I Saw A Squirrel: "Mall Santa"

I Saw A Squirrel: "Power Tool Rangers"

2 Weeks, $200

As most people know, I dabble in the art of "Photochopping," a hobby which has kept me occupied on those nocturnal nights, (Read: every night), and which, just recently, has started actually paying off. Thanks to good old Woot.com, I am now $200 richer, or at least I will be when their budgeting department realizes they're obligated to pay me.

In any case, due to the demands of those I've mentioned it to already, I am posting the winning images here, along with the contest guidelines that generated them:

Contest #196: Show us a Halloween costume made of past or current Woot products.

---

Contest #197: Show us the secret role played by one or more Woot products, past or present, in the 2008 election.

Eye of Blue

Grover

The neighbors had always been wary of the Ekhart family. It wasn't the fact that Mr. Ekhart was an abstract sculptor without sufficient studio space, prompting him to keep what amounted to a huge pile of scrap metal and rubbish out on the front lawn. And it wasn't that Mrs. Ekhart enjoyed authentic smoked meats such that thick, black plumes poured from her chimney twice a week. And it wasn't that their eight year-old son, Robert, had recently developed a love of both bicycles and fire engines, which combined into a single hobby of riding up and down the street while shrieking at the top of his lungs.

No, it was their dog, Grover. From a distance, the jack russell terrier was almost cute, a little bundle of white, bristly fur with a big brown spot on one side. His tail wagged perpetually, and his open mouth curled almost into a smile. But up close, the neighbors all knew that there was a strange glint in the dog's eyes, and his adorable outward appearance didn't entirely cover the uneasy feeling they got when his gaze met with their own. The Ekhart's thought they were all crazy, of course. They loved their little Grover more than anything else in the world.

The Ekhart's house was nestled into a small cul-de-sac at the top of a hill. The access road sloped down through a row of young elm trees before meeting with the busy street below. The traffic light defaulted to the main street, changing only when a car passed over a sensor at the end of the quiet road. Because of this constant cross traffic, the Ekharts tried to be vigilant in keeping Grover securely leashed when they let him into the front yard. They didn't want him to run off, or -- God forbid -- dash in front of a speeding vehicle. There was also a chain-link fence surrounding their property, but the little dog had long since learned to escape this obstacle, though the Ekharts never could figure out how. More than once, one of the neighbors had rung the doorbell and delivered Grover, tail wagging, leash trailing behind, back to the Ekharts after a daring escape. Every time, the neighbor would tell them that they found him sitting at the top of the hill, head cocked to one side, staring down at the traffic rushing past. The Ekharts would thank them profusely for saving Grover from harm, although often got the impression that they were less concerned with the safety of the dog than with the safety of the cars in the street below.

One day, Mrs. Ekhart returned from her errands with two new toys: a big, shiny red firetruck for Robert, and a big, shiny red rubber ball for Grover. Both the boy and the dog danced about with glee at their new gifts. Robert dropped to the ground and began to drive his truck from room to room, shrieking with renewed vigor at the top of his lungs. Grover followed right behind, pushing and kicking his ball as he was unable to grasp it in his small, smiling mouth. Once or twice, he accidentally got the ball to bounce, which seemed to delight him to no end. He played with the ball for hours, kicking and bouncing, and then trying to bounce it higher and higher. The Ekharts laughed as they watched him, his little tail whipping about like a propeller.

Around five o'clock Mrs. Ekhart began to prepare dinner. Almost at once, the red rubber ball bounced onto the counter and into the sink where she was peeling potatoes. She chuckled at the little rascal, and then put Grover and the ball out into the front yard so she could cook uninterrupted. She secured his leash to the tent stake in the middle of the yard, scratched Grover behind the ear, and returned to the house.

Grover watched the retreating figure of his owner as it passed into the house. He waited for a moment, watching as the door closed behind her, and then looked at the tent stake. He grasped the protruding end between his teeth and pulled it straight out the earth with a practiced movement. He shook the leash free and deftly replaced the stake into the ground, sliding it gingerly back into its hole. Then he turned his attention to the ball.

It was exactly what he had been waiting for all these months. The perfect toy; the perfect tool. He began to kick and bounce the ball, nudging it higher and higher into the air, until with one final leap he shot the ball, silhouetted for a moment against the late afternoon sun, off his nose and right over the chain-link fence. It swished gently into the hedge on the other side, sliding quietly through the leaves. He stared at it for a moment, then trotted to a small bush in the corner of the yard. He pulled at a loose scrap of Mr. Ekhart's sculpting metal, something corrugated and innocuous, and dove stealthily into the small tunnel hidden beneath. He appeared a moment later under the hedge on the other side, shaking the dirt from his fur, and glanced around. He located the ball, perched in the branches just above him, and carefully nuzzled it free. He looked right, then left; satisfied, he batted it cautiously into the empty road. He ran after it and, with mounting excitement, bounced it once, twice, three times into the air, nudging it ever forward. Then, abruptly, he stopped.

The dog sat down and watched as the ball bounced down the hill, gaining momentum every time it flexed and recoiled on the sloping concrete. He saw the glint of the sun on the red rubber, and also on the hard metal frames of those monstrous vehicles rushing through the intersection below. He panted, tongue waggling, waiting patiently for the inevitable.

We Dared To Hope

In late lamplight I watched
the crowds ripple electric,
a spirit dancing from aged hands
to youthful smiles, a song made
from laughter and deep, deep joy
that splashed over the night
in blue and white, and red-striped banners
shining triumphantly, throwing their
honored salute into the crisp November air.

With the genuine dignity of the noblest of men,
he stood before them — and me,
and the world — and spilled
saturated words out over that Chicago night,
beacons of lights that mingled
with constellations, guiding us

to speak in one voice
from New York to Nairobi, Beijing to San Francisco;
and the blood pumped through our veins,
and our eyes began to water
as we stared in awe at the sun.

And for once I felt my heart pound with theirs,
and theirs with mine,
and my untrained lips spread into a laughing smile,

and I felt big.

Today I shook the hand of a stranger on a train;
I shared a smile and a nod with a man
playing drums beneath the streets of New York;
I laughed as children played,
and raised my voice with a boy
who was shouting his name between streetlights and trees.

I felt alive today.
And we dare to hope.

Obama

Photo credit: Tom Turnbull

Photo credit: mrspleasant

Photo credit: katherine of chicago

Photo credit: tay-lo

Also check out:
sionfullana's ELECTION NIGHT 2008: NY CELEBRATES OBAMA'S WIN (1 of 34), (full set);
Charlesmedia's A Change Is Gonna Come;
luluinnyc's It's been a long, long time coming...;

Election Day: Watching the Vote

It's game time.



...And PA polls, for me:

John and Sara

John and Sara were about as average as they could get. They lived in a nice house with a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence. John worked as an accountant in the block of offices just off the interstate, and Sara always had dinner on the table by six P.M. They had 2.5 kids and 1.3 dogs, and were generally satisfied with life.

But it was hard to live up to the standards of the average, middle-class life style. John worked as the manager of a retail electronics business, though he was often putting in overtime hours to make sure he got enough money squared away every month. Sara was always a little bit frantic, making sure their kids got to school, got to sports practices, got to their doctors' appointments. It was a real challenge to get dinner ready on time every day, and that it was something that would satisfy everyone. They made the best of it of course, and they went to bed every night with a smile — albeit a strained one — knowing that they had done their duties as parents, and done them well. Still, it was hard.

A lot of it, they conceded one night, talking softly as they changed into their pajamas, stemmed from their children. As an average family of average means, it was difficult to raise their children. Quite frankly, they didn't know how other people did it. And it wasn't even their two oldest children, (they noted over the bathroom sink as they brushed and flossed their teeth), it was their "point five."

Tommy and Caitlin were great, actually. They got decent marks in school; they were well-liked on their respective baseball and soccer teams; they were responsible and polite, if not altogether clean and self-sufficient. No, it was their youngest, Char, who took up the vast majority of their parental efforts.

They paused, a momentary shadow of uncomfortable guilt passing over them both as they rinsed with Cool Mint mouthwash. His name, according to his birth certificate, was Charles, but he had insisted on being called "Char" since he was able to speak. His full name wasn't him, he said. It didn't fit his personality, his life. And so he cut it in half, so to speak, and refused to go by anything else. He was that kind of kid — stubborn and strong-willed.

It wasn't his fault, (they admitted as they kicked off their slippers and climbed into bed); there was nothing to be helped. He grew up in a world where he was supposed to be part of an average family, only he couldn't ever really live up to the expectations. He tried to join Tommy's baseball league, but with only one arm he couldn't wear a glove without making it impossible to throw. He tried to join Caitlin's soccer league, but with only one leg he couldn't keep up with the other children, let alone kick the ball without risking falling down and hurting himself. They had even tried a table tennis league, which required only one hand and limited movement, but with only one eye and the resulting depth-perception issues, he could never manage to get the ball over the net.

It was also a shock to John and Sara both, (they finally admitted as they set their separate alarm clocks on their separate night stands), when they learned that the average American family does not, in fact, have to deal with these issues. That all of the articles they had read talking about families having "two-point-five children" were describing the average number of children over a wide sample base, and that the average family had either two or three. Very few, if any, have half a child.

But despite all this, (they concluded, heads resting on their pillows, facing each other in the dark), they had done well as parents. Or at least, they had done the best that could be expected of them. And who could ask for more?

I Saw A Squirrel: "The Box, III"

Nine Beginnings

John and Sara were about as average as they could get. They lived in a nice house with a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence. John worked as an accountant in the block of offices just off the interstate, and Sara always had dinner on the table by six P.M. They had 2.5 kids and 1.3 dogs, and were generally satisfied with life.

* * *

He was wary of his surroundings, and not without reason. A shadow slid past the gate and melted into the fractured lamplight that cut jagged shapes across the gravestones. He felt a shiver run up his spine and radiate through his arms to the tips of his fingers, and he feared very much that it wasn't from the icy chill of the surrounding night.

* * *

"Take a look, Mr. Wilkins," the man in the suit said to him. "All this could be yours one day. All this could be yours." The man spread out his left arm before them, his right wrapped soundly around Wilkins' shoulders, cigar clenched between his yellow teeth. Wilkins wasn't sure at that moment why in the world he would want this mountain of garbage spread out before him, but somehow the cigar smoke and the cut of the man's suit made it seem like a dream worth having.

* * *

The dog sat down and watched as the ball bounced down the hill, gaining momentum every time it flexed and recoiled on the sloping concrete. He saw the glint of the sun on the red rubber, and also on the hard metal frames of those monstrous vehicles rushing through the intersection below. He panted, tongue waggling, waiting patiently for the inevitable.

* * *

Six sticks, a few paper clips and a piece of gum are not enough to rebuild a boat engine, I don't care how god-damned clever you are.

* * *

Ellen couldn't concentrate. It wasn't her fault, either. She had successfully blocked out the ticking of the wall clock, as well as the quiet slurping noises coming from the desk next to her, where a kid called Billy was chewing on the end of his pencil. It wasn't the stress of the exam, because she had memorized all the mathematical equations she would need, and it wasn't the fact that her boyfriend had just told her that he was considering joining the army and so thought that maybe they should see other people. It wasn't any of that. Sadly, Ellen's brain was rupturing, and there really wasn't anything she could do about it.

* * *

Eight bananas nestled comfortably in the crook of their tree, all bunched together, as happy as ever. They watched the monkey with increasing glee, knowing that soon all their hard work would come to fruition.

* * *

Tourists are everywhere. In every niche of life, there are those who simply come to watch. They see the sights, they drink your beer, and then they go home and tell their friends. And the number of tourists grow, while we sit here and are consumed.

* * *

The music rippled through the air like water, concentric circles bouncing off of every corner and surface in the room. With every heavy step, I pushed through the crowd of half-asleep ghosts in search of the exit. It glowed just beyond reach, the invitingly cool air brushing seductively against my lungs...

On Tiptoes

Once Upon A Time

...Once upon a time there was a girl who was a princess. She had golden hair the color of corn silk, and skin that was smooth and pale and glowed like the full moon. Her eyes, as I've heard it told, shone so brightly that they could be seen from across the sea, and her laughter was known the world around for the light and warmth that it brought to those that heard it. And she was beautiful. More beautiful than anyone you've ever seen, that's for sure.

That was, of course, quite a long time ago. The princess did all the princess-y things: she out-smarted an old witch who was trying to trick away her youth and beauty; she trekked through the forests in search of ancient wonders long ago hidden away; and she went to a fancy ball and danced with the handsome prince who, as I'm sure you know, then went on to ask her hand in marriage. And at the wedding she laughed, and her laughter rang with the bells in the steeple, and everyone in the kingdom felt a certain joy to have heard it. And she knew, from all the story books she had read in secret under her goose-down blankets when her parents thought her asleep in her bed, that it was about this time that she was supposed to live happily ever after. And so she grew up, and ever after drew ever closer.

And she smiled and laughed to herself when she thought about it all, about what had happened and what was to come, and even her quiet laughter sprinkled like snowflakes over the land. It was quite pleasant, she supposed, to live in a huge, enchanted castle with servants who adored her and accommodated her every whim. It was very nice that bluebirds came and fluttered about her as she sang in the garden, chirping and rustling their feathers. And it was great to have an attractive prince for a husband, if you know what I mean.

But the girl, now grown up, knew that something was missing. She felt that, despite the smiles that she put on peoples' faces as she passed them in the marketplace, the life she was living was predictable. Her life was a fable, a tale passed on by mothers to their children as she tucked them in at night, and she couldn't ignore a certain nagging feeling at the back of her mind.

And so she cut her hair and enrolled at a liberal arts college, taking courses in psychology and women's studies. And she learned about female stereotypes, and archetypes, and learned to dissect the idealism and fantasy that had always troubled her a little bit down to their roots in oppression and egoism. And she joined the crew team -- though she wasn't thrilled about getting up at four in the morning, what with psych at 10am and barely enough time to bolt down a frozen waffle for breakfast -- and she got a part-time job at Cafe Libra on the corner across from the campus bookstore. She began to hang out with the hipsters, and listen to National Public Radio -- I mean, Terry Gross says some really insightful shit sometimes, you know? -- and she really loved her job at the coffee shop because they only sold fair trade coffee, and she could like totally dig that.

And one day her cell phone rang, and it was her husband the prince calling to ask if she was going to come home when the semester was over, because he and the rest of the people in the kingdom just weren't as happy without her beauty and her laughter to brighten the days.

And she gave him a derisive snort, a laugh drenched in sarcasm, cutting off his words. And she said, "You know, that sounds like an emotional dependency issue, and it really isn't my responsibility."

And then she hung up. And, wearing a little smirk on her face, she curled up in her 100% cotton sheets and went to bed. Well, first she checked her email, and played a few rounds of Text Twist. But then she went to bed.

And she felt good.

I Saw A Squirrel: "Terminal Velocity"

Playa Haikus: Plaikus

Seven days of life
in playa earth and white-outs.
You are dusted pure.
* *
Shirt once a bright pink
lost against green tent, gold car,
my white muted hair.
* *
Days later these clothes
still cough powder; hate to think
what my lungs look like.

I Saw A Squirrel: "At A Walmart In Texas"

Anonymity

Why is it that so often we find
our true selves in the places
that are meant to disappear?
- Written on the floor of the temple

In the Temple

We climb the twisting stair
which creaks and groans
beneath our leathered feet, each
voice calling silently after us
as we meet these strings of music that
hang so delicately above;
and we watch the sky fade
here above the earth,
and we hear the desert roar
and toss its wild mane, breathing
hard across the backs of giants
who sleep around us as the sun
rises higher.

We are ghosts
who wander in twos, or threes,
or alone,
through sweeping white dust,
appearing and reappearing at the whim
of the winds that swirl
and howl through twinkling strings
of music that hang above,
each silver sliver that shines
in the muted sunlight.

And as we pass each to each
we never see another soul,
hearing only the white sounds, the faint
moans and songs of those beside us,
closing our eyes and breathing deeply
these clouds through our nostrils
that we might feel the air,
turning and returning through the ash and smoke,
and get to know this spirit better.

And it does not rain, here among these
ghosts and wanderers, yet I feel
the faintest drops against my cheek,
and I can stare at the afternoon sun
hanging moon-like behind the veil;
it does not rain, for every hand
is held outstretched
to taste the white rays that wash
and flow around our every curve.

And I hear nothing, and I cannot see
the sky above, nor the shrouded shapes
that once stood all around,
nor feel the pulsing beat of this city
which once sounded and resounded
through the day, and the one before;
I hear nothing,
and oh, how loudly it speaks
to me.

He Returns From the Desert

I try not to make this blog about writing journal entries. I don't like writing journal entries. I realize their potential for self-reflection and reliving ones past experiences, but I have such a hard time actually putting my words down in any sort of permanent form because I fear they will not do justice to the experience itself.

I spent this last week in August living in the dry, arid, lifeless desert at the Burning Man festival, and it was amazing. I had the great fortune of being allowed to arrive early to help build our camp, and as a result I got to see the community grow from the ground up. To watch a city of 50,000 people rise up out of the dust and fill in the dotted outline stitched into the waiting desert was fascinating. To feel simultaneously out of place and at peace with the people and the world around you was exhausting. To live in a place with such an excited, pulsing heartbeat of music and movement, knowing all the time that in seven days it will all disperse and trickle back into the veins of real life is exhilarating. It was an experience I will never forget, but also one that I could never -- not in a million years -- capture with my words.

I will try, of course. I will write about going on a hunt through the midday sun for a slice of apple pie and instead finding a large tent with the words, "Hard Cider: Quench Your Dust" written on its side. An oasis, it would seem, greeting us with rare luck and fortune. We wandered around the side and in moments found ourselves chatting amicably with Tommy, an Irishman from Galway who now owns a pub in Santa Barbara. This was his ninth trip to Burning Man, and each time he brings more kegs of cider to welcome lost souls out of the day's heat. I found myself back in that tent quite a few times throughout the week, both for another pint (or three) of cider to wash down the playa dust, as well as for the company of the people I met there.

I will write about Roo's and my self-imposed quest to seek out and play on every trampoline on the playa. On the first day of wandering, after a snack of bacon and waffles which were well worth the wait, we passed a trampoline that looked far too inviting to pass up. After bouncing and flipping for about half an hour -- an already exhausting activity made even more tiring by the dry, pounding heat; it's a good thing I was wearing my kilt for ventilation -- we decreed that we would have to find and bounce on them all. Six days and seven trampolines later, and after seriously pulling a muscle along the left side of my back, I don't think we were anywhere close to our goal, but it was a valiant effort to be sure. They did make for some epic photos against the deep blue desert sky.

I will write about watching the spinners on the Shiva Vista stage and being blown away by both the performers and the stage itself. The large, square playing space sat out in the open playa, a good hike from center camp, but it was always plainly visible. The stage was flanked at each corner by a massive column of black steel, a fire cannon capable of blasting a pillar of flame twenty feet into the sky. Around the audience space stood a ring of ten or so additional fire rigs which threw flame both straight up, as well as inwards towards the stage. As I watched the burners dance, the cannons pumped their excited tongues of fire into the night, popping and swirling and tossing irregular shadows across the hard desert floor. At full blast, I could feel the orange flames wash over me, a bubble of heat in the cool yet boiling night.

And I will write about these things and more, and I will continue to write for days to come, and it will never come close to capturing the experience as a whole. How can I describe the intense dryness, the dust seeping into my skin and mingling with my sweat, staining every hair on my body a chalky gray? I can't, not in that way that will make you touch your fingertips together to take comfort in the oils on your skin.

I will write about these things, and I will feel like I did out there in the desert: for every thing that I see -- for every sculpture that I touch; for every person that I encounter; for every song that I hear; for every star that I see blinking at me from the night sky -- there will exist a hundred other things that I will never see, will never find, will never even hear about second- or third-hand from others. And that will be okay. Because that is part of the experience, too.

Update: Haircut!

And oh, yeah. I got a haircut. No, like a serious haircut:

Road Trip - Highlights

It's been a while since I've posted anything here, so as a place-filler I'll post some highlights of the road trip thus far:

So far, we've spotted licence plates from over half of the states in the union, (including Hawaii!), and we're only in eastern Texas.

Stopped in Nashville, TN to see the Parthenon. Or, at least, a very accurate recreation of the Parthenon. What it's doing in the middle of Tennessee I'll never know, but at least it has towns nearby called Sparta and Carthage to keep it company.

Stopped in Memphis, TN for some amazing dry-rub pork ribs at a little back-alley place called The Rendezvous. Seriously delicious ribs. I felt like I had wandered into the Food Network's show about finding the best food around America.

Following that, we walked down Beale Street and saw live music, a backflip competition, and a crazy guy on a motor scooter. Favorite sight: a sign at the top of the street reading: "First chance for a drink! Next opportunity: 20 feet."

Coming up: The Texarkana post office, which straddles the state line between Texas and Arkansas. I'll be in two states at once! ...And I can send snail mail at the same time!

Caterpillar 1

Cookies

I heard a great metaphor today:

Sex is like making cookies. Sure, cookies are great; but it's also fun to mix the ingredients and eat the cookie dough without ever putting it in the oven.

...As long as you take the proper precautions against salmonella.

Late Nights

Dust, that thick perfume of
pine and fiberboard which clogs
my pores, fills my nostrils and
mixes into a paste with my sweat,
now circulates the room at roughly
one hundred thousand parts per million.

Four A.M. is no time for power tools.

Noa Grace David Goes For A Joyride

My friend Biebs was showing me pictures of her niece, Noa. I couldn't pass up this prime Photoshop opportunity.

(See the original image here).

P.S. This was a quick chop, but I think it's looking pretty good. Let me know if there are any details you notice that I can hammer out to make it look better.

::EDIT::
I colored out the orange light on the dashboard. Thanks for the catch, Ricky.

I Saw A Squirrel: "Thermodynamics"

I Saw A Squirrel: "Mind Over Matter"

Low Rumbling, Plastic Ivy and Eggo Waffles

They grumble and stomp their feet
demanding word -- a few lines
posted on a painted nail,
parchment flapping in the venting breeze;
a rope dangles from a beam,
looped above a lantern, an old woman,
an elephant and a coffin --
any sign of life.

Will this do?

The hours flash past,
each day melts into the next
with only enough time in between
to unwrap the black from my back
and fall unceremoniously onto cotton sheets
before the sparrows call me out again.

I am lost.
Is it Tuesday already?

The valley fills with purple clouds
and electricity bends like a rainbow
over the horizon,
tapping its toe on either side of the ridge.
Paper lanterns hang precariously in the periphery,
but they do not move. Not one inch.

The heat slips off into the shadows;
even it is getting more sleep than I.

C'est la vie, they say,
and they are absolutely right.
Who am I to raise my voice? My cries
echo into a nest of ants
scurrying here and there with their wares;
I speculate on the odds of one
hitting his head on a chandelier.
The space is getting smaller.

Did we change the world in under an hour?
The champagne still buzzes around my head,
a pesky fly I cannot wave away.
Or maybe it's the sugar. Who can tell?

I never got my sandwich.
It's a comment on something, I'm sure.

Still,
he waits patiently for her to call.
After all, chocolate kisses are the best.

In the meantime,
the twenty-five cent alarm clock beckons.
Here's hoping it still works.

---

Post script:

Alas. It does not.
It spins quietly, but emits only static.
I suppose one gets what one pays for.

Fire Escape

I Saw A Squirrel: "Public Transportation"

Encounter

I saw you suddenly dancing
across the night,
wearing wings of light and silver,
drifting lazily on the wind
without direction, except...

I caught your eyes,
pricks of brightness darting behind
their smooth, black cases,
glinting gunmetal armor
hiding every thought except...

I felt your arms
snake like silk around me
your fingers tangled like ivy into my hair,
your hot, orange breath
tracing mazes
into the corners of my neck
but saying nothing, except...

I knew your touch,
the red shivers from your fingertips,
the feathered whisper of your lips
gliding over my textured skin
every hair rising to greet
those seductive echoes,
screaming out to stop, except...

I saw myself under the surface with you,
pitching and turning on the waves
of fire and passion
and every breath in the room, and every
flick of the clock drew us
closer to the waking hour.

And the birds sang,

and the light pierced through
your ghostly image.

Welcome back,
you said.

And you were gone.

Things I Learned At Work Today

1. Despite my predictions, it is, in fact, possible to work a 14-hour day, stay up late drinking, get 4 hours sleep, and then wake up at 8am to repeat the process.

2. It is harder to focus stage lights when you are dangling upside-down from an I-beam harnessed into the high steel than you would think.

3. Meta-Algebra:
a. 2x4 + 2x4 + 2x4 + 2x4 = Platform framing.
b. Holding 2x4 in place + Nail gun = Helpful and efficient.
c. Nail gun + My thumb = Lots of blood + Light-headedness.
d. My thumb + Hospital staff + Tetanus shot = Crabby nurse.
e. Tetanus shot + No stitches + No bone contact + Workman's Comp = VERY, VERY LUCKY.

4. People are cynical and sarcastic when they think you injured yourself. People are much nicer when they learn that someone else did it to you.


------- EDIT: -------

5. When people who have just met you accidentally shoot you through the thumb with a nail gun and watch you bleed all over the shop floor, they will make you wonderful trophies, (even if they don't yet know your last name).

Keith Olbermann Special Comment

Wow.

More links. Watch this. Now. (11 minutes combined).

* Keith Olbermann - part 1
* Keith Olbermann - part 2

"And sir, if you have any hopes that next January 20th will not be celebrated as a day of soul-wrenching, heart-felt thanksgiving because your faithless stewardship of this presidency will have finally come to a merciful end, this last piece of advice--"

PSF

A brief note:

For those that didn't know, I will be leaving in just under 6 hours to begin my summer internship at the Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival at DeSales University.

For the next twelve (12) weeks, I will undertake all the duties of the "swing intern," which, as I understand, means I will be the production manager's bitch for the summer. Which is fine by me -- I haven't had an honest day's work in a long time, and this will be a great way for me to get my foot in the door and make some connections within the theater world. Hooray.

This also means I will be living at DeSales U until Aug. 6. In a dorm room. Possibly with a roommate. If I have one, my challenge for myself will be to see how much like Freshman year at VC I can make this experience. Mainly, I will try to get the roommate to move out after six weeks. If I find him doing lines of coke off my desk, I'll know I'm almost there.

Don't worry. I'll have my computer and phone, so I won't be entirely dead to the world. But I will be living on theater time -- very much like my life at VC, except I won't have the periodic nap-times throughout the day that were my classes.

Anyway. It starts.

I Saw A Squirrel: "A Brief Chat With God"

Everyone should see this...

It's educational. It's entertaining. Mostly it's just pretty.

It's sort of long, but do watch it to the end. That's where it gets good.

http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/260.

For Your Consideration

Parrot Tulip, From Above.

Thoughts?

Encounter

On this whispered night,
    lying secret between a cool spring breeze
and a deep crimson quilt,
    your weightless kisses float across my face —
my cheeks, my eyes — and tickle the very
    corners of my curling breath.

Red brush strokes blossom across each silken curve
    as roaming petals dance and explore
the small of your back, and we tumble and fall
    within the rich folds of color
until dew seasons every finger of grass
    and birds' songs float and mingle with new light,
refracting through a green and smiling world.

Here's To You, Matthew Vassar!

Happy Founder's Day! Today is the day when all Vassarians come together in all their inebriated glory to celebrate the founder of their beloved school, the most honorable Matthew Vassar. And if all has gone according to plan, I have successfully made the trek back to Poughkeepsie so that I, too, might celebrate this man and all that he knew and loved.


Matthew Vassar was a brewer by trade, and any self-respecting Vassar student will proudly tell you that Main building was designed with exceptionally wide halls so that, in case the school failed, Mr. Vassar could convert it easily into a brewery. This cunning and ingenious forethought was -- and continues to be -- an inspiration to all of us; his legacy lives on each and every day through the age-old college traditions of mildly responsible consumption and all out binge drinking alike.


Fortunately, his school was a success. And so once a year, as the sun rises over the quad and the warm spring weather descends once more from its hibernation hole in the Catskill mountains or somewhere, Vassar students, alums, faculty and friends take a day to honor their founder and all that he was able to accomplish. And how better to celebrate the man than by driving a giant beer truck onto Balentine Field and spending the day playing, dancing and enjoying the company of friends, all with a plastic mug of suds clasped faithfully in our inebriated fists.

Here's to you, Matthew Vassar. May your soul rest blissfully, and may our intoxicated--wait, no; -ing, intoxicating--laughter show our deep appreciation for all that you have done.

At the mercy of public transportation

He sits on the bed,
the screen glowing softly beside
him, while sounds of jazzed-up
Broadway hits are transmitted
from satellite to
satellite to
him
as he waits for a
customer service agent.

He dozes; the clock
ticks quietly in the next room.

After a dream --
a mutant cat eating a street
full of people? --
a voice interrupts the music.

He explains the problem,
patiently.
It's been two hours, he says.
She tells him there
has been a glitch in the system,
the ones and zeros
didn't add up,
we're sorry.

We can request a ticket
to be waiting for you at the desk,
she says. He can hear her smiling,
falsely.
That would be great, he says.
It will take some time, she says,
We'll call you with the confirmation number.

Confirmation number;
A glitch in the system;
Customer service agent.

The clock
ticks quietly in the next room,
the screen glowing quietly
beside him.

The three dollar convenience fee
is mocking him;

he sighs.

I Saw A Squirrel: "Not An Exit"

I Saw A Squirrel: "Impressing The Pope"

Seriously? This is our president? Awesome.

Response: Founder's Day

In regards to Justin's post, I whole-heartedly agree. We will need a T-shirt. I will also voice my stern opinion that those Candyland kids are scary as hell -- as I put it to Justin earlier, "they remind me of the kids of one of my old high school teachers... They were frightening children-of-the-corn type kids..." -- but as no other ideas have yet been suggested, I've done the initial tracing:

(Click for full size)

God, those kids are creepy. It is just me, or does the black and white make them look like they're wearing prison jumpsuits? Also, keep in mind that this isn't quite stencil-ready; I couldn't get it to work in my head, so you should all feel free to chop away at it until it works.

Or, (please, dear lord), suggest something different. I was thinking a stencil of one of the Candyland game pieces, (you know those little plastic 2-D figurines?), but I can't find a good image. Or hell, it doesn't even have to relate to Candyland, per se, (though it probably shouldn't be about Brisco Country Jr. or something quite that far off. Much as I like a non sequitur, that would just be weird).

Response: ::floating::

Why must one walk calmly through this
ordered plane — where logic
precedes action;
where practicality
precludes every piece of the
puzzle; where programming
prevents spontaneity,
those psychological splashes
of silver and satin color —
when the world within
my wandering mind
wears a wild fantasy,
a fearless fervor
which feeds my dreams?

Jump —

Why do they insist
that imagination resides
entirely inside, behind
the eyes?

They say you wake, or fall;
yet I see you fly.

Ben Franklin, Ed Rendell, and A Dozen Eagles Cheerleaders

On Wednesday, I proudly stood in several lines, dripped vegetarian sandwich sauce on my pants, took off my belt for the metal detectors, and giggled gleefully like a little girl all for the sake of being in the studio audience for the Colbert Report in Philly.

...Or, as it has been officially dubbed, Stephen Colbert's Doritos Spicy Sweet Pennsylvania Primary Coverage Live from Chiladelphia, the City of Brotherly Crunch.

And it was amazing. I sat in the second row right at the corner of the stage. I saw how a TV show is filmed. I got to slap Colbert's hand. Benjamin Franklin made reference to French prostitutes. One of the Eagles cheerleaders smiled and waved at me. I got to slap Colbert's hand again. The only thing that could have made it better would have been a delicious Philly cheesesteak slathered in Whiz presented to me by a tuxedo-clad waiter riding a velociraptor. Unfortunately, we weren't allowed to bring food into the theater, or I would have been all over that, too.

...And just to prove it, here is a an actual screen capture from the show that aired at 11.30pm on Wed. April 16. Let's play a little game of "Where's Waldo," shall we?

Can you locate all the important characters in the above photo? Give up? Here are the answers:

All in all, 'twas a wonderful day. I'm thinking next time I go up to NYC, I should really try and get tickets to The Daily Show. You know, complete my experience of the Comedy Central dynamic duo; the dream ticket; the late-night political power hour.

In the meantime, I'mma go vote in the Pennsylvania Democratic primary, which is being hailed as "the first time since 1976 that Pennsylvania will play a major role in a presidential nomination." Take that, Bicentennial.

I Saw A Squirrel: "In The News"

Side note: This was inspired by an actual news story from Dec. 2007, starring a dude in Wenatchee, Washington. No joke. You can read about it from the local Wenatchee World article; or, even better, here's another write-up from metro.co.uk, (be sure to read all the way to the last paragraph).

I Done Did It Good

Today I did a little freelance electrician work for a small theater in the next town over. Woke up at 6.30am, (holy crap was I not ready for that), so I could be on the train by 7.30 and at the theater by 8. My mom greeted me at the bottom of the stairs with, "Oh, wow, I forgot you were getting up this early. I'm impressed you're awake! Too bad I'm going to school, I could have given you a ride." (Thanks, mom).

I got to the theater a bit early, and sat in the amazing morning air until Lauren, the production manager, unlocked the doors and let me in. At first I was annoyed that the first brilliant spring day of the year would be spent in a dark, dusty theater, but then I realized that on any other day I wouldn't even be awake until 11, and I should be grateful to see this so-called "morning" at all.

It was the kind of invigorating theater work I haven't done in so long: I deciphered an incoherent plot; I climbed ladders while carrying too much heavy equipment; I hung, struck and rehung lights; I ran circuits; I ate a donut; I joked about how annoying actors can be. We ended up finishing everything in only 4 hours. When I left, I had cuts and scrapes, not to mention a layer of generic filth, all over my hands and arms. Man, did it feel good.

It seems stupid, however, to have to fill out a bunch of tax forms so they can pay me $52... Minus taxes.

Damn you, IRS. Damn you.

I Saw A Squirrel: "Mentalism"

I Saw A Squirrel: "Olympic Hopeful"

A More Perfect Union

Once again, I must apologize for presenting you with a political post. It is not my intention to influence anyone's voting or ideal candidate. But if you didn't catch Barack Obama's speech earlier this week, or if you haven't seen any of the hundreds of videos posted on YouTube, I urge you to seek it out. Forget the politics. Forget the campaigns. Forget the Democratic nomination. I simply encourage you to experience his speech as a human being living in America in 2008.

I realize that this video is almost 40 minutes long, so if you don't have that kind of time, then track down a "greatest hits" montage on YouTube; I'm sure it's out there. But if do have the time, or can make the time, do watch this:

Also, the transcript is available on Obama's website if you're interested in reading along.

I Saw A Squirrel

Colbert In Philly

Well, shit. I think I might be the winner.

During tonight's airing of The Colbert Report, he announced that they were coming to Philly in April to cover the primary elections, and pronounced that "tickets [were] available starting now on ColbertNation.com."

I thought to myself: "That's awesome! I should go see if I can get tickets as soon as this show is over!"

And then I thought: "Wait. Who the hell do I think I'm kidding? I gotta get them NOW."

So I ran. I sprinted upstairs, jumped on the computer. ColbertNation.com. Loading... (Thoughts of site crashes leaped to mind, but I kept my cool). I clicked the link, entered my info, requested four tickets, hit submit... Error. Requested tickets unavailable.

Shit.

Based on what, I thought? Did Monday sell out already? Did I request too many tickets? So I tried again. Entered my info, picked Wednesday, (who ever picks Wednesday?), lowered the ticket request to two, hit submit...

"Tickets reserved." WINNER!!!

Moral of the story: I will be in the audience for the taping of the Colbert Report on Wednesday, April 16. I will be going with my friend Nate Kleinman, (he runs the International Aurora blog that I have a link to on my sidebar), who has spent countless hours getting involved in the Obama campaign, even going so far as to get on the ballot in my county as a potential delegate with a real chance of going to Denver for the Democratic convention. So if anyone deserves to see Stephen Colbert make ruthless fun of the Democratic party, it's him.

Needless to say, I'm psyched. Beyond psyched.

Oh, man. Unemployment was worth it for this.

St. Patty's Day!

Happy Saint Patrick's day to you all! May your cup (read: pint glass) runeth o'er, and your day be full of th' luck o' the Irish. It was a beautiful day in Philly, though I spent most of it in a car driving to a piano repair company because the keyboard we're using in Sweeney Todd died yesterday. And I have another 3 hr. rehearsal tonight. But hopefully I'll be able to finish my night in my most favorite of dives, Buckets Tavern, which has been fully decorated since Friday. Here's hoping they went all out and got some Magners Irish cider for the evening; if not, it'll have to be a traditional Irish whiskey night!

I was thinking we bloggers should track down some multimedia for this festive occasion. Music, videos, music videos, etc. For example, here's a little video from the Official Saint Patrick's Festival of Ireland website:

Ah, that brings me back. Who remembers St. Patty's Day, 2006? I hope I still have my Irish flag/cape around here somewhere... And Ricky, you'd better still have that cap! Anyway, in the spirit of the day, I'll post a bunch my pictures from Ireland 2006 on Flickr, (don't worry, nothing too incriminating).

Here's one more video, for the road:



Éirinn go Brágh!

I prefer cherry pi...

Happy Pi Day, everybody! At 1:59:26pm today, I expect you all to be doing something meaningful and/or delicious.

Some links for your edification:

• The Official Pi Day Website
• Wikipedia's Pi Day entry
• The Exploratorium (I don't know, blame Google)
• The first 1,000,000-digits of Pi
• Pie recipes from PastryWiz.com
• There's also a National Pie Day sponsored by The American Pie Council, (I bet you didn't know America had a Pie Council, did you?)

Yellow Tulips

This seems like as good a place as any to advertise my Flickr photos, especially when I'm feeling good about them.

Recently, a friend of mine posted a couple of photos of a bunch of yellow tulips on a table. They were a nice touch of color compared to pretty much everyone's recent cold, gray winter photos, and I liked them a lot. Then, a few days later, what should appear on my own kitchen table but a vase of yellow tulips. As it happened, this was also on a day that I woke up with the sun at 8am, a time of day I have not seen for months. I immediately thought "photo response" and ran for my camera. The results can be found here.


These photos became part of a larger series of photos taken around my house. My parents recently decided to redo the plumbing in their bathroom, hiring some guys to come in and rip the room apart. Literally. Sink--gone. Toilet--gone. Floor--gone. Which, knowing me, became a veritable treasure hunt for things to photograph. Pipes, wires, etc. It's way more interesting, in my opinion, to take pictures of things you don't see every day. I think most people would agree. And it isn't every day that you see the gutted remains of a room that is usually clean and -- well, usable in some way. Something about looking through the hall closet and seeing the knobs of the bathtub faucets suspended in the void that used to be a wall is a very unusual perspective. It sort of brings me back to the days when I was young, my imagination was overactive, and I would pretend to be a superhero with x-ray vision. (Not that I don't still do that now, I'm just more subtle about it these days).

I Saw A Squirrel: "The Box, II"

This Just In: "Hillary Clinton Is A Monster"

...That is, according to Samantha Power, Obama's most prominent ex-foreign policy adviser. Excuse me, ex-unpaid, volunteer foreign policy adviser.

The big news story came yesterday when Samantha Power spoke her honest opinion about Hillary and her recent ruthless and underhanded campaign strategies. During an interview, Power blurted out that she thought Clinton was "a monster" willing to "stoop to anything." (Oddly, the issue of whether Power was "off the record" or not made almost as big a headline as the actual remarks she made; read the Washington Post's story here).

In the end, Power apologized and resigned her post almost immediately after the initial outrage from the Clinton camp, another swift response from the Obama campaign. Which is too bad, considering all the nasty things a whole load of people on the Clinton bus have said about Barack. None of them have been asked to step down, let alone have done it of their own accord. I just hope Samantha Power takes this opportunity to say whatever she wants.

Re: Short and Sweet

Swampy posted a link yesterday informing us that Gary Gygax, creator of the game Dungeons & Dragons, passed away.

Each of us deals with our grief in a different way. The good folks at woot.com, as always, put faith in the healing power of laughter.

EDIT: And here's a tribute from xkcd.com.

I Saw A Squirrel: "Shooting Star"

Photoshop Chopfest

Another weekend, another Photoshop contest.

Results from last week's contest: I received an "Honorable Mention", which I will add to my collection of Honorable Mentions. Woot.com offers free shipping to HM winners, but since I'm poor, I don't order anything from them with any frequency. If anyone wants to save $5 on a woot.com order, let me know.

This week's theme: "Refurbished Art": "Fix" a classic but "defective" piece of visual art.

My entries:
(And be sure to look at the original art to see the differences)

The Norman Rockwell series:
Thirst Conditions (Based on Rockwell's "Traffic Conditions") (Click for full size)	"The Critic" (Based on Rockwell's "The Connoisseur") (Click for full size)	Accurate Triple Self-Portrait (Based on Rockwell's Triple Self-Portrait) (Click for full size)
100% Orange Juice (Based on Rube Goldberg's Automatic Orange Juicer) (click for full size)	Nighthawks and Webslingers (Based on Edward Hopper's Nighthawks) (Click for full size)
[I better not have any copyright issues this week. Unless I get a letter from Norman Rockwell himself, I'll be really pissed if my images get deleted.]