my good cocaine



I’m simply wild about my good cocaine


If you're interested, the performer (song) is Dick Justice.
I don't know who made the movie. You can find an mp3 of the song here.

2008-04-27T09:53:00.000-07:00

I've been so busy at my new job (helping make digital maps for an Internet giant) that I haven't written anything in a very long time- the last thing I want to do after a day of computer labor is more computer labor.

Work: I (along with eleven coworkers) was appointed a team lead, responsible for the welfare and productivity of 5 to 10 digital mappers. Sadly, most of my team members have been fired for incompetence, sloth and/or attendance issues. I feel I failed them somehow- maybe if I'd tried harder they would have succeeded. This is very depressing, and I believe I will be fired for failing to lead successfully.

Leisure: I am growing potatoes and sweet potatoes, eggplant and yellow-fleshed icebox watermelon in my little garden. Yesterday my dog crapped on the eggplant. I don't think she meant any harm, and I doubt she was trying to tell me anything- she probably did it because she is a dog.

Love life: Well, I love life...

I wear a real shirt very day! Buttons, pocket, collar, all that. I'm surprised at myself, since I used to hate shirts and it is perfectly acceptable to wear t-shirts at my work, which almost everyone else does. I started wearing shirts as soon as I became a team lead- though I don't recall giving it any thought, maybe I hoped this would inspire professionalism in my team. That evidently didn't happen, but at least I can serve as way-point for giving directions: See that guy in the collared shirt? Go past him and then turn right. And another nice thing about a real shirt is that I can put my notebook in the pocket.

Gosh, I am really feeling low about all the people who have lost their jobs while following my orders. What am I doing wrong, or not doing at all? I wish I could conduct exit interviews to see what's going on, but because of the temp agency's policies I almost never know someone's going to be fired until (at the earliest) the moment it happens, and usually not until after the fact. This Saturday, I met a team member in town and he told me he had been let go after our shift on Friday. I expect I'll be officially informed of this fact Monday. Other teams do more work and lose fewer people, so maybe I can learn from them. I think I need to set some goals for myself and for the people in my team. There must be some way to get the quantity and quality of work we need.

2008-02-20T19:27:00.000-08:00

News:

Drifty promises to do titles.

Garden remains unplanted, but I'm still ahead of schedule.

Ich bevorzuge vollständige Erdnüsse gegenüber Erdnußbutter, aber ich kann nicht an irgendeine andere nähren-leistungsfähige Weise denken, zwei Scheiben brot schmackhaft zu bilden.

See the Put Your Tongue In Drifty's Mouth link for translation of above. And below, somewhere. While you're there paste or compose some text into the translator and have a little fun while you learn a new word or two. I think it's more fun than sorting needles. Pienso que es más diversión que clasificando agujas.

Today's Title:

is brought to you by the Scratch and Sniff Guide To Animal Companions. Don't ask me- I just type what I hear in my head. This sounds like a great coffee table book and I'd like to read it, but I don't think I've ever heard of it. If you've written this book, please send me a copy. A free boxful, if you can swing that. I'll mention you every time I give one away, and since nothing sells like free books a lot of folks will take your name home with them. You can't buy that kind of marketing. I'm not on topic. Oh, yeah- a title.

Nope, can't think of one. Roll yer own. Must be something I can say!

If You Can Read This, Use BabelFish Until You Can't Read It Anymore And Then Commit Two Foreign Words To Memory.

That's not a title, but it will have to do for a heading. What else? my 2 Gigabyte MuVo 100 now holds 209 songs or audiobook files, about half its capacity. The guy who sits next me at work has a 30Gig iPod with numerous feature length movies on it. I'd have to be pretty bored to watch much two-inch TV, and I don't bore easily. You might bore easily, so I won't print my playlist here. Well, I want to but the titling is pretty awkward. I listen to music at work, and audiobooks elsewhere. The stories tie up the part of my mind I need for work in a way even the craziest music never does. One chapter of a Sherlock Holmes story does more damage to my productivity than two T Rex songs. Or one piece of jazz.

2008-02-09T15:42:00.000-08:00

Another short, lazy post. Sigh. I like pocket notebooks, and I like tiny mechanical pencils I can carry with them. This combination is working well for me now, though I will make the next notebook a side-opener. I haven't settled on a final design for the pencil holder yet, so I just taped a length of disposable drinking straw to the back cover for now. I moved the little pocket clip to the eraser cap, to let the pencil hang deeper inside the straw, which meant I had to glue the clip in place or it slipped down and obstructed the lead-advance clearance. There is still a significant risk of losing the pencil if the eraser cap itself detaches, but I can live with that chance, for now. I've been trying for years to store pencils in the spiral binding of notebooks, with little to no success- this slim (less than 1/4 inch in diameter) and short (4.25 inches) pencil may make this possible. I had been trying for a year or more to buy a mostly metal Zebra pencil of similar dimensions (about US$6 and considerably heavier) that I know I saw at an Office Depot, but can't find anywhere- Zebra say it's for Europe only and was never sold in the US. I think they're full of prunes. When I stumbled across this perfectly acceptable (and almost literally featherweight) version for a buck and a half at my favorite toe-sock store (Daiso) I didn't hesitate to buy on the spot. That's still a lot of money for a plastic mechanical pencil no more reliable than the 10 for $2.00 Scriptos, but it's really the size I'm paying for. All right, enough from me- the sun is shining and I want to be outside.

2008-02-09T00:40:00.000-08:00

Briefest of Updates:

That short work day (four hours) I mentioned the other day turned out to have been a blessing in disguise- today the head-scratchers at the Internet giant decided our entire 40 person shift could and should bill the company for a full eight hours, so we did. Oh, that reminds me that I must remember to submit my time card before 11 AM Monday or I'll never see a dime of my pay. Not even a thin dime, if I can believe the dire threats that pass for the temp agency's payroll submission guidelines. I guess submission is an important aspect of temp agency protocol.

A milepost passed: Three people who don't work for me have written to say they enjoyed my blog. To date, I have had good reason to say I enjoyed just one of their blogs, because only one of them blogs. If you can't wait to see a link to that blog, too bad- I'm waiting for permission to post a link. That undeniably serious person knows who he/she/it/other is...

2008-02-06T15:36:00.000-08:00

Drifty is taking the day off- but he would like to thank his alert reader for spotting and answering his plea for amusement the other day. Although he wasn't able to take up the offer, it was greatly appreciated.

Also, Drifty's latest fleece cap project (shown at right) came out a little small for his pin-sized head, so if your head is less than twenty-two inches around and you'd like a clean (unworn except for five minute trial period) cap with a merit badge sewn on it, write to Drifty and he'll mail it to you.

-Ed

2008-02-04T10:42:00.000-08:00

Aaargh! I left the house by 5 AM, expecting to work eight hours at my new new job, but here I am home again after only four hours, and at loose ends. A problem with the computers has rendered us all (temporarily, we hope) unemployed. I don't know what to do! I'm still too broke to drive out to the coast or shop or see a bargain matinee movie, because neither of my two newest jobs has given me a payday yet. I don't want to vote early- I like doing that on the proper day, in full view of my fellow citizens; I don't dare sit down to read a book for fear of falling into a nap and upsetting my sleep schedule. I don't even want to go to the library, since I did that yesterday. Speaking of yesterday, I watched TV for the first time in years- at a Superbowl party thrown by good old friends. I was quick to tell people that I was only in it for the party aspect, not for the football. I don't think I impressed anyone very much with my ascetism- maybe people don't like to be around a secular saint, or maybe they all thought I protested too much and must therefore be a closeted TV watcher. Or maybe nobody listens to anything anyone says anyway. Yeah, I think that's it. People told me all kinds of personal details at this party, and I don't remember anything about anyone, except for the ~~sexiness~~ seriousness of a couple of the other guests. I think they know who they are, and if by chance they read this, well- congratulations on being an object of my ~~desire~~ respect! Drop me a line if you're bored. That goes for anyone, not just the ~~sexy~~ serious ones- I need something cheap and fun to do today, and I don't care what. About the only thing I wouldn't consider doing is flensing and trying whale blubber, and only because I don't want to stink up my clothes. And of course because I love whales and don't think they need to be killed at all, but especially not for commercial purposes. That being said, I do favor the sinking of whatever vessel(s) Greenpeace may operate, for much the same reason they go to sea in the first place: kneejerk cookie-cutter response to tyrannous anarchy. You listening, Greenpeace? I think you're a bunch of power-mad, intolerant, self-absorbed tyrants. Having you defend wildlife is like hiring a Fascist to administer the rail systems, except a Fascist would get the job done.

2008-02-01T17:08:00.000-08:00

I really like my new job. I mean I hate it already, but I like it- know what I mean? Did I mention the hours are 0545-1415? Awful, yes- but there are compensations. The commute is around five and a half minutes, max. And even with sixty-five co-workers getting in my way, I can still make a cup of espresso and get outside to enjoy it with a cigarette before works starts. That was never even remotely possible anywhere else I've worked. Not only is this the first place to offer an espresso machine, it's also the first place to actually stock and maintain coffee-making supplies in real time. Quality seems quite decent, too. I hate feel-good bribes, especially when it's so damned obvious they are funded by reduced wages, but if they are unavoidable and they are done right, they don't irk me all that much. The free catered "hot" lunch does bother the living heck out of me- it's too little food for too many people, it's always cold, and it's not very good. Some people seem to think that merely containing exotic ingredients is enough to make a meal magic- well, I'm not going to fall down dead in awe of shrimp or calamari or a peanut sauce just because a certified food planner thinks I should. Nothing, not even a vacuum-fried truffle sandwich (not offered, a fictional example) will make up for overcooking, insipid seasoning, uninspired preparation and heedless presentation. But it probably looked great on paper. I know it costs the equivalent of $1.25/hr of wages per shift: I can pack a better lunch for $0.75 than they put on for $12.00, and it doesn't need refrigeration or heating. Bah! I say. Pay me 1/3 to 1/2 the difference in wages, keep the beverages coming, and leave lunch-making to people who know what's good for them. So long as some damned fool whose only qualification is a chef license from the Fancy Knife Institute insists on playing cute with the menu, and it all keeps falling flat, I'm going to remain utterly unimpressed, churlishly ungrateful and justly resentful. If this offends anyone (except a real chef), GOOD! I hope you choke (figuratively and only momentarily, at that) on your displeasure and have to give yourself a Heimlich Hoist, which I sincerely hope will save your life, because I need readers.

2008-01-30T15:49:00.003-08:00

Yesterday was my last day at the online bookstore. Sadly and with a gleam of anticipation in my eye, after one solid week of very enjoyable work, I have moved on to... the past.

What happened to the last ten years? In the spring of 1998 I was working at a digital map company, tracing lines over aerial photos. Then for ten years I did a lot of different things- today I started working at a certain Internet giant (the one who DIDN'T just lay off a thousand souls) making digital maps. When I showed up for work today, I thought I'd be checking scanned images, probably of books, for clarity and completeness. If I'd persisted in standing in the first crowd I joined, that's pretty much what would have happened to me- I saw the scanning booths, and I did not like them, Sam I Am! Instead, I got rescued by a helpful stranger, and for the second time in my life found out that while I'd been told I'd be doing one thing I was actually destined to do digital mapping. It was deja vu all over again. 1993.5 calling me by name, and asking for a rematch. Woo-hoo! That's like telling Br'er Rabbit he's gonna be tossed in the old briar patch. Sure, hooking up with an ex who you know you were better off without, and who you were finally very glad to have seen the last of is probably unwise, especially if the last hitch almost drove you mad. I think any self-help expert who knew how much sleep I lost over the last mapping job I had would tell me to run like hell from this, but I won't. You see, the last time something like this happened to me, the job I never saw coming turned into a wild five year joyride along the cutting edge of mobile navigation technology which I wouldn't have missed for the world. As a matter of fact, it delivered the world to me, or at least big important patches of North American territory. My first assignment here in 2008? Italy! Just north of Sicily. Well, well! I feel more worldly already. Near as I can tell, this effort is a few years behind where my old company left off ten years ago. Same chaotic approach, same ragged interfaces, same mix of lazy thinking and aggressive goals. Same slow, glitchy computers. Same broken chairs, same parking lot traffic jams. I'd almost swear some of the people are the same, or might as well be. The work is achingly familiar, and far easier to learn than it was the first time around. I don't scare so easy anymore, for one thing, and I already know how to do this stuff, for another. If it didn't all feel so new, I'd think nothing had changed. I'm making at most 75 cents more per hour than I was way back then. There's free catered food for snacks and lunch, but nobody who isn't all elbows can get near the chow before it's reduced to scraps. Thankfully, I foresaw that and took along a sandwich that wouldn't need refrigeration, and that's exactly what I intend to do every day. Heh-heh. The triumph of experience over optimism, to adapt the old phrase about second marriages. And this time around, I'm not in the least reluctant to put in earbuds and tune out the room- I used to think that was selfish and irresponsible, but I know better now. Some of the best digital cartographers and most engaged process innovators I've ever met worked with headphones on and paid so little attention to the production chatter they would have to be shaken by the shoulder in case of fire, or for a meeting/break/announcement.

2008-01-26T11:54:00.000-08:00

Garden Report: When the rain quit for a few hours this morning, I was out the door with a shovel in my hand before the trees had stopped dripping, intent on getting my soil amended and putting it back in the ground- I have one raised bed and three planting mounds, for a total of about thirty square feet, from which I always turn the previous year's soil out and sift it back in during the amending process. I got the whole job done in a little over an hour, finishing just as the wind began to push the clouds back overhead. Then, oddly and a little annoyingly, the sun broke through and the generally favorable conditions continued to prevail, meaning I could have taken a little more time at the task. However, the whirlwind approach actually suits me, and anyway one never knows whither the weather will, nay? Want that in English? Insert four dimes, turn handle, wait for translation... Hmm. Came out the same- must have been in English to begin with. Maybe YOU don't speak English?

Library sale: Missed it. Headache tore me from sleep at 3 AM and kept me awake until 7, so I had to make up the missing hours. That's OK, I have all the books I need.

Ponderable: What footwear should I put on for my Monday interview at the Internet giant? The truth is I intend to work in my mock Crocs, but for the sake of professional appearance during the critical first impressions phase I should probably wear something with laces; I am more than happy to make an effort, only all I have in that department are some battered and muddy hiking boots. All my years of skating around the margin of the everyday work world have depleted my wardrobe. God knows what else in my professional profile may be lacking- I suppose the interview will reveal more deficiencies. I do know better than to airily dismiss questions about my strengths and weaknesses as irrelevant and not my business to describe to strangers who should be capable of discerning my true nature, and I'm pretty sure I know better than to sprinkle my conversation with such nuggets as "Yes/No/Maybe, Sir Ma'am or Other." and "Ah, the old say what you're thinking so as to startle the applicant into an untoward disclosure trick, eh?". I am reasonably certain that I know better than to be seen performing an inspection of my interviewer's body, unless I am already getting strong complicitous vibes from said party. Don't look so shocked- that kind of thing does happen and I have been hired by people who engage in it. I say fun can be found wherever you look for it, and most people are a lot more fun than we give them credit for.

2008-01-24T23:55:00.000-08:00

Well, the inevitable has happened- I've been given an mp3 player (Thanks, Dad) and you can guess what THAT means, can't you? Yep, no time for blogging, barely time to eat and sleep- all I want to do is load the little box full of stuff and walk around listening to it. I'm so busy doing that I think I forgot to poop today. Did I remember to go to work? Ye-e-e-s... I think so. I must have since nobody called to ask why I wasn't there. Not that I ever answer the phone. Heh-heh. What am I, a secretary? What sort of things am I downloading and uploading and crossloading into my (c'mere you little rascal, I need to read off your name for the people out there on the web..) Muvo V 100? Well, some Edison cylinder recordings of semi-bawdy music-hall tunes, an entire live concert of the Almost Acoustic Band, a Librivox recording of a few of Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales and, well, the list is growing even as I speak. There are hundreds, if not thousands of hours of great material to be had both free and legally. In many cases, the artists themselves are fully aware of and entirely supportive of this. Think about that for a moment, willya? Record companies are suing people over how they obtain copies of music, while some musicians are giving the stuff away. We're not talking about just crappy homemade demo recordings from bands nobody's ever heard of, either- though I like a lot of those too. Honestly, I don't know why anyone would pay to listen to most of the crap that passes for popular music these days anyway. The real crime is taking money for it, not the other way around. But that's not my problem. I'll never be sued (for downloading music) because I'll never need a copy of anything the record companies care about, and if I do need one, I'll just check it out of the library and listen to it until I've heard it enough. If I can't hear it enough in three weeks, or I need it again later, I'll check it out again. Simple. Who needs to own a copy of everything? Not me. In my entire music-loving life I've only purchased about 35 recordings, yet I hear as much wonderful music as anyone on the planet, or at least I hear enough to suit my needs. Ask anyone who knows me whether I know what I'm talking about when it comes to music, and then ask them how many times they've heard me say "I just gotta go buy that record!". Doesn't happen very often. That doesn't make me a saint, it just makes me slightly (very slightly) more sensible than the rest of the world- and probably only in this and perhaps in several other obscure but highly important areas of life. There, my sneaky bragging has overwhelmed my natural (and mostly fictional) modesty, so everything is in balance.

Speaking of inevitability, I did finally hear back from the nameless Internet giant about the job I was supposed to get before I took the book-warehouse job, and I have an invitation to an interview Monday afternoon. Today I had to tell my new boss I was sorry about it, but I might run off and leave him in a lurch. And I was sorry, because I do like my job. I like it more each day, and I think I'm actually getting to be pretty good at it, for a beginner. The poor guy was polite and didn't call me any dirty names to my face, but I wouldn't expect that to last long if I actually do run away. But then I wouldn't be around to hear it. Or maybe I would. I just had a strange premonitory inkling: I think- and this is way out of character for me, since deep down I don't like having one job- that I might be able to work forty hours at the Internet giant and fifteen or twenty at the book-warehouse. The work loads involved would not be crippling, the schedule would not be too awful, and it might actually be fun, not to mention putting some more dough in my see-the-world-before-it-melts fund. I guess I'll have to decide fairly quickly whether to do both if I get the other job. The interviewer says if I get it I will start Tuesday, and that means my current boss will start needing help... Tuesday. Well, heck! I feel much more peaceful about all of this than I thought I would, and am probably less troubled by it than I deserve, though I don't see what else I could have done, and I was completely honest with all parties from the very beginning. So fuck 'em all. I have to have money, and nowhere in the Constitution does it say I have to please everyone all the time, or even try very hard to do so.

2008-01-22T19:26:00.000-08:00

Some of the links I keep in my sidebar are a little racy, one way or another, and I don't apologize for that, not one bit. Try them, and if you don't like them don't go back. The latest one- You'll Wish You Hadn't Clicked... is truly different, and you should exercise extreme caution about visiting it. For one thing, it's most likely illegal wherever you live to see what is shown here. For another, the subject depicted is profoundly and depravedly unnatural and may just blow your mind. Think about this for a second- what could be illegal for you to see? It does not involve anyone under the age of eighteen, nor does it in any way suggest the participation of anyone under the age of eighteen. Nobody, no matter how they might try, could say that it has anything at all to do with children, because it doesn't. If, by chance, it is legal for you to view this stuff, you will need to be over eighteen yourself. Let there be no doubt about that. So what could be illegal for you to see? It isn't state secrets. It isn't a beheading. It isn't the real story of how our president is yanked about like a puppet by cynical, greedy, lying murderers and other associates (oh, quit whining- this statement has always been true, and will always be true, no matter who is in office). It isn't what Alvin and the other Chipmunks get up to when they're not making records, so far as I know. All I can tell you is it is almost as disturbing as politics, and not quite as insulting as TV. I myself see no particular inherent harm in the acts displayed here, but I can't bring myself to say they are harmless either. Seeing these things could easily lead to insanity and blindness. Go and look, if you want to, but remember I warned you.

So much for the news that wasn't fit to print- on to the important stuff:
In an attempt to bankroll my bad habits (travel, unmonetizable studies etc.) I have taken employment with a small and growing online bookseller in a nearby town. One of the reasons I got the job was that I billed myself as a book nut and a small-scale trader in books, and though I have no intention of halting or even slowing down the buying/selling aspects of my book addiction, I cheerfully signed an agreement today, one clause of which says I won't do the same thing outside work that I do at work- sell books. How could I so blithely sign a damned lie that even the other party to the agreement knows very well CAN'T be true? I don't know... I guess it's just one of those things we all do for the sake of manners and which employers feel they have to enforce on the outside chance that we might get caught doing something really wrong- like stealing customers or false-bidding. You know, bad things. Even going into the same business in the same way would be bad. But that's not what I do. Really, the agreement is intended to keep me from using what I learn on the job to do competing business on my own, not to keep me from casually disposing of books I may pick up but don't need to keep. In other words, it's to keep me from running away with my employer's business secrets and using them to beat the company out of it's own business- and clearly I won't be doing that. I don't sell online, except very occasionally in very small quantities (never more than one or two items at a time, and usually niche collectibles offered at relatively high prices) on craigslist.org and even when I do that, I don't usually ship books to customers, opting to offer them almost exclusively for local pickup, since I find the struggle to get paid online or by mail more trouble than it's worth. Most of my book dealings involve buying at low prices around town (Goodwill, library sales, garage sales) and trading them in at Book Buyers for a higher trade credit than what I paid in cash. For a small investment in time and effort, I realize about twenty or thirty percent "profit" in store credit. My main reason for shopping for these books in the first place is to find what I need at the low prices- I sell the stuff I buy cheap but don't want to keep as a way of financing purchases of items I do want to keep. I don't have any regular sort of business selling books, and don't seriously contemplate ever having one, so I don't see my street-level exchanges as a threat to the business for which I work. While I think I'm morally and legally in the clear on this and feel utterly OK about it, I welcome your comments.
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COMING SOON:
399 New installment of the story of my fictional Show Church
398 Garden Report
397 Shopping Plan for WonderCon 2008 (Moscone Center, San Francisco)
396 Short comparative review of Journey Without Maps, by Graham Greene and a book about the same trip Too Late To Turn Back, by his cousin Barbara Greene
395 A rundown on my existing and new links- just a few words of description and points of interest
394 Travel hopes
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2008-01-19T20:22:00.001-08:00

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WARNING: Today's entry contains graphic art which may be unsuitable for those over the age of 40. Children are advised to report their parents and/or legal guardians to the authorities for re-education, set the house on fire, steal the Volvo and hit the streets!
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That's right, folks- you heard it here first. That box in front of your noses has got to go. The only thing more evil than television is the people who sit down and fasten their eyes and ears upon it. You can take it from me, or you can wait around until the unsavory Jimi-quoting character on the yellow background comes knocking on your door in the middle of the night, but if you wait that long you'll be going for a long ride in a boxcar. Along with all the bloggers and lawyers and politicians and religious people.

Anyway, I'm sure you didn't come here to be threatened and lectured to. Let's move on now to the entertainment segment of our program...

Drifty, what is this all about? I mean, where are you going with this? Mgmt are a little concerned about the artwork, and not too happy about the commentary, and I'm having some doubts myself.
-Ed

Yeah, thanks, Ed. Why do I have to be going anywhere with it? Maybe it's YOU who should be thinking about going somewhere. I know you watch TV- I've heard you standing around the water cooler making slack-jawed conversation with those mouth-breathers from HR about last night's American Idol. Are you going to work for change or will change work on you?

Drifty, please! Will you settle down a little bit, and get that scary guy's picture out of here? C'mon! People are not into this kind of thing, you're going to drive away your readership.
-Mgmt

Yeah, thanks, Mgmt. Look, a little bit of constructive criticism never hurt anybody- TV, on the other hand, hurts everybody. It's probably as bad for us as drunk driving or knee-jerk health care reform. It drives people insane with boredom, it fills their heads with advertising lies and noise, it's worse than worthless- it's a positive evil. The medium could be used for education and communication, but what do we do with it? We turn to it when we want our brains shut down. What does it give us? Just noise. Deafening garbage. Something to make the hands on the clock run a little faster. Something to keep our family and friends from talking to us. I hate the thing. I threw mine through the show window of the store it came from. You should too. All of you. Or that guy in the yellow poster will drag you out of bed and hustle you off to the gulags. If it comes to that, I'll be helping to pitchfork you fools into the train.

Drifty!!! You've GOT to calm down! There's a twitching vein in your forehead. If you keep this up you're going to die, and you don't have any funeral insurance. HR want you to know that if you die on the job, you are responsible for removing your own remains.
-Mgmt

That's it! I'm outta here! If you folks want to read anything more today, you'll have to roll your own. I'm gonna go read a book.

Mgmt: He hasn't been the same since he got that new job in the real world, has he?

Ed: Nope, but then he's NEVER been the same- that's not the way he's put together. He'll be OK tomorrow probably. He really dislikes television, that's all. And he loves making those creepy political posters. I wonder who that bearded nut job is? It isn't a real revolutionary, I don't think. Doesn't look like anyone I've ever heard of. I think making these posters helps him calm down over the long haul, but in the short term... well, you see how he is today.

Mgmt: Maybe that's him, y'know, a picture from his student days.

Ed: Drifty a student? Not since gasoline was cheaper than milk! Yeesh, I'm sounding like him. Anyway, I've never seen him looking like that, and I've known him thirty years. That guy on the poster looks like a tyrant. He makes old Iron Joe look like a cotton-candy pussy-cat!

Mgmt: Wow, you really do sound like him! Want to write today's entry?

Ed: No way! See if you can get that copy runner to come back and do it. I'm going to the drag races.

Mgmt: Down at the speedway? It's not the season for that.

Ed: Speedway? No, a bunch of kids meet at the I-280/ Foothill Expressway overpass and race there.

Mgmt: Isn't that illegal? And dangerous?

Ed: I don't know, probably. I shoot video and put it on Youtube for them. $20 a minute. That's one race. They can only hold about one and a half races before the cops get close and they have to split.

Mgmt: Do they pay before they start racing?

Ed: Of course! When these things break up, they do it fast. No time for paperwork.

Mgmt: So you moonlight as a sideshow cinematographer. Huh. I just go home to the wife and kids and watch TV.

Ed: So do I, but the kids call me on their cell phones when they're five minutes from the race site, and I go out. I have a DVR, so I just pause it, and the wife takes the dog for walk and I'm back in five minutes, watching from where I left off. No commercials. It's great.

2008-01-18T22:08:00.001-08:00

Hey, Mgmt-

Remember that strange poem HR wanted to know about? The book has come from the library, and I have copied the piece from the book (Maraca, New and Selected Poems 1966-2000 Victor Hernandez Cruz: 2001 Coffeehouse Press, Minneapolis).

I print this copy below, with apologies to both author and publisher- if they want to argue with me about it, they may do so here. If this is not good enough, that’s what the courts are for. Not that I necessarily subscribe to the frequently misapplied “information wants to be free” doctrine, or scoff at copyrights- I merely wish to test the notion that I could paint the words of this poem on my automobile and drive around town without breaking any law. This is the same thing, which ought to make us all wonder what a copyright is good for. Wondering is a good start. Besides, I print all kinds of my own original material here without worrying about who might “steal” it, and I therefore hereby claim the right to draw upon prior goodwill. Speaking of niceties- I also apologize for not figuring out how to reproduce the tildes and other accents in the Spanish text and names. I know there’s a way, and I know it is not difficult, but I don’t know what it is.

San pronto no se wis windos cuan el calus de la
mananana en el airsty es que tu desde po la me
cally fooly sa fo so mo to eh se onpeso a tocar
si yo ser nada su conjunto de alegria tal ves su
coro de la risa a mi me theo dan pati pami estos
communiqués dolores en el pecho parte atra parte
alounde y en ses lenguaje asi asi camina en el
verso tu pierna y tolla tu boca tis desde el primer
escalonosoco de dia tu puerta toca en mis labios
labytory de inversion tu cuerpo rompe la ventana
y hasta acaba con la pueh si ah.

Now, what is this all about? I don’t know. My Spanish is weak, and my poetry circuits have been jammed from reading too many comic books. Don’t ask me how that works- well, go ahead and ask me, but have the kindness to accept my answer without resentment: I don’t know, maybe it’s a reverse miracle. Sometimes I want to never read poetry again. When I feel that way, anyone may read poetry to me, with my thanks, but I don’t want to see the printed words anymore. In fact, I think I would “get” this poem perfectly, if I could hear it. I’ll get someone to do that around here, if I can. If anyone out there on the web wants to do it, please drop me a line. Better yet, record your reading, post it on the web and send the address. I’ll thank you right here in print. I’ll even thank you in advance- Thank You.

Following in the inept tracks of the HR monoglots, I put the text of the poem through Babelfish and got this:

San wis soon windos how calus of the mananana in airsty is not that your from po me cally fooly sa fo under mo to eh onpeso to touch itself if I to be nothing its set of alegria so you see its choir of the laughter my theo one these give pati pami communiqués pains in the chest divides atra part alounde and in ses language asi asi walks in the verse your leg and tolla your mouth tis from first escalonosoco of day your door touches in my lips labytory of investment your body breaks the window and until it ends pueh if ah.

which cleared up very little. In fact, it garbled some of what I had already figured out, and gave me a headache. Possibly the headache also comes from the red squiggly underlining my word processor puts wherever it finds something not in its internal dictionary. Since the world is far too large and weird to fit in any dictionary, I see a lot of red squiggles, which remind me of an unresorbed (ouch, another squiggle) artery in my eye. So, even if I have to record this myself, I will do nothing more until I can hear it, but I’m not giving up, not even if I have to take Spanish lessons.

Finally, a note on yesterday’s wild happenings in this space-

The copy runner has quit her job, which she never did anyway.
The editor has come back to work.
The management have gone back to their offices.
And I am on my way out the door again, to help my literary Dad with his blog.

2008-01-17T21:56:00.000-08:00

Drifty is taking the day off to get his car roadworthy so he can start commuting to his new job in the real world. He will start Tuesday at the online bookseller's warehouse, doing shipping and receiving. He says he is very happy, and he will be back on duty here at the blog tomorrow. In the meantime, Mgmt have put their pointy little heads together and come up with a few items to get us through today. For my part, I rummaged through Drifty's picture files and found this obviously pirated image of a painting, which somebody- probably Drifty, but who knows?- has seen fit to adulterate with a highly inappropriate and legally questionable caption. Since I am quitting as editor of the blog effective two minutes from now, I no longer care what gets printed here. Enjoy. The next words you read will be those of some chuckle-heads who make more money than I do and who don't know what the hell they're talking about half the time.
-Ed

Very few people over the age of forty are trustworthy, and we think Drifty is no exception. Though he's only forty and a half, he's already started thinking like a capitalist pig.

Mgmt: Damnit! Who let the copy runner set this type? This is NOT what we wrote. Let's go catch that kid and get her to put this back the way it belongs.

Copy Runner: You'll never take me sober, coppers!

Mgmt: Sober or otherwise, you've got to help us print the blog. And no using your imagination, either. Just make the machine print what it says in the galleys. OK?

Copy Runner (singing): My boyfriend's black, an' he's gotten me in trouble- hey-la, hey-la my boyfriend's black! Fuck you, Cleveland, we do what we want! Hic.

Mgmt: Hmm... That's actually better than the original. Hey, kid- do you know any more songs like that? If you do, how would you like to make some videos and put them on Youtube? This blog's sunk, we might as well get out while we can. Heh-heh, I'd like to see the look on Drifty's face when he... uh-oh! Drifty! We were just saying how much we miss you. Sit down here and get to work, willya? I'll get this poor kid to the dispensary- she drank some ink, or something.

Silly people. I leave the place for five minutes, and all hell breaks loose. That was a pretty good song, though- maybe I could make a video of it. Only I haven't got a boyfriend, and I don't think I could get in trouble if I tried. Of course, I never really tried. Oh, who am I trying to fool? I'm not in the mood to write anything- I really just came back to get my lunch pail. I'm outta here, folks- and if anything you see or read here today leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth, all I can say is.. it's your mouth.

2008-01-16T18:22:00.000-08:00

There are, even in this age of the small world, still a few places I haven’t visited. As I mentioned a few days ago, I’ve been thinking about getting a job to finance some travel- the two most notable leads so far are a data-entry position with an Internet giant and one shipping and receiving for a small online bookseller. On the one hand I like the idea of slipping into the ranks of a large company, where I can see a lot of different levels of operation, meet people and exchange ideas; and of course there are the benefits of health care and retirement savings plans. On the other hand it would be nice to work in a tiny company, where any meetings are likely to be conducted around the water cooler and the most complicated chain-of-command involves yelling across a room. While weighing these two options is diverting and even somewhat amusing, I would much prefer to be working, because that’s what puts money in one’s pockets. Sadly I can’t take the plunge just yet because I am waiting for the Internet giant to follow up their expression of interest with an interview; in the meantime I have until Friday to take up the small company’s offer. It’s a dilemma, no doubt of that. I’m strongly drawn to the little bookstore, yet I can’t quite bring myself to abandon hope that the Internet giant is ponderously advancing in my direction with a sheaf of hiring paperwork in hand… So I’m moving slowly too, asking the little company to wait while I wait for the big company.

Drifty, the Molly Ivins bit was bad enough, but that dirty trick you played on Dr. Boynton was too much. Management are livid, they’re hopping mad. They want me to cut you down to four hundred words a day. They say you’ll never get any advertising if you don’t moderate your tone. They’re also not very happy about that picture of a church sign- neither am I, come to think of it. An all-nude choir is probably not so bad, but what’s with the girl and pony show? That doesn’t sound exactly legal, you know. And in a church?
-Ed

Yeah, thanks, Ed. You haven’t gotten any nasty-grams from Molly Ivins have you? I mean, c’mon- she’s probably laughing her dead ass off up there in humorist heaven. It was funny, and besides, I was literally going to press when you told me about her- how could I have known, and didn’t I make a beautiful transition between death and life with the part about not letting it turn me against breasts? You can’t buy anything that good- it’s gotta just flow from the heart. As for Dr. Boynton, don’t get me started. I’m 99.9% certain I’m already being punished for that by getting the brush-off from the Internet giant in my job search. There aren’t any coincidences in this valley. Now, the church thing, hey, that’s just good clean fun. A girl and her pony putting on a show, why you can find that in any circus, from a back-lot one-nighter to a three-ring big-top. Don’t let the gaudy sign give you the wrong idea, San Pronto is a decent sort of town. Hell, they ran John Steinbeck out of this valley not so long ago, and he was innocent. Oh, you might like to know, I’m putting out the next chapter on the church today- right now in fact. Nothing but architecture and history in it, so don’t get your frillies in a twist just yet. And it’s a deconsecrated church. A fictional deconsecrated church. That’s got to count for something.

Continued from 13 JAN 2008
Mr. Gooden, the city’s real estate agent, said the church was not for sale but was available for lease terms of up to ninety-nine years, and asked me if I had seen the belfry. I hadn’t, so we went up to take a look, while Mrs. Norton went back to her home around the corner to feed her cat and check for phone messages. The foot of the spiral staircase to the belfry was in what looked like a broom closet at one end of the lobby, behind a metal door with a full length mirror fastened to it. Have you ever ascended fifty feet of spiral staircase at a dead run? Neither had I, but Mr. Gooden seemed to think nothing of it, so I took his unspoken challenge and followed as quickly as I could. All the way up, the close walls were lined with intricate stained glass windows depicting the various stages and events of the lives of the Non-Denominational Martyrs, more or less in order as far as I could tell, having been raised in a strictly denominational faith. I made a note to get up there with a camera later and photograph the stained glass, knowing a money-making opportunity when I saw one. Between the rapidity of our steep ascent, and the breath-taking views out over the harbor and the landward sprawl of town and country, it was a few moments before I could ask Mr. Gooden how old the church was and whether the belfry was part of the original construction.

The small wooden church, complete with belfry, though not yet the stained glass of the tower, had been erected on this spot in 1906, he told me, by a small group of Baptist orchard farmers who used it until 1933, when their congregation had dwindled so far that they could no longer raise the funds for its annual maintenance and it was sold to a Los Angeles dentist, who left it vacant for a year before selling it to the local public school district. Following minimal renovations, mostly temporary and easily reversible, high school classes were held in the lobby, the central main room was converted to a gymnasium with basketball courts and bleachers, and the administrative offices occupied the rooms behind the altar. The choir loft was home to the home economics, fine arts, and music departments, while the belfry was securely locked- the metal door was added in 1936 after some senior students were discovered smoking in the stairwell- and never entered at all except by the school’s groundskeeper. By 1943, thanks in part to the war effort, San Pronto’s high school classes were outgrowing the little church, and construction was begun on a new campus of modern low brick-and-timber classrooms across the trolley tracks on then undeveloped land along the edge of the harbor and the equivalent of two blocks closer to the heart of downtown; because of wartime austerity measures the new high school was not ready for use until 1946, at which time the church was sold to the city for use as an interim city hall, during the planning and building of a new civic center.

Mr. Gooden and I went down the stairs, locking the metal door behind us, and left the church, leaving a note for Mrs. Norton who would be back in a few minutes, to lock it up again as we would be going downtown to fill out some paperwork. While we were waiting to catch the trolley in that direction, Mr. Gooden continued his story. In 1950, when the new civic center was fully operational, the church was empty for only six weeks before, with all traces of its various secular sojourns removed, it was purchased by and became home to the fledgling First Church of the Non-Denominational Martyrs, whose founder, by coincidence, was the grandson of the Los Angeles dentist who had owned the church from 1933 to 1934, its longest period of vacancy. The Nondees, as Mr. Gooden called them, were somewhat traditional-minded and cherished the church for its community associations and inherent charm; many of the members were the children and grand-children of the orchardists who had watched over the little structure during its years of service in so many different functions. Other than modernizing the wiring and plumbing, adding thermal insulation and radiant floor heating, and changing the roof to metal, their only stamp of ownership had been the design and installation of the stained glass in the bell tower. (To Be Continued)

2008-01-14T15:34:00.000-08:00

This morning I rode the San Pronto metro trolley line, which stops along San Pronto Boulevard half a block from where I live, out to the police airfield on the edge of the bay for a breakfast meeting with the ombudsperson for environmental concerns there. I'd requested this meeting many months ago, when I first learned that the airfield and a certain Internet giant had just signed an agreement allowing the company's corporate jet to take off and land from the San Pronto Police Department's facilities in exchange for providing on-board hosting for some atmospheric sensors the municipal space agency wanted hauled around in the sky. After hearing nothing for months, I got the long-awaited call yesterday and once I'd assured her my interest was purely scientific and would not be made public under any circumstances whatsoever, Lassie Boynton agreed to an informational interview, provided I would never identify her by name, either in print or by any other means. I arrived a few minutes earlier than the time set for our appointment and discreetly photographed the guard post and front gates until Dr. Boynton came out in her jeep to escort me to the conference room, where we sat down to a modest Continental breakfast spread and began talking. The following is a direct transcription of our secretly recorded conversation.

Drifty: You say this jet is extremely quiet- how quiet? I've never heard a quiet jet. Is it so quiet that no one can hear it?

Dr. Boynton: Well, it's quiet, for a jet. How quiet is difficult to quantify, by ordinary measures. You see, there are other considerations. When we talk about noise and disruption, we have to balance these factors with the need for scientific inquiry. It's a balancing process, with lots of room for adjustment on both sides. We don't like the term gray area- we prefer to speak of negotiative zones and working to achieve consensual impetus. Would you pass the non-fat non-dairy bagel spread, please? Thank you. Doesn't that sound about right to you? We can say there is noise, yes, but we must also recognize there is progress, so it's an opportunity to refine our expectations and look in forward directions for alternative interpretations of traditional perceptions.

Drifty: But is it really quiet? People don't like to hear jets coming in low over their town, that's just-

Dr. Boynton: Exactly, and it's really in that set of historical expectations that we find the most fertile ground for reconsideration, for empowering a bold vision of enhanced accommodation.

Drifty: Aren't you just saying that the people who don't think jets belong here can go fuck themselves?

Dr. Boynton: No, not at all. This is not business as usual, it's a chance to re-examine some of the parochial concerns that have begun to stagnate, to move around the information traffic-jams and build a green-belt to a brighter future where the heavy tools of progress can work right alongside the prairie and the bison.

Drifty: What prairie, what bison?

Dr. Boynton: Figurative prairies, figurative bison. What's that clicking sound coming from your lapel?

Drifty: That's just my pacemaker, I get a little wound up when I'm intellectually stimulated.. Hey, let go. Quit it, Dr. Boynton. Hey, whoa!

Dr. Boynton: Guard! GUARD!

As you see, I didn't learn much from the interview I didn't already know, but it may be of some value to have this record made public, so people can understand what's going on around here, and realize what we're up against.

Drifty, I'd like to you to jump on a plane and cover Kofi Annan's visit to Kenya today. I want a short piece on what he intends to say about all the post election violence they're having there.
-Ed

Yeah, thanks, Ed. Drifty don't jump on nothin' for nobody, not even you. I'll tell you what he's going to say, and I won't even have to look in my crystal ball: Kenya all just get along?

Harley, from Mountain View, California writes:
Dear Drifty, you sick clown- I read some of your blog. Why don't you talk about something interesting, such as indicator lamps? BTW, I have your indicator lamp in stock and waiting for you in my warehouse. When are you coming to pick it up?

Yeah, thanks, Harley. There are many kinds of indicator lamps- but only one I really like, which is more or less what Harley has procured for me. Mine is made by Philmore, and it's red. I'm gonna mount it in my forehead and run it on brain power.

Folks, I have an offer for you- Usually, when you like a website, or in this case a blog, you start thinking how nice it would be to have a sticker for your window or a logo coffee cup, or a patch you can sew on your backpack, right? And don't you say to yourself "Oh, well, it IS a lot of money for such a trivial thing, but it's WORTH it, to me."? Yeah, don't you? You can admit it, there's no one watching over your shoulder while you read, is there? Or is there? I'm kidding, no I'm sorry! Don't run away, come back. Ah, thank you. There, sit back down and ... Well, you can get any or all of these things, and many others each with my face and signature on them for FREE! So, what's the catch, you're wondering, eh? Well, there are a couple of conditions, both of them pretty reasonable and not terribly hard to get along with: 1. You have to go here and steal the digital image (right click, save as) the art department has cleaned up a little bit and placed there for you AND 2. You have to print it on any damned thing you feel like printing it on. Presto-Blammo: instant Drifty-bilia, yeah?

For things like coffee cups, plates, keychains, and such you'll probably have to send the image out to a printing shop- but patches and stickers can be done very satisfactorily on your home inkjet printer. For a patch, print the image on fabric, cut around the edges, and stitch it on. For a sticker, print the image on your choice (cling, permanent, other) of inkjet decal stock, which is available from many different makers. Pretty much all you need to know about the step-by-step process can be found right here at the Hewlett Packard Inkjet site. If you think they're a bunch of fucking skunk-rats who should be ridden out of town on a rail (I do) just do a websearch for inkjet printing on fabric and you should find a dozen or so sites with all the same info. Several years ago, I used techniques just like these to print some favorite comic strips on scraps of old bed sheets, for use as liners in small drawstring bags. I didn't fool around with treating the fabric or any of that, I just lightly stuck the cloth to a piece of printer paper with a water soluble glue stick and fed it through. The colors didn't bleed, and the lines were crisp enough that I could read even the finest print. Then I peeled the paper and fabric apart and started sewing. You won't have any trouble winging it either, I promise. This is simple stuff, helped along by great technology, so have fun.

2008-01-13T23:09:00.000-08:00

So, I was strolling down San Pronto Boulevard right along the edge of the harbor where the shrimp boats tie up thinking about getting a job, because I like to travel and that costs money unless you are willing to take some pretty strange routes and make do with very little in the way of amenities, when all of sudden, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a sign. There was my name,up in lights, or so I could easily imagine. It was the old First Church of The Non Denominational Martyrs, closed up and looking a little forlorn since it was deconsecrated last summer, and all the sign really said was "For Rent", but I saw in my mind's eye a glimmering vision of what might come to pass, if I could scrounge up the cash to make it happen. As soon as I got home, I telephoned to inquire about leasing the place for the winter. The caretaker invited me over to look inside, and said the city's real estate agent had promised to stop by in about an hour anyway, so I took my digital camera and walked back over there, a distance of about two hundred yards. Mrs. Norton, who had been my second grade teacher at San Pronto PS239 about a hundred and five years ago (fear not- I didn't say anything as rude as that to her) met me at the door and as we chatted about old times, we went into the main room, where I was startled and delighted to find row upon row- several hundred at least- of slightly dusty but still very comfortable velvet covered theatre seats facing the altar. I asked Mrs. Norton why the Non-Denominationalists had gone out of business when the church so obviously must have been a lovely place to congregate. She laughed and said "Oh, Drifty! They didn't go out of business, they were bought up by Rupert Murdoch for several million dollars and incorporated into his Revival Televangelist Network. Some of the parishioners who traded their share of the sale price for RTN stock made out so well on the deal- because, as you probably know, that darned thing has just skyrocketed these past few months- that they were able to buy those two half-built mosques on the other side of town and start a new religion among the swamp farmers who live out that way. I hear Mr. Murdoch has them in mind for his second round of expansion, which is... " and here she whispered in a coy mock-dramatic way, which I found endearingly comic and damned sexy, for all her 88 years of age "rumored to be in the works for early next year." We looked at the altar foundation, which was a solid stone platform almost as wide as the whole church, with steps all around three sides and she showed me how to control the lights in the choir loft from behind the altar, using an electronic joystick and two or three of the kind of soft-clicking rotary knobs you find on expensive home stereo tuners, to select and adjust the light banks so as to sweep the whole church with a white spot, while simultaneously bathing various parts of the altar in candy-colored pools of soft light. I felt sure she had played with this set-up before, because of the way she deftly twirled the knobs from deep pink to tangerine to taffy blue, and raced the white spot around like, well, like a white spotlight. After a few minutes of this magic, Mrs. Norton started showing me around the offices and store rooms behind the altar. I didn't say anything to my old teacher, but I was already sure I was going to not only rent this place, but buy it, and as soon as possible, before somebody beat me to it. We tried the light switches in what I now knew were going to be the backstage dressing rooms, opened the back doors to see the private parking spots formerly reserved for the minister and staff, looked in at the furnace sitting quietly in its own tall room, which Mrs. Norton assured me was in perfect working order and only dormant to save money, and we were standing in the wood-paneled lobby admiring the scrollwork on the grand main doors when the city real-estate agent, a Mr. Gooden found us. (To Be Continued)

2008-01-13T02:26:00.000-08:00

Ah, the weekend! Things have been pretty quiet around here today- my housemates went off to hunt wild mushrooms on the coast, so the dog and I sat around playing Scrabble® all afternoon. I think I won, but God alone knows what the dog’s opinion is. I suppose the dog knows, come to think of it, but I’m sure I don’t. I know she loves me because she’s a dog and dogs ARE love, and that’s good enough for me. I heard Molly Ivins on the radio during the last Scrabble® session- is it just me, or does she sound heavily drugged lately?

No, it’s not just you- she sounded kind of whacked, too. Seriously, though, Drifty- the woman died a week ago of breast cancer. –Ed

Yeah, thanks, Ed. That’s too bad- she was a funny lady. Keeping an open mind won’t be easy, of course, but I’m not going to let this great loss turn me against breasts. That’s a promise. Listen folks, I don’t hate Crocs®, and anyway I think that tempest in a teapot has finally boiled dry, but just in case… I don’t mind adding a little fuel to the fire- here’s one more reason to loathe those un-shoes: The nostril-like holes all over them sometimes catch and hold little bits of life-debris which remind you of something you wouldn’t want to leave hanging out of your nose. What do you do? Well, the offending bit of whatever must be picked out unless you want to take off the sandal and shake it. Today I picked at what I thought was a bit of fluff in a hole and BLAMMO! I yanked a thread out of one of my expensive merino wool ankle socks. Don’t know what I mean? It was a snag in the sock, which when tugged upon became a bigger snag, sort of a yarn hernia. So that’s why nobody should wear Crocs®. Had I been wearing real shoes, I never would have seen the snag. Or at least a Crocs® basher might argue so. I’m pretty sure some of you are thinking I’m an oaf (snicker!) of the lowest pedigree for wearing socks with my sandals, but I have no more respect for that line of fashion-fascism than I do for the anti-Crocs® fever. And by the way I don’t wear Crocs®- they cost too much. I wear the cheap copies. So hate me for that, too. I could live on a diet of hate and grapefruit. Man, I love grapefruit. Especially good grapefruit.

Drifty- the HR people Googled your particulars and all they could find on San Pronto was a book review for a collected poetry volume called Maraca, by Victor Hernandez Cruz, which cited these lines:

San pronto no se wis windos can el claus de la/ mañananana.

Well, they’re all monoglots over at HR, so they put it into BabelFish and got this back:

San not wis soon windos dog claus of the mañananana.

which didn’t help very much. Do you have any idea what this means? And where is San Pronto, anyway? That’s what they really want to know.

-Mgmt

Yeah, thanks, Mgmt. Nope, I have no idea. It’s poetry, so I’ll probably need to read the whole thing before I can begin to understand it. One can’t get anywhere by looking at a line or two in isolation, can one? I have the book in question on order from my local public library- that usually takes a week or so- and I’ll get back to you when I’ve read the poem and had a chance to digest it. In the meantime, tell HR to get stuffed- they don’t need to know anything about me since I’m not drawing any pay or other benefits. But I love a mystery, so I’ll take this on just for fun. I’ve done some checking around and this poet is apparently famous- along with some other Nuyorican poets for jumping back and forth between Spanish and English within one piece of work. I can understand that, since I’m a neorriqueño myself (well, technically a quarter-Rican), though I speak almost no Spanish, and it’s not even Puerto Rican Spanish, but the typical Bay Area Spanish that you have to know just to understand street names. Does that answer the part of your question about where San Pronto is? No? Well, it’s less than three statute miles from here, but worlds apart. You might say it’s a state of mind. As I was saying, some of my family speak a wild mixture of Spanish and English, so this sort of thing doesn’t freak me out- I just have to listen carefully to several people at once and ask a lot of questions if I want to know exactly what Tio Nestor is supposed to have said to the unprintable who sold him a broken pay phone sometime in the early 1970s. Anyway, there’s some semi-scholarly blather available on the whole dual-language-as-weapon-and-refuge thing here if you’re interested. I read four or five pages of it, and I’ll go back and finish when I have some of the poet’s work under my belt. OK, as for San pronto no se wis windos can el claus de la/ mañananana. … I don’t know, the world’s greatest microprocessor (the thing between my ears) can’t get its tentacles all the way around this, even in the pre-BabelFish configuration. I’ll wait for the book. Anyone else have thoughts on this? Drop us a note.

Drifty Doesn't Do Titles

2008-01-12T11:47:00.000-08:00

I can't shake the feeling that the cute quote on the page header is lifted- in part, or in its entirety- from someone like Mae West or W.C. Fields. I don't know why this impression persists with such vigor; maybe it's because the maxim - or dictum, if you will- has a vintage sassy bite to it, as though it had first been uttered in a gas-lit saloon by a raffish bon-vivant. (Drifty, old fruit- people know these words or can find them in a dictionary if they don't. -Ed) Yeah, thanks, Ed. Not that I believe it for a second. Is the word maxim used anywhere outside a literary dictionary these days, except in reference to a glossy magazine or the inventor of a machine gun? What was I saying... Oh, right- the knife and the corkscrew. Could this be from the lips of Nick or Nora Charles? I don't know whether I truly originated the saying or not- if you do, please drop me a note. Speaking of notes, the editor doesn't read for spelling, grammar or style- that's my job, and I don't do it either, at least not very carefully. You can, and if you see something you don't like, drop me a note about that too.

If you like sock monkeys, you may get a kick out of this. I did, and I'm not even all that wild about sock monkeys. The first picture, even though the label clearly states the height as six feet, doesn't quite give the full impact- it isn't easy to get the scale right without reference points, and I was distracted by the chair, which I really like. The next picture, with the artist holding the monkey is the one that knocked me down. Of course, having a very dirty mind, I immediately began to harbor impure thoughts inspired by her sexy hair and glasses- you don't even want to know the things I imagined her doing with the monkey. Some of them involved the chair, which I maintain is a very attractive piece of furniture. If she reads this, I'll be probably see myself mercilessly lampooned in some future work. The rest of the artist's stuff, while not at all bad and pretty interesting, doesn't really grab me in a strong way. But don't let that stop you from looking around her neat and easy-to-navigate website, you may see something that really gets you going. (Drifty- please don't do this sort of thing. -Mgmt) Yeah, thanks, Mgmt. Don't count on it. You know what I wish? I wish I was six feet tall and hung like that. I wouldn't even mind being a sock monkey, if it came to that.

I've just read Imperium- the first book by Ryszard Kapuscinski I've tried. It's a history book, what you might call an extended essay- part social biography and part retrospective travelogue- about the far-flung elements of the Soviet Union, particularly in Georgia, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Central Asia (the -stans), and Siberia, and concerned mostly with its ultimate exhaustion from over-reach, moral chaos and socio-economic suicide. While it is a thoughtful and provocative critical work with quite a lot to say about what didn't work in the USSR, it is perhaps more notable for the light it sheds upon the ongoing post-Soviet struggle between the morphing (and fading?) authority of the CIS and the resurgent nationalist bandit governments over natural resources, a shadowy puppet-play in which almost everyone is an ex-communist claiming to be a reformer and yet no one is willing to let go the inherited reins of totalitarianism. Just before beginning Imperium I had read Robert Conquest's Reflections on a Ravaged Century, and noted the similar view both books take not only of Stalin's purges and the starvation of the Ukraine, but of the inevitability of serious conflict between and within former republics in the post-Soviet period. I found Kapuscinski quite readable, and credible overall though I had some minor reservations about his style, which occasionally veered into the kind of irresponsibly delirious lyricism that I feel mars otherwise sound political history; for another example, try Claudio Magris in Danube. Let's just say I don't care to hear the sound of waving hands in a serious book- it makes me wonder whether I can believe what I'm reading.

2008-01-11T16:27:00.000-08:00

Folks, for the purposes of this blog I'm Drifty Leftwright, a nom-de-mouse designed to free me from the restraints of my other phony web identities. I have no set agenda, and anything I say is open to the widest range of interpretation. Your comments are welcome. So is your hate mail, though I don't promise to feel anything.

I'm just feeling my way into blogging in general, and here at blogger.com in particular, so please bear with me as I fumble with content, style and features. I would like to establish an external links sidebar pretty quickly, so you can see what I've seen, go where I've gone- in the meantime, I may occasionally employ contextual hyperlinks; once I have a home for my semi-permanent links, I expect to be able to use contextual links only when I wish to point out something that may not, in my opinion, merit repeated visits.

From time to time, my better nature may appear as an interlocutor known as Ed (for Editor) or Mgmt (for The Management), usually when my Drifty nature is a little out of control, or isn't being clear about something. Let's try that now, in the form of an introductory interview:

Ed: Drifty, what is your history? How did a clown like you decide to become a blogger?

Drifty: Ed, I'm not really a clown- in fact I don't even look like one. The face you see before you is just a mask the art department put together for me. My shoe size is proportional to my height, my clothes are relatively somber in color, my handerkerchief is of regulation length- I'm just a regular guy, though I do try to ride mass transit when I can, which can be a bit like cramming into a tiny car with a bunch of other clowns. I was asked to start this blog by our mutual employer (name withheld -Ed), probably as a way of getting me off that person's other blog, or so I suspect, which is hosted on a family-safe server belonging to another Internet giant. I wasn't really given any reasons. If there's a deeper purpose behind my blog, I haven't been informed of it yet, and I may never be. As far as I'm concerned, I'm here to have fun and piss people off.

Ed: Pissing people off- is that your thing then?

Drifty: Naw, I'm a sweetie. But if controversy arises... Heh-heh. And there's more to it than just pissing people off, you know. I'd like to piss off animals too, if I could find a way. They don't seem to surf the web, though. Or maybe they're out there, browsing, but not leaving comments- I don't know, it's difficult to gauge the animal response to my work.

Ed: What is your work, Drifty? Do you have a message?

Drifty: If I can make just one person smile in painful self-recognition, I'll feel I've done my hometown proud.

Ed: Tell us a little about where you grew up- I understand you come from a small town?

Drifty: Small? Hardly- San Pronto may be sleepy, but it's anything but little. The sign at the edge of town says there are thirty thousand permanent residents. Of course, a lot of them commute.

Ed: Residents commute to San Pronto? Do you mean seasonally?

Drifty: No. There aren't really any seasons in San Pronto- it's always either nice or nicer. I'm talking about the people who drive in for the day, maybe mow the lawn or rake the leaves, that sort of thing. Run a fruit stand on the street corner, hawk flowers on the side of the road. Y'know, enjoy life in town for a few hours, then off they go.

Ed: Off where? Do you mean they have other residences, homes in other towns?

Drifty: I wouldn't know- my interest in them ends at the town line. But it wouldn't surprise me- even in a place like San Pronto there are lots of people who can afford to have more than one home.

Ed: Are you sure we're not talking about laborers?

Drifty: Well, of course they work! We all have to work, don't we?

Ed: Then they're not really residents, are they? I mean in the traditional sense of the word.

Drifty: Try telling them that. They attend the town hall meetings and campaign for politicians. They use the banks, the libraries, the parks and the public restrooms. They're in town every day, and I know they can't be homeless, because there's an ordinance against that-

Ed: Thanks for talking with us, Drifty. We'll all be watching out for your next posting.

Drifty: Thank you, Ed. Nice to chat with you.

This Is The Birth Of A Blog

2008-01-11T01:59:00.000-08:00

Drifty is trying to get his head together- check back in a day or so.
-Ed.