Goose

For me, the museum was always a minor key, but for D, it was the wish of his ten year old little boy self, as well as the distinguished historian. It proved to be a very large room full of aircraft, about what I expected, but not quite the experience D imagined. He loved Dogfights, for the interviews with pilots, in contrast to the purple prose of the narrators. I watched along with him, usually while writing for this space. The vets were captivating in their laconic delivery of life and death stories, both of us enjoyed this aspect.

At the museum, I got to a point pretty quickly where I thought, "wow. another plane." Granted, we missed the tour times, and that might have helped. Blame the weather, there. But the maritime museum in Astoria enchanted both of us.

As for the Spruce Goose, my uncle Walt told me about it when I was very small. I read about it's being at the museum on Roadside America, and how visitors would walk through, and ask where it was. Museum staff would point up. It is so large, it is nearly invisible. Took both of us longer than it should have to see it. A grey background, more than an entity. An elephant in the room, too big to actually see. Like having a 4' inflatable emperor penguin (named George) in one's living room, it doesn't quite register, being out of place, off the scale. Yes, there are beach balls, in the wings, to keep the wings afloat, if necessary. Yes, it's made of wood. Somehow, it's not as big as I imagined, but that might be because the building is so large. Same with the Titan rocket, nothing to compare it to, so it just exists outside of normal space.

Long day at work. Figures.

Spitfire

Another guest post, from D. I'm so excited to rate a guest writer!



Motto: "The Hornet Attacks When Roused" This was attached to a De Havilland Vampire, the second operational British jet fighter. The Vampire was featured in Frederick Forsyth's aeronautical ghost story The Shepherd.


Corsair. Much larger than I thought it would be. Apparently much more difficult to land on an aircraft carrier than usual.


Mustang. (Couldn't get around it to get a decent photo.) The Mustang was originally designed early in the war for the RAF. The original version made a good ground attack plane, but the engine performed badly at altitude. At the suggestion of the RAF, North American gave the Spitfire the same Rolls Royce Merlin engine as used in the Supermarine Spitfire. They made continuous improvements throughout the war, finally ending with this plane, the P-51D, which many consider the best fighter plane ever made (adjusted for inflation).


Spitfire. Another legendary plane, and justly famous for its role in the Battle of Britain, although Hawker Hurricanes actually shot down more German bombers.

Herman Goering, when once asked what he would need to win the air war over England, replied "A squadron of Spitfires." Loser.

Evergreen

Evergreen Air and Space Museum. With D writing commentary.


DC3. "Probably the most important aircraft of WWII."


Sopwith Camel. "Sans Beagle. Surprisingly small."


Messerschmitt Me262. "The first operational jet fighter. Some people believe that if the war had gone on for another year, Germany's ability to produce jet aircraft would have changed the tide of the war. These people are wrong."


MiG-17. "Hugely successful Russian fighter from Korea up to Vietnam era."



Did you spot the Spruce Goose? Took us a moment, it's almost too big to see.

Booking

Reading over on failbook, saw a status asking a lot of questions that I'm sure spammers would love the real answers to. Part of why I deleted my fecesbook account long ago, never used it while I had it, and will never get on another "social networking" commercial site ever again. Too many unappealing interests, all want one's data, and more to the point, money. So, I decided to answer them here.


My middle name. Danger.
My age. One thousand years old.
My favorite drink. Tiny but increasing doses of a rare poison, just in case.
My birthday. Long long ago, far, far away.
Love of my life. Dark chocolate bunnies.
Best friend. Excuse me?
Favorite color. Black purple.
Eye color. One green violet, one sky blue pink.
Hair color. Depends on the dye. Or the scalp tattoo.
Favorite food. Either baby penguin hash, or ancient sardine casserole.
Mom's name. Mary. Or Amelia. Possibly neither. Joan, Elizabeth, Grace? How about Alice, do you like the name Alice?

Glint

Smile and wave.

Rare

The entrance to Depoe Bay is tiny. I've seen wider streets. So getting a boat through would have to be something done very well indeed. No boats were going out while we were watching, so it is presumably fairly rare this time of year.




These books tend to be rare, but not exclusively, according to the sign.




This was very well done. Possibly a bit over done.

Tidal

Along the seawall in Depoe Bay.

These three are out our window.





High tide.

We got to Portland, were not able to meet up with N. Lunch was mediocre, and I wasn't hungry, feeling ill and swollen. Took the slow way to the coast. Food had no appeal for me those three days, nor did driving. The town more touristy and built up than I'd imagined.

However, the hotel room proved more warm and lovely than the Inn's site showed, a first in my experience. We sat and watched the waves. Made tea. Could not settle, so we walked out in the cold wind, plumes of spray spouted over the seawall. That was amazing, although we made sure to stay dry, being old and not wanting to be that cold.

Heard the first harbingers of a HUGE SNOWSTORM! for Oregon. By morning, the hysteria is high, we are not sure at all we will be able to get home on Thursday, and we watch the weather. A few inches, traces, conflicting messages. It all seems overblown to us, except for two things, winding roads through hills that are not well plowed or gritted, with a tendency to form black ice, and drivers who are unused to these conditions going too fast and following too close. The state road alerts are requiring drivers to carry chains on the roads we will be traveling. The Inn folks assure us that if we can't get through, they will put us up another night, and since they do offer a winter discount of three nights for the price of two, the extra day would be free. We call the airline to find out what will happen if we can't get through. We begin to regret going unplugged, un-laptopped, this trip. After a few minutes of panic, we decide to just take it as it comes, and at least enjoy the day.

Squalls of rain, gouts of bright gold sun, tides, waves, crows, gulls, a heron, we snuggled and watched water move. Out in dense rain along a narrow state park drive to see Otter Rock and the Devil's Cauldron, we regain our delight. And lose the tail-gaters, for a while, among the trees. Pathetic excuse for bbq, still not hungry, we return to our picture window and solve a few more crossword puzzles. A spate of pellet snow rattles the windows.

Gut rumbling all night and into morning, as reports of bad road conditions spatter the local/regional news and weather channel. I am afraid, dreading the drive, wanting to get moving, but knowing that just waiting for the temperatures to warm and the road crews to work will greatly improve our odds. About 0930, we make a break for it. Hit waves of snow, but these drivers are taking it slowly, and we make it to the tire shop and get chains. Informed that if they are required (they were) there is a $300 ticket not to have them, so we had chains, in case. Stopped for breakfast, I could not put food near my mouth, but D needed food, and I needed him. By the time we were finishing up, the waitress told us one of their delivery drivers came down the road we would be going up, and it was mostly clear.

Ultimately, we did not need the chains, but there were a few miles of turning, steep, snow packed roads that would not have been nearly so bad but for SUV driving idiots who don't understand inertia and following distance. Tense and worried, I kept the car on the road, got us through. Not as bad as the hours of horrible roads coming back from Lava Hot Springs. We did make it to the Evergreen Air & Space Museum. D delighted, although neither of us as impressed as we'd hoped. More on that later.

Found our way to see our friend, N, give him a book, and leave the chains for his mom as a fortuitous gift. He seemed very subdued, but we got him laughing before we left - so that's alright then. Ate at the airport, which is not the terrible choice it sounds like. Had a lovely Rogue Irish Lager, and the first appealing meal I had all week. Easy flight back, cab ride home we nearly got cut off by a semi who couldn't stay in it's lane.

Moby well cared for while we were gone, but VERY HAPPY AND EXCITED to have us home. Staying very close, chasing a lot, purring mightily.

Sound

Home and well, but it did get a bit tricky. Oregon doesn't get snow on it's beaches often. But there will be more to show and tell tomorrow. Well, it's been a long, been a long, been a long, been a long day.

Dire

One of the ground states of my personality is anxiety. Today, I have my pre-trip thoughts of death and dismemberment. Mostly just death. Plane crash, car crash, disasters and catastrophes. Knowing logically that my odds are no worse than on any day does not help the irrational worry.

Found a real pet sitter for Moby, and although she usually walks dogs, Moby took to her immediately. He will be fine, all will be well. I've left a ridiculous number of notes for the poor woman.

But, you know, if something does happen, I don't want Moby to ever go to another shelter. He needs a real home, we promised. We always promise we'll be back for him.

Yes, I know.

Panjandrum

Panjandrum.
A village boss, who imagines himself the "Magnus Apollo" of his neighbours. The word occurs in Foote's farrago of nonsense which he composed to test old Macklin, who said he had brought his memory to such perfection that he could remember anything by reading it over once. There is more than one version of the test passage; the following is as well authenticated as any:-
So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf to make an apple-pie, and at the same time a great she-bear came running up the street and popped its head into the shop. "What! No soap?" So he died and she - very imprudently- married the barber. And there were present the Picninnnies, the Joblillies, the Garyulies, and the Grand Panjandrum, himself with the little red button a-top, and they all fell to playing the game of catch-as-catch-can til the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.

It is said that Macklin was so indignant at this nonsense that he refused to repeat a word of it.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 676

Led here by by this entry on Soap. Which is why this book is addictive.

How are you off for soap?
A common street-saying of the mid-19th century, of indeterminate meaning. It may mean "What are you good for?" in the way of cash, or anything else; and it was often just a general piece of cheek. Cp. "What! No soap?" in Foote's nonsense passage (see PANJANDRUM.)

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p.842

Runcible

The spokes of a wheel meet at the hub,
The space for the axle is the crucial idea.

Throw a lovely pot,
It is the inside that can be filled.

Frame windows, make an archway for a door,
It is the opening that allows movement.

What is there gives shape,
What is not - allows possibility. Useful together.


Runcible Spoon.
The plate and cutlery trades have no knowledge of this utensil, which is mentioned in Edward Lear's Owl and the Pussy Cat:

They dined on mince and slices of quince
Which they ate with a runcible spoon.

Some who profess to know describe it as a kind of fork having three broad prongs, one of which has a sharp cutting edge.
-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 786

Which sounds a lot like a spork to me, but runcible spoon has a much more pleasing sound.

Time

Visited Dave* and K, Mike* and R visiting from out of state stopped by. Given the number of children (one not shown) it was remarkably peaceful, even for people as childnoise sensitive as D and me. Good to be social for an afternoon, have other people to talk with. I find I'm more comfortable with simple company, just being there.


Even the drive, long by my standards and tolerance for driving, didn't seem that long yesterday. Rain all the way out, view of snow dusted mountains and low hanging clouds all the way back.

Snowing away this morning, so we are just watching it. Will walk in it later, but not quite yet. We have time.
Really easing into having time for my own thoughts, our own pace.




*With names like these, who needs pseudonyms?

Planets

When planning this trip (we always over-plan) we decided to eat meals heated in the room, bought at Trader Joe's. And fill a suitcase to bring foodstuffs unique to TJs home. This suitcase is what we chose to pack, clothes and a gym bag inside, to be later filled with food and some clothes, and carry the gym bag with us. Not overjoyed at having to check luggage, but it seems worth it this time.

The saleswoman appeared surprized at the color D chose. They came in black, silver, red, and purple. We both knew immediately we would take the purple one, and not just because I love the color. Having an unusual color makes the luggage carousel less of a torture. And D does not consider the color of his luggage* reflective of his gender. We then wanted to up the visibility, and went into the office supply store with an open mind for something sticky and identifiable. D spotted the vinyl planets sheet in the educational section. Only one way to tell for sure how much difference it will make, but I have every confidence in this idea.

When we returned from Gulf War I, and knew we would need to sift through 800 identical duffle bags to find our own. So I'd bought a remnant of obnoxious bright pink polka-dot fabric from a Riyadh shop, to tie on all the handles of mine, to find it. D thought this a great idea, and had me put more on his as well. Worked a treat. At the time, I thought this remarkably pragmatic for a 21 year old guy, in the Army, who grew up in Utah.

On another subject, I was spraying the counter, and Moby just watched with idle interest. I remarked, as I have before, that I am very glad we never "punished" Moby with spraying water at him, and apparently neither did his former owner. Mentioned this to D, glad that we'd read up on this before we'd even found Moby. That punishment doesn't work for any creature, unless it is immediate and a spontaneous reaction, not intentional retribution. But especially not with cats, who merely decide you are dangerous and crazy, and therefore to be avoided. Unlike dogs who want your approval.

D said, "Yeah, cats know your anger is all about you."






*He had no trouble carrying a friend, P's, pink, Hello Kitty! luggage from the airport to her B&B, although P's mom tried to tease him about it. He shrugged P's Mom's slur off as irrelevant, if not downright silly. This is a huge part of why I so admire him.

Stew

D is making stew* for our lunch. It is not bland, ordinary stew either. No, this has a bit of kick, with peppers and a bit of cayenne, stew with a chili undercurrent. He tends to make more than we can eat in one day, which is fine, because I have learned to take the leftovers, make some biscuits, fry the strained out solids, make gravy from the liquids, throw together, for a different meal. I called it Fried, or as of today, Refried Stew. Wouldn't work if D didn't make it so well in the first place.

Always a challenge, cooking for two. Hard enough for one, but at least there is no argument over different tastes. D and I have never completely agreed on what tastes good, finding the overlap, and adjusting our palates, has taken a while. He still has no idea how I can eat a dinner of steamed green beans, and I still have no clue why anyone would voluntarily drink milk, but we accept these oddities. And there are always leftovers. We are not the kind to clean our plates if we are full. Wrap it up, put it in the fridge until it goes green, then throw it away. Doing better about not doing the second one, and therefore not the third.

Aware that food prices around the world are escalating, only having to cook for two seems more and more a blessing. We can live on less.



*Or would you call it soup? Discussion over at Separated by a Common Language.

Pig

Being both body and spirit,
How to be sensual, moral, disciplined and playful.

Both fully aware and learned,
How to be new and innocent of prejudices.

Aware of the harsh brutalities of life and death,
How to be loving and compassionate.

Skeptical and wary, even if subject to the bad judgement of others,
How to avoid bitterness and cynicism, knowing you cannot make anyone do anything.

Embracing all of humanity without reference to gender,
How to be both without seeing one as better, one worse.

Be comfortable in silence, in waiting, alone.

Create, feed, carry, share.
Let go, don't claim, demand, nor expect praise.
Live your life well, don't try to make others live well.
No one can be forced into wisdom, each must find their own way.



Tantony Pig.
The smallest pig of a litter, which, according to the old proberb, will follow it's owner anywhere. So called in honour of St. Anthony, who was the patron saint of swine-herds and is frequently represented with a little pig at his side.
-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 882.

Meatballs

Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs came on the other night, so I recorded it, expecting to watch for a while then delete it. After several very disappointing recent animated movies, I figured this one would have similar fatal flaws of internal inconsistency, whiny repetition, or infuriating sap. Instead, I was impressed with how witty it all is. Visual puns by the bushelful, excellent voice work, internal consistency - by the loose standards of absurdist comedy, and a lot of heart.

Furthermore, I expected D to avoid it completely. After How to Train Your Dragon, which has so much unmotivated action, snotty hipster kids with California accents, and adult Vikings with Scots accents - no explanation, just to start the list of irritating problems. Finding Nemo was all about a nagging father and a whining kid, and fish with human society - but inconsistently applied. We shut that one off. Wall-E was all about two words, Wall-E and Eva, repeated ad nauseum. Why there is a movie shown with live human actors, but the humans in the movie are animated, just heads another list with the heading "But... that makes no sense!" A strong story can tolerate a few absurdities, a weak one can't take any.


Cloudy does give explanations for all it's leaps into fantasy, with a wink to us that we shouldn't look too hard at that, just get the joke and move on. I'm rather enamored that when one character has a stupendous allergic reaction, she is injected with an epi pen - which is right. Within a breath is back to normal - which isn't, but it's done with tongue firmly in cheek. The monkey with the voice translator usually just says his own name. Every joke is set up with a story, a preference for Jell-o, professional grade lab coat, clean up going into a "leftover dam," monkey with a thing for gummi bears, even spray on shoes, all are set-ups that later pay off. Not to mention the Ratbirds. Or that Mr. T. voices an actor with a bald strip in the middle of his head. You know, where a Mohawk would be...


D got caught up as well, and we wound up watching together. And not deleting it.

Now, if only we could get completely away from all the Mom's Dead trope in animation.

Doe

Context, the window just inside the OR near the PACU.




More deer. This made my day more of a success. I do love their ears. There were more that were much less visible, lying among the trees.



Oh, and photos of coelacanths.

Windy

When the surgeons have conferences, no surgeries get scheduled. In an academic setting, this can affect not just one sub-specialty, but most, and a whole department's staff. Today, and for the rest of the week, we've lost all but one hand surgeon. So, instead of operating today, we met to deal with pull sheets, the information the supply people use to gather the draping, instrument sets and supplies that we need for each case. We always fine tune it, specific to the patient, but it really speeds up our turnovers to have it mostly right. Right surgery, right surgeon, right stuff. And to do that takes maintenance, which has largely not been done, or not done well.

Given that I work with a bunch of foodies, we had a potluck for lunch. I brought in my little rice cooker, and made rice, which got well gobbled up, I'm glad to say. With V's dahl. And B's spinach, strawberry salad. Healthy lunch. And found out there was only about half the job we could do today, and it had to be changed in the system before we could do the details we need done.

However, I wound up in the late rooms the last two days, so I won't be as far behind on hours as I would have otherwise. And I get to start my vacation a day early, because there are no cases on Friday, nor any staff. Ten days off in a row. All I can think of is how early can I get done tomorrow?

The wind isn't helping anyone's mood or energy. Warm air, but it doesn't feel warm. Expecting a front through this evening, rain with snow, but snow hasn't got a chance of building up with it this warm. Not tonight, anyway. Yes, gusts to 50 MPH and more.
16 Feb 5:15 pm 54˚F, winds S 33, G51

Update, just before 6, 63MPH gusts. Fierce winds.

Deer

Sausage, peppers and cornbread made a very nice dinner. And quite colorful.



Outside the windows at work there is scrub growth. And for the last several weeks, deer. (Mule deer, I believe.) Today, since I brought the camera, only one. But I had been prepared for all of them being camera shy today. Half dozen yesterday, no camera.

Creamy

"Whose new soft, fluffy, creamy, robe?"

Grass

Moby does have a thing for grass. Got a lovely bouquet of a non-red variety for a few bucks, specifically one with long grass stems. Moby peered at me while I got them in water, mrrk-ing at me in exasperation. He spotted the grass, and wanted it, oh, so much.






Left it lopsided, to facilitate munching.

Fnord

The other advance copy book in my hands is One of Our Thursdays is Missing, by Jasper Fforde. It's a corker. I keep laughing out loud, reading bits to D. Fforde is a prankster, I suspect there are real rules governing the reality of his novels, but I am also sure that if a rule gets in the way of a good bit of wordplay, he'll make up a new rule to cover it. Not like he'll ever let you know what the rules are. Or maybe it's just that he's Welsh (or is he?), and fucking with us. If so, good on him.

Any other Jasper Fforde readers out there?

How about Robert Anton Wilson?

Or hear that they think they've dated the Voynich Manuscript to the early 1400s?

Got any grapes?

Enough

Fill your cup with tea,
but if you put in too much, you'll slosh, and waste it and burn yourself.

Keep your tools sharp,
But over hone them, and they will wear away.

Gather what you need,
But excessive wealth breeds envy and theft.

Be proud of your accomplishments,
But boasting invites criticism.


When it's good enough, don't try again for perfection.
Wisdom resides in contentment with sufficiency.

Give her the bells and let her fly.
Don't throw good money after bad; make the best of the matter, but do not attempt to bolster it up. The metaphor is from falconry; when a hawk was worthless the bird was suffered to escape, even at the expense of the bells attached to her.
-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 90.

Quixotic

I've been joshed about doing the daily paper crosswords at work. I do them rather quickly, and I do encourage others to have a go, and leave them for those who want to try. One of the Aides is getting a lot better, two of the nurses will get most of them. One of the nurses chided me for finishing it so fast, and not leaving it for them. I now hold off until after noon, then consider it fair game. All rather expect me to finish them up when they can't. When I solve them, working through without a lot of trouble, I do get comments. I try to shrug it off, explain that I've been doing them for quite a while, did several a day while taking the trains around Boston due to the couple of free papers in the morning, and leftover Globes and Heralds in the afternoon.

I've got both a love of words and puns, and a broad range of knowledge, with the exception of sports. But having seen Wordplay, I know I'm a pretty mediocre puzzler, I suck at the NYT crossword (damn Will Shortz*) and have never even tried an acrostic. So, I'm labeled as kind of brainy, but I know I'm only average among the intelligent people. I love being around people smarter than I am, so that I can learn from them. I love being the dumbest person in the room, like floating in deep water rather than splashing through a puddle.

Came across a discussion, where the question came up, what do we hide? And I hide my intellectual competence - around people who reveal a kind of disdainful awe of intelligence. Because, honestly, I'm lacking so many social skills, I know very well how many gaps‡ make cheese of my knowledge, that I get irritated at being seen as bright. So often I feel very dull, I have no other language, I'm a coward about reading classics, I flip numbers (and do the Sudoku† to counteract this failing) and my memory is fine for concepts but dithers about on details.

Imagine my quiet elation when D and I got to know each other, and found out we have identical IQs. Makes daily life so much easier. He's been listening to a recording of Don Quixote, and loves it.




*Not really, but he does do hard puzzles.
†Which I also learned to do on the T in Boston.
‡I in no way regret my professional sports gaps, though.

Transmission

I began my life with turned-in feet, not bad enough for plaster, but turned-out special shoes day and night. I'm told I kicked the foot of the crib all night. I have a pair, still. Not sure why, but there they are. Expensive shoes. Toes cut out to extend their life. Then more ordinary shoes, worn on the wrong feet. Hard soles, white leather. Some of my lateral toes never touched ground, and I spent idle moments of childhood pushing them down with my fingers. Worked, too. My toes all touch down.

So, when non-slip crocs were offered at work, gratis, I knew better than to even try. No support. And the ones who opted for them, most of them, are regretting it. Their feet and backs hurt after full days on them. Irony, since they were offered in response to my fall. Oh, well. I'll stick with my solid shoes, arch supports, and the (sort of) non-slip shoe covers. There has been no more waxing of the floors, which we all complained about as it caused general slipperiness in the ORs. I'm still convinced it was lubricant from the elbow door hinges that I slid on. Utterly frictionless, like hitting black ice, and no non-slip material will make any difference.

Hamster

Moving so slowly,
Mind set to idle.
February molasses.



Up through the night, a rarity, and very annoying. I'm pretty useless with short sleep. Hamster-wheel thoughts.

Speaking of which.


Realized why I feel particularly bad about the lost friendship, I also have to stop the letters to the little girl. Which seems like a broken promise, as passed to me by my Aunt Evelyn. Guilt, but also relief, to be honest. I realized today that I want so much to pay back that kindness my dear aunt gave me, to be kind to a child in return.

However, this is not my gift.

I have never really loved a child. Treated them well, cared for them, yes, many small times, including professonally. Never really felt connected. Aunt Evelyn genuinely loved children, because they were children. I would never harm a kid, but I hold no affinity for the young. I respond to the sick, the old, anyone in crisis, the grieving... but rug-rats, - not so much. Little aliens. And this includes when I myself was a child, I did not like other kids, always preferring the company of adults - smart ones ideally, often adults who didn't much like children. In my peds rotation, I got a good grade from my clinical instructor - who commended my work, and suggested that I was "an adult nurse." I took her advice as it was meant, in good part, and seriously.

Everyone's nurse, nobody's mama. Probably best that way.

Roses

The roses served one last time, as petals on the balcony. Got up to 50˚F (10C) when Moby enjoyed the space, and flowers. Then the winds hit, and a squall of snow, the front dropping the temps twenty degrees, and scattering the remains of the blooms.


The tao is like water, essential for life, and always finding it's lowest level.
The tao goes down beneath, unconcerned about what it looks like.

Live with your feet on the ground.
Think deep, warm thoughts.
Be reflexively kind to everyone.
Speak the truth habitually.
Seek justice for those around you.
Cultivate competence in your daily tasks.
Be sensitive to your surroundings.

No fighting, no anger, no blaming, just a gentle, giving attitude.

Dungarees. This comes from a Hindustani word, dugri, meaning a kind of coarse cotton cloth. It is applied to an overall suit of coarse (usually blue) cloth.

-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 310

Spitz

Small, but visible blip of a scar on the upper lip. Proof.


So much clutter, need to have a good throw-away.


D doing the cooking. My favorite meal is one not cooked by me. He's got a good apron, that we got free when we sent a note to a marinade company whose brand we liked, and they sent us a coupon, and a nice black barbecue-type apron. He tolerates my photo taking better than Moby.


Came across this on Wiki, about the Olympic swimmer, Mark Spitz.

In an era when other swimmers, male and female, were shaving body hair, he swam with a mustache. ... "I grew the mustache because a coach in college said I couldn't grow one." Spitz said he originally grew the mustache as a form of rebellion against the clean-cut look imposed on him in college. ... Spitz ... decided the mustache was a "good-luck piece."

... "When I went to the Olympics, I had every intention of shaving the mustache off, but I realized I was getting so many comments about it—and everybody was talking about it—that I decided to keep it. I had some fun with a Russian coach who asked me if my mustache slowed me down. I said, 'No, as a matter of fact, it deflects water away from my mouth, allows my rear end to rise and make me bullet-shaped in the water, and that's what had allowed me to swim so great.' He's translating as fast as he can for the other coaches, and the following year every Russian male swimmer had a mustache."

Since I've got this humor theme going on.

Gigi

Long ago, I had a friend in my Aunt Alma's poodle, Gigi. She was an overfed, beloved, middle sized, black poodle with gorgeous flowing ears, who loved only Aunt Alma, me, and chasing her ball. Not necessarily in that order. Aunt Alma and I entered the family together, me as a surprize last child, her as a second wife, Gigi came along a couple of years later, and we formed a tight clique. I was thoroughly convinced that Aunt Alma knew exactly what Gigi was saying. She started telling me "what Gigi was saying" as a way to teach me to be kind to her dog, but I honestly believed it was a literal translation of what Gigi was saying, and my aunt always gave me a serious answer.

Aunt Alma started a home business grooming poodles, and I helped when I visited there. As I had helped when she took care of Gigi, as a precursor to her profession. I never thought of it at the time, but I do wonder that she was lonely, what her life had been like to have her married to Uncle Milton, who seemed to prefer being at a diner all day rather than at home. It would not have occurred to me then. They seemed so rich to me, a nice house with good things, plenty of food that Aunt Alma loved feeding me. She even glass grapes in a decorative bowl. Posh.

I think poodles have gotten a bad reputation due to the ridiculous haircut they get, and the tiny, overbred variations. All in all, they are smart dogs from an old working breed.

This isn't new, you've probably seen it, but having found it, I had to put it up here. The company itself has, um, issues.

Rabbit

We made it to the Chinese New Year presentation at the Library. Last year, it was very good. This year, well, it felt a bit slap-dash and confused. Still, we forgot the camera last year. The dragon was not the expressive, jaw chomping, eye flashing, tail wagging of last year. Just a static head and two dancers, which was disappointing.

Still, gotta love this guy's hair.



Before the performance, tuning up.


And her concentration.


Beautiful kid with a great monster hat.


We left a bit early, the two young violinists that so impressed us last year were painfully off tune, or off from each other. D says, "What is the definition of a minor first? When two fretless bass players play in unison." New Year or not, it was not a propitious day, somehow. Still, we got out and took a long walk. We'll go again next year.

Pun

What?


Enjoying an advance (uncorrected proof) book called The Pun Also Rises, by Jon Pollack. So far, I have found no errors, only a load of bad puns. Subtitle, "How the humble pun revolutionized language, changed history, and made wordplay more than some antics." The pun is like the tao, it will go where other jokes will shake their heads and keep their dignity. But the pun sinks below, and it is always lurking.

I'm not a huge punster, although if one appears, I will introduce it around. I love wordplay and wit. In 7th grade, I hated absurdity, but in the next few years, I came to love the non-sequitur, the inexplicably funny. As though my brain had gone from always wanting order, to accepting that there was none, and being tickled by that.

A dog goes to a telegram office. Telegrapher says,
"It's five words for a dollar, what is your message?"
Dog says, "Fine, it's Woof. Woof, woof, woof.
Telegrapher replies, "That's only four words. Would you like to add another woof?

Dog looks puzzled, "But... that wouldn't make any sense."


Never went in for crude humor when I was a kid, unless it was also very wittily obscure as well. Until well into adulthood, at least. Even then, mostly in context of A. the military, or B. nursing. Offering a potty break in the form of a foley catheter, or asking after how it all came out, was strictly in the form of professional inquiry. I'm also repelled by mean* humor, the various Focker movies, or pranks. Likewise simple shock jokes, where the punchline is just ugly. But then, I never laugh out of nervousness, or fear, which many people do. I don't see what's amusing about annoying others, or causing them distress. I have one test of character that I consider crucial. If someone is sleeping in public, do you A. put a blanket over them or B. tie their shoelaces together? A. people I trust, B. people I keep my guard always up around.

I used to tell jokes, and only do so rarely anymore. The older I get, the less I'm impressed with a set-up and punchline, unless it drastically subverts the form. And the fewer "jokes" I tell. I respond more to the spontaneous, the brutally raw honestly of life as tripped over. Untranslatable, inexpressible, you had to be there stuff. And I've come to adore shaggy dog stories.

At any rate, the book is good. What wordplay tells us about ourselves, our language, our history, and how we deal with ambiguity. Comes out in April. It's not a list of puns, but they are liberally sprinkled throughout.




*I still cannot explain why I do laugh at Absolutely Fabulous. Humor is not consistent.

Visual

One of the nurses is pregnant, and was scrubbed in. She gets overheated easily these days, quite the change for her since usually she wears blankets. But this day, she was over-warm and feeling woozy. So one of the other scrubs helping out put a wet washcloth around the back of her neck, as I got one for her myself. The one I prepared had a splash of rubbing alcohol - a trick I learned from another scrub, long ago, who often dealt with hot flashes. I changed out the washcloth for her, and put the previous one between my knees as I got the fresh one tucked in.

I threw the old one in the laundry, and realized my error. The wetness wicked up and down the inseam of the scrubs, in a manner suggesting incontinence on my part. I let myself be an example to those in the room, of what not to do. This caused sufficient amusement. Cooled me off pretty good, too.

Always go for the visual joke.

And this kind of humor goes over well in the OR. I suppose like fart jokes among young boys. Just one of those inexplicable things.

Forlorn

The eternal is the tao.
Everything has a lifetime,
within the tao that does not exist, as such.

The wise mop up, follow behind,
and so lead the way.
The wise allow it all to come and go,
and so join in all.
They don't see themselves as separate,
and are filled with everything.


Forlorn Hope.
This phrase is the Dutch verloren hoop, the lost squad or troop, and is due to a misunderstanding, as the words are not connected with our forlorn or hope. ... The forlorn hope was originally a picked body of men sent in front to begin an attack; thus Cromwell says, "Our forlorn of horse marched within a mile of the enemy," i.e. our horse picket sent forward to reconnoitre approached within a mile of the enemy's camp. It is now usually applied to a body of men specially selected for some desperate or very dangerous enterprise.

-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 372

Usagi

So begins the Year of the Hesitating Rabbit*.

And if you've never read any Usagi Yojimbo, do so this year.
Enjoy.


This burn therapy looks extremely promising.





*Not really. After Terry Pratchett's many oddly named centuries, i.e. Century of the Fruitbat, Century of the Anchovy, year of the Notional Serpent (there are others, but I can't find any reference to them right now, which means I will have to go through the books again to make a list myself.)

Ground

Happy Groundhog Day! I like the idea, no doubt inspired by the movie, that it's a good holiday for a do-over. Give another go at a previous mistake. With tomorrow as Chinese New Year, another good re-starting point. Every day is a good day to gird one's loins and take another leap. Beginner mind. Ruler of the Universe*.


The space between and below harbors life.
We call it dark and look down on it.

We call it Mother, feminine
make it mysterious and hold it as separate from us.

It is the ground we stand on,
Open ourselves to it, and it is eternal.



Ground-Hog Day. Candlemas (February 2 nd), from the saying that the ground hog first appears from his hibernation on that day.
-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 420.



*"I think that fish is nice, but then I think that rain is wet, so who am I to judge?"