I Saw A Squirrel: "Holiday Cheer"

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.

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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.