| Bit of a funk |
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| 12:44pm 17/11/2009 |
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mood:  aggravated
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lately. Several creative outlets, like a script-reading and critique for a friend, construction and crafty stuff for DK ... still. Lacking energy and motivation.
Never the less, I have sufficient energy to add to my list of irrational hatreds. (Thus far, hummingbirds, DJ's and Renaissance Faire pickle-sellers ) New to the list - Chupa Chups lollipops. What a stupid word! Is it a chup that's chupa in nature? What the hell is a chup? What the heck does chupa mean? I don't like it. No sir, not one little bit. |
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| Music Monday, Demolishing My Personal and Family History Edition |
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| 11:37am 16/11/2009 |
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mood: anxious
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This is the demolition of "The Drexel Shaft" a gigantic smokestack at Drexel University. My grandfather studied engineering there, graduating in 1944. I worked there from 2000-2004, fifty years later.
Technically this smokestack is located in the Penn Coachyard, right next to 30th Street Station. The video is shot from the West and North of 30th Street Station, thus the tracks are between the camera and the stack. It's been out of operation since the 60's, but has been an eyesore essentially since its construction. It's a giant brick phallus thrusting out of West Philadelphia - where once commerce and industry boomed, and today only limp academic institutions and vast swathes of urban blight reign.
Drexel is surely one of the ugliest campuses on earth. I can't tell if today it's less ugly or if what it lacked in beauty it had in character, and is now somewhat less interesting. Interesting note - whenever I drove through the underpass on the other (East) side of 30th Street Station, I mysterious smelled doughnuts. Why? Despite years of poking around, I never figured out why.
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| comfydog |
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| 01:00pm 12/11/2009 |
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comfydog
Originally uploaded by aghrivaine
It's really hard to take pictures of this dog. He's so dark and uniformly black, he mostly just appears as a silhouette in anything other than broad daylight. I assure you, he has a very satisfied smirk on his face in this picture though - when he can evict the cats (whose kingdom is normally the bedroom) and steal some time on the bed, he's a happy critter. |
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| Veteran's Day |
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| 09:48am 11/11/2009 |
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mood: accomplished
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Veteran's Day, or maybe Remembrance Day if you're not American. I didn't even realize until a friend texted me this morning. I know a lot of guys I served with, who stayed in longer or took more risks, or hell, just weren't lucky, and today they're dead.
But the Army persists, and will, and will always need men and women to serve. To those who have, and those who do, and those who will - thank you. It is a hard and often thankless thing you do, with few rewards but that they are hard-fought, flinty and spare. That is service in the Army - flinty and spare. And tedious! We often remember the gallantry of those who have served, but let us not forget, either, the ceaseless tedium of cleaning and repair, of waiting and toiling that marks the reality of life in the Army. I went through basic training (actually OSUT, but unless you're a veteran that acronym is meaningless) with an Irish guy, O'Neil, with a phd in biochemistry. I gather he wanted to stay in the U.S. and enlisting was one way to do it. Why he didn't try to be an officer I can't imagine, but anyway - he and I got detailed with painting rocks one day, or maybe cutting grass or scrubbing pots, or whatever. We were walking back to the barracks, and he said, "Ye know Krieger, I joined up to be a soldier and do soldiering. But so far I've spent noinety per-cent of my time cleaning bathrooms and trimming grass. I wanted to be a scout, not a damn janitor or groundskeeper!"
He was right. Most of our life was just labor, unskilled and unceasing. And that's as hard a life as the constant stress and occasional terror of life out on the pointy-end, in a lot of ways. There's no glory in painting rocks white, but it's still important. Wait, maybe painting rocks white isn't (why the hell did we spend so much time doing that?) but all the maintenance, cleaning and careful attention to every piece of equipment was. Just boring as all Hell.
And so to those of you who have spent countless hours breaking your backs to clean stuff, thank you for your service. |
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| Music Monday, Phantom of the Pumpkin Patch Edition |
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| 03:00pm 09/11/2009 |
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mood: accomplished
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This is Brandon Scott, about whom I have previously written.
He has put "the Raven" to music, and performed and recorded it here.
I encourage you all to enjoy this performance on as many levels as it offers, which is quite a few.
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| Ft. Hood |
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| 10:20am 06/11/2009 |
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mood: melancholy
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12 dead and 30 wounded. No one knows why - just that the shooter was a Major, that he was in charge of psychiatric care of patients, and that he was a Muslim. It's horrifying, particularly since this man was, apparently, in charge of making sure soldiers never reach a state when such an act would be possible.
I empathize particularly with those members of the military and their families who came safe home from the war, only to die a senseless death at home. 12 dead and 30 wounded on the battlefield is probably not a remarkable number, but at home? It's shocking and horrible.
One of my coworkers, on hearing the news, said, "You can bet they will make everything politically correct and not mention that it's because he's Muslim." I questioned him, and finally he agreed that he believed that yes, all shootings that had occurred on military bases in the past decade were committed by Muslims. He's a knuckle-dragging right-winger, the kind of guy that thinks torture is a great idea, that the death penalty is only wrong because we don't use it enough and that it's not painful enough, and that any international problem can be solved with guns and bombs. So naturally I discount his opinion as valid...but I do not doubt that others will share his opinion, and this will make life harder for the millions of Muslim Americans who lead peaceful lives - another wrong to attribute to this mass-murderer.
As a veteran, I think in some ways soldiers live with the fact that their lives are on the line, and a soldier who dies a violent death is not necessarily a tragic figure. But at home? On a base in the United States? At the hands of a fellow soldier who was supposed to be sure this kind of thing never happened? It's a terrible, bitter irony - and if any good comes of it, let it be that the stress of military life and post-traumatic stress is taken far more seriously, and soldiers get the help they need, when they need it, without being castigated or stigmatized. |
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| Hughes center |
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| 12:05pm 05/11/2009 |
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Hughes center
Originally uploaded by aghrivaine
This is a view from the break room window. Apologies for the crazy reflection. i used an iphone tilt-shift app to make it look like a model.
That's actually the corner of the Hughes Center. Tilt-shift is nifty. Yay Iphone. Boo inarticulate-ness. |
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| Dog run |
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| 02:24pm 04/11/2009 |
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mood: blah
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I went running with the dog last night. The first time ever, and the first time in a long time for me running at all. A combination of my various feet injuries and the attendant hard climb out of the ensuing sloth have kept me not running. I used to run a lot. And enjoy it! The feeling of victory after a long hard run around Kelly Drive was remarkable, and I miss it very much. A cold, misty day and steam rising off of my head and body when I finally stopped, the last rise up from Kelly back onto Main St. in Manayunk - like a ramp leading into the sky. I'd sprint as hard as I could, and leave absolutely nothing left in the tank, try and take off, right up and up. It felt so good to be completely used up.
Not so much any more. The dog was a fine companion, he's built for speed and my labored, dinosaurian plodding was nothing but a brisk trot for him. He could go infinitely faster and far longer and still not be tired. Once he figured out not to dart in front of me to sniff something on the other side of me (thus spectacularly tripping me) we ran together just fine. I didn't make it far or fast before I was done.
Still, it's good for the dog and it's good for me, so I should keep doing it. Next time *before* dinner though, I think! |
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| Happy Halloween, featuring my favorite Frenchman |
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| 03:51pm 30/10/2009 |
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mood: amused
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This reminds me of some of the goonier stunts from "Trigger Happy TV" which, while often unfunny, was from time to time absolutely killer with people in animal suits. Also, everything Remi Gaillard does is freakin' awesome. |
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| Crackies |
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| 11:21am 27/10/2009 |
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mood: amused
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Crackies
Originally uploaded by aghrivaine
The Hobbit's whole family are very close. Fifteen years ago his grandfather died, and just as he came to my mother's funeral, I came to his grandfather's funeral. For all these years his grandmother lived alone, active and lively. She made frequent gifts of cookies to The Hobbit, tiny morsels of baked perfection that he brought to game nights and we lovingly called "crackies" because it was impossible to have just one. (Though for the record, once I did have just one, expressly to prove it was possible.)
Sadly his grandmother passed away last week, at 93. So at the house-warming party on Sunday, I did my best to re-create crackies in her memory. I think the recipe was fairly spot-on (light brown sugar makes for a butterscotchy taste that is very nice, and a liquid batter makes for a thin, crispy cookie.) but the size was out of scale. I don't know how she got them so tiny - I used less than a tablespoon per cookie, and still they were three times the size of her cookies.
The house-warming was a hectic affair - we were literally just putting the last few things away when the first guests arrived. Our new house, now that it is furnished, doesn't hold as many people we had thought it would - but even so family, friends and pets came out to carve pumpkins and have a good time.
It definitely feels like a home. Especially with crackies a-bakin'. |
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| Apartment for Cats |
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| 10:10am 23/10/2009 |
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loftdummy
Originally uploaded by aghrivaine
The cats have their own apartment, now. Dummy is staring at me. Partly she's pleased to finally have her own place. Partly she's annoyed because the food dish doesn't get filled as frequently, and the door is closed so she can't go out gallavanting in the neighborhood.
Missing from picture - Lolita, who is hiding. |
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| Moving Stress |
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| 11:18am 22/10/2009 |
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mood: aggravated
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Closing in on a week after the move (and two or three after starting the moving process) we're still not really close to finished. The carpet in the master bedroom was kinda nasty, so Herself decided we ought to tear it up. At first I agreed, it was me that insisted the carpet was unacceptable, after all. I now regret my position - in addition to painting, we've had to pull up the carpet, yank out the tacks, sand, caulk, prime and paint the floor - plus the walls and ceiling.
So without the master bedroom, the rest of the house is a shambles - pieces of furniture, mattress, carpets, box springs, boxes - still jammed up everywhere. Plus we can't get at the loft for storage, so everything that belongs there is still lined up in every space. And we sleep on the floor. Plus the plumbing exploded, and the plumber has had to dig up a WWI-worthy trench to get at the pipe under the house. Getting sat-TV installed was a nightmare, the phone was a pain, and the dog is so freaked out he keeps pooping indoors and running away. And he has fleas. So now I have fleas. And I only have myself and my own carpet-snobbery to blame.
I know, at the end of this, it will be better than my old apartment. But for the moment it's a massive step backwards, a huge mess, chaos, uncomfortable. I'm so stressed out, literally flea-bitten, and irritated. I can't wait for all this to be done and settled down. Tonight, at least, the floor should be done enough to put a bed down instead of sleeping on the floor. |
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| Perspective |
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| 11:26am 15/10/2009 |
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mood: accomplished
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Work has been a buster lately. Not just work really - everything. Lots of big, big projects that involves tons of smaller steps, and my head is spinning keeping track of it all. It's been a grind I'm feeling cranky.
But then I read about how 19th Century morticians had to be sure their clients were really dead. Apparently it wasn't too uncommon that they weren't quite entirely dead. So there was a method that became the accepted standard to be sure was rather ...
So anyway they paid someone to administer tobacco smoke to the rectums of corpses. This, you see, would revive anyone who wasn't actually dead. So someone's full time job was to spend their day wandering around a mortuary blowing smoke up the butts of dead people. And from time to time, lips firmly planted on posterior, one of them would actually wake up.
That guy? He's got a tough job. |
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| the Moonball |
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| 01:49pm 09/10/2009 |
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mood: accomplished
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When I was in 3rd or 4th grade, I don't remember exactly which, my family shipped me off to a boarding school, Girard College For Boys. It was a 43 acre campus right in the middle of North Philly - a tall, marble-capped wall separating the 19th century granite buildings from the 20th century concrete sprawl.
It was not, on the whole, a happy experience. The boys who attended the school were from poor families and generally toughened by life in the inner city. I was a suburban kid who didn't fit in terribly well. I did like the classical architecture, the sprawling grounds, even the ritual of dressing in a uniform, shirt, tie, sweater, blazer - for class and meals.
The library in particular was an impressive structure - a classical Greek structure with high cielings and windows, multiple stories surrounding an open interior. The smell of that building in particular is something I remember, dusty and with that lovely book-smell.
The sky in Venice in grey today, and it's cool outside. It's finally Fall, thank god - the sweltering heat of the late summer was brutal and I hated it passionately. But today is more like the Fall I spent at Girard, and I remember the library in particular. The librarian, who was absolutely the ur-librarian from which all other librarians were cast; a middle-aged kindly but stern woman with a pearl necklace, sweater tied around her neck, and glasses on a chain around her neck, would read to us. Of course, I preferred to read on my own, but story time was okay too. We each took a rectangular piece of carpet and sat on the floor - a polished marble expanse with a persian rug an acre across. The librarian read to us, and for years I had this vague recollection that it was a story about a boy finding an alien creature of some sort, something to do with the moon.
I finally dug it up, it was "The Moonball" by Ursula Moray Williams. Described thus: It's alive! cries William, holding the moonball. How can it be? asks Gloria. It doesn't have nay mouth, or eyes, or anything! It's just a furry ball. But it is alive, William says. It's licking my hand? Ever since the children first found the mysterious moonball, it has made them happy. But now the Professor has taken the moonball away to study it. He won't give it back! And that's how the trouble starts.
Today would be a fine day to be in a magnificent 19th century palace of books, reading old science-fiction, I nearly think. |
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| Completely Anecdotal |
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| 08:56am 08/10/2009 |
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mood: accomplished
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I can tell the economy is bounding back. In the last week, I've gotten about a dozen random attempts by recruiters to hire me, mostly by email. I have not listed my resume in years, so they're obviously just going through old databases. They wouldn't do this if positions were easy to fill.
It's like a tiny taste of the go-go 90's. |
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| Farewell to the ocean |
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| 03:47pm 06/10/2009 |
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mood: accomplished
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So the good news is, we found a pretty amazing house in Venice - not too far from Tortuga-on-Venice, but with a lot more space, very quirky accommodations, a garden, a yard, lots of amenities - and best of all for Venice - parking!
But it's not without regret I leave my little nest. I've been there for more than three years, which is the longest I've lived anywhere at all since I was a kid. It's been home, it's been an adventure, a community of very cool neighbors - and best of all I walk out every morning and there's the mighty Pacific, in all her beauty.
I won't miss how small it is, or how hard to park it is - but I will miss the ocean, to be sure.
And speaking of which - our loft bed is now for sale. No need for it at the new place! |
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| Music Monday, White People Krumping Edition |
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| 11:01am 05/10/2009 |
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mood: accomplished
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Here's a video of a dance called "The Tantrum" which I'm pretty sure is the white people version of krumping.
I'm back from an absurdly large wedding in Fresno, where I assure you, this is totally how I was dancing.
In other news, I found Blink's secret spot that when you scratch, will make his back leg go crazy. |
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