For the birds

This here is a birch tree that has grown near the beach at our family lake place for the past forever and now I need to accept that it is probably pretty much dead. It's the flocks of wood peckers perching on what looks like its bullet-ridden hide that clued me in. The birds are pretty, and funny to watch as they bash their heads into the bark over and over, but still, this is a special tree to me. It frames the lake view in every cheesey sunset picture ever taken by our family. At least we'll have pictures.

Summer Blogging Season is Here!

A few more days of school and my summer will start and I plan to be doing a lot of this here: sitting down to read but instead having J. walk up and ask me to watch a Gene Kelley movie with her. It's a life.

I think Monkeysquirrel will be taking a summer vacation, too. Maybe it'll be more of a summer photo blog if anything. Either way, there will be a little more space between posts. I slow down in the heat, you know. Anyway, as we say in our yearbooks, have a great summer. Don't spend it all in front of a computer monitor. Oh, and wear sunscreen.

I never used to care about this stuff

I forget how great it is when spring rolls on and our garden just keeps blooming, one perennial after another, on into and through the summer. I spend a lot of the winter thinking about all the things I'd like to change about our flower beds, but once things fill out and start blooming, I forget all the problems and just dig watching things grow. I never used to care about this stuff, and never would have guessed it's something I'd be into, but I guess it's okay to like different things as you grow up.

This here is the first bloom on our small stand of siberian iris. It's smaller than most irises, but sits on top of this long, graceful, grassy foliage that's always tipping in whatever breeze you have. Might be one of my favorite plants--this fall I really need to bury a bunch more bulbs of this so that I can have a large blur of them next year. 

I'm the man.

Here is a picture of me after I sank a putt during my first round of 2006 last weekend. I look so happy because I hadn't made anything longer than three feet all day and this one was like four feet at least. Incredible.

Actually, for my first outing of the year, it wasn't half bad. I shot 41 on the front at Deer Track, parring 4 of 9, and then fell apart a little on the back and shot 50. That's a tough 9 back there. Had a few penalty strokes and got tired enough that I missed some easy putts. Overall, I hit my irons pretty cleanly and, well, who cares how well you play when it's as beautiful as it was Saturday. I think 65 is my favorite outside temperature, for sure.

YouTube strategizing

I think the secret for using YouTube is that you go there only once every six weeks or so. That gives the place time to replenish the wells, so to speak, and you can go right to the "most viewed" or whatever and see a few really funny things and then leave. That's what works for me, anyway.

This is my favorite from yesterday's visit.

Downsize

I have too many loved ones and stuff in my life to ever do this, but I've always had this dream of living in a really small place. Room for a bed for sleeping and a chair for reading and a maybe a window for staring at birds and stuff.

So tonight on NPR they had this nice story about the "Tiny House Movement"--people who share, and are living, my tiny, impossible dream. Ideally, one would build his own tiny house from lumber he salvaged from decaying barns or milled from funky timber. There are enough people in this "movement," however, that businesses are building houses for you now. And they're really cool. Check out a few of them here. I think my favorite is the "S-House." As the web site explains, the S-House is "everything the 10x16 Front Gable is and less."

I can see my tiny life from here, and it's nice, but worshiping living spaces like this, I know, is a form of pornography--an objectification of space rather than of women. Real estate dreams always look at homes as if they're just cool, homey spaces, and I let myself forget that really living in them would be rather similar to the (already great) life I live the too-large home we have now.

But still, it would be so cool.

American X, a list

On a good recommendation, I watched the 1998 movie American X the other day. Lots of yelling. Some violence. I know this is a popular movie, and I can't deny that that Edward Norton is a swell actor, but I have some problems with its verisimilitude in a few places.

1. Skinheads. They cannot play basketball. How could they not know this? Everyone knows that skinheads cannot play basketball. It's just absurd.

2. The "gang bangers" that the skinheads are in conflict with in this movie are too pretty. They should look like they do in the perfect HBO show The Wire: scrawny and shifty and paranoid and tough. The guys in this movie, on the other hand, all look like dates Lisa Bonet could have brought home to meet Clifford Huxtable on The Cosby Show.

3. Again with the basketball scene, no game that was being played to decide which side would get to "own" the court would ever make it to completion if this neighborhood was as tough as it was supposed to be. As soon as it got to game point, the losing team would have sabotaged it by starting a fight and then they would have always been able to argue that they didn't lose the bet. That's what I would do, anyway.

4. The jail was too clean looking. Nobody died there, either. I think more people die in jail, usually, like in the too-long-and-flawed-but-fun Blood in, Blood out.

There was some nice dramatic tension in the movie. I'm not sure why they killed the kid at the end--it was kind of a cheap shot, a "warning" to us that we may all too late to save our kidz unless we start practicing one love right away.

I got a small laugh out of Norton's style of argument when he was still a skinhead: his response to any expression of sympathy for other races was "bullshit." Then, after this deeply hateful man is changed by the experience by making a single black friend in prison, he returns to the outside and counsels his brother that now it is the racist way that is "bullshit." Pretty convincing argument, that.

It probably sounds like I enjoyed this movie less than I actually did, I guess. For much of it, I had trouble getting over the fact that the one fat skinhead is now Earl's brother in My Name is Earl, except he has lost about 200 pounds now. Crazy. A regular DeNiro he is.

About syrup

Hey, I'm happy to say that I have a short piece published in the newest issue of the Acres Quarterly, the wonderful newsletter put out by the Acres Land Trust. My contribution may approach the sentimental at times, and there is one ambiguous modifier in there I'm not happy with, but overall it's a cute little thing about family trip to the syrup festival up north of here about six weeks ago or so. If you're interested, you can read it here, and hey, think about joining Acres while you're at it. They're the ones trying to maintain the simple natural charms of this corner of the state.

If you click the link, open the latest newsletter's pdf.

My Bodyguard

Have you seen that movie, My Bodyguard? You totally should. Early 80's, Matt Dillon as a high school bully, kid hires a motorcycle tough to be his "bodyguard." The bullies do this cool thing where they took huge wads of toilet paper and got it wet and then whipped it at their victims. I'm glad no one does that at my school, but it looks fun.

But Mr. Row here is totally right out of that film. He even made his bike out of, well, bike parts that he ebayed and and scrounged and that also included a round trip drive to New York and back that he did in, like, six hours or something insane like that. Six hours, I swear. I can't imagine. I can make a decent spring risotto, savory crepes, the occasional compound-complex sentence, but that's the extent of my assembly skills. What Tracey managed with grandpa's shop and a dream just knocks me out.

And the ladies glasses he's wearing. They're just too much, and I can't believe he's thinking of leaving town--Indiana should start giving cool-people grants to keep folks like Tracey and Joseph in the towns where they're needed.

Anyway. Thanks for stopping by tonight, T.

It's a kind of life, I guess.

So this little wildflower is what I'm obsessed with these past ten days or so. If the sun didn't go down, I'd be outside digging them up all night long. See, they're flowers, sure, but they're not where I want them to be, and that makes them weeds. The only way to keep them from coming back, though, is to get the bulb dug up. It's an art, really, digging them out without popping the stalk off and losing the bulb somewhere down there, where they are waiting, waiting for next year, when they will be back.

Oh, but when you get them whole . . how can I describe it? It's like catching a fish, a dirt fish, and one that means you harm. I'm almost a little sad at the thought of my perennial beds being wiped out of them. No, that's not true. Now that I think about it, they're like little moles that I don't have to feel bad about killing when I catch them.

And on Texas Ranch house . . man, that ranch owner and his family are abominable.

New Reality

I love all the PBS reality shows. This is partly because I have no choice--I got no cable. It's also because they're just smart and fun and things I can imagine doing too. I'm talking about shows like 1900 House, Frontier House, Manor House, and now, the new Texas Ranch House, which started tonight and goes the next four nights. It's pretty fun stuff. Right now, for example, as I type, frickin' Indians are stealing their horses! How great is that?

The pattern for these history-based PBS reality shows is pretty consistent: pick an interesting historical period, convince ten people that it would be a great adventure to recreate it, and then film them as they fall apart in the dust, the monotony, the people they don't like, and the back breaking work. It's a lot of fun to watch.

One of the sad things you notice when you watch these shows is that people are freaks and jerks no matter what year it is. The cook looks to be the next guy to lose his wits, I think. He's a loose cannon. I can't wait.

Stephen Colbert Moment

There's a pretty funny account of Stephen Colbert's speech at the White House Correspondent's dinner this weekend. I don't get to see his teevee show too often, but I wish I did. He gets in a lot of funny "zingers," is what I think they call them. Here is a sample from the article:

Colbert, who spoke in the guise of his talk show character, who ostensibly supports the president strongly, urged the Bush to ignore his low approval ratings, saying they were based on reality, “and reality has a well-known liberal bias.”

And another:

Turning to the war, he declared, "I believe that the government that governs best is a government that governs least, and by these standards we have set up a fabulous government in Iraq."

Regardless of your politics, I think those are pretty funny. The article makes it sound like his remarks weren't taken too well by W and wife. In fairness to Colbert, these things are supposed to be roasts, though, so I don't think he should have been surprised. Here's a short article that recounts some of his jokes, and here is a site with a tiny video of the speech, which is about 15 minutes.

You forget about the rain

Sun is sunny and all, but it refreshes me to wake up to drizzle on a Sunday sometimes. It limits your options, reduces the number of choices you have. You will probably be inside. You can stay close to a cup of tea, even, which you haven't done for a couple weeks.

This cup of tea was brought to me courtesy of Michelle, who packed it back from a tea farm in India. She showed me pictures of the place, and it had the look of a Dr. Seuss landscape. Beautiful. In all of the pictures though, I didn't see a single monkey or leper, which are usually the two things I'm curious about when I hear someone has been to India.

Mr. B is still asleep and J is watching Bob le Builder, so I better make the most of this time and crack a book.

Iraq II

I'm still kind of bewildered by what Seymour Hersh is reporting now in his last New Yorker piece. It sounds like such a redux of the run up to Iraq--so pre-determined, even though the plan sounds so nuts. Air strikes just aren't going to do it, and I think these so called bunker busters have about as much hope of working as Star Wars does of knocking out a missle. And think about what will happen to Iraq if we try to mess with Iran. I mean, what little stability there is over there is the result of Shiite dreams of creating a new Islamic state like their neighbors. They would go nuts if we started messing with the mothership.

At the same time, I have to admit that, between the two, Iran strikes me as a little more crazy, unpredictable, and malevolent. Iraq posed no threat to us; I don't think there can be much disagreement on that point, but Iran seems a little more ominous of a threat.

I dunno, I'm just rambling. It's just not a great situation, and I don't have a lot of faith in this administration's devotion to diplomacy.

New music for me.

Townes Van Zandt is on my mind lately. It started a few weeks ago when Sarah Jane—I wish she would give me the link to her blog—gave Cath and me a mix with his “If I Needed You” on it. Then, in one of those coincidences that life gives you, friend Joe Rocchio writes an email about a documentary that features him. Netflix sent me the movie and I couldn’t get any further into it than a scene where he sings “Dollar Bill Blues” before I had to turn it off and go google the chords for it. What a great song.

It seems like that’s the main way I play the guitar these days; my calluses will have faded from disuse and then I hear a nice song that sounds just easy enough for me to pick so I figure out about ¾ of it by playing it over and over. Soon I will forget I ever knew it. Right now, though, my fingers hurt again from trying to learn the chords well enough so that I can sing along:

If I had a dollar bill

Yes I believe I surely will

Go to town and drink my fill

Early in the morning.

Townes, though, he’s a sad story. Usually, I’m suspicious of upper middle class fellers who go country—and this guy was rich—because it doesn’t seem authentic enough. They make me think of the Kingston Trio, maybe; poseurs. Townes, though, was messed up enough that you have believe the tragic warble in his voice. He tells a story in this movie, for example, about a time when he fell asleep with three tubes of airplane glue that he’d been huffing in his mouth. It solidified and stuck his mouth shut and to get it open he claims that the doctor took a hammer to his face. “This is going to hurt,” he said. You do shite like that to your body and you earn the right to sing about pain.

There is an interesting segment in the movie where he remembers first realizing that he could “make it” with the guitar. He realized, he said, that if he was willing to give up everything, he could do it. And he means everything: his family, kids, money, and his own “personal happiness”. I had my own realization then that maybe the reason I will never make it big with my, well, anything, is that I’m not willing to sacrifice both my own happiness and well-being as well as that of my loved ones. I guess I just lack ambition; I’ll have to try to get along in this world armed only with some modest measure of personal happiness and a decent family. Wish me luck.

Back

When you have spring break and then after that a week of only three days, that first five day week of school is tough. Somehow the gods noticed our pain and graced us with a two hour fog delay on Friday morning, though. That was pretty nice. One of my students suggested that it was leftover fog from 4/20 the day before, and I thought that was pretty funny.

I think it's okay for a teacher to laugh at jokes like that. There are probably parents and administrators out there who would rather me respond with a stern, knee jerk "don't do drugs" any time a reference to them is made in class--not that they come up that often--but I don't think that's necessary.

So for my two hour delay, I sat in the living room and read through this fabulous gardening photo book I got from the library the other day and that made me want to go walk outside in mine in the fog. I thought maybe I'd get a photo of the duck that has been sleeping on our lawn for a week now, but she wasn't there. Instead, I took this picture that catches some of our peach, viburnum, and azalea blossoms. It's looking pretty out there now.

Oh, spring.

Nothing like the first trip to the DQ. Except this day, they only had chocolate working, America's second favorite flavor. Blizzards taste funny with chocolate. Don't try it. This one family had a 200lb Rotweiler with them that got to order its own cone, which was funny to watch.

You know you were meant live in Canada when it's 73 degrees out and after an hour of working outdoors you start to complain about the heat.

World's Coolest Indian

I usually don't like Anthony Hopkins movies, and I usually boo to myself any movie that uses non-diegetic music to try to manipulate my emotions, but The World's Fastest Indian, despite these drawbacks, is a pretty great show. I took this photo during the movie's climactic scene.

There is some average acting, and Hopkins's ability to charm everyone who crosses his path using only his hearing loss, a few corny jokes, and a handshake seems a stretch. He could have been a little more darkly portrayed, I think. In the end, though, it's a true story, and seems pretty honest.

In case you haven't heard of it, it's about an old codger who in 1963 took a 192o Indian motorcycle and modified it for speed. He lives in New Zealand and saves up money to sail to L.A. and then drive his bike to Utah for the Bonneville Speed Week to see how fast his bike can go. His reception is chilly at first, but his charm melts most of their hearts and gets him a chance to race even though most people think he's just going to kill himself.

But he doesn't. This movie almost made me want to get a motorcycle, but not really. An Indian t-shirt would satisfy me, probably.

Mole Killer

Yes, I just got my first ever mole, and the experience is making me reevaluate the way I live my life. I'm just not a killer, I don't think. I might even have to stop wearing shoes made out of leather now.

It all started when I realized that he was missing my trap system by burrowing under the old tunnels in new, deeper runs. Copying some of the ideas I've read that we're considering for attacking Iran's nuclear labs, I decided to reformat my traps as "bunker busters" so that they could reach deep enough.

It worked quickly. Little J and I were out puttering for about ten minutes this morning when I noticed two traps had gone off. One was empty, like usual, but the second, an old school "loop" type trap I'd borrowed from a friend who prefers to dig his out of the ground with a keen eye and a shovel, felt heavy as I lifted it. It felt heavy and then it squirmed as I noticed the furry grapefruit sized critter trying to escape the thing. Yes, she was alive, and very cute, actually, front paws like paddles with claws at the end and skinny pink nose. I wasn't prepared for this at all.

It doesn't seem fair, really. It's a lot easier to lead a moral life when you don't have to make so many decisions about things. But here I was, the guy who feels bad for the fish when he sees his father in law clonk it on the head, having to decide how or if I was going to kill this mole that had kept me up nights for the past year or so.

It wasn't much of a decision making process, really. I knew immediately that I would be setting her free in the park across the street. Getting her there was a problem, though. I had a dog outside, a kid with no shoes on, and a sleeping B. up in his room. Further complicating things, I didn't want J to see the mole struggling in the trap because up to now she had been rather encouraging about Mole Hunt 06, and I was afraid I would lose her support if she finally figured out what a mole was or that the project involved killing them.

So, I dropped the trap and mole into a plastic shopping bag and carried her inside so that I could get a leash for the dog. A plastic bag isn't much trouble for a mole to dig through, though, and soon dirt was falling all over my house. I switched to a bucket.

To cut to the chase, I picked up J and with the dog we darted to the park with B still sleeping. This is right next to the Park & Rec offices, so I tried to find a place away from windows to let him go and that little guy dug a hole so quickly that . . . well, I just couldn't believe it. It was like his paws, or hers, were cutting through snow instead of soil.

Anyway, I don't know what to think now. I still hate moles, just not the ones I meet. I could not kill the thing with my bare hands, no question about that, but at the same time there is a part of me that knows if one of my more lethal traps got one and killed it, I would not feel all that bad about it.

I don't know. As Whitman says in Song of Myself:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

A post about food.

So, I had Indian buffet for lunch today. Normally, this is about the closest I can get to restaurant heaven: navratan korma, chicken makhani, naan, raita for dessert, some really sweet tea, oh, and saag paneer—can’t forget that. Things started normally for me today, too. I came, ate my weight in cream and butter, and left. Something was different today, though. It was not quite as, I don’t know, blissful as I’m used to feeling. I still shoveled the food in like you are supposed to at an Indian buffet, but at the back of my head I was thinking to myself—or not even that, I wasn’t exactly thinking to myself; it’s more like two thoughts were talking to each other about me, and they were saying “that dude has got to stop putting it away like that.” I overheard them a little, maybe, and I realized they are right.

On the radio or somewhere recently I heard about an interview project they did with people who live to be 100 on the island of Okinawa and it turns out that most of these old people have a saying that you are supposed to eat only until you are “80% full.” I might try that.

That would be hard, though. I used to eat anything I wanted with no problem because I rode my bike 200 miles a week all summer and it didn’t matter. Kids changed that. They like bikes okay, but they don’t like to go on three hour rides. They prefer riding circles in the driveway on their tricycles, which is fun to watch, but I can’t very well get my exercise that way. Instead, while they ride, I garden, and that doesn’t really burn the calories.

So, I think I’ll try to stop killing myself with food. Less of it. Less meat. More legumes, whatever those are. I just bought some chorizo for a recipe, though. I’ll eat that. And I will exclude from the definition of “meat” things like fish and sometimes chicken and definitely proscuitto—no way am I giving that up—and the occasional hamburger won’t count either. Sounds like a plan to me.

To be honest, I had this same plan a week ago, and then Mike and Michelle came over to grill and C and I were going to grill our portobellas and I told them about our plan to eat less red meat, and they were real supportive. They said “why would you want to do that?” And then I ate one of the huge burgers Mike made even though I was already 120% full and it was 10:00. Maybe it will go better this week.