Oh, Euclid. Euclid.

Over the weekend, my mother and I decided that at last we would tackle the gargantuan, Herculean, Sisyphean task of cleaning the store room. Other people have attics, but our house is a ranch, and even if it were taller it would not be old enough to have an attic. My parents had it built roughly 25 years ago. I remember once, after reading one of those Bernie-in-the-Besseldorf-Hotel books (bodies were always turning up there – never stay at the Besseldorf), being grateful that no one lived there before us, no one could have died there without our knowing it, no one could have been buried in the dirt floor of the basement in 1892. Not only because the basement floor is cement, but because the basement floor was poured in 1980 and is covered in an enormous orange rug that would be really annoying to roll back in order to bury a body. So: no ghosts likely to roam the . . . one . . . hallway. However, the freezer? In the store room? Easily big enough to hide a body in. And practical. Thus creative children such as myself can find terror where no reason for it could possibly exist. Good for me! A-plus-plus.

Aside from the body-sized freezer, the store room contains the hot water heater and the enormous stand my father built to grow seedlings inside, which is so old I have no memory of it in use. It now functions as an inconveniently bulky shelf, along with three or four other sets of inconvenient shelves that contain the following: eleven billion dusty cardboard boxes. Winter clothes. Summer clothes. Shoeboxes of negatives. Old letters. Biology textbooks. Sundry photographic equipment. Twenty-five cookie tins. A fake Christmas tree (boxed). A picture of Pushkin, my mother’s guinea pig. A paper maché stegasaurus. Eight baskets. Three shelves of Christmas decorations. A plate from Russia. Stickers from Denmark. Two sewing machines, clearly a dueling set. Two slide projectors and two screens, perhaps for the same purpose. Enough scrap fabric to clothe the Von Trapp children twice. One large Pound Puppy. A longhouse (small-scale). Twinkle lights galore. And thirteen bags and two days’ worth of garbage.

There was also a box of games that were too boring to be played but in such perfect condition that they couldn’t be thrown away. It was an impasse, and that was how my parents and I found ourselves sitting in the basement with a little delight called


It’s hard to tell, but that says O! Euclid. It is an amusing and scholarly card game for ages 9-99. On the side it says


O! Euclid, the geometry fun game, provides the following instructions



with which you can also build an ultra cold atom collider if you are of a mind to.

My mother, who is a tutor in math among other things, knew every question, which was good because I mainly abstained except to occasionally say, “Oh yeah? Can be divided by its diagonals to form six equilateral triangles, eh? Prove it!” I have, in the past, been accused of Not Liking Math, which is not true, and in fact, I liked geometry best. I even liked geometry proofs. And adding picas in base-twelve always brightens a dull workday. But I am the Harold Skimpole of math. What could I possibly understand about the world of numbers, being but an English major?

Just enough, it turns out, to have some profound doubts about the geometry fun game.

Is it possible that the educated professionals who made up a game that requires the players to have the formula for calculating the area of a trapezoid readily at hand are the same people who came up with the following questions?



There is no such thing as a loperbola. That is ridiculous. Why would one introduce the idea of a “high-perbola” having a “low-perbola” counterpart? While you’re at it, why don’t you give the kids a list of misspelled vocabulary words, too, just to, you know, warn them of possible pitfalls. Or, er, push them in ahahahahahaha!



Again. No such thing as a left triangle. This seems deliberately confusing, and since the copyright is 1988, I can only conclude that these so-called teachers are actually Russian infiltrators who, in their desperation, have resorted to planting false information in children’s games so as to poison the mathemetical consciousnesses of future American cosmonauts with such foolish concepts as a “left triangle” and a “loperbola.”



[Blogger hates me. The answer to the last question is: "Betsy Ross used this method to form five-pointed stars for our flag." I guess those 9- to 99-year-olds are ALL American.]

Now that the innocent students are failing geometry, thanks to Russia, we’re going to come at them from another angle (no pun intended) and make them feel stupid about geography and history as well -- but unjustifiably, because the Pentagon is not called the Regular Pentagon. I expect it is more often described as “irregular” if anything. And the fact that you can make a pentagon by tying a knot in a strip of paper (which I’d like to see, Betsy) is one of the most useless facts a person could possibly know. How many would-be astronauts went mad before the age of twelve trying to tie a pentagon in a strip of paper? This must have put off the development of a space station for at least ten years.

Communists 1 NASA 0



Clipped? Is that a technical term?

And no, I’m not sure you can just paint an octagon red and put it up as a stop sign. The Department of Transportation is very strict about regulating road signs. Children should not be encouraged to put up their own.

Here I begin to suspect not a nefarious misinformation campaign, but simple sloppiness.



A line that goes around? Goes around what? The mulberry bush? And since when do circles have holes in the middle? They have a point in the middle. A point is not a hole. A point is defined by coordinates. A hole is a denomination used to measure donut parts.

This is how Wikipedia, not even the paragon (not a shape) of collected human knowledge, defines a circle: “A two-dimensional geometric figure consisting of the set of all those points in a plane that are equally distant from another point.”

Let’s revisit the definition on this flashcard once more, just for comparison: “A Circle is a line that goes around and has a hole in the middle.”

The conspiracy theory falls apart here. Let’s face it, Soviet spies are just smarter than this.



THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A BOLA. Though if there were, it would explain why the two symmetrical bolas are called a “pair o’ bolas.”

Hey, my father thought it was funny.

No longer able to support a proper conspiracy theory, I’m faced with only one other explanation. The geometry fun game is not supposed to be called, “O! Euclid.” It’s supposed to be “Oh, Euclid.”

Needless to say, we kept it.

And then the sun set, the sky cleared, and the stars came out.

Oops, how could this possibly have gotten in here.

I (More or Less) Voted Today

Simon likes to vote. Simon votes whenever given the opportunity. Except that one time when Simon didn't know anything about the school budget and didn't really want to vote on it, but Simon's father dragged Simon to the high school anyway after Simon's mother told Simon how Simon probably would want to vote.

Simon votes at every opportunity whether Simon feels like it or not.

Thus, the well-trained Simon arrived at the town polling center at 8:25 this morning to do what Americans almost by definition do: vote on stuff. In this instance, unlike the school budget scenario, Simon was well-informed and of a very strong mind. Simon marched into the polling station (otherwise known as the #6 Rotary Community Center or something else quaint), arms akimbo, and said, "I am Simon!"

And they said, "Who?"

"Simon!"

"You're not in the book. Have you moved recently?"

"I am Simon! I am here to vote!"

"Are you registered?"

At this point, Simon surprised herself by turning from Giddy Voter to Election Official's Worst Nightmare. "Pardon? You do not have 'Simon' in your book? How can you not have 'Simon' in your book? My permanent address has been the same for almost a quarter of a century. I have voted here since I turned eighteen. I have never voted anywhere else. I am an American citizen AND I WILL VOTE!"

"If you'd like to step over here and fill out an affidavit . . ."

"A what?"

"Fill out this ballot, put the ballot inside the envelope, fill out the envelope, and we'll take it to the board of elections. And they'll verify it."

"They'll verify . . . that I live where I live. Where I have always lived. Where, to the best of the Board of Election's knowledge, I have never not lived?"

"Yes."

"And then what? When will this be counted? Is it like an absentee ballot? They only count it if they need it? What if someone accidentally EATS IT on the way to the Board of Elections and THAT'S the one they NEEDED?"

"If you'd like to go to the Board of Elections and get a court order to use the machine, you can do that."

"That won't be necessary, thank you. I have to go to work. I am a hard-working American and I am late for work, where I work hard. For the British. But that is beside the point. Give me my stupid affidavit."

And so I voted. And then I went to work, where I did not work but harrassed the Board of Elections by phone.

"Excuse me, I am an American citizen and I had to vote on an affidavit. What are you people doing down there, making paper airplanes out of registration documents?"

The woman I spoke with refused to believe that this was the worst thing that had ever happened to anyone on voting day. She consulted her computer, or some deer droppings, it is always hard to tell over the phone, and she informed me that the Board of Elections had sent something to my house in August, but it was returned to them as undeliverable.

Because a piece of mail went astray, they assumed I had moved.

This, evidently, is enough to get a person removed from the Voting Book Thing, which is enough to make it so you can't vote except for on a ballot that will never be counted.

"Were you on vacation in August? Away from home?" said the deer-dropping investigator.

Because when you're not standing at your mailbox waiting for the mailman to physically put your mail in your hands, he just dumps it straight in the garbage. There's a huge garbage can in the back of those trucks. That's not mail back there, that's garbage. Un-de-liverable garbage.

After I call the post office tomorrow to find out whether they're, you know, delivering mail or just receiving and shredding it, I'll be calling back the Board of Elections, and I will do that over and over again until my eloquent castigation of their staggeringly inaccurate operation makes them break down. I am Simon! When Simon doesn't get to vote, others must be made to cry.

More Updates

Now I remember the REALLY IMPORTANT UPDATE that completely slipped my mind the last time I posted. The coyotes in the gravel pit. They are back. I remembered it on Halloween when I took the HMS Genius outside after dinner. She was sniffing around trying to figure out what other dog had been walking all over her territory like Winnie-the-Pooh following his own tracks around a spinney of larch trees . . .

(Real-time update: Learnt new word today. spinney. n. a small wood with undergrowth. 1926 MILNE W-t-P There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them.)

. . . so the dog was grappling with the existential question of who you are if you can't identify yourself by smell, and I was listening to the trick-or-treaters making a commotion in the streets. It was a warmish night and they were out in droves, all the small children. The small children decorated like pretty little petit-fours. Small, short-legged, bite-sized children. But our coyotes must be a kinder, gentler breed of bloodthirsty death-hounds, because as far as I know, nobody was eaten. ALAS. As an update this had enormous potential but due to our coyote population being a bunch of pansies, I'm afraid it comes to nothing.

But I do have another Halloween story full of intrigue, mystery, disguise, thrills, spills, close calls, swift escapes, death-defying feats, fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, and heart-healthy whole grain cereal! One morning many months ago I opened the kitchen cupboard and found this peculiar specimen masquerading as a box of Cheerios.


I was afraid to open it in case armed croutons leapt out and burnt down Troy, but I quickly discovered that so thorough was the disguise that it contained nothing more than a freakishly large bag of Cheerios.

What we have here is the first documented case of either (1) a sting operation set up by a wholesale-sized crouton box to infiltrate the General Mills mafia and expose its heinous crimes, or (2) a Halloween party held in, given by, and attended by foods residing in and around a kitchen cupboard. Since croutons are famously inept and therefore much more likely to get the date of Halloween wrong than to be secret agents, I find that option two explains why this oddity showed up as long ago as last February, and yet did not bring about any arrests.

The substance of this update, in case it is not clear, is that the crouton box has at last managed to wear its costume on the correct date, and that must give it a pleasant feeling of vindication.

My next update concerns the amazing discovery I made on my birthday. It is called Ribbon Pie. It is easy and quick to assemble, given that you have just had a birthday and have a new pie plate and fresh ribbons at hand. Voilà:


The paper flower is of course a garnish, as we all know paper is not edible.

Lastly, I must report that my mum has pulled up her mums and now the prettiest thing in the garden is sage, as seen here.


On a related and obvious note, it snowed.


I am no longer sure what season it is and will save that update for later.

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!