Another gimmick

Explanation is in order. An apology perhaps. To you, Dear Reader. I procrastinate and then procrastinate some more when it comes to posting to Pedestrian Subjunctives. And then I have the audacity to cram everything from my precious 3 x 5 card of notes into a single post. I rarely, if ever, am able to tie everything together, except that it is all on one card. So I decided to not even try this time. Instead, I simply created several shorter posts. Seven of them. There. My conscience is clear. So is my card.

A primate anyway

As I have dipped my toe into the waters of FileMaker, I have been confronted by some new terms. Cross-platformed. Functionality. Searchability. OK Dear Reader, I have heard some of them before. But now, I sense meaning in them. I'm still not sold on the notion that they are real words. I can concede though they do convey ideas, and are therefore, legal. Maybe not 100% legal, but those particular statutes are not regularly enforced. I have cataloged my DVD collection, complete with images. The old spreadsheet is obsolete. With my FileMaker searchability I can now search for movies in my collection directed by Alfred Hitchcock and starring Cary Grant. Good Database Monkey. Maybe a lemur.

"Plug and Play"

I recently served as a guinea pig for a training session on the Library of Congress Classification system. It was great! I learned a lot, and gained a degree of confidence in poring through the schedules. The course is to be offered at the next conference of the American Library Association. The instructor/enabler asked me if I would take a picture of some books for her powerpoint presentation. Specifically, the spines, showing the LC call numbers. I happily complied. As I wandered through the library looking for the right shot, I thought about how I would catalog the picture. Would I merely provide a description, or would I provide links to the books in the picture? How much would be enough? Catalogers must often decide what a book is about. What a book is mainly about. How would one class a book on the philosophy of metadata creation translated into an artificial language based on a stage production of a short story inspired by by an anecdotal recounting in digital audio format? How about the reprint of same? It's not always so simple. Lori had a great way to describe how cataloging often is not.

A Man's Best Friend (pt.3)

Jerry threw himself into pulling green chain. As at Burger Galaxy, he was good, very good at his job. There was too much going on to form any relationships with his co-workers. If there had been, he wouldn't have anyway. The pay was quite good. Great even. After two weeks, Jerry was able to get a car. Not a new car. Not a nice car. Just a car. A step toward independence. Living at home without any expenses, Jerry was able to pay off the car quickly. Then he had to do something about his living arrangement. Jerry saved a few hundred dollars for a deposit, and moved into a studio apartment. The previous tenant had abandoned a hide-a-bed so it was virtually furnished. He took what he wanted from his mom's house for his new home. This wasn't much. Just enough dishes for one person. He wouldn't need these often though as he had gotten into the routine of swinging by Burger Galaxy on his way to work for breakfast, and on his way home for dinner. He liked using the drive through so he could show off his success to his former co-workers. Mainly high school students with brighter futures, they were wholly unimpressed. He served merely as a warning of what could happen. The comfortable rut of going to work, collecting a paycheck, watching television, and sleeping, created in Jerry, for the first time in his life, a sense of contentment. He was almost happy. Almost. The opportunity to switch to a graveyard shift arose. It meant an extra dollar an hour and fewer co-workers for Jerry to avoid. Life was getting better and better. Jerry adjusted quickly to his new work schedule. It wasn't difficult. No bothersome people to accommodate, and something new : methamphetamine.

No witty ending

Piercings : fourteen. Tattoos : two. Decorative scarring : none. And I currently wear only two little silver hoops. One through each tragus. You know, that seemingly useless node that partially obstructs the ear. I have outgrown the tribal thing. Not that I was ever a member of a tribe, or even a clan. Fast forward to the beginning of Spring Term. The Survival Kit coupon book came out. I scanned through it, tearing out the coupons that I might use. Probably won't, but might. One caught my eye. "Groups of three or more people each receive $10 piercings!" What a marketing approach! I thought about it. Not seriously mind you. I couldn't think of two other people who would do it. That's it.

Before Björk

Nineteen seventy-nine. My favorite year of music. No other year even comes close. Debut albums by the B-52's, the Police, the Pretenders, DEVO, the English Beat, Joe Jackson, Lene Lovich, and so many more. Graham Parker's "Squeezing Out Sparks." The Ramones' "Road to Ruin." Pink Floyd's "The Wall." "Fear of Music" by Talking Heads. Spectacular releases from the Boomtown Rats, Marianne Faithfull, Tom Petty, Ron Wood, Neil Young, Frank Zappa, Nick Lowe, Dave Edmunds. And the greatest of all : "London Calling" from the Clash. The other day I was at the House of Records and for some reason decided upon "Stateless" by Lene Lovich. At one time I had it on vinyl. I remembered it as 'quirky.' I recalled that she was from Finland, or some other exotic place where sunlight is often at a premium. Black and white art house music videos. Pretension. The CD was not in stock so I placed a special order for it. It came in a few days later. It is still quirky stuff. But my memory of Lene's origins was a bit off the mark. Her father was Yugoslavian and her mother British. She was born, and spent much of her childhood, in Detroit.

Just in case, you never know

Whenever my mom visits, she always brings something she's trying to get rid of. A kitchen gadget here, a book there. "This was your grandmother's." And then the ultimatum: "If you don't want it, I'll donate it to..." Well that's it. She knows my weaknesses, and my obsessions. I can't let an old cookbook find its way to some thrift store. Not one of my grandmother's cookbooks. Nothing against thrift stores. I have never said "Thanks, but no thanks." I probably never will. After I determine where I can shelve them, I log on to My Library to catalog them. Gems are revealed as I examine the covers, the title pages, the versos, the colophons. I will probably never prepare Creamed Sweetbreads, or Creamed Corn in Pepper Baskets, but I know the recipes are found in From Soup to Dessert with the New Irradiated Pet Milk recipe book.

By several lengths

When I was a teenager, I did some stupid things. In fact, I sometimes still do dumb things. My son Paul, known to you Dear Reader as The Boy is a teenager, and it should not be surprising to hear that he too does stupid things from time to time. And from time to time. And from time to time. Last time he was here for a visit, his arm was wrapped. I asked about it and he told me the story of a grisly bicycle accident and the road rash on his arm. It was a good story. Pant leg caught in chain. Trip over handlebars. It had it all. From mise en scene through painful denouement. (As usual, I am dispensing with accent marks). My immediate inquiry, as many, if not most parental inquiries would be, was to ask if he was wearing a helmet. He said yes, and that was the end of it. Here's where one would expect a great big honkin' "or so I thought," right? Right. Or so I thought! The Boy's mother called me yesterday to tell me she was taking him into Urgent Care because he had, in fact, applied lye to his arm. You read correctly: lye, arm. There never was a bike accident. We do not yet know whether he will require skin grafts, or whatever other treatment(s) may be involved. I am a bit grateful that it was something like this that landed him in Urgent Care, and not, say, a drug overdose. He will have a visual reminder of this single act of utter stupidity...forever. There is no infection, or any other complicating factor. He took excellent care of the wound. He was quite proud to report that to me, to which I responded with sarcasm. "What do you want, a f***ing merit badge?" We all do stupid things at some time or other in our lives. Teenagers do so with a bit more frequency. But this? We may have a winner.

A history of insurgence

If I played an instrument, or knew the lyrics, I could have been a member of the band. The guys from (of?) Conflict looked my age. They dressed like me, or, I like them. Jeans and t-shirts. T-shirts without slogans. Just plain t-shirts. Well, one did say "Save CBGB" on the front. That's OK though. No spiked mohawks. No bizarre piercings. No visible tattoos. Just peers with a message. A message that was undoubtedly lost on the kids who were there, clad in their Punk Costumes. Wait a second. That supposes that they had ever found a message. Nevermind. Their slam dancing, or mosh pit, or whatever you want to call it Dear Reader, resembled a conga line. They were cute. I wondered what Colin thought about all of it. Never give up. I was watching the set-up for Scarred for Life, the band that preceded Conflict when some guy, clad in a studded leather jacket, with multiple facial piercings and facial tattoos, and a queue hairstyle, sat down beside me. The thought "F***ing poser" scampered through my mind. That and a desire to not make eye contact. Then he leaned in toward me, reeking of alcohol and other vile scents, and asked if I knew what "these guys sounded like." Me: "I have no idea." Him: "They look like they're loud." Then the band members took to the stage, and he joined them. Turns out, he was the lead vocalist. I was right though. F***ing poser. Conflict blew all the opening acts out of the water. Breaks between songs were so brief as to be unnoticeable. Ninety-plus minutes. Invigorating. Rejuvenating. A trip down memory lane, with relevance. Before the encore I passed by the entrance. That guy looked familiar. "I am Oleg of the Red Elvises." They had finished a show a few blocks away a bit earlier, and he wanted to step in to check out the remains of the Conflict show. Simply surreal. The Red Elvises come through Eugene about once a year. I have seen them a few times, and will see them again, I'm sure. It was a great evening Dear Reader. I bought a t-shirt.

Metaphysical supplies for sale inside

What? Nevermind. You wouldn't understand Dear Reader. I know I don't understand. But then how could I even begin to know if you wouldn't understand? How indeed? Or better, maybe, why? Back in the day, and I have waxed nostalgic, or, rather, wallowed pathetic about this, there were regular punk rock shows at the local Community Center for the Performing Arts, or the WOW Hall. Twenty-six-plus years ago the "fiercely political British punk band" Conflict played their first show. Not here. Somewhere in England I suppose. Champions of all things liberal, leftist, anarchic, etc... Good things. Some manifestation of Conflict is playing tomorrow at the WOW Hall, along with some newcomers to the genre. Scarred for Life. Anima Mundi. Streetlight Cardiacs. I discussed with a co-worker/fellow traveller going to the show. Alas, he has to get up early the next day, and couldn't make it. I considered that I too would have to get up early and get to work. I decided that I needed to do this though. Prove something to myself maybe. Middle-aged punk rockers still spittin' it out are entitled to middle-aged fans. Peers. It is my obligation. I think. So on my break I went and bought a ticket. A single ticket. Four bands for eleven dollars, service charge included, certainly doesn't warrant accusations of turning rebellion into money. There was a time when the day of the week and the time of the show would have been wholly irrelevant non-considerations in deciding whether to attend or not. Now? I can take a nap after work, before the show.