Psychoboss is officially gone. I think I have Stockholm syndrome. :-(


A little boy waved at me in the rain on Wednesday.

The demographics of my old neighborhood are changing. They're always changing, I suppose. Lately the crumbling concrete Virgin Marys are disappearing from front lawns, replaced by various things -- a lawn chair, a bike, a German shepherd on a leash, a large stuffed and sun-faded toy tiger for reasons I don't pretend to understand. Sometimes they are replaced by small collections of pastel flags, forlorn in the rain but pretty and light in the wind. I see them in the mornings as my bus drives through, never really getting a proper look, always wondering what they signified.

I slogged through the rain on Wednesday, past a house I've passed often over the years, made of faded pink, pebbled brick. A tiny stone donkey, paint chipped, has been "pulling" a cart on that front lawn since I was an infant and over the years a white wrought birdbath has slowly turned grey. Once, there were a family of Nigerians there, who would come out on the porch -- four men, three? -- in summer, and call to me from across the street and try to make me turn my head. Miss? Miss? Hey, how are you, Miss? Miss?

They had no flags.

Then the house was emptied out (onto the front lawn), and then the house was empty. And then the little donkey lost his cart.

On Wednesday I walked through the rain in a black coat and a bright red umbrella, and a little boy, no more than three, with his head tucked snugly into a dark-brown patka came to the doorway -- he pressed his nose up against the glass door and waved and waved at me when I smiled, until a woman-shaped shadow appeared behind him and nudged him away.

Sikh flags! Mystery solved, and with such an adorable little grin.

A long time ago, a chubby little boy named Christopher lived in that house. We would dig in the dirt between the tree roots just outside his yard when at the end of summer days when bike riding became too tiring, and he had a piƱata at his eighth birthday party -- the first and last one I've ever seen in action.

Last week Christopher friended me on Facebook. He just got married.

All full circle now?

It was a nice day.
The Painted Bunting is ridiculously cute.
Today... the Return of the Falcon (carnage-free). under cut )

Random Understatement of the 21st Century:

Danzy Senna is a hell of a writer.

I HAVE...

Nov. 19th, 2008 10:27 pm
James Marsters reading "Summer Knight" on CD!

It's the oddest experience ever -- he sounds all...nice. How can I describe this?

I'm indoctrinated, okay? So it's always weird enough to hear him not doing his Spike accent. Double weird to hear him simultaneously doing [his own] American and enunciating in a trained and tutored fashion, that particular careful, precise, "[cough of drama] Come my children and you will hear..." book-reading thing. Triple weird that it all... fits -- as in, if I didn't know whom I was listening to, I would not hear this and think "oh hey, James Marsters!" I would think "wow, this gentleman has such a lovely soothing speaking voice." Yes, I would use the words "gentleman" and "lovely," and possibly even "delightful**," and then probably go on to sip tea or some such.

*attempts to stop envisioning him as Captain John Hart...*
*or any other variety of disheveled muttering hot guy*
*even though that might fit the character rather well, come to think of it*

Kinda reminds me he's a trained (Juillard!) ack-tor, not just a strong persona and a versatile face.


(Aw, he's giving the characters different inflections.)
(Oooh, aristocratic duchess voice! Er, Fairy Queen voice that is!)
(Oooh! Chicago accent when character is angry!)
(Okay, I'm stopping now.)


** and I do NOT use the word "delightful" lightly, I tell you.
Well, kinda. This is what I woke up to this morning (my alarm clock is "Cool Jazz CD 101.9" mainly because it's the only radio station I can both pick up and stand)

bald eagle comes off the endangered species list

I remember all the talk of this back when I was in first grade. Not so much after that.

From barely 400 mating pairs in the late '60s to nearly 10,000 now. That's pretty cool. Hope it lasts.

(Er... how are the condors doing? *Googles*)
tsubaki_ny: (Tsu)
Owwaaa!

It's Carole and Paula!!! )

*taps feet*
*whistles*
*is three years old*
Oh my god, the Magic Garden. Oh I am so old. Oh I have waaaaay too much free time today... *goes back to surfing YouTube*

(All I need now is Romper Room and I'm set for life...)

explanation of psychosis here ^___^
----------------
ADDENDUM:
WAH! Easy Reader! (Yes, that is Morgan Freeman.)

No wonder I'm so weird... ^______^
----------------
ADDENDUM 2:
Why yes, it is an excruciatingly slow work day.

Great Space Coaster
I was a little old for that one -- never saw a whole episode, but had fun listening to the ending credits as I got dressed for school.

ZOOM! The original! And cuter than a baby Degrassi.

The Bugaloos were the stuff of my 3-and-a-half-year-old nightmares. They tied the girl bugaloo to a week whacker! Or something. Something nasty. (I had no idea they were British...)

Menu Song
Aw! I remember this one -- it came on a little floppy vinyl record in the Sunday Daily News. I did not win the million dollars.

And a $10 challenge )
That one bugged me for rather a long time. ^^

(If I don't get un-bored really soon I'm going to start eating...)
What just randomly thunked upon my desk:


The. Wait. is. Over.

October 9, 2007

A novel by the
New York Times Bestselling Author of THE PILLARS OF THE EARTH

KEN FOLLETT

WORLD WITHOUT END



*cradles all 987 pages lovingly to bosom*


You have to understand -- in 1992, this book kept me sane when I was in a place where there was virtually nothing else to read in English except UK Cosmo and sub-Harlequin-standard romances circulated through the dorm about fifty times apiece. (This was before the Internet, dudes. My 3.5" floppy disks were edgy and nouveau. And floppy.) Pillars of the Earth was my favorite book for about five years. Hell, it's still up there near the top.

I mean, how is it possible not to adore a book that begins, "The small boys came early to the hanging"?


(Even Follett himself -- who wrote it completely on a fluke, out of his genre, and unpublicized, and was stunned by its nearly totally word-of-mouth success -- admits "This is the best book I ever wrote." Which... well, it's not conceited if he's right, is it?)

Er... okay, I'm veering into publicist-speak; the point is:

THE SEQUEL IS MINE! MINE!

WITH MY BIRTHDAY PRINTED ACROSS THE TOP!!

It's kismet, I tell ya.
--------------------------

EDIT: "advance uncopyedited** manuscript, NOT FOR SALE"


**Hee. :-D Follett in the raw. No, I'm not rubbing my hands together in anticipatory glee, why do you ask?

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