The Butler and Bagman Chronicles

Friday Hometown Shootout - Delicate

2012-01-27T02:10:00.000-04:00

Ooops.

Ran out of time again this week. But I did take a few pictures so I should post them.

BAGMAN: "Hey! You can't just ignore US!"

BUTLER: "He said he didn't have much time. We need to respect that."

So here is my delicate shoot:

An orchid that bloomed this week

And it wouldn't be the deep South without Spanish moss

I wasn't sure if the plant on top of the old palm trunk was actually "delicate"

but it looked delicate in relation to the rough palm.

Wait a minute! Is everything delicate only in relation to something that is not so delicate? Is delicacy, like everything else, just a matter of relativity?

BUTLER: "Of course. Just as dark colors wouldn't look so dark unless they are seen in relation to light colors."

BAGMAN: "And politicians wouldn't sound like such idiots if they weren't seen in relation to normal human beings. Hey! Maybe when they are all in a group -- like in Congress -- they only see each other and don't realize what idiots they are!"

BUTLER: "Shhh. Mark's trying to get through this before he falls asleep or one of the kids wakes up."

Kay's eyelashes and eyebrows

Nah. I think there are some absolutes. Kay's eyelashes are delicate no matter what.

And that's really the end of my delicate pictures. The next picture is delicate only because of the process of what I need to do with it.

Kay on neutral (sort of) background

Why this is a delicate challenge

I put this Coca Cola suit on Kay yesterday and took around 40 different shots, lighting, exposure, expressions, etc., before she drew the shoot to a close by throwing up all over the suit.

Karen has saved this suit for over twenty years - since Kay's dad, Brian, was our own little formula-spewing babe.

Scan of a non-digital shot of Kay's Dad

And when Conner came along three and half years ago, we started a tradition.

Conner

We put Conner in the same suit, on the same quilt and put the two photographs in a double picture frame.

Then Noah came along.

Noah

We still had the suit, of course, but somehow we had misplaced the quilt, so I had to photoshop him onto the background of the Conner picture. It's a bit obvious but in a three-picture frame from a distance it doesn't really matter.

So the delicate challenge is to see if I can now do a better job photoshopping Kay -- the neutral (sort of) background helps the process of cutting her out. Then comes the delicate piece of reconstructing parts of the quilt since her legs are in a different position and I will have to use the clone tool to fill in the gaps. Then find a way of adding some shadows to make it look three dimensional. Then adjust the brightness and contrast of all four shots so they more or less match. I haven't decided yet if I might try changing the hue of Kay's suit to a pinkish tone.

As I said, the photos aren't really delicate but some of the process can get detailed.

And then I need to go out and find a four-picture frame.

But first I'm going to go to sleep.

Don't have conversations with people who aren't there

2012-01-25T15:38:00.000-04:00

Stop me if you've heard this one before...

I guess that's impossible since by the time you read it, I'll have finished writing it. But I just noticed that I have 533 posts behind me and after a while you just can't remember whether you've said something before. By now, for instance, my wife can tell all my best stories as well as I can.

But walking the dog the other evening, I remembered one of the "rules to live by" that I came up with once:

Don't have conversations with people who aren't there.

Actually I can remember exactly when I came up with this. I was sitting in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant in the foothills of the Wastatch Mountains overlooking Salt Lake City where I once traveled frequently to assist in managing the opening of a new alcohol and drug hospital -- Highland Ridge Hospital. I think it is still around.

And I wasn't paying attention to the view. I was engaged in an intense, angry internal argument with my ex-wife over something or other. I can't remember now. But I had been at it for awhile. Having arguments with someone in your head is easy because you always win them. Since you are imagining both sides of the debate, you always make the other person say something to which you have already planned a scathing rebuttal.

But after awhile, I realized that it had become dark and I had wasted well over an hour or so. While I was pumping up my blood pressure, my ex-wife, three time zones away, was probably sleeping like a baby.

I was having an imaginary argument about something that might never come up. I don't know now whether it ever did, whatever it was.

But suddenly I thought to myself: "Don't have conversations with people who aren't there."
And my blood pressure dropped and I smiled.

And that little insight has served me well ever since...at least when I remember to practice it.

Friday Hometown Shootout - Glass

2012-01-20T01:00:00.000-04:00

Shattered, shattered, shadoobie...or something like that. The Rolling Stones song is the background music in my head as I wander down to the B&B studio to see what we can pull together for today's shootout.

CRASH!! TINKLE TINKLE.

I open the door, push my head cautiously inside. The floor is covered with shards of glass. I am very glad that I am wearing shoes for a change.

BUTLER: "I told Bagman not to try and build a tower out of glasses."

BAGMAN: "It would have made a great picture!"

"Please tell me you didn't use our good crystal."

Silence.

Subdued, I sit down at the computer and begin posting some pictures for this week's theme.

Street View through glass - Charleston, SC

Street View through glass - Murphy, NC

This is not much of a picture by itself. It was texture in an overhead ceiling light at a conference center where I was attending a very important meeting. And obviously a very boring meeting. I thought I might use the colors or shapes in some Photoshop manipulation someday. "And we need to get our lobbying strategies together to oppose this legislation blah blah blah...click." Retirement is wonderful.

Scan of a slide taken in 1970.

I think this was a piece of amber

(Isn't that kind of like glass?)

This was a skylight at the Atlanta Art Museum (I think)

I liked it better upside down.

Reflection in a ceramic vase

(Isn't ceramic something like glass?)

Part of Karen's bottle collection

Part of a class bowl that was for sale in a shop

taken just before the shop owner asked me

not to take pictures.

(Why not, I wonder...but didn't ask)

And that's about all I've got this week. I see that Butler has swept up all the broken glass from the floor. I wonder why Butler did it when Bagman, who is lounging in the corner reading magazines was the one who broke it in the first place. But that's Butler for you...

"I left some doughnuts on the table," I say, starting to leave.

BAGMAN (jumping up and running toward the table and then starting to hop when he steps -- barefoot as usual -- on a shard that Butler missed): "Wait a minute! I wanted to post this one."

Appropriately weird

I head off for breakfast and to check the morning stock prices. I'll be back over the weekend to relish everyone elses' posts.

IMPORTANT NOTE: The author of this post has an up-to-date, valid poetic license. No crystal glasses were actually harmed in the production of this blog.

Glass Half Full Half Empty - Solved

2012-01-19T01:40:00.000-04:00

Walking Daisy seems to be a time when ideas come into my mind. Probably because my mind is pretty empty, particularly in the morning walk. In winter both the evening and morning walks are done in the dark and aside from glancing into neighbors' windows as I walk by, there isn't much to see.

In fact there isn't much to see in the windows of houses I pass by either except the same chandeliers that were there the day before. And one guy who is always leaning over his computer in his second floor office -- always. More than me even.

Since that is the sum total of dog walking stimuli in suburbia, my mind puts my body on autopilot and curls up to sleep. And ideas come to it.

Most of them are too dumb, too Bagmanish, or too pessimistic to be be worth remembering. But this morning, I suddenly realized the solution to whether my glass is half empty or half full.

Neither! My glass is simply too big!

If you ever wonder if your glass is half empty or half full, just get a smaller glass and bask in the fact that it is almost overflowing.

In fact, if you don't have a glass at all, abundance just flows over you.   But I'm not quite ready to give up my glass. For some reason, I still have the need to contain something and claim it as mine before I consume it.

The New House - Second in an uncertain series

2012-01-17T01:23:00.000-04:00

I don't have a clue whether we will be living in the house when it gets built or whether we will end up staying in the house we now have -- and that now has been fixed up with our sweat.

But the process began for real on the 12th.

Lot 44

We met with Tim Dupre, our go-to guy until we either walk away from the project or move in, to finalize plans and walk the lot to discuss which trees should go and which should stay.

Not that there is a whole lot of choice since the lot is small and the house has to be fairly square and can't be build like some snakey maze around trees. Nor can we have a tree growing up through the livingroom floor and out through the roof.

Most of the trees are not all that nice anyhow -- pines and gum. (No gums!!! I don't want to be picking up spikey gum balls in my eighties!! I've picked up enough of them during the last 13 years at our current house!)

I hate gum trees!

But out at Lot 44 we spot a nice live oak near the back of the lot.

"Hey, Tim! Do you think we can save that one?"

His answer is a masterful combination of customer service and legal disclaimer. He tells us that he will save all the trees he can -- (Except the gums!!!!) -- but that when they muck the lot, there is always a danger of damaging roots of big trees when taking out the little ones.

Mucking, we learn, is taking a big piece of heavy equipment, driven by someone getting paid minimum wage, and ripping up the place. It is not lazer surgery. Tim's promise to save all the trees he can seems a bit empty.

I begin feeling sorry for the trees so I go past the pack of the lot where there is a long cleared path for a powerline. I am wondering if it might have the potential for a walking trail.

I turn to my right.

Are we moving into an industrial complex?
Walking away begins to seem more like a good thing.

What are we doing!!!???

Leaving Karen and Tim to debate tree extinction, I wander off to my left.

This is a bit more promising

As Karen says, "If we're meant to live there, we'll live there. If we're meant to stay where we are, we'll stay where we are."

One of those great truths I've learned in A.A. over the years.

"Let go and let God."

"Make plans but don't plan results."

The New House -First of a series with an uncertain ending

2012-01-16T01:03:00.001-04:00

A lot of this makes no sense. We know it makes no sense, and yet we keep moving further and further into it. At the end of each non-sensical decision, we look at each other and say, "What are we doing?!!"

So far, I've been documenting attempts to sell our current house so we can downsize and move closer to the grandchildren and Karen's work. I say "documenting" instead of "blogging" because I sometimes use this blog to journal about things for the future. Maybe not as entertaining but...

What I haven't mentioned much is what we have been doing to locate a house we can move into after our current one sells. Assuming that it does. Big assumption.

And we keep breaking all the rules or guidelines we set for ourselves going into the process.

Assumption #1: We would look but we would not buy anything until we were sure our house had sold. We can't afford to own two homes.

Assumption #1 Broken: We bought a house! We'd be complete idiots but instead of buying someone else's house, we are having a new one built! The advantage is that the contract has an out-clause in case we don't sell our house. At some point in the building process there will be a "Go/No-Go" meeting -- probably in a couple of months. At that point, if our house has not sold we can walk away without losing our down payment.

Assumption #2: We will downsize.

Assumption #2 Broken: The new home is bigger and more than we expected to pay

Kitchen in "Model Home"

Assumption #3: We will be moving nearer the grandchildren and Karen's work.

Assumption #3 Partially Broken: Well, it is a little closer but not all that much.

What are we doing?!!

Photo Hometown Shootout - Arms and Legs

2012-01-13T01:00:00.001-04:00

Even before I get to the B&B studio, I can hear Bagman in his loudest ZZ Top voice:

"She's got legs, she knows how to use them
She never begs, she knows how to choose them"

When I opened the door, I saw, with chagrin, he had already posted his first picture:

And I saw that Butler was already trying to do damage control:

BUTLER: "This is a G-rated blog, Baggie! If you want to use this picture, why not use Photoshot to make it more artistic. Like this."

BAGMAN: "Yuck!" For once, I had to agree with Bagman.

BUTLER: "Or this."

BAGMAN: "Double yuck!" By this time I had blocked Butler's access to Photoshop. And while I was doing it, Bagman posted his second picture:

Charleston's Annual "Stiletto Stomp"

BUTLER: "That's ridiculous! And who on Earth produces high-heeled running shoes?"

I was frantically trying to regain control of my blog. I didn't have long because I had a To-Do list to get to. Why can't I blog, check stocks, paint the windowsill, and pick up toys simultaneously. I just don't have enough arms.

But after pouring cold water on Bagman and glaring at Butler, I started my real post. And since we are already on legs:

LEGS

There are FAT legs

And there are SKINNY legs

There are LONG legs

And there are TINY legs

At that moment, I lost my train of thought because Karen needed me to help move some furniture. I really really need more arms. And now I can't remember what was supposed to come next. Oh yes:

Legs are for dancing

Legs are for running through sprinklers

But I need to stop and say that in the past, I really loved my legs and we got along well together.

We ran together

We broke things together

Now my legs don't want to get out of bed and they've joined forces with my back to prohibit me from touching my toes. Which makes putting on shoes a chore.

Oops! My blog production is stopped once again to go walk the dog. I need more arms!

And legs...

You can't have too many legs

BUTLER: "Careful, Mark. You've already posted a gazillion pictures and exceeded the average attention span of anyone with a mouse in their hand. And you haven't even started on 'arms' yet."

"That's okay, Butler," I answer. "I not only have too few arms but I have very few pictures of arms as well."

BAGMAN: "I knew it!! You're a leg man!"

But I did also want to pay homage to one of my favorite poets.

"Then I was deep within the woods
When, suddenly, I spied them.
I saw a pair of pale green pants
With nobody inside them!

I wasn't scared. But, yet, I stopped
What could those pants be there for?
What could a pair of pants at night
Be standing in the air for?

And then they moved? Those empty pants!
They kind of started jumping.
And then my heart, I must admit,
It kind of started thumping.

So I got out. I got out fast
As fast as I could go, sir.
I wasn't scared. But pants like that
I did not care for. No, sir."

Dr. Seuss

LEGS

BUTLER: "Thank goodness! It's really time to wrap this one up."

Arms are for supporting legs

Arms are for expressing protest

Arms are for expressing beauty

And, most of all --

Arms are for holding the ones we love

BUTLER: "Are you finally done yet?"

BAGMAN: "I still like the first one I posted. It went downhill from there."

BUTLER: "And don't you have a long To-Do list to get to?"

Yes, sadly it is time to leave the world of blog and head back into the world of chores. I really wish I had more arms...

Having only nine arms is not enough

Wallpaper

2012-01-11T12:12:00.000-04:00

I hate wallpaper.

I refuse to hang wallpaper and would rather be hanged myself. A long time ago, I attempted it - in order to make progress with a woman I was pursuing. I covered her walls with wrinkles and bumps and air pockets and she never talked to me again.

So I was trying to slip backwards out of the kitchen when Karen suggested we remove the wallpaper in the kitchen.

I conceded that it was ugly. Several potential buyers of our house have come through and commented through the realtors that one of the things they did not like was the wallpaper. But I'd happily drop the price so they could get it changed.

"But we bought the house with that ugly wallpaper," I said.

"No," Karen reminded me. "We had to pay someone to hang it after we moved in because you refused to do it."

I started to tell her about my earlier experience but caught myself in time. I've learned enough not to bring up other women even if it was 25 years before I even met her. Instead, I said, "You mean that we actually picked that eye-straining monstrosity?"

"Why don't you see if you can get it down. It might go easy and just peel off."

So the next day, with blind faith that it would just come off the wall in one smooth piece, I moved the furniture out of the way, took a corner and pulled on a corner. I pulled off a piece that needed a magnifying glass to see. I began muttering and headed to Lowes for scrapers, sponges, remover solution...

Lowes (and Home Depot) are always filled primarily with men. I am convinced that each and every one of them is married.

Back in the kitchen, I began muttering more frequently. After endless hours of work...

...I had almost finished the first of 4 sheets.

At first, it seemed to go easier on the equally ugly decorative border at the top of the wall until I realized that the border was on top of the wallpaper so it was actually going to be twice as hard.

By now I was muttering nonstop. I was talking to the wallpaper, trying to make deals. Then I was threatening the wallpaper. Then I was making comments about the wallpaper's mama.

The various "How to remove wallpaper" sites on the Internet all made it seem like a fool could do it. Although I quickly concluded that only a fool would attempt it in the first place. The sites also politely suggested patience and being careful with the scraper so you don't damage the wall.

After days of work, I no longer cared. By then I was muttering about the "How to remove wallpaper" sites' mamas.

So when the paper was finally off, I stepped back, looked up and saw that I had mutilated the wall.

This is just one small section - gouges were everywhere

The fact that by then I felt that the $#&$ing wall deserved everything it got, did not change the fact that I would have to repair it. Sort of like how we spend billions of dollars shooting up some country we go to war with only to spend billions more to help repair the infrastructure afterwards.

Back to Lowes for painter's putty, putty knives, spackle, etc. I'm not muttering anymore. I've grown to hoarse to mutter.

But I have to admit the result does seem to make a difference.

By the time we finish preparing the house to sell, we won't want to move out of it.

In the middle of the night

2012-01-11T04:59:00.000-04:00

Sometimes when the grandchildren are here, I wake up and slide through the dark house like a ghost, waiting to hear if one of them wakes up.

I was going to write a blog but then I got tired. So I think I'll go back to bed.

Friday Shootout - Music

2012-01-05T11:52:00.001-04:00

BAGMAN: "So, Mark. Do you think you'll ever pull out the guitar or banjo and play again?"

I've been thinking about it. And this week's shootout has made me think about it a little more. "Maybe," I answer with an intense lack of commitment. It's a bit of a challenge to start until my fingers begin to get callouses.

BUTLER: "While we're waiting for you to make up your mind, can we go ahead and post some photographs?"

BAGMAN: "Let's establish the mood first!! You might be dragging your feet but the grandkids jump right in!

This is my mother-in-law's piano. I sure wish she was still around to give lessons to the boys. And maybe to me. I grew up with my grandparents and although I talk more about my grandfather, an artist, I also used to love to listen to my grandmother -- music was her passion.

We had a grand piano in the livingroom.

Although in her younger years she was a professional violinist

(my grandfather did this portrait of her which hangs in our diningroom)

In elementary school, son Brian took lessons on her violin for awhile

but then his interests moved on.

When I was in high school, I picked up an old accoustic guitar in a pawn shop and taught myself to play (more or less). Mostly chords. I could never be bothered to actually learn to read music. These were the days of the folk music and I saw myself as hippie poet and guitar player. I think I took up the guitar, at least in part, to impress girls.

But I also played a lot with one of my best friends --

Lee Armen and his twelve string

I really miss Lee. He passed away about twenty years ago. He and I had some fantastic adventures during the late 60's and early 70's, although we were both drunk or stoned on pot most of the time. My guess is that I don't remember the best adventures. Looking at this old picture and remembering him, I'm thinking I probably need to do a blog about Lee.

BAGMAN: "Can we get back to the Friday Shootout?"

BUTLER: "You know, Mark, you sure messed up the color on this one."

"No," I corrected him. "I was experimenting with infrared film at the time."

For some reason, I sit staring at this post. I'm either lost in thought or realizing that I don't really have many more pictures of musical instruments.

Bagman and Butler stand there for awhile watching me watch the computer screen.

BAGMAN: "Is that it? Is that all you've got?

As I begin to lose interest, I browse lazily through some recent shots and older archive shots and throw in a couple more.

A street musician in a Oaxaca, Mexico market

(He doesn't appear happy to have his picture taken)

The red-hat lady street band in San Francisco

(date unknown)

Closer to home - Myrtle Beach

The Johnny Rocket Restaurant waiters periodically step outside to dance.

"Hey! My dinner is getting cold!"

I'll add this one so I can have at least one shot

from Charleston.

(After all, it is a hometown shootout)

And another from Charleston

(What kind of an instrument is that anyway?)

At this point, I just sit in the B&B studio daydreaming. Butler and Bagman drift off to leave me in peace. I'm wondering to myself what I should do next. Should I write a blog about Lee? Or should I find an instrument and see if my fingers remember anything?

And what instrument should I pull out and where are they anyway? Somewhere in the back of various closets, I think we have a choice of:

Two violins
One accoustic guitar
One electric guitar
One bass guitar
One banjo
One cheap electric keyboard
And the piano (which is not actually in a closet)

Maybe tomorrow. I suspect that all the stringed instruments need new strings anyway. I think I'll take the dog for a walk instead.

Let's just blame it all on Adam and Eve

2012-01-04T00:57:00.000-04:00

So despite how busy I am, I recently volunteered to help with the Friday Shootout.

AAARGGH!! %#$&!!. FishPhooey! It's been less than 24 hours and I've already broken my non-resolution to stop whining! Delete delete delete.

This week, I happily volunteered to help with the Friday Shootout since it has been a huge part of my routine now for over three years. And Administrator Rebecca (hmm...sounds like she should have a leather ruler in her hand) assigned me to choosing Spotlight Photos once or twice a month.

After hearing that, my palms got sweaty. How do I choose? How do I judge what pictures to put in and which ones to leave out.

I hate judging. Judgment. Judgmental. This is good, that is bad. You win, they lose. Yuck. I hate that stuff. But it is all around me! Expressing judgments about good and bad is the whole reason for political campaigns, news programs, war, the death penalty and almost all other killing.

As I began hyperventilating, I suddenly had a vision of Adam and Eve.

From childhood onward, I thought I knew the basic story. They weren't suppose to eat the apple but the phallic snake convinced Eve to talk Adam into it and they ate it and God kicked them out of the garden.

I've seen lots of paintings of Adam and Eve, suddenly looking ashamed and naked except for fig leaves, being sent out of the garden. So I always assumed that God had caught them doing hanky panky which must, of course, be evil. And he made them wear clothes!

It wasn't until much later that it dawned on me that it wasn't about sex. The apple wasn't some evil aphrodisiac. Sex wasn't bad. How else was this harried couple going to multiply -- although I also wonder about the resulting insanity of 2,000 years of inbreeding.

It wasn't even an apple. It was the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

Wait a minute! How can that be a bad thing? Don't we have to know what's good and what's bad? How can you create a civilization without knowing the difference between good and evil. Don't we call people who lack any knowledge of good and evil "sociopaths"?

Isn't it necessary to teach our children? Don't hit your sister! Don't bite the cat! Don't throw things at Nana! Don't write on the wall! Don't play with those kids.

But I can't quite figure out how it would work if we could stop using our knowledge of good and evil and stop judging each other. We'd have a lot of unemployed lawyers, judges, generals and politicians. What would we do for entertainment if we didn't have the Roman Coliseum or U-tube?

On the other hand, I tend to think that God knew what He was doing. I can't imagine any other knowledge-giving fruit that would have had such dire consequences. Surely there must have been a fruit of the tree of empathy. Of a fruit of the tree of forgiveness.

Or maybe that didn't show up until the New Testament.

I may not be the best person to choose the Friday Shootout Pictures. Or what shoes I should wear tomorrow, for that matter.

Life is so difficult. And now I'm just pissed at Adam and Eve for being such self-centered idiots! We should lock them under the jail and throw away the key!

Oh, wait. That's just another judgment, isn't it. Trapped again.

And was there a fruit of the tree of hanky panky?

Consolidating my habitual apologies into one for 2012

2012-01-03T15:55:00.000-04:00

I just finished (3 days past schedule) my annual task of copying all of my blogs for the last year and printing them up and filing them in a loose leaf notebook in case one of my ancestors...I mean descendants...(or anyone else for that matter)...finds themselves with nothing better to do than read all the stuff I've been writing.

According to Blogspot I have written 524 posts. OMG!

(I hate the OMG LOL stuff -- it makes me sound like a teenage girl.)

All of this is a digression because what I really wanted to say was that as I copy, paste, and print all of last year's posts, I tend to remember them and read snatches of them.   And with great embarrassment, I discovered that there is a terribly boring and not very appealing theme that runs through all of them.

In almost every post, no matter what the subject is, I tend to whine about how busy I am.   What a wuss!(Whatever "wuss" means).   Everybody's busy.   And I tend to constantly apologize for not blogging more or for reading more blogs.

I don't make New Year's Resolutions -- but since it is already January 3rd and too late for New Year's Resolutions anyway, I'll just say that I'm going to try to avoid incessant apologies and complaints. But that is not very easy for me to do -- so I'll make one set of apologies for the entire year:

During 2012:

I'm sorry for constantly whining about real and mundane life.
I'm sorry for not reading as many blogs as I'd like.
I'm sorry for not making as many comments on the blogs of people who follow me or people I follow -- (you know I love you all anyway).
I'm sorry for missing the Friday Shootout from time to time.
I'm sorry if I happen to go for several days without posting.
I'm sorry for saying 'I'm sorry' so much.

There. Done. Fini.

Bagman and Butler make their New Years resolutions

2011-12-31T23:46:00.000-04:00

It was an hour before midnight.

As is our custom we were asleep. Well, most of us.

Karen and Noah were asleep downstairs. Conner had fallen asleep after I had carried him around in a blanket over his pajamas around the yard to see the fireworks in the sky.

But I was still awake and wandered down to the B&B Studio to wish Bagman and Butler a Happy New Year.

BAGMAN and BUTLER (in joyous unison): "Mark!! You're here!! We were just making our resolutions and now you can make yours too!!"

I give a wan smile (or is it a wane smile) -- a kind of sad smile in any case -- and say, "Sorry guys. I've never been able to keep New Year's resolutions so many years ago, I resolved not to make any. So far, that is the one resolution I've been able to keep. It's kind of related to the A.A. philosophy of 'A day at a time'."

BAGMAN: "Horse manure!" (Yes, I edited that a bit).

BUTLER: "Balderdash!"

BAGMAN and MARK (in unison): "Balderdash?"

"Sorry, guys. I'm not making any resolutions. I never do and am not starting now. But don't let me stop you. Go ahead and I'll write them down. I'm really kind of interested in what you both want for yourselves in 2012."

BUTLER: "After you, my Baggie friend."

BAGMAN: "I want to have more fun! I want to run, wear less clothes, and flirt with women!"

BUTLER: "And by women, I assume you mean one woman, the one that Mark is married to?"

BAGMAN: (I couldn't tell but his fingers might have been crossed behind his back): "Well, uh, yes, of course. I got tired of being chained in the basement years ago." (long pause) "But you have to admit that the concept of flirting has many gray areas."

BUTLER: "If you start quoting Bill Clinton, I'm going to throw up."

BAGMAN: "Okay, okay. Can I continue resoluting?"

BUTLER: "Resoluting is not a word."

BAGMAN: "Who cares! In 2012 I want to write more, blog more, photograph more, get back to playing the banjo and the guitar and show off how clever I am so people will applaud me and love me!"

After that, he seemed to have stopped so I clapped quietly for him and he smiled. Wanly. We both then looked at Butler.

BUTLER: "My resolution is simple but not always easy. I resolve to serve better.

BAGMAN: "You mean like using the good china?"

BUTLER: "That could be part of it, but it is really more than that. Helping others. Being nicer to family. That kind of thing."

BAGMAN: "I can see that. You are a kind of service oriented fellow. Butler, and all that. And it would be a sneaky way of getting people to applaud us and love us more."

BUTLER: "That just shows the difference between you and me, Baggie, my egocentric friend. I don't even count it if anyone knows about it."

BAGMAN: "Horse...well...Balderdash!"

By now it is getting close to midnight and I am seldom awake at midnight so I stand up to bid Bagman and Butler adieu. "Good luck to both of you and your resolutions for 2012. I'm turning in."

BAGMAN and BUTLER (in unison): "You're really not going to make any resolutions?!"

I grin back at them, not the least bit wanly. "Nope. No resolutions for me. I'll just sit back and see how you guys do on yours. And don't sleep too late. We're having black-eyed peas and greens tomorrow."

All three of us look at each other for a moment and then, in unison(of course) say, "yuck."

Only 363 Days until Christmas!

2011-12-27T09:58:00.000-04:00

I feel like a stranger to Blogspot -- for Christmas, I really would have loved to unwrap one day devoted to catching up on the blogs of all the bloggers I've grown to love. I miss you all. Why does time move so quickly these days?

Anyhow, I also must skip the details of Christmas here -- the futile search for corn meal on Christmas morning -- (If I leave a check to cover damages, cost of police response time, as well as the cost of the flour would it still be a crime to break into the supermarket?).

...but the dressing was just fine without it.

And what is the difference between dressing and stuffing anyway or is it a class distinction?

Anyhow -

The grandboys had fun. And why aren't there real words for expressing gender differences among grandchildren?

And the grandbaby turned into a grandgirl overnight.

And we survived the mandatory family group shot.

Ony 363 days to next Christmas. And I plan to sleep through New Year's Eve which has become my favorite tradition.

Friday Shootout - Light

2011-12-23T00:42:00.001-04:00

Woah! Way too much to choose from here! I've just spent too much time trying to figure out what to post, what I've already posted, what needs to be worked on before posting...light light light...

There. A light. I'm done.

Aw, what the heck...I'll be running late whether I stop now or post a couple more. One of these days life will slow down a little. Either that or I'll go back to work which seems in retrospect to be so much easier and lazier than retirement.

Light.

Moon light - I think I've posted this before

Playing with light

Uncle Thomas and the Light Saber

Light. I may have mentioned this before, but then again, after three years of blogging, I have probably told every possible story left in my memory cells. But after shooting with a Brownie, my grandfather gave me my first adjustable camera for Christmas...

...and sometime after that, I remember a conversation with him that completely confused me for a long time. I was telling him what I liked to shoot and he said, "You know that you only shoot one thing -- light. Light is the only thing you ever shoot." He was an artist and often said things about color, light, composition that only made sense to me years later.

Hi-key hallway where I used to work

Self-portrait on couch beside lamp reflected in TV

Corn from 1970 when I took better pictures

Deck of the Queen Mary in California

One of the things I've been thinking about -- probably worth a blog in the future -- is that I have discovered a prejudice against certain kinds of light. I'm not sure how I got this way but I'ved grown to believe that the low angle light of dawn and dusk is better than other light. It is superior light. All other light -- misty light, cloudy light, direct overhead flat light -- all that other light should be forced to sit at the back of the bus.

I suppose that like most prejudices, my prejudice against those inferior types of light is probably based on the fact that I haven't taken the time to get to know them.

Something to work on...

Resisting the Cloud

2011-12-18T01:22:00.000-04:00

I gave my wife an iPad for an early Christmas present.

BAGMAN: "And we love it!"

"But she always gets priority on using it," I protest.

BUTLER: "Mathematics don't lie. The iPad already has 51,694 apps on it -- three of which are hers."

"But she really likes Solitaire, Hearts, and Spades," I continue protesting.

Anyhow, the motivations behind gift-giving are not the subject of this post!

Cyberspace is embracing "The Cloud" as the future of data storage. We might not even need harddrives anymore! Backup your computer to the CLOUD!!

But what if it rains, I wonder. Do I lose stuff?

I've already succumbed to the blind trustworthyness of Blogspot and Flicker which have already swallowed almost my entire photo collection to some place where my stuff will live forever -- available to anyone despite feeble copyright notices -- unless I get a Ph.D. in deleting things from the web.

The "cloud" does seem more benign than the "web".

Where does all the junk the human race posts every day actually go? Sometimes I picture the Internet as an infinite landfill.

When I was a child, I accepted the stereotypical childlike vision of God and Heaven as a white bearded giant and angels living in the clouds. What must they be thinking of all the stuff the human race uploads every moment?

Apple sent me an email yesterday with a reminder that I have not yet taken advantage of my free Cloud which came with the iPad. But I'm still backing up to an external harddrive.

I wonder how long it will be before the Cloud police show up at my door.

Friday Hometown Photo Shootout - Layers

2011-12-15T13:56:00.000-04:00

Layers is an interesting and a bit confusing theme, I am thinking as I enter the B&B Studio on Thursday.
But Bagman, of course, has his own naughty take on everything.

BAGMAN: "Does this mean we can get laid?"

BUTLER: "No! Layers are things that lay something, like eggs.

BUTLER: "Take this goose, for instance. It was recently a layer and the result is endearing even if they do make a mess of the backyard."

"No, no, no," I protest, stepping in to take control of a shoot that could rapidly become chaos. "We are talking about "layers" as in things that are over-laid upon each other, one on top of the other."

BAGMAN: "Yes! On top of each other!! But how can anyone get over-laid?"

BUTLER (throwing a ream of paper ((in layers of course)) and hitting Bagman): "Another word out of you and I'm quitting!"

"You guys make me crazy," I say starting to load what I think the theme called for, although much of it has to be from the archive since this week I've had a layer of rash placed on my hands.

Layers of advertising on an old sign

Layers of broken wood on a plank

Layers of rock on a cliff face

Layers of water and rock

Layers of stonework unearthed at Middleton Place

Layers of plastic tarp

BUTLER: "Are you really going to fill this blog with old archive pictures and lame captions? After all, your wife is one of my heros. We both like things stored in nice neat layers. "

BUTLER: "Dishes, for instance."

Karen's dresser drawer

BUTLER: "And clothing. She is so neat."

BAGMAN: "Yeah! But Mark isn't."

Mark's dresser drawer

"Wait a minute!" I protest. "After all our years of marriage..."

BAGMAN: "You don't know exactly how many years, do you?"

"Not off hand," I admit. "But I could look up our anniversary date on the computer and figure it out. But don't change the subject. After somewhere between 22 and 26 years of marriage, I've become just as good at neat laundry folding and placing my shirts in layers too."

BUTLER (smiling condescendingly): "They just don't stay that way very long, now, do they?"

I admit, shamefully, that he is right and move to post the shootout. I wonder why something as simple as a collection of pictures on a theme always seems to end up with me defending myself.

You can thank me for not posting a picture

2011-12-14T17:16:00.000-04:00

With three little kids, two in daycare, moving around from parents to grandparents -- we have become the Chucky Cheese playground for the growing leisure class of viruses -- or is that virii.

So I should not have been surprised after watching a rashy Noah last week that some oil rich virus family decided to board the S.S. Mark Cruise Ship where, starting yesterday morning, they have been partying like a rock star.

BAGMAN: "What's he talking about?"
BUTLER: "He's just trying to be cute."

BAGMAN: "He sure don't look cute to me."

In my defense, I will say that there are only a few little spots of -- I hate to say the word -- infection on my face. Less than the acne I dealt with as an adolescent. But the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet look like star maps!   All four extremities are covered with areas of reddness, little red spots, big red spots, even bigger red spots with white circles in the middle, and places where the skin has torn and left little half-moon shapes.

The journalist in me really wants to take a picture of my hands and feet but they are so ugly that I don't want to look at them. Although, I confess, I sometimes spend a long time just staring at them and wondering what the hell to do.

I did, of course, go to the doctor. It was not our family doctors day in the office so I went to one of the "Doc-in-a-box" urgent care centers. He said it looked like I had a viral rash on my hands and feet.

But, my blank stare told him that he needed to better than that.   At medical school they teach you that you need to say something, at least, that the patient doesn't already know.   So after hearing about the grandchildren's recent medical history, he told me that there was a particular virus called --- Hell, I don't remember it -- coxificillis or something -- that was transmitted by children and caused rashes on the hands and feet as well as a sore throat.   (Oh yes, forgot to mention that I have a sore throat too).

He said the common name was hand, foot, and mouth disease. I'm really pretty sure he made that up.

He gave me a prescription for an antibiotic and another for a really expensive skin lotion and told me it would run its course in a few days. Somehow I think he made that up too.

Of course, this has inconvenienced the rest of the adults.   I bought some latex exam gloves at the pharmacy because I sure wasn't about to feed the baby or change her diaper with hands that look like they were transplanted from a zombie. But it still didn't take much for me to convince the parents that Grandpa Diggy didn't need to be around their kids, even if they had to change their plans.

So I am alone. The dog can't figure out why we don't do more and longer walks -- but walking is not very comfortable. It is easy to describe the way this feels.   I feel like I was walking barefoot and my feet got stuck in a fire ant nest and then I had to dig them out with my bare hands.   It kind of looks that way too. When it's not burning, it's itching.

I've never been good at not-scratching an itch.

BUTLER: "Yes. That is a skill that you and Bagman never practiced much."

I guess I'll look up "hand, foot, and mouth virus" on the internet and see if the doc in the box knew what he was talking about.   But first...

BUTLER: "NO! Don't scratch that! You will only spread it!!

The Moon's green twin plays peek-a-boo

2011-12-12T08:39:00.001-04:00

So I'm giving the dog her last walk for the night and look up. The moon is full and there is a beautiful double halo around it. Run for the camera!

I never got a really good capture because I have not been practicing and spent most of my time fumbling with cold fingers in the dark and wondering why the camera wouldn't do what I wanted it to do. In my own defense, however, my training is currently up-to-date on painting, caulking, and feeding babies.

Two different types of things -- please don't think that I'm caulking babies.

But shooting the moon at night...

Don't say it, Bagman!

...gave me more learning experiences than actual photographs.

But what bothered me besides focus and steadiness (yes even with a tripod) -- was that little green smear in the lower left corner. I noticed it and was afraid that I had some moisture on the lens, which happened to me several years ago in Italy.

This was a bit better although it required a little photoshop layering to bring out all the color rows. And by then I had decided it was not on the camera but one of those reflection circles that happen soemtimes when you shoot near or into the sun.

But wait!

In this totally un-retouched image, the circle seems to have substance.

Blowing it up, I find myself looking at the moon. (No, I did not cut and paste this - it is straight from the camera). What is the moon doing there when it is supposed to be in the middle of the white circle?

Why is it green? Is this cheese?

Two moons?

I have to figure that it is a very clear refraction through ice crystals. But why is only one part of the light spectrum refracted? Polluted ice crystals? Global warming?

I've got a lot to learn about astronomy and light as well as about photography. And caulking babies.

You can skip this one; it's not really a blog

2011-12-11T06:30:00.001-04:00

Please feel free to ignore this blog. I am posting it mainly because, at the end of each year, I print and bind the "Chronicles" because they document, in a weird way, my life and, years from now my children or grandchildren will have to make the difficult decision of whether to cart around all this paper (or keep track of the digital versions) or throw them away.

In any case, I got a Christmas letter from an old friend the other day and, in it, he enclosed a letter my grandmother wrote to his mother shortly after I graduated from college and took off on a pot-smoking, beer-drinking non-stop moving pary around the U.S., Canada, and Mexicao. (Circa 1970). It was hard to read because it brought home how much my grandparents, who raised me, loved me at a time when my young ego blew them off so easily. They were proud of what I was doing and, of course, as an active alcoholic, what I told them I was doing was all lies.

So I'm just going to copy and paste her letter and my response to my friend who sent it to me -- it's probably not a blog that would interest anyone else. But I need to get it out and move on. Otherwise, I'll feel like crap all day.

And the letter I wrote back to Tom...

Dear Tom,

It is not often that a Christmas Card punches you in the gut. But your powerful piece about Svetlana's grandparents house coupled with the attached correspondence between my grandmother and your mother delivered a combination that managed to get through my usually too-effective defenses.

Did you realize that you and my grandmother both referenced "miracles." It made the reading easier. I have long ago given up trying to understand or define God or miracles (which is why I don't attend church where they pretend to have it all figured out) but reminders provide balm.

Please tell Svetlana that I felt her tears. The last time I saw my grandparents house, where I grew up in Wrentham, it had been converted to apartments. I think I would like to go back sometime, but then again, I think maybe not. The past seems harder and harder to look at as we get older and it crumbles.

When I retired, a friend told me: "The windshield is larger than the rear view mirror for a reason."

Your description about visiting Svetlana's past caused me to have a dream last night in which I returned to Maple Farm and Lake Pearl. Hardly anything was recognizable and the Lake itself had been filled with mud (my dreams seldom bother being obtuse anymore).

The letter from my grandmother to Winifred was hard to read because she was so sweet and I could sense her love for me in her words, missing me. It made me face, again, the fact that I was lying to her and my grandfather. She seemed proud that I was going off to request an extension from San Francisco State's MFA program in order to do my civic duty in the Peace Corps. The fact is that my application to San Francisco State had been rejected -- how dare they turn down the next Hemingway! My ego refused to let me admit my failure to anyone so I concocted the Peace Corps story. My only connection to the Peace Corps was that I once stumbled, drunk, into their offices in Boston and picked up an application form and never filled it out.

And the "little shock" as my grandmother calls one of my grandfather's series of strokes was another step toward his death within that year. The last thing my grandfather said to me when I was setting off on my "lone wolf tour to see the West" (my VW bus loaded with beer and pot) was, "I don't expect I will ever see you again."

A year later, after some of my most self-destructive drinking in L.A., he had his final stroke and I returned to see him in the hospital two days before he died. He was comatose and I don't know if he knew I was there or not. And I promptly seduced his nurse. Another shovel of mud into Lake Pearl.

And maybe the miracle which I badly need to soothe my guilt is that I am now the grandfather myself. Retired while Karen, Brian, and his wife Melody all work, I am called upon constantly to watch the three grandchildren -- Conner (3), Noah (1.5), and Kay (two months). My self-centeredness still causes me to become irritated when they interfere with MY TIME. But I also know on some level that the impact I have on them is probably more important than any of my so important creativity.

So thank you for your Christmas present to me. It was powerful.

I'd write more but I already feel myself slipping into blah blah blah so I should close.

Love to you.

And Svetlana.

Mark

Friday Shootout - Wheels

2011-12-09T06:00:00.000-04:00

It is 4:00 a.m. and I stumble blearily into the BB&M studio to post since the day will be filled with grandchildren.

Bagman is bright eyed and bushy tailed and Butler is efficiently alert.

BAGMAN: "Hey, Dude! Working together again!! This will be great. I've got some great ideas for a really funny post!"

BUTLER (saluting smartly): "I've been thinking of how you might alter your masthead picture."

I just stand there swaying, with all of the pixels in my body sagging, and mutter, "I'm sorry guys but this morning I only have time to upload pictures. I don't even have time to fiddle with my picture at the top."

BAGMAN (irritably): "You're such a wuss!"

"It's already 4:10 a.m.," I say. "Let's just get some pictures up and plan for being funny next week." I slump down at my desk and try to focus on the screen. There were some archive pictures I found during a few stolen moments earlier in the week.

Charleston Re-enactor wheels

Wheels for waking up

My favorite wheel

My favorite wheel in action

Big wheel or small man?

A little too big to reach the peddles

Even bigger

New wheels

Old wheels

Posting the bicycle shot, I feel kind of confused. "Hey, guys," I ask, "Was this the one I shot through plastic windows at the market or are my eyes just getting bleary?"

There is no response. Bagman and Butler have given up on me again. Butler is at his desk reading Emily Post's Book of Etiquette and Bagman is in the corner...well, let's just say that Bagman is in the corner and leave it at that.

While I am waiting for an answer, I lay my head down on my desk.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.

Where the rainbow ends

2011-12-08T01:58:00.000-04:00

The good thing about trying to sell our house is that when realtors schedule to look at it, the preference is that we not be there -- so it forces me to get out and sometimes I even find something to shoot.

Assuming I still remember how to use the camera.

Shem Creek at dusk

Where the rainbow ends

I'm hoping to try and make the Friday shootout. Things have eased up a little bit although I still feel pretty harried these days.

The Tale of the Bullet Pelican

2011-12-06T10:57:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time there was a young pelican who was not happy with his species. He wanted more excitement out of life.

He watched his mother while she lazily glided along the air currents.

What is the fun of that, he thought.

He watched his father who was being passed by a flock of birds as if he was standing still.

The young pelican muttered to himself, "Not me!" And he began working out.

He ate Wheaties.

He took steroids.

He got a personal trainer.

He drank energy drinks.

And when he was so full of energy that it seemed to glow from inside him, he flew like a jet without even having to use his wings.

And everyone called him the "Bullet Pelican."

WHHEEEEEEEEEE!

Oops...

2011-11-29T11:47:00.000-04:00

So I've just about unscrambled my semi-sleep-deprived brain and begun the morning chores.

We -- Kay and I -- are showing the house today at 11:45 to someone who rescheduled after not showing yesterday at 9:30. Showing the house means that we vacate the house and drive around for awhile. I'm still relaxed. We have plenty of time.

I'm not quite sure whether Karen fed Kay before leaving or that I had fed her enough after Karen left. So I'm fixing another bottle to make sure I can top her off so she might possibily sleep so I can straighten the house before taking her cruising in the car.

Kay is in the swing which is suppose to have 6 speeds and although I've set it at the slowest speed it looks like a carnival fun ride, swinging her wildly from left to right. And, of course, back again. Kay seems to like the swing. She always makes little slurping cooing sounds which I interpret to mean that she likes it but might, of course, mean that she is terrified out of her wits. Although she may be too young to actually have wits.

This is the vibrating chair, Not the swing.

The cover to the swing is in the laundry.

Kay likes the vibrating chair too but it always

vibrates her to the bottom.

Fixing the bottle, I suddenly hear a sound that I have heard before. I heard it a few weeks ago when I accidentally spilled half of a gallon of white paint onto the garage floor -- right after Karen had warned me to watch out for any drips from the brush and to clean them up right away.

Was Kay painting?

I looked over and for a moment I was convinced that she had been. White liquid covered her, her clothes, the chair and a part of the Persian rug.

I guess Karen had fed her before leaving after all.

I'm no longer relaxed. We no longer have plenty of time. Oddly, Kay is smiling.

I switch into hyper-mode: pick her up, rub whatever baby spit was left all over my clean shirt, undress both of us, throw on clean clothes, throw everything else in laundry...hyperventilate...put her in the car seat, throw in the carrying bag of diapers and the bottle which I don't know if she will need -- is she now empty?

And just before the realtor pulls up to show our house, I run back in and grab a roll of paper towels.

You never know.

Friday Shoot-out: Lawn and Garden Tools

2011-11-24T16:36:00.000-04:00

So we're having a quiet Thanksgiving. The kids and grandkids were doing it this year with Melody's family. In the spirit of the Holidays, Karen surprisingly decided to invite Bagman and Butler to join us. I think she felt the need to try and close the distance that has been growing between myself and my odd siblings.

Things were going quite well although Karen was sitting as far away from Bagman as possible and watching like a hawk to make sure he didn't scratch his initials on the polished wood of the formal table we only use a couple of times a year. I didn't really know what to say and was sitting quietly staring at my plate and listening to Karen and Butler discuss the correct positioning of the silverware. Bagman was drumming a beat on his plate with his knife and fork, punctuating his tintinnabulation with an occasional belch.
Then he brought up the subject of whether we were going to do a Friday Shootout and what the theme was going to be.

"Lawn and garden tools," I said, not looking up.

BAGMAN: "Lawn and garden tools!!! Gaaaa! I hate lawn and garden tools!"

BUTLER: "I was kind of hoping for an exhibition of cutlery. But did you know that there are some beautiful formal gardens in Great Britain?"

"That's fascinating," said Karen, leaning closer to Butler (and further away from Bagman who was dipping seconds of mashed potatoes with his bare hand).

I looked up and smiled at Bagman because I hate lawn and garden tools also. They make me sweat and give me sore muscles. I said, "I had planned to skip the shootout completely."

But Karen looked at me, smiled, and said, "I think that is a very nice theme. Why don't you go out and take pictures of them while I get dessert ready."

"As long as I don't have to use any of them," I whined. "Maybe I'll shoot the rake."

BAGMAN (Jumping up and spilling his ice tea over his mashed potatoes): "Rake! You're a rake! Hide the maidens, Mark's a rake!"

"Does everything have to have a double meaning?" I asked helplessly.

BUTLER: "Many garden implements have sexual connotations from the middle ages because of the natural association between planting and procreation. For instance, "furrow" and, excuse my use of the word, "fuck" come from the same Latin root. Ploughing, pitchfork, rake...you know, Bagman, you might find a reading of Shakespeare very interesting."

BAGMAN: "Humpf. I'll stick with the Internet, although Nabokov wasn't too bad. Hey! Do you know that sweet tea is pretty good on mashed potatoes!"

Karen actually reached over and patted Butler's hand, saying, "I never realized how much you knew about things."

This was getting to be way too much for me, so I grabbed the camera and went to the shed. I only took two quick snapshots in the shed because I really do have a distaste for garden tools. Plus I didn't want to miss dessert.

String trimmer, electric saw, clippers, blah blah blah...

You can tell my attitude toward yard work by the orderly way I return tools to the shed. The rakes are obvious and the green things are stakes for tomato plants, but I would have had to actually touch these implements to show what some of the handles are connected to - so you will just have to imagine the unseen shovels, hoes, and picks.

BAGMAN (Shouting from inside the house): "Mark just said 'hoes'!!"

I shake my head, nervously, wondering what Karen must be thinking. But then I hear her voice cheerfully calling out, "Don't forget to shoot the lawn mower!"

The riding lawn mower we bought a few years ago is the first piece of equipment that doesn't make me sweat and I have to admit that I am grateful not to have to push the old mower all around our lawn. Then again, I never get to ride on it anyway.

Okay, just give me the shovel so I can dig a big hole and get in it. On second thought, I don't want to miss Thanksgiving dessert.

I walk back into the diningroom, dessert is being elegantly served by Butler who has given the biggest piece of pumpkin pie to Karen, asking if she would like a little ice cream with it.

Our dog, Daisy is feasting on the copious crumbs that Bagman has dropped on the floor beside his chair. I figure I'll get the broom as soon as we are done.

Then with a grand flourish, Bagman knocks over another glass. Trying to catch it, he tips his plate up and showers Daisy with beans, cranberry sauce, turkey, creamed corn, yams. But he saves his pie.

BAGMAN: "Hey! Sweet tea goes good on pumpkin pie too!"

Looking at the mess under his chair, I give up on the broom. I'll probably have to get the rake out of the shed.

A new artist in the family

2011-11-23T10:13:00.000-04:00

On the market! Good news, Bad news, and Pictures

2011-11-22T13:52:00.000-04:00

Our house is now listed with the MLS although I'm not sure why anyone in Major League Soccer will be interested.

The good news is that all the hard work is done. I might even get back to blogging or writing or photography more! Yea! Good news!

The bad news is that our house is no longer a home and has become, instead, a showplace. We need to vacuum more often, shampoo carpets more often, and put things away more often. And when anyone wants to come look at it, we need to run around like maniacs to make sure everything looks good -- optimizing it's marketability. Then, if possible, vacate the premises and go find some way of wasting one to two hours.

And poor Daisy has to go into a large dog carrying kennel because it is poor marketing to have her barking, "Go away! Go away!" But when I do have to put her in the kennel, I give her an obnoxious number of Doggie Treats.

The other good news is that if we can sell it, we can move closer to Karen's work and closer to the grandchildren -- although they spend lots of time here already. But it will cut down their commute as well.

The other bad news is that as long as it does not sell (estimated time-to-sale time in the current market is 8-12 months, although we've priced it to move quicker. Since, to make it look more open and appealing, we have removed tons of furniture into storage. So, for instance, I no longer have a bedtable so when I go to sleep, I put my glasses on the floor where I can step on them in the morning.

Anyhow, the realtor needed pictures for the listing and his pictures, well, were awful. So I took a batch of shots -- several of them panoramas that I stitched together with Photoshop because even my wide angle lens is not wide enough to show the whole bathroom in one picture.

Furthermore, it doesn't show the time I spent scraping out old caulking and putting in new caulking.

BAGMAN (Suddenly appearing in my blog for a moment, jumping up and down and yelling): "Mark was using his caulk! Mark was using his caulk!"

I hit him over the head with my caulk gun and shove him back out the door.

Where was I? Oh yes. I was also going to mention that we always shower and have seldom taken advantage of the whirlpool tub so we gave it to our cats and put the litter box in it. But that didn't seem appealing from a marketing point of view so we moved it to an upstairs bathroom floor hidden under the sink. The cats have not seemed to mind and adjusted well.

Okay, I'll continue posting pictures of the house because...well, I don't really know why. I guess I post them because they exist. One of those existential questions. Why do we post anything? It's not as if everyone in the World of Blog wants to see pictures of my bathroom. I just hope some prospective buyers see pictures of our rooms on the MLS and want to live in them.

So - Here is the house itself.

Looks like a postcard

And here is the...

...well, it is kind of the foyer to the left and the formal dining room in the middle (the dining room that we use on Thanksgiving and Christmas. (This photo straightened up pretty well with Photoshops Lens Correction tool -- unlike the bathroom).

Then turning around, we have part of the formal livingroom on the right (another unused room except for Christmas).

...plus a view into the kitchen which we use all the time and the stairs that go up to my office. (I did not shoot the office because even though I straightened it up and moved the computer against the wall (where I hate it), it still just looks like a little square room. And the MLS doesn't let you display everything!

Here is another view of the livingroom:

I took this shortly after the kids and grandkids moved in a few years ago. After consideration, we decided it was a little too cluttered to show prospective buyers. The difference between a home and a showplace.

And moving along, we have...

...a view of the den (or family room) as seen through the kitchen. This is actually one of the few areas in the house we actually use on a regular basis. I'm not quite sure why the lighting seems weird. I must have tinkered with the temperature. The refrigerator on the left really illustrates the difference between a house that is being "shown" and a regular home. It's all gleamy and white. When this was a home, it looked like this:

Now we come to the master bedroom, which I think is a a thoroughly prehistoric and sexist term for a bedroom. Although the alternative of "mistress bedroom" has it's own negative connotations.

Photographer's Confession: Trying to combine four photographs into one panorama in Photoshop really frustrated me on this one. They just didn't want to blend correctly. I think the Photoshop term is "stitch." (i.e., it dropped some stitches). I tried to correct places where it didn't match over and over again, mostly using the clone tool. Finally, I just uttered some choice words and decided that the realtor wouldn't notice at this size. But when I blow a section of it up...

It's easy to see that this photo has been doctored to death. But, believe it or not, it is a lot better than when it came out of the Photoshop Panorama Automated Gadget. None of the lines connected at all.

And finlly we have the guest room.

By this time I wasn't even worrying that horizon line wasn't horizontal. And, no, we don't really have curved ceilings.

So if you know anyone who is moving to Charleston...

Meanwhile, I'll go and vacuum the floors again and try to get up tomorrow without stepping on my glasses.

Confused chameleon contemplates change

2011-11-21T09:19:00.000-04:00

Aside from the ten thousand five hundred eighty six "small detail items" on my Follow-Up To-Do List, all of the big stuff on the Priority To Do List has been completed and we put the house on the market last Thursday. (More on that later in the week if I find time to post).

One of the last of the big stuff items on the now extinct Priority To Do List, which I burned in an almost religious ceremony of gratitude, was pressure washing and re-staining the porch. Just before spreading down the plastic to protect painted areas from stain, I spotted the fellow below. To try and prove to myself that the photojournalist in me had not been totally beaten down into oblivion and to document his confusion, I snapped a picture of him, peeking from the plastic which had become his last hiding place.

He (or she) is clearly contemplating life's great questions:

Where have all the plants gone that used to be here on the porch?
How can I escape off the porch since the hole in the screen has been patched?
Where is food?
Am I about to die?
It's already November -- have I missed mating season entirely?
Why is God pointing that damned Nikon at me again?
Is it safe to quench my thirst by drinking Valspar Dark Redwood Weatherproofing Stain?
Why is God now moaning and grabbing the small of his back everytime he stands up?
If God sells the house, will the new owners of the house also have cats?
If I do manage to get off the porch, is the dreaded black snake still living in the crawl space?
How are the other chameleons coping, or am I the last of my species left on Earth?
If I'm a chameleon, why can't I turn white?

I wish I had time to discuss these great questions with the chameleon but my biggest concern this morning is to ransack the medicine drawer in the bathroom to see if there is any more Tylenol left.

Friday Hometown Shootout - Symmetry

2011-11-18T03:37:00.000-04:00

So the house is now as good as it is going to get. It is listed and we are just waiting for people to come in and look at it...and, of course, buy it. Then there will be the work of buying somewhere else to live and moving...

But for the moment, I have time to post for the Friday shootout. Although I had no time to go out and find symmetry. But that can't stop me. And there is some good symmetry kicking around in the archives.

Looking at the archives, I discovered that when people do symmetry there is nothing subtle about it.

Dogs are not very subtle either.

On the other hand, God is much more subtle about symmetry.

You have to look a little more carefully at the above two pictures to find elements of symmetry.

But the most difficult exercise in symmetry is what we go through every Christmas. Some people just throw decorations at random on the tree. But we take the time to make sure that the tree is perfectly symmetrical so the right side and the left side match. This is not easy and you have to make sure that you have two of every decoration.

Friday Shootout - Letter "A" - plus something for last week

2011-11-10T09:40:00.000-04:00

I hate to miss two shootouts in a row so I am determined to throw something together before continuing with my "Make House Saleable To Do List" which today includes:

Touching up mistakes from yesterday
Removing and cleaning floor vents
Moving excess furniture to storage
Replacing weatherstripping
Pressure washing driveway and bricks on house
Replacing caulk in bathrooms

I'm already exhausted. But this will be fairly quick. You may have noticed that Bagman and Butler haven't been around much. I think they got tired of my griping and are on vacation in Jamaica.

The Letter "A" is for:

Aircraft Carrier

USS Yorktown - popular tourist attraction in Mt. Pleasant

I need to visit this again sometime and shoot some detail stuff and I should do it soon because, while nicely painted where the tourists are, the bottom of this old ship is rusting out. The city can't figure out where to get the millions of dollars required to refurbish it -- NO NEW TAXES! -- so will be in danger of sinking in a few years. Although it is in such shallow water and pluff mud that it may have sunk already.

Acrobat

Alligator

(This one was walking across our back yard a couple of summers ago)

Artist

I could let this pass without an acknowledgement of my grandfather

Absurd Architecture

And that does it for this week. Although I do want to get partial credit for at least trying to post on last Friday's scary signs shoot. I had found a couple to put on my post but I ran out of time and couldn't get it up.

BEEP! Being fluent in Beep-ese, as I reported earlier, I realize I had a text message on my phone. I was, surprisingly from Bagman!

BAGMAN (texting): "LOL! Couldn't get it up!! LOL!"

Ignoring him, I continued hastily posting a couple of late pictures for last week.

A scary sign from Oaxaca, Mexico

I think it tells me what to do in case of fire or earthquake.

I decided that I would just run.

As if I really needed a sign...

Mandatory Cruise Ship Lifeboat Drill

As I get older, I probably need signs like this

on all my clothes.

No time to put something cute on my header this week. I need to go and to pull out the pressure washer...

I've learned a new language !!!

2011-11-08T06:41:00.000-04:00

...and didn't even realize it!

"I woke last night to the sound of thunder
How far off, I sat and wondered
Started humming a song from 1962
Ain't it funny how the night moves..."
                                      Bob Seger

"I woke last night to the sound of beeping
Wondered what had stopped my sleeping..."
                                     Mark Cowell

So there it was, titillating my eardrum, that high-pitched beep that has insinuated itself into so many parts of our lives.   I knew right away that it was the coffee-maker announcing that it had successfully brewed the morning stimulant. I knew this because it was three short beeps.

I thought about going back to sleep but realized that if I slept for 90 more minutes, the coffee maker would express it's displeasure at being ignored by making two slightly longer beeps to announce that it was no longer going to keep the coffee hot and was turning itself off.

But, of course, that would never happen because in 30 minutes my alarm clock would demand wakefulness by starting a series of very loud, fast beeps that would not stop until I reached over and hit the snooze button. And it would repeat its disturbing behavior until I finally got up.

Lying there, I realized that I have become completely fluent in beep-ese, without realizing it.

One long beep followed by two short beeps means that the washing maching wants me to put my newly washed clothes in the dryer.

One short beep followed by on longer beep means that the dryer wants me to fold my warm, snuggly clothes.

One very short but very loud beep tells me that one of the smoke detectors wants me to change its battery. The smoke detectors irritate me because the battery changing beep is so short and surprising that I can never figure out immediately which of the three smoke detectors needs changing.   Futhermore, the time between one beep and the next is random and it may be five minutes before it beeps again. This means I have to go around the house and stand next to each smoke detector until it beeps or unless I hear the beep somewhere else.

In the case of an actual fire, however, the smoke detectors are capable of making a infinitely long, infinitely loud beep-on-steroids forcing me to flee the house -- not just because of the fire but to save my eardrums.   I know this because one of the smoke detectors loves to go off whenever I fry anything on the stove.

I once had a digital wristwatch with a tiny but incessant beep built in for an alarm clock. It also had a function whereby it would make one tiny beep every hour. I had thrown the instruction booklet away because who needs an instruction booklet for a watch and because the instruction booklet was written in 4 point type and was unreadable anyway. And was in French, Spanish, and Chinese.

Digital watches are designed by engineers to have the fewest number of buttons with each button or combination of buttons designed to do multiple things. Beep. One o'clock. Beep. Two o'clock. I threw it away.

When I try to escape my beep-filled home, I walk to the garage and unlock my car by pushing a button on the automatic device that is an addition to the actual car key and adds more bulk to my key chain. My key chain -- so full of keys and remote gizmos that it makes permanent bulges in my pants pockets. Not to mention that I don't remember what half the keys go to. I probably have keys to places I unlocked twenty years ago.   But that is another story.

But when I do unlock my car, it makes two short friendly beeps to invite me inside.

My car likes me. When I start the engine, it gives me five nagging beeps to remind me to fasten my seatbelt.   It gives me two longer beeps to let me know it is getting low on gas.  This is actually the same sound that the coffee maker makes when it turns off but I know the difference because the coffee maker is never going 65 miles per hour.

And it I try to leave the car without taking my keys out of the ignition, it tries to immitate the smoke detector.   It's attempt is a bit feeble but I haven't left my keys in the car yet.

I am bilingual!!

Samual Morse would be proud.

Blah...Gone for awhile...but, of course, will be back sometime

2011-11-06T11:45:00.000-04:00

I hate moving. Even before it starts since we haven't looked at new houses nor put ours on the market yet. But putting it on the market is a pain. Because it has to be "shown."   It ceases to be a place where we live and becomes a showplace. I thought I was seeing light at the end of the painting/fixing tunnel until we had the realtor over -- he went around making suggestions for how it would "show" better.

He was right, of course. I've got enough marketing background in my past employments to know he was right.   We need to declutter it and to open up the rooms.   Which means we need a storage facility to put furniture and boxes of knickknacks, books, and crap.

And the new deadline is next week.

So I doubt you will be hearing from me much before Mid-November.   Be thankful. Most of the time these days, all I do is swear.

Yesterday -- the whole story summed up in Newspaper Headlines

2011-11-02T22:46:00.000-04:00

We recently renewed our subscription to the Post and Courier. I don't know why.

Well, actually, I do know why. Because we are addicted to the ritual of drinking morning coffee and trying to unfold and fold huge, clumsy pieces of rustling paper that contain things we will be expected to discuss with others during the day.

My Tae Kwon Do teacher told me once that he never read the newspaper. I thought he was weird. But I didn't tell him that because he could have broken every bone in my body with his little pinky. MAN BREAKS BONES WITH PINKY - Arrested for refusal to read newspaper.

I confess that the only part of the newspaper I read is the comics. Doonesbury, Zits, Bizarro...

The rest of the paper is predictable. Horrible car accident, people arrested for terrible crimes, some politician makes a fool of him(her)self, war somewhere, economy sucks, celebrities die or go to rehab, some catastrophe somewhere kills thousands, and somewhere in the piles of unfolded newsprint will always be something really weird -- Parrot calls 911 and saves man who swallowed cement.

So mostly I just scan the headlines to find the weird story and then read the comics. Today, I realized that you don't even have to read the stories. Everything you need to know is in the headlines.

"I'll bet I could blog my entire day just in newspaper headlines," I said.

"That's nice," my wife responded. "Did you read about the mudslide in Kenya?"

"Terrible. Two thousand people missing," I said, sounding knowledgeable. The number was in the sub-headline and I realized I'd have to add subheads to the headlines. I finished my coffee and started my newsworthy day:

· DOG POOPS IN DARK -- Predawn walk prevents stains on new carpet

· MAN INJURED BY DINOSAUR -- Authorities order clean-up of toys from livingroom floor.

· GARGANTUAN GARAGE REHAB COMPLETED -- Woman ecstatic despite deadline failure

· COMPUTER PREVENTS DISASTER -- Reminder of wife's birthday culminates in shopping trip

· OVERWEIGHT MAN FORGETS TO EAT LUNCH -- Discovery of apple turnovers at convenience store prevents weight loss

· U.S. POSTAL SERVICE STILL OPERATING -- Delivery limited to bills and ads

· CAMERA ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE -- Claims that rust from underuse is emotional abuse

· WIFE CATCHES MAN ON COUCH -- Busted, man claims he was only playing Nintendo

· PRODUCTION COMMITTEE APPROVES REPAIR OF PORCH -- Labor leaders call for strike

But seriously, if it weren't for the newspaper, what would we put under the electric griddle when we cook bacon?

But it's a garage!

2011-10-31T09:13:00.000-04:00

The continuing saga of downsizing...

...moving closer to the grandchildren, reducing Karen's commute to work, getting something with less yard work demands, etc. I think I made the mistake a few months ago of saying, "Yes. Maybe that's a good idea," when Karen suggested it was time to sell our house and buy a smaller one in the country.

First of all, I have learned that subdivisions in the Country are exactly like subdivisions anywhere else. Secondly, I have learned that prices in Goose Creek are cheaper than prices in Mount Pleasant and I fear that downsizing may be the wrong word. So far, I'm seeing bigger houses and bigger yards.

Mostly I've learned that putting our house on the market means trying to make a 25 year old house look new. We could have already bought a place in Goose Creek with the money I've spent on paint.

But last week, I began to see a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel. The upstairs has new carpet, new sink fixtures, new air conditioning registers, and freshly painted walls and ceilings...and baseboards and doors...and my shorts, t-shirts and 90% of my body are freshly painted as well.

Karen has agreed to actually hire a professional to paint the downstairs livingroom in order to reduce the risk of having me fall off of tall ladders. The livingroom has a huge vaulted ceiling -- one of those architectural stupidities that we Americans like enough to ignore how much fossil fuel we waste to heat (or cool) air that we can't reach without tall ladders.

So I was looking at a ToDo list that was actually shrinking until last week when she said, "You know, we really should paint the garage."

My initial reaction was to wonder how she knew it needed painting in the first place. We have so much junk piled up against all the walls that you can't see them. Which, of course, means that if I am going to paint the walls, I first must move tons of old boxes, baby carriages, bicycles, pressure washers, generators, boogie boards, beach chairs, coolers, freezers, not to mention 436 old and rusty, half-empty paint cans from distant projects.

"But it's a garage!" I exclaimed.

"Make sure to be careful around the baseboards."

"But it's a garage," I whined, realizing I was going to lose the argument.

"Women notice these things when they are looking to buy a house," she explained. "And it probably hasn't been painted since it was built."

Since we are the third owner of the house, I wondered why she didn't notice it when we bought it, but I knew better than to ask that out loud.

"And while we are moving everything out, let's go through all the boxes and see what we can throw out." Then she went to work leaving me to wonder why she was using the word "we."

So after throwing out 436 old paint cans and buying 110 new ones, I moved everything out of the garage, creating a pile in the front yard that looked like the Great Pyramid of Egypt. It was only after I moved it that I realized that if I had moved it closer to the street the trash truck might have just hauled it all away when I wasn't looking.

Of course, the housing market sucks so much the house probably won't sell anyway. But if it does and if Karen finds a new place in Goose Creek, I'm easy. I'll go along with whatever house she likes. But I'm refusing to sign the closing papers until the owner has put a fresh coat of paint in the garage.

Friday Hometown Shootout -- Creepy Crawly

2011-10-27T19:54:00.001-04:00

I didn't shoot anything new this week. Partly because of the endless ToDo list which has descended over me like a giant spider's web...

...and partly because it has cooled down somewhat and the diversity of creepy crawlies outside has diminished.

I did have a moment of excitement last night when we were cleaning out one of the rooms and Karen suddenly shrieked, "It's a cockroach!! Get it! Get it get it get it!!!"

With the shootout in the back of my mind I began to run for my camera.

Karen shrieked louder. "Where are you going!!! Get it! Kill it!! It's a cockroach!!"

So I gave in and demonstrated extreme macho heroism by catching it in a paper towel and flushing it down the toilet. Poor cockroach.

So here are some archive shots:

And the one below has been my personal favorite for years:

I am often humbled by the realization that some of my best shots were done years and years ago. Before digital which shows that it is not the camera that makes the picture. This picture of the fly is interesting because I took it with a cheap single lens reflex -- a Mamiya Sekor, I think. And I couldn't afford any lenses besides the one that came with it but I had a teleconverter from another camera that didn't fit it well. It only screwed in halfway and I held it in place with duct tape. But because there was a gap, it turned into a gerry-rigged close-up lens. I remember this shot because I was stoned on pot at the time (yes, I was a pothead before I got sober and started working in the treatment field). I remember lying in the woods with my duct-tape macro at ground level feeling I was a tiny explorer stalking big game. Of course, I could have just looked around like any normal person would do looking for insects, but remember I was stoned. Insects were probbly crawling all over my backside but I was focused at a the two-inch mark. Then a leaf in front of me quivered and I almost jumped when I saw the shadow of a fly. The shadow walked around the leaf for what seemed like an eternity but time plays tricks in my state of mind. I waited as if I was in a blind. Then suddenly the fly crawled up and peeked over at me and I shot it. I wonder what it thought about me. Not much probably.

This was also from that very weird micro-safari afternoon

Back to a couple more recent archive creepies:

You may recognize this last lady from my grotesque header. I was going to post my black widow (that was really a brown widow) shot but I've posted it at least three other times and it seemed like overkill.

BAGMAN: "Hey. How come you never bring us into your blog anymore?"

BUTLER: "Yes. We are beginning to feel very unwanted."

I pause and look at them standing next to me with downcast eyes. "I'm sorry guys. I'm not sure why I've been leaving you out of many of my blogs. I could rationalize that I've been rushing through my blogs and not taking time for digressions...

BUTLER: "You think of us as mere digressions?"

I think for a moment, wondering if this is the right time for a serious family talk. Because recently, I've been feeling more integrated and Bagman and Butler haven't seemed so important. Or maybe because I've been working on a novel and struggling with charactor development, Bagman and Butler seem kind of shallow and flat to me. But I don't really want to get into all that with them, so I simply say, "I don't know, guys. Maybe we'll talk about it later."

BAGMAN: "You blowing us off?!!"

I don't answer.

BUTLER: "Yes, Baggie. He is blowing us off."

I leave the room and shut the door just as a large muddy boot slams off of it.

And I scuttle down the hallway...

The Webmasters are driving me nuts!

2011-10-25T13:47:00.000-04:00

Now I panic everytime I start to leave a comment on someone's blog! Will it be a simple case of asking me if I want to post it as Bagman and Butler or if I want to be anonymous. Or -- GASP -- will it give me a series of options to post as my Google Account,WordPress, SomethingID, or "Name and URL"??? Or something else.

None of these work for me! I know I have a Google Account but everytime I try to post a comment through it, it tells me I don't have access to my account. Although I do. I guess just not to make comments.   Sometimes, if I really want to leave a comment, I go back and copy my URL and use that -- trying to remember that I need to make sure I identify who I am.   Sometimes I just give up and don't leave a comment.

Worst of all -- I just realized that my own blog does that to people trying to comment to me! I didn't do that!   I want the old way back! And I can't figure out how to change it.

Then I go to my Yahoo mail and there are requests for me to be Linked In or befriended on Facebook, which I still don't understand. And somehow, Facebook has now invaded my Blackberry -- (Yes, I have a Blackberry despite the fact I'd rather have my old Droid back) but in any case, it beeps constantly now with email messages, most of which connect me to Facebook instead of Yahoo mail.

How did that happen?

I have managed to figure out how to disable three different programs that automatically tell the world that I'm available to chat the moment I turn on my computer.

Call me antisocial but while I actually like most people I meet, I don't really want to talk to everybody all the time.   Particularly since most chats and tweets are like elevator conversations: "Hi. How about the weather these days? Check out my Facebook page. I'm doing well, how are you? Blah blah blah."

And no, I don't want to monetize my blog.

Friday Shootout - Something borrowed, somethng blue

2011-10-20T17:03:00.000-04:00

Who thought up this one??!!!   I hated it.   But if I skipped it, I'd really be in hot water.

I thought of taking the easy route and shooting my neighbor's recycle bin. It's blue and recycling means taking something old and making it new. And since I have more soda cans than I can fit in my bin, I often borrow some of his.

Any way...his bin was in his garage and it wasn't very photogenic anyhow. So I just pushed on.

SOMETHING OLD

The lazy part of me thought about just hitting the archives and maybe using a shot of Stonehenge but that's not even in my country, let alone my hometown.   But at least it was old.

This fellow is not so old but he's old enough to be an antique. I grew up playing with him as a child although I wonder what my grandfather thought about that. My grandfather was an artist and studied in France after the War in 1914. This was a manikin he bought in Paris at the time so it qualifies for fairly old anyhow. You can't see his foot in the grass but it was once chewed a little by my dog Skippy. He's been with me ever since. I'm not sure why I call him "him" because my grandfather noted that it was carved to be neutral. It has a masculine chest but it's hips are more feminine. So I guess if it ever figures out its sexuality, the transgender surgeons will have an easy time.

SOMETHING NEW

Easy decision here. It has to be new granddaughter, Kay.

SOMETHING BORROWED

If I hadn't already used my neighbor's truck as my favorite thing because I "borrow" it all the time, I could have used that. But I already did. So...

...so I got philosophical! I'm very grateful for it, but at 65, I'm becoming more and more aware that my body is only on loan to me. I've enjoyed the use of my body over all these years although I've abused it somewhat so I'm hoping for some forgiveness when I turn it in. A few things don't work on it anymore but duct tape fixes anything, they say.

SOMETHING BLUE

I had to cheat and hit my archives for this one. I call it "The Fan" and he's probably blue because his team lost and he is hoping that if he stays long enough the score board will magically change.

And that's all folks. Next time I'm asked for an idea for a shootout, I'm going to plan it better.

I'm Back

2011-10-19T14:42:00.000-04:00

Sort of.

Computer is up and running so I feel alive again. (I should probably try a year without a computer at all and see how surprised I would be to discover that I actually have a body).

But I know I have a body because it aches from moving furniture and books.

I'd like to use this time as a rationale for organizing my stuff. See if I can have the courage to throw some of it away. But I'll probably look at two or three things, then give up and throw everything helter skelter and willy nilly back on to the shelves.

OMG! I'm going to have to pull the plug!!

2011-10-17T08:14:00.001-04:00

I'm not sure I can do it! But the carpet guys men on tomorrow! (Or later today since this may not post until after midnight).

Did I tell you that we ~~Karen~~ have decided to move so we ~~Karen~~ can be closer to the grandchildren? So we are suddenly in a non-stop frantic sweat to do everything to the current house that we should have done for ourselves years ago.

And the upstairs needs all new carpets because...well...

we can almost hide the signs of our dogs marking their territory despite the fact that they never paid rent so it wasn't really their territory.   But the grandchildren have been more creative.   Melted lollypops, chocolate ice cream (weren't they suppose to eat that at the table?), and something that looks like they used a welding torch on a green plastic dinosaur and dripped it in the corner.

So tomorow or later today, the carpet men come.

They will do the heavy lifting, they say, to clear rooms of furniture, but we need to get all the small stuf off the shelves.   Not a problem in the rooms where Brian, Melody, Conner, and Noah were living. But my studio is a disaster.   Boxes of slides, old photos, tools, wires, printer ink cartridges, a thousand frames from when I once had a bigger studio to put them in...

...and, because it was handy, it has also become the storage space for everything else in the house that didn't have a space.  Kids clothes, kids toys hidden for next Christmas, stuff I don't even recoqnize. I suspect that the Town's Waste Management Department may have started using my room as an extension of the landfill.  Without the smarts of a dog, I guess I forgot to mark my territory. Too late now.

At least I found a temporary place for the books.

I just noticed the wallpaper in the upstairs bathroom.

(Aftrer 15 years)

It's awful!

Anyhow, I can cope with all of this except for one thing that terrifies me. Sometime shortly before the dreaded carpet men arrive, I will have to shut down and disconnect my computer including the wireless connections to the internet!

How will I survive the day?!

I did get a reminder of how people lived in prehistoric times from a distant but very cool cousin and I'll break my rule against posting unoriginal stuff one more time:

So, with any luck, I'll survive without the computer for a day -- hopefully not two -- and once we've moved all the stuff back onto the new carpets and locked out dogs, cats, and grandchildren, I'll hopefully reconnect and, with any luck, write another blog.

Maybe I'll bring up a bowl of chocolate ice cream.

Store-namers think they are so clever

2011-10-15T15:35:00.000-04:00

Last week in an unrelated blog, one of the digressions that regular derail my train of thought made me comment on the name of one of our grocery store chains. Safeway. And how dangerous would it be to buy groceries anywhere else.

Today, my mind wandered off again - as it usually does. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if it didn't come back? I suppose I'd be sitting around watching old episodes of I Love Lucy and grumbling about how my mind has all the fun.

I started thinking about other retail store names and what the messages are that the store-namers are sending us. My apologies in advance to some of any reader in a part of the world that does not have some of these chains. Actually, consider yourselves lucky.

I also realize that many of the chains I am familiar with are primarily Southern

So - Food chains:

· Food Lion - Shop aggressively, eat carnivorously, attack our meat section.

· Whole Foods - No chicken nuggets here. Do I have to pluck my own chickens?

· Bi-Lo - Great economic concept, until I realize there is no place to Sell High and I'd have to eat my profits.

· Piggly Wiggly (a good old Southern chain) - If you're overweight and determined to stay that way, shop here. We love people in Spandex. (Digression: Once I saw a small mom and pop grocery in Georgia called "Hoggly Woggly".

· Winn-Dixie (another good old Southern chain) - We still take Confederate money.

· Stop and Shop - No subtly in this name. Just a direct order: "Park your car, come inside, and give us your money!"

· Stop and Go - A local gas station/convenience store chain. "We're like Stop and Shop but HURRY UP ABOUT IT!"

· Publix - Beats me! This chain must have been named back when being associated with the government meant savings and efficiency.

Other types of popular stores:

· Wal-Mart - If you've got walls we've got stuff to put inside them.

· Home Depot - Here's where you board the train to improving your house.

· Lowes - Home Depot with lower prices.

· Office Depot - Like Home Depot but for your office.

· Office Max - Better than Office Depot

· Staples - This either sells all the basics you need for your office or it is a highly specialized store for people who no longer use paper clips.

· Dollar Store - I've often wondered if absolutely everything they sell is only a dollar. Does this include tax?

· Dollar General - If you shop at the Dollar Store you should move up in rank.

Books

· Barnes and Noble - A wide variety of reading material for both royalty and gentry.

· Amazon - Read on the wild side. This either refers to a lush diversity of books or is trying to make you think the staff is topless.

Then I started to think about restaurants like Chick Filet (Do chicken's really have a filet? Is it what's left after the nuggets have been removed?) and Hardees (Anorexics can go elsewhere). But then I got to Hooters and realized, like the wise old owl that I am, that I'd better not touch this one. Ask Bagman if you want anymore.

The list could go on and on, but fortunately my mind has now returned from wandering and I can turn off I Love Lucy and go back to painting the baseboards.

Diggy bonds with Kay and they do slapstick together (and FSO)

2011-10-13T13:17:00.000-04:00

So much is going on, I doubt I will get to Friday's shoot-out. But our newest grandchild, Kay, is really sweet so maybe this will have to do for Friday as well.

SWEET Baby Kay

Okay, I'm pushing it. Because I'm a man, I have a hard time thinking of babies as sweet until they start smiling at my jokes. But to quote the eminent sociologist, Howlin' Wolf, "All the little girls understand."

Women (and better men that I am) look at a newborn and immediately melt. They coo, they cry, and they immediately know which parent it looks like. So I'm sure this will be accepted as my sweet picture for Friday.

However, I will admit that Kay and I have begun the bonding process in an accelerated manner even though my heels were dragging.

You see, Karen has to work every day. Papa Brian's new job sent him on an unexpected five day trip to New York. The other morning, Conner woke up with a swollen knee that needed attention and an X-ray -- now better. It was too late to get Noah (1 and 1/2) to Day Care and Mama Melody was. naturally, completely overwhelmed.

So I drove out to their new home to watch Kay and Noah while Melody took Conner to the doctor.

Prior to this, I had taken pictures and done a good imitation of oohing and aahing, but never actually touched Kay. Such a small preemie, I was afraid of breaking her even though Karen assured me that feeding and diapering would come back to me like riding a bicycle. But I looked at Kay and thought it would be like riding a bicycle made of Popsicle sticks.

So there I was holding her and singing the same songs I had made up and sung to David and Jean from my first marriage, Brian from my last marriage, and Conner and Noah. By now I almost remember them by heart although one of the songs requires adlib rhyming verses.

Now Kay is a healthy little preemie but because of a little apnea in the hospital she is still hooked up, 24 hours a day, to a SmartMonitor 2 which checks on her breathing and heart rate puts our smoke detector to shame if it doesn't like what it finds.

I don't have a real good picture of the monitor.

But this gives you sort of an idea of the wires that turn her into a kind of living marionette. The leads on her chest are soft she's not bothered a bit. Also, the monitor has never once gone off as she has just about outgrown the apnea.

So anyhow, I'm holding Kay and have fed her, changed her, and just about sung her to sleep but Noah has been losing patience with me. He has begun whining and pointing at the crib because he, naturally, also wants attention.

I stand up and carefully move across the room to the crib, being careful not to step on the wires because the SmartMonitor 2 is also programmed to alert the entire neighborhood if one of the leads comes loose.

Since I am now standing, Noah assumes I now belong to him again and runs over and hugs me legs and bangs his head into my crotch. My natural reaction is to double over (careful not to drop Kay) but the jerking motion wakes her up and she begins to cry. After all, crying is the only thing she knows how to do when she is not sleeping.

I push Noah away saying, "Just give me a minute." I say that sentence more than anything else. A thousand times a day when the grandchildren are competing for my attention. Or for animal crackers.

Being pushed away, Noah switches from whining to fullblown crying. He's good at it. A couple of months ago, his older brother demonstrated for him how a cry can be more affective if you pump it up into a prolonged scream. And stamp your feet.

So Noah stamps his feet.

On the wires.

Which then trip him. And me. And set off the SmartMonitor 2, the medical scientist's answer to coastal village tsunami warnings.

Suddenly we are all on the floor. I have efficiently protected Kay, the Popscicle stick bicycle that I'm suppose to have no trouble remembering how to ride. One is crying, another is screaming, the air raid warning is going off, and I'm repeating over and over, "Just give me a minute!"

Then I realize that I had meant to read the SmartMonitor 2's instruction manual but never got around to it and I have no idea which buttons to push to reset it and turn off the alarm before the police arrive or my ear drums burst.

And my cellphone rings.

What is it about a cellphone that you feel absolutely obligated to answer it! Particularly when the special ring indicates that it is your wife? My house could be burning down and if I heard the cellphone ringing inside, I'd probably go back in to answer it. "Hello? No, I don't really have time to answer a few questions about how satisfied I am with my cable service."

Protecting Kay's head with my left hand (the first thing every parent learns), squirming to protect myself from Noah who is trying to climb over Kay to cry closer to my face, I squeeze my right hand into the pocket of my dungrarees to get the phone, swearing again to lose weight. It takes four rings but I finally answer my cellphone.

Of course, eventually everything worked out. I figured out by trial and error which buttons to push to reset the SmartMonitor2. Kay, totally exhausted from one of the most exciting experiences of her young life, feel asleep. And Noah and I played with dinosaurs, knocking them over with Tonka trucks.

Later that night, Karen told me that it was one of the most amazing calls she had ever made to me. She had just about given up and disconnected her cellphone when my cellphone connected. All she could hear was crying, screaming, and alarms going off. Then my voice came on the line and, according to her, was cool as a cucumber. In a matter-of-fact tone, I said, "I'm sorry but can I call you back in a little while. I'm a little busy right now."

I figure I must have been in shock. At least I didn't yell, "Just give me a minute!"

And now I'm wondering how cucumbers got the reputation for being so calm and cool? Why not 'cool as a head of lettuce'?

Morning babble and digressions

2011-10-12T09:54:00.000-04:00

So I'm turning left from Route 17 onto Brickyard Parkway which is the entry road to our subdivision. Why we live in a "subdivision" is a mystery to me. Maybe we couldn't afford to live in an actual "division" when we bought the house. But I think it was mostly because it had sidewalks where Brian could ride his bicycle safely and was near a good school.

To live in a subdivision you have to sign a covenant that lists 5,693 things you can't do on your own property. I suppose it prevents anyone from being too trashy. For instance, you have to get the Subdivision Board's approval if you want to build an addition to your house. The no addition in subdivision clause. Strange math.

Brickyard Parkway is a manicured two lane road lined with magnolias (and sidewalks). But why do they call it a parkway when there is absolutely no place to park?

The reason I'm turning onto this misnamed road is because I'm bringing back a subway sandwich from the Harris Teeter supermarket for Melody who is spending the week with us while Brian is working in New York. And a couple of Red Bulls for myself because I'm having to put in 8-10 hour days fixing up the house so it will look appealing if we decide to sell it. Now that the kids and grand kids have moved out on their own (well, actually only the kids are on their own -- the grand kids still have 18-20 years or so) ~~Karen~~ we have decided we might want to live closer.

Why do people wait until they are ~~maybe~~ going to sell a houses before they make it look better?

So I repaint the baseboards and then, suddenly, the doors look worse by comparison, so I have to repaint them too. Caulk windows, tighten ceiling fans, patch walls (which then make the walls around the patches look worse by comparison, so I have to repaint them too), replace rusted air conditioning vents, replace carpet...Actually I've lucked out and we are going to have professionals replace the carpet.  I just have to move all the furniture out of the rooms.   Just?

And speaking of not being able to park on a parkway, we also have a supermarket chain in town called "Safeway."   That sure makes me wonder about how brave you have to be to shop anywhere else. But I've never shied away from risky behavior in my life. I guess I've become pretty ~~boring~~ sedate in my 60's if my riskiest behavior is now shopping at Harris Teeter.

So I need to close this blog and start replacing a faucet in the bathroom. I'm in no rush to move but this weekend we will take another little trip to Goose Creek to ogle houses. I'm not sure I understand it, but so far we have been looking at houses in subdivisions.

I just hope that, if we do decide to actually move, the current owners are doing a good job of painting the baseboards.

Shooting in RAW and Photoshop's HDR function

2011-10-09T05:37:00.000-04:00

I've been spending less time lately with Bagman and Butler so I was excited to share with them some of the stuff I've been playing with on Photoshop.

"You can't believe how exciting it is to shoot in .raw," I said not expecting the reaction my statement would get.

BAGMAN (exploding from his chair, dancing around and tearing his clothes off): "Yes! Finally! Yes! We're going to shoot in the raw!"

BUTLER (eyes wide with panic): "I don't think that's what Mark meant."

It was too late. Bagman was already stark naked and had grabbed his camera from the hook. He always had a huge telephoto on it because he thought the long lens looked macho. And he always loosened the straps so that the camera hung below his waist.

BUTLER: "That makes you look like an idiot even with clothes on."

BAGMAN: "Rock musicians do it! You've seen how they hold their guitars down there!"

I had to admit that I had always noticed that and wondered what was wrong with me. When I hung my guitar at crotch level, I could never get my left hand far enough around the neck to play bar chords. Maybe my arms were too short.

It didn't matter. Bagman was already racing down the hall toward the front door and I was imagining the citations I was about to get from the local police. Fortunately, with straps that long, his leaping caused the camera to swing out and back violently and he slumped down on the hall rug groaning.

BUTLER: "Thank goodness that's over. So what were you going to say about raw? Are we talking sushi here, I hope?"

They are both hopeless. What I was really going to talk about was how my camera can take digital shots in JPEG or RAW format. RAW format makes huge files that take in more information that just the picture and Photoshop can do amazing manipulations. It can increase or decrease the exposure by 1, maybe 2 stops! And other stuff I don't understand, like reducing luminescence, whatever that is.

Photoshop C5 also has a fancy function called "Automated High Dynamic Range" where you can combine several different exposures of the same shot and it combines them. If was really competent at this, I would use a tripod and shoot several exposures of the same scene and then combine them manually. But automated is so much quicker.

BUTLER: "And lazier."

Anyhow, running out of time before Bagman recovers from the hall rug, I wanted to show a surprising example -- not the greatest shot but mostly to show what's possible.

The first shot, I took at night, two years ago. I was shooting in raw even though I didn't know why. I was playing with long exposures and the results were...well...they were learning experiences. Here is the original shot, straight out of the camera.

This morning, experimenting, I took the shot and made three copies. Then I ran one copy in Photoshop and underexposed it even more (as if it needed it). Then I took the other copy and increased the exposure as much as I could in Photoshop. Then I combined the three of them in the automatic HDR function and cropped it some. Not something I would frame but isn't it amazing that this much color could come out of the earlier picture?

BUTLER: "Can we go to the sushi place now?"

BAGMAN: "Do I have to put my clothes back on?

Friday Shootout - My Favorite Thing

2011-10-06T14:34:00.000-04:00

My favorite thing about my hometown - Mount Pleasant near Charleston, SC - is my neighbor's truck.

And yes, I realize that the front and back are fuzzy but I shot this picture a few years ago for a shootout done from the perspective of our dog, Sally, rest her soul. And Steve's truck wasn't in his driveway for me to get a better shot this week.

And I'm also not sure that the word "favorite" really fits here. At least that is not quite the emotion that comes to me when I answer the phone and my wife's voice says, "Do you think you can borrow Steve's truck?"

This means that she has scored a victory at some auction, antique store, or Craigslist and her prize is something that requires a truck. I always shudder a bit because I also know that it will require me to put it in the truck and then take it out of the truck.

This week it was a washer and dryer. And last weekend it was the whole moving experience I documented in my blog.

However, all whining aside, it is wonderful to have a neighbor who is so willing to help.

And knowledgeable! He always denies it when I claim that he can fix anything but he is ten times the handyman that I am. My abilities are summed up in the hat that Brian once bought me for Father's Day:

So after a few hours on a ladder or under the sink or elbows deep in the toilet, I will usually come into the house and say, "Well, Hon. It's beyond me. We're going to need to call a plumber (electrician, roofer, carpenter, mechanic) on this one."

Her response is always the same. "Can you ask Steve's opinion first?"

I don't really mind getting Steve's opinion. In fact, I've learned about everything I know about house repairs from Steve. But I feel guilty because I know that he never just gives his opinion. Invariable, he will leave whatever relaxing thing he is doing and spend sweaty and grunting hours fixing it himself.

I guess Steve and not his truck is what I'm most thankful about in my hometown.

Celebrations and Moving Pains

2011-10-03T09:20:00.000-04:00

It could be the newest in the infinite selection of "Reality Shows."

Like Cops, the Bachelorette, Amazing Race, The Apprentice, Survivor, Wife Swap, America's Next Top Model, etc., etc., ad nauseum. I'd call it "Moving with Baby" and bring together a new couple, a brand new baby, some complicating in-laws and have them all welcome the baby home and move on the same day! Although I'm not sure what we'd do for next week's follow-up show.

If I had videotaped the weekend, I could certainly sell it -- 48 gripping hours of laughs intersperesed with some serious cuss words. But considering the polite constraints of Blogspot, I can only give you the highlights.

CELEBRATIONS

The arrival of Kay from the hospital was something I was able to capture on film. (The cuss word situations were not photographed since, much of time, unfortunately, I was doing the cussing).
so here are the snapshots:

Kay wakes up briefly,

calmly surveys meyhem,

and goes back to sleep,

making me envious.

Brother Conner is proud

(and always aware of the camera)

while happy Melody stays close for safety

Brother Noah is giddy.

Nana is even giddier

Brothers and Brian are overjoyed...

...then thoughts of sleepless nights

and sharing toys adds a moment of contemplation

MOVING PAINS

Thirty miles, back and forth, back and forth, in our wonderful neighbor's borrowed pick-up truck. Bottoms fall out of boxes while being carried down the stairs. Don't scratch the paint. The recliner MUST be able to fit out the door somehow! After all we got in, didn't we? Wind on the Interstate shreds the tarp -- hope it doesn't rain. Buy a new tarp.

But jumping to the chase to conserve space, the last (almost) thirty mile trek was the climax. With all the big stuff gone, the boxes and bags of food, clothes, toys, and unidentifiable junk are piled into the pick-up. By now, Brian and I are brain-dead, body-dead and no longer care about neatness and organization.

And time has become crucial. Night is falling and Melody, already in Goose Creek with Kay, calls to say she has take the baby to the pharmacy to get something the baby needs.

Sagging boxes and ripping bags are piled three and four high in the pick-up's bed. Tied down with clothesline, lashed with straps, covered with the new tarp that is bigger than the truck.

Melody is calling Brian's cellphone and we realize that Brian has her wallet and she is stuck in Walmart somewhere with a cart full of stuff and no way to pay for it. We become frantic...just stuffing anything anywhere. The truck looks like the introductory scene of The Beverly Hillbillies.

(This is the beginning of some of the cussword stuff.)

I take off in the truck while Brian gets ready to drive his car to Walmart and meet Melody who is becoming increasingly and understandably desperate.

Two miles down the road, my cellphone rings and I get the news that, somehow, we have packed Brian's car keys in one of the two thousand boxes stuffed under the tarp. (Serious ongoing cussword stuff begins here).

Back in the driveway, night falling with our spirits, armed with flashlights, sweating like pigs and swearing like sailors (to use an odd metaphor -- what is it about sailors that gave them this stereotype?) -- Brian and I untie a million knots, crawl under the tarp, pull out boxes which now collapse their contents pouring out everywhere. Needle in a haystack? Try looking for a set of car keys in two thousand boxes stuffed in a pick-up under a tarp while mother and newborn are wandering around a Walmart calling every few minutes to ask, "Have you found it yet?"

A coffee pot comes loose and shatters on the driveway.

The top come off an economy size box of Q-Tips spilling them everywhere.

Brian points out that I am bleeding. I look at my arm and determine that I am not bleeding enough to threaten my life and, by now, the realization that I am not going to bleed to death is actually somewhat disappointing.

But, of course, we eventually find the keys, thirty minutes after we had given up all hope. And by midnight, I've returned my neighbors truck, everyone is settled into their respective homes, and I am picking up the last Q-tip from the driveway when my cellphone rings.

"Is there a plastic bag in the garage?"

"There is," I say. There were several small items that could fit in Karen's car that we were going to deliver.

Long pause. Brian says, "Kay's medicine from the hospital is in the bag. We need it tonight."

My body droops. My head drops forward. There are no cusswords left. I just stare at the floor.

And notice two more Q-tips.

Friday Shootout - Stairs

2011-09-30T01:00:00.001-04:00

Just straight pictures today, I'm afraid. Not even a subtle change to my header -- so you don't need to take time looking for it.

Baby Kay is coming home tomorrow. And - Brian, Melody and the grandchildren are moving to Goose Creek! So it has been a whirlwind week of borrowing pick-up trucks and sweating a lot.

The bad (or good) news depending on how I look at it is that in all probability, Melody will be starting a job next week. Noah and Conner will be in daycare, which they love (at least once they get there). But Kay will need fulltime care and guess who got nominated? Ain't retirement grand? Three or four days a week, I'll be driving out to their trailor in Goose Creek and taking care of a very delicate newborn.

There is no internet there yet. So much of what I usually waste, I mean invest my time in will be impossible. Maybe that will force me to actually do some writing on Karen's laptop during the time Kay is asleep...probably the majority of each day for the time being.

Ah well. Without further ado and without lots of lame attempt to be humorous -- here are my stair pictures.

Stairs to the old market in Charleston

A sand sculpture version of the old market in Charleston

(I guess the railings were too delicate for sand)

BAGMAN: "I thought you weren't gonna try and be cute."

"Where did you come from? I don't have time for this right now."

BUTLER: "So why are we here? You know you can ignore us whenever you want."

"Not as easy as it sounds. You guys bubble up in my subconscious and and I can't always...Yes. I can. And I will. Be quiet. It's late and everyone is asleep and I should be too! Go back to bed and let me finish!"

BAGMAN: "Good night, John Boy."

BUTLER: "And goodnight Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are."

Buzzards don't need ladders but there is a ladder in here somewhere

Lots of stairs and one die hard fan

Stairs and fans look differently in Italy

Waiting for a wild horse race in Sienna

Another from Italy

Somewhere in Tuscony

Back in States - I haven't a clue where

And not really stairs - but stair-like.

And, finally, back in my hometown

near the Charleston Maritime Center

(How many stairs can an architect fit into one entrance?)

And with that, I'm going to lie down and contemplate serenity and acceptance of the disconnect between what I thought my retirement was going to be like and what God thought my retirement was going to be like.

BUTLER: "I can't fall asleep."

BAGMAN: "Can you bring me a glass of water?"

Argh.

Sore muscles and Pelicans

2011-09-27T14:27:00.000-04:00

Still working on helping the kids move out. I doubt we will have empty house syndrome too badly since the grandchildren will be staying with us on weekends. I'm getting good exercise hefting my end of sofas, bureaus, tables.

And did manage to grab some time this afternoon to post a couple more pictures from Hadrell's Point. When I went out there last week I used my compass -- yes, I actually carry a compass in my camera bag so I can figure out where the sun rises and sets and whether it might be worth an early morning or late afternoon return some day -- and Hadrell's Point is probably a good one. In yesterday's ship shot, the dock itself was empty but there are often shrimp boats unloading there. I figure if I pay attention I might get a sunset behind shrimp boats.

Patience. In the meantime, a couple of quick shoot from the hip shots of pelicans in the air:

Moving, Baby Shower, and a Picture of a Boat

2011-09-26T09:51:00.000-04:00

Busy weekend - Kay (the new baby) was going to be discharged from the hospital to come home but then she wasn't. At the same time we borrowed the neighbor's truck and made trips out to Goose Creek where Brian and Melody are moving -- sad to see them go but but they need their own space. Come to think of it, so do we, at least me. I guess that is supposed to be "I" but "me" sounds bettter.

Also at the same time we were preparing for a scheduled baby shower for Kay on Sunday. Remember that Kay wasn't suppose to be born yet. If she had been released from MUSC she would have been one of the few baby's who get to attend their own baby shower.

So while we were trying to make the house all presentable for guests, we were simultaneously messing it all up with moving boxes.

Busy weekend but I did manage to sneak in a little time to to process a picture I had taken last Thursday.

Friday Shootout - BW/Sepia

2011-09-21T23:53:00.000-04:00

Well, I didn't have time to shoot any new stuff this week but I thought it would be fun to experiment with B/W and sepia on some old shots -- look at what kind of subject matter leads itself to black and white.

I thought it would be fun, at least, until I went into the studio and got attacked.

BAGMAN (blocking my computer so I can't get at it): "What the (bleep) are you doing here?!

BUTLER: "Turncoat!"

Trying to figure out why the boys are angry at me, I stall for time. "Turncoat? What kind of a word is that?"

BUTLER: "A perfectly good word that dates back to 1557 when people turned their coats inside out to hide their insignias or colors that market their allegience."

"Seems dumb to me," I reply. "Didn't anyone notice people with their coats turned inside out? And why didn't they just wear a different coat?"

BAGMAN: "Don't change the subject!"

"What is the subject?"

BUTLER: "Bagman is just upset because you've been ignoring us to work on your novel..."

BAGMAN: "Which you know (bleeping) well you ain't never gonna finish!"

BUTLER: "You might have a good idea for a plot but your charactor development leaves a little be desired."

"I invented you!"

BUTLER: "My point exactly! As charactors, we're flat. You've never given us histories. You always dress me in a tuxedo and Bagman in rags. All we ever do is banter. It's a pretty flat existence just sitting here in the studio waiting for you to arrive. What do you think we do all the time you are away?"

"How should I know?" I ask.

BAGMAN: "You never cared for us anyhow! You just used us to be cute in your blog! And now you are off playing with the cute little girl who talks to dead people on the Internet. Get out of here and leave us alone!"

BUTLER: "Let's give him a break, Baggie. He'll get bored with this new project after a few weeks. He always does. Let him post his pictures."

By now, I'm not in the mood, but I load them onto the blog anyway.

Taganga, Colombia, SA

I couldn't resist leaving a little color in this one

And this one - Windsor Castle, England

Boston

Charleston Navy Base

BAGMAN: "You finished yet?"

"Sure. Fine. I'm leaving and you can go back to what you were doing."

BUTLER: "Easy for you to say. Since you created us -- (He uses his fingers to make sarcastic air quotes around the word 'created') -- we don't do much when you aren't around, now do we?"

"Okay. Then I'm creating a library for you and you can be reading and learning more esoteric words to throw at me when I come back."

BAGMAN: "That's just bleeping wonderful for Butler. What about me?"

"I'll add some magazines with pictures and centerfolds."

As I leave the studio, I almost catch a smile on Bagman's face.

What's going on with me?

2011-09-18T05:32:00.002-04:00

I seem to be regularly missing or skimming over the Friday Hometown Shootout and the Monday Poetry Jam -- and since I wasn't blogging a lot in between...

Worse, I am following the people I regularly follow with less regularity. (A bit of a tongue twister, that).

What's going on with me? I'm sure people are anxious to know. I haven't a clue why I assume that. I know that we all develop relationships and friendships and intimacies on blogspot. We celebrate births, holidays, new jobs, vacations together. We share the pain of illnesses, deaths (I still miss Barry), lost jobs, and simple funks together. But we don't take attendance. If someone drops off the map, somewhere along the line we will notice it and wonder. But when I read a blog that starts off "I'm glad to be back blogging again after my long absence," I'm always glad to see that person back but usually I admit with a little shame that I hadn't realized they had been missing.

Maybe the person who is anxious to know what is going on with me is actually me.

Since May when I retired, I've reveled in having long leisurely mornings to read blogs, write blogs, fiddle with photography, watch the sturm und drang of Wall Street unfolding in lines on a blue screen...but lately it has begun to seem, oddly, like work.

The unthinkable (at least to me) has begun to happen. I sometimes find myself hurrying to get the computer stuff out of the way so I can go outside and do yardwork. People who know me would find that statement to be completely absurd since, for decades, it has been the reverse.

I find myself wondering, what next.

Some of the answers are being given to me by the Universe itself, which I choose to call God. We have a new granddaughter, Kay, who is still in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit but doing well and due home in a month. Brian and Melody are making plans to buy a trailer about 45 miles from here and move out. Karen and I are now thinking of downsizing and buying a smaller house closer to where the kids and grandkids are moving.

And despite the fact that I have been trying desperately to dig in my heels and avoid it, there is an idea I've had for a long long time for a novel that is forcing me (like constipation) to write it. While I continue to refuse to commit myself to actually finishing it, I can't help thinking about it when I go to sleep and writing on it for a few hours every morning during my usual blog time.

Even weirder, the novel is not a collection of humorous essays but a kind of combination murder mystery and Stephen King-like horror thriller. Weird because I hate horror movies and will not watch them.

And Butler and Bagman seem to be on vacation. Or at least they don't seem quite as real to me these days as Sandy O'Neal, a 16-year-old girl who has discovered that, through some quirk of Wi-Fi frequency, the dead have been establishing a presence on Facebook.

Hmmm.

Anyhow, I will check in from time to time but maybe not quite so often.

BAGMAN: "Yeah. Right. You know, Mark, that every time you write a blog that explains why you won't be around, you then enter a phase where you blog more than ever!"

"Where'd you come from? I thought you were on vacation?"

BAGMAN: "Forgot my bag and had to come back to grab it. See you later. Have fun with Sandy. Just don't forget that her father is the police chief."

Walking the Dogs

2011-09-12T08:50:00.000-04:00

Cast of Characters

Daisy - Part terrier, part opossum
Selective hearing when being called

Annabelle - Part shitzu, part floor mop
Buries nose into whatever she smells

Conner - Apprentice Dog-Walker

Noah - Convinced he can do anything Conner can do

Story

Timing the dog walks used to be hit and miss with more mess than hit. But in retirement I have been able, through my excellent and now underutilized management experience, to implement an efficient schedule.

Short walks consist of letting them loose in the back yard and monitoring them. But long walks require that they be on leashes despite the fact that they are no threat -- cats and even large birds ignore them as harmless. But we live in one of those "Yard of the Month" (which we have never won) subdivisions where dog poop needs to be collected in little blue plastic bags and sent to the landfill where they will last for centuries until some future archeologists find them and wonder what kind of strange theology we had that included the preservation of canine excrement for the afterlife.

Long walks used to be easy and almost refreshing except for the fact that Daisy is always pulling forward and Annabelle is always dragging backward with her nose fastened firmly to the ground. Long walks were even fairly good after Conner reached the age where he became determine to accompany me.

Conner is excellent about watching out for cars and when he sees one will always pull Annabelle to the side of the road and stop until the car has passed. This works well except for yesterday when one of our neighbors came out, started her car in the driveway, then decided she had forgotten something and went back inside her house. Despite all my explanations, urgings, rantings, and ravings, he refused to pass her driveway until she finally came out and drove away.

But now Noah is old enough to be convinced he needs to do whatever his older brother does. And sometimes I need to walk the dogs and it is the wrong time for the children.

This morning, for instance, the sun was just coming up and the kids had awakened earlier than usual and I had awakened later than usual. The kids weren't dressed yet and the dogs HAD to go. Time for stealth.

Conner and Noah seemed to be engaged with cereal and television so I slipped out of the livingroom and quietly gathered the leashes. Instead of calling out, as usual, "Annabelle!! Daisy!! Walk-time!!," I tiptoed to each dog and whispered in their ears, "Come on. Let's walk." I tried to slip out the front door instead of the back so I wouldn't be in sight of the livingroom but Conner heard the click of the latch and came running. It breaks his heart if he knows I've gone without him, so I figure, what the heck. So what if the neighbors see him in his underwear.

Then Noah shows up running in his little waddling way, arms out waving to keep his balance, sort of like a tiny drunk man except for the diaper. Expecting to be left, he is already working toward a cry.

Change of plans. Instead of the leash, I'll take them all to the backyard. For a brief moment, I almost believe I am going to be able to control the situation. I was, after all, a professional manager -- although, in retrospect, I didn't control adults very well either.

Once off the porch, it's like some imaginary quarterback yelled "Hut" and they all take off in different directions. Daisy and Annabelle run to left hoping to score some squirrels in our neighbors backyard. Conner grabs his orange ball and kicks it toward the pond where it will float away. Noah waddle-runs in the opposite direction but also toward the pond.

I cry out, "Annabelle!! Daisy!! Come back!!" But I still have my priorities straight and give up on the ball which plops into the water and begins floating away to the left. I ignore it and run toward Noah who thinks it is a game and runs faster toward the pond on the right. Unlike the orange ball, I know that Noah doesn't float.

Conner yells, "Ball! Ball!"

I yell, "Annabelle!! Daisy!! Conner!!" My legs kick into high gear as I admit sadly that, at 65 years old, I am in danger of being outrun by a toddler. I grab Noah, pick him up and head back in case Conner is trying to save his ball.

Fortunately, he has already forgotten the ball. Unfortunately, he has decided it is his responsibility to get the dogs back. He is running across the neighbor's yard toward the dogs who are now three yards away. He is yelling, "Gogs!! Gogs!! Gogs!!"

I'm chasing him although it is clear that, at 65 years old while carrying a one-year-old, I have no chance of outrunning a two-year-old. I am screaming, "Conner!! Annabelle!! Daisy!! Karen!! Brian!! Melody!!" I'm pretty sure Karen is in the shower and Brian and Melody are still asleep, but I'm looking for reinforcements desperately.

In the distance I see Daisy squatting in September's Yard of the Month but I'm not going back for a blue bag any more than I'm diving into the pond for the orange ball.

A stroke of luck! Daisy, with selective hearing, ignores me but Annabelle actually turns and starts running back toward Conner who is still yelling, "Gogs!! Gogs!!"

Annabelle reaches Conner at the same time I do, jumps up and knocks him over. Still holding Noah with one arm, I grab Annabelle with the other. And breathing a sigh of relief, I see Daisy on her way back to see what the fun is all about. We head back to the house and are almost at the porch when Daisy realizes my intention to get everyone back in the house. This time she runs to the right.

I become philosophical. (Becoming philosophical was also the strategy I used in my former job when management strategies failed). In a much calmer voice, I say, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." I flip Annabelle up on the porch in time to grab Conner's arm before he takes off after Daisy. I pull him onto the porch, still carrying Noah. Shut the door and herd them all into the house.

Karen is standing there, drying her hair. Her first words, of course, are, "Where's Daisy?"

"Fertilizing the neighborhood," I answer, putting Noah down and heading for a cup of coffee. I know that Daisy will return in fifteen minutes or less but at this point, I'm not sure I care.

Friday Shootout - Grandparents and Patriots Day

2011-09-08T13:28:00.000-04:00

This is pretty much a placeholder. My sense of humor seems to have misplaced itself these last couple of days. Hey - it happens sometimes. But I'm sure it will return. It always does.

Kind of a shame because Bagman and Butler could have had a field day with Grandparents Day but, alas, I only have the energy level to post a couple of pictures in order to stay in the game.

GRANDPARENTS DAY

Conner and Noah waiting for their sister, Kay

to come home from the hospital

Probably not as much as Kay is waiting to come home.

She probably has another 5-6 weeks in prenatal care unit.

PATRIOTS DAY

The U.S.S. Yorktown at Patriot's Point

shot from top of Ravenell Bridge

This has nothing to do with today's theme

but I shot it while I was on the bridge

so here it is.

I just got a text message from my sense of humor saying it promises to be back in time for next Friday's shoot.

Poetry Jam - Humorous Poem

2011-09-04T10:16:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure I've got much this week. It's been a busy weekend, culminating in the birth -- a bit premature -- of a granddaughter, Kay, at 4 pounds - healthy but due to stay in Neonatal Intensive Care for 6 weeks.

But prior to all this, I had been working on something -- but all I've got is the initial limerick.

A poet tried stand-up at dark
at a comedy joint in the park.
"Be funny," they said
but he stood as if dead
so they kicked him out cold in the dark.

Okay - since I am now the only adult awake, I need to go feed the two brothers that Kay hasn't met yet.