Memo to Will Smith: chill. Artificial intelligence ain't all that intelligent.

Sure, maybe it doesn't take that much to amuse me, but still: reading a news report online, I had to laugh hysterically. The story was simply on last night's Red Sox baseball game. But because the opponent was the Minnesota Twins, we get the following news stories listed and linked, half-way down the page, under "Related National News": "Once conjoined, separated twins healthy, doctors say"; "Court rules mother of 'internet twins' should have kept her parental rights"; and, best of all, "Mary-Kate Olsen out of treatment facility".

Posted at 1:22 PM ||

 
Buckle up your sweet self sugar.

On my way to work, something in the region of my upper crotch erupted something fierce.

It was my belt buckle, which by now you might think is an object that I'm unhealthily obsessed with. I was wearing a belt that looked a little like this. (Except canvas, not leather; you need the right mental picture. If only to replace the image I started you off with.) The piece of crap was certainly made by the same people. (I say that, but it's not as if this post didn't take forever to write because I got distracted with the online shopping.) So the belt buckle was a clasp, which chose that early moment in the day to give up the ghost: a pin snapped, and the whole clasp lost its will to hold the belt in place. Which therefore lost all power to hold my pants up. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue, but I did have fairly loose jeans on. Resigned, I kind of let things be for a few hours, before I wised up and wrapped the canvas tailend of the belt around itself. That held me for the day.

On the bright side, those few hours saw me feeling svelte and thin, what with having to constantly pull up my pants to prevent an international asscrack incident.

On the other hand: I've been noticing that many of my belt buckles have been getting tarnished very quickly. I buy a new belt, and, before you know it, the buckle, be it made of brushed metal, reinforced steel, or Telfon-coated precious gold, starts getting discolored within weeks. I could blame the humidity, directly oxidizing the buckle or something. But I worry that maybe it's my perspiration. Maybe my hog sweat is especially corrosive, like my glands are secreting acid. Even more frighteningly, as a next step in the process, maybe this perspiration is able to come into swift and direct contact with precious metals. Like maybe I'm paunchy enough now that, sitting down at my desk, my humongous tummy is just kissing my buckles, just eating away at them. Fat! Fat! Fat!

Or possibly there's some other explanation. I never fully understand the secret inner lives of my clothes anyway. During the late 90s, for instance, I went through a period when my right shoes would always have the front part of their soles worn down much faster than the left shoes'. If you laid with your head flat on the floor like a dog and stared right into my footwear, which I recommend no matter what, it might seem as if someone had taken a ginsu knife and sliced away the front tips of my right soles. Along with this, holes would often appear faster in my right socks, and almost always at the ball of the foot.

Actually, I wasn't completely stupid, because I did realize after a while that it was probably because I biked a lot in those days. Which meant that I often -- i.e., anytime I wasn't in motion and had to balance myself on the bike -- had my right foot on the road, standing somewhat on tiptoe. Hence the wear and tear.

Of course, just because I solved this mystery didn't mean that I shared the solution. One day a colleague and I were sitting on the couch in the office doing nothing in particular. As we often did. I had my legs crossed, so he noticed the curious sole situation. "Well," I said with a straight face, "it's because my right leg is a little shorter than my left, so when I walk there's more pressure on my right side." He laughed. Somehow I managed to look completely hurt. "I'm not joking," I said. "And really, it's not as if I'm gimpy or a cripple, but it's still pretty hurtful to be laughed at this way." Horrified, he apologized profusely, and then proceeded to believe me for a few weeks. Eventually, amidst a paraoxysm of giggles, I fessed up, whereupon I almost really ended up with one leg shorter than the other.

Posted at 9:18 PM ||

 
How reality TV made me more productive.

For the past few weeks I've been getting a lot of work done on Wednesdays. And the phenomenon of me getting work done, on any day in any way, deserves investigation, or at least elaboration.

Although the reason is pretty simple. In the US, The Amazing Race, aka the best TV program ever, is screened at 10 am my time; we get our fix at 8 pm. This means that I therefore cannot do any of the things I usually do from 10-8 on Wednesdays, and by "things" I mean "surf the web," because I don't want to be spoiled. So shockingly, all that's left to do at work is *covers mouth like a horrified little girl* work.

And now, if you wickedly decide to leave a comment announcing which racing team was eliminated this week, I will hunt you down and slice off your pinkie to make a finger sandwich.

Posted at 1:28 PM ||

 
Self-fulfilling artifacts.

Over the weekend, in a break from the activity best described as "working my ass off," I watched a few of the things I had bought while I was in London last -- was it just last? -- month.

I had found a copy of Pet Shop Boys' Television, a compilation of their first few videos, in a Music and Video Exchange shop. The fact that I bought it indicates how close I sometimes am to being a psycho collector, because last year the group collected all their videos into a nice DVD package. Which I of course own. But but but you see, the Television compilation doesn't just have the actual videos, but these videos are linked by vaguely funny snippets of the Boys' appearances on various TV shows from all over the world (Soul Train ["you boys are funky!"], and weird Dutch, German, and Japanese programs). None of these made it to the DVD. So Television has unique footage! Like, four whole minutes! Want it! Gotta have it! Can't live without it! Really, it isn't so insane, especially since the copy I found was just £2.

Unfortunately, when I popped the vid in, I found that its previous owner had taped over the first few minutes. The appearance on Japanese TV? Obliterated. Funnily enough, it was obliterated by the PSB video for "Rent" -- it looked like Prior Owner snagged it off MTV or some such show. Likewise, at the end of the tape, Prior Owner recorded the group performing "It's a sin" on some British TV show.

So, on the one hand: very annoying. But on the other, it was kind of apt. Television is meant to look like an anthology of PSB appearances on various TV programs as taped off of TV -- the snippets have that grainy quality that comes from their being recorded by a camera aimed at a TV set at the moment of the Boys' appearance -- so it's all very appropriate, really. It's almost like performance art. Of course, I wished it was someone else's £2 tape they used for the performance.

I also watched Eddie Izzard's Sexie, which was sadly a little disappointing. I loved Circle and Dress to Kill, but let's just say that this latest routine had too much mime and leave it at that.

Posted at 11:24 PM ||

 
Me write pretty one day.

Sorry for the interruption in service. The past week has seen me very busy at work; in particular, I've had a shitload of documents to write, so being brittle in this blog has felt a little redundant. By the way, when the editor of one of your documents emails you to say "I will read through and let you know if there is any changes required soon," it doesn't really give you much confidence in her editing skills, does it?

I'll be back in the next day or so, though.

Posted at 6:31 PM ||

 
Remembrance of things washed.

Sometimes I feel as if the universe conspires against me, and right now it seems as if all signs point me towards spending the rest of my life in filthy clothes.

My washing machine has malfunctioned, but in the teeniest, most insignificant, but potentially crippling way possible. I was pulling out the drawer that you dump the laundry detergent in, and with one yank was surprised to find only the front part of the compartment in my hands. The plastic had gotten dry and brittle. There were some shards remaining that gave me, just barely, the grip I needed to jiggle the drawer open, although some of those have since broken off too. Right now a jagged little bit on top is still allowing me to cautiously slide the drawer in and out, but I fear that that might go soon as well. If and when it does, things will be difficult; from perusing the manual, it doesn't appear as if it would be a good idea to pour the detergent directly onto the clothes, but perhaps that's just poppycock? Is a drawer something that has a replacement part? Or should I simply never wash my clothes again?

The last option has seemed attractive, but for another reason. When I got to DC last month, at the start of my vacation, I walked into Leafhead's house and got a whiff of something really gorgeous: a smell sort of soapy, quite springy, very fresh. "I knew you would like it," Leafhead declared, triumphantly. Apparently, when he went to Belize he sniffed that everywhere in his hotel, and upon further inquiry discovered that it's the smell of the fabric softener that hotel used on their linens. Leafhead being Leafhead, he bought a couple of bottles and took them home. Predictably, customs officials were alarmed to see a blue liquid leaking out of his bags, but "thankfully," Leafhead said, "I salvaged some of it." Right. And without thrown into terrorist jail, but let's get our priorities straight. I should add that, weeks later, Leafhead went to a grocery store in a Hispanic part of DC and came across that very brand of laundry detergent. Sitting on the shelves in all its Belizean uniqueness.

Anyway, while I myself wouldn't have tried transporting leaky bottles across national lines, I wasn't above profiting from people who do. So I used lots of the softener when I did my laundry in DC, and, indeed, made sure to wash even all my new clothes before I came home. I'm saying, it's a nice smell.

But of course, that smell faded when I've washed my clothes since getting back here. I've now worn and laundered almost every sartorial item that I brought on vacation. Soon, when that final piece of clothing is washed -- as it inevitably must be, unless my washing machine takes matters into its own hands and seals its own detergent drawer, half in spite, half in pity of me -- that olfactory reminder of my time away will disappear, and all that will be left is me, standing in my closet desperately sniffing my own underwear, trying to recall a scent that is as fugitive, alas, as the years.

Posted at 8:13 PM ||

 
I just can't, I just can't, I just can't control my feet.

I just have to tell you that I saw the MOST AWESOME thing on TV this morning. I was halfway out the door when it came on, but I sat my enraptured ass right back down, devoring the all-too-short program without a second thought to my appointment.

It was a telecast of the US Dance Team Championship 2004. And it was on ESPN, which I found funny enough. Here and even in the US (although in the case of the latter, I guess they shunt a lot of such programs to ESPN2 or something), ESPN shows the funniest "sports" when they're not rerunning SportsCenter for the millionth time. Like every minute of the Spelling Bee, for example, or the International Lumberjack Competition.

But none of those could possibly compare to the Dance Team Championships. All these ensembles come from high schools and colleges far, wide, and obscure just to do their choreographed routines in various categories, like the "Prop Division" (won by a number with a pirate motif, matey, that will definitely provide the content of my nightmares for the next week) or the "High Kick Division" (where a routine "must include at least 50 high kicks"). The hip-hop division -- which is subdivided into "Small Varsity" and "Large" categories, which for a minute made think that I was going to see heavier girls kick it -- was especially excellent. What I particularly love about it was the way all the dancers had these ecstatic smiles plastered on their faces throughout, like they were being rimmed as they danced.

Really, I'm just at a loss for words on how fab it all was. I have to resort to photos, like this one (look how happy she is!), or this one (they were dancing to "Copacabana." Really.), and be sure not to miss this one, because you gotta love the muffs on the legs. I don't know why Christopher Guest hasn't made a movie about it yet.

Posted at 7:00 PM ||

 
The glass is always cleaner.

I learned some shocking, shocking news about a staff change at work. I was pretty upset -- in deep mourning, really, although things were somewhat rectified today.

When I got back to the office last week, I was greeted by a colleague's announcement that he had gotten a job at one of our sort-of competitors. I gathered that he feels, essentially, that his die is cast here, what with having done little of note. Why not, therefore, start over? Decide it's time to reinvent yourself? It's so painful bumping your head against the glass floors of basic expectations.

But oh no, that's not the staff change that upsets me, silly! This colleague isn't the worse evil in this place, and I might even miss his crazy outfits. In the sense that I now can no longer be certain that I won't ever be the most unconventionally dressed person at work. Those wacky clothes, by the way, almost always allowed everybody to glimpse his nipples, which, given how air-conditioned to the max our building is, you can usually cut glass on. Adios, Our Lady of the Perpetually Erect Nipple.

No, the staff change that upset me much more is this: I returned to find a new woman emptying my trash. I know! You might remember the previous holder of that job, she who silently accuses me of unseemly leakage, murmurs "rubbeeessh?" in the weirdest possible way, and yet, for all that, I was inordinately fond of. Well, on my first few days back a totally different person came to empty my trash. She seems very nice, but her intonation of "rubbish?" is, like, way different. Change bad. Change upsetting.

So I was pleasantly surprised to find today the return of Ms. "Rubbeeessh?": she came by to arrange for my office windows to be cleaned! Not to actually clean them; that job fell to a minion that she had in tow. She just hovered, with a sheet of paper in hand, ticking off the office windows she had yet to sic her little helper upon. So I'm guessing she has been promoted or something, or at least has a new job. Good for her, but perhaps she can "rubbeeessh?" me every now and then. God knows everybody else does.

After the window cleaner left, incidentally, I studied the glass intently. It didn't seem to me that he did an especially good job, but right after I decided that, a bird flew right smack into the window, as if determined to prove me wrong, at whatever painful cost to himself.

Posted at 10:17 PM ||

 
Check out my cigar.

I won't mince words. Readers, I'm awfully disappointed in you. It's been almost a week since I told you about how I returned from my world-conquering travels, only to find myself locked out of my apartment. I've given you all this time to talk back to me in that cute little comment box, even going so far as to compose a honkin' hint of a subsequent entry that was partly about readers' comments. And yet, through all this, none of you deigned to respond to my tale of temporary homelessness as follows:

Imaginary Perfect Reader: Huh. (Thoughtfully strokes his/her beard.) Huh. Fascinating tale. Glad you're back. Although I sense that you're not especially happy to be back. Huh. Have you...Well, have you considered, in fact, that you initially couldn't get into your apartment...(pregnant pause)...possibly because you didn't want to be back? I mean...I'm not saying that you unconsciously, psychosomatically failed to unlock your front door. Or that that's even possible. But...huh. Well, never mind. Forget I said anything.

At which I would say: how dare you! I didn't lay my life bare so that you could psychoanalyze me! You don't know me! Who are you to judge me? Talk to the hand cause the face ain't listenin'! Oh no you di'n't! Oh yes you did too! Etc..

Or perhaps I would say: well, it wouldn't be the first time. In the early 90s, I came to the end of my first four years of living in the US and had to return here. Things were pretty unclear then: I didn't know what exactly I was coming back to, I didn't know when I would be able to return to, or even visit, the US and all the friends I had left behind. I was therefore a bit of a mess on the flights back. (Proof: my bags were so heavy that I exceeded my allowance, and I had to pay excess baggage -- and I didn't even care, what with being busy with the whole crying thing.) So, of course, somewhere between the US and Tokyo I lost my passport. How's that for disavowing the country of my final destination? If Freud hadn't lived, he might still have laid, in that moment, at my feet in a pool of embryonic fluid.

Getting locked out of your home, versus losing the thing that lets you into a country. Both acts are preemptive, but the former is preemptive of a later stage, if you see what I mean. The former is a little less drastic, less drama-queen, by my estimation. It's also a little less overdetermined; notwithstanding my pretend-indignation at the start of this post, the symbolic aptness of the whole thing didn't really strike me instanteously, whereas, when I lost my passport, I almost immediately had to laugh through the tears in grudging appreciation of how my subconscious worked.

But are the two incidents comparable in essence? Am I now unhappy to be home? I have been a little depressed, though that feels par for the course. I go to work, I go home. The clock speeds up, and it slows right down. I have a lot of work to catch up on, and feeling like I don't have enough time to do it. At home it feels like I've been able to fit in a lot of nonsensical things. I watch TV. I tear through all the shows I've taped. I tear through my new Sex and the City Season 6 DVDs. I get up early in the morning and watch All-Star baseball festivities. I read a lot. I listen to music. I go to work, I go home.

Posted at 10:10 PM ||

 
Ass you like it.

I'm a little mystified to see that someone got to this blog via googling "mablean ephriam ass photo." Mystified, because I am uncertain if the person thinks that Mablean is an ass and wants the photographic evidence to prove it (in which case: come in! Stay a while! I would have straightened up around here if I knew you were stopping by!), or if he or she wants some judge booty (in which case: um, no, and don't let the door hit you in the, on your).

In other blog news, I'm a little narked that all my readers' comments for parts of March and earlier have disappeared, it seems, into the ether. I should throw a hissy fit at haloscan. But then again it's not as if you bastards ever leave me many comments anyway. Oh, just kidding. That should have read "Because the feedback from you, dear readers, is important to us."

(Speaking of which, have you heard? George Michael is through!! Through, he tells you!!! With people having the right to have opinions! Sorry, I mean, with "negativity." Suddenly the fans are so cruel, talking smack about him -- on his own forum!!! Geez louise, George, don't spend all your time illustrating my point.)

Posted at 1:21 PM ||

 
Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.

Has Ken Jennings lost on Jeopardy! yet? I watched part of his incredible run when I was in the US, but left before it came to an end, and, more importantly, before I could decide if I like him or not. He -- and now his posts (click on "find all posts...") over at TWoP -- seemed funny, but I also kept half-expecting him to spit cash out of his mouth. Personally, I think his powers come from Mormon underwear, but that's just a theory.

I've gone through phases of being addicted to Jeopardy!, though it'd been a while since the last one. (Of course, the fact that they don't show it here helps.) Mostly I just like making those "zeel-zeeel-zeeeel-zeel!!!" noises whenever someone uncovers a Daily Double, and I've been told that I do it very well. I'm not bad at the game itself, although it's really only on the pop trivia categories. Any question that has to do with matters of actual world importance, and I'm out.

I almost proved that during my travels, too. Someone asked me today how severe all the security measures I encountered on my trip were, and the answer was "varied." I had to be allowed into the US twice during this trip: once at the start, in Ann Arbor, and then again at the end of my European sidetrip, when I entered via DC. Despite all the news I had been hearing about biometric passports and, I don't know, supernaturally-sensitive beagles, clearing customs in Ann Arbor was a piece of cake. The story was different when I landed in DC, though -- no surprise, I guess, what with it the nation's capital and all. There, I did get digitally fingerprinted and photographed, the latter being especially traumatic because there is a plane version of bed head, you know.

And then there were the questions. "So, you're from Zingerbore," the customs officer said. "What is the ruling party there?" "Who's the prime minister?" "What is public housing called in the country?" At least these questions were all nicely posed, and the officer was a jovial, even cute man anyway. "You know why I'm asking you these questions, don't you?" he queried, after I had rung up $2,600 in prize money and was ready for the audio clue. I could answer that one too: yes, because you want to be sure I'm not carrying a fake passport.

We were doing well, but then after our little chat, he threw in one last question for good measure. Final jeopardy. "The causeway, it connects your country to where? Which city?" Perhaps it was the jetlag, or maybe I was just having a brain fart, but for some reason I said "Kuala Lumpur." He eyed me for a second, ready to rethink his opinion that I wasn't a fraud. "Wait, I'm sorry, it's Johor Bahru," I hurriedly amended with a nervous laugh. Thankfully he let me through. Just in time, since I was about to grasp for some pathetic excuse, like "Oh, sorry, I don't travel much." That one would have been suspicious, I'm betting.

Posted at 10:55 PM ||

 
Safe as houses.

I'd been away from my apartment for over six weeks, so quite naturally, I was a little worried coming home yesterday. My dogs and cats were probably fine, what with being imaginary and all, but did burglars break in and steal all my valuable Saint Etienne fanclub CDs? Had I left the gas on all that time? Wait -- that one's absurd. I barely cook.

As it turned out, I really needn't have worried about burglars either. Because my house was so secure that it took me eight plus hours to get in. I landed at the airport at approximately 12:30 am; I made it into my apartment at about 9:00 am. I can't even blame an errant luggage belt.

I rent my flat from a friend who loves technology, so the lock on my door is a fancy electronic combination thing. You turn the knob one way and numbers flicker and you turn it the other way, and then you do the hokey pokey and whisper magic passwords. It's all very convenient, and I theoretically never need to carry a key. But inevitably, technology fails. One time -- more specifically, on the eve of a new year, when no one was working and able to help -- the battery in the lock died without warning, and I was locked out. From that, I helpfully learned that there was a backup key, which I now carry everywhere. As I said, convenient.

This time, it was not the combination lock that failed, so even the backup key was of no use. On top of this combination lock is an accompanying bolt, which I never use and certainly didn't throw before I left on my travels. Yet, somehow -- from what we have since gathered, because my friend's mother stopped by to pick up the mail -- the bolt did get fastened and, when I got home, would not bulge. I fiddled with it endlessly. By then it was 2 am, and I finally had to pile my luggage back into a cab, motor my way to my startled parents' house, and spend the night there before traipsing back the next morning. I would call it a nightmare, except that I got no sleep anyway thanks to the trauma and the jetlag.

Just a few days before, you might recall, we tried having a barbeque on July 4, which got rained out and sent our cooking to the oven. At one point I walked into the kitchen to see Leafhead and our friend Nevada, amidst a heap of mittens, wrestling with said applicance. There were four beef burgers, stuffed with blue cheese, two hotdogs, and assorted meatless products in the oven, and they were all in danger of getting cooked in severe Canjun style, because the oven door was stuck. Of course, this meant that, for about 15 minutes, people would keep walking into the kitchen, ask what the matter was, and make their attempt to unlock the over door, on the off-chance, you know, that no one had tried what they were about to. I was no exception, except that I tinkered and tinkered, and then actually succeeded in opening the door (my secret: I pressed and pulled the locking lever). I saved the day! Or at least us from the fate of having to order pizzas.

No such magic touch with my apartment door, though. I had to call a locksmith to get me back into my flat, which I was thus really, really glad to finally enter. Maybe it's the case that we all have a limited supply of Houdini powers, and I had used up mine.

Posted at 11:35 PM ||

 
The benefits of comparison.

I've realized that, not only am I a complete bourgeosis capitalist pig, but I get there by keeping the common working man down.

The realization didn't even come because I was thinking about my acquisitive nature, but when I checked in at Ronald "Rest in Turmoil" Reagan Airport to begin my journey back to Zingerbore. This was the return leg of my business class flight, so even though I was all grumpy about having to end my neverending vacation, I did relish -- in as much as one could relish a 24-hour flight -- being able to do so in bizznizz, beyotch.

Handing out my seat assignments, the lady at the counter said: "For the Detroit to Tokyo leg, you are in the upper deck." This is what I thought: oooooo! Then this is what I thought: hmm, I thought the upper deck was just for first class?

As it turned out, I had forgotten that on such flights, there is no first class section anyway. (Feel free, after you click on that link, to draw a little figure representing me in J73, by the way. You can give the figure a big ass, both for the sake of realism, and also because the seat can take it.) But at that moment, without the benefit of that knowledge, I actually got a little dubious, and I almost, almost made the mistake of asking to be in the lower deck instead.

Here's how public housing works in Zingerbore. We have these apartment blocks, and usually, a block will have a mixture of different-sized flats. One bit of conventional wisdom is that it is always better to be in a block where your flat is the biggest. If you're in a three-bedroom apartment in a building that's predominantly filled with two-bedrooms, you can be king of the fucking hill! (Of course, for every sentiment there's an opposite way of thinking, which is that it's better to be in the two-bedroom in this situation, because you will benefit from the amenities that the three-bedroom folks have access to; there's even a Chinese expression for this, which roughly translates to "riding on the coattails of your fortune.")

But at that airport moment, it seemed as I was mostly subscribing to the former way of thinking, because I thought: I don't want to be in the upper deck if that means I'm in business behind some first-class fuckers. Maybe I should ask to be in the main part of the plane, if that means that I'll be the ruling business class, lording it over the puny economy peasants.

Thankfully, I stuck to my assignment, and it was heavenly. (All I'll say is: jesus, those are the biggest goddamned cashew nuts I've ever seen.) More heavenly than I deserved, since I really should have been punished for being such an oppressor. Please, puny peasants: I hope you can find it in your little unimportant hearts and tiny brains to forgive me.

Posted at 11:52 PM ||

 
Acquisitive.

A week or two ago Leafhead laughingly said to me, seemingly apropos of nothing: "You are like a shark."

The remark came as we were on our way out of Rehoboth Beach, but had stopped in the Old Navy outlet store for some shopping. Rehoboth Beach, by the way, is a mecca for shoppers, because not only do they have a million outlet stores (a Fossil watch outlet: eeeeee!!!), but it is of course also a state without a sales tax. That's just mean, because what kind of fighting chance do I have?

Anyway, I was branded a "shark" because, according to Leafhead, I get a crazed look in my eye right before we leave a place, and start scurrying around in a complete frenzy buying everything in sight. As if I were some scavenging shark.

I don't quite dispute the sentiment. I do dispute the "crazed look" description; I believe I'm actually very methodical during my sprees. That ain't insanity in my eyes, just a stone-cold sense of purpose. I also dispute the metaphor; I feel that the better animal to liken me to might be a squirrel, who's frantically storing nuts for the winter. That's more apt, down to the puffy cheeks.

I shop when I'm on holiday. Part of it is that -- well, I'm on holiday, and I have time to shop. But it's not as if I can't get stuff in Zingerbore, which is afterall an alleged "Shopper's Paradise." A lot of it, really, is that I tend to treat my trips, to the US in particular, as a kind of furlough. And I'm buying merchandise to last me, until my Christmas break if I'm lucky, until the next summer if I'm not. Yes, I know it's really a very unhealthy attitude, as if the rest of the year just sees me waiting for my real life to begin.

So, as I prepare to leave the US in a few hours, I find myself packing away new watches, a new bedspread and sheets, a million CDs, a bunch of magazines, and -- let's just group this under one category -- new clothes. I guess it could be worse. It has been worse. A few summers ago, I realized when I got back to Zingerbore that my new purchases were essentially: a cocktail shaker, CDs, and new underwear. Which conjured up a picture of what my life is like when I'm not "on vacation": sitting in my delicates, in a drunken stupor, singing along to tragic showtunes or something. Don't get me wrong: I still do all that, but this trip and its acquisitions at least suggest that I'll be aware of the passage of time when this all happens.

Posted at 10:04 AM ||

 
The great American cookout.

Because I know you are dying to know --

Mosquitoes: 0
Humans: 0
Mother Nature: 2

We gathered up all the lawn chairs, sat in the kitchen, and watched the burgers broil as the rain fell outside. Just the way the patriots used to do it. It was in all a fun day, even if at one point I did end up being mercilessly punched by three children, of both genders, with ages ranging from four to seven. (They called it "play.")

Posted at 11:49 PM ||

 
Come to my garden.

My years of observing American culture has led me to the inescapable belief that the thing to do on July 4 is have a cookout. Accordingly, we are having some people over tomorrow for 'burgers and 'dogs. It's a good thing, really, since my neverending vacation ends on Monday; this way, I'll get to see friends one last time before I go.

Unfortunately, it's likely to be a fiasco, because Leafhead's backyard currently is swarming with mosquitoes. He has faith that the Black and Decker mosquito repellant thingy he bought from Home Depot will work fine. "It says 'one for every hundred yards,'" he chimed optimistically. I on the other hand think that nothing short of chemical warfare will rid the problem in time for tomorrow. So we'll see who's right.

At least a previous problem has been solved, using some fake floating flowers. Leafhead has a big pot in the backyard, into which he had built a fountain. Unfortunately, birds had been mistaking it for a bird bath. It's way too deep to be the latter, so in the last month Leafhead has found, like, six baby birds who've fallen in and drowned. It's all very tragic, all these birds recreating the story of Narcissus, and not even knowing it.

Posted at 7:19 PM ||