On this day in:
1945 — the Atomic Age dawns when the Enola Gay drops its payload on Hiroshima at 8:15 am local time, killing 140,000 people
1970 — the Cronk Age dawns when Andrew slithers into this world
1991 — the Information Age dawns when the world wide web goes live
Aaron Sorkin has a new show debuting on NBC in a few weeks. It’s a sort of “behind the scenes at Saturday Night Live” show with the terrible title Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.
Now, I’ve complained a lot about Aaron Sorkin in the past. His dialogue is mannered. His characters all have IQs of 185. He steeps his stories in politics. But the thing of it is: I love his work. For all its annoying flaws, I love his writing. Nobody on TV writes like he does.
Someone on YouTube has posted the complete pilot to Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Kris and I watched it tonight before NBC had a chance to cease-and-desist it. (Who knows, though? Maybe NBC actually seeded it there. That would be some smart marketing, I think.) Here are the five files that make up the show. So long as they’re still posted at YouTube, you’ll be able to watch them here:
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip pilot, part two
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip pilot, part three
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip pilot, part four
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip pilot, part five
The pilot has its moments. Kris and I were both giving each other looks over the Network-esque opening, though it would have been nice if the show didn’t devote thirty seconds to telegraphing this homage to the general audience. (Come on, Sorkin — you’ve trusted your viewers in the past, do it again. We see it. We see it.)
The pilot has some rough spots, too. I like the woman who plays Jordan, but she doesn’t seem strong enough somehow. “It’s because she’s wearing that dress,” Kris told me. But it’s not. It’s just her voice isn’t strong enough. Give me Natalie from Sports Night! Or Felicity Huffman.
Speaking of which: one of the joys of an Aaron Sorkin show is watching his ensemble, that group of actors that follows him around from place-to-place. It’s like being with old friends. Hell, this whole show is like being with old friends.
Currently I watch a grand total of zero television shows. (I download Battlestar Galactica and Doctor Who and sometimes NBC’s The Office.) Beginning September 1st at 10pm, that number will increase to a grand total of one.
(Will you look at this, NBC? Somebody posts the damn show early and I devote and entire blog entry to promoting it. That’s free advertising, you idiots. Free advertising! Stop the presses! In a sign that Big Media might finally be “getting it”, NBC has released the pilot episode on DVD to Netflix subscribers — this YouTube plant may indeed be their own.)
I feel like my life is so busy that I ought to have plenty to write about.
I could write about Kris’ tom-astrophe last night — all of her ginormous tomato trees collapsed under the mass of an overhead watering, which resulted in a panicked and futile attempt to stand them up again — but she’s prohibited me from mentioning it.
I could write about poor Tiffany’s nightmare evening — she came home to find big, lovable Porter (my favorite of her four cats) with some sort of respiratory failure, rushed him to the vet, learned he had lymphoma, and had to put him down — but the thought of it makes me sad.
I could write about my sleep problems — I got a new mask for the C-PAP machine but it sucks, I haven’t been getting to bed on-time, and my rest has been fitful — but that bores even me.
I could write about all of my weblogs — Animal Intelligence is now up and in testing, Get Rich Slowly was on Metafilter yesterday (which makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside), and Four Color Comics is experiencing a re-birth — but I write about that sort of stuff enough already.
I could write about how I’m starting another diet, about how the kittens and the chicken continue to live in harmony, about how Simon climbed on to the roof of the house, about how I’ve been rather busy at Custom Box lately, about how Kris and I have learned we need a picnic table at Rosings park, about our upcoming trip to San Francisco. I could write about all of that.
But I’m tired. So I won’t.
My father would have turned 61 today. In memory, here’s a piece that my Aunt Virginia posted at her site a few weeks ago: her memories of growing up with Dad.
July 31, 1945
Hospital stays in that day were much longer than now, so I suppose the date is actually around August 10, 1945.We tiptoed around the house, everything had to be quiet. My mom tied a hankie around my nose so I wouldn’t breathe out any germs. I quietly approached the bedroom and under the window was a basket, and in the basket was a tiny new baby. It was a brother. I looked at him, but I dare not touch him, I might give him some germs that were on my hands. He was so tiny and looked so sweet, how I longed to touch him, but that must wait.
As he grew older (at about 9 months) his crib was kept in the living room. He learned that by standing up and pulling on the edge of the crib and wiggling back and forth, that he could make the crib move, and that is just what he did, from one end of the living room to the other. The only problem, at one end of the room there was a wood stove. I always worried that he would run into the stove and get hurt but he never did.
As he grew older he would follow me whereever I went. I loved my little brother and played with him by the hour. We made mud pies (without germs. of course) and we made roads in the dirt with his roadgrader and dump truck, my big brother helped us and we built a road from the house to the woods which was over a quarter of a mile away (I’ll probably get some feedback on this) but we drug the hoe behind us to scrape the ground wide enough for our trucks. There was a cowpath most of the way so it wasn’t too hard. It went through the barnyard, down the lane, through the woods and over to a patch of timber which my father was having someone log it. The big firs were on the ground and there were little houses to be made under the limbs that were held up by their branches. There were logs (little short limbs we would cut with an ax) and bring them up to the house to be put in the log pond that my older brother had dug and filled with water. We played for hours.
Soon he was old enough to enjoy the Bobsey Twins (books) and I read to him by the hour. We were together almost everywhere. I remember one time we were staying at my aunts house and we found a tame chicken. We played with it and dressed it until the poor thing died. Of course we had to have a funeral. My cousin (who is a preacher today) preached his first funeral sermon that day and after the burial and so much mourning. We decided to play funeral. We took turns being the dead one and the only thing we could find for a casket was the bathtub. So first one of us and then the other would take turns being dead while they other would solomly and mournfully sing “Jingle Bells” (the only reason I know this is because my aunt told it many times in my hearing)
For many years while we were growing up we would stay with my aunt for a couple weeks. We would look forward to this vacation with anticipation. We turned summersalts and cartwheels on the lawn in the evenings. One evening as he was teasing me I went running around the house to get away from him and straight into my boyfriend who had arrived and was talking to my dad at that moment. (Pop still teases me about that, the problem is, I didn’t know he was comming and was caught in my playclothes, not dressed up at all)
As we grew older Steve and I would talk together about our plans and dreams for the future. I got married at 16 and Steve worked for my husband peeling cascara bark during one summer. He went away to school and we sold his VW for him. He wrote, I wrote. He just loved my first baby and would carry her around when ever he could. He was a great tease and of course would tease my little girls till it was a fright. He would tell them he would put them on the roof of the house if they wouldn’t be good. Of course they loved him dearly in spite of all the teasing, there was no one like uncle Steve.
Time goes on, he fell in love with a pretty young lady and was married, had his own children and they grew up. The day came when he told me he had cancer and of course after a long hard battle he was gone, and all I have today are memories, but, Steve…
“I’ll Always Remember”
Happy birthday, Dad.
I’m trying to recover from Blogathon by sleeping in this morning, but it’s difficult.
For one thing, it’s light outside. I have an eyemask, but the light still seeps through.
For another, I had a hell of a lot of caffeine last night. My body is shaking.
Plus there’s the fact that Tiffany got the keys to her house last night and wants to move today. She’s scheduled everything very tight so that there’s no margin for error. And yet the movers are providing error. Kris says they’re not able to mover her today for some reason. Now they’re just running late. She could use my help!
The cats aren’t co-operating either. I’d been sleeping for a couple of hours when Kris came into the bedroom. “Hon, wake up. You have got to see this.” What I had got to see was Simon, outside the bedroom, sitting on the balcony. We have no idea how he got there. “He was sitting on the planter box outside the kitchen,” Kris said, “and then the next thing I knew he was on the roof of the front porch. And then he was here.” We wrestled with the balcony screen (it’s large, and sharp, and cumbersome) until we had it free, and then Simon just stood up, looked at us, and traipsed into the house. “Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.”
And, finally, now that I’ve finished pouring my soul into Get Rich Slowly, I want to spend a couple hours putting the finishing touches on Animal Intelligence and spend a few hours getting Four Color Comics back in shape.
But what I really need to do is sleep.
I need your help. I’m looking for funny stories about money.
Blogathon 2006 is tomorrow, and I’ll be writing for 24-hours straight at Get Rich Slowly. My theme will be Funny Money. I’ll highlight stories and anecdotes and websites about money that are funny in some way. I mean both funny “ha-ha” and funny “strange”.
Examples include:
This video clip from NBC’s The Office is an example of something that might work.
Because I’ve made this change of plans with less than 24 hours to go before Blogathon starts, I need your help. If you know of a strange money tale or a funny story, please let me know!
(Also: it’s not too late to pledge your support. I currently have 26 pledges totalling $558. Pledges as small as $1 are appreciated. The money will go to help provide books for poor children.)
![[photo of chicken walking among kittens]](http://www.foldedspace.org/images/chickencat.jpg "Do the cats want to play with the chicken? I don't know.")
Here is a photo of the chicken that has decided to live with our kittens.
From the left, you see Max (who suspects this bird may be good to eat), the bird (whom we call Chicken, even if she’s not), and Duke (who looks a little wary here). The three often eat together in perfect harmony. Today they were milling around the shed, waiting for me to feed them. Unfortunately, I spooked the bird by hanging around with my camera, so I didn’t get any pictures of the group feed. Maybe tomorrow.
Okay. That’s it. This is the last straw. I’m starting yet-another weblog. I need help with a name, though. Kris thinks my ideas are dumb. So what’s good?
To be clear: this weblog will feature stories about animals, and especially about animal intelligence. Sure, I’ll post cute pictures of ducklings and videos of funny cats, but mostly I’m just going to post stories about animal intelligence.
If this weblog takes more than an hour a week, I’ll quit. Seriously. I intend to use it simply as a gathering place for all of the animal intelligence stories I find (and that are sent to me — you guys are great!).
My top name choice right now is “Animal Minds” (which would be hosted at animalminds.org). My second choice is “Smile on a Dog”. If you think those names suck, then give me some better ideas.
The end.
(Yes, this will be my zillionth blog.)
When it’s hot during the summer, Custom Box Service takes ice cream to its customers. Or, more precisely, J.D., acting as an agent for Custom Box Service, takes ice cream to its customers. I fill a couple of coolers with popsicles and ice cream bars, and then drive around the Willamette Valley, acting as a sort of Santa Claus in July.
“Do customers really like the ice cream?” Tiffany asked the other day.
“They l-o-v-e the ice cream,” I told her. And they do. They rave about it. They talk about it for the rest of the year. As soon as summer arrives, they begin asking me when I’m coming with ice cream.
Yesterday I drove through Estacada to Sandy to deliver ice cream to a good customer. It’s a long drive, and I soon realized that I was peckish. I’m trying to start yet-another-diet (Diet #774), which makes me feel the absence of the food acutely.
When I stopped to buy the ice cream, I looked longingly at all the tasty foods: roast chicken, Chinese buffet, frozen pizzas. Yum. The ice cream sounded especially delicious. Outside in the fiery heat, I contemplated taking a tithe from a box of popsicles, but opted against it. I made my delivery and chatted with the customer, watching while he opened a fruit bar and slowly slurped down the sugary goodness. I wanted one. Badly.
Back in the car, I realized that what I actually wanted was a lemon-lime Mr. Misty from Dairy Queen. Yum! I thought about how icy cold the Mr. Misty would be. I thought about the sugary water. It sounded like heaven.
I had a mission: find a Mr. Misty.
On the way out of Sandy, I watched for a Dairy Queen. None appeared. “No matter, maybe there’s one in Boring,” I thought. There wasn’t. “No problem. I know there’s one in Damascus.” The five miles between Boring and Damascus seemed to stretch on forever. I imagined the sharp ammonia-like flavor of the fake lime juice. I imagined the inevitable throat burn.
Cresting the hill into Damascus, I smiled at the sight of Dairy Queen’s red roof. I pulled into the strip mall and then noticed: it wasn’t a Dairy Queen! It was a McDonald’s. What the hell?
“Surely there’s a Dairy Queen in Clackamas,” I thought. But there wasn’t. I was beginning to get a little desperate. Luckily, I was close to home, and I knew where the Dairy Queen was in downtown Milwaukie. I drove there quickly only to find that the Dairy Queen had been replaced by a mortgage broker. What the hell?
I wanted to cry, but I refused to give up.
I zipped down 99e at 60mph (in a 45mph zone), willing to risk a ticket. I wanted a Mr. Misty! At last I found a Dairy Queen in Westmoreland. Rather than go to the counter, I pulled up to the drive-thru. It was here that my troubles began. The line did not move for five minutes!
At last the line crept forward. I placed my order: “A medium lemon-lime Misty Slush, please.” When had Dairy Queen changed the Mr. Misty to a Misty Slush? Craziness!
The server repeated the order, confused: “A lemon-lime…float?” What the hell?
“No. A Misty Slush,” I said. “A Mr. Misty.” And make it snappy!
My ordeal was not over. I sat in line for — I kid you not — another fifteen interminable minutes. I was on edge. I was like a heroin addict looking for his next hit. I fidgeted. I played idly with the radio dial. I held the steering wheel in a death grip.
But, at last, I got my Mr. Misty. Green and delicious.
Or was it?
Actually, it was cloyingly sweet and tasted hardly of lemon-lime at all. Had they redone the formula when they changed it to a Misty Slush? No matter, I drove home, slurping it down. My throat burned — such delicious pain.
Yes, living in a hundred-year old house has its pleasures. The house has character, from the hobbit-hole window to the beautiful hardwood floors to the balconies and porches. Unfortunately, living here also has its problems.
Take the weather, for example. I’ve already written about fighting the rain — both flooding and leaks in the attic — but fighting the heat can be just as challenging. Our home sometimes seems like an oven.
Yesterday Kris and I fled to the movies to escape the heat. (We saw the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie, which isn’t very good. It doesn’t make much sense. Anthony Lane’s review is pretty good.) Today we enjoyed an air-conditioned restaurant (and a bad meal) and some time in the mall. You know things are bad if I’m going to a mall.
It’s too hot upstairs for me to sleep, so I’m bedding down on the love seat in the parlor. This isn’t ideal. Unless you’re a mosquito. In that case, it’s as close to ideal as you’re ever going to find: a large, juicy man full of sugar. Yum. Why not bite him? Many times.
My feet and legs itch like crazy from all the bites. I’ve applied calamine lotion, but so far it hasn’t worked worth beans. The ball of my left foot is so swollen that when I walk, it feels like I’ve got a stone in my foot.
Kris is taking a long-term approach to the heat. She’s decided that maybe we could plant a tree in the yard, preferably a fast-growing shade tree. She spent an hour tonight making a list: sycamore, chestnut, oak, hawthorne, etc. etc. Of course, the tree solution won’t help us for, oh, maybe five or ten years, even if we plant it this fall. But still, it’s a start.
Now it’s time to go apply some mosquito repellant.
