Unexpected Visitors (Another in an Irregular Series of Very Long Stories), Part One: Fairly Aggressive Birds

You may have noticed that I haven’t posted in a while. As I write this, it is Sunday, July 24. Depending on whether or not I can cadge some connectivity in the next several days, this may not be posted until next Monday or Tuesday. But, I have not forsaken you.

On Saturday last, Monkey and I headed west on our now-annual pilgrimage to the Rockies. Our first full day (Sunday) was spent in Boulder. Monkey was meeting some friends she knew in the area, and The Ambassadors and I wandered around the Pearl District, shopping, having lunch, and being called “home dwellers” by one of the myriad homeless ragamuffins that sometimes makes me think that Boulder is the slightly older, American version of Oliver Twist. The highlight of the trip to Boulder, for me, was my now-annual visit to the Boulder Bookstore. I picked up a copy of The Inner Life of Numbers, Oryx and Crake, Chasing the White Dog, and a couple of other titles that caught my eye. Monkey might think I have a compulsion when it comes to buying books from independent bookstores…she’s right.

But not only did we visit with friends while in Colorado, but we were visited frequently, and unexpectedly, on several occasions.

Our first hike of the week was a reprise of a hike that we were forced to abandon two years ago due to inclement weather. If you recall, a hike to Finch Lake was curtailed by persistent rain and hail that drenched us to the bone. This year’s hike was much drier.

After a breakfast of Meadow Mountain eggs and sausage, we trucked up to the Allenspark Trailhead, where we started our nine mile round trip to Finch. Over all, the hike is not terribly interesting. There are a few moments along a ridge, where the once burned-over forest is open enough to provide some pretty views of neighboring peaks, but the hike saves its treasure until the end, really.

We arrived at Finch Lake just in time to enjoy a traditional PB and J lunch by the rocky and grassy shore. The air danced with freshly hatched mayflies, the water teemed with water striders and diving bugs. I sat on a boulder and gazed into the shallows of the lake, on each side of me, The Ambassadors enjoyed their sandwiches. In the periphery of my vision, I saw a flash. Behind me, Monkey let out a muffled, “Ah!” and jumped up from her perch. I turned around to see a gray flash flutter up into the trees.

“What happened,” an Ambassador asked.

“That bird just tried to take my apple!”

A gray jay had swooped from its perch and tried to pilfer Monkey’s lunchtime desert. And so, we had the first of several unexpected visitors. Lucky for Monkey, she was unscathed by the sortie, but she was clearly shaken, and no wonder, since the gray jay was still waiting in the trees above her to make another attack. However, after a few minutes, the bird began moving off, leaving Monkey to finish her apple in relative peace.

After twenty tense minutes, in which Monkey ate her apple with one eye on the trees, we hitched our packs back up and headed down to the trail head. The sky stayed dry. We made it back to the trail head in good time, headed back to the Brown Cabin, and began discussions to decide our next day’s hike.

(Posted from the Wicomico County Public Library. Odds of another post before Sunday: slim.)

Feeding a Passion

Occasionally, in a workshop or a meeting or reading some article somewhere, I'll come across the idea of a "passion." "What is your passion," a presenter may ask. Or a writer might espouse the beauty of her passion in the pages of the latest glossy magazine. I used to think that I didn't have a "passion." I used to think that there were plenty of things I was interested in, but nothing that I was totally crazy about. But, I have since changed my thinking. I realized that, from an early age there were many things that I could potentially point to as a passion. And, the more I thought about it, the longer the list became. I further refined my thinking, realizing that I was listing things that I was merely interested in, such as 19th century American history, rather than those things that were significant enough to my life that I might seriously regret their loss.

Interestingly, as much as I love reading and writing, they didn't make the cut. Don't get me wrong: I love literature. I love writing. But they are somehow not a part of this conversation. Obviously, those things are big parts of who I am as a teacher and as a person. They might even be passions of some sort. But, I have chosen to focus on less obvious parts of me.

I guess I have three things that I might call "passions." Each of them is a thing that I find important to my life in various degrees. Each of them is a thing that I could not do without. The first is food. I am not an amateur gourmet, but I do love to cook. I am not a gourmand, but I do love to eat. I do not have a sensitive palate, but I truly appreciate a splendid meal. I am passionate about food. I grow it. I cook it. I eat it. I appreciate and love it in all of its varieties. I love a well prepared and condimented hot dog just as much as a perfectly prepared and presented filet mignon. I will try anything, in the way of food, no matter how odd it might seem. I read Bon Apetit and Food and Wine. I regret the demise of Gourmet. I eat and talk about food with some of my friends, a lot. So, yes, food is a passion.

My second passion is nature. General, I know, but that is because I couldn't pare this category down from the many possible sub-sets that I had to choose from: hiking, fishing, birding, nature reading, botany, entomology, etc. I have always, since I was a young boy, loved to be outdoors. I especially loved being on the water (which, as many of you know, is an ironic aspect of my personality, since I get sea sick). My first major was biology. I was going to concentrate on marine biology, at first, until I discovered entomology. Of course, then I hit the big brick wall known as organic chemistry, which derailed my scientific ambitions completely. At any rate, I still enjoy a walk in the woods. I am still fascinated by insects and fish. I still have breath-taking moments on new and old trails. I am or have been a member of National Audubon Society, World Wildlife Fund, the Nature Conservancy, the Ocean Conservancy. I am passionate about nature.

Lastly, I am passionate about music. Regular readers know that I write about music quite a bit. I see bands when I can (not as often as I used to), I buy new music I have never heard before regularly (but not as often as I used to), I read about music, and I play music. My first instrument was the drums. Once I moved from my parent's house, however, I had no place for my kit. I sold it. I haven't played since. About four years ago, I bought a guitar and taught myself how to play it. I am still not great shakes, but I can play a dozen chords or so. Recently, I began teaching myself how to play with a slide (it's not as easy as it looks).

This summer, in my quest to keep my brain fresh and my self less complacent, I bought a trumpet. I plan on taking lessons, eventually, since I don't think a trumpet is as easy to self-teach as a guitar, but I don't know when I will start. My plan was to begin this summer, but, since I am back to workshops and meetings already, summer is over. For now, I just content myself practicing the tight-lipped blowing into the mouth piece, trying to make just that one basic sound as pure as possible (again, not so easy). But, musically, I will continue to challenge myself. I don't want to get ahead of myself, but, in a couple of years, I think the violin will be next.

Reading Sign

Woke this morning to new snowfall. Nothing like recent big storms in other parts of our nation, but still another in a long stretch of frozen water torture. On the drive home this morning, the temperature was reported as seven degrees. Old Man Winter and Mother Nature have certainly teamed up to put the screws to a large portion of the land since December. Folks around these parts (as I have told you before) are desperately looking for a change in the weather.

Well, it's not coming any time soon. Those are the facts. The calendar says we have to make it through February and March (the whole thing, around here). That's a long row to hoe, yo. But, there is hope.

As I listened to the monotonous forecast of windchill advisory and chance of snow and ten below and all that Cold Miser-type crap, I looked up into the pale blue of the dimming Nebraska sky. There, in three separate squadrons, flew chevrons of Canada geese, heading in a roughly northwesterly direction. A first sign that a change is gonna come. It will just be a long time coming.

Where the Wild Things Are, Part One: Biscuits, Gravy, and Wet Wilderness

It's finally update time! Been working on getting ready for school (teachers report on the 12th), including a meeting with a fellow teacher on American Lit curriculum, setting up my room--yeah, I am finally getting my own room--and attending a workshop today. Really, it feels like I have already reported for duty, it's just a lot quieter in the hallways. But, let's talk about happier times, like last week, when Monkey and I were spending the week in Colorado with the Ambassadors.

Our drive from Oregon to Colorado was relatively uneventful, save for a nice view of Snake River Canyon near our overnight Motel 6 in Twin Falls, Idaho. Monkey and I stopped for a quick visit with friends in Fort Collins (a very cool town, it seems), before proceeding through falling temperatures and down-pouring skies to Estes Park, where we rendezvoused with the Ambassadors in the parking lot of the local Safeway. Apparently, our cabin was far off the beaten path, and it was easier for them to lead us to it than give us directions.

And, it was. After an additional 25 minutes of driving, through Estes, past Allenspark, and nearly halfway to Boulder, we hung a left past the yellow intersection sign (either an upside down Y or a K with its arm cut off...never did settle that one), and proceeded carefully up a packed (but wet) dirt road, a mile and a half up one ridge and down another, before reaching the secluded cabin that we would spend a week in.

Before we got out of the car, our companions told us to wait until the generator was turned on. Generator? Yup. Our cabin, while not rustic by any means, was powered by a generator that could only be run for three hours at a clip (with a two hour pause in between). While this did not interfere with the operation of the propane gas stove or the propane powered refrigerator, it did leave us without power for all but the darkest hours, and precluded us from showering and flushing toilets during non-generator hours. Minor hardships, of course, most obvious at bed time, when, after the nightly ceremony of shutting down the power, Monkey and I read by the light of our electric halogen headlamps, before turning in. Monkey especially found this humorous.

After a good night's sleep, we rose early to head in to Allenspark for a Meadow Mountain Cafe breakfast. A quaint spot, with good food, the Meadow Mountain has become a favorite of ours (and has been a favorite of some for many years). I enjoyed my biscuits and gravy.

Breakfast consumed, we headed into the Indian Peaks Wilderness Area, rather than Rocky Mountain National Park, itself, to enjoy a hike along Lake Isabella and up to Isabella Glacier. The skies were gray as we arrived at the parking lot, but we were up and off in good spirits. At a trail junction, where we crossed a small stream, I was pleased to get a close-up look at some ruby-crowned kinglets bathing in a small rivulet.

Unfortunately, along the trail, I became dizzily aware that I was still acclimating to the altitude. We started the hike at about 10000 feet and climbed to over 12, and I was pretty woozy for much of it, but, I was digging the trail so much, I simply walked on. After this first hike, I was good for the remainder of the trip.

Also unfortunately, we didn't quite make it to the glacier. As we climbed to the vicinity of our hike's terminus, scrambling over rocks and gingerly sloshing (can one gingerly slosh?) through snow melt streams, a bank of clouds came menacingly over the ridge before us. We were in pretty open territory, so we decided to call it a hike. On our return, the rain followed us down, falling on us intermittently, but never dampening our spirits.

For more photos (including adventures not yet revealed), click here.

Summer Vacation Stage 3: The Final Hours Elapse (Part One)

Let's call our trip east Stage One, our foray to CoMO (as short as it was), Stage Two, and this, our current experience in the Beaver State, Stage Three. I sit here, a Rogue Brutal Bitter at my elbow, as the hours in Eugene tick down. Early tomorrow, we will be heading back east, stopping overnight in Twin Falls, Idaho, before continuing on to a short visit with friends (Suh-weet and Queen of Spades, if you recall) in Fort Collins, and then a week's stay with the Ambassadors in Allenspark. I don't know what kind of connectivity we may have once we leave the relative civilization of Eugene, so these my be my last posts this month. We shall see.

Needless to say, this has been a wonderful visit, between seeing old and dear friends, attending a great concert, quaffing some tasty adult beverages (two favorites: Widmer's Belgian Style Ale and Bridgeport's Black Strap Stout), and hitting some longed-for mountain trails, my stay in Oregon will only be topped by the time soon spent in Colorado, I bet. Let me catch you up.

Monday, Monkey and I drove to the coast for a hike around Heceta Head. Monkey and I had been there before, back in 2005, but we hadn't hiked this particular trail. We started in the fog-bound morning, hiking from a day use area, along the beach for a mile or so. It was magical, walking on the beach, which is so different from the East Coast beaches I am used to. The beaches here are much longer from dune to surf, the dunes are much bigger, the flotsam and jetsam at the water's edge is different, and, well, it is almost always (in my short experience) foggy as hell. We could barely see to the breakers from the water's edge, really. It was so foggy that we almost missed the turn off from the beach, up the brush-covered fore dune, to the Hobbit Trail.

We scampered up the trail, and ascended about five hundred feet (maybe more) through foggy, cool, mossy rain forest. At the lighthouse, we paused for a snack, and to look at the Brandt's cormorants and gulls on Parrot Rock. I've seen guillemots and muirs here, too, but, with no binoculars and low visibility, it was hard to make out much. From the lighthouse (the last built on the Oregon coast, by the way), we doubled back on the trail, and then crossed Highway 101, over to the Valley Trail, which was made more daunting than its name implies by the "Cougar Sighting" sign at the trail head.

But, the sign didn't have a date on it, so we didn't know if a cougar was sighted any time recently, or if they just put these signs up because cougars might be in the area. At any rate, I did spend some time on the trail trying to devise a suitable escape plan, should a cougar attack, but the only plan I could devise involved self-sacrifice, and me yelling "Run!" at Monkey. Not much of a survivable scenario there.

The cougar preoccupation notwithstanding, the east side of the highway was beautiful. Lush, green, dotted with foxglove and other flowers. The short loop around the creek was particularly pleasant. Having traversed back to the north, we crossed the highway again, and headed back to our vehicle. The last hundred yards of the trail, a dense canopy of moss-covered pines, twisted and bent into surreal positions, prompted Monkey to wax fittingly poetic, as she said, "It looks like Dr. Seuss in here." And at that moment, I could just imagine the Lorax hopping out from behind a tree.

What's In It For Me?

After a full week of school, and five days in a row of bike commuting (not to mention the prior week in which I biked everywhere (except my guitar lesson)), I got to thinking about why I have chosen to do this. It all might just come down to something my grandmother used to say all the time: "As you are now, I once was. As I am now, you someday will be." I know this is a cliche that she probably heard a million times (and probably from her mother), but, it certainly made an impact on me. And the older and weaker she got, the more of an impression that trite turn of phrase made on me.

I haven't decided to ride my bike to save money, although the timing would indicate (and I may have even claimed) that I am doing it just for that purpose. When gas was $2.50, I drove to work. When gas was $4.00, all of a sudden , I was Mister Two-wheel Commuter. But, how much money am I really saving? Well, a ten-mile round trip every day adds up to 50 miles a week. If my Honda Civic gets 25 MPG (which it about does in the city), that is a grand total of two gallons of gasoline. Grand savings total between seven and nine dollars, depending on prices. Even if you run that out over a year, it's somewhere less than $500. Not a huge savings, but, it's something.

I haven't decided to ride my bike to save the planet. I am certain that someone has a host of statistics to show that my 50 miles of biking prevents the release of x cubic feet of carbon emissions, or what have you. Which is great. I am glad that I may be impacting the planet a little bit less than I have before. I am all about that. I recycle plastics, glass, paper, tin. I reuse my Ziploc sandwich bag, the cottage cheese tubs, the milk jugs. I make garden stakes out of old broom handles and sticks that fall from the maple out back. I compost. I don't water my lawn. I pack out my trash on hikes. I try to keep the climate control in the house at barely comfortable levels. Jimmy Carter would be proud of me. But, I am not pedaling into work every morning, beating my chest and yelling, "I am saving the planet! What are you doing?"

I haven't decided to ride my bike to be cool or unique. There are several people who bike into work everyday. Many have been doing it for a long time. It doesn't make me different. What makes me different is the 25-year old yellow and aqua Giant Iguana that I ride into work. You can see me coming a mile away, and you have to look twice to see if I have on one glove (a la the King of Pop circa "Billie Jean") or leg warmers (a la Jennifer Beals a la Flashdance). But I digress. Besides, I am already as cool as I can be and as unique as I care to be. How could I improve on that?

No, as I firmly entrench myself in the middle years of my time here on Earth(my plan for immortality notwithstanding), I figured it was time to stop thinking about riding and just do it. Enough with the excuses: "I have too much to carry in to work." "I don't know what to do about clothes." "My bike is too old." "It's going to get cold." Well, there are means to carrying things in to work on a bike, and the clothing situation does require some planning and forethought, but not too much to pretty easily pull it off. An old bike can still be a useful bike, with some tuning up. Now, the cold? Well, that's a different story. Yes, it will get cold. That one, we'll have to evaluate as Winter approaches.

But, why am I doing it? Well, one reason, which I didn't really discover until I started doing it, was that I get to see the sun come up, say hello to people, and watch a heron stalk the shores of a small pond everyday. Going a littler slower can put you in touch with your surroundings just a little bit more. But, most of all, I think I do it because, when I think of my grandmother, only in her late sixties, struggling for breath and wheeling a canister of oxygen behind her as she takes a set of steps one riser at a time (a state I don't expect and hope never to find myself in), I think that that is how I "someday will be;" I won't be able to ride. I do it because I can!

So, I Got That Going For Me (Which Is Nice)

After three harrowing days of being back to work, I find that there is at least one thing that perhaps all laborers might agree with. There is nothing like a work week to make one appreciate the weekend. Since June 2, I have watched the calendar roll along with little regard for where I was in the flow of the week. What is Sunday, after all, when Monday is an off day? Is there an intrinsic difference between Friday and Wednesday that gives it a different feeling? For me, the answer is, not when you're off the clock!

But, perhaps, after a period of time, this blissful temporal ignorance loses its bliss. Maybe, after nine weeks of waking up and thinking, "What day is this?" one feels as if something is missing. This, as I may have mentioned before, has been an awesome summer, so, I don't really feel like I am overly vacationed. I could go on for a few more weeks, maybe. However, the beginnings of that ennui was raising its head. I was sensing an inkling of impending blah-ness.

Yet, here I am, after just three days of work, genuinely excited for the newly arrived weekend! Now, I don't expect any sympathy for my "predicament." I don't deserve any. I know many of you would love to be in my shoes from June through August (but maybe wouldn't dig the September to May part, but that is a-whole-nother story (as they used to say back home)). But, it's nice to feel that "Friday high" again. Stay tuned for an upcoming entry on the "Sunday crash."

Spotted a great blue heron on the shores of the pond near the YMCA this fine, cool morning, along with about a dozen geese that are laying waste to the trail. It's nice to see the geese, I just wish they'd keep their business in the grass. The friendly morning people theory is still being successfully tested. Come on Afternooners! I hope you're not the kind of stupid people who eat monkeys.

Rocky Mountain High (A Not-Quite-As-Long-As-The-Italian-Story Story, In Its Entirety)

Two Sundays ago, Monkey and I loaded up The Penguin and headed for Estes Park, Colorado. The Ambassadors had invited us to spend a few days with them out there where they spend their summer vacation each year. It was mighty generous of them, but, that's just the kind of folks they are.

The drive out took us a bit longer than we expected, after stops in Ogallala and three other places, most likely because we hit the congested area of I-25 and US 34 at a busy time, but, after an uneventful drive through Nebraska and southeastern Wyoming, we arrived at our destination. We had a nice dinner at a local establishment, walked around the town of Estes Park a bit (nice river walk), and then discussed the next day's plan over some wine.

We planned on a breakfast at a little place in a town just down the way called Allenspark, and then a hike to Ouzell Lake from the Wild Basin Trail Head. Round trip was about 9.8 miles.

Breakfast was tasty, and we were on the trail by about 9 am. It was a great hike, with wonderful views of several waterfalls, glimpses of distant (and not-so-distant) peaks, some good gains in altitude, and a idyllic lake at our chosen terminus (we could have hiked for another five miles if we'd chosen to).

This was my first trip to Rocky Mountain National Park, and it was astounding. It was also my first visit to a place with any altitude since Monkey and I were in Oregon in 2005. It was strenuous at times, not being used to the rarefied air at 9000 feet and above (I think our highest point of the trip was just about 12000). However, even with short breath and a spot of dizziness here and there, this was one of the best hikes I had ever been on.

The only negative to the hike was the thunderclouds that rolled in just as we got to the lake. Our return route (after a short pause for lunch--you guessed it: PB and J!) left us exposed for about three-quarters of a mile along a ridge. It's not good to be exposed in a thunder storm. The rain is a pain, but the real worry is lightning strikes. If you are standing on a ridge with no trees around you, that makes you the tallest thing for miles. Lightning likes to strike tall things. So, we covered that stretch on the ridge pretty quickly. It didn't really start to rain seriously until we were almost back into the tree line, so we also stayed pretty dry as well as avoided the lightning. Beside the danger of being hit by a bolt of lightning and a little bit of rain, it was a great introduction to the Rockies. And, I saw a blue grouse on the trail (that's a bird), and, I'd never seen one of those before!

We made pasta at home and ate copious amounts that evening and then retired early. The next morning we planned to rise at 3 am to try and catch the sunrise at a place called Chasm Lake.

I know I said that the previous hike was one of the best I'd ever been on, but the in-the-dark-of-morning hike to Chasm Lake was head and shoulders above that one! We left the Longs Peak Trail Head at 4 am, and, with our headlamps lighting the way through the trees, ascended pretty quickly to the treeline. The sky was just beginning to lighten as we broke out of the trees and continued to ascend across a broad open area. At one point, as Monkey and I stopped to rest, I looked off to the northeast and saw, silhouetted against the just lightening sky, a female elk and a calf. I pointed them out to Monkey just as we noticed that we were standing not 100 feet from a herd of perhaps forty or more elk. It was amazing to watch them slowly move off to the southwest, but, we were trying to make it another couple of miles before the sun was up, and it didn't look like we were going to get there in time.

We reached the ridge top in full sun, took some pictures and enjoyed the alpenglow on the face of Longs Peak. However, we still had another three-quarters of a mile to go to the lake. We had gotten out pretty far ahead of our companions, but decided (on their assertion) to continue on. We were even higher than we'd been the day before, and I still wasn't completely acclimated, I guess (or maybe I was just hungry). I had to stop at one point and sit down for a few minutes, but, after some water and a Cliff bar, I was good to go.

After my "recovery," Monkey and I were treated to what I think was the most picturesque part of the whole trip. After crossing a thin trail along the side of a ridge, which included a snowbank, we found ourselves in a beautiful alpine meadow, with a creek running through it, columbines and other alpine flowers growing all around, the mountains looming all around us, and a spectacular view into a pond-studded gorge to the east. I wish I could have stayed there forever. It might be the most beautiful place I have ever seen with my own eyes.

We paused just outside a US Park Ranger patrol cabin, smelling coffee and bacon. The lake was close, but our companions were nowhere to be seen. We decided to walk back, hoping to run into them on the way. We might have to double back again, but, at least we would be all together. After getting only halfway across the meadow, we saw them coming across the snowbank. We signaled to each other, and Monkey and I waited for them to come on.

From the meadow, there was one more challenge before we reached the lake. We scrambled up about 100 yards of rocks, accompanied by several yellow-bellied marmots, and there, just below us, at the foot of the peaks, was our destination. It was very cold and windy at Chasm Lake, so, after a snack and a really quick nap (remember, we got up at 3am), we made our way back to the trail head. Today's hike was about 8.5 miles.

After breakfast, we napped for about an hour and then headed to Boulder (about 40 miles) for some wandering and a really expensive dinner. Both were good. We slept well that night.

The next day, we took it kind of easy, making breakfast at the cabin and taking a drive around the park. Old Fall River Road, a one-way gravel road ascends to an Alpine Visitors Center at about 12000 feet, with many unbelievable views along the way. Here we saw more falls, more elk, the Never Summer Mountains, and, on the way down Trail Ridge Road (the other park road), three moose! Monkey was especially excited to see the moose, since that and bears are the two animals she always says she wants to see (I was especially excited we did NOT see a bear). We then toured our way down to Grand Lake, had some ice cream, and then were on our way back to Estes. More pasta at the cabin (good pesto!), and more "what shall we do tomorrow" talk, and we were off to bed.

The next day, Monkey and I were set to depart, but, we rose a bit early (6 am) and headed out to Glacier Gorge Trail Head for a short (5.4 mile round trip) hike to Mills Lake. This was not a better hike than the night hike, but Mills Lake was probably the most beautiful lake I've ever seen (and the second most beautiful place, next to that alpine meadow). This was a pretty gentle hike, just the way to spend your last morning in the park. And, we left early enough that we mostly avoided the huge crowds out and about on our way back--very busy trail! On our hike back down, we saw lots of families hiking using child carrier backpacks to allow their tiny tots to accompany them into the wilderness, and hydration backpacks (Monkey is contemplating getting one of these) and BPA-free water bottles (I gotta get me one of those!) to combat high altitude thirst.

We had another good breakfast in Allenspark with The Ambassadors and The Ambassadors' Children (who had arrived in the wee hours and declined to accompany us on our hike). While we waited for our food, one of The Ambassadors and I walked down to a place called the Fawn Brook Inn, where they have about a million bird feeders out. I was surrounded by hummingbirds (rufous and broad-tailed). I had never seen so many birds in one place in my life. It was amazing!

After breakfast, we packed up and hit the road, departing at about 2 pm MDT. A shorter drive home than on the way out, and we were home by 11pm CDT, certainly tired, but mostly grateful that we had the opportunity to see the Rockies!

For more photos, click here.

Little David, Big Gardens (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Six)

We started our final day in Firenze at the Bargello, another museum of note. Housed in another old palace, this museum is home to sculptures, sculptures, and more sculptures. Perhaps the most important piece at the Bargello is Donatello’s David. Different in every way to Michelangelo’s, Donatello’s sculpture is bronze, about five feet high, and portrays David as a more traditional, slight, boy. The smaller David still has an air of confidence about him, but the earlier Donatello possesses little of the majestic awe that Michelangelo’s seventeen-foot masterpiece does.

Another difference between the big David and the little David: the little David was being restored while we were there, so all we got to see was the statue, face down on a bench, behind a fence that protected that separated the restoration from the general museum-going population. Of course, they were making a big deal about the restoration, with video displays, and pamphlets, and a museum worker answering questions behind the fence, and, it was unusual to actually see them doing the restoration (which consisted, as far as we could see on that particular day, of dripping some weak acid on a tiny portion of the bronze and then rubbing it with a Dremel (yes, Anon AMVB, a Dremel)) right there on the museum floor, but, I really would have liked to seen the thing upright and on display…oh well, I guess we’ll just have to go back.

Our exit from the Bargello was delayed by a short downpour, which we watched from the balcony that overlooked the courtyard, but after that was over, we headed out in search of a suitable lunch facility.

We snagged a couple of foccacia sandwiches at a nearby bar, and then decided to head up to Santa Croce, former home to Fra Angelico and Savanorola. The monastery is loaded with Angelico frescoes that are, so we heard, remarkable. However, Santa Croce closes at 2pm. We got there at 2:20. So, not frescoes for us. We wandered around some parts of town where we hadn’t been, and stumbled on a neat little piazza around the art school, then, we decided to head to Boboli Gardens. It was a pretty day, no rain, and we felt like some outdoor activity would be a nice change of pace to our museum overload of the last few days.

The gardens are huge. We covered about a quarter of them in three hours. We also got to check out the porcelain museum (it’s everything you might expect). My favorite part of the gardens was the Isolotta, a large water feature, with sculptures and fountains. We spotted a grey heron (a European relative to the great blue hereon of North America) at the Isolotta, and a lady feeding the hundred cats that wander the gardens on our walk to the Isolotta.

It’s not much of a garden in the way of blooming flowers and such. I guess it’s more of a walking-around-‘cause-your-rich-and-you-got-nothing-to-do-all-day kind of garden (after all, this too was owned by the Medicis, and they were rich, and most of them had little to do all day, I imagine, except the ones that were popes and cardinals and governors and such, but that leaves a big Medici remainder, really). That said, it was one of the most enjoyable parts of our visit to Firenze, most likely because we were outside.

The only disappointment on this leg of our journey was our inability to find the silver museum, which, like the porcelain museum which held a mess o’ Medici porcelain, held a number of shiny Medici services. Monkey really wanted to see the silver museum; however, by the time we found it, it was closed. So, we hoofed it on back to the pad to shower up for dinner at a place we’d read about in the New York Times. I forget what it was called, but it was okay. After one last Florentine gelato, it was back to the B&B to ready ourselves for a big shift in our Italian extravaganza. Tomorrow morning, we were renting a car and driving the Italian countryside!

The Marauding Pigeons of Firenze (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Four)

An overcast day in Firenze greeted us as we dined on cereal at the B&B. Our host, Bruno, offered us an umbrella, and we took him up on it. We had afternoon reservations for the Accademia Museum, so we decided to fill our morning with more reliquaries and, perhaps, some shopping.

Our first stop was the Chapel of the Medicis, near San Lorenzo. There was a small admission charge, as there seemed to be at every place we went in Firenze (except the Duomo). Inside, the first floor was non-descript, and hard to figure out, since they provide little in the way of interpretive signage or literature, either in English or Italian (or French or German, for that matter). We managed to figure out that we were in a large room that housed the tombs of at least two dozen lesser lights of the Medici clan. And, of course, around the room, in vitrines for display, the gleaming wealth housing the bones of the saints.

Speaking of saints, this trip, among many things, opened Monkey’s and my eyes up to the fact that we don’t know much about the saints of the Catholic church (nominally, our faith of heritage). Granted neither of us are practicing Catholics, and I, myself, am dedicatedly unreligious, maybe even unspiritual (I have been accused of being “dead inside”), but, in our youths, we got quite a bit of schooling and indoctrination in the faith. However, on this trip, it was clear to us that these Italian Catholics are major league players. By comparison, we were, even in our Communion-taking heyday, no better than a traveling squad of barnstormers, playing state fairs for half the gate (okay, maybe a bad sports analogy, but, this is my show).

Case in point: Saint Zenobius. Who? Exactly. But this guy was everywhere. Every church had a fresco, or a polyptych that either took a Zenobian miracle as its subject, or included the man in the line up of admirers of Madonna con Bambino. We had never heard of this guy. This seemed like a huge gap in our knowledge. After all, if the guy cured the blind and raised the dead, and, as we learned, always won the bike in the conversion drive at his grade school, why hadn’t we heard of him? Especially since Italy seemed to be crawling with propaganda celebrating his triumphs. Well, here’s why: it turns out, he is a native of Firenze (born and raised in the 3rd century or so). He’s the patron saint of the town. Another bad sports analogy? St. Zenobius is to Firenze as Cal Ripken is to Baltimore. So, while he IS the Mack Daddy of Firenze, outside of town, he’s just a minor saint. He looks good in a miter, though.

Now, as I said earlier, the Medici Chapel is pretty plain on the first floor. I was surprised by this. We’re talking about one of Firenze’s greatest families, the clan responsible for some of the best (and worst) moments in medieval Italian history, some seriously wealthy folk. What was up with this cement and brick snooze-fest of a chapel? The answer, my friends, was just up that little stairway to the back of the building. Shall we?

At the top of the stairs, Monkey and I walked into a chapel of grand magnificence (you know, not just regular magnificence). Walls, ceilings, floors were all gleaming black marble with colorful inlaid designs and crests and such. The chapel held six tombs of the big name Medicis, and each tomb was more ornate than the last, and, atop each, a larger-than-life marble statue of the deceased. Ostentatious, as well as impressive. Behind the altar, in the sacristy, were a few displays of priestly garb and equipage, as well as a few dozen more reliquaries. But, in another chapel, just down the hall, there was more to see.

Another small chapel, this one in white marble, held the tombs of Lorenzo Medici and his brother Giuliano, each topped with a pair of statues sculpted specifically for the purpose by Michelangelo himself. In all, the four statues represented Dawn, Day, Twilight, and Evening. And with that, this was clearly the Medici-style chapel I expected to see.

Leaving the chapel, we wandered to the steps of the nearby San Lorenzo church, where we planned our lunch strategy: after wandering through the open air market in the piazza, we would peruse the nearby central market and buy some bread and cheese and fruit, and have a little picnic on the steps of the church. This was a great plan that started off without a hitch, as we bought some cherries and some cheese and a loaf of bread, but, as we sat down to eat, we were immediately surrounded by every pigeon in Tuscany. We packed up our stuff in a rush and moved down to a different location, across the street and down a little way from the piazza, but, after only a few moments, the flying rats found us, again. We grabbed our stuff and headed to the museum, not knowing where or how we would eat. (By the way, I don't know why this photo is oriented this way, I've rotated it on my hard drive, but it keeps popping up here in an un-rotated fashion. Any suggestions as to why, technophiles?)

After nibbling on a bit of bread and cheese while standing outside the museum, I decided to walk the remainders of our meal back to the B&B, where it could wait for us when we returned. I didn’t want to have to schlep our groceries through the museum. So, a quick-footed 25 minute round trip brought me back to the Accademia, where we prepared to be awed by the large hands of David.

On Highways to Flyways

Today, Monkey and I joined a pair of our new-found friends for a trip out west to see one of the wonders of the natural world. This weekend marks the high point of the annual sandhill crane migration, the route of which passes right through Nebraska. From Lincoln, it is about an hour and a half out I-80 to Kearney/Grand Island, where the epicenter of the migration, the Platte River, winds its shallow way through the plains.

It was a seasonal sunny day, and our treks over the mushy back roads offered us spectacular views of numbers of flocks of cranes blanketing subbled corn fields. Many birds were within several yards of the road. It was awesome.

We drove into town for some grub at a local bistro, then headed back out to the river as the sun fell. At dusk, the birds leave the fields and roost en masse on the sand bars of the Platte. What an amazing sight, to see and hear thousands upon thousands of these reddish-grey birds, with wingspans of 80 inches, coast in to land among flocks of thousands of their fellows on the sand below. And, in the background, the orange sun setting in a pink and purple sky.

What a beautiful day.

GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLS!

The past weekend saw a reprise of the weekend before that and the weekend before that: me shovelling snow. The forecast promises with 40% accuracy that I may be doing the same thing this coming weekend. At least it's only two or four inches at a time.

I sit here typing this entry, knowing that my next one (after this one) will signal me reaching a goal that I set for myself. It is important to set goals. Without them, how will we know that we have achieved anything. For many the goals are small (remember that awful Bill Murray-Richard Dreyfuss film What About Bob?--"baby steps"). For others, goals are large (see Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, or (sadly, a goal never to be realized) Dennis Kucinich--when Amy Pohler is playing you on SNL as Alfred E. Newman meets Alfalfa, you got no shot.

I have set several goals for myself this year, none of them explicitly voiced or even written down. Inside, however, I knew what I wanted to accomplish this year. I set birding goals: fifty Nebraska birds by the end of the year--nope, didn't get this one. Three hundred life birds--nope, not yet. I set school goals: survive this first year--so far, so good. Make it through first semester without physically assaulting a sophomore--I think I am going to make it. I set writing goals: finish a second novel: not even close. Finish revising last novel: did that.

My blog goal was decidedly unlarge. I wanted to post 120 times this year. That is an average of 10 posts per month, which goes about once every 3 days. I thought that was a reasonable goal. And, with my next post, it shall be realized.

Hooray for me!

North to Ceresco!

After two straight days of working on school-related things, I decided to take a morning off and do one of the things I love to do. I tossed the binocs and a map and guide book in the Penguin, along with a power bar and some Gatorade, and off I went to Jack Sinn Wildlife Management Area, twelve miles north of Lincoln and just south of the town of Ceresco. I missed the turn off for the WMA, since the sign is buried in saltgrass, so I got the opportunity to whip through Ceresco. It consists of a Mobil station, Jack's Automotive Shop, and a grain silo (how cliche).

I spun the Penguin around and made the turn on Little Salt Road (The guide book told me to turn east on "the gravel road one mile south of Ceresco." First, how hard would it be to change "the gravel road" to something more definitive, like Little Salt Road? There was a big ass road sign, so it's not like no one would know Little Salt Road when they got there. Second, how would one know they were one mile south of Ceresco if they were headed NORTH?! Let's just say that the guide book MUST be accompanied by a Delorme Atlas at all times.).

Anyway, the trip was okay, even if the gate on the "parking lot" (a patch of grass with a fence around it) was locked. The not-often traveled gravel roads afforded plenty of time for me to sit and scope the land. Plus, I found a different parking lot along the same road--but WEST of the highway--stupid guide book. It was nice to get out and see some more of this flat, flat country. And, I got to see a few new birds for Nebraska, and one new bird for the year--a yellow-billed cuckoo.

In other news, our CD player just broke. I'm thinking a docking station to replace it. We'll see what Monkey has to say about that. At any rate, What I am listening to right now is KZUM.

Sure, It's Still the Dissected Till Plains, But, Well, It's Just Different

Feeling a bit Nader, today. Don't really know why. Perhaps it has something to do with my realization that this is a really different place than central MO. I am not talking politically (I knew it was different in that way--not that different, however). I am talking about geography, here, people. You know maps and weather and altitude and Mercator projections and topography and biospheres (okay maybe that's not geography, but, it's connected).

Monkey and I were on a little rise northeast of town, looking down on the plains below, and it was flat, man. I mean, there are some vistas in central MO, don't get me wrong. I mean, there's a stretch along I-70E, after you pass Kingdom City, where it seems like there isn't a hill forever, but this was flatness of biblical proportions. I was imagining it before European settlers came, bringing plows and trees, and I thought, "Shoot, no wonder they farmed the hell out of this place. You could just hook the plow up to the mule and run a furrow clear to tomorrow without an incline to interrupt your rhythm." Of course, I don't know jack about farming, so maybe that is not what they thought, but I do know that most of your early settlers who came this far west didn't speak such great English, so, whatever they said it was probably in German or Norwegian or Russian. But, I digress.

It's just different out here. The wildlife is different: black squirrels, western kingbirds, western meadowlarks, few woodpeckers (compared to MO). I have been on a few scouting missions to various spots that one might bird, but, owing to the hour, the season, the weather, and the geography, I haven't had much luck. I know that this is a hot spot during the spring migration, but I am still trying to feel out the rhythms of the rest of the year.

No, I don't expect to figure that all out in less than a month, but I just sense that it's not going to be the same here in many ways. I'll keep you posted (of course).

As a side note, and on a positive one, as well, Monkey made some kick-ass zucchini bread yesterday from fresh farmer's market zukes. And, my orphan tomato plants have several buds apiece on them--I can almost taste them 'maters, now!

In Which Our Boy Gets His Ass Up Off of the Sofa

Sunday was the opposite of Saturday. I mostly did errands (cleaned the house, grocery shopped), and, except for a poorly conceived trip to the library (closed for Easter, silly), it was a pretty good day. Took puppy for a short chilly walk around the lake, and watched a crow chase a red tailed hawk up Hinkson Creek. Pretty awesome.

I did manage to skip the return of Sopranos Fellowship Sunday, however. I had a bit of work to do to get ready for school today, and I got engrossed in the latest episodes of Planet Earth. This is one nature show that puts Jacques Cousteau out of mind. The cinematogragphy is amazing. They pulled all the stops out for this one. It is amazing enough watching great white sharks flying through the air as they ambush fur seals, but to watch a night attack by a pride of lions on a full-grown elephant was brutally unique. One thing you do get from this show is a real idea of how rough life on Earth really is. We humans are so far removed from the reality of natural life on our planet that it is not even funny. Don't get me wrong. I am more than content not to have to worry about getting yanked out of my house by a patrolling cougar, but, as I putter to work each morning, it would be beneficial for me to remember that every robin has to kill a worm to survive, every red tailed hawk has to take down some sparrows to make it through the day. That's just the way it is. "Nature, red in tooth and claw," said Tennyson. He was right.

Today, I finally finished East of Eden. Boring Election and Monkey are correct. It is an awesome book. I haven't yet decided if I like it or The Grapes of Wrath better, but I think I am leaning toward Eden. It is just so well-written. Artfully conceived, beautiful prose. A sprawling and heart-wrenching story (I do love those). And a clear philosophical through-line. How have I lived so long without reading this book? Steinbeck, indeed, rules (along with Flannery O'Connor, Louise Erdritch, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and a host of others).

In addition, basketball was cut short tonight because I torqued my ankle...again! It hurt like a bitch, but it is behaving itself, at the moment. I predict I will not only be able to walk tomorrow, but I'll be able to play in the first softball game of the season on Sunday. That's right, loyal reader, the season starts this week. I'll be playing on two teams, a Sunday co-rec league with some folks from work/school and the old Wednesday Deadliners league. Of course, I will only be able to play in a few games before it's off to Lincoln with the Monkeys, but I plan to have a bit of fun and drink a few beers while I can.

The annual MAP testing starts tomorrow for us. The No Child Left Behind-mandated, state-devised assessment of whether we is learnin' the churlen good is always a fun time for everyone. The best part is constantly explaining to the kiddos why they have to take the test, knowing full well that the only real answer is, "Just because you have to." It means nothing to them, simply because it has no direct effect on them. It is not a graduation requirement. It does not alter their grade in any way. They have no stake in the test at all. The real wonder is that so many of them do it without question. Jesus, they don't even get their scores back until their senior year. Maybe I ought to grade their papers on the same schedule?

The saving grace for this episode of the school year is that it only takes two days, now. When I first started, we used to take a full week to do the testing. It was brutal. A death march of testing.

On a completely unrelated topic: why is Don Imus still on the radio?

Staying Out of Trouble

The Marxist protest passed with little incident, yesterday. Check here for news of the event.

I avoided the downtown area yesterday, choosing to spend the late morning and early afternoon at Eagle Bluffs, on my first true birding trip of the year. That's sad, but true. It appears that most of the ducks have moved on, but I did get a great look at the area's resident bald eagle and several beautiful views of a northern harrier patroling the area. Not a great day, but an adequate (though late) start for the year.

I proceeded directly to the Hyve, and, on the way back, could see a crowd of people several blocks south gathered on 9th Street. A helicopter hovered overhead.

Once home, I napped inadvertently.

That evening, I attended the closing night of the school Spring musical The Leader of the Pack. I was entertained. It was mostly a musical revue, with a loose framework of a story, as all of the songs were written by Ellie Greenwich, a song-writing power of the 60s. I'd never heard of her, but I did know her songs. The kids did a fine job. Unfortunately, the woman behind me showed up late with a three year old that couldn't keep his mouth shut. Annoying, really.

Today, it's laundry and grading (with a healthy dose of basketball thrown in). It is a beautiful day. The dog will be walked, for sure.

In other news, Shearwater has signed with Matador Records. Misra loses another horse from its stable. The Shearwater website says that Matador will be re-releasing the band's last album, Palo Santo, in an expanded, re-recorded version. This raises the question: does one buy an album one already has, if it has new songs, etc.? I say, "No."

A Beautiful Morning (A Very Long Story, Part Three)

It's a beautiful morning
Think I'll go outside for a while
--The O'Jays, "It's a Beautiful Morning"

Day Three

Tuesday was a beautiful day. Sunshine and cool temps. A perfect day for a walk in the park. Which is exactly what we came there to do (among other things). Our first hike of the day was planned as a loop, first to the sister peaks of the North and South Bubbles (I call them peaks, but the highest point on the island is 1500 feet), then down to Jordan Pond and up Mount Pemetic, before returning to our starting point.

We headed first to the South Bubble, to see Balance Rock, a huge boulder left sitting on the edge of the South Bubble when the glaciers of the last Ice Age receded. It looks pretty precariously set, but it has been there for 10,000 years or so (I assume), so it must be as stable as anything else in nature (refer to the second law of thermodynamics). The hike to the rock was pretty easy and very pleasant, with juncos and a few warblers calling in the cool morning air. In some places the sun peaked through the trees, in other places, the trees cleared and allowed the sun to fill the clearing. It was a welcomed change from the gray skies of the previous two days. At the peak, the views were as good as they get from 500 feet. At the rock, Monkey gave it a push to ensure that it was indeed stable (what if it had fallen, I wonder--we would have skulked home as quickly as a pair of Monkeys can skulk, I imagine). From the top, we could see a bus stop on the road below--a bus tour of the park. We waved, not expecting the driver to see us, or care, if he did; to our surprise, he honked his horn. What fun, to be a part of someone's Acadia National Park bus tour. It probably happens all the time!

From the South Bubble, we backtracked up to the North Bubble. Three hundred additional feet of altitude made the views all the better! Looking south onto Jordan Pond, with the sunshine and wispy clouds, the scene was postcard-perfect. We lingered here for a while, just soaking up the sights (and some water).

Backtracking just a bit more, we headed south to Jordan Pond. Here, the rocks were still a bit wet from the rain and mist of the days before, and we found the footing ocassionally treacherous. Monkey fell once and for a few moments, she was an unhappy little Monkey, but we pushed on.

As a side note, I gotta tell you, between her falling down and my getting us lost half the time, it's a wonder we survive some of these back country excursions. But survive we do, and we really do love every minute of it (well, almost every minute of it).

The flat land around Jordan Pond was easy and pretty. This mile of our hike was the quickest and least strenuous, but (unbeknownst to us) we were about to put in some serious work!

The hike up Pemetic was long, and portions of it were steep and relatively technical (no iron rungs here). At points, the views were spectacular (we were ascending to over 1200 feet), and the hike was ocassionally halted so I could chase birds (most of which I never caught up with--birding in evergreen is a dicey proposition, I learned in Oregon). At the peak of Pemetic, however, the view was not quite as good as some of the other portions of the hike up the mountain. Because of the terrain at the top, you don't get the same panoramic view as on other mountains, and the long plateau doesn't allow for spectacular "drop off"-type scenes. But it was a good hike, nonetheless.

According to the map, it looked like our trip down was to be a tough one. We were about to descend about 800 feet in a half a mile. That is a pretty quick slope. And, guess what. Maps don't lie.

Four Things

Life goes on. A pretty exhausting couple of days at work, but the end is in sight, and, as tiring as it is, I have been treated to some amazing student work. It's been a real affirmation that I am doing some things right. Hooray for me.

Timmy Ocean tagged me today. Rather than ship out an email, I thought I'd just post my responses here. Play along in the "comments" section, if you like.

Four jobs you have had in your life:
1. house painter, Eagle Painting
2. sales associate, Macy's
3. Jack of all trades, from accounts payable to zen provider, Baltimore Quality Meats/Belvedere Caterers
4. teacher, Columbia Public Schools

Four movies you would watch over and over:
1. Raising Arizona
2. Joe Versus the Volcano
3. The Maltese Falcon
4. Cool Hand Luke
(BONUS RESPONSES)
5. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence
6. Jaws

Four places you have lived:
1. Columbia, MO
2. Columbia, MD
3. Perry Hall, MD
4. Baltimore, MD

TV shows you love to watch:
1. Lost
2. NCAA basketball
3. Cardinals baseball
4. House
(BONUS RESPONSE)
5. Homicide (I STILL miss it)

Four places you have been on vacation:
1. Bar Harbor, ME
2. Eastern Kansas (RV birding trip)
3. Bethany Beach, DE
4. Ocean City, MD

Four of my favorite foods:
1. crabcakes
2. stuffed flounder
3. chili
4. kielbasa and sauerkraut

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. on a sailboat in the South Pacific
2. on an island in the South Pacific
3. at a raw bar in Cross Street Market
4. on a plane on my way to the South Pacific

Mowing the Lawn is Better Than Nothing

Cashier toothpick stuck in the ground
Tiny lawnmower to mow me down
I could get lost in a lunchbox
Lie low in the mittens in the lost and found.
--Soul Coughing, "Down to This"

A better weekend than last, this time around. For some reason, last weekend was just a wash. I felt like I did nothing (pretty much because I did nothing), the weather was dreary, my allergies were a pain, and I was beat all weekend. This weekend was productive and warm and mostly sunny. Friday night was fun; Saturday was full of errands, lawn mowing, reading, and a trip to a mediocre out of town restaurant; and today was a busy day of birding, cleaning, pizza and appointment TV viewing/fellowship.

Tomorrow begins the last full week of school. Exams start on Friday and finish on the 31st. Memorial Day weekend brings a drive down to a wedding in Conroe, Texas, which means I'll miss the airshow again this year. And after school is out, the Monkey and I are headed to Maine!

I'll try to post pics of the dryer later this week!

Peace.

Proof of Something. Just Not Sure What.

I heard a sound.
I turned around.
I turned around to find the thing that made the sound.
--They Might Be Giants, "Fingertips"

Y'know, I hate movies based on stage plays. Other than Casablanca (from the play Everybody Comes to Rick's), Twelve Angry Men, and Inherit the Wind, most of the movies I have seen that were originally plays have a certainly static quality to them. The dialogue, which seems to work on stage, strikes a forced, flat note on film. The mise en scene that is, I guess, real or stunning or fitting for a stage, just looks like a boring room in a boring house on film; the film director has to work really hard to do something to justify the camera's presence on the set of a movie adapted from a stage drama. It just never works for me. It always just feels like an episode of American Playhouse (which actually plays better than a filmed adaptation of a play).

Why do I bring this up? This past weekend, Monkey and I watched Proof. John Madden (the OTHER John Madden) directed. Gwyneth Paltrow reprised her London stage role as Catherine, the brilliant, scared-she-might-go-crazy-doing-all-that-math daughter, and Anthony Hopkins (brilliant, went-crazy-doing-all-that-math, dead dad Robert), Jake Gyllenhal (drum-playing-anti-uber-nerd-math-geek-afraid-he's-over-the-hill-at-twenty-six-kinda-got-a-thing-for-Catherine love interest Hal), and Hope Davis (controlling, bugging-out-of-Chicago-while-Dad-goes-ape-shit-crazy-but-now-he's-dead-so-I'm-back-to-tell-you-how-it's-going-to-be sister Claire) joined her for a filmed adaptation of David Auburn's 2001 Tony Award-winning play. Auburn also wrote the screenplay, so the film has every possible chance to be a--well, you read the last paragraph.

By the way, could you imagine the football coach-turned-analyst John Madden directing this movie? ("Okay, Gwynny, you're over here. Okay? And, you know, you're mad and sad and glad and all at the same time, like you just finished a big turducken, and you feel good, but then, the bus driver tells you that the fridge is not working on the bus, so you you're mad as hell, but then you realize there's a chocolate creme pie for dessert, but you can't eat another bite, and the pie is not going to last without the fridge, and you just feel tremendously unhappy about that...uh, you know? And Jake, you stand here, okay, and you want to kiss this girl like the dickens, but then Hope...HOPE! Okay, Hope comes in as you go in for the kiss and--BOOM! Okay? Okay, let's do it. Check the gate!")

Anyway, the film was everything I was expecting, which wasn't much. It wasn't bad, it was just a filmed adaptation of a stage play. And a good play, too. Saw it in KC. At the Unicorn. It was a good one.

On a related note, I was in the Language Arts Resource Center today, and I saw the book V for Vendetta, you know, the graphic novel that was turned into a movie. When I opened it up, it wasn't a graphic novel at all. It was a regular novel. Or, as it was termed on the cover, a "novelization". So, what I held in my hand was an after-the-fact novel version of a film based on a graphic novel. A novelization of an filmization of a comic book. I imagine next we will be seeing the (Ack!) musical version on Broadway. (See Wicked, a (Ack!) musical based on a book written about characters from a book that was made into a movie--"What a world! What a world!")

Oddly, what I sat down to write was not about plays turned into films or films turned into novelizations or anything turned into (Ack!) musicals, but about how lately I've been having weird visual things happening. I sometimes think I see something moving in my periphery, yet turn my head to find nothing there. This happened at lunch today. I thought I saw something darting or scurrying or whatever little things on the ground in your periphery do, but when I turned, there was nothing but carpet there. This has happened at least a half dozen times this week. Plus, I have been misreading things. Last night, I was reading my current before bed book, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. The chapter was titled something about the theory of happiness. I read the whole chapter, and it really had nothing to do with happiness. It didn't dwell on unhappiness or discuss much in the way of any specific emotions. It was about the hero and his sixteen year old neighbor sitting in a subway station gauging the degrees of baldness of the people that passed by. It was a job they were doing for a wig company. I looked at the beginning of the chapter three times before I realized it was the theory of hairpieces. Not happiness, at all. Earlier today, I misread a subheading on a web page about short stories as the Era of Masturbation instead of the Era of Modernism (which to some literary scholars may actually be the same thing, so I guess I can give myself a pass on that one--but does that make the Period of Postmodernism the Period of Postmasturbation? I am going to stop here on this particular tangent. Y'all can thank me later.).

The whole point of this is that there is no point, I guess. The end of the school year is perhaps bringing on some stressors that are manifesting themselves in weird visual signals. Or maybe I'm just losing touch with reality a little bit. No big deal, either way.

By the way, the Outlaw Birders had a good Sunday. It was cold, but a Nashville warbler made up for it. Also, and I say this with all dry sarcasm intended, the new dryer is simply fabulous.