Rhyme and Reason Update

Stories of the plantation conflagration were greatly exaggerated.   Rhyme and Reason did indeed decide to take one of the golf carts for a spin, but only as far as to get them from the spot in which the cart was parked to the wall of the house, where they pinned roommate Burt against the wall and repeatedly rammed into his knees with the cart. Poor dears had mistaken the "gas" pedal for the "brake" pedal, but haven't we all, at one time or another? It was easy to see why they were so upset after all of that excitement, and had to be rushed home by their father just as soon as he got back from admiring the beautifully hand painted pavillion, where he would soon be pledging his undying devotion to the beloved mother of his brood.   Worst case scenario will be presented after the broken leg is reset tomorrow. At minimum six weeks with absolute minimum standing and/or walking about are anticipated.   The question that most presses on my mind?   Will they be having their wedding on the property, then?

A Can of Gasoline and a Golf Cart

So this is no exageration, I promise you.   I was on the phone with a friend who has a beautiful island home with macadamia nut orchards and tents and flowing fabrics. There is a variety of outbuildings, vehicles, gardens, fountain, magical moments and precious objets that they've accumulated over a lifetime of collecting and creating beautiful things. "Chickenville" is inhabited by three dozen or so hens and a half dozen roosters of five different breeds who are pretty much living off of his handouts (and chicken feed is expensive, even at the island Walmart!)   They often make their home available for weddings. Sometimes a fee is paid, but as often it can be a favor to some family, as an aloha.   At the start of our conversation, he said that a couple was touring the property for their upcoming wedding, and that they had brought three small children with them. I guessed that they wanted to wait until the boys were at least old enough to enjoy the wedding, but I never would have guessed the three little boys' names: "Rhyme," "Reason," and "Chorus."   We were discussing flooring options, the progress of his sister's house, and Antiques Roadshow when I heard Sydney barking. (Sydney is Stephen's vigilant Papillon, the most brilliant and cunning canid I've known.)   Stephen left the phone for a moment and returned, briefly, to say that someone was shouting about a golf cart and a can of gasoline.   Apparently left unsupervised while their parents oohed and ahhed over the setting for their  upcoming event, the boys went exploring.   They soon came upon the two golf carts, parked next to the lanai. They're kept close by and fully charged, because Stephen uses them to drive around the property distributing animal feed, changing water, working with the plants, toting fuel for the heavy equipment, and all sorts of unimaginably rough-and-tumble ranch chores.   It seems that Rhyme and Reason had also found a butane lighter, one of which Stephen is in the habit of always having within easy reach. Rhyme and Reason wondered together what it would take to set a building on fire. Taking stock of their inventory, which included a large can of gasoline, a butane lighter, and two golf carts, they decided to race the golf carts down to the chicken coops and find out!   By the time my friend got to the edge of the lanai, there was no Rhyme or Reason, but little Chorus was telling him all about it. They were going to be in so much trouble! How exciting!

Canid Camera

So here's a brief of my book idea. Picture book, images from the dog's perspective. We can either create these images from whole cloth, or re-create digital images captured by our special "Canid Camera" that is a discretely disguised digital camera sewn into the dog's collar, tags, or poop-bag holder. Perhaps some piece of jewelry on a cleverly tailored seasonal frock, if the dog is so inclined.   Isabella can be the hostess/narrator. For added credibility, she can have a digital video camera with GPS capabilities surgically implanted in her left eye socket.   Well, Isabella doesn't really have to be in the book. She's the publisher.   Maybe there could be segments based on dogs? Match the dog with the neighborhood? We could pick breeds that we feel give a distinctive representation of the dog's home turf.   In each episode we introduce our dog characters to the audience.  We can use a single dog narrator, or a different one in every episode. A beloved canine will be walked in a different part of town. The dog will be doing its best to explore and learn about the neighborhood, while urgently seeking out a safe and hygienic place to do their business. From the dog's perspective, we can gain an entirely unexpected new appreciation for things that we have come to take for granted.

Re: "52-year-old guy here, looks mid-30s tops"

When I'm in a particularly cunty mood and encounter a queen such as yourself who has deluded himself into thinking he looks "10 years younger" (though in your case the delusion pushes even further, close to the brink of 20 years) and asks me how old I think he is, I tell him and am usually right on mark plus or minus a year or two. Here's why everyone, except maybe the stupidest twinks in the universe, knows you're 52: 1. The wrinkles. Unless you've Madonnaed yourself full of Restylane, Botox, Artefill and every other filler known to man, they're always -- and I mean ALWAYS -- a giveaway. 2. The skin tone. Skin naturally sags as one gets older. Even if you juice and have 20-inch biceps, the amount of collagen in your skin goes down year by year. Even if you're in fantastic shape with less than 10% bodyfat, I'm betting that if you looked in the mirror at your underwear line along your back, you'd see skin hanging over it. Unless you've had a lower neck lift, you most likely have some turkey-waddling going on as well. NO ONE in their 30s has that. 3. The hands. BIGGEST giveaway of all, and none of the celebrities who've had even the best and/or most extensive facial work done -- Michelle Pfeiffer, Sharon Stone, Nicole Kidman, Madonna, Cher, etc. -- can effectively hide their gnarled granny hands. by: 36 and look 36 reply 74 06/20/08 @11:46

Reproduced from DataLounge. Permission pending.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel

What do you do up in the tower all day, but obsess?

Watch the waves crashing on the rocks below.

Watch the seagulls and pelicans flock around beneath you as they take the navigational turn around the bluffs.

The harbor seals look like lifeless grey slugs on the rocks, while the seas crash around them. It must be exhausting trying to fight against rough seas, so the cleverer of the seals hunkers down. When they are in the water, they are moving very quickly and with great agility. When they are out of the water, they are exhausted and relieved for the chance to relax on a nice safe rock. It would be difficult for a predator to sneak up on them to grab a quick snack, and if something tasty swims by them as they are saving up their calories they can motivate themselves to roll or dive off and give chase.

Light Housekeeping

Training for the rigors of being a docent in the clockwork room of the tower, I learned to pack my lunch and bring it along. I hadn't considered whether cleaning rags and feather or lambswool dusters would be waiting for me on site, or I should bring my own. Is there a stash of monster gear, I wonder?
It is also clear that no belt buckles or cameras can be allowed in the lantern room. I'd bet that most of the people who are willing to make the climb to the top would understand the importance of not wearing clothing with zippers or snaps, and soft, cushiony clothes, with fluffy gloves. There are "specialty" polishing gloves available in fibers specifically designed to clean metal, plastic, or glass surfaces. We can make them up with the Lighthouse Keepers logo, and sell them in the gift shop. For $10 they get a pair of commemorative gloves and the chance to use them to polish a First Order Fresnel Lens. In fact...why not set them up with completely plush Lighthouse Keeper's gear?? "Welcome to the Pt Arena Light Station. For your safety and comfort, as well as the continuing preservation of the light station, we welcome you to the top of the tower provided you are properly equipped and attired as a Lighthouse Keeper. Snap them a photo portrait, share the memory with your officially autographed Lighthouse Keeper's Certificate.

"Look! That's ME wearing these GLOVES in the LIGHTHOUSE! I was five and felt like Kim Novak!"

Barking Dogs

So here's my story.
I found the house of my dreams, at the time, on a suburban street 29 miles from San Francisco. It had been owned only twice before, the original owner having sold the previous year to the current owner, who was selling to me. The little angels had to fly back up to heaven, or Portland, as the family was about to be re-blessed and there was not enough bedspace nor plumbing in the current home for a fifth child. So blessed, so young.

Soon thereafter, my realtor showed me a multi-family residential rental property which taught me the phrase "deferred maintenance" as a preferred alternative to total neglect, and I bought it at a very good price.

Upon taking possession of the multi-family property, I introduced myself to the tenants. I felt it important to be up-front with them, answer any questions, and update their leases. Some terms were going to change, and they needed proper notification.

There was a long-term tenant who was getting a rent reduction in exchange for her services as "Resident Property Manager." For the previous two years, she had been simultaneously receiving a salary and an apartment gratis at another complex across town, and was sub-letting to her daughter and roommates. The same woman had lived with her husband and small daughter at the end of the street where I live. She had fled an abusive relationship with a physically violent man to live in the multi-family property that I bought. There is another tenant in the property, who has lived at this address for many years. She moved in as a single mom with two teenage sons. She grew up on this street, in the house next door to that of the woman who fled the abusive husband. Oh, and the daughter of the Property Manager who as a small girl had fled an abusive home life at the end of this street had a roommate - a hunky young guy named "Yogi" - whose family lives in the next house down.

When the apartment occupied by the daughter and her friends, including Yogi, was flooded out that first winter of my management, when the gypsy roofer's hired hands stripped off the existing membrane too early on the Sunday January morning on which record rains fell to please the agoraphobic insomniac in the next apartment, whose only crime was to blanch all of the metal fixtures with pure bleach. She once wept to me in the laundry room about having caught the husband in flagrante delicto. She had thrown him out and now was worried about how she would make ends meet. Perhaps she had been hoping I was wanting her, and would jump at the chance to take care of her rent, but when I only offered to waive the late fee she reconciled with the guy and I became the cunt of all time.

The gypsy roofer tore off the old roof early one Sunday morning in January and awakened the agoraphobic insomniac in the next apartment, who telephoned me. Her message was brought to me in a conference room at the hotel in which I ultimately housed the tenants displaced by the flooding. I was teaching the first and penultimate seminar produced as an independent training provider. I had initially offered them a motel room around the corner from the apartment, but the girl insisted on something nicer, so I put them up at their preferred lodging and they stiffed me on a fifty-dollar phone bill. I imagine the girl's teary two-hour bubble bath as she recounted her ordeal on the phone to her mother, who at the time was struggling through her own latest round of re-hab.
As for my immediate neighbors on the block, my neighbors on all four sides came with the house. The Western neighbor introduced herself and her family with the distinction that they had once lived in a "really nice neighborhood" before a physical disability had prevented her husband from continuing his work as an instructor at a Tractor Trailor Driving Academy. They were forced to economize, and sold the mansion to move into this dump.
The neighbor to the East is a delightful woman of a certain age who enjoys travel, gardening, good music, good food, and the company of good friends. She has told me stories of our street, as humorous anectdotes, such as the funny time the kid down the block who was a notorious stoner drove his car into her tree, and later died of a drug overdose...this was apparently one of the sons of the single mother who is still my tenant in the multi-family property.
The houses clustered at the end of the cul-de-sac, where this drama continues, are time-worn little sad shacks. Some attempts to dramatically alter the original intent of the tract design with synthetic horizontal siding, pastel hues, and exotic garden statuary offer bleak hope beside rotting husks and thistled greenery.