Quotidian Loveliness

Music Monday, Phantom of the Pumpkin Patch Edition

2009-11-09T23:01:36Z

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.

Nightmare

2009-11-09T17:13:56Z

I had a horrible dream last night, in which the Dallas cowboys beat the Philadelphia eagles because of an incredibly wrong call by a ref.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

Ft. Hood

2009-11-06T18:30:11Z

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.

Hughes center

2009-11-05T20:05:15Z

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.

Dog run

2009-11-04T22:32:34Z

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!

Happy Halloween, featuring my favorite Frenchman

2009-10-30T22:52:25Z

CHAUVE SOURIS (REMI GAILLARD)
by nqtv

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.

Crackies

2009-10-27T18:21:52Z

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'.

Music Monday: Inexplicable Edition

2009-10-26T16:58:38Z

I touch myself, chorally.

Apartment for Cats

2009-10-23T17:10:02Z

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.

Moving Stress

2009-10-22T18:32:15Z

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.

Perspective

2009-10-15T18:35:23Z

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.

the Moonball

2009-10-09T21:11:13Z

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.

Completely Anecdotal

2009-10-08T15:58:01Z

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.

Farewell to the ocean

2009-10-06T22:49:38Z

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!

Music Monday, White People Krumping Edition

2009-10-05T18:03:50Z

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.

Wildlife camera idea

2009-10-02T21:42:04Z

A dslr with zoom lens on a rifle stock for getting action shots of critters on the move.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

Wildlife camera idea

2009-10-02T21:42:04Z

A dslr with zoom lens on a rifle stock for getting action shots of critters on the move.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

Even tougher wasp hunter

2009-09-29T18:56:59Z

A while ago I posted a video of a guy in Japan who hunted giant hornets with nothing but a samurai sword, a ghostbusters suit, and a vacuum cleaner. I figured that guy was about the toughest dude there is. I was wrong, this guy makes him seem like a fancy little girl playing hopscotch on the playground.

Because this old guy does the same job - but with nothing other than a net and some adhesive sheets. He wears a t-shirt. Then he bags the nests with his bare hands ... and, I am not kidding, eats the young of his prey. Sometimes he uses some spray cans. Most it's just adhesive sheets and a big stick.

An island

2009-09-27T02:29:29Z

I don't like to be thought poorly of. Not even, if I am honest, by people who I don't like. Part of it is, I hope, an honest effort on my part to better myself, and I recognize that the people arpound me hold up the most readily accessible mirror through which I can measure myself. But also, if I am being more honest, because I am insecure - sometimes a little and sometimes a lot; particularly when someone whom I love or value treats me poorly. I fear that I deserve it.

Perversely, this means that I am least guarded and speak most freely - and thus sometimes insensitively - to the people with whom I feel most secure. Sometimes I may seem brusque, or sarcastic, or even arrogant - but is never ever with that intent. Because you see, I am far too insecure ( or, generously, trying to be a good man ) to ever treat someone I value poorly.

Even with people I dislike or resent or am just angry with, I am carefully neutral. I don't want to, or mean to, anger them. Because, you see, I am too insecure to stand it if they reciprocate. I would rather have cordiality than anger. A rare few times this has not been true. No one who is reading this is one of the people whose scorn I have invited.

If I've ever treated you poorly or hurt your feelings, chances are very high I didn't mean it, and would gladly make amends. If you've ever treated me poorly or hurt my feelings, chances are very good it bothered me a lot more than I let on.

I am not an island, and wouldn't want to be.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

Halo Anime

2009-09-25T20:48:28Z

This actually looks super cool. The fight scene is well scripted and executed, like something out of Last Airbender - and the design elements in the ship have a future-bauhaus kind of feel to them. I like it.

Stolen from Geekologie which is often a hoot.

Music Monday, Disco Starship Trooper Edition

2009-09-21T18:17:13Z

But where's the powered armor?

Happiest Place on Earth

2009-09-17T19:52:14Z

Last week when pyr8queen, faekeeper, geekstress and He Who Fails went to Disneyland, a long held truism was confirmed.

The first thing I saw upon walking in the gate was a middle-aged man in an Hawaiian shirt sitting on the ledge outside City Hall, presumably waiting for his family while they were in the restrooms. Staring into space, with no one around him, he suddenly grinned and started laughing out loud.

It really is the happiest place on earth!

Life in Venice

2009-09-10T23:25:29Z

One advantage to scootering to and from work is that I can smell things. Well, that's mostly an advantage. Fortunately the neighborhood I live in is generally full of flower gardens, and the smell is quite nice. Early Spring when everything is in bloom is especially fragrant and lovely - or night, when the night-blooming jasmine is ...blooming at night. Like it does.

I've been reading many happy paeans to Autumn, lately. People are pleased with that snap in the air, the rustling of many-colored leaves, and all that stuff. I continue to swelter as it's quite hot - September in LA is basically August Two, the Electric Boogaloo. But this morning on the wind, I caught the slightest hint of cooler weather to come.

Passing the school on Westminster, I saw the kids newly returned to class working out in the school's community garden. They'd tossed fresh hay down on the top layer of fertilizer in the plant bed, and the warmth of the day carried the scent of late summer straw. This took me right back to the Delco Scottish Games at the Devon Horse Show Grounds that my mom would take my sisters and I to every year. Mom was pretty good about realizing that a young lad didn't necessarily want to hang out with his mother and kid sisters all day, so she'd cut me loose to wander around while she and Alison and Lydia watched the pipe bands or caber toss, or whatnot. I'd go look at the horses, wander around the tents of the re-enactors, browse the antique and Scottish goods market, and scarf down meat pies. (With brown sauce! Brown flavored!) Incidentally, this was one of my first exposures to Freemasonry, where the various ritual paraphernalia often ended up in the market bins. And those hats are awesome, man! Funny how such a brief exposure to a scent brought back such a complex series of memories.

Gliding down Abbot-Kinney, I smelled a fire. Not a scary wildfire or house burning or something, but the nice smoke-from-a-slate-chimney homey kind of fire that reminded me of those cool days back home, when my grandfather would put on a fire in the fireplace. This was a fairly unusual treat, and generally only happened once or twice a year early in the season. Then my grandfather would remember what a pain it was cleaning out the fireplace, and he wouldn't do it again until the Fall, when he'd managed to forget.

Of all the seasons, I miss Autumn most. Crisp winds, cool air, sweaters, leaves, apple cider, pumpkin patches, hay rides. Here it's just summer, year round - sometimes early summer and still rather cool, and sometimes late summer, and oppressive. This time of year is the part that most scratches my homesick bump.

I love Venice, and don't want to leave, even with all its lumps. One of my biggest gripes has always been the parking. That's gotten quite a bit better this year - some ordnance or another was passed so that people living out of RV's can't park year-round near the beach. This used to be one of my biggest irritations. Now they're dispersed into the neighborhoods, or moved elsewhere. I'm torn on this one...but to me the most scarce resource in any beach community is often parking, and to have that resource dominated by a non-resident population just seems unfair. During the day, of course, it's all beach-goers and everything is fair game...but overnight? For weeks and months at a time? That's a different story, and it seems to me that one street is as good as any other if you're just parking your RV. On the other hand, I don't buy into NIMBY - what's a problem for me is also a problem for anyone I'd foist it off on. So while I'm glad to have the vast majority of our parking spaces back, I also feel a little guilty.

Nothing that some mulled apple cider and a warm fire wouldn't mend, though.

I fear I don't exist

2009-09-09T18:05:36Z

I had a dream last night, the details of which aren't important, that convinced me that I don't actually exist. The troubling thing is, upon waking up the logic sort of stands. Sitting in the loft before I got up, I muzzily looked around wondering if I really exist, or whether I am just an accidental series of electrical firings that experiences the illusion of existence.

What convinced me (mostly, not entirely) that I and other people actually exist is art. Maybe my thoughts are an illusion that don't really indicate my own existence...but can something as moving and sublime as this really be an accident or an illusion? The experience of the sublime is both individual and universal, repeatable, and can only be experienced not taught or described.

I'm still feeling sort of uncertain about the nature of my own existence, though.

Video Games?

2009-09-08T18:23:45Z

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Why do I like video games? I have ever since I was a kid. I get excited about games that I like or am anticipating, I get hooked on good games that I can't put down. But why? What is it about them that's so compelling?

Even my favorite game of all times, Knights of the Old Republic (<lj-user="trekhead"> will say KOTORII is better, but I beg to differ) is something I barely remember. I remember some of the characters I really liked, some of the gameplay elements, and I remember that the story was what the Star Wars prequels really ought to have been - the surprise fall and redemption of a mysterious figure that the player is chasing throughout the game, only to find that it's him! But the details all elude me, little of the dialogue has stuck (unlike a similarly beloved movie), the plot other than its broadest outlines is gone from my head, and I certainly don't remember any of the sound effects. Contrast to a movie or book that I loved from around the same time period...and in a word, it's forgettable.

And this is my favorite game of all time! So what is it about them that's so intriguing? Is it all just a huge waste of time? Have I frittered countless hours of my life away, accomplishing nothing? What if I'd spent that time writing instead? Painting? Exercising? Practicing Aikido?