Thursday, March 01, 2001

I can be such a cruel bastard. I am currently exchanging emails with a friend from CTR about a woman with whom we worked (and for whom, professionally, we had very little respect) who changed her neame from a very square-sounding dork name to something that sounds like a making-fun-of-new-age-woman name. It's getting out of hand but it sure the fuck is funny.

You know, I really am getting hooked on the ultimate insult blog. Red Dwarf sure gets some great links. Follow the link at left and make sure you check out the Gallery of Regrettable Food. It was featured on a few weeks ago and is worth the price of admission.

Tuesday, February 27, 2001

Here's a little article about women traveling in open motorcars in Arizona to supplement the entry below.
When I was a kid I spent a fair amount of time with my grandmother and her friends. I liked the old people. I liked their calm and their gratitude (my grandmother did not hang out with the bitter and nasty variety of old people, at least not much). By far my favorite person was her dear friend Yndia Moore, a person she had known for more than seventy years. Yndia was the epiome of a classy lady, elegant in dress and manner, utterly charming and with superb stories. She had a way of transplanting me into an utterly different time, as when she told about the Yuma plank road which stretched from Yuma, AZ to San Diego. She had traveled on it when she was a young woman in 1923 or so and told the story of stopping at Indian Wells, a waystation in the deep dunes. She described the choking sand and the unbelievable heat, the frequent stops to add water to the boiling radiator, the endless brightness of the desert sky and the politeness of fellow motorists:

"The plank road was one lane and the pull-outs were infrequent, so there was a "code of the road" which said that the first person to spot an oncoming car had to pull out. The trouble was that the plank road was laid over deep sand in many places, so pulling off meant getting stuck, so the motorists would back up until they came to either a pullout or a firm spot in the sand. You'd see a model T driving backward on planks, driver craning his head back and the kids screaming delightedly from the back seat. In those days many drivers wore goggles and driving gloves. When we got to Indian Wells there was an adobe road house with walls about four feet thick. I remember stepping down into the impossibly dark and cool interior, my bare feet on the cool tile floor. There was a fountain which bubbled deliciously and I drank cool water from a tin cup which an old Mexican drew from an olla hanging in the archway."

Yndia was classy, all right. I remember seeing her at my grandmother's funeral and wake. She wore red, but her hat was black. Looking at her I missed my grandmother more than I thought possible for one human being to miss another. She leaned over and patted my arm and told me another story.

Monday, February 26, 2001

I suppose this crisis of mine relating to blogger has come to a head. You see, I work for a small company for whom security is an issue. Uberhaus was great in its day because it was largely anonymous and I was free to use whatever pseudonym I wanted. But now with this weblog the cat is out of the bag, so to speak. I can no longer hide behind false names (my favorite being "clark clarke") and so I much less apt to disclose true and personal matters. I have even given a pass to writing new poetry. This is a bad thing, I think, becvause it was always the poetry and short fiction which made me feel good about myself. Now it seems I mostly work, reading about droll shit like international banking and wireless trends in Japan. It's great to work from home, be well-paid and be working with dynamic and brilliant people in a business which is very exciting and has amazing fiscal potential... don't get me wrong here. But I am forsaking the part of myself I love best, the part of me which all this work is intended to benefit.

This is a common problem, I guess.

But an anonymous weblog... now that would be somethin'. I could fill it with some fabulous, fabulous stuff. Real gritty, etc.

Maybe I will.
Periods of crisis, periods of calm, periods of crisis again. The cyclical nature of my life (yours too, probably) is not in the least disturbing to me, but I find it exhausting. Again I speak in general terms because this weblog is not anonymous (I am tempted to put one up which is not, but am hesitatnt to use GeoCities or some other such nonsense), but suffice to say that this has been an emotionally trying weekend. Being a parent is great but hard. Being a step-parent is much, much harder and sometimes not so great.

I am reading The Ogre by Michel Tournier. An excellent book which is rich and philosophical while, at the the same time, retaining a creepy pot-boiler aura. It's hard to find but worth the search. Sometimes books can color even your dreams.