I’ve never been a very lucky person, unless bad luck is taken into consideration…but I do seem to have the market cornered in one area. Over the past decade I have, periodically, been able to score guest list spots from our local college radio station. There seems to be a certain formula at work: the intensity of my desire to see the band(s) + the degree of my destitution = score! It’s a bit eerie. When I hear the K somehow I just know how long I need to pause before dialing, et voila, I am caller number seven. This was the case around seven o’clock this morning. I am a bit conflicted, though. On Saturday I’ll be going to see The Strike, who I love, with my lovely date Zophia, who I also love. Unfortunately The Strike is playing the entry at the very same time the Mates of State are playing the Triple Rock. Woe is me. At least I’ll be getting out of the house, and partaking of the rock. It’s been ages since I’ve done so. And ages more since I’ve partaken with Zophia. In other news, and news of the weird at that…yesterday I walked to work, as I do. My quiet, contemplative stroll took a strange turn when I got into downtown. Before I could see the throngs of people I could hear the banging of drums, the bleating of strange horns, and, ah, bagpipes. Apparently my office was on the the St. Patrick’s Day Parade route. As I drew nearer I spotted men and women in kilts, but more folks were decked out head to toe in garish green garb.

Yesterday I used up the last of my precious coffee supply and neglected to put it on a list of things for the husband to fetch for me. But I came up with a plan last night, after having dozed off on the uncomfortable futon couch in the computer room (sleeping on this beast induces strange dreams as well as plans within plans). The idea was to head to the neighborhood coffee shop first thing this morning, with me walking and the little man riding either his tricycle or his bicycle (with training wheels) over the nice, dry sidewalks. Only we’ve woken up to a fresh blanketing of sloppy wet snow. So this morning I’ve found myself carless, coffeeless, and hopeless. And oddly craving a Shamrock shake, the likes of which I haven’t had in a decade or so.
addendum: I don’t have the infinite patience or amazing artistry of Lorika (plus I have a the awesome destructive powers of the little man to contend with) but I do enjoy creating these twee snow people. As soon as each is ready I hand them off to the boy, who eagerly sends them to oblivion…by pushing them down the slide. Wheeeeeeee!

If you are in NYC, or can be on March 25th, check out Where’s My Democracy (WMD), a fundraising event featuring new fiction readings by Paul Auster, Michael Cunningham, Jennifer Egan, Dave Eggers, Jonathan Franzen, Gary Indiana, Jhumpa Lahiri, Joyce Carol Oates, Lou Reed, Susan Sontag, Wendy Wasserstein, and Colson Whitehead.
The other day dearest James gave me the heads up…about a Cult TV segment on NPR’s Talk of the Nation, featuring two of my heroes…Joss Whedon and Bruce Campbell. Most excellent.
Not quite sure how to feel about this…Seven Samurai 20XX, a Playstation game loosely based on the Kurosawa classic.
Some day I will have my very own bathroom (again) which males of the species will be banned from using.
If it’s already invisible how can the new and improved formula be clearer?
Looking forward to the Texas Women’s Roller Derby Documentary Hell on Wheels. My current fave…Miss Conduct of the Holy Rollers.
Oh, and sorry Chollie, I was rooting for ya (Day 26 ain’t got nothing on you). At least you were licked by the Cocky Bastard himself. Not everyone can say that (a lot of people, certainly, but not everyone).

We’ve been having a pleasant weekend, all things considered. The weather’s been reminiscent of Reykjavik (rain, hail, gusty winds, sleet, snow and sunshine…all within the span of an hour). And since starting the second job, the husband’s sleep schedule has been even more out of whack than usual. So to leave him with a quiet house yesterday, the little man and I hung out with an old friend all afternoon…one of the few people I know who’d appreciate Small Wonders as much as I did. Afterwards he treated us to lunch at Evergreen (thanks Broccoli), then showed us around his new digs, replete with home studio…and a furnace brilliantly named the Indestructo. Today we caught up with the ladies while they were brunching. At one time they were roommates, and everyone still thinks of them as such…even though they’ve maintained separate residences, each living alone, since last Fall. But that is about to change. One of them is, alas, about to move in with someone else…other than Zophia, though that won’t stop the latter from assisting with the move. The former has been slowly moving items into the already occupied space, which we all went to check out today. I have to say it’s quite lovely and is little man approved. I foresee potlucks in its future (please?) but more moving in and unpacking will be required first. After a quick group trip to Target (where the four of us polished off a canister of dehydrated and reconstituted potato product in sickeningly record time), the little man and I left the ladies so they could get cracking. Back at the ranch I’ve been trying to get myself motivated to do something, anything…but I’m feeling pretty freaking blah today. Maybe the brisk walk to work tomorrow will liven me up a bit. Sigh.

Too tired to create my own content this fine morning, so…
Dan on the run went to the corner store for a loaf of bread and came back with something unexpected.
Jason sees an upside to the bus strike.
There’s this girl child using a photo of mine, of my Dad (scroll down to her “Heroes” section), without permission…and she didn’t even bother to copy it. She’s linking directly to my site. I could totally mess with her if I were so inclined. Hmmm.
Found typography in Toronto and Typographical Art at Disneyworld.
The teapot is cracked.
Heard Hole’s Violet on Skonrokk the other night. I’d forgotten how much I love that song and wound up sending an email request to Radio K, who played it within a half hour. Now I can’t get it out of my head.
Sleater Kinney has a brand spanking new site.
In the “not in the budget” department:
Todd Oldham does La-Z-Boy.
The answer to my prayers…the Japanese Straight Perm.
Movies I’d like to see this weekend…Japanese Story and In America, but we haven’t got the time or the money.
Even better, I’d like to be heading down to SXSW this weekend, as Chuck and Lorika are doing…right this very moment. Sigh.

Four year-olds do not have magazine subscriptions. Well, not my four year-old, at any rate. Allow me to explain. Through his employer the husband has the most amazing health insurance plan ever, which the little man and I were added to last summer. A few months back this employer requested proof that the husband and I were, in fact, married. Fine, that’s easy enough. And some sort of proof that the little man lived with us (where else would my lovely child live? oy). It was a pain, but the husband dutifully gathered the appropriate materials and mailed them shortly after the request was made. Now, months later, we’ve received a letter saying that the little man and I will be dropped from the insurance plan, as they never received said materials. Grrrr. I’m sure they received them, but I’m guessing they accidentally wound up in the shredder or the recycling bin. So we have to jump through that hoop. Again. Though this time the husband is planning to send everything by registered mail. The kicker is, they want extra special proof that the little man lives with us (and I’m guessing this here weblog won’t qualify). The woman the husband spoke with asked if the little man had any magazine subscriptions delivered here. Heh. No, he generally does not receive any mail…other than that bill for his birth that was sent here before his first birthday (the insurance company refused to pay it because one character in his name was missing). So what do they want instead? They want us to get a letter from his new school, on official letterhead, stating that our boy lives here. All the school can attest to is that this is the address the school bus comes to, to pick up and drop off our child. Hopefully that will do the trick. Oh, and we have until tomorrow to send all of this out. Again. If we could afford to I’d have the husband legally adopt the little man asap. But that’s a whole ‘nother batch of red tape to deal with. Sigh.

Last night I dreamt I had a daughter named Cunning, around toddler age…and another, a baby girl whose name I didn’t quite catch. Or couldn’t pronounce. But definitely can’t remember. The little man had grown. He was much taller (taller I am now, which isn’t saying much) and was quite capable of caring for himself…and temporarily looking after the girls. He waited in the car with his sisters (my ‘97 VW Jetta that was totalled in the summer of ‘99) while I popped in to return some books to the local library. Only it was the library in the town I grew up in. A town I don’t ever plan to reside in again. I’m not sure what this dream was trying to tell me, if anything, but there was a bit of synchronicity when I woke up this morning. One of the first things I read was a weblog, found via the StrikeBlog, documenting a fellow traveler’s walk to work. I enjoyed the entire entry, and couldn’t agree more with his positions regarding the strike, but the below passage grabbed me in a tangential sort of way:

7:58 am — Pausing at the corner of 24th and Harriet, I look up the street toward my old apartment.

I’ve recently discovered that this part of Minneapolis is the old basin for Lake Blaisdell, which was part of the Minneapolis chain of lakes until it was filled in to make room for the city’s expansion, oh, about 1890. I’ll be looking into that!

So that explains it! Back in 1999, I occupied an apartment in that very neighborhood. The weekend before I was to move into my house, (while eight months pregnant with the little man, mind you) my neighborhood was hit by a crazy summer storm, replete with flash flooding. I recall getting home late that night…after a midnight movie, but before the rains started. I congratulated myself on scoring a rare parking spot right outside my apartment building’s front door. Usually when getting home that late I’d have to park a couple blocks away, up a hill. After walking outside the next morning I wished I’d had to park up that hill after all. The gutters were overflowing and the sidewalks covered with slick muck. Looking up and down my street (Garfield Avenue) I noticed that the cars were all askew, many with hoods and/or trunks popped open. The sheer force of the massive amount of water pouring into the area had shifted all the lightweight cars about, but my ‘97 VW Jetta had been heavy enough to hold its own. I’d cautiously approached it and opened the driver side door…to find that it had been flooded up to the dashboard. Thankfully I had decent car insurance, but I still had several weeks of hassle to deal with at the most inopportune of times. But now, thanks to 5 o’clock bot, I know why all that water had pooled in my neighborhood…the basin wanted its lake back.

It’s funny how some sunshine can turn one’s disposition around. We hadn’t had decent weather around these parts for what felt like forever and a day. Today’s blue skies inspired me to walk to work (and back) for the first time…as the bus strike shows no signs of breaking. I wasn’t quite sure how long it would take, but, knowing myself fairly well, I budgeted some extra time for snapping off photos. And I was pleased to rediscover some of the oddities in the nooks and crannies of my neighborhood. I pass by these landmarks so often, usually in a motorized vehicle, that I’d never paused to photograph them until today. And the light was just right, which is always a plus. Click here, or on the below photo, to launch the “Bus Strike 2004 Walking Tour” gallery.
addendum: Speaking of labors of love…extra special congratulations to Tina and Lane on the Wee Tomato’s arrival, after twelve hours of seriously hard work on Tina’s part. Dang. But he’s one beautiful, and BIG, little boy.

I read a lot, mostly fiction…what with my tendency towards escapism and all. If I go more than a day or two between books I get a bit, well, anxious. The other night it came to a head. Everyone in our little household was coming down with a cruddy cold. The little man was only made happy after donning his monkey suit and cuddling in the comfy chair, while watching his new favorite movie. After he’d gone to bed I didn’t have the energy to do anything productive. Nor was I in the mood to watch anything else. I just wanted to lay about, reading something interesting. So I scoured the house. I hit the jackpot in the bedroom. I was dismayed to discover a full dozen titles that I’d started reading over the last year. Some I’d nearly finished, but not quite…and close doesn’t count. For whatever reason each of these books had let me down in some way, or vice versa. Each had come highly recommended, and some I’d really been looking forward to. I wanted to like them. I do like most of the authors well enough, having enjoyed their other works a great deal. Maybe I encountered these titles at the wrong time. The stars weren’t aligned…or something. Something about them didn’t grab me. Or I accidentally became separted from them, and went on to something else that did grab me in the mean time. And now I have guilt. But I’m finding it very difficult to dive back into any title in this sad stack.
the unread, in no particular order:
01: Little Big by John Crowley [Dave and Cathy, I know you love this book...I swear I'll give it another go]
02: The Basque History of the World by Mark Kurlansky [interesting stuff, but my mind wandered, as it is wont to do]
03: Goodbye Tsugumi by Banana Yoshimoto [should really try again]
04: Blindness by Jose Saramago [left it at my in-laws's cabin and our reunion, many months later, didn't go very well]
05: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez [please don't look at me like that James...I was really enjoying this one, and had nearly finished it when I was sidetracked by something or other, and I just couldn't get back into it.]
06: The Bondswoman’s Narrative by Hannah Crofts
07: You Shall Know Our Velocity by Dave Eggers [still haven't made it past the first dozen pages]
08: White Apples by Jonathan Carroll [I'd read too many of his works in too short a timeframe, so they all started seeming like the same story]
09: The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx
10: A Friend of the Earth by T.C. Boyle [seen him speak a few times, highly entertaining...especially as he looks like Kevin McDonald from KiTH]
11: From the Dust Returned by Ray Bradbury [I really should get this back to you, Kris]
12: Quicksilver by Neal Stephenson [was sidetracked by Dan Simmons' engrossing Ilium]

I usually refrain from writing about work here, unless it’s in the most general of terms. And this seems to be a good policy, as Heather of Dooce can attest to. But I’m heading in shortly, where I am expecting a bit of much-deserved teasing…for my excessive clumsiness there on Friday. You see, my boss ordered an industrial strength paper shredder…brilliantly named The Shredmaster. It arrived Friday while she was out and was set up in the only area with room for it…my office. Naturally I felt the need to check out the big hulking beast, you know, kick the tires and whatnot. But someone had set the thick sheaf of operating instructions atop it. While poking around I managed to bump them, knocking the manual right into the feeder…where it was sucked in and rather efficiently ripped to shreds. It all happened so quickly. I was too stunned to press the stop button. Or even think of it until later. Afterwards I was horrified but couldn’t help but have myself a little laughing fit. I’ve been trying to keep my behavior on the downlow, but lord only knows what my new co-workers think of me now. In non-shredding news, this morning the little man asked me if my hands were cold. The coffee hadn’t kicked in yet so I mumbled something along the lines of “uh, yeah, whatever”. Before I knew it he’d started blowing on my hands, like I do to his when we’ve been playing outside for too long, only he was doing a seriously good (and unintentional) Darth Vader impersonation. Too bad he wasn’t in costume. Come to think of it, he was, actually…but he was wearing his ill-fitting monkey suit from Halloween 2002 rather than a proper Darth Vader costume.