Mike says he’s bored with my other two blogs.
Carolyn would remodel them both right down to the bare walls.
Matt says a third blog is the solution to all my problems.
I don’t know what he means by that.
Why would I want a third blog?
I’m still getting used to having two.
Still, three blogs.
There’s a certain ring to it.
I could call it “My Three Blogs.”
Hey, I just checked: that name is available at blogger.
Maybe it’s a sign.
I already know what it will be about.
It’s all coming together now.
This is so exciting.
I’ll write a blog about having three blogs.
The logistics; the difficulties; the lack of sleep.
The lack of anything to say.
People will want to read about that, won’t they?
Won’t they?
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Bud's blog #5
My old friend, Bud, requests a moment of your time over at Peeling Wallpaper to read about his latest escapades.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
A visit to the dentist
My son, Conor, rarely loses his baby teeth the old-fashioned way. By that I mean, a tooth gets loose, you wiggle it, and wiggle it some more, grossing out your friends and family by tilting it ninety degrees from upright, until one day the dang thing pops out between your fingers. No, that would be too easy. In my son’s case, the baby tooth gets a little bit loose, then the permanent tooth shoots up through the gum behind it and the baby tooth has to be extracted at the dentist’s office.
Last week we noticed that both of Conor’s lower lateral incisors had permanent counterparts poking up through his gums. A double extraction. Great.
I know that dentistry has improved over the years and is not as painful as the old days. The problem is: I grew up in the old days and remember a lot of excruciating trips to the dentist. I lost a permanent molar when I was about twelve. The tooth had a deep cavity and probably needed a root canal – a big money fix for my family in those days. My father knew of a dentist who offered discounted rates. In retrospect, I suspect it was because of a suspended license. This was not our regular dentist. My father took me to see this guy. This was not a regular thing, either. It was usually my mother’s job. I put two and two together and figured out that my father had taken me to see this guy (probably without my mother’s knowledge), to save some money. I’m sure Dad figured this guy would do a fine job. Good enough.
When we arrived at the dentist’s office, I was the only patient. It was a dingy place. I smelled alcohol on the dentist’s breath, despite the fact that it was only mid-morning. The dentist, I don’t remember his name or, mercifully, what he looked like, peered into my mouth for about five seconds and pronounced that the tooth would have to come out. No x-rays, no plan B. A fee was discussed. I believe it was $5. *
I was numbed up with Novocain. Presumably, the needle was…well, let’s not go there. Molars are big teeth. Even a twelve year old’s molars have deep roots. The dentist went at the tooth with a pliers-like tool, or maybe they were pliers. I wasn’t in a position to ask questions. I can, to this day, hear the cracking noise my tooth made when it finally gave up and sent the dentist flying backwards. Thinking about it can still make my skin crawl.
So, despite the fact that we now live in the relatively golden age of “painless dentistry,” the thought of my son having his baby teeth pulled is a source of much anxiety for me. I’ve known for a couple of days now that it would be me who took him to the dentist this time around – for the double extraction!! I have been fretting about it ever since. Conor, on the other hand, hasn’t given it a second thought. No big deal for him. He’s been through this many times before. He’s a real trouper. Not me. All day today, I walked around at work thinking to myself, “Oh my God, we’re having our teeth pulled; we’re having our teeth pulled.”
Of course, “we” got through it. Conor was comfortably numb. First with laughing gas; then with topical anesthetic; and finally with Novocain. Still, there was that cracking noise. I heard it. Twice. Click. Click. Conor winced slightly both times. I nearly screamed.
When it was over, I took him home. Put him in front of the TV. Made him a plate of spaghetti (soft food only tonight). Gave him some Ibuprofen. Put him in a warm bath. He’s doing fine. Me? Well, I’m getting there. Two tumblers of Scotch later, I can finally write about it.
*Twenty years after that fateful day, it cost me $1600 in reconstructive dental work to fix the mistake.
Last week we noticed that both of Conor’s lower lateral incisors had permanent counterparts poking up through his gums. A double extraction. Great.
I know that dentistry has improved over the years and is not as painful as the old days. The problem is: I grew up in the old days and remember a lot of excruciating trips to the dentist. I lost a permanent molar when I was about twelve. The tooth had a deep cavity and probably needed a root canal – a big money fix for my family in those days. My father knew of a dentist who offered discounted rates. In retrospect, I suspect it was because of a suspended license. This was not our regular dentist. My father took me to see this guy. This was not a regular thing, either. It was usually my mother’s job. I put two and two together and figured out that my father had taken me to see this guy (probably without my mother’s knowledge), to save some money. I’m sure Dad figured this guy would do a fine job. Good enough.
When we arrived at the dentist’s office, I was the only patient. It was a dingy place. I smelled alcohol on the dentist’s breath, despite the fact that it was only mid-morning. The dentist, I don’t remember his name or, mercifully, what he looked like, peered into my mouth for about five seconds and pronounced that the tooth would have to come out. No x-rays, no plan B. A fee was discussed. I believe it was $5. *
I was numbed up with Novocain. Presumably, the needle was…well, let’s not go there. Molars are big teeth. Even a twelve year old’s molars have deep roots. The dentist went at the tooth with a pliers-like tool, or maybe they were pliers. I wasn’t in a position to ask questions. I can, to this day, hear the cracking noise my tooth made when it finally gave up and sent the dentist flying backwards. Thinking about it can still make my skin crawl.
So, despite the fact that we now live in the relatively golden age of “painless dentistry,” the thought of my son having his baby teeth pulled is a source of much anxiety for me. I’ve known for a couple of days now that it would be me who took him to the dentist this time around – for the double extraction!! I have been fretting about it ever since. Conor, on the other hand, hasn’t given it a second thought. No big deal for him. He’s been through this many times before. He’s a real trouper. Not me. All day today, I walked around at work thinking to myself, “Oh my God, we’re having our teeth pulled; we’re having our teeth pulled.”
Of course, “we” got through it. Conor was comfortably numb. First with laughing gas; then with topical anesthetic; and finally with Novocain. Still, there was that cracking noise. I heard it. Twice. Click. Click. Conor winced slightly both times. I nearly screamed.
When it was over, I took him home. Put him in front of the TV. Made him a plate of spaghetti (soft food only tonight). Gave him some Ibuprofen. Put him in a warm bath. He’s doing fine. Me? Well, I’m getting there. Two tumblers of Scotch later, I can finally write about it.
*Twenty years after that fateful day, it cost me $1600 in reconstructive dental work to fix the mistake.
Letters from the moon
Good news! Matt's back. Well, he's not actually back. He's on the moon. But somehow he's found a way to blog from up there. I wonder if he's picking up a stray wifi signal from somebody's house here on earth. Who knows? I'm sure Matt will explain all that in time. Drop on by and say "welcome back" to our good friend, Matt, at his new bog, Letters from the Moon. And check out his wicked cool banner. The moon is shown in its real phase, so you don't even have to go outside and look at it. Thanks, Matt, that frees up some time!
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Pinup posit
When I first considered a pinup calendar for Peeling Wallpaper I knew I would have to choose carefully. I wanted the first image (they will change every couple of months) to be artful but a little bit naughty. At the same time I had a theme in mind: girl on car with tool. I looked at a lot of “classic” pinup art from the 1940s and 50s. The choice was not easy. There were a lot of talented artists to choose from. Their drawings were beautiful, as were the women they featured. Women with curves. Refreshingly, not waifs. Generally speaking, the state of undress in which these women are caught on canvas is no more revealing than the average teen-aged girl cruising the shopping mall these days.
In the end, it was the work of Gil Elvgrin (1914-1980) that I kept coming back to. In my mind, he was the best. There is so much detail in his drawings. Everything is perfectly proportioned. Everything catches your eye: the legs, the stockings, the flare of the skirt, the shoes, the hair, the lipstick. Everything.
In the end, it was the work of Gil Elvgrin (1914-1980) that I kept coming back to. In my mind, he was the best. There is so much detail in his drawings. Everything is perfectly proportioned. Everything catches your eye: the legs, the stockings, the flare of the skirt, the shoes, the hair, the lipstick. Everything. 
As obvious as it was to me that Gil Elvgrin was the guy for me, it was equally obvious that Art Frahm was not! Frahm (1907-1981) was best known for his “ladies in distress” series. The scenes from this series are ludicrous. The women are quite literally having trouble keeping their panties up. Whether they are bowling, getting off the elevator, feeding the parking meter, changing a flat tire, getting on the bus, their undies keep falling down. What’s up with that, Art? Maybe it really was a problem back then. It was the post-Depression era, after all. Maybe these women were wearing hand-me-down knickers that were just too big. Hmm. Then again, maybe it was their diet. Too much celery. Maybe it was the celery! Tuesday, July 19, 2005
A ten year old's logic
This thought from my son while driving past the construction of yet another strip mall in our neighborhood:
"You know, if they keep cutting down the trees there's not going to be any oxygen left to breathe and everybody's going to die. Then there won't be anybody alive to shop at their stupid stores."
"You know, if they keep cutting down the trees there's not going to be any oxygen left to breathe and everybody's going to die. Then there won't be anybody alive to shop at their stupid stores."
Monday, July 18, 2005
Please Lindsay, eat!
I've been busy setting up this blog and updating the look of Peeling Wallpaper, but I took a moment this morning to sign the on-line petition to put a few pounds back on Lindsay Lohan. Some things are just too important to let slide. I mean, come on, did you see her in Herbie: Fully Loaded? Or any of her other movies? Well, neither did I, but I hear that she's gotten too darn skinny and it's affecting her ability to be cute. We can't have that.
The petition reads as follows:
To: Lindsay
We urge you Lindsay to please, pick up a sandwich and eat it, or ice cream, or any food that might put those oh so cute pounds back on.
Sincerely,
The Undersigned
(I'm thinking of starting my own petition urging the use of proper grammar and punctuation in all petition statements.)
The petition reads as follows:
To: Lindsay
We urge you Lindsay to please, pick up a sandwich and eat it, or ice cream, or any food that might put those oh so cute pounds back on.
Sincerely,
The Undersigned
(I'm thinking of starting my own petition urging the use of proper grammar and punctuation in all petition statements.)
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Hot enough for you?
It's so hot that http://blogs.salon.com/0003174/2004/07/02.html. (Hot enough to dredge up an old post.)
Friday, July 15, 2005
Cheap eats
Two young women (clearly underpaid) leaving work for the day.
"I'm starving. Is it dinner time yet?"
"It's only 4 o'clock."
"I can't help it; I'm still starving."
"What are you going to have tonight?"
"It's Friday. There's not much in the house. Macaroni and cheese in a box. Tuna fish. Frozen peas."
Now, what I can't remember for certain is how the next line went. Either she said, "It tastes better than it sounds" or "It sounds better than it tastes." Whatever the exact wording, neither statement is even remotely true.
"I'm starving. Is it dinner time yet?"
"It's only 4 o'clock."
"I can't help it; I'm still starving."
"What are you going to have tonight?"
"It's Friday. There's not much in the house. Macaroni and cheese in a box. Tuna fish. Frozen peas."
Now, what I can't remember for certain is how the next line went. Either she said, "It tastes better than it sounds" or "It sounds better than it tastes." Whatever the exact wording, neither statement is even remotely true.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
The Night Crusher
Go to enough dinner parties and the conversation will eventually turn to the strange dream somebody had the night before. Honestly, though, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a dream told quite like this one:
As a college student in 1964, David J. Hufford met the dreaded Night Crusher. Exhausted from a bout of mononucleosis and studying for finals, Hufford retreated one December day to his rented, off-campus room and fell into a deep sleep. An hour later, he awoke with a start to the sound of the bedroom door creaking open—the same door he had locked and bolted before going to bed. Hufford then heard footsteps moving toward his bed and felt an evil presence. Terror gripped the young man, who couldn't move a muscle, his eyes plastered open in fright.
Without warning, the malevolent entity, whatever it was, jumped onto Hufford's chest. An oppressive weight compressed his rib cage. Breathing became difficult, and Hufford felt a pair of hands encircle his neck and start to squeeze. "I thought I was going to die," he says.
This week’s Science News carries a fascinating article about Sleep Paralysis, the phenomenon described above. Apparently, loads of people have dreams like this. "Most cases unfold as follows: A person wakes up paralyzed and perceives an evil presence. A hag or witch then climbs on top of the petrified victim, creating a crushing sensation on his or her chest."
I don’t remember my dreams. After reading this article, I consider myself lucky.
Cover painting: The Nightmare, 1781, Henry Fuseli…pretty damn creepy, if you ask me.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Skateboard guy
There is an old guy I see from time to time who rides a skateboard to work. I’m old, so when I say “an old guy” I mean older than me. I’m guessing he’s in his mid- to late-sixties. You don’t see many older people riding skateboards. At least not here on the east coast. Maybe he’s from California. People out there are not adverse to standing out in a crowd. I would not be surprised if my skateboard guy is the only one of his kind for hundreds of miles. I think it is really cool. I mean, why not ride a skateboard when you are old? It’s a good way to stay fit. It’s great for balance and coordination at a time in life when those qualities are normally starting to slip away.
So, I really like this guy. I love that he doesn’t care what people think, that they might be looking at him with bemusement. I sure as hell can’t help watching him as he skates by me. We work in the same building but I’ve never met skateboard guy. He doesn’t skate very far. To be clear, he drives to the outer parking lot of our campus and then skates down the moderately steep hill about a quarter mile or so to the entrance of the building. Once there, he picks up his board, walks through the revolving door and checks in – just like everyone else. I’ve only ever seen him skating down the hill. He looks quite comfortable on his skateboard. He gets up a good head of steam. Does a few tricks along the way. He really seems to enjoy himself. Going back up the hill can’t be as much fun. Surely, though, it’s a good workout.
Last week, I saw skateboard guy as I was getting ready to pull into the upper parking lot one morning. He was standing on the outer edge of the lot, waiting for an opening to get back on the road. I should point out that skateboard guy rides on the main road and then turns into a service road that brings him down near the side entrance to the building. On this particular day, I noticed that he was carrying something rather large under his arm. I looked over at him as I drove past. It was a framed painting or photograph. I craned my neck to get a look, but he was already on his way. I couldn’t see the image. It was maddening. I really wanted to know what it was that skateboard guy was carrying. Obviously, he would be hanging this on his office wall and I needed to know what it was.
I briefly considered turning my car around and trying to catch up with him so I could get a look, but I didn’t. First of all, I doubted that I could catch him. Second, in trying to get close enough to see what this man was carrying, I risked hitting him. Imagine explaining that to his next of kin!
So I never did find out what skateboard guy was carrying. It has been haunting me ever since. Okay, it’s one thing for an old dude to skateboard to work. It’s another thing entirely for him to be carrying a framed picture under his arm. The combined effect is simply too quirky. Did he consider for even a second that his actions might drive certain people crazy with curiosity? People like me? Did he? I think not.
So, I really like this guy. I love that he doesn’t care what people think, that they might be looking at him with bemusement. I sure as hell can’t help watching him as he skates by me. We work in the same building but I’ve never met skateboard guy. He doesn’t skate very far. To be clear, he drives to the outer parking lot of our campus and then skates down the moderately steep hill about a quarter mile or so to the entrance of the building. Once there, he picks up his board, walks through the revolving door and checks in – just like everyone else. I’ve only ever seen him skating down the hill. He looks quite comfortable on his skateboard. He gets up a good head of steam. Does a few tricks along the way. He really seems to enjoy himself. Going back up the hill can’t be as much fun. Surely, though, it’s a good workout.
Last week, I saw skateboard guy as I was getting ready to pull into the upper parking lot one morning. He was standing on the outer edge of the lot, waiting for an opening to get back on the road. I should point out that skateboard guy rides on the main road and then turns into a service road that brings him down near the side entrance to the building. On this particular day, I noticed that he was carrying something rather large under his arm. I looked over at him as I drove past. It was a framed painting or photograph. I craned my neck to get a look, but he was already on his way. I couldn’t see the image. It was maddening. I really wanted to know what it was that skateboard guy was carrying. Obviously, he would be hanging this on his office wall and I needed to know what it was.
I briefly considered turning my car around and trying to catch up with him so I could get a look, but I didn’t. First of all, I doubted that I could catch him. Second, in trying to get close enough to see what this man was carrying, I risked hitting him. Imagine explaining that to his next of kin!
So I never did find out what skateboard guy was carrying. It has been haunting me ever since. Okay, it’s one thing for an old dude to skateboard to work. It’s another thing entirely for him to be carrying a framed picture under his arm. The combined effect is simply too quirky. Did he consider for even a second that his actions might drive certain people crazy with curiosity? People like me? Did he? I think not.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
A midlife wakeup call
In recent years I have thought about buying a motorcycle. It’s probably some kind of midlife crisis thing. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle in my life. Yet, nowadays when that Harley Davidson commercial comes on TV where the guy takes his friends to his garage and describes in drooling detail the Harley of his dreams (the garage is actually empty), I start to think: yeah maybe it’s time for me to get a Harley, too. But there are midlife crisis lists just like with everything else, and a motorcycle is near the bottom of mine.
Today I pulled up to a stop sign as I was leaving the Safeway parking lot. I was distracted, fidgeting with the radio. I stopped completely, but a little bit beyond the stop sign. Perhaps a quarter car length beyond. I looked left, saw nothing, and lifted my foot from the brake pedal. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a Harley. Heard it, but didn’t see it. I looked left again. The motorcycle was hidden behind the width of a utility pole. It was completely lost to my blind spot. It reappeared just as I hit the brakes again. I looked at the driver as he approached. He swerved a little, anticipating that I would pull out and hit him. He got a little closer. There was another surprise: a passenger. A little boy about my son’s age sitting behind the driver, clinging to his waist. Like the utility pole, the driver (his dad?) blocked him from my view until…there he was. They rumbled by. Thankfully, nobody was hurt. My midlife crisis list is in need of a revision, though.
Today I pulled up to a stop sign as I was leaving the Safeway parking lot. I was distracted, fidgeting with the radio. I stopped completely, but a little bit beyond the stop sign. Perhaps a quarter car length beyond. I looked left, saw nothing, and lifted my foot from the brake pedal. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a Harley. Heard it, but didn’t see it. I looked left again. The motorcycle was hidden behind the width of a utility pole. It was completely lost to my blind spot. It reappeared just as I hit the brakes again. I looked at the driver as he approached. He swerved a little, anticipating that I would pull out and hit him. He got a little closer. There was another surprise: a passenger. A little boy about my son’s age sitting behind the driver, clinging to his waist. Like the utility pole, the driver (his dad?) blocked him from my view until…there he was. They rumbled by. Thankfully, nobody was hurt. My midlife crisis list is in need of a revision, though.
Friday, July 08, 2005
I got your runtime error right here, buster
I spent the entire day today at work trying to reconstruct an important computer macro that somebody had written for me a few years ago: somebody much more savvy at this sort of thing than me. I’m not a computer programmer. I just use them and try to understand them to the best of my ability (I stop short of reading the manual). My computer crashed several weeks ago and of course I lost the macro. No I didn't back it up. (Insert lecture here. I'll read it later). The point is I don't do this sort of software manipulation very often or very well or very eagerly or very anything. When I do try to run sophisticated computer programs, there is usually a lot of "huh, that didn't work" and "I wonder what happens when I push this button" and "hey, it's lunch time already." The only certainty at the end of the day is that nothing will have changed. The program will still not work and I will be totally brain dead. It's very easy to see how computer nerds become the way they are. By 4pm today I could feel my eyebrow hair growing over the bridge of my nose.
I approach computer programming just like I do writing. I give it my all and I don’t like to give up until I have a finished product. The difference is that with writing I can at any point say “good enough,” push a button and publish the results. With computer programming, I can give up, too. But when I push that publish button, a message box appears stating that I am guilty of “runtime error 2604: unable to parse variable waveform.”
That’s a hell of a thing to say to someone. I’m sure that message means something to someone. Just not me. Now I get to think about runtime error 2604 all weekend. And face it again on Monday morning. I just hope I can sort this problem out before I end up with a full blown unibrow.
I approach computer programming just like I do writing. I give it my all and I don’t like to give up until I have a finished product. The difference is that with writing I can at any point say “good enough,” push a button and publish the results. With computer programming, I can give up, too. But when I push that publish button, a message box appears stating that I am guilty of “runtime error 2604: unable to parse variable waveform.”
That’s a hell of a thing to say to someone. I’m sure that message means something to someone. Just not me. Now I get to think about runtime error 2604 all weekend. And face it again on Monday morning. I just hope I can sort this problem out before I end up with a full blown unibrow.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
My other blog is a Kia
Welcome to Something Itches. No, the title has nothing to do with the nasty rash all over my body. I have that pretty much under control with this new wonder drug from China made from the larva of, well, never mind. It would just gross you out. Something Itches refers to an ineffable quest for knowledge, a restlessness, a yearning – an itch that you scratch again and again because you want to know what that feels like. The kind of itch that you seek out for what it can teach you.
Oh, that’s a load of crap, too. The truth is, I queried Blogger with about a hundred perfectly good blog titles, but they were all taken. Finally, I typed in Something Itches, you know, as a joke. Damn if I didn’t get past the rejection screen. A pop-up box asked me to confirm my choice. I hit ‘Yes’ and the deal was done.
I already have a perfectly good blog called Peeling Wallpaper over on the Salon network of blogs. I’ve been blogging there for about a year and a half. So why start a new blog? Well, because this is America and I can. Because I hate Hummers and I simply can’t state that on enough web sites. Because blogger is free and as a cheap bastard I can’t pass up anything free. Because I can’t stop writing. (Oh, God, please help me to stop!)
Mostly, though, I started this blog because Peeling Wallpaper is the place that I publish my stories and poems. I set it up that way from the beginning. It’s a portfolio for my writing. You won’t find very much over there about me. It’s all fiction and crafty nonsense. But I can’t relax at Peeling Wallpaper. It’s a humor blog, but I take it very seriously. I need a place where I can just write what’s on my mind. Let it all out and not worry about every word being perfect. So now there is Something Itches.
This blog is my front porch. I plan on coming here often to sit on the sofa, sip on some moonshine and whittle. You can join me if you like. Don’t mind the rash.
Oh, that’s a load of crap, too. The truth is, I queried Blogger with about a hundred perfectly good blog titles, but they were all taken. Finally, I typed in Something Itches, you know, as a joke. Damn if I didn’t get past the rejection screen. A pop-up box asked me to confirm my choice. I hit ‘Yes’ and the deal was done.
I already have a perfectly good blog called Peeling Wallpaper over on the Salon network of blogs. I’ve been blogging there for about a year and a half. So why start a new blog? Well, because this is America and I can. Because I hate Hummers and I simply can’t state that on enough web sites. Because blogger is free and as a cheap bastard I can’t pass up anything free. Because I can’t stop writing. (Oh, God, please help me to stop!)
Mostly, though, I started this blog because Peeling Wallpaper is the place that I publish my stories and poems. I set it up that way from the beginning. It’s a portfolio for my writing. You won’t find very much over there about me. It’s all fiction and crafty nonsense. But I can’t relax at Peeling Wallpaper. It’s a humor blog, but I take it very seriously. I need a place where I can just write what’s on my mind. Let it all out and not worry about every word being perfect. So now there is Something Itches.
This blog is my front porch. I plan on coming here often to sit on the sofa, sip on some moonshine and whittle. You can join me if you like. Don’t mind the rash.
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