The shed dream is coasting gently towards reality. Cormac (the brother) is coming to St. Paul for a week during May of next year. Fran (the step-father-in-law) will be in town for a few days. Between the three of us, and a boatload of cheap beer, we should make some major progress on the resurrection.
I will need to spend the weeks before their arrival clearing out the inside and clearing the outside perimeter of junk and vegetation. We’ll need to be able to get at the foundation to break it up in order to get the bottle jacks under the sill plate.
This is too exciting.
20 December 2009
10 December 2009
Smokeless in St. Paul
Eight years ago today I stopped smoking. All thanks to Allen Carr. It’s interesting to measure what I have not been missing.
12
Average number of cigarettes I used to smoke every day.
12 x 365 x 8 = 35,040
Number of cigarettes not smoked in the last eight years.
100mm
Approximate length of one cigarette.
35,040 x 100mm = 3,504meters (2.19miles)
Total length of cigarettes not smoked laid end to end.
12
Average number of cigarettes I used to smoke every day.
12 x 365 x 8 = 35,040
Number of cigarettes not smoked in the last eight years.
100mm
Approximate length of one cigarette.
35,040 x 100mm = 3,504meters (2.19miles)
Total length of cigarettes not smoked laid end to end.
20 November 2009
SHED RESURRECTION, PART 6
It's Friday night and anything could happen in St. Paul, the city that sleeps. I went out to the shed to drink a beer in the cold night air. Drinking beer in cold weather is so satisfying. It intensifies the crispness of the beer. I like that. Truth be told I'd like to be mixing some vodka based cocktails but the wife says liquor makes me do silly things. I've been watching Mad Men (LINK), hence my desire to add olives, limes, cherries... to what I slake me thirst with. Anywho, the point of this story is that when my shed project is complete nobody will be able to prevent me from drinking cocktails in there because the shed will be sovereign Irish territory on which no laws shall exist.
17 November 2009
SHED RESURRECTION, PART 5
16 November 2009
SHED RESURRECTION, PART 4
I just cracked a beer as I am feeling pretty darn smug about recent developments in the shed project. On Saturday I decided that it would make more sense to have a concrete slab poured for the shed floor and foundation rather than trying to deal with creating individual footings as I jack up each side one at a time.
I talked to some concrete contractors today and got verbal approval on my idea of yanking out the wooden floor (which is just lying on top of gravel) and jacking the shed up and placing it on blocks so that the concrete people can come and pour a slab underneath the shed. After the concrete sets I would bolt pressure-treated sill plates to the concrete and drop the shed down onto them. Genius right?
And with that he cracked another beer…
I talked to some concrete contractors today and got verbal approval on my idea of yanking out the wooden floor (which is just lying on top of gravel) and jacking the shed up and placing it on blocks so that the concrete people can come and pour a slab underneath the shed. After the concrete sets I would bolt pressure-treated sill plates to the concrete and drop the shed down onto them. Genius right?
And with that he cracked another beer…
15 November 2009
Crafty Cities
American Craft Council announces relocation to Minneapolis... (LINK). I'm very excited to see what this will mean for the Twin Cities.
14 November 2009
SHED RESURRECTION, PART 3
I’ve been thinking incessantly about my shed lately. It’s difficult for me to explain how much that building means to me despite its shabby condition and penchant for offering refuge to various forms of urban wildlife (bees, birds, mice, spiders, possums, adolescent mutant ninja turtles…).
It is even harder for me to explain how much more it will mean to me once the resurrection project has been completed. It has always been my dream to have a place that is dedicated entirely to one purpose; making things at my own pace and in my own company. I enjoy being alone sometimes, especially so while making furniture (LINK). I don’t see anything peculiar or wrong about that. Martha has similar leanings. Each to his or her own.
The shed is currently a two-story structure. I don’t know if I should keep it that way or not. Removing the floor between the two levels is kind of appealing. The result would be a squat little building (16’ x 12’) with a 17’ high ceiling. Those proportions, in my mind, conjure up images of small rural churches built from stone.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t in love with this idea but I have to be practical too. An upstairs in a shed comes along once in a lifetime. It should be embraced. It could serve as guest quarters or a place for the kids to play while staying within earshot of me while I work below. Too much possibility can be crippling sometimes. I will continue to mull and noodle over it through the winter months.
It is even harder for me to explain how much more it will mean to me once the resurrection project has been completed. It has always been my dream to have a place that is dedicated entirely to one purpose; making things at my own pace and in my own company. I enjoy being alone sometimes, especially so while making furniture (LINK). I don’t see anything peculiar or wrong about that. Martha has similar leanings. Each to his or her own.
The shed is currently a two-story structure. I don’t know if I should keep it that way or not. Removing the floor between the two levels is kind of appealing. The result would be a squat little building (16’ x 12’) with a 17’ high ceiling. Those proportions, in my mind, conjure up images of small rural churches built from stone.
08 November 2009
SHED RESURRECTION, PART 2
Phase 1-A completed this weekend. Weather was absolutely perfect. I'll burn most of the wood instead of taking it to the dump. I'm feeling good about the whole project. I think it will actually get done.
06 November 2009
Shed Resurrection, Part 1
I've finally heeded the advice of Fran "The Wisest Old Bastard in Wisconsin" Rademacher. The shed will not be demolished and a new one built in its place. Instead, it will be saved and given a new soul. It took about three years for me to realize that he was right; the shed has character and to erase and replace that would not be right. Just like women and Englishmen sheds too have complex feelings.
During Thanksgiving in Waupaca a committee will be formed to discuss the mission. Beer will be swallowed and cards will be played while unholy hushed banter will pivot around what is to be done with that shed of mine.
Clara and myself spent some time today doing a site inspection and drafted a list of sequential action items for the committee to review later in the month. See below. Dunne & Daughter, Inc. is new to the building trade so we’ll be relying heavily on the advice of the committee. Fran has plenty of barn building experience from the 1970’s which is a well we may draw from often but more significantly he has a shed of his own. He saved this shed from being reclaimed by nature a few years ago so he is close to the emotion of what this project involves.
The preliminary plan of attack, pending committee approval of course:
Phase 1 - East
A. Demolish and remove add-on section.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
D. New studs.
Phase 2 - West
A. Remove double doors.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
D. New studs.
E. New door. Don’t need double doors since our cars won’t be kept in the shed.
Phase 3 - North
A. Lift entire side a few inches. Some four-ton screw jacks are on order already.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
D. Straighten structure by pulling toward house using cable hoists. It has a nasty lean in it that has to be fixed.
E. Brace east and west ends to permanently hold straight.
Phase 4 - South
A. Lift entire side a few inches using jacks.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
Phase 5 - Luxury Items
A. New siding
B. New doors.
C. New windows.
D. Insulation.
E. Electrical.
F. Wood stove.
G. Fridge full of beer.
I'm as excited as fuck about getting started.
During Thanksgiving in Waupaca a committee will be formed to discuss the mission. Beer will be swallowed and cards will be played while unholy hushed banter will pivot around what is to be done with that shed of mine.
Clara and myself spent some time today doing a site inspection and drafted a list of sequential action items for the committee to review later in the month. See below. Dunne & Daughter, Inc. is new to the building trade so we’ll be relying heavily on the advice of the committee. Fran has plenty of barn building experience from the 1970’s which is a well we may draw from often but more significantly he has a shed of his own. He saved this shed from being reclaimed by nature a few years ago so he is close to the emotion of what this project involves.
Phase 1 - East
A. Demolish and remove add-on section.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
D. New studs.
Phase 2 - West
A. Remove double doors.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
D. New studs.
E. New door. Don’t need double doors since our cars won’t be kept in the shed.
Phase 3 - North
A. Lift entire side a few inches. Some four-ton screw jacks are on order already.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
D. Straighten structure by pulling toward house using cable hoists. It has a nasty lean in it that has to be fixed.
E. Brace east and west ends to permanently hold straight.
Phase 4 - South
A. Lift entire side a few inches using jacks.
B. Create foundation.
C. New sill plate.
Phase 5 - Luxury Items
A. New siding
B. New doors.
C. New windows.
D. Insulation.
E. Electrical.
F. Wood stove.
G. Fridge full of beer.
I'm as excited as fuck about getting started.
19 October 2009
17 October 2009
ANOTHER BOOKCASE
My hands are numb, and I am more than half drunk, so typing is simultaneously laborious and effortless but that’s the way she fuckin’ goes. Life is good for Kevin Dunne/Henry McNamara (LINK). I just came in from the shed after a relatively productive evening of working on a bookcase for an old guy in central Wisconsin (LINK). The cold weather forced me indoors. Not being able to feel my hands is the sign that it’s time to clock out.
My desire to become a furniture maker on my own terms and in my own time is trending in a direction that pleases me immensely. I know this because I was looking at Fran’s bookcase and realized that at approximately 50% completion there was nothing dimensional or aesthetic stressing me out. With each bookcase I build I get a little better and a little more confident in my abilities. It made me think that if I set my mind to achieving a new skill set (such as furniture making) then it can be done. This realization is an important personal development and slowly but surely helps me trade intolerance for patience. Hobbies are more than just something I do in my free time. They feed back into all other areas of my life.
12 October 2009
19 May 2009
Night Terrors
We were recently woken by Elise crying at 02:00. Martha went into the kids room to see what the issue was...
Martha: What's wrong, why are you crying?
Elise: There's something in my bed.
Martha: A spider?
Elise: I don't know.
Martha: Was it big?
Elise: Yeah.
Martha: How big?
Elise: Like a bunny.
Martha: What's wrong, why are you crying?
Elise: There's something in my bed.
Martha: A spider?
Elise: I don't know.
Martha: Was it big?
Elise: Yeah.
Martha: How big?
Elise: Like a bunny.
26 April 2009
The Solace of St. Paul, Part 1
Henry McNamara, Irish immigrant and proprietor of a small but successful furniture design shop in Saint Paul, Minnesota, recently huffed, puffed and blew down thirty birthday candles in the company of his wife and two young children. Although he genuinely enjoyed the party and the love he has for his family is infallible, he sees nothing seminal about turning thirty. He felt the same when he turned eighteen, twenty-one, and twenty-five and so considering this trend he will almost certainly demonstrate equal ambivalence toward forty, fifty, sixty and seventy-five and maybe even eighty if he is still around. There are people who believe time stops for them alone so that they, alone, can bask in a numerical milestone that is ironically being shared by millions of others at the exact same moment. Time does not stop or slow for anyone and that comforts Henry inexpressibly.
If Henry is anything he is brutally nostalgic about the very recent past, which he defines as an emotional sphere of events experienced in the last five minutes to forty-eight hours. Lying in bed at night he is frequently brought to the brink of joyous tears as he reflects on, word by word and squeal by squeal, a rambling phone conversation he had that day with his daughters while he was at work. There is something wonderfully delicate about their purity and lack of concern for the meaning of time. His almost-tears are not because he wishes to live perpetually in that moment but because he wants to understand why emotionally significant incidents older than two days, those that fall outside the sphere, tend to quickly fade from memory.
The anxiety is usually put to rest when he reassures himself that these short term memory issues are the result of his vices but whether it is the medically prescribed or the self prescribed ones that are the true root cause he cannot tell, nor does he really care. He has sufficient control over the situation that it needs only minimal and infrequent attention.
Henry empathizes with the type of people that society has labeled as losers. He always has. He always will. He realizes that the unfortunates he empathizes with were once decent souls. In fact, the measure of their souls is probably unchanged but this callously contrasts with their new societal categorization. Henry is acutely aware that whatever sequence of inconvenient events transformed these people could come knocking on his door at any minute.
He secretly enjoys the proximity of the reaper. He even teases it from time to time, like a foolhardy boy pulling on the tail of a dog eating a bone. Some kind of hair trigger discipline pulls him back just at the point where the mutt could snap, every time. He sees the possibility of becoming a loser as opportunity! The idea of being toppled and having to rebuild from rubble is rather appealing to him. Weaknesses in the original architecture could be addressed second time around, better choices could be made, regrets from round one could be turned into conquests in round two…
Henry enjoys these self-hypnotic thought trains that have no origin or destination or sustainable fuel source for that matter. They always run out of steam. This does not depress him one bit. Many things do but this does not, not one bit. Dreaming is human nature. Its purpose is something that not even the smartest of us may ever understand.
The invisible axis that he stands so close to, who’s crossing would govern what he could become reaffirms to Henry that there is reason, fairness, balance and possibly even justice in the world. You just have to be aware of it.
He slugs the last of the tea, now tepid, turns his back on the large window of his workshop and resumes attaching the drawer slides to the cabinet he is building for a new customer. Drinking tea and staring out the window won’t pay the bills he reminds himself.
If Henry is anything he is brutally nostalgic about the very recent past, which he defines as an emotional sphere of events experienced in the last five minutes to forty-eight hours. Lying in bed at night he is frequently brought to the brink of joyous tears as he reflects on, word by word and squeal by squeal, a rambling phone conversation he had that day with his daughters while he was at work. There is something wonderfully delicate about their purity and lack of concern for the meaning of time. His almost-tears are not because he wishes to live perpetually in that moment but because he wants to understand why emotionally significant incidents older than two days, those that fall outside the sphere, tend to quickly fade from memory.
The anxiety is usually put to rest when he reassures himself that these short term memory issues are the result of his vices but whether it is the medically prescribed or the self prescribed ones that are the true root cause he cannot tell, nor does he really care. He has sufficient control over the situation that it needs only minimal and infrequent attention.
Henry empathizes with the type of people that society has labeled as losers. He always has. He always will. He realizes that the unfortunates he empathizes with were once decent souls. In fact, the measure of their souls is probably unchanged but this callously contrasts with their new societal categorization. Henry is acutely aware that whatever sequence of inconvenient events transformed these people could come knocking on his door at any minute.
He secretly enjoys the proximity of the reaper. He even teases it from time to time, like a foolhardy boy pulling on the tail of a dog eating a bone. Some kind of hair trigger discipline pulls him back just at the point where the mutt could snap, every time. He sees the possibility of becoming a loser as opportunity! The idea of being toppled and having to rebuild from rubble is rather appealing to him. Weaknesses in the original architecture could be addressed second time around, better choices could be made, regrets from round one could be turned into conquests in round two…
Henry enjoys these self-hypnotic thought trains that have no origin or destination or sustainable fuel source for that matter. They always run out of steam. This does not depress him one bit. Many things do but this does not, not one bit. Dreaming is human nature. Its purpose is something that not even the smartest of us may ever understand.
The invisible axis that he stands so close to, who’s crossing would govern what he could become reaffirms to Henry that there is reason, fairness, balance and possibly even justice in the world. You just have to be aware of it.
He slugs the last of the tea, now tepid, turns his back on the large window of his workshop and resumes attaching the drawer slides to the cabinet he is building for a new customer. Drinking tea and staring out the window won’t pay the bills he reminds himself.
25 April 2009
I Killed It
Today is the day that I officially ended my bitter relationship with the incompetent shit-monkeys at Credo Mobile (LINK). Myself and the wife got our iPhone's last week and we have been patiently waiting on the transfer of our numbers over to AT&T. The transfer was completed today. To fully verify this I used my old phone to try and make a call. Like music to my ears the robotic automated reply informed me that "your account is no longer active".
I was driving at the time, on University Avenue in St. Paul. I hooked a left and turned into the industrial area near our house, where the streets are empty and screams go ignored. I passed some haggard souls making their way back to the halfway house by the train tracks. Poor bastards. Those men are the epitome of the down trodden.
I accelerated up to 50mph, opened the window all the way and with a stone skimming motion I fucked my old phone out the window. It was beautiful. I wish you had of been there. The phone made a very low angle with the asphalt and launched itself upward but the motion was brutally arrested by the kerb against which the phone blew to smither-fucking-eens. Emotions akin to witnessing the birth of my children rushed over me. The moment was that special. Serenity soon followed.
I drove home, kissed my wife, lay on the couch, drank some tea and basked in murderous glory.
I was driving at the time, on University Avenue in St. Paul. I hooked a left and turned into the industrial area near our house, where the streets are empty and screams go ignored. I passed some haggard souls making their way back to the halfway house by the train tracks. Poor bastards. Those men are the epitome of the down trodden.
I accelerated up to 50mph, opened the window all the way and with a stone skimming motion I fucked my old phone out the window. It was beautiful. I wish you had of been there. The phone made a very low angle with the asphalt and launched itself upward but the motion was brutally arrested by the kerb against which the phone blew to smither-fucking-eens. Emotions akin to witnessing the birth of my children rushed over me. The moment was that special. Serenity soon followed.
I drove home, kissed my wife, lay on the couch, drank some tea and basked in murderous glory.
11 April 2009
Cooking
There are things we do in our own company that should remain private, and for legitimate reasons, outsiders just wouldn’t understand. From time to time (at least weekly) a reckless confidence fueled by alcohol leads me to surmise that my partner will most likely enjoy witnessing one of these acts of depravity first hand. She’d be fuckin’ stupid not to love me for doing this, right?
My lovely wife made some really extraordinary fried egg rolls for dinner last night. Those not devoured spent the night in the fridge. Eighteen hours later whilst seeking an appetizer to supplement my Saturday lunchtime beer I retrieved the cold egg rolls from the fridge. We own no microwave. The oven takes at least 10 minutes to heat up. The broiler sets off the smoke alarms and wakes the sleeping children. Crisis.
Solution. Fill a dirty mug with boiling water. Place two egg rolls into a plastic bag and sink the bag into the mug full of water. The egg rolls are smarter than thought and use their buoyancy to try and escape the mug so a knife, covered in hours old butter, is placed over the rim of the mug thus preventing unwarranted bobbing.
Razor sharp intuition and Q=mcΔt tells me that after approximately three minutes sufficient energy transfer will have taken place so that the egg rolls can be removed from the cooking apparatus and appreciated. The equations prove to be spot on, as per fuckin' usual, and the egg rolls are subsequently eaten.
That’s my life. That's cooking, divorce style.
My lovely wife made some really extraordinary fried egg rolls for dinner last night. Those not devoured spent the night in the fridge. Eighteen hours later whilst seeking an appetizer to supplement my Saturday lunchtime beer I retrieved the cold egg rolls from the fridge. We own no microwave. The oven takes at least 10 minutes to heat up. The broiler sets off the smoke alarms and wakes the sleeping children. Crisis.
Solution. Fill a dirty mug with boiling water. Place two egg rolls into a plastic bag and sink the bag into the mug full of water. The egg rolls are smarter than thought and use their buoyancy to try and escape the mug so a knife, covered in hours old butter, is placed over the rim of the mug thus preventing unwarranted bobbing.
Razor sharp intuition and Q=mcΔt tells me that after approximately three minutes sufficient energy transfer will have taken place so that the egg rolls can be removed from the cooking apparatus and appreciated. The equations prove to be spot on, as per fuckin' usual, and the egg rolls are subsequently eaten.
That’s my life. That's cooking, divorce style.
10 April 2009
iPhones For All
Hostage negotiations with the evil Credo Mobile (LINK) were successful. Martha (the fuckin' genius) got us out of our contract, sans ransom. Within an hour of our liberation we joined AT&T and procured an iPhone each. The future starts toady.
02 April 2009
30 March 2009
Phone Dicks
Never, never, never get a phone contract with Credo Mobile (LINK). It will be the stupidest thing you ever do. I am two months from the end of a two year contract that has been nothing short of emotionally crippling. I am literally shaking with hate as I write this. What a bunch of fuckin' idiots. Enjoy bankruptcy you worthless fuckin' shit-monkeys.
21 March 2009
Father, Daughter, Fire, Popcorn
Spring came to Minnesota this week. The lakes may still have a thin coat of ice on them but spring is here, end o' fuckin' story. Elise and I spent the evening out in the back garden. We both enjoy the occasional outdoor fire in the wood-stove. It's a thing we have together. Some people, namely my brother-in-law, have their garbage piles (LINK) but I have my father and daughter fires.
We made popcorn on the cast iron beast that Fran (LINK) gave me a few years back. Pure fun. I'm thinking that next weekend we'll make pancakes.
Fire has the same mesmeric effect on the young (her) as it does on the old (me). That really interests me. Elise is a typical kid; she is energetic and hard to pin down for any amount of time but once we are sitting by that blazing fire she becomes a philosopher, poet and observer of all things celestial. I love that kid.
We made popcorn on the cast iron beast that Fran (LINK) gave me a few years back. Pure fun. I'm thinking that next weekend we'll make pancakes.
Fire has the same mesmeric effect on the young (her) as it does on the old (me). That really interests me. Elise is a typical kid; she is energetic and hard to pin down for any amount of time but once we are sitting by that blazing fire she becomes a philosopher, poet and observer of all things celestial. I love that kid.
10 March 2009
Bag of Shite
I'm at home, sick, with a stomach flu that at its height was how I imagined those afflicted with typhoid must feel. Vomiting, diarrhea, sweating, confusion, falling over, talking with spirits were the order of the night. Comical at times, oh yes indeed. I'm on the way back now and should be able to return to work tomorrow.
The kids are in bed and the old lady is out buying thread for a sewing commission so I am feckin' around on the internet. Snow is falling heavily outside. There is nothing, and I repeat nothing, like persistent snow from November to April to lift a man's heart.
Anywho, a couple of links ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)), for the craic.
I almost forgot the good news amid all that feces drenched misery... Next month I will finally, and I repeat finally, own an iPhone (LINK).
The kids are in bed and the old lady is out buying thread for a sewing commission so I am feckin' around on the internet. Snow is falling heavily outside. There is nothing, and I repeat nothing, like persistent snow from November to April to lift a man's heart.
Anywho, a couple of links ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)), for the craic.
I almost forgot the good news amid all that feces drenched misery... Next month I will finally, and I repeat finally, own an iPhone (LINK).
22 February 2009
Wiggilator
I made a Wiggilator. It's a bunch of springs mounted onto a board. You whack it, it oscillates like crazy, you laugh, it comes to rest, you move on. Soon everyone will want one. I will make millions of dollars. I will take my family out for Chinese food. It will be good.
21 February 2009
Book Readin'
The Information Age has taken a heavy toll on my ability to read text in any form and of any significant length. My attention span has been so truncated that I struggle to read the little pieces of paper inside fortune cookies. That's really pathetic. I'm fighting back though. I am making a serious effort to read documents of ever increasing content and complexity. ATM receipts, error messages on machines at work, IKEA furniture assembly instructions, mortgage refinance documents and the occasional book are now being devoured with a hunger not felt since the late 90's and early 00's. That was an era when consuming the entire Foundation series by Issac Asimov in six months was nothing. Also during those years of enlightenment I burned through the works of Hanif Kureishi, John McGahern, Arthur Miller, Patrick Kavanagh and various American authored short story collections.
It's not really an attention span issue that drove me away from books to be honest. I've been thinking about this for a year or so and have made some conclusions. It was an imagination problem. I could no longer attach faces to characters in books, they were just names, and when the book had more than five characters it became impossible to follow the storyline because all the faceless subjects got mixed up in my head. An attempt to read a Douglas Coupland book ended after 25 pages of frustration and complete confusion. I was no longer able to handle excessive detail and side plots and sub plots. I wanted the meat and none of the side crap.
Maybe I have been reading the wrong stuff during these last few years. Perhaps the mental effort that my job often requires (nobody was kind enough to preemptively inform me that the trigonometry, vector mechanics, machine design classes I took at college would ever be put to good use) has rendered my mind spent at the end of the day such that I take more pleasure from kid's books (Spot Goes To The Farm, Spot Loves Mommy, Spot Gets Hammered, Spot Gets Divorced, Spot Is Homeless, Spot Dies... I made up a few of those) than from my own. Hey, maybe I'm just thick and was never meant to read.
No, I'm not thick, just slow at times. Like I said at the start of this rant I have been fighting back. In the last two months I have managed to read more books than I have read in the previous five years.
Recently read: Joe Wilson and His Mates by Henry Lawson, Children of The Bush by Henry Lawson, Introduction to Fluid Mechanics by Fox, McDonald and Pritchard, Born Standing Up by Steve Martin, Mere Anarchy by Woody Allen, Processing: A Programming Handbook for Visual Designers and Artists by Casey Reas and Ben Fry.
It's not really an attention span issue that drove me away from books to be honest. I've been thinking about this for a year or so and have made some conclusions. It was an imagination problem. I could no longer attach faces to characters in books, they were just names, and when the book had more than five characters it became impossible to follow the storyline because all the faceless subjects got mixed up in my head. An attempt to read a Douglas Coupland book ended after 25 pages of frustration and complete confusion. I was no longer able to handle excessive detail and side plots and sub plots. I wanted the meat and none of the side crap.
Maybe I have been reading the wrong stuff during these last few years. Perhaps the mental effort that my job often requires (nobody was kind enough to preemptively inform me that the trigonometry, vector mechanics, machine design classes I took at college would ever be put to good use) has rendered my mind spent at the end of the day such that I take more pleasure from kid's books (Spot Goes To The Farm, Spot Loves Mommy, Spot Gets Hammered, Spot Gets Divorced, Spot Is Homeless, Spot Dies... I made up a few of those) than from my own. Hey, maybe I'm just thick and was never meant to read.
No, I'm not thick, just slow at times. Like I said at the start of this rant I have been fighting back. In the last two months I have managed to read more books than I have read in the previous five years.
Recently read: Joe Wilson and His Mates by Henry Lawson, Children of The Bush by Henry Lawson, Introduction to Fluid Mechanics by Fox, McDonald and Pritchard, Born Standing Up by Steve Martin, Mere Anarchy by Woody Allen, Processing: A Programming Handbook for Visual Designers and Artists by Casey Reas and Ben Fry.
17 February 2009
Missing Éire
The Wife: Are you homesick?
Me: No, why?
The Wife: You're listening to RTÉ online (LINK) and talking about getting drunk and eating chips in the rain.
Me: Maybe I am.
Me: No, why?
The Wife: You're listening to RTÉ online (LINK) and talking about getting drunk and eating chips in the rain.
Me: Maybe I am.
31 January 2009
Basement Shenanigans
The basement is my winter shed. I really need to be down there building a bench and some shelves. Instead I have been making scrap wood collages (LINK). Plenty of time to be whipping up shelves and benches I keep telling myself. Plenty o' time...
18 January 2009
Art Shanty Project
Early last Sunday we rolled out from our cosy nest, tossed some breakfast into the spuds and drove out to Medicine Lake which is about two miles from where I work and a good dozen or so miles from our home in St. Paul. Reason? To see the Art Shanty Project ((LINK), (LINK)) which is in its third year now.
We rapped on the door of the first shanty we were able to confirm whose inhabitants were open for business. Elise, with her unique brand of blatant cuteness (pink coat and pink snow boots always do it) befriended the band of out of town hippies (LINK) who are holed up for the next few weeks, on the lake, in a reconstruction of an upturned boat that Ernest Shackleton (LINK) and his pals called home during an ill fated trek to the North Pole. Unlike Ernest the hippies have a well stocked bar, wood-stove and access to infinite fuel, phones and cars to use for voyages into Minneapolis should the bright city lights become more appealing that the blinking stars high above Medicine Lake, Minnesota.
A strange and far flung bunch, none of them local. Canada, Washington, West Virginia, North Carolina, San Francisco were all represented. Elise, being kind of quiet due to her confusion at the situation, was brought to life with a tortilla filled with melted chocolate chips. One of the artists whipped it up for her on the top of the wood-stove. Chocolate being the elixir of shyness, the hippies were soon gathered around our first born as she answered their questions and spun deep yarns of her own.
I'd be a damn liar if I said I wasn't tempted to put my Joseph of Nazareth mad carpentry skills to work on a shanty. Lord only knows I've built a wee hut (LINK) or two in my day. I've frequently caught myself dreaming of a collection of funny little houses dotted around our back garden. Maybe even a few up in the oak tree or the catalpa trees. No, I don't have an ounce of faith in those catalpa tress. The squirrels have cored them out completely. A decent puff of wind would bring them down. The oak tree is a different story. Its strength is not to be questioned. It could handle a hoard of kids for sure. I will continue to refine the blueprints during these long winter months. Winter is when you plan all the cool things you are going to do between May and November, the outside months.
If you live in a part of the world where the lakes are frozen with ice two feet thick for a third of the year, every year, then I think a shanty project should be adopted by your community. Why not? A frozen lake is an opportunity to do things that disturb the insanity and cruelty of an Arctic winter. I'm actually getting into it. It took a few years of teetering on the edge of SAD (LINK) but I have a new attitude, a decent coat, boots and snow pants so I can be outside as much as I so desire even on days like today (-22°C as I type). Winter is opportunity. Native midwesterners (LINK) only see it that way. I just have to catch up on 23 years of not thinking that way.
Next weekend, igloo (LINK) building. I'm not joking.
We rapped on the door of the first shanty we were able to confirm whose inhabitants were open for business. Elise, with her unique brand of blatant cuteness (pink coat and pink snow boots always do it) befriended the band of out of town hippies (LINK) who are holed up for the next few weeks, on the lake, in a reconstruction of an upturned boat that Ernest Shackleton (LINK) and his pals called home during an ill fated trek to the North Pole. Unlike Ernest the hippies have a well stocked bar, wood-stove and access to infinite fuel, phones and cars to use for voyages into Minneapolis should the bright city lights become more appealing that the blinking stars high above Medicine Lake, Minnesota.
A strange and far flung bunch, none of them local. Canada, Washington, West Virginia, North Carolina, San Francisco were all represented. Elise, being kind of quiet due to her confusion at the situation, was brought to life with a tortilla filled with melted chocolate chips. One of the artists whipped it up for her on the top of the wood-stove. Chocolate being the elixir of shyness, the hippies were soon gathered around our first born as she answered their questions and spun deep yarns of her own.
If you live in a part of the world where the lakes are frozen with ice two feet thick for a third of the year, every year, then I think a shanty project should be adopted by your community. Why not? A frozen lake is an opportunity to do things that disturb the insanity and cruelty of an Arctic winter. I'm actually getting into it. It took a few years of teetering on the edge of SAD (LINK) but I have a new attitude, a decent coat, boots and snow pants so I can be outside as much as I so desire even on days like today (-22°C as I type). Winter is opportunity. Native midwesterners (LINK) only see it that way. I just have to catch up on 23 years of not thinking that way.
Next weekend, igloo (LINK) building. I'm not joking.
10 January 2009
Our kids
I love this (
) photo. Taken on October 31st, 2008. Elise and Clara are in their Halloween costumes. Elise is a duck and Clara is a bowling pin. Elise is pushing Clara in the swing that hangs from one of the catalpa tree in our back garden. In the center of the picture the sun is catching the autumn-blessed vines that grow on the side of our house. They are not aware that I am taking their picture.
) photo. Taken on October 31st, 2008. Elise and Clara are in their Halloween costumes. Elise is a duck and Clara is a bowling pin. Elise is pushing Clara in the swing that hangs from one of the catalpa tree in our back garden. In the center of the picture the sun is catching the autumn-blessed vines that grow on the side of our house. They are not aware that I am taking their picture.
07 January 2009
Think Hard, It’ll Come Back to You
by Woody Allen
(Appeared in The New Yorker, November 10th, 2008)
As health-food stores go, the Hardened Artery is as steady as any. Perusing its pricey nutrients last week in quest of some vitalizing herb or root to flush out a family of free radicals that had built their nest in my chassis, I came vis-à-vis a bottle of red fluid nestled like a krait between the ginseng and the echinacea and sporting the Ray Bradburyish title “Brainiac.” Plucked from its niche, it claimed to be a thirst quencher chockablock with gingko biloba and sundry antioxidants reputed to enhance memory. “Think quick,” the label copy spieled. “Where are your car keys? Cue television game-show music. The mind docs at Function developed Brainiac to help in these situations.” On the label, in letters clearly visible to anyone possessing an electron microscope, followed the sheepish admission that the claims of the miracle apéritif had not yet been examined by the Food and Drug Administration and “the product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.” Whether it might be used to remove gravy stains or unclog a drain remains untested. Still, this notion of a neuron-recharging elixir brought to mind thoughts of my esteemed colleague Murray Cipher, as he prepared to go out for dinner. Mustn’t be late to the Wasserfiends’ party. Classy crowd. No lungfish caviar tonight. Upward mobility? Vice-presidency for old Murray? Imagine—twenty-four exterminators working under me. Mind-boggling. How do I look? Only great. New necktie should wow ’em, although the pattern of multiple G clefs may be too hip for the room. Searched for the perfect birthday present for Mr. Wasserfiend. Amazing, but Hammacher Schlemmer is the only place in town that carries a Jarvik Heart with a compartment for fish hooks. But, look at this, in my haste to be on time I almost bolted out the door without his gift. Let’s see, where did I put it? Hmm. Was it on the foyer table? Not here in the drawer. Did I leave it in the bedroom? Check my night table—so damn cluttered. Reading lamp, alarm clock, Kleenex, shoe horn, my copy of Hui-Neng’s “Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.” Glove compartment of the Saab? Better race out and see. Raining. Oh, brother, a scratch on the fender. Damn rabbi on his unicycle. Wait a minute, where are my car keys? Could have sworn I left them in this pocket. No, just some loose change and ticket stubs from the all-black version of Elaine Stritch’ s one-woman show. Did I check my desk? Better go back inside. What’s in the top drawer here? Hmm. Envelopes, my paper clips, a loaded revolver in case the tenant in 2A begins yodelling again. O.K., let’s reconstruct. This morning I drove to Smallbone’s to have my toupee steamed, stopped off at Stebbins’s home to return his arch supports, then to my bagpipe lesson.
Hey, wait a minute, that little starlet I shacked up with who always took melatonin to prevent jet lag when we had sex—she used to nosh some kind of Buck Rogers health snack. Yes, Cranial Pops. Supposed to zap the memory. Could she have even left some in the cupboard? Ah, here—what does it say on the bag? “Untested by Food and Drug Administration—May cause drowsiness in men named Seymour.” I’ll just try a few. Hmm, nice flavor. I love the taste of soy phosphatidylserine. Have some more?
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, of course, I left Mr. Wasserfiend’s gift at the office. My secretary, Miss Facework, to meet me with it at the party. Car keys in gray cashmere cardigan on second hanger in hall closet. Remember the day I bought that cardigan, sixteen years ago. A Tuesday. I was wearing beige slacks and a Sulka button-down oxford shirt. Gray socks. Shoes from Flagg Brothers. Had lunch with Sol Kashflow, the hedge-fund whiz. Sol ordered the halibut with buttered peas and julienne potatoes. His beverage white wine, a ’64 Bâtard-Montrachet, which I recall was a tad fruity. Finished off with lime sorbet and two after-dinner mints—or was it three? Funny thing, he hardly touched his meal. Too excited because Amalgamated Permafrost had just merged with a company that had developed a process to make steel into henbane. To celebrate I got the check. Fifty-six dollars and ninety-eight cents. Hardly worth it, since my langoustines were overcooked.
To the Wasserfiends’ party at last. Just on time. Everybody well dressed. Champagne flowing. Cocktail pianist. “Avalon.” Same song playing that night in Vineyard Haven with Lillian Waterfowl. Slipped out of her bathing suit. Naked goddess. Tore off my clothes with her long nails. Our two bodies straining with desire. Moved in on her like a panther. About to consummate passion, when suddenly my leg cramped. Left calf? No, right. Let out piercing shriek, leaped off her. Hopped around room, face contorted with pain. What struck her so damn funny? Christ, the woman was doubled up with laughter. Accused me of ruining the moment. Schlemiel, she called me, nudnik. Couldn’t run to the phone fast enough to share the story with our friends. Let her rot with her embezzler husband. The man tries to hide six million dollars in small denominations in his shoe.
Brings to mind Hornblow evening. Haven’t thought of it in fifteen years. Watched Effluvia Hornblow baking in her kitchen. Asa Hornblow in the other room bombinating his chums about the Red Sox. They split a doubleheader with the Tigers that day, taking the opener, 6–2, then dropping the nightcap, 4–0. Heard their voices, good old boys arguing balls and strikes. Bent her over the sink to lance my tongue between her smoldering lips. Suddenly necktie caught in the Mixmaster. Switch jammed, wouldn’t turn off. Plug inaccessible behind refrigerator. Kept snapping my head against the marble backsplash. Remember witnessing birth of the great Crab Nebula. Emergency Squad. Taken away in an ambulance. For two weeks could speak only in rhymed couplets, smiled often, plus every ten minutes greased my body for a Channel swim. Hermès tie it was. Sixty-nine ninety-five, and that was then.
Look at Mrs. Wasserfiend sitting there, so elegant. Black Armani dress, simple pearls and those dramatic earrings—two Jivaro shrunken heads with their lips sewn together. Makes me think of Grandma. Always sitting there playing cards with Grandpa. Cheated him blind. Finally he went blind in one eye and she could only cheat half of him. Grandpa very brilliant, spent fifteen years translating “Anna Karenina” into pig Latin. Remember the day Grandpa collapsed, June 8th, 6:16 P.M. Misdiagnosed as dead and embalmed despite his clear ability to shimmy and sing “Rag Mop.” Grandma sold the house and devoted her life to serving God. Applied for sainthood but was turned down because she couldn’t parallel park.
Pianist is playing “You Made Me Love You.” Remember always hearing that song when Mom was pregnant with me. Dad used to sing it to himself in the mirror all day long. Recall Mom giving birth to me in a taxicab. Meter ran four-eighty. Cabbie was Israel Moscowitz. Talkative. Referred to his wife as a fat pot of kasha. Remember my parents expected twins. Crushed when there was only one of me. Couldn’t deal with it. First few years dressed me as twins. Two hats, four shoes. To this day they still inquire about Chester.
Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mrs. Wasserfiend. Oh, and the name you were trying to think of when we were discussing the life of Emily Dickinson before was Bronko Nagurski. Out of there just in time. Cranial Pops starting to wear off. Still, no question I was the hit of the party. Came up with Gouda cheese. Lava soap. Got Leo Gorcey and Julien Sorel. Managed to recite the Philippics verbatim. Recalled the Schrafft’s on Fifty-seventh and Third. Hummed Mousie Powell’s theme song. Got Menachem Schneerson, the Sons of the Pioneers. Gyp the Blood. Now, where the hell did I park my car?
(Appeared in The New Yorker, November 10th, 2008)
As health-food stores go, the Hardened Artery is as steady as any. Perusing its pricey nutrients last week in quest of some vitalizing herb or root to flush out a family of free radicals that had built their nest in my chassis, I came vis-à-vis a bottle of red fluid nestled like a krait between the ginseng and the echinacea and sporting the Ray Bradburyish title “Brainiac.” Plucked from its niche, it claimed to be a thirst quencher chockablock with gingko biloba and sundry antioxidants reputed to enhance memory. “Think quick,” the label copy spieled. “Where are your car keys? Cue television game-show music. The mind docs at Function developed Brainiac to help in these situations.” On the label, in letters clearly visible to anyone possessing an electron microscope, followed the sheepish admission that the claims of the miracle apéritif had not yet been examined by the Food and Drug Administration and “the product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.” Whether it might be used to remove gravy stains or unclog a drain remains untested. Still, this notion of a neuron-recharging elixir brought to mind thoughts of my esteemed colleague Murray Cipher, as he prepared to go out for dinner. Mustn’t be late to the Wasserfiends’ party. Classy crowd. No lungfish caviar tonight. Upward mobility? Vice-presidency for old Murray? Imagine—twenty-four exterminators working under me. Mind-boggling. How do I look? Only great. New necktie should wow ’em, although the pattern of multiple G clefs may be too hip for the room. Searched for the perfect birthday present for Mr. Wasserfiend. Amazing, but Hammacher Schlemmer is the only place in town that carries a Jarvik Heart with a compartment for fish hooks. But, look at this, in my haste to be on time I almost bolted out the door without his gift. Let’s see, where did I put it? Hmm. Was it on the foyer table? Not here in the drawer. Did I leave it in the bedroom? Check my night table—so damn cluttered. Reading lamp, alarm clock, Kleenex, shoe horn, my copy of Hui-Neng’s “Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.” Glove compartment of the Saab? Better race out and see. Raining. Oh, brother, a scratch on the fender. Damn rabbi on his unicycle. Wait a minute, where are my car keys? Could have sworn I left them in this pocket. No, just some loose change and ticket stubs from the all-black version of Elaine Stritch’ s one-woman show. Did I check my desk? Better go back inside. What’s in the top drawer here? Hmm. Envelopes, my paper clips, a loaded revolver in case the tenant in 2A begins yodelling again. O.K., let’s reconstruct. This morning I drove to Smallbone’s to have my toupee steamed, stopped off at Stebbins’s home to return his arch supports, then to my bagpipe lesson.
Hey, wait a minute, that little starlet I shacked up with who always took melatonin to prevent jet lag when we had sex—she used to nosh some kind of Buck Rogers health snack. Yes, Cranial Pops. Supposed to zap the memory. Could she have even left some in the cupboard? Ah, here—what does it say on the bag? “Untested by Food and Drug Administration—May cause drowsiness in men named Seymour.” I’ll just try a few. Hmm, nice flavor. I love the taste of soy phosphatidylserine. Have some more?
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, of course, I left Mr. Wasserfiend’s gift at the office. My secretary, Miss Facework, to meet me with it at the party. Car keys in gray cashmere cardigan on second hanger in hall closet. Remember the day I bought that cardigan, sixteen years ago. A Tuesday. I was wearing beige slacks and a Sulka button-down oxford shirt. Gray socks. Shoes from Flagg Brothers. Had lunch with Sol Kashflow, the hedge-fund whiz. Sol ordered the halibut with buttered peas and julienne potatoes. His beverage white wine, a ’64 Bâtard-Montrachet, which I recall was a tad fruity. Finished off with lime sorbet and two after-dinner mints—or was it three? Funny thing, he hardly touched his meal. Too excited because Amalgamated Permafrost had just merged with a company that had developed a process to make steel into henbane. To celebrate I got the check. Fifty-six dollars and ninety-eight cents. Hardly worth it, since my langoustines were overcooked.
To the Wasserfiends’ party at last. Just on time. Everybody well dressed. Champagne flowing. Cocktail pianist. “Avalon.” Same song playing that night in Vineyard Haven with Lillian Waterfowl. Slipped out of her bathing suit. Naked goddess. Tore off my clothes with her long nails. Our two bodies straining with desire. Moved in on her like a panther. About to consummate passion, when suddenly my leg cramped. Left calf? No, right. Let out piercing shriek, leaped off her. Hopped around room, face contorted with pain. What struck her so damn funny? Christ, the woman was doubled up with laughter. Accused me of ruining the moment. Schlemiel, she called me, nudnik. Couldn’t run to the phone fast enough to share the story with our friends. Let her rot with her embezzler husband. The man tries to hide six million dollars in small denominations in his shoe.
Brings to mind Hornblow evening. Haven’t thought of it in fifteen years. Watched Effluvia Hornblow baking in her kitchen. Asa Hornblow in the other room bombinating his chums about the Red Sox. They split a doubleheader with the Tigers that day, taking the opener, 6–2, then dropping the nightcap, 4–0. Heard their voices, good old boys arguing balls and strikes. Bent her over the sink to lance my tongue between her smoldering lips. Suddenly necktie caught in the Mixmaster. Switch jammed, wouldn’t turn off. Plug inaccessible behind refrigerator. Kept snapping my head against the marble backsplash. Remember witnessing birth of the great Crab Nebula. Emergency Squad. Taken away in an ambulance. For two weeks could speak only in rhymed couplets, smiled often, plus every ten minutes greased my body for a Channel swim. Hermès tie it was. Sixty-nine ninety-five, and that was then.
Look at Mrs. Wasserfiend sitting there, so elegant. Black Armani dress, simple pearls and those dramatic earrings—two Jivaro shrunken heads with their lips sewn together. Makes me think of Grandma. Always sitting there playing cards with Grandpa. Cheated him blind. Finally he went blind in one eye and she could only cheat half of him. Grandpa very brilliant, spent fifteen years translating “Anna Karenina” into pig Latin. Remember the day Grandpa collapsed, June 8th, 6:16 P.M. Misdiagnosed as dead and embalmed despite his clear ability to shimmy and sing “Rag Mop.” Grandma sold the house and devoted her life to serving God. Applied for sainthood but was turned down because she couldn’t parallel park.
Pianist is playing “You Made Me Love You.” Remember always hearing that song when Mom was pregnant with me. Dad used to sing it to himself in the mirror all day long. Recall Mom giving birth to me in a taxicab. Meter ran four-eighty. Cabbie was Israel Moscowitz. Talkative. Referred to his wife as a fat pot of kasha. Remember my parents expected twins. Crushed when there was only one of me. Couldn’t deal with it. First few years dressed me as twins. Two hats, four shoes. To this day they still inquire about Chester.
Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mrs. Wasserfiend. Oh, and the name you were trying to think of when we were discussing the life of Emily Dickinson before was Bronko Nagurski. Out of there just in time. Cranial Pops starting to wear off. Still, no question I was the hit of the party. Came up with Gouda cheese. Lava soap. Got Leo Gorcey and Julien Sorel. Managed to recite the Philippics verbatim. Recalled the Schrafft’s on Fifty-seventh and Third. Hummed Mousie Powell’s theme song. Got Menachem Schneerson, the Sons of the Pioneers. Gyp the Blood. Now, where the hell did I park my car?
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