As is well known to one and all, Eamon is a strong supporter of women's roller derby. In his role as head of Rules and Regulations (under the derby name Scorey Feldman) for the Windy City Rollers, he adds, subtracts, confers, fetches, carries, hectors, emails, and accepts phone calls at all hours of the day and night.
And me, my role is that of Derby Widow. I have few compatriots in this role, as the vast majority of people involved in women's roller derby are, well, women, and they tend to not have wives, for some reason. Added to that, I'm not much in way of a sports booster, so my support has been mainly of the moral variety.
But one recent weekend, that changed. During said weekend, I came became a full-fledged athletic supporter.
Eamon, you see, we invited to assist with an invitational derby tournament sponsored by the Philly Roller Girls. In a moment of giddy euphoria, for some reason, I agreed to attend along with him. And then, for some unfathomable reason, I suggested that I volunteer to assist as well.
Friends, this is a strange move for me. I'm not sports friendly, and generally do not enjoy mixing it up with the hu-mans. I prefer quite, homebound weekends, that include only occasional interactions with those very well known to me.
Eamon, however, took me up on my offer, and I soon we were wending our way to the City of Brotherly Love for a weekend of eight-wheeled action.
Here's a sum-up of some of the fun:
-- A sojourn in downtown Philly, where we viewed the Liberty Bell, toured the National Mint, and took many photos of Eamon on various staircases as Rocky
-- Visited a vegetarian-friendly pizzaria that boasted THE BEST VEGAN CAKE EVER CONSUMED. To clarify, I'm not a vegan. I don't like vegan baked goods. Yet this particular item -- a cupcake -- was the best I'd ever tasted. So we (Eamon and his derby compatriots) had the good pizza folk box up 1/2 of a chocolate cake and 1/2 of a vanilla cake, which we took back to the hotel for later snacking. It was the best idea ever.
-- Took a swim in hotel pool, and competed to demonstrate our various underwater ballet skills.
-- Retired to hotel room to watch "Snakes on a Plane" and eat aforesaid cakes. A perfect evening.
That was day 1. The next two days, we spent from sun-up till after hours serving as slaves at the derby fest. Eamon handled scoring. I was typically given the duty of tracking penalties-per-player on a big white board, then running over to team captains to show them how they were faring.
In the last round, this required racing /across/ the track as the skaters whizzed around, all for the greater glory of derby. Heaven help us. Eamon was impressed with my hustle.
Incidentally, I earned a lovely new derby nickname during the tourney. As is well known, Eamon is "Scorey Feldman." I was going by "Mrs. Feldman," just because I couldn't think of anything better, when someone said, "Why don't you be K-Feld?" Why indeed.
So just call me K-Feld from now on.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #109: The part where Jack participates in the circle of life
Recently, I am told, Jack partook for the first time of chicken on the bone. This came by way of chicken wings which he lunched upon at the local Dominicks.
According to his mother Ann, the bone-in nature of this tidbit was confusing to young Jack.
"Is it alive?" he asked.
No, Ann assured him, the chicken that made up his meal was most assuredly dead. It just had bones in it just like when it was alive.
Jack gnawed a bit longer, then asked his mother, "When the farmer comes to kill the chicken, do you know where the graveyard is?"
Ann responded that she did not know.
Jack responded by dropping his jaw and pointing into his mouth.
And the circle of life keeps turning.
According to his mother Ann, the bone-in nature of this tidbit was confusing to young Jack.
"Is it alive?" he asked.
No, Ann assured him, the chicken that made up his meal was most assuredly dead. It just had bones in it just like when it was alive.
Jack gnawed a bit longer, then asked his mother, "When the farmer comes to kill the chicken, do you know where the graveyard is?"
Ann responded that she did not know.
Jack responded by dropping his jaw and pointing into his mouth.
And the circle of life keeps turning.
Crazy Crap Item #108: The part where I am chided by cousin Tom
Yes, I've been negligent. I've not blogged for a long time. And of those many of you who have complained, no one has been more bitter than my cousin Tom (commemorated previously here).
But unlike most the layabouts who complain about my lack of bloggery, Tom actually supplied something to fill in the gap left by my sloth. To wit, a tale of Montana madness:
I have one for you.
Last Saturday I had a bonfire party, burning up a small portion of the plethora of dead wood decorating my property. As my neighbor Chris ( as in Christine) lugged a 4 foot log toward the fire to add to its warmth, she slipped on an icy bit and went down hard, landing with a thump. Her comment, "SHIT! I landed on a knot and I think I broke a rib". She waved her arms around and you could here sort of a clicking noise. We had another beer and discussed if she should go to the emergency room or not, her point being that with a broken rib all they can do is to take it easy for a while. Eventually that clicking noise (which she insisted on exhibiting between glugs) convinced her husband to take her to the hospital. So, off they went to the local Marcus Daly Hospital (known locally as Carcass Daily) (no offence). When they got there the doors to the emergency entrance were locked. They beat on the glass for a while until a couple people showed up, apparently torn away from some really good TV show, but they didn't know how to open the doors. After much pantomime through the glass, my friends indicated they were sorry for the disturbance and that they would make the hour drive to hospital in Missoula. The doors were open in Missoula, X-rays and such, yes, the #10 rib is broken, can't really do much but tell you to take it easy, let pain be your guide, take some pain killers, here is a prescription. Too bad Chris's husband left his wallet at home and and she had no cash. After a combined pocket scrape and car search, with the surprise discovery of forgotten money, they came up with $41. The subscription (at the only all-night drugstore in Missoula) was $40 and change. The allergic reaction began about the time they got home, which is to say much vomiting - a lovely thing with a broken rib. Chris is a hardy Montana woman and she gutted it out until Monday after work, when she and her husband dropped by the local medical clinic to see if they could get her a pain killer that didn't make her barf. While there, she happened to mention that she was having some trouble breathing and she was sort of "puffy" from her waist to her neck. The doctor pulled her husband aside and said he had two choices - either call an ambulance, or take her directly ("and don't stop anywhere along the way") back to the hospital. Yes, indeed, all that vomiting in reaction to the pain killers had caused her broken rib to puncture her lung. As this is written, almost a week later, she has a suction tube in her sucking out liquid. Ah, the wonders of modern medicine. We should have had another beer and passed on the hospital. After all, all they can do is tell you to take it easy.
That is crazy crap Montana style.
Mountain Man Tom
But unlike most the layabouts who complain about my lack of bloggery, Tom actually supplied something to fill in the gap left by my sloth. To wit, a tale of Montana madness:
I have one for you.
Last Saturday I had a bonfire party, burning up a small portion of the plethora of dead wood decorating my property. As my neighbor Chris ( as in Christine) lugged a 4 foot log toward the fire to add to its warmth, she slipped on an icy bit and went down hard, landing with a thump. Her comment, "SHIT! I landed on a knot and I think I broke a rib". She waved her arms around and you could here sort of a clicking noise. We had another beer and discussed if she should go to the emergency room or not, her point being that with a broken rib all they can do is to take it easy for a while. Eventually that clicking noise (which she insisted on exhibiting between glugs) convinced her husband to take her to the hospital. So, off they went to the local Marcus Daly Hospital (known locally as Carcass Daily) (no offence). When they got there the doors to the emergency entrance were locked. They beat on the glass for a while until a couple people showed up, apparently torn away from some really good TV show, but they didn't know how to open the doors. After much pantomime through the glass, my friends indicated they were sorry for the disturbance and that they would make the hour drive to hospital in Missoula. The doors were open in Missoula, X-rays and such, yes, the #10 rib is broken, can't really do much but tell you to take it easy, let pain be your guide, take some pain killers, here is a prescription. Too bad Chris's husband left his wallet at home and and she had no cash. After a combined pocket scrape and car search, with the surprise discovery of forgotten money, they came up with $41. The subscription (at the only all-night drugstore in Missoula) was $40 and change. The allergic reaction began about the time they got home, which is to say much vomiting - a lovely thing with a broken rib. Chris is a hardy Montana woman and she gutted it out until Monday after work, when she and her husband dropped by the local medical clinic to see if they could get her a pain killer that didn't make her barf. While there, she happened to mention that she was having some trouble breathing and she was sort of "puffy" from her waist to her neck. The doctor pulled her husband aside and said he had two choices - either call an ambulance, or take her directly ("and don't stop anywhere along the way") back to the hospital. Yes, indeed, all that vomiting in reaction to the pain killers had caused her broken rib to puncture her lung. As this is written, almost a week later, she has a suction tube in her sucking out liquid. Ah, the wonders of modern medicine. We should have had another beer and passed on the hospital. After all, all they can do is tell you to take it easy.
That is crazy crap Montana style.
Mountain Man Tom
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #107: The part where I realize I've been working in isolation for too long
So I'm writing some faculty profiles for a college website, and I'm struggling with the need to make these things interesting to high school seniors. I just scrapped a first draft of an opener, and hit upon something I liked better.
Pleased with myself, I said:
"That's got way more zazz."
Aloud.
I've been working from home for too long.
Pleased with myself, I said:
"That's got way more zazz."
Aloud.
I've been working from home for too long.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #106: The part where Eamon looms large in the minds of the small.
Life is flying by, and here months have passed with no post from me. As a way to ease my way back into the world of bloggery, I'm going to shamelessly crib from some amusing emails from my neighbor Ann, mother of cowboy Jack and his younger sib James.
I like to think I'm a favorite of both boys, as I've stated in the past, due largely to my diggable yard, large cache of toys, and ability to hoist James on my shoulder and make him divebomb Jack.
Eamon, however, is a different story. He is a figure of mystery, appearing only seldom, when least expected. In the past, Jack has asked fishing questions about Eamon ("Does Eamon say when you can come out an play?," "Will Eamon get mad that you broke that flower pot?") attempting to divine his nature and function.
James has demonstrated a similar fascination, cataloguing in rote form the many states of Eamon's existince ("Eamon asleep. Eamon home. Eamon at work. Eamon coming home. Eamon in shower. Eamon here.")
Ann recently contributed two entries to the log of Casey-boy fascination with Eamon. They are as follows:
ENTRY 1 (This as a follow up to Eamon's appearance as Pumpkin Head at Halloween)
We have not yet put thrown away our little, decorative pumpkins. This morning James was walking around with one and I said to him “Are you my little pumpkin?” and so he went off into this pumpkin-themed stream of consciousness:
“I not a pumpkin
Eamon was pumpkin
Eamon was a pumpkin head
I don’t like Eamon pumpkin head
My daddy makes pumpkin pies -
a big mess
I don’t like pumpkin pies
I like TWO pumpkin pies!”
ENTRY 2
Last night James was playing his guitar and broke a string. He came into the kitchen where Jack and I were sitting. He came to me first and asked “Can you fix it mama?” and I said “I don’t think I can”
So he moved on “Can you fix it Jack?” And Jack said “No James, I can’t fix it.” James started to get upset and then Jack said “But I know who CAN fix it…..Eamon’s Dad! He can fix anything. He’s a fix-it guy!”
James calmed down instantly --- problem solved.
I like to think I'm a favorite of both boys, as I've stated in the past, due largely to my diggable yard, large cache of toys, and ability to hoist James on my shoulder and make him divebomb Jack.
Eamon, however, is a different story. He is a figure of mystery, appearing only seldom, when least expected. In the past, Jack has asked fishing questions about Eamon ("Does Eamon say when you can come out an play?," "Will Eamon get mad that you broke that flower pot?") attempting to divine his nature and function.
James has demonstrated a similar fascination, cataloguing in rote form the many states of Eamon's existince ("Eamon asleep. Eamon home. Eamon at work. Eamon coming home. Eamon in shower. Eamon here.")
Ann recently contributed two entries to the log of Casey-boy fascination with Eamon. They are as follows:
ENTRY 1 (This as a follow up to Eamon's appearance as Pumpkin Head at Halloween)
We have not yet put thrown away our little, decorative pumpkins. This morning James was walking around with one and I said to him “Are you my little pumpkin?” and so he went off into this pumpkin-themed stream of consciousness:
“I not a pumpkin
Eamon was pumpkin
Eamon was a pumpkin head
I don’t like Eamon pumpkin head
My daddy makes pumpkin pies -
a big mess
I don’t like pumpkin pies
I like TWO pumpkin pies!”
ENTRY 2
Last night James was playing his guitar and broke a string. He came into the kitchen where Jack and I were sitting. He came to me first and asked “Can you fix it mama?” and I said “I don’t think I can”
So he moved on “Can you fix it Jack?” And Jack said “No James, I can’t fix it.” James started to get upset and then Jack said “But I know who CAN fix it…..Eamon’s Dad! He can fix anything. He’s a fix-it guy!”
James calmed down instantly --- problem solved.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #105: The part where I get a clear demonstration of the fact that you get more flies with honey ...
My friendship with young Jack, the cowboy, continues unabated. But a new rapport has developed with his little brother, James, age 2. James is teeny, and thus very easy to hoist up on to my shoulder for a flight around the yard. He's also quite fond of our change jar, and finds any way he can to weasel in and make off with wee fistfuls of quarters, proclaiming, "My money!" all the way.
This past Friday, Megan invited me over for an after-school gathering -- "Children running around and drinking" is what I was promised. I was primed for just such an event, as we had recently had our fall block party, for which I procured four boxes of mini corndogs -- all of which I'd forgotten to serve. So I offered to bring them as a child-sized repast.
Turns out, mini corndogs are excellent child-food, particularly to young James. He toddled up to me, his cheeks stuffed with cornmeal and encased meats, and when I asked if he liked corndogs, if they were tasty and delicious, he could only nod vigorously and sputter, "Yeah."
Now, part of my rapport with James entails asking him totally absurd questions so he can roll his eyes saucily at me, and drawl, "Nooooo." In that spirit, I demanded, "Give me your corndogs!"
He finished swallowing, rolled his eyes, and drawled, "Nooooo."
"Come on. Gimme your corndogs!!"
"Nooo!"
"Come on!" I put my hand out. "Hand 'em over. Gimme your corndogs."
Another denial.
So I changed my tack, expecting similar hilarious denials. I put on my saddest eyes. I leaned in very tenderly, and cooed pitiously.
"Please.... please give me your corndogs...?"
He froze. He stared at me.
"Please give me your corndogs."
He reached a tiny hand into his mouth and started to scrape the remaining sludge of chewed corndog off his tongue and handed it out to me.
Well, I did ask for it.
This past Friday, Megan invited me over for an after-school gathering -- "Children running around and drinking" is what I was promised. I was primed for just such an event, as we had recently had our fall block party, for which I procured four boxes of mini corndogs -- all of which I'd forgotten to serve. So I offered to bring them as a child-sized repast.
Turns out, mini corndogs are excellent child-food, particularly to young James. He toddled up to me, his cheeks stuffed with cornmeal and encased meats, and when I asked if he liked corndogs, if they were tasty and delicious, he could only nod vigorously and sputter, "Yeah."
Now, part of my rapport with James entails asking him totally absurd questions so he can roll his eyes saucily at me, and drawl, "Nooooo." In that spirit, I demanded, "Give me your corndogs!"
He finished swallowing, rolled his eyes, and drawled, "Nooooo."
"Come on. Gimme your corndogs!!"
"Nooo!"
"Come on!" I put my hand out. "Hand 'em over. Gimme your corndogs."
Another denial.
So I changed my tack, expecting similar hilarious denials. I put on my saddest eyes. I leaned in very tenderly, and cooed pitiously.
"Please.... please give me your corndogs...?"
He froze. He stared at me.
"Please give me your corndogs."
He reached a tiny hand into his mouth and started to scrape the remaining sludge of chewed corndog off his tongue and handed it out to me.
Well, I did ask for it.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #104: The part where Eamon gives himself a nickname
As is well known to anyone who knows me, I am a busty lass. I have always been so, since the day I donned my first bra in the 5th grade.
Today, Eamon commented on my bustiness.
"Proud," he called my endownment. "Bold."
"They are just doing what they do," I replied.
"That's all I ask of them," he said.
It was then that I began to expatiate upon the remarkable consistency of my bustiness, and how I was the envy of all women since it stays the same size regardless of fluctuations (frequent and dramatic) in my weight.
"I'm a C cup. Whether I weigh 120 or 150, I'm still a C cup."
"C cup!" Eamon exclaimed in horror. "I thought you were a D cup. I've been telling all my friends you were a D cup! You were measured!"
He refers to my recent foray into expensive bra buying, in which I endured an official, professional, tape-measured ordeal with a boldly lipsticked Jewish woman in Skokie.
I clarified: "I walked in wearing a 36 C. She told me I was actually 36 D. Then upgraded me to 38 D. Then after we tried on several bras, I walked out with a brand new 36 C."
He was dismayed. I continued: "It varies, I think, depending on the bra. The design and construction of each bra."
"Well," he replied, "I get to keep my nickname."
"What's that," I asked.
Long pause.
"Lucky."
Today, Eamon commented on my bustiness.
"Proud," he called my endownment. "Bold."
"They are just doing what they do," I replied.
"That's all I ask of them," he said.
It was then that I began to expatiate upon the remarkable consistency of my bustiness, and how I was the envy of all women since it stays the same size regardless of fluctuations (frequent and dramatic) in my weight.
"I'm a C cup. Whether I weigh 120 or 150, I'm still a C cup."
"C cup!" Eamon exclaimed in horror. "I thought you were a D cup. I've been telling all my friends you were a D cup! You were measured!"
He refers to my recent foray into expensive bra buying, in which I endured an official, professional, tape-measured ordeal with a boldly lipsticked Jewish woman in Skokie.
I clarified: "I walked in wearing a 36 C. She told me I was actually 36 D. Then upgraded me to 38 D. Then after we tried on several bras, I walked out with a brand new 36 C."
He was dismayed. I continued: "It varies, I think, depending on the bra. The design and construction of each bra."
"Well," he replied, "I get to keep my nickname."
"What's that," I asked.
Long pause.
"Lucky."
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #103: The part where I finally document the Summer Block Party of '06
Yes, the block party was in July.
Yes, it's now September.
But it was an epic day, and it took me awhile to capture all the splendor. And you can read about it here.
Yes, it's now September.
But it was an epic day, and it took me awhile to capture all the splendor. And you can read about it here.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #102: The part where I'm nearly undone by macho posturings, overheard
A set-to outside my livingroom window. Sam, age 5, apparently in the midst of a run-in with Christophe, possibly age 8.
Quoth Christophe: "You want a piece of me, Sam? Bring it on."
This nearly kills me dead.
It's followed by a good deal of posturing in which various neighborhood citizens attempt to assert dominance by proxy.
Quoth Casey, age 5: "Oh, yeah? Well, I have a friend and his brother is TWELVE!"
Touche.
Quoth Christophe: "You want a piece of me, Sam? Bring it on."
This nearly kills me dead.
It's followed by a good deal of posturing in which various neighborhood citizens attempt to assert dominance by proxy.
Quoth Casey, age 5: "Oh, yeah? Well, I have a friend and his brother is TWELVE!"
Touche.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #101: The part where Kristen weighs in on a summer block buster
"everything that you want to see a snake do on a plane, a snake does on a plane."
Friday, August 18, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #100: The part where I love my neighborhood ... again.
This morning, I sent an email to three of my neighbors with the subject line "re. the square dance caller."
Man, I love my neighborhood.
Man, I love my neighborhood.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #99: The part where my prestidigitator friend once again demonstrates his remarkable powers
Many who know me know that, for some reason, I am surrounded by psychics. I am like unto a magnet to those who can cast the future, which suits me fine.
Pre-eminent among these is my good friend Mr. Christopher Czajka. For years now, Mr. Czajka, answering occasionally to the nickname "Madame Shi-ka," has been known to all his nearest and dearest as a reader of tarot cards, teller of ghost stories, and insister regarding his own psychic abilities. His abilities are most aptly captured in this chapter of a web-based serial novel he and I co-authored, which uses him as the model for he main character (Will).
Last night, Madam Shikah made frantic call to Eamon and me to recount the latest of his psychic exploits. I will allow Mr. Czjaka himself recount the event (via email):
Ok. Here's a weird one for you.
As you know, Jonathan and I are preparing to take the giant leap intothe world of home ownership (it's proceeding slowly but surely). As we sort through all of the debris in our current apartment, we are making little piles of stuff that we no longer need, but may be appreciated bythose near and dear to us.
Anyway, on Saturday, after finally determining that the cassette tape is dead media, I put together a box of tapes for my friend Billie (who has a tape player in her car). Before dropping the box in the mail, I decided to write a little note.
As I wrote, an unexplained wave of sick-humor inspiration hit me, and I decided to parody another document. Just for fun. For no reason, I decided to base the note to Billie on another note. And so I did.
Last night, I talked to Billie, who had received the tapes and the odd note. And then I realized, yet again, how odd my life can sometimes be.
The note I wrote SATURDAY, and was received in the mail YESTERDAY, was a parody of the JON BENET RAMSEY ransom note!!!!!!!!!!!Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!I have never before written a parody of the Jon Benet Ransom note. Ever. I haven't THOUGHT about Jon Benet Ramsey in about eight years. But Ialways remembered once reading that the note began with the words "LISTEN CAREFULLY!", which I thought was funny. How do you listen to a ransom note?
So the note I wrote Saturday referenced a ten-year old murder that I really haven't dedicated too much thought to. And yesterday, they arrested the killer. Yet again, I am psychic.
That is all.
Madame Shi-ka. Truly, he sees all.
Pre-eminent among these is my good friend Mr. Christopher Czajka. For years now, Mr. Czajka, answering occasionally to the nickname "Madame Shi-ka," has been known to all his nearest and dearest as a reader of tarot cards, teller of ghost stories, and insister regarding his own psychic abilities. His abilities are most aptly captured in this chapter of a web-based serial novel he and I co-authored, which uses him as the model for he main character (Will).
Last night, Madam Shikah made frantic call to Eamon and me to recount the latest of his psychic exploits. I will allow Mr. Czjaka himself recount the event (via email):
Ok. Here's a weird one for you.
As you know, Jonathan and I are preparing to take the giant leap intothe world of home ownership (it's proceeding slowly but surely). As we sort through all of the debris in our current apartment, we are making little piles of stuff that we no longer need, but may be appreciated bythose near and dear to us.
Anyway, on Saturday, after finally determining that the cassette tape is dead media, I put together a box of tapes for my friend Billie (who has a tape player in her car). Before dropping the box in the mail, I decided to write a little note.
As I wrote, an unexplained wave of sick-humor inspiration hit me, and I decided to parody another document. Just for fun. For no reason, I decided to base the note to Billie on another note. And so I did.
Last night, I talked to Billie, who had received the tapes and the odd note. And then I realized, yet again, how odd my life can sometimes be.
The note I wrote SATURDAY, and was received in the mail YESTERDAY, was a parody of the JON BENET RAMSEY ransom note!!!!!!!!!!!Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!I have never before written a parody of the Jon Benet Ransom note. Ever. I haven't THOUGHT about Jon Benet Ramsey in about eight years. But Ialways remembered once reading that the note began with the words "LISTEN CAREFULLY!", which I thought was funny. How do you listen to a ransom note?
So the note I wrote Saturday referenced a ten-year old murder that I really haven't dedicated too much thought to. And yesterday, they arrested the killer. Yet again, I am psychic.
That is all.
Madame Shi-ka. Truly, he sees all.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #98: The part where Eamon amuses me with his dry wit
The scene: My front room. I am sitting on the small sofa beside our front windows, reviewing the course outline for a series of video lectures on "American Political Thought." Eamon is on the couch in the livingroom. His back is to me.
The situation: Jack and Sam bike along the sidewalk, flaunting their burgeoning abilities to ride sans training wheels. Gavin follows behind on a squeaky tricycle.
Kay: Oh, the assortment of vehicles that parade outside my window!
Eamon: Want me to get my BB gun?
And ... scene.
The situation: Jack and Sam bike along the sidewalk, flaunting their burgeoning abilities to ride sans training wheels. Gavin follows behind on a squeaky tricycle.
Kay: Oh, the assortment of vehicles that parade outside my window!
Eamon: Want me to get my BB gun?
And ... scene.
Crazy Crap Item #97: The part where I am stuck dumb by a fried chicken chain
Last night, I saw an ad for "breastmeat boneless chicken wings."
What???
What???
Monday, August 14, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #96: The part where my friends and I do battle on the field of poetry
Today, my morning started with a very unusual freelance ad:
I am the co founder of a tea company based here in Boston. We are looking for haikus to add to our packaging. Ideally, the haikus should be witty. We need haikus for the following three themes. Friendship Thank You and Happy Birthday. Please note; Bag Ladies Tea is a gourmet tea line designed specifically for women. We will pay $75.00 for every haiku we use and the chance to be published on a nationally known tea product! All users will be notified by Friday August 25th. Good Luck!
It's a little known fact, but my friends and I have been known to engage in what I like to call competitive poetics. Our weapon of choice: Haiku. So clearly, the gauntlet had to be thrown down. Thrown down it was:
Reading my tea leaves
I see a future of pain
You ungrateful bitch
- Eamon Daly
So, you’re drinking tea.
Why not just give it up now,
And adopt some cats.
- Kay Daly
try to remember
what it was like before
you drank tea alone
- Kristen Freilich
Charming epitaphs
Printed on a tiny tea
Get a frickin' life.
- Chris Czajka
Drink up, moon mother
Sip the sweet mystery here
And take a Quaalude.
- Chris Czajka
I would like to know
Just who it was who told you
Tea’s a chick magnet.
- Kay Daly
One cup of tea and
One pot of scalding water
For that bastard's nuts.
- Eamon Daly
Tea’s not addictive
So pour me another round.
Must … not … light one up…
- Kay Daly
spend your cash on tea
instead of birth control pills
since you won't need them
- Kristen Freilich
Enticing package
Promises vanilla mint
Tastes like shit to me
- Kay Daly
Hey! Watch what you say!
I'm a woman that drinks tea.
Oh ... I'm still single.
- Roxana Hadad
Pour boiling water
Over tea bag in a cup.
Really? Instructions?
- Kay Daly
airport madness here
what could ease this damn drama
tea with whiskey please
- Nicole Hudson
tea is for pussies
drink a beer and be a man
you english bastard
- Cameron Hollway
Too busy Monday
Tea for you and not for me
Sad times for Shatty
- Michael Shattner
Try your own!
I am the co founder of a tea company based here in Boston. We are looking for haikus to add to our packaging. Ideally, the haikus should be witty. We need haikus for the following three themes. Friendship Thank You and Happy Birthday. Please note; Bag Ladies Tea is a gourmet tea line designed specifically for women. We will pay $75.00 for every haiku we use and the chance to be published on a nationally known tea product! All users will be notified by Friday August 25th. Good Luck!
It's a little known fact, but my friends and I have been known to engage in what I like to call competitive poetics. Our weapon of choice: Haiku. So clearly, the gauntlet had to be thrown down. Thrown down it was:
Reading my tea leaves
I see a future of pain
You ungrateful bitch
- Eamon Daly
So, you’re drinking tea.
Why not just give it up now,
And adopt some cats.
- Kay Daly
try to remember
what it was like before
you drank tea alone
- Kristen Freilich
Charming epitaphs
Printed on a tiny tea
Get a frickin' life.
- Chris Czajka
Drink up, moon mother
Sip the sweet mystery here
And take a Quaalude.
- Chris Czajka
I would like to know
Just who it was who told you
Tea’s a chick magnet.
- Kay Daly
One cup of tea and
One pot of scalding water
For that bastard's nuts.
- Eamon Daly
Tea’s not addictive
So pour me another round.
Must … not … light one up…
- Kay Daly
spend your cash on tea
instead of birth control pills
since you won't need them
- Kristen Freilich
Enticing package
Promises vanilla mint
Tastes like shit to me
- Kay Daly
Hey! Watch what you say!
I'm a woman that drinks tea.
Oh ... I'm still single.
- Roxana Hadad
Pour boiling water
Over tea bag in a cup.
Really? Instructions?
- Kay Daly
airport madness here
what could ease this damn drama
tea with whiskey please
- Nicole Hudson
tea is for pussies
drink a beer and be a man
you english bastard
- Cameron Hollway
Too busy Monday
Tea for you and not for me
Sad times for Shatty
- Michael Shattner
Try your own!
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #95: The part where Jack registers some impatience with me
This morning, I enjoyed a very pleasant episode of quasi-gardening with young Jack and even younger James. I say "quasi" because with these two trundling about, I get precious little actual gardening done. I kind of like it that way.
During the fun, I noted once again my uncanny ability to start conversations and improvised games that tend toward dangerous outcomes. I don't mean to -- it just seems that I always hit on interactions that are unbearably attractive to the five and under set, and which, if left untended, will lead to death and dismemberment. Mind you, nothing so bad as "let's see what happens when we stick our hands down the garbage disposal," but seriously, not too far off that either.
Aware of my tendency, I've been trying to be just a bit more cognizant of where these things can head and nip it in the bud, however clumsily.
So this morning, Jack had picked up a toy rake and inserted the handle through the links in our chain link fence. So, naturally, I had to try to grab at it whilst he tried to pull it back. A few repetitions of this game, and soon the rake was flailing in the air.
Aha! I thought. This is not good. This will lead to injury. I am the grown-up. I can make it stop.
So, said I to Jack, "Let's not wave the rake in the air." He stopped, rake in air, staring at me. "Because," I continued on, "It could hurt someone. It could fly over and hit someone on the head. And that would not be good."
Jack calmly brought rake down, and deadpanned, "I didn't ask you why."
During the fun, I noted once again my uncanny ability to start conversations and improvised games that tend toward dangerous outcomes. I don't mean to -- it just seems that I always hit on interactions that are unbearably attractive to the five and under set, and which, if left untended, will lead to death and dismemberment. Mind you, nothing so bad as "let's see what happens when we stick our hands down the garbage disposal," but seriously, not too far off that either.
Aware of my tendency, I've been trying to be just a bit more cognizant of where these things can head and nip it in the bud, however clumsily.
So this morning, Jack had picked up a toy rake and inserted the handle through the links in our chain link fence. So, naturally, I had to try to grab at it whilst he tried to pull it back. A few repetitions of this game, and soon the rake was flailing in the air.
Aha! I thought. This is not good. This will lead to injury. I am the grown-up. I can make it stop.
So, said I to Jack, "Let's not wave the rake in the air." He stopped, rake in air, staring at me. "Because," I continued on, "It could hurt someone. It could fly over and hit someone on the head. And that would not be good."
Jack calmly brought rake down, and deadpanned, "I didn't ask you why."
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #94: The part where we light the torch on the summer block party tradition
At long last, I'm recording the doings of this summer's block party on 1500 Norwood. Epic, they were.
The overview:
The theme: the Olympic Games
The duration: 9am until after midnight
The weather: thankfully glorious
The aftermath: Eamon and I slept all day Sunday, and only crept out in the evening to grill some brats and blow off the last of our fireworks with the neighbors
But clearly, no simple overview could capture the splendor. So here, I will try, with my humble skills, to paint in words all that transpired. God help me.
Morning starts early for the 1500 Norwood block party. By 9am, families began to emerge, here and there, wiping sleep from their eyes, blinking dazedly in the morning sun. Donuts and coffee were our first repast, supplied by Nancy (our former nun), the charming 80-something couple Manny and Lucille Eckert, and the now famous Delores McDermott.
As I strode toward the donut table, I was greeted by a cheerful if incoherent hello from young Gavin Calto, nearly two years old, who was hailing the entire block from his upstairs bedroom window. I waved back.
But although donuts were consumed, the block party could not truly be said to begin until the opening ceremonies. Mind you, we don't usually have opening ceremonies, but this year's being an Olympic-themed party, ceremonies there must be. And, of course, Eamon must be in charge.
Rather than try to describe the amazing display that followed, I will direct your attention to his video recording of the event, made on my brand-new digital camera. Some things to note:
* A number of my neighbors seem not to realize that I am filming, and try to stop me to chat as I chase Eamon up the street.
* I am new to video technology, and at one point, I seem to think that I can simply turn the camera on its side to better capture the vertical splendor. If you listen carefully, you can almost hear the gears turning in my head, as I think, "Wait, that won't work ...!"
* Eamon's splendiferous toga is my sole contribution to the opening ceremonies. The night before, my weary boy sighed noisily, and said he couldn't go to bed until he had created his toga. To which I replied, "What create?" He indicated that his understanding was that togas were time-intensive affairs that required much in the way of complicated stitchery. To which I replied, "Do you have a sheet? Do you have a belt? Then you have a toga." Apparently, Eamon hails from the post-post-Animal House era during which high school students no longer had toga parties at the drop of a hat, and so did not fully grasp the rudimentary nature of toga construction. He's so lucky he married me.
Once the ceremonies had dazzled the masses, the block reconvened to pursue a wide variety of activities -- most, at this point, geared to the five-and-under crowd. These included:
* Riding every conceivable form of vehicle up and down the street. That is, in the street. THE STREET, I TELLS YA!!!!! If you don't understand what a mind-blowing experience this is, then you haven't been four years old in awhile.
* Decorating aforementioned vehicles at the "bike decoration station." Mainly, that means streamers of crepe paper taped to the handlebars.
* Creating FLAGS OF ALL NATIONS at the flag-decorating station. Megan -- she who gets thirsty -- worked her fingers down to very nubs creating blank banners to be decorated by, ahem, the children. You should have seen mine. It depicted a freeform sunrise. You know, as a pun on "Daly." Like, "Daily." Get it?
* Snake petting. You heard me, snake petting. Our neighbor Gretchen has many pets. Strange, strange pets. Including a snake. So we petted it. At one point, said snake heeded the call of nature, there, on the Calto's lawn. We grownups all stared, shocked. "I guess I knew snakes did that," quoth one adult, "but I just never pictured it."
* Pint-sized sports -- including soccer and basketball. This devolved into madness as Eamon and our neighbor Chris turned it into a battle to see who could make baskets using the most absurd approach. I think Chris on the tricycle won, but I'm sure Eamon will have something to say about that.
Did I mention that many households chose to participate in the family flag "contest" (it being a contest only in the sense that we created entries; not in the sense that we did any judging or gave any awards. We just got too tired)? The idea was: the Olympics involves many countries. Countries have flags. Our block has many families. Families ... have ... flags? Or they could. And should. And for one glorious day, did.
But what, you ask, adorned the Daly family flag. As you can see, we decided to commemorate a dominating theme of family life here at casa del Daly. So if you're in the neighborhood, be sure not to peek in the windows. You've been warned.
At lunchtime, we desisted our fun-having to eat a delicious smorgasbord of hot dogs, donated by the Patio Beef stand on the corner, chips, and sody pop.
Afterwards, the small boys of the block disappeared. I got a tip that they were sequestered in the "train room" of our kitty-corner neighbors, the Burtogs. A train room is, just like it sounds, a room dedicated to a remarkably intricate model train. And if you are a 4-year-old boy, you chant "go, Thomas, go!" just to ensure the train keeps moving.
The train room was topped only by a visit from a real-live fire truck, attended by real-live firemen. They offered opportunities to swarm all over the truck and spray water all over the street, and occasionally, on others.
Me, I was more interested in the firemen. Eamon did not agree.
The firetruck visit was so exicting that we all retired for naps. I awoke to find that Eamon had prepared the back yard for our contribution to the evening entertainment... but more on that later...
Naptime was followed by happy hour, potluck din din, and a performance by my a cappella group, Faces for Radio. We were delightfully well received, especially by some of our youngest audience members, who provided a tribute of fabulous dance moves, as recorded here. Keep your eye on the small blond boy.
After our performance, there was more eating, and the playing of adult games. These included Ruth and Kevin's brew bottle toss, a polo match involving small inflatable horses (hosted by the O'Connors), and the Keyes' watermelon seed spitting contest (both distance and accuracy were factors).
Sadly, I have no photos of these events as I was busy documenting our entry into the games category. The Mexican Triathalon.
Dubbed by some a collection of the most pervasive Mexican stereotypes, the Mexican Triathalon consisted of, naturally, three events. First up was the Mexican Hat Dance, in which contestants were required to improvise a dance of their choice around a sombrero, while staying within a border of 5 flags arranged in a circle. Points were awarded by judges.
Next up was the Margarita Dash. Using contestants had to fill a pitcher with water from an ice chest located at one corner of our yard. Then, they would dash to a table covered in plastic margarita glasses, fill the glasses, and take as many as possible to a third table, and pour said glasses into a vase. Repeat. It was a timed trial; contestants were judged according to the amount of liquid they were able to transport.
The third and final event was the adult pinata. Eamon purchased four pinatas -- the numbers 1 5 0 0 in honor of our block -- and we filled them with adult treats, including beef jerky, shot glasses, mini bottles of liquor, and alka selzer. Contestants each took several swipes. When a definitive blow was made, all contestants would make the mad dash to collect the items, and earned points for each.
Several observations:
* Liquor bottles, even plastic ones, tend to shatter when hit with a broomstick. Ooops. Thankfully, there were no casualties.
* A few of the bottles were glasses, and I had carefully entombed them in bubblewrap. This turned out to be a good things, since even though these bottles did shatter, their bubbly casings tended to hold the shards together.
* John O'Connor, the winner of the pinata event, got a serious and even frightening amount of air as he leapt to smash the pinatas. Alarming.
* Contestant Ann Casey spent much of the competition on the ground. But maybe that was because she and her husband Jim hosted their own competition, which involved tasting several bottles of wine and trying to identify the country of origin. Mayhap Ann undertook too many demonstrations.
After the triathalon, I had to miss some of the other games (described above) as I was busy reviewing entries for the "When They Were Olympians" competition. Using submissions from various and sundry of the block, I constructed a poster full of baby photos, numbered but otherwise unidentified. The object was to identify the latter-day neighbor according to the baby pic. Hilarity.
The evening ended the traditional way, with much drinking in the middle of the street, and a special innovation: closing ceremonies, orchestrated (naturally) by Eamon. The great state of Wisconsin (where fireworks can be purchased) is to be thanked for its star-spangled glory.
The overview:
The theme: the Olympic Games
The duration: 9am until after midnight
The weather: thankfully glorious
The aftermath: Eamon and I slept all day Sunday, and only crept out in the evening to grill some brats and blow off the last of our fireworks with the neighbors
But clearly, no simple overview could capture the splendor. So here, I will try, with my humble skills, to paint in words all that transpired. God help me.
Morning starts early for the 1500 Norwood block party. By 9am, families began to emerge, here and there, wiping sleep from their eyes, blinking dazedly in the morning sun. Donuts and coffee were our first repast, supplied by Nancy (our former nun), the charming 80-something couple Manny and Lucille Eckert, and the now famous Delores McDermott.
As I strode toward the donut table, I was greeted by a cheerful if incoherent hello from young Gavin Calto, nearly two years old, who was hailing the entire block from his upstairs bedroom window. I waved back.
But although donuts were consumed, the block party could not truly be said to begin until the opening ceremonies. Mind you, we don't usually have opening ceremonies, but this year's being an Olympic-themed party, ceremonies there must be. And, of course, Eamon must be in charge.
Rather than try to describe the amazing display that followed, I will direct your attention to his video recording of the event, made on my brand-new digital camera. Some things to note:
* A number of my neighbors seem not to realize that I am filming, and try to stop me to chat as I chase Eamon up the street.
* I am new to video technology, and at one point, I seem to think that I can simply turn the camera on its side to better capture the vertical splendor. If you listen carefully, you can almost hear the gears turning in my head, as I think, "Wait, that won't work ...!"
* Eamon's splendiferous toga is my sole contribution to the opening ceremonies. The night before, my weary boy sighed noisily, and said he couldn't go to bed until he had created his toga. To which I replied, "What create?" He indicated that his understanding was that togas were time-intensive affairs that required much in the way of complicated stitchery. To which I replied, "Do you have a sheet? Do you have a belt? Then you have a toga." Apparently, Eamon hails from the post-post-Animal House era during which high school students no longer had toga parties at the drop of a hat, and so did not fully grasp the rudimentary nature of toga construction. He's so lucky he married me.
Once the ceremonies had dazzled the masses, the block reconvened to pursue a wide variety of activities -- most, at this point, geared to the five-and-under crowd. These included:
* Riding every conceivable form of vehicle up and down the street. That is, in the street. THE STREET, I TELLS YA!!!!! If you don't understand what a mind-blowing experience this is, then you haven't been four years old in awhile.
* Decorating aforementioned vehicles at the "bike decoration station." Mainly, that means streamers of crepe paper taped to the handlebars.
* Creating FLAGS OF ALL NATIONS at the flag-decorating station. Megan -- she who gets thirsty -- worked her fingers down to very nubs creating blank banners to be decorated by, ahem, the children. You should have seen mine. It depicted a freeform sunrise. You know, as a pun on "Daly." Like, "Daily." Get it?
* Snake petting. You heard me, snake petting. Our neighbor Gretchen has many pets. Strange, strange pets. Including a snake. So we petted it. At one point, said snake heeded the call of nature, there, on the Calto's lawn. We grownups all stared, shocked. "I guess I knew snakes did that," quoth one adult, "but I just never pictured it."
* Pint-sized sports -- including soccer and basketball. This devolved into madness as Eamon and our neighbor Chris turned it into a battle to see who could make baskets using the most absurd approach. I think Chris on the tricycle won, but I'm sure Eamon will have something to say about that.
Did I mention that many households chose to participate in the family flag "contest" (it being a contest only in the sense that we created entries; not in the sense that we did any judging or gave any awards. We just got too tired)? The idea was: the Olympics involves many countries. Countries have flags. Our block has many families. Families ... have ... flags? Or they could. And should. And for one glorious day, did.
But what, you ask, adorned the Daly family flag. As you can see, we decided to commemorate a dominating theme of family life here at casa del Daly. So if you're in the neighborhood, be sure not to peek in the windows. You've been warned.
At lunchtime, we desisted our fun-having to eat a delicious smorgasbord of hot dogs, donated by the Patio Beef stand on the corner, chips, and sody pop.
Afterwards, the small boys of the block disappeared. I got a tip that they were sequestered in the "train room" of our kitty-corner neighbors, the Burtogs. A train room is, just like it sounds, a room dedicated to a remarkably intricate model train. And if you are a 4-year-old boy, you chant "go, Thomas, go!" just to ensure the train keeps moving.
The train room was topped only by a visit from a real-live fire truck, attended by real-live firemen. They offered opportunities to swarm all over the truck and spray water all over the street, and occasionally, on others.
Me, I was more interested in the firemen. Eamon did not agree.
The firetruck visit was so exicting that we all retired for naps. I awoke to find that Eamon had prepared the back yard for our contribution to the evening entertainment... but more on that later...
Naptime was followed by happy hour, potluck din din, and a performance by my a cappella group, Faces for Radio. We were delightfully well received, especially by some of our youngest audience members, who provided a tribute of fabulous dance moves, as recorded here. Keep your eye on the small blond boy.
After our performance, there was more eating, and the playing of adult games. These included Ruth and Kevin's brew bottle toss, a polo match involving small inflatable horses (hosted by the O'Connors), and the Keyes' watermelon seed spitting contest (both distance and accuracy were factors).
Sadly, I have no photos of these events as I was busy documenting our entry into the games category. The Mexican Triathalon.
Dubbed by some a collection of the most pervasive Mexican stereotypes, the Mexican Triathalon consisted of, naturally, three events. First up was the Mexican Hat Dance, in which contestants were required to improvise a dance of their choice around a sombrero, while staying within a border of 5 flags arranged in a circle. Points were awarded by judges.
Next up was the Margarita Dash. Using contestants had to fill a pitcher with water from an ice chest located at one corner of our yard. Then, they would dash to a table covered in plastic margarita glasses, fill the glasses, and take as many as possible to a third table, and pour said glasses into a vase. Repeat. It was a timed trial; contestants were judged according to the amount of liquid they were able to transport.
The third and final event was the adult pinata. Eamon purchased four pinatas -- the numbers 1 5 0 0 in honor of our block -- and we filled them with adult treats, including beef jerky, shot glasses, mini bottles of liquor, and alka selzer. Contestants each took several swipes. When a definitive blow was made, all contestants would make the mad dash to collect the items, and earned points for each.
Several observations:
* Liquor bottles, even plastic ones, tend to shatter when hit with a broomstick. Ooops. Thankfully, there were no casualties.
* A few of the bottles were glasses, and I had carefully entombed them in bubblewrap. This turned out to be a good things, since even though these bottles did shatter, their bubbly casings tended to hold the shards together.
* John O'Connor, the winner of the pinata event, got a serious and even frightening amount of air as he leapt to smash the pinatas. Alarming.
* Contestant Ann Casey spent much of the competition on the ground. But maybe that was because she and her husband Jim hosted their own competition, which involved tasting several bottles of wine and trying to identify the country of origin. Mayhap Ann undertook too many demonstrations.
After the triathalon, I had to miss some of the other games (described above) as I was busy reviewing entries for the "When They Were Olympians" competition. Using submissions from various and sundry of the block, I constructed a poster full of baby photos, numbered but otherwise unidentified. The object was to identify the latter-day neighbor according to the baby pic. Hilarity.
The evening ended the traditional way, with much drinking in the middle of the street, and a special innovation: closing ceremonies, orchestrated (naturally) by Eamon. The great state of Wisconsin (where fireworks can be purchased) is to be thanked for its star-spangled glory.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #93: The part where I'm puzzled by a summer blockbuster
I know what you're thinking. You know the annual summer block party extravaganza was this weekend, and you're wondering why, in lieu of telling you all the news, I'm babbling on about some movie I saw.
Well, the 1500 Norwood Block Party was a massive event, of Biblical proportions, and it's clear I won't be able capture all the splendor during my 15-minute noon-tide tostada nosh. So until I get the energy and leisure to give a truly full account, I'll entertain you with more modest musings.
To whit: Spielberg's War of the Worlds. I'm not given to watching these sorts of blockbusters, but there was nothing else on, and it was on Comcast On-Demand, so Eamon suggested we fire it up. Much to my surprise -- and despite my loathing of Tom Cruise on-screen and off- -- I found myself rather drawn in. The effects are quite dazzling, and as Eamon noted, it's rather laudable how Spielberg makes no attempt to "lighten the mood" with comedy relief. Instead, it's just a tense heaping on of scenes of dread and terror. Fun.
Until, that is, ole Steve seems to have rounded the 2-hour mark and thought, "Oops, gotta wrap this up," and subsequently substitutes any real conclusion with a strange, terse voiceover by (sigh) Morgan Freeman which rockets right over any actual narrative to sew things up in the stupidest and most pompous fashion imaginable. (And seriously, folks, can't anyone but Freeman do voiceovers anymore???)
Way to lose me in the 11th hour, Stephen. WTF?
Well, the 1500 Norwood Block Party was a massive event, of Biblical proportions, and it's clear I won't be able capture all the splendor during my 15-minute noon-tide tostada nosh. So until I get the energy and leisure to give a truly full account, I'll entertain you with more modest musings.
To whit: Spielberg's War of the Worlds. I'm not given to watching these sorts of blockbusters, but there was nothing else on, and it was on Comcast On-Demand, so Eamon suggested we fire it up. Much to my surprise -- and despite my loathing of Tom Cruise on-screen and off- -- I found myself rather drawn in. The effects are quite dazzling, and as Eamon noted, it's rather laudable how Spielberg makes no attempt to "lighten the mood" with comedy relief. Instead, it's just a tense heaping on of scenes of dread and terror. Fun.
Until, that is, ole Steve seems to have rounded the 2-hour mark and thought, "Oops, gotta wrap this up," and subsequently substitutes any real conclusion with a strange, terse voiceover by (sigh) Morgan Freeman which rockets right over any actual narrative to sew things up in the stupidest and most pompous fashion imaginable. (And seriously, folks, can't anyone but Freeman do voiceovers anymore???)
Way to lose me in the 11th hour, Stephen. WTF?
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #92: The part where I'm all for religious education, but ...
So one of my latest gigs is writing long-form brochure copy for a video course entitled "The History of the Bible." It's all about Dead Sea Scrolls this, and King James version that, and it's all very interesting. Or, at least, I assume it will be, as I haven't started viewing the course yet.
What I have done, however, is begin researching my copy proposal. This is an odd document required by the company before copy is submitted to ensure that we writers know which end is up. It's actually not a bad little exercise, and has enabled me to explore the wonderful world of educational publishing.
You see, part of the proposal involves a sort of competitive review. For each course, I have to go out and find similar products offered by competitors, and then cite the reasons indicated in the competitors' marketing why this particular topic is worth studying (and paying big bucks to study, natch).
Anyhoo, this part of the process is usually only garden-variety interesting. But as you can imagine, when your topic is "The History of the Bible," you're opening a pretty big can of fundamentalist worms.
I'll spare you the many readers' comments about various Biblical scholarship books that decry such works for questioning the literal truth of the Good Book. What I'd like to share, instead, is a strange breed of Bible videos for kids.
Take, for instance, this handy little video review of "Wild and Wacky Bible Stories," in this case centering on the theme of jealousy. Or maybe, on child molestation. The creepy fellow on the cover makes it too close to call.
Or consider this retelling of the Samson and Delilah story, in which the famed, be-ponytailed strong man is apparently played by He-Man, master of the universe.
And who wouldn't want their kids viewing the erotic adventures of Adam and Eve? Check out the voyeuristic giraffe.
That's it. I'm going atheist. If only for the good of the children.
What I have done, however, is begin researching my copy proposal. This is an odd document required by the company before copy is submitted to ensure that we writers know which end is up. It's actually not a bad little exercise, and has enabled me to explore the wonderful world of educational publishing.
You see, part of the proposal involves a sort of competitive review. For each course, I have to go out and find similar products offered by competitors, and then cite the reasons indicated in the competitors' marketing why this particular topic is worth studying (and paying big bucks to study, natch).
Anyhoo, this part of the process is usually only garden-variety interesting. But as you can imagine, when your topic is "The History of the Bible," you're opening a pretty big can of fundamentalist worms.
I'll spare you the many readers' comments about various Biblical scholarship books that decry such works for questioning the literal truth of the Good Book. What I'd like to share, instead, is a strange breed of Bible videos for kids.
Take, for instance, this handy little video review of "Wild and Wacky Bible Stories," in this case centering on the theme of jealousy. Or maybe, on child molestation. The creepy fellow on the cover makes it too close to call.
Or consider this retelling of the Samson and Delilah story, in which the famed, be-ponytailed strong man is apparently played by He-Man, master of the universe.
And who wouldn't want their kids viewing the erotic adventures of Adam and Eve? Check out the voyeuristic giraffe.
That's it. I'm going atheist. If only for the good of the children.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #91: The part where Jack finds a kindred spirit
I wrote before about how July 4th weekend was kicked off at 1500 Norwood. But I neglected to include an episode that occurred earlier in the afternoon.
As is well known, my neighbor, Jack, is a cowboy. I've previously reported supporting evidence here and here.
During yesterday's extravaganza, he was decked out in full cowboy regalia and entertained himself by reclining against the roots of a tree while twanging "Home on the Range" on an imaginary guitar. Like cowboys do, you know.
It suddenly dawned on my that he might enjoy seeing a photo of my father decked out in similar regalia. You see, my dad -- also coincidentally nicknamed Jack -- aspired to greatness on the range at about the same stage in life as neighbor Jack. And I have a photo to prove it. It's a wondrous, Depression-era photo of my dad, age 5 or so, clad in a plaid shirt, chaps, a holster, and a 10-gallon hat. He holds a six-gun aloft. I showed it to neighbor Jack's mom, Ann, and she noted that he seems all too aware of how cool he looks.
So I showed to Jack, and explained it was my dad when he was little. Jack's eyes grew big as saucers. He grasped the frame and, staring at it, muttered, "Does he have a real gun?" I suggested that it was probably just a toy. But look!, I said, he's got chaps and a holster! Jack added, awestruck, "And a lasso."
He held it in his hands for many moments, studying it, until James, his little brother reached for it. I turned it to him. James gazed at it puzzled, the jabbed my dad's photo with his finger. "Jack," he asserted. "Jack."
And he was right, in more ways than one.
As is well known, my neighbor, Jack, is a cowboy. I've previously reported supporting evidence here and here.
During yesterday's extravaganza, he was decked out in full cowboy regalia and entertained himself by reclining against the roots of a tree while twanging "Home on the Range" on an imaginary guitar. Like cowboys do, you know.
It suddenly dawned on my that he might enjoy seeing a photo of my father decked out in similar regalia. You see, my dad -- also coincidentally nicknamed Jack -- aspired to greatness on the range at about the same stage in life as neighbor Jack. And I have a photo to prove it. It's a wondrous, Depression-era photo of my dad, age 5 or so, clad in a plaid shirt, chaps, a holster, and a 10-gallon hat. He holds a six-gun aloft. I showed it to neighbor Jack's mom, Ann, and she noted that he seems all too aware of how cool he looks.
So I showed to Jack, and explained it was my dad when he was little. Jack's eyes grew big as saucers. He grasped the frame and, staring at it, muttered, "Does he have a real gun?" I suggested that it was probably just a toy. But look!, I said, he's got chaps and a holster! Jack added, awestruck, "And a lasso."
He held it in his hands for many moments, studying it, until James, his little brother reached for it. I turned it to him. James gazed at it puzzled, the jabbed my dad's photo with his finger. "Jack," he asserted. "Jack."
And he was right, in more ways than one.
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