Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Memories of Saturday Mornings Past

When I was but a young rock child living in Romania, we had no cartoons to watch.  A great uncle, Basalt, took pity on me and my fellow pebbles, and sent us many a VHS tape* containing hours and hours of nature programs.  Marty Stouffer's WIld America, PBS' Nature, and various Richard Attenborough narrated series entertained me when Romanian propaganda held no interest.  Now, in the fullness of time, one third of the way around the circle of life, Richard Attenborough entertains me yet again:

* Kind of like a DVD that only goes one way, youngsters.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Obilgatory Mother's Day Posting

My mother is great for many reasons, but the only one in my head right now is that she is always willing to try whatever crazy beers I bring home.

Getting Old?

Depending on which ex you talk to, I am either immature, not mature at all, completely immature, and terrible in bed generally cranky.  I like to think that I am maturing slowly like fine wine, or whiskey, but I have these moments when I feel as old as my parents.  I filed my taxes on time this year, I keep track of my bank balance with online banking, I pay bills on time.  I am much more diligent about cleaning my cottage, and doing the dishes.  And yet all this progress on the orderly life of a mature American feels wasted because I have been having the worst trouble figuring out Blogger's new dashboard, and am almost at the point of watching a video on the use and abuse of the new setup.  It is almost as bad as the new Facebook, and by new I mean the changes made to Facebook in early 2009.

That whiff of smoke that I thought I smelled earlier is definitely not coming from my moustache.  This is country living, I guess.  I better go check that out.  Someone is burning leaves or brush.  I don't understand the need for this.  Leaves can be composted or mulched into your turf, and brush can be tossed in the woods.  Two items we have an abundance of in this area: room for generous compost piles or mounds, and woods.

Wednesday, May 09, 2012

The Time is Now

Every recession has had one, and now so must this recession.  It is time for another cover of "Dancing in the Streets." Someone get on that.

Probably Sheryl Crow, Hootie, and the Crash Test Dummies.

CDC: Benicio Del Toro, Anne Hathaway, Hugo Weaving, Laurence Olivier, and the BBC

This dream is from a while back, and I can't verify that all of it makes sense, but I woke up feeling like a million bucks had just stampeded through my skull. It has been sitting in my drafts for about a year, but I think longer because it was cold. Also, we had watched "The Wolfman" in the week before this dream erupted.

I was hiking in the mountains of Tibet, and struggling. I wasn't prepared for the mountains to be so tall or rugged, in fact, I was basically dressed for some cross country jogging with a stop at a coffee shop in the middle. I was freezing, wet, and had assumed that I would die of exposure as the sun set.* Shortly after the nightfall, I stumbled into a village that looked completely un-Tibetan, rather Transylvanian. Small cottages, and townhouses made of timber and plastered straw, close together like they were huddling against the wind and drizzle.

* This is entirely unrelated to my girlfriend's tendency to steal all of the covers, all of the time.

I stumbled through town and found the tavern near the central plaza.  I could hear laughing and singing, so I struggled with the door until it opened and I fell onto the floor of the warm tavern.  I was wearing running shoes, running shorts, a work out shirt, and a hoodie, all of which smelled of sweat and mud.  As I looked around the room, everyone was dressed in Edwardian suits and dresses.  I had wandered through the Himalayan mountains, and ended up in a Masterpiece Theater romance murder movie.

I was suddenly feverish and weak, so the mayor declared that he would house me until I was well.  Some men and the local apothecary carried my to the mayor's villa, where the doctor and the mayor's daughter, played by Anne Hathaway gave me a bath and a nightgown.  This was less interesting than it could have been.

The night before I arrived, a farmer had been murdered, and the town was out of sorts.  A newly arrived painter played by Benicio del Toro was the current suspect, but the mayor had forbidden any investigation until the King's Prosecutor arrived in two days.  The painter was known for saying strange things, and for acting "quite peculiar."  Anne fell for me while she was nursing me back to health, but I tried to resist her protestations of undying love for reasons completely unknown to me.  On the day the King's Prosecutor was due to arrive, I met Benicio.  The artist was a little crazy, and a drug addict, but I thought he was basically harmless when I saw him flinch when I killed a beetle that was crawling on the table between us. 

Hugo Weaving was the King's Prosecutor investigating the murder, and he was inclined to agree with most the townsfolk in their suspicions but it was something out side doing the killing.  While Benicio, Anne, and I were strolling along the outskirts of town, I noticed a camera crew trying to hide in some bushes.  I marched over and demanded to know what was going on.  The BBC was filming the whole thing as a new quasi-reality show, and had worked me into the script as a free form theater project. They were shooting on location in Tibet for a Romanian-set story. I already had legions of fans.