There is something disturbing about eating oatmeal that has come out of a microwave that smells like beef stew.
Month: July 2006
Waxing Full
The moon is nearly full. It was especially pretty last night, above the treetops, with a whisp of clouds cradling it. My cheap camera is limited in what it can do in low light, so I played around with Photoshop filters to add even more graininess. When all else fails, pretend that you meant to do that, right? Or, as a friend’s mother likes to say, if something is an eyesore, “Paint it purple.”
According to my–yes, he is all mine–local weather guy, when there is a halo around the moon, it means there will be precipitation in the near future. It’s caused by ice crystals high up in the atmosphere. It isn’t fool proof, but it seems to be a good general rule.
Speaking of, I’m blaming my lack of productivity on the weather. It’s oppressive–still and humid and hot–and, while I haven’t looked at the weather forecast, based on last night’s moon halo and the viscosity of the air, I suspect it’s going to storm. This sort of weather makes me apprehensive, so I have a difficult time focusing and getting anything accomplished. I dealt with it today by watching mindless television and baking brownies. Yes, I required chocolate, so the Brownies of Dqqm have returned. I also made a big batch of roasted veggies: potatoes, cabbage, onions, carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, and peppers. Why on earth I was suddenly craving baked winter vegetables in the middle of July is a mystery, but I’m not about to argue.
New Letters to Esther and Teh Internets
I’ve scanned a few more letters that had already been transcribed, and transcribed and scanned a few new ones. There’s one from her father. His letters are short and sweet and sporadic, but they always make me smile. I picture him as a frugal sort, because he always tears away the unused portion of the page. All his letters have a ragged bottom edge. Now that the younger kids are out of school, the letters from Esther’s sister Ruth have picked up in frequency. She was a bright, bubbly girl. I think her letters must give a realistic glimpse into what the Munro household was like.
The whole uploading process has been maddening, though, and has taken me most of the afternoon. My internet connection is topping out at a blazing 7 Kbs/sec, and dipping down below 2 Kbs/sec at times. I’m really fed up with the lack of connectivity in the hinterlands. It seems to me that giving rural folks reasonable access to Teh Internets–and by reasonable, I don’t mean anything extravagant–would be something the powers that be might want to work on, but apparently it has not been, and I suspect will not be, any sort of a priority. It’s difficult enough to make AT&T/SBC provide minimal quality for standard phone service. They can’t be arsed to do anything above and beyond that.
Other than that, it’s been nice and quiet this weekend. I managed to finish mowing the, ahem, “yard,” which was some sort of Herculean task. Between one thing and another, I hadn’t mowed in nearly a month, so the grass was thigh-high in some spots. I had to pop a wheelie with the mower for the first pass, then take a couple more passes. And that was on the highest setting. It looks just awful, too, like someone cut it with a butter knife, or maybe a pair of those blunt lefty scissors from kindergarten. Later in the week, I’ll have to go over it again, on a lower setting, to even it up. I’m sure it’s annoying the crap out of my neighbors. Heh. On second thought, maybe I’ll leave it looking scraggly.
Little House on the Prairie
We’ve all seen the Little House on the Prairie television series. I grew up with it, and with the books. I thoroughly and (mostly) unreservedly loved both. It’s been years since I’ve seen the series, and I missed the Disney miniseries that aired a couple of years ago. When I was in high school, my Little House books were lost in a move, so it’s been even longer since I’ve read them. Via the magic of Netflix, I’ve been able to watch not only the Disney miniseries, but the original series and its pilot, and I have some rambling and disjointed thoughts and observations.
Left to right: Caroline, Carrie, Laura, Charles, Grace, and Mary Ingalls
I don’t have satellite or cable TV, and my TV reception is not good enough to get ABC, so I did not see the 2005 miniseries when it aired. I didn’t even know it existed, until I searched Netflix for the original series. I watched the miniseries, and was impressed with it. The sets, costumes, and actors were wonderful. The script was pretty good, and coincided fairly well with my recollection of the books. I don’t know how true to history the depiction of the Osage was, but it was believable. My only quibbles, and they are small, are that the music and the new age crap were out of place.
Left to right: Carrie, Mary, and Laura Ingalls, circa 1894
Jack, who was a bulldog in real life (the 19th century bulldog was most closely related to today’s Pit Bull), was depicted as an Australian Shepherd. There was a subplot that revolved around Jack’s bicolored eyes. Allegedly “Indians” called such dogs “spirit dogs” and feared them, which accounted for the Ingalls not being attacked by the local Indians. Um, no. Also, the “Enya on the Prairie” music was horribly out of place.
I went online and hunted up some critiques of the miniseries. It was a mixed bag, with some folks feeling it stuck more closely to the books than the original series and others feeling it had strayed too much. Interesting. There was pretty universal praise of the depiction of the Osage and universal condemnation of the new agey bits. So, my reactions were not out of line.
There was also criticism of which bits of the Ingalls story the creators decided to focus on. Some folks quibbled with the decision to leave Carrie out of the picture (she was born while the family was in Kansas territory). Others felt the miniseries should have shown the later parts of the Ingalls’ lives, after they’d left Kansas territory and moved to Minnesota. They didn’t like that the miniseries did not follow the same plot line as the original series.
Laura Ingalls and Almanzo Wilder, circa 1885
Now for the interesting (to me, at least) part. I next watched the original pilot. I’d never seen it before, and assumed it would cover the family’s move to Plum Creek. Nope. It followed the exact same story line as the 2005 miniseries. In fact, the majority of scenes in the new shows followed the old pilot almost identically. The main differences between the two was the reason given for the family leaving Kansas territory and the depiction of the Indians.
In the pilot, the family were forced off their land because the government re-negotiated its treaty with the Indians, and the family were on the wrong side of the new boundary. In the 2005 miniseries, the family were accused by settling the land illegally, without having filed a proper claim. I don’t recall which is true; maybe neither is. I’m not sure it really matters much in terms of the telling of a successful story. (And, that’s what the original books were. They were stories, not strict autobiographies.)
The handling of the Indians differed between the two series, as well. In the original pilot, they are treated as flat characters. They’re just generic mid-70s teevee Indians. Caricatures. In the 2005 miniseries, the Indians are more completely depicted. They are families with children as well as a nation facing pressures and conflicts both within and without.
One thing that struck me anew while watching all the incarnations of the stories is the breadth and depth of the role pioneer women played. They weren’t just meek and mild cooks and child tenders. They helped build houses, plough fields, and harvest food. And they did it in corsets and several heavy layers of clothing, even when the weather was blisteringly hot. These women were no delicate flowers. If they had been, their families would have never survived, much less flourished, under such harsh conditions.
So, anyway, now I’m working my way through the original series. I’m about half-way through the first season, and it’s just as charming–and ham-fistedly cheesy–as I remember it being. It’s good, good stuff.
Charles Ingalls and Caroline Quiner
Caroline Quiner and Charles Ingalls
I included photos because I found them fascinating when contrasted against today’s popular representations. Doesn’t Pa resemble Abe Lincoln in that last photo?
Just for Andy
Andy mentioned Mayberry LSD, so I had to go on a scavenger hunt. I knew I had it tucked away somewhere, but I’ve moved approximately twelfty times since 1991, when it was published, so I had to do some digging.
In other news, the DVD burner installation went as well as could be hoped. It seems like, no matter how straightforward the process is, I end up screwing it up somehow. This time, I got the drive physically installed, and the case put back together, to find that I hadn’t set the jumper to Master. Duh. So I had to take the damned thing back out again, because the power unit is too close to the disc drives to get at and move the jumpers from inside the case. Hrmf. Then, I dropped the jumper and couldn’t find it, so I had to use the one from the b0rkened drive. On the bright side, software driver and installation, etc. went flawlessly. And, we have achieved burning. Woot!
The thing about installing hardware or software is that it’s dead boring when it goes well and aneurysm-inducing when it doesn’t. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground. That’s why I hate it when people ask me to help them out with computer stuff. It’s not that it’s difficult, but when it does go bad, it goes very, very bad, indeed.
And now, an instant review: Breakfast on Pluto (based on the book by Pactrick McCabe)
Think Hedwig and the Angry Inch with a soupçon of In the Name of the Father and you’ll have a good feel for the tone and storyline. Glam Irish transwoman Kitten goes on a quest to find her mother and gets tangled up in all manner of weirdness, including Republican gun runners and a nightclub bombing. I do so adore Cillian Murphy. I fell in love with him in Disco Pigs, and have not been disappointed in anything he’s done since. Even Red Eye was damned entertaining. So, I unreservedly endorse Breakfast on Pluto.
Oh, and the soundtrack is most excellent!
Two-faced
Joyce pointed out in comments that Ms. McTurtlePants is sporting an enlarged reproduction of her lovely face on the backside of her shell. How cool is that?
Addendum:
I went a-Googling and found that she’s an eastern box turtle. Judging by her size and orange coloration, she’s an older model. A younger turtle would likely be yellow and black instead of orange and brown, as their colors mellow with age. Box turtles live to be about 80 years old in the wild, with some individuals living up to 100 years. They are protected in Indiana, so it’s illegal to keep wild-born individuals as pets. The shell designs vary widely in pattern and coloration. As far as I can tell, the face on the back of her shell is pure coincidence, which makes it even more amazing. Thanks, Joyce, for pointing it out!
Staff Meeting Doodles
I got home to find that the electricity had been off since 1pm. It came back on at 6:30. With no AC for the afternoon, it was ungodly hot indoors. Ugh. I’d meant to spend time mowing, then installing a new DVD burner (a treat for petsitting), but that plan has been scrapped. Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve scanned a couple of doodles from my work notebook.
I’m a compulsive doodler. I used to be self-conscious about it, because it makes me look inattentive, but the truth is that I listen more carefully if my hands are busy. I think that’s why I like to have the television on while I’m arting. The hands and the brain need to be independently occupied, apparently.
gel pen on paper
9 x 6 inches
Effing Cell Phones!!!eleventy!!1!!!
I swear to god–all of them if I have to–that the next time someone’s cell phone rings, I’m going to do a Linda Blair. A mass e-mail was sent to everyone in the department, telling us to turn our phones to vibrate (or turn them the fuck off), and to go out into the hallway to take calls. So, of course, that means that the woman who sits behind me has the volume on her ringer–which is some irritating carnivalesque ditty–set to “May Induce Brain Hemmorage.” This is the third time today it’s rung, and I’m about to cry. And then there are the fuckwits who walk up and down the aisles, talking on their cell phones. This is an office, people, not fucking Kroger.
In hiring news, on which planet is it acceptable to e-mail a potential future employer, using all lower case and no punctuation? I don’t find it offensive, in that it makes no difference to me in terms of whether or not I’ll hire someone. But, I do find it peculiar. Surely, this is the time when you want to put your best foot forward? Making cavalier with the norms of written communication seems to me to be an inadvisable plan of action.
And, I won’t even address the inability to follow even the most simple of directions. I’ll just mention that, when I say “email me for an application,” I do not, in fact, mean that you should call me. Email and phone calls are two entirely different things! Considering that the job ad states clearly, “must be able to follow written and verbal directions,” demonstrating clearly that you are incapable of at least one of those things is a Very Bad Idea. I’m just sayin’…
Oh, and I just overheard a coworker say “anomynous” three times in one conversation. I wonder if she eats pasghetti for breafixt?
Ms. McTurtlePants
I did some mowing this evening after work, and was rewarded by a visit from a very disgruntled neighbor. I can’t blame him her. I’d be pissed off, too, if someone covered me in grass clippings then took my picture.
Miss McTurtlePants was trying to get through my fence. I was afraid, if she managed to get into the yard while I was mowing, that she’d get hurt, so I picked her up and stuck her in a Rubbermaid tub while I worked. During one of my breaks, I got my camera and took some pictures. She was unamused.
I also saw the world’s smallest bunny baby. He was about the size of a roma tomato, ears and all. He was too young to really understand the art of running away, so I got to get within a foot of him. My camera was inside, alas, so I didn’t get any photos. I got to bask in the cuteness, though, which was nice.
Paint Your Own Pollock
The JacksonPollock.org website has a flash animated “Paint Your Own Pollock” page. I’ve wasted entirely too much time playing with it. It’s hypnotic and addictive, if a little bit on the pastel side.
red paper boat 