Is his identity revealed?
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Hang on
Saving the world will have to wait while I get this.
It's amazing, btw., how many trucks honked at Coco, how many people stopped to ask him if he was saving the world, and how many construction workers smiled and waved. Maybe because it's New York, but Spidey got quite a welcome.
The costume
See? The ultimate Spidey costume, because it's reversible. And, trust me, we make full use of this function (about once every 12 minutes).
And, in case you were wondering, the authority insists that what we have here is a costume. Peter Parker's is different. His is a suit.
the accent
The accent here is the weirdest.
I don't know if you were following my problems with being "axed" a question.
Coco was at the playground with his new Spiderman (reversible!!) costume and a little girl asked to see his "max." But even she realized how weird that sounded and tried it again, "ma-a-x."
Poor thing.
The dropped t is a secondary peeve. I don't mind it so much in others, but for some reason it bugs me when Madge says "ki'en."
This week I heard an even more extreme version of it when a lady referred to a "co-hang-guh" (dropped t, overenunciated g).
I don't know if you were following my problems with being "axed" a question.
Coco was at the playground with his new Spiderman (reversible!!) costume and a little girl asked to see his "max." But even she realized how weird that sounded and tried it again, "ma-a-x."
Poor thing.
The dropped t is a secondary peeve. I don't mind it so much in others, but for some reason it bugs me when Madge says "ki'en."
This week I heard an even more extreme version of it when a lady referred to a "co-hang-guh" (dropped t, overenunciated g).
Thursday, June 28, 2007
vacation
Eek.
Now my blogging time is being eaten up.
My voice recorder is collecting ideas, but how to tease them into a post is a mystery to me.
Recent recording: To say that a novel is plotted and planned like a chess game is not only a cliche, but a bad one. Many chess games are terribly obvious and lopsided. Those that aren't frequently end in a draw. Most of what happens in a chess game is beneath the surface and all you really see is some pawn magically making it to the last rank to be promoted.
The novels described as chess-like tend to be more domino-like, where everything gets set up painfully and then, pllllllllllllllllllllt, all fall down.
How did I get to thinking about this? Well, the ominous goldfish opening led to books on chess openings which take a simple beginning and explore several promising continuations.
For example, the classic Goldfish would lead to a frantic trip to the pet store to find identical fish as replacements.
But you could also have a Talking Goldfish Gambit in which the Goldfish begin to spill secrets about their owners.
Or the Literal Goldfish Sacrifice in which a child shaves the gold off one of the fish to make a ring, which turns out to be magic.
I'm just saying.
Now my blogging time is being eaten up.
My voice recorder is collecting ideas, but how to tease them into a post is a mystery to me.
Recent recording: To say that a novel is plotted and planned like a chess game is not only a cliche, but a bad one. Many chess games are terribly obvious and lopsided. Those that aren't frequently end in a draw. Most of what happens in a chess game is beneath the surface and all you really see is some pawn magically making it to the last rank to be promoted.
The novels described as chess-like tend to be more domino-like, where everything gets set up painfully and then, pllllllllllllllllllllt, all fall down.
How did I get to thinking about this? Well, the ominous goldfish opening led to books on chess openings which take a simple beginning and explore several promising continuations.
For example, the classic Goldfish would lead to a frantic trip to the pet store to find identical fish as replacements.
But you could also have a Talking Goldfish Gambit in which the Goldfish begin to spill secrets about their owners.
Or the Literal Goldfish Sacrifice in which a child shaves the gold off one of the fish to make a ring, which turns out to be magic.
I'm just saying.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Fish
You may wonder why Julie left such a panicked comment yesterday.
See, this weekend, one of the fish got him or herself stuck in the decorative leaves. It appears a fish does not have much of a “reverse” function. And, when we freed him or her, the fish spend a good bit of time floating belly up before paddling first with one fin and then sprinting around with both.
Understandably, Julie (never too much of an optimist) is concerned.
See, this weekend, one of the fish got him or herself stuck in the decorative leaves. It appears a fish does not have much of a “reverse” function. And, when we freed him or her, the fish spend a good bit of time floating belly up before paddling first with one fin and then sprinting around with both.
Understandably, Julie (never too much of an optimist) is concerned.
pre-k spells relief
Got a call yesterday, letting me know that someone dropped out of the half-day Pre-K program at Madge's school and that Coco can go.
Whew.
Now it's time to fill out antiquated paperwork.
Whew.
Now it's time to fill out antiquated paperwork.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Ominous openings
Some stories have great opening lines that suck you in and don’t let you go.
For example, from George and Martha, “George was fond of peeking in windows.”
Other stories have opening lines that can only lead in one direction.
For example, from Our Life in Park Slope, “We were taking care of our neighbor's goldfish.”
For example, from George and Martha, “George was fond of peeking in windows.”
Other stories have opening lines that can only lead in one direction.
For example, from Our Life in Park Slope, “We were taking care of our neighbor's goldfish.”
Coco Tuesday
Coco seems to equate vacation, (or, “bocation,” as he calls it) with leaving town. So I foresee some problems next week when Julie is taking some time off work – which, unfortunately means nothing to him, otherwise our problems would be solved.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Madge Monday
What a mixed-up day. Because of last week’s postponed picnic for Madge’s class, I was set to go to the park with them this morning. Then, as I dropped off Coco, I noticed that they were set up for their end-of-the year diploma-giving and sentimentalizing. Eek.
So I zipped back to Madge’s school and got her to attend as well, after which we’d meet her class in the park. So far, so good. Unfortunately, the final goodbye with Madge ended in tears – on her part, not mine. I’ve got a day and a half of relative freedom before the summer break (although the schools obviously do their best to impinge on it), so maybe I should have been the one crying.
There was a potentially awkward moment on the way back from the park. The kids were being antsy – they had been playing ballgames in the park, after all – and Madge’s teacher wanted some sort of order. So she said, “Hold on to your balls as you walk.”
I’m pleased to report that I didn’t draw attention to it then. That’s what the blog is for.
Finally, the pseudo-graduation. It was cute. And I think I deserve a sort of diploma as well because I reached a milestone today. See, John Turturro occasionally drops off or picks up his kid who attends Madge’s school. Today was the first day I actually looked in his face and nodded. Nonchalantly, I thought. I think I deserve a cookie for that. Now I’m ready to actually try a conversation next year.
Just you wait. Before you know it, we’ll be playing chess together.
So I zipped back to Madge’s school and got her to attend as well, after which we’d meet her class in the park. So far, so good. Unfortunately, the final goodbye with Madge ended in tears – on her part, not mine. I’ve got a day and a half of relative freedom before the summer break (although the schools obviously do their best to impinge on it), so maybe I should have been the one crying.
There was a potentially awkward moment on the way back from the park. The kids were being antsy – they had been playing ballgames in the park, after all – and Madge’s teacher wanted some sort of order. So she said, “Hold on to your balls as you walk.”
I’m pleased to report that I didn’t draw attention to it then. That’s what the blog is for.
Finally, the pseudo-graduation. It was cute. And I think I deserve a sort of diploma as well because I reached a milestone today. See, John Turturro occasionally drops off or picks up his kid who attends Madge’s school. Today was the first day I actually looked in his face and nodded. Nonchalantly, I thought. I think I deserve a cookie for that. Now I’m ready to actually try a conversation next year.
Just you wait. Before you know it, we’ll be playing chess together.
more test bashing
Markus commented on the "first-borns are smarter - yeah, right" post.
markus :-) said...
Talk about a representative population! 250,000 Norwegian men signing up for the military between '85 and '04.
I'll go one better and say that, because of the representative population, they figured that 2.3 points on an IQ test are a big deal and blew it way out of proportion. Because that's what, a 47% difference in their statistical sample?
markus :-) said...
Talk about a representative population! 250,000 Norwegian men signing up for the military between '85 and '04.
I'll go one better and say that, because of the representative population, they figured that 2.3 points on an IQ test are a big deal and blew it way out of proportion. Because that's what, a 47% difference in their statistical sample?
Friday, June 22, 2007
this is your brain on exams
I was forwarded an article with this title, “First-born kid a tad brainier than siblings, study says.”
I have a feeling, if a latter-born had written the article, the title might have read, “First-born kid way more willing to impress authority figures, especially on needless exams, study confirms.”
I have a feeling, if a latter-born had written the article, the title might have read, “First-born kid way more willing to impress authority figures, especially on needless exams, study confirms.”
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Response to Comments
Oooh. Comments. I love comments.
But since I fear nobody goes back to reread and see if I've commented on the comments, here is a separate entry.
The term defined by the Evanses, by the way, is "Pickwickian sense."
Now, of course, I'll have to use it in regular conversation.
As in,
Waiter: Are you still working on that?
Me: Yes, but only in a Pickwickian sense.
And then I'll laugh and Julie will roll her eyes.
Again.
This being New York, the actor-waiter will meanwhile have flashed a vacant smile and wandered off. The bus-person will have shyly refilled the water glasses and said, "Esscuse me, ees a cliche, no?"
And, hey, teacherAna, if you really want it, let me know. I still haven't worked through my Fowler (i.e., A Dictionary of Modern English Usage) for which I paid good money and to which I ought to refer first, anyway. And which, if you're nerdy like me, is a trove of good, clean fun.
But since I fear nobody goes back to reread and see if I've commented on the comments, here is a separate entry.
The term defined by the Evanses, by the way, is "Pickwickian sense."
Now, of course, I'll have to use it in regular conversation.
As in,
Waiter: Are you still working on that?
Me: Yes, but only in a Pickwickian sense.
And then I'll laugh and Julie will roll her eyes.
Again.
This being New York, the actor-waiter will meanwhile have flashed a vacant smile and wandered off. The bus-person will have shyly refilled the water glasses and said, "Esscuse me, ees a cliche, no?"
And, hey, teacherAna, if you really want it, let me know. I still haven't worked through my Fowler (i.e., A Dictionary of Modern English Usage) for which I paid good money and to which I ought to refer first, anyway. And which, if you're nerdy like me, is a trove of good, clean fun.
Discards
Our neighborhood is pretty awesome for many reasons. One of the main ones is the quality of books that people leave on their stoops when they’re cleaning house.
Within the last month, I’ve picked up, among other things, Writing Poems, by Robert Wallace (1982) – which, at the very least, is a nice anthology of poetry – and, my favorite so far, A Dictionary of Contemporary American Usage (1957 contemporary, that is), by Bergen and Cornelia Evans (siblings, not spouses). With names like those, I don’t know what other career they might have chosen, except perhaps vaudevillian funeral eulogists.
Between those two books, I’ll be ready to write some cutting-edge ante-post-Soviet mid-post-modern symbolist advertising jingles, or heavy-metal power ballads. Or news-quiz limericks.
Anyway, nosing around in the latter book, I came across this:
Which, really, sums up most grad school discussions. But now I’m getting personal.
Within the last month, I’ve picked up, among other things, Writing Poems, by Robert Wallace (1982) – which, at the very least, is a nice anthology of poetry – and, my favorite so far, A Dictionary of Contemporary American Usage (1957 contemporary, that is), by Bergen and Cornelia Evans (siblings, not spouses). With names like those, I don’t know what other career they might have chosen, except perhaps vaudevillian funeral eulogists.
Between those two books, I’ll be ready to write some cutting-edge ante-post-Soviet mid-post-modern symbolist advertising jingles, or heavy-metal power ballads. Or news-quiz limericks.
Anyway, nosing around in the latter book, I came across this:
The term has become a cliché of the literary and therefore should not be used in their company. It is totally meaningless to the unliterary and therefore should not be used in their hearing either.
Which, really, sums up most grad school discussions. But now I’m getting personal.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
when the cat's away, the mice miss her
Dear Readers,
In case you didn’t know, let me spell it out. When I write something to the effect of “Julie is out of town,” it means, “for God’s sake, send me an email or something because I’m tired of having my only conversational material be ‘put that down’ or ‘clean that up.’” Which is to say, when you see that Julie is out of town, go ahead an comment or send me an email.
Yours truly,
Mr. Lonely
Having sick kids in the house isn’t helping. I swear, for two nights in a row, the clock on the microwave was taunting me with “2:28” (exactly on the nose both nights) when Coco was “asking” (for lack of a better word) for something to drink.
And the straw that almost broke my camel-back yesterday was the fridge. Around five I saw that the beers were sweaty and thought “How odd.” Then, after the kids were asleep, it dawned on me. It’s not just freakin’ humid (it is), but the fridge isn’t working. The light was on, but the numbers indicating the coolness level weren’t on 4, they were on “-“ (maybe they were commenting on me, who knows).
After much frustration and some venting calls to Julie, I realized that I might as well try to move the thing, though it might fall on me and squish me. At least I would have gone out swinging.
But the fridge wouldn’t budge, so I’m still alive.
Luckily, I finally remembered that we have a fuse box.
In case you didn’t know, let me spell it out. When I write something to the effect of “Julie is out of town,” it means, “for God’s sake, send me an email or something because I’m tired of having my only conversational material be ‘put that down’ or ‘clean that up.’” Which is to say, when you see that Julie is out of town, go ahead an comment or send me an email.
Yours truly,
Mr. Lonely
Having sick kids in the house isn’t helping. I swear, for two nights in a row, the clock on the microwave was taunting me with “2:28” (exactly on the nose both nights) when Coco was “asking” (for lack of a better word) for something to drink.
And the straw that almost broke my camel-back yesterday was the fridge. Around five I saw that the beers were sweaty and thought “How odd.” Then, after the kids were asleep, it dawned on me. It’s not just freakin’ humid (it is), but the fridge isn’t working. The light was on, but the numbers indicating the coolness level weren’t on 4, they were on “-“ (maybe they were commenting on me, who knows).
After much frustration and some venting calls to Julie, I realized that I might as well try to move the thing, though it might fall on me and squish me. At least I would have gone out swinging.
But the fridge wouldn’t budge, so I’m still alive.
Luckily, I finally remembered that we have a fuse box.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Coco Tuesday
So now Coco is sick, too, but something is telling me it's not strep.
Maybe the "something" is called "wishful thinking," but still.
Crusty eyes, whinyness, fever, whinyness, runny nose, whinyness, fitful sleep. Have I mentioned whinyness? What am I forgetting? Oh, a shorter temper than ever.
But now he's asleep on the couch. Poor dude.
Let's hope we can go to Madge's picnic tomorrow. His school has one on the same day, but I'm not sure I can handle that, not to mention that, with him sick, I don't know how to shop for treats for said picnics.
Maybe the "something" is called "wishful thinking," but still.
Crusty eyes, whinyness, fever, whinyness, runny nose, whinyness, fitful sleep. Have I mentioned whinyness? What am I forgetting? Oh, a shorter temper than ever.
But now he's asleep on the couch. Poor dude.
Let's hope we can go to Madge's picnic tomorrow. His school has one on the same day, but I'm not sure I can handle that, not to mention that, with him sick, I don't know how to shop for treats for said picnics.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Madge Monday
Poor Julie. The guilt.
Julie left town on Sunday, Happy Father’s Day to me – thank you, so of course Madge got strep throat. She’s doing better now and thankfully she understands why she has to take the awful-tasting penicillin.
Oh, and “we” also have our neighbor’s goldfish in the house for a few weeks while they’re out of town. Every time the cat gets close, Madge screeches.
Joy.
Julie left town on Sunday, Happy Father’s Day to me – thank you, so of course Madge got strep throat. She’s doing better now and thankfully she understands why she has to take the awful-tasting penicillin.
Oh, and “we” also have our neighbor’s goldfish in the house for a few weeks while they’re out of town. Every time the cat gets close, Madge screeches.
Joy.
Shield your eyes
A requested by T-Bone - the Gin-Rummy champion of the 612 area code - a pic of me with the facial hair and new haircut.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Fade to what?
I know that fiction finds its sources in life, but I’m still surprised when I see the real-life models.
The other day I was picking up some items at a corner cheapo store (Save On Fifth). As I was leaving, I heard one of the employees say, “No, we don’t [indecipherable]” I looked and saw a guy in a stained tracksuit, with gray, slicked back hair get back into his crappy red Chevy SUV (with Jersey plates) that was filled with what looked like “prime” merchandise.
Without the Hollywood magic, that behavior is incredibly cheesy.
The other day I was picking up some items at a corner cheapo store (Save On Fifth). As I was leaving, I heard one of the employees say, “No, we don’t [indecipherable]” I looked and saw a guy in a stained tracksuit, with gray, slicked back hair get back into his crappy red Chevy SUV (with Jersey plates) that was filled with what looked like “prime” merchandise.
Without the Hollywood magic, that behavior is incredibly cheesy.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
lookin' good
Got a haircut yesterday. And read these lines by George Peele the same day:
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wand’reth lightly.
Coincidence? I think not.
Speaking of which, Coco sure has a thing for pretty girls – pretty by his standards, which appear to be those of a New Jersey mobster. Yesterday, he literally hounded this girl, probably eleven, at the playground. A mom and three kids (Brianna, Steven, and Taylor). Big gap between the first, the “pretty” girl and the little siblings. It must have been nanny’s day off, because the mom was totally overdoing the singing and jumping and chasing and playing and … You can always tell the inexperienced ones at the playground, usually aunties, uncles, or just friends, because they have no idea of pacing. If you don’t have dinner and bedtime in view at all times you’re going to be a wreck by 5 pm. As this lady will have been. And I think she bribed the girl (tight jeans, tight white shirt, padded bra, white hoop earrings – Coco called them “moon earrings”) to help out.
The mom also got the “Head and shoulders” lyrics wrong.
C’mon, people. Things rhyme.
“Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.” (repeat)
Then – and I know I’m a picky dork for getting irritated, but there you go – she sang/grunted:
“Eyes…ears…nose…and a mouth.”
And forgot about the rest of the song. Jeez. That song should be part of the parent application program.
The mom also thought that Coco wanted to play with her two-year-old, Steven. It was a bizarre love-play triangle.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wand’reth lightly.
Coincidence? I think not.
Speaking of which, Coco sure has a thing for pretty girls – pretty by his standards, which appear to be those of a New Jersey mobster. Yesterday, he literally hounded this girl, probably eleven, at the playground. A mom and three kids (Brianna, Steven, and Taylor). Big gap between the first, the “pretty” girl and the little siblings. It must have been nanny’s day off, because the mom was totally overdoing the singing and jumping and chasing and playing and … You can always tell the inexperienced ones at the playground, usually aunties, uncles, or just friends, because they have no idea of pacing. If you don’t have dinner and bedtime in view at all times you’re going to be a wreck by 5 pm. As this lady will have been. And I think she bribed the girl (tight jeans, tight white shirt, padded bra, white hoop earrings – Coco called them “moon earrings”) to help out.
The mom also got the “Head and shoulders” lyrics wrong.
C’mon, people. Things rhyme.
“Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.” (repeat)
Then – and I know I’m a picky dork for getting irritated, but there you go – she sang/grunted:
“Eyes…ears…nose…and a mouth.”
And forgot about the rest of the song. Jeez. That song should be part of the parent application program.
The mom also thought that Coco wanted to play with her two-year-old, Steven. It was a bizarre love-play triangle.
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