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Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Homecoming
From the archives of my long gone original blog, Wed 10 Sep 2003.
The school schedule was passed around the dinner table and note was made of the upcoming Homecoming celebrations: A bonfire, a parade, a football game.
The ninth grader asked, “What's Homecoming?”
The mother's face lit up. She knew the child needed encouragement to go to social events, that given a choice he'd rather hang with a couple long-haired kids in a stuffy room and listen to heavy metal. She wanted to talk it up.
“It's … fun!” she said. “It's like back-to-school, but it's all for the kids. There's parties, and games, and stuff going on … “
The father said, “I thought it was about coming home, like for the football team after being out on the road for weeks.”
“No,” she said. “No. It's coming home, back to school.” Her smile faded.
“Do you have to, like, wear a suit?” the ninth grader asked.
“No,” she laughed, a little forced. “Jeans and t-shirts. There's activities, and there'll be a parade, and floats … “
She fell silent. The ninth grader said “Hmm”, and tried to look game.
The family saw tears on her face. She worked to hold them in, but it was no go, and she abruptly left the table. They ate in silence awhile. The father took on a neutral expression and left her alone to her space, for he knew the children took their cue from him. In time she returned, wiping her eyes. She sat down.
“Sorry.”
“No, no,” said the father.
“Mom, what's wrong?” asked the younger child.
Happiness and sorrow strove together across her features. She tried to smile, but the tears would not stop.
“I never went to Homecoming,” she said. “It was a lot of fun.” She paused.
“My mother wouldn't let me. She was so jealous. She made sure, every year, that I couldn't go.”
“What the hell …” interrupted the father but she waved him silent.
“She never had a life. And she was damn sure I wouldn't either. She hated me. Hated me. Every year we had to go to her mother's house on Homecoming weekend, or something.
“Finally, in 12th grade – my last chance! – I decided to go. She wasn't going to ruin it for me any more. I just didn't come home. I stayed at school and helped make floats. We made floats for the parade! It was a blast. It was an absolute blast.”
The happy memory disappeared from her face as she started crying again.
“I went home, oh, maybe about four in the afternoon. I wanted to change my clothes. I wanted to be in the parade! Or hang with my friends, or go to a party. Something! Anything! It was my senior year. My last chance ever to go to Homecoming!”
She sobbed.
“That bitch was so mad. She hated me! Went after me with a baseball bat.”
Anger chased off the tears.
“Took a baseball bat to me.”
“Did you hit her back?” asked the ninth grader. He knew the bitch in question. She was his loving grandmother. But he also knew people were not usually what they seemed.
The mother paused, nodded, shook her head.
“I … I had to defend myself.”
The father had been told in dark nights past of mother-daughter struggles that ultimately sent the girl's mother to the hospital. He suspected this had been one of them. But the mother did not share that detail with her child.
“I defended myself,” she said.
“So you!” she cried, pointing a finger at him. “You go to Homecoming, and have a great time! Or I'll take a baseball bat to you.” She laughed and her damp, deep brown eyes sparkled.
The school schedule was passed around the dinner table and note was made of the upcoming Homecoming celebrations: A bonfire, a parade, a football game.
The ninth grader asked, “What's Homecoming?”
The mother's face lit up. She knew the child needed encouragement to go to social events, that given a choice he'd rather hang with a couple long-haired kids in a stuffy room and listen to heavy metal. She wanted to talk it up.
“It's … fun!” she said. “It's like back-to-school, but it's all for the kids. There's parties, and games, and stuff going on … “
The father said, “I thought it was about coming home, like for the football team after being out on the road for weeks.”
“No,” she said. “No. It's coming home, back to school.” Her smile faded.
“Do you have to, like, wear a suit?” the ninth grader asked.
“No,” she laughed, a little forced. “Jeans and t-shirts. There's activities, and there'll be a parade, and floats … “
She fell silent. The ninth grader said “Hmm”, and tried to look game.
The family saw tears on her face. She worked to hold them in, but it was no go, and she abruptly left the table. They ate in silence awhile. The father took on a neutral expression and left her alone to her space, for he knew the children took their cue from him. In time she returned, wiping her eyes. She sat down.
“Sorry.”
“No, no,” said the father.
“Mom, what's wrong?” asked the younger child.
Happiness and sorrow strove together across her features. She tried to smile, but the tears would not stop.
“I never went to Homecoming,” she said. “It was a lot of fun.” She paused.
“My mother wouldn't let me. She was so jealous. She made sure, every year, that I couldn't go.”
“What the hell …” interrupted the father but she waved him silent.
“She never had a life. And she was damn sure I wouldn't either. She hated me. Hated me. Every year we had to go to her mother's house on Homecoming weekend, or something.
“Finally, in 12th grade – my last chance! – I decided to go. She wasn't going to ruin it for me any more. I just didn't come home. I stayed at school and helped make floats. We made floats for the parade! It was a blast. It was an absolute blast.”
The happy memory disappeared from her face as she started crying again.
“I went home, oh, maybe about four in the afternoon. I wanted to change my clothes. I wanted to be in the parade! Or hang with my friends, or go to a party. Something! Anything! It was my senior year. My last chance ever to go to Homecoming!”
She sobbed.
“That bitch was so mad. She hated me! Went after me with a baseball bat.”
Anger chased off the tears.
“Took a baseball bat to me.”
“Did you hit her back?” asked the ninth grader. He knew the bitch in question. She was his loving grandmother. But he also knew people were not usually what they seemed.
The mother paused, nodded, shook her head.
“I … I had to defend myself.”
The father had been told in dark nights past of mother-daughter struggles that ultimately sent the girl's mother to the hospital. He suspected this had been one of them. But the mother did not share that detail with her child.
“I defended myself,” she said.
“So you!” she cried, pointing a finger at him. “You go to Homecoming, and have a great time! Or I'll take a baseball bat to you.” She laughed and her damp, deep brown eyes sparkled.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Wait, Let's Do This Too
Trouble with onlinery is it's at hand all the time. I switched from doing something that was probably important within the minimal context of this drone-like job to a quick glance at the news wherein my attention was arrested by the headline, "Gov't Wanted Total Cell Phone Ban For Drivers". The article said what we all know: Hands-free cell phones are no safer than the regular kind. Of course, I take that fact to mean they should repeal the hands-free-only law, but gov'mint (and a few of you nanny-staters too, no doubt) instead takes it to mean cell phone use while driving should be banned entirely. Well, that figgers. I also think I should be able to drive home with a cold can of beer, and that seatbelts should be voluntary. So, whatever. I know the world ain't going my way.
What then caught my eye was an ad for an in-car navigational system. Seems to me if a phone chat provides enough cognitive distraction to kill hundreds of people every year, then at least an on-dash unit that gives you maps, directions, weather, news, internet search capability, restaurant reviews, and movies on demand ought to be safe. We humans can handle it -- we're natural born multitaskers, right? Right!?
It also caught my eye because I worked on that particular product a year ago or so, being one of the main component suppliers, and handled lots of questions and solved problems and so on, but that part of the story isn't nearly as interesting now that I've got to it as I thought it would be. What's more interesting is that, per the article last linked,
What then caught my eye was an ad for an in-car navigational system. Seems to me if a phone chat provides enough cognitive distraction to kill hundreds of people every year, then at least an on-dash unit that gives you maps, directions, weather, news, internet search capability, restaurant reviews, and movies on demand ought to be safe. We humans can handle it -- we're natural born multitaskers, right? Right!?
It also caught my eye because I worked on that particular product a year ago or so, being one of the main component suppliers, and handled lots of questions and solved problems and so on, but that part of the story isn't nearly as interesting now that I've got to it as I thought it would be. What's more interesting is that, per the article last linked,
In a recent study, a group of Microsoft workers took, on average, 15 minutes to return to serious mental tasks, like writing reports or computer code, after responding to incoming e-mail or instant messages. They strayed off to reply to other messages or browse news, sports or entertainment Web sites.No fucking duh. So seatbelt habits aside I really am just like other people. Seriously, I think in my father's day, office workers were far more productive. Hell, before getting a desktop internet, I was far more productive. I mean, look what I'm doing now, all because in a distracted moment I clicked the link to Google News. Now I have emails stacked up in my box and must go. Thank Gawd!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Corona Del Mar
Right, that last pic was taken somewhere near La Conchita, on the last stretch into Santa Barbara from south-away. The setting sun was playing tricks with the evening fog and I thought I'd capture it. I was mistaken.
There's a sense of brittle preservation to a neighborhood so exclusive that no one could possibly afford to live there unless they bought in about the time of the Beach Boys, and judging by the age of the people out and about who were not walking to the beach, that pretty well covers it. The location, the weather, the architecture, and the landscaping were all perfection, tuned over many years. One gets a sense the only work left to do is figure out which undeserving children to leave it to. Or hell, Emma, let's just sell it to that Asian plastic surgeon and let the kids and their brats fight over the money. Especially now it's worth half what it was, heh heh.
But love is not dead there. A very sweet couple was kissing and cooing on a bench overlooking the sea. She was about seventy five, blonde long since gray, still pretty underneath all the years. He was about twenty five with a Jamaican look. It was all very romantic.
We staked out a spot in the sand and threw a frisbee in the light surf and risked broken ankles going out to the end of the breakwater. Felt like vacation.
One thing about the wealthy, though (probably your nouveau riche, selling smartphones to drug dealers). Who the hell spends a couple million bucks on a house by the ocean that was designed for Disneyland? There was another -- not pictured -- that was very spacious and clean and classy in a Bauhaus kind of way and I thought how satisfying it must be to spend six mil on a house that looks like a dentist's office. I did however like one of the sculptures, never mind how stupid-rich you have to be to put a three hundred pound hunk of bronze on your pool deck.
Next, if I get around to posting it, we shoot the pier at Huntington Beach.
There's a sense of brittle preservation to a neighborhood so exclusive that no one could possibly afford to live there unless they bought in about the time of the Beach Boys, and judging by the age of the people out and about who were not walking to the beach, that pretty well covers it. The location, the weather, the architecture, and the landscaping were all perfection, tuned over many years. One gets a sense the only work left to do is figure out which undeserving children to leave it to. Or hell, Emma, let's just sell it to that Asian plastic surgeon and let the kids and their brats fight over the money. Especially now it's worth half what it was, heh heh.
But love is not dead there. A very sweet couple was kissing and cooing on a bench overlooking the sea. She was about seventy five, blonde long since gray, still pretty underneath all the years. He was about twenty five with a Jamaican look. It was all very romantic.
We staked out a spot in the sand and threw a frisbee in the light surf and risked broken ankles going out to the end of the breakwater. Felt like vacation.
One thing about the wealthy, though (probably your nouveau riche, selling smartphones to drug dealers). Who the hell spends a couple million bucks on a house by the ocean that was designed for Disneyland? There was another -- not pictured -- that was very spacious and clean and classy in a Bauhaus kind of way and I thought how satisfying it must be to spend six mil on a house that looks like a dentist's office. I did however like one of the sculptures, never mind how stupid-rich you have to be to put a three hundred pound hunk of bronze on your pool deck.
Next, if I get around to posting it, we shoot the pier at Huntington Beach.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
On the Campus at UC Irvine
I find the park-like setting oddly futuristic, a scholastic utopia as conceived in the 1960s.
I find the roots of a huge ficus tree fascinating, reflective of a life every bit as full on the ground as above it.
I find anteater porn oddly disturbing.
I find the roots of a huge ficus tree fascinating, reflective of a life every bit as full on the ground as above it.
I find anteater porn oddly disturbing.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Ro-o-oad
Love roads. They go places. Highway 50 passes a few miles from my house as it goes from West Sac all the way to the Maryland shore. Some day I am going to drive the whole thing. I am!
Not today. Went west on it a little bit, avoided sudden death when I realized with nearly a second to spare that the switch to I-5 LA-bound is one lane and not two, and headed south. And drove and drove and drove.
Actually the new adult and soon-to-be college student had the reigns when we hit the 100 and 200 mile marks, so I took pitchers. Surprised?
You shouldn't be. Yes, this vast truck stop is what you see exactly 100 miles down the road from my house. And 100 miles later we were still in the feet of the Coast Range, with orchards as far as they eye can see off to the left, rolling hills of dry grass under the tread of cows on the right, and an endless parade of cars and trucks on the broad ribbon of asphalt in between. Iconic California, really. To me.
Ever have a character in a story suddenly just leap out at you? Happens to me. One memorable invention was Tequila Mockingbird, until I did a search and found I was neither the first nor the tenth person to think of that one. But this Buttonwillow McKittrick -- I could tell you a lot about her, just from her name. And I'm sure you could tell me. But it doesn't matter, does it? Most stories are never written. We are on a path and we are going places, and there's just no stopping for side trips.
Miles later, at 300 from home, not a lot has changed.
When we passed 400 I was fighting late rush hour Los Angeles traffic and CBA to grab the camera. I did snap one earlier as we climbed the Grapevine towards Tejon Pass, no particular reason why. The mountains and the dueling trucks made for a sense of drama, but mainly in comparison to miles and miles of Kern County. Now we're here, winding down for tomorrow and our visit to UCI. To the Future, and beyond!
Not today. Went west on it a little bit, avoided sudden death when I realized with nearly a second to spare that the switch to I-5 LA-bound is one lane and not two, and headed south. And drove and drove and drove.
Actually the new adult and soon-to-be college student had the reigns when we hit the 100 and 200 mile marks, so I took pitchers. Surprised?
You shouldn't be. Yes, this vast truck stop is what you see exactly 100 miles down the road from my house. And 100 miles later we were still in the feet of the Coast Range, with orchards as far as they eye can see off to the left, rolling hills of dry grass under the tread of cows on the right, and an endless parade of cars and trucks on the broad ribbon of asphalt in between. Iconic California, really. To me.
Ever have a character in a story suddenly just leap out at you? Happens to me. One memorable invention was Tequila Mockingbird, until I did a search and found I was neither the first nor the tenth person to think of that one. But this Buttonwillow McKittrick -- I could tell you a lot about her, just from her name. And I'm sure you could tell me. But it doesn't matter, does it? Most stories are never written. We are on a path and we are going places, and there's just no stopping for side trips.
Miles later, at 300 from home, not a lot has changed.
When we passed 400 I was fighting late rush hour Los Angeles traffic and CBA to grab the camera. I did snap one earlier as we climbed the Grapevine towards Tejon Pass, no particular reason why. The mountains and the dueling trucks made for a sense of drama, but mainly in comparison to miles and miles of Kern County. Now we're here, winding down for tomorrow and our visit to UCI. To the Future, and beyond!
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Nothing Important, in Short Paragraphs
We hit the road tomorrow. Motel in Santa Ana. Google says it's 442 miles. Another 7.7 miles to UC Irvine. That's where Skzx will be continuing his eddication. We're all going for new student orientation.
I enjoy driving. Even that long straight stretch of I-5. People complain, but not me. Maybe it's a temperament thing.
We have to take the car. Really isn't room for three adults in it, unless one of them is very small. None of them are. But the back seat can be a cozy place to read if given enough pillows.
Car because the truck is going to blow a pulley bearing and we don't want to take it anywhere until it does and is then fixed. Truck doesn't have an awful lot more room anyway. When we bought it the bairns were not yet full-sized and didn't mind the back seat was not designed for full-sized people. It's used for long trips even so, and we manage all right. But not this time.
About a week ago the car's CD player jammed up and nothing I could do yesterday fixed it. Apparently CD changers are unreliable. Also it didn't have an auxiliary audio input. No way we were going that far with nothing but radio. After much hawing and gnashing I went to Fry's and bought a new one. Took me all frickin' weekend to put it in.
Battery had reached its end too. Original with the car, six years old. So with the dash all torn apart I went and did the battery, which adventure included searching high and low for a battery carrying strap because mine broke, and replacing the terminal clamp on one cable because the old one had corroded away and was holding together mostly out of habit. No one anywhere sells carrying straps anymore and I had to borrow one and was lucky to get that. Oh, the stories I could tell.
Why all weekend? Well, you know, new radio replacing stock, nothing fit, multiple trips to the hardware store, etc. etc. But it's all in now, and it's cool because it has a USB port. All I have to do is fill a USB thumb drive with MP3 files and I am set. Love it.
We will miss our puppies.
Lost two today. New owners took them to their new homes. I can almost hear them crying for mama. Only six and a half weeks old! They are so cute, the very essence of adorable if essence can include the pervasive odor of puppy shit. Indeed it's drifting out of the open garage window and up and in through the open window right by me here upstairs. Gosh, will sure miss that.
They're not just hairy blind mole rats anymore. They are full of play and mischief. Come to their pen and they will run to you and crawl over each other to get close. Step in and they will crowd you and bite your ankles and untie your shoes. Mix of labrador and golden retriever -- we could sell them for a lot more than we do but we're not in it for the money, we just went puppies and friends to be happy together.
I believe strongly in capitalism but I'm not very good at it myself. I'm more in it for the individual liberty angle, which more well-meaning systems never really manage very well. I could never sell something at a price set by demand. Just give me what I think I put into it.
Doesn't feel like vacation. I'm taking my company-issued laptop and will check on things periodically. How can I not? My group has three people in it. Two if you don't count me. And though it's late Sunday night to me, it's mid Monday afternoon where the action is, and judging by email, the action ain't slowing down. So as a self-preservation measure I'm going to sort of work now and then -- self-preservation in the sense of avoiding a total conflagration of escalating issues by the time I return next weekend.
I don't mean to sound important. Some of what we do is put out fires, essentially. And letting them smolder gets you burned if you're not careful. That's all it is. Nothing important.
I enjoy driving. Even that long straight stretch of I-5. People complain, but not me. Maybe it's a temperament thing.
We have to take the car. Really isn't room for three adults in it, unless one of them is very small. None of them are. But the back seat can be a cozy place to read if given enough pillows.
Car because the truck is going to blow a pulley bearing and we don't want to take it anywhere until it does and is then fixed. Truck doesn't have an awful lot more room anyway. When we bought it the bairns were not yet full-sized and didn't mind the back seat was not designed for full-sized people. It's used for long trips even so, and we manage all right. But not this time.
About a week ago the car's CD player jammed up and nothing I could do yesterday fixed it. Apparently CD changers are unreliable. Also it didn't have an auxiliary audio input. No way we were going that far with nothing but radio. After much hawing and gnashing I went to Fry's and bought a new one. Took me all frickin' weekend to put it in.
Battery had reached its end too. Original with the car, six years old. So with the dash all torn apart I went and did the battery, which adventure included searching high and low for a battery carrying strap because mine broke, and replacing the terminal clamp on one cable because the old one had corroded away and was holding together mostly out of habit. No one anywhere sells carrying straps anymore and I had to borrow one and was lucky to get that. Oh, the stories I could tell.
Why all weekend? Well, you know, new radio replacing stock, nothing fit, multiple trips to the hardware store, etc. etc. But it's all in now, and it's cool because it has a USB port. All I have to do is fill a USB thumb drive with MP3 files and I am set. Love it.
We will miss our puppies.
Lost two today. New owners took them to their new homes. I can almost hear them crying for mama. Only six and a half weeks old! They are so cute, the very essence of adorable if essence can include the pervasive odor of puppy shit. Indeed it's drifting out of the open garage window and up and in through the open window right by me here upstairs. Gosh, will sure miss that.
They're not just hairy blind mole rats anymore. They are full of play and mischief. Come to their pen and they will run to you and crawl over each other to get close. Step in and they will crowd you and bite your ankles and untie your shoes. Mix of labrador and golden retriever -- we could sell them for a lot more than we do but we're not in it for the money, we just went puppies and friends to be happy together.
I believe strongly in capitalism but I'm not very good at it myself. I'm more in it for the individual liberty angle, which more well-meaning systems never really manage very well. I could never sell something at a price set by demand. Just give me what I think I put into it.
Doesn't feel like vacation. I'm taking my company-issued laptop and will check on things periodically. How can I not? My group has three people in it. Two if you don't count me. And though it's late Sunday night to me, it's mid Monday afternoon where the action is, and judging by email, the action ain't slowing down. So as a self-preservation measure I'm going to sort of work now and then -- self-preservation in the sense of avoiding a total conflagration of escalating issues by the time I return next weekend.
I don't mean to sound important. Some of what we do is put out fires, essentially. And letting them smolder gets you burned if you're not careful. That's all it is. Nothing important.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Shameless Disgusting Sexist Post
So I'm reading The Register and there's something about "RIP tennis gal's DD jubs" so I go there and lo and behold there's yet another unbelievably sexy European tennis star (nothing against Americans, Venus and Serena Williams are über-hot) and all the boys are lamenting her decision to get a breast reduction. Saith she:
Bonus shot: Serena utilizes her awesome service form.
“I do not believe that physical appearance has an effect on performance, so I help with anything in the sport. My mind bust when for me to go and even if the land would not be sporting, I would have felt very good. Inconvenience me, it’s very hard with them. It’s a weight in addition to confound me speed response. I can not go on very well. Shoot me down. Nothing in life is not like me even though sport was not all I was doing surgery.” - SportsbyBrooksMore power to her, I say. Simona Halep has better control over her body than most and if it helps her career to have flesh and blood sucked out where other women are paying big bucks to get silicone stuffed in, then yay her. I will not join the swelling chorus of tennis fans worldwide who are wailing and pouting over the suddenly reduced value of their large hi-density TV screens. Instead, as a statement of respect for her discipline and self-determination, let us ponder with appropriate sobriety the beauty of completely unsexualized female athleticism.
Bonus shot: Serena utilizes her awesome service form.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Monday, July 06, 2009
Sparks and Carnivals
Amongst my greatest personal failings, ill-discipline takes the dominant place.
So does bad writing. Let me try that again.
I have to admit: I'm not lazy, I'm not weak on ability, I don't hate my job. I just ain't got no discipline. And rather than force myself into some role, maybe it's better I try to live within my nature.
In other words, I'll work better today if I do something creative first. Even a dumb little blog post sharing pictures. Three's a magic number, will go with that.
And guess what? As usual I'll write too much. Less is only more if you're disciplined.
Sat. night we went down to the shopping mall for the fireworks show. The mall was built in 1970, back when Aerojet and Mather AFB drove construction of new suburbs out into the farm country. Now the farms are completely forgotten and the AFB is closed and Aerojet a shadow of its former self, and the suburbs run down and oil-stained, full of people by no means envisioned by the original developers: Gangs, immigrants, the working poor. And me.
Thus the crowd had a peculiar misshapen look to it. Actually, that's just a matter of style. Anyone in an over-long t-shirt and shorts down to their ankles and a haircut inspired by watching gangland documentaries looks misshapen to me, and that about covers everyone under thirty-five these days. So, I dunno, the crew-cut little kids being pushed around in strollers by slouching couples buried in tatts and bad hair will probably grow up to be very prim and focused. Fascists, most likely.
There was a carnival filled with about thirty thousand brats whose parents bred too young. We walked through the press, enjoying the sights, sounds, smells. Rickety vomit-rides hauled off truck trailers, "games" where gravel-voiced barkers exhort passersby to win faded plush toys of last year's fad animal-character, a single "food" concession beset with hundreds of people yearning for that elusive perfect corn-dog. Warmth recycled from the July sun rose into the night air from the asphalt.
Further out in the parking lot was the rock station tent, handing out bumper stickers, and around a corner there was a concert going on. Local blues-harp phenomenon Kyle Rowland was down with a solid band. We saw him at the Jubilee -- just fifteen, and an amazing musician. Really enjoys himself too. If he keeps that happy spirit and avoids the pitfalls of most young talent, he will have a great life.
The fireworks were cool, always are. Out in the back parking lot, music provided by numerous random car radios all tuned in to the same station, people out in their lawn chairs basically tail-gating. It was fun, a happy crowd, a family crowd. Afterwards we predicted the traffic would be ridiculous and went to a bar to wait it out, enjoyed watching the stop-and-stop traffic for a full hour as people tried to thread their way out of the mall and through the intersection.
So does bad writing. Let me try that again.
I have to admit: I'm not lazy, I'm not weak on ability, I don't hate my job. I just ain't got no discipline. And rather than force myself into some role, maybe it's better I try to live within my nature.
In other words, I'll work better today if I do something creative first. Even a dumb little blog post sharing pictures. Three's a magic number, will go with that.
And guess what? As usual I'll write too much. Less is only more if you're disciplined.
Sat. night we went down to the shopping mall for the fireworks show. The mall was built in 1970, back when Aerojet and Mather AFB drove construction of new suburbs out into the farm country. Now the farms are completely forgotten and the AFB is closed and Aerojet a shadow of its former self, and the suburbs run down and oil-stained, full of people by no means envisioned by the original developers: Gangs, immigrants, the working poor. And me.
Thus the crowd had a peculiar misshapen look to it. Actually, that's just a matter of style. Anyone in an over-long t-shirt and shorts down to their ankles and a haircut inspired by watching gangland documentaries looks misshapen to me, and that about covers everyone under thirty-five these days. So, I dunno, the crew-cut little kids being pushed around in strollers by slouching couples buried in tatts and bad hair will probably grow up to be very prim and focused. Fascists, most likely.
There was a carnival filled with about thirty thousand brats whose parents bred too young. We walked through the press, enjoying the sights, sounds, smells. Rickety vomit-rides hauled off truck trailers, "games" where gravel-voiced barkers exhort passersby to win faded plush toys of last year's fad animal-character, a single "food" concession beset with hundreds of people yearning for that elusive perfect corn-dog. Warmth recycled from the July sun rose into the night air from the asphalt.
Further out in the parking lot was the rock station tent, handing out bumper stickers, and around a corner there was a concert going on. Local blues-harp phenomenon Kyle Rowland was down with a solid band. We saw him at the Jubilee -- just fifteen, and an amazing musician. Really enjoys himself too. If he keeps that happy spirit and avoids the pitfalls of most young talent, he will have a great life.
The fireworks were cool, always are. Out in the back parking lot, music provided by numerous random car radios all tuned in to the same station, people out in their lawn chairs basically tail-gating. It was fun, a happy crowd, a family crowd. Afterwards we predicted the traffic would be ridiculous and went to a bar to wait it out, enjoyed watching the stop-and-stop traffic for a full hour as people tried to thread their way out of the mall and through the intersection.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
3rd of July
Everyone knows about the 4th but yesterday I got the day off and I was so excited about that, I took the day off. Not every week you get two Saturdays in a row. I spent it doing an hour-long job on the Jeep. Yes, the whole day. It's a simple matter to replace a power steering pump, especially if you just did it a week ago. A very simple matter indeed. First, borrow a turkey baster from the kitchen to suck out the power steering fluid. Then loosen a bunch of bolts. They are either 1/2 or 9/16, depending on which socket you don't have on your wrench. They are also impossible to reach with a socket wrench, or indeed any kind of wrench unless you are lying on your back in the gravel getting foxtails in your shirt and snaking your arm through oil-soaked steering linkage, or leaning over the top of the engine far enough to ensure your reading glasses, your best ones, the ones you could find, keep slipping off into a grease-covered maze of wires and hoses. Then, if you squint and grunt and contort your fingers in unnatural directions, one of your various wrenches might fit.
After loosening the last bolt one excruciating eighth of a turn at a time and then the last-last bolt which was previously invisible and is the one that allows you to loosen the serpentine belt and force it painfully off the pulley, it is time to consider turning off the hood lamp lest you lack battery power later when you need it. There is no switch, of course. It turns on automechanically when the hood is open. Nor can the connector be disconnected without destroying the plastic housing that has become brittle through twenty years of inland California temperature swings. But there is a ground wire attached with a hex-headed sheet metal screw, and pulling that off will work, and since Jeep is an American brand it is sensible to try your 1/2 and then 9/16 sockets on it. Neither fits, and when you come back out of the garage with your metric set and squint to read a 12 and find that is too large, and you find an 11 is too large, and you rummage around and find a 9 and discover that's too small, you then have to go back to the garage because your set is missing the 10mm socket. There's one in another socket set, and eventually you find it, pull the ground wire, turn off the lamp, and see about removing the pump from the engine compartment.
There's no difficulty with this part, it comes right out once you detach the two hoses and ensure the ground absorbs a pint or so of toxic fluid and twist and turn the damn thing three different ways to extract it from amongst numerous other engine components. My difficulty was philosophical: We had just put in a new one because the old one leaked and was twenty years old. The new one didn't leak but it didn't work either. Not at idle -- worked fine going down the road but the power assist gave out if the RPMs went under about 1500, and this was most disconcerting when taking a corner with the clutch in. It basically felt like the steering had locked up the instant you really needed it, when turning a corner with some litigious-appearing old dame in your path at the stop sign, watching with baleful eye as you screech to a halt half an inch from her newly-waxed left-rear quarter-panel. My son figured out how to rev the engine while turning and thus reduce risk of collision but to my old brain it was backwards to hit the gas while slowing down to make a turn, and after talking to the auto parts store and the pump manufacturer and a handful of home mechanics at work I decided the smartest surrender was to assume the new pump was bad and take it back. I hated doing this because the odds of getting a bad pump seemed somewhat less than that I had done something wrong, and the odds remained somewhat better that I would do the same thing wrong when putting in yet another new pump. I also had a theory that the first new pump had the wrong fluid control valve in it. I'd much rather replace the valve than the whole damn thing, because it was easy to get to. But auto parts return doesn't work that way.
Pulley replacement is fun too, because it involves an obscure tool that costs half as much as the pump itself and is good for nothing else, an old torque wrench, a combo wrench stuck in a length of pipe (for leverage), two legs braced in opposite directions, room on the ground to spread out in, and an assistant who is either very brave or has never done this before.
Love days off. Don't you?
Last night we went to a 3rd of July celebration: Cul-de-sac of midrange private homes, second and third generation owners and renters, fireworks in the street (the legal kind), beer and pool table in the back yard. I enjoy hanging out with my fellow suburbanites with their tatts and piercings, biker-chic slash blue collar style of dress, alternately polite and horrible children, undersized RVs, oversized motorcycles, redneck facial hair styles (e.g. shaven head and full beard), and hard but generous nature. Family men all, and I've noticed that family men who've been to prison are more polite than those who haven't.
The County is out in force this year to clamp down on illegal fireworks and our hosts were warned directly. No wonder, a house burned down behind their cul-de-sac on the 4th last year. It was abandoned, more than likely an insurance job, and clever enough to get done on the 4th of July, but this left the authorities no choice but to be suspicious and vigilant. They could not, however, hang out around the corner all night, and about ten or so an explosion above the rooftops grabbed our attention as a volley of twenty or so airborne Mexican-made fireworks lit up the night and set off the dogs and car alarms. It was a fitting end to a fine low-key evening. Tonight we're off to a shopping mall, where the rock radio station is hosting a display. We're thinking to fill our Nalgenes with beer and wander the crowd, watching faces, looking for familiar ones, and enjoying these magical times when our children are independent and still close to home.
After loosening the last bolt one excruciating eighth of a turn at a time and then the last-last bolt which was previously invisible and is the one that allows you to loosen the serpentine belt and force it painfully off the pulley, it is time to consider turning off the hood lamp lest you lack battery power later when you need it. There is no switch, of course. It turns on automechanically when the hood is open. Nor can the connector be disconnected without destroying the plastic housing that has become brittle through twenty years of inland California temperature swings. But there is a ground wire attached with a hex-headed sheet metal screw, and pulling that off will work, and since Jeep is an American brand it is sensible to try your 1/2 and then 9/16 sockets on it. Neither fits, and when you come back out of the garage with your metric set and squint to read a 12 and find that is too large, and you find an 11 is too large, and you rummage around and find a 9 and discover that's too small, you then have to go back to the garage because your set is missing the 10mm socket. There's one in another socket set, and eventually you find it, pull the ground wire, turn off the lamp, and see about removing the pump from the engine compartment.
There's no difficulty with this part, it comes right out once you detach the two hoses and ensure the ground absorbs a pint or so of toxic fluid and twist and turn the damn thing three different ways to extract it from amongst numerous other engine components. My difficulty was philosophical: We had just put in a new one because the old one leaked and was twenty years old. The new one didn't leak but it didn't work either. Not at idle -- worked fine going down the road but the power assist gave out if the RPMs went under about 1500, and this was most disconcerting when taking a corner with the clutch in. It basically felt like the steering had locked up the instant you really needed it, when turning a corner with some litigious-appearing old dame in your path at the stop sign, watching with baleful eye as you screech to a halt half an inch from her newly-waxed left-rear quarter-panel. My son figured out how to rev the engine while turning and thus reduce risk of collision but to my old brain it was backwards to hit the gas while slowing down to make a turn, and after talking to the auto parts store and the pump manufacturer and a handful of home mechanics at work I decided the smartest surrender was to assume the new pump was bad and take it back. I hated doing this because the odds of getting a bad pump seemed somewhat less than that I had done something wrong, and the odds remained somewhat better that I would do the same thing wrong when putting in yet another new pump. I also had a theory that the first new pump had the wrong fluid control valve in it. I'd much rather replace the valve than the whole damn thing, because it was easy to get to. But auto parts return doesn't work that way.
Pulley replacement is fun too, because it involves an obscure tool that costs half as much as the pump itself and is good for nothing else, an old torque wrench, a combo wrench stuck in a length of pipe (for leverage), two legs braced in opposite directions, room on the ground to spread out in, and an assistant who is either very brave or has never done this before.
Love days off. Don't you?
Last night we went to a 3rd of July celebration: Cul-de-sac of midrange private homes, second and third generation owners and renters, fireworks in the street (the legal kind), beer and pool table in the back yard. I enjoy hanging out with my fellow suburbanites with their tatts and piercings, biker-chic slash blue collar style of dress, alternately polite and horrible children, undersized RVs, oversized motorcycles, redneck facial hair styles (e.g. shaven head and full beard), and hard but generous nature. Family men all, and I've noticed that family men who've been to prison are more polite than those who haven't.
The County is out in force this year to clamp down on illegal fireworks and our hosts were warned directly. No wonder, a house burned down behind their cul-de-sac on the 4th last year. It was abandoned, more than likely an insurance job, and clever enough to get done on the 4th of July, but this left the authorities no choice but to be suspicious and vigilant. They could not, however, hang out around the corner all night, and about ten or so an explosion above the rooftops grabbed our attention as a volley of twenty or so airborne Mexican-made fireworks lit up the night and set off the dogs and car alarms. It was a fitting end to a fine low-key evening. Tonight we're off to a shopping mall, where the rock radio station is hosting a display. We're thinking to fill our Nalgenes with beer and wander the crowd, watching faces, looking for familiar ones, and enjoying these magical times when our children are independent and still close to home.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Book
Facebook is definitely the new blogiverse.
Blogging started out as a means of sharing interesting links and commenting on them. As more people became net-users the concept morphed into general self-publishing. People could "blog" and it would mean whatever they wanted it to mean: An online diary, a means of sharing pictures, a place to shout back at politicians and pretend they were listening. For some of us, a place to practice writing and get immediate and qualified feedback.
Now Facebook does most of that, and it's much easier. What it doesn't do is create a literary space. You can write there, but the slam-bam nature of it is discouraging. I wouldn't bother.
A huge difference is it's not very anonymous. It can be if you want, but that denies the point of it. Through Facebook you can make yourself, your true self, accessible. If you don't want to do that, then don't use Facebook. Don't be accessible, etc. Your choice.
I chose to try it and the results are interesting. My Facebook presence has taken on three distinct personalities, reflecting the three distinct groups of people that I'm hooked up to.
First is the internet writerly crowd, the entertaining and argumentative crew that got to know itself on usenet five and more years ago (no, that link won't work if you're not already set up for it -- I know, cause I'm not, and I tried it, and it doesn't work, but the URL is correct anyway). I've denied it before but the truth is they are friends, the unique sorts of friends that were virtually impossible to have before the 21st Century. Their antics keep me going back to F/B as often as I do, just to see in a moment of corporate-cubicle ennui what's going on.
Second is family and family friends, none of whom are particularly computerwise and have therefore only flowered as link-sharers and photo-posters with the advent of Facebook. It's a great way to stay in touch more than you ever thought you'd want to be.
Third appears to be old high school people. I could mention work, because I've a few co-workers in there. But I really don't want to interact with co-workers in the silly and informal Facebook milieu. Fellow employees, okay. But not actual colleagues, and I won't bother to explain why. High school people are starting to pop up, however, and it's kind of amazing. Someone will find me whom I last had a good conversation with in 1976, and their list of friends will include names I had forgotten since Ford was in office, and their friends will include others, and damn. There's a party goin' on.
I don't have weird atavistic reactions to high school like some folks do. I got nothing against anyone back there. I didn't make many friends and lost contact with everyone pretty quickly, but no bridges were burnt and in fact, by now, even a burnt bridge can grow back again. So I find it pleasant, almost comforting, to think of reconnecting with these various people. I'm doing so slowly. I'm not the sort to go, "I remember you, let's be 'friends'!". I like to keep my Facebook friends as real people with whom I have a real connection and not just because we were both at Caz one year. But it's a happening, a 'hey, this is nice' sort of thing. The distance is controlled. We can do this.
That's all. The post summary is: Seeing faces from over three decades back is a good thing by and large -- maybe we'll meet up at the multi-year picnic this summer; and lowered blog traffic and lowered blog activity reinforce one another, and so this thing's day are numbered. They're numbered anyway, for other reasons, but except for occasional bursts of exceptional energy, I expect this page of mine to fade into the weeds of the internet, like a warehouse at the edge of a former boomtown. I'm okay with that, because I've a sneaking suspicion the sort of writing I wanted to develop in a blog has actual markets, if I only look for them and write up to them. See you there.
Blogging started out as a means of sharing interesting links and commenting on them. As more people became net-users the concept morphed into general self-publishing. People could "blog" and it would mean whatever they wanted it to mean: An online diary, a means of sharing pictures, a place to shout back at politicians and pretend they were listening. For some of us, a place to practice writing and get immediate and qualified feedback.
Now Facebook does most of that, and it's much easier. What it doesn't do is create a literary space. You can write there, but the slam-bam nature of it is discouraging. I wouldn't bother.
A huge difference is it's not very anonymous. It can be if you want, but that denies the point of it. Through Facebook you can make yourself, your true self, accessible. If you don't want to do that, then don't use Facebook. Don't be accessible, etc. Your choice.
I chose to try it and the results are interesting. My Facebook presence has taken on three distinct personalities, reflecting the three distinct groups of people that I'm hooked up to.
First is the internet writerly crowd, the entertaining and argumentative crew that got to know itself on usenet five and more years ago (no, that link won't work if you're not already set up for it -- I know, cause I'm not, and I tried it, and it doesn't work, but the URL is correct anyway). I've denied it before but the truth is they are friends, the unique sorts of friends that were virtually impossible to have before the 21st Century. Their antics keep me going back to F/B as often as I do, just to see in a moment of corporate-cubicle ennui what's going on.
Second is family and family friends, none of whom are particularly computerwise and have therefore only flowered as link-sharers and photo-posters with the advent of Facebook. It's a great way to stay in touch more than you ever thought you'd want to be.
Third appears to be old high school people. I could mention work, because I've a few co-workers in there. But I really don't want to interact with co-workers in the silly and informal Facebook milieu. Fellow employees, okay. But not actual colleagues, and I won't bother to explain why. High school people are starting to pop up, however, and it's kind of amazing. Someone will find me whom I last had a good conversation with in 1976, and their list of friends will include names I had forgotten since Ford was in office, and their friends will include others, and damn. There's a party goin' on.
I don't have weird atavistic reactions to high school like some folks do. I got nothing against anyone back there. I didn't make many friends and lost contact with everyone pretty quickly, but no bridges were burnt and in fact, by now, even a burnt bridge can grow back again. So I find it pleasant, almost comforting, to think of reconnecting with these various people. I'm doing so slowly. I'm not the sort to go, "I remember you, let's be 'friends'!". I like to keep my Facebook friends as real people with whom I have a real connection and not just because we were both at Caz one year. But it's a happening, a 'hey, this is nice' sort of thing. The distance is controlled. We can do this.
That's all. The post summary is: Seeing faces from over three decades back is a good thing by and large -- maybe we'll meet up at the multi-year picnic this summer; and lowered blog traffic and lowered blog activity reinforce one another, and so this thing's day are numbered. They're numbered anyway, for other reasons, but except for occasional bursts of exceptional energy, I expect this page of mine to fade into the weeds of the internet, like a warehouse at the edge of a former boomtown. I'm okay with that, because I've a sneaking suspicion the sort of writing I wanted to develop in a blog has actual markets, if I only look for them and write up to them. See you there.
