Next week, we can return to our regularly scheduled programming.
But it's Christmas. Sort of. And I promised to tell you what happened on Christmas Eve.
It was a dark and stormy night. A blizzard blew outside, and temperatures, without the wind chill, were well below ten. The snow was accumulating on the roads, and no one was plowing. In short, it was the kind of night when it is inadvisable to drive a small car up a giant hill and then off onto a dirt road in the country, drive it all the way to the end, and then stop at a group of barns and outbuildings that look vaguely familiar. But this is what I did, because it was Christmas Eve night, and Little Z had finally fallen asleep. And Santa Claus had promised to bring her two little bunnies.
So up the hill I went, in the putt putt mobile, thinking lovingly about how people are always their best selves on Christmas Eve, as I several times nearly skidded off the road. The wind was at twenty nots. (I actually don't know what that means, but it sounds cool.) No other tire marks had yet graced the road. The dark whiteness permeated every corner.
I finally reached the farm, and though I knew of a good place to park, I didn't use it, because that would require going down hill, and if I went down the hill, I would never be able to drive back up again. So, I exited the car and walked out into the blowing snow. Lazarus (his name isn't really Lazarus, but his name is equally biblical and equally creepy) had mentioned that I should go down to the back barn at the bottom of the hill. I didn't want to go to that barn, because it was at the bottom of the hill. So I went to the first barn, at the top of the hill. Which was a mistake. It had a light, which I thought was a good sign, but it was not. This is what I found in the first barn at the top of the hill. (Don't click there if you don't want to see something disturbing.)
So, yes, nothing was in that barn except a tire and a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling. But, hey, who doesn't have a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling when Christmastime arrives? It's like a Christmas tradition, right? Why, just yesterday, I was cutting down the Yule Wolf when...
No, really, this was so creepy. I stepped back for a minute, repulsed. And then I remembered you, and I stepped back in and took a picture. (It would also be good when the authorities tried to piece together, later, what happened.)
My resolve was strengthened, though, by thoughts of sad little girls on Christmas morning with no bunnies.
I took a few steps towards the old white farmhouse, and then I heard a voice from the house say,
"What the fuck did you just say to your sister?"
And then I just stopped walking. What if we just told Little Z, after all, that it was too cold Christmas Eve for bunnies to ride in the sleigh? Maybe? Who were these people? I'd met them, and knew them as much as everyone knows everyone out here, but... but... but. But. Clearly. These were not my people. Nevertheless, there be rabbits here, somewhere. I would find them.
The wind whistled. My resolve strengthened, again, I trudged toward the barn where Lazarus had said the bunnies were. I went down the hill. It was slippery and it was cold, but I made it down. There was too much snow around to see anything until I was right upon it, and then- it was locked! Barricaded! Impassable!
Back up the hill, I trudged. The whole scene vaguely reminded me of the Flaming Lips movie, Christmas on Mars. Except that this was scary. But the walking around part- they do a lot of walking around in that movie.
Back at the top of the hill, I didn't know what to do. But I saw a light, vaguely, in a distant spot, and I followed it. I was frozen from the cold, but still I walked forward. I heard noises from this building. Strange noises. Animals of all sorts were cooing and bleating and baaing and neighing. A cacophony of animals. A sound track for my amazingly creepy feeling. The wind went on. The snow blew. I followed the light. And then, truly, I saw what Alice once saw: A large white rabbit hopped by me. I followed him through a doorway.
And on the other side was a jolly fellow, near as jolly as Saint Nick. It was Lazarus. It was Lazarus surrounded by the manger. Jesus himself was about to be born in there, it seemed. There was a beautiful Christmas tree set up in the middle of the barn (seriously, who does this?) and all of God's creatures were surrounding Lazarus, mooing and baaing and neighing their various calls. And I saw at once why they were so noisy: he was feeding them. They were asking for food.
Lazarus gave out a mighty guffaw at the sight of me.
"Ho ho ho, yes, that rabbit has been with us since before the farm. He goes where he will. Funny guy. Sorry about the barn being locked on the other side. I didn't think of it until just now..."
All of the magic of Christmas surrounded us. I wanted to take a picture for you, but I feared what Lazarus might think- or what his brother might say ("What the fuck are you doing with that phone there?") and I kept my phone in my pocket. And lo, the miracle of Christmas was upon us, and Lazarus checked the sex of the bunnies,
"I think this one is a female, but it's hard to tell at this age. If it turns out to be the other, just come back and we can switch it out, you know." He put two sweet little creatures into a Huggies box, and sent me on my way.
Walking back up the hill to my car, my hands froze. My gloves were not good enough for this kind of cold. When I finally made it into the car, bunnies safely placed in the passenger seat, my hands started to warm up and they hurt in the way that only things that have almost gotten frostbitten and then warmed up again hurt. But I had bunnies. And all was right in the world.
I made it home, smuggled them into the cage by the fireplace, and poured myself a stiff eggnog.
In Two Weeks, I'll Have My Photo Professionally Taken In a Bathing Suit
So, it's not my soapbox to talk about how women should be having their pictures taken in bathing suits, regardless of weight or whatever, but... here's what happened:
Little Z (it's always all about Little Z, isn't it?) has swim lessons, and this pool where they have the swim lessons sent out this email that they were offering underwater portraits. So I asked Little Z if she wanted to do that, and she said,
"Definitely, yes!" and then I read about how if they are under eight, they need a parent with them. So, I called and scheduled our photo shoot.
So, today, while I was walking for exercise in knee deep snow, I suddenly realized, that I, yes me, I was to be having my picture taken in a bathing suit. A bathing suit! And this in the month of January, which is not, at least in my world, what I would call, "A Skinny Month." I could feel my jeans tightening across my stomach as I walked. During the course of my walk, I decided that I wouldn't eat anything for the next two weeks! And then I would not be overweight in my photo shoot in a bathing suit! And then I decided to wear an evening gown in the pool. And then I decided that, no, I could just wear the bathing suit with the skirt! The bathing suit with the skirt! That totally makes me look skinny! And then I decided that I would lose a modest seven pounds before the photo shoot, because that's doable, right? And then I remember Weight Watchers and I decided that that was so freakin not doable. And then I decided that I look great, no matter what, and I should gain weight before the photo shoot, and be all about women's lib and stuff.
And then, you know, I got home from my walk. And made pizza. But I'm still totally on a diet for the next two weeks.
Regardless of my weight, or age, or whatever, everyone should have their picture taken. All the time. Regardless. Semi naked or clothed. You are as you are. As Santa Claus once told me, "It's a moment in time."
I'll let you know, in two weeks, how it all went.
Photo by Emily Goad.
Little Z (it's always all about Little Z, isn't it?) has swim lessons, and this pool where they have the swim lessons sent out this email that they were offering underwater portraits. So I asked Little Z if she wanted to do that, and she said,
"Definitely, yes!" and then I read about how if they are under eight, they need a parent with them. So, I called and scheduled our photo shoot.
So, today, while I was walking for exercise in knee deep snow, I suddenly realized, that I, yes me, I was to be having my picture taken in a bathing suit. A bathing suit! And this in the month of January, which is not, at least in my world, what I would call, "A Skinny Month." I could feel my jeans tightening across my stomach as I walked. During the course of my walk, I decided that I wouldn't eat anything for the next two weeks! And then I would not be overweight in my photo shoot in a bathing suit! And then I decided to wear an evening gown in the pool. And then I decided that, no, I could just wear the bathing suit with the skirt! The bathing suit with the skirt! That totally makes me look skinny! And then I decided that I would lose a modest seven pounds before the photo shoot, because that's doable, right? And then I remember Weight Watchers and I decided that that was so freakin not doable. And then I decided that I look great, no matter what, and I should gain weight before the photo shoot, and be all about women's lib and stuff.
And then, you know, I got home from my walk. And made pizza. But I'm still totally on a diet for the next two weeks.
Regardless of my weight, or age, or whatever, everyone should have their picture taken. All the time. Regardless. Semi naked or clothed. You are as you are. As Santa Claus once told me, "It's a moment in time."
I'll let you know, in two weeks, how it all went.
Photo by Emily Goad.
There Be Bunnies Here, Captain!
Santa only had to endure driving the sleigh through a blizzard, hiking through negative ten windchill, a dead wolf, a creepy voice from a creepy house, a bunch of creepy noises from a creepier barn, near frostbite and... well, that's enough. Santa very nearly turned back when she saw the dead wolf and heard the creepy voice from the creepy farmhouse. Someday, Santa will tell the whole story. With pictures. But, today, Santa is just patting herself on the back and saying, Mission accomplished.
Apologizing for the Inconvenience
I don't have the next instalment of the exciting bus ride story today. I have, instead, a high energy six year old to take care of for a couple of weeks, and a holiday or two. I could write something, but it wouldn't be good enough. Not right now. But soon. Soon. I promise. Soon there will be more of, "It's like the Love Boat, only sleazier," thanks Professor Batty!
I've been spending my creative energy making Christmas presents. I'll show you the last one, finished yesterday, because I don't think the recipient reads my blog. I made a portrait of my dad, for my stepmother:
Jean used to always say to me:
"You're treading on thin ice."
"You're cruisin' for a bruisin'" and, my favourite,
"Don't give me that look."
I was thinking about her because I had just finished the painting. I was skyping with my mother in law, Kathleen. Kathleen thought, somehow, that Gina, my friend, always said these things above to me. And then I thought that she thought that I was going to send my friend Gina the portrait of my dad.
So, then we hatched this plan, where nobody would get a portrait of anyone they had ever actually met in person. That I should send a portrait of my dad to Gina, and then a portrait of Gina's dad to Jean, and then a portrait of Kathleen to Grandma Ruth, and then I could do a portrait of Grandma Ruth and send it to Professor Batty.
Or something.
I won't really do this, because this whole mad cap scheme would cost so much time and money.
It would be pretty fun.
I've been spending my creative energy making Christmas presents. I'll show you the last one, finished yesterday, because I don't think the recipient reads my blog. I made a portrait of my dad, for my stepmother:
Jean used to always say to me:
"You're treading on thin ice."
"You're cruisin' for a bruisin'" and, my favourite,
"Don't give me that look."
I was thinking about her because I had just finished the painting. I was skyping with my mother in law, Kathleen. Kathleen thought, somehow, that Gina, my friend, always said these things above to me. And then I thought that she thought that I was going to send my friend Gina the portrait of my dad.
So, then we hatched this plan, where nobody would get a portrait of anyone they had ever actually met in person. That I should send a portrait of my dad to Gina, and then a portrait of Gina's dad to Jean, and then a portrait of Kathleen to Grandma Ruth, and then I could do a portrait of Grandma Ruth and send it to Professor Batty.
Or something.
I won't really do this, because this whole mad cap scheme would cost so much time and money.
It would be pretty fun.
Thankful
Wheatbread Johnson bought this painting of the Dinosaur on the Moon from me:
Then he sent me this message on Facebook (I hope he doesn't mind my sharing!):
"I have been looking at your pic of the painting and I was inspired to write a fun little punk rock song in its honor.
DINOSAURS ON THE MOON By Wheatbread Johnson
Dinosaurs on the moon
Now we’re having fun
Dinosaurs back on earth
Said it couldn’t be done
Don’t be such a fool
They invented fossil fuel
This will be the jewel
In civilization’s crown (instrumental section like A verse)
Dinosaurs on the moon
Now we’re having fun
One hundred eighty million years
To prove the whole world wrong
Don’t be such a geek
It’s the beginning not the peak
Their puny brains weren’t too weak
What evidence can be found?
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon
When you tuck your little ones in at night
Tell them about this ancient flight
Even though your ego says it can’t be right
And look up at their paradise found
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon"
And I think that, once someone writes a song about a painting you made, I think it puts you into a whole new state of being. While painting, I mean. I was painting today, muttering, Dinosaurs on the moon dinosaurs on the moon and feeling pretty good. Maybe now I'll be so complacent, all I'll do is crap! But honestly I always felt it's all crap until someone likes it, anyway. Shart.
And, yes, I'm also thankful for the rest of you who have supported my art recently! If you write any songs about it, let me know! I'll post them here. Fan art is always appreciated. Greatly appreciated.
Then he sent me this message on Facebook (I hope he doesn't mind my sharing!):
"I have been looking at your pic of the painting and I was inspired to write a fun little punk rock song in its honor.
DINOSAURS ON THE MOON By Wheatbread Johnson
Dinosaurs on the moon
Now we’re having fun
Dinosaurs back on earth
Said it couldn’t be done
Don’t be such a fool
They invented fossil fuel
This will be the jewel
In civilization’s crown (instrumental section like A verse)
Dinosaurs on the moon
Now we’re having fun
One hundred eighty million years
To prove the whole world wrong
Don’t be such a geek
It’s the beginning not the peak
Their puny brains weren’t too weak
What evidence can be found?
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon
When you tuck your little ones in at night
Tell them about this ancient flight
Even though your ego says it can’t be right
And look up at their paradise found
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon"
And I think that, once someone writes a song about a painting you made, I think it puts you into a whole new state of being. While painting, I mean. I was painting today, muttering, Dinosaurs on the moon dinosaurs on the moon and feeling pretty good. Maybe now I'll be so complacent, all I'll do is crap! But honestly I always felt it's all crap until someone likes it, anyway. Shart.
And, yes, I'm also thankful for the rest of you who have supported my art recently! If you write any songs about it, let me know! I'll post them here. Fan art is always appreciated. Greatly appreciated.
Chemical Burn
Little Z informed her parents today that some of the kids at school aren't that smart. In fact, even her teacher said something that was wrong yesterday.
"What did the teacher say that was wrong?"
"She said that a flame would never burn green. But a chemical flame will burn green. She was wrong."
"Oh, but that doesn't mean she's stupid. Teachers have to know so much. She's still smart."
"Yeah, but a chemical flame will burn green."
Typical six year old with their typical observations of typical chemical flames.
***************
In other Little Z news, we saw Santa a few days ago. Little Z wants two little bunnies for Christmas: one male and one female. She would like to be a rabbit breeder. She has already saved up her money and purchased a large cage and some typical bunny acoutrements. Her plan is to leave the cage fully stocked with food and open Christmas Eve night, and Santa can leave the bunny in there when he comes down the chimney.
She wrote this little letter to Santa Claus, telling him that she wants two bunnies, and nothing else, and then she drew a line for Santa to sign his name that yes, he has bunnies at the North Pole. Also, when we went, she brought the letter on a clipboard, and carried a pencil for Santa to sign his name to the fact that yes, he did have bunnies available. Then she dressed like an elf for the encounter.
We went to our local library. I told her, "People are going to think that you work there, with that clipboard and that elf outfit!"
So, we lined up at the library. She made me hold the clipboard while we waiting. Pretty soon, people were approaching me,
"Where do we get our number?" some guy asks me.
So I tell him. You know. How it works. He leaves.
When our turn comes to see Santa, he says to her,
"Are you an elf?"
She giggles.
When it comes time to sign on the clipboard that he has bunnies, he doesn't sign. Because. You know. He's Santa. Santa is vague. Santa is cagey. Santa does not sign on the dotted line! He knows better! He asks her if he should leave the bunnies in her bed. She says,
"No! Silly! The bunny would poop on my bed! And chew the wires in my room!"
But, honestly, and I'm not biased at all here, Santa is totally smitten with Little Z. Little Z is totally getting bunnies for Christmas, even if he wouldn't sign.
"What did the teacher say that was wrong?"
"She said that a flame would never burn green. But a chemical flame will burn green. She was wrong."
"Oh, but that doesn't mean she's stupid. Teachers have to know so much. She's still smart."
"Yeah, but a chemical flame will burn green."
Typical six year old with their typical observations of typical chemical flames.
***************
In other Little Z news, we saw Santa a few days ago. Little Z wants two little bunnies for Christmas: one male and one female. She would like to be a rabbit breeder. She has already saved up her money and purchased a large cage and some typical bunny acoutrements. Her plan is to leave the cage fully stocked with food and open Christmas Eve night, and Santa can leave the bunny in there when he comes down the chimney.
She wrote this little letter to Santa Claus, telling him that she wants two bunnies, and nothing else, and then she drew a line for Santa to sign his name that yes, he has bunnies at the North Pole. Also, when we went, she brought the letter on a clipboard, and carried a pencil for Santa to sign his name to the fact that yes, he did have bunnies available. Then she dressed like an elf for the encounter.
We went to our local library. I told her, "People are going to think that you work there, with that clipboard and that elf outfit!"
So, we lined up at the library. She made me hold the clipboard while we waiting. Pretty soon, people were approaching me,
"Where do we get our number?" some guy asks me.
So I tell him. You know. How it works. He leaves.
When our turn comes to see Santa, he says to her,
"Are you an elf?"
She giggles.
When it comes time to sign on the clipboard that he has bunnies, he doesn't sign. Because. You know. He's Santa. Santa is vague. Santa is cagey. Santa does not sign on the dotted line! He knows better! He asks her if he should leave the bunnies in her bed. She says,
"No! Silly! The bunny would poop on my bed! And chew the wires in my room!"
But, honestly, and I'm not biased at all here, Santa is totally smitten with Little Z. Little Z is totally getting bunnies for Christmas, even if he wouldn't sign.
Remakes
I heard that they remade the Sound of Music. And I said,
"Why?" and BAH said,
"Because they have no new ideas."
Okay. But no one is going to watch the new Sound of Music and say,
"Oh, that first one sucked! This one is so much better! I'm so very glad they redid this."
No, no no. Nothing is going to make this okay. Nothing. They, those people, whoever they are, are going about it all wrong.
They need to remake bad movies! That way, we'll watch them and say,
"Oh, this one is so much better that the original. I'm so glad they remade this!"
I wish I could give an example, but the problem is, bad movies are forgettable. And they never do it!
Siskel and Ebert used to always have these magnificent suggestions for making films better.
"Why?" and BAH said,
"Because they have no new ideas."
Okay. But no one is going to watch the new Sound of Music and say,
"Oh, that first one sucked! This one is so much better! I'm so very glad they redid this."
No, no no. Nothing is going to make this okay. Nothing. They, those people, whoever they are, are going about it all wrong.
They need to remake bad movies! That way, we'll watch them and say,
"Oh, this one is so much better that the original. I'm so glad they remade this!"
I wish I could give an example, but the problem is, bad movies are forgettable. And they never do it!
Siskel and Ebert used to always have these magnificent suggestions for making films better.
What is Art?
There's this great movie out there, called, Beauty Is Embarrassing. One moment in this movie, they talk about what art is, and this guy says,
"When I was a kid, art was from K-Mart."
It's a great movie.
When I was a kid, art was what Uncle Dennis did.
Then, later in my childhood, art was what Grandma Ruth gave you.
And then, now, in the past week, I have sold six pieces of art. So, I guess, now, I am... an artist?
Three out of the six were these calendars, which I have to admit are pretty cool! But where did they come from? Where does art come from? Is it even "art"? What makes something art? When I make art, it doesn't feel like making art. It feels like playing. These thoughts keep knocking around in my head. Perhaps some questions are best left unanswered. People are paying me money to play. I should not ask questions!
"When I was a kid, art was from K-Mart."
It's a great movie.
When I was a kid, art was what Uncle Dennis did.
Then, later in my childhood, art was what Grandma Ruth gave you.
And then, now, in the past week, I have sold six pieces of art. So, I guess, now, I am... an artist?
Three out of the six were these calendars, which I have to admit are pretty cool! But where did they come from? Where does art come from? Is it even "art"? What makes something art? When I make art, it doesn't feel like making art. It feels like playing. These thoughts keep knocking around in my head. Perhaps some questions are best left unanswered. People are paying me money to play. I should not ask questions!
Angels, First Class
I succumbed to a telemarketer a week or so ago. The reason is, it was from the 707 area code (Sonoma/ Napa Counties, CA) so I assumed it was family or friends from the ole homeland. But no. It was this nice guy selling wine.
Today, all of this arrived:
Notice how they are organized by colour of cap. Little Z did that. She reminds me of her grandfather who has to balance the eggs in the carton.
The silliest part about this is that, because we joined their club or whatever, the cartons all arrived with stickers that said, "VIP Angel" on them. And we didn't even have to save George Bailey for that title.
We haven't really been drinking much, lately. So this should last the weekend.
Today, all of this arrived:
Notice how they are organized by colour of cap. Little Z did that. She reminds me of her grandfather who has to balance the eggs in the carton.
The silliest part about this is that, because we joined their club or whatever, the cartons all arrived with stickers that said, "VIP Angel" on them. And we didn't even have to save George Bailey for that title.
We haven't really been drinking much, lately. So this should last the weekend.
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Next week, we can go back to our regularly scheduled programming.
But it's Christmas. Sort of. And I promised I would tell you what happened on Christmas Eve.
It was a dark and stormy night. A blizzard blew outside, and temperatures, without the wind chill, were well below ten. The snow was accumulating on the roads, and no one was plowing. In short, it was the kind of night when it is inadvisable to drive a small car up a giant hill and then off onto a dirt road in the country, drive it all the way to the end, and then stop at a group of barns and outbuildings that look vaguely familiar. But this is what I did, because it was Christmas Eve night, and Little Z had finally fallen asleep. And Santa Claus had promised to bring her two little bunnies.
So, up the hill I went, in the put put mobile, thinking lovingly about how people are always their best selves on Christmas Eve, as I several times nearly skid off the road. The wind was at twenty nots. (I actually don't know what that means, but it sounds cool.) No other tire marks had yet graced the road. The dark whiteness permeated every corner.
I finally reached the farm, and though I knew of a good place to park, I didn't use it, because that would require going down hill, and if I went down the hill, I would never be able to drive back up again. So, I went out into the blowing snow. Lazarus (his name isn't really Lazarus, but his name is equally biblical and equally creepy) had mentioned that I should go down to the back barn at the bottom of the hill. I didn't want to go to that barn, because it was at the bottom of the hill, so I went to the first barn, at the top of the hill, because it had a light on, so maybe he was home? So, I went to the barn and walked on in, and this is what I found. (Don't click on that if you don't want to see something a little disturbing.)
So, yes, nothing was in that barn except for a tire and a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling. But, hey, who doesn't have a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling when Christmas Eve arrives? It's like a Christmas tradition, right? Why, just yesterday, I was cutting down the Yule Wolf when...
No, really, this was so creepy. I stepped back for a minute, repulsed. And then I remembered you, and I stepped back in and took a picture. (The picture would also be a clue for the authorities, later, I thought in the back of my mind.)
My resolve was strengthened, though, by thoughts of sad little girls on Christmas morning with no bunnies.
I took a few steps in one direction, and I heard a voice from the old white farmhouse in the distance,
"What the fuck did you just say to your sister?"
And then I just stopped. Stopped walking. Where the heck was that bunny shack? Who were these people? I'd met them, and knew them as much as everyone knows everyone out here... but... but... but. But. Clearly, these weren't my people. Nevertheless, there be rabbits here, somewhere. I would find them.
The wind whistled. My resolve strengthened. I trudged toward the barn where Lazarus had said the bunnies were. I went down the hill. It was slippery and it was cold, but I made it down. There was too much snow around to see anything until I was right upon it, and then- it was locked! Barricaded! Impassable! The very building he told me to go to!
Back up the hill, I trudged. The whole scene vaguely reminded me of the Flaming Lips movie Christmas on Mars. Except that it was scary. But the walking around part- they do a lot of walking around in that movie.
Back at the top of the hill, I didn't know what to do. But I saw a light, vaguely, in a distant spot, and I followed it. And I was frozen. Literally frozen from cold, but somehow, I walked. I heard noises from this building. Strange noises. Animals of all sorts were cooing and bleating and baaing and everything under the sun. A cacophony of animals. A sound effect for my amazingly creepy feeling. The wind went on. I followed the light. And then, truly, I saw what Alice once saw: A large white rabbit jumped into a doorway. I followed.
And on the other side of the barn door was a jolly fellow, near as Jolly as Saint Nick himself. It was Lazarus. It was Lazarus surrounded by the manger. Jesus himself was about to be born in there, it seemed. There was a beautiful Christmas tree set up in the middle of the barn (seriously, who does this?) and all of God's great creatures were surrounding Lazarus, mooing and baaing and neighing their various calls. And I saw at once why they were so noisy: He was feeding them. They were asking for food.
Lazarus gave out a mighty guffaw at the sight of me,
"Ho ho ho, yeah, that rabbit has been with us since before the farm. He just goes where he will. Funny guy. Sorry about the barn being locked on that side. I didn't think of that until just now..."
All of the magic of Christmas surrounded us. I wanted to take a picture for you, but I feared what Lazarus might think- or what his brother might say ("what the fuck are you doing with that phone there?") and I kept my phone in my pocket. And lo, the miracle of Christmas was upon us, as Lazarus checked the sex of the bunnies,
"I think this one is a girl, but it's hard to tell at this age. If it turns out to be the other, just come back and we can switch it out, you know." He put two sweet little creatures into a Huggies box, and sent me on my way.
Walking back up the hill to my car, my hands froze. My gloves were not good enough for this kind of cold. When I finally made it into the car, bunnies safely placed in the passenger seat, my hands started to warm up and they hurt in the way that only things that have almost gotten terrible frost bight and then haven't hurt. But I had bunnies. And all was right in the world.
I made it home, smuggled them into the cage by the fireplace, and poured myself a stiff eggnog.
But it's Christmas. Sort of. And I promised I would tell you what happened on Christmas Eve.
It was a dark and stormy night. A blizzard blew outside, and temperatures, without the wind chill, were well below ten. The snow was accumulating on the roads, and no one was plowing. In short, it was the kind of night when it is inadvisable to drive a small car up a giant hill and then off onto a dirt road in the country, drive it all the way to the end, and then stop at a group of barns and outbuildings that look vaguely familiar. But this is what I did, because it was Christmas Eve night, and Little Z had finally fallen asleep. And Santa Claus had promised to bring her two little bunnies.
So, up the hill I went, in the put put mobile, thinking lovingly about how people are always their best selves on Christmas Eve, as I several times nearly skid off the road. The wind was at twenty nots. (I actually don't know what that means, but it sounds cool.) No other tire marks had yet graced the road. The dark whiteness permeated every corner.
I finally reached the farm, and though I knew of a good place to park, I didn't use it, because that would require going down hill, and if I went down the hill, I would never be able to drive back up again. So, I went out into the blowing snow. Lazarus (his name isn't really Lazarus, but his name is equally biblical and equally creepy) had mentioned that I should go down to the back barn at the bottom of the hill. I didn't want to go to that barn, because it was at the bottom of the hill, so I went to the first barn, at the top of the hill, because it had a light on, so maybe he was home? So, I went to the barn and walked on in, and this is what I found. (Don't click on that if you don't want to see something a little disturbing.)
So, yes, nothing was in that barn except for a tire and a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling. But, hey, who doesn't have a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling when Christmas Eve arrives? It's like a Christmas tradition, right? Why, just yesterday, I was cutting down the Yule Wolf when...
No, really, this was so creepy. I stepped back for a minute, repulsed. And then I remembered you, and I stepped back in and took a picture. (The picture would also be a clue for the authorities, later, I thought in the back of my mind.)
My resolve was strengthened, though, by thoughts of sad little girls on Christmas morning with no bunnies.
I took a few steps in one direction, and I heard a voice from the old white farmhouse in the distance,
"What the fuck did you just say to your sister?"
And then I just stopped. Stopped walking. Where the heck was that bunny shack? Who were these people? I'd met them, and knew them as much as everyone knows everyone out here... but... but... but. But. Clearly, these weren't my people. Nevertheless, there be rabbits here, somewhere. I would find them.
The wind whistled. My resolve strengthened. I trudged toward the barn where Lazarus had said the bunnies were. I went down the hill. It was slippery and it was cold, but I made it down. There was too much snow around to see anything until I was right upon it, and then- it was locked! Barricaded! Impassable! The very building he told me to go to!
Back up the hill, I trudged. The whole scene vaguely reminded me of the Flaming Lips movie Christmas on Mars. Except that it was scary. But the walking around part- they do a lot of walking around in that movie.
Back at the top of the hill, I didn't know what to do. But I saw a light, vaguely, in a distant spot, and I followed it. And I was frozen. Literally frozen from cold, but somehow, I walked. I heard noises from this building. Strange noises. Animals of all sorts were cooing and bleating and baaing and everything under the sun. A cacophony of animals. A sound effect for my amazingly creepy feeling. The wind went on. I followed the light. And then, truly, I saw what Alice once saw: A large white rabbit jumped into a doorway. I followed.
And on the other side of the barn door was a jolly fellow, near as Jolly as Saint Nick himself. It was Lazarus. It was Lazarus surrounded by the manger. Jesus himself was about to be born in there, it seemed. There was a beautiful Christmas tree set up in the middle of the barn (seriously, who does this?) and all of God's great creatures were surrounding Lazarus, mooing and baaing and neighing their various calls. And I saw at once why they were so noisy: He was feeding them. They were asking for food.
Lazarus gave out a mighty guffaw at the sight of me,
"Ho ho ho, yeah, that rabbit has been with us since before the farm. He just goes where he will. Funny guy. Sorry about the barn being locked on that side. I didn't think of that until just now..."
All of the magic of Christmas surrounded us. I wanted to take a picture for you, but I feared what Lazarus might think- or what his brother might say ("what the fuck are you doing with that phone there?") and I kept my phone in my pocket. And lo, the miracle of Christmas was upon us, as Lazarus checked the sex of the bunnies,
"I think this one is a girl, but it's hard to tell at this age. If it turns out to be the other, just come back and we can switch it out, you know." He put two sweet little creatures into a Huggies box, and sent me on my way.
Walking back up the hill to my car, my hands froze. My gloves were not good enough for this kind of cold. When I finally made it into the car, bunnies safely placed in the passenger seat, my hands started to warm up and they hurt in the way that only things that have almost gotten terrible frost bight and then haven't hurt. But I had bunnies. And all was right in the world.
I made it home, smuggled them into the cage by the fireplace, and poured myself a stiff eggnog.
Happy Thanksgiving
He's really a smart turkey to think he's a sheep this time of year.
Just in case you're wondering: I didn't butcher him. Tom Turkey is still out with the sheep! So he has something to be thankful for.
Typical Delivery Day
Today was turkey delivery day. Also, art delivery day and egg delivery day and frozen chicken delivery day and thyme delivery day.
This was my favourite order of the day:
She ordered a 17 pound Bourban Red turkey, two organic frozen chickens, a dozen eggs, a portrait of her daughter, and a portrait of her cat. I threw in some fresh thyme for free.
Later, after I had brought everything and stayed a while chit chatting, I was leaving and her boyfriend said,
"Thanks for the time. I mean, we really needed time. We even bought some time today, but I think we needed more, so thanks for the time!"
She was nodding,
"Yeah, we needed more time, today." Don't we all? And what in the world are they smoking?
"I don't understand," I said.
"You gave us the free thyme, in the box," he said.
"Oh. OH! The thyme, right. The thyme, not the time. Well, you're welcome! Happy Thanksgiving."
You see, I thought, for some reason, that they were thanking me for the time they got to spend with Heather's son, Ralph, because I was a half an hour late- I needed more time! Heather lives far away from me and sent her children to pick up the turkey. (Ralph recently turned sixteen and got a drivers license.) So, Ralph was sitting in this strangers' house for half an hour, hob nobbing with unknown hippies, and then it turned out that his little sister and her friend were in the back seat of the car the entire time.
I came, finally, and handed him the styrofoam cooler. He had the most strangely delighted look on his face. Later, I called Heather and apologized on her answering machine. Still later, her message appeared on my answering machine,
"Don't be sorry! The kids had a great time picking up the turkey. Ralph thought it was just like a drug deal and it was the most fun he'd had in ages!"
This was my favourite order of the day:
She ordered a 17 pound Bourban Red turkey, two organic frozen chickens, a dozen eggs, a portrait of her daughter, and a portrait of her cat. I threw in some fresh thyme for free.
Later, after I had brought everything and stayed a while chit chatting, I was leaving and her boyfriend said,
"Thanks for the time. I mean, we really needed time. We even bought some time today, but I think we needed more, so thanks for the time!"
She was nodding,
"Yeah, we needed more time, today." Don't we all? And what in the world are they smoking?
"I don't understand," I said.
"You gave us the free thyme, in the box," he said.
"Oh. OH! The thyme, right. The thyme, not the time. Well, you're welcome! Happy Thanksgiving."
You see, I thought, for some reason, that they were thanking me for the time they got to spend with Heather's son, Ralph, because I was a half an hour late- I needed more time! Heather lives far away from me and sent her children to pick up the turkey. (Ralph recently turned sixteen and got a drivers license.) So, Ralph was sitting in this strangers' house for half an hour, hob nobbing with unknown hippies, and then it turned out that his little sister and her friend were in the back seat of the car the entire time.
I came, finally, and handed him the styrofoam cooler. He had the most strangely delighted look on his face. Later, I called Heather and apologized on her answering machine. Still later, her message appeared on my answering machine,
"Don't be sorry! The kids had a great time picking up the turkey. Ralph thought it was just like a drug deal and it was the most fun he'd had in ages!"
Oh, the Places You'll Go
The working title for this serial I've been writing is Exhaust(ed), which Christina came up with before reading any of it. It's a good title, but also a little bit serious. I feel like there's another title out there, waiting to be found. Any ideas?
Here are some titles that have crossed my mind:
1. Smokes and Gropes Across America
2. It Wasn't Supposed to Be Like This
3. And the Moon Rose Over an Open Field
4. $59 to Anywhere
5. Insomnibus
Maybe Exhaust(ed) is still the best. My sister suggested Fifty Shades of Greyhound, but I think I'd be sued, although it is pretty much perfect. What do you think? Leave a comment.
Here are some titles that have crossed my mind:
1. Smokes and Gropes Across America
2. It Wasn't Supposed to Be Like This
3. And the Moon Rose Over an Open Field
4. $59 to Anywhere
5. Insomnibus
Maybe Exhaust(ed) is still the best. My sister suggested Fifty Shades of Greyhound, but I think I'd be sued, although it is pretty much perfect. What do you think? Leave a comment.
Comment of the day: I see you have a turkey there with them sheep...
We have a turkey out with the sheep. It's a long story.
The guys from up on the hill stopped by today. They were wondering if we had a Jacob ram we could loan them.
"No," and we talked for awhile.
"I noticed you've got a turkey out there with them sheep. Is that a Bourban Red?"
"Yep."
"Why is he out there? You couldn't catch him, or...?"
"I just needed a place to put him."
A few hours later- Ding dong! Doorbell rings again. It's another neighbour farmer, asking if I want to come up to his place and get some hay for the sheep.
"I noticed you've got a turkey out there," he says while loading the hay into the truck, later.
"Yeah. They crush the eggs, sometimes, when you leave the males and females together, so I put him out with the sheep. Now he thinks he's a sheep."
"Oh. I thought maybe you couldn't catch him or something."
"No, I could. I mean, I can't now. I mean, I could, but- Yeah."
You'd think people had never seen a heritage turkey living with primitive horned sheep before. People seem to have turkeys on the brain today. I can't imagine why!
The guys from up on the hill stopped by today. They were wondering if we had a Jacob ram we could loan them.
"No," and we talked for awhile.
"I noticed you've got a turkey out there with them sheep. Is that a Bourban Red?"
"Yep."
"Why is he out there? You couldn't catch him, or...?"
"I just needed a place to put him."
A few hours later- Ding dong! Doorbell rings again. It's another neighbour farmer, asking if I want to come up to his place and get some hay for the sheep.
"I noticed you've got a turkey out there," he says while loading the hay into the truck, later.
"Yeah. They crush the eggs, sometimes, when you leave the males and females together, so I put him out with the sheep. Now he thinks he's a sheep."
"Oh. I thought maybe you couldn't catch him or something."
"No, I could. I mean, I can't now. I mean, I could, but- Yeah."
You'd think people had never seen a heritage turkey living with primitive horned sheep before. People seem to have turkeys on the brain today. I can't imagine why!
And Santa Will Get You...
Little Z would like a bunny rabbit for Christmas. She wants a bunny so badly, and she is so good at wanting a bunny, that she devised a plan: she would get a cage with food and water and everything, set it up on Christmas Eve, and Santa would put a bunny in the cage.
She saved her money for two or three years (seriously) and bought a cage. The cage is called, "Rabbit Home". She bought the water bottle, and the little food thing that clips to the side. We have it all set up in her room, now. There is even this funny thing at the store, which she hasn't bought yet but probably will, that is a little tiny hay feeder to put the Timothy Hay in for the bunny. It looks just like every other hay feeder, but it's super tiny!
So, you've got to emphasize the Santa myth a lot and make sure your kid is really good, right? So BAH tells her, tonight,
"If you're not good, Santa is going to bring you a yak instead of a bunny. And a yak is so big, it won't even fit in that bunny cage you got!"
"Yeah," I said. (Solidarity is important in parenting.) "If you're not good, Santa will bring you a yak! He'll just leave a yak in your bedroom!"
"Neat!" she said. "I would like that!"
She saved her money for two or three years (seriously) and bought a cage. The cage is called, "Rabbit Home". She bought the water bottle, and the little food thing that clips to the side. We have it all set up in her room, now. There is even this funny thing at the store, which she hasn't bought yet but probably will, that is a little tiny hay feeder to put the Timothy Hay in for the bunny. It looks just like every other hay feeder, but it's super tiny!
So, you've got to emphasize the Santa myth a lot and make sure your kid is really good, right? So BAH tells her, tonight,
"If you're not good, Santa is going to bring you a yak instead of a bunny. And a yak is so big, it won't even fit in that bunny cage you got!"
"Yeah," I said. (Solidarity is important in parenting.) "If you're not good, Santa will bring you a yak! He'll just leave a yak in your bedroom!"
"Neat!" she said. "I would like that!"
Writing Notes
The next chapter (coming out Monday) of The Book is a bit different from the first. The tone is entirely changed. This was unintentional. It's the kind of thing that would have stopped me in my tracks, had I not promised to post a segment every Monday. I would have thought, well, now I have to go back and rewrite the first bit, because the second bit and the first don't completely match... and then it would happen again, and again, and I would give up, maybe. But this time, I'm just going to keep moving forward, like a this shark.
I suppose there are changes in tone in other books, too. When the Bloggess wrote her book, the beginning was a little bit insane. She kept referring back to the study guide and how you would be talking about this book in your English class. English class?
Anyway, yeah. I don't know what was going on. I decided I was going to illustrate this book, and it just kind of went off the deep end. But I can't decide that it's bad. I don't know what it is. I do know I've been putting off telling this story for twenty years, and I might as well tell it, one way or another. Oddly, I don't think I've ever even talked about it much to anyone.
Things you have to look forward to:
More Mild Molestations
Pennsylvania BINGO
The Blizzard of '93
Soul Mate Reunion
Groundhog Day
Sleep Deprivation in an Icy Wonderland (or Why I Woke You Up in the Most Beautiful Place in the World)
78 Pounds of Books at 7,000 Feet
And so it stays. The same. The same varying strange. Like the bus trip, actually.
I suppose there are changes in tone in other books, too. When the Bloggess wrote her book, the beginning was a little bit insane. She kept referring back to the study guide and how you would be talking about this book in your English class. English class?
Anyway, yeah. I don't know what was going on. I decided I was going to illustrate this book, and it just kind of went off the deep end. But I can't decide that it's bad. I don't know what it is. I do know I've been putting off telling this story for twenty years, and I might as well tell it, one way or another. Oddly, I don't think I've ever even talked about it much to anyone.
Things you have to look forward to:
More Mild Molestations
Pennsylvania BINGO
The Blizzard of '93
Soul Mate Reunion
Groundhog Day
Sleep Deprivation in an Icy Wonderland (or Why I Woke You Up in the Most Beautiful Place in the World)
78 Pounds of Books at 7,000 Feet
And so it stays. The same. The same varying strange. Like the bus trip, actually.
The Turkey Who Thinks He is a Sheep
One of these things is not like the other.
Tom Turkey thinks he is a sheep.
Last spring, Mrs. Turkey laid some eggs. We had had a terrible time hatching turkey eggs, and I read somewhere that male turkeys will sometimes stomp on the eggs. I didn't want that to happen, so I decided to separate them, and I just put Tom Turkey outside with the sheep. I did not give this any kind of thought at all, really. I just knew I had to separate those eggs from Tom Turkey.
At first, Tom still acted like a turkey, perching on a high point at night and gobbling to the wild turkeys in the forest. Slowly, though, he began to act more and more like a sheep. He started sleeping on the ground, next to the other sheep. When I rotated the sheep's pasture, he trotted along with the herd and went right along with them. And now, he just seems to think he's a sheep.
I don't feed him any turkey food. He eats grass and bugs. In this sense, he's the perfect turkey. He forages for everything. I bet he would be mighty tasty, but my Thanksgiving includes no plans to butcher Tom Turkey. I've grown fond of him.
Two days ago, I rotated the sheep's pasture again, and Tom got separated from the little herd. When Tom realized all of his friends were gone, he quickly flew over to the sheep. Seeing a giant bird flying straight towards them, all of the sheep stampeded in the opposite direction, with Tom flying after them, screaming "gobble gobble gobble!" or "Wait, my friends, wait for me! Where are you going? Wait for me!" Everyone calmed down once Tom landed.
I don't know how he reconciles this flying thing with being a sheep. Although we might count sheep flying over our beds at night, in reality, a sheep can't fly. But Tom Turkey can. And then there's the obvious: Tom could just fly away, if he wanted to. But he doesn't. Because he's a sheep.
Tom Turkey thinks he is a sheep.
Last spring, Mrs. Turkey laid some eggs. We had had a terrible time hatching turkey eggs, and I read somewhere that male turkeys will sometimes stomp on the eggs. I didn't want that to happen, so I decided to separate them, and I just put Tom Turkey outside with the sheep. I did not give this any kind of thought at all, really. I just knew I had to separate those eggs from Tom Turkey.
At first, Tom still acted like a turkey, perching on a high point at night and gobbling to the wild turkeys in the forest. Slowly, though, he began to act more and more like a sheep. He started sleeping on the ground, next to the other sheep. When I rotated the sheep's pasture, he trotted along with the herd and went right along with them. And now, he just seems to think he's a sheep.
I don't feed him any turkey food. He eats grass and bugs. In this sense, he's the perfect turkey. He forages for everything. I bet he would be mighty tasty, but my Thanksgiving includes no plans to butcher Tom Turkey. I've grown fond of him.
Two days ago, I rotated the sheep's pasture again, and Tom got separated from the little herd. When Tom realized all of his friends were gone, he quickly flew over to the sheep. Seeing a giant bird flying straight towards them, all of the sheep stampeded in the opposite direction, with Tom flying after them, screaming "gobble gobble gobble!" or "Wait, my friends, wait for me! Where are you going? Wait for me!" Everyone calmed down once Tom landed.
I don't know how he reconciles this flying thing with being a sheep. Although we might count sheep flying over our beds at night, in reality, a sheep can't fly. But Tom Turkey can. And then there's the obvious: Tom could just fly away, if he wanted to. But he doesn't. Because he's a sheep.
New Art Work
This is my kitty, Tigery Cat, back when she fought in la Resistance:
I've offered to do your pet in uniform for a small price on etsy. Remember: you get 30% off, coupon code: MindlessMinion .
This was so much fun to do. BAH thinks I should give the sheep a similar treatment. And then I should do Bodkay (Cat #2), wearing a fez and smoking a pipe. All in good time, I guess. I don't know about the pipe! Smoking would be bad for Bodkay's health.
Alternatively, I could do a portrait of your head on an animal body. Your choice. Still $40.
I've offered to do your pet in uniform for a small price on etsy. Remember: you get 30% off, coupon code: MindlessMinion .
This was so much fun to do. BAH thinks I should give the sheep a similar treatment. And then I should do Bodkay (Cat #2), wearing a fez and smoking a pipe. All in good time, I guess. I don't know about the pipe! Smoking would be bad for Bodkay's health.
Alternatively, I could do a portrait of your head on an animal body. Your choice. Still $40.
First Commissioned Portrait
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This is drawn in a computer program, then printed, then transferred onto wood, then painted on a little bit, and then I added a glaze. It's all based on a photograph. I have a question, though: how much should I charge? The size is 8 by 10. It's on wood.
I just have absolutely no idea. It seems like such an improper question, somehow.
This one, by the way, is already paid for- it was a trade for something beautiful that another artist did. I'll show you what I got for it in a different post. (It's night right now, and so not a good time to take a picture of it.) But now people are asking me about portraits of their children and such. Which is great! And terrifying, honestly.
The Book: Prequel
When I first started driving, I needed someone to be sitting with me in order to drive well. It's difficult to say why, but when someone else was with me, I was a cautious driver. When I was alone, however, I might take a hairpin curve at sixty.
Writing is like that, too. If I write here, I try real hard and stuff. If I "write a book" which some fantasy person in the faraway future is going to read, it just doesn't turn out right. I've been writing the book I promised, and... it's blah. Yucky. It has its moments, and I'm not just going to scrap the whole thing, but still. Blah.
So, this is the new plan: you are going to be in the car with me. You are going to scream if I am approaching the corner at sixty. You are going to be the observer of my electrons, and by the very act of reading, you will affect the reality of my writing.
Every Monday, I will post a new chapter to the book, which I have yet to title. It is the mostly true story of a journey I took twenty years ago from Colorado to Pennsylvania, via Greyhound bus. As the crow flies, that's 1,680 miles (2,704 kilometers) by bus. I was young and naive and silly and I wore a big white coat (my Grace Kelly coat) the whole way.
Every Monday, I will post a new chapter.
If a Monday goes by when I do not post a chapter, you may flog me until I type out those words. Or maybe just send me a sweet little reminder.
I'm still unsure if I should include pictures. Today, though, I have one. This was the original title and cover picture:
but then I changed the content. And the title doesn't fit, anymore.
Writing is like that, too. If I write here, I try real hard and stuff. If I "write a book" which some fantasy person in the faraway future is going to read, it just doesn't turn out right. I've been writing the book I promised, and... it's blah. Yucky. It has its moments, and I'm not just going to scrap the whole thing, but still. Blah.
So, this is the new plan: you are going to be in the car with me. You are going to scream if I am approaching the corner at sixty. You are going to be the observer of my electrons, and by the very act of reading, you will affect the reality of my writing.
Every Monday, I will post a new chapter to the book, which I have yet to title. It is the mostly true story of a journey I took twenty years ago from Colorado to Pennsylvania, via Greyhound bus. As the crow flies, that's 1,680 miles (2,704 kilometers) by bus. I was young and naive and silly and I wore a big white coat (my Grace Kelly coat) the whole way.
Every Monday, I will post a new chapter.
If a Monday goes by when I do not post a chapter, you may flog me until I type out those words. Or maybe just send me a sweet little reminder.
I'm still unsure if I should include pictures. Today, though, I have one. This was the original title and cover picture:
but then I changed the content. And the title doesn't fit, anymore.
"I'm in need!"
When you're poor, it becomes an imperative to hide it. You'll do anything so that no one notices you are any different from anyone else, in any income level. We're all the same. We're all middle class. Nobody is different in any way. Nothing to see, here. Move along.
My grandma and grandpa struggled to raise six children, and years after the children were grown, Grandma was still in this state of mind where she didn't need any help, no thank you. She sent me $20 once, and I sent it back to her, saying I didn't need it, it was okay, and she got really mad at me! She wanted me to have that money. It was shameful to her, somehow, that I should send it back. I learned my lesson and alway kept her money, from then on.
Grandma is a Christian. She would like her children to go to church with her, but basically, none of the six kids turned out to be religious. Occasionally, one will go with her to church, but really just to make her happy. I suppose that it usually does make her happy when they go to church with her, except for this one time, years and years ago, when my Aunt Donna went to church with Grandma.
Aunt Donna has since passed on. One thing I remember about her was that she didn't worry about what anyone thought of her.
This church visit was before I was born. Donna was a young adult, in her twenties, and she went to church with Grandma one Sunday. They sat through the sermon, the psalms, the whatever they do in church, and the collection. At this church, the pastor was a little bit modern. When he got all of the collection together, he would hold up this tray of money, and say,
"If anyone here is in need, and needs this money more than this church, please come and take of this money, now."
Generally, everyone just sat there for a minute. Nothing happened. Then, they said a prayer.
That was how it worked. He just said that, but basically nobody took the money.
On this particular day, however, Aunt Donna was with Grandma. The pastor took the collection, held up the tray of cash, and said,
"If anyone here is in need, and needs this money more than this church, please come and take of this money, now."
And Aunt Donna stood up.
"What are you doing?" Grandma whispered, urgently. She knew, though. She knew exactly what Donna was doing.
"I'm in need," said Donna.
And she walked up to the pastor, and she took a handful of cash. She marched right back to her seat and stuck the money in her purse.
She was in need.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall, and see the look on Grandma's face when she did that!
My grandma and grandpa struggled to raise six children, and years after the children were grown, Grandma was still in this state of mind where she didn't need any help, no thank you. She sent me $20 once, and I sent it back to her, saying I didn't need it, it was okay, and she got really mad at me! She wanted me to have that money. It was shameful to her, somehow, that I should send it back. I learned my lesson and alway kept her money, from then on.
Grandma is a Christian. She would like her children to go to church with her, but basically, none of the six kids turned out to be religious. Occasionally, one will go with her to church, but really just to make her happy. I suppose that it usually does make her happy when they go to church with her, except for this one time, years and years ago, when my Aunt Donna went to church with Grandma.
Aunt Donna has since passed on. One thing I remember about her was that she didn't worry about what anyone thought of her.
This church visit was before I was born. Donna was a young adult, in her twenties, and she went to church with Grandma one Sunday. They sat through the sermon, the psalms, the whatever they do in church, and the collection. At this church, the pastor was a little bit modern. When he got all of the collection together, he would hold up this tray of money, and say,
"If anyone here is in need, and needs this money more than this church, please come and take of this money, now."
Generally, everyone just sat there for a minute. Nothing happened. Then, they said a prayer.
That was how it worked. He just said that, but basically nobody took the money.
On this particular day, however, Aunt Donna was with Grandma. The pastor took the collection, held up the tray of cash, and said,
"If anyone here is in need, and needs this money more than this church, please come and take of this money, now."
And Aunt Donna stood up.
"What are you doing?" Grandma whispered, urgently. She knew, though. She knew exactly what Donna was doing.
"I'm in need," said Donna.
And she walked up to the pastor, and she took a handful of cash. She marched right back to her seat and stuck the money in her purse.
She was in need.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall, and see the look on Grandma's face when she did that!
Purgatory
So, I was continuing my quest for old tax documents today, and came across this from 1998:
This was when I worked at Purgatory. Purgatory was a ski resort, just up the mountain from Durango, Colorado. Now, they call it "Durango Mountain Resort". Really? The river that runs through Durango is called "Las Animas" or "The River of Lost Souls," which, to my mind, means that Purgatory is, I mean, I just can't, I mean... WHY? WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU CHANGE THE NAME OF PURGATORY? WHY?
It was too cool, that's why.
So, to take stock:
1. Purgatory is now Durango Mountain Resort.
2. The Center for Inner Peace, where I got married, is now a Starbuck's.
3. USC Pueblo, where I got my teacher training, is now... I can't remember what they changed the name to.
Anyway, it's still kind of cool to have a name tag that says I work at a hotel in Purgatory, don't you think? Maybe I'll just start wearing it around. I'm sure it will impress the sheep.
Update: I was looking at the web site for Durango Mountain Resort, and they have added the "Purgatory" to the beginning, now. Well, okay. Better.
This was when I worked at Purgatory. Purgatory was a ski resort, just up the mountain from Durango, Colorado. Now, they call it "Durango Mountain Resort". Really? The river that runs through Durango is called "Las Animas" or "The River of Lost Souls," which, to my mind, means that Purgatory is, I mean, I just can't, I mean... WHY? WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU CHANGE THE NAME OF PURGATORY? WHY?
It was too cool, that's why.
So, to take stock:
1. Purgatory is now Durango Mountain Resort.
2. The Center for Inner Peace, where I got married, is now a Starbuck's.
3. USC Pueblo, where I got my teacher training, is now... I can't remember what they changed the name to.
Anyway, it's still kind of cool to have a name tag that says I work at a hotel in Purgatory, don't you think? Maybe I'll just start wearing it around. I'm sure it will impress the sheep.
Update: I was looking at the web site for Durango Mountain Resort, and they have added the "Purgatory" to the beginning, now. Well, okay. Better.
Being Sentimental about a Car
This is my aunt, Lou Buckingham, singing about her favorite car, a Valiant:
A friend of mine is sad to lose a car this week. I think we've all been there. My favorite car, that I still miss, was a '79 Pontiac Bonneville. It was a boat. Everyone got out of my way, wherever I went. I could merge into traffic in the space of ten feet. It was brown with a Lando top. Tan interior. Once, I fell asleep in the back of it on my coffee break, woke up disoriented, and snuck back into work at Sears. No one seemed to notice I'd been gone for an hour or so. It was the kind of car you could stretch out in the back of and take a nap. It had some after-factory upgrades. It was, you know, my ride.
I always drove it with the windows open. I can almost still feel the wind.
A friend of mine is sad to lose a car this week. I think we've all been there. My favorite car, that I still miss, was a '79 Pontiac Bonneville. It was a boat. Everyone got out of my way, wherever I went. I could merge into traffic in the space of ten feet. It was brown with a Lando top. Tan interior. Once, I fell asleep in the back of it on my coffee break, woke up disoriented, and snuck back into work at Sears. No one seemed to notice I'd been gone for an hour or so. It was the kind of car you could stretch out in the back of and take a nap. It had some after-factory upgrades. It was, you know, my ride.
I always drove it with the windows open. I can almost still feel the wind.
The Rules for a Good Star Trek Movie, Old Style
As I continue watching the Star Trek movies, in order, one per weekend, I've started to notice a pattern.
First of all, let me mention that I have now completed movies one through six, which all feature the original cast, and only the original cast from the original TV series. I notice the next one will have some Next Generation characters, so this is probably a turning point in the movies. The best of the first six movies is Star Trek IV, the Voyage Home. The worst is the one right after that, Star Trek V, the Final Frontier, which was directed by William Shatner. So, the elements of a good Star Trek movie, thus far, are these:
1. Enterprise Worship: It must contain a long, drawn out shot of the Enterprise.
2. Mild mannered conflict between Spock and McCoy
3. A disobeying of orders from Star Fleet
4. Mechanical Failures
5. A triumph, against all odds, of emotion over logic
6. The friendship between Spock and Jim plays a central role
7. Either Jim or Spock makes a huge sacrifice and expects to die
8. Humor in the direst circumstances
I've noticed the more recent movies have left some old time fans disappointed, who say the new movies don't have the same spirit as the old ones. Maybe the new movies were missing a few of these elements? Hard core Trekkies, be sure and argue with me! I love arguing about Sci Fi. It's so much more fun than real life.
Spock, "did too much LDS in the sixties," says Captain Kirk.
First of all, let me mention that I have now completed movies one through six, which all feature the original cast, and only the original cast from the original TV series. I notice the next one will have some Next Generation characters, so this is probably a turning point in the movies. The best of the first six movies is Star Trek IV, the Voyage Home. The worst is the one right after that, Star Trek V, the Final Frontier, which was directed by William Shatner. So, the elements of a good Star Trek movie, thus far, are these:
1. Enterprise Worship: It must contain a long, drawn out shot of the Enterprise.
2. Mild mannered conflict between Spock and McCoy
3. A disobeying of orders from Star Fleet
4. Mechanical Failures
5. A triumph, against all odds, of emotion over logic
6. The friendship between Spock and Jim plays a central role
7. Either Jim or Spock makes a huge sacrifice and expects to die
8. Humor in the direst circumstances
I've noticed the more recent movies have left some old time fans disappointed, who say the new movies don't have the same spirit as the old ones. Maybe the new movies were missing a few of these elements? Hard core Trekkies, be sure and argue with me! I love arguing about Sci Fi. It's so much more fun than real life.
Spock, "did too much LDS in the sixties," says Captain Kirk.
"Wait! I HAVE CANDY!"
I took Little Z trick or treating last night. We have no neighborhood, so I drove her to the nearest town. In a certain neighborhood there, people go to great lengths to celebrate Halloween. I was the Orange Guy (I put on an orange rain coat after the picture) and Little Z was a vampire. That's her hand there, holding up the red cape over her face. I parked in front of a house decorated with gigantic, inflated white ghosts and playing spooky music. My little vampire marched right by the house, not stopping, even though goblins on the front porch clearly had a pot of candy waiting for us.
"Shouldn't we stop there? They have candy."
"NO!" she said, marching forward down the road.
I, the bearded orange guy, ran after her. Little V was running down the street, full steam.
"How about this one?" I yelled after her.
"No."
"This one?" I panted.
"Um... That one!"
Finally, she stopped in front of a little house, with one pumpkin, and the porch light on. But she didn't move.
"Go ahead," I encouraged. "Walk up and ring the doorbell."
She stood still.
"Go ahead. It's all right. I'll go with you."
Finally, she approached the first door. Trick or treat stated. Candy acquired. At the fifth house we had passed.
The house after that looked pleasant enough. She rang the door bell, said the required words, and the guy said,
"Oh, hey, we don't have any candy. But have a nice Halloween!"
Note to that guy: If everyone in your neighborhood is Halloween crazy, and you have no candy, maybe you should turn your porch light off. Just for one night.
And, on to the next house. But, no. It was too highly decorated. Music blaring. Orange lights blinking.
"Go ahead," I said. "They want to give you candy. Just go to the front door."
"No."
"Don't be afraid."
"I'm not afraid. It just doesn't... feel right."
A witch on the front porch came out,
"It's okay! Don't be afraid! It's all fake! We have candy!"
But she wouldn't go. Tomb stones lined the yard.
And so it went. The houses that were most decked out for Halloween, we passed, and the modest, one pumpkin homes were visited and candy was generally acquired. Also, we got notes about how much God loves us, and even a business card for a dog walking service!
And we walked on. The longer we walked, the more her resolve weakened, and the more highly decorated houses we visited. Also, I think all of the witches chasing us saying, "I have candy! Come back!" softened her feelings towards the Halloween extremists.
One house had a quiet young man with a candy dish that had a bony hand attached to it. When Little Vampire tried to grab the candy, the hand grabbed her! It grabbed her three times, until she figured out how to foil it. She was delighted and let out a happy giggle.
In the end, we visited many of the houses we had skipped the first time, on the way back to the car. And to all of the witches who yelled, "Wait! We have candy!" I say,
I'm sorry. I don't know what was going through her head. I wasn't about to force her to go to your house. But, I appreciate your effort. Maybe next year, we'll take your candy.
Countyside in Authentica
Looking for old tax documents today, I naturally found a bunch of things completely unrelated to taxes. I found a folder full of drawings I did when I was fourteen. All of them are signed, dated and titled. (I felt at the time that it was necessary to document the development of my genius and creativity.) This one I titled, "Countyside in Authentica":
I'm pretty sure I meant "Countryside," but my genius had not yet developed spelling skills. "Authentica," however, was intentional. I remember making this drawing. I remember the day clearly. I ran out of green marker, and to make it match, drew the person (alien?) repainting it. I remember drawing something earlier in the day that my dad said was bad because the perspective was too unlikely and unrealistic, so I threw it away and drew this. This is much more likely!
I'm pretty sure I meant "Countryside," but my genius had not yet developed spelling skills. "Authentica," however, was intentional. I remember making this drawing. I remember the day clearly. I ran out of green marker, and to make it match, drew the person (alien?) repainting it. I remember drawing something earlier in the day that my dad said was bad because the perspective was too unlikely and unrealistic, so I threw it away and drew this. This is much more likely!
Vampires and Robots
Christina has a great blog over at Vampires and Robots, where she recently told a hilarious and entertaining zombie story. (My favorite chapter was the one about the Craigslist ads during the zombie apocalypse.) I have been fiddling around with graphic design and asked her if I could redo her title for her. This is what I came up with:
Then I noticed that she has a subtitle, too, so I added that here:
Feedback? Christina? I can change the size to fit your blog. Maybe.
Then I noticed that she has a subtitle, too, so I added that here:
Feedback? Christina? I can change the size to fit your blog. Maybe.
Why I Should Be Taking a Nap Right Now
Last night, the internet goes out, and BAH is running around trying to fix his vast robot empire, when we hear this crying. Little Z is sobbing, weeping in a way that one only weeps, in real life, when someone you love has died, but she appears to be asleep. If you talk to her, she doesn't respond to you directly. She is responding to someone else, something unseen.
She has had these night terrors since she was a baby. They happen rarely, but when they happen, it's hard to know what to do. Should we wake her up? Wouldn't that make her remember the dream better, and make it, in fact, more real? Both BAH and I go in and talk to her, separately. We both agree that she is asleep. Her sobs shake the house. Finally, he goes to the basement, and I go up and talk to her, and slowly, she seems to be talking back to me, in real time.
"Can you tell me why you are crying?"
"It's too complicated to explain!" she wails at me.
Ah, I think. She's awake, now.
"What are you afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid! I'm frustrated!"
"What is frustrating you?"
"I can't explain it!" and she sobs some more. But, we're making progress. In twenty minutes or so, I have her calm and sleeping in the guest room.
This is what we do, when we have nightmares: we go to sleep in the guest room. Nightmares don't visit us in the guest room. I don't know why, but that seems to work.
So, child appeased, I go to bed. So does BAH.
I don't know how long I have slept when I am suddenly awoken by silence. No humidifier. No refrigerator. No heater. Just silence. I look for the time, and the clock is not lit.
The power is out.
BAH takes a mini flashlight and finds us a battery powered alarm clock, sets it, and we try to sleep. Lots of thing start going through my mind. Really worrisome things.
Worrisome thing number one:
I have thirty raw chickens in the refrigerator, and maybe another twenty in the freezer. I gave up my teaching job last spring in order to be a farmer, and being a farmer recently has involved killing a lot of chickens. (Some people say "process," but I prefer "kill".) I raised these chickens from chicks. I built shelter for them: two moveable, open-bottomed coops which I moved, faithfully, ever day to new pasture for them to munch on. I have fed them only organic food. Then I spent the past two days butchering them, which, while not as horrifying as you might think it would be, was nevertheless exhausting. With the power out, what will happen to all of those chickens? Will they rot? Was it all for naught? August, that was when I started on that project. All of that work since August could be for nothing.
Worrisome thing number two:
I have more chicken eggs in the incubator, due to hatch Halloween- which I just realized, is tomorrow!How long until the baby chicks die, or don't hatch from the cold?
Worrisome thing number three:
How will we live, without power? I haven't cut enough firewood to heat the house for any length of time! (I know, in my dazed and sleepless state, that we will never, ever get power back in our house again. We will live in the dark ages henceforth. And it is, might I note, very, very dark out there. Very dark.)
Finally, after an hour or two of worrying, I get up and find a flashlight and a phone book.
Downstairs, the only light is the frog light, because we power that one light with a solar panel of our own. I try to see outside if any of the neighbors on the hill have lights on, and I see one. I think they could have a frog light powered by a solar panel, but it is highly doubtful. I find, more and more, that we become more and more peculiar with age, and no one does things the way we do.
I check on the incubator. Still worrisome: it's already down to 70 degrees. It needs to be 99 degrees.
In the phone book, I find the the 24 hour number to the power company. I get dressed, leave an unseeable note on the refrigerator for BAH (I don't really think he's actually asleep [it's too quiet] but I hesitate to wake him) and get into my car. I drive to the top of a nearby hill, where I get cell phone reception. I notice everyone on top of the hill has power. Flood lights illuminate fields beside red barns. They don't have one frog light powered by a solar panel, but real power. I call the power company. They have an answering service. I tell them we don't have power. I tell them our address. I drive back home. It's 2:33 AM.
I change back into my pajamas in the pitch black dark, and crawl into bed. Ten minutes later, we have power again.
"How do they do that?" asks BAH, who clearly was never asleep. "Do they just flip a switch, or what?"
'Tis a mystery.
The next morning is the darkest morning I've ever seen. Waiting outside for the school bus, I tell Z we had a power outage last night. This seems to be news to her. But, six year old logic produces the following explanation for her nightmare,
"That must be why I had the dream, because the power went out."
"But the power went out after you had the nightmare."
"Yeah! That's why."
Well, of course it is. Why didn't I think of that?
She has had these night terrors since she was a baby. They happen rarely, but when they happen, it's hard to know what to do. Should we wake her up? Wouldn't that make her remember the dream better, and make it, in fact, more real? Both BAH and I go in and talk to her, separately. We both agree that she is asleep. Her sobs shake the house. Finally, he goes to the basement, and I go up and talk to her, and slowly, she seems to be talking back to me, in real time.
"Can you tell me why you are crying?"
"It's too complicated to explain!" she wails at me.
Ah, I think. She's awake, now.
"What are you afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid! I'm frustrated!"
"What is frustrating you?"
"I can't explain it!" and she sobs some more. But, we're making progress. In twenty minutes or so, I have her calm and sleeping in the guest room.
This is what we do, when we have nightmares: we go to sleep in the guest room. Nightmares don't visit us in the guest room. I don't know why, but that seems to work.
So, child appeased, I go to bed. So does BAH.
I don't know how long I have slept when I am suddenly awoken by silence. No humidifier. No refrigerator. No heater. Just silence. I look for the time, and the clock is not lit.
The power is out.
BAH takes a mini flashlight and finds us a battery powered alarm clock, sets it, and we try to sleep. Lots of thing start going through my mind. Really worrisome things.
Worrisome thing number one:
I have thirty raw chickens in the refrigerator, and maybe another twenty in the freezer. I gave up my teaching job last spring in order to be a farmer, and being a farmer recently has involved killing a lot of chickens. (Some people say "process," but I prefer "kill".) I raised these chickens from chicks. I built shelter for them: two moveable, open-bottomed coops which I moved, faithfully, ever day to new pasture for them to munch on. I have fed them only organic food. Then I spent the past two days butchering them, which, while not as horrifying as you might think it would be, was nevertheless exhausting. With the power out, what will happen to all of those chickens? Will they rot? Was it all for naught? August, that was when I started on that project. All of that work since August could be for nothing.
Worrisome thing number two:
I have more chicken eggs in the incubator, due to hatch Halloween- which I just realized, is tomorrow!How long until the baby chicks die, or don't hatch from the cold?
Worrisome thing number three:
How will we live, without power? I haven't cut enough firewood to heat the house for any length of time! (I know, in my dazed and sleepless state, that we will never, ever get power back in our house again. We will live in the dark ages henceforth. And it is, might I note, very, very dark out there. Very dark.)
Finally, after an hour or two of worrying, I get up and find a flashlight and a phone book.
Downstairs, the only light is the frog light, because we power that one light with a solar panel of our own. I try to see outside if any of the neighbors on the hill have lights on, and I see one. I think they could have a frog light powered by a solar panel, but it is highly doubtful. I find, more and more, that we become more and more peculiar with age, and no one does things the way we do.
I check on the incubator. Still worrisome: it's already down to 70 degrees. It needs to be 99 degrees.
In the phone book, I find the the 24 hour number to the power company. I get dressed, leave an unseeable note on the refrigerator for BAH (I don't really think he's actually asleep [it's too quiet] but I hesitate to wake him) and get into my car. I drive to the top of a nearby hill, where I get cell phone reception. I notice everyone on top of the hill has power. Flood lights illuminate fields beside red barns. They don't have one frog light powered by a solar panel, but real power. I call the power company. They have an answering service. I tell them we don't have power. I tell them our address. I drive back home. It's 2:33 AM.
I change back into my pajamas in the pitch black dark, and crawl into bed. Ten minutes later, we have power again.
"How do they do that?" asks BAH, who clearly was never asleep. "Do they just flip a switch, or what?"
'Tis a mystery.
The next morning is the darkest morning I've ever seen. Waiting outside for the school bus, I tell Z we had a power outage last night. This seems to be news to her. But, six year old logic produces the following explanation for her nightmare,
"That must be why I had the dream, because the power went out."
"But the power went out after you had the nightmare."
"Yeah! That's why."
Well, of course it is. Why didn't I think of that?
The Mythical Love Shark
He loves you so much, he just wants to eat you up!
The Love Shark soon will be making another run! The Love Shark promises something for everyone...
The Love Shark soon will be making another run! The Love Shark promises something for everyone...
Robot Family Vacation
If only Uncle Rister hadn't have stuck his arm in front of brother's head!
The painting behind the robots is actually by my grandmother, Ruth Porter, who is good at stuff like that.
The robots are my daughter's toys. Well, okay, one of them is my toy.
Having a kid just gives me an excuse to buy lots of cool toys. Last week, I bought a rubber chicken, and they didn't give me a bag, so I walked down the street in downtown Madison, carrying my new, big rubber chicken by its neck. I passed a lady carrying a plant. I smiled. She didn't.
I think it would be nice if the robot family would continue their vacation on to another of Grandma Ruth's paintings. What do you think?
The painting behind the robots is actually by my grandmother, Ruth Porter, who is good at stuff like that.
The robots are my daughter's toys. Well, okay, one of them is my toy.
Having a kid just gives me an excuse to buy lots of cool toys. Last week, I bought a rubber chicken, and they didn't give me a bag, so I walked down the street in downtown Madison, carrying my new, big rubber chicken by its neck. I passed a lady carrying a plant. I smiled. She didn't.
I think it would be nice if the robot family would continue their vacation on to another of Grandma Ruth's paintings. What do you think?
UFO Days in Belleville
In January of 1987, a bunch of people in Belleville saw a UFO. And now, every year, they celebrate the UFO sightings with a parade the weekend before Halloween. This parade is my favoritest parade ever on Earth.
Part of the fun is in the way people, big and small, dress up to go to the parade.
Local politician Sondy Pope Roberts sported some antenae:
The things you have to do to get elected around here!
The library had the best float:
And then there was this guy, who was just having fun handing out candy. Aliens? UFOs? Whatever.
The Creepiest Thing Award goes to this lady walking around with a gigantic, moving alien puppet on her shoulders:
And Elmo looked a bit concerned, at times, but the aliens were fake. Really.
They reuse this one every year, but I still like it:
Until next year--
Nanoo, nanoo.
Part of the fun is in the way people, big and small, dress up to go to the parade.
Local politician Sondy Pope Roberts sported some antenae:
The things you have to do to get elected around here!
The library had the best float:
And then there was this guy, who was just having fun handing out candy. Aliens? UFOs? Whatever.
The Creepiest Thing Award goes to this lady walking around with a gigantic, moving alien puppet on her shoulders:
And Elmo looked a bit concerned, at times, but the aliens were fake. Really.
They reuse this one every year, but I still like it:
Until next year--
Nanoo, nanoo.
This rat is loving this foot
Little Z told me to add a rat to my foot drawing. I'm glad I took her advice.
Where is the other foot, you might ask? This is a one legged baby sitting on a swing.
Where is the other foot, you might ask? This is a one legged baby sitting on a swing.
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