Burning Man Experiences Premature Immolation

BLACK ROCK DESERT, NEV. – The Burning Man, a flammable statue whose torching is the annual highlight of the Burning Man festival, unexpectedly burst into flame about three o’clock this morning.

Witnesses reported a fire started under his left leg and crawled slowly up his body as revelers watched a lunar eclipse.

A friend, speaking on condition of anonymity, said the Man was an avid moon watcher and probably got overly excited during the eclipse.

“The moon was red, there were all these chicks dancing,” he said. “You know how it is.”

The friend then walked away chuckling to himself.

The Man initially refused comment as he awaited rebuilding, but issued an informal statement shortly after sunrise.

“Hey, look,” said the Man. “It happens. Premature immolation is totally normal. No big deal.”

When asked how soon he could burn again, the Man appeared slightly impatient.

“I’m burning in fours days. Okay? Four days is more than enough time. Shoot. I’d be ready tonight if you wanted me to be. This afternoon.”

Another Old Boat

This thing is dripping with pathos. I don't know why an old ferry from San Diego is rotting away in the Sacramento Delta. No doubt in storage against future restoration, but these things don't last forever.


I have a particular fondness for ferry boats. Since I was a kid I wished I knew the days when ferries crossed the Bay rather than great steel bridges. Especially now, when the commute is such a frenetic thing, multitasked between traffic and coffee cups and cell phones. There was a time when, in theory, I might have spent those three quarters of an hour breathing the sea air, getting to know other passengers, assembling a commute-hour barbershop quartet. What an amazing way to bracket the day that must have been.


For the geographically inclined, this boat can be found here.

UPDATE: Found another picture of it:

Very Retired Warboat

A couple weeks ago I was in the East Bay and chose to drive home via the river route. That's a good bet any time of year but especially in Spring and Summer. Highway 160 winds along the Sacramento along the tops of levees, passing at about treetop level past farms and through small towns and across a network of old iron drawbridges. It is a premier Harley ride, no question about it. Unfortunately I don't have a Harley and made do with my cheap half-plastic Ford semi-sports car with the rag top tucked away behind the seat.


There were a lot of places to stop along the way and take pictures but the one I want to post today is of an old warboat. I caught a glimpse of it between the eucalyptus trees as I sped by and quickly did a U-turn to pull over and climb down the embankment for a better look. It is the property of the Sea Scouts of Rio Vista but I think it's safe to say they are a little short in funding for ship restoration. I sent this picture to someone at this web site where the boat's history is given, just so they would know.

Now We Know

I've always wondered why my dog's tongue smells so good. Close examination of this picture reveals it's because he's always licking his nose.

Um.

He doesn't lick anything else. Right?

Right?

Rush and Me

So we saw Rush a couple weeks ago, up at the Amphitheater in the Middle of Nowhere. It's weird to hear the big name acts up there on stage talk about Sacramento even though Sacramento itself is at least an hour's drive away. The venue is in between cow pastures this side of Olivehurst but well past Wheatland, just past the Yuba County line. Olivehurst is famous for some bad floods they had ten years ago. Wheatland is a wide spot on the way to Beale AFB and site of my favorite obscure gas station. I've never bought gas there, but I love their sign, because it lists about six different kinds of fuel including racing fuel at $6.99 a gallon. Some day I'll take a picture.

Fascinating part of the world.

I've liked Rush for about twenty five years and the great thing about their concerts is just like twenty five years ago, everyone there is about my age. I guess that's true for most of the concerts we go to. All these old farts. Bald and fat and rockin' out. Sort of Eddie Van Halen and Jack Black and Dilbert all rolled up. Anyway the rock station was giving away front row seats at their tent and so we milled about with everyone else hoping to win but of course did not. But there are pictures of me milling about, and what could be more blogtastic than that?







Too bad GIF files look so crappy, but I had to animate, you know?

The concert was awesome. Geddy Lee epitomizes gracefully aging highly talented ugly-ass music geek. Alex Lifeson is still a big blonde who likes to enjoy himself. And Neil Peart is an angry drummer god, thunder of fist and lightning of brow. The three of them and a few electronic toys produce an incredible amount of great music.

Kute Kittypix

Years ago we had kittens. Their mama was elegant and slim.



They romped and played and zapped kittybutt with kittylaser weapons systems.



Then they had group kittysex.

The Chair

I've passed by this homestead several times, walking to the ballpark. It is on 5th St between the freeway overpasses. I wonder who lives there, and what he thinks about when he sits in his chair, and what he talks about when he has a guest in the other chair.

For lack of a punchline

It was in a supermarket in Moab that I discovered there really are Utahans with a sense of humor. So I got some but it didn't taste very funny.

The Hidden Country

I never wrote about my visits to China. Or maybe I did, but only a little. It is a hell of a country. I only saw the frenetic, relatively wealthy area around Shanghai. Here is some good writing about a place where ...

"If the local government wants to develop and you are against them, they hire some gangsters, and they beat you to death and use cement to bury you." - ESPN

I believe it. I saw clear echoes of it. In the small way of one witless foreigner, I contributed to it. But I never wrote about it. Maybe, someday, I'll work it into something.

Thanks for the Good Wishes

I got up at six or so and stumbled stiffly into the loo, took a shower, brushed my teeth with a swirl of harsh chemicals labeled Listerine^®. My loved one gave me a card that was lovely and true. Around six thirty I drove away in the perfect summer morning. Sunshine angled in, east by northeast. Trees were green, the verge of the roadway was weedy, sprinklers flicked, a dog watched me go and chose not to bark.

I had a teleconference at seven with some gentlemen in Europe for whom my seven in the morning was their four in the afternoon. At four to seven I parked and walked swiftly into the building, flashed my badge at security, took the elevator to the top floor. It was dark and quiet, no one in yet at seven o’clock on a Monday. I attached my laptop to the docking station and woke it up and waited patiently, oh so patiently, for Windows to decide when it was time to release the calendar item to me that held the security codes with which I could make the call.

By two past seven the OS had exhausted all its timeouts and allowed me to work. I found a mail had been sent just past midnight to tell me the telco was postponed until nine o’clock. I sent a mail asking what was I supposed to do in the meantime, work or something?

I had the telco at nine and my loved one met me for birthday lunch at noon and I went home at five. In between times I faked it as usual.

After work my loved one and our son and I went to dinner and had steaks and salads and beer. We had a wonderful time as we always do. Afterwards we said goodbye, I took the car to the freeway and they took the other car home. I drove all by myself down the interstate, past the suburbs, past the state capital, past more suburbs and farmlands and suburbs and farmlands, listening to the new Rush CD and remembering the Rush concert we saw last Saturday, down out of the valley and through some hills and over a river, seventy miles an hour down narrow nighttime lanes with lights flashing by and to my father’s house. I unfolded the couch, and got five hours’ sleep, and took him early next morning to the hospital for angioplasty.

It was a good birthday, a good day, a day alive. (He's fine, thanks.)

Bunch a squares

I turned seven squared yesterday.

Three months ago, my son turned four squared.

Three months before that, my father turned nine squared.

The number of days from my son's birthday to mine is one more than the number of days from my father's birthday to my son's. In leap years, the distances are the same.

Right, didn't quit blogging yet. I feel I should. If I explain why, I'm afraid I may sound majorly critical of blogging in general. So I'll just shut up. And, evidently, continue.

Here's a picture of my other son, the adult (!),who is the very model of a modern major general.