I love the way that tree branches reach for each other over your head as you make your way down forested roads. (I didn't take this picture, I just found it at freefoto.com, but isn't it nice?)
Reaching Branches
I love the way that tree branches reach for each other over your head as you make your way down forested roads. (I didn't take this picture, I just found it at freefoto.com, but isn't it nice?)
"Musicians Who Like to Eat Nuts Are Just the Same as Terrorists"
I had a dream last night that I was supposed to host a radio show on WORT (our local community station). I was a little panicked, because they wanted me to host it from a laundromat, and I didn't have any records with me to play. Suddenly, Chris Wagoner (local musician and my fiddle teacher) came to help me out. I was so glad to see him! He agreed to man the mic while I went to fetch some records.
While I was gone, I could hear him playing a public service announcement which stated, "Musicians who like to eat nuts are just the same as terrorists." When I came back from getting the records, Chris was sitting there, eating nuts and reading a joke book into the microphone. It was one of those knock knock joke books that only little kids like, but Chris was laughing the whole time he was reading, almost choking on his nuts. He was having a grand old time, it looked like.
Then I woke up.
While I was gone, I could hear him playing a public service announcement which stated, "Musicians who like to eat nuts are just the same as terrorists." When I came back from getting the records, Chris was sitting there, eating nuts and reading a joke book into the microphone. It was one of those knock knock joke books that only little kids like, but Chris was laughing the whole time he was reading, almost choking on his nuts. He was having a grand old time, it looked like.
Then I woke up.
Eccentricities, Continued... Apparently A Parent Lee
My father has a tendency toward excessive wordplay. (See the last entry's comments for examples of this.) This is something he has in common with his wife.
I'll never forget a drive I went on with them one night. I don't remember where we were going, but it was the journey, not the destination, which sticks in my mind. For this particular car trip, which happened at night, "The Parents" (as my stepsister always affectionately calls them) chose to don hats with blinking, battery-powered colored lights on them. They entered the vehicle giggling hysterically, both of them with their heads lit up like Christmas trees. I, a teenager of about fifteen at the time, was completely appalled, and begged them not the wear the blinking hats, but they only laughed harder. Once in the vehicle, the puns began,
"You look bright in that hat!"
"I have a colorful personality."
"Don't be a dim watt."
My groans went unheeded... for 45 minutes. They kept up an unbroken train of puns and wordplay for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES!!!!! And they were wearing blinking hats. Driving in the dark. Somewhere in Northern California. With me in the back seat. I felt that night that God had forsaken me.
I'll never forget a drive I went on with them one night. I don't remember where we were going, but it was the journey, not the destination, which sticks in my mind. For this particular car trip, which happened at night, "The Parents" (as my stepsister always affectionately calls them) chose to don hats with blinking, battery-powered colored lights on them. They entered the vehicle giggling hysterically, both of them with their heads lit up like Christmas trees. I, a teenager of about fifteen at the time, was completely appalled, and begged them not the wear the blinking hats, but they only laughed harder. Once in the vehicle, the puns began,
"You look bright in that hat!"
"I have a colorful personality."
"Don't be a dim watt."
My groans went unheeded... for 45 minutes. They kept up an unbroken train of puns and wordplay for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES!!!!! And they were wearing blinking hats. Driving in the dark. Somewhere in Northern California. With me in the back seat. I felt that night that God had forsaken me.
Rolandarama
I had a dream last night that I accidentally got pregnant and had a little boy. We named him "Roland," even though Brian initially wanted to name him "Donald." I started a blog to post pictures of Roland on. The blog was called "ROLANDARAMA!"
Another Random Story About a Supermarket in California
I heard Ginsberg's poem, "A Supermarket in California" a few days ago, and suddenly remembered a certain junior college class I took.
Because I never graduated high school, I went to junior college for a semester, with the intention of transferring to a four year college- which I eventually did. My first class at junior college was U.S. Government, taught by perhaps the worst teacher ever. I think it's safe to say that he never once mentioned U.S. Government in any way, but rather used the class as a podium to tell stories about his bizarre life. Let's call him "Jim." I can't remember his name.
The best and most bizarre story Jim told begins at a supermarket in California:
Jim was shopping one night at 1 AM at a Safeway in San Francisco, and came across a homeless man chanting in front of a pile of canned goods. The man was chanting over and over again for a place to live and food to eat. The man eventually got kicked out of the Safeway for loitering.
Some days later, Jim went to a pagan ceremony, where a chalice was passed around. Each person in a circle of people would take a small sip, and pass it on to the next person. Well, Jim wasn’t paying very good attention to what was going on, and instead of taking a sip, he drank the whole cup. This posed a problem for Jim’s mental well-being, because the chalice turned out to be full of some sort of LSD punch. He basically took ten or so hits of LSD at once, which is WAY WAY WAY TOO MUCH.
So, what followed for Jim was a month of hell, from which he never fully recovered. Jim remembers a lot of that month, most of which he spent discovering that the Universe is governed by interlocking numbers. Of course. He was very into numerology.
At some point, Jim believed that he could escape this horrible trip by going on an actual trip, so he drove a car to Oregon. While he was in Oregon, he bought a giant, plastic baseball bat at a Walmart there, for reasons he no longer remembers. Then he threw the bat in the back of the car and forgot about it.
Driving back home, crossing back into California, he was stopped by the police. Looking for any reason to arrest this freak (my interpretation of the story here) they confiscated the giant plastic baseball bat, claiming that it was illegal in the state of California. Jim said,
“How can it be illegal? I bought it at Walmart!”
Nevertheless, they arrested him and put him in jail.
Upon entering the jail cell, he recognized his cell mate as the same homeless guy he had met in front of the stack of cans at a supermarket in San Francisco. His chanting had apparently worked: He now had a place to live and food to eat.
And that's the story.
What eventually happened in the U.S. Government class was that Jim completely disappeared halfway through the semester, and we all got A's in the class.
And here is the poem by Allen Ginsberg, which triggered my memory of this lovely story and has nothing whatever to do with it but still is a fantastically good poem:
A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Berkeley, 1955
Because I never graduated high school, I went to junior college for a semester, with the intention of transferring to a four year college- which I eventually did. My first class at junior college was U.S. Government, taught by perhaps the worst teacher ever. I think it's safe to say that he never once mentioned U.S. Government in any way, but rather used the class as a podium to tell stories about his bizarre life. Let's call him "Jim." I can't remember his name.
The best and most bizarre story Jim told begins at a supermarket in California:
Jim was shopping one night at 1 AM at a Safeway in San Francisco, and came across a homeless man chanting in front of a pile of canned goods. The man was chanting over and over again for a place to live and food to eat. The man eventually got kicked out of the Safeway for loitering.
Some days later, Jim went to a pagan ceremony, where a chalice was passed around. Each person in a circle of people would take a small sip, and pass it on to the next person. Well, Jim wasn’t paying very good attention to what was going on, and instead of taking a sip, he drank the whole cup. This posed a problem for Jim’s mental well-being, because the chalice turned out to be full of some sort of LSD punch. He basically took ten or so hits of LSD at once, which is WAY WAY WAY TOO MUCH.
So, what followed for Jim was a month of hell, from which he never fully recovered. Jim remembers a lot of that month, most of which he spent discovering that the Universe is governed by interlocking numbers. Of course. He was very into numerology.
At some point, Jim believed that he could escape this horrible trip by going on an actual trip, so he drove a car to Oregon. While he was in Oregon, he bought a giant, plastic baseball bat at a Walmart there, for reasons he no longer remembers. Then he threw the bat in the back of the car and forgot about it.
Driving back home, crossing back into California, he was stopped by the police. Looking for any reason to arrest this freak (my interpretation of the story here) they confiscated the giant plastic baseball bat, claiming that it was illegal in the state of California. Jim said,
“How can it be illegal? I bought it at Walmart!”
Nevertheless, they arrested him and put him in jail.
Upon entering the jail cell, he recognized his cell mate as the same homeless guy he had met in front of the stack of cans at a supermarket in San Francisco. His chanting had apparently worked: He now had a place to live and food to eat.
And that's the story.
What eventually happened in the U.S. Government class was that Jim completely disappeared halfway through the semester, and we all got A's in the class.
And here is the poem by Allen Ginsberg, which triggered my memory of this lovely story and has nothing whatever to do with it but still is a fantastically good poem:
A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Berkeley, 1955
Grocery Store Follow-Up
I went to the grocery store today and got hit in the back with an apple that a little boy threw at me in the produce section. Ouch.
How I Didn't Kill the Baby Today
Today, Zelma was really cranky, and I finally decided to just put her in her swing (my friend Nataliya loaned us a swing and it is swanky!) and I decided I would just let her swing a little and I would bake a cake. Or, rather, I would make a no-bake vegan cheesecake, because I can’t eat dairy anymore.
I took this giant jar of honey down from the shelf, and it slipped from my hand and crashed into this beer glass full of water that I had sitting on the counter, breaking the glass into a million pieces. Just then, Zelma screamed a scream to wake the dead! I thought for sure a shard of glass had entered her somewhere. I ran over to the swing, and she had screamed so loud that she ran out of breath and was gasping- but, of course, I thought for sure there was glass in her lungs and that was why she couldn’t breathe. I didn’t dare pick her up for fear I would shove some glass directly into her heart or something.
She finally caught her breath. I checked her over for glass. I looked for blood. No blood. She was fine.
I guess she just screamed from the noise.
The funny thing is, if you look at where she was and where I broke the glass, there was no way anything would have gotten to her. There was too much in between us.
Now I’m having a margarita. No worries. Phew.
I took this giant jar of honey down from the shelf, and it slipped from my hand and crashed into this beer glass full of water that I had sitting on the counter, breaking the glass into a million pieces. Just then, Zelma screamed a scream to wake the dead! I thought for sure a shard of glass had entered her somewhere. I ran over to the swing, and she had screamed so loud that she ran out of breath and was gasping- but, of course, I thought for sure there was glass in her lungs and that was why she couldn’t breathe. I didn’t dare pick her up for fear I would shove some glass directly into her heart or something.
She finally caught her breath. I checked her over for glass. I looked for blood. No blood. She was fine.
I guess she just screamed from the noise.
The funny thing is, if you look at where she was and where I broke the glass, there was no way anything would have gotten to her. There was too much in between us.
Now I’m having a margarita. No worries. Phew.
I just cause trouble wherever I go.
I bring my own tote bags to the grocery store, which shouldn't be that big of a deal, but it seems to be. The baggers are usually put off by it. It's like I ruin their flow. But what's the big deal? I like my tote bags. They're really easy to carry, and of course, then I don't waste all of those bags all of the time.
I'm used to the dirty looks or awkwardness, but Sunday took the cake. There didn't appear to be a bagger present, so I started bagging the groceries myself. Then, the bagger showed up, gave me a dirty look (for doing her job for her?) and took all of my stuff out of the tote bags and rebagged it! And not only that, she rebagged it so that one bag weighed about forty pounds, and she left another huge tote bag empty. So, that was some bad service.
I would switch, but the other grocery store is just as weird.
I was there one time, and they had some promotion going where they gave you a coupon for some money off of gasoline. Well, I don't use gasoline, so I didn't want the coupons. The first few weeks this was going on, when I tried to not take the coupons, everyone looked at me like I was giving money away. The cashiers looked at me like, "What are you? An idiot?" So then, I just took the coupons one week. I gave them to Brian, but he couldn't use them because his scooter gets something like 80 miles per gallon and his work is only three miles away. Finally, the last time I shopped there, I told the cashier I didn't want the coupons. (It's a real big handful of paper. It sucks.) But then, the lady behind me said, "Hey, I'll take them!" So I said,
"Oh, good! Yeah, you can have them! I don't use them." But the cashier pursed her lips and ripped up the coupons in front of us, and said,
"If you don't leave the store with these coupons, no one does."
I swear to God that's what she said! She ripped the coupons into little bits and threw them in the trash, while the two of us (the lady behind me in line and I) looked on in amazed horror. I left the store in a daze.
And there you have it.
I'm used to the dirty looks or awkwardness, but Sunday took the cake. There didn't appear to be a bagger present, so I started bagging the groceries myself. Then, the bagger showed up, gave me a dirty look (for doing her job for her?) and took all of my stuff out of the tote bags and rebagged it! And not only that, she rebagged it so that one bag weighed about forty pounds, and she left another huge tote bag empty. So, that was some bad service.
I would switch, but the other grocery store is just as weird.
I was there one time, and they had some promotion going where they gave you a coupon for some money off of gasoline. Well, I don't use gasoline, so I didn't want the coupons. The first few weeks this was going on, when I tried to not take the coupons, everyone looked at me like I was giving money away. The cashiers looked at me like, "What are you? An idiot?" So then, I just took the coupons one week. I gave them to Brian, but he couldn't use them because his scooter gets something like 80 miles per gallon and his work is only three miles away. Finally, the last time I shopped there, I told the cashier I didn't want the coupons. (It's a real big handful of paper. It sucks.) But then, the lady behind me said, "Hey, I'll take them!" So I said,
"Oh, good! Yeah, you can have them! I don't use them." But the cashier pursed her lips and ripped up the coupons in front of us, and said,
"If you don't leave the store with these coupons, no one does."
I swear to God that's what she said! She ripped the coupons into little bits and threw them in the trash, while the two of us (the lady behind me in line and I) looked on in amazed horror. I left the store in a daze.
And there you have it.
Wowsas
I've already lost the "baby weight". My friend Julie says, "That's very Hollywood of you." Yes, well, what can I say...
To you, and to you, and to you, and again to you...
Yesterday, I got my second National Geographic in the mail. For the month. The exact same one. I also received two of the exact same letter from the guy who sells us firewood each year, and that's not even automated. And then I got six of the exact same e-mail from a friend of mine. Six.
When I was in college, I took a composition course entitled, "The Goddess Within Us All." The teacher of the course was a believer in what she called "Goddess Intervention," which basically meant that whatever was happening, it was because the Goddess intended it that way. Say, for example, your radio was on the frits every morning at 8 AM, while you were driving to school. "That's Goddess Intervention," she would say. "The Goddess is telling you to spend that time in quiet reflection, and not listen to the radio." (I'm pretty sure the person in question just drove through a particularly tricky set of mountains at the same time every morning, and the radio waves couldn't get through, but that wasn't my professor's take on it at all.) Eventually, I began to think she was a real nut case, but her whole idea of every thing having a meaning was somehow comforting. She influenced me, even so. It stuck with me. So that now, when strange coincidences happen, I look for a meaning behind them, even more so than I did before that time.
So, with that in mind, what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life?
When I was in college, I took a composition course entitled, "The Goddess Within Us All." The teacher of the course was a believer in what she called "Goddess Intervention," which basically meant that whatever was happening, it was because the Goddess intended it that way. Say, for example, your radio was on the frits every morning at 8 AM, while you were driving to school. "That's Goddess Intervention," she would say. "The Goddess is telling you to spend that time in quiet reflection, and not listen to the radio." (I'm pretty sure the person in question just drove through a particularly tricky set of mountains at the same time every morning, and the radio waves couldn't get through, but that wasn't my professor's take on it at all.) Eventually, I began to think she was a real nut case, but her whole idea of every thing having a meaning was somehow comforting. She influenced me, even so. It stuck with me. So that now, when strange coincidences happen, I look for a meaning behind them, even more so than I did before that time.
So, with that in mind, what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life?
Swedish Dance Music at Its Best!
This is Swedish dance music like you've never wanted to see it! http://www.omodern.com/
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