At Long Last.
Finally the first review goes up on Of Cabbages and Kings. There should be a review of the PS2 game, Dark Cloud 2, there shortly. As in...uh...within a week. Or so.
Well, I took my bonsai pot home from the ceramics store and sanded it. Carefully. Then I took it back and had it fired. Then I brought it home and painted it with a "crystal glaze," which had bits of multicolored glass in it. Then I had it fired again. Then I picked it up and rejoiced in the glory of its badassedness. Every time I've gone back, Oxygen Tube Lady has been at the same seat at the same table. I was starting to wonder if she ever went home, but she informed me out of the blue that it was "98 degrees in muh trailer last night. Sweated like a stuck pi-- no...just a pig." We chatted while she worked away on some ceramic chess pieces. hiss hiss... wheeze wheeze. She stamped out the last of a cigarette onto a pile of butts, (in a neat looking ceramic bowl) and explained that all the chess pieces were for students. Her daughter offered a chess set to anyone taking a ceramics course she teaches, and had many more takers than she expected. "So I'm sittin' here scrapin' away all day at these dang things. And I goes home at night and..." at this point her left hand, amazingly clawlike, rises to shudder around at table level. "I'm scrapin' these dang things in muh sleep!"
Share My Trauma:
I've played Dark Cloud 2 pretty steadily ever since it came out. That's lots of hours. I don't watch tv. Somehow I feel justified. A bit. When you're extra-uber-nerdy like me, you play to get all those little extras--you know...level up to the most kick-ass weapons, find all the little hidden whatchamhooleys, complete every last side quest.... I was missing a couple things that could only be gotten in the beginning. Fortunately, you can transfer files between games. In any case... I beat the "final" boss. But what's this?? Another chapter? Another boss?? For some reason, I decided that then was the time to begin a new game, get the stuff I missed, and add it to my current stash. Unsurprisingly, after a 150 hours of saving to the same slot, my fingers twitched, and I watched in horror as I saved about 30 minutes of gameplay over 150 hours. Why yes.... yes, I said 150 hours.
Those of you who don't play video games will now think that I'm the biggest loser in the known universe. Those of you who do play video games will have just groaned aloud in sympathy.
Goodnight and thankyou.
Monday, April 28, 2003
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
Glazed and Confused
I appreciate curiosity. Many of my friends suffer from this rare and interesting condition, and I seem to have caught it early on as well. I remember one summer making a pact with a friend that we weren't going to wonder. We were going to find out. At this point I realize that we were ambitious, but unrealistic. But exploring things had always appealed to me.
I loved books about archaeology when I was little. I still do. I was riveted by the section in Garth Nix's Lirael that dealt with the ancient Library of the Clayr. It consists of room after room of books and artifacts, none alike, winding deeper and deeper into the earth where it's sometimes dangerous to go. No one alive has seen the end of it. Magic.
You know those overpasses on 696 that have trees growing on them? We found out that they're parks, (no roads) so that Orthodox Jews can cross the freeway on the Sabbath.
One Fall weekend in Indiana we heard tales of a lakeside villa Al Capone used to own. So we wandered around with our cameras and sketchbooks until we discovered the place. It had been divided up and made into a gated apartment building. We stood wistfully at the gate and looked though at the building curving around the lake. We imagined decadent gangster parties and concrete shoes and flappers and zoot suits. Finally we decided that we ought to try to get in. We looked at the names on the buzzer. Smith, Johnson, several other boring names, (none were Capone) then.. Love. "Heck. We ought to try," Gabe said. "If Ms. Love doesn't let us in, nobody will." So we buzzed her and explained that we were meek and harmless students-- we just wanted to get in to look around. She laughed, and a minute later the gate opened. It turned out to be one of the nicest afternoons that year, a cool sunny day lazing on the docks telling stories, taking photos, drawing, and exploring the old boat houses...
In Jackson, Liz and I often took afternoon drives, looking for interesting things. We often failed. Lord knows mid- Michigan is not exactly fraught with excitement. However, one afternoon we stumbled over a collection of rundown stone buildings in the middle of nowhere that turned out to be an ancient collection of theaters and art studios. A huge circular stone tower in an overgrown field out back used to be a windmill, but had been concerted into--gasp--living space.... which we discovered when we shoved through the vines over the broken door. A large circular kitchen with a bar along one wall, winding stairs with a bathroom halfway up, and a big round great room completely surrounded with windows and waist-high bookshelves. Above it, a ladder led to a glass topped bedroom. All of it wonderful and magical. All of it in disrepair and ruin. It makes me sad that there's no one to love it.
I tend to get restless if I go too long without anything to discover. I hope that's a good thing. The other day I finally stopped a hole-in-the-wall ceramics store that's been beckoning to me for some time now. Just a grubby yellow little building across the street from the junkyard. I walked into a cluttered maze of shelf after shelf of bottles of paint and glaze and ceramics in various states of completion. Oddly, all over the floor was coiled a thin tube of some sort, tangled around corners, and leading toward the back. I followed it. It led around a corner, up the side of a table, and to the nose of a squat, watery eyed old lady. (I was momentarily tempted to ask what the other two Weird Sisters were up to.) The tube hissed out little puffs of oxygen every couple seconds-- that, coupled with the wheezing of her breathing and the crackle of potato chips as she munched, made it a bit difficult to understand when she gave me a semi-toothless grin, rubbed her beard (yes, her beard) and croaked, "Anything I can do for ya?" I explained that I was interested in ceramics but had never worked with them before... and between wheezes, hacks, and stopping to light up a cigarette, she told me about what was on the shelves and how glazes worked etc.
I expected to pay a reasonable $10 or $15 for a decent piece that I could plant a bonsai in, but when I held the raw pot up and asked how much she snorted, "Buck." Then maybe it'll be expensive to fire, I thought. "Firing's half whatever the piece cost." she wheezed. Geeze. No complaints here.
At that point her equally toothless husband shuffled in, tripping over her oxygen tube and causing her to huff and wave her cigarette at him angrily. He gave a "don't shoot!" sort of gesture. "Woops! I unplug ya?" He asked cheerfully. She muttered and turned to me, still pointing her cigarette, which was threatening to drop ash onto her bag-like mu-mu. "Don't listen t' anything he says. He don't know what he's talkin about." The husband smiled and gave me a little wave, as if to acknowledge that it indeed, was true. They both spent time making sure I understood what I needed to do with the piece, and helping me pick out a glaze, and then waved me out the door when I left.
Curious pays. I'm glad I'm not a cat.
I appreciate curiosity. Many of my friends suffer from this rare and interesting condition, and I seem to have caught it early on as well. I remember one summer making a pact with a friend that we weren't going to wonder. We were going to find out. At this point I realize that we were ambitious, but unrealistic. But exploring things had always appealed to me.
I loved books about archaeology when I was little. I still do. I was riveted by the section in Garth Nix's Lirael that dealt with the ancient Library of the Clayr. It consists of room after room of books and artifacts, none alike, winding deeper and deeper into the earth where it's sometimes dangerous to go. No one alive has seen the end of it. Magic.
You know those overpasses on 696 that have trees growing on them? We found out that they're parks, (no roads) so that Orthodox Jews can cross the freeway on the Sabbath.
One Fall weekend in Indiana we heard tales of a lakeside villa Al Capone used to own. So we wandered around with our cameras and sketchbooks until we discovered the place. It had been divided up and made into a gated apartment building. We stood wistfully at the gate and looked though at the building curving around the lake. We imagined decadent gangster parties and concrete shoes and flappers and zoot suits. Finally we decided that we ought to try to get in. We looked at the names on the buzzer. Smith, Johnson, several other boring names, (none were Capone) then.. Love. "Heck. We ought to try," Gabe said. "If Ms. Love doesn't let us in, nobody will." So we buzzed her and explained that we were meek and harmless students-- we just wanted to get in to look around. She laughed, and a minute later the gate opened. It turned out to be one of the nicest afternoons that year, a cool sunny day lazing on the docks telling stories, taking photos, drawing, and exploring the old boat houses...
In Jackson, Liz and I often took afternoon drives, looking for interesting things. We often failed. Lord knows mid- Michigan is not exactly fraught with excitement. However, one afternoon we stumbled over a collection of rundown stone buildings in the middle of nowhere that turned out to be an ancient collection of theaters and art studios. A huge circular stone tower in an overgrown field out back used to be a windmill, but had been concerted into--gasp--living space.... which we discovered when we shoved through the vines over the broken door. A large circular kitchen with a bar along one wall, winding stairs with a bathroom halfway up, and a big round great room completely surrounded with windows and waist-high bookshelves. Above it, a ladder led to a glass topped bedroom. All of it wonderful and magical. All of it in disrepair and ruin. It makes me sad that there's no one to love it.
I tend to get restless if I go too long without anything to discover. I hope that's a good thing. The other day I finally stopped a hole-in-the-wall ceramics store that's been beckoning to me for some time now. Just a grubby yellow little building across the street from the junkyard. I walked into a cluttered maze of shelf after shelf of bottles of paint and glaze and ceramics in various states of completion. Oddly, all over the floor was coiled a thin tube of some sort, tangled around corners, and leading toward the back. I followed it. It led around a corner, up the side of a table, and to the nose of a squat, watery eyed old lady. (I was momentarily tempted to ask what the other two Weird Sisters were up to.) The tube hissed out little puffs of oxygen every couple seconds-- that, coupled with the wheezing of her breathing and the crackle of potato chips as she munched, made it a bit difficult to understand when she gave me a semi-toothless grin, rubbed her beard (yes, her beard) and croaked, "Anything I can do for ya?" I explained that I was interested in ceramics but had never worked with them before... and between wheezes, hacks, and stopping to light up a cigarette, she told me about what was on the shelves and how glazes worked etc.
I expected to pay a reasonable $10 or $15 for a decent piece that I could plant a bonsai in, but when I held the raw pot up and asked how much she snorted, "Buck." Then maybe it'll be expensive to fire, I thought. "Firing's half whatever the piece cost." she wheezed. Geeze. No complaints here.
At that point her equally toothless husband shuffled in, tripping over her oxygen tube and causing her to huff and wave her cigarette at him angrily. He gave a "don't shoot!" sort of gesture. "Woops! I unplug ya?" He asked cheerfully. She muttered and turned to me, still pointing her cigarette, which was threatening to drop ash onto her bag-like mu-mu. "Don't listen t' anything he says. He don't know what he's talkin about." The husband smiled and gave me a little wave, as if to acknowledge that it indeed, was true. They both spent time making sure I understood what I needed to do with the piece, and helping me pick out a glaze, and then waved me out the door when I left.
Curious pays. I'm glad I'm not a cat.
Saturday, April 05, 2003
Of Ships and Shoes and Sealing Wax
When I was little I thought it was "ceiling wax." It was very confusing.
So I lied. I'm not starting an alternate blog called A Record of Small Things I realize that this blog, WIDD, is pretty much already that: little stories from everyday life.
Instead, I've made a page called Of Cabbages and Kings from which I will proclaim my (humble) opinions about such flotsom as Detroit area events, film, literature, webcomics, video games, music, and what-have-you. Subjects of my scrutiny will receive a King, (gooood) or a Cabbage, (baaad) depending. If you think some-thing/one has been unfairly kinged or cabbaged, you are welcome to say so. This is a democracy. Except that I am Supreme Dictator for Life.
The link to Of Cabbages and Kings is er...with the links.
I warn you: I have not yet begun to write.
When I was little I thought it was "ceiling wax." It was very confusing.
So I lied. I'm not starting an alternate blog called A Record of Small Things I realize that this blog, WIDD, is pretty much already that: little stories from everyday life.
Instead, I've made a page called Of Cabbages and Kings from which I will proclaim my (humble) opinions about such flotsom as Detroit area events, film, literature, webcomics, video games, music, and what-have-you. Subjects of my scrutiny will receive a King, (gooood) or a Cabbage, (baaad) depending. If you think some-thing/one has been unfairly kinged or cabbaged, you are welcome to say so. This is a democracy. Except that I am Supreme Dictator for Life.
The link to Of Cabbages and Kings is er...with the links.
I warn you: I have not yet begun to write.
Thursday, April 03, 2003
Now Hear This...
This afternoon I received an email from a gentleman who informed me that he was seeking an amputee and has finally found her. I asked if he would mind writing a little something for "When I Drop Dead," and I hope he will oblige.
I've been thinking about announcements, in light of what I wrote earlier...
I became more attuned to overhead pages after I was trained at the bookstore. "You should be calm and professional," we were told. "The page should only draw attention from people who are listening for it." Nonetheless, we've had some interesting overhead pages resound though the store. There was the time that someone picked up the phone, pressed "page" and boomed, "Thanks for calling, this is W. how can I assist you?" Or back when a now-former employee (known for his habit of whining) pressed "page" and asked that a manager call 233, but neglected to hang up when he was distracted by the fact that the manager was within speaking distance. "When can I take my break? (break...)" echoed around the store. "You said I could take it awhile ago, but blah blah whine whine... (echo echo...) Customers paused, staff snickered.
I have a dear friend who has much more in the way of cajones than I. She was amused by the way the pleasant female automated voice announced, "Attention Meijer guests: there is no waiting in...lane...twenty...three." So one day back when she was in high school she made a Meijer page of her own. "Attention Meijer guests: there is an orgy in...lane...sixty...nine." Management was not amused, but all the baggers were.
Not too long ago I was in Meijer late at night on a desperate search for something-or-other. Meijer is a kooky place late at night. Just me, some sleepy eyed parents buying cough syrup, a few questionables circling the liquor aisle, and an army of shelf stockers...
When without warning, a pleasant male voice came onto the overhead:
Booop. "Attention Meijer guests: I am not wearing any pants."
This afternoon I received an email from a gentleman who informed me that he was seeking an amputee and has finally found her. I asked if he would mind writing a little something for "When I Drop Dead," and I hope he will oblige.
I've been thinking about announcements, in light of what I wrote earlier...
I became more attuned to overhead pages after I was trained at the bookstore. "You should be calm and professional," we were told. "The page should only draw attention from people who are listening for it." Nonetheless, we've had some interesting overhead pages resound though the store. There was the time that someone picked up the phone, pressed "page" and boomed, "Thanks for calling, this is W. how can I assist you?" Or back when a now-former employee (known for his habit of whining) pressed "page" and asked that a manager call 233, but neglected to hang up when he was distracted by the fact that the manager was within speaking distance. "When can I take my break? (break...)" echoed around the store. "You said I could take it awhile ago, but blah blah whine whine... (echo echo...) Customers paused, staff snickered.
I have a dear friend who has much more in the way of cajones than I. She was amused by the way the pleasant female automated voice announced, "Attention Meijer guests: there is no waiting in...lane...twenty...three." So one day back when she was in high school she made a Meijer page of her own. "Attention Meijer guests: there is an orgy in...lane...sixty...nine." Management was not amused, but all the baggers were.
Not too long ago I was in Meijer late at night on a desperate search for something-or-other. Meijer is a kooky place late at night. Just me, some sleepy eyed parents buying cough syrup, a few questionables circling the liquor aisle, and an army of shelf stockers...
When without warning, a pleasant male voice came onto the overhead:
Booop. "Attention Meijer guests: I am not wearing any pants."
More from the side of the trash can...
"Seeking Pretty Amputee" guy struck again the other day.
Much to my pleasant surprise, one of our managers bought a multipack of art supplies for us to create signage with. We've been doodling with oil pastels and crayons and colored pencils and markers during our break-times ever since.
This time, Mr. Seeking's poster was given the Vermeer treatment-- I washed the background with a nice blend of greens and gave it a nice summer sky. Someone else gave the "pretty amputee" a lovely sunkissed blonde hairdo and well manicured nails. I'm sure that someone will give her outfit the royal treatment as well.
I found myself at Rescued Treasures Thrift Store today after dropping off The Boy's dry cleaning. I always experience a mixture of awe and slight discomfort when I'm there. The place is so huge--aisles and aisles of homeless couches from the seventies, hand-knit sweaters, ancient tuneless pianos, teetering stacks of wooden...various things that, I assume, are meant hang on the walls of a kitchen, tall unwieldy lamps with dented shades, and the baskets...oh God. The baskets. There is a mammoth section of them, strung up from the drop ceiling on unbent metal hangers. Like some kind of forest. Overwhelming. All slightly dingy.
And from overhead, about every 5 mintues or so, there would be a break in the rather syrupy eighties church music for a series of raspy-voiced announcements. Most of them went something like this:
(Booop. Crackle...crackle...thunk) Oops, sh*t! What was I gonna say...? OH. Thanks for shopping at Rescued Treasures...um. Just so you know, every Monday all the clothes are 50% off. And today only, uh...there's a sale on...let's see here... Crap. Where'd I put that? (rustle rustle) .......Red tag items! They're half off. So thanks for shopping at Resc--- oh. I already said that. (clunk)
---end transmission----
The guy at the checkout smelled overwhelmingly of stale cigarettes and...something else. Before I was 15 feet from the register, he croaked loudly in my direction, "Y'hear my announcement??" I paused, not sure he was talking to me, but since there was no one else around, I nodded. "Did it sound okay?" I nodded again. The cashier inspected his fingernails casually. " I know. I always do the announcements here." A young man with a magnificent mullet and a grungy leather jacket strode past me and stopped in front of the cashier. There was a pause as they eyed each other. "Rock 'n Roll," the young man said in a heartfelt, meaningful way. He strode off.
"Seeking Pretty Amputee" guy struck again the other day.
Much to my pleasant surprise, one of our managers bought a multipack of art supplies for us to create signage with. We've been doodling with oil pastels and crayons and colored pencils and markers during our break-times ever since.
This time, Mr. Seeking's poster was given the Vermeer treatment-- I washed the background with a nice blend of greens and gave it a nice summer sky. Someone else gave the "pretty amputee" a lovely sunkissed blonde hairdo and well manicured nails. I'm sure that someone will give her outfit the royal treatment as well.
I found myself at Rescued Treasures Thrift Store today after dropping off The Boy's dry cleaning. I always experience a mixture of awe and slight discomfort when I'm there. The place is so huge--aisles and aisles of homeless couches from the seventies, hand-knit sweaters, ancient tuneless pianos, teetering stacks of wooden...various things that, I assume, are meant hang on the walls of a kitchen, tall unwieldy lamps with dented shades, and the baskets...oh God. The baskets. There is a mammoth section of them, strung up from the drop ceiling on unbent metal hangers. Like some kind of forest. Overwhelming. All slightly dingy.
And from overhead, about every 5 mintues or so, there would be a break in the rather syrupy eighties church music for a series of raspy-voiced announcements. Most of them went something like this:
(Booop. Crackle...crackle...thunk) Oops, sh*t! What was I gonna say...? OH. Thanks for shopping at Rescued Treasures...um. Just so you know, every Monday all the clothes are 50% off. And today only, uh...there's a sale on...let's see here... Crap. Where'd I put that? (rustle rustle) .......Red tag items! They're half off. So thanks for shopping at Resc--- oh. I already said that. (clunk)
---end transmission----
The guy at the checkout smelled overwhelmingly of stale cigarettes and...something else. Before I was 15 feet from the register, he croaked loudly in my direction, "Y'hear my announcement??" I paused, not sure he was talking to me, but since there was no one else around, I nodded. "Did it sound okay?" I nodded again. The cashier inspected his fingernails casually. " I know. I always do the announcements here." A young man with a magnificent mullet and a grungy leather jacket strode past me and stopped in front of the cashier. There was a pause as they eyed each other. "Rock 'n Roll," the young man said in a heartfelt, meaningful way. He strode off.
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
Remember:
I think I'm going to start another blog to record insignificant little things from daily life.
It will be called A Record of Small Things.
In the meantime, what is it about Products??? By Products, I mean, those sleek bottles and tubes and jars with matte glass and shiny bits that promise to "revitalize," "renew," or "refresh" (and a thousand other "re" words) your skin, hair, toenails, and what-have-you.
I laugh in the face of thousands of marketing experts. I snort in the direction of advertising mavens. I point at the font on the bottles and raise my eyebrows at the cunningly worded blurbs. I know what you're trying to do to me. You want me powdered and coiffed and painted with your overpriced goop!!
And yet... knowing all this, I still itch to buy. Somehow, I think, knowing that alpha hydroxy shine beta moisture release strengthening globules are craftily tuned to make me want to buy them somehow excuses the fact that... I do.
I think I'm going to start another blog to record insignificant little things from daily life.
It will be called A Record of Small Things.
In the meantime, what is it about Products??? By Products, I mean, those sleek bottles and tubes and jars with matte glass and shiny bits that promise to "revitalize," "renew," or "refresh" (and a thousand other "re" words) your skin, hair, toenails, and what-have-you.
I laugh in the face of thousands of marketing experts. I snort in the direction of advertising mavens. I point at the font on the bottles and raise my eyebrows at the cunningly worded blurbs. I know what you're trying to do to me. You want me powdered and coiffed and painted with your overpriced goop!!
And yet... knowing all this, I still itch to buy. Somehow, I think, knowing that alpha hydroxy shine beta moisture release strengthening globules are craftily tuned to make me want to buy them somehow excuses the fact that... I do.
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