Just like 8th grade

Book Report

A Book I Read on My Summer Vacation by Mark T.

I just finished reading a novel! That makes a total of two for this year, which is as many or more than I’ve read in several years. I turned the last page yesterday as I sat at the Mall St. Matthews food court, waiting for the Goodyear mechanics to be done with my car.

Since I spend so little time reading fiction, I must select great monuments of literature, right? Yeah, sure. This particular book was Riders of the Dead by Dan Abnett, and was published by The Black Library, the fiction-publishing arm of Games Workshop, which produces the popular Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 miniatures wargames and roleplaying games. You can clearly see the tie-in because, above the book’s title and the cover art depicting a bunch of men killing one another with giant medieval weapons, is the big “WARHAMMER” logo. The book was recommended, and loaned to me, by David.

Well, I thought it was pretty darn good. There was a time when I primarily read science fiction and fantasy novels, but I left off with that because…well, I was going to say that so many of them were lame-o, but that’s not really why. There are countless titles, and among those countless titles are many, many very good books that I’ve never reached for. I think it actually comes down to this: I don’t allot much time for fiction. I read (or, most often, browse) non-fiction. When I do get around to reading fiction, I want it to somehow matter. I want it to be something important, or educational, or unforgettable. I don’t often set aside time for reading fiction for the joy of reading fiction.

I sure used to, though. When I was a teenager, I’d often start a novel and not put it down until I had finished it, opening it when I got home from the library and finishing it sometime before dawn the next day.

A month or two ago I read American Gods by Neil Gaiman, and I really enjoyed it. It wasn’t a great or important literary work, but it was well-written and clever. I loaned it to David, and he loaned me Riders of the Dead. One evening I cracked it open and read a few random pages involving some guys killing one another on horseback in the middle of a stream, and it was pretty engrossing. So I decided to I’d read it soon.

This is the first swords & sorcery novel, besides The Lord of the Rings, that I’ve read in 15 years, maybe more. I call it swords & sorcery although there is little sorcery in it. The Warhammer setting, clearly but loosely based on late medieval Europe, keeps magical fireworks a rarity. There is, however, plenty (buckets and buckets!) of limb-hacking, decapitating, bone-smashing, blood-puddling, horse-toppling, chest-impaling, skull-stacking, and war-whooping. In between, Abnett does a fine job of painting cultures and landscapes in a way that feels quite real and down-to-earth without becoming overlong or wordy. Having a pseudo-European backdrop certainly must have helped; the cultures didn’t need to be created from whole-cloth. But it’s imaginatively told.

The story involves two horse soldiers from the continent’s great Empire. They travel with a large army to the steppes of the northeast, preparing for an incursion of brutal barbarians. They are quickly overrun by the hordes of the north; one is captured, and the other escapes to join a local band of horsemen in their resistance fight. The bulk of the book skips back and forth between the two over the course of a year.

I found the writing to be surprisingly good, as was the editing. The language is descriptive and evocative. My only real complaint is that the final scenes—the climax of the book—seemed rather abbreviated. Perhaps the author wanted to convey the sense that the reader was rushing unstoppably towards a fateful confrontation, but it instead feels like he just wanted to finish because he was tired of writing it.

That flaw, however, is minor. I’d have to file this book under “ripping yarns.” I’ll add, for any of you knitters who read this, that a “ripping yarn” can be a good thing in certain contexts. But I bet you knitters aren’t too likely to read any novel in which the stacking of trophy skulls is featured prominently.

And so the cosmic dance continues

At ten minutes before six this morning, I walked out the front door in nothing but my boxers, crossed the lawn, and stalked up my neighbors’ driveway. Then I was able to see the moon. The Earth’s shadow hid our milky whiteness, hers and mine. The eclipse had ink-washed the moon’s top three-quarters; the bottom still shone a bright salmon hue against the grey-brown of the morning sky.

Every time I view a lunar eclipse, I think of a story that a professor at U of L told me once. He was in France with a bunch of friends. After dinner, they were all outside as a lunar eclipse was occurring. He knew some French, but was not fluent. Looking up and noticing the moon, he blurted in French, “Look! The moon! …It isn’t there!”

Movie review, random thoughts, restaurant review

The Host

David came over last night and we watched “The Host,” a Korean monster movie. I thought it was pretty good. After a fairly standard set-up in which an uncaring U.S. Army doctor orders the dumping of scores of bottles of formaldehyde into the Han River, I was treated to scenes of a hideously mutated, bus-sized creature (fish? lizard? salamander?) trampling and mauling panicked pedestrians and picnickers.

After the initial rampage, four family members band together to rescue another who was kidnapped by the beast.

The monster, at least as it appeared on the small screen, was nicely done. There were a few scenes it which it was a dark shape moving underwater in which it didn’t look very convincing; it had a “painted-on” look. But for the most part, as it ran, tumbled, and jumped through the cityscape in broad daylight, it had a natural look.

I found the main characters to be interesting and appealing. Although I’m not sure I got some of the plot nuances (I feel like I’m missing a few grains of understanding with the whole virus/no virus/ “agent yellow” deal), it all held together and progressed in a more-or-less believable* fashion, taking into account the bumbling-comic aspects of the family’s situations.

*******
Yesterday I mowed my front yard and about a third of the back. I had to quit in order to fix dinner for the girls and relieve their Nana, who was sitting them while I cut. The grass really needed it; the front lawn had not been mowed in more than a month. It was hot and humid and the cut grass came out chunky and gloppy. When I came in and picked up Jill, she kept reaching down to touch the front of my T-shirt. She’d make a “Gee-ahh” sound, some sort of commentary on how wet I was.

The night before last Kim and I had a date night. We had dinner at Puccini’s, again while Nana watched the girls. Thank goodness for grandparents—Erin and Jill have the four best. Puccini’s was good. I had a small pizza with artichoke, olives, mushrooms, and bacon. Kim had fettuccini with pesto sauce. Both were very good, as was the garlicky cheese pepperoni bread appetizer. Prices were reasonable. We’ll go back, some day.




*edited to add: When I say “believable,” I mean as compared to similar movies.

Last night, as that crazy storm was winding down, I headed over to Carrie’s to work on that saw. I am almost done! A couple more hours of work, maybe less, should do the trick. Really, it might be less than an hour of painting.

The night before last I finished “Revenge of the Sith.” The second half was a definite improvement over the first. Instead of rating the movie a 3 out of 10, I’ll raise it to 5. That means, to me, that it was watchable, some parts were fun, but overall my reaction was tepid.

Hop on the ferry

You're Siddhartha!

by Hermann Hesse

You simply don't know what to believe, but you're willing to try
anything once. Western values, Eastern values, hedonism and minimalism, you've spent
some time in every camp. But you still don't have any idea what camp you belong in.
This makes you an individualist of the highest order, but also really lonely. It's
time to chill out under a tree. And realize that at least you believe in
ferries.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Well, it’s at least as accurate as my horoscope.

Yoda says

Paul, Aaron, and Karen came over a couple weeks ago for D&D. Paul brought his two sons, who watched movies while we played. The next day, I realized that they had accidentally left their DVDs. Some Scooby-Doo cartoon movie and Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.

That, I thought to myself, is great. I haven’t yet seen the final Star Wars movie, since I’d sworn I wouldn’t pay money to watch it. I just didn’t think it would be worth it, after seeing the last two.

Last night I started watching it. Eh. Perhaps it is the best of episodes I-III, but still. I like the ‘splosions just fine. However, it (like Episodes I, II, and VI) lacks the …something… of III and IV. What is that “something”? Charm? Focus? The sense of drama and comedy and character that arose from a more limited special-effects palette, budgetary constraints, and the relatively short (several years, as opposed to thirty) period of mythos-building and commercial tie-ins?

It’s stupid for me to post about it. Thousands upon thousands of Star Wars nuts have discussed this to death; I really don’t care that much. I’ll probably try to finish watching the movie, but if I don’t get the chance, oh well.

All of this is just leading up to the following point: My very favorite part of the movie so far is when Yoda, sitting on the Jedi Council, says, “Good relations with the Wookies I have.”

Un sol de oro

I really like this Peruvian coin. It’s brass, but it looks rusty, which would normally be a bad things but seems quite nice here.

I’m fond of coins with animals, especially ones that are simple, straightforward designs. They don’t get much plainer than this. It’s a very nice little llama; what more can you say?

This is one of the ones my parents found at a yard sale.

blackberry picking

The girls enjoy picking blackberries. They usually come back in the house with maroon juice stains on their faces and clothing. Also a hit are the cherry tomatoes, although Jill usually just gnaws on hers for a moment before taking the mess out of her mouth and either throwing it on the ground or handing it to me. I think she likes the flavor but doesn’t like the thick skin.

The blackberries are usually fairly tart. It’s possible to get them when they are perfectly ripe and quite sweet. However, at that point, they are so tender that they can easily fall apart in my hand as I try to pull them away from the plant. They are also more likely to be damaged by bugs or to have been chomped by birds. I’ve seen cardinals eating them. I suspected insects were responsible for the chunks missing from the ripe ones, but I finally witnessed some cardinals in the act. That explains why the ones that are damaged tend to be ones that are easily visible; berries that are hidden down low and under leaves stay safe.

Also pictured is our first watermelon. I picked it a little too soon. Yesterday, though, I got another one. I haven’t cut it yet, but its stem was starting to shrivel, so it must have been time, right?

George's Birthday/American Splendor

Happy Birthday to George! He’s this guy I used to know. He’s super-kind, generous, good-natured, clever, and thoughtful. Unfortunately for me, I just didn’t live up to his expectations and he stopped wanting to have anything to do with me. He finally realized I was like Harvey Pekar without the charm or air of success.

Speaking of Harvey Pekar, I re-watched a movie about him last night. I first saw “American Splendor” in theaters when it first came out a couple of years ago. Last night after it was over I told Kim, “I feel just like I did after the first time I watched it: I don’t know exactly all the reasons I like this movie, but I really, really like it.” In fact, it’s one of the 15-20 movies that are on my top 10 list (yeah, the list is pretty loosey-goosey.) Although the film focuses largely on negative emotions, depression, and loneliness, it’s really very positive and very funny. I highly recommend it. Funny and uplifting. And remember not to get it mixed up with that Kevin Spacey movie; they are not at all the same. That one was called “American Beauty,” and it was a downer.

Produce

Today Erin and I hauled in a watermelon. I suspected it was ripe, and I was eager for the first one, and I hated the thought of one being ripe and then getting over-ripe or rotting because I hadn't been on the ball.

So we brought in the bowling ball-sized fruit and I cut into it. Disappointment dripped and oozed across the cutting board, for the inside was still mostly white. There were, however, rows of seedy pinkness, which I dug out with a spoon melon-ball style. Enough to fill a large plastic cereal bowl. We ate it, and it was pretty good. The worst part was the seediness, which will pose a bit more difficulty for my two small children than for me. I spit out most of them like an old pro, and crunched up the rest. They were very crunchy, like watermelon grapenuts.

Erin and I also picked two bowls of blackberries. This evening I ran them (about 5 cups) through the food processor, then pressed the pureé through a colander and added a little sugar. This we spooned over vanilla ice cream, and it was quite good.

Wert-Marke

Here is a German (I presume) 20 Wert-Marke token. I don't know yet what a Wert-Marke token is, so I'm about to make some inquiries. The reverse is featureless save for the dots circling the perimeter.7-29-07, 9:00 PM: Various private manufacturers minted these in Germany, I'm told. This one may have been minted between 1900 and 1940. Many examples are countermarked, because the token manufacturer would sell these to businesses to be given to customers for later redemption. The private businesses would countermark (stamp) some letter or symbol to signify which business was using it. There are many tokens that look like this, so tracing its exact origin may be impossible.

A little Googling on Ethiopia...

There are numerous languages spoken in Ethiopia, but one of the main ones is Amharic. That’s the language featured on the coin below. It is the second-most widely used semitic language in the world, after Arabic, according to Wikipedia. The letters are from the Ge’ez alphabet, also a semitic language.

The numerals used to write the date on the obverse are Ethiopic (I think: I hope I’m not mixing up the various languages and number systems). From what I’ve read, the typical Ethiopian can read the date about as well as you or I, which is to say, probably not at all. They generally use Arabic numerals, like us, and the Ethiopic numerals are a traditional holdover.

Haile Selassie I became increasingly unpopular in 1973 and ’74, as parts of the country fell into drought, famine, and political unrest. A communist military junta seized power, imprisoning him and later killing him. The famine and brutality, however, continued. Things seem to be improving a little since the 1980s, though the country is still one of the world’s poorest.

Hmmm.

12:44 a.m. 7-21-07: I don't know this one yet. I will add to this post later with more information. It's a pretty coin, about the diameter of a dime, but thicker. I don't know the language, I don't know the dude. This means lots of page flipping. It probably dates to the 1950s, since it's my Uncle Mark's, and most of the world coins he has are ones he was given in the '50s. Fun! If I can't identify it in the next few minutes, I'm going to bed.

12:15 PM 7-21/07: Found it this morning. Ethiopia, one cent. The dude is Haile Selassie I, last of the Solomonic emperors, who ruled for a couple of thousand years, until the military booted him out in the 1970s. This is dated EE (Ethiopian Era) 1936, but coins with this date were minted 1944-1975 for Ethiopia in several other countries, including the U.S. The catalog I have give an approximate value of 30 cents, but it lists total mintage as 20,000, which is very low. I'm guessing that figure is a mistake.

7/30/07: Yeah, it's an error. The actual mintage is 2 million. That makes more sense.

Kohlrabi

Here is some kohlrabi from my little garden. Uncooked, the skin is quite purple. Pictured here after a half-hour in the steamer, it has developed a creepy translucency to its peel, making it seem to me not so much food-like as Roswell-artifact-like.
But hey, peeled, heavily buttered, and lightly salted, it provided delight. I gave Erin and Jill a little each; both asked for more! It reminded me of boiled, buttered, and salted cabbage, and also made me think a little of well-cooked broccoli.

I am having trouble posting.
This is a test.
Outside, I'd be roasting
Like a spitted chicken breast.

Dream, Crumb

Last night’s dream...

... involved me visiting the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary with a friend of mine. The identity of the friend kept changing. Sometimes I think it was Travis, and other times I think it was David or Aaron and we were looking for Travis, and other times it might have been Kim.

Anyway, the most vivid part of the dream involved me entering this huge, huge auditorium where a professor was lecturing. This hall was amazing. I entered on the balcony level, and the professor was giving a Powerpoint presentation (accompanied by Christian Rock). There were thousands of desks for students, and everything was paneled in stained wood. And the really amazing thing: There was no lower level over which the balcony level “hovered.” Instead, there was a wood-paneled “cliff” over the balcony’s edge, dropping down 200 feet to the floor of the auditorium. Affixed to this cliff were rows and rows of swiveling desks. The chairs were bolted to the vertical wall, but were angled so that the students who sat in them were facing outward, as one would be in a normal chair.

We were trying to get to the bottom of the auditorium and we had to climb down the wall, from one desk to another. After finally climbing all the way to the floor, I looked up and was impressed by how far we had descended.

One of Travis’s friends came over to me, happy to see me. I suspected that he was thinking that I had converted, or that at least there was hope for me. We all went together looking for Travis, and climbed up these stairs to a hall that was under construction. There was an unfinished door, unattached to the wall, which I had to slide out of the way. That’s all I can remember.

Movie

A couple of nights ago I finished watching the documentary “Crumb.” I had seen a little bit of it a few years ago. What a great movie. It’s a series of interviews with artist/illustrator Robert Crumb, his two brothers, and others (critics, ex-girlfriends, etc.). Totally weird, quite humorous, dark and sad, and thoroughly engrossing. This is one of those documentaries that go into the category of “wow, this is how great a documentary can be.”

Next, I want to re-watch “American Splendor,” which is an almost-documentary about the writer of American Splendor comics ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Splendor ), and in which the character of Robert Crumb appears.

Wow, I just realized that last Wednesday was the 16th anniversary of my attendance of the Boiled In Lead / Mekons concert at Uncle Pleasant's. I sure wish I could remember that, because I bet it was utterly cool.

I’ll see your “Lost” Geek bid and raise you one RPG nerd:

Sometime several years ago, I think in late Spring 2004, the Dungeons & Dragons game that I was running went on hiatus. The impending birth of my first child, along with a few other factors, provoked my announcement that I would be taking a break from dungeon-mastering the game. DMing generally takes quite a bit of preparatory work. In the meantime, we played D&D in someone else’s game for a while, then Shadowrun, then Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, and a few other little things mixed in. There were long periods of not playing at all.

After years of promises, we finally picked up my game again on Friday night. I feel pretty rusty with my DMing skills, especially the rules. I’ve forgotten many details. Despite that, I feel like the game went smoothly, and I had fun. The adventuring party had someone cast “raise dead” on a fallen member, in return for which they were sent to wipe out a band of evil cultists. Good, clean fun!

Garden News:

Erin and I ate the summer’s first ripe cherry tomatoes yesterday. The one I ate was a bit tough-skinned, which I hope is not a quality shared by its sisters-on-the-vine. It might have been just a tiny bit under-ripe; Erin at the ones that looked reddest. She is a real tomato-hound.

My gourd vines have taken off, and their per-day growth rate seems easier to measure in feet than in inches. OK, that’s exaggeration, but I do think they are growing at least six inches per day.

Coins:

I attended the monthly coin club meeting on Sunday afternoon. There was discussion about the Annual Fall Coin Show, Sept. 27-29 at the Best Western Brownsboro Road. Should be good. I’ll probably volunteer to work at the front table for a few hours, or I might help with setup or takedown.

One guy I spoke with a couple of months ago brought in two boxes of Lincoln cents in 2x2s so I could flip through and look for ones I needed. I bought a couple from him for a dollar each: A 1921-S and a 1924-S, both around G-8, I suppose. Two more I can cross off my list. He said he would bring some more next time.

I auctioned off one of the 2001-P mint-wrapped rolls of half-dollars that I found. I put a reserve of ten dollars on it, which is face value; this seemed to amaze the auctioneer, but he of course didn’t realize that I had got it at face value to begin with. Light lightning, it bid up to eleven dollars! And stopped, because the eleven-dollar bidder was The Kid (see my post about the kid at the coin club a couple of months ago.) No one wants to bid against The Kid, and even the auctioneer was actively discouraging it. I wish I had put a higher reserve on it. I might have got fifteen dollars.

There are attendance prize drawings each month, and I won a 1947-D Walking Liberty half dollar. My grading skills aren’t the best in the world, and I’m not particularly familiar with these halves, but I think it might barely rate a VF. Not an exceptional coin, but a great free prize. That other club member who is interested in world coins, Mike, won a prize, too: A Liberian-minted John F. Kennedy, Jr. commemorative ten-dollar piece. (Liberia is one of those places that has a huge commemorative coin industry.) Kind of a funny piece of junk, but hey, for free, who’s complaining?

World coins/Neko Case/Cucurbitae

My Uncle Mark has a bunch of world coins that were given to him as a child suffering from polio by his uncle. He’s had them just sitting around in a bag, and when I was talking about coins (as is my wont) one day, he mentioned them to me. I told him that I’d like to see them, and eventually he did. I am now looking through them. They are very cool, and I want to give him an idea of what he has.

I’ve only just begun researching them, but it looks like there is nothing of great value. There are three large, worn silver coins from the first half of the 19th Century; all three were apparently once glued to something.

Almost everything else is from the 1940s and 50s, with book-prices of under a dollar (most worth less than 50 cents). They are, however, interesting. Quite a few are from colonial Africa. I’ll be posting some photos later.

My parents also bought for me a few little plastic baggies of world coins at a yard sale a month ago. Again, all very low-value stuff, but there are things I don’t have, and it’s interesting to look through.

***

For my birthday I got the Neko Case CD “Fox Confessor Brings the Flood.” It’s like an invasion: First, take over the radio stations. Then, force your conquered populace to blog about it. My brain is the conquered populace. Since Monday, I have had one song or another running through my head AT ALL TIMES, NIGHT AND DAY. The songs are great, but my mental machinery has been 90% co-opted by this music and my ability to function normally at work and home, questionable under normal circumstances, is terribly diminished.

***

I now have in my garden at least two watermelons that are larger than softballs. I don’t know how big they are supposed to get. They are icebox watermelons, which means they don’t get too big, but I don’t know how big that is. Chihuahua-size, maybe?

My birdhouse gourd vines are growing six inches or more per day. They also smell funny.

I worked a little more on the saw last night. I think a couple more hours of work might do the trick.

I have several pieces of panel primed and sanded for painting. After reading a bit of commentary about mechanical adhesion problems of oil painted over acrylic underpaintings, I’ve decided to use only light acrylic sketches on my canvases. I’ll probably make an attempt to forgo that altogether.

The reason this is an art/coin/gardening/& more blog is because I don’t have enough of any single subject to post about more than once a week.

There are watermelons on my vines. The largest one I’ve seen is an inch-and-a-half; they are very cute and look like little striped green eggs.

Better said by someone else

This is not a political blog at all...but, oh, what the hell.

Source: http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D8Q57VP00&show_article=1

The prosecutor in the case "went after somebody even when he knew no crime
had been committed," Romney said. "Given that fact, isn't it reasonable for a
commutation of a portion of the sentence to be made?"

...(snip)...

As governor, Romney twice rejected a pardon for Anthony
Circosta, who at age
13 was convicted of assault for shooting another boy in the arm with a BB
gun—a shot that didn't break the skin. Circosta worked his way through
college, joined the Army
National Guard and led a platoon of 20 soldiers in Iraq's deadly Sunni
triangle.
In 2005, as he was serving in Iraq, he sought a pardon to fulfill
his dream of becoming a police officer.

...(snip)...
In his presidential bid, Romney often proudly points out that he was the first governor in modern Massachusetts history to deny every request for a pardon or commutation during his four years in office. He says he refused pardons because he didn't want to overturn a jury.

What should I post about when I haven't painted, and I don't have any coins to talk about, and the most exciting thing I can say about my garden is that I ate a blackberry from it this morning? Other people have crazy stories about attempting to teach music classes at VBS or making cute aprons or children who throw unholy fits or about how many miles they plan to run barefoot or expressing deep and considered opinions about Who's Hot in the Beltway.

I ate a blackberry. I found no silver in two rolls of half dollars I looked at. Anything I'd care to say about politics is always sounds better coming from someone else.

I'm working on the saw. Now that I've actually started the work, it's going pretty quickly, and I'm please with it. This is a progression over the course of several hours.

Here I am gesso-ing a panel in my studio. Note the rustic workbench I use. And another view of my workspace. Do you think I get lonely here? No. I have ten billion spiders to keep me company. There are also wasps and barn swallows. That's why I keep that yellow-handled axe close by.

The hollyhocks came back just swell this year. The spent blooms looks pretty ugly, but one must take the good with the bad, I suppose, cuz' there's just no bustin' skulls in gardening. I have, however, cracked a fair number of carapaces. That was a Japanese beetle reference.
And here's the kohlrabi. Want some? I have no idea why one is green and the other is purple. They'll actually kind of cool looking. I should paint their portraits.

Oh, this is for Ed. DJ-G’s max-rappity comment on my previous post reminded me.

Last night Erin was watching a Sesame Street video (“Potty Time with Elmo” or something like that) and there was a musical sequence showing plumbing parts being made in a factory. I was in the kitchen cleaning, and had to run in watch—the music was M. C. Frontalot! Or at least I’m pretty sure it was.

I just Googled him. It was him. MC Frontalot falls into the “nerdcore” subgenre, which I just learned of. I mean, I just learned the name. Thanks to people like Ed and mekimeki, I’ve been feeling the nerdcore vibrations before I ever heard any actual nerdcore.

Ed put one of his songs, “I’m Gonna Be Your Man,” on a CD for me a few years ago, and it rocks sportingly.

Interpret This Dream

I was training in martial arts. My young instructor, Ming Li, felt I had done fairly well. She thought it was time for me to face her instructor, Mama-Ji*.

In our outdoor classroom, on the grass, I was set to face her. Mama-Ji arrived. She was a silent elderly Asian lady, with long gray hair. I was to spar with her.

It was also dinner time, and Mama-Ji ordered pasta for delivery. It arrived, just as we were preparing to face one another. She was delighted to receive her plate of couscous.

She held her plate of food in her right hand, up and behind her, as we faced one another. I got the sense that she saw me as far beneath her, and that no one saw me as worthy to face her. It was expected that I would be no match for her.

She held her plate of food as she used her left hand to strike at me and to block my blows; we struck at one another a few times. I used both arms, and she, her face impassive, just used her left, keeping her food level with her right.

I was very annoyed by this. She was toying with me, showing how she could fight me even without any great effort. I decided that she needed to cut the cr*p and leave off the arrogant display; I was going to push her, so that I could either show her I didn’t want to mess around, or provoke her to really put me in my place so that I’d know exactly where I stood.

I quickly reached out and knocked the plate of pasta from her other hand. This really angered her, but she just glared at me for a moment, then turned and left. I realized that it was offensive for me to have even touched her food. What little welcome I might have had was gone.

I picked up my sword and followed Mama-Ji to beg forgiveness, but she ignored me and went inside. I waited in the stairwell for her to come back out. After a long time, she did (it was night, and raining.) I called out that I was sorry, that I realized too late that I my behavior was offensive. But she paid no attention to me at all, and walked away.

Oh, well, I thought. And I went home.

When I woke up I was a little annoyed that I went back to beg forgiveness. I should have picked up the plate of pasta and hit her with it.

* Mama-Ji is another name for Kali ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kali ), who was featured in the novel American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. I just finished reading it last week.

The River Cities Concert Band, of which Kim is a clarinet-tooting member, played at St. Matthew's Episcopal a couple of weeks ago. http://www.stmatt-ky.org/band_concert_and_ice_cream_2007.htm My two girls can be seen in the photos that are fifth and eleventh from the bottom. There is a picture of all three of us walking across the drive, with the band in the background, near the top. The photos were taken by Dr. Varley Wiedeman, who taught my Biology of Populations class at U of L, about...oh, 16 or 17 years ago.

My family planned to attend a zydeco concert in Willow Park a couple of days ago, but it was rained out. We stayed the afternoon at my parents' house, hoping for a break in the weather, despite the fact that every little bit of rain we received was greatly needed.

I went on a field trip with my dad, while Jill napped. Dad has a couple of tomato plants in his back yard, but the moment a tomato even thinks about ripening, a squirrel takes it. There are lots of squirrels, and competition is fierce, especially if you are the tomato-grower.

So my dad traps them in cages. I watched him pick up one of the cages with a nervous, skittery squirrel, spray its hind end with some red spraypaint ("So I can see if he comes back. I should be able to tell from that.") and put the cage in the back of the car. We drove a few miles away and let him go at the Baptist Seminary.

Everyone needs hobbies, I guess.

I told Dad that if it came down to tomatoes or squirrels in my garden, I might not be as gentle as he. In this Age of Information, squirrel recipes are just a click away.

Solstice

Happy Midsummer's Day!http://www.straightdope.com/classics/a1_170b.html
C'mon over tonight. We'll find some upright megaliths to dance around. I have a little rum.

Last Friday I finally started painting on the saw. It’s coming along pretty well. I’ll post photos if I can remember to take my camera next time I go over there.

Still thinking about linoleum block prints. I found my single tube of black water-based Speedball printing ink.

The little robins left their nest a few days ago. I was looking out the front window with Erin and we saw a fledgling hoping around the front yard. The other two were still in the nest, I discovered when I went out to check. By that evening, all three were gone.

It amazes me how fast they learn to fly. A few years ago we watched some young cardinals in Kim’s dad’s back yard. In just a few hours they went from helpless-looking, flightless fluffballs to birds that could fly from ground to branch to fence-top.

I ate some kohlrabi from my garden. I peeled it and sliced it raw. Eh. Perhaps I can add it to some soup or stew. You’d think that a vegetable that’s described as a cross between a radish and a turnip would be a lot more enjoyable. That was sarcasm.

For Father’s Day, my super-sweet wife and daughters gave me a membership to the J. B. Speed Art Museum. http://www.speedmuseum.org/

Bird Prints

Here is a discussion about some stunning bird prints...sometimes, artwork just seems to fly right up and create itself:
http://www.wetcanvas.com/forums/showthread.php?s=&threadid=401932

In other avian news, we have a robin's nest over our driveway. Erin and I watched the three chicks poke their heads out, crying to be fed. I really hope we get a chance to watch them learning to fly.

For some reason, this morning I keep thinking that I want to do some linoleum block prints (or use a similar medium).

"Daddy, know what rhymes with freejerator? Heejerator!" --Erin

The other day on lunch break I was having a discussion with my pal Possumbooger—that’s not his real name, we just call him that—and he looks at me and “Alonzo,” he says, "Alonzo, what the hell’s new with you?”

So I think for a moment and I tell him, “Well, Poss, I finally found me a 1988-P half dollar last night. Now I have a complete set of JFK half dollar business strikes.” Then he whistles and nods appreciatively.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s taken a long time. Now all I have to do is keep on refining it, by which I mean, I’m going to look for nicer versions of the ones I already got.”

“That kind of thing worth much?”

“Well,” I tell him, “determining the value is sort of complex. You have to count the number of coins and multiply it by fifty percent. That gives you the approximate value in U.S. dollars.” *

“Huh,” he says, and offers me a Swisher Sweet. I give him a Shasta soda, and we sit and watched the fog roll by the breakroom window.

* Not exactly true. You can also add the bullion price of silver for the coins minted 1964-1969, plus the value of the year 1987 coins, which you don’t usually find in circulation because they were only made for mint sets. All those things together add a few dollars. However, to paraphrase the mobster appraiser on “The Simpsons,” they might not be worth much, but their sentimental value is through the roof. Now, if I could find me a 1974 double-die obverse…


See some of Possumbooger’s antics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sK3AqFYAWQ

Jillian in the back yard a couple of weeks ago. I love this picture and can't stop looking at it.



Yesterday, when I got home from work, Kim told me to go look in the living room. There I found Erin asleep on the floor. Kim said that she just fell asleep among her toys.

Two more for category A

Here are the finished versions of my two most recent paintings, previously posted in unfinished form. The first is about 18x24”, the second is about 8x9”. Both are oil on panel. I invite comments.

I painted on Saturday, and finished both of the paintings that I posted photos of last week. Now I need to let them dry a little while and frame them.

I worked in my studio for a little while, on the saw—I sketched on it, and decided on a composition. I’ve actually hardly done any work in my studio. And I also discovered that it’s a supremely spidery place. I cleaned it a couple months ago, and now it has lots of cobwebs again, and there are spiders all over. My dad suggested spraying, which I might do, especially if end up spending more time there.

After I worked in my studio a bit, I went over to Aaron’s house and painted on his porch. That’s where I finished the two paintings previously begun. As I painted, I got to chat with Aaron and David, and had a beer. Very pleasant.

David, Brooke, Kim, and I played Puerto Rico on Thursday night. It was only the third or fourth time that we’ve played it. I really enjoy it, but it’s pretty time consuming (Thursday’s game lasted, oh, I dunno, three hours).

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Puerto_Rico_(board_game)

David won.

Dairy manipulation

I've been wondering. How come you get butter when you agitate cream, but get whipped cream when you whip it? Why isn't whipped cream butter?

This is obviously a question from someone who hasn't actually tried to make either, or bothered to look it up.

Works in progress

The blue in this one shows up brighter in the picture than it is in real life. This painting is pretty small, and it's almost done.

This is the one that I started painting while it was snowing, back in early April. It needs a little more work than the small one, but it will be done soon, too. There is also too much glare in this picture, but it's the only one I have right now.

On the pig/in the hats/in the car

They like my hats.
The nice neighbors across the street gave them a car that their daughter has outgrown.

Here we are with one of the pigs outside Mark's Feed Store.

Lost

I will now show myself to be a “Lost” geek.

What a season finale! Whoa! And two hours of it! Jack revealed himself to be just as useless in flash forwards (sneaky “Lost” writers, darn them) as in flashbacks, although he had some fine moments in the present. I’m glad he didn’t cave in during his one-on-one with Ben.

Best part: Unexpectedly, Charlie. As sad and awful as his death was, he did a great job, exhibiting quick thinking and courage. The whole build-up to his final (? <-- obligatory question mark) scene had some good twists and just played out well.

Worst part: Locke killed Naomi. Every bit as egregious and near-inexplicable as when Michael shot Ana Lucia and Libby. Sure, he must have been inspired by a sense of I-must-stop-this-at-any-cost desperation, but obviously it wasn’t enough to motivate him to kill Jack. Or maybe the revolver wasn’t working. Fifteen years sitting in a tropical corpse pit might make it sort of inoperable.

For a show that primarily involves castaways on a tropical island, there sure are a lot of people killed or mangled by motor vehicles. Three more in last night’s finale, not including Jack nearly being run over as he crossed the street to the funeral parlor. And who was at the parlor? Kim suggested to me that it was Ben, and I think that’s probable, although Michael comes to mind as well.

Another annoyance, although it’s really a blessing: The ending really didn’t give us much more to speculate on over the summer regarding the nature of the island. Obviously, it has some sort of effect on the timeline, including events of the past. Not much more than that can be nailed down. Unless Jack’s references to his father in the present-tense was a product of his drug and alcohol abuse.

Who was Naomi working for? Why was Penelope transmitting to The Looking Glass station? In what way does rescue from the island end in regret or doom?

It looks like the whole dynamic of the show has now shifted. Next season seems likely to start with most or all of the surviving characters rescued, or put in a whole new form of peril.

I note that no core mysteries in the show’s mythology were solved. I hope that, when more is explained, I won’t regret ever getting hooked.

At the Louisville Coin Club meeting on Sunday, a gentleman who was sitting in front of me struck up a conversation. He asked me what I was interested in—that’s the general ice-breaker question among coin collectors. What do you collect? What do you focus on? It’s a question that’s a little awkward for me to answer, because I have little money to spend on collecting, and my interests are so varied. I’m not much on being a completist, like many numismatists. Key dates—those coins that are rarest in a series—are usually well outside my price range. I don’t have a key date of anything. But this is actually a digression.

My answer to that question now is that I’m most interested in the detective work. My favorite thing about coins is when I get something that sort of stumps me, and I have to look it up to identify it. I find it a lot of fun to find a coin and have little or no idea what it is, and then have to hunt around for information on it. This always ends in some new little window opening for me on some other culture or bit of history. Ancient Roman coins bore plenty of political propaganda. That Indonesian coin I have depicts a congklak game board, which is a version of mancala. The four small pictures on Icelandic coins are depictions of Iceland’s four guardian spirits—dragon, bull, vulture, and giant.

In regards to being a completist, I have almost finished a complete set of business-strike Kennedy half dollars. I’ve been pulling them from circulation, so that means that they each cost me fifty cents. The only one I still need is a 1988-P, which is ridiculous, because it’s not a rarity at all. It had a huge mintage, but for some reason none of the hundreds of coins I’ve searched in the past year has been that one. The only coins of the series that I had to spend money on were the 1987-P and 1987-D, which were available only in mint sets and not released into circulation. I bought those a couple of years ago. Besides finding that one coin I’m lacking, I need to keep searching for better examples of the ones I have that are pretty beat-up.

At the coin club meetings there is always an auction at the end. Last weekend I noticed an old Whitman folder of Lincoln cents, 1909-1940, missing only key date coins. All the coins were worn; I doubt any would grade higher than Fine. But there were many coins there that I needed for my collection. I decided that I’d gladly buy that if I could get it for less than $8.00. Unfortunately for me, one of the club members brings his young son (or maybe grandson, I don’t know.) Nobody really wants to get in a bidding war with a five-year-old. He got the Lincoln cents for $6.50. A little sad for me, sure, but also very cute.

If you’ve read all of this post, you are either crazy or interested in coins. Not that the two are in any way mutually exclusive. Why don’t you just go read the sports scores or the blog of someone totally hot? Obviously, I just write this for myself. And that one guy someplace who Googles the terms “congklak” and “guardian spirits.”

I spent a short while last night planting watermelon seeds. I turned over some soil, and then piled on some dark wormy compost from the compost cage. I was eager to do it before last night's thunderstorms arrived. Now, with a little luck, we'll have a half-dozen watermelon vines shortly. I also put down a few newspapers as mulch, weighted by bricks, flower pots, and sticks. I didn't have time to finish that, though.

There are buds on the hollyhocks. There are flowers on the blackberries.

5/8/07

Again last night I set up my easel at E. P. Sawyer Park, this time with a very small canvas on it (I’m not sure of the measurements, but it’s about 9x10”). The subject was a pair of trees. I’ll have to find out what kind of trees they are. The painting is pretty much finished, but I have to do some touching up after it dries in a week or two. Photos will follow.

After I finished painting and the sun was sinking behind the distant houses and trees, I went over to the studio and worked on the saw. A co-worker gave me a saw that her mother wants me to paint. I’ve had the darn thing for a long time—like, two years, or maybe three—and I’ve just let it sit around. Finally, last night I sanded it, cleaned it with denatured alcohol, and primed it with gesso. All the while, I was wondering if my co-worker’s mom even still remembers it or wants it.

I got home late, and Kim had some very delicious pasta set aside for me. I ate and began watching “The Departed,” but couldn’t finish it before I had to go to bed. Not only did I go to bed much too late, but I also had trouble sleeping. I woke up frequently, had trouble falling back to sleep, and had long, tense, vivid dreams of cops vs. mobsters. Not a good night.

Last week I asked a teller for all her half dollars, and she went back to check. All she had were two rolls—but when she handed them to me, I saw that they were both unopened mint-wrapped 2001-P.

I’m not sure what to do with them. I’ve never had a mint roll before, so they’re kind of neat, but at the same time I realize they have very little premium over face value. Maybe I’ll try to sell a roll at the next coin club auction.

5/7/07
I haven’t had much time for gardening. My peas are growing well, but I need to make a little trellis for them. The kohlrabi is getting bigger, forcing me to wonder: What the heck will I do with it when I harvest it? Kohlrabi? Will any of us really eat it? Will we eat all of it?

I noticed today that I have dill and cilantro volunteers growing. Seeds that fell from last year’s plants. Cilantro is a very nice little plant. Besides adding interesting flavor to dishes, it’s sort of pretty in the garden and required little maintenance. The dill, though less attractive, doesn’t look bad, and it was a lot of fun adding it to various dishes.

When I can, I’ll have to plant the watermelon seeds. I also have gourd seeds, but I’m just about out of room. I either need to make more garden space, or just give up on it for now.

5/7/07
Yesterday was another painting day. I went to E. P. Sawyer Park and continued the landscape I started a month ago. One of the dangers of painting [i]en plein air[/i] in sunlight is that, once the painting is taken indoors and viewed in typically poor interior lighting, the whole painting looks much darker. Some paintings I’ve done in years past looked like bright sunny scenes while sunlight was on the canvas, but when viewed indoors they’ve looked like an oil paint version of those night scenes that were actually filmed in daylight using special filters in old movies.

I tried to be conscious of that while I was painting, and it worked, although I’ll need to make a few adjustments. There are a couple of areas I need to brighten. I also want to work on the sky a little. However, I could stop right now and call the painting done. I’m quite happy with it. I’ll do a little “tightening up,” but it looks good. I’m especially happy with the tree limbs.

I was painting in a weedy area that bordered woods. One really nice thing about painting in such surroundings (and this is one of my favorite things about fishing in an isolated spot, too) is that the wildlife comes out around me. Painting is a quiet and relatively motionless activity, so lots of little critters come and go and don’t pay much attention to me. The underbrush was so thick, though, that it was often hard to figure out what I was seeing or hearing.

There were all kinds of interesting bird calls, and things rustling through the leaves. Squirrels and chipmunks and mice. I saw some huge bird of prey, probably an owl, flying up into the trees carrying something in its talons.

I’ve been working on finalizing a means of putting a price on paintings, and keeping a permanent record of the information. Over the past few years my approach to everything art-related has been inconsistent. Here is a sampler of new, finalized information:

The Ohio River at Otter Creek Park, 2002, 30x36”, oil on panel 775.00

Field on Hwy 22, 2005, 18x24”, oil on panel 365.00

Germantown Houses, 2004, 16x20”, oil on panel 365.00

Tree Sketch—Miles Park, 2003, 9x12”, oil on canvas, 160.00

Untitled Tree (Joe Creason Park), 2003, 9x12”, oil on canvas, 160.00

Category B artwork:

Riverfront Plaza Construction, 2003, 18x24”, oil on canvas, 50.00

Joe Creason Park, 2001, 16x24”, oil on panel, 40.00

I have heard recent allegations that walnuts, especially the fruit of the black walnut tree, and specifically the husks, can be made into a very nice drawing ink. What better to go with my improvised drawing tools than some home-made ink? A co-worker told me that she has walnut trees on her property, and at this very moment, last autumn’s nuts are rotting all over the ground in her yard. That is exactly what I’m looking for, I think. She has offered to bring a bunch in for me. Helga, too, has reported that there is a walnut tree in her new yard.

I painted outside last Friday. It seemed a very iffy proposition at first, since it was very cold and windy. Finally, though, late in the morning, with the temperature climbing into the 40s, I decided to throw myself into it.

I selected a spot over at E. P. "Tom" Sawyer State Park. It was sheltered from the wind, in a low-lying area among the trees. It snowed much of the time I was out. Mostly it was light flurries, but sometimes it was snowing pretty hard. Despite the weather, there were bumblebees flying around me. Nuts.

The painting looks good so far. I worked for about three hours before some minor family crises sent me after my wife and children. I'm eager to work some more.

Even more haunted by jawas

The other night Kim was watching “Dancing with the Stars,” and it suddenly caught my attention. One of the stars, formerly a member of ‘N’Sync, was dancing to the Star Wars theme. But not the regular version; he was dancing to the Meco 1977 disco version of the theme.

Far out! My brother Kevin and I used to lie on the floor and listen to that on our parents’ stereo console.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meco

I had never realized that the album was such a hit back then. Our friend Mike, from up the street, heard the album. "That's not Star Wars!" he informed us. He had the actual soundtrack. He was right, but his album lacked a cool picture of two astronauts bumping booties on the cover.

When I visited my pals in Harvard, IL, last week, I had the opportunity to play Lego Star Wars on the computer with their 4-year-old. I sucked at it. Every time I died, he would look at me and tell me to stop kidding around. He thought I was messing up on purpose. After watching him and his father play, I realized that he only died when he was horsing around, and his father would tell him to knock it off.

I also got to sit and play Storm Troopers with his action figures. He has lots of Star Wars toys.

And speaking of Storm Troopers,

http://www.brandonbird.com/stewart.html

(Thanks, Loraine)

Unfortunately

Erin just became potty trained. She pretty much just did it herself. Of course, that doesn’t mean there aren’t accidents.

A conversation reported by Kim:

Erin: “I peeped in the chair.”
Kim: “Oh. OK. Were you sitting in the rocker?”
Erin: “Yeah. Unfortunately, I peeped all over.”

"Peeped" is an Erin-ism, by the way.

Yesterday, the high temperature was in the mid-80s. Erin played in the sprinkler. Today, it wasn't supposed to get much out of the 40s (I think), and the lows may drop below 30 over the next few days. Maybe this will help my allergies a little. I wonder if I should cover my tulips? Or the coreopsis, or the coral bells?

Transporter question

Here is a question that I find thought-provoking and a little troubling.

Imagine that someone invents a teleportation device, sort of like the ones they use on Star Trek. This transporter can “beam” you over long distances, and do it cheaply, so that anyone can put a dollar in a slot, step onto the transporter pad, and in a fraction of a second they’ll materialize at a chosen destination. Lunch in Madrid, dinner in Tokyo, a play and dessert in London.

But here’s the catch: The technology works by totally vaporizing you with lasers, which analyze you down to the molecule and record the information. The data is beamed at the speed of light to the destination, where a machine takes the data and rebuilds you from a storage tank of material, duplicating you exactly, down to the molecule. The process takes a tiny fraction of a second.

In essence, one machine kills you, and another machine builds a duplicate that is in every identical to the one that was vaporized.

Would you use this transportation technology?

People who know me well know that I’m a pretty hard-core materialist. I consider the “self” to be the sum of our material being. Our experiences, thoughts, and emotions arise from our physical bodies. As such, it seems to me that the “self” would be unchanged by being destroyed and then immediately rebuilt. If I am derived from my physical makeup and experiences, then “I” am not really destroyed, I am just swapping old molecules for new ones.

But I can’t get past the fact that the first machine kills you. I don’t know if I could bring myself to use such a machine.

How many of the atoms in my body were there a year ago, or ten years ago? Would the transporter simply speed up the rate of turnover? If there is a soul, would it leap to the new body?

On Saturday, March 24, I drove to Harvard, Illinois to visit some friends. I had a very good trip. It had been a year since I had seen them. We pretty much just hung out, and for me, that’s a lot of fun. Their kids are cute and fun to play with; we spent a lot of time outside since the weather was so nice; they gave me food and a place to sleep; and I got to play a couple of new games. As seems typical, I also walked away with some loot (Kelly gave me some miniatures, some miniatures bits for assembly, and some little plaster treasure chests he had made from Hirst Arts molds.)

They have three cats, yet I managed to sleep on the couch without sneezing. At all. I don’t know why some cats make me spout like a sputtering fire hydrant, and some have no affect.

I was greeted, upon my return to Louisville, but lots more green than when I had left. Spring causes the gardening painter within me to pop forth like so many aesthetic sneezes. Spring also causes the sneezes to pop forth like dandelion buds. Spring triggers lots of sneezy art poppings, and my garden is my palette just like my palette is my garden. To celebrate, I ate the yellow off a dandelion. I recommend it. The green parts are bitter, but the yellow is sweet.

I have planted some onions, peas, and kohlrabi. Inside, in trays, I’ve started rosemary and basil. I have some cilantro in a pot that I need to move outside.

All the perennials are coming up. Asters, glads, tulips, hostas, coral bells, hollyhocks, daylilies, and coreopsis. Hooray! I still need to plant tomatoes, watermelon, and gourds after the weather warms a bit more. And just as much as warm weather, I need more room. The perennials I planted last autumn used up a lot of my garden space, and the watermelon and gourds aren’t exactly small-area crops.

I plan to paint on Friday. I don’t know where I’ll go to paint. The trees right now are wonderful to look at. I need to decide very quickly where I will go, so that I don’t waste time on Friday by hunting.

Tree Sketch

Ink sketch of a tree, which I posted about a few days ago. 12x16"

I don't have a distinct memory of Brian being born, but I can recall seeing him shortly after he came back from the hospital. I remember learning the word "incubator," and knowing that he had to be in one for a long time. I remember playing with his hands as he lay on the couch next to my mom. It took a long time for me to stop seeing his as a little brother. But he's more grown up than I am in many ways, and seems like more of a grown man than I usually feel I am. And now, in a month, he's getting married.

I hope you get to have some good cake, Brian. Happy Birthday.

Art update

Last Friday afternoon I spent some time over at E. P. Sawyer Park, where I sketched with ink. I used some plant stems instead of a pen, which is a practice I started in Wyoming. There, I used dry stems of wildflowers and grasses. I can’t recall if I started that out of necessity or curiosity, but it worked well, so I continued.

At E. P. Sawyer, I selected a nice spot next to a small stream in a woodsy area, and grabbed some nearby dry grass stems. I made a point on one, and it worked, but it wasn’t entirely satisfactory. It wasn’t rigid enough. It tended to buckle and fling ink. When I looked around for something better, this sort of plant stem was the only thing in view that seemed the least bit suitable. I didn’t want to spend a lot of time hunting.

I sat on a fallen trunk and drew, with the focus being a large bush. My legs fell asleep and my butt hurt, but I’m willing to suffer for my art. A little, anyway.

It was chilly, but not cold enough to be a problem. I had dressed warmly.

The final result was pretty good. I want to do some more ink drawings now. I’ll post a picture. My mother-in-law bought the drawing from me.

Today I spent a number of hours getting painting supplies ready. I had to do some rummaging and cleaning in the garage. There was a lot of paint to sort through, and jars, solvents, and brushes. I prepared two canvases (actually, quarter-inch hardboard panels), which took a lot of sawing, sanding, gluing, cleaning, and priming. One is a small square and one is medium-size. I didn't measure it, but I think it's 18 x 24.

I'm going to watch some more of the movie "The Fast Runner" now, but I'm very tired. Neither Kim nor I slept much last night. I stayed up late to watch John Yarmuth on the Colbert Report (I probably should not have bothered, although his later interview with Ted Koppel was good), and then both Erin and Jill had us up at different times, working to keep them happy.

It was a fantastically beautiful day outside today. Most of my work was outside, and I am grateful.

Hard lesson from experience

Don't run with a vomiting child. If you feel you must, carry them low to the ground. It's easier to clean up a lot of vomit in one place then a lot of vomit in a lot of places.

What, you think I should re-title this blog "Mark's Art, Coin, Garden, Vomit Miscellany"? Maybe just "The Vomit-Blog"?

I just spent two hours cleaning all kinds of stuff. The carpet and the linoleum, and various neighboring items, are now cleaner than they were before they got splashed. Once again, I found myself chuckling deeply ("chuckling" is a funny word. In this context, it sounds very throw-uppy) at the situation.

I've got off pretty easy, though. I felt ill a couple of days ago, but it never got worse than merely feeling nauseated. That has left me free to clean up after everyone else.

Paintings, A & B

I'd love to hear comments about my category A and B paintings. Friday will be a painting day for me. One thing I need to work on is a landscape on a saw that I was commissioned to do a year ago. Money from that, or any near-future art income, absolutely must be used to ship a painting to Jim and Emily (I promised them a painting as a wedding gift, and they've been married for fifty years now.)

Riverbank at Riverside Park, in western Louisville. Category B, though it’s not too far off from category A. Again, it needed more variety in the green, as well as in the yellow dirt of the bank, and to a lesser degree in the river. There is a lot of subtlety and delicacy in both the colors and the brush strokes in the clouds—the clouds are the best part, though I doubt that shows up well on the Web. This is a wide, but short, painting, measuring about 18x36. Oil on panel. (Please give a hand to my lovely assistant, who was watching me and who asked if she could help hold it.)
I think this is an interesting category B. The lights and darks are strong, and the colors are rich and varied, in this scene from Joe Creason Park. The paint is applied in varying thicknesses, giving it some nice textures. The biggest problem is the wall of vegetation in the foreground, which screws up the composition for me. Really, it's not the composition that it messes with, it's the illusion of space--I want a landscape painting to feel as though it has some depth, inviting the viewer back into its illusory space. But the vegetation pushes one away. I think this is an unusual mistake for me. I normally have a good eye for composition and depth. There are also a few other little color choices that bother me. Interesting, but a little disappointing. I would like to see how it looks framed. (about 16x20, oil on panel)

This painting, a scene along Hwy 22, is from a year-and-a-half ago. It is my most recent real, finished painting. I put it in category A. It's kind of a weird painting because its subject matter isn't what one would call picturesque. I was drawn to the scene, however. The part that I worried would be the hardest to get right, the powerlines and poles, are the nicest parts. I think they are nicely rendered, and there is a good sense of light on the poles. (Size about 18x24, oil on panel)

"The Ohio River at Otter Creek Park"--definitely a category A, one of my strongest paintings. This is a scene I've painted several times, and I'll probably paint it again (this is the only one I've painted in the summer--the rest were in the autumn.) I showed it at the Watertower annual show a few years ago. My only regret is that I don't have a little more variety in the green. This is true for many of my paintings.

Waterfront Towers under construction. An unfortunate category B; I love the idea, and some of the drawing aspects of this are quite nice and interesting. Where it falls apart the most for me is in the areas that should have been the easiest. The red portion of the building at right never looked good, the paint application a little crummy, the color choices are questionable. Also, many of the elements on the ground ended up having a over-simplified, cartoonish feel to them because I was trying to fill them in later based on incomplete sketches and memory. Irritating, because there are some very nice things going on here, too. (about 18x26, oil on canvas)
A scene in Germantown, near Gnadinger Park. Category A. Once again, I wish I'd put in a little more variety in the green. But I like it. I like the shadows and colors on the houses, and the sense of afternoon sunlight.
A small (about 8x10) oil painting of a tree. Category A; I'm very fond of this one. The shifty asymmetry of the tree is a lot of fun; there is a strong sense of light and dark, and the colors in the grass glow.

I have two types of paintings. Some of my paintings are on the wall, and some are leaning in corners. Most of the category A paintings are on the wall, and most of the category B paintings are leaning.

Category A consists of paintings of which I’m quite fond. They may be far from flawless, but I feel that the good significantly outweighs the bad. I just think they look good, and I’m happy to show them to people. The oldest example, and still one of the best examples, is my lobster painting.

Category B consists of those that are problematic. I don’t like them very much, but there is something about them I like enough to keep. Usually I’ve struggled with them, wrestled with the paint, and finally given up. Sometimes it’s a drawing problem; sometimes it’s paint application or color; sometimes I just realize too late that I’ve made an error with the composition (this is rare, as composition is pretty basic, and I think I’ve always had a very good eye for it.)

There’s also a category C, which is paintings I started, realized they were going nowhere, and ditched. That is a much rarer occurrence than it was many years ago.

Category B is awkward. They are my children, but they never grew up. Now they hang about as wastrels, having squandered their potential, surviving through their limited charms. I can’t toss them out. I feel uncomfortable selling them. I’m a little embarrassed about them in front of company. Sometimes, though, I look at them and say, ooh, that part’s not half bad.

I will post pictures from both categories.

Paint Space

Last Friday I drove over to Carrie’s house to clean out space for my painting studio. It’s a brick garage area adjoining her house.

Kim, bless her lovely heart, gave me the studio as a Valentine’s Day gift. Even more generous of her was the time she allotted for me to go paint. Two days marked per month, as a bare minimum, and her insistence that that was, in fact, a minimum—that I paint more often than that.

She arranged with Carrie for me to go over and look around and pick out a spot to set up. She has a lot of room.

The area I cleaned was, and still is, used for firewood storage. It had lots of dust, sawdust, leaflitter, and cobwebs. I tried to get the adjoining bathroom in working order, but had problems with the pipes. The cold water now works in the sink, but I had to turn everything else off due to leaks. Carrie said she’d have a plumber check it out since she already planned to call one for other purposes in the near future.

The cleaning darn near killed me. I was sneezy and congested on Friday night, but it got much worse the next day. That is the usual pattern for me. Mow or rake or clean one day, and I sneeze and feel a little bad. The next day I’m usually miserable, then more or less back to normal the day after.

Saturday and Sunday I felt like my lungs were over-full vacuum-cleaner bags. Bags from a vacuum-cleaner that had accidentally sucked up several live cats. Speaking from the point of view of my sinuses, lungs, and nose, it was a nasty, nasty weekend.

Today, Tuesday, I am mostly better. I still feel a little rattle when I breathe, and I’m coughing a bit. My nose whistles from time to time.

Fortunately, I think my studio space is in workable shape. I can take stuff over there and paint.

Lost & Chunky (don't read this if you are eating)

ABC’s “Lost” came back last night! Man, what an episode! Or at least, I assume it was. I only saw the first fifteen minutes. At the first commercial break, we heard Erin whimpering in her bedroom. Kim said, “Would you mind checking on her? Try not to let her see you.” We try to check unobserved, of course, so that we don’t get dragged into a list of demands (“I sirsty! Warm milp!” or “Read me a book!”) by a child who would probably fall back asleep within a couple of minutes if left uninterrupted.

I quietly peeked into Erin’s bedroom. In the dim light I could see her dark round eyes staring back at me. She was crying just a little.

I entered the room. Something was wrong. She was upset, and there was…a smell.

I leaned over her, then had to turn on the light to understand the magnitude of the situation. The lower half of her face, her hands, her pillow, her comforter and blanket, her pajamas, one of her little dolls, and most especially her hair around her shoulders—all were caked in vomit. The smell was dizzying.

I steeled myself, deep pity and fatherly sympathy shoving aside the revulsion. I picked her up and carried her across the hall to the bathroom. It was horrible, but the total grossness of it made it rather funny, too. (Erin was quite unhappy, but she didn’t seem to be feeling very bad—no fever or acting weird). Man, was it disgusting. Curdled milk and corn, with a smell that seemed to be fountaining up through the atmosphere. As I tried to clean her up, angular chunks of it were falling all over, sticking to my hands. This was even funnier to me because of all the disgusting things she ever has to deal with, Kim hates throw-up the most. Like, way, way the most.

Kim and I gingerly got her undressed. Kim started the shower, and I rinsed Erin off a little. Then Kim got in the shower with her and cleaned her thoroughly as I cleaned in her bedroom.

I took her comforter and her fitted sheet outside and shook them out over the grass. Then I inspected everything and shoved the whole lot into the washing machine. Clorox wipes were used on the bathroom floor, the commode, and the sink.

When I was done, Kim had Erin dressed in her little bathrobe, and was curled up with her on the love seat. Erin was very sleepy and very cute and looking much cleaner. She went back to her bed a little while later and slept well for the rest of the night. Poor little thing. I think she’s all right, but I need to call home again in a few minutes to check on her.

More Festiva

My speedometer is dysfunctional. I don’t know which plays the biggest role, the recent cold weather or the age of my car, but it is becoming harder and harder to gauge with accuracy the speed at which I’m driving. After I drive for a while the problem is less extreme.

The speedometer continuously makes a noise like a raspy, squawky version of the opening synthesized notes of Van Halen’s cover of “Dancin’ in the Streets.” Also, as soon as I accelerate to about 35 m.p.h., the needle squeals hoarsely and rockets up to 85 or 90 m.p.h. It will stay there for a few seconds and bounce back down, the shoot back up again.

This is merely the latest. Let me try to think of some of my car’s other little quirks:

-Most or all lights in the dash don’t work. Sometimes a few come on.

-Shoulder belt no longer opens or shuts automatically. I must sit down and then pull it over my head.

-Horn only works occasionally, and sounds very sputtery and feeble when it does.

-The windshield washer fluid squirters only work some of the time. They stopped working altogether for a few years, then started again, although if the temp is below freezing they won’t work.

-The driver’s side window won’t roll up or down without lots of assistance (putting my hand on the window and rocking it back and forth while jerking the handle) if the temperature is below 50 degrees.

Festiva Rodeo - How I Get My Thrills

When I walked out the door to go to work this morning, there was snow on the ground. Less than an inch, but enough to cover everything—cars, grass, and pavement—in a fairly smooth layer of white.

Our driveway is a hill leading up to the house. My seventeen-year-old Festiva was at the top, and our newer Saturn parked behind. This is a frequent and annoying situation, since I am always running late for work. I have to either back the Saturn out, then back out the Festiva, then pull that Saturn back in, then get back in the Festiva; or I have to just back the Saturn up a little and then maneuver the Festiva over the grass, which is bad for the lawn, especially if the ground is wet. And the car juggling is even more annoying when I have to scrape frost off the windows of both cars.

I put my lunch in my Festiva and then backed the Saturn down the slick driveway and onto the street. Then I sat in Festiva again, started it, and put it in reverse. I didn’t give it any gas, I just took my foot off the brake—and the car didn’t move at all. I realized I had forgotten to move the concrete block from beneath the front left wheel (did I mention that my car has no emergency brake?). So I killed the engine and got out to kick it out of the way.

I half-closed the door and kicked the concrete block. The car started to roll backwards down the hill. I had accidentally left it in reverse instead of park.

I always turn the wheel when I park in the drive, just in case the car does in fact start to roll by itself. I’d rather have the car roll over the lawn (and possibly into our tree or our mailbox) than for it to roll straight backwards into the other car, or across the street and into the neighbor’s house. Therefore, my car was rolling at an angle into my lawn.

The car started moving the second I kicked the block, so I yanked the door wide again with the intention of finding a surface against which to push to hold the car in place. However, in the fraction of a second it took for me to open the door and reach for the doorframe, the car was rolling too fast for me to have any hope of stopping it that way. Worse still, the ground was icy and my work shoes have no traction.

So I found myself caught behind the open door of a car that was rolling driverless down an icy slope. I sensed mortal peril as I tried to regain control of the situation. I grabbed the near edge of the steering wheel with my right hand and threw my right leg into the car as I hopped backward with my left, trying to keep pace with the car. For an instant my goal was not to stop the car, but simply to get inside it, since if I were inside it, it would not run me over.

I’m not sure how I did it, but I think I used my right arm to yank myself most of the way onto the driver’s seat—I must have pulled hard, because my arm hurt afterward. It was dark, so I couldn’t see, so I started stomping blindly where I hoped the brake was as I hung on to keep centrifugal force from throwing me out.

Luckily, I hit the brake, and was able to raise my left leg in time to block the door from swinging shut on my arm or ankle. I had skidded to a stop in the middle of the lawn and had not run over the mailbox or hit the tree. I briefly glanced down and moved my extremities to make sure I hadn’t hurt myself without realizing it.

It was dark and snowy and 6:30 a.m., but somehow the neighbor from two doors up had managed to witness this little event. He was walking toward me as I exited the car.

“Are you O.K.?” he called out.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. I—uh—accidentally left the car in reverse when I got out to brush off some snow. I’m O.K…thanks.”

I stopped trembling after a minute, pulled the Saturn into the driveway, drove the Festiva off the lawn and came on in to work.