Today is a big housekeeping post, plus bloggage. I’m hoping that tying up loose ends and answering reader requests here will inspire me to do the same in my physical space. Kate brought home the contents of her desk and locker this week, which apparently are like those little cars that the clowns pile out of. What am I bid for a pink plastic recorder, people?
Starting things off, someone — Joel Nelson, it says on the packing slip — sent me this CD, “Lazarus Beach,” by a band called Through the Sparks. I’m having a horrible senior moment, wondering if someone offered to send it and I said yeah, or if it was just unsolicited. Whatever, I appreciate it. Noodling around the band’s website, it seems they’re blurbing their blog mentions, so let me add one. Disclosure: I stole it from my husband. Ahem:
“Reminds me of Guided by Voices.”
I simply cannot top the band’s own self-description, from their website again: While there are still the noise and synth-laden marshes, horn and big-harmony choruses and crescendos loom over beds of ukulele, honky-tonk piano, funeral home organ and pedal steel. Of course, there’s still a copious amount of gleaming guitars and a few signature triplet beats.
A few random snapshots (click for larger):
The new behind-the-garage space, by reader request:
You can see the grass is starting to come in. Spriggy can’t wait to pee on it. No, I don’t know why that tree is already dropping yellow leaves. I suspect it has Detroit Tree Death Syndrome; you have never seen so much standing deadwood in your life as in this area. Most of it is because of the emerald ash borer, another product of globalization — it’s an Asian native. That tree is not an ash, but maybe it’s dying in sympathy.
This handsome devil was waiting on my pool chair the other day:
Yes, it’s the dawning of fish-fly season here in the Pointes. Last year I vowed to have a new video camera by June, so I could shoot my long-planned short feature: “Night of the Fish Flies.” Oh, well.
If you’re trying to reach me via cell phone lately, try an e-mail. I lost it yesterday (bad news). Now I can get an iPhone (good news). Not really — I need a $600 cell phone like I need a $100 million diamond skull — but I guess I can dream. Besides, I have faith the pink Razr will turn up somewhere. As I tell Kate, it’s not lost, you just can’t see it at the moment.
UPDATE: Found it. And Alan, I also found your GPS quick-start guide, missing for eight months, in the same place (under the driver’s seat in my car).
LA Mary wants a T-shirt with this on it, and OMG, so do I:
Mitch Harper says he has a line on custom T-shirts; maybe he can hook us up.
Because I know how bad summer Fridays in the office can be, Iron Butterfly line dancing:
I said I had bloggage, but I don’t want to break the mood of the Iron Butterfly. But if you’re in a self-punishing mood, join me and Glenn Greenwald in our mystification that a journalist with a national platform (Chris Matthews), would say something like this about a presidential candidate (Fred Thompson):
Does [Fred Thompson] have sex appeal? I’m looking at this guy and I’m trying to find out the new order of things, and what works for women and what doesn’t. Does this guy have some sort of thing going for him that I should notice? . . .
Gene, do you think there’s a sex appeal for this guy, this sort of mature, older man, you know? He looks sort of seasoned and in charge of himself. What is this appeal? Because I keep star quality. You were throwing the word out, shining star, Ana Marie, before I checked you on it. . . .
Can you smell the English leather on this guy, the Aqua Velva, the sort of mature man’s shaving cream, or whatever, you know, after he shaved? Do you smell that sort of — a little bit of cigar smoke? You know, whatever.
Yeah. You know, whatever. Have a swell weekend.