Can't judge a book by it's cover, unless that book is reading a book, thus allowing judgement of former book by said cover of latter book.

Remember Allistair Winslow Thurston-Sackville? The pale, simple Victorian child-headed chap from the train. I saw him again this morning reading a book! I was so excited. Finally, some illumination on the essence of this strange person. As he was holding the book and reading, I could only see a partial title at first. I saw "Dict..." Dictionary, I deduced, must be a dictionary. Dictionary of Simple Phrases for the Man-Child? Dictionary of Commonly Used Words for Asking Mommy to Make a Jam Sandwich? What could it be???

I watched him concentrating, on the book, almost seeing the information process in his brain. All of his actions and reactions are so slow and deliberate. He blinked and swallowed and raised his eyebrows at intervals, never taking his eyes from the page. I stared at the cover of the book for 8 minutes, waiting for the title to be revealed. There was no bloody way I was going to turn my head for a second and miss seeing it. The rare occasion to get a key into a mystery like this is too precious to screw up.

At last, as we pulled into central station, he closed the book and I saw the title:
Dictatorship as Experience: Toward a Socio-Cultural History of the GDR. What the HELL???

The Google books description is as follows:

A decade after the collapse of communism, this volume presents a historical reflection on the perplexing nature of the East German dictatorship. In contrast to most political rhetoric, it seeks to establish a middle ground between totalitarianism theory, stressing the repressive features of the SED-regime, and apologetics of the socialist experiment, emphasizing the normalcy of daily lives.

Right, so...not what I was expecting. I stand by my assessment of this chap being odd as hell, but I guess he's not as simple-minded as I thought. Can't judge a book by it's cover, or rather, can't judge a man by his bizarre appearance? But can you judge a bizarre man by the cover of his book?

Grow operation

I don't know how it happened, but I've turned into a morning person. I got up early this morning, even though it was saturday. It's hard to figure out what to do when you have to tiptoe around. I don't care for just sitting and reading first thing, so the out of doors is usually a nice option. Plus, there's my fascinating garden. I wasn't sure it would happen this year, due to the copious bug predators and incessant cool rainy days but I have cucumbers en tabernac, as they say, and zucchini, tomatoes, peas, yellow beans, lettuce and even a strawberry or two. Come autumn, I should also have onions, carrots and beets. Look at me growing stuff! I'm so cool! Really, I just put the seeds in the ground, water them and hope for the best. Please enjoy this photographic document of this morning in the garden.

1976-1980, the years of influence.

For some reason, I've always had the urge to give myself bad haircuts. I have a perverse enjoyment of having terrible hair, much to the dismay of any hairdresser I go to. Conversations at the salon usually go as follows:

"Hmmm. Did you cut your own hair again?"
"You know I did."
"You should try not to do that anymore."
"I know, but I probably will anyway."

or

"I don't understand what you want me to do with your hair exactly. What look are you going for?"
"Well, like a trucker, who's been at a 1973 disco all night but maybe has a tendancy toward mania and with a touch of like, viking prince, like in Bergman films, you know, but not too 'I take belly-dancing classes and eat stew all the time'."
"Could you please leave and never come back?"

I usually get suddenly inspired and know exactly what I want to do to my hair. What's fun is, I never know why or where it comes from, until I look at it after and recognize what I was going for. This week's look is clearly derived from the tender years between the ages of 3-7. At first I kept looking at myself thinking, what was I going for?? Scottish soccer player from 1974? An extra from the Love Boat?? I was on the right track, but finally, this morning, I figured it out exactly.

Here's my cut.



Okay, so obviously Benny (second from left) from ABBA was a huge influence on this cut. I did spend many hours staring at all the members of ABBA while listening to their records around the age of 3 and 4. Very impressionable years. Why I wasn't more influenced by the ladies, I'm not sure...


And then there's the severe and unshakeable influence of the Bay City Rollers, in particular, Derek, the drummer (n the middle). Now, my preference was always for Les, the dude at the top right, so I can't explain why I went for Derek's hair, but if I ever do go for the look of Les, please put a stop to me. Thanks to my sister for warping my young mind by having this band inundate my soft-moldable-clay, years of 3 and 4 by having numerous teen magazines featuring them, their records playing constantly and even a saturday frigging morning, Bay City Rollers tv show to watch! By the way, my sister liked Eric (bottom right).


And finally, the deeply powerful, monolithical force, of the fashion stylings of Joyce DeWitt who, let's face it, influences us all in a profound way.


If nothing else, it gives me a good laugh when I look in the mirror, which is better than retching anyday and it costs nothing. Economic and amusing. Self-styled hair massacre, the Olympic Sport of the future!(In a perfect world)

Like a barn owl with 2 tickets for the opera

I went for my yearly check-up today. My doctor's office is right beside a hospital. There's always an array of people in wheelchairs, smoking outside the hospital entrance. This morning, there was a man, at least 375 years old, slumped over in his wheelchair, head dangling down and to the right, cigarette about to fall from his loosely lain fingers, with a ghetto blaster on his lap, styling some Temptations: "Papa was a rolling stone...". I'm glad dude still found a way to have some soul, despite being in a state of utter dilapidation. Rock on my brother.

So it's the Annual Fall Psych-out 2008. Always, in the last weeks of August, it turns to autumn weather overnight for a week or so. The air chills at night, cold breezes blow during the day despite the sun on high. Sweaters, stored for the summer are pulled out of their hiding places...then, the second week of September, it gets hotter than a barn-owl with herpes, which is to say, real hot. What?? Just accept it.

I do so enjoy this early fall weather though, I must say. Summer has sped past like an Irish barn-owl with strep throat, that is to say, very quickly. Fine by me. I'm not a big fan of summer. It was cool when I was a kid, simply because of the no-school thing, but other than that...what I'm trying to say is...very little. There's a crisp chill in the air is all. Nature is readying itself to wind down for the year here. Makes you feel like curling up in a big wool blanket and sipping hot, soymilky tea, while watching the river shimmer and the leaves flutter and fall.

And maybe busting out a Temptations song or two.

Me need cookie to staunch bleeding.

Deep breath. Severe run-on sentence ahead:

You know those bands you champion through your twenties and then, at the last concert you go to for them, you look around and everyone is about 10 years younger than you, and you realize that you just don't have the energy to push to the front anymore and you become the old people standing in the back by the bar, with a beer; the ones you used to look at wonder why they bothered coming; and then you do wonder why you bothered coming, because being at home, listening to the album while laying on the couch, seems more appealing than trying to see over the heads of 500 squirmy adolescents, who have unlimited resources of energy to devote to fanship.

So then, you stop looking for articles about the band or noting when their new album comes out, or the one after that or the one after that and all of a sudden your 34...

Brief interruption. A young jocky guy just sat down beside me on the train with his homemade peanut-butter and jam wrap for breakfast, with a bottled, Starbucks frappucino and he's voluntarily reading an article in a magazine called "International Standards of Auditing", in what I presume is an accountant's magazine? Accountants Monthly? Today's Accountant? Is it that much of a lifestyle that it warrants a magazine?

Anyway, so one day, out of complete boredom with everything in your record collection and possibly life, this band you used to love pops into your head. Like a grounded teenager, stuck in their room, that still has some childhood toys buried deep in the back of the closet, you pull out one of this band's old records (like the teenager pulls out the old Fischer-Price hospital) and start playing it and it's still awesome. You remember why you loved it so much. By the way, playing with the Fischer-Price hospital is still awesome, especially if you have the Fischer-Price Sesame Street characters they put out in the 70s. I have Susan, Gordon, the Cookie Monster and Oscar the Grouch. I like to make Cookie Monster perform surgery on Gordon with Oscar the Grouch assisting. "Me need cookie to staunch bleeding, STAT!".

After playing the album, you start to wonder what the band is up to these days, so you go and download that beeyatch from iTunes and are pleasantly surprised to discover that the band is still making great records. All of a sudden you feel so refreshed and feel that entropy has been held at bay, ever so slightly, for just a little while longer. Sometimes, you hear the new stuff and it sucks so bad and you regret even knowing about it...but that's not what happened today.

This morning, I tried out, not the newest, but the second newest album by Sloan (because there's nothing wrong with a little caution) and it's really, really good, especially when I make Susan and Gordon dance to it. So thanks Sloan, for not sucking yet and screw you Fischer-Price, for totally not making toys like you used to.

Amen.

Who's got the fuzziest poop of all the pretty kitties?

Who's pretty?? Who is a pretty kitty?? Who's a fuzzy fuzz pooper poop? Is the kitty
a fuzzy pooper?? Yes he is! Yes he is!!



Chippychip is finding new ways to encroach on all my activities at home. If he could drape himself across my face for the entire day, I do believe he would. Chippy chip! Chip chip!

Remember when I used to write blogs a person might actually want to read? Those were the good old day. (I think it probably only happened on one day at best.)

Sincerely,

Monsterteeth.

Worrying about Harry Dean.

I was vacuuming up kitten hair this morning and worrying about Harry Dean Stanton. He's really quite old. I love that guy. He has never been in anything that he didn't completely kick ass in. Even as the dad in Sixteen Candles. That tiny little part. Who wasn't moved by Andie's sad, lonely dad, trying his best to raise a daughter through his grief at being abandoned by the woman he loved. His character had more richness to it, thanks to him, than the entire rest of the cast put together! And The Straight Story, C'MON! How fantastic was he in that? At the end, the look on his face, when he realizes his brother drove all that way on a tractor. The heartbreak and regret mixed with being overwhelmed by the show of love it took to do that, all expressed in his face in under 5 seconds. Or how awesome was he in Wild at Heart? Alien, Paris Texas, even the Wendell Baker story, which sucked, by the way. I knew it would, but I love me some Wilson brothers so I watched it anyway.

If you love Harry Dean like I do, I suggest you rent The Wendell Baker story just so you can watch the extras. There's an informal chat session with Harry Dean and Seymour Cassel and Luke and Andrew Wilson. He's fantastically cranky and existential, but he's struggling with the void. Yes, you can tell all that, just from a little 20 minute chat. I have a feeling all conversations with Harry Dean are that revealing. At the end, he does this beautiful acoustic rendition of an old Blue grassy standard, Rock Salt and Nails. Just him singing and playing guitar. It's worth the price of purchasing the DVD even to have that little gem. If the Wilson brothers were truly savvy, they'd have just made a documentary about him and Seymour Cassel. Just the two of them talking about their lives. Maybe I should call them up and tell them. Or just do the damn thing myself! I wish.

Anyway, if you were here, dear reader, I'd tell you to come over and have a Harry Dean marathon night with me. We'd drink whiskey and dress disheveled and bask in the glory of Mr. Stanton's brilliance.

"Out there Calistan way, hey hey."

I LOVE MY KITTEN!!

And I miss T out Calistan way. Lookin' serious.



That is all.

Emotional

Ug, it's been a hard couple of weeks. PMS, sick kitten, T in California, vet visits, bananas for dinner....

I've been relying pretty heavily on the Avett Brothers Emotionalism record to get through it all.

Check it out.