I came home the other night with a blonde - a tucson blonde tarantula (what were you thinking I meant?) What a wonderful addition to our little family. Come to think about it, why do so many men use hair color as a primary way of describing women? It's kind of demeaning, isn't it? Besides, you can change your hair color, thus making the description obsolete. Although I have to admit I've never heard somebody described as a "blue" or a "green-with-black-roots". It's always "blonde" or "brunette". Maybe, to make a point, we should start describing men by some meaningless physical characteristic, like eye color or height. ...and you can't say, "he has blue eyes". You have to say, "he's a blue", as if that's the most important aspect of him. That's what we're all about here. Let's rub people's mindless habits in their faces.

The other day, half in jest, I suggested to Jen an alternate usage of that ridiculous phrase that used to usher people into married life. I bet nobody has ever started a marriage with the words, "I now pronounce you woman and husband". It would make a point, wouldn't it?

We've come a long way in certain respects, but we still have a long way to go. Language is important. Think before you speak.

Currently listening to: In the Nursery "Anatomy of a Poet"

Rejected activity idea for "spiders" workshop (for 4 to 6 year olds) at Children's Discovery Museum:

Purpose of activity: to illustrate how spiders eat.
Materials: Juice boxes w/straws, markers/paint, construction paper, glue

Take juice boxes and, using markers/paint, decorate them to look like the insect of your choice. You can use construction paper to cut out legs which can then be glued to the sides of the juice box. When finished, jam a straw into your insect's head and suck out all of it's juice, just like a spider would (okay, spiders don't use straws, but they're more adept at this kind of thing).

Hey, I thought it was cool.

Later, I was playing drums with a couple of one year olds. The little blonde kid had the biggest grin on his face as he banged on the drums and rattled the rattles. I had a sudden flash that it was at this very table that I first met Jen and the boys - playing music with them. In retrospect, it turned out to be a wonderful, life-changing moment. It's kind of funny how those can happen and you don't even realize it at the time. I used to wonder, during the times I was single, if I had already met the next woman I would end up falling in love with. And here I am, from my vantage point in the present, realizing that I had already met her, and that it happened in a smallish room, upstairs at the museum. Fate.

cds I listened to while trying to think up activities that won't gross people out: Cowboy Junkies "Black Eyed Man", Bird Grabowiecki Czerwinec "Deepbreathing", Rasputina "My Fever Broke", In Memory of...Celtic Frost, Cirith Ungol "King of the Dead", Shock Headed Peters "Tendercide"

currently enjoying the repetitive strains of: Michael Nyman "After Extra Time"

Occasionally, as I hurtle through the night, I see people sitting in their darkened cars parked along the side of the road. I often wonder why somebody would be sitting behind the wheel of a parked car at, say, 3 in the morning. These people, from the momentary glimpses I get, are usually just staring straight ahead, like they've forgotten something important and are trying very hard to remember what that something is. My theory is that they left work at the usual time - perhaps 5 pm - and got stuck in the commute for a couple of mind-numbing hours listening to corporate radio. The D.J. or talk-show host barely drowns out the receding echoes of the boss' voice - a voice that assaults their ears with unreasonable demands 40 or 50 hours a week. The voice that controls their lives. By the time these hapless commuters arrive home, the last echoes of the commanding voice have gone, leaving them with a void of confusion. This void may once have contained something like initiative or personality. Now it is just emptiness. They forget what to do next. There is no voice shouting at them to, "GET THE HELL OUT OF THAT CAR AND GO INSIDE AND EAT DINNER AND GO TO SLEEP SO YOU CAN GET BACK TO WORK BRIGHT AND EARLY THERE ARE PROJECTS THAT NEED YOUR ATTENTION DAMMIT WHY DIDN'T I HIRE SOMEBODY COMPETENT?" So they sit in their cars, like switched off appliances.

Of course, maybe they've just forgotten how to work the door handles. Handles can be complicated. This makes me wonder about the guy I saw once lying in the street with his pants around his ankles. Maybe he had forgotten how to use his pants. We are becoming a forgetful society. I think it all started around the time we created written language. Since we have the ability to write things down, we no longer have to memorize things. Computers are just the next step in the atrophy of our brains. Since they store so much information, and do so many different things, we're off the hook. We can sit back and relax. I already know people who refer to their palm pilots as their "brains" Pretty soon we'll all be like the man in the street with the complicated pants. We'll forget how to dress ourselves. Look at people who spend a lot of time around computers. It's already begun.

Cds I listened to while thinking up snotty things to say about people: Cowboy Junkies live at the Mountain Winery, June 9, 2000, The Fixtures "Dangerous Music Defect", and Changelings "Astronomica"

now: Tears of Stone soundtrack, and crickets (fewer than last night)

I had one of those nights where things left undone started clamoring for attention inside my skull. The wedding is fast approaching, of course, and there's those videotapes/cassettes/photos I've promised to send to various people. I'm feeling cluttered. As usual, I'll make a list of "things to do" and maybe even do one or two of them. Tomorrow, we're sitting down and drawing up a wedding plan for the Sanborn Park people so that we don't lose our spot. I still need to draw the final version of the picture for the invitations, and do all sorts of other things as well. Like Dar Williams says: "It's just that time of year when we push ourselves ahead". I'll try to keep that in find over the next couple of months. I
Lexy starts kindergarten in a few hours. He seems excited. He should be home shortly after I wake up, so I'll find out how things went while eating breakfast.

I heard frogs singing nearby in the creek after I turned off my car this morning. It's a good way to end the night.

I'm not stopping until I've listened to them all: Celtic Frost "Vanity/Nemesis", Cowboy Junkies "Waltz Across America", Shock Headed Peters "Fear Engine II", and Mecca Normal "The Family Swan"

Currently listening to: Howard Shore "Crash" soundtrack (too risky to listen to while driving)

We had no less than three mail trucks on our block today. It must have been some sort of mailman relay race or something, because we got mail for three different addresses. I wonder how many different people got our mail? They should remember that life is a journey, not a race, and that getting to the finish line first is not necessarily a good thing. This anarchy amongst our mail carriers will be short lived, hopefully.
Looking north as I left for work, I saw Venus. The atmosphere's nocturnal moisture made her soft around the edges, like a meditating firefly off in the mist. Later, while driving around in Sunnyvale, I saw that the moon was displeased. Or so it seemed. The condensation trail from a high-flying jet crossed underneath the moon, which caused it to stand out in stark relief, like a peevishly canted mouth. It was a strange sight.

These are the kinds of things I notice.

Speaking of work, most of my co-workers know what I mean when I say, "waiting for the stop sign to turn green". I haven't had this problem lately, but in the past there were nights when I was either tired or distracted enough that I would roll to a halt at a stop sign and sit there for minutes, until I realized that it was not a stop light, and wasn't going to change colors on me. At least one person I know has fallen completely asleep at a stop sign, only to be awakened by a cop.

Cds I listened to while not stopping at stop signs: Goblin "The Fantastic Journey of Goblin", Agnes Buen Garnas/Knut Buen "Stev og Slatt", Agolloch "The Mantle", Islandica "Songs & Dances from Iceland", and Celtic Frost "Parched with Thirst am I, and Dying"

Now: Osso Exotico "Musica #1" and the crickets the frog hasn't eaten yet.

Sophie, with her little plush frog, had discovered the delights of the metal water-main covers set flush with the sidewalk outside the book store. She walked from one to the other, and then back again, pausing only to do a mysterious little dance. This activity was repeated several times, and would have been repeated many more, but she saw the old dog tied to a light post. We introduced ourselves to the old dog, much to the delight of all concerned, except perhaps the plush frog, who came perilously close to being sampled.
Jen came out of the store with books, and with a little gnome inside her left ear, who had decided to practice his cruel arts on her eardrum. Perhaps hot pokers are being used. She is still in a bad way, and I can't do anything about it. She couldn't get any painkillers from the clinic, and the gnome refuses to budge. I hate seeing her in pain like this.

The night air had that smoky, autumn smell earlier. The moon is past full, and peeked at me between condos. I know this is only a sneak preview of autumn to come, but already I can't wait. I love when the wind blows and the leaves come down in torrents to cover the streets at night. It gives the city an abandoned look, like everybody packed up and left. Ghost city. I've always taken great pleasure in seeing the wild creep in and blur the ordered lines of our cities. Let the leaves fall. Let the weeds heave up and crack the sidewalks. Let the creeks spill over into the streets. Let the spiders soften the corners of our dwellings with dwellings of their own. Let's sow seeds in the barren wastelands we have created. Some of the most fertile soil in the world lies dormant beneath our cities. Let's peel off the scabs of concrete and asphalt.

Cds I listened to while enjoying the cool, smoky night air: Feederz "Ever Feel Like Killing Your Boss?", Cowboy Junkies "Pale Sun, Crescent Moon" (went well with the mood described above, as well as being significant for other reasons today), Simon Boswell & Stefano Mainetti "Deliria" soundtrack, Shock Headed Peters "Not Born Beautiful" (Karl really is a genius), and Kari "Pilot"

Currently listening to: Sky Cries Mary "Moonbathing on Sleeping Leaves"

For what it's worth, I'm Fozzy, and a nerd. Just like Jen. How's that for cryptic? It's less cryptic if you go to poopystoop. There's a cricket chirping inside the house somewhere, which means I don't have to go to the pet store for more yet. Sophie is trying to bash the baby monitor, and is steadfastly refusing to sleep. Nathan is asleep in the other room. Lexy is asleep in the big bed, and probably drooling on my pillow. Jen is sitting in the chair next to me, trying to convince Sophie that it is way past her bedtime. Sophie's response is "A bah!!!" We have movies to watch later, if Sophie will let us.

last listened to: Sackville "These Last Songs" Currently listening to Sophie make dissatisfied noises on the floor behind me, and Lexy softly snoring.

Tonight the full moon hangs over the eastern hills like a distant sentinel, or like the enormous flashlight of a kid who has turned over an immense rock to look at the ants scurrying purposefully around underneath. The ants in this image are cars. The time is 8:45 pm, and I number myself amongst the ants. I look at my fellow ants with suspicion. Where are they all going? Does the guy merging to my right see me? How many of these people would I get along with if I got to know them? How many of them are evil? Every once in awhile, when a car passes, I shiver. This has happened for years, and I can't explain it. Maybe I'm picking up some sort of negative energy from the drivers. I'll never know for sure. I don't know the stories behind these people. I try to always remember that they are people, and not just a collection of potentially lethal objects hurtling through the moonlight around me. Automobiles can be dehumanizing and alienating. They shut us off from the world. The proverbial flowers on our journeys don't get smelled. Maybe this is why there is road rage. Maybe this is why I see other drivers do increasingly outrageous things as the years pass. We saw a guy take a left turn out of a parking lot the other day, and drive about half a block on the wrong side of the road, just because he didn't want to wait for traffic to clear enough for him to reach the correct side of the road. What an arrogant little man!
My car does get me to work though. It also gets me through work, and back home again. I've driven roughly 170,000 miles in it since I bought it in 1997, and I worry that some day soon it will expire. I'm not sure it will even make it to my last car payment. We'll see. Tonight I ponder these things.
I also think about Sophie, and how she cries when I leave for work. It makes me want to work at home. ...and then I wouldn't really need a car.

cds I listened to while avoiding the other cars: Fabio Frizzi "Zombi 2/Un Gatto Nel Cervello" soundtracks, Stefano Mainetti "Zombi 3" soundtrack, Discharge "Hear Nothing, See Nothing, Say Nothing", Cowboy Junkies "The Caution Horses", Shock Headed Peters "Several Headed Enemy", and Buffy Sainte-Marie "Coincidence and Likely Stories"

currently enjoying the mind expanding sounds of Nurse With Wound "Soliloquy for Lilith"

We went up to Sanborn park today to count picnic tables. There were nineteen. Also, it may be of interest to some of you that they are eight feet long and about two and a quarter feet wide. We wanted to be sure there would be enough tables to hold our wedding cake. If we push them all together, there just might be. There are also outlets for musicians to plug things into. Next, we went up to the Peterson memorial grove, which is a ring of redwoods surrounding a raised, wooden platform. There we pondered the immensity of the trees, and the immensity of getting everything done in time for our wedding at the end of October. I found a large feather on the wooden ramp leading onto the platform, and decided that it must have belonged to a peahen. This seemed reasonable, because a peahen had been seen lurking in the vicinity. Nathan, unable to resist, immediately dubbed it a "poohen." The poop jokes just never stop.
I've been doodling away trying to come up with a decent wedding invitation drawing of a pair of trees sharing a root system - independent but joined and drawing strength from a common source. I've recently become fascinated by the artist Andy Goldsworthy (after seeing the documentary, Rivers and Tides) and keep wanting to work drawings of rocky spirals or little cairns of leaves and rocks into the picture. Who knows what the finished product will look like? As usual, the more important the outcome is to me, the harder a time I have doing the work. I've got to relax and pretend there's no pressure. Pressure is the enemy. The trick is to pretend that the outcome is unimportant, and just have fun doing it. This has been a successful stategy for me in the past. We should try to apply this to the overall planning of the event as well. What will be, will be, and after it's all said and done, we'll be happily married.

Written to the tune of: In Gowan Ring "The Twin Trees"

Earlier: Buffy Sainte-Marie "Many a Mile" and "Up Where we Belong", Cowboy Junkies "Whites Off Earth Now!!" and "Rarities, B-sides, and Slow Sad Waltzes"

The wind has swept all of the crap out of the air and under a carpet somewhere. It's been cooler too.

I saw a barn owl sitting on a fence a couple of nights ago, waiting for a rat or some other small critter to show itself. I was too big, so it let me drive by unmolested. I got to thinking about how this stationary bird and I were doing exactly the same thing, and it was doing it with considerably less effort. We were both working for our basic needs. For the owl, that meant rats, or mice, or small rabbits. For me, that meant a paycheck, which could be traded in for money and taken to the grocery store where I would hand it over in return for "food" consisting of additives, preservatives, artificial colors, and packaging.
The owl has the simpler job. Stand on fence. If something moves, swoop down, grasp it in talons, and fly somewhere high up to eat it. My job consists of about 25 to 30 hours a week of delivering two different newspapers all over Sunnyvale, and another 12 or so hours a week working in a children's museum. Of course, I also have to have a clock so I know when to be at these jobs. Sometimes I think the clock is in charge. The owl doesn't need a clock to tell him when to go stand on the fence. The rats don't need little watches to tell them when to make ill-advised dashes across the road. Why do I, who am supposed to be so much more enlightened, have to answer to a little clutter of gears and springs? Why can't life be more simple? Our time saving devices aren't working. They only free up time to do other things that need to be done just as badly. We have very little free time, if any. (Ok, I obviously have a little free time - I'm writing this, aren't I?)
While I'm at it, let me mention that I hate being dependent on things I don't know how to fix. I couldn't fix this computer should the need arise. I can't fix my car beyond the most simple problems. I definitely couldn't make the majority of the things I use on a daily basis. I couldn't make a cd, for example, but I spend most of my extra money buying new ones. I think it's the music that makes life slide along more agreeably. It's a balm for the spirit, healing it while the necessities of living in this society we've created work to erode it. Music helps me maintain some sort of balance. Owls don't need music. They're already balanced.
There's a story about an anthropologist (Margaret Mead, maybe?) who goes to live with a primitive tribe. Members of the tribe are amazed at the sight of a drinking glass the anthropologist is using, so they ask her to show them how to make one. She hems and haws and mumbles something about melting down sand, and finally states that she doesn't know how. The tribe members come to the conclusion that she must have come to live with them because her own tribe, realizing she was a complete idiot, would have nothing further to do with her. Owls know everything they need to know. People in primitive tribes know everything they need to know. We, with all of our "advances" and "conveniences" don't know a fraction of the things we need to know... and it bothers me. We can no longer live simply, without dropping out of society. The problem is, society has its claws in us, and is going to take us up high, bite off our little heads, swallow us, and cough up the hair and bone. So much for the rat race.

In other news, there was a praying mantis in the garden at the museum today. It was eating bees. Sometimes it pays not to be busy.

cds listened to while pondering owls: Celtic Frost "Into the Pandemonium", Agnes Buen Garnas/Jan Garbarek "Rosensfole", Karl Blake "Paper-thin Religion", Ain Soph "Oktober", and Evil Twin "The Black Spot"

written to the tune of: Cowboy Junkies "The Trinity Session"

Have you ever tried the experiment where you drip water onto a coin one drop at a time? The surface tension allows the coin to hold a surprising amount of water. I was reminded of this while camping this weekend. It looked like some poor, impoverished soul had tried this experiment in the public restroom. I knew they must have been poor indeed to not even have a penny to try it on. Why they used toilet seats, I'm not sure. Why they used pee instead of water, I'm also uncertain. Why they had to repeat the experiment again and again is debatable.
And then there was the all american camper. He used the word "frikkin'" like punctuation. He proudly showed me his "only you can prevent forest fires" baseball cap. Fifteen minutes after he packed his gear into his truck and departed, we wondered why there was so much smoke in the air. I prevent a forest fire by going over to his abandoned campsite and pouring copious amounts of water onto his campfire.
There is a dawn chorus down in Big Sur, sung by the local birds. Unfortunately, the local birds seem to fall into two categories: jays and crows. I think most of the singers are crows, whose job it is to distract campers from the fact that the jays are busy eating whatever food has been left out. In our case, it was a can of Pringles (called "fringles" by Lexy) and a canteloupe, which is later found to have a couple of bird sized holes in it. The second night, I left the remains of the canteloupe outside just to see what would be left in the morning. The canteloupe was missing when I finally got around to seeing if it was still in place, only to be found later, halfway up the hill behind the site.
This little trip is also the first time I've gone to sleep with Jen and the kids, and awakened at the same time as them. Our schedules are usually quite literally night and day. Sophie is so charming in the morning. She spouts endless gobbledygook, points at random items of interest around the inside of the tent, kisses me on the chin, and smiles contentedly the whole time. I guess I'm going to have to get a day job to enjoy this more often.
Of course, no camping trip is complete without cowboy coffee, boiled over a campfire and strained, for the most part, through one's teeth.

written to the tune of: Angelo Badalamenti "Comfort of Strangers" soundtrack

earlier: Cop Shoot Cop "Ask Questions Later", and Dirt "Black and White"

I work at a children's museum when I'm not delivering newspapers. Today, I was playing the Thai Elephant Orchestra cd in the Early Childhood Center at the museum, much to the interest of the visitors. I told a three year old boy with a painted face that the music on the cd wasn't made by humans, and asked him if he could guess who the musicians were. He was still thinking when his mother chimed in. "Children?" I looked up at her and pointed out the obvious. "Kids are people too." I could have been a bit more severe in my response, but if I actually said everything that came to mind, I wouldn't be employed long. Of course, the woman backpeddled and said something stupid like, "yeah, little people." No shit.
Most children look up to their parents as virtual gods. Parents have an answer for everything, and can fix anything (of course, we know that that attitude doesn't last forever...) It's a real shame that some of these same parents don't even see their children as human. What are they then? Complicated toys? Inconveniences? Status symbols? No wonder so many people grow up to be such basket cases. How can you act like a human being if you are given signals that you are somehow less?

cds I listened to later, while still shaking my head in disgust: Johan Hedin "Angel Archipelago", Cowboy Junkies "Radio One Sessions", Cop Shoot Cop "White Noise", Jan Garbarek Group "Twelve Moons", and Celtic Frost "To Mega Therion"

campingcampingcamping

The man who didn't know how to leave.

He had a nice car, and seemed mighty concerned with keeping it that way. You could almost see the gears turning in his head as he approached a speed bump.

"What should the angle of impact be? Can I go around it? Okay, I can't go around it, so I'll hit it at a 45 degree angle doing approximately 2mph. There, one more obstacle surmounted. Oh damn, here comes another one. Careful now. Okay, cleared it. Uh, oh, a gate. Now I know I had to pass through a gate on the way in, but I had help. Maybe it will open on its own. I hear they sometimes do that... No... it's not opening. Oh shit, there's a guy behind me. He's probably getting impatient. Maybe he knows how to get out. I'll ask"
"Hey, how do I get out? Oh, I have to get closer? But which way does the gate open? If I get closer won't it swing open and dent my car? Ihaveanicecaryouknow."

cds I listened to while stuck behind the slow guy: Stone Angel "East of the Sun", Arco "Ending Up", Cannibal Ferox/Zombie soundtrack, Cop Shoot Cop "Consumer Revolt", Meathead/Cop Shoot Cop "Dick Smoker Plus", Rainywood "s/t"

Oh yeah, the little man who's stuck in my windshield wiper got hit by a bug, staining his robes green. Now he's even angrier. We're going camping this weekend. It's about time.

It's been disgustingly hazy around the San Francisco bay area for the last few days. It looks like somebody took a giant pencil eraser and started rubbing it across the skyline. The hills have a ghostlike, indistinct look to them, causing them to blend with the whitish sky. We're breathing this in, and while it causes the skyline to look whitish, I'm sure it's causing our lungs to look blackish. Or maybe it's causing our insides to look lumpish. Or our plants to look brownish.
We're thinking about moving someday to a place where the horizon remains distinct, all year round, except when it rains. After the rain is about the only time it looks nice around here, but that's only because the rain washes all the crap out of the air and into our reservoirs, our soil, and our pools. We need some basic cleanliness around here. Not a bunch of corporations all pointing fingers and screaming, "it's not my fault," or, "you MADE me do it!!" Save the blame. We're not interested. Just clean up your mess. We expect this from our kids, not our companies. How naive we are.

I finally figured out what I want inscribed on my wedding ring.

to the tune of: English Folk Collection. I'll bet you all think I'm an old folkie by now.

I pass by this truck every night. It looks like it's on steroids, the way it bulges. A toddler could walk right under it without ducking. Another reason it stands out is that the selfish bastard who owns it always parks it diagonally across two spaces - probably because he spends hours waxing it after the game on the weekends. It's an even bet that he never hauls anything in it for the same reason. Don't want to scuff it up, do we? This got me to thinking about a news story I read awhile back - I remember it mostly because of the silly P.C. language (yes, political correctness does have a time and a place, but sometimes it does go too far...). The story was about an airline (I forget which one) that decided it wanted to charge (remember, corporations exist only to make money) "persons of size" double because they take up more space than people "not of size." What size are they referring to here? LARGE SIZE? small size? Medium size? Excersize? Extra size? Maybe they should have said "persons of diameter." No, that sounds too big. How about "persons of radius"? That's better. Or maybe "persons of questionable circumference". The point is that when you make it obvious that you're avoiding certain words in order not to offend somebody, it ends up sounding condescending, nay, downright insulting. This, of course, is exactly the opposite of the intended effect.
That said, let me talk about trucks of size for a moment. The reason this truck I pass every night, made me think of the article was this: Wouldn't it be funny if parking garages started charging double for these behemoths? They should. If your vehicle needs more than one space, you should have to pay for more than one space. Of course, your vehicle also uses more than its fair share of gas, and has about as much aesthetic charm as dog poop. Are you so small inside that you feel the only way people will ever look up to you is if your driver's seat is ten feet off the ground?
Okay, I feel better now. This is much safer than vandalizing the damn thing anyway. The guy probably has calluses on his knuckles where they drag along the ground when he walks. It would hurt to get hit by a guy who has calluses on his knuckles.

cds I listened to while sneering at trucks of size: Celtic Frost "Morbid Tales", CMX "Musiikin Ystavalliset Kasvot" and "Rautakantele", Karl Blake "The Prehensile Tales"

cd I'm listening to while writing about sneering at trucks of size: Miroslav Vitous/Jan Garbarek "Atmos"

oh yes, while I'm on the subject of news stories, I actually heard a news announcer on a local talk station use the phrase "fatally killed." Is there some other kind of "killed" I don't know about?

It's been awhile since I let the cat out of the bag, but the story needs to be told. I hadn't started the evening with the intention of doing any such thing, but sometimes fate intervenes. I was driving along in the middle of the night, delivering newspapers, when all of a sudden I saw a most mysterious thing. It was smallish, but had a passing resemblence to an alien I had once seen in one of those old 50's science fiction movies. That particular alien had a gorilla's body and a white, space helmeted head (was it called "The Robot Monster"?). The alien standing in the driveway to my right didn't have the body of a gorilla, but that of a cat. The large, white head, I noticed as I jumped from my car and approached, was a plastic bag. I tiptoed closer, and with a deft yank, pulled the bag off. The cat, disheveled and disoriented, stood there for a moment as if uncertain what had happened, and then bounded off. I was left holding the damp bag - moist with the condensed breath of the now departed feline. This is why I cut up hazardous trash, and this is why people should spay/neuter their animals. Feral cats can't always expect people to be there to let them out of bags.
Speaking of suffocation, it seems that Silicon Valley is being suffocated one building at a time by the teetering economy. I imagine a huge, shadowy figure, sliding between buildings in the middle of the night, and almost randomly slipping large, plastic bags over them. The dead buildings are found the next day, with sad little grave markers out front. The epitaphs say things like "for lease" and "space available", and even more pathetically, "your company name here". There is sometimes evidence of rot. The guts of lost buildings fill the alleyways - broken swivel chairs, gaping desks, unidentifiable piles of electronic equipment, paper now twice removed from life, and more. The parasites who inhabited these buildings fled at the first sign of morbidity, some willingly, and some otherwise. I can't shed tears for the corporations. Corporations are anathema to morality. They become entities unto themselves. Sure, they are run by people, but the people are expendable. The CEOs aren't exempt from this revolving door either. Have you ever noticed that when a CEO has an attack of morality or conscience that it is usually followed by a resignation? Ah, well, maybe we should just rip down the remains and bring back the fields and forests. First we have to stop these poor, fool developers from building new office complexes. I watch them spring up like magic, seeming to grow night after night. There are several finished buildings on my route that have never had tenants. They stand silent and hopeful, with their little signs beckoning prospective tenants to step inside and stay awhile. Stillborn buildings. Bury them. Plant trees.

cds I listened to while laughing at all of the empty buildings: Controlled Bleeding "Songs from the Ashes", and "Golgotha", Cathedral "Forest of Equilibrium", John Renbourn's Ship of Fools, and J.M.K.E. "Gringode Kultuur"

currently listening to: Voices - English traditional songs

You know you really love somebody if you're willing to pick their nose for them. So there Sophie was, hosing down the front lawn. It was hot outside, and the rosemary along the parking strip that we'd planted earlier in the summer looked small and weak and in need of a drink. Likewise the small, brownish lavender plant under the mailbox. Anyway, like I was saying, she was hosing down the yard, and doing such a good job of it that the lawn was beginning to resemble some sort of bog. I looked over at her and all of a sudden I noticed it, hanging from her left nostril. It looked like a small slug about to make a break for freedom. I knew it to be otherwise, so I leaned over and gave it a tentative tug. I didn't apply enough force, and she jerked her head away, not wanting me to interrupt the important process of yard maintainence. Somebody more fainthearted than I might have given up at this point, but that snotty little glob had irritated me, so I swiped at it again. It hung on for a moment longer, like a last hope, then disappeared downwards into the wet, green oblivion of the lawn. Will it act as fertilizer? I guess that's relatively unimportant. The main thing is to maintain one's nostrils, and those of our loved ones. No task is too gross when you really care about someone.

written to the tune of "The Best of British Folk" two cds of jigs, ballads, grim drinking songs (poor John Barleycorn - sliced and crushed and *gasp* consumed!), and murder, of course. You can't have british folk without murder, incest, treachery, dying miners (Disney won't make movies about them), drowning, hauntings, and horrific vengeance (sometimes all in one song). And you think contemporary music is vile!

I got pulled over while doing my delivery job earlier tonight. The cop told me I hadn't stopped for a stop sign (I hadn't even slowed down) and had made an illegal u-turn. She didn't mention speeding. I'd been doing that too. Once I told her what I was doing, she said, "that makes sense," and let me go. No ticket. I like my job.
I had been listening to Comus, who make me drive too fast. Certain types of music aren't conducive to the obedience of laws. Comus is definitely on this list. I like Comus.
Earlier in the evening, I ran into (almost literally) an old roomate at a vile, security-gated dot-commie apartment complex I deliver to. The last time I'd seen this person he'd been a man. Now she's well on her way towards being a woman. She was in the process of moving out, and in the process of growing breasts. We talked about the economy for awhile.

cds listened to tonight: Vasen "spirit", Shirley Collins "Adieu to Old England", Wien Modern II "Hommage a Andrei Tarkovsky", and Contrastate "I" oh yes, and Comus "First Utterance"