Tuesday, September 06, 2016
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Here We Go Again
I am back from the dead, roused from all-consuming ennui by yet another new uniform design from US Soccer. For the first time in US soccer history, the men and women will be wearing the same jerseys, they said. Saints be praised, I said. If the nurse uniforms are history, I'm happy, I said, envisioning both Deuce and Baby Horse sporting some sleek, clean, classy threads.
Then they actually released photos, and my brain went *poof* again.
The one on top is the women's shirt. Leaving aside, for the moment, the facts that (1) no post-adolescent woman willingly puts herself into wide horizontal stripes because (2) they make her look like an overgrown ten-year-old boy unless (3) she's a giant lesbian who says fuck it, I enjoy looking like a growth hormone-addled barber pole (*waving hand* but not for $149, I don't think), I see a big problem here. Look at the two pictures again and see what's different between them, aside from the marginally visible boobs in the one on top.
When two uniforms are slightly different, we look at the unifying elements for the message of what is official US capital-S Soccer. What do they share? Giant hoops, check. US Soccer crest, check. Sublimated sash, che... wait, what? Yes. Both shirts have a faint diagonal sash running from upper right to lower left (although it looks more like a laundry accident on the home shirts, it's boldly black on the away version). The sash, of course, was introduced to the last iteration of the men's kit to commemorate the 1950 US team that managed to beat England 1-0 in a first-round World Cup match, which was the last US World Cup win until 1994 (and its last qualification until 1990).
Okay, that was a big deal, a ragtag group of scruffy Americans beating the Brits at their own game, although it can't help but also be a tale of nearly a half-century of futility. But whatever. Yay 1950, fair enough. So since both teams are wearing the YAY 1950 sash, they surely must both be wearing something to commemorate the women's team's decades of domination, including two World Cup championships and three Olympic gold medals, right? Perhaps the traditional two stars above the crest, one for each World Cup trophy, just like the Brazilian women wear five stars for their men's side's WC championships?
Ah, no. Checking the pictures very carefully, it appears that they do not. So the official design suite for United States soccer is hoops, a crest, a swoosh, and a sash that's a smudge on one shirt and funereal on the other (black in mourning for the U23 men's failure to make it out of CONCACAF and into the Olympics, perhaps) because we need to remember that the men's team won a game once, in 1950. The women can put stars on their own shirts, but the men don't need to be bothered with them. Because if they had stars, someone might think they were wearing the women's jersey, and that would just be wrong.
Stay awesome, US Soccer.
Then they actually released photos, and my brain went *poof* again.
The one on top is the women's shirt. Leaving aside, for the moment, the facts that (1) no post-adolescent woman willingly puts herself into wide horizontal stripes because (2) they make her look like an overgrown ten-year-old boy unless (3) she's a giant lesbian who says fuck it, I enjoy looking like a growth hormone-addled barber pole (*waving hand* but not for $149, I don't think), I see a big problem here. Look at the two pictures again and see what's different between them, aside from the marginally visible boobs in the one on top.
When two uniforms are slightly different, we look at the unifying elements for the message of what is official US capital-S Soccer. What do they share? Giant hoops, check. US Soccer crest, check. Sublimated sash, che... wait, what? Yes. Both shirts have a faint diagonal sash running from upper right to lower left (although it looks more like a laundry accident on the home shirts, it's boldly black on the away version). The sash, of course, was introduced to the last iteration of the men's kit to commemorate the 1950 US team that managed to beat England 1-0 in a first-round World Cup match, which was the last US World Cup win until 1994 (and its last qualification until 1990).
Okay, that was a big deal, a ragtag group of scruffy Americans beating the Brits at their own game, although it can't help but also be a tale of nearly a half-century of futility. But whatever. Yay 1950, fair enough. So since both teams are wearing the YAY 1950 sash, they surely must both be wearing something to commemorate the women's team's decades of domination, including two World Cup championships and three Olympic gold medals, right? Perhaps the traditional two stars above the crest, one for each World Cup trophy, just like the Brazilian women wear five stars for their men's side's WC championships?
Ah, no. Checking the pictures very carefully, it appears that they do not. So the official design suite for United States soccer is hoops, a crest, a swoosh, and a sash that's a smudge on one shirt and funereal on the other (black in mourning for the U23 men's failure to make it out of CONCACAF and into the Olympics, perhaps) because we need to remember that the men's team won a game once, in 1950. The women can put stars on their own shirts, but the men don't need to be bothered with them. Because if they had stars, someone might think they were wearing the women's jersey, and that would just be wrong.
Stay awesome, US Soccer.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Oh, I am in a mood. Slap alerts currently in effect:
* The first person on any comment thread dealing with contraception who either links to the video or merely posts "Every sperm is sacred." It was hilarious in the movie. It was kinda funny the first time someone said it re: personhood amendments/Catholic healthcare. Do you think you're being hilarious now that you are approximately the 5288236239021th genius to lay that lick in the comments? You are not.
* The first person on the same thread who says "if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament." No. If men could get pregnant, they would be women and we would not be having this discussion. Again, mildly thought-provoking the first time. Now it's the equivalent of OMG YOU GUYS THEY'RE ALREADY DEAD on Lost message boards.
* Anyone anywhere who busts out with a howl about war on religion. You fuckers just got the president to cave to a pack of bishops on contraceptive coverage (call it a compromise, call it an end run; the White House still wavered and ended up doing something different than the completely reasonable thing they said they were going to do in the first place). If there's a war here it sure as fuck isn't against conservative Christianity.
Wasn't I going to breathe deeply?
* The first person on any comment thread dealing with contraception who either links to the video or merely posts "Every sperm is sacred." It was hilarious in the movie. It was kinda funny the first time someone said it re: personhood amendments/Catholic healthcare. Do you think you're being hilarious now that you are approximately the 5288236239021th genius to lay that lick in the comments? You are not.
* The first person on the same thread who says "if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament." No. If men could get pregnant, they would be women and we would not be having this discussion. Again, mildly thought-provoking the first time. Now it's the equivalent of OMG YOU GUYS THEY'RE ALREADY DEAD on Lost message boards.
* Anyone anywhere who busts out with a howl about war on religion. You fuckers just got the president to cave to a pack of bishops on contraceptive coverage (call it a compromise, call it an end run; the White House still wavered and ended up doing something different than the completely reasonable thing they said they were going to do in the first place). If there's a war here it sure as fuck isn't against conservative Christianity.
Wasn't I going to breathe deeply?
Hey, look! Obama caved to religious conservatives! Quelle surprise.
The incomprehensible retrograde we've spun ourselves into is... driving me to such distraction. That is the polite turn of phrase my senior year Brit Lit teacher inadvertently taught us to use in lieu of I am ready to leap across this desk and fucking rip your throat out and feed it to shrews and then stomp on the shrews and jam them up your sorry, sorry bunghole. Goodness me, look at that emotion. Rick Santorum is correct; I am far too unstable to be trusted with, say, an M249 SAW or something similar that I might unload on someone's medieval, misogynistic ass when they get huffy about contributing a few pennies in payroll deductions toward medical care for a co-worker's ladybits.
I could go on. Some deep breathing would be a better idea.
The incomprehensible retrograde we've spun ourselves into is... driving me to such distraction. That is the polite turn of phrase my senior year Brit Lit teacher inadvertently taught us to use in lieu of I am ready to leap across this desk and fucking rip your throat out and feed it to shrews and then stomp on the shrews and jam them up your sorry, sorry bunghole. Goodness me, look at that emotion. Rick Santorum is correct; I am far too unstable to be trusted with, say, an M249 SAW or something similar that I might unload on someone's medieval, misogynistic ass when they get huffy about contributing a few pennies in payroll deductions toward medical care for a co-worker's ladybits.
I could go on. Some deep breathing would be a better idea.
Saturday, February 04, 2012
The Catholic Church is bleating again (still? it's not like they ever truly stop) about their business ventures' health plans being forced to cover contraception under the new federal rules. When these Catholic hospitals and social service outfits start just as loudly grousing about having to extend spousal benefits to employees who were not married in the Church, or--heaven forfend--have been divorced and then remarried, well, then we can talk.
Komen reversed itself yesterday, sort of, and with that amazing backflip managed to piss off the anti-choicers who had been so elated not 24 hours before. Then late yesterday we learned that Ari Fleischer was the architect of the anti-Planned-Parenthood job search that put Karen Handel in as policy director and ultimately led to the fun events of last week. This blew a delightful new hole in Komen's protest that they never designed any policy shift to exclude Planned Parenthood--Planned who, now? Never heard of them!--and promises to keep the outrage party rocking.
I am so glad that I have always loathed pink.
Komen reversed itself yesterday, sort of, and with that amazing backflip managed to piss off the anti-choicers who had been so elated not 24 hours before. Then late yesterday we learned that Ari Fleischer was the architect of the anti-Planned-Parenthood job search that put Karen Handel in as policy director and ultimately led to the fun events of last week. This blew a delightful new hole in Komen's protest that they never designed any policy shift to exclude Planned Parenthood--Planned who, now? Never heard of them!--and promises to keep the outrage party rocking.
I am so glad that I have always loathed pink.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
Some time ago I resolved to write every day, or near enough to every day as I could muster. That may have been a month ago.
Arizona provides no shortage of topics, of course, and if Arizona happens to oversleep on the odd Tuesday the rest of the nation reliably pitches in. What has our state legislature dreamed up over the past 72 hours? Bible classes in public schools. Carrying concealed weapons on college campuses. Defining the start of life as the moment an egg gets smacked by a wayward sperm. The week before that? Banning both Mexican-American studies and any books that might have been used in its classes. Oh, and our esteemed governor thought it was a good idea to wag her finger in the face of that black guy who had the nerve to ACORN his way into the White House, from Kenya, with Saul Alinsky. And Mexicans. Or something.
Beyond the borders, the loathsome Komen foundation took a break from suing the pants off anyone who used the color pink without permission to pull grants from Planned Parenthood, because OMG abortion and Jesus, which prompted a few god-botherers to say well bless your hearts; get back to us when you've pulled the plug on stem cell research too.
In the world of sports, the WPS finally imploded into a giant ball of Dan Borislow-fueled WTF. While many players tweeted their shock and sadness, many more--specifically, the national team players last seen in magicJack shirts--were strangely silent. Then Ella Masar dropped this bomb and the giant ball morphed into HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHAT THE FLYING FUCK ARGH ARGH ARGH GAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH, and every ounce of goodwill I had managed to work back up for Wambach evaporated like a drop of spit on, I don't know, the surface of the fucking sun or something.
Yes. I am 44 years old. I am old enough to know better than to have human heroes. But I do anyway, and I expect some semblance of social graces from them, and when they are shown to act like even bigger asswipes than the general population, I take it hard. Who's left? Krieger, I suppose, although she is having her ACL stapled back together as I type. The ball? Maybe I can root for the ball.
What is good in the world at this moment? Last weekend I went to a surprise birthday party for one of my friends, and spent a lovely evening chatting with people I've worked with forever but don't seem to find the time to talk to very often. That was good. Other than that? World, you are on notice.
Arizona provides no shortage of topics, of course, and if Arizona happens to oversleep on the odd Tuesday the rest of the nation reliably pitches in. What has our state legislature dreamed up over the past 72 hours? Bible classes in public schools. Carrying concealed weapons on college campuses. Defining the start of life as the moment an egg gets smacked by a wayward sperm. The week before that? Banning both Mexican-American studies and any books that might have been used in its classes. Oh, and our esteemed governor thought it was a good idea to wag her finger in the face of that black guy who had the nerve to ACORN his way into the White House, from Kenya, with Saul Alinsky. And Mexicans. Or something.
Beyond the borders, the loathsome Komen foundation took a break from suing the pants off anyone who used the color pink without permission to pull grants from Planned Parenthood, because OMG abortion and Jesus, which prompted a few god-botherers to say well bless your hearts; get back to us when you've pulled the plug on stem cell research too.
In the world of sports, the WPS finally imploded into a giant ball of Dan Borislow-fueled WTF. While many players tweeted their shock and sadness, many more--specifically, the national team players last seen in magicJack shirts--were strangely silent. Then Ella Masar dropped this bomb and the giant ball morphed into HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHAT THE FLYING FUCK ARGH ARGH ARGH GAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH, and every ounce of goodwill I had managed to work back up for Wambach evaporated like a drop of spit on, I don't know, the surface of the fucking sun or something.
Yes. I am 44 years old. I am old enough to know better than to have human heroes. But I do anyway, and I expect some semblance of social graces from them, and when they are shown to act like even bigger asswipes than the general population, I take it hard. Who's left? Krieger, I suppose, although she is having her ACL stapled back together as I type. The ball? Maybe I can root for the ball.
What is good in the world at this moment? Last weekend I went to a surprise birthday party for one of my friends, and spent a lovely evening chatting with people I've worked with forever but don't seem to find the time to talk to very often. That was good. Other than that? World, you are on notice.
Monday, January 09, 2012
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
I dreamed last night that I was Bradley Manning's court-appointed... well, hand-holder, I guess, and he was delivered to me in a large dog crate in a shopping cart, wasted and broken from umpteen months of solitary confinement. Nobody seemed to notice when I pulled him out of the crate and carried him around the warehouse like a baby, rocking him to make him stop crying. He weighed as much as a kitten. Finally a large staff sergeant in old-school woodland BDUs saw us and made me put Manning back in his crate, and wheeled him away.
Not sure what that was all about.
Not sure what that was all about.
Monday, January 02, 2012
Homosexual Agenda, 2012 Edition
Goal One has been met, thankfully, since it was something along the lines of Get Rid of this Fucking Headache Already. Still coughing like a three-pack-a-day sixty year old, but since this is the first day in more than a week that I have not felt like absolute fucking roadkill, I'm marking that one done.
Goal Two probably involves not freaking out about stuff that will not be helped one bit by said freakout.
Goal Three: destroy the family and America, naturally.
Goal Four, if there's time after that: regain cardio fitness and upper-body strength without re-trashing the knees and elbow, all three of which spent 2011 in a state of major malfunction.
In other words, the usual. Oh, and to write every day. Is that five? I'm counting five. Best hop to it, then.
Goal Two probably involves not freaking out about stuff that will not be helped one bit by said freakout.
Goal Three: destroy the family and America, naturally.
Goal Four, if there's time after that: regain cardio fitness and upper-body strength without re-trashing the knees and elbow, all three of which spent 2011 in a state of major malfunction.
In other words, the usual. Oh, and to write every day. Is that five? I'm counting five. Best hop to it, then.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
New Year's Eve was a big big deal when I was a little kid, what with being allowed to stay up to a deliciously late hour and then make an unholy racket. These days? Not so much. I'm in it strictly for the football.
Already on the second EPL match of the day while waiting for the bowl games to start rolling (Berbatov has been a beast lately, hasn't he?), so let's see how far back into the past 364 days the old memory machine will stretch.
The Year in Review.
Best Meal (Tucson): Two trophies should be handed out this year; luckily, I make the rules around here and will allow it. One goes to a particularly perfect grilled cheese and tomato soup the girlfriend made on a cold rainy evening sometime this fall. The other was earned by the incomparable Cafe Poca Cosa three weeks ago. I don't even remember what was on the plate. It doesn't matter. It was the Plato Poca Cosa and I would like to marry it.
Best Meal (Seattle): Okay, technically not Seattle, but Bainbridge Island, at a waterfront bar and grill called Doc's, where the clam chowder made us weep (and I do not even like clam chowder, but DAMN) and the lobster mac 'n' cheese made the weeping continue all the way back to the ferry. In a good way. I mean, completely fucking stunning.
Worst Meal (Tucson): O heartbreak! Guadalajara Grill seriously misfired with the mole last week. What is that odd funk wafting off my plate? With sickly sweet hints of someone who is perhaps experiencing that not-so-fresh feeling? Do not want.
Worst Meal (elsewhere): There wasn't one. Seriously, that mole sucked.
Worst Food Trend: Kale. Kale, kale, kale. Kale salad. Kale chips. Puree of kale. Fuck kale. That is all.
Best Beer: Dragon's Tooth Stout, Elysian Brewing, Seattle. Everyone else should just give up brewing. End of story.
Best Purchase: My Nespresso Pixie (in Persimmon Red, or, as we say here in the States, "orange") espresso machine. Should the Plato Poca Cosa turns down my marriage proposal, the Pixie can still make me the happiest woman on the planet.
Best Sports Moment: Abby Wambach's 122nd minute goal against the cheating, diving, evil Brazilians. US Soccer should embroider "122" below the collar of the national team jerseys, forever.
Worst Sports Moment: Retroactively awarded to the nanosecond in December of 2009 when John Jenkins and Jack Swarbrick said, "Brian Kelly! That's the ticket!"
Best Book Choice: Probably The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. I also read a somewhat dry history of the Whiskey Rebellion that was still illuminating in that it disabused me of my dewy-eyed Schoolhouse Rock notions of founding-era politics being somehow purer or higher-minded than they are now. Who knew that the guy perennial middle-seed NCAA bracket-buster Robert Morris College is named after was actually a shameless influence peddler who rigged tax law and Continental Army procurement policy to maximize his personal profit?
Best Twitter feed: @angrysantaelf brings you the inside story of the North Pole. Probably only during actual Christmas season. Otherwise, the incomparable The Browser brings you the best of the web several times a day. More importantly, its #fivebooks feature points you to books you would probably not hear about otherwise.
Best Gleefully Profane Political Website: Wonkette. The comments make it. Finer snark has never been forged.
Best Pop Singer I Can Actually Get on Board with: Hey, that Adele lady's not half bad.
Worst cold: The one I am currently experiencing, thanks to my brother's humorless yet apparently potent fiancee.
Best Friday Night Escapist TV: Say Yes to the Dress on TLC. Mindless. Poofy. Dramatic. Fun!
Best Out and Proud WPS Couple: Joanna Lohman and Lianne Sanderson (formerly of the Cheesesteaks, currently free agents), although Abby Wambach and Sarah Huffman (free agents, nee MagicDan) have made a subtle yet strong run at the title over the past few months.
Best Women's Soccer News: WPS sanctioned for another season!
Possibly Worst Women's Soccer News: With only five teams!
Worst Moment of 2011, Period: Yeah, that morning last January 8 at the Safeway.
Best Moment that could Possibly Follow: Did you see the Diane Sawyer special with Giffords and Kelly? That, with the pep rally in McKale Center a close second.
Fondest Hope for 2012: In this moment, that this goddamn headache goes away before the ball drops. In the big picture, the usual. Health and happiness, love and life, food and football.
Already on the second EPL match of the day while waiting for the bowl games to start rolling (Berbatov has been a beast lately, hasn't he?), so let's see how far back into the past 364 days the old memory machine will stretch.
The Year in Review.
Best Meal (Tucson): Two trophies should be handed out this year; luckily, I make the rules around here and will allow it. One goes to a particularly perfect grilled cheese and tomato soup the girlfriend made on a cold rainy evening sometime this fall. The other was earned by the incomparable Cafe Poca Cosa three weeks ago. I don't even remember what was on the plate. It doesn't matter. It was the Plato Poca Cosa and I would like to marry it.
Best Meal (Seattle): Okay, technically not Seattle, but Bainbridge Island, at a waterfront bar and grill called Doc's, where the clam chowder made us weep (and I do not even like clam chowder, but DAMN) and the lobster mac 'n' cheese made the weeping continue all the way back to the ferry. In a good way. I mean, completely fucking stunning.
Worst Meal (Tucson): O heartbreak! Guadalajara Grill seriously misfired with the mole last week. What is that odd funk wafting off my plate? With sickly sweet hints of someone who is perhaps experiencing that not-so-fresh feeling? Do not want.
Worst Meal (elsewhere): There wasn't one. Seriously, that mole sucked.
Worst Food Trend: Kale. Kale, kale, kale. Kale salad. Kale chips. Puree of kale. Fuck kale. That is all.
Best Beer: Dragon's Tooth Stout, Elysian Brewing, Seattle. Everyone else should just give up brewing. End of story.
Best Purchase: My Nespresso Pixie (in Persimmon Red, or, as we say here in the States, "orange") espresso machine. Should the Plato Poca Cosa turns down my marriage proposal, the Pixie can still make me the happiest woman on the planet.
Best Sports Moment: Abby Wambach's 122nd minute goal against the cheating, diving, evil Brazilians. US Soccer should embroider "122" below the collar of the national team jerseys, forever.
Worst Sports Moment: Retroactively awarded to the nanosecond in December of 2009 when John Jenkins and Jack Swarbrick said, "Brian Kelly! That's the ticket!"
Best Book Choice: Probably The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. I also read a somewhat dry history of the Whiskey Rebellion that was still illuminating in that it disabused me of my dewy-eyed Schoolhouse Rock notions of founding-era politics being somehow purer or higher-minded than they are now. Who knew that the guy perennial middle-seed NCAA bracket-buster Robert Morris College is named after was actually a shameless influence peddler who rigged tax law and Continental Army procurement policy to maximize his personal profit?
Best Twitter feed: @angrysantaelf brings you the inside story of the North Pole. Probably only during actual Christmas season. Otherwise, the incomparable The Browser brings you the best of the web several times a day. More importantly, its #fivebooks feature points you to books you would probably not hear about otherwise.
Best Gleefully Profane Political Website: Wonkette. The comments make it. Finer snark has never been forged.
Best Pop Singer I Can Actually Get on Board with: Hey, that Adele lady's not half bad.
Worst cold: The one I am currently experiencing, thanks to my brother's humorless yet apparently potent fiancee.
Best Friday Night Escapist TV: Say Yes to the Dress on TLC. Mindless. Poofy. Dramatic. Fun!
Best Out and Proud WPS Couple: Joanna Lohman and Lianne Sanderson (formerly of the Cheesesteaks, currently free agents), although Abby Wambach and Sarah Huffman (free agents, nee MagicDan) have made a subtle yet strong run at the title over the past few months.
Best Women's Soccer News: WPS sanctioned for another season!
Possibly Worst Women's Soccer News: With only five teams!
Worst Moment of 2011, Period: Yeah, that morning last January 8 at the Safeway.
Best Moment that could Possibly Follow: Did you see the Diane Sawyer special with Giffords and Kelly? That, with the pep rally in McKale Center a close second.
Fondest Hope for 2012: In this moment, that this goddamn headache goes away before the ball drops. In the big picture, the usual. Health and happiness, love and life, food and football.
Friday, December 30, 2011
The sun came up too soon this morning. I finished my coffee too soon. The appointed hour came too soon, lunch went far too quickly, and in the blink of an eye there we were, saying goodbye again, far, far too soon.
I came home and put the Christmas decorations away, stared at the new chimenea, built a half-hearted first fire that went to ashes almost as quickly as it flared up. The bowl games persist despite my spotty attention, punctuated by noticing one more thing here to pack up, one more thing there to straighten. A book to read, or not. I wonder if the Baylor defense woke up this morning elated or mortified. I weigh the relative merits of sleep and tea and cast my lot with jasmine.
Solus.
I came home and put the Christmas decorations away, stared at the new chimenea, built a half-hearted first fire that went to ashes almost as quickly as it flared up. The bowl games persist despite my spotty attention, punctuated by noticing one more thing here to pack up, one more thing there to straighten. A book to read, or not. I wonder if the Baylor defense woke up this morning elated or mortified. I weigh the relative merits of sleep and tea and cast my lot with jasmine.
Solus.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Derp, Part Infinity.
Most of the houseplants spend most of the year on a plant stand by the living room window, but they are exiled en masse to a shelf under the hallway window every December to make room for the Christmas tree. Like clockwork, the tree comes down and the plants are moved back, and every year I marvel at how green and robust they managed to get in the very filtered and short-term east light that comes to that part of the hosue.
And I go ahead and stick them back by the living room window anyway, and a month later wonder why everything is faded and struggling again.
Are some lessons too obvious to even be lessons? Jesus. It's a wonder I ever learned to breathe.
And I go ahead and stick them back by the living room window anyway, and a month later wonder why everything is faded and struggling again.
Are some lessons too obvious to even be lessons? Jesus. It's a wonder I ever learned to breathe.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Chrysalis, Solstice, Lint Roller, Something
Christmas came and went, and my mostly unintentional but nonetheless tenacious year of mourning came to an end as well, spitting me out the other side somewhat bewildered but mostly unscathed.
My sense of self is tethered only to memories now, not places. Childhood home is gone. Grandparents are gone. Fucking dogs are even gone. Parents grown old. Kid grown into a man bounding off into his own life. Traditions, muscle memory, everything we did and do Because It's What We Do... all in the long ago and far away. Stuff that's going to happen someday, really, if I just hope hard enough? Not gonna happen. Here and now? As good as it's likely to get.
And I guess I'm okay with that.
Blank canvas, lump of clay, pile of raw lumber waiting to be imagined and sketched and built into something else. It's all that's left.
Time to get to work.
My sense of self is tethered only to memories now, not places. Childhood home is gone. Grandparents are gone. Fucking dogs are even gone. Parents grown old. Kid grown into a man bounding off into his own life. Traditions, muscle memory, everything we did and do Because It's What We Do... all in the long ago and far away. Stuff that's going to happen someday, really, if I just hope hard enough? Not gonna happen. Here and now? As good as it's likely to get.
And I guess I'm okay with that.
Blank canvas, lump of clay, pile of raw lumber waiting to be imagined and sketched and built into something else. It's all that's left.
Time to get to work.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Jury Duty
Jury duty called earlier in the week, so I dutifully trundled downtown, sat in the cattlecall room for an hour, and promptly was dismissed for lunch. So I walked around a little, visited the Presidio, read the tiny signs posted along the timeline outside, stuck my head in at Old Town Artisans, choked on patchouli.
Many of the original buildings downtown were demolished in the 1970s in the name of urban renewal. Just enough cool old Sonoran rowhouse adobes remain to make you wonder what the place might have looked like if Tucson had been more interested in historic preservation than in horrible pebble-coated concrete panels.
Adobe house at Washington and Court.
My company is often called on to keep an eye on street work in this area, since plenty of history is still around under the asphalt. Here is a utility alignment in the middle of Scott Avenue between Pennington and Alameda streets.
I monitored this one way back in 1996, watching a crew dig a trench and put in a new gas line. I found several bottles, part of a child’s tea set, and a Civil War-era US Army belt buckle. Pancho Villa’s Saturday night buckle, the gas company foreman laughed, and then he saw the little tea set and melted, gently holding the tiny teacup between his thumb and forefinger.
Scott Avenue: mercy, that’s not very friendly.
After the hour was up, I went back to the jury room and eventually up to a courtroom, where I was not selected to hear a child pornography case. The defendant looked like a standard-issue well-groomed, mid-60ish businessman; when I walked into the courtroom I had figured he’d been busted for embezzlement or tax fraud or something similarly highly financial. Uh, apparently not. I have never been so happy to not be picked for something. It has been hard enough to scrub just the names of the image files read out by the judge from my mind. I wonder how long the chosen jurors are going to have to see the actual pictures in their own memories.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
And We're Back
After having been away from the blog for the better part of the summer and the entire start of fall, I am back to, naturally, complain. What has dragged me back into the blogosphere? Destination weddings. Fucking destination weddings. Specifically, a brother’s wedding I can’t miss, being held for some unfathomable reason not in the moderately difficult to access but cheap once you’re there small town both families are from, but rather on an island in the Gulf of Mexico about halfway down America’s Wang.
Oh, I’m sure it will be lovely, being on a beach and all, but—but—it will be in August. In Florida. In fucking August, in fucking Florida. My brother wants a bachelor party consisting of two days of fishing in the Everglades. Because nobody lives in the vicinity other than my other brother and their psychotic mother (they’re half brothers to me, actually, via Dad), the remaining family members are starting to hash out which $1,200-a-week beachfront cottages to rent. I’m looking around for the nearest defibrillator.
The upside? Since it will be August, in Florida, I will be at very little risk of freezing to death when I’m sleeping under a bridge. Besides, I hear manatees like to cuddle and are hardly ever rabid.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Flap Flap Tweet Shriek Munch Munch Oh Noes
Sigh. I can’t deny it any longer. I’m a classist.
Most days over the past two weeks, I have caught, out of the corner of my eye, a larger-than-usual swoop of motion outside my office window. I look up and see a hawk arranging its wings and shaking out its feathers on the fencepost, sometimes two hawks in tandem, as the finches scatter and the lizards try to melt into the shadows.
Sometimes the hawks hop along the fence, craning their necks front and back to find the occasional bad-luck squirrel that is now trapped under the bottom rail, sprinting back and forth from post to post in a very existential game of hotbox, hoping that the hawk will be distracted by an easier-to-reach potential snack just long enough for the squirrel to make a final mad dash across the road, either to the sanctuary of the brushpile or into talon-ushered eternity.
When the hawk drops out of nowhere to explode a dove into a cloud of feathers and retreats to the fence or a tree with whatever scraps of meat might be left under all that fluff, I cheer for the hawk. When it alights with a drooping, bepawed slip of a ground squirrel, I am chagrined. When both hawks flap ever closer and finally take swipes at the terrified squirrel, I cringe and hope the birds go hungry.
I am fascinated by raptors. I love watching them, even when they’re not doing much of anything. But they force me to acknowledge a hole in my otherwise reliably rational perspective on the natural world. Rampant classism. Mammalian solidarity. It's not just because the little mammals are usually cute; if we're arguing aesthetics, the hawks are very handsome and elegant. It's simply that I don’t want to be eaten by a bird, or a komodo dragon, or--definitely not--by a flippin’ fish, not even during Shark Week, and so don't wish a similar Aves-Mammalia mashup on the rodents.
Coyotes noshing on squirrels? Aw, look at the puppy! Birds doing the same? Stop that!
Thursday, August 25, 2011
En Fuego! Oh...
Remember when Arizona was burning down, way back at the start of the summer, and Walnuts went on television to tell the nation it was probably the illegals’ fault?
"We are concerned about, particularly, areas down on the border where there is substantial evidence that some of these fires are caused by people who have crossed our border illegally," McCain said Saturday at a press conference, according to CNN.Yeah, not so much.
A Tucson man and his cousin have been charged with causing the largest wildfire in Arizona history.
David Wayne Malboeuf, 24, of Tucson, and Caleb Joshua Malboeuf, 26, of Benson, were charged in connection with the Wallow Fire, which started May 29 in the Apache Sitgreaves National Forest.
The blaze scorched more than 538,000 acres in Eastern Arizona and part of Western New Mexico and destroyed 32 homes, four commercial buildings and 36 outbuildings before it was contained July 8.
A Forest Service investigation found the fire started when a campfire, left unattended by the Malboeufs in the Bear Wallow area, spread out of the fire ring and quickly spread in high winds.
Umm, yay Tucson? McCain supporters are rushing to the comments to remind us that the senator didn’t specify the Wallow fire, despite his statement coming when that particular biggest, craziest fire in Arizona history was full-on raging, not just in the woods but in the national news, and everyone was talking about God having finally decided to just torch the place because we’re kinda stupid out here (see: Pearce, Russell; Brewer, Jan; Underpants, Sheriff Pink).
But some illegal immigrant somewhere in Arizona started some fire sometime, probably, which means all fires are ultimately the Mexicans' fault anyway, also. QED. Or something.
Friday, August 19, 2011
O_o
Aaaaaaaand the other dog had to be put down yesterday. Happy fucking birthday, yo.
This summer has been the absolute singularity and event horizon of suck. Stress, strife, sadness piled on sadness. Fall's coming. Let's fucking go.
This summer has been the absolute singularity and event horizon of suck. Stress, strife, sadness piled on sadness. Fall's coming. Let's fucking go.
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