In which I need a time machine

photoI need, need for it to be about four hours in the future, y’all.  Four hours in the future (hell, maybe three by now, I dunno) is when I get to eat my dinner, and I’ve spent most of the last two days wanting to eat today’s dinner.  And some cole slaw.  And maybe some chips and French Onion dip.

And maybe six hours of treadmill/exercise bike time after that.

Mmmmm giant slab of piiiiiiiig.


Been tossing around ideas for ways to make more money lately, and I think I may have to see if I can work with a homebound kid next year.  This would mean that in addition to my regular classroom duties I’d spend two hours a day after school working with one kid, someone who for some reason (generally, behavioral) has been deemed unable to attend school with everyone else and thus has to receive his education in an alternate setting.

It’s going to be a lot of work, but my brother did it last year and it’s really good money for the extra work.  Whether it’s enough to make it worth it will no doubt depend on the kid I end up with.  Even the worst-behaved student is often easier to deal with in a one-on-one setting where they don’t have anyone to show off for, so hopefully that’ll work out decently.  If not, these types of things are generally relatively short-term, four to six weeks at a time with one student.  I can put up with anything for a month and a half, right?  He said?

I dunno.  I’m turning 37 next week, which means I will officially be in my Late Thirties, and it’s kind of messing with my head a little bit.  Generally I haven’t been too affected by my birthdays; I was happy to turn both 30 and 35, but 37… yikes.  I made a lot of bad decisions about money in my twenties (some more justifiable than others) that I have spent most of my thirties trying to undo.  I had a solid plan at one point to be free of credit card debt by my fortieth birthday; it’s not as on track right now as it was at the beginning of 2013 because everything in my house keeps exploding and my son had to have tubes put in his ears and my car and blah blah blah life intervenes in your plans, but I’m not too far off, especially if I manage to find a way to bring in some extra funds.

“Write a book!” my brain tells me.

“Shut the fuck up, brain,” the rest of me tells my brain.

Anyway, a homebound kid is more realistic.  I’d basically never be home from school before 5:30, and I’d have to shift some things at Other Job around once it kicked in, and it’s entirely possible it’ll make me crazy, but it’s better than being broke, right?

…right?

In which I post about nothing in particular

originalCan I just start by saying that I’m planning on making pulled pork sandwiches tomorrow for dinner and I’m going to have to get up early to get the meat seared and into the crock pot and that I could not be more excited about the prospect of getting to eat pulled pork? I can’t explain it. I’m just glad I’m married; my wife, who is smarter than me, pointed out that we absolutely needed to hit the grocery today if we wanted to get all the ingredients, since one of them is beer. I don’t drink– at all– and the fact that you can’t buy beer in Indiana on Sunday because the same god who turned water into wine once will get angry or something had temporarily slipped past me.

Anyway, point is pulled pork sandwiches tomorrow, mmm.

Interesting phenomenon the last few days; hits on the blog fell through the floor for no clear reason. I go back and forth on why I write online; some sort of engagement with people is certainly a good thing (at least, most of the time) and the fact that I was regularly getting thirty or forty views a day (spiking at one point to 59) after only a few weeks of the blog’s existence certainly seemed to indicate that sooner or later comments would start showing up from people I didn’t already know. Granted, yesterday’s post was a one-liner, but I went from an average of 39 views a day last week to, in the last three days, less than ten.

In the long run, of course, it makes no difference at all, but it’s curious.

We took the boy to the zoo today. One of these days, the emus are going to boom while I’m there. I’ve heard the lions roar from fairly short range, but the emus have been annoyingly quiet every time I’ve been out there. An emu boom is supposed to be audible from a couple of kilometers away so you ought to be able to hear them from anywhere in the zoo if they’re bothering to make noise.

The boy’s favorite animals? The birds, interestingly. And the turtles. He thought the alpacas were geese, which entertains me; it suggests that the neck is the most salient characteristic of each of them for him.

And now, from the I Don’t Feel Like Talking About It But You Should Read These files:

Actually, one thing on Deen: I had an interesting conversation with my wife this morning where she suggested that sexism forms a nonzero portion of the reason for the truckload of shit that Deen’s taking where other male celebrities, Michael Richards, Mel Gibson, and that not-Howard-Stern radio idiot– Don Imus!– got away with similar outbursts with less of a massive impact on their careers. I don’t want to discount the idea, but I can’t think of another example that quite fits the same situation that Deen has; Imus lost his job, Richards and Gibson don’t have endorsements to be fired from, and all three handled their respective PR disasters with something less than the complete idiocy that Deen’s been putting on display lately. I said something on Facebook recently about how Deen seems to have managed to find a way to shove her foot into her mouth and her head up her ass simultaneously, which is a pretty impressive feat; literally every time she opens her mouth she makes shit worse, which I don’t quite feel like the other three did. Plus, as the Rude Pundit points out in the link above, Deen’s not in trouble for what she said however many years ago so much as her unbelievably poor treatment of her employees and complete inability to figure out why people are mad at her. There’s more to this than just language.

I dunno. I hate the word “mansplaining” a lot; maybe I’m doing that here. Sexism probably does have something to do with it insofar as it’s a woman we’re discussing and it’s always going to be difficult to tease out this-is-sexism-and-this-is-not whenever we’re talking about an issue this complicated. I’m just not sure at all how much.

(Also: you don’t get to use “from a different generation” to defend yourself when you were in your early twenties during the Civil Rights movement. Your ass has had plenty of time to learn better.)

Anyway; I gotta go to work. It’s raining; we’ll see how busy I am tonight. Last night was completely dead until 8:00 and then batshit bugfuck insane for two hours where we made as much money as we usually do on a Friday night except in 1/3 the usual amount of time. I came home freaking exhausted last night.

Not in the mood today, sorry.

Not in the mood today, sorry.

In which iceballs are awesome

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This is Europa.  Europa is the most interesting of Jupiter’s 67 moons.  Io is the second coolest, if you happen to be wondering, and S/2003 J 2, which has a dumb name and is only two kilometers wide, is the least interesting.

Europa has at some point (and that point may be now) harbored life.  Yes, I’m phrasing it that definitively.  I don’t care.  I’m a rebel, dammit!  Plus I’m right.  Do I mean, like, little green dudes who might eat us?  No; probably bacteria of some sort, although something more complicated is certainly possible.  But Europa is basically a giant ball of ice with a water ocean underneath it.  The surface features, you see, change on a fairly regular basis, and Europa is the flattest object in the solar system– it doesn’t really appear to have a lot of craters.

That no craters thing is a huge key to the existence of the ocean, see; the idea is that that frozen surface is continually cracking (being as close to Jupiter as it is means that the planet’s gravity is wreaking havoc with Europa’s surface) and the liquid water underneath is coming up and re-freezing the surface.  Which, as you know if you’ve ever seen ice, tends to create a pretty flat surface.

Our experiences on Earth have taught us just how hardy life is.  Basically, anywhere there’s water, there’s life.  Hell, even in places where there’s barely any water, there’s still life.  I have a lot of trouble imagining that this moon has literally a planetary-sized ocean (the estimate, if you didn’t read the Wikipedia article, is twice the volume of Earth’s oceans) with absolutely nothing living in it.  Granted that “I have trouble imagining” isn’t the greatest example of scientific reasoning in the history of time, but whatever, my nonexistent reputation as a scientist will survive.

(Also: one of the greatest things about being an amateur astronomer is just how fast the field changes.  When I was a kid, the thought of extraterrestrial planets was considered vaguely ludicrous, as we hadn’t found any yet.  Now that I’m old we’re finding twenty Goldilocks planets a month and there are at least half-a-dozen moons in our solar system alone that we think could potentially harbor or have harbored some sort of life.  The possibility of life outside Earth has gone from a massive improbability to something that seems virtually certain.  All these planets, all these moons, and life nowhere but here?  Bullshit.)

Anyway, here’s the reason I’m even talking about this:  A movie that I’ve been excited about for a while, Europa Report, comes out today, and it’s doing so in an interesting way: it’s in theaters in limited release but you can also stream it through iTunes.  The film’s creators appear to have put a lot of effort into making the film scientifically plausible, at least up to a point, and I’m super excited about watching it– probably not tonight, as I’ve got plans to eat massive amounts of sushi after work and will want to come home and die– but this weekend.

I like living in the future.

On the literal death of the blues

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Bobby “Blue” Bland died a couple of days ago.  He was 83.

I’ve written this post before; a bunch of times, in fact.  I wrote it when John Lee Hooker died in 2001.  When Ray Charles died in 2004.  Robert Lockwood in 2006.  Koko Taylor in 2009.  Etta James, last year.  I’d have written it when Junior Wells died in 1998 if I’d had a blog at the time.  I’ve loved blues music for a long time but it’s getting to the point where everyone who ever mattered in the genre is dead.  BB King is still touring; he’s 87 goddamn years old and the last time I saw him will be the last time I ever see him.  He’ll die on stage one day.  Taj Mahal is 71.  James Cotton (who, Wikipedia tells me, is Bland’s half-brother, and they only just found out about it) is 77.  Buddy Guy is 76.  Blues musicians live a long goddamn time, apparently, but surely most of them will be gone within ten years or so.

I was about to mention Billy Branch as one of the few greats who is still relatively young and then I looked him up.  He’s 61.  Sigh.  Bonnie Raitt’s only 63.  Comparatively they’re young’uns.

I don’t know that I have a lot to say about him, actually, other than I’m tired of RIP posts about blues musicians.  I know that there are younger musicians out there who call themselves blues singers but it’s not the same at all.  I haven’t discovered a “new” blues singer who was worth the title in probably fifteen years.

Do yourself a favor.  Even if you’re not into the blues all that much, track down the two live concerts that Bobby and BB King did together in 1974 and 1976.  The albums are still out there– hell, you can probably download them from Amazon (yep:  here and here) and they’re two of the greatest live concerts I’ve ever heard.  There’s a bit at the end of Together Again… Live where they literally pull a woman named Viola out of the crowd to sing The Thrill is Gone with them and she turns out to be a good enough singer to easily share the stage with the two of them; it’s brilliant.  Together for the First Time has a fourteen-minute medley piece where the two of them are just strumming along and singing bits of different songs, ad-libbing.  I’m listening to it right now. It’s wonderful.  You should check it out.


IMG_0175I made this yesterday, from a recipe on Facebook.  Looks crap, don’t it?  It was actually pretty good: basically you just boil a couple/three chicken breasts (we used three) until they’re cooked through, open up a couple of cans of crescent rolls, and then shred the chicken and stuff a spoon’s worth or so into each of the crescent rolls.  Put ’em into a glass pan and bake them at 350 for about five minutes (I gave it seven; my oven is perenially slower than what recipes call for), just long enough for the rolls to get a little crispy but not enough to have them completely cooked.

Now, since we did three chicken breasts, I had a fair amount of chicken left over.  I put some curry powder on the rest of the chicken (a few shakes; I didn’t measure it) and mixed it in with the two cans of cream of chicken soup that the recipe actually called for.  The whole mess goes on top of the crescent rolls and then back in the oven for another ten minutes or so.  After that, a cup of shredded cheese on top and another ten minutes, then out of the oven and serve.  There’s really no way to make it look like anything other than horror-glop that I’m aware of, but I was surprised at how everything came together– I would have thought that twenty minutes under the cream of chicken soup would reduce the crescent rolls to a soggy mess, but they retained their crispiness and buttery flavor perfectly.

The next time I do this, I think instead of the curry powder (which, btw, wasn’t in the original recipe) I’ll put some taco seasoning in with the chicken and then use a Mexican cheese mix instead of cheddar cheese.  That ought to come out tasting something like crescent roll enchiladas, which sounds pretty damn good.  I had the leftovers for breakfast this morning and threw some sour cream on top just to see what it was like; it worked out pretty nicely.  I can imagine a world where some salsa works, too.  It wouldn’t help with the gloppiness but at least it would add a color that isn’t beige and yellow.

It’s gonna storm all day today.  Good day to listen to the blues.

It may be time to admit…

…that I’m not getting anything done today.  There’s a new Stone Gossard album out and I just finished a really really really good book and it’s storming outside so getting any yard work done (for example, dealing with all the branches that last night’s storm knocked loose) is pretty much out of the question.  So… sit on the couch and Facebook all morning?  On it.

On why I hate all life

We bought our house in February or March of 2011.  I have the exact date somewhere I’m sure but for the purposes of this blog post it doesn’t really matter all that much.  Just be aware that our inspection report from before we moved in specifically states that a roof inspection wasn’t possible because there was a foot of snow and ice on the roof.  It could have been made of pancakes and toaster strudel for all we knew before we moved in.

We were prepared to take that risk, on account of the fact that the interior of the house appeared to have been well taken care of, and there were indications that the original owner of the home was actually the builder, so we figured that the place had been well-maintained.

Note that the home inspector does not inspect your lawn for you, and that if the roof was covered in a foot of snow and ice, so was the entire lawn.  This is important, because if I had seen the lawn prior to moving into the house I would have argued against buying the place.  The previous owners were an elderly couple and clearly devoted most if not all of their growing-season leisure time to maintaining the lawn.  I am a teacher with a two year old and a second job, and I hate yard work with the hot passion of a million suns, so… yeah.  Let’s just say that I have not done a good job maintaining what they have wrought.  This picture-heavy post basically exists to let you know what I am up against and gives you a chance to call me a lazy whiner.  Be aware of something: we’re entering our third summer in the house.  Third.  Not fifteenth.  And since we’re just entering it, it means that the lawn has only had two summers to become what it is today.

flower

Let’s start with something pretty.  Isn’t that flower pretty?  It’s gorgeous, in fact.  It’s growing in my back yard.  It grows in my back yard every year!  For like two weeks.  The rest of the time, as far as I can tell, it’s a weed. Now that we’ve seen something pretty, let’s go look at the front yard.

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Our first front-lawn picture is one of the few that vaguely resembles victory, actually:  this little patch of the front of my house was a weed-infested hellhole until about, I dunno, a month ago?  Then I did this to it.  The little barrel over to the right is filled with violets that I had tried to plant in this space but they got eaten by weeds (milkweed, mostly) and I tried to save them.  I actually successfully transplanted something!  They’re doing fine!

The tree, I don’t know what that is but I’ll probably have to cut it down before it grows into my foundation, if it’s not there already.I didn’t put it there.

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We have (this will be a theme) a surface root problem in both lawns.  There’s an enormous something-tree (again, I don’t know plants) in the front yard.  It’s big and pretty and I like it but it also has these for, like, a ten-foot radius around it.  This is where Deathwish the toad lives.  I keep planning on putting some sort of box around this tree to try and contain the roots but it keeps not happening on account of 1) complicated; 2) expensive; 3) hard work.  This area is, obviously, impossible to mow and must be kept under control with a weed whacker.

I own three weed whackers and not one of them works right.

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This used to count as a completed project.  This tree, also in the front yard, also had a surface root problem, so I built this little planter box around it.  When I built the box, it was relatively straight and square; the roots have taken care of that and now it looks all crooked and janky.  Also, I was stupid enough to not bother putting some sort of cloth underneath the rocks, so now grass is growing through them.  This needs to be torn down and rebuilt this summer; who knows if I’ll actually get to it or not.  Another clue for next time: mortar.  Which I know nothing about.

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This is by our front door.  These vines wrap around to the front of the house where the woodchips are and continually threaten to take over the front porch and the sidewalk and have to be hacked back.  I think you should be able to click on these to get a bigger version; that big thing in the middle has been hacked down twice and keeps growing back.  In an ideal world, I’ll rip all of these out, put the grass back in, and put a lawn swing here; I don’t like the vines either aesthetically or practically and my front porch isn’t quite set up right for a swing.  But, again, work-time-money.  I weedwhacked this a couple of weekends ago, so this is actually pretty cared for compared to how it usually looks.

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This patch of bullshit is on the side of the house.  Bek has carefully planted several peonies here, and carefully arranged landscaping fabric around the peonies to keep the milkweed from reestablishing itself; the last two years have been a constant battle against milkweed.  You can see that the milkweed gives no fucks about our bullshit little landscape fabric and is back anyway.  She has threatened to cleanse this part of the lawn with flame if the landscape fabric didn’t work.  I look forward to that happening at the end of the summer.

Speaking of cleansing with flame…

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The rest of the side yard.  That big bush in back is a burning bush and I love it; we have three of them and in “ideal world” mode I plant several more along the house back here, mostly so that I never have to mow it again.  See the big dead patch there?  Our neighbor on this side of the house is retired and his lawn is immaculate, which makes me hate him.  Two years ago he literally poured gasoline or something else horrible along the border between our yards here to keep my weeds from encroaching on his lawn.  I was so overwhelmed with new-house-baby-coming-JESUS-FUCK-THIS-LAWN that I didn’t even care.  That patch of land still hasn’t recovered from whatever the hell he killed it with.

I want more.

That’s the front yard.  Now, just for perspective, we live on a cul-de-sac, so our front lawn is wedge-shaped and relatively small.  I can mow it in twenty minutes, easy; fifteen if I’m in a hurry.  The back yard is much, much, much bigger; probably easily four times the area of the front yard.  Have you gotten the impression that I hate my front yard?  Pfah.  My hatred for my front yard is nothing compared to my hatred for the back yard.

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Let’s start with this tree.  It’s a… Chinese elm, maybe?  I dunno, some kind of hardwood.  We called a Tree Guy out last summer (several, actually) to discuss ways to get rid of our locust tree, a job that, as it turns out, no landscape guy anywhere wants (we called four of them; two refused to even provide us with an estimate, basically declining the job, and a third guy quoted a price so high that I’d cut the damn thing down myself or attach a fuckin’ lightning tod to it and hope before I paid it) and he looked at this tree and went “Yeah, fifteen-twenty thousand bucks to take that one down.  It’ll chew up saws like nobody’s business.”

Great.

I’m not super fond of the ground cover here and would like to get rid of it but I’m not sure grass will actually grow under this tree.  There’s probably tons of surface roots underneath it, too. The huge pile of dirt is from the peony project in the front yard, and the giant tree branch fell off a neighbor’s tree into our yard and I was too lazy to hack it up.  In an ideal world, there’s a hammock under here; it’ll probably never happen.

Note, by the way, that there’s no border or anything trying to contain the ground cover.  I actually tried to do this my first summer, only to discover that between the roots and the ground being made of fucking cast iron, the job would have been virtually impossible– or at least close enough that I wasn’t willing to put in the work.  Digging around any of the trees in either lawn is incredibly labor-intensive to a point that I frankly wouldn’t have believed prior to buying this house.

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Turn around from the tree and you get this, covering one side of our back porch.  This used to be some (apparently quite expensive and nice-looking) form of vines or ground cover until the drought last summer killed it stone dead.  Some of it is trying to come back; the vast majority of this is weeds, some of them very large.  Also, tomatoes.

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This is just outside our back door.  It’s a flower garden, technically; at least half of what’s in it will flower, some of it beautifully, at some point during the summer, which is paralyzing, because it means that for the most part I have no idea what’s going to look pretty at some point and what’s a weed that I can hack up and throw away with impunity.  The flower in the first picture above is to the right; those close at night and open up during the day; since this picture was taken early in the morning they’re closed right now.  There’s also some pink flowers to the left (dying off now, as their two weeks have expired) and some blue ones to the right.  It makes me insane.  Off-camera to the right is… I dunno, a wisteria, maybe?  A big bush that bursts into flowers and looks really cool for about two weeks.  Bek knows what this is; I’ll edit it later.  (EDIT:  I am informed that this is a lilac bush.)  Also: there are at least two or three different species of actual trees growing in here; see if you can spot them.

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A little farther down from the door; the maybe-wisteria is to the right in this picture.  This used to be green and pretty.  It’s basically Hector’s pissin’ bush now.  He killed it.  I’d cut it down, but it’s covered in an inch of tarred-on dog piss and I’m afraid if I cut it down he’ll choose something else as a target for his poison stream.

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Opposite side of the lawn, next to the ground-cover-money-tree.  This also is filled with weeds and flowering things, and tons of plants that my mom looks at and goes, “That’s a blabbity!  I wish I had a blabbity!  You can’t cut that down!” and makes me insane.  I think the giant thing with the big leaves is called an elephant ear; I have no goddamn idea what anything else is but some of them will flower.

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To the right: locust tree, which I hate.  In the middle: more locust trees, grown from the first locust tree.  This happens every year no matter how many of them I cut down.  I feel like the white-edged leafy things are a weed; sometimes I try and kill them all and they come back.

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More goddamn surface roots, these from the locust tree.  In a few weeks, we will enter my favorite part of the year, where  hundreds of little locust trees start growing from these roots.  I hate the locust tree, have I mentioned that?  And I hate baby locust trees?

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This used to be the world’s scraggliest and ugliest pine tree until I cut it down last year.  I’ve left the stump, not out of laziness, but as an example to the rest of the plants not to fuck with me.

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I don’t know what the hell this is but it’s huge and it takes over the middle of the rest of the yard.  Sooner or later I’ll cut it down; it’ll probably grow right back.

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There’s a fence in here, and behind it, a utility abutment that doesn’t actually belong to anyone.  Last summer I spent two ninety-five degree days pruning this back and clearing the fence.  Last summer.  As in this all grew back in less than a year.  I will not be repeating that experiment; fuck it.

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This is just grass, mostly, but because of the way the fence is constructed I can’t come up with a way to prune it down short of getting a pair of goddamned scissors and cutting each blade individually– which, needless to say, isn’t happening.  I’ve taken three or four different stabs at it with different tools (including a reciprocal saw and a machete, among other more practical, first-choice types of tools) and I can’t find a way to do it that doesn’t make me suicidal.

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My tulip tree.  I actually know what this is and I like it; it may be the only plant in the back yard that that is true for.

The end.

Screw-it Sunday

I spent most of last night dealing with a backed up sewer system at OtherJob and trying to explain to people why both of our bathrooms were out of order and also it was hot and muggy as hell and we were really busy so I had to have the bathroom conversation a lot.

I am taking today off.  

Love you.