The wedding had two receptions. That was the answer to the question I'd had when I saw that the wedding started at 2 PM, but the reception wouldn't be until 6. What were we supposed to do in the meantime? The answer was eat some more.
The first reception was at the church, out the door, to the left, and then down the stairs. The room was not really big enough for the crowd, but that issue worked itself out as the more agoraphobic among us cleared out. There were sandwiches and spring rolls and cheeses and tiny red velvet cupcakes. There was also wine, because this was a Catholic church. I recognized it as being left over from the rehearsal dinner the night before. I ate and drank and mingled, like you do at a reception.
Then the crowd really started to thin out, and I spied the groom carrying a couple of bottles of wine, full, but opened and recorked. He beckoned for us to follow. Josh was an usher that afternoon, which I have discovered as the sweet spot for wedding enjoyment. Very little responsibility, no posing for pictures, but full wedding party privileges. Actually, I guess being the date of an usher is the sweetest spot of all.
We walked outside with the rest of the wedding party and there, as if it were waiting for us, was a party bus. Maybe this was the answer to the two receptions. There were not actually two receptions, but one long one at three different locations: the church, the country club, and the party bus itself.
I have never been on a party bus. In fact, I don't think I even knew you could just rent one. It was a regular short-style bus, purple, with the name of the company on the side. The driver was separated from the party area by walls and a door. There was one long padded bench that ran along the inside. Beneath the bench were compartments where you could store your party supplies. Along the top were a variety of glasses - pint, shot, and wine. We passed out the wine glasses, which were all souvenirs from local vineyards. The lights and the windows were dimmed, and there was music. More than once, I caught the reflection of my flushed and happy face in the mirrored door.
The groom told the driver that we didn't have to be at the country club until 5, so just drive around awhile. He poured everyone a fresh glass of wine. Someone tried to pass around a flask, but it seems that we are all old enough to know how to pace ourselves.
So we just rode around for a while. There was a place to hookup an iPod in the back, so someone designated themselves DJ. We danced as well as we could in our seats and sang enthusiastically when we knew the words - our rendition of "Piano Man" was surely for the ages. Every once in a while, someone would raise their glass to toast the newlyweds, at which point the rest of us would go "Wooooo!" Once, I said "Woo!" out of pure excitement, which started up everyone else. We were in a woo-ing kind of mood.
After only a short trip on the party bus, we pulled up to a pristine golf course and club, our final destination. There was more wine, appetizers, wine, dinner, cake, and then dancing.
At 10 PM, I discovered the only drawback about arriving on the party bus - our car was still at the church. And since we had been woo-ing it up in the bus rather than watching the road, I really had no idea where I even was. Some club employees gave me a number for a cab, which I guess means that there is a hidden fee in riding the party bus. Whatever. Worth it.
5.28.2014
5.27.2014
the thirty-seven most promising graduates in all the land.
Josh's little brother graduated from high school this past weekend. I've been to lots of graduations, and they're never very exciting, but it seems to be the kind of thing you go do to be supportive. I think every previous event I've attended was in a sports facility of some kind, like a gym or a stadium. This one was in a church, a beautiful Methodist chapel that must've been modeled after Duke Chapel.
It was a schmancy affair. The organist played the processional, accompanied by a bagpiper. It was not "Pomp and Circumstance". I don't know what it was, only that it was not what I expected to hear. Or maybe it's just hard to recognize P&C on a bagpipe. The teachers filed in first, followed by the line of graduates. Everywhere there were phones and tablets out, aimed at the line of kids in general or trying to capture one specifically.
There were a series of remarks by various local bigwigs. The salutatorian was given time for a speech, except it was really just an introduction to the valedictorian (salt in an open wound, that). The valedictorian spoke next, providing a top ten list of advice that included things like "work hard" and "persevere." It also included the command to "be gracious," but judging by the comments afterward, what she meant was "be grateful." You know, when I graduated, someone gave me a dictionary. I thought it was lame, but maybe it's just what some kids need.
And then - we're moving right along here, might be done before McDonald's stops serving breakfast - it was time to give out the diplomas. There were only thirty-seven kids in the class, so one would expect that this part would be briefer than my niece's graduation, where something like 500 kids filed across the stage. In every graduation I've ever seen, some uptight administrator would sternly warn us not to cheer or show any sort of enthusiasm when our graduate's name was called. The reasoning given is that it takes up time, plus other kids who don't have a slew of relatives in the stands would feel left out when no one screamed for them. Mostly, it always seemed to be targeted against the poor kids, whose families are assumed to not know that graduation is a dignified affair and therefore not the place for yeehawing. Or maybe those are the kids for whom graduating was not a forgone conclusion, so their families are actually, you know, proud and happy.
Anyway.
There was no lecture about cheering here, because there was ample time for it. Cheering time had been purchased in advance, built right in to the cost of tuition. First, the kid's name was called, along with his parent's names. The fresh-faced be-gowned youth would come forward and then stand up front while a teacher or coach would give a personal remembrance about them. This took a very long time, but was not as dry as it could have been. The speeches were short, and some of them were pretty funny or interesting. I also had fun picking out the families of each individual, as that was when a whole row of people would pull out their phones to take pictures.
While the speakers were generally comfortable with public speaking from their professions, the quality of each speech varied a lot. It was also clear that some kids were just hard to write about. I felt the worst for a stone-faced young man who stood there while his chemistry teacher did a word association poem that was ostensibly about him. Some of them talked about the kid's parents, which makes sense, as the continuing existence of the school likely depends on the donations of parents of former students. Particularly amusing was a tennis coach who referred to a set of parents as being "very involved," followed by a story about them all going out to lunch approximately an hour after he first set foot in the school. Other speeches were sort of confusing, which I chalk up to being written in a hurry during the last crunch of the semester. Someone said a student was able to dish it out and also take it, then concluded that this probably had something to do with his Belgian heritage. I don't know enough about the history of Belgium to know what that even means. My favorite, though, was the young man who was said to have "business-minded social awareness," which I can only interpret as meaning "knowing how to tell who will be useful to him someday."
It was, after all, a giant self-congratulation session, like all graduations. I felt the urge to grumble about it, because rich people are so much better at self-congratulation than us regular folks, but in the end, these kids did not choose to be rich and go to a fancy school. Also, the speeches totally worked, as I left convinced that I had just been introduced to the thirty-seven most promising graduates in all the land. We can expect great things from them all, I'm sure.
It was a schmancy affair. The organist played the processional, accompanied by a bagpiper. It was not "Pomp and Circumstance". I don't know what it was, only that it was not what I expected to hear. Or maybe it's just hard to recognize P&C on a bagpipe. The teachers filed in first, followed by the line of graduates. Everywhere there were phones and tablets out, aimed at the line of kids in general or trying to capture one specifically.
There were a series of remarks by various local bigwigs. The salutatorian was given time for a speech, except it was really just an introduction to the valedictorian (salt in an open wound, that). The valedictorian spoke next, providing a top ten list of advice that included things like "work hard" and "persevere." It also included the command to "be gracious," but judging by the comments afterward, what she meant was "be grateful." You know, when I graduated, someone gave me a dictionary. I thought it was lame, but maybe it's just what some kids need.
And then - we're moving right along here, might be done before McDonald's stops serving breakfast - it was time to give out the diplomas. There were only thirty-seven kids in the class, so one would expect that this part would be briefer than my niece's graduation, where something like 500 kids filed across the stage. In every graduation I've ever seen, some uptight administrator would sternly warn us not to cheer or show any sort of enthusiasm when our graduate's name was called. The reasoning given is that it takes up time, plus other kids who don't have a slew of relatives in the stands would feel left out when no one screamed for them. Mostly, it always seemed to be targeted against the poor kids, whose families are assumed to not know that graduation is a dignified affair and therefore not the place for yeehawing. Or maybe those are the kids for whom graduating was not a forgone conclusion, so their families are actually, you know, proud and happy.
Anyway.
There was no lecture about cheering here, because there was ample time for it. Cheering time had been purchased in advance, built right in to the cost of tuition. First, the kid's name was called, along with his parent's names. The fresh-faced be-gowned youth would come forward and then stand up front while a teacher or coach would give a personal remembrance about them. This took a very long time, but was not as dry as it could have been. The speeches were short, and some of them were pretty funny or interesting. I also had fun picking out the families of each individual, as that was when a whole row of people would pull out their phones to take pictures.
While the speakers were generally comfortable with public speaking from their professions, the quality of each speech varied a lot. It was also clear that some kids were just hard to write about. I felt the worst for a stone-faced young man who stood there while his chemistry teacher did a word association poem that was ostensibly about him. Some of them talked about the kid's parents, which makes sense, as the continuing existence of the school likely depends on the donations of parents of former students. Particularly amusing was a tennis coach who referred to a set of parents as being "very involved," followed by a story about them all going out to lunch approximately an hour after he first set foot in the school. Other speeches were sort of confusing, which I chalk up to being written in a hurry during the last crunch of the semester. Someone said a student was able to dish it out and also take it, then concluded that this probably had something to do with his Belgian heritage. I don't know enough about the history of Belgium to know what that even means. My favorite, though, was the young man who was said to have "business-minded social awareness," which I can only interpret as meaning "knowing how to tell who will be useful to him someday."
It was, after all, a giant self-congratulation session, like all graduations. I felt the urge to grumble about it, because rich people are so much better at self-congratulation than us regular folks, but in the end, these kids did not choose to be rich and go to a fancy school. Also, the speeches totally worked, as I left convinced that I had just been introduced to the thirty-seven most promising graduates in all the land. We can expect great things from them all, I'm sure.
5.21.2014
movers.
The office move is this week. The shredding has continued, mostly done by the accountant with the rest of us assisting in shifts. She was even in here over the weekend with her kids, feeding more invoices and packing slips and expense reports into the hungry hungry shredder. I helped out on Monday, and there were four of us standing in a circle around the shredder. We made Enron jokes.
Last week, we were given boxes and told to pack up. I was amazed at how much crap I had, since I moved desks just a couple of years ago. But moving to a new spot in the same office is just a matter of dumping your drawers into a box, moving the box ten feet, then dumping the contents into a different drawer. This time, I actually bothered to look through each item and decide whether it was worth keeping.
Of course, my coworkers have it worse. Some of them have been with the company for twenty years, and they last changed offices in the mid-90s. In fact, one of them even found a piece of paper from the previous move, with information about their new address, the one we are now leaving. He decided to let that go. He was going through his desk, pulling out notebooks.
"I probably don't need this notebook from 2004, huh."
"My cut-off date is 2007."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, before that I didn't work here."
"Oh." He threw 2004 away.
After cleaning out my desk, I was left with stuff that I didn't want, so I started a little Goodwill bag (using a paper bag I'd saved from a trip to Dunkin Donuts, who knows when). Then I saw other people throwing things out that were definitely still useful, so I grabbed one of the packing boxes and wrote "GOODWILL or FREE" on it. I dumped the Dunkin bag in there and sent out an email letting everyone know. By today, we required a third Goodwill box. Someone had left a big stack of cassettes in there, so if you're looking for some Van Halen to play in your beater car, just let me know.
Today was the last day in the old office. Tonight, people will come and dismantle the cube farm so they can set it up again at the new place. Tomorrow, movers will pick up all these boxes and hopefully put them in the right cube, as designated by the stickers on the sides of each box. All our computers are to be put into the conference room and plugged into the internet so we developers can all work from home the next two or three days. The sales guys, the support team, and the accountant will all work in the conference room at one table.
This morning, there was a call for help, so I put away my Fortran project and went to pack up the kitchen. For the first cabinet, I faithfully boxed up everything, using packing peanuts to cushion the breakables. By the second cabinet, I asked someone if we were ever going to use these four vases again. During the third cabinet, I gave myself the authority to decide what to get rid of, and so went a basket, four plastic bowls, and three coffee grinders. I salvaged a canister for myself. I wish I'd taken this initiative before I packed up fifty coffee mugs. I packed up the three champagne flutes, though I can't imagine us using them. It must've been a different kind of company before 2007.
Last week, we were given boxes and told to pack up. I was amazed at how much crap I had, since I moved desks just a couple of years ago. But moving to a new spot in the same office is just a matter of dumping your drawers into a box, moving the box ten feet, then dumping the contents into a different drawer. This time, I actually bothered to look through each item and decide whether it was worth keeping.
Of course, my coworkers have it worse. Some of them have been with the company for twenty years, and they last changed offices in the mid-90s. In fact, one of them even found a piece of paper from the previous move, with information about their new address, the one we are now leaving. He decided to let that go. He was going through his desk, pulling out notebooks.
"I probably don't need this notebook from 2004, huh."
"My cut-off date is 2007."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, before that I didn't work here."
"Oh." He threw 2004 away.
After cleaning out my desk, I was left with stuff that I didn't want, so I started a little Goodwill bag (using a paper bag I'd saved from a trip to Dunkin Donuts, who knows when). Then I saw other people throwing things out that were definitely still useful, so I grabbed one of the packing boxes and wrote "GOODWILL or FREE" on it. I dumped the Dunkin bag in there and sent out an email letting everyone know. By today, we required a third Goodwill box. Someone had left a big stack of cassettes in there, so if you're looking for some Van Halen to play in your beater car, just let me know.
Today was the last day in the old office. Tonight, people will come and dismantle the cube farm so they can set it up again at the new place. Tomorrow, movers will pick up all these boxes and hopefully put them in the right cube, as designated by the stickers on the sides of each box. All our computers are to be put into the conference room and plugged into the internet so we developers can all work from home the next two or three days. The sales guys, the support team, and the accountant will all work in the conference room at one table.
This morning, there was a call for help, so I put away my Fortran project and went to pack up the kitchen. For the first cabinet, I faithfully boxed up everything, using packing peanuts to cushion the breakables. By the second cabinet, I asked someone if we were ever going to use these four vases again. During the third cabinet, I gave myself the authority to decide what to get rid of, and so went a basket, four plastic bowls, and three coffee grinders. I salvaged a canister for myself. I wish I'd taken this initiative before I packed up fifty coffee mugs. I packed up the three champagne flutes, though I can't imagine us using them. It must've been a different kind of company before 2007.
5.14.2014
adult formation.
Last week, I went to a meeting at church about Adult Formation. And if you don't know what that means, then you are pretty much where I was before I went to the meeting. I thought it was going to be about Sunday School for grownups, and since I go to Sunday School, I might have ideas about it. Basically, someone asked me to come, and I said okay. That's how they getcha.
There were ten or so of us, and I knew who everyone was, at least by face. These were church people, the ones you see every week, usually doing something like reading the scripture or carrying the banner or singing in the choir.
Our priest started the meeting by asking everyone to say their name and what their passion was in Adult Formation. I got sort of a panicked look in my eyes, because I do not as of yet really feel a passion about Sunday School. I managed to get by with only saying that I was here because I was an Adult interested in being formed. Other people seemed much more passionate. A couple of them spoke intensely about something called "EFM" that happens on Wednesday nights. I wanted to ask what it stood for, but the moment passed.
As it turns out, Adult Formation does not mean just Sunday School. It basically means any programs in the church targeted at adults. So that includes the evening Bible studies and mission trips and EFM, whatever it is.
The meeting stuff was fine. We talked about the results from a previous meeting, where some other group of passionate individuals had come up with a list of things we did well and things we would like to do better. I didn't really say much. I laughed when things were funny or made a sly comment or two, but for the most part, I just listened. I got the feeling that the meeting was really more for ideas-people than implementers like myself, but I was still interested.
About halfway through, the priest looked at me and asked, "Sandra, are we giving you room to speak?"
The lady next to her said, "Yes, I'd like to know what Sandra thinks!"
Oh, geez, no. No no no no no no. My face red, I assured them that I would say something if I felt the need. We moved on to talk about Wednesday night Bible study.
Up until that moment, I had felt very comfortable. I was interested in the conversation, and any thoughts that I'd had, someone else had spoken up about them.
And then I just wanted to go home. I did not feel comfortable, I felt anxious, like I needed to be sure and have something to say in case I was called on. And then I felt more anxious about the fact that I was so busy worrying about not having anything to say that I wasn't paying attention to the meeting anymore.
That was the first time I have ever left my church feeling mad. Room to speak, bah. Can't I just have room to listen?
On Sunday, I was at the cookie hour following the service when I saw someone who had been at the meeting. She said it was funny how different people can be about speaking. She mentioned a person at EFM (?!) who never used to say anything, but after a year or so, began to speak up more. Then she said something about people needing to feel they are in a safe space.
So do I need to feel safe? Or do I need room to speak? I really don't know. But I do not like being treated like I'm fragile or even just shy, because I don't think I am. I'm just quiet...right?
I don't know. I still don't know what EFM is, either.
There were ten or so of us, and I knew who everyone was, at least by face. These were church people, the ones you see every week, usually doing something like reading the scripture or carrying the banner or singing in the choir.
Our priest started the meeting by asking everyone to say their name and what their passion was in Adult Formation. I got sort of a panicked look in my eyes, because I do not as of yet really feel a passion about Sunday School. I managed to get by with only saying that I was here because I was an Adult interested in being formed. Other people seemed much more passionate. A couple of them spoke intensely about something called "EFM" that happens on Wednesday nights. I wanted to ask what it stood for, but the moment passed.
As it turns out, Adult Formation does not mean just Sunday School. It basically means any programs in the church targeted at adults. So that includes the evening Bible studies and mission trips and EFM, whatever it is.
The meeting stuff was fine. We talked about the results from a previous meeting, where some other group of passionate individuals had come up with a list of things we did well and things we would like to do better. I didn't really say much. I laughed when things were funny or made a sly comment or two, but for the most part, I just listened. I got the feeling that the meeting was really more for ideas-people than implementers like myself, but I was still interested.
About halfway through, the priest looked at me and asked, "Sandra, are we giving you room to speak?"
The lady next to her said, "Yes, I'd like to know what Sandra thinks!"
Oh, geez, no. No no no no no no. My face red, I assured them that I would say something if I felt the need. We moved on to talk about Wednesday night Bible study.
Up until that moment, I had felt very comfortable. I was interested in the conversation, and any thoughts that I'd had, someone else had spoken up about them.
And then I just wanted to go home. I did not feel comfortable, I felt anxious, like I needed to be sure and have something to say in case I was called on. And then I felt more anxious about the fact that I was so busy worrying about not having anything to say that I wasn't paying attention to the meeting anymore.
That was the first time I have ever left my church feeling mad. Room to speak, bah. Can't I just have room to listen?
On Sunday, I was at the cookie hour following the service when I saw someone who had been at the meeting. She said it was funny how different people can be about speaking. She mentioned a person at EFM (?!) who never used to say anything, but after a year or so, began to speak up more. Then she said something about people needing to feel they are in a safe space.
So do I need to feel safe? Or do I need room to speak? I really don't know. But I do not like being treated like I'm fragile or even just shy, because I don't think I am. I'm just quiet...right?
I don't know. I still don't know what EFM is, either.
5.10.2014
research.
Today, we went on a research mission with regards to my new goal to disguise the well with a piece of yard art. Oh, you didn't know I was serious?
Like I said, I want a gargoyle. Maybe it was last year's trip to France, or maybe I watched a lot of that Disney Afternoon show in my formative years, but to have a gargoyle seemed like something I could mark off my life's list. They ward off evil spirits, you know. Maybe that's why the trees have been taking out our Toyotas. Evil spirits.
As soon as I mentioned the gargoyle idea to Josh, he decided he wanted a lion. And I have to admit, a lion would be pretty good; we could call it Aslan. Josh says that then everyone would know that we were Gryffindors.
We drove out to the garden center across from the farmer's market. It has a name, but I'm pretty sure most people just refer to it as That Place With the Statues. I took some pictures for your amusement (and my own recollection). There were lots of other things that I did not photograph, because while they were interesting, I wasn't going to buy them. So you'll just have to imagine the cement Yoda, saints, Easter Island heads, and palm trees.
The statues were predictably kind of expensive. Or maybe they were about right for giant cement statues. The lion that Josh picked out was $150, and the gargoyle that we agreed was superior was $175. While my desire for a well statue is strong, my patience is great. I have seen statues at estate sales, but they are usually bird baths and occasionally an angel or a cat. Either the kind of people who buy yardgoyles are few and far between, or they live forever due to being protected from evil spirits and therefore never have estate sales. Now that we have an idea of what is out there and what kind of price to expect, our next step is to look online. And maybe I'll put out a swear jar or something where we can start a statue fund.
One of the guys running the shop came up to us a couple of times to see if we needed assistance in fulfilling our yard art needs. I guess he could tell we more than just browers, as we had covered the whole area, and then kept going back and forth between the lions and the gargoyles. He said, "Narrowing it down? Maybe not sure where you could put it?" I assured him that we had just the spot, which he seemed to find surprising. I think that's when he decided we were the kind of customers that know what we want from life.
So, nothing to report just yet. I assure you, I will keep you updated.
 |
| This serpent is like the one our neighbors have. |
 |
| This Chinese dragon came in a pair. You can't really tell from the picture, but there are pretty intricate lines on him. |
 |
| Our preferred lion was like this one, but in a darker shade |
 |
| This guy's pretty nuts, right? Not sure what the cultural influence is, but I bet he could get rid of some spirits. He was sadly a little small for our needs. |
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| Some other fine fictional beasts. |
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| Our preferred gargoyle - large and scary, but not nightmarish |
5.09.2014
master shredders.
We are switching offices at work at the end of the month. It's not a huge move, actually just around the corner in the same office park. But it's nice to have a change.
I think we're moving to save money. A few years ago, after the economy tanked, we cut our office in half. The office park people came in and literally threw up a wall in the middle of a hallway. We used to have a different front door and some fancy big-wig type offices down there, but now some other company works there. We lost our big kitchen and conference rooms, but they remodeled part of our warehouse space into new ones.
We had a lot of warehouse space. Years ago, we used to ship an actual product, on a disc in a box with a manual and everything. Apparently, they had shipping parties when a new version came out. Everyone would stay late and they would package product in an assembly line. I assume there was pizza. I'm not sure when they stopped doing that. Every once in a while, someone here will ask if I was here for that, and the fact that I wasn't makes them feel old.
We still have a fair amount of storage. There is a cage in the back which holds boxes and boxes of paper records. And we still have all the old shipping equipment, which means stacks of boxes and a thing that does shrink-wrapping. It mostly just sits in the back, but whenever I need to mail a package, I do help myself to a box and some packing peanuts.
Our new space will be smaller again, and I expect the shipping supplies to just go away, since there won't be space to store them. And something has to be done with all the other things that just hang around the office, reminding us of a bygone era.
Like all those records. This week, the accountant has been bringing in the boxes of records and recruiting the rest of us to help her shred. The shredder is massive and impressive-looking, but it honestly is not really up to the task. You can only feed it so many pages at a time or it grinds to a halt and sometimes shorts out. We had to take a break in our destruction this morning, because it had overheated.
The amount to be shredded is staggering. Paystubs, receipts from water bills, reimbursement records, invoices from orders filled, and stacks of technology patents. There was stuff from the 80s in there. Apparently, our company used to bank with First Union. Remember First Union? It was funny to come across paystubs that were paid out when I was still in high school and recognize the name as my current coworkers. We have some long-timers here.
Given the amount of material, it appears that it will take several of us, working in shifts to get rid of the years of documents. The recycling man is going to have a nice surprise when he comes for a pickup this week.
I think we're moving to save money. A few years ago, after the economy tanked, we cut our office in half. The office park people came in and literally threw up a wall in the middle of a hallway. We used to have a different front door and some fancy big-wig type offices down there, but now some other company works there. We lost our big kitchen and conference rooms, but they remodeled part of our warehouse space into new ones.
We had a lot of warehouse space. Years ago, we used to ship an actual product, on a disc in a box with a manual and everything. Apparently, they had shipping parties when a new version came out. Everyone would stay late and they would package product in an assembly line. I assume there was pizza. I'm not sure when they stopped doing that. Every once in a while, someone here will ask if I was here for that, and the fact that I wasn't makes them feel old.
We still have a fair amount of storage. There is a cage in the back which holds boxes and boxes of paper records. And we still have all the old shipping equipment, which means stacks of boxes and a thing that does shrink-wrapping. It mostly just sits in the back, but whenever I need to mail a package, I do help myself to a box and some packing peanuts.
Our new space will be smaller again, and I expect the shipping supplies to just go away, since there won't be space to store them. And something has to be done with all the other things that just hang around the office, reminding us of a bygone era.
Like all those records. This week, the accountant has been bringing in the boxes of records and recruiting the rest of us to help her shred. The shredder is massive and impressive-looking, but it honestly is not really up to the task. You can only feed it so many pages at a time or it grinds to a halt and sometimes shorts out. We had to take a break in our destruction this morning, because it had overheated.
The amount to be shredded is staggering. Paystubs, receipts from water bills, reimbursement records, invoices from orders filled, and stacks of technology patents. There was stuff from the 80s in there. Apparently, our company used to bank with First Union. Remember First Union? It was funny to come across paystubs that were paid out when I was still in high school and recognize the name as my current coworkers. We have some long-timers here.
Given the amount of material, it appears that it will take several of us, working in shifts to get rid of the years of documents. The recycling man is going to have a nice surprise when he comes for a pickup this week.
5.07.2014
for o'malley, a good dog.
"Hey, Sandra, I gotta take Devin to the vet-"
I laughed. See, Devin is a person, and it sounded like he needed to go to the vet. Funny!
"-because he just found out that O'Malley has a brain tumor, and they have to put him down today," Trevor finished.
Aw, crap. That was not a good time to laugh.
O'Malley is not a person, he is a dog. I'd last seen him a month or so ago, when we were hanging out at the house with Devin and his girlfriend Celia. O'Malley always surprises me with how big a dog he is, part lab and part something shaggy and part something else, too. I remember back when he was a puppy, and then there were a couple years when I didn't see him, and then later there was this huge, shiny black dog they were calling by the same name.
Celia was talking about his health issues, which seemed to be many. He had some kind of abscess and so he got frequent nosebleeds. They'd had to switch dog foods, because he'd quit eating the regular old Purina stuff they'd been buying him. Now, they had to buy something with the word "holistic" on the bag.
"I bet it only comes in small bags, doesn't it?" I had asked, maybe a little smugly. My dog will eat whatever.
She nodded yes.
So he was going to have to have surgery for his abscess, and she was going to make sure they trimmed his nails while he was sedated. He would not consent to it while awake, and his nails were so long that he was having trouble walking.
To be smug again, my dog actually will bite her own nails.
She sighed and looked down at the floor. "We were saving money to put in hardwood floors, but I guess that'll have to wait." But then she brightened. "I'd do anything for my animals."
My smugness vanished. I've never priced hardwood floors, but if my pet required a surgery that cost that much, I'm not sure that I would pay it. I love my dog a lot, I swear, but if we're putting a price on it, I guess not as much as Devin and Celia love O'Malley.
I guess it wasn't an abscess after all. O'Malley's decline was quick and completely unexpected. He was in pain. He couldn't sit still, and yet he could barely walk. He seemed disoriented. The doctor said there was nothing to do. So they sent O'Malley to the beyond. Trevor said it was peaceful.
He got home later that afternoon, and our dogs greeted him with enthusiastic tail wags and good health. To pet them both, he put down the package he'd brought in. It was a small bag of holistic dog food.
I laughed. See, Devin is a person, and it sounded like he needed to go to the vet. Funny!
"-because he just found out that O'Malley has a brain tumor, and they have to put him down today," Trevor finished.
Aw, crap. That was not a good time to laugh.
O'Malley is not a person, he is a dog. I'd last seen him a month or so ago, when we were hanging out at the house with Devin and his girlfriend Celia. O'Malley always surprises me with how big a dog he is, part lab and part something shaggy and part something else, too. I remember back when he was a puppy, and then there were a couple years when I didn't see him, and then later there was this huge, shiny black dog they were calling by the same name.
Celia was talking about his health issues, which seemed to be many. He had some kind of abscess and so he got frequent nosebleeds. They'd had to switch dog foods, because he'd quit eating the regular old Purina stuff they'd been buying him. Now, they had to buy something with the word "holistic" on the bag.
"I bet it only comes in small bags, doesn't it?" I had asked, maybe a little smugly. My dog will eat whatever.
She nodded yes.
So he was going to have to have surgery for his abscess, and she was going to make sure they trimmed his nails while he was sedated. He would not consent to it while awake, and his nails were so long that he was having trouble walking.
To be smug again, my dog actually will bite her own nails.
She sighed and looked down at the floor. "We were saving money to put in hardwood floors, but I guess that'll have to wait." But then she brightened. "I'd do anything for my animals."
My smugness vanished. I've never priced hardwood floors, but if my pet required a surgery that cost that much, I'm not sure that I would pay it. I love my dog a lot, I swear, but if we're putting a price on it, I guess not as much as Devin and Celia love O'Malley.
I guess it wasn't an abscess after all. O'Malley's decline was quick and completely unexpected. He was in pain. He couldn't sit still, and yet he could barely walk. He seemed disoriented. The doctor said there was nothing to do. So they sent O'Malley to the beyond. Trevor said it was peaceful.
He got home later that afternoon, and our dogs greeted him with enthusiastic tail wags and good health. To pet them both, he put down the package he'd brought in. It was a small bag of holistic dog food.
5.05.2014
wedding night.
It was late. I don't know how late, but all the people who were above the age of forty or had children had left hours ago. Most of them were locals, some of them local enough to just cross the street to get to their own warm beds. My warm bed was two hours away, though I'd reserved a bed about five miles away. The others had planned to drive the hour back to their homes, but then it got late and no one stopped drinking. So they were just going to have to stay here, in the home of a bride and groom on their wedding night.
To be fair, the bride and groom did say they should just stay.
We were in the back yard, where a fire flickered merrily, surrounded by camp chairs, stumps, and overturned buckets. We, the remaining six, were playing soccer. There were seven of us if you counted the cooler full of ice and beer, which was actually a better soccer player than a couple of us. We weren't really playing soccer, but rather standing in a circle and kicking the ball to each other in no particular order. Sort of like Catch, but with your feet. Kick, I suppose.
They said I played soccer like a robot. Ball comes toward me, I throw out a foot mechanically. I've never played soccer before, and I think this was the longest I'd ever played Kick. As the game went on, I figured it out a bit more until I was playing like a robot who had at least played before. Someone who had actually played real soccer tried to recall tricks he'd mastered years ago. A couple of others would attempt to imitate his successful ones. There were a lot of trips into the woods to fetch the wayward ball.
I wish I could convey the moment of it. It was just six people and one cooler, old friends and new, kicking a ball back and forth under the stars. We were all happy and giggly from the beer and the fact of a wedding. It was nothing. One of those nothings that you look back on fondly and wish you could recapture whatever power a memory has to make you smile just by recalling it.
To be fair, the bride and groom did say they should just stay.
We were in the back yard, where a fire flickered merrily, surrounded by camp chairs, stumps, and overturned buckets. We, the remaining six, were playing soccer. There were seven of us if you counted the cooler full of ice and beer, which was actually a better soccer player than a couple of us. We weren't really playing soccer, but rather standing in a circle and kicking the ball to each other in no particular order. Sort of like Catch, but with your feet. Kick, I suppose.
They said I played soccer like a robot. Ball comes toward me, I throw out a foot mechanically. I've never played soccer before, and I think this was the longest I'd ever played Kick. As the game went on, I figured it out a bit more until I was playing like a robot who had at least played before. Someone who had actually played real soccer tried to recall tricks he'd mastered years ago. A couple of others would attempt to imitate his successful ones. There were a lot of trips into the woods to fetch the wayward ball.
I wish I could convey the moment of it. It was just six people and one cooler, old friends and new, kicking a ball back and forth under the stars. We were all happy and giggly from the beer and the fact of a wedding. It was nothing. One of those nothings that you look back on fondly and wish you could recapture whatever power a memory has to make you smile just by recalling it.
5.03.2014
stranger.
Last Friday, Josh called me while I was at work. He said a guy had come to inspect our crawlspace. The dude had a stack of papers with names and addresses on it, one of which was me. Josh called me because it sounded kinda weird and he wasn't sure if it was legit.
Well, it was kinda weird. We did have work done on our crawlspace last October by the company whose logo was all over the guy's car. But I didn't ask for an inspection. Is it part of company policy to just roll up a few months later and check everything out?
I agreed it sounded fishy, but if the guy wanted to look at our crawlspace, I couldn't see what harm it would do. I did advise Josh to go with him to make sure he didn't...steal our box of old tools, I guess. In the crawlspace, the guy poked at the dehumidifier and said it was leaking, and that we should have the company replace it. Then he left.
Later, I emailed the salesman I had dealt with when we got the crawlspace work done. His response was alarmed, as no, they do not randomly send out inspectors. I had Josh give me a full description of the guy and the encounter, which I emailed back to the salesman.
So it seems clear that there is some kind of scam, but I can't figure out what it was. Possibilities:
1. The guy was, as they say, casing the joint, to come back later and rob us. The odd thing about this is that he would not have cause to go into the house proper, so he really would not be able to tell much more than he could by just driving casually about the neighborhood. Also, I mark this as "least concern." While on paper, I am just a single woman having her crawlspace fixed, in reality, I have a husband, a brother-in-law, a pitbull, and a rottweiler. The man saw the men of the house, and he heard the dogs barking within. They do not sound like small dogs.
2. The guy was looking to steal things from our crawlspace. I have to admit, this would be trivially easy, with nothing but a plywood door and a master lock standing in his way. But, as he would have seen, there just isn't much down there worth stealing. Since we had the space encapsulated, it does make for nice extra storage. We have a bike and some containers that contain tools and whatnot. If this is the game, then I have to assume he's going to conclude our house just isn't worth the hit. But who keeps valuables in the crawlspace anyway? The most valuable thing down there is probably the dehumidifier that was installed as part of our encapsulation. Which brings us to the third theory...
3. The guy deals in used dehumidifiers. He was going around, telling customers that their equipment was broken so that they would have it replaced under warranty. He apparently has some relationship with the company (hence the decals on the car and the list of recent customers), so maybe he gets the old equipment, which he then resells. Okay, pretty far-fetched.
We are keeping an eye on the crawlspace, checking it often so that if something does go missing, we can report it quickly. I'm not worried about our personal safety (see dogs, ferocious). It's just really, really strange.
Any other ideas?
Well, it was kinda weird. We did have work done on our crawlspace last October by the company whose logo was all over the guy's car. But I didn't ask for an inspection. Is it part of company policy to just roll up a few months later and check everything out?
I agreed it sounded fishy, but if the guy wanted to look at our crawlspace, I couldn't see what harm it would do. I did advise Josh to go with him to make sure he didn't...steal our box of old tools, I guess. In the crawlspace, the guy poked at the dehumidifier and said it was leaking, and that we should have the company replace it. Then he left.
Later, I emailed the salesman I had dealt with when we got the crawlspace work done. His response was alarmed, as no, they do not randomly send out inspectors. I had Josh give me a full description of the guy and the encounter, which I emailed back to the salesman.
So it seems clear that there is some kind of scam, but I can't figure out what it was. Possibilities:
1. The guy was, as they say, casing the joint, to come back later and rob us. The odd thing about this is that he would not have cause to go into the house proper, so he really would not be able to tell much more than he could by just driving casually about the neighborhood. Also, I mark this as "least concern." While on paper, I am just a single woman having her crawlspace fixed, in reality, I have a husband, a brother-in-law, a pitbull, and a rottweiler. The man saw the men of the house, and he heard the dogs barking within. They do not sound like small dogs.
2. The guy was looking to steal things from our crawlspace. I have to admit, this would be trivially easy, with nothing but a plywood door and a master lock standing in his way. But, as he would have seen, there just isn't much down there worth stealing. Since we had the space encapsulated, it does make for nice extra storage. We have a bike and some containers that contain tools and whatnot. If this is the game, then I have to assume he's going to conclude our house just isn't worth the hit. But who keeps valuables in the crawlspace anyway? The most valuable thing down there is probably the dehumidifier that was installed as part of our encapsulation. Which brings us to the third theory...
3. The guy deals in used dehumidifiers. He was going around, telling customers that their equipment was broken so that they would have it replaced under warranty. He apparently has some relationship with the company (hence the decals on the car and the list of recent customers), so maybe he gets the old equipment, which he then resells. Okay, pretty far-fetched.
We are keeping an eye on the crawlspace, checking it often so that if something does go missing, we can report it quickly. I'm not worried about our personal safety (see dogs, ferocious). It's just really, really strange.
Any other ideas?
5.02.2014
artists and patrons.
All of the friendships that I have preserved from my summer at nerd camp have done me well, because these people who were awesome in high school continue to be awesome to this very day. One of them was so awesome that I just gave up on ever finding anyone awesomer and married him. It was easy to pick which was the awesomest for this purpose, because the others were all female.
I hung out with the art kids, even though I was there to study math. I think every single subject was represented in our little social group, but somehow most of the kids came from the art department. Some of them, like the orchestra and English students, were artists themselves, so it makes sense that they would seek out the visual artists. I have no explanation for the math kids.
Art kids are weirdos. The theatre kids were weirdos, too, but I think they were extroverted or something.
Anyway, of the art kids, the only one I have kept up with is Helena. Many times in our friendship, I have wondered how on earth I came to be friends with someone like her. Like, I am not that surprised that people like her exist, as I've seen all kinds of crazy people and I've seen even more crazy art, and so I understand that some people were assigned a different kind of brain than mine. But the fact that I even know a person like that blows my mind. When you talk to her, she seems like a perfectly normal person, until she starts talking about things she has done. One thing I remember in particular is that she has hopped trains. Who does that?
I cannot comprehend her decision-making. If we were both reading the same Choose Your Own Adventure book, we would end up in completely opposite endings. I suspect that if I did make those decisions, I wouldn't be able to get away with it. It works out for her, but she's Helena. I'm not, and there is nothing I can do about that.
Helena lives in Amsterdam now. How did she get to Amsterdam? She went over there for her grandmother's funeral, decided she didn't like how her life was going back in Chicago, and just picked up and moved to the Netherlands. At that point in my Choose Your Own Adventure, I probably would've stayed home, maybe started taking a different route home or something.
When we were planning our European trip, Helena said she could put us up for the night. Are there sweeter words in the English language? Yes, let's go to Amsterdam, we won't even have to pay to sleep somewhere. After a day of wandering around the city, we followed her directions, got lost, but eventually wound up at her studio. You go down a street that is named something very similar to the street next to it, walk through a courtyard full of bicycles and picnic tables and yard art before winding up at a barn.
The studio reminded me a lot of the art room back at nerd camp. Books, art, and art supplies, like you'd expect, but then just a whole bunch of stuff that may or may not be art. She shares the studio with a couple of other ladies. One of them is really into making body parts out of glass, and so there were noses and brains and hearts lying around. The other seems to be working mostly with fabrics, so she had mannequins and dresses made out of some kind of weird shiny stuff. Helena paints, and her current project, four giant canvases, was in progress. There was a small kitchen, which was stocked with tea and stroopwafels, but not much else. The bathroom was found by going through a door that connected to the back-end of a bar. It was pretty gross, and the door didn't lock properly.
Aside from her painting space, Helena had a little office set up underneath a loft. She had shelves full of books, ranging from novels and poetry and diaries of creative types to artisan craft manuals. She had anthologies of Foxfire, and I was fascinated to see the pages she had marked - welding, glass-blowing. You can make art out of anything.
Up in the loft, there was a tent with a mattress inside, where Helena slept when she was working all night at the studio. Otherwise, she stayed at her boyfriend's. Helena has no official residence. Apparently, they are actually squatting in the barn studio, but squatting is legal in Amsterdam, because Amsterdam is a ridiculous place. She said she questions her life choices sometimes, thirty years old and living in a tent in a barn. Well, when you put it like that...
I don't pretend to know Helena well enough to say whether her life choices have been good ones, but the funny thing is, it seems like the right kind of life for her. Yes, she lives in a tent. But she is an artist for a living, which, as far as I can tell, was her goal. She does not have a day job to support her art. She lives very frugally and has help from friends, but she is a professional artist. Artistic success looks very different from other kinds.
I snuck a peak at Helena's calendar. Later that month, she would be leaving to go on tour on the west coast with some musician friends. Her upcoming week was marked PAINTING. The next week, INSTALLATION, when she would be putting up her paintings at an exhibit. I was struck with the discipline and organization of it. Helena is definitely a problem creator, but perhaps she is also a problem solver. Maybe that is the difference. As a problem solver, I had to marry a problem creator to get some spark in my life, and the conflicts in our personalities and outlooks sometimes drive me batty. I can't imagine having that conflict internally.
Once upon a time, I was going to grow up to be a writer. My sensible mother gave me the speech that all concerned mothers everywhere give budding artists, which was that making it as an artist is statistically unlikely, so get a college degree and a real job, you know, just as a backup. I don't know if anyone ever becomes a professional artist with that route. Being a teenager, my reaction was to rebel and to insist all the more vehemently that I was going to be a writer, GEEZ MOM. But that was brief. By the time I went to college, I was perfectly content with the idea of being a computer programmer, which probably indicates that my mom could have saved her speech.
What did Helena's mother tell her? What kind of parents does a Helena come from, anyway? For the record, she did go to college. Art college.
I would not say that my mom was wrong to mercilessly crush my dreams. I wonder sometimes what I would say to my own children (seeing who I've married, it is likely to come up). I don't want to downplay their ambition or their inspiration. I am totally supportive of them going for a career in the arts, but I want them to go with their eyes open. I wonder if a slice of Helena's life would be the right response. She gets to live the romantic, bohemian, artist's life - paint for a living, go on tour with musicians, work in a barn studio. But she lives in a tent and her bathroom is really nasty. Possibly the stuff we saw in the studio is the extent of her possessions. So the difference between being an artist and not is less about the statistical likelihood of fame and more about how much you want it. If you are comfortable with instability and uncertainty and really all you want to do is paint, then yeah! If you can't not make art, then go out there and make some art. Maybe even in Amsterdam, because squatting is legal, and there is socialized healthcare.
I dunno why I'm even worrying about it, dang kids won't listen to me anyways.
Staying in Helena's tent was a way for me to see a life I might have had. I've also gone on tour for a couple of days with a band, and honestly, there is very little sleeping or bathing, and the food is terrible. I like my comforts. And I am able to write, without having to rely on it for food. I can do it for the sake of doing it. And I have my in-house problem creator, who is able to work a job that leaves him time to create and still sleep in a nice bed. I suppose that makes me a patron. I am okay with that. I am happy with the gifts I have, even though sometimes my creative friends make me feel like a robot. Mostly, though, I feel lucky to know them and to get to see just where the art comes from.
I hung out with the art kids, even though I was there to study math. I think every single subject was represented in our little social group, but somehow most of the kids came from the art department. Some of them, like the orchestra and English students, were artists themselves, so it makes sense that they would seek out the visual artists. I have no explanation for the math kids.
Art kids are weirdos. The theatre kids were weirdos, too, but I think they were extroverted or something.
Anyway, of the art kids, the only one I have kept up with is Helena. Many times in our friendship, I have wondered how on earth I came to be friends with someone like her. Like, I am not that surprised that people like her exist, as I've seen all kinds of crazy people and I've seen even more crazy art, and so I understand that some people were assigned a different kind of brain than mine. But the fact that I even know a person like that blows my mind. When you talk to her, she seems like a perfectly normal person, until she starts talking about things she has done. One thing I remember in particular is that she has hopped trains. Who does that?
I cannot comprehend her decision-making. If we were both reading the same Choose Your Own Adventure book, we would end up in completely opposite endings. I suspect that if I did make those decisions, I wouldn't be able to get away with it. It works out for her, but she's Helena. I'm not, and there is nothing I can do about that.
Helena lives in Amsterdam now. How did she get to Amsterdam? She went over there for her grandmother's funeral, decided she didn't like how her life was going back in Chicago, and just picked up and moved to the Netherlands. At that point in my Choose Your Own Adventure, I probably would've stayed home, maybe started taking a different route home or something.
When we were planning our European trip, Helena said she could put us up for the night. Are there sweeter words in the English language? Yes, let's go to Amsterdam, we won't even have to pay to sleep somewhere. After a day of wandering around the city, we followed her directions, got lost, but eventually wound up at her studio. You go down a street that is named something very similar to the street next to it, walk through a courtyard full of bicycles and picnic tables and yard art before winding up at a barn.
The studio reminded me a lot of the art room back at nerd camp. Books, art, and art supplies, like you'd expect, but then just a whole bunch of stuff that may or may not be art. She shares the studio with a couple of other ladies. One of them is really into making body parts out of glass, and so there were noses and brains and hearts lying around. The other seems to be working mostly with fabrics, so she had mannequins and dresses made out of some kind of weird shiny stuff. Helena paints, and her current project, four giant canvases, was in progress. There was a small kitchen, which was stocked with tea and stroopwafels, but not much else. The bathroom was found by going through a door that connected to the back-end of a bar. It was pretty gross, and the door didn't lock properly.
Aside from her painting space, Helena had a little office set up underneath a loft. She had shelves full of books, ranging from novels and poetry and diaries of creative types to artisan craft manuals. She had anthologies of Foxfire, and I was fascinated to see the pages she had marked - welding, glass-blowing. You can make art out of anything.
Up in the loft, there was a tent with a mattress inside, where Helena slept when she was working all night at the studio. Otherwise, she stayed at her boyfriend's. Helena has no official residence. Apparently, they are actually squatting in the barn studio, but squatting is legal in Amsterdam, because Amsterdam is a ridiculous place. She said she questions her life choices sometimes, thirty years old and living in a tent in a barn. Well, when you put it like that...
I don't pretend to know Helena well enough to say whether her life choices have been good ones, but the funny thing is, it seems like the right kind of life for her. Yes, she lives in a tent. But she is an artist for a living, which, as far as I can tell, was her goal. She does not have a day job to support her art. She lives very frugally and has help from friends, but she is a professional artist. Artistic success looks very different from other kinds.
I snuck a peak at Helena's calendar. Later that month, she would be leaving to go on tour on the west coast with some musician friends. Her upcoming week was marked PAINTING. The next week, INSTALLATION, when she would be putting up her paintings at an exhibit. I was struck with the discipline and organization of it. Helena is definitely a problem creator, but perhaps she is also a problem solver. Maybe that is the difference. As a problem solver, I had to marry a problem creator to get some spark in my life, and the conflicts in our personalities and outlooks sometimes drive me batty. I can't imagine having that conflict internally.
Once upon a time, I was going to grow up to be a writer. My sensible mother gave me the speech that all concerned mothers everywhere give budding artists, which was that making it as an artist is statistically unlikely, so get a college degree and a real job, you know, just as a backup. I don't know if anyone ever becomes a professional artist with that route. Being a teenager, my reaction was to rebel and to insist all the more vehemently that I was going to be a writer, GEEZ MOM. But that was brief. By the time I went to college, I was perfectly content with the idea of being a computer programmer, which probably indicates that my mom could have saved her speech.
What did Helena's mother tell her? What kind of parents does a Helena come from, anyway? For the record, she did go to college. Art college.
I would not say that my mom was wrong to mercilessly crush my dreams. I wonder sometimes what I would say to my own children (seeing who I've married, it is likely to come up). I don't want to downplay their ambition or their inspiration. I am totally supportive of them going for a career in the arts, but I want them to go with their eyes open. I wonder if a slice of Helena's life would be the right response. She gets to live the romantic, bohemian, artist's life - paint for a living, go on tour with musicians, work in a barn studio. But she lives in a tent and her bathroom is really nasty. Possibly the stuff we saw in the studio is the extent of her possessions. So the difference between being an artist and not is less about the statistical likelihood of fame and more about how much you want it. If you are comfortable with instability and uncertainty and really all you want to do is paint, then yeah! If you can't not make art, then go out there and make some art. Maybe even in Amsterdam, because squatting is legal, and there is socialized healthcare.
I dunno why I'm even worrying about it, dang kids won't listen to me anyways.
Staying in Helena's tent was a way for me to see a life I might have had. I've also gone on tour for a couple of days with a band, and honestly, there is very little sleeping or bathing, and the food is terrible. I like my comforts. And I am able to write, without having to rely on it for food. I can do it for the sake of doing it. And I have my in-house problem creator, who is able to work a job that leaves him time to create and still sleep in a nice bed. I suppose that makes me a patron. I am okay with that. I am happy with the gifts I have, even though sometimes my creative friends make me feel like a robot. Mostly, though, I feel lucky to know them and to get to see just where the art comes from.
5.01.2014
a pirate's life not for me.
Years ago, I had a friend who did not pirate music. I thought that was weird. Why wouldn't you pirate music? It was free and easy. Okay, fine, technically it was illegal, but the chances of ever being caught were pretty slim. Being in a long-term relationship with a musician did not sway me. Most of the musicians I know pirate music, because they are too poor to buy it.
Somewhere in the last few years, I've turned weird and stopped pirating music. It got to the point where I did not feel good about it, mostly because it is stealing and I can afford to not steal. Piracy became such a problem because previously, record companies grossly overcharged for their music. Prices have become sane again, and lo, and behold, people are willing to pay for music. They just don't want to be gouged.
I do buy a lot of CDs, but mostly I get them used. This puts no money in the artist's pocket, though it does support used record stores and thrift stores. It seems like the secondhand market is overrun with music lately, probably because people are transitioning to digital music - ripping their music collections to their computers and then just getting rid of the disc.
I always check the music section at the thrift stores now, and a lot of times come away with an album or two. I've walked away with as many as ten. Sometimes I swear I come in right after some unknown person of great awesomeness has dropped off their beloved collection. As I poke through the selection, finding more and more good albums, adding them to my stack, looking around in amazement to see if anyone else has noticed the audio bounty, I wonder who brought in all this musical goodness. I wish I'd been here to meet them. We could've been friends.
So I buy their old CDs, rip them to my computer, and then get rid of them. This is better than piracy, but still in a gray area. By purchasing a CD, I am buying the rights to the music. When I get rid of the CD, I should relinquish my rights to the music, because then the rights have transferred to the thrift store and then to the new owner who excitedly pulled it off the shelf, wondering who donated it and wishing we could be friends. What's really shady is when I take the CD to the used book/record store, where I actually get store credit in exchange for it. So I have kept my access to the music, and I've actually made money off the CD.
I recognize that this is not exactly right, either. I am not interested in keeping physical media anymore. In the car, I use a USB stick that holds 8 gbs of music. At home and at work, I stream my music from the cloud, where I've uploaded pretty much every song I own. The only way to keep the music and get rid of the CD while not letting anyone else have access to the music would be to destroy the physical media. That seems like a really crappy solution. So what's the right thing to do?
Somewhere in the last few years, I've turned weird and stopped pirating music. It got to the point where I did not feel good about it, mostly because it is stealing and I can afford to not steal. Piracy became such a problem because previously, record companies grossly overcharged for their music. Prices have become sane again, and lo, and behold, people are willing to pay for music. They just don't want to be gouged.
I do buy a lot of CDs, but mostly I get them used. This puts no money in the artist's pocket, though it does support used record stores and thrift stores. It seems like the secondhand market is overrun with music lately, probably because people are transitioning to digital music - ripping their music collections to their computers and then just getting rid of the disc.
I always check the music section at the thrift stores now, and a lot of times come away with an album or two. I've walked away with as many as ten. Sometimes I swear I come in right after some unknown person of great awesomeness has dropped off their beloved collection. As I poke through the selection, finding more and more good albums, adding them to my stack, looking around in amazement to see if anyone else has noticed the audio bounty, I wonder who brought in all this musical goodness. I wish I'd been here to meet them. We could've been friends.
So I buy their old CDs, rip them to my computer, and then get rid of them. This is better than piracy, but still in a gray area. By purchasing a CD, I am buying the rights to the music. When I get rid of the CD, I should relinquish my rights to the music, because then the rights have transferred to the thrift store and then to the new owner who excitedly pulled it off the shelf, wondering who donated it and wishing we could be friends. What's really shady is when I take the CD to the used book/record store, where I actually get store credit in exchange for it. So I have kept my access to the music, and I've actually made money off the CD.
I recognize that this is not exactly right, either. I am not interested in keeping physical media anymore. In the car, I use a USB stick that holds 8 gbs of music. At home and at work, I stream my music from the cloud, where I've uploaded pretty much every song I own. The only way to keep the music and get rid of the CD while not letting anyone else have access to the music would be to destroy the physical media. That seems like a really crappy solution. So what's the right thing to do?
4.30.2014
april 2014 books.
Persepolis
Marjane Satrapi
This is a graphic memoir of a Persian woman's life growing up during the Islamic Revolution and then the Iran-Iraq war. A small child when the revolution happens, she is sent to Europe during the war. Her parents want to get her out of the war zone and allow her to grow up a liberated woman. Being alone in a foreign land comes with its own hardships.
My knowledge of Iran is pretty nil. This book had some history in it - ancient history, and also events leading up to the revolution and the overthrow of the Shah - plus we see more recent events through Marjane's eyes as they occur. From this and another book I read a while back, Reading Lolita in Tehran, I can't imagine going from a fairly liberal society to one that restricts people so harshly. And of course, the rules becamse far stricter on women. There is a scene in the book where Marjane, as an adult student completely covered from head to toe, is running to catch her bus. Some guards call her down because her running makes her butt wiggle. Angry from missing her bus, she yells at them to stop looking at her butt, then.
I guess what's amazing is that life continues, no matter what. She goes to school, she has friends, there are parties even though drinking is illegal.
My Name is Red
Orhan Pamuk
This was really lovely and amazing, and I'm probably going to do a very bad job of trying to explain it.
Just in terms of the reading experience, it was a bit hard to follow at first. The point of view switches around by chapter, and sometimes the narrator is rather unorthodox - a corpse, a fake gold coin, a picture of a tree (not a tree, a picture of a tree). The action centers around a group of miniaturists in the Ottoman Empire who work for the Sultan. The pictures are extremely intricate, and it is considered an honor for a master miniaturist to go blind from working so long on such tiny pictures. Since the pictures are copied, a master should be able to paint without being able to see, as he is now painting from memory. The point of art is not to reproduce reality, but to attempt to show what God sees.
Some of the masters just end up blinding themselves, which seems like cheating, but I guess it's on their own heads.
It seems to be cheating that these guys are painting anything at all. Art is a tricky thing in Islam, and it seems like the only reason they are allowed to do this job is because they are illustrating stories, often religious ones. Of course, there is plenty of black market art (lots of dirty pictures). Even this sanctioned art is all kept locked up in the palace.
The miniaturists are working on a book for the Sultan that is being kept secret because it is possibly immoral, because it is illustrating anything. In fact, the pictures were drawn first, and a writer has been hired to make up stories to go with them. This is new and crazy and reeks of Western influence, therefore it's probably evil. The plot of the book revolves around someone who is murdering those who are working on the book. There is particular obsession with portraits, which many see as evil as they could be idols. Previously, people in pictures had been drawn as archetypes - an villain, a soldier, a pretty lady, a king. But with a portrait, it is an individual. You could see the portrait and then recognize the person in a crowd.
I am sure that I missed/misunderstood a lot in this book, but it was a fascinating to see how cultural assumptions can become like facts. I never thought about whether the subject of a painting should be in the center and what that meant. I knew Islam had restrictions about portraying the prophet, but apparently there are fundamentalist interpretations that forbid painting completely. The book takes place just after a golden era of Islamic art. There are long discussions about style and how having a style is vanity. The artist is supposed to be anonymous. The miniaturists' work basically amounts to copying art done by previous masters.
Did that make any sense? I'm sorry, but it's hard to explain God and Art at the same time. Maybe I should've spoken from the point of view of a picture of a tree.
The Bellarosa Connection
Saul Bellow
This was a short little book about a guy who was saved from a concentration camp by a benevolent and anonymous helper, who turns out to be a successful American Jew. Now a moderately successful businessman in America, he wants to thank his savior. However, his benefactor wants nothing to do with him and won't even consent to have his hand shaken. He doesn't want to be reminded of it at all. The narrator, a third Jew, also American, talks about how he thinks it is a form of guilt or shame - the Jews who did not have to survive the Holocaust felt guilty for being in that position. There is a lot of discussion of memory, and how the only escape from regret is forgetting, and sometimes the only way to forget is to die.
I'm not sure this book had a point.
The Husband's Secret
Liane Moriarty
Our book club selection this month was okay. Plotwise, there was a lot of romance and mystery and typical thriller elements, but unlike some of the other thriller books we've read, there was some substance to it. Mostly, it was an exploration of what happens to long-lasting relationships in the kinds of circumstances that come up in thriller novels. The conclusion I got from it is how little we really know each other. We think we know each other completely, and so we don't talk or listen to each other, and therefore the person we think we know and the person that exists continue to grow farther and farther apart. And then we wake up one day and realize we have no idea who this person is.
Something that I found interesting - this book was very prominently set during Holy Week, that is, the week before Easter. It is centered around a Catholic school and the community of children, parents, and employees. But it was completely secular. There are Easter events at the school, such as a hat parade, but there is no churchy stuff and nothing about the religious significance of Easter. At one point, a character talks about Hell and whether a murderer would be condemned there, but then she stops and thinks, what am I talking about, I'm not that kind of Catholic. No one else in book club found this at all remarkable.
Someone else stepped up to be the Wednesday night moderator, and this month, I handed over the reins. I am not interested in next month's book, so I'm just not going to read it. Fantastic. There are a couple of books coming up that look interesting, so I may read those. Or I may not! Whatever I feel like!
If Not Now, When?
Primo Levi
This book was about Jews during World War II. But wait, it's not what you think it is!
It follows a band of Jewish partisans. I had never heard of partisans of any kind, at least not by that name. Partisans are fighters who are behind the front line, challenging control of an area that has ostensibly already been conquered. The many resistance movements during the war could count as partisan forces.
The book follows Mendel, a Russian Jew who was an artillery man in the Russian Army before being cut off from the rest of his regiment. He lives in the woods until he meets another stranded soldier. Together they wander, and their duo groups into a community as they pick up people along the way. They live with a community of Jews living in an abandoned monastery, then join up with a series of partisan bands. They cause mischief for the Germans, walk a lot, and are cold and hungry most of the time.
What makes their position so tenuous is that they are foreigners everywhere. The Russians and Poles are fighting the Germans, but no one really likes the Jews. Mendel says that after the revolution, you had to choose between being a Russian and a Jew. Nor could you be a Communist and a Zionist. Their aim is to survive the war and then get to Palestine, where they won't be foreigners anymore.
The title is taken from an old rabbinical saying: "If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am for myself, what am 'I'? And if not now, when?" I'm not sure about the original meaning, but in this form, it was turned into a song that was a sort of battle cry for the partisans. At the end of the war, they become part of the sea of refugees. Only then do they find out about the gas chambers. They seem to come out of it in better shape than those who were in the camps, having retained their humanity throughout. So even when you get to the end of reading a pretty awful tale of woe, you're reminded that this was better than some other guys had it.
Marjane Satrapi
This is a graphic memoir of a Persian woman's life growing up during the Islamic Revolution and then the Iran-Iraq war. A small child when the revolution happens, she is sent to Europe during the war. Her parents want to get her out of the war zone and allow her to grow up a liberated woman. Being alone in a foreign land comes with its own hardships.
My knowledge of Iran is pretty nil. This book had some history in it - ancient history, and also events leading up to the revolution and the overthrow of the Shah - plus we see more recent events through Marjane's eyes as they occur. From this and another book I read a while back, Reading Lolita in Tehran, I can't imagine going from a fairly liberal society to one that restricts people so harshly. And of course, the rules becamse far stricter on women. There is a scene in the book where Marjane, as an adult student completely covered from head to toe, is running to catch her bus. Some guards call her down because her running makes her butt wiggle. Angry from missing her bus, she yells at them to stop looking at her butt, then.
I guess what's amazing is that life continues, no matter what. She goes to school, she has friends, there are parties even though drinking is illegal.
My Name is Red
Orhan Pamuk
This was really lovely and amazing, and I'm probably going to do a very bad job of trying to explain it.
Just in terms of the reading experience, it was a bit hard to follow at first. The point of view switches around by chapter, and sometimes the narrator is rather unorthodox - a corpse, a fake gold coin, a picture of a tree (not a tree, a picture of a tree). The action centers around a group of miniaturists in the Ottoman Empire who work for the Sultan. The pictures are extremely intricate, and it is considered an honor for a master miniaturist to go blind from working so long on such tiny pictures. Since the pictures are copied, a master should be able to paint without being able to see, as he is now painting from memory. The point of art is not to reproduce reality, but to attempt to show what God sees.
Some of the masters just end up blinding themselves, which seems like cheating, but I guess it's on their own heads.
It seems to be cheating that these guys are painting anything at all. Art is a tricky thing in Islam, and it seems like the only reason they are allowed to do this job is because they are illustrating stories, often religious ones. Of course, there is plenty of black market art (lots of dirty pictures). Even this sanctioned art is all kept locked up in the palace.
The miniaturists are working on a book for the Sultan that is being kept secret because it is possibly immoral, because it is illustrating anything. In fact, the pictures were drawn first, and a writer has been hired to make up stories to go with them. This is new and crazy and reeks of Western influence, therefore it's probably evil. The plot of the book revolves around someone who is murdering those who are working on the book. There is particular obsession with portraits, which many see as evil as they could be idols. Previously, people in pictures had been drawn as archetypes - an villain, a soldier, a pretty lady, a king. But with a portrait, it is an individual. You could see the portrait and then recognize the person in a crowd.
I am sure that I missed/misunderstood a lot in this book, but it was a fascinating to see how cultural assumptions can become like facts. I never thought about whether the subject of a painting should be in the center and what that meant. I knew Islam had restrictions about portraying the prophet, but apparently there are fundamentalist interpretations that forbid painting completely. The book takes place just after a golden era of Islamic art. There are long discussions about style and how having a style is vanity. The artist is supposed to be anonymous. The miniaturists' work basically amounts to copying art done by previous masters.
Did that make any sense? I'm sorry, but it's hard to explain God and Art at the same time. Maybe I should've spoken from the point of view of a picture of a tree.
Saul Bellow
This was a short little book about a guy who was saved from a concentration camp by a benevolent and anonymous helper, who turns out to be a successful American Jew. Now a moderately successful businessman in America, he wants to thank his savior. However, his benefactor wants nothing to do with him and won't even consent to have his hand shaken. He doesn't want to be reminded of it at all. The narrator, a third Jew, also American, talks about how he thinks it is a form of guilt or shame - the Jews who did not have to survive the Holocaust felt guilty for being in that position. There is a lot of discussion of memory, and how the only escape from regret is forgetting, and sometimes the only way to forget is to die.
I'm not sure this book had a point.
The Husband's Secret
Liane Moriarty
Our book club selection this month was okay. Plotwise, there was a lot of romance and mystery and typical thriller elements, but unlike some of the other thriller books we've read, there was some substance to it. Mostly, it was an exploration of what happens to long-lasting relationships in the kinds of circumstances that come up in thriller novels. The conclusion I got from it is how little we really know each other. We think we know each other completely, and so we don't talk or listen to each other, and therefore the person we think we know and the person that exists continue to grow farther and farther apart. And then we wake up one day and realize we have no idea who this person is.
Something that I found interesting - this book was very prominently set during Holy Week, that is, the week before Easter. It is centered around a Catholic school and the community of children, parents, and employees. But it was completely secular. There are Easter events at the school, such as a hat parade, but there is no churchy stuff and nothing about the religious significance of Easter. At one point, a character talks about Hell and whether a murderer would be condemned there, but then she stops and thinks, what am I talking about, I'm not that kind of Catholic. No one else in book club found this at all remarkable.
Someone else stepped up to be the Wednesday night moderator, and this month, I handed over the reins. I am not interested in next month's book, so I'm just not going to read it. Fantastic. There are a couple of books coming up that look interesting, so I may read those. Or I may not! Whatever I feel like!
If Not Now, When?
Primo Levi
This book was about Jews during World War II. But wait, it's not what you think it is!
It follows a band of Jewish partisans. I had never heard of partisans of any kind, at least not by that name. Partisans are fighters who are behind the front line, challenging control of an area that has ostensibly already been conquered. The many resistance movements during the war could count as partisan forces.
The book follows Mendel, a Russian Jew who was an artillery man in the Russian Army before being cut off from the rest of his regiment. He lives in the woods until he meets another stranded soldier. Together they wander, and their duo groups into a community as they pick up people along the way. They live with a community of Jews living in an abandoned monastery, then join up with a series of partisan bands. They cause mischief for the Germans, walk a lot, and are cold and hungry most of the time.
What makes their position so tenuous is that they are foreigners everywhere. The Russians and Poles are fighting the Germans, but no one really likes the Jews. Mendel says that after the revolution, you had to choose between being a Russian and a Jew. Nor could you be a Communist and a Zionist. Their aim is to survive the war and then get to Palestine, where they won't be foreigners anymore.
The title is taken from an old rabbinical saying: "If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am for myself, what am 'I'? And if not now, when?" I'm not sure about the original meaning, but in this form, it was turned into a song that was a sort of battle cry for the partisans. At the end of the war, they become part of the sea of refugees. Only then do they find out about the gas chambers. They seem to come out of it in better shape than those who were in the camps, having retained their humanity throughout. So even when you get to the end of reading a pretty awful tale of woe, you're reminded that this was better than some other guys had it.
4.27.2014
picnic.
Last night, every time I opened the fridge, a ball of stress would immediately form in my stomach.
One of our church members owns a Chick-fil-A, and let me tell you, I would recommend a restaurant owner in every church. Every week he donates tea for the cookie hour following the service. And for the church picnic, he donated tea and lemonade, plus cups, utensils, napkins, and plates. It fell to us to pick up the beverage donation yesterday afternoon, and as we drove away, it looked like we had robbed a Chick-fil-A. Except we're not very good at robbery, so we took gallons and gallons of tea, instead of money. We put the drinks in coolers on ice, and when the coolers ran out, we stuffed tea in the fridge. I ended up cooking the baked beans overnight in the crock pot, because I realized if I cooked them any earlier, I wouldn't have any place to put them.
It is no fun for a fridge to give you stress. Fridges should be full of comfort.
By the time we got to the county park at 8:30 this morning, my stress was mostly dissipated, because the planning period was over. For better or worse, we had done what we could, and now things were just going to happen. We unloaded everything - we had surprised ourselves by making it in one trip - and then our helpers started showing up.
I got credit for a lot of today, but I don't feel like I deserve it. Even when the ball of stress was building inside me, logically I knew it would be fine. The congregation is full of people eager to help and accepting of whatever limitations occur. People just rolled up and pitched in, and the work got done when I wasn't even looking. Our proud grill volunteers readied their stations for the meat, proud to be serving the Lord with charcoal and tongs. The tables got set up, and then the food started arriving: salads and cobblers and sandwiches and fruit and brownies for miles.
The weather was beautiful, and everything went on without a hitch. While our grillers worked, we had a service sitting in lawn chairs and on blankets in a soccer field. I took communion, then headed over to the tables to start uncovering all the dishes in preparation for the rush of hungry Episcopalians. By the time I went through the line, some of the choices had been eliminated, but there was still plenty to fill my plate. We sat with our fellows and listened as they congratulated us for a job well done, then talked about other great events they thought we should organize.
Today, my fridge has a half-gallon of lemonade and a dozen cooked burgers and hot dogs, wrapped together in a foil ball and then stuffed into a hamburger bun bag. We had leftover gallons of tea, which we passed out to everyone who was still there at the end of it all. This is one of the things I enjoy about helping out at church functions - you usually get rewarded for your efforts with leftovers, and you never know what you will end up with. Someone took home a package of cheese, another got the rest of the bulk bag of charcoal. Everybody left happy. I got home just in time for my Sunday afternoon nap.
One of our church members owns a Chick-fil-A, and let me tell you, I would recommend a restaurant owner in every church. Every week he donates tea for the cookie hour following the service. And for the church picnic, he donated tea and lemonade, plus cups, utensils, napkins, and plates. It fell to us to pick up the beverage donation yesterday afternoon, and as we drove away, it looked like we had robbed a Chick-fil-A. Except we're not very good at robbery, so we took gallons and gallons of tea, instead of money. We put the drinks in coolers on ice, and when the coolers ran out, we stuffed tea in the fridge. I ended up cooking the baked beans overnight in the crock pot, because I realized if I cooked them any earlier, I wouldn't have any place to put them.
It is no fun for a fridge to give you stress. Fridges should be full of comfort.
By the time we got to the county park at 8:30 this morning, my stress was mostly dissipated, because the planning period was over. For better or worse, we had done what we could, and now things were just going to happen. We unloaded everything - we had surprised ourselves by making it in one trip - and then our helpers started showing up.
I got credit for a lot of today, but I don't feel like I deserve it. Even when the ball of stress was building inside me, logically I knew it would be fine. The congregation is full of people eager to help and accepting of whatever limitations occur. People just rolled up and pitched in, and the work got done when I wasn't even looking. Our proud grill volunteers readied their stations for the meat, proud to be serving the Lord with charcoal and tongs. The tables got set up, and then the food started arriving: salads and cobblers and sandwiches and fruit and brownies for miles.
The weather was beautiful, and everything went on without a hitch. While our grillers worked, we had a service sitting in lawn chairs and on blankets in a soccer field. I took communion, then headed over to the tables to start uncovering all the dishes in preparation for the rush of hungry Episcopalians. By the time I went through the line, some of the choices had been eliminated, but there was still plenty to fill my plate. We sat with our fellows and listened as they congratulated us for a job well done, then talked about other great events they thought we should organize.
Today, my fridge has a half-gallon of lemonade and a dozen cooked burgers and hot dogs, wrapped together in a foil ball and then stuffed into a hamburger bun bag. We had leftover gallons of tea, which we passed out to everyone who was still there at the end of it all. This is one of the things I enjoy about helping out at church functions - you usually get rewarded for your efforts with leftovers, and you never know what you will end up with. Someone took home a package of cheese, another got the rest of the bulk bag of charcoal. Everybody left happy. I got home just in time for my Sunday afternoon nap.
4.25.2014
signed up.
My beloved husband, enthusiastic joiner that he is, volunteered us to help with the church picnic. I'm all for pitching in by bringing a plate of deviled eggs, but the job turned into us being in charge of organizing the food for the whole thing. I say "us," but in terms of organizational tasks, one of us is much stronger than the other (hint: it's the engineer, not the poet). So I've been doing all the emailing and strong-arming of more volunteers. He'll help carry and clean up, as long as it doesn't interfere with the other things he volunteered to do that day (read the lesson of the day and be in the band).
We've been members for less than a year, and somehow we are pillars of the dang community.
Luckily, being head of the Food Committee hasn't been too much work. One of my tasks was to set up an online form so that people could sign up to bring food. Not long after doing so, I listened to a conversation among church ladies who talked about how having to sign up for a potluck was just the worst, as the whole point of a potluck being that it's left to fate what you end up with. I absolutely agreed with everything they said. That's the whole spirit of the thing: if everyone shows up with a plate of deviled eggs, so be it! I am prepared to make the best of it.
But I've never organized a picnic before, and the copious notes from the previous years said to make the signup sheet. Supposedly, it would help us gauge how many people were coming. I did try to be leave room for chance by allowing people to sign up for "side dish" or "dessert" without forcing anyone to even say what they were bringing.
However, other church members must've had similar feelings about potluck signups, because only a few bothered to do by the week before showtime. We're supposed to go shopping for the burgers and hot dogs tomorrow, and we really have no idea how many people will be there Sunday. So it may be ten people and two hundred burgers. I am prepared to make the best of that, too.
Today, there were a slew of last-minute volunteers to bring unspecified side dishes and desserts (also, one person is bringing leftover ham). I'm relieved that it won't be just me and Josh, eating two hundred burgers by ourselves in the bounce house. The only thing is that people seem to be signing up pretty evenly for side dishes and desserts. So everyone will have a burger, one deviled egg, and four brownies. We'll make the best of it.
We've been members for less than a year, and somehow we are pillars of the dang community.
Luckily, being head of the Food Committee hasn't been too much work. One of my tasks was to set up an online form so that people could sign up to bring food. Not long after doing so, I listened to a conversation among church ladies who talked about how having to sign up for a potluck was just the worst, as the whole point of a potluck being that it's left to fate what you end up with. I absolutely agreed with everything they said. That's the whole spirit of the thing: if everyone shows up with a plate of deviled eggs, so be it! I am prepared to make the best of it.
But I've never organized a picnic before, and the copious notes from the previous years said to make the signup sheet. Supposedly, it would help us gauge how many people were coming. I did try to be leave room for chance by allowing people to sign up for "side dish" or "dessert" without forcing anyone to even say what they were bringing.
However, other church members must've had similar feelings about potluck signups, because only a few bothered to do by the week before showtime. We're supposed to go shopping for the burgers and hot dogs tomorrow, and we really have no idea how many people will be there Sunday. So it may be ten people and two hundred burgers. I am prepared to make the best of that, too.
Today, there were a slew of last-minute volunteers to bring unspecified side dishes and desserts (also, one person is bringing leftover ham). I'm relieved that it won't be just me and Josh, eating two hundred burgers by ourselves in the bounce house. The only thing is that people seem to be signing up pretty evenly for side dishes and desserts. So everyone will have a burger, one deviled egg, and four brownies. We'll make the best of it.
4.24.2014
parrot enthusiast.
Back when I first bought my house, I was driving down my street one night, checking out the other houses. I can't remember for sure anymore, but I may not actually have bought the house yet. I think was I under contract at that point, impatiently waiting until the end of the month when all my first time homebuyer dreams would come true. Two houses down from my house was a neatly-kept two-story with a great big window into the living room. It was dark, but there was some kind of dim light source in the room, and I could see the silhouette of a tall perch with a bird. A large bird. Parrot-sized.
I may have squealed.
If I were to be the winner on the Win An Exotic Pet Of Your Choice show, I would surely ask for a parrot. Or a llama! Maybe a wallaby. Most likely, I would start shaking and stammering and yelling out all those animals at once, plus a few more, before fainting dead away. Since the smiling host would be unable to decipher my response of "parlamaby," they would likely just give me a goat. What a stupid game show.
Anyway, I took this brief glimpse of a parrot as a sign that I had made the right choice in buying the house. I mean, these were clearly my people: Parrot Enthusiasts. Or rather, I was an enthusiast, but they had achieved the lofty title of Parrot Owner.
Some of you who thought you knew me well are wondering what I'm even talking about, as you are fairly sure that I have never mentioned any but the regular amount of appreciation for parrots. But it's true! I like birds in general. I didn't even realize that about myself until I happened to notice that my house was littered with bird knick-knacks and pictures. Give me a loaf of bread and a group of ducks and I am happy as, uh, a duck being fed bread. Exotic birds are particularly fun, and brightly colored feathers are just the best.
I had only had one previous encounter with a parrot. Once, I went to a pet shop that had a scarlet macaw set up right in front of the door. I'm sure it really brought in the customers; in fact, that might have been why I went inside. It talked, like something out of a cartoon. It also jumped on my shoulder, which was terrifying and wonderful.
Anyway, I became obsessed with my new parrot neighbor. Similar to the rubber-necking I do every time we go past our very rich neighbors with the llamas, I always looked in that same front window for the parrot as I passed. Usually, I saw an empty room or a kid sitting too close to the TV. I suppose I could've, you know, asked or something, but that would require developing an actual relationship with the neighbors, rather than being on a head-nod-basis only. I began to have doubts that I had seen a parrot at all. It just seemed too crazy. I eventually forgot all about it.
You know where this is going. It would be a really pointless story if I just imagined a parrot because I'm some kind of Parrot Enthusiast. This story is overlong, but it does have a point.
A couple of weeks ago, we were walking the dog around the neighborhood, which, based on my stories, is all I ever do anymore. It was a magnificent day, warm and right off a refreshing rain. The pollen had all been washed away and it seemed as if overnight the plants had all taken a great big drink of water and just popped out of nowhere. Everyone was making good use of the weather by doing yard work (except for us, because yard work - ha!), including the people who I once thought were Parrot Owners. We waved.
And there it was: a scarlet macaw, just sitting on the rail of the front porch. It squawked.
It was really hard to play it cool, as inside my head, it sounded like Beatlemania. Keep it casual, don't stare, just look over there nonchalantly, like it's totally normal for a giant tropical bird to be sitting on the porch of suburban Raleigh.
We really need to make better friends with our neighbors.
I may have squealed.
If I were to be the winner on the Win An Exotic Pet Of Your Choice show, I would surely ask for a parrot. Or a llama! Maybe a wallaby. Most likely, I would start shaking and stammering and yelling out all those animals at once, plus a few more, before fainting dead away. Since the smiling host would be unable to decipher my response of "parlamaby," they would likely just give me a goat. What a stupid game show.
Anyway, I took this brief glimpse of a parrot as a sign that I had made the right choice in buying the house. I mean, these were clearly my people: Parrot Enthusiasts. Or rather, I was an enthusiast, but they had achieved the lofty title of Parrot Owner.
Some of you who thought you knew me well are wondering what I'm even talking about, as you are fairly sure that I have never mentioned any but the regular amount of appreciation for parrots. But it's true! I like birds in general. I didn't even realize that about myself until I happened to notice that my house was littered with bird knick-knacks and pictures. Give me a loaf of bread and a group of ducks and I am happy as, uh, a duck being fed bread. Exotic birds are particularly fun, and brightly colored feathers are just the best.
I had only had one previous encounter with a parrot. Once, I went to a pet shop that had a scarlet macaw set up right in front of the door. I'm sure it really brought in the customers; in fact, that might have been why I went inside. It talked, like something out of a cartoon. It also jumped on my shoulder, which was terrifying and wonderful.
Anyway, I became obsessed with my new parrot neighbor. Similar to the rubber-necking I do every time we go past our very rich neighbors with the llamas, I always looked in that same front window for the parrot as I passed. Usually, I saw an empty room or a kid sitting too close to the TV. I suppose I could've, you know, asked or something, but that would require developing an actual relationship with the neighbors, rather than being on a head-nod-basis only. I began to have doubts that I had seen a parrot at all. It just seemed too crazy. I eventually forgot all about it.
You know where this is going. It would be a really pointless story if I just imagined a parrot because I'm some kind of Parrot Enthusiast. This story is overlong, but it does have a point.
A couple of weeks ago, we were walking the dog around the neighborhood, which, based on my stories, is all I ever do anymore. It was a magnificent day, warm and right off a refreshing rain. The pollen had all been washed away and it seemed as if overnight the plants had all taken a great big drink of water and just popped out of nowhere. Everyone was making good use of the weather by doing yard work (except for us, because yard work - ha!), including the people who I once thought were Parrot Owners. We waved.
And there it was: a scarlet macaw, just sitting on the rail of the front porch. It squawked.
It was really hard to play it cool, as inside my head, it sounded like Beatlemania. Keep it casual, don't stare, just look over there nonchalantly, like it's totally normal for a giant tropical bird to be sitting on the porch of suburban Raleigh.
We really need to make better friends with our neighbors.
4.23.2014
neighbor-dogs.
A couple weeks ago, I was walking my pitbull around the neighborhood. We were coming up on the last turn before getting back to our house when we encountered a neighbor-lady and her neighbor-dog walking in the opposite direction. I smiled and waved while holding the leash close to keep Remix walking nicely next to me. The leash, by the way, is always wrapped four or five times around my hand. This serves two purposes: 1.) it's easier to control a muscle beast of dog with a short leash, and 2.) to let her know that I am in control of her, even though she is a muscle beast of dog.
Remix looked at them eagerly, like brand new friends. The neighbor-dog plodded along with its head down, not interested in new friends.
"Watch out around the corner, that pitbull is loose again," the neighbor-lady said.
I had no idea what they were talking about. I've seen two dogs loose in the neighborhood before. One was a St. Bernard, which could in no way be mistaken for a pitbull. It was gambolling joyfully about. The other was some kind of pointer with white, flowing hair. It was named Domingo. I know, because its leash was stuck between the boards of my porch, and I had to consult the tag to call the owners. Now that I think about it, I guess it wasn't loose in the neighborhood at all.
I felt sort of embarrassed about having my pitbull right there, even though it was clearly contained. Anyhow, we continued on our walk and did not meet the loose pitbull.
Last night, Josh and I were walking our pitbull together. We heard a shout and looked up to see a brown mass barrelling toward us, a leash trailing behind it. It looked like a pitbull that was loose, again. His owner-lady came after, way behind, still yelling.
I tightened my hold on the leash and Remix stood prepared, looking interested with her hackles already raised. As he got closer, I realized he was snarling. The brown dog went straight for her, bit her on the head, and did not let go. Remix sort of cowered. Josh grabbed the brown dog by the body and then by the collar, pulling him off. It was over in seconds.
I have seen a scary dogfight. This was not too scary. I'm not even sure that he was trying to fight or if this was his way to meet-and-greet. Establish dominance first? I dunno, I'm not a dog.
"Keep hold of him!" yelled the still-running neighbor-lady. Yeah, because we were just going to let this one go. I got a closer look at the brown dog and decided that he was made of many kinds of dogs, possibly some pitbull. I held Remix several feet away, where she watched with interest, her tail wagging. Her head was slobbery, but she seemed completely unfazed. Thick skull.
"Oh, I am so so sorry. I just let him go, I mean, I just finished walking him," neighbor-lady explained as she finally got close enough to take her dog from Josh. We shrugged and continued on as she yelled at her dog all the way up the driveway.
Later, I found some dried blood and a tiny puncture wound on Remix's head. We praised her with much ham for being submissive and not killing that other dog on the spot, which we were confident she could do. And while it turned out okay for us, because we have a muscle beast, a little dog would not have fared so well, not to mention any of the other little things that might be walking in the neighborhood.
Remix looked at them eagerly, like brand new friends. The neighbor-dog plodded along with its head down, not interested in new friends.
"Watch out around the corner, that pitbull is loose again," the neighbor-lady said.
I had no idea what they were talking about. I've seen two dogs loose in the neighborhood before. One was a St. Bernard, which could in no way be mistaken for a pitbull. It was gambolling joyfully about. The other was some kind of pointer with white, flowing hair. It was named Domingo. I know, because its leash was stuck between the boards of my porch, and I had to consult the tag to call the owners. Now that I think about it, I guess it wasn't loose in the neighborhood at all.
I felt sort of embarrassed about having my pitbull right there, even though it was clearly contained. Anyhow, we continued on our walk and did not meet the loose pitbull.
Last night, Josh and I were walking our pitbull together. We heard a shout and looked up to see a brown mass barrelling toward us, a leash trailing behind it. It looked like a pitbull that was loose, again. His owner-lady came after, way behind, still yelling.
I tightened my hold on the leash and Remix stood prepared, looking interested with her hackles already raised. As he got closer, I realized he was snarling. The brown dog went straight for her, bit her on the head, and did not let go. Remix sort of cowered. Josh grabbed the brown dog by the body and then by the collar, pulling him off. It was over in seconds.
I have seen a scary dogfight. This was not too scary. I'm not even sure that he was trying to fight or if this was his way to meet-and-greet. Establish dominance first? I dunno, I'm not a dog.
"Keep hold of him!" yelled the still-running neighbor-lady. Yeah, because we were just going to let this one go. I got a closer look at the brown dog and decided that he was made of many kinds of dogs, possibly some pitbull. I held Remix several feet away, where she watched with interest, her tail wagging. Her head was slobbery, but she seemed completely unfazed. Thick skull.
"Oh, I am so so sorry. I just let him go, I mean, I just finished walking him," neighbor-lady explained as she finally got close enough to take her dog from Josh. We shrugged and continued on as she yelled at her dog all the way up the driveway.
Later, I found some dried blood and a tiny puncture wound on Remix's head. We praised her with much ham for being submissive and not killing that other dog on the spot, which we were confident she could do. And while it turned out okay for us, because we have a muscle beast, a little dog would not have fared so well, not to mention any of the other little things that might be walking in the neighborhood.
4.22.2014
dinner and the tonight show.
During our company holiday party, we have casino games, after which we can take our earned chips and turn them into raffle tickets for various prizes. I always go for the "Dinner and A Show" package. There are better rewards, usually a huge gift card to Amazon or the fanciest new iWhatever. But I find that most people put their tickets into the high dollar items, and maybe a few of them throw a ticket in the smaller buckets just to diversify. I go and throw all my tickets into the dinner/show bucket. Even with my meager winnings, this manages to dissuade others from putting tickets in, as it looks like their chances are rather poor for a prize they are indifferent about.
I am generally indifferent to the actual show, but I like free theater tickets. Besides, free dinner is always worth it.
Anyway, using this strategy, I have won the dinner/show package 3 out of the last 4 years. We saw Spamalot and The Addams Family in years past. This year, the prize was tickets to see Jay Leno on his speaking tour.
I had no idea what to expect. I'm familiar with Jay from the Tonight Show, of course, though I'm not sure if I've ever actually watched an episode.
For the first part of the show, he did a version of his opening monologue from the show, which means cracking jokes about various news items. The jokes were fine, but what bothered me was that the news items were no longer new. He brought up political scandals from years ago. And while the jokes were fine, they were the same lines that were used back when those scandals were current. In fact, I am pretty sure that Jay's writers wrote those jokes for his show, which sorta makes me wonder why people pay to see this guy anyway. Can I have a team of people write jokes for me and then I'll go on tour? I know some funny people, I bet they could come up with some great lines about Reagan. You go far back enough, and your audience won't even remember the relevant scandals, and it will even seem like news. Of course, then you have to explain about things like supply-side economics, the evil empire, and the contras, so it might be more of a comedic history lesson.
After the not-news, he did more of a stand-up routine. I enjoyed this more, even if I wasn't really in the target demographic of old men.
But hey, free show.
Now that I'm done complaining, I'll say what I wish he had done. Jay Leno has been in show business for decades, and I bet he has some stories, fantastic stories about Hollywood parties that have never been told before except at other Hollywood parties. That's what I would liked to have heard. But Jay Leno can do whatever he wants, and he probably does.
I am generally indifferent to the actual show, but I like free theater tickets. Besides, free dinner is always worth it.
Anyway, using this strategy, I have won the dinner/show package 3 out of the last 4 years. We saw Spamalot and The Addams Family in years past. This year, the prize was tickets to see Jay Leno on his speaking tour.
I had no idea what to expect. I'm familiar with Jay from the Tonight Show, of course, though I'm not sure if I've ever actually watched an episode.
For the first part of the show, he did a version of his opening monologue from the show, which means cracking jokes about various news items. The jokes were fine, but what bothered me was that the news items were no longer new. He brought up political scandals from years ago. And while the jokes were fine, they were the same lines that were used back when those scandals were current. In fact, I am pretty sure that Jay's writers wrote those jokes for his show, which sorta makes me wonder why people pay to see this guy anyway. Can I have a team of people write jokes for me and then I'll go on tour? I know some funny people, I bet they could come up with some great lines about Reagan. You go far back enough, and your audience won't even remember the relevant scandals, and it will even seem like news. Of course, then you have to explain about things like supply-side economics, the evil empire, and the contras, so it might be more of a comedic history lesson.
After the not-news, he did more of a stand-up routine. I enjoyed this more, even if I wasn't really in the target demographic of old men.
But hey, free show.
Now that I'm done complaining, I'll say what I wish he had done. Jay Leno has been in show business for decades, and I bet he has some stories, fantastic stories about Hollywood parties that have never been told before except at other Hollywood parties. That's what I would liked to have heard. But Jay Leno can do whatever he wants, and he probably does.
4.21.2014
yard gargoyle.
I was driving through the country, amusing myself with my own commentary. I was looking specifically for dogwood trees, easy to recognize this time of year with their white flowers. We have a dogwood tree in the backyard. It's a sad and spindly tree, with only a smattering of blossoms on its puny branches. Our dogwood loses the battle for sun up against the oaks and maples. Josh said it was because dogwoods are all scrawny, and I felt it my duty to find all the dogwoods in a two hour drive that were actually quite sturdy, thank you very much.
I found that an awful lot of dogwoods are pretty scrawny. We'll just chalk that up to being able to survive, no matter how dimly, in disadvantageous circumstances. I did find a few that were showing just a dogwood could do, but Josh was reading and I felt pretty stupid pointing at every other white-flowered tree I saw.
Somewhere about three-quarters in, I saw a concrete statue of a rooster. "Chicken statue!" I called out, as if we were playing a game where you get points for finding chicken statues and flowering trees of a certain girth. I noticed then that the statue was perched on top of a lidded cylinder made of cement. Having a similar structure at my own house, I recognized it as the well. What a great idea! A chicken statue on top of the well!
There are a variety of ways to disguise your well, as if you should be ashamed to get free water right out of the ground. I think the city folks out to buy fake wells so they can look like they drink fresh clean water from the spring, but whatever. There are those fake rocks, which, no offense to anyone who might own them, are not fooling anyone. Even before they became popular and instantly recognizable, they were ugly. You'd be better off with the regular old cement cylinder. A neighbor down the street has a wishing well sort of structure around his, which is nice, but a little bit fancy and expensive for my tastes.
But! If you set a statue on top of the well, it would look like a pedestal for the statue. You could even put up a plaque, like it was a piece of art at the museum. Here, I call this one "The Well." It's a metaphor, you probably wouldn't get it.
Josh said he didn't want a chicken statue. Some other kind of statue, then. Last month, I had seen a gargoyle statue at a quirky bar in Chapel Hill It was a dragon-type creature with a raised paw and open mouth. I sighed, because now I really, really wanted a gargoyle, when five seconds before my life had been serene because I hadn't known I could have such a thing. You can never go back to not wanting a gargoyle. You can only obtain one.
And see, now I even have the perfect perch for a gargoyle. I am ready for yard art. Some other neighbors, not the classy wishing well people, have a sea serpent in their yard (yard serpent?). Of course, I really would like to have a yard serpent, but two in the neighborhood would be silly, and if I stole theirs, well, it would be pretty obvious. So we'll just have to up the tacky yard art game. There is a yard art place across the street from the farmer's market that I've always been curious about, so maybe someday soon we'll go have a look at their stock. We may yet drive the fake rock right out of the well-embellishment business.
I found that an awful lot of dogwoods are pretty scrawny. We'll just chalk that up to being able to survive, no matter how dimly, in disadvantageous circumstances. I did find a few that were showing just a dogwood could do, but Josh was reading and I felt pretty stupid pointing at every other white-flowered tree I saw.
Somewhere about three-quarters in, I saw a concrete statue of a rooster. "Chicken statue!" I called out, as if we were playing a game where you get points for finding chicken statues and flowering trees of a certain girth. I noticed then that the statue was perched on top of a lidded cylinder made of cement. Having a similar structure at my own house, I recognized it as the well. What a great idea! A chicken statue on top of the well!
There are a variety of ways to disguise your well, as if you should be ashamed to get free water right out of the ground. I think the city folks out to buy fake wells so they can look like they drink fresh clean water from the spring, but whatever. There are those fake rocks, which, no offense to anyone who might own them, are not fooling anyone. Even before they became popular and instantly recognizable, they were ugly. You'd be better off with the regular old cement cylinder. A neighbor down the street has a wishing well sort of structure around his, which is nice, but a little bit fancy and expensive for my tastes.
But! If you set a statue on top of the well, it would look like a pedestal for the statue. You could even put up a plaque, like it was a piece of art at the museum. Here, I call this one "The Well." It's a metaphor, you probably wouldn't get it.
Josh said he didn't want a chicken statue. Some other kind of statue, then. Last month, I had seen a gargoyle statue at a quirky bar in Chapel Hill It was a dragon-type creature with a raised paw and open mouth. I sighed, because now I really, really wanted a gargoyle, when five seconds before my life had been serene because I hadn't known I could have such a thing. You can never go back to not wanting a gargoyle. You can only obtain one.
And see, now I even have the perfect perch for a gargoyle. I am ready for yard art. Some other neighbors, not the classy wishing well people, have a sea serpent in their yard (yard serpent?). Of course, I really would like to have a yard serpent, but two in the neighborhood would be silly, and if I stole theirs, well, it would be pretty obvious. So we'll just have to up the tacky yard art game. There is a yard art place across the street from the farmer's market that I've always been curious about, so maybe someday soon we'll go have a look at their stock. We may yet drive the fake rock right out of the well-embellishment business.
4.01.2014
march 2014 books.
The Sea
John Banville
This was...quiet. A man who is recently widowed returns to the shore where he spent a formative childhood summer. He is supposed to be working on a book about art history, yet he spends his time writing recollections about his wife's illness, his childhood, and his current life.
When I say that this book is quiet, I mean that nothing happens. Something sorta happens at the end, or rather something happened years ago in his childhood and he finally gets around to telling you about it. But mostly it is him, processing his grief. As you read, you figure out just how bad a state he is in. He mentions drinking some, and drops a few details about carrying around a flask, but by the end you find out he's drinking quite a lot. And in the middle of one of his stories is just an angry outburst at his wife for dying and abandoning him this way. I guess that's what you call an unreliable narrator.
Still, the writing is very beautiful. I made myself go slow and appreciate the pictures he was painting, rather than try and skim for the plot. The grief felt very real to me. Still, while I will say that Banville is an excellent writer, I don't think I'll be picking up any more of his books. Too quiet.
We
Yevgeny Zamyatin
You know what I love? A good dystopia. Not only is this book an excellent one, but it predates both Brave New World and 1984, plus probably most of the other dystopias you've ever read. It was predated only by Jack London's The Iron Heel, which I had never heard of until just now, and I definitely want to read. All I know about Jack London are his books about wolves; I had no idea he wrote social commentary.
The book is a record kept by the head engineer of the world's first spaceship, the Integral. It is set a thousand or so years in the future, in a very tightly controlled society made mostly of glass. Everyone's life is scheduled by the Table of Hours, and they all live in glass apartment buildings so that the overlords can keep an eye on them. There are Guardians, which are like secret police, and then the Well-Doer, a robot leader. A giant wall surrounds the populated areas, while nature keeps on with her business outside. Our narrator, D-503, is happy and contented in this world, where everything has structure and is maximally efficient. I really related to his engineering mindset, which leaked into his phrasing, and I could see how such a controlled society would be comforting in a lot of ways.
Ah, but then our hero meets a mysterious lady and falls for her. He begins having dreams and breaking rules. He goes to the doctor, and they tell him that he has developed a soul. It's apparently chronic. The book was pretty funny in its treatment of the ancients (which means us, basically) and how the narrator perceives our lives to have been. They have an election day, which they call the Day of Unanimity. He wonders at the ancients, who used to have elections without knowing what the outcome would be. How foolish! He talks about something called "inspiration," which he describes as a form of epilepsy that went extinct. The OneState offers operations to people who are plagued by dreams and dissatisfaction, promising to remove their "fancy," which is apparently located in the frontal lobe. The OneState is similar to the government in The Handmaid's Tale, in that they say that it is free will that makes people unhappy - having the ability to choose means you can choose wrong.
The mysterious woman who causes the narrator to develop a soul is trying to start a revolution. D-503 doesn't understand - he says that they already had the revolution a long time ago and that's how they were able to live optimally now. She uses the concept of infinite numbers to explain that there is never a last revolution. Heck yeah.
Zamyatin never really wrote anything more. He was a Socialist who quickly became disillusioned with the communist revolution. He was able to get out of the USSR before they started killing artists for not creating Soviet-positive art (in the book, there are creative types, but their topics are assigned), but he apparently stopped writing completely while in exile. We was written to satirize communism, showing the outcome when you elevate the collective we over the individual I. Also, that it doesn't work, because those darn souls always pop up again. The book was first published in English in 1924, being the first work banned by the Soviet censorship bureau. It was not published in the Soviet Union until 1988.
The Conservative Soul: How We Lost It, How to Get It Back
Andrew Sullivan
Andrew Sullivan is a political blogger who I have read nearly daily since the 2008 campaign. I had never followed politics really at all. I'm still no junkie, but I am relatively aware of what is going on...which is a good feeling! It's nice to know what is going on and be able to say something about it. He writes a lot about the experience of being gay, and through him, I have come to a much better understanding about what being gay is about (hint: pretty much the same thing as being straight is about).
Sullivan considers himself a small-c conservative, but has parted ways with the Republican Party, particularly since the Iraq War (which he initially supported vehemently, but has since decided that it was a really terrible idea). He has also found that he does not have much in common with the party in terms of social issues. The marriage equality movement gives him a lot of credit for starting that push nearly way back in the 80s.
So this book is an exploration of how the American Republican party has gotten away from conservatism by fusing with fundamentalist Christianity. Sullivan says real conservatism is about skepticism - skepticism about the ability of humans to know or do anything, and therefore skepticism about government to know or do anything (seeing as how it's made up of humans). So the best the government can do is basically get out of the way. The government should provide security only, and that security allows maximum freedom of the individuals to pursue happiness as they define it. How he defines security, by the way, includes education and healthcare (reminds me of the line from the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation about helping people to live healthy, productive lives).
Sullivan's problem with fundamentalism is that it says it knows what is best and how we should all be living, and it claims to come from the highest source. Sullivan is a faithful Catholic, and he often writes movingly about his faith. In reading this book, I realized that he is kind of a mystic. I guess I already knew that from his blog, since he often talks about the mysteries of faith. I definitely relate to the mysteries of faith rather than the certainties, so maybe I'm a small-c conservative, too, and just never knew it.
Winter Notes on Summer Impressions
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
This was probably a terrible first book to pick for my first Dostoyevsky, but it's too late now. Wiki says that a lot of his themes here pop up again in his novels. This book, which is actually a very long essay, is an account of his travels through Europe, where he complains about the bourgeoisie. He says that the revolution (meaning the people's revolution, i.e. socialism) is possible in France, but will take time because the society is too individualistic.
He may be right about that. But it seems like you'd need a society that works to develop the individual for any person to get to that point of supreme individuality. It was an interesting read when paired with We. Dostoyevsky was writing in the 1850s, while the revolution in his Russian homeland was still a long ways off. Of course, it's all doomed to fail because it's being put on by stupid humans, who can't do anything right and usually corrupt everything anyway.
The Stranger
Albert Camus
I was really excited to read this, because I liked The Plague so much. In fact, I searched for and bought this book at a used book store, rather than wait for the thrift store gods to favor me.
I did not enjoy this as much. It was stark. A man's mother dies. He gets involved with a friend who beats his girlfriend. The man shoots the girlfriend's brother. He is tried and convicted, sentenced to die by the guillotine. The end.
Yeah. I already gave away the whole plot, but I guess we can try and break this down some. The narrator, Mersault, is unmoored from society. He lives, but seems to have no real emotional attachments. He has a girlfriend who says that she loves him, but he shrugs in response. His mother dies, but he shows little response. He goes to the funeral, but does not cry and behaves "inappropriately," according to society's rules of How To Be Sad. During his trial, his lack of visible grief ends up convicting him to death, as the prosecutor pegs him as a monster who puts his mother away in a home and then smokes cigarettes at her wake. I had a bit of trouble on this part - yes, it was silly that his lack of emotion was the deciding factor in his sentence, but he was actually guilty of straight-up killing a man. It was implied that, if not for the dead mother issue, he would have gotten off easy because the dude he'd killed was "just an Arab" (book is set in French-ruled Algeria).
Camus is lumped in with the existentialists, but he did not say that existence was meaningless. Rather, he said the question of meaning was absurd, because of our tiny human brains. Either way, the result was the same - you gots to make your own meaning. Mersault, unable to find meaning in his own life, gradually realizes that there is none to be found and became accepting of the "gentle indifference of the universe."
I did a bad job on this one, I'm sorry. The Plague was so much better.
The Rise of Silas Lapham
William Dean Howells
This is a rags-to-riches story about Silas Lapham, who inherits some land which has a paint mine on it. He starts up a mineral paint business and becomes filthy stinking rich and attempts to join society by buying his way in. He is uncouth and uneducated, but also immoral, as his professional success is partly due to forcing a former partner out of the business. As a result of shady dealings and lavish spending, he is faced with a choice to save his fortune and his business by selling some misrepresented worthless property. So the "rise" referred to in the title is not his rise in fortunes, but his moral rise.
Howells is considered the father of American Realism. He is hard on the sentimental novel, where nothing happens but people feel very strongly about things. There is a tragic love triangle in the book, and the characters sit around discussing a sentimental novel with an identical tragic love triangle in it. In the sentimental book within the book, no one in the triangle ends up happy, which the characters in the realist book think is stupid and silly. But then it happens to them and they do the same sort of wailing and dramatic room-leaving for a while, until finally the two people who love each other get together and the other person just gets over it. American Realism, ladies and gents. Still has goofy love triangles which cause a lot of silly moaning and moping, but at least it was resolved sensibly.
This book was okay.
***
You'll notice that there is no book club selection this month. Our club leader asked whether the current moderators would like to continue to be so, and I declined. Now free from obligation, I was able to decide whether or not to attend the meeting based on how interested I was in the book. It sounded stupid and terrible, so I svaed my money and my time. While I did not enjoy The Stranger, at least I picked it for myself so it is my own fault.
John Banville
This was...quiet. A man who is recently widowed returns to the shore where he spent a formative childhood summer. He is supposed to be working on a book about art history, yet he spends his time writing recollections about his wife's illness, his childhood, and his current life.
When I say that this book is quiet, I mean that nothing happens. Something sorta happens at the end, or rather something happened years ago in his childhood and he finally gets around to telling you about it. But mostly it is him, processing his grief. As you read, you figure out just how bad a state he is in. He mentions drinking some, and drops a few details about carrying around a flask, but by the end you find out he's drinking quite a lot. And in the middle of one of his stories is just an angry outburst at his wife for dying and abandoning him this way. I guess that's what you call an unreliable narrator.
Still, the writing is very beautiful. I made myself go slow and appreciate the pictures he was painting, rather than try and skim for the plot. The grief felt very real to me. Still, while I will say that Banville is an excellent writer, I don't think I'll be picking up any more of his books. Too quiet.
We
Yevgeny Zamyatin
You know what I love? A good dystopia. Not only is this book an excellent one, but it predates both Brave New World and 1984, plus probably most of the other dystopias you've ever read. It was predated only by Jack London's The Iron Heel, which I had never heard of until just now, and I definitely want to read. All I know about Jack London are his books about wolves; I had no idea he wrote social commentary.
The book is a record kept by the head engineer of the world's first spaceship, the Integral. It is set a thousand or so years in the future, in a very tightly controlled society made mostly of glass. Everyone's life is scheduled by the Table of Hours, and they all live in glass apartment buildings so that the overlords can keep an eye on them. There are Guardians, which are like secret police, and then the Well-Doer, a robot leader. A giant wall surrounds the populated areas, while nature keeps on with her business outside. Our narrator, D-503, is happy and contented in this world, where everything has structure and is maximally efficient. I really related to his engineering mindset, which leaked into his phrasing, and I could see how such a controlled society would be comforting in a lot of ways.
Ah, but then our hero meets a mysterious lady and falls for her. He begins having dreams and breaking rules. He goes to the doctor, and they tell him that he has developed a soul. It's apparently chronic. The book was pretty funny in its treatment of the ancients (which means us, basically) and how the narrator perceives our lives to have been. They have an election day, which they call the Day of Unanimity. He wonders at the ancients, who used to have elections without knowing what the outcome would be. How foolish! He talks about something called "inspiration," which he describes as a form of epilepsy that went extinct. The OneState offers operations to people who are plagued by dreams and dissatisfaction, promising to remove their "fancy," which is apparently located in the frontal lobe. The OneState is similar to the government in The Handmaid's Tale, in that they say that it is free will that makes people unhappy - having the ability to choose means you can choose wrong.
The mysterious woman who causes the narrator to develop a soul is trying to start a revolution. D-503 doesn't understand - he says that they already had the revolution a long time ago and that's how they were able to live optimally now. She uses the concept of infinite numbers to explain that there is never a last revolution. Heck yeah.
Zamyatin never really wrote anything more. He was a Socialist who quickly became disillusioned with the communist revolution. He was able to get out of the USSR before they started killing artists for not creating Soviet-positive art (in the book, there are creative types, but their topics are assigned), but he apparently stopped writing completely while in exile. We was written to satirize communism, showing the outcome when you elevate the collective we over the individual I. Also, that it doesn't work, because those darn souls always pop up again. The book was first published in English in 1924, being the first work banned by the Soviet censorship bureau. It was not published in the Soviet Union until 1988.
The Conservative Soul: How We Lost It, How to Get It Back
Andrew Sullivan
Andrew Sullivan is a political blogger who I have read nearly daily since the 2008 campaign. I had never followed politics really at all. I'm still no junkie, but I am relatively aware of what is going on...which is a good feeling! It's nice to know what is going on and be able to say something about it. He writes a lot about the experience of being gay, and through him, I have come to a much better understanding about what being gay is about (hint: pretty much the same thing as being straight is about).
Sullivan considers himself a small-c conservative, but has parted ways with the Republican Party, particularly since the Iraq War (which he initially supported vehemently, but has since decided that it was a really terrible idea). He has also found that he does not have much in common with the party in terms of social issues. The marriage equality movement gives him a lot of credit for starting that push nearly way back in the 80s.
So this book is an exploration of how the American Republican party has gotten away from conservatism by fusing with fundamentalist Christianity. Sullivan says real conservatism is about skepticism - skepticism about the ability of humans to know or do anything, and therefore skepticism about government to know or do anything (seeing as how it's made up of humans). So the best the government can do is basically get out of the way. The government should provide security only, and that security allows maximum freedom of the individuals to pursue happiness as they define it. How he defines security, by the way, includes education and healthcare (reminds me of the line from the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation about helping people to live healthy, productive lives).
Sullivan's problem with fundamentalism is that it says it knows what is best and how we should all be living, and it claims to come from the highest source. Sullivan is a faithful Catholic, and he often writes movingly about his faith. In reading this book, I realized that he is kind of a mystic. I guess I already knew that from his blog, since he often talks about the mysteries of faith. I definitely relate to the mysteries of faith rather than the certainties, so maybe I'm a small-c conservative, too, and just never knew it.
Winter Notes on Summer Impressions
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
This was probably a terrible first book to pick for my first Dostoyevsky, but it's too late now. Wiki says that a lot of his themes here pop up again in his novels. This book, which is actually a very long essay, is an account of his travels through Europe, where he complains about the bourgeoisie. He says that the revolution (meaning the people's revolution, i.e. socialism) is possible in France, but will take time because the society is too individualistic.
Understand me: voluntary, fully-conscious self-sacrifice utterly free of outside constraint, sacrifice of one's entire self for the benefit of all, is in my opinion a sign of the supreme development of individuality, of its supreme power, absolute self-mastery and freedom of will.
He may be right about that. But it seems like you'd need a society that works to develop the individual for any person to get to that point of supreme individuality. It was an interesting read when paired with We. Dostoyevsky was writing in the 1850s, while the revolution in his Russian homeland was still a long ways off. Of course, it's all doomed to fail because it's being put on by stupid humans, who can't do anything right and usually corrupt everything anyway.
The Stranger
Albert Camus
I was really excited to read this, because I liked The Plague so much. In fact, I searched for and bought this book at a used book store, rather than wait for the thrift store gods to favor me.
I did not enjoy this as much. It was stark. A man's mother dies. He gets involved with a friend who beats his girlfriend. The man shoots the girlfriend's brother. He is tried and convicted, sentenced to die by the guillotine. The end.
Yeah. I already gave away the whole plot, but I guess we can try and break this down some. The narrator, Mersault, is unmoored from society. He lives, but seems to have no real emotional attachments. He has a girlfriend who says that she loves him, but he shrugs in response. His mother dies, but he shows little response. He goes to the funeral, but does not cry and behaves "inappropriately," according to society's rules of How To Be Sad. During his trial, his lack of visible grief ends up convicting him to death, as the prosecutor pegs him as a monster who puts his mother away in a home and then smokes cigarettes at her wake. I had a bit of trouble on this part - yes, it was silly that his lack of emotion was the deciding factor in his sentence, but he was actually guilty of straight-up killing a man. It was implied that, if not for the dead mother issue, he would have gotten off easy because the dude he'd killed was "just an Arab" (book is set in French-ruled Algeria).
Camus is lumped in with the existentialists, but he did not say that existence was meaningless. Rather, he said the question of meaning was absurd, because of our tiny human brains. Either way, the result was the same - you gots to make your own meaning. Mersault, unable to find meaning in his own life, gradually realizes that there is none to be found and became accepting of the "gentle indifference of the universe."
I did a bad job on this one, I'm sorry. The Plague was so much better.
The Rise of Silas Lapham
William Dean Howells
This is a rags-to-riches story about Silas Lapham, who inherits some land which has a paint mine on it. He starts up a mineral paint business and becomes filthy stinking rich and attempts to join society by buying his way in. He is uncouth and uneducated, but also immoral, as his professional success is partly due to forcing a former partner out of the business. As a result of shady dealings and lavish spending, he is faced with a choice to save his fortune and his business by selling some misrepresented worthless property. So the "rise" referred to in the title is not his rise in fortunes, but his moral rise.
Howells is considered the father of American Realism. He is hard on the sentimental novel, where nothing happens but people feel very strongly about things. There is a tragic love triangle in the book, and the characters sit around discussing a sentimental novel with an identical tragic love triangle in it. In the sentimental book within the book, no one in the triangle ends up happy, which the characters in the realist book think is stupid and silly. But then it happens to them and they do the same sort of wailing and dramatic room-leaving for a while, until finally the two people who love each other get together and the other person just gets over it. American Realism, ladies and gents. Still has goofy love triangles which cause a lot of silly moaning and moping, but at least it was resolved sensibly.
This book was okay.
***
You'll notice that there is no book club selection this month. Our club leader asked whether the current moderators would like to continue to be so, and I declined. Now free from obligation, I was able to decide whether or not to attend the meeting based on how interested I was in the book. It sounded stupid and terrible, so I svaed my money and my time. While I did not enjoy The Stranger, at least I picked it for myself so it is my own fault.
3.30.2014
estate sales, march 29.
I get a weekly email with details about all the local estate sales. I generally look through the pictures, and sometimes we end up going to a sale if the pictures are interesting and we didn't stay up too late the night before. Friday, one of the pictures featured a gray metal box with a NASA sticker on it, along with the words "METEOROID DETECTION EXPERIMENT, LANGLEY RESEARCH CENTER." I was not necessarily interested in going to the sale, but I sent the picture to Josh, because he likes space stuff.
I should not have been surprised the next morning when Josh wanted to get up and go to the sale. That was entirely predictable and my own fault. So this was our day.
Most of the NASA goodies were gone, but there were tons of prints of space pictures. The guy whose stuff we were looking at had worked at NASA as an engineer and photographer for thirty years. Some of the pictures were printed on transparencies, maybe for some kind of educational presentation? Anyway, I bought two of them. A couple other people looked through them, remarked that they were neat, and then put them back down. They couldn't imagine what to do with them.
Uh, put them on the wall! I mean, they come with their own frames.
As long as there is a light-colored background behind the pictures, you can see them. If you only had dark walls in your house, you could use a light piece of paper. But I really like the wall color behind them, because it draws attention to the fact that part of the picture is see-through. The top picture of the rocket launch is marked "9/13/61 first orbit of capsule," which refers to the Mercury-Atlas 4. No idea about the bottom picture. Just some scientists doing sciencey things.
This is dumb, but I've been looking for a new kitchen rug. We have two, and they are getting increasingly ratty. I've been looking for new-to-me ones, but it turns out that small rugs are just kinda hard to find used, or maybe I haven't been looking in the right place. I was even thinking of - gasp! - buying one new, that's how bad my old ones were. But the secondhand gods smiled on me yesterday, and I find a nice big one for just a dollar.
I felt stupid taking a picture of the kitchen floor, so I made the dog sit on it first. Now it's a picture of a dog. Doesn't she look especially cute on the new rug?
At another estate sale, which was just packed with stuff, there was a room with tables along three walls and a rack of clothing on the fourth. Dumped in the corner was a pile of books, where I found this art book.
It looked intriguing, so I squeezed myself between a lady perusing the clothes and a dude playing with an abacus on the table. Upon opening it up, the first thing I saw was a small poster print of this painting.
I know this painting! The artist is Gérôme. I came across his name in another book a few months ago and spent an evening googling his art. I think my favorite is this one, with the soldiers stomping on the tulips. The informational blurb in the art book about him is fairly insulting, calling him technically impeccable but basically a hack. If I were him, I'd be going "Pfft! And yet here I am in your silly little art book."
So I figured that having a nice frameable print of a painting that I liked was worth the $2 for the whole book, whatever else might be in it. It turns out that the book itself is pretty amazing. There are twenty-four prints of paintings, and the text goes through them and talks about why each one could be considered under the umbrella of Realism. The paintings vary a lot in style and subject, yet they are curated such that you can see what is "real" about each one. The writing is geared toward the layman, and hey! that's me. It's like taking a little class at the museum. I was so impressed that I came very close to buying the whole twelve volume set used off Amazon from a thrift store. Update: have now bought the whole set. Have extra volume 2 to spare.
I never received much in the way of art instruction. We had some art classes in grade school, but they were mostly about making art and not about studying existing art. I learned a bit by dating an artist, but my education was limited to the things he was interested in (which meant a lot of surrealism and African religious folk art). I've learned some by going to museums, but that was mostly self-guided. For a long time, I've found art to be very intimidating. I spent so much time worrying about what a picture was supposed to mean (and having no idea) that I was often unable to just enjoy it or take my own meaning from it. Art should not be scary. I'm hoping that these books will help my poor malnourished art brain.
Finally, about two and a half years ago, my sister-in-law asked me to be on the lookout for Club cookware for her. I'd never heard of it, and couldn't say that I'd even seen it before. Yesterday, I finally found some. I was about to just pass it by, figuring that since so much time had passed, my sister-in-law was probably not interested anymore. But this is the age of instant communication, so I texted her a picture of what they had and the price information. She did want it, so after all this time, I was finally able to fulfill her aluminum cookware dreams. Don't say you can't find good stuff used! It just takes a while sometimes.
I should not have been surprised the next morning when Josh wanted to get up and go to the sale. That was entirely predictable and my own fault. So this was our day.
Most of the NASA goodies were gone, but there were tons of prints of space pictures. The guy whose stuff we were looking at had worked at NASA as an engineer and photographer for thirty years. Some of the pictures were printed on transparencies, maybe for some kind of educational presentation? Anyway, I bought two of them. A couple other people looked through them, remarked that they were neat, and then put them back down. They couldn't imagine what to do with them.
Uh, put them on the wall! I mean, they come with their own frames.
At another estate sale, which was just packed with stuff, there was a room with tables along three walls and a rack of clothing on the fourth. Dumped in the corner was a pile of books, where I found this art book.
So I figured that having a nice frameable print of a painting that I liked was worth the $2 for the whole book, whatever else might be in it. It turns out that the book itself is pretty amazing. There are twenty-four prints of paintings, and the text goes through them and talks about why each one could be considered under the umbrella of Realism. The paintings vary a lot in style and subject, yet they are curated such that you can see what is "real" about each one. The writing is geared toward the layman, and hey! that's me. It's like taking a little class at the museum. I was so impressed that I came very close to buying the whole twelve volume set used off Amazon from a thrift store. Update: have now bought the whole set. Have extra volume 2 to spare.
I never received much in the way of art instruction. We had some art classes in grade school, but they were mostly about making art and not about studying existing art. I learned a bit by dating an artist, but my education was limited to the things he was interested in (which meant a lot of surrealism and African religious folk art). I've learned some by going to museums, but that was mostly self-guided. For a long time, I've found art to be very intimidating. I spent so much time worrying about what a picture was supposed to mean (and having no idea) that I was often unable to just enjoy it or take my own meaning from it. Art should not be scary. I'm hoping that these books will help my poor malnourished art brain.
Finally, about two and a half years ago, my sister-in-law asked me to be on the lookout for Club cookware for her. I'd never heard of it, and couldn't say that I'd even seen it before. Yesterday, I finally found some. I was about to just pass it by, figuring that since so much time had passed, my sister-in-law was probably not interested anymore. But this is the age of instant communication, so I texted her a picture of what they had and the price information. She did want it, so after all this time, I was finally able to fulfill her aluminum cookware dreams. Don't say you can't find good stuff used! It just takes a while sometimes.
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