Out Here in the Fields

I'm writing this in the middle of the afternoon. I'm off from work for July 4, and I've spent much of the day in fourth gear.

I got home yesterday to find Your Sister grilling veggies. She asked me to get more, and I strolled the 30 yards to the garden, found a squash and cucumber, plucked them the vines, and handed them over. And we ate them. That will never get old. She grilled the squash, and the cucumber went in a salad. They were good. Framer Greg has had a good year so far.

Got up this morning and went straight back to the garden. I planted two more rows of corn with the now-regular ritual: hoe, manure, seed, compost, dirt, water. It's the opposite of toil. It's work, sure; my Cubs hat is a ratbag mess. But it's a calming ceremony. I've found a method of serenity punctuated by cursing the weeds and chopping the dirt. The iPod helps too. It helps everything. I pulverized the charcoal from last night's dinner and added the dust to the compost bin. It's alive with worms. Fat, pale worms joyous with our dirt. If crane to listen, you can hear them sing the American Bandstand theme.

I washed off my sneakers and decided I wasn't enervated enough. That's what farming does to me; it gives me enough of a high to run 3 miles on whimsy. I chucked off the dirty clothes, threw on the running togs, whispered bye to Your Sleeping Sister, and ran a 5k course. I'm willing to admit I may be stupid. I encountered high-school track girls and felt decrepit, like a running numeral 6. See that number? Just give it feet. That's me, I'm sure they thought.

I got home, cleaned up, and bought Your Not-Sleeping Sister Starbucks tea. I found the rare and treasured free bag of coffee grounds and snatched it up with an audible gasp. They had two bags. I got one. No need to be greedy. That stuff will go on the veggies tomorrow. She worked on the front yard weeds while I started the mini-comic. I type this having the entire thing penciled already, and now I hope to ink it before I go back to bed and rest my sore bones. We stopped for Mexican lunch, and she's on the couch reading some math textbooks.

Picture of the Day
Might as well jump. Go ahead and jump.

One Rehearsal This Week

This week's only rehearsal gave plenty of time in the days before and after for the actors to work on memorization. And they did. I was impressed with what they brought to the warehouse and patted them on the heads for their effort. We did one runthrough, as as the habit now, and the play is starting to take flight.

The biggest difference is the mom actress. She wants to develop the character more than the script calls for, and I may have to rein in her anger. I didn't worry about delivery so much this week. As I told them nay times, we'll start tightening next week. We'll work with props, get the lines exactly right, and adjust the moments between characters. Not this week.

With scripts out of hands (and a walker in Mom's), new things emerge. For instance, when the suitor of the responsible daughter offers flowers, the mother didn't take them in hand. She stared at them with suspicion. The script doesn't say she takes them (there are so few stage directions), and her refusal to touch them cracked us all up. I don't think it was a conscious choice; the mom wanted to keep her hands on her walker at all times. But it worked so well, I want to keep it. Things like this happened all through the practice.

I adjusted the rehearsal space to mirror the stage set-up, and that required us to alter our entrances and exits. Nothing big. It does allow the responsible daughter to kiss the mom goodbye as she leaves. It also lets the irresponsible daughter indulge in more comic acting as she follows mom out the kitchen door at the play's end. The actors say they like where we're headed. We've got two weeks from tomorrow before we hit the stage, and I think we'll be just fine.

I like directing, I have to say. This show probably will ruin me for any future assignments. I have a simple set, a small cast, and a short script. We collaborate and compromise and try new things. They've learned to work with me as I have with them. I'm glad to have had the chance. Not so glad to do this two times in a row, mind you, but I do get essentially an immediate do-over for which I'm grateful.

Your Sister is a weeding machine, and she was out in the yard with gloves and wheelbarrow as I left for work. I didn't run today; I did arm and stomach exercises instead. She made a curry dish last night using a recipe you brought back from South Africa, and it was good -- baby corn, rice, cilantro, and chicken thighs. I couldn't finish it before rehearsal but did as soon as I got back.

Alexander McCall Smith is announced to read from his works next April in Greenville, and I think she wants to go. The same venue is presenting Wicked, and I'd gladly see it if I could wear thick earplugs. I want to see how they move the stage pieces, but that music is a curse on humanity. The big song, Defying Gravity, was made famous by the original actress's ability to hit a money note, and I bet many a ticket-goer will be disappointed when the touring actress misses the mark. One of the NY Times reviewers lamented that modern productions demand such vocal acrobatics that performers burn out and shorten their careers. I believe it.

The touring performers are quite good, and many come direct from the Broadway version of their traveling shows. But that slog has to affect their skills, and I don't fault them for staying in a lower gear onstage at times to maintain their energy. The same house is offering South Pacific, and I want to see that again for a a technical stunt: When the lead sings I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair, she actually showers onstage. When the show debut on Broadway, that piece of stagecraft alone got a standing ovation. Yes, many a stage version of Singin' in the Rain has a piped-in rainstorm, but the other show's actress has to sing while lathering her head.

+ + +

The news over here is the same. Jackson rumors fly around about his will, his kids, his estate, his ex-wife. It smothers all other events. The healthcare debate continues. California and New York are in budgetary standstills. Mark Sanford seems to have finally decided to stop talking about his loves.

Another round of Tea Party protests is scheduled for Saturday's holiday. A local representative was interviews by the NPR station and asserted that the founding fathers guaranteed "the rights to life, liberty, property, and the pursuit of happiness." That third one sounds new. I mean, I get the idea, especially for the entrepreneurial minded, but it's not an inalienable right as enumerated and can't be casually lumped in. Not if you're arguing for strict interpretation of the Constitution as conservatives profess. Most important, that inalienable rights bit isn't in the Constitution. It's in the Declaration, a document that asserts rights but has no strength to establish them. These details are important if you want to win people to your side.

Picture of the Day
The attendees of the annual Glastonbury Music Festival in Scotland. I stopped counting at three.

A New Project

There's a 5k race this weekend, the traditional Firecracker Run. It's one of a handful that go downtown. I considered entering it; I am running all the time now, and this would be a good test of my progress. But I received this email from the race organizers:

This year there will be a little congestion problem. It seems that the Tail Gate Market will be set up adjacent to the FINISH Line and will be taking up most of the parking lot along S Gaston St and Varsity St. There is still ample parking in the area. You will be given further instructions about the problem on Varsity St as you are coming into the FINISH Line.

Maybe I'm reading this wrong, but it seems to say that runners will be told of the course's end only after they've started the race. Screw that. We've seen this exact cock-up a few years back, and runners turned the wrong direction about a quarter-mile from the finish. I'm amused that no one thought to schedule this against the tailgate farmers. They practically predate the streetlights.

The races were recently taken over by the local rotarians, and this kind of confusion is the new norm. The first race they organized featured a drink station that consisted of a six-inch-tall cardboard box and a woman who hadn't made any drinks beforehand. I saw a runner do laps around her while she poured his drink. I'm not encouraged to give them my registration money, not when I can simply run through downtown before the shops open.

We'll host Mom this weekend, and I'll do some prop shopping for the show. I also have a new sudden deadline. The comic publisher is slapping together a Michael Jackson-themed comic for the nation's biggest convention, ComicCon in San Diego. I agreed to do two pages at mini-comic size for July 6. It's to be b/w with no mention of his kid trouble. I'll probably write about my summer camp/Thriller story.

...

I just took a break to jot down a first draft. It came easy, and this should be a feasible assignment. I wanted to do a memoir comic again, and I'm flattered to be asked by the publisher.

Your Sister thought I had rehearsal yesterday and made an appropriate light dinner. This is despite the fridge calendar screaming the rehearsal date for today. She couldn't get it right even after we ate.

"So, you're leaving soon, right?"
"What?
"Rehearsal? 7:30."
"That's still tomorrow."
"Oh. Okay."
"Do I need to go? Is Mark Sanford coming over?"
"No, no."

Speaking of, this guy's a schmo. He now admits to seeing his mistress more than he confessed in his mea cupla conference. Also, he says he's "crossed the line" with other women without, he says, "crossing the ultimate line." Now that's a loaded phrase for a Christian adult. The realm of activities that may not constitute his notion of sex could be crowded. It's an ambiguous term. For him, "does the ultimate line" mean full-hearted love?

He's obviously tomcatting around. We don't know what his wife knew, and I don't want to see her grilled. She's made it clear she won't tolerate adultery. But we don't know if their relationship is harmed more by his affairs of the pants or the heart. Seems clear that he stayed married for his career; he's on the record as saying this other woman is his soulmate, but he's trying to fall back in love with his wife. His words. That's sad. It's downright brutal for his kids, and for that forced ignominy, he should be launched into space.

But to treat Your Wife this way, to say things best not plastered in papers and on cable news, it sounds mindless. Or completely calculated. If he pretends to want reconciliation, he wants pity after she inevitably and rightfully drops his lying ass. "I wanted it to work," he'll say. "But she wanted something else." Sanford, was wronged, he hopes we'll say. He 's no longer working to earn our respect for Doing the Right Thing. He wants sympathy for a plight he wholly created.

I'm not bothered by his affairs. That's between him and his wife to deal with. I'm bothered by his public packaging of the matter. I don't like his proud humility. He wants very much for us to see him gladly burdened by consequence and remorse. A hairshirt happily donned isn't the punishment it's meant to be. His comparison to King David is a sly way of saying he's as much a sinner but also as prominent a ruler.

An interesting proposal was made last week that the Democrats should now push for a national gay-marriage law. The Republicans have lost the moral high ground with the Nevada and South Carolina governor affairs. Gingrich and Limbaugh can't talk about the sanctity of marriage to the mainstream, not with their six combined marriages. What argument is left? These prominent disregards for the vaunted institution undercut the common objection to gay marriage. They can't possibly taint matrimony any more than these hypocritical finger-waggers.

I never understood the logic of gay marriage harming straight marriages. It will take more than gay married neighbors to affect what Your Sis and I have. Bunches more. Maybe alligator ninjas.

She spent much of yesterday rearranging the garage and workshed. She says she can't bear to sleep in while I get up and run. I think she needs to muddle through chores so she can allow herself to play online later. That's fine. I work the same way.

Picture of the Day
I miss new Lost.

Lots of Much.

Setting up a laptop is serious business. Your Sister's has a fingerprint scanner for security and provides a touch screen similar to that of an iPhone. But it does not simply turn on and get rolling. It's a Vista Windows machine too and, she's learning why Vista has its reputation. She learned she can watch some Netflix movies on her laptop via the new modem, and she's interested in the Tudors series from Showtime.

I used the magic modem to try an online superhero game, and it's a blast. You make a costume, assign the powers, and immediately get to beat up thugs. The game has a tutorial -- unlike World of Warcraft -- and it's right up my alley. I now have to pry myself out of the workshop.

Our Saturday morning theatre meeting was sparsely attended and accomplished little. The crunch of shows is evident as we look for show runners, stage crew, tech crew, and street festival volunteers. This is just what I feared would happen. No one wants to raise his hand; everyone is burned out. I got to see the stage and measure our movement space. It's not as bad as I thought, but the limited curtain options restricts our entrance choices. I also learned how to set up a sound board from the Scrooge actor. He knows his stuff.

I learned last week that all theatre positions are volunteer. No one gets paid. Here lies a fundamental problem. There's is no incentive to do the best work consistently, and there is no penalty for failure. The theatre can't dismiss people; they need the warm bodies. Every theatre needs, at least, people on retainer for such positions. Now I know why the posters all use clip art. Why should a publicity director spend hours on artwork if he's paid the same amount to find something online?

We bought ourselves a ventless gas stove as part of our master plan for the living room. Instead of my mural idea, Your Sister prefers a wall of bookshelves. We talked to a local cabinet company for designs, and the stove will anchor the structure. We also need to stamp our books with our hyphenated library name.

I staked the tomatoes in the morning. The garden is that time period when the plants explode with food. I mowed the yard and weeded the borders, and the flying grass turned me into a green Wookie. Ares of sod washed down the shower drain. That much yardwork replaces a run as far as this correspondent is concerned.

We watched much sport this weekend. The National track and field championships were held at the University of Oregon, and we watched the US-Brazil soccer game from South Africa. The constant horns in the audience are infuriating, and I might not last the whole World Cup if they're blaring every game.

Sunday night, we returned from an outdoor dinner to survey the mowed and weeded yard. We plucked our first produce: two yellow squash and a cucumber. This squash has fuzzy hair on it unlike last year's butternuts and acorns. They will be grilled later in the week. We decided that there was no need to wait to pluck and gobble as we'll be up to our belts in squash and cucumbers, judging by the vines.

I stood in the backyard with my bride, holding my meager garden harvest, in a summer day with light breeze and fading light. It was a good moment. The night got better when I signed and stamped the last check for my student loans. I'm all paid up. It's done. We cracked open Smirnoff Ice and toasted the memories of school and career, and I drank too much to run the next morning. I can live with that.

In the News
Michael Jackson is all over the radio. This American Life used song titles for their segments, and the NPR money show uses his songs for bumper music. We heard Thriller as we drove home last night. I downloaded Scream for running music. The BET Awards was dedicated to his legacy.

Sunday, we lost Billy Mays, the bearded TV pitchman who liked to yell. He entertained me and had a good sense of humor about his place in TV culture.

Picture of the Day
A volcano eruption seen from the space station.

New Technology

Your Sister bought herself a laptop. She browsed models yesterday and found one that had all she wanted, including a touch screen with stylus. Her late school version had the same feature. It's an Hewlett-Packard, and it was on sale. The Macs were too expensive and alien for her. We saw an HP PC last year and were bedazzled by its Mac-like structure (the tower is in the monitor), but it was priced as much as a comparable Mac desktop.

She also offered to buy my next digital camera, an upgrade I need for the work convention next month. In just a short amount of time, cameras have become incredibly small, and the memory cards can swallow piles of pictures. I love the camera she bought me seven years ago. It was just what I needed. But it's on the threshold of picture resolution for magazine printing. I need a new one, and the prices are almost half what my current camera cost. She's offering to buy the camera as an early birthday present. I'll also need to buy a suit for the convention's posh dinner of honors. I knew I needed a new one, but I didn't want to buy a new one until I slimmed down. Here I am, a svelte 173 pounds. Your Sis is a bit amazed.

The rehearsal last night was just one runthrough with the new actress following her movement notes. She did OK. The veteran actors from the first performance are playing with delivery in a relaxed manner, and it's bringing out the comedy. I encourage it as we're so early in rehearsals. I noted their efforts and reminded them of our one rehearsal next week. They said they'd come in for that meeting with many lines memorized. I won't make them play with props then; we'll save that for the following week. Even though we don't have much time before we take the stage, we're already in a good place. I have the rare opportunity to direct a show with actors familiar with the material and a new actor walking in and energizing the veterans.

In The News
The national media dropped everything to cover Michal Jackson's death. ABC replaced Grey's Anatomy with reruns of Jackson interviews and live coverage from the UCLA Medical Center. MTV went with live news coverage and Jackson videos. The cable news networks stopped their programming to cover the reaction to his death and recap his later scandals.

His last musical hurrah was this 1995 duet with sister Janet. It has all the hallmarks of his big hits: the staccato drums, the background harmonies, Michael impersonating James Brown on the verses. The video proves that while Janet was a game dancer, Michael had total physical control. The man was an entertainment machine.





I'm not moved by his death because he stopped being musically relevant a decade ago. Also, he at the very least was wildly inappropriate with children. He devolved into secluded psychosis, and he lost his golden musical touch. Efforts to work with current, hot producers failed to hook the young audiences. He was of course incredibly popular overseas as the total sell-out of his questionable 50-date London tour proved. He was coasting on past success.

But what success to milk. An NPR interview today suggested he was the synapse between black and mainstream music. I certainly don't remember a young black performer having his prominence even before Thriller. It was said more than a year ago that Jackson's acceptance by white audiences paved the way for the marketing success and cultural adoration of Michael Jordan and then Tiger Woods and Will Smith and then Obama.

I remember our Baptist summer camp going crazy for Thriller, and the cassettes were passed around hourly. I hated camp, but that cassette got me through. I was hypnotized by Wanna Be Starting Something and played it over and over in the dead, hot air of the log cabins. This music from a future alternate dimension transported me and seems to have done the same for people the world over. Billie Jean remains a fascinating composition, a no-bull masterpiece of pop music.

His death is compared now to that of Elvis and Lennon, and I can't swallow that. Just doesn't have that heft for me, and I feel somewhat plugged in to pop culture. I do remember seeing high-school kids perform Billie Jean as a 1600s folk dance tune during our Shakespeare honeymoon in Virginia. They even had a dancer with the hat and glove.

Buncha Pictures of the Day
The Big Picture covers soccer in South Africa. The American victory over Spain was of mild interest to some here. Not much of a ripple. It's covered like the opening rounds of Wimbledon.

The bigger sports story was the NBA draft and the trade sending Shaq to play with LeBron in Cleveland. Shaq relied on the Phoenix Suns' medical staff to keep him mobile. Without their help, he may not be as productive. But those are two powerful guys sharing the ball. Highlights will abound.

Hansbrough went to the Indiana Pacers, and that's a nice franchise for him. He can learn the NBA pace in a good division facing quality opponents and gradually improve. He won't have to carry the burden of immediate title expectations. A really good team for him. Also, if he does really well, he and Peyton Manning become tandem state icons.

Keep It Moving

Last night's rehearsal centered on giving the new actress her movement. Instead of walking through the entire script, allowing actors to deliver their lines as normal, I gave them their cues to move. She would take her notes, we'd flip to the next page, find the next cue line, and make her movement notes. That took the hour we scheduled. The mom actress said the play felt differently -- better -- then she initially thought. It's still a sitcom plot, and the awkward weaknesses remain. But she feels more confident of the tone of the play and her obligations to it.

Another actress asked if she could tackle a scene more broadly, play it bigger. I was initially against it, but the character has so little to do that I feel bad for the actress. She wants to join the fun, and I should at least see what she has in mind. It's rehearsal. We're supposed to play around. During the swift rehearsal, I started to change actor placement before we realized we had it right the first time. Much erasing ensued.

I get the feeling that the play could be longer. Not three acts necessarily, but definitely two. The script we have -- submitted for the play competition -- may be a stripped-down story. I easily imagine the playwright scrambling to salvage the pieces of a potential full script, condensing it down to one act, and hoping for the best.

Your Sis rode the new bike to Asheville and back, but this was her first night ride. It gets cold, even in the summer. Her skin was even more cadaverous when she got home. But the grin. The grin could not be contained by her helmet. She saw what she considers the best Shakespeare production the Montford Park Players have slapped together.

I had returned home before she did, and I played with the new online access. Oh. Oh, it's glorious. I was voice-chatting with online friends, and I even tried a World of Warcraft demo. It didn't win me over, but I can see the appeal bolstered with voice chat. I also set my iTunes to download my favorite podcasts -- Coverville, Savage Love, etc. -- something I've always used my work PC for.

When I dragged myself away from the PC, I watch the coverage of Mark Sanford. I lived for a few years under Sanford. He was a Congressman before he ran for governor, and he didn't leave much of an impression. He was a soft candidate as McCain's VP until he blew a TV news interview by blanking on any distinction between the McCain and Bush budgets. He recently made headlines by refusing federal stimulus money and then fighting the legislature when they overrode his veto.

Now this scandal has seemingly scuttled his governorship. The missus gave him the boot a few weeks back, and I can't see him recovering credibility. It's just so outlandish an affair. He didn't woo an aide or an aide's spouse like normal people. He pursued an online romance with a divorced mom on another continent. Points for novelty.

I ran a 5k course this morning. My time was off, as expected, but I'm content to just have run the whole thing on a half-glass of water and a teaspoon of peanut butter.

The garden is busting out all over with tiny tomatoes and pepperitos. I'd like to plant more items this weekend.

Picture of the Day
Always keep your bat clean. This is not a euphemism.

Starting with a Readthrough

These guys are good. They're so good, in fact, that I'm going to cut back on our rehearsal days. Their readthrough last night showed me we're in good shape, and the new Mom came to play. She's bringing the funny.

She was worried, as they all were at first, that the mom would be wizened and senile. She isn't. She's spoiled. She works her daughters to her benefit and realizes in the play that she's losing that. That's why she pouts and cajoles and feigns a heart attack. She's not stupid. Or goofy. She's desperate.

I worry that the stage dimensions will make our movements look pinched, but I don't want to sweep across the stage just for the sake of using every inch. I do want to let the blocking breathe more. The performance space we had originally was tight and made for stylized movement. Now we can spread out. I'll have to get the actors to walk and talk. If they move, stop, and then talk, the humor will be dead.

We'll meet twice more this week to give the new actress her movements (they help cement line memorization), and we won't touch a prop until next week. She needs time to learn the lines, but I don't want the cast burned out. I prefer to plan for lots of rehearsals and eliminate days if we're on a good groove. I also think that rewards the cast for doing heavy lifting early on.

+ + +

The piano tuner is fixing up my Granny's piano as I type this, and Your Sister's school laptop has died. She is going to buy herself one and is considering a Mac. I suggested she ask you for tips. She'll need the magic double-OS program to run school-based Windows programs.

I set up a voice-chat program on my computer last night and configured my home iTunes to download podcasts. No more schlepping them from work to put on my iPod. I feel myself adhering to the new high-speed online access.

Picture of the Day
Another photo of the memorial lanterns set alight after the Indonesian tsunami. The heat of the candles lift them to the air.

Speedy Delivery

We have the quick net now. Your Sister carried her school laptop about the house to check signal strength. She was so hypnotized by the quick, rapid speed of it all that she made a Facebook account. This shocks me more than the motorcycle.

I didn't get much chance to play with the new router before we left for a dinner at a teacher house. Ping-pong and discussions of Harry Potter ensued. A great grilled meal was followed by a board game called Sequence, which combines bingo and poker. They want to see Shakespeare in the Park on Wednesday, and I'll be in rehearsal. That starts tonight, and my new silly hope is that my cast is so strong that we don't have to rehearse every weeknight.

I did not run this morning. I instead sprayed pesticide on the garden. It's called Liquid Seven, and the directions/warnings make it sound like Supernova Lava Acid. Long sleeves, eye protection, latex gloves -- the bottle demands I wear this stuff. Our cucumber leaves are feeding various bugs, and I want to deflect the caterpillars that ate my tomatoes last year. I think I'll get a hazmat suit for the next spraying.

We magically sprouted tomato berries since Sunday. On the stalks, I mean. All this rain has ensorcelled the garden, and I wish I had planted much more now. There may still be time. I do want to try more corn this weekend, and perhaps we can do underground foods like carrots. Maybe the wireless signal is mutating my crops.

Yous Sister is feeling yesterday's run, and I warned her I would skip running today so I could spew death juice on the garden. She decided to tackle the front-yard beds as I drove to work.

I'm still a little paranoid about my exposure to the pesticide. Every little itch strikes a dramatic musical sting in my head. (Hey, my head itches. Dundun-DUN! My arm is kinda tingly. Dundun-DUN!)

Picture of the Day
The grocery store is carrying much more exotic produce these days.


Maybe the store has been invaded by alien pod monsters. Dundun-DUN!

Geek Show

Friday night saw us wolf down pizzas at the new local Italian place. Your Sis drove to Your Parents' house and back to show off the bike. They trust her on it, and that was the biggest worry we had. We watched another Netflix film (the third Bourne movie), and I packed it in early. I had a big Saturday to prepare for.

Because it was HEROESCON, the Charlotte nerd prom. I woke up extra early to get a haircut, clean up, grab croissants, and hit the road by 9. I've been close to ten times now, I'd say, and it's become more fun as it's national prominence has grown. It's known as the friendliest show for creators to mix with the commonfolk; we're well behaved and patient. The organizers have the set-up down by now, and they have enough contacts to get big-name creators to appear.

The con floor.

A heavy-looking Iron Man costume.

Panels are available to hear the latest on comic/movie plans and attendees can ask direct questions about specific characters.

Big-time comics writer Brian Michael Bendis does not take criticism well.

Illustrator Adam Hughes is a top draw at every show. He and many others do free sketches.

My haul.

1. The con program. I carried it all day and cracked it open maybe twice.

2. My MapQuest directions based on the address on the Heroescon website. They led me instead right to their store.

3. The directions they wrote for me to get to the con.

4. My list of items I found at booths to return and buy later. It's a gamble. The items might not be there. So I wrote down the other booths where those same items are. There's two reasons for this: a) I might find it cheaper at another booth; and b) If I buy the item later, that's less time I'm carrying it around. And that leads me to my epiphany. Why don't cons offer airport lockers? Let's make our own, I say -- a do-it-yourself coat-check for con items so they aren't clobbered by the heavy foot traffic. And we'll call them Con-Tainers. We'll be gabillionaires.

5. Creative Loafing Charlotte had the con as its cover story.

6. I bought a bundle of three minicomics from the Center for Comic Studies booth. I was directed there by my publisher J. Chris Campbell of Wide Awake Press. The CCS booth was often obscured by the lines to see creator Jeff Smith. He never had a small line.

7. A set of Japanese monster postcards for a guy whose work appeared with mine in in the Athens Fluke con anthology.

8. A card for Tariq Hassan one of the Revolver Studios artists. His acrylic stuff looks like watercolors, and I don't know how he manages that.

9. My scrawled-while-driving directions for getting home. It's hard to find 85 South and 74 West without road signs.

10. CCS brochures for their cartoon programs.

11. The animated Bizarro figure I've wanted for two years.

12. Viking No. 1 sold to me by a creator sales pitch.

13. Bossk and IG-88 bounty hunter figures. The first booth has Bossk for $12. The second had him for $5. It pays to window shop.

14. A promo card for Capes and Babes, a webcomic. It was handed to me by the creator while I waited to talk to John Anderson who co-colored ...

15. this issue of E-Man. I know John from an online forum.

16. A promo card and lottery ticket for a free trade drawing by Ultimate Comics. The promo girl caught a group of us standing near the Adhouse Books booth, and we all signed up. None of us won. I knew exactly where the booth was because I had jotted down their location on my shopping list. I told the girl they were right under the Aisle 300 sign, and she gasped. She finally had an easy way to direct people there.

17. I bought David Mack's kids book, and he explained how it began as a book inside his Kabuki comic. I confessed I didn't know the comic, and he signed and handed me a stack of Kabuki issues. Free. The man knows how to win over fans.

18. The Wonder Girl and Starfire min-statues I wanted for a while. This was a good con for getting long-sought knickknacks.

19. A copy of Fell volume 1 and the two Justice trades. These were bought at one of the many booths offering books for either 50% off or buy one, get one free. This was the show for trades.

20. "I Will Feast on Your Whore Heart," a string-bound mini that caught my eye.

21. Two minis by Josh Latta, another Wide Awake artist.

22. Two little toys made by another Wide Awake guy.

23. The card handed out by the Imaginism people.

24. The card for Girls with Slingshots, a webcomic by Danielle Corsetto whose portfolio was really good. We also chatted in the Starbucks line, and I sold her on their shaken iced tea lemonade. I think we were sparking a little, and then I remembered that I couldn't convince Your Sis to come along.

The convention center also hosted a car show next door, and the bouncing vibrations from the car stereos pounded us all day. The artists inking sketches complained that the tables were vibrating.

I had dinner with people I know from online and drove back home, returning at 11:30. I was dead tired, my feet hurt, and my voice was shot, but it was as fun as I hoped.

The next day, Your Sis tackled her closets, and I weeded the garden. I was officially asked to join the theatre board of directors by email, and by email I declined. I cited my full dance card and offered to help with publicity in any way I feasibly can. If I was asked a few weeks back, I might have jumped at it. I was told the board had moved their meeting times to evening so I could join them, but they scheduled it the same night as a rehearsal. I couldn't go anyway.

Oh, I also invented a new drink at the soda shop: Sweet iced tea with dashes of Tabasco. I call it a Hothouse Flower. You can feel the spice in your throat, but the taste is hidden.

I debated running this morning and crawled out of bed only because Your Sis woke up early. I ran. It hurt. I was on my last quarter-mile, right as I turn to go up the rassem-frassem hill when I spied a runner in white turning the corner downhill. It was Your Sister. As soon as she saw me, she threw up her hand to playfully hide.

I thought something was wrong. Your Sister doesn't run. I thought the house/school/cats were exploding/collapsing/stepped on by Godzookie. I stopped and turned to follow her, and she said she wanted to give running a try. Did I mind? DID I MIND?! I turned off my stopwatch and iPod and jogged alongside her. We slowed to a walk a few times and did about a half mile. I'm thrilled by this. I never thought she would run with me. Even if this doesn't happen again, we had this morning. I'm proud of her.

I Have No Feet and I Must Scream

I ran this morning in a shaggy, shoving way that convinced me I was falling apart. I couldn't find the breathing rhythm, and my feet were yelling at me like a pouting teenager. I sounded like Speed Buggy (Please tell me you remember Speed Buggy. Assure me I'm not a geezer. And, no, it wasn't the live-action dune buggy show. That was Wonderbug.).

It was the hardest run of the week, and I suspect I had nothing in the tank despite my snack and water. I was so cranky that I couldn't find a decent song on the iPod. It was just that kind of morning. I heaved my way up the final hill, checked my time, and discovered I'd gone faster than ever. 17:28. Eighteen seconds faster than Thursday, and a minute and eight seconds faster than my run Sunday. I'm taking tomorrow morning off as I will be in Charlotte at a geek show and on my feet all day. Next week, I'll try running longer distances.

Your Sister is driving her motorcycle to see Your Parents today. I don't think they know about it. That should be a fun conversation. Now that school is over, she has packed her days with Things To Do, including but not limited to upgrading my closet (from cave to wardrobe), designing bookshelves, and installing a gas stove. She thinks she's lazy in comparison to me because I run, and I give her a look that says "I'm giving you a crazy look because you are crazy and this is the appropriate crazy look one gives to crazy people."

The street work outside our house is not for high-speed internet but for new cable lines. It won't affect our internet installation on Monday, or so I was told. We found out just last night that DirecTV gave us virtually every premium channels for a year, and I showed her the Mystery Science Theatre 3000 movie.

In the News
Two new studies suggest autism may be caused by a deficiency of Vitamin D. The studies follow Somali immigrants to Sweden and Minnesota, and the rapid development of autism in those communities.

Moving Picture of the Day
Remember when I told you that Chewbacca was a symptom of the Bigfoot mania of the 1970s? Basically Han was a moonshine runner with his pet Sasquatch. It's actually a chunk of genius for Lucas to take that cultural scofflaw type, pair him with a hillbilly monster, and put him in space. Here's the opening for the Saturday morning Bigfoot show. This both fascinated and scared the poop out of me as a tyke.




There was also a bionic Bigfoot that fought Colonel Steve Austin.

A Collage of Blah-Blah

Your Sister re-potted all her classroom plants and was finishing when I arrived home. We dumped old potting soil into the compost bin, and I straightened my fence posts. She made arrangements to fly to main next month to hang out with a high-school friend, and she'll get back a few days before I leave for Chicago. The new communication company is running lines along the roads, and a new conduit is right outside our house. I suppose this will help us next week when we get high-speed online internet. We're trying to contact the local piano tuner, and we're pursing installation of a gas stove in the big living room.

+ + +

I made stir-fry while Your Sister watched The Poseidon Adventure. I wonder if she'd be interested in the other dozen or so big-budget '70s disaster movies. There's an entire franchise of airport disaster films, and they led to the Airplane! spoof movie. Poseidon is a lean engine of character decimation. The small pack of survivors scrambling through the overturned cruise ship are picked off one-by-one by fire and gravity, and new viewers always try to guess who will survive. There has to be a name for this theme of survival suspense stretching from war films to disaster flicks to horror genres. Poseidon is driven by Gene Hackman's performance, and I will always watch a Hackman film.

+ + +

I ran 17:46 this morning, five seconds slower than yesterday. I blame stupid trucks at intersections. As I got halfway through an intersection, a stopped truck pulled out to turn. Near the end of the run, a second truck pulled halfway into the road, forcing me to run around him and dodge the traffic coming from the opposite direction. This town has more than its share of bikers and runners. I'm not the rare figure confusing the populace. I somehow managed to start this morning-run business right as school let out for the summer. I don't have to dodge schoolbuses, and Your Sister can sleep right through my clock alarm.

In the News
Iran's conflict sparks the inevitable political posturing here. The administration is adamant that it won't get involved in the election, so political opponents are obliged to take the opposite view. References to Reagan in the Cold War and how he handled the Polish Solidarity movement bubble to the surface. But the Iranian administration already accuses us of getting involved. Something I have not heard yet is the suggestion that Bush's Middle East policy created this. It's an argument that could be made easily, and the reform movement can be packaged as a direct result of our Iraq strategy.

For instance, one could argue that the reform movement is afraid that the current president will bring down American military into the country. Or the reformers are inspired by the open Iraq elections and want the same. But again, I'm not hearing this, and I'm surprised. I don't agree with it, but I'm still surprised not to see it offered anywhere. The argument that our current administration inspired this reform has been made, citing the desire for change in the election campaigns. Also, it's been posited that Obama's light tough with Iran has encouraged the young populace to perceive us differently than their president would prefer. If we play nice, he can't stay in power by displaying us as invaders and usurpers.

The protest marches seem poised to continue indefinitely, and rumors say the supreme mullahs are gathering to debate a direct involvement. It's even possible the Grand Ayatollah could be replaced via a Vatican-like assemble of Islamic clerics. The ayatollahs who have spoken out at least tacitly support the reform protests, and the presidency could lose the religious blessing of the mullahs. There's debate about whether this qualifies as a revolution like that of 1979, and the consensus is "not yet" mixed with "but it's not far from it. As I heard on TV last night while everyone expects this to end like Tienanmen Square, what if this instead is another Berlin Wall destruction?

+ + +

The push to reform healthcare meets the standard opposition: it's socialism, bureucracy will kill the sick, it will cost too much, it will bankrupt small businesses forced to provide coverage. I work for a small company. We have six office employees. I pay for my coverage with a medical reimbursement on my paycheck. I've worked for other small companies that offered healthcare, and even on minimum wage -- in high school -- I had some form of coverage. Colleges and universities provide free minor medical care on campuses via student fees. It seems like a feasible model to follow.

Think of it as club membership. For, let's say $50 a month, you join a local health company, and when you need aid, you go in and get fixed up. It's not a cumulative accoun; everyone pays into a pool. Seems like even a small town like where we live can support a profitable health club that cares for minor ailments. Possibly, on the side, one could pay for health coverage for big-ticket care, maybe for $50-100 more. That's $150 a month. That's less than what I pay no for blanket coverage based on deductibles.

I have to develop this. Let me put on my pondering pants.

Picture of the Day
A left-handed Wookie is probably where we get the term "southpaw."

Wake Up and Run

This morning, I ran the 2-mile course in 17:40, 40 seconds faster than Monday's run. I'm cutting twenty seconds off my run time each morning. And I'm feeling it as I type this. My feet are sore -- actually, my toes are asleep -- and my hamstrings are tender. Weather permitting, I'll run tomorrow without trying to break any records.

It's not as difficult as I thought to get up an hour earlier and run like I'm on fire. I can't stretch as far as I'd like when I first wake up, but it's apparently enough to ward off injury. I drink a few gulps of water and eat a teaspoon of peanut butter. I walk to the end of the street, start my music, hit the iPod stopwatch button, and run. Less than 20 minutes later, I'm at the intersection again, soaked with sweat despite my moisture-wicking shirt, and starting a victory walk. I go inside, stretch, lift some weights, and pile myself in a corner of the shower.

The rain vanished for enough days that I worried about the soil quality in the garden. I bought some manure to act as low-grade potting soil and plant food to sprinkle about the garden. It took perhaps a half hour to put all that down, and then it rained buckets. I'm hoping this spurs plentiful sprouting. The plants look okay at this point. The cucumber vines are crawling, the corn grass is stretching, and the pepper plants are budding.

Your Sister discovered that her school wing would be locked down for two weeks for maintenance. That left her a few hours to empty her classroom of all the plants and necessary books. However, it does mean she's essentially done with the semester. She slept in this morning as I walked out the door to run in the mist.

I called my actors to set the first rehearsal date. We'll meet next Tuesday for a readthrough.

Picture of the Day
This is a crimefighter zone. Do not use your Joker gas on the little ones.

I Ran. Iran. Eyeball Monsters.

Last April, I posted a review of very possibly my first ever comic.

Asheville has a new comic store called Comic Envy, and they have a cheap box at the counter. These are comic overruns or issues that aren't worth the trouble to put in the usual back-issue inventory. They had a nice selection of significant comics in there (Avengers Annual 10, introducing the X-Men's Rogue, for example). But what caught my eye was a comic that may be one of the first five I ever owned, a comic whose cover I haven't seen in three decades. My copy is a tattered pulpy mess, and I held onto for sentimental reasons. But now I have a clean version, and it was about $2. A steal for childhood glee.


OK, backstory: World's Finest teamed Batman and Superman for stories usually lasting one issue. Eventually, the writers got bored and shifted attention to tales of the Sons of Superman and Batman, Superman Junior and Batman Junior. This being the early '70s, the sons were traveling mystery solvers much like every Hanna Barbera cartoon from the time (Captain Caveman, Jabberjaws, Scooby Doo, Dynomutt, etc.). Think of it as The Dynamic Duo of Hazzard. Oh, and they are both named for their dads.

In this issue, the boys take a back road and find a Florida town without men. Women have a sovereign hidden hamlet. Any man unlucky to stumble upon them are jailed. The sons play it cool and go along with the arrest to sniff out the situation.

They learn that two of the town leaders have doubts about their men-hating agenda (especially once they set eyes on those new hunks). They mention their leader, Sister Sibyl, and the boys break out at night to follow the women to see Sibyl. They see the town's women worship at a monolith with one giant eye where they probably sacrifice the captured men, and the two doubters are seemingly absorbed by it.

The jailbreak is discovered, and the hounds have Batman Junior's scent; because Superman Junior is half-Kryptonian, he has no scent, we're told. Bruce and Clark switch costumes in a weird logic that the dogs will chase the Batman costume worn by Clark instead of chasing Bruce (the source of the scent) now in Clark's costume. It's an excuse to see Batman fly around. The boys elude the policewomen and fight two half-gator monsters who sound just like the doubting women. The monsters fall into quicksand, and we suppose they die.

The sons investigate the monolith and are attacked by the cover monster who identifies herself as Sibyl, an alien cast out from her world and cursed with ugliness. Embittered, she creates a town of women to worship her. She's somehow weakened by man magic or something. Superman Junior traps her inside the monolith.

BUT WAIT! It's actually her spaceship, and the craft flies back to her homeworld automatically. There she's tried for her villainy and sentenced to a jail of mirrors to stare at herself for eternity. The sons meanwhile use their man magic to erase the Sibyl spell over the women, and the comic ends with Bruce Junior surrounded by love-hungry swamp women, including the previously alligator'ed gals we thought died in quicksand.

If I showed this to Your Sister, she'd explode in an eye-rolling paroxysm of feminist indignation. So of course I want to do it.

Story Grade: D
Nostalgia Grade: A++
Campiness Grade: Eleventy Bazillion A's

+ + +

I ran this morning, and beat yesterday's time by 18 seconds, just by pumping my arms faster. Eighteen seconds. I'm already in the Jefferson administration. I may run 3 miles tomorrow morning for variety. Maybe stick with my 2-mile regimen for this week. I need to establish this new habit, I think, I before I make adjustments.

It's possible that Your Sister will be through with school today. If she can add her grades to the state server and pack up the room, she's done. She's vibrating with hope.

In the News
So. Iran.

The newest newsy news says a ballot recount has been ordered by the high supreme religious cabal, but this isn't the do-over demanded by the reform movement. It's unlikely a recount will unseat the president. No one knows if the protests will burn themselves out or grow larger. These are two images I nabbed from The Big Picture, a fantastic hi-res news image site.

The supporters of top opposition candidate Mirhossein Mousavi flood the streets.

A protester helps a police officer to medical treatment after fellow protesters cornered and walloped him.

A supporter of the current administration gives a student protester what for. Check out her Chuck Taylors.

Theatre Doings

A teacher party blossomed Friday night, and there was much revelry and '80s music. Your Sister spread the word about her motorcycle, and the reactions continue to range from "cool" to "wait, you?!"

I had another theatre meeting, and we defined the one-act shows. There will be four (as of now), and our one-act will perform first (as of now). I told them my Mom actress bowed out, and they suggested names. I accidentally named the show. The original "Potpourri" title was shot down by the theatre president, and we brainstormed. I made a joke about summer shorts, and it stuck. So we're presenting Summer Shorts (as of now).

I found out two of my actors are working another of the one-acts, meaning we'll have to split our rehearsal time. As if we needed to make this more difficult. I did advocate doubling parts early on, but that was when we might have used the reading format. As decreed by the committee, we're to be off-script and use fully realized sets (as of now). We have three weeks to rehearse and learn lines, and splitting rehearsal time is going to add a new degree of difficulty.

As the meeting ended, I was asked to help out a reading committee pick plays to debut next year. I agreed with a disclaimer that I will only grab one or two plays at a time. I won't do six a week like last year, not when I'm directing a play that opens within a month (as of now). While I was there, Your Sis attended graduation, and we accidentally met up with teacher friends for lunch.

We drove down to Greenville to meet Your Sister's college buddy and her mom for dinner and a show. The meal was at a swank new place called the Lazy Goat, and it encouraged plate sharing for entrees. Lots of cheese dishes. The pizzas were good. I think I impressed the ladies when I ordered the Spanish wine in my approximate Spanish dialect. The waitress didn't guffaw, and I took that as a small victory.

They indeed got us tickets for Carousel at Greenville Little Theatre, my one-time stomping grounds. I've been away so long, I had to remind myself I performed there. It was a big show chosen to end the season with a bang. It's an early Rogers and Hammerstein musical similar to their Oklahoma! -- ballet sequences, songs for various romantic subplots, a theme for the bad guy, and an awkward ending. It called for all hands to work hard, and the cast was game. The theatre always set itself apart from the other small companies with superior technical resources, and we got a spectacle.

I went backstage to see people I hadn't in five years. One guy reacted like I was Marley's ghost, and the daughter of another actor recognized me from a recent viewing of The Odd Couple video. I wanted specifically to thank the theatre's artistic directors, and I did. I was almost teary. They gave one of four Glass Menagerie roles to an unknown hick, and I did five shows in all with them before I moved. I will never regret moving here to woo Your Sister. But I can easily see what I would do if I stayed in town. I'd be a regular with this theatre. My current company just can't compare. GLT is in another league of repertory and resources. It's not a fair comparison, but it makes our current efforts seem all the more paltry. It was a late-night drive to get back home, and I was wired from an after-dinner coffee and seeing old friends. I made much blah-blah.

I ran Sunday morning, and I've decided to now run every day for at least two miles, preferably in the morning. From our street to the nearest green light and back is slightly over two miles. Most of that is uphill, and I'm now running a smidgen over 18 minutes. When that time shortens, I'll go back to three-mile increments.

Your Sis graded papers. I called one of the suggested actresses and gave her my sales pitch. I learned quickly that she had already heard the pitch by my theatre liaison. I talked to her for an hour about the show, our theatre backgrounds and philosophies, and the pitfalls of community theatre fluff. I'm impressed. I was worried the show would be beneath her, and I pinned my hopes on our conversation sealing the deal. I tried to convince her the cast atmosphere would spark a strong show. As I pitched it, there are good stories, and there are weak stories told well. We can do the latter.

Your Sis finished grading research papers, and I treated her to dinner as the endcap to Debacle-nalia. We watched a Netflix movie and ate more anniversary cake (De-Bake-analia) to finish the evening.

Monday's morning run was 18:20. In American History, that's the Monroe Doctrine. I'd like to cut that to the first Continental Congress (let's say 17:40). Eventually of course I want to be at Columbus's arrival.As I chugged up the last hill, Your Sis drove by on the way to work. Normally, I'd still be in bed.

The actress called and agreed to do the show. She had concerns about certain lines, and I assured her of I'm approaching the show as a sitcom, but not a stupid one. The humor comes from sincere delivery, not from yuk-yuk slapstick and clowning. She will have her dignity. I hope to start rehearsing next week.

Picture of the Day
I start every morning right with a big bowl of Trooper-Os.

Almost Done, Almost Starting.

Your Sis had a light day at school, but parent conferences continue. One student decided to writer her final research paper as an expanded outline, and no adult could explain it. If she had decided to write it in Mandarin, they couldn't be more surprised.

Today's conference concerns a failed paper that discarded all citations. That's technically plagiarism, and that's an automatic zero. The child, I'm told, had a tantrum, a literal tantrum, over the grade, and his helicopter mom wants to talk about whatever can be done to allow her golden child to pass the paper. She's a parent infamous through the school for her dotage, and there's no telling how tenacious she'll be. Your Sister worries about meetings with such parents, and I try to reassure her by reminding her that the parent can be given a first-class ticket in my sun rocket.

I ran again last night, and it hurt. I ran too fast, and it was too hot, and it had been too long since I last ran. Wah.

Your Sister was to go visit her college buddy across the border tomorrow. I was invited, but Your Sister vetoed so she could have alone time with her. But she didn't tell the friend, and a recent phone message suggests she bought theatre tickets and restaurant reservations for me too. I assume the tickets are for my old theatre's current production of Carousel, one of those big musicals, and I wouldn't mind seeing it. But as I type, I'm not planning on going. I have to let the womenfolk straighten it out.

I do have a theatre meeting tomorrow so the summer slate can be nailed down. I have to inform the committee that my mom actress is officially out of the one-act, and that complicates matters. With so many planned shows, who is left to take that role? Also, that means we have to practically start from scratch for rehearsals, and that feels like the choriest chore that ever chored. I dread this. I think it's a lot to ask for a cast to go through rehearsals and performances for the same show twice in three months' time. If there's an opportunity to back out, I'll take it. But we have the longest one-act out of all the suggested plays, and we would anchor each night of performances. They need our show.

In the News
This from the AP:

WASHINGTON (AP) -- An 88-year-old white supremacist has been charged with murder for killing the security guard who had opened the door to let him into the U.S. Holocaust Memorial and Museum, officials said Thursday.

Security Guard Stephen T. Johns was shot to death Wednesday by Holocaust denier James von Brunn, who had left his car in a lane of traffic outside an entrance to the museum before walking in with a concealed rifle, District Police Chief Cathy Lanier said at a news conference.

Von Brunn, who once tried to kidnap members of the Federal Reserve, started shooting immediately, exchanging fire with guards who shot and critically injured him, stopping him from entering the museum and hurting anyone else, Lanier said.

In his car, officers found a notebook with a handwritten note saying, "You want my weapons - this is how you'll get them. The Holocaust is a lie. Obama was created by Jews," according to a court affidavit.

The museum was closed and flags flew at half-staff Thursday in honor of Johns, 39. Washington Mayor Adrian Fenty said quick work by law enforcement "literally saved the lives of countless people."

That Homeland Security Domestic Terrorism report is looking more correct every week.

I clearly recall our trip to that museum. The patrol dogs and the metal detectors were impressive enough, but Your Sister had to drink from her water bottle to prove she wasn't carrying acid. A representative of a security guard union says the guard should have been given a bulletproof vest. I'm not sure how effective they are against rifles such as the shooter carried.

This is the third politically motivated shooting in a month, along with the Army recruiters killed in Arkansas, and the abortion provider in Kansas. This latest shooter is yet another true believer who accepted the unfounded rumor that the new administration was trying to guns. Then again, he was a rabid ass, and he shrugged off logic long ago. Given his previous arrests, I wonder if he was legal to have guns. And, if so, how.

News Picture of the Day
Also from the AP wire:

A supporter of leading challenger and reformist candidate Mir Hossein Mousavi, wearing a cape of the party's color green, joins thousands of supporters from both political groupings as they roam the streets at night amidst a festive atmosphere, in Valiasr square in central Tehran, Iran, late at night on Wednesday, June 10, 2009. Iranians go to the polls on Friday, June 12, 2009 after a hotly contested election campaign pitting Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad against leading challenger and reformist candidate Mir Hossein Mousavi, amongst others. (AP Photo/Ben Curtis)

The Plan Was Cupcakes.

We received a letter from our dial-up internet provider saying that they were dumping our county. Well, hell. We had discussed moving to high-speed through another company, and this more than nudges us to that option. We'll get wireless for Your Sister's school laptop too.

I avoided high-speed for a few reasons. First, it was too expensive, but we just closed my student loan, and money has become available. Most important, I can easily find myself addicted to web material. No, not THAT material. I mean games. I used to love my PC games, and they gradually moved to online play with multiple players. I dropped those games because of this; I didn't want to drift along with them and lose all contact with sunlight. I don't think I'll return to them when we get the fast connections, but I will be wary.

On the way home yesterday, I planned to run into the grocery store and buy cupcakes. But the store only offered mutant cupcakes that didn't fit my image for dessert. I like my cupcakes small. Muffiny. These looked like frosted croissants. I spied half a red velvet cake, which I know Your Sister adores. I also grabbed a number candle. As I was headed to the register, I rethought the half cake. It wasn't enough. A full cake was called for. Also, if Your Sister visits her college buddy this weekend, she can take half of it for them to eat while they catch up. Back to the bakery section. Five minutes later, I arrived home and met her at the door.

"Oh, wow. A cake," she said.
"Yeah. You know, just something for the anniversary."
"... [blink, blink] AWWWWWWWWWW. I SUCK."
"No no. You're busy. It's a busy week."
"I SUCK."
"It's okay. You've been buried in grades."
"AWWWWWWW."
"Come on. Look. Cake."
"You should have married the other one."
"Fine. I'll eat all the cake."
"I didn't say that."

We made pizza and started the recently arrived DVD of Sex & The City. It's very good. If you enjoyed the series, you'll revel in the film. It's as good a romantic comedy as one can find. Midway through I paused the film and asked if she was ready for cake. She was. I candle-fied it.


Your Sister is now through with classes. She's babysitting two students today who are making up class time. She had a conference with the Door Pounder, his wife, and their daughter yesterday, and it went fine. I can shoulder my husband fury for now. It's simply hyperactive chivalry that longs to dispense a clobbering on her behalf. A sound trashing awaits the scalawag who besmirches her. Boppity boppity boppity.

Jailhouse-iversary

Four years ago, within a span of two hours, Your Sister and I bought a house and married. This was only two weeks after I asked her to marry me. I picked up the ring from the jeweler's on Monday, May 23, and asked Your Parents' permission later that afternoon. Your Dad offered only this word of advice: "Never play Scrabble for points." Has he met Your Sister? She washes dishes for points.

The next day, we put in the bid for the house and heard back within 48 hours. Suddenly, we had acreage and plumbing and carpeting and realized we needed to get married before we could move in. Marriage became an immediate matter, not just an abstraction for the weeks between semesters.

Technically, she asked me to marry her. It was nonchalant. This was in my Mayberry apartment, right across the parking lot from hers. "I guess we need to marry now. How about it? Will you marry me?" I called a time-out and said we need to do this right. She didn't know I had the ring yet, and my preparation started the tears. I ran into the bedroom to get the ring, sat next to her on the couch, and delivered the most important sales pitch of my life. It hinged on a plain declaration. "You're the best woman I've ever met." The gist of it was that she's the kind of woman a man -- a wise man -- has to marry because he will never meet a woman one iota better. I still believe that. And I'm ridiculously in love with her. She tackled me as an acceptance.

The next day was her birthday. She said later that she was glad I wasn't proposing to her on her birthday because that would be lame. I confessed that was my plan. Oh well.

Two weeks later, we picked up the marriage license on my lunch break after lying to the boss about why I'd be late for work. Work was hosting a giant formal ceremony, and she would have exploded with anxiety if she knew we were marrying that same weekend. The next day, we signed the house paperwork (Warning: home ownership begins with a half hour of signatures.) and stood in front of the judge with four teachers as witnesses.

I went back to work and returned to town few hours later. I pulled into our new driveway, past our new mailbox, and met Your Sister at our new door. The neighbors came over to introduce themselves, and we all realized at the same time that we already knew each other. He drove school buses, and she was in my community-college Spanish classes. When Your Sister said we just got married, the neighbor wife grabbed her husband's arm and said, "We need to leave them alone. Bye!"

We ate Cornish hen on the floor where we'd later place our table, and we slept on the bedroom floor. Our first night as a married couple. The next day, we boxed up the apartments and began organizing the house for the move.

The next clear thing I recall is that the oven went kaput about two weeks later when the thermostat gave up the ghost. Oven quickly replaced; problem quickly solved. It was our first household emergency, and we already knew we could work around it. We had no doubt. That might be the firmament of our relationship: We have each other's back, and I know she can handle the unexpected and inconvenient. I think she knows that of me.

It doesn't feel like four years. Not at all. According to tradition, this is the "fruit/flowers" anniversary. Phooey to fruit. I'm thinking of buying her cupcakes.

+ + +

Her first teacher conference went well, and the parent acknowledged that blame lay squarely on the student. Today, she talks to the ass who pounded her door Monday. If he's not nice, I'll pound him.

Picture of the Day
As part of his USO tour of Baghdad, Steven Colbert shaved his head in front of the troops.



That's the chief of the multi-national force doing the honors. Obama appeared via video to formally order the four-star general to make with the shearing. You can watch it here.

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Obama Orders Stephen's Haircut - Ray Odierno
colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Stephen Colbert in Iraq

This Is Why I Don't Teach.

I called my cast to ask if they wanted to do the one-act again and if they were available. The lead actress was already questionable; she's on the record against memorizing the script for a full stage version. I did try to steer the theatre toward the radio format, but they haven't bitten yet. I'm not sure who we'd get to replace our lead. There are some options, but they might be tied up by the other summer shows, and this is exactly the concern I initially had with this project: not enough actors for too many shows.

The other actors are aboard and said they'd start learning the script. I'd like to get some official schedule from the theatre. We may have five groups of actors for only two rehearsal spaces.

I returned home and planted myself at the small table to mark up research papers. I stayed there for about six hours. My half of the proofing is now done, and Your Sis can focus on the hundred other things required before Friday. She accidentally dodged an angry parent yesterday -- a parent who apparently didn't bother to read emails or listen to the phone messages that told him all semester that his daughter was failing. Now he's mad. We know this because he was spotted pounding her locked door after school while she was on bus duty. The principal wants her to have a conference with this yahoo, and I told her to demand the principal also sit in. Not that there's much to discuss. The girl plagiarized her paper. That's an automatic zero.

Another parent was upset by the grade handed down by the local college board. The board grades some senior papers to prepare the kids for collegiate standards. The student failed. The parent demanded it be graded again. And it was. The paper got a lower grade. The parent was not amused.

I've offered before to shadow Your Sister in such cases. I can easily come to the school and present myself as another concerned parent. I can stick near her classroom and make sure the morons behave themselves. If the goddamn school can't assure the safety of teachers, I will. I don't even have to use a fake name.

This happens every year. Parents stay ignorant of their kids' grades and find out when it's much too late to do something. Your Sis sent messages to parents virtually every weekend for a month, but only in the very last days do the warnings sink in. It's no wonder the kids think they can pass by asking nicely and making puppy eyes.

Another teacher is facing an outraged parent objecting to Kite Runner for a summer reading requirement. There is an option in place of moral indignation: the student takes on another project to make up the grade. The parent, however, says this singles out her daughter unfairly. Again, kids are being taught that rules are unfair and can be subverted by pouting. I suggested to the teacher that the child simply be moved to another class. If she or the parent doesn't want to take advantage of options for that level of English, the kid can enroll in the next lowest level.

I mean, I agree no kid should read Kite Runner, but not on moral grounds. The book is crap. I practically threw it against the wall when I saw a cynical prediction come true. I told Your Sis that if a certain character returned to frustrate the adult narrator, the book would be the worst thing ever written. And he does. And it is. And I almost punched a book.

Picture of the Day
This might be blog House overkill.