Yesterday (the 27th) my sister gave birth to her second kid, a son named Quinn Matthew Something Lastname. The middlenames (Matthew and SOmething, I can't remember the something) are after our cousin Matthew and her husband's uncle, both of whom are no longer with us. Baby Quinn is reportedly healthy and seemed a tad large (I don't remember the measurements, just that they seemed big). For some odd reason, I thought her baby was due after ours.
Denise's birthday was today. Aeia and I baked her a cake. You can tell who frosted it fairly easily... The running joke with this birthday is that Denise forgot how old she is, and we haven't really been letting her live it down.
She had her weekly stress test today to check on the baby. Everything still looks good and she might not have to undergo the stress tests anymore if everything is still good tomorrow.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Bad Day
The day started off well enough. I went grocery shopping early in order to beat the late morning crowds. I played a little PS2 with Aeia. Then I picked up Lash from school.
When Lash got in to the van he was holding his arm, like a wounded animal hiding his wound. It turned out he was trying to hide the tear in his favorite shirt: a blue Snoopy t-shirt with long white shirt sleeves sewn in to it to make it look like someone wearing a t-shirt over a long shirt. All of his clothes were a grass stained mess of grime, and his favorite shirt was torn. It took a half hour of coercion before he finally admitted that he had torn the shirt on purpose. His classmates were teasing him about the shirt (they said it was a girl's shirt, which it was not). He told his teacher about the teasing, which netted zero reprimand, and the teasing continued. To the point where Lash tore a small hole in his shirt sleeve with a pencil and then ripped the hole into a much larger disaster with his hands. And then cried for over an hour at home because his favorite shirt was ruined.
I am so f-ing tired of his school. In Kindergarten he would retaliate against the bullies. He'd get in trouble, but they'd leave him alone. After being taught the wrongness of a physical response, he's gotten a first hand education in how teachers and administrators today don't take the time or energy to give a flying flip about their students. I don't expect a teacher to be able to watch every kid every minute of the school day, or even one kid every minute of the school day. I'm not unrealistic that way. What I do expect though, is that a teacher pay more attention to a kid who consistently reports abuse from his peers. At least once a week I get a report from Lash that he's been bullied in some form, from pushing, to teasing, to kicking, to food being spilled on him, to mud being thrown at him. No one ever sees this, and no on ever does anything about it when he reports it to them.
I really feel that if I have to continue replacing his clothing as often as I do due to their getting ruined by other kids at school, his school ought to have to pay to buy him a new wardrobe. I'm this close to encouraging him to return to retaliation against the kids. A couple 2nd grade suspensions might be worth an end to the bullying.
When Lash got in to the van he was holding his arm, like a wounded animal hiding his wound. It turned out he was trying to hide the tear in his favorite shirt: a blue Snoopy t-shirt with long white shirt sleeves sewn in to it to make it look like someone wearing a t-shirt over a long shirt. All of his clothes were a grass stained mess of grime, and his favorite shirt was torn. It took a half hour of coercion before he finally admitted that he had torn the shirt on purpose. His classmates were teasing him about the shirt (they said it was a girl's shirt, which it was not). He told his teacher about the teasing, which netted zero reprimand, and the teasing continued. To the point where Lash tore a small hole in his shirt sleeve with a pencil and then ripped the hole into a much larger disaster with his hands. And then cried for over an hour at home because his favorite shirt was ruined.
I am so f-ing tired of his school. In Kindergarten he would retaliate against the bullies. He'd get in trouble, but they'd leave him alone. After being taught the wrongness of a physical response, he's gotten a first hand education in how teachers and administrators today don't take the time or energy to give a flying flip about their students. I don't expect a teacher to be able to watch every kid every minute of the school day, or even one kid every minute of the school day. I'm not unrealistic that way. What I do expect though, is that a teacher pay more attention to a kid who consistently reports abuse from his peers. At least once a week I get a report from Lash that he's been bullied in some form, from pushing, to teasing, to kicking, to food being spilled on him, to mud being thrown at him. No one ever sees this, and no on ever does anything about it when he reports it to them.
I really feel that if I have to continue replacing his clothing as often as I do due to their getting ruined by other kids at school, his school ought to have to pay to buy him a new wardrobe. I'm this close to encouraging him to return to retaliation against the kids. A couple 2nd grade suspensions might be worth an end to the bullying.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Poem of the Day
Another one of mine:
Stray
A photo of a dead girl
stares at me as I write
for you.
I try to invoke the scene:
you straddled atop me…
but her frozen smile is whiter than our heat.
A vacation snap-shot:
her eyes squinting forever in the sun
seem happier seeing me than do yours.
I want to suck the life
from this dead girl’s image,
press lips to yours and blow in.
Stray
A photo of a dead girl
stares at me as I write
for you.
I try to invoke the scene:
you straddled atop me…
but her frozen smile is whiter than our heat.
A vacation snap-shot:
her eyes squinting forever in the sun
seem happier seeing me than do yours.
I want to suck the life
from this dead girl’s image,
press lips to yours and blow in.
Monday, April 25, 2005
My Newest Annoyance
Recently I've been engaged in an argument online in the comment section of an acquaintance's blog. I love intelligent discourse, even when it differs from mine (which happened recently between me and Carolyn, and I felt wen respectfully and intelligently). I hate when someone twists what I say to fit their agenda, or outright ignores what I say because they haven't an intelligent response. I guess it might be hypocritical for me to sometimes be a bit reactionary towards people (though rarely), but hate it when it comes from others. Nevertheless, I'm tired of the slough of people out there who are indomitable in their viewpoints and incapable of engaging in actual intelligent discourse.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Nerdfree Night
Ian and Dusty had been out of town all weekend, so when they returned this afternoon, Ian cancelled our weekly Deadlands game. I was bummed because this was the second week in a row we didn't get to play, and I watched the Angel finale (alas, my poor Wesley) today in order to put me in the mood for the big fight I expect to lose CJ in.
So instead I spent the night at home, got the full report from Lash and Aeia on their visit with my mother and sister and caught up on a little of the reading that's been stacking up for me.
And a shout out to whomever sent me the guitar. Now I have to get lessons.
So instead I spent the night at home, got the full report from Lash and Aeia on their visit with my mother and sister and caught up on a little of the reading that's been stacking up for me.
And a shout out to whomever sent me the guitar. Now I have to get lessons.
Poem of the Day
Drew put it on his blog long before I did, but this weekend having been Passover, and our new Pope having been Hitler Youth, I felt it might do for some more air time.
First They Came for the Jews
First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.
Pastor Martin Niemöller- 1945
First They Came for the Jews
First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.
Pastor Martin Niemöller- 1945
Kid Free
Well, only partly. My mother came up to take Lash and Aeia for the weekend on a visit to their aunts. It's been a lot quieter around here, but I miss them and am in constant worry for their safety until their return. Sigh, I'm such a parent.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Never Ending
I've been thinking about coming out of the closet. The concept of it, that is. Obviously, to read me you note I'm not a closeted individual, so it's not thoughts of needing to come out that I've been having, but rather it's been thoughts of how I can never be done coming out. As I've been reconnecting with an old, long-lost friend this past week, the question of outing myself, and when, has come to the fore for me.
As a male in a society where vanilla heterosexuality is the perceived and accepted norm, to meet me on the street a person would generally just assume I'm straight (still hate labels), as the odds are in their favor.
I come out as bisexual to wife (then girlfriend), to family, to friends, but it doesn't end there. Eventually there are more family, more friends. There are coworkers; there are students. There are my readers. Someday there will be my children; perhaps I'll be around long enough that I'll have their children to come out to. Who knows? And then there's always the decision as to whether it might be best (for reasons of personal or financial safety) to not be out in certain circles/situations/circumstances. I hear it all the time: "I'm out to so-and-so and so-and-so but not so-and-so." It's obvious to me that the process is universally similar, or at least it seems to be.
I wonder how much relevence this has on the coming out story as part of GLBT identity. How can any of us have a definitive coming out story if the process is never going to end? Or is it that with every coming out story, there's a particular outing (typically the first to family) that has the most emotional resonance? If that's the case, maybe I'm still waiting for mine, as mine has been rather blase up to this point.
I resign myself to the idea that I can never ever really be simply out. Instead, I'll always find myself in the process of coming out. Every day, every new experience is going to have the potential of a new person in my life, and a new instance of my needing to out myself to them.
As a male in a society where vanilla heterosexuality is the perceived and accepted norm, to meet me on the street a person would generally just assume I'm straight (still hate labels), as the odds are in their favor.
I come out as bisexual to wife (then girlfriend), to family, to friends, but it doesn't end there. Eventually there are more family, more friends. There are coworkers; there are students. There are my readers. Someday there will be my children; perhaps I'll be around long enough that I'll have their children to come out to. Who knows? And then there's always the decision as to whether it might be best (for reasons of personal or financial safety) to not be out in certain circles/situations/circumstances. I hear it all the time: "I'm out to so-and-so and so-and-so but not so-and-so." It's obvious to me that the process is universally similar, or at least it seems to be.
I wonder how much relevence this has on the coming out story as part of GLBT identity. How can any of us have a definitive coming out story if the process is never going to end? Or is it that with every coming out story, there's a particular outing (typically the first to family) that has the most emotional resonance? If that's the case, maybe I'm still waiting for mine, as mine has been rather blase up to this point.
I resign myself to the idea that I can never ever really be simply out. Instead, I'll always find myself in the process of coming out. Every day, every new experience is going to have the potential of a new person in my life, and a new instance of my needing to out myself to them.
Poem of the Day
Small Frogs Killed On The Highway
Still,
I would leap too
Into the light,
If I had the chance.
It is everything, the wet green stalk of the field
On the other side of the road.
They crouch there, too, faltering in terror
And take strange wing. Many
Of the dead never moved, but many
Of the dead are alive forever in the split second
Auto headlights more sudden
Than their drivers know.
The drivers burrow backward into dank pools
Where nothing begets
Nothing.
Across the road, tadpoles are dancing
On the quarter thumbnail
Of the moon. They can't see,
Not yet.
--James Wright
Still,
I would leap too
Into the light,
If I had the chance.
It is everything, the wet green stalk of the field
On the other side of the road.
They crouch there, too, faltering in terror
And take strange wing. Many
Of the dead never moved, but many
Of the dead are alive forever in the split second
Auto headlights more sudden
Than their drivers know.
The drivers burrow backward into dank pools
Where nothing begets
Nothing.
Across the road, tadpoles are dancing
On the quarter thumbnail
Of the moon. They can't see,
Not yet.
--James Wright
the State of Things
Today we had a foster parent training meeting at the agency. We were taught about fetal alcohol syndrome and the sort of behaviours we can expect to see in children who suffer from this (especially as so many of them end up in our care). It was really informative, except it was nothing I didn't already know (and hadn't sat through two other times in the past two years with the agency). What I would love is a class on the effects of drugs that are more prevalent in Chico (obviously, alcohol is a big abuse in Chico, but we have other big guns--bigger than other topics covered tonight like cocaine) like marijuana, exstacy and GHB. I just think, as I have four teen foster kids now, it would be nicer to learn about/discuss something that's more likely to affect our foster (and bio) kids.
Denise is doing well. Steadily getting larger and more tired. Work is continuing to bug her, but she keeps on keeping on.
Tomorrow is Lash's jog-a-thon at school. We forgot to solicit pledges so I'm blanket pledging a nice sum for him. Last year he ran thirty laps in the tie allotted. This year he says he's going to push for forty. So long as he enjoys himself and does his best.
Aeia keeps getting up in the early morning to be sick, and is then fine the rest of the day, mostly. I'm wondering if she's developing seasonal allergies like me. I need to take her in to see a doc. She's going to hate if she misses school; it's her last week of preschool and none of her friends will be going to the same Kindergarten so she won't see any of them again after this week.
Denise is doing well. Steadily getting larger and more tired. Work is continuing to bug her, but she keeps on keeping on.
Tomorrow is Lash's jog-a-thon at school. We forgot to solicit pledges so I'm blanket pledging a nice sum for him. Last year he ran thirty laps in the tie allotted. This year he says he's going to push for forty. So long as he enjoys himself and does his best.
Aeia keeps getting up in the early morning to be sick, and is then fine the rest of the day, mostly. I'm wondering if she's developing seasonal allergies like me. I need to take her in to see a doc. She's going to hate if she misses school; it's her last week of preschool and none of her friends will be going to the same Kindergarten so she won't see any of them again after this week.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Most of the Rest of the Weekend
Saw Sin City again. Still loved it.
Saturday nerdgames, I continued to feed the group really obvious information about the current situation's background, and they continued to completely ignore it, though they still somehow blundered into defeating the Big Bad of the area. One of them, anyway.
Sunday Deadlands at Ian's didn't happen. Dusty's out of town and we need all of the group present for what happens next there, so after the aforementioned Chuck E. Cheese, I hung out at home with the family, ate teriyaki chicken wings and watched the remake of Reefer Madness. It was ok. Some of the song and dance numbers got to be a bit boring, but I still enjoyed it as a whole. Lovely commentary on the current state of the USA through the lens of 1930s USA.
Saturday nerdgames, I continued to feed the group really obvious information about the current situation's background, and they continued to completely ignore it, though they still somehow blundered into defeating the Big Bad of the area. One of them, anyway.
Sunday Deadlands at Ian's didn't happen. Dusty's out of town and we need all of the group present for what happens next there, so after the aforementioned Chuck E. Cheese, I hung out at home with the family, ate teriyaki chicken wings and watched the remake of Reefer Madness. It was ok. Some of the song and dance numbers got to be a bit boring, but I still enjoyed it as a whole. Lovely commentary on the current state of the USA through the lens of 1930s USA.
Reconnecting, part Swei
Among other things, I spent time this weekend meeting with my refound old friend Robert. As an added treat, I also met his daughter Erin and was able to have her and my kids meet, play and become friends. We fell into old habits of our friendship pretty quickly, which was good--like the past eight years were as if no more than the past eight days, only with added kids.
We took the kids to Chuck E. Cheese today and let them run wild a couple hours. Man, I hate that place: bad expensive food and far too warm & stuffy an atmosphere. I can deal with the onslaught of children yelling and screaming non-stop, but the heat always bugs me.
We took the kids to Chuck E. Cheese today and let them run wild a couple hours. Man, I hate that place: bad expensive food and far too warm & stuffy an atmosphere. I can deal with the onslaught of children yelling and screaming non-stop, but the heat always bugs me.
Poem of the Day
From my Master's Thesis, in progress, a translation of Icaro, a book of Portuguese poetry by my great-great-great grandmother Angelina Vidal.
Ave, Lux!
Brazil, Patria de luz! Brazil, terra bemdita,
Que trazes na consciencia o altar da Liberdade,
Onde se abre o missal da civica hombridade
Na pagina do Amor, que os povos nobilita!
Brazil, ninho auroral, onde o Progresso habita
E o pensamento guia os passos da Vontade!
Eu venho a desatar rosarios de piedade
No calix consagrado a dor que em ti palpita...
Mas na hora solemne, a hora da paixao,
Em que chora o sabia, e tece a lua cheia
A mortalha lilial de um grande coracao,
Embora christalise a tragica epopeia,
Minha alma ousa affirmar--Terra da Promissao,
Teu filho nao morreu...porque nao morre a Ideia!
by Angelina Vidal
Hail, Light!
Brazil, motherland of light! Brazil, blessed earth,
you bring into conscience the altar of liberty,
where if the civic man opens the prayer book
onto the page of love, your people are ennobled!
Brazil, dawn’s nest, where progress lives
and the way of thinking guides steps with pleasure!
I come to undo rosaries from piety
and pour them into the chalice made from the ache throbbing in you...
But in that solemn hour, the hour of passion,
the thrush cries, and the full moon weaves
a lily shroud from a grand heart,
though an epic tragedy crystallizes,
my soul dares declare--Promised Land,
your son shall not die...because the idea does not die!
translation by D. Evan Peterson
Ave, Lux!
Brazil, Patria de luz! Brazil, terra bemdita,
Que trazes na consciencia o altar da Liberdade,
Onde se abre o missal da civica hombridade
Na pagina do Amor, que os povos nobilita!
Brazil, ninho auroral, onde o Progresso habita
E o pensamento guia os passos da Vontade!
Eu venho a desatar rosarios de piedade
No calix consagrado a dor que em ti palpita...
Mas na hora solemne, a hora da paixao,
Em que chora o sabia, e tece a lua cheia
A mortalha lilial de um grande coracao,
Embora christalise a tragica epopeia,
Minha alma ousa affirmar--Terra da Promissao,
Teu filho nao morreu...porque nao morre a Ideia!
by Angelina Vidal
Hail, Light!
Brazil, motherland of light! Brazil, blessed earth,
you bring into conscience the altar of liberty,
where if the civic man opens the prayer book
onto the page of love, your people are ennobled!
Brazil, dawn’s nest, where progress lives
and the way of thinking guides steps with pleasure!
I come to undo rosaries from piety
and pour them into the chalice made from the ache throbbing in you...
But in that solemn hour, the hour of passion,
the thrush cries, and the full moon weaves
a lily shroud from a grand heart,
though an epic tragedy crystallizes,
my soul dares declare--Promised Land,
your son shall not die...because the idea does not die!
translation by D. Evan Peterson
Friday, April 15, 2005
I Bleed on this Screen for You
I started this journal shortly before my thirtieth birthday. I still am not quite sure whether I had any real intent behind the starting of this. I might have been doing it completely as a lark. In the past year, my time online has been spent far more on writing for this than for anything else, which ultimately surprises me.
See, in real life, while I'm a very open person with pretty much no topic off limits, I'm not at all a very forthcoming person. Most people have to open me up in conversation themselves--I don't do much in the way of advertising my personal life, background, proclivities, etc. Because of this, it's just a tad weird to me that I'm as forthcoming as I am with my life to all of you, many potentially strangers. Is it ironic that the internet can supply me with a weird sense of anonymity while it's being utilized as a function of the exact opposite?
I wish I knew who all comprised my visitors here. I've had a stat counter here for only a month and I know the 1500 visitors it's logged so far can't be only from me, my grandmother, Denise, Drew, Adj and Carolyn (we each would have had to visit 250 times in the month). I wonder though if I did know who all visited frequently, or at all, would I become less open? Can't really say. It would be nice to have a discourse with more of my readers. I have the personal e-mails of everyone I listed above, so blogging is pointless (or is it?) if they're my only audience.
Back to the beginning...I was turning thirty when I started this blog. I was going through a serious bout of early onset midlife crisis, and couldn't figure out why. Now I'm barely two months shy of 31. When I was 13, my dad was 31 and he was going to prison for child molestation. I'm now as old as my father was when I discovered he was a sick sick bad bad man and my own world was shattered by it all. Somewhere in me I can feel another big emotional personal crisis building and I wonder if last year was maybe just the rumblings before the big quake. Maybe it wasn't that 30 was a milestone for me at all so much as it was just a precursor of an age that had major emotional impact on me as a kid. Am I just being f-ing neurotic? I think I'm looking towards a year that will be incredibly hard on my psyche. Damn him for everything he's done in life. Damn him for causing me to plant doubt of myself in my heart and carrying that doubt with me the last 18 years, and every year to come from here on. Damn him.
A while back someone asked me here what my greatest fear was. While I answered with something that is truly a great fear of mine, I lied about it being my greatest. My greatest fear is waking up and finding out that nurture is nothing and nature is everything. My greatest fear is becoming him. Not a chance of it happening, but I still fear it. I think this year might end up being a really big mindf-- for me, and that I'll be fairly neurotic all the way to 32 (and do my best to hide it well).
Maybe I wasn't so off the mark last year when I kept saying the world was going to end on my thirtieth birthday.
See, in real life, while I'm a very open person with pretty much no topic off limits, I'm not at all a very forthcoming person. Most people have to open me up in conversation themselves--I don't do much in the way of advertising my personal life, background, proclivities, etc. Because of this, it's just a tad weird to me that I'm as forthcoming as I am with my life to all of you, many potentially strangers. Is it ironic that the internet can supply me with a weird sense of anonymity while it's being utilized as a function of the exact opposite?
I wish I knew who all comprised my visitors here. I've had a stat counter here for only a month and I know the 1500 visitors it's logged so far can't be only from me, my grandmother, Denise, Drew, Adj and Carolyn (we each would have had to visit 250 times in the month). I wonder though if I did know who all visited frequently, or at all, would I become less open? Can't really say. It would be nice to have a discourse with more of my readers. I have the personal e-mails of everyone I listed above, so blogging is pointless (or is it?) if they're my only audience.
Back to the beginning...I was turning thirty when I started this blog. I was going through a serious bout of early onset midlife crisis, and couldn't figure out why. Now I'm barely two months shy of 31. When I was 13, my dad was 31 and he was going to prison for child molestation. I'm now as old as my father was when I discovered he was a sick sick bad bad man and my own world was shattered by it all. Somewhere in me I can feel another big emotional personal crisis building and I wonder if last year was maybe just the rumblings before the big quake. Maybe it wasn't that 30 was a milestone for me at all so much as it was just a precursor of an age that had major emotional impact on me as a kid. Am I just being f-ing neurotic? I think I'm looking towards a year that will be incredibly hard on my psyche. Damn him for everything he's done in life. Damn him for causing me to plant doubt of myself in my heart and carrying that doubt with me the last 18 years, and every year to come from here on. Damn him.
A while back someone asked me here what my greatest fear was. While I answered with something that is truly a great fear of mine, I lied about it being my greatest. My greatest fear is waking up and finding out that nurture is nothing and nature is everything. My greatest fear is becoming him. Not a chance of it happening, but I still fear it. I think this year might end up being a really big mindf-- for me, and that I'll be fairly neurotic all the way to 32 (and do my best to hide it well).
Maybe I wasn't so off the mark last year when I kept saying the world was going to end on my thirtieth birthday.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Reconnecting
You ever lose track of someone you were once incredibly close with and suddenly just weren't? And then you wanted to check in on each other and you'd moved and they'd moved and everyone's numbers were changed and their mothers remarried or disappeared but regardless changed their numbers as well?
Yeah, me too.
There's a whole slough of my friends (Seth Fuhrer, Micah Brown, Marc Stroud, Robert Harcourt, Erica Swinton, Tom Curry and Michell Gamble for anyone who may be googling them and know how I can reach them) who dropped off the radar at about the same time: when Denise and I married and moved away (ok, Marc stayed in touch a while longer than most, but has been missing a couple years now). Every year or so I try all of the free avenues I can think of to try and locate any of them, and keep hitting walls. It can be very aggravating.
A month ago I was driving around the downtown area and quite literally nearly ran into one of them (Robert); he didn't notice me, but I about shat when I saw him, and saw him walking on to the campus. I also cursed the lack of immediate parking as it made it so that I couldn't just stop.
But it put a fire under me again and once I got home I hopped online to find him in the student directory. Sure enough, I found his name there and was pleased. Then I clicked his name and got an error screen declaring there was no right to view his info. Got the same on every other random sample name, and got the same on my own name. Aggravating. One call to tech support later and I learn that the directory is no longer in use due to fear of identity theft... then why the fuck is it still there at all? Aggravating. Is he in the phone book? Of course not.
However, Robert was a big time nerdgamer and comic reader back in the day, so I put my sleuth hat on and moved on to phase two. I'm in really good with BaT Comics and was able to go through their client list; and he wasn't on it. Wasn't on it at one of the other two shops in town (and I have no relationship at thew third to capitalize on). Another dead end. Argh.
What sucks more than losing track of your friends and being unable to locate them later is losing track of them, being unable to locate them, seeing them by chance and not being able to do squat about it. Argh.
By random insomniac web surfing chance I accidented upon one of those people search sites the other night and searched for myself. Of course I got a bazillion instances of my name, but it also listed each entry by city and by age if known. I clicked one that was obviously mine and got redirected to a page asking me to pay for the info. Ugh. So I typed in his name and his age and got hits for Marysville (his childhood home), Reno (didn't expect that one) and one in Chico. Biting the bullet, I doled out the $19.95 (especially useful as it allows me to get the address/phone info for not only him, but anyone else I can track down for seven days--useless if I've no clue which is their accurate info) and got a physical address for the Chico hit.
So I go there today and no one is there. The shades on the windows are open so I peep in. The walls are bare. Not a picture or incriminating piece of identification in sight. Ugh. Luckily, #4 had forgotten to take her schoolwork out of the van, so I stole a sheet of paper and wrote a windy note, risking giving my name address and phone to a total stranger. I then moved a potted plant from the patio and onto the doorstep, with the note under it so it wouldn't be missed.
10:30 pm tonight I get a call--and it's him. Rock on. We're going to talk more tomorrow and work on catching up, especially since we both ended up in the same city in the long run (he, in fact, lived 3 blocks away from me, before we moved to our current apartment, for two years and we never crossed paths).
I wish I could applaud my own super sleuthing skills. I think I'd exhausted all avenues I could come up with over the course of seven years though, so wary as I was, I guess it was $20 well spent.
Yeah, me too.
There's a whole slough of my friends (Seth Fuhrer, Micah Brown, Marc Stroud, Robert Harcourt, Erica Swinton, Tom Curry and Michell Gamble for anyone who may be googling them and know how I can reach them) who dropped off the radar at about the same time: when Denise and I married and moved away (ok, Marc stayed in touch a while longer than most, but has been missing a couple years now). Every year or so I try all of the free avenues I can think of to try and locate any of them, and keep hitting walls. It can be very aggravating.
A month ago I was driving around the downtown area and quite literally nearly ran into one of them (Robert); he didn't notice me, but I about shat when I saw him, and saw him walking on to the campus. I also cursed the lack of immediate parking as it made it so that I couldn't just stop.
But it put a fire under me again and once I got home I hopped online to find him in the student directory. Sure enough, I found his name there and was pleased. Then I clicked his name and got an error screen declaring there was no right to view his info. Got the same on every other random sample name, and got the same on my own name. Aggravating. One call to tech support later and I learn that the directory is no longer in use due to fear of identity theft... then why the fuck is it still there at all? Aggravating. Is he in the phone book? Of course not.
However, Robert was a big time nerdgamer and comic reader back in the day, so I put my sleuth hat on and moved on to phase two. I'm in really good with BaT Comics and was able to go through their client list; and he wasn't on it. Wasn't on it at one of the other two shops in town (and I have no relationship at thew third to capitalize on). Another dead end. Argh.
What sucks more than losing track of your friends and being unable to locate them later is losing track of them, being unable to locate them, seeing them by chance and not being able to do squat about it. Argh.
By random insomniac web surfing chance I accidented upon one of those people search sites the other night and searched for myself. Of course I got a bazillion instances of my name, but it also listed each entry by city and by age if known. I clicked one that was obviously mine and got redirected to a page asking me to pay for the info. Ugh. So I typed in his name and his age and got hits for Marysville (his childhood home), Reno (didn't expect that one) and one in Chico. Biting the bullet, I doled out the $19.95 (especially useful as it allows me to get the address/phone info for not only him, but anyone else I can track down for seven days--useless if I've no clue which is their accurate info) and got a physical address for the Chico hit.
So I go there today and no one is there. The shades on the windows are open so I peep in. The walls are bare. Not a picture or incriminating piece of identification in sight. Ugh. Luckily, #4 had forgotten to take her schoolwork out of the van, so I stole a sheet of paper and wrote a windy note, risking giving my name address and phone to a total stranger. I then moved a potted plant from the patio and onto the doorstep, with the note under it so it wouldn't be missed.
10:30 pm tonight I get a call--and it's him. Rock on. We're going to talk more tomorrow and work on catching up, especially since we both ended up in the same city in the long run (he, in fact, lived 3 blocks away from me, before we moved to our current apartment, for two years and we never crossed paths).
I wish I could applaud my own super sleuthing skills. I think I'd exhausted all avenues I could come up with over the course of seven years though, so wary as I was, I guess it was $20 well spent.
Poem of the Day
she being Brand
-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having
thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.
K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her
up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my
lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity
avenue i touched the accelerator and give
her the juice,good
(it
was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on
the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and
brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.
stand-
;Still)
My favorite by e.e. cummings
-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having
thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.
K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her
up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my
lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity
avenue i touched the accelerator and give
her the juice,good
(it
was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on
the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and
brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.
stand-
;Still)
My favorite by e.e. cummings
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Movie Reviews
This week I rented Sideways and Closer, two movies I'd been wanting to see and hadn't had the motivation to see in the theatre (point of fact, I'd have bought Closer sight unseen save for the fact that the store was sold out of purchasable copies).
I enjoyed Sideways. It was fun. It was decently written. I like the principal actors. I don't think it was great, however. I can't see why it drew so much Oscar buzz, but I at least agree with its not winning. Not great, but good. And as someone who wants to cultivate a better palate for wine, it was instructive and entertaining.
Closer... not quite what I was expecting from the countless reviews I'd read, but close. I love me my Natalie Portman movies; I find her visually fascinating in a way I find so few actors today. Ever since Leon, The Professional I've been captivated by her work. And, by and large (I loves me my cliches), she was the most sympathetic, believable and enjoyable character in the film. Almost didn't return this one to Blockbuster (as they'd then just charge me the difference between the rental and the dvd as new thanks to their new late fees policy) but decided I could probably get it cheaper used later, or new on Amazon.
I enjoyed Sideways. It was fun. It was decently written. I like the principal actors. I don't think it was great, however. I can't see why it drew so much Oscar buzz, but I at least agree with its not winning. Not great, but good. And as someone who wants to cultivate a better palate for wine, it was instructive and entertaining.
Closer... not quite what I was expecting from the countless reviews I'd read, but close. I love me my Natalie Portman movies; I find her visually fascinating in a way I find so few actors today. Ever since Leon, The Professional I've been captivated by her work. And, by and large (I loves me my cliches), she was the most sympathetic, believable and enjoyable character in the film. Almost didn't return this one to Blockbuster (as they'd then just charge me the difference between the rental and the dvd as new thanks to their new late fees policy) but decided I could probably get it cheaper used later, or new on Amazon.
Poem of the Day
There is no poem that will stop this war
This is not the one. There is none. There is
nothing to be done. We are not anything but
the Hun the fierce images in old textbooks
the Mongol horsemen rape and pillage
villages burning and the laughter of old men.
The radio and television prepare us
for the Super Bowl. But already in Ohio
we are number one. All of us better
than all of the rest of the world. Admit it
it was the perfect game. Allah praise Ohio State.
And admit this all who listen to NPR
the president is smarter than you.
He is riding the armored car of history while you
look for a refuge some safe place for your children.
But there is no place to hide. We are the virus.
Everything that cannot be bought and sold
for a profit falls before us. He knows this
even if you believe he is a fool. He lives and breathes
Karl Marx while you hold up a sign that says
Peace is Patriotic. The laughter of old men.
There is no image to stop the war. No child
with burned blacked skin like barbecued chicken.
The children waste away from bad plumbing and no
medicine. We pass along to each other the chips
and organic carrots. Bottled water.
There is no poem as good as government ensured
bonds. We are wounded with so little interest. There
is no poem that will pay us ten percent and stop
this war. The Germans marched prematurely
through history never understanding the power
of the dollar never having heard of Lexus and SUV
never knowing anything about baseball never
knowing that the Yankees only lose enough
to make the game seem fair. Vietnam is empty
in the memory. Cambodia fills with Wal-Mart
and Burger King. Bombs from 20,000 feet.
The first dictate of battle is to make sure
the enemy has no weapons to harm you.
Disable their best batter. Tonya Harding their best runner.
Then attack and wait for the parade. But dont wait
for the poem that will stop this war. There is none.
The history of the empire has just begun.
Joe Napora
This is not the one. There is none. There is
nothing to be done. We are not anything but
the Hun the fierce images in old textbooks
the Mongol horsemen rape and pillage
villages burning and the laughter of old men.
The radio and television prepare us
for the Super Bowl. But already in Ohio
we are number one. All of us better
than all of the rest of the world. Admit it
it was the perfect game. Allah praise Ohio State.
And admit this all who listen to NPR
the president is smarter than you.
He is riding the armored car of history while you
look for a refuge some safe place for your children.
But there is no place to hide. We are the virus.
Everything that cannot be bought and sold
for a profit falls before us. He knows this
even if you believe he is a fool. He lives and breathes
Karl Marx while you hold up a sign that says
Peace is Patriotic. The laughter of old men.
There is no image to stop the war. No child
with burned blacked skin like barbecued chicken.
The children waste away from bad plumbing and no
medicine. We pass along to each other the chips
and organic carrots. Bottled water.
There is no poem as good as government ensured
bonds. We are wounded with so little interest. There
is no poem that will pay us ten percent and stop
this war. The Germans marched prematurely
through history never understanding the power
of the dollar never having heard of Lexus and SUV
never knowing anything about baseball never
knowing that the Yankees only lose enough
to make the game seem fair. Vietnam is empty
in the memory. Cambodia fills with Wal-Mart
and Burger King. Bombs from 20,000 feet.
The first dictate of battle is to make sure
the enemy has no weapons to harm you.
Disable their best batter. Tonya Harding their best runner.
Then attack and wait for the parade. But dont wait
for the poem that will stop this war. There is none.
The history of the empire has just begun.
Joe Napora
Monday, April 11, 2005
Sunday Night Nerdgames: Deadlands
Not a whole lot happened this session. First we began late because Phil showed relatively late due to hang-over and Paul showed really late due to his recording session going long. When his band's cd is finally cut, I'm bound to burn it and force-feed it down my friends' throats like I did with Cowboy (who I still miss greatly).
Anyhow, much of this session was individual activities as our group prepared for round two with the evil acid monster wormlings from last week (the ones that almost killed me). CJ spent her time at the library continuing her studies and she's now no longer a complete illiterate!
Anyhow, much of this session was individual activities as our group prepared for round two with the evil acid monster wormlings from last week (the ones that almost killed me). CJ spent her time at the library continuing her studies and she's now no longer a complete illiterate!
Further Baby Updates
We've reached a consensus on the names, and they're the same as the possible ones I posted previously:
Rael Pietro Maximillian Peterson for a boy (I wonder if Denise would let me push for Maximoff instead, and if she'd get it)
Clea Illeana Miriya Peterson for a girl
Also, we learned that we've a new complication to deal with. According to the latest sonogram, Denise's body hasn't produced as much amniotic fluid as she's supposed to, so now we're on weekly stress testing to make sure the baby is fine. They didn't make it sound like they were very worried, just that it was something we definitely need to keep a monitor on.
Rael Pietro Maximillian Peterson for a boy (I wonder if Denise would let me push for Maximoff instead, and if she'd get it)
Clea Illeana Miriya Peterson for a girl
Also, we learned that we've a new complication to deal with. According to the latest sonogram, Denise's body hasn't produced as much amniotic fluid as she's supposed to, so now we're on weekly stress testing to make sure the baby is fine. They didn't make it sound like they were very worried, just that it was something we definitely need to keep a monitor on.
Poem of the Day
Another one of mine, published in Watershed volume 26 number 2 (as was the Tatsu poem:
Discovered While Searching Under Bed for Yard Sale Stuff
It caught me unexpected—
your gray hooded sweatshirt:
CalPoly San Luis Obispo printed on the chest,
left cuff unraveling from the sleeve.
Despite months of distance,
your scent lingers:
dried sweat on the chest and lower back,
papaya from the lotion your sister makes by hand
and sent for our second Christmas.
The last time you wore it
was the big Frisbee football showdown
at your company picnic—
big because winning meant showing your coworkers
we weren’t a couple of limp wristed faggots.
I sprained my ankle for the fifth time;
to you, losing us the game.
You seethed in silence the whole ride home—
put a cold wall of bruised pride between us.
Still, that night you bandaged my sprain tenderly
after supporting and soaping me in the shower.
I could still bear standing,
but I needed your arm around my waist,
your hands massaging apricot scrub
into my back.
I needed you pressed against me,
your lips on my nape of neck
as shampoo rinsed us down the drain.
Pulling the old sweatshirt on,
with its shoulders broader than mine,
I still do.
Discovered While Searching Under Bed for Yard Sale Stuff
It caught me unexpected—
your gray hooded sweatshirt:
CalPoly San Luis Obispo printed on the chest,
left cuff unraveling from the sleeve.
Despite months of distance,
your scent lingers:
dried sweat on the chest and lower back,
papaya from the lotion your sister makes by hand
and sent for our second Christmas.
The last time you wore it
was the big Frisbee football showdown
at your company picnic—
big because winning meant showing your coworkers
we weren’t a couple of limp wristed faggots.
I sprained my ankle for the fifth time;
to you, losing us the game.
You seethed in silence the whole ride home—
put a cold wall of bruised pride between us.
Still, that night you bandaged my sprain tenderly
after supporting and soaping me in the shower.
I could still bear standing,
but I needed your arm around my waist,
your hands massaging apricot scrub
into my back.
I needed you pressed against me,
your lips on my nape of neck
as shampoo rinsed us down the drain.
Pulling the old sweatshirt on,
with its shoulders broader than mine,
I still do.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Zombie Madness
Every other Friday night we gather at my place to nerdgame in the zombie horror genre. This week's foray into zombie survival took an interesting turn as a great example of how the best plans inevitably get fucked up by somebody's sudden whim or absolute forgetfulness.
Sadly, #3 is continuing to be a major butthead (an event I meant to blog about yesterday but blogger was down) so his little girl with the creepy teddy bear (it talks to her; or does it? Maybe she's crazy...) spent the session in the restroom and in the van (this episode, they spent the majority of their time in the local tire shop/mechanic that they holed upo in last session, and then made their break for it tonight); this in turn made it so Ian's evil serial killer continued to have no opportunity to kill anyone on the sly (the perverse in me loves that he's playing such an evil monster in a horror story where he isn't the evil monster). Dusty's meth-head was too busy souping up his stolen Mustang to draw more than one preaching session out of Phil's Mormon and tonight's zombie battling was relatively absent (one zombie found within a van inside the shop, two zombie dogs attack Ian's character Randall when they make their break for it).
The beauty of tonight's session was where it all went to hell: the Mormon, the highschool kid (Paul) and the serial killer make this elaborate plan to distract the zombies with the sound of the vehicle motors in the garage so that Randall can sneak out and go to a sporting goods store for survival supplies while they then open the garage doors, plow through the zombies, go to the nearest grocery store for supplies and meet Randall at the sporting goods to pick him up. The methhead jumps the gun and tries to plow through the garage doors and then the zombies, almost killing the Mormon. He gets through, though severely messes up the 'stang. Regardless, their two vehicles make it out. Randall, walking solo, is beset by two zombie dogs and he dispatches them. Methhead sees him and abandons the plan by driving to him (alerting more zombies to his presence) and trying to offer him a lift. Randall runs away into an apt. complex, zombies chasing him slowly as the cars return to plan and head for Albertson's. I ended things there, with Ian unsure of how endangered he is, because cliffhangers are fun.
Sadly, #3 is continuing to be a major butthead (an event I meant to blog about yesterday but blogger was down) so his little girl with the creepy teddy bear (it talks to her; or does it? Maybe she's crazy...) spent the session in the restroom and in the van (this episode, they spent the majority of their time in the local tire shop/mechanic that they holed upo in last session, and then made their break for it tonight); this in turn made it so Ian's evil serial killer continued to have no opportunity to kill anyone on the sly (the perverse in me loves that he's playing such an evil monster in a horror story where he isn't the evil monster). Dusty's meth-head was too busy souping up his stolen Mustang to draw more than one preaching session out of Phil's Mormon and tonight's zombie battling was relatively absent (one zombie found within a van inside the shop, two zombie dogs attack Ian's character Randall when they make their break for it).
The beauty of tonight's session was where it all went to hell: the Mormon, the highschool kid (Paul) and the serial killer make this elaborate plan to distract the zombies with the sound of the vehicle motors in the garage so that Randall can sneak out and go to a sporting goods store for survival supplies while they then open the garage doors, plow through the zombies, go to the nearest grocery store for supplies and meet Randall at the sporting goods to pick him up. The methhead jumps the gun and tries to plow through the garage doors and then the zombies, almost killing the Mormon. He gets through, though severely messes up the 'stang. Regardless, their two vehicles make it out. Randall, walking solo, is beset by two zombie dogs and he dispatches them. Methhead sees him and abandons the plan by driving to him (alerting more zombies to his presence) and trying to offer him a lift. Randall runs away into an apt. complex, zombies chasing him slowly as the cars return to plan and head for Albertson's. I ended things there, with Ian unsure of how endangered he is, because cliffhangers are fun.
Poem of the Day
The Shipfitter's Wife
I loved him most
when he came home from work,
his fingers still curled from fitting pipe,
his denim shirt ringed with sweat
and smelling of salt, the drying weeds
of the ocean. I would go to him where he sat
on the edge of the bed, his forehead
anointed with grease, his cracked hands
jammed between his thighs, and unlace
the steel-toed boots, stroke his ankles,
his calves, the pads and bones of his feet.
Then I'd open his clothes and take
the whole day inside me-the ship's
gray sides, the miles of copper pipe,
the voice of the first man clanging
off the hull's silver ribs, spark of lead
kissing metal, the clamp, the winch,
the white fire of the torch, the whistle
and the long drive home.
-Dorianne Laux
I loved him most
when he came home from work,
his fingers still curled from fitting pipe,
his denim shirt ringed with sweat
and smelling of salt, the drying weeds
of the ocean. I would go to him where he sat
on the edge of the bed, his forehead
anointed with grease, his cracked hands
jammed between his thighs, and unlace
the steel-toed boots, stroke his ankles,
his calves, the pads and bones of his feet.
Then I'd open his clothes and take
the whole day inside me-the ship's
gray sides, the miles of copper pipe,
the voice of the first man clanging
off the hull's silver ribs, spark of lead
kissing metal, the clamp, the winch,
the white fire of the torch, the whistle
and the long drive home.
-Dorianne Laux
Beautiful Serendipity
Perhaps my favorite episode of Coupling re-aired this week, and given my venting in previous post, it was quite serendipitous.
In this episode Susan and Steve are preparing for Susan's baby. We open with Steve having a dream where a plane crash he obviously has no control over is a metaphor for the pregnancy. Awake, they sign up for antenatal classes. Susan asks Sally to join them as Steve's back up. Sally asks Jane to come as her back up. Jane demands new beau Oliver joins her, and he ropes Patrick in because he doesn't want to be the only bloke there. Joy of joys, at the class itself, Patrick is revealed to have slept with most of the women there, during times they were dating their SOs. Blah blah blah. The men adn women are paired off separately to discuss birthing issues. In the question of pain relief, the men unanimously decide on the epidural as the only sensible option (and while I'm friendly with the idea of the epidural, I really don't care all that much what Denise chooses for this) and all the women toss it out. Steve follows with a beautiful instruction for all of the participants to go home, take off their shoes and socks, purposefully stub their toes and try to make the pain go away by breathing.
Anyhoo, Susan eventually tells Steve that she's decided that even though she doesn't want an epidural, she knows she'll ask for one when the pain gets bad and she instructs Steve to make her request the meds three times before letting the doctors administer the meds (I only hope she puts this in writing and submits it to the hospital beforehand, otherwise the docs won't listen to Steven anyway). Steven is now given control over something in the pregnancy, and while incredibly miniscule, it puts him afloat emotionally.
We end with Steve dreaming of the plane again. This time everyone on board but him ate the chicken and got extreme food poisoning. The stewardess recruits him to help as he'll be the only one capable when the time comes--and then hands him a bucket and mop to clean up all the pending vomit with, as the plane's autopilot and autolander will take care of the plane--he's only needed for clean-up. I thought it a great metaphor for the insignificance of the significant power he was given.
I suppose I should have put a spoiler alert up at the top for Adj, as she actually watches the show too.
In this episode Susan and Steve are preparing for Susan's baby. We open with Steve having a dream where a plane crash he obviously has no control over is a metaphor for the pregnancy. Awake, they sign up for antenatal classes. Susan asks Sally to join them as Steve's back up. Sally asks Jane to come as her back up. Jane demands new beau Oliver joins her, and he ropes Patrick in because he doesn't want to be the only bloke there. Joy of joys, at the class itself, Patrick is revealed to have slept with most of the women there, during times they were dating their SOs. Blah blah blah. The men adn women are paired off separately to discuss birthing issues. In the question of pain relief, the men unanimously decide on the epidural as the only sensible option (and while I'm friendly with the idea of the epidural, I really don't care all that much what Denise chooses for this) and all the women toss it out. Steve follows with a beautiful instruction for all of the participants to go home, take off their shoes and socks, purposefully stub their toes and try to make the pain go away by breathing.
Anyhoo, Susan eventually tells Steve that she's decided that even though she doesn't want an epidural, she knows she'll ask for one when the pain gets bad and she instructs Steve to make her request the meds three times before letting the doctors administer the meds (I only hope she puts this in writing and submits it to the hospital beforehand, otherwise the docs won't listen to Steven anyway). Steven is now given control over something in the pregnancy, and while incredibly miniscule, it puts him afloat emotionally.
We end with Steve dreaming of the plane again. This time everyone on board but him ate the chicken and got extreme food poisoning. The stewardess recruits him to help as he'll be the only one capable when the time comes--and then hands him a bucket and mop to clean up all the pending vomit with, as the plane's autopilot and autolander will take care of the plane--he's only needed for clean-up. I thought it a great metaphor for the insignificance of the significant power he was given.
I suppose I should have put a spoiler alert up at the top for Adj, as she actually watches the show too.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Poem of the Day
Here's another of mine. This was published in Watershed magazine 3 1/2 years ago. I need to dig the issue up for my c.v.
Tatsu, Awaiting Her Daimyo
yesterday, blossoms fell from gingko—
small pink stars float through blue heaven
kitsune greeted me at Kiso’s bank,
her black-tipped nose poking out from tall reeds
small white koi dash when my pail breaks water,
fills so I may have tea—
swollen with your legacy.
during harusaki, you promised to return
before gingko blossoms fell
copyright D. Evan Peterson 2001
Tatsu, Awaiting Her Daimyo
yesterday, blossoms fell from gingko—
small pink stars float through blue heaven
kitsune greeted me at Kiso’s bank,
her black-tipped nose poking out from tall reeds
small white koi dash when my pail breaks water,
fills so I may have tea—
swollen with your legacy.
during harusaki, you promised to return
before gingko blossoms fell
copyright D. Evan Peterson 2001
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Baby Names
As with Lash, we've (read: Denise) decided to go back to two middle names, as opposed to the three we gave Aeia.
Currently, a boy child looks something like this:
Rael Pietro Maximilian Peterson (I'm amused she's now pushing for a Peter Peterson after shunning me for liking the name seven years ago for Lash)
girl:
Clea Illeana (something to be determined, I like Miriya (goes with the Max above) or Zor-El) Peterson.
The first names are my choice, but don't think that they're sticking because I was actually given the power to name the kids--I stole that particular power by deciding the name I liked and then telling Lash and Aeia what the names were, and getting them to believe that those would be quite definitely the names we used. As they take any insinuation from her that the name could possibly be anything besides Rael or Clea as a sign that she doesn't love the baby anymore, Denise caved. See the level of dastardlyness I have to resort to?
Currently, a boy child looks something like this:
Rael Pietro Maximilian Peterson (I'm amused she's now pushing for a Peter Peterson after shunning me for liking the name seven years ago for Lash)
girl:
Clea Illeana (something to be determined, I like Miriya (goes with the Max above) or Zor-El) Peterson.
The first names are my choice, but don't think that they're sticking because I was actually given the power to name the kids--I stole that particular power by deciding the name I liked and then telling Lash and Aeia what the names were, and getting them to believe that those would be quite definitely the names we used. As they take any insinuation from her that the name could possibly be anything besides Rael or Clea as a sign that she doesn't love the baby anymore, Denise caved. See the level of dastardlyness I have to resort to?
Poem of the Day
THE ENCORE OF AGE
The cacophony of youth
badgers for an encore,
tries to impose brown hairs
through an all grey head.
But perpetual dreams have given way
to unmet desires and blighted visions.
Grey is softer and more forgiving.
Maturity is an acquired taste.
- Judith Pordon
The cacophony of youth
badgers for an encore,
tries to impose brown hairs
through an all grey head.
But perpetual dreams have given way
to unmet desires and blighted visions.
Grey is softer and more forgiving.
Maturity is an acquired taste.
- Judith Pordon
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Sunday Night Nerdgames
If I had a badge, I'd wear my Nerd Proud.
Aside from other occasional get-togethers, I reserve Sunday nights for nerdgames at Ian's with him, Paul, Phil and Dusty. Since I started with them in July, we've been playing the game Deadlands, run by Ian (I also play/run a nerdgame on either Friday or Saturday alternating weeks, and then go out for young guy partying the other weekend nights, for those keeping a tally; the family gets me weekdays and weekend mornings/days). I liken Deadlands to 4 parts Dark Tower, 2 parts Road Warrior and 1 part Unforgiven.
Now, it should be noted, that we use the term "nerdgame" with love. We're proud to get our gaming dork on every week, and it doesn't hamper our ability to have fantastic non-nerdy fun with non-nerdy people any other time. We aren't 300 pound, 30 y/o, hygenically challenged social misfits who still live in their mothers' basements.
The character I play there, C.J. Chambers, is a 17-year old female gunslinger who disguises herself as a male (leave it to me to play a member of the GLBT community in a nerdgame). She's illiterate and hiding it, comically clueless, absolutely afraid of dogs and vindictive as hell. And she's death walking with guns in each hand. I like cowboys.
In the eight months I've been playing there, maybe two weeks have passed, close to three at the absolute tops. In that time she's had her first drunken lesbian experience, fallen in love/been hopelessly smitten twice: each with gruff, taciturn men (one was mute). Each time the man died before she could reveal her feelings for them. All of her friends keep dying (only one from the original group she met when I joined remains alive--Dusty's Templar, Helena) and in some ways it's broken her spirit a bit (eg she's refusing to become friends with Paul and Phil's replacement characters for their dead ones--especially since Phil has been on a huge dying streak lately).
Every time I start to think she's getting to be really cool, Ian puts her in major life threatening crises (the worst was when he poisoned me and left me still dying at the end of the session to wait two weeks before finding out if she'd recover. Saving her cost me many fate chips). This week she was given the blessing as a companion to Helena's Templar in a big ass ceremony at the Templar mothership in Boise. It was really moving for her and got her back on track for wanting to open up to people again. And then Ian killed her. Well almost. She held on by the skin of her nails while being ambushed and beaten the f out of by some nasty acid spitting tunnelling monsters, held on 'til the baddies were all smoking corpses and then collapsed, one breath away from dead before the others were able to save her. It was a very nail-biting session for me.
Part of me thinks Ian did it on purpose, because I joked with him while we were out the night previous about how CJ was never going to die, but just in case I should probably start a back-up character in the unfortunate event I have a run of Phil's luck.
Aside from other occasional get-togethers, I reserve Sunday nights for nerdgames at Ian's with him, Paul, Phil and Dusty. Since I started with them in July, we've been playing the game Deadlands, run by Ian (I also play/run a nerdgame on either Friday or Saturday alternating weeks, and then go out for young guy partying the other weekend nights, for those keeping a tally; the family gets me weekdays and weekend mornings/days). I liken Deadlands to 4 parts Dark Tower, 2 parts Road Warrior and 1 part Unforgiven.
Now, it should be noted, that we use the term "nerdgame" with love. We're proud to get our gaming dork on every week, and it doesn't hamper our ability to have fantastic non-nerdy fun with non-nerdy people any other time. We aren't 300 pound, 30 y/o, hygenically challenged social misfits who still live in their mothers' basements.
The character I play there, C.J. Chambers, is a 17-year old female gunslinger who disguises herself as a male (leave it to me to play a member of the GLBT community in a nerdgame). She's illiterate and hiding it, comically clueless, absolutely afraid of dogs and vindictive as hell. And she's death walking with guns in each hand. I like cowboys.
In the eight months I've been playing there, maybe two weeks have passed, close to three at the absolute tops. In that time she's had her first drunken lesbian experience, fallen in love/been hopelessly smitten twice: each with gruff, taciturn men (one was mute). Each time the man died before she could reveal her feelings for them. All of her friends keep dying (only one from the original group she met when I joined remains alive--Dusty's Templar, Helena) and in some ways it's broken her spirit a bit (eg she's refusing to become friends with Paul and Phil's replacement characters for their dead ones--especially since Phil has been on a huge dying streak lately).
Every time I start to think she's getting to be really cool, Ian puts her in major life threatening crises (the worst was when he poisoned me and left me still dying at the end of the session to wait two weeks before finding out if she'd recover. Saving her cost me many fate chips). This week she was given the blessing as a companion to Helena's Templar in a big ass ceremony at the Templar mothership in Boise. It was really moving for her and got her back on track for wanting to open up to people again. And then Ian killed her. Well almost. She held on by the skin of her nails while being ambushed and beaten the f out of by some nasty acid spitting tunnelling monsters, held on 'til the baddies were all smoking corpses and then collapsed, one breath away from dead before the others were able to save her. It was a very nail-biting session for me.
Part of me thinks Ian did it on purpose, because I joked with him while we were out the night previous about how CJ was never going to die, but just in case I should probably start a back-up character in the unfortunate event I have a run of Phil's luck.
Poem of the Day
Daddy
by Sylvia Plath
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time --
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You --
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two --
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
by Sylvia Plath
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time --
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You --
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two --
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Poem of the Day
One of my favorites:
lumpectomy eve
by Lucille Clifton
all night i dream of lips
that nursed and nursed
and the lonely nipple
lost in loss and the need
to feed that turns at last
on itself that will kill
its body for its hunger's sake
all night i hear the whispering
the soft
love calls you to this knife
for love for love
all night it is the one breast
comforting the other
Copyright Lucille Clifton 1996
lumpectomy eve
by Lucille Clifton
all night i dream of lips
that nursed and nursed
and the lonely nipple
lost in loss and the need
to feed that turns at last
on itself that will kill
its body for its hunger's sake
all night i hear the whispering
the soft
love calls you to this knife
for love for love
all night it is the one breast
comforting the other
Copyright Lucille Clifton 1996
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Poetry Time
April is National Poetry Month (how many of you even knew that?), and in celebration of this, I plan to post a poem here for all of you to read and ponder over and hopefully enjoy every day that I come on to blog (which means not necessarily every day).
Some days will be my poetry, some days will be others' poetry (and hell, if you have a poem, you can e-mail it to me with "ok to publish on blog" and your name, or even post it to one of the comments), some days will be famous poets/poems.
I'm starting off with an old haiku of mine:
Little Tokyo
small baby walking
topples blocks down and moves on
Godzilla stomping
Some days will be my poetry, some days will be others' poetry (and hell, if you have a poem, you can e-mail it to me with "ok to publish on blog" and your name, or even post it to one of the comments), some days will be famous poets/poems.
I'm starting off with an old haiku of mine:
Little Tokyo
small baby walking
topples blocks down and moves on
Godzilla stomping
Friday, April 01, 2005
I want a refund
In 1988 DC Comics gave its fans the opportunity to vote on the fate of one of its comic book characters: the second Robin the Boy Wonder, Jason Todd. As I had given up on DC by then because of feeling personally slighted by the deaths of all my favorite characters in Crisis, I was happy to vote for Jason's death, repeatedly over many phone lines, even though I actually kinda liked him. Anyhoo, it was a 900 number and it cost money to vote him dead. This week an issue of Batman came out revealing that Jason Todd has returned from the dead. Since my vote no longer counts. And I PAID for my vote. I want a refund.
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