SNAKE!!!

So, this evening after dinner at The Lovely’s, we head out the back door so as not to disturb the killer Chihuahua. I stroll through the garage, ahead of her, only to hear her gasp and say, “Oh, my gosh, there’s a snake!”

“What the ...” is all I can get out as I turn and see a thin snake winding its way along the wall of the garage.

“Get it!” she commands whilst standing safely on the steps.

“Uh, OK,” I reply as I contemplate just exactly what I am going to “get it” with. There are a couple of tennis court rollers leaning against the wall, but those things are a bit unwieldy: rather heavy, with a long handle and, at the other end, a sponge-covered roller about 3 feet wide. Then I spy a short mop and decide that just might do the trick.

I try to spur the snake along, back in the direction from whence it (apparently) came — but then it decides to crawl under the door to the laundry room.

“Don’t let it go into the laundry room!” The Lovely calls out from her perch (she is now standing half-in, half-out the back door of the house).

I open the laundry room door and manage to guide the snake back into the garage, and then I sort of chase it the length of the floor and out to the driveway.

The snake appears to be young, about 2 feet long at most, and thin. It is kind of splotchy, sort of two-toned, a mix of dark brownish gray and putty. It has a slightly triangular head, and every few seconds, it flicks its black tongue.

“Should I kill it?” I ask. “I really don’t want to kill it.”

[The first place I ever saw a snake, a tiny dark garter snake, was in the back yard of my neighbors, Mabel and Burl. I said, “Hey, there’s a snake over here!” Burl came out and chopped the snake into tiny pieces with his garden hoe. Seemed like overkill to me.]

“Nah, just take it into the neighbor’s back yard,” The Lovely says. “Unless it goes after you — then use the shovel on it if you have to.”

I get the snake to coil itself around the handle of the mop, and I carry it next door — a large back yard with tall weeds and plants and branches and leaves all over. A few seconds later, The Lovely makes her way out of the garage.

“Toss it over there!” she shouts from at least 40 feet away. “Just fling it!”

“I will,” I reply, “but I’d really like to get a picture of it. Get my camera!”

She scurries to my car, grabs the camera bag, takes out the camera and brings it to me, cautiously. “Hurry up!”

While still holding the mop with the snake at one end, I slip the camera strap over my head. “If this thing bites me ... will you make sure to get me to the hospital?” I ask.

“Sure. Just hurry!”

I try to get a good shot, to no avail. So I do the unthinkable and ask The Lovely to hold the mop while I try to take a picture — which she does, but not all that happily.

Unfortunately, the point-’n’-shoot feature on the camera won’t cooperate (fucker!). I hurriedly switch the camera to macro, but I am a little leery of getting too close to a snake which could be poisonous; hence, my photos end up totally crappy.

The Lovely tosses the snake — and mop! — into the yard and then bolts back to the house. I watch the snake for a few seconds — it has to sort of detangle itself from a heap before moving on — as I try to memorize what it looks like.

[Later, whilst researching snakes on the Internet, I come to the conclusion that it was very likely a copperhead. Quite poisonous, though usually not fatal. And I can’t help feeling disappointed that I didn’t get a good, clear picture.]

: (

Back in Bidness

Or: Hey, Diddle Diddle.

Not exactly sure why, but for some reason, this photo reminds me of the nursery rhyme.

Never realized, before today, that cows can be kind of crabby. Here I am, driving along on a new country road (well, actually, the road is probably decades old, but it’s certainly new to me), when all of a sudden I see a cow lying under a tree. So I think, hmmm, that might make a nice little picture. I stop the car and get out, and almost immediately, the cow stands up and takes off running!

:o

I think it was trying to protect the calves — one of which is pictured above — in the field across the road.

Clover

Jetstream

Watching & Wading

White Gold

I’m driving west on 280, early in the morning. All the girls wanted to leave at 7, so we did — even though, just a few hours earlier, I wasn’t sure I would even be capable of leaving with them, let alone driving the van/bus, thanks to what I’m pretty sure might’ve been some tainted shrimp on the Chinese buffet during the previous night’s dinner. (Actually, I’m more convinced that it was a combination of foods consumed within an approximately 48-hour time span that probably nearly did me in.)

Mind over matter prevails, though, luckily, and I feel much better at departure time. And several minutes into the drive on the divided highway, which will take us to 495 South to 65 North to 24 West to 57 North, everyone else in the vehicle is snoozing away while I drive.

We had arrived three nights earlier, around midnight, on this very road. Only it was dark when we got there, so all I noticed were the hills and curves of the highway and the lights from the mini-van right behind me — one of the girls’ mom and sister, who came on the trip to watch their daughter/sister play in the tournament. And followed me way too close, all the way down.

I found out, too, that this road was very difficult to cross on foot when I attempted to make my way to Big B’s BBQ the first day we were there. Difficult because there were no sidewalks nor crosswalks, and this intersection was an interchange of two four-lane highways. Plus there were brambles in the median, probably meant to discourage pedestrians.

On this morning, however, I notice the towns we pass through. Briefly. Not that different from small-town Illinois, except this is Alabama.

So, eventually, I see the red clay I have noticed in my previous trips to this state. And, for the first time, I see cotton fields. (Although I have been to ’Bama a few times, my trips were always during spring. When poppies are in bloom, but not cotton.)

Relatively small patches of cotton are growing, off to my right and left. Larger than the crop (one row!) planted by the man in this town whom I wrote the story about, recently, but not nearly as large as some of the smaller corn and soybean crops found in my county, my state, where most of the dirt is dark and rich.

The cotton makes me smile, and suddenly, I wish I were in my car, with all the time in the world, so I could pull over and open my camera bag and take pictures. But I’m not, and I don’t, so I keep driving.

On 65 North, near Huntsville, I see huge fields of cotton. And it reminds me, somehow, of marshmallows on chocolate, and again, I smile.

The Lovely suggests that we stop and pick some cotton. I’m all for it, especially since that means I can shoot some photos, but there really isn’t a good place to stop ... and besides, what you don’t notice, at first, when you look out at the cotton fields is that there are fences between us and them.

: )

When I was still in Alexander City, I bought a postcard with cotton fields on it. The card says “ALABAMA” across the top, in white-trimmed red letters, and just below it, in gold script, are the words “White Gold.”

My girlfriend prefers white gold to yellow gold, which I favor. The whole idea of different colors of gold seems odd to me, as gold is a color itself ... right? I mean, yes, it’s an element, a metal, but its name includes its color — kinda like an orange is, well, orange, and blueberries are blue. And white gold isn’t really white, either; it’s silver, but better, ’cause silver tarnishes.

And yellow gold isn’t yellow, of course. It’s golden.

: )

Stoopid, Stoopid, Stoopid!!!

So, I return Sunday from my whirlwind trip to Alexander City, Alabama — that’s Alex City for short — to find that I have fifty (50) e-mails in my Inbox. Only three (3) of which are from ACTUAL PEOPLE. Although, technically, I suppose spam does have to come from somewhere.

I cull through the junk mail and check out my favorite Web sites, chat with Mom for a bit on AOL and then log off to go watch the season premiere of Cold Case. Pretty good opener; have to admit, this show sometimes gets me a little teary-eyed right toward the end, and … well, yeah, it got me this week, too. I watch a bit of Martha Behind Bars starring Cybill Shepherd but can’t ever quite decide if the movie is supposed to be all satire or not ... which, if it is, it’s really not all that funny ... and if it isn’t, well ... it fails in that regard, also. (Plus they did a really shitty job on Cybill-Martha’s hair. Now, granted, Martha’s hair is sort of a mess, but on her, it works; I don’t know what kind of wig they put on Cybill, or if that was actually her own hair, but damn! A major hair-DON’T!)

In the midst of all that, I go to log back on to see if any of my buds are around for a mid-Sunday night chat. Unfortunately, I see that Windows XP has shut down and a mysterious error message is on my screen.

I spend the next day-and-a-half attempting to restart Windows. To no avail. So, finally, at about 10:30 p.m. Monday, I decide to bite the bullet and reinstall the program.

Which means saying an unplanned sayonara to the hundreds (100s) of files that I have not managed to make backup copies of. (I know, I know: At least four [4] major computer crashes in my lifetime; you’d think I’d learn, someday. If I were smarter, perhaps ... or maybe if I didn’t believe myself to be quite invincible.)

: )

I also did a reinstall on the laptop computer that I have been saying I am going to transfer files from for, oh, at least two (2) years now. So now I am up & running, electronically speaking! ... with oh-so-much software to reinstall on these unexpected clean-slate hard drives.

: (

Be back sometime next week, prolly.

Gone Butterfly Huntin’

Although, actually, I believe this is a moth.

: )

Contemplating Rita

This is what the ocean looks like at Key West on most non-hurricane days.

As Hurricane Rita advances, I pray that she somehow manages to avoid New Orleans and the surrounding area. Though I cannot help thinking that those places will, at the very least, get some very unwelcome rain. And I also pray that the storm will not continue to strengthen, and that if it hits Galveston, as projected, my pal Dolores will remain safe.

Actually, I hope she has already gotten the heck out of Dodge.

I was talking about her today. Dolores, that is, not Rita. Or maybe both, a little, now that I think about it. Anyway, back in 1996, I drove down to Texas to do a Dallas-Huntsville-Galveston swing that also included a visit to College Station, home of Texas A&M University. (Go, Aggies!) Spent a few days with Tee-Hee and then drove on down to Huntsville to stay with Dolores and David.

Dolores drove us to Galveston one of those days. Before we left her house, she told me I HAD to wear flip-flops (which I refer to as “thongs”) instead of my tennis shoes, which I wear ALL the time (she also insisted on painting my toenails). When we got there, she parked my car at her friend’s house, where we grabbed a couple of bikes to go riding down along the boardwalk. Dolores rode a comfy mountain-style bike but made me ride a racing bike: thin tires, curly handlebars and one of those narrow, uncomfortable seats that pokes right up your butt-crack (sorry, but it’s true!). WHILE wearing thongs (the on-your-feet kinda thongs ... not the right-up-your-butt-crack kinda thongs ... thank GOD!). With Dolores telling me, throughout the ride, to quit whining!

We rode all around Galveston, stopping for oyster po’ boy sandwiches at one little place, dropping in for more beers at another. We took a ferry from _______ to _______ (wish I could remember the names of the places, but I don’t), and then drank some more beers. Bought ourselves plastic collapsible knives and then freaked out our waittress by pretending to shove the blades up our noses and through our ears.

It was a fun day ... in spite of my sore arms, back, feet and butt-crack.

On the way back, Dolores and I switched bikes.

“God! That bike is horrible!” she said. “How did you ever ride that?”

: )

Wallowing

Now playing: Silver & Gold by Neil Young. (One of the albums that was in CONSTANT rotation in my CD player during the summer of 2001).

: )

I fear I have been wallowing a bit here lately. Not for any good reason, other than I guess I have felt like it. For a good long time, now that I think about it.

I have never been a big fan of wallowers. Not because I lack empathy or compassion, or because I believe that people do not have real problems. I know they do ... and I also know that, every once in a while, each one of us needs and even deserves to host our very own pity party. Over the big, real, honest-to-goodness problems in life, or even the teeny-weeny, not-detectible-to-the-human-eye setbacks.

And then: “Get over it.” Or, as Tee-Hee and I would say: “Git over it.”

Wallowing is the tendency to bask in your own misery. Wallowing is the inability to accept the situation and appreciate every positive moment, no matter how short or how unexpected or how beautiful because, basically ... well, you are too busy wallowing to notice.

Wallowing is the not letting go of everything and all things that can and could possibly hold you back.

I know and have known people who are/were not happy unless they are/were miserable. Which sounds like a huge oxymoron, but they do exist. And, usually, they are not completely blissful unless they are making others unhappy, too.

I do not want to be one of those people.

I refuse to wallow.

: )

You know how you listen to certain albums so many times that you know exactly when your favorite song on the CD is coming up? And you know how happy you feel, right when the song before your favorite song on the CD is finishing?

That is me, at this moment, with “Razor Love” coming up in just a few notes.

: )

Full Moon (Minus-1)

Two trips to the lake today/tonight.

Which means, generally, that it has been a very good day. And night.

: )

Chicago Cubs 7, St. Louis Cardinals 4: Cubs win the head-to-head season series 10-6. Which, I am sure, does not matter a whole heck of a lot to most Cardinals fans (well, it does, but they will most likely not admit it because they are in the midst of an almost magical year and seem destine to go all the way), but in a Cubs season that has had more than its share of lowlights, dominating the Cards was most certainly a bright spot.

St. Louis Rams 17, Arizona Cardinals 12: I have not fully switched into NFL Mode, but I have to say that after the loss last week to the 49ers, the Ramlets needed this win. Muchly. So I was happy to see St. Louie hold on to win this one. Though I still adore Kurt Warner ... even if he did appear to forget what he was doing in the waning seconds of the game.

Felicity Huffman (Lead Actress in a Comedy Series Emmy Winner): I do not watch Desperate Housewives, but I have adored Felicity Huffman ever since her SportsNight days. So: Way to go!

: )

Tonight, at the lake:

Sunflowers VII

At least I think they are.

(No matter. I like them, no matter what they are.)

: )

Harvest Moon

This is one of my favorite songs ever.

Harvest Moon

Come a little bit closer
Hear what I have to say
Just like children sleepin’
We could dream this night away.

But there’s a full moon risin’
Let’s go dancin’ in the light
We know where the music’s playin’
Let’s go out and feel the night.

Because I’m still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I’m still in love with you
On this harvest moon.

When we were strangers
I watched you from afar
When we were lovers
I loved you with all my heart.

But now it’s gettin’ late
And the moon is climbin’ high
I want to celebrate
See it shinin’ in your eye.

Because I’m still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I’m still in love with you
On this harvest moon.

— Neil Young

Oh, Deer!

Wake-Up Song in My Head Today: “Ballerina” by Leona Naess.

Thank God! (Yesterday, it was “YMCA” by the Village People.)

:o

Cut through the state park today and past the lake on the way home, looking for wildflowers. Found a few, nothing worth stopping for. Then, on the final approach, I sped past these guys (or gals?!), almost without seeing them.

Luckily, they stayed put long enough for me to do a turnabout and click a couple of shots from the road.

: )

Leftover Moon

From a couple of nights ago. The moon is even closer to full now.

* Gettin’ ready to howl! *

Unexpected Colors

Who knew cotton blooms looked a little like roses?

This is okra. Reminds me of potato chips. (Apparently, LOTS of things remind me of potato chips.)

Mix in a few hot peppers ...

... and some tomato blooms ...

... and a whole bunch o’ tomatoes ...

Lyrics

I Don’t Like Mondays

The silicon chip inside her head
gets switched to overload
and nobody’s gonna go to school today
she’s gonna make them stay at home

and Daddy doesn’t understand it
he always said she was good as gold
and he can see no reason
’cause there are no reasons
what reason do you need to be shown?

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I don’t like
I don’t like
I don’t like Mondays
tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoot
the whole day down, down, down
shoot it all down
hey, yeah
hey, yeah

and the playing stopped in the playground now
she wants to play with her toys a while
and school’s out early and soon we’ll be learning
the lesson today is how to die

and then the bullhorn cackles
and the captain tackles
with the problems and the how’s and why’s
and he can see no reason
’cause there are no reasons
what reason do you need to die, die, oh, oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I don’t like
I don’t like
I don’t like Mondays
tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I don’t like
I don’t like
I don’t like Mondays

Ooh
I don’t like Mondays ... no

I wanna shoot
the whole day down
whole day
whole day
the whole day
down.

— Bob Geldof/The Boomtown Rats

Nods to Patti for knowing more about this song than I had an idea about.

I have never heard the Boomtown Rats’ version but hope to soon. Though I think Tori’s voice is perfect for the song. And now that I think about it, Patti is also the one who turned me on to Tori’s music in the first place.

Fall

It’s coming.

I Don’t Like Thursdays*

* — Apologies to Tori Amos and whoever originally sang “I Don’t Like Mondays.”

: )

Actually, I do like Thursdays, on a comparative level. I like Thursdays better than Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, for obvious reasons: one day closer to the weekend. In college, I loved Thursdays because they were my Fridays — with Fridays, for all practical purposes, being the start of my weekly 3-day weekend. (Always disliked Thursday classes, though. Tuesdays, too: too long. Not many things in life — outside of love-making, certain films, various sporting events, overdue phone conversations and occasional no-lag online chats — are worth spending more than an hour at a time doing.

I might like Thursdays better than Fridays, now. And there are certain aspects of Thursdays that are better than, say, Sundays. Sundays start out well, before reality sets in and you realize the weekend is just a few hours from being over.

Sundays are pessimistic. Thursdays are optimistic.

Thursdays were better when Seinfeld was still in its original run.

: (

Yesterday I met a man who is growing cotton. This would not be a big deal if we happened to live in Georgia or one of the other southern states; however, this is the Midwest. The land of corn ’n’ beans ’n’ wheat, mostly.

His crop consists of one row. It could just as well be a hundred-acre wood filled with cotton, as far as he is concerned. He likes his cotton.

I like it, too: It’s soft, and the blooms are pretty.

He gave me a couple of bags full of seeds. I might try growing 1 or 2 cotton plants this winter and then plant my own crop next spring.

Weeds

Took me an episode or 2, but now I have fallen for Weeds. Mostly because I adore Mary-Louise Parker, but also because it’s a good show. Funny but not hilarious; serious but not overly dramatic. Also: 30 minutes long, which is almost perfect for my attention span ... plus there’s an encore showing immediately after the first episode, which works well for the parts I manage to miss, even though it is only 30 minutes long.

: )

And no, I do not smoke weed. And in fact I have some issues with people who sell marijuana and other drugs, mostly because there’s really no way to make sure those items don’t make their way to kids, and that troubles me greatly.

Not that there’s probably anything worse about smoking marijuana than there was when we used to smoke cigarettes with Bobby when I was 10 ... except that Bobby has been smoking cigarettes ever since. I have no idea if he ever smoked weed; he possibly did but likely doesn’t now and probably hasn’t for years. In other words, I’m fairly certain marijuana never became a lifelong addiction for him the way cigarettes did.

Anyway, issues aside, I like this show. From the opening theme — that “Little Boxes” song that makes me smile every time I hear it — to the ending. Especially this week’s closing scene, with Miss Parker watching a home video love scene (it’s a sex scene, too, but there’s nothing graphic about it, and you really get a sense that it’s more about love) between her and her now deceased husband (while he was still ALIVE, obviously) and listening to a wonderful beautiful song by Leona Naess called “Ballerina” that is well worth downloading.

And, indeed, they did. : )

Again: YAY!

Tomorrow, they open.

YAY!

: )

9/11

Difficult to believe it has been 4 years since that day.

I had words, earlier today, swirling through my mind, but now they have left me. Now, when I think back, I remember the color of the sky that day ...

The sky’s still, the same unbelievable blue (from “Nothing Man” by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band)

... and talking to my girlfriend and making sure our family members were OK. And then watching TV until I couldn’t watch anymore. Thinking of a girl I know and love who lives 67 miles from the Pentagon. Going to take a picture of high school football players, like I did every Tuesday afternoon, and feeling grateful to do so, mainly as a reminder that life goes on, in spite of everything.

And then noticing the sky, for days and weeks afterwards, because there were no planes.

: (

On a lighter note:

I went to a craft fair today. And I took my camera along but did not take one picture while I was there ... mostly because I have learned that some artists can be rather, uhm, irritable when it comes to photographing their work ... except in Minturn, Colo., where the people participating in the weekly flea market were quite cordial and very enthusiastic about having pictures taken.

Although there was a row of sun tea jugs that I really should have photographed. They looked kinda cool, with the brown tea and the dark bags and the yellow lids, all in a line.

I left the fair feeling a little inspired. I am not crafty, really. I have dabbled in embroidery and counted cross-stitch and, once upon a time, I even made a macrame plant hanger (but then, so did everyone, back in the late 1970s!), and while I suspect doing crafts might be fun and, who knows, I might even be good at it: I really can’t think of anything crafty that I’d really like to do.

I left with mixed feelings regarding my photography. I mean, there are times when I take a picture and I think to myself, Wow, I really like that — especially when it’s something I have worked really hard to capture, or even when it’s something kind of extraordinary that I just so happened to click the shutter AND have in focus (this seemed to happen a lot when I was shooting sports on a regular basis) ... but then, sometimes, I think: Is it any good, really?

And then I remind myself: If I like it, that’s all that matters.

Perhaps I would feel differently if I were trying to sell my work.

I noticed that the artists seem to have different theories regarding their exhibitions. Some of them seem to want to talk to the people who come to their booths; others allow visitors to look over their works, answering questions if they are asked. Personally, I have the same approach to looking at crafts as I do to shopping: I just want to browse and be left alone. If I need something, if I want to know more about your work, I will ask you. Thank you.

(I also tend to like the artists who are actually doing their craftwork during the fair. I’m telling you, there were some tables there that, had I had an extra $500 or so, I would’ve been taking home a couple to put in my living room ... even though I really do not have the space.)

: )

Watched an excellent men’s singles final at the U.S. Open this evening. Of course, I was rooting for Andre Agassi, who ended up losing 6-3, 2-6, 7-6 (7-1), 6-1 to Roger Federer, so it didn’t have the finish I was hoping for; still, this year’s tournament was one of the best I’ve ever seen.

Agassi is amazing. He was playing in his 20th U.S. Open — and, at age 35, had a legitimate shot to win it!

My favorite moment, though, occurred after the semifinals yesterday, when Andre’s kids came running up to him in the tunnel.

I can’t say Andre is my all-time favorite tennis player or anything, but I do admire him. He started out as sort of a punk (not the punk-rock definition of a punk, but a “who does this punk think he is?” kind of punk), with the big ’80s hair and scruff and jewelry and high fashion, and the whole “image is everything” campaign, and for a long time, no one thought he could win a Grand Slam tournament. And then he won Wimbledon, to prove he was legit, and eventually he won a couple of U.S. Opens and even a French — in-between some pretty serious injuries and Hollywood romances with the likes of Barbra Streisand (!!!) and Brooke Shields, before marrying and divorcing Brooke, and then hooking up with fellow tennis player Steffi Graf.

This guy played some great tennis over the past 2 weeks, after hurting his back at Roland Garros and having to miss Wimbledon. He could have won today; he did not, obviously, but he had a chance.

That, too, I find inspirational.

Anything’s possible ...

: )

Yellow

Lemony

Grand Opening

Red

Red Star

Last of the Geraniums?

Red & Yellow

Jungleland

I am having a near-religious experience right now: Watching Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band perform “Jungleland,” live on DVD, on some PBS special.

: )

Jungleland

The Rangers had a homecoming
In Harlem late last night
And the Magic Rat drove his sleek machine
Over the Jersey state line
Barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge
Drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain
The Rat pulls into town rolls up his pants
Together they take a stab at romance
And disappear down Flamingo Lane

Well, the Maximum Lawmen run down Flamingo
Chasing the Rat and the barefoot girl
And the kids round here look just like shadows
Always quiet, holding hands
From the churches to the jails
Tonight all is silence in the world
As we take our stand
Down in Jungleland

The midnight gang’s assembled
And picked a rendezvous for the night
They’ll meet ’neath that giant Exxon sign
That brings this fair city light
Man, there’s an opera out on the Turnpike
There’s a ballet being fought out in the alley
Until the local cops
Cherry Tops
Rip this holy night
The street’s alive
As secret debts are paid
Contacts made, they vanish unseen
Kids flash guitars just like switchblades
Hustling for the record machine
The hungry and the hunted
Explode into rock’n’roll bands
That face off against each other out in the street
Down in Jungleland

In the parking lot the visionaries
Dress in the latest rage
Inside the backstreet girls are dancing
To the records that the DJ plays
Lonely hearted lovers
Struggle in dark corners
Desperate as the night moves on
Just one look
And a whisper, and they’re gone

Beneath the city two hearts beat
Soul engines running through a night so tender
In a bedroom locked
In whispers of soft refusal
And then surrender
In the tunnels uptown
The Rat’s own dream guns him down
As shots echo down them hallways in the night
No one watches when the ambulance pulls away
Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light
Outside the street’s on fire
In a real death waltz
Between what’s flesh and what’s fantasy
And the poets down here
Don’t write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of the night
They reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand
But they wind up wounded
Not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland

— Bruce Springsteen

White

Double-White on Pink

Whiteburst

Mini-Whites

White on White on White

Pink/Purple

Look Inside

Catnap

Dippin’ Dots

Purpleburst 2

Working for the Weekend

I saw a commercial awhile back — I think it might be for beer or some kind of SUV, who knows? — anyhoo, I liked it, mostly for its catch-phrase, which went something like this:

“There are 40 hours in a week ... but the weekend has 48!”

Sorta crystallizes my thoughts perfectly.

: )

This is the moon tonight.

Speaking of crystallizing my thoughts:

Yesterday, I saw a Peanuts strip that summed up all the reasons that, even though I believe I am (mostly) a clear-thinking person blessed with common sense, compassion, a rational mind and a basic understanding of human behavior, I could probably never be a counselor or a therapist. (I’d link to the strip if I had the slightest clue how to do so; since I don’t, I will describe it here for posterity.)

First panel: Lucy is sitting in her psychiatrist’s booth — PSYCHIATRIC HELP 47¢ across the top, THE DOCTOR IS IN across the bottom. She has her elbows on the table, her hands on her face, and her eyes appear to be closed. Charlie Brown is seated on a stool in front of the booth and says, “Well, I appreciate the help you’ve given me.”

Second panel: Charlie Brown, with his right hand in front of his mouth, continues, “I was wondering, though, if I should get a second opinion.”

Third panel: Lucy — who is now leaning back, her feet up on the counter of the booth, her hands behind her head and her eyes furrowed into a slight frown — replies, “Only if you don’t mind my beating you over the head with that stool you’re sitting on!”

Fourth panel: Charlie Brown, with his hands on his knees, says, “I guess first opinions are pretty good.”

(Joe Anne has always told me I remind her of Lucy.)

: )

Cubs 2, Cardinals 1

If only the Cubs could play the Cardinals every game. So far this season, they are 8-4 against them, which means, even if the Cards should happen to sweep the 4-game series later this month in Chicago, they could finish no worse than tied during 2005.

Amazing.

Meanwhile, the Cubs are 68-71 overall.

Revolting.

At the U.S. Open, Andre Agassi and James Blake have just gone to a 5th set. I cannot possibly write at a time like this.

I’m obsessed, thank you very much!

Yeah, the hummingbirds were at it again today. This time, I had my Kodak.

Bird on a Wire

Like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
Like a knight from some old-fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.

If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue,
I hope you know it was never to you.

Like a baby, stillborn,
Like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.

I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
He said to me, “You must not ask for so much.”
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
She cried to me, “Hey, why not ask for more?”

Oh, like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.

— Leonard Cohen