Left-Brained Literature

Perhaps I am an engineer and I didn't know it, but I've read and loved nearly all the works on this list from waggish.

SkyGirl and the flood

SkyGirl and the flood, originally uploaded by cieuxautres.

A huge monsoon storm hit the desert this morning. One rain guage reported over 3" in two hours. The water rushed from all parts and then poured into the wash that sits outside our home. SkyGirl and I went out to take pictures about an hour after the storm ended. There's a bunch more at Flickr. Just click on the picture or go here.

Keep in mind when viewing these that where you see water, that area is nearly always dry. There is no creek or stream that runs through there. There are no water hazards on the holes where these photos were taken. I've seen floods before, but they were rivers and lakes that flooded. This is a flood where there is no running water. Everything dumps into this wash.

Two people were rescued from cars and even now, 8 or so hours after the storm, the water is still pouring through the wash.

Here are some other photos from the local paper.

eclipse

eclipse, originally uploaded by cieuxautres.

DSC_0059.JPG

The storm from monday began with a viscious dust storm that turned the city into an eerie vortex of wind and dust. The sun setting in this picture is usually blindingly white but here it's just eeking through the wall of dust. Two days later, I was still cleaning dirt out of my ears. I hate to think what damage I might have done taking my camera out into this.

More pictures at Flickr or click on the photo.

Music for the Monsoon

The monsoon sweeps in quickly if predictably August afternoons. Monday, it started with a pretty viscious dust storm blowing through, bending palm trees and paolo verdes 45 degrees or more. Before the dust started to occlude everything in the sky, giant clouds stacked up over the mountains to the north. The storms begin about 120 miles north in the high ground, the humid air piling up over the Mogollon Rim and then wandering it's way down to the valley. Many times they miss us or fails] to develop into a storm. But when it hits, it drops like a grand piano from on high.

This storm landed on the night we had arranged for a baby sitter and had tickets to see Devotchka. Going out on a Monday night isn't easy, with the Doctor working long hours and then playing upon the good nature of friends to watch SkyGirl for an evening when everyone has to get up in the morning. A lot of logistics go into a night out on the town. The rain seemed ominous.

We waited as long as we could, and then under the cover of umbrellas and speed, we dashed to the car port with only a minor soaking. Sirens could be heard all around as we pulled out into the streets. Unlike the midwest, with it's rolling rolling hills and huge trees, the desert affords you a view of distant horizons and big skies. Magnificent during clear, calm days, but awesome and unsettling during an electrical storm. Huge arcs of lightning lit up the sky. Some spiderwebbed across the clouds. Others seemed to strike down in long, nearly straight bolts. Midwest lighting always seemed to have fractal branching, with bronchial splinters going everywhere; an intricate, delicate lace of light. These bolts were thuggish: thick solid lines that lacked the effervescence of normal lightning. I hated to think of what was absorbed by the unlucky tree or transformer underneath them. They stamped their image on the backs of my eyes so that long after they were gone, their insistent shadows obscured parts of the road and dashboard.

The rain would come in violent waves, seeming to wash over like a car wash. It poured off of the expressway berms, fast moving shallow streams washing across the pavement. On the surface streets, various lanes would be submerged, trees downed, signal lights out. All this we braved because we knew another chance lay far, far away in time.

The rain had drowned half of the parking lot. One SUV, obvioulsy parked well before the storm hit, sat in water nearly over its tires. We parked at the far end and walked in the final sprinkles of the storm.

Finally inside, the pint of beer never tasted so good. The Thrift Store Cowboys out of Lubbock opened. A good alt country band with fiddle, peddle steel and some loud guitars. Occasionally a banjo and accordian were trotted out. Four songs in the power went out, but the band refused to quit. They came off the stage and about 75% of the bar huddled around them, a few of us holding up cell phone flashlights to light the musicians. They did a very intimate acoustic set in the hushed bar until the power was restored.

Then DeVotchKa came on. They are, hands down, the best rock band with a sousaphone, violin, accordian, trumpet and homemade theremin. From the Washington Post:

"In truth, any label sells DeVotchKa short. Drummer Shawn King did thump with post-punk drive and was often surrounded by a lineup of sousaphone, violin and bouzouki. Singer Nick Urata played the latter as well as acoustic and electric guitars, but it was his singing — an upper-register melange of Roy Orbison, Jerry Vale and Bryan Ferry — and his stage persona — drunken groomsman crossed with Dean Stockwell in “Blue Velvet” — that created DeVotchKa’s indefinable vortex. The violin (and accordion) of Tom Hagerman provided the melodic zest in songs such as “Queen of the Surface Streets” and “We’re Leaving,” but it was the cohesive sweep and instrumental interplay that turned them from pleasant to crowd-roiling."

Dressed impeccably in suits and evening wear, the band cut quite a figure. Tom Hagerman in suit and tie, Shawn King in sharp tie and pressed shirt. Jeanie Schroder in willowy black dress with sousaphone draped around her, all covered in red italian lights. And Nick Urata in unbuttoned tuxedo shirt. As he hit the stage, he grabbed a bottle of red wine, bit off the cork and spit it into the audience.

They set these lonely, desperate Eastern European sounds agains a driving drum beat, a counterpoint that nearly tears the songs apart. A few favorite images: the crowd accompanying the mournful wailing chorus of "We're Leaving," the only song I knew before the show. The first time Schroder lit up her tuba after playing the upright bass for the first few songs. Urata, using the neck of his electric guitar to simultaneously rip out a riff and play the theremin next to him.

Scrivner, are you listening?

Capt. SkyGirl

Capt. SkyGirl, originally uploaded by cieuxautres.

Dance Hits

It was cute seeing SkyGirl singing and dancing to Warren Zevon's "Werewolves in London," but rather unsettling when she kept dancing to "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner." Although it is a good song.

Excerpt from a letter to a former student

The life of the middle-class frustrates the revolutionary. I kid no one but myself when I say I am trapped. But lest ye follow your elders, take heed this tale of caution. Do not handcuff yourself with bourgeois preoccupations. Live for others and leave yourself to the margins. There's nothing sadder than a self-absorbed intellectual. This year, I vow to be more like you if you vow to read more like me.

Random Quotes - The Quotations Page

I can't resist. Here's a meme that starts with Pilgrim and then goes to herein order to complete it. There's probably a step or two in between.

Go here and look through random quotes until you find 5 that you think reflect who you are or what you believe.

One's real life is often the life that one does not lead.
Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900), L'Envoi, 1882
[somewhere, I am Thomas Pynchon, or Rick Powers, or Borges, or Pele, or Giggs, or Richard Thompson or Ani DiFranco or....or...]

For every person who wants to teach there are approximately thirty people who don't want to learn--much.
W. C. Sellar and R. J. Yeatman, And Now All This (1932) introduction
[how could I resist after a long, long day of meetings, syllabi and roster instruction?]

Where is there dignity unless there is honesty?
Cicero (106 BC - 43 BC)
[still smarting after the World Cup]

Shake off all the fears of servile prejudices, under which weak minds are servilely crouched. Fix reason firmly in her seat, and call on her tribunal for every fact, every opinion. Question with boldness even the existence of a God; because, if there be one, he must more approve of the homage of reason than that of blindfolded fear.
Thomas Jefferson (1743 - 1826)
[why these god-fearing people are afeared of reason I'll never understand]

I have often wished I had time to cultivate modesty... But I am too busy thinking about myself.
Edith Sitwell (1887 - 1964), As quoted in The Observer (30 April 1950)
[for obvious reasons]

Fried Food and Beer

Which seems to be what I'm subsisting on so far. I've been in the Midwest, visiting my parents, friends and relatives for the last few days. SkyGirl and I flew in on Wednesday (with our own little adventure of forgetting the car seat, retreaving the car seat, and dashing for the plane). The Doctor came in Friday, dealing with the liquidphobia airline industry. She was nearly banned from flight for having too much saliva. SkyGirl's toothpaste, which I had specifically requested, arrived safely in the checked luggage, along with hair gel, anti-bacterial gel, shaving cream, a urine sample and a bottle of ketchup.

I drank and ate a lot on Wednesday. Played golf on Thursday. Drank and ate a lot on Friday. Today drank and ate a lot on a boat on the river. Plus SkyGirl and I floated in life-jackets in a sand quarry, drove 36' cruiser, and towed a very expensive speed boat that had run out of gas. My golf game was what one would expect from a once a year golfer; one good shot followed by an atrocious shot that leaves me trapped in the rough for the rest of the hole. Two balls were lost to water hazards, and one to the roof of a nearby house, I fear. Such a dreadful slice.

It's kind of late here. The family has all gone to bed. The Doctor and SkyGirl are sound asleep in the back bedroom, the aunt, uncle and nephew are tucked into the master bedroom, and mom and dad are sound asleep in the front office, having donated the above master bedroom to one of their favorite grandsons and fetus. I should be in bed as well, but I am stealing bandwith from a nearby neighbor, burning my father's CDs (Emmylou Harris at the moment, "Meet me at the wrecking ball, wrecking ball" in a haunting, lost girl vibrato that kills me, even on tiny, tinny iBook speakers.

Tomorrow we will wake, dine on something fried and and something else sweet. There will be fruit and coffee, the latter of which I will drink of too much. There will be comments about the abundance of tomatoes, none of which were home grown. And then we will settle down into a chaotic dance of making appetizers, dinner, dancing with toddlers, running out to the store, folding laundry, running back out to the store and then welcoming the aunts, uncles, cousing and SkyGirl's great-grandmother for SkyGirl's premature birthday party. She will probably get lots of things that the Doctor and I will struggle to stuff into two suitcases and fly back to the desert. And we will drink too much wine, eat too many pieces of cake, and my dad will make his sisters laugh until they hurt.

Then monday will come, a third of the people will depart, and the Doctor and I will use the quiet to plan the next six months to 12 years of our lives.

Now, I am going to sleep and dry out for tomorrow. As SkyGirl says: "Burpf!"

A Bug in the System

It's after 10:00. Everyone is asleep. I'm sitting alone downstairs waiting for a roach to come back out from behind the stove. This is the part I really hate about being a man. Gender role reversal aside, I still am responsible for killing bugs in the house. And I really, really hate killing bugs. I mean, I'm no buddist purist that won't kill anything. I'd just as soon they die. But the whole me killing them really takes a lot out of me. I just want to run screaming from the room. It's worse when I'm by myself like tonight. When the Doctor's around, I suck it up, grab the shoe or paper towel and go about my manly duties. Alone, I procrastinate by writing about it.

These suckers are huge, too. Not like the ones I saw back in the midwest. We saw two a couple of nights ago and managed to chase them out the door. Actually, the ran into a small hutch we have, and we just carried that outside and chased them out of that. I think their appearance has something to do with the weather and possibly the construction going on just out back of our townhome. If I wasn't so deeply concerned about the chemicals in a roach spray, I'd be going after them with Dow in one hand and Monsanto in the other. But with SkyGirl so young and vulnerable to even the slightest of toxins, I feel we have to go the mechanical route. Sealing the perimeter and smashing the intruders. The problem is, I have no idea where they are coming in. Who knows what small crevice, what minute fissure lurks behind cabinets, under baseboards. I can't hermetically seal the house.

Okay, I'm off for another scouting report. If I'm lucky, he's had a heart attack and is flat on his back in the middle of the kitchen.

SkyGirl, LIVE!

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SkyGirl does some singing of some original songs that she wrote and covers one of mine. I'm afraid that I can't transcribe the lyrics to her songs, but the selection I penned is as follows:

I'm eating my food
chomp, chomp.
I'm eating my food
chomp, chomp.
I'm eating my food
I'm eating my food
I'm eating my food
chomp, chomp.
Ba da ba dum dum dump
BURP!

If you listen closely, you can hear her interpretation. There's some audience patter in there. She asks the crowd "How you doin?" And responds in kind. The Doctor is brought on stage for some playful between song banter.

Near the end, she samples Justin Roberts' "My Old Pajamas" before closing with the classic, "ABC."

(If you have trouble loading the song, pause the playback and wait until it's fully loaded. The song itself is about 1:28.)

We're Back

After a small hiatus, we have returned. New look, new identity, same old non-essential stuff.

With my horribly inept coding skills and an unwillingness to ask anyone for help, I spent the last week mucking up various templates trying to create a more unique look for the new blog. I didn't want to debut with something off the rack. But now I know why they hire people to do this stuff. The site looks good on Safari, but when I switch over to Explorer it's horrendous. If anyone can help me fix it, please chime in with the necessary fixes.

Lots of people have written, curious about my recent tangle with a local civic organization. Unfortunately, my being discrete on the other blog may have led to the illusion that this tangle was somehow fraught with tension and litigiousness. The reality, I'm afraid, is rather banal.

The head of the organization, having been referred to my post, emailed me with his phone number asking if I would like to discuss. The message was brief and, I assumed, perfunctory. Just a president offering to fix a situation if desired.

For me, the celebratory festival itself was merely background, allowing me to take a tiny detail and exploit it as a touchstone for the current divisive politcal climate. And to be funny. I didn't want to give my epistolary friend any further concern, so I responded with a nice note saying that I enjoyed myself at the festival, had no beef with his organization, and if he wanted to explain why they made such an inflammatory, if subtle, remark, I'd be happy to relate that to my meager readership.

I really assumed this would be the last of it. I couldn't imagine him being that concerned with this tiny blog. Instead, he responded with a tome of an email. Pages in length detailing the good works his organization had done, the lengths they went to creating said festival, the financial hardship faced from declining support and membership, and the indignity thrust upon him by casting dispersions upon his patriotism. He concluded by relating a small, not-untouching story regarding a sunset, a famous French beach, and memories of war.

All this with the boldly typed rejoinder that his organization had not even been responsible for the inflammatory poster.

Of course, I felt obliged to apologize for attributing the francophobe insult to his people, and said I would right the record. I also complimented him and his organization for their good work, thanked him for his service to god and country, and then backed away slowly.

The whole thing gave me pause with regards to my public identity on the blog. As I mentioned in the last post in the place that is not someplace else, I never thought I would have a problem with what I wrote. I didn't care that others saw what I had to say, mainly because I hadn't intended to be controversial, obscene, personal or boring. Instead, this marked the third time a previoulsy unknown person had commented on my blog in a manner that suggested my words were being taken more seriously than I intended. To put it another way, the blog was being treated as public pronouncements, when I saw it as off the record fun. The mic was hot, but I, naively, was unaware.

Couple this with an increasing unease with the ability to triangulate all sorts of information via electronic databases, I thought it best that I absent myself, the Doctor and SkyGirl (cool psuedonyms, eh?) from the blogosphere.

I will still post lots of pictures, mainly because that's mostly what people want to see, but also because I'm not really anonymous, just in hiding. I consider the possession of the url as the "shave and a haircut" of this non-descript door in a Chicago back alley. If you know the knock, feel free to come on in and look around.

Thanks for bothering to stick around. I hope you like the new digs.