James V. Gasbarro
September 25, 1923 - May 29, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Dear Anonymous
Open letter to the anonymous person – or persons – who keep posting pseudo-religious, patently racist brain-puke to the comments section on my blog:
You want me to pay attention to your rant? GET TO THE DAMN POINT! And do it quickly. I might actually read your treatise if it wasn't so god-damn fucking long…and if I had even the slightest inkling of an impression of a suspicion that you had given my words the same respect you expect from me for yours. When I see 60 pages' worth of drivel in my comments, there is only one thing I will do – DELETE.
You see, I have a precious few readers who seem to enjoy the stuff I write, and who occasionally comment. I don't want them to have to scroll through 100,000 words of your hate-induced, keyboard-interfaced free-association just to read the next truly thoughtful and sincere commenter's post.
This is MY blog, and only I* am allowed ramble aimlessly before I get to the main gist of my topic…if there even is one.
So, you want me to read what's on your religion-polluted, bigoted mind? Consolidate HEAVILY, get to the point, and make some damn sense. Better yet? Don't post. I'll gladly read nothing if you'll put it up in my comments.
Thank you.
The Blog Administrator
*and certain select readers
You want me to pay attention to your rant? GET TO THE DAMN POINT! And do it quickly. I might actually read your treatise if it wasn't so god-damn fucking long…and if I had even the slightest inkling of an impression of a suspicion that you had given my words the same respect you expect from me for yours. When I see 60 pages' worth of drivel in my comments, there is only one thing I will do – DELETE.
You see, I have a precious few readers who seem to enjoy the stuff I write, and who occasionally comment. I don't want them to have to scroll through 100,000 words of your hate-induced, keyboard-interfaced free-association just to read the next truly thoughtful and sincere commenter's post.
This is MY blog, and only I* am allowed ramble aimlessly before I get to the main gist of my topic…if there even is one.
So, you want me to read what's on your religion-polluted, bigoted mind? Consolidate HEAVILY, get to the point, and make some damn sense. Better yet? Don't post. I'll gladly read nothing if you'll put it up in my comments.
Thank you.
The Blog Administrator
*and certain select readers
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Henry Jones and the Deckmen
I have a big deck!
Well, okay…it's not all that big, after all…does size really matter? And I guess it's technically called a balcony.
The apartment complex where I live decided to put new roofs, siding and balconies on all the buildings, as well as renovate the clubhouse where the pool, meeting room and gym are…apparently because I moved in, as it all started right after I got here.
This is what the old decks looked like. This apartment
complex was built in 1973, but I have to believe this
isn't the first balcony replacement!
The work in progress.
The exterior of my apartment after they cut off my deck.
The work finally arrived at my building, and the builders have made quick work of it so far. My new balcony is already finished, and they're about halfway finished with the rest of them, and the roofers have already started. There's a big piece of plywood nailed across my patio doorway, a barricade to keep me from using the balcony until the siding has been finished. It's all looking very nice.
The look of the future....
Jonesing for Indiana
I went and saw the new Indiana Jones movie today. The day's event marks the first time in more than a year (maybe?) that I've seen a movie in a movie theater. I tell ya, it was weird not getting it in the mail or pressing 'play' to get it started. With all the hype I had heard coming into this weekend, I was surprised at how few people there were in the theater. You'd think it was a holiday or something.
It was great fun, though, with some great throwback humor to the earlier films. At least I assume the humor referred to the second and third films because I only caught references to the first. And the 'quicksand' scene made me nearly pee myself I was laughing so hard.
Never expected him to die at the end, though….
Well, okay…it's not all that big, after all…does size really matter? And I guess it's technically called a balcony.
The apartment complex where I live decided to put new roofs, siding and balconies on all the buildings, as well as renovate the clubhouse where the pool, meeting room and gym are…apparently because I moved in, as it all started right after I got here.
This is what the old decks looked like. This apartment
complex was built in 1973, but I have to believe this
isn't the first balcony replacement!
The work in progress.
The exterior of my apartment after they cut off my deck.
The work finally arrived at my building, and the builders have made quick work of it so far. My new balcony is already finished, and they're about halfway finished with the rest of them, and the roofers have already started. There's a big piece of plywood nailed across my patio doorway, a barricade to keep me from using the balcony until the siding has been finished. It's all looking very nice.
The look of the future....
Jonesing for Indiana
I went and saw the new Indiana Jones movie today. The day's event marks the first time in more than a year (maybe?) that I've seen a movie in a movie theater. I tell ya, it was weird not getting it in the mail or pressing 'play' to get it started. With all the hype I had heard coming into this weekend, I was surprised at how few people there were in the theater. You'd think it was a holiday or something.
It was great fun, though, with some great throwback humor to the earlier films. At least I assume the humor referred to the second and third films because I only caught references to the first. And the 'quicksand' scene made me nearly pee myself I was laughing so hard.
Never expected him to die at the end, though….
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Kitchen Items
Complicated Simplicity
I bought this coffee pot shortly after I moved into my apartment.
I should probably qualify that statement, as it makes it sound like a simple, mindless task.
Way back when I was a kid, my mother made coffee in a pot just like this one. She would put some water on the flame, put a "basket" type filter into the basket, dole out the ground coffee into the filter, insert the nesting "reservoir" (my word) into the basket and then pour the boiling water into the reservoir. Five minutes later there was coffee for the pourin'! That was also the same pot which my father, later in the morning, would attempt to reheat the coffee and always, always, ALWAYS boiled it, which is how I came to the ability to drink just about any coffee, no matter how awful it might be.
Later, after my stint in the Air Force, I attended university. After my first year at school I moved out of the dorms and into a house with 4 friends. Despite the fact that I was 24 years old, this was the first time I had ever lived on my own. My mom took me shopping for some kitchen necessities, and among them was a coffee pot just like this one. She had offered to get me an automatic drip, Mr. Coffee-type coffee maker, but I liked the simplicity of the "old-fashioned" kind. I recall that we picked it up at K-Mart for about ten dollars.
As it turned out, one of my roommates brought a Mr. Coffee to the house, and those among us who drank coffee just used that, and my humble little coffee pot was stuck in the back of a cupboard until I moved out again.
A few years later, after graduating, and after I gave up on the freelance video production market in Chicago, I was accepted for a job at a TV station, again at the opposite end of the state. Upon moving, I pulled out the box of old kitchen utilities and was again reacquainted with the old fashioned drip coffee maker. It held me in good stead as I weaved in and out of coffee-drinker-hood throughout the two years in southern Illinois, and through two moves in four years in south Georgia.
Somewhere in that period, or perhaps in the move back to Chicago, the little coffee pot was lost or given away; I don't remember. Mrs. Farrago and I were veritable gadget hounds, so if it hissed, whirred, vibrated or whistled and coffee came drooling out of it, we bought it.
The rent for my apartment includes water, gas, trash removal and heating. I'm responsible for the costs of electricity and any other utilities. Uncertain how far my dollar would stretch, and despite the fact that ts2bx Mrs. Farrago let me take the very nice automatic drip coffee maker, I decided I would get another old-fashioned drip coffee maker, since I could draw water into a tea kettle and boil it as many times in a day as I wanted and it would never cost me anything.
When I got the chance I headed over to K-Mart to pick up the coffee pot I wanted, but despite searching the entire store, they didn't have one like it. Neither did Wal-Mart. Nor Target. Nor Linens 'N Things. Nor Dick's Sporting Goods (battery operated automatic drip camp site coffee makers? Are you KIDDING me?!). Nor any other store that I could think of. So I turned to the internet.
Of all the bazillions of people in the world out there to make an electronic buck, do you know how many offered this simple little humble coffee maker?
One.
It's made in China (what isn't anymore?), and offered by a little importing company in Louisiana, and sold by Shopper's Choice [dot] com. Now, however, it seems it's no longer a simple, little, practical utensil for making coffee. Now it's a bit of an anachronism. Now it's a novelty.
Now it's $32.
But, obviously, I got it anyway. It leaks from the handle when it's full, and it leaks from the spout when pouring. I may or may not be saving money by using it instead of an electric automatic drip coffee maker, but at least I occasionally boil my leftover coffee. For old times sake.
Getting Creamed
I don't remember how I found it, but it was before the separation. At one of the local grocery mega-chains, in their specialty dairy section, I found a regional brand of organic milk from an Amish dairy in Iowa. What intrigued me was their claim that the milk was not homogenized, with the assurance that the cream rises to the top.
This brought back memories of my father in my youth, lamenting the mass-produced, hormone-treated, vitamin D-added milk on offer from the grocery stores: "You don't know what real milk was like. It was so thick with cream that it used to stick to the sides of the glass!" Man! That sounded good!
He also used to tell me that, when he was a kid, he and his friends would run through the neighborhood in the early mornings and "eat the cream" off the top of everyone's milk, left on their stoops by the milk man. As a child of the suburban '70s, I never quite understood this. Cream was liquid, was it not, as one poured it out of the containers bought at the store? How does one eat it?
I couldn't resist having some before
getting the camera out. Remnants
of the cream clot -- which I ate --
can be seen near the top
of the bottle.
Farmers' All-Natural Creamery organic whole milk answered that question for me! More often than not a clot of semisolid cream forms in the neck of an unopened bottle of their product. The literature on the label suggests shaking the bottle to mix the cream into the milk for a thick, tasty drink, but it also suggests skimming the cream "for your coffee." If you don't shake it the plug will sometimes come out with the pour. From childhood used to avoiding any solid chunks of anything that came out with the milk as an indication that something had gone terribly wrong (or long) with the milk, I was at first a little wary of tasting any of the clots.
With a consistency less dense than butter, the coagulated cream tastes slightly sweet, but with a predominant "milkness" to the flavor. The texture more than the flavor makes it an acquired taste, but I like it now.
Shaken well and drunk cold, Farmers' All-Natural Creamery Organic Whole Milk makes for a tasty, satisfying and ultimate refreshment! Lookit me! I'm writing a commercial!
The local mega-chain grocery store stopped carrying it shortly after I discovered it, but I soon discovered that Whole Foods Market carries it in good quantities. I imagine it's only available in the Midwest, but do check around (and look here for carriers). At roughly double the price of mass-produced, vitamin enriched, factory processed milk, Farmers' All-Natural Creamery is sold by the half-gallon in whole, skim, and fat-free forms. But if it's non-homogenized, why mess around with the fat-free stuff? You're just undoing all that joy!
I bought this coffee pot shortly after I moved into my apartment.
I should probably qualify that statement, as it makes it sound like a simple, mindless task.
Way back when I was a kid, my mother made coffee in a pot just like this one. She would put some water on the flame, put a "basket" type filter into the basket, dole out the ground coffee into the filter, insert the nesting "reservoir" (my word) into the basket and then pour the boiling water into the reservoir. Five minutes later there was coffee for the pourin'! That was also the same pot which my father, later in the morning, would attempt to reheat the coffee and always, always, ALWAYS boiled it, which is how I came to the ability to drink just about any coffee, no matter how awful it might be.
Later, after my stint in the Air Force, I attended university. After my first year at school I moved out of the dorms and into a house with 4 friends. Despite the fact that I was 24 years old, this was the first time I had ever lived on my own. My mom took me shopping for some kitchen necessities, and among them was a coffee pot just like this one. She had offered to get me an automatic drip, Mr. Coffee-type coffee maker, but I liked the simplicity of the "old-fashioned" kind. I recall that we picked it up at K-Mart for about ten dollars.
As it turned out, one of my roommates brought a Mr. Coffee to the house, and those among us who drank coffee just used that, and my humble little coffee pot was stuck in the back of a cupboard until I moved out again.
A few years later, after graduating, and after I gave up on the freelance video production market in Chicago, I was accepted for a job at a TV station, again at the opposite end of the state. Upon moving, I pulled out the box of old kitchen utilities and was again reacquainted with the old fashioned drip coffee maker. It held me in good stead as I weaved in and out of coffee-drinker-hood throughout the two years in southern Illinois, and through two moves in four years in south Georgia.
Somewhere in that period, or perhaps in the move back to Chicago, the little coffee pot was lost or given away; I don't remember. Mrs. Farrago and I were veritable gadget hounds, so if it hissed, whirred, vibrated or whistled and coffee came drooling out of it, we bought it.
The rent for my apartment includes water, gas, trash removal and heating. I'm responsible for the costs of electricity and any other utilities. Uncertain how far my dollar would stretch, and despite the fact that ts2bx Mrs. Farrago let me take the very nice automatic drip coffee maker, I decided I would get another old-fashioned drip coffee maker, since I could draw water into a tea kettle and boil it as many times in a day as I wanted and it would never cost me anything.
When I got the chance I headed over to K-Mart to pick up the coffee pot I wanted, but despite searching the entire store, they didn't have one like it. Neither did Wal-Mart. Nor Target. Nor Linens 'N Things. Nor Dick's Sporting Goods (battery operated automatic drip camp site coffee makers? Are you KIDDING me?!). Nor any other store that I could think of. So I turned to the internet.
Of all the bazillions of people in the world out there to make an electronic buck, do you know how many offered this simple little humble coffee maker?
One.
It's made in China (what isn't anymore?), and offered by a little importing company in Louisiana, and sold by Shopper's Choice [dot] com. Now, however, it seems it's no longer a simple, little, practical utensil for making coffee. Now it's a bit of an anachronism. Now it's a novelty.
Now it's $32.
But, obviously, I got it anyway. It leaks from the handle when it's full, and it leaks from the spout when pouring. I may or may not be saving money by using it instead of an electric automatic drip coffee maker, but at least I occasionally boil my leftover coffee. For old times sake.
Getting Creamed
I don't remember how I found it, but it was before the separation. At one of the local grocery mega-chains, in their specialty dairy section, I found a regional brand of organic milk from an Amish dairy in Iowa. What intrigued me was their claim that the milk was not homogenized, with the assurance that the cream rises to the top.
This brought back memories of my father in my youth, lamenting the mass-produced, hormone-treated, vitamin D-added milk on offer from the grocery stores: "You don't know what real milk was like. It was so thick with cream that it used to stick to the sides of the glass!" Man! That sounded good!
He also used to tell me that, when he was a kid, he and his friends would run through the neighborhood in the early mornings and "eat the cream" off the top of everyone's milk, left on their stoops by the milk man. As a child of the suburban '70s, I never quite understood this. Cream was liquid, was it not, as one poured it out of the containers bought at the store? How does one eat it?
I couldn't resist having some before
getting the camera out. Remnants
of the cream clot -- which I ate --
can be seen near the top
of the bottle.
Farmers' All-Natural Creamery organic whole milk answered that question for me! More often than not a clot of semisolid cream forms in the neck of an unopened bottle of their product. The literature on the label suggests shaking the bottle to mix the cream into the milk for a thick, tasty drink, but it also suggests skimming the cream "for your coffee." If you don't shake it the plug will sometimes come out with the pour. From childhood used to avoiding any solid chunks of anything that came out with the milk as an indication that something had gone terribly wrong (or long) with the milk, I was at first a little wary of tasting any of the clots.
With a consistency less dense than butter, the coagulated cream tastes slightly sweet, but with a predominant "milkness" to the flavor. The texture more than the flavor makes it an acquired taste, but I like it now.
Shaken well and drunk cold, Farmers' All-Natural Creamery Organic Whole Milk makes for a tasty, satisfying and ultimate refreshment! Lookit me! I'm writing a commercial!
The local mega-chain grocery store stopped carrying it shortly after I discovered it, but I soon discovered that Whole Foods Market carries it in good quantities. I imagine it's only available in the Midwest, but do check around (and look here for carriers). At roughly double the price of mass-produced, vitamin enriched, factory processed milk, Farmers' All-Natural Creamery is sold by the half-gallon in whole, skim, and fat-free forms. But if it's non-homogenized, why mess around with the fat-free stuff? You're just undoing all that joy!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
5.20
I've been down lately, I noticed. Irritable. Easily deflated when I had been feeling cheerful. I couldn't quite figure it out, as there were no major events trying to sway me one way or another.
But today it hit me. Today. May 20. On this date eight years ago I swore a solemn oath to devote the rest of my life to the woman I loved, to honor and cherish her, and to remain faithful to her until one of us died. But there's all that shit that falls in between those verbs that no one counts on, that no one can really prepare for, that some are equipped to handle when it happens and that others are not.
We were not.
I experienced a random, unsolicited acknowledgment last week that the date was looming, but at that moment it was a fleeting thought, a reckoning that I didn't have anything to celebrate, that I didn't have anything to plan on or around the date.
But it must have planted some kind of synaptic seed, because, though the thought had not occurred to me again, over the ensuing week I found myself losing my temper over small things, getting angry at the drop of a hat at work, feeling very negative. And then, this morning when I looked at my watch I had a double-take: 5-20. "That rings a bell…" was the thought in my head for a fraction of a millisecond. And then my attitude for the past week made sense.
The evil irony of it? This year I'm not on the road, and I didn't have to protect the date to have it that way.
Her birthday. The holidays. Her niece's and nephew's birthday celebrations. And now this. I think (hope) this is the last hurdle to get over of the "together" things we used to do, or that we certainly knew we always wanted to be together for, in this miserable "year of firsts" after the split.
Can it get easier, now? Please?
But today it hit me. Today. May 20. On this date eight years ago I swore a solemn oath to devote the rest of my life to the woman I loved, to honor and cherish her, and to remain faithful to her until one of us died. But there's all that shit that falls in between those verbs that no one counts on, that no one can really prepare for, that some are equipped to handle when it happens and that others are not.
We were not.
I experienced a random, unsolicited acknowledgment last week that the date was looming, but at that moment it was a fleeting thought, a reckoning that I didn't have anything to celebrate, that I didn't have anything to plan on or around the date.
But it must have planted some kind of synaptic seed, because, though the thought had not occurred to me again, over the ensuing week I found myself losing my temper over small things, getting angry at the drop of a hat at work, feeling very negative. And then, this morning when I looked at my watch I had a double-take: 5-20. "That rings a bell…" was the thought in my head for a fraction of a millisecond. And then my attitude for the past week made sense.
The evil irony of it? This year I'm not on the road, and I didn't have to protect the date to have it that way.
Her birthday. The holidays. Her niece's and nephew's birthday celebrations. And now this. I think (hope) this is the last hurdle to get over of the "together" things we used to do, or that we certainly knew we always wanted to be together for, in this miserable "year of firsts" after the split.
Can it get easier, now? Please?
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Read This Blog! (No, not MINE...)
Quite often I lament the fact that I have a very small readership, and I occasionally resort to cheap gimmicks to stoke the feeble flame of random surfer hits… which reminds me… excuse me for a moment… teens sex tits babes hot… okay, back to my post… but I guess that's what you get when you write a boring blog...
But this post… oh, wait… I forgot dripping wet …okay. That should do me good for a week or so. So. Where was I? Oh, yeah. But this post is about NOT reading my blog. As one may notice at the bottom of my list of Better Blogs Than Mine there's one called "Contains Mild Peril," written by a young man – Ultra Toast Mosha God – in Bristol, UK. The tracks left by visitors here rarely show any indication that people leave my blog for his, but I wish to point out here and now that such a neglect is a serious mistake. Not only is Toast a most excellent writer – often funny, usually deeply insightful, and with a very fertile imagination – but now, and for the remainder of the next four months, Toast is on our continent! He and a dear friend of his are on the adventure of a lifetime, as they have scrimped and saved for years, have quit their jobs, have sold all but the most useful – and portable – of their worldly possessions and are spending the warm northern hemisphere months trekking through northeastern Canada, down the US eastern seaboard, through the deep south and southwest, up through California and ending their sojourn in western Canada!
And the best of all? Ultra Toast Mosha God is blogging the whole thing! They've been in Canada for just shy of two weeks, now, so you're not so far behind that you can't catch up quickly. Start here to see and read about the Canadian-American-themed send-off party he threw with his friends the day or so before they took to the skies.
Don't miss out on this opportunity to read a truly gifted young writer's take on our cultures – the Canadian and the American – and the characters he encounters along the way. It has already proved colorful in the few days they've been ashore on our continent. They seem to have a gift for meeting people.
But this post… oh, wait… I forgot dripping wet …okay. That should do me good for a week or so. So. Where was I? Oh, yeah. But this post is about NOT reading my blog. As one may notice at the bottom of my list of Better Blogs Than Mine there's one called "Contains Mild Peril," written by a young man – Ultra Toast Mosha God – in Bristol, UK. The tracks left by visitors here rarely show any indication that people leave my blog for his, but I wish to point out here and now that such a neglect is a serious mistake. Not only is Toast a most excellent writer – often funny, usually deeply insightful, and with a very fertile imagination – but now, and for the remainder of the next four months, Toast is on our continent! He and a dear friend of his are on the adventure of a lifetime, as they have scrimped and saved for years, have quit their jobs, have sold all but the most useful – and portable – of their worldly possessions and are spending the warm northern hemisphere months trekking through northeastern Canada, down the US eastern seaboard, through the deep south and southwest, up through California and ending their sojourn in western Canada!
And the best of all? Ultra Toast Mosha God is blogging the whole thing! They've been in Canada for just shy of two weeks, now, so you're not so far behind that you can't catch up quickly. Start here to see and read about the Canadian-American-themed send-off party he threw with his friends the day or so before they took to the skies.
Don't miss out on this opportunity to read a truly gifted young writer's take on our cultures – the Canadian and the American – and the characters he encounters along the way. It has already proved colorful in the few days they've been ashore on our continent. They seem to have a gift for meeting people.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
How Did Vincent Gallo Manage a Cannes Screening With This Crap?
Netflix + The Brown Bunny (2003) = WTF?!
What a Little Bird Told Me
Last summer my employer bought a new, much larger building which we moved into and, as a group, are still settling into these many months later. Late Wednesday afternoon we had a little freebie shoot for a relative of the company owner and, while preparing for that, while the large overhead roll-up cargo door was open, a bird flew into the warehouse/studio. My initial worry was that the bird would be chirping and flying around and freaking people out while we were trying to get good takes for the camera. That worry was not realized, as the bird was quiet the entire time. After the shoot it became my goal to get the bird out of the building.
The warehouse/studio section of the building has a 20-foot or more bare structure ceiling with a bank of vertical, sealed skylights at the very top, facing south. Upon entry to the building, this bird had flown up toward these windows and had crashed into the glass. Half expecting it to be dead from the impact, I was mildly surprised to see it walking along the ledge as it tried to find a way through.
Persistence
As I had learned from ts2bx Mrs. Farrago and our birds, I knew that this little bird knew only three things in its predicament: first, that outside was where it wanted to be, needed to be, and that something unseen (the window) was preventing it from getting there; second, that it only felt safe as long as it was as high up from the ground below as it could get; and, third, that the beasts from below could only mean it harm as they used apparatuses to climb up close to it, and as they kept throwing small objects at it.
Our arms and backs were tired, my co-worker and me, and we had already stayed very late in order to complete the shoot. The extension ladder I used was tall enough to get me within reach of the bird, but only if the bird would have been co-operative and let me capture it. Of course, such thought was not possible. After about 40 minutes of moving the ladder to and fro, throwing clothespins (a tool of my trade) at it and crashing the ladder against HVAC ducts near the bird to get it to move, and, hopefully, to get it to fly down and see the big open doorway leading to the outside and freedom and safety, and, also hopefully, to make it tired enough to stop flying so I could capture it (something else I learned from my short-lived bird ownership), I had to give up. I resigned myself to the reality that this bird was doomed to die on the ledge at the top of our warehouse. And I went home.
Wednesday night all I could think about was that bird and how I fully understood his predicament. No matter how gingerly I climbed the ladder, no matter how altruistic my intentions, the bird only knew to flee, for it is programmed with the instinct to suspect that any creature – other than fellow birds sharing his food sources – wants to eat him.
Thursday promised to be a busy day, as well, as the company owner had another freebie shoot scheduled for late in the day, but with VIPs this time, and we had to clean out the studio in preparation for the new carpeting that was coming in, and I had to shoot a couple of pickup shots for a video we had shot a couple weeks ago. And then there was my preoccupation with that bird. Expecting him to have died of starvation/dehydration/stress shock overnight, I was happy to see him still pacing the windows in the morning. Several times over I told myself – and the bird – that he was going to die, but every time I looked up there and saw that pathetic thing bumping the windows in futility, I just knew I had to keep trying to catch it. Several of my other co-workers suggested pellet guns, shotguns, insecticide, ad nauseam, but I couldn't let it die without giving it my best shot. Every last one couldn't figure out why the bird wouldn't just fly down to the open cargo door, but those people all transferred human reason to an animal with the brain the size of a peanut that only acts on instinct, and then called it stupid when it couldn't find its way to freedom.
At lunch, on a run for some props for the pickup shots, I also went to a sporting goods store and bought a fishing net, under the premise that if it can happen once, it'll happen again, so it's good to have a net on hand for future blundering birds.
While I was occupied with the pickup shot, one of my co-workers – one of the "pellet gun solution" sect – took up the net and actually had the bird in it, but, due to the ceiling structure and its various obstacles, he couldn't reach the net to secure the bird in it. When he pulled the net free of the obstacles, the bird escaped.
We did the late afternoon shoot, and I cleaned up and put away the gear. I looked up at the skylights and said to myself that if I couldn't get the bird down after one more try, he would indeed die up there. I scanned the ledge from below and I did not see the bird pacing. I had opened the cargo door again and left the warehouse for several minutes. I hoped against hope that he had blundered his way back out the door, but suspecting that was not the case, I hauled out the extension ladder and climbed up to the skylight again. There, off to my left some ten feet away sat the forlorn – and exhausted – bird. He was grey of feather and looked somewhat like a dove, perhaps a fledgling. He had not flinched when my head popped up at his level, so I knew he had given up. After 28 hours of repeatedly hitting an all but invisible barrier, with no food and no water, he had no energy to even care that one of the beasts from below had climbed once again to the level of his perch.
I moved the ladder closer to where I had seen him. My perspective at his level didn't translate too well at ground-level, so when I placed the ladder based on my judgment of distance, I had put myself almost directly in front of where he sat. Again, when I poked my head up over his ledge – now a mere foot away from him, he didn't move. The fishing net in hand, now, I raised it to within view. He didn't move until the net approached him. Fortunately he flapped himself right into a corner of window and frame. I placed the net over him and he flew up into it, and then fell over the ledge and into the deepest part of the net, weighing it down against the edge of the net-hoop. With my free hand I cinched the net closed over the bird, which still had enough energy to peck at my fingers. I called to the co-worker who had helped me the prior evening to let her know I had him. Then, just in case this bird truly did have a death wish, I closed the cargo door(!) and took him outside to the grass behind our building. I released my hold on the net and dumped him out onto the grass, where he…stayed. I reached a hand out to him and he reacted by flapping and moving away from me, but only a few feet. I moved toward him again, this time a little faster, and he flew into a low bush.
I don't know if he made it. I checked the bush a few minutes later and he was gone. He was definitely not on the ground next to the bush, but I don't know if that means he flew away somewhere safer, or if something came along and ate him.
I don't know what this experience says about me. It was just a little bird whose cousins die by the thousands every day, little deaths in the grilles and under the wheels of cars, into the jaws of cats and dogs and foxes… Why did I care so much about this bird? Was it that I felt I could help it? I actually risked injury by climbing to the highest reach of an extension ladder several times to try to catch him. What drove me? His freedom? My aversion to retrieving his corpse a couple days later?
That little bird told me something about persistence…the persistence of instinct and the persistence of compassion. It just seemed to me that, as long as he kept trying to fly through that invisible barrier to freedom, I had to keep trying to help him get there. He told me that even though such a little life lost is inconsequential, that little life still living is worth some effort to save.
Or I'm just a sentimental idiot.
The warehouse/studio section of the building has a 20-foot or more bare structure ceiling with a bank of vertical, sealed skylights at the very top, facing south. Upon entry to the building, this bird had flown up toward these windows and had crashed into the glass. Half expecting it to be dead from the impact, I was mildly surprised to see it walking along the ledge as it tried to find a way through.
Persistence
As I had learned from ts2bx Mrs. Farrago and our birds, I knew that this little bird knew only three things in its predicament: first, that outside was where it wanted to be, needed to be, and that something unseen (the window) was preventing it from getting there; second, that it only felt safe as long as it was as high up from the ground below as it could get; and, third, that the beasts from below could only mean it harm as they used apparatuses to climb up close to it, and as they kept throwing small objects at it.
Our arms and backs were tired, my co-worker and me, and we had already stayed very late in order to complete the shoot. The extension ladder I used was tall enough to get me within reach of the bird, but only if the bird would have been co-operative and let me capture it. Of course, such thought was not possible. After about 40 minutes of moving the ladder to and fro, throwing clothespins (a tool of my trade) at it and crashing the ladder against HVAC ducts near the bird to get it to move, and, hopefully, to get it to fly down and see the big open doorway leading to the outside and freedom and safety, and, also hopefully, to make it tired enough to stop flying so I could capture it (something else I learned from my short-lived bird ownership), I had to give up. I resigned myself to the reality that this bird was doomed to die on the ledge at the top of our warehouse. And I went home.
Wednesday night all I could think about was that bird and how I fully understood his predicament. No matter how gingerly I climbed the ladder, no matter how altruistic my intentions, the bird only knew to flee, for it is programmed with the instinct to suspect that any creature – other than fellow birds sharing his food sources – wants to eat him.
Thursday promised to be a busy day, as well, as the company owner had another freebie shoot scheduled for late in the day, but with VIPs this time, and we had to clean out the studio in preparation for the new carpeting that was coming in, and I had to shoot a couple of pickup shots for a video we had shot a couple weeks ago. And then there was my preoccupation with that bird. Expecting him to have died of starvation/dehydration/stress shock overnight, I was happy to see him still pacing the windows in the morning. Several times over I told myself – and the bird – that he was going to die, but every time I looked up there and saw that pathetic thing bumping the windows in futility, I just knew I had to keep trying to catch it. Several of my other co-workers suggested pellet guns, shotguns, insecticide, ad nauseam, but I couldn't let it die without giving it my best shot. Every last one couldn't figure out why the bird wouldn't just fly down to the open cargo door, but those people all transferred human reason to an animal with the brain the size of a peanut that only acts on instinct, and then called it stupid when it couldn't find its way to freedom.
At lunch, on a run for some props for the pickup shots, I also went to a sporting goods store and bought a fishing net, under the premise that if it can happen once, it'll happen again, so it's good to have a net on hand for future blundering birds.
While I was occupied with the pickup shot, one of my co-workers – one of the "pellet gun solution" sect – took up the net and actually had the bird in it, but, due to the ceiling structure and its various obstacles, he couldn't reach the net to secure the bird in it. When he pulled the net free of the obstacles, the bird escaped.
We did the late afternoon shoot, and I cleaned up and put away the gear. I looked up at the skylights and said to myself that if I couldn't get the bird down after one more try, he would indeed die up there. I scanned the ledge from below and I did not see the bird pacing. I had opened the cargo door again and left the warehouse for several minutes. I hoped against hope that he had blundered his way back out the door, but suspecting that was not the case, I hauled out the extension ladder and climbed up to the skylight again. There, off to my left some ten feet away sat the forlorn – and exhausted – bird. He was grey of feather and looked somewhat like a dove, perhaps a fledgling. He had not flinched when my head popped up at his level, so I knew he had given up. After 28 hours of repeatedly hitting an all but invisible barrier, with no food and no water, he had no energy to even care that one of the beasts from below had climbed once again to the level of his perch.
I moved the ladder closer to where I had seen him. My perspective at his level didn't translate too well at ground-level, so when I placed the ladder based on my judgment of distance, I had put myself almost directly in front of where he sat. Again, when I poked my head up over his ledge – now a mere foot away from him, he didn't move. The fishing net in hand, now, I raised it to within view. He didn't move until the net approached him. Fortunately he flapped himself right into a corner of window and frame. I placed the net over him and he flew up into it, and then fell over the ledge and into the deepest part of the net, weighing it down against the edge of the net-hoop. With my free hand I cinched the net closed over the bird, which still had enough energy to peck at my fingers. I called to the co-worker who had helped me the prior evening to let her know I had him. Then, just in case this bird truly did have a death wish, I closed the cargo door(!) and took him outside to the grass behind our building. I released my hold on the net and dumped him out onto the grass, where he…stayed. I reached a hand out to him and he reacted by flapping and moving away from me, but only a few feet. I moved toward him again, this time a little faster, and he flew into a low bush.
I don't know if he made it. I checked the bush a few minutes later and he was gone. He was definitely not on the ground next to the bush, but I don't know if that means he flew away somewhere safer, or if something came along and ate him.
I don't know what this experience says about me. It was just a little bird whose cousins die by the thousands every day, little deaths in the grilles and under the wheels of cars, into the jaws of cats and dogs and foxes… Why did I care so much about this bird? Was it that I felt I could help it? I actually risked injury by climbing to the highest reach of an extension ladder several times to try to catch him. What drove me? His freedom? My aversion to retrieving his corpse a couple days later?
That little bird told me something about persistence…the persistence of instinct and the persistence of compassion. It just seemed to me that, as long as he kept trying to fly through that invisible barrier to freedom, I had to keep trying to help him get there. He told me that even though such a little life lost is inconsequential, that little life still living is worth some effort to save.
Or I'm just a sentimental idiot.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Another Gas Post
As the owner of a SUV – a 2002 Nissan Xterra – and with my ailing father nearly 90 miles away in the Veterans' Home, I have become acutely aware of the price of gasoline. Throughout its life with me, most of the Xterra's driving was a combination of city and highway driving: the morning rush was almost always stop and go on the expressway, or on the surface streets in the city, until I got beyond the typical bottlenecks and into the suburbs where the cars thinned out and highway speeds were attainable. It was almost exactly a 50-50 split, roughly 12 miles of stop and go, and then roughly 12 miles of open highway, over which I routinely exceeded the speed limit. The range on a tank of gas averaged out to about 255 miles, which works out to roughly 16 miles per gallon.
Those numbers didn't change with my move to the suburbs and my commute being reduced to 3 miles each way. My driving habits were unchanged…hard accelerations, speeding, and eating food while talking on the phone while reading the newspaper while fixing my makeup…but I digress.
Ever since the national speed limit was reduced to 55 miles per hour back in the 1970s, partially as a forced effort to conserve energy, I have been skeptical about the numbers the government gave concerning fuel efficiency and simply slowing down, and I never cared enough to test the theory, especially when road-rage flared up and I was not about to let "that idiot" cut in front of me. But lately, since the amount of my highway driving has been significantly reduced, I've been driving at a more relaxed pace.
The day before my father's recent move to his new digs I had filled the Xterra's gas tank in preparation for the drive down to be on hand for the move. I had to hit the road early on a route that, as it turns out, is against the rush hour traffic, so I was able to maintain highway speeds for most of the trip. As I had allowed myself plenty of time to get there, I didn't bolt from traffic lights, I didn't try to jockey for position in traffic, I only ran the air conditioner while at highway speeds (shutting it off and opening the windows when I was at 40 mph and slower) and I never exceeded 60 mph the whole way down. There was perhaps a twinkle of thought about fuel savings, but it was mostly because I didn't feel rushed, so why rush?
After getting Dad settled in I did some exploring around the area of the cemetery where my maternal grandfather is buried (more on that later), and then I headed home, maintaining that same relaxed pace and keeping my speed to 60 mph or below. I was mildly shocked when I got home and noticed that I had put about 160 miles on the Xterra, but the gas gauge indicated that I had just above half a tank of gas left. I was on pace for 300 miles on one tank of gas! The rest of the driving on that tank was more "city" driving than anything else, so I probably got less than I could have, but all the same, when I felt it was time to fill up it was at 298.8 miles!! The math shows that the Xterra, on that tank-ful, achieved 18.8 miles per gallon. It sure doesn't sound like much more, compared to 16 miles per gallon, but it resulted in nearly 50 miles more than the six-year average!!
Hypermiling
It was only last week that I first heard the term "hypermiling", which refers to the use of certain techniques to get maximum mileage from a car, to exceed the federal EPA ratings for that particular model. Driving at slower speeds is only one of those techniques, some of which seem absolutely radical in comparison. But it certainly seems to have made a difference. Of course, I undid all that savings by going to the wrong gas station Friday afternoon. After passing the local Marathon station – a brand which is usually several cents lower per gallon than the Big Three oil companies – and their mid-grade fuel priced at $3.919 per gallon (I was trying to reach that symbolic 300 mile mark), I decided I had better fill up before I got on the highway on the way to my brother's house, and at 298.8 miles I stopped at another Marathon station, about 10 miles from my house…and paid $4.119 for mid-grade. TWENTY CENTS MORE! Boy! Did I feel stupid!
So the next time you have to drive somewhere, allow yourself a few extra minutes to get where you're going, employ whatever zen or meditative techniques it takes to find your calm center, and then drive serenely, taking care to ignore the assholes around you who seem to think that the morning commute is a race that must be won, and those who seem to think that intimidating other drivers makes them the kings or queens of the road. Accelerate smoothly, keep your speed at or below the posted limits, and get to where you're going safely.
You might squeeze a few extra dollars out of your tank.
Road Trip
One can imagine this is where my thoughts will be in July when I'm off on the road trip I'm planning. One of my nieces is getting married in Minnesota in the middle of July. I originally asked just for that weekend off from work, but after further thought I decided I would make a full-blown vacation out of that week, culminating in the wedding.
I was stationed in Montana for 16 months in 1984 and '85. Though I'm neither a hunter nor a fisherman, I really enjoyed my time there. Still, in the latter quarter of the 20th century, there was a frontier feeling there, with the lone prairie just a few minutes' drive out of the bigger cities (and the lone prairie IN the smaller cities!). So, to continue my big nostalgia trip, to follow up my recent return to Germany over the holidays, I will return to Great Falls, Montana, to see how much has changed there, and how much remains the same. I intend to make haste getting out there in order that I can spend the rest of my time moseying around all the haunts, perhaps cruising through the missile field that I once called my own, and then meandering across the plains through eastern Montana, with a possible visit to Themiddleoffuckingnowhere if Professor hasn't moved on from there by then. I'll continue to mosey, either through North Dakota, which I have never visited before, or through South Dakota, a drive through which I mostly slept through(!) back in 1984. I regrettably bypassed Mount Rushmore at that time, and I intend not to make that mistake again. Granted, it pales in comparison to Ultra Toast's adventure of a lifetime, but it pleases me to plan it, nonetheless.
Hopefully, with little other than highway miles on my trip, I will get a clearer understanding of the true range of the Xterra's gas tank. I know, in the grand scheme of life, that such information is trivial, but when you're driving through the vast, featureless expanses of the northern tier states, you need something to occupy your mind!
Those numbers didn't change with my move to the suburbs and my commute being reduced to 3 miles each way. My driving habits were unchanged…hard accelerations, speeding, and eating food while talking on the phone while reading the newspaper while fixing my makeup…but I digress.
Ever since the national speed limit was reduced to 55 miles per hour back in the 1970s, partially as a forced effort to conserve energy, I have been skeptical about the numbers the government gave concerning fuel efficiency and simply slowing down, and I never cared enough to test the theory, especially when road-rage flared up and I was not about to let "that idiot" cut in front of me. But lately, since the amount of my highway driving has been significantly reduced, I've been driving at a more relaxed pace.
The day before my father's recent move to his new digs I had filled the Xterra's gas tank in preparation for the drive down to be on hand for the move. I had to hit the road early on a route that, as it turns out, is against the rush hour traffic, so I was able to maintain highway speeds for most of the trip. As I had allowed myself plenty of time to get there, I didn't bolt from traffic lights, I didn't try to jockey for position in traffic, I only ran the air conditioner while at highway speeds (shutting it off and opening the windows when I was at 40 mph and slower) and I never exceeded 60 mph the whole way down. There was perhaps a twinkle of thought about fuel savings, but it was mostly because I didn't feel rushed, so why rush?
After getting Dad settled in I did some exploring around the area of the cemetery where my maternal grandfather is buried (more on that later), and then I headed home, maintaining that same relaxed pace and keeping my speed to 60 mph or below. I was mildly shocked when I got home and noticed that I had put about 160 miles on the Xterra, but the gas gauge indicated that I had just above half a tank of gas left. I was on pace for 300 miles on one tank of gas! The rest of the driving on that tank was more "city" driving than anything else, so I probably got less than I could have, but all the same, when I felt it was time to fill up it was at 298.8 miles!! The math shows that the Xterra, on that tank-ful, achieved 18.8 miles per gallon. It sure doesn't sound like much more, compared to 16 miles per gallon, but it resulted in nearly 50 miles more than the six-year average!!
Hypermiling
It was only last week that I first heard the term "hypermiling", which refers to the use of certain techniques to get maximum mileage from a car, to exceed the federal EPA ratings for that particular model. Driving at slower speeds is only one of those techniques, some of which seem absolutely radical in comparison. But it certainly seems to have made a difference. Of course, I undid all that savings by going to the wrong gas station Friday afternoon. After passing the local Marathon station – a brand which is usually several cents lower per gallon than the Big Three oil companies – and their mid-grade fuel priced at $3.919 per gallon (I was trying to reach that symbolic 300 mile mark), I decided I had better fill up before I got on the highway on the way to my brother's house, and at 298.8 miles I stopped at another Marathon station, about 10 miles from my house…and paid $4.119 for mid-grade. TWENTY CENTS MORE! Boy! Did I feel stupid!
So the next time you have to drive somewhere, allow yourself a few extra minutes to get where you're going, employ whatever zen or meditative techniques it takes to find your calm center, and then drive serenely, taking care to ignore the assholes around you who seem to think that the morning commute is a race that must be won, and those who seem to think that intimidating other drivers makes them the kings or queens of the road. Accelerate smoothly, keep your speed at or below the posted limits, and get to where you're going safely.
You might squeeze a few extra dollars out of your tank.
Road Trip
One can imagine this is where my thoughts will be in July when I'm off on the road trip I'm planning. One of my nieces is getting married in Minnesota in the middle of July. I originally asked just for that weekend off from work, but after further thought I decided I would make a full-blown vacation out of that week, culminating in the wedding.
I was stationed in Montana for 16 months in 1984 and '85. Though I'm neither a hunter nor a fisherman, I really enjoyed my time there. Still, in the latter quarter of the 20th century, there was a frontier feeling there, with the lone prairie just a few minutes' drive out of the bigger cities (and the lone prairie IN the smaller cities!). So, to continue my big nostalgia trip, to follow up my recent return to Germany over the holidays, I will return to Great Falls, Montana, to see how much has changed there, and how much remains the same. I intend to make haste getting out there in order that I can spend the rest of my time moseying around all the haunts, perhaps cruising through the missile field that I once called my own, and then meandering across the plains through eastern Montana, with a possible visit to Themiddleoffuckingnowhere if Professor hasn't moved on from there by then. I'll continue to mosey, either through North Dakota, which I have never visited before, or through South Dakota, a drive through which I mostly slept through(!) back in 1984. I regrettably bypassed Mount Rushmore at that time, and I intend not to make that mistake again. Granted, it pales in comparison to Ultra Toast's adventure of a lifetime, but it pleases me to plan it, nonetheless.
Hopefully, with little other than highway miles on my trip, I will get a clearer understanding of the true range of the Xterra's gas tank. I know, in the grand scheme of life, that such information is trivial, but when you're driving through the vast, featureless expanses of the northern tier states, you need something to occupy your mind!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)