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of tea


Good Wednesday evening, friends and lovers. Tonight the trash goes out; I’ll never cease to marvel at the fact that I can drag 15lbs of stuff I no longer want down to my curb and wake up with it gone. Garbagemen don’t get the respect they deserve… that’s an essential job, y’all. Now to the canned stuff.

A long time ago, in the early days of my Taiwan travel, I received some local tea as a gift from a customer on a visit (hey sawmill gestapo, it weren’t an ethics violation – I was assured it was less than $20). The tea came in an attractive tube-shaped container, with faux gold Chinese characters and decorations “lacquered” on the outside. I even came equipped with some of that traditional Chinese red-tassle stuff tied in pretty bows and knots around it. Thankful, I accepted the tea and brought it back with me to America (US Customs was never informed, take that Big Brother). When I got home, I showed it to Sharaun and proceeded to put it, unopened, up on the highest, normally unreachable, relegated to seldom-used items, shelf in the pantry. And, until last night, that’s where it stayed.

What jarred it loose from its dusty enclave was an episode of a show I enjoy called Bizarre Foods. On this episode, the host was touring the beautiful isle of Taiwan, sampling its many strange foodstuffs. At one restaurant he was treated to a multiple-course meal in which every dish was based around the tea leaf. Seeing how much the Taiwanese love and value their tea reminded me of that red and gold tube hiding way up in the back of the pantry. So, I pulled over a dining room chair and climbed atop to peer into the dark recesses of our dry goods. There, pushed all the way back into the corner, sat the tea. I yanked it down and proceeded to open it. Inside was a vacuum-sealed foil packet, and absolutely nothing in the way of instructions, guidance, or information (well, at least not in English).

Now, I should add here that, on the TV, the Bizarre Foods host was receiving a lesson in “rare” and expensive Chinese teas, and was browsing some of the insanely priced high-end teas one can purchase in Taiwan. The leaf he was looking at came out to about $7,000 USD per dried pound. At this point, I began telling Sharaun that, when the customer had given me the tea so long ago, the Taiwanese national who was with me had told me that it was very rare and expensive, and likely worth about $800 for the entire tube. This story was completely false. So, as I’m examining the sealed foil package, she’s all the while harping from the couch, “Don’t you dare open that! You need to put that stuff on Ebay! Do not even think about opening some $800 tea!”

I wanted to maintain the ruse a little longer, and besides, I was truly unsure how to make the stuff and needed to do a little research. So, I left the bag sealed and hit the internet to figure out how to “brew loose leaf tea.” The internet, for the only time ever, was largely a disappointment. That’s when I remembered another long-lost item I’d seen gathering dust in our house (we really need to do some large-scale cleaning and purging, it would seem): an electric tea-brewing gadget that was sitting, also unopened, somewhere in the garage. Since it was only 11pm, I decided to go have a look. I located the “Mrs. Tea” right away, and brought my prize inside.

“What are you going to do with that?,” she asked. “I know you’re not thinking you’re going to make that tea… you need to sell that stuff, not drink it. Let’s make $800 on that crap.” “Babe,” I said, as I pulled out the paring knife to cut open the foil package, “I was just messing with you, this stuff isn’t worth $800.” “I knew that,” she replied.

I sawed off the top of the foil tube and gave the rolled, dried leaves a nice sniff. To my surprise, they still maintained the very strong and pleasant aroma of Chinese green tea (I didn’t even know what kind of tea this was until I saw it). Luckily, “Mrs. Tea” came with some teaspoons-of-loose-leaf to cups-of-tea guidance, and, by 11:30pm, I had a nice hot pot of traditional Chinese green tea. I must say, the tea was delicious. Reminded me of the stuff I had at the fancy teahouse on the shores of the West Lake in Hangzhou, China, although not as fresh: we had some of the last green leaves of the tea season when we visited on Tombsweeping Day this year. Anyway, in the end it was quite a journey for that little tube of green tea from Taiwan. I look forward to drinking some more of it now that I’ve broken the seal. Like tea? You’re welcome to come have some with me, friend.

Oh my gosh y’all (tea stuff is over now), I was watching a TiVo’d Seinfeld episode tonight and saw a certain Public Service Announcement. At first I was confused, but when I realized at the end that the PSA was warning kids about the dangers of blogging… I was ecstatic! I immediately hunted down the clip to post here. So, remember kids: Think before you post.

Wow, an entire entry about making tea. Good job me. Goodnight.

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i even got to chuck a chick


What a week for writing, I’m like three entries deep in the black… I could put this thing on autopilot through Friday if I just put a little effort in. But, I’ll wrap some fresh stuff around each main bit each night – just because I can. Tonight, for instance, I mowed the lawn as soon as I got home from work. It must have been 102° outside, and I sweat sweat out a week’s worth of liquid pushing that mower around. Lawn looks good though, if I don’t say so myself. Let’s get this done.

Last Thursday night, Ben called me around 6pm on his way home from work. “Dave,” he said, “Are you near a computer?” “I can be,” I reply. “Well,” he says, “I just drove by Local Club X and the marquee says that Hot Hot Heat is playing there tomorrow night.” “Wow,” I say, as I pull up the webpage to verify. “Sure enough, they are gonna be there,” I confirm. “Let’s go,” says Ben. “I’ll talk to Sharaun,” I say, and we hang up. At the time, I was semi-excited – we don’t get a lot of local shows around here – but I wasn’t into the Heat’s latest record that much. However, they had rocked the house the past couple times we saw them, and I hadn’t been to a show since the Arcade Fire. Then, when the issue of babysitting was magically resolved by Kristi’s generosity, I called Ben back. In the end, we all ended up going (well, all but Kristi, the responsible babysitter among us).

It was fun being at the a tiny crowded show again, I’ve written about seeing the Heat at this venue before, and enjoy it every time. This time, I even got to chuck a chick. That’s right. There were some younger, fun-loving kids in front of us who were doing the whole 1996 slamdancing thing. Now, I can remember being young, and I did my fair share of elbowing and slamming and pushing at the Lush show back in 1993 – so I wasn’t too upset that these kids were enjoying themselves in front of me. In fact, I smiled at the fun they were having. After all, I’m the old guy here – I’m the one out of my element at these shows now, the one who stands out from the pierced crowd as the “straight.” I remember seeing the me in the press at shows when I was young, wondering what the “geezer” was doing just standing around not-enjoying himself on the edges of the pit. “Why would that punk even come out on the floor,” I wondered. Never once did I consider that he, himself, may once have been young – and, although he’s aged past his slamdancing prime, may enjoy a good spot in front of the stage.

Now, back to the story, one of my favorite things to do a concerts is play “pillar.” This is where I stand rooted to the floor amidst the pressing masses, an unmovable column of human body that resists all pushing and crowding and forging ahead. I hate those people who, when the band plays their “radio song,” feel the sudden urge to push their way forcefully to the front of the floor, assuming all those before them will yield. Not me; not the “pillar.” I stand my ground despite gentle hand-on-shoulder urging or rough sidling – I’m not moving. Anyway, there I was at the Hot Hot Heat show, playing pillar while these kids began to bounce off me and jump into me and stuff. Soon, I couldn’t resist holding out my elbows as pointy hazards, just for the fun of watching these kids slam into them. Kind of like that game you play with your brother when you’re a kid. You know, the one where you spin your arms around in huge circles and blame him for walking into your whirling clenched fists…

A short time later, I began to reciprocate some of the shoving – and found that I really enjoyed it. Eventually, I was full on shoving with all my might and loving it. The slamdancing kids seemed to enjoy it too – the old guy getting into the show, overcome with the spirit of Woodstock ’95 or some such rock ‘n’ roll spiritualism. For me, though, this was more a loosely-veiled way of getting these kids to back off a bit. They were stepping on my toes and bumping into Sharaun, and I was growing tired of their jostling. Soon enough, I, as I often do, got a little carried away, and was doing some downright tossing of kids.

I can remember when Sharaun finally wrapped her arms around mine in a bearhug as a subtle message to stop: It was right after I had literally chucked a slamdancing chick a few feet forward, ultimately sending her sprawling to the floor. Then, when her slamdancing partner went to scoop her up, I pushed him right down on top of her into a tangled mass. Honestly, I loved every minute of it, and, I kept a stupid smile on my face the whole time because, somehow, I thought that might keep things from turning into a fight.

It was a great show. Thanks Ben for finding it. Thanks Kristi for watching Keaton. And, thanks moshing kids for reminding me how fun it can be to shove people.

Goodnight.

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a total homo for weddings


Wow, I only wrote on thirteen out of the twenty-one normally-writeable-on days this month. That’s likely my worst blogging ratio on a month in quite some time. Vacation and family in town’ll do that to a blogger, though, I suppose. I ask no forgiveness. That’s just what I do. Deal.

Last night I decided to randomly make some banana bread after cleaning up the kitchen post-dinner (I love baking, for some reason), and then decided not to write at all. That’s just what I do. Deal.

Now I’m sitting here thinking about work, and how I don’t want to go there tomorrow.

I do that often, actually (if I may write a sentence or two off-topic): I think about work a lot. Actually, I think about everything a lot – I pretty much over-think nearly everything I think about. Not like some sort of paranoid obsessive thinking, just thinking things through from multiple angles. In the case of my over-thinking approach to work, I’m convinced this is part of the reason I’m successful at the sawmill. It may sound conceited, but I feel like my morning-shower, on-the-john, driving-to-work, drifting-off-to-sleep mind-wandering about all things career helps me turn over rocks I otherwise would miss. Yeah, OK, let’s get it on.

Lately, Keaton’s got this new thing she does which kinda unnerves me. We’ll be playing around on the floor: me propped up against the little half-wall in our living room and her climbing all over me like I’m a jungle gym. She looks me in the eye, cocks her head a bit and move in closer – her gaze fixed on my nose. As she moves in closer still, I can see her eyes locked onto my nostrils as she raises her hand to point. Slowly, as if she’s doing something with terrible gravity, she stretches her finger to my face, touching my nostril and saying “Uhhhh-gooooo” with such a pained look of concern on her her face it makes me wonder if there aren’t worms crawling out of my nose. Her little face looks like she saying, “Oh Lord, dad… there is… really something wrong with your nose.” Can make a guy self conscious, y’know?

This past weekend Sharaun and I attended a wedding. I’m a total homo for weddings, a complete pussy for ’em. It’s hard for me not to get all choked up when I see fathers’ “giving away” their daughters (I felt that way long before Keaton) or sweet little flower girls doubtfully poking their way down the aisle. But the clincher is always the public proclamation of raw human emotion (or, at least, the proffering of such). I get drawn in by all the sincerity and weight of the whole affair, and almost always find myself having to redirect my wandering mind to somewhere else so I don’t end up in tears. But, I like weddings.

Before I go, Ben says this guy looks like me. Does this guy look like me? Goodnight.

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best of 2007.5


Midnight on Thursday night and I’m finishing up this entry in my boxer shorts.

Worked hard at the sawmill today: planned stuff and did stuff and worked on all sorts of things. I’ve decided that these last few weeks of work before my sabbatical are kind of like the last few weeks before summer vacation when you’re in junior high. Y’know, the slackening pace of student and teacher, the heightening anticipation, and the stashing of shaving cream and eggs just off-campus for easy retrieval after that very last bell. OK, the same sans the shaving cream part, at least. Let’s do this.

Earlier in the week, I promised two entries: one with new pictures of Keaton (done), and the other one being my “best of” list for the music of the first half of 2007. I’m glad to say that I was able to come through on both.

5. Spoon – Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga

Somewhere in my head, I’ve long known that Spoon was “kinda good.” Years ago, I got pretty hung up on the bouncy “Everything Hits At Once” from their 2001 Girls Can Tell album, and I’ll be the first to admit that I was guilty of undervaluing their last effort. With that in mind, I grabbed this new Spoon album determined to give it it’s fair chance. Turns out, I didn’t need a ton of convincing, as I could tell the record would be solid from the moment the needle locked into that 1st groove (or… the laser interprets that first “pit” as a 1 or 0… whatever). Britt Daniel’s raspy voice has always mated perfectly with the punchy guitars that punctuate the archetypal Spoon number, but on this record the guys mix it up with irresistible tracks like “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb,” and haunting little bits like “The Ghost of You Lingers,” this album has an eclecticism that’s hard to beat. If you’re into good music, you won’t want to miss it.

Listen to Spoon at the Hype Machine.

4. Andrew Bird – Armchair Apocrypha

I first got into Andrew Bird a couple years back when someone listed his previous album, Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs, as one of the best overlooked albums of that past year. Indeed, I was intrigued by that album, and ended up falling quite in love with Bird’s softer tunes and thoughtful lyrics. So, when I saw Armchair Apocrypha hit my favorite legal source for purchasing music with real currency (hahaha), I snapped it up in anticipation. Simply put: this album is gorgeous. I can recall the first time I put it on the headphones. I was flying to Oregon and had only loaded it on the iPod that morning. As we rocketed into the skies, the lead track, “Fiery Crash,” a song about envisioning a plane crash, seemed to know right where I was and what I was doing. Throughout the flight the album kept delivering, track after track – and, although on a plane may not be an appropriate location for everyone to have their first “Fiery Crash” experience – I recommend you track this down and pay attention.

Listen to Andrew Bird at the Hype Machine.

3. Arcade Fire – Neon Bible

I’ll admit it: I psyched myself out with this album. I was (and still am) so incredibly enamored with the Arcade Fire’s debut record, that I expected the Earth. And, I got caught up so tight in the online hype and anticipation, that when the thing began to leak, track-by-track, I listened to each one and judged it as a standalone. This is a horrible way to experience an album as a whole. And, by the time the whole thing leaked proper, the few songs I hadn’t heard didn’t do much to weave the whole thing together for me. I had ruined it. It was only after I revisited the album months after I’d decided that Neon Bible and I needed “a break” that I truly began to appreciate the effort. I wish it would’ve happened differently, that I could’ve heard the thing in one feel swoop ala my initiation to Funeral – where I sat rapt listening to one brilliant track after another. But, I was greedy and wanted to hear hear hear. Anyway, after our time apart, my heart of course grew fonder. And, now, I love every bouncing bassline, brassy horn break, and swirling organ trill. Back when it came out, I mused that the magic of a debut album like Funeral could likely not be matched no matter how solid a sophomore effort – and I was right. This isn’t Funeral – it’s Neon Bible; and it ain’t swill… it just sure ain’t Funeral.

Listen to The Arcade Fire at the Hype Machine.

2. The Shins – Wincing the Night Away

So, the 2007 Shins album leaked waaay back in October of 2006, with a street-date of January 23, 2007. I first wrote about it here. In fact, this album gave me issues when I was working hard to compile last year’s top ten, as I had to constantly remind myself it was a 2007 album and shouldn’t rank with the other contenders, despite the fact that it was illicitly one of my favorite albums of calendar-year 2006. It’s hard for me now, actually, to get my head back where it was all those months ago and really understand the awesomeness I felt while first getting into this record. But, one reminiscent spin on the iPod and the joy comes flooding back. The Shins are one of the most consistently brilliant bands I’ve heard in a long time, and this album is no exception. Their music is fresh and wonderfully structured: just complex enough to delight music-o-philes with its interesting twists, turns, and hooks; yet “everyday good” enough to hook even the casual Top 40 minded listener. Give this a listen, and try not to swoon just a little bit at amazing moments like singular instance of a harmonized rise of “seaa legs” in “Sea Legs” – that’s a personal challenge.

Listen to The Shins at the Hype Machine.

1. Of Montreal – Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?

Oh, people… people, people people… In this particular race, the competition is just lengths and lengths behind… And, as feverishly as they may try to hasten their pace, the yen for victory so clear in the bulging of their eyes and the flexing of their muscles, they are simply incapable of outstripping the Hissing Fauna. This album is a powerhouse of modern-day psych-pop, reveling in bouncy pop beats and awash in swishing, swirling, bubbling musical accouterments. With head-bobbing synth-drenched tunes like, “A Sentence of Sorts in Kongsvinger,” this album goes down like a heaping spoonful of sugar – penetrating deep into your pleasure centers leaving the corners of your mouth no option but to upturn in a grin. Seriously tho… what can beat this for top album of the year, I ask?

Listen to Of Montreal at the Hype Machine.

And, before I get a lot of complaints (yeah, that’s gonna happen), as a technicality I’m not including albums that I really got into post-June 2007 (cough, Animal Collective, ahem Los Campesinos). And, I also purposely didn’t include the Panda Bear album that I once panned, and have since come to truly enjoy – I’ll save inclusion of that, and the embarrassment of flip-flopping, for the end-of-year list if it still holds up.

That’s it for tonight. Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll do the same.

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redeemed by keaton


Happy Wednesday peeps. Before we begin, let me fulfill one of yesterday’s blog’s ending promises and go ahead and link right up-front to the new batch of pictures for July I added to Keaton’s gallery. Check those out and enjoy.

Now that that’s over with…

I spent some amount of time today trying to scheme a way to earn frequent flier miles when paying my mortgage. The idea of spending so much money on a regular, monthly basis sparked the thought: Why not earn free airline tickets at the same time? And, while I was at it, why not pay down my fear-they’re-gonna-live-forever college loans with a mileage card and earn free flights that way too? As those are really my only two large recurring payments, I figured I should do my best to get some bonus when paying them. I’m sad to say, however, that, after much research, I wound up empty-handed. Seems there’s just no real way to earn miles for paying your mortgage… or is there?

On most of the frequent flier forums online, getting miles for mortgage payments is referred to as the “holy grail” of points programs. Apparently, back in early 2002 – some folks did indeed locate that “holy grail,” by way of a Bank of America mile-earning debit card. Being a debit card, and not a credit card, the user had only to have a Bank of America account in which there was money to draw from. Points were earned whenever money went through the debit card. Turns out, some enterprising frequent-flier found out that most merchants who sold money orders accepted debit cards as a form of payment (credit cards are prohibited when purchasing money orders, for obvious fraud concerns, but since debit cards are backed by actual cash – they are allowed). This Bank of America miles-earning debit card user published his miles-for-mortgage exploit: Use the debit card to purchase Western Union money orders, then use those money orders to pay his monthly mortgage. Viola! Miles for mortgage! The scheme made such a splash, it even got picked up by the nations’ most respected financial rag, the Wall Street Journal. The attention, however, prompted Bank of America to quickly put the kybosh on the scheme by denying points for money order purchases. Spoilsports.

So, I was right all along… there’s no way. Bummer.

During my research though, I ran across some detailed discussion of something I’d already heard of before, but only in passing: “mileage runs.” Frequent-flier mile junkies will scout out and recommend the cheapest multi-hop “runs” for miles, breaking the end result down to a cost-per-mile number. Often, these runs can be long, even overnight, trips through four, five, maybe six destinations before returning to home base – but with a price so cheap that the miles earned on the long journey are worth the trouble. Mileage runners often talk about achieving “gold” status simply with a few bargain-basement runs.

If I were single, I think I’d do this. Might be a fun way to spend a couple days: flying to several US cities, eating in different airports, listening to music – all without the burden of a single piece of luggage. And anyway, I like traveling, especially when I’m alone. It makes me feel “important,” or something. Some of these guys even plan mileage run “meet-ups” in airport lounges or bars during plane changes. For some reason, that calls to the entrepreneurial wanderlust in me. Yeah… mileage running.

Sorry I don’t have more. Goodnight!

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a segue-segue


Good evening friends. Gonna talk mostly music today, sorry if that’s not your bag.

But, before all that… Recently, I mentioned that the epic hike Anthony and I had planned for our coincident sabbaticals (sabbatici?) was “off.” Turns out, Anthony has turned around his poor luck and our hike is now officially back “on.” Unfortunately, however, we’ve had to reduce the planned itinerary due to a more limited span of overlapping available time betwixt us. Fortunately, though, we still get to do it. The current plan involves trekking only half the originally planned route, meaning about a week-solid on the trail instead of fourteen days.

Tonight, after mowing the lawn, edging the lawn, and blowing off the sidewalk, I came inside and did some hardcore music research – the likes of which I’ve not done in quite a while. Inspired by this super-interesting (to me, at least) article I stumbled on the other day, which alleges that much of Jimmy Page’s prodigious musical output was either pilfered or recycled, I decided I didn’t know quite enough about that part of the Beck/Page/Clapton lineage.

So, while at work I queued up Jeff Beck’s Truth to jog my memory, and when I got home I hit the end-all-be-all of music knowledge, allmusic.com, to attempt to figured out what Yardbirds albums I should own but didn’t. Then, list in-hand, I headed off to my favorite legitimate music download site (hahahah!) and began the deluge of bits. In the end, I grabbed the the entire Yardbirds discography, as well as a boxset, and some live and rare material. Tomorrow at work the music in my headphones will be more than a soundtrack to multitask by, it will be an education.

New tunes have their burden tho, friends… as I once again I find myself wanting a new iPod to hold everything I have. Woe to me…

Hey, speaking of mowing the lawn and music, let’s use those things as a nice segue into some reminiscing, shall we? OK!

Today, I decided to change up my normal routine of iPod on random while cutting the grass and instead put on Wishbone Ash’s 1972 classic, Argus. I freaking love that album, it somehow manages to combine the best “eerie” aspects of early Black Sabbath, the crunch of Led Zeppelin, and the progish melodies of Yes. I absolutely love that album. Interestingly enough, I only “discovered” Argus a mere ten-ish years ago. (Cue tinkly chime things and warbly-wavy video cut).

It was way back when I worked at Omni Records & Tapes in Merritt Island, Florida. Man, I loved that job. I was an “assistant manager,” which was a BS title that meant I got paid slightly more than minimum wage for the additional work of dealing with unruly customers, staying late to count the dosh and do the books, and getting the alarm code and a set of keys to the store. Even still, it was my dream job. A music freak employed in a music store, treading up and down the aisles, making recommendations, surprising the “old folk” with his knowledge, etc. Plus, I got to buy CDs at a dollar over wholesale, and I had access to almost any “import” I wanted. I swear I spent a full 50% of my paycheck right back into that store. The owner must’ve loved me, I basically worked for CDs.

Anyway, I worked there with a fellow by the name of Bob. Bob was a “true” manager, sitting one rung above my mere “assistantship” in the record store pecking order. Bob and I were fast friends from the start, sharing a common love of good music, beautiful women, and computers (my word, how’s that for a lonely-nerd resume?).

Warning, segue-segue: I had, in fact, had my first encounter with Bob years before I got my job at the record store. As a teenage student of classic rock-‘n’-roll, I had once come into Omni in search of an obscure early 70s record called Woyaya, recorded by the African rock-funk outfit Osibisa. At the time, my buddy Kyle and I had a copy on vinyl we’d liberated from his father’s LP collection – and I was trying to locate a CD copy. I can remember Bob’s quizzical look when I asked if he could special order the CD. “How’d you end up looking for that record?,” he asked, obviously familiar with it himself. I told him I had a vinyl copy, doing my best to exude the “in the know” nonchalance of a beyond-his-years music nut. Anyway, Bob managed to find that CD as an import, and special ordered it for me.

Whoa…. off-track here, let’s bring this back.

‘Twas record-store-manager Bob what introduced me to Wishbone Ash, and today’s lawn-mowing background jam, Argus. He used to use the downtime on the weekends to root through the discs in the store and turn me on to new tunes. One Sunday it was Wishbone Ash – I remember some young kid came in with his dad, and, as an aspiring guitarist, had his ears piqued by the disc on the sound system. That kid bought Argus before I even had a chance to listen to it all the way through. I did, however, immediately reorder two copies – one for restocking, and one for me. Hey, thanks Bob! Oh, and, related – ’twas record-store-manager Bob who also turned me onto Jeff Beck’s Truth, which I also mentioned above. That particular turning-on, however, happened just last Christmas when I was home in Florida. Keep the suggestions coming, my friend, I’m still happy to be your understudy.

Well, that’s it for now. Be sure to watch the blog this week for some new pictures of baby Keaton, and this years “half-best-of” list… I promise they’re all in the chute.

Goodnight.

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as many a young lad do become


Good evening folks, and a happy Tuesday to ya. T’was a rare humid day here in Northern California, somewhat cloudy by late afternoon and evening threatening rain. But, we got no rain. Came to the conclusion today that I need a bigger iPod. Or, alternately, another iPod altogether on which I can store only certain items – I’m thinking Beatles bootlegs, for instance, or bootlegs and live-albums in general. My 60GB just ain’t getting it done anymore…

When I was a young lad, somewhere around the tender age of twelve or thirteen, I became quite enamored, as many a young lad do become, with the beauty of the female form. And, while this blossoming interest in all things woman was less of something scholarly or noble, and more of something perverse and puberty-driven, my motivations didn’t provide with my enough shame to want to hide my burgeoning libido. So, I took the conspicuous approach – and plastered my pre-teen lair with racy imagery. Being a kid, however, and still having parents – I couldn’t easily cover my walls with the likes of Playboy centerfolds… I instead had to go with what I could get. And, that, my friends, is how the small alcove on the top bunk where I spent my nights became wallpapered with images cut deftly from the JC Penny catalog. That’s right, I had underwear models, swimsuit models, and the like, all taped from top-to-bottom in some crazy collage of unintentional soft-porn.

I can remember flipping to the middle of the thick color catalog, to the index, and looking for the keywords which would become my new decorations: “bra,” “bikinis,” “panties.” At the time, I don’t know why I wasn’t more embarrassed by my scantily-clad homemade pinups – it’s terribly humiliating to think back on now, and I can remember being somewhat disgusted with myself the day I tore it all down and replaced it with an equally idolatrous picture-collage of black-and-white images of the Beatles I’d clipped from a public library book (without regard, I might add, for others who may have one day checked out said book). But, at the time, I remember carefully tracing the edges of the models with the scissors, being careful not to shear off any boob- or butt-profile in doing so. What a disgusting, and outwardly needy-seeming, thing to do, right? What was wrong with me?

Finally, in the you-thought-you’d-never-see-the-day department: Keaton is, as suddenly as of just this morning, cutting her top two front teeth. Yes, that’s right. This near 17-month old baby of only two teeth is finally giving her bottom two buckies a couple buddies to hang out with. Her sleeping tonight has been fitful, she wakes often crying and we go in to put some numbing stuff on them. Funny that most parents have probably already experienced this by 17 months, but not us. Her teeth are just slow starters, I suppose. I’ll post some pictures of her with her shiny new top-fronts as soon as they’re nice and erupted.

Goodnight.