Yikes. A month of abject blog neglect. As I first realized when I worked for a writer in college (who, incidentally, passed away suddenly last week), writing for your main job is nice if that's your passion. But it's also tough* in that your passion becomes your job and acquires flavors of tedium.
*"tough" being quite relative, in the Grand Scheme.
Sometimes the act of writing for work makes me too mentally fatigued to do it for fun. I get home with big aspirations that are quickly extinguished by dog-walking, self-feeding, a glass of Irish whiskey, and the day's Champions League soccer match. Then I get a backlog of thoughts and links (a backblog?) that I never feel are adequately digested.
"Hey worthless, shouldn't you be writing? Or else, like, walking us?"
Anyway, one other distraction lately was the act of acquiring and pretending to be able to train a new dog. We found one, a 4- to 5-month old rescue, to be a current companion and future successor to our resident canine, Willa.
If nothing else, the two of them made our recent snowfalls that much more fun. Really, watching a dog frolic in its first snow is probably even more enjoyable than watching a kid do it. With a toddler, there's often some hesitation or lack of understanding unless they're old enough to know to covet it. With a dog, it's like watching Nature's fun gene switch on right in front of your eyes: "Something is different. I must run in this. It's written in my blood."
Dogs on Canvas, black and white
The rescue is part Newfoundland (those big, black literally human-rescue dogs with webbed paws for swimming), part we-don't-know-what. Presumably the we-don't-know part is why she was left behind: The first night, when we finally plopped ourselves down to bed after careful introductions and exhaustive bladder monitoring, she predictably started to whine from separation anxiety. After warming up with a range of barks, she went into a distinctive, mournful howl. In the dark of the bedroom, I could feel our eyes open in unison: dammit, she's part hound dog.
The way she reacts to the sight of squirrels, rabbits and any other independently mobile body as if she's just done a line of canine coke, supports our suspicions about her other breed. She's hyper, inquisitive, bolder than Willa, and she's wearing us out at the moment.
After four months in a vet's rescue shelter -- and perhaps because she's part hound, which are supposedly resistant to housebreaking -- she is not adequately turned off by crapping where she sleeps. Nor by dancing in it. We call her Shitpaws.
But please, it's "Wanda" in formal settings ... we toyed with more author names like Harper and Flannery (and Willa Who Is Called Simon), but none fit her rambunctiousness. Ww-w-w-wanda, as in A Fish Called, and "To Wanda!" as in Fried Green Tomatoes, sounded just right.
At least Willa and Shitpaws, er, Wanda are getting along fine now after a rocky introduction. And we humans, we're wondering what the hell we've done. Which, I believe, is a common human response once the "I've got an idea" gene has been expressed.
This year's top-tier Michigan ice hockey championship final was tied after regulation. Eight overtimes later, it had become the longest game in state history, with still no winner determined. As the clock approached midnight, they called the game a tie and declared co-champions.
It's a really cool story. At the end, opponents were hugging and congratulating each other
Michigan is a fairly hockey-mad state, but these are teenagers who are in school and had to travel for the state finals. Apparently after the fatigue of the tournament and all that skating in the final through eight OT's, they were still giving their all. But their "all" was visible, absolute exhaustion.
After all that -- and the prospect of missing more school to reschedule a continuation two days later -- declaring co-champions sounds like a no-brainer. In sports, it's OK if life gets in the way.
But some observers think not declaring a winner is sacrilege and just another example of the "P.C.-ifying" of America. Of coddling kids and telling them "everyone's a winner" and not teaching them life is hard.
Yes, life is hard. Professional success requires competition. Making a fortune entails managing people and disappointing those who can't cut it. There are winners and losers.
But kids can learn the "winners and losers" lesson every time they turn on the TV. They don't need it shoved down their throats. In fact, maybe a more important lesson in that situation is to show them how there is more to life than sports, and when there are other factors in play, it's OK to think of solutions "outside the box."
I just ... when I was a kid I was a little too competitive in my own sports. And I even used to cry after Blues playoff losses. But I realized I didn't like that part of me, and I needed to lighten up and gain perspective: It's fun to challenge yourself and reach your physical and mental limits, but having a "winning" or "losing" opponent is merely a byproduct of that -- not the end target. Whether it's the golf course/mountain or a human opponent, they're really just artificial constructions you can use to explore your own abilities.
Likewise, the pro teams I still follow became more an object of entertainment, story and admirable physical intelligence -- and not results to live and die by.
But in rec hockey and such, I run into countless people who lack that perspective. Who take all their work-day frustrations out on their rec competition opponents (and the referees). Who fail to understand they're not paid to play, and their opponents have jobs to report to in the morning -- jobs best performed without having a senseless injury.
Grosser still is when those attitudes are projected by parents on to their children -- which I see before or after our adult games. That's when people can be really happy -- passing their twisted, unhealthy priorities on to the next generation.
So while there are some sad saps ripping the Michigan association for failing to declare an all-important winner and loser, I'm glad the athletics officials disagreed: There are other things in life; sometimes you just have to accept co-champions.
Saturday, March 22, at the Hartford Coffee Company again. We were famouslydouble-booked and bumped from our last appearance there a few months ago, but they paid us anyway and, yeah, as if we weren't going to go back when given the chance.
We've been toying with a few more covers, although I don't know if any new ones will make it into the set. Abusing "Ring of Fire," "Time after Time" and U2's "One" should remain, though.
I like the idea of doing a few covers, because my coffee-shop music philosophy is: Enhance but don't disturb the customers' inner peace. Too many covers -- particularly of originals anyone holds dear -- and I imagine a distracting experience for the chap caught in law school hell who just wants to study over a cup of coffee and still feel like he's part of a human community. But a little cover here and there provides a nice bit of familiarity, particularly if the other songs' vibe doesn't sit with you.
On that note, stripping a song down to its coffeeshop-style, kick-drum-less version isn't too hard for me -- as long as I can keep the original out of my head. We messed with a Dixie Chicks song which I had understandably never heard before. But going back to see how the original is played, versus how my Lisa Kudrow/Friends-character sister plays it, just scrambled my brain and timing.
Speaking of which, using my floor tom as both bass and fill is still fun: It's getting me to think outside of my comfort zone and it keeps the volume down. But I do feel like I hit a wall sometimes because I don't have all four limbs available, so I can't do as much as I want.
Which, I suppose, is the point. Rein in the drummer. Just keep time, fool.
But that hasn't kept me from poking around Craig's List for a jazz bass drum.
*PSA: Although home-wrecking alcoholism isn't exactly funny, calling those 1.5-liter bottles of liquor the "homewrecker" size sure is. As in: "Pick up bananas, milk, and a homewrecker of Crown." One of the better slang terms I know of, it's just satisfyingly descriptive and clean. A lovely compound word, both grave and flippant. There are several standard sizes and varying prices for portions of alcohol, but when you pick up the homewrecker you're either partying or you mean business with your self-destruction, so you're buying it in bulk. As always, we I must laugh at our human condition if I'm to keep on keepin' on.
But this isn't about alcohol. It's about the weird sensation of being away at work while knowing that two guys are demolishing part of my house.
"A house is essentially a huge box filled with complicated things that want to break -- a box that sits outside day and night, in the rain and snow, surrounded by creatures that would like to eat it." -- David Owen, as quoted in "House Lust: America's Obsession with Our Homes," by Daniel McGinn
Yes, with the economy being so robust and filled with bright prospects, we decided now would be a good time to sink a whole bunch of money into our vulnerable box. Boy, oil is high, stocks are low -- sure, why not take on some debt now?
Truthfully, while education jobs are hardly lucrative, the one nice thing, financial-planningly speaking, is that they're somewhat recession-proof. Raises are paltry no matter the economy, but labor reductions are rare. To get axed you have to sleep not just with several people, but several people at the wrong time(s) -- current dean/VP: bad; future dean/VP: good -- and even then it might take video evidence to take you down.
So in that sense, we can wait to dance with debt until the rates are low -- regardless of the macro factors that are making those rates so low and getting our neighbors to cut back on their Playboy subscription.
Debt-ready, we're adding on a deck and a wee modest sun room, the bids for which we solicited over much debate and reflection this winter.
It replaces a useless 6' x 4' back "porch" whose greatest potential in life was as a one-person staging area once you climbed the steps to house level. With one person and a dog, it's crowded. With one person and two dogs, it's canine chaos: tails stepped on, paws crossed, work trousers slimed by drive-by saliv(a)ing -- to say nothing of the see-through railings that put every bit of suburban wildlife in the telescopic sight of our canine pretend predators.
So today the contractors arrived -- as contractors and gas men always do -- by surprise, first thing in the morning. We knew they would start "soon" but didn't realize it would be "you won't know the day or the hour" soon.
They rang the bell while I was in the shower, igniting a harmony of dog barks among the deep-voiced old lady and high-pitch puppy still finding her voice. The builders received no answer -- remember, I'm in the shower, and Mrs. Fall of Because, being on Spring Break, has a vacation clause that absolves her from greeting visitors or doing work until she naturally wakes from her beauty rest.
So they start backing their truck down the mud-glazed driveway. Which elevates the dog harmony from "Someone's at the door" Alert Bark to full-on, impassioned "We're under attack!" Panic Howl. Which tells me that, indeed, it is more than someone misdelivering a Playboy -- "good dog!" -- as someone is now carving up my rain-drenched yard with their truck.
The builders were sheepish about arriving by surprise, but clearly that was the middle-man's job, and the middle-man ain't here, so what of it? We got work to do.
Fair point. And it's not like once someone you're trusting with your house is there, ready to start much-anticipated work, you're going to do anything other than welcome them and let them do their thing.
As work started, the dogs naturally kept barking despite our assurances that everything is on the up-and-up. They alternated between barking at the shadows on the porch and looking at us -- how could we just sit there while this is happening?! So Mrs. Fall of Because took the dogs and headed south. And here I am working -- except for this very moment, I assure you -- thinking about nice, sunny spring mornings in the new room. But in the background I'm thinking, "Wait a minute, somebody is over there demolishing part of my house!"
And that's when I gained a little empathy and saw where the dogs are coming from.
Yay! The long-discussed elimination of some of the funky trans-Atlantic airline regulations is finally going to kick in. More airport and route options for European carriers (who, in my experience, have always offered a more pleasant flight experiences than their U.S. "partners").
Perhaps this will mean less station-to-station flying when heading over to see soccer, or crazy Czech relatives, or Killing Joke.
With the falling dollar and cost of fuel, it will still be a hefty hit to the wallet. But hopefully the dollar:Euro rate means there will be more demand (by Euro travelers) for routes from Europe to here (and back).
And some day the missus and I will be hopping back on one of them. Home equity loans meant for Euro-travel, right?
As I mentioned, some guys have been demolishing part of my house. Just the worthless back "porch," really, but still. It's a little weird to disrupt the status quo of a place you've known so well, for so long.
Fortunately, they're fixing it back up real-nice-like. The dogs are not happy about all the racket, and they still keep ringing at the back door -- failing to realize they'd be stepping into an abyss if they went through their customary exit.
But otherwise, it's going smoothly. Humpty is being put back together again very nicely, very quickly.
The builders are kicking butt, so far. Ten-hour days, four-day weeks, busting tail from 7 a.m. on. When we shoot the breeze, they inevitably bring up fishing and going to the lake; and when they work, they're able to sing along to a variety of songs on the radio (i.e. not just classic rock). They measure at least twice, cut once. Occasionally shout in pain and bust each other's chops.
Somehow all this comforts me. The outdoors/fishing part fits my preconceived notions: If you work your body this hard in manual labor, it oughtta be for the nice, simple, get-away things in life. I can identify with that. (*promptly shifts numbed butt in seated desk-job position). And if you sing while you work, I can relate to part of what drives your cells through each work day.
Today, I am a very happy consumer.
Anyway, I never thought I would be "that guy" -- who posts progressive photos of a home project online. But I am that guy: I thought pictures would be good for the future, when I have to (ahem, pay someone to) fix something. And I know at least some of ya's out there will want to see pictures. And one thing I still need to figure out about this site platform is how to layout a photo page smoothly.
As you may have noticed, the site has changed. Sampa, the free-site host, did a version 2 of some sort.
Despite an FAQ that made it sound like allowing one's site to go through v.2 surgery would be okay, there were several flexibilities that surprisingly disappeared with the click of a button. (e.g. I cannot believe sidebars like this one are even narrower than before.)
And I'm told -- miraculously! -- that the conversion cannot be undone. Truth be told, I'm actually quite pissed. But free is free. Sampa has otherwise been good to me.
So I need to sort through site "features" to see how I can make do. Except that I don't have the time at the moment, in the middle of graduate classes and Lighthousehockey.com. (btw, I've removed that Lighthouse RSS feed so that you're not clogged with random Islanders hockey gibberish).
But I promise to touch up the accessories when I get a chance, and return to irregularly scheduled blogging.
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), part we-don't-know-what. Presumably the we-don't-know part is why she was left behind: The first night, when we finally plopped ourselves down to bed after careful introductions and exhaustive bladder monitoring, she predictably started to whine from separation anxiety. After warming up with a range of barks, she went into a distinctive, mournful howl. In the dark of the bedroom, I could feel our eyes open in unison: dammit, she's part hound dog.
December, 2007