Updates

Today I am a year older than I was this time last year. I realize that that is always true, but today it is more true than on other days. My financial man, Peter, whom we met in an earlier post, and whom we're all glad to know has not yet absconded to Mexico with my money although he has so far lost me thirteen dollars and one cent, which means I can't have those used, grape-flavored orthopedic shoes I was so looking forward to, sent me a birthday card. (Perhaps to make up for ruining my future.) On the front it has a picture of the sun rising out of a blue banana. Or a bunch of multi-colored bananas. Or perhaps it is of multi-colored bananas hugging a tomato with spikes. Perhaps the tomato is dressed up for Halloween. Perhaps it is dressed up as a pineapple. The picture is by Terry Frost and does not have a title, but it was painted in 1989 and that is informative enough, really. I can't see the influence of Cornwall on his work, but who am I to judge? In the opinion of Óláfr, for example, it is “excavatory, immersive, a contraction of the spirit, a descent,” so there you go. To each his own.



My car dealership also sent me a card. It did not compare.

There was some other stuff relating to updates but now I forgot them. Oh right. Please notice the Halloween theme. I would like to thank Matt for the use of his sensitive and evocative photograph of the glow-in-the-dark skeletons and ringwraith look-a-likes and scary, scary hedgehogs. Few people could have portrayed a glowing green femur with such truth. I think Óláfr might have described this, also, as “excavatory, immersive, a contraction of the spirit, a descent” if I could drag him away from Terry Frost.

Also, it is getting colder. My mum's mums look like this now:



Erm. Little Robin Redbreast. He is still there. He is still saying "Weeee!" It is how he copes. "Weeee!" he says to the driving wind and the sleet and snow in which he will soon be buried. He is a hero, is our Little Robin Redbreast.



Well, this seems like it should be done now. Almost none of this has been about genuine updates. I don't know why I thought I had things to update. It must have turned into Old News while I was busy not posting. That's irking. Update: I am irked. And I have a new hat. There. Not one but two true updates. Now I am done.

Excuse me, you've got a little something on your lip...

Thank goodness his feet can't reach the pedals.

Someone's Not a Fan of Anne of Green Gables

"How's Fin?"
"you mean, Gil?"
"yeah, Gil... I knew it was a fish part."

Gilbert P. Kitten: Cute

When I first mentioned to Simon I was getting a kitty and that I was going to name it Gil she said "great, and then you can make it business cards that say 'Gilbert P. Kitten: Cute'". I do not think she was taking me seriously. But Gilbert P. Kitten has arrived and he has finally come out from under the bed.





The first order of business was to introduce him to the hedgehogs. Since I do not own an actual Simon and Ivan set, I had to introduce him to the animatronic hedgehog Simon sent me for my 22nd birthday.



They are going to get along famously.

Other than eating, sleeping and attending hedgehog themed social events, Gil's favorite activities are playing with a green ribbon, chasing a ball around the apartment and attacking my feet. His current mission in life is to find out what exactly the computer does and his method of examination involves stepping on all the keys and batting at the letters as they appear in the blogger window. The off-chance that I will get tired and allow him to continue his experimentation is the only reason he is cuddling with me as I type.



Welcome to the hedgehog family, Gilbert P. Kitten. Two gold stars and some chocolate to anyone that can tell me what the P stands for.

Blogiversary 2006

First of all, on behalf of Ivan and myself, I must thank our readers. I think there are at least six of you now and if we were all Vikings, and you six were berserkers, we’d be unstoppable. Therefore I feel comfortable calling this “an army of readers”, which is immensely satisfying. Thank you, anachronistically literate Viking readers. We like you a lot.

The west coast blogiversary celebration having already commenced with the consumption of Reese's Pieces, Friday's east coast party was heralded by a phone call from Matt, party-organizer, to Simon:

Simon: Hello?
Matt: Hi there.
Simon: Uh, hi. . . . How's it going?
Matt: Well, I'm standing in your garage.
Simon: Why are you doing that?
Matt: My feet are muddy.

Glamorous parties, they are not only for Los Angeles. We have them here, too. Just look at the number of attendees who showed up wearing tiaras.

Simon and Ivan could only manage to carry a single one between them. Platinum and diamonds are heavy. This picture was taken before the row over who got to be Ariel and who had to settle for Cinderella.



Patchogue arrived not only with a tiara but wearing particularly shiny skin. She's posing next to the spider plant, which did not wear jewelry of any kind because it simply doesn't need to.



Heslington did not notice he was wearing a tiara. He does not notice much, actually.



Richard Armitage showed up somewhat overdressed; the tiara, on him, rather smacked of affectation and did not go over well.



In keeping with the tradition of arriving with strange offerings, Adam brought a pirate sword of the plastic blow-up variety. It is pictured here with a previous gift of like kind: a pink blow-up mace. Few people are aware of how historically accurate this reproduction actually is. It so happens that a common Viking saying around the year AD 800 was, "Give me that jewel-encrusted Bible or face spikey pink death!"



The sight of it scares me witless, really.

Matt came bearing chocolate cupcakes covered in chocolate frosting, filled with chocolate pudding, and topped with chocolate chips, which lent them a hedgehogian appearance. Normally I don't take part in cannibalism, but one has to be prepared to make exceptions in certain circumstances, especially if a whole lot of chocolate is involved. They may have had a few structural difficulties but they were delicious.



Naturally the presence of Ivan was much missed, and I am collecting donations to fly her in for next year. I'm also thinking of holding a bake sale and perhaps a silent auction. I have a pink blow-up mace that I think would fetch a handsome sum if I patched its leak. And painted it brown.

Mt. Hope & Environs

Neighborly

I arrived at my perfect apartment, parked in my perfect parking spot and started to unload my not so perfect furniture, gently worn furniture...cast off furniture even, when I heard someone yelling from behind the dumpster.

Since it is almost always in your best interest to explore empty Los Angeles parking garages when you hear people shouting from behind recessed trash receptacles, I made my way toward the voice. There I found a six-year-old boy hopping up and down, trying in vain to lift a garbage lid. "please, some one heeeeelllllpppp me" said the ankle biter. And the way he clutched his heart and looked toward the heavens as if pleading for an angel to come down and lift the trash bin with a flick of her wings made me want to be his savior for the day. That and I like the way "Mistress Ivan, controller of the heavy trash lids" sounds. Also, taking action would give me license to say "BOW AND KISS MY HEDGEHOG FEET" once the trash was successfully thrown away. Both good things in my book.

So I, Mistress Ivan, controller of the heavy trash lids, lifted the lids and successfully aided the child in his quest for proper garbage disposal. My good Samaritan job being done, I went back to hauling second hand chairs upholstered in early 90's southwestern themes to my apartment. No sooner had the elevator doors opened than the little boy apparated onto the first floor landing. "Hi, I'm Tristan, can we be friends, I think we should be friends because I'm in kindergarten and you're really nice and I'm going to go ask my mom if you can come over and hang out right now was that your car downstairs because that's a cool car and we can hang out all the time because we just live right across the hall from each other!!!!!" and then he ran away.

I quickly retreated to my apartment before he could work his way inside. I hear him scurrying up and down the hall pausing outside my door, listening to see if I'm home. I fear if I look out the peep hole he'll be there, holding a small bag of trash and looking forlorn.

I have a one year lease-- Now is the crucial time to reject or embrace my new title...

Gosh I like the way "Mistress Ivan" sounds.

Performance Anxiety

In honor of the autumn season, here is another scan from Simon's school journal. It is infinitely more subtle than the last entry, in which one perceived a certain detachment between the text and the image -- mainly the failure of the text to address the most important aspect of the image, which scholars agree is the depiction of two ordinary girls with anatomically incorrect shoulders. One gets the sense the author was not aware of the detachment and though one never likes to speculate on the presence or absence of author intent, it is generally thought that there is no hidden depth to "I went to my Friend Lindsy's House on Sunday" aside from the fact that it is capitalized in such a way that it is suggestive of poetry. Therein lies the charm of the prose.

There is much more to "I went to my First piano Resitle yesterday", however. Not only do its capitalizations also suggest the poetic form, but the illustration acts as a gloss on the main text. The author, feigning obedient innocence, provides a sentence devoid of any possible interpretation: there was a piano recital and the author was present. The image, however, fills in a crucial gap in our knowledge of the event. The author did not only attend; the author performed. Evidence for this interpretation rests in the striking similarity between the drawing of the piano and these images of an anglerfish.



Please click on the image for a more detailed view of the piano's eyes, enormous nostrils, scary dangling light, and fins (artistically interpreted as pedals).

Certainly, nobody but the performer herself would look at a piano and see one of the world's most terrifying deep-sea monsters. It is because of this, the pathos inherent in a small child's encounter with certain death, that I move to change the commonly- used title for this piece from "I went to my First piano Resitle yesterday" to what the author appears to have meant: "I was Attacked by a Particularly primeval-looking Anglerfish yesterday and barely Survived; are you Seriously telling me I have to Dress for Gym?"

Move It

Moving around in Los Angeles is difficult. Traffic, freeway congestion, no parking, resident parking, metered parking, tow away zones, traffic, traffic, traffic. You might as well find an apartment with a driveway and work from home. And until a few weeks ago, I honestly thought that would be a better use of my time... the noble pursuit of the perfect LA abode. A gorgeous little one bedroom-- sunny, sweet, tree lined street, plenty of parking... maybe a window seat with an ocean view. How hard could it be. Urban sprawl is LA's middle name. I have miles and miles of city just WAITING to rent me an apartment.

So I started calling landlords with a full heart an open mind. And the following are reconstructed conversations:

Landlord 1: Hello?
Ivan: Hi, I'm calling about the apartment listing.
Landlord 1: ummmmm, yeeeahhhh. ::llloooonnngggg pause:: it's available..... ::heavy breathing:: just... ring the manager.
Ivan: and what apartment does the manager live in?
Landlord 1: The manager.... is in... apartment... 4. wait. 8...
...15. Definitely 15.
Ivan: How about I just run my fingers up and down the buttons and wait for someone to buzz me in?

Landlord 2: Hello?
Ivan: Hi, I'm calling about the apartment listing.
Landlord 2: ohmygodican'ttalkrightnowihavetogetoutofhereohmygodcallmeback.
Ivan: I'm guessing you're being pursued. Possibly with a chainsaw. I'll call back later.

Landlord 3: Hello
Ivan: Hi, I'm calling about the apartment listing.
Landlord 3: what's your name
Ivan: Ivan
Landlord 3: and when's your birthday?
Ivan: August...
Landlord 3: August what?
Ivan: 22...
Landlord 3: Ah, I see you're a Virgo.
Ivan: ...
Landlord 3: I see a lot of change for you in the next year. This year is all about partnership-- in work and in your private life. It's going to be a tough year for money. It will come and go. And... what's this... I sense you'll be moving at least once this year. Maybe twice.
Ivan: ...
Ivan: yeah, about that moving part. Is the apartment still available?
Landlord 3: The planets will align when it is time. Call back in three weeks. ::click::

And that's how my search for the perfect apartment began. Since then my criteria has been downgraded to "something that doesn't resemble a crack den in an area that doesn't resemble Compton" And it's still proving impossible to find a place. Hopefully those planets will align in the next three weeks or else we'll finally get to see how comfy those fridge boxes are.

Hey, at least I'll be my own landlord.

In Which: We Learn that the Law Does Not Appreciate Art

The other day my friends and I were in the midst of creating the first true masterpiece to come out of the amateur film world when the police came and destroyed our chances for an Oscar by interrupting us with the woefully camp line, "Tell me you don't have anyone tied to train tracks."

Let me establish the following facts before going any further:
(1) No one was in any danger.
(2) We were only trespassing a little.
(3) We did not actually have anyone tied to train tracks, and if that's what it looked like to passing cars, then (a) good! that's what it was supposed to look like, and (b) the people in the cars are the same sort of people who will believe you if you tell them gullible isn't in the dictionary. To speak more plainly, they are stupid, and here is why: The phenomenon of people being tied to train tracks by nefarious evildoers must have gone out of style, by necessity, when trains did. This probably occurred around the time when Wilbur and Orville were testing the airplane -- almost exactly one hundred years ago. Therefore we would have had to have been time-travelers if it were to be at all likely that we were really tying someone up in front of a train. As much as I hate to say this, our costumes simply were not good enough to convince anyone less than an utter fool. We had cameras, we had scripts, and most importantly, the kid on the train tracks was not screaming and crying, like you'd expect. He was complaining of back pain, but in no way was he carrying on like a person in such a position would if he were really in danger. Moreover, none of us were dressed as goths.

This was a scene far, far removed from the kind of backroads version of human sacrifice ritual that someone must have thought they were seeing, and had this person applied any reason to the puzzling tableau, they would have realize that, first of all, the railroad gods wouldn't want Kevin on Station Olympus. He is much more entertaining on Earth complaining about being repeatedly made to lie on railroad tracks. Secondly, if we had really wanted to kill someone, why would we tie him up on Friday when the train isn't coming til Sunday? It isn't practical!

But some idiot did not stop to apply reason, and called the police, probably on their cell phone while driving which is a worse crime, I truly believe. The police, when they arrived, came screeching up to us like we'd shot the President and at last they had tracked us down and now they intended to commit police brutality all over the place. It was intimidating, but it also had the air of trying to be intimidating, which was slightly self-defeating. No violence ensued at all. In fact, I don't think they anticipated much of a threat if any, thereby lending credence to my theory that nobody has tied anybody else to train tracks in so long that the police don't even believe it when they see it.

It is important to note at this stage that it has been difficult for me to take the police seriously since the experience I had a couple of weeks ago when I called 911 and waited three hours before someone called me and said, "I drove by and didn't see a problem." This example of total incompetence greatly diminished the respect for law enforcement that Officer Tom from D.A.R.E. worked so hard to instill ten years ago.

It was in honor of Officer Tom that I resisted rolling my eyes when one of the officers proceeded to behave like our collective mom, and lectured us on how we should use our brains. Then the other officer stepped in and said, "So what's your movie about??" (I add the second question mark there because he definitely said it with two.) It so happened that I had written this very scenario into the script, mainly to avoid saving myself the trouble of resolving the plot: the police were simply going to come and make us leave before we finished. It probably occurred to us all that we should ask them to be in it, but nobody was brave enough to actually do it, which I think was for the best, because it was when we were talking about the movie that I felt the situation had the potential to spiral out of control. These police officers were not kindred spirits, creatively-speaking. They were not going to appreciate the finer nuances of our clever production, especially after Matt's attempt the relate the plot included this: "And he's in the fifties, so he's all 'mee-eeee-eeeeeh!'" It struck me then how easily we could have crossed the line into the territory where you deserve to be arrested because you're clearly deranged.

Let me explain. This is the sort of movie where we have to periodically stop and ask each other, "Now, at this moment, am I playing myself, or am I playing myself playing my character playing a character, and if I am, do I show that I know it, and does this other person know it, and do they know that I know it? And after I say my line, does all of that change?" Sometimes we also have to stop and think about what level of reality we are in, and usually we are not all in the same one. It isn't the kind of thing you can quickly describe without saying, "Well, officers, how familiar are you with metafiction?" which is a potentially awkward question because not only will they say, "Not at all familiar," but they will follow that with, "Where did you escape from?" and then probably, "I think you'd better come with us."

Fortunately they were immediately bored once Matt said "metafiction" and went away, but not without the gift of a last chastisement from Officer Mom, who again implored that we use our brains. This annoyed me very much. Even though it's last-minute and severely underfunded and makes no sense and some of the lines were dubbed when one of our actors was very, very drunk, we have to take it seriously, and do what it asks even if it asks for train tracks, and I felt affronted by the implication that we should have been at home watching television.

Actually, when two police officers have just yelled at you, you do rather feel like going home and watching TV is your worthwhile and noble duty. But still, you have to ask yourself, what kind of policing policy allows perfectly innocent trespassers to have their Oscar chances ruined while a rabid raccoon gets to have free reign of western New York even if you call 911 on it. If that raccoon's death scene beats out our exploration of the difficulties inherent in creating a metafictional film in a nation with trains and laws, then I will cast myself as the Dictionary on Film's definition of frivolous lawsuit.

Many Happy Returns, Ivn

Today is Ivan's birthday. Happy Birthday Ivan! To celebrate, I would like to take a look back at an artist's representation of Ivan as a young hedgehog with her friend Simon, who happens to be the artist in question.


By Lindsy I meant Ivan; Lindsy was just a funny name we all used to call her by. Apparently at this age I did not know whether the vowel before the Y was supposed to be an A or at E, so I left it out entirely. Using this logic I will refer to Ivan as Ivn for the duration of this post.

This picture is evidence that though Ivn and I now have a friendship based on Reeses Pieces, Tiny House colonies, a strange interest in Richard Taylor, and Anne of Green Gables, we first bonded over sharing the same terrible disease, a condition called I Have One Disproportionately Huge Shoulder, And So Does Everyone I Draw.

Fortunately, Ivn and I are both cured.

And, irritatingly, I must now go to work and finish this post later.

In the meantime, have a super birthday, Ivn, and congratulations on not having that one huge shoulder anymore.

Never Before Captured on Film

The Lily-Creature. Live. In focus.

Much like the Yeti and the Loch Ness Monster, it had previously been known to sit still only at the door while waiting to be let out.

What is it?

It's always happy.
But it's not Michael Owen.

Its naps are never long enough.
But it isn't a three-year-old.

It likes cats.
But it's not an old lady.

It's mangy.
But it's not a mutt.

It looks like a grizzly bear.
But it's faking.

It still smells even after a bath.
And it wants to come inside and sit in your lap.

It's Lucy!

Rosie Rosie Rosie, and More Rosie

So Close to Home

The Footy and Simon P., now with Ralph Fiennes!

Simon P. came to visit me the weekend of the World Cup final. Simon P. and I developed an interest in British football while studying at York together in 2004. Actually, my interest dates back to my senior year of high school, but in those days it focused mainly on Michael Owen's ability to look so easily beautiful. These days I am more into the actual game (as well as the staggering number of other beautiful players -- why limit one's self?)

Simon P. and I had been feverishly corresponding about the English team for the entire game, and shared the devestation of England getting kicked out in the quarterfinals, the team having been crippled in the previous game by Michael Owen injuring himself so badly he didn't even make a transparently dramatic fuss like soccer players usually do; he just crawled off the field on his hands and knees. Even were I not in love with him, it would have been heartbreaking.

Then, in the losing game, Beckham got injured and was replaced, and minutes later brainless wonder-boy Wayne Rooney "accidentally" stepped on somebody's, erm, bits, and got a red card, meaning England was a man down, had lost its best strikers, and didn't even have Beckham for corner kicks.

Even so, like the stout-hearted Englishmen they are, our boys made it to penalty kicks . . . and lost . . . to Portugal . . . just like in Euro 2004 . . . compounding the emotional scars I received watching that inconceivably tense match. I won't go into details on that one, but let's just say I can never visit Portugal until I learn how to overcome seething bitterness, and that won't happen until England beats Portugal. Thus it is a logical impossibility that I will ever go to Portugal.

Simon P. and I were quite sincerely undone by this turn of events, but we consoled ourselves by making fun of Wayne Rooney a whole lot, calling him the Freckled Grendel of Footballers, and imagining what it would be like if he ever started playing tiddleywinks. When we got tired of that, we started making fun of Cristiano Ronaldo, one of the Portuguese players, who said he didn't try to get Rooney sent off with the red card, despite all appearances to the contrary. And that turned out to be a lot more rewarding because we'll have to forgive Rooney eventually if we are ever to be happy about any future England victories, and Ronaldo we can hold a grudge against forever with no harm done to the home team.

But Simon P. and I did not only talk about football. Oh, no. We also talked about The West Wing, making a firm decision to rewrite the entire last season. Somehow we also worked Vikings in, and during a trip to Lake Ontario were inspired to call the theme song, "Don't Want No Bug in my Cup", which is a stroke of genius because it meshes so well with Vikings and modern American politics. The opening line of the politico-historical dramedy will be "Behold the shapeliness of my ear." That trip to the lake is a lesson never to mix your friend-groups because the combined weirdness comes dangerously close to unhinging the universe.

After Lake Ontario, Simon P. was taken to visit Ye Mighty Wegmans: The Deluxe Edition. You all know that of which I speak. Pittsford, the Harrods of Western New York. The Holy Grail of Wegmanses. El Wegorado. The Wegmans with Devonshire Cream, and Quark, and Jaffa Cakes, and all manner of cheeses and orange chocolate. Simon P. appeared to be properly impressed, and didn't even think we were silly for taking her to a grocery store to photograph the vegetables like Japanese tourists.

And by the way, I have personally seen Japanese tourists thrilled by a lesser Wegmans, so you know this is the genuine article, the Pittsford Wegmans.

The next day, Simon P. and I watched the final match of the World Cup, during which Zidane made the Freckled Grendel of Footballers look truly unoriginal. Maybe headbutting is more common than I think, but in my opinion probably very few people respond with the instincts of a mountain goat when insulted. After this I have to say I have really high expectations of Rooney in Euro 2008. If he doesn't body slam somebody soon, he will never reach his potential as a real pro at infamy.

Simon P. had to leave on Monday morning, but the bond between the two Simons remains strong! Yesterday Simon P. called me to tell me she was about to see Ralph Fiennes. In a play. Live. Oh, holy mother. I encouraged her to rush the stage and throw herself at him, on my behalf, but she said, "Yeah, and then I would say, 'That was just for my friend Simon.' And they'd say, 'What's your name?' And I'd have to say, '...Simon. But it's not for me, I swear!'" So, doomed by having the same name, there was no stage-rushing. She did get his autograph, however, and now I can say I know someone who's been three feet from a Fiennes, and nothing solidifies a friendship like proximity to fame.

Addendum:
I hope that hat is part of his costume not that anything would look silly on Ralph Fiennes because he would be serious and/or menacing even in a clown suit but still.

Hugh: Revisited

Hugh was a temperamental cyclamen. He had his ups and downs, but he had standards as well. He was a plant with ideals and deep seated convictions-- I don't know what they were, but man, that plant could get behind his morals.

That's the only justification I can find for his four week hunger strike. Before Hugh went all Ghandi on me, he had such verve, such zest for life and the simple pleasures that made it worth living. Things like, water, warm air, sunlight-- the occasional fluorescent lamp... they really made him happy.



I don't know what Hugh died for (something makes me think he was protesting frivolous Italian vacations) but I planted this sunshiny lollipop in his memory. R.I.P Hugh. You died with honor, as the Borg you were named after died. You are missed.

Yo Ho Ho

It was "Pirates of The Caribbean Friday", here in Burbank, meaning a house outing to the movies. I knew we were in trouble when one of the roommates turned to me mid-movie and said " I WANT to be a pirate. ARGH". And he was serious because not only did he make a hook with one finger, as if to imply he would be perfectly happy with a single working hand (I think i remember a shel silverstein poem where a man with a hook went to pick his nose now no longer has a nose. roommate probably hasn't read that one), but he reached into his jacket after the "ARGH" (not even nargh, he definitely went with the argh. I have to admire his attention to pillaging linguistics), and pulled out a flask of rum.

Now, some points have been lost for the lack of a counter flask of grog, but the presence of said booze meant he'd been considering the transition to piracy for at least three hours (Three hours: approximate amount of time needed to procure rum, a flask, and muster up the gall to bring it to a Disney movie).

The transition was complete when we left the movie and he proceeded to climb the first palm tree we saw.



I can only assume the rum was getting a bit strong and he wanted some coconuts to make a pina colada. Either way, It's been two days and he's still convinced he wants to ride the high seas and torture the land-lubbers (land-lubber taking the brunt of the abuse: miku).



I think I'm going to photocopy that nose picking poem and put it on the fridge before he makes a pact with Davy Jones.

Flower Garden, or Fun with Photoediting

Bonus: little robin redbreast. Doesn't he look like he'd say "Weeeeeee!" if he could?