Friday, November 28, 2003
Thanksgiving "Highlights"
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3:15 p.m.: Stuffed Olives
Cousin Rick:
"*cough*sputter*coughcough* WHAT THE... *coughsputter* HELL..? *Bleargh!* ...WHAT THE HELL ARE THESE BLACK OLIVES STUFFED WITH?!"
Me:
"Um... those are grapes."
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3:34: The Lodge
Uncle R:
"They need to move the [Elks] Lodge to Concord or somewhere, move the Lodge out, the Lodge shouldn't be where it is, because the location of the Lodge . . . where the Lodge is puts people off, discourages new members from the Lodge, so the Lodge should be . . . the Lodge should be somewhere else away from the sort of [black] neighborhood it's in . . ."
"I'm not racist."
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3:47: Hypocritical Grapes
Me, internal monologue:
Thirteen minutes, just thirteen more minutes till we eat, and I'm going bananas . . . Why am I so nervous? Maybe if I concentrate on breathing deeply to my diaphragm, focus on keeping my posture straight, one vertebrae on top of another, that'll kill some time . . .
Twelve minutes till we eat! Damn. I'm an alien or something. I just can't relate. Who are these people? I'll eat some grapes, that'll keep my hands busy and give me something to focus on.
What the hell? They're seedless grapes, but every grape has one, just ONE, seed in it! Every one! This is worse than if they were totally NON-seedless. Seeded, even. At least they wouldn't be hypocritical. They're hypocritical damn grapes! What the hell? What. The. Hell.
Ten minutes till we eat . . .
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5:35: The Hug
Cousin Jason, all 5'6", 220 pounds of musclebound and tattoed (recent)-ex-con gorilla, sits by himself on the couch.
Cousin Zack, all 60 pounds of hyperactive 5-year-old, comes running out of nowhere and, without warning, without reason, spontaneously gives cousin Jason a huge hug.
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7:45(?): Score: Twenty-or-so-to-Thirteen
Ha! Dallas is down! Way down, and Miami is going to win!
No, I'm not a Miami fan.
No, I'm not even a football fan.
Uncle R is a raving Dallas fan...
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9:01: I'm cruising for chicks...
Cousin Rick and cousin Honey have taught five-year-old cousin Zach to say "I am Cornholio" and "I need some teepee for my bunghole" and "I'm from Tittikaka."
Zach runs past me, looking for his mother, so he can tell her "I'm cruising for chicks..."
"...and I need some teepee for my bunghole!"
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9:32: Atomic Wedgie
Rick gives his stepson Kevin a wedgie and Kevin tells us about it. George says, "That's not a wedgie, a wedgie is when you mark your underwear."
"No, that's 'racing stripes'," someone says.
"But the drill sargeants," sez George, "they used to give us atomic wedgies, and then they'd say, 'There! Now you won't lose your underwear, 'cuz it's marked!' See, they weren't allowed to lay a hand on us, but the drill instructors could get around that by touching our clothes..."
Sadly, this is the only Marine war-story I'll get from George tonight. I'd rather hear something I've heard before, maybe how he used to get drunk and pull late-night surprise inspections on Japanese barracks after the War (he had no authority but the Japanese didn't know that), or even just how cold it was in Chosin... George has some doozies, and he'll take most of 'em with him when he goes...
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(November, 2002): Pick up the dead cows..!
But, in all, none of these beat last year's Thanksgiving classic.
Cousin Rick's Mom: She seems sane and well-adjusted... in a midwestern, Ohio sort of way, anyway. We know for a fact that she's proud of her I.Q. Hell, she doesn't look like an idiot. But I should know by now that none of this means anything, 'cuz the next thing you know, she says this:
"You're a vegetarian? But we were meant to eat meat. What, when the cows die and fall on the ground in the pasture, are we supposed to just leave them there?"
And I can't, or won't, argue with that.
~
11/28/2003 11:38:00 PM
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
My Favorite Yeats:
To a Friend whose Work has come to Nothing
NOW all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honour bred, with one
Who, were it proved he lies,
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbours’ eyes?
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.
WB Yeats, Responsibilities and Other Poems, 1916.
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11/26/2003 10:03:00 PM
Friday, November 21, 2003
11/21/2003 11:39:00 PM
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Wink-n-Nod Play Tug-o-War
Sleep and Death Carrying Off the Slain Sarpedon
Etruscan, early 4th s. BC
From (and image copyright 1988 by) the Cleveland Museum of Art.
This is one of my favorite pieces in the CMA. It's much better in real life. These little fellows (who are just a few inches tall and originally formed the handle of a bronze something-or-other) look like antic wee characters from a miniature Harryhausen film. I'll stare at them for several minutes at a time but then, when I turn or look away, out of the corner of my eye I'll swear I see one wink or nod at me. In fact I call 'em Wink-n-Nod. I know: sounds like a personal problem. But it makes me nervous, and I always hope it's Sleep and not Death who's shooting me a glance...
I'm not exactly sure how the museum knows this is "Sleep and Death Carrying Off the Slain Sarpedon." Most evidence of the "mysterious Etruscans" was wiped out by the Romans who took their place. Even Etrusci is a Roman name; the Etruscans called themselves Rasenna, and their language remains for the most part unknown. "No significant certain translations from Etruscan into modern languages have been produced yet." So I find myself seeing a different image of what truly happened to Sarpedon:
Sarpedon the hero was felled in war but not slain. He lies now in a coma above which his soul hovers, fought over by the Sleep which holds him in dreams of his final battle, and the Death which seeks to drag him forever away.
I like this much better.
~
11/20/2003 01:01:00 PM
Monday, November 17, 2003
11/17/2003 09:21:00 AM
Saturday, November 15, 2003
No, Really...
...he has his own stamp. Who knew?
Then again, he wasn't much worse than any of the other
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11/15/2003 10:54:00 PM
Sunday, November 09, 2003
"American Falsies Arrive in Great Numbers..."
The other day I was listening to a radio newsman with a very upper-class, poncy English accent (no East-Ender was he, nor would he evuh be associated with *shudder!* Liverpool.) And he evidently said something like "American falsies arrived in the region in great numbers..."
What? Oh, "forces." Well, don't I feel silly.
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11/09/2003 04:01:00 PM
