no.53 - Geese

This Sunday, as I went for a leisurely walk along the Charles River, I stumbled across an incredible sight. My wife and daughter were away for the weekend, and I was excited to tell them about what I had seen.

As soon as we spoke on the phone, I told my wife:

"There had to be fifty, maybe a hundred ducks, all gathered together in one place. They were snow white, with bright orange beaks and mean little eyes. And they were huge! Really enormous! I've never seen ducks that big! Our Sweet Pea has to see these ducks. They were incredible!"

My wife listened patiently and asked, "Are you sure they weren't geese?"

I paused.

My wife went on with a generous courtesy. "I think big + white + duck equals Goose."

Being wrong gave me a slow sinking feeling, like reality was slipping away - or more the point, reality had returned because for a few short hours I was unable to distinguish a duck from a goose.

I had wanted them to be ducks. My daughter loves ducks, not geese. Geese are foul-tempered, like swans, but without any of the grace. Ducks may also lack grace, but they are eminently charming and, as it slowly dawned on me, smaller and more manageable in size. Ducks are fun and funny and some varieties are beautiful. Geese produce disproportionately large turds even for their grotesque size. And they are mean. Ugly mean. They may have lovely white feathers when they can manage to keep them clean, but their faces are nasty:

If I had been raised in some far off, duck-filled land of long ago and was only now seeing a goose for the first time, it would be an understandable mistake. But this was not a demon of ignorance, this was sheer stupidity; failing to take in and coordinate the obvious facts in front of me.

I could blame myself, but I don't. Because of their nasty, flame orange, serrated beaks and their cold ice-blue eyes, I blame the geese. Because there are there, by the railroad tressle, planning all manner of ill-behaviors, I blame the geese. Because of their devilry in choosing to be little more than big mean ducks, I blame the geese.

But mostly, because it is convenient - I blame the geese.

no.52 - Sam Adams Cherry Wheat

Every so often I will see a seasonal variety pack of Sam Adams on sale and my first thought is:

"Is this from last year?"

If I determine it is not, and it is the start of the season, I will likely buy it. I like variety. I like diversity. It's almost like bringing home my own little liquor store. It isn't until I get a few beers in that I discover why this is a bad idea.

These seasonal "collections" are a Trojan horse. They sneak unwanted beers into my kingdom. Ten out of twelve will be fine, but two, I am convinced, are packed in so the brewery can fob them off onto an unsuspecting public.

This season's sneak beer is Sam Adams Cherry Wheat which is like Sam Adams lager except it tastes like someone dropped a Sucrets* into the bottle. I'll put up with that weird, pseudo cherry flavor to sooth a sore throat. I will not accept it from my beer. (My wife disagrees with me about the flavor suggesting, strongly, that it tastes more like Luden's.)

The bottle states it is a "Wheat ale brewed with real cherries." This might be true if the good people over at Sucrets use real cherries too.

I will admit that the slightly raw throat that I have been nursing for the last 24 hours does feel just a little bit better.

no.51 - The Sound of Injury

Yesterday, at the playground, I watched a toddler wander too close to a swing as it reached the opposite apex of it's trajectory. A moment later the boy was hit, full force in the head, and knocked flat to the ground.

Both the mother pushing the swing and I were half a second from preventing this, but each of us was too late. The boy sprawled out and immediately began to cry. I was glad of this, because silence would have been far more troubling.

The sound of the impact was terrible, the kind that Hollywood never gets right in it's over eager need to make every punch, kick and smack sound like a world-ending explosion. The wet, muted sound of a real hit is far worse, pointing to how fragile and mortal we are — soft skin and muscle around breakable bones. It does not take an explosion to injure or ruin us. Often it is far less.

The boy was fine, wailing at the shock, but otherwise unharmed. The nanny responsible for his care apologized to the mother pushing the swing. The mother was visibly shaken. The nanny assured her the boy was fine, that she had been a pediatrician in Romania and that the toddler was alert and responsive. Regardless of her comforts, my heart was pounding and it took me nearly as long to recover as it did for the toddler.

It was in this same park that my daughter, at two, shattered her elbow last year, requiring two pins and surgery. Even now I can hear the sound of the impact of her arm as she fell, the monkey bar ringing out like a low, un-tuned bell. Her elbow hardly made a sound at all. I don't know if this memory is accurate, or reconstructed, but I am sure that it is true.

no.50 - Crap Spam

For the past 48 hours I have been receiving a new kind of spam - the ugliest I have seen yet. It's hit all my mailboxes without discrimination or notice of who it is meant for. It is a small message selling nothing. It says, simply this:

your life is crap

At first glance, it would seem that someone is sending me a terrible judgment about what I have come to. No punctuation, just a rotten little statement, stripped of any frills. It's negative, thoughtless and inconsiderate, nearly to the point of sociopathology.

This callous message is designed to upset and prey upon anyone who might answer. The spammer knows that if he sends enough of these messages out, eventually he is going to hit home with a few miserable souls.

The "your life is crap" message, it nothing more than a taunting scout, goading an answer — any answer. All the spammer wants from you is confirmation that your e-mail is real and active so he can get to the business of real spam about "male enhancement", cheap pharmaceuticals, and online casinos.

At worst it will alert the spammers to another batch of the internet gullible, leading a tiny few down the path of stolen credit card numbers and emptied bank accounts. At best, it will have made everyone's day just a little bit worse.

If you are listening (and your probably aren't) there is one thing you should know my hateful little spamming friend, and I hope the irony hits you in the head like a frying pan: your life is crap.

no.49 - The Jeep Jerk

As I returned from picking up cold medicine and coffee for my wife this morning, I crossed the street and the path of an idiot. The walk signal was with me but despite this, a thin, weasel-like jerk in a jeep decided to drive around the first stopped car and try to run through the red light. No doubt he had an Very Important Day.

Unfortunately I was in his way. He glared at me. I glared back. Then, of course, he said what men like him always say:

"You got a problem?"

I did have a problem and the problem was him and his ilk. (His ilk irk me). But I failed to solve this problem. My lizard brain took over and I informed him he was an asshole. This headed us down an inevitable and unproductive path.

He opened his thin jeep door, perhaps so I could get a better look at his sour face and cheap tie.

"You want to start something?"

*sigh* Apparently I already had started something by walking across the street. I explained to him that he was being a dick.

"I should shoot you," he hissed.

"Go ahead," I answered, assuming he did not have a gun. I kicked his door closed. It was a good, solid kick. It felt satisfying. I kicked the door again for good measure, but I was failing to make any point because my behavior was as pointless as his.

He scrambled to respond but I did not see what happened next because I turned and walked away, pretending to be casual.

My macho brain and my lizard brain were now at odds, because the lizard wanted me to look back and macho brain insisted I pretend not to be concerned in the least. In an effort to compromise, my lizard brain suggested that if Jeep Douche did come after me, I should throw the hot coffee in his face. (Good plan, brain!)

But the Jeep creep did not exit his vehicle. His light turned green and he just sat there, neither exiting nor driving. I suspect he was paralyzed between his desire to keep being a douchebag and his fear of abandoning his Jeep and his Very Important Briefcase.

It is doubtful I could have spoken any words that would have made him understand what sort of a person he is — but I did not choose to try. This was not the better path. Instead we were just two men, raging at each other, accomplishing nothing.

no.48 - Renedudes

A few weeks ago, just after dark, my daughter and I were playing when her ball rolled into the kitchen. The kitchen lights were off. She stopped short, fear in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She pointed into the shadows, took a cautious step backwards and said; "Renedudes."

It gave me a chill.

"What's a Renedude?"

"They live in the kitchen. When it's dark." She said, taking up a position behind my leg. She pointed to her ball. "Will you get it please?"

In the weeks since, Renedudes have come up quite a few times. They are in the kitchen and they are mean. They like to scratch. A picture of them grew in my mind - these small blobby creatures with little black eyes — a cute nuisance like you might see on an old Scooby Doo. It turns out this picture is entirely wrong.

Yesterday I asked my daughter to describe them and she did. The Renedude is not pretty.

"They have big hands that end in long nails for scratching. And teeth. That have big, sharp fangs for biting. They are shaped like people but they aren't a people. They are crusty and bald. They walk on their toes."

"Do they have eyes?"

"They have big eyes that are tiny. Their toe is as big as my whole foot and they are so small you can't even see them."

This last part is obviously a bit of a contradiction, but she is only 3. I can remember a strange, horrible feeling when I was a child and things seemed to be big and tiny all at once — usually when I was having a fever dream. The Renedude, it appears, embodies this idea of small and large at once.

I don't have any clue how she came up with this name. It's both funny and a little ominous. But the real question is; where did the idea come from?

It is possible the creature she described is something primal to our subconscious. But I think it is more likely she somewhere, sometime, somehow caught a glimpse of one of those awful horror film commercials with a bald, fanged ghoul. I hate those things. Because she doesn't watch much TV, or any commercials, it could only have happened in a public space, like Best Buy or the Sandwich shop around the corner.

I curse you, unidentified horror ad. Now I am living with Renedudes.

Artist's concept

no.47 - The Demon Electric

Each night as I turn out the lights and head off to bed, I look across my living room and see a small constellation of LED lights. A camera, laptop and cell-phone are charging here. The TV, DVD-recorder, and cable box are sparkling there. My printer, scanner, speakers, and a half dozen hard drives storing my photography all glitter in the dark.

How much electricity is wasted this way? It might make a beautiful sight if the colors were not all garish reds and greens.

If I can, I cut them off at the source, flipping off the surge protectors that supply life to my electronics in groups of six, and eight and twelve.

The trouble is, if even a single item needs to stay on — to download podcasts, back up drives or record a late night movie — everything else on the little electric tree either must remain on too, or be unplugged by hand.

I never unplug them. Neither do you. All across America a small, slow seeping of energy trickles out into the ether through our microwaves, televisions and other devices, which wait for our morning return.

A composite of LED's in my home.

no.46 - Siamese Cat

Perhaps, like me, you recall that feeling of being in a darkened theater, watching Lady and the Tramp, when suddenly, to the borderline racist sound of a gong, two evil Siamese Cat's appear.

It gave me an awful, slow, sinking feeling, telegraphed by the none too subtle evil eyes and house full of shadows. Those cats were going to be awful. I would not travel to Siam!

I had seen far worse in films - shootings, exploding cars, vampires with crooked teeth, but even at four or five years old I was able to surmise two creepy cats seemed much more like something I might run across than Christopher Lee.

My father always had a distinct dislike of cats and these cartoon twins seemed to reveal that there might be more to it than itchy eyes. (Some of us wondered if those allergies were even real.)

"We are Siamese if you don't please."

That's confidence. Those two cats don't care. Watch them closely and you will see they lack all empathy. They are sociopaths, prepared to ruin Lady's life because it is fun and it serves them.

In the years since I first saw Lady and the Tramp I have met many cats with many different types of mental illnesses. (Though all of them seem to me to be at least a little mentally ill.) But Disney has left me with a subtle but distinct prejudice against this sleek little breed.

I know this is a trifle. It hardly matters. How often does one come across a Siamese cat? But it does give me pause, wondering what effect other portrayals might have had, not only on myself, but on others. There are far worse prejudices than those against a sleek cat and there have been portrayals both subtle and not that may be working back there to poison us. Like the flavor of a bad mango they do not go easily away.

no.45 - The Ungoogleable

I went to school with Leslie Nielsen. She was neither a star of goofball police comedies, nor was she a man. She was small, tough and unbelievably fast.

I knew her, but not well. I have no recollection of spending time with her outside of school, but the photo left shows that, at least once, I did. (she's the one on the right making a kissy face)

The other girl in the photo (left), is Amy, my good friend for many, many years. Somehow, after college, we fell out of touch. From time to time I would think about her, and wonder where she was and how she was doing. I tried to Google her a few times, but never with any luck.

Then, one day, Google's links seemed to reach further into the ether. Through some Googley detective work, I was able to locate a band she had been in, contact one of its current members, and get Amy's e-mail.

It was gratifying to learn she is well, happy and still involved in music. I was lucky there was only one musically inclined Amy Mackey on the internet.

Leslie Nielson
Originally uploaded by blinkofaneye

As for Leslie Nielsen, I have no idea what became of her and, if I wanted to find out, she is completely unGoogleable, obscured in cyberspace by the star of Naked Gun and Forbidden Planet.

She is not alone. The world is full of unGoogleable people whose identity is obscured by the famous or the infamous; who can't be found because their accomplishments are not listed online, or because their name is so common that they are buried in an avalanche of others. The googleSphere is a mixed up place.

Take Elizabeth Mitchell, singer in the band Ida, whose album You are my Little Bird my daughter adores. We were once briefly friends, too. She shares a Google search with the perpetually smirking actress on Lost, another singer who was part of a European disco cult band of the 70's and 80's, one of New Zealand's leading clothes designers and a fascinating paper and book artist. It's a good thing she has a picture on her site, and is one of the top five Elizabeth Mitchells in the world, or she too would be unGoogleable.

But of all the unGoogleable people in the world, the one I would most like to find is Mosley. (pictured right)

My wife and I are - or were - once her good friends. She helped my wife get her first job in Boston, and then disappeared to London. There were rumors and stories about the things she was doing there, including affecting an English accent, but as someone who starts to drawl after three minutes of thinking about Barbeque, I can tell you that such criticisms were both unfair, and unfounded.

Somehow on our honeymoon a few years later, (when the internet was but a digital embryo) we were able to find her again, have tea and reconnect.

She hosted us on our next trip to London and seeing her again was easy, comfortable and great fun. Then, without a word, she disappeared from our lives again, perhaps forever.

She was not, and is not missing, but I think she does not wish to be found. I don't know why this would be. Maybe she changed in some way that embarrassed her, like becoming a staunch conservative, or maybe she decided I'm only half as smart as I think I am. I am begining doubt we will ever know.

She is unGoogleable, cloaked between the inventor of Quality Circle Time, and a fictional character on a tween oriented Nickelodeon show that was canceled last year. She is unGoogleable, no matter how you spell or mispell her name, or what you know about her father and Tron or her Cafe, Aurora.

Perhaps she likes it this way.

Jennifer DeSola Mosely is unGoogleable, no matter how you spell it, but I am not. If you Google Greg Katsoulis, I am easy to find.

So, to take a page from Lynda Barry's book, 100 Demons: Jennifer Desola Moseley, if you're reading this, "Hello, it's me."

no.44 - Noir Infini

I think I may have just broken the law...

Recently I saw a bar of chocolate that claimed to be 99% Cacao and I bought it. How could I not? I heard rumors that such a chocolate existed, but to be honest, I did not believe. I could only but wonder, what holds such a confection together. Isn't it just ground cacao beans? Is it held together by magic? or glue?

The list of ingredients, written only in French, were of no help at all to this unilingual boy. Peeling back the label that had been stuck on (no doubt by American agents) lists the bar's dietary specifics but says nothing of the actual ingredients. Peeling off this label was useless, as the ingredients are repeated in several languages, but none of them are English. Does the FDA know about this? It can't be legal to sell or eat in the United States, can it?

Despite these legal concerns, I bought it anyway because, like scuba diving and driving to Mexico on a whim in the middle of the night, some things must be dared.

What does it taste like?

The simple answer is that it tastes almost exactly like a cacao bean. Is this really any surprise? It was the same flavor, but there was something more... It is as if the bean had been tamed, but it's primal heart preserved.

The bar itself is scarcely larger than a Hershey bar, though it's aspect ratio is different and comparing it to the Hershey bar, even in size seems like the sort of thing that might cause the fabric of space time to tear apart. But since I've opened that wormhole: the little bar cost me $4.50, for which I could have had five or six Hershey bars, but I am surely on the better end of the deal as a Hershey bar is just a rectangle of lard, sour milk and a pinch of gritty cocoa power.

The Noir Infini is fragile and hard. Mine (left) shattered before I took the small piece that has fueled me as I type with rapidly quivering fingers. To get the same effect from other chocolates you might need to inject them directly into the vein. This is the heroin of chocolate. This makes Lindt feel like a gateway drug.

I still don't understand what's holding it together. Even in French I can read that it says 99% Cacao minimum. Minimum? Could there be more? My god, I don't even know what is holding me together at this point.

They must grind and mash the beans and then press the bar into it's shape under the weight of a thousand elephants. At least, that is how I would do it. (Perhaps this is why I'm not chocolatier.)

The chocolate is smooth, which I find beyond puzzling. I don't know what "vanilla Bourbon en gousse" is (Mr. Lemon, any word on this would be appreciated) but it must have amazing qualities to allow a bean to turn into something so silky and smooth.

It is also bitter. Dear God it is bitter. It is a black hole of bitterness. You would think it would suit me just fine, given that I'm bitter, but it doesn't. I think I may prefer my chocolate in the 70% range. Curse you Michel Cluizel for revealing my chocolate wimpitude.

My wife declared that her mouth rebeled against the flavor at first, because one expects chocolate to be at least a little sweet, but then the complexity was revealed. She is, of course, tougher than I.

I am frightened by this thing, which now sits on a plate, waiting to send my heart in to tachycardia. It is too much chocolate for me. I would feel much better with a small package from the gentle Swiss chocolatier, Blondel. (Mr. Lemon?)