iPoop

Gizmodo has alerted us intrepid viewers with the latest hacktacular iPod offering: a device that holds an iPod, and speaker, and toilet paper. No, Visiting Space Aliens, we haven't cured cancer. However, we have this!

Why I Love My Husband, Reason #5649847b

(This is completely unrelated to the previous post, by the way, you preverts.)

Brad is about the biggest music nerd I've ever known. He's got the High Fidelity guy beat by a mile. He's nerdalicious. He's geektacular. He's dorkarific. And I mean this in a good way. Yes, CDs take over our house; yes, we have three banjos, one upright and one electric bass, one mandolin, one octave mandolin, one trombone, one saxophone, two acoustic and three electric guitars, two harmonicas, one fiddle, one ukulele, one accordion, one concertina, one penny whistle, one slide whistle, one jaw harp, one theremin, one pedal steel guitar, one Wurlitzer electric piano, and one ocarina in our house. And a floor tom in a pear tree.

But despite all the Anthony Braxton math-jazz and prog-rock tendencies, he gets back into the car this weekend from Nubes with Boston's 1976 self-titled debut. Several minutes later, cut to both of us caterwauling at top volume the bedraggled lyrics to "Peace of Mind."

Maybe I'm lamenting a bit of my small-town, big-rock-radio past. Maybe it's a bit of pride for my hometown of the last 10 years. Maybe in a past life I was a 15-year-old boy. Whatever it is, I'm a sucker for Brad Delp's soaring alto and Tom Scholz' basement production that sounds like an arena. But there's no ironic tinge to the joy in listening; it's just fun and good. Thanks, Brad, for bringing it all home.

Bon Weekend

Raked the leaves up in front of the house, spread compost on the garden, brought the grill and the hose and the outdoor plants inside. Made a delicious chicken soup and some refrigerator biscuits. Tossed the furry mice for the cats and watched movies I've seen four times already. Went to the gym just before it closed. Brad replaced a headlamp in the Honda. Went to Johnny Pesky's book signing at the new Borders. Looked fruitlessly for a white shirt and a black sweater. Had a great time catching up with Molly. Started a del.i.cious list. Fixed the permissions in my Google calendar so I can view it through Netvibes (iLove iCal). Read some Dave Eggers short stories. Put the electric blanket on the bed. Got more filters for the humidifier and set that up. Scrubbed underneath the stove's burners 'til they gleamed. Watched Brad's band's set begin just as the Cardinals won the Series. Took a windy-Sunday nap.

Filthy Lucre

Brad said at Bill's Bar on Friday night, where his band played, there was $40 in cash stuck in one of the urinals. Lacking a sufficient extraction device, Brad said, the money stayed there. I speculated that I would have gotten some paper towels, dried the dough in the sun on the porch, then (wearing gloves) spent it frivolously. Note to gentle readers: money is dirty, dirty, dirty. Wash your hands.

Pass that Dutch

So Madonna has adopted a Malawian baby and is apparently having a "rough time" with the media coverage/scrutiny. Hmm, let's see... I work in Show Business... I spend my career pissing off Catholics and others In Power, shamelessly, for attention and nothing more sincere... I make a billion dollars and pose with my kids for Vanity Fair... but now I don't want attention, this is my private life, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah.

How'd that actually go down? How was this child chosen? What currency changed hands? Did this child have siblings that were not deemed worthy? Was a selection of children lined up, kickball- or criminal-style, from which she or her people made a decision? Is there any good way this could have been handled?

Neglect, disconnect, correct?

My latest slapdash posts succinctly reflect my state of mind at the moment. The tomatoes are rotting off the vines in the backyard, while the mint and basil have gone to seed. I'm proud of the summer's work but the red rotten dots on the dirt remind me of my current neglect.

[Omniscient Narrator: In Sophie's dream, currently underway, something is chasing her, or she is chasing it. Her paws and whiskers are twitching irregularly; her breathing is shallow and then suddenly she sucks in her stomach. She's jumping toward or away from something. Her tail is still but her ears are moving back and forth. In her dreams is she outside, as in a previous chapter of her life, scrapping with neighborhood cats? Or is that time now gone from even her imagination, goldfish-style?]

I'm rattling through some things, writing checks and attending meetings, but I'm somewhere else. (Are my ears and whiskers twitching?) I vacillate between the extremes of over-engagement and disconnection. There's got to be something in the middle; the answer is always in the middle, but the nature of the middle is that you don't know when you're there, because you can't see the sides.

Or maybe this checked-out feeling is actually what others term "normal" - maybe the fact that I'm no longer constantly thinking about work-crap when I am not at work is a good thing; that focusing on a banjo-picking finger pattern can use some of my powers for good instead of evil.

This is the skin I'm in. Hoping I wear it well.