Odds and Ends

There are 66 posts filed in Odds and Ends (this is page 6 of 7).

Good Poems

Warning: I use a lot of blockquotes in today’s entry. Because of this, those of you still using Internet Explorer are going to have display issues. (Do yourself a favor and nab Firefox.)

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

— John Keats, from Endymion

I used to love poetry.

In high school, I was obsessed with it. I read it often. I wrote it often. It was an integral part of my life.

I grew older, though, and somehow less poetic. Perhaps I grew too content. Perhaps I simply stopped viewing the world through the eyes of a poet, or the eyes of a writer. Whatever the case, poetry was dead to me.

That’s no longer the case. Over the past few years, I’ve rekindled my love for poetry. While I used to be fond of free verse and blank verse, I find that now I’m inclined to like the rigid, structured stuff: poems with strong rhythm and meter, poems that rhyme.

Like this one.

She Walks in Beauty
by George Gordon, Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

It seems to me that anyone can write a poem without meter, without rhyme, but it takes a special genius to construct a thing of beauty within the confines imposed by the traditional poetic structure.

Still, a good poem is a thing of beauty, no matter its structure:

Sailing to Byzantium
by William Butler Yeats

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees –
Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Or this:

Mending Wall
by Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors’.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’

Courtney loaned me a book the other day: Good Poems, an anthology edited by Garrison Keillor collecting poems he’s read over the years on his Writer’s Almanac. In the introduction, Keillor writes: “Stickiness, memorability, is one sign of a good poem. You hear it and a day later some of it is still there in the brainpan.”

I like this definition. (And not just for poetry. All good things are “sticky”.)

And I like the anthology. It truly is filled with little gems, such as:

Summer Storm
by Dana Gioia

We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.

We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.

The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.

To my surprise, you took my arm —
A gesture you didn’t explain —
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.

Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.

I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn’t speak another word
Except to say goodnight.

Why does that evening’s memory
Return with this night’s storm —
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?

There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won’t stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.

And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.

Why is it that I’m drawn to melancholy poems? Perhaps this goes hand-in-hand with my theory that only the unhappy can produce truly great poetry.

The Loft
by Richard Jones

I lay on the bed
while she opened windows
so we could see the river
and the factories beyond.
Afternoon light falling
beautifully into the room,
she burned candles,
incense, talking quietly
as I listened —
I, who conspired
to make this happen,
weaving a web of words that held
the moment at its center.
What could I say now?
That I am a man
empty of desire?
She stood beside the bed,
looking down at me,
as if she were dreaming,
as if I were a dream,
as if she too had come
to the final shore of longing.
I lay, calm as a lake
reflecting the nothingness
of late summer sky.

The real problem is that Keillor’s collection is filled with too many good poems. I want to share them all. (That’s hyperbole, by the way, as you can probably guess. Still, there are many, many good poems here.)

Romantics: Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann
by Lisel Mueller

The modern biographers worry
“how far it went,” their tender friendship.
They wonder just what it means
when he writes he thinks of her constantly,
his guardian angel, beloved friend.
The modern biographers ask
the rude, irrelevant question
of our age, as if the event
of two bodies meshing together
establishes the degree of love,
forgetting how softly Eros walked
in the nineteenth century, how a hand
held overlong or a gaze anchored
in someone’s eyes could unseat a heart,
and nuances of address not known
in our egalitarian language
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility. Each time I hear
the Intermezzi, sad
and lavish in their tenderness,
I imagine the two of them
sitting in a garden
among late-blooming roses
and dark cascades of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them,
leaving us nothing to overhear.

And:

Sonnet XLIII
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

I must stop. Must stop.

Oh, okay, one more:

Hay for the Horses
by Gary Snyder

He had driven half the night
From far down San Joaquin
Through Mariposa, up the
Dangerous Mountain roads,
And pulled in at eight a.m.
With his big truckload of hay
   behind the barn.
With winch and ropes and hooks
We stacked the bales up clean
To splintery redwood rafters
High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
Itch of haydust in the
   sweaty shirt and shoes.
At lunchtime under Black oak
Out in the hot corral,
—The old mare nosing lunchpails,
Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds—
“I’m sixty-eight” he said,
“I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
I thought, that day I started,
I sure would hate to do this all my life.
And dammit, that’s just what
I’ve gone and done.”

These are good poems. I love good poems.

I still love poetry.

Here, then, are some good links, a sort of effort to spread the poetic mood.

First, from the archives of this weblog, you can find the aforementioned Writer’s Almanac entry. I also once wrote about the great poet Langston Hughes, so recently re-vilified by the radical Right. I spent an entry adoring the poem To Posterity by Bertolt Brecht. I wrote about the Wine, Cheese, and Poetry dinner party that Kris and I hosted a couple of years ago (and plan to host again in 2005 — sennoma, want to come?). Finally, I shared a similar Poetical Interlude over a year ago, at which time I shared my favorite poems: The Sunlight on the Garden by Louis MacNeice, A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne, Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson, and Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Also, among my fellow webloggers, Caterina has a penchant for poetry (and for art in general), as does sennoma. Go give them a read.

Comments


On 28 December 2004 (11:42 AM),
AmJo said:

HHave you read Seamus Heaney? If not, you might find his work interesting (follow this link to hear/read his Nobel Prize speech: http://nobelprize.org/literature/laureates/1995/heaney-lecture.html). I like this sentiment very much: “I credit poetry, in other words, both for being itself and for being a help, for making possible a fluid and restorative relationship between the mind’s centre and its circumference.” We began reading his work in earnest while traveling in Ireland. Another poet you might like and probably already know is Mary Oliver. Wild Geese is an amazing poem:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.



On 29 December 2004 (06:33 PM),
Courtney said:

“Wild Geese” is one of my favorite poems! It is also in Keillor’s “Good Poems”. Glad you’re enjoying the collection J.D.



On 03 January 2005 (11:58 PM),
sennoma said:

Can’t figure out how to trackback (may be that I’m using Moz), so: http://www.sennoma.net/main/000238.php (thanks JD, we’d love to be part of your next poetry evening).

The Velvet Ribbon

A couple years ago I shared my favorite short, spooky story: The Velvet Ribbon. Now, thanks to the generosity of a foldedspace reader, I’m able to share an extra-special Halloween treat.

Deb writes:

OK…get ready for your trip down memory lane! I found the record…an old 33 on ebay. We found a record player and my sister actually had a phono input on her very old stereo system.

We had a lot of fun listening to this over an over again….just like when we were kids.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

ENJOY!

Here’s the 2.28mb mp3 file: The Velvet Ribbon.

Thanks, Deb!

We’re headed to Denise‘s house for a costume party tonight. I’m excited to meet fellow webloggers, Betsy and Scott. Who knows? Maybe Johnny Doe will make an appearance.

I’m still a Halloween humbug, it’s true, but Denise has threatened public shame and humiliation for those who do not appear in costume. So, for the first time since becoming Vernon Dursely for the Chamber of Secrets premier, I’m dressing up. I’ve collated my clothes and have prepared my props.

Come back tomorrow and you’ll get a peek at a rare costumed J.D.

Pre-Crash Comments

On 30 October 2004 (01:51 PM),
J.D. Roth said:

Last night, while shopping for costume components at Goodwill, I head an awful “lite” version of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”.

Blasphemy!

As part of a soon-to-be-announced side-project, I’ve been ripping old vinyl records to mp3. Here, as an added Halloween treat, is a fuzzy 5.34mb rip of Thriller from my original Thriller LP, purchased in 1982.

(I can remember sitting in Dave’s bedroom, listening to this song over and over again. This very song, this very track, from this very piece of vinyl, I mean.)

If the big record companies find this mp3 threatening, then it’s a sad, sad world. This mp3, filled with cracks and pops from a sticky record, includes the electonic hum from the equipment — listen for it at the beginning of the track. There’s no way somebody would forego purchasing a real copy of the song by downloading this…

No, this is just for fun. For nostalgia.

On 30 October 2004 (03:22 PM),
Tiffany said:

What is Kris going to the pary as?

On 31 October 2004 (11:09 AM),
Betsy said:

It was a great costume, J.D. Congratulations on your victory!

On 31 October 2004 (05:48 PM),
Amy Jo said:

We want to see photos . . .

On 31 October 2004 (06:22 PM),
J.D. Roth said:

Photos are coming. I promise. I’ve written the weblog entry (am in fact updating it as each Trick or Treater comes to the door), but cannot find the cable for the digital camera. Thus: no photos yet.

On 01 December 2004 (11:00 AM),
Kimberly said:

Oh thank you so much Deb for posting! My bestfriend and I would listen to The Velvet Ribbon over & over again! I love it!

~Kimberly~

On 18 September 2005 (02:58 PM),
Sher said:

Hi Deb,

I cannot believe other people remember this Velvt Ribbon Story – how great! We had the Halloween Book/Album, from 1970 also. I was six years old and accidentally left it behind in southern MN at school, before we moved to Minneapolis in 1971. My two sisters never let me live that down. I surprised them with this page and a typed out version of this poem today. We loved it and from time to time, recite this poem and another one that we had memorized from the record. I would love to find this book with the music on cd form, but have not idea where to go, so i keep looking. Ebay sells the record, but I am trying to go other routes, as I no longer have a record player. If anyone has ideas, feel free to let me know. What a great memory. Thanks for posting it!

On 06 October 2005 (12:58 PM),
yvonne said:

Hi Deb,
What is the title of the record that has The Velvet Ribbon? I used to have that record AGES ago and loved it! That story scared the daylights out of me. I’d listen to it often and when it got near the end, I’d have to take it off!
Thanks for the info!
Yvonne

Snopes

Recently I’ve been falling asleep to the joys of Snopes, the urban legend web site. Most urban legends seem self-evident to me. Still, there are times I’m suckered by a tall tale. What’s more, Snopes lists stories that sound like urban legends but aren’t.

Some of my favorite urban legends are:

Multiplying your dog’s age by seven will produce its equivalent in human years. This is an example of a myth that had me snowed. I believed it to be true. One human year is not equivalent to seven dog years, though. (It’s more like one to five, though it actually varies depending on stage of the animal’s life.)

The race horse Seabiscuit was the biggest newsmaker in America in 1938. This myth did not have me snowed, however. It’s the result of the kind of sloppy reporting that makes me angry; there’s no need for people who no better to try to pass this off as fact. The claim set off all sorts of BS buzzers in my head, and I never believed it for a second. Snopes is there to prove me right in this case.

On average, men think about sex every seven seconds. Not even close. “54% of men think about sex every day or several times a day” — and the rest think of it less often. I’ve heard this “fact” bandied about many times over the years, and though it sounded wrong, it seemed plausible enough (I’m in the 54%, several times) that I never tried to argue with it.

Snopes has scores (hundreds?) of myths to explore, most of them false. It’s worth a look if you’ve time to spare. Or if you’re gullible.

Comments


On 21 April 2004 (08:10 AM),
mac said:

guest weblogger???



On 10 September 2004 (09:08 AM),
raygill52 said:

I just stumble to this site by chance. it kept my interest. also made me think about, a time I heard that if you boil bay leaves in water, it turns into some kind of poison. my question is this true or false.
I’ll be back, to visit this site again. also I will share my new found knowledge among friends.
thank you raygill52



On 10 September 2004 (02:05 PM),
Tiffany said:

Bay leaves are edible. Maybe you are thinking of oleander leaves. They look similar, but are poisonous.



On 11 September 2004 (04:09 PM),
Dana said:

Um.

WTF?

Political blogspam?

]

Brinkmann ProSeries 2200

Yesterday, you were all (with the exception of Courtney) too concerned with belittling my ant-eradication abilities to give me recommendations for outdoor grills, so I had to take matters into my own hands.

Today, I descended into that mind-numbing purgatory known as the Woodburn WAL*MART Superstore — just a rung above the Canby Fred Meyer on my moral ladder — and made do with my own judgment as a super-shopper.

(The last time I was at the Woodburn WAL*MART — or any WAL*MART — was in March of 1999, at which time Kris and I bought some Phantom Menace action figures for Paul Jolstead’s birthday gift — a belated happy birthday, Paul, by the way.)

I walked away with a $177 Brinkmann ProSeries 2200 heavy-duty gas grill featuring:

  • porcelain-coated hood and body!
  • one-touch electronic igniter!
  • BBQ tool/accessory rack on both ends!
  • porcelain-coated, cast-iron grates!
  • three cast-iron burners!
  • no tools required!
  • feeds up to ten people!
  • one year warranty!
  • propane tank not included�

I was sorely tempted by the $283 Brinkmann model, which weighed 192 pounds instead of 140, and included:

  • stainless steel construction!
  • bonus side burner!
  • under-grill storage compartments!
  • four cast-iron burners!

but it seemed silly to spend an extra $106 on those features. (Jeff, my assistant super-shopper declared side burners “worthless”.)

I’ve made do with a sub-$100 grill for a decade, so the Brinkmann ProSeries 2200 is going to be a quantum leap in grilling technology for the Roth-Gates household; I didn’t want to overdo it.

Work has begun on the foldedspace redesign. You can see the current progress here. The site is not yet fully operational. In fact, none of the links work at all, the search doesn’t work, and you cannot leave comments. All you can do is admire my handiwork.

The site features:

  • fully standards compliant table-less design!
  • a rotating pool of twelve rotating backgrounds!
  • a rotating pool of ten quotes and images!
  • quicker load times!
  • unimplemented hidden easter eggs!

I’d be pleased to take your comments and recommendations into consideration. The basic structure is fixed. I also like the border color and the background color for the text. Everything else is in constant flux (and even these two exceptions are open to change).

Is anything about the new site broken when you view it? Let me know. Is one background better than the others? Are they all terrible? Let me know. Do you agree with one reader’s comments:

I like the new banner at the top as well as the rotating pictures although more nudity would be ok with me!!!!

I’ll make a promise: I’ll give you all more nudity, but it’s going to be of the feline variety.

Comments


On 23 March 2004 (01:24 PM),
Tammy said:

I have one huge question. What happens to us peons?



On 23 March 2004 (01:28 PM),
J.D. said:

You eat off the old grill?

I don’t understand your question, Tammy.



On 23 March 2004 (01:51 PM),
Tammy said:

I am laughiing hysterically. Eating off the old grill?

You see, Jd, when I read this I scarecly read about our precious grill. I had eyes only for your remarks on your site redo. So my question was directed toward your last several paragraphs; What happens to us peons when you redesign? Do we keep the old templates or how is that effected?



On 23 March 2004 (01:51 PM),
Tammy said:

I am laughiing hysterically. Eating off the old grill?

You see, Jd, when I read this I scarecly read about your precious grill. I had eyes only for your remarks on your site redo. So my question was directed toward your last several paragraphs; What happens to us peons when you redesign? Do we keep the old templates or how is that effected?



On 23 March 2004 (01:54 PM),
Joel said:

Well, I had certainly assumed that the new grill was only for Special Occasions, like when the Pope comes over and stuff like that.
When I look at the redesign, there are thin dark lines running vertically and horizontally through the side columns (where the Flotch is kept), almost as if they were acting as a table in a word processing document. The text, however, overflows the boundary marked by the small lines.
Jesus, I feel like Maturin trying to describe a ship’s rigging.



On 23 March 2004 (02:39 PM),
tammy said:

Are you not carrying over your greatest hits column?



On 23 March 2004 (02:41 PM),
J.D. said:

I’ll incorporate the greatest hits into the archives and the “about this site” page. I think it’s helpful for new readers to have access to a selection of better/more popular entries, but there’s no real need to have them on the front page.



On 23 March 2004 (02:46 PM),
Drew said:

Every time I scroll up, I’m booted back to the bottom of the page. Bah!



On 23 March 2004 (03:09 PM),
Dana said:

Those of you having issues should post your browser flavor and version number at the same time. Mozilla Firefox displays it perfectly on both Windows (0.8) and Linux (whatever is in debian unstable).



On 23 March 2004 (03:10 PM),
mart said:

JD: my main gripe is with the typeface. the georgia used now is so much more readable. the new sans-serif is more trying on the eyes, especially over the course of the long-winded-type passages we’ll likely encounter here.

hate the blue bkgd too, like the orange one.



On 23 March 2004 (03:18 PM),
J.D. Roth said:

Mart said: my main gripe is with the typeface. the georgia used now is so much more readable. the new sans-serif is more trying on the eyes, especially over the course of the long-winded-type passages we’ll likely encounter here.

I agree. The sans-serif typeface is just temporary. I haven’t started working on the fonts yet. I don’t know if I’ll keep the Georgia, but I’ll have something serifed so that when we get full of hot air, it’s easier to keep track. I’ll probably keep the default font for the sidebars, etc.

I’ll try to get a new font up shortly.



On 23 March 2004 (05:01 PM),
Paul said:

Wal*Mart does not allow its employees to unionize, but at least Fred Meyers employees are unionized. Whether you support a union of your own or not shouldn’t affect your support of the right for others to collectively bargain. Walmart Sucks!!! Please reconsider your actions in regards to supporting that company.



On 23 March 2004 (05:06 PM),
Joel said:

I’m not sure that two purchases in five years totaling perhaps $200 can be properly described as “support.”



On 23 March 2004 (06:44 PM),
Tammy said:

I shop Wal*Mart all the time. I understand all the reasons for not shopping there but frankly I don’t have enough money to shop just anywhere. A quilt I bought for my son was 19.99 at their store. The same quilt was 59.99 at Fred Meyer. With that kind of savings, whether or not they’re unionized means little. I’m just trying to keep a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, quilts on our beds and food in our mouths. If Wal*mart is the only way I can do that then Wal*mart is where I will shop!



On 24 March 2004 (07:25 AM),
Nikchick said:

Walmart’s sins are far worse than merely not allowing their workers to unionize. Walmart’s low prices come at a cost far more offensive to my moral foundation: employing the worst kinds of foreign sweatshops, applying their massive purchasing power to force suppliers into unprofitable agreements, using their massive purchasing power to act as censors on books, music, movies and games, using contract workers, illegal immigrants and other powerless and desperate people in order to get away with paying outrageously low wages and no benefits.

Shopping at Walmart is not affordable, if you look past the price sticker and see what it’s costing you in the policies of foreign manufacturing, low benefits, high deductables, low wages, and all the other policies that Walmart has honed to a razor’s edge (and which other companies are desperate to adopt in the name of “fair competition”).



On 24 March 2004 (07:33 AM),
Jeff said:

Amen Nikchick!

I will go to a big box store (Walmart, Home Depot, etc) only if I can’t find something at my local hardware store (with the friendly old duffers who know everything about everything).

I don’t mind paying a little extra for something to support the local stores (and I get a little bit of customer service in the process).



On 24 March 2004 (11:01 PM),
Tammy said:

The newest addition to misc. flotch is really bad. I’m going to pretend it’s not there.



On 25 March 2004 (07:49 PM),
Lisa said:

The redesign is very cool. Love the background pattern, the color scheme of creme and red, the logo, and the nice thick dividers between sections. Not so fond of the blue text for the links.

Also, what has Fred Meyer done to rank it below WALL*MART? That’s a dubious accomplishment that I didn’t believe was possible.



On 25 March 2004 (08:03 PM),
J.D. said:

The Canby Fred Meyer. Only the Canby Fred Meyer, which destroyed perfectly good farmland and expanded this town in a way that was not necessary (and further hastened its descent into homogenous suburbia) and for which the city government bent over backwards to accommodate, and then to screw. I have a long history of hating the Canby Fred Meyer.

In general, Fred Meyer is no more or less evil than other similar regional conglomerates. At least they’re local to Portland; that assuages my guilt to some extent, you know?

WAL*MART is most definitely evil, and I avoid them when possible, as evidenced by my two visits in five years. I think that Tammy needs to ask herself “What would Jesus do?” I can guarantee he would not shop at WAL*MART.

In other news: I used the grill for the first time tonight. The chicken looked great. Then, when I cut it open, it was undercooked.

Hmmm.

I need to work on my technique.



On 26 March 2004 (08:45 AM),
Jeff said:

JD said: In other news: I used the grill for the first time tonight. The chicken looked great. Then, when I cut it open, it was undercooked.

You need to crank that puppy up to high, man! Actually, if it was done outside and undercooked inside, you probably need to turn the heat down a little (or just give it a little more time with the lid closed).



On 29 April 2004 (11:29 PM),
tim said:

how do you like the brinkmann 2200 gas grill..i am looking at the same one.
thanks

When the bullet hits the bone!

I find your lack of faith disturbing. I find your lack of faith disturbing. I find your lack of faith disturbing. I find your lack of faith disturbing. I find your lack of faith disturbing.

[Radar Men From the Moon]
Commando Cody will save the day!

From “Hills of Death”, episode six of the 1951 Republic Serial Radar Men From the Moon:

Graber and his henchman return to Krog’s cave hideout after escaping from Commando Cody. They’ve spent the past three episodes (unsuccessfully) trying to get money so that their employers, prospective invaders from the moon, can continue to finance their campaign of terror. As they give Krog the stolen payroll, a message comes over the radio.

Redik: Redik calling Krog. Redik calling Krog.
Krog: Yes, your excellency. I was about to call you to report that we’re just about to put our ray gun into operation again.
Redik: I have another mission for you first. Do you have an atomic bomb strong enough to start a volcanic eruption in the Mount Alta crater?
Krog: Yes, but an eruption in that mountainous area would do very little damage.
Redik: On the contrary! It will do a great deal of damage. The present atmospheric conditions on Earth indicate that an eruption would cause torrential rains, and the resulting floods should seriously disrupt transportation and defense measures.
Krog: Excellent idea. We shall carry it out at once.
Redik: Very well. Then start an intensified campaign with the ray gun. Earth’s defenses must be completely broken down before we can risk an invasion from the moon.
Krog: Yes, your excellency. [to Graber:] You heard the orders: charter a plane and drop one of our atomic bombs into the Alta crater. Nature will do the rest.
Graber: Okay. When do we do it?
Krog: At once! I will get you the bomb. [He gets a box from beneath his workbench, and pulls out an atomic bomb. He hands it to Graber.]

[photo of psychotic-looking Paul]
Would you share curry with this man?

[Bmidji!]

[the famous Limecat]

YOU are the lowest form.

YOU can’t procreate alone.

YOU destroyed the village.

YOU destroyedchildhood.

YOU don’t know the Truth.

YOU are educated stupid.

YOU are your own poison.

YOU worship cubeless word.

YOU ARE ALL DUMBYS!

[Jesus Quintana tongues his bowling ball]

[photo of man kissing a dolphin]

I find your lack of faith disturbing. I find your lack of faith disturbing. I find your lack of faith disturbing. I find your lack of faith disturbing. I find your lack of faith disturbing.

Comments


On 22 January 2004 (11:30 PM),
Dana said:

Help I’m stepping into the Twilight Zone…

Right?



On 23 January 2004 (08:23 AM),
Denise said:

Who sang that song “When the bullet hits the bone?” I know, I could look it up, but it will give you something to do.



On 23 January 2004 (08:27 AM),
Amanda said:

Denise, it’s Golden Earring.



On 23 January 2004 (08:28 AM),
Dana said:

Golden Earrings (or something like that) — follow the link in my first post for the lyrics =)

Oh, and JD? The Paul Bunyan picture is not Brainerd, it’s Bemidji…



On 23 January 2004 (08:38 AM),
Tiffany said:

Somehow this is geekier then the computer talk.



On 23 January 2004 (08:55 AM),
Lynn said:

WAY geekier.



On 23 January 2004 (09:09 AM),
J.D. said:

Dana, my love:

  • Of course it’s Bemidji. The link isn’t Bemidji, though. Doo-dooh-doo-dooh.
  • The song is “Twilight Zone” by Golden Earring. Not Golden Earrings. Not “Bullet Hits the Bone”.

Lyrics:
(Somewhere in a lonely hotel room there’s a guy starting to realize that eternal fate has turned its back on him.)

“It’s 2 a.m., the fear has gone. I’m sitting here waiting with the gun still warm. Maybe my connection is tired of taking chances. Yeah, there’s a storm on the loose: sirens in my head. Wrapped up in silence, all circuits are dead. I cannot decode. My whole life spins into a frenzy.

“Help! I’m slipping into the Twilight Zone. The place is a madhouse; it feels like being cloned. My beacon’s been moved under moon and star. Where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far?”

Soon you are gonna know — when the bullet hits the bone.

“I’m falling down a spiral, destination unknown: a double-crossed messenger, all alone. I can’t get no connection, can’t get through. Where are you?”

Well, the night weighs heavy on his guilty mind. This far from from the border line. And when the hitman comes, he knows damn well he has been cheated. And he says:

“Help! I’m slipping into the Twilight Zone. The place is a madhouse; it feels like being cloned. My beacon’s been moved under moon and star. Where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far?”

Soon you are gonna know — when the bullet hits the bone.

Trivia:
When Kris and I were on our honeymoon in Victoria, B.C., we went to see a movie (The Fugitive with Harrison Ford). There was music playing in the theater before the film started, including this song, and now I always associate the song with that moment. (Well, that and the time me and Jeff danced around in the living room when we first heard the song.)



On 23 January 2004 (09:31 AM),
tammy said:

Yikes, this is scarey! Where’s JD? Somebody has taken over his blog. Oh, for the days when we could come here and read all that boring stuff about his latest geeky gadgets!



On 23 January 2004 (09:40 AM),
Dana said:

Dana, my love:

Shhhhh! Don’t tell Kris! ;)

Ming the Merciless



On 23 January 2004 (10:26 AM),
Denise said:

Golden Earring? Then who sang Radar Love? Did they sing that, too?



On 23 January 2004 (10:27 AM),
Denise said:

…and I must add, “When the Bullet Hits the Bone” is a GREAT choice to be playing in the back of my head as I look at your entry!



On 23 January 2004 (10:43 AM),
Kris said:

Did Jd really say “me & Jeff”?



On 23 January 2004 (11:03 AM),
Lynn said:

Even with the egregious grammatical error, the mental picture of JD & Jeff dancing about the living room to that song is hilarious. So, was it Tom Cruise in his underwear in Risky Business kind of dancing? Or Patrick Dempsey doing a Discovery Channel dance in Can’t Buy Me Love kind of dancing? I just want the appropriate scenery to go along with the song in my head.



On 23 January 2004 (11:13 AM),
Tiffany said:

Golden Earring sang both ‘Radar Love’ and ‘Twilight Zone’ that had the line “When the Bullet hits the Bone”.



On 23 January 2004 (11:32 AM),
Dana said:

So, does anybody think JD will get around to explaining what exactly brought on this wave of surreality?



On 23 January 2004 (11:49 AM),
Amanda said:

Yikes, this is scarey! Where’s JD? Somebody has taken over his blog. Oh, for the days when we could come here and read all that boring stuff about his latest geeky gadgets!

*laughs at Tammy*



On 23 January 2004 (02:53 PM),
mart said:

prime example of why you shouldn’t blog when drunk



On 23 January 2004 (04:42 PM),
Joel said:

And hypoglycemic.

On the Naming of Things

I’m still not sleeping well. Kris thinks my sleep problems come from not following my friends’ advice. I think my sleep problems come from her waking me when I’m asleep.

Tuesday night I fell asleep at nine and was dozing contentedly when Kris woke me an hour later. Yesterday I came home from work and fell asleep, and I would have slept straight through until morning except that, when she got home at seven, Kris threw open the blinds and she opened the window, which let in both the noise from the street and the hotter outside air. Ugh. And then she wonders why I’m so groggy the rest of the evening.

I’m so tired that I’ve been falling asleep at work. That’s a feat. My office chair is hardly comfortable, and reclines maybe fifteen degrees. Try to sleep in that. It’s not easy.

This morning I felt myself falling asleep again, so, to thwart Somnus, I took a little walk (yes, without my knee brace).

Proust, in Swann’s Way (you knew I was going to tie this to Proust, didn’t you?), spends pages describing his daily walks through the French countryside. (The title of the book itself — Swann’s Way — refers to the most common walk he made.) With a typical eye for detail, he describes the wide plains through which he travels, the plants he passes (especially his beloved hawthorn), the people he sees, the steeples he can discern from churches of distant towns.

My walks, that autumn, were all the more delightful because I used to take them after long hours spent over a book. When I was tired of reading, after a whole morning in the house, I would throw my plaid across my shoulders and set out; my body, which in a long spell of enforced immobility had stored up an accumulation of vital energy, was now obliged, like a spinning-top wound and let go, to spend this in every direction. The walls of houses, the Tanonsville hedge, the trees of Roussainville wood, the bushes gainst which Montjouvain leaned its back, all must bear the blows of my walking-stick or umbrella, must hear my shouts of happiness!

Reading about all his walking has made me want to do some of my own.

I’ve been telling myself for a decade that I ought to take walks during the day, to amble down these country roads. I’ve never done it.

Even the short walk I made today was quite nice. The experience was sensual: the chirping of the birds, the whirring of the grasshoppers, the buzzing and thrumming of the power lines; the sweet smell of the tree for which I have no name (more on this in a moment), the dry, dusty odor of the wheat; the sharp heat of the mid-morning sun burning my skin, the crunch of the gravel beneath my feet; the tiny spots of color from blossoms amidst the dry, brown grass.

The field across from Custom Box, just last year filled with lush strawberries, has become a lake of yellow dandelions; it almost seems like some intelligence has planted them in uniform patterns. Down the road there is a twent-foot wide east-west corridor that is a sort of superhighway for insects. The air is thick with them, especially the honey bees, and they zip along wavering straight lines on their insect agendas.

Though I enjoyed my stroll, I found myself overwhelmed — as often happens when I’m in nature — by the fact that I did not have names for many of the things around me.

Those dandelions: are they really dandelions? And what of those flowers I call daisies? They’re not really daisies, are they? They’re weeds. And what about that low, delicate blossom on the ground cover beneath the neighbor’s mailbox? What is that called? And the purple, globular bloom on the tangly weed? The other purple flower?

What about the various weedy grasses? The tufty stuff, what is that? The tall, spike stuff: surely that has a name, too. Some of the grasses are still green. Some are quite brown. What are they called?

The neighbors have a tree — a cedar? — with a sweet, musky scent that cries FOREST. What is it? And what are the tall evergreens behind it?

Why don’t I know the names of the plants that grow just outside my back door?

Kris knows the names of all the flowers she plants in her garden at home, and I’ve learned a few — clematis, verbena, foxglove, alium, hydrangea — but what of the native plants, even the weeds, that are so profuse out here in the country? What are they called? Who would know? How would I learn? Did I know at one time? Did Mom and Dad teach me the name of the tall, rubbery weed with the lacy top, the weed we used to break in half and laugh at the white milky blood which oozed from its stalk?

How can I really say that I’m living in my environment if I cannot even name the things which surround me?

I’m lost.

Comments

On 10 July 2003 (11:37 AM),
J.D. said:

Nick, who is keen to walk to my office to comment on my entries, but will not post his wisdom for all to share, thought that this bit from “Romeo and Juliet” was apt (though it took me a while to find because I thought it was from “Hamlet”):

Juliet.
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy;–
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title:–Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

Nice, eh?

He also reminded me to enjoy the experience of walking despite the fact I lack the vocabulary to describe it.



On 10 July 2003 (11:54 AM),
Tiffany said:

http://oregonstate.edu/dept/ldplants/


On 10 July 2003 (12:43 PM),
Dana said:

If I had to guess from your description, I’d say the weed that you’d split open to expose it’s milky sap is probably a variety of Milkweed. :)



On 10 July 2003 (04:12 PM),
Kris said:

Dear Husband,

Darkness is for sleepin’; daylight is for fixin’ dinner, doin’ chores, snugglin’ with your sweetie, playin’ with the cats, watchin’ baseball and generally bein’ AWAKE! Naps are the devil’s spawn…. (evil laugh here…)



On 10 July 2003 (04:13 PM),
Mom said:

I’m not sure I know the names of a lot of the plants, especially weeds, that grow around here. When I was a kid in Utah, we had a lot of cat tails and snake grass, and they were fun to play with, but I don’t think we have either one around here. I know the names of a lot of flowers and a few of the plants that grow here in the Northwest but Steve knew a lot of the latin names from when he worked at Mitsch Nursery. He liked to impress me by reciting them while showing them to me when I first got to know him. I’m not sure that we ever really knew the names of local weeds — a weed was a weed was a weed. So your guess on that score is as good as mine, J.D.


On 11 July 2004 (11:35 AM),
Coleen said:

J.D., I think you’re ready to become a bit of a naturalist! It’s a wonderful thing to hike and know the mysteries that each plant provides. I would suggest that you take a class from Judy Siegel, an herbalist and educator, in Aurora.

Before kid number two, I went to a couple of Judy’s classes, offered in her home. There you learn about all the “weeds,” many of which are actually herbs used to treat a variety of ailments. (I remember having homemade Elderberry Wine after one class and learning how to make it!) I still have her booklet, “Dancing With the Weeds: A Guide to Using Wild Plants Respectfully for Food, Medicine, Tools and Ceremony.”

I just loved her classes but found that I had no time being a new teacher and a new mom. One of these days I am going to continue to learn from her. If her number still works and she’s still in Aurora, you might want to give her a call to find out more information: 503-981-4818.

Where the Shadows Lie

Kris complains that we don’t get enough sleep. We are usually in bed at a decent hour, but I generally read for a while (i.e. up to two hours) before actually falling asleep. Especially lately, I haven’t been well-rested in the morning.

Last night’s sleep was awesome. I fell asleep at about ten, and I didn’t get up until six. Yes, I awoke at several times during the night (I always do), but only briefly. And each time I grogged awake, the clock said something magical like 1:15 or 2:03 or 3:23, fantastic times that promised several more hours of sleep before morning. Usually when I grog awake and look at the clock, it says something ominous like 5:30, meaning the alarm is nearly ready to go off. It’s a wonderful feeling to look at the clock in the middle of the night and realize that you’re not even half way through your slumber, but it’s dismal to see that you only have a few moments of rest remaining.

Besides, I had great dreams last night, and I was able to remember them this morning.

Roger and Kristin have moved into their new house. It’s in the middle of a dense woods in a small valley hidden in the middle of Portland.

Ian loves the house. Roger and Kristin allow him to traipse around outside without supervision, and the woods are his playground. He climbs trees and digs holes and plays with the animals.

One day his Grandpa Ken comes over and Ian takes him out into the woods. They don’t return for dinner, and then they don’t return for supper, and they don’t return for bedtime. In the morning, Roger and Kristin summon all their friends — which, for some reason, includes the group from my Saturday morning photography class — and we fan out, searching the woods.

A group of us comes up with a clever idea: we’ll start at the back end of the woods and work our way toward the main group. The best way to reach the back end of the woods is through some nearby caves.

We drive to the top of a hill in the middle of Portland and we take an elevator down to the caves. We have our cameras with us. We’re surrounded by the typical tourists who always come to see these caves on Sunday morning. “Out of our way — we’re photographers,” we say, and people step aside.

We make our way through the caves and out to the woods. Only a few hundred yards from the exit, we encounter a large black bear and its cubs. We’re frightened that the bear may have eaten Ian and Ken, and that it may be hungry for us next, but the beast retreats when it sees our cameras.

To our relief, we find the lost hikers a few minutes later. They’re not really lost, though. They’ve built a full-fledged log-cabin and are preparing a breakfast of sausage and eggs and they invite us in to join them.

I’m a hobbit, bedded down at an inn for the night. Only the inn is very much like the main lodge at Drift Creek Camp, and I’m boarded upstairs, by myself, in a room filled with several bunkbeds. I’ve been assigned to the top bunk of the bed closest to the door.

I’m sprawled on the bed, maps and papers strewn all around me, and I’m copying important information into my personal journal:

  • Trees of Mirkwood seem alive. May be Ents!
  • Secret door visible at the last light of the setting sun, when the thrush knocks.
  • Gandalf’s birthday October 11th. New hat?

The maps and papers from which I’m copying are all old, tattered role-playing supplements.

I’m supposed to be meeting with Gandalf, but he hasn’t shown. He’s always late. I hope that nothing has detained him, because evil seems to be pressing from all sides. Plus, the sooner we meet the better, because after we’re through with our business, I’m going to play ping-pong with Mac and Joel (also hobbits).

As I’m working, a dirty little gnome — he looks like Dobby the House Elf — creeps through the room, trying to look nonchalant. That’s difficult, though, since I’m the only other person in this bunkbed-filled room.

Butterbur calls me down for supper, but I’m reluctant to leave my work. I know Sauron’s spies want to steal these maps and papers from me. I take my journal, at least.

I have a jolly supper, but sure enough: when I return to my room, all of the maps and papers are gone.

Just then Gandalf arrives, all storm and fury. I explain that the maps and papers have just been stolen and he calls me a fool. I hate it when he calls me a fool, so I begin to stomp around in my little hobbit-sized storm and fury.

I march downstairs, call Butterbur “Butterball”, and demand that he find the lost maps and papers. I ask about the dirty gnome that I saw earlier. Butterbur is distraught. He doesn’t know anything about a dirty gnome.

I hear a noise in the closet.

And then I wake up, because there really is a noise in the closet. Toto is banging around among Kris’ clothes, digging at the carpet, hopping on the closet organizer. What makes cats do this kind of stuff at five in the morning?

Maybe I should go to bed early every night.

Comments


On 14 April 2003 (03:15 PM),
Drew said:

i dreamed that i went to work (OGI) in a dress. i blame Dana for this.



On 14 April 2003 (04:54 PM),
Amy Jo said:

Kris and I have more in common than I originally thought. Both our partners have interesting and diverse hobbies, which take them away from home, a lot.

And sleep, well, I have this annoying quirk. I can’t fall asleep unless Paul is in bed with me (this is not a marriage-related situation, I used to do this when I was growing up and my parents stayed up later than I did). I require more sleep than Paul (I thrive on 8-9 hours) and because I’m up at 5-5:30 a.m. and at work by 7, that means I need to go to bed early. Paul, on the other hand, likes to read, play on the Internet, browse the TV . . .all normal, unwinding activities. I usually go to bed before him.

Then there’s my second sleep quirk. If I go to bed and don’t fall asleep right away (which is what happens when Paul joins me later), I can’t fall asleep at all. I have a short window, maybe 15 minutes, in which if I don’t fall asleep, I won’t be sleeping anytime soon. Thus, I may go to bed hours before Paul, but I don’t actually get to sleep until hours after he comes to bed.



On 14 April 2003 (08:14 PM),
Dana said:

Heh :) Just trying to help, Andrew!

If you ever have a dream where you’re giving birth, well, then give me a call, because we’ll really have something to talk about :)

Milky Women

My little brother is so good to me. He brought me more Chernobyl beef jerky.

Yum! Ouch! Yum! Ouch! Yum! Ouch! Yum!

Tony says the company that makes the jerky might call me to do some work on their computer network. Maybe I could just trade them my services for Chernobyl beef jerky.

It’s Monday afternoon, and I’m in Citizens Photo, killing myself over which photo retouching system I should purchase (dyes? oils? inks?) when a woman standing near me says, “Excuse me, sir, can you tell me which…hey! Hi, J.D.!”

It’s Sue from the photography class. She’s killing herself over which photo retouching system she should purchase.

So, we spend the next half an hour together, killing ourselves over which photo retouching systems we should purchase: “Warren likes dyes.” “Inks are cheaper.” “Oils are more versatile.” “There are three sets of colors in each system — which set is best?” “Why don’t any of the sets have white? Doesn’t anyone have to touch-up white?”

The employees are antsy. It’s after five, and they want to go home. I decide to go with touch-up pens. Sue buys the dyes that Warren uses. We agree to compare notes later.

We pay each other compliments, each admiring the other’s work from class, and then we’re out the door.

Andrew and Dana and I had built a strong friendship at the end of the 1990s — we spent time together in Minnesota, in Portland, in Canby, pursuing pure geekness. Since we lived near each other, Andrew and I had formed an especially strong bond. Andrew’s life entered a tumultuous stage two years ago, though, and he began to shed his old life (or so it seemed to us on the outside). He and I haven’t had a good chat in years.

Monday night, Andrew and I made time to go out for Thai food and to visit Powells Books (where I was able to convert some useless computer books into Patrick O’Brian novels — hooray!). I’m glad we did. It was great to catch up with him, to listen to his perspective on his life, to hear his plans for the future.

Guess whose site is the number eight match on Google for the term milky women. That’s right! My question: why in the hell is anyone searching for the term “milky women”? (Actually: I don’t think I want to know.)

(Nick, as he watches me type this: “You’re really disappointing some men there, J.D.” Yes, I know. If I use milky women enough times in this weblog entry, it will become the number one match for milky women. And you know, that’s the audience I want coming to this weblog: those people searching out milky women! Nick again: “What’s Aunt Virginia going to say about this post?”)

It’s fun to have access to the search terms that lead people to this weblog. Here are the top search terms that have led people here each month since my hosting service started tabulating stats:

August
1. cold mountain synopsis (11)
2. a lesson before dying (9)
3. the power of one (8)
4. windows messaging for windows 2000 (7)
5. john krakauer (6)

September
1. a lesson before dying (20)
2. cold mountainquotes (12)
3. a midwife’s tale (10)
3. laurel thatcher ulrich (10)
3. pinched nerve shoulder (10)

October
1. pinched nerve (36)
2. the power of one by bryce courtenay (35)
3. david james duncan (31)
4. pinched nerve shoulder (30)
5. bryce courtenay (20)
5. laurel thatcher ulrich (20)

November
1. the power of one by bryce courtenay (37)
2. john krakauer (30)
3. david james duncan (27)
4. a thousand acres by jane smiley (24)
5. pinched nerve shoulder (22)

December
1. helms deep (36)
2. david james duncan (33)
3. chewy gingerbread cookies (23)
4. best gingerbread cookies (22)
5. bryce courtenay (21)

January
1. helms deep (29)
2. pinched nerve shoulder (21)
3. the power of one by bryce courtenay (20)
4. david james duncan (19)
5. pinched nerve in shoulder (18)

February
1. helms deep (100)
2. pinched nerve shoulder (23)
3. shaved cat (23)
4. cold mountain quotes (22)
5. david james duncan (22)
5. rating movies (22)

March (first nine days)
1. helms deep (29)
2. meteorlogical spring (17)
3. scrabout free download (17)
4. pinched nerve shoulder (10)
5. homsar Halloween (9)
5. pinched nerve in shoulder (9)
5. jd roth (9)

My entry on Peter Jackson’s Helms Deep is popular (er…unpopular), and I still get spiteful comments and e-mail messages to this day. My encounter with adhesive capsulitis draws a lot of hits, too.

The stats make it quite clear that most of the hits to foldedspace.org come on the book group pages. This is why I feel compelled to complete them; I’m embarrassed to have so many people come here looking for book info only to find a mass of disorganization.

Another use for stats is determining how many people visit my weblog. Here are the average number of visits per day that my front page has received during the past few months:

Aug: 25
Sep: 29
Oct: 45
Nov: 57
Dec: 77
Jan: 109
Feb: 114
Mar: 108

I know of maybe two dozen friends and family that read this, but where do the other hits come from? Don’t be shy: leave a comment and let me know who you are!

On this day at foldedspace.org

2004 —
I’m the Best Uncle Ever
  My nephew, Alex, came in to work today. I watched him while Tony worked. Alex showed me ants and birds and Big Water. I gave him a Ding Dong. This is our story.

Comments


On 12 March 2003 (10:02 AM),
Dana said:

Your guess about Milky Women is probably spot on, even if you leave it unvoiced.

I, however, am more curious about why people are searching for ‘shaved cat’…

Ick.



On 12 March 2003 (11:53 AM),
Dave said:

Ummm, how exactly did you come to find out that you’re #8 on a “milky women” Google search?



On 12 March 2003 (12:24 PM),
J.D. said:

Stats log, man! Stats log!

I like to browse my stats to see what brings people here, and sometimes discover surprises. Like milky women.



On 12 March 2003 (03:44 PM),
Drew said:

Indeed, it was good to re-connect with JD once again. I discovered a fascinating, incontrovertible fact about JD that evening – he has no tongue. Yes, i know you must be saying to yourself that this seems impossible since he wags it so often. But, i witnessed it with mine own eyes. He has no tongue.

We dined at a fine purveyor of Thai cusine – Sweet Basil on Broadway. JD ordered the curry (predictably). I ordered the soup (predictably). When asked if he would like his curry mild, medium, wild, or extreme, JD, without a blink, said extreme. Abashedly I warned him, “JD, they don’t play here.” With an only slightly smug look he says, “I like it hot.” So our meals arrived. JD’s curry is seething with spice (Arrakis?) – chunks of chicken floating in a molten cauldron of curried coconut milk. I eat my soup waiting for that cartoon moment when whistles pop out of his ears, flames jet from his mouth, and he turns bright red like a thermometer rising from his feet to his head.

It never came.

At one point during the meal, with only slightly rheumy eyes, he pops a cube of something unrecognizable from the heavy coat of devil pepper powder into his mouth and states, “This is the fourth hottest meal I’ve ever had.” That’s when I realized that JD has no tongue. Perhaps, it’s a prosthetic device. Perhaps, it’s bionic (comments Kris?). Perhaps his hypoglossal nerve was damaged in a freak photography accident. One can speculate, but not dispute JD’s tonguelessness.

Many church groups are holding prayer vigils (most notably the Mennonites, but the Unitarians are giving it a good go too) that a suitable tongue donor be located. Maybe a foolish teenager with O negative bloodtype will win a Darwin award in such a way that his viril tongue might be harvested and transplanted into JD’s bereft mouth. If you would like to contribute to the JD Tongue Fund please send a check or money order to Eclipse Technical Consulting LLC. Thank you for your steadfast support.

What If?

What if all of these intelligent, witty people I know — people who like to write and who wish they wrote more often — what if all of these people had some sort of communal outlet for sharing their creative output? (And for sharing other art: drawing, photography, etc.)

What form would this forum take? Non-critical, to be sure; low-pressure — just a place to share what has been created.

I’ve nothing in mind; I’m only wondering aloud.

Simon is fascinated by the dog next door

[photo of Simon looking out window]

Comments


On 18 January 2003 (03:00 PM),
Dana said:

Well, you could organize it as a sort of virtual gallery.

Each of your friends could have a “wing”, which would consist of a blog-like interface where they could post and archive comments, text, pictures, mp3s, or whatever.

The main page could contain a general introduction and perhaps a “most recently posted” sort of scroll, aggregating the individual “wing” posts (or perhaps just a summary or excerpt).

That’s just one possibility, of course. You’d probably also want some assurance that people would contribute.



On 18 January 2003 (07:00 PM),
Tammy said:

I’d go for it. I thnk that sounds like a cool idea. I’m not very computer savvy so it would have to be fairly easy for me to move around in. sigh! I’ve been begging my husband to teach me how to put pictures on the internet so I can email them to my friends but he hasn’t got the time! I secretly think that he’s not totally sure how to do it either! Shhh! Don’t tell him I said that! We have a digital camera but it sure isn’t doing us much good!

By the way, JD, is that a yellow wall in your house or is my computer color off. It sure apppears yellow. Just wondering. After having been to my house I’m sure you know how I like yellow! tee hee



On 18 January 2003 (10:25 PM),
Virginia said:

Sounds like a great idea, only problem is are you going to give lessons to some of us who want to do big things, but can’t. I am impressed by your pictures. I think your going to do great. Maybe you will be a celebrity too some day. That way I won’t know what to click on when I type in
J. D. Roth for a keyword.

Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom

When I was a child my family did not own a television. For this I cannot thank my parents enough. (The destructiveness of television is a topic for another weblog entry.) At the time, though, we kids felt cruelly deprived of our right to watch Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, Wide World of Sports, and Saturday morning cartoons.

Many Saturdays we’d bike the half mile to Kurt Gunderson’s house where we’d sprawl on the orange shag carpet in the living room, where we’d eat sugared cereals (another right of which we were unjustly deprived by evil parents) and laugh at the adventures of Bugs Bunny and Road Runner, or puzzle at the completely foreign world of Fat Albert and his gang. (We were white kids raised in rural Oregon; what did we know of impoverished black kids in New York?)

Our babysitters had it easy: they simply had to bring along a portable 9″ black-and-white set and we were tamed from wild maniacs to sedate zombies, staring blankly at the screen. With us so easily subdued, the sitter was free to gab on the phone for hours at a time or to invite a friend (sometimes a boyfriend) for a visit.

Family vacations were a treat; the hotels rooms always had televisions. Mom and Dad would try to convince us to go to sleep, but it was useless if there was anything good on TV. And by good I mean: a war movie, a science fiction program, Happy Days, The Six Million Dollar Man, or The Bionic Woman. (ch – ch – ch – ch – ch – ch Look at my bionic jump!)

I remember loving two shows as a child: The Wonderful World of Disney and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom (with Marlon Perkins).

I only saw a handful of Wild Kingdom episodes, but the show left its mark. The locales were exotic, the animals fantastic. I could not get enough. Marlon Perkins, despite his age, lived a thrilling life, meeting wild and fantastic animals up close, daring danger without a thought. He was a heroic figure to an eight-year-old.

There are those of us who believe that animals are far more intelligent than most people credit them. Kris and I like to find new studies and new anecdotes that support this belief. Yesterday she pointed me to this article on orangutan culture.

(The article refers to a study published today in the journal Science. The study can be found here, but requires free registration. The study was conducted, at least in part, by a member of Orangutan Foundation International.)

I believe that if you have never had a close personal relationship with an animal, have never witnessed an animal exhibit profoundly intelligent behavior, then this says more about your intelligence than the intelligence of animals.

One of my favorite animal photographs:

[Koko cradles the kitten, All Ball]

Koko and All Ball

And another (a repeat):

[A baboon checks a cat for fleas]

Assorted animal intelligence links:

While composing this entry that I realized that Toto, my cat, has exactly the same personality as Gandalf, the parakeet I had when I was twelve.

This cat clock is pretty cool. It’s even cooler than you think. Look closely at the cat’s paws. [via Very Big Blog]

There are weblog awards? Somebody ought to do a study on they psychological motivation to give awards for anything and everything!

Comments

On 03 January 2003 (11:01 AM),
J.D. said:

Well, I did it: the orangutan culture link has become my first front-page post to Metafilter. I can’t believe I’m so nervous about it…

On 03 January 2003 (11:39 AM),
jeff said:

Speed Racer was one of my favorite cartoons that we never got to watch.

On 03 January 2003 (02:15 PM),
Dana said:

Although we had a TV, it was black and white till I was about 6, and it was in the UP of Michigan, where we really only got about 2 stations (plus a UHF one), till I was 9.

My neighbors had cable, and they all got Speed Racer. I think I saw about three episodes of it when I was growing up, and it seemed awfully neat.

What I did get, however, were Battle of the Planets (with G-Force and the rather R2-D2-esque 7-Zark-7) and Thunderbirds are Go!(in Super-Marionation!), both on the aforementioned UHF channel.

Are there still any low-budget UHF stations broadcasting weird syndicated programming?

On 07 February 2003 (07:45 PM),
Ryan Reynolds said:

I had a parakeet with a vocabulary of over 800 words and I began a website where I was posting his audio recordings. The more I posted and listend to them, the more I found him starting to talk in context. As a result he ended up being able to converse on almost any topic. You can hear some of the incredible recordings on his site. http://www.talkingbudgie.com Hope to see you there.

On 20 August 2003 (08:05 AM),
diane said:

I wish more shows like this were available for this generation to see.