loose threads, fabrications, purls of wisdom and other belabored puns baste on my adventures in real life
in loving, laughing memory of
JRW @-->---
go home:
hullcloth.com
just who do i think i am:
cut from hull cloth
previous woofing:
fellow
babblers:
Greetings from Evanston, Ill.
Big Dump Truck Driver's Log
Pet Rock Star
Brian's Daily Rant
Spam-O-Matic
Curious Furious
torasan04's Journal
Answer Girl
DC Metro Blog Map
misc-ing
links:
hullcloth.com
Top5 Pets
The Accidental
Guitarist
Close But No
Guitar
Style Invitational Losers
The Top Five List
Ruminations
bradsimanek.com
Sunday, June 30, 2002
It is deliciously ironic that I should be watching a documentary on the history of torture and punishment as I sort through the spam that has accumulated in my inbox. Two subject lines catch my eye, one urging me to claim my free human body today, the other promising me a free panty wardrobe from Frederick's of Hollywood. Too bad I make it a policy to never open this junk, let alone reply; otherwise I'd want to know if the panty wardrobe deal was transferable to my free human body.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:08 PM
If all goes well, this will be the very first post that goes directly to the new server. Oh, I know I'm the only one who cares about that. Only now that I've finally bitten the bullet and shelled out ransom money for pop-up-ad-free web hosting AND managed to move the existing blog entries and archives to their new location without breaking so much as an electron, I deserve a gloat.
To those of you who have been faithfully returning to these pages all along in spite of the pop-up pileup, thank you for your patience. Your reward will come in the form of relief for your window-closing mouse finger, both while you're here and as you exit -- a pox on those pesky Fortune City "onclose" pop-ups!
The idea behind this blog was to get me writing on a daily basis, which it has done, excuse a few days missed on account of illness, fatigue and -- occasionally -- pressing social engagements. This is my writer's notebook, minus the coffee rings, plus the possibility that someone will look in from time to time, be it a friend, a foe or a stranger. That's what keeps me from going back to scribbling on paper. Well, that and my handwriting is so horrible that even I can't decipher it. But mostly it's the traffic. Now that the billboards are finally gone I hope you find the scenery worthwhile.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
4:12 PM
Today is a sad day for whoever belonged to the expired brown tabby cat I saw in the middle of the southbound lane of George Mason Drive this morning. (No, I was going northbound, and shame on you for even thinking that I would do such a thing.) It's also a sad day for whoever belonged to Who bassist John Entwistle (I was never anywhere near his hotel room, I swear.)
These two deaths, unrelated except for that they took place in the same 24-hour period, remind me of something my mom said when a family cat died on the same day as noted veterinarian/author, James Herriot. "Kayci couldn't be in better company at the Pearly Gates," joked Mom. Years before, when I was 4 or 5, we had discussed the loss of a different family cat -- my first such experience. "Do cats go to heaven?" I had asked, having newly learned of such a place in Sunday school. "They go to animal heaven" was the reply. That satisfied me as a child, but as an adult I find I prefer to embrace the idea of a non-species-segregated paradise that my mom seems to also have adopted. Will Rogers once said that when he his time came he wanted to go to the place where dogs go when they die. It's not about turning one's back on humanity, it's about looking forward to the joys one knew in life. Accordingly, when my time comes, I will be seated on a cloud (it's my blog, I can say I'm going to heaven if I want to!) surrounded by friends, lovers and family who have gone before, pets included, enjoying a nice drink and listening to some kick-ass rock and roll. The world's best bassist just joined the band, so there is much to anticipate.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
8:50 PM
Please excuse a rare two-day silence. Tuesday was Trivia Night and also marked the farewell appearance of one of our team members so I got home a bit later than usual and went right to bed. Wednesday I woke up with a fever, painful sinuses and nausea. Not conducive to blogging, don't you know. (Although having said that, I could probably eke out a vivid description of the sights, sounds and smells as what went down came back up, but I'll spare you. You're welcome.) Today the fever is down and the sinuses less painful and the nausea gone (hallelujah!) but I'm still a little woozy and my voice is iffy, so I stayed home from work again. A trainer who can't use her voice is a mime, and no one wants that.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
12:54 PM
Virus mongers, I'm looking in your general direction as I type this. Forget that I am a tech support dweeb who knows to suspect a 135k message from an unknown source, AND a technical trainer who delivers computer security awareness briefings to dozens of people every day: what sort of idiot do you take me for that you think I'm going to fall for a sender name and subject line that suggest that "foxnewsonline" wants to "be friends" with me? CNN I could maybe understand, but FOX?
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:16 PM
Last night I had a puzzling dream. I was at work, teaching in my usual room. The smaller one, the one I prefer. So far, so normal. Only my cat was there and the students didn't seem to mind. And it was my cat Tuffy, who died 4 years ago. He was alive and well, and only semi-freaked out at being in a strange place -- he was an indoor cat all his life. It was an all-day class so we had several breaks, meaning the classroom door was held open as students filed in or out. Every time, I had to say "don't let the cat out!" but of course Tuffy would always run out into the hall. Someone, usually me, would manage to catch him and carry him back into the classroom. He didn't seem to mind too much, it's a cat game, running into the hall. They don't want to be there, they just want to get there. Another oddity: there was a back door to the classroom in my dream, and sometimes Tuffy ran out that door. Instead of leading to the office building hallway like the real other one does, this one led to a mall or convention center, milling with scores of people and their pets.
It was all very strange and I don't know what it means. I do know that it was good to hold Tuffy again.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
8:52 PM
Making an emphatic entrance into the elevator, clutching a teddy bear and followed by her Daddy, she reaches up to press the button for the lobby. She sends a smile in my direction but I'm in no mood to be charmed this morning; I pretend to be too engrossed in tucking my car keys into my briefcase and fishing my ID badge out of it to notice. She seems unfazed. She's got her own morning routine to follow. As the elevator comes to a stop at the lobby she steps square in front of the doors and softly whispers one word: "Open." She is obeyed. Two steps out of the elevator she looks to her right and yells a lusty "Good Morning!" to the security guard, who responds in kind, only at a much lower volume. Then she turns left and, still followed by her Daddy, marches off toward the child care center.
Dammit, I am charmed after all. If I see her again on another morning I'll be sure to smile back.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:19 PM
Judging by the color of the bruise, sometime about a week ago something hit my left hip HARD. Yet I remember nothing. I might have just had my hands full and closed a door with a flip of the hip and caught a sensitive spot. That's the curse of my English complexion: glare at me too harshly and it will leave a mark.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:46 PM
While I was rifling the video cupboard for the errant Last Waltz video I found Woodstock, so I watched that for the first time in a year or more. During the sequence when chaos threatens the chaos in the form of a heavy rainstorm, the stage announcer keeps warning the crowd to keep their distance from the sound towers (?) lest they collapse. "Keep your eyes on those towers!" is the last thing he says before his mic is cut off. The last thing I expected was for a film about three days of peace and love to remind me of one day of sheer horror that played out 32 years later.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:37 PM
My thoughts being a little too cluttered to extract a coherent entry today, I resorted to an exercise from a "cure for writer's block" web site; drawing a random Tarot card and free-associating a description. As it was, I was inspired without even needing to open the box, which has on its front a reproduction of The Magician. I've owned the deck for years and never noticed until now that he is striking a John Travolta-esque Saturday Night Fever pose.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:34 PM
Yikes! I just got home and I see by the Caller ID that my usual hairdresser rang. I haven't listened to the message yet, but I just know that he has found out that I went to someone else for my recent haircut.
Oh, dear Peter, please understand and don't be mad at me. It was an after-work spur-of-the-moment thing. I was leaving town the next day and not only is your shop very un-spur, but I was physically and psychically tired, not up to the hot rush-hour drive to Georgetown even if I had been able to get an appointment. It was just a stopgap cut, I swear. I had and have every intention of going to you and no one but for a follow-up cut in the next month or so, honest.
The lady who cut it wasn't as gentle as you -- she wore big rings that rubbed my scalp the wrong way during the shampoo. And she did the layers a little lopsided. Let's face it: she didn't give, um, head, nearly as well as you. And I thought about you the entire time. No hug and peck on the cheek when I left, either.
Oh, I stiffed her on the tip but then you know I'd do that ;-)
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:52 PM
My parents' dining room features a giant abstract-ish painting wrought by my dad. I think it's hideous, all lime green and burnt orange, but I remember well the weekend my dad painted it nearly 30 years ago; it filled him a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment that even my 10-year-old self recognized as something not to be sneered at. When my brothers and I were kids and dinner guests would comment on the painting (which was always -- it's pretty much the focus of the room), one of us would tell the family joke that Mom sleeps with the artist. Once, when no one had yet made the joke my little brother, doubtless overjoyed that he would finally get to be the one to utter the guaranteed-to-generate-yuks line, delivered it to stunned silence. Our guests? Two nuns.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
5:25 PM
One of my guilty pleasures is true-crime stories. They interest me more for the details of the inevitable trial proceedings than for the gory details of the crime itself. Having just finished one today that dealt with a case from the mid-'80s, I web-searched some of the key players for a "where-are-they-now" follow-up. I found many items about the chief prosecutor because he is now involved in the Enron/Arthur Andersen mess as a defense attorney, although in the book much was made of his belief in remaining a prosecutor to put the bad guys in jail rather than keeping them out. The second-highest number of hits came from a search on one of the murderers, a woman still in prison but due for release later this year. She has listed the same narrative and photos of herself on several prison pen-pal sites. In her text she claims the book that I had just finished was nothing but lies yet the age she gives would make her a mere 7 years old when her first child was born. Still, I was touched by a story she tells of visiting a gorilla in the zoo regularly in the weeks leading up to her own incarceration and of feeding it chili dogs and french fries. She wonders if it misses her and the snacks she brought. I wonder if her parole board shouldn't take into consideration the crime of feeding chili to a gorilla.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:29 PM
Listen up, Last Waltz video: you have until 24 hours from now to come out from hiding in the video cupboard. I know you're in there, I know I've neglected you for a while, but now I want to see you and you're nowhere to be found. Just twenty-four hours. Or else ... there's not much I can do about it. Except buy another one.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:05 PM
"Good morning," says Mom, "can I make you some scrambled eggs and sausage?" Oh, yes. Please. As she assembles the ingredients we chat about how well we slept, or in her case, how badly. Voicing the hope that her heart medication will soon be adjusted so she can get a full night's sleep, she places a jumbo sausage link on the counter, perpendicular to the edge, so it won't roll onto the floor. Then she reaches for 2 eggs, which she places against the far tip of the sausage, one touching either side so they won't roll away, either. She turns to get some butter from the fridge, still talking but with her back to me. She asks a question. I don't answer because I am staring at the phallic symbol she has so unwittingly created with my breakfast-to-be. She turns around, follows my gaze, and her eyes grow as wide as mine must be. A few beats of silence, then we both burst out in giggles. Laughter has to be better than the medicine that is keeping her up nights.
Now that's what I call a hearty breakfast.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:23 PM
A longer-than-usual post today, but with good cause, so bear with me. Yesterday I had an adventure, today I went on a pilgrimage. I spent 4 hours in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame + Museum, not counting waiting in the ticket line and souvenir shopping afterward. I had been there a few months after it opened in 1995 but I couldn't get near a lot of the exhibits for the crowd. There is lots more to see now, of course. If you've never been there, think Hard Rock Café-type memorabilia, only acres of it, plus films, interactive displays and a bit of historical perspective. No photography is allowed in the museum, so I took some notes as I toured. Highlights:
At one point a graying docent named Bob touched my arm and said, "I think it's cool that you're taking notes." He asked if I was a student. Bless you, Bob!
Parting thought: My old clothes are just old clothes, but if I were a rock star, they would be a "collection."
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:34 PM
Remember that episode of The Simpsons where Bart buys an abandoned factory at auction? That was my adventure today. My dad gave me a tour of the smallish abandoned office building his organization has the use of until it is renovated and leased -- which is not going to happen tomorrow, by the looks of things. Other than my dad's suite of offices on the ground floor, the building is empty of tenants but filled with their debris. The elevators aren't working and the electricity is out in most of the upper floors.
As he punched in the code to disable the alarm when we entered, Dad remarked that the thought he had it right, but he didn't go in too often so he wasn't sure. The code was correct, as it turned out, so the abandoned-building tour wasn't followed by a city jail tour. It was my first abandoned-building tour -- it would have been my first time in jail, too -- and not as bad as I feared. The part about being sure to prop stairway doors open so we could get back down was exciting, as was picking one's way up and down dark stairwells with only a penlight to guide us. Some suites had been carefully cleared out, others looked as if the tenants had left in a panic just moments ahead of a natural disaster. The penthouse had been formerly occupied by architects who from the looks of things fell into the "let's get the hell out of here RIGHT NOW!" category. A side hallway of their suite has a cubbyholed shelf once filled with the blueprints that are now strewn all over the floor much as the structures they depict would be in the wake of a tornado. A hand-printed sign on the wall by the shelf futiley advises the long-gone architects to KEEP THIS AREA NEAT.
We made it back out alive and un-arrested, with some harvested computer cables, notepads and a few other small items. I wanted to grab the "We Welcome American Express" sign from the door of one suite, but it was kind of grody. On the other hand, the visit was wildlife-encounter free, a great big plus.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
8:51 PM
A solo 6-hour road trip offers many opportunities for one's imagination to run wild, providing both entertainment and solace. Not 5 minutes after I set out I spied a small broom on the shoulder of Rte. 27, within sight of the healing Pentagon. An aborted attack by terrorist witches or a simple mechanical breakdown? No sign of the witch, she must have gone off to call Triple A. (Or do witches belong to Triple 6?)
About 20 miles later a rattling noise erupted from the driver side door. The door was fully closed, as was the window, and the side-view mirror reflected nothing amiss. I fretted, resolving to pull over for a closer inspection as soon as I was out of heavy traffic. Temporarily unable to act, I mused. Then I laughed, imagining that I would stop, get out of the car and discover that the source of the rattle was a bloody hook dangling from the door latch. This thought tickled so much that I failed to notice when rattling stopped. Good thing. Plan B would have been to turn the volume up on the radio to drown out the noise.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:55 PM
What a wonderful thing is a haircut. A few inches of growth removed and one feels born again. Make that "shorn again." Until yesterday my hair reached almost to the middle of my back, a length it has not seen since I was in junior high. Ever the klutz, I was constantly hurting myself while driving if I looked too quickly to one side or the other while my hair was pressed against the seat back. Today it is a more manageable and much safer shoulder length. Having said that, I am in danger of giving myself whiplash because I keep tossing my head just to feel my sassy short locks swish against the back of my neck.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:37 PM
Vacation, baby! I'm on vacation. Though it's only a few short days I am hoping to regain my happy thoughts. Not that I don't love my job; one needs to recharge every now and then is all. I don't think I've ever spent a last day at work before a vacation without being on the verge of nervous tears from trying to tie up loose ends so I can vacate without guilt. Today was no exception. Still, the week started off well; a student in my Excel Basic class told me that he was enjoying it so much that he couldn't wait to come back after the lunch break. Music to a trainer's ears! And I'll enjoy work again after my long weekend break.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:10 PM
All right, Mr. Spammer. Your clever pseudonym at least got me to not delete your message right away (and if it's not a pseudonym, it's a wonderful aptonym!) but if you're so flingin'-flangin' smart, you should know that I am a woman and therefore not in your target demographic for your alleged penis enlargement product. So on your bike, Carey Wood.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
8:00 PM
I just added some new guitar pictures to my Accidental Guitarist collection, which is turning into an ongoing project. The original idea was to just post the Christmas cards and similar little items that I had kept over the years because they had a guitar or guitar-like lute on them and have done with it. I spent a rainy Saturday morning scanning and uploading a dozen or so pictures and thought that was that. Then I started remembering items I missed so I had to add those, then my good bud Dave sent me a few graphics to add, then the next thing I knew I was looking through junk mail in the hopes of spotting the odd guitar. It's a silly project, yeah, but I'm enjoying the hell out of it. Especially the part where friend Dave offered his own underwear for the collection. (You can see it by clicking the link found elsewhere in this paragraph then skipping to page 4.)
Dave's moving away at the end of the summer and I'm gonna miss him something awful. So let me just say here for the record that I'm glad he's my friend and I'm glad he's insane. Those two attributes are related, I'm quite sure.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:31 PM
Since last Wednesday I have been glued to the UPS web site, tracking the progress of my brand spanking new computer. I had an inkling of how adoptive parents of children from a different hemisphere feel as their child-to-be journeys through time, space and paperwork to reach them.
Ok, so a computer isn't a child; I was eager to welcome it home all the same. It travelled for 2 days across the midwest then spent the weekend in Harrisburg before arriving in Northern Virginia early this morning and being sent right back out "for Delivery". I was teaching all day, but at breaks checked the UPS site for the longed-for "delivered" status. No go. Unsure if the package would require a signature, I arrived home hoping that I would find my computer intact and untouched on my doorstep. Instead, I found a UPS truck in the driveway and its sweaty driver walking toward it with a large box in hand. I pulled up to him and asked "Is that for Hull?" Affirmative. And signature required, so he had already schlepped the heavy box down the walk and up two flights of stairs on a warm June day, and, finding no one home, back down the stairs and up the walk again. Apologizing profusely for inconvenient timing, I gladly proffered my ID and signed the electronic pad. If I had arrived home two minutes later I would have had to wait another 24 hours for my new toy/tool. Down side: I had to schlep the big box up the stairs myself.
Up side: I have a new computer!
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
8:03 PM
A Hullku:
Complaint: blogger's block
Too fried to be inventive
I blame the weather
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:28 PM
I used to have a neighbor named John Schmidt. He was a journalist, bright and articulate as you please, but he had zero sense of humor. None. No capacity for levity whatsoever. Therefore I never was able to work up the nerve to ask him if his middle name was "Jacob Jingleheimer".
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:16 PM