Money for Nothing

Hey, guess what? I found this post in my list of unpublished drafts, originally penned (keyboarded) last August, but sadly, still quite valid. I apologize for two things: One, that I haven't kept up with my blog since last fall, and two, that this post is not a sunshiny poetic ode to something pretty--oh, and that it contains a fair amount of profanity. Ok, THREE; three things...

This won't be pretty, but I have something of a fair amount of import to say. I'm really fed up with the groaning masses who bitch about how much everything sucks (a lot of things certainly do, I'm not faulting them on that count) as far as the current state of social services, health care, road conditions, education, and a neverending list of other things we really need--and then shoot down every single damn piece of legislature for raising taxes whenever there's a vote. And then, of course, they continue to bitch about the state of social services, health care, road conditions, education, and the neverending list of... WTF?! What's the matter with people? Are that many of us really so incredibly dense that we don't understand that all these really neat benefits of living in a governed society have to be paid for by something? Like taxes? Fucking DUH, people!!! I'm really much too pissed off about this to use eloquent adjectives and formal language (or eschew profanity); please forgive me.

California's debt passed the 26 BILLION mark in the middle of July (and continues to rise). State employees are now being forced to take furlough days 3 to 4 days per month. Meaning they don't work and they don't get paid. The University of California is actually considering closing campuses for a year, or at least not admitting ANY freshman classes for the next school year. Fifty million young children will lose their health insurance this year as the funding for state-funded health care evaporates. Fifty million. Assistance for disabled people is going to be slashed drastically. And Californians are evidently ok with all of these horrible things because they refuse to pay more taxes to help us get a foothold out of this mess. If it will help us keep these vital programs running, I'll pay more. Gladly. I can barely pay my own bills, but god DAMN how else are we going to fix this?

I do realize that repairing the economy is a vastly complex matter--too much so to be dealt with by simply paying more taxes and hoping everything will magically fall into place, but %#@$! it's a step in the right direction! Things cost money. This is simply the world we live in. If we want to keep our roads safe, our children educated and healthy, and our disabled cared for, we need to shell out some bucks. All of us. Even if you don't have a child of your own, even if you don't ever want to go to college, even if you're not related to anyone disabled. It's called being a contributing member of society--this pervasive "I've got mine, screw you!" mentality is eroding everything good about living in this country.

One little coda: I do not always approve of what my government does with the money I provide through the taxes I pay, but enough other good things can be done with that money that I still consider it a reasonably good investment. I simply cannot understand for the life of me how millions of people can so vociferously denounce the condition of EVERYTHING the government provides us, and then get equally up in arms about not wanting to pay for it. Living in a country with such a huge population, you simply cannot have something for nothing (despite what the guys in Dire Straits say....)

Don't look now, there's something really kinky in your silverware drawer...

The other morning I when I was doing laundry, I found a plastic bag at the bottom of my closet containing a roll of duct tape, a turkey baster, and some rags. I was momentarily freaked out by the discovery--what kind of twisted perversity was this? Then I recognized the smell of motor oil and brake fluid emanating from the rags and realized that this was a legitimate, unperverted assortment of items that had been used when my friend helped me work on my car a few months ago. Whew. That was a bit of a scare, though: not only can I not imagine (I'm trying very hard not to, believe me) what kind of lewdness you can inflict upon another person with a turkey baster, I couldn't imagine why whoever was inflicting such lewdness upon another person with a turkey baster would leave it in my closet afterward. Creeped-out shivering commenced.

Yes, that's a chick working on a car during WW II, before the menfolk came home and she had to go back to vacuuming and making cupcakes.

I will now ruin the comedic value of this anecdote by telling you what automotive application the turkey baster actually served: refilling the cells of my battery with water. And the duct tape helped me discover that there was indeed a big tear in my air intake hose that was causing my car to lose so much power: I covered what looked like a tear in the hose with the tape and then started my car again to see if the problem was resolved. It was. I could have left it all taped up like that and saved myself quite a lot of money (dealership-only part: $93) but I knew it would wear out again at some point and I wanted to save myself the hassle. Not to mention that we were already covered in grime from working on my car all day, so it seemed like an opportune moment to change it.

I have to say that I derive a large amount of satisfaction from playing with mechanical things and getting dirty. Quite simply, I'm happiest when I'm working with my hands--one of the reasons I enjoy archaeology so much. Besides, there's something really childishly glee-inducing about covering yourself in black gunk in the process. While this is extremely belated, I do need to send out a big public thank you to Ciro for all his help that day. I couldn't have done it without him. He did all the hardest chores, like changing the spark plugs and adding water to the battery (things filled with acid scare me). I'm sure he did much more than that, but I can't remember everything we did that day. I can, however, claim responsibility for taking off the old intake hose and putting on the new one all by myself. Mostly. This may sound like a simple procedure (it should have been!), but that air hose was one convoluted and cantankerous piece of black rubber. I believe at one point both Ciro and I were wrestling with it simultaneously and practically crawling on top of the engine block trying to maneuver it into place.

Gee, isn't blogging fun, kids? Segueing from an aberrant use of kitchen utensils to home car repair in 100 words or fewer is quite an accomplishment, if I say so myself. Thank you, life, for providing such a rich and neverending stream of absurdities to fuel my literary aspirations, small as they are.

For those of you who don't quite get how the blue bottle at the top of the page ties in with today's story-- it doesn't. I couldn't find anything (at least nothing decent) to illustrate this post the way I wanted to, so I thought I would treat you to this gorgeous drawing by my dear friend Wendy. She drew that with colored pencils. Colored pencils!! Yes, she's extremely talented, and you can look at more of her stuff here. There is also a lot of really good stuff is on her blog, especially since you can see the works as they progress through all their stages. Check it out!

Never do a Google image search for the word "Hot" (what was I thinking?)

Most of the people where I live are overjoyed that summer has finally arrived in all of its sweltering glory. As you can tell by my choice of adjectives, I'm not as happy about it. I prefer a cool breeze and some nice clouds. Besides, now I can't go to the beach because it's one long traffic jam for miles and miles before you get there. Not to mention that my enjoyment of the grand outdoors is greatly diminished by the presence of teeming hordes of human beings in various stages of undress. This really isn't my main gripe, however; I haven't been going to the beach as much as I used to during the past few years anyway--I think I'm just miffed because now the option is out should I decide I do want to go--what really drives me to swear that I'm moving to the Pacific Northwest once and for all is the heat.

I simply do not like being hot. Dry heat, humid heat--it all makes me equally cranky. Heat makes me feel foggy-headed and listless and sullen. I get irritable. Cold I can deal with; you can nearly always put more layers on or find a fireplace or someone to cuddle with or drink vodka or something. But when it's hot there are only so many clothes you can take off without getting arrested, and then if it's still hot there's nothing left you can do to alleviate the misery. I do not have air conditioning, and while my ceiling fans do provide a bit of relief, they only keep me cool if I'm absolutely still. The moment I expend the tiniest amount of energy or lift one toe off the floor I get all sweaty. I took a shower this afternoon but I already feel sticky and nasty all over again. If I weren't such a tree-hugging hippie-type I would take five cold showers a day, but we've been experiencing a prolonged drought down here. To be truthful, my conscience wouldn't allow me to waste that much water no matter what the rainfall levels were like.

It was so hot today that if I spoke on the phone to someone longer than about a minute the crease of my elbow started to sweat profusely. My elbow!! It was so hot that I put in my contacts because I just couldn't stand to have my glasses weighing on my face anymore. It was so hot that the cat was sleeping in the bathtub. It was so hot that I've been pretty much naked all day (except when I went outside; I'm no exhibitionist). It's still so hot this late in the evening that I'm contemplating my second visit of the day to the new popsicle shop in my neighborhood.


Two positive things I've managed to acknowledge about the heat: my clothes dried astoundingly quickly when hung up to dry, and those popsicles are utterly delicious, cool you down nicely, and are good for you, too. I think I'll try the cucumber chili one next time...

Dressing, Watermelon, Chaos*

Having noticed that my last post is only two days shy of being one month old, I'm freshly determined to write more than once per week. Maybe even twice. Definitely more than once a month! And if I don't have anything to say, I will find somebody who does.

I've been reading again, which makes me extremely happy. It dawned on me about six weeks ago that I hadn't had a good book in my life for over two months, maybe even three; I have no sense of time. That's unheard of in my world. Not that I have no sense of time--that's well documented--the not reading thing. What's more, I realized that this caused me an unexpected amount of grief. It is absolutely no exaggeration to say it approached a physical longing; I felt a real, tangible hunger to read in almost the exact same way you feel hungry for good food. It hurt.

I fixed it immediately by buying another Haruki Murakami novel with the gift card I had gotten for my birthday. It was so good that I had re-read the entire thing at least twice by the time I got to the last page. It was bleak and beautiful and rich and absurd and otherworldly. The kind of book that fills you with joy even if the subject is stark and melancholy. The kind of book that makes you feel orphaned and inconsolable when it ends. It's called Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, and it's full of solemn mystical beasts, mafia-type thugs, evil-minded subterranean creatures, librarians, information thieves, and four main characters whose names you never learn.

Try some:

Every last thing about this elevator was worlds apart from the cheap die-cut job in my apartment building, scarcely one notch up the evolutionary scale from a well bucket. You'd never believe the two pieces of machinery had the same name and the same purpose. The two were pushing the outer limits conceivable as elevators. ...

... I stood in that hermetically sealed vault for what seemed an eternity. The doors showed no sign of ever opening. Stationary in unending silence, a still life: Man in Elevator.

this is the main character singing a Russian folksong he learned as a child:

I didn't know any more of the lyrics, so I made some up: Everyone's gathered around the fire--the pechka--when a knock comes at the door and Father goes to inquire, and there's a reindeer standing on wounded feet, saying, "I'm hungry, give me something to eat"; so they feed it canned peaches. In the end, everyone's sitting around the stove, singing along.

and one more setting:

After three days of snow appears a sudden sky of clarity. Rays of sun spill a blinding glare upon the frozen white Town. I hear snow falling from branches everywhere. I stay indoors and draw the curtains against the light, but I cannot escape. The ice-encrusted Town refracts like a huge, many-faceted jewel, sending knives of light to stab my eyes.

There is so much more, and of course I can't possibly convey the soul and beauty of the book in a few short excerpts. But it is difficult to choose even this much to share --there is so little I can quote without giving away integral elements of the story. What I can do for you is suggest that you hie yourself to a library or bookstore and read some Murakami yourself. The Elephant Vanishes is a good place to start--a collection of short stories to test the waters and see if they please you.

*The title of chapter 11
••all photos © David J. Nightingale 2003-09••

I just really like this

I don't think anyone lives in it. If you want to know more, go here.

The Biggest Bun

I'm talking rabbits, here, folks. But I can't honestly say that I wasn't pleased with that awkward and cryptic title...

It's nice to know that when life is taking a steam roller to my soul I can still manage to amuse myself with just a few well-chosen words. Usually with a funny animal amongst them. Did you know that ducks are the funniest animals in the world? (click on Fun Facts at the bottom right) Research has shown it, friends, and science doesn't lie. However, I think rabbits may be a good runner up. Especially the one I saw yesterday. S and I were driving home, and as we passed Trolley Barn Park, we saw two, yes two! animals that made us ridiculously happy. The first was the biggest damn bunny I have ever seen. The man carrying it had to use two arms and the poor creature was kind of draped over his forearm like a big floppy... floppy... something that flops a lot. Big, floppity brown ears splaying out to the side every which way. White, fluffy tummy exposed to the world. Little fluffity tail-poof puncuating it all. S promptly named him Bun-zilla. BUNZILLA! That just made it all the more glee-inducing.

And then, within just a few seconds of the mega-bun sighting, a tiny 1960s convertible sporstcar zoomed by with a gigantic dog hanging his head out the passenger side. Wearing goggles.* I kid you not! That dog was retro-cool, peoples.
*Or doggles, as they're properly called. Think I'm kidding? Click the damn link! GO on, I dare you. Doggles!

Midnight Blather and Flammulation

Or, How Much Better the World Would Be if Everyone Read the Dictionary Regularly. At least, it would be more fun...

Okay, so it's not quite midnight yet, but I'm sure I've got the blathering part down solid. Transitions are tough. I love that I have a new job, and I love the new job itself, but I'm not used to the schedule yet. I'm also still in a little bit of limbo as far as my duties go—during most of the week I'm the media department go-to, but for the next several Saturdays I'm back to being 100% Tour Guide Chick. I can handle switching back and forth; in truth, I like variety and change. It's exciting. But the sad fact is that I really function better with routine.
Blah blah blah blah blah...

How dreadfully boring. Not only am I seriously blathering, but it's not even in the slightest bit an interesting kind of blather.


And now for something completely different!

So let me tell you about the new word I discovered yesterday in the midst of a wildly successful game of Scrabble:

feculent

Lovely little word! The root derives from feces...have you figured it out yet? It means filthy, nasty, or just plain covered in poop. Wonderful! Please do not pretend that you do not find poop funny. Of course you do, or you would not be human.

And I just now discovered another positively perky and precise little word: flammulated. FLAMMULATED!! Get flammulated, will you? Actually, you could if you were blushing—it means "of a reddish color; ruddy." Like flame, you see? The funny thing is that this word is used mostly just to describe one particular tiny owl native to North and Central America. The flammulated owl: Otus flammeolus.

By the way, flammulation really is a word, too. Use it in conversation tomorrow! Amaze your friends! It means a small flamelike marking. I needed a word to describe that, didn't you? How I love English. So many words; so many words to describe one small detail of one small thing that only 0.4% of the population even knows about. It truly is an extravagant and ridiculous language. And absolutely wonderful.

Running right along with that train of thought, did you know that deer poop is so special it gets its own name? Yep. Fewmets. Deer poop and deer poop only. Other types of poo need not apply. And there's actually a word fecundify. It just gets better and better, doesn't it? I'm going to make you look that last one up yourself if you don't know it. I can't do all the work around here—I need to get to bed!

footnotes:
1. All definitions were taken from the OED shorter edition
2. Above Scrabble catfight brought to you by a French advertisement for a Scrabble tournament
3. If you google scrabble images you will get some interesting results...

Juice Paradox

So there I was, enjoying a tasty box of apple juice from our neato vending machine at work that only vends healthy or at least not-so-unhealthy snacks—things like kombucha, miniscule stir-fry entrées, Clif bars, nuts, and organic cookies and chips. This machine has been a lifesaver on multiple occasions when I either forgot my lunch or just didn't bring enough to eat. I absolutely love that we have so many tasty and healthy things to choose from. I've never seen a vending machine like this anywhere else, and that's a real shame; I'm sure that a surprising number of people would choose to snack on something other than a candy bar if they had the option to do so.

But I digress. I have an issue with this apple juice. The front graphic proclaimed proudly:

"100% Juice!"

But then along the bottom it said "100% APPLE JUICE, from concentrate with other added ingredients." Huh? Wait a minute—which is it: all juice, or concentrate with added STUFF in it? It can't be both without violating the laws of physics, so come on, fess up to the facts! If they had a 1-800 number I would call them up like my friend Adrian used to do and grill them about the contradiction. I suppose if I really wanted to bother them, I could look up the company online (Back to Nature, for those of you who may feel compelled to take up the cause) and get their number that way.

But I've got other things to do.