Kind of blue.

Yeah, I think these are the colors I’m looking for. Not coincidentally, they’re the ones J.C. came up with when he first drafted this site back in October of last year. It took him about as long as it took me to walk the dog around the block. That’s why he’s a highly paid graphic artist/computer whiz, and I’m just a word person. But I’m getting better at this GoLive stuff — I could probably whip up a site like this fairly quickly now, although I lack the artist’s eye of the Burns boy. Alan has it, too (although he cares so little about this site, he isn’t about to help design it).

A rare non-manic weekend. The secret is planning; also, don’t do anything. Laundry was wrapped up Friday, which left Saturday free for a 10-mile bike ride, haircut and color, grocery power shop and random relaxation. That sounds like a lot on paper, but really, it was the bare minimum. The bike ride set the tone for a weekend of self-loathing — I’m so out of shape, I disgust myself. After writing Friday on the problem of childhood obesity, I decided it was time for a little work on the personal front. I wore my heart-rate monitor, and was appalled at how easily I moved into the high side of the anaerobic range — in other words, how easily my heart got into “stop, stop, I can’t take any more” territory. Ugh. The haircut followed, a guilty pleasure for a million reasons. Allow me to name but two: No kid and In Style magazine. I love In Style, although I wouldn’t admit that to anyone but YOU, dear reader. I love any magazine with letters to the editor like this:

Thanks so much for the cover story on Andie MacDowell! She’s been a favorite of mine ever since “Greystoke,” and it was so wonderful to see both her beautiful house and the look of happiness on her face in the GORGEOUS pictures. How great to see this gifted and talented actress get the recognition she deserves!

The issue I read wasn’t a regular one; it was the special edition on makeovers. I learned that I’m hopelessly out of date. For one thing, I have pubic hair. Very last year. In Style told me that on my next trip to NYC, I should visit such-and-such salon, where all the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models go “not for the bikini wax, but to go COMPLETELY BARE!” Sorry, no. I don’t care if you can wear a bathing suit withough adjusting it, and that it improves oral sex for both parties. The day I pay a perfect stranger to slather hot wax on my yoni and then rip out all the hairs by the roots is the day … well, that day won’t come. The most I might consider is a little laser work on the fringes. And I’d have to be extremely drunk. Laser hair salons don’t exist next door to tattoo parlors, so I guess that’s out, too. But really — can you imagine such a thing? When people talk about it improving sex, I have the same thought as when someone touts tongue piercings as just the thing for enhanced fellatio. Which is: What’s wrong with regular, hairy sex? And plain old fellatio? Gentlemen, look deep into your conscience, and make this admission: The day you feel the need for enhanced fellatio is the day you need to admit you’re jaded and corrupt.

Old joke: What does a man say after the worst blow job of his life? Man, that was great.

Found this site Saturday — Apple’s iMovie gallery, where regular old iMovie users, many of whom apparently do this sort of thing for a living, submit their DV movies to show the rest of the broadband-gifted world. I watched half a dozen and quickly realized I’m at least as good as these folks, so I pointed them to “Trick or Treat” (you can find the link on the links page, if you have the connection to sit through a 7MB download) and am eagerly awaiting the verdict. This site was big medicine, because if there’s one thing I’ve been craving since I started doing this stuff, it’s a basis of comparison. I’ve even contemplated starting an iMovie users group here in F.W., although it’s fairly low on my to-do list. One of the movies I watched was scenes of the 2000 St. Patrick’s Day parade in Chicago, a flawed effort but proof of what I’ve come to think of as Adrian Lyne’s Rule: When in doubt, go to the soundtrack. It used a John Hiatt song I haven’t heard in a while (and had nothing to do with St. Patrick’s Day), which sent me on a John Hiatt kick this weekend. I love John Hiatt. I know I’m a big fat target for what he’s selling, but I don’t care. Wade, if you see him in the grocery, kiss him for me, and thank him for “Slow Turning.”

Got the garden going Saturday too. Damn the weather. If those goddamn peas freeze in the ground, then so be it. We planted some sugar snaps, a patch of “California mesclun blend” lettuce and greens, and a couple rows of spinach. Kate helped. She touches worms without fear — that’s my girl. Evidently she and her dad went to get some topsoil while I was being coiffed. “We went to the dirt store, mommy,” she told me. “And we got cow poop, too. Do you know what dirt is? Cow poop!” I didn’t know that. Today she helped me make a cherry pie, yelling all the while that I should just leave her alone and let her do it herself, including hefting the bowl of filling, about five or six pounds of cherries, Pyrex and potential mess on the floor. “Kate, I’m the teacher here, and you’re the student. Let me help you,” I said. “NO!” she replied. God, I see a bad moon rising on adolescence.

In response to popular demand, I’m starting an archive tomorrow. Actually, it’s up today, but all it has in it is a duplicate of what you just read. I’m unsure how I’m going to structure it — suggestions, anyone? — but there’ll be some way you can read previous material if you miss a day or three. The January, February and March archives aren’t up there yet, but April will be preserved for posterity.

Talk about your great leaps forward.

Posted at 3:44 am in Ancient archives |

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